I’m not a serial killer. I know you didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you right off the bat I’m no serial killer. Or a rapist. Nosiree, those are two things I am not. I’m giving you the facts now so things don’t get awkward later. I promise you it will not get awkward.

            Because I believe in honesty in a relationship. I truly do. And although this is only our first date, our first meeting really, I want you to know that, should you invite me back to your place tonight, I will probably not steal anything when I creep out in the middle of the night. And if I do, I can guarantee it will be something really small that you most likely wouldn’t notice was missing for a while, like a can opener. I’m telling you this because I’m a straightforward kind of guy. I wouldn’t want you to think I was something I’m not.

            Like an astronaut. I am most definitely not an astronaut, and I wouldn’t want you to think I was. So if you were looking at me, thinking, “Wow, I bet this guy is an astronaut,” I’ll clear that up right now. Am not, never was. I hope you appreciate that I’m being up-front about this. Most guys wouldn’t, you know?

            Another thing. If we end up back at my place, you can rest assured that I have no miniature cameras set up in my bedroom or my bathroom. Or anywhere in my house. But if you have your own little camera and want to take pictures of us naked, I won’t embarrass you by asking you not to. That would be rude. And I’m not rude.

            Here’s something you won’t have to worry about. Although I live with my sister, I do not have sex with her. You may look at her and think, “She’s gorgeous, why not?” But she’s my sister, and that would be gross. If you swing that way and you want to hit on her, that’s up to you. Leave me out of it.

            Oops, I almost forgot – I also do not like wearing a diaper. I know there are some grown men out there who enjoy being diapered and treated like a baby by their lady friends, but I am not one of those men. Don’t even ask. I’m setting the boundary now.

            So. That about sums me up. Tell me about you.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

mckenzee, creator of the critically acclaimed webcomic Sinister Bedfellows, has just published an anthology of stories inspired by his comics, and he was kind enough to include an original, previously unseen SPASM in this collection.

You can check it out here.

I’m very excited.

It began with an icy, rainy night and a teenaged boy. Saul stood in the warmth of the music store, cursing the foul weather’s effect on business and staring out the plate-glass window into the dreary night.

He turned to look at Ivan, dusting the instruments on the wall. “You can go home, son.”

“We’re closing?”

Saul nodded. “I’ll stay till eight. But the weather’s not getting any better. You should go while the roads are still manageable.”

“No problem.” Ivan went in the back and got his parka and boots.

“Is your mother picking you up?”

Ivan was already at the door in his hurry to leave. “She’s a terrible driver. I’ll take the bus. See you tomorrow, Mr. Schwartz!”

Saul stuck his head out after Ivan. “Wait for the bus in here!”

“It’s only a few blocks away, I can see it.”

Reluctantly, Saul pulled the door closed.

A car lurched across both lanes and struck Ivan, pinning him to the side of the store.

The next few hours were messy, disturbing: rushing out to find Ivan bleeding, so much blood – a drunken man waving his arms at Ivan, as if this were Ivan’s fault – Ivan’s lifeless hand in Saul’s – flashing lights and policemen – Ivan’s weeping mother in Saul’s arms, cursing God, the drunk driver, and the policemen who couldn’t bring her boy back. Tears, blood, rain pelting them like bullets from the heavens.

After the funeral, Ivan’s mother came by. “May I – as a remembrance–”

Saul took the flowers from her trembling hands. “Of course. Let’s place them here at the corner of the store.” Where it happened, but he didn’t say this.

The flowers were young and vibrant. Just as Ivan had been. Saul choked back tears of his own and went back inside.

The next week, the bouquet was replaced by a wreath. Then two wreaths. Every week, the display got bigger. People didn’t want to park their cars in the spot on the corner, where the display was. Saul’s store had space for only four cars in its lot; this was no good for business. Saul Schwartz was not a greedy man, but he had to eat, too.

After a month, he confronted Ivan’s mother. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll just move your shrine to the front of the store–”

“This is all I have of my son! I wasn’t there for him in his last moments, Mr. Schwartz! This is as close as I can come to being there for him. Don’t take it away. Please.”

“It can stay. Just move it to the front of the store. Please.”

Mute, Ivan’s mother put the new wreath back in her car and drove away.

That night, Saul learned she’d killed herself. Driven into the side of a bank.

Saul stood in the plate-glass window of his store, numb.

In a way, he’d killed them both.

Outside, rain pelted down like bullets.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Jebediah Smalls was a God-fearing man, a Bible-reading man. A preaching man. When his daughter disgraced him by getting pregnant, he bade her leave the family home so that his younger daughter would not bear witness to the burgeoning belly that would come of her sinful ways. When his homeless, jobless, pregnant daughter had an abortion, Jebediah Smalls disowned her.

