Free A Writer's Tale by Richard Laymon

Caught on a telephone wire Shredded by the wind Its soul-string whipping behind in the wind And the pale morning moon Hanging stupid above it. I pass by Hoping another guy
    Will come along And dig it with love like me.
     
    Patience (1967)
     
    Some of us are Waiting to walk Along a beach at dusk And stumble Not on a sea weed, Sea bone, driftwood, But on Skulls
    Of Some Of us Are
    Waiting (patiently)
    For things to get Rather sticky red With us
    Before things get Too dry to drink.
     
    Assassin’s Meditation (1967)
     
    Today I could have lost My lotus down the chest Of president or king, Died petal after petal Down the warehouse wall Into a siren asphalt fire. I could have knelt
    At Tower Hill To die with More Or grown black wings With Latimer. Today I could have slanted My thighs through the sky Grey doom of death’s belly, Slid down a cliff of shadow Into the slated, shouting sea…  Taken my blood By the bone of its hand And led it, trembling, Into the alter of tomb.
     

An Early Story
    Note: “Beast” was published in Jason, the literary magazine of Willamette University, and won second place in the Willamette writing contest. The year was 1966. The kid was a sophomore. The tale is a sign of things to come.
     
    Beast
     
    “I’LL NOT ALLOW ANY SUCH BEAST IN THIS HOUSE! RICHY CAN RANT AND rave till Doomsday, but I’ll not allow a dog in this house. Scratching up the furniture, tearing the curtains…  ”
    “It’s cats that tear curtains,” corrected the father.
    “Dogs too. And they smell. And they bite. They carry disease.”
    “So do children.”
    “But I’m not allergic to children! Besides, why should he want a dog anyway? He’s got everything else a boy could ever want. We don’t want to spoil him.”
    “He doesn’t have many friends,” his father said.
    Rich watched the wind float a yellow leaf downward onto the lawn. I’ll rake them all up Saturday, he thought. For Dad. A sad ache of tenderness swept through him. He rolled off the bed and walked to his desk, beside which sat a wooden box. He had made the box.
    One board of the side facing him was too long, its rough edge steepling above the top.
    The boards of the other side had come out even. Rich felt proud of the box. Especially of the way the screws went in so straight to hold the hinges on. The latch would also have met success except for a shortage of screws that left one side of the holes empty. Light brown wood showed where the slotted screw head should have been. The rest of the box was white.
    A padlock sealed it. Rich reached inside his shirt for the key but his mother’s voice came again. “There’s Jimmy and Allen. He spends a lot of time with them. He seems to like them well enough.”
    “I hope not!”
    “Charles!”
    “Hell, honey, those kids are creeps. Just like their parents.”
    “Allen has a dog.”
    “Hallelujah!” he sang.
    “Don’t act like a child.”
    “My only son associates with creeps so he can pet a dog! And I’m not supposed to act like a child?”
    “Don’t yell! Rich’ll hear you.”
    Rich chuckled. He had left the white box and returned to his bed.
    “He’s undoubtedly heard everything we’ve said since I came in the door. Have a nice day, Rich?”
    “Awright,” he called.
    “That’s good.” To his wife, “See?”
    “Richy, time to get washed up for dinner.”
    “Awright.”
    He sat down at the table with its three plates white-gleaming empty, one glass of milk, and two thin-stemmed frosted glasses 3/4 filled with Chablis. It looked to Rich like weak apple cider, but he knew that it wasn’t. He had tasted it once in secret and had gotten sick.
    His mother brought spaghetti to the table. He stuffed a chunk of French bread into his mouth.
    “Rich,” said his father, “how many times do I have to tell you not to eat before grace is said?” His mother sat down. “Will you say grace now?”
    “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for this food. Amen.”
    “You should have