The Exterminator
& Other Stories
AP Modern Literature
Period 2
Spring 2009
Mr. Zervanos
Alex Senko
The Exterminator
Duane found the body for the 10,000th time. In his dream, he knocked on the screen door
of the house of his childhood friend. He called the friend’s name through the door. No answer.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, calling out again to someone who couldn’t answer.
He walked through the living room and the dining room, past the tacky furniture and into a
despicable smell. He turned left into the kitchen and stood in the doorway for a moment. The
kitchen window was open to the baking heat, and from the windowsill, down the wall and across
the floor marched an army of ants. They flowed like a river across the decrepit linoleum, onto
the kitchen table and over the body that they engulfed completely, like a living armor of chitin.
Duane reached out and swept some of the ants off, revealing what was left of his friend’s face.
He awoke with a start.
Smack! Duane smeared a fat mosquito on his bathroom mirror. He hated insects.
Worms, spiders, ants, bees, even dust mites—they were all vile and revolting. Smearing this one
across his own reflection brought him a certain sense of satisfaction. One less to plague the
Earth, he thought. Then, with Windex and a paper towel, he wiped the smear away from his
reflection to reveal the image of a middle-aged man, dark hairline receding and abdomen
growing slightly round. He finished his shave, dressed carefully in his grey suit, got into his
black sedan and made his commute to work.
At 6:00, Duane sat for a moment to enjoy his coffee, the paper and the quiet of the early
morning office, before his late-rising coworkers began to buzz around the cubicle honeycomb.
He glanced over the headlines where, next to his flat screen monitor, the trio of framed
photographs sat. They served as a reminder of why he sat in that cubicle day after day, of why
he was trapped there. Duane had been something of a big shot engineer in college. All his
professors said he was their most promising student, and it was the widely-held conception that
he would one day be a Nobel laureate or make millions from his inventions. Duane had been in
his element in the labs at MIT. There was nothing he loved more than going to the clean rooms
late at night when no one else was around and working passionately on his pet projects until
early in the morning. He would have spent the rest of his life there in the labs were it not for the
sudden usurpation of his priorities by an unforeseen event: he fell in love. It was an unlikely
romance—she was an art history major and no one would have expected them to have anything
in common—but something between them clicked. They got married and went to graduate
school together. That was when Duane’s future as he envisioned it began to fall apart.
“I’m pregnant.”
“That’s great Dear. Did you know that Velcro was invented by someone after they
examined the way that plant burrs stick to fibers? It’s incredible how many answers we can find
just by looking at the world around us. Just think. This guy made a fortune because he got burrs
stuck to him all the time and one day decided to put them under a microsco—
“Duane, I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”
“What? A baby? I don’t remember saying that I thought it was the right time to start a
family. Perhaps we should discuss this and talk about where our lives are going in the long run.”
“What is there to discuss? It’s done. You and I are having this baby, we are going to
raise it, and we’re both going to love it to death.”
“Baby, honey, of course we’re going to have the baby. But you know my last grant is
running out. How are we going to afford to raise a child?”
That conversation ended the era of big dreams and high ambitions for Duane. If
anything, he was a practical man, and he realized that there was no way he could support a
family on the salary he made working in the lab. He was forced to end his research projects and
find a desk job. He still sat at a desk, doing consulting work for companies that can use his
engineering expertise. It was steady work with a steady salary, a good one too, and if only
Duane didn’t reminisce so much about what he might have invented or discovered if he hadn’t
taken the path that he did, he probably would have enjoyed the comfortable lifestyle he led, with
a respectable home, a wife and two kids. If only.
That night while Duane was reading the journal Science after dinner, he came upon a
familiar name: Robert Breneman. An old rival back at MIT, now published in the most
prestigious science journal in America—that made Duane more than a little jealous. When he
found out what Breneman was doing, it only increased his envy. It seemed that Breneman had
taken all of Duane’s old work and finished his research. Now he had already spun off three startup companies, making a fortune. Breneman was apparently even thinking of contributing his
own building to MIT, named in his honor. Oh, this burned. Breneman was living the dream
while Duane was stuck in a cubicle.
Duane didn’t tell his family about the frustration of finding out about Breneman.
Speaking his disappointments aloud would just make things worse, more concrete, in his mind.
If he started to explain his feelings he might slip into a tirade where he screamed that his wife
ruined his life when she got knocked up, and told his kids that they were iron weights shackling
him to the murky bottom of the stagnant lake which is middle-class mediocrity. Better to leave
some things unsaid. Besides, deep down, he knew that he had a good family. His wife was
cheerful, dependable and still kept herself very well. He had kids to be proud of. His oldest
child, his daughter Marie, was near the top of the senior class at Philip Glass High School. She
was an aspiring artist—and talented. She had already been accepted to Stanford’s art school.
She had big dreams and he had to make sure that she didn’t give up on hers like he had on his.
His younger daughter Cindy looked up to her older sister, but she didn’t have Marie’s academic
or artistic talent. She had, however, made the varsity field hockey team that year as a freshman.
They were both good kids, and they didn’t deserve his misdirected rage. He had no one to be
angry at besides himself. So he moped quietly, picking at his steak and potatoes, occasionally
slamming his trusty flyswatter on the table to get the villainous flies that whizzed around the
overhead lamp and about the food.
“God damn these filthy flying devils. If I could I would kill every last one of them.”
“It’s summer. There’re always flies,” his wife pointed out.
“I’m calling the exterminator in the morning. We need to re-fumigate the house.”
“Dad!” cried Cindy. “How could you possibly think of fumigating the house for the
second time this year? You know that pumping our house full of poison while we stay in a hotel
is not going to stop flies from buzzing into the house during dinner. Plus you know that that
stuff they use is bad for you; I don’t understand how you could want our house to be filled with
it.”
“Cindy, you clearly have no idea how harmful it is to your health to have all the insects
we do in this house. Do you really want maggots growing in your fruit because the house is
infested with flies? Do you want to get the sleeping sickness when a stray tsetse fly decides to
bite you? If they could, flies and every other insect on this planet would kill you and lay their
filthy eggs in your mouth so that their slimy progeny could feast upon your rotting flesh when
they hatched. Then they would do it all over again. If that’s what you really want Cindy, you
can live in the garage. Everyone else is going to stay healthy and bug free, aren’t we?”
After dinner Duane retreated to the activity he found most comforting: cleaning his guns.
For some reason, stroking the clean, hard, deadly barrels of his weapons with a clean rag always
calmed him. His pair of nine-millimeter Sig Sauers, his Remington 1100 semiautomatic shotgun
and his Browning BLR Lightweight ’81 Takedown rifle made up his own personal arsenal—the
pistols for home and self defense, the rifle for hunting and the shotgun for both. He was an
excellent marksman and hunter. As he worked on his guns in the basement, he daydreamed
about blowing the smile off Breneman’s smug face. When he was finished he locked his guns
away (except for one of the pistols—that was for keeping under his pillow) and went to bed,
feeling much better than he had at dinner.
He passed quickly off to sleep, but his slumbers were soon disturbed by an unwelcome
dream. He was hunting in the woods and he wasn’t having much luck when suddenly he
detected movement—a fleeting shadow not more than 50 yards away. He raised his shotgun and
let the quadruple-aught buck fly. Thunk! The shot went home, but the creature ran away. It
wouldn’t get far. Duane pursued the wounded animal, and came into a clearing. He spied the
doe he had crippled, maybe 80 feet out of the clearing, raised his gun again and put another load
of shot into the skull of the doe, which dropped to the ground. Before he even had time to
congratulate himself on the kill, he noticed the house in the middle of the clearing. It looked
eerily familiar—it was just like his house. No, it was his house. What is my house doing out in
the middle of nowhere in this clearing with this deer? Duane thought. Then he realized that the
doe had disappeared, but he didn’t even stop to puzzle on where it went. He was drawn to the
mysterious presence of his house in this strange place. He went through the open door, turned
the corner and saw a beastly sight: an insect, a giant queen, lay on his bed. Her enormous belly,
bloated, white, filled his bed like an immense semitransparent sac, undulating gently. As he
watched, eggs issued from the extreme end of her abdomen, one every few seconds. The thorax
and head were tiny by comparison with the abdomen—he could hardly see them except for the
legs, which flailed wildly. After being stunned momentarily, Duane took swift action—he
lowered his shotgun and fired three times—two shots in the abdomen, one in the thorax. The
belly of the creature exploded, revealing two giant maggots—Duane quickly dispatched these as
well. When everything finally stopped squirming he went in for a closer look—he had noticed
something disturbing about these things other than their enormous size, and now he knew what it
was—they had faces—the queen and the two maggots. He knew them too—they were the faces
of his wife and his two children. He woke up in a cold sweat.
Shaken by the dream, Duane decided that he wasn’t going back to sleep and that he
needed a shower to help him shake off the after effects of his nightmare. He took the gun he
kept under his pillow with him into the bathroom, carrying it like a security blanket, and laid it
on the counter. After a long, hot shower to cleanse the panicked feeling he had when he awoke,
Duane stepped out into the warm fog that filled his bathroom and obscured the mirror. After
drying off, Duane got ready to shave and then wiped away some of the fog on the mirror,
revealing a man-sized beetle reflected in the glass. With terrible determination, Duane reached
for his pistol, raised it, fired a single shot into the mouth of the vermin he saw in the mirror, and
crumpled to the floor.
While he lay there, bleeding, a black widow spider that had been lurking in a dark corner
of the small bathroom crept across the tiles towards Duane’s collapsed figure. As she crawled
across his chest, her intense red markings contrasted strongly with Duane’s pale skin, but
matched the pool of liquid oozing from the back of Duane’s skull. She crawled into his gaping
mouth, deep into the throat and laid her eggs in the thick, moist tissue of his pharynx. She
crawled out just before Duane’s body was discovered, leaving a tiny trail of red dots where her
passing had deposited Duane’s blood.
Duane’s funeral was a very quiet affair. He had mostly kept to himself, outside of the
friends and acquaintances he had at work and his hunting buddies. No one really understood
what had made him commit suicide, but when Cindy approached the open casket alone, only to
witness thirty tiny black-and-red spiders force themselves out of Duane’s nose and mouth, she
thought she knew why he did it.
Andrew Barney
Except a Man Be Born Again
Thoughts for the day: the suburbs are draining out like stifled sinuses to visions
of bombed-out parking lots. Bloated cities open wide to welcome them in. As I write
these words, the haze of the computer screen drags down my thoughts from a more
rarified air, chains them to the dead syntax of communication.
I had tried to break free.
It was a Sunday morning. As the rest of the world slept in ignorance or, even
worse, trudged off towards paltry displays of church pew faith. The hot, humid air
muffled the ring of the old telephone. I don’t usually even bother with it, keep myself
unworried by telemarketers and self-righteous false friends, but at nine in the morning I
felt drawn. Like, anybody else attempting communication at that hour on that day might
be something real. Sincere or maybe even honest.
No such luck, though. My father, stoically broken down from years of serving the
interests of everyone but himself, laid off to give work to the idle sons of immigrants but
still trying to maintain his dignity by cheering them on, bore another futile request.
Come home.
It’s bad this time, he said. I just want you to be here if this is it.
Christ. Christ, don’t you see the irony? I said, “it’s” bad? And “it” wasn’t bad when
I warned you, when I warned you before you lost your job, before you lost a chance at a
decent hospital and a decent doctor and a decent life and I said, I said this was the way
it’s going all over and it’s just not right? And instead of listening, you threw me out. Don’t
tell me it’s bad. Or it’s too late. Or it’s not worth fighting about it anymore.
Because if you had ever found one thing worth fighting for in your miserable life,
maybe you wouldn’t be where you are now. And that was it. I hung up the phone. God
help me, I just hung up the phone.
You know what they say about keeping your enemies close. My submission is
that at a certain point it’s less pithy phrase than way of life. All I have to do is take the
elevator to the first floor, walk out onto the street, see the sea of deaf pedestrians, a
thoroughfare closed off by riot police and pushcarts, shoppers treading the scum of the
street, some of it in human form. And instead of looking up and raising their heads, they
cling like drowning sailors to their way of life. There was a time when I would stand on
their street corners and go to their meetings. My father was enamored by the city. The
theater. The galleries. The lights. Culture, he said, culture. The kind of culture that eats
its young.
I came here because I thought that someone would listen. Anyone. By now, all I
want is for someone to tell me what just what is so radical about God and country,
justice and tradition; why it is that merchants of tolerance turn into the most vicious
attack dogs when their effeminate dreamworld is threatened. That’s the only value there
is today. Tolerance for prostitutes and pedophiles and high school dropouts. Because
when this tolerance is your only God, you can use Him to turn a blind eye to any
injustice you might see.
I wasn’t surprised. He called again a week later. More desperation this time. His
voice had finally broken down, come down from its charade of understanding, but the
words were the same. Come home. Think of your mother, you sister, your uncle. Who
had thrown you out and laughed at everything you said.
I tried to hold on. I clung to the receiver until my hand was pearly white and I
could feel every vein in my arm. Jesus, I didn’t say a single word this time. I just let him
talk, and talk, and whimper. But never scream. Never, ever scream. Until finally there
was a pause.
The receiver crackled as he inhaled plaintively. Hello?
Goodbye. I dropped the phone.
That was the last time he called. For the next week, two weeks, three I
anticipated another call. Didn’t hope for, didn’t dread, just waited, until the waiting was a
need all of its own. It took me a while to understand, to comprehend fully that he was
dead.
Comprehension is a peculiar state. It is more than knowledge, higher than belief:
a unity with something greater, an ideal. I can remember back before when I was like
him.
I was not sad that he died, just regretful that he never understood that he did not
have to. For all the talk of freedom, of the American way that no one knows, much less
is willing to spill blood to defend, their highest ambition is a humored fatalism, a clinging
to the rail as the ship goes down. Disgust is not too strong of a word, I think, any more.
Of course I knew that after he was gone there would be no more attempts. With
him gone, the remainder of the family was a sibling and a nest of nieces, nephews,
uncles and aunts whose hatred would only be increased, not abated, by the death. No
invitation to the Godless charade of a funeral, to some rented room with fluorescent
lights and cheap food.
So that was it. At last.
Perhaps I write my words without meaning. Perhaps they are only given this
later, as circumstance shapes their context. Does this then mean that I may escape
them? Write them down and disappear? Because I reread my words and they have
changed. What they meant then is not what they mean now.
I said that he did not have to die. But really, I am not speaking about snake oil
salesmen and medical insurance and the paltry pensions paid to an honest worker
stripped of his livelihood.
I am speaking of purpose.
I read once about a man who kept a diary for decades, recorded everything he
did. What he ate, when he slept, who he spoke to. He said that the reason was so that
one day someone might read what he wrote, books and books, and perhaps find out
something about how people worked.
For years I’ve been writing. But I never look back. I just keep going. Maybe if I did
I would find what it is that separates me, what it is that lets me move beyond. The
instant. The moment, light from the heavens, and I could clip it out with scissors and
take it, and while I am looking back to the past I could give it to him, I could hand it to
him and we could speak. I could paste it on the walls and over the door and everyone
who is walking by off of the street would see it and understand, know, completely. The
turn of phrase to conjure the truth.
Lately when I sleep I have seen words, words, page after page, scrolling and
turning into faces I’d forgotten. The rustling of paper turned into a drone then ascends to
a voice I remember. Gruff and tired. But when he tries to speak, I am not here, I am
what I see, words and words and nothing at all, and all this time this is what I thought I
wanted.
I haven’t left the apartment in four days. I can’t stand it outside. Not any of it. It’s
like all my clothing has split open and I’m left naked. The smell of the degenerate
masses could permeate and destroy me and I barely sustain through the carnal
ambulance cries every night but to see the imitation pimps and whores and storefront
models crawling on the sidewalks... I thought that I wanted to avoid seeing them, but
now I begin to think that I just want them to not see me. To comment on the
imperfection of my guise in their filthy slurred speech. To begin to articulate how we are
the same in a nod or a glance. Jesus Christ.
Jesus was dragged like a thief through the streets. Jesus was stark raving mad.
Caitlin Baxter
Heart Broken
I always think to myself, why me? I just don’t understand why God would do this to my
mom. She has been in the hospital now for about a year and a half and is still in the same
condition. It had taken the doctors awhile to figure out what caused my mother to go into a
sudden coma. After about a week the doctors had finally discovered that my mom had been put
into a coma due to the diet pills she had been taking. The doctors went on to explain that the pills
had very dangerous elements in them and were illegal. I just don’t get why. My mom didn’t need
to lose weight, she was about 38 years old and was thin with brown hair and glowing blonde
highlights. If my mom had only known how those pills would end up affecting her she would
have never taken them. Even though she was a stay at home mom she would go out of her way
to volunteer in our school and community. Every day when I came home from school she would
be working hard to finish doing the laundry, vacuuming every room in the house, cleaning the
dishes, or organizing all of our stuff. She wanted to be a help with everything and expected
nothing in return, she is a great role model. She doesn’t deserve this and I don’t understand why
she has to go through this horrible situation.
My family has always gone to church regularly my whole life. We feel that since my
mother’s coma it’s more important than ever. My twenty year old sister Brooke, my father, and I
pray for her every day, asking God to heal her from her state, but it doesn’t seem like it is having
an effect. I have been noticing since my mom has been in the hospital my father has begun to
loose faith and doesn’t have hope anymore. This really scares me because my family just isn’t
the same anymore; we just aren’t as close as we were when my mom was home.
When my mom was first put in the hospital my father, Brooke, and I would visit her
everyday bringing her cards, flowers, and pictures. We thought bringing her these things would
make her room more personal. We knew there was really nothing else that we could control or
do to make her get better. Every time we went and visited my mom we would sit beside her, as
we all held hands, and prayed for God’s healing and his blessings to be placed upon her.
This past week my dad has been getting home from work later than normal. I’ve been
beginning to see another side to him. He doesn’t seem to really care about us and my mom
anymore. Lately he hasn’t even been visiting my mom because he claims to be too exhausted
from his long days at work. He always assures us that we will go, and visit the following day, yet
that hasn’t been the case for this past week. After trying and conversing with us about visiting
our mom, he would send us away by saying, “Relax, we’ll visit her tomorrow, just go upstairs
and say a pray for your mother before you go to bed and that will make up for us not visiting her
today”.
My sister and I are getting so frustrated, we don’t even feel like our dad cares anymore,
he seems to be telling us lies everyday and getting our hopes up. It doesn’t even seem to phase
him that we haven’t visited my mom for the past week and haven’t been going to church on
Sundays. I don’t understand how my dad could just forget about his wife; they have been
married for 19 years! These thoughts reminded me of this story my Dad would always tell my
sister and I when we were younger. My dad would tell us how my mother was one of the
prettiest girls that attended their college. The first time he had seen her he immediately fell in
love. My mom would then interrupt the story and start telling Brooke and I how my dad used to
be a huge jerk and my mother turned him down multiple times. My mom continued on telling us,
“then finally one day your dad had the courage to come up to me and apologize for the way he
was acting, and asked for another chance. I figured if a college boy has the guts to look stupid
and to actually be humble, I should give him a chance. I then accepted his invitation to dinner
that Saturday night.” My mom told us how much our dad had changed just for her. This story
made me start thinking. Maybe my dad was fake all this time.
My grandmother called us this morning asking where we had been this past Sunday.
Brooke explained to her that our father had a long day at work Saturday night and had
mistakenly slept in Sunday morning. Brooke expected our grandmom to be angry at us but she
seemed to understand and carried on with the conversation. She told us she was going to go and
visit our mom in a little bit. As soon as Brooke heard this she asked if she and I could go along
with them. She gladly invited us to go with our grandpop and her. She told us to be ready
because they’d be over to pick us up in twenty minutes.
I was so excited to see my mom. All four of us got on the elevator and I pressed level 3,
where my mom’s room was located. As we went from ground level to the third floor, our
elevator stopped for what felt like 10 times as we kept having to pick people up and drop them
off on different floors. The anticipation of seeing my mom was rising. The number three on the
top of the elevator finally lit up and the doors slowly opened. I hopped of as my sister and
grandparents followed behind me to my mother’s room. When I got to her room the door was
closed. My heart dropped within the second, I didn’t know what was going on. Did my mother
die? Did she move to another floor because she was getting worse, or better? I turned and looked
my grandparents in the eye, they smiled and asked me what I was waiting for, “just knock on the
door sweetie”, my grandmother said to me. I frantically knocked on the door and a nurse slightly
cracked opened the door and peeked her head out, she told us it would just be a minute, as she
was finishing giving my mom her IV’s. This gave me relief and I had to laugh at my paranoid
self after realizing I had jumped to conclusions way too fast.
The nurse opened the door and we all walked in greeting my mom. It was hard for my
family todo this because we knew we would be getting no response. My mom didn’t look good
at all. She had gained a lot of weight especially in her face, she looked so swollen. Everytime I
looked at my mom tears came to my eyes. She was so different. Every visit I would take my
mom’s hand and gently rub it, I would try to fill her in on everything she was missing. This visit
I told her, “mom you’ll never believe it but I passed my permit test today and dad let me drive
home from the test.” No one knew if my mom could hear us and was just not able to respond, or
if she was completely brain dead and only declared living due to her heart beat. After we all got a
chance to talk to my mom we gave her a hug and kiss goodbye and told her how much we loved
and missed her. We then left the hospital and headed home.
On the car ride home our grandmom asked us if there was anything wrong at home, like
with our dad. Brooke and I glanced at each other, and I quietly answered, “Yea, I guess so; all he
has really said is that he has been very busy and is always so tired.” I just sat there with an
uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. I wanted to speak up right then and there, but I just
couldn’t bring myself to tell them what I knew, I didn’t want to tear the family apart any more
than it already was. I just closed my eyes and my mind drifted back to that night.
I had been exhausted that night and feel asleep at 9:00 p.m. with the TV. and lights all on
in my room. I woke up after what felt like 20 minutes, but was actually three hours. I got out of
my bed and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I passed by my dad’s room and realized he
wasn’t home, he was still out! It was about three months after my mom was put in the hospital.
My sister and I assumed my dad must have finished work late again and was maybe visiting my
mom or out running errands. Not knowing where he was worried me so I got my cell phone and
called my dad. He didn’t answer the first time so I tried again, finally getting him to pick up. I
asked him where he was and he said, “Hey sweetie I finished work a little bit late tonight and just
stopped by this bar on my way home. I will be home later tonight.” I continued worrying asking,
“Dad what time are you going to be home? You didn’t tell Brooke or I that you were going to be
coming home late tonight so we were worried all this time!” I was getting so frustrated; I felt like
this was the point where my dad began not to care about my sister and I as much anymore. He
assured me he would be home in about a half hour or so and told me that my sister and I didn’t
need to wait up for him. I figured I’d just let him alone since he didn’t seem to care and hung up
the phone, cutting off his goodbyes.
I went up to my room and watched TV. My favorite movie was on, The Godfather. I
made myself comfortable, just in case I accidentally feel asleep again. Forty five minutes went
by, as I heard a car pull up in my driveway. I jumped out of my bed and peered out my window
to see my dad getting out of an unfamiliar car. I was so confused. Where was my dad’s car?
