June 2009

Family Jaunt

by Lucien E. G. Spelman

She said I had hands like a gravedigger,
I said she had an ass like a grizzly bear.
We were perfect.
We never knew what hit us.
Cocktails,
moonlit,
barefoot,
fairy dances.
Spending youth like we were wealthy with it.
Handfasted, anointed,
jostled by kith and kin,
dead and alive.

Five kids (three I like) later,
and here we were,
living the dream,
fat and happy,
high on the hog,
gypsy vacation.
It was time to move on,
so I asked my fifth child which direction we should travel
(kids number one through four had made all the decisions so far),
and he said north.
North it was.
We packed up our troubles,
such as they were,
in the old kit bag,
such as it was,
and pointed the wagon where the sun don’t shine.

Kid Number Five,
the quiet one,
the astronaut,
corrected me.
He has unusual needs.
He told me he meant north up,
not north around.

The whole thing was mighty uncomfortable I can tell you,
but,
like it or not,
a father wants to please,
so we pointed that old wagon to the stars instead.

My wife, Grizzly Butt,
complained at first,
the g-force playing havoc with her lipstick,
but once we cleared the atmosphere,
she was filled with oohs and ahhs.
It put me in the mood for makin’ kid number six,
to be frank with you,
but there’s a time and a place for everything.
Kids one though four kicked in with her after a while,
oohing and aaahing too,
making four-part harmonies,
and killing the mood.

After the chorus,
Kid One,
the tall one,
said his stomach was rumbling,
so momma made us all liverwurst sandwiches cut into triangles
and we just drifted around out there like that,
spinning the wheels,
and making smacking sounds.
Kids Two and Three (fat and skinny) fell asleep on each other,
looking like a Gaelic letter,
so I ate their sandwiches.

Four pointed out the window.
“What’s that?” she said.

Barreling along the left side,
blocking our view of The Great Wall,
came a satellite.
Silver and sleek and angular and contemporary,
and boasting TVSATCORP on its wings,
as if that were something to say out loud.

“Get me my gun, Sweet Tart,” I said,
and held out my hand to my bride.

“Oh hell, Art. You’re going to wake the kids,” she said,
but she fetched it out of the glove box anyhow.

I rolled down the window,
squinted my eyeball,
and sticking out my tongue like my grandma showed me

BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

I put an end to that.

Now,
I know there are things I say that may strike you as untrue,
but trust me when I tell you,
Kid Two and Kid Three never even opened their eyes.
Kids can sleep through anything when they live a comfortable life.

I handed the pistol to my wife who winked at me like she meant it,
and put it back in the glove box.

“I hate TV.” I said, “rots the mind.”

I rolled up the window and hit the gas.

The son of American gypsy entertainers, author Lucien E. G. Spelman was born and educated on the road, instilling in him a sense of adventure, wonder, whimsy (some may say caprice), and the driving desire to disassemble the woof and warp of the human condition. He has made his living as a flamenco guitarist, actor, stuntman, and ferry boat captain. He has always been a writer.

He is a graduate of NYU Playwrights Horizon Workshop ‘88 (Full Scholarship), San Francisco/Bay Area Stuntman’s Association ‘90-’92, and The E-ville Writers Workshop ‘00.

In addition to his work in Niteblade, he has recently been published in Susurrus Magazine, Apex Digest, Blood, Blade, & Thruster Magazine, and The Willows Magazine,with upcoming work in Champagne Shivers, The Absent Willow Review, Boston Literary Magazine, The Monsters Next Door, and is a featured author in the upcoming Gentleman of Horror Anthology 2009.

He lives in Boston, Massachusetts with his wife, son, and an exquisitely ugly little pug.