Paranormal Crisis by Andrew Kaspereen

Fearing that I had grown predictable in my age and comfort with society, I decided that my life was better served in the service industry. I cast a pink slip of triumphant resignation to my employer in the business world, left my loft apartment in the city for a small and modest condo on the city’s edge, and began soul searching. Roughly twenty minutes after I began said search, I discovered my passion.
Ron, I thought to myself, you’ve got so many discernible talents. Take your passion for making your own vegetable, how many people can do that? What about your skill in hand drawing maps of the rougher areas of Camden, New Jersey? With skills like these, you could do anything.
But what was my passion going to allow me to accomplish? Surely a deep understanding of my many facets should have yielded a bold, new direction in my life. Yet, it seemed it was not to be at that moment. Defeated, I turned on the television. Now without cable, I was unable to get the extended channels, but living in the city I was able to get the bare- boned basics.
On the television was an infomercial for help with home owners. “Times are hard,” it began playing soft music and showing unemployment centers with lines out the door, panning to an outline of the city, and then changed to an old woman being handed a giant pink slip that said medical care denied. The voice returned. “With so few things in your life being out your control, wouldn’t it be nice to feel secure in just one thing?” Suddenly the music stops. All of a sudden the words “REFINANCE! REFINANCE! REFINANCE!” and “HELP US HELP YOU!” in bright neon colors.
The rest of the commercial was forgettable, so much so that I quickly fell asleep.
I dreamt about being in a room with a ghost sitting on a couch and heckling me for being old. He looked like Mark Twain.
“You aren’t young anymore. Buy me a discount movie ticket.” he said.
“You’re dead.” I said.
“You bring up a valid point. Are you still happy?” he asked.
“Alright, please leave before I start shouting.” I said.
Then I woke up. I decided I needed breakfast. I made my way to the kitchen.
As I fired the stove, I was struck like a small deer on county rode in the twilight by a brilliant idea: Affordable ghost hunting. The market was brimming with opportunity for discounted services and I was just the man for it. I always prided myself on my ability to haggle. That is to say that I felt competent in the area of making a deal. In high school I was voted “most likely to convince that a compromise of some kind was likely to be mutually beneficial for both parties of the dispute.”
Getting the ad in the paper was very simple. I called and offered to pay them. Being a newspaper, they were slightly perplexed by the idea of money, but I was able to convince them to “play ball” as those who are knowledgeable in slang might say. The add read like this: “Have Ghosts? Have little to know money? No Problem! Let the experts at Ron’s Ghost Punishers take care of everything.” After the ad there was a number to call.
I neglected to mention that I had never actually encountered a ghost, but I figured that ghosts were a lot like people, just able to go through walls and slightly transparent. My philosophy was if you could talk to a person, well, a ghost couldn’t be too different. It wasn’t like they made it seem on movies with the backpack vacuums and coolers filled with poltergeists. Hell, I didn’t even own a cooler or a vacuum. In my previous path in life, I was a bit of a business man; I went to meetings, sometimes without a clue as to the sort of meeting I was about to enter. How did I survive? I decided that preparation of the mental nature was everything. I had to walk into the meeting as if I was walking on water. It worked moderately well, except with religious clients who felt I was trying to mock their belief systems.
Preparation for this job came in the form of waiting by my phone, which was now corded, as I was trying to find joy in the simpler things. In my lifetime, I had been a very simple man in terms of desire, no wife, no children, a goldfish named Raul for company, and the occasional viewing of a boxed DVD set of “Matlock” that my grandmother left me when she passed into the great hereafter. Now, I had begun to find my life slightly lacking. I needed fulfillment.
Fulfillment did not come in the four days I sat waiting for a phone call. The things that did come were thirst, hunger, boredom, personal frustration, a desire to call the cable company and ask for cable again, a deep philosophical inquiry into the soul, and analysis of the socialist party of America’s persona l viewpoints. The waiting always seems to be the hardest; at least that’s what I’ve been told.
On the fifth day, the phone finally rang. I jumped and quickly grabbed the receiver. “Ron’s Ghost Punishers, this is Ron; how may I help you?”
“Yeah, hi Ron. My name is Anton Lido. I got this ghost in my basement and he keeps messing with my laundry. I mean, I don’t care that the whites are out of order and mixin’ with the colors, but it’s my wife. She keeps complaining about it. I keep tellin’ her, I say, Sheila Damnit, that ghost is tearin’ us apart. She just doesn’t want to listen, though.”
There are few things more nefarious than a person who messes with other people’s laundry. It is a sacred establishment, like communion at church or the Special Olympics. I understood Anton’s struggle. Before I answered him, I had to think. What sort of things would a paranormal expert ask? “What can you tell me about the Ghost?”
“Well, he messes with the laundry and he is a heavy set man in a flannel shirt. I think his name is Sam, but that’s only when I hear him talkin’ to someone, who I suppose is him unless he has Ghost company or something.”

