Frame Story

By Domenic Migliore

Praise for Frame Story
Domenic Migliore has no interest in making you feel better. Entering his world comes with risks. But, then again, so does living in ours. His writing is a cracked rock bouncing down a grungy hill: the speed of the descent leads to blur; the accumulation of nasty debris is unavoidable. In one tale, a father tells his son, “You don’t go fudging around with the factory presets.” In Migliore's storyworlds, the presets are as unreliable as experimentation with them is. In either case, things fall apart. You’re likely to laugh at some stories, cringe at others, and skip some passages that are too uncomfortable to imagine. But you’re unlikely to forget the experience of meeting artist and filmmaker Migliore’s cast of weary, ill-fated souls. They ought to be in movies. And probably will. - Bill Obesrt Jr. (from Rob Zombie's 3 FROM HELL, TV’s THE ROOKIE: FEDS and Criminal Minds)
“...a memorable batch of moving tales. Migliore’s short story collection dishes out dread, violence, and gallows humor in equal measure... The author’s tales navigate through such bleak territories as homicide, nuclear strikes, and other assorted crimes. It’s hardly surprising that violence marks many of the stories, from bites and stabbings to meticulously detailed head shots. But Migliore deftly leavens the heaviness with satire... The author displays a knack for direct, concise sentences that stoke the narrative pace.
While well-drawn characters pop up throughout this collection, the cast is largely aloof or hateful. They spew homophobic, xenophobic, and generally offensive slurs and sentiments that complement the savage acts they perpetrate. Readers won’t sympathize with most of them, particularly the nasty American soldier stationed in Japan who seems to detest everything and everyone (The Tattoo). Stories such as these aren’t prone to happy endings, but that doesn’t make the book predictable.” - Kirkus Reviews
About the Author
Domenic Migliore is a writer, filmmaker, photographer... A suburban robot that monitors reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890277497

Book preview

THE RUNNING OF THE DEAD HORSE

Prologue: A Tale of Sicily

I met the devil in an airport men’s room. It was at Leonardo da Vinci International in Rome. I was waiting for a connecting flight to Etna, going to visit my brother Pasqualino and his wife Enza in Palermo. The urinals reeked of piss, so I used a stall. I found a torn up porno mag on the toilet seat. I remember thinking, A relic older than da Vinci himself…

That’s when the horny beast appeared behind me. He smelled of sulfur and cheap rubbing alcohol. He propositioned me for a blowjob. In exchange, he promised me immortality. I told him I was seventy-five years old. Immortality was the last thing I needed. He counter-offered with peace in the Middle East. He pressed his scaly fingers to my forehead and showed me visions of a utopian future filled with brown-skinned Palestinian children in rocket ships on their way to Mars alongside white, Hebrew, and Chinese children. I told him the Kebabs and the Jews never did nothing for me.

Try again…

He clacked his cloven hooves together three times and farted a piece of parchment out his ass. He rolled it open, handed me a number two pencil, and asked me to write down what I desired. So, I did. I wrote down the one thing I would suck the devil’s cock for. My very own champion racehorse. A genuine Secretariat for the new millennium. We shook hands and the devil unzipped his fly. He was smaller than I expected. That’s when the bastard fiend smiled. A deal was a deal, and he knew the endgame from the moment he sized up my ass. His cock was stubby and barbed at the tip. He only lasted thirty seconds but managed to rip up my cheek flesh and tongue. Our bargain also stipulated that I had to swallow his cum, which tasted not at all salty, but oddly sweet. It mixed with the blood from my mouth wounds and went down warm and tangy.

During my time in Sicily, Pasqualino asked why I refused to talk. My mouth was too sore to speak. I was afraid he could see the shame buried beneath my face. The pain would not allow me to eat his wife’s cooking. For this transgression, I was forced to sleep in the chicken coop. After two days, Pasqualino brought me minestrone broth to help ease my throat. When I gained my voice back, I told my brother the story.

Two weeks later, I returned home to the states. My horse was waiting for me in my backyard. It was a magnificent stallion with hair blacker than any shade of night. And just below its massive frame, between its ample legs, hung a red and stubby barbed cock.