Whose car was he getting out of? I pressed my face as close to the window as possible and
squinted my eyes to try and see who was driving the car. As I watched my dad out of my
window interact with the driver, I realized it was a woman. She had long hair and looked a few
years younger than my dad, with a nice expensive car. After waiting a few minutes my dad
finished his conversation and leaned over to kiss the woman. He then gave her a hug and got out
of the car. As I watched my dad walking away from the car, I noticed the smirk on his face, I was
absolutely furious. I told myself to not jump to any assumptions as my adrenaline was already
heightening. I quickly closed my curtains and ran downstairs to interrogate my father about his
night.
I got downstairs and starred at my dad as he was shutting the front door. He looked up
and immediately made eye contact with me. Right then and there is when I realized my gut
feeling was true.
I just couldn’t tell my grandparents and my sister. I tried to keep my emotions inside of
me so that Brooke wouldn’t notice I was about to cry. I felt like such a coward. This wasn’t the
first time I didn’t speak and tell my family the truth, I didn’t even speak up that night that my
father was dropped off by that woman. I asked him questions and tried to make him confess to
me the truth, but I didn’t even tell him what I saw. I didn’t know what my dad’s reaction would
be and I was too scared that he would hurt me or leave me, if he knew that I was on to him. I
didn’t want to tell anyone because I didn’t want to break my family apart.
Since then I always wondered to myself, how much worse is my life going to get? I wish
I didn’t have to be the one to have seen my father and his new girlfriend. It was a terrible spot to
be in because I had no one to talk to about it . My grades in school were beginning to suffer due
to the distractions of my mom’s comma and my dad’s affair. All I wanted was for my mom to
get better and return home, so that everything could return back to normal. I wanted my old life
back!
My grandparents pulled up to the house and dropped my sister and I off. We jumped out
and thanked them for taking us with them. As we were walking up the stairs to our door I
decided it was my responsibility to tell my sister the truth. I stopped Brooke before she went
inside and I told her I needed to talk to her. My eyes were filling up again with tears as I told
Brooke what happened,“ I just want to apologize that I am not telling you this until now. I was
just scared, but I know the right thing to do is to tell you the truth.” The expression on Brooke’s
face made me even more upset, because she knew that bad news was coming. I went on,
“Brooke, a couple of weeks ago I caught dad getting dropped off by some woman….” Brooke’s
eyebrows rose. I continued on, “Yes, dad has been cheating on mom. I guess we can now assume
why dad has been coming home late almost every night, never visiting mom, not going to church
on Sundays, and not seeming to care much about us anymore.” I could tell Brooke was furious.
She assured me that she would handle this situation. At this point tears were pouring down my
face, I told her I didn’t want to break up our family. She walked over to me gave me a hug and
thanked me saying, “Courtney, thank you so much for telling me. I understand why you were
scared to speak up but honestly, why would we want to live with someone who doesn’t care
about his own family and is going behind our backs?”
That night Brooke called our grandparents and asked if they would mind us living with
them for a while. Of course they didn’t have a care in the world. After Brooke hung up the phone
I asked her what their reactions were when she told them about our dad. She said, “Courtney
they didn’t even ask why, it’s almost like they already knew and had a premonition, I think that’s
why they kept asking about dad these past couple of weeks. They could tell.”
Hailey Carlson
Bristol Falls
My sentence was for five years at a juvenile detention center. That was the amount of
time that it would take until my eighteenth birthday upon which I did what any person who
wants to leave their past behind would do, and took the first train to New York City. I made
close to nothing working the mail room for an office building. A stock investor who I had gotten
to know during my job took me under his wing. He was alone, and so was I. He was old, had no
family, no son to teach the business to. He used me to fill that void in his life. I did very well for
myself. As successful as I was though, I was unsuccessful in trying to escape the horrors of my
past.
It was the summer of 85’ in Bristol Falls. School had just let out. The heat was thick in
our lungs. Bobby and I had the whole summer ahead of us. We were thirteen. We were barely
teenagers, but saw ourselves as men. Bobby had begun to sprout chin hair. While I was still very
thin and boyish with no chin hair to mark me as a man, I had been forced to enter adulthood in
other ways.
My mother had died in a car accident that past winter. I kept my favorite picture of hers
in my desk drawer next to my bed and hoarded her old sweatshirt in the back corner of my
closet. I swear if I held that sweatshirt up to my nose long enough I could smell her perfume still
living in the threads. Everything else that belonged to her, my father had gotten rid of after she
died. To him, seeing her stuff was a constant reminder that she was never coming back to use it
again. It was my dad’s way of coping with mom’s death. I never saw him cry, but knew he held
so much pain inside. He loved her.
It was just my father and I now, and we grew closer living on our own. We shared TV
dinners on our tray tables in the living room and talked about our days. We tossed the baseball
around the yard on warm Saturday afternoons. We took long Sunday drives to the country. We
shared countless moments of silence in which we both knew what the other was thinking. We
missed her.
Although my father wasn’t the most affectionate man, I had great respect for him. He was
our town’s police chief and well-liked by everyone. He was strict. He was stern. And he was my
hero. I wanted to be just like my father. I wanted to attend the police academy and wear that
badge proudly like my father. I watched my dad get ready for work sometimes. I’d sit on the
corner of the bed and watch him put on his navy blue uniform. He’d secure his belt, shine the
tops of his shoes and strap his gun to his waist. He looked so powerful. I felt special when people
would say, “Oh, you’re Billy Turner’s boy!”
*
*
*
The day was overcast. And every day after that day seemed grayer than before.
Sometimes I wonder if God didn’t want anyone to know what had happened on that ominous
day, so he laid a dark shadow over the town in attempts to hide it away from the rest of the
world. He had given up on everything and everyone in this town long ago.
We were playing street hockey with our friends Jimmy, Mike, Fred, and Pete. Bobby had
always brought his own puck. The only puck he claims he could ever play with. The puck was
signed by Wayne Gretzky. People would always ask him why he didn’t put it up on a shelf
somewhere safe. It was lucky to him and he wouldn’t want to put it up on a shelf somewhere
just to collect dust.
“Car!”
We moved the net to the side of the road and skated to clear the way for the rusty red
Volkswagen coming down the street.
“Alright, game on.”
The clouds gave way to rain so we decided to stop the game and pick up where we left if the sun
came out. I think Pete, Fred and Mike just wanted to stop because they were losing, not on
account of the weather. Either way we all agreed to meet at the same spot when the weather
cleared so the game could resume. Everyone went home. Bobby and I went back to my house to
watch TV and grab something to eat. I grabbed the Gretzky puck lying in the street. Sometimes I
wondered how lucky that puck really was.
“There’s nothing to eat here” Bobby said while looking through my cabinets.
“There should be some mac and cheese in there.”
“Nah, I’m not hungry anyway” Bobby said closing the cabinet.
I stared at Bobby. I rarely ever saw him eat. His bony, slender body was the evidence to prove
this. The only place I ever saw Mrs. Johnson was in her chair in front of the tv. She would sit
there all afternoon sometimes. You could barely see her sitting there through the smoke from all
her cigarettes and on the rare occasion that she did address us at the door, she reeked of gin. I
don’t think she every stepped foot in the Johnson’s kitchen.
Bobby was an average looking boy. If you were to see Bobby’s face on the back of the
milk carton there would be no distinguishable feature for you to remember him by. He had no
moles. No freckles. His complexion was comparable to milk and his hair was the color of dirt.
The only distinguishing thing about Bobby was the frequent marks and bruises on his arms and
chest. We never talked about them. Not only was he my best friend, but my neighbor.
On hot summer nights when the windows were open and the only thing heard was the
cacophonous sounds of crickets, I could hear the Johnson’s fighting. I never knew what they
fought about. And I would never tell Bobby that I heard. I knew where he got those marks. We
had an unspoken understanding. I wouldn’t ask about the marks and he wouldn’t mention my
mom.
I could smell the butter from the microwave and realized Bobby had found the popcorn.
“See you when the sun comes out I guess!” Bobby ran past me with the steaming hot bag
in his hands.
“Ok. Don’t forget the Gretsky!” I never understood Bobby’s connection to that damn
thing. It never brought us any luck.
I stared out the window at the raindrops falling down the pane. I connected the dots of the
rain droplets on the window and formed pictures. I imagined it was God’s way of entertaining
me on this crappy day.
Bobby’s dad’s truck pulled up in the driveway. The door opened slowly and Mr. Johnson
stumbled out of the truck tripping over his own feet. Drunk again, I assumed. If Mrs. Johnson
had been in her chair with her gin all day, this was sure to be another loud one. He slammed the
front door hard. I prayed for Bobby.
I walked back to the kitchen to grab an ice-cream sandwich from the freezer. I was
hoping my dad would come home soon. I was getting hungry and bored. I walked back to the
window and opened it a crack for cool air. The house felt muggy and my skin was sticking to
everything. I laid down.
CRASH. The sound jolted me from my daydreaming. I sprang to my feet and looked out
the window. The bay window of Bobby’s house had been shattered. I looked around to see if
anyone was outside their house. There wasn’t.
I ran outside, the lawn soaking my bare feet. I tried to see what had happened, but could
only hear screams from inside the house. I ran back inside to grab my baseball bat. I threw the
bat back down, remembering my father’s extra handgun. I ran upstairs, my heart beating out of
my throat. My head was pounding in fear of touching something that was forbidden. I reached
under the bed and grabbed the heavy, black gun. I tucked it into the waist of my shorts and
headed back down the stairs and into the rain.
The gun dug deep into the side of my hip and weighed down my camo shorts. I was
barely off my yard when I heard Mr. Johnson’s booming voice. I was reacting quickly. Thinking
about my friend; I burst in the front door, my body and voice shaking, “Bobby? You okay?”
I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Johnson in the back screaming. I walked towards the kitchen,
hoping to be sent away or told Bobby was in his room. He was on the floor. Mr. Johnson over
top of him, hitting him blow by blow yelling in slurred speech.
“Don’t Joe!” Cried Mrs. Johnson; trembling from the corner of the kitchen watching her
husband.
They didn’t even notice me walk in. Bobby wasn’t moving. I ran over to Mr. Johnson, pulled the
weapon out of my pocket, and held it up to his head.
“Get your fucking hands off him!”
Mr. Johnson looked up with bewildered, incomprehensive eyes.
“Get the hell out of here, Raymond.” He said not even making eye contact with me.
The clap of the gun went off. I was thrown back by the surprising force of the small
handgun. Blood was slowly forming a puddle on the kitchen tile. It was Bobby’s blood. There
he lay motionless. His eyes open. Mr. Johnson stared down at his son in an intoxicated daze. I
too stood paralyzed for what I had just done. Sirens broke the silence. Some one had reported
hearing the glass being broken.
*
*
*
I left the town of Bristol Falls a child and returned a broken man. I walked into
O’Malley’s bar. Pat O’Malley was the owner and was a real asshole. Walking in I immediately
knew this was the last place I should have gone. I sat down as Pat gave me a stare, then when he
finally recognized me his face lit up and he smiled, “Why if it isn’t Ray Turner, what in the hell
are ya doing back home big city boy?” Responding to his own question he said “Hey listen. I’m
real sorry to hear about your father. I read about it the other day in the paper. He was a good
man, Raymond.”
“Thanks” was all I said as I threw back the glass of whiskey he had slid to me in the
midst of our conversation. I swallowed the Jim Bean hard along with the lump in the back of my
throat.
*
*
*
There was no service for my father, just a burial in which a few of his friends and their wives
who were long retired showed up to. I was the youngest person there. They gave me their
condolences, all the while giving away the fakeness of it all. The priest continued to say the
Lord’s Prayer while I stared at the casket slowly being lowered into the damp ground. And it
was over.
The first time I would have anything to do with my father in 20 years was when I would come
back for his funeral. The last time I saw him would be during his visits to me at the center. Our
time spent together consisted of me and him sitting in a cold room together; he would sit across
the table, his wrinkled hands folded, forcing conversation often filled with painful gaps of
silence. “I’ve suffered so many losses in life, Ray” my father whispered, all the while staring at
his folded hands, “Not only did I lose my wife, but now my son.” Tears streamed down my
father’s face for the first time that I had ever seen.
He was no longer my father. His face had grown older and older with every visit. His eyes filled
with more pain each time they stared into mine. Something that he had used to protect his life, I
had used to take a life. How does the chief of police explain his son killing his best friend and
using his weapon? I honestly don’t blame him for how he felt.
All of the cars had pulled away from the cemetery. I sat in my car watching the rain
coming down the window of my windshield. I laid my head back on the soft leather of the
headrest and listened to the soft pitter patter. The noise of a car motor had startled me to open
my eyes. An old black Buick had pulled up not far from me. Out of the car a woman walked
over to my father’s grave sight. It was Mrs. Johnson. I walked up behind her as she was
throwing a carnation into my father’s grave.
“Mrs. Johnson.” I said while laying a hand softly on her shoulder.
She turned to me. “Ray. I came too late.”
She turned back to my father’s grave and stared down into it. “I’m sorry, I know you loved him.
You know, after you were sent away your father and I became good friends. Maybe that’s how
the universe works; the very things that pull us apart are the very things that draw us together.
There have been times when I hated you. I still hate Joe. But most of all I hate myself. I hate
myself for staying. I hate myself for not being a good mother. I didn’t deserve him.” She
turned to look at me. She hugged me burying her head into my shoulder. She then lifted her
head to whisper in my ear “I’m so, so sorry. I know you loved him.” Then, taking my hand she
put Bobby’s puck into my palm and wrapped my fingers around it. I stared down at the puck as
she walked back to her Buick, started the engine, and drove away.
I walked away. I didn’t go to my car though. I went to a corner of the cemetery shadowed by a
willow tree. Robert Louis Johnson 1972-1985. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the
hockey puck. I set it down next to his grave and walked back to my car.
AP Literature and Composition
Joseph Casta
5/1/2009
Journey
A young boy; an abandoned son, a hurt child, a feeling of emptiness, all of this describes
Robbie. He is a youthful boy who has a hard journey ahead of him. The scene in front is a flood
of all black. An assembly of limousines, a line of umbrellas, all centered around one item.
Weeping words surround his head and rain falls around his body. All animal life disappeared, all
the flowers were wilted, and death was a visitor. It was intended to be a day of remembrance and
love, but for Robbie the heavens had other plans. As he watch his mother lay there, with the tears
of heaven falling upon her face his stomach clenched. In that very moment his childhood ended.
At a time, a time when his life was supposed to be care-free and breezy his mother’s coffin was
being lowered six feet. Everything he loved, her early morning breakfast, or her surprise
cupcake visit to school were now over. Robbie had to say goodbye. His mind was being flooded
with so many words, “I am sorry for your lost,” “She was a wonderful woman,” “You must stay
strong.” Well the fact of the matter is that Robbie was weak, his knees were peeling in and his
arms felt like jelly. He wanted to collapse on the floor and beg for her return. He wanted to hear
three words from his mother, he wanted so much in one little moment; and yet all he got were
“sorry’”. The sky above his head was perfectly depicting his heart. It was broken, lightening
above acted as the sharp pains he was feeling. The thunder took place of his internal screams and
the rain was his tears.
If you would take a look at Robbie he would be virtually unrecognizable. The once
luscious and full face he had was replaced with a sunken in vanity, pale exterior and drooping
eyes. Behind those eyes, however was pain. His heart hurt. Surrounding him were a bunch of
faces that just did not understand what was going on inside.
At the tip of his tongue lay all the words he wished he could say to those above,
“I needed her here with me.”
“Why would you take her?”
“This is unfair.”
“Mom, why would you want to leave me?”
“Was it me?”
“What did I do? Can you please come back?”
“I need you more than you will ever know.”
“She does not need to be with you. She needs to be right here with me, right here.”
“Why…?”
Yells from the distance seemed to be cutting into Robbie, a knife was twisting his heart and the
pain was getting to unbearable.
“More, more, she needs to be down further,” shouts from the cemetery groundskeeper
were shearing pain. “No you asshole, six feet, six feet. God damnit.”
“This is wrong, this should not be happening” Robbie murmurs under his breathe. In that
moment, he was gone…
Robbie and his best friend Melinda sought refuge in his barren home. The lightening they
escaped from bellowed among the trees behind them. Yet Melinda watched as Rob’s backside
flew up the stairs. His dark clothes moved in the shadows of the home around her. The creaky
wooden stairs just echoed in the home. The walls were white and the corners were empty, the
cupboards were bare and loss was apparent.
“It is awfully cold in here” Melinda says to herself.
This house used to be full of happiness and charm, now it is a cold representation of what Robbie
and his father are feeling in their hearts. Everything around her just looked depressing.
“Robbie” she called after him, “Come back down here.”
Melinda was not taking no for an answer and helped herself to the upstairs. She walked
slow, examining what has happened around her. Everything is different. No more pictures, no
light, cold, cold, cold. It was as if she was walking through the hall of a completely different
home. Once she reached Robbie she opened the door in a rush and was shocked at what she saw.
The room that once used to be Robbie’s mothers room was now stripped of everything, and all
that lay in there was a bare mattress and a trunk. The only decoration on this truck was Robbie’s
flailing body. He was weeping hysterically and quivering from the cold home over him.
He began to yell,
“Why would you do this?” “Why?”
“I HATE YOU!” “I HATE YOU!”
Melinda cautiously went down to Robbie to comfort him but all she was met with was rage. He
looked up at her, teeth clenched and fist furious, hands on her shoulder: he began to shake her
and yell. After a few minutes of Melinda’s constant struggle to release herself from Robbie’s
hold was a success and he dropped her to the ground, then ran out of the house.
“Robbie!!!! Robbie!!” Melinda called after him, “Where are you going. Robbie!”
Melinda followed him down the street until his pace picked up and he was gone.
“Rob, you have no where to go, come back home, please!”
Robbie had no where to go he knew that and yet he kept on running. He was both lost
physically and mentally.. Mentally he was exhausted and felt as if he could not move forward.
The one person he thought he could turn to was no where to be found. Physically, his body was
screaming for help but was far from any. Robbie just kept on running, moving faster and quicker.
Hours were passing around him, the dark day died above and the shine of the moon crept in. He
found himself at an alley, with two people in the distance.
“Hello” his cracked and scared voice called.
“Whoa man, you don’t look so good. Do you need something?” The darkened out
character called towards Robbie.
“Yes….. Do you have Anything.” Robbie was now desperate and lonely and was looking
for any comfort he could get.
The shady character of a man moves forward one hand and drops down several pills.
Robbie throws back his head and his horrors disappear.
Time and time again those small pills seemed to be the relief he needed to get through
the day. It doesn’t matter what they were, where he was, or who he was around they were his
salvation. Whether it was six in the morning or eleven at night he now had something to help
him. Pain? No that was gone. Suffering? It was now muted by the influence of the head
throwback. That alley was now his home; his life. No windows, no doors, just concrete. His
common visitors consisted of the shady “friends” he was beginning to gain. There friends would
come, pills would disappear and sharp horrors would replace the pain. A new kind of help fell in
front of him.
Robbie was falling down and there was no one there to help him up; and no one there
who would want to help him up. He could barely move his head. Right in front of your eyes he
was disappearing. If it was not his expression, white and clammy, then it would be his
disappearing corpse. Robbie, now known as Rob no longer knew who he was. The people around
him knew nothing of where he came from or the love that once surrounded him. He was an
island all on to himself and no one would swim to his rescue. His days grew long and his
constant hyper activity was wearing down his body. His arms, his arms; they were the one part of
Rob that showed what he was really going through. Tracks. Tracks. Tracks.
The one main thing that was killing Rob was, in some twisted and sick way was keeping
him alive.
“More, I just need more. More.” Rob would call out from the shadows.
He would stop for a while, close his eyes and let his mind go, it would leave that alley. It would
soar above the clouds, through the rain and into another body.
Back at home Melinda did not stop. Her rampage was one too much to go up against. No
one would want to either. She was touching billboards, newspapers, articles, and window
postings trying to find her friend. She has become a maniac on a mission, since the day he left
she has not stopped. At night her room is full with chatter, and yet she is alone.
“Where could he be?”
“Who could he be with?”
“I wonder if he has been thinking about me…”
“Robbie, if your out there, come back to me. Please. Come back to me.”
Melinda needed Robbie back in her life. She felt responsible for his actions and knew that
she had to find him. Yet she was not prepared for that day. Her emotions were now a
rollercoaster and she was not sure if she would be able to greet him properly. Would she be able
to hug him, recognize him, or would her rage scare him away?
Robbie lay on the floor, rain pouring around him, his body was shaking. Melinda lay,
warm and sharp in the safety of her suburbanized room, they were so far away and yet so close.
She awoke the next morning, no breakfast and just began running. As far as she could go and as
long as she could handle with her voice bellowing the world in front her.
“Robbie!” Melinda screamed. “Are you there?” “Robbie…”
There Melinda stood, on a street she did not know, in a town she has never visited and was alone.
Her heart was racing and her feet were tired. Out in front of her, as if it were a mirage was a
bench, a sign of rest, and one that she took. Melinda sat down and let out a reliving sigh.
“Awwhhhh.” Her body was regenerating and her mind was beginning to rest when all of
a sudden she felt something around her leg. At first she wanted to yell and yet she held back. A
small cat was rubbing her stubbly ligaments. Melinda’s eyes grew wide and tears, for no
apparent reason, fell upon the floor. As she went to go pick up the cat it jumped and ran from
her. Across the street and down a few blocks this animal was gaining speed, and so was Melinda.
The cat turned left into an alley and Melinda gained up.
She began rubbing her eyes to bring them into focus when she saw something white and
moving on the floor ahead of her.
“Oh my god, oh my god. What is that?”
Melinda stopped… She had reached the object and knew what it was. Her friend lay on
the floor in front of her, she could muster no words.
“ROBBIE. ROBBIE. ROBBIE. ROBBIE. ROBBIE.”
“NO…. NO…… NO…. NO…. NO.”
“Someone, anyone PLEASE help me. PLEASE. I need some help.” Melinda was gaining
in hysteria and her voice was breaking up.
“Robbie.” She called again. “Someone is coming.” “Can you hear me?”
Now her arms were intertwined with his and her tears were soaked upon his face.
“They are on there way, help is on there way… Just come back to me.” Melinda kept on
pushing on her friend.
She heard nothing in the alley except for the sound of sirens, the shuffling of feet rushing
towards her and a parade of lights above her. The Emergency Medical Technicians were just
reaching Melinda and Robbie’s body when… Melinda’s breathe halted for a second.
“Melinda….” Robbie whispered.
She breathed… again.
Jaclyn Christie
Mr. Zervanos Period 2
Short Story
Whoops
Danny, Ricky, Scotty, Eddy; we came as a package of four from the beginning of fifth
grade. I can’t really recall the fist time we started to become friends. People always joked
saying that our juvenile characteristics and the coincidental fact that our names all ended in “y”
drew us to each other; maybe that was it, or maybe not. Maybe it was because through
everything, Eddy, Scotty, Danny and I did everything together even if what we did may be
considered immature or, as my dad would always say, “an un-thought-out, dumb ass thing to
do.” Well whatever the case may be, we would always remain as one, kind of like the threemusketeers, except in this case it’s like the four musketeers… sorta.
