NKT WORKS
Ballad of the Lonely Fruitcake
Assorted contests and publications:
TC Boyle Writing Contest #2 (the Edison Banks / Maclovio Pulchris Memorial Contest). As selected by the distinguished writer himself. I won this one.
"Time To Vent" reviewed by Ben Drinkin
Fresh off their tri-state "Too Cool For MTV" tour, the Ventilators have released a plume of nicotine-soaked air, titled, quite appropriately, "Time To Vent." Beginning with a rousing cover of the classic "I Put A Spell On You" and climaxing with the original "You Done Put A Spell On Me Too!", the songs range from the bittersweet ("Dead Dumb Daisies") to the just plain bitter ("Damn Right I'm Bitter!"). Fronted by the festering Tommy Boyle, this guitar-based rock n roll outfit at times sounds like Godzilla flossing his teeth with hot electric wire as Tokyo fades to black. Or better yet, the mad inmate known as cacophony on speed during a prison break. Oh yes, we can hear the electrified rage and get a headful of synthesized angst tossed in as well. The Ventilators pay tribute to a literary hero in the poignant "Invisible Man," which features a full minute of absolute silence, then follows up with an engaging five-minute drum solo called "Very Visible Man." Boyle has repeatedly mentioned Spike Jones as an early influence, and it can readily be heard on the teary acoustic ballad "Boing Zap Whiz Thud." Irreverent at most times, the Vents turn inward during the pastoral "Budding Prospects," which appears to be an homage to the great American work ethic hammered out on the farm by our forefathers long ago. Sure, he's a rock star, but doesn't Screamin' Tommy Boyle just seem like a writer in disguise? Catch the Ventilators at Elmo's Dive this Saturday night (BYON: Bring Your Own Needle).
Ben Drinkin
Deep Woods Dispatch
October '83
Part of my spoils: the expanded gatefold of the out-of-print “I Dated Jane Austen” chapbook
Autographed chapbook and an autographed limited Advance copy of “Drop City.”
This is a creative writing contest, and TC is choosing the winners. You have one week to read the book, conjure the muse, and answer the question. So shake this story out of your sleeve:
What did Miriam dream of the night she received the telegraph at Leora's house? Your entry must be 500 words or less.
Poor Miriam’s Dream
NOTE: In the autumn of 1923 Frank Lloyd Wright’s wife Miriam received a telegram while staying with a friend in Southern California. In the spring of 2009 the novelist T.C. Boyle wondered what Miriam dreamed of during that particular night.
No, she isn’t exactly flying, more like suspended upon a gurgling flotilla of alluvial mud, in the midst of some kind of parade seeping through the otherwise sparkling streets of Tokyo. The Imperial still stands, the master’s conception erect, and it will surely endure until the end of time.
Strange, a genuine hidalgo stinking of green chili and fried onions materializing just now complete with drooping moustache and oversized sombrero, presiding over the reflection pool and addressing them in French. “Your presence is requested in the Peacock Room.” Why of course.
Standing next to Frank, who looks as befuddled as she, gazing down a long wood-paneled hall that contains no windows but only door after door after door. “Frank, why so many doors?” and now a knowing satisfied grin spreads across his big Welsh head.
The Spirit is immortal truth. Yet something aches, pulsing between her legs, but no, not exactly between her legs but near that certain critical spot, the needled flesh of her upper thigh, the mind connecting the dots while the soul silently acquiesces. Matter is but mortal error.
Meanwhile – back at the parade. Teams of toothy Japanese smiling, straight black hair framing excited eyes, they’re a dime a dozen. The white Japanese flags with their red circles flapping in the breeze. That red square she secretly loathes. F L L W. But she is the great architect of her own dreams. She has no use for the protractor or the T-square. It is all there inside her head – a multidimensional blueprint detailing her spiraling ascension.
An endless, dark hallway. The smell of polished wood. No windows, no natural light. Which door to choose? Alone now with the sound of hesitant heels on scrubbed wood plank and there awaits one open door. With reluctance she enters and stares at the frozen façade of the rancho de Taos. The reek of onions and tequila, the tickle of whiskers upon the back of her neck. Again, in perfect French: “Let us not confuse intelligence and ambition with wisdom and purity of heart.”
Something buzzes by her ear, the Wisconsin state bird, the oversized mosquito, and had they followed her all the way across the continent in frenzied packs of nervous nellies? God forbid, the tiny winged beasts, forever orbiting the peaceful mind – damned culprits, deliverer of yellow fever, the plague of Memphis with its aches and the coffee ground vomitus smeared with intestinal blood. She is young again and sees the ghost of Molly Puckett wading into the Mississippi, jaundiced and sad, and Molly turns to wave goodbye with those red dripping eyes and who in their right mind wants to be young again?
Farewell Memphis and the misery of yellow fever, bastard child of that forgotten capital of ancient Egypt, long live the shrine of the yellow man, the pyramid revived. The Imperial Hotel still stands - divine and stubbornly erect.
Something presses against her bottom.
Oh. It is time to relieve him again.
WHITE OUT
The Runner-Up Story From the 2012 Hillerman Short Story Contest
This story is based on an actual life experience. Just outside of Amarillo en route to Taos. Had to abandon the interstate and take the side road all the way to the New Mexico border at ten miles-per-hour. Click the photo to read the story.