literateape

[literateape]

Love Curse — Part VIII: The Conclusion

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By Brian Sweeney

LEN AWOKE HANGING UPSIDE DOWN FROM THE CEILING IN SOME TYPE OF SMALL, DARK, BROKEN DOWN SHACK. An old hag was below him chewing off his fingernails. He tried to scream but realized that his tongue had been ripped from his mouth. The hag began to tear narrow strips of his flesh off of his back one by one. She suckled the blood and sweat from them before tying them around her fingers. When his back was nothing more than fleshless exposed musculature, the hag spit out the fingernails and used them to slice Len’s eyelids until they were shreds. The hag laughed and danced nude around the shack and then brought out a goat. The goat was put underneath Len and the hag began clawing at her own cheeks tearing out chunks of flesh. As the pieces of flesh fell to the ground the goat ate them. The hag looked up to Len, and he saw through the shreds of meat that were once his eyelids, that she no longer had any flesh covering her chattering teeth and lashing tongue. The goat then took the form of a man and twisted the hag’s head off. The hag laughed throughout the ordeal until her throat tore from her body. The goat stood in front of the upside down Len and looked deep into his eyes and said, “You shouldn’t have come here.” Len was found the next day, alive, lying in the graveyard beside his friends. They had all been turned inside out flopping and twitching on the ground unable to fully breathe or stand. Sara was never seen again.

#flash fiction #Chicago Fiction #Fiction

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Literate ApeCast Ep. 49 — Bleached Balls And A Wagon Wheel Coffee Table

Holy Confessional Nonsense, Batman! David wants to get rid of his wife’s car, Don’s wife decorates the home far better than he does, David gives us his wisdom about “Titties,” and Don is quite pissed off about the Russian manspreading activist.

And because you need something other than the horrors of Washington for at least a few hours, six things the boys recommend you occupy your time with before you take a bottle of bleach and start spraying on people’s nuts.

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Real Life Ghost Stories: Moon Point Cemetery

By J. L. Thurston

After a drive through the middle of nowhere, with little else to observe other than flat farmlands and the smattering of trees, I came to a little green sign that read Moon Point Cemetery.

Turning onto the rough gravel road, the car is forced to drive slowly. It brings a feeling of anticipation, like deliberately peeling back wrapping paper to savor the feeling of the unknown.

Though the road does not curve, it is impossible to see what lies ahead due to raised train tracks. The steep incline over the tracks reveals a land avoided by most. Old oaks gather together in a huddle. A narrow, mostly overgrown road trails inside the trees. It seems to say, “Come in. See what’s inside.”

It may not be inviting to some. But most of us have curiosities of the macabre, the strange, the dead. I’d been to this place before, years ago. During a girl’s night, my partially inebriated gal-pals were talking ghosts and one of them suggested we check out a creepy cemetery located about 20 minutes from our town.

Five of us piled into my car, filling it with laughing young women with nothing better to do on a full moon than ghost hunt.

I almost missed the little green sign that night. It’s quite inconspicuous. Back then I drove a Pontiac Grand Am and it weighed about 10 tons, so it handled well on the gravel. We were flying confidently down that road. I got a little airborne from the tracks, laughing at that dropping sensation of leaving my stomach behind.

But once we saw those old oaks, the feeling came over me. It’s one that I only feel when ghost hunting. It’s a jittery, glittery, soda-pop feeling of wanting to believe contact could be made with the afterlife without all that ridiculous Hollywood “If you’re there knock three times” bullshit.

I took out my Blackberry (this is before iPhones were invented, friends) and began recording. The drive through the trees was something I’ll always remember. The cornfields gave way to wild Illinois nature. Dead branches lay on the ground like severed arms, their twisted fingers pointing to the way we came as though to warn us to turn back.

A low, wire fence separated the world from the land of the dead. I stopped just at the entrance. Fear had begun to fill me. Maybe it was the full moon, maybe it was the drive, or the No Trespassing sign that did it. But none of us girls were brave enough to get out of the car. We teased, we pushed, we laughed, but ultimately, I had to drive into the cemetery in order to turn my beast around and get us back home.

We went back to my place to Google the cemetery. While the girls logged on, I replayed my video. At first, I was terribly disappointed. There was nothing on there besides the blackness of the night and the red glow of my dashboard. The footage was fraught with high giggles and youthful babbling.

But then a low, gruff, much darker voice grunted into the phone, “Leave. Leave.”

I listened to that video a million times. It’s distinct. Inarguable. Freaking awesome.

Years passed, and my adventurous days grew further apart as my workload increased. Girls nights became a thing of the past and my life has evolved to working, writing, and raising my family.

I love to write these Real Life Ghost Stories. I love asking others about their spooky experiences. The intensity that people have when they share with me the freakiest things that have happened to them is like seeing a side of them they rarely reveal. Today, I was going through my writing notes and I saw two words scribbled in the corner of my papers, Moon Point. But my little experience there alone wasn’t enough to make a story. So, what’s the go-to? Google.

And I was granted a holy shit moment.

According to ye good ol’ internet, Moon Point Cemetery has a legend of the Hatchet Lady. Long story short, the cemetery was founded in 1878 by Jacob Moon who fought in the War of 1812. It is full of ancient veteran graves, but also the graves of children and a guy who was murdered by an ax. But the Hatchet Lady is said to have gone crazy from the death of her child and guarded the grave with a hatchet to protect it. Even in death, she remains an eternal vigil of her child’s grave and, according to hauntedplaces.org, “has been heard yelling or whispering earnestly at visitors to ‘Get out!’”

I read this today and about pissed myself. It seems to me, years ago, the Hatchet Lady spoke to us.

