Chris Deal has a new collection of flash fiction available from Brown Paper Publishing.

‘Prose haikus, fiction bullets, one-sentence novels, two fingers of story neat, no chaser . . . I don’t know what to call these, really. But I want more.’ –Stephen Graham Jones, author of Demon Theory and Ledfeather

A free PDF version is available as well.

Purchase Cienfuegos here.  (goes to PDF and Amazon link.)

Chris Deal on Nefarious Muse

“How goes it, Louie?” from the demon, his name Irving. His greasy fedora sat back enough on his head to keep his horns in full view, the way he always wore it. Same with the wrinkled dime store assimilation, the mismatched jacket and slacks smeared and stained. His cauliflower face hadn’t seen a razor in weeks, his hair gray with a few streaks of copper.

“Good night?” the angel Earl asked, his wings held back by an expensively tailored pinstripe three piece, gold watch and all. Pale hair the color pure cloud slicked back. Earl was ethereal, like a model, so damn perfect. The hair on his pointed face was exact, eyebrows and sideburns groomed and plucked impeccably.

Each of them, otherworldly beings they were, were diametrically opposed, and yet there they were, like always, sitting and drinking and bullshiting every damn time I came here for a pint. Now, I’m no statistician, and though I got a couple paychecks working for the Census Bureau a few years back, I spent most of those shifts here, spilling drinks on the forms as I filled them out. Still, I’m thinking these hosts, holy and unholy though they may be, are widespread, more so I’d wager around urban centers like Charlotte. Most of them do their jobs, but I’d say there are more than a few like Earl and Irving here that go through the motions of influence, having been influenced by the lecherous schmucks they encounter on a daily basis on this mortal coil.

“Fair to middling, I suppose. Tender, a stout?” I called, trying to ignore the stench of sulfur from one side and patchouli the other. Long night, it seemed to be turning into.

“April,” the demon said to the bartender, a young woman barely out of college, who managed to survive with all the drunks coming on to her during her shifts. “His drinks are on me tonight.”

“Mighty kind of you, Irv. To what great and unholy purpose does that serve, may I ask?”

“I wouldn’t say unholy,” Irving began, his finger tracing the rim of his tumbler of whiskey.

“Certainly not. By no means,” Earl continued, bringing his glass of zinfandel to his beautiful lips.

“It’s just, well, we’re bored.”

“Incredibly.”

“And it seems there’s nothing really to do here besides drink your drinks and sleep with your women.”

“And, well, since we’re divine creatures, even my good friend Irving here, we have abilities that you people-”

“You people? The hell is that supposed to mean, birdbrain?” a fellow to Earl’s left kindly asked.

“Donny, relax,” Earl said.

“Shut the fuck up, Donny,” Irving yelled with a voice of brimstone.

“Fucking supernatural beings,” Donny muttered into his drink. Earl must have felt bad, because he reached beneath his jacket, pulled forth a pure white feather, and dropped it into Donny’s beer, which was instantly refilled. April looked as if she would say something, but was cut off by Earl placing a coin on the bar, a gold piece from the days before a certain Son of Man came down to this dump. That piece would pay her rent for the remainder of her days, so she pocketed it and placed my drink before me.

“Donny, your drinks are on me this evening.”

He said thanks, and in one whale-like gulp swallowed the drink. The feather got stuck in his teeth, and once he got it free, Donny dropped it back into his glass, and it was instantly full. His eyes glazed over at the miracle.

“So,” Earl started, “we have figured on a way to alleviate our ennui.”

“Shit,” I said, as an unordered shot of bourbon was placed before me.

“Drinking contest,” Irving said, his demonic visage spreading into a Machiavellian grin. “You’ll be my guy, and Donny here will be Earl’s boy.”

“Good versus evil,” Earl exclaimed.

“The forces of Heaven against the evils of Hell!”

“Light against dark!”

“Hey,” Irving muttered, “that’s uncalled for, man.”

“What?”

“You know how I feel about that whole “darkness” thing?”

“Come on.”

“It’s racist,” Irving complained.

“It is a classic metaphor, okay. Really isn’t a big deal.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re light, you’re all that is pure and right in the world.”

