Biopic Pre-Production Item

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Biopic Pre-Production Item

The house contains a dizzying blend of decorative styles, with art and furniture pulled from the latest Instagram retro fads. Here an egg chair from the 60’s, there an art deco lamp. The carpet is red velvet, several times thicker than the carpet the diva has walked several times already in her budding acting career.

He finds it charming. It tells him she has not hired a decorator, that she picked the pieces herself. A bit of that small town charm still remains. She is not yet a product—not completely, anyway.

He passes posters for the pop starlet’s first few feature films. Musical, remake, sex comedy. A bit part in a megafranchise.

It’s a promising start to acting after the success of her second album. He’s a fan.

But the balance sheets have been run, and he’s been called. The next movie will be her biggest yet–but she won’t be in it. He loves movies, he hates movies. They’re all the same. Each time you hope you’ll see something new. Each time you’re disappointed. But the hope remains.

Now he’s a part of the problem. A fixer for the studio. He makes sure things go according to plan. Exactly according to plan. He’s the one who makes sure things never change.

The carpet muffles his footsteps as he reaches the door.

She lounges in a Victorian fainting chair, scrolling on her phone. A plate of chips sit on the floor, mostly as a prop, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe her relatable girl image extends to junk food on breaks between red carpet appearances. The room, gazing out over her swimming pool and garden, reminds him strangely of Scarface.

“Oh, you can go home for the day.”

Then she sees the gun.

“Take whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

“It’s okay. I work for the studio.”

“Oh. What do you want?” She sits up, wrapping her vintage nightgown around herself.

Reflexively, he feels sorry for seeing her like this. Defenseless. Minimal makeup, half-naked. She doesn’t have her armor on. But that’s why he’s here.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“The good news is that you’re going to be a bigger star than you ever imagined.”

“What’s the bad news?”

He waggles the gun at her.

“But I’ve done everything they’ve told me, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”

She has. She’s fulfilled every request, bounced from pageant queen to child actor to teen pop sensation, and back to acting. She’s hit every career milestone with ease. But there’s a new scheme.

“I know. And you were good at it, too.” He walks up, grabs one of the chips off the plate.

“Do you mind?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes dart to the double glass doors overlooking the pool and garden. The first attempt is coming soon.

“For what it’s worth, I’m a fan.”

“Oh, great.”

“The thing is, the studio ran the numbers. And they think you’d be great in a biopic.”

“About who?”

“You don’t understand.” He finishes chewing. The plate lies forgotten by the couch.

“You’re the subject.”

“They want to make a movie about me?” She’s flattered.

“Well, here’s the problem. You’re not dead yet.”

She runs to the balcony doors–but he’s there first, snaking his arm around her and depositing her back on the couch, almost gently.

“My manager will hear about this.”

“She knows. She’ll get her percentage.”

She wriggles. He holds her down, gun point-blank.

“I’m gonna give you a choice. Either you can be murdered by a mystery killer, Black Dahlia style. Nothing wrong with that. It just doesn’t test as well.”

Another futile spasm.

“Or, and I hope you’ll like this one better–because it’ll be less painful for you and better for the movie–tragic overdose. A problem nobody knew you had.” It also means a bonus for him, but he leaves that part out.

“I have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Who’s gonna play me?”

“There are a few stars in the running...”

Suddenly, he’s stunned, and no longer sees her on the couch in front of him. China shards and nachos fall around him. At first, he thinks he’s seeing stars. Then he remembers the plate of chips.

He turns sluggishly. She’s gotten the doors open and stands on the balcony.

“Don’t.”

She jumps.

Son of a bitch. This isn’t the ending he had planned. The studio, either.

He advances to the balcony, gun drawn.

She’s twisted her ankle, not quite making the jump to the pool. She hobbles to the edge of her garden. It would be trivial to hunt her down now.

He raises his pistol. A silenced round shivers the leaves by her leg. Another busts the ear off a faux-Renaissance bust by her head.

Maybe he’s slipping. Maybe he pulled his shots.

He itches his head with the silencer, then presses it against his temple. It’s only a matter of time before the police find him, or worse, the studio.

Or maybe...

He’s got enough money saved up. Not for Hollywood. But maybe somewhere quieter. Enough old connections to secure an exit. If she can have a new ending, maybe he can too.

She reaches the hedge by the edge of the property. Looking up, she tries to figure a way to climb, wondering why she let the gardeners grow it so high.

As she thrusts her hands into the tearing thorns and prepares to climb, the second unit steps out from behind a hedge. He can snap her neck easily, like a 10-pound cable crossover.

Black Dahlia it is.