“Alright, let me write this down.” I said as I sat there without a pen and paper. I found pretending to sound official helps. “Is he impolite or dangerous?”
“Not at all; in fact, he’s very polite. I feel bad askin’ him to leave, but Sheila is talkin’ about separation. Polite or not, that’s my wife. I saw your ad, and I figured what the hell do I have to lose?”
“I understand completely, where do you reside?”
***
That evening, I went to the Lido residence to meet with the ghost who I was under the belief to be known as Sam.
Anton answered the door. He was a middle aged man, balding and dressed much like he described Sam. “Hey there, Ron. Funny, I thought you’d be younger.”
I smiled. “Well, with age comes wisdom I suppose. Let’s go to the basement and I’ll see what I can do about your laundry problem.” I winked at him for emphasis. Sometimes actions like that make customers feel at ease, at least that’s what I was told by a close friend in the service industry. I myself always felt as if the salesman was trying to come onto me, but I am a man that is filled with suspicion at all times.
I walked into the basement. As I descended the stairs I saw a pair of oversized white briefs land in front of my feet. The sound of Sam’s voice became audible. “I should have been a pilot or something.”
And just like that it was the moment of truth.
I stepped off the final step. Before addressing the ghost, I decided to survey the scenery of the basement. It was unfinished, seemed to be in disrepair, and exactly the sort of place a rapscallion who liked to upset the order of laundry would nest himself. As I finished my survey of the basement, Sam noticed me.
“Oh, hello there. Who are you?” He seemed fairly polite.
“Hello, my name is Ron.”
“I’m Samuel, but you can call me Sam. What year is it?”
“It’s 2005; why are you throwing the Lido’s laundry? Don’t you realize…”
“2005? You don’t say. I died in 1980. I worked at a train station in maintenance. It was great because I could ride the train for free.”
“ That’s very interesting, but you avoided my question.”
“Have you ever been on a train?” he asked.
“Yes, once when I was a young man; now about my question?”
He smiled. “Of course, I’m sorry. They don’t tell me things here. The wife doesn’t like me much. I suppose I’m looking for something.”
Now I was getting somewhere. The stereotype about ghosts is that they have unfinished business. All I had to do was figure out what Sam’s was and he would be gone. “And that would be?”
“What is that?” he asked.
“What you are searching for?”
“Oh right, the meaning of life.” he said casually.
“Aren’t there other places to look than a laundry basket, besides what does it matter,m,l/ you’re dead.”
He seemed to be taken aback. “Well there’s no need to call names, Ron.” He stopped for a moment. “As for the laundry, there is a great deal we can learn from unlikely places.”
I smiled. Perhaps the ghost and I weren’t so different. “Sam, did you die in this house?”
“No. I died in Cleveland of a heart attack, I just floated around for a while and then settled in this basement.”
“Sam, perhaps you should try a laundry mat.” I said.
“That makes sense. A change of scenery would work for me.” He started to float a little higher. “Alright, I’ve decided. Take care,” and with that was gone.
I went back upstairs and gave Anton and Sheila (who had a pronounced Adam’s apple and what looked to be very powerful forearms) a thumb up to illustrate my success in vanquishing Sam. Sheila smiled and gave me a firm and uncomfortable hug, as well as a fresh store-bought rhubarb pie. I asked them for one hundred dollars, they provided and I left.
After dealing with the Lido’s, the phone rang sporadically. Most of the time it was telemarketers, but occasionally it would be a business call. There was one day where I was called by an older woman named Janice Wentworth. She had a problem with a poltergeist that was disturbing the order of her garden supplies in her shed.
I arrived outside her shed just before darkness. I opened the shed slowly, not sure if I would meet the ghost or a projectile of the garden variety. The shed was small enough, I had to duck from hitting my head, but it did have a decent length in terms of floor space. I walked to the center. “Hello?”