“Christ, Irv.”

“I mean, we need to do something about that whole thing. These people, they already have enough issues with race without us enforcing this bullshit stereotype about darkness being evil, and light being good.”

“I know.”

“And don’t get me started on those people who use the religion to enforce their bullshit racism. Christian Identity, my ass. They’re all fucking monkeys to me.”

“How do you think we feel about that? Yeshua is always up there, complaining about them making him look bad. The Son of Man was a Jew living in the Middle East. How can they think he’s some honkey-looking Messiah?”

“Folk see what they want. I tell you, YHWH should have thought twice about that whole ‘free will’ thing and made them see some things for the way they were.”

“You know he wouldn’t have been down for that,” Earl said as he took a long pull from his pint.

“Yeah, well, didn’t stop him from not giving us free will.”

“Oh, we have free will,” Earl said before finishing his wine. The glass was full by the time he could swallow.

“Yeah, we can drink and make some love when we’re in the mood, but we still have to do our jobs. I tell you, I ain’t the biggest fan of damning these people for trifling little things. I have no damn choice in the matter”

“We all have our jobs to do, you and me, Yeshua and Lucifer. Even these people, they all play their parts.”

“Yeah, but I get vilified while all the ladies just flock to you, thinking your wingspan means a damn thing.”

“Guys, drinking contest?” I asked, interjecting in a conversation they had damn near every night.

“Yeah, yeah,” Earl said, waving the argument away.

“Sorry, man. Anyway, drinking contest. You’re mine, Donny is Earl’s.”

“My participation in this, will it condemn me to Hell?”

“Shit, you think I’d really damn you for a little game?” Irving asked.

“Now that is insulting,” Earl said.

“Sorry, but, you know, deals with the devil being what they are.”

“Hardly a deal with the devil. That guy, too, he’s hardly as bad as you folk think him to be.”

“Christ, Irv,” Earl said, exasperated, while he had the decency to ask for another pint instead of making one appear in his glass.

“We’re all doing what we were supposed to be doing, Lucifer more than anyone else.”

“Yeah, you’ve told me that,” I said, not caring to go down that tangent again.

“You know, whatever, whatever. Drinking contest. No, a drinking contest won’t damn you, Donny, this won’t get you into Heaven,” Irving said. Earl starred into his glass.

“Probably the other way around,” Earl added.

“Shut up,” Irving spat.

“You sure about this, Louie?” Earl asked me.

“Yeah, I’m down.”

“Donny, you in?” Irving asked over me and Earl.

“Free beer?” the fat man beside Earl asked.

“Course,” Earl replied.

“I’m in.”

“Louie,” Irving said to me, “since you just got here, and Donny has had a few, it’s only fair you catch up before we get into the nitty and the gritty.”

“Down it,” Earl said, pointing to the bourbon before me. I did. Burning like the holy love of the man upstairs, it did away with a few cobwebs in my head, and the three of them were watching me intently.

April brought two overflowing pints and placed one in front of Donny and me. He belched like a mating camel and put the feather behind his ear. It looked like April was making a mental note to never even let Donny even think he had a shot at her pants. Irving took that greasy fedora from his horned head and placed it on mine. Snug, like it was meant to be there.

“Let’s do it,” Irving yelled, the whole bar looking at him like the conspicuous demon he was. “First to five wins!” Earl raised his hand in the air, like he was waiting to signal the end of days, and brought it down on the bar with a tremendous noise and fury.

I lifted the glass to my lips and the race was on. Donny was fast, gulping the drink like it was manna. He was done with his first while I had a quarter left. He put the pint down to the bar and it was again full. Felt like I bruised my throat getting that oversized gulp down.

Empty glass to the bar and the demonic host made sure it wasn’t for long. Back to my lips and I was clearly behind, as Donny picked up his third. Earl and Irving were cheering us on, and it was as if the choirs of Heaven and the dominion of Hell were in on the applause. I managed to keep up, but as lovely as the sacred drink was, I was a full pint behind as he picked up the forth. Halfway through my fifth, Donny was done, and from his hellish bowels came a discharge like the trumpet to open the seals of apocalypse.

“Shit,” Irv said, crestfallen.

