bosch@guillermobosch.com

The Third Day
an excerpt from "The Passion of Muhammad Shakir"
a novella by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
hey have returned. I must control myself. No crying like a frightened baby. No whimpering like a beaten dog…

"How is our puss bucket doing this morning, soldier?"

"It sleeps; it mumbles; it’s lips move, but it only speaks gibberish."

"That is not acceptable, soldier. It must be broken down. It must be made to talk to us. I know it knows, and I know it knows I know, and I know it will tell us what it knows we know it knows."

"Come again, sir?"

"Prepare this thing for interrogation, soldier. We’ll make this goddam’ scumbag talk!"

The captain leaves, and the private is left with his captive. The captive, still bound and hooded lies silently on the floor. The private kneels down next to the prisoner’s body.

Now someone is touching me. What is he doing? If only he would remove this sack covering my head. If only I could see. Maybe then I could know what is going on here. Maybe I could even convince them I should not be in this place.

Ah, he is untying my legs. Yes! And now he is removing the bonds from around my hands. I know this will feel good. I can even scratch… Ah, this is good. This is my chance to make friends. This is going to be a good, good day.

"Aaagh!" No, it doesn’t feel good! God, help me! My foot is throbbing! When I move my arms, the little needles become razor blades shooting out from my wrists cutting through my forearms, slicing my elbows, opening the nerves in my biceps, trembling my triceps, tightening my shoulders with unquenchable fire!

I need to be still, motionless, or I will surely loose consciousness…

The captain returns. The corporal is right behind him. They enter the cell just as the prisoner screams. They show no emotion.

"Lift this bloody-assed bitch up off the floor, soldier."

Now he is trying to lift me up. No! Don’t make me move! I do not want to show weakness, but I hear myself begging… "Stop! In the Name of God, please stop!" He drops me back onto the cold concrete. My head bounces once. Exploding stars…

I will lie here completely still, fooling them, I am silent, quiet, a dried up palm frond…

"I cannot hold hi… it up, sir."

"Corporal! Please assist the private."

I smell the woman—the woman who touches me there and then squeezes my testes with her hands. But, but…no, No!. I am growing again when she approaches me, when she touches me. No, please, my private friend, stay calm. Do not betray me!

"Well, whaddaya’ know. It appears to desire your special touch, Corporal."

"Yes, sir. It does, sir. Do we need another measurement, sir?"

"You enjoy measuring, Corporal?"

"I enjoy getting these jhadis ready for you, sir. Whatever it takes."

"Yeah. Whatever it takes. So, corporal…help the private here carry this piece a’ shit."

"Yes, sir"

"Bring it to the latrine with the other pieces a’ shit."

"Yes, sir."

They lift me up, and I am being carried somewhere, each movement unbearable, each step bringing me closer to throwing up. I wish I could just pass out. I do.

"Aaagh!" Maybe they are taking me to the hospital. Maybe this will still be a good day after all.

The corporal and the private carry the prisoner as they follow behind the captain down a long hallway past open cells and other prisoners.

Someone screams: "God is great! There is no God but God!"

Then there’s a loud whack! Wood against flesh and bone. More groans, but no more shouts. No more calls to God.

Who was screaming? Why do we all call for God in a place like this? I fear God has abandoned us here.

The private slips, and he, the prisoner and the corporal almost fall.

"Aaagh!" Be careful or I will die before we get there.

The captain and his motley entourage enter a large holding area. There are a dozen other prisoners in the area, in various stages of injury. Their faces are blank. They stare at the ground. They are devoid of will or desire.

Ah, we have stopped. I smell others. I hear groaning. Yes! This must be the hospital. We must be in the waiting room. Thank you, God. I am sorry I said You have abandoned me.

The private and the corporal let loose their prisoner. He falls onto the floor, too wracked with suffering to even call out. His body quivers and shakes as each painful spasm travels through his central nervous system.

The captain positions himself in the center of the room and addresses the assembled prisoners and guards.

"Listen up, boys and girls. First of all, welcome to the game room. This is where we all have fun. Now, today we’re going to do a little body painting. When the paintings are finished, then we will analyze our work so we can get...what?"

The gathering shouts back in unison: "Information!"

"That’s right boys and girls. Information. Now, gathered around you are the…uh, canvases."

People are laughing. Is the speaker telling a joke? Ah, but if everyone is in a good mood, then nothing bad is going to happen.

"But, sir, where’s the paint, sir?"

The captain pushes a large plastic pail forward with his right foot.

"Here’s your paint, Soldiers. Sorry we only have one color…brown!"

Again, they are all laughing. This is good. Something must be funny.

"And it don’t smell so great, but it sure will stick to the canvas! So, let’s make some jhadi art!"

Something is being rubbed into my clothes. Are they trying to soothe my wounds? Whew, whatever it is they’re rubbing over me, it stinks! Now they’re rubbing my arms, my neck. I call out: "Take off the hood! Rub my face. It itches so much! It burns! Take off my hood!" But someone smacks me through the bag on my head so I don’t say anything else.

