Jason Orr is a current student at Full Sail University studying for his BA in Creative Writing. He was previously a Computer Maintenance Technician with the U.S. Air Force for six years. In this field, Mr. Orr was trained in building and maintaining a full telecommunications network to include cryptographic equipment with connections to the global network. Mr. Orr became an asset in several different maintenance fields, working exclusively with the E-3 AWACS Aircraft. He has experience working on macro and micro systems repair extending beyond the E-3 model and onto the newest designed models. Within this field, he was held to exceptional standards and was required to sustain a Top-Secret security clearance. Mr. Orr brings this same level of top performance to every project making him an indispensable work force. Week 3 I sat at the table playing with the soda can. The small room had only one large mirror, undoubtedly a two mirror. My spine shivered, triggering my instinct to fight. I sat there calm, waiting for an officer to come in and harass me. I had already been grilled once, but they all had their procedures. The door popped open with the now familiar clank of metal on metal. “How’s it going Frank?” The officer sat across from me, tossing his notepad and pencil onto the tabletop. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” “You know how long I’ve been here.” I wasn’t in the mood to play anymore games, I wanted to get back home to my own family. These long shifts had me missing dinner time with my family and the misses was not appreciating that. Before I could start telling the officer what happened he lifted his hand to cut me off. “Look this is just standard procedure, you know that. Just tell me what you told Officer Parks earlier and you’ll get back home to Janet.” “You know she’s been getting on my case since you guys started holding me for so long these past couple cases.” I let the statement linger a little. I was frustrated but I knew what his rebuttal would be. “Well bad guys must be caught, wouldn’t you say? We can’t let anyone go without being looked over.” The officer slid a picture across the table to me, while also placing a tape recorder on the table. It had a grainy look, but there was no mistaking that room. I twisted the picture around and studied it carefully, taking in each detail. The room had two beds, how I remembered them, professional made by the hotel staff. The balcony doors were slid open, curtains drawn to their most open. I can see myself sitting at the small table with the young woman, although it was hard to make out her face the outfit and posture was the same. “So, do you want me to start at the beginning?” I slid the picture back to the watchful officer. “Just give me the finer points. What was happening on that balcony between you and that young woman?” The officer left the picture sit between us. My eyes rested on the photo as I relayed the experience once more. It was still fresh from earlier that day, and they sure wouldn’t let me just forget it. “I have been working undercover for the past month playing as a gun-for-hire. Had a number floated out to a few contacts, they floated it by anyone in the market. This young woman,” I gestured to the photo once more, “payed me upfront at the door. I’m not sure if it was her first time committing a felony, but I played the role till she finally confirmed the target, her husband.” I grabbed the photo and flipped it to face the officer, “This photo would be the moment she gave me his name, and where to locate him. It took a little more prodding to get her to make a clear statement.” My eyes stared off past the officer into one of the corners of the room bringing up her words again, “She said something like, ‘I want him deader than our marriage’. I honestly had to keep from laughing at that one. I’ve heard a lot of people talk about killing their spouses, but that must have only been said in movies.” I smiled over at the officer, he didn’t seem to be enjoying the moment as much as I was. “So according to you, she paid you for the hit and was specific as to what physical state she wanted her husband in?” The officer pointed at the small cassette recorder he had slipped onto the table, “We have the recording, but just for our official records.” I gave a heavy sigh, he was as by the book as they could get. “Yes, Mrs. Perkins propositioned me, an undercover cop, to murder her husband and paid me for the work.” I dropped my hands heavy on the table, give those who listened a good surprise. The officer shrugged and picked up the recorder turning it off. “Well that should be good for the prosecution. You can go home now. I’m sure Janet is worried about you.” He stretched his arms and legs standing back to his full height. “Yeah, she’s gonna be pissed at me, and you know what?” I poked him playfully in the chest, “I’m gonna tell her that Jimmy wouldn’t let me go because of some stupid bullshit red tape.” The officer looked hurt for a second, “Tell her I’ll bring the next batch of fish I catch, fresh off the boat and just for her.” I gave him a slap on the shoulder, “Yeah I’ll let her know, good night.” I made my way out of the small room and through the rest of the building. I made a quick stop at my desk dropping off my drink and picking up my keys and badge.