“Who’s the man?” Earl asked. Donny cut his celebration short to rush for the bathroom.

“I feel bad,” Irv said.

“What?” I asked through the embarrassment.

“I’m a demon, man. I thought you’d win, anyway. Everyone knows Donny’s a lightweight.”

“Jonah could fit in that fucker’s stomach,” I yelled.

“You did willingly side with a demon against an angel,” Earl whispered into my ear.

“You fucking bastard.”

“I gave you an out,” Earl said.

“You told me it wouldn’t damn me.”

“I told you a drinking contest wouldn’t. I said not a thing about siding with him.”

“Pricks,” I said, the full weight of the realization crushing down like the stone of Sisyphus.

“Look, Louie, I’ll make it up too you.”

“How the hell you going to make up damning me to Hell?”

“From now on, you come in here, all your drinks are on me.”

“Yeah, that helps.”

“It ain’t that bad there, man.”

“It’s really not,” Earl added, looking a little less angelic.

“What have I told you before? You can’t trust the human perception of the afterlife. Fire and brimstone? Fluffy clouds?”

“Hell’s actually a relatively decent place. A little warm, but that’s just because of how people view it. They think it, and it mostly is,” Earl said.

“We don’t torture no one for eternity. Maybe the real dicks, but cats like you? You can spend all your time in the bars, if you want.”

“Course, you’d have to get a job.”

“Yeah, you can’t help that.”

“Donny, if his fat ass makes it up to Heaven, he’ll have to work too. And, between us,” Earl said, “the booze is better in Hell. I mean, Arthur Guinness is up in Heaven, but besides that, you won’t be missing out.”

“Easier women, too.”

“Bunch of prudes in Heaven.”

“The only real difference between Heaven and Hell, man, is, well, you’re cut off from YHWH. That’s it, brother.”

“And Lucifer, really, he’s not that bad. He’s just a guy doing his job.”

“We all are.”

“Only, we get bored, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Irvin said.

“Real bored.”

“Fucking divine beings,” I said. “Might as well get me another drink, you bastard.”

“That’s the attitude.”

Chris Deal has published several poems and short stories around the internet, most recently Glasgow Simile in Darkest Before the Dawn and four poems in Bicycle Review.  He also regularly writes about literature at Creative Loafing.  He has several stories and poems coming out in the months to come, and will be publishing a collection of micro-stories through Brown Paper Publishing in early 2010.

In the mornings he would go downstairs and buy a paper, which he would read sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, every article no matter how mundane.  Once finished he would return to his room and get to work, filling up the pages of his notebook until his stomach urged him back downstairs.  On sunny days he would keep the curtains closed.  He found a jazz station that came in and out of frequency depending on how the wind was blowing, the clouds in the sky.  He didn’t smoke that whole first week.  The room phone never rang, and he never picked it up.  He kept his cellular in his bags at the foot of the bed.

At the restaurant, he occasionally talked to the waitresses, his favorite a big woman named Maddy.  She talked about her former husband who spent time working the fields until a stroke fell him one day in the middle of a brutal summer twenty years prior.  She never remarried, but went to the unaffiliated church a mile off the interstate.  She invited him every week, but he didn’t take her up on it until she told him about a revival they were having.  He sat in the back and tried to not move in the heat.  He stood when everyone else stood, didn’t sing but let those songs come over him, and some people came down with the Spirit and he envied them.  Maddy never charged him for coffee.

