Oliver’s Twist
& Other Stories
AP Modern Literature
Winter 2009
Mr. Zervanos
Christine Zoolalian
Oliver’s Twist
Tha-thump… Tha-thump…Tha-….
Flatline.
Just like that. It’s all over. Your heart stops beating, your world stops spinning, and
everything gradually fades to black.
Death. It is the one thing we all have in common. Life? No. Some of us never manage
leaving the womb, before it’s all over. It is only through Death that we are all interconnected. No
matter who you are, where you are, what you are, Death will find you, and that is the only
certainty you have in the future. A grim note to start on, albeit a necessary component to the tale
I’m about to tell.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning. I cannot start at the very
beginning, but it is a beginning nonetheless. To me, my birth remains a mystery. At an early age,
I was abandoned by my family and placed in a lonely and derelict Californian orphanage. Then
she came and plucked me from the rubble of the life I once had. Her name was Bas – Bastet Sith,
a tall, pale, elegant woman of only twenty-eight with platinum hair and silver-blue eyes. I can
remember the way she first leaned over me, a scrawny waif in an ill-fitting t-shirt and faded blue
shorts, fiddling with the golden chain around her neck as she offered me her right hand. It was
kismet, as I took it; vicissitude was upon me, and it all begins here.
After taking my hand, she led me to her opulent abode. Once inside, my wide, puerile
eyes stared in amazement; my mouth gaped open like a startled fish. Luxury. It was all new and
beautiful to me. At only four years old, I believe I flushed in the sparkling home as I was fully
cognizant of the fact that I was an indigent peasant enveloped in dirt, grime, and ill-fitting
clothes. Silk curtains, plush rugs, antique furniture, and an inconceivable myriad of knickknacks
stood pristinely before ragamuffin me. Bas was a rather successful talent agent and lived alone,
that is, until she took me in and nurtured me. Like a medal, won for an intrepid victory, she
bestowed the name Oliver Sith upon me. Oliver, as in the color of my eyes – Olive, which she
claims she fell in love with that fateful day, and Sith – she saw great things in my future, great
power and beauty, and thus she gave me her very own last name. Proudly, I bore that name, and
like the phoenix, I rose from the ashes and grime of my childhood woes, and became her adopted
son. Her heir and only companion. That is, until he came along. But once again, I find my words
running faster than my notions.
And though she never said it, she had to have loved me. She had to. As the years
progressed, she enrolled and forced me to dabble in every prestigious academy and art possible
so that I received a proper education. That meant I went to the toughest prep schools in LA and
was ordered to play my violin for hours at a time. I was even shoved in a dance academy
amongst a gaggle of giggling girls: one of the many nadirs in my life. Yet, I was obedient and
listened to her every word to prove how worthy I was of the munificence she gave me.
She was a strong woman who held her head high in the pride of being a maverick and a
perfectionist. Cold eyes and a tendency to be a recluse gave her a reputation of being inimical
and iron-hearted in the world of the pulchritudinous people.
My iron-hearted Bas…. My iron-hearted Bas had a glass heart. So fragile, the slightest
fright could have shattered it. This was the reason why she had a tendency to hide behind the
iron gates of her large home. She was physically weak. A simple mouse in the cupboard could
have caused her heart to beat no more. It was her reason for adopting me – she could bear no
children of her own. She couldn’t have sex. Her heart wouldn’t be able to handle the pleasure
that would course through her body in the event of a little lovemaking. That was why she was so
lonely. She kept the men away with an icy exterior, earning her the title of “Ice Princess.” A play
on her light complexion and cold exterior. So, for this reason, she, too, was rejected by society.
In rejection, we found a mutual love. For years, it was just Bas and Oliver. Well, that is
until he showed up. Him. The antitheses of all things I loved. His name was Pete. Peter Dis. And
how I loathed him. Positively despised his essence. And unfortunately, I was completely
culpable for his presence in our lives. I had a terrible habit of wooing my own misfortunes.
Here is where the conflict truly starts. Every Wednesday, Bas left the house precisely at
3:00 with me trotting after her to the hospital down the street. It was at that quaint clinic, once a
week, Bas took her heart tests. Then, one of those appointments, each month, we’d meet with her
doctor, Dr. Springstead, a young, curly, brown crowned physician. He was a busy man – having
nine children, and allegedly one by his mistress according to LA’s gossip columns - but he made
his weekly stop for Bas, or as he would purr, “Lady Bastet,” before taking her hand and placing a
kiss on its pale back. My neck hairs would bristle. I hated him. I hated his phony, toothy,
ophidian-like smile, and I especially hated the way he broke Bas down once a week. Pretending
to be charming and suave, he’d only end up checking her out before handing her another
prescription. Afterwards, we’d go to the pharmacy, where Bas would pick up her medicine, and
as soon as we got home, she would sit at the kitchen table, stare at her cocktail of drugs, and mull
over the doctor’s words and her imperfections.
After nearly nine years of the same doctoral routine, it was slightly changed up before
me. It started out the same – Bas and I sat in the dirty, teal waiting room, before Dr. Springstead
came out, took Bas by the hand, kissed it, and started leading her off. Quickly, I followed after
them and was led into a familiar, tiny room, where he sat at a chair before a desk and a clipboard
and Bas sat on a small chair beside it. Like always, I stood in the little space between her and the
wall. He looked down at the clipboard, eyes running over the data, brow furrowed, and face
frowning. When he finished, he started off by looking up at me and exclaiming some kind of
offhand comment. To which I would reply in a rather vitriolic and sarcastic manner. I was a
contentious and mordant boy. However, that day, he did not comment on me, instead, he said,
“All right, then. Oliver should leave the room right now.”
Bas hesitated, trying to come up with all the possibilities of what my poor virgin ears
could not hear. She decided whatever it was, it was for my own benefit to leave the room. With a
slight nod of her handsome head, she gave me her leave and I walked out the door, shutting it
gently behind me.. I waited a minute, before quickly pressing my ear against the wood.
“Bas,” he began. “Your scores have been decreasing.” Bas did not reply. “It’s evident
that you’re under a lot of stress. At this rate, we’re looking at anywhere between three to ten
years of life left. Nothing can be done, unless you’re alleviated of some of this tension – look at
this.” I assumed at that point he showed her the most recent studies.
There was a pause, then, “What are you suggesting, doctor?”
“Look….” He sighed. “I can’t keep adding to your prescription. And I know this is going
to be difficult to swallow, but… raising a child is a difficult task. You’re putting him through
school. You have to think about his future. God forbid something should happen to him. You’d
instantly die of a heart attack. Bas, you should have started out with a puppy or something less
stressful. Goldfish, perhaps.”
With bated breath, I awaited her reply. Bitterly, she said, “Oliver is of no stress to me-”
“But-”
“ It may be difficult for you, Doctor, someone with as many affairs as you’ve had, to
comprehend loneliness – but Oliver’s staying, whether you approve or not.” With that, I heard
the angry clack of high heels and I quickly scrambled away from the door. Bas appeared,
mascara laden eyes ice-cold and staring before her, grabbed me by the scruff of the shirt, and
proceeded to drag me down the hallway. “Oliver,” she began. “If there is one thing I want you to
remember when you grow up, it is that a woman is perhaps the most misunderstood creature in
the world. I will do all I can to prevent you from being a chauvinistic pig. Lesson one: even
without medical problems, a woman’s heart is a fragile thing.”
XxX
Once we returned home, Bas placed her huge bag of concoctions and pills on the kitchen
counter, before routinely sitting down before it, and staring hatefully at her weakness.
“Bas…what’s wrong?” I inquired, opposite her, placing my hands on the table and
leaning towards her, eager to assuage her onerous curse. Silver eyes did not look away from the
bag. She did not reply. It was the only thing that kept her from crying.
Just when I didn’t think she was going to answer, she murmured to the bag, “Don’t worry
about it.”
“Bas….”
There was no reply. I took the hint. She wanted to be alone. Biting my own lip, I nodded,
before turning and starting up the stairs. However, as I got halfway up, I peered through the bars
of the railing at her. “Mother…” I said very quietly. This caused her to look up at me for the first
time, wide with shock. I rarely called her that. Whenever I uttered it, she knew it was serious.
Looking down, I managed, “I heard everything… and….” Abruptly, my apologetic eyes looked
into her own sad ones. “…I’m sorry.” Because I encumbered and enervated her to the point
where she was moribund. It disheartened me terribly. I was slowly killing the one I loved most.
Before she could say anything, I scurried up the stairs and escaped to my room, my
sanctuary, closed the door behind me, and sank against it, to the ground, listening. And it came.
Her temper. Her face twisted with frustration, before a long, colorfully-clad arm swung forward,
sending the bag and its contents crashing to the ground. Heaving, she stared at the mess, before
grabbing the back of her chair for support, burying her face in her hand in humiliation, and
collapsing into her chair.
My Bas crumbled before no one. Absolutely nobody. But she broke down before her own
weakness.
XxX
The week progressed in a disconsolate manner. Continuing with my studies, I ascetically
avoided her. It was the dour thought of being her duress that kept me distanced. I loved her too
much to be the death of her. However, Bas was a depressed and mercurial individual. Combine it
with an undaunted, brazen will, and you have a recipe for brewing trouble.
One afternoon, she picked me up from school and we strolled home together. She seemed
paler than usual, but I just assumed it was the heat; then abruptly, without warning, as we walked
through Melrose Avenue, she collapsed on a street corner.
“SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP!!” I cried, running, delirious with distress, into the road.
Cars stopped, only to avoid running over me. Drivers cursed and people stared. “HELP,
PLEASE, ANYONE!!” I cried into a street of stoic passersby, running back and forth between
them like a frenzied squirrel searching for his lost nut. They stared for a few seconds before
continuing their business. “ANYONE?!!!!!” I screamed in the middle of the road grabbing at my
hair and trying to rip it out in torturous agony. No one. “PLEASE!!!” I felt anxiety gathering in
the corner of my eyes in the form of tears. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My world was
spinning and my Bas was going to die, because of me.
Someone was walking by. I looked up to find a tall, dark-haired man. I grabbed him by
his shirt. “Please help her,” I whimpered into suit jacket, sinking to my knees. “Please.”
XxX
“Kid, you want anything?”
I stared at the officious man as we sat at the cafeteria in uncomfortable, metallic-blue iron
chairs at a matching café table. I was slouched, my arms folded before me, and my head resting
amongst them, as I glowered at him. After a corybantic episode involving me trying to rip off the
emergency room door to get to Bas, Dr. Springstead demanded that I be removed at once, and
that jerkoff – the one I picked up off the street, threw me over his shoulder and brought me to the
cafeteria, like a child. I mean, I was grateful he saved Bas – but, he was a little more involved
than I wanted him to be.
“Don’t worry. Your mother’s just fine. The doctors said so.” He graced me with an
encouraging, congenial smile. I stared blankly back at him. It was true Springstead said she was
fine, but I trusted him and the others like I trusted a ravenous and mangy cur with a succulent
bone. “So, you want anything, kid?” He pulled out his corpulent wallet and attempted to bait me
with money.
I sighed, before replying huffily, “Coffee.”
A dark eyebrow rose. “‘Coffee?’” he repeated. I did not reply, but continued to stare.
“How old are you?”
I hated that question. I hated the overtly and insipidly merry male before me. I hated the
fact that Bas was probably dying and I was the sole cause. Of course, my reply was bitter. “Old
enough to know if I cry ‘Help! Statutory’ loud enough, you could get a hefty litigation slapped
across your forehead and I get all the complimentary coffee I want.”
He stared at me in shock for a long moment, before a crooked smile appeared on his face.
“Good luck, kid. I’m Pete Dis – the best lawyer in the business.” Proudly, he leaned back in his
seat in a superior manner, as he tipped his seat back and folded his arms behind his head.
“Good for you. Are you going to get me coffee or leave and do lawyer things? Either one
would be perfectly acceptable.”
Abruptly, his seat dropped, the legs making a cacophonic clatter. “In all my years, I have
never met such a caustic and cynical little boy.”
“Oh!” I purred. “I’m a first. For the price of two dollars, or one coffee, you can get your
picture taken with me.”
He got the point. “’Kay, kid. You win. I’ll get you coffee.” However, as he said that, he
was smiling to himself, as if he enjoyed the abuse. He went to the concession stand and came
back with comestibles. Gently, he placed a mug of steaming coffee before me and placed his
own cup of java and a bagel before him. “So, kid,” he asked. “What’s your name.”
“Oliver,” I answered, before sipping the coffee, and feeling the liquid warming the
coldness inside me.
“What? No last name?” He gave me another vacuous smile.
I hesitated, before replying, “Sith – S-I-T-H.” I spelled it, because it’s pronounced “She”
– the cause for relentless mocking in school. I once made the mistake of saying it was “Gaelic”.
My sobriquets in the schoolyard ranged from “Sith-male” to “Gay-lick”.
His golden eyes widened with realization. “Sith? As in…you mean… that was…. That
was….” He looked over his broad shoulder as if he had the ability to see down the hallway all
the way down to Bas’ room.
“Bastet Sith,” I murmured pleasantly, taking delight in his shock. She may have been a
recluse, but Californians knew her name.
XxX
It wasn’t until two hours later I was granted permission to see Bas. She sat in the hospital
cot, eyes closed as she basked in the eventide light, illuminating the white, sterile room and
enshrining her. “Bas!” I cried. She smiled back at me as I went running to her.
Suddenly, her eyes looked up, as if she just felt the flagrant presences for the first time.
“Ollie… who’s that?” she asked. I turned and looked to find Springstead and Pete staring. The
doctor was smirking as he regarded the man next to him. Peter was staring with wide, amber
eyes, his mouth slightly ajar, and there was a faint blush on his tan cheeks.
“That’s just Pete. He’s a lawyer,” I informed her, insouciantly, as she continued to stare
at the dark-haired man.
Her eyes narrowed, before she turned and looked at me in bemusement. “A lawyer?
Whatever for?”
He was the only person I could pick up off the street, but I mistakenly decided to give
him a little more credit than that. “He helped me bring you here.”
Coyly, she gazed upon him, before looking down. “Thank you for helping me, Mr….”
“Peter Dis! But you can call me Pete,” he said, ebulliently, coming forward.
I rolled my eyes. Gently, thin fingers combed through my hair, before Bas looked back
up at Pete. “How can I ever repay you for helping me and my Oliver?”
“Oh…” began Pete, forcing a blush. “You don’t have to do anything. I’d much rather
treat a beautiful and sophisticated woman such as yourself to lunch.”
Bas hadn’t even left the hospital bed, and the brazen bastard started hitting on her. I
looked at him appalled, then turned back and stared at Bas. Her smile faltered, before she said,
“It seems like a sound request. You only saved my life.”
He opened his mouth to say more, however, Springstead thankfully broke into the
conversation. “Excuse me, sir. You’re going to have to leave the room.”
Pete walked backwards out of the room, and as he did so, he excitedly began, “We’ll
figure it all out later, and-”
The doctor had enough sense to close the door on him. “My, my, Bas. You’ve been
conscious for only two hours and you’re already acquiring beaus.”
“Nonsense,” she whispered, looking down at her folded hands. “My heart belongs only to
you, doctor,” she said bitterly.
“It won’t for very long,” he replied, coldly. The tone caused Bas to look up curiously.
“This is your second heart attack. One more, and you’ll surely die. In fact, if that guy brought
you in a second later, you wouldn’t be alive now.” She said nothing, so he continue, “You have
less than ten years to live. Eight at most. You’d be lucky to live for three more.” Still, no reply,
as she regarded the wan hands in her lap. “So, tell me, Bas, why didn’t you take your medicine,
today?”
Abruptly, I looked from Bas to the doctor. His eyes were burning into her. I looked back
at Bas. I couldn’t believe she would do something so… so… suicidal.
Bas did not answer; she continued staring at her hands.
“Look…” he began, running a hand through his russet hair. This caused her eyes to
finally rise and face him. “There’s a procedure that can increase your lifespan. However, there’s
a thirty percent success rate with the surgery. Without it… Bas… you’re not going to make it
very long…. If it were successful, you’d be able to do all things you’ve ever wanted to do, Bas.”
She said nothing, silver-blue eyes darting back to safety and comfort of her hands.
“You wouldn’t risk death every day, and you wouldn’t have to take so many pills.”
Still no reply.
“What about Oliver’s sake? Would you do it for him?”
XxX
She refused the operation, because, she reasoned as we left the hospital three days later,
“I’d rather live out all my years, than lose them all in one silly, operation.” Still, it was slightly
sore that she would not try to increase her life for my sake, and I was the one closest to her.
After that hapless event, things were relatively the same. I went to school, I practiced
violin, and Bas took her pills. However, there was always that untrusting feeling in my gut. And
there was him. Friday afternoon came in a flash. She actually went out with him, while I
remained at home. Three hours later, Bas returned home, positively glowing. I didn’t like the
looks of it. She danced off to her room before I could ask her for details.
Once again, Wednesday afternoon rolled around; and we walked home in silence, which
was expected every fourth Wednesday, as I carried Bas’ medicines. That week’s dosage was
massive due to the accident the previous week. We were both lost in our thoughts as we slowly
traversed up the walkway and towards the porchAbruptly, the bushes rustled, and a voice cried with élan, “Hey, Bas!”
It was so unexpected that I nearly dropped the bag I was carrying, and Bas gave a
horrified gasp, grabbing at her chest. Heavily, she began to pant. I placed the bag down and tried
to assuage her racing heart through soothing words, but she pulled away and managed a
breathless, “I’m…fine….”
Suddenly, I looked up at the culprit. Hair glistened darkly in the sun, as golden eyes
stared in shock. “Shit!!” breathed Peter Dis, as he came towards Bas. “Are you okay? I’m sorry –
I didn’t mean to – I dropped my-”
Bas pulled away from him, too. “ I’m…. fine….”
“C’mon, Bas,” I soothed, shooting the man a dirty look, while leading Bas inside.
She was still clutching her heart, but the severity of the situation was quickly dissipating.
I brought her into the kitchen, helped the panting woman sit down, and quickly grabbed a chilled
glass filled with cold water. I handed it to her and she took a few sips, her left hand still clutching
her paining heart.
“I’m really sorry,” announced a voice at the kitchen doorway. Both Bas’s and my own
narrowed eyes looked up to find Pete standing in the doorway holding the bag of medication.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! GET OUT!!” I snarled, coming forth, ripping the
medicines from his hands, and tossing them on the table.
“I just wanted to see if she was doing all right, this week.”
“She was doing fine, until you came along,” I snapped acerbically.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“I think it would be best if you left-”
Suddenly, the soft touch of a hand on my shoulder silenced my invective. “Oliver, calm
down… be nice.”
Incredulously, I wheeled around. “He nearly killed you!” I blurted in a harsh whisper,
rudely pointing at him with my left index finger as I stared at her.
“If a simple surprise could kill me, I would have died long ago,” she said solemnly.
I turned back and stared at the man, who regarded me wide-eyed, as if awaiting my
judgment. Abruptly, arms wrapped around my chest and over my own folded arms, and drew
me close to her. A pointed chin rested on the top of my head, but I didn’t bother looking up. My
eyes were on him. “Please forgive Oliver.” She was looking and speaking at him. “He’s my
protective, little guard dog.” At this point, I turned my head and stared at her, completely
affronted. She ignored my look, and purred gently, “Oliver, why don’t you play your violin for
me?” Just like that, I was dismissed. Thrown away like a used tissue. I pulled away from her
arms, and started stomping up the stairs, but not before shooting that bastard the darkest look in
the world and slamming my door shut.
XxX
Perhaps an hour went by before I opened my door a crack. He was still there, but I was
determined to fix that. I left the room and started down the hall. I heard Bas’s tinkling, little
giggle mixed with a rough and resonant laugh. Their laughter was growing further as I came
closer. I started down the stairs, and what I saw played in slow motion, before my very eyes.
Halfway down the stairs, I peered over the railing to see Bas, smiling, as she held the door open
for Pete to leave.
“Thank you…. I had a wonderful time,” he said gently, eyes heavily lidded as he
regarded my Bas.
Blushing, she looked down in a modest, yet coy manner.
And then it happened. Pete took Bas’s chin in his hand, and tilted it up, so she was
looking straight at him. Slowly, he placed a small peck on her lips, pulled away, and trotted out
the door, leaving Bas staring in awe. I was in just as much shock as she was.
Suddenly, things sped up, and the next thing I knew was, I was on the floor, at the base of
the stairs, with Bas screaming panicking over me. Blood. Lots of warm, sticky blood. Flowing,
dripping, drowning me. My whole world faded to black. The unexpected sight must have caused
me to miss a step and stumble.
Like my heart, I plummeted down the stairs and shattered.
XxX
“Hey! Fuzz Head!” It was my latest title my first day back to school. My tumble required
four stitches and Springshead had to sheer me like a lamb in order to get to the wound on the
back of my head. I just managed to escape the wrath of Montgomery “Monty” Pastor, the private
school’s playground bully. However, the real trouble emerged when I got home, and rolled my
bike through the iron gates of my home and up the cobblestone walkway. Coming toward me,
together, was Bas and Pete, engaged in a merry conversation. Halfway up the hill of the
driveway, I let go of the bike, causing it to cycle in reverse, down the hill, before stumbling on a
crack and tipping over into the grass.
Abruptly, silver eyes glittered as she caught sight of her gawking boy. “Oliver!” she
cried. “Pete’s going to take me to the doctors in his new car!”
I was being replaced by a dunderhead with a fancy car.
“Want to come?” she inquired as he stood behind her, smiling that insipid smile.
I hesitated averting my eyes. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t
acknowledge them. “No, that’s okay, you two have fun,” I said, bitterly.
“Suit yourself,” murmured the moron, before leading Bas away from me.
XxX
It bloomed into summertime, my favorite time of the year; however, that summer was
Hell. It was the three months where Peter Dis came into our lives on a daily basis. It started out
for only brunch before work.
On one particular day, Bas asked me at the breakfast table if I wished to go to the park
with her. It had been years since doing so, and I immediately said I would and we were off,
meandering through one of LA’s many parks.
And then I saw him. Sitting on a park bench, was Peter Dis, waiting for someone.
“Oh, there he is,” sighed Bas with infatuation.
“‘There he is?!’” I repeated incredulously, causing her to look at me curiously. “You
mean you knew he was going to be here?”
“Of course,” she replied, hurrying towards him.
I stared in horror. Bas ran to no one. She was a strong, independent misanthrope, but now
she was running after this obstreperous idiot. And, as always, I was constantly running after her.
With a growl, I tore off, behind her, and stopped as she stood before the lawyer.
He and Bas were already engaged in conversation, when he broke off abruptly and
greeted me with a genial, “Hello, Oliver.”
I only tilted my chin up in acknowledgement and that was all. He stood, offered her the
crook of her arm, and with her free hand, she actually took it. And just like that, they were
laughing and animatedly talking like the best of friends. Or even closer. Cursing myself for not
bringing a book, begrudgingly, I trudged after them, keeping some distance.
It was twilight, while the two stood in privacy on a little bridge over a small stream. I was
on the bridge too, but idly stirring the water with a large stick, eagerly waiting for that date to
end. Then, I heard Bas say hesitantly, “Look… Peter… there’s something I need to tell you….”
Suddenly, I looked up, to find him holding her hands and studying her with his glittering,
golden, half-lidded eyes. A soap opera was about to unfold.
“I… I…” she began, shaking her head, unable to phrase what she wanted to say. She
pulled away from him and took a step back. “Pete… I can’t love….”
He frowned, before smiling insipidly. “Of course you can. Anyone can. Sometimes it’s
hard at first, but love is possible.”
“No,” she replied, desperately shaking her head. “I can’t… love.”
Pete cocked his head; her words were incomprehensible to him.
Dropping the stick into the water so it made a soundly splash, I stood, dusting my hands
off by brushing them together. Without turning, I translated for him, “She can’t have sex.”
“OLIVER!!” snapped Bas, her face crimson with ignominy. It was the first time she had
ever barked my name so loudly out of anger, but it served her right for ditching me for him.
Slowly, I turned around. However, Pete’s eyes were on Bas. “What…?”
She turned away from him, grasping the railing of the bridge for support and stared into
the water. “It’s true…. It’s because of my heart… I can’t love….”
Pete frowned in confusion. He looked at me. “Then how did….” He pointed at me, as if
to say, “If you can’t have sex, how the hell did you make a baby?”
“Oliver’s adopted,” she replied. It wasn’t like one of those cliché stories how it’s
blasphemous to say I was adopted.
Pete stared completely flabbergasted as Bas stared into the water, holding back her mixed
emotions. Smirking to myself, I believed the bastard was going to leave with his tail between his
legs, when abruptly, he drew her close. Both Bas and I stared, as he placed a gentle peck on her
forehead, before kissing her softly on the lips. He held her tight, before nuzzling his head against
hers. “I don’t care… I want to be with you.”
I felt my stomach drop as Bas’s eyes widened.
And after that moment, they became closer. Pete was at our house all the time. She was
laughing and smiling more often than not. He was the one that took her to her doctor’s
appointments, replacing me. And I couldn’t stand a minute of it. I hated it – but because it was
evident Bas was enjoying it, I left it alone. I couldn’t hurt her like that – I couldn’t sabotage her
happiness, even if it taxed me my own happiness. I had caused her enough trouble.
XxX
“I don’t want to,” I informed her, my arms crossed. It was two months later.
“C’mon, Ollie, it will be fun,” Bas purred, before licking the envelope and closing it. She
shot me a look with her pleading eyes.
“Fine,” I groaned, taking the invitation with a roll of my eyes.
“That’s a good boy,” she murmured as she stood. “Ride it over to him, and I will be
shopping for your fourteenth.”
It was a little more than a week until my birthday, and every year, it had always just been
Bas and I. This year, she had the desire to invite Peter Dis. I escaped outside, grabbed my bike,
mounted it, and rode off. He lived about a mile from our home. I pulled into the driveway, before
dismounting, and walking to his door – he had a walkway, but, as always, I chose to violate the
grass. Pulling back my hand to knock and mentally preparing myself to apathetically shove the
invitation in his face, I heard the sound of his rough laughter mixed with a soft, silver laugh.
I paused. Bas was shopping…..
The laughter came again – it was close, on the first floor of the house. Quickly, I jumped
off the porch and ran to the side of the building where I knew a window existed. The window
was slightly cracked, and standing on my tiptoes, I nearly gasped at what I saw. On the kitchen
table’s edge, sat a girl with long, blond tresses down her back. She was naked save for a slip and
bra. Pete was standing against the edge – her legs were wrapped around his waist, while they
engaged in a passionate kiss.
Dizzy with revelation, I pulled away from, the sight and managed to tipsily walk to the
front of the house. What could I do? Did I stay or leave? What about Bas? Did I tell her or did I
hold it in? I was so confused…. But on the plus side, I then had legitimate reason to hate Pete.
I had to break it up. It was bothering me that he was cheating on Bas and I was doing
nothing to stop it. Quickly, I hopped up on the porch and loudly rapped upon the door.
There was a gasp and a little oath of, “Shit.”
“HOLD ON!!” called a voice, and I stood for about five minutes, before a slightly
frazzled, dressed Peter Dis opened the door. He spotted me glaring at him. “Oliver?”
Abruptly, the blond woman pushed passed him, as she whispered, “Bye, Pete.”
He caught me watching him stare after her. “That’s just one of my clients….”
I resisted the urge to ask him if he was that friendly with all his clients.
“But I know you didn’t come here to ask about that. What’s up, Kiddo?”
I shoved the envelope up at him. “Here. Bas wants you to have this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
Bas being blinded by infatuation, was what I wanted to say. Instead, I coldly replied,
“Why don’t you open it and find out?” I turned my back to him and started for my bike, as he
quickly sundered the envelope.
“You’re inviting me to your birthday?” he asked, smiling insipidly with a raise of a cobalt
brow.
“Bas is inviting you to my birthday,” I corrected, climbing onto my bike and kicking the
kickstand back. I wheeled it around to the edge of his driveway as he continued to watch me.
Looking over my shoulder, I informed him, “She likes you as much as I dislike you, and that’s a
lot. It’d be a real shame if you hurt her.” With that, I rode off, leaving him staring.
Once I got home, I was shaking. My mind was racing. What was I supposed to do? It
was an hour, before I heard the front door screech open and Bas appeared in the kitchen. She
smiled at me. “Did you give him the invitation?”
“Yes -Bas,” I said urgently.
“Hmm? How is Pete?” she asked.
“Bas, there’s something I have to tell you,” I breathed.
“What’s that, Little One?”
It was the newfound light glittering in her eyes. The little smile on her lips. The golden
glow of gladness and rapture radiating off of her. I hesitated. Did I really want to break her
heart, again? I had to figure out a way of informing her without killing her.
Now worried, she cocked her head at me who was staring blankly at her as my brain
malfunctioned. “Oliver?”
I licked my lips in thought. “Bas….” I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t rip her happiness from
her. “….I don’t want a chocolate cake,” I informed her quietly and ashamedly.
XxX
My birthday came and passed – I had an urge to inform her there, but then he showed and
she was all alight with joy. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I just held back my sharp tongue.
Indolently, days, months, and years passed in a whirlwind of him and her. During those
dragging years, I even learned to tolerate Pete to some extent. Every time he stupidly told her “I
love you” in his rough and roguish way, she would give a very slight smile. I duly noted she
never said “I love you” in return. She could not. Her heart was on its last crutches – she could
not give it away, for she needed it most. In my own naivety, I thought she was cleverly using him
– the only bumbling idiot to chase after the Ice Princess. It never occurred to me that she might
have had actual feelings for him. I never saw them really kiss – chaste friendship kisses on the
lips – things I saw little children do. No passionate, hot and sticky kisses. Most of the time they
would meet three times a week and talk or go on one of those romantic excursions, dragging me
along. Holding hands was the furthest they went, intimately.
Logically, I reasoned she could not be in love – because he was perfidious and
mendacious, and in books, those characters were defeated and triumphed over by the hero.
Weren’t they? Often, I caught the cur when he was not with Bas, lecherously eyeing other girls,
or I would spot an inconspicuous bruise on his neck. But I knew what to look for. My poor naïve
Bas did not.
However, that was all about to change.
It was late October, two months after my eighteenth birthday, and I was on vacation from
my first year at UCLA, when Bas announced it would be a beautiful day for a walk.
I smiled as I allowed her to drag me through Melrose Avenue towards a little open
terraced café. We both slipped into a free table, where she opened a menu and began to read to
herself. I went to grab a menu, but as I did so, something caught my eye. Eight tables down,
there sat Peter Dis in the middle of yet another liaison, his back towards us, as he vivaciously
conversed with a blonde female. “Shit,” I whispered.
“Oliver!” breathed Bas, looking up and giving me a disapproving look. She never
approved of my must for maledictions.
“We have to go,” I informed her.
She frowned. “Why?”
I started to stand. “I’m allergic to something they put in the tea here.”
An eyebrow rose in confusion. “You are?”
“Yes – there’s a better café on Typhon Way. It’s right by the library, you’ll love it.”
She hesitated before getting up. Taking her hand, I began to tug her along. However, she
stopped abruptly and would not budge. “Oliver, what’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Bas…” I began unsure of what to say. I swallowed, and as I did so, she turned her head
and spotted Pete.
“Ollie, look, it’s Pete,” she murmured to herself, more so than me.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, trying to pull her away from him.
She looked back at me, frowning. “Oliver, stop it! We should be polite and say ‘Hello.’”
“No, that’s okay, I-”
She slipped her thin, delicate hand from my own and started towards him. “Bas, no,
please,” I hissed desperately, following after her. A waiter with a tray walked by, cutting me off.
Impatiently, I tried to squeeze by him, but in doing so, I only trapped myself between him in a
table. “BAS!!” I cried again, but it was too late. She stopped a foot from the table and watched as
Pete locked lips with a new blonde.
I shoved past the waiter, and just as I did so, Bas wheeled away from the scene and began
to blindly run. I caught her and held her tightly in my arms as her sorrow pulled us both to the
ground. Her face was pressed against my chest as she intimately whispered, “I want to go home,”
into my heart. As I held her, I felt her timorously trembling; her breaths coming fast; her heart
beating out of control. Hundreds of eyes fell on us. We were out of place and Bas was in the
middle of possibly having a fatal heart attack. Tenderly, I helped her to her feet. “C’mon,” I
whispered soothingly. “Let’s go inside.”
I wanted to get inside before he made it worse. However, the scene was too big for the
couple to avoid it. The craning and rubbernecking of the other diners caused them both to look
back with curiosity. Amber eyes widened in shock, as I slipped inside with Bas. I helped her into
a bench seat and declared an emergency and demanded water from the front counter. They eyed
Bas panting in the corner and quickly handed me a glass of water. I ran it over to her, and began
to fumble around in my sweatshirt pocket and produced pills that would cause her heart to slow.
“Take this,” I said as gently as I could, opening it and shoving it at her.
She did, and soon she began to calm. It was just the initial shock of the moment. And of
course, as she eased, that meant the dark-haired idiot had to come boisterously barging in.
This caused Bas to turn her head and look over the back of the seat, towards the door.
“Shit,” I uttered, quickly sliding from the seat and rushing to the door. I grabbed him by
the tie and pulled him out the door.
Densely, the lawyer-idiot looked at me. “Oliver, I need to speak to-”
“No, you don’t,” I growled dangerously.
He didn’t take the warning and started to pull away.
I caught him by the collar, pulling his face down so that we were face-to-face. “You
break her heart any further, and I’ll break your face.” He was about a foot taller than me, could
kick my ass to a blood pulp, and to top it all off, he could have probably then sued me. At that
point, I didn’t care. We eyed each other, before I shoved him away from me. Huffily, I jogged
back to the doors and went inside, but not before shooting him a dark look over my shoulder.
XxX
Thankfully, she did not suffer a heart attack that day. After she had calmed, I brought her
back home via a taxi, and upon returning, she took to bed. The next day, she remained in bed.
