Monday, February 1, 2016
Iowa Caucuses
The Iowa caucus, despite the indigenous hype and the media's quest for a relevant story, is much ado about nothing. Ask Huckabee and Santorum!
Friday, November 6, 2015
The Visit
"He is quite fair skinned," the doctor said.
"Will he need further testing," the nurse asked, scribbling while she spoke.
"During the day he is quite active and his sugars are in acceptable control."
She stopped scribbling and looked up at him. She pulled the reading glasses from her face and let them fall to dangle from the chain.
"Yes, he will need further testing."
She wrote it down.
"Will he need further testing," the nurse asked, scribbling while she spoke.
"During the day he is quite active and his sugars are in acceptable control."
She stopped scribbling and looked up at him. She pulled the reading glasses from her face and let them fall to dangle from the chain.
"Yes, he will need further testing."
She wrote it down.
The Humidifier
"If the windows sweat turn it down to 25 degrees."
"Okay," I said.
"It should be fine, though, with the high ceilings and all of the wood."
"Okay," I said.
"Did someone turn it off on purpose?"
"Don't know," I said.
He folded the step-ladder and pulled out the iPad to do the invoice.
"Okay," I said.
"It should be fine, though, with the high ceilings and all of the wood."
"Okay," I said.
"Did someone turn it off on purpose?"
"Don't know," I said.
He folded the step-ladder and pulled out the iPad to do the invoice.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
The Angelus
Tony looked
around and saw the subservient fear in the faces of his 61 classmates. Well,
really only 60 because Gary Jeffries was hanging from the collar of his coat in
the cloakroom, the standard punishment for failure to recognize the Angelus
bells that rang each day during the lunch recess.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Ellis
Ellis
Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone
All Rights Reserved
Ellis packed his things into pillow cases, as the guards stood careless watch outside his cell. Today, for the first time in thirty-two years, he would walk in the open and breathe air on the outside. These were things he had not done since the door slammed behind him on September 1, 1982.
The guards were happy for Ellis. A judge agreed, after all this time, that he was not the man who raped the girl walking home from school. After all this time, a judge agreed that the prosecutor had abused his power, had abused his office and, in the process, had abused Ellis.
Ellis was of the mind that he was the only person in the world that believed he was innocent. Even those closest to him, at least to his way of thinking, had given up on him.
When the girl was raped, Ellis was cleaning the bathroom in his apartment across town. He had no idea that a few blocks away something was happening that would upend his world. He was just doing what he did every other Thursday afternoon. Using his day off to tidy up.
When the police came around to fetch him later that night, he was not in the best shape to meet them. Cleaning his place wasn't his only ritual on Thursdays, his day off. Another was drinking. The police found him drunk, and he made a real bad first impression.
Ellis couldn’t afford a lawyer, so the county appointed an overworked, inexperience public defender to help him. It was a classic mismatch, with Ellis on the wrong end of it. The prosecutor was running for re-election. And a pre-November conviction of a child raper made for great headlines and powerful ads.
Ellis stuffed the last of his things into the pillow case. He pushed down so he could tie the end closed. He did the same thing with the other sack. Then, he took a long, slow look around the cinder block cell. He ran his hand across the mortar. He pulled his fingers across the blotches of water that formed under the holes in the ceiling. He fondled the iron bars that crossed the small opening in the blocks to the walkway between the cells, the hole where they pushed food to him when he misbehaved and he had to eat alone.
The cell door was wide open; it had been all the while he packed. But he couldn’t seem to walk through it.
“You coming,” the one guard said, with a smile.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Ellis said.
“Well, come on out. You’re a free man.”
The guard swung the door open as wide as it would go, and motioned for Ellis to come out.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
Ellis grabbed the pillow cases, one under each arm, and moved through the doorway. As he walked down the hall, the others called to him and yelled to him and waved their hands through the small holes in the doors to their cells. It was some farewell.
When they reached the administrative offices, there was paperwork. Ellis stared at the wall while the forms were filled out and he signed everywhere that they pointed out for him to sign. At long last, the woman behind the desk gave Ellis a small bag with the things that he surrendered to them thirty-two years before. She asked him to check to see whether it was all there. He never opened the bag.
“It’s all there,” he said.
Ellis stuffed the small bag into one of the cases, and stood up. The warden stood with him. He approached Ellis and extended his hand. Ellis shook it.
“Now, Ellis, there are some reporters outside that are gonna wanna know how you feel, getting out after thirty-two years in prison for something you didn’t do.”
Ellis looked down while the warden spoke.
“You thing you’re gonna be okay with that?”
“I’d rather not answer no questions, warden.”
The warden looked at the guards and then back to Ellis.
“Who’s here to pick you up, Ellis?”
“Nobody.”
“Jesus Christ,” the warden said. “Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“What about your family, the kids, an old friend for Christ’s sake?”
“I ain’t heard from any of ‘em for over ten years, warden. I don’t expect I’ll hear from ‘em today.”
The warden shook his head and breathed a long sigh.
“All right. We’re gonna get you a ride and take you around those news people so you don’t have to talk to them, at least not right now.”
