Passover with the people I love

My grandfather Benny was quite a character.  Every Passover he would speed through the entire Hagadah and half mumble the Hebrew words in a kind of sing song mumbly chant.  When I was little it was both a pleasure and a torture.

My parents would drive us down from upstate New York down to Brooklyn.  We would be wearing our most uncomfortable nice clothing and new that we would have to sit for two to three hours before we could eat.  The before meal part of the seder seemed to go on forever for a nine year old boy, the smells of the brisket, matzah ball soup and flanken were torture, but then it would be my turn to read the “Ma nish tana” (The four questions).

I may be a lapsed Jew and a secular humanist, but getting together with my friends now that I’m an adult is a bittersweet thing.  The service now goes a lot faster but I sure do miss my grandpa and grandma and I sure do love my friends.

A blast from my past. A couple of paintings that talk about relationships!

Write a story about B.B. Gunne and Win the Drawing on the Right

Write a story about B.B. Gunne and Win the Drawing on the Right
The contest closes Monday April 25th, 2011 

B.B. Gunne 10"x8" oil and mixed media on masonite

B. B. Gunne

Click on pictures to enlarge
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The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.  There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu


Entries for this contest may be used in a future show.  

Renovated Reputations is the result of an internet blogging project in which paintings and assemblages based on vintage and antique vernacular photography are the inspiration for short fiction.

The impetus for this project is based in a solo show of paintings in I am having at ArtHaus Gallery in San Francisco in April through June 25th 2011. 

The show is called
Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs.
at ArtHaus 411 Brannan Street  San Francisco, CA  94107
415-977-0223 
www.arthaus-sf.com

Download the draft of Tabloid Newspaper catalog as a PDF.
Here's a link to the free newspaper style catalog as a pdf:
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/Renovated_Reputations_Mencher.pdf

Here's a link to the book:
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/Renovated_Reputations_Mencher_Book.pdf
(This is about 5MB so if you are using firefox it may stall.  You can right click and save or use explorer.)
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The Shooter by Patrick Nelson

"All right now son, just line the rear sight up with the front one until they are together and the tops are flush" the sheriff said in my ear. "Now just take a deep breath and  squeeze the trigger when you exhale."

        He always called me son; when he watched me mow his lawn, or work in his garden or when we finally got around to the one thing I waited all week for: shooting his bb guns. I was not his son. I was his neighbor ever since he moved into his mother's house after she died. It made me miss my father bad when he called me son. I did not like that, but at least he did not call me Bobby Boy. That was what my dad called me.

        I exhaled and when I breathed in I pulled the trigger.

        The Daisy Ninety-nine Champion was the most powerful of the four rifles my neighbor had. Its accuracy was good, but that was traded off for comfort and easy reloading. The last coke bottle I had put on the fence separating our yards tilted to the side and spun around finally falling like a drunk clown. Like my neighbor the sherf. That is what we called him, Momma and I. His real name was Kendrik Lawson. He was the sheriff in our town for going on twelve years here in the middle of Missouri. He would always say: "I been sheriff here for longer than you were a dirty little thought in your daddy's mind."

        I hated when he talked about my daddy, too. I hated him and his sweaty fat body, his sour liquor breath, his stabby whiskers and what he made me do with him just so I could shoot his daisys.  He would keep them all in a cherry cabinet in the parlor of the old house he inherited. He had real guns, since he was the sheriff, but they were all kept in the basement. Momma didn't know what sherf made me do aside from the stuff she could see, but I wanted to shoot the guns too much to tell her.

        After all the work and other things were finished he would set the cabinet key on the table, pour us lemonades and we would sit in front of the rifles behind the glass door and he would tell me about how when he was a boy he had a neighbor much like himself who would teach him about "the things a man needed to know" because his own daddy, like mine, had passed away. He would say things about the other neighbor boys that he had taught to shoot over the years as well. I listened to about half of what he said. I just wanted to shoot.

        I was a good shot. I did not need some dirty old man to tell me that. I had once shot a rabbit in one eye and out the other. It dropped to the ground like a sock full of fishing weights. Sherf said he was impressed but I waited till we finished shooting, cleaning and storing the guns to run home and cry. That poor bunny did not deserve to die for sport. I cried all night till I fell asleep. I did not want him or anyone to see that. I swore I would never aim those daisys at another living thing again.

        As well as the real reward of shooting all the guns I thought I would never be able to own, sherf would pay me a little for the chores and other stuff. It was never enough, but the guns made up for a lot of it. One day it struck me that if I kept some back from what the man gave me, I may finally be able to tell sherf to take a hike if I bought my own gun. Momma said that would be ok so I started saving up.

        Sherf said if I ever told anyone what he did to me alone, they would send me away and I would never see any of my family and friends again. I already would never see my daddy again. I did not think I could stand that. The things I had to do with sherf I will not mention here. If I were to do so, you would be sad for me. You would not be able to forget and I wouldn't want that. It is bad enough that I did them and cannot forget. But do not feel bad for me because I know one day I can get away from sherf and have my own gun.