He didn’t drink much, but walked to the bar every other night to be around people, even though the only people he talked to were the bartenders.  He would have a couple, three beers and pay his tab and walk back to his room, sit on the bed and drink water from the bathroom sink and watch the small television, simply turning it on and not noticing what was being broadcast.  One night a man a decade older offered to buy him some drinks if he told his story, and after a moment of thought he relented.  The man asked if he was Irish, and he told him probably.  The man showed him the shamrock tattoo on his chest he wore honorably.  He had a wife who was in South Carolina because her mother just died.  He met her, his wife, on the internet and was having second thoughts.  He liked the man, though he couldn’t remember his name, simply called him Irish.  Three drinks in Irish noticed two women at the end of the bar who were drinking wine and smoking, talking in quick words, and Irish dragged him down to them.  Both were in their thirties, same as Irish, one with dark hair and a barely noticeable black eye, the other a redhead with a nice ass.  Irish started talking to the redhead.  To the brunette he apologized.  She would not break eye contact and that made him uncomfortable, so he told Irish he needed to get home and left without buying the woman a drink.  Halfway on his walk home, he noticed he was tipsy, and by the time he got back to the room he calculated he had had three beers and three shots and it made him sad that was enough to do him in.  He tried to sleep but couldn’t.  He turned on the television to a low volume but that old trick didn’t work.  He found a channel broadcasting a preacher from Texas with perfect hair and an annoying smile, bright teeth.  They showed views of the audience, the place the size of a football stadium completely full to capacity.  The preacher talked about love, how he couldn’t live without his beautiful wife who they showed in all her plastic glory.  The preacher loved his wife and thanked God every day for her, and that coupled with the drink drove him to get out of bed and get his cellular from his bags and turn it on for the first time in close to two weeks.  The last time he did so it had been silenced for three days.  He had many missed calls from a handful of people, several voicemails and texts and he knew it was unwise but he listened to, read them all.  She missed him, he learned from four people before her own voice came on.  She was sorry.  Then his roommate Shirley started talking.  She missed him, too.  People had been asking about him.  She wasn’t worried about the bills, he’d left her more than enough money for those, plenty extra for her and her young son.  Neither she nor the boy were his, but he loved them like they were and that was all.  She said his girlfriend kept calling, and he didn’t even whisper “ex”.  When she got back in town she came directly to their apartment looking for him.  She was in tears, and Shirley let her stay in his bed, crying.  Shirley made her tea and tried to console her.  He turned the television off and turned on the jazz station.  It came in and out.  He called Shirley, who picked up on the fourth ring, saying hello in a deep, sleep filled voice, having not even checked to see who was calling.

“Hey Shirley.”

“Clay?  Christ, where are you?”

He told her, not realizing he shouldn’t until later.  He told her he liked the place, was getting lots of work done.  She sounded glad to hear from him, and he was grateful for her acting abilities.

“Sorry, I woke you,” he said after a few minutes.

“It’s more than okay.”

“Sorry to bug you.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Are you doing alright?”

“Drunk, I reckon, but I guess alright enough.”  The radio played Peace by Coleman.

“I’ve been worried about you.  We all have.”

“No need for that.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Not sure.”

“You are, though.  Right?”

“Probably.”  She was silent, and that was too much for him.  “How’s Bud?”

“He’s good.  Been reading a lot lately.”

“Good.”

“He misses you.”

“Tell him I said ‘hey’, will you?”

“Of course.”

“It’s late.”

“Not too late.”

“I should let you go.”

“It’s okay.”

“Thinking I needed to talk to someone.  I hate to bug you.”

“You’re not bugging me.  Never have.”

“Liar.”  He could tell she was smiling, a sad one on her beautiful lips.  He refused to think further on that.

“Thinking I can sleep now.   Couldn’t sleep earlier.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry to bug you.”

“Stop it.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Call me soon, alright.”

“Alright.”  He pressed the end button.  The song playing faded briefly to static before coming back strong right as Coleman started to hit his stride.  He turned the phone off and put it back in the bag.  When he woke the next morning he didn’t remember laying back down.  It was a day later before he regretted calling Shirley.  The knocking at this door a spell after seven confused him, and he looked around the room for something to defend himself with, but nothing was adequate for such a task, so he pulled on his pants and answered the door to see her standing there in wrinkled, designer jeans and a white tank top, her shoulder length hair not perfect as it usually was.  He didn’t return her fading smile.  He stood there at the threshold, shirtless, watching her squirm, for several beats before she spoke, a hesitant “Hello.”

“Hey,” he replied.

“Shirley told me where you were.”

“Figured as much.”

“I needed to see you.”

“Did you?”

“You haven’t been returning my calls.”

“Phone hasn’t been on.”

“Oh.”  No words passed for a few more rough beats.  “Can we talk?”

“It’s early.”

“I know.   I’m sorry.”  He was sure she didn’t mean about the hour.

