Volume 1, Number 3.1
by Jonathan Lowe
"No One Cares About Me"
This writer had a flair for cutting away the extraneous, together with a marked preference for succinct truths. Notice what a concise statement it is, so admirably free of dependent clauses. And pinned to the cadaver's chest, it makes an eloquent explanation of the cause and effect relationship.
"What Can I Say"
At one time it was thought that the writer of this deathless prose was confused and illiterate, at another time that he was witty or cute. Recently, however, the consensus is that the writer is so abstruse that the baser vulgarities often fail to exude an exquisite modesty.
"What's The Use?"
Such a note denotes a trend ending in resignation. This trend may have begun with an attempt to pay off a different kind of "note" at the bank. After the writer's ex-wife remarried his former boss (a hospital administrator owning, for instance, a yacht, a Lear jet, and a sizeable chunk of Tahiti) this trend terminated inevitably in the writer's gutting himself like a fish.
This cryptic communication, often left by jumpers from window ledges, may indicate one of the following:
"I've left the water on for your coffee. Be sure to pay the electric bill, and don't tell Agnes until after the funeral."
This note may originate from a very creative mind--especially if there is no one known as "Agnes." Otherwise the writer may be just a stickler for details. Especially if the body is dressed in black and there is a receipt for the cemetery plot attached.
"Now For the Great Mystery"
Indicates a free-wheeling anesthesiologist (and/or failed philosophy major) whose former wanderings included all the traditional faiths, moving at last toward Nihilism. A haze of incense is sometimes found in the room to cover the other odors.
"T-T-That's All, F-Folks!"
Here was a deeply disturbed records clerk whose boss was thinking of replacing him with automation, and who, toward the end, took up painting, French cooking, and the writing of free verse--much to the chagrin of his estranged wife. Complaining that the individual was an extinct species, and that Man was a technical genius merged with a moral imbecile, he managed to attract a large following of dedicated pigeons. ...And while shopping for his casket, he was talked into buying a deluxe model with thick velvet and a sterio cassette deck with pre-recorded elevator music.
"December 7th, a day which will live in infamy!"
Probably a computer virus creator who, just before he electrocuted himself as the DEA, FBI, and CDC closed in on his lab, managed to mail off his remaining diseased diskettes.
"I never liked poker anyway."
A security guard who hates hospitals, misses the beat, and whose service revolver had not been fired in years. Instead of dialing 911, he decided to leave a little note for the boys on the wax crew.
Leave the dagger in the throat. This is not a suicide note.
Visit http://www.mirror.org/commerce/hmspress for more of Jonathan Lowe's odd fiction.