Part One: America

The video was uploaded to a gore porn site. It was easy enough to find. All I had to do was type AMERICAN + TOURIST + BEHEADING + MOROCCO into the search bar. I didn’t want to watch it, but I knew it would eat me up inside forever if I didn’t. I kept the volume on mute and my finger on the escape key so I could close out of it at any moment. I pressed play– The video was only thirty seconds long. The screen started out black. I couldn’t tell if it was shot at night– or inside of some basement– or an abandoned factory– or the back of a van– or where. A man’s hand entered frame. It was thick and hairy and holding a machete. The camera shook from side to side and tilted down to the floor– I saw my sister. The camera was right up in her face. A dim flashlight highlighted the sweat on her forehead. Another pair of hands had her pinned to the ground. Her eyes were wide and white. The hairy arm dragged the machete across her throat. Blood squirted out in all directions. I hit the escape key– I was about to puke. I ran for the wastebasket. I didn’t make it. I vomited on the floor. My students were all staring at me. I dismissed class early.

Are you okay? said Dean Amos, patting me on the back.

He invited me into his office. He was the smartest man I knew– fifty-six but had the body of a man half his age. He had spent fifteen years working in the Army Corps of Engineers. He always seemed to have a solution for everything.

I think you should take some time off, he said, seated behind his desk.

We were alone. I was still rattled from the video. He handed me a box of tissues. Apparently, I was crying. I didn’t even realize. The tears were soaking into my shirt collar.

I don’t know, I said, drying my eyes.

I told the I.T. guy to put blocks on those sites, said Dean Amos. But the story is all over the news. I caught two students watching the video this morning. If I catch anyone else watching it, I’m suspending them from campus. No warnings. That’s it.

That’s not necessary, I said. It’s only been a day and even I couldn’t fight the urge not to look. I realized that my nose was also running. I took another tissue and stuffed it up my nostrils.

Dean Amos stood and walked around his desk. He handed me a wastebasket for the wet tissues. I tossed them away. He offered me a water bottle. I declined.

You should talk to someone, he said. I can put you in touch with somebody from the psychology department.

That’s not necessary either, I said.

He looked perplexed. I had never seen Dean Amos in such a state. He had no idea how to deal with a situation like this. He hesitated for a few moments before speaking–

Look, Rita. You need to take some time off. I can’t let you stay on like this. You’re just not in the proper emotional state. It’s only for a month.

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. The dean had never suggested anything like this before. His motto was always power on through…

I don’t have anyone at home, I said. I’d rather be here.

I told you. I can find you someone to talk to.

I appreciated the dean’s concern, but I was growing impatient. I had another class in five minutes.

I’d rather not, I said. I looked down at my hands. They were visibly shaking.

This isn’t a choice, Rita.

I stared up at him– What do you mean, not a choice?

I wasn’t sure if I was shouting or not. I was angry, though. I was staying and doing my job. That was that. He patted me on the shoulder again.

Please, Rita. You aren’t in the proper emotional state. Robert or Cassandra will fill in for you.

I understood now. This wasn’t his decision. The board had decided for him. Like he said, my sister’s story was all over the news. It wouldn’t look good if the university didn’t at least provide the victim’s relative with paid leave or proper psychiatric treatment. I grabbed another tissue from the box and started to rip it up with my fingers.

I warned her not to go alone, I said.

Dean Amos took the box of tissues from me and put them back on his desk.

Don’t do that, he said.

Do what?

Start blaming yourself.

I’m not, I said. I started to toss the tiny bits of torn up tissue onto the floor. I don’t even think I realized I was doing it.

Yes, you are, said Amos. Don’t do it. He sat back down at his desk and picked up his phone. I’m calling up Dr. Thornton in psychology right now.

No! I was definitely shouting. I told you. I’d rather not. This isn’t necessary.

The dean was ignoring me. He dialed. I heard the line ringing. It clicked over to voicemail.

Dr. Thornton? It’s Dean Amos. Call me back when you get this.

I was very irritated. I finished ripping up the tissue. I felt myself starting to rock back and forth in my chair.

You think this is the first time I’ve been through this? I said. Why would I blame myself for what some Moroccan niggers did?

The dean hung up the phone. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, he said.

Did I mean to say that? Yes, I did…

I’m sorry, I said. It just slipped out. I was now past the point winning this argument.

You’re not in the proper emotional state, said Amos. Go home. Your job will be waiting for you in a month.

Okay, I said.

I didn’t want to, but I knew it was my only option. I headed back to the classroom to pack up my things. When I got there, my cell phone rang. It was my grandfather.

We going to the racetrack? He asked.

Not today, nonno, I told him. I’m still at work.

