The flames burned brightly against the winter sky. One minute distant taillights flickered like fireflies up the road, the next they darted away, replaced by billowing smoke and an unmistakable amber glow. Veronica stared ahead, trying through tear-blurred vision to make out what had happened. As she neared the scene of the accident she saw nothing but empty highway ahead and behind her.
Keep driving…
The words were clear in her mind. As clear and loud and insistent as they had been when she ran from the house, with Mark standing in the doorway shouting after her. Not their first fight or even their worst, but she knew it would be their last. It was a relief, that realization. Tired for so long, of so many things, she felt herself come to life along with the cars engine as she turned the key.
There’s nothing you can do…
Above the crackling of the fire she heard sobbing. She wanted nothing more than to be wrong. She stared at the wrecked car down in the embankment, improbably laying wheels up, it’s front end smashed and burning. The thick black oily smoke choked her and she could barely keep her already raw eyes open as it rose around her. She heard the sobbing and slid down through the overgrown weeds, the gravel and rocks scraping and cutting her legs.
I can’t go on…
She wasn’t even thinking of the fight when she decided to do it. It was only the latest in a short life of disappointment and failure. If she thought back far enough she could remember smiling adults leaning down and telling her what a wonderful, bright, and talented little girl she was. That she had every opportunity in the world ahead of her, and somehow more importantly, that every man would fall in love with her instantly. So many expectations she hadn’t even come close to living up to, so why bother living?
It’s hopeless…
No one could have survived, Veronica thought, as she crawled toward the car. She’d circled around to the passenger side, away from the smoke and flame. The air was thick with the heat, hotter than anything she had felt before. She wanted to turn back, to call for help, but the sobs that she couldn’t be hearing grew louder, turned to screams. Reaching the door, she tried to grab the handle, to pull the door open, but the metal burned her fingers. She opened her mouth to say something reassuring to the woman trapped in the car. The words died on her lips as she saw her own face staring back, saw herself speeding down the highway, not seeing the curve in the road through her tear-filled eyes, feeling the flames grow hotter as she hung suspended in the wreck, her skin burning as the smoke filled her lungs.
Keep driving…
The words were clear in her mind. As clear and loud and insistent as they had been when she ran from the house, with Mark standing in the doorway shouting after her. Not their first fight or even their worst, but she knew it would be their last. It was a relief, that realization. Tired for so long, of so many things, she felt herself come to life along with the cars engine as she turned the key.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Heart's Filthy Lesson (final draft)
I recall perfectly the moment Angela fell out of love with me. We lay in bed together, comfortably in each other’s arms. The smoke from the cigarette we shared obscured the lingering smell of sweat and sex, the ashtray resting on my knee, between us. We didn’t speak, but that wasn’t unusual. The happiness of silence, she called it. After awhile she smashed out the cigarette and put the ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed. She smiled up at me, tilted her head back, and kissed me goodnight. Somewhere in the middle of that brief kiss, she fell out of love with me. Most people wouldn’t have caught it, but when you’ve experienced it as much as I have, you become pretty adept at spotting it.
A week ago, less than a month after that kiss, she left me.
I can’t really blame Valerie for being fed up. Despite being my younger sister, she was, frankly, far better at casual affairs than I was, and had little patience for my heartsick whining. Some of her impatience must have rubbed off on me, because I found myself in a nightclub of her choosing on a Friday night, when I normally would have been at home making CDs full of songs that perfectly captured my current emotional state. What I wasn’t prepared for was her abandoning me after an hour to sneak off to a semi-secluded corner of the club to make out with a friend of hers who worked as a bartender in the club.
My head was pounding along with the music, and I hadn’t decided whether to take a cab home or get another drink. I was shoving my way through the crowd on my way to the door when I saw her. In the truest sense of the words, she was the girl of my dreams. Not some airbrushed cover girl with fake breasts and Barbarella hair. This was, instead, the girl I’d always pictured, always judged other girls by. Long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, clever grey-green eyes, and a smile like she was laughing at everything and everyone but me.
Minutes later, I was surprised to find myself exchanging life stories with her. I would have been less surprised to find myself floating six inches off the ground. Nightclubs are where better looking, better dressed people than I, go to meet other better looking, better dressed people. They are not where a reasonable looking book store manager and a farm girl-turned-artist meet and fall in love. I wasn’t surprised when she asked if we could go someplace quieter to talk. Until she suggested my place.
I had the fleeting fear that my sister had put her up to this. I found that I didn’t care.
Some combination of the proximity of the backseat of the cab and the inattentiveness of the driver must have triggered some chemical response. Our hands wandered. Her lips felt like silk against mine. The cab ride took far too long and seemed to end far too soon.
My apartment was much quieter than the club, but we did very little talking.
Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moon reflects off her glistening skin and her red-gold hair is a shining halo. She asks me if I love her and, in that moment, I say yes.
I fell asleep with the taste of her on my lips. She smelled like apple blossoms. We drifted off to sleep in happy silence.
When I awoke, the previous night felt like a dream. The morning was grey and flat, and I lay in the bed without the energy to move. Days, hours, or minutes later, I found the strength to sit up. She was gone. I hadn’t dreamed her, I knew that. I could remember every moment of our evening together. I remembered every word we’d said to each other, the crinkling of her nose when she laughed, the stray strand of hair that appeared to be inexorably drawn to the corner of her mouth when she spoke, the way her hands and fingers danced about, punctuating her conversation. I remembered other things, as well. Things I hadn’t noticed at the time. The near-desperate hunger with which she hung on my words, the strain at the edge of a smile held too long. The sorrow and relief on her face when I told her I loved her. When I found the note, I understood.
I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you, and I’m sorry.
With flat, grey eyes I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Some part of me knew there were things I should have been feeling. Sadness, shock, anger, disgust, and honestly, disbelief. I felt none of them. Sometime in the night, as quick and quiet as a thief, she took my heart.
A week ago, less than a month after that kiss, she left me.
I can’t really blame Valerie for being fed up. Despite being my younger sister, she was, frankly, far better at casual affairs than I was, and had little patience for my heartsick whining. Some of her impatience must have rubbed off on me, because I found myself in a nightclub of her choosing on a Friday night, when I normally would have been at home making CDs full of songs that perfectly captured my current emotional state. What I wasn’t prepared for was her abandoning me after an hour to sneak off to a semi-secluded corner of the club to make out with a friend of hers who worked as a bartender in the club.
My head was pounding along with the music, and I hadn’t decided whether to take a cab home or get another drink. I was shoving my way through the crowd on my way to the door when I saw her. In the truest sense of the words, she was the girl of my dreams. Not some airbrushed cover girl with fake breasts and Barbarella hair. This was, instead, the girl I’d always pictured, always judged other girls by. Long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, clever grey-green eyes, and a smile like she was laughing at everything and everyone but me.
Minutes later, I was surprised to find myself exchanging life stories with her. I would have been less surprised to find myself floating six inches off the ground. Nightclubs are where better looking, better dressed people than I, go to meet other better looking, better dressed people. They are not where a reasonable looking book store manager and a farm girl-turned-artist meet and fall in love. I wasn’t surprised when she asked if we could go someplace quieter to talk. Until she suggested my place.
I had the fleeting fear that my sister had put her up to this. I found that I didn’t care.
Some combination of the proximity of the backseat of the cab and the inattentiveness of the driver must have triggered some chemical response. Our hands wandered. Her lips felt like silk against mine. The cab ride took far too long and seemed to end far too soon.
My apartment was much quieter than the club, but we did very little talking.
Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moon reflects off her glistening skin and her red-gold hair is a shining halo. She asks me if I love her and, in that moment, I say yes.
I fell asleep with the taste of her on my lips. She smelled like apple blossoms. We drifted off to sleep in happy silence.
When I awoke, the previous night felt like a dream. The morning was grey and flat, and I lay in the bed without the energy to move. Days, hours, or minutes later, I found the strength to sit up. She was gone. I hadn’t dreamed her, I knew that. I could remember every moment of our evening together. I remembered every word we’d said to each other, the crinkling of her nose when she laughed, the stray strand of hair that appeared to be inexorably drawn to the corner of her mouth when she spoke, the way her hands and fingers danced about, punctuating her conversation. I remembered other things, as well. Things I hadn’t noticed at the time. The near-desperate hunger with which she hung on my words, the strain at the edge of a smile held too long. The sorrow and relief on her face when I told her I loved her. When I found the note, I understood.
I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you, and I’m sorry.
With flat, grey eyes I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Some part of me knew there were things I should have been feeling. Sadness, shock, anger, disgust, and honestly, disbelief. I felt none of them. Sometime in the night, as quick and quiet as a thief, she took my heart.
The Heart's Filthy Lesson (first draft)
I’m standing at the bar when I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the girl of my dreams. Now, you have to understand, I’m not talking about some airbrushed cover girl with Barbarella hair and breast implants. I’m talking about the girl I always dreamed I’d meet in a place like this. Long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, clever green eyes, and a smile like she’s laughing at everyone but me.
After we’ve managed to get our mutual drinks, a conversation starts. I couldn’t tell you how, with the music pounding loud enough to shake the floor, and with me being incapable of making small talk with attractive, unknown women. But there we were, off in the corner of the club, chatting away like friends who rediscover each other after years apart. Her name is Kelly, she’s twenty-seven, born and raised up north. She’s a painter, and, surprisingly enough, a moderately successful one. I share similar, though far less interesting details with her, and she listens attentively and responds in all the right places. When she asks if she can come back to my place, I quickly say yes.
The cab ride to my apartment is, I swear, like something out of a late night movie. She’s all over me, and I respond in kind, and I don’t know if the driver is enjoying the show or on the verge of kicking us out, but when the cab stops we’re in front of my building.
Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moonlight reflects off of her body. She asks me if I love her, and in that moment I answer that I do.
I wake up a few hours later, sore, sticky, and smiling. The last part goes away as soon as I sit up. Something feels wrong and I can’t figure out what it is. Everything feels grey and flat. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, but when I think back I remember the evening perfectly. Vividly. My memory of the night is sharp and clear and alive in a way that nothing else is. Stumbling out of the bed, I find the note.
I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you.
My shirt sticks to me as I read the note again, and I peel it away from my chest. When I do so, I see the deep red blood. Dropping the note, I pull my shirt off over my head. A thick scar, as wide as my finger and twice as long, runs down the left side, just above my nipple. Half-dried blood covers my chest and stomach. Looking at the note again, I realize what she means. I can remember all of the ways I should respond. All of the feelings I should feel. The shock, the disgust, and, honestly, the disbelief. I remember all of those things, and feel none of them. I can’t. She took my heart.
After we’ve managed to get our mutual drinks, a conversation starts. I couldn’t tell you how, with the music pounding loud enough to shake the floor, and with me being incapable of making small talk with attractive, unknown women. But there we were, off in the corner of the club, chatting away like friends who rediscover each other after years apart. Her name is Kelly, she’s twenty-seven, born and raised up north. She’s a painter, and, surprisingly enough, a moderately successful one. I share similar, though far less interesting details with her, and she listens attentively and responds in all the right places. When she asks if she can come back to my place, I quickly say yes.
The cab ride to my apartment is, I swear, like something out of a late night movie. She’s all over me, and I respond in kind, and I don’t know if the driver is enjoying the show or on the verge of kicking us out, but when the cab stops we’re in front of my building.
Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moonlight reflects off of her body. She asks me if I love her, and in that moment I answer that I do.
I wake up a few hours later, sore, sticky, and smiling. The last part goes away as soon as I sit up. Something feels wrong and I can’t figure out what it is. Everything feels grey and flat. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, but when I think back I remember the evening perfectly. Vividly. My memory of the night is sharp and clear and alive in a way that nothing else is. Stumbling out of the bed, I find the note.
I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you.
My shirt sticks to me as I read the note again, and I peel it away from my chest. When I do so, I see the deep red blood. Dropping the note, I pull my shirt off over my head. A thick scar, as wide as my finger and twice as long, runs down the left side, just above my nipple. Half-dried blood covers my chest and stomach. Looking at the note again, I realize what she means. I can remember all of the ways I should respond. All of the feelings I should feel. The shock, the disgust, and, honestly, the disbelief. I remember all of those things, and feel none of them. I can’t. She took my heart.
