Unknown Threat

 by K. A. Williams


“Look at the third planet's defense shield. What type of material is that, Krudict?”
I asked my co-pilot.

“I don’t know. It is unfamiliar to our ship’s computer.”

“Can you plot a safe course to the planet, Mylont?”

“Negative, Captain,” my navigator said. “There are no openings big enough for our fleet to pass through.”

“Clear the way with our cannons.”

“It might be unwise,” said Krudict. “That material could be combustible and destroy the whole fleet.”

“Then we'll have to keep searching.”

Everyone was counting on us to find another habitable planet before
​a black hole devoured our world.

No Angels Tonight, Please

By Angela Camack


“There’s nothing I can do, you little shit! I’m a psychologist, not an oncologist! I can help them, I do everything I can to help them, but I can’t cure them.”
Alicia Donatello, for the third straight night, woke sitting straight up in her bed, gasping and sweating. The child had visited her dream again. It was a pale, blond, eldritch little being, of indeterminate gender. It was always the same. The child appeared, and said with an oddly mature little voice, “No angels tonight, please ma, am.”
Ally knew who the angels were. She was a psychologist at a children’s hospital in Boston, on the unit where terminally ill children were treated. Not for sniffles or sprained wrists, but for terminal illnesses.
“Angels” were the ones who couldn’t be saved. Ally had been counseling the mother of a ten-year-old girl who was going home with hospice care. She had known the family for two years, had seen how the disease had altered not only the patient but her mother. Mrs. Sands had become ashen-pale and thin, not so much older as disappearing, erased by her struggles.
“Well, I always knew Patty was my angel,” Mrs. Sands said. “And know she will be an angel. I have to hold on to that thought, that Patty’s not going to disappear. That’s the only way I can hold on to any hope.”
The courage of children and their families amazed Ally, especially as her own courage was failing her after three years of working with them. She should have been stronger. The hospital was one of the best in the country, she knew. It provided a completely child-centered environment
and support for families. Treatments had never been more effective, outcomes never better. Clinical trials of new therapies were going on all the time. Children were living longer, often cancer-free lives (with therapies that made them ill, took their hair and often required surgery.) And the families persevered, swimming against every tide that went against them.
Almost all families, that is. Tensions caused rifts in marriages and left other children in the family feeling neglected. That’s where Ally came in. Someone had to help the children understand what was happening to them, to help families carry the burdens and cope with the difficulties. All of them faced the possibility of a terminal outcome, crossing into “undiscovered country,” as Hamlet referred to death. It was Ally’s role to help them deal with the anxiety and depression, to help families deal with tension, and at worst, to let them know they wouldn’t go to the border of the undiscovered county alone.
Ally was ashamed of her own anxiety and depression while coping with her responsibilities. Everyone on the unit faced the same problems. But she had trouble dealing with her own problems. She found herself coming to work early and staying late, to make up for what she thought were her inadequacies in doing her job. For the first time in her adult life, she didn’t have to watch her diet, as food held no appeal for her. She forced herself to socialize, to smile, refusing to talk about her job. Even so, the man who had dated steadily for a year left her, saying he found her “too intense.”
And still the little ghost taunted her in her dreams, a pale little figure in a Minions tee shirt, shorts and sneakers. No longer did the child come only in dreams. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw vague glimpses of the translucent figure in places no child would be, like the staff lounge and the conference room. One terrible day she had to stop herself from screaming at a child in the
hallway, realizing in time that it was not a ghost but a pale little blond boy whose hair was growing back like duckling feathers.
“OK,” Ally thought, “Time for the doctor to get off her butt and heal herself.” She began to see Dr. Raymond, who was the doctor who had been Ally’s advisor while she was in training.
“It’s a tough job you have, Ally,” said the doctor. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
“Medical people are the worst patients, right?” said Ally. “We never want to admit we’re sick. It’s worse when the problem’s between our ears. I think psychologists expect that their work confers immunities to problems.”
“What can we do. Ally?”
“One of my Chicago classmates is part of a practice in Beacon Hill. They’re hiring people and they need another woman on staff. The work would be more hopeful, I’m sure. More money, too.”
“No,” said Dr. Raymond.
“No?” said a startled Ally.
“No. I know that’s not how it works. We have to discover why you feel the way you do and find solutions. But the psych world is smaller than you think, even in Boston. I’ve heard about your ability to work with sick kids and their families.”
“There are people with troubles in Beacon Hill. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you don’t suffer,” said Ally.
“I know,” said Dr. Raymond. “But you have something special that makes you so good at what you do.” She paused. “It’s like you’re missing a layer of protection between you and the world, something that most other people have. It helps you connect with people. We always talk about empathy, but you have it by the bucketful, Ally. If the situation weren’t so serious I would
say you were the ‘patient whisperer. You’re able to bond with people, to guide them toward healing. But the gift is a double-edged sword. You’re more sensitive. It’s going to be harder for you to accept that there are limits to what you can do, to what any of us can do.”
“So, what do I do?”
“When was the last time you had a vacation?”
“Fourteen months ago, “said Ally,
“Good grief, and I bet you drag yourself to work from your sickbed.”
“Guilty as charged,” laughed Ally.
“No, no more guilt. Take some days to decompress, to take care of yourself. And we’ll keep working.”
Ally asked for a week off. She spent most of the time resting, going to movies and reading books that had nothing to do with psychology or illness. The ghost-child was never far from her unconscious, though. Being away from work kept it at a distance, but still it broke into her sleep “No angels tonight, please ma’am.” Fever dreams that left her cold.
Nonetheless, Ally returned to work rested on Monday. She’d caught up with friends and bought new clothes. She determined to face her work with a new vision of what she could and couldn’t do for her patients.
She left work on time. She had a glass of wine with dinner and treated herself to ice cream. She watched Casablanca for the millionth time and went to bed early. She fell deeply asleep, only to have the ghost appear again.
She was going crazy, she knew. The ghost was less translucent and appeared to her more clearly, by the coffee machine, at the front desk, in the parking lot. How long would it be before she gave herself away, before a co-worker realized what was wrong with her?
A week after her vacation she had her worst night ever. Even as the child appeared, she saw the curtains of her bedroom move, smelled the lavender in a bowl on her bedside table.
“No angels tonight, please, ma’am. Please?”
“Ally fell to the floor by her bed. “Why can’t you understand? I can’t keep them alive. All I can do is listen to them, talk to them, to explain to them, to help their parents pick up the pieces if it comes to that? Why can’t you understand that?”
The ghost met her eyes. “I do understand. The problem is, you don’t.” Ally went back to bed and fell asleep. It was like she’d never woken. The rest of her sleep was undisturbed.
That was the end of the nightmares, of the glimpses of the child at work. It was as if Ally had been absolved for some terrible failure. How foolish, how egotistical she had been to imagine that she could work miracles, that she could be more than the best possible practitioner. She began to find joy in her work again, and relief at being able to put it aside to live the rest of her life. Beacon Hill could wait. She was where she needed to be.

My Weird Tour Guide

 by K. A. Williams


It was hot for early September, at least ninety degrees in the shade. The sand must be burning the feet of the people walking along collecting seashells. 

Two men from our senior tour group were swimming in the green Atlantic Ocean. They were older than me, and I hoped they didn't need saving. The lifeguard had hurried up the beach when those two young women, in the tiniest bikinis I've ever seen, walked by.

I was content to just sit under the big beach umbrella and watch Ted and Murray bob up and down with the waves. Angela, our tour guide, came over to me. "How are you doing, Nora?" she asked.
     
"I'm fine, but hot even under this umbrella. I was hoping the heat would help my arthritis."

"Has it?"
       
"Maybe a little."

"Good. You can sit out here again tomorrow but now we need to head inside and wash the sand off of us, before going to the dinner theater I've booked. They're doing a modernized Shakespeare play."
     
"Which one?"

"I'm not sure. I better get Ted and Murray out of the ocean or we'll be late."
      
Angela was very pretty but her eyes were yellow. I'd seen her this morning without her sunglasses. Her hair, tied back in a ponytail, was platinum blonde.

But it wasn't only her hair and eye color that were unusual. While she'd been standing there in the glaring sun talking to me, I'd noticed that her skin was dry. There were no perspiration stains under her arms on the white tee shirt she wore over her swimsuit either. The woman did not sweat.

She stood at the water's edge, called to the men, and they headed toward her. 

***

We weren't late but I would have rather missed it. The meal was excellent, though I couldn't say the same thing about the play. It had been dreadful listening to Amerians trying to say the lines to "Romeo and Juliet" with British accents. It was almost a relief when the main characters died at the end, but at least I didn't laugh like Angela did. 

I mentioned to my roommate Betsy that night about how weird Angela was and she said, "You're not used to hanging around young people, Nora. They're all like that."

***

The next day on the beach proved that Angela really was different. Ted and Murray were enjoying their afternoon swim as usual, and Angela was checking her watch. I couldn't remember the plan for tonight's entertainment, but I hoped it wasn't another night at the dinner theater. I'd hate to see them ruin my favorite Shakespeare play, "Macbeth".

Angela called to them like yesterday. Ted was slower getting out of the ocean, and a big wave knocked him down. Angela walked into the surf without hesitation, and pulled him up.

When she came out of the water, I noticed her feet. The left one was turned almost backward, and she walked on it without limping. Then she flexed her foot and it moved back into place.

Betsy sat two umbrellas away with her head down reading a mystery novel, and obviously hadn't noticed anything unusual. I opened my science fiction paperback quickly and pretended to be totally engrossed in the plot about a UFO investigator. 

"I guess you saw that, didn't you, Nora?"

"Saw what?" I didn't look up from my book.

"You might be more convincing if you weren't holding your book upside down."

I put the book down and regarded her evenly. "What do you think I saw, Angela?"

"You know what I'm talking about, I twisted my ankle."

"I put one of those stretchy wraps around mine when that happens to me."

"I know you've been watching me."

"Okay, you're right, I have been watching you. You're weird. No offense. You don't sweat. Your eyes and hair are an odd color. You laughed at the end of "Romeo and Juliet" and it's a tragedy."

"Their version certainly was." She cackled.

I couldn't argue with her about that. 

"And you have a strange laugh," I continued. "I observed all that before you walked on what appeared to be a badly broken ankle, without seeming to be in any pain. And then you moved it back into place. I know you're really unusual. Are you an alien?" 

Angela turned around to see if anyone could overhear our conversation, and seemed to be thinking about how to answer. "I'm not supposed to reveal my identity, but since you've already guessed, I might as well tell you the truth. Yes. But we're humanoid, just a little different in our anatomy."

"Are you here to conquer the planet?"

"Of course not. We're mostly only observing you Earthlings. Although some of us, like me, are interacting with the planet's citizens, we're not ready to make official contact yet. Your species is too volatile. I hope you haven't said anything to the others." She sounded worried.

"Who would believe me? I told Betsy I thought you were weird, and she just said I wasn't used to young people. It can be our secret."

"Thank you for that."

***

No one wanted to go back to the dinner theater, so Angela took us uptown to the Beach Pavilion. It was late in the season with no kids around, they had gone back to school, so the pavilion wasn't that crowded.

We split up. Tim and Murray went to the shooting gallery, others got cotton candy, a few went to the arcade, and the rest of us went on the more sedate rides.

Angela joined me on the Ferris wheel. We enjoyed the ride awhile before she pressed something into my hand. 

"What's this?" I asked.
      
"I'm not supposed to interfere in any way, but I'm a bit of a rule breaker, and I like helping people. I know you have arthritis. It's a cure."

"Just the one pill?"

"That's it."

"Thank you. Why don't you change your mind? Go ahead and conquer our planet, we might be better off."

She only cackled in response.

                                                       

THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN

By Nathaniel Hawthorne (July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864) 


At fifteen, I became a resident in a country village, more than a hundred miles from home. The morning after my arrival--a September morning, but warm and bright as any in July--I rambled into a wood of oaks, with a few walnut-trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. The ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings, and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track, which I chanced to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a border of grass, as freshly green as on a May morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. One solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like a goldfish in the water.

From my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a spring. The water filled a circular basin, small but deep, and set round with stones, some of which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot, the gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living creature were about to emerge--the Naiad of the spring, perhaps--in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow-drops, and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How would the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to see her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in the sun! Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they would immediately be moist, as with morning dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, were like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too near, he would find only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her.

Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young girl, with locks of pale gold. A mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks, I could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and became a glory round that head so beautiful!

My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left desolate. I breathed; and there was the face! I held my breath; and it was gone! Had it passed away, or faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever been.

My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend, where that vision found and left me! For a long time I sat perfectly still, waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it back. Deep were my musings, as to the race and attributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of children's eyes? And did her beauty gladden me, for that one moment, and then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid, who had drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had a lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips that would bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown her image into the spring?

I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew me back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, and the sunbeam glimmering. There the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish look! I could have slain him!

Thus did the Vision leave me; and many a doleful day succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring, and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the village; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to and fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven, and could take no more joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in the midst of them. Without intending it, I became at once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my own, and experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I the burning fancy of my early youth, with manhood's colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale!

In the middle of January, I was summoned home. The day before my departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, I found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sunshine, on the hill of the rainbow. "Let me hope," thought I, "or my heart will be as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as desolate as this snowy hill." Most of the day was spent in preparing for the journey, which was to commence at four o'clock the next morning. About an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, I descended from my chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old clergyman and his family, with whom I had been an inmate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry.

According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what came from the hearth. As the good clergyman's scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smolder away, from morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame. This evening the heap of tan was newly put on, and surmounted with three sticks of red-oak, full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet kindled. There was no light, except the little that came sullenly from two half-burned brands, without even glimmering on the andirons. But I knew the position of the old minister's arm-chair, and also where his wife sat, with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I found my own place next to that of the son, a learned collegian, who had come home to keep school in the village during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was less room than usual, to-night, between the collegian's chair and mine.

As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some time after my entrance. Nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matron's knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the old man's glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people, who had known and loved each other here, would hold communion in eternity? We were aware of each others presence, not by sight, nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. Would it not be so among the dead?

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the circle, whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of her features who had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom had my heart recognized, that it throbbed so? I listened, to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape where none was visible.

Suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been, there was she,--the Vision of the Fountain! A spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow, and appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them. She knew me! The mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now. One moment our glance mingled,--the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood,--and darkness snatched away that Daughter of the Light, and gave her back to me no more!

Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the simple mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire, and had left home for a boarding-school, the morning after I arrived, and returned the day before my departure? If I transformed her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the essence of my story. But slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves!

The Fun House

By Bill Tope

 
It was late October, the last weekend for the Fun House, the featured attraction of the regional Eventree Carnival, a fixture in Southern Illinois during the1960s. We made our way past the farmland and the lakes, through the trees with their scarlet and orange and brown leaves, visible by moonlight.  We drove down Interstate 55--which climbed up all the way from St. Louis to Chicago--to an abandoned wheat field, where the Eventree Carnival was held each fall.  En route, Patty goosed me, said, "This was your bright idea, Kev; what if they're closed?" The air became a little
hazy as a light rain began to fall, hiding the full moon.
 
"They can't be closed," I insisted. "They got two paying customers here."  And I
goosed her back.  Finally we turned into the fair grounds, parked in the abandoned lot.  Strings of orange lights encircled the field.  At the entrance to the carnival was a large placard, emblazoned with the word, "Freaks," and featuring a picture of the star attraction: the Fat Lady. It was late and so they would be preparing to close, but we thought we had just enough time to have a little fun.  Besides. this was our last chance for the season. I glanced around the grounds, saw not a soul besides Patty and myself; we had the place to ourselves. Cool.  Alighting from Patty's yellow and rust '61 VW Bug, we approached the ticket booth and I leaned through the window,
but no one was present.  Even cooler. We embarked across the muddy, straw-
strewn field, straight to the Fun House, our favorite. 
 
"There's nobody around," I said in my best spooky voice. "Maybe someone escaped from the State Hospital and murdered everyone." Patty punched me.  "Jerk," she said. Inside the Fun House, we walked up precipitous inclines and through low-ceilinged, attenuated corridors, where almost-human hands stretched out to wrap our ankles with supple fingers. Rubber spiders dangled from the ceiling and bedeviled our faces. Everything here was in total darkness, increasing the shivers and the prickly feeling down our spines. Finally we came to a lighted area: the hall of mirrors.  There I pointed to Patty's eggplant-shaped reflection and she
to my green bean physique.  We mugged in front of a hundred bizarre, crazy mirrors, just having a ball. Overhead, a multicolored glass globe sprayed dazzling colors everywhere. Calliope music blared out of hidden speakers.
 
Then we heard a sizzling and snapping sound, like a short circuit, and suddenly all the lights went out and we were plunged into inky blackness.
"What happened?" asked Patty, less afraid than annoyed.  She was enjoying
her ten foot reflection.
"Search me,"  I replied.
"I can't see, Kevin," she said.  "How are we going to get out of here?  It's getting
late!" We literally couldn't see our hands n front of our faces.
"Just lean against a wall and follow it to the door," I suggested.  But the walls were convex and concave and bulging and covered with latex snakes and spiders and jazz, and often led into blind alleys or dead ends.
 
"Kevin, help me," cried Patty from a distance and she sounded panicked. Totally, not like her.  I heard a sound like a door slamming, then took off running towards the sound of her voice, only to slam into one of the many full-length mirrors, which shattered spectacularly. A shower of glass rained down upon me. I bounced off and landed on my backside, my mind spinning.  I touched my forehead, felt the bloody abrasion from where I'd smashed into the mirror. 
 
"Kev..." Her voice sounded very distant now. Scrambling to my feet, I moved blindly
towards the sound, my hands extended before me.  Feeling my way I came at last
to a corner, and beyond it a small lighted space. A single dim bulb hung pendulously
from the ceiling, casting a weak light over the straw-covered floor; there I found Patty--or what was left of her.  Lying upon one side, her blond hair was drenched in vivid scarlet:  her blood.  And protruding from her chest was a hunting knife of some kind.  I gaped, started to hyperventilate, was dragged back to the present by a scream--Patty's voice!  Checking the victim a second time I discovered it was in fact a mannikin.  The blood looked real, though. It reminded me of a quotation from Shakespeare about there being so much blood. 
 
I hastened away. Reaching the back of the vast tent, I charged through, came face to face with the figure on the poster at the entrance to the carnival--The Fat Lady. She was even bigger in real life than in the artist's rendering.  No more than five feet tall, she must have tipped the scales at 600 pounds!  And she had Patty in a death grip, clutching her round her abdomen.  Surely her ribs must fracture into splinters! 
The Fat Lady kept repeating, over and over, "You'd better pay for them tickets!"  Yikes!  Seeking to loosen the freak's grip, I pulled on her arms and shoulders, but she was terrifically strong.  I couldn't budge her.  She shook off my efforts.
"I'll get to you next, Cookie," she snarled. Looking round, I saw nearby a High Striker,
one of those gizmos where you slam a sledge hammer to test your own strength.
Taking up the cudgel, I slammed it as hard as I could into the back of the Fat Lady's skull, which was covered by ringlets of orange hair. There was a sound like breaking concrete. Suddenly the Fat Lady quivered, then went limp, collapsing to the ground. Patty inhaled rapidly, starved for breath.
 
"You alright?" I asked stupidly. 
"Come on," Patty gasped.  "Let's get out of here!"
"Don't you think we should call the cops?" I asked incredulously. (This was decades before the cell phone and calling would have meant finding the nearest pay phone). Patty shook her head no.
"Shes not alone, Kev."  I looked frantically around, saw no one. "There are eight or ten midgets who keep her company," Patty explained.  "And they're mean little turds,
too!  Quick, to the car." We hightailed it to the parking lot, found the old VW and climbed inside. You might think I'm making this up, for dramatic effect, but the damn car wouldn't start!  No Vroom, no turnover at all, just "click, click, click."  Then I noticed that the engine cover was up. The engine in a Bug was always in the rear, so I hurried to the back of the car and peered inside.  A screw fastening the power cable to the starter was askew.  I quickly righted it.  I climbed back into the car, just in time to watch an army of scurvy-looking midgets descend on our vehicle. We quickly locked the doors and braced for the assault, uncertain how all this would eventually play out. 
 
None of those nasty little men, all of whom were clad in lurid carnival garb and seemed to be chewing on big black cigars, appeared to be armed with anything more formidable than a rock. Suddenly one of the little devils climbed atop the shoulders of a second and then a third handed the uppermost midget the enormous sledge from the High Striker.  I must have dropped it after I conked the Fat Lady. Once or twice the elevated midget tumbled from the shoulders of his compatriot, cursing fluently, but finally he gained purchase, drew back and smashed the windshield of the VW into a zillion shards of glass.  He was strong for his size. The
midgets next began crawling over the trunk lid, seeking to enter through the hole in the glass.  But the surface of the car was slick from the rain and the assailants tumbled off again and again.
 
So fascinated was I at the spectacle generated by the maniacal midgets that I'd completely forgotten about starting the car.  In the next instant, the engine turned over with a loud Vroom!  I threw the VW into gear and we were off. The mob of horrible midgets swarmed after the car, throwing themselves before the vehicle.
I heard a couple of "thunks," indicating we'd run over several of the treacherous throng, but we'd only passed through several potholes; looking through the rearview mirror I spotted the entire army, chasing after us but growing smaller in the distance. We sped away, not pausing till we reached the Interstate and safety.  On the journey home we were quiet, lost in our own thoughts.
 
Recovering from the shock, we moved slowly through town and saw by the clock in the square that it was nearly midnight. We were exhausted. "What should we do now?" I asked Patty.  We both stared at the gaping hole where the rest of the windshield used to be, then at one another.  She felt experimentally her ravaged ribs and gingerly touched the wound upon my forehead.  Her hand felt warm.
"I think we should just forget all about tonight," she said unexpectedly.
"But, don't you think we should tell anyone? A cop, maybe?" I asked.  She regarded me with her sky blue eyes. "Look at it this way, Kev:  if you were a cop would you believe us?  Besides," she added, "Let's not ruin it for next year; I can't wait to get back to that fun house!"

Lost

By Yash Seyedbagheri


I just got done getting new glasses. So I’m killing time in this little lakefront community of just under three thousand. And I’m here to take something away beyond Harry Potter-looking frames. It’s all too easy to imagine, anyhow. There’s a gentle warmth in this town, not the heat I’m used to in the deepest hills. There’s a giant market with green and brown walls—with more than four aisles. This place even has a kickass selection of booze. Elegant wines, brandies, champagnes, even—fortresses of temporary euphoria, booze fit for a king. In here, freezers emit overwhelming coolness, a whoosh and I can’t help but stick my head into a few, pretending to look for who-knows-what. Man, I wish I could just fall asleep among that whoosh. It’s like a mother, promising something sweet. A new home, more money, a better job.
The floors are even polished and not just rife with tired linoleum, like back home. And the scents of pizza and hot dogs complement this whole scene, although the grease makes me want to ralph. Not because it’s a bad scent, but because it’s a reminder of the peanut butter sandwich I had coming up here.
But the PA system plays music that’s upbeat. Little Richard shrieks with joy. Drums and bass thump with the motion of carts in some song I don’t know. Some people shake their hips too, while they rush from aisle to aisle with a frightening briskness, carts clattering away.
“Need any help?” a clerk asks. He wears a purple smock and white button-down short-sleeve shirt. He has big owl-like eyes, a hooked nose, and he smells like mint soap. His tag reads Travis. He probably thinks this is a good job. He’s probably twenty, twenty-one and I hope he’s still not working in this sort of place when he’s my age. Thirty-six. But then again, he probably comes from money. He could quit right now.
“No thanks,” I say.
“Nothing in particular?”
“I’m still thinking,” I say, because that sounds reasonable. That sort of answer reeks of being organized, having the ability to browse— to buy.
“No problem,” he says.
To say I’m thinking also conceals the truth. I’m a long-haired man in blue jeans among people clad in crisp Khakis, Capris, and tan shorts. I’ve got forty dollars in my wallet now. And I’m wearing Harry Potter frames, thanks to near-sightedness. I fucking asked for the small round ones, the type John Boy wore on The Waltons, something intelligent. Something that screams ambition, thoughtfulness, achiever. But now I look like I’m about to cast a spell on this lakeside town. And I smell a little too, like a cross between an armpit and a stale foot. But sometimes you make the choice between dinner or a shower.
“I’m just thinking,” I repeat.
“Take your time,” he says, and I smile, a smile that’s wobbling. And I realize I’ve been running through the store myself, my feet the thump of insistence, of hurry. So I slow down.
These men and women, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters actually carry food. Real food. Steaks, vegetables, fruits, God forbid, chocolates too. And brand ice-creams. Good old Ben and Jerry’s. Haagen Daz. I subside on onions and crackers, peanut butter, and Diet Pepsi. Not even real Diet Pepsi, but a store brand. They, on the other hand, pack their carts until they burst.
Back home, people carry Bud Light, Coors, and Miller, the holy trinity of liquid dinners. The one true, small treat. I’m no exception there. Even I need a little liquid courage to complement the onions, crackers, dust-filled rooms, and heat. If it means one less shower, so be it. If I didn’t drink beer, I’d be a freak.
Meanwhile, away from home, they shove their groceries across smooth, swift belts. Bag them with an almost frenetic, robotic motion. Then they rush to minivans, BMWs, even a few Subarus. I should leave now, but there’s a little time. Standing in the parking lot, watching the shoppers leave, I imagine them packing oak and mahogany tables with feasts. I conjure dirty jokes and laughter rising, preserved forever in these rooms with actual space. An image: they are talking of plans, plans to enrich themselves, renovations, new homes, tearing things down. They talk like this simply because they can.
They don’t eat at plastic tables covered with wine stains and pen marks. They don’t worry about rude customers behind cash registers. Here people don’t juggle credit card bills, tucking reality in the drawers until they pop out again. Here everything’s a plus sign. The plus signs swell, they shrink, but they’re always plus signs. And no one’s a risk, no one’s delinquent, no one’s another case.
I discard my truck in the market parking lot, the mud streaks and dents on the Chevy all too visible. I’ll come back soon enough, though. I trample the parking lot, traipse down Lake Avenue, late afternoon following me around. Streetlamps line both sides of the street and clay pots sprinkled throughout contain lilacs. The air turns cooler the closer I get to the lake. Not freezer cool, but gentle. I savor the beige and tan buildings, mixed with a few brick structures, the clean plate glass. Chinese and Mexican, a pizza joint, some knickknack shops, a lawyer. A bookstore too. Even a little dollar theater.
This beats home, where you have one street that sweeps into town and out into nothingness fast. Buildings are all faux rustic. A market, a bank, two bars, a hardware store, a gas station. That’s about it. And people don’t walk or stride, rather they waddle, in bib overalls and camo. They have the saddest fucking smiles. And the only music back home is The Eagles wafting from trailers and cabins that lean on hillsides and threaten to plunge into the valley. Well, and whatever the bar chooses to play. Dueling Pianos. Buford and The Good Times Band. Two chords over and over again.
I don’t even realize I’m just stopped, staring at the buildings around me, until a woman in a lavender blouse and Capris asks if I’m lost. She wears these big cat-eye glasses, and I think of her as some professional. An accountant, perhaps. God forbid, a lawyer. No, an accountant. Lawyers can grandstand, whip out fifty-dollar vocab words and harangue. She’s the sort to add things up and make a cold, precise decision.
“No ma’am,” I say. “Not lost at all. Just looking around.”
“Are you sure?” she says. And the way she assesses me, me with my Harry Potter frames, my blue jeans, even my long hair, I know what she’s thinking. Smelly, freak, drifter.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice rising. “Just looking around.”
“What do you need?” she says. I wonder if I look homeless or something. “I’d be glad to help you. Is there something you want to buy? Are you looking for a store?”
“I can find it,” I say.
Of course, I can’t fucking buy anything. But how do I tell her that? She’s the sort to think everything is your own fault. Bootstraps. I’ll bet her great-grandfather got off the boat a century ago, learned to speak English, and picked himself up. But not before being mugged, kicked, and beaten a few times. And paying more than a few bills.
“I didn’t mean any offense,” she says, but I know that her eyes are bearing into me, that she’s waiting for me to do something stupid. Punch a wall. Beg for something. Demand a slice of pizza. But I won’t. I’ve seen people with signs outside the market back home, along the highways, and the shame on them is unbearable.
“You didn’t?” I say.
“You just looked, well, lost,” she says, and she tries to smile. Her smile looks more like constipation though. I hate that word. Lost. Lost. Lost. I know what I’m doing here.
“Fuck off, asshole,” I say and march off. The harshness of the words hangs over the swath of blue sky and sun, but there’s a power to it. An odd, crude dignity. And yet a shame. But I can’t think of that now.
I walk down Lake Avenue a bit further, road sloping as it gets closer to the lake, an expanse of blue and ripples. I absorb the breeze, the Ponderosas swaying. The easy laughter rising, the tan shorts, the T-shirts festooned in blue, purple, greens. The scent of Chinese and Mexican sizzling through windows and not oil, Camels, and exhaust. I try to not think about the food I can’t have, about that lady’s judgments. And I don’t make eye contact with people.
I could leave right now but going back would be too much. Where else could I even go? The towns between here and back home grow smaller and smaller, more boarded-up, full of weeds. And I don’t have enough gas to just drive north into the wheatfields.
I try not to think of the sun sloping downward bit by bit, even if it doesn’t actually get dark until late. I walk closer and closer to the lake, the ripples welcoming. I imagine just walking further and further, into its depth, not giving a crap. Hell, I could just float and let the water wash over me. Crisp, cold, no bullshit. But a boat roars across the lake, bodies waving and laughing, relishing the ease of space. The ripples are broken, the boat sputtering toward some point. Probably a cabin, surrounded by other cabins, a place where neighbors exchange easy greetings and don’t look twice at the people around them. A place where no one is lost.
They’d probably call security on this Harry Potter-looking guy. No explanations asked, nothing. Their word would be enough to bank on and the guard would whisk me away, while the neighbors turned away, making up even more stories about me.
I turn back. Look back up the avenue, that steep hill. I turn forward. And then back. I imagine continuing my march into the lake, but it’s all broken now. The lake looks almost menacing now, something that never ends. So I start the trek back to the truck, splattered in mud. One step, another one. The street gapes before me.
I’ll go back to that market lot. Hop into my truck. Then I’ll crank up the AC, try to find something nice on the radio, and try to drown out its sputter, its sputter that shrieks surrender, surrender, as I move out of the coolness, driving back into early evening’s fatigue. And I’ll wish I could cast a spell on someone, wearing these fucking Harry Potter frames. Maybe I’ll try.

Time Lapse

By Robert P. Bishop
 
Mr. and Mrs. Barton, twenty-seven years old and the parents of two-year old twin boys, Josh and Jake, clear the breakfast dishes from the table. The twins play on the floor with four spoons and a yo-yo.
            Mrs. Barton says, “I’m taking the twins to the park. I’m meeting my sister there. Then we’re going to have a late lunch.”
            “Super,” says Mr. Barton. “That means I have time for a bike ride.”
 
Mrs. Barton straps the twins into the car and drives to the park where she finds her sister sitting on a swing. Mrs. Barton puts the twins into swings. She and her sister push the boys to and fro and talk.
            “Are you happy?” the sister inquires of Mrs. Barton.
            “Oh, yes. Mr. Barton is such a wonderful husband.”
            “How is he with the children?”
            “Marvelous. He gives them so much attention.”
            “What kind of attention?”
            “Why, he reads to them every night when he puts them to bed, before they go to sleep.”
            “Is that all he does? Read to them?”
            “Of course not. He plays with them and tells them stories.”
            “What kinds of stories?”
            “You know, ones he makes up. Fables and such about mythical things.”
            The sisters stop talking and push the boys in the swings some more. Finally, the sister says, “You are a lucky woman.”
            “I know, I know,” Mrs. Barton replies, and thinking of her wonderful life, smiles happily.
 
Mr. Barton brushes his light brown hair from his forehead, puts on his red helmet and pedals into the street. Several minutes into his bike ride he notices the streets are deserted of cars and this both pleases and perplexes him. Perhaps because today is Sunday there are few cars on the streets, he surmises.
            Leaning forward over the handlebars and pushing hard on the pedals, Mr. Barton senses he is going quite fast. He looks to the side of the road. The houses flash by in colorful, blurry blobs. Mr. Barton is thrilled with his speed and pushes harder and harder on the pedals.
 
Following lunch with her sister, Mrs. Barton returns home and puts the twins down for a nap. Then she thinks of what to have for dinner.
            Later, she checks the time as the food simmers on the stove and the twins sprawl on the kitchen floor, drawing on paper with broken color crayons. “Where is Mr. Barton?” she asks. “He is late.” The twins do not respond to her question.
 
Mr. Barton leans far over the handlebars, his face cleaving the air like the steel prow of a warship slicing through ocean waves and crushes down on the pedals. He is going so fast now he is unable to see the houses. They appear to him as one long streak of color. Wind whistles past his ears. He grins savagely as he flashes along the streets.
 
Four years later Mrs. Barton writes a book about being abandoned by her husband and how difficult it is to raise two boys on a single income without a father.
            The book becomes a smash best seller. Mrs. Barton appears on several television shows, sharing her difficulties with sympathetic audiences who rush out to buy more copies of her book and increase her wealth.
            Soon Mrs. Barton becomes more successful than her book and is offered her own television talk show, which she readily accepts. Her fame grows, and she creates a media empire. Now she mentions Mr. Barton only occasionally.
 
The years pass and reports come in about a young man matching the description of Mr. Barton, riding incredibly fast on a bicycle. Someone in Cheyenne, Wyoming, reports seeing a bike rider flash through the town. Later, another sighting comes in from Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood of a young man going unbelievably fast on a bicycle.
 
Now sighting the bicyclist becomes a game. He is given a name; The Barton Bullet, and every day citizens call in to police departments and television stations across the country, saying they have seen The Barton Bullet in such far-flung places as Two Dot, Montana, Patchatatoolie, Mississippi and Prince Edward Island, Canada.
            After a while someone starts a blog where people describe their encounters with The Barton Bullet. He seems like such a nice young man, they write, but never has time for a conversation.       One enterprising person develops a line of Barton Bullet clothing that becomes quite successful. Another person begins manufacturing Barton Bullet bicycles and makes a fortune. These bicycles are reported to be the most mechanically reliable in the land as well as the fastest.
 
Years go by and sightings of The Barton Bullet decline in number, but still a few diehard fans continue to report seeing him flashing with lightning speed over the streets of their towns.
            Mrs. Barton no longer mentions her missing husband on her television show. Nor does she mention her twin boys, who turn out to be bad apples and are in prison serving life sentences for murder and various other crimes, including drug smuggling, car theft, and fixing professional football games.
 
Despite her fame and fortune, Mrs. Barton continues to live in the small, modest house she shared with Mr. Barton. Many years later, Mrs. Barton finally retires and withdraws from the public eye.
            Neighbors know her now as an old lady, long retired, tending her flowers, and speak kindly to her as they pass along the sidewalk in front of her house.
 
Late Sunday afternoon a young man rides his bicycle down the street and turns into the driveway of the Barton house. He takes off his red helmet and shakes out his light brown hair, damp with sweat. Several emergency vehicles, among them an ambulance, are parked in the street. The man with light brown hair watches as two men in paramedic uniforms wheel a gurney out of the house. There is a body in a black body bag on the gurney. The two men put the gurney in the back of the ambulance and drive away.

            The young man enters the house and shouts: “Honey, I’m home!”

​
Bio: 

Robert P. Bishop, an army veteran and former teacher, holds a Master’s in Biology and lives in Tucson, Arizona. He is the author of three novels and four short-story collections and is a four-time Pushcart nominee. His short fiction has appeared in Active Muse, Ariel Chart, Better Than Starbucks, Bindweed Magazine, The  Blotter Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Clover and White, CommuterLit, Corner Bar Magazine, Creativity Webzine, Down in the Dirt, Flash Fiction Magazine, Fleas on the Dog, Friday Flash Fiction, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Lunate Fiction, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spelk, and elsewhere.

Black Magic

by

  Gerald Arthur Winter


            Sophie left the Peach Tree Station in Atlanta to begin what would soon become
her unexpected Magical Mystery Tour to New Orleans. Amtrak’s Crescent line took her
to her desired destination in what seemed only minutes rather than hours. She was
pleased to be traveling in a car with the scent of disinfectant for protection against
COVID, Omicron, malaria, whatever. Fewer passengers in troubled times allowed ample
separation from any unmasked travelers. She wore a new outfit for the trip just to give
her the posture of a fresh outlook. Her small carry-on kept a change of clothes for a
one-night stay and a return to Atlanta the following afternoon. In two days she had a
quarterly report to present to the Board of Directors at  9 am sharp.
            The motion of the train allowed peaceful slumber to comfort Sophie on her
journey. She’d left her demanding job in Atlanta on a mission of retribution and
revenge. Fitful nights for the past weeks had woken her in the dead of night with
a persistent calling . . . You must come . . . you must come soon . . . you must . . .
            Sophie heard there was an old Creole woman-of-color living in the bayou who
could cast out demons and conjure spirits. Though that intrigued her enough to attempt
to learn more at the source, Sophie’s main interest was putting a curse on a younger
woman who’d stolen her estranged husband. All she’d ever known about New Orleans
were from movies like:  A Street Car Named Desire, Cat People, The Big Easy, and Déjà vu.
The latter was her favorite with Denzel in the lead.
            Sophie Duquesne was a woman-of-color, but her taste in music had gone astray
only once with an undying love for--Creedence. Their rhythms made her feet twitch and
her heart pound with a voodoo-like drumbeat that appealed to her darkest intentions.  
When Sophie was eight years old, her daddy had left her mama who’d said: “Only bared
fangs can assuage a wronged woman’s fury. I swear I’ll kill that man and that young
thing he took up with if they ever cross my path again. Till then, I give’m my juju. If a
man ever betrays you, Sophie, find your juju and give ’m hell.”
            Sophie loved Creedence, especially John Fogerty, because her missing husband,
Cal, was a ringer for Fogerty. She’d made Cal the doppelganger of that unfortunate son
in her wildest dreams of lust. She’d considered legally changing her name to “Susie Q.
Duquesne” so she could feel as if Fogerty was singing on a hotline directly to her soul.
            Eye of the beholder, was the consensus of her closest friends. Familywise, Sophie’s
Cal, was what her sistahs called: “An assless, classless, cheater who ought to be road kill.”
            Sophie never took the name La Salle when she married Cal, which had literally
been an immediate bone of contention with Cal reminding her she’d never be more than
his rib bone.
            “Says so in the Bible!” he’d contended. “Sophie La Salle’s more fittin’. Sexier, too.
There’s no fame to the name Duquesne.”
            By word-of-mouth, Sophie learned that the only way to meet the “Voodoo Woman
of the Swamp”, as locals called her, was by airboat. The old woman lived in a shack that
only gator hunters had access to in the month of August. She was told the Creole crone
had twelve sons ages 22 to 47, all gator hunters as their three dad’s had been. Apparently
the bayou in her youth was like a Petri dish for propagating her clan.
            Some women have no shame—Uh-uh, Sophie thought.
            That dirty dozen was often referred to in town as The Twelve Tribes of Israel or
The Twelve Apostles of the Swamp Sorceress, just a tribal moniker that never quite fit
the old woman’s motley offspring rabble.
            It was mid-August, dab in the middle of gator season, so it wasn’t easy to convince
the Swamp Sorceress’s good ol’ boy sons to give up any space in their watercraft used
exclusively to bring back at least a dozen ten-foot monstahs to market.
                              
            “Our mama don’t want some city gal from Atlanta interferin’ with our business,
mam,” said the eldest son, Jed, a gumbo stew of at least four ethnicities. His mate on
board was his albino brother at least fifteen years younger and aptly nicknamed “Bleach.”
            “Ya heard about Mama all the way back in Atlanta?” Bleach asked with doubt.
“Nuttin’ attracted anybody to Mama’s door b’fore. You some kinda reporter? Ya gonna
put ‘er on TV in one a them re-al-i-ty shows?”
            “Sorry, no. Just interested in her gift to help me with a personal problem, fellas.”
Sofie stood her ground with attitude and extended her hand to Bleach for help into their
airboat, but her conscience told her . . . you must come . . . you must.
            Uncertain, Bleach turned to his oldest brother for approval to help Sophie aboard,
but his posture remained slumped with doubt about this woman from outside the bayou.
            Jed shrugged and gave Bleach the nod to help her aboard, but both brothers kept
sharp eyes on her as if she were up to something unsaid, something more devious than
just some bitchin’ payback to a man who’d wronged ‘er.
            They powered forth into the swamp with the big fan blowing behind her as she
clung her sun bonnet close to her breast. The miasmic stench of the prehistoric swamp
made her scrunch her nose and squint her eyes in the wind and bright sun. The sweat
from her neck quickly evaporated with the breeze, but the humidity still kept her breasts
and armpits damp with dark patches of perspiration that made her white ruffled blouse
translucent.
            Self-conscious about her vulnerability, she was relieved to see that Jed and Bleach
were oblivious to her and more interested in the shore where their lines had been staked
with raw chicken bait to draw hungry bull gators.
            She was startled with the sudden cut of the engine’s power and the continued
drift of the airboat towards shore.
            They’d been heading into the swamp for no more than half an hour, so she felt
relieved, thinking they must have arrived at the old Creole woman’s shack. Jed saw her
smile with a sigh, so he shook his head.
            “We ain’t there yet, mam. Ya gotta sit further back in the boat ’cause it looks like
we got a dinosaur tuggin’ at this line. Can’t chance losin’ em. If ya don’t shift back towards
the engine, his nasty head’s gonna end up right at yer feet. Maybe take a toe or two.”
            She gasped. “You don’t intend to put an alligator in this boat?”
            “It’s what we do, mam. How we make our livin’. No time to waste.”
            “I hope you’ll tie its mouth shut so it won’t eat me,” she huffed with sarcastic
annoyance.
            “No need for that, mam. He’ll be dead when we haul ’m into the boat, but ya
don’t want to be too close or he’ll bleed all over ya.”
            Bleach grinned at his brother’s manner. Though straight and strong, Bleach’s
teeth were sallow in contrast with his chalky blanched face with pinkish eyes.
            Sophie retreated to Captain Jed’s vacant double seat, a step higher aft than
the front of the boat where the gators would be stored under tarps in their return
trip to the wholesale market. There the gators would be skinned by machine and cut
into saleable packages for retail. Unlike Florida where gators are more protected,
even when troublesome to a neighborhood, rather than shooting a gator, game
authorities will relocate it to the Glades. In the Louisiana bayou, if the organized
hunt in August/September didn’t shoot enough gators, the whole state would turn
into Jurassic Park.
            “We got a big ‘n’, Jed!” Bleach called out as he grabbed the line out of the
shallows along the shore.
            The overhanging willow branch fluttered then bent to the water.
            “Throw the treble hook on him before he snaps the line!” Jed shouted to Bleach
as he grabbed his rifle.
            Sophie cowered and shrieked pulling her knees up to her waist with swamp water
splashing into the boat from the gator’s effort to get free. She was sorry she’d worn her
best shoes for a fashion statement to let the Swamp Sorceress know she was a serious
client willing to pay well for casting her spell. That tactic worked in Atlanta where she
was the CFO of an accounting firm. None of her girlfriends could understand what a
smart woman like Sophie ever saw in a low-life loser like Cajun Cal La Salle.
            “Animal magnetism,” Sophie told them with dismissal. “Closest I could get to
John Fogerty without making a damn fool of myself. Cal turns my heart aflutter.”
            “Uh, huuuuh,” was the harmonized response from her sistahs, knowing she’d
done much worse than being a fool with her dumbass doppelganger Calvin Q. La Salle.
            With much splashing and spinning of the boat by the treble-hooked gator,  
its huge head and snapping jaws slammed against the aluminum watercraft. Sophie
held her breath till the rifle fired, echoing across the lagoon and sending snowy egrets
squawking in flight like a tickertape parade.
            It took the brawny Jed and sinewy Bleach all their strength to pull the thirteen-
foot gator aboard by its head, the size of an Atlanta Hawks backboard in the State Farm
Arena. Just above its closed eyes was a bleeding hole the size of a quarter making the
gator brain-dead, but its clawed feet continued to open and close and its spiny-plated
tail whipped back and forth as they rolled it onboard belly whopping in a scarlet pool
of its blood.

            “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Jed shouted as the brothers exchanged high
fives with a harmonious howl.
            “Are you done?” Sophie asked with her knees still raised to her chest and her eyes
closed.”
            “This big bull is, but we ain’t done till we fill the boat with a lot more,” Jed said
with a huff as he nudged her aside to start the engine.
            Uncovering her eyes and blinking, she saw Bleach covering the gator with a tarp.
From head to tail it stretched two thirds the length of the boat. She gagged at the sight
of the blood, and the taint of death made her vomit over the side. She took deep breaths
but, although the sudden breeze of the speeding airboat cooled her off, the motion made
her dizzy. She fought her nausea and sat up straight remembering she had a mission of
vengeance to fulfill, a promise to herself to get even with the woman who’d stolen her
man, “Cajun Cal La Salle,” for better or worse.
            Six miles and a dozen gators later, Jed cut the engine again. Sophie saw no
gator stake-out on shore marked with a bright pink ribbon like the other twelve gators
the brothers had shot, rolled onboard, and  tagged for the wholesale market.
            “Why are we stopping?” she asked as the engine sputtered to silence and the
water fowl screeched in cackling cacophony throughout the swamp.
            “We’re there, but we’re blocked from entering Mama’s lagoon by undergrowth,”
Jed explained. “We either gotta blow up the snag with some homemade explosives
I got onboard, or make a daring attempt to skim over it at fifty miles an hour with a
thousand foot start from back yonder.”
            Sophie’s big brown eyes glared back to where their boat had come from, then
she turned with a huff back towards the impasse. “You tryin’ to kill us?”
            “Naw. We done it before. I think we need to do a combination of both cause
that’s three months of undisturbed, summer undergrowth. Bleach, you get out along
the bank and set up the explosive up ahead where you think best. Give it a five-yard
fuse and don’t light it till I’ve got the boat turned round so you can run like hell and
jump in while we’re movin’ away. Once yer in the boat, I’ll gas it the hell out a here,
make a U-turn a thousand feet upstream and come back full throttle to jump over
what’s left of the blockage.”
            “Can I wait on the bank for you to do that?” Sophie asked, seeing the brothers’
Jack-o-lantern grins.
            “Sure, mam—if you want to get bit by a cotton mouth.”
            She paled. “Then what can I hold onto in the boat?”
            “I’ll be holding the accelerator, so hold onto me in back by my belt.”
            “What about Bleach?” she asked.
            “Hell, he’s fallen out of this boat a dozen times and the gators always spit
him back out. Gators must like darker meat like me . . . and you, mam.”
            Bleach grinned like a full moon then did as Jed had instructed with the
explosive canister attached to a five-yard fuse.
            Sophie could see the sparkling fuse ahead, then she watched Bleach ambling
through the swamp’s dense flora. The Spanish moss swayed from the low tree limbs
in the wake of Bleach’s path as he gained speed and waved one arm to signal Jed to
turn the boat around and come close enough to shore for him to leap aboard.
            Sophie already clung with both hands to Jed’s belt where his shirt slid up
exposing a devil tattoo above his butt cleavage. She heard Jed laughing as he teased
Bleach with the boat’s acceleration, slow then fast in a jerking motion to make it
hard for his younger brother to time his jump to safety into the boat. What seemed
like a life-or-death peril to Sophie was just child’s play to the sibling gator hunters.
The back spray of swamp water drenched Bleach as the airboat’s wake made the
shore slippery for Bleach underfoot. He fell twice before Jed finally conceded to
slow down enough for Bleach’s awkward dive, but short of the boat.
            Sophie shrieked, but Bleach emerged covered with leeches as he hung on
to the starboard side. Jed’s extended hand to tug Bleach aboard made Sophie slip
off the captain’s bench onto the deck. Jed yanked her to her feet and set her back
beside him as he revved the engine to head away from the explosives. He looked
over his shoulder as the canister blew tree limbs a hundred feet into the air and a
cloud of green smoke billowed above the murky bayou.
            “That did her,” Jed said, making a sharp U-turn and hitting the throttle full
force towards the gap they’d blown to enter the lagoon where, according to local
folklore lore, the ageless Swamp Sorceress had dwelled for over three centuries.
            “Yahoo!”  Jed hooted waving his crumpled cap.
            Bleach echoed Jed’s call, but Sophie just held onto Jed’s belt for dear life.
A few startling clunks from the bottom alarmed Sophie, but their leap of faith was
over so fast she just gasped with relief that none of them had been maimed and
the boat hadn’t flipped.
            “Look at that big bull, Jed!” Bleach cried out. “Must be fourteen feet, maybe
half a ton!”
            “Ya know we can’t touch that ’n, nor any other gator in this honey hole lagoon.
This is Mama’s private property. No one can hunt here. Not even her own kin.”
            “I know. I know. But just look at the size of ’m,” Bleach pointed towards the
shore.
            Sophie looked in that direction and felt a chill seeing the monster sunning
himself on the bank, so calm and peaceful as if there had been no thunderous
explosion only moments ago. The atmosphere was so different to her from the bayou
outside the hidden lagoon, as if she’d entered a sacred sanctuary protected from any
exposure to the outside world.
            The boat hummed as it approached the dock in front of a dilapidated shack
showing much damage from numerous high Cat hurricanes over the years. Half-
sunken boats of various types and sizes littered the lagoon like a timeless maritime
morgue. One vessel looked as if it might have been from an amusement park, but
with all the folklore about the Swamp Sorceress, Sophie wondered if it could actually
be a Spanish galleon or a Brigantine captained by the infamous pirate, Jean Lafitte.
 
            She wondered. How long had it been since anyone else, other than the Creole
crone and her twelve sons, had been here?

            The humungous bull gator onshore with a sudden yawn and snap of his jaws
seemed to tell her, not since he’d hatched. From his size, she figured he was at the top
of the food chain in this secluded lagoon, so maybe a hundred years old. She wondered,
if a biologist could get close enough, would there be rings to count, like on the stump of
downed tree, or the number of rattles on an eastern diamondback? Perhaps the creature
was as old as Death itself.
            The shack seemed uninhabited and the dock creaked when Bleach tied a line to
the bulkhead’s twisted piling. She hesitated to get out of the boat. Her pulse pounded in
her head with alarm.
            “S’ matter, mam? Don’t be scared. Mama knows yer comin’.”
            “How c-could she?” Sophie stammered.
            “She must’ve put the idea of ya comin’ here in yer head,” Jed said with a shrug.
            “Sure, mam,” Bleach agreed. “It’s what she does.”
 “But I—”
            “Best ya go to her. Ya don’t want her havin’ to come to you, mam. That never
works out well.” Jed nodded towards the shack’s front door, closed but hanging by one
hinge.
            Sophie thought she heard a muffled guffaw under Bleach’s breath, but Jed gave
him a warning glare. She didn’t want to get out of the boat, but the shack seemed the
only alternative to becoming a gator snack, so she took Bleach’s hand and stepped onto
the dock. Her legs were unsteady and she felt lightheaded as she approach the front door.
The splintered door was tilted at an angle, but seemed to tell her that it was plumb and
she, not it, was off kilter.
            The single room of the shack was dim as she entered still blinded by the bright
sunlight reflecting off the bayou. Even as her vision adjusted, the presence in the far
corner of the room could not be seen beyond the glow of a crystal ball on a round,
three-legged table, its top no bigger than an Atlanta manhole cover back home.
            “Come to me, Dearie,” a hoarse whisper beckoned from an unseen face concealed
beneath a hooded shawl. “No need to be frightened. You’ve wanted to come here for some
time . . . to make things right. I know tis so, as does thee.”
            “Y-yes. Then you will help me?” Sophie asked.
            “Your journey by rail was the worst of your travels, sweet one. You will soon be at
peace again. All will be right with your world.”
            “What must I do?” Sophie asked the old woman, just a voice with no discernable
form beneath the hooded cloak.
            “Pull up that stool and extend your hands to me.”
            Sophie pulled the stool over to the table and sat facing the shroud beyond the
crystal ball, but was hesitant to offer her hands.
            “Both hands—NOW!” the voice shrieked.
            Trembling, Sophie put out both hands, palms up.                                                           
            Two gnarled and weathered hands grabbed hers in a vice-like grip. Sophie wondered
how so much strength could come from these boney hands. Her spindle-shaped fingers and
swollen arthritic knuckles were stippled with liver spots. The heaving breath emitting from
the hooded cloak was worse than the miasmic stench of the stagnant bayou shallows or the
pile of dead gators in the airboat left festering beneath the tarp in the hot sun.
            “Look into the crystal ball and declare your wish that it may be granted—NOW!”
            Sophie stared into the crystal ball and found herself shouting in rhyme:
  “Curse the bitch who stole my Cal from me.
so I may have my doppelganger FO-GER-TY!
 A century of living hell for you
That I may be his only SUSIE Q!”
            The dark room began to spin, making Sophie feel as if she were falling down a
deep well . . . down . . . down . . . down to the pit of hell.
            The sudden impact at the bottom of the pit left her limp and broken, but she
realized, as she raised her head, that her hands were still clenching the old woman’s
hands. Sophie was shocked to see the face emerge with eyes sparkling from the shrouded
hood across the table. A beam from the sunset off the bayou, like a laser through the
crooked front door, reflected off the crystal ball to ignite new life in the old hag’s eyes.
            “Your turn, Dearie,” the youthful Swamp Sorceress proclaimed. “I’ve been stuck in
this stinking swamp for over a century. Don’t fret. I’ll be back in a century or two.”
            She released Sophie’s hands, now gnarled and liver-spotted, just like the Creole
crone’s who’d beckoned her to come to the secret bayou for her fateful  turnabout.
                        
            “What about the curse you promised to cast on the woman who stole my Cal.”
            “And so I have, Dearie. THIEF, know thyself! Cal La Salle was always mine. To thine
 own self be true.”
            Sophie slumped back into the dark corner of the shack and folded her wrinkled
hands in her lap. The last thing she saw through the open door was a likeness of herself
getting back into the airboat with Jed and Bleach. She heard the big bull gator’s bellow
from across the lagoon then resolved herself to destiny by pulling the hooded shroud
back over her head in wait . . . in wait . . . in wait . . . for her return.
                  
👹

A Day in the Life of ‘Rosie’
​

By Angela Camack



Brooklyn, 1944


Jenna picked up her purse, lunch, and keys. Kissing her fingertips, she pressed them to the poster of Rosie the Riveter that hung on her wall and left for work. She loved Rosie. Rosie, in her blue shirt and red-and-white bandanna, flexing her muscles, a level, steady gaze in her brown eyes. And what eyes, they were, determined and strong and highlighted with subtle makeup. Rosie was doing what was a man’s job, but she was still a woman.
Jenna walked quickly to the corner to wait for her ride to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where she had what was once only a man’s job. The blazing crucible of world war had ended the icy despair of the Depression. Everyone had jobs now, for the war effort and to replace men sent overseas. New or re-opened restaurants popped up and the movie houses were open around the clock. But what was the cost? And when would the war end?
So many men overseas. Industries like the Brooklyn Navy Yard called on women to fill the gaps left behind. For many women, the new jobs paid more than they had ever made before, even though they were paid less than men for the same work. So, like Rosie, women bound up their hair, put on pants and went to work.
Jenna attended Cooper Union, the free college for qualified art students. Jenna had no family, so college would have been almost impossible otherwise. But she still had expenses like clothes, art supplies and summer lodging. She had always worked every summer, stretching her earnings and working during school breaks. But her salary at the Navy Yard would pay for her room in Brooklyn this summer and cover her senior year expenses.
She shared a ride with some of the other women at the Yard, chipping in for gas. They had become her comrades, her companions, her support, these very different women. Brooklyn was a series of neighborhoods, often divided by ethnicity or religion. Everyone at the Yard worked with people they had scarcely seen before. They soon learned to put differences aside and work together.
Donna McGerrity pulled up. “Hop in, Professor.” Hellos were caroled back and forth. Donna was 45 and savvy. She was brash, funny and took nothing from anyone. Several of the men had taken to using obscene language around the women in an attempt to shock them. That stopped when Donna showed that she could curse with an almost Shakespearian complexity. She was miraculously able to talk around the lit cigarette always in her mouth. But the women knew that behind the brashness was a deep fear for her two sons, one in the Army and the other in the Navy.
“How was your day off, Jenna?” asked Rosa Giametti.
“Oh, wonderful! I had dinner with Lawrence Olivier at Sardi’s We saw Harvey, what a fabulous play. Then we went dancing at the Copacabana. Larry’s such a gentleman, so smart. And then I woke up.”
“No Clark Gable?” asked Willow Jenkins.
“No. I mean he’s so manly, but I like the intelligent ones.”
“You would, Professor,” teased Willow. Jenna was the only one of them not married and was a student, so Professor she became.
“Billy Eckstine for me.” said Mary Belkins. Mary was colored, and just getting used to them. She had twice the problems with the men at the Yard, with those who resented women working and with those who didn’t like that coloreds were getting better opportunities since the war started. Jenna remembered walking out with her after their shift one morning. A car full of jeering men drove close to them, the men throwing stones. “They got daaaaark meat now. Aren’t
the goddamn women enough?” Donna asked Mary to ride with them, and they made room in the car for her.
“How are things overseas?” asked Willow. There was a chorus of OK’s. “As far as we all know, right?” added Willow. “When I get to hear from Michael, he says he’s fine in Italy. He says that they love the Americans. I hope that means he’s safe.”
“Johnny’s ship is quiet right now, thank the Lord.” said Donna. But I don’t know where he is or where he is heading. It’s the not knowing and the waiting that drives me nuts. And Andy’s in the Philippines. I can’t imagine him there. Anything I know about the Philippines is from newsreels before the movies.”
“Peter’s still in Italy too. I keep hoping that working in a hospital will keep him safer.” A newly minted doctor, Rosa’s husband had just gotten his medical license when he was called up. Rosa’s plan to devote herself to making a home had been derailed when Peter was drafted, and since the Army did not pay what a doctor earned Rosa kept on working. “How’s your doctor, Jenna?”
Jenna’s fiancé was working in a hospital in Alsace, France. Like Donna’s son, William had gone to a place they had known mostly from movies and books, which were probably wildly inaccurate.
“He’s fine, as far as I can tell from letters with crossed out words. How about you, Mary?”
Mary’s husband was in the Navy. “Simon’s still a cook. No matter that he was a machinist before he was enlisted, they made him a cook. He never cooked before. The Army never thought of finding out what he was good at, just set him down where they wanted him. I wonder if they ever really saw him.”
Donna parked and the women walked to the entrance and punched in. They scattered to change into work clothes and to their workstations, but usually managed to take their meal break
together. All were welders on the third shift, 11 to 7. You started on the third shift. Evening and day shifts were privileges you earned. Jenna never got her sleep out. Her body clock never kept up with the time she was working or what she did on her days off. Noise from the family she rented her room from filtered in. At least blackout curtains kept the light out.
It helped that the men at the Yard were getting used to them. In the beginning everyone was uneasy, and a few of the men were mean. Women found dirt or worse in their lunch boxes. Before they learned that they needed to buy men’s work boots in the smallest size possible, men stepped on their toes in steel-capped boots. Men “accidentally” brushed against them in places that are hard to find” accidentally.” They moved women’s tools behind their backs and misled them when they asked questions. But things were settling down. Most men were respectful and helpful. They realized that they were all part of the cause. They were all one weapon, one more way to bring sons and brothers home.
Welding was not easy work. You were on your feet throughout your 10-hour shift. The protective gear you wore, helmet with face shield, apron, gloves and those steel-capped shoes, was heavy. Sometimes sparks got through anyhow, and you found small burn holes in your clothing at the end of the shift. Women traded skirts for pants, which drew odd looks if they wore them on the streets. The protective gear was suffocating in the summer.
But you took your salt tablets in the heat and carried on. You kept your head to your work. No matter how tired you were or how routine the work got, or what was on your mind, you kept to your work. Workers couldn’t allow themselves distractions. They had already seen that accidents on the line could be catastrophic.
At last, the lunch break. Time to sit down and grab something to drink. You were usually starving by this point. But for the women, lunch meant more than rest and food. Among
themselves, they could share their worries and be completely sure there were no remarks, no “accidental” touching or sly looks.
“Oof, my feet feel like I’ve been on them for 60 hours instead of 6,” said Donna as she sank into her chair. “At least wearing that gear all day is taking the weight off me.”
“I know what you mean. That helmet was made to give us all headaches. I know it,” Mary sighed as she rubbed her temples.
“Well, you don’t need to be losing weight, you little pixie. If you did there wouldn’t be anything left but your hair and your smile.” Donna shook her head, then tucked into her sandwich.
“Peanut butter and jelly again,” sighed Willow. “Anybody remember meat?”
“Vaguely,” said Rosa. “Meatballs at our house are now meat, breadcrumbs and wishes.”
“How about you, Professor?” asked Donna.
“Don’t ask me,” laughed Jenna. “I’ve been on cafeteria food for three years. I’m never sure what they put in the food.”
“Well, you’ll be an artist by this time next year.”
“I hope. I wonder if my painting is going to be done on my days off, like now. But with all the education credits I have, I know I can teach.” Finished with her sandwich, Jenna turned to the paper and pastels or charcoal she always carried with her. Jenna took every minute she had to sketch. She’d made pastels of all the women, and her caricatures of people in the Yard were lethally funny. More than once the women had to hide a wicked caricature they had been laughing over when the subject of the picture came into the break room.
Bathroom break before going back to work. Even going to the bathroom wasn’t easy at first. Bathrooms had to be set aside for the women, The urinals were still there, however.
Even though the shift was ¾ over, the last hours were the hardest. Even though you’d gotten used to the heavy protective gear, the noise and the long hours of standing and welding,
your muscles cramped, and fatigue made you light-headed. You started thinking about having a cool drink and lying down in a dark room. You forced your attention back to your job.
Finally, the shift ended. Dawn was breaking as the women filed back to Donna’s car, the sky streaking blue and pink with wispy clouds. There was less conversation as the tired women rode home.
And so, the days passed, every one much the same. Another day off came. Jenna stole a few hours from chores to paint. What should she do? What was speaking to her? She chose oil paints, even though paint and canvases were expensive. What she had in mind needed something stronger than pastels or charcoals. She sketched in the faces of the Rosies, preparing to paint them. Would she see them after this summer? Fate had put very different women together in the Yard, but would they drift apart as they returned to their different lives? She had a way to remember them. Now they started to emerge on the canvas, Donna, Mary, Willow, Rosa, and Jenna, in denim and bandannas, level, steady gazes in their pretty eyes.


Note: I used information from interviews with women who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard during the war to describe the experience of working there.
Corbett Cavouras, Krissa and Jennifer Egan, et. al. (2021, October 6). Borrowed. Season 4, episode 2 “Building Brooklyn: Women on the Waterfront.” [Text of podcast]. Brooklyn Public Library. https: www.bklynlibrary.org/podcasts/building-brooklyn-women.

