New Short Story: Vigorous Representation

"Vigorous Representation"

Flash Fiction, by C. N. Nevets



"You know I did this right?"  He wasn't looking at me.

"I know you did this."  I nodded, and looked squarely at him, my hands stuffed in my pockets, my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, stuffed with files.

He nodded.  His upper lip disappeared into his mouth.  "But you still did right by me."

"I still did right by you."  I nodded again.

"You a church goin' man?" he asked, his chin still tucked low, his eyes only briefly meeting mine, and at an oblique angle when they did.

"I'm a church goin' man."  My words were paced, my tone even.

He scrunched up his face and kicked stubbornly at the floor.  "And you're alright with this?"

My posture was relaxed.  "I'm alright with this."

"I'm not sure I am."  He turned and walked away, without looking back.


Author's Note. 

New Short Story - "Air Filter"

"Air Filter"

new flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

I could hardly breathe, the air was so thick with rot.  I could hardly hear my own voice as I sang, the air was so blanketed by tinks and clatters.  I could hardly see, the air was so interlaced by a web of smoke.  I could hardly think.

Then door opened.

A breeze drifted in.

The sun light dripped in.

A touch of rain drizzled in.

Then the smoke cleared.  The clamor quieted.  The air became gradually fresher.

But I can’t remember how to think.

Cantaloupe: A New Story

"Cantaloupe"

flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

A guy can only eat so much cantaloupe.  I mean, for crap's sake, I been eating cantaloupe for a week.  Every meal.  Every fricking meal.  Cantaloupe.

Had a couple blueberries with it the other day.  That was awesome.  I mean, awesome.  Full of awe-inspiring thunderous greatness that would put the fear of God into a church mouse.

But mostly it was cantaloupe.

When this whole thing started I thought about eating a burger, but I didn't wanna take on the fat and the calories.  I guess I could have varied the burger, though.  Some days lots of veggies, some days fancy sauces, maybe not even always made out of beef.  Not much you can do with a cantaloupe.

I also could have gone for some chicken and grilled veggies.  I love chicken.  I love grilled veggies.  But that one was gonna cost.  It wasn't gonna be cheap neither.

'Sides, I needed some of the vitaminiums that're in the cantaloupe.  Plus, my girlfriend had too much cantaloupe in her garden.  And plus, it's not all bad.  It tastes good, it looks pretty, it smells like a fresh summer morning.

Thing is, I'm allergic to cantaloupe.

Tasting Red, Seeing Bitter - New Story

"Tasting Red, Seeing Bitter"

new flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

I dropped the scarlet nail polish into my purse and took a sip of red pop that I had poured into a ruby-tinted glass.  I swirled a cherry lollipop through a container of red velvet yogurt and lift it up to my burgundy lips.  Licking the lollipop clean, I then gestured broadly with it.  "All these things taste the same."

"They do?" he asked.

I nodded.  "They taste red."

"Red," he said.  Then he added, "Red's not a flavor."  Then, thinking twice about the dogmatic tone he'd chosen he further appended, "Is it?"

"It is," I affirmed.  I licked my lips.  I ran a fingernail across my tongue.  "It all tastes red."

"You mean cherry?" he asked.  Stupidly, I would add.

"No, I mean red."

He was chain smoking.  He always chain smoked when he was pissed off.  A curtain of smoke hung between us, birthed from his lips and anchored by the ash try I had made him in rehab.  He lit a new one  from the stub he was about to drop.

I said, "Red's a flavor. All these things taste the same.  They don't taste like anything else.  Just red."

He blew a long stream of smoke while he stared at the ash tray.  I had crafted it in the crude shape of an apple and painted it a bold, enticing crimson.  After a few moments of slow, laborious breathing, he chain-lit a new cigarette. He took a puff.

I watched closely.  "Did you cut yourself?" I asked.

There was a trickle of blood on his lower lip.

"Papercut," he said simply.  He shrugged.  I couldn't see his face clearly through all the smoke.