        Yesterday cousin Georgie and I went to the sporting goods store. I gave him my money and he bought me an air rifle. He is eighteen so he could sign for it. Momma doesn't know and neither does sherf. I took it to the ball field behind the school and practiced. It was much more powerful than sherf's it had a velocity of six-hundred and twenty-four feet-per-second. It was a Crosman. I bought it because of those things and because it could shoot bbs soft lead pellets too. The pellets were more expensive, but I did not intend on wasting ammunition.

        I had gone through a lot and waited long enough. I had my own gun now.

        I went to sherf's house. He was mad at me for being late. I had my rifle behind my back as he opened the screen door then turned and went into his bedroom. The screen door slammed behind me as I heard him yell "since you were late today, you're gonna have to mow the lawn tomorrow as well as the gutters. Now get in here. You kept me waiting too long already."

I had already loaded the pellet and pumped my rifle before I set foot on the property. Ten pumps meant I had one shot. I walked in and took aim.

        Sherf had a look of surprise as he yelled "where'd you get that gun, son?" I took careful aim as he said "that ain't one of mine."

        "Yeah, I know. It's mine" I said as I inhaled and pulled the trigger.

        I have told you that I was a good shot, today was no different. As far as what I swore to after the rabbit, well this was not a daisy, it was a Crosman.

        Sherf ended up moving after he got out of the hospital. The talk of the town is after some kind of blood poisoning, he had to have some kind of amputation, whatever that means.

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This came in by email:

BEEBE, ARKANSAS, JANUARY 2011 by Dee Turbon

It was Ben’s idea. He said he knew a place. He’d been watching it for weeks. It was a short ways above the town. A knot of trees there with their black fingers clawing the sky and thousands of red-winged blackbirds roosted there. Be like shooting fish in a barrel, Ben said.

We set out under the cover of Friday night. No moon was in the sky, just rolling clouds and a scowling dark. There was Ben and Fritz and Tilly and me. We slipped over back fences, quiet as shadows and as quick, not daring to step into the street out front where the yellow of the streetlights made pools of brightness. Ben led the way and he brought us after him with whispers and his free hand tugging at our sleeves if we lagged behind.

Up out of the town we crept, till we were clear of the houses and there was no more need for quiet. Tilly dared to ask why we were doing this. Said it seemed silly somehow. Pointless. Well, Ben threw a hissing fit then. Said she was just a girl and she could go back if she was scared. Tilly said it wasn’t that. Then Ben told her to ‘fuck off’, punching the air with the words. I laughed. I shouldn’t have, but Ben saying those words, it seemed kind of silly. Like they didn’t fit. Like he was playing at being bigger than he was.

We might have stood there all night, except Fritz spoke then. He said there was a storm coming and we’d better get a move on. He was right, too. The wind was picking up, carrying the moans of dead soldiers on the air – that’s what my mom would say if she was there. I don’t know why she said that.

So, we pressed on and walked a while in silence again, feeling the wind pushing us forwards, and the sky seeming to fall on our heads. I thought of Chicken Licken and I laughed again, to myself this time.

It was just as Ben had described when we got there, except the noise of the trees as they thrashed about, the crack of their trunks and the click and click of their fingers. Ben said we should load up and we’d fire on his count. Just fire into the air, he said, into the trees above our heads. We’d be sure to hit something. There were thousands of them, the trees seeming to be full-leafed when they were really winter-bare.

Like fish in a barrel, Ben said again. And I was with Tilly and what she’d said before and not really knowing why we were there doing what we were doing.

Sudeenly there was a jagged blue white flash of lightning and we fired into the sky, and one or two birds fell heavy in the dark around us, and thunder rolled over us grumbling and groaning. We reloaded several times and got off several more shots before the rain began falling. Great gobs of rain mixed with stinging hail and the air cold as clouds. Then there was a new sound, a beating sound, the noise of a thousand thousand feet scuffing out of church, and it was like the air was being sucked from where we were, and Tilly screamed, and Ben said fuck again and this time I did not laugh.

We ran all the way back to town, as fast as running could in the dark of that breathless night, as fast as running could through the knotted dead grass and the dry tangle of fallen ferns. And when we got back to where we had begun, our chests sore and our legs sore, too, well, the strangest thing happened then. I don’t have an explanation for this and I ain’t told no one about it, except it’s in the news and everybody’s talking about it. But suddenly there were things falling out of the storm-laden sky, small parcels of feathers and bones, red-winged blackbirds with their wings folded and they fell onto the roofs of houses and the bonnets of cars and onto the yellow-bright grass lawns out front. The newsman on Saturday said there were a thousand dead birds all over the town. They fell everywhere. We were finding them for days afterwards. I looked at Ben at school on the Monday and he put one finger across his lips and he did the same with Tilly and with Fritz. I don’t know what we done. We maybe fired off a dozen shots between us and now there’s four thousand blackbirds reported dead in Beebe, Arkansas, and people are looking for an explanation and finding none. I just don't know.

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This came in by e-mail:

TURNIN A BLIND EYE by Dee Turbon

BB, not normal they said. A look in him that was dark. His hair cut crooked and one corner of his mouth pulled so that his smile was never straight. There was a devil in him, they said. Afterwards they said it. After what he done, even those that didn’t say it, they all thought it. All ‘ceptin Daisy. She said it was a sin against God to talk of the boy in that way. It weren’t his fault, she said. It was the fault of his momma, and when Daisy said it the congregation after church all nodded and were ashamed and felt bad for the boy. She done this to him, said Daisy. His momma made him what he is, and he done what he done without knowing what it was.

