Jazz at the End of the Night

By Weasel

Jazz at the End of the Night is a collection of short stories crawling from the caverns of hopelessness. The characters share in their hard times cursing the universe and losing everything that mattered to them. Each story throws the reader into a harsh reality of life changes, betrayal, and sometimes madness. Follow Derrick, returning from We Live for Half-Moons, still trying to find order in love yet only finding a crater of suffering as he explores life with a hot young thing he picked up at a gas station. Rick worked hard to keep him and his partner afloat. When he loses his job, he loses his whole life in an instant. Forced to sleep on the streets after his partner disappeared, he dreams of finding his love, hopefully alive. Izzy falls into a crippling depression as the bills pile and the collectors spam his phone. When his husband leaves him after frustration, the weasel lets go of everything in his life and takes off on the road, searching for happiness. Jazz at the End of the Night is a collection of hollow bridges, and it's not easy to find the pieces to fix them.

Weasel’s Jazz at the End of the Night is a fine collection of dark, erotic anthropological stories unearthing the inner core of human sexuality, desires and fears. There is an “everyman” quality to each protagonist in these tales. A man trying to get through the end of the day with money in his pocket, a full belly, a slight buzz from a decent beer and maybe, just maybe, love even if from a stranger. Unfortunately, life beats down on every man and Weasel’s characters face the harshness that living without light brings. This is a well-crafted collection from a very exciting young author.
—David E. Cowen. Author of The Madness of Empty Spaces and The Seven Yards of Sorrow; Editor HWA Horror Poetry Showcase Volumes III (2016) and IV (2017)
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Jazz at the End of Night shadows its characters with flickers of anguished lament and enlightened suffering — told with a dark warmth ascending from the seamy craters first spawned in We Live for Half-Moons. Here are ten stories of despair in love, release in hopelessness, and melancholy abandonment.
—Gary Mielo, author of Purple Fantasies, and 74th Street Stories
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Anthropomorphic literature is a pedigree hound, trained by Kafka, London, Orwell and H.G Wells to name a few careful owners, Jazz at the End of the Night is a toothsome furry beast, offering light, color and bite on the struggles, joys and complexities of the human experience through a cracked and furry kaleidoscope...howl on.
—Neil S. Reddy, author of Miffed and Peeved in the U.K. and Taxi Sam in PINK NOIR

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weasel
• Release date: Dec 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370746118

Weasel

Weasel is a writer and overall degenerate poet. He received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake and has been a member of the Houston/Clear Lake poetry scene ever since. He has had a few appearances on 90.1 KPFT's Living Art and has had the fortunate opportunity to release a full length poetry collection titled Ashes to Burn through Transcendent Zero Press. In April of 2015, he released a novella titled Cigarette Burns through Kool Kids Press. His latest collection of poetry, The Hell Inside Us, was published May 2015 by Earl of Plaid. Weasel has appeared in an indie documentary titled Something Out of Nothing (S.O.O.N.) directed by Mitchell Dudley. His writing has been accepted in several anthologies, some of which include: Houston’s Harbinger Asylum, San Jacinto College’s Threshold, Permian Basin Beyond 2014,Hunger For Peace, Everything on Earth is Huge and We’re All On It, Ginosko Literary Journal, Crazy Concrete, Blue Collar Royalty, Di-Verse-City from the 2012, 2013, 2014 & 2015 Austin International Poetry Festival.He fell into the publishing world after a couple years of releasing the growing literary anthology Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones. The anthology is still going and continues to feature several talented writers and artists in the community. Weasel Press grew from the idea that we’re all mad artists, and is now home to several wonderful individuals. The press has spawned a few other literary journals and continues to be a thriving force in the world of writers.Some of Weasel's influences include: Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Burroughs, Arthur C. Clarke, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Clive Barker, Thomas Mann, Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Kurt Vonnegut, John Ashbery, Anis Mojgani, Buddy Wakefield, Andrea Gibson, H.P. Lovecraft, James Joyce, Nathanael West, Sylvia Plath, and Hubert Selby Jr.

Book preview

Dear J.

Love is a sickening drug—an addictive drug. The lover is like the drunk. When the drunk sinks down into the abyss of the drink, he becomes the entertainment of the party. People look down on him for being the drunk, they laugh at him, push him off as the ordinary. The drunk relinquishes control of himself, giving it directly to others, and he becomes the doll waiting to be played with. But it soothes—makes him forget for a moment that he is just human; plastic, molded. He forgets the job he hates, his friends, family, the bill collector who has called his phone—every fucking thing in his life.