---

Vaterland Rückreise

a satirical alternate conspiracy theory

by Gerald Arthur Winter


She was rotogravure, front cover quality, a feminine specimen that would make him
a proud papa. Disappointed that their first child was a girl, he was later joyous over the birth
of their son and proudly called him Junior. But when they returned to his wife Mary’s native
homeland for the first time at the close of World War Two, they made some new friends who’d
escaped from Germany during the collapse of the Third Reich.
Mary had grown up in the village called Tong on Lewis Island of the Scottish Hebrides.
She’d spoken fluent Gaelic all of her life. Her American husband, Fred, spoke some German,
but mostly the Queen’s English, i.e. Queens, NYC. There he and his mother were business
partners in cheap housing—a euphemism for slum lords. Using the age old business principal
of tearing a piece of cloth apart and using one half to sell for profit and the other half to buy
a larger, cheaper piece of cloth, they did the same with apartments in Queens and began to
make a fortune.
Fred told his mother, “I’ll buy ‘em, build ‘em, and forget ‘em as our income keeps
rolling in. If not, they’re out on the street! Eviction, Incorporated. I love it.”
Wealth was enough to suit Mary, but Fred disapproved of lowly elements trying to
rent his properties. Too much risk of income loss from evictions. He’d been arrested in NYC
ten years earlier after marching with the Klu Klux Klan in protest against Irish Catholic cops
having the right to tell any New York City WASP what to do. Fred believed anyone who
came to America after his own family was second rate, some less than human.
In his conversations with the German ex-patriots from the Fatherland they all agreed the world would be better off had Germany won . . . and the Führer was right
about the Jews. The Negroes? Fugetabowtem!
“I’ve got to deal with so many Jews in New York, and I keep the Sambos out of my
apartments. I’d rather have rat infestation than have those animals lowering the value of
my real estate. I’ve paid for cheap muscle to run them off. If they come back, they disappear.”
After several nights of late night conversation, mostly in German since Fred had
quickly picked it up again years after his parents’ daily conversations in German when he
was a boy, the three German men and one woman agreed to trust Fred with their secret.
Behind Mary’s back, Fred told the Germans that though he had a son at home in
America, he sensed a flaw in him, a weakness that would make him a poor businessman
and might ruin all he’d established in New York. He wished there were a way to assure
himself that he could have a son who’d be all he wanted him to be with the same political
ilk of being proud of his German bloodline.
“My next son will learn that he is surely superior to all others.”
The Germans went dead silent then suddenly burst into laughter. Then they told
Fred about their secret mission.
“We are scientists,” the man called Otto said.
“Chemical engineers and biologists,” Rudy clarified.
“But I am an M.D. and a surgeon,” Anna said proudly fluffing her blond shoulder-
length coif.
“What about you?” Fred asked the no-neck Karl built like a pot-bellied stove.
“I remove any obstacles to our plan,” he said with a threatening tone.
“Are you going to rob a bank?” Fred jested, but the others just stared at him in
silence, then suddenly broke out in raucous laughter.
“Nein. Not a bank, Fritz,” they tagged him casually.
Anna smirked playfully with Fred then whispered with pursed lips, “Vee vill
steal an entire country—our enemy the United States of mongrels.”
“How much would you charge me per acre, better yet, city block?” Fred asked.
“No joke,” Otto assured him. “If you join us, you vill start on the ground floor
but in forty years you could own it all.”
“How?”
Anna stood to make her proposal. “Let me impregnate your vife vit da new
method I’ve created to assure the perfection of your boy at birth. I have no name
for it yet, but it vorks on sheep, pigs, and cattle. It vill be our secret, and when your
son comes of age, vee vill see to it that he is nourished to becomes his best self as
the American president. Da vorld will be at his beck and call and he vill be loyal to
the certainty that only Arians can rule the vorld with perfection.”
“How is this possible?” Fred stammered, though his interest was piqued more
than any successful land grab that had made him rich. “Da Führer’s semen has been preserved and given to us in trust to complete
our mission to build a family bloodline vorthy of vorld domination,” Otto said.
“Preserved? How?”
“Now it remains in a vacuum contained in a gold capsule incased by dry ice,”
Rudy explained.
“What do you propose?”
Anna spoke up, “By a rare science, fifty years before its time, which vee call in vitro fertilization I will impregnate your vife with da Führer’s sperm vile she is here. Can you
convince her to agree?”
“There’s no convincing in my family,” Fred huffed. “What I say goes.”
“As it should be,” Anna agreed. “I must travel back to America with you as her nurse
and be the boy’s nanny until he is thirteen. Otto vill be your bodyguard, and later—the boy’s.”
“Good,” Fred said with a nod.
Otto said, “Then he vill attend a high ranking military school for discipline, and later
become a great businessman like you. Your vealth vill give him much power in the business
vorld.”
“But leave it to us to see that his power comes to fruition,” Rudy said.
“Who is us?” Fred asked.
“Vee are nameless . . . but everywhere,” Otto said.
“Vee vill protect your son,” Rudy promised.
“I vill be at your side through every step,” Anna said with an affectionate touch to
Fred’s shoulder.
“What if this in vitro science doesn’t work, or I’m not up to this?” Fred asked.
“You are,” Karl said gruffly. “Vee must not fail.”
* * *
Fred had to explain the plan to Mary in English later that night.
“They will set up their laboratory in your father’s barn,” Fred told her.
“I’m scared,” she admitted with a tremble.
“This is no time for doubts,” Fred said harshly. “The business world will be at our feet
in a purified America. Our children and grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren will have
all they ever want. Out life in New York will be perfect. Our son will be our legacy for America’s
future.”
* * *
Though Mary agreed after initial reluctance, she had to explain to her father why
Fred’s German friends were working in his barn.
Fred came back from the barn after the German’s had set up their laboratory there
to begin with Mary’s procedure in the morning. The Germans had gone back to the boarding
house where they’d stayed for months since their escape from Germany. Fred found Mary
with her parents at the dinner table. Her father, Malcolm, was in a bad mood, and Mary
seemed nervous. She and her father were speaking in Gaelic, which annoyed Fred.
“I’ve made a rich woman of your barefoot daughter. I have important business to
do in your barn tomorrow morning. Mary’s part of it, the most important part. So butt
out, old man! Here’s a token of my business associates’ appreciation. Five thousand
American dollars. Take it and keep your mouth shut. If you don’t, Mary will come back
to America with me on the weekend and you’ll never see her again. You play ball with
me, in a year from now I’ll build you a new house, one with more than goddamn dirt
floors!”
Mary’s father scowled at Fred, but a gentle nod from Mary’s mother regarding
a new house made the Scotsman take out a bottle of scotch and take two shots. Fred
was a teetotaler and simply shook his father-in-law’s hand with a forced smile.
* * *
Anna gave Mary a local anesthetic so she was conscious during the procedure.
Fred held her hand as he squinted a smile at her from behind his face mask. Watching
Otto and Rudy bring Anna the gold capsule from the box emitting vapor from the dry
ice, and the bubbling tubes all around the operating table, gave the scene the feeling
of a Frankenstein movie.
Sensing Anna’s tension and stress in that setting, he appealed to Anna’s religious
side with, “Wasn’t Jesus born in a barn, too?”
“Born—not conceived,” Mary said.
“Close enough. We’ll create a myth.”
She cracked a smile then closed her eyes prepared to accept whatever Fred
held dear. Today it was an heir to run the empire he envisioned. Their older daughter
was sharp, but who’d ever be fool enough to let a woman run a company? Junior was
too high strung, too prone to drinking alcohol. No way to run a business. But now his
golden boy would grow up to run the show—not just the family business—but the world’s
business as an American president. Fred hoped to live to see it. So did Otto, Rudy, and Anna
with Karl to stop anyone who tried to thwart their plan.
* * *
On June 14, 1946 their son was born in Jamaica Hospital in Queens. He was
a terrible two and by five unmanageable for his German nanny, Anna.
“Vee have failed,” Anna told Fred with Otto and Rudy at her side. Perhaps your
vife’s blood was not as pure as you thought,” Anna said with malice towards Mary.
“I’m no quitter,” Fred said. “His mother will take over for now, and when he
reaches thirteen, I’ll find a military school for his high school education. I know some
important people at the New York Military Academy. They owe me. That strict
regimentation will straighten him out. Today he’s just an obnoxious little prick, but
in years to come he’ll be a real estate magnate like me.”
* * *
By 1960 Fred‘s son was a terror, and he entered NYMA with much complaint,
but his alpha personality suited him for that competitive challenge. Though he often got
into fights with other boys, as he progressed, those students seemed to vanish from
the scene, which made the more timid boys surrender to his threats. The few who
wouldn’t coddle to young Donnie would face a confrontation with Karl, still the fixer
as he’d promised Fred years ago in Scotland. If the teenagers didn’t yield to his ward,
their parents would pay one way or another. If they didn’t take the bribe financed by
Fred for his golden boy, Karl would make bad things happen without exception.
Fred asked Karl to be subtle so as not to soil the family name before his son
came to power.
Karl laughed. “For us, gunfire is verboten, but faulty brakes or poison can be
subtle. I specialize in the overdose—of kindness—like an act of God.”
Fred was leery of Karl, but his henchman shrugged casually and said, “Not to
vorry Fritz, everyone has a price, bullion works better than blood.
* * *
Fred’s son went out for the baseball team and all he had to do was nod towards the
backstop during batting practice. The other boys saw Karl glaring at them until the pitcher
starter lobbing in 70 mph pitches to let Donnie hit the ball over the leftfield fence because
Fred pulled strings with the Yankees to get a scout to see Donnie hit.
“What pitch was that?” the coach called to the mound.
The pitcher hesitated, looked towards Karl then shouted, “My best curve!”
He had his teammates trained to do his bidding and grinned at the BP pitcher knowing
he had the votes from enough teammates to be chosen captain. All dissenters were benched
after Karl had a talk with the coach whose week in Key West every February kept him in line.
* * *
By his senior year, the eighteen-year-old swaggered his way around the diamond
like he owned it. Fred had Karl contact the small local paper The Evening News of Newburgh,
New York in Hudson Valley. When the sports editor wouldn’t bend to beef up the sports
stories making Donnie the hero of a win, Karl paid some locals to sabotage circulation. He
starting rumors about Communist editorials and made delivery trucks skid off the road.
Though coercing the media didn’t work, NYMA’s baseball coach got many perks from
Fred to keep his son in the starting lineup at first base. Despite his size and a strong throw,
Donnie was a mediocre player, a little better than par at fielding at first base, but he had
no better than a .100 batting average on varsity. He reached base mostly on errors by the
other teams and Karl took the umpire and score keeper aside with bribes to make the calls
hits rather than errors by the opposition.
Fred’s ten-thousand-dollar donation to the NYMA’s sports program in Donnie’s
senior year got him a Coach’s Award and Captain’s Award on plaques in the gymnasium’s
showcase. The two baseball coaches during those four years had objected, but the $10K
donation got them to shrug it off and look the other way when both got a week in Hawaii
from Fred.
* * *
When Donnie got his draft notice at nineteen, Fred pulled strings to get his favorite
son into Wharton and put an orthopedic surgeon on his off-the-books list for paid Caribbean
vacations just to keep a medical record of Donnie’s bone spurs in his heel from playing first
base at NYMA. A fake X-ray of that condition from a long diseased patient went into Donnie’s
file. Though his son was streetwise and had the shark-like alpha personality to succeed in the
real estate business, Donnie had poor reading comprehension, mostly because he never read
anything but gossip columns in the tabloids where he hoped to see his name.
“It doesn’t matter what they say about ya, Dad, as long as they’re talking about ya.
Free publicity. By the time I close a big real estate deal, everyone will already know my name.
I think they call it ‘branding’ and I’m creating my own brand because I need to be known for
more than just being your son. You’ll only be known for being my dad.”
Donnie’s self-assuredness made Fred wary. He’d always kept a low profile. He
wanted everyone to know he was rich enough to keep the rabble at a distance, but how
rich kept just between him and his CFO, a trusted friend he’d known since his first apartment
purchase. He was the only one, other than himself and God, who knew just how much he
was really worth.
* * *
Though it took many payoffs to get Donnie his degree in Business, including a
ringer taking his SATs for him, and bribes to some professors with untraceable assets,
Fred was concerned about the draft board and alerted his orthopedic bag man he’d need
those X-rays and his letter of diagnosis to keep his golden boy from hitting the swamps
of Vietnam with the niggers, spics, and other losers who’d become LBJ’s grist for the
mill.
Donnie’s 1-Y classification with the draft would keep him out of the military unless
the North Vietnamese attacked mainland U.S.A. Fred drew a breath of relief, but Donnie
more so. Free-white and 21, he was ready for the NYC highlife of beautiful women. Fred
tried to counter Donnie’s sexual urges by keeping his son busy in the family business all
day.
Donnie was taken under his father’s wing in his New York real estate empire, but
his son fancied himself a Don Juan and used his wealth to lure young women charmed
by his life of luxury. He had no close friends his own age, so his father encouraged him to
seek mentoring by men well-established in their fields from attorneys and politicians
to mobsters with syndicated police protection.
“You never know when you can do someone a financial favor,” Fred told him.
“What goes round, comes round.” But he warned him, “Stay away from booze, drugs,
and gold diggers. Never use your wealth when someone else will be glad to give you
theirs just for a small piece of what you have. But remember—keep away from Jews,
niggers, and spics or they’ll ruin your shiny shoes like dog shit. Better to avoid turds
than to have to scrape them off your heel.”
* * *
Following his father’s code, Donnie took Fred’s seven-figure gift on his twenty-
first birthday and began to establish his own prowess as a fledgling real estate mogul,
but rather than a sparrow, he was a hawk.
Befriending shyster lawyers and connecting with mob controlled unions helped
step up Donnie’s way to the top and get his foot in the door of prime Manhattan pro-
perties that were undervalued or, better yet, facing foreclosure. Even with his millions
from his father, he never used it to buy real estate, only to buy off people who got in
his way. When it came to the property purchases, he leveraged his risks by using
other people’s money, banks at first, then private lenders, mostly anonymous, with
the lenders keeping the books so there would be no paper trail to lead back to him
in case of a problem.
“Me? Problems?” Donnie responded to a reporter when he bought the skeletal
remains of a deserted skyscraper that was left incomplete due to a union strike that
stopped production three years earlier. “This will be prime real estate fully occupied
within two years. You can count on that. We’ve already got leases for sixty percent
of the suites. I don’t call that a problem. Do you?”
Though a complete lie without a single committed occupant’s signature on a
lease, he told his father, Fred, “One man’s lie can become a public truth if you keep
saying it again and again. The accepted belief makes it the truth, and soon it will be.
Just watch and see, Dad. I’ll make you proud. When the time comes, you’ll have to
stand aside and make me boss.”
And so he did, and the building was completed and fully occupied as promised,
but it took his private dealings with attorneys and union bosses with mob connections
to put some contractors into bankruptcy due to non-payment for their completed work.
Donnie’s counter lawsuits forced his adversaries to crumble then he shared his profits
by paying off his business debts early and borrowing even more for another undervalued
property with prime potential.
Fred slept well at night imagining the sound of Donnie tearing a piece of fine
clothe in half to buy four more pieces of clothe as he began to fill his wardrobe with
fine garments that made headlines and brought media attention worldwide to his
towering structures of elegance that etched the Manhattan skyline.
It seemed as if the plan devised so many years ago at the close of World War II
was coming towards fruition, but what his son’s conception had promised became
uncertain despite Donnie’s vow to his father never to partake of alcohol, drugs, or
tobacco. Though Donnie had the necessary drive of greed and a lust for power, his
lust for women hadn’t been considered by his father. Donnie’s abstinence from the
other vices seemed to charge his need for beautiful young women to confirm his
power and control.
“Don’t ruin this great plan I have for you by giving 
in to your animal urges,”


“I admire men of power and character like Ronald Reagan, Dad,” but I admire
Hugh Hefner even more. Reagan was a square. I want to be cool like Hefner.”
“You should get married and settle down with a family,” Fred urged.
“That can wait, Dad. I read on Page Six that I’m the most eligible bachelor in New
York City. I want to mix it up with young debutantes and starlets to brand my name.
Women like to kiss and tell, so I’ll feed them information I want them to spread about
me—all good. I’ll use my influence to create media stories that will give me power.”
There’s the son I planned to have, Fred thought. Those Germanic genes that
conceived him long ago, at last, are coming to the fore.
* * *
“A coon in the White House,” he said to his attorney mentor of notoriety. “He’s
probably saying to Putin—‘Ain’t nobody in here, but us chickens.’”
It was 2009 and Barack Obama was inaugurated President. Donnie’s father
had died ten years earlier after several years of diminished mental capacity from
Alzheimer’s, or so it was told by the family for anyone outside the family who heard
the old man in his 90s saying he’d known the most powerful men of his lifetime--
Il Duce, Adolf, Josef. “Hitler was my favorite, but Stalin was no textbook Commie,
Just a dictator who turned all of Hitler’s conquered territories into his own. Got to
admire that kind of reversal of power. Nostrovia!”
Without Fred to tighten his leash, Donnie spent those next ten years solidifying
his brand with product licensing, sports ownership, a book deal, and a highly successful
TV show, but politically, he hovered on the periphery of the Democratic Party when it
suited him best for financial advantage and influence. But his genetic ilk soon rose to
the surface as he made a secret pact with a group of GOP Senators and Representatives
of Congress.
“A goddamn nigger in the White House! Leave it to me and my people to stir the
pot of protest. None of you need be directly involved. Let it all fall on me when I accuse
him of being a Muslim and not an American citizen. My man Stone knows how to get it
done and I’ll be the voice. But in return I want the nomination of the Republican Party
for 2016. No more weathered old military losers and Mr. Clean Mormons. I’ll be nasty
and successful—I’m a winner who’ll get the White House back where it belongs, in
the grip of White Power. We’ll make America great again. Only I can do that.”
* * *
He bullied his way through the primaries and won the GOP candidacy. He used
his influence emboldened by a private meeting he’d had three years earlier with Vladimir
Putin at the 2013 Miss Universe Contest in Moscow.
With Putin’s interpreter they conversed:
“If you run in the next election, I can guarantee your win,” Putin said.
“I can guarantee my win without your help. I’ve got this in the palm of my hand.
They love me. They wanna be me. I let them think they can. You probably have a similar
Russian expression, but my election will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Smirking, Putin said, “If you don’t do this my way, it will be your turn in the barrel.
But for your enjoyment here in Moscow, I have a barrel full of beautiful Russian women
to do for you whatever you wish.”
Putin’s sources had briefed him on Donnie’s weaknesses.
Putin’s mole in America’s State Department told him, “Our Code Name Orange never
met a pussimskov he wouldn’t Tchaikovsky. Man’s a pig. The model we set him up with to
continue his bloodline is playing her role well.”
“Yes. The first wife we assigned to him was ideal with her fluent German, French,
Czech, Russian and English. She would have served well as his First Lady but his wandering
eye and lust provoked her to divorce him at high cost. He should have kept that fucking
hotel.”
“The first one was paid well enough to let him go, but then the bimbo took a while
to shake off and left us with another mouth to feed. A daughter yet.”
“Still, our time is ripe and her replacement is working out well. I knew her father
when he was a loyal member of The League of Communists of Slovenia. Her parents are
here now, so we have her where we need her as the next First Lady. Their son will carry the DNA of the Führer. Our moles in Congress will rise up to create the anarchy in the
Capitol that we need to make this work. As we well know, the only way to counter anarchy
is through the power of a dictator. I love the smell of autocracy in the morning.”
* * *
The cyberattack on the election outcome was successful in 2016 and Code Name
Orange was in the position required as America’s Head of State to fulfill Putin’s plan. In
order to become the autocrat needed to take over America, minions were required.
The chess game on the North American continent required pawns to block, support,
and sacrifice themselves for the greater cause of America’s Caucasian dominance.
Donnie shunned the term “White Supremacy.” Not that he didn’t support that
platform, but rather because he believed being white and Teutonic were synonymous
with supremacy—the top of Nature’s food chain.
What he and Putin hadn’t counted on was strong populace opposition to
his seedling autocracy. In a private meeting with Putin in Helsinki, they discussed
their options beginning with Putin advocating random poisonings, fake suicides,
and accidents to remove the possibility of a Blue wave against him in the mid-terms.
“I don’t like that public exposure by hitting prominent opposing politicians.
Let’s use our pawns, the police, the NRA, motorcycle gangs. Any excuse for a cop to
pull over anyone who’s against us, beginning of course with niggers and spics. We’ll
get the Asians last, payback for Vietnam. We can rid America of the Jews and Guineas
when we control everything from the Supreme Court to Congress with me at the helm.”
“My Russian underground in America will help with all that by terrorizing any
politician with threats that their families will disappear. We’ll make a few happen
with media coverage on Fox News so the others will know we’re serious.”
Donnie laughed, then said aside to Putin, “You know I had the most successful
TV show in America, but I should’ve gotten royalties for the popular show that was
actually about me—Game of Thrones. I thought of suing them for using a quote
from me.”
“What was that?”
“When I first stepped into the Oval Office as President, my beautiful daughter
asked me, ‘Who are our enemies, Daddy?’ I told her, anyone who’s not us.”
“My range is less inclusive,” Putin admitted with a handshake. “My enemy is
anyone who’s not me.”
They held their grips on each other’s hands too long to be friendly, but a pact had
been made for what both believed was the greater good.
Donnie leaned in closer to Putin and whispered, “Please kill Hillary. She’s on to us.”
“She’s only a woman. What could she ever do to us?”
“I want to know I can count on you for that option if needed.”
“Of course-s-s-s,” Putin hissed coming closer yet and glaring at him with serpent’s
eyes as his purple tongue fluttered with the taint of borsht.
* * *
Their plan worked for three and a half years with Donnie as President, but
then the same Law of Nature that Donnie had relied on to declare his racial and ethnic
supremacy went haywire in 2020 with a pandemic that would kill millions and shake
the financial stability of America. He and Putin conversed through back channels and
concluded there was only one to be blamed logically for this disaster—China.
“I put you in office, so you must win the election this year for another four years,”
Putin told him. “By then your power will have destroyed their institutions of democracy
and you can declared yourself President just as I have in Russia, for life.”
“I’ll do you one better, Vlad. I’ll make my daughter my vice president and declare
her as my lifetime successor to the presidency upon my passing. She’ll rule like a queen.
History will talk of her beauty and rule of America for millenniums like a modern day
Cleopatra.”
“Like Catherine the Great,” Putin said with a nod, but Donnie thought: She’s was a
skank compared to by darling daughter.
“They’ll never get me, but even if they do, ‘Ivanka the Great’ will rule the world
as my legacy to our Germanic/Slavic greatness.”
“Agh! A women can’t rule! They’re on earth for only one reason, to comfort men
between battles.”
“If my youngest son shows promise, his aunt will agree to give him the throne.
If not, she’ll be penniless because her offspring are unfit—only half Jews, but Jews all the
same.”
* * *
Similar to the chemical experiments as shown in 19th Century literature by H.G.
Wells and Robert Louis Stevenson whereby The Invisible Man and Dr. Jekyll both went
mad from drinking their potions, perhaps a genetic mutation from the primitive in vitro insemination of the Führer’s sploogunshuntz turned Donnie into a monster, but worse
than his real father’s sociopathic behavior, he used the stars and stripes like a swastika
and turned America’s great experiment of democracy into a lawless autocracy that
demanded loyalty at any cost.
Predicting fraudulent voting against him in 2020 prior to Election Day, when he
lost by eight million popular votes, he secretly contacted Putin.
“You guaranteed my victory!” Donnie shouted into his disposable burner phone.
“I did the same thing I did in 2016, but your FBI was on to me, and took precautions
against my fraudulent ballots. Even if I provided a few million more votes for you in key
states, eight million was too much to overcome. Biden would still have won by more than
ten million if I had done nothing. You’ve lost, but now I can help you stay in power as I have
for myself in Russia. We’ll find out who voted against you and terrorize them. I have a plan
which I’ve been discussing with my moles in the White House. If you assert yourself, the
Liberal weaklings will back down and you’ll hold power. You have the Supreme Court in
your favor now, though Roberts may have to go—too impartial. No room for that if you
pull off our coup d'état. No backing down now. Our people are in place—there will be
blood.”
“Blood? I love it. We’ll put all the democrats in cages at the border before we
hang them. Rhinos, too. No room for descent. We’ll make it happen on January sixth
when they try to certify the election for Biden. Guns, knives, bombs, whatever it takes
to keep me in office. They’ll all see what a great leader I am by my power over them.
I think there’s something in the Bible about a ruler for a thousand years. That’s me,
Vlad. The second coming.”
The mid-terms were a shock to both parties in 2022. Donnie’s demise in court
over his fraudulent accounting practices in business found him guilty. His conviction
under the RICO Act made the paper trail found by the FBI a solid verdict. Appealed all
the way to the Supreme Court where a 5-4 verdict found him guilty, it was ruled that
a former American President imprisoned was not a good image for the United States i
n history.
With none of the family’s assets spared, Donnie was sentenced to 15 years
under house arrest with an ankle bracelet monitored by the Secret Service. The
“house” referred to in the Superior Court’s judgment was Mar-a-Lago, held under
Trusteeship by the IRS until his passing.
These events led to an upheaval in 2024 that turned into civil war, but unlike
The War Between the States 1860-1865, it became The War Amongst the States with
no Mason-Dixon Line for clear delineation. America became a battlefield of terror
worse than anything described in Revelations or The Trilogy of the Ring, and to the
victors would belong the truth . . . or a reasonable alternate facsimile thereof.

THE BLACK CAT

By Edgar Allan Poe


For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not --and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified --have tortured --have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror --to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place --some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiar of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point --and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

Pluto --this was the cat's name --was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character --through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance --had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me --for what disease is like Alcohol! --and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish --even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.


When reason returned with the morning --when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch --I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart --one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself --to offer violence to its own nature --to do wrong for the wrong's sake only --that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; --hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; --hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; --hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin --a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it --if such a thing were possible --even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts --and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fAllan in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire --a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with every minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.

When I first beheld this apparition --for I could scarcely regard it as less --my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd --by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, had then with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact 'just detailed, it did not the less fall to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.

One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat --a very large one --fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.

Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it --knew nothing of it --had never seen it before.

I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but I know not how or why it was --its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually --very gradually --I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly it at by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly --let me confess it at once --by absolute dread of the beast.

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil-and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own --yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own --that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had y si destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees --degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful --it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name --and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared --it was now, I say, the image of a hideous --of a ghastly thing --of the GALLOWS! --oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime --of Agony and of Death!

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast --whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed --a brute beast to work out for me --for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God --so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight --an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off --incumbent eternally upon my heart!

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates --the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard --about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar --as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect anything suspicious.

And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster could not every poss be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself --"Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night --and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a free-man. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted --but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.

"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this --this is a very well constructed house." (In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) --"I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls --are you going, gentlemen? --these walls are solidly put together"; and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! --by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman --a howl --a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were tolling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!

Deep Freeze

By Gerald Arthur Winter


It seemed to have taken forever to finish wrapping the gifts. I’d circled December 25th
in red on the calendar last week, but my favorite day of any year has come and gone again.
Somehow a week has slipped by, yet it seems more like a lifetime. There are only two packages
under the tree, yet I’ve already forgotten whom they’re for, which doesn’t really matter since I
can’t recall what’s in them either. Didn’t I just wrap them a short while ago? Why am I so


forgetful now, yet I remember every detail of my life from so long ago as if it were yesterday . . .


Miss Brinker was my kindergarten teacher and her lavender scent made my nostrils
flare whenever she came close to gently pat me on the head and say, ”You must refrain from
guffawing in the classroom, dear. More self-control, please. You’re a good boy, and smart, so
I’m sure you’ll do well in school, but you must learn to pay attention.
“Don’t let that Mary Dendy from across the tracks distract you. She comes from a bad
seed, a rough lot with boys who drink, smoke, and carouse. My goodness, those Dendy girls.
The two older sisters, dear God, both in the family way by fifteen. I emphasize family. Celibacy
is a foreign word in that clan. From my observations, incest runs rampant in that scurrilous
abode. The Dendy’s are surely damned. Don’t mingle with those little tramps or they’ll drag
you down into their prurient pit of—dare I say it—hell . . .”


At age five my mind was a sponge for knowledge. Miss Brinker saturated my
head with such hatefulness. She tried to force her ideology on me—a defenseless child.
At least she was right about my doing well in school. I must’ve purged those negative
thoughts from my mind and moved on. Christmas is no time for bad memories and
regrets. It’s a special time for loving and giving without selfishness. Live and let live.
Fa-la-la-la-la-a-h! La-la-la-la-ah!
I see the door knob jiggling. Who could it be? I’ll unlock the door and see.
“Just a moment!” I call out in sing-song fashion.
Hmm. I’m sure I’ve been in a musical—at least once. Was it high school or college?
Maybe both. Good pipes, I was told. Something about shuffling off to Buffalo or was it—?
Hey, Officer Krupke, Krup you!
My heart flutters as I open the door and see her just as I’ve always remembered
her—my Darling Bonnie—not a day older than Prom Night. Her kisses still taste like


Dentyne gum as we embrace with lips pressed together. Then breaking our ardent clinch,
she glances at the Christmas tree where the two gift-wrapped packages reflect the
flames from the hearth with a kaleidoscope effect on the ceiling.
“Pour moi?” she asks excitedly rushing to the tree. She took French in high school
just to go on the senior Paris trip over Winter Break. She sent me postcards and cushy
love letters, but rumors were she’d done some frog and wore his purple beret the rest
of the supposedly chaperoned class trip.
“One of them is pour vous,” I tell her watching her eyes light up.
“Which one?”
“Your choice, Bonnie.”
“I want the lavender one,” she says excitedly, grabbing the package, tearing at the
wrapping paper, and ripping off the pink bow.
She holds its contents between her thumb and index finger and brings it close to
one squinting eye. “What the hell is this?”
“A key.”
“An effing key?”
“A special key as I recall.”
She bites the key like a dog with a bone. “It’s not even made of gold and has no
diamonds. Does it open something that has gold and diamonds?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then what good is it?”
Before I can answer, the door swings open. I’m sure I’d locked it behind Bonnie
after she came in. I’m not sure who it is.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bonnie asks the woman standing in the
doorway and looking only at me, as if the crackling hearth, the Christmas tree, and the
one gift still wrapped beneath the tree aren’t there. She seems oblivious to Bonnie as if


I’m all she wants or cares to see.”
“Oh, my God! It’s really you,” the woman at the door says to me as she comes
closer and opens both her hands to cradle mine in hers.
Her hands feel smooth and soft, like a tender child’s. Yet her face has the radiance
of wisdom learned through many years of living. Ups and downs, problems solved, and
lessons learned.
A halo encircles her raven hair with ringlets draped over her bare shoulders. Not
practical in late December with a foot of fresh snow visible through the bay window.
I hear carolers in the distance singing “Joy to the World.” She must hear them,
too, as she turns towards the bay window as if Bonnie isn’t even here.
Bonnie frowns at her, then at me. She mimics gagging herself with a finger making
a fake puking wretch. She always was a cut-up.
Without acknowledgement of Bonnie’s antics, the brunette says, “I’ve come for--
that is—I was told there might be a key.”
Bonnie stomps her feet then goes nose to nose with her, but the woman brushes
Bonnie aside as if she were merely a cobweb in a dilapidated dwelling, just a momentary
nuisance that’s beginning to fade before my eyes.
“The key is mine!” Bonnie shrieks. “He gave it to me before you burst in here uninvited.”
“Thanks for the invitation,” the woman says to me, pulling out a scarlet envelope
containing an invitation adorned with white roses and pink hearts. Could I have sent it?
“Hey! Where’s my invitation?” Bonnie squawks.
“You didn’t need one,” I say with a huff. “You’ve always invited yourself into every
aspect of my life. That’s why I told you to choose the Christmas gift you want. You’ve made
your choice, Bonnie.”
“I want to be with you forever,” Bonnie proclaims.
“And so you will, but so will she.”


“I’m barely eighteen,” Bonnie says with confidence. “She must be forty, maybe more.”
“Age has no meaning here,” I tell her. “Neither gold nor diamonds have any worth here
—love is the only currency.”
“Then this dumb key must be worthless, too,” Bonnie sneers at it then tosses it to me.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?” I ask.
“Hey! Is this a gag? Does that key open a treasure chest? Are you holding out on me?”
“You can keep the key,” I tell her, offering it back to her. “Or you can take the other
gift instead. That’s up to you, Bonnie.”
She eyes the other package, drab compared to the one she opened before.
“Oh, I get it. Trying to trick me into keeping that worthless key. OK, I’ll take the
plain brown package. Bet it’s got the jewels in it. Too bad for you, lady, with your grey
roots under that cheap die job.”
The older woman stands tall with a statuesque poise, but seems only to see me,
as if Bonnie is merely a figment of my imagination.
“I’ve come for the key,” the woman says. “Only the key, nothing more.”
“The key might open up a can of worms,” I caution her.
She smiles broadly with dimples and light crows’ feet beneath her baby blues.
Her teeth sparkle like pearls and her musky essence makes me feel heady.
“I know what the key will open. That’s why I’ve waited so long to join you here
in this room forever, with the sweet scents of Christmas lingering and the promise of
a never-ending New Year together.”
“What about Bonnie?” I ask her.
“Who?” she asks with genuine confusion.
“YEAH! What about me?” Bonnie shouts, nearly foaming at the mouth.
“You can’t see or hear her, can you?” I ask the stranger.
“I see only you. We’ve come full circle. Fate had kept us apart. You going your way


and I going mine. You had a long life filled with great memories, while mine was cut short--
I can’t recall how, but I was in my forties and without a family when I took ill. There was no
pain, no lingering dread of a lonely end. I had only one lasting memory of a young boy who
was concerned about me enough to walk me home from school every chance he got. I never
got to see him again as I grew older. But with my last breath I felt as if I were reaching out for
a key that would open a new door for me. At first, I thought I’d need a key to open the door
to this timeless room, but you let me in when I turned the doorknob by opening it the from
inside. You made me feel welcome.”
Bonnie huffed where she sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree. “I bet this
small package inside the brown box contains diamonds. Must be a ring.”
She rips open the box, takes out a ring and puts it on her finger.
“Perfect fit!” she shouts, but vanishes in a puff of red smoke.
“Oow! What’s that burning smell?” the woman squints putting the back of her
hand to her face with a muffled cough.
“Do you still want this key?” I ask her as she recovers from coughing.
“The key is all I’ve ever wanted, but it’s always seemed out of reach.”
I handed the key to her.
She kisses the key then thrusts out her arm with the key still in hand. The key
is burning hot as it pierces my heart. She twists the key and I feel my heart open. I see
her for just a moment as I’d last seen her, five years old walking her home from school
which I’d promised my mom I’d never do.
“Those Dendy girls are just a bunch of trouble,” she’d often warned me.
I heard that so many times from friends and family, but that special week between
Christmas and New Year’s Eve, even in the hereafter, is made of missed chances recovered,
where truths are revealed to bring together all that dreams are made of by melting away the
deep freeze of mortality with the newborn possibilities of an everlasting life.


Should Old Acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon; The flames of Love extinguished, and fully past and gone: Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold, that loving Breast of thine; That thou canst never once reflect On old long syne.
_____________

The Samhain Show

By Edward Ahern



Brunstella sighed, wishing she had gone into dealing drugs. “I can’t move the cauldron.”
Griselda patted her sister’s shoulder. “Of course you can, dearie. Just use a spell.”
“I’ve only got magick left for one spell. I’m not blowing it on rolling a rusty iron pot out into the woods.”
“Then hire a troll.”
“With what? Nobody pays us for spells anymore, they’ve all got miracle cures from pharmacies.”
Griselda’s voice hardened. “It’s the Samhain sacrifice, sweetie, we swore to observe it.”
Brunstella grabbed her cane and stood up, joints creaking. “If we cut the baby into quarters we could just use a stew pot and freeze the left overs for next year.”
“You know better. It has to be a whole, live baby girl, unbaptized. Unbaptized is easy to find these days.”
“Yeah, but not so easy to boil. The last one puked in the pot and it took me three hours to clean it out.”
Griselda leaned forward to whisper in her sister’s ear. “Do be cautious, younger sister. You know who is listening.”
Brunstella’s laugh was harsh. “When’s the last time we saw her? Eighty years? I think she’s wagging her infernal booty elsewhere. We’re obsolete.”
Griselda slapped her, mottling the wrinkled skin of Brunstella’s cheek. “Never doubt the Mistress! Just do as she ordered us.”
Brunstella muttered but stiffly lowered herself back down to think. If magick was out she’d have to rely on cunning. I could have done better for myself, she thought, a shill or a prostitute, but look where I am.
Then an idea struck her and she got up with a groan and hobbled down a dirt track that lead away from their cottage, then forked left onto a gravel road for another half mile, eventually reaching a cabin. She walked up to the door and yelled inside.
“Tom, you sober enough to talk?”
“Get away from me, you miserable hag.”
“Don’t be like that. I need you and your tow truck.”
“The last thing I did for you gave me shingles. Go away.”
“No, seriously. I can give you erotic visions like a sultan never had.”
Tom snorted. “Get out of the dark ages. I’ve already got four bookmarked porn sites, all free.”
Brunstella wouldn’t be put off. “Okay, how’d you like to get wasted on the nectar of the gods?”
“Like you knew how to get it.” But his tone had changed, and Brunstella knew she had him interested.
“It’s an old family recipe. All you have to do is move something and I’ll give you enough divine booze to stay blasted for a week.”
The door cracked open, and a blotchy, bleary eyed face appeared. “Move what?”
“Just a big old stew pot. I need it to go into the woods, then a few weeks later to be lugged out.
“How big?”
Brunstella’s first instinct was to lie, but she knew he’d find out anyway. “Maybe four hundred pounds.”
“That’s not a pot, that’s a hot tub. Make it enough booze for two weeks.”
Brunstella didn’t hesitate. “Done! It’ll be ready for you day after tomorrow, when you come to move the cauldron.”
She hobbled back down the gravel road but stopped just before the turnoff onto the dirt track and went up to a one wide trailer that hadn’t moved or been improved for a quarter century. The makeshift wood steps up to the door were almost rotted through, and she stepped carefully, then knocked. “Craig! It’s Brunstella. I got a deal for you.”
“Get away from my door or I’ll be the one cursing you.”
“Now, now Craig, I think I can take that contaminated moonshine off your hands. Maybe even pay you a little.”
Craig, who considered himself an unappreciated cinematographic genius, cracked open the door and peeped at her. “It’s got turpentine spilled into it, you old biddy, nobody could abide the taste.”
Brunstella smiled. “Yes, well by the time I’ve added in herbs and hallucinogens it’ll taste like nectar. You still got it?”
“Yeah.” Craig opened the door all the way and let her in. “How would you move it?”
“I’ll come by later on with a wheelbarrow.” She looked around the room. Everything was gray, hidden under a half-decade of dust. Everything except a small desk with a lap top computer and sheets of paper. “Working on something?”
Craig’s shoulders sagged. “I got an in at a studio, producer named Harry Beerstein owes me a favor, but I need a concept for a TV show, and my mind is farting bad scenarios.”
That’s when Brunstella had her second great idea of the day. She stood still for several seconds, thinking it through.
“You’ve been living so bad you might as well have been cursed, Craig, but I’ve got your cure.”
“I doubt you’ve even got money for the booze.”
“Hear me out. Reality shows are what everybody’s watching right? We give ‘em the ultimate- intrigue, hatred, nudity, promiscuous sex, violence, even human sacrifice.”
“Hah?”
“The Samhain ritual, stupid. We do a bunch of episodes leading up to the sacrifice, shoot it all on your hand-held camera, hire our neighbors in for dirt wages- hell, some of them would do it for free- it’s got everything. You just need a watcha-callit- trunk line.
“Log line. Jesus, Brunstella, it just might work.”
“Don’t bring him into it. Of course it will. How’s this for a log line? ‘Hidden witches corrupt their town for devil worship.’
Craig had started pacing back and forth, stirring up dust. “Close. But you and Griselda are toad ugly. Nobody would watch you with or without clothes.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’d use some of our local sinners for the sex scenes and nude dancing. For the climax episode we’d rent an unwanted infant…”
Craig warmed to the idea. “Then shoot the parents getting remorse and showing up at the ceremony and getting beaten and cursed. All staged of course, but what reality show isn’t? Yeah, I like it.”
They talked excitedly for another hour, Craig tapping possibilities into his lap top. He was so worked up about the project he gave Brunstella the contaminated hooch for a hair restorative ointment.
Darkness was creeping in as Brunstella limped down the dirt track to their cottage. She knew she couldn’t tell Griselda, not yet anyway. Griselda was the conservative witchy equivalent of Opus Dei. As she entered the cottage, lit only by firelight and candles, Griselda was skinning a cat.
“Ritual?” Brunstella asked.
“Supper,” Griselda replied. “What about the cauldron?”
“Taken care of. You and I are going to Craig’s tomorrow with the wheelbarrow and picking up two cases of poisoned booze. I doctor the booze and give it to drunken Tom, who’ll use his tow truck to carry the cauldron into the woods.”
“We don’t have money for that, and you’ve got no powers right now. How’d you do it?”
“Grace and kindness. Don’t’ worry, it’s done.”
“Tom’s apt to die or go crazy.”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Supper’ll be ready in a half hour.”
Griselda and Brunstella picked up and doctored the moonshine the next morning and delivered it to Tom. Craig showed up at their cottage two days later. He was afraid to go up to the cottage door and called out from down the path. “Brunstella!”
She heard his third yell and came out, putting a finger to her lips, then walking with him into a shaded grove. “What news?”
“He liked the idea. Said it was fresh, edgy. But he doesn’t know you. Or trust you. He needs some footage to show what we can do.”
Brunstella nodded. She appreciated doubt and suspicion. “Your camera and mike working?”
“Sure. What are you thinking of?”
“Tom’s hauling a cauldron for me. You and I go with him into the woods, along with that skank girlfriend of his. You’re filming all the way through. I do some smoke and haze mumbo jumbo over a bottle of the booze and give it to them. They’ll start drinking, it’s what they do. Then you shoot whatever else they do, truck bed, hood, front seat, whatever. There’ll be enough Spanish fly in th bottle to kill the bull it was meant for.”
“What if they die on the hood?”
“Doubt it, those pickles left cucumber behind a long time ago. But just keep shooting. They’re apt to drool, so get close enough to show the spit bubbles. Then I step in, yell some nonsense, and administer an antidote.”
“Antidote?”
“Just an emetic, ilex vomitoria. But their spew should be good footage.”
“I can’t do that to Tom.”
“Tom does it to himself all the time. Besides, he probably won’t remember. And you’ve got the almost porn that could get us the show.”
“That’s pretty vile.”
“I know. Fun, isn’t it?”
And so it was scripted, and so it was done. And edited. Tom displayed remarkable staying power and inventiveness. Craig was just clever enough to put the footage on a website with one-time, protected access, so his close friend couldn’t shop the idea around and double cross him. Harry Beerstein called back two days later.
“Brilliant work, Craig, brilliant. But I need a copy so I can show it to the right people.”
“That’s great, Harry. But first things first. I need you to option the concept for say thirty grand. I’ve drafted and registered a little something I’ll send you. As soon as we’re in binding agreement I’ll be glad to send you a tape for circulation.”
Harry got peeved, yelling that Craig was grievously lacking in talent and that his ancestry was sub human. But once Harry saw that his bullying was having no effect he quieted down and agreed.
Craig went into town and bought a burner cell phone, then turned around and drove down the dirt track to Brunstella’s cottage.
She saw him coming and hobbled out. “Do I need to curse him with boils?”
“Nah, he’s sending the thirty thou, enough to get started. Look, here’s a cell phone. I’ll show you how to use it.”
“I can’t. We hold to the old ways.”
“And I’m not going to shag my ass down here every day just to talk with you. Considering how it’s used I’m pretty sure this is an invention of the devil.”
Brunstella had thought Craig through. So long as he was straining for ego gratification and money he’d be an adequately bad boy. But once he’d arrived as a movie maker Brunstella was going to have to short leash and muzzle him with a nice disfigurement curse. “So what’s next, Craig?”
“Beerstein will put together a promo piece using some of our edgier footage and shop it around to investors. He hopes to get the up-front money commitments a few weeks after that. You’re going to have to tell Griselda then.”
Brunstella spat yellow. “I know.” As they kept talking they walked in a circle out to Craig’s one wide and back. As they re-approached the witches’ cottage, Brunstella’s insides felt like they’d curdled into corpse rot. “Somethings wrong,” she told Craig. “Get out of here. Now. I’ll call you on that flapdoodle.”
She hobbled gingerly up to the cottage door and entered. Griselda faced her, both arms akimbo, broken into odd angles. Witches can’t cry, but Griselda’s sweaty skin and rheumy eyes told of great pain. “What did you do, you clapped out whore?” Griselda demanded.
Brunstella hobbled one step toward her sister, then stopped. Something was sitting in the chair next to the fireplace.
“Yes, Brunstella, what did you do?”
The greasy voice poured over Brunstella like burning oil. Which was okay, really, because she did the same thing recreationally. “Mistress.”
“I leave you two to quietly corrupt into dust and you cause trouble with my new projects.”
“Mistress?”
“That bulbous letch Beerstein is shopping around a Samhain concept for a reality show. That’s something just between us girls. I’ve devoted too much time corrupting this nation to have it interfered with by Amateur Hour.”
The mistress’ words were soft pitched and calm and coated in venom. Griselda had started to whimper. Brunstella’s mind churned desperately, and she pulled together fragments of what Craig had told her. “Mistress, you have been so busy damning the mainstreams that you haven’t had time for the tributaries.”
The hand on the arm of the chair turned into a claw, mostly blotchy blue. “Explain yourself.”
“Just market segmentation. Griselda and I are traditionalists, we understand the part of the viewing audience that still watches televangelists.”
“So?” The word dripped acid.
“The Samhain reality show will apparently condemn wanton, infernal behavior, but will show it in such an attractive way that the religious will be curious. If they’re curious they’re halfway to you, a large group you’re not reaching with your current programming.”
The thing in the chair smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.
“Brunstella, you wart plantation, you’re onto something. Needs work of course, some demonic script writers, ads in church bulletins, that sort of thing. But yes, maybe. You’re coming to Hollywood. But I can’t have anyone as ugly as you working for me or having a lead role. Hold on.”
Brunstella dropped to the floor writhing in pain. Everything, even her teeth hurt like heaven. When she stood up again she was thirty something with fully working, reasonably attractive parts. “Thank you, Mistress.”
The thing in the chair glanced at Griselda. “A theatrical career requires personal sacrifices Brunstella. I’ll need to shut down your little operation here. Are you willing to dump Craig and abandon Griselda?”
Brunstella considered the alternative. “No problem.”

Sonny
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


On the drive from New Jersey Anna told her boys they’d be making a brief stop
at friends’ on the way to their Aunt Jean’s for Easter dinner in Queens. In the backseat
of their ’54 Chevy, with that news, Bobby turned to Gerry with a roll of his big brown
eyes. Gerry concurred with a grimace and snorting smirk. Anna’s sons had already
learned to endure her need to keep both friends and family close. Though only nine
and six respectively, Bobby and Gerry had heard their mother’s tale of woe many times.
Anna was only three when her mother and baby brother had died in the Flu Epidemic.
Despite their first reaction to the planned detour, the boys followed their father’s
example by honoring their mother’s need to hold onto relationships, especially for
special holiday festivities like Easter. The boys had already made the family and friends
rounds for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. Regardless, certain barriers had been
established when Anna was no more than Bobby’s age, lines not crossed, bridges left
burnt behind, and words forever unsaid.
Anna, was a practical woman, always making the best use of her time. She’d
dragged her sons to Sunday school earlier that morning for an Easter egg hunt hoping
to drain some mischief out of them by satisfying their urge to romp before visiting an
elderly couple who were long-time friends of their father’s mother from Germany.
Like their dad, the boys were already dressed in their new Easter suits which,
thanks to Ovaltine consumption, they would grow out of within six months. At least
Gerry would get to wear Bobby’s hand-me-down Easter outfit next year.
That morning their dad, Bruno, had taught both boys how to tie Windsor
knots in their neckties worn proudly with brass tie-clasps. Since the boys sparkled
in their Easter attire to see their grandparents, aunts and uncles, and three younger
cousins, Anna had suggested to Bruno, “The Britt’s live in Forest Hills near Jean and
Artie, so let’s call them and see if we can stop by on our way to my family’s Easter
dinner. The Britts will be amazed to see how much the boys have grown?”
“Sure, Honey,” Bruno replied with a nod. “I guess they haven’t seen our boys
since Gerry’s christening.”
“With all these streets, avenues, and roads with the same number, I get so
confused,” Anna said. “Do you remember how to get to the Britt’s apartment?”
“Of course,” Bruno said, firmly believing German men never get lost.
“Who are the Britts?” Gerry asked his mom.
“They’re Mimi’s friends from the old country.”
Bruno’s mother preferred to be called “Mimi” because tags like “Grandma”
or “Nana” made her feel old. Easter dinner was not with Bruno’s side of the family
because another aspect of Anna’s perspective was balance. They would visit Bruno’s
side of the family on alternate years, an unbroken system which Anna adhered to
judiciously as if established by The World Court. This year was Anna’s family’s turn
on Easter, but that didn’t keep her from squeezing in another stop with friends of
Bruno’s mother to save on gas consumption and check off another name on her list
of overdue visits.
Bobby and Gerry were impatient because they enjoyed visiting their Aunt
Jean, the setting for Easter dinner later that afternoon. Without children of her own,
Aunt Jean was much like a kid herself, telling the boys enchanting tales from her British
background about pixies who lived in the Gnarly Wood. Stopping to visit people they’d
never met, or were too young to remember, was a bore for the boys. They could hardly
wait to get it over with and get to the fun part of the day. Aunt Jean played the piano
and had taught her young nephews profane British shipping songs she’d heard on the
docks from her youth in Liverpool.
“You must never sing these songs when your mum’s around. She’d have my
bloody head if she knew I’d taught them to you.”
“What does friggin’ mean?” Gerry had asked her once, but she didn’t correct
Bobby when he told his ignorant little brother, “It means cold. You know like in a
refrigerator.”
The boys had their minds set on Uncle Artie’s basement with several tropical
fish tanks filled with Angel fish, black and orange mollies, and kissing gouramis. They
enjoyed watching a catfish with its mouth sucking the side of the fish tank.






Uncle Artie often let the boys feed the fish and play ping pong in the basement.
“Can’t we just go straight to Jean and Artie’s?” Bobby whined in the back seat.
“I don’t know these Britt people. Why are they so important to visit?”
“Yeah,” Gerry followed Bobby’s complaint with, “We wanna play ping pong.”
“Do as your mother asks!” Bruno scolded with his eyes squinting at them from
the rearview mirror. “Stop complaining or I’ll give you both a lickin’!”
The boys knew this wasn’t an idle threat. Both had been spanked with their
dad’s leather belt at the same time. The dual corporal punishment was part of their
mom’s perspective of balance—“Neither of you are innocent. You each had a part
in that broken window. Wait till you father come homes. You’re both gonna get it.”
“The Britts are a lovely old German couple,” Anna told her boys as Bruno
drove with his head cocked towards her. “They were friends who came from
Germany at the same time as Daddy’s parents in 1910. They had a son, Rudolph,
a baby born just before they left Berlin to come to America.”
“Is Rudolph old enough to play with us?” Gerry asked.
“If he were alive, he would be almost ten years older than your father.”
“What happened to him?” Bobby asked, always needing to know all the grim
details of any issue.
“He died from an accident when he was twenty-nine years old.”
“You mean like in a car crash on the Belt Parkway. We saw one last year,” Bobby
reminded Gerry.
“Not like that.” Anna said. “We’ll talk about that another time. Here we are.”
The boys got out of the car and squinted from the bright noon sun as they stared
up at the twelve-story, brick apartment complex on Queens Boulevard.
“Wow! That’s a tall apartment building,” Bobby said.
“I hope the Britts live on the top floor. Maybe we can see the Whitestone Bridge in
Flushing,” Gerry said. “That’s a neat bridge, Daddy. Can we cross it going home?”
“We’ll see,” Bruno said with a noncommittal shrug.
Anna carried a small package gift-wrapped in Easter mode for the Britts. The festive
paper was adorned with bunnies and baby chicks. Bruno carried a bottle of Liebfraumilch.
Anna taught her boys that they should never visit someone’s home without bringing something
for them, but in turn, they should never ask for anything from those they were visiting and
always say “No thank you” to anything offered—at least at first. But if their host insisted then
that would be OK.
The boys were thrilled to take the elevator as high as the eighth floor. There were
several stops on the way up with people getting on and off the elevator. At each stop the
boys deeply inhaled as the aromas from various apartments emitted into the hallways from
tenants preparing their Easter dinners. In the 1950s this was mostly a German-American
area of Queens.
“Mm,” Bruno made a yummy sound. “I smell Sauerbraten.”






Anna stroked Bruno’s arm and promised, “I’ll make that for you next weekend with red cabbage and Kartoffelklöße.”
Familiar with the potato dumplings their mom had learned how to make from
Mimi, the boys exchanged pained expressions of mutual hunger pangs.
When they stopped on the sixth floor, the elevator door opened, but no one
got on, and all the other passengers had already gotten off.
“Ugh! What’s that smell?” Bobby said holding his nose.
Anna turned around and frowned at the boys.
Gerry shrugged. “Sorry, Mom . . . excuse me.”
“See that you don’t do that in the Britt’s apartment, Gerry,” Anna warned.
Stop smirking, Bobby! Don’t you stop up the Britt’s toilet like you did at Aunt Lottie’s
last Christmas.”
Bobby tweaked Gerry’s ear and both boys began to giggle and squirm.
Bruno’s response was like pushing the button on a wind-up toy: “You boys want
a lickin’?”
Anna grabbed Bobby’s hand and Bruno grabbed Gerry’s, marching them down
the corridor to a door still decorated with a palm leaf from the previous Sunday. The
doorbell had a cheerful chime. The door opened abruptly before the last chime stopped
resounding in the boys’ ears. The fresh-baked aroma that wafted from the Britts’ apartment
made the boys grin with delight as their tummies growled.
The elderly couple belonged in a 19th Century Bavarian painting, perhaps Hansel
and Gretel’s grandparents. The Britts’ voices chimed even more musically than the
doorbell as they pinched the boys’ cheeks and warbled with soft German accents.
Stately, Mr. Britt stood erect for an old man and had the cheerful twinkle in his eyes
of a toymaker. He wore a bowtie and suspenders. Mrs. Britt, with white hair, had a
radiant face that reflected an ageless beauty. The boys found it difficult not to look
directly into her kind, limpid eyes as if she were about to cry joyfully over just seeing
them.
“I’ve baked a special treat for your boys.” With a hissing roll of her tongue on
the “r” she said, “Shtrrrooodel.”
“I haven’t learned to make strudel yet,” Anna said. “But it’s on my list.”
Bruno smiled because Anna always had a list of recipes she knew would please
him. She also had a long list of work she expected Bruno to do inside and outside their
home. Anna’s life was ruled by a balance sheet, quid quo pro.
“Come. We must sit at the table,” Mr. Britt said, gesturing for them to follow him
to a long dining room table with china closets all around the room. Antique German
figurines and Hummel plates from twenty years ago in the ‘30s filled the shelves. The
table was covered with fine white lace. So the boys could reach the food on the table,
each sat on a stack of pillows in two big dining room chairs with wooden arms. At the
end of each arm was a carved lion’s head, which the boys fiddled with as their eyes lit
up at the sight and aromas of the home-baked sweets including brownies, strawberry
short cake, Bavarian chocolate cake, and both apple and cherry strudel.
Overcome by the sweets, the boys barely noticed the photos on the walls and in
the china closets of a boy at various ages in progression to becoming a handsome young
man whose eyes beamed just as kindly as Mrs. Britt’s.
“What will it be for you, Gerard,” Mrs. Britt asked. “Apple or cherry shtr-r-o-o-o-del?”






Gerry scrunched up his nose, not over the food, but for being called “Gerard.”
Only his first-grade teacher called him that when Gerry was sent to the principal’s
office for some misdemeanor or in a note to his mother that said: “Your impetuous
son, Gerard, has no self-control.”
Gerry looked to his mom for approval and got the nod. “Cherry, please.”
“How about you, Robert?” Mrs. Britt asked.
Bobby seemed to like the formality of “Robert,” but was even more pleased
that Mrs. Britt called his little brother “Gerard.” Ever since they saw a boy by that
name with an affliction that didn’t allow him to keep his tongue from hanging out of
his mouth and drooling, Bobby often hung out his tongue and teased Gerry with,
“U-u-u-gh, Ge-RARD!”
“Strawberry shortcake, please,” Bobby said, turning his head aside to Gerry and
sticking out his tongue. “U-u-u-gh, Ger-RARD.”
Anna frowned at Bobby, but Bruno was enjoying his coffee and apple strudel
too much to notice. The Britts paid no attention to the mischievous boys’ asides as if
their own conversation was on script, performed so often on a stage that it flowed
naturally with little variation. Bruno seemed oblivious to the Britts’ behavior as if it
were a play he’d often seen. Anna was newer to the Britts’ cosplay since her marriage,
but Bruno had been a teenager when his mother had taken him to visit the Britts soon
after the untimely death of their son.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Britt said, reacting to Bobby’s aside to Gerry. “Vat dit you say,
R-r-robert?”
Bobby blushed then recovered with, “That was Gerard, not me.”
Mrs. Britt looked from one brother to the other then took a deep breath and
smiled. “It’s been so long since Sonny was their age. I’d nearly forgotten the fun of our
boy’s mischief underfoot.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna said. “They’ve been cooped up in the car for over an hour so
they’re restless.”
Mr. Britt nodded with a smile and looked fondly at the boys. “More coffee,
Bruno?”
“Just a half-cup, thanks. Maybe another small slice of strudel. Make it cherry
this time.” Bruno winked at Gerry.
“Have you boys hunted for Easter eggs this morning?” Mr. Britt asked.
“Yes. At Sunday school in the field behind our church,” Bobby said.
“Well, you know the Easter Bunny comes here, too,” Mrs. Britt said. “There
could be colored eggs anywhere in this room. I’m sure Gerard and Robert can find
them if they search hard enough.”
The boys looked at each other with excitement, not just because they loved
egg hunting on Easter as much as getting Christmas gifts from Santa, but their sugar
highs from the sweets made them ready to burst. The boys looked high and low but
found nothing until they came to the first china closet. Bobby nodded to Mrs. Britt
for permission to open the china closet where he saw through the glass a bright
lemon-yellow egg sparkling with glitter.
The old German woman nodded her approval. Bobby put the egg in the palm
of his hand and stroked the glitter’s rough texture with his thumb. From beneath the
table, Mrs. Britt pulled out a wicker Easter basket for him to put the egg into.
“I see a blue one over here,” Gerry said, waiting for permission to open
another china closet.
Getting the nod from Mrs. Britt was good, but he still waited for his mom’s
approval, and got it before proudly placing his egg next to Bobby’s nestled in the
green cellophane grass inside the basket.
“Oh, but you must keep looking,” Mrs. Britt chortled. “There are ten more to
be found, a dozen in all.”
Bobby gave his mom a nod towards a framed photo in another china closet, a
sepia print of a young boy in a park holding a soccer ball and smiling. His cheeks were
tinted rosy against the brownish tone of the sepia, a common tinted effect applied to
photographs at the time it had been taken.
The bottom of the gilded frame said: “Sonny - 1919.”
The pink egg rested behind the photo, so Bobby hesitated. “I don’t want to
break anything,” he said, being as tender as his younger brother was rambunctious.
“Ah! You’ve found the hardest one already,” Mr. Britt said, standing up to
hold the china closest door open with one hand and removing the egg with the other.
He handed the pink egg to Bobby then Mrs. Britt held out the basket for him to put
it with the yellow egg and the blue one.
Gerry stared at his mom as if he were about to jump out of his skin. He saw a
purple egg, his favorite color, but it was inside a glass globe with a ballerina standing
on one foot in a pirouette with her arms held in a heart shape above her head.
Mr. Britt chortled as he came to Gerry and patted him gently on the head and
opened the china closet. He took the music box in two hands then removed the glass
globe and handed Gerry the purple egg. He set the music box on the dining room table
and wound it with a key at its base. In a white tutu, the ballerina spun in a circle to the
music mesmerizing the boys while the adults swayed to the rhythm.
An inscription on the base of the music box read:
I will love you forever, Stefania
Happy 21st Birthday – Sonny
September 1, 1939
Gerry was already a good reader in first grade so he blurted, “Who is Stef-an-i-a?”
The room seemed to freeze in a still-life painting, but the music box continued its
plunking rhythm for almost a minute as Mr. Britt seemed to be holding his breath.
Anna broke the pained silence. “We should be going now,” Anna said softly,
gathering up the boys as Bruno shook Mr. Britt’s hand with a tight grip the way he’d
taught his sons. Anna put her gentle palm on top of Mrs. Britt’s surprisingly youthful
hand, void of typical wrinkles or liver spots of the elderly. “Thank you for having us and
being so generous to the boys. Happy Easter!”
Glassy-eyed, Mrs. Britt said, “Sonny always found the purple Easter egg no matter
where it was hidden. It was his favorite.”
As if in a trance, she remained seated at the table. Mr. Britt led their guests to
the door and handed Anna the Easter basket with the four dyed eggs the boys had
found. There were also two chocolate rabbits, many varicolored jelly beans scattered
throughout the basket, and two yellow chicks made of marshmallow. It had been well
worth the stop for the boys’ appetites before heading to Aunt Jean’s for Easter dinner,
no doubt lamb, the only meat, the boys heard Anna tell Bruno, her British sister-in-law
couldn’t possibly overcook.
They waved to Mr. Britt from the elevator door and descended to their car.
They rode toward Jewel Avenue for ten minutes without a word before Gerry broke
the silence.
“I’m sorry I upset Mrs.
ckin’ when we get home tonight?”
Bobby grinned at the thought, knowing he, at least, had been on his best behavior.
“No lickin’s,” Bruno said with authority and a smile aside to Anna. “It’s Easter.”
That was good enough for Gerry, pardoned by the Easter Bunny. But unlike his
little brother who seemed to relish being a child, Bobby longed to be an adult, to know
what his parents were talking about and all the dark, grownup details that always
seemed to be buzzing over his head.
Bobby blurted, “When will I be old enough to know how Sonny died?”
“Yeah, Mom, me too,” Gerry said.
“It’s too sad a story to tell children,” Anna said with certainty, having never learned
the grim details of her own mother’s passing. “You’ll have to wait until you’re grownups.”
And so they did . . .

When Women Search for Safety

By Angela Camack




Massachusetts in the 1880’s had its share of strange and gory legends. Salem, of course, and the ghosts of the men lost in the terrible Housac Tunnel mine explosion. Locals said they haunted the area near the tunnel. People carried tales of the Gloucester Harbor sea serpent and the Dogtown ghost town. The Boston Lighthouse in Cohasset had a history of drowned lighthouse keepers, said to be the work of the Hobomack Demon.
A small town near Boston had its own history of unexplained deaths. Sometimes separated by years, bodies were found in different places around the town, usually on summer mornings when people started on their daily paths early. They found torn bodies left on lurid display for the unfortunate to find, bodies so badly torn it was difficult to piece them together for identification. Each discovery sent the town into terror and shock. The town constables never made any progress finding the killers. Mothers kept children in their yards all day and people refused to leave their houses after dark. Eventually the fear abated, leaving an under base of uneasiness, late night stories and tales to scare children.
Sarah Crane came to the small town when she was 14. Her drunken parents had died when they ran their cart off the road after a night at the local tavern. As she had no other family, the town pastor notified her long estranged relatives, her Uncle Josiah, a banker, and Aunt Harriet Crane. The Cranes children were grown, and they had extra rooms in their house. They reluctantly took her in.
On her second day of residence, she sat on a stool in the house’s well-appointed parlor. The Cranes sat on the sofa across from her. Like many long-married couples, they had come to resemble each other; slender, pale, silver-haired, blue eyes. Rosy-cheeked Sarah, with her dark brown eyes and hair, felt like another species.
“Your father was a rotten apple from a good tree,” said Uncle Josiah. “It is our duty to take you in, but mark my words, we expect better from you. Our funds aren’t unlimited.” (Sarah tried not to look at the mahogany furniture, the flowing curtains and oriental carpet). You will get one new dress a year. You will maintain your clothing. You will have chores.
“Of course,” said Sarah. “I always had chores at home. (If she wanted regular meals or clean clothing,)
“You will go to church and be responsible,” Uncle Josiah continued. “You will remember your station. Don’t expect full membership in this family. Do you have any questions?”
“Where do I go to school?” Sarah asked.
“School for you,” snorted Aunt Harriet. “Better you learn practical things. You will go when you have time.”
The books Sarah carried from her old home had already earned her aunt’s derision, but her precious books, bought third hand or obtained through the village school, had been her companions and her comfort.
Sarah settled into her “chores,” meaning she was part of the household staff, helping the cook, housekeeper and laundress. The cook mentioned that a maid left a month ago. She was never replaced.
School was hit-or-miss, and Sarah had no time for friends. But she had always walked alone. People had a low opinion of the disreputable Cranes’ child.
Growing and working hard, she was always hungry. Sarah saw Aunt Harriet’s eyes travel from Sarah’s fork to her mouth with every bite she took, so she never asked for more than what her aunt put on her plate. Had Sarah a moment, she would have noticed that the weight loss had narrowed her waist and made her eyes look enormous in her small face. She would be a lovely woman.
When Sarah was 15 the murder struck again. The town minister found a farmer’s body across from the church, arms and legs horribly splayed, body hollowed, blood pooling. The fear returned. Townspeople locked their doors after supper and restricted their children to their yards again.
Talk buzzed around the town. People noticed that the dead had something in common. The townspeople were horrified by the murders, but the dead were not mourned. They were scoundrels, like the man who battered his wife and children. One was an “investor” who cheated elderly people of their savings, another was suspected of burning down a rival’s business and so on. Was the murderer an evil force or an avenging spirit?
And life went on again. Sarah kept on. Her aunt sometimes loaned her out to other housewives, and Sarah hoarded the money they gave her. She also saved the small birthday and Christmas gifts she received. She made a tiny slit in her mattress to hide her money, so even if the mattress was turned by the household staff it would not be discovered. She saved to get away, away from a loveless house and a town where she had no future.
Now she was 16. She noticed that her uncle’s behavior toward her was warming by degrees, inquiring after her health and her studies, giving her small sums to “buy something nice for yourself.” She was cheered at first but grew wary when he began to stroke her hand when he talked to her, to stand too close for comfort, to “accidentally” bump into her. His touches became more
overt. Sarah began hooking a chair under the doorknob in her room, just in time, as on the second night after placing the chair she heard the doorknob rattle. Aunt Harriet grew colder and looked at her with suspicion.
Sarah remembered half-heard conversations between the household staff. “Another one gone, not even a reference. It isn’t fair.” “Old as he is, you think he’d stay away from them.” “Doesn’t she know?” “She must not, taking in that young girl.” “Should we tell Sarah?” “Not if you want your job. Just let it be.” Of course. That’s why the maid left so suddenly. And there had been others.
One night Aunt Harriet sent Sarah to a sick neighbor with stew and a loaf of fresh bread. She dropped off the food and returned to the house though the dark and chilly evening, nearly running into a figure on the path in front of her. The figure, an eerie apparition, was heavily cloaked, tall and ashen pale. The face had black eyes, deep set in their sockets and a thin-lipped mouth. Sarah couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
“Hello, Ssarah.” the whispery voice reminded Sarah of snakes, and she felt colder.
“How do you know me?” Sarah asked.
“Everyone in the village knowss everyone. Of coursse I know of Ssarah. A lovely sstrong name for a lovely sstrong girl.”
“I have to get back to the house.”
“Back to the housse, not back home? I don’t think sso, girl. Do you have troublesss?
“All of us have troubles.” Sarah answered.
“Yess. A lovely sstrong girl. Good evening, Ssaarah.” The figure moved to the side, almost gliding, and Sarah moved past. She was shaken by the meeting. What had she just talked to? But she had more pressing problems.
Sarah wanted to leave, to go to Boston, but her savings were still small. What could she look forward to but another servant’s job, with no chance for anything different or better paying, especially without a reference?
She knew there would be trouble when Aunt Harriet left for a few days to visit an old friend. And there was. She found her uncle in her room when she came back from one of her school days. She smelled alcohol in the room.
“It’s time for you to pay me back, Sarah. You’ve had a roof over your head, and your keep.”
“I’ve worked. I’ve worked hard.”
“You’re not a girl anymore. It’s time.” He rushed toward her, grabbing her around the waist and pressing her lips to hers. Sarah fought hard, scratching and hitting.”
“Damn you, stop it!” he said. “You’re making it harder!”
Sarah screamed, and he put a hand over her mouth. This made it easier to move away, but he pushed her on her bed and put his thigh over her body. Sarah was sickened by fear, by the smell of liquor and sweat. She kept fighting. Finally, her knee connected with his groin.
“You little bitch!” he snarled. “I will get back at you, and it’s going to be harder for you the next time.” He limped out of the room.
Aunt Harriet returned the next day. What would her uncle tell her? Would he say anything? No matter what, something bad was coming.
She plead illness the next day, staying in bed. “Don’t indulge yourself too long, Sarah.” said her aunt from the door of her room. Her behavior showed no change, yet.
Sarah spent a fearful day, wondering what her next step would be, thinking furiously, staying in bed through lunch and dinner, until her aunt and uncle retired for the night. The inactivity and suspense became too much, so she dressed and left the house for fresh air.
She wasn’t far from the house when the apparition she had met once on the path was in front of her again. Where did it come from?
“Troubless, little Ssarah?”
“What do you want?” Sarah stammered
“What do you want? Do you want to be free of your uncle? Do you want to be away from danger?”
“How do you know?”
The apparition laughed. “I alwayss know. I’m quite good at finding evil. Forcing himself on the innocent. A horror. He sshould be halted dead, right? Evil musst be contained. There are people who do not merit life. Who go on doing evil. And the police here are a joke, not a real power.”
Sarah suddenly understood. “It’s you. You did those murders.” Shaken, she suddenly sank to the damp ground. “Leave me alone or I’ll go to the police.”
The apparition laughed again. “To them? And who would believe you? I got rid of evil men. Evil musst be contained, right? It musst be paid back. They got paid back, all right, paid in full by blood. By their wicked bodies. You want your uncle to sstop. You want him to pay.”
“Not like that. Not like that.” Sarah began to cry.
“You don’t have a lot of choice, girl.”
“No! Not like that!”
“Think of the otherss, girl.”
The maids. The ones in the past and the ones who would come after Sarah left. The apparition knew how to get to her.
“You don’t have a lot of time. Be here tomorrow night, thiss time, if you want my help.” The apparition glided away.
Sarah returned to the house. If the apparition helped her, she would be safe, as would any young woman who came after her. But at what price? But knowing this, how could she not act to help the other girls?
No, she decided. She’d heard what had happened to the bodies of the murdered people. Evil or not, they died horribly, in fear and pain. She remembered the apparition’s glee as it talked of payment in blood and flesh. Was it fighting evil or feeding an appetite of its own?
She went back to the house. It was still quiet. Packing took almost no time, even with her precious books. She removed her savings from her mattress. She crept quietly to the jar in the kitchen where Aunt Harriet kept household money and took ten dollars. An evil, she knew, smaller but still evil. But her aunt and uncle had worked her hard and saved the salary of a maid. She kept the ten dollars. Feeling reckless and seeing her uncle’s jacket draped over a chair, she took another ten.
Sarah would go to Boston. She would find a job. She knew there were charitable organizations that helped women in need that she could turn to. She could train for something. Women trained as nurses to work in hospitals or went to normal school to learn to teach. She would be good at that kind of work.
It wasn’t until she found her way to the train station and waited for it to open that she wondered what she was running to. To another servant’s job where the head of the household
might expect the same thing that her uncle expected of her? Should she stay with the devil she knew?
No, better to be a moving target. She would make something of herself and make herself safe. She could even try to find Aunt Harriet’s other betrayed maids and see if they could face the police together and stop Uncle Josiah. She tugged her coat more closely around her as the sky lightened and the time of the station’s opening neared.

The Hoochatassa Horror


🎃


by Gerald Arthur Winter


“Don’t yuz be up to no good, Tommy,” his mom warned. “Those two older boys get ideas could getcha in trouble. My life’s had ‘nough troubles without ya causin’ me more. You just go trick-o-treatin’ with them kids yer own age. Don’t let Andy and Ricky let ya disobey yer mama. Don’t forgit—I’m the one that feeds ya since Paw disappeared.”
“Sure, Ma. Maybe I’ll be a pirate this year.”
“That’s m’boy. Good choice.”
* * *
The three boys ranged from thirteen to fifteen, but all were in the same eighth grade class in south Florida. It was 1958 before any “No one Left Behind” or Civil Rights amendments were even considered and, if it took a village, that would be to hang a Nubian, the Klan’s coded “N” word, without the authorities knowing a thing about it.
No problem for the locals in the redneck swamp burg of Hoochatassa where Tommy, Andy, and Ricky spent that late October weekend camping and catfishing in The Glades.
Tommy was the youngest of the trio and said he wanted to go trick-o-treating, but Ricky, the fourteen-year-old, said, “That just for little kids. Were too old for that kids stuff.”
“Nothin’ scary about those silly store-bought costumes,” Andy said with slow drag on a Lucky Strike cigarette. He’d been left back twice and got his driver’s permit before high school.
“I was gonna be a Pirate,” Tommy admitted. “Just to scare those little kids.”
“You want to see something really scary?”
“Sure,” Tommy and Ricky said in harmony.
“Then we got a spend the night on Cottonmouth Island where The Hoochatassa
Horror drags its kill on Halloween night and eats it alive.”
“Kill?” Ricky gulped. “That’s just a rumor, right?”
“Uh-uh,” Tommy said with eyes wide as two poached eggs. “My mom said that
monster killed one of her classmates when she was a kid. Never found the body cause that Hoochatassa Horror ate her and tossed her bones into quicksand—no trace ever found.”
“Nah! She probably just told ya that so you wouldn’t go to Cottonmouth Island,”
Ricky said. “Kind a creepy for her to make that up though.”
“Come on,” Andy huffed. “We got the whole weekend to camp and fish and Halloween’s tomorrow night. Let’s do it. Double-dog dare yuzz!”
The challenge was on. Not accepting the dare meant admitting you were still a scared little kid, but if they survived Halloween night on Cottonmouth Island, the monster’s lair, they’d be envied by every classmate and the girls might even offer them a kiss. They could wear that badge of honor starting high school next year.
“OK, I’m in,” Ricky offered.
Hesitant, Tommy said, “My Mom wouldn’t kid me about some girl in her class being eaten by the monster. I can’t let her know I’m going with you. You both gotta cover for me. If she asks, tell her I went trick-o-treating with some other kids you don’t know ”
“We gotcha covered,” Andy said and Ricky nodded as the threesome joined hands to seal their pact.
* * *
The full moon reflected on the swamp that Halloween night and the red glow of gator eyes surrounded their little boat. Tommy turned the outboard motor off as Andy rowed, Ricky kept a lookout for gators, and Tommy watched for a safe landing on Cottonmouth Island.
It was the first chill night of Autumn with a breeze coming off the Gulf. They hoped the cooler night air would send the gators to the muddy bottom till sunrise and keep the snakes calm and sluggish in their dens.
“I shoulda brought a windbreaker,” Tommy said standing at the bow. “At least the chill cuts down the skeeter bites.”
“We’ll find a dry campsite and start a fire that will last till daybreak,” Andy said.
“Are monsters afraid of fire?” Ricky asked.
Tommy offered, “Probably not afraid of anything, least of all three boys in a boat looking for trouble.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble,” Ricky said. “I’m just along for the ride.”
Andy grumbled under his breath, “Jeez. What pussies.”
* * *
After their quick, uneventful landing they set camp and gathered in their sleeping bags around the crackling campfire giving their spooky faces an orange glow.
“This sure beats trick-o-treating,” Ricky said. “Only thing missin’ is the candy.”
“I thought a that,” Andy said, sitting up in his sleeping bag. “You guys owe me.”
He tossed Hersey bars to Ricky and Tommy and opened his own. They spent the next few minutes chomping and slurping their treats. Then they thought they heard a boat rowing towards the nearby shore.
“Wha wuzzat?” Ricky said with panic.
“Maybe a gator,” Andy offered.
“A big one for sure,” Tommy said with his eyes aglow. “Better put more wood on the fire.”
“What if it’s the monster?” Ricky said with a tremor. “He’ll see it. Maybe we should put it out.”
“Stop freakin’ out, Ricky!” Andy cautioned. “I’m bettin’ this Hoochatassa Horror don’t like flames, just like Frankenstein.”
“Seems logical,” Tommy shrugged.
Then they heard rustling through the nearby mangroves.
“That ain’t no gator,” Andy whispered.
“Jeez, someone docked a boat like us,” Ricky said.
“Competition,” Tommy surmised. “Maybe some other boys want to steal our prize, diminish our claim. We gotta scare ’em off.”
The three boys nodded and got out of their sleeping bags. Crawling through the island foliage in single file they stopped when a hooded cloaked figure in black shown a flashlight and carried a burlap sack over one shoulder.
Andy whispered, “Ain’t the Klan. They wear white.”
“Looks like a bury-a-body kind of outfit, so no one can see him in the dark,”
Ricky offered what seemed obvious to Andy and Tommy.
“Think it’s that Hoochatassa Horror?” Tommy asked nervously.
“Let’s see where he’s goin’ with that sack,” Andy said. “Maybe it’s a body.”
“That’s it. I’m goin’ home,” Ricky stammered.
“You can’t row worth shit,” Andy hissed. “Besides, we agreed to stick together till dawn before goin’ home. No time to quit now.”
Grumbling, Ricky and Tommy agreed.
“If we see where the body gets buried, we can tell the sheriff. Maybe there will be a reward,” Andy offered.
The other two agreed and, like Andy, followed him on hands and knees. The flashlight’s glow was just ten yards ahead and easy to see and follow in the dark, though the boys were cautious about snakes. They figured someone must have named the island “Cottonmouth” for a good reason.
The beam ahead came to a stop then the cloaked figure hoisted the sack off its shoulder onto the ground with a heavy clump followed by a moan from inside the sack.
“Jeez,” Ricky blurted, which made the cloaked figure turn the flashlight on them,
just like three deer in the headlights.
“Up with the three of yuzz!” a hoarse hiss came from the head concealed within the black hood.
Shaking, they stood, feeling naked in the light surrounded by so much darkness in the swamp.
“Please don’t hurt us,” Andy pleaded. “We won’t tell anyone we saw ya. We promise. Right, fellas?”
Their knees quivered as they nodded their heads like bobble-head dolls.
“Too late for that,” the voice rasped. “You two can dig a hole for me. Not the younger one, just you two older boys cause yer bigger and stronger than the runt. Make it deep and wide enough for three.”
“Three?” Andy and Ricky chimed in duo while Tommy remained silent with his head hung so low his chin touched his chest.
“Ya gonna kill us?” Ricky asked with a shudder.
“Shut up and dig!” the voice commanded.
* * *
Almost an hour later it was midnight and the boys were exhausted from their digging. Looking up to the night sky they saw black clouds cutting across the full moon and the night breeze made them shiver.
“You three will make a nice midnight snack to celebrate Halloween,” the voice said. “First, I’m gonna give my fresh kill to the youngin’,” Ricky and Andy leaned on their spades and turned to Tommy, still with his head bent down.
The cloaked figure tossed the sack landing at Tommy’s feet. Ricky and Andy heard Tommy sniffling, the crybaby they assumed he was. But the sniffling turned to snorting, then growling, and into a sudden roar as Tommy lifted his head with bared fangs with a black canine nose, wet and glistening in the moonlight. His eyes glowed green like a thousand fireflies caught in a jar.
“Tommy takes after me, not his Paw who’s buried yonder.” With a jerk of the hood, the massive head of an alpha she-wolf emerged with incisors five inches long. The voice that had sounded faint, almost brittle before, now made the earth shake beneath Ricky’s and Andy’s feet.
The sound of tearing flesh and bloodcurdling screams echoed across The Glades sending the gators even deeper to the muddy bottom in fear of

The Hoochatassa Horror.

The Consubstantial Man

By Edward Ahern
 
Frankie Witt crawled out of a stupor and into a hangover. The crust inside his mouth crumpled like a wasp's nest as he puckered.
Aghh. Again. Head feels like it's oozing pus.  You stumble bum, just die and be done with it.   
Frankie shambled into the bathroom, drank a glass of off-color water and weaved into the kitchen area of his one-wide trailer. The sink and counter top were overgrown with dirty dishes and food remnants. Eat or drink? His churning stomach kept time with the agony in his head. Both.
 Where's the blender? Frankie's eyes crawled over the mess. Aha! He grabbed the blender, and sloshed water into it, brightening the Margarita scabs inside it.
Put the vodka in last. He tossed in a vintage pizza slice, two dried-out hot dogs, and mildewed strawberries, topping up with a slug of the brownish water and a half pint of vodka.
The blender complained, sparking, but ground out a dung-colored mix. Frankie ignored the bubbles forming in the slush and swallowed a mouthful from the blender. Ouph! Damn that's nasty. Alum and mold.
His sinuses reflated like they'd been stented, and Frankie felt snot slithering down toward his throat. He was blowing his nose on a stained paper towel when his guts and muscles cramped and he dropped to the floor.

Frank Witt Dossier, NSA interim report: The well water is contaminated with animal fecal matter, microorganisms and lead from the piping. Unfortunately none of the biological contents of the blender remain for analysis, the blender having baked inside the uncooled trailer. Analysis of the residue revealed traces of arsenic, gold and mercury in addition to the expected levels of lead, iron, and calcium. Twenty seven unclassified microorganisms were discovered on the food remains in the trailer kitchen, as well as two previously unknown species of fly.