How ‘bout tomorrow? You gotta work tomorrow?

I wasn’t going to lie to him. No, I don’t have to work tomorrow.

Then we go tomorrow. Take both our minds off this.

When I got home, I unplugged my T.V., and threw my laptop and cell phone behind the couch. I wasn’t going to run the risk of stumbling across my sister’s story again. I picked a random book and tried to spend the next few hours reading. It was no use. The images from the video were still seared into my mind. I took a handful of Temazepam and passed out. When I woke up, it was mid-afternoon. I heard my cell phone buzzing behind the couch. I answered it.

We going to the racetrack, or no? my grandpa said.

I don’t know. I was still in a daze from the drugs.

Nonsense. I come pick you up. He hung up the phone. My grandfather was a stubborn old Italian. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. If I wasn’t ready by the time he arrived, he would stand outside and blare his car horn until one of the neighbors called the cops. I got up to take a shower. I had no idea what I would wear. I hadn’t been to the racetrack since I was a little girl. My grandpa used to take me and my sister Lina every Saturday. My grandmother hated it. I think she was jealous of all his gambling buddies. He spent more time hanging out with them than he did with her. She never let him invite any of them over to their house for dinner. I don’t remember when we stopped going. Probably when I was in high school. Around the same time my grandmother passed away.

It was April and starting to warm up outside. I decided to wear a short cut top and jeans. I didn’t even have time to eat any breakfast when I heard my grandpa honking his horn down in the parking lot of the apartment complex. I was lucky it was Wednesday, and all my neighbors were at work. I ran downstairs.

What take you so long? he said from his driver’s seat window. He hadn’t even gotten out of the car to try to ring the buzzer.

I’m here, nonno. That’s the important thing, right? I said, smiling at him. I walked around to climb in on the passenger side. I jiggled the handle. It’s locked.

He stared through the window at me– It no open?

That’s what I just said.

Hold on, hold on. He looked around on his side for the button. It took him a moment to find it. He unlocked door and I got in.

* * *

The racetrack was an inverted arch-like structure– nearly two miles wide– green pylons standing high at each side– a long concrete wall sloping inward to connect them. We rolled up to security. The guy must have been older than my grandpa. He saw the sticker on our windshield and waved us through. There were three massive parking lots out front. The second two lots were empty, but the first lot was nearly filled to capacity. It seemed like quite the crowd for a Wednesday afternoon. I waited for my grandpa to get out of the car. The entrance was only twenty feet away, but my grandpa had just turned eighty and walked with a limp. It would take him five minutes just to climb out the door, and another five minutes to walk over there. When we finally made it to the front of the track, we encountered another old security guy asleep in a chair. His head was slumped over on his shoulder and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. He looked like he was dead.

Hey, Frank! my grandpa shouted.

The security guard sprang to life. His eyes popped open, and he started talking like he’d been awake the entire time.

Hey, Paul! Back again to lose some money? He turned to me. And who is this? No! It can’t be. Little Lina?

I smiled. I didn’t want to correct him.

My grandpa did it for me. No, Frank. This Rita.

Oh, that’s right. Little Rita. How old are you now?

Thirty-five, I said.

The old man looked genuinely shocked. No shit, he said.

Inside, my grandpa insisted on buying me a racing program.

I don’t need one, I said.

How else you going to bet? he said. You take. Only five dollars.

I stared down at the racetrack. The jockeys were posing for photographs with their horses. I remembered a time when Lina and I were young–

I was in high school, and Lina was just starting third grade. Grandpa had invited a jockey over for dinner without telling grandma. The jockey showed up with his girlfriend. My grandma, the polite Sicilian woman that she was, made them both pasta and veal. She even laughed at their stories and made small talk. After they left, she started throwing silverware at my grandpa. She warned him that if he ever did anything like that again, she would kill him–

The announcer came on over the loudspeakers. The next race was going to start in ten minutes. I turned and peered up into the stands. They were filled with old geezers. My grandpa never sat in the stands. He had his own private box on the upper deck.

I turned to my grandpa, We better get going if we’re gonna get up there in time.

By the time we sat down, the horses were already in their starting gates. Music blared over the speakers, DA-DA DA-DA DAH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUUUH!

My grandpa started leafing through his program.

Who you wanna bet on? he said, shoving the program under my face.

What’re you talking about? The race is starting.

So what? Who you like? Just pick.

I don’t know. I’ve never been good at this. It was always Lina’s thing.

