Pot Roast Concussion, by Allen Masterson
Writer's Workshop Along Bird Cemetery Road, by Gabriel Orgrease
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Pot Roast Concussion
Allen Masterson
A fractured family of a mother, two girls, and two boys sat routinely at the dinner table ready to ingest a steaming pot roast, a rare treat for the broken home.
Meals were usually eaten in relative silence, save for the occasional lip smack and slurping sounds found in most Midwestern households. If any conversation erupted, the mother usually initiated it, but talk was sparse.
The verbal silence this evening was broken not by the mother, but by the eight year old boy, Steven, who requested butter in a most unorthodox manner.
"Pass the Buddha, please."
Thwack!
The mother, within arm's length, savagely slapped little Stevie flush across his cheek. Shock hung in the air as everyone at the table froze in anticipation for more violence to follow.
"Blasphemer! Where did you pick up that heathen word, young man?"
Stevie was unresponsive as his hand slowly crept up to his reddening cheek. A cold second lingered. Then, Stevie let out an abrupt laugh. The mother's face contorted in raw disbelief. Stevie began to let out a series of guffaws like a geyser releasing long built-up pressure from the bowels of the earth.
"Oh, ho, ho.... you want to be a little smart-ass?!" The mother rose from the table and began to pace behind Stevie.
By this time, he was so petrified by the inevitable consequence that his laughter became hysterical, with snorts accenting each burst.
Martha, the twelve-year-old, smiled slightly, unable to hide the amusement of watching Stevie defy their domineering mother; although, she knew that a new kind of storm was brewing in the mind of her mother like no other she had seen prior, a volatile electrical storm more physical in nature compared to the many verbal squalls of the past.
A broom was leaning in the corner of the room, the mother grabbed it with vigorous intent of using it for a purpose other than house cleaning. She stood looming over Stevie with an ominous smile stamped on her weathered face.
"You think it's funny, makin' fun of baby Jesus?"
Whack!
Stevie let out a hiss as the broom handle came down on his soft skull.
"What do ya think now, you little cocksucker?!"
Stevie then let out such a burst of giggles that little fragments of food shot out over the red-checkered table cloth.
Whack-whack-whack!
Martha stopped smiling. She could see knots beginning to rise on the top of Stevie's head like an ultra violent Bugs Bunny cartoon.
By now, the youngest boy, Charley, was screeching in horror, and Rita, the second oldest girl, stood up and ran into her bedroom trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Stevie continued to laugh, but the tone began to change. His eyes blackened with dilation. Madness was creeping behind the veil foreshadowing events which would take place years later.
The mother sat back down after one final barrage. Her breathing had become labored. She sat glaring at little Stevie who was still softly chuckling. She then, unexpectedly, let out a loud guffaw mingled with a shaking head of perplexity. She speared a hunk of meat on her plate and greedily began to eat as if nothing had taken place.
Martha stared, incredulously, at her mother. She slowly rose from her chair and crept from the room holding back tears for her abused brother.
Little Stevie would never be the same.
Gabriel Orgrease
Writer's Workshop Along Bird Cemetery Road
In the barn studio below the amazing skylight the names were put in a large galvanized hopper and churned around.
A one-man aviary band Jeffrey cranked the curved handle on the reclaimed writer’s desk and some of them came down like sounds of wind or car horns, rude expletives or to mimic the crazy cawing from above. The names dislodged then rattled then spun down around a copper spring-tubing as with a timeless still where they slowly echoed down; in the shiver of small quills they left trail marks, as they revealed a more pure essence.
Other names got jammed at the top. They formed boldly arched natural bridges against gray metal skies; they were as dark bouillon cubes contaminated with moisture that stuck them together. No vibration of the writer’s mechanism could break them free.
Jeffrey cranked hard he blew the call. Caw. Caw. Caw.
As he cranked his name changed shape with their names and he became Jeff. Less black birds encircled in flight above the skylight and above the clattered pace of wooden gears. He thought of a windmill near the seaside and the dream of rye flour. The light of day that is special.
From our muffled station behind a sliding door we could hear the sound of cracking and cawing into a more centered sentience with the pressure of his hand against the gritty lever where he worked in the antiquities room. Then it was Jay, then it was just… and a list of small hearts which were previously homogenized with a kitchen cleaver in separate identities became like a nude perfume.
It leaked, spilled and flowed to etch identities to the desk, then rivulets down the oak legs then onto the pine floor where it mixed with dust-of-radon and congealed bird's blood, or boat varnish and copper flakes that smelled musky with a hint of greenish organic form.
As sun set the now fluid bird names eared themselves into the structure of the barn walls where all that night to next century they confused spiders and black crickets with their cackled noises.