This brought my mother and I on our little road trip back to the cemetery. She drove so I could take pictures. I wondered if it would be changed. I wondered if it would be too scary to get out. I wasn’t really planning on getting out, but my three-year-old in the backseat gave me no choice. She’s an odd little girl, just like her mommy, and wanted to walk around the gravestones.

I lovingly obliged. I snapped photos and breathed the fresh air. It’d been raining and more rain was approaching. The ground was soft, the only sounds to be heard were the laughter of my daughter and the breeze blowing high up in the trees.

As I walked, my foot caved in a little sinkhole over a grave. We decided to leave right then.

My photos turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and I’ll admit I did not record any video. If the Hatchet Lady wanted to have a conversation with me, I suppose I would have heard it without the noise of my friends’ giggles. Or maybe she saw my daughter and knew I wasn’t there for any harmful purposes.

Or maybe she only comes out at night. On a full moon.

I wonder when the next full moon is? Let me check my lunar calendar…

#Cemetery #Recording Ghosts #Hatchet Lady #Google #Girls Night #hauntedplaces.org #Haunted Places

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Love Curse — Part VII

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By Elizabeth Harper

I’M GLAD THAT CHANDELIER FELL ON ME. Ironically, for someone named Hope, I sure didn't have any—hope, that is. I had a cynical vision of my future with hubby Phillip.

What's a girl to do when she hates work, most people, and everything except shopping and watching Netflix? Con some dupe into marrying her. At least I was attractive. I had that much going for me, which came with some advantages. But there were disadvantages, too. Unwanted attention combined with commonplace sexism. Admired and dissed at the same time.  Annoying. With a ring on my finger, maybe most oglers would leave me alone, but then I'd be stuck with this one snoozefest of a dude for the rest of my life. And he wasn't that smart either. I would have to monitor his career prospects and financial transactions, so I would know when to divorce him and relieve him of his cash and assets before it all went south.

Death by chandelier saved me from a life of misery. It was a quick death. I didn’t have to bother coming up with my own suicide plan. Now I terrorize couples when I’m summoned from the grave. True love, pffft.

#flash fiction #Fiction #Chicago Fiction

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American Shithole #27 — There’s More Room for Billionaires on a Starving Planet

By Eric Wilson

It’s likely you’re in the vicinity of Chicago if you’re perusing Literate Ape, although I’m thankful for at least a handful of readers scattered about this expansive country; or (if you’re really lucky), you’re reading this from the comfort of your own highly-functioning social democracy — in another part of the world.

Yngve Ellingsen, please adopt me, my Norwegian friend! If you are enjoying this piece whilst on your comfortable, socially democratic Nordic toilet, I beseech you. I’ll even learn to love cross-country skiing, and Lutefisk.

I am envious of what I imagine to be your quite bearable lightness of being.

Alas, if you, dear reader (like me), aren’t slated to be adopted by a special person from a much safer, cleaner, smarter, kinder, gentler country, may I suggest voting in the upcoming election?

Maybe then, we could get back to building a kinder, gentler nation of our own? As it stands, we have an embarrassing mess on our hands.

Speaking of national embarrassments: have you seen the clips of the president this week as he was snickered at by all of the powerful people in the western world? Deservedly so of course, for touting his administration as the most accomplished in American history.

I’m certainly not mad they giggled — I wish the majority of U.N. dignitaries weren’t so deferential and respectful; they should have laughed harder and longer — they clearly wanted to. We all had a good chuckle.

I had hoped to see Trump’s face assaulted with flecks of spittle, as the United Nations General Assembly roared with laughter, strafing his boorish mug with errant saliva like some political version of a Japanese Bukake film.

What a wonderful image that is for me: the camera stays on a close-up, Trump declares himself the best president America’s ever had, we hear the crowd of foreign dignitaries rolling in the aisles, then Trump’s face is just mercilessly spooged with arcs of frothy sputum.

He was apparently, honestly surprised at the reaction. What a fucking ridiculous dunderhead we have for a president.

When I look in the rearview mirror at the tire tracks this administration has left whilst fishtailing this country toward every ditch it could find, I am reminded that (after roughly 20 months) it is quite possible they could run out of gas before they’ve caused irreparable damage to the chassis (infrastructure) or engine (economy); or at least before they kill everybody.

And don’t get me wrong, we are trailer-hitched to an administration traveling insanely fast in the wrong lane, through oncoming traffic, with a bunch of horrible assholes in the backseat, and a complete fucking narcissistic lunatic at the wheel.

This is why it worries me when influential friends of mine use their voice to opine that everything is going to be “OK” — because it has always (eventually) been “OK” before. This encourages complacency, and we cannot afford sane Americans sitting this demolition derby out.

Besides, the number of people clipped, side-swiped, T-boned, or completely totaled by this administration, is ever-growing. Make no mistake about it, your turn getting run over is coming — you need to vote; pretty please, with sugar on top.

Whatever state you call home, voter registration ends at its earliest, a month before an election. Online registration typically continues a bit beyond that.

Get registered — YES, your vote matters. You vote every day, and it matters. You vote with what you value. You vote with what you purchase. You vote with your every action of integrity. You vote, every time you stand up to a bully, or right any kind of wrongdoing in your community. You vote every single day; and right now your country (which is suffering terribly), really needs your voice and your vote.

Of course, that won’t stop the billionaires from wanting more (such is their lot in life), so I am not selling you salvation with your civic duty. All of this repeats itself, unless the value distribution changes — and that is largely in the hands of our elected representatives. There is no room for Tyrants any longer, my friends. There is no room for billionaires in a starving world.

Even our memory is being assaulted, have you noticed?

