Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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Flipper Hands McCreary
Part 3

I don't know why I was remembering my failed navy history while staring at a photo of a one-legged naked chick. Probably because John John had promised this would be big for me, this item he had to show me. I got excited by all his talk and couldn't wait for him to come out with this magical thing he was supposed to show me.

"Mikey," he said, entering the living room and carrying a large shoebox. "What I have here will mean your reentry into the navy. Better still, navy crime solving. NCIS shit."

"You're serious?" I said. "It's all in that box?"

"Right here, buddy. Just got this mailed to us today at work. This ain't old Cal Ripkens and Eddie Murrays I got in here. This is much more valuable. You'll wanna catch the bastard who did this."

"Wow," I said. I felt a little foolish, but I couldn't help but be excited. "Well, show me, for Pete's sake. Give it here."

"You gotta prepare yourself. Clear your mind. Shake away all your preconceptions."

"Preconceptions of what? Things that go in shoeboxes?"

"I don't like your attitude."

"I'm interested. My mind is clear. Let's see the prize. I'm on pins and needles."

He set the box on the table very slowly and removed the cover. Then he backed away. I looked at him and walked toward the box. I could now tell from where the smell in the apartment was coming. The contents of this container smelled like death—death and, for some reason, rotten chewing gum and Salisbury steak.

When I finally looked inside I thought I might have been hallucinating from the head trauma, the chloroform, maybe even the smell itself. I could not have been seeing what I was seeing.

It was a dead baby, just a few weeks old with sticky brown and pink stuff all over its little head. Having seen it now, I knew what John John meant. I really wanted to catch whoever was responsible for this. It was the most heinous thing I had ever seen.

Someone, some monster, had stuck a baby's head in gravy, then, "washed it out" with bubblegum and literally sent it to the navy. It was even worse than ten years before, when some maniac in DC took it upon himself to set the pants of people he deemed liars ablaze.

This raised question after question in me. Was this baby alive when it was sealed up and shipped? What could be the motive behind this? Was this the only such package or was this person a repeat offender? Whose baby was this? Who could just snatch an infant from a loving mother, soil it with country gravy and Big League Chew, package it with the funny pages, and ship it to the military?

"Big time shit, huh?" John John said. "I have it on good authority that the naval base has a half dozen more of these in their possession. I borrowed this one just for you. I think you should help them solve this case."

"I don't know, John John," I said. "This is a little heavy. I mean, dead babies? I never imagined anything like this. Is this for real? This really came to the navy in a box?"

"When have I ever lied to you? You wanna be in the navy, don't you? I'm trying to help you. I don't see a better way for that to happen than by you solving one of their biggest crimes."

"How'd you get this?"

"I borrowed it. I'm giving it to you to bring back. Just let them know I sent you and that you want to assist with the case. I'll put the cover back on the box so you don't have to look at the poor thing."

"They'll be okay with me just showing up with this?"

"Yes. They're expecting you. I've built you up, buddy. They're at a loss about this case. You can help them."

"Okay," I said. I couldn't believe what I was saying. "I'll do it."

"Great. This'll be good for you, Mikey. I promise."

John John and I left his apartment. When we got to the street he bolted down the sidewalk without saying goodbye or anything. I called a cab and stood in front of John John's building for twenty minutes in the cold and wind holding this box, protecting it, keeping it warm. I imagined people walking by me, wondering what this strange man could be keeping in this box.

Finally my taxi arrived. I got in, still questioning what I was doing. Just holding that box must have been against the law.

"Where to, Mac?" the cabbie said.

"Take me to the naval base," I said.

"Buddy, that's...," he started.

"Just drive," I demanded.

I thought a lot about John John during the ride. It was great that he was helping me get back into the navy. He had never so much as introduced me to any of his co-workers, even when I expressed interest in meeting other navy people.

Still I had doubts. Three times I thought about telling the driver to pull over and let me out, but I stayed. Something told me I was meant to do this.

"You a married man, buddy?" the cabbie said.

"No."

"Got a little present in that box for your girlfriend?"

"Not exactly."

"Got any Brooks Robinsons in there?"

"They're not baseball cards."

"What business you got at the navy?"

"Can we just continue in silence?"

"Whatever you say, buddy."

He dropped me off at the Naval Museum. I went inside and told the desk clerk I wanted to see someone in charge of criminal activity, that I had something they would be very interested in. She looked at me very strangely and told me to have a seat and someone would be right with me.

I sat down, clutching the box close to me. Here I was again, back at the naval base. Maybe John John was right. I had been waiting to get back in, to go back and finish what I started. It looked possible that this was my chance.

After what seemed like forever two men in suits came to see me. They were younger than I expected and neither wore a hat like I thought a navy man would. They each opened up their jackets a little bit to show me they had guns.

"Hello, sir," one of them said. "I'm Special Agent Jones."

"And I'm Special Agent Smith," the other said. "What can we do for you, Mister..."

