Emerson Collins

Southern Baptist Sissies is a film based on the play of the same name by the ever talented Del Shores (Daddy’s Dyin’: Who’s Got the Will?, Sordid Lives). The film features Emerson Collins, William Belli, Matthew Scott Montgomery, Luke Stratte-McClure, Newell Alexander, Rosemary Alexander, Bobbie Eakes, Ann Walker, Joe Patrick Ward, with Dale Dickey and Leslie Jordan.

The film, which is not an adaptation of the play, but a recording of it, deals with four gay boys growing up in the church. It follows the struggles of all four characters to embrace their true self while struggling with ideals taught from an early age. The story takes the viewer through a range of emotion and opens up the mind to acceptance for people of all walks of life. Recently it was awarded the Audience Award at NCGLFF.

You are both originally from Texas. What did you love most about growing up…Texan?

Del: The food! The people. Well, most of them.

Emerson: There is a special pride Texans take in being “Texan” and I was definitely raised with that. My father used to say that because we were the only state that used to be its own country, many folks felt it was alright to act like it. The “everything is bigger in Texas” applies to everything – hair, food, wide open spaces and personalities of course!

Your father was a Baptist preacher. For those that might now know what is it like growing up Baptist? Was he was one of those fire and brimstone types that get all out of breath?

Del: Conflicting. The people (mostly) meant well, but so much self-hate generated because of the anti-gay scriptures. So much fear instilled in me. Later, rage was a result of all the damage. But I still love the hymns and there are so many good memories.

My Dad wasn’t as bad as the stereotype. But he believed that way. He was a good man though and helped so many in need. He was an amazing pastor to his churches.

Was it difficult to come out to him?

Del: Extremely. I had been married to a woman and had two young daughters, two and five. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Do you think religion in general often teaches judgement and strays from the message of tolerance?

Del: I don’t actually like the word tolerance. I don’t want to be tolerated, I want acceptance and equality. Christ actually taught the opposite of judgment – Matthew 7:1 “Judge not lest you be judged.” Unfortunately, many Christians ignore that scripture as they cherry-pick others. So many stray from the message of love.

Emerson: I don’t personally believe that “religion” teaches anything – people do. And just as there are so many types of people in the world, there are so many types of religious people in the world. In that, there are many religious people who focus on the personal aspect and journey of their religion, be they Christian, Muslim, Buddhist or Hindu and so forth. However, each religion has it’s ideologues and fundamentalists who seem to spend a great deal of time focusing on judging the behavior of others according to their religious doctrine. Unfortunately, these voices often tend to be louder and given more attention as they misrepresent their own faith. Those who live according to their religion and focus on love and compassion are just as great in number, they just don’t receive the same attention and coverage as those who seem to spew judgment and hate.

Why do you think the most important message of love is often so widely overlooked in religious circles.

Del: That’s a tough one. I believe it’s mainly because that many religions and their leaders teach hate, not love. I also believe that many justify their own hatreds… homophobia, racism, you name it by justifying with scriptures. Hell, if you wanted to hate overweight people, there are many scriptures you could quote.

When did you first get the idea to write Southern Baptist Sissies? What compelled you to get it out there to the world?

Del: The death of Matthew Shepard. I was reading an article in Newsweek about the murderers and there was a picture that haunted me. It was a picture of Jesus in one of the killer’s homes. I wondered if they had been taught to hate in pews. Then all the damage was unleashed and anger fueled my play. I had to tell my story.

You have worked with Del quite often now. What have you learned from the experience?

Emerson: My journey with Del has been fascinating. I met him while I was performing in a production of Southern Baptist Sissies in Dallas. He flew in to see it and later asked me to come be in his own Sissies revival in Los Angeles. I moved to LA to join the cast and began working backstage on the other shows. I quickly joined the team as an associate producer for those shows and doing some assistant work for Del on the side. When we did the national tour of Sissies and Sordid Lives, I was onstage in Sissies but because of my experience with large scale theatre I helped produce the tour as well. When we did Sordid Lives: The Series, he wrote a role for me and brought me on as a co-producer. We have continued producing together since to where we now work as equal partners. The experience has been amazing and inspiring on so many levels. He is incredibly respectful of my work as an actor, while teaching me so much about the nature of the entertainment industry and then providing me the opportunity to grow as a producer. Most importantly of all of it, he has become one of my closest friends through the process.

Why did you choose Emerson for the lead ?

Del: He is the perfect Mark. I love his work, I love him as a person and he understood every part of Mark. He was able to embody and capture this complex character beyond anything on the page. In my opinion, his performance is perfection! He grew up Baptist, is Texan, went to Baylor, is so smart and a bit of a smart-ass – and Emerson has a kindred spirit with the character.

When did you first know you wanted to be an actor? Who were some of your largest influences?

Emerson: It took a while for me to decide firmly that I wanted to be an actor. I started as a child in the Christmas pageant at church, then I was in plays and musicals in high school. When I started college, I was not sure the route of an actor was the best option as I was being challenged by many to “put my intelligence to better use.” I also was not sure what my motivation was. Did I want attention? Was I doing it for the applause? In forty years if I was still doing community theatre, would I be happy and satisfied with that? Frankly, I did not want to be an actor seeking approval or fame, because then your life’s happiness is dependent on success. My sophomore year in college I finally came to the realization that my answer was finally yes – I would be happy if I had spent my life doing community theatre (and I have worked for amazing community theatres) because I truly knew I wanted to spend my life performing – and the success would be in doing the work, not in the money or the applause. That left me free to pour all of my attention into truly beginning the journey of being an actor. Influence is a strange thing, because the answer is everything really. All of the experiences of my life and personal journey contribute to my ability as an actor. Both of my parents sing, and we sang as a family growing up. I come from the theatre and love it more than anything. The experience of sharing live art with an audience that responds in the moment is like nothing else. As I venture into film I’m finding new and challenging way to communicate with the audience through the intimacy of the camera and it’s exciting in a different way.