Footsteps
Shauna Kirkpatrick parked her car beneath the streetlight and quickly stepped out. She covered the distance to her front steps in seconds, keys already in hand, and unlocked the door and stepped inside. From the safety of her hall, she turned and looked up and down the street. The sound of cars racing up and down the freeway could be heard from the few blocks distant. Other than that, the quiet neighborhood was, in fact, quiet. With a sheepish grin she closed the door. The click of the lock carried across the street to a space between two houses where it was heard and noted by Bryan Crane.
Ten minutes later he stepped out and walked down the block. A nice evening for a stroll, and no one could tell him otherwise. The still quiet neighborhood reminded him of the suburb he grew up in, filled with tiny one story brick homes, each with its own matching brick garage. He wondered why Shauna parked on the street. He made a note to ask her. Thoughts of her quickened his breath and heart. She was his type, of course. Tan skin and dark hair, with just a bit too much makeup and jewelry. She had a voice that was soft and low, with the hint of an accent. “Wait for the beep, and you know what to do!” He never waited for the beep.
Why hadn’t he noticed the footsteps? He wore soft-soled running shoes which didn’t make a sound, yet, there it was. The clik-clok clik-clok of footsteps matching his own. Still, it was a nice evening for a stroll. He laughed to himself at his momentary paranoia. For a moment he had even wished he’d had the knife with him but of course it wasn’t there. He had no need for it yet.
He shook off the urge to turn around or quicken his pace, and instead listened to the footsteps. They weren’t close, so he would have plenty of time to respond if they sped up. Only a couple of blocks and he’d reach his car. The seventeen minute walk might have seemed excessive, but he believed in being careful. Every night he parked in a different spot, in a different direction from her house, but always seventeen minutes away. So intently was he listening to the set of footsteps behind him, that he nearly missed the matching sets that joined them.
Somehow he kept walking. His body grew cold from the sheen of sweat that started beneath his arms and ran down his back. He walked faster, still not looking back. The sickly-sweet sour stench grew and he heard the cruel laughter of the high school girl who was every high school girl, as her boyfriends called him ‘Pits’ and shoved him into the locker room showers and held him beneath the ice cold water. It had been years since they laughed at him, since he let them laugh at him, but he heard it now. The footsteps grew louder and faster and closer and finally he turned. Beneath the row of streetlights they stood. Blood ran down their faces and chests where he’d cut them, and still they laughed. He ran now, his heart beating in his chests, faster and faster, a moment later, the footsteps followed. Faster and faster.
Ten minutes later he stepped out and walked down the block. A nice evening for a stroll, and no one could tell him otherwise. The still quiet neighborhood reminded him of the suburb he grew up in, filled with tiny one story brick homes, each with its own matching brick garage. He wondered why Shauna parked on the street. He made a note to ask her. Thoughts of her quickened his breath and heart. She was his type, of course. Tan skin and dark hair, with just a bit too much makeup and jewelry. She had a voice that was soft and low, with the hint of an accent. “Wait for the beep, and you know what to do!” He never waited for the beep.
Why hadn’t he noticed the footsteps? He wore soft-soled running shoes which didn’t make a sound, yet, there it was. The clik-clok clik-clok of footsteps matching his own. Still, it was a nice evening for a stroll. He laughed to himself at his momentary paranoia. For a moment he had even wished he’d had the knife with him but of course it wasn’t there. He had no need for it yet.
He shook off the urge to turn around or quicken his pace, and instead listened to the footsteps. They weren’t close, so he would have plenty of time to respond if they sped up. Only a couple of blocks and he’d reach his car. The seventeen minute walk might have seemed excessive, but he believed in being careful. Every night he parked in a different spot, in a different direction from her house, but always seventeen minutes away. So intently was he listening to the set of footsteps behind him, that he nearly missed the matching sets that joined them.
Somehow he kept walking. His body grew cold from the sheen of sweat that started beneath his arms and ran down his back. He walked faster, still not looking back. The sickly-sweet sour stench grew and he heard the cruel laughter of the high school girl who was every high school girl, as her boyfriends called him ‘Pits’ and shoved him into the locker room showers and held him beneath the ice cold water. It had been years since they laughed at him, since he let them laugh at him, but he heard it now. The footsteps grew louder and faster and closer and finally he turned. Beneath the row of streetlights they stood. Blood ran down their faces and chests where he’d cut them, and still they laughed. He ran now, his heart beating in his chests, faster and faster, a moment later, the footsteps followed. Faster and faster.
Home
Dinner was served promptly at 6pm every night. Allison knew it was old-fashioned, but it felt important. The stoneware her Aunt Kathy had given her and Bradley for a wedding present sat on the table, the matching serving dishes in the center. Tonight was baked chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and small dishes of chocolate pudding. Nothing special, but pride filled her every time she fed her family. Catie would roll her eyes at that, having a mother in the 21st century who chose to stay at home, raise her children, and served a meal to them every night. Once, when she was 11, Catie came to her mother, childish indignation on her face.
“You’re setting the Right of Women’s Movement back a century, Mom!” This was during Catie’s phase of wanting to be a lawyer. The previous month she’d wanted to be a television news anchor, before deciding they were vapid supermodels. There was no halfway with Catie.
“Sweetheart, the Women’s Rights Movement was about choice and opportunity. Those women, including your Aunt Kathy, marched so that women could choose the path they took in life, rather than having it chosen for them, right?” Catie eyed her suspiciously, certain she was about to be tricked in some way, but unclear on how. “Well, this is the path I chose. You wouldn’t want to oppress me, would you?” She said the last with a bit of a laugh, lightly tapping her daughter’s nose. Catie stomped off through the house as loudly as possible, swearing with her tiny voice that she would no longer play a part in her mother’s “enslavement”. At 6pm she joined her mother and father and younger brother for supper.
Allison turned toward the sound of Brad’s car pulling into the driveway. Ten minutes until supper, just enough time for him to take off his tie and roll up his sleeves before the meal. As she poured the drinks, she heard Chris, her youngest, throw his backpack in the corner and race up the stairs. When he’d joined the basketball team she’d worried, like all the mothers, about whether he’d be hurt, how well he’d handle the disappointment of the inevitable losses, or if his grades would suffer. Though she never said anything, she had also worried that the supper ritual, for lack of a better word, would be interrupted. As if reading her mind, Brad had moved his schedule around at work, so that he could pick Chris up on his way home.
Glancing at the clock in the living room, she laid out the cloth napkins, and smiled at the sound of her family coming down the stairs. Chris sat down without a word. Bradley, right behind him, paused in the doorway and sighed nearly inaudibly. Allison smiled up at her husband, and he took his seat. Allison listened, almost happy, to her family sharing the events of their day with each other. She imagined how Catie would respond, the passionate proclamations she would make, which she would soften with a well-timed laugh. About this time, Catie would be stressing about which college to choose, how she did on her SATs (little worry there, the bright young girl had grown into a bright young woman), and all of the traditional things that women her age worried about.
She felt her husband’s arm around her shoulder, felt the warm, wet tears on his face as he held her, and only then realized she was crying. She saw him nod to Chris, who stood up and cleared Catie’s dishes off the table.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “I’ll stop. I’ll stop.” She knew she wouldn’t. Every night, as she had done for the last twenty years, and for the last eleven months since Catie disappeared, she would make supper, setting a place for her daughter, for her family, and wait for them to come home.
“You’re setting the Right of Women’s Movement back a century, Mom!” This was during Catie’s phase of wanting to be a lawyer. The previous month she’d wanted to be a television news anchor, before deciding they were vapid supermodels. There was no halfway with Catie.
“Sweetheart, the Women’s Rights Movement was about choice and opportunity. Those women, including your Aunt Kathy, marched so that women could choose the path they took in life, rather than having it chosen for them, right?” Catie eyed her suspiciously, certain she was about to be tricked in some way, but unclear on how. “Well, this is the path I chose. You wouldn’t want to oppress me, would you?” She said the last with a bit of a laugh, lightly tapping her daughter’s nose. Catie stomped off through the house as loudly as possible, swearing with her tiny voice that she would no longer play a part in her mother’s “enslavement”. At 6pm she joined her mother and father and younger brother for supper.
Allison turned toward the sound of Brad’s car pulling into the driveway. Ten minutes until supper, just enough time for him to take off his tie and roll up his sleeves before the meal. As she poured the drinks, she heard Chris, her youngest, throw his backpack in the corner and race up the stairs. When he’d joined the basketball team she’d worried, like all the mothers, about whether he’d be hurt, how well he’d handle the disappointment of the inevitable losses, or if his grades would suffer. Though she never said anything, she had also worried that the supper ritual, for lack of a better word, would be interrupted. As if reading her mind, Brad had moved his schedule around at work, so that he could pick Chris up on his way home.
Glancing at the clock in the living room, she laid out the cloth napkins, and smiled at the sound of her family coming down the stairs. Chris sat down without a word. Bradley, right behind him, paused in the doorway and sighed nearly inaudibly. Allison smiled up at her husband, and he took his seat. Allison listened, almost happy, to her family sharing the events of their day with each other. She imagined how Catie would respond, the passionate proclamations she would make, which she would soften with a well-timed laugh. About this time, Catie would be stressing about which college to choose, how she did on her SATs (little worry there, the bright young girl had grown into a bright young woman), and all of the traditional things that women her age worried about.
She felt her husband’s arm around her shoulder, felt the warm, wet tears on his face as he held her, and only then realized she was crying. She saw him nod to Chris, who stood up and cleared Catie’s dishes off the table.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “I’ll stop. I’ll stop.” She knew she wouldn’t. Every night, as she had done for the last twenty years, and for the last eleven months since Catie disappeared, she would make supper, setting a place for her daughter, for her family, and wait for them to come home.
Money's Fool
Traffic is light outside of the casino at six in the morning. The sun hasn’t yet cleared the tops of the tall buildings downtown, and still Jeff squints at the light. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to figure out what he’s going to do next. Looking around slowly, he turns the clock back to night and tries to remember which way the parking lot was. He picks a direction and walks that way, hoping he has some amount of luck left.
Ten hours ago Jeff stepped into the Greektown Casino with some trepidation. Warren’s bachelor party, meant to last most of the night, had ended when the bride-to-be and her two sisters had burst in to find two strippers doing unmentionable things to the best man. Despite Warren’s assurances that he had behaved like a perfect gentleman, his fiancé, who might have been called Emma or Elisa, possibly Beth, had stormed off in tears, and he’d had to run after her. That put an end to things and Jeff found himself in downtown Detroit with money in his pocket and no plans at all. What the hell, he thought. Whether in a g-string or a slot machine, the money would have been gone either way.
As the night progressed and the drinks were drunk, Jeff found himself drawn further and further into the casino. Slots led to roulette, then to blackjack, and finally poker. Somewhere along the way he’d acquired a companion, though his alcohol-drowned mind could not have recalled exactly when or where. She was in her forties, making her at least ten years his senior, with red hair from a bottle, long fingernails from a box, and a laugh that sounded like angels singing. She called herself his good luck charm, a claim that grew less and less credible as his pile of chips grew smaller.
Somewhere around five o’clock his good luck charm called it a night and wandered off to search for her husband. Jeff didn’t notice, as he was in the midst of turning his last ten dollars into far less money. By this time the happy buzz that had carried him into the casino and through most of the night had gone the way of his companion, and he realized with a sober clarity that he would soon be very poor and very hung over. If only he had gone home before reaching for his ATM card. The sneaky bastards placed the machines all over. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he had lost, but it consisted of all of the cash he had come in with, as well as the next month’s rent and car payment. The dealer turned over a four of clubs, and that was that. In a state of shock he stood up from the chair and stumbled toward the doorway.
Jeff’s car is where he left it, though the expensive car stereo is not, nor is the front window on the passenger side. Tiny snowflakes of glass crunch beneath his feet as he opens the door and brushes shards off the seat and onto the ground. Walking around the car, he gets inside and starts it up. He’s wide awake now and his smile turns into a laugh. As he pulls out of the parking lot he thanks his good luck charm. Her name was Ruby, he remembers. Sometime in the night she had slipped a coin into his shirt pocket. She called it “bus fare”. Not needing it, and feeling a bit self-destructive on his way out, he dropped it into the giant slot machine at the front of the casino. He had pulled the lever and turned away without looking at spinning slots. The bells and whistles and sirens that sounded stopped him in his tracks and he stared in amazement as the jackpot light flashed “$500,000 WINNER!!!” over and over again.