Don’t think. Just pick.

I stared down at the book, skimming over the horses–

1. SANTA’S LITTLE SCHLEPPER

2. AN HABITUAL SUGAR DADDY

3. THE DEAD POSTMAN

4. UNKNOWN GUEST FROM ZONE B

5. SIX DOLLARS ON SUN-UP

6. ILLINOIS CRACKER BARREL BANDIT

7. LONG-FACED JOE

The starting bell rang– BRRRIIIINNG!

The announcer’s voice came on, And theeeey’re off!

Pick one! My grandpa said.

I don’t know. Number five? I said, just calling out a random number. When I looked up, the horses were almost halfway around the track.

The announcer rambled over the loudspeakers, Unknown Guest from Zone B leads the way to the back stretch and The Dead Postman was second Six Dollars on Sun-up and An Habitual Sugar Daddy followed by Long-Faced Joe on the inside five Illinois Cracker Barrel Bandit on the rail Santa’s Little Schlepper is last half forty-eight and a third past the half mile pole Six Dollars on Sun-up center of the track An Habitual Sugar Daddy into the final furlong Six Dollars on Sun-up and An Habitual Sugar Daddy one and two Six Dollars on Sun-up in front to the gold side it’s Six Dollars on Sun-up by a nose!

My horse won.

Grandpa patted me on the back. I told you, he said. Don’t think. Just pick.

We ordered lunch. A waiter walked it up to us.

What happened to all your gambling buddies? I asked.

They all dead, my grandpa said.

I’m sorry.

What you sorry for? You didn’t kill them.

I had ordered a B.L.T.– which I had already finished. My grandpa ordered a hamburger. He’d only taken one bite. But that wasn’t unusual for him. He’d always been as thin as a toothpick. And the older he got, the less he ate. He was starting to wither away into a skeleton.

You should eat more, I said.

He pretended not to hear me. You want hear joke? He asked.

Sure. I said, even though I’d heard all of his jokes a million times.

A man walks up to house. My grandfather began. "He see another man with sign. Sign says BOAT FOR SALE. ‘Hey, paisan!’ Man says to other man. ‘Where your boat?’

‘Boat?’ Guy says. ‘What boat?’

‘Your sign. It says BOAT FOR SALE!’

‘Yeah.’ Says the guy. ‘The house and the garage… BOAT are for sale.’"

I laughed. I didn’t remember that one. The next race was starting in five minutes. My grandpa and I looked through the program. Number seven. I said, again picking a random number on the page. The starting bell rang, and the horses rounded the track. They crossed the finish line. My pick came in fourth.

* * *

That night, I stayed over at grandpa’s house. I hadn’t visited in almost a decade. The house hadn’t aged a day. The walls still had the same wood paneling I remember. My grandpa never took down any of my grandma’s old decorations. I remembered a time when I was little– Before Lina was born– back when my parents were still alive– We had just moved in with my grandparents. My grandma would usually babysit me while my parents went to work. My mom had accidentally moved one of grandma’s crochet doilies off of the sofa before leaving one morning. My grandma, in a hysterical fit, spent the entire afternoon turning the house upside down. I was terrified. Both my grandpa and dad had to come home to calm her down. She wouldn’t speak to my mom for years after that.

I slept in my old room. Lina’s room was right across the hall. Like the night before, my mind was restless. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed so I went to explore Lina’s childhood things. The bed was neatly made. The wallpaper was white with yellow specks. A set of framed photographs decorated the corner dresser. The first one was Lina’s baby picture. Her chubby head rested on a tiny pillow; her eyes half open. The second two photographs were high school and college class portraits of my father– this also used to be his old room when he was a kid. I opened the top drawer of the dresser. It still had some of Lina’s baby clothes in it. The next two drawers were empty. I opened the bottom drawer. Inside were a pair of brown slacks. They were my father’s. I dug around in the back of the drawer. I found a pile of VHS tapes.

Our home movies! I smiled.

The first tape was labeled LINA’S CHRISTENING… the second was labeled ITALY–1999… the third tape was unmarked. I went down to the basement to find the VCR. It was buried in the backroom behind my grandma’s pasta maker. Grandpa was asleep on the couch in the living room. He left the T.V. on. The volume was blaring, but he was snoring over it. I figured it wouldn’t bother him if I tried watching the tapes in there.

After hooking up the VCR, I popped in the first VHS.

