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Why the ‘It’ that Follows Does So Slowly


If you are anything like me then you have probably wondered why the killer in horror movies always has to walk so damn slow. I get that it makes him look all the more vicious. I understand the supposed badassery of going real slow when the razor’s-edge drama of the moment demands a reaction time that is real fast. The menace is recognized in a flash, but serial killers, undying monster knife slashers, horrors in dreams, and your run of the bloody mill phantasms never succumb to haste. They are always right on time despite the languor of their step, so grimly assured. Why not take one’s time?


And that’s the point, the puncta: there’s no cause for pacing when punctuality is all that matters. Whether behind the dumpster or chatting with friends on the beach, when It comes for you, the film tells us our time is up by showing It taking its damn time. It is, after all, because It is damned that It can take its time, or so such films suggest. A purely filmic definition of the monstrous, then, would have to do with temporality and pacing, the Monster being an aberration of both, and both of them becoming precious in the language of film, almost to the point of being made sacred in exchange for being so profaned.


Films elevate notions of pacing and time because these represent cinema’s most important coordinates as a medium and as a technology. We only understand what we see in films by virtue of a miracle of speed, “miracle” here being a superstitious way of thinking about the film as a machine. The ‘It’ that follows in horror movies, as in the movie from which these images are taken–It Follows (2014)–builds terror upon the slow-stepping immanence of a Monster that stalks the protagonist. No matter where she goes, It follows. Strangely though, It always walks, and this becomes essential to the horror.

She may run or try to escape in a car, but It is just fine taking its own sweet time, as if on a leisurely stroll, as if saving that bus pass for later, as if the vector of speed were to suddenly disappear from the equation, creating that New Math associated with the horror genre… so that,

#666 If Sally and Monster were to leave point A at the exact same time, with Sally going at a rate of 35 mph and Monster walking at the rate of 3.4 mph, at what time of day will it be when Monster suddenly shows up, walking out of nowhere, and promptly does a gruesome number on Sally?

a) daytime  b) nighttime  c) Halloween thirty  d) her time  e) Now, which is always a punctuality that punctures, ever in relation to the next most certain point of mortality’s time, Death.


We all know the answer to that word problem. We resolve it unfailingly every time we view a monster movie in which the monster moves scarcely at all, and yet remains ever punctual–and I mean this in all senses of the word, being on time, being a point in time where two mythological vectors meet, being a thing that points and punctures and cuts up–Time. And not just time, but also temporality’s surrogates, its most precious associates, poor mortals like Sally, like you, like me.


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A new flash published

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Stealing Home Depot

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I didn’t steal the whole thing. Only one track of it, a stealer engine maybe. Me, Dogwalker Bill, that’s what they called me. Then they called me with a phone. They said I couldn’t walk dogs for them anymore and I promised not to lose any more. I promised not to like the sound of chains unlatching. Then they said that was why they were calling. Said they were trying to run a business. I had already let too many go. It was then I was fired. Anyways, I needed a job and was trying to work there at the Home Depot. Actually, I wanted to be a roofer cause it sounded good and I like heights, so I went to the Home Depot to get tools in my best sport coat, hoping to make a “good impression.” There were mini orange forklifts beeping and just as many people in orange vests pounding on paint cans with rubber mallets or sawing smelly vinyl roller shades or walking slow behind you with their orange aprons tied to you by some invisible leash. I found the loneliest aisle I could and climbed an orange ladder to get to where they keep hex bolts for going around corners. Then it dawned on me. Why not work here? And so I went to the back looking for an office maybe, and the manager. He’d hand me a piece of paper and see if I got my own pen and when I don’t, I’d borrow his orange one, real polite. And when I can’t fill it out right there, he’d show me to some stool or chair where I could fill it out and give it back and then jump off a building. All of us together. Manager, pen, me, filled-out paper, and fast receding clouds. We’d form a pattern like skydivers in the shape of a crankshaft. I was going to go back there to do all that. Whenever you go where you’re not supposed to be it looks very interesting no matter what. There’s a bathroom in the back of the grocery store  I go to. To get there you have to pass through a gate made of long strips of heavy dirty plastic, the kind the back wheels of semi trucks have to keep the rain off the tires. You feel like unwanted rain when you go in there. At the back of the Home Depot was only a door, not orange, and no flaps. The room it opened to was big, empty. I felt like a mouse who’d just crawled into some old lady’s ranch house garage, the rakes and shovels labeled and dangling from yarn knots on church white pegboard. I scampered along the sawdust until I passed what I thought was the bathroom and another door. I knocked and somebody shouted “Command!” So I shouted “Get a job!” I was going to keep on, but the door opened. It was the manager with some nervous guy in a chair, almost a kid, and another guy: older, fatter than the manager, dressed like a cop. The cop laughed and patted my arm like we were friends saying, “Well, here he is.” He showed me the kid like he was mine. Before any talk of payments, I was going to say the kid looked nothing like me. Plus, I was only here for the job. But I didn’t have to on account of them nodding so much. To them, I was on the job already. I tugged on the collars of my sport coat to make sure I was still making a good impression. I must have been because they told me real slow and real serious how the kid, head in hands, had taken something from the Home Depot. It left them no choice but to call me. The kid wouldn’t sign all the orange forms they wanted him to. They said more about security cameras and how glad they were I was there. I only nodded. The manager agreed and said that my partner was going to come for the paperwork afterwards like it was a question. I only nodded. He nodded more too. That must have been the cure, because once the cop shoved the kid up, out of the chair, and toward me—just like that, the pain in my chest was gone. When I turned around and walked back to the memory of the plastic strips, the kid was trailing me like a dropped leash. It was then he shot me a look. He was sorry or guilty or maybe something else. I saw him go, tail between his legs, checking out through the express lane. I was feeling victorious. Another job well done and all that. I thought I’d take my time. Self check out. I got two hex bolts on the glass and two in my pocket, snug in there with their magnetic little shock collars set and ready to spring at the automatic doors. They sigh so impatiently just before it happens.