Love is like this. The moment you become the lover, you forget the world. It fizzles away in the background, and it is aesthetically draining. Though the high is the best thing in the universe—and I do mean that love is the best thing in the universe—it is also destructive. It leads you down paths of saintly destruction. Your mind becomes addicted to one person. It focuses on them. You can’t get them out, can’t get them out for a second, and when they are around you, it is like dopamine exploding inside you. Like when the drunk takes the first gulp. But that is the broken part inside all of us.

I was in love, am in love—dreadfully fucking in love; one too many times in love. And I can’t escape it because I want it. Like I want nicotine. Like I want sex. Like I want—to drink. I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything else, though there was a time when I would trade anything for you. I was fortunate when you were an addiction that faded. You can tell when certain people enter your life that they present dangerous paths. Even if they’re the good guy. You did nothing wrong. You worked. Never lit up a crack pipe, and I doubt you ever saw one. You were clean. Yet there was something there, leading us both to a path of something deviously inevitable. And if I were to relinquish control like the drunk to his peers, I don’t know what my end would be. But I know you would be persuasive.

Love is as much a destruction to the body as most other addictive substances. You go mad for love. Your brain ejaculates fireworks when you’re in love. Just imagine Roman candles firing off in your skull every time your lover kissed you on your cheek, told you that you are the world to them.

I still smoke. That was the one thing you hated about me. When we ate at the roach-infested Chinese restaurant, you were testing me. Asking questions that determined if I would be the perfect boyfriend for you. My thoughts on children. Sex before marriage vs. after. Marriage. You drew Valentine’s Day pictures and emailed them to me. You wanted to cuddle during horror films, during our walks in the snow, and when we slept together. And I was so close to being the drunk. Then, we drifted. We drifted away from whatever inevitable thing waited, and I let you fade with the rest of time. I would have shouted on rooftops if I wasn’t afraid of heights—of falling—of free-falling into the vast void that is time. But, time doesn’t stand still for anyone. It doesn’t fuck around. It doesn’t heal, but it fades.

I got the invitation to your wedding. I’m happy to see you’ve found someone. I’ve found someone as well. The path we are drifting around on is strenuous, but worth it. I can’t go to your wedding. I don’t have money for a gift, so my congratulations will have to be enough. Don’t kill yourself out there. I’ve done that more times than I remember, and it’s a bitch when you don’t see the light at the end.

Regards,

—Weasel

Foreword

The first words Weasel ever said to me were, Hello, I'm assuming this is the correct editor I submit this too. This was the introduction to a query to publish his novella We Live for Half-Moons. Despite the glaring error in his first sentence that made me wince, the prose of his letter and his excerpt were music to my ears. Seeing how vividly he could render a man going through depression in the middle of an alleyway was like an orchestral accompaniment to the break of day.

The more I read into his characters’ lives--seeing them struggle with things within and outside of their control--the more invested I became in their futures. I yearned to know what happened to the haunted Derrick--whose spots stain him on the outside and the inside--and the hopeless and defeated Ely--who sought purpose outside of serving others. Even though I never voiced that desire to Weasel, he more than provided with the volume you hold in your hands.

Since that first query, I have had the utmost pleasure to work with Weasel on a number of projects. His short stories have appeared in a number of Thurston Howl Publications’ volumes, including Seven Deadly Sins, SPECIES: Wolves, and Infurno. And as you can probably tell from the names of those anthologies, Weasel is by no means afraid of the dark. My own stories have been published in his house’s anthologies, too: Passing Through, Civilized Beasts, and Typewriter Emergencies. As publishers, the two of us have helped each other out tremendously over the past couple of years, yet I still feel I owe him plenty.

So, when he asked me to be a proofreader and editor of his newest work of fiction, I happily agreed, not quite knowing what I was getting into. Jazz at the End of the Night is a dark and dismal tale of what happens to the characters after the events of We Live for Half-Moons. One does not have to have read Half-Moons to understand this book, but those who want to know what led these characters to such roads of desperation and sorrow might check out the previous volume. But now, in this work, you will see his characters go through harrowing lengths to find some measure of contentment in this equally harrowing world. What do you do when you catch your partner cheating on you? What do you do when the guy who’s giving you a ride turns out to have ulterior motives? What can you do when even the person you love has given up just as much as you have? And the biggest question of all: when you’re sent to whatever lies beyond this life--whether it’s heaven, hell, or something else entirely--what shape will the moon in the sky take?

I said earlier that Weasel’s words were like a prelude to the dawn, but no, just as he himself says, his words are truly the jazz at the end of the night. Fix yourself a cold drink. Have a smoke. Put a warm body close to yours. And as you read, let your mind wander. You just might hear that devil’s sax, serenading you in the background.