Ten hours ago Jeff stepped into the Greektown Casino with some trepidation. Warren’s bachelor party, meant to last most of the night, had ended when the bride-to-be and her two sisters had burst in to find two strippers doing unmentionable things to the best man. Despite Warren’s assurances that he had behaved like a perfect gentleman, his fiancé, who might have been called Emma or Elisa, possibly Beth, had stormed off in tears, and he’d had to run after her. That put an end to things and Jeff found himself in downtown Detroit with money in his pocket and no plans at all. What the hell, he thought. Whether in a g-string or a slot machine, the money would have been gone either way.
As the night progressed and the drinks were drunk, Jeff found himself drawn further and further into the casino. Slots led to roulette, then to blackjack, and finally poker. Somewhere along the way he’d acquired a companion, though his alcohol-drowned mind could not have recalled exactly when or where. She was in her forties, making her at least ten years his senior, with red hair from a bottle, long fingernails from a box, and a laugh that sounded like angels singing. She called herself his good luck charm, a claim that grew less and less credible as his pile of chips grew smaller.
Somewhere around five o’clock his good luck charm called it a night and wandered off to search for her husband. Jeff didn’t notice, as he was in the midst of turning his last ten dollars into far less money. By this time the happy buzz that had carried him into the casino and through most of the night had gone the way of his companion, and he realized with a sober clarity that he would soon be very poor and very hung over. If only he had gone home before reaching for his ATM card. The sneaky bastards placed the machines all over. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he had lost, but it consisted of all of the cash he had come in with, as well as the next month’s rent and car payment. The dealer turned over a four of clubs, and that was that. In a state of shock he stood up from the chair and stumbled toward the doorway.
Jeff’s car is where he left it, though the expensive car stereo is not, nor is the front window on the passenger side. Tiny snowflakes of glass crunch beneath his feet as he opens the door and brushes shards off the seat and onto the ground. Walking around the car, he gets inside and starts it up. He’s wide awake now and his smile turns into a laugh. As he pulls out of the parking lot he thanks his good luck charm. Her name was Ruby, he remembers. Sometime in the night she had slipped a coin into his shirt pocket. She called it “bus fare”. Not needing it, and feeling a bit self-destructive on his way out, he dropped it into the giant slot machine at the front of the casino. He had pulled the lever and turned away without looking at spinning slots. The bells and whistles and sirens that sounded stopped him in his tracks and he stared in amazement as the jackpot light flashed “$500,000 WINNER!!!” over and over again.
Coda
…exploded, ripping through the left side of the armored vehicle. Martinez felt the blast before he heard it, and turned away in time to watch Townsend’s face get struck with shrapnel. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the sun-scorched earth, choking on gravel and blood. Fifty yards away, a crowd of Iraqis ran in every direction. He thought of Jenny, and the little tan house they had bought just before his unit was called up. The cries and screams and sirens faded, and by the time the next explosion hit, seconds later, he was already gone.
…set the phone down. A tune formed in the back of his mind, something long-forgotten from his childhood. Sam tried to call up the memory of his father’s face as he played the sad little song. It was something from one of his records, a brief little snippet in a song that got to number two on the charts. Sam wondered if he’d ever played the song in one of the boozy, smoky jazz clubs he’d made his home. Eyes still closed, Sam’s fingers picked out the tune on the hotel desk, and he said goodbye to his long-forgotten father.
…screams echoed and the sickening antiseptic smell clung to him. Looking around the hallway, Chris watched two young doctors flirt playfully with each other at the end of the hall, the game they played written in their body language. A young mother stood with her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes filled with tears as she waved to her tiny pink-faced baby on the other side. A nurse led him into the visiting room and handed him his daughter. She had her mother’s eyes. He held his baby close and whispered in her ear all he remembered of Shelly.
…sank beneath the waves. The murky lake water clouded her vision. I should be afraid. No. It wasn’t the water, it was the pills. How many had she taken, swallowing one pill at a time until the bottle was gone? At least fifteen pills, and maybe even twenty. She felt her feet hit the bottom and tried to dig her toes into the soft, soupy muck, forgetting the heavy boots she wore. Her lungs burned and she wanted nothing more than for the burning to stop, so she opened her mouth and let the cool lake water fill her up.
…fell to the floor screaming from somewhere deep inside. Jenny rocked back and forth on the cold linoleum. The letter, delivered by hand just minutes ago, was a shredded mess in her hands. “You stupid motherfucker! I told you not to fucking go! I fucking…” The words stopped coming. She saw his face, so strong and proud as he kissed her goodbye. She stood up and went to the phone in a fog, somehow avoiding the half-unpacked boxes. She dialed her mother’s phone number first, and quickly hung up. Dialing again, she waited for Carlos’ mother to answer the phone.
…set the phone down. A tune formed in the back of his mind, something long-forgotten from his childhood. Sam tried to call up the memory of his father’s face as he played the sad little song. It was something from one of his records, a brief little snippet in a song that got to number two on the charts. Sam wondered if he’d ever played the song in one of the boozy, smoky jazz clubs he’d made his home. Eyes still closed, Sam’s fingers picked out the tune on the hotel desk, and he said goodbye to his long-forgotten father.
…screams echoed and the sickening antiseptic smell clung to him. Looking around the hallway, Chris watched two young doctors flirt playfully with each other at the end of the hall, the game they played written in their body language. A young mother stood with her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes filled with tears as she waved to her tiny pink-faced baby on the other side. A nurse led him into the visiting room and handed him his daughter. She had her mother’s eyes. He held his baby close and whispered in her ear all he remembered of Shelly.
…sank beneath the waves. The murky lake water clouded her vision. I should be afraid. No. It wasn’t the water, it was the pills. How many had she taken, swallowing one pill at a time until the bottle was gone? At least fifteen pills, and maybe even twenty. She felt her feet hit the bottom and tried to dig her toes into the soft, soupy muck, forgetting the heavy boots she wore. Her lungs burned and she wanted nothing more than for the burning to stop, so she opened her mouth and let the cool lake water fill her up.
…fell to the floor screaming from somewhere deep inside. Jenny rocked back and forth on the cold linoleum. The letter, delivered by hand just minutes ago, was a shredded mess in her hands. “You stupid motherfucker! I told you not to fucking go! I fucking…” The words stopped coming. She saw his face, so strong and proud as he kissed her goodbye. She stood up and went to the phone in a fog, somehow avoiding the half-unpacked boxes. She dialed her mother’s phone number first, and quickly hung up. Dialing again, she waited for Carlos’ mother to answer the phone.
As The Crow Flies
It was the joy of discovery that led Crow to thieving. Ideally the discoveries were along the lines of treasures secreted inside cheap vases, or beautiful women of questionable virtue who dreamt of dangerous strangers creeping into their rooms at night. His most recent discoveries were a different matter. He had discovered that Guildmaster Moon was a frighteningly light sleeper. Moon also, despite his intimidating size, had the speed, agility, and endurance of a man half his size and age. Finally, he discovered that being held over the ledge of a building by one hand, while trying to hold onto the tantalizingly heavy bag of gold he’d lifted from the sleeping man was exactly as painful and frightening as he had imagined it would be.
“I swear by the Goddess, if you don’t let me down safely I’ll drop your precious gold!” It was not the most credible of threats. He would sooner chew his arm off than let go of money that was, at the moment, rightfully his.
“Drop that gold and you’ll follow right after it!” He leaned in close, and a fearful tremor shot through Crow’s body, only to be chased away by the whiskey breath of the Guildmaster. “In fact, why don’t I just drop you now and pick up the gold after?” Crow felt the man’s grip loosen, and he acted before he could think. Feinting with a kick, he slammed his head forward, teeth biting down on the bulbous nose of his captor. Moon let go and reeled backwards, his hands flying to his bloodied nose. Crow caught hold of his collar as he did and was dragged back onto the roof with him. Rolling away quickly, he turned and faced the Guildmaster.
“You’ll die for that, boy!” Crow sighed, not at what he was about to do, but at the discovery that he was willing to do it.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” With arms long strengthened by the needs of his profession, the thief flung the bag of gold at Guildmaster Moon’s face with a considerable amount of speed and force. Had he been prepared for it, Moon likely could have caught the bag with one hand and thought nothing of it. Instead, he was startled by the heavy missile flung as if from a catapult and he stepped back and raised his hands to protect his throbbing face. He tumbled over the edge of the building and landed with an audible thud, closely followed by the sound of the bag landing beside him.
Crow never thought of himself as a killer, though there could be no argument about it now. He took a little comfort in the discovery that he had no taste for it, regardless of the necessity. He was a thief, by trade and by nature, and so he made these discoveries as his feet carried him as quickly as possible to the bloody bag of gold that awaited him on the street below.
“I swear by the Goddess, if you don’t let me down safely I’ll drop your precious gold!” It was not the most credible of threats. He would sooner chew his arm off than let go of money that was, at the moment, rightfully his.
“Drop that gold and you’ll follow right after it!” He leaned in close, and a fearful tremor shot through Crow’s body, only to be chased away by the whiskey breath of the Guildmaster. “In fact, why don’t I just drop you now and pick up the gold after?” Crow felt the man’s grip loosen, and he acted before he could think. Feinting with a kick, he slammed his head forward, teeth biting down on the bulbous nose of his captor. Moon let go and reeled backwards, his hands flying to his bloodied nose. Crow caught hold of his collar as he did and was dragged back onto the roof with him. Rolling away quickly, he turned and faced the Guildmaster.
“You’ll die for that, boy!” Crow sighed, not at what he was about to do, but at the discovery that he was willing to do it.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” With arms long strengthened by the needs of his profession, the thief flung the bag of gold at Guildmaster Moon’s face with a considerable amount of speed and force. Had he been prepared for it, Moon likely could have caught the bag with one hand and thought nothing of it. Instead, he was startled by the heavy missile flung as if from a catapult and he stepped back and raised his hands to protect his throbbing face. He tumbled over the edge of the building and landed with an audible thud, closely followed by the sound of the bag landing beside him.
Crow never thought of himself as a killer, though there could be no argument about it now. He took a little comfort in the discovery that he had no taste for it, regardless of the necessity. He was a thief, by trade and by nature, and so he made these discoveries as his feet carried him as quickly as possible to the bloody bag of gold that awaited him on the street below.
In The Night
It wasn’t the dying heap of a vehicle that lay a mile behind her which concerned Rowyn as she walked along the side of the old highway. Her concern, at the moment, was the possum that crept under the wire fence and paused a few feet in front of her.
“I should turn back.” The possum looked up at her, black eyes shining in the moonlight. She froze, unable to move. Rowyn silently cursed the natural world, with its abundance of unfamiliar and unsettling sounds, shadows, and creatures.
She leapt into the air and screamed at the top of her lungs. As Rowyn watched the possum scurry off, she told herself that some evolutionary instinct had guided her reaction. She walked toward the gas station, kicking as much gravel up as she could with each step, convinced now that noise was her great ally in her walk.
Arriving at the gas station on the edge of town, Rowyn sighed with relief at the neon-lit parking lot. The outdoor speakers played a classic rock song that she’d heard dozens of times.
“Something I can help you with, miss?” The man behind the counter was about Rowyn’s age, with an easy smile and strong, work-worn hands.
“My car broke down about a mile up the road, “she said, “Do you have a phone I could use to call Triple A?” He stepped out from behind the counter.
“It’s right back that way. I’ll show you where it is.” He locked the door and headed back to the cooler. Rowyn pulled her cell phone out of her purse, checking for a signal.
The back of the gas station was cleaner than she had expected, with some boxes stacked neatly on one side of the room, and a desk with a phone and phone book on the other. The familiar smell of spilt beer wafted from the floor. As a bartender she’d smelled far worse many times before. She set her purse on the desk and dug around looking for her Triple A card.
His hand shot out, grabbing the back of her neck. She spun and knocked his hand away with one arm, and slamming the taser from her purse into his chest with another. A spasm and he was on the floor. Slowing her breath, she kept an eye on his unmoving form as she dialed 911.
While one officer went to check on her attempted assailant, the other took one look at the handprint on her neck and walked her outside. She calmly told him everything that had happened.
“Well, I’m impressed Miss. Most folks run into trouble like that, well, they’d be a bit shaken up.” Rowyn shrugged.
“I deal with assholes like that at least once a month at my job,” she said. As he walked away, an owl hooted in the tree behind her. Shivering, she turned and looked up into its silver-gold eyes, feeling that cold fear in the pit of her stomach again.
