Flash Fiction Challenge Day: THE WHITE VAN

March 2013 Flash Fiction Challenge:
Write a story of about 1000 words about a white van.

WHITE VAN

by Jerry Jerman

“How much longer?”

“How much longer what?”

“How much longer do I gotta wait? I mean hell I’ve been here every day for nearly a week. You don’t know. You’re not here. You’re off in some hotel somewhere, right?”

“You’re breaking up. I told you to get a decent cell phone. Anyway, what’s it to you? You need to be somewhere else? You have an important meeting you’re missing?”

“I’m just getting sick of this shit. Just sitting in this damn van alone all day every day. Hell, man, my ass is getting tired.”

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you? You complaining because you’re not getting paid?”

“No, that’s not it. Of course I’m getting paid—”

“Well, shut up then and forget about your ass. Your ass is getting well paid for sitting in that van and keeping your eyes open. When the guy shows up then you can call back and we’ll go from there.”

“That’s another thing.”

“What?”

“This guy I’m waiting for.”

“What about him?”

“That’s what I mean—what about him? What’d he do to get this all this attention? . . . Hey, hey, you still there?”

“I wonder about you, bub.”

“Can’t I ask a few questions?”

“You always ask too many questions.”

“Aren’t you a little curious?”

“I’m not a cat. I don’t get paid to be curious. I don’t think about it.”

“For chrissake, just think about it. I’m sitting out here in this goddamn smelly van for a week waiting for a guy I’ve never seen before. You don’t know what it’s like. You’re not here. You’d wonder about it yourself.”

“You know what I wonder? I wonder why I’m bothering listening to you on this crackly phone, that’s what I’m wondering. I’ve got to go. I’ve got other things to do than listening to you bitching.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Why can’t I ask a few questions? What’s the harm? Why can’t I wonder about stuff?”

“What’s to wonder about? It’s a job.”

“Some job.”

“I’ll let you in on something, bub. You might need to consider another line of employment. Something that’ll give you a lot of time to think about things. To wonder about what you’re doing and all. You know what I mean?”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying too damn much. Just shut up why don’t you? Sit back and play games on your phone or read a magazine or whatever you got in there and forget about your ass and wondering about what you’re doing there and why the earth spins in space and whatever the hell else you’re wondering about. OK? Will you do me that favor and just shut up?”

“Geez, you are in some kind of mood today.”

“Well, you sort of put me in it, bub, you know?”

“Just for your information, I’m sick of playing games on my phone. And I don’t have any magazines or newspapers or nothing. I’d plug in a portable TV but that’d run down the battery and I sure as hell don’t want to get stuck on this godforsaken street in a goddamn stinking white van that sticks out like a sore thumb. Who picked this van out anyway? That’s another thing. Every other car on the street is black or red or navy blue. It makes me stand out.”

“For God’s sake I’m hanging up.”

“Wait a minute. Just think about it. I’m set up in a large ass white van on a street of dark cars and I’m supposed to watch for some guy you just described to me? What’s wrong with this picture?”

“You tell me. You’re in the van.”

“I’ll tell you. It’s weird is what it is. I wonder if someone’s watching me, you know?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Think about it. I’m sticking out here like the only tooth in the mouth of some damn hick from Arkansas. For days, man. Maybe I’m being set up. Maybe I’m the one who’s being watched.”

“I think you’ve been alone for too long.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

“Tell you what. There’s a corner grocery. You can see it from there, can’t you?”

“What? A grocery? You mean the one that says Nina’s? Down on the end of the street?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“What about it?”

“Since you’re sick of cell phone games go down to that grocery and buy yourself some magazines. Some good ones. You know, the titty ones. They might be under the counter in that place, but I’m sure they’ve got them. Then just take your magazines back to the van and think about something else other than how smelly it is or how your ass is sore or what’s keeping this guy. OK?”

“You want me to get some dirty magazines?”

“It’ll take your mind off your troubles, bub. And it’ll put an end to this call.”

“I’ll tell you what will put an end to . . .”

“I’m losing you again. You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, I think that’s him. That’s the guy!”

“Our guy?”

“Yeah. He just came out of that grocery we were talking about.”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“Dark brown hair, moustache, nice gray suit, tan briefcase.”

“You sure?”

“I’m telling you, it’s the guy. It’s him.”

“OK, good. So I’ll tell you what to do.”

“For chrissake tell me. I’m ready for this.”

“Just sit there. Stay where you are.”

“What?”

“Stay put. In the driver’s seat. That’s where you are, right?”

“Yes, I’m in the goddamn driver’s seat, but what is this?”

“I’m telling you to stay where you are. OK? You got that?”