It was about mid afternoon, when there was a knock upon the door. Languidly, I got off
the divan with my current novel and went to the door. I had a feeling I knew who it would be,
and my acute insight proved right.
There in the doorway stood Peter Dis. “Let me speak to Bas-”
Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorframe, blocking him from entry. “She’s in
dispose,” I informed him.
A growl of frustration escaped him as he came forward. “Oliver, let me in.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to Bas-”
I waggled the green, leather-bound book at him. “I told you, yesterday, ‘No, you don’t.’”
“You don’t understand, I need to tell Bas something,” he said a little more desperately.
“No, you don’t understand,” I growled, standing up straight. “Ever wonder why she
wouldn’t return your ‘I love you’s? It’s because she knew if she ever gave anyone her heart, it
would eventually be shattered. She cut herself off from people for a reason. They’re all vile,
lying, cheating scum like you. She trusted you – and you kept up your liaisons for years. How
disgusting! Your total worth amounts to less than the words used to dismiss you., you
chromosome-botched ambulance chasing-”
“You spoiled brat,” escaped him in the form of a deadly growl. He started forwardWith lightening speed, I turned and slammed the door shut, my back pressed against the
wooden panels and my heart racing in my chest. There was a soundly thud and the door jumped
against Peter’s great strength. I gasped in horror.
However, I looked up to find Bas at the top of the stairs, fully dressed. Slowly, she began
to descend the steps and came to the door. She reached past me and pulled open the front door.
I peered around Bas, through the space between her elbow and body as her hand rested
on her hip. Her brow was set and stoic. I could feel the coldness radiating off her. But I remained
quiet and stared at Pete from behind the safety of Bas. “What do you want, Peter?”
“I’m sorry, Bas… Sorry… I’m so sorry,” he whispered with a contrite shake of his head.
“Pete...” began Bas, gently. “Do you want to break up?”
Abruptly, golden eyes widened in complete and utter horror.
“You can go out with all the girls you want. All the healthy girls you please,” she
continued, apathetically. She had had enough pain in her heart.
“Bas – if you don’t want me to cheat, just say the words. I just-”
She cut him off. “You expect me to say that?”
“Bas…”
“I can’t do anything for you. I just make you suffer. I feel sorry for you. This was
hopeless from the start,” she replied.
Still in shock, he managed, “Bas… Tell me never to sleep with a girl again! And I’ll do
it!” He stepped up on the porch and took her hand. “I swear to God, I won’t ever betray you.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I’m going to be gone soon, anyway-”
“I won’t let you die! Get the operation, you’ll get better, I promise.”
“You’re telling me to get an operation that has a higher mortality rate than success rate? I
won’t get it for Oliver’s sake, what makes you think I’ll do it for yours?”
“You won’t die!”
“Don’t be so foolish,” she whispered quietly, as she took a hold of the door and began to
slowly shut it on the lawyer.
“Bas! Wait!” he called.
She paused in her closing of the door, leaving only a sliver of Pete visible.
“All the girls I slept with looked like you,” he said. “So, they were all
beautiful…”Awkwardly, he hesitated a second, before he turned and started on the path.
Gently, Bas shut the door on him and turned, her back pressed against the wood for
support. And for the second time in two days, I witnessed her crumble, as she bowed her head
and hid her tearing eyes with her hands in frustration. Once more, I took her into my arms and
soothed her, promising to never let her go. It looked like I finally won.
XxX
It was a long and miserable winter for Bas. Like before, she continued to carry herself
with great and strong aplomb, but there was a touch of sorrow in her silver eyes. There was no
more Pete. Nearly a year went by, before I was free from the clutches of college and I was able
to take her out again. It was a cool, seventy-five degree Saturday in June, when Bas wanted to go
out for a walk. Together, we strolled through Melrose Avenue. We were halfway down it,
admiring the beauty of the street and the people, when abruptly I felt her grip my hand tightly.
She was standing there like a deer in the headlights.
“Bas, what’s-” I followed her gaze to find, approximately four feet from us, a hairedhaired man was animatedly conversing with another man. “C’mon,” I encouraged. “Let’s just-”
Suddenly, the other dismissed Peter Dis with a hand, causing the Beast to turn. Sharp,
golden eyes fell upon her, and my Bas grasped at her pitter-pattering heart. The shock of the
moment combined with the heat caused her to begin to pant, trying to catch her breath. Silver
eyes rolled back, and I watched as my Bas fell- I just managed to catch her, so we both sank
slowly to the cement ground.
“BAS?!”called a rancorous voice, as Pete came bounding forward. He got on his knees
and leaned over her. I would have punched him in the face, if it wasn’t for the fact that my dying
mother was lying on my lap.
A dark look sufficed, before I called at the staring people, “PLEASE!! SOMEONE
CALL AN AMBULANCE!!”
We both looked down at Bas. She was panting heavily and there were crystal tears
welling in her silver eyes. “Peter…” she managed breathlessly, a fait smile curling on her
crimson lips.
“Bas…” he whispered, his hands on either side of her narrow shoulders as he bent inches
from her face.
“I love you….” She managed, before losing consciousness.
I stared in horror. The three words she had never uttered to me… she easily gave to him.
She had to be delirious. Her heart was pounding and her mind was racing. It was a crazed little
moment for her. It was like one of those melodramatic soap operas. It was the overtly dramatic
air of the moment goading her weak heart and mind. She couldn’t have meant it. She couldn’t
have….
“BAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSS!!” I howled skyward.
XxX
It was Peter and I racing one another after her cot with wheels. She had regained
consciousness but she was still dying. Quickly, she was veered into a hospital room and two
nurses barred us from entry. This wasn’t enough for Pete – he tried to shove past them but they
surprisingly held the bastard back. Proof nurses are strong women. Desperately, the lawyer
snarled over them, “DOCTOR!! PLEASE, SAVE HER!!!” he demanded. “PLEASE!!”
I stared as Springstead ignored him. Golden eyes began to grow slightly misty as his fear
turned to rage. “JACKASS, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!! YOU BETTER SAVE HER OR
I’LL SUE YOU FOR MALPRACTICE!!”
“BE QUIET,” barked Springstead over his shoulder. Then to the nurses, he demanded,
“Get him out of here!!”
The girls began to shove him back while he jumped against them, crying, “BAS!!” I took
the opportunity to sneak inside.
“Doctor…” she managed breathlessly.
“Bas,” he began. “You’re dying. The only way I can save you, is if you consent to the
operation.”
Heavily, she panted before giving a slight bounce of her platinum head.
He studied her with a faint smile as I stood in the corner, eyes wide with horror. “You’re
consenting? It’s because of the loud one, isn’t it? If so, tell me you want to live for the fool. I
have to hear the words – liability, you know.”
The moment she uttered she wanted to live, I died.
End
AJ Bull
Mr. Zervanos
AP Lit & Comp.
“Decisions”
The day began like any other. Warmth radiating from under the covers kept my body so
entranced I felt like I never wanted to get up. I dozed back off into a sort of limbo, a mindset in
between sleep and consciousness where little is felt but all sensations are amazing at the same
time. My alarm went off for the second time; I could barely hear it let alone reach for the off
switch. But I did.
It was a Tuesday. The sun was shining. I walked down the stairs one step at a time. I
counted each landing out loud. There were 16 counting the first floor. My mother hugged me like
she did every morning. She said she always wanted to be able to say she hugged me before I left,
just in case I didn’t make it home. She was always sentimental like that.
Getting to school on time was never my specialty; in actuality, it wasn’t even a possibility
most days. Today was different though. Today was my first race of high school. You see, I run. I
never considered myself an expert or even decent at anything else. Over the years running has
become more than who I am; it’s become my life. This race, this challenge today, was going to
be the one to sum up my life, or at least the first rigorous test of my running career as a
freshman.
School never felt so agonizing. The minutes passed so slowly I felt like time had frozen
in a desperate attempt to mock my excitement and anticipation. This was it though; nothing, not
time, not anything, was going to make this day any less memorable. My thoughts kept going
back to the same place every couple of minutes. What’s my strategy going to be? Do I just want
to push the entire race or try to pace myself to make sure I can sprint those last three hundred
meters? My mind was racing, literally. I couldn’t think of anything else other than those five
kilometers that were calling my name.
The final bell rang. A smile instantly rose to my face stretching from ear to ear. I rushed
down to the locker room to get changed. We only had a few minutes before the bus left for Pine
Bush Park, the site of our first official race as a team this year. I was changed and ready in less
than 2 minutes and waiting on the bus in fewer than 5. The seniors all climbed the rungs of the
bus. Bill, who I knew from years before, glided past me and sat two rows back. I felt a tap on my
shoulder. “You ready big guy?” Bill asked. All I had to do was nod. He knew I’d be ready.
Months of preparation and long runs came to this moment. Our conversation died after that and
my focus went back to mentally preparing myself for the race. A couple minutes later, we arrived
at the park.
Everyone quickly unloaded from the bus taking their bags with them. We set up our tent
near the edge of the park to avoid being crowded and mainly because we were already somewhat
late. I threw my bag down and, along with a few others, took off on a warm up run. My quads
felt so tight from those sprints the day before. The only thing cutting the silence was the sound of
our feet slapping the gravel trail. My classmates were nervous and anxious while the
upperclassmen showed no sign of fear or anxiety in their faces. The first race is nothing except a
trial against your own mind. Every runner needed to prove that they knew what they could do. I
knew I had to push myself to the limit to achieve that spot on varsity that I wanted so badly.
Before I knew it, everyone had worked up a sweat and was heading back to the tent. I followed,
purposely lagging behind to think.
The whistle blew; 5 minutes until the JV boy’s race takes off.
“Coach, what would I have to run in this race to be considered for varsity in the next
one?” I asked eagerly. He looked me up and down in a way that made me feel like I was being
judged off of my stance or my size.
Our eyes finally met again as he uttered, “Let’s aim for an 18 your first race son. Most of
you freshman don’t really know how long a 5k is until you his that second mile gasping for
breath and clawing your way up that hill.”
His words struck me harder than a MAC track. What if I wasn’t ready? What if I couldn’t
do it? What if…? Finally I stopped questioning myself and just relaxed. It was about time to put
on my spikes, lacing them up as tight as they could go until I couldn’t feel my toes. The spikes
were weightless and were as snug as a sock. Perfect.
Approaching the line, I looked around to see my competition. Everyone was bouncing
around to keep their legs loose and make it appear like they weren’t nervous. I knew they were;
who wouldn’t be nervous in a situation like this?
“Everyone to the starting line!” a stranger in a funny orange hat announced to all the
runners. I got myself into position, with a decent arm forward to use as momentum to get away
from the pack. “Runners on your mark! Get Set!...” The gun went off and I was gone.
My legs were moving and the time had come for me to step up. The first mile was easy; I
pushed only when I desperately needed to keep my position at the front of the pack. The other
boys were rougher than I had anticipated. The backs of my calves were dripping blood from
getting spiked by the other runners trying to claim my spot in the front pack. I wasn’t going to let
anyone pass me; at least that was my goal. I was approaching the second mile marker and my
heart was pounding in my chest. I could see first place struggling about twenty meters in front of
me. This was the hill that my teammates had talked about. “Save it for two-mile. That thing's a
bitch.” Bill told me pre race. All I had to do was just keep pushing no matter how much it hurt.
The rest of the race was just a painful blur until that glorious second where I crossed the finish
line.
First place; I won in 17:23. I looked to my left to see my family standing next to the
finish line cheering and mouthing my name. I couldn’t hear them, not one sound. I looked over
again to see her standing there. Her name was Jess. We had recently started dating and she came
to support me in my first race. That was definitely an added bonus. It was the perfect day.
Suddenly and surprisingly I clenched the ropes of the chute and puked all over my new crosscountry shoes. “Damnit. That was smooth.” I uttered to myself as I avoided Jess’s stare.
After the first race, all the others seemed to blend together. Cross country season ended,
winter track came and went, and spring track began. The distance was far shorter but my effort
didn’t change whatsoever. I classified myself as a distance runner from day one knowing that I
could run forever if I was asked to. I became the team’s mile runner along with running the eight
hundred meters. My first year running in high school and I was blowing everyone away. By the
end of my freshman year, I already had three varsity letters under my belt.
Sophomore year passed so quickly I barely remember any one event clearly. The races
were all the same. I had gotten better but not to an extent worth talking about. It really was a year
that did not matter.
Junior year finally arrived. By this time I was much more committed to running. I spent
my summer taking runs with the team or enjoying long distance jogs on the beach in the
morning. Anything that could be done to put me at the top of my game, I did.
The first practice opened my eyes in more than one way. Yes, I was a very good runner,
but I wasn’t the best anymore. I discovered that I would have to follow second to another runner
who was a year younger than me. We were friends so I never openly felt any anger or jealousy
towards him, but truth be told, it always vexed me slightly. On my own I’d try to catch up to
him. I’d try to make myself faster or have more endurance but nothing was working. I couldn’t
build myself up more than I already had; I seemed to have pushed myself to the limit. I never
accepted this fact, I always told myself that I had to push harder and become better. Second place
wasn’t for me.
All my concentration went into running. I’d run day in and day out. Grades weren’t even
an issue in my mind until they sunk so low that it threatened my athletic career. At that point, I
didn’t care for anything besides running and being the best. When my grades finally became
such a large problem that my parents were constantly yelling at me it was already too late. They
even threatened to ban me from running. They honestly believed that they could ban me from the
one thing I loved. If that strategy actually worked I would have started doing my homework back
when the school threatened to bench me from the team.
My attitude kept slipping but I didn’t care. I had it all. I was a great runner, getting by in
school, and I had a great girl who loved me. I probably should have cared, because everything
began to change. The more egotistical I got about my runner and life in general, the more Jess
and I fought. My life began to drain away one thing at a time. First, my girlfriend; what would be
next?
Cross country season went as planned. I ran my races and was rewarded for doing well
with yet another varsity letter to add to my collection. I was in perfect shape physically.
As the middle of November rolled around I was getting ready for a meet up-state at one
of the hardest courses in Pennsylvania. My nerves were calm and utterly relaxed. Ever since that
first race freshman year no race had fazed me. I’m not sure whether it was because I had become
so well known and respected or because I thought of myself as so talented that I did not need to
worry anymore.
The race took off like all the others. My position was solid in the front pack of fifteen
guys. I took each stride perfectly. Every step moved me closer and closer to the first place
runner. I felt myself begin to get more interested in that leading position. In my mind, I needed it.
I needed to be first. I needed to win this race. This race was so important. I needed to prove that
not even the hardest course they could find would stop me.
Reaching the second mile seemed like child’s play. I could feel every muscle in my leg
cushioning my every step. The breathing I practiced was starting to fail me. For every breath
intended breathe, I had to take two extra to supply my body with enough oxygen to keep moving.
I pushed this worry to the back of my mind; I was in perfect shape, nothing could be wrong.
I made it two and a half miles in before I began to feel like something was not
functioning properly. There was no pain, no obvious sign of weakness. Any random spectator
would not have been able to guess that I was faltering. My rhythm began to skip beats causing
my feet to become unsynchronized with my breathing. I tried my hardest to get everything back
into line, and I succeeded for nearly a minute. Less than a mile to go and I’m falling apart. I
reached my foot and dug my spike into the ground in an attempt to pull myself forward.
Agonizing pain surged up through my right leg until finally subsiding in my hip. It was only a
brief shot of pain before I felt nothing again. I took two more steps and then suddenly it felt as if
I could not even walk anymore, let alone run. My hip was in extreme pain with every move I
made. Each step forward was torture. I had to decide how important finishing the race was, and if
I could even make it to the finish line after the fact.
I kept pushing up the hill, and around the bend until the finish line was in sight. My eyes
were tearing up with pain which was now almost a constant throb in the middle of my hip. With
300 meters left to go, each step was a battle. I knew my family was there, cheering me on,
expecting me to do my normal medal winning performance. I couldn’t let them down, I couldn’t
let myself down, not this time, not ever. I needed to be stronger than this injury; I needed to fight
it. But I couldn’t.
Over a minute later I hopped across the finish line. Coach’s face showed obvious
confusion at what had just occurred. His face seemed to come alive and say everything he
wanted to say to me. He looked ashamed at the way I had just preformed. I couldn’t tell him I
was injured; it was much easier to let him think I had a crappy race. I’d rather be a loser than a
weakling. The team questioned me about why I had done so horribly. I couldn’t really say
anything other than the fact that I was sorry.
The next week passed slowly. My walking was improving but I still struggled during
practice to keep up, or even keep moving. The pain was so strong, and my confidence had been
so badly damaged that I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to pick myself back up again.
During this recover period my relationship was on the rocks. It seemed like every time
something would go wrong with me Jess would start a fight with me. In my mind it was always
her starting the fights. She was always the one with the friend or family problems. I’d get so
angry because her life was so easy while I’m struggling to hold onto my track career. Sometimes
I would just tell her that she didn’t know what I was going through. I was the one working hard
for something. I was the one falling behind in school. I was the one who had so much to do. I
always made it about me, like my life was so much more important than hers. I never really
appreciated her. I guess it’s not much of a shock that she broke up with me. She stayed with me
for two years through everything. Why was this so different? Was I really getting that bad that
the girl who fell in love with me couldn’t stand to be around me anymore? Oh well, if she
couldn’t be there for me, then she’s not worth it.
Later that night I got to thinking about relationships. I let mine slide through my fingers
when I had someone who was extremely supportive of me and always there for me, but I just
didn’t care. My track career was on the line and I was injured. Things were taking such a bad
turn but I was letting it happen. I let everything go.
Meets kept coming and my hip slowly healed. Winter track came and went with no
amazing times or interesting stories of me succeeding in a race or surprising anyone and
winning. I was no longer a shining star on the track team; I was just another member. Spring
track came around again. I had to prove myself this year if I wanted a spot as captain next year. I
had to prove myself after what happened earlier this year.
I pushed myself harder than ever before to get ready for the season. Lifting became a
hobby to strengthen my upper body while running kept my leg muscles in shape for races. My
limits were being tested. I don’t exactly know what made me try so hard. It might have been the
fact that I had lost everything else I ever had. The perfect life I possessed freshman year was far
from what I was living anymore. Everything was okay though. I always told myself I’d get my
life back on track; I’d be that person again.
Four or five races into the season I started to get back into my groove. It seemed like I
was running decent times and they were only getting better as the weeks went on. My mile
dropped twenty-five seconds and I moved my way back into the high ranks of high school
runners. With everything improving, I needed to put more effort into training harder; being better
isn’t being the best. I needed to drop at least ten more seconds off of my mile for it to actually
feel like I was worth something again. My weeks revolved around training my body to be the
ultimate running machine. I would take runs every day after school followed by lifting in the
schools weight room. My diet was strictly healthy except on days that I needed to carbo-load to
have enough energy to put my all into a race. Evenings were spent sleeping, and homework just
never really found its way into my busy schedule.
The training paid off when I finally made it to states. I couldn’t contain myself I was so
ecstatic over the idea that I finally made it. There was no way to top what I was feeling. To add
to the good news, I was also told that the state competition would be close to home. This meant
that everyone could come watch me run and cheer me on. Everyone would be able to watch me
do what I love.
The day of states arrived. I got on the bus just like every other meet and took my seat on
the middle left side. Everyone had their own seat due to that fact that only about five of us went
to compete. Today was the day. This was it. “Balls to the wall.” I announced to my fellow
teammates and then settled down for the forty-five minute ride. For the first time in years, I was
nervous. I felt like there was so much pressure on me to do well, to excel. Nothing could calm
me down except the fact that my family would be there to watch me; the fact that my family
would be rooting for me and that there was a chance that a state medal could be added to my
collection which hung from my wall in groups of ten.
The bus arrived at the track. We all jumped off in a hurry hoping to get a good spot on
the bleachers and maybe sleep for an hour or two. It was only 8 o’clock and the first events were
scheduled to begin for another 2 hours. No one knew why we had arrived so early, but we didn’t
bother to question the coach. He always seemed to have a good reason for each of his movement.
I grabbed my phone and texted Jess, letting her know that if she wasn’t doing anything I would
be running in states today and it would be awesome if she could be there. I put my phone away
quickly and laid down for a cat nap. If she was going to text me back, I could read it when I got
up.
The first events begin as my eyes opened. The gun startled me out of my sleep but I was
pleased with being awoken. Jack, the first of our runners, was running in the open eight hundred
meter which was preparing to take off. I stood at the fence as he ran and tried to keep him
motivated for the full two laps. By the end of his run, he had set a new school record. Jack’s
success made the coach expect even more out of the rest of us. “Today’s the perfect day for fast
times,” he’d tell us “just let your legs do all the work.”
Two or three more events passed. I watched with anticipation and prepared myself
mentally for my own challenge that day. My eyes wandered constantly looking for my family
and hoping to maybe see her face smiling at me from out in the crowd. I didn’t have any luck but
I just figured they would be showing up later.
It was time for my event. I laced up my spikes and got myself to the starting line. Lane
three was mine. The boy next to me was wearing garnet and white. He shook my hand and
wished me luck. I wished him the same but of course I didn’t mean it. My best foot was forward
and I was ready to take off. The gun sounded. “Slow & steady,” I kept telling myself. Of course I
didn’t really mean slow, but I guess the saying just made sense at the time. I just had to
remember to pace myself or I’d tire out and that was unacceptable. My feet were flying and I
couldn’t feel a thing. It all felt so natural. I was a runner, nothing more nothing less.
Lap one was lost in a fury of pushing and shoving. Lap two was a positioning lap where
I kept my spot in the front five, off the shoulder of third place. Lap three rolled around and I was
sitting on another runner from a nearby school. I knew he was a fast miler and would help me get
a qualifying time for nationals. He wasn’t hard to keep up with. Maybe it was all my training
kicking in.. With only meters to go my heart was racing. My body was strong but still struggling
to gain the power to pass the first place runner. Three hundred meters to go and I was still in the
top five. Deftly, I pulled out into lane two to sprint down the back stretch to make my move. I
got myself into second position right as we hit the turn. Two hundred meters left. The leader
almost ten meters in front of me looked as though he was struggling. Could this be happening?
State championship and all I have to do was kick. Before I knew it, the leader’s adrenaline
kicked in and he was off. I quickly responded breaking my mile stride into an all out sprint. My
had was thrown backwards as I threw my arms forward. My legs began to burn and spots started
forming on the outside of my vision. With every step I took the leader came that much closer.
With all my might I threw my body across the line and lost my balance which caused me to fall
forward. Lying on my back I had a perfect view of the scoreboard; Raffner 1st 4:03.6.
Laughing and smiling I got to my feet and looked around for my family. Not a single
person I knew stood in the bleachers. I checked the snack bar, the bathrooms, and the standing
areas. No one came. I told them all I was running, and I just ran faster than I ever have in my
entire life, but no one was there. I called my mom only to hear her answer saying, “Hey, sorry I
didn’t have time to come up and watch you today, I just had a few more important errands to
run.” More important…? What was more important than watching your son?
I later realized it wasn’t just my mom. No one showed up at all mainly because no one
cared. When I questioned my family as to where they were, and why they never showed, they
had stupid excuses that didn’t make much sense. Tears ran down my face after yelling at so
many people about what they missed.
Later that night my mom came into my room to explain herself. I told her there was no
need and I get that other things were more important than me. She replied and told me that there
were no important things that she had to do; she just couldn’t go. She said that lately I have been
throwing my life away for a sport. I was uncaring towards others, especially my ex-girlfriend
Jess, and I needed to learn that if I kept treating people like they don’t matter, I’ll stop mattering
to them.
So that day no one came to my race. No one saw me run the best time of my life. No one
was there to support me. No one cared all because of the way I had acted and treated other
people. Life is about treating people the way you want to be treated. If I had just been there for
other people, and cared about them more than myself and my running, I’d have an amazing life
again. I gave up everything for running, until finally running was the only thing I had left.
Jason Buchanan
JRB4990@yahoo.com
The Island
All at once the smell comes rushing back to me. It’s a rather odd combination—fish, sun
warmed linens moistened by the humidity, the sea. At times I don’t even realize what it is I
smell; it just conjures this image of my summer there, seemingly out of thin air. I had read once
that your olfactory senses are the strongest connections to your memory. It seemed logical, at
least in my own experiences.
I can still remember the smell in the air as I waited outside and saw my cousin for the
first time. The June heat weighed itself upon my sweating shoulders; the air was wet as though it
had just rained. The stale odor of air conditioning escaped into the summer night through the
automatic doors. I had just swallowed a few crackers, remnants from the long plane ride. She
called out to me, waving and smiling. She looked shorter and slightly stockier than I had
gathered from family photographs. Yet she still had the same effervescent smile, inviting and
warm. Her overjoyed demeanor exuded this overwhelming sense of enthusiasm. However, I was
just tired. I probably looked disappointed or even sad. The plane ride had left me exhausted and
I could barely muster a smile, let alone a half-hearted greeting.
“I am so happy to see you,” she said, still smiling.
I was embarrassed, I couldn’t think. I was always slow with my words, and the only
thing I was able to say was, “Thank you.” My cousin laughed at me. Her eyes seemed slightly
sarcastic, as if she had just stopped herself from rolling them back towards her head. I imagined
her thinking, What have I gotten myself into? She took my suitcase without hesitating. She
refused to let me carry it even as I explained to her it wasn’t any big deal in the sloppy patois that
became our mode of communication. “Really, it’s okay. I can take the bag from you,” I
managed interspersing English where it wasn’t necessary. Despite my efforts, she resisted.
“Who is this? Is this really my sister’s daughter?” my aunt asked my cousin upon seeing
me for the first time in five years. She laughed and smiled like her daughter.
“Certainly,” I proclaimed as I bent to hug her.
“Oh, you are so pretty. You look so American, not at all like your mother. It’s a good
thing we have photographs or I would never have recognized you.” She smiled again, as did I,
and then I realized she was probably serious. My aunt continued to revel in my supposed
American charm and good looks, incessantly paying me undeserved compliments that I didn’t
completely understand. I looked back at her blankly. I nodded and smiled as her voice reached a
crescendo and I laughed politely when she joked about my light brown hair, traces of my father.
I wished to tell her how my mother’s hair had grayed. She’s an old lady now I wanted to joke, if
I could only find the words. But the moment passed and my aunt showed me to my room and
told me there was some food to eat in the kitchen.
“My stomach’s full. No thank you. May I go to sleep?” I asked her.
“Sleepy? Go to bed, you’ll need your sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.” My aunt patted
my head and my cousin, still looking on, nudged me in the ribs in an attempt at familial
affection. I forced a nervous smile and politely shut the door after I heard them walk down the
hall.
As I sat down on the floor and unrolled the bedding, I tried to recall my thought process
as I agreed to this months ago. My mother had spent another hour making a very long distance
call to my aunt. The two always spoke to each other in their native language so rapidly that I
only understood half of what my mother said. I sat at the kitchen table doing my math
homework across from where my mother sat with the telephone. Once she had said goodbye,
she turned her gaze upon me. Her eyes glistened and she bit her lip as she suppressed a knowing
smile.
“So,” she looked at me as if she were about to relay a funny joke.
“So,” I replied, still focused on parabolas and ellipses. I wasn’t interested.
“What would you think about spending a summer back home?” She always called it that.
This was my home. I had been born there, but that country remained a strange and alien place. It
was my mother’s home—not mine. I was as able to call it my home as my father was. My
pencil point snapped; I looked towards her and asked, “What?” as if I hadn’t been paying
attention.
“A summer with your aunt and uncle and cousin?”
I wanted to get up and sharpen my pencil. I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. I
shrugged, an unspoken signal for her to speak.
“I think it would be a good experience for you, even if you don’t think so right now.”
My mother continued to look at me imploringly, desperate for my approval. Although the entire
prospect terrified me, I remained silent. I was unable to communicate my instant misgivings.
“Well,” my mother said as she pushed a chair back under the kitchen table. “I just want
you to develop a relationship with your cousin.” She spoke quickly, punctuated by brief sighs
that indicated her growing frustration with me.
I faced her, my lips pursed angrily. I was filled with contempt—she seemed to blame me
for the vast distance between our families. It was scarcely my fault I had never met my cousin. I
could only scoff, “Someone thousands of miles away…” I stopped myself and let my sentence
linger. “I need to finish this,” I added gesturing towards the math homework. She got up and
left wordlessly.
I awoke to the sounds of traffic and rain beating against the pavement. I pulled back the
curtains and looked down onto the street below. In the midst of my reverie my cousin crept in
quietly. Her fingers touched my shoulders, and I jumped taken aback.
“You scared me!” I exclaimed in hurried, exasperated English. Realizing my mistake, I
tried my best to repeat myself in her language.
“No, I am sorry,” my cousin said in English, trilling her Rs. “You were,” she continued
while enacting my evidently over zealous reaction. She chuckled, and trying to have a sense of
humor about myself, I smiled back.
My cousin took me to some expansive fish market renowned throughout her large city
later that day. We walked along the numerous aisles and stalls, passing assortments of sea
creatures in varying stages of life and death. She paused occasionally to utter in a low voice
words I didn’t recognize. I nodded, guessing they were the names for the decaying marine life.
Intermittently, she would whisper, “Delicious,” while rubbing her stomach, obviously to ease my
comprehension.
At one stall she began to talk to the vendor. As she complained and haggled, she
motioned towards ostensibly enormous shrimp. They were the size of my hand and their gray
skin looked wholly unappetizing. The black eyes, still attached, seemed dejected and desultory,
no longer able to convey any sort of expression—not that a shrimp could in the first place. A
bizarre sense of sadness infected me. Perhaps it was homesickness, but I immediately attributed
my grief to the dead shrimp. It was nothing to be unhappy about, yet it affected me nonetheless.
I grimaced. My cousin, having settled upon a price, turned towards me with questioning eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine…I just haven’t seen shrimp so large.” Her eyes didn’t leave me as she tied the
plastic bag’s ends into a knot. She nodded, as though large shrimp were an acceptable reason for
appearing so melancholy. Suddenly, this feeling of pressure and tension became palpable. The
lack of words between us felt awkward and unnatural. I would say anything to her. I would tell
her how I could never tolerate silence, yet I was never able to say anything. I would tell her how
my unbearable self-consciousness would not allow me to say any of this. I would tell her
everything that had happened to me. I laughed, albeit uncomfortably, thinking this would efface
my present problems. My ridiculous, phony laughter was hardly a deterrent. It was high pitched
and abrupt, and terribly abnormal. My throat felt swollen; I was choking with shame and then,
“Really, shrimp are gray when fresh?” Without waiting for a reply, I started to continue down
the aisle.
My mother was young when she met my father. He was stationed abroad, where my
mother lived. Their relationship was ill conceived, and I imagined some torrid fling that
developed into marriage. The marriage only distanced my mother further from her parents and
her homeland. I was the result of this union, and I always felt as though there was some invisible
stigma branded across my forehead. For her family, I was the reason she didn’t come back.
Perhaps my mother hadn’t realized it then, maybe not even now. I always knew her
reasons for sending me so far away that summer. Three months earlier my father had left us. He
rendered my mother a nomad. She had no ties to America, a land I called my home—a name she
would never call it. I left so she could grieve in private. She blamed herself for the things she
now knew. She would have to adapt to a different life.
We drove to the airport in near silence. Occasionally she would mutter curses intended
for the other drivers. My mother watched the road stoically, a secret cache of emotions within. I
selfishly believed the sadness seeping from her eyes was intended for me. It wasn’t, even though
I tried to convince myself otherwise. As she pulled over by the terminal, tears began to stream
down her ashen cheeks. I did my best to ignore it, and she wouldn’t want me to acknowledge
her weaknesses anyway. I hurriedly opened the door and walked around to the trunk to retrieve
my suitcase. She was still sitting in the car. Before I reached the driver’s side door, she opened
it and I stepped back.
“Bye, Mom.”
She delicately wiped the tears from her face and told me she loved me. I understood she
couldn’t add anything else. “I love you too,” I said almost in a whisper. I picked up my suitcase
and walked towards the revolving doors of the terminal. I looked back when I had reached the
check in line. I’m still not sure why; I wasn’t expecting to see her parked in the midst of traffic.
She had driven off already, as I had assumed.
Towards the end of that rainy month, my cousin took me south to that fated, tragic city.
Knowing the small amount from history classes at school, I half expected lingering devastation
from that August of sixty years ago—the sting of radiation infecting my skin. But I was being
foolish. The city had revived itself. Springing from the roots of verdant mountains, the city
extended to the aquamarine inland sea littered with islands. The thirsty shores waded lazily in
the shallow waters of the channel. But our final destination was not this city. As my aunt had
told me earlier, the spirit of the country looked across that once desolate place. It was a silent
sentinel surrounded by water, impartial and unaffected by the changing tides.
After disembarking the tourist ferry, my cousin proceeded to a nearby booth adjacent to
the beach. I sauntered slowly off the dock, while taking note of a doe still spotted with youth
resting in the shade of a pine tree. My cousin tried to keep two bicycles balanced as she wheeled
them towards me.
“I only have enough money to rent them for two hours,” she said, indicating the bicycles,
“but the boat leaves an hour later. We may have to walk back and forth.”
I nodded.
“I mismanaged the time.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“No, it’s later than I expected. We still have a long train ride home and I know you’re
probably tired.”
She looked tired—perhaps I did too. My cousin appeared exhausted and weary, vastly
different from the cheerful young woman who greeted me at the airport nearly a month ago. She
was the first person to be happy to see me in this country. I felt a connection with her outside of
our familial relations. And now, I believed, she thought of me as a burden. I was like a small
child, needing constant guidance, something she had not anticipated. Yet she had been happy to
see me once, a month ago, regardless of our being cousins. I knew that much. She had wanted to
know me, and I couldn’t give her that satisfaction.
I straddled the bicycle and began to pedal slowly to allow my cousin to take the lead.
Pine trees lined the area between the pavement and the shore, and deer dozed in the shadows.