I bent through the smoke and pressed my lollipop to the cut on his lips.  I kissed his mouth softly, smearing my lipstick on him.

When I broke the kiss, I took the lollipop and retreated back to the fair side of the haze.

He licked his lips.

"Tastes red," he said.

Day and Night

"Day and Night"

flash fiction by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2012


By day they shove us into rooms and sit us is in chairs and arrange us in circles and say, "Talk to one another," and "Listen to one another," and "Support one another."  By day, we make friendships around the sterile plastic tables and in the ceramic tiled bathrooms and on the stain resistant chairs around the big screen TV.  By day, we bond and share and open up as we play ping pong and go fish and mad libs.

By day we realize that not only are we not alone but maybe we never really were.

All that, they say, is too stimulating.

We must calm down, cool off, wind down, take our edge off.

By night, they shove us into a room and sit us against the wall and tell us to cross our arms and legs and they turn off the lights and they say say, "Be quiet," and they say, "Don't talk," and they say, "Close your eyes," and they play Pink Floyd's The Wall.  By night, we think about the people back home who love us or hate us or maybe don't know how they feel about us but wish they did and so they sent us here to get better.  By night, they tell us to meditate and breathe deeply and reflect.

By night

we

remember

just

how

lonely

we

are

and

must be.

Spinning Wheel

"Spinning Wheel"

A flash fiction piece, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

It's a flower.  It's no particular color.  It's more like . . . every color.

She doesn't know what kind of flower it is.  Its petals are so delicate that they almost drip off the long, dark stems that reach up toward the sky.  The sky she hasn't seen in years.  Toward the sun she hasn't felt in years.  But when she looks at that flower, she feels herself carried up towards the sky on its stem, and she can almost feel the sun that washes over the drips of petals.

She can only imagine the scent of the flower.  She thinks it is light and airy.  She thinks some days the rain gives it a heavier body, a bit of weedy spice.  But most days, light and airy.  When she thinks about the scent she has conjured up, she can almost feel the weight taken off her aching bones.

There's a window.  Single pane glass.  It's from the 1940's.  She dusts the inside every day.  The outside is rain-streaked.  Some days, she can see through the window as clear as if it weren't there.  Other days, the way the light hits the glass and the streaks, her view is obscured.

She likes those days best.  She likes looking through the window at the flower when it's obscured and hard to see.  She likes to see the colors push through the haze.  She likes to see how the delicate, drippy petals melt into a blur of color.  No particular color.  Every color.

And she likes to see how, through the haze, the flower's strong, dark stem pushes up toward the sky.  Towards the sun in the sky.

Cops and Robbers

"Cops and Robbers"

Original Flash Fiction by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2012

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.”  Tommy slurped at his coffee mug and looked out at the attentive, interested faces of nineteen year-olds clustered around the college coffee shop, staring at him at the table where he sat.  Officer Thomas “Tommy” “T. J.” Jansen, a.k.a., “the Hook,” was nobody special, but he was still the one addressing this class of mostly criminal justice majors.  Check that.  Officer Jansen was nobody special, and so he was the one who couldn’t say no to the request for someone from the department to come down and address this class of mostly criminal justice majors.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” Tommy repeated, following it up with another slurp.  The Hook was 37 years old.  He looked like he was 47.  He felt like he was 57½.  He’d been married for 15 years.  He’d been divorced for 6.  Another 9 to go before he’d be caught up with his own bad luck.  She’d married a cop.  She’d wanted a police man.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” Tommy said again.  The words were echoed by another slurp.  It was a coffee mug.  It wasn’t coffee he was slurping.  He wasn’t sure what it was.  Probably whiskey.  Maybe bourbon.  He hadn’t looked at the label.  He wasn’t really tasting it.

                Tommy “T. J.” Jansen saw the restless, awkward looks shared by the college students.  He saw a similar expression on the face of their professor.  Dr. Somebody Something, Ph. Something.  He realized they wanted him to say more.  In Tommy’s estimation, there really wasn’t more to say.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” he said again.  He did not slurp this time.  “That’s what I thought.  That’s what I want on my tombstone.  That’s why I became a cop.”  He was staring into his mug.  Bourbon, almost definitely.  “A cop.  Cops and robbers.”   He snickered at himself.  “Cops and robbers.”  This time, he slurped.

