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Welcome to the August issue of Mocha Memoirs! If you've been here
before, you'll notice that this month, Mocha has a brand new look.
Please take the time to look around and check out our latest features:
Thanks for your support of Mocha. We look forward to receiving your comments and contributions, and we hope to see you again next month.
- Lara Kenney & the Mocha Staff
Editor-in-Chief
PS -- If you recently submitted poetry to our former editor, Michele Collier. Please resubmit it to Lara Kenney, our Editor-in-Chief. Thank you and sorry for the inconvience.
James snapped up his overcoat collar, carefully avoiding the ripples of silver light reflected from the wet pavement. He shifted his gaze from the light to maintain his night vision, crucial for this assignment. Music and laughter pierced the gloom from the bar across the street, where he had first met Gretchen. When this was over, he'd ask her to marry him.
He touched the tape in his pocket. Still safe, he thought. The simple formula stored there would provide free energy for the world, something anyone could do in his own garage. It was all in knowing how.
Sweat beaded on his brow, despite the cool weather. This was the last trip. He had too much to lose, too many agents after him, too many energy companies willing to pay millions for what he carried. James cocked the revolver in his pocket and stepped into the alley to meet his contact. The fresh fragrance of rain mingled with the stench of damp garbage. He moved slowly, his gun pointed at the man's midsection. "How's Joe?" he asked.
The man laughed. "Joe? He's too drunk to polka!"
A chill raced up James' spine. The man didn't appear to be a professional, but he had the code words. James pulled the tape from his pocket and handed it over.
The man swayed, then took it, turned it over, and said, "What's this? It's not polka music, is it? I'm too drunk to polka." A belch rolled from his mouth.
James shivered. What had he done? "Are you Joe?"
The guy laughed. "That's me, pal. The head's full, so I came out here to take a leak. Monique says I'm too drunk to polka, but what does she know?" He waved the tape. "Maybe we can dance to this instead, huh?"
James snatched the tape from the man's hand and ran down the alley. Three gunshots roared behind him in rapid succession. A bullet's breath kissed his cheek. Behind him, Joe cried out and crashed against a Dumpster.
Who was it this time? OPEC? Consolidated Petroleum? International Energy?
James skidded into a dark doorway, slammed his shoulder against the door, and entered the warehouse. In the dim light, he paused to catch his breath. Crates lined the walls. A car was parked in the center of the concrete floor.
The car door opened and Gretchen stepped out. James shielded his face from the spotlight that flared into life. "Gretchen? Gretchen, what is this?"
"Darling," she said from the darkness. "Don't you know?"
Panic seized him. Not Gretchen. Oh, sweet, sweet Gretchen.
"You know the dance, James. You've heard the music, haven't you?" Her voice was soft but edged with ice. "You're too drunk to polka, James."
The slug hit him in the chest, slamming him against the wall. Warm blood leaked down his abdomen. He struggled for breath as his strength faded away in waves of nausea. He shoved the tape into a crate and heard it hit the bottom, then raised his gun and fired until it was empty.
Gretchen screamed, then all went dark, and James slept.
© 2000 E.L Noel
| E. L. Noel lives on the southern Oregon coast with her husband. Her novel, The Threshing Floor, is now available from Crossroads Publishing. |
I am here to see Tommy Lee Norman suck cyanide and die. I walk through a handful of protesters at the prison gate, their faces ghoulishly under-lit by flickering candles, their bodies vague shadows in the predawn murk. I automatically clutch my bag tighter and quicken my stride.
An elderly black man with a halo of white hair and burning eyes steps into my path, intoning, "...and forgive those that trespass against us." My gaze slides away and fixes on the visitors' entrance. I continue my journey, surrounded by muted prayers.
A guard with the haunted eyes of too many fourteen-hour shifts and a gut straining his uniform buttons passes me through to a waiting area. In that brief moment, I'm distracted by the thought that so many serial killers have the middle name "Lee." Is it a brand from birth? A handicap to be overcome?
The warden arrives to escort the crowd of journalists and observers to a claustrophobic room with a large sound-proof window facing the execution chamber. There are no chairs. I take a position in the front and a little left of the center. The crowd is quiet, and only the shuffle of feet on worn carpet and the occasional cough breaks the silence. The nervous tension is almost palpable. We're all here to witness the death of another human being. We don't have to wait long.
The guards march Tommy Lee into the brightly lit execution chamber. The overhead lights throw stark shadows on the gray concrete walls and floor. The three men fill the room with elbows, knees, and clenched fists. Tommy Lee seems dazed- his face sweaty, his eyes glazed. Do they offer condemned men drugs to dull the experience? He sees the chair. He tries to dig his heels in but can't get any purchase. The guards drag him to his final destination.