“I should turn back.” The possum looked up at her, black eyes shining in the moonlight. She froze, unable to move. Rowyn silently cursed the natural world, with its abundance of unfamiliar and unsettling sounds, shadows, and creatures.
She leapt into the air and screamed at the top of her lungs. As Rowyn watched the possum scurry off, she told herself that some evolutionary instinct had guided her reaction. She walked toward the gas station, kicking as much gravel up as she could with each step, convinced now that noise was her great ally in her walk.
Arriving at the gas station on the edge of town, Rowyn sighed with relief at the neon-lit parking lot. The outdoor speakers played a classic rock song that she’d heard dozens of times.
“Something I can help you with, miss?” The man behind the counter was about Rowyn’s age, with an easy smile and strong, work-worn hands.
“My car broke down about a mile up the road, “she said, “Do you have a phone I could use to call Triple A?” He stepped out from behind the counter.
“It’s right back that way. I’ll show you where it is.” He locked the door and headed back to the cooler. Rowyn pulled her cell phone out of her purse, checking for a signal.
The back of the gas station was cleaner than she had expected, with some boxes stacked neatly on one side of the room, and a desk with a phone and phone book on the other. The familiar smell of spilt beer wafted from the floor. As a bartender she’d smelled far worse many times before. She set her purse on the desk and dug around looking for her Triple A card.
His hand shot out, grabbing the back of her neck. She spun and knocked his hand away with one arm, and slamming the taser from her purse into his chest with another. A spasm and he was on the floor. Slowing her breath, she kept an eye on his unmoving form as she dialed 911.
While one officer went to check on her attempted assailant, the other took one look at the handprint on her neck and walked her outside. She calmly told him everything that had happened.
“Well, I’m impressed Miss. Most folks run into trouble like that, well, they’d be a bit shaken up.” Rowyn shrugged.
“I deal with assholes like that at least once a month at my job,” she said. As he walked away, an owl hooted in the tree behind her. Shivering, she turned and looked up into its silver-gold eyes, feeling that cold fear in the pit of her stomach again.
The Caper
Ernie Beckett walks into the Briarwood Mall at exactly 8:27AM. The slapping of his loafers echo off the cavernous walls. He imagines his joints creaking as his arms swing back and forth in a counter-rhythm to his measured strides. He remembers the smooth, powerful hammering of his feet against the pavement as Old Man Sal chased him and his younger brother, the pilfered comics clutched in their hands as they easily outpaced him. Heart thumping in his chest, at a time when that thumping was cause for joy.
Ernie steadies his pace. The crowd is thin this morning, just a handful of seniors like himself, along with the working moms coming in to open the shops while the kids are off at school. His own wife stuck around just long enough to give him a child, then disappeared with the boy when Ernie got locked up for the third time. Nowadays, every bartender keeps a shotgun close at hand, and the professionals know the take isn’t worth the risk. His brother Conrad learned that lesson the hard way.
The clanking of the steel gates brings Ernie’s thoughts back to the job at hand. After his last heart attack, the doctor recommended light regular exercise. Wanda took him over to the mall and introduced him to her fellow Early Birds. After all the time Ernie had spent penned in, walking the yard just to feel like he was going somewhere, he had expected to hate it. Instead, it was strangely comforting, the morning routine. Walking in circles for hours, and wouldn’t you know it, he felt like he was going somewhere. By the time the stroke took Wanda, he’d already planned the caper.
“Good morning, sir,” The heavy-set woman smiles with practiced efficiency. “Is there anything I can help you find?” Ernie smiles back, a toothless, gummy grin that comes close to melting the smile off of her face. He nods, pretending not to hear. When he wanders away, she doesn’t follow. Walking past the glittering gold display of wristwatches, priced at $49.95 retail, he slips one into his pocket. As he heads toward the door, he looks over his shoulder and sees the clerk eyeing him suspiciously. His heartbeat quickens, and he feels alive again. She heads off, no doubt to summon a security guard, and he plays the odds of his making it out the door before the mall cop. Not that it matters. Worst comes to worst, and they’ll lecture him a bit, and threaten to call the real police. A few old tears will put a stop to that. He’ll be sent on his way, sternly warned not to come back, and he’ll move on to the next mall, or one of the big chain stores around town. In a couple of months they’ll forget his face, just like last time, and he’ll make another try for the door. Sometimes he makes it, sometimes he doesn’t. He thinks of Conrad and reaches for the handle.
Ernie steadies his pace. The crowd is thin this morning, just a handful of seniors like himself, along with the working moms coming in to open the shops while the kids are off at school. His own wife stuck around just long enough to give him a child, then disappeared with the boy when Ernie got locked up for the third time. Nowadays, every bartender keeps a shotgun close at hand, and the professionals know the take isn’t worth the risk. His brother Conrad learned that lesson the hard way.
The clanking of the steel gates brings Ernie’s thoughts back to the job at hand. After his last heart attack, the doctor recommended light regular exercise. Wanda took him over to the mall and introduced him to her fellow Early Birds. After all the time Ernie had spent penned in, walking the yard just to feel like he was going somewhere, he had expected to hate it. Instead, it was strangely comforting, the morning routine. Walking in circles for hours, and wouldn’t you know it, he felt like he was going somewhere. By the time the stroke took Wanda, he’d already planned the caper.
“Good morning, sir,” The heavy-set woman smiles with practiced efficiency. “Is there anything I can help you find?” Ernie smiles back, a toothless, gummy grin that comes close to melting the smile off of her face. He nods, pretending not to hear. When he wanders away, she doesn’t follow. Walking past the glittering gold display of wristwatches, priced at $49.95 retail, he slips one into his pocket. As he heads toward the door, he looks over his shoulder and sees the clerk eyeing him suspiciously. His heartbeat quickens, and he feels alive again. She heads off, no doubt to summon a security guard, and he plays the odds of his making it out the door before the mall cop. Not that it matters. Worst comes to worst, and they’ll lecture him a bit, and threaten to call the real police. A few old tears will put a stop to that. He’ll be sent on his way, sternly warned not to come back, and he’ll move on to the next mall, or one of the big chain stores around town. In a couple of months they’ll forget his face, just like last time, and he’ll make another try for the door. Sometimes he makes it, sometimes he doesn’t. He thinks of Conrad and reaches for the handle.
Sleight of Hand
His silver-quick eyes reflect the light of the A-train as it rumbles past. There is laughter there, blended with something hard and angry and dark. So obscured is this, that none in the enraptured audience take note of it. Certainly not Sara Cheswick, the lively and lovely young woman who gazes at the spinning silver dollar which appears to float inches above his outstretched hand. Tiny gossamer-thin lines form at the top of her nose as she searches for the trick she knows must be there.
His patter is practiced and smooth, sliding off his tongue like the sun in a darkening summer sky. Colin glances with amused annoyance at his fiancée, feeling for the first time in their long relationship the jealousy that his friends warned him of when he fell deeply and quickly in love with the beauty. A lost bit of sunlight bounces and tumbles down the descending stairs colliding with her straw-gold hair, and he falls once again, his jealousy forgotten. Sara glances at him, laughing, as the coin disappears. The street magician is certainly talented. And well kept, Colin notes, taking in the unworn shoes, and freshly-laundered jeans and $30 t-shirt. Even the stubble is carefully trimmed to convey just the right amount of rakishness.
“There are tricks and sleights which delight the common crowd,” the magic man begins, “but an audience such as this one would not be taken in by such things.” He says this as if thinking aloud, speaking in a quiet murmur that those nearest to him, including Sara, lean forward to hear. His long, thin, hands dance around carefully, as if searching for some floating bit of trickery. “There is old magic, older than Man. It is the magic of the shadows, the magic seen out of the corner of your eye, fleeting magic. Real magic.” Sara’s eyes fix on his fingers as they trace a pattern in the air. They move to the drumbeat of the city overhead. The charming man fixes his gaze upon her, and her glistening lips part in response. Somewhere along the way she has ceased hearing the words he speaks, but she is painfully aware of his voice. It speaks through her and she shudders at its touch.
The glowing trail the magician’s hands weave is a pretty good trick, Colin admits. Sara, sensible Sara, is taken in by it, no question. A bit too taken, that returning, nagging little voice says in a whisper. He looks at his watch.
“Sara, let’s go, your parents are waiting for us.” She doesn’t respond, so he reaches out to tap her shoulder. Too crazy to think about, but the small crowd seems to grow and swell in that instant, and suddenly she’s just out of reach. The press of bodies intensifies as another train roars past, drowning out Colin’s words.
“In days long gone the Folk walked this land, leaving trails of flowers growing in their wake.” At this, the dark-eyed man plucks a daisy from the shimmering trail of light, tossing it gently to Sara. She catches it with a laugh, a childish, tinkling laugh that she hasn’t heard since she was a toddling girl. “If you followed these trails they would lead you to the fields beyond, to a place where Time stretched on forever.” With each small step forward Sara takes, his voice sounds farther away. She takes another step. “Those who traveled these paths alone would wander for many lifetimes, coming no closer, while moving further and further from the place they began.”
Colin can no longer see the front of the crowd. From somewhere up ahead the springtime scent of flowers wafts through the sweat and smoke and waste, and he feels the warm kiss of sunlight on his face. Far ahead he catches a glimpse of a sunlit halo surrounding the straw-gold hair of Sara.
“Those paths were long-ago lost, plowed and paved over by our kind, who built roads of their own which led everywhere and nowhere.” His gliding fingers pause, holding the moment for so long he fears it might burst. Sara’s foot hovers above the ground as she reaches out for him.
“Sara!” Colin cries, shoving and tearing at the bodies in front of him. The bodies are many, but his strength and his love guide him forward. For the briefest of moments the three, magician, maiden, and man, connect, as Colin reaches Sara, and Sara’s outstretched fingers touch the now-still hand of the magician. The magician catches Colin with his eyes, and Colin remembers the darkness he saw. That darkness is gone, and in its place is a mocking laughter that some ancient part of Colin recognizes and silently names. The magician speaks a single unheard word, his free hand quickly contorting into some inhuman position.
A round old woman stumbles against Colin and he catches her.
“Oh!”
“Are you alright?”
“Whew. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I swear there are days I hate it down here. A woman can’t walk two steps without being jostled around.” The old woman adjusts her cumbersome purse and gathers her dignity around her. “Thank you, young man.” She looks Colin in the eye. It must have been a trick of the light, he will later think. At that moment Colin sees, reflected in the old woman’s eyes, Sara reaching out to him as she’s led into the summer light. With a start he turns, but the magician and Sara are gone.
His patter is practiced and smooth, sliding off his tongue like the sun in a darkening summer sky. Colin glances with amused annoyance at his fiancée, feeling for the first time in their long relationship the jealousy that his friends warned him of when he fell deeply and quickly in love with the beauty. A lost bit of sunlight bounces and tumbles down the descending stairs colliding with her straw-gold hair, and he falls once again, his jealousy forgotten. Sara glances at him, laughing, as the coin disappears. The street magician is certainly talented. And well kept, Colin notes, taking in the unworn shoes, and freshly-laundered jeans and $30 t-shirt. Even the stubble is carefully trimmed to convey just the right amount of rakishness.
“There are tricks and sleights which delight the common crowd,” the magic man begins, “but an audience such as this one would not be taken in by such things.” He says this as if thinking aloud, speaking in a quiet murmur that those nearest to him, including Sara, lean forward to hear. His long, thin, hands dance around carefully, as if searching for some floating bit of trickery. “There is old magic, older than Man. It is the magic of the shadows, the magic seen out of the corner of your eye, fleeting magic. Real magic.” Sara’s eyes fix on his fingers as they trace a pattern in the air. They move to the drumbeat of the city overhead. The charming man fixes his gaze upon her, and her glistening lips part in response. Somewhere along the way she has ceased hearing the words he speaks, but she is painfully aware of his voice. It speaks through her and she shudders at its touch.
The glowing trail the magician’s hands weave is a pretty good trick, Colin admits. Sara, sensible Sara, is taken in by it, no question. A bit too taken, that returning, nagging little voice says in a whisper. He looks at his watch.
“Sara, let’s go, your parents are waiting for us.” She doesn’t respond, so he reaches out to tap her shoulder. Too crazy to think about, but the small crowd seems to grow and swell in that instant, and suddenly she’s just out of reach. The press of bodies intensifies as another train roars past, drowning out Colin’s words.