“Yeah, but he’s crossing the street. He’s coming across. He’s coming toward the van. For chrissake.”

“Stay put.”

“What’s this all about?”

“You’ll find out.”

“For chrissake.”

“Just stay put.”

“Ah, man, I can’t believe you did this to me. I can’t believe . . . Hey? Hey?”


Jerry Jerman: By day I work as marketing director director for Outreach at the University of Oklahoma. I also teach humanities and film (including film noir) for OU. A while back I published six children's books, but my true love is crime fiction.
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The Man in the Van

Patti Abbott

Danny had seen her face, pinched and white at the window, ever since he began coming here. Many windows in the area overlooked this street and the ocean across from it but only one drew his attention. He’d reckon half the condos here were empty in January. And the rest of the occupants came and went—he could picture some of them after all this time: the man with the swinging briefcase, the Hispanic kids going off to school in their uniforms, the Korean woman in green who probably worked at a nail place, the woman with the walker.

But the woman with the pinched, white face, was always up there—peering at him like the face of God. What the hell did she do at that window all day? He didn’t see a computer screen but she was there too much for it to be happenstance.

“Buddy.” It was a town cop again. “You living in this van?”

“Someone report me?” Danny asked, looking up at the window where the woman continued to sit. She was staring out at the ocean now, pretending to ignore him. Acting like she wasn’t the one who made the call. He could imagine her saying, “Officer, there’s this pervert who hangs outside my place.”

“Nobody reported you.” The cop was heavy and chasing anyone down the street would have its difficulties. His car had a surfboard on its roof. Be fun to watch this fat daddy go after a drowning swimmer.“We keep an eye on cars that are here too much. Run the license plate numbers. You know. Bet you been through this routine before.”

“What’s too much?”

A shrug. “How about we take a look in the van?” The cop started to move toward the rear.

“Have a search warrant?” 

The cop laughed. “Don’t need a warrant to check a mobile vehicle although yours isn’t exactly mobile. You might be harboring drugs, illegal aliens, guns. Who knows?”

Danny unlocked the back door without saying another word. In the van’s rear window, he could see her reflected face, still at the window. Shit! She was staring at him again now. What the fuck?

“Well, you got yourself set up real nice back here,” the cop said. “Bike, sleeping bag, surfboard, coolers full of food, beer. Even a little stove to cook on, clothes. Looks like home sweet home to me. Can I see the registration and your license?”

Danny handed them over and the cop ran them both on a program on his IPad. Everything was high-tech now—he could probably be jailed, tried, and incarcerated courtesy of this gadget.

 “Nothing coming up on you, but you can’t live in this van on a street around here. These folks aren’t gonna overlook it. Look, there’s places to go if you’re homeless.”

“I’m not homeless,” Danny said. “I move the van every night. I’m just here in the daytime. Surf, ride the bike, hang out.”

The cop was already shaking his head. “Folks who live here like to have this spot open for guests—they pay the high taxes to insure it. You can’t monopolize it.”

“Someone complained then.”

“No one complained. Just get a move on, Mr….” He looked at the license again as he handed it back. “Stark.”

Danny waited until the cop had left, and then backed the van up and took off. He drove to the next town, parked the van, pulled the bike out, and rode it back. She was still there. He knew she’d called the cops. Gotten tired of having her view ruined by his van. He should throw a scare into her. Show her who she was messing with.

A package lay on her front steps. Eight condos in the building-four on each side of the door. The door was coded, but after he’d pushed a few buzzers, someone rang him in. People were too lazy to be bothered with checking. Grabbing the package, he bounded up the two flights and knocked at her door. No answer.

So she could watch him all day long, call the cops, make his life pure misery, but not open the door. He knocked a bit louder—didn’t want to bring down whoever let him in. Still no answer. The door looked easy to open. Should he try it? As a teenager, he and his friends had done it for fun-broke into houses, took what they could, and then trashed the place. Twenty years ago now, but this door looked just like the ones they’d popped back then. Trashing her place might be just the thing—the way to get back at her. Scare her a little. Once he'd liked doing that.

He was inside within seconds. Cheap locks for an oceanfront condo. He moved about silently, but it looked like nobody was home. Kitchen, empty. Dining room, empty. Living room, empty. And then he saw it in the window: it was an electric fan—one of those old ones that swiveled back and forth—with a dummy’s head attached to it. Back and forth, back and forth. What the fuck! What could it be for? He found out a few seconds later when a pelican headed straight for the huge glass window. The moving fan, tucked right up to the window, scared it away just in time.

His woman with the pinched white face was a nothing but a dummy’s head on a fan.

“So you’re just parked on the street to do a little surfing?”

It was the same cop he’d met earlier standing at the open door, gun pulled. “Not up to anything else, huh?”