BB’s momma was a woman who entertained men for money. That’s what they said. Dancin and drinkin and whorin. That’s what they said was goin on behind the curtains of her house, lights burnin late into the night and music playin and drunken voices raised in somethin like song, and BB left to fend for hisself. And it was old ma Haggerty that took him in some nights and gave him a hot meal and a place to sleep. She washed his shirts too, and cut his hair best as she could, and taught him to read nights, and then he went and done what he done.

No one was sure who the boy’s pa was. Could have been a whole string of men. Why even Mr Correll, the mayor, had been seen leavin her late-night house in the months before the boy was born. And Mr Matthews, the school teacher, too, and even Squint the beggar who sits on the corner of main street with his tin cup rattling for pennies. I been myself once, when I was somewheres between bein a boy and a man and a few dollars in my pocket and a drink on me. I don’t know as how it was for the others, but she took my money and held my hand and let me kiss her and that was all.

And we is all to blame, Daisy said, and when she said it I thought maybe she was right and I tried to think of the part I had played in what happened, the few dollars I had given over to the boy’s momma. Who’s to say that wasn’t the few dollars that she bought the gun with? Just a few dollars and maybe they was my dollars.

I saw him sometimes, BB shootin tin cans off a fence, sendin them spinning in the air, the crack and crack of the gun and the clatter of the can, like a dull bell. He shot a bird once. A red-winged blackbird it was. Shot it mid song. Hung the dead bird like a pretty trophy on the fence, its wings spread wide so you could see the red and yellow and black of the feathers. Old ma Haggerty tried to teach him right from wrong, gave him a whippin, and she took him to church after the shootin of the bird and he knelt on the stone step at the front, prayin, and he did not get up again until the church was emptyin. Made no difference. He was back shootin cans on the Monday, and he put one in the butt of Squint’s mongrel cur and nothing was said about that.

Kids at school gave him a hard time some days. Kids is kids, you know. But thinkin back somethin shouldda been done. He was in scrapes with boys bigger than him, all the time he was, and he spat and kicked like a wildcat, no controllin him, and old ma Haggerty wiped the blood from his nose when he came home cryin and she put ice on his swollen cheek or his eye. And she went up to the school some days, doin what a mother oughtta do. But kids is kids, and they didn’t leave him alone. They'll leave him be now though.

BB, maybe a devil in him, maybe his mother to blame for what he did, maybe we all to blame like Daisy said. He took his gun last Friday and he went to school and he shot up the place, and Mr Matthews lost an eye, and two girls in crumpled dresses lay bleedin, and a boy that had said something bad about BB’s momma he was dead. And afterwards a deathly hush over the town, and not even the birds had songs, it seemed. And we all thought bad things about the boy, at first we did, and it took Daisy sayin after church that we is all to blame for us to think different, and maybe we is to blame, for turnin a blind eye like we did.

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Patrick Nelson the winner of the Morry Eale Contest

Buy this on Etsy $250

Cast Away by Patrick Nelson
 

         I have never had a hangover before because I do not drink. I never drank, that is, until last night. If this is what a hangover feels like, I will never drink again. I will remove my eyeballs with an oyster knife, drop them in a beaker of hydrochloric acid and gargle with it before I do this again. My eyelids will not cooperate with the panicked message I send from my brain. Maybe said message is going to my pelvic muscles because I think I just urinated on myself a little. There we go. The lids seem to be stuck together slightly, making it harder to open them. A little more. It’s like some kind of sticky eye goo. No, that’s not the right word. I am a marine biologist damn it! Mucous, that’s the word. 

         With a pain that is somehow stinging in the back of my head and throbbing dull in the front all at the same time, I begin to focus on a sideways image of a room with white flowing curtains and a naked woman’s back. I am on my side I surmise. I am laying next to a naked woman in what I presume is her bed. I try to make no movement that is strong enough to jiggle the bed as I reach down to feel my lower body.

         I, in addition, have no clothes on.

         I am reminded in this situation of a Mission Impossible episode. Someone must have drugged me, taken me to this location, undressed me and is trying to make me believe that I have been kidnapped. Oh my God! I cannot remember my name! Wait! Morry! Morry Eale!

         My word that frightened me. Now some of last night’s events begin to bully themselves into the arena of earthly delights that is my consciousness. Oy vey. I say bully, for at this moment I want nothing inside my cranium but calm and very little pain.

         What a night. I think. I remember the gentlemen's club that I went to on the pressured invitation of the other gentlemen with whom I work at the lab. We were attending Marcus' "bachelor party". I have never attended a party such as this but after searching the internet, I was soon familiar with the custom. I dare-say Marcus' party would pass beyond the normal stereotypes of debauchery and hedonism even in the glamorized Hollywood sense. Real images and sensations, however, filled my mind as they recurred to me. The pain was already quite intense, but now the emotions: camaraderie, bliss, wanton lust, anger and yes, even rage all began to swim together in the blood red and murky brown of my skull and push against the edges of my psyche. 