“In days long gone the Folk walked this land, leaving trails of flowers growing in their wake.” At this, the dark-eyed man plucks a daisy from the shimmering trail of light, tossing it gently to Sara. She catches it with a laugh, a childish, tinkling laugh that she hasn’t heard since she was a toddling girl. “If you followed these trails they would lead you to the fields beyond, to a place where Time stretched on forever.” With each small step forward Sara takes, his voice sounds farther away. She takes another step. “Those who traveled these paths alone would wander for many lifetimes, coming no closer, while moving further and further from the place they began.”
Colin can no longer see the front of the crowd. From somewhere up ahead the springtime scent of flowers wafts through the sweat and smoke and waste, and he feels the warm kiss of sunlight on his face. Far ahead he catches a glimpse of a sunlit halo surrounding the straw-gold hair of Sara.
“Those paths were long-ago lost, plowed and paved over by our kind, who built roads of their own which led everywhere and nowhere.” His gliding fingers pause, holding the moment for so long he fears it might burst. Sara’s foot hovers above the ground as she reaches out for him.
“Sara!” Colin cries, shoving and tearing at the bodies in front of him. The bodies are many, but his strength and his love guide him forward. For the briefest of moments the three, magician, maiden, and man, connect, as Colin reaches Sara, and Sara’s outstretched fingers touch the now-still hand of the magician. The magician catches Colin with his eyes, and Colin remembers the darkness he saw. That darkness is gone, and in its place is a mocking laughter that some ancient part of Colin recognizes and silently names. The magician speaks a single unheard word, his free hand quickly contorting into some inhuman position.
A round old woman stumbles against Colin and he catches her.
“Oh!”
“Are you alright?”
“Whew. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I swear there are days I hate it down here. A woman can’t walk two steps without being jostled around.” The old woman adjusts her cumbersome purse and gathers her dignity around her. “Thank you, young man.” She looks Colin in the eye. It must have been a trick of the light, he will later think. At that moment Colin sees, reflected in the old woman’s eyes, Sara reaching out to him as she’s led into the summer light. With a start he turns, but the magician and Sara are gone.
Tribe
Tribe
Standing in line, ticket in hand, I felt the faintest whisper of the drumbeat crash against me. I cupped my cigarette against the January wind blowing across the Detroit River. The crush of bodies around me risked a stinging burn from the glowing tip of the cigarette, and though I resolved to stop caring whether the carelessly unaware learned the hard way that, yes, fire is hot, my conscience betrayed me, and I angled the it towards my own leg.
With a glance at my companion I wondered again why I’d let her drag me here. Punk rock really wasn’t my thing, and I had to break my budget to swing the cost of the ticket. The shallower parts of my brain reflected that they certainly had nothing to do with it. Annette wasn’t really my thing, either, and even if she had been, the engagement ring on her finger would have killed any urges.
Looking at how I had spent the previous six months provided the answer. My tiny one bedroom apartment in Pontiac had simultaneously become both larger and smaller. Outside of work, it existed as the entirety of my world, and I felt penned in when I checked in for the night. The move was a mistake, and one I could do nothing about for at least three more months. In that twilight time between wakefulness and sleep, I found myself wondering if I truly existed, truly mattered. When your waking dreams become philosophical, it’s time to make some changes.
Optimistically, I forced myself to enjoy the nearness of the crowd surrounding me, and I imagined myself carried by the tide of my fellow beings into the theater.
The opening act had left the stage by the time we reached the pit, and restlessly charged actors in their spiked Mohawks, steel-pierced faces, and illustrated figures stood around looking angry, sullen, and as much as possible like they weren’t enjoying themselves. My pose required no acting.
Aside from the same crappy job, Annette and I quickly discovered we had little in common. I decided “companion” might be too strong a word. I looked around, picking random figures out of the crowd and mentally catalogued them for future reference. Camo-Hawk stood six foot three in his Doc Martens, six-seven if you counted the grape-colored Mohawk adorning his otherwise shiny head. His camouflage covered right arm hung casually around Oh My God Is She Pregnant?, a stocky blond with a blank gaze that looked comfortably at home on her face. Big Bad Bouncer was my height, meaning short, but doubled my width, much of it appearing to be muscle.
“Sneer!” The low voice, pitched artificially cheerful, came from behind me. I turned to look and before I completed the maneuver, heard the click-click-click of a camera. “Metro Times, “ she said, pushing past me, “thanks!” The fact that it wasn’t the first, and likely wouldn’t be the last, time I was shoved that evening dampened my initial anger. I also had the impression that, beneath the short black pageboy and horn-rimmed glasses, she was more than a little attractive, and the aforementioned shallower parts took charge.
Just as I started to approach her, the lights went down. Four dimly-lit figures stood at attention behind their instruments. At the instant the first note of the first chord slammed through the speakers, a theater full of voices screamed as one. I told myself I was playing along.
As the drums began echoing a steady, machine gun beat, the floor shook as we leapt up and crashed down and into each other. Some part of me became aware of how close I was to Oh My God Is She Pregnant, and I found myself shielding her with my body. Others did the same. At the front of the stage the girl with the camera took a few pictures and then put her camera away. The stage lights reflected off of her flailing hair, catching the hint of red underneath the black. By the third song I hardly noticed the press and push of bodies hurling themselves against each other, or that I was a part of the chaotic wave it created.
One accidental elbow between songs marred the perfection of the moment. Two that I had failed to catalogue, Frat #1 and Frat #2, looked as out of place as I had felt, their hooded sweatshirts, beaded necklaces, and khaki baseball caps more the uniform of the jam band fan. They jumped and shoved with the rest of us, but there was a violence to it that I noticed, and others did as well. Camo-Hawk misjudged a jump and struck Frat #2 in the head. Shouting began and their anger was like a storm in the center of the crowd. Before Big Bad Bouncer could make his way over, Camo-Hawk was shoved hard against his pregnant girlfriend. I saw her eyes widen in fear as she fell and felt her muscles tense as we caught her.
The singer onstage shouted for someone to “get those fuckers out of here”, and the crowd parted for the big man. Camo-Hawk turned from his girlfriend, ready to tear settle things himself, and the mood of the crowd was with him. Before he could strike, the little photographer was there. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she stood like a wall between the would-be combatants, shoving the first fratboy back with one hand, while shouting at Camo-Hawk and pointing to his girlfriend. I moved forward to offer what little help I could, not certain if Frat #1 and Frat #2 would let the fact that their obstacle was a young woman stop them from going through it. She stopped me with a glance, her blue eyes calm and steady. Turning around, she focused her attention on Frat #2, poking his chest as punctuation to her scolding. With each poke he stepped back, taking his buddy with him. Each step back took him closer to Big Bad Bouncer, who finally grabbed each of them by the back of the neck and walked them toward the back exit.
Catching my breath and looking around, I saw Annette joking with the pregnant young girl, making her smile as her boyfriend stood with his arm around her. I saw the bouncer looking strangely shy as the singer called for a spotlight and pointed out the hero of the moment. As the girl with the camera made her way out, a small, shallow part of me hoped she’d turn and catch my eye. I probably would have watched her until she was out the door, but I was too busy throwing my head back and forth, shoving and being shoved, getting lost in the music that fueled us all.
Standing in line, ticket in hand, I felt the faintest whisper of the drumbeat crash against me. I cupped my cigarette against the January wind blowing across the Detroit River. The crush of bodies around me risked a stinging burn from the glowing tip of the cigarette, and though I resolved to stop caring whether the carelessly unaware learned the hard way that, yes, fire is hot, my conscience betrayed me, and I angled the it towards my own leg.
With a glance at my companion I wondered again why I’d let her drag me here. Punk rock really wasn’t my thing, and I had to break my budget to swing the cost of the ticket. The shallower parts of my brain reflected that they certainly had nothing to do with it. Annette wasn’t really my thing, either, and even if she had been, the engagement ring on her finger would have killed any urges.
Looking at how I had spent the previous six months provided the answer. My tiny one bedroom apartment in Pontiac had simultaneously become both larger and smaller. Outside of work, it existed as the entirety of my world, and I felt penned in when I checked in for the night. The move was a mistake, and one I could do nothing about for at least three more months. In that twilight time between wakefulness and sleep, I found myself wondering if I truly existed, truly mattered. When your waking dreams become philosophical, it’s time to make some changes.
Optimistically, I forced myself to enjoy the nearness of the crowd surrounding me, and I imagined myself carried by the tide of my fellow beings into the theater.
The opening act had left the stage by the time we reached the pit, and restlessly charged actors in their spiked Mohawks, steel-pierced faces, and illustrated figures stood around looking angry, sullen, and as much as possible like they weren’t enjoying themselves. My pose required no acting.
Aside from the same crappy job, Annette and I quickly discovered we had little in common. I decided “companion” might be too strong a word. I looked around, picking random figures out of the crowd and mentally catalogued them for future reference. Camo-Hawk stood six foot three in his Doc Martens, six-seven if you counted the grape-colored Mohawk adorning his otherwise shiny head. His camouflage covered right arm hung casually around Oh My God Is She Pregnant?, a stocky blond with a blank gaze that looked comfortably at home on her face. Big Bad Bouncer was my height, meaning short, but doubled my width, much of it appearing to be muscle.
“Sneer!” The low voice, pitched artificially cheerful, came from behind me. I turned to look and before I completed the maneuver, heard the click-click-click of a camera. “Metro Times, “ she said, pushing past me, “thanks!” The fact that it wasn’t the first, and likely wouldn’t be the last, time I was shoved that evening dampened my initial anger. I also had the impression that, beneath the short black pageboy and horn-rimmed glasses, she was more than a little attractive, and the aforementioned shallower parts took charge.
Just as I started to approach her, the lights went down. Four dimly-lit figures stood at attention behind their instruments. At the instant the first note of the first chord slammed through the speakers, a theater full of voices screamed as one. I told myself I was playing along.
As the drums began echoing a steady, machine gun beat, the floor shook as we leapt up and crashed down and into each other. Some part of me became aware of how close I was to Oh My God Is She Pregnant, and I found myself shielding her with my body. Others did the same. At the front of the stage the girl with the camera took a few pictures and then put her camera away. The stage lights reflected off of her flailing hair, catching the hint of red underneath the black. By the third song I hardly noticed the press and push of bodies hurling themselves against each other, or that I was a part of the chaotic wave it created.
One accidental elbow between songs marred the perfection of the moment. Two that I had failed to catalogue, Frat #1 and Frat #2, looked as out of place as I had felt, their hooded sweatshirts, beaded necklaces, and khaki baseball caps more the uniform of the jam band fan. They jumped and shoved with the rest of us, but there was a violence to it that I noticed, and others did as well. Camo-Hawk misjudged a jump and struck Frat #2 in the head. Shouting began and their anger was like a storm in the center of the crowd. Before Big Bad Bouncer could make his way over, Camo-Hawk was shoved hard against his pregnant girlfriend. I saw her eyes widen in fear as she fell and felt her muscles tense as we caught her.
The singer onstage shouted for someone to “get those fuckers out of here”, and the crowd parted for the big man. Camo-Hawk turned from his girlfriend, ready to tear settle things himself, and the mood of the crowd was with him. Before he could strike, the little photographer was there. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she stood like a wall between the would-be combatants, shoving the first fratboy back with one hand, while shouting at Camo-Hawk and pointing to his girlfriend. I moved forward to offer what little help I could, not certain if Frat #1 and Frat #2 would let the fact that their obstacle was a young woman stop them from going through it. She stopped me with a glance, her blue eyes calm and steady. Turning around, she focused her attention on Frat #2, poking his chest as punctuation to her scolding. With each poke he stepped back, taking his buddy with him. Each step back took him closer to Big Bad Bouncer, who finally grabbed each of them by the back of the neck and walked them toward the back exit.
Catching my breath and looking around, I saw Annette joking with the pregnant young girl, making her smile as her boyfriend stood with his arm around her. I saw the bouncer looking strangely shy as the singer called for a spotlight and pointed out the hero of the moment. As the girl with the camera made her way out, a small, shallow part of me hoped she’d turn and catch my eye. I probably would have watched her until she was out the door, but I was too busy throwing my head back and forth, shoving and being shoved, getting lost in the music that fueled us all.