Some said that Jebediah Smalls was unforgiving, but Jebediah knew better than that. If something offends thee, cast it out. God’s will, plain and simple. Jebediah had only to deliver it.

And walking so righteously on the path, Jebediah did become more confident of his ability to know God’s will. Call him a prophet, if you will. Call him a disciple, call him a messenger. Jebediah knew the Lord. He prayed to him every night. And come daylight, Jebediah was unrelenting in his evangelism. Some said Jebediah Smalls was prideful, but Jebediah knew better than that. His gift, his calling, was to mete out God’s word. To hide that light under a bushel would be blasphemous. Right there in the gospel, brother. You can read it yourself.

And so when the day came that Jebediah Smalls’ light was extinguished, when he entered that eternal darkness to see the blazing glory at the end of the tunnel, he walked proudly toward the light, a man of no regrets, a man who fully expected to be welcomed by all the angels on high and by our Lord Almighty God.

And Jebediah Smalls did walk joyfully into the Throne Room and up the steps leading to the Throne of God, the Seat of Judgment.

Unfortunately for Jebediah Smalls, he was no longer sitting on it.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

“Do you love me?”

Keith looked up at Maryann. She didn’t normally need this type of reassurance. “Yes, I do.”

Maryann tilted her head and looked at him more closely. He was glad he had married such a sweet, silly little thing. Maryann hardly ever succumbed to the types of depression or moodiness other women suffered during those times of the month. Her time must have come early. He continued, “I love spending time with you. I love the way you smile to yourself sometimes when you think I didn’t see. I love how you make me laugh. I love the way you cook, the way you take care of my house. You’re sunny and charming and sweet.”

“Really?”

Keith nodded. Maryann never needed this kind of talk. Poor angel. He smiled gently. “I sure do, Bunny-Lips. I love the way you bring me my coffee in the morning and have my dinner and the paper ready at night. You’re just the best wife in the whole world.”

Maryann bit at her lip slightly as she considered this. Adorable, just adorable. Keith leaned back in his chair and watched his words take effect. Soon, she would be back to her cute little self, washing the dishes or bustling about as she cleaned the living room. What a good little wife she was! Keith had certainly put her mind to rest, because Maryann smiled and nodded.

“And that’s why you love me?”

“You got it.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really, Bunny-Lips.”

“’Cause I fuckin’ hate you.”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Uncle Jerzy and Uncle Wojtan had not spoken to one another in over thirty years. Through three decades of family gatherings, weddings, birthdays, holidays and funerals, they had taken great pains to avoid one another. Their respective wives, Aunt Mila and Aunt Ewa, were great friends. Their children grew up together. But Uncle Jerzy and Uncle Wojtan refused to break their silence.

To young Shimi, this was absurd. His uncles were brothers, born of the same compassionate Ludovicz blood. He asked Aunt Mila, who didn’t remember what transpired all those years ago, before Shimi was born. “I think Woji cut off Jerzy, but if you asked me to swear, I couldn’t.” Aunt Ewa merely shook her head. “Jerzy stopped talking to Wojtan over a small matter. I don’t recall.”

Unsatisfied, Shimi went to his mother, his uncles’ only sister. “Mama, what happened so long ago, that Uncle Jerzy and Uncle Woji don’t speak to each other?”

His mother shook her head. “I was so young, no one told me. Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

So a week later, Shimi went to Uncle Jerzy. “Why won’t you speak to Uncle Wojtan?”

Jerzy stroked his moustache. “I think… I think it was a disagreement over a chess game, I’m not sure.”

“Do you still care?”

Jerzy shrugged. “Not especially.”

“Now that you are older, with grandchildren of your own, would you like to talk to your brother?”

Jerzy smiled. “I would, but after all these years, I doubt he’d want a conversation with me, Shimi.”

Later that evening, Shimi visited Uncle Wojtan, who replied, “I remember. I cheated at chess. Moved pieces while he wasn’t looking.” He smiled at the memory. “We used to have such fun playing that game.”

“Would you like to talk to your brother again?”

“Oh, Shimi, you have the soul of an angel. But Jerzy would never want to speak to me.”

Two days later, Shimi invited Uncle Jerzy over for lunch. There was a knock at the door as soon as they sat down. Wojtan had been invited, too.

Wojtan stood at the door a moment, his hat in his hands. “Hello, Jerzy. You look well.”

For a moment, Shimi thought his older uncle wasn’t going to reply. But then he nodded. “So do you, Woji.”

Shimi brought out the lunch he had prepared for the two of them. Then he retreated to his bedroom, to give his uncles some privacy.

In the dining room, Jerzy and Woji ate their lunch in silence.