He struggles and, in spite of his manacles, kicks a guard in the shin. The man's craggy face screws up in pain. He slams Tommy Lee into the chair. He then unlocks Tommy Lee's manacles, avoiding more kicks. The guard anchors the prisoner's ankles to the chair with thick leather straps. His partner does the same for Tommy Lee's arms. The first guard gives each strap a quick tug and steps back. Tommy Lee shouts at the guards, his face turning red, veins throbbing in his throat. The guards leave through a door on my right. It slams with a vibration I can feel in my feet.
The reporters and prison personnel give me a wide berth-whether out of respect, or misguided sympathy, I don't know, or care. In a way, I'm the closest thing to a family member or friend here. I smile at the thought and hope Tommy Lee can see me through the thick glass. I move closer to the window, almost pressing my face against it. I will him to see me, to have the sight of my face as his final memory.
Tommy Lee stares back. He screams, probably curses. Spittle sprays from his mouth to dot his prison T-shirt. In the corner behind the prisoner, a simple timer tips sixteen, one-ounce cyanide capsules from a cup into a bucket of sulfuric acid. I quickly glance at my watch. Precisely 6:00 a.m. I imagine the fizz as chemicals combine to make deadly hydrogen-cyanide gas. The mist rises languidly, swirling across the floor. It curls around Tommy Lee's legs. My nose twitches. I can almost smell the almond ammonia fumes, feel the burning in my nose and throat.
Tommy Lee tries to hold his breath. He trembles with the effort. His struggles are futile. There will be no mercy, no reprieve. His eyes roll up as he faints.
No! He can't get out of it that easily. He has to feel death creeping up on him, life leaking away. I pound my side of the window. Worried faces turn my way. An authoritative voice mumbles in my ear. I shake off a warning hand.
The first involuntary breath of gas brings Tommy Lee back to consciousness. The voice in my ear stops. Tommy Lee starts to choke. I step back to watch. His eyes dart back and forth. He strains against the straps with his final strength. Better. This is what I came for.
The gas blocks oxygen exchange. Tommy Lee is strangling, choking to death. A nice, slow, painful struggle for life-giving air. He jerks and lunges, and his chest heaves. His mouth forms final curses, or maybe begs for mercy or forgiveness. He'll get none from me. His face turns purple, and he bites his tongue, which protrudes from his mouth. Blood flows down his chin, soaks into his prison T-shirt-another dark stain to accompany the wet patches of sweat on his chest and under his arms. The minutes march on. He continues to thrash and choke, until his eyes stare fixedly out into space and his body subsides to final tremors.
It will take a few minutes for the guards to evacuate the poison from the chamber and for a doctor to examine the body. I look at my watch. 6:08:47 a.m.
He raped and tortured my daughter Ellen for over five hours, forcing her to drink Drano, burning her with cigarettes. Finally, he executed her with a bullet to the head. Five hours of pain, fear, and hopelessness before her death. Five hours that I've lived over and over in the police station, in the courtroom, and in my nightmares for ten years, seven months, and eighteen days. Tommy Lee's death is mine.
I look at the agony on his dead face and try for the millionth time to understand why. Why Ellen? Why that night? Why him? Did he ever feel love like mine? Joy that wasn't the result of violence?
The defense lawyers spoke of an abused child who was shuttled from foster home to foster home; a wasted teen leading a gang, living on drugs; a man with few choices, no hope and no responsibility for his actions. I try to imagine a better life for the child, a better ending for the man. For once, my imagination fails me. It stumbles on the dead eyes, the savage grin that even a horrible death can't erase.
The body of the man I have hated for so long slumps like wet clay. My own body feels curiously light and detached. The exhaustion of living a nightmare, fueling the fires of grief and revenge, gives way to nothingness. I lean trembling against the window expecting relief, joy or-at least-satisfaction. Nothing.
Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds for Tommy Lee to die. A long time for an execution.
Not as long as my own death. Not nearly long enough.
© 2000 Faith Justice
| Faith Justice is a science geek and history junkie who has worked as a lifeguard, paralegal, teacher, and business consultant. She lives with her husband, daughter, and cat in New York City. |
"Hey, can I get some service here?" The bald guy from table seven whined, the one who'd ordered spaghetti while ogling Sara's breasts. She tried to ignore him. "Hey, Missy! I said service!"
Sarah's eyes met Von's behind the order window. His almond eyes squinted more than usual; a frown appeared between his thick, black brows.
"'Bout time," the bald guy whined again when she got to his table. "How about that Heinie?"
Did he just comment on her butt? Sara blushed and sputtered.