At first there was nothing, but then a loud sound. “Who are you?” As the words echoed in the shed a small elderly woman in a shawl. She was floating three feet in the air. “You aren’t Janice.”
“My name is Ron, I’m here to, to, help you.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to tell her to leave. I figured it was best to ease my way into it. “What’s your name?”
“Have you ever loved someone, Ron?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. Had she really just asked me if I ever loved someone?
“Have you ever known the love of a woman,” she paused for a moment, “or a man if that’s what you prefer?”
“No ma’am, I’m very work-oriented. That and my parents never really got along as well as they should have. Well that and I was relatively shy in romantic avenues and I never really understood the idea of double-dating…”
She held up her translucent hand to stop me. “I understand. Why are you really here Ron?”
Feeling oddly out of my element, I was honest with the ghost. “I am an affordable ghost hunter who Mrs. Wentworth hired to remove you from her shed.”
“Oh, well that’s rather rude of her.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Why are you here anyway” was what came out.
“A shed is a place of honesty.”
I stood in silence, expecting her to say more. When it did not come, I decided to inquire for further meaning. “What?”
“You were just honest with me one moment ago, were you not?”
She had a point, I was very honest. “You have to leave. If you don’t I’ll look incompetent.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Failing is alright, Ron. You just have to know what to do with yourself when you fail. I have been looking for honesty amongst these tools for weeks. All I have found so far is dirt.” she paused. “Janice is nice enough, but I knew it was only a matter of time before she sent someone here to ask me to leave…”
“But you aren’t going to?” I asked.
“Not today, I still need to look in the shovel. That’s always a good place.”
I realized that I couldn’t talk her out of it. I turned around to leave. As I left, the ghost called out to me. “Ron, you are going to be alright.”
I smiled to myself. Perhaps the ghost knew me better than I knew myself. I walked out and shut the gate and drove home in silence, thinking about the order of the universe, dirt, and the fact that I should have charged by the hour.
That night I fell asleep on the couch, still in my clothes from the day. I dreamt I was on my couch and the ghost who looked like Mark Twain was hovering over me again. “Hello, Ron.”
“Hi Dad.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be. You can’t use a computer like your nephew and you don’t like reality television.”
Instead of lashing out, I took it in for a moment and smiled at the ghost of my father. “I found the meaning of life today, Dad.”
“What? Really?”
I nodded.
“Tell me, I need to know!”
As I went to open my mouth I saw Sam and the old woman from the shed come in through the ceiling. Behind them were dozens of other ghosts. There were tall ones, fat ones, animals, and even some larger plants, all swirling around me clamoring for answers. The room faded and I opened my mouth to speak. “I’m old and don’t know what I want anymore. I tried hard to figure out what I needed and I assumed hunting those with unfinished business would lead me to an answer or fulfillment of some kind.”
The ghosts stared at me and shouted in unison “And?”
“Well it didn’t work. In fact, I’m poor and I live on the outskirts of the city by myself. I’ve never been so bored and without purpose in my entire life.”
“Get to the point!” shouted Sam.
“Tell us!” shouted a large cactus.
“We need to know!” yelled the old woman.
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and prepared to tell them the sum of my life and everything that I was trying to accomplish, feel, and see. Just at that moment of intense self-realization my television woke me up.
On the screen was an advertisement. “Know something others don’t? At a dead end job? Why not take that knowledge and make some money…” it was cut short as my power went out. Then I got another idea.

