Category Archives: short stories

Reading and Book Signing at Treo on Tulane Avenue!

Our group from the Thursday night Fiction Writing Class, taught by Stephen Rea, will be hosting a Reading and Book Signing of our book: well, really two books in one: Bai Polar and The Fallen Man.

Where? Treo, 3835 Tulane Avenue, pub and restaurant

When? Friday, July 14th, 2017: 7-8:30 pm

Even if you don’t buy a book: stop by and have a drink and a bite to eat and visit with our class. Stephen Rea is an excellent teacher and the author of “Finn McCool’s Football Club: The Birth, Death, and Resurrection of a Pub Soccer Team in the City of the Dead.”

The authors of Bai Polar: Tom Warin, Matthew Haines, Rachel Henderson, Ashley Rouen, Daniel Zimmerman, Anne Reed.

The authors of The Fallen Man: Elicia Ford, Bill Tice, Samantha Frost, Sara Jacobelli, Debbie Pesses, Laura Michaud.

Interested in taking one of Stephen Rea’s writing classes? The introductory class is held on Tuesday nights, the more advanced class is held on Thursday nights. Both classes are taught upstairs from Treo pub in the art gallery. Just ask Stephen for more information when you come to our reading/book signing.

You can also buy a copy from me for $10. Just email:

sarajacobelli at hotmail dot com

Picture Credit: Graphics by Tom Warin

 

 

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Barcation! at BJ’s in the Bywater!

What is Barcation? A Story Time for Adults. Join local writers who will read a story or a poem, or just tell a story. The topic is open: You can tell a story about a bar, a vacation, a vacation in a bar, or whatever you come up with. Or you can share the written work of a favorite author. Participants can sign up for five minutes. Or you can just listen. Light refreshments will be served.

Where: BJ’s in the Bywater, 4301 Burgundy Street, New Orleans

When: Thursday, June 8th, 7-9 pm.

See you there!

Sara Jacobelli

 

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Photo Credit: “Chilled Martini Glass.” Pixabay Free Images: 1660179.

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One-Sentence Stories

I have two stories in this anthology published by Muddy Puddle Press, compiled and edited by Val Dumond, who also wrote the introduction: “Make Your Pet a Celebrity” and “Dear Mr. Lucarelli.” You can purchase a copy on Amazon.com,

https://tinyurl.com/n2a68ux

You can also buy a copy directly from me for $15.  Just email:

sarajacobelli at hotmail dot come

The stories are by forty-three different authors, and range from 101 words to 1531  words. The catch is that all the stories are just one sentence. These stories composed of run-on sentences are fun to write and fun to read. She’s going to publish more of these, so if you are interested in contributing to the next one, go to Val Dumond’s website: http://www.valdumond.com/

 

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The Adventures of Joe Blade (unlicensed) Private Eye!

bogart

Author’s note: I wrote this in 1995, and lost it for many years. It’s a very politically-incorrect Private Eye Spoof set in 1990s San Francisco. I found it recently, while going through boxes of old papers and stuff to get rid of. The writing is a little rough, but hey this was written twenty two years ago. (I cleaned it up a tiny bit–but not much. If I rewrote it that would be cheating.) It’s still a nice memory piece of my days in North Beach before San Francisco was completely taken over by super-wealthy stuck-up techies. This was written right around the time I was the editor and a regular contributor to the now-defunct zine The Dagger. Shortly after this, I went to work as a reporter for the AVA (Anderson Valley Advertiser) in Boonville, CA. Mark Heimann and I teamed up as investigative reporters for several years.  In 1999, we moved back to New Orleans, Mark got his P.I. license and we worked together as private investigators for a few years before Hurricane Katrina.    SJ 2017

The Adventures of Joe Blade, (unlicensed) Private Eye

Fiction (Written in 1995)  © Copyright 2017 by Sara Jacobelli

San Francisco

1995

Chapter One

“The Big Fish”

(Heaton Fenton gets a new name and a new career!)

I rented a depressing windowless dump in the Tenderloin on Hyde Street. So this is San Francisco. Big Fuckin Deal. Started drinking in neighborhood dives Bacchus-Kirk and the Overflo. It was a miserable rotten rainy January. My unemployment checks would run out on February 1st. “Fuck,” I said, taking a drag on a smoke while walking down Powell Street. “It’s like knowing when you’re gonna die.” Picked up a free paper called the Learning Annex, flipped through the pages while sitting at a grimy lunch counter. “Get a new career!” “Take a class!” I stubbed out an unfiltered Camel.