A scene from “Southern Baptist Sissies”.

Can you tell us a little about your favorite scene from this project?

Del: My favorite scene is the breakup scene with Mark (Emerson) and T.J. (Luke Stratte-McClure). It is simply staggering and devastating. It may be my favorite scene of my career.

Emerson: I’ll answer this two ways. My favorite scene in the film is more of a moment than a scene. After spending the entire film laughing with Peanut and Odette as they tell their hilariously tragic stories, when the moment arrives where Dale Dickey as Odette finally puts down the façade and tells her true story of why she goes to the bars – that sequence all the way through Peanut’s discussion with Andrew – watching these comic characters bare their souls in the hands of two truly genius actors is stunning as an audience and a master class as an actor.

My favorite scene to perform was the breakup scene in the loft between Mark and TJ. It’s one of the most challenging scenes I’ve had the opportunity to say and being given the lines, “Well then I think that God’s wrong because I know how I feel, and I know I can’t help it and I love you…” that is the core of so many religious gay men’s problems with church judgment was amazing. Luke Stratte-McClure and I spent a great deal of time really working on that scene and the incredible turmoil these boys were experiencing between what they were taught and what they were feeling to make sure we got it right.

Why did you decide to do this one as a play and not as an adaptation?

Del: Cost. Budget. We were able to tell this story by filming the play for a fraction of what an adaptation would cost. Sissies would have never been made otherwise and I am thrilled with the results.

You often work as a producer. Was it nice to change things up and be in front of the camera for awhile? Do you enjoy one more than the other or do you love both equally?

Emerson: I am first and foremost an actor, and they say the best way to make sure you work is to create your own work. I’ve been fortunate to do that with Del. I like producing; I have a skill set that suits it well, but my true passion is being the actor. I will always want to produce work I feel strongly about, but it is an enormous amount of work, so I won’t ever be a producer for hire. So yes, it was amazing to do all of the production work necessary to make the film happen, and then set all of that down and step in front of the camera to do my work as the actor.

Any interesting stories from the set that you could share with our readers?

Del: My favorite funny moment was after a very sensitive scene where Leslie Jordan actually dropped a tear, I asked him how he did it. He said, “I thought of Florence Ballard’s funeral. You know, the forgotten Supreme. They fired her! Then she died broke. And Diana Ross showed up in a mink coat! I just imagined Diana walkin’ into Florence Ballard’s funeral in that mink and the tear fell!” Leslie Jordan is a mess!

Emerson: Well, it was a hurricane process to rehearse the play to get it ready to shoot. Then we shot four live shows in two days, which is incredibly draining for the actors, and then shot 8 days of film coverage. The entire film was done in 10 days. I guess an amusing story is that I accidentally allowed someone to throw away a pair of Willam Belli’s Christian Louboutin shoes. With our tiny budget, I did not want to replace them, so there I was, the producer and lead of the film, taking of my shirt and climbing into a dumpster the day of the first live performance trying to find his shoes. It’s a glamorous life!

What do you hope audiences learn from this particular body of work?

Del: That we are all created perfectly just the way we are. I hope that it reaches those who need healing from the damage they’ve incurred because of the churches – and that it also reaches those who need a change of heart.

What were the most challenging issues you faced while filming this project?

Del: We are still working on getting all the money! We borrowed 50K to finish the film which has been financed through crowd funding. Please share our latest campaign. We are passionate about this film and want to reach as many as possible. The entire movie was made for $185K.

http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/southern-baptist-sissies-finishing-funds

Emerson: The speed of the project was a challenge, but with the incredible talents of the actors and the incredible crew who gave their time for far less than we would usually make, it was doable. The real challenge, as it always is, was ensuring we got all of the equipment and crew we needed to ensure the final film was beautiful and operate within the budget we raised from our funding campaign.

How do you like to spend your time when you’re not working?

Del: I spin daily, love reality shows and my dogs.I enjoy watching films and engaging with fans and friends via facebook. Feel free to like me at http://www.facebook.com/delshoresfanclub.

Emerson: When aren’t we working?( smiles)There aren’t really “days off” and we have to remind ourselves that some things can wait till tomorrow. I’m fortunate to have friends that pull me away from work time to be silly and downtime for me tends to be an afternoon trip to the beach where I leave my phone in the car, or pool time or a book!

Are you pleased with how the public is receiving Southern Baptist Sissies so far? Have you had to deal with any angry Southern Baptists (there do seem to be so many of them)?

Del: BEYOND!

Oh yes! They come to my facebook page and do exactly what I’ve written about in Sissies spewing hate in the name of the Lord. But I know the scriptures too, so bring it on!

Anything you’d like to say before you go?

Del: Thank you for the interview. This has been fun!

Emerson: We’re excited to be sharing this piece. The universal nature of Del’s message applies far beyond the gay community regarding universal acceptance. The film provides healing for those who experienced this growing up, it provides insight for those who may not have understood the kind of damage the church can inflict when the message is presented in judgment, and we hope it gives an opportunity for members of the religious community to realize that their words and message have an enormous impact. Above all of these, this film is for gay youth, adolescents and young adults growing up in the church who will be able to find the DVD or rent it on Netflix or iTunes by themselves and realize that, though it may feel that way in their conservative family, community or church, they are not alone, they are loved and they are perfect exactly the way they are. There is no reason any kid should ever end up like Andrew again.

For more on Del Shores please also see: An interview with Del Shores

Marco Cianfanelli is an artist who works across the public and private realms, engaging the world in terms of systems rather than discrete objects or fenced off territories. He is constantly looking to realise art where one doesn’t expect to find it and testing the possibilities for artistic intervention in the public realm. In so doing, he has been involved in a wide range of projects involving art, architecture and public space.