The tide had gone out towards the channel and the sentinel stood in a swamp of moist sand. My
eyes were fixated upon it, and my bicycle propelled itself effortlessly. I found myself
magnetized to its simplicity, to its unadorned quiet splendor. There was a distinct beauty in its
silence.
My cousin applied the breaks and got off of her bicycle. I did the same. “Shall we go?”
she asked, indicating the sentinel. I nodded and began to remove my sandals. I descended the
concrete steps that led to the beach, which melted into the pools remaining from the waning tide.
My slick feet treaded gingerly over the slippery expanse. The temple on the shore dedicated to
the shrine seemed imposing. The bronze lanterns anchored to the dock had turned emerald with
age, and the open-mouthed stone lions looked towards the water commandingly. Despite the
heat on my back, I shivered and my feet grew colder as the water deepened. The sentinel lay just
ahead. A man-made island of solitude in the center of the churning waters. The black paint at
the bases did little to hide the corroding wood.
I touched the pillars and felt the paint flake away beneath my fingers. I turned and saw
that my cousin had entered under the arch. She stood in the dark water of the shadow and looked
towards the evening sun, hidden behind the mountains of the city. The light illuminated her
richly dark eyes, gilding the subtle specks of her irises. A tear glistened as it flowed down her
cheek. I didn’t say anything.
The beauty of the place was overpowering. I wanted to believe it was the stillness that
had overtaken my cousin. I imagined she had surrendered herself to her emotions. She had
imploded, crumbling in upon herself while she remained standing. I imagined I was the Enola
Gay; I had done this to her and I had retreated, watching from afar. I guess I should’ve asked if
she was feeling all right. But I didn’t ask any questions. They would have been useless.
Instead, I waded through the shin deep water and placed a gentle hand on her quivering shoulder.
I was still a stranger to her, and our fragile bond hardly entitled me to that knowledge. I realized
I would never know what was bothering her, and I realized I had no right to know.
She looked towards me, her eyes still moist with tears. She spoke to me quietly, almost
whispering. She told me something, something I didn’t fully comprehend. I didn’t ask her to
repeat it because it was unnecessary. I recognized she had divulged something deeply personal,
and her repetition of it would have made it seemed more ordinary and banal. I appreciated our
communication, however incomprehensible. Her speech was marked by intermittent sobs, and I
understood she was thanking me as she finished her soliloquy.
Once we had crossed the wet beach to the shore, we entered the temple. My cousin
performed the perfunctory rituals prescribed by her religion and I wandered to a bronze lantern at
the edge of a central dock. I sat at the edge and dangled my feet off the side. The heat had
dissipated as the sky turned gray. Heavy clouds above foreshadowed the coming rain. I heard
some British tourists chattering as they fiddled with their umbrellas. My cousin sat next to me
and muttered something about raindrops. She was not worried, she did not care, she told me.
What’s a little rain?
I kept my eye focused on the horizon as I spoke slowly in English to my cousin. I told
her how I was a reminder to my mother of the things she had left behind. I was still an outsider
in a world I had lived my whole life. My cousin looked at me intensely, I could tell she was
doing her best to understand my English. After I had finished she quietly murmured her
agreement and continued looking off into the distance.
Thunder rumbled in the mountains. The sentinel, straight ahead, took no notice. One of
the British tourists behind me complained it was a pity it should have to rain now. My cousin
and I sat motionless as we felt a sheet of rain descend upon the island. The rain fell in walloping
cascades; it soaked me entirely. And I just sat there, my right hand clasped with my cousin’s left.
Sarah Gzesh
The Irony of Winter
There is a ritual involved almost as seductive as the thing itself: the bright orange cap of
the rig, the cotton from a cigarette filter, the lighter as it burns the thumb, liquid boils and
screams inside your head, the sound of the spoon empty as the rig pulls the last drop from the
cotton and the smell, burnt red and orange, poppies and death, the smell of darkness and soft, of
sex and earth, creosote and joy, copper and lust — aware of where your body is, exactly in
space — aware of the resistance of skin, the puncture, wall of the vein, plumb of blood, black
flower — like dope — an underworld flower, cyclamen and passion, clematis, mango and thick,
candles and grape juice, wax and weather when together — and the taste — you will taste it in
the back of your throat — the taste of wine and blood, putrid beauty, poppies and sand, kindness
and caress, wet warmth wonder, wanting and — the rush — you will feel the rush as you’ve
never felt before — as you’ve never believed before the warmth of darkness and knowing, of fear
and growing, the flesh of pubis, the suck of a pear, waters of a bath, cuddling of kindness, of
velvet, reaching a place, the place, the scent of home, the closing of eyes. You will feel it. Time
is lost in this place of no rules, place of no want, no desire — You will feel it — and there is
nothing else for good or evil, for longing or loss, for struggle or release, for hurt or quiet, for
climbing or falling, for running or sleep. Nothing at all. You will feel it. Nothing at all, not
hope or little, list or lost, not remember or wrong — not not not nothing at all but all of it — of
nothing of lying and grand of broken and slick of hanging and reeling and everything there ever
was — don’t try you will feel it — nothing at all — don’t try — just quiet — and nothing at all
— you will feel it — and nothing at all — the colors will flow — red brown orange and wash of
warm warm water you will feel — oh you’ll feel — ah you’ll feel — and head will raise and
lights will fail and head will fall and nothing at all.
“Andrew? Andrew! Oh god, oh no please…wake up, you’re just asleep, oh Christ…and
this needle…oh come back to me, please please help me, someone, Andrew return to me…this
isn’t real, this isn’t happening…please, please wake up. Please. I need you, I’m lost, please don’t
die…don’t be dead…oh god…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
The city is a strange beast. You are alone in crowds, getting whiffs of piss or laundry,
garbage swirling like a cyclone. Voyeuristically catching snatches of strangers’ side stories.
Everything seems grey in the city, and I felt it weighing on me. I trudged along. That heaviness,
like an iron fist gripping my gut, both spurred me on and made my feet drag.
The bitterness of winter crept through my bundled clothes like an insidious stranger,
frigid and encroaching. Acrid smells of the city piqued my lungs as I inhaled the barrenness of a
deserted thoroughfare. Luminescent streetlights lent a surreal quality to my aimlessness, passing
in and out of the darkness. I gazed at the forbidding dimness of passing windows, thinking of the
anonymous people lying safe and warm in their homes. Comfort. Long gone.
I could feel the ache where its absence was a familiar throbbing in my temples, in the
ignored calls, in the smell of smoke as I burned bridges which supposedly were unconditional. A
mother’s body is home to her child for nine months, but it seemed as if mine had abdicated the
responsibility after that. In reality, that was just how I justified my actions these days, how I
dismissed the hurt and pain in her unanswered messages. In typical Freudian fashion, I reiterated
to myself that it wasn’t my fault, because it began in my infancy when my dysfunctional family
fractured into two separate houses. I couldn’t just ‘go home’ like most kids, I went to mom’s
house or dad’s house. At my mother’s, I was treated as a mix of confidante and caretaker, which
ensured the loss of any vestige of childhood I could have maintained through the divorce. My
father’s abode was no better—I was the awkward remnant of a marriage he regretted, imposed
on his new family with the mixed message of being expected to contribute to its tenuous
dynamics, while feeling like a visitor who had overstayed her welcome.
Ironically enough, by moving out I had managed to find a home. However, it was a
Catch-22, because I had managed to alienate both parents in doing so (probably the first thing
upon which they had ever agreed). And so I continued to block out my mother’s pleas for me to
return ‘home,’ to enroll again at the elite college I had forsaken, to for-god-sake-get-my-acttogether by leaving Andrew and our life together. Perhaps she was right, perhaps deep down I
was so angry with her because I knew she was right, perhaps I just didn’t have the strength to
leave him.
Our apartment building reared up from the unrelenting anonymity of brownstones,
greeting me like an old friend you haven’t seen in a while, and don’t have much in common with
anymore. But as always, my heart quickened as I thought of Andrew’s strong arms and gentle
lips greeting me. Even as I heard my mother’s voice begging and admonishing, I loved coming
home to him. I loved to take refuge in his encompassing embrace, my head reaching only
halfway up his chest, stormy blue eyes looking down at me from his tall height. Despite it all, I
still felt safe with him. Despite it all, I still loved him.
The door creaked as I nudged it open, sliding out my key from the decrepit lock. A cloud
of incense and smoke billowed toward me…the smell of home. I spotted Andrew’s prone form
lying nestled in the curve of his guitar, his broad shoulders slumped and his tousled brown hair
hiding his face. He awoke as I entered, and I picked my way over to him through the mess of
empty bottles and rumpled clothes on the floor.
“Hey beautiful…”
Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. His voice had that chemical undercurrent,
slurring his words and dulling his tone. I grabbed his arm, its strength belying the irony of his
veins.
“But you promised! You said you wouldn’t anymore…sweetheart, please—”
I could see where the needle had entered his defenseless skin, right at the crook of his
elbow, where the vein bulged and roped down his forearm. Heroin. Even just the name made
my throat constrict, air sucking through my dry lips in quick shallow gasps. The flick of a needle
will always conjure scenes of desperation, elicit that hollow ache in my most secret place, where
I can’t pretend that everything is okay, where addiction isn’t only a term used by ignorant
professionals who think they know the pain and fear and loss of that white emptiness, the
numbing chemical-ness of it, deadening passion of the man I love. Sure, everyone knows it’s
bad, drugs are bad, heroin is the worst, blah blah blah. But they don’t know it like I know it.
They haven’t seen his eyes fade as he feels it enter his body, his beautiful blameless body so
often cradled in my own. Hopeless tears made my eyes glassy, as his were with the drug. The
stupor of silence and broken promises stifled us both, and the litany of lost lovers whispered in
my ear… “if only, if only, if only…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Good morning, beautiful.”
I smiled into the pillow, feeling his weight shift on the mattress, his hand stroking the
small of my back. Afternoon light filtered through the window, playing games with the smoke
twirling from his cigarette. I heard the sounds of the city below us, its palpable aliveness
evidenced in the roar of accelerating Septa buses, protesting horns, a wisp of passing music, and
the hum of human voices, their triumphs and failures. The city had just been awakening when
we had finally slept.
Things had been much better recently. The night before, we had a gathering of friends.
We cooked good food, drank bad beer, sang songs, laughed. Just as it used to be. Andrew and I
were so happy these days; his eyes were clear, his brow unfurrowed, his hands strong and sure,
his veins clean. Slowly, ever so slowly, I was beginning to hope again. Just barely letting
myself hope that the white powdered demons had finally loosened their hold on him.
The city had its own coating of white powder, a snowy dusting that was transiently
beautiful before mixing with grime. Winter was beginning to take its hold, and I felt especially
warm cuddled in our twisted sheets, especially reluctant to leave its sanctuary. I rolled over and
kissed him, his face still peaceful with the vestiges of sleep. He smiled, and said, “The day is
like an empty canvas…what do you want to paint?”
This was his customary and quirky way of asking the plans for the day. We decided to
head to our customary Saturday repast, an old-time diner on the corner of 15th and Morris Street.
We dressed and embarked into the cold, which somehow wasn’t as chilling with him at my side.
It wasn’t a far walk, and my hand felt small in his grasp.
The diner was one of those picturesque unchanging places, where that same old sad
waitress asked, “Whaddyawant honey?” in her raspy nicotine-stained voice, and the same old
patrons sat bowed over on their stools, immersed in the mundane. The coffee was basically
water dressed in brown, you could get breakfast any time of day, and we loved coming here,
because each person seemed to have a story trailing after them in this morosely benign setting.
We too had a story, unchanging in its own way for thousands of years. Andrew had once
told me a Greek myth of Hades and Persephone, and sometimes I felt as if we embodied that
story. Hades falls in love with the maiden Persephone, and brings her down into the underworld
to be his bride. Persephone longs for the radiance of the earth, but is chained to the underworld
because she has partaken of a pomegranate. ……..So often I wished to return to before the time
the white demons plagued us, but I have given my love to him, and so I am chained in this world
of beckoning, heartrending syringes.
With all these thoughts infringing in my mind, I decided to voice them to Andrew during
our meal. I decided, once and for all, to make him promise never to do heroin again. I hoped,
out of love for me, that he could do it. But I could feel that old fear behind my eyes and in the
back of my throat, that maybe—when put to the test—I wasn’t enough to make him stop. If
faced with the choice between heroin and me, which pull was stronger?
Andrew took my hand and looked at me intently across the table. His response made my
eyes well up with tears of relief--“Okay baby, I’ll do it for you. You’re what’s important to me,
you know that. But it’ll be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I’ll need a little
patience, but I promise. I’ll stop, forever. Alright, sweetheart?”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
I was still giddy with relief when we returned home. Once again, the red light on the
answering machine was flashing. I knew, without listening to it, that the message was from my
mom. I hadn’t talked to her in months, for all she knew I could be dead…as I sat looking at
Andrew and feeling the weight of my worry lift from my shoulders, I was overwhelmed with
empathy for my mother. I needed to call her, to reassure her I was okay, everything was going
well even if it wasn’t what she would have chosen for me. I resolved to see her again, assuage
her fears without apologizing for the life I chose, which I couldn’t really return from now. Even
if I had wanted to.
The call wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. She wanted to see me right away, and
although I was loathe to leave Andrew so soon after his promise, I agreed.
“Hey love, I’ll be back in awhile. We’ll be at that coffee shop down the street, ok? And
you’ll be okay here?”
He nodded his head in assent, without any hesitation. A twinge of some unspeakable
trepidation ran through me, but for the last time, I believed him. After all, he had promised me.
I kissed him goodbye, and closed the door with determination and without a backward glance.
The next time I opened it, it seemed our apartment had morphed into Pandora’s box. I
found him crumbled on the floor, a needle still pricking the skin of his limp arm.
“Andrew? Andrew! Oh god, oh no please…wake up, you’re just asleep, oh christ…and
this needle…oh come back to me, please please help me, someone, Andrew return to me…this
isn’t real, this isn’t happening…please, please wake up. Please. I need you, I’m lost, please don’t
die…don’t be dead…oh god…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
It is spring now, and the cherry blossoms swirl like pink snow. Winter has loosened its
grip on the world, but my heart has been impenetrably frigid since that night. Ironically enough,
it happened on the spring equinox—March 21st. When all the world is just beginning to bloom
again, my eyes seem to ice over with unshed tears. I don’t cry anymore. I just think back to a
year ago, when we ran barefoot through our underworld, impervious to its currents. In a way, by
losing the only home I ever felt I had—in the circle of his arms—I found the one I had always
wished for. I’ve moved back in with my mother, but he is still here with me too. I never got a
chance to say goodbye, and so I say hello to everything—everything that reminds me of him, all
around, I feel his presence with me always. Persephone could never forsake Hades, no matter
how much she yearned for the bright abundance of her mother Demeter’s gardens. I will never
forget Andrew, never stop loving him, even when winter begins to thaw.
Jagr68Hedberg1@aol.com
Period 6
Tony Battaglia
5/5/08
Roses
“Good morning Mr. Prichard” as I opened the door for him.
“Morning, Charlie,” Prichard replied as he hurriedly passed me out the doors. I believe
Mr. Prichard was a stock broker. Always seems happy when the market is up and upset when
it’s low.
My heart started to flutter.
“Morning, Miss Daisy.” Ignoring me, as she fixes her hair. Though it was perfect. She
ignores me every time she passes by. Thinks she’s all that. Well, I don’t mind. Prettiest girl I
interact with all day. Though, I do most of the interacting.
*
My day starts at 3 AM and ends at 9 PM. It is my job to keep the sidewalk and the lobby
tidy and clean. I must make sure a taxi is available for whoever needs one. It is a stressful and
tiresome job, but I love interacting with so many different kinds of people. There are always
people coming and going, so there is never a dull minute.
She exited the stretch limo as I was about to retire to my flat. She was in an extravagant
gown, her hair so luscious. She approached the door noticing my fatigue; she asked if I wanted a
drink. Just kidding, she passed by without acknowledging me.
Next day, Mr. Prichard was very happy as he hugged me when leaving the building.
Something went up.
I was also happy when I saw Miss Daisy approaching the door.
“Morning Miss Daisy.” She glanced at me.
“You have a wonderful day,” I said with a feeling of joy.
“You too, Charlie.”
I fell to my knees, figuratively.
“Bye…by…ahhh,” stood there stuttering. Mr. Prichard witnessing this chuckled and left
in his chauffeured car.
“She knew my name. She knew my name. She knew my name!”
A lady who passed by, glared at me as if I were crazy. She was partially correct. Crazy
in love with Miss Daisy.
That day was the best day I had in a while.
“Morning sir. You have a nice day”
“Miss, do you need a cab?”
All day things were running smoothly. I could not wait for Miss Daisy to come back at
night.
*
Her limo glistened in the moonlight as it pulled up to the apartments. She stepped out
looking as beautiful as ever.
“How are you, Miss?”
She walked right into the apartment building. Didn’t even look up at me.
Right then Mr. Prichard came. He was pissed off.
“I know,” I said as he walked in.
Charlie wandered down to the pub on the corner. He took a seat on the end of the row in
the dim lighted tavern.
“What did I do,” he questioned himself?
“Girl trouble too,” the bartender who always wants to know every little detail of one’s
life?
“Tell me, what does a guy have to do in order to get a lady who won’t even pay any
attention to him?”
“Give her a beer,” replied the bartender without any hesitation. “She’ll talk to you.”
“No, there must be another way.”
“No man, it’s the only way,” the bartender said while rubbing a towel around on the bar
pretending to be cleaning.
Charlie finished off his fourth beer, and decided to call it a night. With his pleasant buzz,
he roamed the streets back to the apartment building. On the way he past a flower shop. This
gave him a great idea that would surly get Miss Daisy’s attention.
*
Back when Charlie was in high school, he never had girl trouble. Actually, the girls were
all over him. He was the smartest kid in the class, and evidently the best looking. Girls would
always hang over him and he’d have to push them away. Charlie never had any enemies and
was liked by the teachers. Everything seemed to be going great in his life. He had good grades
with a bright future ahead.
Sadly though, Charlie was in a car crash when he was in his junior year of college, which
made him self-conscious about himself ever since. A drunk driver on the highway had hit him.
His car spun and hit a bridge support column. Wearing his seatbelt was probably the main
reason he survived this horrific accident.
Charlie spent one year in the intensive care section of the hospital. From the accident he
had broken both of his legs, his left arm, and ended up with his jaw broken. Doctors were unsure
if he’d ever regain full mobility of his body. He eventually gained little of his ability back in his
arms and legs. He then started physical therapy, which last more than a year to gain most of his
strength back in his legs and arm. After he completed his physical therapy, Charlie didn’t have
enough money to go back to complete his college degree. With little money and no degree, he
was forced to find a job. He finds a job that pays fairly well, but not that great. He applies for
the position and gets it. Charlie was the new doorman for an extravagant apartment building in
downtown Manhattan.
*
Woken up by a throbbing headache he felt a little hung over. This kind of occurrence had
been happening more and more. It seemed to be the norm for him. He went down to start his
day at work, until he realized what he was going to do in order to get Miss Daisy’s attention.
He rushed down to the flower shop before Miss Daisy would leave to wherever in her
fancy limousine. He hand picked the finest dozen of roses and rushed back to his post. Miss
Daisy’s limo was parked out front. He asked the driver if he could place the roses in the limo for
Miss Daisy to find. The driver had no problem with it and in the roses went.
Miss Daisy came outside in a beautiful sun dress.
“Morning Miss Daisy. Fine day today,” Charlie said with excitement.
Once again with no surprise, she just brushed him off and went into the limo. Charlie
was waiting for Miss Daisy to come out and ask him if he was the one who gave her the roses.
The limousine drove away with Miss Daisy and the best hand picked dozen of roses.
*
Miss Daisy’s limo approached Charlie just as the sun went down behind the buildings.
She came out of the limo with the roses in her hand. Charlie’s mind went racing with many wild
incoherent thoughts. Did she know it was him who gave her the roses? Should he ask her if she
likes the roses?
*
I was in a hurry as usual. I had so many photo shoots to go to that day. So when I saw
the lovely roses lying on my seat, I was bamboozled. I wasn’t expecting this. I asked my driver
where they came from. But as usual, he played dumb and didn’t have a clue. Maybe one of the
photographers got them for me, for doing a photo shoot with them.
All day I asked everyone if they were the ones who got me some roses. Nobody seemed
to know what I was talking about or was the ones who got them. During the photo shoots, I was
not able to stay focused with the photographer. All I was thinking about was who could have
been the one who gave me the beautiful roses.
During my ride home, my chauffer told me he actually did know who gave me the roses.
However he was unable to give me the name of the person who had done this. The remaining
ride home all I did was asked him questions to see if he would spill the name. He didn’t even
give me a clue of who it could have been.
We pulled up to my apartment. My driver came around and opened the door. I finally
gave up on who it could have been. I stepped out with roses in hand. I walk up to the door
thinking it would be opened by the door man, Charlie. However when I got up to the door, he
was just standing there, staring at me. This happens a lot when guys see me, but never before
has Charlie done this.
*
“Charlie,” Miss Daisy said.
“Aaaa….aaa…,” mumbled Charlie.
The two of them just stared at one another for quite a bit, until Mr. Prichard pulled up in
his limo and sensed something was going on.
“How are you two doing this fine evening,” Prichard said as he squeezed between the two
in order to get to the front door. Both of them didn’t answer Mr. Prichard. They just gazed into
each other’s eyes.
Miss Daisy had doubts but was so curious of who gave her the roses.
“Charlie, would you have happened to place roses in my car?”
“Aaaaaaaa…..aaaaaa……,” still not knowing what to say.
“No, right, what am I thinking. Just going crazy trying to figure out who did such a kind
thing for me.”
Charlie started shaking. He couldn’t manage to say it was him. Though something
eventually came out.
“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……….,” blurted Charlie.
“What did you say?’
“It was me, Miss Daisy! I gave you the roses,” squealed Charlie.
“Really? Thank you so much Charlie. I love them.”
*
The two of them walked hand in hand into the apartment building.
Jason Buchanan
JRB4990@yahoo.com
The Island
All at once the smell comes rushing back to me. It’s a rather odd combination—fish,
sun-warmed linens moistened by the humidity, the sea. At times I don’t even realize what it is I
smell; it just conjures this image of my summer there, seemingly out of thin air. I had read once
that your olfactory senses are the strongest connections to your memory. It seemed logical, at
least in my own experiences.
I can still remember the smell in the air as I waited outside and saw my cousin for the
first time. The June heat weighed itself upon my sweating shoulders; the air was wet as though it
had just rained. The stale odor of air conditioning escaped into the summer night through the
automatic doors. I had just swallowed a few crackers, remnants from the long plane ride. She
called out to me, waving and smiling. She looked shorter and slightly stockier than I had
gathered from family photographs. Yet she still had the same effervescent smile, inviting and
warm. Her overjoyed demeanor exuded this overwhelming sense of enthusiasm. However, I was
just tired. I probably looked disappointed or even sad. The plane ride had left me exhausted and
I could barely muster a smile, let alone a half-hearted greeting.
“I am so happy to see you,” she said, still smiling.
I was embarrassed, I couldn’t think. I was always slow with my words, and the only
thing I was able to say was, “Thank you.” My cousin laughed at me. Her eyes seemed slightly
sarcastic, as if she had just stopped herself from rolling them back towards her head. I imagined
her thinking, What have I gotten myself into? She took my suitcase without hesitating. She
refused to let me carry it even as I explained to her it wasn’t any big deal in the sloppy patois that
became our mode of communication. “Really, it’s okay. I can take the bag from you,” I
managed interspersing English where it wasn’t necessary. Despite my efforts, she resisted.
“Who is this? Is this really my sister’s daughter?” my aunt asked my cousin upon seeing
me for the first time in five years. She laughed and smiled like her daughter.
“Certainly,” I proclaimed as I bent to hug her.
“Oh, you are so pretty. You look so American, not at all like your mother. It’s a good
thing we have photographs or I would never have recognized you.” She smiled again, as did I,
and then I realized she was probably serious. My aunt continued to revel in my supposed
American charm and good looks, incessantly paying me undeserved compliments that I didn’t
completely understand. I looked back at her blankly. I nodded and smiled as her voice reached a
crescendo and I laughed politely when she joked about my light brown hair, traces of my father.
I wished to tell her how my mother’s hair had grayed. She’s an old lady now I wanted to joke, if
I could only find the words. But the moment passed and my aunt showed me to my room and
told me there was some food to eat in the kitchen.
“My stomach’s full. No thank you. May I go to sleep?” I asked her.
“Sleepy? Go to bed, you’ll need your sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.” My aunt patted
my head and my cousin, still looking on, nudged me in the ribs in an effort at familial affection. I
forced a nervous smile and politely shut the door after I heard them walk down the hall.
As I sat down on the floor and unrolled the bedding, I tried to recall my thought process
as I agreed to this months ago. My mother had spent another hour making a very long distance
call to my aunt. The two always spoke to each other in their native language so rapidly that I
only understood half of what my mother said. I sat at the kitchen table doing my math
homework across from where my mother sat with the telephone. Once she had said goodbye,
she turned her gaze upon me. Her eyes glistened and she bit her lip as she suppressed a knowing
smile.
“So,” she looked at me as if she were about to relay a funny joke.
“So,” I replied, still focused on parabolas and ellipses. I wasn’t interested.
“What would you think about spending a summer back home?” She always called it that.
This was my home. I had been born there, but that country remained a strange and alien place. It
was my mother’s home—not mine. I was as able to call it my home as my father was. My
pencil point snapped; I looked towards her and asked, “What?” as if I hadn’t been paying
attention.
“A summer with your aunt and uncle and cousin?”
I wanted to get up and sharpen my pencil. I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. I
shrugged, an unspoken signal for her to speak.
“I think it would be a good experience for you, even if you don’t think so right now.”
My mother continued to look at me imploringly, desperate for my approval. Although the entire
prospect terrified me, I remained silent. I was unable to communicate my instant misgivings.
“Well,” my mother said as she pushed a chair back under the kitchen table. “I just want
you to develop a relationship with your cousin.” She spoke quickly, punctuated by brief sighs
that indicated her growing frustration with me.
I faced her, my lips pursed angrily. I was filled with contempt—she seemed to blame me
for the vast distance between our families. It was scarcely my fault I had never met my cousin. I
could only scoff, “Someone thousands of miles away…” I stopped myself and let my sentence
linger. “I need to finish this,” I added gesturing towards the math homework. She got up and
left wordlessly.
I awoke to the sounds of traffic and rain beating against the pavement. I pulled back the
curtains and looked down onto the street below. In the midst of my reverie my cousin crept in
quietly. Her fingers touched my shoulders, and I jumped taken aback.
“You scared me!” I exclaimed in hurried, exasperated English. Realizing my mistake, I
tried my best to repeat myself in her language.
“No, I am sorry,” my cousin said in English, trilling her Rs. “You were,” she continued
while enacting my evidently over zealous reaction. She chuckled, and trying to have a sense of
humor about myself, I smiled back.
My cousin took me to some expansive fish market renowned throughout her large city
later that day. We walked along the numerous aisles and stalls, passing assortments of sea
creatures in varying stages of life and death. She paused occasionally to utter in a low voice
words I didn’t recognize. I nodded, guessing they were the names for the decaying marine life.
Intermittently, she would whisper, “Delicious,” while rubbing her stomach, obviously to ease my
comprehension.
At one stall she began to talk to the vendor. As she complained and haggled, she
motioned towards ostensibly enormous shrimp. They were the size of my hand and their gray
skin looked wholly unappetizing. The black eyes, still attached, seemed dejected and desultory,
no longer able to convey any sort of expression—not that a shrimp could in the first place. A
bizarre sense of sadness infected me. Perhaps it was homesickness, but I immediately attributed
my grief to the dead shrimp. It was nothing to be unhappy about, yet it affected me nonetheless.
I grimaced. My cousin, having settled upon a price, turned towards me with questioning eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine…I just haven’t seen shrimp so large.” Her eyes didn’t leave me as she tied the
plastic bag’s ends into a knot. She nodded, as though large shrimp were an acceptable reason for
appearing so melancholy. Suddenly, this feeling of pressure and tension became palpable. The
lack of words between us felt awkward and unnatural. I would say anything to her, I would tell
her how I was unable to make friends at home. I would tell her how I could never tolerate
silence, yet I was never able to say anything. I would tell her how my unbearable selfconsciousness would not allow me to say any of this. I laughed, albeit uncomfortably, thinking
this would efface my present problems. My ridiculous, phony laughter was hardly a deterrent. It
was high pitched and abrupt, and terribly abnormal. My throat felt swollen; I was choking with
shame and then, “Really, shrimp are gray when fresh?” Without waiting for a reply, I started to
continue down the aisle.
My mother was young when she met my father. He was stationed abroad, where my
mother lived. Their relationship was ill conceived, and I imagined some torrid fling that
developed into marriage. The marriage only distanced my mother further from her parents and
her homeland. I was the result of this union, and I always felt as though there was some invisible
stigma branded across my forehead. For her family, I was the reason she didn’t come back.
Perhaps my mother hadn’t realized it then, maybe not even now. I always knew her
reasons for sending me so far away that summer. Three months earlier my father had left us. He
rendered my mother a nomad. She had no ties to America, a land I called my home—a name she
would never call it. I left so she could grieve in private. She blamed herself for the things she
now knew. She would have to adapt to a different life.
We drove to the airport in near silence. Occasionally she would mutter curses intended
for the other drivers. My mother watched the road stoically, a secret cache of emotions within. I
selfishly believed the sadness seeping from her eyes was intended for me. It wasn’t, even though
I tried to convince myself otherwise. As she pulled over by the terminal, tears began to stream
down her ashen cheeks. I did my best to ignore it, and she wouldn’t want me to acknowledge
her weaknesses anyway. I hurriedly opened the door and walked around to the trunk to retrieve
my suitcase. She was still sitting in the car. Before I reached the driver’s side door, she opened
it and I stepped back.
“Bye, Mom.”
She delicately wiped the tears from her face and told me she loved me. I understood she
couldn’t add anything else. “I love you too,” I said almost in a whisper. I picked up my suitcase
and walked towards the revolving doors of the terminal. I looked back when I had reached the
check in line. I’m still not sure why; I wasn’t expecting to see her parked in the midst of traffic.
She had driven off already, as I had assumed.
Towards the end of that rainy month, my cousin took me south to that fated, tragic city.
Knowing the small amount from history classes at school, I half expected lingering devastation,
the sting of radiation infecting my skin. But I was being foolish. The city had revived itself.
Springing from the roots of verdant mountains, the city extended to the aquamarine inland sea
littered with islands. The thirsty shores waded lazily in the shallow waters of the channel. But
our final destination was not this city. As my aunt had told me earlier, the spirit of the country
looked across that once desolate place. It was a silent sentinel surrounded by water, impartial
and unaffected by the changing tides.
After disembarking the tourist ferry, my cousin proceeded to a nearby booth adjacent to
the beach. I sauntered slowly off the dock, while taking note of a doe still spotted with youth
resting in the shade of a pine tree. My cousin tried to keep two bicycles balanced as she wheeled
them towards me.
“I only have enough money to rent them for two hours,” she said, indicating the bicycles,
“but the boat leaves an hour later. We may have to walk back and forth.”
I nodded.
“I mismanaged the time.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“No, it’s later than I expected. We still have a long train ride home and I know you’re
probably tired.”
She looked tired—perhaps I did too. My cousin appeared exhausted and weary, vastly
different from the cheerful young woman who greeted me at the airport nearly a month ago. She
was the first person to be happy to see me in this country. I felt a connection with her outside of
our familial relations. And now, I believed, she thought of me as a burden. I was like a small
child, needing constant guidance, something she had not anticipated. Yet she had been happy to
see me once, a month ago, regardless of our being cousins. I knew that much. She had wanted to
know me, and I couldn’t give her that satisfaction.
I straddled the bicycle and began to pedal slowly to allow my cousin to take the lead.
Pine trees lined the area between the pavement and the shore, and deer dozed in the shadows.
The tide had gone out towards the channel and the sentinel stood in a swamp of moist sand. My
eyes were fixated upon it, and my bicycle propelled itself effortlessly. I found myself
magnetized to its simplicity, to its unadorned quiet splendor. There was a distinct beauty in its
silence.
My cousin applied the breaks and got off of her bicycle. I did the same. “Shall we go?”
she asked, indicating the sentinel. I nodded and began to remove my sandals. I descended the
concrete steps that led to the beach, which melted into the pools remaining from the waning tide.
My slick feet treaded gingerly over the slippery expanse. The temple on the shore dedicated to
the shrine seemed imposing. The bronze lanterns anchored to the dock had turned emerald with
age, and the open-mouthed stone lions looked towards the water commandingly. Despite the
heat on my back, I shivered and my feet grew colder as the water deepened. The sentinel lay just
ahead. A man-made island of solitude in the center of the churning waters. The black paint at
the bases did little to hide the corroding wood.
I touched the pillars and felt the paint flake away beneath my fingers. I turned and saw
that my cousin had entered under the arch. She stood in the dark water of the shadow and looked
towards the evening sun, hidden behind the mountains of the city. The light illuminated her
richly dark eyes, gilding the subtle specks of her irises. A tear glistened as it flowed down her
cheek. I didn’t say anything.
The beauty of the place was overpowering. I wanted to believe it was the stillness that
had overtaken my cousin. I imagined she had surrendered herself to her emotions. She had
imploded, crumbling in upon herself while she remained standing. I imagined I was the Enola
Gay; I had done this to her and I had retreated, watching from afar. I didn’t ask any questions.
They would have been useless. Instead, I waded through the shin deep water and placed a gentle
hand on her quivering shoulder. I realized I would never know what was bothering her, and I
realized I had no right to know.