The warden shook his head.
“Not now, anyway. After that you’re on your own. Would that help, Ellis?”
“Yes, sir. It would help a lot.”
The warden motioned to two deputies to get a car, and pointed down the hall to the service exit.
“Take him anywhere he needs to go in the city. And take him that way. I’ll go talk to the press. That’ll give you time.”
“Thanks, warden. That makes things easier, at least for a while.”
“Good luck, Ellis. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Ellis nodded, with a funny frown.
The warden patted Ellis on the shoulder, nodded to the deputies, and turned to walk outside.
The warden spoke in front of the cameras while Ellis slipped out the back.
“What do you have to say to Mr. Troy today, warden?”
“That I’m sorry for the miscarriage of justice.”
“Why do you think it happened, warden?”
“I guess people like to believe the machinery works. Makes ‘em sleep easy. Makes ‘em feel safe after something that shakes their foundation. Maybe the perception of justice is too powerful a thing.”
He paused, and when no question followed he said, “bottom line, I have no idea why this happened.” He was lying.
Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone
All Rights Reserved
Ellis packed his things into pillow cases, as the guards stood careless watch outside his cell. Today, for the first time in thirty-two years, he would walk in the open and breathe air on the outside. These were things he had not done since the door slammed behind him on September 1, 1982.
The guards were happy for Ellis. A judge agreed, after all this time, that he was not the man who raped the girl walking home from school. After all this time, a judge agreed that the prosecutor had abused his power, had abused his office and, in the process, had abused Ellis.
Ellis was of the mind that he was the only person in the world that believed he was innocent. Even those closest to him, at least to his way of thinking, had given up on him.
When the girl was raped, Ellis was cleaning the bathroom in his apartment across town. He had no idea that a few blocks away something was happening that would upend his world. He was just doing what he did every other Thursday afternoon. Using his day off to tidy up.
When the police came around to fetch him later that night, he was not in the best shape to meet them. Cleaning his place wasn't his only ritual on Thursdays, his day off. Another was drinking. The police found him drunk, and he made a real bad first impression.
Ellis couldn’t afford a lawyer, so the county appointed an overworked, inexperience public defender to help him. It was a classic mismatch, with Ellis on the wrong end of it. The prosecutor was running for re-election. And a pre-November conviction of a child raper made for great headlines and powerful ads.
Ellis stuffed the last of his things into the pillow case. He pushed down so he could tie the end closed. He did the same thing with the other sack. Then, he took a long, slow look around the cinder block cell. He ran his hand across the mortar. He pulled his fingers across the blotches of water that formed under the holes in the ceiling. He fondled the iron bars that crossed the small opening in the blocks to the walkway between the cells, the hole where they pushed food to him when he misbehaved and he had to eat alone.
The cell door was wide open; it had been all the while he packed. But he couldn’t seem to walk through it.
“You coming,” the one guard said, with a smile.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Ellis said.
“Well, come on out. You’re a free man.”
The guard swung the door open as wide as it would go, and motioned for Ellis to come out.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
Ellis grabbed the pillow cases, one under each arm, and moved through the doorway. As he walked down the hall, the others called to him and yelled to him and waved their hands through the small holes in the doors to their cells. It was some farewell.
When they reached the administrative offices, there was paperwork. Ellis stared at the wall while the forms were filled out and he signed everywhere that they pointed out for him to sign. At long last, the woman behind the desk gave Ellis a small bag with the things that he surrendered to them thirty-two years before. She asked him to check to see whether it was all there. He never opened the bag.
“It’s all there,” he said.
Ellis stuffed the small bag into one of the cases, and stood up. The warden stood with him. He approached Ellis and extended his hand. Ellis shook it.
“Now, Ellis, there are some reporters outside that are gonna wanna know how you feel, getting out after thirty-two years in prison for something you didn’t do.”
Ellis looked down while the warden spoke.
“You thing you’re gonna be okay with that?”
“I’d rather not answer no questions, warden.”
The warden looked at the guards and then back to Ellis.
“Who’s here to pick you up, Ellis?”
“Nobody.”
“Jesus Christ,” the warden said. “Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“What about your family, the kids, an old friend for Christ’s sake?”
“I ain’t heard from any of ‘em for over ten years, warden. I don’t expect I’ll hear from ‘em today.”
The warden shook his head and breathed a long sigh.
“All right. We’re gonna get you a ride and take you around those news people so you don’t have to talk to them, at least not right now.”
The warden shook his head.
“Not now, anyway. After that you’re on your own. Would that help, Ellis?”
“Yes, sir. It would help a lot.”
The warden motioned to two deputies to get a car, and pointed down the hall to the service exit.
“Take him anywhere he needs to go in the city. And take him that way. I’ll go talk to the press. That’ll give you time.”
“Thanks, warden. That makes things easier, at least for a while.”
“Good luck, Ellis. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Ellis nodded, with a funny frown.
The warden patted Ellis on the shoulder, nodded to the deputies, and turned to walk outside.
The warden spoke in front of the cameras while Ellis slipped out the back.