Thurston Howl

Editor-in-chief of Thurston Howl Publications

Hollow like the Moon

January 1, 2017

Ely,

This will never reach you, but I got nothing else. I still smell your scent in my home. Each time I climb into my bed, it’s there, like it’s cemented into the fabric of my covers and each time I wash them it never goes away. Little Lab Mouse, you never really left, did you? But your body is gone. I wish I knew what you were up to, nowadays. I keep hopin’ that you stopped sucking dick for a living, but if you haven’t, I get it. Finding peace in life isn’t as easy as we want it to be. I’m still reaching out for some kind of peace, but I’ve yet to find what will soothe my heart. I think I’m close.

I’ve tried moving on, but I still dream of you when the stars are burnt out of the sky. Images of you strung out in Lorenzo’s house haunt me. My cigs can’t calm me no more, when the visions return. I’ve taken way too many drinks; my body is shutting down. At least it feels that way. I can’t breathe at night anymore. The moment I close my eyes, I can feel my heart stop, and I bolt up for air. My peace was you, Ely, and I wish it could have been different for us. But who’d want a beaten-down Dalmatian like me, right?

I don’t think I’ll ever know what Nick wanted, but when I saved you—when I murdered Lorenzo and left his carcass on the floor, it was like Nick’s ghost was laid to rest. He doesn’t haunt these walls. I don’t hear him linger around in the darkness. The dead have finally reached the other side, at least that is what I hope. And though I don’t see him, I see you, Ely. You’ve become the new ghost in my home. I still find your fur in small corners. I can’t get your scent out of my carpets. I can’t get you out! I can’t get you out—but I’m not sure I want to.

When you left, it was like the world was splitting apart again; like back when I put Nick in the ground. I loved that goddamn fox. I’d have done anything for him, just like I did everything for you. You absolved me in some ways. I was no longer the long-lost sinner, when you found the hell inside of me.

Ely, my spots still burn for you, but I know you’ll never accept them. My heart is simply a crescent moon now that you’ve left me. It keeps telling me it’ll grow whole again, but I don’t think my body can wait much longer. I’m dying, Little Lab Mouse. Death is only two feet away, staring me down, but I haven’t found the right art to die yet. When the end comes, what shall I say? Will I see Nick? Will I see his slender, broken body waiting for me in the ether? Or will I see you? I can only pray that you’re alive out there, Little Lab Mouse. The abyss is so dark around me, nowadays. The last hooker I brought to my home couldn’t absolve me; he only made the chasm stronger. He lacked warmth, already dead inside. His life was drained out, and he was only a hole taking money. He wasn’t you, Ely. He wasn’t you.

I don’t know what else to say now. I just hope this world hasn’t broken you down yet. Don’t let your heart empty itself. Don’t become like me—ready to die.

Sincerely,

—Derrick

January 10, 2017

Ely,

I had a dream last night. I don’t dream that much anymore; the alcohol takes care of that. I had a dream about the time we first met. Do you remember how it was raining that night? The money I slid your way because you were leery of me? Even in my dreams you haunt me.

I don’t really know how to live anymore. I went to the grocery store, and there’s people everywhere, and I don’t want to be near them. I don’t want to see them. I just want to get my shit and leave, but I can’t because of all these kids, and these goddamn carts, and the girl scouts, and every single fucking thing that can hit you, does. And you don’t know what’s going on. You don’t know. You just listen to pieces and when you’re hit, hope to god you’re able-minded enough to comply or answer.

I always wander in, like a deer staring at all those lights. Terrified, but mesmerized at the fact that there’s all these people. And they’re terrifying! They truly are! Ely, what is wrong with people? Why are there so many of them? Who fucked them all into existence? I can’t go back, but I’m gonna need groceries one day!

Yesterday, a lady tried to karate chop me out of existence. Said I was in front of the bananas and she needed them. The bitch needed bananas! Then, she asked me what price, and I snarled at her and told her to get lost. I don’t fuckin’ work there. Who fuckin’ hires an alcoholic to stock bananas?

I don’t understand it at all. Then, there’s the gas station. You know there’s this hooker up there doin’ all sorts of weird erotic pelvic thrusts that she calls exercises. Don’t look like that to me, but whatever.

I can’t take the people anymore. I’m starting to become agoraphobic. Anything dealing with the shit outside my home is closing in on me, and I feel like I can’t escape, but what am I escaping from? The sun? The people? I dunno.

When I drive alone, I can only think of how easy it would be to drive off