Sally Moore

time

The Terror: Spectators #3

a bat

dropped out of the belfry

almost mating

with the judge’s toupee

darted left

almost entering a woman’s scream
looped over and

up and to the

right

everyone ducked

sergeant at arms ordered

curtains drawn

a cat leaped from the floor to the judge’s bench

lights doused

the courtroom turned blind

all that could be heard was heavy breathing wings

flapping a child like screech

and a cat .................................................. laughing like a gatling gun.

............................download 'murder'

Michael rode...

Moses

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...........................

I didn't die. I woke up in the box. Startled and then bored. But remarkably comfortable. I started to think about my ideas and realized in a flash that I had been wrong. But where? A life's work become vapor. That didn't sit right with me. At virtually the same time there was a tremendous thunderstorm. From inside the box, it sounded like Ludwig van. I could hear the clashing of the large drums and the blaring of horns and the crescendo of duelling violins. And then a flood . That swept my coffin down a fast moving river until I became lodged in some high reeds. A beautiful young woman named Imelda saw my coffin, opened it up. And so I arose. Ah, I said to myself, I have become Moses. 

The Interview

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..................

Detective Peeters is sitting in his office, smoking a cigarette. His sleeves are rolled up and a cigarette dangles out of his mouth. Detective Rousseau steps into the room.

Rousseau: “She’s here.”

Peeters stands up and grabs his jacket. He puts it on and grinds his cigarette out into an ashtray.

Peeters: “Send her in.”

Rousseau steps out of the room and a moment later he escorts Helen Iadipaola into the room. Rousseau exits and closes the door. Peeters gestures to a chair and the blonde takes a seat. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit in her dress revealing her knees. Taking out a lipstick tube and a small mirror, she puts some lipstick on. Peeters pretends not to notice.

Helen: “You wanted to talk to me.”

Peeters steps around his desk and takes a seat on the edge.

Peeters: “Did you know Christian Ghent?”

Helen: “Who?”

Peeters: “The recently deceased.”

Helen: “You could have asked me that yesterday at the hotel.”

Peeters takes out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to the blonde. She takes it. He produces a lighter from his pocket and leaning over lights her cigarette.

Peeters: “You looked uncomfortable yesterday.”

She draws on the cigarette and stares back at Peeters whose face is only inches away from her own. The smoke slips sensuously out of her mouth.

Helen: “No. Why do you ask?”

Peeters: “A maid saw Ghent with a blonde just before he died.”

Helen: “And she identified me?”

Peeters draws back. He shakes his head.

Peeters: “Why are you hanging out with Schmidt?”

Helen: “He’s got money. And he spends it. On me.”

Peeters lights up his own cigarette.

Peeters: “Singing doesn’t pay?”

Helen: “Not enough.”

Peeters: “What’s enough?”

Helen smirks: “More than a cop can afford.”

Peeters steps back behind his desk and sits down in his chair.

Peeters: “I’ve seen babes like you before.”

Helen: “Sure you have.”

Peeters: “You’re going to need my help, Miss Iadipaola. Call me.”

Helen: “Is that it?”

Peeters: “That’s it.”

Helen stands up and turns toward the door. She turns back to Peeters who remains in his chair.

Helen: “Aren’t you going to show a lady the door?”

Peeters points to the door.

Peeters: “It’s over there.”

Helen smirks: “You don't much like women, do you Detective?”

Alice

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.......................

Alice

“You embarrassed me,” Alice cried.

“Slow down,” Larry pleaded. “I couldn't help it. I didn't expect to see my father there. And with another woman.”

“Another woman! Do you think that this is all some cheap melodrama. I take you out into my world and I expect you to behave like a gentleman. Not some frothing teenager. I don't know what I'm going to say to my friends. Maybe none of them saw you leave. Why did you run?”

“Watch out!”

Alice skidded to a stop. The light was red. A crosstown bus rushed through the intersection. Larry had a vision of him and Alice and the car, crunched under the bus's wheels.

Alice started to cry.

“I'm sorry.”

“Oh you silly boy. You don't understand what's happening, do you?”

“No, not really.”

“I don't need this. I just need company. A little diversion. Oh, its all an old woman's... vanity.”

“You're not an old woman. You're about my mom's age.”

Alice started laughing. She took her cigarettes out and handed the lighter to Larry. He lit her cigarette.

“My late husband, Michael, used to accuse me of living in a dream world. All these fantasies he said will never bring you peace of mind. But, I can't... what else is there. You don't know this Larry, but life is so disappointing. Without distractions, all you hear is the tick of time. You're my distraction Larry. I need to be... adored.”

Larry took a deep breath.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked.

Alice glanced at Larry from behind her cigarette.

“Would that bother you?”

“No, but...”

“But...”

“Well, I've got things to do. I was thinking of going to Los Angeles with my band. We're pretty good. And I think we could make it with a few breaks. I was going to tell you. But I guess I chickened out. You've got to understand. I'm young...”