“I thought she was hassling me.” He started to point to the fan. “Thought she’d called it in.”

“That’s a damn poor story,” the cop said. “Maybe you can come up with a better one on the way to the station.”
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The White Van

by Toe Hallock

Emma rescued her cooling cup of coffee from where she had left it on the kitchen counter. Moving to the living room, she perched on a wicker stool and took in the splendor of sand and surf forming the Pacific boundary of Manhattan Beach. The window facing west offered a wide-angle panoramic view of the entire South Bay. All the way from Palos Verdes south, to Santa Monica north. On clear days she could even spot Santa Catalina thirty miles straight across the sea; and, sometimes, the Channel Islands off towards Santa Barbara up the coast.  Directly below her beach house was Highland Avenue. Sometimes she would feel the rumble of vehicles, especially the heavier ones as they passed by, since the entire neighborhood of what were originally weekend get-aways was built upon a series of rising sand dunes. Looking down and toward the beach is Caluican Park, named after the one-time sister city. From there two parking lots stepped their way down to the Strand where the extinct Pacific Electric Red Cars traversed  tracks parallel to the ocean.  And then ran all the way east to San Berdoo.

Her latest boyfriend Randy had not contacted her for three days. Which agitated her no end. He hadn’t responded to voice mail or text messages. She always figured him more responsible. A software engineer, he chose to take California’s  Highway One to his destination, San Jose. By his way of thinking, driving along the coast might help him clear his thoughts, sort out his jumbled mind, in solving a complex computer program glitch.

At least, thank God, there was no sign of the white van in the parking lot. She  felt as she was being stalked. By whom, she had no clue. And why? Maybe she was just feeling guilty. It wasn’t her fault she had to shoot her lunatic husband. With his own service revolver, no less. While he was asleep. It was self-defense. So the jury ruled. She got everything. The house, the car, and his government pension.

The prosecution argued that she had acted in bad faith. Brought up rumors as to her irresponsible lifestyle. That her husband was upset about her promiscuous behavior, and wasteful spending habits. Apparently, she wanted it all. So when he attempted to reign her in, she killed him. Plain and simple. On the other hand, the defense brought up facts in her favor. Such as, he was forced into early retirement because of self-control issues. He needed anger management counseling. The agency would help in his re-hab. But nothing was guaranteed, or certain to be successful.

When she left the courtroom that day in triumph, she felt a slight tug at her purse but thought nothing of it because of her elation. Until she got home. It was then she discovered a folded piece of paper with a two sentence note:

“When the white van appears; Expect your worse fears.”

From that day on she spotted white vans everywhere. They would show up in various parking spots all around Manhattan Beach. Hell of a scare tactic. At one point, she even called the local Police Department. Their response was that all vans are white, nothing we can do until you have more details. Emma realized that her late husband, in his line of work, dealt with a number of characters who operated outside the law. Some who dished info that helped him solve a case. And those he kept from prison for services rendered. Were any of them assassins ready to uphold his honor?         

 Staring into the distance, she suddenly saw the white van appear.  “Jesus Christ! Won’t this ever end?”  

The phone rang. Landline, because he insisted it was safest in an emergency. Emma  answered. “Randy? Is it you, honey?  Where are you?”

The answer was chilling. “At the bottom of a cliff. Dead. Mutilated. And you’re next.”
Click!

“Wait, wait!” Emma shouted into the phone. “Who is this?” But it was no use. Looking out she saw the white van. With  a streak of blue across its right fender. She trembled. That was the color of Randy’s pickup. Damn!
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White Van

A.J. Wright

         Everywhere I go these days the white vans seem to be there. It's gotten so bad I'm not sure if they are following me, or I am following them.  This whole mess goes back to that night at Bellini’s Ghost, the bar I used to frequent before the neighborhood gentrified. I was in there one night, and this stranger comes in, and Tony asks him “What will you have?” and the guy grins and says, “Make mine danger.”  Tony, who was seldom amused by anything, burst out laughing and asked, “What’s in that one?” and the guy reeled off a combination of bizarre ingredients, and Tony made him one on the spot. We never saw that guy again, but Tony tells the story over and over when somebody says, “Make mine blah blah” and he says, “How about a danger instead?” Like I said, we never saw Mr. Danger again, but I distinctly remember that when he left he crossed the street and got into a white van and drove away.

            Now that I think back on it, my life started its slow but inevitable downhill slide about that time.  You know the song—if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Mother finally died of cancer after years of painful lingering. The crops died, and the plague spread across the land. No, wait, different story. Oh, and my cat disappeared. I think a hawk or coyote got her. They’re moving into the cities, you know.