When have you ever known a time in which children seeking asylum in America that have died in custody (after being separated from their parents and imprisoned by our own government) to be just one of many stories of horror and shame we no longer consider headline news?

Think about that for a second, please. That story, along with all the others, washed away in the deluge of this administration — just like the lives of nearly three thousand Americans in Puerto Rico.

So much suffering in so short a time in our country, we can’t even keep track.

How many atrocities from this administration can you remember, dear reader? How many horror stories have faded into the woodwork while we’ve allowed this whittling fool to govern? How many school shootings have come and gone? How many scandals from members of the Trump team do you honestly recollect? How many officials has he fired? How many indictments, plea deals and convictions can you count in your head? How many dead black men have been ignored? How many teachers strikes? How many dead opioid addicts? How many emboldened misogynists, racists, bigots and zealots? How many ruined international relations? How many lies?

I certainly can’t remember half of what has happened, and I write about this shit — and on top of it all, everyone is in bed with Russian money.

I’m tired of calling it anything other than treason.

When this administration is finally in humanity’s rearview mirror (please soon, merciful universe) I think we will have discovered that the foundation of the United States of America, for all its faults, is solid. Change in a country of this size and diversity, is a measured, tedious process, even in times of great upheaval.

Our country may be on the road to ruin, but the chassis on this particular societal model is made of American mettle, as well as steel — and it was built to protect itself from just this sort of reckless driving.

My heavens though, the stress groans and tire squeals of this nation can be heard around the globe.

So please, take the time and vote in the midterms.

If you still need to register to vote for the November 6th elections, but aren’t feeling sufficiently motivated, let Samantha Bee pay you to vote. Full Frontal with Samantha Bee (Wednesdays, on TBS) announced a new initiative: an app that incentivizes voting. That’s right, download an app, have some fun, learn about voting and win some scratch!

Or perhaps to Robert Reich, you will listen. Check out Mr. Reich as he introduces Turnout Tuesday; one of his many efforts to get Americans informed, interested and registered to vote.

On Thursday, the day American Shithole posts, we will know the fate of Rosenstein and Kavanaugh (they sound like a comedy team from the 1950s Borscht Belt), which works for me as I didn’t feel obligated to write about Kavanaugh again this week — his existence on this planet fucking disgusts me — just thinking about him is akin to me being force-fed pickled beets while listening to modern country music and having some privileged frat boy hit me repeatedly in the nuts with a polo mallet.

So, it’s going to be a bumpy ride in the coming months, my friends. We either slam our collective foot on the brakes this November, or we let this fucking maniac drive us all off a cliff — or perhaps, just through several more ditches. Who knows.

Vote.  

#Trump #United Nations giggles #VOTE

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Notes From the Chippewa Moraine

By Kari Castor

If you’ve never woken alone in the middle of the night to the sound of a coyote screaming about 50 feet from your campsite, then drifted nearly back to sleep only to hear it cry again, closer this time, and then lope straight through your camp, you’ve missed out on a truly unsettled night’s sleep.

Even with nothing but a bit of nylon and mesh between it and me, I know that I’m in no real danger from a lone coyote unless it’s absolutely desperate or mad. I know I’m unlikely to be in any danger from even a whole pack of coyotes.

No, it’s not fear of the animal itself that is so unsettling.

It’s the sound.

You see, the sounds a coyote makes are designed to make every hair on the human body stand on end. I don’t know why. I don’t know why coyotes in particular have been given this honor by the universe, but these things speak with the wailing voices of lost souls trapped somewhere between hell and earth. It’s eerie, is what I’m saying.

Haunting as it is, it’s also a sound I love. I grew up in rural Illinois, and coyotes ran through the woods behind my childhood homes. I woke up many nights to the sounds of them howling in chorus, somewhere outside my open windows.

✶

These backpacking trips are an opportunity to get away from the world. Maybe more importantly, they’re an opportunity to get out of my own head.

When I am walking, counting the miles until camp, putting one foot in front of the next, I’m not thinking about work and all the things that have to be done in preparation for our big annual conference. I’m not thinking about the documents I need to edit and the missing content I still need to track down, or about all the other thousand projects I need to keep moving.

I’m not thinking about how my boyfriend is moving into a house with his other girlfriend, whom I am estranged from — a home that I will not be welcome in. I’m not thinking about the fact that I cried in my car the other day over the realization that I’ll probably never see his dumb cats again.

I’m not thinking. I’m just moving. No complex emotions to untangle and process, no problems to solve, no need to be anything other than alive. All I have to do is get from Point A to Point B. Drink some water, stay hydrated. Find a log to sit on and rest every now and then. Eat a Cliff Bar. Look, a frog.

✶

It’s hot, so much hotter than a weekend in mid-September is supposed to be, and I’ve been hiking for miles, dripping with sweat, backpack feeling heavier with every step. I’ve walked out from the shaded woods and through a prairie restoration area, and yes, sure, it’s pretty, but the sun is beating down on me and it’s so hot and all I want is to find the end of this sunny leg of the trail and get back into murky cool of the deep forest. That’s when I emerge from what little bit of shelter the tall prairie grasses — taller than my 5’2” — afford and see that my next step will take me onto a grassy field. No protection from the sun. No pretty prairie grasses. Just regular grass and clover flowers, like a thousand other unkempt grassy spaces I’ve seen in the rural midwest.

I stop, panting, leaning on the “Foot Traffic Only” crossbar that prevents dirt bikes and ATVs and the like from following my path back through the prairie. The forest is just over there, and I imagine how nice it will be to get back into the shade, but first I have to cross this stupid fucking grassy field. Steeling myself to stride across as quickly as possible, I take a few steps forward.

And then I see them.

