 |
| Jerome Berglund |
Ratchet
The priest sprinkles holy water, but the demon remains. He reads his holy words, names it, draws a sign of the cross upon its forehead, yet the thing only seems to grow more powerful with each passing second. He starves the host, overfeeds it alternately, begs, curses, cajoles, offers up himself as willing substitute vessel. The demon refuses to budge. He attacks the container then, wounds its flesh, appeals to whatever slim lingering vestiges of memory and past loyalties endure there, nonetheless the demon only laughs in his face brashly. The priest tries another tack, strives to woo and seduce it, win its affections and admiration. These pitiful straw graspings only amuse the monster all the more. The priest interrogates it as to motives next. The demon replies it acted purely upon impulsive whims. The holy man demands to speak to the creature’s superior. It answers was operating strictly of its own accord. The father inquires as to its plans and intentions. The beast asserts it kept its own counsel. The priest confers with the afflicted’s relations. They profess an unwillingness to harm their dear kith and kin, even if it means allowing the force which had possessed that individual to persist. At long last the priest throws in that proverbial towel, packs up his meager implements and quits the blighted domicile. The entity is disappointed, has been enjoying this tango they are engaging in, demands another playmate be dispatched at once. It is so much less dreary and dull to spar with a worthy adversary. Impatiently the demon awaits such a capable opponent to make his appearance, that bell’s resonant ringing overhead to initiate another round of heated sparring...
but ken the gist
***
While We Work
They are going at it again next door. Lottie at last resolves to make she and her fianc├й some hot tea. She considers deploying the sleepy time herbal, but he will be due at the office in a few hours, so Lottie reckons they may as well call it the morning. At least they’ve managed a couple concerted winks worth of repose before the altercations started up once more like clockwork.
Their neighbor is no great catch, but somehow the punters she routinely picks up at the fellowship meeting on Wilshire Boulevard continue proving less than discriminating – most being inveterate transients, a roof overhead and a stocked icebox full of chow seem reliable enough lures to bring home one catch after another dangling from her lines. Even the two dozen erstwhile stray cats cohabiting never much deter them discernibly, though their resulting odor does generate a good deal of griping on plenty of occasions. But the lovers’ quarrels are at least quieter than their torrid lovemaking sessions, Lottie repeatedly remarks. Being a functioning drunkard himself, her beau Reginald is inclined by default to demonstrate a certain soft spot for these derelict saps, almost on instinct. Still, after the first few, like steers bound for an abattoir, he begins to avoid learning their names or backstories, strives like many open secrets in their city of angels to leave well enough alone and not think about it too very much. For the apartment next to theirs resembles a roach motel of sorts, in that its male visitors check in but never are observed leaving.
This is something of an ominous mystery the other residents discuss in their curlicue of townhomes hero sandwiched together, the squat praying mantis taking up the central unit in a communal, secluded courtyard, Lottie and Reginald sharing a wall with hers, two additional apartments fanning out to encircle the small estate of tenancies. They are each half-tempted to dig through her trash sometime, but that area is famously crawling with black widow spiders. Indeed, it’s rare anyone ever witnesses this phantom’s comings and goings, save when she is returning with a noisy, newly captured feline or wino in tow. The neighbor, then, must conceivably be watching and waiting carefully for absolute privacy before making her exits, toting who can guess what sizable trunks, garbage bags, coolers. Her day job is nondescript and involves much travel, grants leeway and flexibility in hours on site, caters to her habits and schedule…
Reginald sips his oolong appreciatively, begins professing again how if he keeps on scrimping they can move on up to more optimal digs very soon, not very long at all in the grand scheme of things. Through the thin wall the latest fling is loudly admonishing his ladyfriend for violence she’s just inflicted upon him, apparently, expressing dissatisfaction and outrage. Lottie switches on some riot grrrl from her laptop. Her fianc├й is hurriedly shaving now. Through the window a ceramic plate’s shattering becomes audible. Their basset hound glances up from the couch, buries its head under a pillow cushion. Reginald sighs, wishing he could do the same, instead fills the dog dish, fetches the leash and poop bags to take the critter out for a quick spin around the block before he shoves.
Passing by her window upon returning
the young gopher notes the ominous silence now prevailing. He hopes they have
merely cooled their jets and are presently sleeping things off, but at this
juncture suspects he knows better. They might call someone, somewhere, sure,
but what a fiasco if they then prove in this circumstance to have been
mistaken. Reg unhooks their dog’s collar and discovers Lottie brushing her
long, lustrous hair. He kisses her hurriedly and hustles back out the door
again. On the way to his car the young man thinks he hears a vacuum blaring now
from that contiguous unit. Presumably their neighbor has a spot of cleaning up
to do, is contending with another mess on her capable hands. Fortunately, such
represents a familiar scenario, old hat by this time. Keeping her place in
perfect order, spic and span, happens to be that woman’s particular forte.
***
Still Weeping
Get into a
conversation walking down the street with this gentleman who may be homeless is
definitely in bad shape looking worse for wear knuckles raw and bloody from
recently punching some thing or one bums a cigarette then realizes he has some
just takes a light smoking asks if I have a wife say nope women don’t
like you? well there’s that but mostly too poor live with my dad in
yonder old folks’ home gesture he asks what I think of the Bible say I like
Jesus Marxist aspects inquire what his take is he thanks me for doing so notes
most people don’t replies the vocal minority are always quick to ignore those
we agree at their pearly gates a lot of identifying ‘Christians’ might be quite
surprised if things get cumulatively tallied.
every season
a series finale
no guarantees
No comments :
Post a Comment
We welcome your comments related to the article and the topic being discussed. We expect the comments to be courteous, and respectful of the author and other commenters. Setu reserves the right to moderate, remove or reject comments that contain foul language, insult, hatred, personal information or indicate bad intention. The views expressed in comments reflect those of the commenter, not the official views of the Setu editorial board. рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рд░рдЪрдиा рд╕े рд╕рдо्рдмंрдзिрдд рд╢ाрд▓ीрди рд╕рдо्рд╡ाрдж рдХा рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рд╣ै।