         A hellish klaxon suddenly burst through my caustic reverie and I thought I was immediately being whisked before the creator to answer for my blatant disregard for the life he had given me. It turns out it was just an alarm clock on the table next to this woman on the bed. I believe I may have whimpered something to the effect of "please God, father of us all, make it stop" but I could be mistaken. It continued for a few more seconds but in my condition it seemed like the clock itself had become another living thing which chose to pull and stretch all the tendons and muscles away from my neck and head and was now drawing a sinister bow across the taught membranes to create this dreadful symphony. I was a mere second away from clawing my way across this nubile beauty next to me to end the very existence of the torture device harping there.

       She beat me to it. She stirred and hit the button. I never loved someone so unconditionally in my entire life. It seems my brain had earned back some of amount of trust from my eyes. With ever widening slits, I took in a little more of the scene: the crisp, white sheet cascaded over the woman's lithe legs and rear end, revealing the cleavage of her buttocks and toned, tan back and shoulders. No tan lines anywhere. She had an impressive mane of luxuriant auburn hair that had undulating curls that reminded me of the waves that trailed a spoon in a bowl of chocolate mousse. I was an amateur chef as well. The sun slicing through the window silhouetted some circles of her hair and glistened through. My eyes traveled down from her head and settled on the small of her back. She had a richly detailed series of small fish scales tattooed in a fanning pattern. They started in a small vee at the fourth vertebrae and spread outward and upward. The color range was amazing: rich blues, frosty greens even blending into bright oranges and reds. Japanese in its stylism, it appeared to be a work in progress, but on her it was stunning and mesmerizing almost as if she where one of the fabled race of merpeople here to lure me to my death on the rocks.

         I already felt like I was dead. Despite my discomfort and agony, I noticed I had an impressive erection. She shifted and leaned back against me. "Whoa. Somebody’s awake" she said. The voice was at once light and sleepy, and yet it had deep edges where I could almost say that a world of disappointment and pain had lived. Maybe I was projecting my subconscious there. She rolled all the way over and tossed her curls out of her face.

         Now the last big piece of the puzzle snapped into place: Gillian. From the club. She had it all: a gorgeous, slightly rounded face, her nose a bit wide and upturned on the end, small and round pouty lips that extended out on each side to an upturned curl and eyes a hazel seen only in an artists palette. These features would have been peculiar on any woman individually, but on her, together, they made the most seductive temptress even more irresistible. If at all possible, my head spun more and my mouth became even drier.

         “Boy, stranger. You sure can’t handle your liquor” she commented. I was hypnotized. “Um” was all I could muster. Somehow in my dominance of the conversation, she found a place to interject “Not a big talker, huh? You sure couldn’t shut up last night. I mean, until y’all passed out. What a handful you are.” 

         Oh no, my secret weakness: a southern drawl. I was really defenseless. She laid there facing me with her arm across her breasts and I had the uncontrollable urge to touch her but I still wasn’t sure where we stood, er, laid. My Ph.D. nudged the back of my brain and asked “Um, did we...are we...where you and I...” Shakespeare and Valentino would have vomited in their mouths if they where to hear. Maybe that was just me again.

         “No, no and no. Let’s start with what you do remember, ok?” she said and I nodded. “Good, that will make it much easier ‘cause I don’t think y’all recall shit sugar.” She pulled the sheet up from her hips to cover her breasts also. I caught a glimpse of her breasts and looked away. “Aw’ ain’t you the cutest think.” She purred. “You remember the club, right? Good. You remember my show? The mermaid routine?” She paused and I searched my memory and had found the fuzzy edges of what she spoke. I had quite a few of the different cocktails and was just then buying a couple of rounds for my friends and the dancers. I remember saying how this was the best time I had ever had. I saw her come on the stage and walk up to the pole.

         I now remember this clearly. It was if she walked in slow motion to the center of the stage. Her breasts bounced slightly as she walked out and her hair bobbed and flowed in a gossamer trail behind her. She had on a bikini top of teal and a sea foam green see through dress or skirt shaped like the body of a cichlid with extended dorsal and anal fins. I can’t remember if it was a dress or skirt because suddenly I was completely transfixed on her face, believe it or not. She began to dance around the brass beam like a gypsy from long ago: she spun in circles faster and faster till I myself began to dizzy. She embraced the pole and just then a crass individual tried to touch her waistband on her costume and I...oh my.

         “Yeah, sweetcheeks! You climbed right over about twenty people to drop that guy like a sack of wet flour. Whomp!” she could tell by my dropped jaw that it was coming back to me. “Don’t you know about tipping the dancers?” She lifted my jaw with the first two fingers of her right hand. It managed to stay shut. “Yeah, they tip me and I keep it and pay for the things I need like rent and food and...” She spoke to me like I was a small child. I was again trapped in the reverie of her gaze. Medusa only not as mean. More events unfolded with her help: How I climbed on the stage to protect her and how the bouncers finally dragged me off the stage. Next an up-close image of the pavement outside the club as I was tossed out. Then how I was saying some things that I would not normally say to any other people especially the large gentlemen who had heaved my drunken carcass in the night. "Thats right , loverboy! I managed to talk old Frederico from breaking you into small, bite sized pieces. He did have to give you a souvenir of your chivalry" she said as she touched my forehead above my right eye.