            I met a girl and that ended badly, too, although not with cancer, plague or coyotes. Her name was Melody, and for a while the song was sweet. After a few years on the job I had at a local bank, a new owner sacked many employees and I was one of them. I decided to go back to school, and found a culinary program at a local community college that promised good eating if nothing else. Or so I thought.

            She was in that class, and from the first day I paid attention to little else. That hair, that walk, the world weary pout were just too much. “You aren’t planning on stalking me, are you?” she asked me after the first class, no doubt having noticed my inability to take my eyes off her.  She had waited in the hall for me to exit. “Do you feel a stalking coming on?” I responded, trying to sound concerned. She laughed at that, and just then I became her next victim.

            Over the next year we made it to class enough times to pass and get the certification in culinary studies or whatever it was, but just barely. I wonder what I’ve done with that certificate, which looked pretty impressive mostly due to the fake parchment paper and the fake font used I guess. Probably gave it to Mother, and her stuff hit the dumpster before the ink on her death certificate was dry.

            Anyway, when not in class that year Melody and I found plenty of things to do. Every morning she began with something like, “Why don’t we go to the art museum today? I hear they have a new exhibit of 19^th century European death masks” Or “Why don’t we go to the library downtown? I hear they have an exhibit on medieval poisons.” Always death, death, death. How and why a woman who looked like a bunco blonde spent so much time dwelling on death was beyond me. At that time, anyway.

            But I really wasn’t paying attention as well as I should have been, I guess. I had some kind of fever that kept distorting my reality, no matter how many doctors I consulted. I really didn’t need a doctor; I knew what was wrong with me. Ray Charles used to sing it, with a bit more zip.  Then came her request.

            Nothing about it rang any bells with me, although a six-year probably would have balked. She wanted me to take a small, locked suitcase across town to her brother. I didn’t know she had a brother. Now that I think back on it, I wasn’t too sure about a mother and a father, either. Anyway, I had strict instructions. I was to take a cab to the 22^nd Street subway stop, take the subway to 48^th Street, and then take another cab to his apartment. A white van with no markings would be parked in front of the building. I had to deliver the suitcase by 3:00 pm, but I had a two hour head start.

            So I set off on this delivery quest, confident that just a simple journey lay ahead of me. I might as well have been with Dante heading down into the inferno. Well, maybe not that bad, but still…The first cab got stuck in a traffic jam, and then broke down. As he left me at the curb and headed off on foot himself, he apologized for his poor attention to auto maintenance.

            I had no clue, so I set off toward the subway stop on foot, hoping traffic would start moving again and I could catch another cab. I finally made it to the subway and rode it as far as 48^th Street, wondering all the while what made that case so heavy. As I emerged at street level and began looking around for the second cab—well, third, but Melody didn’t have to know—I realized it was already after 3.      

            What happened next is still a confused blur, but maybe it will come back to me in another lifetime. Two men came up to me on either side, one poking something hard pushed into my back. I was instructed to go with them to the nearest dark alley, and now my head hurts terribly and I’m still in the dark.

            I’ve learned one thing. Mr. Danger and his white van never disappeared; they are everywhere. In fact, I think I’m going to finally get in one very soon, one that says “Jefferson County Coroner” on both sides.

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White Vans Parked Elsewhere (I am missing a few that haven't posted as of 8:30. I will add as the day goes on although it's turned into a babysitting day so I might be slow on the draw), 

Kieran Shea Rob Kitchin 
Loren Eaton 
Jerry House
Sandra Scoppettone
Al Tucher
John Weagly
Bob, The Wordless
Dana C. Kabel  
Dyer Wilk 
J.F.Norris 
Yvette 
Kathleen Ryan

Tuesday Night Music: Acordian Scene from HOLY MOTORS

Incredible scene from incredible movie.

Forgotten TV: THE NAME OF THE GAME

The name of the game starred Robert Stack, Gene Barry, Tony Franciosa, and Susan St. James in a terrific little show circa 1968-71.

From Wikiepedia

The series was based on the 1966 television movie Fame Is the Name of the Game, directed by Stuart Rosenberg and starring Tony Franciosa. The Name of the Game rotated among three characters working at Howard Publications, a large magazine publishing company — Jeff Dillon (Franciosa), a crusading reporter with People magazine (before there was a real-life People magazine); Glenn Howard (Gene Barry, taking over for George Macready, who had originated the role in the earlier film), the sophisticated, well-connected publisher; and Dan Farrell (Robert Stack), the editor of Crime magazine. Serving as a common connection was newcomer Susan Saint James as Peggy Maxwell, the editorial assistant for each.