Once we had crossed the wet beach to the shore, we entered the temple. My cousin
performed the perfunctory rituals prescribed by her religion and I wandered to a bronze lantern at
the edge of a central dock. I sat at the edge and dangled my feet off the side. The heat had
dissipated as the sky turned gray. Heavy clouds above foreshadowed the coming rain. I heard
some British tourists chattering as they fiddled with their umbrellas. My cousin sat next to me
and muttered something about raindrops. She was not worried, she did not care, she told me.
What’s a little rain? Thunder rumbled in the mountains. The sentinel, straight ahead, took no
notice. One of the British tourists behind me complained it was a pity it should have to rain now.
My cousin and I sat motionless as we felt a sheet of rain descend upon the island. The rain fell in
walloping cascades; it soaked me entirely. And I just sat there, my right hand clasped with my
cousin’s left.
Erin Doby
cute227angel@yahoo.com
LEXI
“Thanks everybody. Thank you so much,” said Lexi.
“You’re welcome baby. We just want to make sure that you have everything you need,”
said Mom.
Mom had always been an optimist and on that day she was overly optimistic. She stood
over Lexi with a beaming smile. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought she was proud
of the bump that my sister had under her pink cotton dress.
At that point I didn’t think I could stomach anymore of that crap, so I just went upstairs,
turned up my music, and tried not to scream. I just had to laugh at the fact that my mom had
gone through so much trouble so that Lexi, who by the way was sixteen, could have a baby
shower. All I could think about was how happy she looked in that old recliner. She seemed as
though she didn’t have a care in the world. Her dark hair, that complemented the tan she had
gotten from sitting on the porch almost every day, was up in a goofy ponytail. In that moment it
seemed as though she thought everything was going to be okay. For some reason I thought that
everything was taking a turn for the worst. I know that everybody makes mistakes and that things
happen for a reason, but there was no way to justify the fact that she wouldn’t even tell us who
the father of her baby was, maybe she never knew. Now that I think about it, it never really
mattered who the father was. I just went go to sleep and prayed that when I woke up her bed
would be empty, I hoped that maybe she would run away again.
“Ahhh! Mom, mom!” screamed Lexi, “Mom, please help me!” I opened my door just in
time to see my mother sprint by me. As I walked toward Lexi’s room the screaming got worse
and worse. Her stomach was hurting. That was all that she was saying in between the shrieks.
She was lying on her bed in a puddle of sweat, she actually looked pretty bad. My mom helped
her to her feet and proceeded down the hallway.
“It’s gonna be okay, babe. We’re gonna go to the hospital. Everything’s gonna be okay,”
said mom reassuringly.
When we reached the steps mom looked down at my feet and said, “Go put on some
shoes and help me get her down the stairs.” This almost made me laugh. Why would I help the
slut who had ruined our family? I slowly turned around, went to my room and slammed the door.
If you would’ve asked me what I thought about Lexi I would’ve said that Lexi was getting what
she deserved. I probably would have ranted about how she was a lying slut. Then I would’ve
complained that my mom forgave her for the “lies” that she told. Even though I know that our
dad was a drunk and Lexi wasn’t his favorite I still didn’t feel bad for her.
The next day when I woke up they still hadn’t gotten home from the hospital. So, I went
on like I would on any summer day. I took a long shower, went downstairs and then enjoyed the
sweet taste of Lucky Charms and milk. About halfway through my morning delight I heard
mom’s car pull into the driveway. As soon as they entered the kitchen Lexi felt obliged to tell me
what had happened, as if I care.
“Hey, Teesa. You miss me?” she asked. I felt no reason to respond since she continued
on without even waiting for my smart ass reply.
“My God last night was terrible,” she continued, “but the doctor says everything’s gonna
be okay. The baby is in distress right now, but as long as I take it easy everything should be
fine.”
“That’s funny,” I replied, “I figured that God would punish you for being a slut, but I
never figured he would punish your baby.”
My mother froze as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed, “Why are you acting like this?”
Lexi grabbed her arm and told her to leave it alone. I was kind of upset that I didn’t have
the chance to tell her what my problem really was. I knew that my mom felt guilty about all the
crap that Lexi went through, but I really believed that she shouldn’t have. Lexi had always been
a spoiled little liar who would say whatever she needed to say in order to get what she wanted.
This whole baby nonsense was ridiculous. In most families if a sixteen year old girl shows up
pregnant she gets kicked out, but in this house my mother lets her come back and stay here as if
she hasn’t done anything wrong.
As I walked outside I started to think about Dad and everything that he must have felt.
Our whole family, everybody in the whole town. They looked at him like he was some kind of
pervert all because of the stories that Lexi made up. Mom will never talk about it, but I don’t
think she and dad ever slept in the same room after what Lexi said. The whole thing made mom
ashamed of dad, she was ashamed of loving him and it was all Lexi’s fault. I remember when I
was really young, three or four, the whole entire family would go down to Brander’s Hill and
have good old fashioned BBQ down by the lake. Dad would let us swing from a tire that
someone had strung up in this oak tree and we would scream our heads off as we swung back
and forth. At the time I didn’t think much of stuff like that, but after everything that has
happened I would give anything to go back and just enjoy one of those moments again. But I
needed to learn to forget about how life used to be, the reality of the situation was that Dad was
gone now and no one cared.
For the next couple of days I refused to speak to mom or Lexi. Everyday I would go
downstairs and give them the meanest looks that I could. One day I was looking at a calendar
and I realized that she would be having her baby any day. I hated to even think about what kind
of mother she was going to be. One mom was trying to explain to her how to prepare milk for the
baby and she just couldn’t get it.
“But, mom, how am I gonna know if it’s done or not?” she wailed.
“Taste it, that’s what I always did.”
“Eww! That’s gross.”
As I looked at her I realized that the person who would be the most screwed up from all
this was the baby. This was the first time that I had even thought about what life would be like
for the little rug rat. We didn’t know who it’s dad was and the only person who brought any kind
of structure to this house was dead. The baby was destined to become one of those guys you see
on America’s Most Wanted. What else could it become? We’d be lucky if it only grew up to
become a bank robber instead of a serial killer. Times like this I wondered if God knew what he
was doing.
One morning I awoke to the sound of screams much like the ones that I had heard before.
“Oh, God!” she yelped, “Oh God please!”
By the time I finally got to Lexi’s room the screams were more like birds shrieking. As
soon as I looked at her I knew why she was yelling. Her water had broken and she looked like
shit. At first I just stood over in awe of what was happening. After a couple seconds she looked
at me and said, “Tessa, the baby is coming. Please help me.” I had thought about this moment a
thousand times. All the mean and nasty things I would say to her if she were to ask for my help,
all the words that I would have for her, but when I looked at her I couldn’t help but feel bad. She
was completely helpless and it looked like she was going through some of the worst pains in her
life. I tried to help her up off of her bed, but she was so damn heavy. After the third of fourth
time that I tried to get her up I realized that mom wasn’t home. Today was Tuesday and mom
always went to visit Aunt Florence every Tuesday morning. I wasn’t sure if Lexi knew or not,
but I figured I should tell her.
“You know that mom isn’t home, right?” I asked.
“Oh, shit!” she screamed, “Why is this happening to me?”
“Don’t worry,” I respond, “We’ve got this.”
In my heart I had the feeling that maybe she should start worrying because things
definitely weren’t under control. As much as I hated my sister I didn’t want her to die and in that
moment she looked like she was going to die. Her face looked like a cherry she was so darn red,
but I didn’t know what to do. Like a light bulb it hit me. I ran to my mom’s room and picked up
the phone. Quicker than lightning I dialed 911. I was expecting a quick answer, but of course it
felt like a million years passed by as I waited for someone to answer. The next thing I knew I
was spewing out words to some operator, but I had no idea what I was saying. All I heard was
“We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
Call me skeptical, but somehow I doubted that they were really gonna be there as soon as
possible. If Lexi would’ve had her baby there it wouldn’t have been the first time that a child
was born under that roof. Oddly enough Lexi had been born in that house after mom’s water
broke a month early and no one was home to take her to the hospital. If this would’ve been
happening to any one else’s family I would’ve laughed, but of course this qwas happening to my
family and I couldn’t find it in myself to laugh at all.
When I got back to Lexi’s room she looked even worse than before. That little puddle
that was underneath her before was now even bigger and it was starting to look more and more
like blood. At this point I grabbed Lexi’s hand.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” I say confidently, “I called and an ambulance is on it’s
way. All you have to do is stay calm and….”
I couldn’t even finish my sentence, because something in me told me that all of the words
in the world wasn’t gonna make the situation better. Lexi was starting to look the same way dad
did the day he had his heart attack; it seemed as though all the color had left her face. It was kind
of funny that in that moment Lexi started to look more and more like dad to me. I know that she
hated him more than anybody could hate another person. I mean, he had raped her. That was the
first time that I had actually admitted it to myself that maybe Daddy, my favorite, had actually
done something wrong. Time and time again people had asked me if I thought it was true, did I
believe her. Each time I would look them square in the eye and I would say, “Lexi just needs
attention. She’s making all this shit up, you’ll see.” For some reason I really thought that if I just
kept on pretending that it was all a lie my family would go back to the way it was and my mom
and dad would love each other all over again and we would be a happy family, without Lexi.
That dream kind of went to Hell the day that dad died. Even though nobody ever said it I know
that his heart attack was caused by stress. Our house was a battle ground. Neither he nor my
mother would speak to one another, and the only person I blamed was Lexi. I could’ve told my
mother that I knew my sister and that she would never lie about something like that, but instead I
chose to tell my mother and everyone else that Lexi was a lying slut. Even though nobody really
believed me it still made me feel better to say it out loud, they would give me a reassuring
“Okay” and I would continue believing my own lies.
Thinking about this made me feel terrible for Lexi, because she had to go on living with
me when she knew all that I had said about her. I looked into her eyes and whispered, “Sorry,
Lex.” By this time she was already crying, and it was clear that she wasn’t gonna stop anytime
soon. She looked at me and quietly said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re here now and that’s all
that counts.” All of the sudden she yelped in pain and as soon as I looked down I knew what was
wrong. Blood was spilling out of her like rain from the sky. At first my optimism could have
been warranted, but in that moment I was almost absolutely sure that she was gonna die and she
wasn’t gonna be the only one. The sweet innocent baby that I had been waiting to “save” from
all this madness was gonna die too.
As I stared into her eyes I heard sirens in the distance and my heart almost leaped out of
my chest. I felt as though everything would be okay and that one-day we would look back on all
of this and be thankful for one another.
I ran downstairs to let the paramedic in.
“She’s upstairs.” That was all I had to say. They rushed up the steps towards her room. I
followed behind them like a puppy. When we got to her room the paramedics immediately began
to put her on a stretcher and get her out to the ambulance. One of the paramedics, a young guy in
his twenties, had a look on his face that worried me. He kept looking at the blood that had
stained her light blue pajamas as if he feared that the worst was yet to come.
“Teesa,” she whispered, “I’m really scared.”
“Scared?” I said quite unconvincingly, “You don’t need to be scared. Everything’s gonna
be okay.”
“I…” She couldn’t even get out her words before she began to sob uncontrollably. All I
could do was hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. After a few minutes of her
sobbing she grabbed my hand tightly and didn’t let go until we reached the hospital.
As soon as we got to hospital Lexi was surrounded by doctors and nurses who were
poking her and asking her if she was okay and consulting one another about what they should do.
I expected Lexi to look relieved but when I looked at her face she was flushed and it almost
seemed like Lexi was two steps away from death.
Before I knew it doctors were taking her away for an emergency c-section. A young
nurse with sandy blonde hair and pink scrubs took my hand and lead me to a waiting room like I
was a five-year-old girl.
“Do you have anyone we can call?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said after a brief silence, “I need to call my mom.”
She walked me over to a phone and sat me down in this gray chair next to a phone. She
instructed me to dial 8 to call out and then she walked over to her desk and left me alone call my
mother.
“Hello,” she said. “Hello.” I couldn’t bring myself to answer her. I knew the next words
out of my mouth would kill her.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m at the hospital.”
“What happened?” she asked. I could tell her by her voice that she was shaken by those
words.”
“Lexi’s having the baby now,” I said, “but there’s something wrong Mom.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You know what, I’m on my way now. I’ll be right there.
I hung up the phone and sat there not knowing what to do. It seemed like it took so long
for her to get there, but in reality she was there in less than ten minutes. I heard her before I saw
her.
“I’m looking for my daughter!” she screamed, “Can you just tell me where the hell she
is?”
I ran towards her and threw my arms open to hug her. In that moment I couldn’t control
myself and I sobbed like a baby. We stood in the middle of the hospital holding each other until a
doctor came looking for my mother and I.
“Mrs. Haynes,” he said,” I’m Doctor Sigler.”
“How is my daughter?” she asked. “How is the baby.”
As I looked at his face somehow I knew that my sister hadn’t made it. Somehow I knew
that I would never see her alive again. I gripped my mother’s hand and held it tightly.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Lexi didn’t make it.”
These words brought my mother to the floor and for the first time in a long time she
wept. I was shocked. I couldn’t bring myself to cry or even to move. I stared at the doctor for a
few moments until he started to speak again.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” he said, “we were unable to save her but we were able to
get the baby out safely.”
In that moment my mother looked up at him and smiled through her tears.
“Can we see the baby?” she asked.
He lead us to a nursery full of babies. Through the glass we could see a beautiful baby girl
wrapped in a pink blanket.
“That’s her,” said the doctor.
“Oh, God,” said my mother. “She looks just like Lexi.”
Holly Gunlefinger
“One Day Early”
The heart monitor pulsed steadily, rhythmically, as I chanted along in my head. Alive,
alive, alive. My coffee felt cold in my hands, indicating how long I’d been sitting there. I set it
down on the bedside table next to his glasses. I had brought them, knowing he’d be blind without
them when he woke up. Dr. Rian walked in then, checking his charts, avoiding eye contact with
me until he was through. I stifled my yawn.
"You may as well go home for a bit, Ms. Seton," he told me, "I’m sorry to tell you, your
father may not be waking up for some time."
I nodded, acknowledging him as I looked at the sleeping man in the bed. I was having
trouble recognizing him as my father. His lack of glasses made his eyes appear set far back in his
head. And his pallor made him look almost dead. I stood having seen enough, telling myself I
would come back in the morning. The sound of the heart monitor was the last thing I could hear
as I walked down the hall. Alive, alive, alive.
I hadn’t really been in my father’s house in nearly five years. It was the same as I
remembered it, a modest two story home on the corner of Beech and Rowe. I wandered from
room to room, half trying to tire myself out half trying to keep myself awake. My father fell off a
ladder 3 weeks ago. He’d been changing the light bulb in a ceiling fan, something he had done
many times before in his 65 years of life when he slipped coming down. He fell, hitting his head
on the corner of his desk when he landed. He had yet to wake up. My wanderings had become a
comforting routine over the past few weeks. I had taken to fixing small problems around the
house when I came across them. I passed by the kitchen faucet that no longer leaked. The screen
door was secure, the fresh latch holding in place. I came to stand in front of his office door. The
knob was broken, it didn’t turn any more. I rocked on my heels, my right hand extended halfway
towards the door. I paused, breathed deeply, retracted my hand and walked away.
More sounds now filled the hospital room attesting to my father’s vitality. A mechanical
ventilator ran along side the heart monitor, pushing his chest up and down. Tubes ran out of his
arms, into his mouth, through his nose; he was becoming more tubes than man. Dr. Rian came
into the room and sat next to me. He was a tall, bearded man in his late forties. He spoke quickly
in a monotone that gave off the impression that he didn’t really expect you to listen. So I didn’t.
His voice droned on and I imagined him explaining all the new equipment and what it was for
and the results from all the new tests they’ve run and what they meant. Finally his voice slowed
and he briefly touched my shoulder, indicating it was time to pay attention.
"Ms. Seton, do you know how your father felt about prolonging life via life support?" he
asked quietly.
I blinked. Once. Twice. The question turned over in my head reaching out for something
to hold on to. Something to process it. I was dizzy. I looked for something to focus on and settled
on my father’s face. He was looking straight up, eyes closed. The mechanical ventilator breathed
for him again.
"Yes." I replied. My voice sounded too loud in the quiet room so I said more softly, “He
is against it."
I found myself stressing the present tense. It was a challenge to the doctor. I waited for
his reply, a correction of my statement, some evidence that my father wasn’t really alive. That
the constant beep of his heart monitor was nothing more than a facade.
"Do I need to begin making preparations?" I asked, tired of waiting.
"No. Not yet." he said as I looked at him for the first time.
"We would like to run some more tests. We don’t want to make any decisions with out
knowing all the facts. But I needed to know whether or not there was any decision to be
made on your part. We’ll have all the test results in by tomorrow evening and from there
we can discuss your father’s future."
I turned to look back at my father in response. Dr. Rian stood and closed the door as he
left. I reached for my father’s hand and gripped it tightly, willing him to respond. Nothing. I let it
go, took my hand back and sat hugging my knees.
The house was probably cleaner now than it had been in many years. After fixing almost
every problem I could find, I had taken to vigorously cleaning the rooms. My current victims
were the photographs adorning the upstairs hall. They were part of what my father called his
“timeline.” It was a series of pictures arranged in chronological order starting at the bottom of
the stairwell with his childhood up through this hall ending currently with my college graduation.
He had left a large gap between there and the end of the hall, explaining that there was still so
much more of my life left to see. I scrubbed hard at the spot that had developed over his face on
a photograph that looked to be from when I was 10. It was sticky and stubborn, not responding to
my repeated sprays of Windex and rough edged sponge. I was determined now. I took the frame
off the wall, sat on the floor and scrubbed. Up, down, left, right, circularly. Bits of his face
became clearer and clearer. The grime tore away unable to withstand the pressure. There was just
one bit left, right over his smile. The glass broke. It punctured the paper just missing my fingers.
I felt exhausted then, as if someone had taken all my energy with the break of the glass. I placed
the picture on the floor next to me as I lay down and stared at the ceiling. The phone rang then
but I couldn’t bring myself to answer it. I knew who it was. The voice filtered through the hall
from the table at the bottom of the stairs. It was low, monotone, and told me things that I already
knew. My father would be dead by this time tomorrow. And I had killed him.
The empty bed had startled me when I entered the room. It looked so small without my
father in it. The whole room felt small without his presence in it. Five hours, that’s how long I
had been there. My father’s lawyer and I had arrived at 8 this morning for final goodbye’s and
preparations. Obsessive compulsive till the end my father had taken care of everything. His
lawyer was merely off making the necessary calls to get the premeditated plans into motion.
There was nothing special about my last moments with my father. I kissed his forehead, told him
I loved him and whispered I’m sorry in his ear. I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t know what else to
say so I left it at that. He was gone by 10. Dr. Rian told me to take as much time as I needed to
clear out the room. And so I had. It neared 1:00 when I entered the room. I had only come back
for his glasses. I sat down in my chair by the bed playing with the frames. I remembered being 8
and stealing a similar pair off his nose. He laughed as I put them on and tried to walk about the
room, my vision completely distorted. I slipped the glasses onto my nose. The bed appeared next
to me and across the room all at once. Everything was off balance, imperfect. I cried, finally
getting to see the world exactly the way I felt.
It had been an accident. Somewhere, perhaps even just subconsciously I knew that. I was
supposed to spend the week with my father. We always celebrated our two-days-apart birthdays
together. I wanted to surprise him so I arrived one day early. I snuck quietly into the house. The
music coming from the top of the stairs alerted me of his location. I tiptoed up the stairs and
down the hall, pausing in front of his office door. With a quick push of the door I jumped into the
room yelling “Surprise!” It wasn’t like in the movies where everything happens in slow motion.
One second he’d been standing at the top of the ladder, both hands stretched above his head and
in the next he had jumped back just enough so that he fell and in doing so smashed his head right
onto the corner of his 200 pound mahogany desk. A red puddle had formed under his head. I
think I screamed.
Boxes surround me. The house has been stripped of its possessions. It’s nothing but bare
walls and hardwood floor. I buried my father 2 weeks ago. It had been a small ceremony with
just me, the pastor, and few members of his church attending. The house is up for sale, needing
to be completely cleared out by the end of next week. I have one room left to check. My walk up
the stairs is slow, timid. I cross the hall too quickly and pause unsteadily with my hand resting on
the still broken door knob. The door opens slowly and I release the breath I had been holding.
The room is almost exactly the same as before. There is no stain on the hardwood floor; the
lingering scent of pine gives away the recent presence of professional cleaners. The ladder is
safely tucked away in the closet. The only trace of a tragedy is the empty socket looming above.
But I ignore all of that, focusing only on breathing evenly. The room is filled with him. It is
overpowering. I linger in the doorway a moment more and force my way over to his desk. It’s
meticulously organized. Pens and pencils are separated; piles of papers are stacked by
importance. My eyes come to rest on the only photograph adorning the shelves. It’s possibly the
last photograph taken of my father and me. The day before my college graduation, he’d taken me
out to dinner. I had protested, saying he was a day early. He had countered, claiming that it was
better than being late and missing the moment all together. We’re at sitting at a booth in a
restaurant wearing silly hats with the words “Congratulations” written on them. Large smiles are
plastered on our faces and although we’re striking a pose the emotions are real. I can remember
my face hurting that evening from laughing so much. I take the photograph out of the frame and
slip it into my pocket. I glance around the room, estimating how many boxes I’ll need when I
catch sight of a white box cardboard box sitting on the windowsill. The words “75 Watt” are
printed on the side. Peering into it I see one fresh light bulb left. I take it out, clearing off the bit
of dust that has collected on it. The ladder is surprisingly easy to move with one hand and I slide
it out of the closet setting it beneath the fan. My body stills, bulb in hand, ladder before me. A
glance back would tell me the office door is wide open. My empty hand grips the cool metal and
my right foot settles on the first step. I begin to climb.
Jake Buttery
Jbuttery18@yahoo.com
“New Balance”
I groaned from deep in my gut in response to the incessant beeping of the alarm clock.
Although I had gone to bed fairly early the night before, my sleep had been frequently
interrupted and generally restless. I experienced a painful tweak in my knee as I maneuvered out
of my cot and wearily wiped the sleep from my eyes. My back tightened painfully as I stood up
for the first time. I navigated my way across the tiny apartment to the shower; a depressing sense
of nostalgia overtook me as I realized I would never fully appreciate my mom’s housekeeping
abilities. Greasy T-shirts and half-eaten bowls of macaroni and cheese lay strewn across my path,
and my bare foot came into contact with a suspiciously sticky section of Berber carpet.
“Ahh”, I thought aloud as I heard the serene stream of water connecting with the
shower’s plastic rear wall. The ten glorious minutes in the shower each morning had become a
sanctuary for me, the closest resemblance I had known to a vacation in the three years I have
been living on my own. Everywhere else in this drafty rat’s nest I couldn’t help but yearn for the
pampered lifestyle of my high school years. Hot meals cooked for me, laundry done on time, and
my family’s expansive house filled with all the frivolous entertainment and comforts an upper
middle class suburbanite could dream of. But those days are long gone now. “Damn!” I almost
fell over in my awkward hop out of the icy shower. Another problem for me to whine to Ricardo
about. Not like he’s going to do anything about it; no one’s looking out for me anymore.
The sky was overcast, lending a gloomy mood to the early morning horizon. Life in the
city has its peaks, but waking up without the revitalizing signs of nature certainly is not one of
them. I descended into the murky, cavernous depths of the Philadelphia subway station and dug
the crumpled month-long rail pass out of my pocket. Once again, nothing unusual about this
early morning commute. A few corporate suits read newspapers perfunctorily, but most of the
riders were blue-collar laborers much like me. I grimaced as my hand tentatively grasped the
hand bar, melting into the slime coating.
The site of my big brown truck, hulking like a skeleton waiting to be loaded with the
day’s parcels, never failed to conjure a feeling of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. As a team of
faceless box pushers began the loading process, it was as if Mike Tyson was stepping into my
mid section with each successive parcel. It was at this time when I could imagine the feeling of
helplessness when the cartoon character’s inbox is constantly growing with identical assignments
and there’s no point in even trying to complete them with any personal touches or thoughts,
knowing the final receiver of the package won’t give a damn about how it got to him. What
exotic packages would I deliver to elegant houses more expensive than I’ll ever be able to afford,
enjoyed by happy families which I’ll never be apart of again?
I opened my locker, entirely barren except for the crisply pressed cargo uniform
emblazoned with the UPS logo. My locker was one piece of the extensive row of identical
lockers, all completely impersonal. I changed in privacy, as my coworkers had yet to come in for
the morning. The uniform felt stiffer than usual today, maybe the laundry staff had been in over
night. Yup, there’s the itch. What they didn’t know was that I’m allergic to starch. A stealthy
smile invaded my face for the first time in days as the dusty memory of my discovery of said
allergic reaction snuck into my mind. What was that? Some foreign noise, muffled by the mucus
build up in my throat, escaped my mouth. Could it be? My throat muscles were strained from the
sudden, unexpected use. I think it was a laugh.
The rest of the day passed without any further emotional breeches. The deliveries were
standard with very few interesting enough to require a signature verifying that they had actually
been received. I stopped for lunch at McDonald’s. Fast food had inevitably become my lunch of
choice since there was no break and lunch was not covered in the benefits plan.
There was a time when the mere thought of ingesting a colossal ball of grease would have
turned my stomach. Back in my youth, I would have never considered McDonald’s as a
substitute for a freshly prepared meal from my family’s elaborate kitchen. Despite recently
released studies that indicate fast food in restricted quantities may actually be beneficial, the
stigma of eating a double cheeseburger is something I’ll probably never be able to escape. The
unsanitary conditions of the restaurant, incompetence of the servers, and a fountain drink
dispenser resembling a disaster relief zone all amounted to one thoroughly dissatisfied customer.
However, I faithfully ordered my double cheeseburger, McChicken, and a small drink. For the
paltry sum of three dollars and fifteen cents, it’s hard to imagine receiving more substance unless
you have ordered unprocessed wheat. A silvery sweat meandered about my brow as I dove into
the McChicken. Then came the double cheeseburger with everything. I don’t even like pickles or
onions, but I need some vegetables in my diet. So I plow through them, grimacing as my teeth
quickly pass them down my throat. Finally, I get to the Coke. The sweet, sugary nectar flowed
coolly, as if it were a soothing balm prescribed to alleviate the grizzled sensation overwhelming
the back of my throat.
I returned to the truck and checked the list of that afternoon’s deliveries. My heart
skipped a beat as my eyes registered the last address on the list. 1400 Pine Street, Apartment 4C:
the residence of Miss Jessica Turner. She had been living on my floor for six months, a first year
teacher at the local high school. This was the fourth order to her apartment, presumably of
Victoria Secret apparel, since the first three had been. The rest of the deliveries passed in a blur,
as I awaited anxiously the moment I would have to approach the door of apartment 4C. I played
the intended conversation over in my mind multiple times, trying to force a sense of confidence
into my words. I tried to come up with some witty pick up line, convinced from our previous
encounters that she possessed a certain intelligence, if only by a mysterious brightness in her
eyes. In sharp contrast to my sweating palms, my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton as I
tapped her door.
“Oh! I’ll be right there,” a startled voice called from inside. I stiffly held out the package,
hoping she would not notice my palms which were now sweating profusely. “Do I need to sign
anything?”
“No,” I managed.
“OK, thanks a lot! Goodnight.”
“No, thank you.”
Damnit.
The afternoon dragged into the early evening. As had been the case all day, the gloomy
sky continued to push towards the streets of Philadelphia. I stepped off the truck gingerly, my
achy knee flaring up once again. Man, I thought, life ain’t supposed to be like this. I passed a few
of my fellow deliveryman peers without the slightest semblance of an acknowledgement on the
way to my clothes locker. As my hand subconsciously negotiated the dial, I was taken back to
my high school gym class for a moment. Despite possessing little natural athletic ability, I had
rigorously molded myself into a respected athlete, earning varsity letters in football, basketball,
and baseball. Gym class had always been a confidence booster for me. My friends and I always
took gym class as serious business; therefore, significant pride was on the line, no matter what
the day’s activity was. Even the prospect of middle age seemed inviting, with the promise of
company softball games and YMCA basketball leagues full of old timers like myself. But I don’t
have the energy for anything like that anymore. Usually I just go home to a frozen dinner alone
and some Seinfeld re-runs. Then I’ll try to catch some of the evening’s local sports action, unable
to watch too much because my inability to afford a ticket soon became unbearable. I don’t know
how my life became this mundane, but I saw little way out of it short of hitting the lottery.
I re-emerged from the subway station just as the street lamps were flickering on. The
mixture of fading daylight and the soft haze emitted by the street lamps produced a dream like
back drop for my walk back to the apartment. I passed a shop window displaying a collection of
newly delivered running shoes. Running. I hadn’t enjoyed the sweet rhythm of shoes spattering
in unbroken harmony since my high school days. I cautiously stepped inside, overly-conscious of
the eyes judging my obviously unfit stature. I nervously perused the selection of overpriced
shoes, not exactly sure what I was looking for, or even if I was going to buy anything at all. I
spotted a retro yet sleek pair of New Balances and picked them up to inspect them further. They
were lighter than they appeared and, as I was handling them, an associate approached, asking if I
wanted to see them in my size. “Well,” I hesitated, “why not.” I gingerly stepped out of my
faithfully non-descript shoes, exposing my sweaty, inelastic socks with matching toe holes. I
caught my reflection in the mirror, a shell of my former self. There I stood, back slumped, hair
matted and uneven, eyes dull and listless. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the attendant
returning with the New Balances. Hurriedly, I jostled out of the mirror’s sight. I eased my way
into the sneakers and stood up. It felt right. I made my way in front of the mirror to check out the
fit and transition with my jeans. Clean. That first word which came to mind inspired a sudden lift
in my spirits. Not only were these shoes exceptionally comfortable, I felt much better
emotionally as well. I forked over nearly a week’s paycheck and walked out with the New
Balances laced importantly to my feet. I had a sudden urge to quicken my pace. Then, I was
moving briskly and with a purpose I had not yet begun to understand.
As I reached my house and began rooting through the old freezer, I realized there was no
reason to continue my search. There was nothing left to satisfy me in there. Instead I headed over
to the bureau, hoping to find my old pair of basketball shorts that I hadn’t worn in a couple of
years. I figured they would probably be crammed into the bottom drawer, which was where I
stuffed most of my unsorted articles of clothing which were not regularly worn. I sifted through
dank layers of t-shirts, sweatshirts, bathing suits, and other miscellaneous pieces. My mind
realized it before I did. As my fingers lingered over the detailed lion adorning the lower left
corner of the shorts, happy memories of my days on the court flooded my mind. There I was,
ascending triumphantly towards the hoop, blissfully unaware of the gargantuan defender
fruitlessly attempting to deny my path. The ball banked off the backboard with simple precision,
gently settling through the net, and the crowds’ roar carried me back to the opposite end of the
court. I dug out the shorts and put them on, now noticeably tighter around the thighs. I then
swapped my grungy pullover for a surprisingly clean t-shirt. Despite the brisk conditions of the
early spring night, the evening streets seemed to beckon. I headed out of the building, the scents
of various foods mingling in the air. Initially, I set off at a leisurely pace to the corner hot dog
stand. But, I kept moving. The sun was almost set now, barely visible through the spaces
between the buildings, but I was still hungry so I decided to go a little further. A few more
blocks down I saw Wok’s, a Chinese restaurant so authentic it doesn’t need to use the phrase
“home-made” in its advertising. I was greeted by an enticing smell as I stepped up to the counter
and ordered the Kung-Pow Chicken. It was spicy and good, so I hardly noticed how quickly and
hungrily I wolfed it down.
By the time I left Wok’s the sun was almost set. Only a fading glow from somewhere
below the horizon remained. Despite residing in the city for a few years now, I still felt uneasy
walking around after dark. I began to jog. The motion started awkwardly, with rigid pushes off
the heels of my feet. My hips and knees loosed up a little as the blood started flowing. My
breathing evened out and my body found the old stride. The entrance to the apartment building
came too soon.
I awoke the next day to the sound of the alarm clock. I had slept soundly the night before,
the run exacting a lot of energy from me. As I rose out of bed, I felt a satisfying soreness in my
leg muscles. I walked across my apartment towards the shower, catching my first glimpse of the
sun reappearing. I started the shower, giving the water a couple minutes to warm up.
Apprehensively, I tested the water with my hand. It was warm and got in, forgetting for the
moment all the deliveries awaiting me.
I counted out exactly three dollars fifteen cents before I walked out the door that
morning. The rail pass was good for another day, so I put that in my pocket also. The familiar
sense of despair returned as I stepped into the hallway. By the time I got to the elevator I
couldn’t believe how quickly the joy derived from the hot shower was replaced by a feeling of
doom. I climbed on board alone. I made it all the way to the second floor before a middle-aged
man wearing a janitor’s uniform joined me. He had his head down and barely made eye contact
when he nodded at me. We reached the lobby and he said “Another day,” and disappeared
outside. I stood still. I wanted to cry. He was right. Maybe I could still catch her. I turned around
and got off at the fourth floor.
As I made my way to apartment 4C, I tried to make sense of what I was about to do. I
was about to ask a girl out that I barely talked to at the risk of personal humiliation and losing my
job. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. At first no sounds of motion were detectable.
Then my heart leaped at the sound of foot steps. She was coming closer. My breath caught in my
throat. I heard the bolt slide along the track and the handle slowly opened. My eyes met hers with
a jolt of electricity.
Jen Jankauskas
Anna cleared the leftover residues of crumbs and lettuce scratches from the marble
kitchen island. Joshua watched from his peripheral vision, catching whatever glances he could
while he was facing perpendicular to her, positioned for a view of the backyard. It was a
magnificent McMansion cookie cutter house he had provided for her, just another object to
check off his list of things to have in his life. Complete with five bedrooms, five baths, gourmet
kitchen, sunroom, family room, etc., this house would make any man proud, and would truly
allow him the title of “provider.” The perfect stone façade that covered the front of his French
Provincial style home was a quiet shield of normalcy that had always given him a sense of
achievement.