"The beer! Hello!"
"Oh...the beer...yeah." She sprinted to the bar, thumping her hip on the corner. Whimpering, she grabbed a Heineken from the refrigerator, popped the top, and limped back.
She placed a coaster and the beer on the bald guy's table. "Do I have to suck it from the bottle? How about a glass?"
Sara slapped her forehead, spun on her heel, returned to the bar, bumped her hip again, and retrieved a glass.
"Ordah up!" Von's heavily accented voice shot through her, forcing a cold sweat from her already overactive pores.
"Miss?" A nice-looking, older woman beckoned from nearby. She'd ordered the special, most of which remained, pushed around on her plate, a napkin wadded in the middle like an explorer's flag. Sara slammed the glass down on table seven.
"Watch it there, Missy!" the bald guy hissed at her breasts.
Sara turned to the woman. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Check, please?" She smiled.
"Yes, ma'am." Sara went after the check.
"Ordah up, I say!" Von growled when she came near.
"I have to take the lady at table nine her check."
Von rolled his eyes. "Take both, good grief!" Pretending to bean himself with his spatula, he said something in Vietnamese, and he and the dishwasher laughed.
Fuming, Sara snatched the check and spaghetti, balancing both on a tray on her shoulder. She walked carefully back to table nine.
"Thanks, dear." The woman pushed a twenty toward Sara. "You deserve a big tip. You're working yourself to death here."
Sara gulped, dumbstruck at the woman's kindness.
"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you enjoy waitressing?"
The tray was heavy; the bald guy grumbled behind her. Sara found her voice. "No, I don't. Actually, it sucks."
The woman blinked, then smiled. "I appreciate your honesty. You know, I run a small boutique downtown. I could use a sales clerk. Interested?"
Before Sara could speak, she felt a sharp pinch on her behind. Gasping, she whirled to face the leering bald guy.
"That got your attention!" he drawled.
Sara moved before she realized what she was doing.
"What the...?"
Perfectly balanced upside-down on the guy's bald spot was the plate of spaghetti. The plate slowly slid off and fell to his lap. Noodles clung to his head like saucy dreadlocks.
The entire smoking section turned to stare.
A youth in a high chair chortled. "Look, Mommy. The bald man has hair now."
Sara turned to the woman, who fought tears of mirth.
"When can I start?"
© 2000 Nancy Whetstone
| Terry Whetstone writes fiction, poetry, and personal essays. She lives in Salina, Kansas, with her husband and two children and works at the Salina Public Library. |
For over three hundred years, the Russian Bear has wandered down
from the cold north, to the warmer climate that beholds the
north Caucasus
He has ravaged anything that got in his path
in order to make the land safe for his kind
To the Muslims of Chechnya and the other Caucasian nations
migration was the order of the day.
Many died because of this forced exile.
Others survived to hopefully drive the Russian Bear out of their
homeland someday.
Recently Muslim Freedomfighters kept the Bear at bay, prohibiting it
from entering the capital of Grozny
They fought gallantly against a most powerful enemy,
inflicting much damage to him
Until, finally the last defender atop of a mineret
died for his homeland and Islam.
© 2000 James F. Harrington
Across the tundra
ice and snow
lone wolf howl
calling brethren home
Cramped in caves
echoed with ebbs
oceans surge inward
licking ever further onto land
Trees grow straight
Fingers reach
ever elusive clouds
floating high above
The phone rings
A voice responds
"Hello?"
And suddenly,
I'm not alone any more.
© 2000 Caroline Baker
Remember the autumn day we spent
driving your car through mounds of leaves
that neighbors had piled beside the road?
The air was filled with pumpkin rot and chill,
but still,
we sent the dead leaves
flying,
dancing behind.
© 2000
A few years ago, I attended a matchless literary event: In a lavish concert hall and with a symphony playing accompaniment, Gregory Peck read the poems of William Butler Yeats.
What does Gregory Peck, the seasoned actor, have to do with poetry? Perhaps he admires it, but the connection ends there, I'm sure. My guess is that Peck was selected as narrator for his haunting, booming voice, and his commanding presence. (Have you seen him in To Kill a Mockingbird? Have you heard him in the court scenes? If so, you know about Gregory Peck's voice and presence. He'll turn your knees into silly putty.)
That night, Peck read Yeats' He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. I had read the poem myself from a textbook before that evening, but when Peck's voice sent Yeats' works resonating through the concert hall, the poem's power was amazing.
It's a simple little poem, at a glance (see below). Just eight lines. Just one word contains more than two syllables. It focuses on a common poetic theme: love. Yet, there is so much to it. The simplicity of Yeats' words, his careful choice of rhyme and repetition, and his unique perspective on love (the fragility of the lover) all combine to form one of the most stirring, honest poems I know. (And yes, Gregory Peck's stunning voice helped, too.)