Cianfanelli was born in Johannesburg in 1970 and graduated, with a distinction in Fine Art, from the University of the Witwatersrand in 1992. He has had seven solo exhibitions – the most recent being data: process, documented here > exhibitiondata:process < – and has won numerous awards, including the ABSA L’Atelier and Ampersand Fellowship. He is a member the design team for The Freedom Park, South Africa’s national monument to freedom, situated in Pretoria. And his monumental fragmented portrait sculpture, Capture, has recently been inaugurated to symbolically mark the 50th anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s capture at the site in the KwaZulu Natal Midlands. Cianfanelli’s work can be found in public and private collections in South Africa, Europe and the United States.

http://marcocianfanelli.com/

Doctor Nine

They blew into town on a Halloween wind.

The Mulatto drove the big roadster, and the Sage sat beside him, snickering into his yellow beard. Telephone poles whipped by, one after the other, and Zasha made a joke about their looking like crosses waiting for saviors. They all laughed and laughed, except for Doctor Nine who always smiled but never, ever laughed.

The car tore through the veils of shadow that draped like sackcloth between the distant lampposts. The night was in no way larger than the car, though it tried—and failed—to loom around the vehicle. The car was really the darkness of that night; it was far more a part of the night than the shadows. You couldn’t imagine what that car would look like in daylight. It wasn’t that kind of car.

Flocks of shapeless nightbirds flew on before the car and whenever the roadster would stop the birds would wheel and circle beneath the hungry stars. Against the fierce glow of the sneering moon the birds were tatters of feather and bone. Their call was more mocking than plaintive. The birds were always there; as long as Doctor Nine was there, they were there. It was in the manner of things and both the birds and Doctor Nine accepted the arrangement. It suited them all.

The Mulatto never spoke when he drove. He never spoke at all. He could, but he chose not to, and his throat had gone dry and dusty over the years. When he laughed it was the whisper of rat feet over old floorboards. Knuckly hands clutched the wheel and his bare feet pressed gas and brakes and sometimes clawed the carpeted floor. Around his neck he wore a medicine pouch, which he’d taken from a Navajo crystal gazer, and some parts of the crystal gazer were in there, too. He wore jeans and a faded Dead Kennedys t-shirt, a stolen wristwatch, and seven wedding rings, one on almost every finger. He was working on a complete set. Little sparks of light flickered from his hands as he wheeled hand-over-hand around bends in the highway.

Beside him, the Sage ate chicken from a metal bucket. The bucket was smeared with chicken blood, and feathers drifted lazily to the floor. He offered a wing to Zasha, who declined with a wicked smile, but Spike bent forward from the back seat and plucked the wing out of the Sage’s fingers. In the brief exchange their hands were contrasted in a display-counter spill of light from a passing streetlamp: the yellow, faintly reptilian mottling on the Sage’s fingers, the thin webbing which had begun to grow between his thumb and index finger; and the overly-long, startlingly delicate fingers of Spike, dusted now with a haze of brown hairs, nails as long as a fashion model’s though much sharper. The wing vanished into the back and Spike bent forward to eat it. He shot a quick, inquiring glance at Doctor Nine, who nodded permission and looked away out into the night. Spike ate with as little noise as he could manage, the bones crunching softly between his serrated teeth.

Doctor Nine looked dreamily at the passing cars, imagining lives and hearts and souls contained within those fragile metal shells like tins of caviar. In the hum of the car’s engine he could hear the hum of life itself, the palpable field of human energy. As subtle as chi, as definite as arterial pumping. In the whisk of cars passing one another he heard gasps and soft cries, the stuff of nighttime encounters, expected and unexpected.

“Take the next exit,” he said to the Mulatto and the big roadster followed a line of cars angling toward a big city that glowed like embers under a cloud of carbon smutch.

Doctor Nine smiled and smiled, knowing that something wonderful was about to happen.

Bethy sat awake nearly all night watching Millie die. She thought it was quite beautiful. In the way spiders are beautiful. The way a mantis is beautiful when it mates, and feeds. If her sister thought it was something else . . . well, so what? Bethy and Millie had never seen eye-to-eye, not once unless Bethy was lying about it. Bethy was a very good liar. All it took was practice. It was a game they had started playing just a couple of hours after they all got home from camping. Mom and Dad were already asleep in their room, and Bethy had convinced Millie that it would be fun to stay up and pretend that they were still camping, still lost in the big, dark woods.

Millie thought that would be fun, too. Millie was easy to lead, though she truly had a completely different sense of what was fun.

Millie thought Pokémon was fun. Millie liked her Barbies unscarred and her Ken dolls unmelted. Millie liked live puppies. Millie was blind to the sound of blood, the song of blood.

Bethy said that they could pretend that Doctor Nine was going to come and tell them spooky campfire stories. Dad’s big flashlight was their campfire.

Millie, sweet and pretty in her flannel robe with the cornflower pattern, her fuzzy slippers, agreed to the game even though she thought that Doctor Nine was a dumb name for an imaginary friend. Well, to be fair, she truly did think that Doctor Nine was imaginary, and that Bethy had no actual friends.

The clock on the wall was a big black cartoon cat with eyes that moved back and forth and a tail that swished in time. Millie loved that, too. She called it Mr. Whiskers and would tell time according to what the cat said. “Mr. Whiskers says it’s half-past six!”

Mr. Whiskers was counting out the remaining minutes of Millie’s life, and wasn’t that fun, too.