Frankie came to three hours later. He winced out of habit, then realized that nothing hurt. Why do I feel so good? My mind, it's like I hadn't had a drink in days. He stood up without staggering, walked to the sink and drank from the faucet. I'm starving, Wait, take care of the concoction first.
He began rinsing out a tequila bottle. The back of his right hand swung into a rusty steak knife, the blade penetrating almost through his palm. Frankie cursed at the pain, pulled his hand away, and stared as the wound stopped bleeding and closed back up. In three seconds there was nothing on his hand but a faint pink mark. Sweet Jesus Murphy! Must be DT's.
Frankie pulled the steak knife out from the dish pile and stared at it. The blade showed smears of his blood. I wonder. He took the knife by its handle and jabbed it into and out of his left palm. Blood welled out for a second and then the skin healed over. It hurt, I must be awake.
He poured the contents of the blender into the tequila bottle and recapped it. Then he put on pants, tee shirt and shoes, and walked through the trailer park and across the road to Bernice's Oasis, a bar masquerading as a diner.
Two all-day drinkers perched at the far end of the bar. Bernice Stanton stood at the other end, shifting her attention between her cell phone and a shopping channel on the television. "I didn't think you'd make it this time, Frankie."
"Bernice, I'm starving. Please, a burger and fries?"
"And you don't have any money."
"Please, Bernice."
"You already owe me two hundred." She sighed. "Hell, all right. Better food than booze. Save your liver from the freak show."
Frankie set the tequila bottle on the bar, the gelatinous contents quivering. "Okay, I do owe you. I'll give you a shot of this stuff. It's incredible what it'll do for you. Once you see how good you feel you'll wipe out the two hundred."
"Two-o-five counting the burger.  Get that slimy looking filth off my bar, I'm not drinking it."
Frankie looked her over fondly. Bernice was zaftig, hard to budge in body or opinion.  But she's wrong. This stuff is the water of life. I should be charging $2,000 a pop, not $200.
"Okay, Bernice, you win. But I want to show you something before you cook up that burger."
Frankie took a folding knife out of his pocket and, without hesitating, sliced a line down his right forearm.
"You rotted-out alkie! You've lost it."
He said nothing, holding the arm over the bar so Bernice could watch the wound close.
"Well, jack up my sagging tits!"
Frankie glanced at the day drunks and pushed the bottle toward her. "Please, Bernice, you'll feel better than you have for a long time. Better sit down first, though."
"Not a chance, Frankie. You'll probably be running form both ends in a couple minutes."
Ten minutes later, Bernice delivered a burger, fries and beer to his table and sat quietly with him, working things out. "That brown slime does seem to work on your shakes, Frankie."
"Yeah. I've been thinking. There's maybe three quarters of a quart in the bottle. If I'm stingy, that's twenty shots. I should be able to get five, maybe ten grand a shot, easy. Problem is, I don't know people who've got that kind of spending money."
She patted his arm, avoiding the mark left by the knife. "You know I do, from before, but consider, Frankie. If that stuff works, your golden goose will squat out twenty eggs and then you're got no income."
Frankie could sense relays clicking in his mind, amazed that he could again think more than two steps ahead. "Yeah, and if I get the government to believe me, they'll confiscate the bottle, lock me up as a lab rat, and bleed me every so often." He exhaled slowly, calculating.
Bernice went behind the bar, poured a triple shot of cheap scotch, and brought it back. "Here, your hangover must be pushing your eyes out onto your cheeks."
"Thanks. It's weird, but this is the first morning in months that I haven't felt like a bad death." Frankie downed the drink in four swigs and frowned. "There's no pop, no jolt. It's like the stuff is neutralized as it's running down my gullet."
"You want another?"
"Don't think it'll do any good. Look, Bernice, I need someone like you to front for me, to be a cutout from the buyer. Here's the deal. You become like my agent, ten percent for helping set things up."
Her smile stretched almost to her jaw line. "Crap. Fifty percent or no deal."
"Sugar, don't rely on our two-backed beast act, this is business."
"Look, Frankie, I've got almost no money and you've got none. You're going to need cash to get rolling, that means selling a shot or two cheap. But the people I know, first thing, they see this works, they'll want to muscle in, maybe take the bottle. You've got to be smart to play on their turf. Got to sell this stuff like a street drug. You only know booze."
"Okay, fifteen percent."
"Twenty five."
"Twenty, and you'll still have the option to get a shot."
"Done."
They didn't bother to shake the hands that'd previously explored each other.
"Run my tab up a little further?"
"What the hell."
"Bottle of Cuervo to take home. And a mini bottle of anything. Need to figure out how to stash the mixture."
Bernice pulled the bottles from behind the bar and handed them to Frankie, then watched him walk away. Two Cuervo bottles. Is he smart enough to work a switch? Not Frankie. Oops, not the old Frankie. This guy knows when to change his underwear.
Frankie surprised himself by setting the real tequila bottle down unopened. Don't think I can get smashed anymore, and that's all I know how to do. Think, you drunk, how are you going to handle this stuff?
He went into the bathroom and knelt on the floor next to the toilet. Opening his knife, he pried up a floor tile. The tile had been glued to a same-sized section of cut-out plywood flooring underneath it. Below the opening the toilet drain pipe ran down through two feet of air and into the ground. Next to it was the length of PVC piping Frankie had stuck in the ground.
He pressed his cheek against the base of the toilet bowl and reached down through the hole, knife in hand. He scraped off an inch of dirt and animal droppings, then pulled his arm back out of the hole and dropped the knife. He stuck his arm back down and grabbed the screw cap of the five inch diameter tube. Frankie wiggled the tube back and forth to enlarge its hole, then pulled the tube up through the floor hole.
Sweat dripped down his body, moisturizing a five-day accumulation of drinker's funk. He unscrewed the PVC cap, dropped the Cuervo bottle into the tube, and screwed the cap back on. Frankie shoved the PVC tube back into its hole, and scraped debris back over the tube cap. He looked pensively at the result, then grabbed a paper cup, scooped water from the toilet, and sprinkled water over the disturbed dirt until he couldn't tell any difference from its moldy surroundings. Time to celebrate. He took a small nip from the remaining bottle. I thought so, doesn't have any more kick.
Frankie found some soap and showered and shaved. The rusty razor blade nicked him several times before he was done. He chuckled as the cuts snapped shut.
His clothes were all soiled. He wrapped everything in a sheet and walked outside and over to the laundry room trailer, then paced back and forth naked until the machines were finished and he could put on clean pants and shirt.
Once back in his trailer Frankie's body commanded him to take a nap. It's like the install needs to be completed, he thought, drifting off. The banging on his door woke him up. "Frankie, get your skinny ass out of bed."
Frankie opened the door to see Bernice, sweating in the desert heat. "Jesus, Frankie, its eleven in the morning. I got news. Come over to the diner."
The diner's air conditioning whacked Frankie as he entered. Goose bumps started popping, but within two seconds they disappeared and he felt comfortable. Man, I got a professional grade thermostat now.
"Talk to me, Bernice."
"Okay, I made some calls while you were passed out. Nobody believed me, but one guy, Harry Crispen, owes me a favor and says we can seem him at three. Then I fired up the lap top and put in some search words. Frankie, you wouldn't believe how many thousands of flaky web sites there are. But I asked some questions on a couple sites that looked sane."
"You didn't tell them where we are did you?"
"Come on, I'm the smart one, remember? I just lurked. Well, maybe a hint or two. We gotta go if we're going to make the meeting on time."
"Where'd you set it up?"
"A little restaurant I know. Crispen should be there."
Frank Witt Dossier, DEA excerpt: None of the interrogated adult males reputed to be part of Mr. Harry Crispen's crime organization admitted to knowing Ms. Stanton and Mr. Witt, nor of any involvement in drug trafficking. In sum, they admitted nothing at all.
 
The restaurant was little, with only nine tables. At three p.m. the only people in the restaurant were a waiter and two large, seated men. Frankie focused in on them. Late thirties, fat packed on muscle. Shirts hanging out over their pot bellies. Careless, they're not checking to see if anybody else is around.
Bernice and Frankie sat down wordlessly.
"You Bernice?"
"Yeah. Where's Harry?"
The talker of the pair tapped back half a glassful."Harry sent us, says you gotta convince us before  he'll talk to you. Where's the weird drink? And who's the drunk?"
"He's Frankie. And it's real. We got a drink makes you feel like you're screwing a seventeen year old cheerleader. And not only that. Show em Frankie."
"Hello." Frankie said. "Watch this." He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out the folding knife. Both men moved their right hands under their drooping shirts and belly flab.
Bernice let out a strained laugh. "No, no, relax. This is a demonstration."
Frankie slowly opened the knife and sliced a one inch cut in his forearm. He turned the forearm so both men had a good view. They watched as, in less than three seconds, the bleeding stopped and the wound closed. "We think it's permanent," Bernice said. "One drink and you're set. I knew Harry would doubt me, so I told him he could down the shot and pay me five large when he sees that it works."
Two burly necks twisted as they glanced at each other. The talker answered. "Harry says different. He says you give us the shot of this stuff for free. He likes it, he talks to you about how much you get when you give him the rest."
Bernice kept his eyes on the two men, but she could feel Frankie's smoldering presence. "That's not what he said. I'll call Harry again and explain things. Don't take it the wrong way, but no deal."
The talker leaned forward and backhanded Bernice across the face, splitting her lip. "Look bitch, we're doing it our way, or you're going to take a beating you won't be able to heal from."
Frankie leaned forward, taking the mini bottle out of his pocket and showing it. "Look guys, let's just talk." As he was saying this, he grabbed a plate from the table top and slammed it into the talker's mouth. The plate snapped in half and Frankie swung the jagged edge across the mute's throat.
"Holy frig!" Bernice yelled, jumping backwards.
The two obese men fell out of their chairs and hit the floor. Frankie grabbed his own chair and bounced it off the two men's heads. "This didn't work out so well, Bernice." He unscrewed the mini and drank it. "Not for you, suckers."
The waiter had run back into the kitchen. The two fat men on the floor weren't moving. Bernice's eyes swung back and forth "Are they dead? Harry's gonna kill us both."
"Don't think they are. We've got a few minutes before the cops come. Go through their pockets."
"Huh?"
"Chances are they brought the money just in case."
 
Bernice dropped to her knees, rolled the fat mute guy over and found his back-pocket wallet. "Must be three, four large here."
"Great. What about our other buddy?"
She crawled over to the other man, trying to ignore his splintered teeth, and reached down into his front pockets. "Got it. Exactly five grand. And they're both breathing."
"Check the back pockets too. He'll have money on his ass."
She found the wallet. "Yeah, another couple thousand. Here's all the money."
"Peel two grand off the top. That's for you. Okay, we gotta go." He took the rest of the money, then helped Bernice up, taking her arm as they walked to the car. "I'll drive."
Ten minutes into the drive Frankie glanced over at her. "Harry's people will be at your diner in a few hours. Repack your trousseau into the hope chest, we need to leave before they get there."
"They'll trash the place."
"You insured?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
As Frankie began to crest the last hill before the diner and trailer park he spotted two SUVs parked in front of the closed diner, and three men in suits standing near the door. "You expecting anybody?"
"Nope."
"Suits in the desert. It's looking like Uncle Sam wants me. You must have gone True Confession on the web sites. I'll stay hid up here and watch you walk down like a beauty contestant."
"You abandoning me?"
"No way. But you can find out what they want. Go ahead and tell them the truth, except for the part about robbing Crispen's men. I’ll figure some way to get the car back to you."
The four suits circled Bernice as she approached her diner.
"Bernice Stanton?"
"Yeah?"
"We need to ask you some questions about your web search last night. The product you described falls under national security guidelines."
"And who the hell are you?"
The three men flashed identity cards.
"They look different from each other."
"Joint task force, NSA, FBI, DEA, agents Withersi, Haunchez and Greune. How did you get here?"
"My chauffeur just quit."
The men exchanged glances, but knew they had no real chance of finding a driver in an unknown car. The shortest guy spoke. "Shall we talk inside?"
Twenty minutes after the questioning had begun, the diner's wall phone rang."
"Okay if I answer that? Might be important."
"Okay."
Bernice got up, walked behind the bar, and picked up the phone. It was Frankie.
"Hi sweetie. Put one of them on, please."
"She turned to them."It's for you."
The FBI man in the middle got up, walked over, and took the phone from her. "Hello?"
"I'm the guy who drank the stuff. I'll do something for you, but you've got to do something for me."
"Keep talking."
"In maybe a half hour, a car full of large men will pull in and begin to threaten Bernice. If you hide in the kitchen with no lights on you'll be able to see and hear their threats, so you can arrest them for assault. They work for Harry Crispen. I'll give you what you want, but you make very sure that Harry knows to lay off. She gets hurt, you get nothing."
"And you're jerking me around. Come back here so we can talk."
"You looked sweet in that dark suit, but I don't think you're my type."
"Where's the substance? What's your name?"
"I'll call back in a couple hours. If Bernice tells me you took care of the posse, I'll tell her where you should look.  Put Bernice back on, please."
"Frankie?"
"Sweetie listen. Tell these guys everything you know. Everything. Chances are they'll eventually drug you and get the answers anyway. They're supposed to take care of Crispen's goons for you. I'll call back in a couple hours and make sure they did. Then I'll tell you where I put the Cuervo bottle.  I called a TV station and tipped them that federal agents were arresting perps at your bar. They'll maybe get there before I call. Busy, busy, gotta run. Later."
"Frankie? Frankie?" She dropped the phone back onto its hook.
"Okay," she said, "here's the whole story, no crap."
Forty five minutes later a silver gray Escalade pulled into the lot. Four men got out and walked into the diner. Twenty minutes later the four same men were escorted out in handcuffs and put, two apiece, into back seats. The TV crew had just arrived, and, with no access to the diner and no real idea was going on, began filming the squirming men in handcuffs.
When the phone rang the DEA agent picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Hello of Hello and Company? Aren't you  supposed to announce yourself as Agent Sterling of the Incorruptible Agency?"
"Don't try and goad me, we've still got your girlfriend."
"Oh, yeah, her. Put Bernice on, please."
The agent balked. "Where is it?"
"Ah, so something's checked out for you. In good time, once I've talked with her. It won't take long."
The agent waved Bernice over and held the phone away from her ear so he could listen in.
"Frankie?"
"Are Crispen's thugs taken care of?"
"Yeah."
"Is agent man breathing heavily on your cheek?"
"Yeah, but he's an Altoids addict."
"Good, a conference call. Okay Mr. Fed, the TV lice have been given Bernice's name, and warned that you'll try and kidnap her. I've retained a lawyer who'll be calling Ms. Stanton shortly to make sure that her civil rights aren't being violated.
"Really, Frankie?"
"Yeah, Johnny Beckdahl, that the bail bondsmen use. Okay, a deal's a deal. You guys agree with the lawyer that Bernice is free to resume her normal activities. He tells me you've agreed, in writing, Bernice will tell you where the slimy salvation is."
"Look, Mr. Witt, don't make it hard. Turn yourself in, it'll go easier on you and her."
"Do they still teach you guys to say that? I don't think I've committed a crime. Thank you for your help with the heavies, now please back away from the phone.
"Bernice, is he out of ear shot?"
She pressed the phone more tightly to her ear. "Yeah."
"I buried the Cuervo bottle in a tube next to the drain pipe under my trailer. The lawyer will hopefully keep you from being drugged. Keep 'em dancing for a couple weeks if you can."
"Sure. The young guy reeks of stud, should be pleasant."
Bernice hung up, smiling, and turned to the agents. "I'm going to go talk to the TV crew now. If you stop me I'll scream—thin walls, they'll hear me fine. Don't worry, I'm just going to praise you for collaring the four guys. If the phone rings it'll be my lawyer. Just ask him to hang on a minute till I get back in."

Frank Witt Dossier, FBI excerpt: On day three of the investigation Mr. Witt's trailer and its contents were deconstructed into small pieces. The ground underneath was excavated to a depth of five feet. A full bottle was discovered next to the drain pipe, but was revealed to contain only alcohol.

Four months later, Bernice was briefing her bartender and wait staff when the bar phone rang. The bartender made a move for the phone, but Bernice waved him off.
"Bernice's."
"Are you just as nicely packed as ever?"
"You son of a bitch! Abandoning me like that!"
"I hear the diner cash register wore out."
"Yeah, we've been full ever since the arrest, mob groupies and weirdos, and they pay, not like you."
"Sweetie, listen. The Feds will have this line tapped, so I'm not going to tell them anything they don't already know. Did you ever get it on with the young stud?"
"Nah, he was too married. You owe me a shot of the good stuff."
"Something else I'm going to have to welsh on. They'll pinch me if I try and see you, so we'll have to have phone sex." Frankie cleared his throat.
"I thought it out, Bernice. You were right. Giving away the tonic would have not only amputated my future income, it would've created competition. I drank it all. It's done—things—to me, mostly good, some not."
"You okay, you liar?"
"Yeah, thanks. I've got to finish under their trace time, so listen up. I found a corporate protector that treats me like a medical superhero, uses my flesh and fluids for research and treatment. I'm a self-healing golden goose, providing the company with heaps of money. They also sell bits of me to the government, which keeps the feds less unhappy."
"So you guzzled down my shot."
"Yeah, sorry. But look under the rubber mat for serving drinks. There's an envelope for you."
"Wait a sec…. Damn, Frankie, that's really my account?"
"It's twenty percent, like we said. Deposits every month from an offshore account." His voice changed. "And if you Feds dick with it I'll cut off your supply of me." His voice softened. "I miss you sweetie, but some of the weirdos post pictures of you on line, so I can see you're doing okay."
"Frankie?"
"I know."

Frank Witt Dossier, Joint Task Force excerpt: Bernice Stanton had been kept under tight surveillance for seven months when she eluded operatives and disappeared for two weeks. She returned with a deep total body tan and a cheerful demeanor but no explanation to friends, staff or federal informers as to where she had been. No trace of the liquid or Mr. Witt has thus far been found.

Good Company

By Ed Ahern



Frank retreated from the house into the back yard, his eyes wet. I should’ve told her, “Ashley, I’m not lazy or weak, quit picking at me. It only hurts me, and doesn’t help you.” But instead, I backed off. She’s carving pieces off me every time we argue.
He bagged up hedge cuttings and grass clippings and stuffed the bags into the back of their vintage SUV. The drive to the town dump took fifteen minutes, most of which Frank spent staring towards a visualized Ashley. She’d been slender when they married, but with the hint of coming fullness. Instead, she’d puckered and soured into a caricature.
He dumped off the clippings, being careful to remove every trace of plant and dirt. Ashley would inspect the car later that day.
The access road to the dump went past the town dog pound, which in over thirty visits Frank had barely noticed. But this day he pulled into the small parking lot and went in. The man behind the desk was comfortably frumpy. “Looking for a pet?”
Ashley hated the idea of an animal making a mess of her house, and had refused to consider getting one. “Yeah, maybe. Could I look at the dogs?”
The attendant opened a counter-weighted metal door, pointing Frank onto a gangway with ten cages on each side. The yapping and howling made talking impossible, and the man just waved for him to go down the line of cages.
The dog in cage eleven didn’t bark, just padded slowly toward Frank and stared at him. The dark brown eyes were calm, the body posture loose. They studied each other as if it were a first date. He walked back out through intensified barking and baying.
“What can you tell me about cage eleven?”
“Which one is that?”
“Wolfy-looking black and gray shepherd.”
He went to a card file. The desk top computer apparently was there for show. “Yeah, we’d been trying to trap that one for months. Wily devil, kept eluding the guys. Unaltered male, maybe 85 pounds, maybe three years old. Nobody has gone for him, and he’s scheduled to be put down at the end of the week. You want him, you have to sign that you’ll get him his shots and remove his testicles, plus pay us twenty-three dollars.”
“Let me think about it.”
Frank knew he couldn’t get a dog; he already had too many problems. Big dog, big food bill, die by the time he’s ten or eleven. Looks like a shedder. No collar or tags when they trapped him, could be wild. Ashley will rip me up. Bad idea, Frank.
He broached the possibility that evening. “Honey, I’m thinking about our getting a dog.”
Ashley flipped open her verbal knives. “You’re an idiot. We don’t have the money to repair my car and you want to get a dog. And who would take care of it- me, probably, because you don’t take care of anything on a regular basis, not the yard, not fixing things around the house, for sure not me. Once you get a job and make enough money to feed us you can talk to me about getting a dog.”
Her cuts stung and Frank shut up. But the next day he drove back to the dog pound. “Can I go in his cage and see how the dog and I get along?”
“No, but I’ll put a choke leash on him and you can walk him around the exercise cage.”
The animal was densely furred, with a thick mane. It moved with feral grace and not a dog’s self-consciousness. It neither recoiled from Frank nor fawned on him, but took his pats and stroking calmly, as if its due, as if it knew that Frank gained as much as it did.
The dog held eye contact with Frank like few people had done in his life, his father perhaps a few times, a boyhood friend now gone away. Frank slipped the leash off its neck and the dog held its position at his side. “When is it being put down?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Bad idea, walk away. “I’ll take it.”
Ashley was at work when Frank brought the dog home. He expected it to sniff through every open room, but it held its position next to him, pacing with him from living room to kitchen to Frank’s cubbyhole office, where it lay at his feet.
Both man and dog were watching television when Ashley returned home. Frank noticed clumps of gray fur on the egg shell carpeting, and hoped Ashley wouldn’t.
“Frank! How could you? Get that goddamn dog out of my house!”
Frank had jumped, but the shepherd merely raised its head. “He’s a good dog, Ashley, he’ll protect us.”
“Bullshit. I told you not to get it. Take it back. If you don’t, I’ll call the police and have them take it back.”
Frank felt like he’d waded into an ebbing surf, with the sand running out from under his feet. He glanced over at the shepherd and felt the bottom firm. “I don’t think so, Ashley. The neighbors would see the cops come and I’d make sure to tell them all about it.” He started speaking faster, forcing his ideas to be heard before Ashley shredded them.
“Let’s give it a couple weeks before we decide, it’ll be companionship for me while you’re at work, look at it, it’ll make a good watch dog…”
“No pets! We agreed. Keep to your word for a change. You’ll just get to love it and it’ll die. You take it back first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, stick it in the basement.” She stood breathing heavily, arms still waving, as if she’d semaphored her orders.
Frank realized that his shoulders slumped and straightened up. “I’m not going to argue with you, Ashley, but I want to keep it. I’ll sleep in the living room tonight, along with the dog.”
The skin was stretched tautly over Ashley’s facial bones. “You soft-dicked little parasite, you can’t even afford the dog food. If it wasn’t so much trouble I’d of dumped you years ago. But it’s not too late.”
The dog had remained crouched next to Frank, its hackles unraised. Apparently arguments between humans were of no concern. Ashley prepared her own supper, as did Frank after she’d left the kitchen. Without speaking again, it was understood that the upstairs was hers, and Frank could only briefly visit to retrieve clean clothing and brush his teeth.
Frank sat back down and pointed his eyes at the television. The words were drowned by the roar in his ears, and the images flickered without comprehension.
Shortly before midnight he realized that the dog needed to go out. The dog sensed Frank’s purpose almost before he reached for the leash, and put its head next to his leg. The night was overcast and dark, the dog a well camouflaged blur at the end of the line.
It held close to Frank, putting no strain at all on the leash, following his lead like a dance partner. Maybe Ashley is right. I can’t even buy this dog a bed. It was wild before, maybe I could just let it go, and say the collar was too loose. It’ll probably run away, but if it stays it’s meant to be.
He stepped over to the dog, reached down and unsnapped the collar. “Your call, buddy. You stay with me, I keep you. You run off, we’re both back where we were.”
The dog looked intently at Frank, but didn’t move. Then it loped off to sniff a neighbor’s yard. That’s that, it’s gone. But as Frank turned to walk away it bounded back over to him, and paced with him down the sidewalk.
The animal strode with a grace that stumpy-legged humans lack, and ran like God or nature meant running to be, the paws invisible, the muscles beautifully flexed. Frank realized that he’d brought the dog back into its element, into the night when it hunted. He realized that while the dog was with him, he need fear nothing, for it would frighten away any coyote or robber.
They moved together for two hours, the animal disappearing into darkness and reappearing like a second shadow. That’s it, I’ll call you Shadow. “Time to go back, Shadow” He repeated the name all the way back to the house, but the dog had seemed to recognize its title from the first utterance.
Frank set an alarm early enough to make peace-offering coffee for Ashley, but she came downstairs already dressed for the office, and blew through the living room and out the front door while slinging barbs. “That animal stinks. You take it back or get out of my house, both of you. You’re actually gone beyond useless to harmful…”
He walked the dog in the post-dawn sunshine on a leash so it wouldn’t frighten the neighbors. He drank three cups of coffee, his increasingly caffeinated nerves clamoring that he prepare for what seemed inevitable, that Ashley would throw him out. Frank made a telephone call.
“Collin? Frank. Yeah, listen, things aren’t going so good here, and I need to get some work. Are you still looking for people for your landscaping crews?.. I know it’s minimum wage, but I’ve got to earn some cash… Thanks Collin. Oh, and I’m going to need a cheap place to stay, one that takes pets…. That much, huh? What do you know about the shelter at Operation Hope?.. No pets?…. Thanks Collin, it would only be until I got on my feet, and I’d be glad to pay you something.”
Frank was scared but focused, like a parachutist must feel right after he’d jumped from a plane. He carried his clean clothes downstairs and stacked them in unusually neat piles, then stuffed his dirty clothes into a plastic trash bag. He made a few more phone calls, and then took Shadow into wooded acreage near their house.
Frank slipped the leash, and Shadow immediately caught the scent of something and loped off. It glided without a snag through the brambled underbrush and disappeared. Frank stood still in awe. How wasted its grace is on flat lawns and sidewalks.
He waited ten minutes before beginning to worry, and was about to call the dog when the underbrush rustled to his left, the opposite direction from which Shadow had disappeared. A spike horn deer burst out of the thicket, almost running into Frank in its panicked flight. Shadow streamed behind it, blurred and almost soundless, and was gone again. The two animals had transited past him in under three seconds.
Frank waited five more minutes and started calling Shadow. He’d yelled the name a dozen times before Shadow loped back into sight, panting almost uncontrollably. There was no blood on his muzzle, so presumably the deer had escaped. But Shadow seemed content. He’d
committed every muscle fiber, every nerve twitch possible to the chase, and had lost his prey. But there seemed to be no disappointment, no chagrin, only an exhausted satisfaction with the effort. Frank snapped the leash back on and they walked slowly home.
Ashley burst into the house at five thirty, glaring at them both. Shadow made no move toward her, seeming to sense that anything it did would be misinterpreted. Just like me, Frank thought.
Her voice was ominously calm. “I talked to a lawyer today. You’ve finally broken my patience. You’ve moving out, right now. This is my house, my car, I make the payments on both of them. You get nothing, and good riddance.
Frank surprised himself. He was resigned to the probable doom of his marriage, emotionally distancing himself far enough that Ashley’s knives could barely touch him. “Ashley, I’ve checked with some guys who’ve gotten divorced. This is a community property state. Fifty-fifty. Plus you’ll have to provide support while I find a job. I won’t even have to argue much about it.”
Shadow sidled nearer to him as he spoke. Ashley stared at the two males, then the piles of clothes. She began to silently cry, then angrily wiped off the tears. Frank couldn’t recall ever having seen her cry.
“Get out of my house or I’ll call the police!”
Frank squeezed his lips together in a hard smile. “Good luck with that. I haven’t abused you and am not a drunk. The cops will be men with a few marital issues of their own. I’ll have their sympathy.”
Ashley’s arms flailed while she searched for the words that would rebind Frank to her. None came. “Don’t come near me, you or that insect-riddled beast. If you can’t behave like my husband, I want you out of my house, my life.”
For just a second Frank saw Ashley as he’d hoped for when they got married. But the vision withered back into caricature. Frank glanced at the laying dog and with a jolt realized that Ashley was staring at caricatures as well, of an ineffectual and parasitic mate and a dangerous looking animal that violated the purity of her house. His voice softened.
“Ashley, there’s no point anymore in hurting each other. Let’s just kill the marriage and divide up the carcass. I won’t be gluttonous. I’ll move out as soon as I can.”
They stood three feet apart, sparring distance. It’d been three months since Frank had touched Ashley with suggestive affection. He’d been rebuffed then, and was sure she would reject him again.
They cohabitated for another two weeks as the marital glue slowly leaked out of the house. Frank moved out when Ashley was at work, leaving a note- ‘I’ll Call If I’ve Forgotten Anything. F.’
Collin was already divorced and sympathetic, although he’d been ditched because of serial philandering. “Frank, I know a couple of divorced women I can put you in touch with.”
Frank realized that he was being offered Collin’s culls. “No thanks, Coll, I’m not ready for dating, besides, I’m still married.”
“Who’s talking about dating? You really are out of touch. Take an example from that dog of yours- he’d hump any bitch in heat.”
Collin had that part wrong. Despite the vet’s encouragement and his signed commtment, Frank had left Shadow unaltered. But even though genitally intact, Shadow hadn’t expressed sexual interest in other dogs, male or female. Two celibates abstaining without understanding why. Or maybe I understand too well.
The landscaping work suited Frank, who had an eye for garden layouts. He began taking side jobs, and then started up his own business, buying a used truck and equipment in installment payments.
Shadow usually came with him on a job. He would lay unleashed next to Frank and move back and forth with him. The dog made human and animal friends easily, and Frank was convinced that he was given at least some of his work because customers trusted a man that a dog trusted.
Ashley called one evening. It was the last married conversation they had without lawyers present. “Frank, you’re being crazy. All this expense and work. Just get rid of the dog and we can try to put thing back the way they were.”
The way things were. When did the absence of pain become a pleasure? “Ashley, I wish, I wish we’d done thing differently. But we contorted ourselves into something unsustainable. Let’s just let the process grind.”



After the divorce, Frank moved from Collin’s house to a rooming house that accepted pets, then to a larger apartment that he furnished mostly with customer cast offs. Five years slid past without seeing Ashley.
Until the post-funeral luncheon for a former neighbor. They came face to face in the swirling body surge of the reception.
“Hello, Frank. I see you still fit into the same suit. How’s the landscaping business?”
“Ashley. You look good, a little more filled out than when we were together.”
“It’s because I don’t worry as much.”
“I heard you got remarried. Did he come?”
Ashley waved her arm. “He’s over there, trying to sell insurance.”
Frank could see former neighbors watching them, waiting for the fireworks. “I, I think you did the right thing to divorce me.”
“Cost me enough.”
“I wonder sometimes if we’d had survived by having a honeymoon yelling and screaming argument and then wrestling down onto the couch. Or if you’d have just had me arrested.”
Ashley was silent for a few seconds. “I still get mad at you sometimes. I assumed you sat around without a job just to piss me off. I hear you live together with that dog better than you did with me. How is the hair ball?”


“You were right, he died young. Lung cancer. I had him put down a month ago.” His lips pursed in a sad smile. “I wouldn’t let them handle Shadow after he was injected. Picked him up and carried him out to the truck myself. Then drove it into the woods and buried him in a hidden grave. He would have liked that.”
“So what now, another dog? A trophy wife? Guess you can afford her now.”
“Don’t think so. One wife, one dog. Figure that’s enough bittersweet leavening. Nice seeing you, Ashley.”

Rothschild's Fiddle

By Anton Chekhov

It was a tiny town, worse than a village, inhabited chiefly by old people who so seldom died that it was really vexatious. Very few coffins were needed for the hospital and the jail; in a word, business was bad. If Yakov Ivanov had been a maker of coffins in the county town, he would probably have owned a house of his own by now, and would have been called Mr. Ivanov, but here in this little place he was simply called Yakov, and for some reason his nickname was Bronze. He lived as poorly as any common peasant in a little old hut of one room, in which he and Martha, and the stove, and a double bed, and the coffins, and his joiner's bench, and all the necessities of housekeeping were stowed away.
The coffins made by Yakov were serviceable and strong. For the peasants and townsfolk he made them to fit himself and never went wrong, for, although he was seventy years old, there was no man, not even in the prison, any taller or stouter than he was. For the gentry and for women he made them to measure, using an iron yardstick for the purpose. He was always very reluctant to take orders for children's coffins, and made them contemptuously without taking any measurements at all, always saying when he was paid for them:
"The fact is, I don't like to be bothered with trifles."
Beside what he received for his work as a joiner, he added a little to his income by playing the violin. There was a Jewish orchestra in the town that played for weddings, led by the tinsmith Moses Shakess, who took more than half of its earnings for himself. As Yakov played the fiddle extremely well, especially Russian songs, Shakess used sometimes to invite him to play in his orchestra for the sum of fifty kopeks a day, not including the presents he might receive from the guests. Whenever Bronze took his seat in the orchestra, the first thing that happened to him was that his face grew red, and the perspiration streamed from it, for the air was always hot, and reeking of garlic to the point of suffocation. Then his fiddle would begin to moan, and a double bass would croak hoarsely into his right ear, and a flute would weep into his left. This flute was played by a gaunt, red-bearded Jew with a network of red and blue veins on his face, who bore the name of a famous rich man, Rothschild. This confounded Jew always contrived to play even the merriest tunes sadly. For no obvious reason Yakov little by little began to conceive a feeling of hatred and contempt for all Jews, and especially for Rothschild. He quarrelled with him and abused him in ugly language, and once even tried to beat him, but Rothschild took offense at this, and cried with a fierce look:
"If I had not always respected you for your music, I should have thrown you out of the window long ago!"
Then he burst into tears. So after that Bronze was not often invited to play in the orchestra, and was only called upon in cases of dire necessity, when one of the Jews was missing.
Yakov was never in a good humor, because he always had to endure the most terrible losses. For instance, it was a sin to work on a Sunday or a holiday, and Monday was always a bad day, so in that way there were about two hundred days a year in which he was compelled to sit with his hands folded in his lap. That was a great loss to him. If any one in town had a wedding without music, or if Shakess did not ask him to play, there was another loss. The police inspector had lain ill with consumption for two years while Yakov impatiently waited for him to die, and then had gone to take a cure in the city and had died there, which of course had meant another loss of at least ten rubles, as the coffin would have been an expensive one lined with brocade.
The thought of his losses worried Yakov at night more than at any other time, so he used to lay his fiddle at his side on the bed, and when those worries came trooping into his brain he would touch the strings, and the fiddle would give out a sound in the darkness, and Yakov's heart would feel lighter.
Last year on the sixth of May, Martha suddenly fell ill. The old woman breathed with difficulty, staggered in her walk, and felt terribly thirsty. Nevertheless, she got up that morning, lit the stove, and even went for the water. When evening came she went to bed. Yakov played his fiddle all day. When it grew quite dark, because he had nothing better to do, he took the book in which he kept an account of his losses, and began adding up the total for the year. They amounted to more than a thousand rubles. He was so shaken by this discovery that he threw the counting board on the floor and trampled in under foot. Then he picked it up again and rattled it once more for a long time, heaving as he did so sighs both deep and long. His face grew purple, and perspiration dripped from his brow. He was thinking that if those thousand rubles he had lost had been in the bank then, he would have had at least forty rubles interest by the end of the year. So those forty rubles were still another loss! In a word, wherever he turned he found losses and nothing but losses.
"Yakov!" cried Martha unexpectedly, "I am dying!"
He looked round at his wife. Her face was flushed with fever and looked unusually joyful and bright. Bronze was troubled, for he had been accustomed to seeing her pale and timid and unhappy. It seemed to him that she was actually dead, and glad to have left this hut, and the coffins, and Yakov at last. She was staring at the ceiling, with her lips moving as if she saw her deliverer Death approaching and were whispering with him.
The dawn was just breaking and the eastern sky was glowing with a faint radiance. As he stared at the old woman it somehow seemed to Yakov that he had never once spoken a tender word to her or pitied her; that he had never thought of buying her a kerchief or of bringing her back some sweets from a wedding. On the contrary, he had shouted at her and abused her for his losses, and had shaken his fist at her. It was true he had never beaten her, but he had frightened her no less, and she had been paralyzed with fear every time he had scolded her. Yes, and he had not allowed her to drink tea because his losses were heavy enough as it was, so she had had to be content with hot water. Now he understood why her face looked so strangely happy, and horror overwhelmed him.
As soon as it was light he borrowed a horse from a neighbor and took Martha to the hospital. As there were not many patients, he had not to wait very long--only about three hours. To his great satisfaction it was not the doctor who was receiving the sick that day, but his assistant, Maxim Nikolaich, an old man of whom it was said that although he quarreled and drank, he knew more than the doctor did.
"Good morning, Your Honor," said Yakov leading his old woman into the office. "Excuse us for intruding upon you with our trifling affairs. As you see, this subject has fallen ill. My life's friend, if you will allow me to use the expression----"
Knitting his gray eyebrows and stroking his whiskers, the doctor's assistant fixed his eyes on the old woman. She was sitting all in a heap on a low stool, and with her thin, long-nosed face and her open mouth, she looked like a thirsty bird.
"Well, well-yes--" said the doctor slowly, heaving a sigh. "This is a case of influenza and possibly fever; there is typhoid in town. What's to be done? The old woman has lived her span of years, thank God. How old is she?"
"She lacks one year of being seventy, Your Honor."
"Well, well, she has lived long. There must come an end to everything."
"You are certainly right, Your Honor," said Yakov, smiling out of politeness. "And we thank you sincerely for your kindness, but allow me to suggest to you that even an insect dislikes to die!"
"Never mind if it does!" answered the doctor, as if the life or death of the old woman lay in his hands. "I'll tell you what you must do, my good man. Put a cold bandage around her head, and give her two of these powders a day. Now then, good-bye! Bonjour!"
Yakov saw by the expression on the doctor's face that it was too late now for powders. He realized clearly that Martha must die very soon, if not today, then tomorrow. He touched the doctor's elbow gently, blinked, and whispered:
"She ought to be cupped, doctor!"
"I haven't time, I haven't time, my good man. Take your old woman and go, in God's name. Good-bye."
"Please, please, cup her, doctor!" begged Yakov. "You know yourself that if she had a pain in her stomach, powders and drops would do her good, but she has a cold! The first thing to do when one catches cold is to let some blood, doctor!"
But the doctor had already sent for the next patient, and a woman leading a little boy came into the room.


"Go along, go along!" he cried to Yakov, frowning. "It's no use making a fuss!"
"Then at least put some leeches on her! Let me pray to God for you for the rest of my life!"
The doctor's temper flared up and he shouted:
"Don't say another word to me, blockhead!"
Yakov lost his temper, too, and flushed hotly, but he said nothing and, silently taking Martha's arm, led her out of the office. Only when they were once more seated in their wagon did he look fiercely and mockingly at the hospital and say:
"They're a pretty lot in there, they are! That doctor would have cupped a rich man, but he even begrudged a poor one a leech. The pig!"
When they returned to the hut, Martha stood for nearly ten minutes supporting herself by the stove. She felt that if she lay down Yakov would begin to talk to her about his losses, and would scold her for lying down and not wanting to work. Yakov contemplated her sadly, thinking that tomorrow was St. John the Baptist's day, and day after tomorrow was St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker's day, and that the following day would be Sunday, and the day after that would be Monday, a bad day for work. So he would not be able to work for four days, and as Martha would probably die on one of these days, the coffin would have to be made at once. He took his iron yardstick in hand, went up to the old woman, and measured her. Then she lay down, and he crossed himself and went to work on the coffin.
When the task was completed Bronze put on his spectacles and wrote in his book:
"For 1 coffin for Martha Ivanov--2 rubles, 40 kopeks."
He sighed. All day the old woman lay silent with closed eyes, but toward evening, when the daylight began to fade, she suddenly called the old man to her side.
"Do you remember, Yakov?" she asked. "Do you remember how fifty years ago God gave us a little baby with curly golden hair? Do you remember how you and I used to sit on the bank of the river and sing songs under the willow tree?" Then with a bitter smile she added: "The baby died."
Yakov racked his brains, but for the life of him he could not recall the child or the willow tree.
"You are dreaming," he said.
The priest came and administered the Sacrament and Extreme Unction. Then Martha began muttering unintelligibly, and toward morning she died.
The neighboring old women washed her and dressed her, and laid her in her coffin. To avoid paying the deacon, Yakov read the psalms over her himself, and her grave cost him nothing as the watchman of the cemetery was his cousin. Four peasants carried the coffin to the grave, not for money but for love. The old women, the beggars, and two village idiots followed the body, and the people whom they passed on the way crossed themselves devoutly. Yakov was very glad that everything had passed off so nicely and decently and cheaply, without giving offense to any one. As he said farewell to Martha for the last time he touched the coffin with his hand and thought:
"That's a fine job!"
But walking homeward from the cemetery he was seized with great distress. He felt ill, his breath was burning hot, his legs grew weak, and he longed for a drink. Beside this, a thousand thoughts came crowding into his head. He remembered again that he had never once pitied Martha or said a tender word to her. The fifty years of their life together lay stretched far, far behind him, and somehow, during all that time, he had never once thought about her at all or noticed her more than if she had been a dog or a cat. And vet she had lit the stove every day, and had cooked and baked and fetched water and chopped wood, and when he had come home drunk from a wedding she had hung his fiddle reverently on a nail each time, and had silently put him to bed with a timid, anxious look on her face.
But here came Rothschild toward him, bowing and scraping and smiling.
"I have been looking for you, uncle!" he said. "Moses Shakess presents his compliments and wants you to go to him at once."
Yakov did not feel in a mood to do anything. He wanted to crv.
"Leave me alone!" he exclaimed, and walked on.
"Oh, how can you say that?" cried Rothschild, running beside him in alarm. "Moses will be very angry. He wants you to come at once!"
Yakov was disgusted by the panting of the Jew, by his blinking eves, and by the quantities of reddish freckles on his face. He looked with aversion at his long green coat and at the whole of his frail, delicate figure.
"What do you mean by pestering me, garlic?" he shouted. "Get away!"
The Jew grew angry and shouted back:
"Don't yell at me like that or I'll send you flying over that fence!"
"Get out of my sight!" bellowed Yakov, shaking his fist at him. "There's no living in the same town with mangy curs like you!"
Rothschild was petrified with terror. He sank to the ground and waved his hands over his head as if to protect himself from falling blows; then he jumped up and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. As he ran he leaped and waved his arms, and his long, gaunt back could be seen quivering. The little boys were delighted at what had happened, and ran after him screaming: "Jew, Jew!" The dogs also joined barking in the chase. Somebody laughed and then whistled, at which the dogs barked louder and more vigorously than ever.
Then one of them must have bitten Rothschild, for a piteous, despairing scream rent the air.
Yakov walked across the common to the edge of the town without knowing where he was going, and the little boys shouted after him. "There goes old man Bronze! There goes old man Bronze!" He found himself by the river where the snipe were darting about with shrill cries, and the ducks were quacking and swimming to and fro. The sun was shining fiercely and the water was sparkling so brightly that it was painful to look at. Yakov struck into a path that led along the riverbank. lIe came to a stout, red-checked woman just leaving a bath-house. "Aha, you otter, you!" he thought. Not far from the bath-house some little boys were fishing for crabs with pieces of meat. When they saw Yakov they shouted mischievously: "Old man Bronze! Old man Bronze!" But there before him stood an ancient, spreading willow tree with a massive trunk, and a crow's nest among its branches. Suddenly there flashed across Yakov's memory with all the vividness of life a little child with golden curls, and the willow of which Martha had spoken. Yes, this was the same tree, so green and peaceful and sad. How old it had grown, poor thing!
He sat down at its foot and thought of the past. On the opposite shore, where that meadow now was, there had stood in those days a wood of tall birch-trees, and that bare hill on the horizon yonder had been covered with the blue bloom of an ancient pine forest. And sailboats had plied the river then, but now all lay smooth and still, and only one little birch-tree was left on the opposite bank, a graceful young thing, like a girl, while on the river there swam only ducks and geese. It was hard to believe that boats had once sailed there. It even seemed to him that there were fewer geese now than there had been. Yakov shut his eyes, and one by one white geese came flying toward him, an endless flock.
He was puzzled to know why he had never once been down to the river during the last forty or fifty years of his life, or, if he had been there, why he had never paid any attention to it. The stream was fine and large; he might have fished in it and sold the fish to the merchants and the government officials and the restaurant-keeper at the station, and put the money in the bank. He might have rowed in a boat from farm to farm and played on his fiddle. People of every rank would have paid him money to hear him. He might have tried to run a boat on the river, that would have been better than making coffins. Finally, he might have raised geese, and killed them, and sent them to Moscow in the winter. Why, the down alone would have brought him ten rubles a year! But he had missed all these chances and had done nothing. What losses were here! Ah, what terrible losses! And, oh, if he had only done all these things at the same time! If he had only fished, and played the fiddle, and sailed a boat, and raised geese, what capital he would have had by now! But he had not even dreamed of doing all this; his life had gone by without profit or pleasure. It had been lost for nothing, not even a trifle. Nothing was left ahead; behind lay only losses, and such terrible losses that he shuddered to think of them. But why shouldn't men live so as to avoid all this waste and these losses? Why, oh why, should those birch and pine forests have been felled? Why should those meadows be lying so deserted? Why did people always do exactly what they ought not to do? Why had Yakov scolded and growled and clenched his fists and hurt his wife's feelings all his life? Why, oh why, had he frightened and insulted that Jew just now? Why did people in general always interfere with one another? What losses resulted from this! What terrible losses! If it were not for envy and anger they would get great profit from one another.
All that evening and night Yakov dreamed of the child, of the willow tree, of the fish and the geese, of Martha with her profile like a thirsty bird, and of Rothschild's pale, piteous mien. Queer faces seemed to be moving toward him from all sides, muttering to him about his losses. He tossed from side to side, and got up five times during the night to play his fiddle.
He rose with difficulty next morning, and walked to the hospital. The same doctor's assistant ordered him to put cold bandages on his head, and gave him little powders to take; by his expression and the tone of his voice Yakov knew that the state of affairs was bad, and that no powders could save him now. As he walked home he reflected that one good thing would result from his death: he would no longer have to eat and drink and pay taxes, neither would he offend people anymore, and, as a man lies in his grave for hundreds of thousands of years, the sum of his profits would be immense. So, life to a man was a loss--death, a gain. Of course this reasoning was correct, but it was also distressingly sad. Why should the world be so strangely arranged that a man's life, which was only given to him once, must pass without profit?
He was not sorry then that he was going to die, but when he reached home, and saw his fiddle, his heart ached, and he regretted it deeply. He would not be able to take his fiddle with him into the grave, and now it would be left an orphan, and its fate would be that of the birch grove and the pine forest. Everything in the world had been lost, and would always be lost for ever. Yakov went out and sat on the threshold of his hut, clasping his fiddle to his breast. And as he thought of his life so full of waste and losses he began playing without knowing how piteous and touching his music was, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. And the more he thought the more sorrowfully sang his violin.
The latch clicked and Rothschild came in through the garden gate, and walked boldly halfway across the garden. Then he suddenly stopped, crouched down, and, probably from fear, began making signs with his hands as if he were trying to show on his fingers what time it was.
"Come on, don't be afraid!" said Yakov gently, beckoning him to advance. "Come on!"
With many mistrustful and fearful glances Rothschild went slowly up to Yakov, and stopped about two yards away.
"Please don't beat me!" he said with a ducking bow. "Moses Shakess has sent me to you again. 'Don't be afraid,' he said, 'go to Yakov,' says he, 'and say that we can't possibly manage without him.' There is a wedding next Thursday. Ye-es sir. Mr. Shapovalov is marrying his daughter to a very fine man. It will be an expensive wedding, ai, ai!" added the Jew with a wink.
"I can't go" said Yakov breathing hard. "I'm ill, brother."
And he began to play again, and the tears gushed out of his eyes over his fiddle. Rothschild listened intently with his head turned away and his arms folded on his breast. The startled, irresolute look on his face gradually gave way to one of suffering and grief. He cast up his eyes as if in an ecstasy of agony and murmured: "Okh-okh!" And the tears began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, and to drip over his green coat.
All day Yakov lay and suffered. When the priest came in the evening to administer the Sacrament he asked him if he could not think of any particular sin.
Struggling with his fading memories, Yakov recalled once more Martha's sad face, and the despairing cry of the Jew when the dog had bitten him. He murmured almost inaudibly:
"Give my fiddle to Rothschild."
''It shall be done," answered the priest.
So it happened that everyone in the little town began asking:
"Where did Rothschild get that good fiddle? Did he buy it or steal it or get it out of a pawnshop?"
Rothschild has long since abandoned his flute, and now only plays on the violin. The same mournful notes flow from under his bow that used to come from his flute, and when he tries to repeat what Yakov played as he sat on the threshold of his hut, the result is an air so plaintive and sad that everyone who hears him weeps, and he himself at last raises his eyes and murmurs: "Okh-okh!" And this new song has so delighted the town that the merchants and government officials vie with each other in getting Rothschild to come to their houses, and sometimes make him play it ten times in succession.

All I Want Is Kissing You and Music, Music, Music


by Gerald Arthur Winter




It was a rainy, windswept afternoon in Queens, just a hop, skip, and jump across the


Belt Parkway median to Idlewild Airport from the bar where Mack sipped his beer in a dark


corner. He planned to walk over for his flight, but hadn’t counted on such inclement weather.


It was four o’clock, so the bar was scarce of patrons, mostly a blue-collar lot who worked


locally. There were only a couple of airplane hangars at Idelwild back then. Commercial air


flight was a rare privilege only for the rich ‘n’ famous—whoever they were. Mack was neither.


Having come home unscathed after serving four years in World War Two he’d decided


to reenlist and join the fight in a faraway place called Korea. He didn’t know what the fight was


all about, only that President Truman—“Give’m Hell Harry”—said Mack was needed in another


American fight for freedom. Others called it merely “a police action.”


Truman said the buck stopped in an Asian city where American Troops, joined by


United Nations forces, had to protect the “Pusan Perimeter” against the Communist forces


of the North backed by Red China. The world had become a complicated place in the past


decade of the Forties, but at least most folks understood that the Germans, Italians, and


Japs had been the bad guys, dictatorships that had to be stopped. But in the Fifties it was


no longer about one nation against another. It was about something less tangible, which


Mack could only vaguely comprehend called an “ideology.”


With Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito out of the picture, the Chinese under Mao


Zedong and the Soviet’s under Stalin were advocating this dangerous ideology called


“Communism.” They were using their dictatorships to force simple folks like Mack all


over the world to become Communist whether they wanted to or not.


Though merely a concept written in a book a German named Karl Marx had written


called a “manifesto,” none of these Commies had ever attained the worker’s Utopian society


proclaimed by Marx. Instead, they’d convinced their own people that a dictatorship was the


best means to achieve that future end. The workers were promised their perfect society was


at hand in a matter of time. Only a dictator could truly make it happen.


Bull shit! Mack thought listening to the wind howl and sheets of rain pounding


against the front window of Barney’s Bar ‘n’ Grill next to the LIRR tracks. During rush hour


the LIRR express went from Penn Station out to Long Island, but only as far as Massapequa.


Beyond Levitt Town, was considered “the boonies.”


Mack wasn’t one for ideologies and he didn’t like the idea of war, but he no longer


a had place to call come home in America. Sally, the teenager he’d been engaged to in 1942,


had stopped waiting for him to come home from Europe. She married another man, a decent


guy, and they already had two young kids. They’d asked Mack to be their kids’ godfather.


What else could he do? He was always a swell guy in a pinch.


Mack had come home from France all in one piece in 1946—accept maybe for


his mind. He’d put his whole heart into the idea of coming home alive to marry Sally


Thorton and having a station wagon full of kids, girls as pretty as Sally and hardworking


boys like him. A sexist outlook by today’s standards, but that’s just the way it was seventy


years ago. Sally and their life together was all he’d thought about under German gunfire


and American bombs on German cities he’d helped take over for Uncle Sam.


After VE Day he stayed in Paris for over a year until his honorable discharge. Despite


the allure of les jeunes filles de Paris looking for GIs to marry their way into America, Mack had


remained true to Sally and to what he thought, all through life-threatening battles around him,


was their shared dream for the future.


He ordered under nickel beer, a cheap satisfying quench in small glass that took


only three swallows. Then the bar’s front door swung open with a crash against a hat rack,


knocking it to the floor. The wind and rain flushed a petite figure into the bar. Her umbrella


was blown inside out and her lemon-yellow raincoat created a spray toward Mack at the


bar. She spun all the way into his arms where he sat. Her floppy yellow rain hat was soaked.


Breathless, she removed her hat and shook her shoulder-length, auburn coif, spraying Mack’s


face and carrying to his flared nostrils an intriguing wildflower scent.


“Nice entrance,” Mack said with a shy nod, but the feel of her small figure within


his tight grasp embarrassed him as he released her to stand freely on her own, no more


than five-two in heels. Her auburn hair reminded him of Claudette Colbert in some of her


most vamping roles on screen. No vamp, this young woman seemed more shy than Mack.


“I’m sorry if I got you all wet,” she said through her turned-up freckled nose with


a mid-western twang.


“You got a towel back there?” Mack asked with a wave to the bartender, a bald,


burly man who glared at them with a nod to the sign posted near the front door:


No Unescorted Women May Enter This Establishment


“The weather must’ve delayed your bus . . . Sis. How’s Mom ‘n’ Dad?” Mike asked


her with a wink.


The bartender shook his head with displeasure and tossed him a towel that was


already damp and smelled yeasty like his beer—a slop rag to swab the bar top.


“This ain’t no joint for family reunions,” he warned them. “When my reg’lars


show up after five, I’ll want those bar stools empty. Got it, soldier boy?”


She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Whew! That’s a real derecho out there, just


like home.”


“Where’s home?”


“Toledo. Ya know, in A-high-ya.”


“O-hi-o?”


“That’s what I said—A-high-ya.”


“So you did. Are you taking shelter from the squall or is someone meeting you


here?” he asked.


“Both”


“Boyfriend?”


“Business.”


The bartender coughed at the end of the bar.


“What kind a business?” Mack asked, staring down the bartender and feeling sure


his instincts were right about this young woman, just an out-of-towner naïve about the


evil ways of big city life.


“Music.”


“No kiddin’! What do ya play.”


The bartender smacked down The Daily News he was reading, probably thinking


these two were speaking in some kind of code to hook up for the night. With his thumbs


tucked into his waistline, he ambled with his potbelly towards them.


“Is this young lady gonna order somethin’ or are you gonna order it for her?”


“My treat, Sis. What’ll it be.”


“You’re so kind, brother dear. Just a Coke please.”


“Hmm. Figures,” the bartender huffed and brought her a Coke and Mack another


beer.


“Thank you, brother,” she said as they clicked their glasses together. “Cheers. My


name is Teresa, but my friends call me Terri.”


“Here’s to you and your music, Terri. Call me, Mack.”


“Thank you, Mack. What can we give cheers to you for all dressed up in your


Army uniform? Are you coming home or going overseas?”


“I’ve been home a while since the end of the war, but there’s nothing to keep me


here anymore, so I’ve reenlisted and I’m flying out in a couple of hours from Idlewild.”


“Where to?”


“Coupla stops along the way, final destination is the place that’s been in the news


called Ko-re-a.”


“Oh, dear, Mack. Won’t that be dangerous?”


“I guess. Doesn’t matter. Soldiering is all I know. I thought I was comin’ home to


my high school sweetheart to get married as we’d planned and have a bunch a kids. She


married another guy while I was over there in Germany. Said she got tired of waitin’ for me.”


“I’m so sorry, Mack.”


“Thanks. But say, you didn’t tell me what you play. I’ve gotten rusty from carrying


my M-1 rifle instead of my geetar.”


“My instrument is my voice, Mack. I’m a singer.”


“No kiddin’. They pay ya money for that?”


“Not a whole lot yet. But I’m told I’ve got something special.”


“Wow! That’s swell, Terri. Ya carryin’ any sheet music in that pocket book?”


“Yeah, but that’s just for my accompaniment. I can’t read music. I just sing by ear.


Ya know, I just get a feel for it and let ’er rip.”


“Sounds like you’ve got style, Terri. Hey! There’s a jukebox over there in the corner.


If I pay for a record, would you sing along with it. I’d just love to hear ya let ‘er rip.”


“It’s busted!” the bartender shouted from the other end of the bar. “Hasn’t played


in over a year! Why don’t you two take it outside?”


“Aw, come on, barkeep! Give the girl a break.” Mack shouted back. “Can ya sing


a cappella?”


“In here?”


“Sure. I’ll buy ya another Coke, even a sandwich. Are ya hungry? Lemme hear ya


sing, Terri. I’ll carry your song in my heart all the way to Pusan.”


“What’s that?”


“Some city in Ko-re-a needs protectin.’”


“All right, Mack. Only because you’ve been such a kind gentleman.”


“Oh, brother!” the bartender groaned burying his face in the newspaper.


“Tap your foot along with me so I can keep the beat,” she said. “Ready? One-two-


three. Put another nickel in, in the Nickelodeon. All I want is having you and music, music,


music. I’d do anything for you, anything you’d want me to. All I want is kissing you and


music, music, music.”


Terri went on singing for several minutes, which brought the surly bartender to his


feet and with a boyish grin he danced towards them with the lithe footwork of a hoofer


that reminded Mack of ballerina hippos in Disney’s Fantasia. Mack grabbed a couple of


butter knives from the counter and started to drum on the bar top.


Mack and Terri quickly learned the bartender’s name was Al, and he danced with


Terri as she sang several more stanzas of the song she’d memorized for her meeting.


Out of breath, Al checked his watch and it was five o’clock.


“Gee, Terri. That was really swell. I sure hope your audition goes well,” Al said.


“I’ve already got the record deal, Al, but that song is only the B-side. No one


thinks that tune will go anywhere, but I just love singing it.”


“I can tell you do, Terri,” Mack said. “Thanks, for the send-off.”


“You stay safe over there, Mack. I’ll bet you’re gonna find a sweet girl to love


you real soon. I can feel it.”


“The rain’s finally stopped. I can walk over to Idlewild now. I hope your record


tops the charts, Terri!” Mack shouted from the doorway as he was leaving, but a short,


no-neck man bumped into him. “Sorry, Mister,” Mack said, always polite.


The man just nodded with his collar turned up and his fedora shielding his face,


but Mack heard a voice that would become so familiar to many for decades on TV:


“Hellooo, Miss Brewer. This Sunday we’re going to have a really, really big sheeew.”


Mack returned from the war four years later with his Korean wife. He told her


all about the last night he’d spent in America before arriving in Pusan. He introduced


Jung Soo to Al, and they reminisced about that rainy night in Queens.


“Wait’ll ya hear this, Mack,” Al said, going to the jukebox. “Finally got it fixed.


Here’s Terri’s latest.”


Mack looked into Jung Soo’s loving eyes as they swayed and tapped their feet to the


perky voice singing: “I don’t want a ricochet romance, I don’t want a ricochet love. No, no, not


me. If you’re cheatin’ with your kisses, find another turtle dove . . . “


rFile:Music Music Music - T.Brewer - 1950 London.ogg - Wikipedia *




*
Fair use rationale
Use of this audio sample in the article is fair use because: historical interest. Shows differences with other versions. Shows style and melody of verse properly. Quality is much reduced. It is not sufficient to threaten the full recording, but helps promote it as background for a fictional story




_________________

The Magic Blue of the Sapphire Hotel

By Kristin Neubauer
 
 
Six-year-old Sannie Johnson knew she wasn’t special. Her mother told her. Her sisters told her. Her uncle told her. The hundreds of people who streamed by the tattered “Homeless” signs she and her mother held everyday told her.
 
That’s why Sannie didn’t think she’d done anything special the day she noticed a dollar bill fall from the purse of a woman wearing a fur coat with a high collar outside the Sapphire Hotel. The woman swept through the hotel entrance, failing to notice the little girl who scurried from the shadows of the alley and plucked the bill from the murk of a sewer puddle. Her eyes widened as she studied the “1-0-0.”
 
Sannie darted through the entrance, so intent on returning the money that she didn’t hear the doorman behind her shouting, “Hey you! Come back here!”
 
But the instant she stepped into the lobby, she stopped. The murmur of jazz from a grand piano floated around her. Sprays of tropical flowers adorned the tables. Rings glinted off women’s fingers as they clinked glasses with men who sported silk ties and cufflinks. A grand staircase opened into the lobby. It was something else though that halted the child and left her staring, mouth agape.
 
Outside, it had been a cold winter day with a sky so blue and sun so bright that Sannie had to squint. But inside, all color had faded to a world of grey. Everything and everyone were bathed in flat, colorless hues that reminded Sannie of a black-and-white TV show she’d once watched through a store window.
 
Everything, that is, except for a chandelier dripping with thousands of sapphires, speckling the room with cobalt shimmer. Sannie stared up at it until her neck was sore. When she lowered her head, she caught other flashes of glimmering blue – a single rose, water flowing down a fountain, an antique frame surrounding a mirror.
 
Sannie couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. In her world, mirrors were rare and she hadn’t seen herself - not like this - for years. She tried to pat down her braids like she’d seen her sister once do and scrubbed at a smudge on her forehead. Her hands disappeared inside the sleeves of her oversized coat – a man’s corduroy jacket a shelter volunteer had once given her.
 
She opened her mouth and stretched it with her fingers, giggling at the funny face reflected back. She waved her arms in the air and twirled around, staring at the mirror the whole time.
 
“Taxi!” she shouted to her reflection in a deep voice, imitating a man she’d seen leave the hotel earlier.
 
As she peered more closely, Sannie noticed other people in the mirror. She turned around and realized a crowd had gathered around her, whispering and staring.
 
“My dear, are you well?” a heavyset woman asked, squinting over her glasses.
 
“Someone dropped this money,” Sannie said, waving the $100 bill. Her voice faltered. The coat sleeve fell back as she raised her hand and her right arm sparkled with the same blue glimmering in the chandelier, the rose, the frame and the water. She pulled back the other sleeve and saw that her left arm, too, shimmered. Sannie looked at the pale faces around her and heard snatches: “Her face”…”those eyes”….”even her hair.”
 
She peeked at the mirror again but saw nothing unusual in her reflection. Just the same little girl with flyaway hair and a coat three sizes too big for her. As flat and grey as everyone else around her.
 
She held her hand in front of her face, looking directly at it and not at her reflection - sure enough, shimmering like a Caribbean Sea.
 
An elderly man leaning on a cane, broke through the crowd and tottered to Sannie. He was smiling so warmly, that she couldn’t help but smile back.

“My dear, dear child,” the man said. “I am the owner of this hotel. This truly is a most extraordinary day.”
 
“Why am I blue?” Sannie asked.
 
“My dear, this building holds a deep magic that people come from all over the world to see. It selects only the most beautiful and precious things to imbue with its divine blue. Never –“ He turned to the crowd. “Never has this hotel found a human being worthy. Until today.”
 
The crowd murmured. He turned back to Sannie, face solemn.
 
“Child, what’s your name?”
 
“Sannie Johnson.”
 
“An extraordinary name for an extraordinary child. This is truly an extraordinary day,” he repeated. He tilted his head upward, looking toward the chandelier, and spoke to no one Sannie could see.
 
“What do we do? She is but a child.”
 
A cloud of blue shimmer dropped from the chandelier and floated to the front desk.
 
The old man turned to Sannie.
 
“Come, there is something we must look at together.”
 
Sannie followed him to the front desk. He huffed as he reached below and struggled to lift the sapphire book, fiery blue against the lobby’s grey tones. Sannie stood on tiptoe to help steady the book which looked very nearly about to crash to the floor. With a final grunt, the elderly man heaved it onto the desk. Sannie climbed onto a stool he indicated with his cane and bent over pages that smelled of ocean breezes.
 
The hotelier muttered to himself as he turned pages. Finally, he stopped, and turned to
 
Sannie.
 
“Now, read that for yourself child.”
 
Sannie looked at the mass of lines and felt a rush of heat in her face.

“I can’t read,” she whispered.
 
“No matter,” the man said. “All in good time, all in good time, child. Listen carefully.” And he read:
 
“Article 72, Section III: The Sapphire Hotel possesses the right to judge all visitors who enter the lobby. The Sapphire Hotel has the sole authority to deem them extraordinary or ordinary. Those who qualify as extraordinary will be invited to enter the hotel’s training program which, upon completion, will secure them a lifetime position as a Sapphire agent among the 22 hotel realms (see Article 6, Section V). Those deemed ordinary will be required to pay their bill and exit the premises.”
 
The elderly man sighed and turned his face upwards, addressing the empty air. “But she’s so young. She has a family.”
 
A puff of blue sparkles erupted from the book and the hotelier nodded.
 
“Very well.”
 
He removed his glasses and turned to Sannie.
 
“Do you understand?”
 
Sannie was poking her forearm with her finger, transfixed by the blue hues that swirled and glittered on her skin.
 
The man cleared his throat.
 
“Sannie Johnson!”
 
She looked up.
 
“The Sapphire Hotel has deemed you extraordinary. As such, the hotel is asking you to join the corps of Sapphire Agents and lead missions throughout its universe.”
 
“Ex...tror….din -what?” Sannie stumbled as she tried to sound out the word she did not understand.

“Extraordinary. That means you are a special child - the most special to ever walk through these doors. Mission leaders have been discovered at other hotels, but never this one, and never – NEVER,” he looked to the chandelier, speaking loudly, “– so young.”
 
Sannie kept poking her arm as the hotelier continued.
 
“Now, these missions that you will lead are missions for Good. You will become like fire and like light. You will lead teams in this world and others to bring Light to Darkness, Good to Evil, and Hope to Despair.”
 
Sannie looked up at him.
 
“Will I fly?”
 
The man smiled.
 
“Why yes, you will. However, Sannie Johnson, you have to understand that once you come with us, you cannot return to this.”
 
He waved his arm around the room.
 
“This room?”
 
“No. No, child. This life. Your friends, your family. That is the sacrifice required of the Sapphire Hotel – a commitment to your missions, to move ever forward, no turning back. Forever.”
 
“Forever,” Sannie repeated. “Forever” was a word she understood.
 
“Forever” was the word her sister used when their father left. “Forever” was the word her mother sobbed the last time they were kicked out of a shelter. “Forever” was what the social worker said when Sannie threw the “Learn to Read” book at her. “Forever” meant always and never.
 
She jumped off the stool.
 
“Be right right back!” she shouted as she ran through the lobby and out the hotel’s entrance, blue sparkles streaking behind her.

 
She paused for a moment, blinking against the glare. After the greys of the hotel's interior, the colors of the city street hurt her eyes. She looked at her hands, and her shoulders sank as she saw the ordinary, everyday skin she had lived in for six years.
 
Sannie sprinted to the doorway of the abandoned theater next door, where her mother lay huddled under a grey blank.
 
“Mama!” She shook her shoulder. “Mama!”
 
Her mother forced open one bloodshot eye. “Eh?”
 
“Mama! I’m going on a trip!” Yet, even as she said it, Sannie felt a strange sensation in her stomach, as though it had turned upside down and then dropped through the ground. She felt tears in her eyes and threw her arms around her mother. Right then, she changed her mind. The magic blue and the elderly man felt strange and unfamiliar - far away. Too far away, like a dream.
 
Her mother squirmed and pushed her. “Go away, girl,” she mumbled, turning to face the building and pulling the blanket up tighter around her shoulders.
 
Sannie sat back on her heels, stared at the mound in front of her and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
 
She heard a noise behind her and turned to see the hotelier leaning on his cane, a cloud of the hotel’s blue sparkles shimmering and swirling around him.
 
“You will stay, then, Sannie Johnson?” he asked.
 
She removed her thumb and looked up at him. The funny feeling had left her stomach.
 
She looked directly into his eyes, shimmering with the sapphire blue.
 
“No. I want to go.”
 
He extended his hand and she grabbed it. In an instant, they were gone, leaving behind a wisp of blue that sparkled in the sun.

 Return
​
by K. A. Williams

based on characters created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor


Introduction - In the "Red Dwarf" TV series, at the beginning of Season 6, the crew had been in suspended animation for two hundred years after their mothership Red Dwarf was stolen while they were exploring in Starbug. Chronologically, this story is set after the last episode of Season 6.

***

Rimmer had saved the day by destroying the time machine but since the timeline was altered no one remembered,
which was a shame because it was the only truly heroic thing he had ever done.
Rimmer, Lister, Kryten and the Cat were still aboard Starbug and still searching for Red Dwarf when the Cat's hands tightened on the controls.
"What is it, Cat?" Lister asked.
"My nostril hairs are tingling like bungee jumpers."
"I've got nothing on the scanners." Rimmer was now in his soft-light form because of the power drain on Starbug.
"Switching to long range scanners," said Kryten.
"It's big! Something big!" The Cat was excited.
"Could it be Red Dwarf?" Lister hardly dared to hope again, after so long.
"I'm getting a picture now." Kryten looked at the image forming on the screen. 
The Red Dwarf's computer appeared. "What took you so long?"

"Holly! Where you been?" Lister asked.
"Red Dwarf was hijacked. I tried to shut them out of the Drive Room but they cracked the door code." 
"Who stole the ship?" Rimmer wanted to know.
"You're not going to believe it."
"What I don't believe is how you let them do it.
There are supposed to be safeguards preventing unauthorized ships
from entering the landing bay," Rimmer said.
"Well, that's just it. There was no unauthorized entry. They were already here."
Holly switched the picture to the Drive Room where several strange beings sat around the console.
"What on Io are they?" Rimmer snapped his fingers in excitement. "Aliens!"
"No," Holly corrected. "Fleas."
"Come again." Rimmer frowned. "I thought you said fleas."
"I did. These fleas bred and evolved from the fleas which were on Lister's cat Frankenstein.
They lived on the bottom levels for three million years until a plague deleted their population.
Those they didn't die evolved into the higher life forms you see here."
"Higher life forms?!" exclaimed the Cat. "With those clothes?"
Holly continued. "Two hundred years ago after the plague, the survivors found their way up here and took over this ship while you were away on Starbug. Their descendants contracted a mutant virus last year and mostly all that's left now is the female population.
Red Dwarf is currently stationary and awaiting your return."
Starbug homed in on Red Dwarf's location, landed safely, and the crew disembarked.
"A representative of their people is supposed to meet us here," Kryten explained.
The squat humanoid hopped into the landing bay and said something that sounded like a combination of a cough and a sneeze together.
Kryten translated. "Come with us. We have prepared food for you." 
They followed the flea to the canteen where a dozen of the strange creatures stood around a table covered with plates of various food.
Holly appeared on the monitor when the Red Dwarf crew entered.
Rimmer assumed his most authoritative manner.
"Ask them if they know the penalty for stealing a Jupiter Mining Corporation ship.
Let's throw them all off into space."
"Rimmer, you're such a smeghead," Lister said.
"Sirs," Kryten interrupted. "The least you can do is enjoy the feast they've prepared."
"Do you think the food is safe?" the Cat asked.
Lister thought about it. "What would they gain from poisoning us?"
"Our clothes, for one thing. Look at what they're wearing. Everything is gray."
One of the creatures circled around Rimmer and cooed to another. "Kryten, what are they saying?"
"It seems she'd like to mate with you, Mr. Rimmer, sir."
"I'm glad to be a hologram, at the moment." The creature's hand passed through Rimmer and she looked startled.
Rimmer smiled and pointed at the Cat and Lister. "Try them. I'm sure they would love to help you repopulate."
Lister and the Cat backed slowly away from the fleas. Rimmer laughed, then turned to Kryten. "We can just set them off on the first planet we come to." 
"But sir, they seem to be perfectly harmless."
"They're unauthorized personnel, Kryten. Must I remind you of Space Corps directive 326."
"I didn't think you wanted to marry the Chief's daughter and be sacrificed in a volcano."
"I meant 325."
"But this isn't a luau and you're not wearing a grass skirt."
"Forget it," Rimmer said. He knew what he was talking about, but could never keep those numbers straight. 
The Cat and Lister still hung back from the table because of the female fleas. Rimmer beckoned.
"Come on, Listy. I'm sure your offspring couldn't look any worse than you do." 
"Shut up, Rimmer." Lister turned to the Cat. "I don't see any chicken vindaloo, do you?"
The Cat walked up to the table and sampled some food. "C'mon buddy, this is good."
He cringed when one of the female fleas patted him, then grabbed some food and ran from the room.
Lister took another look at the food. "I'm going to a vending machine and get a vindaloo." He headed toward the door.
"What should we do sir?" Kryten called after Lister.
"Maybe Rimmer's right this time. Let's find them a planet they can live on and leave them."