The Broad Set Writing Collective proudly announces its first reading!!

Please come out and show your support. Just by showing up you will receive a free copy of Lo-Fidelities latest magazine featuring fiction, non-fiction and/or photography by:

- Lauren Cerand. Publicist for Ben Greenman, Jean Thompson, Jonathan Baumbach and many more.

- Dr. Mickey Hess. Author of Big Wheel at the Cracker Factory, and Hip Hop in America; A Regional Guide

- Glen Binger. Editor for 50-1 and editor of Lo-Fidelity

- Sam Ciero. Lo-Fidelity Editor

This is going to be a great event with an after party to boot. No need to RSVP, just come and be prepared to have some fun. The train from NY takes you right to Belmar.

(also see alternate flyer)

_____________________________________________

In the coming weeks we will have a review of 500 Days of Summer, an interview with Director Aaron Narr, a music profile on our own Andrew Kaspereen with exclusive MP3s, a review of Stephen Elliott's The Adderall Diaries and much more creative writing from our talented artists.

I was also like to thank Sam Ciero, Kiley Rummler, Glen Binger and Laura Mortkowitz for all their hard work. With out these people we wouldn't have made the progress we have. This is only the beginging for The Broad Set.

Brand Scott Gorrell's During My Nervous Breakdown I Want To Have A Biographer Present

Those in the literary community have learned that, like music, a lot of an artists work can be found for free online. There have been arguments as to the level of commitment that brings out in the reader. Brand Scott Gorrell of Muumuu House, is a poet who is unafraid to take a leap where many of us shy away. He is at the forefront of free online publications. He doesn't shy away from the heat in which he may recieve and ultimately is writer using technology to create new angels in literature. This is blaitently evident in the title of his newest work titled During My Nervous Breakdown I Want a Biographer Present. Who would have the guts to make that the title of their book? Not many. But it works.

Mr. Gorrell’s poetry gives you a lot of details which sometimes will garner a reaction similar to “Why do I care about this?” but beyond these questions rests a subtle psychology and occasionally reminds us not to overlook what surrounds us. A great example of this comes in the poem Alienated Afraid of Furniture in Bedroom. (Courtesy of Lamination Colony)

Alienated Afraid of Furniture in Bedroom

i am on the bed and everything feels wrong

i have gotten into an argument with the bed and in a fit of rage i have bludgeoned it with my fists

i am laying in the dry bathtub with my jeans on

the shampoo and conditioner are quiet and they don't move an inch

not an inch for anything

i feel accommodated and like a face that stretches until it becomes

something

i want to kill the shampoo and conditioner

i want to squeeze their insides on my face

____________________________________________________________________

Glen Binger and I had the chance to speak with Brandon about his latest work, online publications and his insights into the writing process.

What do you consider 'During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to have a Biographer Present' to be about?

A 24-year old male in Seattle, Washington exploring a specific range of emotions while he works as a copywriter in an office environment, develops relationships over the internet, walks on the sidewalk, involuntarily wakes at 4 AM and can't get back to sleep, fantasizes about things like love, sex, death, 'the apocalypse', and aliens, and other situations.

Your poems often have a distinct attitude. Is this an attitude that reflects your own personal emotions or an attitude that is developed for the purpose of your poetry?

I think the attitude in the poems I have written reflect how I wanted the poem to 'feel' when they're read, as if the 'attitude of the poem' was another tool I could use to influence how the poem is perceived. A lot of the time I don't feel the way that my poems 'feel'. Some of the time I do.

How long does it take you to create a poem? How long have you been working onDuring My Nervous Breakdown I Want to have a Biographer Present?

It takes between 15 minutes and 3 months for me to create a poem. I worked on DURING MY NERVOUS BREAKDOWN for 8 or 9 months.

A lot of your work has been published online. How valid do you feel online publications have become with the diminishing emphasis on print publications?