Bethy looked at the clock and saw that nearly an hour had gone by since Millie had drunk her warm milk. Plenty of time for the Vicodin to enter her bloodstream through the lining of her stomach wall. If Millie was going to get sick and throw them up it would have happened already, but . . . nothing, and that was good. It kept this tidy. Getting her to take the pills had been so easy. Once mashed with a hammer from the cellar the powder was easy to dissolve. It was no matter if it made the milk a little lumpy, as Bethy had brought big cookies upstairs as well. Cookies to dunk in the warm milk. Just perfect. Millie had swallowed all of it.  Bethy only pretended to drink hers.

Now it was time to watch and learn. Bethy took out her diary and her pen and sat cross-legged on the floor, and watched.

Doctor Nine smiled as the car whisked down the ramp and entered the city. He stretched out with his senses, with perceptions grown old and precise and indefatigable with long, good use. Hearts pumped for him alone, of all the creatures on the window—black streets; minds thought for him, stomachs ached and rumbled with hunger for him, hands groped with lust for him. Eyes searched the shadows for delicious glimpses of him. Tongues tasted waiting lips and flesh ached to be touched. All by him, for him, with him. He knew that; just as he knew that these hearts and minds were few—fewer than in years before, but still there. Still strong and waiting and wanting.

Doctor Nine knew all of this, knew it without the dizzying rush of ego that might taint another creature of less cultured understanding. He licked his lips with a pink tongue-tip.

An SUV came abreast of their car and Doctor Nine turned in his seat to examine it. The Mulatto sensed his desire and shifted lanes occasionally so that Doctor Nine could see each passenger in turn. It was a family car burdened with a roof rack heavy with suitcases and camping tents. Each window of the car was like a picture frame that contained a separate portrait. One showed a wife, a pale creature defined by that label. Just wife. If there had ever been a more definite and individual personality it had either been leeched out of her along with the color of her skin, or she had put it away in some forgotten closet, perhaps with some thought that a life spent in sacrifice and servitude was a life well spent. Doctor Nine fought the urge to yawn.

The driver’s window framed the father. Haggard, bored, distracted, and bitter. A jock-type with a soft jaw and receding hairline. Of no interest at all to Doctor Nine. This one wouldn’t even have fantasies dark enough to be interesting.

The window behind the driver showed the profile of a pretty little girl with pigtails and pink cheeks who was bent over the piss-colored glow of a Game Boy screen, her face screwed up in concentration and her mind distressingly empty.

But then, as the Mulatto slowed the car just a little, Doctor Nine came abreast with the rear window, back where the luggage was usually stored, and there, with her face and hands pressed against the smoked glass, was a pale figure that stirred something old and deep in the Doctor’s heart. She was the same age as the other girl, perhaps nine; but as unlike her twin as two creatures can be, born in same spill of shared blood. Dark unkempt hair and luminous brown eyes, large in the small, pale mask of her face.

Doctor Nine looked at her, totally aware of her. He could feel the intensity of her mind, the sharpness of it, the need of it. Just as he could feel the ache and the pain as she rode through the night surrounded by these meat sacks that pretended to love her and pretended to care for her when in reality they probably feared her.

As they should. He smiled at the thought and tested his senses against the razor sharpness of her need, knowing that she could and would cut, given the chance, given some direction.

Doctor Nine moved his consciousness deeper into the young mind and found that, though young in years, the hunger he encountered was every bit as old as that which coiled and waited within his own soul. Her darkness was too lovely, too profound to be trapped in the cage of meaningless flesh which contained it. Her soul was a screaming thing, locked by circumstance in the fragile shell of the human form. It shrieked for release.

Doctor Nine felt her fear and her need, and measured them against each other. He would not come to her to relieve her fears; nor would he come to satisfy her needs. He might come, however, if her need was strongest of all, stronger than all of the other splintered and badly formed emotions, because to him, need was the only true emotion.

He exerted a fraction more of his will and the little girl lifted her sad eyes toward his window. He made her see him through the dark glass, and as she turned toward him she saw him and she knew him.

From dreams she knew him. From dreams that her parents and her sister would have called nightmares; dreams that, had she been unlucky enough to share them, would have sent them shuddering and screeching into the nearest patch of light. As if light could protect them. He knew—could feel and sense and taste—that this little girl had dreamed of him, that she knew his name as well as she knew her own pain. As well as she knew her own need. Doctor Nine looked into her mind and knew that there were no gods in her dreaming world, just as there were none in her waking hell. When she looked into darkness, whether behind closed eyes or under the bed or into the moonless sky she saw only him. He was always there for her kind. Always.

Doctor Nine smiled at her.

The little girl looked at him for a long time with her owl-brown eyes. When she finally smiled it was a real smile. A smile as hot as blood and as sweet as pain. Her small mouth opened and she spoke a single, silent word, shaping it with her need and her love for him.

“Please.”

The SUV veered suddenly and turned onto a boulevard and headed south toward the smutch and gloom that was clamped down around the heart of this city. It vanished from sight in a moment and the Mulatto rolled to a slow stop at the next corner. Everyone in the car stopped and quietly turned toward Doctor Nine.

Above them the nightbirds wheeled in the sky. Then one by one they peeled off and followed the SUV down the boulevard. Soon only the big roadster was left, alone and waiting.

Without haste Doctor Nine reached forward and touched the Mulatto’s shoulder.

“Follow,” he murmured.

The Mulatto nodded and turned the car around and then turned again to enter the boulevard. Spike and Zasha exchanged a glance.

“Something. . . ?” Zasha asked casually, hiding the interest that brightened her eyes.

Doctor Nine nodded.

“What?” Spike asked. “That car we just passed?”

Another nod.

“Too late, Boss,” muttered the Sage. “We’ll never find it again.”

Zasha jabbed his shoulder with a long fingernail. “Of course we will,” she said, looking to Doctor Nine for approval.

They all looked at Doctor Nine, and he endured their stares mildly. After a long while he said, “We’ve been invited to a coming-out party.”