         Holy Camoley, that hurt! She pulled off the bandage that, due to the pain I already suffered from, I hadn't noticed. "Well, the stitches held and it stopped bleeding, but y'all are gonna need to be cleaned up" my favorite nurse, ever, said. "Where was I? Oh yeah. So all your friends where out in the lot trying to help you and keep Frederico from beating you any more. They all begged and pleaded and offered money. Freddie said he admired the way they stuck up for you, but he couldn't let a man do what you did in his club without making an example of you. You got off lucky though.”

         “Well, after all your friends where done vouching for you and telling us what a good guy you where, didn't ever drink and all that, well I have to admit y'all kinda struck a nerve with me. I mean, you didn't even know me and here you where jumping up and trying to protect me. It was, I don't know, sweet. Nobody's ever done anything like that for me."

         She was a talker and I loved every word. I imagined myself sitting here in her bed naked with her every morning listening to her ramble and falling in love with her more with every word. All this without a hangover of course. I came back to her still talking: "so I brought you back here to take care of you. I mean none of your friends were in any kind of shape to do it. So I got us a cab and called my friend Amos, he's a male nurse who lives in an apartment upstairs, and he stitched you up.  I just want you to know that I have never done that before, y'know? Brought a customer from the club back here like that. Hell, since I broke up with Beau a year ago there hasn't even been a man in my apartment."       I didn't stop her to tell her the closest thing I ever had to even a date in the last ten years was a girl from my building with whom I had arranged a play date with my Yorkie and her Schnauzer. My dog peed in her purse at the dog park and that pretty much washed away my chances. Her name was Goldie, the dog not the woman. I can't remember the woman's name. I don't think I'll need to remember any woman's name again.

         Gillian went on: "You where still pretty drunk and when I set up the sofa for you to sleep on you sort of got, goofy, I guess." She blushed a little which I could not read, so I waited. She continued "you said you wanted to dance with me and talk and get to know me, but I could tell a lot of it was the alcohol."

         "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." I said but she interrupted.

         "No. Don't be. You were real sweet you know? I get to see the real side of people a lot what with all the alcohol and me getting naked in front of them. They lose a lot of their inhibitions and such. Well, usually all there inhibitions. You really get to know a person then. If they’re an asshole, well that’s when you find out. You weren't like that. I thought you were a complete gentleman. When I told you I was bushed, and wanted to go to bed you didn’t say anything. You just sort of sat there looking dejected. I went to bed and after a while I came out there and brought you into my bed” she said as she took her fingers and lightly traced a line around the edge of my bruised and stitched forehead. She wasn’t actually touching the bruise, just the part near it. It gave me goosebumps.

         “You know what happened next?” she asked. I hesitated. I could lie and tell her it was wonderful and I will never forget that night for as long as I live, or I could tell the truth. My grandfather always said ‘telling the truth is always harder because it is the right thing. Nothing easy is ever worth the doing because it will not last.’ Grandpa was kind of a jerk, but in this case he was right.

         “No, I don’t remember a thing after you came and got me” I swallowed hard as I said it and imagined that I had just pissed in her purse.

         “ I reckon you wouldn’t...” She put a touch of mischievous seduction on the tail of that and finished: “well, first off we both got naked and curled up together in the bed. We kissed and fooled around a little. Then you told me this was only your second time with a woman and you passed out.”

         It took a while for that to sink in. How could I be so lucky and yet have it stop right there? I guess that would be pushing my luck. Gillian just grinned and got out of bed. She looked me in the eye as she grabbed a pair of panties and slid into them. Sick as I felt I knew I had to get it together. Somehow we were still flirting. After all the stupid things I did and said, she was still interested in me. This did not fall into the normal mating ritual description and yet there I was on the verge of breaking into some genetically programmed dance.

         “You know what we all need? The only bona fide hangover cure I ever came across in my whole entire life...” she left me hanging while she put on a bra and snapped the button on her very tight jeans. “In-n-Out burger, large fry and a diet Coke.” She was absolutely beaming as she slipped into a Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt that must have belonged to a small child previously for it clung to her like crepe paper.

         I must have been feeling better for I immediately began to extrapolate the chemical and physical properties of the breakfast: caffeine in the cola would stimulate the system, the protein and starches in the meat and the potatoes would...It all spun away from me as she crawled across the bed and kissed me. When the world started moving again, she backed away and said; “Y’all ever noticed how they put in all those biblical references on the wrappers and stuff? I wish they wouldn’t do that but I still can’t turn down a double-double.”

        It didn’t matter to me for I was now a believer.

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I was supposed to announce the winner for this one at the reception but I knew that he wouldn’t be there so I’ve been rereading and reworking which one I think should win.  By the way, I will start posting competitions again this Monday April 18.  For the Morry Eale Not a bad one in the bunch for this competition!

In terms of style and content I think that Patrick Nelson’s story is the best.  The theme is so fantastic and real at the same time that it happened to me, at least in a dream or fantasy or something.  Nelson has a real sense of humor but he also has very believable voice when he’s writing.  A couple of my friends who read the blog have confirmed my suspicion that he’s a great writer.  Patrick wrote Owen D. Bank which is in my show catalog and some other winning stories on this blog.