                Tommy looked up.  He made eye contact with a guy in the back.  He was tall, tan, athletic.  He probably wanted to go into the FBI and be an “agent.”  Then he made eye contact with a girl in the front.  She was sweet-faced and bright.  She probably wanted to wear a suit and be an “investigator.”   They would both be cops, or they would be nothing.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.”  He took a gulp.  Tommy felt himself finally finding a groove. He latched onto it, even though he couldn’t see the twists and turns of the dark corridor he was sliding down.  “Maybe for some people that’s some kind of moral issue.  Good versus evil or something.  Maybe for some people it’s about teams.  It’s us versus them.  Maybe, I don’t know, maybe for some people it’s about service to the community or some crap like that.  The people who care about the community against the people who don’t.  For me it wasn’t that complicated.”  Slurp.  “I never went to college like you assholes.”  Definitely bourbon.  “For me, cops and robbers was about doing.  It was about seeing and responding.  I’m a cop.  A see a robber.  I respond.  I act.  I do some damn thing rather than philosophize or religiousize about it.”

                Tommy “the Hook” finished off what was in his mug.  It might have been scotch.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers, but it wasn’t.  It isn’t.  It’s not about to be.”  He looked at the guy in the back.  He looked at the girl in the front.  He looked at Dr. Somebody Something.  He had their attention.  Maybe their pity.  Probably not their confidence.  But he had their attention.   He glanced at his watch.  Yep.  Twenty years in.  Probably didn’t matter what he said at this point.

                “Its cops trying to figure out what the hell they’re supposed to do, every damn time they see something.”  Tommy’s right hand rested on his sidearm.  “There’s a lot of nonsense out there.  Just nonsense, you know?  People doing horrible things to other people for stupid ass reasons.  We make laws against that kind of shit, right?  We hire cops to make sure people follow those laws, right?”

                Under the table, Tommy caressed the butt of his weapon.  Its bulk was smooth.  He could feel the power inside the masculine grace with which it was formed.  He sniffed.  “So you got these guys beating the crap out of their wives.  The law says the women have one basic choice.  If they can get the hell out of there, that’s what they have to do.  When you can flee, you flee.   If they don’t flee.  If they fight back and defend themselves, they better damn well be able to prove they were in immediate peril  and had no option to flee.  The burden of proof is on them.  On these women with the shit beat out of them.  These women who did nothing more wrong than getting trapped by an asshole with a fist, or a belt, or golf club that he can’t stop swinging.”

                Tommy Jansen looked out at the students.  He definitely had their interest now.  They weren’t comfortable, but they were interested.  He glanced at his watch.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers, right?  So who’s the robber?  The wife who shoots the guy who’s beating the shit of her, or the guy who makes her wipe her own bloody face before he’ll let her go out in public?”  Tommy looked at the professor.  She was interested, too.  “Morals say one thing.  The law says another.”

                To hell with it.  Tommy  reached between the third and fourth button on his uniform shirt.  He slid his hand inside and slipped out a silver flask.  He unscrewed the top.  He poured some into his mug.  He smiled.  “So we change the law,” he said.  “We make it more moral.  We say, okay, this is shit.  That woman had a right to feel threatened even if she didn’t know for sure he was about to kill her.  That woman had a right to stand up for herself.  We can’t demand that she gives in and runs away and hides or else stands there and lets herself be a punching bag.  She can defend herself.  Feeling threatened, we say, is as much a justification as being threatened – and we should never demand people run away.”

                The students were nodding.  The guy in back had his jaw set with a smug, John Wayne sort of satisfaction in the power of the American male to make wrongs right.  The girl in front was positively beaming with something close to a romantic attraction to the ideal of ordinary people changing the world for the better.   They didn’t know anything.  It’s not cops and robbers.  It’s cops, trying to figure out what the crap to do. 