< Originally published in The Los Angeles Review >

Little Family in My Snowbank


I HATED TAKING out the skin-stinging trash, an adventure in snow and civics. The path in front of my house led to the driveway the plow guy shaved too close too much. Him, the wolf at my door. The plow man my wife was paranoid of. Him, who kept plowing because every time’s another thirty bucks. She pointed out how he’d come even when it hadn’t snowed. I know, I know. First world problems. Thing is, she was right. Not only did he knock on the door to collect thirty bucks when it snowed, but he also started to make it snow. Why so much? Why such a big plow blade? And why bee sting yellow? For answers, observe the snow in piles. Mountains of it. A class tax of snow. A-lean-on-my-house of snow. It was as if the plow guy put my lawn under one of those self-serve ice cream machines. He circles the landscaping Styrofoam slow, snowing up the sides, leaving the middle for last. I imagine the plow guy trying to whip the top of his hypothetical sundae (my lawn, mind you). But it’s hollow underneath. And if you can imagine all that, then you have an inkling of what I saw as I looked at the snowbank ten feet high—the top of which was sinking ever so perfectly in place, falling into itself. I heard a broken yell. Many plunged trumpets were ready to play within the snowbank. From the top, smoke curled up to the stars. I dropped my trash bag then. There, within Snow Mountain—put on my driveway by my plow man to freak out my wife—was a little family. They had a little fire going in a wee fireplace. It was gooseberry cheerful with matchstick rocking chairs and bottle cap Dutch ovens. A little one was reading a miniature book on the rug. Another was on its back fast asleep. You could hear faint snoring over the ice screaming in your ears. There was a sense, too, of others. Sight unseen. Ready to defend the home fires. I backed away. Anybody would have. This wasn’t about fighting. This was about that goddamn plow guy. No wonder he came all the time. Built himself a little igloo condominium for little families to live in, did he? Test my patience (and politics), would he? My wife and I would tell the plow guy not to come any more, wouldn’t we? Yes, we’d insist that he take down Snow Mountain, never letting on about how lucrative the rents are here. He didn’t come back around for a while. Probably at that “second” job he’d lingered to tell us about that one time. Many days passed with trash to take out, the hideous path to shovel, fatal icicles in the eaves to menace with a broom (closing your eyes each time you make contact, flecked by cold razor dust). One night, I was holding the ladder for my wife. She’d gone up on our roof with her new telescope aimed at the plow guy’s house. In between her shouting down at me to keep the ladder steady, I heard a little sound. TV noises coming from the snowbank. Funny thing, what with all that yelling and the TV, I spilled my canteen. Champagne froze the ladder in place so I didn’t have to hold on anymore. My wife was still on the roof, looking through her telescope as I tracked the noise, stepping careful to cover the crunch of my boots. I sanctioned the whole thing in my head as I crept. This is my property. I’m a human being and just look at them. They’re squatting in a snowbank beside my house on my driveway and it’s all been engineered by a plow guy who’s making a killing. I thought I would get the shovel and end it, the snowbank with them inside. Everything was blue, the color of darkness whispering your ear off with the cold. The same kind of blue, as it turned out, was coming from that tiny TV set when I looked in on them. Silver shadowed the room as those little ones danced their legs in its shine. They were lying on their bellies on the dog hair rug watching the TV. Snow sparkled where it peeked through their birch bark paneling. The hair on their heads caught the light filament-thin like silk worms suspending from summer trees. So they had a nice living room. So what. I had a shovel. But something in me wanted a flurry of boots instead—a big bad wolf kicking to blow down this precious Norman Rockwell bullshit in my driveway, all brilliantly finagled by the fucking plow guy. Enough! I would end it. But then PGL. Plow Guy Lights. I shouted to my wife using our code. PGL! She didn’t answer. Her telescope was trained on me. I could tell by her silhouette against the moon. PGL went the way predicted for our sun—bursting into a giant cymbal crash of whiteness. When you walk through the portal, you wonder momentarily about sand until there is nothing but yellow and all that tidal waving snow.