He smiled at them.

Soon, all of the others laughed.

The night followed them like a pack of dogs.

Bethy wondered how it felt for Millie to die. It was something she tended to think about, even when she was killing a cat, or a dog. Poison sometimes hurt and so she stopped using it. Not because she wanted to spare pain—that was just a silly thought—no, it was because pain was such a distraction. Medicine was so much easier. No pain, just a fuzziness and a sleepy feeling that was warm and a little fluttery, like moth wings in the head. Bethy knew because she had tried the pills herself. First one of them, then two. The most she’d ever taken at once was six.

According to the Internet four was supposed to be fatal. She tried six just to confirm a theory . . . a suspicion, or a hope. The moths had fluttered around in her head for a deliciously long time, during which Bethy had so many strange thoughts. Almost feelings, but not quite. Close enough so that she guessed that anyone else taking the drug would have had true feelings. It gave her perspective on what Millie’s reaction might be.

Millie was probably having such feelings now. And thoughts, too—Millie wasn’t completely incapable, Bethy had to remind herself of that and to be fair to her sister. Millie’s expression kept changing as if she’d had a sudden idea but when she spoke, which was less and less often now, her words were a junk-drawer jumble of nonsense, half-sentences and wrong word choices. Bethy found it interesting and she wished she could read minds. She bet that a mind-reader could make sense of what Millie was trying to say. Mind-readers didn’t need actual language, she was sure of that. Then she wondered if a mind-reader could read an animal’s mind, and if so, could they translate the thoughts into human words? Would an animal’s thoughts change as they died, especially if they realized that they were dying? She hoped she would find out one day.

Maybe she could ask Doctor Nine. She was sure that he was coming tonight. She was sure that she had seen him out there, driving in a big car that was the color of night. When she looked at the window she could see that there were dark birds lined up on the sill and on the power lines across the street. The birds belonged to him, she had no doubts.

“B . . . Bethy. . . ?”

Hearing Millie speak now—very clearly except for a purely understandable hitch—broke Bethy’s reverie.

“Yes?” Bethy asked, utterly fascinated by anything Millie would say at this point. She pulled her diary onto her lap and picked up her pen.

“I don’t feel . . .” Millie lapsed back into silence, her eyelids flittered closed.

Hm. What did that mean? I don’t feel. Feel what? Bethy wondered. Was Millie losing her emotions? Did they die first before the rest of the body?

No, she didn’t think so. She’d read about dying confessions, which was guilt; and about dying people saying nice things to comfort the people sitting around a death bed, which was compassion. Weird, but there it was.

Then she got it. Millie was trying to say that she didn’t feel good. Or maybe that she didn’t feel quite right. How . . . ordinary.

“It’s okay, Mils,” Bethy said. “It’s just the medicine.”

Millie’s eyelids trembled, opened. There was a spark of something there. Confusion? Bethy could recognize emotions even if she didn’t have any. Or, at least she could recognize emotions that she didn’t share. She saw fear there, and though she didn’t understand it she enjoyed seeing it.

“I’m . . . not sick.” With a furrow of her brows, Millie whispered, “Am I?”

“Sick?” Bethy replied with a comforting laugh. “Oh no, honey! You’re not sick.” She patted her hand the way Aunt Annie sometimes did. “No need to worry.”

She saw relief in Millie’s eyes and Bethy took a taste of it.

“Not . . . sick. . . ?”

“No, sweetie . . . you’re just dying,” Bethy said, and wondered if teasing this way was being greedy, and . . . was that okay?

Millie’s eyes snapped wide and she tried to move. Bethy estimated that it took every ounce of her strength to move as much as she did, but all she could manage was a flap of one hand and a slight arch of her body. Then she collapsed back onto the pillows they’d brought down from the bed.

Bethy wrote a quick description of it in her diary.

The clock ticked, Mr. Whiskers’ eyes flicking one way, his tail swishing the other. Bethy counted seconds. She got to one-hundred and sixteen before Millie’s eyes opened again.

“Why?”

Just the one word, and it was clear that it cost her to get it out. Bethy wondered how many words Bethy had left to spend.

“Because, Mils. It’s for me. And for him.”

Millie looked confused. Her lips formed the word ‘who,’ but she could not afford the breath to say it aloud.

“For him. For Doctor Nine.”

There was another flare of expression—mingled confusion and fear. Nice. Again Bethy wished she could read minds, though she was pretty sure she knew what Millie was thinking, how she would be sorting it out. Doctor Nine was the boogeyman. Bethy’s imaginary friend. Something she and everyone else laughed about behind her back. A dream, a nothing.

Even before Bethy had started experimenting with Aunt Annie’s pills she had wanted to kill Millie for that—though strangely, and appropriately, that’s not why she was killing her now. It wasn’t revenge because revenge was soft. Revenge would disappoint Doctor Nine the same way rage would. There was no beauty in a lack of control.

Besides, this was not about punishment . . . it was about rewards.

Bethy thought about that as Millie’s eyes focused and unfocused over and over again. ‘Rewards’ wasn’t exactly the right word either. She chewed her lip and thought about it as her sister died, bit by bit.

There was a sound and then blades of light cut into the room between the half-closed blinds, and Bethy got up, excited, knowing who was outside. She started to run to the window and then in the space of two steps slowed to a walk and then stopped, still yards away. Running was silly. Running to check if he was out there was bad. It wouldn’t show faith, like that Bible story about Moses tapping the rock and then not being allowed into the Promised Land. After everything he did right, he was reminded that everything had to be done right, and so Bethy turned around and sat back down, picked up her diary and pen, and continued making notes until Millie stopped breathing. It took nearly forty minutes, and she would have been lying if she didn’t feel the tug of that window and the image she would see through the blinds. But feeling a thing and becoming its slave were different. Doctor Nine had told her that in her dreams.