Each series, within the series, had a slightly different feel to it. Susan Saint James was a breakout star in the series and went on to MCMILLAN AND WIFE, another series within a series and finally to KATE AND
ALLY. Like Mary Tyler Moore, a generation earlier , she caught the attention of everyone.

FAME seemed very sophisticated at the time. After three years Franciosa was let go in favor of a rotating third star. And the show ended shortly after that.

Movie Theme Music: Schindler's List

THE SECOND READING

of a book usually comes years after the first one. But I am rereading a book I just finished. The reason for it was that it was a complicated narrative and I think I missed things in struggling to make sense of the structure. I think I missed important things-- the best things even. 2) if I am going to discuss it with my book group, I want to have a theory in place for it.

Few books require this sort of immediate rereading.And on the second reading of this one, I am struck with exactly how much I did miss. Wonderful book which I will talk about after my book group reads it.

The last book I remember rereading immediately was Julian Barnes A SENSE OF PLACE for much the same sort of reason. For pleasure I remember rereading immediately GONE WITH THE WIND when I was a teenager. And as a kid, I did it all the time, of course.

Have you ever reread a book right away? And if so, why?
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RE: FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE. Please confirm that a story will be on your blog or send it to me. Not sure of where some of these stories will be.

Sorry-I have not been clear. I will post the links all on Wednesday. Today was the day for people who wanted me to post the story to have it to me. Sorry for confusion.

SAY SOMETHING GOOD ABOUT DETROIT: HAMTOWN FARMS

from Detroit Innovation Exchange and MODEL D.

Michael Davis started Hamtown Farms, a paw-paw farm in the city of Hamtramck, after a eating a strange-tasting fruit with an equally strange name called a paw-paw. The fruit, which is native to Michigan, tasted like a delicious blend of mango and bananas; soft, ripe and sweet. He says, "It was a flavor I have never had before. It is creamy, almost like a pudding."

Hamtramck is a city that sits within the city of Detroit. It was traditionally a Polish neighborhood but is now home to a variety of ethnic groups.

A  resident of Hamtramck, Davis had witnessed his neighborhood struggle with blight and vacancy. He saw his block bookended by empty, trash-peppered lots and lamented the tragic pall they cast over the community. He had advocated for a pumpkin patch, something to fill up the empty space, but there were challenges that saw that idea deflate. So for awhile Davis’s view during his daily commute was marred by those empty lots. Then came the paw-paw.

Last year on June 9, Hamtown Farms was founded with 100 volunteers  changing what it was into something beautiful and necessary – their arms bared to their shoulders from rolled sleeves; planting, prepping and tarping the land. When they were finished vacant land had become the home of 13 paw-paw trees, eight pear and cherry trees and 30 hazelnut bushes.

Davis started the farm along with Julie Swartz, Jeffrey Taylor and Robert Swartz. The community – kids, adults, neighbors, everyone – is why Davis and his cohort started the farm. It wasn’t because of paw-paws, because admittedly Davis knew little about them at the beginning; rather it was to band the community together. To this end Davis and company engaged as many people in the process as they could. There was dinner with the mayor, meetings with the city economic development manager, meetings with the neighbors and the community. Davis says, "Instead of imposing our desire on the community, we listened and adjusted our plans. The master plan itself was revised 25 times due to community input." What Davis calls "listening" was a two-year process to develop a master plan for the farm. The farm’s leadership team worked closely with the city of Hamtramck and other organizations with specializations in farming and paw-paws.

The farm currently reflects this intentioned planning. Davis says, "In the center of the site there are raised beds for community members to grow their own seasonal vegetables. Leftover beds are planted with vegetables and are marked with ‘Public Picking Allowed’ signs."

The community of people interested in supporting the farm extended beyond the immediate community and city government. There were others who responded materially to the vision of Hamtown Farms.

Davis says, "We received a $4,000 grant from Constellation Energy as well as a $500 donation from Ted Nelson of Wellcom. These funds were quite helpful in the startup phase, allowing us to buy materials to build and fill the raised beds."

Some of their other benefactors have been unexpected. "Some people have just walked up while we’re out on the farm and handed us cash saying, ‘Keep up the good work!'" Davis says. In the summertime, ice cream is frequently pressed unto Davis by local vendors, as thanks for the work he is doing.

Davis is deferential when mentioning the help provided by the City of Hamtramck. He also acknowledges with appreciation the "vast network of support within Detroit," naming supportive people and organizations that have helped Hamtown Farms happen: Mitch Cope/Design 99, The Greening of Detroit’s Garden Resource Program, People’s Community Services.