The butterflies.

This whole stupid fucking grassy field is filled with little fluttering wings. Monarch butterflies, flitting from clover flower to clover flower.

And suddenly I’ve forgotten how hot it is, and I’m standing in the middle of this grassy field, the weight of my backpack forgotten, heedless of the sun, trying to take photos of the butterflies.

✶

There’s a footbridge over a lake, and halfway across I stop and look down at the lazy current of water flowing beneath it. It’s just a seepage lake — it isn’t particularly clear or inviting — but the day is hot and I’m hungry and I want to try out my new water filter and my feet are aching.

So I slip my backpack and my shoes off and plop down in the middle of a footbridge across a seepage lake in northern Wisconsin.

There’s some raccoon shit on the planks next to me.

The water is cold and soothing on my tired feet. The trail mix is good. The water through my filter still tastes like lake water. The breeze off the water cools my sweat-soaked shirt.

I should keep going and get to the campsite, I think. And then, why? I think. What’s the rush? It’s just after noon, and I only have a couple more miles to cover. I could sit here for hours and still make it to my destination in time to set up camp before dark.

I sit for about an hour. I don’t make my peace with the world. I don’t discover the answers to any difficult questions. I don’t forgive everyone who has ever wronged me or vow to apologize to everyone who thinks I’ve ever wronged them. I don’t have any grand revelations about the meaning of life.

I just sit and let my feet dangle in the cool water.

It’s enough.

#camping #backpacking #Chippewa Moraine #coyotes #butterflies #lake #Kari's annual Fuck Off Into the Woods trip

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The Minutes of Our Last Meeting – First Lutheran Church of the Trinity High School Assembly – New Dress Codes

By Joe Janes

First Lutheran Church of the Trinity High School Assembly – New Dress Codes

Wednesday, September 26, 2018, 10am,

The Father Lupnitz Memorial Gymnateria

In Attendance: Principal June Slater, Father Walter “Walt” Whipple,

the student body

Notes by office manager Helen Libben

Principal June Slater – Young ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Please be seated. Thank you. Now, before we begin with our announcement, Father Whipple will lead us all in prayer.

Father Walter “Walt” Whipple – Let us pray. Dear Heavenly Father, please bless us and guide us and keep Satan at bay by shielding us from impure thoughts and, mainly, deeds. May your appropriately placed hand, perhaps on our shoulders with plenty of warning that it’s coming, lead us to shepherd our young flock in living pure, holy lives devoted to the Almighty. That’s you, God. Amen. And, in the interest of equity, awomen. Hashtag: Thine, Too.

Principal June Slater – Thank you, Father. We are assembled today to go over new dress codes for everyone. (There are many unfiltered groans from the students.) Now, now. This is all done with you in mind. We care about your safety. Dress codes have been proven effective, I’m told. Unfortunately, we live in a time where, especially young women, are susceptible to unwanted attention from young men. Sometimes that unwanted attention goes beyond touching with the eyes and becomes touching with the devil’s fingers. Girls, those fingers will stain the nooks and crannies of your soul. And possibly ruin a young man’s future. We wish to avoid all that. So, ladies, it’s not as bad as you might think. You can still where skirts…as long as they are no shorter than mid-calf. The general rule of thumb here is “longer is better”. For tops, you can wear pullovers or blouses. Collars are fine. Necklines must not plunge. No plunging. Stable, level lines no further down than one’s clavicle. Turtlenecks are encouraged, but not mandatory. No jewelry. No tattoos. Hair must be pulled back or trimmed short, but not too short as to look like a boy. Painted nails are okay as long as the nails aren’t long and the colors are limited to muted pinks and reds. Makeup is okay, if used with tremendous restraint. Too much makeup will result in a detention. Repeated dress code infractions could lead to suspensions or dismissal from this fine educational  institution. Honestly, I wish I had these guidelines when I was your age. I wore a skort once and all the boys did all day was look at me like a slobbery dog looks at a juicy piece of meat. I felt really bad that I did that to them.

Father Walter “Walt” Whipple – Principal Slater, perhaps you should move on to the dress code for boys.

Principal June Slater – Oh, yes. The young gentlemen do not get off scot free when it comes to the dress code. Here we go. It’s no shorts, except in gym class or participating in sports. And no t-shirts with dirty words on them. There you go. That is our new dress code. Okay. That’s it. Please head to your next period class. Young ladies, on your way out, please pick up a “Fighting Triangles” sports cup from Father Whipple. These cups have spill proof lids. You are to use them exclusively in the -ateria part of the gymnateria. It helps prevent anyone from putting anything untoward in your milk or lemonade at lunch. Better safe than sorry.

#satire #comedy #Joe Janes #dress codes #High School #sexism #me #Me Too #sexual assault #victim blaming #Kavanaugh #Bill Cosby

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Love Curse — Part VI

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By Joe Janes

HOPE SAT QUIETLY. She noticed she had done that thing again. Where she disappears in plain sight. Her mind wondering how she got there. There was a champagne glass in her hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Marriott-Toledo Ballroom. Clear the dance floor! It is time for the bride and groom to have their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Phillip C. Love,” belted out Ned, the band leader.

Everyone clapped politely. Phil and Hope took to the dance floor and slow danced to what they said was their favorite song, “Crystal Blue Persuasion” by Tommy James. Hope liked the song, but had no idea what it was about. Phil hated to dance and felt this was the only song he could bear to rhythmically sway to. They didn’t speak. To an outside eye, it might have looked like two people in love nervously looking at each other during their first of a lifetime of dances. In truth, they had nothing to talk about. Everything in Hope’s mind sounded dumb. “Did you like the wedding? How’s your champagne? Did you try the babaganoush? Isn’t it weird we have babaganoush?”

