Kerlak Enterprises - Reading Room

Best of Memphis edited by Jeff Crook

"The Dead Money" by Beth Boyett
"Theft" by Lori D. Johnson
"Silas Brown's Funeral" by FeLicia Elam
"The Journals of Dr. Albert Dewey" by Barbara Gatewood
"Paladin" by Mike Duncan

"The Dead Money" by Beth Boyett
   The first thing George Chuang saw when he entered the kitchen was A-Ma’s five-dollar bill folded into the shape of a crane and reposing on the dappled surface of the dinette table. The paper bird’s body was tipped back upon its wings, the position angling the tiny beak forty-five degrees skyward. But the wings drooped at their creases, suppliant to the god of wind, prescient to the impossibility of flight. Nevertheless, A-Ma had aimed the bird toward the window above the kitchen sink. George imagined his grandmother’s logic, as fractured as her English words, “If don’t fly will swim!"
   George had to hand it to A-Ma- that morning the bird had been a coy serpent, curled about his breakfast spoon. When A-Ma had turned away to do the dishes, George had crushed the snake under his cereal bowl lest he be bitten once more by her request.
   "Take! Take!" Since his grandfather had died two months previously, A-Ma was always forcing food or money on George, while she took nothing and grew as slender as the bamboo stalks that had once protected her cabbage beds. George flipped on the light and checked behind him before taking up the crane in his palm. Sometimes he caught A-Ma hiding in the shadow of the doorway when he came in from the night shift at Taco Bob’s. She would appear in the darkened hallway in her white nightgown resembling one of those little Christian ghosts George had seen at the St. Anthony’s nativity play- "angels" they were called. But his grandmother’s face would become pinched as she strained to see him, her eyes blind to the knowing joy of their little neighbor friend’s vision. In the play, the neighbor child had worn a crown of gold and had exclaimed, "Behold!" in a way that had thrilled George’s whole being, though he could see nothing in the darkness where the child had pointed.
   It was at that moment, when the light hit him and she marched triumphantly out of the shadows on her baby feet, that George would wish he were not his father’s eldest son, forever indentured to his grandparents, protector in their dying days.

"Theft" by Lori D. Johnson
   "Lord have mercy if that ain't a partnership birthed in blood and destined for an unholy end" is what I grew up hearing Big Mama say 'bout the bond between me and my cousin Ray-Ray. According to her, it all started at the party my folks threw for me when I turned three. Big Mama say, I'd just finished ripping open the gifts and was 'bout to swoop down on my second serving of cake, when Ray-Ray, who wasn't but a couple of months from being three hisself, walked over and bashed me dead in the forehead with one of my new Tonka toy trucks.
   I ended up blacking out, bleeding all over the place, gettin' stiches and the whole nine. 'Til this day, my Dad still gets pissed whenever Big Mama or some of the rest of 'em brings it up. But me, I guess I just ain't never been one for holding that kinda grudge. Matter of fact, every time I pass by a mirror and see the scar, I can't help but break into a smile.
   Even though I was the one with the pocket full of Washingtons and the taste for something sweet, it wasn't my idea to go up to the store that day. Ray-Ray talked me into it, just like every other thing we ever did together, good or bad.
   That's my problem, according to my Dad. I'm too easily led. "If a house was 'bout to burn down and Ray-Ray said, 'Come on dog, we can do this,'would you even think twice about following him into the flames?" is what my Dad had the nerve to up and ask me one time.
   Walk into a fire? "I might be stupid, but I ain't crazy," is what I wanted to tell him. Now I wonder. After all, I did up and follow dude into the water that time.