It seems, in the sense that you ask, that the validity of any publication is measured by how much 'literary street cred' (a general consensus of 'respect', typically attained through certain powerful actions or behaviors, such as publishing the most unique, highly relevant literature on a regular basis or publishing the newest literature by the 'up and coming' writers with the most 'reach' (i.e NOON)) it has, how much 'literary street cred' its editor has, how much 'literary street cred', generally, the contributors have, how 'good' the publication looks, the publication's 'reach', and whether or not it's associated with a university or non-profit. It also seems to me that the 'mainstream', for the most part, associates 'literature' with 'books/print', rather than 'e-books' or websites.

How did you actually get to know Tao? How did that help with getting your poetry book published?

Two years ago, maybe, I found Tao’s blog. A couple weeks later, I had a very short thing published at 3:AM Magazine. I emailed Tao saying that I got the thing published. Then I think we started emailing each other and eventually Gmail chatting and 'became friends.' Our friendship probably helped get my poetry book published because, I think, Tao prefers to publish his friends.

Have you ever written a title and thought “that is too long” and shorten it?

I can't remember ever doing that.

Often writers feel as though they get more feedback through online publications as opposed to print, how do you feel this influences your work? Do you feel you get to know your readers on a different level than most because of your online availability?

Feedback on the internet is generally negative, lately, and sometimes it upsets me. I think it influences my 'work' in such a way that I get more critical of it, because I start feeling, when I'm writing, that I don't want to give people 'shit to talk shit on' anymore. Concurrently, I sometimes know that certain things will piss certain people off (i.e. NERVOUS ASSFACE, or the short story contest I held on my blog), and feel okay about it, because I generally assume that that type of attention (intense negative shit talking) helps to further define and reinforce myinternet/literary persona, provides 'angles' for journalists, influences people to think about me at a higher frequency than they had before, and increases my 'reach'. Whethernegaitve feedback upsets me or not is usually situational; if I'm happy and feeling validated by success or attention I'm getting on the internet or in physical realty, or feeling, maybe, 'zen' about things, I usually don't care. If I feel depressed, or see other people 'doing better' than me, there's a higher chance I'll feel upset by negative feedback. I generally feel good about receiving positive feedback.

I feel that I know my readers on the same level as other writers that use the internet the way I use it. I don't know how my relationship with my readers compares with writers that don't use the internet the way I do.

What was your favorite part about the book publishing process?

Creating and editing THE BRANDON BOOK CRISIS.

If you could change anything about the publishing process, what would it be?

I wouldn't change anything about Muumuu House's book publishing process.

How is the book tour? What's the wildest or most interesting thing that has happened so far?

The book tour is good. I'm almost finished. I felt very interested in almost every person I met inSan Francisco; my interest level was higher than it had been 'in years', in terms of people, I think. These people included, but are not limited to, Mike Young, Chelsea Martin, some ofChelsea's friends, Reynard Siefert, Jimmy Chen, 'Emily Hendrix', her friends, Clayton Banes, JoshKlienberg, and some other people.

What are your future plans on furthering your writing career?

I'm not sure right now. My novella, MY HAIR WILL DEFEAT YOU, was rejected by Melville House. I feel like there's a 70% chance I'll 'end up' editing that some more, then trying to get it published elsewhere.

What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say the word 'blog'?

Jeffrey Brown's drawing of a line in my book

Life Outside a Toaster by Peter Richter

Life Outside a Toaster

In the morning, waves

of grey sun ice the counter tops

and I stand in my sleep

and scratch my arm.

I watch my skin peel away

like curls of wood

under my finger nails.

I feel my age and

this unavoidably makes me think

of toast.

As my parents began to split

I had more time alone in the house.

I was six when I started making

my own breakfast and lunch.

I would lift the toaster

from the bottom cabinet to the counter

and a wheat storm would dust my fiddled hair.

I would rebalance myself,

wheeze and squint and cough

as rays of sun blared through the cloud around my head.

It was hard for me then, to

understand how that much bread got into the bottom of the toaster.

As I grew though, I found different breads,

some already tan,

some that I would press together with my palms,

some made with cheap grain and

some that were old and falling apart at the edges.

Those were the pieces that burnt and fell to the bottom.

____________________________________________

Here is a song for all The Broad Set members. You wouldn't think it would be motivating but it is ... The Carpenters - We've Only Just Begun. Who thought you'd see that on this website. damn.