"So, you're finally admitting that I am the best man to be in charge. That I am a born leader, right up there with Napoleon and Caesar." 
"No, I just don't fancy making love to a flea."
Rimmer ignored Lister's last comment. "Holly, take Red Dwarf to the nearest planet that can sustain life.
Kryten, tell them that we have found them a new world. A world filled with prospective mates."
"Yes, Arnold," Holly said.
"But sir!" Kryten protested.
"Say another word, Kryten, and I'll set you off with them."
Then Rimmer told Holly about his hard-light drive and proceeded to the hologrammatic projection chamber while the flea population busily packed up its belongings. When Red Dwarf reached the destination, Kryten shuttled the fleas to the planet via Starbug.
Rimmer, now in his hard-light form, went along to supervise.
On the last trip, one of the female fleas asked a question.
"She wants to know if we are landing near the male population," Kryten translated.
Rimmer smiled. "Tell her to be patient and the males will come to them."
Kryten told Rimmer's lie to the creature.
When the last flea had departed from Starbug, Kryten asked, "Doesn't it bother you that they will wait and no one will come?"
"Nope." Rimmer gloated. "Serves them right for stealing the ship. Take us back, Kryten." He gazed fondly at Red Dwarf through the view screen.
"Home sweet home." 

The End

Previously published in Badlands in 1997.

Painting above: Willem Johannes Martens - Angel's Kiss


"AND MY MAMA CRIED..."
By Marcella S. Meeks


It was the end of the school year of 1962. Summer had just arrived and school was out. We lived in a small East Texas town way out in the boondocks. The nearest neighbor was seven or eight miles away.
Daddy worked at the post mill in town. He was known as the town drunk and he never came home till late in the evenings because he'd stop off at one of the bars with his buddies, if he came home at all. He wasn't a kind man in at all, but mama never complained. She always said, "Your Daddy is a hard worker, Clara May.".
She, on the other hand, was a quiet woman and stayed home to look after me, and my older brother Eddie Wayne and the seven-year-old twins Emmet and Alice Jane. Mama had her hands full taking care of the house and I had to tend
to the kids everyday when we weren't in school. She ironed clothes for several rich ladies from town to make extra money to make ends meet.
"Clara! Clara!" mama hollered out the back door one evening. "Bring the kids and y'all come eat supper. Hurry now, your daddy will be here soon."
What mama meant was 'hurry up, feed the kids, bathe them and get them out of the way before he comes in.' My daddy, well, he was a strange man. He hated us for some reason. When he was around, mama was a totally different person. Why did they have us kids anyway if they didn't really want us?
I gathered up the kids and we scrambled inside before mama started yellin' again. If I didn't, she'd come out the door with daddy's leather belt and whip me for not mindin'. Mama didn't tolerate sassy kids.
After we all had our baths and ate supper we had to hurry off to bed. Why couldn't we stay up late once in awhile? It didn't matter anyway. When Daddy came home we couldn't play or speak or anything or we'd get a beltin'.
One evening, I helped mama bathe the twins. Eddie Wayne was getting dressed. "Hurry up, Clara. You know daddy likes peace and quiet when he comes in," she said.
"Okay," I said. "Mama, why does Daddy hate us so much? Do you hate us, too?" She popped the twin on his backside and said, "Now run along to bed, Emmet."
She pushed back her hair, wiping the sweat off her brow and before I knew it, she slapped me as hard as she could up side my face. "Now don't you go talking
like that Clara May Dickerson. You're only fifteen. Be a good girl now and go to bed."
That night I cried, remembering the way mama hit me. I touched my cheek. Mama rarely ever spanked me or hit me hard but she'd make a fuss and threaten to whip me. But tonight was different. I knew she was upset over my words.
It was too hot to sleep, and as I lay there, I heard mama and daddy arguing in their room down the hall. I heard daddy hitting mama and I could hear her crying for a long time. Daddy was mean to her and she'd have bruises on her face and arms occasionally. Once she had a black eye but she'd never to talk to me about it. Mama tried to hard the bruises but I saw them. I knew my entire life that Daddy Dickerson was mean and hateful. I heard him hitting mama yet she'd never talked to me or tell me why.
One Friday evening daddy came in from work early and told mama to pack our clothes. He apparently had been drinking pretty heavy. He was taking us on a little vacation or so he said. Mama packed as many clothes as she could in several old suit cases she had brought down from the attic. "Clara May and Eddie Wayne, put these suit cases on the back of yur daddy's truck," she said. I saw her wiping tears out of her eyes as she turned to packing boxes of food.
"Mama, are you coming with us?" I asked.
"No, Clara May. I have tons of ironing. Your daddy knows what's best. Go along and look after the twins. Listen to your daddy now." She went back to filling the boxes so I knew the conversation was over. We climbed in the back of the truck and mama stood waving at us from the
porch. "Clara May, watch them twins." And that was the last time I saw mama for many years.
We rode for several hours. When we finally reached Shreveport, Louisiana, it was amazing to see tall buildings and people walking up and down the street. Being from the country you didn't get to see the city very often. A couple hours later, daddy turned off a country road and later onto an old dirt road. There was an old house at the end of the lane and we pulled up in front of it.
"Eddie Wayne, you and yur sister get that stuff unloaded," Daddy yelled at us.
"Who lives here?" asked Emmet.
"This was my granddaddy's old home place. No one has lived here for years. Clara May, you and the kids gonna be stayin' here for the summer. I reckon you better get to unpacking. There's some mattresses in the living room - that's all y'all gonna need to sleep on." Daddy took a drink of whiskey. "Clara May, you take care of them kids while y'all stay here. There is plenty of wood left in the wood shed to build a fire in the cook stove. And there's a well on the side of the house. I'm gonna leave you kids here now, and you better not go wandering off. Stay away from the farm house across the field. The neighbors don't have time for you yungins. I will be back on Friday to bring y'all another box of food. Enjoy your summer vacation."
I stood looking at him, afraid to say anything. The old house was run down, the porch was falling in and the screen door was hanging on one hinge.
"Daddy, are you leaving us?" Eddie Wayne asked.
"Yur mama needs a break from y'all kids," he muttered sluggishly.
"Daddy, you can't leave us here!" I wailed at him.
"Don't you go gettin' all sassy with me, Clara May or you'll get a beltin' before I leave."
He jumped in the truck, cranked it up, and just like that, he was driving down the dirt road and away, leaving me and my sister and brothers all alone. "Some vacation this turned out to be!" I screamed to the trail of dust. "I hate you, Daddy! I hate you!"
Eddie Wayne and I carried our suit cases inside the old house. There wasn't any furniture except a few broken pieces in the living room floor and a wood burning cook stove in the little kitchen off to the back of the house. Every other room was empty. The wood floors were dusty and cobwebs hung from the ceilings, evidence that no one had lived in this house in a long time.
"What we gonna do, Clara?" Eddie Wayne asked.
"We'll figure out something," I said, trying not to scare my little brother any more than he already was. "First, we'll clean up some."
The twins came running in the front door. "Look, Bubba. Look, Sissy. Look who lives here!" they exclaimed excitedly, carrying a big orange fluffy cat. "It's a kitty-cat," Alice Jane said, holding the cat out for everyone to see.
"Look twins, we don't need no ole' cat hangin' 'round," said Eddie Wayne. "If Daddy Dickerson comes back, you know he's gonna do nothing but kill the darn thang."
"We can hide it when he comes," said Alice Jane. "Please, Bubba, Sissy. Can we keep it?"
"He said he want be back 'fore Friday so I s'pose it wouldn't hurt to keep the cat," Eddie said, looking at me.
We hadn't eat since breakfast so I searched through the box of food and found a can of mackerel and crackers. "Eddie Wayne, go look in the kitchen and find something to open this can of fish with. A can opener or knife." I went around to the side of the house and found the well. I lowered the bucket and brought out fresh drinking water. "I can't believe mama let him bring us here and leave us like this," I muttered, wiping away angry tears. "This ain't no vacation at all! They dumped us is all!"
We had fish and crackers and drank the fresh water out of the dipper. Emmet
fed the cat scraps of canned fish. "Look Sissy, the cat likes the fish," Alice Jane said. "Can we name him Mr. Fisher?"
Later in the week, Mr. Fisher had four little baby kittens during the night on the bed we had made for him. The twins were excited and decided that Mr. Fisher was now Mrs. Fisher.
At night, the old house was dark and creepy. We were afraid at night being in the old house all alone, and it was dark and creepy with no electricity. I hugged the twins as close to me as I could and Eddie slept on the outside of the bed. I knew he was as afraid as we all were but he was eleven and wanted to act brave. He had found a big stick out back and brought it in and put it beside our bed.
Friday morning, I got up before the other kids and made a fire in the wood stove. I made powdered milk to drink and made a pot of oatmeal for us to eat. There wasn't much sugar but we eat what we had.
We weren't expecting daddy to come so early in the morning but I was out back getting wood for the stove when he pulled up. I heard the commotion inside and ran in the back door. The first thing he did when he walked in was see Mrs. Fisher and her kittens. He slung all four of her babies against the wall and hit her across her back with an old stick, as hard as he could. Screeching, and frightened she ran out the door and off into the woods. Her babies were dead. Emmet and Alice Jane was holding the dead kittens with tears in their eyes.
"Daddy, stop!' I screamed at him.
Eddie Wane looked at me and didn't say a word.
"Where'd you get that cat, Clara May? Answer me," he hollered in a drunken voice.
"It showed up, Daddy. We don't know where it came from," I said, hugging Alice Jane to me.
"Eddie Wayne, go get them boxes of food your mama sent. It's a good thing I brought y'all here. Your mama is expecting another baby soon and she can't handle taking care of y'all four yungins any more. That cat better be long gone when I come back next Friday or it will be a dead cat!"
Eddie unloaded the three boxes of food and daddy stumbled to the truck and drove off down the road leaving a trail of dust behind him a mile long.
Mrs. Fisher eventually came back that morning only to find that all her little babies were dead. Eddie and I dug four little graves out back and we had a little funeral for them. Emmet and Alice Jane cried off and on all that day. "I hate Daddy," Emmet cried.
One day before the summer ended, we were sitting out on the front porch when we saw several vehicles driving up. A sheriff's car pulled up almost to the front step. "Hi kids. Where's your mama and papa?" he asked.
"They don't live here," I said. "They live in Gilmer... you know, Gilmer, Texas," I answered as bravely as I could.
"Well then, I reckon you kids need to come with us beings there no grown ups living here with you."
"What about our cat, Mrs. Fisher?" Alice Jane asked.
"We'll send someone after her when we pick up your things," the sheriff said. "Don't worry sweet heart, we'll bring her to you as soon as we can." That was the last time we ever saw Mrs. Fisher. We never got our belongings from the old house either.
That was also the day we went to live with Mrs. Johnson, a real nice lady from foster care. She took good care of us and eventually adopted us. She helped us all with our schoolin' and I helped her with the twins, just like I did for mama.
Several years later, mama sent me a letter saying that daddy had died of a stroke that fall and she never wrote to me again. She never mentioned if she had another child or not and I really didn't care.


Many years have passed since then, and me, my brothers and sister grew up and went separate ways. Mrs. Johnson who we called Mama stayed in contact with us long after we each were married and she'd send cards and letters every chance she got. My brothers and sister and I kept in touch and they come to visit once or twice a year.
One evening Eddie Wayne called. "Hey, Clara, how you doing? Just called to tell you that Mama Dickerson is in the hospital and they said she was asking for you. She's in the hospital over in Shreveport. Just wanted to let you know she's asking for you."
Later that evening, I told my husband Peter about Mama Dickerson and he said, "You need to go see her, Clara. You need to forgive her and give it closure. It's time to forgive and forget."
After what seemed like hours, I decided to go see mama. Peter and I got off the elevator on the 3rd floor and went to the nurse's station. "We're looking for Erma Dickerson," I told the receptionist.
"Room 306 - down the hall on the right."
We walked slowly and I could hear Mama Dickerson calling my name. "Clara!" Clara!"
Our eyes met. Though she hadn't seen me in many years she knew who I was. "I am sorry, Clara May. Will you please forgive me for all the pain and suffering I put you through?"
Standing there with tears in my eyes, I looked at my husband and said, "This isn't my mama. This is the woman who abandoned us like we were nothing." And
I walked out of that room and never looked back just she did to us many years ago. Several days later, Eddie Wayne called and said Mama Dickerson died.


Even now, I can still hear the haunting of her voice calling my name. "Clara! Clara!"

Fortissimo

By Don Noel

Loud music filled the theater. Stentorian music, reverberating, with no bodies, suits or coats in the audience to absorb any of the sound. Standing in the back, waiting his turn to rehearse, Jonathan was afraid that his oboe would be swallowed up by a permanent maelstrom of sound: It seemed suddenly as puny as a tin whistle.
The orchestra’s sound — harmonic, gorgeous, but overwhelming — did more than fill the hall. It filled his head, driving out Richard Strauss.
Make it stop! Which was silly, he knew. If you were a 15-year-old woodwind prodigy invited to play with the state symphony orchestra, it was hard to imagine the din’s ceasing just for little old you.
There was a brief lull, and then the brass and timpani came thundering in, along with all three soloists and the full chorus: HALLELUJAH UNTO GOD’S ALMIGHTY SON— but in German, of course.
It was deafeningly Beethoven. The oratorio, “Christ on the Mount of Olives”, was one that Jonathan might never have known if he hadn’t been programmed to appear as a kind of warm-up act.
He scowled, furrowing his brow as he tried to hear in his head the Strauss oboe concerto he would soon be rehearsing with this orchestra.
His mind refused to summon up even the opening cadenza.
A humiliating lapse. He glanced at the glass door he’d just come through, wondering if Gretchen would arrive to witness his failure. There he was, mirrored in the door, a tall skinny kid with buzz-cut blond hair, horn rimmed glasses and a prominent Adam’s apple. She, on the other hand, was as pretty and well-built as one would expect of the school’s most popular cheerleader. He wondered what she saw in him.
Never mind that: He had to get the reverberating Gospels—DEM ERHAB’NEN GOTTESSOHN, the chorus was fairly shouting— out of his head. He tried to summon Strauss. Nothing came.
He should have brought the sheet music; foolish pride to think he had flawlessly and unforgettably memorized a 25-minute piece.
It wouldn’t be exactly silent out in the hallway, but he pushed the door and stepped out. Beethoven diminished ever so slightly as it swung shut. He opened the case to take out his gossamer instrument, slender black with silver keys. He tongued the reeds to moisten them, and played a scale in D-major, the key in which the concerto opened.
All right! The bright, scintillating notes of the oboe floated in the empty hallway, a delicate tessitura over the muffled oratorio.
He paused, waiting for Richard Strauss to come back.
It ought to be easy. Each movement had a pretty, almost filmy melody, with little of the dissonance of some Strauss works. In learning the piece, he had listened to a recording: The oboe was echoed by two flutes and two clarinets. He remembered imagining overripe dandelions being blown, the fluff exploding into bright sunshine, with a darker echo in bassoons and cellos and a low-voiced woodwind, a rarely-used cor anglais, whose notes seemed like the heavier dandelion seeds falling to the ground.
Beautiful — ethereal — which was why he had loved memorizing the work.
But he still couldn’t hear the tune; brawny Beethoven was blocking the way to his brain. The gauzy chiffon of Strauss’ melodies wasn’t coming through.
He felt cold sweat in his armpits. Great: Can’t remember the music, and, to boot, smell like a gym class locker room. He walked purposefully down the hall, the orchestral tumult diminishing behind him, and paused just inside the outer door, bringing his oboe to his lips again, trying to remember the opening notes.
And then, suddenly, here came Gretchen, escorting Mom and Dad. “Oh, Jonathan, you haven’t played your piece yet, I hope!” Mom gave him a hug, and Dad gave him a manly thump on the back.
“No, not yet. I was just going to practice a bit, and my mind has gone blank.”
“What do you mean, gone blank?” Mom asked.
“Can’t remember the score.”
“You see?” Gretchen said. “I told you we should bring the music, just in case!” She reached into the Go Central High canvas bag slung over one shoulder.
“You have it?”
She started to hand it to him, then instead opened up the first pages and held them up across her chest, hands at her shoulders.
“At last!” He brought the oboe to his lips again, peering at the music, and began. He hadn’t played two bars when it all came back; he closed his eyes and played on.
Played so intently, in fact, the notes tumbling into the air, that he didn’t notice when the now-distant Beethoven came to an end.
“That other music has stopped, son.” Dad’s voice broke into his consciousness. “Does that mean they’re ready for you?”
“Oh, dear Jonathan!” Gretchen said. “You didn’t really need the music. You’re a musical genius!” And right there, in front of Mom and Dad, she leaned over and planted a moist kiss right on his cheek.
It was almost enough to drive Richard Strauss right out of his head again. Feeling himself warm, he closed his eyes and made the notes appear again.
“Come on,” he said. “I feel a concerto coming on.”
Dad was reaching into his pocket. “Let me give you a Kleenex, son. You don’t want them to think you’re blushing.”

DANCING WITH GHOSTS

By

Bill Vernon


The first 90 minutes of dancing, Frank Hendricks didn't mind the evening's visitor.
She arrived late, just as the first song began playing, and was motioned into the line of dancers so there was none of the usually awkward chit-chat with her. Even better, that first dance showed that she was well versed in the art. Therefore, the program would not have to omit or simplify good dances so that she could participate.
Except for the way she was dressed, she fit in.
Frank relaxed and tried to lose himself in the dancing.
He did that pretty well, his mood shifting with the music from different cultures and ages. That is until Dolores Jones who was playing the music announced on the loudspeaker, "'Royal Empress Tango' is next so grab a partner." That's when this woman said loudly, as if her feelings were everyone's business, "Oh, I love to tango!" She looked around at the club members on the floor, caught Frank's eye and said, "Shall we? Want to do it with me?"
Frank jabbed his chest with a thumb. "Me?"
She smiled, marched over to him, extended her right hand, and said, making it rhyme, "Hello, I'm Marcia SUE, and yes I asked YOU."
True, women boldly asking men to dance, to date, or do whatever was not unusual in the world today, and that reality he accepted, but a stranger like this one, singling him out like that, had never happened before in his life. Her looks made him suspicious. He'd never ever met a woman as attractive as she was.
He shook her hand by habit and croaked, "I'm Frank."
When she dropped his hand—hers had been hot and moist—she kept her eyes glued to his and said, "Don't worry. Folk dancing's new to me, but I do a mean tango."
Frank was briefly incapable of understanding. "A mean tango?"
She laughed. "I mean I'll be able to follow your lead. You do know the dance, don't you?"
"Sure. It's not a hard dance." Knowing dances was a matter of pride to Frank.
"Good," she said. "That makes it easier for both of us."
His attention slid off her eyes. Up close like this, a few inches higher than her eyes, his naturally focused down onto the ample swelling at her cleavage.
"Let's get into position," she said, her right hand rising again, demanding attention.
He took it in his left and cautiously let his right touch her waist in back just above her hip.
She said, "Shouldn't we be closer together?" and stepped forward so they bumped.
He pulled away awkwardly, saw her eyebrows twitch in surprise, and said, "Oh, sorry. This dance is done in a circle and starts with the man facing counterclockwise and the lady facing clockwise so I was just trying to swing us around into proper position."
"Just tell me what you want, Frank, and I'll do it."


*****

Because it wouldn't last long, Frank could live with being up against her though no other couples would be dancing so close together. The closed ballroom position would quickly transition into open ballroom position and remain there until the dance ended. He spoke down toward her right ear just below his mouth and ignored the sweet aroma of perfume rising from it. “Let's practice the start. I'll step forward on my left foot so you start back on your right. Then your left back. Now come forward right-left. Then going backwards, zig-zag to your right, then left, stepping right-together-right, left-together-left and face center. Now go into the circle right, left, quick-quick-slow, turn, face back and do opposite footwork back to the line of dance.”
Without the music she did the whole start perfectly. "Very good, Marcia. You got it. That's about a third of the dance."
She leaned forward with a tiny hug. "You're a good teacher, Frank."
Her touch almost made him miss the beginning as the music's intro began. "Oops, here we go. Ready and—step, step, come back, back."
The music was dramatic and slow enough to call each movement before doing it, and she was so smart, she understood what he said as well as the guidance he exerted on their joined hands and on her waist, his little pushes and pulls. She was also good at matching the slightest turn of his body and steps. At the end, coming back into the start's closed ballroom position, he said, "That's the whole dance. Now we repeat it three more times."
She leaned so close he felt her warm breath on his neck. "That was fun, Frank."
He grinned and said, "If you know all the steps, we can work on finesse."
And they did. To be precise, though he started the stiffening at the end of each phrase, she took charge after that particularly at turns, and he mimicked her. Thus they both abruptly paused, stretched the moment assuming straight backs, hands, arms, neck, legs, feet and head, turning, then moving on. Frank had never done that so dramatically, never so stylized. Posing was the word for it. They resembled models posing for an artist to snap a picture or paint their embrace. Frank sensed other members of the club watching them, yet he didn't feel self-conscious because Marcia did it so well. Her behavior let him, a mediocre dancer, create what he thought of as a sophisticated, sensual look he'd never had before. He almost felt as pretty as she was.
In the silence following the last amplified note of the song, she said, “Thank you.”
And Frank bowed, a habit he'd picked up from the 17th and 18th century English country dances they sometimes did. “Thank YOU! You are a very good dancer.”
She smiled. “Frank, when I’m good I’m not bad. But when I’m bad I’m very good.”
“Really!?” He regretted this response immediately.
“It's a line from Mae West. I saw her in a movie last night on cable.”
Frank thought he'd sounded like a stuffy old fart whose brain had atrophied.


*****


From a distance the rest of the evening, Frank admired how she stood out among the others, adding color and movement to a gray background. If she returned to future dance sessions, the other women would advise her how to dress. None of them wore tight clingy things with cleavage like she had on. Some of them even refused to do the "Royal Empress Tango" because it was too suggestive. Frank liked the group. The members had standards of behavior. They had become his friends by joking around, dancing together, touching hands, shoulders, or waists as dances required, but intrusions into the privacy of others seldom happened. They grew to know each other from passing remarks that accumulated gradually, over time. He thought she'd make an ideal member once she learned the ropes.
Frank was sweeping the dance floor when, buttoning a black leather, fur-fringed coat, she said, “Excuse me,” passing him.
He said, “Come back and dance with us again, Marcia.”
“Thanks, Frank,” she said.
Cold air swirled inside past her through the front door as she went out.
A few minutes later, she came rushing back inside shivering. “My car won’t start!”
She seemed about to sob.
“Is it the battery. The forecast calls for below zero tonight.”
Tears were glistening in her eyes.
“It’s not a disaster,” Frank said. “You’ll be all right.”
She shook her head. “My life is jinxed. I get one hassle after another!”
He couldn't just abandon her. As a gentleman, he'd help the little lady. “Let me turn off the lights and close up. Then I’ll check your car. Okay?”
Only their two cars remained in the lifeless parking lot, where plowed-up snow hid the curbs. Turning the key in her ignition stimulated nothing. Frank said, “It’s dead all right.”
She sighed. “If it won't get towed, I'll leave it here overnight, then get it fixed tomorrow."
"It'd be all right here," he said.
She dug in her purse. "I'll phone for a taxi.”
“Let’s get into my car first where there’s heat. You can wait for the cab there. Come on.”
Maybe the sweetness of her perfume filling his car inspired him. Maybe a simple desire to help. He'd have to wait there with her for a cab anyway. When she mentioned where she lived to the cab company, he offered her a ride home.
"Just a minute," she said to her cell. "Oh, Frank, I can't let you go to all that trouble."
He said. "I know Buckhorn Street. It's not very far away. It won't take long."
"Isn't someone expecting you now?"
"Oh, no. I'm alone. I lost my wife eight years ago."
"Well I'm sorry to hear that, Frank. I hope she didn't suffer." And she cancelled her taxi.
Frank shifted out of park. "No, Karen didn't suffer, and by now I'm used to her absence."
All the way to Marcia's address, he controlled the old impulse to complain about Karen, about how she'd divorced him and run off with a man he'd known and trusted his entire life. His shrink had helped him stop those excursions into denial, guilt, hatred, and anger. Part of the helpful therapy was joining the folk dancing group. "Mixing with other people is a breakthrough," Jason had said when he did it.
Frank did mention to Marcia Sue that losing Karen had happened when he'd retired from his accounting work. "Two big hurdles to get over at the same time," he said. "Two big adjustments, but that's water under the bridge by now."
He didn't ask about her family life, but she said, "I understand. I'm all alone myself now."


*****
​
​
As Frank parked in the slot assigned to her apartment, Marcia said, “Come in. I'll make you some hot cocoa. It'll warm us up and let me thank you." She touched his forearm." Please.”
The dashboard clock said 11:17. Well, he was in no hurry and he was curious about her accommodations. This new horseshoe-shaped complex had replaced Holy Angels church and school, which he'd attended. He'd not recognized the address when Marcia mentioned it on the phone. He'd not known that the church and school were now not only defunct but also gone.
He washed up in her bathroom while she heated their drinks. He sat where she directed, on the end of a couch near a fireplace where gas flames licked three fake logs.
“Cheers,” she said, clinking her cup against the mug she handed him.
Frank only wet his lips with the cocoa—if he drank it, the caffeine would keep him awake all night. But he also said, "Ah, tastes good."
Continuing to stand, she said, "Great. I feel so comfortable in here out of the cold. Thanks again for bringing me home. I hope it's actually not too far out of your way.”
“No problem. It was my pleasure," he said and pretended to sip more cocoa.
She left the room and several minutes later he heard soft music. It was a nice, slow orchestral waltz that he couldn't name, and it seemed to emanate from the walls. Frank looked around for speakers and noticed on a coffee table a black tube as wide as a handful and about six inches long. He went over to the table, bent toward the tube, and heard music streaming from it.
"Bluetooth," Marcia said behind him.
Whatever that referred to.
He turned to face her. She was in a doorway, and light behind her silhouetted the outline of her body through the filmy, knee-length white negligee she now wore.
"There's another speaker in my bedroom." She shifted sideways and pointing at another dark tube standing upright on a chest of drawers. "Want to come in here and look it over?"
Her voice droned on, but he couldn't understand the words. He did understand what she was implying. She was offering herself to him. But she herself in the flesh was an apparition. The light behind her made her glow. It spread around her like an aura. He could see everything, and she was so beautiful, his respiration and heart raced as they hadn't in years.
No argument surged through his mind, no awareness of desires, urges, moral precepts or imperatives, judgments, feelings, memories, nothing contradictory complicated his thoughts. There was only appreciation.
Still framed in the doorway, she said, "Are you all right?"
He nodded. "Sure." But he was staring, almost adoring her.
She left the doorway and floated toward him. Her diaphanous wrap billowed at her sides. She stopped short and reached for him with her right hand. "C'mon," she said, curling her fingers, nodding toward the room she'd been in. Her fingertips touched his left hand.
Frank took her hand in both of his, but did nothing but stare.
Marcia pulled his hand toward the couch. "Maybe we better sit here for a minute. On the couch. Okay?" When he didn't move, she said, "Relax, Frank. Breathe in and out. Sit with me, please. Don't be sick, please."
Her tone prompted him. “I'm, okay, Marcia. Don't worry."
They sat, turning toward each other so their knees touched. Close like this, Frank saw her eyes. Beautiful blue. Wrinkles he hadn't noticed until now gathered at her eyes.
Marcia said, "You don't have to do anything. You've been so good to me this evening I just meant to...."
“Marcia Sue, I'm so glad you let me bring you home. I'm so glad to experience your goodness. The way you're willing to try to make me happy. Of course I'm way too old for you, but that doesn't detract from your kindness."
She shook her head. "I didn't want to shock you."
Frank smiled. "See how you're so concerned for me."
"I don't want you to have a breakdown."
She was upset. "Honey, my shrink would call this a breakthrough. Thank you so much."
"But Frank...."
He squeezed her hands. "I'll go in a minute but I want to be honest with you first. Meeting you was a happy affair, but coming here feels like it was meant to be."
He told her about going to church and grade school here and how he'd lost track and forgotten the place. He also said, "I've misled you. It'll just take a minute to explain." And he told her the truth about Karen, but there was no bitterness or anger, just a recitation of the facts.
To finish, he told her how her dancing had affected him. "What I noticed was that you brought us alive. We were ghosts dancing as if we were doing a tedious job. Your energy and enjoyment made us come alive."
She said, "You're a very good dancer, Frank. You taught me."
"You taught me more," he said, standing. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, found an old business card, gave it to her, and said, "Don't feel obligated, but there's my name,
number and address. I just want to say that I'd be happy to pick you up and take you to dancing next Thursday or any week you want to go. You were a godsend this evening, and I know our group would all be happy whenever you could make it."
"Oh, Frank, I don't know. This was just a one-night stand."
He laughed. "I know we're a bunch of old fogies. But if you change your mind and want a ride, you know where to get it." At the door, putting his coat on, he faced her. "You know dancing is an ancient way to be social and celebrate life. You're good at it. If you want to dance some more, call. Okay? Or just show up like you did today. About your car, I'd be happy to take you back to the pavilion tomorrow. I have nothing better to do. Honest."
Marcia said, "Thanks. I'll call if I need a ride," and draped herself from head to knees in the light blue blanket that had been on the couch. That was the image of her he carried downstairs and out to his car. It told the whole story. It completed the picture he'd had of her. She was made in the image and likeness of the life-size statue that used to stand by the altar in Holy Angels Church. The resemblance was too uncanny to be accidental.
Marcia, Mary. Marcia was Mary, but was she Mary the mother or the other Mary? He couldn't remember who the statue supposedly depicted. Then again, it really didn't matter.

On New York Time


by
​

Teresa Ann Frazee



The music was loud and aggressively differed from anything that came before. Unyielding vibrations assaulted and challenged my youthful auditory range. Amplifiers emitted a steady roar, as the base pounded in my chest, navigating to an unmapped place in a fictive anatomy, where a rebellious soul would reside. This boisterous rhythm was a stripped down incarnation of rock- and- roll, embodying a freedom that could not be tamed, while the energy of its anti-authoritarian echo resonated inside me.
With deliberate speed, we were directly responsible for the validation of defining the identity of a decade about to seize its rightful place in history. From within the inner circle, you could hear our prophetic call. With open arms and a do-or-die scream, we unleashed a thunderous cry loose upon the world, which only the bohemian born could relate. Together, with a certain comradery that belonged to us and only us, we sought a haven in the shadows of the outskirts of night. In a terrain inhabited by a new breed of denizens, we the pale renegades of our time, had found a direction in a corner of a disrupted Eden. Youth’s misplaced Adam and Eve beyond number, there in the era of fringe and leather, we were sheltered in the habitat of nameless forms. So at ease, running headlong into the lawless pace of the insistent drumbeat of my generation. What was born in me, could never be stilled. It was clear, I was where I was supposed to be. So were we all.
Being post Aquarian Age, after we finally laid the Sixties to rest, this was the Seventies in New York City, long after the "Battle of the Bands" was the best thing to happen to a Saturday night. A graffiti adorned door of passage awaited us. At the entrance, amid the spectrally lit darkness, we were greeted by a gaunt, spiky haired, androgynous figure, whose bare arms illuminated illustrations, that burrowed beneath his skin. Like a rag doll, striving mightily to remain upright, he leaned against an abraded old wall, which seemed to have been plastered by hand so many years ago and was now defaced with an illegible collage, of torn, overlapping posters of the latest bands. A cloud of smoke from his cigarette rose toward an indeterminate high-ceiling dominated by an enormous chandelier, the last remnant of a ballroom style, Polish dance hall. Without making eye contact, one-by-one, my peers and I offered our hand to him and in a fugitive moment snatched by starkness, we felt it get stamped with a smudged ink blotch, already starting to fade. This painless branding was a symbol, our dues had surely been paid.
Like a mirage in heat, I could barely see my friend Ann Marie sitting at the bar next to a “Dead Boy”, the bass player, in a punk band with irreverent notoriety. Ann Marie was a together, no-nonsense girl of slight stature, with a teased Shag hairstyle, the color of burnt sienna straight out of the tube. A dedicated leader of fashion, numerous chains hung around her neck. Her fingers long and slender usually held a pastel colored, Nat Sherman cigarette. During the time I had known her, which was since college, I never actually saw her take a drag. Always wardrobe ready, the cigarette was more of an accessory to her all black outfit, than a nasty habit. I worked my way through the cultural darkness, toward Ann Marie. I could hear the whoosh of hair whipping, devoted dancers, glide like urban phantoms, spinning fast in homeward flight. Uninhibited whirling dervishes, defying gravity, belittling nature’s law. I accidentally, brushed up against two Neo Keely Smith look alikes in rhythmic motion, who twisted their contoured postures in spontaneous choreography to the B-52's, “Dance This Mess Around.” As I approached Ann Marie, she was sipping a bottle of Heineken beer, angrily tapping the bar.
"So Ann Marie, what's happening with you? You’re uptight,” I said, just loud enough over the music.
"Oh hi,” Ann Marie muttered with feigned enthusiasm. Her thoughts were presently elsewhere. She shook her head and said, “I mean my mother, she rang me up yesterday. She's still hoping to marry me off; always in my face about it. I told her, geez, I’m only twenty one, besides, just so you know, I don't want any hand me down vows from the sweaty tongues of church and state. I ask you, does this sound like me? She wants me to be a good little girl, get hitched, move somewhere way out in the suburbs, have a white picket fence driven into a well-groomed lawn and settle down with 2.5 kids, you know, where the unconditionally content, call home.” Ann Marie heaved a slow sigh, “What she really wants is for me to trade living for existence. She’s determined to condition me like a dog at Pavlov’s dinner bell. But I’ve got news, I’ve collapsed her myths and rules. I never belonged in her pictured world. So pardon me if I do not fit neatly into the typical role of a perfect daughter and blend into the exiled landscape of the masses. I asked her, at what sacrifice or what cost should I be satisfied by the stagnancy of that illusion?”
" No you're right. Believe me, I know where you're coming from. Don't listen to her,” I said.
“Do I look like I do? I'll tell my mother and anybody else who wants to know, they're dreaming. I refuse to conform to that image,” Ann Marie snapped back, never moving her eyes from her drink.
A tall, lanky, dark haired bartender with a waxed paper complexion and beady black eyes, set far back in his head, appeared, like a black crow sweeping down to pick up his just desserts.
Looking directly at me, the bartender interrupted, " What can I do you for tonight?”
I placed my order of Scotch. After a few nods coordinated with hand gestures and bringing another round to Ann Marie, in one fluid motion, the fresh drinks were exchanged for two dollars from the pile in an age old ritual of trust.
Sitting cross-legged at the bar, drinking Scotch straight up, was quality time. Like an eternal flame, youth’s invincibility mastered my thoughts, which granted me the option of living forever. As the drink went down, it seemed to warmly coat every vital organ, reminiscent of a niacin rush from a B12 shot, depleted of any nutrients. I sat at the bar toying with the cocktail napkin in front of me, without noticing the night’s subtle slip into oblivion. Several glass ring impressions on the napkin held a genuine interest but soon, I turned my thoughts to the reflection of silhouettes in a Bacchic epiphany of decadence and in a glance, watched the fabric of time begin to disappear. The mirror’s view of the interior behind me was panoramic. There were glimpses of fishnet stockings and ringed wrists with nails tipped with silver polish. Translucent skinned young males, left their territorial markings of empty beer bottles and fast burning butts. Emaciated arms swung by, spruced-up in leather bomber jackets, coordinated with worn-out tight Levis, that covered strengthless limbs and buckled boots with the swagger of defiance that encouraged back alley struts. Brazen metal zippers flashed against the uncompromising textured blackness, where compulsions met. Honoring a sleep a day routine, we kept vampire hours, waking up when the sun went down. Not savage creatures thirsting for the blood of man, it is more of an insatiable thirst to feel the life force of youth coursing through our veins. I met my gaze in the mirror and in the style of my contemporaries, a thick fringe of hair brushed against my dusky eyelids with every blink. Even with this slight annoyance, I could see the drama of shadowy figures, like gypsy children of their own birth, fill my view. Gone was the muzzled dialogue of self- compromise spoon fed from the majority. Off the grid was where we lived. In these moments, we had created a fertile ground on which we had become the very culture we defined. It was the corruption of innocence, where nothing remained sacred.
A major lure of the downtown club scene was the bar section beyond the brass rails and on the shelves, directly in front of the mirror. Innumerable glass bottles adorned with elaborate labels of ducks, flowers and grapes flickered like votive candles. A chosen few cobalt or magenta bottles had a sweet, sticky, steel beak of a spout, that easily poured essences from glass decanters. The duplicated imagery in the mirror, reflected the hypnotic kaleidoscope of liquid euphoria, an intriguing illusion in contrast to the darkness behind me. A judicially placed muted blaze of golden light, haloed above the almighty cast register.
“Can I cop a drag?”, asked a voice behind us. Daniel reached over Ann Marie’s shoulder, without receiving an answer from Ann Marie, took a drag of her cigarette and handed it back to her. Daniel, a mutual friend from college was a "Foodie", whose Major at Pratt Institute was Restaurateur, Entrepreneur and Food Management. He was one of those over-educated, out-of-work characters who made a career out of collecting his unemployment checks. Now that he had graduated, there wasn't much call for an experienced swan ice sculptor, especially since Daniel would only consider working as a part-time temp. After college, he was disillusioned when he sought after this type of work and was offered a busboy position with the possibilities of someday moving up to chef. Basically, Daniel thought he would buy a restaurant, with what cash, I do not know, and he would show up at the restaurant twice a year to check up on the staff and see if there was any skimming on the profits. It's ironic that he chose the culinary arts as his life's work. Daniel had the physique of deliberate starvation. He despised food, eating and everything associated with this human function. The whole process tired him, going to the store, picking out, buying, carrying the groceries home, putting them away, cooking and finally consumption. Seeing Daniel standing there wearing a flimsy Junior Miss mini dress over Wranglers and long wavy hair that hung past an insinuating grin, everyone knew, for him applicable work would never materialize.
Ann Marie proceeded to tell Daniel about her mother’s pedestrian plans for her daughter’s future and how Ann Marie would never conform and be part of a community where lives are neatly fitted, as a peg into a hole.
“What's up with that? You tell her sister! Give ‘em hell,” Daniel responded nodding his head the appropriate number of times, to display just enough sympathy.
“Do you want the dirt on what really goes on? I picked up the newspaper today. But you know, no one ever reads the fine print. How are they ever going to see the light?” Daniel said, subtlety redirecting the conversation from it’s course,
"It’s the way it is. Last thing the powers-that-be, want for us to know is the truth, therefore broadening our horizons. Once you see the world in the liberating light of your own unwavering truth, you never see it any other way,” said Ann Marie.
“You know it. Along with the familiar guise of hope, we're being tricked by rituals and misled by superstition. But I'm healed from the wounded logic of appeasing someone else's beliefs,” Daniel responded. And with a wave of his hand he ordered a drink for himself.
After the Psychedelic Fur’s first-set, Joe arrived and wrapped his arms around me from behind and leaned his face towards mine. Responding to his affection I turned on my bar stool, to lick his eyelids.
“You’re a cat alright,” Joe said.
Joe was one of the few people I had met who actually was born in Manhattan and still lived there. A bonafide New Yorker, who knew the guts of the city. Sensitive to my evolutionary needs, Joe and his city delivered. Our compatible sense of timing was impeccable. Keeping it light was never part of our time together of which we were determined to spend every minute. We were the, male - female version of each other. Being artists we couldn't commit to reality. Nor would we.
Joe & I had met on the dance floor in a New York club, back in the 60s. As I recall, he wrote my phone number on the palm of his hand with a Rapidograph pen, that he had handy in his pocket from art class. At the time, it appeared that Joe was inflicting himself with an intriguing ritualistic tattoo. The pen had a chrome needle point and his actions seemed painful and permanent. Strangely different, show me more, I said under my breath. We first met when I was fourteen and he was eighteen years old. When Joe, my perspective beau, had asked me my age, I did the most unlikely thing, I told the truth. Fourteen, I responded. He shook his head and said no really, and continued to pursue this line of questioning further. I was on the spot. I remember, I tried to think up a believable age. According to all responsible accounts, okay eighteen, I blurted out, saying it without looking directly into his eyes. That seemed to do the trick. Being quick-witted, Joe deduced my real age long before he acknowledged the fact that I graduated high school and he graduated college at the same time.
Even though my glass wasn’t totally empty, Joe ordered a drink for both of us. Then Joe took my hand and kissed it.
“Hm, you smell nice. What's that sent?”
“Patchouli oil,” I responded.
“The way you walk on floating feet like Morticia Addams, that's another thing I love about you,” Joe said.
Playfully I said, “Listen to you. Knock it off. My heart had skipped a beat. Aren't you the Casanova? Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah for you, silly boy.”
“What is it?” asked Joe.
“You'll see,” I said, as I felt inside the back pocket of my pants and then handed Joe his gift.
“Hey, a braid of your hair. How cool is that!”
After all, it was a meager attempt to reciprocate for all the thoughtful gifts I had received from Joe. It surely was no contest. yet the most outstanding gift that I have earmarked the memory to share and without a doubt, widened the perimeters of my budding artistic world, was an acrylic paint set. As if that wasn't enough, Joe also gave me the book, No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre. Joe had no intention of me, the recipient of his affection, thanking him in a high-pitch, girlish giggle. My boyfriend, had been listening but not in that annoying obvious people pleasing way. Joe knew of my love of painting and my newfound interest in Existentialism. The paints were a top of the line brand. He had to go to an authentic art supply store in NYC, located obscurely on a second-floor walk-up. One always felt you needed a secret password to actually purchase art supplies in that establishment. You have to be worthy. I found myself in by association. Once Joe gave me a low-cut, skin-tight silver lame’ evening gown, with a thigh high slit up one side. On the hanger this get up, was dripping with sex appeal. I adored that swanky dress. The decadent times we had together left this once glimmering metallic garment, with pure attitude sewn every stitch, stained, ripped, and burned with cigarette holes but still it remained for years in my closet. It was, in fact, my old friend. Always a struggle, being swayed by sentiment, I assumed if I could discard that dress in the trash, and I eventually did, I can throw anything out. I was cured.
In the bar’s mirror, I saw Eddie approaching me from behind, about to cover my eyes and play that dumb Guess Who game. Joe stopped him. Eddie, the failed prankster, was another one of our "Pratt Brat" alumni cronies. Eddie told me, earlier that night, he tried to steal a Clash album, from Korvettes, the department store in Brooklyn. He was smoking a Marlboro cigarette and with his free fingers, Eddie began feverishly combing his Buster Brown haircut, in front of a cracked section of the bar’s mirror. His face had the chiseled features of a Halloween Batman mask. From the look in his manic eyes, I could tell he intended to dominate the conversation. In Eddie's hyper condition, saliva would accumulate in the corners of his mouth, making him appear not unlike a ranting, rabid heathen hound loose from his chain ready to prowl the night. He had me in a verbal stranglehold. Once he would get on a roll, Eddie would curse excessively with full frontal ferocity, spewing nasty four letter words in one sentence, using them as an adjective, noun, verb and possibly an adverb. Eddie's loose language and stumbling Keith Richards entrances, were part of his “get me” persona. At these time, he seemed filled with rage, bearing a load all too heavy for his years. Eddie went on and on. Even though I didn't always agree with him, I recognized his validity. If anyone could pull off the “what comes around, goes around “, theory, it was Eddie. I remember one time, while in college, Eddie worked in a book store. He never showed up for work, forging the forms to be paid. Getting caught stealing from the book store, you would assume got him into big trouble. Disciplinarian charges were brought up at a hearing, which he didn’t attend. “If you paid me enough at the book store, I wouldn't have to resort to stealing”, was Eddie's brilliant defense. His superiors dismissed the charges and actually gave him a raise for a job he didn't go to. Angrily, Eddie continued to speak and told me of the time, he was bound with his own Venetian blind cord and robbed at gunpoint in his Bedford-Stuyvesant apartment. All the while he spoke, he stared into the space around me, only breaking the trance once, when he nodded to the bartender.
Almost in a tone of a question, Eddie said "Hey barkeep, White Russian?”
After telling me these things without comment from me, he asked, “So how are you?"
I snatched the chance to speak, "Fine", I quickly answered. I decided I would catch up with him later. Besides by then, that was all I could muster up and willingly handed the floor back to Eddie. He didn't take it. Instead of guzzling down his drink, towards obscurity, his usual approach, if drinks are on the house, he took a savoring sip of his White Russian. His devotion was intense, as if the expensive drink was one of the high heeled big deals, as Eddie referred to the evasive women who worked in the offices, he delivered packages to on his route as bike messenger, who finally said yes to his advances. Eddie was surely a footnote to history.
Eddie turned to Daniel, “Hey Daniel, remember what we were talking about last night? I tell you one thing, liars, they're all liars. They strip you of your emotions, then tell you how to feel.”
“Sure, I know what you’re saying,” said Daniel
“Don't they see, it’s easy enough to explain, the reality of truth is burdened by displaced sentiment and fear,” Joe chimed in.
"Yeah, without a doubt, truth is overrated in a house of make-believe. To their policy of lies, they’re such pet slaves. They’re like manipulated puppets buried under the rubble of delusion, where out lived dreams and weird luck settle,” Eddie said.
“You nailed it. Our manhandled morality is a crosshatching of lies. I'm just saying, sometimes I feel caged. Am I right Eddie? You get it, don’t you?“, asked Daniel.
"Eddy said, “Don't get me started. Just look at them, daily driven, selling out to some boring 9 to 5 job. Imprisoned in that shadow cast by the weight of promise, always waiting for what never comes. Clueless in a world, desensitized to the really important issues in life. Their minds clouded from hopes and dreams, they fall into the trap door of social order, turning solid ground into quicksand. I know, I say this all the time but in perfect circles they stagger, for only those who know little, master confusion.”
“Still the hierarchy of social order, Joe said, “with it’s power to charm, continue to recruit new enthusiasts, filling their heads with lies, sprinkling their poisons, allowing ignorance and hypocrisy to collaborate.”
Daniel folded his arms and said, “And for them, it's become a huge challenge, to silence our overly defiant voices. To them, we are considered pests, nothing more.”
“Damn straight", Joe said, then he took a swig from his beer bottle.
None of us questioned the tone from which our dialogue sprung. There was a clear driving force among us. We had developed a hard edge, out of grace movement, with a raw brand of beauty, bubbling up from the underground. We were designed for the night. Suspending the clockwork of reality, through detached dimensions of space, together, in a summoning odyssey that reigned nightly, is where we tended to linger. Serendipity had wound about the darkness. There would never be another time like that. As if in slow motion time ceased to meddle.
I made a bathroom call and worked my way to the end of the dance floor. There was a sign on one door that said, “Gents”. A door exactly like that one on the opposite side, had no sign. The signless Ladies Room may not have merited historical treatment like the Paleolithic cave paintings at Lascaux but someday archaeologist might uncover the distinct scratched obscenities and doodled icons that covered the toilet stalls. In a way, this was a lair inhabited by post-modern rebels of an underground society. As I retraced my steps back to the bar, the hour came around at last, it was time to go. The five of us gathered our belongings, we walked out onto East 15th Street and were met head-on by the cold air of night. It was raining lightly, painting the streets gloss black. At the entrance to the club, a group of new arrivals fumbled around in their pockets preparing to pay for admittance. It was well worth the meager fee, if only for a few timeless hours. Some of them were in pairs, some single, some hand-in-hand. A systematic line formation emerged. An obviously cold, blonde stick of a guy, was at the head of the line. He was clutching his jacket at the neck and coughing like a devoted filterless smoker of fifty years. Through the darkness, I vaguely saw the last person on line, an echo of those before him. It was comforting to know the torch was being passed on to a new crew of night lifers. To know they would continue, where we left off, to partake in the insurrection beyond the door. In the early morning streets of the city, getting a cab was easier on the main strip, so we started walking from Irving Place to East 14th Street, checking out the sparse passing traffic for a stray cab heading Uptown. Eddie, as ever, just followed. The pounding base along with Eddie followed us to 14th Street. Stepping off the curb, I tried to avoid the pigeon pecked French fries and a face up Sister Mary psychic fair flier, wading in the puddle. City clutter was streaming downward in a gush of rainwater destined to be held hostage by the teeth of the sewer. As in a daydream, I played mind games with the street, silently taking Rorschach tests with ever-changing iridescent patterns that were formed in the puddles of oil and water. Faint street lights illuminated my wet reflection in a store window. Like a weary ghost, I clutched my black wrap which mingled with my dark hair, that had the shimmer of seaweed, caused by the drizzling rain falling on New York City. Up ahead against the slick darkness, huge 15 ft steam fed pipes from an underground Con Ed worksite, released an ethereal mist, appearing as a crewless ship, fog bound. An image where the conscious became an uncertainty. Three inky eyed girls mercilessly sang a lingering hook line from the club. They flitted past us. Remaining true to my obsession with extremes, I know I read too much into the scenario but when they reached the site, a momentous thing happen. All three urbanize Sirens turned towards the Con Ed ship as if to catch a glimpse of the jeopardized captain. Somewhere between the Sirens and Eddie bending down to pick up a folded $20 bill con, a cab pulled up to us. The other side of the unfolded, phony bill was usually just a piece of paper with some sort of work at home ad. But one could never tell if it was real, until you picked it up. In Eddie's case the bill was always fake. Our taxi was one of those over-sized Checker Cabs that seated five passengers. There were two folding seats up near the plastic partition. Eddy, all hair and superhero clench made a lunge for his predetermined folding seat in the cab with the subtlety of a derail train. Daniel, Ann Marie, Joe and I slid passively into the leftover seats. Eddie began regaling the driver, on everything from the forbidden subjects, politics to religion. He was in his element. You could smell it in the air, along with the pine tree air freshener that was dangling from the cabs rear view mirror.
The night, so rudely interrupted by denied appetites, was drawing to an end. At one time or another during the cab ride home, someone shouted, I'm hungry, let's eat. For the remainder of the night we spoke in loud voices, a result of the amp’s synthesizer hum, still trapped in our tortured ears. We made our odyssey to Apollo's on 29th and 3rd Avenue. Apollo's, an all-night diner, was a place, where detached diners could eat totally unnoticed. Strangers statistically sitting at a secure distance. Too late to be night people, too early to be morning people. They were the beasts of both worlds. Our stomachs abandoned to neglect growled. Hunger had overcome us. After all my dinner that evening, had simply consisted of smoked oysters on a snack cracker. I crawled into a large booth with the slackness of a Slinky moving down a staircase. Jamming together, everyone spoke at once. It was reminiscent of a Robert Altman movie with the exception of an All-Star cast. A smileless waitress with a mussed up French twist and the graveyard shift in her step, approached our booth. We were reduced to, “hon”, in space of seconds. Extensive menus were handed out. In chalk there were handwritten specials on a blackboard, which were much too heavy to consume, envisioning a gastronomical nightmare. The waitress finally, took our orders and tossed the slip of paper from her memo pad onto a spike. Our coinciding dialogue included the revelations this early morning time period graciously allows. Thrown into the mix of faulty ears and hunger, I heard Daniel try to pawn off some story about having Sea Monkeys, as a kid. Sea Monkeys, I remember, became those mysteriously instant critters, when you simply added water. At that time, you could find the ad to purchase them, in the back of a trendy magazine. Nobody ever really knew what they were, let alone spend money on them. Food was served and after devouring my spinach pie, the guys plopped down a bill and some loose change on the speckled Formica table. We made vague plans for the next weekend. My thoughts about going to Mr. Snow's shop during the week kept cropping up. Mr. Snow was the owner of a vintage clothing boutique. He would hold articles of black lace and spandex clothing for me. He never knew my name. I liked it that way, making me feel like in an anonymous movie star. We had a one-dimensional relationship. In my mind, he was always in his store, not allowed to roam about. He was a fixture there, waiting for me to arrive. Mr. Snow was cutting-edge, having the fashion sense of an underground Dior.
Joe and I linked together at the arms and said goodbye to our friends, and started up the street. We sashayed home to dream in our beds. There we were back where we started obeying numbly the internal, command to sleep. Before we called it a night, I felt the anticipation of doing it all over again, same time, same place, next week.
In 1972, Joe and I vowed to love each other endlessly. Our souls consented. Shortly after we reached this agreement, we went through the legal formality of getting from the State of New York, the piece of paper to prove it. But it was more than just a license. I would like to believe it was a sacred union, that we had the blessing of divine government. Needless to say, Joe has moved up in rank with the honorable title of husband, of 48 years and counting. Deep down, I still refer to him as, my boyfriend. Joe calls me his beatnik bride. To me we are still both those skinny kids from the city. To think it all started with that brave question from a teenage boy, " Wanna dance?"

Father Time
​
by


Teresa Ann Frazee





You mortals take fatality all too seriously. Time does not care in the end if your actions save or damn your soul. Either way, the future cheats you, with the most ultimate restriction, of earthly rights. Only Fools fuss with plans. One can never decipher how far, I, Father Time, will go to claim your existence or demise. Practically speaking, my job description is that all living creatures are expendable and to be obliterated and therefore, I am encouraged to move the process of mortality along. The seal is set and reserved for my design of keeping balance between beauty and decay. Uncompromisingly, Father Time, has, does and will continue, with very laborious calculations, to keep time for every single living creature, yet does not pass judgment. I make no boast about having to fulfill my duty and you do not know me if you think I relish this in secret triumph. To ignore my side of things is to see only a partial story that will fail to lead to conclusions and fall short of the truth.
In the beginning, from the moment when I was appointed Father Time and began my career, I understood the necessity of disengaging myself from sentimentality. I have gone to great lengths to guard myself to remain impersonal. That being said, amid all my refusal to be hampered by emotional strain, there is this distinguishing mark of a pathetic sense of guilt. Ultimately, it has guilefully burrowed deep into the tiniest crack in my subconscious, then took up residence, which is an infinite burden. There are those who may claim, it is hypersensitivity on my part and perhaps, I should be made of stronger stuff. Your sympathies, of course, I understand should not lie upon my shame. But I must confess, it seems as if an enormous wedge has been thrust between my belief system of right and wrong. See that fly? Who is to say, after a desperate struggle, when his end will come and he shall fall prey to my persistence, or when a termite, professor, tax collector, soldier, rock star, spider, rat, king, or when I tragically carry off a child into the wrinkled arms of mortality or when a hardworking doting father will meet their demise? I do. The permanently doomed, those frightened souls with survival ever on the mind, their trembling, expiring limbs of flesh and bone, always anticipating miracles but on their fateful day they shall pay a dear price. My superior remains in the role of master, absolved of this task, networks responsibilities, while he takes on the heavy burden of pretending single-handedly to rule the world. Even though, he alone receives the blame, when the numbers add up to my murderous math, I should be grateful for my anonymity. Perhaps, it is a consolation, some may find it to be a perk of the job. But it is not. Quite frankly, I have grown weary pretending everything is alright with anonymity’s wasted skill.
Forgive me but my work is dreadfully tedious. Obviously, this is troubling as it causes such inner conflict. I am torn between my duty to precisely cease a life and my boredom. I guide them into the inescapable afterlife, as I come to grips with the agonies of my unexpressed guilt with dreadful intimacy. It is the power of time which is the sole business of Father Time. This endless journey towards obliterating the living must and will take precedence over any compassion, including pity or mercy. You see, time is intolerant of bargaining claims, pledged vows and resolutions made by the morbidly obese, chain smokers, heavy drinkers, pill popping, mainlining addicts, the bedridden, downtrodden and the poor as sin, who are forced to withdraw from society. Their requests, which are not made lightly, for an extension of time, when theirs has expired, as they swear on their word, to do good, be better and heal themselves, to become upstanding citizens and pillars of their community are all denied. The persuasive tone of their wishes and demands bear no weight on the final outcome. Surely, my job does not entail exerting much devotion to answering their pleas. Even those who are the picture of health, who practice good clean living, they too fail to understand, it matters little, for nothing protects anyone from the unavoidable. Nevertheless, there are times, when I applaud those daring creatures, who step up and attempt to resist the inevitable. It is worth giving due recognition. The elemental principles of the human spirit to persevere cannot be overlooked. With such a display of naivety, these beings feel they have some form of validation, a birthright to push back time, yet their sheer determination, I find commendable. They are reminiscent of the hardheadedness of one coming of age, with a false identification, who believe they are endowed with the attributes of a messiah, who controls the sequence of events and have conjured up the fabrication that they somehow are invincible. I must admit, this attitude causes both admiration and exasperation in me. Then of course, there are those who are forced to look at the over all harsh demands of their lives, are consoled by the thought of their time being over and rather long for the end. They have come to terms with this natural predicament, embrace it and stumble headlong into whatever awaits them. Rest assured, including those determined not to go down without an admirable fight, all will be considered losers when the light goes out in their eyes. It is virtually impossible and certainly meaningless to believe time can be outwitted.
By and large, I have no right to complain that not for even an instance, I cannot entertain the idea of simply unrolling the darkness of a hundred nights and lose myself in rest with the lax muscles of profound sleep. That fantasy would bring me even more despair. I confess, like the daydream of a mentally slow to develop, innocent schoolboy, I momentarily lose all my powers of conception and have this vague hope that perhaps in my incomprehensible hypothesis, time has stopped for a split second. However, reality hits me hard. This position that I hold, has been uninterrupted from day one. Let it be stated, I never asked for the responsibility. It is a huge undertaking which has left me overwrought with restlessness and fatigue. Also, It is a mistake to believe that my existence as Father Time was my ambition or career choice, that would clearly be an inadequate assumption. Oh to make a fresh start! As you can easily imagine, the change no doubt would indeed be drastic. You may very well ask, what then, do I aspire to be? What is my passion? I could simply respond, that I have a longing to escape into a picturesque scene, resonant of Romantic Painters, where a warm breeze wafts the most delicate scent of honeysuckle, as reflective, summer, yellow sunlight pours onto a balcony. I envision myself sitting there, utterly satisfied, slowly rocking in a worn chair. Far off, are scarcely visible majestic mountains with a panoramic view of an exquisite verdure of the meadow below. The past fades into the haze of the horizon, then vanishes into a cloudless blue sky. I certainly understand how this scenario would seem fitting to yearn for, after all, I could use the well deserved rest. But that would be someone else’s flight of fancy. Most likely, a typical dream of the majority but as enchanting as the imaginary gratification is, it is not my dream. I do not consider myself the idle sort or someone who builds sandcastles in the air. My passion is much dearer to me. In all actuality, my desire was and I anticipate will always be, to cultivate and nurture Bonsai trees. This Japanese tradition, has been practiced by both nobility and scholars. History states, it is the oldest horticultural pursuit, which dates back over a thousand years. I remember it very well. There would have to be an infinite number of sunrises before I lose the memory of when I first discovered this living art form. There is a certain personal satisfaction to be gained by adhering to the principles and techniques that are required. For instance, Bonsai trees require long term care and maintenance to properly grow and thrive. They can live for a hundred years, perhaps centuries. It is the art of patience that I find appealing. Harmony, calmness, tranquility and a spiritual mind at peace, is what I seek. But I digress. I accept the stone cold truth of my situation and do not indulge in the comfort of a maddening dream. I am resolved and have succumbed to that fact and shall never speak of my passion again. It is a whim and not entirely conducive to my work. My superior would settle for no less.
I have not yet found any solution to my dilemma, dare I estimate the danger which I run, except perhaps by negotiation with my superior, to hire a young apprentice to assist me. At a cost, I could defy my superior's orders, simply leave my post and abort my mission. Lest we forget, dear reader, as we all know, that would be unadvisedly sound to draw attention to being a disgruntled employee, for there is that wrath of his to contend with. The ramifications are dire. So, I continue as an unauthenticated representative of moral bankruptcy to eradicate the living, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute. I ask you, which of us is the victim?

Space Station Borvan

   By K. A. Williams



The doctor looked at the smoking TARDIS console with dismay.

"What's wrong with it now, Doctor?" asked Tegan.

"I'm sure the Doctor can handle it," Turlough said uncertainly as the TARDIS spun around and he hung on to the console for support. The Doctor examined the instrument panel, then frowned, his blue eyes darkening. "A stabilizer is broken and I don't have a replacement."

"Where can we find one?" asked Tegan who also clung to the console.

***

The TARDIS made an ungraceful but firm landing on Space Station Borvan. Tegan and Turlough followed the Doctor outside where he set his Panama hat down on his blond hair and adjusted the stalk of celery on the lapel of his cricketer's outfit. 
He was ready to shut the door of the blue police box when a passing Vineryn leered at Tegan, his antennae swirling in a mating ritual. "Maybe you should wait in the TARDIS," said the Doctor. "I won't be long."

"You always say that," complained Tegan.

The Doctor smiled innocently. "Why don't you keep her company, Turlough." 

The Doctor watched Tegan and Turlough reenter the TARDIS before proceeding through the teeming humanoid and non-humanoid species toward the electronics store. He barely missed colliding with a short Liptoid who had a huge container of yellow bunquale sauce balanced on her head.

A blue-haired Brantnodide with pink eyes rolled all four of them when the Doctor approached the steel gate surrounding his wares. He wanted to duck down out of view behind some appliances but he was just too tall.

"Ah, Cegrist, just the Brantnodide I wanted to see."

Cegrist mumbled a few words and the Doctor laughed. "Don't worry, I have something better to trade this time. If you have one of these." The Doctor pulled the stabilizer from his pocket and handed it to the Brantnodide who clutched it in a six-fingered hand, studying it, before nodding.

He went deep into his electronic maze while the Doctor waited, hands in pockets, scanning the crowd for his companions. If they weren't in the TARDIS when he returned, he'd have a hard time finding them in this swarm of people. His compact ship didn't attract much attention here. He watched an entire family of Doluts, fifty in all, enter and depart in a craft much smaller on the outside than his own. And Doluts were twice as tall as humans.

The Brantnodide returned finally, the new component in hand. The Doctor took it from him and smiled brightly. "Thank you. I think you'll like this." He pulled a multi-colored cube from his coat pocket. "The object is to get all the squares on each side the same color."

Cegrist took the cube in one of his four hands and smiled, a frightful sight because of his many sharp teeth, something he had never done after one of their  trades. The Doctor pocketed the new stabilizer and hurried back to the TARDIS.

From the pool of yellow liquid near the door, he could tell that the Liptoid had spilled her precious sauce. The Doctor went inside and was relieved to see both companions there.

"Have fun outside?" he asked. 

"What makes you think we went back out?" Tegan asked, not meeting his gaze.

"Oh, nothing really." He had noticed the yellow tracks that led from the outer door to where Tegan was standing.

The Doctor handed the stabilizer to Turlough, headed toward the inner door, and paused. "Tegan?"

"What?"

"While Turlough's installing the new stabilizer, why don't you go hunt for a mop."

Tegan looked at the yellow tracks with embarressment while Turlough laughed.

                                               

Sunshine and Superman

By

Gerald Arthur Winter


Before his teens Tommy feared he’d been adopted because his older brother Billy’s blunt insinuations that he’d been dropped on his parents’ doorstep didn’t bolster any confidence that his fear of disconnection from his family could be merely his vivid imagination.
Billy would often whisper aside to his friends that Tommy was his adopted little brother, just loud enough for Tommy to hear. Billy’s pretending to keep their blood separation a secret gave more validity to Tommy’s fear. They’d be playing football in the empty lot up the street, and Billy would foster the idea of Tommy’s detachment from his own preferred genes in his younger brother’s head as he handed him the football for an end run. 
Tommy can’t run as fast as I can because he’s adopted. His real parents were trolls. Tommy thought he’d heard Billy say aside to the other older boys, which gave him an inordinate fear of goats in the neighbor’s pasture, from Little Billy Goat’s Gruff to Big Billy Goat’s Gruff. Tommy often peaked under the bridge that crossed the creek in the meadow to see if any of his kindred trolls were dwelling beneath the wooden blanks.
The tackle football was dangerous enough to life and limb with teams of five players on each side, just a few helmets of the 1950’s vintage with no face guards, or cushioned chin straps, but rather just a thin strap with a snap or buckle to tighten around a player’s head with no protection from concussions. Often during contact the helmet would caused even greater injury in a pile-up than no helmet at all. 
Shoulder pads under a sweatshirt were the only other equipment used for protection, but only half the kids could afford them, so they had sixteen-year-old boys with helmets and shoulder pads playing full contact against ten-year-olds with no protection other than fleeing avoidance or true grit against the odds of survival. For the most part, Tommy fit into the latter with a short stature his dad referred to as “built like a brick shithouse.”
Tommy wasn’t sure if the doubts Billy put in his head were to make him falter or to make him try harder when playing with the older boys. Tommy was blond and Billy had black hair, but they still had many facial similarities and gesturing mannerism that could be attributable to both their parents. Tommy didn’t dare ask his parents if he’d been adopted for fear Bobby had told him the truth that troll blood flowed through his veins.  
Billy was three years older then Tommy, and was born two days before Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Not until they were teenagers had Tommy heard the story from his mom that his dad thought Billy, with his straight black hair as an infant, might be have been mixed up with some Japanese woman’s baby. His dad had wondered if a Japanese woman had taken his real blond, curly-headed son home from St. Albans Hospital and had switched the baby’s as part of some yellow-peril plot to invade America.  
Without his mom’s recounting that story for his reassurance, Tommy suffered from doubts through his adolescence about his true family connection. He never realized back then how the three-year difference in their ages, made him a drag on Billy’s ill-perceived social life at school. Tommy’s acceptance among Billy’s older friends bugged Billy no end.
They lived off the Belt Parkway near Springfield Boulevard in Laurelton, Queens at a time when Idlewild Airport had just two hangers with only a few daily commercial flights. Rockaway Playland and the best beach north of Coney Island were a short train ride on the El from home. By car with his parents and Billy, it was just fifteen minutes across Jamaica Bay. 
Pat Behner was a seventeen-year-old neighbor who often took Tommy to Rockaway Beach on the train when Billy was at summer day camp. Tommy was five and Pat was his babysitter, though she was careful never to use that dreaded term. 
From the first day she’d clasped his little hand in hers and sat beside him on the wicker train seat, Tommy was in pre-pubescent love. A light brushing kiss and brief hug of affection from Pat were exciting to Tommy’s unhatched libido.  
After a day with Pat at the beach, lying in bed at night, feverish from sunburn, and the scent of Pat’s suntan lotion redolent in his memory, Tommy felt certain he could jump out his window and fly to her bedroom window. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with gritty chomps of sand didn’t matter to Tommy, always longing to return to Rockaway Beach with Pat. She was the quiet studious type, but like a caterpillar fresh out of her cocoon waving her colorful wings in the salty sea breeze. Lying face down on the blanket beside her, Tommy wondered if it was the surf or his heart that was pounding so loud against the sand beneath their shared beach blanket.  
Tommy saw that Pat was also his protector. Serene and spread out on the blanket, she suddenly looked up from the book she was reading, Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid, and jumped up to smack a strange kid bigger than Tommy when he tried to steal his pail and shovel. With her shoulder-length black hair swishing, Pat looked like Wonder Woman in her two-piece bathing suit. That’s when Tommy knew he had to become a man. He couldn’t be like the runt in the Charles Atlas ads on the back Page of comic books, the skinny guy with his ribs showing who gets sand kicked in his face by a muscle-bound lug stealing his girlfriend.
Tommy kept it a secret and didn’t let Billy know he was conditioning himself 
with “dynamic tension” exercises under the covers on the top bunk in their shared bedroom—no dead weights or apparatus, just one arm against the other like an irresistible force against an immovable object.    
Pat took Tommy to Rockaway Playland after they left the beach to go on the rides and venture through Davy Jones’s Locker, a fun house with spiraling barrels, distorting mirrors, and traps that made you lose your balance. Rolling around together in the turning barrel, Tommy could smell Pat’s scent. He was in heaven. Wanting Pat, made Tommy’s mind soar from the sunshine of Rockaway Beach to becoming Superman, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. 
Tommy thought maybe he was adopted, just like Clark Kent, and his real parents died on Krypton and left him to fend for himself, an alien among earthlings who were inferior to his inner strength. But Tommy’s foster family must have decided that he’d have a better chance of survival on this foreign planet if they moved to north Jersey where he and Billy had less chance of becoming juvenile delinquents in Queens. Even though Tommy had to say good-bye to Pat Behner, he vowed to fly back across the Hudson River to make her his life-long sweetheart.

* * * 

There was little opportunity for Tommy to fly in Bergen County in 1954, other than vicariously from the swooshing sound on a black-and-white 12-inch TV when actor George Reeves shed his suit and tie in a phone booth and sprang with his fluttering cape into the sky. Tommy was nine years old having similar feelings toward Janet Daniel's, his same age, as he had for Pat Behner. His affection; for Pat had faded like snowflakes falling on a sizzling volcanic lava. The flakes may have melted, but the lava continued to flow. That’s when Tommy’s mom asked him what he wanted most for Christmas that year. 
“A genuine Superman suit,” he told her without hesitation. “But you have to make it for me from scratch, just like Ma Kent did for Clark.”
“I’ve seen them on sale at the five-and-ten for Halloween. I’ll get you one if you do well on your next report card from school..” 
“School? Superman doesn’t need school. He’s smarter than everyone.”
“Not when he’s Clark Kent,” his mom retorted.
“Those outfits are junk, Ma. If you make it for me, it’ll be bulletproof and with my red cape I could fly.” 
She gave Tommy the kind of look you get from the librarian when you fart in the library, but maybe Billy was right that their mom thought of Tommy as her Golden Boy. He wished his hair was black like Billy’s and Superman’s with blue highlights just like in the comics.


 * * * 
       
Billy received everything he wrote on his Christmas list, and Tommy got many toys and games he’d asked for, too. Then his mom told Tommy he’d better put on his bathrobe because the heat hadn’t come up high enough in the house yet on that chill Christmas morning. Snow was in the air. 
When Tommy opened his wardrobe, there it was, just like in DC’s World’s Finest comic book last month with Superman, Batman, and Robin fighting crime together on the same cover. The Superman suit was blue with a red “S” and a yellow background on the chest. The red cape had a yellow “S” on the back. The stretchy blue pants and red tights had a yellow belt, and on the wardrobe’s floor was a pair of knee-high, red boots. Just with the brush of his hand across the “S” on the chest, Tommy could tell his suit was bulletproof and he could hardly wait to put on his red cape and fly. Now he could be sure Janet Daniels would be his girlfriend forever. He was prettier than Lois Lane or Lana Lang, and she was real and smelled like Juicy Fruit gum.

* * * 

Fortunately it was cold that January when Tommy went back to school, so he wasn’t that uncomfortable wearing his Superman suit under his regular clothes. 
“You’ve gained a lot of weight over Christmas vacation,” Janet Daniels said in the hallway by his locker. 
He closed the locker in time before Janet could see his red cape hanging insider, just in case he had to stop a robbery after school. He’d wait until the corridor was empty before catching his bus home, so he could fold up the cape to fit in his book bag.
Fortunately for those robbers, he couldn’t take out his cape on the bus ride home, because that would give away his secret identity. He couldn’t tell Janet until they were in high school. She’d be more serious and mature at seventeen, just like Pat Behner, now twenty-one. She was practically a grandmother.
Billy teased him about wearing the Superman suit under his clothes at school.  
He was in junior high now, so he couldn’t bother Tommy at middle school, not until they got home from school. Clark Kent was lucky he didn’t have an older brother to keep reminding him that, with that blond wavy hair, he probably was adopted.