He had lots of time to reflect now. He sat quietly in his chair as his golden retriever,
Cisco, came over and started licking his hand. Josh’s eyes lit up in pleasure. It had been months
since Cisco had approached him. The drastic change in Josh’s appearance had daunted Cisco,
spooked him, and he still didn’t understand why his master never got up to play with him
anymore.
Seeing the delight crossing the limited motions of Josh’s face, Annie sprung to action,
grabbed the bottle of Bitter Apple Spray, and burst a quick cloud of it onto Josh. Cisco snorted in
disgust at the smell of the substance and bounded off looking for something a bit more
appetizing to play with. Josh couldn’t register the feel of moisture on his hands and arms. His
brain had registered what had just happened, and he knew what he should have felt, but the
nerves from his affected appendages never sent the signal upwards, and he was left feeling
numb. His eyes, however, received the full force of the alcohol from the dog deterrent, and they
stung and welled up with tears. His eyes, his last moveable asset, were temporarily impaired. As
his eyes cleared he looked up, noting the pleased absent-minded look on Annie’s face as she
returned to wiping down the counters.
Unable to react, Josh redirected his attention through the windows of the solarium,
soaking up the sight of the backyard kingdom he had hired a landscape designer to construct just
last summer. He had planned on enjoying its various amenities this coming summer, with its
tennis court, pool, hot tub, and koi pond, but the backyard was not wheelchair accessible, and
Annie refused to do anything for him that would result in the least bit of pleasure.
It wasn’t always like this. In fact, two months ago it was nothing like this. He had his
mansion, his lovely nurturing wife, his loyal dog, and his sultry mistress. Josh had accumulated
everything worth having in life, and he kept them all in a perfect balancing act of precision. He
looked back and thought of the two women he kept in his life, imagining them both before the
accident.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------He had met them both at the same time, same night, same place, back when he was in
grad school. They were roommates, and he met them at a bar. Annie was sweet looking, soft,
with kind eyes. But you would hardly notice her next to Evanna. Evanna was…Evanna. She was
the type of woman that walked in a room, and every man in the room felt the sexual electricity
that pulsed from her every movement.
Long, lean, while still maintaining her curves, she was a woman who made a statement.
As Josh watched her walk across the bar floor like she owned the place, words of wisdom from
his father entered his thoughts. The best thing about a woman is how she looks. They all become
bitching naggers sooner or later anyways, so you might as well get one who looks damn good.
At the time he was with his best pal from college, Eddie.
“Holy shit, man. Do you see that girl?” Josh elbowed his friend excitedly.
“She looks like a snob. A high maintenance bitch. Her friend looks pretty sexy though.
I’d do her.”
“Psht, whatever Eddie. That girl is the most amazing creature I’ve ever seen. Come on.”
Eddie and Josh approached the girls, fixing their mid-length eighties hair cuts. Evanna barely
looked at either of them. Her face showed a severe, bored millionaire expression in response to
Josh’s come-ons.
“So what do you say, babe? You single?” Evanna played with her straw, focusing all of
her attention on her free drink that a man from across the room sent her.
“You’re not my type,” she coolly replied.
“I could be your type. Just tell me what it is. I’ll be it for you. When I see something I
like I do anything to get it.”
“Hm. Then maybe you are my type. But probably not. Especially not with those cheap
rags you’re wearing. And you didn’t even offer to buy me a drink. I don’t deal with cheap men.”
Turned off by her blatant refusal to him, Josh redirected his attention towards Annie. She
was pleasant and caring, the type of girl that would make a nice wife to have around at dinner
parties and lounge around in a good sturdy house. But she simply wasn’t the end all be all. He
needed both women. A year after he met Annie he proposed. Six months later they married.
Two weeks into the marriage Josh started his affair with Evanna.
This series of events played through his mind. How did this get him here? Alone, trapped in his
own body. His selfish pursuit of pleasure had left him without any sense of touch at all. How
could something he balanced so well end like this.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Josh was redirected from his thoughts by the sound of hard rubber being pounded against
the hard wood floors of the kitchen. Annie was playing catch with Cisco. Josh watched the
smooth mechanical motion of Annie’s arm muscles, sinewy and well toned through Pilates, and
she crisply bounced the ball up and down, teasing the awaiting Cisco. Making sure that Josh was
watching, she finally threw the ball, and in an anxious release Cisco sprung after it.
What a fucking bitch. Josh thought to himself. Here she was, a self-proclaimed animal
hater, playing fetch with his dog. Annie caught hold of his eyesight with her gaze and
methodically bounced the ball up and down, up and down. She watched his eyes enviously
following the motion of her arms, contracting and releasing. A thought crossed her face and she
walked over, took hold of the handles on his chair, and wheeled him out to the front yard.
Cisco followed, ball in mouth, ready for the change of scenery. Annie took the ball from
him and began throwing it into the street, having him retrieve it. Cars zoomed by, and Cisco
bounded around like Frogger, attempting to get his ball. Josh looked in horror as his wife
continued throwing the ball into the street, visibly timing her throws for the possibility of the
greatest impact. Josh screamed. He tried to at least. His mouth would not move, so the muscles
in his throat made a sickening, guttural moan reminiscent of a baby calf. With her face contorted
in an icy concentration, Annie threw the ball one last time, and Cisco, single-mindedly focused
on the ball, made contact with a large green Ford Explorer.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Josh had almost kept his secret. If it hadn’t been for that night, everything would have
been different. If it weren’t for that damn cell phone, everything would have been different. He
and Evanna arranged their tryst via text messages. They were quick, unobtrusive, and got the job
done. They were easily deleted and were easier to hide from spouses than random phone calls. If
he received a text from Evanna while Annie was around, he could simply pull out his phone, put
it back in his left pant pocket, and tell Annie that the sound she heard from his cell phone was
just a low battery signal. He never assumed that Annie thought much about anything. She was
meant to sit around his house and look sweet, not spend her time figuring things out.
One evening, Josh, Annie, Evanna, and Evan’s sugar daddy husband, Fred, went out to
dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant. It was BYOB, and Josh took advantage, bringing several
bottles of his best wine. Evanna looked stunning. Her striking blonde hair was slicked down
straight and laid carefully down her back; her fresh, lightly tanned skin was illuminated by the
nearby candles. Josh couldn’t keep from looking. He drank more than his share of the wine, and
he was intoxicated by the liquor and the insane attraction he felt for Evanna at that moment. And
Annie couldn’t help but notice.
She also couldn’t help but notice that the hug goodbye between Annie and Josh lasted a
little longer than was appropriate for dinner friends, and Josh’s hands held on a tad too
aggressively to the fabric of Evan’s dress, the black fabric stretching in taunt lines towards his
fingertips. As they made their final leave of the restaurant, Annie possessively grabbed onto her
husband’s left flank in a measure of pulling him away. As she did so, she carefully removed his
cell phone from his left pant pocket, saving it for her later attack.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------After removing Josh from his audience position on the front porch, Annie wheeled him
into the house. She allowed one small tear to drip slowly down her face when she was safely
positioned behind his chair, but she hastily swiped it from existence like it was an repulsive gnat
disturbing the surrounding air. She wheeled Josh’s chair back into the kitchen, this time
positioning the chair facing straight out towards the outside gardens, away from the kitchen work
areas. Josh heard the sink running in short bursts of cold, cleansing water, and it reminded him
that the tears in his eyes were falling out. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t capable of that simple
human reaction anymore. Tears simply dropped, unaccompanied by the facial contortions
normally related to the action. He waited to feel the cold, salty relief of tears on his cheeks,
cascading down in rolls of therapeutic waves. His face remained numb.
After she ate, Annie rolled his wheel chair out through the main foyer of the house to the
entry steps. She juxtaposed the back of the wheel chair to the base of the steps, took her place on
the first step, and began pulling the chair upwards, step by step.
Is she killing me? Do I care anymore? Is there any reason for me to live anyway? Annie
continued yanking and adjusting the chair up each step, her face releasing beads of sweat. At
every pause in motion Josh prepared himself for the inevitable drop, but it never came. Annie
rolled him to the top of the stairs and with a sigh of relief, pulled him into the master bedroom.
She rolled him into the closet, which positioned directly across the entrance to the
massive bedroom. She began undressing. Josh watched, his eyes bewildered and amused, his
mind looking for bodily responses to the images he was seeing. Annie sauntered about her closet,
putting on some makeup. She reached into her lingerie drawer and pulled out a little number that
Josh had bought for her sometime ago. Annie’s phone rang and she quickly answered. “Yeah,
you can just come in. I’m already upstairs.” Annie squirted some perfume, Gucci, Josh guessed
from the smell, and left the closet, leaving the door ajar about an inch. He heard the door click
and a man’s heavy footfalls pounding upwards on his staircase. The doorway to the bedroom
opened and closed, and an intense, sexual silence with interruptions of wet smacking and
moaning clouded through the closet door to Josh’s mind.
The car ride home from the restaurant had been hell. Accusations from his
characteristically mellow wife surprised him, even shocked the natural order of things in his
mind. The name Evanna angrily escaped Annie’s lips a number of times, but having no real
evidence of her husband cheating frustrated and confused her accusation. She pulled out his cell
phone from her coat pocket and clicked through the various menus, finally landing upon the text
menu. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she screamed, as she made a lunge for the wheel, a
confused state of panic and rage controlling her actions. The car swerved into a highway barrier,
its glass and metal exploding in a mosaic of color and deadly confetti.
The man left the house early. Around eleven or so, Annie awoke and reentered the closet
in search of her morning robe. She caught sight of Josh, and, remembering, rolled him into the
bathroom. She undressed his body next to the tub, his atrophied muscles easily giving in to her
movements. She lifted his wasted body up, into the tub, slid him down so his neck was slightly
bent at an angle inside, and turned on the tub. She left the water running, turned out the light, and
left Josh.
MARY KATE MAHER
marykate2756@yahoo.com
“UNCONQUERED”
In a cloud of hair spray and perfume, my mother emerged from her walk-in closet. A
thin, white dress clung to her voluptuous body. Red paten leather heals cradled her delicate feet,
making her longs legs a dreamy silhouette against the bright lights of her full-length mirror. I
was in complete awe. I looked to my own legs- skinny, bruised. My toes nails were chipped
unlike my mother’s, which were perfectly pedicured. Earlier that afternoon my mother had been
all around town. First to the nail salon, then to Bella, where her hair was washed, trimmed, and
given a golden sun kiss color that made it look like she had spent the week in Jamaica. The rest
of her day was spent outside in a yellow bikini, glazed with tanning oil and humming to the radio
blasting from the open window in the kitchen. I sat there, eating a bologna sandwich and fiddling
with the dial until my mother screeched at me to stop enough times that I actually did. She could
be so impatient, and she always won. All her pleasant human interactions were with men—
young, old. Rarely did I see her actually engaged in a conversation with my sister, Millie, and
me. She usually just nodded and smiled, her eyes gazing off into the distance—out the window
or towards the television. She never looked as us the way she looked at her countless boyfriends.
To them, she peered into their eyes. She replied to their stories and laughed. Even if they weren’t
funny, she always laughed. I, myself, am hilarious. But I had told my mother thousands of
knock-knock jokes and not once did I even get a titter.
Now, she looking at herself in the mirror, fixing a misplaced hair.
“So what’s this one like?” I was always curious about her new boyfriends. “Don’t tell me
he’s another architect. The last one was such a jerk, Mom. And he kind of looked like a
kangaroo.” Millie giggled.
“He did look like a kangaroo.” Millie’s cheeks got instantly red as soon as she closed her
mouth. She longed to be accepted by my mother, as did I. But Millie had much more potential
than I did. She was a spitting image of my mother- only she was much less serious. Her hair was
long and blonde and her eyes an almond brown—just like my mother’s. I could see in Millie’s
eyes the longing to have what my mother had—absolute attractive force. Neither of us had ever
seen a man who didn’t turn his head as my mother’s tanned body strutted pass them. And that’s
what we both longed for.
“Will you guys quit it? You’re really bothering me. And for your information, Greg was
a wonderful man, just a little boring. And he looked absolutely nothing like a kangaroo.” Like I
said, Mother could be very impatient. She walked over to the window and looked down towards
the street. A smile spread across her face. She pranced over to the mirror once again and
smoothed her dress over her hips.
“Listen, girls, he’s here. I’ll be out late. Please don’t get into any trouble- I really like this
one.” And with that, she was gone. Through her bedroom door, down the stairs, and out the front
with a slam of the rusty screened door. I felt a little alone at that moment. I wished my mother
had confided all the details about her new beau to me, the way it was in the movies. I wished that
before she had left a kiss was placed on my forehead. Maybe even an “I love you” could have
been said. But now I was getting carried away. She hadn’t even bother turning off her curling
iron. I walked over to pull the plug from the wall but Millie stopped me.
“Leave it on”, she said, “I wanna use it.”
I left the room with a sickness in my stomach. Turning back around I saw Millie sitting at
Mother’s vanity. A spray of blue and purple decorated her eye lids and she was caking on tube of
coral lipstick. I wish I didn’t have to use the word jealous, but no other word came to my mind at
that moment. Why couldn’t I have blonde hair and big, almond eyes? All that glamour came so
natural to Millie, and not at all to me. My hair was brown and mousy. I left my mother’s room
feeling drained, and went to bed.
It was late morning by the time I woke up. The air was thick with summer and smelled of
cut grass. As I started down the stairs I could hear my mother in the kitchen. I recognized her
voice but there was another one, lower and foreign to me. Reaching the end of the stairs, I poked
my head around the corner. Sitting on a stool with a plate of eggs in front of him was what
appeared to be my mother’s date from the night before. His slacks were stretched out. A
crumpled undershirt sagged on his body and his tie hung around his neck like a scarf. It was
obvious he had spent the night. My mother was sitting on a stool across from him. Her lace
nighty shifted from the breeze showing her left breast. She left it like that. My mother looked up
and caught sight of me spying. She looked at me briefly and then just turned her head. It was the
way she just did not care that got to me. There she was, flaunting her sexuality right in front of
her daughter. She was an unconquerable woman, but I fooled myself into trying.
The bus came 5 minutes after I sat on the bench to wait. It groaned as it came to a stop. I
boarded along with an elderly couple who took the last empty seats. If I was my mother, every
man in there would’ve flashed her a smile and given up their seat for her. I could picture her
now- slinking down the isle, twirling a hair. Her hips would be swaying so that every man would
be arching his head around to watch her from behind. I almost thought that the same would
happen to me. I even considered walking down the isle with a little more bounce in my step. But
I chickened out and ended up standing and griping the walls since I was even too short to reach
the handles above me. It wasn’t long before the bus made it’s first stop at the mall, and I got off.
The bills I stole from my mother’s purse were tucked in my bra and getting limp with sweat. I
passed by a couple of stores before I saw a pale yellow sundress in the front window of my
mother’s favorite store. I asked a sales woman to try on the dress. She looked at me a little funny,
but showed me the way to a dressing room. It fit perfectly. It clung to my hips the way my
mother’s dresses did, and made my breasts look full. I loved the dress so much I ripped the tag
off so the cashier could ring it up without having to take it off my body.
Just a half hour after I had gotten off the bus, I was back on. This time convinced I would
catch a man’s eye. But it was the same ride back as it was there, except this time I was lucky
enough to sit next to a woman wearing a nightgown and talking to herself. I was sure it was my
confidence- or lack thereof. If I had walked onto that bus with more confidence, then I would
have gotten some attention. So I walked off that bus with the swagger of a movie star. And I
walked down the road to my house with the same. I saw Millie lying in the grass with her friends
so I called her over.
“Where did you get that dress?” Her eyes widened as she touched the soft fabric that lay
snug to my body.
“I just bought it. You like?” I twirled around showing her every last inch of it.
“You look beautiful.” It was funny that I was so caught up in looking confident, because
at that moment I was sure Millie had no idea how beautiful she was, or she’d never had said that.
In just a few years she’d be my age, and wouldn’t need a tight, yellow dress to make her look
beautiful.
I sat for a long while on the wooden swing on my front porch. I had several fantasies of
one of my mother’s dates coming to meet her at the front door when he’d catch a glimpse of me
and refuse to go out with her, taking me instead. Or ones where I was out to dinner with my
mother and instead of the waiter flirting with her, he’d slip me a note with my lobster asking me
to meet him for dessert.
My mother had been out all day and I had no idea when she was coming back. I was
hungry so I walked over to my neighbors’ house. Mark lived there. He was my age and new to
the neighborhood. His mother was always cooking and hated my mother, so I knew she’d feed
me if I asked. I knocked on their door. I sign hung to side: “May our house be warm and our
friends be many”. I thought about the same sign hanging on my door. I couldn’t help but smile.
My mother found things like that too sappy. We had only one sign in our house, and it was above
the bar. “Drink up!”
Joe’s mom answered almost immediately. I looked at her in a modest short sleeve shirt
and jeans and immediately felt embarrassed about the dress I was wearing. I wished I had
changed.
“Miss Taylor”, she said with a smile, “What can I do for you, honey?”
“Is Mark home?” My arms were wrapped around my body trying to cover up as much as
possible.
“Yes he is. Why don’t you come in. Are you hungry? You look hungry.” I didn’t know if
she was just being nice, or if she was trying to hint at something.
“Well, actually, I am kind of hungry.” The house smelled like cake, and sure enough a
freshly iced one was sitting on the counter of their kitchen, and eating it was Mark, and the most
handsome man I had ever seen. Mark waved to me from the kitchen table, chocolate frosting
smeared across his left cheek. Mark’s mom introduced me to the stranger.
“Taylor, I don’t think you’ve ever met Jay, Mark’s brother. He’s home from college.” I
didn’t quite know what to say. I thought about what my mother would do, but I felt it
inappropriate with Mark’s mom right there.
“Hi. Taylor”, I said. I oozed confidence as I stood there in my yellow dress, no longer
covering myself with my arms.
“Taylor, honey. There’s cake. You want me to cut a piece?” She was already starting but
I quickly stopped her.
“Oh, no thank you. I’m really not hungry.” I walked over to the table with the swagger I
had practiced earlier this afternoon. I sat next to Jay and smiled. Before I could say anything,
Mark jumped in.
“Is that your mom’s dress?” he asked. I couldn’t believe he said that. It made me sound
so young and unappealing.
“No, Mark, it’s mine. I wear dresses like this all the time.” I shot him a dirty look to shut
him up.
“I like it”, said Jay. He raised his eyebrows when he looked at me. I could feel him
eyeing my body in the dress. I saw his eyes drift down towards my plunging neckline and
quickly looked back up. Mark’s mom had left the kitchen and I was now free to flaunt myself the
way I wished. I leaned back in my chair and looked Jay square in the eyes.
“So where do you go to school?” I twirled a strand of hair and smiled.
“Oh, I go up North. A private college. Pretty boring.” He looked at me in a way no other
male had before. I now knew how my mother felt. Powerful. I loved it.
“Oh”, I giggled just the way my mother did.
“You know, you have really brown eyes”, Jay said. I was taken back for a moment, a
little confused whether he had just complimented or insulted me. I decided it was a compliment.
I played it off cool.
“Well, thank you.” I giggled again. I looked over to Mark, who looked utterly bewildered
by what was going on. I didn’t blame him. I was pretty sure I was just as confused as he was.
From the kitchen window I could see my mother in her car pulling into my driveway.
“So how old are you, Taylor?” Jay asked. He looked genuinely interested. But I panicked.
“Um, I’m really sorry I gotta go. I didn’t realize what time it was”, I would have used any
excuse to get me out of there at that moment.
Reaching my door step, I heard my mother calling for me.
“Taylor! I need your help!” She screamed from her bedroom. I ran upstairs and entered
her room.
“What, Mom?” I was a little annoyed. I think her inpatients was rubbing off on me.
“Pick me out a dress to wear tonight. I can’t decide.” She didn’t even look up, she was
too busy undressing. I picked a black one and handed it to her. She looked at me, mildly puzzled.
She stared at my outfit. I could see in her eyes she was searching for some familiarity in the
dress. Then she pointed at it and asked, “Is that one of my dresses?”
Pat Hanna
Patlax8@comcast.net
Roll Tide
“I sent my money into ‘Bama today,” I coughed through the cloud of marijuana smoke.
“Congrats, man,” Mike said, “that’ll be sick.” I’ve wanted to go to Alabama since I was a kid. I
don’t know why but I’ve always been an Alabama football fan and now that Nick Saban is there,
I can’t wait. There were many better schools I could have gotten into but why not go somewhere
you love? The engine of my old Volvo struggled as I started the engine and pulled away from the
dark spot on the side of the road where we smoked. Mike and Greg live just a few minutes from
my house so I took them home before driving down the hill to my house. I talked to my parents
for a few minutes before succumbing to the marijuana’s effects and drudging up to bed. I
grabbed my cell phone and called Michelle. Michelle and I had been dating for almost a year
now and we hang out almost every day. She’s one of those girls who wears the best clothes and
designer perfume, and always thinks she’s fat. At the same time, she’s different. I don’t know
what it is, but there’s something about her. “Hey, babe,” she answered.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked
“Nothing, I just finished my homework and I’m going to bed. You?”
“I was out with Mike and Greg and now I’m hitting the sack. You still do homework, you
loser?” I joked.
“Shut up, I’m going to bed.”
“Alright baby, I love you, good night.” I said.
“Love you too.”
We fought a lot, but we were usually happy together. We had always talked about what
we would do once we went off to college, but never thought it would come this fast. Whatever
happens we want to stay friends no matter what. I set my alarm and hit the light switch. My
breathing slowed and steadied as I drifted off to sleep.
After the fifth time I hit the snooze button I knew I had to get up. The green glow of the
clock read 6:57 as I literally rolled out of my warm bed into the not-so-warm air. The morning
routine felt no different than usual and I made my way to school in plenty of time before
homeroom. I hate school. I always hated high school, but by the end of senior year, school was a
place to be during the day. There was no more learning I wanted to do and the only thing I cared
about was keeping my scholarship to ‘Bama. The bell rang for first period and I made my way
down the hallway to meet Michelle. “Hey, what’s up?” I said
“Hey, I didn’t wanna worry you last night, but I’m a little late, if you know what I mean,”
she told me.
“Oh, ok. Uhh, it should be all right, right? I mean, you can’t set your watch by your
period. We should be ok. We’re ok, right?”
“Well, don’t freak yet, but I’m a little worried. If it doesn’t come tomorrow we’ll get a
pregnancy test.”
She seemed calm on the surface, but I know her. I see right through her and she was
trembling inside.
“Michelle’s late. I’m scared as shit, but don’t tell anyone,” I coughed through a cloud of
marijuana smoke.
“You’re fine. Don’t worry about it,” Greg said.
We drove to Wendy’s and I picked up a number six combo meal: a spicy chicken
sandwich, large fry, and a Coke. Mike dropped me at home and I flopped down on the couch.
Thoughts flew through my head. I can’t have a kid. What if she is pregnant? What am I gonna
do? What the hell am I gonna do? A kid would ruin my life. Eighteen-year-olds cannot have
kids. What the hell am I gonna do? Sleep finally came to me, still on the couch, fully clothed
down to the shoes.
“Will. Will, get up! It’s 8:30!” My mom shook me awake, way late for school. “What the
hell are you still doing asleep?”
“I dunno, I was tired.”
“Get up! Get up!” She screamed.
The cold water sent a shiver down my spine as I hopped in for a quick shower. I lathered
and rinsed but didn’t repeat and toweled off. I sprinted to my room and slapped on some
deodorant. With all my clothes on I ran downstairs. Ok, ok, uhh, keys, wallet, backpack…
where’s my phone? My phone vibrated on the floor next to the couch I had slept on. A text
message from Michelle read, “Where are u?” I texted back that I was coming in now and
sprinted out to my car.
School sucked, again. Michelle gave me nothing more than a head nod the two times I
saw her, and baseball practice was long and hot. After practice I walked back to my car and took
of my cleats. My phone vibrated on the front seat. Six new messages? That seems a little high.
Every message was from Michelle and each one said pretty much the same thing: “Call me! We
need to talk. Come over right after practice!”
The old V8 engine roared as I flew home. I had completely forgotten about Michelle
being late and I drove like a madman to get her. I stopped at CVS and picked up a pregnancy
test.
Michelle’s eyes were dry but red and swollen. She always tried to be strong around me. I
tore the pregnancy test out of the box and she took it into the bathroom with her. I waited. And
waited. My legs shook, my eyes twitched, I couldn’t sit still. The clock wouldn’t move. Each tick
took hours. She can’t be pregnant; she can’t be pregnant.
Michelle came out of the bathroom, tears cascading down her face. She held up the little
blue plus sign on the pregnancy test. My knees hurt as I collapsed to the floor. I cried. I cried like
a baby. For the first time in our relationship Michelle had to comfort me, not the other way
around.
I calmed myself. “Abortion? Can we get an abortion?”
“I’ve told you forever, I could never live with myself. It’s against so many things I
believe in.” Michelle’s calmness almost scared me.
“Babe, we need too, I can’t have a ba--”
“Stop!” she interrupted, “Stop now! I won’t get an abortion.”
“Ok, ok, ok.”
I have no idea what to do. I stayed with Michelle until late that night. The leather of the
driver’s seat was cold when I finally made my way to the car. I don’t know when it started to
rain but the windshield was coated with water before I started the car. The old Volvo shifted
from park to drive and I drove away. I don’t remember why, but I drove to my dad’s house. My
parents divorced when I was fourteen and my dad moved to Towson, Maryland. I didn’t see him
much, but we talked almost every day. The pounding rain was the only sound I heard as I flew
down I-95. It was 2:34 AM when I finally got there. I had eight missed calls and two voicemails
on my phone, all from my mom.
I knocked on my dad’s door and rang the doorbell. The lights came on and my dad’s
cursing was audible throughout his apartment complex. My dad opened the door, hair matted
from sleep and face in dire need of a shave. His white tee shirt had yellow stains under the
armpits to go along with the holes in the collar and the blue plaid boxers. His eyes had dark
circles under them and his breath had the sharp scent of cheap liquor. “Will, what the hell are
you doing here?”
“Michelle’s pregnant.” I lost it, again. I cried like a baby, again. Every thought, every
emotion came back to me. It was real. There was no waking up now; no one could pinch me
awake from this nightmare. My dad called my mom, of course. Hearing her sobs would have
killed me. I don’t know how long they talked. I fell asleep on the couch, again with my shoes on.
Sizzling bacon woke me at 11:43 the next morning. My dad had taken my shoes off for
me and covered me with a blanket. “Well, ya fucked up,” my dad always had a way of making
things blunt.
“Yeah.” I said. “What the hell do I do now?”
“Dunno, you gotta choose. Take responsibility and stay with her, or go to college.”
“Yeah.” In the back of my mind I had known this but it didn’t hit me until my dad put it
into words. How could I not be part of the Crimson Tide next year and have a baby? Michelle’s
great, but can I give up that much for a girl? I can’t abandon her though. I have to be a man. I
can’t leave a girl pregnant and alone, but where will I be in five years if I don’t go to college?
I drove home that night. There was an accident on 95 and it took me forever to get home.
Michelle didn’t answer when I called, but I hadn’t expected her to. I didn’t really want to talk to
her either. Talking about it only made it more real. I was gonna be a dad, whether I liked it or
not. There was nothing I could do now.
I went straight to Michelle’s house. She was home but her parents were not. We sat
together but neither of us said anything. The silence hurt more than anything else. I left after just
an hour or so. The sound of the engine broke the silence and I drove home slowly. When I
opened the door my mom was sitting in the dark, sipping what looked to me to be whiskey.
“You’re going to college, ya know.” she said, “I don’t want you to get any crazy ideas about
staying home and taking care of this baby. Michelle’s parents will help, me and your dad will
help, but you’re going to college.”
“I don’t think that’s really up to you.” I said. Her matter-of-fact tone bothered me.
“If you want to live in this house you’re going to college!” She stood up as she screamed
and spilled her drink on the floor and herself. “I’m sorry.” She said, “I just don’t know what to
do.” She started crying and I held her in my arms to comfort her.
Like the two days that preceded it, the next day was hell. I didn’t go to school, I hadn’t
eaten, and I still hadn’t really talked to Michelle. I could think of nothing else all day. No matter
what I did, my mind always came back to Michelle and having a kid. Mike picked me up after
school and the sweet taste of marijuana was the first comfort I’d felt in days. I was suddenly
hungry and we drove to Dunkin Donuts. Two Boston creams later I was back to the old me.
Mike and Greg were joking around and I felt the muscles in my face tighten and a weird feeling
deep in my stomach. For the first time in days I smiled.
Life goes on. I started going to school again. No one knew anything. I graduated in June
and so did Michelle. She showed no signs of pregnancy yet. We started talking again but the
only conversation I remember was right after graduation:
“So, when do you leave?” Michelle said.
“I still don’t know if I’m going. I want to apply to some local schools for spring semester
so I can stay around.”
“No. Why would you do that?” she said, “You’re going to Alabama still. I’ll be fine. Our
parents are helping out and I’ll be fine.”
“Well I guess so. Are you sure? I feel like I should stay.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
She was calm but I don’t know what she really wanted me to do. Michelle never said
anything else about the baby or college.
The Crimson faithful roared as Tryone Prothro made a circus catch over the flailing
Auburn defender, putting the Tide ahead in the final minutes of the season opener. The student
section was deafening, and the band exploded from below. The Auburn players fell to their knees
as the Tide players leaped in triumph. All ninety thousand fans were on their feet and I joined
them in their excitement for more than a moment. The feeling lasted for a while, but, as always,
my overwhelming guilt found its way back to the forefront. What was supposed to be the
happiest moment of my life, what I dreamed of ever since my dad threw me a football when I
was five, was tainted and ruined by the unbearable fact that I was a father one thousand miles
away from his newborn son.
Dan Patton
May 5, 2008
Patton2d@comcast.net
Fortham Pride
The ball remained untouched as the two players collided in a mangled heap of limbs.
After a few pushes and vulgar words, a fury of red and yellow cards forced certain players to
leave the game. The game between FC Fortham and SL Blavista was always known for its
physicality and excitement. It was one of the most storied rivalries in European soccer history,
dating back to the first game in 1937, which ended in the suspension for multiple players.
Today’s game was no different. Both clubs were dealing with terrible weather and the score was
knotted late in the second half.
“Bloody Wanker!” yelled a man from a pack of fans dressed in gold and purple.
“Stop diving, ya ol’ chum!” yelled another a few moments later.
The Fortham Faithful was never afraid of speaking their mind. Situated in section 113D,
the middle aged hooligans never missed a game, rain or shine. They had endless love for their
club, players, and city. Many people would say it was reckless love, but it was love nonetheless.
As the game progressed, the tackles became harder and the rain fell steadily. The Fortham
Faithful looked to the field after bellowing a drunken, yet loving, rendition of “Fortham, O
Fortham”. A man wearing the beloved Fortham flag streaked towards the middle of the field.
The symbolic purple and gold flag stood for everything in the small city of Fortham, and as it
flew in the wake of this nude figure it somehow shimmered in the absent sunlight. He charged
so valiantly, never truly expecting to make it beyond the first row of seating, and finally reached
the star striker on Blavista. The streaker struck him violently, over and over again, until Didier
Mekombo fell helplessly to the soaked grass.
Amongst the Fortham Faithful was Aldan Brown, the president of the loyal fans. He
expressed no emotion, yet he was burning inside. A chilling wind ran through the stadium and
silenced any noise that had been present. Aldan turned and left the stadium.
Below the towering apartments and mid-sized office buildings lives another world. The
poverty line in Fortham was defined, and the split between the wealthy and the poor was
dangerously noticeable. Amid the polluted streets and glass-covered sidewalks live these soccer
hooligans. The Fortham Faithful rallies before games or “events” at Peto’s Pub. In the world of
European soccer, “events” are brawls between fanatics, fighting for their respect in the league
and on the continent. Peto’s Pub, a run-down drinking establishment, left something to be
desired socially and in its appearance, but never in the beer. Aldan is sitting with other major
participants of the Faithful to discuss their actions.
“Now we didn’t even know that streaker. He don’t even represent the faithful. We ought
to be just fine, mate. Just fine.” The drunken middle aged man stumbled to the barstool.
“But ‘em hooligans from Blavista don’t know that. They goin’ think it’d one of us and
come huntin’ heads they will.”
Aldan, the only level-headed person in the bar, was in a booth along side the far wall. He
had been observing the entire situation from a distance. While only 25, he was wise beyond his
years. He was also known for his drinking abilities. He rarely ever got drunk, and when he did,
he never showed it. When he spoke, people listened.
“We have to be ready. We have to act first, so we keep our team away from the trouble.
We will walk straight into Blavista and deal with this situation ourselves.”
The hospital was run down to the point of looking like a homeless shelter. The parking
lot was scattered with broken bottles and abandoned cars. The three ambulances operated by the
hospital were hardly ever there, most often responding to drug overdoses or domestic violence.
The emergency wing was basically the side entrance, and also the doors through which Didier
Mekombo passed through.
Mekombo rolled over in his hospital bed in room A311. He was given the nicest room in
the hospital, but was still uncomfortable. He sifted through his bowl of cold oatmeal while
wondering when he would be back on the pitch again, playing for his Blavistinian Club. Sitting
up, he felt the awkward lump on the side of his head while reaching for a clipboard on the side
table. Didier knew the injury was serious, and was just hoping for a quick recovery. As he
scrolled through the page he struggled to recognize any of the foreign figures except for the city
“Blavista”. Just then the doctor walked in to check his IV. Dr. Baker was one of 3 doctors the
hospital had working at the time and happened to be on duty when Mekombo was rushed in. He
never watched soccer, and had no idea of the importance his patient had to the city of Blavista.
For all he knew Didier was just another intramural soccer player coming in with an injury.
Mekombo set the clipboard down on the side of the bed and fired the million dollar question.
“Ee, Doc. When can I play ball?” Didier struggled to form the words. The doctor
picked up the clipboard from the side of the bed.