The four of us would never typically try to do anything “illegal” if you used the word
illegal in a loose sense. I mean lets get real who wouldn’t hit the reefer a few times before Mrs.
Delaney’s third period Environment Studies/ Intro to Anthropology class. I never really got how
those two subjects coincide but up ‘till now I haven’t used a damn thing I learned in that class.
So as I was saying, a little of the ganja before third period…we considered it harmless. We were
invincible, indestructible, no one or nothing could knock us down, ‘cause like I said, we were the
freakin’ four musketeers.
Out of the four of us, Eddy was always known for the practical jokes he would formulate, or as
we liked to call them, impractical. Almost everything he did was dumber then the previous but so
what, that’s why we loved Eddy, the stupid fool. For the kid with the 1.2 GPA (the all time low
GPA at Bogota High) he came up with some pretty ingenious ideas that you would just want to
bend down and kiss his feet for. I guess that’s how this whole mess got started: Eddy. Even
though I can’t blame the whole thing on the pathetic kid, I mean he was my friend after all.
When I look back at what happened I chuckle even though my parents find this far from
amusing. But hey, I tell them all the time with a sorta smirk on my face, what a great story this
would be to tell my kids. I’ll wait until they turn into adolescent devils like their father before I
tell them though, so they can fully appreciate the true value of this story.
We always messed around and called Danny and Scotty the twins. They weren’t really
twins at all. Jesus they weren’t even related. Danny and Scotty were as day and night as they
came. Danny was about 6’7” and the circumference of his biceps, not flexed, were probably
double the size of the tires on my pathetic firecracker red 1990 Subaru. Ok fine they weren’t
really that big but you get the point. Anyways, Danny the giant was topped with sun kissed
blonde hair and baby blue eyes sweeter than a little six-year-old girl, but as long as Danny was
with us I was never scared to go pick up that eighth down in some alleyway at some ridiculous
time of day in south Philly. Man, the shit we used to do, ha, I’m surprised I’m still alive. Well if
you can clearly picture Danny in your head then you know exactly what Scotty looks like, just
the opposite, literally. Scotty was the Pillsbury doughboy. He stood about 5’4” on a good day,
and you could hide just about anything in his rolls of fat. We would always say if you
lost anything go check pudge boy it probably got lost in the waves of fatty goodness. Poor
Scotty, he was the source of our amusement on a bum day. The reoccurring joke was that Scotty
had little man syndrome but really he was just an “angry little boy.” His mom was the kinda
mom that would make sure teeth were brushed before bed and two glasses of milk were drank a
day. I guess I’d go crazy if my ma were all up on me like that.
The four of us liked to considered ourselves badass even though we were a sad attempt at
that. Even though, after the event in the summer of ’98 we could fully, without a doubt, be
consider hard ass, or at least Danny, Scotty, Eddy and I thought we could be. This day would
forever go down in history as possibly one of the dumbest, or maybe the greatest, things of all
time.
The four of us grew up in Bogota, New Jersey. Eddy and Scotty were neighbors and
Danny and I lived a good ten-minute walk down the street. We spent most of our time at
Scotty’s house, considering he always had his lazy ass plopped in front of that pathetic little
black box he called a TV, playing some pointless game. Eddy and Scotty had this one neighbor
that was a royal pain in the ass and would always put a damper on our fun: Mrs. Piattola. She
was the kind of old lady that hated kids, loud noises, or anything that was fun in the least bit. It
was entertaining messing with the hold hag; I mean what else was there to do on a lame Saturday
afternoon? Nothing. We could say Mrs. Piattola was the start of this whole great mess.
So like I said, Eddy was known for his whacked out impractical jokes. On a lame day (like
this one) you could be guaranteed that Eddy was brainstorming his next plan of illegal fun.
“Yo man let’s get up and do something. This is beat as hell,” Eddy stated rhetorically.
“Then why don’t you think of something to do, you little pyro,” I screamed while working
down a bowl of lucky charms.
“Don’t hate, just because you can’t be as smart as me.”
“Yo dipshit I’m not the one working a 1.2 GPA.”
“Shut up! Who gives a damn about school anyway? I sure as hell don’t. Let’s get back to
what we are going to do, I say we mess with the cranky old fossil next door, Mrs. Piattola.”
“Man I don’t feel like gettin’ up. I’m in the middle of this game.”
“Scotty! Get up off your lazy ass or Danny’s gonna break your legs off,” Eddy yelled
across the room with a hand full of matches, an eighth that we picked up yesterday, and his
forever beloved glass blown bowl.
“Okay lets go outside so we can smoke this.”
We all walked down Scotty’s old steps of his shack he called a house and headed out the
back door. Usually when we made our ventures out to go smoke we would see Mrs. Piattola
outside either taking out the trash or sweeping her porch. She would always give us an ear full
about how we were “annoying little pests” and should go far away. We usually just walked by
while popping the good ol’ birdie and making our way to the sidewalk. Besides, I had news for
that lady; she should go somewhere to have a heart attack.
“Yo, man do you ever wonder what old lady Piattola does all day? Like I mean she
ain’t married or nothin’, I don’t think.” Scotty stated.
“Yeah I wonder what she keeps in that house of hers.” I replied.
“I say we have a little fun. When Mrs. Piattola leaves lets go take a stroll through her
house. What’s the worse that could happen?” Eddy said.
*
*
*
After we managed to push Scotty’s fat ass through an open window in the back of Mrs.
Piattola’s house we started our own personal guided “tour” of the aged, wrinkly ladies house. I
have to say for an old fossil like her she managed to keep the house in decent shape. It was so
clean and orderly. I guess it was a typical house for a woman who lived by herself and the owner
of one cat. On the fridge was taped a picture of her cat in a cheesy “ I Love My Baby” frame and
what looked like a picture of maybe a grand kid or something. But that didn’t make sense I never
saw any children go in and out of Mrs. Piattola’s house. Hell, I never saw anyone go into her
house. We continued through the house, Eddy being the klepto he is stole every thing and
anything he could get his hands on. He stole shit that was so pointless. I mean when the hell
would we ever need a cat key chain? We went through her kitchen, then to the family room, and
then finally we made our final stops in her bedroom and the basement. In Piattola’s room sat a
framed picture of the same kid that was taped on the fridge.
“Yo dude, check this out!” Danny screamed from the corner of the room.
From the closet Danny pulled a giant old trunk. It looked like something you would find
in one of those old Western movies.
“Come on man open it already. You move slower than my ninety-six year old grandma
who can’t even walk!” Scotty blared.
Inside was what looked like old newspaper articles from forever ago. They were all
neatly folded, and underneath of them was a piece of fabric from maybe a curtain or from a little
girls. It was printed with yellow flowers and stiff from being in the trunk. There were also more
pictures of the little girl that was posted on Mrs. Piattola’s fridge. Scotty picked up one of the
newspaper articles and began to read.
“May 17, 1981, little seven year old Sammy Lawley goes missing,” Scotty began to read.
“She was last seen wearing a floral summer dress.”
“Shit dude! Mrs. Piattola is a psycho killer!” Danny yelled. “I bet she’s gonna kill us
next!”
“Danny get a grip, she’s like eight hundred years old what’s she gonna do?” Scotty said.
The article continued on saying how the little girl was never found.
“We should like tell the cops or something. I bet we could like get a shit load of money
for finding the killer! Think about it we’d be on the news and be famous all because of Mrs.
Piattola. Told ya I’m genius. If it wasn’t for me we would never have known we lived next door
to some crazy murderer,” Eddy said.
“Shit! Mrs. Piattola’s back!” I frantically screamed.
We threw everything back into the trunk as fast as our drugged out bodies could move
and ran down the back stairs. We heard the door begin to open so we ran straight to the basement
(it was dumb luck that we picked the right door to the basement). My heart was beating so fast, I
was on a natural high from being so God dam scared; I didn’t even need to smoke at this point.
Thankfully there was a window leading outside. Once again we pushed Scotty out and sprinted
to his house. We finally reached his porch gasping for air nearly dying. I didn’t even run that
fast for our timed mile at school.
“We live next to a killer,” Danny tried to get out.
*
*
*
After maybe three days we decided to become rich. All four of us were gonna walk our
smart ass’s down to the police station and turn the crazy woman in. We thought it out pretty
well; I mean come on us four sexy men are damn smart.
It took us a good twenty minutes to get down there. We were practically dragging
Scotty’s ass there (I’m investing in a tread mill for that kid). Finally we arrived; this was going to
be the start of our new lives, living the good life! So we began to tell the po po our story. Danny
told them about the news articles, Scotty told them about the pictures, I told them about the
dress, and of course Eddy told them about how she was a psycho. Simultaneously, the cops
turned to each other and laughed. The four of us didn’t get it. Why were they laughing, this was
serious we were about to become rich.
“Listen you little punks, Sammy was Mrs. Piattola’s daughter,” the fat cop explained.
“She went missing some time ago and was never found. She keeps the articles of because
that’s the only thing she has left to remember her,” he continued.
“Nuh huh! What about the piece of the dress? She kept that after she killed little
Sammy!” Danny screamed.
The cops laughed harder.
“A piece of the dress was found, and was given to Mrs. Piattola because she said
anything at all that they found of Sammy’s was to be given to her,” the skinny cop said.
“What about the last names! Their last names are different! Didn’t you see in the
newspaper her last name was Lawley,” I exclaimed.
The cop continued on explaining to us how Mrs. Piattola got divorced and the little girl
kept the same last name. At the point we began to feel really stupid. How could this happen? We
were supposed to become millionaires but instead we have skinny and fatso laughing at us. They
told us to go home. We walked out.
*
*
*
So I’m not gonna lie that was probably the most embarrassing thing that has happened to
me. Hell I think it’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to all four of us. Whoops.
Whatever, it made for a good story. The cops ended up calling our parents to tell them what
happened and that we should have gotten in trouble for breaking in and entering, but since they
found it so funny they decided to let it go. Our parents weren’t too happy but what were they
gonna do? As time dragged on they began to laugh about it, however Mrs. Piattola didn’t, it was
just more incentive for her to hate us more than she already did. Well, we didn’t care. That day
will forever go down as the greatest days of all time.
Katie Davis
Forgetting
Laura had made him twenty-seven lattes before she realized who he was. For twentyseven days he entered Starbucks at precisely seven-ten, strode up to the counter in his wellpressed suit, and ordered a Venti, extra-hot vanilla latte. After the first five days, his ordering
had become unnecessary; Laura had his order rung up as soon as he stepped in the door, as she
did for many of their regular customers. He always handed her his Starbucks Card, then jingled
his keys as he waited for her to combine espresso with a shot of vanilla and pour the steamed
milk on top. When she handed him the steaming paper cup, he nodded at her and left.
On the twenty-eighth day, the cash register blinked red when Laura ran his card over the
scanner, indicating that his balance was too low to cover the cost of his drink. She told him this,
and he reached into his pocket for his Visa. Laura checked the signature on the back of the card
as per Starbucks security protocol and froze. She knew the name, the signature. Landon
Henderson. It was burned into her memory. It was at the bottom of documents locked in the
filing cabinet in her apartment. Laura couldn’t breathe. She scanned the card as quickly as
possible and shoved it back at him without looking up. He didn’t seem to notice anything out of
the ordinary and had already walked to the other end of the counter to wait for his drink. But
Laura couldn’t do it. She fled to the back room, where her coworker, Tim, was on break, and
asked him to cover for her, she had to go home immediately, it was an emergency.
She drove to Miriam’s house as fast as her 18-year-old Plymouth could go. She had to
see Abigail. Tears blinded her as a single thought cycled through her head. He ruined my life.
He ruined my life.
***
Laura tried to keep her voice from shaking as she relived the worst night of her life for
Judge Harris.
“It was about eleven-fifteen. I had just picked my baby up from her babysitter on my
way home from night class. I was driving down Route 30 when I noticed a set of headlights
coming toward me, on the wrong side of the road. I…I tried to swerve out of the way, but he
still hit me. The car rolled over the guardrail and landed at the bottom of the embankment.”
The judge put out a hand to stop her. “Were you hurt?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I broke my shoulder and bruised my ribs.”
“And your baby?”
The image of the car engulfed in flames, the car seat still inside, came to her mind; she
could hear Abigail’s howls. Laura shook her head. “She was in the car. Burning. I thought
there was…there was no way she’d survive,” she sobbed. Again, the judge motioned for her to
stop; someone led her back to her seat. She listened while the doctor described the extent of
Abigail’s injuries, the burns covering most of her body, the infection from the lack of protective
skin.
Then it was Landon’s turn, or, more accurately, Landon’s father’s turn. Mr. Henderson
was a tall, handsome, successful businessman who gave generously to the community—the
hospital Laura and Abigail had been rushed to that night had a trauma wing that bore his name,
as did many area soccer tournaments and charity events. He approached Judge Harris and spoke
in low tones. Laura strained to hear but couldn’t make out the words. The judge nodded as he
listened closely, then banged his gavel to make his ruling.
“Landon Henderson will attend alcohol rehabilitation for one month and his license will
be suspended for one year. In addition, he will pay to Laura Evans $20,000 in damages.”
Laura sat in the back of the courtroom with her eyes closed as everyone else filed out.
Anger bubbled beneath her composed exterior. She and Abigail were already serving a lifetime
sentence of pain, medical procedures, and hospital bills; Landon would get off with a year
without driving—he’d probably be given a driver by his father anyway—a few weeks of rehab,
and paying some pocket change to Laura. Twenty thousand dollars wasn’t even enough to pay
the hospital bill for Abigail’s first operation, not to mention the six she’d had since then.
***
When Laura pulled into the gravel driveway, Miriam was waiting with Abigail on the
front porch. Laura had called, in tears, to say she was on the way to pick up Abby. She hadn’t
explained why, and Miriam’s gaze was questioning as she rose to greet Laura. But Laura went
straight to Abby and hugged her tightly.
“Mommy?” Abigail knew it was too early for her mother to be home.
“It’s okay, baby,” Laura soothed. She leaned back on her heels to look at her daughter.
Abby had beautiful dark curls reaching to her shoulders—her hair had been blonde before the
accident. The doctors had assured Laura that many children were born with light hair that ended
up brown, but she couldn’t shake the thought that somehow the fire had left its mark on her
follicles. The burns had healed well for the most part, thanks to a series of skin grafts over the
past four years. A long scar still traced down Abby’s back, and the skin on her face looked
almost unreal, like warped plastic. It was stretched tightly over the bones, especially around her
eyes, which looked odd. Strangers generally noticed that something was wrong with her eyes,
but they rarely recognized the problem: Abby had no eyelashes or eyebrows. They’d never
grown back.
Laura felt the weight of Abby and Miriam’s wondering stares. She shook herself out of
her thoughts and stood up.
“Abby, why don’t you go inside for a while? Your snack is still waiting on the table,”
suggested Miriam.
Abby gave a final look from her mother to Miriam and started toward the door, her steps
small and jerky from the lack of extra skin. When the door had closed behind her, Miriam turned
to Laura.
“What happened?”
At the question, Laura was suddenly unable to hold herself upright. She slid slowly
down the wall to the wooden floor of the porch.
“He’s here. I saw him,” she finally answered.
“You mean—“ began Miriam.
“Yes.” Miriam knew the whole story. She had been a friend to Laura since the week
she and Abigail had moved to Newtown. Laura had needed someone to take care of Abby while
she looked for a job, and Miriam had been more than willing. For the past three years, Laura had
dropped Abby off at Miriam’s each morning on her way to Starbucks.
“Did he recognize you?” asked Miriam.
“I don’t think so. He’s been coming in for a while, but I only realized today….” Laura
trailed off as she remembered fumbling with the credit card, fleeing to the back room. “He’ll
probably figure it out, though.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Hope he realizes who I am and stays away from me, I guess. If he shows
up again…”
“He won’t,” Miriam assured her. “Why don’t you go home and relax for the afternoon?
I can still keep Abigail.”
“No, I want her with me,” Laura answered. “I’ll drop her off tomorrow.”
Miriam nodded and went inside to get Abby. When they came out, Abigail reached for
her mother’s hand.
“Say good-bye to Miss Miriam,” prompted Laura.
“Bye, Miss Miriam!” Abby’s speech was mostly normal now, but a slight hitch between
words was still evident; the skin around her mouth was too tight to allow for fluid speech.
Miriam bent down to look Abby in the eye.
“Good-bye, Abby. See you tomorrow!”
Laura led Abby to the car and buckled her into her booster seat, careful to arrange the
seatbelt so it didn’t rub the area on her thigh that was the site of her most-recent skin harvest.
Skin grafting was a slow, painful process; it sometimes took several years for Abby’s skin to
recover enough that it could be taken again to use on her lower back, where the burns were the
worst. Finally they were nearing the end of the tedious process; the doctors had told Laura that if
they could get enough skin this time, it would be the last graft necessary.
Laura pulled into her designated parking spot and walked around the car to collect
Abigail and her perpetual trail of a four-year-old’s treasures—a baggie of Cheerios, a piece of
orange yarn, a bouncy ball, and her beloved stuffed bear. Together, they started toward the brick
apartment building.
Their apartment was on the first floor, a necessary accommodation for Abigail when they
moved in three years ago. Laura twisted the key in the lock and shoved the door, which always
stuck, hard. It opened, revealing a cramped, slightly messy apartment. The kitchen, with its
cracking linoleum floor and aging refrigerator, was to the right of the entrance; the living room
was directly ahead. A single bedroom lay to the left, with a small bathroom attached. Laura had
given the bedroom to Abby; she was sleeping on the couch in the living room. The couch was
covered with blankets and a pillow; a few Beanie Babies and board games littered the floor. A
filing cabinet stood in the corner, next to the window.
As soon as the door was open, Abby ran ahead into her bedroom. Laura wearily started
into the kitchen and surveyed the contents of the fridge. She sighed and pulled out a half-gallon
of milk, then reached into a cabinet for a box of macaroni and cheese. They ate this at least three
times a week; luckily, it was Abby’s favorite.
Three days later, Laura was finally able to convince herself that she wouldn’t see Landon
again. He hadn’t come to Starbucks at all in the last two days, and it was already almost ten in
the morning, well past what had been the time he usually came in. She went about her tasks
unthinkingly, making change, putting baked goods in paper bags, and serving coffee. Just as she
was about to take her lunch break, the bell on the door jingled to announce Landon’s arrival.
Hurriedly, Laura took off her green apron and headed toward the break room.
“Wait!” He was walking quickly toward her.
Laura ducked her head and tried to speed up.
He stopped directly in front of her, blocking her way.
“I’m on break,” mumbled Laura. “The man at the counter can help you.”
“Do I know you?” asked Landon. “You look like…”
“I don’t think so,” Laura cut him off.
“But—“
“Why can’t you leave us alone? Just leave us alone!” Laura abruptly changed direction
and ran toward the door instead of the break room. She jumped into her car and repeated the
frantic drive to Miriam’s house of the week before.
Miriam didn’t ask any questions this time; she just brought Abby outside as soon as she
saw Laura’s car through the window. Abby was quiet on the way home, sensing Laura’s mood.
When they got inside the apartment, Laura ran directly to Abigail’s room and pulled the
cardboard boxes from her closet. She unfolded one and began throwing Abigail’s clothes inside.
Then she turned on her Beanie Baby collection, sending them all flying from the top of the
dresser into a box with one sweep of her arm. Only then did she remember Abigail, who was
watching silently from the doorway.
“What are you doing?” asked Abby.
“We’re moving. We can’t stay here anymore.”
“Why?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I like it here.”
Laura put down the box and walked over to Abby.
“I know, sweetie, but we have to leave.” She couldn’t explain about Landon, the reason
Abby had been through fourteen surgeries and spent months in the hospital, the phantom
reminder of the past that wouldn’t stop following them. Abby knew all about what had
happened, even that a man where they used to live had caused it, but Laura didn’t want to scare
her with Landon’s reappearance. She wanted both of them to be able to forget, to move on, and
that wasn’t possible if she had to serve Landon a latte every morning. It was the same reason
they had moved to Newtown in the first place, but Abby had been too little to remember.
***
The door to the little yellow house stood open, revealing its almost-empty interior. The
only things left inside were a few pieces of furniture too large to fit in the already-overstuffed car
and two textbooks, sitting on a shelf in the living room. Laura stood in the center of the house,
slowly surveying it for the last time. When her eyes fell on the books—one was statistics, one
economics, both unused for the last year, Laura stepped forward and picked them up. They were
pristine; she could probably sell them—God knew she needed the money, and she wasn’t going
back to school anytime soon—but a rush of anger flooded her thoughts, and she hurled them
across the room instead. One hit the opposite wall and fell to the floor, taking a sizable chunk of
drywall with it; the other landed with a clunk against the leg of a bench. The noise woke Abby,
who began wailing from her car seat, and Laura fled from the house without closing the door.
She drove past Henderson Financial, the source of Landon’s family’s prestige, for the last
time as she merged onto the highway. Exit after exit flashed by in the dark. She had no plan, no
destination except for somewhere else, a place where she wouldn’t have to face the daily
reminder of what had happened to them and who was responsible. Around two in the morning a
sign caught Laura’s eye: Newtown, Exit 207. Liking the name, she impulsively turned down the
ramp.
***
The car was almost fully loaded; only a few boxes remained in the living room. Abigail
had finally stopped crying at the prospect of leaving and was silently sitting on the floor
watching Arthur. Laura was stuffing pillows into a box when the doorbell rang. She jumped up
and hurried to the door to let Miriam in—Abby had flat-out refused to leave without saying
goodbye. She cracked open the door to check, leaving the deadbolt closed out of habit.
Landon Henderson stood on the doorstep, looking terrified. Laura was too shocked to
slam the door; she merely stood there, gaping at him.
“L-Laura. May I come in? I’d like to talk with you,” he began.
Laura found her voice and cut him off. “You have the nerve to come here and ask to
come in? All I want is for you to stay away!” Laura thought her heart would burst with fury.
“Why did you think I would let you in? So you can apologize for ruining my life? For ruining
my daughter’s life? Do you think saying you’re sorry will make anything better?”
“Mommy?” Laura had forgotten Abigail was within earshot. “Is this him?”
Laura looked at her daughter and knew she had to tell the truth. “Yes.”
Abby stared at Landon for a long minute. Then she stepped forward, stuck out her hand,
and said, “Hi.”
Landon was stunned, his eyes glued to the outstretched hand. He bent down and shook
Abby’s hand.
Laura’s heart sank. It was the last thing she wanted to do, directly opposed to her
objective of the last four years, but Abby was right. It was time. She reached forward,
disengaged the deadlock, and opened the door.