* * * 

In May a new kid moved next store. Tommy turned ten and Eric was only seven, so Tommy figured he’d take him into his confidence and reveal his secret identity to him. 
A next door neighbor was almost like family, so he figured Eric wouldn’t give him all that negative jive Billy showered him with every day. Eric was a chubby kid with an odd manner of expression. When he had to pee, he’d say: “I have to make “tiddlelizz.” 
When he had to poop, he’d: “I’ve got to make a “whoorsht.” Tommy later learned that Eric was referring to a wurst, as in liverwurst—a graphic image that left little to the imagination. 
Disney’s animated feature Peter Pan was in theaters that summer, so the fantasy of flying overtook Tommy again. With summer vacation from school for three months Tommy had cultivated Eric’s belief that he was Superboy. Apparently Eric wasn’t as gullible as Tommy thought, so it shattered his confidence when Eric called him a liar—a harsh word for a kid with a dream to fly. There was only one way out. 
He’d have to fake it, but not just with words. Tommy had to make this odd, but stubborn little kid believe him, certain that was the only way to redeem himself.
Tommy planned his strategy for weeks, and finally took his wizened brother Billy into his confidence to help him with some of the details. He brought Billy into their daily games played in late July, so Billy could observe Eric’s temperament first hand. Watching Looney Tunes on TV everyday, Tommy and Billy convinced Eric to play a game they called “Fudd Pesters.”
“He’s only seven,” Billy reminded him. “Should be a cinch. What does Eric like most? Maybe he isn’t such a Superman fan like you and has to be shown what your super powers can do.”
“He’s more into Peter Pan, “Tommy said. “You know, the pixie dust and flying out your window to fight pirates and Indians on an island called Never Land with mermaids and pixies. Little kids’ stuff.”
Billy smirked maliciously. “Let’s see what we can make him fall for.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you tonight.”
Billy and Tommy shared a second-story bedroom above Eric’s first-floor bedroom window with only ten feet between the houses. They could look down from their high window and see into his bedroom. When it was dark, they turned off their bedroom lights and watched from their window until Eric’s light turned out. Billy took one of his marbles, pushed up the screen in their window, and bounced the cat’s-eye marble off Eric’s window sill with a loud—clink! They held their pillows to their mouths to muffle their laughter.
“Eric!” his father shouted. “Stop fooling around in there and go to sleep!”
“It wasn’t me, Daddy!”
“You heard me! Knock it off or I’ll give you a lickin’!”
They waited a minute then Tommy threw a marble that made a boing sound off Eric’s screen, not loud enough for his father to hear from the other room, but enough to bring Eric to the window.
“E-e-e-ric,” Billy chanted softly, but loud enough for Eric to hear. “It’s Peter Pan. Time to fly away with me to Never Never Land.”
We stayed below our window sill in case Eric looked up toward us. 
“Where are you, Peter?” Eric whispered loudly. “Where’s Tinkerbell? I can’t see her pixie dust flashing in the dark.”
Tommy and Billy were about to burst with laughter when Eric’s dad came into his room.
“What did I tell you? Get back in bed and go to sleep! Now!”
We waited about five minutes and Billy found a sparkler left over from The Fourth of July and lit it with a match from a book in his desk drawer. About to start eighth grade, Bobby had already started smoking with his friends in the woods behind Valley School. He nodded for Tommy to lift the screen then he tossed the sputtering sparkler out the window. It landed in a bush outside Eric’s window.
“E-e-e-ric, it’s Peter Pan. Tinkerbell is with me. She’s in the bush, but she’s dying because she thinks you don’t believe in fairies. Clap your hands loud so she knows you believe. She’ll be OK if you shout loud enough for her to hear. Tell her you believe in fairies and clap your hands.”
Eric came to his window and pushed up his screen. The sparker was fizzling out.
“I do believe in fairies!” he shouted and clapped his hands loudly.
Tommy and Billy were hysterical, but Eric’s father burst into his room, pulled down Eric’s pajamas and began spanking him on his bare backside. 
Eric wailed, “It was Peter Pan, Daddy! I have to save Tinkerbell!”
“No more movies for you!” his father shouted. “Now get to sleep before I take a strap to you!”
Tommy felt kind of sick inside about Eric getting a spanking, but Billy gave him a smirk and said, “Just wait. Now you can convince him your Superboy. Here’s how. . . .”

* * * 
    
Billy gave Tommy some ideas how to prove to Eric that he had super powers. 
Billy had to go to Boy Scout summer camp, so he couldn’t be around and Tommy was on my own—just him and his super powers.
He didn’t want to be obvious, so Tommy tried to act cool even though he was visibly sweating in his Superman suit under his clothes in the August heat. He’d never shown Eric his suit before. In his pocket Tommy had two nails. Both were four inches long, but he’d bent one in half in his dad’s vice on his workbench in the basement. 
“Hey, Eric! Tommy called to him in his yard where he was playing with some toy trucks in his sandbox. “Come here and I’ll prove to you that I’m Superboy!”
Curious, Eric got to his feet and waddled toward him.
“Oh, yeah. How?”
The bent nail was inside Tommy’s sleeve. He took the straight nail from his shirt pocket. 
“Do you think you can bend this nail in half?” he asked handing it to Eric.
Eric grunted so hard trying to bend it with his little hands that he farted. He was stubborn for a little kid, so he tried again, so hard and with his face turning red that he pooped his pants. He let out a howl and his mom came out to their back porch.
“What are you boys doing out there?” she shouted. 
Tommy grabbed the nail from Eric and said,” Watch this. I’m Superboy.” He put the straight nail in one hand and covered it with his fist then shook his sleeve and dropped the bent nail into his hand and tucked the straight nail back up his sleeve. He’d practiced that maneuver after watching Bonomo the Magic Clown on TV. “See! I have super strength. I’m Superboy.”
“Nah! That’s not the same nail,” Eric huffed with a frown. 
I dropped the straight nail behind my back.
“No. See, that’s the only nail,” I said.
“Your not Superboy,” he grimaced. “That’s just a comic book. My dad said so. Just like Peter Pan is fake and so is Santa Claus.”
Now this little creep was treading on sacred ground. Tommy pulled his shirt open to show him the super suit with its big red “S” on his chest. 
“That’s just a Halloween costume. I saw ’m in Woolworth’s. You not Superboy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy challenged. “Try and punch me in the chest.”
Eric was little so he punched Tommy at the bottom tip of the red “S” right in the solar plexus. Caught off guard, Tommy could hardly breathe and his face turned red. 
When he got enough air back into his lungs, he shouted to Eric’s mother, “Eric pooped in his pants!”
As he dizzily staggered back home and into the house, Tommy heard the sound of Eric crying and getting a smack from his mom, not on his behind because she saw he’d pooped his pants.

* * * 
 
Billy was still away at camp, so Tommy had to take matters into his own hands.
The next afternoon Eric was playing in his sandbox again. This time Tommy wore some of Billy’s clothes so he had room under his clothes to attach his red cape to his neck and tuck its drapes under Billy’s shirt and pants. He had to role up his cuffs and wore loafers so he could slip them off quickly. He’d left red boots on the sundeck above the garage with access to the sundeck from his parents’ bedroom across the hall from his and Billy’s. 
As he ambled across his yard toward Eric, Tommy noticed Eric’s mom peering out of their kitchen window where she was washing breakfast dishes. Her expression was suspicious with one eye squinting at him. 
“Don’t tell me you’re Superboy anymore,” Eric said. “My mom says you’re just teasing me. People can’t fly.”
“That’s because you don’t believe in fairies and Santa Claus, neat stuff that all kids are supposed to believe in. When they don’t, there not kids anymore. My brother Billy is fourteen, so he’s not a little kid. I’m three years older than you, but I want to believe in all that fun stuff for as long as I can until I’m too old. You’re only seven years old and missing out on a lot a fun. That’s why I’ve got to prove to you that I’m Superboy.” 
I noticed Eric’s mom was smirking at me through the window. 
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, but first I’ve got to save a kid caught in a tree, stop a bank robbery, then help a plane make a safe landing because it has an engine out on one of its propellers and will crash if I don’t show up. I’ll be right back.” 
As Tommy ran around the side of my house, he let Eric see him shedding Billy’s clothes until his red cape fluttered behind him for take-off and he shouted, “Up, up and away!”
Tommy ran into his house through the front door before Eric could follow him and see where he went, then he ran up the stairs to the second floor. He kicked off his loafers in the hallway then ran through his parents’ bedroom and onto the sundeck where he slipped on his red boots. 
He grabbed the edge of the slanted roof and pulled himself up on the railing around the sundeck and stood on the top so he could pull himself onto the roof. Holding the side of the full dormer, he worked his way up the slanted roof to the top of the dormer above the bedrooms where the roof was level. He ran across the flat roof toward the other side of the house next to Eric’s house. He visualized himself looking just like Superman in the comics. He came to the slanted roof on the other side of the dormer and eased down the slanted roof until the heels of his red boots in the rain gutter kept him from falling fifteen feet to the ground. He spotted Eric below. Eric had wondered around Tommy’s house in pursuit to see him take off in flight. Sure it was a lie, Eric was heading back toward his sandbox. When Eric was directly below, Tommy imitated the whooshing sound from George Reeves flying as Superman on black and white TV. But in full color, Tommy leaped from the roof and over Eric’s head. Thinking back on it, Tommy was glad his Olympic gymnastic, ten-point landing hadn’t gone to his head. Though he felt his thigh bones jam up into his hips, Tommy had broken no bones. He turned on his heels with exhilaration as his red cape swirled with the grace of a matador avoiding a bull’s charge. Eric’s mom came running across the yard and shouted, “Oh my God! Are you all right?”
Of course, she meant Tommy, but he folded his arms and pumped up his chest then said with a wink, “Yes, Eric’s fine. But he must promise to keep my true identity a secret.”
With her mouth dropped open, she said, “Of course, Superboy. We both promise to keep your secret. You’ll never have to prove it to us again. Absolutely, never. We even promise never to tell Daddy. Right, Eric?”
Eric’s face was still in awe after seeing Superboy come flying out of the sky from nowhere and land in front of him. Tommy remained standing in the yard like a statue of strength for truth, justice, and the American way until Eric and his mom went back into their house. When it was safe, Tommy broke his statuesque pose and limped painfully back into his house and upstairs to his bedroom. He cried in pain for an hour. 
Tommy never grew quite as tall as Billy and often wondered if his Superboy landing had stunted his growth. Billy told him that he was shorter than him because he’d been adopted. Even if he was physically damaged or genetically different, in his mind, Tommy always felt taller since that sunshiny day with Eric, just for taking a leap of faith that all kids needed—to dream of feats of strength and wish they’d come to pass.

Her Spirit Within Me

By Gerald Arthur Winter


Jeong Soo and John reunited at Clearwater/St. Pete Airport, both running with hands
raised above their heads in their reunion ritual. He lifted her off the ground and swung her in
his arms, so relieved to know she was unharmed and anxious to hear the full account of her
story about Hurricane Kim. When she told him of the harrows of the storm, his mouth was
agape with wonder over his fabulous wife’s survival instincts in a Cat-5 hurricane.
Jeong Soo had survived childhood asthma, her father’s untimely death when she was
twelve. She was the youngest of five sisters brought up by a single mother in Seoul with little
to eat. She had a bitter divorce from a wealthy, but verbally abusive Korean husband who’d
left her with their only son as her sole demand in their property settlement. Though she
became a successful business woman owning a day spa for women, a fire destroyed her
business without insurance. She had no money and a son to support. She wondered if her
ex-husband had hired an arsonist to destroy her will to live.
Bankrupt and depressed, while she and her son lived in a small crowded space with
her mother and eldest sister, the other shoe dropped. She had a head-on auto collision that
destroyed her only asset, her natural good looks. The impact split her face in two. Though the
Jaws of Life cut her out of the car, she’d lost all her teeth from the accident and spent eight
months hospitalized in traction after multiple surgeries on her right arm and left leg with
metal rod insertions that gave her agonizing pain for several years.
Her mother’s life insurance savings as the widow of a civil servant paid for several years
of Jeong Soo’s plastic surgery, but her bankruptcy left her with no options in Seoul to pay for
her son’s advanced education for an A student in his teens. Urging from her childhood friend,
Minji, convinced Jeong Soo to go to America, obtain a Green Card, and send money back to
Seoul to her oldest sister to care for her son, Jin, a bright boy ready for college.
Within two years she became a certified massage therapist and obtained her
permanent Green Card and was able to pay for Jin’s high school and college. She’d met
John coincidently stopping for gas in New Jersey with her best friend, Minji, and Minji’s
cousin, Nana, who recognized John as the boyfriend of one of her Korean friends.
“How is Keum Suk?” Nana asked John.
His expression became pained then he said,” She died five years ago. “Breast
cancer.”
Though Minji and Nana became glum at the sad news, Jeong Soo kept poking
Minji in the back to make her introduce her to John.
Minji invited John to join them next weekend at her rented apartment in Palisades
Park a hundred miles north.
“A long drive, I know, but we have room for you to sleep. We like to drink, so
no one will be driving all weekend,” Minji, the Alpha she-wolf of the pack said to John.
Despite his grieving, John was taken by Jeong Soo, so tall and lanky, with an
infectious laugh. He agreed, and after that weekend, he and Jeong Soo were never
apart again. Fifteen years younger than John, Jeong Soo still tells him many years after
for her it was love at first sight.
As they became more intimate and committed with his marriage proposal, he
felt obligated to tell Jeong Soo everything about himself, as she did so with her past.
John was a writer and was committed daily to long solitary hours at his craft.
“I’ve been taking notes and drafting chapters for years about people I’ve known,
mostly Koreans over the past twenty years. As you know, I have a sordid past. I was
intimate with many women to forget the fiancée I’d lost, Keum Suk Lee. She died never
knowing my real name. I lied to her about that, so she’ll always think of me as Bill.”
“I don’t care about anything that happened before we met. Do you feel the same
way about my past?” Jeong Soo asked. “I was filled with so much hate for my ex-husband,
and all my hardships made want to die.”
“Of course,” John said.
“Before we decide where we want to live in America, I want us to go to Korea
together. You need to meet my son, Jin. He’s finished college and has a job, but not a
family yet.”
“Does he want to come here to be with us?” John asked.
She huffed, “Why do Americans think all Koreans want to come here? Life is more
difficult there, and we’ve suffered historically, but Jin loves Korea and has no desire to come
here. He’ll make his own way now. He’ll be stronger if we leave him on his own. I want him
to be strong and independent like me. Like you, too.”
“When would we go?”
Jeong Soo grinned sheepishly then waved Korean Airline tickets in his face.
“We leave on Friday for thirty days!” she shouted with glee.
They hugged and jumped in a circle like chimpanzees, Jeong Soo screeching like a
hyena, which is what her older sisters had called her as a child whenever she shrieked out
of control with either joy or anger.
* * *
During the 15-hour flight to Seoul, John kept close watch on his carry-on luggage,
which contained a delicate item of great importance to him. It had already been wrapped in
a protective package before Jeong Soo had seen it, so she didn’t know what was inside.
Though John spent dinnertimes with Jeong Soo’s family, which included her son, Jin,
her oldest sister Geum, who was John’s age, her three other older sisters and their husbands,
and of course, their matriarch, Jang, now ninety-five, whom they all called Halmuni, just as
Jin respectfully called her “Grandma.”
John was the only one to tap into Jang’s dormant sense of humor by showing off his
Korean research and calling her Seolmundae, the mythical grandmother on Jejudo represented
on the island by its highest point, Mount Halla.
Translated later for John by Jeong Soo, Jang told her youngest daughter, “John is a good
man. Please keep him happy.” Then she said with a nod and her whisper of a voice, “Looks like
Sean Connor.”
Now John knew how Jeong Soo had gotten the misread on Sean Connery. As he hugged
Jang for her obvious compliment, she ran her gnarled arthritic fingers threw his white beard
and cackled as Jeong Soo and her four sisters bobbed their heads and mimicked the James
Bond theme song. Dah-da-da-dah . . . dat-dat-dah.
To keep the joviality going, John said, “I thought I married Miss Korea, so tall and
slender, but now I see she’s really my own Bond Girl.”
They all looked forward to the next family meal and the joy it would bring their united
family, but John had more somber business to attend to, which Jeong Soo understood and gave
him her support to do.
* * *
That following morning he took the train from Seoul to a rustic village in a fertile valley
surrounded by sharp mountain peaks. With help along the way from young Koreans who spoke
some English, John found what he was looking for.
The farmhouse was much smaller than he’d envisioned. The barn looked freshly painted
and all of the farming used state-of-the art technology. The farm was just as she’d described it,
a chessboard of various shades of green and yellow on the rolling hills between Seoul and the

distant eastern mountains in the center of the Korean peninsula. The yellow squares were

fallow to prepare for next year’s planting. The green squares were ready for harvest to take

to Namdaemun Market at Seoul’s Great South Gate.

Carrying a bucket in each arm, an old man came out of the barn. He wore a straw hat
and as he came closer, looked ancient, ninety or older. He cocked his head to one side sizing
up John and the carry-on luggage he pulled on wheels.
Hopeful, John addressed him in English, “Is this the farm of Kim Lee?”
He nodded as if he understood.
“Are you a member of the Lee family?”
He nodded again, then asked, “Do you want to buy my farm?”
John grinned and said, “No, sir, I’m not a farmer.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Do you know Keum Suk Lee?”
The old man staggered for a moment then looked for a large stone to sit on. He waved
his straw hat in front of his wrinkled face burnished many decades by the harsh Korean
elements.
“Where is she? Has she returned home?” he asked John.
“Are you her father, Kim,”
The old man nodded.
“I loved your daughter dearly, but she died many years ago of breast cancer. In a sense,
she has come home. I have her ashes in an urn here. Her last request was that her ashes be
scattered at the same place in the mountains, where her mother, Bong’s ashes has been
scattered. Please, sir, will you help me find the right spot so I can fulfill Keum Suk’s dying
wish?”
He wept and groaned, but let John help him to his feet.
“First a drink of makgeolli,” he said, waving John into the house and out of the hot sun.
John tried to imagine Keum Sek, called “Para” when she converted from Buddhist to
Roman Catholic, living in this rustic farmhouse. She’d been tormented by her two nasty little
stepbrothers and her cruel stepmother, Cho. Kim had brought his mistress into his home
then married Cho when Keum Suk’s mother, Bong, died of a broken heart.
John assessed Kim as a stubborn man, but saw that he was now a broken man as well.
He spoke of his late wife, Cho, who’d died a few years ago, and his eldest son, who’d became a
police officer and had recently retired. The two younger brothers had met with bad ends. They
belonged to gangs in Seoul, both alcoholics and gamblers. They were murdered in a drug deal.
As they faced each other across a low table in the farmhouse and toasted with
Makgeolli to Keum Suk’s return home, John unwrapped the package he’d brought and
revealed a blue-and-white, Wedgewood-like urn with Korean folk art designs and symbols
that reflected her Korean ancestry.
John felt sure her father had no idea that Para had converted to Roman Catholicism at
age twenty-one. That part of her faith had already been fulfilled. Now it was time to honor her
Korean ancestors starting with her mother, Bong, with whom she’d joined in spirit many years
ago, but her ashes scattered with her mother’s would bind them eternally.
It was a three-mile, uphill trek with stops along the way to catch their breath. They
came to a glacier lake high above sea-level. They each sat on a boulder to regain their strength.
“Was my daughter smart?” Kim asked. “Her mother said she was a smart girl, but I
saw no value in that—not for a girl.”
“She was very smart, and I loved her dearly. Ojini eeayo. She was gentle-hearted.”
“Are you her husband?”
“We might’ve married, but she died before we had a chance. My wife is Korean. She
knows I have Keum Suk’s ashes and respected my need to do this alone. I’m blessed with
a wonderful wife. In spirit, we both believe that Keum Suk brought us together.”
Having mellowed in his old age, Kim smiled and nodded.
“I haven’t long to live,” he told John. “Cancer . . . weeks, maybe only days left.
I didn’t know that Keum Suk had died, but my oldest son, Yung, knows to scatter my ashes
here, too, but with his mother, Cho’s. How sad that we can’t do right by one another in life,
only in death.”
John rubbed Kim’s shoulder as the old man wept, as he knew Para would with her
forgiveness.
“May I have this moment alone with her?” John asked Kim.
Kim nodded and headed towards the downhill trail then sat out of John’s sight.
“My darling, Para,” John said. “I’ve brought you home. Wait for me here until my time
comes. We won’t be alone because your omma and my yabo, Jeong Soo, will also share this
space in time, which we both know is neither the past nor the future, but only the present. I
have work to do before I join you. I must share our life and those in it with others so they can
fully appreciate the depths of the Korean soul and all its great ancestry. When my work is done,
I’ll join you here at our lake house forever.”
As he scattered Keum Suk’s ashes into the wind and they carried down to the lake, he
envision her waving to him from the dock at the lake house below.
She had embodied three souls in one. Julie was the Korean immigrant who sought
true love with great passion. Para was the angel within her who could fly above the mundane,
finding peace with her accepted Lord, Jesus Christ. Keum Suk was the child, the daughter,
and the lover blessed with two compassionate men in her life who’d loved her as much as
she loved them. Through it all, and with an early passing to join her Korean ancestors, she
had embraced her mother’s sage advice:
“There is no alternative for a Korean woman,” Bong taught Keum Suk, caressing

her only daughter’s soft cheek with the back of her rough hand. “As Korean women we must

trust in the rigid fiber of our Hangukan heritage, yet bend in the harsh wind, simply to survive

for the sake of our ancestors’ eternal peace.”

Although Meg Smith's following story "Christmas with Erbie" is not about my father Herbert Eyre Moulton, it reminds me of my father. Affectionally, he was called "Airbear" (a nickname from French-class), or also, indeed, like the gentleman below: Erbie.
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) had a distinguished artistic career in the fields of literature, opera, musical and drama coahing and worked with such movie greats as Clint Eastwood, David Warner, Zsa-Zsa Gabor and Alan Rickman. 
Now, enjoy Meg's delightful story.



Christmas with Erbie
By Meg Smith



Christmas is the best time of year. I love summer, of course, and fall in New England is always great, even here, in a city like ours.
But Christmas is special because that’s the only time of year
we get to spend with Erbie.
Uncle Herbert. But as far back as I could remember, we’ve called him, Erbie.
Erbie is incredible. Erbie is smart, and funny --
the truth is, he’s my favorite member of the family.
Every Christmas, someone says something like, “We should do this more often.
You should come more than just at Christmas, Erbie.”
And he’ll chuckle and say, “That’s a fine idea.”
But somehow, we get so busy with our lives, and it doesn’t happen.
But Christmas does, and we get ready.
For me, this year was shaping up to be a really special Christmas. I got myself a date.
I go to Hawthorne State College. Being a state college, most of the students are in-state, and a lot of us are commuters.
But, it has a well-known engineering program, and that does bring in some students from out of state.
One of those was Craig. We met in a physics class. I liked him right away. He was thoughtful, and sort of shy. We got to talking, and meeting up in the cafeteria.
I think maybe he was a little lonely, with his family all on the other side of the country.
So, as the semester was winding down, I asked him:
“Are you flying back home during the winter break?”
“Actually, no,” he said. He looked down at his books, which, honestly, I found really cute. “I’m gonna stay here. Pick up some winter credits.”
“Ah, winter session,” I said. He nodded. I felt slightly under ambitious. I was planning four weeks to just work my part-time job at a videogame store, and otherwise, just relax, spend time with my friends, and  let my brain deteriorate.
“Well,” I ventured, “You could do with a home-cooked meal in the middle of all that studying. Why don’t you come to my family’s house for Christmas dinner?”
There was a moment of terrible silence.
Did I overstep some magical line I couldn’t see?
“Know what, that sounds great,” Craig said, in this matter-of-fact way, like, it was natural and logical. That just charmed me even more.
“Awesome!” my voice sounded girlishly shrill. “I’ve got your number, I’ll text you!”
I said.
The days got closer, and I felt this tingly anticipation as if I was a little kid. Everyone noticed it. My mom smiled, and of course, I got some teasing from my brothers.
“Sis is growing up,” said Jax, nudging Scott.
Scott sputtered with disdain -- not at me, but at Jax.
I’m generally regarded as the “baby” of the family, and maybe that’s just because I’m a girl. Scott is two years younger than I am.
Jax is older by a couple years, a widower, and staying at home “to help mom with everything,” although I think mom does just fine.
Also, he’s saving for school, so he says.
It’s like any family, I guess -- everyone knows something is true about someone, but no one says anything.
It gets to me, sometimes. But it didn’t get to me this year.
I was working hard on my degree. I had a little money saved, from my video game store job, and from doing some tutoring at the college. I was musing about internships, although I was also thinking about switching my major.
And, I met this guy, Craig, who made me feel kind of giggly and foolish, but with all my responsibilities in life, I decided I was allowed.
After all, how much longer could I get away with indulging the giddiness of an adolescent?
It was definitely compensating for last year’s Christmas disaster.
Right before school was off for the holiday, I found out my so-called friend, Edith, had somehow amazingly woke up in a sleeping bag with my so-called boyfriend, Dirk, at a party at the house of my other so-called friend, Regina. Who never even invited me.
It all became clear, after the fact, and too late. That Christmas, I was up in my room, sobbing, trying to get all the crying out so I wouldn’t look like an hysterical fool.
And who came to my side, but Erbie.
He caught me in the hallway, going from the bathroom, and I turned my face away.
“Hey,” he said. “I know a heartbreak when I see one.”
He didn’t say, “You’ll get over it.” He said, “Sometimes, people do these things. It’s not your fault. And I know someone’s gonna feel very lucky to meet you someday.”
And he patted me gently on the shoulder. “Thanks, Erbie,” I said, softly.
“Thanks for understanding.”
That Christmas felt like a million years ago, and that seemed like someone I knew, instead of someone I was.
Finally, the day came. A new Christmas Day. Everything was going to go just right.
It was beautiful -- clear skies, a light dusting of snow, just a hint of frost in the air.
Under the Christmas tree was a wreckage of paper and boxes, and our two cats, Phoebe and Fibber, crashed out asleep in the middle of it all.
“That could be the picture for next year’s Christmas card,” Jax said, dryly.
“That’s true!” I said. I thought it was a brainless idea, but I didn’t care. I was in the best mood. Not even my dumb, underachieving brothers could wreck it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but I’m sure most sisters with brothers think of them as first-class pains.
Getting Christmas dinner ready was quite engrossing, and I was glad. I made the stuffing, and my special whipped potatoes with cheese that is my own speciality,
thank you.
It helped to keep away the Christmas-date nervousness.
My mom smiled knowingly. She’s the best.
I went upstairs to get ready. I put on a new, green dress, and makeup.
I felt more like a famous actress than just someone going downstairs for dinner.
Craig arrived, punctually, at 1:45 p.m., just like I asked him to, so we could get settled and have dinner by 2 p.m.
Honestly, it’s not like we’re all sticklers for time, but I knew if I put it to him like that, he would observe it fastidiously.
I could have shown everyone a picture of him on my phone -- if I’d taken one.
 I’d never thought to do that, and I felt weird saying something like, “Hey let’s take a selfie,” when I couldn’t think of a good reason to do one.
We’ll do it at Christmas, I told myself. Before dinner. Or after, maybe.
That giddy feeling, again.
My mom and I went to the door.
 I could see from my mom’s gleaming expression she was already approving. Accomplished, and handsome! You could see it in her eyes.
“Hey, man, welcome,” my brothers said, offering brotherly handshakes.
We got settled around the dining room table with an efficiency that my family seldom musters on any Christmas day. Table set precisely, and elegantly.
My brothers were actually wearing dress shirts and ties, without being prompted.
Mom wore her most beautiful dress -- well, I expected that from my mom.
And me, with my date, Craig, sitting beside me.
“I hope you won’t mind,” mom said to Craig.
“But it takes Erbie a little time to get downstairs.”
“That’s my uncle,” I said -- realizing that I hadn’t even told him.
“Of course not,” Craig smiled. “I’ll just feast my eyes,” he said, looking over the spread.
I have to admit, it did look pretty spectacular this year. Almost like a magazine.
In the midst of my exaltation, for the first time in my 19 years, I felt this weird ache. Each Christmas means another year passing.
Things seem the same, year after year -- the tree, the gifts, the dinner, waiting for Erbie -- but they’re not.
A Christmas will come when maybe I’m arriving from across town, or even someplace else in the world, with my own husband, and maybe my own kids.
And one day, some of the people around the table won’t be there. One day, mom won’t be there, or my brothers, or even Erbie.
There had been a Christmas when my dad was there, but that was when I was only two years old, so I barely remember.
“Everything okay, dear,” whispered my mom, who was sitting on my other side.
“Um, yeah, I’m great.” I squeezed her hand under the table,
and flashed a smile to Craig.
Then Jax started telling a story from work. He works at a convenience store, so, whenever an awkward silence threatens to move in, he always comes up with a funny story about something that happened.
This one was about a customer with a tinfoil hat. We all laughed, even Craig, with a surprisingly hearty, delectable laugh.
Then, I said, “Maybe I should see if Erbie needs a hand.” He was getting older, and maybe, the stairs harder for him to manage.
Just then, we heard the measured creaking, and a slightly labored breath.
“Sorry, all!” a wheezy voice called. A voice we all knew and loved. “I’ll be late for my own damn wedding!” I swear, he says the same line every year, and we all laugh.
Even Craig laughed. “Your family’s cool,” he said closely, in my ear, and I shivered the most delightful shiver.
We all looked up, and we all stood up. That’s another tradition we do -- standing up with Erbie enters the dining room.
“Merry Christmas, Erbie!” we all sang out. I looked around the table -- even my brothers looked perfect, and beautiful to me -- everything looked perfect, and beautiful.
When I looked at Erbie, in the golden light of the dining room, even I was taken a little aback.
I guess when you don’t really see someone for a year, they change.
He doesn’t even live that far away -- just upstairs, in his very own room, in the finished attic, and he only makes this trip down this special day, once a year.
He supported himself for a moment against the doorway of the dining room, and looked us all over. He has a -- I don’t know what you’d call it -- I think of it as an auxiliary eye.
We’ve always argued about whether that eye actually works, but Erbie and mom always swore up and down that it does, and that if we didn’t behave as kids, Erbie’s auxiliary eye would scout us out, and he’d report to Santa, and that’s that.
Of course, we laugh. That’s a tradition, too.
His weight surged forward, on what I guess you’d call an auxiliary pod. As in, pseudopod, except it’s not a false foot at all. It gets him around, and the rhythm of his shifting gait is one of the dear rhythms of our lives.
I touched Craig’s arm. He had stood up, too, just a beat behind us all, because, hey, this was a new thing to him.
His arm shook, though. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re family.”
But his face had run a pasty green color, that faintly reminded me of The Grinch, which made me sputter a laugh.

Our gaze was all shifting to Craig. “You okay?” I said.
Truthfully, I was getting a little disappointed. Okay -- if you’re not used to someone’s appearance, fine -- but don’t stare.
Which he did.
The air suddenly stung with an acrid smell.
I looked down, and caught sight of his slacks, and the puddle pearling on the wooden chair.
“For real?” I said aloud, before I could stop myself.
Now Erbie focused all of his vision on Craig.
We all exhaled, and pushed our chairs back.
My brothers came over to my side of the table, Jax in between me and my mom, and Scott alongside Craig.
We all latched onto Craig, stumbling a little over the dining room chairs.
He let out a fading scream, but it died midair.
All year Scott had been working on this so-called choke hold, which I thought was stupid, but now I could see its perfection.
Erbie had now ambled up to our side of the table, and there was no struggle, as such.
The glow in his eyes was warm, and kind, and full of gratitude, as it always was.
Craig vanished into Erbie’s arms, his auxiliary arms, and legs, and eyes, and heart.
This was not just appetite.
It was pure love.
And it was because of me. I’d done it.
I felt so proud.
It made up for that failed year, when, in my teenage rage, I told my boyfriend and two fake, ex-friends to forget about coming to my family for Christmas -- that they could starve, for all I cared.
I got a boatload of hell, the one and only time I think my mom ever yelled at me and even Jax and Scott had to calm her. But Erbie -- he totally understood.
Besides, my brothers had gone out, found a kid sitting in a car. He was throwing a temper tantrum and refused to go in the store with parents.
He was, screaming and cursing all the words he wasn’t allowed to say in his parents’ presence.
He yelled and swore at all of us, and Erbie, too; the TV was left on, and he saw his own “missing child” photo, and flailed an arm at the TV, shouting, “ That’s me, you ffff --”
Still, since last year, it bothered me. I had let Erbie down, even with his consoling words and assurances. “Hey, the kid was worth the wait,” he said. “Comedy, too. Goes great with a good meal.”
But this year, I didn’t need any assuring words, I didn’t need anyone telling me they understood, or not to worry.
After dinner, we always liked lounging around in the parlor, feeling lazy and fat and happy, and watching a Christmas movie on TV. “A Christmas Story.”  A movie where you know all the scenes and all the lines, and laugh just as hard every year, every time.
The later part of Christmas day is always when that poignant feeling sets in, of another year done.
This year was a little different. Mom, Jax and Scott all decided to head upstairs a little early.
The dark was coming. The Christmas tree lights glowed hazily. I liked the idea of people passing by, seeing our pretty tree in the window.
The papers and boxes were still crumpled up with the two cats sleeping in them.
Erbie was reclining, resplendent, in the recliner chair only he ever sits in.
It waits, untouched, the whole year, until he is ready to relax after dinner and watch a favorite movie.
Some years, it’s “A Christmas Story,” and some years, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
He breathed deeply, with his own rhythm, that somehow reminds me of an old boat, creaking against the docks. It always comforted me.
I was half-sitting, half-laying on the couch, next to his chair.
When a commercial came on, he drew a rumbling, slurry sigh and said, “Kid, I gotta...I gotta tell you something.”
“Was it -- okay?” I twinged with a bit of anxiety.
“Nah, nah. That was all good. All good. This is something else.”
Before he said, I almost  knew it. My eyes began to burn, as if ready to cry at the right moment.
“Now, listen. I don’t want any crying stuff. I’ve had a good run. Hell, I think I’ve even outlived my doctors.” He chuckled, a wheezy, sloppy chuckle, like I remembered from Christmas past, but this time, the sound was almost unbearable.
My tears flowed, and I couldn’t stop them. “I thought -- I thought you never went to a doctor!” I said through my snuffling. “Mom said you were just born -- where you were, right upstairs in your room!”
“That’s true. Hey, I made a bad joke. I’m allowed. Kid, I can feel it. I got lumps, all over. It’s cancer. That’s what I get for smoking, maybe.”
I lunged from my chair, and almost fell on top of him. “We can get you to a doctor!” I demanded.
He smiled. He has the biggest, most broken, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, and it just made me cry harder.
“Kid, this is how it is. I love Christmas, but this is the best damn one I’ve ever had.”
By now, I was just a pathetic waterfall.
“C’mere,” he said, clearing his throat with a gurgle.
Don’t worry. It wasn’t a perverted thing. He just wanted me to sit in his lap, the way I had as a kid. And that was how I remembered it -- his bulk, like a big, wonderful, warm blanket, to hold me and protect me forever.
I settled in -- a little more clumsily, I admit, as a young adult -- and I was afraid I’d hurt him.
But he just chuckled, and held me, deeply.
I had a plang, a kind of regret, that we only ever had Erbie with us at Christmas. But, I realized, that’s the way he wanted it.
Not a lot of talk about jumbled chromosomes. And, definitely not how grandma planned to put him out in the trash the day he was born, on a lonely December day, when the wind had stripped the last leaves from the trees.
How mom, his older sister, saved him, squirreling him into a closet before she could wake up, and act.
And how my grandmother became the first Christmas offering.
Or all those who followed...my dad, my brother’s dads, my brother’s assorted wives and girlfriends, even that bratty kid in the parking lot. And now, Craig, mine.
Pride glowed again within me.
At that moment, they appeared before me in a shining, starry chain, as I gazed through blurry tears at the Christmas tree lights.
I closed my eyes.
Erbie started singing a lullaby, like he would on those long-ago Christmas nights, when I was little. His voice was like a trilling, a mysterious song bird you hear in the woods but can’t see.
“Children, children, run to the moon, and throw her a kiss for me.”
He coughed, and had to regroup himself before going to the next line.
I don’t know if it’s an actual song, or if he just made it up.
It was okay to feel like two or three years old again, in a warm and safe place, running to the moon, and blowing her a kiss as she smiled a kind, forgiving smile at the Earth.
 
THE END
 

The Honesty of Meat
 
​By Jeff Blechle


Cheery bells and snowy gusts, peppermint sticks and mushroom sauce guided Bobby through hungry dreams until he woke up with a mouthful of last night's round steak and jabbered something up at his hungover, mean-eyed stepmother who then spanked the season out of him acting like this round-headed result of her husband’s first marriage had just smacked her cooking right in the face.
“You little sneak.” Deedee looked like a frosted flake in winter window light. “Just let that be your breakfast!”
Bobby gave her thanks and praise and gagged on his meat.
Deedee smacked his ear. “You can pull that crap at your mom’s house but not around here!” She stomped out of the bedroom and slammed the door and yelled down the hallway.
Bobby spit the mouthful into his nightstand drawer, then called one of the bullies at school that took his lunch money. “Chomper, I want my stepmom to have a really, really bad Christmas.”
“So do I. Wait—who is this?"
“Bobby Dubas.” He heard How the Grinch Stole Christmas! during Chomper’s silence, then scary laughter, breaking glass, the f word.
“Dubas the Doofus?” Chomper belched. “Nuts! What do you want, Doofus? And how'd you get my phone number anyhow? I oughta—”
“Can you come to my house tonight and steal all Deedee’s presents?”
“On Christmas Eve?” Bobby listened to Chomper roll something hard around in his mouth. “What’s in it for me?”
“Deedee’s presents.”
“Just lady presents? Heck no. I want your presents too. And your dad’s. And your sister Shawn’s since she’s a tomboy.”
Frosty pause. “Ok. Come late tonight. Down the chimney.”
“Nuts, Doofus! I ain’t coming down no chimney! Leave the front door unlocked. Geez.”
“Merry Christmas, Chomper.” But Chomper had already hung up.
 
Sometime after midnight Chomper arrived at the only house on the block with pink flashing Christmas lights crowning in a shrub under a window. He shoved his bicycle into a snowy evergreen and spit purple. “The Doofus better not be playing a trick on me. Nuts. I should have brought snacks.” He shrugged, adjusted his snug Santa suit, his white beard, swung his empty sack over his shoulder, trudged onto the front porch, went inside, and loaded his sack.
Winded after his crime, Chomper found the bowl of leftover round steak and potatoes that the dog had refused. Bobby had placed it on a window box above the pink lights about four feet off the porch. “Nuts. How’d I miss that? Oh well. Hulk hungry!”
Chomper learned over the railing, slipped on a pile of screws, the railing collapsed, and he flipped headfirst and crotch deep into a snowdrift. His sack of stolen gifts and their sharp corners landed between his pedaling legs.
 
Bobby trembled down the stairs with his sister, he in boots and winter coat, Shawn in summer pajamas. Christmas morning smelled like the tail end of another old-man poker game in their sticky orange kitchen. The siblings wiped grimy tears from each other’s cheeks and crept up to the half-lit Christmas tree. Santa Claus's Party played in the kitchen and Dad was curled up by a buzzing space heater and Deedee towered over everything like an icy suit of armor. She pointed at a present under the tree about the size of a crock pot.
            “Bobby, where are the other presents? What have you done, you little sneak? Ooo, I am going to tenderize your ass!”
            Bobby put all his ten years into his expression, his swallow, and his voice, “Why would Santa forget us?” He zipped up his coat.
            Shawn ran bawling to Deedee, who bumped her into the Christmas tree box. Shawn sprang up like the devil and threatened everyone’s lives.
             “Shawn! Bobby!”
“Leave em alone, Carrie,” Dad grunted from the floor.
            “Carrie? Who the hell is Carrie? Ooo, I’ll deal with you later, Jim.”
“Jim?”
            Then Deedee went after Bobby. He ducked her weapon, dove under the tree, and lifted the big wrapped box against her boobies. “I don’t know what happened to the other presents,” he cried. “But look! This one’s for you . . . mom.”
            Deedee lowered Dad’s nightstick into the bowl of an old toilet that never made it to the curb, then took the gift from her kneeling stepson. “To Mom from Bobby and Santa.” She swallowed loudly and sniffed. He pulled on his mittens. Something must have got in her eye. He cinched his furry hood. She sniffed again and knelt and removed the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside, in a stained corner, stood the glob of Bobby’s chewed up round steak. She looked up at Bobby’s sparkling eyes and giggles.
            “Merry Christmas, Deedee!”
            He almost made it to the door.

The House Party

by Anita G. Gorman


Big cities were just too big, Jeremy had decided, so he moved to Ashleyville, Ohio in hopes of finding a community where he would feel at home. Ashleyville needed a pharmacist, and that's what Jeremy was. Single, self-reliant, hardworking: that's how he would describe himself.
He had already accepted his new job when he began to have doubts. What if the citizens of Ashleyville were narrow-minded and provincial? What if they were unfriendly? It was too late to have regrets, so Jeremy made his move and found a house to rent on Elm Street, within walking distance of the drugstore off the village green where he was to work. He was going to share responsibilities with another pharmacist, he had learned. A very good thing, since the pharmacy was open for more hours per week than he cared to work.
He moved in over the last weekend in June and was scheduled to start work on Monday. No one came to his door to welcome him. He sat in the backyard on Sunday afternoon reading the local newspaper and some magazines he had brought from the big city. Then he started reading a book, a mystery he had picked up before he left his old home.
No one seemed to be home on either side of him; at least, no one came to the backyard. He was beginning to feel lonely.
On Monday Jeremy began work. Everything at the pharmacy seemed normal, organized, and just fine. At the end of his shift, he went home to his rented house. He sat in the backyard. Two children were playing next door. He waved to them, and they waved back.
By Friday he was wondering what he had gotten himself into. Is this an unfriendly town? Did I make a mistake? What to do, if anything?
He thought about his plight and called his sister Janice.
"So, how's it going in the little town?"
"I've been here for a week and I don't really know anyone, except for the people at work. No neighbors have come over. I thought people in small towns were supposed to be friendly."
"Remember what Mom used to say when things weren't going right?"
"Yeah, what are we going to do to remedy the situation?"
"Right. I don't think you should wait around for the neighbors to show up. Lots of people are really unaggressive. They wait for other people to invite them, or they stay at home, or they just exist in their little comfort zone."
"So, what do you think I should do, invite them over?"
"Absolutely. Why don't you have an open house this Sunday? I know there isn't much time, but you could put flyers in the neighbors' doors tomorrow and invite them over on Sunday afternoon."
"What'll I serve? I'm not much of a cook."
"Look, Ashleyville isn't the big city, but I bet they have supermarkets and Chinese take-outs and pizza parlors. You have the money, so I don't think we have a problem here. Of course, you won't know how much to buy if they don't RSVP, but I don't think you have time for that. Heck, what you don't use you can freeze, and you'll have dinners for a while."
Jeremy pondered her remarks.
"Jeremy, are you there?"
"I'm here. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, like Jack Benny used to say."
"So?"
"OK, I'll do it. I'll say lunch on Sunday beginning at 12:30. I'll put my cell number on the flyer and my email address, but I'll say they don't have to RSVP; they should just come on down!"
"Remember what Dad used to say when we were in tough spots?"
"Yeah, we're having another adventure!"
Saturday came, and Jeremy wandered up and down the street putting flyers under doormats or in screen doors. Then he returned to the house and his mystery novel and tried not to care if anyone showed up at this party.
By 12:30 p.m. on Sunday he was ready, with numerous tasty dishes from the Chinese takeout, the pizzeria, and the local supermarket. He made up his mind that whatever happened, he was not going to be disappointed. People could have lots of reasons not to show up on a summer Sunday afternoon in Ashleyville, Ohio. What if he were a neighbor? Would he show up at a stranger's house? He wasn't sure.
He left the front door open and the screen door unlocked. At 12:30 he heard a knock. The two children from next door and their parents were there, and the mother was carrying what looked like a cake.
Before long there was a parade of neighbors, old and young, single people and families, all carrying something to eat.
"Hi, I'm Mary Cataline. I live at the end of the street. I'm sorry to say that I don't know my neighbors. Thank you for this."
"Jeff Longsbury. Glad to meet you. Thanks. I appreciate this."
Soon they were eating and talking and laughing together.
"Why didn't we do this before?" That was a woman who called herself Grandma Weatherly.
Jeff Longsbury looked up from his pizza. "Someone new had to tell us what's wrong with this street."
Grandma Weatherly smiled. "Let's do this kind of thing once a month. My house next."
It seemed like a good idea. Now all Jeremy needed was someone to mow his lawn and someone to date. If not on this street, maybe around the corner.

THE SWITCHEROO  ©

a novel excerpt
by
Gerald Arthur Winter
 
 
“Junior”
 
 
Seen by tens of millions on national TV and the internet, my third strikeout in ten pitches against MLB Batting Champ, Cesar Montego, had resounded globally. “Pitching prodigy, Bonnie Swift,” as they referred to me, had been on news anchors’ and talk show hosts’ lips all month long. My name had been broadcast from coast to coast on the media circuit 24/7. Then, after forty days of stardom, my bright candle suddenly flickered out. I became old news and still had no team, no offers, and no future interest in my pitchingtalent by anyone who mattered.  I was too young to be considered in the future. As a girl, even with my unique talent, I was more of a joke to scouts than a prospect. 
 
Pop said I’d become like a circus sideshow with him as the organ-grinder and me as his monkey doing tricks to entertain curious gawkers with my unhittable pitch. Once he realized we’d lost our direction in the media whirlwind, Pop stopped taking calls to book my appearances. He’d turned down the past dozen offers from the
media to appear on the air or in public, and for thousands of dollars. For my sake, Pop decided we’d had enough. His gifted daughter would never become a reality-show freak on his watch.
 
“You’ve become like a sailboat stuck in the doldrums without a breeze to carry you to your proper destination,” Pop told me. He’s an English teacher always expressive like a poet. He would’ve become a Major League pitcher himself if he hadn’t injured his arm in an auto accident. He was counting on me to succeed where he’d failed. Not
really a failure—just rotten luck.
 
It seemed all we had left were unrealistic hopes and aspirations.
 
I’d overheard Gram arguing with Pop: “Instead of fifteen minutes of fame, Bonnie got more than a month of public attention and enough money to pay forfour years of college. Be grateful and leave it at that.”
 
I adore my grandmother, but she’s very set in her ways.
 
“I am grateful,” Pop said.
 
“Then why so sullen?”
 
He just stared at her.
 
She stared right back, the way she did when I told a fib. She and Gramps raised me after my mom died. I hadn’t seen much of Pop till I turned seven. He was too broken hearted over losing Mom. I never knew her, I’ve just seen photos, because she died when she gave birth to me and my twin brother, “Junior.” He died that day, too.
 
“Face reality, Jack. It was wonderful, but that’s all there is, all there ever will be.
Concentrate on making Bonnie keep up with her studies so she doesn’t waste all that money she’s earned. I can’t fathom it. Can you?” she asked Gramps, but he’d already dozed off in his recliner.
 
“I’ll see that she gets a good college education,” Pop said. “But Bonnie wouldn’t stop pitching now, even if I told her to. She’s put in too much time to ever let it go.”
 
She’d given her opinion, as usual, but Gram knew not to push it with Pop.
 
* * *
 
Over the next three years, Pop had stopped coaching Little League. He was concentrating all of his free time after school and on weekends teaching me everything he knew about baseball and pitching. Hard times had passed, and Pop had regained tenure in our local middle school teaching fifth graders. He would read “Casey at the Bat” to his classes every April on Opening Day and would show the video of me striking out Cesar Montego, the best hitter in the majors for the past three years, though he still got the brunt of ridicule every season because an eleven-year-old—a girl no less—had struck him out on TV and was seen by millions on YouTube.
 
Pop used my achievement as an example to his students, conveying that nothing was impossible for them to achieve if they believed in themselves.
 
Students often quoted him as saying: “Truly talented people must rid themselves of all self-imposed limitations. To achieve your greatest desire, always believe in your dream.” Wind of Pop’s quotes eventually reached my ears. At fourteen, changes in me had occurred day by day, but my teen years had come much too soon for Pop, even though my maturity was bringing me closer to an opportunity for a Major League try-out.
 
I’d come a long way from my adolescent awkwardness. For Pop, the day I’d won a pitching contest for kids at Yankee Stadium must have seemed like ions ago. His longing to regain that feeling drove him to build an addition onto our old house in the empty lot he’d purchased. My customized bullpen with Major League dimensions allowed me to practice pitching at home every day regardless of wet, cold, or windy weather.
 
All the practical advice from friends, especially from Gram and Gramps, had opposed its construction, but only Pop could imagine building that space for me, hoping, as I did--my day would come.
 
“The empty lot is big enough for an entire baseball field,” Gram argued.
 
“It’s too cold outside for five months out of the year,” Pop countered.
 
“If you ever want to sell your home, that monstrosity will bring down its value,” she argued.
 
Even Gramps, with a sad nod, had to agree with her practical logic.
 
Pop persisted, filling that space with training equipment to keep me in top condition for if or when that opportunity would ever come. He mirrored all four walls and the ceiling, so when I touched the rubber on my regulation mound, I’d see myself from every angle. Pop would spend an hour every morning before school, and two hours every evening after dinner, as well as a few extra hours each weekend training me and critically observing my pitching. I would practice twice as much on my own, for an hour before Pop woke in the morning and again two hours before dinner.
 
I’d go into a meditating trance when I was alone, getting so deep into my subconscious that I’d experience that sensation scuba divers have with rapture of the deep, no longer able tell if they were swimming to the surface or heading deeper to the ocean’s bottom and certain to run out of air. It felt euphoric, that my reflection and I were one. Sometimes I couldn’t distinguish between the two, as if I were having an out-of-body experience that often made me feel giddy imagining some magical experiences, like talking to my twin brother in my head, but seeing him at my same age as me, as if he’d never died.
 
In my mind, the reverse image of myself and I had become one, but each with a complementary purpose of making us whole. As an eighth-grader, I looked at my reflection, then at my hands in front of me in the bullpen to separate the pitcherfrom myself—Jack Swift’s daughter, his blood. Or was it “Junior” I saw? In my mind,
 
I’d hear him say: Someday we’ll be the closing pitcher in Yankee Stadium.
 
* * *
 
Gram intruded on the pursuit of my dream that year at our Thanksgiving dinner.
 
When I excused myself from the table, complaining of stomach cramps, Pop started to get up to follow me. He was always attentive to my needs, being as much my physical trainer as my pitching coach. He was always over the top on both counts.
 
Gram clutched Pop’s arm before he could leave the table to follow me. From the bathroom down the hall, I could hear them talking about me.
 
“Leave her be,” Gram said. “It’s nothing you can stop, and for once in Bonnie’s life, something you can’t control.”
 
“I resent that!” he snapped back, looking to Gramps for support, but this time Pop got none.
 
“You used to tell your teams that it’s just a game,” Gramps said with a shrug.
 
“What happened to that sound advice, Jack? You’re out of control with Bonnie’s training.”
 
“Everything I do is always in Bonnie’s best interest,” Pop said.
 
“Keeping her well-fed, warm, and safe,” Gram said, then threw up her hands.
 
“You’ve gone too far! Bonnie’s at the age when she needs a woman’s touch—someone who can teach her more than pitching a baseball—someone who can go in there and explain to her that she’s not dying, but just having her first period.”
 
Jack hung his head in his hands.
 
Gram got up from the table. “I’m not going to be around forever, so I’m going in there to talk Bonnie through it. But if you think you can do a better job—be my guest.”
 
Pop shook his head, cradled in his hands.
 
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “What good will pitching a baseball do Bonnie in years to come when she’ll have a family of her own to care for.”
 
Gram knocked on the bathroom door off her kitchen and closed the door behind her, leaving Pop to wonder if my great moment had already come and gone.
 
* * *
 
On the drive home that Thanksgiving night, Pop turned off the car radio playing Christmas carols and touched my hand.
 
“We need to take a break this winter,” he said. “I want to be fresh with new ideas next spring about how to get you seen by minor league teams. You deserve a breather till then.”
 
“Me? Nah. I’m fine. Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t overdo it and hurt my arm.”
 
“Maybe we should tone down the intensity of your practice sessions,” he said.
 
“From what Gram tells me, you practice in the bullpen even when I’m not around. Maybe we both need to cut back on baseball. You need to broaden your perspective, especially regarding stuff I feel awkward talking to you about.”
 
“Gram thought I was starting my first menstrual cycle,” I said. “I let Gram tell me all about it. Old people are so weird about that stuff. I wasn’t crying because I was scared.
 
I was hoping that’s what it was, so they were tears of joy.  I’m the last one in my class. The mean girls at school say I’m not really a girl because I can pitch better than all the boys and I hadn’t had my period yet. They say nasty things about me. You’re worried that my TV appearances could turn me into a circus freak, but to the kids at school I already am.”
 
Pop sighed. “I’ve been out of touch with you about everything but pitching.”
 
I gave him a hug. He was all I had to cling to.  “Don’t sweat it. You’ll figure out something to get me a crack at the Majors. I’m still in it to win it,” I said, sure that my pitching would keep Pop from drifting away from me. But lately I felt I was drifting away from myself, floating away from Bonnie, the girl I’d come to know so well, and could depend on.
 
Sometimes I imagined I wasn’t me at all, that I was Junior and looking at me through his eyes instead of my own. It could be frightening when we were alone with no one else to talk to. It used to be a conversation between us, but with puberty coming to the fore, Junior seemed to be doing most of the talking and I was doing all the listening,
as if he resented me. Ugh! Boys can be so immature.
 
* * *
 
The next morning, as I came out of my room ready to warm up in the bullpen, I heard Pop’s phone ring through his closed door. I heard him stretch then grumble before answering. “Gram, it’s only five a.m.”
 
I laughed about the way Gram always nagged Pop. I went downstairs without hearing more. Gram’s usual pedantic banter didn’t come through Pop’s speaker phone.
 
Instead, it was a muffled whimper.
Even after a big Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, I was up early and set the timer for Pop’s coffee. Its aroma soon filled the kitchen. In the morning stillness, my pitches in my custom-made bullpen made thudding sounds against my target.
 
“Mornin’, Pop!” my voice echoed across the bullpen. “I’ve been working on a new pitch I want to show you. It’s really cool. Maybe unhittable.”
 
I continued rambling as Pop approached me, but he put two fingers to my lips to silence me.
 
“What’s the matter, Pop?”
 
“It’s Gramps . . . I’m sorry . . . we’ve lost him. He passed away in his sleep. Gram needs us.”
 
Tears welled in my eyes as I shuddered and dropped my mitt onto the floor. The baseball fell out of its pocket and rolled across the bullpen. We embraced then Pop led me to his pickup and he drove us to my grandparents’ home a few miles away in Toms River.
 
Pop put his right arm around me as he drove. I trembled, feeling the pain, for the first time in my young life, that Pop must have suffered when Lydia and Junior died. That feeling was unbearable, making me question my dream of making it to the big leagues.
 
How empty and frivolous it seemed without Gramps to see it happen.
The only words of comfort came to me with Pop’s voice in my head:
 
“Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout.”

I felt like one of those little children wanting to shout with grief. Gramps had been my only positive male authority figure. Pop had been no use to me in his grief over losing my mother and twin brother in childbirth. Gramps had been wise and kind and loving, a dedicated family man who’d kept food on the table and a roof over the heads of Gram and my mother, Lydia, through good times and bad. He’d done the same for me, too, until Pop had begun to
make amends when I turned seven.
 
Not only had Gramps been a rock for his own family, he’d treated Pop like a son, even at Pop’s worst when his grief had turned him into a bitter drunk and a neglectful dad. Until yesterday at our Thanksgiving gathering, Gramps had remained a man of sound reason and quiet judgment to offset Gram’s often didactic personality.
 
I realized it was for my sake that Pop was holding up through Gramps’ wake and memorial service at the same church where Lydia and Junior had been laid out in caskets fourteen years ago. I could see from Pop’s expression that he was struggling with his recollection of that day. Junior must have been in a small, closed casket that was no
bigger than a picnic basket. Lydia would have been lying in her casket, like Sleeping Beauty, as if Pop’s kiss might have brought her back to life.
 
Now Gramps was gone too, along with others Pop had treasured, including his own parents—dead and buried—mere shadows now, whom I sensed he longed to see and touch.
 
He carried that need in his slumped posture as if he were carrying a heavy burden up a steep hill.
 
Of Pop’s own choosing, his brother Davey was dead to him, even though my uncle still worked only forty miles away in Atlantic City, or so I’d gathered from brief exchanges between Pop and Gram, which would quickly stop whenever I’d enter the room.
 
I confronted him about Davey at my eighth-grade graduation, another special occasion without my estranged uncle’s presence. Pop hadn’t spoken to his older brother since their chance meeting on the boardwalk six years ago. I recalled how Pop seemed to
 
regret that brief encounter and hadn’t spoken to me about Uncle Davey since.
 
After my graduation ceremony, I said to Pop, “I’m starting high school. I’m not a little kid anymore, so I have a question.”
 
He seemed leery about what I might ask.
 
“You never talk about my Uncle Davey . . . What’s with that?”
 
“You have no grandparents on my side of the family because my parents, mine and Davey’s, were killed in a car crash when I was nine and Davey was twelve. We had no relatives to take us in, so we were sent to separate foster homes.”
 
“Why to different homes? You’re brothers. I wouldn’t want to be sent away from my brother. My brother died, so I have no choice, but you still do.”
 
“Even at age twelve, Davey had been in trouble—shoplifting, vandalism, and always getting into fights at school. Child Services decided to keep us apart so he couldn’t become a bad influence on me.”
 
“That’s mean. Maybe if he’d had a little brother to look after, he might’ve stopped getting into trouble.”
 
“He protected me from fights in school before that. Sometimes the fights were my fault. I used to get picked on by older boys for using big words they didn’t understand. Davey would step in when I was outnumbered. He was a tough kid, a scrapper, but never had good sense to avoid getting caught. I was upset about our separation. I was allowed to write to him, so I did, but he’d never written back. I didn’t hear about him again until he joined the Marines at eighteen. He was wounded in Iraq, but the injury was as much mental as physical. I went to see him in the VA hospital, but he wasn’t glad to see me.”
 
“Why?”
 
“After his injuries, he became addicted to pain killers then other drugs. When your mom was pregnant, I’d told him not to contact me until he’d gone through rehab. I hadn’t heard from him or seen him until that day we saw him on the boardwalk. Do you remember?”
 
“Sure, Pop, but he didn’t seem so bad. It makes me sad that we don’t see him once in a while.”
 
“I’ve assumed the worst about him, but some of my boardwalk friends have told me Davey still works at one of the casinos in Atlantic City, just as he’d said he would when we’d seen him that day. I hope he’s okay, but I prefer not to bring his dark element into your life. We have enough to deal with. If he contacts me and can show me he’s been sober and drug free, I’ll consider seeing him, but not before.”
 
“I guess you know best, Pop.”
 
* * *
 
The rest of that Thanksgiving weekend Pop and I pampered Gram. She was a strong woman with many friends in her church, and she tried to quell the pain of her loss by playing cards and shuffleboard, baking cakes for bazaars, and attending cover-dish suppers for seniors.
 
I saw in Gram, a woman who could survive the loss of a spouse better than a man, better than Pop had when my mother died, leaving him alone to raise me. Without help from Gram and Gramps until I turned seven, I realized that Pop wouldn’t have made the cut as a single parent.
 
After languishing most of the day after Gramps’ funeral, and Gram finding comfort with some of her close friends from church, Pop kept me close at home and tried to snap me out my gloom. Putting me back on track with my baseball training seemed the best diversion from our grief.
 
As we reclined on the living room sofa, watching, A League of Their Own, a movie we’d seen a dozen times, Pop clapped his hands to rouse me.
 
“How about showing me that new pitch?” he said. “I can’t imagine how it could be any better than your sinker. C’mon. Show me.”
 
“It’s not better, Pop, just different, but not how you’d think.”
 
“C’mon. Let me see it.”
 
I took my time and stretched. As we started to enter the bullpen, the doorbell rang.
Disappointed by the interruption, I slumped my shoulders.
 
“Must be UPS with the new baseballs I ordered,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute, then I’ll be back to see your different pitch.”
 
I leaned against the bullpen’s entrance and watched him go to the front door. He was surprised to see who was standing on the front steps.
 
“Jimmy?” Pop said, making my ears perk.
 
“Happy Thanksgiving, Coach,” Jimmy Stattler said with a nod as his eyes darted back and forth.
 
“Same to you,” Pop said, looking up and down the block to see what the young
 
man, now standing six-feet-four, was looking for at the end of the block in both directions. “You’re old enough to drive, but I don’t see a car. Did you walk five miles from
 
your house just to wish me Happy Thanksgiving . . . two days later?”
 
“Sure, Coach.  I mean, you did teach me a lot about baseball, and I’m thankful for that, but . . . well . . . I heard Bonnie’s grandfather died. I’m really sorry. He came to all our games, but I . . .” Jimmy paused trying to see past Pop.
 
“Did you want to say something to Bonnie about her grandfather?” Pop asked, always the teacher anticipating what questions were on students’ minds.
 
“Bonnie?  Oh . . . Is she home?” Jimmy asked, trying to be nonchalant.
 
“Sure,” Pop said, seeing that he was still looking back and forth down the street.
 
“Would you like some hot apple cider? Pretty cold out today.”
 
“Uh, sure, Coach.” Jimmy darted past him and into our house.
 
Pop looked up and down the street then closed the door. “Does your dad know you’re here?” Like a study hall monitor, Pop eyed us. “What’s going on here?”
 
Jimmy blushed, but I became his willing spokesperson: “Jimmy’s car is hidden on the next block so his dad won’t see it parked in our driveway. If his dad knew Jimmy was here, he’d ground him. Mr. Stattler doesn’t approve of you, Pop—or me.”
 
“You’re seventeen and Bonnie’s almost fifteen. She not getting into your car.”
 
I huffed, “We just want to practice pitching together, but his dad would never allow it. We hoped you would.”
 
“Pitching--just pitching?”
 
“Just pitching, Pop. Don’t you trust me?”
 
“Sure. What about you, Jimmy? Can I trust you?”
 
“Yes, Coach—I swear,” Jimmy stammered.
 
“The door to the bullpen stays open at all times,” Pop said.
 
So it did, but Pop was clueless about what was going on. Jimmy and I vowed to keep it that way.
 
Pop must have smiled when he heard my infectious laughter in the bullpen. A bond had formed between me and Jimmy that I could share only with Junior, though
 
I still wasn’t prepared yet to tell Jimmy about my twin brother’s spiritual connection to me, how I’d never known Junior in life, only since his passing. Friends were too hard to come by for someone like me, the freak of nature that I felt I was becoming. Jimmy and I shared the love of baseball and that’s where it would remain for fear of losing the only person close to my age I could talk to without giving away my secret.
 
Now, in retrospect at twenty-one, I understand that the saddest day of my young life was also the happiest. On that Thanksgiving weekend seven years ago, I’d lost Gramps and longed for his wisdom, but I’d found Jimmy Stattler, the same bratty boy who’d tormented me before I’d bloomed into the image of my mother, Lydia, that
 
I am now. I’m still thankful that Jimmy came to our door that dark day to give me his condolences, because from that day forward we’d love each other forever.
 
I thought, if life is made of such miracles, perhaps I could still pitch for a Major League Baseball team. Why not as the closer in the World Series? As Pop often said:
 
“Dream and believe, but always remember, when your dream comes true, be thankful.”
 
___________
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 

Fangs
By Jeff Blechle


I placed my tool bag in my other hand and turned the bell knob. Lightning struck the midnight, then, “Come in!” Inside, a long flight of stairs reached up into darkness. I climbed, and after passing two landings with doors of their own, stood on a Busch rug eye-level with the blackened joist of an exposed floor. Above that, lamp-lit horror movie posters cornered the ruddy vaulted ceiling. The same voice said, “The furnace is in the basement.”
“Where’s your thermostat?”
“In the narthex!”
 I climbed more steps, found it, set it. A toilet flushed, then a tall, pale, black-haired man appeared in a beige t-shirt near a wooden post. He smiled. “You’re the new guy. Cool. Come on. To the bat cave.”
His shoulder blades worked like bellows under his shirt as I followed him down to the first landing. He opened a door and offered me a flashlight. I took mine out of my bag. “After you,” he said. We descended.
“Scared?”
“Born,” I said. “How long have you rented here?”
“About two-hundred years.”
I stumble-scuffed onto an octagon landing and dust rose in my stirring beam. “Which one?”
“That one.”
We passed through an eight-panel door to more stairs, first concrete, then, turning a sharp corner, stone. How did they run the ducts?
“Are you afraid of vampires?”
A rush of tingles grazed my flank. “Real ones, yes.”
“How real?”
I turned around to curl my lip and he blinded me. The property manager told me to watch out for this guy.
Descending again, his footsteps sounded closer, scratchier.
The steps led us to a small round room with three doors embedded in its walls. I trembled my tool bag and flashlight into my left hand and, fresh out of wooden stakes, pulled out a screwdriver. His white hand reached over my shoulder and pointed at the middle door.
“That one.” Sewer breath.
I clumsily opened it onto a narrow, brick-lined hallway with a dirt floor. I couldn’t turn around so I eased forward. “Damn. I hope I won’t have to go back to the truck for anything.”
“You won’t.”
In the close dampness, sweat ran over my fist and onto the screwdriver handle. The hallway ended in a T.
A deeper voice, “Left.”
Determined not to go another step, I led the tenant to a door-less diamond-shaped dead end. Again, a hand reached over my shoulder, but this time it pulled a string and illuminated the diamond. Laughter darkened it. I whirled around to a mouthful of sharp shiny teeth in a reared-back head. I dropped my tool bag and the flashlight and, gaining leverage from the wall behind me, plunged the screwdriver into his heart.
His eyelids flew away. I let go of the heavy wet handle. Crinkled string swinging between us, I watched plastic fangs dislodge and relax crookedly in his mouth before he crumpled onto the dirt floor.
 Apparently, no one ever found his body.
​

Tricky Treats

By Ed Ahern



The stand went up the afternoon of Halloween. It perched next to the street in front of an old house.
There were two painted signs on the front of the stand.
The one higher up read:


There’s a Trick to Our Treats


The one lower down read:


Take one and begone in fun
Take more and troubles begun


The Gobeline couple that had rented the house were really old, and their neighbors, much younger and still breeding children, wondered why they’d moved in. Still, they kept their yard very neat and made no noise.
At dusk, when daylight had all but disappeared, Mr. Gobeline pulled out a big cart filled with sweet things. There were Marzipan animals, and Berliners, and Schneebȁllen and
Bienenstick and Bremer Klabe. They were sealed in what looked like factory plastic wraps and were wonderfully delicious looking.
Old Mr. Gobeline, pinch cheeked, pointy nosed and stooped, pulled the empty cart back into the house and left the stand all to itself. Toddlers and tots, whose parents brought them Trick or Treating in late daylight, stopped in front of the stand. The young mothers formed a defensive cordon.
“I don’t recognize these candies.”
“Why isn’t one of them here?”
“No, Sally, don’t touch that.”
But one of the fathers, after pretending to read and understand the German labeling, ripped open the wrap on a Bremer Klabe and gulped it down in four bites. “Absolutely delicious. Tastes like it’s just from the bakery.”
The mothers, realizing this was a perfect excuse to violate their diets, each took a different confection and tried it. “Marvelous.” “No preservatives.” “Not too sweet.” They wanted to take a second one, but there were too many witnesses.
“Okay, Jimmy, take just one.”
“Linda, try this one.”
As the evening darkened and latened, the age of the children increased. As did their greed. Older kids sometimes took two sweets rather than one, and several teenagers took three. At nine pm Mr. Gobeline emerged from his house without the cart and walked out to inspect the
stand. There was not a single sweet left, just empty wrappers strewn around. He picked up the wrappers, took down the signs, and carried everything back into the house.
Mrs. Gobeline was waiting for him.
“Did we do well?”
“Ja, wunderbar. At least three hundred. The effects will be starting soon. Are you ready?”
“Natürlich. I’ll be so glad to get out of this costume and back to our cave. Let’s go.”
And the Gobelines drove away. An hour and a half later, those who had eaten only one sweet felt only full. Those who had cheated with bienensticks were seized with rank flatulence.
Those who gorged on Bremer Klabe vomited a multi-colored gruel. Overdoing Marzipan lead to violent convulsions. Berliners were time bombs that exploded with diarrhea in the middle of the night. Schneebȁllen produced snot loaded nasal gushes. Five mothers who stole and ate their child’s confection had it worst, suffering from insatiable thirst and incontinent urination.
Texts and phone calls provided supporting music for the ambulance sirens. It was morning before the neighbors decided that the Gobelines’d got them, and broke down their front door. But the only thing of note that they found was just that, a note. It read:


Hope you enjoyed the true spirit of the holiday.


end

​
Ed Ahern

resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.
https://twitter.com/bottomstripper 
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https://www.instagram.com/edwardahern1860/

The Tale of Jack Finnigan


by Dawn DeBraal




Samhain, the end of the summer, the beginning of the dark winter months. Cald sat near the bonfire watching the costumed villagers dance around the flames. This was the night the dead walked the earth. So that the dead would not be recognized, the villagers put on costumes that allowed the returned spirits to roam, free from discovery. It had been like this for as long has Cald could remember. The stories told by his grandfather and father and now the very ones he told, kept the children interested on long winter nights, when they were cold and hungry, but kept entertained by his stories. The scariest story was that of the pumpkin headed man, a tale with true origins.
Jack Finnigan a villager in Newgrange, Ireland carved out a pumpkin for the Samhain Festival and wore it upon his head. The story was told long before Cald’s grandfather’s time.
Jack wore dark clothing using the pumpkin as his mask. Everyone laughed seeing the funny man walk about the village. The eyes of the carved pumpkin did not quite line up with his own eyes, so Jack fell down several times. It didn’t help that he drank copious amounts of mead.
Jack had always been the laughingstock of the village, having taken to drink like a duck to water. Known as a happy drunk, always dancing, singing making a joke here and there. But this night, he was at his funniest with the large pumpkin he had pushed his head through.
Jack walked through the village scaring children by jumping out from doorways, and rain barrels. At first it was funny, but when the children started to cry, the villagers grew angry and chased Jack out into the woods with pitchforks and torches. Jack disappeared into the forest but later it was discovered that several children were also missing.
The next morning a group of the villagers formed a posse just before dawn to search for the missing children. The angry villagers carried torches while they searched the woods for Jack who they suspected of taking them.
Sticks were used to beat the bushes, every shack was searched, but nothing turned up. A farmer went out to his field where he discovered a pumpkin on the
ground. The discarded pumpkin had been carved with a hole cut at the bottom large enough to allow a man’s head to slide into, and a pair of eyes and a mouth had been cut out making this into a mask. This was the path Jack Finnigan had taken, the villagers were sure, and they ran in the direction of the found mask. As the morning drew long, there was no sight of the children or the person they suspected of taking them. Days turned into months, months into a year. Neither the children nor Jack were ever seen again.
Each Samhain, a pumpkin is carved with a face and set out on the doorsteps of those in the villages wanting to protect their children. A candle is lit and placed inside of the pumpkin illuminating its face to ward off the dead. “Stay away from the children of this house,” the pumpkins proclaim. The villagers call these shining pumpkins, Jack O’Lanterns.


THE END

Halloween Costumes
​
By Anita G. Gorman

Here it is, my 90th Halloween. And once again I am planning my costume. The neighborhood children love to see what I have on when I open the door. Sometimes I think they laugh at me, but when I’m dead, they’ll miss me. Some old coot will probably buy my house and put a No Trespassing sign on the front fence and a padlock on the gate, maybe even some barbed wire on top. As for me, I’m the friendly sort. I’m also a little odd.
I remember my first Halloween costume. I was a gypsy with a long skirt, frilly blouse, big, bangly earrings, three long necklaces, and a bandana on my head. I knew what would happen when I wore the costume. The gypsies would find me and take me away to their camp in the woods. There I would dance around the bonfire and eat strange gypsy food and be adopted by gypsy parents who would not make me go to school. I was afraid they would spank me, as my parents sometimes did, though not very often. If I didn’t have to go to school or clean my room—no one has a room at a campsite—what was there to spank me about?
The next year I wanted to be a cowgirl. In those days you could buy cap guns with holsters and caps that would make a loud noise and leave a smell of burned paper. I wanted a set of guns and a belt with two holsters for my birthday that year, and somehow I got it. And a cowgirl hat. No boots. Cowgirl boots would have been
hard to find in our town, and they would have been expensive. So on Halloween that year I wore a blouse and a skirt, ordinary shoes, and my gun belt with the two holsters and the two cap guns. And my cowgirl hat. I knew what would happen when I donned that costume. I would shoot my way out of my house and out of town. At the edge of town, a horse would be waiting for me. A little horse, since I wasn’t very big. I’d gallop to a ranch where they would take me in. I would be hired to be in charge of the herd. I’d make lots of money, no one would punish me for anything, and I’d never have to do the dishes or clean my room. Other people at the ranch would do that sort of thing.
The next year I decided to dress as a princess. I had a crown on my head and a magic wand in my hand. Somehow I managed to buy some netting at the five and ten cent store, and I just wound it around my growing body, over my pink dress. This time I knew that once I reached the end of my street, a handsome prince would come along and invite me to his castle. At the castle there would be no homework, and no one had to eat liver and onions.
The next year I decided to dress as an old woman. I borrowed a cane from my great-grandfather. My mother had an old polka-dot housedress—does anyone wear a housedress these days?—and I put on the housedress and hitched it up with a belt from one of my little-girl dresses so I wouldn’t trip. I found a plaid shawl and wrapped it around my neck. I took baby powder and sprinkled it on my hair so it
would look white, just like an old woman. And then I made my hair into a bun, with big hairpins sticking out all over. This time there was no gypsy band, no ranch in the mountains, no handsome prince. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be old. It was easier to believe in a magic wand than it was to believe that I would ever be old.
So, here I am, now 90 years old. No point in dressing up like an old woman, since no one would think I was wearing a costume. I think I will be a gypsy this year, with a bandana on my head, and three necklaces around my neck, and a long skirt that will conceal my sensible shoes. I hope the neighborhood children admire my costume.