The song ended. Phil stepped back from his newly minted  bride and bowed slightly.The cover band kicked into Huey Lewis and the News’s “The Heart of Rock and Roll” when there was suddenly a loud wrenching sound from above. Hope looked up and the last thing she saw was the glass chandelier rapidly heading towards her face.

#flash fiction #Fiction #Chicago Fiction

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Who are These Fucking Rapey Dudes

By Don Hall

A Supreme Court nominee is accused of attempted rape in high school and dangling his pud in front of woman in college.

The obvious political ramifications of the timing of the charges notwithstanding, the almost non-stop surfacing of violent, sex-crazed dudes from every corner of society is discomfiting, to say the least. The whole “boys will be boys” defense buys into an entire polemic that masculinity is somehow rooted in the cat-calling, aggressively possessive caveman attitude exhibited by boys and men (and manboys) who somehow believe this is acceptable behavior.

Sure, I’m not throwing stones too hard here. As a young man, and well into my thirties, the idea of using my junk to shock and offend in a prankster sort of way was standard (and hysterical to me at the time). I understand the argument that, in today’s way of thinking, intent is not important, only impact. The idea being that, if I pull out my nuts and ask “Is this your gum?” as a joke, it doesn’t matter if my intent was sexual — if you felt I was being sexual and it impacted you in that way, my intent is meaningless.

Full disclosure, I may understand the argument, but I think it’s horseshit.

Seriously, if you can’t see the difference between Al Franken making a “grab her tits” joke and a teenage Kavanaugh holding a high school girl’s mouth shut so he can stick his tiny man-root up all in her, you’re either a moron or you’re simply being intentionally obtuse. The only reason that otherwise decent men are on the ropes about #MeToo is that simple difference. That difference is about intent.

And that intent is out there. According to statistics from reputable studies:

Sexual Assault in the United States

One in five women and one in 71 men will be raped at some point in their lives

In the U.S., one in three women and one in six men experienced some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetime

51.1% of female victims of rape reported being raped by an intimate partner and 40.8% by an acquaintance

52.4% of male victims report being raped by an acquaintance and 15.1% by a stranger

Almost half (49.5%) of multiracial women and over 45% of American Indian/Alaska Native women were subjected to some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetime

91% of victims of rape and sexual assault are female, and 9% are male

In eight out of 10 cases of rape, the victim knew the perpetrator

8% of rapes occur while the victim is at work

If nothing else, and even if you decide these stats are skewed one way or the other, it is obvious to anyone not a dimwit that there is absolutely a problem to solve. So, who are these fucking rapey dudes?

The dudes who laugh at dick pics and get laughs showing off their balls? Not sexual predators. The dudes who ask you out for a drink after a seemingly benign conversation at a bar? Not sexual predators. The dudes who compliment you on your hair or clothes or weight loss? Not sexual predators. I know these guys. I’ve been the first and the second and I am the third.

But the dudes who yell across the street about a woman’s ass? The dudes who send unsolicited dick photos to women they barely know? The dudes who won’t take “no” for answer? These dudes are the problem. I don’t know these fucking dudes or why they think the way they do, so I took to Chicago’s streets to find them.

✶

Last week, I spent some time asking strangers (all men) if they were one of those fucking rapey dudes.

Fiftysomething white man on Wabash

He seemed angry to be even asked the question “Are you one of those fucking dudes who treats women disrespectfully on the street or are you all rapey?” He wanted to know why I asked him as if I had pulled him from a line-up. Once we got past the initial “Who the fuck are you to ask me that?” we talked for about 20 minutes about where “the line” was between admiring a woman dressed to be admired and being a rapey asshole. He referred to the women he sees downtown as “talent.” 

I asked him if he had ever been abusive or sexually suggestive to a stranger. Never abusive he said. He and his wife had some problems once. He does try to pick up women, though, and how do you indicate you want to pick her up if you can’t be suggestive?

Twentysomething black guy on State

The kid was more than willing to have the conversation as long as we could walk while we talked. While not an incel, dude was single and not dating. “It’s too much work. I was called a creep for asking a woman in a bar for her phone number. We had to watch this video about sexual harassment and did you know that they’re calling it harassment if I bump into someone’s…,” and his voice got quiet like when you say “cancer”, “…boob?”

This kid has become trained to fear contact with women despite any intentions he may have that are normal and, you know, not rapey.

35-year old white guy on State Street

This guy had never witnessed anyone cat-calling a woman, either. He found it disgusting and went on for 10 minutes about being a feminist. He “believed all women” even if he thought they might be lying because that’s “the only way to deconstruct the patriarchy.”

His canned SJW responses were all I needed to hear before taking a mime pistol and shooting myself in the left eye.

✶

I spoke to 17 dudes. All of them fit pretty neatly in the three categorical examples above: Kind of Creepy, Terrified of Women, and Full On Virtue Signaler. The Terrified of Women category was the winner by a nose in terms of numbers. Hardly a Gallup Poll. I once, a few years ago, went out and asked 100 random Chicagoans what they thought of Ian Belknap and not one person had heard of him. I also once went to Humboldt Park and polled 50 or so random people about whether they went to theater or not (mostly not). These exercises demonstrate how truly tiny our circles of perception are and also that I often just have too much time on my hands but at least I wasn’t sitting in a dark room playing Fortnite.

I think there’s a high likelihood that most men are in the second category. Not rapey and not faux feminists. Just guys trying to figure out the rules and hoping to have some consensual sex once in a blue moon. Like the cops, who are overwhelmingly law-abiding non-lethal keepers of the peace (check the data if you doubt me), whose integrity is stained by the 5 or 6 percent of them who are racist or vicious, or vicious racists, the broader category of Men can’t get away from the Weinstein’s and the Cosby’s of their gender.