Nilesh Jambhekar
Napoleon
It was a windy April morning, and the last thing on Boe’s mind was the grocery list. He
always regretted this time of year. It was obligation time. Time to be with family, time to be
with friends, time to forget that there would be too much to when he got back to his dorm. Up
the road, traffic slowed down and halted. Tired, John turned on the local news channel…
“and folks Jct. 264 is clogged up, we have new reports coming in that a hit and run was
involved. No word yet about casualties; we’re turning over to our traffic correspondent Drake
Goodstean-Drake what’ve you got for us?...”
As he inched forward, Boe Simmons saw traffic was not impaired, rather the long line of
vultures were looking at the accident, craning over and observing the wreck. He tapped the horn
continuously for several seconds; the harsh noise made them slowly lurch forward, but not
before they turned back and returned the favor by flashing hand signals.
His mom’s voice screeched “God damn it, can’t you go through traffic without causing
an uproar? You use the horn like it’s God damn toilet paper. I’m just trying to get a little shuteye
here, so if you don’t mind Napoleon… ” she didn’t finish her sentence.
By the time they reached Greece’s Grocers, the sun was setting, the cars were nearly
gone, and the patience on both sides of isle was running thin. His mom, in her raspy voice, kept
on asking for different bags and kept on inspecting each selection, poking the tomatoes, rapping
her key against the coconuts, and the like. He stood near his mom, unsure what to do. He
pointedly changed his stance, inspected all of his cards, took a walk around, and came back to
the counter to find both the manager and his old girlfriend with their hands on her hips. On cue,
he managed to drag his mother out of the store, flashing them an awkward smile.
Boe made it through the rest of the drive without honking his horn even once. The sun
was peachy- red as the Boe pulled up the even brick driveway. The house seemed bigger than he
remembered it to be. In any case it was apparent that his dad had been busy. The lawn was lush
green, and the various deciduous trees were full of brightly colored leaves, a nice edition to the
driveway. There were several new flower beds along the front of the house and he could see
from the outside that it had been painted recently. Boe parked the Q7 in the only empty garage
space and took off his shoes. Inside he collapsed into a couch and stared at the fireplace. He
could have sat there all night, except that his mother incessantly yapped about something or
another- the death of the dog, her husband’s workings, etc. So he got up and went out the back
door, looking for his dad.
Out on the newly built porch sat Boe’s dad, Mario Simmons. Next to him was Boe’s
older brother, Brent, rocking back and forth on a pink cushioned lounger. The two sipped some
golden beverage, laughing gently as they discussed the Panther’s last win.
“Yo Boe, come on sit down, how you been man? How are them spaceships at NASA?”
“I don’t work at NASA. Didn’t I tell you that the whole thing didn’t work out that well?
I have an internship at Boeing that actually pays me decently where I help test and design
AIRPLANES not SPACESHIPS. “
“It’s all the same though. Boy, you got your head in the skies, they can’t be paying you
more than 60 something grand a year. “
Boe blushed, that was exactly what they paid him, and he had to work his butt off in
college to get that pay too. Why me, he thought? Don’t these people have anything better to talk
about?
“Listen Boe, you’re a good kid. You’re a smart kid. But really, how far are you gonna get
at Boeing? You’re going to work 20 years, 30 years and get paid what-early 6 figures? No job
security?”
“Dad cut it out. Seriously, I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, roses and violets
aren’t my thing. I didn’t get go through years of work at UNC to be told that I should just give it
all away for flowers.”
“What flowers aren’t manly enough for you? Listen kid-“Suddently, the phone rang
“Marge, you got that? Aha, good. You can’t go anywhere without people buzzing your ass off.
Don’t they have the decency to just piss off? Yeeeesh… Anyway as I was saying-”
“Dad none of that, or I’m out of here. “
“They call you Napoleon for a reason, you know how to play your cards.”
He offered Boe some cognac, which Boe took tentatively, balancing the neck of the glass
carefully on top of his palm. Mario swilled the contents of his own glass before
abruptly,standing up and walking indoors. Boe stared.
“You know you should be a little nicer, the man has good intentions.” said Brent in a
matter-of-fact manor. “Listen, I get it, you don’t want to run the business. That’s fine man, I get
it. Everyone’s got their own cup of tea, you’ve got you cognac, I got my Mountain Due.” He
held up the glass of the bubbly drink. “But what are you getting at? Where are you going? All
I’m saying is, as your big bro I just wanna make sure you get your life right. That’s all I’m
saying. You read me Captain, or should I say General sir?”
“Shut up. I know what I’m doing. And stop calling me that.” Boe got up and headed
indoors too, eyed from behind by the ever rocking Brent.
Dinner that afternoon was a luxurious feast prepared by mom. The principal dish, the
mushroom chicken piccata, was made from freshly slaughtered breaded chicken marinated in a
special combination of broth, wine, cornstarch, lemon juice and a seasoning of paprika. It was
many steps up from the chow back at UNC thought Boe as he wolfed it down, peeking up
occasionally to snag some coleslaw.
On the other side of the red oak table sat Brent next to someone who could only be his
girlfriend. If Brent was hungry, he sure didn’t show it, his piccata was nearly untouched, jabbed
at between a flurry of jokes and stories about his escapades with friends. Trying not to direct the
conversation towards himself, Boe quickly looked down, but it was too late.
“So Boe, what’ve you been up to? Anything interesting going on in your part of town?”
“There is one thing actually” Boe interjected “I was down at the UNC game, and I think I
have a thing going on with one of the cheerleaders” he finished awfully. They didn’t notice,
please, please they didn’t notice he pleaded. But Brent didn’t seemed to have noticed; after what
he thought was a furtive glance at dad, he turned back to Boe.
“What’s this girl’s name? She live around here?”
“No she doesn’t live around here. She lives in Glade Valley. And I’m not positive if this
is real or not ‘cus I haven’t actually asked her out yet or anything so quit bugging me”
“Do it! Man I never though you of all people… I mean nice. Hey maybe I can get her a
bouquet, free of charge of course! I mean if you want, no pressure. What’s she like? She got a
facebook?” he finished awkwardly.
“Well dinner was great mom” exclaimed Boe as he got up. He tried to read Mario’s face
as he got up, but the man didn’t seem to realize Boe was in his dining room. Ten minutes later,
Boe found himself up in his former room staring at a grey spot on the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t to be
found right now. No, he had to figure out how he was going to survive for three more days
without having to bail. He collapsed on a fold out bed that had replaced his twin bed with Brent.
The mattress was deep and it seemed to absorb him. It smelled vaguely of … he couldn’t place
his finger on exactly what.
Time melted around as Boe performed his nightly ritual of wandering around his room
trying to come up with stories. He had locked the door so that nobody would see him mindlessly
leaping from the bed rail onto the ground like a panther. He hated story making and his nightly
sleep dance helped shut his mind down. Tonight however, sleep was scarce and frustration was
staring at him through the sponge-printed peach walls. Tired of not being tired, Boe crept down
the stairs wincing at each squeak as he otherwise silently disappeared into the night.
The night was unremarkable. Walking around at night’s overrated he thought as he
walked from one large house to another large house down to the medium sized houses.
Wondering what he was doing, Boe absentmindedly fiddled around with his watch, a simple
Casio, and noticed that it was about 11- past his bedtime. But still sleep was not what was
bothering him as he reached the end of Marmalade Lane. The neighboring developments shared
a large clubhouse which was home to a large swimming pool, a Jacuzzi, fitness area, library, and
even a medium theater. Tonight however, it was sparsely populated. At the moment, Mr. Bingley
was seen silently reading some tome through the blinded windows. Boe entered not sure what he
would find, though hoping that he would find the right person. Eventually, he landed next to a
vending machine. Bored he took out his wallet.
“So you still haven’t given this place up eh?” came the reply of Marissa, who was
standing behind him, her medium-brown hair tossed around her shoulders. “When I saw you at
the grocery store, I knew that you’d find your way here eventually.”
“And why’s that?” he inquired putting the dollar and pressing the code for the root beer.
“Because you can’t stand to talk with simpletons.”
“But I can stand talking with you, right? I know, I know…”
“No you don’t. Listen, I don’t know the kind of shit you’ve been pulling, but I do know
this, it’s over. I’m done with this, and you’re through. I don’t know what kind of shit
Napoleon’s been up to in Russia, but this is a burning house, and I’m getting out. I’ve actually
got a dad I care about who needs me. I thought that I’d do this now that I actually get to see you
fact-to-face.” She wheeled around.
“What?! What did I do? Is it that I didn’t call? Listen, I’m sorry, you know how it is. I
got to work day in and day…”
“Shut up. It’s bad enough that you never called this off, but it’s worse that you never
came to Earth. God, how I wanted to work things out with you. You understood me then. You
understood what it was like to have a dad who could scarcely recognize you. But you could walk
away from it all, and you could leave me here. Now it’s my turn. Figure out your own shit, and
leave me out of this. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m engaged. “
There was a long pause. He made eye contact with her for the first time, but her hazel
eyes sliced right through him like x-rays. He couldn’t even ask the real question. After scanning
him for an eternity, she was gone as swiftly as she came.
And so he too headed out. It was a brisk walk back to Mario’s house. Boe was opening
the door and heading to the kitchen, which was filled neat rows of beautifully decorated
envelopes, when Mario came out of the coat closet with a Remington 870 leveled at his torso.
“Oh, it’s you. I thought I head someone breaking in”
“No, just little ‘ol Napoleon. Can I get a drink or are you going to shoot me first.” To
Boe’s surprise, Mario actually chuckled. He clicked on the safety and set the gun at his side. He
and Boe walked into the kitchen.
“No I doubt that’s necessary. More importantly, where the heck did you wonder off to?”
“I was getting some fresh air, I couldn’t sleep. “
“Well of course you couldn’t sleep. You went to bed straight after eating half a chicken, a
barrel of coleslaw, and spirits. That’s not too good for your bodily fluids. You’re supposed to
walk it out so that your body can push that shit through your stomach and such.” Said Mario as
he got to cleaning the dark black barrel.
“Night dad” yawned Boe, and Mario responded in kind. On his bed, Boe collapsed of
exhaustion. At that particular moment, he could have used a trip to the stars.
The next morning, Boe got up to smell of blueberry pancakes and his mom’s special
biscuits. After wolfing down double doses of pancakes and finishing 3 cups of milk, he got up
and thanked his mom, who smiled. “Your dad wants to talk to you if you have a second. He’s in
the backyard.” She turned around and continued to hum some old Stones song. Boe obliged his
mother’s wishes and meandered into the garden. There, Mario was waiting shovel in hand in a
cowboy-esque hat turning out dandelions from the ground. Loosening the soil, Mario took out
the dandelions and through them into the trash can methodically. When Boe arrived, Mario stood
up and gestured Boe to lean over.
“Ok, I know we’ve been on some shaky grounds with you lately, but I’ve got an idea, ok.
I figure the main issue you have is that you like that stuff you do and you don’t want your old
man getting between you and your business. But why not just take control of one store and pick
of the profit? You can have a general manager who does the watching over job and…hey!!”
“Ok dad, why can’t you just quit it? What am I going to do with the flower shop?”
“I know your not stupid or ignorant. Just listen to me. You will have nothing connecting
you the shop. No obligations, no worries, no name, nothing. It’s like free money. And if
something happens god forbid you have something to fall back on. Is that really so bad? I
understand if you don’t want a comfortable easy lifestyle…”
“Ok dad. Fine, now can I go? I get it. Really. I’ll take the money, but you have to promise
not to drive me into this dad.”
With that Boe wheeled around and nearly crashed into Brent, who was
uncharacteristically up early and in the yard. Boe looked at him about to apologize, but Brent just
backed off.
“Uhm… yah sorry there bro. Mom told me you were leaving today and I um… wanted
to… I mean I was wondering if. Shit man… I was wondering if you could… help me unload the
truck out front.”
The two walked into the house and Brent tapped Boe on the shoulder as they were
entering the garage. Inside the garage, Boe turned around and shut the door behind his brother.
“So what do you want to tell me or ask me?”
“Um I was looking up that girl you said, and I couldn’t find her. I mean she wasn’t there
or something. Are you sure she’s there, you know on Facebook? I was trying to get her address
so I could send her some flowers-on your behalf of course.” He said it with a genuine smile.
“Why? What’s got you interested in her? Listen man, seriously, you’re a nice guy and
everything but just leave me alone. You got no idea how it is to be so boxed out from every
single person. The last thing I need is you poking your nose everywhere it can be broken. I’m
gone.” With that, Boe had no choice but to go. He got into his Accord and drove off but not
before driving past Marissa’s house.
The driveway was blocked with several trucks. Men in casual dress were moving plates
of food, stacks of chairs, and flowers - lots and lots of flowers decorating the front, and as far as
he could tell everywhere else too. Boe got out and examined the window, hoping to see her,
hoping that she had forgotten to invite him. Slowly Napoleon turned and slumped into the car.
And for the first time in a long time, Napoleon cried too.
Sun Whee Kim
Kim51
Asad
The ocean was like the desert. A vast, blue desert stretched out for miles in every
direction. The sun's rays reflected off the surface of the water, making it shine and sparkle
brilliantly. The ocean surrounded Asad and his crew of eight other Somalians. Their captain,
Dalmar, a tall and muscular man in his late thirties whose booming voice radiated confidence
had them all on lookout. The other eight Somalians did not come off as charismatic as their
captain. Most of them were like Asad, from the villages near the coastline and unable to feed
themselves or their families. As a result, they came to Dalmar, who was recruiting at the time,
and took him up on his offer for their service and in return, they would evenly split the loot.
They knew the consequences of their actions; if they were even suspected of piracy, they would
be killed on sight. Also, there was the constant threat of other pirates coming and robbing them.
However, each of the men was steadfast in their decision to turn to a life of piracy as they
believed the world had forced this choice upon them and that they were only pirates of necessity.
Asad was in the middle of the group. He had neither the volatility of the younger ones nor the
cynicism of the older ones. He had signed up so that he could bring in enough money to support
himself and his sister back home. His job as a humble fisherman had been compromised by the
ships of the foreigners that seemed to roll in, drop their massive nets, and take with them massive
loads of the fish that he and his family had been catching from generation to generation. Now
there was little fish in the water and more competition with other fishermen like himself. As a
result, when his friend and another fisherman told him about Dalmar's offer, Asad immediately
agreed. Three days later, he was out in the middle of the ocean keeping watch for other ships.
Just as Asad was starting to fall asleep, he heard one of his shipmates signal that a boat
was on the horizon.
Dalmar cried out, "Everyone take your positions and keep your guns by your side.
Remember, if they shoot at us, we turn around. But, if they do nothing or run, we follow and
board. Once we have boarded, try to subdue all the people and don't be afraid to shoot anyone
who tries to resist. It is either their lives or ours. Always remember that!"
As they sped closer to the ship, Asad clutched his gun tight to his chest. He was very
nervous and his hands were shaking. He had never held a gun in his life nor even seen a person
shot by one. He looked to his fellow pirates for help. The younger ones were whispering
excitedly to each other while the older ones looked as if they were bracing themselves for the
shock of what was to come.
Once they got close enough to the ship, the captain pointed to the emblem on the side and
said, "American! She carries valuable cargo and passengers."
He gave the order and everyone boarded the other ship. Asad was one of the last to board
and nothing could have prepared him for the shock that came next.
"Get down!"
Asad heard the popping noise of bullets being fired and then was pushed aside by one of
his fellow pirates who was running back towards the boat. They were being shot at by the crew
of the other ship and Asad quickly took cover amidst the noise of yelling and gunfire. He
cautiously looked up from behind a crate and saw that five of his fellow pirates were dead on the
ground. Asad decided to make a break for the boat but just as he was about to run, he found
himself staring down the barrel of a gun that did not belong to a pirate.
"Stay down and put your hands on your head," the tall American ordered.
Asad did as he was told and then was roughly brought to his feet by another American.
Both of them kept their guns trained on his head and Asad looked around to observe the scene.
He found himself staring into Dalmar's boat and the four people who were in it. Dalmar and two
other pirates were standing at the helm and the two pirates held an American at gunpoint. Asad
looked to his side and saw that there were eight other Americans in addition to the two who were
beside him. One of the Americans gestured at Dalmar's hostage and said, "We will trade." Asad
watched Dalmar in anticipation of his reply. He regretted his decision to join Dalmar's crew. He
thought to himself, "I was wrong to try and break away from my fate. This must be my
punishment." After about five minutes of discussion between Dalmar and the other two pirates,
Dalmar nodded in Asad's direction, pointed at him, and said, "He comes first". The other
Americans looked at each in confusion as they did not expect such an answer. However, Dalmar
stood silent. The one American who was holding Asad looked at the others and after seeing that
the others seemed to consent, he led Asad into Dalmar's boat.
The next couple of seconds happened so fast that Asad could only remember hearing the
sound of bullets hitting the water, the shouts of Dalmar and the Americans, and the force of the
boat as it sped away from the other ship. Once they had gotten away, Asad looked to Dalmar and
saw that he was smiling triumphantly.
"This American, he will fetch a heavy price. He was their captain."
Asad looked at their hostage, a man well advanced in age and sitting in the middle of the
boat with an uncomfortable expression on his face. Without a doubt, he had expected to be back
on his ship by now, sitting in the captain's chair, and guiding his ship back to America. Asad felt
sorrowful for the man and his misfortune and turned to Dalmar.
Asad asked, "Why did you not give this man back? We have now betrayed their trust."
Delmar replied, "It is nothing. Trusting foreigners is what caused us to become pirates. It
is better this way."
"But, what if they had refused to send me first? What would you have done?"
"I would have left you to die and took this man with me."
Suddenly, another pirate stood up and said, "Dalmar, I can not do this anymore. It is not
right for us to be playing with another man's life."
The other pirate joined in, "We may be pirates but we are also men. Trickery and
deceitfulness is for cowards."
Deamar looked at them in disbelief. He angrily replied, "Listen to yourselves! Do you
know what a pirate is? What did you think this life was going to be like? Pirates, cowards, men,
none of those words mean anything! Don't forget that we are here to protect and feed our
families! That is our goal. The lives of other men mean nothing to us!"
At Delmar's words, the other two pirates had no reply. Asad also disagreed with Dalmar's
actions. But he said nothing as he could not find the words to express his thoughts. Delmar
seemed strengthened by the lack of opposition and continued, "We will bargain with this man's
life because we must. There is no right or wrong, we do what we must in order to live. That is
what you all knew when you stepped into this boat."
The other two pirates seemed to consent as one of them asked, "Where will we go and
how do we get the Americans to pay for this man?"
Delmar replied, "We go to the coast, back to the mainland. The Americans can not touch
us there because the government would not allow it."
Asad found it absurd that they were going to try and seek protection from the very
government that had failed to protect them from foreigners in the past, but again, he remained
silent. He knew that he could not persuade either Dalmar or the other persuades.
As night fell on the weary pirates, Asad found himself guarding the hostage and the ship.
The pirates had agreed on two hour shifts for standing guard. As Asad scanned the dark waters,
he couldn't help looking up at the night sky.
The sky was clear and the full moon shined brightly onto the ocean. The stars glittered
and lit up the dark landscape. Asad thought about the countless number of men like himself, who
must have looked up at the sky and marveled at its beauty. The vast emptiness filled everything
around him and Asad couldn't help but feel small and insignificant as he looked up. It seemed as
if he was just a tiny part to a much larger design. Just like a drop of water in a river, he could do
nothing to change its course. He hated being a pirate but he had no choice. Fate was too cruel.
He wondered, "What meaning is there to life? What is stopping me from taking this gun
and ending mine?"
He thought about his two close friends, Ghedi and Nadif, who had ended theirs after
losing their jobs, families, and homes.
He asked himself, "What drove them to end their lives while he continued on in this
manner? Is it better to live by one’s beliefs or forsake them in order to survive?"
A sudden noise by the hostage brought an end to Asad's thoughts as he was reminded of
his present situation. Just as his eyes started to feel heavy, he spotted a small black object on the
horizon. After alerting the others, Asad kept his attention on the hostage while the others stood
by to communicate with the American patrol boat. Dawn was approaching and as the boat came
closer, Asad saw that there were three unarmed men at its helm.
The boat slowed to a stop quite some distance away from the pirates and a loud voice
called out, "With accordance to... you pirates... hostage... release..."
Dalmar had nothing to say to these men as Asad knew that they could not do business on
the open sea. They needed to reach land which would provide an escape route and additional aid
from other pirates who were friendly with Dalmar. Dalmar waved off the men with one hand and
ordered one of the other pirates to start the motor again. Asad secretly wished Dalmar had agreed
to release the hostage. He was beginning to doubt Dalmar's earlier words. He thought to himself,
"How can I be alive when I do not live by what I believe?”
Suddenly, he heard one of the pirates cry out, "We are out of fuel. What do we do now?"
Asad turned and faced Dalmar, anticipating his reply. Dalmar confidently replied, "I will call one
of the other pirate ships to come and help us. Do not worry."
Just as Delmar finished his sentence, Asad heard a splash. He turned around and saw that
the American had jumped out of the boat and was now swimming toward the patrol boat which
had remained some distance away the entire time. Asad stood and watched as the other pirates
grabbed their guns. Delmar grabbed a gun and put it in Asad's hands.
He ordered, "Shoot at the hostage. He will realize that we will kill him if he does not
stop."
At that moment, Asad came to a realization. Nothing could stop him from believing and
knowing that what they were doing was wrong. He was not a pirate and once they reached the
mainland, he was going to return home.
Asad put the gun down and confidently replied, "No, I can not do that. That man deserves
to live. I am not a pirate."
Delmar smiled and said, "You fool. These thoughts you have. They make you weak. You
think that you are more of a man because you place your ideals above your life?"
Asad said nothing more and walked away. Delmar angrily grabbed his gun and fired two
shots at the hostage. The hostage paused, turned, and swam back to the boat. Delmar laughed
triumphantly at Asad, but Asad smiled back. He was content with the knowledge that he had
stood up for what he knew was right.
As the minutes passed, Asad sat and stared out into the ocean, content with his decision.
Life around him seemed to slow down as all his worries and troubles faded away. He sat and
waited, completely oblivious to thes snipers on the patrol boat. He sat with their back to them as
they took their positions, picked their targets, and fired. Several minutes later, as the American
sailors were boarding the pirate ship, they could not help but notice the looks of fear and panic
on the faces of the dead pirates except one who was still smiling, happy with the fact that he had
died as a man.
Matt Koveal
The Day John Met Reality
The hot sun was shining on pavement as John shut his ’92 Ford Escort as he grabbed his
apron and walked into the grocery store. Walking in, John swiped his key card; he was ready to
go physically, but by no means was he ready emotionally. He manned his position and stood
behind the register. Thinking about his life, and what it became to be, he swiped a can of corn
over the scanner and bagged it for the nice little lady.
John looked up at the clock, it’s sadistic arms read 12 o’clock. That piece of metal that
told time was either a blessing to John or an absolute horror. Right now it wasn’t a blessing. John
looked around at the empty store. An old lady walked by the freezer section, and waked up to
John.
“Excuse me, young man, do you know where the milk is?” she asked innocently,
regardless of it literally being right in front of her. Pointing frustratingly at the whole refrigerator
of milk assortments, John walked away in anger.