The Lost King

by

Mehreen Ahmed


Based on a plot told orally

by

​Vahid Husen Sayyad


Daisy was held under a dark, mystifying spell. Nestled by the cozy fires of her drawing room, she sat this evening on a rugged floor in her palace. She moped about an incident which occurred in her laboratory last night. She looked lazily out of the tall French windows and viewed a full moon, a flying saucer of gold. The enigma touched her. She became distracted. Her five year old daughter Chevon, ran around the large drawing-room, braiding in and out of aged furniture. Chevon stopped short and looked at her mother. She stepped forward. A doll lay on the rugged floor by a varnished wooden table. She picked it up and looked at her mother again.
Daisy wore a white tee shirt and black shorts. She lived in this palace with her daughter, and their Nanny. The Nanny raised them both over two generations. She raised Daisy, now twenty-six, the Nanny was fifty-five. But the Nanny never got a respite. As soon as Daisy grew up, Chevon was born. Her duties as Nanny resumed.
This morning, at an unearthly hour, Daisy woke up in a gilded bed. She heard a beak knocking on the window pane. A black crow sat on its ledge. Heavy curtains separated the two earthly creatures. She asked, what was up? In coarse words, which only she understood crowed, ‘messed up‘ ’messed up’.
A knock on her bedroom door, her soft voice coated thinly in drowsiness.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” a female said. “I brought you breakfast, Miss Daisy. May I enter?”
“Come in?”
The ornate palace door was made of solid old oak. It hinges creaked, when it opened. The door tunnelled. A dark tunnel. Daisy squinted her eyes. Nanny came flying through. She flew in and landed gently on her two feet at the footrest.
‘How’re you this morning, Your Royal Highness?”
“Hmm. Tired. Say, what’s for breakfast?”
“The usual, porridge and orange juice,” the Nanny replied.
Daisy, looked at her and then at the food.
She blurted out.”Who prepared breakfast?”
“I did. Why?”
“No, just asking,” Daisy replied.
“Now, eat up, dear. Slow and easy. Relish it.”
“I still feel faint, Nanny,” Daisy said.
“Are you tired from last night’s experiments?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure,” Daisy said.
She took the first scoop of porridge from the bowl. The spoon melted into the porridge. She saw it; she felt nauseous. She pulled her bed clothes over in a heap, climbed down the bed and ran into the toilet. Nanny looked concerned and she ran after her. Daisy bent over a gaping hole and threw up. She looked down to see what exactly she vomited. She saw green phlegm floating down in a dark pit.
“Are you okay?” Nanny asked, hovering over her head.
“I’m good,” she answered.
“What’s wrong?” Nanny asked. “I don’t know. But, I’m going to find out soon,” she answered. “Say, is Rupert at home?”
“Yes, he is. He was asleep, when I woke up to prepare your porridge.”
“Hmm, has Chevon eaten yet?”
“No, I am about to take a bowl of porridge to her too.”
“Look, never mind her porridge. I’ll prepare it myself. Can you ask Rupert to see me in the lab, please?”
“Okay, if you say, so. I have been raising the two of you over two generations, you know.”
“I know, Nanny,” she smiled. I love you, too.”
The Nanny left. She grumbled and wondered, what was Miss Daisy up to. Daisy, however, walked up and down the room in her tee and shorts trying to find the cause of her nausea. She had fallen asleep by the fire with Chevon last night. She had no idea who brought them upstairs. It must have been Nanny and Rupert. She drew the curtains apart. Spring blooms in her garden. An ocean of pomegranate stretched across the rolling, lush lawn. She stood on its edge. She saw pomegranate seeds dribble out of a broken shell; fallen through; the lawn turned red.
She was engrossed in thoughts. What had happened in the palace laboratory last night? She was trying out one of her inventions. The metal war suit in red. She was playing around with its settings, trying to get its speed right. It must work. She must be able to fly in it, go places, time travel, at the touch of a button on the inbuilt supercomputer suit. She must be able to land back safely in her laboratory too. It was a giant suit. She began to feel faint in it. She came out and fell down. She was out for a few hours, until she came around by herself. How could that have happened? She thought she was invincible, a superhero in that suit. That she stood now at her garden’s edge after she threw up again this morning. The seedy red lawn at her feet lay to the far end.
Oh! That porridge! That porridge must have caused all this. She must not forget Chevon’s porridge. She must make it herself. She didn’t know anymore what was going on in the palace kitchen. She must also let Nanny and Rupert take an early retirement. They must be relieved from their duties. No matter, there was much love between them, Nanny and Daisy. After all Nanny raised Daisy. Without her, Daisy wouldn’t be King today.
Back in the day. 1788. The battle of Northumberland, a decisive battle took place which had mapped her Kingdom of Northumberland. Rashtra had annexed it, this neighbouring state. Now the proud rebellious nation was in the grips of its much hated King __ King Corrom. Daisy seized the opportunity. She had her red war suit ready. She and her brother, the King of this annexed state decided to fight back.
They garnered strength by gathering a large army. They approached another vassal state, Cobra. The King of Cobra agreed to assist. King Cobra was in possession of a large and a mighty army. Two states combined forces. They rose against the common ruling lord. A brutal battle ensued. It was a rain drenched day, on the outskirts of the state of Rashtra. The field was camped with royal tents over by the horizon. Daisy appeared in her metal red suit to fight yet another war. Her brother, the King by her side, except he was not in any suit. The war was bloody. The field couldn’t soak up enough blood that day. Her brother fought valiantly. However, a sudden sword thrust cut through his heart. The King fell. Daisy, in all her efficient armour tried to get him off the battlefield as fast as she could. But she realised, she too was hurt.
No. Wait. She recovered in fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes her near fatal wound cleared. She made an attempt to rescue her brother, but when it came to pass, he had gone. The thrust, too deep, he had lost far too much blood by the time, Daisy brought him back to the camp.
The battle was a win. Long live the King. She crowned herself King.
The battle! Ah! It was all but terrific and terrifying at once. There was a banquet to celebrate the win. The spoils of war were many. The loot was deposited into the royal coffers, the plunder, the torched villages. She saw them. Daisy saw how it had all burnt. She had overheard the brutal rape cries; the slaughter of children on long spikes. But she turned a blind eye. Grave war crimes were committed. Murders took place. They were committed in the name of the state, but were pardoned. Because, the war was a necessary evil.
Daisy shed tears. Today, she cried for her noble brother, which no King should do. Show tears. But her sorrow took a dive into the abysmal pool of depression. It was beyond reprieve. She saw the moral demise of all the King’s men. Most deplorable, murders, cuckoldry, and coquetry filled up the shady palace halls. She dared not to find out about the martyred King, who had too succumbed to it once when he was King. God Knew and legend had it. God knew, the dead King had illegitimate children littered across her Kingdom which she now ruled.
After all these years, at twenty-six, Daisy stood in her palace kitchen making porridge for her daughter Chevon. The King, long gone many centuries, too short. The battle was well-documented in the preserved pages of history. She mourned. Did she mourn for the corruption in the palace? Perhaps, not, she was too used to it. Her own uncle and cousin tried to dethrone her.
Yes, they did. They planted Rupert as a spy as Nanny’s husband. They thought, no Kingdom was large or small enough for them. They felt that only they had the anointed rights over the kingdom. Back in the laboratory. 2020. Daisy, at twenty-six, sat in front of the computer, trying to tweak her red super suit. Make it perfect.
In it, she reached for the cosmos. She viewed the stars and floated through the galaxy's space-time at a speed of light. She travelled the skies. She fainted. Someone called her mummy, mummy. She heard a distant call. ‘Wake up, I’m hungry’. She struggled to open her eyelids in a dark room. She lay on a farm bed in tee and shorts. She looked at her. It was Chevon. Chevon clutched her little doll and stood by her bedside. There was a door in this room too. But they were plain white, not ornate, nor old oak. Her windows were not heavily curtained and no crow beaked at the pane. Bunches of rhododendrons spread over the white picket fence of her hilltop cottage, not strewn with pomegranate red seeds. This day; another moment; yet, another time loop would soon lap her up.

Burial At Sea

By Roger D. Hicks


Robert Jordan, which had not been his name for the first fifty years, stood on the stygian deck of the anonymous US destroyer as it plowed its way at three quarters speed through a moonless night surrounded at excessive distances by the other members of its battle group cruising toward a ceremony which Jordan’s life and life’s work had brought him to by special invitation of President Harris herself. As he waited for the captain, in whose quarters he had eaten a late dinner after his helicopter landed, Jordan quietly considered how thirty years of working devotedly for the greatest enemy of his new and dearly beloved country had brought about this ceremony and his attendance. The ship was carrying the small group of principles to this ceremony along with its regular crew. As the captain, soon to become an admiral, had explained to him during dinner no one on board even knew that a ceremony was set to take place except that small group of principals, Jordan, the captain, the chaplain, and six anonymous sailors all chosen for their top secret security ratings and all brought in with Jordan from other ships scattered over the world. Those six sailors, despite their collective trustworthiness, did not even know the exact nature of their job that night. It was 2035, more than fifty years after this long, despicable saga had begun and Jordan remembered that time, when as a young agent in Russia’s FSB or national spy agency, he had been chosen for what seemed a fairly simple assignment which, at the time, constituted only a small portion of his entire work load in New York City where he had been posted after a few years work post training in Moscow.
His superiors, including the man who would eventually oversee the entire agency before moving on to bigger and better things, had considered him a natural for assignment to America based on a carefully built shadow life as a minor anti-government dissident and mildly successful business man. He had grown up traveling the world with his father, a career KGB officer. Jordan attended the best private schools where he learned a multitude of skills necessary to an aspiring spy. He spoke Russian in addition to English, German, and Spanish, all nearly without discernable accents. He knew the law applicable to the United Nations and a dozen consortiums of colluding nations on both sides of the perpetual war of worldwide influence. He was an expert in the use of nearly every lethal weapon known to mankind although he rarely found the need to use one. His work was much more subtle, subversive, silent, and yet equally important to his birth country and her security forces.
In New York, he was provided a steady flow of rubles laundered through several ever changing agencies and individuals which was intended to make his source of wealth appear impressive and simultaneously indiscernible. He came and went, a young, intelligent, handsome, and intriguing immigrant who could often pass for a native of his locale. He remembered now that initial meeting nearly fifty years ago, in a failing casino in New Jersey, which had ultimately led to his standing on the blackened deck of a US destroyer, by invitation of the President, awaiting the final ceremony for the other attendee at their long past meeting. He had received orders from Moscow to become an unsuccessful high roller in that slipshod operation in New Jersey and to make contact with its putative owner. That man was to be characterized by his many weaknesses, dishonesty, unjustified ambition, amorality, and pathological lack of veracity. Robert Jordan, in his old persona and with his original name, had gambled often and poorly until finally that casino owner, also characterized by his lack of business skills and deep in unredeemable debt, approached him at the roulette table one night, patted Jordan effusively and falsely on the back, introduced himself with the words, “I
see you’re losing a little tonight, not like your usual big wins. You’re a wonderful gambler, lucky, very lucky, my kind of gambler.” If he had actually been a successful high roller, Robert Jordan knew he would have likely been spurned by this pathological liar and braggart because his wins would have further endangered the failing operation. But the braggart was the object of his work. His superiors, when they gave him the assignment, had provided some basic information about the man and ordered him to discern the rest. The object of his attentions, as Jordan well knew, had applied to Alfa Bank, in Moscow, for loans which no American bank would give him, millions, many millions, approaching a billion dollars American had been his audacious and unjustifiable request. But Jordan’s ultimate superior also controlled much of the commerce at Alfa Bank and was always seeking weak, manipulable individuals who could be controlled by fueling the sources of their greatest weaknesses, especially if they also had contacts which led to others who might someday be able to serve the FSB willingly or unwillingly.
Robert Jordan’s assignment had been to lead this gullible bankrupt to believe he had powerful contacts in Russia and to fuel his weaknesses with gifts, bribes, and enticements intended to draw him in ever deeper much like a fly landing in the net of a hungry spider. But Jordan also knew that the target’s gullibility, ignorance, and excesses did not preclude him from being the kind of person who would walk happily into that web if it were baited with rubles, women, and praise. As a man of some established level of honor, Jordan had not particularly enjoyed some aspects of his work, finding beautiful women willing to go to bed with any man, no matter how reprehensible, for money. But Jordan found such women, had them brought to New York from Russia and took two to the casino one night. The bankrupt owner, never one to ignore what appeared to be a willing woman, approached the table as the two harlots hung on each of Jordan’s elbows. Both were low level agents in the FSB and knew their work well. With prompting from Jordan, they catered to this failing ignoramus and Jordan allowed them to leave him at the roulette wheel which he immediately abandoned as the three entered the elevator to the penthouse. His work for that night was done and he had a positive report to write for Moscow. The women and the video obtained too easily via cameras in their jewelry and purses told Jordan the next day that he had been successful. That video was the first such which Jordan placed in an ever growing stockpile to be used by his superiors at some future time.
Within a few weeks, Alfa Bank approved the loans which they never expected to collect on in monetary terms. They knew the payback would not come in American dollars or rubles. They were hoping for some other, yet unseen remunerations. They were playing a long term game. They would wait. Jordan followed orders from his superiors explicitly and developed a reputation within the agency for quiet but important successes and a great deal of skill in handling an asset who did not even know yet that he was an asset. Jordan traveled the world, played roulette poorly on a few occasions until the casino changed hands, sought further contacts with this braggart, fed him the lies which Moscow required, and led the asset to believe that he was a very important man to Jordan. Yet, at the same time, Jordan smoothly rebuffed the man’s persistent requests to meet someone who could introduce him to Jordan’s superior who, at that time, was not even recognized as being in that position by the braggart.
Jordan moved steadily up the ranks of the FSB, came to know several of his upper level superiors quite well, developed a growing reputation as a skilled agent, and traveled the world on various
brief assignments which also served to reinforce the asset’s mistaken belief that Jordan was a successful Russian business man who simply loved New York.
Finally, with some minor, overrated and overt support along with even more clandestine assistance, not all of which was known even by Jordan, the asset came to be mistakenly seen as a success by many people on both sides of the Atlantic. He managed to manipulate his way into management of a second rate beauty pageant and a terrible television show which painted him as a masterful business man. He persistently requested Jordan to gain him access to the key players in Moscow which Jordan failed to perform but very successfully managed to present as failures of other contacts rather than himself. Their relationship grew and the agency head advised Jordan to both nurture and create unreachable dreams for the asset. Eventually, the man came to believe he was capable of becoming the leader of the entire free world after he had been given copies of the biographies and literary works of Hitler, Milosz, and Machiavelli although Jordan always doubted his ability to read and comprehend such pithy writing. The braggart hired a second rate ghost writer to pen what he was certain would be an autobiographical masterpiece, dictated numerous grandiose lies which converted his multitudinous failures into unrivaled successes, and finally needed the ghost writer to invent a minimally flowery and false title. He even invited Jordan to attend his announcement to the world that he aspired to be its most important citizen. Jordan arrived at the announcement as late as possible, elbowed in as far as possible from the press corps and watched as his intelligence asset, if that were not too magnanimous a descriptor, rode grandly down a gold escalator, spoke in a rambling fashion to the press about his ambition, and induced them to graze over a buffet of his poorly made, over priced, and failing commercial assets. A few days later when he and Jordan met, he regaled the FSB agent with a grand description of his plan to become the most important man alive.
Meanwhile in Moscow, the man in charge assigned a small team of computer experts to assist the braggart by hacking and placing grand stories about him in a large group of media services which catered to the most marginal and least intelligent groups of citizens of America. The agency director had no belief, perhaps not even hope, that this work could be successful until one night while drinking his nightly single shot of Russo-Baltique Vodka he decided to have his computer experts hack into the state election systems of several key American states. He rolled the alcohol around his teeth and tongue, smiled his chilling smile, and realized that he was a genius, probably the greatest and most devious genius in the history of Russian intelligence. That very hour, he awoke his chief computer expert, gave him his marching orders along with a list of the key American states he wished to steal an election from, and slept like a baby for the first time in years.
On the morning after the 2016 election, the most important man in Russia awoke to news that his computer hackers had all earned promotions, smiled his nefarious smile, and finally deigned to make a brief call to this braggart who had gone to bed the night before, for the first time in his life, with the full realization that he was unfit to handle the chore he had usurped. Jordan read his marching orders from the secretive communication channel with Moscow and learned that he had been recalled to Moscow for a “much needed and well earned vacation”. After that, he found himself receiving no meaningful assignments other than sometimes giving boiler plate lectures at the FSB training academy and transporting unimportant people to their unknown assignments around Eastern Europe. The few agents he considered to be his friends never invited him to their dinner parties and he realized that, despite his role in the installment of a Russian agent in the
White House, he was now persona non grata. Based on his years of experience, he realized that he was considered to be dangerous to the agency because he knew too much. Although he slept little, guarded his safety at a level which he had never been required to do before, and wondered when he would be eliminated as had a dozen others who had also known part of the story. He considered his options, death by an agent assassin, banishment to the gulag, suicide, or defection. In memory of his father and his illustrious career, Jordan did not act rashly, made no immediate decision about his fate which he considered to be the one decision which he was still capable of making, carried out his low level assignments just as diligently as he had at twenty-five, and hoped that somehow he would be allowed to escape the usual fate of an agent with excessive knowledge of any major operation.
As he stood on the deck feeling the throb of the massive American engines, Jordan listened to the sound of hundreds of tons of steel cutting the ocean to foam, and marveled that for twenty years he had been able to live, escape elimination, and actually defect to this country which he had come to love and which now considered him a hero worthy to attend this event. In late 2020, shortly after the election which unseated his former asset, Jordan during a minor assignment to Ukraine, happened to encounter a man he knew to be a CIA agent who masqueraded as a millionaire dilletante. This was not their first encounter but Jordan realized he did not wish it to be their last. He took a step only a half dozen or so FSB and KGB agents had ever done and approached the US agent in the restroom of an opera house, slipped him a message on edible rice paper, and went to his hotel to wait. Within six hours, a bellhop opened his door without knocking, spoke to him in perfect English, and offered him a life once more provided he made up his mind within three minutes. Jordan used two of those priceless minutes, left the room as instructed, climbed into the taxi which miraculously appeared as he stepped out the hotel doors, and left Ukraine, Russia, his homeland, his identity, and his dilemma forever. The taxi dropped him at a nondescript warehouse which was held under a non-existent corporation but used by American intelligence and two hours later found himself in a wooden shipping container complete with sound proof walls, food, water, bedding, and a chemical toilet being transported to an airport. After a long, jarring flight, the container was opened in Seattle and Robert Jordan learned that he was considered a very important asset to the American Director of National Intelligence and to the Attorney General.
His Russian life was dead forever. But Robert Jordan, as he was now known, was alive, had an identity constructed over the next six months as he was searched for by the FSB all across Ukraine, Russia, and anywhere else they had an agent. His Russian identity no longer existed and eventually with plastic surgery, intense reading and testing on this fictional life of Robert Jordan, he came to understand just who he was and would be until the day of his death, by whatever means it came. He told American agents everything he knew about their former putative leader, how he had become a traitor, who handled his treason, how his assets were diverted and concealed as they left Russia for his use, and just how much he had given the FSB over the last several decades. The worst part of the entire ordeal was the time he spent, concealed in a series of remote locations, testifying over closed circuit television to the grand juries and trial juries which indicted, convicted, and sentenced the braggart and nearly a hundred of his co-conspirators. The remote location was changed daily, sometimes his testimony was cancelled when suspicion of his discovery made his American handlers jittery. But after months of testimony, the braggart was convicted of treason, and Robert Jordan was handed a new life as a retired plumber from another state who decided to live his remaining years on a small farm growing excellent tomatoes from
heritage seeds along with beans of similar history. He never went to movies or a store. He had no wife, no children, no amusements other than his garden. But he had self-respect and he had his new country which he came to love and which had offered him this last opportunity to be in the same location as the braggart who had died in a prison cell in Colorado after spending thirteen years in solitary confinement.
As Jordan heard the footsteps of the captain and a chaplain on the deck behind him, he smiled and remembered the voice of President Harris as she had asked, “Would you like to attend his burial, Mr. Jordan? If so, myself and our country would be very pleased to give you that opportunity.” Jordan accepted without hesitation, found himself whisked off his little anonymous farm in a blacked out Chevy Suburban by four well armed agents, driven to a small military base where he was put on a plane to another plane at another darkened airport, and thence to the Chinook helicopter which took him at nearly 200 miles per hour to the deck of the destroyer along with the plain canvas bag which contained the remains of the old braggart and traitor, and the six anonymous sailors who would be key players in this last ceremony.
The captain approached silently from the darkness and stopped beside Jordan. The chaplain strode to the rail over the water and turned toward the soft sounds of six men carrying a burden across the deck toward the rail. When they stopped beside the chaplain, the captain uttered his only words on deck, “Proceed chaplain.”
The chaplain quoted from memory in a soft voice which barely made it to Jordan and the captain, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven, A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. Amen.”
The six anonymous sailors lifted their burden over the rail, released it, turned to salute the captain, and disappeared into the darkness with the chaplain. Jordan followed the captain back to the companion way leading to the officers’ quarters in silence. As the door closed behind them, Jordan heard the captain say quietly, “Beside Osama, as it should be.”
Copyright August 18, 2020


Author’s Note: While this story is copyrighted, the copyright is intended only to protect my authorship. Anyone, any time, anywhere has my unrestricted permission to disseminate this story on any medium whether now known or created in the distant future. You may share it on social media, e-mail, websites, books, magazines, literary journals, or other forms of mass communication. I do not seek or require any form of remuneration for this work other than dissemination of the work. This permission is granted in tribute to my mentor, Don West, who published his life’s work without a copyright. The only thing I ask is that you give appropriate author credit and my brief bio is below.




Biographical Statement:
Roger D. Hicks is an Appalachian writer, blogger, and auctioneer living in West Liberty, KY. His work has appeared in “Northwest Indiana Literary Journal”, “Freshwater”, “Bryant Literary Review”, “True Christmas Stories From The Heart Of Appalachia”, “Wingspan”, “Across The Margin” and numerous other venues. He is currently working on a second short story collection and a biography of an Appalachian coal camp town.

---

Prison Planet 7

by K. A. Williams


Topaz awoke in the top bunk bed, in a barracks full of other women, dressed in a gray uniform of soft breathable fabric and sturdy work boots.

Topaz was confused at first then her memory became clear. She was a robotics engineer that had been tried for embezzlement and sentenced to work on a prison planet. Her lawyer had been an idiot and her trial a joke, she could have defended herself better.

Silver androids came in and started waking up those that were still asleep. Everyone else seemed afraid at the sight of them; Topaz thought they looked like antiques.

The woman in the bottom bunk bed said, "Do you know who I am and what I'm doing here?"

Before Topaz could think of how to answer the woman, one of the androids went to the center of the room and started speaking.

"You are all criminals and have been given a memory wipe. Your sentence is to work on this farm. You will start after your first meal and work until dark with a few rest breaks and lunch in the field. There are separate communal bathrooms and showers for the men and women. Only the necessities such as food and clean clothes will be provided."

Topaz had been classified as a sociopath so she assumed her brain was different than most people's and that was why the memory wipe hadn't worked on her. It had changed her though. Now she cared about other people, and she hadn't before. 

Breakfast in the cafeteria was a tasteless fare with substandard food. When it was over everyone, except the older prisoners who worked in the kitchen, was driven out into the field on solar powered vehicles, given farming tools, and supervised by androids. 

After a day of working in the field, everyone was listless and quiet in the cafeteria at supper. Topaz was unused to manual labor and was completely exhausted. She almost fell asleep and had to catch herself from falling face first into her meal of half rotten produce. 

She looked out the glass windows at the fields of vegetation illuminated by outdoor lighting. All that fresh produce and the workers were eating this slop. Topaz grew angry. 

***

The days passed by with agonizing slowness. The ones whose memories were gone selected new names for themselves. The past didn't matter much here anyway.

One day it poured the rain and the workers were able to come in from the fields earlier. Most changed clothes and took a nap before supper, including Topaz. Since she had rested she was able to stay awake and when the others fell asleep that night, she snuck outside.

She had noticed that the androids were taking the harvested food to a large building near the barracks after the people returned from the fields. One android was standing guard outside.

Topaz pretended to be sleepwalking. The android grabbed at her arm and she feigned a stumbling fall. "Ouch," she said. "I've sprained my ankle."

"I will carry you back inside," the android said. "If you are unable to work in the fields tomorrow, you will work in the kitchen."

Topaz threw her arms around the android's back when it picked her up and felt for a concealed button that she knew was there. She pressed it three times in succession. The android stopped, frozen.

Topaz climbed down and moved behind the android. She pressed the button two more times and a concealed panel opened. Topaz was grateful for the outdoor lighting as she searched and quickly found the override switch and the communication link that connected all the androids.

"You and all of the other androids will obey me," Topaz commanded. "Any previous orders will be ignored."

"Yes," said the android.

"Tell me what's in that building."

"A time portal."

"A what?"

"A time portal," the android repeated.

"Show me."

The android led the way into the building where other androids were standing there awaiting her orders. Baskets of food sat on the floor in front of a large circular opening that was a swirling midnight black.

"What is that?"

"The time portal," said the android.

"Explain," ordered Topaz.

The android told Topaz that there was a food shortage in the future because industrialization had polluted many planets. 

Scientists had discovered wormholes that led to the past and they traveled on spaceships through these wormholes. They searched for and discovered unpopulated regions on preindustrialized planets with suitable warm climates. 

Androids were brought to those planets where they constructed buildings and water towers, installed irrigation and plumbing pipes, put up solar generators, plowed fields, and planted crops. Scientists built a time portal and when all was ready, prisoners were transported there to harvest the crops and send them back to the future. The planet they were now on was called Prison Planet 7.

"Why were these particular model androids sent here and why aren't you helping to harvest crops?"

"We are older models designated to be scrapped before this experiment began. Our fingers are not dexterous enough for picking delicate produce. It would be crushed."

"I can fix that," Topaz said. "Do you have any tools? And I need a bright place to work."

The android showed her a large room in the time portal building that had equipment in it. "All androids come to me now," Topaz ordered and they obeyed.

There were fifty of them in all. She fixed the dexterity of the fingers on ten of the androids. She didn't have time to fix anymore, she was getting sleepy.

"Don't wake us up early, we will not be going out in the field today. Only obey the humans that are on this farm now and no other humans. Is that understood?"

"Yes," they answered in unison.

"You," she said to the android that she had been talking with. "I will call you first android. How often is the food delivered?"

"Every night after humans go to bed," said the first android.

"Has any been delivered tonight?"

"Only thirty percent."

"Then someone will come here through that portal soon. When that happens, you will bring that person or persons directly to me. Do not answer any questions or obey any commands from that person or persons. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said the first android.

"The ten androids I fixed the fingers on are to be called androids two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. The rest of you count off consecutively left to right starting with number twelve and that will be your number."

They did that.

"I want androids two through eight to pick delicate produce in the field this morning and bring it to the cafeteria when it's picked. Nine through eleven will fix the humans a delicious breakfast. The rest of you can go into the fields at daybreak and work till noon picking non-delicate produce. Is that understood?"

"Yes," fifty voices said in unison.

Then Topaz went back to the barracks and caught a few hours of sleep. 

***

No one was woken up the next morning and everyone was confused as they entered the cafeteria and got a pleasant surprise.

Topaz's bunk bedmate in the barracks had given herself the name of Eve. She shook Topaz awake that morning. "They're not taking us into the field today and we have a delicious breakfast. Come on."

Topaz slipped on her uniform and boots and allowed Eve to drag her to the cafeteria even though she wanted more sleep.

Everyone was enjoying breakfast and talking excitedly. Topaz interrupted them by speaking loudly and explaining their situation. "My name is Topaz, and luckily I have my memory because I was a robotics engineer. Last night I managed to put the androids under our control. The androids were under the control of people from the future but I have reprogrammed the androids so that they will respond to our orders now."
 
"The people in the future have sent us back to the past to a time when the worlds were not polluted so that we would harvest food for them. The androids will now help and obey us."

"I have posted an android guard in the time portal room. Someone will come here soon to find out about the food supply that I stopped from being delivered. The android will bring them to us and we can negotiate a trade."

Topaz got her some food and sat down next to Eve who started bombarding her with questions, as did others at her table. She only half answered them because she was busy eating.

Before she and others had finished breakfast, many having gone back in line for second helpings, the android guarding the time portal brought in a struggling man.

Everyone in the cafeteria stopped eating and looked at him. 

The man glared at them all in return. "I am Conrad, your warden. What happened to the food shipment? It's almost midday. Why aren't all of you in the field? And what's wrong with this android? Why won't it obey me?" 

Topaz got up and faced the man. "If you want your food shipment, we'll trade. We only have the bare necessities. We'd like an android doctor, medical supplies, and entertainment for our leisure time among other things."

"Trade?! Doctor?! Leisure time?!" exclaimed Conrad. "You're all prisoners and harvesting food is your punishment. You'll do as I say."

Topaz said in a calm voice. "Oh, I don't think so. If you're unwilling to trade, I'll command this android to smash the time portal, after it throws you back through."

Conrad was silent while everyone watched him.

"I know what you're thinking. You plan to use the wormhole to time travel and return here with other androids to force us back to this gruelling work schedule. But at the first sign of invasion, our androids will set fire to the crop fields," Topaz said.

"You're bluffing," Conrad said.

"Am I?" Topaz countered. "This is a planet we're on. We'll simply go somewhere else and hide. And survive. We'd rather stay here where our androids will now help us harvest the food, but we will not work all day long, seven days a week. Also we will no longer tolerate being served food that should have been thrown out but we will trade."

"Even if I agreed," Conrad said, "these androids can't help you harvest all of the crops. Their fingers were poorly designed and lack dexterity. Any delicate produce they pick would be smashed."

At that moment an android returned from the field with a basket of strawberries, perfectly intact. Conrad stared open mouthed.

Topaz smiled. "You were saying?"

"H - How did you? How did they?"

"About that trade," Topaz continued. "We will get a list together for you after we finish breakfast. You can just wait there a few minutes. It's the first decent meal we've had since we got here as I'm sure you know."

“Hey Jealousy”

By E.M. Woods
​


When Scotty Johnson of the Gin Blossoms asked me back to his hotel room after a 90’s tribute concert, I couldn’t believe what was happening. My head was buzzing from the gin and tonic he bought me not twenty minutes earlier. His hand was resting on my knee in the darkly lit bar of Xfinity Live. Was tonight the night that I would get to party with the rock star?
Only a few hours before, I was pulling into the parking lot of the concert venue with my brothers, Stan and Mark, and Stan’s fiancé, Amber. We were looking for a decent throwback concert to our childhoods since we were all raised in the 90’s and some popular bands from the era were playing. Stan and Amber were pumped for Nine Days to play “(Absolutely) Story of A Girl,” Mark was still licking his wounds over Fastball cancelling at the last minute, and I was most excited to see the headliner: The Gin Blossoms.
I had been a fan of the AZ band for ages. In 12th grade, I played the song, “Hey Jealousy” on a dusty cd player in my debate teacher’s classroom, hoping to persuade the class as to why it should be considered one of the greatest songs of all time. My classmate, Alan Schoenbach beat me out with Bruce Springsteen’s “Rosalita,” but only because he brought in his guitar and played along with his cd. Theatrics always sway a crowd.
Eager to prove myself right about “Hey Jealousy’s” classic potential after all these years, I waited all night for the song to play. I patiently endured a band member from Nine Days explain his new career as a teacher. I channeled my annoyance at Mark’s insistence that “The Way” would’ve been the best song of the night into my beer. I didn’t even complain when some drunk 30-year-old accidentally stepped on my feet when they lost their balance. And you know what? It paid off.
From the moment The Gin Blossoms vaulted onto the stage and got everyone going with “Follow You Down,” I knew I was right. The band was everything I’d hope they’d be: energetic, talented and bonus—funny. The lead singer, Jesse Valenzuela made a nice quip about the scantily clad waitstaff before breaking into “Allison Road.” Stan and Amber were tapping their feet along to the music and Mark had stopped complaining. From “Found Out About You” to “Til I Hear It From You,” I was belting out the lyrics and sporting my nerdy, spontaneous dance moves whenever the band decided to rock out with some sick guitar solos. The only time I stopped singing and swaying like some deranged muppet come to life was during the final song, “Hey Jealousy.” They had saved the best for last. The beat and the lyrics captured the quintessential cool of what I thought life should be in high school thru late 20’s (mind you, I was around ten when I thought this, but it all came rushing back): fast-paced, semi-irresponsible, figuring things out the simultaneously hard and fantastically grunge way. This is what life and The Gin Blossoms were all about. Listening to them playing this song felt like a profoundly reverential moment. I almost cried when they stopped playing. I didn’t want it to end. Stan must have sensed my heartbreak because when the band left the stage, he suggested we all head inside the bar for some more drinks.
It wasn’t two minutes before Scotty Johnson spotted me in the bar and bought me a gin and tonic. Our flirting was textbook. I teased him that his last name wasn’t really Johnson; he took my phone and saved his number into it. When the bar announced last calls, Scotty’s hand was on my knee. He leaned in. Then he whispered: “I have a suite at the Holiday Inn. Come back with me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Amber winking.
I was awestruck. After all, if the universe brought me together with a Gin Blossom tonight, who was I to say no?
As I scrambled my brain for a clever response, my cell went off. “Boyfriend” flashed across as the caller, so I couldn’t play it cool in front of the rock star. Scotty knew I wasn’t going back with him the second I answered my phone. The 90’s were over and so was my time with this Gin Blossom.
It wasn’t until the car ride home that the perfect response to Scotty jumped into my head. They were lyrics from Hey Jealousy: “If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.”

On the Covers of The Rolling Stones
​

By Gary Wosk


The BANG, BANG, BANG on the front door of their San Fernando Valley bedroom community house abruptly awakened John Meyer, his wife Louise, and their two teenaged children, Bobby and Jane.


John and Louise sat up in bed startled by the commotion downstairs.


This cannot be good, thought John. It’s probably the Los Angeles Police Department.


“Bobby and Jane, I hope they’re okay,” said a suddenly hysterical Louise.


John and Louise slowly emerged from their slumber, slipped on matching bathrobes and to their quick relief, met their children waiting at the staircase. The four slowly walked downstairs together.


Peeking through the shutters, they eyed two young men with long hair wearing psychedelic shirts and bright bell bottom pants. The strangers, one with reddish lips and the other haggard with bags underneath his eyes, seemed unsteady on their feet and each leaned onto the other for support.


Yes, concluded, John, they were high on something. He would have been happier if greasers had been causing the disturbance.


“Leave or I’ll call the police,” warned the hard-nosed John through the screen. A life-time, right wing Republican, he held a baseball bat in his right hand in case the strangers somehow burst in.


“You’re acting like wild horses. Calm it down,” John admonished them.


They banged on the front door again.


“Blimey, give us shelter, please. It’s late, sir,” said the man with reddish lips. He spoke in a British accent. “No need to call the bloody bobby.”


“Give us shelter,” he repeated. “We need to sleep. Fluffy pillows and covers, too, please. You have a spare bedroom, right?”


“Who the hell are you?” groused John.


“Are you barmy? You really don’t know who we are? We’re not rabble rousers, sir,” said the red lipped man who seemed somewhat more sober than his companion. “We didn’t come to your home to cause any problems.”


It’s a lovely place gov’nor. We’re not trouble makers, I assure you,” said the companion, who also spoke in a British accent. John thought he would be surprised if a doctor even found a pulse in this lifeless looking, pockmarked hippie.


“Love, peace and good old fashioned family values,” said the red lipped one.


The two strangers laughed.


“Are you two on drugs?” John asked sternly.


“Drugs, not us, not in the least,” said the man with red lips. “Just two blokes with jet lag.”


Bobby and Jane asked their parents to stand aside so they could peer through the shutters. Each turned to the other with a startled look on their faces.


“It’s Mick!” the freckled Bobby said excitedly. “And Keith!”


“Are you sure?” asked Jane, a blonde with a Marilyn Monroe mole above the right side of her mouth.


“Well, look again,” said her brother, responding to her doubt.


“We won the contest,” Bobby exclaimed to his parents.


“Mom and Dad, we won, we won!” confirmed an equally ebullient Jane.


“Surprise!” said the man with red lips. “Sorry we didn’t notify you. We didn’t want any press.”


“What contest?” said John, now quite irritated.


“Jane and I entered a contest sponsored by Teen Beat magazine. It was called
“Let’s Spend the Night Together with the Rolling Stones.” It’s a sleep-over.”


“Why couldn’t you have won a night with the Beatles?” said the flustered John. “They seem like nicer even though I can’t stand their music. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. Who cares?”


“PLEEZ let us in,” pleaded Mick. “If we don’t get satisfaction soon, the deal is off and we’ll go home crying and all. I’m really getting hacked off.”


John opened the door a crack, and then the rest of the way, realizing that the two men were not threatening.


“Okay guys, you can come in. But don’t try anything.”


Mick immediately began flapping its wings in the foyer, his signature dance. He jutted his head back and forth and pointed here and there with his index finger.


“I wanted to prove to you who I am. PLEEZ to meet you. What’s my name?” he asked.


“Pray tell,” said John, who still held the bat in his hand.


“I’m Mick Jagger” He extended his to hand for John to shake.


This is my mate, Keith Richards. Say, do you have a cold Guinness or something to start us up, baby? We just arrived from London, you know. Need to kick back. We leave for New York in two days for an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Have you heard of him?”


“We watch the show every Sunday night after Lassie and Bonanza,” assured Louise.


She suggested ice tea instead of alcohol, perhaps a soft drink. She and John did not want to see the “start me up” side of Mick or Keith.


Mick and Keith shook their heads at the suggestion.


“We would prefer two jars of beer. said Keith. “We won’t get too mullered. We promise. Have some grub, too?”


“We don’t have Guinness, only Schlitz, honey,” said the worried looking Louise to John, who thought Mick and Keith were extremely rude. She was still wearing curlers which amused the guests. “I can also make some sandwiches.”


“How about a bottle of Jack Daniels instead,” said Keith. Opening up a suitcase and pulling out a plastic bag appearing to contain lawn trimmings. “We would be more than happy to share some of this with you,” he said.


“Mind if we light up?” asked Mick.


“Outside, in the backyard,” reluctantly blurted John. Better than having the smell of marijuana lingering in the house, he thought.


While the house guests waited for their food and drink to arrive, Jane began making goo goo eyes at Mick. He gathered that Jane had fallen head over heels for him. He realized he couldn’t cop a feel because the old man was there.


Let’s spend the night together, now I need you more than ever, he teasingly sang to her knowing that was not possible


“I will say that you do look sweet. You look like my girl back home,” said Mick. “Her name is Angie. Angie, Angie. Sorry to repeat myself.”


Louise arrived with Coca Cola and chicken salad sandwiches.


“Oh, Mother,” said Jane. “Isn’t Mick sweet?”


John expressed outrage at Mick’s suggestion of spending the night together with his daughter. Louise looked like a deer in headlights, not knowing what he was referring to.


“Say, what do you mean by that, sleeping with Jane,” said John, the veins in his temple and neck about to burst. “This is outrageous. Who do you think you are, punk?


“Mick Jagger,” he answered with a grin. “I’ve told you so, weren’t you listening?”


“Oh, he didn’t mean he really wanted to sleep with her,” said peacemaker Keith, his words slurred. “Well, what I mean to say, chap, is that he might a been thinkin’ it, sleepin’ with her and all that, but you don’t always get what you want, if you try real hard, you might find what you need. Don’t you think that Mr. Meyer when you see a young chick, meaning no respect to you Mrs. Meyer.”


You know, Mrs. Meyer, you’ve got a real fighting man there,” said Mick. “He should enlist in the army.”


“He already served in Korea,” said Louise. “Do you want to see his medals?”


“Decorated are you?” said Mick.


John was having second thoughts about allowing the long haireds stay over. His wife could tell he was about to kick them out. He had enough of their flippant remarks.


“Oh, John,” Louise said, “they’re harmless. It’s only rock ‘n roll talk. They all talk that way. Don’t worry, Ronald Reagan won’t find out you let hippies sleep over.”


“We’re not hippies,” said Mick. “In fact, we sometimes hang out with the Hell’s Angels.” He was impressed by Louise’s intervention.


“That’s swell of you, to stand up for me and Keith,” said Mick. “Kids? Did you see your mother standing in the shadows? She was great. If he would have turned us out into the street at this time of night, we would have been shattered…shattered, and it would have been all over now.”


“That’s right,” said Keith. “John, you’ve got a real honky tonk woman for a wife. It’s good to see that wives can stand up in your country and that the husbands don’t have the wives under their thumbs.”


Only the teen-agers knew what they were talking about because they recognized the lyrics.


The Rolling Stones and Meyers moved into the living room and were joined by the family dog, a Jack Russell terrier, quite energetic, a performer of pet tricks even at this hour.


“Nice dog, he is,” said Mick. “A regular Jumpin’ Jack Flash, I do say.”


“His name is Paul,” said Louise.


“Ugh. What a name. Just keep his slobber away from me,” said Mick. “I don’t want forty licks.”


“It’s time to call it a day,” said Keith. “Do you have that room for us? Pillows, sheets and covers?”


“Yes,” said John. “Don’t worry about it.”


“I have a question,” said Bobby.


“Shoot,” said Mick, with kindness in his voice.


“Well, I know this is last minute and all. Would you be interested in giving a community concert tomorrow afternoon at Petit Park. It’s just down the street. I know the park director.”


Mick and Keith mulled the suggestion over. They liked being spontaneous and suddenly showing up in a park they never heard of would be groovy, they figured.


“Yeah, we’ll do it if you get the nod from the park director. Couldn’t do many sets, if that’s okay with you Bobby,” said Mick. “We’d have to get a hold of the other members of the band, have them meet us there. They’re staying in a pad in
Laurel Canyon. We’re meeting with some record company executive tomorrow evening. Is there an auditorium at the park?”


“I was thinking of having the concert on the soccer field. That way many more people could attend. There’s no time to get the word out, but the community would hear the music blaring from the speakers and would pack the place.”


“We won’t play for less than ten thousand people,” laughed Keith. “Hey, If you can pull it off, lad, I say yes.’ I like your spunk.”


“Okay,” said Mick to Keith. “We’ll call our agent and tell him to contact the park and get everything ready.”


After a good night’s sleep, everyone enjoyed a hearty typical English breakfast of cereal, eggs, bacon, sliced tomatoes, sausage, bean, toast and jam and marmalade.


The Rolling Stones, the greatest rock ‘n roll group of all time, gave a thunderous 30-minute concert on the soccer field on June 15, 1965. The first song was their hit Satisfaction followed by Time Is On My Side and It’s All Over Now.


The music could be heard for miles. Thousands of local residents attended. No Hell’s Angels were there and so no one was knifed or killed. No media covered the event because they did not know a concert would take place. This was the largest concert in the history of the San Fernando Valley until the Newport 69 Pop Festival at California State University, Northridge. That concert was headlined by the Jimi Hendrix Experience and featured the Creedence Clearwater Revival, Joe Cocker and Eric Burdon.


People, however, still talk about The Rolling Stones’ lost concert.


###

Dry
​
by Ryan Priest
​

Amelia looked out into the vast, empty expanse. She could see a man coming, crossing the dunes on the Eastern horizon. He hadn't seen her yet but she knew he was coming. Her shack was the only standing structure for over twenty miles in any direction in this especially harsh section of the wasteland.
She left her lookout spot and went inside. It'd take him more than half the day to make his way to her front door and there was much to do before then.
With her heavy metal gloves, she pulled a thin line, lifting into the air, over the door frame, a large iron anchor. She tied the string off, stretching invisible and taut across the bottom of the doorway.
Next, she took the screws out of either side of the trick plank on the floor. She flipped the plank over so that the side with the nails was up. The side that was meant to swing up into the face of an intruder if he stepped foot inside.
She then pulled out her extra-special bottle and the one clear glass. She poured in the liquid. It looked like water. She did not drink. She left the glass and bottle on her wooden table.
"If the anchor and plank don't get him," Grandfather had taught her, "Offer him the cup of acid to drink."
It hurt to admit it but every year that went by after his passing, memories of Grandfather faded a little more. His mustache, white as bone. Stern face, loving eyes. Dusty hours spent learning how to hunt, training to fight. So many days now beginning to blend together in her
mind’s eye. Soon, she feared, Grandfather would be reduced to a fuzzy picture and a few tones of voice, like her parents had, so many years before.
Amelia went into the shack’s one bedroom, formerly her grandfather's and now hers. She lifted her dusty cloak off of her slender body. She next took off her pants, her shirt, until she was stark naked.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Grandfather had been right about her. She'd grown up to be beautiful. He'd always told her she would. Not out of any sense of pride but as a warning. "You're going to be a very attractive woman and that means that men will come for you."
The lines her shadow cast on the wall looked like a rolling landscape of dunes; the first hill of her calf sloping coolly to her smooth thigh, culminating in the round mound of her butt before the low valley of her lower back, the curves rising again along the flawless contour of her spine leading into the trestles of dark hair which, in the shadow play, looked like a dark storm preparing to streak across the serene peaks and valleys.
She liked the way she looked but she didn't have much to compare herself to other than faded photographs in magazines and the few scattered memories of her mother and other women who would come by when she was just a girl. Women didn't come around anymore. Only men, like the one outside, with nothing but ill intent and appetite fueling them.
The thought of sex-hungry men made her flush. She kept her focus and poured her oil down her bare chest coating her skin. She rubbed it all over, down each arm and each leg. She was glistening like polished metal. "If anyone of those bastards ever gets lucky enough to lay a hand on you, you'll slip out of his grasp like a fish."
"Yes, Grandfather."
"Don't ever let one get that close in the first place."
"No, sir."
But she did. She wondered if her grandfather was watching over her and if he was angry or proud that more often than not, she chose to meet the men on the open field, before they even got to the traps. She'd meet them with honor and fight them toe to toe. Not one had ever made it out alive. Men were easier to kill than sand tigers.
She always imaged that her grandfather was proud. She could fight as well as any man.
She took out her outfit, her special outfit, the decoy outfit. A black string top and a matching thong. "This is only for decoy purposes. You get a man thinking about sex and all his other senses turn off."
Grandfather knew everything. He'd told her about how, many years before, when his grandfather was still only a boy, the entire wasteland had been underwater. There were no five-hundred-pound sand tigers, no cats at all. Just water as far as the eyes could see, with enough fish to feed the world over and never run out. Grandfather's grandfather had told him that people had made an awful mistake and it had destroyed the whole planet and disfigured all of the animals. He called it the sin against nature. The old lands had been overrun by the birds. Sky blackening swarms of carrion birds, each as big as a man, with talons that could take an arm off and sharp beaks that could penetrate a steel breastplate. Survivors had been forced to flee into the dry, salty wastelands.
She checked under the bed for Hilda. If she followed the rules, she was supposed to stay right here and wait for one of the traps to do its job. If they all failed then she was to flash a smile and beckon the man closer. When he got within five feet, she'd pull Hilda out from under the bed and chop his head off with her sharp blade.
"Even if you don't take the head off, any wound dealt will still be fatal."
"Yes grandfather." But it was just redundant planning, no one had ever made it passed the anchor.
If she wanted to be a bad girl then she'd take Hilda out now and walk outside to wait for the man.
Could her grandfather's spirit read her mind? She wondered if he knew that she secretly wished a man would make it to the bedroom. It was all she could think about some of the time. Men. How they smelled, how they sounded, how she smiled when they smiled at her. She was tired of fighting and killing, she wanted to see what a kiss felt like.
Sure, some men were vile and feral but others were nice. Some men simply begged for their lives without defending themselves. She didn't want to kill them but she had no choice. At night though, she'd think about those men. She'd imagine herself allowing them to live, letting them touch her, touching them back. She was beginning to get as silly around men as they got around her.
She ran to bedroom's peephole to check this new stranger's progress. He was almost to the house. She tried to see his face but he was still too far away and the dust was kicking up too much to get a good look at him. She didn't know why she liked looking at some faces more than others but she did.
As the man got closer, she decided she liked his face. He was young, his dark cheeks full of life. She liked the clothes he wore, wind tattered and sun baked. She wondered what he looked like without them.
She chided herself for losing focus. Grandfather would be disappointed. She pushed thoughts of her grandfather far out of her mind. She didn't understand it but she hated even thinking of him when she got like this.
What did her grandfather know anyway? Something about men being dangerous and untrustworthy but all of that seemed so unimportant at the moment. The only thing she could
concentrate on was the deep brown of his eyes. He had high cheek bones and she was filled with an overwhelming desire to just bite them. Even looking made her toes curl involuntarily.
She let out a sigh and the volume and depth of its tone surprised even her. That settled it, this one got to live.
Amelia took Hilda out and headed for the front door. Her heart was beating so loud in her chest that she could hear it. It was like she'd felt when hunting or during her those first fights, back when anything could happen, before she'd gotten so good.
Walking out on her porch, the sight of her own bright, glistening body filled her with a wicked confidence. She was doing this, there was no way she wasn't doing this.
The man stopped in his tracks. His eyes, beautiful and brown, grew wide as he saw her. She held Hilda out and he watched startled, as she dropped the sword blade down into the dirt and walked forward, unarmed with a determined leer. The man, still shocked, clumsily threw all his weapons down too before stumbling towards her with a happy smile on his face.
As they strode towards one another his eyes made her very aware of her own body and the way it jiggled and swayed as she moved. She didn't care if he stared at her, she wanted to be stared at by him. She didn't have to worry about him ravishing her, she was going to ravish him.
Out from behind a smaller dune came first the hiss and then, too quick to prepare for, a sand tiger. It vaulted forward using its thick hind legs like springs and chomped down with gnashing fangs onto the head and beautiful face of Amelia's would be suitor. A few vicious whips of its neck and the man was in pieces.
"Damnit!" Amelia screamed. Of all the times for a stupid sand tiger. She grabbed Hilda out of the ground and threw her at the dining tiger, too blood drunk and frenzied to see it coming.
She turned back inside, she didn't even bother to get the meat. She already had enough tiger meat to last half a season. She had her own frenzy to take care of. She stepped over the tripwire, danced over the floorboard and headed straight into her bedroom. Her body felt like it was on fire. She threw herself down onto the bed, closed her eyes and allowed her imagination to take her away, to places where there were no tigers, disapproving grandfathers and no elaborate plans, just men. Hard bodied, gorgeous, smiling, men.

1970


By DC Diamondopolous


Drunk and stoned, Scott staggered out the door of the Whiskey a Go Go and into the night. A blurred neon sign from the Sunset Strip flickered and shuddered through the ebb-and-flow haze that hovered from his high. The notice to appear before the local draft board was crumpled deep in the pocket of his bellbottoms like a wet snot rag.
He lit a Camel. “Happy birthday to me, but who gives a shit,” he shouted at a group of foxes in hot pants. “I’m gonna go to Canada, wanna come?”
Jelly brained, Scott closed his eyes and leaned his bushy blond head against the building until his knees buckled, and he landed on his ass. He blew a stream of smoke up at a three-story-high billboard of Linda Ronstadt, then flicked the cigarette across the pavement.
“Fuck-off. Go on. Get outta here,” said the bouncer, standing outside the entrance to the club.
Scott crawled to his knees as a wave of barf started to peak. He ran up the sidewalk
to the back of the Whiskey and threw up on the steps of the fire escape. With the bottom of his tie-dyed T-shirt, he wiped his mouth, felt better, took out another smoke, and lit it.
He didn’t have rich parents who could get him out of the war, he wasn’t a psycho, and no way was he queer. He didn’t have the grades or want to go to college. His passions in life were drawing and surfing. The only thing left was to run away to Canada. But Scott hated the cold, and there were no decent beaches. When his father saw him sketching he’d say, “You’ll never make a living at that sissy artsy-fartsy stuff. Cut your damn hair. Join the military. Be a man.”
If he did go to Nam, he’d kill people he had no beef with. When he told his old man this, he exploded, “Communism must be stopped. Or we’ll all be talking Russian.” His mom stood in the background nodding and silently crying.
When the National Guard killed four students at Kent State, his father told him they deserved to be shot for protesting the war. Scott was dumbfounded. “What about My Lai? Did innocent Vietnamese deserve to be raped and murdered by U.S. soldiers?” “That’s war,” his dad snapped. “It happened in WWII. Korea. It’s no surprise it happened again.” His dad’s answer blew his mind.
Scott asked him if he’d been born German would he have sent Jews to the ovens. His father said, “I would have followed orders, that’s what soldiers do.” “Then you’d be a murderer,” Scott yelled. His dad slapped him. Shocked, Scott held back his rage from wanting to wallop his old man and beat the callousness out of him, but that smack turned the shine on his father’s pedestal to rust.
It was hell living with his family in Hawthorne. Scott moved out, got an apartment, a
job at Mattel. He hated the nine-to-five monotony of assembling Barbie Dolls for a paycheck and the tired empty feeling of coming home, getting drunk, smoking pot. He missed the old days when he and his dad fished off the Redondo Beach Pier. He missed having a father.
Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” boomed then faded from a car as it cruised the Strip.
His childhood friend, Robbie, had come home in a body bag. For what? Their generation was screwed. He had no say about the war because he couldn’t even vote. If attacked, Scott would gladly take a bullet for his country. But this war? He slid down the wall of the Whiskey, dragging his angst with him.
His mother called that morning, wishing him a happy birthday. She told him his father loved him. Then why didn’t he call? Scott knew why. His father was stuck in a time warp when going to war was heroic. His dad thought him a coward for not wanting to fight. His parents would freak if he’d run away to Canada.
He stubbed out the Camel and brushed vomit off his sandals.
Through the mist of his high, a mellow warmth broke through. He took out the crumpled draft notice, smoothed and folded it, and stuck it in his pocket.
He needed to draw. He imagined his hand flying across the page, creating a world of his own. It calmed him, made him feel in control. Not even sex could do that.
Scott turned away from the glitz of Sunset, the shimmering lights of the city beyond, and headed up Clark.
His mom’s ‘58 Ford Fairlane — last year’s 18th birthday present — with the remaining scraps from the peeled off bumper sticker, America Love It Or leave It, was parked up the hill.
A group of hippies walked toward him.
“Peace man,” one of the guys said, holding up the V sign of his right hand as he passed.
“Yeah, man. Peace,” Scott said without hope, his strong young body to be used as a killing machine.
He unlocked the Ford, took out his drawing pad and pencil, and sat on a low concrete wall facing Sunset and downtown L.A.
Street lanterns and outdoor apartment building lights cast ominous shadows from manzanita plants.
Scott could have drawn in total darkness, so clear was the picture in his mind, the certainty of his decision.
With the pad on his knees, he sketched the sun setting on a beach in South East Asia with a sandy coastline, palm trees, bamboo boats.
He heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns in the jungle, hissing insects, the smell of death in the rice paddies.
The sprinklers came on and he jumped up, shielding his paper. But Scott liked the river of tears running down his drawing, leaving their trace on his dying body as he took his last breath on the shore of the South China Sea.


dcdiamondopolous.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07455RZ6W

The Swan Daughter

By Meg Smith
 
Jane likes stamp-collecting.
Justin takes her to conventions -- maybe because he relishes his big brotherly role, and probably because he loves showing off his car and driver’s license.
They’re just back from the first of a two-day philately extravaganza, at the Holiday Inn in Hillsborough. Not far from here.
Justin tells me, “Ma. She was like one of three girls there.”
I see the placid indifference in Jane’s faintly-freckled face, in her eyes -- green, reminding me of a cat lazing in a patch of sunlight.
Soundlessly, wordlessly, she moves in a graceful path, album under her arm, toward her room.
“Hold on there, Daisy May,” I call out, and she stops, not abruptly, like a kid, but kind of fluid -- like a barn swallow landing on a limb. “First, thank your brother for taking you.”
“Uh huh. Thanks, Justin.” There’s beauty in her voice, too, even if her words are pure preteen.
“Second, please show me what you got.”
She turns; her gliding gait makes me proud and uneasy.
She opens her album and presents it to me, like we’re in some secret, sacred ceremony.  It’s a page of stamps, of different kinds of bats. The “Night Friends” series.
I feel strangely at a loss. “Very good.”
We’re such an awesome family of communicators. I suppose that’s my fault.
She nods, and turns again, almost ballet-like, and seems to vanish like a silky cloud.
“So graceful,” a friend once said. “She should take ballet lessons.”
Like I could afford that. She’s never asked for them, but she seems always to be moving in her own dance.
I should be glad for this stamp-collecting hobby. It doesn’t cost as much.
In her brother’s face, something of bemused, and unsettled. Maybe it mirrors what’s in my eyes.
That might just come from being 16, and the older brother to a 12-year-old sister.
Yes, a distant memory though it may be, I, too, was once 12, bordering on 13.
It was  -- well, maybe we’ll get back to that number later.
My point: I really was that age once. And I remember a strange female tribe, with their stamp collections, model airplanes and rock albums.
I regarded those girls with a mix of awe, and pity.
I was headed for nursing school, just as my mom had, and the voke.
I was going to make my own money and chart my own course. No one debated that in our house. My mom always worked. The rent didn’t pay itself.
It’s clear that even at the dawn of her adolescence, Jane isn’t apprehensive.
The philately. The lack of concern. I’d call it a preteen thing if I didn’t know better.
But I know both my children very well.
Justin, tall, with dusty hair, masking his empathy and compassion with feigned disdain.
His friends do it, too. They always seem to be at our house. Because you see, I’m the cool mom.
Their loud rock music is a shield. I know it. But I never embarrass them by saying so. I just ask them to keep it down. I listened to most of those same songs, a fact that always  makes me sigh.
 
***
 
 
It’s night.
I know Justin is asleep in his room, the music still on, a muffled sound of angry drums and guitar.
 
Jane -- honestly, I think that child never sleeps. But she is quiet. The quiet of a child who rules her own language. “What is it like -- to have a daughter as calm and well-behaved,” I’ve heard, more than once.
 
Sometimes with admiration or envy, and sometimes -- with a hint of judgemental disbelief. I’ve even said out loud: “Really. I know what you’re getting at.”
 
Over and over, I have made a little mantra, in my mind. She gets it from me. All her good qualities. Her beauty. Her smarts. Her calm. Her beauty. She gets all of it from me. Sometimes, when I am alone, I say that out loud, too. Show me a mom who never talks to herself.
 
***
 
I would like just one night without feeling an unnatural shiver.
 
I’m sitting up, on my bed, still in a top, and jeans.
 
The air through the screened window is warm, and slightly fragrant. Lilacs in late bloom.
 
I have a radio talk show on. I’ve lost track of the topic, but the voices are comforting.
 
I’m working an iced coffee Justin got me, unbidden, and unceremoniously, because he’s proud of driving and getting things.
 
I get up, without turning on a light, and look in the mirror. I look at the once-young woman staring back.
 
My cheekbones cut an outline now. I had a round face when I met my husband.
 
All in all, I feel I have kept pretty well. I feel both pride in that, and resentment for feeling like I have to appraise myself.
 
My mother appraised herself, every day --  even when coming home from working a shift.
 
I think of Jane.
 
She will not do this. For Jane, no checking in with the critic on the other side of the mirror.
 
She might, but, even if she does, she will not see much change.
 
I think fleetingly of putting on a dress. A light, cotton, flowery one.
 
And then in my absurd, inner, mom-talking-to-herself voice: “The hell.” I leave my room.
 
The house is dark, silent except for the dim light over the stove.
 
At this hour, some voices intrude upon my mind. Like Gretta reminding me: “You’ve had a lot of breaks. I mean, not every single mom has a nice house on a cul-de-sac.”
 
“Go to hell,” I mutter. Is that for Gretta, or the apparition at the back door.
 
Maybe I’m saying it to both.
 
Over time, forces can gather inside a person.
 
The thing is, I really don’t want the kids to know. Or, in Jane’s case, I don’t want a reason for her to get up and come out with her curious inquiries.
 
 
I’m outside. Moths are flailing helplessly around the porch light.
 
I turn it off, and they disperse, in a frantic, winged mist.
 
In my periphery, I see a light on the in picture window of the Carron’s ranch house across the way. As if they don’t have enough to gossip about.
 
It always makes me feel perversely amused.
 
With the porch light off, I am standing in the moonlight, pasty through clouds and warm-weather haze.
 
A shadow grows around me, and there is no greeting.
 
Just this: “You didn’t answer my call.”
 
“And I’m not going to.” I pull a cigarette from my jeans pocket, and a lighter.
 
 I don’t offer one, I just smoke casually, and the smoky haze floats around me.
 
I hear the exasperated sigh, and that comforts me. “You think you’re being brave. But it’s selfish.”
 
I draw a long drag, and my cigarette glows, like the glaring eye of a feral creature.
 
“Don’t talk to me about being selfish.” I blow a stream of smoke. I know it’s like a shield -- and I feel entitled to one. “I always wonder if you’re all like that. Selfish.”
 
Another sigh comes in response. “This is an old conversation, Krista. I was selfish. It’s all in the past.”
 
I resent hearing my name, and I say so.
 
I want to lean against the porch railing, but instead I stand up straight, and step forward. I can feel my face flushing. I flick some ash.
 
“Yeah, well she is not the past. She’s here now. Only you are in the past.”
 
In the half-dark of the moon, I see discomfort, anger. Some men delight in saying, “that’s in the past,” like snipping a cord with pliers.
 
But they hate hearing it.
 
“What happens when she starts to ask you -- about herself.”
 
I take another languid drag. “I really doubt it. She doesn’t ask anyone anything.” I’m feeling a grim satisfaction.
 
I step forward. “You’re not much for consequences, are you?”
 
I blow more smoke, and don’t wait for an answer.
 
“She’s mine,” I pronounce. “She’s none of you. And, every day, that’s more true. You’re just some nonsense in her DNA. She’s growing up, in my world.”
 
He’s come here, over the years, at night. He has always said he has no choice. I know that’s rubbish.
 
 I know it’s rubbish because Jane is the proof. She gets up every morning.
 
Sometimes I catch her on this same porch, looking at the rising sun, just staring at its copper blaze, like they are having a conversation.
 
I’m not going to tell you that my heart is not torn when he leaves. We once had a place, to call ours.
 
No longer.
 
He is looking for something to cling to. Someone. I’ve determined that he won’t find that here.
 
“All these things you say, about her being only yours. That’s going to end.” I will not deny, his voice carries some kind of music. And the struggle in his voice to claim dominance -- and failing -- I like hearing that, too. That’s probably why I’ve tolerated all this, for so long.
 
 In the movies, it’s so different. They sweep into a room, maybe a bedroom -- dark cape, dark eyes like daggers. They own everything around them.
 
“I raised her. She has my values.” My cigarette is nearly out.
 
“She’s becoming an adult. I fell. I fled from my duties. But now --”
 
My neighbor’s light winks out.
 
“You need to go,” I say.
 
“Do you really care what they think?”
 
“I care about my daughter.”
 
I can feel tears in wet islands, on my face.
 
I am alone again.
 
I go inside.
 
Before closing the screen door, I say, out loud, in the direction of the Carrons’ house: “I think you need to watch your own wife.”
 
The morning comes. Music is coming from Justin’s room, louder, and with purpose.
 
He’s not even in there, he’s in the shower.
 
I go to Jane’s room. There are illuminated unicorn stickers on the door.
 
It’s day two of the stamp convention. Presentation day.
 
She knows that of course, but it’s mom’s job to remind kids of that which they already know.
 
“Honey, you up?”
 
After a moment I push open the door.
 
There is a shadow, dancing, like a swan.
 
My heart begins to hammer and my ears ring.
 
The shadow turns in that effortless turn, softens, and disappears.
 
***
 
“You really need a better outlook,” a former friend said at coffee one day. This was after Justin came home from first grade with a gash in the side of his head.
 
A kid at school teased him about his errant father. My former husband. My prehistoric life.
 
Justin ran at him; the kid threw a rock. Justin got sent home with a suspension.
 
This former friend was of the opinion that her fellow women would do better in this world if only they stopped doing dumb things.
 
“Perspective,” she said. “You’ve been given a lot of breaks. Not every single mom gets to live in a nice ranch house in a cul-de-sac.”
 
It was one of those famous times my mouth got me into trouble. “Well, you know, I have a plan,” I said. “I’m going to stop  paying rent, and get us thrown out of that ranch house, and onto the sidewalk.”
 
Her mouth began to move but I interjected. “Then we’re going to move into a trail tent in the woods. I’m sure that will make life better for all those worse off than we are.”
 
“I didn’t mean -- “
 
“You never do.”
 
Nausea gripped me. Not because of what she said. I reached around in my pocket book for some saltines. I chewed them up with gusto.
 
“Hey --”
 
“Hey what,” I said through the crackers. All righteous indignation was muffled by the crackers. “Stop judging other people’s lives.”
 
She sighed. “You went to that dance.”
 
“Yes I did,” I said. Another friend had dragged me along and then abandoned me to argue with her ex in the parking lot of the Elks.
 
And my soon-to-be husband wasn’t even at that dance. He was at a poker tournament in the adjoining function room.
 
His partner was my friend’s ex.
 
We began to talk, he and I.
 
Such beginnings are really just that simple.
 
It was five years later, thereabouts. I had been newly-single for three of them.
 
I was working in a residential home, Palm Manor. There were no palms, just some scrub pines.
 
It was a little after 11 p.m. I was ending my shift. Another beginning was about to unfold.
 
The air outside was cool, invigorating. I lit a cigarette. I didn’t like smoking in my car.
 
Moths dithered around a parking lot light. Moths acting crazy around lights -- they’re almost like sybiline prophets.
 
Justin was with his Dad that weekend. I both wanted him to spend more time with his father, and dreaded it when he did. Would he come home changed, transformed, some undesirable part of his father’s nature within his being.
 
I drove, my torn thoughts my only companion, as so often was the case.
 
Our town does have some scenic places, even if ugly milk-carton developments have cut into them over the years. And yes, my rented house in the cul-de-sac is one of them.
 
I suppose that’s why it’s affordable. A salad ranch, a coworker called it.
 
I’ve seen her husband at the VFW. He provides her a better house, but I don’t think she knows the real price.
 
There’s a park, near a lake. The park has trucked-in sand, and some picnic tables.
 
I pulled over. I wanted another cigarette.
 
The park was never a woodland preserve. I remember there was a big fight over it at Town Meeting, but in the end, the voters agreed to buy the land to keep the woods.
 
No one ever said the reasons out loud but everyone knew.
 
Yes we need places for houses. We also need woods. For birds and deer and all those Disney things.
 
I pulled in the lot. I got out of my car.
 
There he was.
 
I recognized at once who -- what -- he is. I laughed out loud. Here’s someone who will never clutter up my life the way Justin’s father had, I thought. Because it simply isn’t possible.
 
He has his own universe, defined by the boundaries of a forest and a lake. And, a quarry, filled with ancient rain water. That’s where they come from, and that’s where they stay. Mostly.
 
It was hard to believe some carved-up picnic tables and fake beach sand could form a portal between two worlds, but there it was. There we were. I went. The taste of wet leaves, and their tangy scent -- yes, I can still invoke it, minus the pain.
 
Jane to me was neither a burden or a gift, nor a dilemma. She was simply mine.
 
He had failed her. He had failed her by not showing her that world beyond the lake.
 
The lake in the daytime was a pretty place, as municipal beaches go. Distantly, white swans and ducks gleamed, unafraid.
 
***
Justin is at Jane’s bedroom door with me, with the obvious discomfort of a teen boy approaching a younger sister’s room.
 
“What’s this shit,” he demands, but there is fear in his eyes.
 
I feel my mom-authority evaporating, and my heart races. “She’s gone.”
 
“Ma, I can see that!” Then, “Sorry. Maybe she went in the yard to talk to the sun.”
 
I turn to him, startled momentarily, but his tall presence, his face splashed by tears. “She’s not in the yard. She’s gone.”
 
“Ma, hell!” He storms past me, to the door.
 
“Justin --” he’s gone, in his car, his beloved, rust-and-bolt Camaro. A chick-pickup turned kid sister rescue vehicle.
 
Anger churns in me. Did he come for her, when we were all asleep? I can’t even call him.
 
I make up my mind. I’m going. Tear open that pathetic earth hovel or whatever it is -- I’ve never seen the place. I’m getting my daughter back, and I am going to finish this.
 
I should call the police. But, I don’t.
 
I get in my car, and head for the lake.
 
***
 
It’s early, yet. No cars are there. But I’m a mom on a mission, and nosy spectators will not deter me in any case. I slam the door, and take quick, angry strides. Or try to.
 
The sand catches at my feet, in my nurse’s Stride Rites which are great for tiled floors, but not here.
 
Before I know it, I’m perspiring. The air is chill. Flies graze my head. Black flies.
 
I swat at them. “Fuck off,” I say, loudly, ridiculously.
 
I stare at the lake. It’s broad, placid, green-black, and mesmerizing.
 
Tears course down my face, and my eyes sting.
 
I find myself sinking, sitting on the gritty, sandy shore; Canada geese are clustered near the foam and reeds along the edge.
 
It catches up to me all at once. If what I think happened, happened -- no police are going beyond this place.
 
They won’t. They can’t.
 
I need to gather myself. I look, straining, for a glimpse, a gray glimpse of the quarry, beyond the trees.
 
The sun is rising.
 
I’m weeping.
 
I’m not alone.
 
I don’t think I ever saw my daughter cry before, until now. She is standing before me, impossibly tall, almost like her brother, like what every mother fears -- a daughter becoming a woman, literally, overnight.
 
But she is in fact still a little girl. Tomorrow is her 13th birthday.
 
The morning breeze tousles her soft, long, black hair. She didn’t get that from me.
 
Or her delicate skin, or long-lashed eyes.
 
Or her terrible grace.
 
Relief sends shocks through my body. I leap up, reach out, to grab her, and she stands back.
 
I feel a stab in my heart. “Are -- you --” it’s like being in a dream, when you try to scream, and no words come.
 
“Oh, mom,” she trembles.
 
She reaches out to me now, and touches my hand. Her touch is warm, but that, too, chills me.
 
Her face. Her hands. Streaks of scarlet.
 
I shrink back, and feel hot with shame for doing it.
 
“Mom.” There is firmness in her voice now, and it takes me aback, a little.
 
I put out my arms to her.
 
“I’m okay.” Anger is building in me now. My child, endangered, safe, but still -- “You’re coming with me and we’re getting help.” I glance in the direction of the hidden quarry. “He is bad. You need to understand that. We’re going to the police -- “
 
She steps back again, her gaze steady.
 
She swipes at the tears on her face with a savage fury. “Mom!”
 
She holds out her hands, palms-up, showing me the blood, scarlet rivulets.
 
“You’re hurt!” I insist. “Jane, you scared the hell out of us!”
 
“I’m not hurt,” she says, her voice starting to quake now.. “But” --
 
She looks swiftly over one shoulder, gesturing toward the water.
 
“The swans.” I barely hear her. “What did he do to get you here? Did he bribe you? Just take you?”
 
She repeated it. “Mom! The swans!”
 
My resolve is fading, my mom-patience drained.
 
 Never have I felt a need to discipline her, my perfect but mysterious child, but now I’m about to pick her up, swan-babble and all, and pitch her into the back seat and tear off to the police station.
 
No time to worry about what they might think of my cracked-sounding story.
 
“Mom!” She erupts in tears again. “Wait! Just, wait!”
 
“You are coming with -- “
 
“Mom, I just felt it -- like I was all cut-up inside, and dying, like in the desert. So I took the swans -- “
 
She puts her hands, stained red as if from henna, to her beautiful, tear-stained face.
Everything courses through me. Pity, horror, rage.
 
I put my arms around her, and I pull her head to my collar bone. “My baby.”
 
She convulses with sobs.
 
We head home. She is looking down, into her hands. I reach over, pull the seat belt across her.
 
I notice for the first time, she is clasping something she has taken out of her jeans pocket.
 