“It would be in your best interest to stay off the field for a while,” The words bounced
around between Mekombo’s ears like a give-and-go between two teammates. A while could
mean a few days or years.
“A while, Doc? How long?” Didier’s response seemed dry and frail. The doctor wrote
something on the clipboard after observing a meter on the computer screen. The phone rang but
neither of the two men budged. A nurse called for the doctor and he stood up. He looked
Mekombo straight in the eyes and rested his hand on his thin, yet muscular shoulder.
“Didier. You’ve suffered severe brain damage and need to learn almost everything again.
It will be months before you can walk. You will not be able to play soccer again. I truly am
sorry.” The words stabbed through the air and landed directly in Didier’s heart. He was utterly
shocked, and couldn’t begin to think about anything but soccer. He drifted into a dream about
his days playing back home in Tanzania. The drugs took over and he fell into a fitful sleep.
The green light beeped twice above his head, startling him and shaking him back into the
sick realization of never being able to play soccer again. For the first time since he left home for
Europe, Didier Mekombo cried.
Peto’s Pub was about a 15 minute walk from Aldan’s apartment. When he left the pub,
he began thinking about the significance of his recent statement, about the idea of heading
straight into Blavista. He passed a string of apartments, packed together like children in the
cafeteria lunch line. Aldan could hear voices inside and soon after watched a boy stumble out
onto the stoop in front of his door. His father came out soon after, yelling and swinging. The
kid took off down the street and brushed Aldan’s shoulder as he ran by. Aldan’s youth was no
different. He began drinking and smoking with his 15 year old brother when he was only 12. He
wasn’t forced into it but the opportunities were all around him. His dad was an alcoholic, and his
mother was hardly ever around; she worked in Beijing for most of the year. She would come
home when she could, but usually only on holidays.
Soccer was the only thing that kept him going. His small windowless room was coated
in posters of his favorite players. His bookshelf was lined with elaborate trophies and metals he
won during tournaments throughout England. When Aldan was 13, he joined the youth
development program, following in his brothers’ footsteps. For a while he was drug and alcohol
free, mainly because of the rigorous training and fitness that was needed to play at such a high
level. Three months after he joined the program his brother was shot by a stray bullet walking
home from a friend’s house. He didn’t survive.
Aldan looked away from the dark streets into the well lit sky. The moon was partially
covered by a cloud but still gave off a smoky light. He turned onto a side street and stumbled
into his apartment. He positioned himself on the coach, after debating with himself whether to
approach his girlfriend who was most likely asleep upstairs. She had struggled getting used to
his new position as president of the Fortham Faithful. She felt as though it would jeopardize
their relationship. Aldan turned over on the sofa and closed his eyes.
After his brother’s death, thirteen year old Aldan had never returned home or to the
development program. He traveled to the small, little known town of Fortham, where he took a
job in masonry. He lived in a small bedroom above his employers’ home.
He made little pay
but fell in love with FC Fortham. He joined the Fortham Faithful, who at the time consisted of
young men like himself, struggling to make lives for themselves. He made it to the games he
could afford, but enjoyed the family feeling the Faithful offered.
As the infrastructure and size of the once small town grew, so did Aldan. He grew wise
beyond his years and eventually became a well respected member of the community, and more
importantly, the Faithful.
The next morning Aldan woke when the front door slammed. His girlfriend had left for
work, without acknowledging him even coming home. He cooked a light breakfast; despite it
being nearly noon already, he headed down to the pub. He thought about who would show up
for such a ridiculous idea. He regretted how he had walked out of the pub last night, and didn’t
expect anyone to show up. He knew what he was asking of the fan group, and knew it would be
hard for many of them to make such a ridiculous commitment.
When he pushed the door open to the pub, he expected the room to be empty. The bar
never opened before 3, and the owner only let the Faithful in before opening. He looked into the
room; the lights were off but there was a murmur that was louder than expected. The men in the
room looked at him, and many nodded their heads, acknowledging his presence.
“I thank ya, lads, thank all of ya. I know many of you understand what we’re doing, and
many of you don’t.” Aldan paused for a moment and took a second to light a cigarette and think
about his next words. “For those of you who don’t, we goin’ to take the train into Blavista and
brawl. I know many of ya won’t come, simply because of the bloody risk and danger. I thank
all of you who choose to leave as well.” The words almost echoed in the room’s silence. “For
those of you who decide not to come, I would ask that you head home or to work, but you are
with us no matter the outcome.”
Few got up and left, hardly any. Aldan kept waiting for more to stand and leave, but
nobody even lifted their cigarette. For the first time in a while Aldan smiled.
“Thank you, lads. Now let’s get a few brews in us before we board that train. On me, of
course.” The men let out a yell and began filling pitchers. Early drinking had never been a
problem for these men, even after a long day before, especially when the president of the
Fortham Faithful was paying for it himself.
The train left Fortham at two o’clock. Aldan had made an awkward call to the president
of the hooligans from Blavista the day before. The two men knew each other well, but had never
spoken directly. Aldan had apologized, but told him what was going to happen. The man
acknowledged the pending confrontation but laughed at the thought of the small town trying to
take on Blavista. There was no acknowledgement about the actual meeting, simply a place and
time.
The train ride was silent until it pulled into the station in Blavista. As the contact of
wheels on track screeched and burned the passenger’s ears, Aldan began singing to himself. It
was a hymn known by all in Fortham. The men instantly picked up on it and began singing
together. As the train stopped and the doors swung open the song grew increasingly louder.
After the men had stepped onto the platform and the train pulled away, the two large groups
stood separately, each bellowing songs of their respective clubs. Onlookers stepped aside,
scurrying up the stairs and hiding in the bathrooms. The two presidents simply nodded to each
other, acknowledging each other’s pride as the sound of “Fortham, O Fortham” faded off down
the tracks.
*
*
*
15 years later the Faithful still bellows their drunken songs, only with new members and
new meaning. Aldan, no longer the president or even a member of the Faithful, adjusts himself
in his box seat next to his 12 year old son. His son watches the game, fascinated by the
adrenaline and heart of the players. His eyes look past the field to the crowds and he is even
more amazed by the volume of the anthems being sung. He continued to scan the field until he
heard his father’s comforting voice.
“Looky over ‘ere, Johnny. You see those men in the purple and gold? They be the most
spirited and passionate fans in all of Europe.” As he said this he smiled, and continued to watch
the game. “When I was one of them, Johnny, I loved this club more than me life. I mean I still
love em’ to death, but not as much as my family.”
“Why they love soccer so much, Dad?” The boy looked straight at his father, who stared
straight back into his eyes.
“I guess that’s how they grew up. Their families loved the team and the town and they
grew up in it. Kind of like me. Fortham was the only thing I knew as a kid. And soccer was the
only thing I had as a kid. It wasn’t just a game, it was used to explain everything in Fortham.”
“I don’t get it. Why are they so proud?”
Aldan had never been asked such a simple question. It may have been easy to answer if
he had only known the proper response. He couldn’t figure out why he loved it so much, or why
anyone would love a game so much. He thought back to his days as president of the Faithful.
He tried counting how many beers he had drank in honor of Fortham players, coaches, and wins.
They would even drink to losses. He tried to think how many times he had fought strangers, men
of his same stature, simply for pride in a name, simply to prove his love for players he never
personally knew. Aldan watched the Fortham flag flying in the rafters of the stadium, and
couldn’t help but smile. He also looked at the portrait of Didier Mekombo, which was raised in a
triumphant ceremony not long after his forced retirement. Two years later he became the club’s
assistant coach. Aldan’s son was baffled by his father’s silence but knew not to speak.
“I don’t know, son…I honestly don’t know why. Pride is such a crazy thing and many
people would die for it.” Aldan put his arm around his son and pulled him closer. He thought
about his wife, who he married soon after he passed on the Fortham Faithful presidency to a new
leader. With his free arm he scratched his receding hairline. He located a scar that spanned from
just in front of his ear nearly to his eyebrow. The scar hadn’t been there long, maybe 15 years,
but it felt like he was born with it. As he looked down at his son, Johnny, he smiled. The smile
was filled with love for his son, wife, Fortham, and most importantly, his pride for the Fortham
Faithful, which he would never lose.
Riley Duffie
riley.duffie@gmail.com
“Let go”
I was switching the tassel of my graduation cap from left to right. It was almost an out of
body experience—I was finished high school. As I walked down the central aisle, filing out of
the hall in an orderly fashion, I could see my family waiting among the rest of the graduates’
families. My dad, in his gray suit, which he rarely wore, and Noah, my brother, looking like a
true ivy-leaguer: khakis, oxford shirt, blue blazer. My mom was wearing her peach skirt suit,
they kind she wore to Church on Sundays. Being a pastor’s wife, she had to have skirt suits in
every color of the rainbow; they were formal without being too intimidating, sharp without being
flashy. As I approached, my mother took a step back, allowing my father to address me first,
typical.
“Congratulations, Holly. You did it,” was all my father had to say. He was never one to
show emotion in public, something I always thought bizarre, seeing as he was supposed to be a
spiritual leader. You’d think he’d be more spirited. My mother gave me a quick kiss on the
cheek, nothing special. She didn’t want to stray too far from the precedent of my father’s
greeting, lest she emote and upset the balance of their collective persona. It didn’t matter to me,
though. Noah made up for their subpar greetings by hugging me so tight and with such pride that
he lifted me off the ground for a split second. It almost made all of the hard work I’d put into
high school worth it. For four years, I ran myself ragged so that my parents would be proud.
They wanted me to make something of myself, and they weren’t quick to give compliments.
They had a sort of Puritan vein that I had grown accustomed to, though was never satisfied with.
“I am so proud of you,” Noah said. This was a little out of character for anyone in my
family to say. We typically left the emotions to other, weaker people—not for our family. We
had everything together, so why jeopardize that by letting guards down?
“Shall we?” my father asked, a little urgently. He wasn’t much for crowds outside of the
congregation. I could catch up with my friends later. Besides, my feet were killing me in those
stiff white shoes.
On my way into the kitchen to get a glass of water later that night, I noticed my dad’s
office light was on. I walked in, careful not to make too much noise. He hated being distracted
when he was working. I felt as though maybe now, that I had succeeded, that I had given the
speech my entire high school career was driving towards, I could finally tell my parents I loved
them, without feeling I might blow my chances of their approval.
“Hi, Holly, what can I do for you?” Somehow, I always felt like a client when I walked
into my dad’s office. Like he always expected me to have a prayer request.
“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to say hi. Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you. All I need is to get this sermon done for Sunday. Thanks.” And just like
that, our session was up. I turned and padded out of the room, slightly embarrassed for having
interrupted.
The next morning, Saturday, I woke up to the smell of pancakes, my favorite. I walked
downstairs, slightly groggy still, and saw my dad sitting at the table, behind his paper, and my
mom in her apron, moving around the kitchen making sure everything was just right. I couldn’t
help noticing, again, that my mother seemed to get no personal satisfaction in her chores. She
was pleased only when my father was pleased, not a moment before. I always wondered whether
she ever got excited about things before she met my father, if she was ever anything before she
became a housewife. Maybe not, maybe that’s why she was always so eager to get it just right
for him. Noah was the first to notice my presence in the doorway.
“Well, good morning. You look different, Hol. You don’t look like your high school self
anymore,” I felt like Noah was trying to bridge a gap between us. We’d always been closer to
each other than either of us had been with our parents, but he was being awfully familiar. He was
reaching out to me, and I didn’t know whether or not to grasp back on to him. I didn’t know if I
knew how.
My father didn’t glance up from his paper. My mother’s acknowledgment consisted of
placing a stack of blueberry pancakes at my place at the table. What a warm welcome. Noah
looked as though he had just come back from a run. His running was the one thing our father was
truly proud of him for. Noah qualified for states every year of high school, he was running for
Dartmouth. As he got older, though, I couldn’t help noticing his lack of enthusiasm for the sport.
He kept at it, though, because it was the only thing he and our father shared, it was his way of
gaining parental approval. My dad was a track star in high school, too, and lived vicariously
through Noah in his running. That was where their father-son connection ended, however.
“Hey, Hol, wanna go for a little swim later?” Noah asked, familiar, again. The lake in the
woods behind our house was one thing that never got old. The second we jumped off the rope
swing into the water, we were six and nine years old again—me missing my front teeth and Noah
with a terrible bowl cut. The ties between kids come so easily. There’s no need to worry about
letting your guard down when you’re six, because it’s never up in the first place.
“I’m there,” I responded, taking his bait. The lake behind our house was like a sanctuary
for us, where we could be ourselves—be kids. Granted, we weren’t kids anymore, and we hadn’t
been on the rope swing in a good six years, but today, I figured, was as good as any to take it
back up again.
As I let go of the rope swing and felt my toes break the surface of the lake, I finally felt that
it was summer. During the school year, I had to work myself into the ground in order to, “keep
those grades up”, I didn’t want to be giving the salutatorian speech at graduation, that’s for sure.
So when the summer came around, I took full advantage—it was a time when I could actually
appreciate things like breaking the surface of the lake with my big toe. Coming out of the water
seconds later, I could see Noah lying a few yards away, soaking up a patch of sunlight. The sun
streaked his hair, making it look white, and it was almost as if he were the nine year old Noah I
remembered so fondly. Growing up does a lot of things for a person—sure, it presents you with
new opportunities and experiences; but it also steals from you the most detailed memories, that if
remembered, could keep you young forever. Seeing Noah as I did when we were young and truly
happy, well that just reminded me of everything that would be shifting for me that fall.
I flopped down beside Noah, feeling the sun hot on my cheeks. I would have new freckles
on my cheeks when I went home, another sign of summer.
“Happy summer, Hol.”
“Happy summer.”
“Hol?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. Before I do, though, promise me you’ll keep this one
to yourself.”
“Oh, that might be a no-can-do, sport,” I joked. I liked this levity that Noah was bringing
back with him from college, I decided to try some on for size.
“Seriously, Holly.”
“Sure, yeah, come on!”
“Hol, I’m gay.”
That night as I sat on my bed doing my devotions, I began to think of Noah’s future. This
decision—was it a decision?—would change his life. When I was getting married, where would
he be in his life? When I was having children—where then? When I was going to heaven—
would he be there? I immediately hated myself for thinking all of those things. It was just that I
had been brought up to regard gay people as those who lived in a parallel universe. And now, as
the two universes were colliding—under our roof—I couldn’t reconcile our upbringing with
Noah’s homosexuality.
The next morning, at church, I could feel the anxiety radiating from Noah. Our father was
at the pulpit, truly in his element. Sunday mornings were the one time I truly admired my father.
He could stand in front of hundreds of people and I would still feel like he was talking right to
me, and I know that every person in the sanctuary felt the exact same way. My mother sat a seat
apart from Noah and I, leaving room for our father to sit down when he came back to the front
pew— the family pew. Just as I was getting lost in my father’s words on his thoughts for the
morning, I was startled by a slow, deliberate grabbing of my hand. As I was getting lost in my
father’s sermon, Noah’s anxiety was building, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed my
hand—he’d never done that before. I looked to my left, where my mother was sitting one seat
over, and down at my lap, where Noah’s sweaty hand held mine like we would never see each
other again if he let go.
After the service, we had to greet the members of the congregation in the lobby, updating
the little old ladies about our various school activities, our grades, our summer plans. Noah and I
hung around the refreshment station, absently putting food into our mouths, never mind the fact
that the muffins were like dry sponges and the coffee tasted stale no matter how recently it had
been brewed. All of these things had been the same since our father started preaching here when
I was in sixth grade. Yet this morning, with Noah hovering nervously over my shoulder, nothing
was the same.
Sunday dinner at my house was always, shockingly, inappropriately formal. My mother
would get home from church, throw on an apron, and wouldn’t leave the kitchen until every dish
was cleaned after dinner. Usually the menu consisted of a dry pot roast, salty mashed potatoes,
and wilting green beans. My mother would use the fine china on Sundays, the kind that most
people’s parents pulled out on Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving only; it was an event to celebrate
my father’s wonderful sermon that morning. Yet another way in which my mother served the
indirectly served the Lord—she served my father, since she never felt qualified to serve her
savior herself.
My father sat down to the table and silently reached both of his hands out, the sign that we
were to join hands and pray.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this gift that we are about to receive. Thank you also
for our health and our happiness, and the grace you have bestowed upon us. In Jesus’ name,
Amen,” my father recited. I could recite that phrase in my sleep, though tonight, I silently prayed
beyond the “Amen” that my father could actually use the grace that the Lord had bestowed upon
him. The more I thought about it, the more I was unsure of my father’s grace.
“Lovely sermon today, darling,” said my mother. That always kicked off Sunday dinner.
“Thank you. I was a little worried that the same old ‘Sin and Forgiveness’ sermon wouldn’t
go over so well. It seemed like the congregation was receptive, though.”
“Definitely, Dad,” I said. “It was great. I know I’ve asked you this before, but I
mean…how far should our forgiveness reach? I know that God forgives everyone that asks for it,
but what are we as humans responsible for? Are we to forgive axe murderers?” I knew where I
was going with this. I had to know how far my father could forgive. I shouldn’t have continued
the interrogation, but, in hindsight, if I hadn’t, my family could still have been in a stalemate to
this day. “And what about the things that the Gospel says are wrong but aren’t necessarily
thought wrong by the general public? What about people who have sex out of wedlock? What
about homosexuality? Are we to forgive that, or is that up to God?” I could feel the tears stinging
in my eyes. I couldn’t look at Noah—my eyes were locked on my father, who seemed at once
taken aback by my forward questioning, something that had never happened before. Children,
after all, were to be seen and not heard.
“Holly, ‘right’ is such a vague, relative term. People who have not accepted Jesus may
think that things like sex out of wedlock is permissible, or that homosexuality is not a sin, but we
know otherwise. It is our job to follow our paths of righteousness, and God will deal with the
rest. Does that answer your question?”
I should have seen it coming. I looked over to Noah—he had tears silently pouring down
his cheeks. Our father’s nonchalant judgment was something that we always just accepted. But
tonight, it was different. I wasn’t the only one who saw Noah’s tears, and I wasn’t the only one
who understood exactly what they meant. My father silently folded his napkin, slid his chair
away from the table, and left the room. As we heard the garage door open and the car pull out,
Noah murmured an almost inaudible, “…sorry.” Our mother sat silently, glued to her seat. She
did not offer Noah the comfort a mother should. I leaned over and kissed him gently on the
shoulder. Our mother left the room.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought of the evening’s events. Sadly, I was not surprised at
the way my parents reacted. I knew that they wouldn’t approve. Gay people, for them, were
another breed. And now their own son, their flesh and blood, turned out to be something that
they couldn’t understand, and certainly couldn’t be proud of. My door creaked open, and some
light from the bathroom came through the hallway. I saw Noah’s outline lumber over to the foot
of my bed, sit down tentatively, so not to wake me.
“I’m awake.”
“Oh, so you are. Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“No disturbance. What’s up?”
“Nothing. It’s…no, it’s nothing.”
“Okay. How are you…you know, from…how are you?”
“It’s nothing I didn’t see coming. Holly, listen. I can’t stay here, you know that. I have
some friends that rented a house back at school for the summer. I’m going to live there. I want
you to know, though, that I’m going to miss you. I know that I don’t show it, I mean, look where
I come from, but I really do love you. I needed you the last few days, and you were there. I can’t
tell you how important that was to me. And Holly, whether or not you realize it, you’re the most
compassionate person I know. I bet you don’t realize all the sympathy you feel or all the love in
your heart. It’s there, though. I see it. Don’t let Mom and Dad keep you from showing that to
everyone. You deserve that love in your heart. And then some.” He got up, just as quickly as he
had come in, and gave me a firm, brotherly pat on the shoulder. No, “thank you”. No “I love
you”--none of that-- he was, after all, my parents’ son.
The next morning, I woke, almost forgetting what had happened the night before. I had
almost forgotten the last few days’ events; they were so unlike the pattern of my life prior to
them. I was reminded though, when I went to throw away my Nutri-Grain wrapper and saw a
note on my mother’s grocery list stationary that hung from the refrigerator. It was from Noah,
telling my parents where he could be reached in case of emergency. I remembered what he said
to me the night before. I threw the note back into the trashcan. I walked to my mother. I gave her
a kiss on the cheek. I walked to my father, sitting behind his newspaper. I wrapped my arms
around him, a rested there for a moment. My parents did not soften; they just let the moment of
their daughter’s weakness pass. I walked out the back door, down the porch steps, and did not
stop until I reached the lake. I climbed up onto the rope swing, and swung into the middle of the
lake. I let go.
Sarah Gzesh
sgzesh@comcast.net
The Irony of Winter
There is a ritual involved almost as seductive as the thing itself: the bright orange cap of
the rig, the cotton from a cigarette filter, the lighter as it burns the thumb, liquid boils and
screams inside your head, the sound of the spoon empty as the rig pulls the last drop from the
cotton and the smell, burnt red and orange, poppies and death, the smell of darkness and soft, of
sex and earth, creosote and joy, copper and lust — aware of where your body is, exactly in
space — aware of the resistance of skin, the puncture, wall of the vein, plumb of blood, black
flower — like dope — an underworld flower, cyclamen and passion, clematis, mango and thick,
candles and grape juice, wax and weather when together — and the taste — you will taste it in
the back of your throat — the taste of wine and blood, putrid beauty, poppies and sand, kindness
and caress, wet warmth wonder, wanting and — the rush — you will feel the rush as you’ve
never felt before — as you’ve never believed before the warmth of darkness and knowing, of fear
and growing, the flesh of pubis, the suck of a pear, waters of a bath, cuddling of kindness, of
velvet, reaching a place, the place, the scent of home, the closing of eyes. You will feel it. Time
is lost in this place of no rules, place of no want, no desire — You will feel it — and there is
nothing else for good or evil, for longing or loss, for struggle or release, for hurt or quiet, for
climbing or falling, for running or sleep. Nothing at all. You will feel it. Nothing at all, not
hope or little, list or lost, not remember or wrong — not not not nothing at all but all of it — of
nothing of lying and grand of broken and slick of hanging and reeling and everything there ever
was — don’t try you will feel it — nothing at all — don’t try — just quiet — and nothing at all
— you will feel it — and nothing at all — the colors will flow — red brown orange and wash of
warm warm water you will feel — oh you’ll feel — ah you’ll feel — and head will raise and
lights will fail and head will fall and nothing at all.
“Andrew? Andrew! Oh god, oh no please…wake up, you’re just asleep, oh christ…and
this needle…oh come back to me, please please help me, someone, Andrew return to me…this
isn’t real, this isn’t happening…please, please wake up. Please. I need you, I’m lost, please don’t
die…don’t be dead…oh god…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
The bitterness of winter crept through my bundled clothes like an insidious stranger,
frigid and encroaching. Acrid smells of the city piqued my lungs as I inhaled the barrenness of a
deserted thoroughfare. Luminescent streetlights lent a surreal quality to my aimlessness, passing
in and out of the darkness. I gazed at the forbidding dimness of passing windows, thinking of the
anonymous people lying safe and warm in their homes. Comfort. Long gone.
The city is a strange beast. You are alone in crowds, getting whiffs of piss or laundry,
garbage swirling like a cyclone. Voyeuristically catching snatches of stranger’s side stories.
Everything seems grey in the city, and I felt it weighing on me. I trudged along. That heaviness,
like an iron fist gripping my gut, both spurred me on and made my feet drag. The heaviness of
shame, secrecy, mistakes, and love.
Our apartment building reared up from the unrelenting anonymity of brownstones,
greeting me like an old friend you haven’t seen in awhile, and don’t have much in common with
anymore. But as always, my heart quickened as I thought of Andrew’s strong arms and gentle
lips greeting me. Even after so long, I loved to take refuge in his encompassing embrace, my
head reaching only halfway up his chest, stormy blue eyes looking down at me from his tall
height. Despite it all, I still felt safe with him. Despite it all, I still loved him.
The door creaked as I nudged it open, sliding out my key from the decrepit lock. A cloud
of incense and smoke billowed toward me…the smell of home. I spotted Andrew’s prone form
lying nestled in the curve of his guitar, his broad shoulders slumped and his tossled brown hair
hiding his face. He awoke as I entered, and I picked my way over to him through the mess of
empty bottles and rumpled clothes on the floor.
“Hey beautiful…”
Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. His voice had that chemical undercurrent,
slurring his words and dulling his tone. I grabbed his arm, its strength belying the irony of his
veins.
“But you promised! You said you wouldn’t anymore…sweetheart, please—”
I could see where the needle had entered his defenseless skin, right at the crook of his
elbow, where the vein bulged and roped down his forearm. Heroin. Even just the name made
my throat constrict, air sucking through my dry lips in quick shallow gasps. The flick of a needle
will always conjure scenes of desperation, elicit that hollow ache in my most secret place, where
I can’t pretend that is everything is okay, where addiction isn’t only a term used by ignorant
professionals who think they know the pain and fear and loss of that white emptiness, the
numbing chemical-ness of it, deadening passion of the man I love. Sure, everyone knows its
bad, drugs are bad, heroin is the worst, blah blah blah. But they don’t know it like I know it.
They haven’t seen his eyes fade as he feels it enter his body, his beautiful blameless body so
often cradled in my own. Hopeless tears made my eyes glassy, as his were with the drug. The
stupor of silence and broken promises stifled us both, and the litany of lost lovers whispered in
my ear… “if only, if only, if only…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Good morning, beautiful.”
I smiled into the pillow, feeling his weight shift on the mattress, his hand stroking the
small of my back. Afternoon light filtered through the window, playing games with the smoke
twirling from his cigarette. I heard the sounds of the city below us, its palpable aliveness
evidenced in the roar of accelerating septa buses, protesting horns, a wisp of passing music, and
the hum of human voices, their triumphs and failures. The city had just been awakening when
we had finally slept.
Things had been much better recently. The night before, we had a gathering of friends.
We cooked good food, drank bad beer, sang songs, laughed. Just as it used to be. Andrew and I
were so happy these days; his eyes were clear, his brow unfurrowed, his hands strong and sure,
his veins clean. Slowly, ever so slowly, I was beginning to hope again. Just barely letting
myself hope that the white powdered demons had finally loosened their hold on him.
The city had its own coating of white powder, a snowy dusting that was transiently
beautiful before mixing with grime. Winter was beginning to take its hold, and I felt especially
warm, cuddled in our twisted sheets, especially reluctant to leave its sanctuary. I rolled over and
kissed him, his face still peaceful with the vestiges of sleep. He smiled, and said, “The day is
like an empty canvas…what do you want to paint?”
This was his customary and quirky way of asking the plans for the day. We decided to
head to our usual Saturday repast, an old-time diner on the corner of 15th and Morris. We
dressed and embarked into the cold, which somehow wasn’t as chilling with him at my side. It
wasn’t a far walk, and my hand felt small in his grasp.
The diner was one of those picturesque unchanging places, where that same old sad
waitress asked, “Whaddyawant, honey?” in her raspy nicotine-stained voice, and the same old
patrons sat bowed over on their stools, immersed in the mundane. The coffee was basically
water dressed in brown, you could get breakfast any time of day, and we loved coming here,
because each person seemed to have a story trailing after them in this morosely benign setting.
We too had a story, unchanging in its own way for thousands of years. Andrew had once
told me a Greek myth of Hades and Persephone, and sometimes I felt as if we embodied that
story. Hades falls in love with the maiden Persephone, and brings her down into the underworld
to be his bride. Persephone longs for the radiance of the earth, but is chained to the underworld
because she has partaken of a pomegranate. Sometimes it seems as if I was Persephone, and
Andrew’s underworld was his addiction. So often I wished to return to before the white demons
plagued us, but I have given my love to him, and so I am chained in this world of beckoning,
heartrending syringes.
With all these thoughts infringing in my mind, I decided to voice them to Andrew during
our meal. I decided, once and for all, to make him promise never to do heroin again. I hoped,
out of love for me, that he could do it. But his response gave me a nauseating feeling of fear, I
could feel it behind my eyes and in the back of my throat.
Andrew took my hand and looked at me intently across the table. “Just one more time,
baby, and then I’ll never do it again. You’re what’s important to me, you know that. I just need
closure with it, to get rid of it forever. Alright, sweetheart?”
That time was to be his last, but for more than heroin. He would never hold me in his
arms again, never kiss me good morning or good night, never let me hear his rich laugh or tell
me he loves me in that voice inflected with tenderness. That night, Andrew overdosed, and I
found him crumbled on the floor with the needle still in his arm…
“Andrew? Andrew! Oh god, oh no please…wake up, you’re just asleep, oh christ…and
this needle…oh come back to me, please please help me, someone, Andrew return to me…this
isn’t real, this isn’t happening…please, please wake up. Please. I need you, I’m lost, please don’t
die…don’t be dead…oh god…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
It is spring now, and the cherry blossoms swirl like pink snow. Winter has loosened its
grip on the world, but my heart has been impenetrably frigid since that night. Ironically enough,
it happened on the spring equinox—March 21st. When all the world is just beginning to bloom
again, my eyes seem to ice over with unshed tears. I don’t cry anymore. I just think back to a
year ago, when we ran barefoot through our underworld, impervious to its currents. I never got a
chance to say goodbye, and so I say hello to everything—everything that reminds me of him, all
around, I feel his presence with me always. Persephone could never forsake Hades, no matter
how much she yearned for the bright abundance of Demeter’s gardens. I will never forget
Andrew, never stop loving him, even when winter begins to thaw.
Drew Schaefer
Bledsoe200@aol.com
California Sunrise; Connecticut Demise
I rip up the stairs in a torrent of unchecked anxiety. Approaching the light switch at the
base of the hall, I stand breathless, staring down the dark corridor. Something is out of place,
horribly disjointed. By my feet lay two burlap boots, and a half disintegrated plaid shirt. They
were his boots. How had he found us? But wait...down the hall a light emanates from under the
balsa door. A strident thumping sound weaves its way to me from the back room. Sylvia? How
could she? I hear him uttering a sick groan of pleasure. Tearing down the hallway, I bear down
on the door with unchecked strength.
Scanning the room, there’s only Sylvia sitting motionless on the mattress; no closets, no
windows, just plain whitewash walls surrounding the pallid bedding. How had he escaped?
Sylvia continues to sit, giving an unfaltering stare as if she had just gotten away with something
heinous and she savors every minute of it. Except for the sheet loosely wrapped around her
waist, she poses naked, cigarette between her lips. Where is he? Where’s he hiding? She
continues to deliver the sick motionless grin, unaffected by the inquiry. Grabbing the cigarette, I
put it to my mouth. Grinding through the paper, flaky bits of tobacco fall onto my lips.
Swallowing the dry papery remains, I begin to push my way around the room, grabbing at
anything not bolted down.
Had he just disappeared? She continues to sit on the bed, my actions doing nothing to
make her retract the leer. Where is he!? In a torrent of rage, she is thrown from the bed, her wrist
making a horrible crack as she attempts to shield herself from the approaching wall. Lifting up
the mattress reveals a dark hole in the rotted floorboards-got him now. I look up, noticing a crude
note written with marker on the wall. “Now, We’re Even”, it reads. Instantly, a flood of roaches
files out of the hole, burying my feet as they stampede over my legs.
Roaches...roaches...roaches? Roaches?
“That’s all this place is, and will ever be, a pile of filthy roaches and cracked
plaster...What’s up with you? Carla says you’ve been staring at that wall for over an hour.” Huh?
What? Jim stands at my desk, peering over as if he’s trying to get a better glance at some
leisurely attraction.
I can remember back years ago, to when I felt at ease in Jim’s presence. We would talk
throughout the work day, exchanging stories, and political views. Occasionally on weekends, we
would meet at a local restaurant before attending a baseball game. Now he left nothing but a bad
taste in my mouth, the kind you would pick up from gargling stagnant water. There was no
explainable reason why. I suppose the coinciding interests that allowed us to relate to each other
had dissipated through the years. In college were able to discuss each other’s equal indecision
when it came to career choice. When we went to work for the same company, we could always
talk about our weak salary, or the intrusive nature of our bosses. Eventually we could go on
about our wives, and the daily trials associated with marriage. Then the great divide started. But,
I suppose none of this matters now.
“Oh...I guess I’m just shaky after this morning. The hearing was a little tedious,” I forced
out, wondering what part of my brain was able to conjure those words.
“Well don’t let it get to you,” He says, not phased by my long pause. “Look, if she’s
willing to put you through all that trouble, she’s not worth it to ya. Hey, how about after work I
buy you a drink and we can talk it over...Ok?”
“Yea yea...sure, sounds good,” I answer, anything to get this shammer away from me.
Jim throws one last curious stare before retreating to his cubicle. I sift through some papers in
case anyone else had detected my zoning off. Ten A.M, my desk is in terrible disarray. The
drawers are packed with loose papers, giving the impression that they are about to burst. Three
empty report folders lay defiantly on top of all the crumpled papers on the top of the desk. I
shoved aside all assignments yesterday hoping today would lead to some productivity. Scanning
some paper, no force would be able to conjure up the drive necessary to get started.
And in this office, my slacking can go mostly unnoticed. Made from a converted factory,
the building maintains a certain industrial feel. The dim fluorescent lights shine down on a sea of
cubicles as they each do their own part to tame the onslaught of printers and white papers.
Peering under the desk, I get a good look at the gray duffel bag lying on the floor. I could use
some quiet, alone time...
The car glides smoothly down the narrow residential corridors. Lights from the
streetlamps invade the windows and then retreat in short successions. The drum of the engine
provides an excellent backdrop to the rain beating down incessantly soft on the windshield. This
is accented by the occasional burst of thunder, a perfect touch to the night. The tall grey
buildings of the city come alive as spats of lightening cascade across the sky. I decide it’s time to
cut the stillness in the car.
“What’ll be the first animal that you’ll be on the lookout for?” I ask, turning my head
towards her, allowing my voice to carry, while still using the low whisper I’m so fond of.