*
The clock strikes 2. Break time. John hustled over to the time clock and quickly punched
himself out. The beautiful weather that was out in the beginning quickly turned dull and the
clouds came out as John reached into the back of his car for his “apple juice” bottle, which
happened to be full of rum. John’s alcoholic ways got the best of him, and he would drink in
work regardless of what his manager Frank said.
*
John looked out his window, the sad rain pattered at the window ever so gently.
“I want a change,” he solemnly stated. He looked over at his wife of fifteen years wanting
her to agree with him, and she came to tears. She looked around, cried, and looked for someone
to comfort her.
“What do you mean John?” she replied, “is everything ok?” Stacey looked over at him
with big bulging eyes, like the little puppies in the shop. She always was there for him, whenever
he was upset or anything. She was confused, and had absolutely no idea what he was concerned
about. He had been acting normally, he would wake up, go to work, and then come home
everyday with the same happy look on his face that he always would. It was the fall, so he would
go outside and rake the leaves, but once again she had not seen anything that she could see that is
bad. Maybe she was just over thinking this.
“Everything’s wrong Stacey, I’m just not happy with anything anymore. I don’t do
anything that matters to me. I go to work, I pick up leaves, and I’m tired of this shit, this nothing
that I call my life. I need to get out of this. I need something new in my life, a change.”
With tear filled eyes, she replied. “ What’s that mean for us John? What does that mean
for our kids? What the hell do you think you can do? You think you can just come up to me with
a problem this late? Why did you not tell, why didn’t you warn anyone or at least even me? You
have got to be kidding, and what do you expect this change to do to you, and in fact, what even is
this change?”
“I just need to get out of here.” John replied.
“You haven’t even thought this through. You are making such a quick decision; your
going for a quick fix, and it’s not going to work. I know you, and I know your going to regret it.”
“I’m leaving.”
With tears thrown everywhere, she came back. “Fine, and if you realized your dumb ass
mistake, don’t expect me to help you out and let you back in. Your kids will miss you, your dog,
you life, and especially me John. We have been married too long for you to throw it away just
because one day you feel like it.”
“Good bye Stacey.” And with that he left, out into the slow, pitter-patter of the rain, took
his 1998 Chevy Corvette, and left.
John didn’t look back on the situation, but at the same time felt terrible for his wife. He
knew she would take it hard, and he pictured her sitting in the same chair she always has in their
living room, except this time crying hysterically. He didn’t want to hurt her, but by not getting
what he wanted he hurt himself anymore. Selfishly he continued to drive.
*
John looked out from his apartment, one that over looked the local convenience store at
the people walking around.
“Damn people up to no good,” he muttered under his mouth. Taking a swig of his forty
bottle, he complained hypocritically about how people were so bitchy and annoying to his friend
mark.
“You want a hit of this?” Mark said as he passed him a blunt of some sort. He said he
yes, and went over and smoked with his buddy. Things were going ok.
*
“John to my office!” the intercom bellowed over the entire store. John wondered what his
boss would want. Certainly all the stealing he has done from the store was definitely kept under
complete wraps, so he thought he was fine.
“John, I’m going to be completely blunt with you.” John’s boss said as soon as he walked
into his office, “you’re fired. I’ve gotten complaints from customers about you being a bitch to
them, you showed up drunk to work before, and frankly I really don’t need your attitude in my
store. It’s wrecking the environment. You can finish today, and then pick up your paycheck next
week.”
John walked out, not even caring what happened.
*
Rolling up in old Junker of a car he had to buy after selling his corvette, John drove to his
house, or his old house. Tears came to his eyes as he remember all of the times with his family;
when frank fell out of the tree and got a broken arm, when he took him to baseball games, when
he could just walk down the street of Wilson Avenue holding his beautiful wife’s hand, he
missed it. Pulling into 1029, the place he once called home, he saw his son fixing up a car.
“Hey Buddy,” John said. John didn’t know what to expect, so cautiously he decided to
talk to his son as if he normally would.
No response. Frank kept working on his car, which apparently he just bought, because
John had no idea whose it was.
“Frank?” John tried again, but this time a little more cautiously. He waited. John waited
for some time, and then realized it might not work out anymore, so he apologized for bothering
and then slowly walked down the driveway.
“ Dad!” Frank ran at him with open arms. “ I missed you pops.”
“I miss you too son,” answering with tears in his eyes. “ I’ve made some mistakes, and
hopefully I can fix them. Is your mother home?”
John was so nervous. He knew that it wasn’t going to be good, and he knew that she
definitely would not be a pushover and let him right back in. Hell, he thought, she might not
even let him back. John wasn’t a very religious man, but he said a quick prayer, and rang the
doorbell of his old house. No answer. Frank ran inside to get her. Waiting for the arrival of his
wife, John was pained to see only Frank come to the front door.
“She said no Dad, I’m sorry, she said no.” The hot sun turned dark, and a light rain came
overhead. Drizzling without an invitation to come in, John walked back to his car, and drove
home in disbelief. John had hit rock bottom.
*
Forever and a day past, or at least to John’s perspective, but that next week he received a
letter. He opened it up and noticed that a pair of baseball tickets was inside, and a note from his
son frank. “You up for the game? Pick me up an hour before Dad. I miss you, “ were the words
etched onto a small piece of scrap paper. John was excited to the point he couldn’t speak. Glee
ran through his whole body, he was happy for the first time that year. He couldn’t wait. Going to
the store, he bought all the Phillies garb and clothes he could buy with his grocery store
paycheck the last one he got. John realized that maybe his prayer to god did come through,
coming as a pair of Phillies tickets. The game was three days away, but he was so excited.
Walking to the library, John went on one of the computers to look up all the stats and info about
all the players. He knew that his buddy frank knew everything about the team, so he wanted to
have something in common. Taking notes down, John searched everywhere on the Internet about
these Phillies, trying to be ready for the big day.
*
The sound of Billy Joel flew through the air as John smacked his alarm to snooze. He
was excited as well as pissed off. Today was the big day. The Phillies were playing the Mets, and
he wouldn’t be sitting fourth row with his buddy. The only bad thing was the twelve-hour shift
he would be working that day, looking at his clock, it read 433 in the morning. Muttering under
his breath he got up to get a shower. Looking at his phone, he realized he had a voicemail, and
even better, from his son.
“ Dad, as much as I want to go, I can’t. I’m here for mom and can’t talk to you anymore.
You left her so quickly, and that was the most hurtful thing to do. It’s been almost a year and she
still can’t get over you. I can’t talk to you anymore. You can keep the tickets and go with a friend
or something.”
A wave of despair ran over his whole body. Grabbing a blunt from his friend, he grabbed
the car keys and drove, not knowing where it would take him.
David Mayer
COPE
Looking out over the lake from over twenty feet up in the air, he thought to himself, what
the heck am I doing up here?
Then he remembered browsing the activities list for Boy Scout camp several weeks ago.
His friend Shane had said to him, “Hey Dan, I know exactly what we should do up at camp this
year.”
“Really now, let’s hear it Shane,” Dan had replied.
“Let’s do COPE instead of merit badges in the mornings.” COPE stands for Challenging
Outdoor Personal Experience. COPE is the scout camp’s high ropes course, and Dan had not
been planning on doing COPE for various reasons. First off it took up the entire morning
meaning that the number of merit badges that he could take would be cut in half, but a much
more pressing reason for Dan’s reluctance to do COPE was that he was deathly afraid of heights,
and Dan knew that Shane was aware of his fear and that he picked COPE as the activity just for
that reason. After going back and forth about the pros and cons of doing COPE, Dan found that
he was unable to talk his way out of taking it as Shane just wasn’t going to let me say no. So in
the end Dan reluctantly signed up for what he imagined would be an absolutely terrifying
experience.
The months seemed to fly past and ultimately the day Dan had been dreading so much
had arrived. It was time to head up to Falcon Hill Scout Reservation with twenty-five other boys
from Troop 58. Dan packed his trunk into the back of the troop’s trailer and hoped into one of
the scoutleaders’ truck right next to Shane.
“Hey Dan you ready for some rope climbing?” Shane asked with a wicked grin on his face.
“Oh shut up Shane or I’ll punch you in the face!” Dan shot back.
“Go for it,” Shane replied still wearing that grin. Dan started to pull his arm back when a
booming voice from the front of the truck yelled back, “Hey you two cut it out back there or
you’re going to be riding up in separate vehicles!”
At that Dan and Shane looked at each other and laughed. The scoutleader sighed and muttered
something under his breath that Dan didn’t quite catch, and then the truck’s engine revved up
and they were on their way up to Falcon Hill.
Several hours later the troop arrived at their campsite at Falcon Hill and everyone got out
of their cars and started unpacking all the trunks. As this was the fourth year of summer camp for
both Dan and Shane the two of them skipped the Scoutmaster’s entire camp setup rant and
quietly dunked away from the crowd. The two boys then went around the campground scoping
out all the tents to find the best one. After just a couple minutes of searching Shane called over to
Dan saying “Hey over here I found the perfect tent.”
Dan walked over the rocky ground over to Shane’s voice and found him sitting in a tent set up
directly between two trees.
“See? It’s perfect!” Shane said with a smile on his face.
“Yeah it’s in a great spot,” Dan replied, “now let’s go get our stuff.”
“Yep I’m sure Mr. Giger is done his yearly rant by now.”
So Dan and Shane headed back to the pavilion where all the gear was now stacked. They
gathered up their trunks and made the trip back to their tent. The rest of the day was spent
playing ultimate Frisbee and card games. Dan kept trying to block out of the thoughts of what
COPE would bring in the morning the next day, while Shane did his best to keep reminding him
of them.
Morning came faster than Dan wished, but here it was, the first day of COPE. All through
breakfast Shane talked about doing the various high ropes courses while Dan kept trying to think
of a way to get out of the mess Shane had gotten him into. After breakfast Shane and Dan walked
down to the COPE pavilion, where Dan and Shane joined fourteen other campers. After having
to sing and dance I’m a Little Tea Pot, much to Dan’s embarrassment, the group was allowed
into the pavilion and instructed to all take a seat. The COPE councilors used the typical ‘say your
name and something interesting about yourself’ approach to start things off. When it was Dan’s
turn to introduce himself, Shane popped in and said “Hey guys I’m Shane and this is my best
friend Dan who’s afraid of heights!”
The whole group broke out laughing and Dan tried to shrink enough to slip through the cracks in
the concrete floor of the pavilion. However when he found that to be an impossible feat, Dan
decided his next best course of action was to punch Shane.
“Ha Ha Ha very funny Shane. Now let’s see if I can do this too. Hey guys this is my friend
Shane and he’s a real jokester! Isn’t that right Shane?” Dan said as he threw a hard right into
Shane’s shoulder.
“OUCH!” Shane exclaimed, “That really hurt…”
“Shane.” Dan’s eyes were burning holes right through Shane’s head.
“Yeah yeah I’m a real jokester, that’s for sure.” Shane said while rolling his eyes.
And this seemed to warrant another laugh from the group.
“Okay that’s enough you two,” the councilor named Roger said, “Allllllllllllllll-righty then! Now
let’s all get started now shall we? We’re gunna be breaking into two groups of eight and today
y’all’re gunna be doing some fun trust exercises.” Roger and the other councilors, Jack and
Brian, split the scouts into two groups and to Dan’s relief Shane was in his group. After several
hours of falling back with his eyes closed and praying to God that his partner would catch him
before he hit the ground, being guided around through the woods while blindfolded, and various
other activities that Jack was able to think up, Dan was glad that the first day of COPE was over
and more importantly it was time for lunch.
“Ya know Shane, I bet it looks wonderful back in the woods there, too bad I was blindfolded
more than half the time!” Dan joked while he and Shane walked up toward the mess hall.
“Yep, but don’t worry Dan you’ll have a fantastic view of it all when you’re up there suspended
by a rope!”
“You’re hilarious Shane, absolutely hilarious. Now shut up!” At that both of the boys laughed
and entered the mess hall for whatever the camp was trying to pass off as food that day. The rest
of the day was spent carving wood and learning about oceanography, with a quick stop at the
camp’s trading post along the way.
The next morning at breakfast Shane seemed to have spent the night thinking of new
things to say to Dan to drive him nuts.
“Today will be the day Dan!” Shane said, “I can just see it now, you suspended up twenty-five
feet in the air trying to ring a bell while standing on a tire!”
“Jesus Shane, give it a rest won’t you?” Dan pleaded, “That’s a ridiculous scenario anyway.”
After breakfast Dan and Shane trotted down the hill to the COPE pavilion again. Dan and Shane
had learned from one of the older scouts in their troop that if they bought some COPErope at the
trading post they wouldn’t have to do the song and dance routine to get in every morning. It
turned out that the older scout had told the two boys the truth and Dan and Shane were able to
avoid another round of the embarrassing entry ritual. After the others had sung and danced to the
Chicken Dance, everyone was once again seated in the COPE pavilion waiting for Roger to tell
them what was going to happen that day. Shane kept nudging at Dan, but Dan knew that the best
thing to do was to try to ignore him and just keep praying that they weren’t going to do any of
the high ropes courses that day.
“Hey you COPEmonkies y’all’re gunna love what we got in store for you today!” Roger
bellowed, “now that y’all trust each other from all those activities yesterday, today y’all’re gunna
start tackling the low ropes courses! Jack! Brian! Gather your crew and get moving!”
“Low ropes course? What the heck is that?” Shane said to Dan as they followed Jack into the
woods behind the pavilion.
“No idea,” replied Dan, “But it sure sounds like my kinda thing. Nice and low to the ground.”
“That’s a good one,” Shane laughed, “you’re starting to turn into me!”
“Oh God no, what have I done!” said Dan in mock terror.
Over the next few days Dan and Shane found out that low-ropes courses consisted of walking
tightropes that snaked around trees strung up about a yard off the ground, getting the entire eight
man crew over nine-feet high walls, sending crewmembers safely through vertical stringed holes,
and building bridges out of only a couple boards in order to get across a creek.
However, on Thursday, Dan’s fear had finally arrived, Roger told them that today was the
day that they were going to do one of the high ropes courses. Dan didn’t even have to look at
Shane to see the huge smile that had popped onto his face. That day we did the “Vertical
Playground.” It looked simple enough, just a bunch of suspended boards at varying intervals with
two tires and a bell at the top. After two other guys had completed the course, Shane quickly
monkeyed his way up to the top and rang the bell in record time according to Roger, who had
decided to watch our group attempt the “playground,” It was finally Dan’s turn to give the
“playground” a go. Dan just knew that he had to just suck it up and get to the top…or else Shane
would never, ever, ever let him live it down. So after he got all hooked up to the belay team, Dan
walked slowly over to the first board and started to climb. While the first two or so boards were
easy to climb, he had to heave himself up and even jump to get to the next board. Then Dan
reached the first tire. This particular tire was set up vertically so it looked like an “O.” After
struggling up and over that tire, Dan made the critical mistake of looking down. Vertigo hit him,
and hit him hard. His knees buckled and his vision blurred. Dan managed to hold fast onto that
tire didn’t ease up on his death-grip for what seemed like hours to him but it was probably more
like twenty seconds. Dan could distantly hear Shane and the other guys back on the ground
calling up to him offering encouragement and Dan was finally able to recover and continue to
climb. He muscled his way up to the second tire. This tire was set up horizontally and Dan knew
that all he had to do now was climb up through it and ring the bell. Nothing is ever that easy.
Thanks to his poor luck, Dan arm got stuck in the tire on the way through and tore it up a bit, but
Dan knew that he had to keep going and ring the bell. Dan finally was able to get through the tire
and he rang the bell at the top, and the belay team at the bottom let him slowly down to Earth.
The entire group cheered for Dan after he was back on the ground but Dan didn’t say much of
anything for the rest of the day.
“You actually managed to do it. How was it?” Shane asked that night.
“Yeah…uh…ya know it really wasn’t all that bad honestly.” Dan replied.
“See! I always think of great things to do here at camp!”
“Yeah!…No! I’m never letting you talk me into doing anything ever again.”
“Heh good luck with that!”
Both boys broke out laughing and eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next morning was the last day of camp, and after breakfast Dan and Shane both
received green T-shirts with the COPE emblem on the front at the COPE pavilion. They signified
that they had successfully completed the COPE course for that year. Dan had pulled ropes,
jumped off platforms, gripped rocks as he climbed walls, learned to trust his buddies with his
lives, and achieved a level of physical and mental awareness Dan didn’t even think he could.
More importantly Dan knew he had been able to overcome his fear of heights and Shane knew
that it was time that he found another thing with which to drive Dan crazy.
Callie McCabe
The After Effects
We had been warned about this repeatedly. The weather was atrocious, bugs dangerous
and civilians armed. But nothing could mentally prepare anyone for this type of thing. The
feeling was indescribable. There was no way to put in words how being an active soldier in the
Iraq War feels. Boot camp had been fun, basically a competition between all of the troops. Who
was going to come out on top? You had to show your stuff in order to prove yourself. But there
was no proving yourself here everyone was out to get you. No matter how fast you could run,
how many sit ups you could complete in a minute you were all the same: American. The goal of
every Iraqi kills the Americans. They couldn’t comprehend we were there to help them. Maybe
didn’t want to believe because we had destroyed the foundation of their lives.
It was a light day. Memories always came in the morning. Her hair, scent of smell and
body flooded my mind. As a third year veteran morning patrol was daily.
“Just take it easy Macguire your looking rough these days.”
I was told this over and over again. I missed home. I missed her. She had been my
everything I was going to marry her. The distance was too long she said, the pain and stress it
brought was too much. We will be together when you get home, I love you. I believed her until
rumors came that she was engaged to someone else.
Survival was the only thing left. Awareness it was spelled out clearly. One wrong
movement and that would be your down fall. Bombs went off approximately every two minutes.
Mostly in non harmful places almost just to keep the Americans knowing they are still there.
They are hunters, hunting for sweet American blood.
The dirt was crunching and the air was crisp from the sunrise. A child laughing was heard
off in the distance. I turned my head to the side thought I heard footsteps behind me. Pivoting
one foot to the side I checked my surroundings. It was clear but still a commotion was going on
in the distance. I could barely make it out. I jogged my way up to the scene a flash of light came
over me.
“Macguire, Macguire are you ok?”
The impact had knocked me down. I rolled into the fetal position. First thought was to
make sure all limbs were attached. Clear.
“Yeah, I feel ok just got the wind knocked of me.”
“You should go get checked out that was a pretty rough fall.”
I rubbed my eyes as I got up. A sharp pain gushed into my eye. Oh my god what the hell
is going on. My vision of the soldier in front of me was dimming.
The last image I would ever see for the rest of my short life would be doctors 10 maybe
15 overtop of me. Shouting out orders working profusely they said it could have been worse.
The liquid that was exerted from the bomb that one fatal afternoon was lethal. It is
designed to burn a hole through the human body. The doctors saved me from having a hole
through my brain. Or so they say. The damage wasn’t immediate I can still remember seeing the
soldier run to my help. The doctors say that is a miracle. The liquid should have immediately
blown out my eye socket on contact.
I was discharged home with honor. There was nothing exciting the results had already
gone home. My mother had phoned the hospital in a panic attack hyperventilating on the line.
The strong voice of my father came on the line,
“See ya soon son.”
I was legally blind in both eyes. I boarded the plane with bandages wrapped around my
head. An airline employee assigned to help me with my needs. When I got home I would get two
glass eyes just to look like everyone else but I would never be normal again. I hadn’t cried. I
tried to stay away from the horrible thoughts. My life was narrow now. There is no way I would
ever get married, have a family or even get a good job. Laying my head down on a pillow I tried
to sleep to get away from the life I was trapped in.
“Hello dear!” My mother screamed.
“Mom, I’m not deaf, I’m blind I can hear you.”
“I’m so sorry I’m so sorry.” She began to sob.
My father gripped my shoulder with a firm hand and guided me to the car. I wished I was
still in battle. Not at home having to face all the people that mean the world to me. I let them
down I let myself down.
I came up with a new philosophy live day by day. There was nothing to look forward to.
That bomb took away everything in my life. Sight is everything. Without seeing it makes
everyday tasks close to impossible. Eating breakfast getting dressed just watching tv turned into
listening to tv. The day routine turned into lying in bed. Only getting up to use the bathroom and
get a drink.
The worst part was the flash backs. They came in all different forms. Nightmares of
getting shot at by toothless four year olds. The fear still there, still alive inside me. When the
front door would shut I would be transferred into a battle field. Guarding my life. The weirdest
part was it would be me and my family on the dangerous roads of Iraq. I would tell my mom
don’t trust anyone, everyone is out to get you she would just smile. Sometimes I would scream
when this would happen other times I would just sit in silence my mother would find me in a
deep sweat in the corner of a room. I would wake to crying in her arms. Tearless cries of course.
Nothing would ever be the same nothing.
My father would come and go from work every time I heard the door I would holler
down the stairs,
“ Who goes there?”
Every single time my father would answer, “Hello son how are you feeling today?”
I would just go lay back in bed until my mother would eventually come and warmly
touch my face to wake me for dinner.
The flashbacks eventually calmed down. They would only occur once in a couple nights.
Mostly only coming in the forms of nightmares, I liked this better. I could be alone with my
thoughts until I would begin screaming and my mother would come to my rescue.
There would be no explanation for the events that would ultimately end my life. I blame
it on doctors. There is no specific cure for soldiers coming home from war with depression. Not
even a cure for a permanently disabled soldier that will never be able to regain what he lost
defending his country. The closing of the door clicked on my flashbacks. I immediately ran
down to the kitchen. Got into the defending position and started warding off the enemy. He was
armed with an AK-47 I must have left my weapon at the station. I had to defend myself with my
own two hands.
Then enemy was hollering but the battle sounds drowned him out. All I could think about
and hear was killing him. He was the enemy.
“Oh my god, Oh my god no,” My mother cried.
I could hear her from up in my bed. I climbed out of bed and yelled down the stairs,
“Mom what’s going on? Is everything ok?”
“No oh my god what the hell happened. Oh my god call 911.”
When the police arrived they questioned me. What had I done. I couldn’t tell them. I slept
all day not getting out of the bed all day waiting for my mom to get home. Did I hear my father
in? No, not a sound. Did I hurt my father? Hell no why would I hurt my father. Did someone
break into the house? How am I supposed to know I was sleeping.
Someone had brutally murdered my father in my own kitchen. I was upstairs the entire
time not taking notice of a thing. I was taken to the police station as a suspect. It didn’t make
sense to me the last thing I could remember was being in the war and fighting off the enemy
protecting my family. The cops informed me that sometimes depressed soldiers have flashbacks
that blacks out memory of actions. The officers were saying something like getting charged with
manslaughter of my own father? I was only half listening to the man in front of me, I didn’t
believe it I was not a depressed soldier. I always saw myself as being strong being strong when I
went in being strong when I went out.
I had spent three years in Iraq fending off the enemy of the American people. I was not fit
for that job. Not fit at all because it became clear that in the end the enemy was me. I fit the
barrel neatly in my mouth. I slipped it past the fat watchman at the desk. I would finally destroy
the ultimate enemy the world would be a much safer place.