                “So the burden of proof’s not on the woman anymore.”  Tommy felt his own jaw set.  It wasn’t smugness.  “She says she felt threatened, the only way she gets in trouble is if the cops prove she had no reasonable right to feel threatened.  The burden of proof is on them now.”  Tommy felt the tension in his jaw.  There was power there.  Maybe once there had been masculine grace.  Now there was just stubble and power.  “And it don’t matter if the guy had a gun or a weapon or anything else.  If she felt – felt, I tell you – threatened, we can’t say, ‘you could have just walked away.’  All those women with the shit beat out of them, they can now stand up for themselves.”

                One student clapped.  Tommy couldn’t bring himself to look around and see who it was.  He felt the vibe from the group.  He could tell that some of them were uncomfortable.  He could tell that they all thought it was good, even if they were maybe uncomfortable with how a woman could potentially abuse that privilege.  They didn’t know anything. 

                Slurp.  “Only, when you write a law you can’t write a law that says, ‘women who get beat up can stand up for themselves.’  That’s too specific.  It leaves out abused men.  It leaves out psychological torture.  Whatever.  So you say, ‘people who feel threatened can stand up for themselves and don’t need to run away.’”  Slurp.   “Cool beans, right?”

                There were nods out there.  He didn’t look for them, but he knew they were there.  Tommy’s hand was back on his side arm.  His jaw was practically locked, even as he talked.  “Only now I got some white guy who shoots a black kid and says he felt threatened.”  Gulp.  “I got some white guy who gets scared when he walks around his neighborhood and he sees black kids wandering outside their own neighborhood and into his.  Maybe his dad’s store was robbed by some black kids.  Maybe his mom was harassed by a black guy.  Maybe he got beat up once by a couple of black dudes.  Maybe he just listens to too much rap music and watches too much shit TV and thinks all black teenagers are gangsters.  Point is, he feels threatened.”  Slurp.  Slurp.  “People who feel threatened can stand up for themselves and don’t need to run away.”

                Now the college kids were confused.  They looked to their professor, but she wasn’t  offering them much help.  None of them really wanted to look at Tommy anymore.  His fingers wrapped around the butt of his weapon.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.  Instead, it’s cops trying to figure out the hell to do.   I’ve got a white guy who shot an unarmed black teenager, saying he felt threatened.  I’ve got a family who lost their boy, saying there’s no way he was a threat.  I’ve got civil justice people saying there’s no way it was self defense.  I’ve got black people saying I’d make an arrest if the kid were white.  I’ve got black people saying I wouldn’t bother with an arrest if the kid was white and the shooter was black.  I’ve got white people saying that the case is only still open because we’re being pushed around by black activists.  I’ve got neighborhood watch people saying that if the cops protected people then people wouldn’t have to make these tough calls.  I’ve got a kid who was doing nobody no harm and is dead.  I’ve got a guy who shot him, saying he felt threatened.  And it’s up to me to prove he didn’t feel threatened, because I can’t say, ‘you could have just walked away, asshole.’”

                Slurp.  Gulp.  “I’ve got women’s rights people saying that this distorts their law.  I’ve got women’s rights people saying that anything we do mitigate the law for this guy waters it down too much.  I’ve got people on the internet who think the cops aren’t doing their jobs.  I’ve got cops busting their asses, looking for evidence that isn’t there, to try and make an arrest that will stand up in court so we don’t lose any chance we have at getting justice.”

                Officer Thomas Jansen downed the last of whatever he’d poured from his flask and stood, his right hand still on his sidearm.  “So that’s what I want on my tombstone.  ‘It was supposed to be cops and robbers.’”

                Tommy, “the Hook,” walked out of the college coffee shop and slid into the driver’s seat of his city car.  He cupped a hand around mouth and blew.  He could smell the drink on his breath.  It was brandy.  He blew again.  The last thing he needed was another DUI in uniform.  He unhooked  the strap that held his sidearm in place.

                He glanced at his watch.

                Yep.

