Short Story published in Blue Crow Magazine #2

Hi All,


A short story I wrote, 'On the Seventh Day He Woke', the first short story I ever wrote featuring Sam H. Bound, has been published in Blue Crow Magazine #2. 


The magazine is 'print on demand' and can be ordered from the website here. A printed copy of the magazine is US$15 + postage, or US$5 in E-book format. With the way the US$ is going that really isn't that much for a 300 page book chockfull of short stories, drawings, pictures, reviews, and more short stories.


You can find Blue Crow Magazine on Facebook here and don't forget you can find Blues Fiction there too!


Thank you all for your support.
Onward Ever!


Joran

REVIEW: 'Growth of the Soil' by Knut Hamsun, 1917

Hamsun won the Nobel Prize for Literature for this book in 1920 and one can see why. With an astounding sparseness of language Hamsun manages to tell the story of the birth of a district in northern Norway, starting with the arrival of the first settler. If you thought you would never be able to relate to early 20th century farmers in remote Norway, think again. You will know these characters, and love them for all their humanity. Hamsun influenced Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Fante, Bukowski and countless others with this book. You should read it too.

Joran C.A. Monteiro

Short story published on Queen Vic Knives

Hi All,

A short story I wrote, 'No-one ever heard the shot', has been published on Queen Vic Knives.

Check it here. Make sure to also check the other posts on this Melbourne online lit. mag! Some choice poetry and fiction to be enjoyed!

And remember to share this with others!

Onward ever,

Joran

Blues Fiction archived online by National Library of Australia

Hi All,

This blog has now been archived by the National Library of Australia's PANDORA program. See the email and links below.

The blog will now regularly be digitally archived by the NLA. You can find the archived blog here

My first poetry collection 'The Monkey Shits in Its Hand' has now been added to the Monash University Library collection here

"Dear Joran

 

...

 

I am delighted to inform you that your publication is now publicly available in the PANDORA Archive at http://nla.gov.au/nla.arc-119730

 

Access to your publication in the Archive is facilitated in two ways: via the Library’s online catalogue; and via subject and title lists maintained on the PANDORA home page http://pandora.nla.gov.au/index.html.

...

Web Archiving Section

National Library of Australia"

Very Cool stuff. Needless to say, I am quite proud. It is nice to be able to search on your name in a library catalogue and have the search actually come up with stuff.

Onward ever.

Cheers,

Joran

New poetry - June 2010

As promised - more poetry for this blog - 3 new poems I wrote this June

Peaking for Books

Tart-stifled, drum-faced, and hog-breathed

girl asking for book eyes unable to center

tongue double in her mouth

sheer struggle to stand

and in the distance I hear a mammoth trumpet

as she opens her teeth in brilliance and wobbles her head bird-like

'I am going clubbing but on the way I want to buy a book'

the strength of her breath like brain-thinner

as her eyes roll back and she shivers 

a titter 

then she disappears

There is a weird moon out tonight

some red light slivering in through the window

the open door

the mouths of browsers

the eyes of city harlots

corners of mouths up-turned in cruel happy thoughts

songs sung in too early drunkenness

late-night binges at their very onset

hats worn askew

skirts drawn short

spirits short-circuiting and nostrils flaring

deep into

that weird moon shining tonight

A sagging recollection of last night

A crust-riddled mental case asked

for the swamp-thing

an anthology of

the scene dragging on

and I can see every detail of the man

as if I’ve taken acid

blood on his hands

real, not figurative

tiny wounds self-scratched

coating him in himself

his eyeballs sit on his cheeks

doming at me, white and moonlike

     pin-prick pupils caused by meds not taken

an arrow of a tongue licking

black-encrusted pencil-lips

I have no solution

no salvation

a field-day of weirdness

    poured into this.

