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Written by Timothy Jay
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Monday, 08 January 2007 |
 “You put the pin in afterward,” he said, twisting the pistol around so I had a better view of the Glock barrel’s clean gash. “Like this.” The barrel clicked closed in his hand and he passed the pistol over to me. The old man’s eyes were the hard bloody color of rusty bullets. “Now you try.” The shiny Glock had the energy of a dangerous animal in my small hand. I stared at it and moved it around and watched the light reflect in its chrome sheen and then I looked back at the old man and he was grinning at me. |
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Written by Timothy Jay
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Friday, 15 December 2006 |
So I was tired of wearing out the soles of my shoes at work and listening to the vocals in my head and asked my manager for a cigarette and followed him outside. I lit up with a trembling hand and sucked a good amount through my face, letting it coarse through the beautiful madness that is my body. We were silent for a moment and he asked, “So, how’s it going?”
I pretended to think about it and blew out some smoke and looked down at the ground for an answer. I breathed an emancipated breath from somewhere deep down in my gut. “It’s been a rough few weeks, man.” I said. “Pretty much since I got here.”
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Written by Timothy Jay
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Wednesday, 06 December 2006 |
She came from trenches filled with money and that never mattered to either of us. We would sit atop the huge grassy hill a few hundred yards from her father’s Victorian house and watch the afternoon summer sun drown the world in wonder. Every now and then we would steal a glance at the other, her looking at me because she was curious about poor boys, me glancing at her because I couldn’t contain it.
“You’re lucky,” she said, her face solemn, her gaze pinned on a dirty pond out in the sunny distance. Her long skinny legs were stretched out smoothly before her and she leaned back on her palms. “You don’t have to live here. You can just come here and leave and go back home to where things are probably simple.”
I didn’t smile, just glanced at her and looked away. Maybe I should have been offended by her words, but they were so honest and sincere that I knew she meant no rancor. |
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Written by Michael Oppenheimer
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Monday, 27 November 2006 |
Who is Spike Feresten? No household name I can tell you that much. However, if you asked anyone whom the Soup Nazi was and they didn't come up with an answer you would slap them in the head, call them a retard and say the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld was the greatest achievement in television history. So who is Spike Feresten, a former writer for Seinfeld and more specifically the writer and creator of the Soup Nazi. Why do you care? Because late night TV is shit, and Spike is out to change it.
I was wholly disappointed by any and all new sitcoms, dramas or British gimmicks that came out this fall on the networks. That is until on a Saturday night my remote happened to turn to Fox where I was introduced to "Talk Show with Spike Feresten". I had no clue what this show was and I never heard of it, but I'm not one to watch Saturday night television. SNL is at a low point in its life, and I don't even understand why Mad TV is even still on the air. The flashy images and bright colors held my attention long enough to let me decide I'll watch this show. After the first couple minutes I realized this was in fact a new show this season.
As a talk show Spike is allied more with John Stewart and Steven Colbert, then Conan O'Brian or Jay Leno. His show is half hour long and on once a week. It's a blend of sketch comedy and late night talk. Yet there's no opening monologue, no band, no tired old jokes retold every night. From the start I knew this was something special.
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Written by Cyprian Mendelius
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Wednesday, 22 November 2006 |
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I had just turned 19 years old. I felt the world was waiting for me, anxious for my arrival, ready to share its secrets with me as soon as I emerged. It was more than just at my fingertips, or in my hands, more than any idiom; it was my patient servant, silently eager for me to rise to my place in the universe.
She had just turned 19 years old a month prior. She knew I was great, headed for possibilities uncharted by the likes of the common man. She thought I was “it.” Yet, with all the steadfast devotion, she had her own ego to feed. It wasn’t entirely megalomaniacal like mine. She just felt like Mother Nature had passed down Her mantle and she was to populate the earth with her offspring. I wasn’t in line to be her husband; I was only to be the father of her children. She just wanted my noble blood.
I later found out that I was far from being the only one worthy to tend the fruit of her loin, as I was just another player in the sick game that was her sex life. Even while she was with me. To cheat is one thing, but to cheat and not feel guilty, still maintaining a McCarthyist attitude of sanctimony, that is beyond me. Or at least it was beyond my working comprehension at the time. Remember, I thought she was to take my side as queen of all that existed.
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Written by Timothy Jay
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Tuesday, 21 November 2006 |
I killed the last drops of burning whiskey in my flask as I reached over to the empty passenger seat for my little red beacon. I put it on the dusty dash and flipped the switch. I didn’t need it, though. Around these parts people know me well enough to know that if I’m following them close enough for long enough I mean to pull them over. I hid the flask away in the darkness of the glove box, pulled out the .38, and hid that in my back pocket.
The rusted white pickup in front of me slowed to a crawl and then stopped on the shoulder of Highway Six, a one-lane asphalt road and the only road in and out of our little desert town. I turned off the car and took the keys out of the ignition and eased my way up to the young man in the pickup, my hand at my holstered Desert Eagle.
Sweat had soaked completely through my Stetson and dripped from the lid. My khaki shirt had become heavy with moisture, my badge leaning on my heart and glistening in the hellish heat. The young man sat idly in the pickup.
“Hiya, Randy” I said. “We got us a scorcher here, yes indeed.” Randy didn’t say anything. He just looked straight ahead through his windshield at the vaporous apparition above the road. His knuckles were white from clutching the steering wheel. He was a good kid. |
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