Katie McMullen
Fate
The car whizzed by at what had to have been at least 80 miles per hour. I closed my eyes
and felt the wind in my hair and smiled…
It was as if I had stepped into a completely different world. The lights and the sounds
were like nothing I had ever seen before. In my first two minutes in the city, I had seen more
people than I had ever seen in my lifetime. Not to mention, stepping out of the train station was
the scariest and most exciting experience in my life. As I glanced to my left, I saw the famous
Red Incline. I had seen so many pictures of it but to see it, right in front of my face, was just
amazing.
As I looked to my right, I saw Heinz Field. In the fall, whenever my family wasn’t home,
I would watch the Steelers games on our antenna TV. Father would never have approved
because I ‘could be making myself useful in the farm’. He hated when any of us would use the
television. The only reason we had it was because it was the last thing my mom’s mom ever gave
to her. So we kept it, despite my father fighting every step of the way. I realized it was the only
thing she ever stood up to my father about.
Before I could admire anything else, I was getting pushed by someone behind me trying
to get out of the train station. Simultaneously, people were running past me trying to catch the
last train for the night. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually here,’ I thought. ‘After all those years of
working on the farm, never doing anything that I wanted to do, I’m finally here.’
I looked at my watch and struggled for a second trying to read it. Mom had splurged on
one of those fancy watches before I left, even though I told her I already had a digital one from
fourth grade. “Well, Matty, things must be replaced sometime.” She said to me, “everything’s
changing now; you might as well change your wardrobe too.”
I didn’t argue with her. Leaving town on a bad note would have caused more pain to her
than it should have. She already didn’t want me to leave. Father wasn’t very happy either when it
came time for me to board my train.
“Matthew,” he bellowed with a slight nod of the head, “you know how I feel about this
move. You should stay here and continue this family business. You need to learn the trade.
That’s what will get you somewhere in life. None of this school nonsense, with degrees, and
masters, and whatnot. Someday, you’ll come back here and realize that this is the only thing
you’ll ever be able to do. Good bye, Matthew.”
And with a shake of the hand, that was his good bye. No ‘I love you’ or ‘good luck with
your dreams, son’. It was the same way with everything I ever tried to do outside of farming.
Baseball, Debate Club, Band. Every one of them considered a disappointment in his eyes.
My mother on the other hand was hysterical. Balling her eyes out, the phrase “oh,
Matty” was the only thing she could spit out in-between a combination of sobs, sniffles, and
heavy breathing. She still refuses to call me Matthew or Matt.
“Not too old to be my Matty”, she says. “Doesn’t that sound nice? No matter where you
go, you will always be my Matty.”
This was what I was escaping from, the smothering of my mother and the coldheartedness of my father. He wanted me to stay in Wisconsin and take up the family business of
farming. Cow breeding to be exact. No questions asked, just as simple as following in the
footsteps of my father. That man did nothing for me my whole life but when I’m finally old
enough I’m supposed to put everything on hold to take up his business. Do you know how
embarrassing it is to try and explain why you’re never in school or why you can’t go to the
movies, or why the scent of manure has permanently attached itself to your clothes?
I had bigger dreams. I wanted to move to the city and become an architect, just as I had
always secretly dreamed of as a child. After weeks of fighting, we had finally gotten to goodbye. Honestly, I had never been happier in my life when I was saying good-bye to my family for
one last time, or so I had thought.
****************
Once I finally managed to read my watch it read 11:18. I reached deep in my pocket to
retrieve a crumpled up piece of paper I had written my new address on before I had left. I
managed to flag down my first taxi, something that I had only seen done in the movies. I handed
my crumply piece of paper to my taxi driver and we were off.
Once I arrived at my new apartment it was almost midnight. I was exhausted and just
hoping that Ally was still awake to let me in. When I looked at my new home, I was struck
speechless by its architecture. That was, in part, why Ally and I had decided to live here. She was
a fourth year architecture student at Duquesne University and she was planning on starting her
own business after graduation.
After we met online in an architecture chat room, we both decided that I should come and
live with her. I would help her start up her new business and she would teach me everything I
needed to know about architecture. Not to mention, I was starting to fall in love with her. She
held none of the qualities of my mother or my father and all of the qualities that I had always
been looking for in a girl. She was out-going, caring, and ambitious. She was also the most
beautiful girl I had ever seen. When I finally got buzzed up to the apartment, seeing her in
person for the first time made me weak in my knees. At that moment, I had almost totally
forgotten about my life in Wisconsin because I knew that that was who I was supposed to be.
During my first four months of living in the city, I had already learned almost everything
I needed to know about architecture. Ally used all of her old books and taught me lessons from
her first three years in at Duquesne. During the day we went around to banks and businesses
getting small business loans and trying to get some clients.
Finally, after a month of this process, PNC bank decided to let us renovate their bank on
Grant Street. This was huge. PNC Bank was very prominent in Pittsburgh. The new baseball
field was even named PNC Park. Ally and I went to pitch our ideas to them and a week later we
were approved. My dreams were finally coming true and I was proving my father wrong.
****************
It was opening day of the new PNC Bank. The publicity that came with the project was
out of this world. By the end of the day, Ally and I had received over 10 business cards from
people who wanted us to do their renovation work. Within weeks we had seen all the sites and
had started to sketch different ideas for all of them. By the end of the year, our business had
exploded. Our phone was ringing off the hook with future clients that heard such rave reviews
about us they decided they just had to renovate or build some new offices. Ally and I were the
greatest architecture team, like ying and yang, peanut butter and jelly. I was even thinking about
proposing to her…
But then one stupid day, one stupid phone call, and everything collapsed underneath of
me. It had been the nervous and anxious voice of my mother on the other line.
“Matt. Matty, is this you?”
That was only the second time I heard my mothers voice since I had moved out to
Pittsburgh. Just by the tone of her voice and her use of the name ‘Matt’, I knew something was
wrong.
It smacked me clear across the face. He was gone. And not the, ‘I’m going to a farming
convention in Madison, I’ll be back in a week’ gone. He had a major stroke while he was
feeding the animals. Mom had found him twenty minutes or so after it happened but he was
already gone. I was shocked and speechless and devastated and … My dad. How could my dad
be dead?
“Matt, the funeral’s on Saturday.”
“Mom...ho...how did this happen?” I managed to ask while I was still in shock. “I just
saw him before I left… Th, that was only like...” I started counting on my fingers the months
since I had left. Soon I ran out of fingers and realized that it had been over a year. “...okay, well
maybe I haven’t been home in a while, but…”
After two more minutes of mindless babble filled with my mothers’ sobs, I started to
understand where this conversation was going. She kept telling me how she didn’t know what
she was going to do because father had taken care of us. I had to try and suppress a chuckle when
she said that. Maybe he took care of them, but not us, not me.
My father had been the one who took care of the farm, who made the money. Mom
never went to college because she was too busy ‘falling in love with a local farmer’ as grandma
always bitterly put it. That farmer, my father, told my mom to run away with him to Wisconsin
to start their own farm together. Convinced her to not go to college because he told her that he
would always take care of her. That bastard. He still manages to screw me and crush my dreams
while six feet under.
My mother went on and on about the house and the money and the farm and the bills and
Kate’s education. God, it was like she had planned out this little guilt trip. Pissed, that’s what I
was, really pissed. Did she seriously expect me to return to Wisconsin after I had achieved such
success in Pittsburgh? After I started my own business with my dream girl and now we were
living the high life?
Shit, of course I would go back. My sister was only thirteen and my mother on the brink
of 60. What could they do? Nothing. Not a single thing to sufficiently support themselves. So I
told her “Fine, I’ll be there tomorrow for the stupid funeral on Saturday”. God, why was it, that
the one thing that man ever taught me was to love my mom and sister?
****************
And so I left. Ally was devastated but she understood because it was my family. I told her
to keep up the business because that’s what our dream was. She said she would try and visit any
time she possibly could.
I’m back here in Wisconsin where I thought I would never have to be again, running the
family business. I open my eyes to see only the backend of a Ford Pickup. I look around and see
all the things I tried to hard to leave and forget about. He always did say this was where I
belonged. So much for trying to change fate…
Stephanie Miller
China Town Wedding
Enter username and password.
I filled in his information and pressed ENTER.
Just like every other day, while my teachers gave under-enthusiastic speeches about what
they considered to be poignant topics, I browsed the web. Usually this meant checking first my
e-mail and then my boyfriend’s. He gave me the password months ago for a reason I now forget.
At the time he certainly hadn’t expected me to remember it or to ever use it again. He was
wrong. I became an avid reader, twiddling away the school day with junk e-mail or letters from
his brother. Still, maybe that’s why I always felt a slight pang of gilt as I flipped through his
mail; I never asked permission. At least I never read anything unopened.
That day, and the preceding weeks, most of his mail was about the impending wedding, a
constant thorn in my side. I wasn’t going. At first I had thought that the wedding was family
only, no guests, but his brother was taking his girlfriend. Why couldn’t I go too? Maybe Peter
didn’t think I would have any fun, what with my not being able to understand what was
happening-there wouldn’t be many English speakers in attendance. Or maybe he just didn’t want
me to go. Or maybe I was specifically uninvited.
Disappointed when nothing new appeared in Peter’s inbox, I closed the window.
Apparently there were no new facts to be learned about the mystery wedding. Since class was
almost over, I spent the remaining time doodling a wedding dress on my notebook. The dress
was entirely unconventional-short with a feathery skirt. I used a different pen to color the fabric
blue. After class I snapped a picture of my drawing with my phone and sent it to Peter.
Peter’s Chinese. We never mentioned it, as if the subject were taboo. It was almost as if
we weren’t supposed to notice the difference, like the difference were a bad thing. His entire
family and all intimate others are Chinese too, except for me. I’m pureblooded America. He’s
not even considered first generation. I often wondered if he cared. Sometimes it felt that way. I
would have bet money that his family cared, would have sworn that they would look upon our
relationship disapprovingly. He always said his family was very traditional, not like us. He also
said it didn’t matter to him. But then I noticed how he would stand slightly apart from me around
the few family members, not including his mom, I had been allowed to meet, making sure not to
hold my hand when they or anyone they might know was around. He especially went out of his
way to hide us from his mom. Peter said he didn’t want his mom finding out about us through
someone else. Yet 10 months into the relationship and he still hadn’t seemed eager to introduce
me. He’d met my whole family, even spending Easter with us. My family liked him well enough;
my mom was especially fond of him, always baking him cookies and sending him care packages
while he was away at college. In contrast, we acted like practical strangers on the few occasions
we had eaten in China Town, just in case someone he knew was there. I’d never even seen the
inside of one of his mom’s restaurants. She owned four.
Peter texted me back at the end of lunch. “Sexy ” he said of my dress.
I giggled and replied to the second text he’d sent-“Hey, I have to pick up my tux tday,
want 2 come wit?”
“K, when?” I’d said.
“3. I’ll get you after school.”
“C u then.”
***
I was both dreading and anticipating seeing Peter that afternoon. I had only just recently
gotten my boyfriend back from college and so I jumped at any opportunity to see him, no matter
how trivial the occasion. But seeing him in the tux would only remind me of the wedding. In fact
just thinking about seeing Peter in a tux reminded me again of the wedding. He’d said it was
traditional, meaning the bride would wear the red Qi Pao. Were guests expected to follow suit
and wear more customary clothing? Maybe that was why I hadn’t been invited, Peter had wanted
to save me the embarrassment of being inappropriately dressed. But I could have bought
something new, something more traditional; perhaps that would have been more insulting. I
probably would have felt stupid anyway, as if I was trying to hide who I am behind a robe. But
then again, Peter was wearing a tux. That wasn’t traditional, more American. American I could
do.
After we picked up his tux we drove back to my house. I considered asking Peter in for
dinner but thought better of it. Thursday is foreign food night at my house. That night we were
getting Chinese. I wasn’t sure if that would be insulting. At the very least I thought it would be
awkward. Besides, the one time I suggested take-out Chinese for dinner he gave some long
speech about how it’s worse than McDonalds. “Maybe to you” I’d said, slightly offended but his
harsh tone, “But I like it.” This time I didn’t make the same mistake and instead kissed him
goodnight, asking for a phone call after dinner.
I woke up the next morning with no missed calls; Peter had forgotten. I didn’t dwell on
his neglect, my thoughts immediately turned towards the wedding-it was that afternoon. For
weeks I had entertained the idea that Peter would eventually ask me to go, perhaps at the very
last minute. I had even laid a dress out at home, in case he changed his mind during the day. The
little black halter had rested perfect at the foot of my bed, ready to throw on in a moments notice.
But my hopes quickly died as the day past by without a word from him. When he called that
afternoon my hopes rose for a few seconds before crashing down again. He hadn’t said much
beyond hi and goodbye. It was perfectly clear at that point-I wasn’t going. I got home and threw
the little black dress in my laundry basket to deal with another day.
***
12:30 p.m. my cell phone rang loudly. It was Peter.
“Hey! Did I wake you?”
Yes, he had. I lied.
“No I was watching TV, have fun?”
“Oh baby the wedding was great. I took lots of pictures. But guess what? I got in
trouble.”
“What? Why? Is everything okay?” A thousand possibilities flashed through my mind,
each more serious then the one before.
Peter just laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“It’s nothing serious baby, I got in trouble with my family, that’s all.”
“Your family? Why?” I was stumped.
“Well…actually my Aunt was really mad I didn’t invite you. Apparently everyone was
looking forward to meeting you.”
I was flabbergasted. They had wanted to meet me. His family had wanted to meet me! I
couldn’t believe it. But then why hadn’t Peter invited me? Had he not wanted me there? Did he
not want me to meet them?
“They wanted to meet me? But wait then…”
“Of course they want to meet you, we’ve been dating a long time and apparently they say
I talk about you all the time at family dinners, I never noticed…whoops!” You chuckled.
“But if they wanted to meet me then why didn’t you invite me?”
I was starting to feel angry and more than a little hurt. “Why didn’t you invite me to the
wedding Peter? Didn’t you think I’d want to go? Or do you not want me to meet your family,
because it certainly seems that way.”
“No, what are you talking about? Of course I want you to meet my family!”
I couldn’t help myself; my voice rose with every passing second. “Oh sure you do. You
really want me to meet your family.”
“I do!”
“Then how come I haven’t by now? It’s been ten months Peter, ten months. Is that not
long enough? Or is there some other reason?”
“What reason? What are you talking about?” We were both yelling by now.
“Say it Drew. We both know why you won’t take me to see your family. Just say it and
get it over with.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Why wouldn’t I want you to meet my
family?”
“Because I’m not Chinese! Stop beating around the bush and just admit it!”
“WHAT? Is that what you think?”
“What else am I suppose to think!” Unexpected tears burned my eyes.
“Sarah…” You spoke my name softly, tenderly, any trace of anger gone from your voice.
My anger died down and my next words were barely a whisper, choked out between the
sobs I tried to conceal from carrying over the phone. “Huh Peter? Answer me. Do you wish I
were Chinese? Are you, are you ashamed of me? Of us?”
“Ashamed? You…you think I’m ashamed of you?” Suddenly you sounded on the verge
of tears yourself but I didn’t know how to reply. I wanted to say yes. There seemed to be no
other explanation.
I hung up.
***
Three days later we were heading to dinner in the city. We weren’t fighting anymore but
something wasn’t quite right between us. I held his hand lightly in the car as he drove adeptly
through the narrow streets. I wasn’t paying attention to our surroundings, thinking instead of the
large Italian dinner awaiting me at the restaurant. The car stopped suddenly, jerking me out of
my thoughts. “I have to pick something up from my mom’s shop,” he said.
“Oh, okay.” I peered out the window at the endless jostle of people running through
China Town. No matter what the place always seemed to be busy.
“Would you like to come in with me?” He asked tentatively.
I looked past his shoulder into the tiny shop across the street. A small Asian women with
thick black curls piled on top of her head was arranging a pile of fruits in the shop window. She
wore dark jeans and a yellow floral top. Pretty, I thought. I looked at Peter, trying to find a
resemblance beyond the thin brown eyes.
“Would you like to come in?” He asked again.
Glancing at the woman again, I yawned and leaned back in my seat. “No, I’ll wait here.”
Moffat
Counting on You
Steve sat down in his chair in the third row, two from the left. He had had a donut for
breakfast. Boston cream. Lizzy sat down next to him, accidentally dropping her pen. Steve
reached under his desk and picked it up for her.
“Thanks!”
“No problem,” Steve said, still thinking about his donut, trying not to look at the left side
of the front chalkboard. He didn’t need to.
“Aw, come on,” Chad said as he walked in looking at the board. It wasn’t good. Steve
finally looked; 15 pages of reading every night that week, with a test on Thursday and a project
due Monday. His next four classes weren’t much better, and by the end fifth period, he couldn’t
remember what his donut had tasted like, despite his trying all class.
On the way home from practice that afternoon, Steve touched his nose with his tongue
111 times before pulling into his driveway, which would have been better than wondering how
the heck he was going to finish all his homework before 3:13 AM (his absolute latest bedtime)
even if 111 licks hadn’t been a new record.
“Steven, can you pick your sister up from piano in twenty minutes?” his mom asked
almost immediately after he opened the door through the garage.
“But Mom, why can’t you pick her up -I’ve got loads of homework!”
“And I have to make enough food for eight with you in the house, now quit your
complaining and go get her.” It was no use arguing; besides, that would only mean less time to
get some homework done before picking his sister up. After finishing his dinner in forty-two and
a half bites exactly, Steve sat down to his homework. “If I work really hard, and if Sarah doesn’t
call, I should be able to finish before 3:13,” he thought. Just then his pocket started playing
“Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. He pulled his phone out. “Sarah Cell.” “Ugh, doesn’t she
ever have any homework?”
Steve should’ve gotten an Olympic medal in sleepwalking for being able to find his desk
in first period the next day. Or at least a Grammy.
“Dude, are you all right? You look terrible,” Chad asked when he walked in.
“No sleep, man”
“When’d you go to bed?”
“3:16.”
“Ouch. Homework?”
“That and Sarah called again.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“The weather. I swear, she calls just for the heck of it, and I don’t want to tell her to stop–
”
“–because you’re a nice person–”
“–Exactly. Look, I like her, I really do, but I’ve just got so much work to do!”
“I’m sure she’s not trying to bug you.”
“We’ll it’s starting to- doesn’t she know how much homework I’ve got?”
“Did I hear someone say how much they love homework?” interjected their teacher Mr.
Stimpson as he came scurrying in ten minutes late. “Good! Because I’ve got packets!”
“Great,” said Steve and Chad in unison with the rest of the class.
Steve could hardly stay awake at lacrosse practice that afternoon. Despite his fresh cleats,
he could hardly stay standing, and when Big Bob checked him, he wasn’t surprised that he fell to
the ground, popping his shoulder out. He was surprised by how much it hurt. His coach came
over, painfully jammed it back in and sent him up to the trainer. “At least I can get a head start
on my studies for tonight,” Steve thought lying in the trainer’s office with a plastic bag
containing fifty-three pieces of ice wrapped around his shoulder. As he reached down to his
backpack with his good arm, “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey started playing back up at him.
He reached around and pulled his phone out. “Sarah Cell.”
“Hey, Steve, what’s up?”
“Not much, you?” He didn’t feel like telling her about his arm. She probably wouldn’t
understand how much it hurt anyway.
His shoulder felt better by morning, but he still felt like a zombie after another late night
of loads of homework.
“Yo, Steve,” Chad started sitting next down to his groggy friend, “who were you talking
to yesterday in the trainers?”
“Sarah.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“The weather.”
“Hey, guys, are you going to the study group tonight for tomorrow’s test?” Lizzy asked.
“Of course,” they said in unison.
Steve was driving home from the study group that night no better prepared for the test
than when he got there, wondering how he was ever going to get this stuff down for tomorrow
when his pocket started playing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. He stopped touching his
nose with his tongue and pulled his phone out. “Sarah Cell.” “I don’t believe it,” he thought
before flipping it open.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Steve what’s up?”
“Just pulling onto my street. You?”
“Oh, not much. Where you been?”
“Just at a study group for this huge test tomorrow.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound like fun. I’m sorry!” Sure she was.
“It’s ok”
“I know you’re busy, but I really just want to talk to someone and–”
“– yeah I’m actually really busy. This test tomorrow is going to be really big and I really
need to do well on it.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like fun. Do you think you’re ready?”
“I don’t know, I’ve been studying a lot, but I don’t think I’m as ready as I need to be yet,
which isn’t good, because I’m really running out of time.”
“Can I help you study in any way?”
“What? No, no I don’t think so.”
“Look, Steve, I know you’re really busy and I really appreciate your talking to me so
much. I really need someone–”
“–yeah no problem. Hey can you hold on a sec?”
“Yeah, sure, no problem…”
“Hey, sorry, my mom needs me for something- can I call you back later?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Ok, great, see ya.”
“Talk to you –*click*– soon?”
Going to lacrosse the next day, Steve was still feeling crummy about the test; he had
filled in 17 B’s but only 3 D’s. Practice, of course, didn’t make him or his shoulder feel any
better. Driving home sweaty, aching, and tired, his engine light went on. “Great. Just what I
need. You stupid car, why aren’t you working?” Knowing the shop was going to be closing
shortly, he figured he better drive up there now, counting all of the seventeen light posts on the
way. Steve walked in and rang the bell on the counter for service. A minute later he rang it again.
“What could they be doing?” Finally, a dirty, tired mechanic came in to the office from the
garage wiping the grease off a wrench with an even greasier rag.
“That’s the nastiest carburetor I’ve ever seen!” the mechanic began. Noticing Steve’s
uninterested, impatient look, he continued, “So what can I do for you?”
“The engine light just went on.”
“Did anything sound funny?”
“Nah, but I don’t feel safe when it goes on.”
“No, I gotcha. We don’t have time to look at it tonight, but if you leave it here we can
look at first thing in the morning.”
“OK. I’ll call and have my mom pick me up. Just as long as it’s ready for Saturday
because I need to drive down to our away lacrosse match that morning, and I told my friend I
could drive him too.”
--Sarah was standing there again. She went back at least twice, sometimes three or four
times a week. Ever since it happened in early January. It had been one of the coldest Januarys on
record, but she couldn’t feel the cold then. She couldn’t feel anything for days after it happened.
She didn’t know what to feel, or what to think. Now when she went back to her father’s grave all
she felt was the cold, no matter how warm it was getting outside. Cold and empty. She had been
very close with him; Sarah was a daddy’s girl. She wanted to talk to her mother, but she seemed
to be even worse. Every day the shock wore off and the pain got worse. She didn’t know what to
do. She needed to talk to someone, anyone, but hadn’t made any close friends at her new school
in Radnor, and the only person she kept in touch with from Penncrest was Steve, whom she had
met the year before in their Spanish class. She hadn’t even told him yet; she hadn’t had the
courage. After their last phone call, Sarah wasn’t sure if she should even tell him, or if he even
wanted to hear. She sat home all Friday night, and all Saturday and he never called back. She
made up her mind. She called him up one more time.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Steve, it’s Sarah.”