The second fixer will get the bonus as he does it, too–and likely report the first for his incompetence. The fixer raises his pistol once again.

It’s a clean shot. The starlet shudders as brains Jackson Pollock the leaves in front of her.

The second unit falls into the hedge, perfectly domed. Fly high, little birdie, he thinks. For all of us.

She begins to climb.

Samuel Bollen is a writer living in Los Angeles. His work has previously appeared in Grattan Street Press and Running Wild Press.

Death Bed

Photographer - Tobi Brun

At the opening, there is a small crowd in the bedroom. They observe the deceased ROSE with their hands crossed over their fronts, their heads bowed. Eventually, the people begin to stir and they walk quietly out of the bedroom. Some of them will touch or hug or whisper words of
encouragement to LARRY. The crowd walks through the kitchen and slowly, one by one, they exit the stage byway of the “house’s” front door. When they’re all gone, the lights over the kitchen fade out.

In the bedroom, faintly lit, is LARRY, sitting on a wooden chair besides a bed. Laid upon the bed is ROSE, with a white sheet over her body and face. She is still.

LARRY
I didn’t deserve you ... I was a terrible husband, a horrible man. I still am. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything – not why I’m living, not why you were the one who –

ROSE
[Quietly] I wish I weren’t dead.

LARRY
[Stirring] Rose? Rose – what did you say?

ROSE
I wish I wasn’t dead, Larry, so I could tell you how much I loved you. I loved you more than you know. And I know you love me too. We love each other and now we can’t say it to each other – I will say it now, at least one final time.

LARRY
Rose? ... Rose – is that really you speaking to me!

ROSE
It’s me, Larry. Do you know? Do you know how much I love you, and how lovely I feel, up here in heaven, that you love me too. We didn’t get a chance to say it so much, didn’t we?

LARRY
We did, Rose, we did all the time. Don’t you know it?

ROSE
No, we didn’t. [ROSE pulls away part of her blanket and looks at him] I want to tell you how sorry I am. I never got the chance to tell you how much you mean to me. I never told you when I was alive ... now I must do it when I’m dead ... one final time.

LARRY
What do you mean, Rose? ... To apologize? Rose, what do you mean?

ROSE

My coldness, Larry – I was a harsh, timid woman my whole life. [Sitting up] If people didn’t
think of me as being a little beautiful, I would never have gotten anywhere.

LARRY
That’s not true, Rose, don’t say that.

ROSE
I was scared my whole life and I ... I hated people, for how I thought they treated me – and I never treated people myself well. That’s what makes me so sick, Larry – I’m glad I’m dead.

LARRY
Don’t say that. Don’t believe such a thing!

ROSE
Thankfully people have thought I was beautiful –

LARRY
You are! You are!

ROSE
They cut me some slack. But I was a rotten person, intelligent and still too smart for my own
good, unfriendly, unloving – you hadn’t any reason to marry me or –

LARRY
Rose! That’s not true.

ROSE
What is the point of lying to me now?

LARRY
Rose! [Taking her hand] I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. The children loved you so much and –

ROSE
The children. [Becoming weepy] Are they well? Where are they?

LARRY
I took them to my parents, Rose. They will stay with my parents until the funeral, maybe longer as we – [Loses words]

ROSE
To push on ... You’re a good father to them, Larry. My parents are terrible cold, and I’m glad that they didn’t intrude.

LARRY

Everyone has been gentle and lovely during this period. You don’t have anything to worry over, Rose. I swear so.

ROSE
I know you swear. [Hiccoughing, crying] My parents aren’t kind, good people, and I’m glad the kids aren’t with them. [Her sobs relieve] They were raised wrong by their parents and I was raised wrong my them and I – [Sobs again] – if I stayed alive –

LARRY
Your parents have been wonderful during this time.

ROSE
My children would’ve turned out like me and –

LARRY
[Desperately] Rose!

ROSE
[Faintly smiling] You don’t have to make up a story for me.

LARRY
No, I’m serious. It’s only that the kids need somewhere to rest.

ROSE
Hopefully they won’t remember any of this.

LARRY
They’ll remember you!

ROSE
They’re too young ... They won’t remember me at all.

LARRY
They’ll remember everything about you. They’ll have pictures and stories – I’ll tell them all our
old romantic stories, Rose – I mean so!