“What do you have to say to Mr. Troy today, warden?”
“That I’m sorry for the miscarriage of justice.”
“Why do you think it happened, warden?”
“I guess people like to believe the machinery works. Makes ‘em sleep easy. Makes ‘em feel safe after something that shakes their foundation. Maybe the perception of justice is too powerful a thing.”
He paused, and when no question followed he said, “bottom line, I have no idea why this happened.” He was lying.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
The Link to My Non-Flash Fiction
http://www.amazon.com/The-Brit-Matt-Cairone-ebook/dp/B0053TZDO6
Here's what an English Professor from the University of California - Riverside said about the novella. He may not agree with the publisher's designation of the work as "existential", but he recommends it:
The Brit tells the story of the professional gambler, T.S. Fowler, and various people who encounter him during his short time in Las Vegas, Nevada. T.S., who is mostly called The Brit in the novel, has come to Las Vegas to improve his earnings at poker, which he plays for high stakes, as does his wife, and they both support themselves in this way. The Brit is not cheating or working any system besides luck and his knowledge of the game. But he gets so into playing that he hardly eats, pops amphetamines to stay awake, and drinks, with coffee or gin, depending on whether he wants to keep playing or to crash. On this particular visit to Las Vegas, he seems to be doing well in reconstructing his fortunes. He is strung out, but he still manages to keep up decent conversational patter, and when he does chat late one night with an attractive corporate lawyer, she is on her guard, but she likes him enough to give him her card. Meanwhile, in London, his wife Edith is trying to cope with a sense that her life has become meaningless. She visits a counselor and feels for the first time in a long time happy about her prospects and the chance of working things out with the husband, whom she realizes she hardly knows. During his second day, the Brit’s luck turns sour, and he almost instantly loses not only all his gains but everything he brought with him to Las Vegas. This sends him into a crazed spell in which he does some horrendous things, and the next thing Edith hears is that he is being held in a Las Vegas jail on an indictment for murder. Edith responds to his call and heads to Las Vegas with the little cash she has and no idea where to turn. In the meantime, the Brit has phoned the lawyer, Mary, explaining his plight and asking for her help. She says she will try to help him find an attorney, but she does nothing and he is appointed a public defender. That turns out to be an overworked but very competent and concerned young man, who helps the Brit to shape a defense. He calls Mary again, however, and asks her to help with his wife. Feeling guilty, Mary agrees to contact Edith and offer her a place to stay when she arrives in Las Vegas. The two women hit it off immediately, and the intensity of their feelings help them both deal with the crises surrounding them. I say “crises” because everything seems to go wrong. The judge rejects a plea—because he is upset that a Lockerbie defendant has been set free in Britain; there is an explosion at the jail; and Edith ends up returning to London alone. It is a simple tale, almost a long short story or a novella, but it is powerful and thought provoking in lots of ways.
Here's what an English Professor from the University of California - Riverside said about the novella. He may not agree with the publisher's designation of the work as "existential", but he recommends it:
The Brit tells the story of the professional gambler, T.S. Fowler, and various people who encounter him during his short time in Las Vegas, Nevada. T.S., who is mostly called The Brit in the novel, has come to Las Vegas to improve his earnings at poker, which he plays for high stakes, as does his wife, and they both support themselves in this way. The Brit is not cheating or working any system besides luck and his knowledge of the game. But he gets so into playing that he hardly eats, pops amphetamines to stay awake, and drinks, with coffee or gin, depending on whether he wants to keep playing or to crash. On this particular visit to Las Vegas, he seems to be doing well in reconstructing his fortunes. He is strung out, but he still manages to keep up decent conversational patter, and when he does chat late one night with an attractive corporate lawyer, she is on her guard, but she likes him enough to give him her card. Meanwhile, in London, his wife Edith is trying to cope with a sense that her life has become meaningless. She visits a counselor and feels for the first time in a long time happy about her prospects and the chance of working things out with the husband, whom she realizes she hardly knows. During his second day, the Brit’s luck turns sour, and he almost instantly loses not only all his gains but everything he brought with him to Las Vegas. This sends him into a crazed spell in which he does some horrendous things, and the next thing Edith hears is that he is being held in a Las Vegas jail on an indictment for murder. Edith responds to his call and heads to Las Vegas with the little cash she has and no idea where to turn. In the meantime, the Brit has phoned the lawyer, Mary, explaining his plight and asking for her help. She says she will try to help him find an attorney, but she does nothing and he is appointed a public defender. That turns out to be an overworked but very competent and concerned young man, who helps the Brit to shape a defense. He calls Mary again, however, and asks her to help with his wife. Feeling guilty, Mary agrees to contact Edith and offer her a place to stay when she arrives in Las Vegas. The two women hit it off immediately, and the intensity of their feelings help them both deal with the crises surrounding them. I say “crises” because everything seems to go wrong. The judge rejects a plea—because he is upset that a Lockerbie defendant has been set free in Britain; there is an explosion at the jail; and Edith ends up returning to London alone. It is a simple tale, almost a long short story or a novella, but it is powerful and thought provoking in lots of ways.
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