Hamtown Farms is not a fairy tale; it is a story that continues. When the winter leaves us in a couple months, Davis and others will go back to work. "We’ll head out and pick up garbage that has blown onto the lots." In the spring, when planting season starts, the neighborhood kids will come out and join the work, chattering excitedly. For Davis the reward is the farm’s existence and its practical benefit to the community; this new reality that at the end of their block sits a farm and not a blank space.


I have never had a paw paw but I will seek them out when the season changes (if it ever does!)

Sunday Night Poetry: Edgar Allan Poe

Saturday Night Music: Billie Holiday

What Are Some of the Greatest Character Names In Fiction?

Harper Lee did a great job with Atticus and Scout Finch, but I am going with Boo Radley as her finest name.
You could do worse than Humbert Humbert too. What are your favorites?How important are the names of fictional characters to you?

Home Invasion

You can get it here.

Thanks to the folks at Snubnose Press and to the many people who have read and commented on the stories that make up this novel. over the last few years. Especially thanks to Phil Abbott who read them multiple times with no complaints.

A review of mine and a review of me.

My review of the German film BARBARA is on Crimespree Cinema today.

And Charlie Stella has very kindly read my novel in stories HOME INVASION, right here.
It should be available soon.

Friday's Forgotten Books, March 8, 2013

THE TRUTH ABOUT BEBE DONGE, Georges Simenon
by Deb

One of the alternate English titles for THE TRUTH ABOUT BEBE DONGE is I TAKE THIS WOMAN, which I find to be more accurate to the spirit of the story than its published title.  We never really learn the truth about Bebe—at least, not from her—nor do we penetrate the depths of her psyche, but we do learn a lot about her marriage and her husband’s gradual awareness of what he has done to damage it, in this Simenon novella first published in 1942 and anthologized in English in 1953.

Bebe Donge is the wife a wealthy merchant named Francois.  They have a young son and an idyllic life in the French countryside (although the book was published during World War II, no mention is made of any war-time activities or disruptions).  Bebe’s sister is married to Francois’s brother, who is also his business partner.  They, along with other family and friends, visit Francois and Bebe frequently, and Sunday afternoon get-togethers are a regular event.  During one of these family afternoons, marvelously evoked with a handful of descriptive sentences in Simenon’s trademark economic style, Francois becomes very ill after drinking a cup of coffee.  It is soon apparent that he has been poisoned and the culprit is quickly identified as Bebe.  While Francois is recovering from the poisoning, Bebe is arrested and sits in jail awaiting trial.  Members of the family are stunned that the quiet, self-possessed Bebe would try to kill her husband.  As they exchange memories of Bebe, a picture emerges—but is it accurate or merely perceptions filtered through each characters own vision of the alleged poisoner?

Part of the difficulty in this book lies in the disagreeable nature of Francois Donge who begins as a very unattractive character—a ruthless bully in both his business and family life.  He tends to see everyone around him as objects to be used as necessary for his professional or private ends.  He treats Bebe with disdain—a beautiful woman whose inner life or past traumas do not interest him.  Francois has been constantly unfaithful to Bebe, particularly in a casual on-going liaison with his secretary (a woman who ranks so low in Francois’s regard that he doesn’t even know her first name).  For some of us reading the story of the Donge marriage, the question is not why Bebe poisoned Francois but why it took so long before she did it!

But Francois does undergo a change during his recovery as he revisits the memories of his marriage with a new perspective.  He begins to see that Bebe, the product of a difficult marriage between mismatched parents (a favorite Simenon theme), wanted her marriage to Francois to be different, a true meeting of minds.  She married Francois perhaps unaware of his cold detachment or thinking that her love would be able to change him.  As years go by, Bebe sees Francois for what he is and begins to doubt that he will ever change.  Francois realizes that Bebe has developed a protective shell around her heart to avoid being hurt by the crumbling of her marriage.  But even that could not prevent her from reaching a point where any change—even that promised by going to prison for attempted murder—was preferable to continuing in her current situation. 

But all of this new-found awareness of Bebe comes from Francois and other characters.  They talk about her and analyze her and try to understand why she did what she did.  Meanwhile, Bebe sits quietly self-contained in her prison cell, never actually explaining what motivated her.  So we are left to determine for ourselves why a prosperous, upper-middle-class wife would, after a decade of marriage, become discontented enough to try to kill her husband.  It is up to us to pick through the differing perceptions of various characters to come to our own conclusions about the “truth.”  In a way, Bebe reminded me of Irene in THE FORSYTHE SAGA—a beautiful woman upon whom all the other characters in the book project their feelings but whose actual thoughts we never hear and can never really hope to know. 