< Originally published in The Los Angeles Review >

Dead Squirrel


It was not dead but dying. They had been on the path for a mile, through snow bleating under their boots. They wore frozen air as halos. One walked a dog that nosed the rough, foraging icicles. One drank coffee from a mug. One was made jealous by the sipping. His cupboards were full of mugs with missing or mismatched lids and usable only as dribble cups. The aroma of coffee went ribboning by as they crunched along. All of them now condemned him quietly for all his Adam’s appling and all that promiscuous vapor, thick as medieval tapestries hung from clouds—hanging monogamously for Mr. Fucking Tidy Cabinets over here but not for anyone else—not even the damn dog, who would gladly trade any jake-ass hill of beans for a paw full of dash-and-go, that grey zipline taking chances with trees. Perhaps the squirrels chittered away their resentments by the time they got to that part? It was that part of the path that rose far above the road. It was that part that was high enough above the road that you could not hear the cars anymore. It was that part where you could look across the fence and power-line latticework, out across the road humming below, and you could hear the waterfall. All that was left was that part where everyone had to turn around and go back. Does anyone like that part?


Of course the dog smelled it first. Its owner was first to be horrified at the thought: fangs ripping giddily into it right there by the side of the path. And the bleating snow is such a precise documenter. And the dog did indeed go for it, seeing it lying there on an undisturbed pillow of snow, a dog offering. Its pink underbelly showed through its odalisque of sacrificial fur. The others noticed then too.


Their noticing came at that part in the conversation that is both awkward and profound. One had been telling about life and pain. He claimed to have found something in the telling that would make him see it all anew, as they seemed to in their frosted affirmations and woolen nods. It was then they all noticed. One pulled back hard on the leash. One spilled coffee. One laughed sneeringly at that. Another hung fire in his epiphany. All hastened forward, hatching algorithms with every step to calculate whether or not that small body—mammalian gray, cream, and ashes-to-ashes brown—was dead or alive. If dead then good. If dead, a correct silence is to be observed for the transformation before them of something once-living to something soon-dead. Flesh to fiction. But if dying, more was needed. Dying is dialogue, is it not?


It is and they know that it is because it was not dead but dying. There, by the side of the path, it stretched its little body as far as it could go, as if it had taken a nap and had been woken up by their approach but was still too sleepy to do its dash-and-go tango for the trees. So it moved its eyelids slowly instead. No blink is that overcranked. A sliver of frosted breath crawled out of its rotten blueberry lips. Had it seen those canines coming for it in that one, slow-mo, languid, half-closing eye? Because even the dog backed off after that blink, slow as old gods. Their mercurial herald: the last breath, a cone of frost. All of these things wrecked their wintery walk, so that only the crumbs of themselves were left scattered beside this dying on the path. There was no trace of blood, but noting the proximity to the road, they deduced an impact. And though they were only crumbs of themselves, they knew and they had to acknowledge that they knew, for the dying obey no metaphors. So it looked into their eyes in spite of the crumbs they thought themselves to be and that was enough. What else do dying eyes say? When you look into them, all you think is I’m sorry.