It is a small, white feather.
 
She says, softly, “I think. Maybe. I think they’ll be okay.”
 
I pull out a cigarette.
 
***
 
I don’t go to the police.
 
I have decided I am past that.
 
I put Jane to bed, pull up her girly-pink comforter, and she does not resist any of my maternal ministrations. She goes to sleep, as if merely worn out from a strenuous soccer game.
 
When she awakens, I will talk with her about all that has happened.
 
I close the door, and run my hands over the unicorn decals on the door.
 
***
 
Justin’s friends arrive, a hellbent posse. He told them, damn him.
“If the police don’t take care of this, we will,” says one friend, Brennar. Long, stringy black hair.
 
He has had more than one scrape of his own with police.
 
“Guys,” I raise my arms, like a conductor. “Please. She’s okay. Let me handle this.”
 
I have never seen a group of teens look so disappointed. They were really ready to deal a fearful lesson in slaughter.
 
I call in sick to work.
 
And I wait for the sun to set.
 
***

As the sky fades to blue, to purple, to black, and insects begin to chatter, I feel my resolve grow.
And with it, questions.
 
Jane is still safe, asleep, in her room.
 
Justin and his friends have gone out. I insisted. Go for a drive, I told them. Let them hunt for some invisible enemy.
 
I know it will come to nothing.
 
And I don’t want them involved.
 
The fact is, I really don’t know what I’m doing. Anything I know, I have come to realize, is from movies.
 
Crosses. A wooden stake. I don’t have these things.
 
Illogically, I laugh.
 
I will know when the time comes. It’s that simple. I’ll just have to.
 
I’m standing on the porch. Smoking a cigarette. There’s nothing about me that suggests I’m a great hunter of evil, supernatural, unnatural things.
 
I’m a slight woman, in capris, a T-shirt, and a sweater over my shoulders. Wearing clogs, and smoking.
 
The stars appear, faint light through a nighttime haze.
 
The Carrons’ light is out. Maybe they’ve gone on some vacation of reconciliation. Such are the things nurses come to learn.
 
I am not alone.
 
The apparition before me is none of the sultry arrogance of nights past, years past.
 
“Any last words,” I ask.
 
“I...didn’t take her.”
 
“I’m her mother. Don’t shit with me. I found her by the lake! Blood all over her hands!!” Despite myself, my voice is climbing.
 
There’s shaking in his voice. “She’s reached the age. She’s waking up. Her time. It’s beginning.”
 
“Your time is ending!”
 
“Mom!”
 
We both turn.
 
She moves to my side, while my brain is trying to process how she came out, with the screen door still closed. She moves between us.
 
Eyes. Their eyes, so much alike, staring deeply into the dark.
 
I have never, ever once, seen the two of them, together, like this.
Even in the patchy moonlight, I can see. Eyes, so much alike. Something, in her, that is definitely not from me.
 
I force back tears, and breathe deeply.
 
“The swans go from one side of the lake to the other,” she tells us.
 
I put my hand to my head.
 
All this time, I’m thinking, braces, fighting over makeup, teaching her the unpleasant truths of womanhood, like preparing in advance for unwelcome advances.
 
These things, I’ve rehearsed in my mind, seeing my own preteen self in some afterimage, trying to defeat battles not yet fought.
 
Not once, not ever, did I consider this battle among them.
 
I reach out and grab her, and pull her back toward me.
 
Even she is shocked. “Mom -- “
 
With my free hand, I make a slashing gesture. He steps back.
 
“This -- this creature -- has no part of you!”
 
“Jane.” Not my voice this time. I can’t ever remember his saying her name aloud, until this moment.
 
She strains against my grip, and she looks away. “You’re not taking her!”
 
But, it’s as if my hands turn to water.
 
She does not go to him. She does not go anywhere.
 
She’s simply gone.
 
And I realize, he was telling the truth. He didn’t take her.
 
She went. To find her whole self.
 
For the first time, since that one night, we go, together, to the lake.
 
And, she’s there.
 
A swan is moving toward her in a sure stream, a silhouette of white wings opening.
 
She’s removed her shoes, and is leaping in a made--up dance.
 
She tiptoes to the edge of the water, her arms open.
 

 

The Gallery
by
Gerald Arthur Winter




A laser of light flashed across Sally’s wet windshield. Before she could
count—one-Mississippi, two Mississippi—lightning struck a magnolia tree just
ahead of her high beams. Thunder exploded as the magnolia in full bloom fell
across Sally’s 2011 red Coyote convertible. The airbag whooshed in her face,
stunning her for several minutes. Then the pounding windshield wipers made
her realize where she was, not at home in her comfy jammies.
She wasn’t sitting by the hearth of a crackling fire and sipping cabernet
to soothe her tired mind after a long day at the office. No. After dealing with
a shit storm of unhappy customers whose orders hadn’t been delivered on time,
she was stuck on the road alone in a thunderstorm with a goddamn tree trunk
straddle across her dented hood.
She was about to call Triple A for road assistance, but her iPhone showed
no bars. There were no streetlights, and the wind and rain were kicking up. She
tried to restart her stalled car. The engine turned over, so maybe she could drive
out from under the fallen tree. It was just a magnolia with no more than two
feet to its trunk’s circumference. She opened her car door and got out to see if
she could back up without any further damage.
She walked around to the trunk of her car to be sure she wouldn’t be
backing off a cliff or into a ditch. There was enough level ground behind her to
try, but then she saw that the felled magnolia hadn’t been completely uprooted.
The ball of its thick tangled roots were still embedded firmly in the ground.
Regardless, she had to at least give it try. If it continued to damage her
car as she backed up, she’d just stop and hope someone would pass by willing
to give her a lift to a gas station to get a tow.
Home, she thought. Crap! Where the hell am I?
Her roommate, Tricia, would be wondering what had kept her, but with
her iPhone unusable, there was no way to call her. Her stomach growled. It was
7 p.m. and she hadn’t eaten since 1 p.m. She felt a little dizzy, too, not just from
hunger either. At her last checkup, her doctor said she was anemic, needed to
eat more red meat and drink red wine to bolster her immunity against next
autumn’s flu. She’d had only a salad at lunch because it was Friday and Tricia’s
turn to provide them with dinner, a weekly ritual they’d enjoyed as roommates
since graduating from college and entering the work force. Both were department
managers for different companies, Tricia for an online food service, and Sally for
a line of women’s clothing and accessories.
Last night Sally had gotten off early with plenty of time to prepare their
dinner, complete with candlelight, cloth napkins, and the Sterling place settings
from her hope chest, which seemed to have little chance of hope after she’d
turned thirty-nine last spring. She’d tried the online dating services, but that
hadn’t worked out well—men, argh!
With hunger pangs and a burning sensation in her gut, Sally recalled that
there was a chocolate bar in her glove compartment from weeks ago. Hopefully
Tricia hadn’t found it when she’d borrowed her car while hers was in the shop.
Just as she bent into her car to check the glove compartment, high beams made
a bright halo on the horizon. The headlights’ rays glistened on the wet macadam
on the country road in the boonies of rural Florida.
Sally began to wave both arms high so the oncoming vehicle would see
her, not just to give her aid, but also to avoid running her over or crashing into
her car disabled by the fallen magnolia.
Seeing the white van slowing down as it approached, she waved her arms
more vigorously. The van’s brakes squealed and the tires screeched on the wet
pavement. The van fishtailed before sliding to a sideways stop just a few feet
from Sally’s trembling knees. There was just the driver in the front seat. The man
opened his window and shouted, “Anyone hurt?”
“No! It’s just me. The tree was struck by lightning and wrecked my car.
I have no phone service out here. Would you give me a lift to a service station?”
“Here! Take this red towel and roll up your car window tight with the
towel hanging out. That’s to let the sheriff’s deputies know you’re safe and
you’ll come back for your car without them having to tow it.”
She did as the man advised then got out of the rain and into his unmarked
van, as she noticed, wondering what trade he might be in.
“Where to. Honey?” he asked, not in an offensive manner so much as
kindly. She’d had enough close encounters to tell a man’s intensions by his
tone better than by the words he expressed. He was no more than forty, a big
guy with his knees tight under the steering wheel.
Despite her confidence in her judgment, Sally rambled nervously.
“The storm took me off course from Route 275 about ten miles back with
a detour that led me onto this unfamiliar road. I hadn’t seen any service
stations between there and here. I assumed I needed to continue in this
direction before I saw another detour sign. Never got the chance to find
one.”
There was an awkward silence between them as the rain pounded
against his windshield. Only their eyes flickered with light from his headlights
with neither of their facial features apparent to the other. He smelled of hard
labor while she wafted a hint of herbal hair conditioner and a deodorant
that had begun to fail with her rattled nerves and physical distress.
Sally thought of the two of them stuck in the van’s close cabin were
like two rabbits she’d kept as pets as a child. That mammal smell of a rabbit
in heat reminded her of those long-eared rodents and how her father had
to separate them so they wouldn’t multiple.
Multiply, she thought. What a funny word out of the context of a
math class. Go multiple yourself.
When her father was at work, she’d let her bunnies scamper free in
yard. When the rabbits mated despite her father’s attempts to separate
them, he began to breed them for food. At age five, that was her first taste
of wild game. She never bought meat from a store again.
Her thinking about the rabbits became a titter that brought her
out of her private thoughts.
“Something funny?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry—my name is Sally, and I was thinking how my
roommate would be laughing at my circumstance. Tricia thinks I’m a
feather brain.”
“Sorry for your circumstances, Sally. I’m Jake. My GPS in this van
seems to be working, so give me your address and I’ll take you home. You
can call for a tow from there.”
“Drive me home? Would you really?”
“Of course. I’ve got no place to be in a hurry. I’m not married.”
“Thank you so much, Jake. Wow! Lucky me.”
She gave Jake her address. Although the GPS said it would take forty
minutes, with the rain and detours, it took an hour.
“Are you sure I can’t pay you for your help, Jake?” Sally said with his
van parked in her driveway.
“Oh, no. Always glad to help a lady in distress.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I’ll just grab a burger on the way home.”
“Listen, Jake. Friday’s are special to me and Tricia. We’re both gourmet
cooks—all natural. Come in and join us.”
“I hate to impose. Are you sure Tricia won’t mind me intruding for dinner?”
“No bother, really. Tricia’s even more easy-going than me. She’ll enjoy
having you supper as much as I will.”
“OK, if you’re sure.
When they went to the front door of the rented home Sally and Tricia
shared, Sally used her key then called out to Tricia. “Come and see whom I’ve
brought home for dinner!”
Tricia came from the kitchen wiping her hands with a dishtowel.
Jake stood more than a head taller than the two women.
“Wow!” Tricia said extending her hand. “He looks like he could have us
both for breakfast.”
“Oh no, I’m just here for dinner,” he said, making the women laugh.
“We’re having red wine,” Tricia said, but if you’re a beer guy we have
several choices.”
“Cab or Merlot?” he asked.
“We’re having red meat for dinner,” Tricia said. “Will a full-bodied
cabernet suit you?”
“Great.”
“Dinner will take a half-hour. How about cheese to go with your wine?”
“Sure. Whatever,” Jake said as Sally led him into the den where he took a
seat in a leather recliner. “Nice house,” he said, observing the welcoming décor.
“Been here three years. We like it. Let me bring you wine and cheese.”
When Sally returned with two wine goblets and a platter of assorted
cheeses, she found Jake looking at a gallery of framed portraits in the corridor
that led to their bedrooms.
“Who’s the artist?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s Trish’s handiwork. I can’t draw a straight line.
“Relatives?
“Oh, no. Just people we’ve come to know since moving into this house.”
“Hmm. Quite a few.”
“Always room for more friends. Ask Trish if she’ll do yours.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Come sit down, Jake. Just lean back in that recliner and I’ll set up a
tray so you can reach your wine glass and enjoy some cheese before dinner.
Do you like sports. If there’s a game on tonight that you’d like to watch,
here’s the remote.”
“The Bucks are playing the Giants,” Jake said. “Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” Tricia called out from the kitchen.
“Cheers!” Jake said clicking his glass with Sally’s.
“Relax, Jake. I’ll be right back,” she said, joining Tricia in the kitchen.
When Sally and Tricia came back to the den with their drinks in hand,
they saw that Jake’s eyes were closed as he lay back in the recliner with his
feet up. The women winked at each and clicked their wine glasses together.
“Do you want to sketch Jake’s portrait before dinner?” Sally asked.
“No, that’s OK. I’ve already got his face imbedded in my mind. I’ll
work on it tomorrow.”
No response came from Jake.
Sally took the TV remote from Jake’s stiff grasp then turned off the
football game.
“God, I hate football,” Tricia said with a shrug.
With the interior silence of their home, they could hear the wind and
rain still pounding against the windows as the house creaked and moaned.
“Don’t these kind of stormy nights give you the creeps?” Sally asked,
but Tricia just shrugged.
“What part do you want tonight?” Tricia asked as she began to undress
Jake.
“We have corn-on-the-cob and string beans from the garden, I think
a half-pound of liver would go nice with that.”
“OK, me, too. I’ll get the saw and we’ll gut him here then take the limbs
to the freezer. Never know when we’ll get another pandemic or hurricane.
Better to stock up with more than we’ll need than to get caught short.”
After Sally spread plastic drop clothes all around the recliner, Tricia
put on goggles then pulled on the chain saw with a roar.
Jake’s eyes suddenly opened and he let out a gasp. Outweighing the
two women combined, he sprung from the recliner and dashed buck naked
from the den and out the front door into the stormy night.
Jake had left his keys in his trousers, so Sally and Tricia watched
calmly from the front door as Jake jump-started his van then squealed out
of the driveway.
“Aaaaah!” his shouts could be heard above the wind until the van
vanished into the night.
“Nice try, Sally,” Tricia said with nonchalance. “You win some and you
lose some. I defrosted Jimmy’s thigh just in case you’d come home in this
storm empty handed.
“Oh, yeah . . . Jimmy, the home inspection guy. He was sweet . . . and
very tender, no more than twenty-five.”
“And single . . . we don’t like to leave kids without a dad.”
“Is Jake married?” Tricia asked.
“Jake? No. Unless he was lying. I wonder what he thought we’d be doing
after dinner?”
“Even if he only has a girlfriend, I’d enjoy hearing his explanation about
the way I used a laundry marker to indicate the cuts I planned to make with the
chainsaw. I had my mind all set for his liver. I bet it would’ve been delicious.”
Later that night, with Jimmy the home inspector’s leg in their satisfied
tummies, Sally and Tricia toasted with a night cap as they stared sadly at the
empty frame meant for Jake’s portrait to join their gallery.
“Here’s to Jake,” Tricia said. “The only one to get away.”
“To Jake,” Sally said as she dialed Triple A for a tow.

Mary Catherine's Confession
by Anita G. Gorman
​

Mary Catherine O'Flanagan wearily pushed open the door of the parish office and began her usual chores. She made coffee, emptied the wastebaskets (where was Jonah, the janitor?), and put her desk in order. Why she put her desk in order when it was about to be disordered, that she could not say. It was just one of her morning rituals, as was her gruff and brief encounter with the pastor
The door flew open, and there he was, Rev. Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty, a tall, bald man of 70 with a sour expression on his face.
"Good morning, Father." Mary Catherine tried to be friendly, though she knew it was futile.
Fr. O'Flaugherty grunted and pointed a finger in the direction of the staff kitchen. "Coffee."
"Yes, Father, right away." Mary Catherine moved fast, since she knew he would want the coffee immediately, if not sooner.
Soon she was down the hall, a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. "Here you go, Father. Black, just the way you like it."
He grunted again. "Close the door on your way out."
Slowly Mary Catherine made her way back to the desk. She turned on the computer. Soon she was busily organizing parish records, in between phone calls. "What is your Mass schedule?" "How do I register at the parish?" And the most difficult question for the secretary: "May I talk to the priest?" Fr. O'Flaugherty never wanted to talk to anyone except for his close friends. So
every time some stranger would ask to speak to the pastor Mary Catherine would say, "I'm sorry but he's at a meeting. I'll connect you to his voice mail."
And so she did. And he rarely checked his voice mail, or if he did stop to listen, he would listen quickly and delete, delete, delete.
It had not always been this way. Twenty years earlier when she first started to work in the office after her children were all in school, things had been different. Fr. O'Flaugherty had been rather charming, as she recalled. Not as charming as Bing Crosby in that great movie Going My Way, but that was a movie, not real life. Yet Father Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty had been affable and funny and patient. What had happened? Was it old age? Was the bishop annoyed with him for some reason? Who knew? All Mary Catherine knew was that she was getting extremely tired of hearing curt remarks and seeing scowls and fielding questions from parishioners who wanted to talk to the priest. Sometimes they even walked into his office without an appointment and demanded a few minutes of his time. Or Mary Catherine would call him on the phone and he would say, "OK, send her in, but don't forget to call me in ten minutes to remind me that I have an appointment with the bishop."
Some parishioners became suspicious and wondered why the bishop wanted to see the pastor so often. On the other hand, the only people in the parish the pastor wanted to see often were the men--doctors for the most part--who played golf with Father Flaugherty. Mary Catherine wanted to call him Father Barnabas; so many priests these days were Father John or Father Bill, or whatever, but she didn't have the nerve. Nor did anyone else, except perhaps for his golf partners.
So there she sat, thinking about the pastor, wondering what to do, and staring at the computer screen which had gone into sleep mode. Suddenly she heard a familiar voice.
"Mary Catherine, are you being paid to watch a blank computer screen? Let's get some work done around here. I need you to check on the choir director's expenses. He seems to be spending far too much money on music."
Back to work, and back to rising resentment. She wanted to tell him off. She wanted to give him a lecture, but she had not been raised to do such a thing. She wanted to quit, but she needed the money. By noon she was steaming with anger, and by 1 p.m. guilt had set in.
"I need to go to confession," she thought. "Not that I think I've committed a mortal sin, really, by being angry. After all, there is such a thing as righteous anger. Still, I don't feel good about my anger, and he is, after all, a priest. The bishop laid his hands on Father and that gesture, the laying on of hands, goes all the way back the apostles."
"Mary Catherine, you're muttering to yourself." There he was again. She hoped he hadn't heard her. Had she really been muttering? She did carry on conversations with herself from time to time. Maybe it was time she stopped.
"Oh, sorry, Father, I'll get that information for you right away."
And so the day progressed, and by the time she was done, she was convinced that she definitely had to go to confession. And that was a problem. There was only one priest at the parish. How could she go into the confessional and say, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession. I swore a few times, but the main thing is that I am very angry with you."
The confessional had two parts, the old style box where you positioned yourself on a kneeler and the priest listened from the other side. Or you could go into the other side where there were two chairs and say your confession face to face. Either way was not going to work. Father Flaugherty knew her voice, and she didn't think she could disguise it. What to do?
By that evening--it was Friday--she had a plan. She needed to go to the parish on the other side of town, to a priest she didn't know. Of course, he might know Father Flaugherty, but all priests were bound by the seal of the confessional, so they were not allowed to ever tell what a parishioner told about her sins, whether petty or huge. She fell asleep that night feeling better.
On Saturday morning, she checked the times for confessions at St. Aloysius Parish. They were in the morning, at 11 a.m. That was unusual, but not unheard of. At her own parish, St. Brigid's, confessions were at 3 p.m. Mary Catherine decided that the morning time was just fine. She'd be able to go shopping afterwards. She had all the time in the world, now that she lived alone. Her husband Geoffrey had died three years earlier, and the children were grown.
When Mary Catherine arrived at St. Aloysius, she saw that there were only two people waiting to go to confession. Slipping into a pew, she gathered her thoughts and waited. A young man went in; a few minutes later he was done. Then it was an old woman's turn. Mary Catherine got out of the pew and stood a few feet from the confessional, just in case someone else came in. The old woman came back out very quickly--not too many sins to report, Mary Catherine concluded.
Now it was her turn. She had done this many times. She decided to open the door on the right so that she could talk face-to-face with the priest. She was getting too old to kneel in a dark chamber. The door was a bit hard to open. She gave it a big push and almost fell into the little space. And there, in all his glory, with a purple confessional stole around his neck and a breviary
on his lap was her boss and pastor, Father Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty. Mary Catherine gasped. "O my God!"
Fr. O'Flaugherty looked shocked. "What are you doing here, Mary Catherine?"
They looked at each other in silence for the better part of a minute.
"Well?" he asked.
There was nothing to be done. Wearily, Mary Catherine sat in the chair opposite the priest. Making the sign of the cross she began: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Mary Catherine dreaded showing up for work on Monday morning. She had gone to the early Mass on Sunday and slipped out a side door to avoid shaking hands with the pastor. After wondering whether her headache warranted a day off, she decided to follow the words her husband used to say: "Be strong!" So there she was, shortly before 9 a.m. on Monday morning arranging her desk and turning on her computer after making coffee in the staff kitchen.
The door opened. There he was, Fr. Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty. She closed her eyes.
"Good morning, Mary Catherine!" He sounded unusually cheerful.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Good morning, Father."
"Coffee?" He was smiling at her.
"Oh, yes, I'll get it." She sprang up from her chair.
"No, no, sit down. I'll get it for you. How do you like it?"
He waited for her response.
"A little cream, please. No sugar. Thank you. Thank you."
She sank back into her chair, smiled, and waited for the phone to ring. It did.

Afterglow

by

Gerald Arthur Winter




He was startled by the knock at the front door. Then the doorknob jiggled for a moment
before he heard the key inserted and the deadbolt click open. The metal door creaked on its
hinges as it swung open. The bright, rectangular light from the open door hurt his eyes from
twenty feet across the hardwood floor to the sofa where he’d been anticipating . . . anticipating
. . . anticipating . . . something—anything to help him regain what he’d lost.
A backlit figure, obviously of a woman with her graceful, dance-like strides, came
toward him. With the setting sun at her back, her lithe figure cast a long shadow, a narrow black
path that cut straight to his doubts. She turned to close the door behind her, but he objected.
“No! Leave it open . . . I need fresh air.”
“Fresh air?” she questioned with a thin taint of mockery in her tone. “I think you may
have had too much of that already,”
“How so?”
“I’ve been calling you for the past—” She looked at her pink smart phone’s screen.
“Jesus, Jared. It’s been eighteen hours.”
He frowned then gave her a blank stare. The time hadn’t registered.
She sat beside him and put her cool palm to his fevered forehead.
“Are you ill?” she asked. “Should I take you to your doctor?”
“It’s Sunday, Bethany.”
“Then to the ER.”
“No . . . I just need rest . . . to gather my thoughts.”
“Thoughts about what? About us?”
“Everything doesn’t have to be about us.”
“Maybe not, Jared, but lately it seems everything has nothing to do with us.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “I just needed time to complete my novel. I’d promised
delivery of my final draft by . . . shit! By tomorrow.”
“That’s why I’ve been calling. This three month separation has been hard on me . . .
I’ve missed you, Jared.”
Without response, he just stared blankly at her.
“Damn you! Kiss me,” she implored with a puckered close-eyed lean toward him.
“Mmh,” he responded in her embrace, as her lips searched for his tongue, like an
anaconda unhinging its jaws to swallow a capybara along the Amazon, but he resisted.
“Jared! What’s with you? Is there someone else? You slept with her last night and
now you’re done with me?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Bethany. I’ll never be done with you, but . . . I may be done
with me.”
“What are you talking about, Baby?” she asked nuzzling his neck, but before he could
answer, she pulled back with a start. “Jared! What happened to your shoulder? My God!”
She pulled his bathrobe off his shoulder bruised deep purple. As she kept pulling
the bathrobe lower, she saw that his entire arm was the same lavender hematoma hue.
“I’d better get you to the ER right now,” she said.
“No ER . . . I’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt. I saw it when I took a shower. It goes down
my back on the left side and—” he pulled open his bathrobe to reveal his total nakedness, no
surprises there after three years as lovers. “My left hip and down my thigh past my knee to my
lower calf.” He raised his left leg and rotated his foot. “The ankle’s fine.”
“How can it not hurt?” she asked. “It looks dreadfully painful. It hurts just to look at it.”
“Because compared to my inner hurt, these exterior bruises are insignificant.”
“Don’t go literary on me at this crucial moment. This looks fucking serious! Do you think
anything’s broken?”
He grinned at the corner of his mouth, creasing a dimple that had first attracted her to
him. “Not any bones,” he sighed. “Just my spirit.”
“Okay. Let’s start from the beginning,” she said as if she were prepared to take dictation.
She occasionally had when the only way he could create a short story was verbally because his
fingers couldn’t keep pace with his mental narrative.
Jared struck a pose in Lord Olivier, Shakespearian fashion, “It was a dark and stormy
night as Jared emerged from his mother’s womb.”
She punched his right shoulder. “Damn you, Jared! I’m serious!”
He pulled the robe off his right shoulder. “I’ll give it an hour, but you may have hit me
hard enough to have matching purple shoulders. Jeez. Where’d you learn to punch like that?”
“I grew up in Philly. My best defense against the mean girls.”
“Well just control yourself. I had a pampered childhood.”
“Yeah, right. Ozone Park, Queens? That couldn’t have been a church social either.”
“Guilty as charged,” he huffed, but slipped back into the dregs of his morose.
“What have you been doing these past eighteen hours to have ended up such a fucking
mess?”
“Blank . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“A total blank.”
“You mean you don’t remember?”
“Not a damn thing—zero.”
“Wow! Okay. Go back in your mind to the last thing you can remember.”
“I’d been working eight or more hours a day since the end of June till—what day is it?”
He’d already had his wall calendar out on the coffee table before Bethany arrived, so
he leaned forward from the sofa and pointed to the day Bethany had said it was.
“It’s Sunday. We just talked about that. Remember, your doctor’s office is closed today.”
He nodded and pointed. “Hmm, today is Sunday, June twenty-fourth. Yesterday, I had
the last scene in my novel to write, only a couple of pages left to go. I used Hemingway’s advice
by not writing the last scene, even though I’d already worked it out in my mind. Papa said it was
best to stop writing near the peak of a climax and sleep on it so all the creative juices could
percolate overnight. It’s supposed to give a writer greater insight to write what had been con-
cluded in the subconscious, a much purer environment for creating effective fiction.”
“You mean that Dr. Butler Dreamscape shit?”
“Precisely. Intending to sleep on it, I’d been living like a monk these past ninety days to
meet my publisher’s deadline tomorrow, so I’d gone to a clean well-lighted place for cocktails
and dinner before coming home to sleep on it. The plan was to wake early this morning to
complete the novel and submit it tomorrow for my agent to deliver.”
“And so?”
“So I don’t remember leaving Adaggio’s where I had two glasses of Merlot with my
veal chops marinara.”
“How could you not remember leaving?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“We should go to Adaggio’s and inquire.”
“I called an hour ago. Spoke directly to Anton, the owner. He said I seemed fine when
I left with the woman?”
“Woman? What woman?”
“I went alone. I ate alone. I don’t remember leaving, with or without a woman.”
“Anton couldn’t tell you anything about her? How about a description?”
“He’d never seen her before, but she was blond, wore sunglasses as I did, because I was
seated on the exterior balcony facing the sunset, much like tonight’s. It was about twenty-four
hours ago when I was finishing my dinner.”
“Did you finish, then have dessert or coffee?”
“I don’t think so . . . I remember looking down at my empty plate expecting the waiter to
clear the table, but then—”
“Then what?”
“There was a crashing sound, I felt jolted, then I . . . then I . . .jeez, I can’t remember,
not a thing till less than an hour ago. It’s all a blank.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—a fucking blank. I’ve been trying to write those last few pages
of my novel and none of it makes any sense. Each time I think I’m done, I realize the last three
pages are the same—the same! Over and over, the same goddamn pages, paragraphs, sentences,
and words. It’s as if I’m not writing them, but they’re writing themselves . . . They have a life
of their own.”
“Show me,” she said.
As she read the pages, Jared stared at the widescreen TV left on mute. It was the local
news. A boy had been run over and left for dead in a hit-and-run incident with no witnesses. It
happened in an rural section of town where there were no security cameras to view a video of
the apparent vehicular homicide.
Bethany read aloud: “He felt like an angel, his feet not touching the ground as he
descended the balcony stairs to the parking lot. In his mind, he seemed to float across the
parking lot to his car. It looked like a good chance of rain with dark clouds hovering on
the horizon above the sun setting atop the distant trees. He opened the hatchback of his
SUV and took out a cheap umbrella, the kind sold for three bucks on city street corners
in a sudden downpour, but not meant to survive more than a single squall. Much as he felt
about himself regarding his longevity in the nameless shit storm that his writing career had
recently become—”
He interrupted her narrative from the manuscript on his laptop. “Stop. Please, quick
run downstairs to the garage and bring me my umbrella.”
“What the hell for?” she balked.
“Uh, I want to see if it’s wet from using it in the rain last night. It might help my
memory.”
“You’ve been lying around till almost dinner time, Jared. Can’t you get it yourself?”
He lowered the shoulder of his robe to reveal the purple bruise and fawned for sympathy.
“Christ, you’re such a baby.”
He opened his robe like a flasher. “That’s no baby—Baby.”
She huffed, “I liked you better when you had no memory of what an asshole you can be.”
“Sorry. You’ve been so kind in my hour—make that eighteen hours—of need.”
“You sound like John Barrymore in an old Thirties flick that I wish had remained silent.
Okay. I’ll get the umbrella, but I think I should take you to the ER for a look at those wounds
—and to check for a concussion, too. Which may explain your memory loss.”
When she closed the door where she’d entered minutes ago, he waited until he heard
her footsteps descending on the exterior wooden stairs from the balcony to the garage. Then
he turned up the TV’s volume and heard: “The police have been going door to door in the
neighborhood surrounding the alleged scene of the hit-and-run. The boy was pronounced
dead at the scene when found at eight o’clock this morning by another boy on a bicycle. The
coroner put the time of death no later than nine o’clock last night. Apparently the body had
been left alongside the light-trafficked country road for about twelve hours before discovered.
If you know anything, anything at all, please call the hotline shown on your TV screen. The
boy’s parents have been distraught since he hadn’t return home last night from his job at
McDonald’s. He was expected by 10 p.m. but never showed.”
Jared heard Bethany shriek from the garage. He turned off the TV and heard her
rapid ascent on the stairs. The door swung open just as before, still startling him even though
this time he was anticipating her entry.
“What?” he asked her as she approached him.
“When did you have an accident with your car?” she asked.
“Accident?”
“Your left front fender is totally crunched.”
“Oh . . . when you said ‘accident’ I thought you meant with another car. I hit a deer a
week ago. Poor thing never had a chance. I was going to report it, but with my novel’s deadline,
you know how it is.”
“Where did this happen?” she asked.
“Hmm, let’s see. It was when I took a short cut off Ulmerton Rd. That country road that
winds around the horse farms and saves you fifteen minutes with no traffic lights. You know
how bad the traffic can be on a weekend.”
“Weekend?” she asked. “Which weekend? Not last night?”
“Last night?” he hesitated staring into space for a moment. “Oh, no. It happened the
weekend before.” He began repeating himself in Trumpian fashion, hammering details into the
solid metal of the listener’s brain until his truth became hers by amalgamation. “I’d just bought
a book I’d wanted to read for a long time. I went to Barnes and Noble in town, got the book
on discount with my membership then drove home.”
He reached for his wallet lying on the coffee table beside the calendar. From between
the loose bills, mostly twenties, he pulled out a receipt from the book purchase. He unfolded it
and squinted at it closely then handed it to her as if it were a Special Delivery of fact: Exhibit A.
She squinted at the receipt as well and said, “Mmh. September sixteenth. Then the car is
drivable, right? Since you hit the deer?”
“Well . . . I drove it home that night but . . . I guess I haven’t tried to drive it since.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I figured I’d just call and have it towed by the body shop when I was ready to make the
insurance claim.”
“Don’t you have to make a claim within limited time, like twenty-four hours, maybe
forty-eight at most?
“The novel . . . the deadline . . . it’s consumed me,” he rationalized. “The dent isn’t
important compared to that . . . it’s my living. The dent is nothing but an unfortunate reminder
of an animal that didn’t have the good sense to look before it leaped.”
She said, “You’re forgetting one important fact, Jared.”
His mind raced. Fact? Fact? Forgot a fact. Forgot a fucking fact?
She took a deep breath then spoke in high C, like air slowly released from a balloon.
“You must have driven your car to and from Adaggio’s last night when you had dinner . . .
with that damn mystery woman.”
“The blonde?”
“The same . . . with the sunglasses . . . who Anton never saw before.”
“It’s coming back to me now . . .” he said as if visualizing a scene.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she, Jared?”
“My Uber driver.”
“You can’t expect me to—”
“No. Really, Bethany. Her name was Lilly.”
“Like short for Lillian?
“No . . . no. She was very unusual. She introduced herself to me, as Lilly when she
picked me up here to go to Adaggio’s last night at six. But her name on her posted ID said
“Lilith.”
“Oh, boy! That’s a good one, Jared. So some psycho Uber driver with satanic genes
beat the crap out of you and gave you all these bruises. Maybe you didn’t tip her enough
after she drove you home, so she threw your ass down that twenty-foot flight of stairs from
your balcony to your garage?”
“It’s a thought,” he said with a shrug, but she wasn’t buying it.
Obviously pissed, she waved an arm at him with dismissal and said, “Have it your way,
Jared. But I’m going to call Uber and find out who this psycho bitch is who threw you down
the stairs. Not like I haven’t wanted to do the same to you often enough.”
As he heard her footsteps in decent on the exterior stairs, each clunk on the wooden steps
reminded him of his drunken tumble down the stairs last night. Was it 9:45 p.m. or 10:15 p.m?
The numbers had been blurred on his SUV’s digital clock right after the impact, enough from
the side along the dark road’s shoulder to collapse his fender, but not enough to inflate the
airbag. He swore he’d seen a deer, an eight-point buck writhing with muscles in his rearview
mirror. Nothing else, so he’d kept driving with only a mile left to get to his home.
He’d fumbled with the remote garage opener but entered without a scratch. He’d gotten
out of his car, beeped the car lock with his keys, then closed the door and headed up the stairs to
have that last night’s sleep for the closing scene of his novel to congeal the action in his grey
matter.
He undressed and put on his robe and sat on the sofa, gathering his thoughts as he flipped
on the eleven o’clock news. As he’d drifted off in slumber, he felt at peace with himself, a
smooth transcendence from what is and what might be.
He felt like an angel, his feet not touching the ground as he descended the balcony stairs
to the parking lot. In his mind, he seemed to float across the parking lot to his car. It looked like
a good chance of rain with dark clouds hovering on the horizon above the sun setting atop the
distant trees. He opened the hatchback of his SUV and took out a cheap umbrella, the kind sold
for three bucks on city street corners in a sudden downpour, and not meant to survive more than
a single squall. Much as he felt about himself regarding his longevity in the nameless shit storm
that his writing career had recently become. He was feeling lightheaded from his two glasses of
wine at dinner. Anton knew his car, so it wouldn’t be towed if he left it overnight and took a cab
home. He dialed Uber.
Within two minutes, the Uber driver showed up, lowered her window and said, “Hi,
Mr. Smythe, I’m your ride.”
When he sat in the passenger seat beside her, he read her ID card on the dash and made a
muffled hmm sound.
“Problem?” the driver asked.
“Oh, no,” he said with a shrug.
“What then?” she asked.
“I used to date a woman with the same name.”
“No shit.”
“Yes, shit,” he said, grinning. That dimple crease in his cheek held her attention.
“You’re my last fare tonight,” she said. “I started at 6 a.m.”
“Whew! Sixteen hours? Is that legal?”
“No . . . but I am.”
There was a minute of silence. Ten minutes from Adaggio’s she was already pulling into
his driveway.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Smythe,” she said. “Here’s my card. I’m local so you can always
call me direct when you’re in a hurry.”
“You want to come up?” he nodded to the stairs leading to his second-floor balcony.
“You mean for a drink?” she asked, totally blasé and not offended by such an open, male
predatory gesture.
“Or for the night . . . but only if you want to,” he said, showing all his cards.
“Didn’t I see you with a woman in the parking lot just before I arrived to pick you up?”
she asked.
“The blonde?”
“The blonde.”
“Business associate,” he said.
“What’s your business?”
“I’m a writer?”
“What do you write?” she asked.
“The jury’s still out on that.”
“Can I be your jury-of-one tonight?”
“Why not? Come on in, Bethany.”
She followed him up the stairs and they entered his condo. She went to the bathroom
to freshen up and he did the same. In his robe he came to the living room and poured two glasses
of Merlot then waited for her to join him. He was startled by the knock at the front door. Then
the doorknob jiggled for a moment before he heard the key inserted and the deadbolt click open.
The metal door creaked on its hinges as it swung open. The bright, rectangular light from the
open door hurt his eyes from twenty feet across the hardwood floor to the sofa where he’d been
anticipating . . . anticipating . . . anticipating . . . something—anything to help him regain what
he’d lost.
A backlit figure, obviously of a woman with her graceful, dance-like strides, came
toward him. With the setting sun at her back, her lithe figure cast a long shadow, a narrow black
path that cut straight to his doubts. She turned to the open door behind her, where two other
figures followed her.
“Jared Smythe?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” he said with resigned calm as the blonde took off her sunglasses.
“Sorry, Jared,” she said. “They’ve seen your car in the garage. The dented fender.
There’s blood. It’s a match.”
“Bethany!” He called to the bathroom. “Come out and tell these people where I’ve been
these past eighteen hours.”
He thought he still heard the shower running, but it turned out like most of the past
eighteen hours, that it was all just the afterglow of his imagination . . . music of the night that
spun a tune to suit its composer, but echoed untruths, perhaps lies, even to himself.

Menny Aviv and me, we have a cool story to tell.
We both know the same healing practitioner ... and just by coincidence, or what seemed like one (whispered: because it wasn't, but shhh, don't tell anyone), we found out we were both authors with similar book titles. His is called "The Curse of Eros" and mine is called "Aphrodite's Curse". We are both married men with children living in the same area in Germany, both multi-cultural and both multi-lingual. How's that for a dance of energies?

Here's what Menny says about himself: 

I was born in 1971 in a little town in the north of Israel to parents who have migrated from Morocco. As a young man i traveled for long periods of time in different parts of the world. I studied theatre and drama, had a short experience as an actor and gave it up for a short career as a real estae appraiser. 
I migrated to Germany in 2008 to marry my wife Marion with whom I have two boys. 
I've written manny short stories and have published them on different online platforms.
In 2017 my first novel, "The Curse Of Eros", was published in Israel.
I've written several stage plays in Hebrew, English and German.
My greatest lterary influences are Shakespeare, Proust and Nabokov.

And here is the opening of his story in Hebrew: 

אני הייתי בנה היחיד, והיא הייתה לי אימא בלעדית. אהבתי את יחידותי, ויחידותי השפיעה עליי טוב ויקר. ילדותי חשוכת האב הייתה שאננה ומוגנת, אף על פי שחלק ניכר ממנה עבר עליי בהמתנה לשובה הביתה מהעבודה. לעת ערב, משהיה נשמע סיבוב המנעול, הייתי רץ לאורך המסדרון ומתנפל עליה, גומע עד שיכרון מנשיקותיה הרכות שהיו מפצות כדבעי על שעות הבדידות. אני זוכר ערב אחד שבו שבה מאוחר מן הרגיל. כבר הייתי בן עשר ולא נזקקתי עוד לשמרטפותה המעיקה של מרים השכנה. שערה של אימא היה רטוב ועור פניה נשא את צינת ליל החורף שרחש מעבר לכתלים. עיניה הקרינו תשישות נוראית. כשהגשתי לה את התה נטלה אותו לסלון והשתרעה אפקרדן על הספה.
"אלברט עזב אותנו," אמרה.
"תאכלי משהו," אמרתי, מצביע על הסיר המתחמם.
"לא. אני רוצה שתניח לי עכשיו," השיבה ברפיון אונים, עצמה את ריסיה מצובעי השחור וצללה למצולתיה נטולי החלומות שמהם גם רעידת אדמה לא תעירה.
כיסיתי אותה בשמיכה וניגשתי לערוך סדר במטבח. את התבשיל המיותם הכנסתי למקרר, שטפתי את הכלים והלכתי להתבצר במיטתי ולקרוא באחד מספרי הסיינס-פיקשן שהייתה מספקת לי בנאמנות. בטרם נרדמתי הספקתי לקלוט את צלילי צעדיה נגררים בסמוך לדלתי, את זרם המקלחת בחדר הרחצה ואת איוושות ההתייפחות שהתאמצה להחניק בכריתה. 
צר היה לי על אלברט. הוא היה המעודן שבמאהביה, והיחיד שאת נוכחתו הייתי מסוגל לסבול בבוקרי השבת שלנו. על נמיכותו וקירחותו פיצו פני אפולו מחודדי סנטר וחוש הומור נדיר, שהיה מפעיל קסם על אימא וסוחט ממנה את מיטב צחוקיה. היא הייתה נוסעת איתו במרצדס המוכספת שלו לסופי שבוע במלונות שונים, ולשם כך הייתה נאלצת להפקיד אותי אצל ריטה, אמה מולידתה, אשר מילאה בחוסר רצון את תפקיד הסבתא ורק פיללה שבתה "תתחתן כבר עם האיש העשיר הזה ותמצא סופסוף שקט בחיים המחורבנים שלה."

And now: enjoy his story in English!


*
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Only child

by Menny Aviv


 I was her only child and she was my exclusive mother. I loved my uniqueness, which had given me a lot of innocent joy. My fatherless childhood was mostly carefree and secured, although I’d spent a large part of it waiting for her to come home from work. In the evenings, as I heard her open the door, I would run towards her along the corridor and intoxicate myself with her kisses that abundantly made up for the hours of loneliness. I remember one evening when she came home later than usual. I was already ten years old and didn’t need anymore the tiresome babysitting of Miriam the neighbour. Mum’s hair was wet and her skin had absorbed the chill of the winter night that sizzled beyond the walls. Her eyes projected terrible exhaustion. She rejected her usual cup of tea, walked to the living room and sprawled on the sofa.
“Albert left us,” she whispered with a blunt expression on her face.
“Eat something,” I said, pointing to the pot on the stove.
“No, let me be alone now,” she answered feebly, closed her blackened eyelashes and sank into her dreamless depths from which even an earthquake could not wake.
I covered her with a blanket, put the stranded pot into the fridge, went to my room and entrenched myself in my bed with one of the science fiction books she used to buy me. Before I fell asleep I could hear the sound of her dragging feet in front of my door, then the shower stream from the bathroom and finally the resonance of her sobbing which she struggled to stifle with her pillow.
I was sorry to lose Albert. He was her most delicate lover and the only one whose presence I could endure on our Saturday mornings. To make up for his shortness and baldness he was endowed with a pointy-chinned Apollo face and a rare sense of humour that cast a spell on mum and squeezed her best laughs out of her little body. He would take her in his silver Mercedes to luxurious hotels on weekends, during which I was forced to stay with Rita, her own mother, who reluctantly played the role of the grandma and whose sole wish was that her daughter would “finally marry that rich man and find some peace in her shitty life.”  
Albert dissipated like smoke, and like all the men that preceded him he also left a dent of grief on her soul. She was just thirty then. Her bright hair was still abundant and brilliant, but her face was already notably scarred by the chisel of despair. She used to wake up at dawn, adorn herself diligently in front of the mirror, make my breakfast and take me to school. When I’d come back to the empty apartment there were usually boxes of food waiting for me on the threshold, however, I gradually taught myself to cook and did not need the generous services of Miriam, whose tears of pity obscured the sky of my merry orphanhood.
The pleasure cooking had given me was intensified by the anticipation of her arrival home, and her gratification had filled my heart with delight.
“I have a little chef at home,” she said once and kissed my forehead before closing herself in the bathroom for her long bathing ritual which she religiously performed.
Mum accepted my gastronomic authority with humility, although on Fridays she would still expropriate the kitchen in order to bake her wonderful cakes, whose unique quality I’ll never be able to recreate. On Saturday mornings, which were to us like small islands of shiny intimacy in the gloomy ocean of life, she would sometimes take me for a picnic by the river, and occasionally even borrow Miriam’s car to take me far away from our stifling apartment block – and on these days our life of poverty was richer than anything the world had to offer.
However, mum had slowly confined herself in the shell of her sorrow and her nights had tortured her with nameless yearnings. I would hear her wander within the walls like a captive ghost, and a few times, as dawn broke, I had found her lying on the sofa in front of the muted TV, her thin legs extending out from her nightdress and her hair covering her face like a veil of shame.
“You’re already a big boy,” she told me in one of those mornings, just after she hastily got dressed and put on a corny layer of makeup, “you don’t need your mummy anymore.”
She was right. The task of housekeeping was anyway simple, and since she’d stopped bringing her lovers to her own bed and had been absent more frequently I learned to enjoy the blessed peace of the nights and the sense of exclusive ownership of my little, shabby manor.
When I was fifteen I found a job at a steakhouse that had just opened on the riverbank, and although I was initially designated to be a busboy it didn’t take long until I became a proud and enthusiastic member of the kitchen crew. My humble salary delighted mum, so much so that she didn’t even utter a word of protest when I stopped attending school. She would just take her share and disappear into the night, and return the next day drained and unattainable, declining food and affection, rushing into the bathroom and scrubbing her flesh with the soapy sponge which could not remove the stains of her misery.   
“You don’t want to know what she does with your money,” Rita told me on one of her rare visits while nibbling the rim of a cookie she’d just dunked into her tea, “and besides, she’s losing her wits. You’ve got a loony mother and I’m too old to take care of her.”  
Though Rita’s prophecy wasn‘t quick to materialize, mum’s functioning did gradually erode as time went by. The demon of depression took over her entire being until it ultimately subdued her. She started secluding herself in the apartment for whole days, curled up in her bed or on the sofa like a forsaken kitten – staring silently at the screen, eating scarcely and drinking loads of black coffee. Even the expected dismissal from her workplace did not cause her to react beyond a lazy gesture of indifference and a sickly sigh. When I once dared to shake her out of her numbness and say a few words of reproach, she ground her teeth and growled at me while her eyes were burning with hatred:
“Leave me in peace, you annoying boy!” her dragon mouth spat towards me, “who are you to preach to me! I didn’t even want you! A fucking accident, that’s what you are! A miserable accident that happened to a stupid girl!”
I left her alone, and from then on I spent as little time as I could in the apartment, although I would still buy the necessary groceries and cook the dishes which she barely tasted. Most of my time and energy were devoted to my work, at which I continued to excel, and when I was seventeen Naomi’s house became my safe haven in the stormy sea of my young life. 
Naomi was dwarfish, short tempered and charmingly frivolous. Her hair was crudely dreadlocked and her body possessed a kind of sweet and erotic chubbiness that had delighted my grateful fingers. She was seven years older than me. She saw me one day from the opposite bank while I was soaking my tired feet in the icy river. She came to sit by me and talked to me in such warm frankness that I couldn’t help falling directly into her sinister trap. She fell in love with me at the speed of light and declared that I wouldn’t have any choice but to submit to her tireless wooing. She slept with me the first night she took me to her humble home. She was my first one.                 
Under her guidance I got to know the secrets of the sense of touch and learned passion’s elusive language. Most of the time she’d ask me to be delicate and patient but once in a while she’d demand me to treat her in a domineering roughness, “like an unbridled whore on a dark street corner.” She used to mock my adolescence and my shyness but at the same time her love had become jealous and twisted to such an extent that she regarded any female presence around me as a genuine threat.
“One of them will steal you from me,” she told me one night when she came to pick me up after my shift, scanning distrustfully the cheerful cluster of waitresses that assembled in the kitchen.
“What will you do when it happens?” I asked.
“I’ll kill us both,” she answered with fabricated humour that could barely camouflage the burning pain in the bottom of her throat.
I had no intention of deserting her. Her friendship was to me like a blessing from heaven. She supported me all along in the tiresome care of my domestic nutcase and even drove us to the hospital the day mum, slender and fragile as a dried leaf, was finally admitted to the very pastoral psychiatric unit.
Time had hobbled slowly. Mum barricaded herself behind her walls and didn’t even bother to answer my phone calls, but had merely sent a few short text messages that hadn’t revealed anything. Naomi insisted that I move in with her for the three month of hospitalization and used that time to weave our weird relationship with rigid ropes of morbid addiction. Her feelings of alienation from the community in which she was born and the animosity she imagined seeing all around her locked us in a blurry bubble of solitude. Her mating habits lost completely their original tenderness. She dictated a fierce choreography of domination and subordination, and sometimes she would beg me to pull her hair harshly while she was barking her sensual delight at the wall of her narrow bedroom. As the storm would cease her body would become a wreck of sweaty organs and she’d lay her sweaty wild head on my chest and shed onto it thousands of tears of horror.
“I know you’re gonna leave me,” she wailed franticly, “in the end they all do.”   
And she was right. The urge to flee the cuckoo’s nest appeared shortly after I moved into it and ripened fully when mum was released from the hospital. She returned to the apartment in a scorching August afternoon, not before she’d had her hair dyed and bought herself some new sets of clothes. Her spongy cheeks were stretched by an unwanted smile as a reaction to my visible astonishment.
“Yes, I put on some weight,” she said, kissed my chin, and started laying out her new skirts on the sofa. 
“I’m hungry,” she added after a moment of awkward silent, “can you make something to eat?”
I went to the kitchen willing and eager and took the required groceries out, and while I was washing the vegetables and heating up the olive oil in the pan she came behind me, opened the cabinet under the sink and threw away a bundle of prescription drugs.
“I don’t need this shit anymore,” she grunted, then collected her folded clothes and locked herself in her room.
 
Darkness had descended over us and mum was still holed up in her shelter. A sterilized silence prevailed in the apartment, through whose open windows the dense summer evening was slowly invading. The cooked food was impatiently waiting on the stove. My smartphone was frequently vibrating from Naomi’s desperate suicide threats, which didn’t concern me at all. I was already well acquainted with her melodramatic tendencies, and I knew that she would soon capture another young and clueless prey along the river, bind it with her silk threads and intoxicate it with her sweet potions. 
It was almost midnight when I woke up to the clattering noise of cutlery. I was lying on the sofa, my legs were heavy and my head was humming with inane thoughts. She was sitting at the table, stuffing her mouth like a refugee on the run. My nervous roaming didn’t distract her, and when she was done she brought her plate to the sink and went instantly into the bathroom.
After more than half an hour she opened her bedroom door and recoiled as she saw me sitting on her bed, among the carefully arranged stacks of her closet’s content.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
She gazed at me with an alienated dread.
“For good?” I asked with a trembling voice.
“Yes.”
“Where will you live?”
“You don’t need to know that.” 
I stood up and caught her between the closet door and the wall. She bowed her head and put her palm between her closed eyes, gripping her nose bridge and shaking her body as if she was ardently praying.
“I’m starting all over again. You have no part in my new life. Don’t take it too hard. Anyway I’m not a real mother, and I’ve never been. I want out, as far away as possible. Another land, another language, another weather. I don’t belong here, in this middle eastern hell.”
She walked past me and sat down on the bed, pulling gently strands of her wet hair. Her eyes looked far beyond the boundaries of the room. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
It would be different this time, she said. She’d known him already for a few years. She met him during one of his frequent vacations in his homeland, and from the beginning he wooed her persistently. He was not young or particularly handsome, but he loved her and was willing to take her under his wings. When she was at the hospital she contacted him. He flew especially for her, and during his visits he excited her imagination with stories about the little American town in which he lived.
“The taxi is coming at five in the morning. Now get lost please, I have lots to do.”
She pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started packing her belongings, humming a melancholic melody, inaccessible and distant as her new country.
The night went by like a sleeping battleground before the inevitable clashes of dawn. The alarm clock woke me up from a restless sleep. The sound of her merry feet stabbed my soul like blunt arrows. She came out of the bathroom and started pulling her suitcase towards the door. I got up and ran along the corridor, as determined and excited as that child who greeted her when she arrived home from work. I grabbed her arm and started wailing uncontrollably.
“Please, mum. Don’t go. Please…”
My words blended with an enormous cascade of bitter tears.
She struggled with me as if she was fighting off an attacker at a dark street corner.
“Let go, you lunatic! Let go!”
“Mummy!.. Mummy!..” I recited again and again the expired magic spell.
She slipped away from my grasp, opened the door and vanished with her suitcase before I could regain my strength. I withdrew humbled, sat down on the sofa and let the weeping do with me as it pleased, until its wells ran completely dry.
The rising sun painted the air with shades of glistening crimson. The awakening street gradually added a background music of desolate routine. No force on earth could make me stay in that apartment, which from the moment of her departure was no longer my home. I got dressed swiftly and went down the stairs onto the summer-stricken streets. My steps were wobbly but my sense of direction was sober and steady. The lucid flow of water penetrated my hollow heart while I was walking along the river, and when I arrived at the opposite bank the village welcomed me with a familiar inhospitality. I walked shortly along its crumbling paths, and when I stood on the threshold of the little house and opened its door I inhaled gratefully its musty odours. Naomi rolled in her bed and scanned the uninvited guest in a sweet and wicked satisfaction.
“Hi,” she said and raised her blanket, “come and join me.”I took my shoes off, plunged myself beside her and curled up with her warm, seductive flesh as if I was holding on to the last bits of life. Her caresses filled my body with a blind tranquillity and the whispers of her love accompanied me into the dark tunnel of sleep, from which I prayed I would never wake up.                              

Ballerinas are Steadiest When Spinning

By Angela Camack



Tonight’s performance would accelerate Clarissa’s career or hold it in place, perhaps for the rest of her performing life. A soloist with an important New York City ballet company, she was making her debut in Swan Lake. All the classes, the pain, the hours taken from childhood and adolescence experiences for practice had finally led her here, to this stage, to this spotlight. There were so many dancers, so many talented people in the company, all of them waiting for one chance. This season, thanks to retirements and a ballerina with a baby bump, it could be her time. Success would mean promotion to principal dancer.
She made her entrance, leading her swans like a queen. Every step was graceful and eloquent, and applause was generous. The performance flowed on. ‘Clarissa’ stepped aside as her body told the story, starting as the White Swan and becoming the Black Swan, moving from innocence and despair to manipulation and sensuality. She and her partner Rob, her Prince for the evening, moved together in an almost instinctive unison. Together they worked the Swan Lake equation; two dancers equal three characters and make two romances.
Now came the Black Swan’s solo, and the pinnacle of the performance. Thirty-two powerful turns on one toe. The Black Swan spun, spinning a trap to catch the Prince, hypnotizing him away from the White Swan. Audiences loved it.
Now is the time. Take a deep breath into your already depleted lungs. Move to center stage and begin. Draw the Prince and the audience in with each turn. Fifteen, sixteen, … at the seventeenth turn she felt it. The tip of her pointe shoe drifted an inch to the left. It may as well
have been a canyon. She felt her knee tremble. Time expanded, stretching out like taffy. Not a fall, please no. The spell would be broken, the illusion shattered. There would be a literal fall from grace.
Deep breath, control. She met Rob’s eyes. Did he know what had happened? If they were dancing together, he would know immediately that she was losing her balance and he could help her correct her position. Now she was on her own.
She remembered other mishaps. The performance of the Nutcracker when she had to deal with a broken shoulder strap; there could be no wardrobe malfunctions when the audience is filled with children. Her dance in Tarantella, when she hit her tambourine and half of the metal discs went flying. But she had always managed, hadn’t she?
Another deep breath, for control. Control: dancing was the juxtaposition of control and abandon. She could do this. Her body was a perfectly tuned instrument, under her command. She straightened her knee and her back, held her arms closer in to compensate for the change in position. She swung her leg around in time for the eighteenth turn. Yes. She was rock-steady again. Time contracted to its normal length. Nineteen, twenty turns, scalpel-sharp and clean again. Now she was doing double turns. Single turns were all well and good for little White Swans, but the Black Swan grasped for everything with both hands.
Done. Now come to a perfect, steady stop, arms raised in triumph and head high. Take deep breaths without gasping. There was silence. Time expanded again. Had she failed after all? No, from the theater came the thunder of applause and cheers. She had hypnotized the audience along with the Prince, and they were coming out of their spell. Rob gave her the tiniest of winks.
Clarissa could have stopped to take a bow, but right now there was no Clarissa. She was the Black Swan, and she was getting her wings.

The Award for Best Botkin

By Yash Seyedbagheri 




Nick calls his older sister Nancy after she wins a Best Actress award for Drunk Mothers. Nick is thirty-two, Nancy thirty-seven.
He congratulates Nancy, uses words like “tour-de-force,” and “well-deserved,” words that seem detached and cold. He doesn’t know how to make it more personal, sounds like one of those critics who jerk off to their fifty-dollar vocabulary words.
He needs to congratulate her, as a loving brother. She’s won so many awards and he’s congratulated her, but through cold, formal statements and what-have-you. She’s his sister, but for the past five years, they’ve inhabited a different sphere entirely. Actor vs actor. Thanks to his idiocy and a sitcom role that he valued above all else.
Nick wants his sister back, the old Nancy.
Nancy thanks him for his support, her tone friendly. Cautious. It is as if she is expecting him to dig up dirt, gain advantage. As if he is another competitor and not the little brother she encouraged to become an actor. The little brother she once called nicknames like “old sport,” and teased with good-natured mercilessness, about his perpetually long hair, his bad jokes. His sensitivity.
Nick wants to tell her he doesn’t want to one-up her. Acting is crap. There’s a part of him who wants out of rehearsed smiles. The competition, alliances and rivalries, worse than turn-of-the century Europe. He doesn’t want Nancy pursuing roles and awards, wondering if he’s going to outdo her.

I’m happy for you, Nick says. It sounds fake, but he means it. Even if he feels a pang of bitterness, thinking of his last award that tore them asunder. Two Botkins divided by a common language.
And Nick telling her to go fuck herself. Among other choice phrases.
Nancy says she fought hard for her award.
You deserve it, Nick says, over and over, like a chorus.
I’m sure you’ll get a role, Nancy says. Which is the worst thing she can say, but Nick understands it too well. It’s the way they’ve lived for too long.
Nick hates having felt envy, watching his sister get award after award. He hates that sense of being a loser, needing to diminish others. Especially his own sister. And now here he is.
It’s not important, Nick says. He’s acted too long, wouldn’t mind something new to take on.
She sounds surprised. Is he all right? For a moment, he hears the old Nancy, big sister, back in action. It’s fleeting, but he tries to capture that moment in his mind. The lilting voice rising, the expectation in her voice, overwhelming. Almost motherly, even, something unlike their own mother, perpetually inebriated.
They may talk platitudes, but she is his sister. They have a connection, even if it has been frayed, even if they have both distanced themselves from their shared origins. The weight of their last name, Botkin. A name that held the weight of rugged Scots ancestors and country-club Episcopalian socialite grandparents and lost parents.
They once played together. Played spies. Detectives. They won, capturing all the world’s enemies with ease. Good always triumphed, brother and sister brought together by victory, arms raised in triumph as they vanquished these feigned foes. She also promised to protect him from their parents’ constant fights, beer mugs and knickknacks hurled in fusillades. He remembers her mischievous smirk, crooked, her laugh. The way they made up new identities while their parents fought. Nancy was even then a glamorous actress. Nick wanted to be a king or an emperor. They conjured fantasy while words and beer bottles shattered outside.
She was the one who encouraged him to take up acting in high school, attended every play he was in, while their parents were out entwined in liaisons and booze. She was so proud when he got his first role, even if he was playing a fucked-up writer in a meta picture.
She was so many things. And then they were torn apart by an award for a lousy sitcom.

I’m fine, Nick says now. And truth be told, Nick would be fine giving it up. Acting transforms people into entirely different characters. He never imagined he’d be a thirty-two year old with a short temper. A propensity for being offended by the smallest of slights.
I can’t play anything but lovable losers, he adds, laughing.
Hollywood loves losers, she says. Laughs. Nick cannot help but laugh too. He’s played a multitude of losers. Depressed bartenders, a lecherous, lovable Episcopal priest, a screenwriter with a tumor.
It’s no way to live, fighting. Being unable to simply abide, take losses, to laugh at things. Telling loved ones to fuck themselves, that they didn’t know a thing about the world. About acting. That they were selfish. Especially his sister. How those words swirl like sickly alphabet soup. How Nick wishes he could erase them all or reshape them into something teasing and funny.
Nick’s been living like this too long, unable to really let go. And it feels like being on the brink of things. The brink of some explosion, unimaginable.
Nick’s been doing small indie pictures for the past couple years, even though he’s auditioned for some major roles. He auditioned for a young Lenin but wasn’t charismatic enough. He couldn’t capture Hitler’s madness. He wasn’t hyper enough for Teddy Roosevelt. On his defects went.
Of course, he did play Czar Nicholas. But it was a sitcom. That cursed sitcom. If he’d never done that role, perhaps he wouldn’t be making this call now. If he hadn’t overreacted to Nancy’s joke about it being third-rate, they wouldn’t be here.
Truth be told, that sitcom was third-rate. It was a Romanov-centric sitcom called, Everybody Hates Nicholas, with an inappropriate laugh track and British actors playing half the population of the Russian Empire. Nick took the role because he thought playing another Nick was propitious, an omen.
Perhaps he and Nancy would still be as close as ever. Perhaps he wouldn’t live with the weight of invectives hurled at Nancy, sweet Nancy. Fuck yourself. You don’t fucking know shit.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have withdrawn into her own movie roles. So many ifs. Perhaps they would be celebrating their victories, their small roles together, still calling each other their own nicknames. Nan. Nicky. Old sport. Dumbass. Saint Nick. Nancy Drew, which Nick had used to tease his sister because she loved mystery. Perhaps they would be spending time at each other’s domiciles, like the old days when Nick and Nancy gathered in her room, when they were scared.
His past roles should be history. Things to put behind. But then again, Nancy could play Hitler in drag easily. Nick tries to banish this ember of jealousy. Still, it darts about his consciousness.
Be gone, he growls silently.
Nick describe how he was captivated by Nancy’s role, words incoherent, excited. Childish. He loved the way she played a drunk mother so well. And he was. Nick was captivated by the way she vacillated between love and manic rages, despair, and somnolence. She switched moods with the grace of an acrobat, of someone fighting in life. Nick, on the other hand, is someone accustomed to drifting, waiting for opportunities.
Nothing beats drunk mothers, Nick says.
There is silence, deep and dark. Nick fears he has offended her.
I love what I do, she says. Inhabiting characters. It’s power, you know? It’s something indescribable to inhabit another person’s head. Learn about their flaws. Learn why we fuck up.
Fucking A, Nick says. The universal trait.
Nick loves that Nancy utters the word love. But he wishes he could say it with ease, say what he wants to tell her. He loves her. He’s an asshole. A motherfucker.
Nancy asks Nick about his career. You’re not really giving it up? He laughs it off with another joke about playing losers.
Love. It’s a word he hasn’t pronounced in years, not since that damned sitcom blowup. You could do better, Nicky, she’d said. And thinking about it now, there was a tenderness, concern in that statement. Nick disregarded entirely. A concern for Nick, a desire to see him become a new man. He wonders what she wanted to see in him. Someone more confident? A facsimile of her?
The thoughts confound him. He feels sorrow, bewilderment. Rage.
Like an asshole, he’d withdrawn into shibboleths of self-pity. Nancy tried calling, texting, emailing. Nick withdrew into silence. For too long, he strove for the highest-ranking roles possible. Strove to prove something indescribable. Perhaps to prove that he could do better than a comedic Czar Nicholas, to prove he could keep up with the world, with his sister. Beloved, sweet Nancy. This makes him want to weep.
Soon enough, Nancy gave up, overwhelmed by projects. Nick wishes she’d held on. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t apologized. Maybe he wanted her to keep trying, to not give up on him, like their parents.
They’ve talked, about the weather, politics. About music, such as the Tchaikovsky waltzes Nancy loves to play and Nick’s love of Afroman. Nick hates having to be polite and distant, walking around landmines.
Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when nothing followed, his sister rising up the ladder and Nick being stuck with indie directors who wore berets and fake names like Rufus Dupree. Maybe that’s why he lashed out, a feral being, told Nancy she wouldn’t know a good sitcom if it
stalked her. That she should stick to her dramas. Kiss his ass. Maybe it was all the rawness he absorbed, spilled out.
Maybe that’s why Nancy became absorbed in the whirl of movies, a world apart from Nick.
Nick tells Nancy now people overthink things. Hold onto little things for far too long, whether glories or losses. He says it with shame, shame that he cannot reference the guilty party: Nicholas Alexander Botkin.
Nancy switches to politics. The old standby again. Nick could care less, but he ends up talking about how he likes Elizabeth Warren’s policy wonkiness. If these perfunctory conversations are all he can have, he’ll take them.
I’ve overthought so much, he says, words slipping from him like a tide. He has labeled himself for once and for all.
Another long silence. Nancy makes a joke about overthinking being a Botkin trait. Better than our parents, who didn’t think at all.
This is the first time she has mentioned their parents. Nick can imagine the hurt she must be enduring, that continues to collect within. She invested so much time encouraging him, to act, to become someone. And he has never really thanked her.
He tells Nancy now they should get together. Celebrate her victory. This is her moment and he must put aside his own envy. What’s going to happen is going to happen. He will tell her things left unsaid when they meet.
I’ll check my schedule, she says, taken aback. But he cannot help but think there’s something there, some small hint of pleasure.
I’m open, Nick says. Anytime.
Perhaps it’s the way they lived. Perhaps she’s afraid of the things she’s built up being taken.
Nick feels that way, but he’s never thought his sister was in any danger. She’s always had the better roles. Drunk mothers, female lawyers battling lecherous fedora-clad men in the 1950s. Revolutionaries. Nick doesn’t want to imagine this conflict reaching an apotheosis, the tabloids dissecting this family feud.
He doesn’t want it to transform into something dark and vast. Something like their parents’ own marriage, event. He’s frightened, watching constant fragmentation, people drifting into ego and foolishness. Like that little boy who played with Nancy years ago, except he has no one to protect him now.
Now he’s one of them.
Nancy says she has to go, not with the brusqueness of the past, but unease. A sadness.
Nick wishes her all the success in the world, hoping it will convey the truth of the matter. He wants to help. Erase their history. Rewrite things. He draws the words out, slowly. Nick hopes that he is conveying things he’s lost the ability to communicate.
Thank you, Nicky, she says, and for a moment, he thinks she knows. She knows and is grateful. He hopes that she feels some sense of ease, however small. How he hopes she thinks of them as tethered together. He needs so badly, he feels tears rise, still wishing her success, words dissolving into desperation.

Penance

By Edward Ahern


Walter Mueller waved a thick arm toward the stained-glass windows. “We’re not going to knock those out, Imre, even with what the heat loss will cost me. We’re going to back-light and strobe them so they’ll pop out at our drinkers. Sanctified eavesdroppers. Should give the clubbers guilty pleasure staring at them while they’re hooking up.”
Father Imre Herceg winced at the man standing next to him in St. Emeric church. The Connecticut parish, once full of Hungarian-Americans, was almost without members, and unable to pay its bills. But its sale to a man creating a singles bar seemed close to sacrilege.
The two men made an odd pairing. Father Herceg was gaunt and tall, with white hair, and in his black cassock looked like a lit funerary candle. Walter Mueller’s well-tailored gray suit struggled but failed to mask his portly frame. They looked like the personification of starvation dieting and binge eating.
“I’m glad the Bishop let you handle matters, Imre, you’ve been a lot easier to deal with than some of the Bishop’s gofers.”
“Thanks, I guess. You paid a large amount for a hundred-forty-year-old church in need of serious repairs. And disregarded the false rumors about the church being haunted. So long as what you do with the desanctified building is legal, we will have no objections.”
The concern in Father Herceg’s eyes was apparent. “Don’t worry, Imre, no sinning will be done here. Well, at least not consummated here. And the ghosts just add to the clubbing experience. I’m going to have the wait staff in pale makeup, like vampires.
Imre Herceg shifted topics. “The religious items—altar, tabernacle, statues will be out by the end of next week. You do still want the pews and organ?”
“Hell yes. We’re going to step the pews two high along the side and front walls. Pad the seats with suggestive cushioning, bolt down some little bitty cocktail tables and let ‘er rip. Figure to use the organ as background music for the wet tee shirt contests.”
The priest kept silent. He’d been given the failing parish as the last gasp of a forty-year career. Imre had wondered at his ordination if he might become a prince of the church, bishop perhaps, or archbishop. But between a weakness for the bottle and an unwillingness to be unctuous, he’d remained a journeyman priest.
After showing Mueller out through the sacristy door, Father Herceg left the church lights on and slowly paced down the central aisle to the rear of the church. The winter dark made the empty church seem dim, as if the season were fighting against the lights. As he walked, the priest once again thought he felt the brush contact of others, like commuters ignoring him in their passage. Just drafts, he reminded himself, or the misfiring senses of old age.
The Diocese had ruled that confessions must be scheduled weekly, so St. Emeric held them every Saturday evening from five to six, whether or not anyone showed up to repent. As he
reached the confessional, Father Herceg extracted his breviary from a pocket in his cassock and opened the middle door. His flock strongly disliked sitting face to face with their confessor, so the carved oak confessional with kneelers and screens was still in use.
Imre picked up his silk stole from the shelf and placed it over his head so the ends draped down to his waist. Then he sat on the cushion he’d left on the chair and opened the breviary. He’d already read the daily selection, but had the strong feeling that God liked repetition in prayer and started over.
“Páter Herceg.”
Imre started and dropped his prayer book. He hadn’t heard anyone enter, and the confessional doors always creaked.
The man spoke in Hungarian, his voice wavering as if it were windblown. “Páter, I need to confess to you before I can leave.”
Imre said his pre-confession prayer to himself. “Of course, my son, please begin.”
“Bless me Páter, for I have sinned. It has been a hundred twenty years since my last confession— “
“Wait, a hundred twenty years?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“I don’t recognize your voice, but you sound much too old to be playing a prank like this. If you’re not here for confession, please leave.”
“Páter, this is very hard for me to accomplish, so please listen closely. My name was Halasz István, and I was a parishioner here at St. Emeric.”
Father Herceg had leaned closer to the latticework separating the two men, but the penitent’s side of the confessional was very dimly lit, and all he could see was a vague, gray shape.
“Mr. Halasz, you’re not making any sense, and if you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to call 911.”
Halasz’ sigh sounded like a slow leak from an air mattress. “The police could never find me. Please, Páter, I’d rather not demonstrate. Many of us were left here without choice after our funerals. But with the church closing we must find a way to leave. We hope if you confess us we can go.”
Father Herceg found his voice and took out his flip phone. “I warned you. Not get out, before the police come.”
He pushed the three numbers, but before he could hit send, his hands went numb with bitter cold, the fingers frozen in claw shapes.
“Please, Páter, we are desperate for your help. We live here with you, and know you to be a good man, despite your watching those cable television shows and drinking too much vodka.
Father Herceg began shaking his hands to try and get back feeling. The phone popped out and bounced off the side wall of the confessional. He jumped up and grabbed the handle of the confessional door and tried to turn it. But the handle, like his right hand, was frozen.
“Holy Mary, protect me,” he yelled. Imre slammed into the confessional door twice before it splintered off its hinges and hung sideways. As Imre ran out, the hissing voice resumed. “You should have more faith, Father. Now we must demonstrate.”
The priest ran awkwardly toward the front of the church, out of breath by the time he reached the altar. As he did so, he watched the flower-filled vases around the altar tip over one by one, spilling water onto the floor. The ciboriums inside the tabernacle began rattling together, and the water in the baptismal font began slopping over. A stray thought broke through his panic—that the vases and the flower stems weren’t being broken, nor was the font. It was careful mayhem.
The telephone land line was already disconnected, and his cell phone, if it still worked, was in the confessional. I am, however fallibly, a minister of God, he thought, and will stand within my faith. If this is demonic, I must face it. I will not abandon this church while I tend to it.
Father Herceg’s hands had thawed, and he took out his rosary and walked back down the main aisle to the confessional. He grabbed the penitent’s door and threw it open. The air inside seemed hazy, but there was nothing else in it. He stepped into the center cabin to retrieve his breviary and phone. The abused phone was dead. As he sat in his chair, punching phone buttons, the voice resumed.
“Páter. We are asking for a sacrament you are ordained to give. What evil can there be?”
Imre shuddered. “Mr. Halasz, was it? If you are a Catholic, you will know that the church’s sacraments are for the living and not the dead.”
Am I in an alcoholic delirium? Some aftershock from a stroke? “What you ask is impossible.”
“Our baptisms are listed in the church records. And our other sacraments and funerals. We’re part of your flock, Páter. I can give you our names and birthdates.”
This delirium will pass. Find a witness who will prove this apparition false.
“Look, whoever you are, it’s a cruel, clever trick. I’m going to the Vilmos house next door and call the police. You’d be wise to run away before they come.”
“Vilmos is my great grandson. Please give him my blessing.”
The priest jumped up, stepped out of the confessional, turned around, and flung open Halasz’s confessional door. And again, nothing was there but a faint shimmer. He walked unsteadily out the rear door of the church and over to the Vilmos house.
Father Herceg watched Vilmos’ shocked expression as the priest telephoned the police and described the incident. “It was a, an attempted shakedown I guess, from a man hiding in the confessional.”
“There’s a patrol car on the way, Father. Please stay at the Vilmos house until it arrives.”
As the policeman was speaking, Imre could hear a siren getting louder. After the police arrived, they searched the entire church and the rectory, found nothing, and took Imre’s statement.
“The man wasn’t a thief,” Imre said, “but he’s seriously disturbed.”
“And you didn’t see him when he knocked all that stuff over?”
“No, officer. I know it sounds crazy, but I couldn’t see anyone.
“Yeah, crazy. Well father, do you want to move out of the rectory tonight?”
“Thank you, officer, no. You’ve searched the church, and I’m sure he’s long gone.”
Once the patrol car had left, Vilmos insisted on walking back into the church with Imre, and helping him clean up the spills. As he was removing the splintered door from the confessional, Vilmos jumped backward.
“What is it?”
“I thought I felt something tousling my hair. Just nerves I guess.” Vilmos’ smile was forced. “Or maybe our famous ghosts.”
“Nincsenek kisértetek itt! There are no ghosts here.”
“As you say, father, but some of us are superstitious.”
Imre thanked Vilmos, locked up the church, and walked across the driveway to the rectory. Let it go, old man. You’re not leaving this church, this church is leaving you. You’ll probably go to a nice inner-city parish where everyone speaks Spanish.
He poured himself three fingers of vodka, added ice, and dropped into his recliner, the only piece of furniture in the house that wasn’t convent-Spartan. Imre launched a recorded episode of a mature-rated cable show and let the vodka work its magic. He paused the show twenty minutes later, got up and dropped fresh ice into his glass.
How did Halasz know how much I drank? He started to pour, glanced around, and stopped at two finger depth. I could get an exorcist. But no, they’d never agree to an exorcist for a church that will be profane in a few weeks.