Companionable silence. After they finished their bread and cheese and wine, they sat at Shimi’s chess table and played a game, no cheating. When Jerzy won, they stood up and hugged each other tightly. Woji pointed at the clock – it was time for him to return to the office. Jerzy nodded and waved goodbye, his eyes moist. No need for feeble utterance, reassurances. All was well.

In the bedroom, Shimi wept. He hadn’t heard his uncles speak a word.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

The shouting started again. Something shattered against the opposite side of the wall. Six months ago, Heather would have called the cops, but by now, she understood nothing would be done once they got to the duplex. Scott was one of their own. There would be no arrest.

And the next day, when Heather saw Annie at the mailbox or in the parking lot, there would be a fresh bruise on her face.

Heather wanted to help Annie, but somehow anytime she talked to her neighbor, the words never came. Annie stood taller than Heather did, with long blond hair and a trim, firm body. She often wore sunglasses, which camouflaged bruises and masked her reaction to anything Heather said. So Heather usually mumbled something banal, and Annie went on about her business.

            More shouting. Scott’s voice, hurling obscenities at his wife. Annie sobbing. Heather turned up the stereo. It made the noise tolerable, but her stomach settled into a hard knot. Only six months left on the lease, she reminded herself.

There was a break between songs. She could hear them: “You don’t have the nerve!” “Scott, I mean it.” “Pull the fucking trigger! You know you wa—”

The gunshot sounded, and the next song began. Heather fumbled to turn off the stereo. Silence.

An abrupt knock penetrated Heather’s horror. Trembling, Annie moaned: “I shot Scott. I held his gun to his head and I shot him.”

Next door, the mess was profound. Using a napkin, Heather placed the gun in Scott’s hand so the police would find gunpowder residue. Back to Annie, waiting at Heather’s. “Call 911. Tell them your husband is drunk and threatening to shoot himself.” Annie made the call.

When the police arrived, they had their story straight: While arguing, Scott threatened to kill himself, and threw Annie out of the apartment. Annie had used Heather’s phone. When she’d hung up, they heard the gunshot. Scott was dead.

It was simple. It would work. And it did.

At Scott’s wake, Heather heard two of Scott’s fellow policemen speaking in low tones, saying Annie had always encouraged Scott to drink. Tears burst from Heather’s eyes as she remembered Annie’s pleas for Scott to stop. She turned away, silent.

Later, Scott’s father and brother confronted Annie, accusing her of coaxing Scott off the wagon. Unable to listen, Heather left.

Annie bought a Porsche with the insurance money. New jewels appeared on her neck, and an attractive young man moved in with her. Annie avoided her now, but from the letters and brochures that came to their communal mailbox, Heather knew Annie was planning a trip to Buenos Aires.

Annie left in the middle of the night. Heather awoke to find two envelopes pushed under her door, with a note: “Thanks. Annie.” Ten thousand dollars.

It was then she knew.

And again, she knew better than to call the police. This time, for a different reason.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

(Cross-posted to LiveJournal)

I attended a meeting of the Democracy for America – Long Island group in Mineola on Wednesday night. Afterwards, a few of us went out to a diner, and the conversation digressed to personal stuff. One woman mentioned that she’d written a romance novel a few years back, but it was so long ago that she couldn’t remember what it was called. I felt a lot of sympathy for her—not only because she’d put all that effort into a book that had never been published (I know how that feels), but also because occasionally in the course of creativity, things get forgotten. Stuff was that incredibly important a few months or years back doesn’t seem so important now. And it’s a little sad to realize that. I could tell she felt kind of weird about it. Maybe not depressed, but wistful. I hadn’t liked her much before that, but I really empathized with her then (and she turned out to be a pretty nice person, too, so I’m glad I listened).

I encounter the same thing a lot in my own work, which has become somewhat voluminous and unwieldy. Every once in a while, I’ll pull out a notebook and find a poem I’d completely forgotten about, or a character sketch that seems totally new. Naturally, I’m not going to remember every single thing I’ve scribbled on a Post-It. Heck, just going through my wallet, I generally come across a dozen notes I’ve scrawled out and stuck in there so I didn’t forget (and instantly forgotten). Oh, and don’t ever ask me to list all the SPASMS I’ve done. I doubt I could come up with the titles of twenty, off the top of my head. They’ve never made the cut for inclusion in my long-term memory.

See, I’m not really a nostalgic person. Not that I can’t look at the past fondly, but I’m pretty firmly entrenched in whatever I’m doing at present, and when I’m not busy with that, I’m brainstorming on future stuff. The practical upshot of this is twofold: 1) I get a lot of stuff done and 2) I forget a lot. Not on purpose, it just sort of happens. I don’t discount the past, though. If it wasn’t for yesterday, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

The thing is, just because old creative stuff doesn’t seem that important anymore, or because it didn’t lodge in your head, doesn’t mean it didn’t—or doesn’t still—serve a purpose. Even if it’s total shit.