Sergio Angelini, THE BLOODY MATCH, Paul Halter
Les Blatt , THE FINGERPRINT, Patricia Wentworth
Brian Busby,THE PAGANS, Jack Romaine, PAGAN, Jack Benedict
Bill Crider, THE GATHERING PLACE, Jon L, Breen
Scott Cupp, THE CONSTANTINE AFFLICTION, T. Aaron Payton
Martin Edwards, DEATH OF A BEAUTY QUEEN, E. R. Pushon
Curt Evans, TI'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING, J.B. Priestly and Gerald Bullett
Ed Gorman, A SHORT HISTORY OF GOLD MEDAL BOOKS
Jerry House, WILD WEST SHOW, Thomas W. Knowles and Joe Lansdale
Randy Johnson, RAW DAY AT PASCO SPRINGS, Clay More 
Nick Jones, THE BOY WHO FOLLOWED RIPLEY, Patricia Highsmith
George Kelley, STEPWATER: AN Arbiter Tale, L. Warren Douglad
Margot Kinberg. HOUSE REPORT, Deborah Nicholson
Rob Kitchin, WHITE DOG, Peter Temple
B.V. Lawson, THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB, Fergus Hume
Evan Lewis, NO QUARTER, Nels (Leroy) Jorgenson
Steve Lewis/Walter Albert, THE GRAVE TATTOO, Val McDermid
Todd Mason, THE HARPER'S FORUM BOOK: WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT? edited by Jack Hitt (Citadel 1991); THE PARIS REVIEW INTERVIEWS, Vol II, edited by Philip Gourevitch (Picador 2007)
J.F. Norris, MURDER AMONG FRIENDS, Lange Lewis
Juri Nummelin, WEASEL RIPPED MY FLESH
James Reasoner , CIRCUS PARADE, Jim Tully
Gerard Saylor, GOMORRAH, Roberto Saviano
Ron Scheer, WARLOCK, Oakley Hall
Michael Slind, MURDER ON THE BLACK MARKET, Brett Halliday
Kerrie Smith, SUITABLE VENGEANCE, Elizabeth George
Kevin Tipple, CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE, Martha Powers
TomCat, Kay Cleaver Strahan

My Life in the Theater: POSTCARDS

This was one terrific play. Written by William Costanza, it premiered here in Detroit at the Detroit Repertory Theater but I hope it comes to your neck of the woods.

Alvin Moseby is a photographer. He lived in the south during the 1930s, in Shiloh, Tennessee to be exact. When times are tough we often do things for money we wish we hadn't. He was paid by Deputy Sheriff Reggie Kilmore to take photographs of racist deeds which were made into postcards.
Later Alvin leaves his wife, flees Shiloh and moves to New York city. There he finds his artistic calling taking pictures of legendary jazz musicians in sessions. He finds Hattie McLendon who becomes the love of his life. But, the infamous box of postcards follows his every step and haunts his every move. The photographs relentlessly attack his soul.

This is the third play in the last month we have seen about racism. One at the turn of the last century, one in the 1950, and the third across the 1970s and today. The face of racism changes but it never disappears. Sad.

RIP: Robert Zieger

Dr. Robert Zieger

Dr. Robert Zieger was a labor historian at several universities, ending his career at the University of Florida in Gainesville. We knew him and his wonderful wife, Gay, when he was at WSU for about ten years in the 1980s. He was smart, kind, and shared similar tastes in movies, baseball, novels, politics. Not all academics read novels-not most of them, in fact, The best thing about Bob and Gay Zieger was they went out of their way to make our kids feel as welcome in their house as family would. Bob spent many hours playing tennis and catch with Josh. Went to games with Phil and Josh. Gay spent time playing dolls with Megan. Can you imagine an adult who would do such a thing? They were patient and treated every word our kids said as important and deserving of an answer. When Megan, at about age 12, announced she wanted to be a cultural historian, he encouraged it. When Josh said he hoped to play professional baseball, he said he hoped to see him at Tiger Stadium someday. My kids talk about these traits to this day.

Sephie

We had no family to share those holidays with in Detroit so the Ziegers stepped in. I am often afraid of dogs but Winston was as lovable as his owners.

We haven't seem Bob often over the last ten years. Mostly just a Christmas card and an occasional facebook interchange. But when I think of the people who have been important in my life, Bob ranks pretty high. I will miss him. For a long time after they moved to Florida, I wrote letter to them every few weeks and he always answered. I never got over missing them, wishing they had stayed in Detroit.

He died instantly and I am very glad for that. He lived long enough to have a darling granddaughter and I am doubly glad for that. His son, Robert, is a history teacher in Myanmar after doing a few years in Pakistan. I know how proud Bob was of his son.

No need to respond to this, friends. If you want to do yourself a favor, email or write or phone someone you should stay in touch with. I wish I had done better at it.