“Tuna on toast. Whole wheat. Black coffee.” I ordered. “Yes, yes. Coffee, coffee” said the old Chinese broad. What can my new career be? I wondered. All I’ve ever done is: cab driver, bartender, bouncer, heroin addict, alcoholic, pick-pocket, second-story man, drug dealer, prison convict, security guard. Hmmm, what do they got here? “Be a screenwriter.” Nah, can’t spell, got that dyslexia thing. “Underwear model.” Nah, beer belly. “Cake decorator.” No way. Sounds too fruity. It’s gotta be something the babes go for.”Run a day-care center.” Fuck no! I hate screaming brats. They’d probably run a background check on me and find out I owe all that back child support. What else? “Be a clown at children’s parties.” Ditto. Here’s one! “Learn to be a real Private Eye. Attend a one-day seminar with licensed Private Investigator Sam Black, author of “Be Real Nosy and Get Paid for it!” Only $49.95. “Hey, that’s it. That’s me. I can sign up for this here class.” I emptied my pockets. “Only twenty bucks left. Can’t really afford it. Uh, fuck this Sam Black dude, stupid yuppie. I’ll bounce a check on em.”

I took a gulp of coffee. “Let’s see, now all I need’s a new name. Heaton Fenton’s a lousy handle for a Private Eye. Hmm. Sam Spade. Taken. Sam Black. Ditto. Hey, sweetheart, can I take a look-see at them there white pages?” Flip. Flip. “Lemmessee,  Antonio Anzollone. Nah, too ethnic. Barry Baggot. Too wimpy. Heh-heh, here’s one. Joe Blade. Macho. Sexy. Easy to spell. Got that dyslexia thing. Hope this dude’s got good credit. That’s me, Joe Blade. Private Dick.”

“Well!” The cute blonde with the big boobs sitting next to me split, gave me a dirty look on her way out the door. “Hey, I ain’t talkin nasty or nothin, honey, I’m a Private Eye. It’s my New Career.”

“Very nice. Private Eye. New Career.” The old Chinese broad plopped down my sandwich and refilled the coffee.

“Oh fuck.” I looked around the dingy, forties style diner. “Soon’s as the cases and cake start rollin in, I’ll be eatin at the–what’s that joint fifty stories up? The Cornelius Room? Cornelian Room? Whatever.” I crunched on potato chips.

I paid the tab and swiped the buck tip the blonde left. “This here’s for you, babe.” I put the dollar under my coffee cup.

“Thank you very much! Good by! Good luck, Mister New Career!”

“It’s BLADE! Joe Blade!”

“OK. Bye Mr. Joe Brade! You come back soon! I’m Mae, Mae Wong!  Welcome to Mae’s Diner.”

I headed toward Market Street. Stopped and listened to a fat black dude sing some dynamite blues. “The thrill is gone. . . oh yeah, baby.”

I walked past the chess players and incense sellers near the cable car turn-around. “I need a fuckin trench coat. Like Bogart. Sam Spade. William Powell. The Thin Man.” I marched to Union Square and walked into Macy’s like I owned the joint. Might as well get the best. I selected a grey London Fog, it fit like a glove. Found the perfect dashing black fedora. Slunk out the door without paying. “Hey, my career’s movin right along. Tomorrow, I’ll take that class. Then–before you know it—I’m on a case.”

*****

That night I hung out in North Beach. Shot nine-ball for ten bucks a game at Gino and Carlo’s. A hot, young red-head sidled up to me. “Whadda-you-do?” She winked seductively. How else do you wink?

“Can’t tell you, babe. It’s a secret.”

She wiggled. Ran her hand along my neck, tickled my ear with her finger. Jesus Christ. I was glad I kept the trench coat on.

“Sounds exciting. Can I have some money for the jukebox? Do you like classical music, like the Stones and the Dead?”

“Yeah, sure. My stones ain’t dead. Heh-heh.” I gave her two bucks. I knew I had to win the pool game. I was down to three dollars and would have to back-door it if I lost. I watched her squiggle through the crowd. “Hey, play some Coltrane while you’re at it.”