                He’d said his piece.

                He closed his eyes, and he hoped that they remembered what he wanted written on his tombstone.

History by Immersion, Mystery through Craftsmanship

All---

Historical fiction often feels like a guided a tour of another world, with the author serving a friendly and well-informed guide who points (sometimes clumsily and sometimes deftly) toward the things that are interesting about this other place and time.  Traditional mysteries, in which the reader pieces together clues together with a professional investigator so that the story is about the case itself rather than the detective's personality or methods (apart from the detective's brilliant logic) have given way to procedurals, forensic procedurals, cosies, and thrillers.  A Razor Wrapped in Silk  by R. N. Morris transcends these trends.  It is a traditional mystery, told with literary craftsmanship, fully immersed in 19th century Russia.

The third in a series of books that began with A Gentle Axe and continued with A Vengeful Longing, Morris' A Razor Wrapped in Silk takes place in Czarist St. Petersburg and features Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate created by Dostoevsky for Crime and Punishment.  Lest you think this abusive or derivative, rest assured that Morris handles both  Petrovich and Dostoevsky's Russia with great respect.  If anything, this book stands as a great tribute to an intriguing character and an author whose ideas have influenced a great deal of literature.

The story itself weaves together two mysteries: one, the brutal slaying of a much-loved woman; the other, the disappearance of a young boy who worked in a factory and was attending an experimental new school.  With a similar feel to Conan Doyle's Holmes when international affairs got involved, and with a touch of Dostoevsky himself, the stories unfold at three levels: the intriguing work of discovering and interpreting clues; the emotional drama of those caught up in the crimes; all with an eye to the politics and ideological clash in the world around them.  Petrovich, as a detective, is a man of striking intellect and entertaining personality, but as much as he is the center-piece of the story, his character never overwhelms the rest of the narrative.

From the outset, the thing that is most impressive about A Razor Wrapped in Silk isn't the mystery (which is well-crafted), isn't the detective (of whom I can't wait to read more in the earlier books), isn't the prose (which is sharp and bleakly vivid), and isn't even the political intrigue (engagingly related but with a fair hand).  What is most impressive is the way that the story is told.  The reader is immediately immersed into the world, and the story reads as if 19th Century Russia is the most natural place for a book to place.  There is no sense of marvel or wonder.  There is no subtle suggestion that the reader should be entertained by the differences between the world of the book and the world in which they live.  There is no implication that the real point of the book is to show off Dostoevsky's St. Petersburg to readers.

Instead, A Razor Wrapped in Silk is drenched in authenticity.

It is difficult to completely scrub time and place from the English language, but apart from a few very brief moments in which a character's speech strikes an American "ear" as rather British, and a climactic sequence that feels a bit more modern, Morris has put together a book that feels very much as if it were simply published out-of-time.

A Razor Wrapped in Silk is available in UK paperback and also on Kindle in the US and internationally, as well as through various after-market resellers.

.Nevets.

In a Name

Originally posted at FlashyFiction.

[deleted image: signpost with an arrow toward JC and an arrow toward Peculiar]

Original prompt selected by poet and writer RJ Clarken.

"In a Name"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011

At home, momma calls me Jason and treats me like I'm still 13.

At work, they call me Mr. Collins and they damn well listen to what I say.

In bed, Amy calls me Jay and uses me as a way to forget about her own home and work.

But on stage, guitar in hand, they call me JC Peculiar, and the world mine to command.

.Nevets.

Story - "Gulping Amaretto"

"Gulping Amaretto"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2010

Jimmy was so thin and pale I thought his veins might just fall out, but when we sat down at the little round table, he was the one who was bursting with smiles and energy. 

“I don't know how you do it, man,” I admitted, idly glancing at the grease-smeared menu in front of me.  “You're forty-five and you're grinning like you're nineteen.”

“Lovin' life, brother, that's all it is.  Lovin' life.”  His voice was strong, but hoarse.  He'd had three shows this week, and his style of singing would have strained anyone's vocal chords.   He glanced over at the girl behind bar.  “I'm thirstier than hell, hon, just gimme a couple glasses of water with a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of sugar, and then keep 'em coming 'till I say no more.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Heroine.”