ROSE
That’s sweet of you, Larry ... You’ll tell them nice things about me too, I guess. You were always kindly like that –

LARRY
You were my best friend ever since the day I met you, Rose, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better ... Don’t you remember when we met? [Sighing, he sits back] It’s nice to talk with you like this, Rose. I know you’re dead and this is all in my head. But it feels good to say a little something to you ... [Pause, as he rests. Suddenly, he slaps his knee and laughs] We had eight wonderful years together, Rose ... Don’t you remember the night we met at Jenn’s house and how were so embarrassed because you spilled the glass of wine down your front and you –

ROSE
[Finishing for him, laughing] I sure was embarrassed. I guess now it’s a funny story.

LARRY
Of course, it’s funny. It’s a hilarious meet cute.

ROSE
I was too serious my whole life – I could never loosen up.

LARRY
I love listening to your laugh, Rose.

ROSE
I wished I laughed more.

LARRY
You laughed plenty. You laughed more than anyone I’ve known!

ROSE
[Grimacing] I could barely laugh my whole life and you know it good as I. [Shaking her head] That was a funny night, I guess. I didn’t think so at the time – too uptight!

LARRY
Don’t worry on that now. Just remember the good times.

ROSE
Good times? I didn’t have those ... I was a heartless, meanspirited girl my whole life and everyone knew so. You’re a nice man for making up stories to me. You’ll be a good father – I guess the kids will even think of me as an alright person –

LARRY
Because you were – you were more than that, Rose!

ROSE
No, everyone hated me. All my friends, even poor little Jenn who didn’t ever hurt a hair on anyone’s head, who didn’t even whine when I told her that you’d asked me out and –

LARRY
[Solemnly] Yes, I understand ... It must’ve been tough on her.

ROSE
She loved you very much ... was a good sport about it.

LARRY
Jenn is a nice alright, but –

ROSE
Jenn loved you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.

LARRY
[Quietly] She was a good sport about it. I mean, I had my eye on her until I met you and then – what was I supposed to do? [They both sigh and laugh a little] I hope she doesn’t resent me much. Nobody can control who they fall in love with and –

ROSE
That’s what I told her ... We had to talk about it once, so we did. There was too much gunk between us.

LARRY
I imagine so. I can’t believe you stayed friends.

ROSE
Jenn isn’t resentful. I just had to go and tell her ... that was hard. She probably thought you liked her –

LARRY
I did ... I mean, Jenn is an alright woman.

ROSE
Very beautiful.

LARRY
[Nodding] She was. Beautiful – not like you, but –

ROSE
She’s too pleasant for her own good. And too forgiving. I sat with her for over an hour in some bar I don’t even remember the name of. I was a little too conceited that night ... so proud that I had you and nobody else and – she was terribly sad, poor Jenn.

LARRY
Poor Jenn.

ROSE
She was crying like it was her last day on earth ... No, I again am being nasty. She was only crying a little – and not at all, for I didn’t really notice – it was only that her eyes were a little damp, and she sniffled.

LARRY
It’s a difficult thing to experience.

ROSE
I tried my best ... I’m not a warm person, Larry, and you know so.

LARRY
You were warm, Rose, I swear you were.

ROSE
[Pause. She sucks in her breath] I remember now how cruel I was. I tried to be there as a friend – but did I care?

LARRY
You cared so much for Jenn – and Jenn for you!

ROSE
Maybe ... I tried the best I could. I don’t have a warm bone in my body – my blood is colder than a milkshake. [Tries to laugh. Inhales] I remember that we sat there at some bar and ... I didn’t even remember to go gentle with her. I just started in talking and suddenly she was ... you know, crying a little. [Cries herself] I held her hand, I tried to make her feel better –

LARRY
I’m sure you did all you can do ... When it comes to emotions –

ROSE
She loved you very much, Larry. She told me that she imagined that you two were to be together– she told me that she hadn’t any idea that I was interested in you, and you in me and –

LARRY
It must’ve been horrible, Rose. I know how hard that can be. But there wasn’t anything that you– [Smiling, straightening] Jenn is a nice and pretty girl who can take care of herself ... I don’t like hearing you speak so poorly about yourself, Rose ... I don’t know if I was a very good
husband to you. I have been thinking of such things, the times when I took you for granted, when I didn’t say, ‘I love you,’ when I should.

ROSE
[Nodding] It was hard towards the end, wasn’t it?

LARRY
[Nodding] We didn’t say we loved each other.

ROSE
Not until I got sick.

LARRY
Then I started to say it ... It felt like too little too late.

ROSE
It wasn’t, Larry! I know so. This whole time the last few months, me lying here, barely being able to move or talk, I felt you with me – not you physically – your soul!

LARRY
My soul?

ROSE
I felt your soul with me, your heart in my hand.

LARRY
[With wonder] That’s rather beautiful, Rose ... That’s poetic! I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a thing before.