When Mr. Whiskers said that it was two-thirty in the morning, Bethy put down her diary, set her pen neatly on top of it, and took a couple of slow breaths just to make sure she was calm. She reached over and touched Millie’s cheek. The skin was still soft but it was already cooling. Bethy sat back, leaning on both palms, and watched for a little while longer. There had been no more words from her sister. No additional emotions had crossed Millie’s face. After that last outburst she had simply gone to sleep, and in sleeping had settled down into a deeper rest. Her body had not visibly changed except that her chest no longer rose and fell. While she watched now, though, Millie seemed to shrink in on herself, to become less solid, and it took Bethy a while before she realized that it was just the blood draining from Millie’s flesh and veins to the lowest possible point in her body. She’d read about that on the Internet, too.

When she had surfed the Net, Millie had read a lot about killing. About the laws of it, the history of it. The art of it. There were so many killers that she felt happy that she would always have new brothers and sisters. Some of them even killed in the name of God, which was a funny thing. She’d have to ask Doctor Nine about that, but she already knew what he would probably say—the essence of it, at least. If God is All then God is killing, too. And really, God kills everything, from microscopic life forms to whole worlds. Maybe that was why so many have worked so hard to make killing a ritual and an art: it was their only way to try and connect with God. Even at nine Bethy understood that. If God made man in His image then man reflects the killing nature of God. To kill is to be godlike. That should be obvious to everyone.

And yet they didn’t call killers ‘gods’ or even ‘godlike.’ They called them monsters.

Bethy got up and walked away from Millie and stood in front of the mirror that hung on the door of their shared wardrobe. She still wasn’t letting herself look out of the window. Instead she looked at the monster in the mirror.

It still looked like her. The her she had always seen.

“Monster . . .” she murmured. Not for the first time she wondered if every one of the godlike monsters she’d read about on the Net had stood in their rooms, just as she now stood, and looked at themselves and announced who and what they were.

She hoped so. It felt like a family thing to do.

Finally Bethy turned away from the mirror and walked past the cooling meat. Millie was gone now; the body was nothing to her. She paused for just a moment, bending to pick up her diary and trying not to feel disappointed. Millie had been her first, but she hadn’t learned as much from her as Bethy had hoped. Maybe next time she would use less of the Vicodin. Or maybe she’d re-visit pain. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in deciding that it had no place in the process.

Doctor Nine would be able to advise. Bethy was sure he would have something interesting to say about that.

Bethy changed into jeans and a t-shirt, put on her sneakers and brushed her hair. She put her diary and a change of clothes into her backpack.

When she was ready she took her pen and tested its point against the ball of her thumb. It seemed sharp enough. She held out her left arm and held the pen tightly in her right fist. She wasn’t afraid of pain and so there was no hesitation at all as she abruptly jammed the point into the soft flesh of her inner forearm. The pen bit deep as she knew it would and blood—so rich that it looked more black than red—welled out of the puncture. Bethy licked the pen clean and put it in her bag and then she walked around the room and dribbled blood here and there. Then she put a Band-Aid over the puncture and put the wrapper in her pocket. Then she picked up a pair of bedroom slippers and used the sole of one to scuff some of the blood, drawing the line in the direction of the window. She left the slipper lying on the floor by the wall, just where the hem of the long sheers would brush against it. She put the other slipper in her backpack. The effect was pretty good.

Satisfied, Bethy finally stood in front of the window. She grasped the cord and pulled the blinds all the way up. The line of nightbirds scattered from the sill, their caws sounding old and rusty as they flew to join their brothers on the power line. The window was already raised a few inches and she raised it the rest of the way and for a moment she looked out and down at the street.

The big black roadster was there, idling quietly, parked across the street in the glow of the sodium vapor lamp. Just as she always knew it would be. There was almost no traffic, not this late. No pedestrians. And just for a moment—for a single jagged second Bethy stared at the roadster and saw that it cast no reflection, that the fall of lamplight did not paint its shadow on the street. Doubt flickered like a candle in her heart.

What if it wasn’t real?

That voice—sounding more like Millie than Bethy—whispered in her ear. What if Doctor Nine wasn’t down there at all? What if Doctor Nine was never down there?

Millie’s voice seemed to chuckle in her mind.

What if. . . .

What if Doctor Nine was not real?

“But I’m a monster,” Bethy said aloud. Millie’s voice laughed, mocking her.

Then the roadster pulled away from the curb . . . very slowly . . . and moved into the center of the boulevard on which they lived. Bethy watched, suddenly terrified. Was Doctor Nine a ghost of her mind? Was he leaving now that she had started to believe that he was only part of whatever made her a monster?

Bethy’s stomach started to churn.

“No!” she said firmly. “No . . . he’s here for me.”

Another car came down the street and Bethy realized that it would have to either veer around the roadster or pass through it. If it was real, the car would veer. If Doctor Nine lived only in her head the oncoming car would just pass through it, reality passing through fantasy.

“No,” she said again. She felt that her feet were riveted to the floor, held fast by nails of doubt driven through her flesh and bone. All she had to do was wait there, to see the car and how it reacted, or didn’t react. Just five more seconds and then she would know whether she was a godlike monster or a mad little girl.

“Doctor Nine . . .” she breathed.

The car was almost there. Moses doubted, he tapped the rock.

The cartoon cat on the wall mocked her with its swishing tail.

“No,” she said once more.

And Bethy turned away from the window before the car reached the roadster. Her decision was made. Without proof either way. She picked up her backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and left the bedroom. Left Millie and the blood and the fiction that she had constructed. She left her room and her parents and her Aunt Annie. She left her life.

She never looked back.

In the end she did not need to look to see if the car veered or drove straight through. She walked quietly down the stairs, placing her feet where she knew there were no squeaks and headed to the front door, flitting out into the night.