“Oh, why that would be a wild mole rat,” she responds, every word flowing out of her
mouth and getting caught in her golden hair. The stiff headrest acts as a diving board from which
her hair springs off in all directions before falling to the shoulders. Scanning down her arm I see
the flashing white bandage on her wrist. The buildings behind her form a grey blur as the car
moves down the street.
“Those should be pretty goddamn easy to capture, seeing as they live in a glass wall.”
“That’s the thinking! However, we will have to wait and see,” she says, her hair taking on
an increasingly luminous appearance as a rapid burst of lightning shoots through the passenger
side window.
“We have to stop by the zoo and find a pet,” Sylvia had said last night while we were
packing our bags. “A pet is essential to a healthy family life, and you do want that, don’t ya?”
Her logic had always been impeccable on these matters, and it would do no good to deny her
request. We will drive straight through the zoo gates, and then, to California. Sunshine cascading
over the hills, highlighting the energy producing windmills, that’s how I see it. We’ll wake up at
sunrise just to lounge all day before finally falling asleep on the beach-a perfect place to settle
down. The drive will be long and tedious, if not treacherous, but that’s how she wants it. “You
know, it has been reported that California is a thirty five percent better place to raise a family
than Connecticut,” she had said to me one morning while I made coffee. “And you do want that,
don’t ya?”
An abnormally strident boom of thunder breaks the air as the sky takes on a twilight
shade of grey. Can it get lighter at night? The rain is picking up in pace, becoming increasingly
louder as dense sheets of water begin to land. I glance over to the passenger seat. Sylvia is
staring at the passing road, an unfaltering look of disinterest now commands her face. Does she
not notice what’s going on? Panicking, I stare down at her dark brown hair, now hanging wet
and limp over the seat. Had she opened her window? Looking down, I notice a puddle of water is
forming by my feet. The beauty of the evening is rapidly deteriorating. The rain, now turning to
hail, beats down on the roof with a force suggesting imminent collapse. I can no longer
distinguish any buildings from the street as they have all formed a dense wall of gray haze.
I stop the car and kill the engine. If there’s a night to travel, this sure as hell isn’t it.
Looking over, Sylvia’s complacent stare shifts to a look of outright trepidation. Her expanded
lips and wide eyed expression is frozen in place. My eye catches the rearview mirror. It was him.
He stands erect on the cement block sidewalk staring directly at us. Standing straight, he does not
allow the weather to sway him and break his undying stare. My stomach attempts to escape
through my lungs. We have to get away. Sylvia remains frozen in place, unmoved by the roof as
it caves ever closer toward her head. Hail continues to beat down with ferocious intensity.
Throwing myself out of the car, I begin to vomit. My body purges itself across the street. I can’t
breathe. Getting up, I try to run. I take two steps before I slip on my own bile, falling disjointedly
onto my back. I can feel his presence creeping closer as I begin to fade out. As the grey closes
me in, I see Sylvia. She throws her hand down at me, a pillar of strength. Before I can grasp it,
she yells…
“Why hey there sleepy head!” The shrill, high-pitched voice causes the hair on my arm to
stand up.
“Now you’re not just going to daze off all day, are ya?” A queasy feeling upturns in the
deepest layer of my stomach, sending uneasy signals to the whole body. Carla Smith stands at
the foot of my desk, her bloated face staring me down, waiting on a response.
“Just got distracted, I guess,” I force out, hoping it will prove enough to send her away.
My wish is not granted, as she doesn’t retract the stare.
“Well aren’t you just a silly someone.” Her response not makes no sense, but angers me
to no end. Carla is a walking cliché. She is the epitome of over confidence and self-absorption. A
direct product of the 90’s confidence boosting regime, her whole life she was told she was
perfect, and now I must deal with the results.
“Hey, it’s truly great talking to you, but as you can see by my desk I have quite some
work to do,” I utter, not sure where I summoned up the words from.
“OK, well I’m going to go ahead and let you be a busy bee. He he.” A wave of relief
comes over me as she turns around and struts back to her office.
My name is Rick Carlson. I am a thirty-five year old insurance underwriter. My wife
married my ex-air conditioning maintenance man. This morning was our divorce hearing. The
judge was crude and abrupt. The whole proceeding was done haphazardly in my opinion. If I
were able to redo this morning I would have told him what I think of the way he does his job, but
that’s all behind me now.
“Good gracious, that was close.”
“It sure was. I thought we were done in for sure!” I respond, beginning to peel the plump
orange in my hands. I tear away and juicy extract propels out into my face. The bitterness tastes
fantastic as an exceptionally juicy shot connects with my mouth.
“I’m going to see if I can make any use of the shower,” she says as she walks towards the
unlit bathroom. The light outside of our motel room incessantly flickers a horrible shade of neon
green. An old man is sitting in a fold out chair on the concrete walkway by our door. He’s
wearing a tattered denim baseball cap. Under the hat he sweats profusely despite having sat there
for what seems to be all day.
The rundown room, despite its flaws, is a perfect fit. We need a place to hideout, and our
stay is good until my check bounces. We are being pursued like mice in a maze. He had almost
nabbed us back in the city, and we were lucky to have escaped with our lives. Since then I vowed
to never let him get that close again. There will be no more short-term breaks or side agendas,
just one straight shot to California.
“Can’t seem to get a spit of hot water,” Sylvia declares, throwing her hands up in the air
as she exits the bathroom. I can’t respond as I’m fully engrossed in the map books and travel
guides blanketing me on the bed. The trip requires traversing many new roadways as I’ve hardly
ever left New England before. However, with this assortment of books, I can make short work of
the blank itinerary. The sooner we get on the road, the better. A strange indescribable aura is
engulfing our room. Sylvia hasn’t yet noticed it but it hit me like a brick wall as soon as we
drove up.
Looking up I notice Sylvia’s been staring at me since she walked out of the bathroom.
She’s wearing nothing but a towel. Her undone hair hangs down to her shoulders accenting her
mostly unclothed body. She smiles as I throw the books off the bed, giving her room to sit down.
Putting arms around her waist, I help her to remove the loosely knotted towel. She points at my
shoes, silently beckoning me to take them off. Without looking, I throw my shoes into the open
closet by the bed Hitting a wall, they bounce back towards me. Picking them up and trying again,
I find the same result. Looking over, the closest is packed carpet to ceiling with blue-bound
bibles. Where had our clothes gone? Something is horribly amiss.
Outside the night takes on an increasing darkness. The flickering light is enveloped,
becoming hardly more than a faint blur. The old man is not phased by the activity. Before I have
time to put my shoes back on, the bibles begin to vibrate. They gently pulsate, the move to
violent shifting. The wood molding around the closet flies off, the nails pull straight off the wall.
Sylvia takes refuge on the floor by the side of the bed. The beige Berber carpet hardens as every
fiber molecule seems to freeze over. Sylvia screams out in pain as the fibers expand, turning into
long needles. I pull her up to the bed as her back begins to spit droplets of blood.
Outside the old man get up from his chair and presses his face against the glass window.
He pushes harder and with more intensity until the stress forces the glass to crack and fall out of
the frame. The shards shred the man’s skin away. His denim hat falls to the floor. As his face
reforms I am delivered a cold epiphany. It is him. Now free of his disguise, he bounds through
the empty window frame. He hits my chest with his head, sending me against the wall. My elbow
breaks through the drywall. He produces a steel hammer out of his burlap boot and walks toward
me slowly and methodically, his face showing no emotion. I manage to pull myself up the wall
into an upright position. He gets within a few feet from my face untill his foot meets the half
finished orange. He slides down onto his back, throwing the hammer backwards against the
opposite wall, nearly striking Sylvia in the neck. Seeing my chance, I lunge at him and stomp my
foot against the side of his head. He writhes in pain as the needle-pointed carpet acts as tiny
lances against the flesh on his face. Grabbing Sylvia by the arm, we jump through the window,
landing on the adjacent concrete walkway. We dash for the exit but as we swing the door open,
there are no stairs…
His name is Percy Jones. Two years ago, he would just be any other name in the
phonebook. He was my wife’s friend since college. A certified repairman, she suggested we hire
him to service our house. One hour long visit turned into several daylong events. I told him he
was coming too often and that we wouldn’t need his service anymore. That night my wife and I
got into what would be called a ‘marital dispute.’ However, I stood my ground, and he wasn’t
allowed to show his face again.
Things calmed down until an unusually cold and dark Connecticut winter. When I came
home early from work, I saw his white van in our driveway, and his measly 5’6” body walking
towards my house. Whether he was there for what I had assumed or just to socialize, I never
found out. He never made it to the door.
After six months of prison I was amazed to find that she was still hanging around.
However, everything has its cost. There was no marriage left to save. Our house felt like an
empty shell of what it once was, even when we were both home. We mulled around in apathy for
a few months before she finally hit me with the inevitable-a divorce request. It was an easy
process; all our friends had already assumed we had split. A couple months later, I had to find
out from Jim that my worst fears had come true.
“So I don’t really know how to go about this...So I’m just going to tell you straight. She’s
seeing Percy,” he had said in the damp back corner of the bar. At least that’s how I chose to
remember it. This is when the dreams began to occur. Starting off mild, they now dominate my
nights. I don’t know where they came from or what they mean, but there is no escaping them.
I haven’t done any office work in over six months. Every morning I pick up the new case
folders and promptly deliver them to the bottom of my desk. Where I used to find comfort in the
monotonous dull of office life, I now only have a distaste and deep loathing for it. Everything
from the drum of the copy machine to the whine of the neighboring computer monitor makes me
feel like I’m a prisoner to daily self inflicted torture. But that’s enough reminiscing for one
day…
It is bitterly cold and ferociously windy in the Arizona desert. Driving 135 M.P.H., the
car is a large cloud of dust ripping through the sand. We stopped using public roads to end the
chance of pursuit. Also, to avoid having to stop again, the trunk is now filled with ten full gas
canisters. We are now an explosive projectile. The car doesn’t keep us shielded from the
elements as sand pours through the air conditioning vents, pounding our tender faces with a
steady stream of particles.
“It sure is dangerous driving at night with these sunglasses,” Sylvia states, with an air of
caution. Her concern is legitimate, as the headlights had stopped shining 30 M.P.H. ago.
“Yea, but it sure as hell alleviates the chronic sandy eye!” I exclaim, my voice barely
carrying over the noise of the struggling engine. Despite the obvious flaws to our method of
travel, we are setting a tremendous pace. The coast was so close I could almost taste the salt
water in my mouth. I considered relaying this message to Sylvia, but then reconsidered. This is
hardly the place for small talk.
As the car topples over the next ridge of sand, I am confronted with my worst fear. About
200 yards away I see a pair of headlights pointed directly at us. The entire fate of this trip comes
down to this single moment. It has become all too clear. It’s either me or him-the world is too
small for the both of us. We embark through the open desert on a game of chicken. I press the
accelerator further into the floor until it almost pushes through the floor mat. Time slows down
as we rapidly cut the distance between each other. Sylvia closes her eyes and places her head
between her knees.
It seems as though hours pass before we get close. The car shakes so violently it is
difficult to keep two hands on the wheel. His headlamps meet our hood. The car careens off onto
two wheels as it spins out of control. Sylvia takes command of the wheel. In seconds, the car
pilots into a dune and I’m ejected out of the bulged driver’s side door. It feels as though my body
traverses under a waterfall of sand until I finally land back first on the ground, twenty feet away
from the car.
It is not long before headlights appear over my spent body. Stepping out of the car, he
appears in full view. Metallic foot long spikes protrude out of his tattered plaid shirt and shoot of
in all directions. He has prepared for this moment. His porcupined body forms a grotesque
silhouette against the shining headlights. And then I remember the gray duffel bag, lying in the
back seat floor. Summoning up the strength to get up, I begin to run towards the car. He follows
with an inhuman walking speed, barely touching the ground in his stride. Reaching for the back
seat door, I see Sylvia unconscious on the passenger seat. The doors won’t open as it is horribly
warped from the collision.
I feel my entire body ache as I am slammed into the side of the car. One of the spikes on
his shoulder moves within inches of my neck. Another shoulder spike comes at me, this time,
almost grazing my neck. Not taking anymore attacks I look up to see his body frozen against the
back of the car. One of his spikes is lodged in the wheel well. Taking this opportunity I jump into
the driver’s seat and throw the car into gear. The car makes a terrible sound as it reverses over
his body. As he reaches the front, a spike shoots through the floor and into my leg before
retreating back under the car. The sharp pain is unbearable. I look over the hood and see his body
twisted and mangled beyond recognition. A deep feeling of relief floods over me as I look over
to Sylvia. She…
must be home right now. She was never one to stay out late. Everything in the house
looks in order. The living room is just as I had left it, with the exception of an empty beer can on
the coffee table and a patch over the hole in the blue denim couch. The downstairs are almost
completely dark. Only the moonlight through the glass illuminates the room. Moving up the
stairs, they are much more rickety than I remember. Better call a carpenter first thing tomorrow.
The soles of my shoes feel good on the plush carpet, a sensation I haven’t experience in what
feels like years.
As I open the bedroom door, a mysterious cold sweat comes over me. Maybe a food
allergy? The blinds are completely open, allowing the moonlight to place an engrossing tree
branch silhouette on the white wall. Through the window I can see a dim flickering light through
the neighbors’ blinds. Sure is a good night for some late night Television. Putting the gray duffel
bag on the floor I bend over and begin to unzip it. Was the zipper always this loud? I pull out the
sawed off shotgun, its metallic barrel picks up the moonlight like a magnet.
“Rick?...What are you...Oh my god.” A loud crack breaks the stillness of the room. I fall
like a lead weight to the ground. Light explodes all around me, turning everything white.
Through the cloud I can Percy’s burlap boots on the floor. Looking up he hovers over me
holding a bloody baseball bat. My bat. The bat I used to hold during the ninth innings of close
Sox games.
“Oh my god.” Sylvia’s voice rings out across the room. I can faintly see her golden hair
reflecting the light. She’s sitting upright in bed. And then it gets dark. A plaid shirt covers my
head. I feel nothing but the numbness of my frozen immobile body. Through the shirt I can see
Percy’s outline standing over me.
“Don’t do this. Please. He’ll be going away for ever this time.” Sylvia? I hear her voice
now in chilling echoes, resounding through my head.
“No. It’s too late for that. I won’t let him hurt us again.” The voice penetrates my head,
then fades out. I can hear nothing. Grey begins to envelope my vision. Through the hazy fog I
see the movement in his outline. Percy raises the bat above his head. A complete stillness takes
me over. WHAM....
*
Sylvia slams the glove box shut. She opens up the map she had pulled out and begins to
mull over it. Her sunglasses catch the oncoming road in a hypnotic style.
“Hey, you’re not too tired to keep your eyes on the road, are ya? I’d be more than happy
to take the wheel.” She says, looking up from the map to give me a skeptical stare.
“Ha, as if you’d want to learn manual now, besides, I’m feeling fit as a fiddle!” She keeps
up the stare for a few more seconds before breaking into a smile. The sun had just risen behind
our backs, illuminating the oncoming signs. “Welcome to California,” It reads in cursive yellow
letters. Putting the brakes on the car, we both turn to each other to exchange deep smiles. Sylvia
grabs my hand as we stare into each other’s eyes. The sunrise from the east busts through the
back window, making her gold hair radiate itself through the entire car. Fresh air streamed in
through the rolled down windows, cooling our tired bodies. I kiss her lips as she lets out a giggle.
A couple more hours and we will hit the ocean. We’ll lie down on the beach and rest, hand and
hand, as the lull of the waves put us to sleep.
Jon Stubbs
Jonathan_stubbs@yahoo.com
A Perfect Circle
“That’s the one. I’ll take it,” said Mark. Mark Taylor was pointing at the largest diamond
necklace in the display case. Wrapped around a felt neck, the five diamonds on the chain created
a perfect circle. Mark and his wife had gotten into a fairly petty argument that escalated to the
point of not speaking to one another. Rather than have the tension between the two last any
longer, he decided it would be best to end it all with some gaudy jewelry.
“A very nice choice, Mr. Taylor. I’m sure she will love it.” The woman behind the desk
proceeded to take the necklace from the display case and place it in its box. “It’s the finest piece
of jewelry we have here. Whoever this is for is a lucky woman.”
The short drive home was filled with thoughts of the great make-up sex that would follow
the presentation of his apology. The act seemed to have become routine between them. Mark’s
temper would get the better of him in a silly argument and make things worse. His wife, Marina,
would then follow to completely end all communication between them. Owning a decently sized
garage in the city, Mark was able to afford expensive peace offerings. Mark always had some
sort of extravagant gift to make things better soon after any argument with his wife. Last month
it was a dress, two months before that a new Coach bag had been waiting for her when she came
home from shopping. Then the make-up would follow. It’s just what happens.
When Mark got home, he immediately went to search for Marina. Upstairs, she seemed
to be getting ready to go out with some friends. Mark’s entrance into the room was greeted by a
cold look from Marina. “Honey, I was just thinking about our argument. I can’t believe how
stupid I was. I know this can’t make up for what I said, but I just want you to know that I’m
sorry.” Another part of the routine was the apology. It never changed much in the delivery but
always seemed to have the same result.
“Oh my God! Baby, it’s beautiful! I’m sorry, I know the argument was stupid but,” she
was cut off by Mark.
“It’s ok, we both know we’re sorry. I just hope we can move past this and be ok again.”
The look in his eye was clearly that of a man who knew he had done well. “So it looks like
you’re going out tonight,” Mark said, trying to change the subject at hand.
“The girls and I are going out to eat in the new restaurant that opened up in the city. I
think I am going to wear this necklace to show off. When I get home tonight, maybe I can give
you proper thanks.” Mark smiled. Everything went just as planned.
*
“What do you mean you lost it?” Marina had thought it would be best to tell Mark the
truth as soon as she got home. Somewhere on her way to eat, she had dropped her brand new
necklace.
“I didn’t mean to! It must have had a loose latch or something. I’m so sorry!” The pleas
from Marina did no good. Mark had never had the best of tempers, and in rages like these, there
was no calming him until the problem was solved.
“Get your coat, we will retrace your steps and see if we can find it. Maybe it fell off in
the restaurant.” Mark and Marina grabbed their coats and were quickly out the door.
In the city, Matt was enjoying his after-work run. His mind always seemed to be clearest
when he was running. That was when he spotted it. A small glimmer attracted his eye. If the
headlight hadn’t hit it just then, he never would have seen it in the shadows. Crossing the street,
Matt went to examine this glimmer in the night. A fleeting sense of excitement then followed by
a rush of fear spread through Matt’s body as he looked at the necklace.
*
Mark and Marina arrive at the restaurant hoping to see that one of the employees has
found the necklace. They were not graced with such luck, but instead told that no one has found
or returned any such necklace. The search continues as they exit the restaurant.
*
The pawn shop was somewhat deep into the city. Matt had a small friendship with the
owner, Bill. They had met when Matt needed some extra cash and became a “regular” within the
shop. Matt was greeted with a warm welcome from Bill. “I happened to stumble across this
during my run,” Matt said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. “I was wondering how
much I could get for it.”
Bill took the necklace from Matt and carefully examined it. His nimble fingers turned and
felt the necklace. “You’ve got quite a find here. I won’t ask you where you got it, but I’m willing
to give you $800 for it.”
“I’ll take it.” Matt was quick to answer. He knew he was most likely being given a bad
deal but didn’t care. The entire situation gave him a dirty feeling. He felt it would be best to just
get it over with and be on his way home. He collected his money, counted quickly, and began to
finish his run towards home.
*
Mark and Marina continue to retrace their steps. It’s obvious that Marina has given up
hope and wants to go home. Mark is adamant that they are bound to find it sooner or later. The
streets are unusually empty, except for a man briskly running with a happy glint in his eyes and a
man walking farther up in a black sweatshirt.
*
As Matt left the shop, Bill began to inspect the necklace more closely. This was a nice
find indeed. Although he was unsure of the exact value, the opportunity to get it appraised would
come soon enough. Looking at his watch, Bill decided the day had gone well enough to close up
a little early. As he walked to the door to lock up, a man in a black sweatshirt entered. “Sorry,
we’re closing a little early tonight.”
“Not until you give me exactly what I ask for.” The mysterious man proceeded to pull out
a gun. He didn’t point it at Bill, but he pulled it out just enough to show that he was serious, and
to draw attention from his face. “Give me all your money, all of the small valuables, and don’t
make a sound. Do that and we can all leave here safe. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Bill put the necklace on the counter and went to where he stored his money. Bill kept his
hands still and moved just to grab valuables. While he gathered the random items of value,
including the necklace, Bill sensed a feeling of fear within the robber. This created a newfound
courage in Bill. Once he put what he felt to be a good enough size of valuables and money, Bill
slowly stepped back behind the counter saying, “Just take it and leave” repeatedly. While
gathering the items, the black-hooded man looked up. “Don’t tell a soul and there won’t be any
problems. Thank you.” The thief took out his gun one last time for effect. This is when he
noticed the unmistakable sound of sirens in the far, far distance. Bill had hit the emergency
police button behind the counter.
It happened as quickly as a sneeze. A nervous reflex without thought. By the time the
thief regained control of his senses, Bill was already dead on the ground. This was the first time
the thief had actually ever heard a real gun go off. Grabbing any random object that Bill had
collected into his hand, the man made his way out the door and into the streets, now running for
his life.
*
Having given up on the search, Mark and Marina begin to make their silent walk back to
their car. No one they had asked on the way to the restaurant had seen the necklace, nor did
anyone in the restaurant itself. Mark’s anger is palpable in the air. Rather than possibly making
the situation worse, Marina stays quiet as she opens up the car door to head home. Mark is
unable to speak due to his rage. At multiple points during the night, he had even considered
hitting her. Mark starts the car. Mark believes he heard sirens earlier, so he hopes to get out
before any police cars create traffic. Checking the road ahead, there isn’t another car in sight,
and the only person is a familiar looking jogger that Mark swears he knows, but can’t tell
without a better look.
*
Anthony was always being told what a caring person he was. Teachers, family, exes, and
friends were always saying how nice he was. Being a wonderful husband and father, however,
was not enough to keep him his job. Earlier in the week, the garage he worked at realized that
they could work just as efficiently with fewer employees. Anthony was one of the four who was
told that he would be out of a job at the end of the month. The first thought that popped into
Anthony’s mind was his child and the future he wouldn’t be able to provide for her. A father
who couldn’t support his own family, his own flesh and blood, wasn’t much of a father at all. It
was on the same day that he was given the news about his job that he decided to buy a gun.
A close friend of Anthony’s was in a similar predicament. Matt was informed that he
would have to take fewer hours if he wanted to keep his job. This surprised all of the workers in
the garage seeing as Matt was the older brother of the owner, Mark Taylor. Matt had told
Anthony that he had been selling some of his belongings to a local pawn shop just to be sure he
had some extra money. When asked what kind of things they sold at this pawn shop, Matt began
to pick off several random objects which included a gun. This is when the plan started to take
form.
While running, Anthony began to reflect on what had just happened. The echo of the
gunshot had never left his ears. What had just happened? He never thought stealing was a good
idea, but thoughts of his daughter growing up in poverty clouded his judgment. All he wanted
was for her to have it better than he did. He never intended to kill the man, either. It was a just a
reaction to the police sirens. The police wouldn’t care, though. They didn’t have to care, either.
All he was was a murderer running from his fears, family, and his own actions. It was then that
he felt it. Oblivious to his surroundings, Anthony had run full speed into a jogger. As the two fell
to the ground, Anthony went limp, letting go of all that he was holding onto. A wad of cash, an
expensive looking watch, and a diamond necklace was released in one hand; a gun was released
in the other. For the second time in his life, Anthony had heard the now familiar sound of a gun
going off.
Marina woke up in a slight daze. She didn’t comprehend why she was knocked out in the
first place, but did remember the bang of a gun. She checked her body and face, and made sure
there was no bleeding. After she regained some of her composure, Marina began to take in her
surroundings. There was a wall directly in front of her; she realized a crash had taken place.
Light smoke was coming from the front of the car, yet not a tremendous amount to cause fear.
That was when she realized the noise. Turning her head, Marina’s eyes locked on to her
husband. Mark laid on the horn with a bullet in his head.
The world went still. There wasn’t fear or sadness like she would expect to feel in the
presence of death, but more of an absolute calm. She wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline causing this
or shock, but Marina was at peace. Looking at his face more closely, she noticed a hole right
above his eyes. The noise of the horn became more apparent to Marina, to the point of shrill.
Calmly, slowly, she lifted his head off the horn and back on the head rest. His body began to
slump down, but she didn’t bother to move him again. Marina unbuckled herself, and made her
way out of the car.
*
Matt stood up immediately after the sound of a gunshot. Looking down at the body he
had just run into, Matt kicked the gun out of the person’s hand, without recognition of who it
was. The shooter looked back. A car crash followed. Matt put the pieces of the puzzle together
and thought the shooter must have hit the driver of the car. Squinting his eyes, Matt recognized
the figure staring back to be his brother. Thoughts of the past flooded through his head. Matt
heard the shooter make odd noises but didn’t care. Disregarding their problems at work, arguing
as children, and a bitter distaste at times between the two, Matt remembered their childhood and
cried. His eyes traveled to the car door being opened. Marina, whom Matt had talked to on many
occasions, was now getting out of the car without a single tear. A look of calmness, not remorse,
was spread across her face. Matt imagined that she was grateful that Mark was taken instead of
her. These new thoughts did nothing but bring down more tears as Matt ran to the car, still
wanting to help his baby brother.
*
Anthony felt the gun get kicked out of his hand. Looking up, he saw a close friend, Matt,
who didn’t even acknowledge him. Alerted by the sound of a car horn, Anthony looked to see
what had happened. It didn’t take more than a second to realize he had killed his boss. Weakened
by the crash into Matt, Anthony began to cry painful tears. Not because of remorse for killing his
close friend’s brother, but for the future of his family. The police would undoubtedly trace him to
Mark. This would become premeditated murder. Despite his usual cheery and optimistic
disposition, Anthony gave up all remnants of hope that he had held on to. His wife wouldn’t be
able to support their daughter alone and would immediately search for someone new. His
daughter wouldn’t get out of poverty like he had always hoped. His frustration began to leak out
as he slammed his fist onto the sidewalk with the last of his energy. The necklace was still in his
hand. With that last amount of force, the chain of the necklace broke, letting the perfect little
circle of five diamonds, all connected, fall off.
Mark Sweeney
sureshot667@yahoo.com
A Sense Far Greater
“…People are crazy, man.” Paul made this remark rather lightly following a breezy I
don’t know, completely cognizant of the general qualities of it, not long after the two had shared
a good, teary laugh. He was wearing a small, tan t-shirt that complemented the fine contours of
his thin body. Some described him as skinny—so skinny, in fact, that his heart beat was visible
through his limber rib cage jutting out from his skin. The shirt had a print of a pickle holding
hands with a basil leaf and the text “I <3 Natural” on it. Paul was a vegetarian but never really
liked talking about it to his family.
The air was foggy, almost grey—but not for long. Whatever was left of the smoke in the
room dissipated along with the brash, young laughter of two red-eyed friends enjoying
themselves. It was the first week of September, and the overwhelming sensation of ending was
washing over them. Paul, particularly, could not help but feel the need to soak in as much fun as
he could before his responsibilities piled up again. He saw his time as dwindling, impending
unfamiliar feelings.
“Jesus,” he said, jumping the previous mood of conversation, scraping from the bottom of
his sandwich bag, packing the slide of Mitchell’s two-foot water pipe. “The last real week of
summer, man…before we all part ways. Can you believe it?”
Mitchell didn’t respond. He was preoccupied with rubbing a red balloon on his hair in a
previously existing effort—that is, preexisting before Paul had asked him—to create static and
avoid immediate boredom, and when that failed, balancing a pencil on his nose; but Paul—Paul
followed his thought of both reminiscence and future plans, at least until a crackling sound
followed by a quick pop reverberated from Mitchell’s large PA speakers.
“Hey, why don’t you put another record on?” Paul asked him, before inhaling two feet of
water-filtered smoke. He exhaled with familiar ease.
Mitchell walked over to one of his many bins of records with a specific goal in mind as
he shuffled frantically through his LPs. Though Mitchell was only one year older than Paul, he
lived with one other roommate who was scarcely present in their large, shaggy, Victorian
house—at least since the time he moved in, which was incidentally the same time the roommate
had to attend rehab to relearn how to use his legs again after a nasty, little biking accident.
Mitchell wasn’t going to college. He was a talented chef. He worked at a catering business
downtown and held his own financially. His parents were divorced—his father lived on the other
side of the country and Mitchell suffered from an unhealthy mother-son relationship, which is
what caused him to leave in the first place.
He cued up another record—Masters of Reggae.
“Nice,” Paul said, passing the water pipe to the content, young man heading towards the
large circular chair located in the center of the room, nodding his head accordingly to the loud,
bass-heavy music.
Paul laughed as he prepared his thought. “Dude, have you seen those fuggin’ posters
outside the library?” he asked.
Mitchell smiled and thought for a moment. “Which posters?”
“You haven’t seen ‘em yet, man? They’re fuggin’ hilarious!”
“Naw, dude.” He was intrigued.
“There’s this fuggin’ great ass poster with Ethan Hawk. Ethan fuggin’ Hawk on it, man.
Like,” Paul changed his tone of voice to a more comedic one, “‘Ethan Hawk—for American
Literacy.’”
The two laughed boisterously.
“That’s awesome,” Mitchell remarked in accordance.
“Oh, man. An even better one, though, is this Spike Lee poster. It’s all like,” his tone
changed again, “Spike Lee says, ‘READ DAT BOOK!”
The two laughed again.
“And he’s got a goddamn Crooklyn hat on!”
Mitchell laughed even harder as Paul watched him, feeling pleased, almost productive, to
have made Mitchell laugh so hard, causing him to laugh harder as well. Paul, after distinguishing
that the vibration in his right pocket was not caused by the speakers’ low-end, fished the cell
phone out of his pocket. It was his mother.
“Paw! Whe’ are you?”
“Jeez! Relax, will ya? I’m at Mike’s, mom.” Paul signaled with his hand to Mitchell the
universal sign for turn it down.
“What you doing?”
“Nothing! Nothing, all right? We’re just hangin’ out is all.”
“Okay, I jus’ tell you one thing, Paw!...”
Paul sighed.
“You know…just one thing and second thing…”
Paul glanced up at Mitchell, who was smiling. Paul rolled his eyes.
“You not do drugs, right?”
“What? No, mom! C’mon. Would you stop asking me about that, please. Jesus?”
“Hey! No you Jesus me, Paw!...When I see your face?”
“I don’t know, mom. Sometime soon, I guess.”
“How ‘bout twelve? Dat give you hour to have fun.”
“Ah! Can’t you just leave me alone, dammit? You’re killin’ me.”
“…K, bye.” She hung up.
Paul exhaled heavily, almost in a moan.
“Dude, your mom’s got such a thick accent.”
“I know, man! It sucks. You know, she came to this country before any of her other
siblings did. So she’s been here the longest.” Paul, immediately following this remark, thought of
how she was also the oldest of the Nguyen children to come to America, but decided
strategically, almost without any thought, to omit this fact from Mitchell in making his point. He
stood up and held his hand out to his friend, envying his independent housing situation.
“You peacin’?” he asked, looking up at Paul from the comfortable chair.
“Yeah, I gotta head home,” he responded reluctantly.
“Well, listen. If you wanna go diggin’ tomorrow, I’m totally down. Aight?”
“Word.”
They slapped hands, and Paul exited out the backdoor onto the thin, rickety steps of the
long staircase leading to Mitchell’s backyard. He passed the old, beat-up couch and van car seat
facing each other in the lawn to urinate in the shade of the fence corner, then walked home.
1 PM the next day, when Paul woke up, he groggily trudged out of his room to the
kitchen. He grabbed a box of organic, high-fiber cereal and a fresh orange, careful to pick only
the one with the fullest, healthiest color. His mother was standing over the oven.
Paul’s father entered the kitchen. He was struggling to carry a heavy chair through the
room. Sweat was dripping down under his thin, grey hair, down past his thick-rimmed glasses.
Paul took especial notice of the surly look in his Caucasian eyes and tight lips.
“Oh, you got new chair already?” she asked him.
Paul’s father sighed. “No, Nga. This is the old chair,” he corrected with disdain and
trudged off.
The smile from her face unfolded, debauched by his tone. She gave Paul a look, as if to
say “Okay?” as her husband marched off. She silently walked over to her flowers with a yellow
pale and thoroughly watered them. Her only hobby, other than sewing, was gardening. She took
special care of each individual plant, often singing to them early in the morning as the sun came
out, as if each one were a child who needed special attention. And it worked. They grew
healthily, far beyond what anyone else she knew could manage. Paul barely noticed her and
nibbled slowly away at his cereal, also in silence. She paused when she found her husband’s
untouched salad that she had prepared for his lunch from the previous day. Completely uneaten.
Just sitting on the counter.
“Oh my god,” she said. “Look a’ dis, Paw.”
Paul was aloof. “What?” He wasn’t quite awake yet.
She pointed to the salad. “Your father don’t eat his lunch! Look!”
He made a face, as if to say “I am looking.”
“Oh my god! I tell you! He keeping doing dis, he losing his feet!”
Paul thought for a moment, taking special notice of his father in the next room, obviously
able to hear his mother’s complaints, and felt some vague sense of rising tension, afraid that he
could barge in any minute and retaliate.
“He so stubborn. He have diabetes and don’t taking care of himself! He losing his feet!”
Paul knew just as well as she did, but he never said anything to his father about it, nor did
he vocalize these feelings to his mother. His father was stubborn, and Paul was afraid of
offending his judgment were he ever to mention anything.
He finished his cereal, spooned the leftover milk, stood up, and placed his bowl in the
sink, pocketing the orange in his right sweatshirt pocket.
“I love you,” she said, unprompted.
“Uhuh,” he said quietly.
She continued watering.
“Listen,” Paul started, “I’ma head out into town with Mitch to go record shopping, all
right?”