The Broad Set Writing Collective will be reading in Belmar, NJ later this summer - stay tuned for details.

Dr. Mickey Hess's (aka Uncle Flexible) new book drops November 30th! Hip Hop in America: A Regional Guide

Did you read the Ben Greenman Article? Don't miss out his new book Please Step Back or this interview!

For those interested in Poetry, The Coachella Review posted a great intervie with the legend himself, Billy Collins. Insightful, poetic (duh), smart and well written, this interview is a big help to those looking to grow in their poetic abilities!

And if you have been living in a whole and missed out on Opium Magazine's latest issue titled "The Longest Story Ever Told" visit their website!

_____________________________________________________________

Edit: Tuesday, July 14th 2009 1:50 PM

Stephen Elliott is coming out with a new book in September titled The Adderall Diaries. The Broad Set Writing Collective would be honored to have an advanced copy of this book as to review it, enjoy it and give it a proper home. Stephen Elliott is the author of My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up. I am excited to read The Adderall Diaries as his prior work is outstanding.

Join the Graywolf Giveaway!

...or

Buy the book here!

Untitled, Drunk

Not quite sure what to do with this one... I wrote it this morning and I like the concept and its brevity, but something doesn't feel quite right. Any feedback at all would help. Thanks, guys! And no, I wasn't drunk when I wrote it. haha


Untitled, Drunk

Barefoot, pedaling faster, he feels alive in the salty midnight air. He is drunk and riding his bike away from the bar to the only place he feels secure: the beach. It’s not like anything he’s ever experienced. He shivers exactly the same way he does when he hears music. Pins and needles, dulled and rounded, rush up his spine, directly into the vertebrates of his neck. Pedaling even faster, he wishes he could control the handlebars of his bicycle more closely but he is distracted by his impaired thoughts of the shuddering bounce the music now in his head is giving him. It’s a feeling he can’t describe to anyone. Not even the headlights swerving from the lane coming at him. He tries to avoid them by shifting his weight, making the bike turn a sharp right. Fortunately for him, the car sees the reflectors on his pedals and corrects itself back into its lane in plenty of time. However, the sharp right he took to avoid the vehicle caused him to smash directly into the back of a car parallel parked on the side of the road. He is launched over his handlebars, over the roof of the sedan, straight onto its hood. As he straightens himself back to his feet, he takes detail in the damage done to the car. The rear bumper is dented from the bicycle, but he doesn’t notice this at first. He first notices the dent in the hood left by his, now bleeding, forehead. It doesn’t worry him. He looks at his bicycle. The front tire is bent into an oval unable to ride. He becomes upset in his drunken state. But quickly, the dulled pins and needles spread throughout his body, calming him. He picks up his bike and starts walking, still in the direction of the beach. Music resumes its volume in his mind. And he misses the salty breeze blowing through his hair.

---

Currently listening to: Death From Above 1979, 'You're A Woman, I'm A Machine'

Shake it, girl

I hate the way you move your hips when you walk. Watching that natural rumba from across the room makes me long to drink my drink so deep that the gin fuses with my consciousness until I become the juniper berries whose only desire is the warm sun, the cold ground and to grow UP.

I, however, remain firmly rooted to the ground - drunk with desire but too drunk to do much.

Untitled

I need help with a title for this. Any suggestions are good suggestions :) I'm also looking for some feedback on if there's anything I should think about changing. Thanks!


She speaks in cursive. And it used to be the reason he loved her.

Now, she throws obscenities at him like sloppy snowballs.

They hit him, right in the chest. But not hard enough. They feel like a pair of rolled up cotton socks. She was never very good at speaking cruel words.

As her words loop and twirl -- like an unchoreographed dance -- out of her mouth, the mouth he used to kiss and the mouth he used to love, he's standing still. Like a figurine.

He can't hear her words, because his silence is too loud, but he can see them. Getting knotted together and not making sense.

He wishes he knew how to hear. And not just see. Because even though her words are ugly he’s almost positive that her voice is beautiful.


Currently listening to: "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole