BEDTIME STORIES: A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

*Tiny living soldiers stand guard every single night when the lamp goes out and the wishy-washy moonbeam glides through the window pane. Mother and father and baby abed, to rest their heads and wait for dreams to smother, as the bother of busy banter collides in quiet canter around the toilet's edge. Deep in the heart of the green shag carpet our heroes huddle 'round the bubble-gum puddle and strategize the plight for the night. Snipers in the air vents, seals in the drain. Repellers on the windowsill and spotters on the clothing hill.

 

"Double time boys!," 

 

The sergent informs as the swarms of green soldiers make way to their posts.

 

 

 

Tonight we've a special subject we invite you to reflect,

 

so please come along and follow

as we're careful to select:

 

a homeborn hero

 

From the cupboard where the rest of the brave are gathered

 

And introduce for you a night in the life of the little soldier's strife.

 

Our scene is set in the bathroom's bowels,

In the heart of night at a very late hour ,

 

 

And our brave little lad is feeling sad…

   Sgt. McNarles, first name Charles, stands guard at the medicine cabinet and things are getting desperate. "It's just the right night for a midnight fight over pharmaceutical delights," he spouts as the soldiers shout out the roll call in the mess hall behind the bathroom stall. "What the hell am I talking about?" -The Author. Tiny soldiers, all conformed to the everydays and nights of the big, savvy people and their enormous fight against nose hair and gingivitis, make of themselves simple, sorted systems of symbiotic strife. The cat is fond of them; they lose a lad nearly every month, but the cat is glad, with a belly full of miniaturized green beret. So the motto goes, "wherever there's a soldier, the cat knows, so be on your toes." "Brilliantly written; it is warm and inviting like grandmother's cookies." -The New York Post. Charles McNarles, guardian of endless bottles of cure-all concoctions, is found remiss and a little on edge tonight. "I've got to get going, I've got to stay ready," he repeats to himself, over and over so steady, as the sink water drips and the shower curtain wades through the undertow of the air ventillation coming from below. A creep in the hall with a creak in the step of an animal small, but free and unkempt, and McNarles is distraught as he calls from his post for a spotter's repose. "This is one of the greatest tales of the year."-The New York Times.  "All's clear to the right!" Geffer shouts from the couch, "Left looks ok to me," Harper shouts from the bonzai tree, and so Charles shakes the quakes of his fear.

"If I could only disappear…" he says, rubbing his chin while he sits back on top of the acetaminophin. "I think it's nice. Go and get me a Sunday paper now."-Mom.  The nights are long here on cabinet hill, and the bathroom air makes for an eerie chill, so the boys keep warm with the drip of the faucet and the tick of the clock gets awfully quixotic. "He's done it again! Imagination comes to life at it's finest in this tale of  Sgt.  McNarles." -Chicago Sun Times. Many nights as these pass with hardly a scare, but times will and do come when pet dander's in the air and the men lie alert as the cat comes around and they ride on the looseness of doom, claw or broom. McNarles stands guard, he is one of the few and proud, breathing quietly, but shouting loud inside for liberation's glorious stride. "Who ate the last piece of chicken?" -Roger Ebert. Yes, tonight was all clear, the cat away to the vet, but we'll not forget about the other creatures stirring for the features of the household's inner workings, where they're stirring, dancing upon death's display. "No, you idiot! You weren't suppose to write that down!" -Roger Ebert. Still, this was long, and long ago. The soldiers life is another story for another time. "Oh fuck this shit, you're all nuts." -Roger Ebert.

Charlie Dominick lives in a place you will probably never visit. That is the only fact he could think of to write about himself. Quite mysterious, isn't he? He also has to go back to work in fifteen minutes. Sometimes his stuff gets published: Cherry Bleeds, Underground Voices.