“WHO? Hey, Mister, I’m twenty-three. I don’t know EVERY has-been sixties rock band.”

“Hey, Casanova, your turn.”

“Right.” I stuck a cigarette between my teeth. I slammed the balls into the pockets. Twenty fuckin three. Great. I’m forty-six. It’s depressing being exactly twice as old as some babe. What am I gonna do? Invite her to my one room cell with the Murphy bed, black and white TV and no cable? She’s probably never even SEEN a black and white TV.

I slurped my Budweiser. I finished it and crushed the can. I decided to switch to gin. Sounds more Bogart-like.

“Hey pal, ya won.” The dude handed me a crisp ten-spot. “I’m surprised, you seemed distracted. The name’s Sergio.”

We shook hands. “I’m Joe. Joe Black. I mean, Joe Blade.” I pocketed the ten. “Guess I should get some card’s printed up, so’s I can remember my fuckin name,” I mumbled. Seems like ever since I became a Private Eye, I couldn’t stop mumbling.

Yeah, I’ll have some business cards made. Soon’s I can afford a phone. Blade. Joe Blade. Private Eye.

*****

maltese-falcon

Photo Credit:  “Bogart Wearing Fedora.” Hub pages. http://tinyurl.com/z95rhfs

“The Maltese Falcon.” Misterio Press.  http://tinyurl.com/jmogr92

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Did I Mention I got an Honorable Mention???

year-in-pot

My short story, “Nine Dead Dope Dealers” just received an Honorable Mention in the Mystery/Crime Category of the 2016 Writers Digest Popular Fiction Contest! I will post info on how to read the story here,when I find out.  (And I’m thrilled to have won something, but oh the cool prizes I missed: Grand Prize was $2500 in cold hard cash and an all- expenses paid trip to the Writers Digest Conference in NYC, and books, etc. First Prize was $500 in cold hard cash and some books and other stuff.)

Nah, I didn’t win any money or a free conference trip, but I won  a copy of the Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market 2017 and my story will be promoted in the Writers Digest Magazine (both Print and Digital Versions).

So, I can’t complain. It was a fun story to write, and I felt like I was revisiting the old San Francisco crowd.

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Photo Credit: “The Year in Pot” NBC News. http://tinyurl.com/zc2vhbc

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Little Silver Jukeboxes

silver-jukebox

    Fiction    Copyright © 2016  by Sara Jacobelli  

  

“Seems to me that a man, don’t know how to treat a woman, he deserves to lose that woman. Seems to me that a woman, being treated shitty by a man, she should leave that man.” Hanover tapped his spoon against the side of his coffee cup.

“Will you stop that tapping?” Casey drank her orange juice and flipped through the paper. “Lookit the prices of these rents? A thousand a month? Who could pay that?”

“Seems to me that, a woman, if her man’s beating on her, she should leave. You know. Even if it means living in her car. Or the library. Lotsa homeless folks live at the public library. Seems to me it’s better to be homeless than dead. Just saying.”

“Seems to me some people talk too fucking much.”

The waitress held her coffee pot in mid-air above their cups. “Refills?”

“Yeah. Sure. Lemme see the sports section.” Hanover grabbed the paper. “Saints are bums again.”

“No more coffee for me.” Casey stood up. “My car broke down, can’t even make it out of the driveway. And if you think I’m sleeping under the overpass and taking a bath at the library, you really are senile. Like your wife says.”

“You don’t know my wife. My wife.”

Casey went outside to smoke a cigarette. The waitress leaned over the counter. “That one don’t know Gwen died?”

“She never knew Gwen. Just heard me chat about her right here, sitting at the counter. Every Sunday.”

“Thought you two was good friends.” Marie stacked plates and wiped down the counter.

“Nah, never seen her outside the diner. We just talk, joke around. I always tease her, tell her her old man don’t know how lucky he is. Hate to see a pretty girl cover up black eyes and bruises with make-up and sunglasses. Hate to see it.”

“Hanover, you’re a pretty observant fellow.”

“When I was a kid, my mama useta get beat like that. She took us all down to the Greyhound station in the middle of the night. Would you believe? Would you believe he marched right down and dragged us all home? He beat her so bad, she never tried to leave again. Never. And it was my fault. I told her we should leave. Take the bus to Disneyland, that was my Big Idea.” Hanover tapped his spoon against his coffee cop in a steady beat. “You know, Marie?”