Modern Love
If only their eyes had met across a crowded coffeshop, or they’d stopped at the same street corner and fallen in love while waiting for the light to change. That’s the beginning of a story you bore your children and grandchildren with at your 50th wedding anniversary. Appropriate ‘aww’ing would follow, as each of them imagined meeting the love of their life the same way.
Cheryl met Craig at the Laundromat. A shared love of Lawrence Block mysteries had broken the ice (just as the March issue of GQ had suggested it would, in an article entitled ‘Love In The Laundromat: Seven Sure-fire Icebreakers’. Block’s All The Flowers Are Dying was #4. Cheryl had read exactly one novel by Block, and she had done so in the week after reading the GQ article. Craig had done the same thing, giving them one more thing in common than either of them believed they had. Other than just going to the Laundromat to fall in love, that is. Of course, on such foundations great romances are not built, and this was no exception. Still, a $6.95 novel, $2.00 worth of laundry, and a quick bite to eat at the pizzeria next door resulted in six months of relative bliss, and only a month and a half of mind-numbing boredom before the relationship ended.
John was next, and quite a catch, he was. A bartender eleven years her senior who still shared his college apartment with three roommates while trying to make it as a painter. Even when he’d said it aloud, in not so many words, while pouring her the drink that would give Cheryl closure on Craig, it hadn’t sounded so bad. It was nearly Romantic, in a Bohemian sort of way. It was under the head-pounding light of morning that she discovered his aspiration was more in the Dutch Boy vein, than Rembrandt or Van Gogh. This would be Cheryl’s first and last one night stand.
Cheryl fell hard for the contractor who installed the new roof on her parents Lake Erie cottage the next spring. He was tall and tan and rugged and handsome and quite literally could guarantee a good roof over your head. It was his sense of humor she truly found engaging, though not as engaging as her mother always made a sense of humor in a man out to be. Still, there were moments when she’d wistfully compose the story of their courtship in a far off place (or near enough) to hypothetically tell her hypothetical grandchildren someday.
In the end, she got Jason. They met when Cheryl took a temp job at an insurance company downtown. His desk was directly across from hers, and he asked her to lunch her second day. He was nice-looking and good-tempered and generally pleasant to be around, and at the end of the day seemed to be someone she could contentedly spend the next half a century with (and his feelings were not unlike hers). So, no great romance, no “cute meet” as she’d heard it described in a film class she’d taken long ago.
Speaking of that film class, that was where she’d met Stefan…
Cheryl met Craig at the Laundromat. A shared love of Lawrence Block mysteries had broken the ice (just as the March issue of GQ had suggested it would, in an article entitled ‘Love In The Laundromat: Seven Sure-fire Icebreakers’. Block’s All The Flowers Are Dying was #4. Cheryl had read exactly one novel by Block, and she had done so in the week after reading the GQ article. Craig had done the same thing, giving them one more thing in common than either of them believed they had. Other than just going to the Laundromat to fall in love, that is. Of course, on such foundations great romances are not built, and this was no exception. Still, a $6.95 novel, $2.00 worth of laundry, and a quick bite to eat at the pizzeria next door resulted in six months of relative bliss, and only a month and a half of mind-numbing boredom before the relationship ended.
John was next, and quite a catch, he was. A bartender eleven years her senior who still shared his college apartment with three roommates while trying to make it as a painter. Even when he’d said it aloud, in not so many words, while pouring her the drink that would give Cheryl closure on Craig, it hadn’t sounded so bad. It was nearly Romantic, in a Bohemian sort of way. It was under the head-pounding light of morning that she discovered his aspiration was more in the Dutch Boy vein, than Rembrandt or Van Gogh. This would be Cheryl’s first and last one night stand.
Cheryl fell hard for the contractor who installed the new roof on her parents Lake Erie cottage the next spring. He was tall and tan and rugged and handsome and quite literally could guarantee a good roof over your head. It was his sense of humor she truly found engaging, though not as engaging as her mother always made a sense of humor in a man out to be. Still, there were moments when she’d wistfully compose the story of their courtship in a far off place (or near enough) to hypothetically tell her hypothetical grandchildren someday.
In the end, she got Jason. They met when Cheryl took a temp job at an insurance company downtown. His desk was directly across from hers, and he asked her to lunch her second day. He was nice-looking and good-tempered and generally pleasant to be around, and at the end of the day seemed to be someone she could contentedly spend the next half a century with (and his feelings were not unlike hers). So, no great romance, no “cute meet” as she’d heard it described in a film class she’d taken long ago.
Speaking of that film class, that was where she’d met Stefan…
Her Darkly-Shining Soul
“How did you die?” Upon meeting her first ghost, Molly Kingsmith thought this an appropriate question to ask. The ghost occupied the swing next to young Molly, though it showed little interest in doing more than just sitting there. Many people, finding themselves haunted, might have fainted or run screaming from the spectral figure responsible. If there was one thing Molly had learned in her eight short years it was that the world was full of new and wonderous and previously undiscovered things, and a ghost, rather than being the strangest, was simply the newest.
“That’s an impolite question, young lady,” said the ghost, “Hasn’t your mother taught you any manners?” Indeed, Molly’s mother had long since given up on teaching her daughter manners. At some point the girl had gotten it into her head that manners simply got in the way of a great many things, not the least of which was finding out how her new friend had come to its’ present state.
“If you don’t tell me I’ll just guess, “she replied, “I’m a very good guesser, so I’ll probably get it.” Left unconsciously unstated was the promise that said guessing would likely take quite a bit of time and become more than a little annoying before it ceased. Molly noticed the early June air growing substantially colder, and thought nothing of it. The prior July Molly had awoke to a town covered with a sparkling frost which Molly had proceeded to lick off of every available surface until her father plucked her into the air and carted her inside. The disinfectant mouthwash she’d been required to swirl around her mouth tasted of candy canes. Growing impatient, Molly drew breath to begin her guesses, no less than seventeen already prepared in her head.
“I died alone.” The creak of the rusted swingset filled the palpable silence that echoed after the ghost’s declaration. In a full day of guessing, Molly would never have considered that. The tiny girl with the cool blue eyes and autumn red hair was wholly unfamiliar with the concept of being alone. Her father wrote articles on bird watching, and her mother painted pictures that Molly spent, and would continue to spend, much time trying to emulate, so they were never out of earshot. Even in a town as small as Saline, Molly had all of the friends she could want (and some she could do without) and a summer morning did not pass without two, three, or four of them knocking on her door and breathlessly asking her mother if Molly could come out so they could show her their latest discovery. They spent hours thinking about and searching for new things to show Molly, something she would not figure out for many years.
Though Molly couldn’t see it, the ghost studied her deeply-furrowed brow and slightly-bit lip and old, long-dead instincts stilled the response she had been preparing.
“People forget you are a little girl, don’t they Molly?” she asked, instead. Molly looked up then, and for the first time since the ghost had passed, she felt the eyes of a living being upon her. Unbidden, memories of days spent with her own children, Michael and Jacob, both grown with children of their own, came rushing back. She remembered the cold winter day she had met her husband, sweet Raymond, who came across her little ’72 VW Beetle blocked in a parking spot. Without a word he’d stopped and pulled a shovel from his trunk and dug her out. They didn’t exchange names or phone numbers then, but after a few more chance encounters had fallen in love and married. Every moment of her life, good and bad, filled her insubstantial form with a long-forgotten vitality. She, Carol Elders was her name, looked and saw the totality of her life reflected in this child’s eyes, and saw the jack-o’-lantern smile growing on her face. Carol understood, now, why she’d ceased her wandering and sat down next to this little girl. Why she had been drawn to her, like one lost in the darkness. She smiled at the question Molly then asked.
“How did you live?”
“That’s an impolite question, young lady,” said the ghost, “Hasn’t your mother taught you any manners?” Indeed, Molly’s mother had long since given up on teaching her daughter manners. At some point the girl had gotten it into her head that manners simply got in the way of a great many things, not the least of which was finding out how her new friend had come to its’ present state.
“If you don’t tell me I’ll just guess, “she replied, “I’m a very good guesser, so I’ll probably get it.” Left unconsciously unstated was the promise that said guessing would likely take quite a bit of time and become more than a little annoying before it ceased. Molly noticed the early June air growing substantially colder, and thought nothing of it. The prior July Molly had awoke to a town covered with a sparkling frost which Molly had proceeded to lick off of every available surface until her father plucked her into the air and carted her inside. The disinfectant mouthwash she’d been required to swirl around her mouth tasted of candy canes. Growing impatient, Molly drew breath to begin her guesses, no less than seventeen already prepared in her head.
“I died alone.” The creak of the rusted swingset filled the palpable silence that echoed after the ghost’s declaration. In a full day of guessing, Molly would never have considered that. The tiny girl with the cool blue eyes and autumn red hair was wholly unfamiliar with the concept of being alone. Her father wrote articles on bird watching, and her mother painted pictures that Molly spent, and would continue to spend, much time trying to emulate, so they were never out of earshot. Even in a town as small as Saline, Molly had all of the friends she could want (and some she could do without) and a summer morning did not pass without two, three, or four of them knocking on her door and breathlessly asking her mother if Molly could come out so they could show her their latest discovery. They spent hours thinking about and searching for new things to show Molly, something she would not figure out for many years.
Though Molly couldn’t see it, the ghost studied her deeply-furrowed brow and slightly-bit lip and old, long-dead instincts stilled the response she had been preparing.
“People forget you are a little girl, don’t they Molly?” she asked, instead. Molly looked up then, and for the first time since the ghost had passed, she felt the eyes of a living being upon her. Unbidden, memories of days spent with her own children, Michael and Jacob, both grown with children of their own, came rushing back. She remembered the cold winter day she had met her husband, sweet Raymond, who came across her little ’72 VW Beetle blocked in a parking spot. Without a word he’d stopped and pulled a shovel from his trunk and dug her out. They didn’t exchange names or phone numbers then, but after a few more chance encounters had fallen in love and married. Every moment of her life, good and bad, filled her insubstantial form with a long-forgotten vitality. She, Carol Elders was her name, looked and saw the totality of her life reflected in this child’s eyes, and saw the jack-o’-lantern smile growing on her face. Carol understood, now, why she’d ceased her wandering and sat down next to this little girl. Why she had been drawn to her, like one lost in the darkness. She smiled at the question Molly then asked.
“How did you live?”
Sunset
I was a terror for my mother. I figured out pretty early that the best way to get her attention was with a well-timed sniffle, or a cough with just enough behind it to stop her in her tracks. I was her worry from early on, with my father dying in the war before he ever got a look at me. I worried my mother to her last day, but by then she had good reason, I suppose.
What with all the exaggerated and fictitious maladies I inflicted upon the doctors and my mother, it’s not too surprising they missed the real one. I was slightly autistic, see. Seemed normal enough, but I’d get fascinated by the oddest things. First, it was birds. I’d sit in my room staring out the window at this one particular finch for hours, not even hearing my mother calling me for lunch or supper. Then it was worms for a bit, which I suppose was the natural progression. Anyhow, just all kinds of things would catch my eye. Mother just figured I was, well, sensitive would be the word. Not that it was an all the time thing. It’d come on some days, and then I’d spend the next week doing the usual kid stuff without a second thought for that finch or the worms crawling around underfoot.
It was the last one that scared her to death, or near enough. The first time, she found me after about ten minutes. Aside from some dancing spots for awhile, no harm was done. But my mother was a smart woman, and she could see what was coming better than I. Sure enough, a week later I got a jump on the day and it was more than an hour before she saw what I was doing. After a week in the hospital with bandages over my eyes, a week my mother spent reading to me from a book of poetry she purchased on a whim in the gift shop, they sent us home.
I suppose my mother fretted for a bit but, looking back, I’m sure she did what she felt she needed to do. She left the bandages on.
Now, I was ten years old, and ten year olds are nothing if not adaptable. I got used to getting around, to the home-schooling by my mother, to changing my bandages in the early morning darkness, so as not to aggravate my condition. In five years, you get used to more than you’d expect.
Then one day my mother didn’t wake me. For the first time since my accident I awoke before she did. You might think curiosity would have gotten the better of me then. Maybe I yanked off my bandages with the rash, rebellious, impulsiveness of youth, and that’s how I got the way I am today. You’d be wrong, but not far wrong. I knew my eyes were sensitive, you see. That too much light could do permanent damage. After five years of my mother worrying and fretting over me for just that reason, not a thing in the world could have gotten me to take off those bandages. Nothing but the deathly chill and stiffness of my mother’s skin, when I went in to check on her. I won’t bother describing the smell. If you’ve been around a dead body, you think you have some idea of what I mean. You don’t know at all. For a third of my life, I knew my mother 1/5th less than I had. Every remaining sense of her was precious. I won’t bother describing the smell.
I took my bandages off. The dim pre-dawn light stung a bit, but I didn’t notice it. I looked at my mother’s face for the first time in five years. I saw on that face every hardship she’d endured for those five years. She was still a beautiful woman, as mother’s always are, but I saw those five years.
I started crying, my eyes overflowing with tears. So, I looked at my mother’s face for one last time. I closed my eyes and walked to the front door, and through it, and laid down on the grass. I opened my eyes and waited for the sun to dry my tears. That old fascination kicked in, and I stared, lost in the fiery beauty of the ever-shifting patterns of the sun.
People have asked more times than I can count, what it’s like to be blind. Asked how I can write heartbreaking poetry about places that they’ve never been, but now feel homesick for. I never tell them the truth, or never did, anyway. The truth is, it’s wonderful. Every day, I wake to a perfect sunrise, and fall asleep looking at my mother’s face. The writing? Just something to pass the time in between.
The End.
What with all the exaggerated and fictitious maladies I inflicted upon the doctors and my mother, it’s not too surprising they missed the real one. I was slightly autistic, see. Seemed normal enough, but I’d get fascinated by the oddest things. First, it was birds. I’d sit in my room staring out the window at this one particular finch for hours, not even hearing my mother calling me for lunch or supper. Then it was worms for a bit, which I suppose was the natural progression. Anyhow, just all kinds of things would catch my eye. Mother just figured I was, well, sensitive would be the word. Not that it was an all the time thing. It’d come on some days, and then I’d spend the next week doing the usual kid stuff without a second thought for that finch or the worms crawling around underfoot.
It was the last one that scared her to death, or near enough. The first time, she found me after about ten minutes. Aside from some dancing spots for awhile, no harm was done. But my mother was a smart woman, and she could see what was coming better than I. Sure enough, a week later I got a jump on the day and it was more than an hour before she saw what I was doing. After a week in the hospital with bandages over my eyes, a week my mother spent reading to me from a book of poetry she purchased on a whim in the gift shop, they sent us home.
I suppose my mother fretted for a bit but, looking back, I’m sure she did what she felt she needed to do. She left the bandages on.
Now, I was ten years old, and ten year olds are nothing if not adaptable. I got used to getting around, to the home-schooling by my mother, to changing my bandages in the early morning darkness, so as not to aggravate my condition. In five years, you get used to more than you’d expect.
Then one day my mother didn’t wake me. For the first time since my accident I awoke before she did. You might think curiosity would have gotten the better of me then. Maybe I yanked off my bandages with the rash, rebellious, impulsiveness of youth, and that’s how I got the way I am today. You’d be wrong, but not far wrong. I knew my eyes were sensitive, you see. That too much light could do permanent damage. After five years of my mother worrying and fretting over me for just that reason, not a thing in the world could have gotten me to take off those bandages. Nothing but the deathly chill and stiffness of my mother’s skin, when I went in to check on her. I won’t bother describing the smell. If you’ve been around a dead body, you think you have some idea of what I mean. You don’t know at all. For a third of my life, I knew my mother 1/5th less than I had. Every remaining sense of her was precious. I won’t bother describing the smell.
I took my bandages off. The dim pre-dawn light stung a bit, but I didn’t notice it. I looked at my mother’s face for the first time in five years. I saw on that face every hardship she’d endured for those five years. She was still a beautiful woman, as mother’s always are, but I saw those five years.
I started crying, my eyes overflowing with tears. So, I looked at my mother’s face for one last time. I closed my eyes and walked to the front door, and through it, and laid down on the grass. I opened my eyes and waited for the sun to dry my tears. That old fascination kicked in, and I stared, lost in the fiery beauty of the ever-shifting patterns of the sun.
People have asked more times than I can count, what it’s like to be blind. Asked how I can write heartbreaking poetry about places that they’ve never been, but now feel homesick for. I never tell them the truth, or never did, anyway. The truth is, it’s wonderful. Every day, I wake to a perfect sunrise, and fall asleep looking at my mother’s face. The writing? Just something to pass the time in between.
The End.
Victory
Very few of us returned that day. Of the fifty men sent to take the village, less than a dozen made it back. On some days I feel guilty about being in that minority. Some days I thank God. But a day doesn't pass that I don't think about it in some way.
I crouched down in the foxhole, holding my breath as red-hot bullets whizzed overhead. Conway lay on the ground, sobbing huge, heaving sobs. I didn't blame him. Dumb kid lied his way into the war at 16, then found out it was nothing like the movies.
"Come on, Private! On your feet!" Yelling at the fresh meat was the only thing that kept me from losing it. "You won't shoot anyone down there!" Groeler laughed. The big sergeant from Iowa laughed at everything lately. We all had our ways to cope. Conway looked up just in time to see Groeler's face explode. Nobody laughed, then. We all just hunkered down, waiting for a break in the firing. All of us except for Conway. He was on his feet, firing like a madman. That's what it takes somedays.
The letter Conway wrote to his girlfriend the morning he died sits framed on my desk. The dumb bastard had written to break up with his girlfriend after meeting a pretty little girl at the last village. No one had the heart to tell him that the girl took a liking to most of the soldiers that came through, and I didn't have the heart to mail a Dear Jane letter from a dead man. Took me most of a night to copy his handwriting and write something more appropriate. We were back in that village a week later. The girl didn't even ask about Conway.
Over the next week we managed to advance a total of twenty yards. Sixty feet and six men dead. Hell of a thing to spend your life for ten feet of land. Still, some of them spent it for less.
Ripping cloth. Somehow, over the explosion of mortar shells, I could hear the sound of ripping cloth. There was dirt, blood, and God knows what else in my eye and a burning sensation in my gut. In the movies you don't feel the fiery sledgehammer sensation of a bullet slamming into your body. You don't smell the sweat, the piss, the rotting flesh of infected wounds. No actor I ever saw looked anything like how I felt. If I'd known that bullet was going to keep me in the foxhole, keep me out of the ambush that wiped out thirty-two men for ten more yards, I'd have kissed it after Slim cut it out of me.
You hear a lot of talk about what it takes to win a war. It's all about attrition. You kill enough of them, or they kill enough of you, for tiny pieces of land. Do that enough times, in enough battles, and you've won the war.
The End
I crouched down in the foxhole, holding my breath as red-hot bullets whizzed overhead. Conway lay on the ground, sobbing huge, heaving sobs. I didn't blame him. Dumb kid lied his way into the war at 16, then found out it was nothing like the movies.
"Come on, Private! On your feet!" Yelling at the fresh meat was the only thing that kept me from losing it. "You won't shoot anyone down there!" Groeler laughed. The big sergeant from Iowa laughed at everything lately. We all had our ways to cope. Conway looked up just in time to see Groeler's face explode. Nobody laughed, then. We all just hunkered down, waiting for a break in the firing. All of us except for Conway. He was on his feet, firing like a madman. That's what it takes somedays.
The letter Conway wrote to his girlfriend the morning he died sits framed on my desk. The dumb bastard had written to break up with his girlfriend after meeting a pretty little girl at the last village. No one had the heart to tell him that the girl took a liking to most of the soldiers that came through, and I didn't have the heart to mail a Dear Jane letter from a dead man. Took me most of a night to copy his handwriting and write something more appropriate. We were back in that village a week later. The girl didn't even ask about Conway.
Over the next week we managed to advance a total of twenty yards. Sixty feet and six men dead. Hell of a thing to spend your life for ten feet of land. Still, some of them spent it for less.
Ripping cloth. Somehow, over the explosion of mortar shells, I could hear the sound of ripping cloth. There was dirt, blood, and God knows what else in my eye and a burning sensation in my gut. In the movies you don't feel the fiery sledgehammer sensation of a bullet slamming into your body. You don't smell the sweat, the piss, the rotting flesh of infected wounds. No actor I ever saw looked anything like how I felt. If I'd known that bullet was going to keep me in the foxhole, keep me out of the ambush that wiped out thirty-two men for ten more yards, I'd have kissed it after Slim cut it out of me.
You hear a lot of talk about what it takes to win a war. It's all about attrition. You kill enough of them, or they kill enough of you, for tiny pieces of land. Do that enough times, in enough battles, and you've won the war.
The End
Snowfell
Each flake hangs suspended in the air, dotting the starless night sky. I walk, oblivious to the destruction I leave in my wake, carving a path through the winter around me. Wind rushes like a stampede, slamming against my face and chest, making each breath an inferno in my lungs. She's been dead for less than an hour. I have to tell her mother.
In the too quiet, too still emergency room a doctor tells me in brutal detail just how my daughter died. An inventory of injuries too numerous to take in. I stop breathing, only I don't. I just wish I do.
He's going to kill us, I think, as the screaming ambulance takes the corner much too fast. The roads are slick with snow and I feel the back of the vehicle fishtail for a moment. I steal a glimpse of my daughter, her tiny broken body strapped to the stretcher, the pretty young EMT trying to stop the bleeding. Too young for me, I think, as a fantasy that contradicts that thought flashes in my head.
Flashing red lights dance across the spider-web cracks of the windshield. My shoulder aches from where it slammed against the seatbelt. Beth isn't crying, which is a relief. Finally, the airbag deflates and I feel a rush of cold air that I think is from the bag. It's not. There's a hole in the windshield, and wind and snow rush in through it. It takes me a moment to notice my daughter's tiny foot sticking through it from the outside.
"Leave the radio alone," I snap. For an instant I feel guilty, but she's been playing with it for the last ten minutes and I've already told her to knock it off twice. Kid needs to learn. Great, I think, looking over at her. She's sulking, arms folded across her chest and her foot kicking the dashboard. Any second now she'll start crying. At six years old she's already figured out the best way to get me to do what she wants. A horn jolts my attention back to the road just as I feel the car slipping out of my control. As it starts to spin I have enough time to see the cluster of trees. Then I hear my daughter scream.
"Any kind you want, baby. Chocolate, cookie dough, spinach." Beth laughs as she tries to put her coat on. Kelly kneels down to help her with the buttons.
"They don't make spinach ice cream, daddy." Kelly stands up and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
"Be careful out there, we're supposed to get hit pretty badly tonight," Kelly says.
"It's Michigan," I say, "they always say we'll get a lot of snow and we always get less. Besides, it just started, so the roads shouldn't be too bad." I step outside, holding my daughter's hand. She walks looking up, her tongue out to catch the snowflakes that hang suspended in the cold night sky.
The End.
In the too quiet, too still emergency room a doctor tells me in brutal detail just how my daughter died. An inventory of injuries too numerous to take in. I stop breathing, only I don't. I just wish I do.
He's going to kill us, I think, as the screaming ambulance takes the corner much too fast. The roads are slick with snow and I feel the back of the vehicle fishtail for a moment. I steal a glimpse of my daughter, her tiny broken body strapped to the stretcher, the pretty young EMT trying to stop the bleeding. Too young for me, I think, as a fantasy that contradicts that thought flashes in my head.
Flashing red lights dance across the spider-web cracks of the windshield. My shoulder aches from where it slammed against the seatbelt. Beth isn't crying, which is a relief. Finally, the airbag deflates and I feel a rush of cold air that I think is from the bag. It's not. There's a hole in the windshield, and wind and snow rush in through it. It takes me a moment to notice my daughter's tiny foot sticking through it from the outside.
"Leave the radio alone," I snap. For an instant I feel guilty, but she's been playing with it for the last ten minutes and I've already told her to knock it off twice. Kid needs to learn. Great, I think, looking over at her. She's sulking, arms folded across her chest and her foot kicking the dashboard. Any second now she'll start crying. At six years old she's already figured out the best way to get me to do what she wants. A horn jolts my attention back to the road just as I feel the car slipping out of my control. As it starts to spin I have enough time to see the cluster of trees. Then I hear my daughter scream.
"Any kind you want, baby. Chocolate, cookie dough, spinach." Beth laughs as she tries to put her coat on. Kelly kneels down to help her with the buttons.
"They don't make spinach ice cream, daddy." Kelly stands up and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
"Be careful out there, we're supposed to get hit pretty badly tonight," Kelly says.