Dan Combs and Ron Slattery shred in some real themes that originate in the book, “Big Fish” by Daniel Wallace crossed with the song “Cat’s in the Cradle.”  Combs managed to unfurl a tail that lasted approximately four decades of a characters life in less than one thousand words.  Slattery did a wonderful job with his sense of humor and the play on words.  I’ve lived his story at times in my life and I also like the grandpa in the restaurant reference.  I think it’s very close to my experiences with my own and my wife’s grandfather.

If I had a second place, the winner would be my wife’s story “That’s a Morry Moray Amoré.”  She’s probably gonna think I being nice out of loyalty but it’s not so.  I just connected with it the best.  Her story is so full of personal references and history that it would be hard for me to relate all the nuances here but let me say this, we both love plays on words, puns, Dean Martin and her Grandma Big Al.

Royce Ratterman’s story was really almost a prologue to a good ghost story or the beginning of a novel.  I think the imagery that for me also made me feel the cold air and smell of the sea was powerful.  His story also has the quality fo a short sketch I remember reading by I think Nathanial Hawthorne in which the occupants are described and their possible futures and then Hawthorne goes on the describe how those dreams were killed in an avalanche.

read the all here:
http://kenney-mencher.blogspot.com/2011/03/write-story-about-morry-eale-and-win.html


More competitions on my site:
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

A video of the art reception at Renovated Reputations by Todd Heapy

Solo show Renovated Reputations at 

ArtHaus 411 Brannan Street  San Francisco, CA  94107 

Opening Reception was Friday April 8th 2011 

Visit the show on-line at

http://www.kenney-mencher.com/catalog/recent_work.htm

The show runs through June 25th 2011

Royce Ratterman the Winner of the Jairo Contest

Full Service by Royce A Ratterman

“A full service, son,” demanded the stranger emphatically to the ace mechanic pumping gas into his treasured vintage Ford sedan. “No skimping on anything. I expect the best of everything.”

The handsomely uniformed young man simply nodded in agreement to the elderly fellow before opening the hood to check the vehicle’s vital fluids and mechanical stability.

“What’s your name, boy” questioned the man out of his window loudly, “I always like to know who’s working on my vehicle, you know.”

“Jairo, sir, simply Jairo,” came the reply from under the hood.

“What kind of a name is that, son?”

Jairo secured the hood of the vehicle and stepped to the driver’s side window, “It is found most often among Spanish cultures, sir. From Hebrew origin, I believe. It can mean ‘God enlightens’ or what my father meant for it to mean . . . ‘A son to brighten my life’.”

“That’s nice, young man, real nice. How’s everything look under the hood?”

“Just fine, sir. Everything is in order.”

“What’s your specialty, young man?” asked the stranger with way too many questions.

“Specialty, sir?”

“Yes, I mean the types of vehicles you prefer to work on and have a kind of knack for, you know.”

Jairo replied to the curious man sitting behind the vehicle’s steering wheel, “Fords, sir. I am the area mechanic assigned to their driver’s final full service.”

“There’s a lot of Fords here in South SF these days,” replied the man. “You’ve got a lifetime of work ahead of you, son.”

Jairo tipped his black-billed blue service station uniform hat to the man, collected the payment for services rendered, then bid the stranger farewell, “Have a great day sir. I know you will.”

After the stranger drove away from 215 South Maple Avenue in his vintage Ford sedan he was never heard from again.

                    ~ ~ ~

“Paint . . . you do touchup painting, boy?” asked the gray-haired man in the 1941 Ford after he pulled the vehicle with the scraped fender into the gas station’s lot.

Jairo promptly replied, “The best in town, sir. The best in town.”

“Got time today for a touchup?”

“No time like the present, I say,” answered Jairo. “Pull the car in over there.”

“Heavenly,” exclaimed the man as he quickly drove his damaged vehicle into the garage area the attendant had pointed out to him. He never returned home.

                    ~ ~ ~

On another chilly weekday morning a black and white unit pulled into the lot for gas and a full service check. It seemed that the police station’s regular mechanic was out sick and the officers needed to assure that their vehicle was ‘street ready’ before commencing their shift. The two cops received the best service of their lives from Jairo that day. But after they failed to respond to radio calls and did not return to their headquarters, an all out investigation was implemented to search for the two law enforcement officers and their Ford police unit. Headlines days later read, “Tragic Patrol Accident - Local Police Officers Killed.”

                    ~ ~ ~

A top-notch mechanic for as long as he could remember, Jairo always did his best to please his customers and honor his trade.

The old service station had a central entry door accompanied by large windows to each side. Two pumps adorned the tiny entry sidewalk along the two large front windows. Faded white walls augmented with dingy rose trim were the exterior’s decor. A lonely place with an abandoned look.

                    ~ ~ ~

One hot South San Francisco afternoon a tearful young woman entered the service station lot in her beautifully manicured Model-A. She asked the attendant, “Can I get a full service?” to which he replied, “It will be quite some time, ma’am.”

“Busy, huh?” commented the woman.

“Is everything alright, ma’am? You look a bit distressed. Can I help in any way?” questioned Jairo.

“Oh, it’s this letter,” she replied, holding up an official looking white envelope, “I guess telling a stranger is easier than telling my family and friends. I’m afraid to open it.”