Domestic abusers? Rapists? It’s all I have in me to try and find some sense of humanity in my reaction because it is in those moments that I understand the violence of a revenge fantasy film starring Nicholas Cage or the bloodlust of Dick Cheney. In my fifties I’m working on that deescalation thing with some success but having been witness to domestic abuse as a kid, it’s hard. Watching my friend not only get hit on by an older married dude at a conference and subsequently be told it was her fault for being social with him and then watching her have to work feet away from the dude but then being reprimanded by HR for having a heated conversation with him about it, it’s frustrating to be of no assistance to her.

The thing is I don’t encounter these guys most of the time. Perhaps it’s because I no longer hang out in bars much or attend sporting events. No one invites me to conferences. I did, however, just finish up a summer contract house managing Millennium Park where I managed concerts, movies, and festivals for over 750,000 people and only encountered three dudes exhibiting this sort of behavior.

My wife tells me it’s because I’m always moving. That if I stood still on any random street corner long enough it would just be a matter of time before I bore witness to that which is wrong those fucking dudes.

I’ve never met an incel, at least not a card-carrying one or one who admitted it, let alone a “He-Man Woman Hater.” I can’t think of a time when I was friends with a dude who thought it was anything but vile stupidity to cat-call a woman on the street or from a car. Granted, I quit theater years ago, don’t hang out much in comedy clubs and decided that the improv scene was far too much like high school so maybe I’m missing out on all the dripping toxicity of dudes who are doing everything they can to be seen as funny and cool in order to get laid, sometimes at any cost.

Back to that whole impact vs. intent thing. There is a difference between wanting better behavior from men and full-throated misandry, and if you can’t bring yourself to make the distinction, you’re not about solving things as much as you are about the economy of prestige you get from the angry mob. And you are not helping. You’re just noisy assholes screaming while the rest of us are doing the best we can to enforce the (new) rules that should’ve been enforced all along. 

Intent is equally as important as impact. Those fucking dudes are malicious in intent. That matters. The other guys? The Al Franken’s and Chris Hardwick’s are imperfect but with no malice. That matters, too.

#Bill Cosby #Rapey dudes #Al Franken #MeToo #Catcalling #toxic masculinity #intent #Kavanaugh #impact #Harvey Weinstein

[literateape]

I Believe… [The Real Resistance is Happening on Twitter and Fortnite]

By Don Hall

…that feeling anxious, victimized, or unjustly treated no longer makes you special or interesting. No, there are far too many people vying for that set of name tags these days. Maybe your many ineffective tweets at @therealDonaldTrump and Fortnite ranking does?

...that if you have participated in the call out, shout down, shame tactic of today’s mob swarming, then please do us all a favor and staple your gaping fucking maw shut when the other side does it to your heroes. The horrors of Pandora’s Box do not discriminate.

...that Iron Fist, season 2 is vastly better than the first season and it has more to do with Colleen Wing and Misty Knight than anything else. I am, however, getting tired of the reluctant hero trope. I mean, who wouldn’t want the power to make your fist a thing of iron?

…that the terms racist, prejudiced, and bigoted are not interchangeable.

…that Five Guys really does make the best hamburger in Chicago. Damn.

#callout culture #understand your terms #Iron Fist #new status #Five Guys Hamburgers

[literateape]

Love Curse — Part V

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By J.L. Thurston

LEN BEGAN TO CRY. Sara sighed an exasperated growl that came out more growl than sigh. The sound caused Len’s eyes to grow large. As large as full moons.

With his stupid haircut and his two full moon eyes, his face was ridiculous. She could kill him. Really kill him.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with Sara?” one of the other jerks gasped.

“Len, dude, what’s going on?”

He was looking to them for help now, pleading with his stupid face. Sara hated it when people ignored her. She snatched out to grab Len. To get his attention. She got it, alright, by squeezing his throat with her long fingers.

“Len, Leonard, or Lenny?” Her voice was not her own.

“Get off him!”

“Let go!”

“Sara, what the hell?”

Many hands were upon her. Len’s hands were slapping and grasping at her fingers and wrists. The others were fighting to pull her away from him.

They pulled her right out of the car, right onto the ground.

She was laughing. This was becoming a fun night, after all. This sure beats Netflix.

There, surrounded by gravestones, with the moon hanging heavy and close, Sara forgot everything her therapist ever said.

#flash fiction #Fiction #Chicago Fiction

[literateape]

Love Curse — Part IV

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

SHE IGNORED THE VOICE. “Len or Leonard, or do you prefer Lenny?”

He was confused, “Beg your pardon?”

“Beg your pardon? Who says that?”

“I say that when I need clarification.”

She hated people who needed clarification. “Do you need clarification often? Are you frequently confused?” He was lost and she didn’t care. She decided then to pursue his demise.

“I feel unsafe.”

“Unsafe?” She was unable to contain her sarcasm. “This was your idea. I wanted to stay home and chill.”

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

“Your aggressive questions. Your attitude. I can feel it.”

“Fuck you.”

“See what I mean? You’re hostile.”

She decided he needed some clarification. She slapped him across the face. “That’s hostile, we could have stayed home.”

“You hit me!”

“You’re no longer confused. Now, do you prefer Len, Leonard, or Lenny?”

#flash fiction #Fiction #Chicago Fiction

[literateape]

Literate ApeCast Ep. 48 — Eating from a Dog Bowl After Yom Kippur

On the eve of Yom Kippur, David tells us about he and brother’s ritual involving baseball , fasting, and a dog bowl, Don shares his lesson from the Special Olympics, and the opportunity for personal growth, the difference between a babysitter and a nanny, and the fact that Fortnite is causing divorces all come up.