To the roadster. And to Doctor Nine, and to the other monsters he had collected along the way.

She knew they would be there.

She had no doubts at all.

(This story originally appeared in KILLERS.)

V

“…for the creator there is no poverty

and no indifferent place”.

Rainer Maria Rilke

when realigning improvisations

or regaining spectrums of what

the prior moments’ caused amid

sufficient understandings

the

intermittent values of self

contain beyond theory and its

languages of unrealized

mentations

border and bend into an

altered confinement of self’s

introverted dialogues and

shadow or silver of its

elongated fabric

totaling hitherto

half of these symptoms’

origami strategies

Felino A. Soriano has authored nearly five dozen collections of poetry, including Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013), the collaborative volume with poet, Heller Levinson and visual artist, Linda Lynch, Hinge Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012) and rhythm:s (Fowlpox Press, 2012). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press . His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is the director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info .

John Waite began his career in 1975 with the band The Baby’s, followed by his solo career that spawned the timeless hit Missing You (as later recorded alongside songstress Alison Krauss in 2006). He also enjoyed moderate success as the frontman of Bad English. His last studio album Rough & Tumble featured the ballad If You Ever Get Lonely, co-written by Matchbox Twenty’s Kyle Cook. June 11, 2013 saw the release of the iTunes exclusive Live All Access which featured the song live. The track is also being covered by Love and Theft and is currently climbing the country music charts. He can currently be found on tour in select cities.  I was honored to have the chance to sit down and talk with the man behind the music that we all know and love.

Can you tell us a little about yourself as a child? What was it like growing up in Lancaster? When did you first discover the power of music? Can you tell us a little about that?

Lancaster is an historic town. It has a castle and a river runs through it. I was raised in a cottage facing into the countryside. There were fields and a huge park opposite the front door. My family was very musical so music came to me pretty naturally. I joined my brother’s band occasionally to sing R and B or whatever we could think up. Country and Western was huge as a kid as it was songs about cowboys. When your 5 it’s all cowboys and Indians. Big Bill Broonzy came next with the blues then Hank Williams and then the Shadows. All incredibly exotic for the northwest of England in the 50’s. I wanted to be a cross between Popeye and Hank the Cowboy. ( I’m almost there). I discovered the test card on the t.v. had music playing behind it. There was this sort of Magnificent Seven chord change in the middle. Blew my mind! I used to sit there with my brother waiting for it to come round.

 Why do you think music has been such an important entity in society throughout the ages?

I’m not really religious but defiantly spiritual. Music is the closest thing to religion in my life. The only god in this world everyone believes in is money! Frightening but true. Music is free! Always was.

When you first started your career did you ever imagine it would have lasted as long as it has? What advice would you give the musicians of tomorrow?

I never in my wildest teenage dreams imagined that I’d ever get a shot. To make a record , to be taken seriously. To make a living doing that , is off the chart. Hey, it’s been a dream come true. Advice is a bit of a joke really. If you’re really going to do something like become an artist there is no choice. No one is ever going to talk you out of it. It’s a harsh world but the artist has the intangible …the awareness. It’s worth more than anything else.

When you recorded Missing You did you think it would become as well loved as it is?

Getting a number 1 with Missing You was the most surreal experience! That and living in NYC at the same time. I’d been there two years before in a studio apartment with virtually nothing. The neighbors thought it was cool! Great fun! I knew it was good when I co wrote it. I knew it was something serious. One of those in a lifetime is enough. It spoke to everyone on a lot of levels. That’s what really makes for a great piece of music. A lot of people do it. I was one of em! It’s a legacy of something true and real for people. Funnily enough, I’ve written better songs. When you write something that big it overshadows everything else you do for a long time. It’s odd to arrive in a band called The Baby’s where “serious” musicians sneer at you, then prove them all wrong and write a masterpiece. (almost beats being Popeye!)

What are your feelings on life and death and the afterlife?

Life changes everyone but there’s still the essence of the kid you were behind everyone’s eyes. It’s a mean old world and everyone gets hurt. Badly. Spirit is the thing I love most in people. It’s a relatively short time we have here. It’s cool to “walk the walk”. Not just with music (that’s a given) but as a human being. Kindness! Do the right thing! As Dylan once said “morality gets a bad rap”. How you get through this life is up to you but I want to go out with a sense that I was straight with people and did the right thing! My dad used to say “Live and Let Live”. It’s stuck with me.

 What projects are you working on at the moment?

I’m waiting to see what happens with the live album. I could walk away tomorrow!

Becket is a fascinating character to say the least. He currently assists the iconic authoress Anne Rice, is a former Benedictine monk with a master’s degree in theology, and an author in his own right. His latest offering The Blood Vivicanti features characters and concepts by both Becket and Anne, and is slated to be released as a 6 part series. It was an honor to sit down with him and learn a little more about the man behind the mystique.

Where are you from? What did you love most about growing up there?

I was born and raised in Jacksonville, FL. What I most loved about growing up there was living close to the beach.

Did you have a love of words from an early age?

My love for words began around 11 years old, when I met Sam Rivers (now the bassist for Limp Bizkit). He and I formed a band, and I started writing lyrics. In high school that grew into poetry and short stories. In college I wrote fewer poems and more stories. When I started working for Anne, novel-writing was in full swing.

What was you very first favorite story? What do you consider your favorite story at this point in your life? Why?

The first story I ever read was a book titled: He Remembered to Say Thank You. It was a book for children based on Luke 17:11-19, about ten lepers who were healed, yet only one remembered to be grateful.

What led you to become a Benedictine monk with a master’s degree in theology?

I started studying to be a diocesan priest in 1997. After 3 years, being an introvert and a scholar, I felt that the silence of the monastery was a better fit for my personality.