She sighed, made a sad puppy dog face, and said cutely in an attempt to keep him home,
“Oh, okay…You never want to be staying home with me.” Paul didn’t smile. “Later, mom,” he
said and walked out the door, without a shower, without changing his clothes, without telling his
father—only his iPod, his wallet, and a fresh, nicely colored orange, all in his right sweatshirt
pocket. The station was just a block away from his house, and Paul listened to music, as usual,
on the way. Paul had a lot of music. All kinds. He often enjoyed listening to his music library in
chronological order, examining the development of music from as far back as French radio
recordings of Bud Powell in 1948 to as far forward as, say, anything hip released within the past
two months.
He was finally beginning to wake up, and the sun was feeling hotter than ever as he
squinted in its presence coming down the street. Mitchell was waiting for him at the train station
with a blue Acapulco shirt on.
“You wanna get a lil’ high first?” Paul asked.
Mitchell smiled. “Pffsh. Yeah, man.”
The two walked off into the woods surrounding the station—a place they were not
unfamiliar with. Paul sat on a tree stump. He bunched up his knees and pulled out a pack of
rolling papers. He was fully awake now and twitched his eye a bit. Mitchell leaned his back on a
tree and folded his arms. They engaged in a conversation. Smoked. Laughed. Mitchell looked at
his cell phone. “We should go,” he said. And the two walked off, laughing into the distance, back
to the train station.
“Dude, there’s a huge bug on your face, man,” Mitchell had pointed out, two stops before
theirs—Gall Hill. He had caught Paul in a daze, almost asleep with his large headphones on, but
he awoke just as nearly as he was being told, having felt the odd feeling of insect legs crawling
on his left cheek.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelled and quickly slapped it off. The slap was just a second late,
though. The bug had already bitten him. Paul cursed it and shrugged when he noticed the swollen
mark on his face. The two later referred to it as a UFI—an unidentified flying insect—which
really stirred up some laughs on the way to the corner thrift shop. They went on walking down
the street, meeting new people, looking at clothes. When it got dark, they repeated the UFI joke
again on their way to the park. By the time they finished smoking, they had realized that their
time was running out. The train was set to arrive at 8 PM, leaving them only an hour and a half
left. Time enough for one more stop—the reason they came into town.
“Gall Hill’s only great independent record store,” as the two beautifully described it
coming down the block from the park.
It is important to note, at this point, that Paul, for as long as he can remember, has had a
somewhat odd habit that was rather uncontrollable. Anytime he was particularly excited (not
including sexually), he found it difficult to control his bladder, primarily in the kidneys—albeit
his usually impeccable ability to “hold it,” as it were. And it is needless to say that he got very
excited around records—which explains why he said to Mitchell who was well aware of his
friend’s funny, little idiosyncrasy, “Man, just lookin’ at that bright, yellow sign makes me wanna
piss.” Mitchell looked back at his friend and smiled. Megaton Vinyl. There it was, printed in
large, bubbled, black letters on a bright, yellow sign. It was a fine place that could offer all sorts
of fine things if a person was willing to look for them.
The two walked in.
“Jeezus,” Mitchell said, raising his hands in awe of the LP selection, “Look at all this,
man.” He smiled and looked at his friend. “I could be dying here and still be happy.”
Paul smiled back. He thought for a moment about whether Mitchell’s sure statement was
true for him also, but the thought of it was easily distracted by a large, red bin marked bargain
that was packed with used soul LPs. They dug heavily for a good twenty minutes, pulling out
selections, examining their conditions and prices. But after the time had rolled by, Paul had
noticed that his high was beginning to wear off. His left eye winked involuntarily. He felt a quick
pang in his kidneys.
They felt full.
Paul knew it.
He had to get out of there fast, or else something horrible would happen. In a hectic rush
to do so, he grabbed three records quickly that he knew he wanted, but then realized that he had
only enough money for two. What to do? He stood there, interchanging his leg lifts, holding the
LPs, thinking which one to choose. This one? No, this one. He knew this much: he really wanted
to sample Black Is The Color Of My True Love’s Hair, so he definitely needed that one. After
much thought like this, he finally decided. This one! And walked very quickly over to the
register. There was a pretty young lady working. She helped Paul, who almost tossed the records
onto the counter. The lady looked down at him oddly, but Paul didn’t even notice—he was too
busy “hold”ing things. She meticulously said “Okay” after scanning the barcode of each record.
One of them didn’t show up on the screen. She had to manually enter the barcode by hand. Paul
moaned. Jesus Christ. She finally got the record in. She began to unfold a bag. She stopped
unfolding. “Oh, wait,” she said. “This record?” She pulled out Paul’s selection, an out-of-print
Miroslav Vitous record, Mountain in the Clouds. “I love this record.” She looked at Paul. “You
like jazz?” she asked him, waiting eagerly for a reply. Oh boy, Paul thought. Here it comes. Paul
let it go. His nervous steps ceased and were replaced by an even more nervous shifting from side
to side as he felt a warm, wet sensation trickle down his left pant leg and into his sock. He looked
down but then realized he shouldn’t call attention to it. He didn’t want the cashier to see. He
quickly looked back up at her. She had a peculiar look on her face. He was paranoid. “Uh,
thanks! I don’t need a bag, please. Thanks!” he said and seized the records from her hand.
He walked very quickly over to Mitchell, who was kneeling over a bin of used LPs,
quickly flipping through the sleeves in the back of the shop. He must’ve found one that
particularly caught his eye because he picked it up and turned it over, bringing his chin down,
focusing his eyes, inspecting the back. Paul elbowed his shoulder.
“What’s up?” Mitchell asked, without even looking at him.
Paul elbowed his shoulder again. “Dude,” he said and shifted his eyes, each of which was
taking turns twitching.
“What?” Mitchell asked, annoyed, but when he saw, he started to laugh and then stopped.
He looked carefully up at Paul’s face. “Heh. What happened?”
“Dude, let’s go. Dude, I pissed my goddamn pants, dude.”
Mitchell couldn’t help but chuckle, and Paul glared at him for doing this.
“C’mon, dude! Let’s go!” he said, very aware of the volume of his voice.
“All right, all right, all right. We’ll go,” he said with a big grin on his face. Paul jogged
out the door. Mitchell followed at regular pace. He didn’t buy anything. He waited until they got
out of the record shop to let out the heavy laughter that he was holding in. Paul didn’t laugh
once. “I’m sorry, dude…but,” Mitchell would say every now and then as a break in his laughter.
Paul was silent.
Paul’s father was asleep in his room when he got home. He closed the door. That
particular door made a specific metallic slamming sound that was distinctive among other door
sounds when it was closed. It served as a signal for those entering in and out of the house at all
times. It was practically impossible for the door not to make that sound. Paul had always figured
that it was even audible from his parents’ bedroom—which was impressive since the room was
located at the far corner of the house.
“Whoozat?” a voice from the kitchen asked, in between thick chewing sounds.
Paul said nothing. He figured she’d find out soon enough who it was. For whatever
reason, perhaps because he was just so mad—so mad about all the urine in his pants that he and
several other people on the train had to smell all the way home—perhaps he was so mad that he
just plainly didn’t even think twice about instead changing his pants first.
“Hey,” he said, staring at the ground as he slowly walked over to her table chair. The
lights were dimmed. She was sitting by herself, slicing up and chewing a jackfruit. “Hi, baby.”
“…” She immediately smelled the urine and saw the stain on his pants. She gasped. “Oh
my god. What happen?”
Paul did not want to verbalize any of the things that had just happened to him. He was
feeling pretty grumpy, though he tried not to let his mood get to him. He shrugged, not knowing
what else to say but, “I pissed my pants.” He almost laughed.
She stood up. She told him to take his pants off. She walked them off into the laundry
room and returned with a fresh, new pair of jeans. “Here, sweetie,” she said and kissed his
forehead.
Paul felt the pants up against his cheek. They were warm. He wasn’t quite sure what to
say. “Thanks, mom.”
She didn’t respond. She was busy examining the bug bite on his left cheek that she
noticed after kissing his forehead.
“What?” he asked. “What?”
“What happen here?” she asked, perplexing her face. “You get bite?”
Paul explained. His mother looked excited. “Ooh! I know!”
Paul looked at her curiously.
She trotted off cutely onto the back porch. Paul watched her the entire time. She walked
all the way around the porch to a small aloe plant she grew there herself. She clipped off a piece
and walked it back to Paul. He was excited too.
“Here!” she announced and extended her hand out to Paul, holding in her hand a gooey
piece of the plant. Paul stared. She attempted to apply it to Paul’s face herself, but Paul politely
told her that she was missing the actual spot that needed attention. She was not offended. She
handed it to Paul, and he applied it himself. She watched.
Paul was no stranger to the wonders of aloe. He knew them all too well himself. In ninth
grade, his interest was pharmacology. He became a vegetarian that same year because of his
girlfriend. His mother was no stranger either. “You feel righ’ away, righ’?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he told her, really thinking about just what he was feeling. “It’s really soothing.
Cool.”
“Yah,” she said. “My mother, when she die…few year ago…she have take Kemo
therapy…”
Paul listened carefully, intrigued—especially by how she used her hands so much to talk.
“The radiation…it make her skin look all...” Unable to find the word to describe it, she
motioned what she meant. Paul listened, amazed by how easily and openly she could speak about
her dead mother. “She look burn…very burn. And after all‘f it…she come home and rub ‘dis,”
holding the aloe piece, motioning it along her body, as if she was spreading it, “and…not long
after…she look good!” She smiled.
Paul smiled back. He looked at his mother’s face with steady eyes. Her face looked
younger…different…warm…almost mystical in that one moment. Her dark black hair
illuminated in the kitchen light. A sense far greater than language was at work here.
“Wow,” he said. “Yeah, that’s awesome. Aloe is such an amazing plant like that, isn’t
it?” She smiled. “It really is just, like, the purest of them, you know? It’s so great for your skin.
The ultimate healer, you know?”
“Oh, yeah. I use on my face when get pimple.”
Paul smiled.
They sat there like that, not saying anything for a little while.
“I really love you,” she told him, “you know that? A lot.”
Paul felt warm. “I love you too, mom.” He leaned over and kissed her right cheek.
“…Okay! I go back to bed!” she declared. Before she left, Paul told her he was going to
go to Mitch’s. She thought about it and then allowed him to leave, as if her permission was ever
truly required before. He kissed her cheek again on his way out. At Mitch’s, there were two other
people there. They listened to records. Drank. Danced. Smoked. The mood died down when Paul
put on a new record.
“Hey, who is this?” one of the friends asked him.
“Sun Ra,” Paul answered.
Both Michael and his friends spoke at the same time with their eyes glittering, but he
didn’t have any trouble deciphering between their responses: “Oh, damn! That dude all about
outer space?” Michael said, making the motion of playing a keyboard hung down horizontally
from his chest…“That crazy ass guy from Brazil?”
Now that the subject was brought to his attention, Paul realized that he really hadn’t any
clue at all where Sun Ra was from. He had always just assumed that the man was American.
Nevertheless, he answered in accordance, as if he’d already known.
“Cool,” they both said, forgetting about the topic as soon as it was brought up.
Mitchell did a funny finger jive whenever he listened to jazz that made Paul laugh. He
danced some more. They all danced. They had a great time. After a while, Paul felt tired. He was
surprised when he checked his phone to see that no one had called him, as late as it was getting.
It was time to leave, he thought, and he said his goodbyes to everybody, telling them to take care,
slapping their hands on the way out.
Paul walked out onto the wet staircase. The rain poured down on his head as he attempted
to cover it with his hood. He walked over to the stairs casually, but slipped off the quick curve of
the second step, bending his right hand on the railing, capsizing, his body causing him to bump
his head on the sixth step, twisting his left leg on the twelfth step, bouncing his body off several
more steps before finally cracking his skull open on the hard pavement flooring squared off in
the yard at the bottom of the staircase. His head jotted quickly towards his left as he heard a bone
crackle in his neck. The music was blaring loudly inside. All he could see was the rain coming
down on the old couch and van car seat in the middle of the lawn. He could still smell the aloe
from his face as he clutched his heart and, without regret, made one final gasp for air.
The Wait of the World
Daniel woke up with a ringing in his ears. Part of it was natural; the part that comes after
a long night of drinks and fights. The other part was the obvious buzz of an alarm clock that was
not so close to the head of his bed. There was a time when the alarm clock was closer to the side
of his bed, however, that was a time when he had the energy to obey the clock and wake up with
out any added motivation or reason; the energy to leave the comfort and warmth of his own bed.
Since that time the alarm clock has moved farther and farther away from his bed so that he would
be forced to get out of bed and turn it off. This always worked immediately after it was moved
but stopped abruptly when he found a new way of turning off the clock without getting out of
bed. The distance reached by Daniel seemed impossibly far from his bed, but he always found a
way to reach it. Sometimes it involved a conveniently placed yard stick or the mastery of
throwing marbles at the sleep button at the top, but he always found a way.
This particular morning, the clock was set to remind him to go to his car and make it to
his fishing trip. It had been planned only for a couple of days, this trip. Fishing outings were
planned often by Daniel and his friends. It wasn’t, however, because Daniel enjoyed fishing, or,
for that matter, the company of his friends, whom he preferred to think of as associates. That’s
what they were really, people he associated with mostly at work but occasionally when there was
no work to keep them busy. But unlike traditional friends, Daniel and his close associates shared
no real connection, they didn’t particularly care for one another and the definitely didn’t go out
of their way to help each other out. In fact, Daniel had to keep his guard up at work to make sure
none of his “friends” were trying to frame him of breaking some company rule that would get
him fired or at least demoted. This ridiculous practice had been going on ever since Daniel had
gotten promoted above the level and salary of most of the vast majority of the company, it still
wasn’t much, because he hadn’t cracked the top of the top, but he was on his way, and his friends
were jealous. None the less, he was waking up to go spend his Saturday with these people and he
didn’t even like fishing. The worst part of fishing, in his mind, was the waiting. The worms and
the rickety boat and the general smell of the experience definitely didn’t make for a grand
afternoon, but the waiting was the worst part. Ever since his life took some turns for the worse,
he tried to do things that would take his mind off life for a while, but fishing just gave him a
grand venue to think about why life was no longer what it once was. He also thought the whole
idea was silly, waiting for something that may never come, and even if it does it will probably be
a huge letdown as far as the offending bitter goes. He saw clearly the way it paralleled his fears
in life; a self awareness that may never have been achieved were it not for all that damn waiting.
The drive to the lake was hot and uncomfortable. It was just below a hundred degrees out
but the humidity in the air made it much more uncomfortable than that. There was a constant
sweat coming out of everywhere on Daniel’s body, which didn’t happen much unless he was
particularly nervous or it was as hot as it was that day. To make matters worse, there wasn’t
anything on the radio. In that swelteringly hot car with nothing but to listen to was almost the last
place in the world he wanted to be. The only place that was worse that hell was the factory he
worked in. He would have loved to get a different job were it not for the road blocks in his life.
He didn’t have a college degree and there was no where else to work within almost a hundred
miles and the factory didn’t pay nearly enough so that he could save up money and one day leave
the town and find work somewhere else. Daniel was stuck. The term town was tossed around
loosely because it could hardly be seen as that. It was rows and rows of small houses built for the
workers of the factory and their families. There was no shortage of bars surrounding the town,
and the workers took full advantage of the abundance of beer when not at work. There was
almost no traffic in the town except in rush hour just before the factory opened and immediately
after it closed. Daniel’s speedometer barely made it above fifteen miles per hour. However, on
Saturdays, there was no traffic and the whole place seemed deserted, so the drive wasn’t long to
the lake, just past the factory. He wished he didn’t have to make the drive, but ever since Sarah
left, Daniel just needed something to do.
In the back of his truck, a bag sat with protrusions jutting every which way. Its contents
wouldn’t have smelled so bad if it weren’t so hot that day, but it was. He wanted to dump the bag
off somewhere but the town was filled with kids and wives who had nothing better to do than to
rummage through somebody else’s business all day, so that was not an option. He figured he
would just let it sit in his truck until he could think of a way to dispose of it properly. That, he
knew, might take a while, but he didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter.
The water in the lake didn’t glisten that day, in never really had much shimmer to it.
Daniel was convinced that the factory polluted the lake not just because of the unnatural color of
the lake, but because he has seen less and less fish in it ever since he started living there almost
two decades ago. As he arrived at the lake he saw that only 3 of his five friends were already
there, his angst increased as he considered the waiting the current attendance brought with it.
Don was a hairy Italian man who was just over five feet on a particularly tall day, but claimed to
be at least five and a half feet tall. He had a gravity defying beer belly that Daniel thought would
drop to the ground and leave a considerably sized crater in its wake with even the slightest
breeze angled the wrong way against his shirt. It hadn’t yet happened yet, however. Sam was a
bit of an outcast among the group, however, none of the men truly fit in with the others. Sam was
different though, he lacked the manliness that most the men in the in mid-west seemed to possess
which made him seem weak at times and just plain gay at others. This lack of aggression may
not have been so glaring if Sam didn’t so clearly want to be somewhere else in life. There may
have been a time in life when he was the star athlete in his school and generally well liked by all.
Those days were gone, however, and life didn’t turn out the way he had expected it to. Instead of
turning aggressive and drinking his problems away, Sam just came off as weak, and Don wasn’t
afraid to point it out. Don seemed to have convinced himself that it was all in good fun, but
everyone else knew that he always took it too far. He always laughed after giving Sam a good
razzing, which made it seem at least not like a direct insult. Or he would follow up his jokes with
a, “Ah relax, I’m just ruffling your feathers, bug guy.” John was the last present member of the
group. He was an undeniably attractive man who Daniel could tell was popular with the few
single ladies in the town. He was just as quiet and reserved as Sam, especially around Don, but
he had a very manly aura that kept him in high regards with the guys. John either kept to himself
or strictly conversed with Kerry, who was a very similar man to John but with more rugged
facial features and a love of the bottle. Kerry hadn’t arrived yet, and Daniel thought that he
would still be passed out from a Friday night filled with more alcohol than almost anyone in
town.
After about twenty minutes of waiting for Kerry, we decided to head out without him.
Even if he did show up eventually, he would be able to see the boat in the small lake. The trip
was extremely uneventful, as they usually were, until the tension was broken with Sam almost
catching a fish. The fish’s determination to survive seemed to outweigh the hook’s pull, and the
fish swam away to safety. Don let everybody know how he felt about it, “Will you stop fooling
around and put your back into it, there’s not a single damn fish in this lake who will just give up
before you do.” Don saw his words as a genuine fishing lesson, but no one else was listening.
Another fifteen minutes passed in silence when Don decided it was his turn to break up the
scene’s serenity. “Hey Danny, what ever happened to that broad Sarah?” John knew that this was
a sensitive topic With Daniel to say the least and tried to stop it.
“Don’t, Don, just don’t worry about it.”
“I mean, I don’t mean anything by it. I was just curious because I hadn’t seen her around
since she was with you and all of a sudden she shows up at the bar last night acting real sweet
with Kerry.” Don responded. Rarely did Don think about what he was saying, and most of the
time it wasn’t a big deal, but this time, John as well as Sam knew that wasn’t a good thing to be
talking about on a very small boat with a very angry man. Their stares told Don that that was
enough, and he stopped. Even he realized the possible implications of his words.
The rest of the trip went off without a hitch. No one really talked much except for the
occasional mention of sports or the latest at the factory. John caught a fish. It was only about
eight inches long but by comparison to the rest of the afternoon, it was exceptionally exciting.
The drive home was dull and again uncomfortable. The smell coming from the back of Daniel’s
truck was nearly unbearable, but there was nothing he could with it. Nothing he could think of at
the time, at least.
After about two hours of laboring over his problem, he returned home to a usual evening
at his house except with a bit more ash singed eye brows. The night passed slowly and without
so much as a ring from the telephone or a knock at the door. Daniel spent most of his time
watching a baseball game on TV with a Hungry Man dinner in his lap. The game was a good
one, but Daniel was none the wiser. He was too mentally exhausted to pay attention to a game
for long and after about forty-five minutes, he was passed out with half a container of breaded
chicken and mashed potatoes now on the floor.
The next day went just about the same as the night before it, no real activity occurred.
There was a time when Daniel went to church, but it just started to seem so forced that there
wasn’t any point anymore. He figured that there would be time for repentance when he was old
and gray like the rest of the congregation. That day and night was more of the same and Daniel
was beginning to wish that anything would happen in his boring life. His feelings would be short
lived, however, when the next morning he woke up not to his alarm clock but to a pounding at
the door. He knew something was wrong immediately. The most obvious reason was that he
hadn’t had a visitor at seven thirty for as long as he could remember. There was also urgency
behind the knocks on the door that gave off a vibe that was anything but friendly. Daniel
answered the door and he and the officer exchanged forced and quick pleasantries before getting
right down to the fact of the matter. The officer asked a few questions of Daniel before the
inevitable statement that followed those sorts of questions. “Daniel Maher, you are under the
arrest for the murder of Kerry Vaespar.” What was once the most dreaded thing in the world
became the one thing that he couldn’t want more. “Wait! Wait! I didn’t kill Kerry, just wait a
minute!”
In a cell for the next two weeks, Daniel did just that. He had more time to think things
over than ever before. He figured out what must have happened without too much effort. The
police must have questioned one of his friends who would have said, “Sure, Danny may be bitter
towards Kerry for being with his ex-wife,” and “I really don’t know him well enough to say
weather or not he has it in him.” They were led straight to him without so much as a speed bump
or road block.
The court case came up at the end of that two weeks and Daniel didn’t know what to
expect. He didn’t know how to prove himself innocent. The prosecuting attorney was a short
man whose facial features resembled those of a horse. He wasn’t a natural public speaker but
years of experience had helped him to learn to pretend he was. Daniel’s attorney was a shorter
man with a round face and was a much better speaker than the prosecuting attorney. If there
wasn’t so much evidence piled up against him, Daniel even thought he might have a chance. One
by one all his friends were called up to the stand as a character witness and each of them
answered the lawyer’s questions with a vague response that all led eventually to the fact that he
thought that Daniel was bitter and resentful enough about his divorce from Sarah to kill
someone. A security guard was called up to the stand. He was a fat man who looked like the
stereotypical doughnut eating police officer. He was clearly proud to have power over someone’s
fate and he tried to sound very official when he explained that he saw Mr. Maher dumping out
what looked like a body from a large black plastic bag into the incinerator at the factory on a
Saturday about two weeks ago.
“Did you dump the contents of a black bag into an incinerator at your factory on a
Saturday?” inquired the attorney.
“I did, but it wasn’t anything like a body.”
“Please, would you be so kind as to inform the jury of what was in the bag?
“It was just paper work, really.”
“Isn’t it true that you have a paper shredder both at your office and in your home, Mr.
Maher?”
“It is.”
“No further questions, your honor.”
The sentencing came shortly there after, and soon there after, Daniel was in jail. About a
hundred miles away from Daniel sat another black bag with more of what did Daniel in. The top
letter read, “I’m sorry, there’s another,” and Daniel could still smell their awful stench. The body
of Kerry turned up a few weeks later filled with more alcohol than any man could possibly live
through, but Daniel just couldn’t handle the wait and made quick work of a noose.
Yena Kozma
Yena.Kozma90@gmail.com
Flashback
For most people, in the moments before they die, their life flashes before their eyes. I
somehow can’t seem to make my short life into a flick before my final breaths. Maybe I’m not
meant to die right now, or am I? I’m still deciding. Is there a point to life? Every day we wake up
and deal with the same people, errands, and problems. Almost nothing ever changes. The days,
weeks, months, and years become so tedious, but we try to ignore that. Stuck in traffic with our
morning cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, we think up of some excitement for the upcoming days,
but nothing for the present. I always wondered what the point of living was, but I never dared to
ask anyone. I guess that’s one of the regrets in my life. I have many. I wish I could turn back
time and fix all of my mistakes. That’s not going to happen, but sometimes dreaming is good.
Thinking about death makes my world turn upside down. I feel as if I’m in a dream that’s
completely opposite from reality. Sometimes, I don’t even feel myself standing up. Right now, it
seems as if I’m floating in the air and only breathing faintly. I’m still alive, distressed, and
heartbroken. No memories are coming for my last moment. None, except the ones with him. I
like to think that he’s the reason why I’m here right now, but I can’t lie to myself any longer. I
pushed him away when he tried so hard to be close to me. Now, we’ll never be together. Never.
***
I walked into homeroom ten minutes earlier that Friday. There were only a couple of geeky
kids, already studying for their own pleasure, and Paul. Paul was always in homeroom on earlier
than everyone. He would either be working on his unfinished homework or talking to me. Today,
it seemed that it was Calculus homework.
“Sam! What’s up?”
“Paul…not much the usual. You?”
After about ten minutes of pointless chatter and me serving as a distraction to his
homework, I decided to point out that we only had fifteen minutes before first period began.
“Dude, finish your homework or your Calculus grade will drop down to an “A” minus !” I
joked.
“Nah. It’s ok, Sam. I like talking to you.”
“Well, thanks.” I laughed.
I guess he didn’t think it was funny because he looked down.
“Sorry, I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”
“I knew that. So what are you doing this weekend?”
“Let’s see… First, Steve and I are going to see that weird movie. I think it’s called Iron
Man or something. It was all his idea. However, on Saturday is our six month anniversary!
We’re going away to his parents’ beach house down in Virginia! I’m so excited! Can’t wait. Do
you have any plans?”
“Just chilling, I guess. So you said you’re going away this weekend?”
I nodded.
“Cause, I kind of got tickets and backstage passes to Maroon 5 for this Saturday night.”
“Paul! I love Maroon 5! They’re the best! Good for you! That’s great that you got tickets.
Now you can go see them in person too!” he looked at me.
“I wanted to ask you to go with me, but I guess you have plans. Sorry about that.”
“It’s ok, Paul. We’re still friends, right? I wish I could go, but I don’t think that Steve
would approve of me going with another guy anyway, even if we are just friends.”
“I understand. Well, I hope you have fun this weekend. I guess I’ll see you around. If your
plans change, let me know. Maybe you’d still want to go with me.” He forced out a smile.
“I don’t think they’ll change. Sorry. I’ll see you around though!”
Paul’s bright blue eyes stared at me for a good five seconds, and then the bell rang.
“Bye…” I said.
There was no response. I never thought of Paul as being good looking until that moment. I
just noticed his straight dark hair and his beautiful bright blue eyes. He was very slim, but fit. He
wasn’t that tall, but he was the height a perfect guy would be. We were friends since elementary
school. How could I never notice something so obvious?
***
I was thinking about Paul all day after he had asked me to go see a concert with him. The
way he looked at me. It was different that time. For every other time we talked, I never received
that kind of stare. It seemed as if his eyes were yearning for something. What could it be? I
wondered. So, I decided to ask Sarah’s thoughts on this situation. After explaining myself from
the surprising invitation from Paul to the way his blue eyes searched mine, she had the answer.
“Sam, before you deny this, I just want you to know that this is my strong opinion of this case.
He loves you. Paul has always loved you, ever since we were like six years old. I don’t know if
you remember, but he’s always been staring at you, Sam. He’s madly in love with you.”
“I have a boyfriend, Sarah. He knows that.” I quickly found something to rebound from.
“Do you think that he actually cares? You and Steve have only been going out for barely
six months. Paul has been in love with you for twelve years. One boyfriend shouldn’t stop his
feelings for you.”
“Sarah, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I’m going to stick to denial. He’s one of my
best friends. I could never picture him and me together. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Samantha, Steve is a nice guy. I know he is, but Paul would give his life away for you.
He’d do anything just so you could be happy. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met, and he’s not in
love with me. So he’d treat you a million times better than anyone would, even Steve.” I felt as
if she was telling me the truth, but I still denied it.
“Thanks for everything, Sarah. I got to go home and pack. Steve and I are going away this
weekend to celebrate our six month. Maybe you should try talking to Paul.”
“And say what?” she looked at me as if I was crazy.
“Just remind him of how important it is for me to remain faithful to Steve. Also, drop in a
few lines that we can never be together and stuff. You know the deal. I just can’t have him ruin
our moments in life.”
“Alright, Sam. I’ll try my best. Have fun at Virginia this weekend.”
We parted ways. I went home and started packing. How could I ever be the one Paul would
fall for. It all started to make sense now. How come no one bothered to tell me this for the past
twelve years? I guess it would’ve been kind of weird and awkward if six year olds started going
out. I chuckled at that idea. After packing for the big trip, I laid my head down and fell asleep.
***
“Stephen?” I called into the phone.
“Hey, is something wrong? Why are you calling at 4 in the morning?” he answered
sleepily.
“I’m… I’m…”
“Damn it, Sam! What do you want?” Steve yelled into the phone.
“I’m pregnant.” I replied calmly fighting back tears and hung up the phone. Steve didn’t
call me back that day. He didn’t even show up to school. I didn’t dare tell anyone except Sarah
about my pregnancy. Why would I? I didn’t need rumors to be spread about me, especially right
now. After school I received a voicemail. In hope that it was finally Steve, I decided to listen to
it: “Sam, this is Paul. I’m sorry to be leaving you a voicemail like this, but I decided to tell you
how I truly feel about you. Sam, I love you. I don’t care that you have a boyfriend. You don’t
have to love me back. I mean, I would love it if you would, but it’s not necessary. Sarah told me
that you said that I should forget about us ever being together, but I can’t. You were the only one
I ever loved, Sam. I guess love can hurt this much. I just want to wish you a happy life. I would
give anything for you to be happy, even my life. I love you, Samantha.” I couldn’t start up my
car. Tears streamed down my face. Why couldn’t I see Paul before? Why did I never notice that
he loved me? I called Paul back instantly. It went straight to voicemail. “Paul! I just received
your voicemail. I’m so sorry about earlier. I’m sorry I never realized. I was so blind. Please
forgive me. Paul, I love you too.”
***
No word from Steve, but most importantly no word from Paul. He was probably still mad
at me. I wouldn’t blame him. I just tore his heart apart. Sarah and I sat out during gym class that
morning.
“So, what are you going to about it?” she asked.
I knew what she meant. I didn’t even have to double check. “I don’t know, Sarah. I can’t
kill it. It would be wrong. Having it would be weird though. I guess time will show.”
“Steve hasn’t called you back, has he?” she continued her interrogation.
“No, he didn’t. I don’t think he ever will. I guess I didn’t know him that well. I thought
he’d take care of me in a situation like this. I was wrong.”
“Paul would take care of you. You know he would.” Sarah smiled.
“He left me a voicemail the other day
“What did he say?!” she demanded.
“Sarah, he said that he loves me. He said that he’d give up anything in order to make me
happy. I don’t deserve him.” I responded sadly.
“Did you call him back yet?”
“Yes, I did, but he wouldn’t pick up. He’s probably still mad at me. I don’t blame him.
Also, after he finds out about this baby, I don’t think he’ll ever want to talk to me again.”
“He would definitely want to talk to you and be with you. He just wants you to be happy,
Sam. You need a guy like that.”
“I guess I do. Anyway, I gotta go now. My mom’s picking me up and we’re going
shopping.”
“Did you tell her about it yet?”
“Nope, I’ll wait a little longer. I don’t want to shock her just yet. See ya.”
I left. I wished for Paul that moment, but he did not appear.
***
“Sam! Sam! Are you there? Sam! Open up!” Sarah yelled from the front door.
“Calm down, what’s wrong? Why are you yelling?” Sarah’s face was red and swollen with
tears. She’s probably been crying on her ride over here
“It’s Paul, Sam! He’s … he’s… gone!”
“What? What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense. Sarah, what do you
mean by gone?!” I pleaded.
“He’s dead. They just found him a few hours ago. He overdosed on cocaine or something.
He smoked a whole bag of it. He’s gone, Sam. I just thought it was best that I tell you before you
hear it as a rumor.” That’s it? He was gone? How? I just saw him a couple of days ago. Why
would he overdose? Was it… was it because of…me!?
“Sarah, it’s not because of me, is it? Please, tell me the truth.” Tears started forming around
my eyes. Just about ready to drop, but not yet.
“You tell me, Sam. You should know better.” She left. That was her way of saying it was
my fault. I knew it was my fault. I felt something was wrong after I received that voicemail. He
said he’d give up anything. He didn’t receive my voicemail because he was gone. Dead. I told
him to leave me alone. I told him that we could never be together. It was all my fault. He was
gone. That’s it. The only one who actually cared.
***
There’s no reason for me to live anymore. There’s no one left who could love me the way
he did. He was the only one that cared, the only one who listened, and the only one who’d help
in any circumstance. I threw all of that away. How stupid of me. Now, looking back on the
memories I’ve had of him, I only have regrets. I wish that I could’ve seen what Steve was truly
like, but most of all, I wish that I could’ve noticed Paul earlier than I did. When I noticed his
sweetness and care, he was already gone. Putting the gun down, I look up at the stars from my
roof. They’re beautiful tonight. I don’t think my baby should suffer living in this world. I should
kill myself before it has a chance to breathe in this sinful atmosphere. I would be doing myself
and it a favor. It would go straight to heaven and live happily ever after. At least one of us can. I
guess this is like Romeo and Juliet. Paul killed himself and now it’s my turn. The only difference
is that I did not love as Juliet did. I wish I have loved him that way, but I didn’t. Nothing can
change that now. I’m stuck with this guilt forever. Maybe Paul and I will meet up in the afterlife.
Who knows? No one knows what happens after death. My eyes see something. My mother and
father are holding a little girl. I think that’s me. I’m in first grade now, meeting Sarah and Paul
for the first time. Elementary school, middle school, and finally high school pass before my eyes.
I see Steve, Sarah, and most importantly Paul. I guess it is time now. Now I’m ready. He’s
waiting for me. I know he is. Pulling the trigger would be hard, don’t you think? I’ve never done
this before. Here it goes. Do it fast, Sam. You can do it. Don’t be afraid. You saw your life flash
before your big eyes. You are now ready. Countdown: 3…2…1…