Also, the chimps throw you six things to do to keep your otherwise meaningless days filled with distraction.

#Yom Kippur #Fortnite #Personal Growth #Mary Poppins #Margaret Thatcher #Robert Fulghum

[literateape]

I’m a Fool for You, Baby

By Elizabeth Harper

We love as much, as well as we are able, imperfect, broken, yet doing the best that we can, which isn’t very good at all.

We survive and dull the pain as well as we are able, by any means necessary, by any means available: alcohol, porn, heroin, hero worship, ice cream, donuts, chocolate, and marshmallows— looking for shapes in the clouds and meaning on TV.

We get off on our egos and our masochism. We want to think we are better than, or just good enough, or at least worth saving. We look for reasons to not give up.

I’m drowning in sorrow, in the salt water of my tears. If only someone could love me. If only I could believe in and trust the ones that do.

What do you do when your values and worldview are at odds with the whole world and everyone around you? Do you dream of a zeitgeist that could include you, of an influence that will survive you?

Get up in the morning, or in the afternoon, or in time to make it to the bar before last call. Cover your wounds with band-aids, your scars with makeup. Smile. Look happy. Pay attention. Feign interest. Search for a kindred spirit. Overshare and regret it later. Second guess every interaction. Wonder if there is an enemy in every new fast friend.

Love will find you and leave you, surprise you and befuddle you. You do the best that you can do, knowing it isn’t very good at all. Love is hope and hope is for fools. I’m a fool. I’m a fool for you, baby, but I don’t know who you are.

#fool #love #zeitgeist #bars #fast friends #ability #comfort

[literateape]

Notes from the Post-it Wall — Week of September 16, 2018

By David Himmel

• Most political news has become white noise to me. It’s hard to give it any real credence because it all feels like we’re living in a circus imagined by an LSD addict.

• I’m canceling my subscription to Esquire after more than a decade of being a loyal subscriber and reader. Since Jay Fielden became editor-in-chief, it’s become an apologetic magazine for angry feminists and their terrified husbands. Granted, the reporting and fiction is still of value but it’s become too hard for me to get past the loaded front half of the rag — even flipping through it — without getting annoyed or feeling talked down to. I’ll miss you, Esquire, but I’ve missed you for a few years now.

• Generally, I’m not a dumb person. But when it comes to matters of computer programming and modern-day file storage, I am one of the dumbest human beings on the planet. My level of idiocy is nerve-wracking and anger-inducing. Saving photos and music drives me to weep and drink.

• A day of good weather not spent on a boat under sail is a day wasted.

• I took my son to his first lit fest with the hope that it discouraged him from becoming a writer. And yet, I believe that any day at all spent not writing is a day wasted. My son is going to have a confusing childhood.

• I always want to be a better person. I always want to learn and improve from my mistakes. I always want to be a less frustrated, petty person who is easily annoyed. Attending Yom Kippur services at Temple Anshe Sholom makes that really difficult because watching a Jewish congregation in its dying days struggle to hold on after decades of poor choices makes me wish the place would just shut its doors, board up its windows and sell the building to the Baptists already.

#Post-it Notes #David Himmel #Temple Anshe Sholom #Southside Jews #Jewish Congregations #Fatherhood #Parenting contradictions #iCloud #GDrive #Esquire #Esquire Magazine #Jay Fielden

[literateape]

Love Curse — Part III

Fast & Short is a flash fiction collaboration between eight Literate Ape writers. Each was tasked with authoring one piece of flash fiction that would be combined to create a single short story. The writers’ flash fiction needed to serve two purposes: 1. Stand alone as a unique piece of flash fiction and 2. Serve as a vehicle for building a larger story and driving that story forward. Over the next two weeks, Literate Ape will publish all eight flash fiction stories individually with a link to the growing compilation. We hope you enjoy this literary experiment. —DH2 , co-editors

By Kari Castor

THE SEATBELT PRESSED UNCOMFORTABLY AGAINST HER NECK.

She liked Len okay, really. She just didn’t true love love him. They barely knew each other. They’d met on a Tuesday, gone home together on Wednesday, and by Friday decided to go all in on the whole “boyfriend/girlfriend” thing. She’d taken things slow with her last relationship, after all, and look how that turned out. She wished Len would stop letting his mom cut his hair and go to a real barber for fuck’s sake, but the sex was good and they got along smoothly enough.

But she’d forgotten about the full moon tonight, and Len didn’t know that it mattered because three and a half months with someone you like OK isn’t nearly enough time to spill your deepest, darkest secrets.

Gravel crunched like bone beneath the tires. The moon was out of sight, but she knew it was there, waiting, if she’d just tilt her head a little. She tried to collapse her mind in on itself like her therapist had taught. Narrow everything down to the mechanics of breathing: in, out, in, out…

“Sara?”

A car door thunked open. The world flooded back into her awareness with the moonlight through the breach.

“We’re here.”

#flash fiction #Fiction #Chicago Fiction

[literateape]

American Shithole #26 — A Remarkable, Unremarkable Day

by Eric Wilson

Imagine you’re standing in the middle of a busy airport. Passengers crowd past you in every direction. Looking up at the arrivals and departures; all flights delayed.  Suddenly, the entire board changes — rows and columns of numbers and letters flip with the familiar clickety-clack, clickety-clack of the old, analog displays — revealing only destinations on your bucket list, as the throngs of weary travelers part before you like the Red Sea.

That’s how I felt today.