“Hmmm. Yeah, Hanover.” Marie pulled out a small mirror from her apron pocket and attempted to tweeze a wayward eyebrow.

“I always said, I always said, ‘Life woulda been different.'”

“What?”

“If mama and us kids left him, life. My whole life, woulda been different.”

“Well, you turned out alright. You met Gwen, got married. You know. What more do ya want, Hanover?”

Casey came back in and sat at the counter. “Those little silver jukeboxes? What happened to them?”

“Oh honey,” Marie said. “Nobody played em no more so Moe took em out.”

“Oh. I played em. Used to play all kinds a songs. Willie Nelson. I love his songs.”

“Yeah. Sure. You played love songs for me.” Hanover pulled a twenty out of his wallet to pay the bill.

“You wish, old timer.”

“Seems to me, that a man who don’t treat his woman right, seems to me he don’t got no complaints if she walks right out that door.”

“Moe hiring here, Marie? I could wait tables. Never done it, but I could learn. Only had two jobs in my whole life. Worked at McDonald’s in high school, and I did telemarketing for a while after I got married. One a them places they call boiler rooms.” Casey made a face. “He made me quit. Said my boss was hitting on me.”

“Moe don’t need no waitresses, but he could use a dishwasher. Jesse quit just yesterday.”

“I washed plenty dishes in my time.” Casey grabbed a napkin. “Hanover, you gotta pen?”

“You gonna wash dishes? Now, that’s a good start. I washed dishes when I got outta the army. Sure did. Now it seems to me, if a young lady can’t afford an apartment, she could rent a room somewheres. Miss Betsy down the road rents rooms. Rents rooms to single ladies, she does.”

Casey wrote her name and number on the napkin and gave it to Marie. “Maybe you could put a word in for me with Moe.”

“Sure honey. I can do that.” She went to wait on a family of redheads who sat at the corner table by the window.

“My wife Gwen, she always gave good advice. One time she told me, she said, ‘Hanover, you sleep too much. Don’t just sleep in on your day off, get up and accomplish something.’ So I did. I built me a garden shed, a garage, all kinds a things. Built a canoe for the kids and they bout wore it out. Built em with my own bare hands, I did. Built something every weekend, til the damn heart attack slowed me down.”

“Your wife calls you Hanover? Don’t you even have a first name?”

“First name’s Dick. She hated that. Said she wasn’t gonna stand at the back door and yell, ‘Dick! Dick! Time for dinner, Dick!’ So it’s always been Hanover.”

“You should have me over to meet her sometime. Play some cards, order a pizza.”

“Yeah. Sure. Seems to me, seems to me you gonna be mighty busy, with this here new life you’re planning.”

“See ya later alligator.” Casey touched Hanover on the arm.

“In a while, crocodile.” Hanover watched her walk out the door and cross the street to the bus stop.

Marie rang up Hanover’s bill and brought him his change. “So, whatcha got planned for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t know. Funny, isn’t it Marie? Life coulda been different.”

“You gotta be careful you don’t spend too much time alone, thinking about stuff like that. Ain’t healthy. Sitting there in that house with nothing but Judge Judy on the TV for company. Go join a bowling team, go over by St. Cecilia’s and play Bingo, why dontcha?” Marie pulled out a file and began filing her nails. “Go date one of them old ladies at church.”

Hanover stood up. “Just saying, life woulda been different. If she coulda left him.”

“Yeah. Well. And I coulda been a beauty queen, honey. And I’m slinging eggs and grits at Moe’s.”

************

Photo Credit: “Jukebox.” Pixabay Copyright-free images.

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King of the Road

 

faded-box-cars

man-wearing-hat-silhouette

Fiction  © Copyright 2016 by Sara Jacobelli

(Note: The narrator is a young man in his late twenties.)

 

People ask me about my family and I just say. I’m an orphan.