ROSE
It’s true. I felt your heart in my hand and I felt that my heart was in yours. And we were each holding each other’s hearts.

LARRY
We did, Rose. We held each other’s hearts. Not too tightly, not too gently. It was a beautiful thing, Rose, when the days were very long and there wasn’t even anything to hope for and all I had was you lying here so desperate and –

ROSE
I wasn’t in pain, Larry. I was only sitting here, remembering my life, and wanting – If I could’ve spoken, I would’ve told you every moment of the day how much I loved you. I wanted to bellow it in your ears. I couldn’t.

LARRY
I know you couldn’t, Rose. The doctors –

ROSE
I would’ve told you so. That I loved you and the children and that I was so sorry for all the hurt I caused you and –

LARRY
It goes both ways, Rose. We both hurt each other – but that’s what people do and it doesn’t really matter now ... There’s no point in thinking on the bad. There are too many good memories of you – there’s so much of you in our children’s faces – their eyes. They have such beautiful
eyes and –

ROSE
[Innocently] They have my eyes, Larry? [Crying]

LARRY
Of course, they do. Your eyes and your ears and your –

ROSE
But they don’t have me, Larry, they don’t have me.

LARRY
They’ll know you better than I will with all the stories I tell them! [Trying to cheer] They’ll know everything – you’ll be like a goddess to them! I swear so, Rose!

ROSE
They won’t have a mother. [Both quiet. Pause] My children will need a mother, Larry. You can’t do it by yourself.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
Children need their mother more than their father.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
It’s just natural that way, Larry – Children need their mothers more than their fathers. For support and – what are you to do, Larry? I can’t have it, you trying alone to –

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do.

ROSE
I want you to move on, Larry, I want you to move on soon as you can, to find a wife, better than me, a mother better than me.

LARRY
I can’t do such a thing, Rose ... Not yet.

ROSE
The children need a mother and you need a wife. You’re too good a man to be alone for one moment. I know so!

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do. I don’t know.

ROSE
You need a woman to take care of you. You need a woman who you can make love to like you did to me and – I must say such a thing, Larry. I must say it. Because that’s what you need. It’s what every man needs, the good and the bad ones. [Kitchen lights turn on, as one of the mourners from prior enters and leads in a doctor and two EMT’s carrying a stretcher. They move courteously, and quickly] Jenn loves you more than anyone, Larry, and you know so better than I. She will be there for you, for the children.

LARRY
I don’t know, Rose, I don’t know.

ROSE
I love you, Larry. I only want what’s best for you and –

[As the doctor and EMT’s enter, ROSE quiets and lies back, dead, as before. LARRY rises and tucks in her blanket. The doctor and others move around her and LARRY stands in the corner watching them with a grimace on his face. LARRY nods and enters the kitchen. He paces about the kitchen, sometimes going back to the door of the bedroom. ROSE is being gently put onto the stretcher. Once ROSE is loaded into the stretcher, and the EMT’s are moving her out of the house, LARRY is less nervy ... When he’s alone, he stands tall and seems rested. He takes out his iPhone and makes a call. As he speaks, he will walk casually about kitchen]

LARRY
Jenn ... It’s good to hear from you ... Yes, yes, she passed peacefully and without pain ... That’s what the doctor said ... Family ... some cousins and – mostly extended family, I guess, I don’t really know them ... No ... No, they’re not here. I brought them to my parents ... They will be there at least through the funeral, probably until they finish school and we can decide what to do... What you and I will do ... That’s right ... My parents understand ... They’re not expecting me back tonight. I told them I was going to stay at the house until the coroners came, and that I
would be away tomorrow morning at the funeral house ... They don’t know anything ... They won’t care. They never much like Rose, I don’t think ... No, they didn’t say anything, but you know ... No, they don’t know anything. But they remember you from – maybe from the wedding – I don’t remember ... Yes, soon.

[LARRY looks himself over in a mirror tacked onto the wall. He smiles, frowns, glares, and smiles again]

... I’m leaving right now, and will be over soon ... It’s alright, I don’t much care ... Do you? ... I know you don’t. It is what it is, as they say. [Laughs] It’ll be good to see you for real tonight … The first real time ... No, the red one ... The red one that I bought you last winter ... Yeah, that
one ... Want me to pick up anything? ... Merlot – Rose always hated Merlot ... No, I think it’s alright ... [Laughing] I’m serious, I’ll be right over and we’ll have a nice night together ... It’s been a long time coming. No more lying. She passed peacefully and it’s over ... I know ... I know ... I love you too.