Rediscovering the past is interesting and useful. For one thing, looking over past works is a good way to measure how far you’ve come. Re-reading stories, I’m surprised sometimes at the progress I’ve made. Even over the past two years, I notice that my dialogue has improved, the pacing has tightened, and over-usage of certain phrases has decreased. I’m pleased. The work has paid off. I bet if anybody reading this who is actively working at their writing compares a story from three years ago to one they’ve written in the past few months, they’ll notice a significant change. (At least, I hope they do!)

So re-analyze your stories, or poems or music or art or whatever. Try to remember what you were thinking of when you made them, and why you made the choices you did. It’s a useful tool for marking progress, noting change, and hopefully patting yourself on the back for growing as an artist. Don’t concentrate on how awful it was or let it get you down for having been a bad writer/artist/etc., because you’ve almost certainly developed into a better one now.

For me, it’s also a great way to get new ideas, or an opportunity to improve on old ones. My story a while back, “The Too-Much-Noise Wizard,” is from a book I made when I was maybe four years old. I’ve always loved that title, and I finally crystallized it in a readable story, as opposed to a crayon scribbling.

I don’t look at my old stories too often. Nobody should. But every once in a while, it’s good to go back. Yesterday’s gone, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

xo, Amy

            With a twirl of his wand, Ken Smiley sent the primordial froth bubbling, swirling into a series of vortices. From these cosmic eddies came ripples of energy that grew bright and became galaxies, shining and spinning throughout the darkness, a universe in microcosm. And the galaxies begat planets, some great, some small. And lo, on one of these planets, among the protoplasmic muck… there was life. First one, then two, then hundreds, thousands, millions! Unicellular organisms quickly gave way to multicellular. And from these mitochondrial organisms came more and more complex beings, braving the acidic atmosphere’s onslaught of hydrogen and nitrogen and heat to give birth to children even more highly structured. And from these creatures sprang a new species, one that walked and talked and looked up at the sky at night to wonder who was out there – living, breathing, thinking creatures who stood up to worship their creator, and sang glorious hymns in His praise.

            Ken threw his plastic stir out the window of the truck, took a sip and grimaced. This was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

There was a voice in Bernadette’s head. She’d first heard it on Saturday, when it uttered those fateful nine words:

“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich would be nice.”

Bernadette knew what it meant that she heard a voice in her head. But the voice was right. It was past one o’clock, and she hadn’t eaten any lunch yet. Shrugging, she went to the kitchen and made herself a sandwich.

“Shower curtain’s mildewed. Better buy a new one.” It was Sunday afternoon, and Bernadette was lying on the couch, reading the Books section of the New York Times. She didn’t really feel like getting up, but she realized the voice was correct – that curtain was getting unsanitary. So off to K-Mart she went, and home with a new shower curtain.

Her blind date the following evening was off to a boring start. He took her to a grungy Moroccan restaurant where a trio of portly men played sitars or balalaikas or something and the waitress spilled wine on Bernadette’s sleeve. The small talk was faltering, although the guy was quite attractive. “Remember that belly-dancing class?” the voice prodded. So far, the voice hadn’t steered her wrong. Bernadette knocked back the rest of her wine and got up to dance.

Later that evening, the voice reminded her to use a condom. She did, too.

The voice continued to give her a daily nudge for the next couple months. Always something useful, never anything outrageous:

“Aunt Linda’s birthday’s coming up. She might appreciate a hand-knit sweater.” “The new Coen Brothers movie looks interesting.” “When’s the last time you bleached the bathtub?”

The voice was safe and comfortable and a welcome presence in her life.

One night, Bernadette stayed late at the office to finish a report. Her boss stayed to help. Her boss was a kind woman, a single mother with two kids, who did her best to be a fair and decent employer.

When the report was finished, and Bernadette and her boss were alone in the elevator, the voice said:

“If you strangle her with that long scarf of hers, you could have her job by next week.”

Bernadette blinked. What a horrible idea! She felt surprised and betrayed. She’d come to trust the voice in her head, but it seemed she had been wrong.

“No, not really. Just checking,” the voice said in response to her thoughts. “Lately, it seems like you don’t question anything.”

“Question this,” Bernadette said aloud, and held up her middle finger.

Her boss cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

“Oh. Heh, heh. Nothing. Good night, Mrs. Ayling.”

“Good night.” Her boss stood in the lobby a moment, watching Bernadette leave. Maybe Bernadette had been working too hard.

“You should have strangled her with that long scarf of yours while you had the chance,” said the voice in her head.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.