***

The next morning, before mass, Imre reentered the church and searched through all three confessional cubicles for microphones or wires, but found nothing. He stood outside the oak doors and spoke aloud, his voice echoing in the empty church.
“Infernal or ghostly, if you’re here, show yourself, and I’ll show you what an ordained priest can do with the Roman ritual!”
It’d sounded stupid as soon as he said it, and his bravado died away unanswered. Yeah, sure.
After mass, Imre walked back over to the rectory. The death of a church involved about as much paperwork as its birth. Imre got busy officially notifying present and former parishioners of the closure, and suggesting alternate parishes that could minister to spiritual needs and would be grateful for donations, however small. The work extended, with a break for a sandwich lunch, until five that evening. It was again dark, and Imre paced slowly back over to the church. After letting himself in he walked to the front of the altar and looked up at the massive Crucifix.
How many marriages, and baptisms, and holy communions, and funerals. And this wonderful, old, dilapidated house of God is being discarded like yesterday’s vegetables.
“Páter,” the voice wheezed. “Páter, I’m afraid I must insist.”
Imre jumped and spun around, looking for its source. But the church was empty. “So, you don’t need a confessional to speak.”
“No, but dark spaces make it easier. You need to confess us, Páter.”
“Why don’t you all show up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll invite the bishop.” Imre realized that he was being sarcastic because he was afraid.
“The light disrupts us, Páter, in a painful way I can’t describe to you. You will need to confess us in the evening, after dark. We were not sophisticated, and you will find our sins commonplace.”
“How many of you do you claim there are?”
“Twenty-seven, counting myself. If you use our years alive, there’s one boy of ten, and the rest of us range from our twenties through our eighties. Sixteen women, ten men. We’re not evil, Páter, it would be like confessing the Holy Name Society.”
Imre sat down in a front pew for almost ten minutes thinking. Then, without standing, he began to speak toward the altar.
“This is a moment when I wish I were trained in logic like a Jesuit. I am probably delusional, in which case what I do will be without moral consequence. And if I, in good faith, administer the Sacrament of Reconciliation, there should be no evil, perhaps only impropriety. But if you, my mental aberration, do not truly repent, the sacrament is null and your sins will remain with you. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Páter.” The voice seemed a chorus of softly whistling words.
Imre was silent again for a few minutes. “And these confessions would involve penances.”
“Of course, Páter.”
“Are all these ’parishioners’ here?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“Then let’s begin. With you. It will probably take a few hours.”
As Imre walked back to the confessional, his thoughts churned. Is what I’m about to do a sin of itself? If they’re not released, will they haunt me instead of my church? Just walk out the back door, priest, and don’t come back.
But Imre knew he couldn’t desert. At the rear of the church he entered the confessional, donned his stole, said the usual prayer, and slid open the panel that allowed him to hear a penitent.
“Yes, my son.”
“Forgive me, Páter, for I have sinned, it has been a hundred and twenty years since my last confession.”
“Go on……”
Their sins, as Halasz had said, were mundane. Carnality of course, and theft, greed and gluttony, all the seven deadly sins were well represented. But no murder, no acts so vile that Imre shuddered. All had died before the advent of porn sites or shaming on Twitter, which was refreshing. The boy, Gáspár, made Imre heartsick. He’d died at ten of pneumonia, before he’d had a chance to become good or evil. His confession could have been Imre’s at the same age. The boy did not deserve to serve penance, and Imre absolved him with an extra blessing.
By the third confession, Imre found himself asking their names, and where they had lived, and who among their descendants might still live near the church. He felt he was attending 
a parish reunion spanning more than a century, and was sorry to end the last confession a little before eleven that night.
Cretin, you’re just pandering to a delusion in hopes it’ll dissipate. May God forgive me for what I’ve just done.
As Imre stepped out of the confessional he thought he felt hands gently patting his back
“Thank God for you, Páter!”
“Halasz?”
“Yes, and everyone else. Gáspár has left us. When he came out of confession he had a smile that would melt gold, and then, no words, he just left. You’ve given us hope, Páter.”
“There’s more for you to do, Halasz.”
“Yes, Páter.”
***
Father Herceg handed over the church keys and moved out of the rectory two-and-a-half weeks later, at eight in the morning. Mueller had crews waiting to rip out the pews and rearrange them. As he left, Imre could hear the rusty screams of bolts yanked from concrete.
Priests never really retire, just work part time. Imre found himself housed in the rectory of a placid suburban parish, Assumption, where ethnicity had lost relevance. His new parishioners thought his being Hungarian exactly as significant as his being a Capricorn.
He read two months later that his old church, newly christened as The Sacred Sinners, had opened with a capacity crowd. Curious, Imre drove by the next Saturday night. The large
church parking lot, nearly empty for Sunday masses, was full, and a long line of young men and women stood outside the rear doors waiting admittance. The emblem of the club, a heavily made-up angel wearing a low-cut celestial robe, hung above the doors.
Thousand one…, thousand two…, Imre thought. Patience. Let’s wait and see.
The wait took three more weeks. As he was celebrating a 10:30 Sunday mass, he noticed a large florid blob in the congregation. It was Mueller, who trapped him after mass was over.
“Father, you gotta perform an exorcism.”
“Mr. Mueller, nice to see you too. What’s this about an exorcism?”
Mueller waved his arms, and Imre noticed sweat rings that had seeped through the suiting. “The club, ah, church. It’s possessed. People are afraid of it.”
“Please, Mr. Mueller, let’s just sit in this pew.” Imre hitched up his vestments so he could sit more comfortably and turned to listen.
“My club is ruined. People come in, they don’t even finish their second drink, they turn all pale or flushed and almost run out. They claim something’s whispering in their ears, threatening them with damnation if they sin. Word spread, nobody even comes anymore. That damned church is costing me a fortune. I gotta have an exorcism.”
“That’s something you should talk to the diocese about. I’m sure the bishop would listen closely to your complaint.”
“That son of a bitch! He told me there was no such thing as ghosts, and that I’d bought the church as is, problems and all. But you could do it for me. You know the church is haunted.”
Imre nodded in apparent sympathy, but inwardly asked God to forgive him for the almost lie he was about to utter.
“I’m afraid I’ve never seen a ghost, inside or outside of Saint Emeric. Maybe there’s something in the ventilation?”
“No, no, Goddamit! I know fear, and these wanna-be players are scared shitless.”
“Language, please, Mr. Mueller. I’m not authorized to perform an exorcism, but I could visit your club, could even bless it if you like.”
“When, Father? I’m hurting bad.”
“Well, I’m tied up this week with masses and visits to hospitals, but I could stop by… perhaps a week from tomorrow?
“You’re killing me, Father. Look, I’ll pay you to come by later today. We’ll call it a donation.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but no, thank you. A week from tomorrow?” Which should be enough time for you to slow cook properly.
“Oh, hell, all right.”


***

Father Imre arrived at four in the afternoon. Even in daylight the interior of the ex-church was garish, with nightmarish pink and purple lighting strips festooning the walls. A long bar with
perhaps twenty stools had replaced the altar, and shelves of liquor bottles took the place of the tabernacle.
“It’s quite a change, Mr. Mueller, but I don’t see anything supernatural.”
Mueller frowned. “Nah, nothing’s happened during the day, but then there’s nobody here but the cleaning crew. And it didn’t attack the staff. Can I get you something? A drink?”
“A healthy Gray Goose would be nice.”
After a sip Imre continued.
“I’ve had a chance to talk to some of my parishioners about your place, Mr. Mueller. It seems that its reputation is terrible. I don’t know how you’ll recover. You have my sympathies.”
“That’s not what I need, Father. If you bless this place, will the demons go away and leave me alone?”
“I’ve never seen real proof of any ghosts, Mr. Mueller. Any blessing is spiritually valuable, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much use against something imaginary.”
“So, what the hell am I going to do?”
“I wonder. You have several other businesses I believe, all profitable?”
“Yeah, they’re good money makers.”
“How would it be if you were to take a tax loss on the club by selling it off cheaply and offset the loss against the profits from your other businesses?”
“You sons-a-bitches! You think you’re going to hustle me? I’ll burn this place down first and claim the insurance.”
“No, no, Mr. Mueller, you misunderstand. We don’t want the church back. Just think for a second. Depending on how you declare the value of the church and the costs of improvements, you might actually make money selling the building. I can think of several congregations that might be interested.”
Mueller remained silent during an internal calculation. “I don’t know how, but you’ve screwed me Father. I’ll think about it.”


***
​
At Mueller’s invitation, Father Imre returned to the church about a month later, shortly after dark, and walked up to the bar.
“You know what I’ve done, Father?”
“Yes, Mr. Mueller, it’s been on the news.”
“I still think you and the bishop diddled me, but I sold it like you said. I’m a little ahead of the game. And I could move the appliances and lighting to another church that hasn’t got any spooks. Would you consider acting as a consultant for me, help me get through all your holy red tape?”
Imre smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Mueller, but I can’t. Good luck though, maybe the next church will be your conversion.”
“Yeah. No hard feelings. I left you a little something on the bar. Goodbye, Father.”
Mueller let himself out the sacristy door while Imre looked out over the dance floor, trying to visualize people kneeling in pews. When he was sure that Mueller had left, he called out. “Mr. Halasz?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“Is everybody here?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“You’ve succeeded. The club has been shut down, and a Pentecostal group, Joseph’s Many Colored Coat, will be moving in. You have performed your penances well. When you whispered in the ears of those clubbers, you acted as their consciences. I believe your penance is fulfilled, and pray that you can move on. The lord be with you.”
They answered with a sibilant group “And also with you.” Halasz spoke a last time. “We’re leaving, Father, the oldest ones first. Köszönöm!”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye, my little flock.”
Imre reflexively turned to face the absent crucifix and noticed a bottle of Gray Goose vodka and a glass on the bar. Just one, he thought, for missing members.

Lady-in-Waiting
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


Gail was a fetching brunette with sad, mahogany eyes and long black lashes fluttering
like a spider’s legs when she was excited, both positively and negatively. I first noticed this
when she was denied her winning run, scored during a recess softball game in third grade.
There were twenty kids in Miss Malatesta’s class. This was the early ’50s when no one
had yet conceived of using “Ms.” and you were either married or not. There were twelve girls
and eight boys in our class of which I was one. In the interest of balance and a presumption
of fairness, our teacher made up two teams of six girls and four boys on each. With her vast
knowledge of human anatomy and the natural order of the universe, Miss Malatesta put the
tallest boy on each team in center field to provide leadership to the left fielder, right fielder,
and short fielder, who made the tenth player on each team on the field. She must have figured
the tallest boy on each team would probably be able to outrun and catch a fly ball better than
any of the three girls in the outfield, awkwardly ambling around him. If a line drive got past
the boy in center, only his strong arm could prevent the hit from turning into a home run.
She put one boy at shortstop, and on the mound to pitch for each team. She must
have figured the pitcher had to be a boy with a faster underarm toss to home plate than
any of the nine-year-old girls could muster. She put the tallest girl from each team at first
base, because girls are graceful and can leap high enough or stretch doing the split to catch
any poorly thrown ball from one of the infield girls for the out. A boy at shortstop would
handle anything hit between second and third base. With a skilled boy in that key position,
any ground ball to short would be an out.
She certainly wouldn’t have one of her young ladies squatting behind home plate
where the boy pitcher could see her panties from the pitcher’s mound, so the fourth boy
was catcher. She’d arranged the two teams with such precision that during the first thirty
minutes the score was tied at 5-5 with almost all of the runs by both teams scored and
batted in by boys. The exception was a line-drive double between the short fielder and
left fielder. The ball got past Tommy, the fleet-footed center fielder with a strong arm to
keep Gail from getting farther than second base. Leading off second base, her eye lashes
fluttered visibly, even from where I played first base on her opposing team.
With just five minutes to go at recess, Miss Malatesta said there would be time
for only one more batter before we would have to leave the warm April outdoors buzzing
with bees in the clover-clustered outfield and return to our stuffy classroom. Miss Malatesta
was especially fond of Pete, the pitcher on my team. When Gail dared to steal third base in
the middle of Pete’s whirling wind-up, I heard Miss Malatesta gasp. Even farther away now
at third base, Gail’s eyelashes fluttering with pride were visible to me at first base.
“This is a friendly sport,” Miss Malatesta proclaimed. “No stealing allowed. Go back
to second base.” When Gail shrugged in protest and her eyelashes fluttered more erratically
in anger, with a red face, Miss Malatesta shouted, “This instant!”
From the mound, Pete smirked at Gail cursing under her breath as she returned to
second base muttering and kicking dirt all the way.
“What was that, young lady!” our teacher demanded.
“I said, ‘stealing in softball is allowed!’”
“Not in this game. I make the rules,” Miss Malatesta said with authority. “No stealing!”
I liked Gail’s spunk. I’d kissed her playing spin-the-bottle at my birthday party when I
turned nine. She’d kept those big brown eyes wide open when I kissed her and she tasted like
Juicy Fruit gum. When she blinked her eyes, her eyelashes fluttered against mine like butterflies
trapped in a jar.
Gail wasn’t popular like some of the other girls in my class, mostly because the other
kids thought she was a tomboy. She had a horse that she kept in a barn, and liked to ride her
horse and play sports just as hard as the boys. That may have been the first time I felt some-
thing different about a girl as someone I didn’t just talk about but wanted to talk to. I found
Gail interesting.
When Nicky, the center fielder on her team hit the ball way over Tommy’s head in
center field, Gail rounded third and scrambled home for the winning run. If my team had to
lose, I was glad it was because of Gail’s running home to score. She was great to watch in
full sprint with her skirt swishing around her muscular thighs and her long black hair like
the trail of a jet behind her lithe gallop. But Miss Malatesta had blown her whistle at the
same time Gail crossed home plate.
“Tie game!” she shouted to the class. “My whistle ends the game five to five. Back
to class everyone. Come on, line-up single file.”
I wanted to tell Gail how great she’d played, that she was a winner, but she was
fuming too much for me to approach her. Our pitcher, Pete, grinned at Miss Malatesta
with cocky assuredness. Like, Gail, I felt the game had been fixed.
My girlfriend in third grade was Leslie. I was neither the best looking nor most
athletic boy in my class. At four-foot-five, I was three inches shorter than Leslie. What
had attracted me to Leslie more than her gazelle-like qualities and shimmering blue eyes
was her mother, whom she took after. Mrs. Chase reminded me of Phyllis, the lead singer
of The McGuire Sisters on the Arthur Godfrey Show. Mrs. Chase was only twenty-seven
years old and married to a balding, entrepreneur, a pioneer in the field of plastics. She
was his trophy wife before her husband even got his first patent.
Perhaps his greatest plastic production came in the form of Leslie, a Stepford
adolescent who liked to touch and be touched, but her kisses were like a trip to the
dentist, tough on the jaw. Even when she showed me the lace frills on her new panties
with the days of the week embroidered on them, I thought more about the taste of Juicy
Fruit gum and long, fluttering black eyelashes that probably would never need mascara.
I kissed Leslie often, but liked Gail better for her yearning to be skilled at something
—anything she could be the best at.
A kind of rivalry developed between Leslie and Gail in third grade, with Leslie
lining up her clique to mock Gail at every opportunity. Gail ignored the taunts, even when
Miss Malatesta organized “Bring Mom to Breakfast” whereby the class prepared breakfast
from scratch in the classroom. We churned butter, baked biscuits, and fried eggs after
squeezing oranges for fresh juice. Coffee and tea pots steamed on the counter as well.
Gail’s mother had to work and couldn’t attend, but Gail brought a note of apology
to Miss Malatesta. Leslie’s Mom showed up in tight pink peddle-pushers, called “toreador
pants” in Sears & Roebuck catalogues. Her bright red top showed freckled cleavage as she
batted her shimmering blue eyes. I served Mrs. Chase a cup of coffee with cream and sugar,
but her Lily of the Valley scent permeated the Colombian bean aroma.
The first half-dozen biscuits came out of the toaster oven and Mrs. Chase began
to spread the soft, sweet butter on the biscuit she’d cut in half. The steamy center quickly
melted the butter and Mrs. Chase rolled her baby blues with delight and a clockwise
motion of the tip of her pink tongue around her full red lips.
“Scrumptious,” she proclaimed.
“Leslie made them for you,” Miss Malatesta said with a smile and nod to Leslie.
But Gail turned from the toaster oven with a pout. “Leslie just stirred the batter.
It’s my mom’s recipe.”
Miss Malatesta shook her head with a frown. “I watched Leslie add the ingredients.
Your mother isn’t even here, so at least she won’t be embarrassed by such a false claim.”
“Her recipe is on the back of the note I gave you this morning,” Gail said.
“I threw that note away, obviously a forgery . . . Won’t you have some eggs?” Miss
Malatesta asked Mrs. Chase, escorting her toward the frying pan and mumbling something
under her breath, surely about Gail’s claim.
Gail saw me watching her and said aside to me, “She makes me want to scream and
throw things.”
“You’ll only get in trouble,” I cautioned her.
“I’m already in trouble without even doing anything, so what does it matter?”
I thought about her logic, but hesitated to agree, because I didn’t want to be a catalyst
to greater trouble for Gail.


* * *


Fire Prevention Week was a big deal in grammar school in the ’50s. A volunteer fireman
in town dressed up like Smokey Bear. In a poster contests one poster from each grade level was
chosen with a prize for the winner. In order to prevent favoritism and have the Crayola posters
fairly judged, each teacher from grades K through 8 assigned a number to be put on the back
of each poster rather than the student’s name. The teacher kept the list of what number went
with which name for when the winners were chosen.
I was among the top artists in my class and was chosen with Joe Minarick, the smartest
boy in school, to paint a mural of dinosaurs. Our artwork was rendered with a volcano erupting
in the background and was displayed in the school lobby outside Principal Risser’s office. Many
girls in my class had a delicate, artistic touch to render realistic, colorful images with crayons.
I decided to put Smokey Bear in my poster, not just because I was good at drawing
figures and animals, but I hoped for an edge from Smokey himself if he judged my poster.
From where I sat at my desk sketching the outline for Smokey with a pencil, I could see over
Gail’s left shoulder where she was drawing a deer family fleeing gracefully from flames
raging through a forest. I was impressed, but Gail’s images made me try even harder to
make Smokey as realistic as a talking bear dressed like a forest ranger could be.
All of the completed posters were brought to Miss Malatesta and placed face-down
on her desk. She noted each artist, told the students what number to write on the back of
their posters, then she recorded the names in a log next to that number for when the winning
number was chosen.
On the big day when the presentation of the winning posters from each grade were
displayed on stage in the assembly hall, I was happy to see Gail’s poster on an easel with a
blue ribbon for first place. I saw that Gail was in the row in front of me with a broad smile
waiting for Principal Risser’s announcement of the winning students. He started with
kindergarten and used a yard-long pointer with a sharp rubber tip to draw attention to
each winning poster.
When he came to third grade, the principal said: “The blue ribbon for third-grade
goes to . . . Leslie Chase!”
When the students applauded, the noise was too loud for anyone to hear Gail’s
expletive reaction, but even in profile, I could read her lips: “What the hell! That’s my
poster!”
When Leslie came on stage to shake the principal’s hand, Gail stood up and
shouted: “That’s my poster, not hers!”
The teachers, students, and parents who’d been invited to see the winners presented
in assembly were collectively aghast, but I felt like standing up in support of Gail’s claim,
which was the truth seen with my own eyes.
According to the third-grade log of students, Leslie’s name was listed as number “18.”
Since Gail’s mother hadn’t been called to attend, she wasn’t present to comfort Gail
in her outrage, and since the posters were drawn in school rather than at home, her mother
could not attest to Gail’s being the artist of the winning poster. It seemed that I was the only
classmate who’d paid much attention to what Gail had rendered on her poster, the graceful
deer running in panic from the flames of a forest fire. The competition for the blue ribbon
was staunch, and most nine-year-olds were too self-absorbed to care about anyone else’s
creation but their own. I proved to be the exception to the rule.
Principal Risser nodded to Miss Malatesta to escort Gail from assembly hall to end
any further disturbance of the ceremony.
I heard Miss Malatesta say softly to Principal Risser, “Children often lie for attention,
but records don’t lie.”
Gail was crying as she left and her eyelashes were droopy as she rubbed her red eyes.
The last time I saw Gail was after school going home on the bus, and I sat beside
her and put my hand on top of hers. She flinched at first then turned to see my empathetic
expression of sadness. I was taken aback when I saw that the left side of her face was red.
Upon closer look, the rosy blotches seemed to form the pattern of a hand. When she blinked,
tears dripped down her cheeks.
I rubbed the top of her hand and said softly: “I believe you . . . you can draw deer
as beautifully as you draw horses. I never saw Leslie’s poster, only yours. You won.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a shrug. “We’re moving next week. My dad
got a job in Connecticut.”


* * *


Later that year Leslie’s dad moved his small plastics company from Paterson,
New Jersey to Philadelphia, and I never saw Leslie again. I didn’t see Gail again until
my 50th High School Reunion. With everyone reaching age seventy and many having
passed away, the attendance was expected to be sparse. The Reunion Committee asked
the alumni to make an effort to search for missing students from our town going back
to primary school. The internet helped find people from our class who’d moved away
before ever making it to high school.
Although I’d have never recognized Gail Morris in a crowd after so many years,
she came up to me with a broad smile, took my hand in hers, and patted the top of my
liver-spotted hand.
“You probably have no idea who I am,” she said. “But I’d know you anywhere,
even with your white beard.”
I was about to admit that I was stumped until she turned her head to say hello
to another alumnus among several elderly ladies waiting to be greeted by the Reunion
Committee. In the harsh overhead light of the high school gym where we held our
reunion, despite her wrinkles, Gail’s eyelashes still fluttered as no others I’d ever seen.
She appeared very confident and sure of herself as she handed me her card with an
invitation to attend her art gallery in Manhattan’s SoHo district.
I was glad that early negativity in her life had probably made her even more
determined to succeed. She’d been a lady-in-waiting to find happiness in who she is.
“Horses?” I asked.
“Mostly,” she said, “but one with some deer painted from memory.”
We laughed, wondering what had ever become of the other third graders
on our teams that day she’d stolen third base and scored the winning run just as
the bell clanged to end our recess.
I went to the gallery to see Gail’s art exhibit and saw that the one painting
among all the horse paintings was a watercolor, but it seemed to match every stroke
of the winning Crayola poster rendered so long ago.
When Gail came up behind me as I observed the deer fleeing in the forest
fire, I said, “I believed you back then.”
“I know, “she said, taking my hand in hers with a squeeze. “You can only
steal someone’s ideas, but never their vision.”
Though I regretted not knowing the details of her life from the day Gail moved
away from my hometown till today, as a writer I imagined a novel about that transition
of her life. But like so many of our lives, the best author is the one who lived it, felt the
pain and joy along the way.

ALL FOR NAUGHT


by Madeline McEwen


Brenda Brimstone, the fire-eater’s assistant, almost swooned when she first saw the new magician, and I thought to myself, right then and there, well this won’t end well, but nobody listened to me.
I was the cleaner, and sometimes helped out checking coats when they were short staffed. Had done for over fifty years. Should have retired, but I couldn’t get enough of the place. They’re like family, those theater people, more than that because I never knew what a real family was all about until I ended up at the Crescent Theater. But I’m not going to talk about me. I wanted to tell you about him, that Brian Naught, the new magician, who put Brenda in a spin.
I could see why. Everybody could. He looked like a movie star standing on those boards that I’d spent the whole morning scrubbing. He had presence, and you don’t see that too often. Who knew where Mrs. Moon, the theater director, found him, but she was never wrong. This one was a star and destined to shine. Wouldn’t mind giving him a polish myself.
That said, he needed a new name, a stage name. Who ever heard of a magician called
Brian? Doesn’t inspire. Doesn’t conjure up the right image. Doesn’t hit the mark on the billboard posters.
Can’t remember when we last had a great sorcerer unless you count that illusionist, and personally, I didn’t. Too arty for me. I preferred something meaty, and you don’t get much more meaty than slicing a body in half. Now that’s my kind of magic. I’d volunteer to be the sacrificial victim if Brian twanged his saw blade at me. But, they’d want someone younger, prettier and most of all, vulnerable. Gone were the days when I’d caught a man’s eye, but there were other compensations to old age.
Since nobody noticed me anymore, I had the chance to spy them, to observe all those tiny clues when they thought nobody was watching. I don’t mean a quick snort of snuff or a sniff of something stronger, but their tells—that’s poker player speak—the secrets that betrayed them. Like a flash of a smile that faded too fast, or a smile on the lips which didn’t reach the eyes, or matching their promotional headshot photos in a fraction of a second if a camera happened to flash in their direction.
And when I looked at Brian, I saw it straight away—damaged goods. However, I wasn’t one to judge. From where I stood we all had that same hallmark. Even Brenda, moving past the middle-aged years hadn’t wrestled her demons into submission. Was that what Mrs. Moon saw too? Was that how she singled out each of us? But I never saw it coming, although the clues were there to see.
Brenda wasn’t the only one in a tizzy over Brian, even when he emerged from Madame Morte’s private office with his new name.
“What’s it going to be?” I asked as he swept past me in the wide corridor with a bevy of tall chattering girls around him. He stopped dead in his tracks searching for the owner of the craggy voice—me. I hadn’t spoken to him before directly. I’m short too. We met eye-to-eye.
He leaned back, chin high, arms out in a theatrical gesture, “Mungo the Magnificent.”
The girls effervesced with enthusiasm. I kept my own counsel. Why burst his bubble? Then again, what did I know about the business? If it had Madame Morte’s approval, who was I to say otherwise?
Brian, or rather, Mungo, had more props than any of the other performers. A huge collection of who-knows-what arrived at the back entrance on numerous old wooden pallets. Harry had the unhappy task of hauling everything inside. Harry’s been here a while. He used to be a performer—Soltan the Strong Man—but shelved his weights and hung up his dumbbells. These days he puts those muscles to more practical tasks, mostly working on the sets, scenery, and wires, but he turned his hands to anything that needing human-sourced horsepower.
A couple of weeks later, I was busy down in the orchestra pit—more pit, less orchestral—mopping the floor during the early shift rehearsals—if early is mid-afternoon—when I caught a glimpse of the first act in what turned out to be a three-part tragedy.

#
​
This was opening night for Mungo now he had perfected his new act. The majority of the performers, apart from a few stragglers, sprawled in the stalls awaiting their cues. Some played cards, others gossiped, but they had a perfect view of the stage, nothing they’d not seen before. They bided their time waiting for the chance to see Mungo. Nobody was interested in the fire-eaters performance and certainly not Brenda, who if truth be told, had seen better days.
Brenda, in full sequined regalia and feathered head-dress, glided across the stage with a long lit taper in each hand toward Bernie Flame, the fire-eater. Brenda had messed up her timings on each of the prior tricks, so Bernie was not in the best humor. Brenda, I’m sure, had many talents. However, I wouldn’t trust her to light a cigarette let alone ignite a three-foot torch balanced on someone’s head, somebody else’s head, not her own.
To be fair to Brenda, I couldn’t account for the water spill on the stage but it was nothing to do with me. Me, my mop, and my bucket were all five-foot lower than the stage. I wasn’t packing a water pistol, and even if I had, my aim wasn’t so good. The water wasn’t there during the previous tricks, so how did it get there? Yes, Harry was up on the ropes fixing the crankshaft, but he didn’t have water up there with him. Besides, Harry was a neat-nick—a place for everything and everything in its place. But those were questions, and accusations, for later. Besides, Harry took the blame for most mishaps. I’d never known him to defend himself,
no matter how great or minor the misdemeanor.
Didn’t make any difference when Brenda fell flat on her face. The tapers to skittered and scattered across the wooden boards. Now if I’d skidded on a puddle, I’d have made darned sure those tapers hit the puddle too, but Brenda, she wasn’t lucky like that.
Bernie glowered at Brenda, his new assistant. Up until that week, she had been the knife thrower-cum-chainsaw juggler’s assistant. Texas Ted had taken early retirement on account of carpel tunnel syndrome. With him, Brenda only had to look beautiful and stay as still as an icicle tied to a tree trunk while Texas whirled those chainsaws and gouged off chunks of wood the size of house bricks. One way or another, you had to give to woman credit. Few people had the nerve to cope with that kind of threat.
Tear stained, snotty nosed, and dress torn, Brenda didn’t seem a good match for Bernie. They had a few more hours to practice until we opened the doors to the public. I figured they’d work it out. A few stitches here and there from, Sari, the seamstress, and all would be well and good.
I felt a little sorry for Brenda since it was her birthday. I’d chipped in to buy her that lavender—supposed to be calming—bath pampering set. Maybe that contributed to her slippery end sliding across the stage, poor thing.
However, I never guessed that when the curtains rose that night, the audience would be greeted with a sight far more gruesome than that little mishap.

#
​
Before the next act took to the stage to practice, yours truly was summoned from the pit to clean up the spill. A wet stage is akin to a death-trap, so I was up there quicker than ninepence, despite my arthritis. I got to my knees, head down to the task while vicious barbs of spite flew back and forth between the players. No pushing or shoving, nothing physical, but all the same, the atmosphere was toxic.
What? Did you think everything was fluffy and friendly around here? Hell no, this was family and that meant fights. And talking of toxic, so was that spill. I immediately recognized it as 3-in-one, the viscous oil with that unmistakable smell. I glanced up hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry, but no one was up there with the pivot mechanism for the revolving scenery. Still, an oil spill was an easy enough mistake to make. How was Harry to know they’d be using the stage, and even if he did know, one little squirt wasn’t fatal? The show must go on, and the screens won’t spin if the system’s rusted up.

#

Later that day, I happened to be in the green room freshening up the refreshments and freshening my own parched throat with a quick sip of that new seltzer that’s all the rage, when I came across Harry. Now let’s be clear about one thing first. Although I shouldn’t have been in the green room except as my duties commanded, neither should Harry. That room was strictly for the performers.
“Hey Harry,” I said, cheerily enough because we were both in the wrong place at the wrong time. He sat on the velvet couch twiddling one of the gold colored tassels. I’ve done that myself. There’s nothing like twiddling something tactile to calm me down. Next to him, an open
packet of salmon sandwiches—boy, did they stink—lay abandoned. Obviously, Brenda’s fish-only diet wasn’t panning out. Don’t know why? She ate less than any of the dancers, and they lived off fresh air and a hint of lemon spritzer. I hadn’t noticed Brenda packing on the pounds, but the woman was determined to transform herself into little more than a sprat. I told her not to stand in the way of the inevitable middle-aged spread, but she mowed me down as a defeatist.
Harry wore a hang-dog expression, mighty shoulders slumped, chin on his massive chest, tree-trunk arms as limp as spaghetti. The smell of Brut cologne permeated the room. Harry needed an update. Although, I noticed he’s smartened his appearance; gone were the ratty T-shirts. Instead, he wore a striped red and white shirt reminiscent of his stage costume from yesteryear. If I weren’t mistaken, he’d spruced up his mustachios too, blackened and smoothed to a waxen gleam.
I was going to ask about the oil, but something about him made me stop. Harry could be remote, often remaining silent for days like a taciturn mute. Mrs. Moon never referred to whatever it was that caused his trauma. Our secrets were safe with her.
“You’re a woman, Mildred,” Harry said, looking at me questioningly.
“That’s true.” What else was I supposed to say?
“When a girl says she loves you, what does that really mean?”
I stuck out my bottom lip to indicate that I was giving this question serious thought. His watery eyes told me he set great store on what I was about to say. I didn’t want to get it wrong.
“Usually,” I said with as much authority as I could muster, “it means a girl wants to spend time with you, that is, you over and above other people, men.”
He looked at me expectantly, so I bumbled on. “If things aren’t working out right now, then remember Mahatma.”
“Who?”
“Gandhi. ‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.’”
Harry sighed, a huge sigh with enough air to make the little tassels spin. “Thanks, Mildred. You’re the best. I’ll go and finish breaking down Mungo’s pallets now. You can take some home as firewood if you like?”
Honestly, I was just glad he got up and left. I had no intention of taking a sack of kindling home on the bus. I was already behind on my cleaning rota, and all that fresh sawdust under the stage wasn’t going to brush itself away. I wished they wouldn’t do their messy jobs down there. Yes, it’s about the only large unoccupied space, but it makes more work for me: abandoned shoes and other items of unmentionable clothing, sandwich wrappers, empty bottles, you name it, I find it. That’s the less glamorous side of the business.
At the time, as I nibbled a chocolate wafer catching the crumbs in my apron, I wondered about the girl Harry spoke of. What kind of girl played with an old man’s affections? How would the romance play out and how would it end?

#

I heard on the grapevine that Madame Morte discovered Brian’s act after a tip-off from one of the girls. That wasn’t uncommon. Goes with the territory; a performer falls on hard times or suffers some personal tragedy, and the artistic community unites. There’s nothing like a sympathetic ear to the ground to open all kinds of unexpected tunnels of communication. When you’ve been treading the boards for years, everybody ends up rubbing shoulders with their competitors every once in a while. In fact, many of the greatest partnerships occurred by pure happenstance, like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. However, Brian was a solo artiste.
Speaking for myself, if I’d seen Brian’s act and heard he was looking for new work, I’d have happily given him any leads I came across. Who wouldn’t want to help someone like him: personable, talented, and full of potential? Turns out, I wasn’t alone in my sentiments.
“All I’m saying …” Brenda’s voice pleaded as I held an ice-cube to a lump of chewing gum to the bottom of a seat out of sight, both me and the seat. I could smell her perfume. She must have bathed herself in the stuff.
“I think your act could move into the stratosphere with the right partner,” she said, “or assistant, someone like me.”
As my fingers froze, I wondered how many other offers Brian had parried during his first weeks. By the sound so things, quite a few.
“Thanks, Brenda, but as I said to the others, I’m a one-man band if you know what I mean?”
Something about the way he spoke to her made me think there was more to it, that maybe, they knew each other before. I lifted my head above the tops of the seats and saw the two of them standing together, two silhouettes with not a lot of white space between them. Although Madame Morte didn’t have probationary periods, everyone understood the unspoken rule—play nice.
I watched Mungo snag Brenda’s elasticated waistband, more like a twelve-inch corset. He tucked one finger beneath the lace edging at her sternum, pulling her closer, and said, “you might want to try some mints to mask your fish-breath.” He kissed her on the cheek and let the elastic snap back saying, “and be a good girl, Brenda.”
Then he left her alone on the stage. She stood there for a few moments, and it made me wonder. In one way, he had given her a gentle rebuff, but in another way you could see it as a slap. Whatever it was, I didn’t have time to hang about and watch. Besides, I saw Harry stride across the stage hauling Mungo’s coffin into position, so I hurried off to the box office to polish the window half an hour before opening. I’m sure there are more germs on that glass than there are in the rest of the theatre put combined. I blamed the heavy breathers myself.

#

Usually, new acts are scheduled to play last as a way of drawing in the audience to keep them on the edge of their seats. But, tonight was different. Mungo had top billing, and we’d sold every ticket. With standing room only, I planned to watch from the wings if I could persuade Harry to leave a heavy unmoveable trunk into position. Usually, he obliged but tonight he was busier than usual. It’s no fun being five-foot-two when everyone else is a regular height. You get to rely on other people helping out, and I was pretty pissed with Harry for giving me the cold shoulder. I’d hardly seen him since he’d put the props in position, and since then the whole area had been cordoned off so that nobody had a clue about how Mungo would pull off his great feat. Security was tight, and Harry was in charge of keeping the curious at bay, including me.
Rumor had it that Madame Morte had taken one of the private boxes for herself and an exclusive party of hob-nobbers, but I thought that was unlikely.
The band had been playing outside on the street to entertain the long snake of theater goers. Every one of us was there gawking. This was an unprecedented move but had drummed up even more fervor. The press were champing at the bit. We were going to be headline news in the morning. I was thrilled. There’s nothing like some positive press coverage to help boost profits, but the noise was unbelievable. Cars honked their horns and people in the neighborhood hung out of their windows watching the comings and goings.
Inside by then, I’d taken up my position. I smelled something familiar—lavender—something strange—who knew?—something fishy,
probably fear and nerves and sweat.
As it was, I couldn’t see a thing. The wings were off limits. We were all herded back behind swathes of drapery, the blackout kind where the weave is so dense you couldn’t sneak a peek. From where I stood, I could hear the hub-bub from the audience, the shufflings, the chatter
of excitement, and the occasional pop of champagne.
I caught a glimpse of Brenda hanging something on the back of the dressing room door and by the time she muscled into the group with us, she was almost too late. I couldn’t help notice a light dusting of sawdust on her pale, fair hair.
The bar staff must have been run off their feet, and the temperature in the house rose degree by degree. I unbuttoned the neck of my blouse. Brenda’s bare arms shone with a sheen of that smelly lavender bath oil, but nothing was going to stop those wrinkles from settling in—I should know.
The band played their opening refrain. The audience nestled like chickens rustling feathers and taffeta, and finding their roosts. Hush descended. I heard the ratchet system crank, creak, and groan into action. So much for the 3-in-one. The houselights dimmed as the spotlights came into view and the curtains rose in unison.
For a second, silence reigned. Then gasps, followed by a squeak of terror and a roar of horror. There was a scuffling noise from the audience as if they had stood up. I heard a long strangulated scream. The people in front of me stepped back. Then all hell broke loose. I wriggled my way through the escapees and moved forward with more strength than I knew I had. I wish I hadn’t.
There, center stage for everyone to witness stood Mungo’s coffin sawn into two halves and the body within similarly severed. Underneath a pool of dark red blood soaked into the floorboards sprinkled with flecks of sawdust.
I turned away. I knew what I’d seen, but I couldn’t bear to think about it. Was that all that remained of Mungo, those two parts?

#

I don’t know how we all got through the rest of that evening. One moment it was chaos, and several hours later, they were all quaking together in the green room. I joined them, walking in last, except for Mungo who had a prior engagement at the morgue.
The police, Britain’s finest, in the personage of Inspector Blot, had questioned each and every one of us separately. Now we were all corralled for a finale of grave import.
The investigation had ensued, but in the meantime, we were under strict orders not to talk among ourselves and add fuel to the frenetic media frenzy.
“Understand,” Inspector Blot commanded. “The theater will remain closed until further notice. Under no circumstances are you to speak to any member of the press. Do I make myself clear?”
We nodded dejectedly. I examined the performers’ faces. Was everyone as stunned as me? So much for opening night. At this rate, I’d be lucky to find the money for my bus fare let alone this week’s rent. If the theater didn’t re-open soon, we’d all be down the soup kitchen. And what about all the other members of staff, the servers, the hat-check girl, the doorman? They didn’t survive on wages; they needed their tips to make ends meet.
The trombone player chewed his bitten nails. Brenda picked at her perfect cuticles, and Bernie, the fire-eater, sucked his thumb.
How long was this all going to take? When would everything return to normal? How was Madame Morte going to find a replacement for Mungo? What kind of an act could follow in his bloody footsteps? A cute kitten conjuring trick?
“Can I come in to clean tomorrow?” I asked. “Got to keep the theater ready to open.”
Everyone turned toward me, and I suddenly realized what I had said. Surely they didn’t expect me to clean up after that? Wouldn’t the police do that kind of mop job? Then again, I couldn’t visualize Inspector Blot wearing a pair of marigolds.
The inspector inclined his head. “Kind of you to offer. If you ever need extra work, here’s my card. We’re always looking for post-trauma hygienists.”
A communal shudder riffled through the green room, and it wasn’t just me.
“When do you think we’ll be able to open?” I asked.
“A few weeks, maybe, after the hearing.”
“What hearing?”
“The sentencing hearing.”
“Sentencing? Don’t you have to have a trial first?
Come to think of it, don’t you need a defendant?”
“We already have one.”
“Who?”
A collective sigh filled the room. The performers were restless.
Inspector Blot explained.
“Seeings as how you were late, we arrested Harry after his confession.”
“Harry? My Harry?” Brenda shot me a look. I corrected myself quickly to avoid any misunderstandings. “Our Harry? He confessed? Confessed to what?”
“He confessed to having sawn Mr. Mungo in two in a fit of jealous rage over a girl.”
“Never. Not Harry. He’s as mellow as a lukewarm cup of tea.”
The inspector raised his eyes skyward. “He confessed, I tell you.”
“He said those words, ‘jealous rage’?”
“I put the theory to him, and he nodded agreement. That’s a confession in my book.”
“I don’t know what fantasy manual you’re reading, but in the chapter of the Crescent Theater, we expect a lot more from our cast than mute acquiescence. What makes you think it was him?”
“He cannot account for his movements. He has no alibi.
The chainsaw, his, was hidden
under the stage, and, of course, the blood evidennce on his overcoat.”
“Where did you find the overcoat?”
“Hanging on the back of the stage door.”
“Anyone could have planted it. Everyone passes through there every minute. You couldn’t find a more busy thoroughfare if you tried. Any one of us could be guilty in that scenario.”
“But no one else had motive? Who else had fallen in love with Brenda Brimstone?”
“She’s ‘the girl’?” As I mentioned, the days of Brenda’s girlhood were long past.
“Yes, the girl, Brenda Brimstone, the object of desire.”
“Nevermind.” I had to think fast. Harry, my fellow colleague, if not friend, stood accused of a heinous crime. Why on earth had he confessed? Then again, he hadn’t, he hadn’t uttered a single word.

#

My mind was racing, heart pounding and armpits sweltering as I tried to figure out what had happened. I thought of Harry—why hadn’t I noticed he wasn’t in the green room until that moment?
“It’s hard to quarrel with the blood evidence,” I said, thinking aloud, “but someone else could have worn Harry’s coat. It would have acted like a coverall or an apron, protecting the perpetrator. Anyone could have worn it. Someone small like me. It would have covered me from head to toe.”
I glanced at Brenda’s red, patent-leather toed shoes as she tucked them back behind a collection of bags and take-out boxes at her feet--
a hasty order to feed the starving artistes.
“What you don’t seem to understand,” the inspector said,
“is that Mungo was killed with
a chainsaw, Harry’s chainsaw. That’s a mighty heavy piece of equipment to wield around. Who else would have used that?”
“More or less anyone, I’d have thought. The whole point of a chainsaw is to take the effort out of the work. Those things cut like butter for anyone knowing what they’re doing.”
“I don’t think many of us share that competency,” the inspector said. “Personally, I feel unsafe holding a stapler and I’m fully qualified to handle stationery.”
“Where was the chainsaw found?”
“Hanging in the usual place in the tool department, blood had dripped all over the shelf beneath.”
“Ah! Well, Harry would never have returned the chainsaw to its rightful place without cleaning it first. He’d rather die than mistreat his tools.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t hold with the death penalty any more, but he’ll certainly rot in jail for the rest of his lifetime. And, he deserves every minute for the wickedness of his crime. To kill another man, a small, weak, defenseless man, is beyond my comprehension.”
“Mine too. What if someone else killed this weak, defenseless man? Someone who would never be suspected.”
“Who do you have in mind? Maybe one of these fine feathered ladies who grace the green room at this moment.” He laughed. “Perhaps one of these pretty, slender-armed, narrow-wristed, semi-clad girls.”
“I agree, to a point.” I gave her a look so she’d know I was about to point the finger. “What about Brenda?”
“Who me?” Brenda feigned both surprise and innocence. However, she wasn’t an actor but an accomplice. Although, in this case she was the perpetrator.
“Ladies, ladies,” cooed the inspector. “Don’t brush your fur the wrong way. I draw the
line at cat fights. You older ladies need to keep your hormones in check. What could Brenda possibly have to do with such a bloodthirsty, not so say, strenuous crime?”
“Everything,” I explained. “She spent many a long year learning all about chainsaws with Texas Ted.”
“There’s a difference between observing and acting,” the inspector said.
“Too true,” I agreed, “but she was responsible for maintaining the chainsaws, cleaning them, storing them, repairing them. Texas Ted had carpel tunnel syndrome. Towards the end, he still had his strength but any finer movements were impossible for him. He left all that for Brenda to do.”
“But I wasn’t there,” Brenda whimpered.
“When was Mungo murdered?” I asked.
“Approximately,” the inspector said, “thirty minutes before the curtain rose.”
I thought back to the excitement before the performance, the band on the street, the noise. That’s when it must have happened. I remembered the smell of lavender when we waited behind the drapes and the sheen on her skin when she finally joined the rest of us.
“Good,” I said turning to Brenda. “So you must have been in here eating the sandwiches I brought through to help the short-staffeded kitchen. I wondered why all the salmon ones had gone by the time I returned for a quick snack myself.”
“That’s right,” Brenda said her face flushing scarlet. “I ducked behind the dresser when you came in because I knew you’d be mad at me.”
“There you have it, inspector, from her own lips.” I couldn’t help feel smug. Why not grab my moment of triumph? “Take her away and release poor Harry,” I said with more drama than a B-rated movie star.
“You wizened, old, hag,” Brenda spat. She dashed for the door and was out of the room
before anyone moved a muscle to stop her.
“Wait a minute,” the inspector said though it was unclear whether he spoke to me or the disappearing Brenda. “What have sandwiches got to do with the price of fish?”
“Nothing,” I explained. “There were no sandwiches, not here in the green room. I made that up to catch her out. She grabbed the opportunity to give herself a false alibi because she was out on the stage wearing Harry’s overcoat and holding the chainsaw over Mungo encased in his coffin.”
“But why did Mungo get inside the coffin?” The inspector rubbed his chin. “He was due to perform in half an hour.”
“Perhaps Brenda offered to help him out, have a dry run, check all was good inside of the box. Who knows? Why don’t you ask Brenda?”
“What was her motivation?”
“Again,” I said with patience. “Ask her, but my guess, he hurt her feelings.” I knew I wasn’t wrong.
“But why did Harry confess and take the blame?”
“Harry? Now there’s a man who can always be relied upon to shoulder every burden. That’s the kind of man he is. Tender hearted and in love. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”

The Best Word

By Maliha Iqbal
​


A solemn boy of seven was busily writing away without a thought about the world. He was perspiring and his clothes were damp. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he knitted his brows in concentration.
Suddenly a woman in her thirties came into the room and looking at him said “Samad! Take a break! You ought to be tired by working like that since morning and that too with a power cut! It’s so hot!” “Mother! Please don’t worry about me, the heat doesn’t bother me” replied the boy with an earnest look on his face. His mother merely stared at him, mumbled “what a child!” and left.
She rushed to a quiet corner of the house with tears welling up in her eyes. Once she was out of earshot, she began weeping and muttering over and over again “Oh! How the child loves to study! If only I could give him a better future! His books are his only solace from the grief and miseries of his life!” She soon stopped herself as she recalled her husband’s last words before he left the world. “You should be a source of inspiration, courage and love to Samad, never show your sorrow, face your troubles with a smile.” Yes! That’s what he said and that’s what I’ll do! She thought and smiled suddenly which lit up her face.
Samad lived in a war-torn country. Many had rebelled against the government and the country was at civil war. There was an epidemic of poverty and all had fallen prey to this.
It was nearly 9’o’ clock in the evening when Samad silently slipped out of the back door of his house and hurried through the lonely streets to a tiny, dilapidated building tucked away in a corner. A contended look came over his face as he entered the building and greeted his educator. Ah! That was his school! How he loved going there! Samad went to school in the silence and aloofness of night- most children in the country did because of the fear of rebel attacks. Samad had few children in his school, only seven and he was the brightest among them.
They had recently started learning English and today their teacher had an interesting idea. “All of you have to write your favourite word of English language on your slates and then one by one you will come out and tell the whole class why it’s your favourite. You have ten minutes” announced Mr. Blake, their teacher. He wanted to test the children’s vocabulary and spellings. Soon the room became silent as each child began to write.
Samad finished his work much earlier than the given time and stared idly at the light bulb in the room which was flickering occasionally. It gave a dull glow and swarms of insects had gathered around it. Out of nowhere a loud explosion was heard
followed by shouts of terror. The rebels! The teacher shouted “keep calm! Don’t be frightened! Hold my hand and don’t let go of one another.” Everyone slowly began walking out of the building in a single file but suddenly the lonely streets seemed to have come alive and people bustled all about. In the chaos and confusion, Samad was separated from everyone.
He did what any wise person would have done and began running towards his home which was nearby, the slate still grasped in his hands. He was out of breath but he wouldn’t stop at any cost. Finally, the front door of his house came into sight and he ran faster still.
Suddenly there was a loud explosion and Samad saw large flames before he fell to the ground. Bruised and bleeding, he got up, limped a few steps and collapsed. An agonized mother found her son the same night with a slate gripped in his lifeless hands. On the slate was the word “HOPE” written in a shaky handwriting. Isn’t it the best word? Doesn’t it provide you with the courage to strive towards your goal? Hopelessness itself is the end of life. Even insects are attracted towards a source of light for navigation and warmth or should we say a source of hope?

A Constant Source of Light

By Angela Camack


New York City, late winter, 1987

Jessica kicked at a pile of dirty snow. “I hate the 1980’s,” she muttered. New York City was grimier and the crime worse; people were greedier. New York was turning into a city for the rich and the poor, as middle-income families were priced out. Brooklyn was growing, however, as artists, dancers and musicians were squeezed out of studio and rehearsal spaces in Manhattan. Homeless people gathered on the street, huddled with their miserable collections of possessions, causing fear and pity in passersby. For the first time she and Charlie were talking about moving the children out of New York. Music had moved from rock songs with political and social lyrics and soulful folk music to heavy metal, which was all clang-bash to her. Musicals were still on Broadway, but they were gaudy, special effect-ridden spectacles that lost singers and dancers amid the glitz. Theater no longer had room for experimentation, for intimacy with audiences.
Jessica came of age in the early ‘70’s, which kept some of the spirt, freedom and hope of the ‘60’s. But going back to the early 70’s would not bring her to paradise, she knew. Those times had problems too. “I’m getting old, I guess. But dammit, things were different.” She kicked a snow drift again, not realizing there was a brick behind it. Stupid! She couldn’t risk a broken foot.
Jessica had been a dancer, which you knew by looking at her; slender frame, perfect posture, honey-colored hair in a bun, expressive blue eyes. Her feet were slightly turned out, making it seem like she could glide in any direction, and she had a grace that did not desert her when she was on the john clipping her toenails. She was in her next chapter now, with a husband, two children and a job teaching for the company where she had danced for most of her career.
By the time she got to the theater she realized the cause of her distress. It was two years to the day, almost to the hour, when she got the call that Wyatt had died. Wyatt, her first husband, breaker of her heart and her best friend, gone from this world but released from it too. Wyatt, the constant link to more innocent times. She waited until her classes were done, the children picked up and dinner started before she let herself remember.
They met in the cast of Street Dreamers, a musical that opened to condescending reviews in the smallest theater on Broadway. But the folk-like score, energetic young cast and hopeful message gained a following through word of mouth. The play had a long run and was still loved by community and college theaters.
She fell in love with Wyatt early in the run. Everybody loved Wyatt. He had that spark that drew your eye to him, that undefinable quality that was impossible to teach in any drama or music school. Everyone who succeeds on the stage has it, but Wyatt had it by the bucketful. He could enchant the most jaded or apathetic audiences. They loved him no matter what he did.
Not only audiences loved him. The cast circled him when they went out after the show. Waiters gave him extra sides, bartenders, free drinks. Landlords waited for the rent and cabs stopped for him on rainy days. He enchanted the world, this skinny, dark-haired, blue-eyed, shaggy-headed, sexy Peter Pan.
She watched during his solo one night, the hard to please New York audience clapping along as he sang. The stage manager joined her. “In the palm of his hand, as usual,” he said. “He sheds his own light, that one.”
It seemed Wyatt loved Jessica back. Within two months of Street Dreamer’s opening, they were together, seriously together. Although the times saw couples tumbling in and out of bed as easily and playfully as puppies, neither Jessica nor Wyatt could be casual about closeness. They came together and stuck. Their minds clicked together perfectly, sharing everything easily, finding fun in the most mundane things. The city turned into their playground. They held emotional conversations on the subway in fake languages. They mimed carrying huge panes of glass on crowded streets and played statues on the Lincoln Center fountain. They were the first to find new bars and musicians and cheap restaurants.
They moved in together, sharing dreams. They spent time on their bed, gazing at the cracked ceiling holding hands and talking. He always held her hand. They married during Street Dreamers’ run, a small ceremony at the director’s home followed by a raucous reception at their favorite restaurant. Wyatt and Jessica, their lives braided together. She had never been happier, and it showed in her dancing. Wyatt the magical, who found poems, perfect roses and flea market treasures, who made her laugh.
She noticed that for all his warmth and playfulness, their lovemaking was muted. He was always loving and considerate, but it seemed like he was rehearsing for something that was coming later. She said not a word; why, when what they had was so good?
Eventually they found jobs in other shows. Life went on. She began to ask, “Should we get a bigger apartment?” “Do you think we can take a vacation next year?” “When can we think about
a baby?” “Do you want a baby?” Wyatt was – muted, becoming less willing to share as her questions grew more serious.
She found out why one Monday afternoon, when both of their shows were dark. Wyatt sat her down in their kitchen and poured each a glass of wine. He told her that no matter his feelings for her, he could never be the husband she deserved. Although he had hidden the truth from himself, he was gay. He had been gay all his life, but never acknowledged it. He poured his energy onto the stage to compensate. When you come from a small town and a strict family you hid the truth, even from yourself. You played along with what was expected of you. And when you found a beautiful, talented girl whose personality meshed with yours, you told yourself that the love you felt for her could be channeled into marriage.
“Why did you marry me, Wyatt?”
“Because I love you.”
“Then why are you leaving me?”
“I have to admit what I really am. How can I be a husband, torn, like this? You deserve someone who doesn’t have this kind of fight going on inside.”
“So, have I been a smokescreen all this time?”
“No, I love you, I wanted so much for this to work.”
“How could you do this? Why didn’t you tell me before I fell in love with you?”
He was crying too. “Because it was the way I thought things should be and because I loved you. I still love you.”
“But you’re leaving.”
“I think it’s for the best.”
Before she realized it, glass was shattering, and Bordeaux sheeted the wall behind him. ”You bastard, I hate, hate , hate you!”
“Jess, I’m so sorry. I’ll move out as soon-“
“I’m leaving now. I’ll find somewhere. Go find your real soulmate.”
“Jess-“ There was nothing to say. The divorce was uncomplicated. Their families did not understand. His mother called her constantly at first. “What happened, Jessica? Why did this happen? Who did this to him?” She suspected his family thought she drove him to it.
Jessica’s life was leveled, most of what she counted on swept away in one Monday afternoon, leaving a barren landscape. But despite a week of not going to classes and trying to heal her wounds with liberal applications of brandy, takeout food and peach ice cream, she was still dancing remarkably well. The deep pain she felt helped her connect with the emotions she danced, both happy and unhappy.
But the theater scene soon became impossible. Wyatt called and left messages she didn’t return. The theater community being what it was, they saw each other at parties, show openings, restaurants. She felt people were watching her, expecting her to scream, cry, scratch at him.
She got a job with a modern dance company. At least she would be spared the rounds of auditions, the parties, the connections she had to keep up, all still part of Wyatt’s world. The company toured part of the year. She wouldn’t running into Wyatt or looking for his face in the crowds.
She loved her work, that was a consolation, even after she heard that Wyatt was in a relationship with another actor. She turned to her dancing, learning her roles and finding her place in the company. When she finally looked up, she realized it was time to find people again.
Charles Kendell was there. A tall, blond Viking in sweatpants and T-shirt, he had been with the company for fifteen years. He still danced some signature roles, but taught company classes and managed the tours.
“You can smile,” he said one day as she darted offstage after the last dance.
“I was so preoccupied getting used to things.”
“You looked so unhappy sometimes.”
She laughed. “That’s a long, messy story.”
Charlie learned her story. She learned that he had been engaged to a woman whose family convinced her to find a man who had a more secure job. He helped Jessica fall in love again. If her love for him wasn’t as reckless as what she had felt for Wyatt, it was as true. Charlie felt the same. They came together on equal ground.
So they married, and now came the larger apartment, the vacation, the talk about children. Wyatt was pushed away, put away with other childish things. She read about him in the newspapers but made no move to see him.
She met Wyatt again late in her second year with the company, coming home from rehearsal. Wyatt was standing in front of her apartment.
“How are you, Jess?”
“Fine. What are you doing here?”
“I heard you’re with the Carron company. I followed you home one day.”
“Wyatt Weston, boy detective.”
“Don’t be hard, Jess, it’s not like you.”
“How would you know?”
“I guess I wouldn’t, but I wondered about you after we broke up. I still wonder about you.”
“I’m married again, Wyatt.”
“I know. I’m glad. I have someone, too.”
“What do you want?”
“Just talk to me. Please. I don’t want to leave things being your enemy.”
She talked to Charlie, of course. “He has a point, Jessica. The breakup was so bad, and you were so hurt. It sounds like he was, too. Put it to rest. Even if you just see him once, it’ll close things up between you”
They met for breakfast one Monday morning. His face was a little thinner, his hair shorter and neater, his smile the same.
“You look beautiful, Jess. Marriage is good for you,” He smiled ruefully. “It always was.”
Amazing how they fell back into their old routine so quickly. By the time the waiter had cleared their plates and poured more coffee, they were laughing and trading anecdotes about her tours and some songs he was composing.
After that they didn’t stay away from each other, meeting for lunch or coffee. Minds clicking perfectly, sharing everything, finding fun in the most mundane things. And life went on.
Charlie and Jessica started trying to have a baby when she was 28. She was still dancing well, but dancing and motherhood both demanded youth, and in due time two children came, a boy and a girl. Charlie taught dance, and eventually she did too. Wyatt worked steadily in the theater. He broke up with the actor and fell in love with Dixon, a lawyer.
But by the ‘80’s it was hard for him. Dixon began to worry. Wyatt quit a long-running play to take a vacation but spent most of it sleeping or reading, carrying an exhaustion that never lifted. He had a chronic cough and trouble breathing. Weight washed away from his already slender frame. His skin looked bad. For the first time he had difficulty finding new roles.
By the time he was diagnosed it made no difference. He had something called AIDS, a disease that was terrifying gay men. There was nothing that could stop it, and soon some people in the medical world were too frightened to care.
He did voice-over work for a while, but even that became impossible. Dixon went on working, waiting for an axe to fall. Would his test results shatter his life? What would happen if his law firm found out about Wyatt’s illness? How long would he have Wyatt?
Wyatt’s friends gathered around him. At first, he kept up with the talk and the laughter, surrounded by the people who loved him, who were still drawn by his light. But he kept getting weaker, kept moving farther away. Finally, all he could do when Jessica came was to hold her hand. His mother came to care for him as he got sicker, maintaining a tense truce with Dixon. At least the end, when it came, was peaceful,
Wyatt’s family buried him near their home in Delaware. Dixon had no legal claim to him. His casket was closed, a framed headshot placed on top. The mourners gathered at his family’s house after the service, moving in two circles, Dixon and Wyatt’s friends and Wyatt’s family and
their friends. A curtain of uneasiness hung between the two groups. There was palpable distrust of Dixon, even though he and Wyatt had been together longer than some conventional couples.
Jessica crossed the room to get coffee. A friend of the family caught her eye .”You were the wife, right?” she asked. “He should never have gone to the city. It ruined him. Show people ruined him.”
“My husband and I are dancers, “ Jessica said stiffly.
“But it looks like you turned out normal.” Jessica held her breath and walked away, not wanting to cause a scene.
The gathering wound down. Jessica moved toward the bathroom, running into the woman who had spoken of Wyatt’s “ruin.” In the dark hall, the glow from a wall sconce caught the woman’s eyes, making her look hectic. She grasped Jessica’s arm, talking like they were resuming the most ordinary of conversations.
“It nearly killed his parents, you know, what he turned into. That’s why he got sick. That’s why they’re all getting sick. It’s a judgment, you know.” Jessica could no longer hold back. “Don’t you understand? Wyatt was good. He was better than you could be on your best day. He had his own light! Everybody loved him-“
Charlie was beside her, “Turn loose of her arm right now. Come on, Jessica, we’re going home.”
Charlie led her past the now-silent groups. They drove quietly through the dusk, then the night, to his parents’ house in Montclair, NJ, where the children were staying.
The house was quiet when they entered. Charlie insisted she take half of one of the muscle relaxants he took for chronic back pain (dancers never stopped aching). She fell asleep quickly.
She woke the next morning to distant sounds in the kitchen. Charlie and the children. She felt too heavy to join them. What had it all been for, loving Wyatt, and losing him, and losing him again? Was it worth being leveled like that?
She hauled herself out of bed, showered and dressed. It was worth it. She was able to start over, to build something permanent on the ground left behind. When she married Wyatt, she was still a girl, a girl whose dance teachers had to remind her not to be hypnotized by her reflection in studio mirrors. But she learned to look outside of herself; to understand and forgive Wyatt. To support Charlie when he retired from dancing and wandered the apartment like an elegant ghost. To leave dancing behind and happily embrace motherhood. The first risk had made all other risks possible. Not risking would lock you in a prison, alone.
Charlie was cooking eggs, the children chattering. “Hush guys. Your Mom needs to sleep.”
“Here I am,” she said, moving toward her family.

Shenanigans before Christmas
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


In the late 1940s, Coca Cola ® was a rarity in our home, available only
as a special treat during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Mom
said it had to do with “Mr. Touch Decay” and the cost of dentist bills for fillings.
The war had ended, money was tight, and jobs were scarce. Dad’s salary was
$100 a month, considered middle-class at the time. We weren’t poor, but we
We ate a lot of Campbell’s tomato soup with water, not milk. Too often, meals
were just bone marrow from soup bones spread on white bread. Chicken livers
were prevalent on our dinner menu, with beef liver and onions, or kidney stew
weekly for dinner.
Dad had been a draftsman for the Defense Department during the war
so he had never left the states. After the war, he commuted to New York City,
Monday through Saturday, to work as a commercial artist for advertising
agencies. No five-day work week back then, which seemed to Mom like some
crazy idealist scheme a union Communist had dreamt up rather than anything
practical that could ever happen for the American worker. A 48-hourwork week
without over-time pay seemed fair to my folks. They were Republicans.
We lived in a quad apartment close enough to the Long Island Railroad
to make the dishes rattle in our kitchen cupboards when the LIRR Express from
Manhattan to Queens thundered by. Though the noise was a nuisance to Mom,
it was convenient for Dad to walk to and from the train station in less than a
minute.
The four families in our quad consisted of us, the Winter family of four,
the Goldfield family of four, the Shulmann family of three, and the McGorey
family of four. All told, half the tenants were Jewish, and the other two quarters
were Irish, and us of German-Austrian decent.
The Goldfield sons were in their early twenties, one fat and slovenly,
the other confined to a wheelchair with rheumatoid arthritis. According to
Mom, the Goldfields were “nice people,” but they kept to themselves. The
McGorey daughters were Kathy, a freckle-faced, buck-toothed tomboy in
eighth grade who beat up boys, and her seventeen-year-old sister, Patricia,
who was sometimes my sitter when Mom had to take my older brother,
Bobby, to the doctor. “Patty,” as I called her, was my Dream Girl, though I
was too young to have any desires beyond a peck on the cheek before she
tucked me in for a nap. Her breath smelled like Juicy Fruit gum. Kenny
Shulmann was an only child, between my age and Bobby’s. The three of us,
Bobby, Kenny, and I, often played together—more plotting than playing.
There were no pre-schools back then, so a boy like me approaching
age five had to entertain himself. Having a brother three years older paved
the way toward more extravagant mischief. The snowy, black-and-white
reception on a rare TV available to watch at a friend’s house made life
beyond our limited realm in Queens seem dull and grey. But I owed a
colorful kaleidoscopic view of the world to my brother Bobby’s artistic
perception of life. Color us, along with Kenny, a rainbow of trouble and
shenanigans.
Kenny Shulmann and I are gonna raid ole lady Schmidt’s house
when school’s closed for the holidays. Since you’re such a tattle-tale,
you’re comin’ with us. I figure you can’t tell Mom and Dad on us if
you’re in on it, too.”
“Sheesh, Bobby. I wouldn’t tell, but I don’t wanna go. I’m scared of
that ole lady. She reminds me of the witch in Snow White, especially with
that wart on her big nose.”
“Kenny and I will protect you, Gem. We’ve got a plan.”
Bobby always called me “Gem” when he wanted something from me.
It was Dad’s nickname for me since Mom said I was “a diamond in the rough,”
a real gem. Any other time, Bobby just called me, “Squirt,” because, up to
age three, I’d been a bed-wetter.
“What kind a plan, Bobby? Whaddaya wanna go in that scary ole lady’s
house for? She threw a bucket of ice water on us when we went trick-or-treating
last Halloween. Sheesh. It’s freezin’ now in December. I don’t wanna get all wet
again. I could catch P-neumonia.”
That’s what Mom called it, because she wanted her boys to know how
to spell, even if I wasn’t in kindergarten yet and Bobby was in second grade at
P.S. 61, an old wooden schoolhouse on Higby Avenue. He had to walk two miles
to school every day from Laurelton. I had to respected an older brother with that
kind of courage.
“Ole Lady Schmidt’s got fancy things . . . crystal goblets, clocks, and jewels.
Maybe we can find some cool stuff to give Mom and Dad for Christmas tomorrow.”
“What if the ole lady catches us?” I warned.
“Ya kiddin’? She limps with a cane. She won’t catch me and Kenny, but I
dunno about you, slow poke. You run like you’ve got a load in your pants.”
“Aw shut up! I can run as fast as you and Kenny.”
“You may have to if you don’t wanna get left behind.”
“Jeez, Bobby. It’s Christmas Eve/ Shouldn’t we wait till the middle of
Christmas week to raid that old lady’s house after Santa’s delivered our toys.
Maybe he’ll bring Mom and Dad some cool presents, then we won’t need to
get any stuff for them from Mrs. Schmidt’s place.”
Bobby and Kenny smirked.
“I already got my Hanukkah gift,” Kenny said. He was taller than us and
skinny with curly black hair. Kenny was almost six. Compared to me, Bobby and
Kenny seemed like men of the world, so I had to follow their lead.
“Don’t you know that George Washington attacked the British on Christmas
Eve. Don’t you want to be brave like the Father of Our Country, Gem?”
“He did? Really? Doesn’t sound like a nice thing to do,” I said.
“Nice for us, but not for the Red Coats.”
“I’m too young to know about all that stuff you’ve learned in school, Bobby.”
“I’m teachin’ ya, so you’ll be ahead of the other kids when ya start kindergarten.”
“How we gonna sneak out without Mom and Dad knowin’?”
“You know how Dad comes home bleary-eyed from the office Christmas party
and he and Mom fight then go to bed so they can wake early to decorate the tree, wrap
our presents, and fill our stockings before we get up to see what Santa’s left us. That’s
when we’ll sneak out with Kenny, cross the railroad tracks, and walk a block to ole Mrs.
Schmidt’s big house on the corner.”
“That big house is as scary as she is,” I said.
“Ah, she’s just an ole lady with a bunch of neat stuff we can snatch while she’s
sleepin’,” Bobby said. “Everyone in the neighborhood will be sleeping, except us.”
Kenny nodded and said, “Maybe I can find a necklace for my mom.”
“Sure, there must be lots of cool stuff she’s been hoarding in that house for years.”
“I heard her husband had been a banker in Germany before the war, but unlike my
grandparents, the Schmidt’s came to America with lots of money, so the Nazis couldn’t
get it.”
“What are Nazis?” I asked, but Kenny and Bobby rolled their eyes at me.
“My grandparents didn’t escape,” Kenny said, his mood suddenly solemn.
“Maybe some of my grandparents’ things were stolen by that German banker, Mr.
Schmidt. Maybe his old widow has my grandfather’s watch.”
Bobby and I stared at Kenny for a long silent moment, until Bobby said, “We’ll
meet in the cellar coal bin at midnight then climb up the coal shoot to leave without
using the doors, so our folks won’t hear us.
We put our hands together like Gene Kelly in The Three Musketeers.
“One for all and all for one,” Bobby said, just like in the movie.


* * *


The coal bin in the cellar stunk, and Kenny was already there when Bobby and
I arrived. We nodded in unison and climbed up the coal shoot, me in the middle, behind
Bobby and in front of Kenny. When we got into the yard and crawled along the barbed-
wire fence that separated our building from the railroad tracks, it was colder than I’d
ever felt before. Maybe because I was scared and shivering, but the night air was surely
freezing and damp, as if it would snow. I loved the thought of snow on Christmas, but
hoped it would hold off until we had our fun and got back home safe in our beds.
We knew about the deadly third-rail that could electrocute us if we stepped
on it. That was common knowledge for all kids who lived close to the tracks.
Bobby gave me a glare over his shoulder and said, “Don’t get fried, Squirt.”
We huddled in the bushes in the empty lot across from Mrs. Schmidt’s house.
“She must still be awake,” Kenny said, noting a light flickering at the first-floor’s
bay window.
“Maybe not,” Bobby said calmly. “Remember when she opened her door,
holding a bucket on Halloween, then dumped cold water on us? I’d seen a fireplace
in her living room. She must’ve lit the fireplace for Christmas. See how it’s flickering
at the window. She must’ve left the fire going till morning. C’mon. We’ll slide down
her coal shoot and come up through her cellar stairs.”
We did as Bobby said, and within ten minutes we were on the first
floor. We found the living room where the hearth still glowed with smoldering
cinders. The house smelled like Christmas. Her tree had the fresh scent of blue
spruce. Candles scented with apple, cinnamon, and pumpkin flickered all around
the room. Christmas cookies must have been baked in the oven earlier with the
air still sweetly redolent of vanilla and sugar.
Rather than Christmas lights strung on her tree, each branch had a
candle in a holder at its tip, a German tradition I was familiar with from my
grandmother. I wondered why Mrs. Schmidt would go to all this trouble
just for herself when no one had ever seen anybody come to her home
other than the postman and the milkman.
The candles were charred, so they’d been lit earlier, but you couldn’t
leave them burning for long without the danger of setting the house on fire.
My grandma said that’s what made a candlelit tree more precious with its
beauty only for just a brief moment. She said it was like the fleeting gift of
the Christ child, a symbol of how we had to concentrate on that blessing
from God, so we wouldn’t lose its glow when the candles burned out.
As I was staring at the tree, Bobby and Kenny went to the dining
room where a long table was set with ornate china, sterling silverware,
and crystal goblets. Along every wall were china closets containing