---------------------------------------------------------

Sharks are bald

perhaps a feeling sliding toward the shore

into the water

cold on the soul the girl cuts my hair

bald now I float on my back

my clothes are light

my body heavy

I release my breath and it turns into a cloud

green and purple

a lightning bolt smelling of orange juice hits the water

and a shark 

fried by a million volts

jumps into the air

and lands sizzling

next to me

he takes of his hat in greeting

and tells me

'never let her cut your hair'

and I look at the shark and say

'sharks can't talk'

he growls and grumbles and responds

'remember Samson'

I do remember Samson

an asses' jaw 

thousands of Philistines

lions and 

the rest

a real old testament Hercules

But what does that matter

as I am floating here

on my back and bald

from now on I will ignore fried sharks

and open up my belly to her

and not worry about lightning striking me

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The mind is fogged

The mind is fogged after hours deprivation of sleep  

I render reality through a teacup

a feeling that it might revamp me

The birds outside sing as normal

and the world did not change so much

The mind is fogged with hours of thoughts

The mind is fogged

I have not had cotton candy for years

a missing element

in the sanity/insanity cycle

The mind is fogged through reading others 

who don’t know what it is that it is

that moves 

me and

you

The shame of immovability

the shame of inproductivity

the shame of shame

the fogged mind cares so much

I run straight for the wall

blank numb hit white stars

the nugget bounces

and finally a clear thought

sets sail

Copyright 2010 Joran C.A. Monteiro

The Complete Shit-Poo Epos

The first case of Sam H. Bound in 
an easy to read online format.

Open publication - Free publishing - More short story

A new episode of the cases of Sam H. Bound 

is published every friday on this blog.

Subscribe to this blog via facebook, a reader, or email. 

Find it all in the left column of this blog.

Remember to share this story with your friends.

Copyright Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010

Sam H. Bound-The Shit-Poo Epos, episode 5

The Shit-Poo Epos

Episode 5

If this is your first time here, please start with the beginning of this story by clicking here. A new episode of ‘The Cases of Sam H. Bound’ is published here every Friday.

Bart was a fast talker. Sam likes fast talkers. Before people really knew what was going on the switch-blade had been folded away and Sam was helping Bart to his feet. The big man is a little unsteady on his feet still when Sam walks away from him, off the pier and into a bar. The old man with the yellow and black bandana follows him inside and takes the stool next to Sam. Sam looks at him, his face grim. He holds up two fingers to the bartender, ‘two double rums right here bartender. And two beers.’ The drinks arrive and the old-timer takes two of the drinks without asking for them, without waiting for Sam to offer them. A shrewd man. 

Sam sips the rum. His faces contorts. The alcohol content on this stuff is up. The old-timer upon seeing Sam’s face laughs, ‘yes,’ he croaks, ‘this is the real shit.’ He holds out his hand and says, ‘I’m Rudy.’ Sam smiles half-heartedly, shakes the hand and takes a slug from his beer. That settles him a bit and leaning on the bar he says to Rudy, ‘you got a boat?’ ‘Sure do. Where’re you headed?’ ‘Across the bay to Ponds .’ ‘Got business there?’ the old-timer asks, his eyes peering over the edge of his rum glass. Sam leans back and looks at the fellow. ‘Not your business,’ he sighs and holds out five twenties. Smiling the crooked old bastard takes the money and says not a word.

The fresh air out on the boat brings out a better mood in Sam. He enjoys the being on the water. The rum burns in his stomach as the morning sun climbs slowly toward noon. ‘How long to the other side?’ ‘Just over three quarters of an hour,’ Rudy responds. Behind them the city shrinks, while on the other side the hills and the town grow larger. William is there. He can smell him on the wind.