< originally published in Epiphany >

Daffy Keeps Dying Wrong

daffy dying wrong
Beauty happens in the rain. <The duck lisps, patting mud with an orange webbed toe.> The wet yellow of the sleuth’s slicker. <He wrangles his bill around the sibilants.> Or singing a number to a maiden in yonder windowpane. Bravo. <whistles> Roses? I’m allergic! <The duck swats the messenger bee with the bouquet.> It’s hard, Mac, hard I tell ya, to enjoy life’s rich pastries when the rain cloud makes ‘em soggy, get me? You try pulling out that sign with a picture of the screw on one side and the ball on the other with your own personal tsunami hanging over your head, making the ink bleed. It’s a helium-filled puppy. Can I come with you? Can I? Huh? Watch out for my thundertail! ZAP. Sheesh. Down boy-ee with the X-ray-eez. Good, Cloudy! Good boy. Just between you and me, Brother, <The duck whispers,> I’m not big on cats either. Go, Cloudy. Fetch! <The duck throws a stick. Traffic. The rain cloud chases. The duck pushbrooms the honking collision away to reveal a map of Europe.> It was the French who saw it in me, if you must know. They stacked me alongside Jerry Lewis and Edgar Poe. I’m more popular than the rabbit, which is more’n I can say for the good old US of A, if you are sniffing the odeurs I am le stinking, napalm? I notice the stench has shooed the raven that was perched on gloomy Eddy’s shoulder. Whoo-hoo, his mustache’s spinning. Anyhoo, there’s my slap-boxing-with-the-pencil shtick. I paid my dues. Primetime didn’t catch onto my motivation for years: the selfish duck, three feathers ahead of the pond with elasticity and all the song and dance jazz. Pork, he had his production gig and the rabbit was always into the politics even before the scandal. (He had to return all those philanthropic achievement plaques we did lines of carotin on.) But me? This is all I ever had. That’s why I’m always trying to die and getting it wrong. How would you feel? Jackknife triple-Lindying off the diving board, a Shazam-striped helmet on your head heavy like an anvil—the only thing heavy in this world—and there’s nothing but you and the ladder that goes to infinity. You know because you counted on the way up, and now you’re doing somersaults and coming in hot on that teacup. You see from the fireball an adorable silkworm on the rim of the teacup. It’s got puppy dog eyes, and it’s tuxedo-tapping along the rim. And I’m the Red Baron, Mayday! Outta the sky, a meteorite, Trojan horsey (inside are Martian invaders nasally warsnorting)—that’s how galactic I am, hungry for wormtatter and teacup and THWOW WHEEEE, Houston, do I hit it, Man! Do I ever crash. We’re talking stars and little chirping bluebirds each with its own orbit of stars and mini-bluebirds, a whole baby crib mobile of them circling around every chirping head. Fadeout. Any of that ‘Come into the light’ business? No sir. Wings and a harp maybe. Why not? It’s only another mask to become for a funny second to prompt laughter on the other side of the rabbit hole. When you return from the explosion, Saint Peter always sounds suspiciously from Brooklyn. Soda why? ‘Cause so do I, that’s why, Fizzdrinker. Hey, what’s with all the questions, Egbert R. Murrow!?! Truth is, we’re all drunk on suicide. We keep getting it wrong. Maybe it’s only my catch-23. I can be shot out of a cannon and I’ll rain down singing a song from the radio dressed up like a drop to keep the theme going. Death is something quieter for me. Sometimes, even my silent presence, maybe next to the rabbit—I’d have one arm over my belly and the other hand scratching my chin, as one of my flipper toes would tap impatiently—even that would ruin the shot. A six-minute life-limit suffers no rumination. Get me? Death is minute seven. Maybe I’ve said too much, Buster. You trying to get me erased? Not with these. <The duck steps back to brandish what is assumed will be an arsenal. It turns out to be two steaming plates of food: delicate entrées cooked to perfection in the Gascony style—confit with butter noodles.> Scratch that! <The duck stows his dangerous hands.> Where was I? Oh yeah. The thing about getting dying wrong is that you forget. That’s how you keep getting it wrong, I think. The forgetting. Does anyone care? Anyway, I know it was already a part of everything I did. Even the good stuff. Duck Dodgers and the early days with Pork. Mention the word “season,” Brother, and you’ll regret it to the very last day of your life—today. As I was saying. . . wait a minute. You said season, didn’t you? No, I didn’t. You did. Think I’m as dumb as the bird on your TV, that it? Wiseacre, eh? Well now it’s your birthday. Ready to sing it? Maybe you don’t know the lines. I’ll help. ‘Not that. Anything but that.’ Put more dread into it, Dorothy. ‘Not happy birthday! Anything but HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!’ Now, sing the tune. Da dum dum Da dum dum. <The conveyor hums to life.> Let’s strap you in. One buckle. Two buckle. My shoe? WHACK WHACK and you’re off. After the shoes across your face and the birds and stars, you see a contraption of hijinks. You doubt you will witness the rest of your six minutes. <Daffy in full regalia now fires a rifle, plays a bugle, and salutes. Up ahead, a propeller. Then, rain.>



< Originally published in Fourteen Hills >

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