Why I Liked THE BLACK HOUSE

Without too much thought, what are three or four important characteristics of a book you have recently enjoyed. This list applies to this book but also to many of the books I enjoy most.

I am going to talk about THE BLACKHOUSE by Peter May. I am taking for granted that the writing is great first of all.I can never finish a book that doesn't have pretty good if not great writing.

One-Great atmosphere-it is set in the Outer Hebrides in the north of Scotland. We learn a lot about the topography of this area-it is almost a character in the book.

Two- characters that seem to have both good and bad traits. Nothing is black and white. The main character is especially compelling. But many others are too.

Three-the violence is never pasted on top. It is never gratuitous. It is not filler. It is organic and arises from character and circumstance.

Four-Secrets from the past affect the presence. I love backstory. I could read a book that is all back story in fact.

What about you? Tell me some of the best traits of a recently enjoyed book. 

Opening Credits: Delicatessen

Tuesday Night Musicl Robert Wyatt

Why I Ditched the Show?

I just ditched THE AMERICANS because it was incoherent, unbelievable, and had no character to root for.

I also ditched THE WALKING DEAD a few weeks agao because it veered wildy between excessive violence and excessive talking and neither worked for me,

Why show did you ditch after watching it for a while and why?

Forgotten Villainesses: Judith Anderson

Of course, her greatest film role was as Mrs. Danvers in REBECCA but she was also memorable in LAURA as Ann Treadwell. She also played Lady MacBeth, Gertrude in Hamlet, Medea (who kills her children to get revenge on her husband) and Slade in Lady Scarface. In the STRANGE LOVES OF MARTHA IVES, she plays a cruel aunt who torments a cat. In AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, she drives a young man to suicide.

You can't help but wonder if an actress without classic beauty got offered very different parts. 

Theme Music: MAD MEN (sort of)

This is Alison Williams, from GIRLS, two years and twenty pounds more ago.

How I Came to Write This Story "Allure Furs"

Allure Furs was originally a chapter in a novel I wrote called SHOT IN DETROIT. It is surprisingly easy for me to take chapters from my attempts at novels and turn them into short stories, a good indication that I have perhaps written short stories for too long to change my writing patterns.I see a story in 3500 words rather than 100, 000.

And this one was particularly simple because I merely wanted to establish an early introduction for my character to: photography, to men who want things from women, to tawdriness, to the things that would harden her. Essentially, it was a standalone chapter in the book. Not good for a novel but good for a short story.

As a teenager, Iris takes a job working the counter for Allure Furs, a seedy fur store stuck between a donut shop and a second run (or perhaps an adult) theater. Her duties grow when her boss decides she can do more than answer phones.

(In the mid eighties when my kids were teens, it became quite common to have an afterschool job. Designer clothes were coming into vogue and kids suddenly wanted jeans that cost too much for most families to afford. And businesses were thrilled to pay minimum wage to kids instead of livable salaries to adults. Some kids were performing tasks they had no business doing. Society was seduced by the idea that working was good for kids and schools began to accommodate this trend.

I sent the story to THUGLIT and Todd Robinson, its editor, thought it needed a bit more indication of just how sleazy the atmosphere at Allure Furs was. He was right. I was telling instead of showing the protagonist's encounters with men while modeling fur coats. The reader needed to feel her fear, and also her power, over the men who wanted to humiliate her. Hope it works for you.

Say Something Good About Detroit

This video speaks for itself.

Death Be Not Proud: John Donne

Third Call: FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE

I sit at a window every day here in La Jolla where I look out on the ocean. But I also see a street. On many of the days I have been here, a white van pulls up early in the morning to grab one of the few empty spots. The van contains an expensive bike, a motorbike, a surfboard, multiple coolers, and changes of clothes, a beach chair. And, of course, a man. A man who seems to nearly live in this van because he eats lunch in there, changes his clothes in there and so on. I He seems to have too many expensive things to be homeless, but he is sinister. I watch him enter and exit his van. Does he watch me at the window?

Don't regard any of these details relevant to your story necessarily.

CHALLENGE: Write a story about a man in a white van. What is his story? 1000 words and a finish date of March 13th. Let me know if you're in.

So far the following people have accepted the challenge.

Kieran Shea           Patti Abbott
Kathy Ryan            Yvette Can Draw
Leigh Neely            Dana C. Kabel
Rob Kitchin            John F. Norris
Dana King              Chad Eagleton
Jerry House            Dyer Wilk
Al Tucher                A. J. Wright
Loren Eaton             Bob, The Wordless
Butterfly on the Wall Toe Hallock
Jerry Jerman           

If your name is on here and you don't get to it, it's ok. If it's not on here and you intend to have one, let me know. If you need me to post it, please have it to me by March 11th.