Compelling Fiction
Tuesday, June 22, 2010 at 09:18PM From the Summer 2010 issue of Black Oak Presents:
The Blue Parrot
By Robert Klein Engler
You can't beat the digital version in full color“Looks like dis dyin’ gonna be hard as dis livin’,” Old Santiago says, then he slams his empty shot glass on the damp table. “Let’s have another,” he shouts. “I’m still thirsty.”
Outside, a thin rain falls. It makes the wrought iron balcony above shine like black oil. A hint of fog paints halos around the street lamps. There comes also the clop, clop of a mule pulling a carriage around the corner. This beat fades over the low song from the jukebox. It must be at least two in the morning. Because this bar on Rampart Street near Esplanade never closes, what difference does it make? Casey Mallone, the owner, is sometimes here and other times his wife pours the drinks and takes the money. When worshipers come to the temple, it is foolish for priests to be asleep.
The Blue Parrot is an old, dark and ramshackle place. Mardi Gras decorations hang from the dim lamps and drape across a cloudy mirror. Multicolored bottles of various potions rest on small stairs before they are emptied. These bottles are lit from behind and cast a magical light in an otherwise dull and ordinary place at the edge of the French Quarter. In a touch of New Orleans irony, there are no pictures of blue parrots to be seen here, just an electric sign in the smudged window that flashes over and over, “OPEN” and turns toward her. (Pg. 13)
Nero’s Flame
By Steven Clark
The courtyard of my apartment, nestled on Beacon Hill, is one of Boston's finest. A discreet but handsome niche fit for an old dowager like myself. It would be praised and admired by all if they were allowed to enter and see. But they are not.
I just spent the summer morning pruning my roses and reading a chapter of some Victorian romance that I had put off until now. I set down the book and let its face kiss the spruce bench as I admired the garden's verdant flora. Its grotto reminded me of past summers in Paris, the Cape...Venetian courtyards where I had been entertained by men who were now long dead. My cat Trump rubbed his brindled body against my leg, as he does when he wants to remind me that it is really his garden though one where I'm tolerated. I pet him and he leapt onto my cast-iron table, a soft meow breaking the silence. I started to baby talk him, a habit only done in solitude.
My fingers glided on his furry cheek until he froze and jumped down to the brick patio, where he scurried behind the ferns. I looked up.
She was certainly no older than her mid-twenties. A prim, modest skirt and jacket covered a slender figure, all of it matching a face looking like a shy aunt in a family photograph. Her beauty lay in the unsullied blue eyes that looked at me openly and innocently, ready to trust. (pg. 17)
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