But the smell of this salve is terrible…Oh! No! This is not a salve. This is shit they’re rubbing all over me. Shit! They’re covering me with shit! "No! No!"

Again someone slaps me. Another kicks me in the stomach. I whimper like a dog.

"Excellent, boys and girls! I did not know we had such talented artists in our little group."

"OoooHaaa! OoooHaaa!"

"But we have one problem, soldiers. We don’t have an audience for your most excellent work.

"Why don’t we take pictures, sir!"

"A most excellent suggestion, private. Do you have your camera?"

"Yes indeed, sir."

"Well, then, let’s remove their hoods and show the world the butt-ugly mugs of the shit people."

"OoooHaaa! OoooHaaa!"

The soldiers stand over each the prisoners and rip off their hoods.

Praise God, they took the bag off of my head!

I cannot see anything! Am I blind after all? No, I see light, but my eyes will not open wide. Oh, okay. Now there are shapes, feet, legs. I look up. I can see men moving. My God what is that? There is a blinding flash right in front of my eyes! Now another. What new torture is this?

Now I squint. I see…one of the guards walking around with a…a camera! He is taking pictures of this…of us!

I look around. I see other bodies near me. Some are guards in uniform, but most look like me. And we are all covered in shit! We stare at each other…ashamed…afraid of each other…

"Boys and girls, boys and girls. What are we thinking? If we’re taking pictures, shouldn’t we clean up the jhadis for their photo op?"

"Yes, sir!"

One of the guards approaches me. He throws me on the ground, and strips off my tunic. Then my shirt. Then my pants. I am naked in front of everyone!

I try to cover myself. Then I see a female guard. I know she is the one. I know it.

She waves mockingly. My organ stirs. Please, no. Please, no. I use both hands to hide what is happening. She smiles…

Then another guard picks up a hose and points it at me. Suddenly I am being sprayed with water. It is a mixed blessing. The crust of brown shit is being washing away. But the water is cold. Very cold. I am trembling. I am shaking, out of control. But at least my organ wilts under the cold and I do not need to cover myself with both hands

Now I can move one hand to scratch my face which burns even under the cold water. I scratch…but now I feel something on my fingers. I look down. What is this? My skin? It is my skin. My skin is falling away from my face! What is wrong with me?

"Group photo…"

"OoooHaaa!"

"Group photo…"

"OoooHaaa!"

"This puss bucket belongs on the bottom, soldier."

A guard drags me toward the middle of the floor. He lays me out on the ground. As he moves away he steps on my hand, crushing my fingers, and I scream as this new damage takes its toll. Hands broken, skin falling off of my face…what more can they do to me?

Much more.

"Have you ever seen pictures of the pyramids, boys and girls?"

"Yes, sir!"

"But have you ever been to Egypt?"

"No, sir!"

"Then let’s build a pyramid right here in jhadiland so you can see one in the flesh!"

"OoooHaaa!"

One of the guards positions another naked prisoner next to me, making sure the other prisoner’s organ is up against my butt. The other prisoner quietly mutters an apology and I nod in acceptance of his words and the truth that there is nothing we can do.

Then another prisoner is placed on the floor with his organ up against the butt of the man next to me. Then another. Then another. All of us lie there with each other’s organs against our butts. And the guards are laughing.

"Looks like we gotta’ all-queer daisy chain goin’ here, sir!"

The captain shouts: "That’s what we got! Bunch a’ jhadi faggots."

"OoooHaaa1"

The guards stack more naked prisoners on top of the other prisoners. They make sure each man’s organ is rubbing against the butts of those on the bottom. Then they stack more prisoners on top of that layer. Then one more layer.

Aaagh! The weight of all these bodies has opened the sores on my chest. Blood and yellow fluid flow out from under me. Ah, but at least I am not cold anymore.

The guards are prowling and howling like desert jackals. They grab the camera from each other like it was freshly slaughtered meat .

Why are they taking pictures? Who will they show them to?

I look up. The female stands in front of us making a sign with her fingers. And she’s smiling. Another guard takes a picture of the female making that sign. What does it mean? Are they going to kill us? What do they want from us? What do they want from me?

"Corporal!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Would you like to climb to the top of the Great Pyramid of Jhadi?"

"Yes, I would, sir. Very much, sir!"

The female climbs over the naked bodies, digging the toes of her boots into bare flesh. With each of her steps, the men groan in agony but the guards are cheering as the female guard kneels at the top of the pile, smiling and laughing with her arms raised in the air as if she has won a great victory.

The captain grabs the camera and announces: "Caption on this one: First American Woman To Climb To The Top Of The Pyramid Of Jhadi!"

"OoooHaaa!"

"OoooHaaa!"