Alice stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Slipped the gear into drive. And sped through the intersection. The light was still red.

Savannah Churchill

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Savannah Churchill (August 21, 1920 – April 19, 1974)

Born quietly in a noisy time. Out of the blue. Part of a wonderful plan. Only God knew. The pope declared that Catholics were forbidden. To shower. During Lent. Flames ate the head. Of the Eiffel Tower.

Savannah could hear footsteps. Up the hardwood stairs. David at the door. The smell of combava garlic and ginger. Lovely evenings. Arms wrapped around shoulders. The skid of tires. The jingle of glass. David in photographs. Windows without breadth. Its better not to ask.

A satin voice. No time for introspection. Two kids to feed. Music spilling her name in lights. A red velvet dress. In Birmingham, Nat King Cole was attacked on stage. A concrete girder weighing 200 tons. Killed 48. In Karachi. Pakistan. The reason. Anyone's guess.

A fat man ended her career. Fell on her. From the balcony. In 1956. She succumbed on April 19. 1974. That’s what the papers wrote. As if it all made sense. Some wonderful plan. Written by a million. Wise men. Sitting at a million computers. In a million. Separate rooms.

Peggy Lee

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...........

Peggy Lee (May 26, 1920 – January 21, 2002)

Eyes can be beautiful. So gay and young. Peggy’s step-mother had eyes. As black

as coal. As hard as iron. The back of her hand. Across Peggy's cheeks. Don’t think

your daddy is going to save you now.

Peggy sang for her meals. In small joints. With fast cooks. And red necks. And the

chorus of bacon and burning violins. Peggy joined the dreamers. Dancing into

heartache. To the City of Angels. Where children were begging to be born.

300 Dutch ice cream salesmen protested. The shortage of appetite. While their

wives organized their socks. And ironed their shirts. And while the salesmen

marched on the parliament. Shoes were left at the doorstep. Curtains closed in

haste. And Peggy sang about the neighbourhood boys. Who risked their lives.

To appease. The appetite of salesmen’s wives.

An airplane crashed into the Empire State Building. The pilot begged the mayor.

It was an accident. And 1942. No one doubted that he was telling the truth. Until

they found his plans. And sweet Peggy almost died. A fall in a New York hotel.

She was tripped. At the top of a set of stairs. By a man with no legs. He leaked

a secret. Don’t be in such a rush.

Peggy sang. Quietly. Her voice simmered. Everyone leaned. Forward. The waiters

hesitated to wait. No one dared slam a door. In the kitchen. Or in the parking lot.

In the hotel rooms. Lovers held their breath. If silence were a dance. Singing was

a substitute for love.

temper tantrum

Pandemic

Freudian Slip

Kay Starr

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Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 -

Lou Gehrig could see the future. Luckiest man in the world. Knew when his time was up. Not Eugen Weidmann. Lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining. Believe it or Not. Made Eugene so famous. Last thing he did was dance.

The tramps passed. Little Kay Starr’s doorstep. And talked of revolution. When things would return. To the golden days. But little Katie wasn’t listenin'. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her singin'. Made them forget. The foxes in the woodlot. Couldn't stop grinnin'.

Kay sang on a radio station. In Dallas. Texas. A little girl. And that big mike. So many song contests. You'd think that winning once was enough. And Lina Medina. Became the world's youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.

In small little towns. Up and down endless. Dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. And then one day. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry. And have little mute children. But disaster struck. Her voice came back. And the ongoing never ending career. Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

Pavlov

a change of diapers

Jo Stafford

Jo Stafford (November 12, 1917 – July 16, 2008)

A letter on the vanity. Next to the talc and brandy. A shadow standing in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. A cigarette in his fingers. Looking back with a smile on her face. Some kind of disruption behind.

The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Dinner served with laughs. A lot of coughing. Love curled up in a purse. Jo Stafford. Entertainee. Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.

Old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping. In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the retirement homes are run. By government men. Dying of congestive heart failure. Jo Stafford wept. First love would not come again.

Glenn Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham. Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked "for Negroes". Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light. Observed on the moon. A spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing goodbye. Jo Stafford died. At age 90. 

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yoga

fine print

imagination

Ethel Waters

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Ethel Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)

Look at the sun. Pouring. Through the branches of that tree. Like Ethel. Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. The smell of giant tupelo and bald cypress. At 13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a big barrel of a man. Ass three blocks wide. F***ed her for fun. Beat her when he got bored. He left. She was left. To fend for herself. Sometimes it seems. You don't recognize love. Until its gone.

President Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. Ethel was jealous. Her lover cheated. With heroin. And left her early one morn. He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to San Francisco. The best things in life should be put on a list. And number one. Happiness is a fist.

Ethel worked as a maid. 9 until unconsciousness. Sang in whorehouses. The smell of semen. And stale beer. And late night confessions. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for food and gange. Found Jesus. Hanging in a big tent. Next to a trailer park. Oh how she envied the Catholics. Who could forget about all their sins. And laugh at the son tumbling out of his tree.