[LARRY ends the call and checks himself over once more in the mirror. He’s chuckling to himself as he turns off all the lights in the house and exits]

Hunter Prichard is a writer residing in Portland, Maine. Follow him on twitter at @huntermprichard.

‘Cowboy Jones and the Rootin' Tootin' Revenge of the West’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cowboy Jones was the fastest hand West of the Mississippi and I’d be willin’ to bet East too. He’d walk into a saloon and ‘fore anyone could spit he’d take ‘em out. Yup, he was that fast.

Cowboy Jones liked shootin’. Sharp shootin’, regular shootin’, any shootin’. He’d shoot a loose hair from yer head at 20 yards or clean shoot yer little finger off at 30.

He came out the womb shootin’. Pistols akimbo, he shot his own damn foreskin off ‘fore any doctor could get ter hackin’ at it. That’s what the legends say anyhow. His momma didn’ wannim no more after he did that. His daddy was proud.

Okay, I’m through practicing my southern accent. However, this story is still the story of Cowboy Jones. The reason I chose to write about Cowboy Jones this particular day is the need to grease my wheels. I’ve been on vacation for a week and need to recover my land legs. My land legs of writing that is. I was on a cruise from writing and now that I was back I needed to readjust. So I’m experimenting a little bit and hoping the result comes out fine. We’ll see. Anyway, back to Cowboy.

It’s true what I said before. Cowboy Jones did love to shoot and he shot indiscriminately. He shot his own rabid dog, he shot his mother when they wouldn’t euthanize her and in the end he shot himself. But we’ll get to that when we do.

Cowboy Jones was tall and intimidating. Some estimates say he was six feet seven and others even say six ten. He always wore a black cowboy hat and matching cowboy outfit. He fitted himself with four holsters. Two for each hip and two for each ankle. Rumors said he kept an extra gun under his hat.

He was large for his size too, like Goliath. He was around three hundred pounds and hairy as can be. His weight was well distributed, giving him an appearance closer to Zangief than E. Honda. Rumors say he was bald under the hat, but he never took it off, so it’s hard to say. Even the coroner took the news of his head to the grave.

Cowboy Jones was angry with the world. He came into the world angry. Obviously, he didn’t actually come out of the womb shooting. That’s a legend a la Romulus and Remus being raised by wolves. But I wasn’t there, so I couldn't say with absolute certainty. If I had to guess, I’d say it was legend.

He did, however, come out of the womb with the umbilical cord around his neck, which he tore through with the few teeth he was born with. The doctors were horrified, they had never seen anything like it, his mother wondered what was happening and his father fainted. When all was said and done, he wasn’t screaming crying, he was smoldering mad.

Soon as Cowboy Jones could walk, his father had a gun in his hand. His father had waited all his life for a son and finally got it. His own daddy had died when he was young, so he wanted to get all his fathering in as soon as possible just in case he suffered the same fate. So at two years old Cowboy Jones was shootin’ cans and squirrels and all sortsa things (forgive me for my accent creepin’ in. I can’t help it sometimes when tellin’ sucha story as this).

Having lived past when his own daddy died, Cowboy Jones’ dad decided to teach his boy about the Old American West. He had heard tales in his youth from his grandaddy about the wonders of the west. Wars between Cowboys and Injuns (as his grandaddy said), wrangling horses, hunting buffaloes, diggin’ for gold, spittin’ in spittoons, shootouts in saloons at high noon…

Young Cowboy Jones’ impressionable mind was fascinated. As much as he was fascinated, though, he was pissed. All this glory and adventure and exploration had been stolen from him by urbanization and industrialization. There was nothing left to explore, nothing left to wrangle if ya didn’t have a permit, nothing left of the Olde American West. He started to get his revenge.

As a teenager, Cowboy Jones went ‘round his neighborhood stealing all the carburetors from the cars. He lived in suburbia, a byproduct of industrialization. If he had his way, he’d live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, living off the fatta his own land. But now everything came from the convenience of grocery stores and all the jobs were cushy office jobs in the city. So he stole all the carburetors. Nobody got to work that morning and there was a lotta yelling and head scratching in front of smoking carhoods.

What did this accomplish? Nothing. Cowboy Jones didn’t give a damn about accomplishing nothin’. He was just mad and he took out his anger however he felt compelled to. It didn’t matter to him if people lost their jobs or kept em. The industrial world was his enemy and he was lashing out.

He started growing crops in his yard and taking school off to harvest ‘em. He argued with all of his teachers, saying all they taught was nonsense and of no importance. If anybody wanted some real learnin’, he said one day, come to my house after school. I’ll teach ya how to shoot, how to grow crops, how ta live damnit.