“Oh, hey what’s up Sarah?”
“Not much. So, um, you never called back…”
“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, I completely forgot!”
“…Oh, OK. I kinda figured. Um, I don’t want to take up much of your time–”
“– yeah, I’m about to get in the shower. I’m all sweaty from my lacrosse game.”
“Then I’ll be quick. I’m sorry I kept bugging you and taking up so much of your time. I
won’t bother you from now on.”
“Um, ok.”
“Thanks, Steve. Good-Bye.”
“Bye.” Sarah hung up, and grabbed the bag she had packed and her car keys before
walking out to her car.
--Steve paused for a second outside his bathroom. Seventy-three seconds actually. That’s
all it took for him to realize something was different about that phone call. What did she mean by
good-bye? She almost sounded sad, but now that he actually thought about it, she didn’t sound
any different than all of the other calls he had gotten from her lately. Steve put his stuff down
and walked out to his car. He just hoped there wouldn’t be a lot of traffic on the way to Radnor.
Steve was driving as fast as he could; he was getting more and more worried with each
passing dashed yellow line in the road (573) until he hit a dead lock in traffic on Route 3 and he
was hardly moving, let alone fast. After twenty-one and a half minutes of crawling traffic, he
could see what was holding him up- someone ran a red light and caused a four-car pile-up. It
looked bad. An off-red sedan was completely flipped over and the top was squished flat. He
looked closer and realized he recognized the license plate number even with it upside down.
“JPG- 5628.” He stopped his car and ran out, praying and hoping more than anything that his
pocket would start playing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.
Pat Moran
Dear Anne
Dear Anne,
I’m awfully sorry that I didn’t write to you sooner. You wouldn’t believe the schedule
that they’ve set up around here. The bugle starts sounding at 5 a.m. and out in this neck of the
woods, the sun doesn’t show itself until half past 6. Anyway we have to get up, make our beds,
shower, catch a bite in the chow hall, and be ready for roll call by 5:30. How’s a fella supposed
to act civilized in a situation like this? Well, I guess they’re not trying to make civilized soldiers,
just good ones. I’ll tell you, 11 hours a day of nothing but drilling, learning to shoot, and more
drilling can really take a lot out of a man. Guys barely leave the base on weekends on account of
them being so tired from the week. It’s just madness, pure madness. One thing is for sure though,
after just 3 short weeks here, I am in the best shape of my life. I feel invincible, like I could take
on the entire German army with nothing but my fists and my picture of you in my pocket. I can’t
stand being away from you.
It should be illegal to take a man away from his wife so soon after marriage. It hasn’t
even been a month, and my longing for you is unbearable. I promise you that when this war is
over, if it is ever over, we will go on the most amazing, romantic honeymoon that you could ever
imagine. We’ll go to Europe and tour all of its beauty and treasure. I’ll be able to show you all
the places I’ve been and tell you tales of how Easy Company of the 101st Airborne saved the
Allied forces from near defeat and brought the fighting to a close right on Hitler’s doorstep. It
will be a fantastic journey; you’ll see.
My love, I must go. I am on my lunch break right now eating some sort of meat (they
don’t really tell us what it is). We’re learning how to exit the plane today. We’re getting so close
to getting our jump wings that I can almost taste them. I imagine that they taste somewhat like
this meat. I love you my darling, and make sure you tell your family to buy war bonds. It’s as the
papers say, “The best way to help our boys abroad is with committed industrial production and
war bonds.”
Your loving husband,
Joe
P.S. I promise my next letter will come sooner.
*
*
*
Dear Anne,
Things have gotten a little more serious since I last wrote you. Lately, we’ve been
learning a lot of tactical maneuvers and attack formations. They’re even teaching us some
sayings in foreign languages, and another guy in my company who’s fluent is teaching me a little
more every day, and I’m really starting to get it. I’m sure you’re giggling to yourself in that cute
little laugh of yours as you’re reading this. That is, since you know that I failed any language I
ever tried to take in school. I can’t say what language it is though because it would probably get
censored out anyway. I still can’t believe they’ve got people who read our letters. Isn’t that a
violation of our rights or something?
The atmosphere is a little more upbeat around here than back in the states. Everybody
goes out to the pubs on the weekends and has a good old time, and it seems like everyone’s in
good spirits. However, seeing the guys fraternizing with the English women reminds me ever so
much of you, my dearest Anne. I asked my brother Bill to make sure he got you flowers from me
for your birthday… roses. I told him they had to be roses. Did you like them? I can’t wait to see
your face again and run my hands through your beautiful brown hair and tell you about all the
things I’ve seen.
Before I sign off, I want to tell you that my next letter might not come for a while. There
have been rumors flying around and I can’t say for certain, but I believe that we are going to
begin a big offensive soon, and I have no idea how long correspondence from the front will take.
Until then, I love you sweetheart and please don’t worry for me. I’m in one of the best-trained
divisions in the entire army, so I beg you sleep soundly knowing that I’m surrounded by good
soldiers. I hope that I will be as good as they are.
With all my heart,
Joe
P.S. Say a prayer for my friend Tony. His brother was killed a few weeks ago in Italy and he’s
taking it pretty hard.
*
Dear Anne,
*
*
We jumped the evening of June the 6th. It was a night I’ll never forget. As we crossed the
channel, we flew low over the landing fleet. In the pale moonlight, we could see the faint outline
of the bridges atop the massive battle ships and the movement of sailors on the decks. The
convoy seemed to stretch on for 100 miles.
When we landed, no one came down together. We missed our drop zone by what must
have been 5 to 10 miles and it took us 2 hours just to get our company assembled. My landing
was like nothing I’d ever done in jump school. I came down in a tree, suspended 10 feet in the air
with no branches below me, so I had to cut myself down. Luckily, I didn’t hurt my legs.
We took the Germans by surprise. We took on a heavily armed gun emplacement and
knocked it out. It felt good to know that we’d completed our objective. Those guns were aimed
perfectly on the landing beaches and our actions saved hundreds of American lives. For me, I
had done my duty; and I felt like, now, I am a soldier.
Life in combat is like nothing that I’d expected. Although there are intense moments of
fierce fighting, the majority of the time is spent waiting in the brush deciding what the next move
is. The scary part is though, you don’t know if you’re gonna get shelled, sniped, or ambushed.
The fear of uncertainty resonates in every man and each handles that fear differently. Some men
pray, some cry, some read, and some, like me, just sit there and think. I think about how I’m
going to come out of this war. What I’m gonna do when I’m home. I think about the beautiful
children that we’re going to have and how wonderful our life will be.
From the looks of our progress here, we should be home in a few months. I hope. I love
you always. The thought of you in my arms keeps me going. Without the thought of returning to
you, I would not have the will to survive this war. You give me the strength to carry on.
Love,
Joe
P.S. I lost the pictures of my mom, dad, and brother when we jumped in. I’d appreciate it if you
sent me some new ones.
*
*
*
Dear Anne,
A few days ago, we entered the town of XXX and were faced with scattered German
resistance. It was a much different type of fighting than we were used to. Close quarters combat
in small skirmishes lasting only for a few brief moments. The fact that the enemy could be
anywhere around us at any time sent shivers down our backs. Men were jumpy, afraid. So was I.
We crossed a street that intersected another forming a giant four-way intersection, which
we knew was the perfect post for a sniper. We hugged the wall of a building at our backs,
inching slowly forward trying to create as small of a target as possible. Then one of our
lieutenants broke cover, signaling the platoon at our rear to halt and stand by for suppressing fire.
Before we even heard the shot, he was on the ground, dead. Every man on the patrol hit the deck
and then we heard more shots. There was a sniper perched high in an apartment building situated
on the street corner, diagonal from our position. All of a sudden, second lieutenant told us to
break for the sniper’s building. We lost two more while running across the street.
We rushed in the door and began to make our way up the steps to take revenge for our
buddies. As we reached the third floor, we heard voices coming from a room at the end of the
hall whose window faced directly into the intersection.
Without hesitation, we moved to clear the room, the door was open, and I threw in my
grenade. The sound I heard in those few seconds before the explosion will resonate in my ears
for the rest of my life. As soon as it hit the floor, I heard a loud high-pitched scream come from
the other side of the door. It wasn’t the sound that a German soldier would make, but that of a
young girl. It took us 10 seconds to open the door. No one wanted to be the one to do it. Since, I
was the one who threw it, I was the one who volunteered. It was a family; 2 girls, 2 boys and
their mother all huddled up against the wall. Not one of them survived the blast.
My dearest Anne, I have no taste for this war. Sure, it was horrible before, but now, it
doesn’t seem to make any sense at all. I signed up with the idea that I would be a soldier of
freedom, on a mission to protect people from the powers of evil. Now, I wonder if I have failed.
With my own hand, I killed innocent civilians in a brutal moment of rage and aggression. I feel
that this war has turned me into nothing more than a killing machine, an agent of death. Am I
any better than the Germans? I’m starting to think that I shouldn’t have come over here at all.
My thoughts grow more twisted and confused every day, and I’m losing my faith in God and
everything that I’ve ever believed in. When I got here, I believed that we were right and they
were wrong. Now, I don’t know if there is a right and wrong side to war. Is there a point to it all?
Is the struggle for power and political ideas really worth so much bloodshed? I remember the day
I went to the recruitment office to sign up. A poster there read, “Leave a boy; come back a
Hero.” I wonder now as a write this if it should have read, “come back a Monster.”
Anne, sweetheart, I am not sure any more if I will be coming back from this war. But I
want you to know that I love you and if something is to happen to me, I want you to find
someone, someone who makes you happy. Tell my ma and pa I said I love them.
Love,
Joe
*
*
*
Dear Anne,
Hitler’s new offensive has brought with it some intense fighting, and just like always, the
101 got stuck right in the middle of it. We were placed in a small town in XXXXX of great
importance to the German supply system and were given the job of defending it.
st
Look honey, I don’t really know how to tell you this easily, so I’m just going to have to
say it. During an enemy artillery barrage, a shell landed about 10 yards away from my fox hole.
It took off half of my right arm and left a couple of fragments in my gut. I’ve been in a field
hospital for about a week now, and I’m just waiting to get shipped out off the front. They say
that after a couple weeks or so, I’ll be stable enough for long-range transport. What’s left of me
is coming home.
The entire time that I’ve been over here, the thought of seeing your face and looking into
your eyes is the only thing that has kept me going. The idea of you and me together is the only
thing left that I believe in. I love you, and I should be home in time to spend Christmas with my
girl.
Love,
Joe
*
*
*
Dear Anne,
During these past few months since I’ve been home, you have been everything that a man
could want. To go from the treacheries of war to the overwhelming comfort of your arms has
been nothing short of wonderful. But, there has been something lingering in me since the first
day I came home. I am not the man I used to be. The war has had a profound effect on me, and I
feel that at some point over there across that great big ocean, I died inside. I don’t know who I
am or if I have anything left to offer you.
Please know that my love for you will never fade or die. You always have been and
always will be my girl but I can’t be your man. Along with my arm, I lost part of my soul; I’ve
seen too much. It’s not fair to have you wait for me to come around and return to being that guy
you married, because I know that will never happen. When I came off the boat and first saw you,
all I saw was perfection…until I looked into your eyes and saw my own reflection.
Love,
Joe
Lindsey Moretti
Pale Yellow Roses
Dr. Callahan walked out of the room, leaving her in the familiar bleak place, with the
same bland colors and antiseptic smells. She stared silently at the wall with the portrait of the sea
and the lonely sailboat wadding in the water. The microscopic sailor, simply a smudge on the
canvas, was usually looked over at first-glance. Kelly wished she were him.
Her uneasy hands slid back and forth, leaving a dripping trail on the frosty diet Pepsi can.
It could appear that her mind was racing, but she was really calm and at ease.
“The Days of our Lives” played behind her, propped up on the wall, however the heart
monitor beeped louder than the actual tv. The actors on the television were ironically in the same
place, the hospital. Their lives were equally torn apart and their emotions ran high, however, they
had the magical ability to slip out of those lives at the end of the day; something she frequently
dreamed of.
The room had been her second home for the past six months. It was a home just like the
rest, at first extremely stressful and overwhelming, and yet doable as time progressed.
Dr. Callahan had just been in to check his status. He never updated Kelly anymore
because it was always the same news. They exchanged the normal, “hello, how are you…” but it
was just out of respect, no true curiosity.
Kelly spotted a misplaced hair on John’s head and quickly stood to fix it. “There you go.”
She remarked, “You know, you’re never keeping your hair tidy, John.”
She often spoke to him as if nothing were wrong. Normally, she would even get wrapped
up in a story and sometimes forget that he couldn’t respond. Kelly would go on about practically
anything, about Dobey, the bird he chased or the rawhide he swallowed whole. She would speak
of the crazy long lines at the Shop ‘n Bag, and how she learned never to go back food shopping
around five anymore. She’d even fill him in with all of the latest gossip that she received from
Bethany Ann. Anything to pass the time peacefully, without allowing her to think deeply about
the accident and how it caused all of this; anything to stop a breakdown.
It was a cool evening in May. The past few days had been unbearably hot, breaking
record high temperature. The heat was broken with monstrous thunderstorms, lasting the entire
night before. The thunder roared so powerfully, it shook people straight upright in bed, the type
that scared poor Dobey half to death. Whenever the weather was bad, Dobey went into a
complete frenzy. Panting, whining, and shaking. Whenever the man’s true best friend was in
stress, anything possible was attempted to try to calm him down. John loved that dog. After
trying so hard to have a child for all of those years, Kelly and John can to the realization that a
dog would be the next best thing. They purchased the puppy, not caring of what kind of dog he
was, hoping that he would fill that void in their lives. From that day on, Dobey became their son
and did everything with John.
For the past few years Kelly became nervous of what John would do without Dobey,
because he was becoming older and in dog years, he was pushing that golden age. She feared
John would be devastated if anything should happen to Dobey.
That thunderstorm kept the boys up all night. Kelly slept like a baby, the harsh rain
playing her a tune like her own personal lullaby. It was eight when John finally emerged from
the bedroom with Dobey right at his side. He looked exhausted and definitely ready for coffee.
The sun was shining and birds were singing, mother earth looked completely innocent for the
harm it had done. He grabbed a cup of coffee from the stale pot and sat to read the paper, Dobey
still at his side. Thank god it was a Saturday, a day to finally relax from work. They both just
slowly trailed along throughout the day, their only accomplishment being some light yard work.
As dinner approached, they both looked for something simple. They both loved to cook
but were way too exhausted to have a full-fledged meal. They figured either cereal or eggs.
Breakfast for dinner was always the best cop-out for a real dinner. Of course the milk was down
to the last two drops. “Damn, we used it all this morning with our coffee.” John exclaimed.
“Well, I guess I’ll just run up to the store to grab some more then.” Kelly rolled her eyes, of
course John would. John was always willing to go out of his way for her. Ever since they started
dating, John would try so hard to go the extra mile, just to prove that he really cared. Kelly hated
it. It was sweet sometimes but she always felt like he was trying to prove that he was the better
spouse, trying to one-up her constantly. “Whatever John….Do what you want.” With that she
walked into the living room, turned on the television and started stroking Dobey’s head. Of
course John wasn’t fazed at all. “Okay, I”ll be back in a little dear.” With that he was gone.
Kelly raced through the white-walled, white-tiled hallways and just kept running. Her
face was streaked with mascara while her shirt was smudged with dirt from the yard work she
had done earlier. E104. E104. E104. Did she miss it? Finally a nurse caught up to her. “Miss can
I help you?” “Yes, I’m looking for my husband, E104, he’s been in an accident, and they brought
him here. He’s in E104.” “Okay, just calm down, it’s right here.” Kelly walked into the chaos.
She saw tons of doctors, police officers and then John laid out on the bed. There was blood
everywhere. Her emotions consumed her. The nurse guided her out, trying to comfort her. It
didn’t help. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Everything was wrong now. Nothing was right.
Her body was shaking, her head was spinning and her mind couldn’t keep up. She blanked.
The doctor came out hours later and told Kelly that John was in a coma, and that they did
everything that they could do. Kelly sat in the hospital in the same shirt, in the same grogginess,
with the same heartache, for the next few days to come.
Dale, the police officer who responded to the crash was the first one at the scene and the
first one to go out and comfort Kelly. Trying to cheer her up, he explained how the officers were
all impressed to see pale yellow roses on the floor of the passengers’ seat. They were dripping
with fresh milk. The thought behind the roses was obvious, and all of the men sympathized for
the man, whom they thought was on his way to a special evening. Kelly appreciated the officers’
sympathy but wasn’t surprised. John often brought flowers home. They were always fresh and
they were always her favorite- pale yellow roses. He had done it ever since their first date. She
never even had a favorite flower until he brought them to her that day. Since then she’s received
them a few times every month, having them decorate her home constantly.
Kelly threw the empty Pepsi into the pink plastic bin. She was beginning to get hungry so
she decided to head home. She walked up John, stroked his face and kissed him on the forehead.
The man she loved was in there somewhere but she felt like she was losing him.
Dobey was waiting at the door, his ball in his mouth, still waiting for the day John would
walk in again, drop his coat and run into the backyard with him for a long game of fetch. She
petted Dobey’s head, threw her handbag on the coat rack and threw her keys down on the table
next to the dry vase. She slipped out of her shoes, locked the door and turned on the answering
machine. First message- her mother, calling to ask for the current update with John and asking
her to look up a recipe for her on the god forsaken internet. Second message- Bethany Ann
asking her yet again to go out with her on a girl’s night. Kelly replayed the second message,
deleted them both then went into the kitchen to fix up an egg and cheese sandwich but there was
no cheese left so she just settled with scrambled eggs. She pondered over Bethany Ann’s
message. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had asked Kelly to come out for a night, but it was
the first time Kelly actually considered it. The truth was the Kelly had become extremely lonely
and felt ready to go out on the town for a good time. She finished her eggs then called Bethany
Ann back. Of course Beth was thrilled when her good friend finally accepted her invitation and
insisted that there’s no better time than the present, and dragged her out that very night. Kelly
had forgotten how much fun it was to get all dolled up. Bethany Ann called up their three other
girlfriends, Rachel, Heather and Roxanne. They ended up at Club 9 for cocktails. One drink after
another, Kelly loosened up and finally met up with her girls on the dance floor. As they were
dancing, one man with dark hair and dark eyes approached her, looking for a dancing partner.
Kelly tried to stay cool and stick with the beat but her heart raced as the stranger moved his
hands up slowly up her arm. She panicked, pulled back and raced straight for the bathroom.
Roxanne, who had been watching the whole thing, followed after her. Kelly was
hysterical. The ladies walked out of the club, single file. Kelly didn’t speak the entire ride home.
She dropped everything at the door, locked the three bolts and scampered up to her bed. She
dove under the covers.
It was six in the morning when Kelly realized she hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Her guilty
thoughts consumed her and she came to the decision that she would go into the hospital and
explain everything to John. Even if it didn’t matter now, at least she could get it off of her chest
until he awoke and then she could explain everything. Last night wasn’t completely negative, the
incident gave Kelly the chance to realize that she could wait forever for John to come back to his
normal health, and in the mean time, she’d always love him the same.
Kelly sat straight up, put on her coffee and jumped in the shower. She was ready to look
great, feel confident and go express her love to John. She spent any extra twenty minutes
preparing herself that day and hadn’t heard the phone ring over the hair dryer. She went over to
the voicemail machine, expecting to hear an apology from Bethany Ann. Dr. Callahan’s voice
trembled through the speaker and Kelly didn’t wait to listen to hear what he had to say, she
simply ran down the stairs and grabbed her keys. She raced to the hospital, in the same fashion
she had on the first day John had been admitted. She went into the room. John looked exactly the
same. She listened for the sound but nothing was there. Kelly knew that no beeping was never a
good sign. Her throat closed up and another nurse walked in, quickly followed by Dr. Callahan.
Her emotions took over.
The funeral was directed to only have pale yellow roses. Other’s there marveled at their
beauty, but only Kelly and John knew the real beauty behind them. She hated the ceremony and
couldn’t wait to get home. There she slept with Dobey deep under her covers for days. Her
voicemail box was full but she didn’t dare listen to a single message, it didn’t matter, any news
couldn’t be worse than the reality she was living. It took her five days to get out of her house and
she only did to visit John’s grave. She grabbed a dozen pale yellow roses to set on the grave. As
she approached it she saw a single yellow rose lying on top of the grave. Droplets of water
settled in its leaves from the morning dew. Kelly stared at the wet single rose and smiled.
Everything
Annie Mroz
The call of the seagulls screeching pierced his brain. Adam opened his eyes only to quickly shut
them again. Pummeling his fists into his eyes, he tried once again to see, this time with more
success. It became apparent to him that he was on a beach, more specifically under a boardwalk.
The sun streamed down on him through slats overhead, and he heard the sounds of joggers and
early morning beachgoers. Adam tried to remember where he was and how exactly he had
wound up on this beach, alone and intensely hung-over. He shut his eyes again to give them a
break from the bright light searing them. He still couldn’t quite figure out how he had gotten to
this point: alone on a beach with no shoes and dried vomit in his hair, lying amongst paper bags
and empty forties.
Last night he and his buddies had gone out as they usually did on Friday nights, or Saturday, or
Thursday nights. They started drinking around nine at his friend Mike’s before heading to their
favorite pub where they tossed back beers and caroused and tried to pick up girls. Adam recalled
leaving the pub with his friend Brian to try to score some coke. After that, things became hazy.
He remembered a girl with blonde hair and another girl he and Brian had met.
Adam shook his head and brushed off the memories of last night and the sand from his dirty
clothes. He walked home to his apartment on 7th street and took a shower and got dressed for
work.
That was six months ago, when Adam had just been messing around with the light stuff, playing
with coke, occasionally dropping E on the weekends. It was before he got into the hard stuff,
fast. One day he was watching Survivor on Thursday nights, the next he was consumed by rocks,
pills, even once a spoon and a syringe. Waking up on the beach seemed like waking up in a
dream compared to the places he now woke up. Yesterday he found himself in a dumpster,
stirred after a café employee tossed in the trash. The day before he woke up lying on a park
bench bloodied and bruised from a fight the night before.
Luckily the weather was mild and sleeping outside was no big deal. Sometimes he got checked
into the hospital when the police caught him doing something stupid. Mostly though he just
didn’t sleep. He passed from night to day in restless fits and would stay awake as long as he
could until he eventually blacked out.
This kept up for six months. Adam couldn’t think straight anymore or understand why he was
behaving this way or how to stop himself. Amazingly enough through all this Adam managed to
hold on to his car, his apartment, even his job. The shell of his former life still cradled him; it
enabled him to escape into denial. He had no problems. He was just having fun.
Then came the morning when he almost didn’t wake up at all. Two days later he was here in
Summerside Rehabilitation and Wellness Facility.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He thought he heard the seagulls, but they weren’t gulls, just
sounds. There was no beach, no sand, only a small bright room with a neat bed and table.