I rolled my eyes.   Jimmy Heroine.  His stage name.  Used to just be something people called him because he was so stretched out and empty looking.  Now the young ones thought it was his real name.  What a world.

I gave her my order.  “I'll have a scotch with a pinch of  scotch and a teaspoon of scotch.   Keep 'em coming 'till I say no more.”

Jimmy eyeballed me, his eyes popping out of their sunken sockets.   “You doin' okay there, brother?”

“Yeah, not bad,” I  assured him, shrugging my upper arms and laughing a couple times through my nose. 

“Whatcha painting right now?”

Where was that damn scotch?  I looked at the menu again, a little more intently.  I thought the word behind the thick smear of dried ketchup was hamburger, but it could have been ham sandwich.  “Just painting little things here and there, you know?  Stuff for family mostly.”

“Working a lot?”

“Feels like all the time.”   I looked at the girl behind the bar.  She was fixing his waters.  There wasn't a bottle of scotch anywhere near  her.   “Gotta pay the bills, you know?  It's good job, too.  I like the people I work with and I'm in quality assurance now, in management, so it's really good.  But definitely a lot of hours.”

“You're gonna go insane, bro bro.”  Jimmy tapped out drum rolls on the table surface with his nail-like fingers.  “You're a painter, not some retail guy.  Your stuff's good.  That one you did with the face, and the blue background, and it was like you could feel what it must be like to be God when you looked at it – I still have dreams about that painting.”

The girl set his waters down and then asked me, “What was it you said you wanted?  Beer?”

“Scotch.”  I tried not to snarl.

“Right, scotch.”  She turned back to Jimmy.  “Anything else, Mr. Heroine?  You want some fries or something? My treat.”

“Sure, honey, that'd be great, thanks.”

I meant to swear under my breath, but I just swore.  They both gave me looks of surprise and reproach.   Grimacing, I picked up the menu to hide behind.  Didn't last long.  I smacked it down on the table.  “You living off your music these days?”

“Hell no,” Jimmy laughed, grinning.  As if the laugh pained him, he winced and then applied gentle pressure to his side.  “We have a lot of shows, but we play for drinks and a hundred bucks to split.  Stuff like that.  It's about the love, brother.  The art.”

“You can't live on art.”

“Hell no,” Jimmy agreed, laughing again.  “But I get by.”

“Still selling your blood?”

“Yep.”

“And your sperm?”

“Yep.”

“You look like death, man.”  I meant it as a judgment against his lifestyle.

He brushed it off.  “That's the operation, that's all.”

“Operation?”

As the girl brought me what looked and smelled like an amaretto sour, Jimmy lifted his t-shirt.  In addition to the sharp relief of his ribs, I could see a scar on his left side.  “Kidney,” he said.

“Cancer?” I asked.

“Not sure.”  He lowered the shirt and drained one of the glasses of water.  “Not mine, whatever it was.  I donated it, brother.”

“Donated?  How are you healthy enough to donate a kidney?”

“The kinda guys who pay you in cash for your kidney don't do a physical first, know what I mean?”

I stared at the drink that had been placed in front of me.  My voice was distant.  “You sold your kindey?  Sold?  Your kidney?”

“Gotta pay the bills, ya know?”  Again, Jimmy laughed.  His laugh was warm and convivial, even when it was hoarse like it was.

“You're insane.”

“Hey, it lets me make money and still sing, I'm cool with it.”

I shook my head and crossed my arms across my chest,  sitting in stiff condescension.  “It's a slippery slope.  Where's it going to stop, Jimmy?  Blood, sperm, kidneys -- pieces of your liver?”

“I dunno.”  He was grinning, but his his were sharp and shadowed. “You tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm just selling my body for my art, brother, you're selling your soul.”

I gulped at the amaretto sour and my eyes searched the room for anything to look at other than Jimmy's grin.

FIN

.Nevets.