Once I became a monk, I also wanted to become a priest. To become a priest I had to have a master’s degree in theology.

What did you enjoy most about all of that?

I enjoyed most the routine of disciplined prayer, the silence, the work and the camaraderie of the brotherhood. We were more than men in monastic habits. We were friends and family.

What led you to give that up and become a writer?

I lived in the monastery for five years. At the end of the five years, I was given a choice to make solemn vows, which are as binding as marriage vows. I felt that I wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment. So I resigned from the monastic life. I emailed Anne about it, jokingly asking her if she had room on her staff for an ex-monk. To my great delight and surprise, she said: Yes!

What was it like when you first went to work with Anne? What was running through your mind when you first landed the job?

Working for Anne Rice was a dream come true. I had been a fan of hers since I was a teenager. Honestly, there was so much happening that I didn’t have time to really think about it: I was working for one of my childhood heroes, I had moved to California, and I was preparing to accompany Anne on a book tour. It was an intense time!

What is she like as a person? What have you learned from working with her?

Anne is one of the most kindhearted people I’ve ever met. She’s also one of the most intellectual. She doesn’t merely read a book: She thinks about what she reads, and she challenges others to think also.

How did The Blood Vivicanti come into being? Can you tell our readers a little about what to expect from this series?

Anne and I developed the Blood Vivicanti through several discussions over the course of several years. This new breed of blood drinker had to be a new cosmology than Anne’s other blood drinkers: It would be set in a whole new world. Our blood drinkers are not made by supernatural occurrences, but by science.

This book is going to be serialized into six parts. Each part will be released once a month over the course of six months. Each part is the size of a short story, and just as satisfying, although it hopefully encourages readers to see what happens in the next issue.

Did you enjoy working with Anne on the concept and characters?

Anne and I have a lot in common when it comes to the things we like literarily, such as the spooky scenes of Catherine’s ghost in Wuthering Heights. We also like to talk about other worlds and aliens as much as we enjoy talking about blood drinkers. One day we just decided to combine the two. Working with Anne on this project was working with someone who helped shape my adolescence. It was amazing!

Are there any particular characters in this one that hold more meaning for you than others?

Mary Paige is the heroine of the Blood Vivicanti, which is told from her point of view. But the character whom I enjoy being with is Wyn, a genius scientist who has the most knowledge of the Blood Vivicanti.

What do you love most about the act of writing?

Fundamentally a writer has to love telling a good story. What I love about writing a good story is shaping the narrative, tying everything neatly together. Sometimes the process can be as delicate and as beautiful as carving an ice sculpture.

Are there any little known things about yourself that your readers might be surprised to learn?

I also compose music – instrumental music mostly, pianos and cellos and so on. I hope to have a CD released by 2014.

Are you still a deeply religious person? What are your personal feelings on life and death and the beyond?

Having a relationship with God is like having a relationship with another person.  If you don’t talk to the other person, the relationship goes nowhere. If you don’t share intimate things from your heart with the other person, the relationship doesn’t grow. If I am devout, it is my attempts to have an intimate relationship with a power greater than myself.

What would you most like to accomplish before your time here is done?

I hope to live one day at a time as altruistically as I can.  If accomplishments come from that, then I hope people will find my work helpful to their own well-being.

What advice would you offer to those who might be struggling with this world as it is?

I don’t think I’d give advice. I’d rather listen to what they’re struggling about, and share with them my own experience, strength, and hope.

What projects are you working on at the moment?

Soon I’ll be publishing a full book for children. The title is: Key the Steampunk Vampire Girl. It will be released in October.

Anything you wish to say before you go?

Thank you for this interview. (Smiles)

The Blood Vivicanti can be purchased at Amazon.com for 0.99 on ereaders here: Part 1

For more information on the Relentlessly Cheerful Art of James Hance please see: http://www.jameshance.com/

The Gunslinger

The antique Hohner Aero Band
Zeppelin Harmonica sits nearby
just mention John Lee Hooker’s
name and the old man has it out
floating up through blues-time-
zones, up where nightclub air is
smoky and dirty and pure energy
ignited by Mississippi Delta jet
fuel coming out, burning precise,
through blow hole Highway 61
a lesser traveled state of mind
from ole Merigold to juke time

David Scott Pointer was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. David later served in the Marine military police. He has written social justice poetry for many years.

A Poem in the Suggestion of an Emotively Philosophical Sculpture

In an origami class, the teacher talks
about light & shade, how the sun’s slow
leave-taking lends viability
to art-is-an-ism, why the moon & stars
can only thrive in the cold embrace
of black velvet

Water as universal solvent or no fortress
stands irreducible by rain, dew, moisture:
so take a cloudy afternoon to fold, mold
papers, stone, vision needing air-
strip like a wickerwork, sculpture – poem
silhouetting for a take off

In an afternoon of nonstop downpour, I watch
my notepad consumed by the seething rain,
at the foot of The Pieta

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. is a Communications Officer in the Middle East and author of A Fistful of Moonbeams, his first poetry chapbook published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. Although foremost a poet, he is also a fictionist, an essayist and a playwright. Somoza hails from Siquijor Island in the Philippines. His writing has been widely published in his home country (Philippines Free Press, Philippine Graphics, Ateneo University Press, Cultural Center of the Philippines, etc.) and internationally (Moria Poetry, Troubador 21, Gloom Cupboard, Haggard & Halloo, Buddhist Review, Full Of Crows, Shot Glass Journal, Triggerfish Critical Review, Barnwood International, and elsewhere.). He received a degree in Bachelor of Mass Communication from the University of the City of Manila and masteral units in Creative Writing from the University of the Philippines-Diliman.

Natalie Shau is a digital artist from Vilnius, Lithuania. More on her fantastically dark works can be found at http://www.natalie-shau.com