Rudy stays behind as Sam enters the town. It is a small town, maybe a thousand souls. The main street is lined by a post-office, a bar, a barber-shop, a church, and a town-hall. A little bell tinkles when Sam opens the barber-shop door. A man with rosy apple-cheeks comes out of a doorway in the back of the shop. ‘Hello sir, what can I do for you?’ Sam takes a seat in the chair, ‘I could use a cut and a shave.’ He leans back in the chair and looks at himself in the mirror as the barber puts a cape around him. ‘What brings you to Ponds, sir?’ ‘I’m looking for a college buddy of mine. We played football together. Have not seen him in years. I got a picture of him right here.’ Sam fumbles under the cape and finally comes out with the picture of William. The barber looks at it a moment. ‘Why, that is little Billy Gaines. He has not lived here for years. But his mom is out on top of the hill. She might know where he is. I’ll write down the address for you as soon as I am finished with you.’ Whistling the barber gets back to his job as Sam dozes off.

With the slip of paper clenched in his hand and after asking directions three times from surly locals he is laboring up a windy road on a hill. To the left and to the right of him weather-beaten pines lean into the hill, struck crooked by the hard winds rolling in off the bay. Dirty roads and novelty  mail-boxes mark homes, the houses themselves invisible behind trees and shrubs. 

Number 24. He turns into the road. He turns another corner and he can see the house. A quaint little thing, half log-cabin, half brick house. The shutters, painted green and red, are closed, but there is smoke coming from the chimney. The front-door opens and Sam dives into the shrubs to the left of him. Thick brambles scrape his skin as he tries to lie still and minimize the pain. He stifles a last curse. The green Ford parked in front of the house starts and pulls away from the house. Sam cannot see the driver as the car drives past. Carefully he untangles himself and walks to the house. 

The front-door is unlocked. He pushes it open carefully, but it creaks and he nearly dies then and there. He stays perfectly still and listens out for any movement, but he hears nothing. It is safe. He enters the house. To the left are stairs to the second floor. To the right the living room. He looks briefly into the living room. A hotch-potch of mismatched country furniture, an open fireplace. Pictures of William as a young boy. A photo of him with his mother, it is dark and he can’t see the picture very well, but he has a feeling he recognizes the woman on the picture. He enters the living room to have a closer look at the picture. His face close to the image the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and he whispers: ‘Sweet mother of Jesus.’ Then he hears the cocking of a gun and he turns immediately. He is staring straight into a double-barrel shotgun. ‘Are you the one trying to get my little Billy into trouble?’

William’s mother looks exactly the same as Dame Gnaufert. Exactly. The same color hair, hair tied the same way, the same body-shape. But no make-up. No grooming in general. And an extra fifteen pounds. But unmistakably Dame Gnaufert. Sam can’t believe his eyes. ‘Dame Gnaufert?’ 

With the shotgun she motions to a kitchen chair set in front of the fireplace, rope next to it. They had been expecting him. ‘Sit down,’ she bites. ‘Take it easy lady. You don’t want to hurt someone, do you?’ A deafening blast is let loose into the ceiling and the smell of powder fills the room. Sam staggers backwards and sits his ass down on the chair. William’s mom loads the shotgun through and pushes the warm barrel against his neck. ‘If you move, you can scrape your face of that wall there.’ ‘What is going on here,’ Sam asks. He is trying to feign ignorance. He is a bad actor. ‘You will shut up or I will plug you good. We will wait for Billy.’ She has a roll of gaffer tape and clumsily proceeds to tape his hands to the back of the chair while holding the shotgun against his neck. She blindfolds him by drawing a bloomed tea-cosy over his head, gaffer taping it nice and snug over his head. She nearly cuts off his oxygen when taping and he makes a sound in protest that sounds something like ‘sngrt’ and she pulls the tape a bit higher. ‘Don’t want to choke you just yet, do we?’ There is no sense of humor in her voice. 

She walks away. He tries the tape. There is no give whatsoever. He digs deep. What does one do in a situation like this? Throw yourself back. That’ll break the chair and loosen the rope off him. He throws himself back. The chair rocks back, teeters on the two back legs then back on the floor with a loud bang. Now or never. He throws himself back once more and the chair teeters an instant, then falls back. Sam hits his head hard on the wooden floor. And the chair stays in one piece. ‘What is happening there?’ he hears Mrs Gaines yell from outside the living room. Then he hears tiny nails click on the floor boards and his neck is being licked all over while he struggles to stay awake.