Read this one aloud, and slowly. It's worth it.
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths
Enwrought with golden and silver light
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams:
I have spread my dreams under your feet
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
This slender guide by Mary Oliver deserves a place on the shelves on any budding poet. In clear, accessible prose, Oliver (winner of both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award for poetry) arms the reader with an understanding of the technical aspects of poetry writing.
- Lara Kenney
After a pre-meeting breakfast this week, a colleague of mine opened the New York Times, grabbed a pen, and scribbled check marks down the page.
"This one, this one, this, this and this," he said, then put his pen away.
When I asked him what he was doing, he showed me his marked-up version of the week's Best Sellers list. He explained that he read as many of the best sellers as he could, and he used the list as his book-buying guide.
Brilliant! Imagine, walking into a bookstore with a shopping list! No more wandering up and down the shelves, searching hopelessly through book covers and jacket blurbs, trying to decide what looks like something I might like. I decided I needed my own guide to help me though moments of book-buying folly.
Since I'm a fiction buff, I composed lists of fiction award winners over the last decade. And since my favorite style of fiction is American, I chose three of the finest American awards: The Pulitzer, The National Book Award, and the PEN/Faulkner.
Take the following three lists with you to the book store for an amazing shopping spree. Pass it out to your families at holiday time (great gift ideas!). Or, like my friend with The New York Times, use it as your benchmark to measure how you're doing at reading the best that modern fiction has to offer. Enjoy!
There are many different means a writer might use to begin a story, and the problem is to choose one that most appropriately raises the curtain on the narrative to follow. Ask yourself such questions as these: Do I want my story to open with the sound of voices as people discuss something about their lives? Do I want to bring one important character forward into the descriptive spotlight and let the reader have a good, long look at her before action begins? Do I want to begin with an activity – one person, or more than one, engaged in doing something that will be significant for the story to follow? There are many ways of leading it off, and here are just a few of the possibilities:
With a generalization:
My mother believed you could be anything you wanted to be in America.
- Amy Tan, “Two Kinds”
With a description of a person:
He was lifting his knees high and putting his hand up, when I first saw him, as if crossing the road though that stringing rain, he were breaking through the bead curtain of a Pernambuco bar. I knew he was going to stop me.
- V.S. Pritchett, “The Sailor”
With narrative summary:
An unfortunate circumstance in my life has just recalled to mind a certain Dr. Crombie and the conversations I user to hold with him when I was young. He was the school doctor until the eccentricity of his ideas became generally known.
- Graham Greene, “Doctor Crombie”
With dialog:
“Don’t think about a cow,” Matt Brinkley said.
- Ann Beattie, “In the White Night”
With a reminiscent narrator:
I was already formally engaged, as we used to say, to the girl I was going to marry.
- Peter Taylor, “The Old Forest”
THE EXERCISE
This one is in two parts. First, experiment with different types of openings for different stories until you feel comfortable with the technique of each. Then see how many ways there are to open one particular story you have in mind. How, for instance, does the story change when the opening changes from a generalization to a line of dialog?
This book flirted with me from bookstore shelves all year long, and until just now, I've resisted. It was a New York Times best seller; it was "hailed by critics as the debut of a major literary voice." And yet, its jacket proclaimed it as the central character's "personal and spirited expedition through the perilous terrain of sex, love and relationships, and the treacherous waters of the workplace."
Another thirty-something single woman muddling her way through life and love in the big city? Not again. So with each trip to the bookstore, I passed on The Girls Guide, until a recent sunny Saturday when on my way to sunbathe in the park, I needed a book in a hurry and grabbed it.
I ended up with a sunburn. I could not put this book down.
Jane Rosenthal, the protagonist, is a witty, sensitive and intelligent woman who the novel follows from adolescence to adulthood through a series of short, separate stories. Her observations on love (the central subject of the book, though never in a syrupy, schmaltzy, silly way), while sometimes distant and sometimes personal, are always right-on, and always hysterical. ("What are you reading?" my husband asked me after I laughed out loud for the fourth time.)
Melissa Bank, the author of The Girls Guide, treats Jane Rosenthal and the relationships of her life with insight and respect, and that makes this novel different than the chronicles of so many other female-and-thirty-something books I've read. By the end of the novel, you want to be Jane, you wish she were your best friend. She is smart and real and tender, and Melissa Bank brings her to life flawlessly.
Don't wait for a sunny day for this one - it's the perfect summer must-read.
- Lara Kenney