I felt safest in the blanket forts we made, a nightly ritual of pushing the two sets of bunk beds together. The smell of stale blanket, stale kids, spilled milk and crumbled cookies always made me feel more secure, as if the noise and fighting couldn’t get to me. I’d gather up all my toys, stuff them in a pillow case: Legos, little cars and trucks, plastic dinosaurs, army men and pirates. When it was time I’d grab the pillow case, which also held a canteen of water and a roll of pennies, and run away. A cartoon character careening down the road, singing my favorite song. This old timey song Mom liked when it came on her Oldies radio show, “King of the Road.” Third boxcar, midnight train, destination, Bangor, Maine. No phone, no pool, no pets, I ain’t got no cigarettes. Mom taught me those words when I was three years old, sitting on her lap. She’d ruffle my hair and say, “That Roger Miller sounds like a nice man. The way he sings those words. Don’t you think so honey?”

I grew up fast. Seen more shit by the time I was seventeen than most folks forty years old.  Had a woman tell me one time I’m an Old Soul. I’m a grown man now, with a red Camaro sitting outside, the car keys in my pocket, a wallet stuffed with credit cards and cash. A tank full of gas. I can leave. I can go anywhere. I love my freedom.

But at nine I didn’t know how to leave, or where to go.  I was the oldest, it was my job to protect Mom and my brothers. The boys would look at me when Pop went crazy. He yelled at Mom, hit her, called her a bitch and a whore, threatened to burn the cabin down with us in it, to shoot her and shoot us kids. He’d threaten to leave and we’d whisper, “yes yes yes yes just leave” under our breath, into Davey’s soft stinky stuffed animals because Davey was the youngest and still had stuffed animals. Mom would say, “Go!” and Pop would open the door and stand there. Sometimes he’d open the car door and sit in the driver’s seat smoking and glaring.  He’d slam the door and start the car up and drive down the dirt road, then spin the car around and drive back.

We’d close our eyes, not four boys really but one, hope without hope without hope that when our eyes opened he’d be gone. If he was gone for good it’d just be Mom and us. Mom would sit out front on the little porch and make coffee on the camp stove because the cabin stove never worked. She’d light a cigarette and turn on her radio and let out one of those long sighs and we’d gather around her like fire flies and say, “You don’t need him, you have us.”

But that never happened. We’d open our eyes and he’d still be there. Six feet two inches of whiskey breath and Camel cigarettes, beard stubble and bleary-eyed anger and a hatred behind his eyes I never could figure out. “We’re just kids, leave us alone,” I always wanted to say but never did. Whenever I’d open my mouth to say something to him, or even to scream, my mouth filled with sand and nothing came out, you could hear nothing but Mom crying and my brothers sniffling. He’d pull us out of our blanket fort one by one like scrawny cats and smack us around, but we were too little and skinny and not much of a challenge. He’d get bored and drop us on the floor and go after Mom.

I always thought we were better off in the apartment, at least the neighbors called the cops sometimes and Mom got a break for a few minutes while he talked to the cops. They never arrested him. It was always the same routine. “You know how women are,” Pop would say. “You know how they are.” And the cops would look bored and their radios would squawk and they’d drive off.

I’m lying about that orphan bit. I have one relative left.  He’s in prison. I hope he rots there. When I hear he’s dead, I’ll stop in a tavern and toast him with a Jameson’s. Not that cheap shit Seagram’s Seven he drank. I’ll hold the glass up and say: Good fucking riddance.

People ask me about my family and I say. I’m an orphan.

Leaving isn’t easy when you care about others. Me, I don’t get tangled up with folks. I like going to bars. I like the temporariness of life in a bar. You meet someone, you drink, you become friends or enemies or lovers to the sound of the jukebox. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t last. You leave.

I might meet a woman now and then, but I don’t stay. I’ll enjoy her warmth and her smile and her smell. Sometimes one will even say she loves me. And that’s tempting. I see those couples in cafes eating French toast and planning vacations. But that’s not my life.

I’m always ready to hit the road. No boxcars. I drive my own car.  No wife, no family, no pets, no house. And I like the old fashioned sound of the radio and those stations that still play those old tunes, whether you’re on the highway or on a lonely country lane. King of the Road. That’s me.

************

 

 “King of the Road” lyrics and music by Roger Miller. 1965.

http://tinyurl.com/gwyb9cm

http://tinyurl.com/zmmvhh8

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0934563/

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Photo Credit: “Faded Box Cars.” Wikipedia.org

http://tinyurl.com/zgd2xe8

ClipArt. “Man Wearing Hat.”

 

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