"It's Michael," I said. "I understand you've been receiving some suspicious packages. I have another one for you."

With that they each pulled out their guns and pointed them at me. My heart skipped a beat. I never knew what that meant, but now I was feeling it. A rush of panic swept through me. I had never had a gun pointed at me before. Now I had two.

"What sort of packages are we talking about?" Jones said.

"Baby ones."

"I assume you don't mean a box full of tiny little boxes. So is that what you have in there, Michael?" Smith said. "A baby?"

"Yes. My friend..."

"Is this a confession then, Michael?"

"No, it's not."

"All right, come with us."

They each grabbed one of my arms and dragged me to their office. During the walk they told me how wrong it was to kill babies. Whenever I said, "I know," they both shouted, "You don't know!" and slapped me on the head. It was completely abusive and they may still have a lawsuit on their hands.

When we arrived at their office they threw me into a chair. One of them sat down behind a desk, the other remained standing.

"Michael," Smith said. "You do know that we have received here at the base six parcels containing deceased babies. You apparently have a seventh. What else are we to assume but that you're now confessing?"

"Walking around with one of these packages is a bit suspicious," Jones said. "Only the culprit and only a psychotic would be up to something like that."

"One of your workers gave this to me. I want to help with the case."

"One of our workers?" Jones said. "One of our workers handed you a box of dead baby just like that?"

"Michael," Smith said. "This case is strictly confidential. Handing someone like you evidence would be not only a fireable offense, it would be a criminal one. Now, what is this worker's name?"

"John John."

"John John what?" Smith said. "Is that his full name? Do you know his last name? Give us something, Michael. Help us out."

"His name is John John Leprechaun."

"What did you say?" Jones said.

"My friend's name is John John Leprechaun."

"John John Leprechaun?" Smith said. They were both looking at me even more serious than before. "Look, mister. Either you're the demented shit doing this or your friend is. Either way we have to take you in."

"No, he works here. He's an investigator."

"He's not, Michael," Jones said. "You're a pawn, a stupid pawn in his stupid game. You're holding evidence, his evidence. So if you want to help with the case, we need to question you and you need to lead us to him."

I wasn't prepared for this. I thought I would be greeted with open arms and let in on the case, not badgered by two men in suits. I sat silently for a few seconds until Jones got pissed off at me.

"Well?" he said. "Tell us about John John Leprechaun. Something other than that he went to school with nothing on, and that he asked the teacher what to wear and she gave him polka-dotted underwear."

"I don't know that much about him. We met by the docks one night years ago. Then we drifted apart and, as fate would have it, we met again at a wrestling fantasy camp in Florida a couple of years later."

"You met at a what?" Smith said.

"Wrestling fantasy camp. John John Leprechaun was his wrestling name. He's Irish and really short with flipper hands."

"Flipper hands?"

"Yeah, like a fish."

"Why not call himself something fishlike, like John John Flipper Hands?"

"He didn't like to draw attention to it."

"Okay, and what was your wrestling name?" Jones said.

"I was The Seaman."

"The Seaman?" Jones said, laughing. They both laughed.

"But John John always called me Michael Michael Motorcycle."

"Two peas in a pod you are, aren't you?" Smith said.

"Are you aware, Mr. Motorcycle," Jones said. "That he has sent boxes to places other than here?"

"Who? John John? No, I wasn't aware of that. There are more babies?"

"There's even more to it, Fonzie." Jones said.

"While bubblegum was indeed found on each body, there is a variation with each case. Nonetheless, a rhyme still forms."

"We have several instances involving young children sent to popular stores. One we concluded was a chap, its head stuck in crap and sent to the Gap. Another, a tot stuck in a flowerpot and sent to Big Lots."

"Oh, and we have had at least one baby sent to Old Navy."

"There was even a small elderly man, a fogey, if you will, his head stuck in a meatball hoagie and sent to a random residential home in Muskogee."

"And finally, two prostitutes. One a whore, her head dipped in what we've only guessed to be gore and sent to the Peace Corps. The other a hooker whose head we determined was dumped in a cooker and sent to Jimmy 'Superfly' Snuka."

"Wow," I said.

"Yeah, no shit, wow."

"You guys have Superfly's address?"

"Listen, Captain Moped," Jones said. "Are you gonna tell as what you know or are we gonna beat it out of you?"

"Well, we can't do that, but we can give you a polygraph."

"What's that?" I asked.

"You're like a child, aren't you?"

"It's a lie detector test. We hook you to a machine, ask you questions. If you lie, the machine tells us."

"Amazing what they can do nowadays," I said.

"You're damn right."

"Well, do it," I said. "Give me the lie detector. I have nothing to hide."

"All right, sport. We'll go get that set up for you. Just wait here."

They both left. I tried to comprehend everything they had told me. This really couldn't be. John John was an asshole, good a friend as he had been to me. But a murderer? Babies were one thing, but he seemed too lazy to ship an entire adult human being anywhere.


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