Only one guy did show up and he and Cowboy Jones became the besta friends. This guy was, of course, Cowboy Jones’ notorious companion, Killy the Bidd. At least, that’s what Cowboy called him.

Killy had no daddy. Cowboy Jones Sr. (real name unknown) took Killy in as his own son. Whenever he got back from work, no matter how exhausted he was, he’d be happy to relate old tales or balance an apple on his head so they could shoot it off, no kiddin’!

This went on for some years. Cowboy Jones and Killy the Bidd were like brothers. Killy always stayed for supper and Mrs. Cowboy Jones Sr was happy to make it. Cowboy and Killy lassoed mirrors offa cars, took out carburetors, freed horses from the local fair just so they could wrangle ‘em (and wrangle ‘em they did), and had all sortsa more innocent adventures.

When Cowboy Jones Sr. died, their innocence did too.

Cowboy Jones Sr. grew progressively wearier and wearier over the years. Long hours and little pay all to support his family. He never took a vacation cause he just couldn’t afford it. Over time, he wasn’t able to relay tales or balance an apple anymore. His hair grew greyer and thinner and he could hardly hold an apple, let alone balance it on his head.  One day he never woke up for work. His alarm rang and rang to no avail.

Cowboy and Killy were a wreck. Of course, they were too tough to acknowledge they were a wreck, but whenever they lay alone in their beds at night they wept silently for the departed Cowboy Jones Sr.

Those tears of anguish soon turned to tears of anger.

“It’s this damned system that killed my daddy!” Cowboy Jones said to Killy, furiously pacing and jamming his fist into his palm. He turned to Killy the Bidd, who sat watching attentively.

“Y’know what we gonna do Killy?”

“What?” he responded, almost in a whisper.

“We gonna get revenge…”

What revenge entailed, Killy the Bidd didn’t know. Over the next coupla months, Cowboy closed himself in his room, only coming out to shoot targets or test dynamite. Of course he couldn’t do this in his own suburban neighborhood. He rode his horse out to a secluded plot of land they’d bought with his daddy’s life insurance money. Killy would follow behind on a steed of his own asking questions all the way but never gettin’ answers.           

Killy looked up to Cowboy as an older brother. He was only two years older than himself, but Cowboy acted so grown up that he mighta well been ten years older. He trusted Cowboy and was excited and nervous for whatever plan he was gonna unfold. He was angry about Cowboy Jones Sr too, who he considered his own daddy.

One day, the plan was revealed. Killy the Bidd lay in bed one full moon night, his room dimly illuminated. He was silently crying about the death of Cowboy Jones Sr when something banged on his window.

“Open up Killy!”

Killy jumped up in bed and turned his face from the window, quickly wiping his tears and collecting himself. He threw the window open and hoped it was too dark to tell he’d been crying. Cowboy Jones all but threw himself in.

“Tomorrow, Killy,” he said, panting, “it’ll all happen tomorrow”

Cowboy explained the plan to Killy, pacing and punching palm as before. Killy sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently. Cowboy Jones was a silhouette against the moonlight as he paced, but as he drew his face close to Killy’s it was half illuminated.

“Ya got it Killy? Are you ready?”

Killy the Bidd nodded. He was ready as he’d ever be.

Cowboy Jones had enough dynamite to bomb a city and that was exactly his plan. Over the months he tested different combinations of dynamite to produce the most monumental results. He’d finally perfected his recipe and was headed for his daddy’s old office building.

Killy the Bidd and Cowboy Jones galloped through the city streets, weaving in and out of honking cars and barreling past civilians. They each had a knapsack on the rear of their horses filled with explosives. Cowboy Jones had a rifle slung over his back and his four pistols in their holsters. He was large, hairy, and maybe bald. Puberty had hit him like the charge of an angry buffalo. Killy the Bidd was baby faced yet, but his voice was deeper. They both wore black cowboy outfits fit with black bandanas over their faces.

Out in front of the glass windowed building, they tethered their horses to a bike rack, unslung the dynamite, loosed their pistols and headed inside.

“Excuse me sir, do you have a-” came the male receptionist as they entered. Cowboy didn’t hesitate to shoot him dead.

They strutted across the marble floored lobby, their boots clicking on the ground. Oddly there was nobody else there. They approached the elevators on either side of the desk. Killy went to the right and Cowboy went to the left. They operated in unison. Pressing the button, they unslung the dynamite from their backs, pulled out the long wick and lit a match. They didn’t light the wick yet. The matches burned down and down and down.

Ding.

They touched the matches to the wick and threw the hissing bags into the elevator. A few screaming businesspeople tried to exit, but they brandished their guns, silently telling them to stay inside. They entered the elevators quickly, hit the button for mid-building, hit the door close button, then ran through the revolting doors to their horses.

With practiced efficiency, they untied their horses and saddled up. They rode off away from the building with Godspeed. Cowboy Jones, hunched forward against the wind, took out his pocket watch.

“Thirty seconds Killy!” he yelled over his shoulder.

They rode on. They needed to be at least ten blocks away after the initial explosion, then twenty by subsequent explosions. You see, Cowboy Jones’ daddy worked in an undercover munitions building in the heart of the city. He worked on top secret projects for the Military Industrial Complex developing high efficiency explosives. They figured if such a thing were disguised as an office building, our international enemies would never catch on. So far they hadn’t, but-

BOOM!

Glass and mushroom clouds shot out of the side of the building.

“YIPPEE!” yelled Cowboy Jones, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the loudest damned sound he’d ever heard. He couldn’t even hear himself yell over the deafening roar.

Like Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom’s destruction, Killy the Bidd reared his horse to look back. A sickened feeling came into his stomach as he heard the fearful screams of everyone around. People ran around him, abandoning cabs and cars and briefcases to run. Glass, papers, desks and chairs rained down on the streets.

“Killy! KILLY!” Cowboy Jones yelled over his shoulder without stopping. It was no use. Killy couldn’t hear him over the chaos and was too stunned to even if it was dead quiet. There was a ringing taking over Killy’s ears. His vision was growing fuzzy. Police officers were approaching, but it was no use-

BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM!

Tears stung the eyes of Cowboy Jones as he felt the heat of the explosion on his back. He knew Killy had been incinerated along with anybody else within a twenty block radius. He spurred the horse faster and slapped the reins. Yah! Yah!

Ten miles outside the city limits, Cowboy Jones made his last stand.

His weary horse galloped through a wheat field until they stumbled upon a barnyard. There was a large red barn with doors wide open. The midday sun beat down furiously. Cowboy Jones guided his horse into the barn, where there was an old farmer tending to his horses.

“What the sam hill?” the farmer said when he saw Cowboy Jones coming straight at him. He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because as soon as Cowboy processed he was there, he shot him.

He jumped from the saddle and tethered her to a post. He then stepped over the farmer’s body and slid the large door shut with all his might, grunting and cursing the whole way.

Inside the farmhouse to the right of the barn, the dead farmer's wife was on the phone with the police. She had seen the TV news about the city and knew now what the explosions she had heard were. She was telling the officers that she had just heard a gunshot and was worried about her husband. The police took down the address and several patrol cars were on their way.

Cowboy Jones took frantic inventory of his rifle ammo.

“Shit shit shit,” he said to himself, loading the rifle with trembling fingers, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way, damnit Killy”

He slung the rifle over his back, set his black hat more tightly against his (bald?) head and climbed the ladder to the second floor. He propped open the window above the barn door. Outside, he had a view of the long dirt road to the house flanked on both sides by the fields. There was a large open dirt yard with a red pickup and a light blue hatchback parked imperfectly in front of the two story white farmhouse. In the distance, he heard sirens and saw the burning city.

“Serves you right, you bastards,” he said, staring angrily at the burning city.

The sirens grew closer. The police cars came into red and blue flashing view and he sighted them. He clicked the hammer back. Bam click bam click bam click. One car lost control and was all over the dusty road, then crashed into the field. Two others were still making their way towards him.

Inside of the crashed police car, the officer used the last of his breath to weakly say “officer down,” into the walkie.

“COME AND GET IT YOU BASTARDS,” Cowboy yelled, lighting a piece of dynamite he had kept on his belt.

He tossed it between the two cars that skidded to a cloudy stop. Four doors opened like insect wings and officers jettisoned from them. The dynamite blew, taking the two cars with it in a fiery explosion. A flaming hood landed on top of the barn.

“YIPPEEEEE!” Cowboy Jones yelled, clicking back the hammer and shooting the ground around the police officers. He was toying with his food.

Toof toof toof. The bullets struck the dusty ground around the police officer as he covered his head. The heat from the exploded car had singed his back. Into his shoulder walkie, he yelled:

“Officer down, we are under fi-”

Cowboy Jones placed a practiced shot right between his eyes, then reloaded.

The flaming car hood still burned on the roof. The roof began to catch fire. More police cruisers wailed in the distance. Cowboy Jones peered down to the first floor where the horses were whinnying and going wild. He put his own horse out of her misery. Although he didn’t want to consciously accept it, just like the death of Killy, Cowboy knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive.