Then, suddenly one of the men in the pyramid yells, "God is Great," and the pile collapses, bodies falling everywhere and the corporal is flying through the air. She lands on her head with a thud! right next to the prisoner she had been torturing. She opens her eyes. She is dazed and confused as she blinks, then finds herself staring directly into Muhammad’s face.

The female is lying in front of me, I want her. I do. I stretch forward and place my bloody, cracked lips upon her soft, smooth, pink ones. I let the tip of my tongue flick across her mouth. She closes her eyes.

The guards are kicking and punching the prisoners as they rush to help their fallen comrade. As the other guards lift her up and carry her away. The acne-pocked guard stays behind. He is kicking Muhammad. He growls: "He violated her! I saw it. He violated her! I’m gonna’ kill the bastard. I’m gonna’ cut his balls off and hang ‘em on the wall! "

The other guards turn on the hoses and spray down the guard gone crazy as well as the prisoners. The intense water pressure raises then drops, tumbles then shakes everyone in a macabre water ballet, the dancers twitching and turning and flopping about in the cold, cold water in a command performance no one will be able to recall when asked what happened on that dark, or was it a sunny, day?

2 Poems
by Corey Mesler
chmesler@earthlink.net

Blue Desire In Your Very Mouth
by Corey Mesler
love
the way
your lips
unfold
like a book
opening.
Your dark
eyes,
Your
desire.
I love
the way
you place
yourself
right in
my path,
as if
I were
going anyplace
else
anyway.
Your lips
part,
to tell me
riddles,
to bamboozle me,
finally
to take
me in.


Sexdarknessdream
by by Corey Mesler
t’s dark inside,
where
your thighs join
and
when I think
about
it, I am dead gone.
A spook,
a gommie.
It’s
Halloween here,
in this
corner of the known
universe,
and I stay up all night,
because
I began with only one
thought:
it’s dark inside your thighs.
O light,
O common, human rut.

Angel Of Shadows
by Terrie Relf
tlrelf@cox.net
have known angels of darkness and of light,but it is the angel of shadows who comforts me.*

Why did she come here, to el café de la noche, where no one knew her name? Claire paid only slight attention to the café’s patrons. They watched her, though, their curious stares filled with a piercing needs that made her womb tremble.

No one had ever asked her to leave, so today, as usual, she ordered an espresso with a slice of lemon, listened to the sound of her circling spoon.

One day, she had met a man here.

The sky had been aflame with burnt orange and umber that day. She was the only person sitting in the patio. She liked to be alone with her grief at losing yet another baby.

Tears had burned down her cheeks, her throat was raw from sobbing. A glass of water. I really need a glass of water. And then a cool hand surrounded hers, murmured words of comfort, placed a glass of water in her hand.

She turned around to thank him, but there was no one there. Only shadows cast by an alabaster angel against which she leaned her head.

Perhaps she imagined the man, but the water was real. She took another sip, wondered at how he could move about so fast. When was the last time she’d eaten? Perhaps her sugar was low. Her hormones were acting up. That was it. They’re often erratic postpartum.

But she’d lost her baby. And it hadn’t been a hallucinatory pregnancy. The doctor confirmed it this time. They told her to see a psychiatrist over and over again. This time, she’d gone in when she first new. They confirmed the pregnancy. Took tests. Clicked their pens in and out, out and in, scribbled prescriptions, handed her pamplets, set more appointments.

After the fourth or fifth time to the doctor, with the pain-filled cycle of pregnancy and miscarriage, they spoke of genetic aberrations and tubal ligations. Perhaps a hysterectomy.

She would have none of that, she thought, gently circling a hand over her empty womb. Claire sighed, watched the barrista calmly light one candle after another. They gave off a peculiar amber glow.

But who was the father of her children. Both she and the doctors wanted to know. "He should come in for tests," they said. "At the very least, a consultation."

Claire agreed, decided there would be no more doctors.

But who was the father, and why did she return again and again to el café de la noche certain that she would find him there?

She didn’t know what he really looked like, only that he smelled of cardamom, his hands were cool against her face, his lips pressed gently against her thighs.

Her mind whirled with the possibilities, but none would take root in her thoughts. Did he lure her to the cafe, not to console, but to take what he needed, what he thought was his? Perhaps he was an angel of darkness, a midwife between this realm and the next.

Claire took another sip of espresso, spit the cold brew back into the cup. She had been here too long. It was time to go home.

It was difficult to stand as her legs and bottom had fallen asleep. She expected prickling sensations as she tried to move them, but they wouldn’t budge. She tried to lift a hand to massage them back to feeling, but her hand remained where she had left it, still gripping the espresso cup.

Several people were whispering. Others joined them. She wasn’t alone in the patio! Someone please help me! but her tongue lay limp against her teeth.

She smelled cardamom—or was it nutmeg? Her angle of shadows was here. Claire was able to close her eyes, relax, await the cool hand against her cheek.

Cookie
by Kenny
ken@thedailymale.org
reo
twisted, split apart
tasty cream