The first image that came on screen was of me. I was seven years old and dressed in a white church dress. The video was fuzzy and only took up a third of the flat screen’s display. I think my dad was operating the camera. I shyly turned my head away. I wasn’t very photogenic. The next image that came up was of my mother. She was also in a white Sunday dress. She was cradling baby Lina in her arms. She handed her off to a priest. The priest dunked her head in holy water. When her head came out of the water, she was giggling. She hadn’t shed a single tear. My mother was smiling. The video was too much for me. I turned it off. Grandpa was still snoring away behind me. I grabbed the unmarked tape and popped it in.

A blue screen came up– then a black image– then my mother’s face. This tape was even fuzzier than the last one. My mother was lounging on a beach, wearing a one-piece bathing suit. I assumed my dad was operating the camera again. The camera moved and I saw my dad sitting next to her in a pair of swim trunks. I turned up the volume on the T.V. They were both laughing.

Cut that out! my mother said to whoever was behind the camera. A hairy arm waved in front of the lens.

Come on, show me! The voice had a thick, Spanish accent.

If it will shut you up. my mother said.

She pulled down her bathing suit and flashed her tits. The man behind the camera laughed.

The screen turned blue again– then black– when the image returned, everything was dark and grainy. From what I could tell, it was night. No one was operating the camera. It was still filming the beach. I could see the tide hitting the shore in the background. A single lantern stuck out of the sand. It was the only source of light. I pressed my ear against the speakers. I didn’t hear anything on the soundtrack. The camera started to move. Someone had picked it up. It moved closer to the lantern. I saw my parents buried in the sand. I realized what the video was–

No. Turn that off! my grandpa yelled.

I turned around. You told me this didn’t exist, I said.

My grandpa tried to hoist himself off the couch, but his back gave out. Aye yai yai! he whimpered, falling over on his side.

I’m watching it, I said. I left him to lay there and turned back to the T.V.

My parents were buried up to their necks in the sand so that only their heads stuck out. A stream of urine drizzled onto their faces.

A little shower, the voice behind the camera said. The same thick Spanish accent from before.

My parents tried to close their mouths. They both gagged and spat. A pair of hands entered the frame. They belonged to some other unseen individual. They were wearing gloves and brandishing a pistol. I saw my mom crying.

Close your eyes, I heard my dad say.

Before she could, the pistol fired. The side of my mother’s forehead opened up and her blood jetted into the sand. My father screamed.

I reached out to press the eject button on the VCR. Before I could, the gun fired again. I jumped. My finger hit the pause button. The screen froze on father’s face just as his left eyeball erupted in a mess of goo. Red chunks dirtied the lens.

I screamed. I grabbed the T.V. set and threw it to the floor. My grandpa finally managed to dig himself out of the couch cushions. With great effort, he kneeled down next to me on the floor. He pulled the tape from the machine and tore the film out of the sprockets.

Why would you save that? I asked.

Because, he said. It’s all I had left of them. I know it’s stupid now.

Where did you get it? I asked. I looked for it. The police told me it didn’t exist.

No mind. Doesn’t matter now. He crumpled the film into a ball and tossed it across the carpet. He laid down flat on his back and extended his arms out above his head. I heard his spine crack.

I still remember the day they left for Argentina, I said. Lina was so confused when they didn’t come back. To her, they just disappeared. But I think she forgot after a while. She was still young enough to forget.

Grandpa started snoring again. He had already fallen back asleep. I got some blankets from the couch and wrapped them around him. I got a pillow for myself and fell asleep beside him.

The next morning, I heard my phone buzzing. I forgot that I had brought it along. The battery was almost dead. I plugged it into the wall. Grandpa was already up. He was back on the couch talking on the phone. Probably to Great Uncle Pasqualino and Aunt Enza in Sicily. I decided to catch up on some emails since I had been off the grid for the past twenty-four hours. My inbox was flooded. Colleagues and students were spamming me like crazy. The top email was from Dean Amos. I opened it. The subject line read–

DID YOU SEE?!?!

Inside was a link to an article. I clicked on it. The headline read–

MOROCCAN SUSPECTS ARRESTED IN AMERICAN TOURIST BEHEADING…

The page finished loading. I scrolled down. The article continued–

SUSPECTS HASSAN ELYOUNOUSSI (24) AND KARIF ELYOUNOUSSI (31) APPREHENDED LATE WEDNESDAY NIGHT