“Look, why don’t you go down to the café.  Tell Maddy you’re with me and I’ll be down after I take a shower.”

Softly, she acquiesced.  He closed the door as she walked towards the stairs.  He didn’t even watch her ass as she went.  He took his time showering, the water nice and hot.  He didn’t get out until he stopped shaking.  In the restaurant, Maddy gave him a soft smile and pointed to a table in the corner where she sat clutching a cup of hot tea.  He gave her a kiss on the cheek before walking over and taking his seat.  Maddy brought him a cup of black coffee.  He didn’t wait for it to cool before taking a sip.  It was too early.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”  He didn’t respond.  “So, why this place?” she asked, deflecting the silence.

“It felt right.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a nice town.  And this place has good coffee.”

“I wish you wouldn’t have left so soon.”

“There’s a nice Mexican place down the way.  Authentic.”

“I wanted to explain in person.”

“They have great huevos rancheros.  Cheap beer, too.”

“I wanted a chance to explain what happened.”

“Maddy took me to a revival.”

“I know I’m in the wrong.”

“They sang these songs that made me feel light.”

“I know that I made a mistake.”

“Like a bird, almost.”

“I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“Those songs made me feel like I was flying over the countryside.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

“Made me feel like I was above everything.”

“You didn’t even yell.”

“Like I was in the clouds.”

“That was the worst.  You didn’t yell.”

“Made me think He’s really up there.”

“Why didn’t you yell?”

“Made me think He really cares about us.

“It was so horrible.  You didn’t even raise your voice.  Just talking on the phone.  ‘That’s it, then.  I’ll leave your key on the counter.’”

“He might even love us.”

          “You left town before I could get back, before I could explain.  I know it was a mistake.  I hate myself for it.”

“How can we deserve that?”

“I miss you.”

“How can we deserve His love like that?”

“I miss us.”

“After all he did for us, all that work and all that sacrifice, how can we deserve His love.”

“I’m sorry.”

“People ask why He lets bad things happen.  Why, if He loves us so, does He let horrible and tragic things happen to people who don’t deserve them?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He lets them happen because they have too.”

“I love you.”

“He lets them happen because that’s the only way they can be.  It can only be the way things are.”

“Please.”

“Don’t worry about the check.  Maddy doesn’t charge me for coffee.  I’ll get your tea.”

“Do you still love me?”

“It’s too early for me to eat.”

“Clay?”

“Have some food, and tell Maddy I’ll pay for it.”

“Clay.”

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“Clay?”

“Goodbye.”

“Please.”

“Goodbye.”

Been two years since he’s had a smoke. Quit that for her. Also quit the
drinking. He wants both a drink and a smoke, and wants them bad. He saw it
coming, from a long ways, but as he sat in his cubicle he thought he could
stall it off, that she was worth all the changes.
She’s gone, and she always did remind him of his mother.
He slams the car door shut and bursts through the gas station doors like a
Shah. Eyes the guy behind the counter, thin, young, bored, and heads for
the beer. Two years since a drink and he’s mighty thirsty. No Guinness, of
course, but there’ll be time for that later. He thinks of a boilermaker and
almost salivates. Grabs a six of the cheapest and heads to the front, and
asks the kid politely for his brand. Pays for both and pockets a lighter.
He drinks two as he drives, jazz on the radio, Monk, and smokes half the
pack in quick succession and when he realizes he hasn’t been thinking of
her, he can’t help but laugh.
“Changed my life for her,” he says aloud. He already knows he won’t be
showing up for work again.
He almost hits a coyote crossing the road, but swerves and hits the gravel,
almost fishtails, but corrects and opens another can with his teeth.
He’s glad she didn’t ask for the house. It’s in his name, and anyway, he
grew up there. She could have asked, though, and he loves that she didn’t.
The house his dad owned. He considered showing her, once, the wall behind
the china cabinet in the dinning room they never used. The faded red stain.
His father.
He kills the beer and tosses the can out the window, reaching for another.
Doesn’t know quite where he’s going, who to talk to, if he wants to talk.
Just keeps on driving. Almost hits another coyote, instead waves to his
friend as he passes.

Chris Deal can be reached at: senorcaco AT hotmail.com