“Sometimes it’s best to face life head on and live it to its fullest.”

Looking up at Jairo with her tearful eyes she replied, “Well, mister, last week I got some really terrible bad news from my doctor. Odds are not good for me, you see. My doctor took some tests and the results are in this envelope. That’s why I’m afraid to open it.”

Jairo encouragingly replied, “Ah, ma’am, there are folks down in Vegas right now winning huge jackpots with worse odds than you have. Open it. You’ll ease you mind and heart, miss, trust me. Anyway, no doctor would send bad news in a letter, would they now.”

The woman placed the envelope on the seat next to her and stared at it for a while. Tears flowed as she slowly tore the envelope open. Sighs of relief echoed as she read the good news. “It’s not my time yet.”

When she looked up to thank the attendant she noticed that the station was abandoned. Only cracked asphalt, broken front windows and a missing front entry door remained. The woman exited her Ford and questioned an employee of a neighboring establishment regarding the service station. He simply responded, “Ma’am, that station’s been closed for years. Ain’t been nobody there since I can remember.”

Looking in her rearview mirror as she drove away, the woman caught a glimpse of the same uniformed man standing in the abandoned station behind her. She gently waved her hand . . . the man did the same.

                    ~ ~ ~

“Welcome sir!” greeted Jairo to a teenager in a ’32 Ford Deuce Coupe hotrod, “Full service?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, is your boss around, mister?”

Jairo smiled and replied, “You’ll be meeting him very soon, son. Very soon!”
_____________________________________________________
Royce Ratterman's story was almost familiar in an Agatha Christie way. There's a story about a desert traveling merchant who saw death at one town and fled. When he got to the well at the next town, death was there, both were surprised to see each other. "Death replied, I was surprised to see you before because I had an appointment with you here."

Patrick Nelson the winner of the Hammond Cheese Contest!

Hero Man by Patrick Nelson

          Sept. 20, 1998

Portrait of Hammond Cheese 10"x8"

Buy this painting

I am a superhero. There.  I said it. I have a costume and a lair that doubles as my apartment. I do not, unfortunately, have an arch-nemesis as of yet. That is mainly due to the fact that most arch nemesi (is that the plural form?) are somehow inextricably intertwined to the hero's past or some cathartic event, usually the moments of their origin. I, as of yet, have neither an event nor an origin, but I will wait. I would give examples of this theory, but if this journal were to ever be made public, I fear the lawyers for various comic book publishers would come down upon me with all the wrath of The Mighty Thor or The Incredible Hulk...oops. Note to self: scratch that out later. Besides, these myriad of diligent do-gooders are but ink and paper whereas am a real man of flesh and blood.

I do not have my mortal foe designated to me by fate for I daresay I have not found out what my super power is. That's right. A superhero who doesn't know his power. But I have faith. I can feel the potential welling inside me. The pulse of being more than normal beats so loudly in my heart that I am surprised others cannot hear it.

I must admit that I am afraid. I am afraid of not becoming super at the right moment or, God forbid, too late to make a difference in the world. What if my power manifests itself after the need and someone is injured when I could have saved them? What if my power manifests itself when I am too old to do anything with it? What if it never comes to me at all - no! I must keep my faith. I must stay sure in the knowledge that I am more than the average human.

          July 15, 2002

On the subway home, I almost felt as if it was the time to burst forth from my chrysalis and become the hero I am destined to be: a young woman was being harassed by some hooligans on the train and I was about to emerge from the garb of my alter ego when I stopped dead with paralyzing fear that if this was not the time (as it also had never been before), I would risk making a fool of myself, but more importantly of giving away my identities to the world before it was safe to. It would be seen as a weakness in my career before it had even started. No, it would not do reveal myself before I even had power. All the good superheroes had managed to hide their secret identities for at least a little while before they where forced to reveal it through some crisis or evil doer’s plan. No self respecting crime fighter came out of the gate with everyone, foe and ally knowing who they really were. Really bad form. Fortunately, an old lady managed to use her stun gun on one of them in the groin thus scaring the others away. I was not needed after all. Good work from her, by the way.

          Dec. 13, 2005

I often daydream about what my power will actually be: Invisibility like Mrs. Fantastic? Healing Powers like those of Wolverine? The ability to communicate with our friends of the bestial nature like Animal Man? I am afraid that such musings may not leave me open to the true nature of my ability when it does try to manifest itself. I must steer clear of these flights of fancy for they may constipate my ability to be sensitive to them when they do emerge. Still, won’t it be thrilling?

          Sep. 6, 2007

Oh, how I worry what power I will have! The main item that bothers me is that I will not be able to quickly come up with a nom de guerre. I am sure when the need arises I will leap into action, but after the deed is done someone will invariably query: “who was that costumed saviour?” I hope that I will have the presence of mind to think up something rapidly, flash a charming smile and smoothly deliver my fresh moniker to the awed crowd. I have taken the precaution of writing down a few suitable alternatives and I carry them with me in case my genesis leaves me in a state of shock and therefore unable to think on my feet as it where.

           Sep. 8, 2007

Unfortunately I have laundered the list of superhero names, but i think I can remember the better ones and I will make several copies. Fear not!