Closing his eyes, he smelled the waves. He breathed deeply but the smell wouldn’t come. Out of
nowhere, he heard the gulls again, louder and louder, screeching in his head. Just as they reached
an intense high pitch, a sharp crack cut through the gulls, a pause, and then a pounding
explosion. Adam grabbed his hands and put them over his ears. Hot lava flowed out of them. He
curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth. The pain was awful. It was too much. Then, for a
moment it subsided, just long enough to ring the nurse.
“Bring me some pills,” he screamed. “Bring me some pills I’ve got a fucking headache. I’m
fucking dying in here.”
Just end it. Just end it right now. Put yourself out of your misery, you worthless fuck. It is not
getting any better, but its gonna get a hell of a lot worse.
“Nurse, Bring me some fucking pills before I bash my head in with this FUCKING MONET
REPRODUCTION.”
You’ll never be rid of it. Forever a monkey on your back, gnawing, climbing, biting your
fingernails, infiltrating your soul.
“NURSE.”
Give up, give in. It will be euphoria forever, a veritable transcendental state, pure bliss,
unadulterated ecstasy. Just pull the trigger and take the easy way out.
And then he did give in. He gave way to all the pain he was feeling, collapsing on the bed and
sobbing, hugging his pillow and crying like a little girl.
______________________________________________________________________
“Daddy, daddy, we made breakfast!”
A little blonde with curly hair was tugging at the man’s t-shirt.
In the kitchen his other daughter was stirring something while his wife tended a pan of bacon. He
scooped up his baby in his arms and kissed her cheek.
“Yum.”
He went to his wife and wrapped his arms around her while simultaneously grabbing a piece of
bacon. Adam sat down at the table and began to peruse the newspaper.
“Hon,” his wife said, “we’re out of orange juice. Could you run to the Wawa and get us some?”
“Now? Can’t we just have milk?”
“Please,” she said pleadingly, “You know Sophie has a lactose allergy, and I already promised
her she could have it.”
“Fine. I’ll be right back.” he replied dutifully.
“Please Daddy can I go with you? “ Sophie begged.
“No, Soph, you stay here and help mommy cook. I’ll be back just in time.”
“But Lea’s hogging all the cooking,” she said obstinately.
“Come here, Soph, you can help me crack the eggs.” his wife said.
“I’ll be back in a jiff.”
Adam threw on some khakis and a windbreaker and grabbed his keys to the Subaru. In the car he
drummed his fingers on the steering wheel anxiously. The parking lot was unusually deserted,
but he rushed in without noticing. He walked in and headed for the freezer. He was reaching for
the orange juice when he heard a hushed whisper. The early morning light was just fading into
the Wawa, still only a soft glow. The foot traffic was light, considering. There was him, some
kids in soccer cleats and a guy whom he recognized as himself ten years ago. He had the juice in
his hand and was walking toward the checkout when he saw the look of terror in her eyes.
Puzzled at first, he stared at the girl behind the counter and saw beads of sweat forming at her
temple and tears in her eyes. There was a man standing at the counter. He heard the hiss, louder
this time and then a pop as the girl yelled, “Help! Help! He’s gonna kill me.”
Without thinking, Adam grabbed the OJ from the counter and sent it hurling towards the man’s
skull when he saw the gun in his left hand.
His two daughters, his beautiful wife flashed before his brain. Amy had been there for him
through thick and thin, through his sobriety and relapses. They had met after Adam got out of
rehab. He was better but still down while she was his utter opposite. Gorgeous and tenacious,
she took him uptown and downtown, to the shore and to the mountains. They were always going
places. She was always going, whisking him off in the very manner he longed to whisk her. She
was so full of life and energy. He fed off her energy, and he in turn loved her, more than
anything else.
And now to think, just two weeks ago he was standing behind this very same counter buying his
morning coffee and wishing his life now weren’t so dull, so monotonous. He was longing for the
crazy old days. What a fool he was! What a fool I am to have taken them for granted. With that,
his juice came smashing own on the man’s head knocking him out, but not after he got a round
off that pierced Adam’s gut and embedded itself into his right ribcage.
“Oh MY GOD! You saved me! Are you all right? Someone call the police, “ gushed the counter
girl.
“He wanted to money but I didn’t know the combo, and now he’s dead.” She started blubbering
while tears came gushing out.
“You saved me. YOU saved me, “ she screamed hysterically over and over again.
Adam collapsed.
This time he wasn't running away. He was fighting back, hurling through the air, accelerating at
9.8 m/s2. Adam was completely free, free of the fear, the worry. Prostate cancer was not about to
get the best of him. In two weeks, he and Amy were leaving for India to meet a guru and
meditate. The man would take her hand and lead her through the cramped noisy streets of New
Delhi that he new when he was young. He was finally allowing himself to do what he always
wanted to do. Adam didn't give a fuck anymore. He had time, and he was going to spend every
last second of it greedily slurping the life out of it like a thirsty dog.
The time had come for him to pull the ripcord. He pulled and exploded backwards. The sensation
was unreal. He had just jumped out of a plane. Here he was aged 55, skydiving for the first time.
He honestly didn't know how, but he had it all. Everything but time with Amy, with the girls. He
was afraid of never seeing their faces again. That’s what this was all about: letting go of the fear
and living in the moment. Here he was living at 9.8 meters per second squared.
But then one day, he just kept living. He lived while the cancer came back and went away and
came back and then went away for good. The girls were off living their own lives, spinning in
their own circles, weaving their own destinies. So it was just he and Amy at home. They were
content, but he longed for more than contentedness. The cancer had tested Amy like nothing else
before. The resilient woman had come through the ordeal more battered and bruised than Adam,
tired of hoping and praying. The strain on their marriage was slight, but they both felt it. Now he
was better, and they tried to put it behind him.
Adam sat on his porch reflecting in his favorite wicker chair. He looked at the dogwood in full
bloom in his backyard, the white petals drifting gracefully to the ground in the gentle breeze.
Some floated off the branch easily while others were more resistant to the wind’s tugging. The
sun went behind a cloud, and the sky darkened. Adam scowled. More petals were tugged off the
tree. The sun came out again, and Adam closed his eyes absorbing the rays.
Jonathan Parambath
Brain Cancer
As I woke up from my sleep, I realized that it has been three months since I graduated
from medical school. I looked at my calendar and saw that I had work today and noticed that it
was Saturday. I quickly took a shower and got ready for work. I got in my car, drove to the local
Starbucks, and ordered the usual— a bagel with cream cheese, a powdered jelly-filled donut and
a cup of hazelnut coffee. As I pulled into the hospital parking lot, the only thing I could think of
was for my shift to be over. Usually I worked only weekdays but today was Saturday and it
pissed me off. Saturday is when I visit my mom and my sister and is the only day I have some
free time to do the things I enjoy.
I entered the hospital and took the elevator to the seventh floor, the Neuroscience
department. As soon as the elevator doors opened all my co-workers were there. It was a surprise
party. I asked my boss what the surprise party was about and she told me that I had won the
MVN award. I was delighted that I received the award since I have always wanted to be the Most
Valuable Neurologist but at the same time, I was also angry since the Neuroscience department
had the party scheduled on Saturday. I mingled with all my friends for a little while and
engorged myself with sugary snacks here and there. The party slowly dissolved when the food
ran out and everyone got back to work.
My shift eventually came to an end and I sprinted out the door. As soon I was outside, I
walked to my car to catch my breath. Since I skipped lunch, I was starving and I drove to the
closest fast-food restaurant, which happened to McDonalds. This wasn’t surprising at all since I
live in New York City and there are approximately three hundred McDonalds in the Big Apple.
While I was in the crowded line, I took out my wallet and began to dig for change. I came across
strands of hair, pieces of old gum, and a crumpled up New Year’s coupon. I had completely
forgotten that it was New Years yesterday. I realized that I did not have any New Year’s
resolutions and decided to make my New Year’s resolution to be helping my mother pay her
medical bills and my sister get a real job.
I recently found out that my mom has been diagnosed with a very rare form of brain
cancer. I felt cursed how I am a neurologist and how my mom gets brain cancer but I couldn’t do
anything about it. I almost broke down into tears the day I found out. My mom could not live by
herself so I arranged for my sister to live with her to take care of her. After eating my lunch, I
drove to the bank, withdrew about fifty thousand dollars, and headed to my mom’s house. It was
a long one-hour trip across New York City. I lived in the southern most end of Staten Island and
my sister and my mother lived in the northern end of Manhattan. My mom always blamed me
whenever I complained about the one-hour trip since it was my idea to move to the south end of
Staten Island from home.
When I reached my mom’s house, I saw my sister outside planting flowers. I got out of
the car and walk up to her. She smiled and invited me inside. As I entered the old apartment, I
could tell there definitely needed to be remodeling done. I walked up the broken upstairs with
my sister and entered my mom’s room. She seemed very happy to see me. I told her that I have
been awarded the Most Valuable Neurologist award and told her my New Year’s resolution. She
smiled and told me how wonderful and generous of a person I am.
As I walked downstairs, I told my sister to apply for some jobs so she could make so
extra money since she had been unemployed for almost a year now. She responded by telling me
that she couldn’t get a job even if she tried and even if she somehow managed to get a job, who
would be there to take care of our mom? I told her that I was saving some of my money so she
could live in some fancy assisted living place where senior citizens could live and that she had to
be optimistic about getting a job instead of being pessimistic. I hand her the money I had brought
and head to my car. I took the highway back to my house and I could hear my stomach growl. I
took the closest exit, pulled up to another McDonald’s, and ordered two double cheeseburgers
and a coke. I reached home around nine and went straight to bed.
After work on Monday, I headed to a bar, which I had never gone before. It was very
dimly lit which made it hard to get around. While I was there, I met a man named Frank. I
eventually became friends with him and I learned that he was a businessman who owns small
pharmacies. Frank and I met up every day at high-end bars for about a week and in one of the
meetings, he introduced me to a new experimental drug. Frank claims the drug is harmless, made
in a high-tech lab with the newest technology, and is proven to reverse brain damage. Frank and
I made a deal, in which he gives me a thousand pills a month, and in exchange, I give him two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The money made from me selling the pills goes to me. It
seemed like a great idea since it helps me make money, and Frank test his drug.
The next day when I got to work, I began prescribing the drug to all my patients right
away. I helped a record of thirty patients and my shift was only halfway done. After about selling
one third of the pills, I break even. After my shift was over, I went to the bank and withdrew two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I drove across New York City to my mom’s house. When I
reached her house, I dropped of the extra money and some pills that Frank gave me and told my
sister and my mom that tomorrow I will come back and help renovate the apartment.
When I got to work the next day, I nearly sold all of the pills. After work, I drove
McDonald’s to eat and drove to my mom’s house with extra money and the more pills. When I
reached her house, I help move all the old furniture and replaced them with new ones. My sisters
thanked me for all I have done and told me that she has found a job as a local hairdresser and
earns minimum wage and told me that our mom’s condition was getting better and that her
memory was slightly coming back. She also warned me to be careful since money does not buy
happiness.
When I got to my office the next day, I found out I was running low on pills. I prescribed
the remaining pills and I drove to Frank’s office. When I arrived, I noticed that there were no
cars out in the front. I entered Frank’s office and there was nobody there. There was no furniture,
no computers, and no people anywhere. I thought he might have gotten a promotion and moved
to a new office in a new building. As I was driving back home, I realized that I had the same car
for over seven years now. I decided to buy a new car right then and there. After browsing for a
about an hour or two, I finally decided on the car I wanted to buy. I pulled into my driveway in
my new Porsche and went straight to sleep. That night, I wondered where Frank could have
gone.
I woke up the next morning and did the usual routine. When I got into my car, I paused
for a moment to take in that fresh car smell which I haven’t smelled in years, that smell which
would eventually disperse and turn into something horrid, like when I left raw fish in my trunk
for three months. I drove to work as usual and stopped by Starbucks. While in line to buy my
coffee and my bagel, I was thinking of buying new house and maybe even a motorcycle. When
pulled into the hospital-parking garage, I noticed that there was a lot of commotion going on.
There were about ten police cars there and five black vans. I walked through the lobby and
proceeded to take the elevator to the floor where I work.
I entered my office and saw a man sitting in my chair. He asked me if I am Jason Creed
and I reply by saying yes. He then had someone handcuff me and stand next to me. He told me
that I am placed under arrest and that I will be taken to the NYPD police station for further
interrogation. I was taken outside the hospital, guided by five armed policemen and was placed
in one of those black vans I saw earlier. They drove the van to the police station and put me in an
interrogation room. The police officers left the room and two men in black suits enter with files
in their hands. I realized that this wasn’t a joke and that I must have done some sort of federal
crime otherwise, the FBI would not be here.
The two agents asked questions about the pills found in my drawer and I told them that I
got them from a man named Frank who I met a at a bar a while ago. The FBI agent’s don’t
believe him and show me pictures of wanted international criminals so they could identify who
this mysterious “Frank” was. The agents told me that the pills I was prescribing to patients was
an experimental drug with unknown side effects that has never been tested on humans before. I
then realized that one of the pictures look exactly like Frank. I told the FBI agents and they leave
the room. The policemen came back into the interrogation room and placed me in a jail cell. I
couldn’t believe what was happening.
I rotted in the jail cell for a week with only disgusting food to eat. My sister eventually
learned about my situation when it spread to the news on the TV. After her shift was over at the
hair salon, she took a taxi to the NYPD police station and met me in my jail cell. She told me
that our mother has passed away and that their house has been repossessed by the government
since all the money I made by selling the drug was taken back to the patients, including the
money I gave to my sister and my mom. The easy eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars I
made from selling the pills left me just as easy as I made it.
I was transported by two armed guards for my court trial at the end of the week. When
the judged entered the courtroom, he announced that my bail was set at $1.5 million dollars for
breaking international pharmaceutical and medical regulations and that I was sentenced twentyfive to life in prison without the possibility of early parole. I knew my sister could never make
that kind of money and knew that it was over for me. My sister walks away in tears and I never
saw her again.
Cat Ramirez
A Better Place
They say you can find God anywhere, sitting next to you on a park bench or waiting
behind you in line for Dave Matthews tickets, or selling pot to you on the corner of 49th and
Kings. They say when you find Him it’s like someone’s ripping your heart open and pumping it
with enough warm-fuzzies to last you at least a month and a half. Yeah, it’s that good.
Likewise, they – the televangelists, kindergarten religion teachers, and overzealous Republican
mothers of the world – say that if you loose God or have always been without Him, you’re going
to Hell. That’s right, flaming, blistering, hellish Hell. They say, in Hell, the flames’ll lick your
ass and burn you to a crisp in seven seconds flat, before you even get a chance to say “Hi” to the
hot chick burning beside you. They say it hurts a lot. They say you’ll be miserable, but they say
a lot of things, and, to be completely honest with you, I don’t quite buy it. At least, not at this
moment.
May 22, 2006. Sunday. Eleven o’clock. I’m eighteen years old, a high school senior.
That day me and the fam – Mom, Dad, and I– all went to the ten-thirty mass. We lived in some
high-class neighborhood and went to some high-class church, and, when I was a kid, I’d have to
dress up all nice in my khakis and button-ups. I’d lather my thick blond hair with gel and shellac
it to the right side of my head. Then, I’d go to my parents’ room and get them to approve my
ensemble, and, by the time we were all finished getting ready, we looked like one of those fake
families from a magazine. But when I got into high school, I started going out on Saturdays; I’d
wake up for Sunday mass tired and hungover and would dress in baggy sweats and t-shirts. I
figured that God wouldn’t hate me as long as I was in church.
May 22 is no different: I roll out of bed with a pounding headache, take a cold shower,
and pull on whatever smells decent. I go downstairs and greet my parents. Mom is wearing
white sundresses, her slightly gray hair is pulled into a crisp ponytail. Dad has on his usual:
black slacks and a long sleeve white linen shirt. Tall, blond hair, blue eyes. People say that we
looked alike.
Mom looks me up and down.
“There’s a wrinkle on your shirt,” she accuses.
“I know,” I walk over to the counter and pour myself a massive cup of coffee, “I like it
like this.”
“Jason,” her green eyes threaten me, but Dad interrupts.
“Pam, stop worrying so much. You know how many parents are lucky enough to have
their kid still going to mass with them after eighteen years?”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. I smile at Mom.
“I’ve still got this, ya know,” I say, pulling a small silver chain out beneath my shirt.
A small, blocky cross hangs from the chain’s vertex, “You’re not loosing me anytime soon.”
Mom smiles back. The fight is over.
Now, for whatever reason, the church is packed to the gills. People are jammed into
the lobby and standing around the walls and in aisles. To make matters worse, Florida’s
trademark summer weather is starting to kick in, and people are sweating all over their Nieman
Marcus shirts and Lily Pullitzer dresses. Hell, you can even see pit stains on Father McCoy’s
green vestments as he holds the Bible up to the crucifix before mass.
We sit in our usual spot – fifth row, center aisle – where the heat is strongest. From the
beginning of mass, people are dropping like flies all around us; at least, five people have passed
out come homily. So, when Dad’s six-two heavily clothed frame drops to the floor, it doesn’t
come as much of shock to anyone. It’s when he starts convulsing that people start to panic. His
veins are bulging, his limbs are thrashing about the pews, his blue eyes are lolling about his head,
foam seeps out of the corners of his mouth. I’m scared shitless. Some quick-thinking (and
generous) parishioner sticks his brick of a cell phone in Dad’s mouth to keep him from
swallowing his tongue. Someone else calls for an ambulance, and a doctor pushes his way
through the crowd and into the scene. Mom leans over Dad’s uncontrolled body and cries, and
I’m left shaking beside the two of them, my hand tightly clutching my necklace.
“Please, God. Please, God,” I pray.
“John has brain cancer,” a doctor tells us a couple of days after the seizure. He paces
around the bare hospital room and makes awkward eye contact with me and Mom before
stopping at my father’s resting head (the meds that Dad’s on have him knocked out for most of
the day).
“The CAT scan showed us that the tumor is growing right about here,” Doc points his
index finger at a spot on the left side of Dad’s dome, “the pressure that the tumor exerted on his
brain is mostly likely what caused his seizure this past Sunday.”
Doc goes on to talk about lobes and nerves and brain waves and all that good science-y
shit, but we cut him off and pound him with questions:
“How big’s the tumor?”
“How fast is it growing?”
“Does he need surgery?”
“Does he need chemo?”
“What’s his recovery time gonna be?”
“What are his chances of survival?”
Doc is patient with us, letting us finish our litany of questions before answering, and,
when he does answer, he speaks slowly giving us time to let things sink in. The tumor isn’t huge
yet, but it’s growing at a rapid pace. Yes, he needs surgery, and, yes, he needs chemo. Doc
can’t tell us the recovery time; it depends on his prior health, his genes, and how well (or poorly)
the surgery goes. The chances of Dad living are good, but not great, and, with every second, his
chances are getting worse. We need to move quickly, he said, but the technology at this hospital
is insufficient. Doc suggests we go to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.
“We’ll have him airlifted out tonight and in surgery by tomorrow morning,” Doc
explains, “and don’t worry about where you’re staying. There are places near Hopkins that are
housing people who are going through the same things that you are. I’ll arrange for you to stay
at one of those. Now, please, go home and get some rest. I’ll call you with the final plans
tonight at six,” the doctor stood up, tugged at the sleeves of his coat, and walked towards the
door, “I’m so sorry, I really am.”
I cry a lot after that part. We both do. Seemed like hours before Mom breaks through
the tears with her shaking voice.
“Our father, who art in Heaven,” she whispered, “hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom
come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven…”
And I join in. We kneel by his bedside and let our tears and prayers drip onto him like
some goddamned soap opera. We pray until the nurses took him away and hope that, in some act
of infinite mercy, God would see our faith, remove Dad’s tumor, and let us go on like nothing’s
happened. I hope that our prayers will be enough, but I can’t help my doubts. When we get
home, I’m cold, shaky, and unsure. The cold metal of my chain sends chills through my ribcage.
I take my cross off and stick it in my pocket.
We get a call the next morning before right we leave for our flight to Baltimore. It‘s
Doc. He says that Dad didn’t make it through the night. Stronger-than-predicted turbulence
along the coasts had caused Dad’s IV drip to malfunction and stop administering his meds. No
one noticed the faulty IV until Dad woke up at about 2 AM, near the end of the trip. He was in
extreme pain and had no idea where he was or who he was with. The stress and confusion
generated by the situation had triggered another seizure, and, unfortunately, the nurses on board
reacted too slowly. By the time they had found the block and put in it his mouth, Dad had
already choked himself to death. For some reason, I’m kinda of numb. I dunno. Maybe it’s
because I have been expecting Dad to die since Sunday or maybe because I’m too shocked to
recognize the reality that’s in front of me.
Doc says that the nurses are flying the body back to Florida as we speak, and it’s
suggested that we start making funeral arrangements as quickly as possible.
“I’m sorry,” Doc repeats himself, “I really am.”
“It’s alright,” Mom says, trying to be collected, but, when she hangs up the phone, she
breaks down in tears.
“Help me get through this,” she whispers upwards, “please.”
We drop to our knees and pray for strength, but my thoughts hone in on the pain in my
knees not my prayers.
We hold the funeral mass on May 30. Friends and family are invited, one-fourth of
who can’t attend. We have Dad embalmed and dressed in his black slacks and white linen shirt.
Mom wears a black sundress and a floppy black hat. I have on black slacks and a black buttonup, my cross resting just below the collar. It feels, like someone stretched it out. It’s eleven
forty-five. The mass starts at twelve o’clock.
It’s odd. All these people I barely know are walking up to me, staring at me with these
big sad eyes, shaking my hand, and saying with the same low, soothing, straight-off-a-yoga-tape
voice: “Jason, I’m so sorry about what happened. God said it’s his time to go, and at least John
is in a better place now”.
This happens to me over and over again, the words ringing constantly in my head.
“…his time to go…”
“…a better place…”
Then something clicks (or explodes), and I realize it’s all a bunch of bullshit.
Honestly, if this “heaven” that everyone talks about is so great, then why aren’t we all just
blowing our heads off so that we could gain entrance? Why do we have to wait for brain cancer
or a car accident to strike us dead? Why not go now? Is it because we’re scared? Because we
have to prove ourselves before we go? Or, is it because no one really believes? Because
everyone here is just looking for something to comfort him when something bad happens?
Because they’re looking for someone to blame instead of themselves? Because we’re all looking
for concrete answers to abstract notions, and we know the only way to do this is create religion?
Uncle Tommy’s walking towards me, his hand outstretched. I’m dazed, a deer in the
headlights. I’ve just had this huge revelation and here’s Uncle Tommy walking towards me like
nothing’s happened. He stops in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” Uncle Tommy says, his hand still outstretched, “God has a different plan
for –”
“Stop,” I cut him off. I know what to do.
My hand reaches into my collar grasps onto the cross. I pull the chain hard, sending
links crashing to the church floor. I place the cross in Uncle Tommy’s palm.
“I have to go,” I say, more to my self than anything. I turn from the alter.
“Where?” Uncle Tommy asks, bewildered.
“To a better place.”
I walk away.