Most of the locals thought Marcus crazy. Some even
thought him
a ghost, people saying he'd died, buried his
own bones and come back; that
he was on some kind of
mysterious mission to find a particular fish that
would let
him go back to the grave in peace. That fish, they said,
had
stolen Marcus' soul.
Meet the inhabitants of
The Sound of Building
Coffins
by Louis Maistros
Typhus Morningstar was only nine years
old, but older
of eye. Old
enough to have suffered some, but young
enough to know there are easy
solutions to most types
of suffering; solutions not too difficult to grasp
and quick
enough to be done with if a person had half a mind
to.
Diphtheria Morningstar
Six-dollar
stockings and she went through them like kindling,
but the right had been
hard earned and so the small luxury
brought her no
shame.
Dropsy Morningstar
He imagined Dropsy's wide brown eyes searching for
hints of
code, probing imagined or hidden meanings
within the woven color of fabric
-- as if the fabric of
an old shirt might also contain answers to the fabric
of
the universe itself.
Jim Jam Jump
Marcus Nobody Special
Malvina Latour
My dreams is stupid and thin, my future bleak, the fabric
of my
bein' not even fer real. Sure, sure. My methods
might be nasty and mean, ya
just might be right about
that. But I'm only lookin' out fer number one like
every
other son-of-a-gun on God's green earth.
Noonday Morningstar
Typhus Morningstar
Malaria Morningstar
Peace to you, child. This thing is not your fault. You have
acted on your pain. Actions born of loss can never be truly
evil. Your
soul is damaged but pure. Your luck has been
bad, my child, but your
intentions eversweet.
Beauregard pulled some cards from his lousy hand,
slapped them
down, said, "Hit me three times," when
he should've just
folded.
=
Click Erzulie Freda
to return home.
Click Erzulie Freda
to return home.
Doctor Jack
Hattie Covington
Antonio Carolla
Stiffy Lacoume
Beauregard Church
Eugene Reilly
Buddy Bolden
What is a man of God to do when the clear instructions
of The
Savior conflict with the plain feelings of right and
wrong that God himself
has placed in his chest?
She walked towards him on surprisingly
steady feet,
her mind clearing of alcoholic fog as miraculously as
this
morning's fog had not. Wind and wet whipped
through the hall through broken
glass, creating havoc
and a righteous mess of the place. The band played on,
their tempo picking up with the pounding of their hearts.
Most gals come around to Doctor Jack just
hoping for
a quick fix to what they view as an imminent crisis or a
state of impendin' personal doom. Figgerin' a cure is a
cure and don't
reckon much that a cure might turn out bad.
The crowd shouts its endorsement. Antonio shakes and
shudders
but does not hear them. Does not see them.
Only hears music. In his mind; he
is not bound, there is
no noose, strangers do not wish him
dead.
Hattie Covington lay on her side in the shape of a Z,
her head in the
lap of Diphtheria Morningstar - just as
it had every night since the
bitter evening of her cure.
Marshall
Trumbo
Marshall Trumbo lowered to his knees. He wanted
desperately to
pray. He found that he could not.
Instead, he wept.
A trusted friend had urged him to contact Stiffy Lacoume
while in town, had assured him Stiffy was a reliable man
and an
excellent source of quick investment opportunities.
There was nothing Reilly could do now - except stand
with
his back to the bar as the pathetic black circus of
his life unraveled
around him.
The player considers the note. He cannot
sustain.
There is no reason. But the weakening tone is somehow
unfinished. Like a spirited pup born too soon, too small
and too weak to
live, knowing nothing of life but clinging
to it anyway; stupidly,
stupidly...