"It's Michigan," I say, "they always say we'll get a lot of snow and we always get less. Besides, it just started, so the roads shouldn't be too bad." I step outside, holding my daughter's hand. She walks looking up, her tongue out to catch the snowflakes that hang suspended in the cold night sky.
The End.
Valentine: A Love Story
Sean's heart broke a little bit everytime he saw Becca. The young librarian with green eyes and honey-colored hair was always polite. She seemed to recognize Sean, who came to the library at least once a week, and she'd wish him a nice day. Not much more than that, but it was enough, just enough.
She's busy, Sean thinks, while pretending to browse the periodicals. Prior to arriving he had worked up all the nerve and courage he could to decide that today would be the day he'd ask her out. Not that he'd rehearsed a speech or anything. Spontaneity was definitely the way to go. The last thing he needed was for her to go off the script and leave him scrambling for a response. Of course, the moment he saw her every wisp of determination had fled in the face of self-doubt. I'm just going to get my books and get out of here. After a few more moments of standing by the magazines, shuffling his too large feet and nervously running his hand through the mop of red hair that hung down over the tops of his eyes, Sean finally found himself in line.
"Next, please," said the gravely voice of the gray-haired matriarch of the library. Sean stood rooted in place, as his brain tried to send his body in two directions at once. In that instant he couldn't think of a single legitimate reason to have Becca check him out instead. Surprisingly, his mouth rescued him from the predicament.
"I, uh, need..um..wanted..to talk to Becca about something," he heard himself say. With a roll of her eyes and shrug of her shoulders the older woman dismissed him utterly.
"I can help you down hear Se..sir." For a moment Sean imagined Becca had been about to call him by name, something she had yet to do. The "sir" was a cutting reminder of the five year age difference between the grad student and freshman. With the practiced ease of the experienced, Sean came to his senses and pushed from his mind any thoughts of asking Becca out
"Have a good weekend, " Becca says as the tall Irishman nodded and walked away. She shakes her head, muttering angrily at herself as she files the checkout slips. Stealing a glance at Sean as he walks out the front entrance, Becca feels her heart stop at the sight of him backlit by the afternoon sun, his hair framing his face like a golden halo. She imagines he's looking back at her, as he goes. Maybe next week she'll actually be able to call him by his name, she thinks. Grabbing a stack of returned books, she begins to daydream about how much that simple accomplishment could change everything.
The End
She's busy, Sean thinks, while pretending to browse the periodicals. Prior to arriving he had worked up all the nerve and courage he could to decide that today would be the day he'd ask her out. Not that he'd rehearsed a speech or anything. Spontaneity was definitely the way to go. The last thing he needed was for her to go off the script and leave him scrambling for a response. Of course, the moment he saw her every wisp of determination had fled in the face of self-doubt. I'm just going to get my books and get out of here. After a few more moments of standing by the magazines, shuffling his too large feet and nervously running his hand through the mop of red hair that hung down over the tops of his eyes, Sean finally found himself in line.
"Next, please," said the gravely voice of the gray-haired matriarch of the library. Sean stood rooted in place, as his brain tried to send his body in two directions at once. In that instant he couldn't think of a single legitimate reason to have Becca check him out instead. Surprisingly, his mouth rescued him from the predicament.
"I, uh, need..um..wanted..to talk to Becca about something," he heard himself say. With a roll of her eyes and shrug of her shoulders the older woman dismissed him utterly.
"I can help you down hear Se..sir." For a moment Sean imagined Becca had been about to call him by name, something she had yet to do. The "sir" was a cutting reminder of the five year age difference between the grad student and freshman. With the practiced ease of the experienced, Sean came to his senses and pushed from his mind any thoughts of asking Becca out
"Have a good weekend, " Becca says as the tall Irishman nodded and walked away. She shakes her head, muttering angrily at herself as she files the checkout slips. Stealing a glance at Sean as he walks out the front entrance, Becca feels her heart stop at the sight of him backlit by the afternoon sun, his hair framing his face like a golden halo. She imagines he's looking back at her, as he goes. Maybe next week she'll actually be able to call him by his name, she thinks. Grabbing a stack of returned books, she begins to daydream about how much that simple accomplishment could change everything.
The End
A Song of Silence
For thirty-seven years, 8 months, and sixteen days, not a word had been spoken in the Kingdom of Silence. Not a whisper or a shout. No cheers or cries. The Kingdom was nearly three hundred years old, and had been the Kingdom of Silence since it's earliest days. Sadly, this was an ideal the citizenry found difficult to live up to, and the current span of nearly four decades was the longest stretch by far. There was no singing. Did I forget to mention that? No singing anywhere at all. Except in the back of the throat of young Colin Sawyer, age 14.
Before he could speak, Colin's parents were embarrassed to discover that the tiny sound they thought they were imagining was emanating from the tiny mouth of their otherwise perfect baby boy. Of course, something had to be done. Colin's mother, Meredith, held the baby to her chest, gently rocking him back and forth. Colin loved this so much he cooed with happiness. Colin's father, Ellison, used stern indifference, a tried and true parenting method, but Colin was distracted by the sunlight bouncing off his mobile, a sight which filled him with joy. And so it went for those first three years. It wouldn't do for Colin to be seen, or more importantly, heard in public, so he wasn't. No one was allowed to visit him, either, leaving friends and family to wonder if Meredith and Ellison had made the whole birth up.
By the time grade school began, Colin had become an exemplary example of a child who is seen and not heard, as all the other children (and adults, for that matter) were. In truth, the Sawyers hadn't done anything other than make their son deeply, deeply unhappy, and the song that was always on his lips as a baby had vanished along with the joy of life.
Luckily for Colin Sawyer, there was born in the Kingdom of Silence, just two days after Colin, a young girl (very young, when she was born) with as much happiness, and an even greater urge to sing. Her life, up to the same fourteen years, was similar to Colin's with a similar result. She sang to herself, so quietly that even in the silence of the Kingdom, none could hear. None but the boy who also sang to himself (though, to be honest, not nearly as well) who happened upon the girl at the King's thirty-seventh birthday party. Hearing each other sing, they fell instantly in love, as only fourteen-year-olds can, and burst into spontaneous song for the whole kingdom, including the king, to hear. The king was so astonished by the beauty of his daughter's voice that the Kingdom of Silence became the Kingdom of Songs, and everyone sang to each other every word they spoke.
Perhaps in another thirty-seven years, eight months, and sixteen days this, too, will grow tiresome. But, for now, it's a nice change of pace.
The End
Before he could speak, Colin's parents were embarrassed to discover that the tiny sound they thought they were imagining was emanating from the tiny mouth of their otherwise perfect baby boy. Of course, something had to be done. Colin's mother, Meredith, held the baby to her chest, gently rocking him back and forth. Colin loved this so much he cooed with happiness. Colin's father, Ellison, used stern indifference, a tried and true parenting method, but Colin was distracted by the sunlight bouncing off his mobile, a sight which filled him with joy. And so it went for those first three years. It wouldn't do for Colin to be seen, or more importantly, heard in public, so he wasn't. No one was allowed to visit him, either, leaving friends and family to wonder if Meredith and Ellison had made the whole birth up.
By the time grade school began, Colin had become an exemplary example of a child who is seen and not heard, as all the other children (and adults, for that matter) were. In truth, the Sawyers hadn't done anything other than make their son deeply, deeply unhappy, and the song that was always on his lips as a baby had vanished along with the joy of life.
Luckily for Colin Sawyer, there was born in the Kingdom of Silence, just two days after Colin, a young girl (very young, when she was born) with as much happiness, and an even greater urge to sing. Her life, up to the same fourteen years, was similar to Colin's with a similar result. She sang to herself, so quietly that even in the silence of the Kingdom, none could hear. None but the boy who also sang to himself (though, to be honest, not nearly as well) who happened upon the girl at the King's thirty-seventh birthday party. Hearing each other sing, they fell instantly in love, as only fourteen-year-olds can, and burst into spontaneous song for the whole kingdom, including the king, to hear. The king was so astonished by the beauty of his daughter's voice that the Kingdom of Silence became the Kingdom of Songs, and everyone sang to each other every word they spoke.
Perhaps in another thirty-seven years, eight months, and sixteen days this, too, will grow tiresome. But, for now, it's a nice change of pace.
The End
Portrait of the Artist
You stand in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes full of accusation, betrayal, and disappointment, your beautiful, soulful eyes. I’m caught, dead to rights, with your portfolio hanging like deadweight from my right arm.
“What are you doing with that?” Your voice the dreaded monotone I’ve heard you use on others who have roused your impossible anger. I’m caught, no answer ready, this reaction on the surface unexpected, but my own little voice in the back of my head saying, told you so.
“Cass, honey, I can explain, “ I say, mind racing in anticipation of your reactions, though I realize I’ve never seen you as truly angry as you are right now. “The Galleria, downtown, they’re doing an exhibit of local artists, and I knew you’d never work up the nerve,” that was the wrong thing to say, I think too late, “to approach them yourself, so I thought I’d take a few of your pieces to show them, to show them how talented you are.” You close your eyes, taking a breath before speaking.
You can’t let it go, can you, Violet? I mean, we’ve talked about this again and again and…” You walk over to the small wooden breakfast table we’d bought when we moved in together, just three months ago. Are you sure it’s big enough? C’mon Vi, there’s room for you and me. How big does it need to be? Nero trots over and plops down at your feet, lending you moral support. “Those are my paintings, Vi. Mine. You write for everyone, to change minds, to expose people to new experiences. I paint for myself.”
“But is that enough? I write, and sure, people get to live vicariously through me, through us. They get to see parts of the city they might never see otherwise, but your paintings, they show people things they could never imagine. They’re…art.” I walk over to you, sitting across the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, and I’m proud of it. I just think you should be proud of your paintings. Not just tuck them away in a closet and go off to work shelving books for the rest of your life.” I take your hands in mine, clinging to them desperately, even as I feel you pulling away. “I just want you to be happy.”
You don’t speak for several minutes, and I sit there, clinging to you, unaware that I’m trying to memorize you, to remember the exact shade of auburn, like the last glow of sunset, of your hair. The biting scent of paint and turpentine and whatever shampoo you happened to pick up at the store blending together into the smell of you. The warming touch of your skin on mine as we drift off into sleep together, and the soft, husky voice breaking as you say, “I was happy,” before you leave, not physically, yet, but in every way that matters.
“What are you doing with that?” Your voice the dreaded monotone I’ve heard you use on others who have roused your impossible anger. I’m caught, no answer ready, this reaction on the surface unexpected, but my own little voice in the back of my head saying, told you so.
“Cass, honey, I can explain, “ I say, mind racing in anticipation of your reactions, though I realize I’ve never seen you as truly angry as you are right now. “The Galleria, downtown, they’re doing an exhibit of local artists, and I knew you’d never work up the nerve,” that was the wrong thing to say, I think too late, “to approach them yourself, so I thought I’d take a few of your pieces to show them, to show them how talented you are.” You close your eyes, taking a breath before speaking.
You can’t let it go, can you, Violet? I mean, we’ve talked about this again and again and…” You walk over to the small wooden breakfast table we’d bought when we moved in together, just three months ago. Are you sure it’s big enough? C’mon Vi, there’s room for you and me. How big does it need to be? Nero trots over and plops down at your feet, lending you moral support. “Those are my paintings, Vi. Mine. You write for everyone, to change minds, to expose people to new experiences. I paint for myself.”
“But is that enough? I write, and sure, people get to live vicariously through me, through us. They get to see parts of the city they might never see otherwise, but your paintings, they show people things they could never imagine. They’re…art.” I walk over to you, sitting across the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, and I’m proud of it. I just think you should be proud of your paintings. Not just tuck them away in a closet and go off to work shelving books for the rest of your life.” I take your hands in mine, clinging to them desperately, even as I feel you pulling away. “I just want you to be happy.”
You don’t speak for several minutes, and I sit there, clinging to you, unaware that I’m trying to memorize you, to remember the exact shade of auburn, like the last glow of sunset, of your hair. The biting scent of paint and turpentine and whatever shampoo you happened to pick up at the store blending together into the smell of you. The warming touch of your skin on mine as we drift off into sleep together, and the soft, husky voice breaking as you say, “I was happy,” before you leave, not physically, yet, but in every way that matters.
Very Short Fictions
Welcome to Very Short Fictions, my online blog site to post the various short stories I've written and am writing. Feedback, both positive and negative, is always welcome.
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