"Silas Brown's Funeral" by FeLicia Elam
   Ruth Hightower knew something was wrong by the way Wilma was driving. She never drove that fast, at least not on their road. She could see the car crest the hill and barrel toward the house. The green LTD fishtailed a couple of times as gravel churned under its tires. A trail of dust followed it like a whirlwind. Something bad had to happen for her to drive like that, Ruth thought to herself.
   She watched the car skid into the driveway. Wilma jumped out of it as it rocked forth and back to a stop. Ruth saw her waddle up the steps and push through the front door as she knocked on it. The whirlwind of dust turned into a long, faint cloud as it crept toward the house like a shadow. She hurried to finish hanging the clothes on the line before it reached her and coated them.
   Ruth soon heard voices drifting through the screen window and into the backyard. Wilma’s high-pitched voice was an octave higher and came out in rapid fire. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, except her mother’s “say whats” and "girl nos." By the time Ruth had pinned the last sock with the last clothespin, they were deep into their conversation. She sat on top of their car, clothesbasket over her knees and listened.
   "That woman worked him to death," Ruth heard Wilma say through the screen window. "He wasn’t used to working a factory job, let alone overtime."
   Something must have happened to her uncle Silas. Her chest tightened around her heart. The clothesbasket slipped out of her grasp, dropping to the concrete floor making a hollow, plastic thud. She moved quickly to retrieve it before it bounced a second time, betraying her presence.

"The Journals of Dr. Albert Dewey" by Barbara Gatewood
February 2, 1903
Today, I received new orders from the Brotherhood of Maat, which will require that I be away from my gentle young bride for a short time. The executive board is quite concerned about a situation in Memphis, Tennessee. A Brotherhood scholar and practitioner of the arts of sorcery, Dr. Justin Moody, has failed to make his last two monthly reports. Although the final report received indicated no problems, just prior to that were several reports that gave them concerns about Dr. Moody’s state of mind. Specifically, there were several allusions to a beautiful woman who he believed to be whispering to him. Further, Dr. Moody was certain that an unknown group of people was watching him for nefarious purposes. The recent loss of his wife may have made him susceptible to the evil that he studies. The board has instructed that I ascertain if Dr. Moody has been lost to dark forces. If he has, how did it happen? It is our profound hope that Dr. Moody may be saved, whatever the problem. Above all, I must contain or destroy the evil, if it proves to exist.
I will be partnered with Dr. George Green, a fellow student of the dark arts. His area of expertise differs from mine, in that Green is a student of ancient religions and a psychical researcher, whereas I apply the scientific method to strange phenomenon. It is my belief that Dr. Moody’s disquieting statements, followed by his failure to file the required monthly reports, will prove to have a logical or scientific basis. My view is not popular; perhaps that is why Dr. Green is to accompany me on this mission. But he seems to be a reliable fellow, like myself already quite knowledgeable in the ancient ways of dark magics. Together we are to stay with Dr. Moody under the pretense of doing final understudy with him as our mentor in the dark arts.

"Paladin" by Mike Duncan
   The man on the horse had been riding for a long time, and eight-year-old Luther was the first soul to see him. The boy was in a high tree, looking down and around on a hot summer day when he saw the dust on the road and the hazy, sunblurred form on horseback. His eyes were sharp and the day was clear, the sky light blue and without any white cotton running through it. Luther turned his head to the huddle of old cabins behind him, but something held his tongue - what, he didn’t know.
   The man had on a short gray coat like the Southern soldiers had worn in the war, but it was open in the front and there was no short-brimmed hat or dangling yellow tassels. The beard was matted and thick and the face hidden by tangled brown hair; the form sagged in the saddle, just barely hanging on. The roan looked no better. Thin and tired, it wheezed and foundered in the soft mud of last night’s rain.
   When the man toppled from the horse, Luther thought he was dead. The horse just stood there, the reins dangling, and did not nudge the fallen form or even move its head. Its thin legs swayed, about to follow. Luther piled out of the cottonwood tree, ran through a thick patch of green clover and then across the fields. He saw that Sorrel, the old field hand who had been out in the east fields, was coming as well. Luther took the reins of the jittery, trembling horse before the stern gaze of the older man waved him away.
   "Bleedin’ from his middle." Sorrel said. "Get Lorietta, have her bring some water, someone else to carry him. That horse ain’t gonna carry him." Luther saw the dark red stain on the white man’s shirt. He nodded hurriedly and ran.
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