          Aug. 22, 2009

I must find a compromise between the freedom and flexibility that tights afford versus the chafing they cause in between one’s thighs due to having to wear them under one’s clothes. Honestly, I must confess that the sensation of the the tight costume against the outer layer of street clothes as they slide across each other is...exhilarating.

          Oct. 30, 2009

I am afraid I may have been discovered: I believe my landlady Mrs. Klostermann is entering my apartment and going through my things when I am out on patrol. Some things have been displaced when I return. The worst, I fear is that she may have discovered this journal, therefore putting my hero status and identity in great peril. If this is the case, PLEASE STOP GOING THROUGH MY THINGS MRS. KLOSTERMANN! It is illegal for you to enter my apartment/lair without a written statement to me at least twenty-four hours prior to your visit! Please do not force me to contact the authorities.

          Feb. 14, 2011

I feel my time for greatness must be at hand, I cannot say specifically why or how I know, I just do. Every day I can feel myself perched upon the edge of greatness. I leave for my daily patrol with a sense of trepidation and great expectation. . .

_________________________________________________________

Sorry this took so long!  I’m in freak out mode trying to prepare for the show and I’ve finally got 95% of the stuff done.

My favorite story was Patrick Nelson’s story.  Again, I’m reminded of the Seinfeld episode in which he says that “All men think they have the potential to become a superhero, all they need is the training or a radioactive spider.”  “Hero Man” by Patrick is a kind of Kafka meets R. Crumb meets Willie Loman kind of superhero.  In some ways, his hero reminds me of my students where I teach, so many of them think they have the potential to become greater than they are, if only. . .  I think I chose it because I feel like I’m living in a Kafkaesque world right now.

The runner up, but only because I had a hard time deciding who was in first place is W.H. Matlack’s “Hammond Cheese Understands God.”  This was a helluva a strong story and had quite the surprising ending.   I think that Matlack’s version of Mr. Cheese is also very similar to who I thought he would be.  The story is not told from Hammond’s point of view and if you read it I think that you’ll see why.  A really great story!

Marlin Bressi’s “Hammond Cheese Pitches a Perfect Game” is a pulp fiction version of “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.  I think you’ll like the ending.

Royce Ratterman’s “Cheese Spread” was cute (but not overly so) kind of a “Turn of the Screw” meets sandwiched between “The Monkey’s Paw” a “Sort of a Hammond Cheese on Rye.”  I don’t want to give a away the story by giving too many details but it was totally a fun story and well worth a read. 

Read all the stories here:

http://kenney-mencher.blogspot.com/2011/03/write-story-about-hammond-cheese-and.html

Enter more competitions on my site:

http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

Woops! I've been working on the show and forgot the Hammond Cheese!

I will take care of that tonight.  Friday is the art reception for Renovated Reputations.  Here's the e-mail I sent out.

A whiff of Edward Hopper, a blast of Mickey Spillane, a rrowf of David Lynch! Renovated Reputations and Manufactured Memoirs is a solo show at ArtHaus gallery and an illustrated anthology of short stories in which Griffin and Sabine collide with neo-noir fiction.  Show up or else! ArtHaus 411 Brannan Street  San Francisco, CA 94107 415-977-0223  www.arthaus-sf.com Opening Reception Friday April 8th 2011 6PM to 8 PM  Show runs through June 25th 2011  Enter here: http://www.kenney-mencher.com Renovated Reputations is the result of an internet blogging project in which paintings and assemblages based on vintage and antique vernacular photography are the inspiration for short fiction.   The blog, which gets between one hundred to two hundred and fifty visitors a day, is the nexus point.  Each week between seven to ten authors from the U.S. and U.K. submitted short fiction of one thousand words or less compete to win an original work of art that is the basis for the story. The stories and assemblages are then coupled with great graphic design and photo illustration to create an environment that compliment the two. The catalog is a collaborative joint between myself, an artist with a national reputation and proven track record.  (I’m also  a professor of Art and Art History at Ohlone College in Fremont where I also am the director of the Louie Meager Art Museum and the author of the text book Liaisons, Reading in Art, Philosophy and History.  The authors are a dirty dozen or so such as author professor Mark Brosamer,  pulp author Steven D. Rogers of PulpFest fame, Dreamworks animator/cartoonist Brian Newlin, columnist Gigi De Vault and even a cook from Kentucky Patrick Nelson.  The impetus for this project is based in a solo show of paintings in I am having at ArtHaus Gallery in San Francisco in April 2011.   The show is called Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs.  Each story is a unique standalone entity – combined in one volume, they’ll kill ya! Download the Tabloid Newspaper catalog as a PDF. Sincerely (I mean it!) Kenney Mencher http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

These are some of the paintings the stories are based on. Isabelle Ringing 20"x16" oil and mixed media on masonite panel Betty Million  11"x14" oil and mixed media on masonite (wishbones, bookpages, ephemera) Chastity Beldt 10"x8" oil and mixed  media on masonite

Bad Juju Cover Nominated for an Award

Just bragging that my cover for "Bad Juju" was nominated for a 2011 Spinetingler Award for best cover. Here's the link: 
http://www.spinetinglermag.com/2011/03/31/2011-spinetingler-award-best-cover-nominees/

"Bad Juju" by Jonathan Woods was also nominated for best crime short story collection.