“Oh, this is hopeful!” I had said to myself, hands on hips, staring down at my toes this morning, tapping in approval. The muscles, ligaments and tendons in my lower body that refused to function just weeks ago, quivered, but held.

“Nice job legs,” I whispered, “you too, feet.”

It’s been quite a remarkable, unremarkable day — here’s what happened:

It’s pretty nondescript really; I walked (back and forth between two rooms) in a way I haven’t been able to walk for years.

That’s it. Seems anticlimactic I’m sure, but I was told a very different story about how things were going to go for me and my shitty legs. In fact, my particular medical condition was expected to take a turn for the worse some time ago (it’s a degenerative condition, or so I’ve been told, repeatedly) with looming surgeries, recovery, blah, blah, blah; and yet today — here comes this ray of sunshine — slashing through dark clouds I once believed to be permanent fixtures on the shitty legs horizon.

It’s been so long, I had honestly — no hyperbole here — I’d forgotten what actual, bona fide, body-waves-of-joy, hope felt like.

So when I think back on my frustrating experiences with the privatized (read: for profit) healthcare system in America over the last 50 years, it finally occurs to me how thoroughly my generation has been brainwashed into believing we don’t deserve access to affordable, quality health care; unless it’s an absolute emergency.

“Walk it off, kid.” That was Boomer parenting mantra. We soaked it up. Instead, we should have been furious for decades.

Also, I trusted doctors; something I’ve likely been socialized to do, and that was a mistake. I foolishly thought they could all be held to the same level of excellence and accountability.

Sketchy medicos from Big Pharma funded pain clinics (they’re fucking everywhere now), or even just overworked physicians struggling to provide adequate care within an over-stressed system, are better met with a dose of skepticism, than blind faith — these are not the hometown general practitioners you grew up with that have a vested interest in your community, and have known you since you were in the womb.  

Far too many doctors took bribes from pharmaceutical companies to push OxyContin and other opioids, while others in the medical community looked the other way, or did too little too late. We are buckling under the weight of an addiction crisis that runs roughshod in crippling waves across this nation, and those partially to blame swore an oath to never knowingly, willingly harm patients under their care.

Yet here we are.

I was lucky enough to sidestep an intentional effort on a medical professional’s part to hook me on painkillers (I suggest that a pain doctor instructing me not to see a specialist about my condition, and instead just doubling my prescription strength to be an intentional effort), but it was only one sidestep in what turned out to be a seemingly infinite number of dance maneuvers required to navigate a healthcare system indifferent to the effects of profit on human suffering.

It wasn’t a week or two later I decided to tackle this sans opioids after two months. That was three years ago.

The details since aren’t particularly noteworthy — I will spare you what would most assuredly devolve into a tedious slog through a medical info dump — suffice to say, I no longer believe the American healthcare system provides for a patient’s best interests. I am a bit embarrassed I believed it ever did. It’s a betrayal that cuts deeper than the Trump disaster; a harsh reminder that all humans are slaves to greed.

All I know is that I have to double my efforts. I have to trust my instincts and keep working the physical therapy regimen I’ve developed for myself, and somehow find a way to succeed with my diet (fuck you diet, you sandcastle bully from salad-hell beach).

I need my energy levels up; writing about horrible people is exhausting.

During this past spring I felt fairly well-armed tilting at the windmills of the Trump horde — lobbing flaming paragraphs of cynicism and derision from the parapets of American Shithole, with the Literate Ape banner flapping furiously in the wind — but over the summer I felt I’d emptied the armory, and I’d been scouring the castle for weeks, raiding the larder even; looking for any pots and pans I could throw in desperation at the filthy barbarians still gathering at the gates of democracy.

“Look my liege, here’s a social media post you wrote two years ago, shall I lobeth it at thine enemy?”

“Well, throw it down the murder hole already, knave!”

“It’s just harmlessly bouncing off them, my king.”

“Well trebuchet some memes, do we have any memes?”

“All we’ve got left in the Armory are a few pages of poetry you wrote when you were but a prince…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake… okay, throw it at ‘em…what’d they do?”

 “They’re mocking your shitty Haiku from freshman English, m’lord.”

My poetry from high school deserves to be mocked, by the way. It was fucking terrible. I’m not being faux self-deprecatory either, I am one of the worst young writers of poetry I have ever read. I’m tempted to track down the one that went into the senior-year program, which — if I remember correctly — lifted heavily if not entirely from Bono. I just don’t want to ever feel like I am phoning it in; and it’s not as if there’s a shortage of topics for this column, it’s just that the people I typically cover are revolting, and telling their stories makes me feel dirty and shitty and soulsick and grumpy — so some weeks I just want to make it easier on myself and not do that; which in turn, makes me feel like I’m copping out.

Then, today happened. I felt so focused; not only on the reemerging possibilities for a better quality of life, but on the awesome, terrifying power our failing health wields over us all — and the relative insignificance of other challenges we face.

Everything else I had been worried about faded into the woodwork this morning when I felt the weight of disability replaced with the possibility of recovery.

I am thankful, humbled, and hopeful.

I don’t know if this is some sort of medical “Indian Summer” I’m experiencing, and frankly, I don’t care — I could wake up hobbling my way to the coffeemaker tomorrow, just like I have for years now, and still be a mostly happy fellow. Either way, I am energized by the experience, and I wanted to share that with you. I don’t care about Kavanaugh, that rapist fuck; I’m glad I didn’t write about him this week. We’re going to get it all back, I can feel it. I walked twenty feet today without looking like an afterschool special. Fuck him. Fuck the lot of ‘em — greedy, old, crusty motherfuckers.

We’re going to get it all back, and then some.

#hope #writing #Big Pharma #for profit healthcare