An armada of cruisers came over the distant dirt road like a swarm of bees. Cowboy Jones closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn and stretched his legs in front of him. Smoky air began to fill his nostrils and he coughed a bit. His head became filled with the tales of the Old American West his father had told him.

He removed his hat and placed it next to him. He ran a hand over his bald head (gasp!). He turned the hat over and removed the last stick of dynamite he had. This was the stick to end all sticks. His father had taken it from the lab and kept it in hiding (or so he thought). Cowboy didn’t know what the explosion would be like, but he knew his father often talked about its power.

The wood splintered around his head as officers yelled and shot the barn. The flames started licking down towards the window, feeling hot against the back of Cowboy Jones’ neck. He placed his hat firmly back on his head, lit a match and stuck it to the dynamite wick. He placed the stick in his lap as the bullets whizzed around him and sirens wailed and fired crackled and horses whinnied. He thought of the Old American West and smiled. He removed his great grandfather’s revolver from his waist and placed it in his mouth.

His last thought was about the Old American West. 

And so concludes the story of ‘ol Cowboy Jones. We never did get around to him shooting his rabid dog or his own mother or many things. We’ll conclude with John 21:25: And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website and “The Revenge of the Potato Man'' on Wordsfaire. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘girl writer en café’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

girl writer en café

She had eyes like mossy tree bark
that looked at me just once
but I saw the forest of her soul through the trees of her eyes,
My unworthy gaze met hers for the first and only time
And in that moment (I admit) my heart reached for the sun,
She went back to writing in her small notepad
at the table next to mine,
Her rimless glasses bending low to the paper
as she wrote shorthand,
What could she be writing?
I wish I had the courage to ask
but since my youth had been shy and yellow bellied
and will forever never know,
All I have is her short dark hair,
small silver hoop earrings,
Small-chested pink t-shirt
and white platform converse
meeting at the end of a long denim skirt,
My coffee got cold beside my neglected computer
as I snuck glances her writing-preoccupied way,
Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast mere words on a page
with no story or concept
as I struggled to not soak her presence in like a sponge
but failed miserably,
She stood to leave and my sunny heart eclipsed,
When she was gone I could still aftertaste her lingering memory,
But I could finally focus on my work
and begin to wring out the sponge
onto this page.'

Jacque Margaux is a Franco-American writer and hopeless romantic with a sensitive piscine soul. His poetry is his therapy. To cope with the loss of all those who he fears to approach, he writes poetry about them. He nurses his broken heart in Upstate New York. Some of his work may be found on the Instagram page of his close acquaintance, @notrileycreative.

‘Maranatha’, ‘Saints’, ‘Offerings’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

‘maranatha’

on the very first day of the year
we all sat tied-up and watched on the old projector
the same glorious service from a far away church
with a proper garden, a proper pulpit
something we could only dream of
while our mosquitoes flew in circles like the fans spreading out dust and heat
but at that time, we were equal
actually, we felt better than the ones suffering:
global warming, wars, hunger
how beautiful, isn’t it?
the pastor used to scream in complete awe
while the washed off colors of the screen flicked
how close we are from Salvation —
Maranatha we would sing
Jesus will come for us;
seven horns, seven eyes
continuing the year
the word reverberated in my mind
as if i was caged, brought back to that wooden bench:
i looked at the sunsets after thunderstorms
and kneeled praying for my life
i heard ominous music resembling the trumpets
and hid myself inside

Saints

I have Saints in my walls, my shelves, my bags
Some Saints I am not sure who they may concern
I just want to connect everything to the Holy.
Maybe in an attempt to find meaning in the mess my room is
Though I am afraid of reading the Bible
Realizing what it has to say about me
About the sour candy wraps scattered around
I don’t know much about the Gospels;
But I know about the rage of God to Cain
You know, it is the way the church raises that is killing me

offerings

i went to a chapel in a crisp monday morning
to sit at the bench by the Virgin Mary
she looked youthful, with her hands clasped and her kind countenance
the statue was made with white stone
but so colorful it looked with all of its offerings
many rosaries with beads of different colors and materials
flowers around her halo and on the holy ground
bracelets spelling a secret, prayer cards to São Longuinho
i could not even pay attention to my prayers because all i could think was
how beautiful,
it is a canvas of the community
of what we long for, of what we are

Anna Correa is an Brazilian immigrant based on Orlando, FL. She studies computer science and is an editor for her local school magazine. She has been featured at Phoenix Magazine, The Word's Faire, and Wingless Dreamer Publisher. More of her work can be found at annacorrea-archive.com.