He is sitting up again. How that happened he does not know. The cosy is yanked off his head and he looks William straight in the eye. A white ball of fluff is sitting on his lap. William is petting it with a tender hand. ‘An easy hostage isn’t she?’ The dog realizes she is being talked about and she starts to lick William’s hands. His mother walks from behind Sam and joins her son. ‘You see, my mother is Dame Gnaufert’s sister. She was brought here as a child aged eight. You see, the executors of the Gnaufert estate, when my grandparents bit the dust, did not want the estate to be split up, so they pretended that my mother was killed along with my grandmother, and raised the Dame as the heir of the fortune.’ Sam stares at him. He can’t believe his ears. ‘And now,’ Minnie chirps, ‘we are taking what is ours. Should have been ours all along.’ She is standing next to her son, the shotgun still aimed at Sam, as if he might hulk out of the chair any second. ‘She did not even want to know about me. Not when I wrote to her after the last of the executors died. But she would not believe me. Not even when I went and saw her. Tricks she said. Tricks.’ She waggles her hand in front of her face. ‘How can this be a trick?’ ‘So,’ William continues, ‘I found work with my aunt, who of course did not know who I really was, and tried to find a way to get money off her so my mother could have an easy old age.’ They look at each other lovingly. 

It is now or never. He gets on his feet and toad-like launches himself, chair and all, at Minnie. She is hit good and the gun goes off. Minnie lets go of it. The blood disappearing from her face that very instant. Sam looks behind him. William is laying in a puddle of his own blood, black and liver-like it pours from him, his guts shot out from him slithered next to him in a grey-red mess. The smell of shit fills the room. William stirs a moment, as if he is going to say something, then the light in his eyes dies. 

When the cops come Minnie has to be dragged off her dead son. Sam looks at the scene from a distance. He is holding the dog in his arms. There is little victory in his success. 

The cops questioned him for a while, but when everything checked out he was cut loose. Now in the Dame’s mansion he is watching her reunification with her pooch. ‘Thank you very much Mr Bound.’ ‘Just doing my job ma’am. I’m sorry they could not find all the ransom money. Those two must’ve hid it well.’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about the money Mr Bound, I have enough of it. What is important that my little Quincy is safe with me again.’ She looks up from her dog-play. There is nothing but ice in her eyes for him. ‘Albert will show you out Mr Bound. Thank you again.’ Sam bows minimally, ‘my pleasure ma’am.’ 

At the door Albert pushes a thick roll of hundreds in Sam’s hand. Then a bunch of keys. Sam looks at them a moment, then at Albert. ‘The Waratah is yours,’ the new butler says. ‘The Dame insisted.’ ‘Thank her for me.’ ‘I will,’ Albert responds and shuts the door. 

Sam gets on the motor and aims it toward the city. He stops in front of ‘Walker&Walker’ the best law-firm in the city. He pushes for the top-floor in the elevator. There he walks straight past the secretary and into the top-office. Mr Walker is eating a hamburger when Sam walks in. Sam draws twenty-five thousand dollars from his pocket and slaps it on the desk. ‘This is for the defense of Mrs Minnie Gaines.’ He looks at the fat lawyer. ‘You hear me?’ The lawyer nods. ‘Good,’ Sam says and walks out the door.

At home Sam packs his bag in exactly four minutes. He counts the money he has got left over. Twenty grand left over from the ransom money he found plus two-and-a-half thousand for the case. He stashes the money in his bag and steps out of his office and locks the door and is down the stairs. Before he leaves the building he pays the landlord his rent three months in advance, then he is out the door. He gets on the Waratah and points it south. Time for a holiday.

The End

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© Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010