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Mike Lee is a writer, labor journalist and photographer based in New York City. Fiction include Scarlet Leaf Review, West Trade Review, Easy Street, The Ampersand Review, Paraphilia, The Airgonaut, Sensitive Skin, Reservoir, The Avenue and others. Photographs currently exhibiting at Art Thou Gallery in Berkeley, California and a group show at Darkroom Gallery, curated by Bruce Gilden. St. Lawrence’s Day ONE “Ever wonder why the government never allows people like us into the country while they let neo-Nazis and Salvadoran priest killers in without as much as a glance at their passport?” “No.” I rolled over and pulled the sheet over my head. I hated it when Anne got political, which seemed to be the case every night for the last month. She suffered from the fanaticism of the recently converted; as for me, three years of university student barricade bullshit has left me with a strong sense of failed expectations. I have come to believe that the personal is political is a lie because I’m at the point now that my personal political is personal. Therefore, I want to be left alone. It was a bad day. I’d turned in my section of the weekly paper I wrote for and found out that some idiot scammed a monthly column. For a paper that rants against sexism and racism, why do all the white guys get a column? My friend at the paper, Richard, calls it the “white negro syndrome” and lets it go at that. I know what he’s talking about, I think. Richard’s white, and his opinion may change if and when he gets assigned a column, so maybe he’s bullshitting me, too. I turned my head and looked at Anne, who was reading one of my books. She was someone I met at the South African divestment meetings. We had common interests, like lust for each other. She practically lives at my apartment now. I’d wake up in the morning to step over piles of dirty laundry to get to the shower. She also uses my razor and doesn’t clean out the tub afterward. And she also bitches over the way I dress. Recently converted, yeah. The telephone rang and I plucked the receiver. “Hello?” “Hey Shannon, it’s Richard.” “What’s up?” “I just wanted to tell you that your Sonic Youth review is in and is running as my lead.” There was a pause like he wanted to tell me something else. I had it figured out. “No.” I whispered into the telephone. “Sure, no problem. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He hung up. I put the telephone down and sighed. Richard’s right, maybe I do need a change. I appreciated his honesty and the way he understood my sensibilities. Anne looked at me with her doe eyes. “Who was that?” “Marie.” I lied and then I gave her a peck on the cheek. Anne reached up and turned off the light and slid next to me and caressed my breasts. I stared at the ceiling, comforted by the dull roar of the air conditioner. * * * “Remember that time when Theresa threw a chair at us and we had to jump out of a third storey window?” Richard was speaking softly, almost as if Theresa was waiting around the corner. I laughed. “Was that before, or after the incident with the meat cleaver?” “Before.” Richard has a knack for recalling my memories. I tossed the remains of my ham on rye to the pigeons and watched them scurry for the scraps. “So you think Laura’s using me?” “Never met anyone who wasn’t using you.” Richard mumbled between sips of his Dr. Pepper. “Nothing against you, except poor judgment. This is something you always say yourself.” I bristled at the remark. Of course he’s right. Has been for years. But I always seem to forget every time. I go to my next defense. ”Well, things never turn right for you.” Richard shrugged. “I know but I don’t care. I’m used to disaster.” “Nothing has happened yet with your Laura, huh?” He shrugged again. “It’s final next Tuesday.” He smirked. “I guess we both sound like broken records, don’t we?” “Yeah, I guess that’s so.” I wadded up the grease paper and tried to hit the garbage can from the bench. It fell short by a foot. Later that day I went to mass. It was Saint Lawrence’s feast day. Outside of that obscure fact, there was no other reason to hold a service on a Tuesday afternoon. I sat in the pew and went through the motions. Saint Lawrence is my favorite martyr; he was vicar of Rome during Nero’s reign and was noted for his sense of humor. While the Romans roasted him to death on a grille, he would shout out to them “Go ahead and turn me over, I’m well done on this side.” My mother used to tell me when I was young that Lawrence would have been my name if I was a boy. Kind of would have been cool to be named after the patron saint of grill cooks and comedians. Rather fitting, considering the way my life has gone. I looked at the Christ hanging from the cross behind the altar. What a grisly sight; I remember how pictures of the Crucifixion used to frighten me, now I’m only bemused. Torture of that sort is an everyday thing now, whether it is physical or emotional. I think I should add envy to my list. Yes, I’m rather envious of Christ; at least he knew what he was getting into. And he was the Son of God, which put him higher on the food chain of humanity. God, I’m gay, and Catholic and lonely. What a terrible mix. But I think it makes sense. When Richard’s divorce became final, we celebrated by taking the train to San Miguel del Allende. It was going to be my first real vacation in years and I really needed to get away from Anne. She pouted and acted like a whiny asshole after I told her. It was tolerable; she would have been a lot worse if I told her that I was going with Richard. She hates him, she said because he was too masculine. Weird girl. We rode in first class, which meant our own sleeping quarters, but we hung out in the rear of the train, watching the countryside roll by. Drank the entire case of Sol we bought in Nuevo Laredo before we even reached Monterrey. I remembered the country reminded me of California, if California had donkeys and old Ford pickups. But the smell was the same. I passed out during the layover in Monterrey and Richard went out looking for whores. I knew he was lying as he shouted his intention into my ear as I tried to sleep; there was just something terribly sad about him that would not allow him to do such a thing. This is something I lack: self-respect. When I woke up, Richard was staring out of his bunk. I looked down and the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. He had managed to smoke all of mine as well. He looked at me and guessed what it was. “No need to worry, I bought you a carton on the way back.” He turned to stare back out the window. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep. I tried to think why I never fucked him. He’s the only guy I know who’s decent-no, I take that back--the only guy who is decent and I would be interested in. I opened my eyes and looked him over. He is so good looking. But sex? I don’t think so. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But I do think about it from time to time. I think it’s normal and very healthy. It doesn’t change me one bit; in fact, I believe it strengthens my identity. But God help him if he tried to throw as pass at me. No, I take that back again. I really don’t know which way I’d swing. I’ve known Richard for eleven years, ever since our first year in high school. All that time he never did anything. No matter how drunk or lonely or depressed or angry...it’s crazy. Nothing ever happened. Not even close. But I still don’t really trust him fully, and I think he knows that. That afternoon the train broke down. Fortunately, it was at a village called San Lorenzo. “Saint Lawrence.” I mumbled as I looked at the signpost, not a little surprised. TWO I was uneasy over leaving the train but Richard insisted. The conductor told us that the train would be in for repairs for several more hours and probably would not even leave until tomorrow daybreak. Richard eyes flashed with a bad idea: let’s go to the cantina and get drunk. I was feeling tired and I wasn’t intending on boozing it up in some dirty one cop town. Despite my politics, I’m frightened of the unknown. I almost feel it’s a deep-seated racism that I’ve tried for years to put behind me, but it will always be there. Too many bad experiences with machos fag-baiting me, but that’s being unfair. Richard has no such qualms. He talked me into it and after I changed into a white linen sundress and brown sandals, we left the train and went into the village. The village was what I expected. One main paved drag with the obligatory chuckholes and cracks every few feet with several one story and two story buildings that looked right out of a Hollywood set. An Esso station with two rusting pumps. Chickens and dogs running across the road. And dirt and scrub and very bored people hanging languidly like automatons. We walked to what passed for a plaza. The fountain was dry and caked with several decades’ worth of dust. I looked down at my dress. No way was I going to sit on that thing. “Alright, let’s go find a bar.” I sighed, finally giving into Richard. There was this dreary building painted the color of faded urine at the west edge of the plaza. There was a row of wooden benches in front with funny little men sitting in them drinking beer and playing dominoes just like every other cantina I had the guts to walk into. At least this time I wasn’t dressed butch, because when they turned their heads to check us out they didn’t look at me like I was a threat to them. Instead they looked at me like I was a piece of meat, which is better in this situation. The last time I walked into a place like this dressed like a dyke wasn’t a pleasant experience. Instinctively, I moved closer to Richard. It made me feel guilty. Even after all these years I still consider my girlish moves because he’s a man despite the fact that he’s my best friend. I know I can’t defend myself very well, but I react the same way. I jerked back away from him and looked away. He was oblivious to the whole thing; another reason why I like him. We walked in and found a table near the front door. Richard signaled for two beers and we got Bohemias. I felt weird, especially when I looked around and saw a guy at the next table wearing a Saint Lawrence tattoo on his upper arm. With the flaming grill and everything. Who would get a tattoo like that? It really scared the shit out of me. “What’s wrong? You’re shivering.” Richard looked at me with a look of sincere concern. “Nothing.” I replied, trying to keep from stuttering. “Beer’s cold.” “Hmm.” He held the Bohemia in front of him and studied it. They were both warm. I tried to keep my eyes off the guy with the tattoo but I was doing a pretty lousy job of it. Richard noticed and looked at him too. I bit my lip and asked Richard if we could sit outside. We got up and walked out. There was a railing beside the front door. We stood by it and looked out over the plaza. “God, this place is disgusting.” I said as a rat scurried around the corner of the patio. “Shut up.” Richard replied under his breath. “Somebody might hear you.” “So what.” “Just show some respect. We’re in a foreign country, you know.” “Oh, come on.” I swept my arm across the length of the plaza. “This place is so poor that the mosquitoes don’t even bother to hang around. Jesus.” “You’re such a fucking tourist.” Richard spat back. “Let’s try to enjoy ourselves, okay?” They had sold us sixty-day passes and so we decided to stay in San Lorenzo that night. The train left the next morning and we weren’t on it. There was a daily local and there was plenty of time to get to San Miguel. I don’t know why I agreed. Maybe it was something I saw that afternoon while we stood in front of the cantina. After a couple of hours of wandering around the village, I felt a certain attraction that I couldn’t rightly put my finger on. Was it the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere, which was where I really wanted to be? Or was it the tattoo? I don’t know and still don’t know. Things were confused enough for me as they were and I wasn’t feeling like riding the train for another twelve hours. The hotel was of course the only one in town and was the only building with a balcony. It was on the plaza, next door to the cantina and with a view of the church. We got a room on the second floor, facing the church and surprisingly it had its own shower. Must have been the presidential suite. There was only one single bed, but we made do. Richard didn’t try anything and we slept back to back the first night. He was respectful enough to keep his underwear on. I went out and managed to buy some bottled water from a store and the cantina served decent food. Just about all we drank was booze and warm soft drinks made by some local bottler. They smelled of cockroaches but tasted pretty good. The only other guest was this old European man who stepped right out of a Bogart movie. White linen suit, leather bow tie and a Panama hat. Had a cane, too. In the morning I could hear the tapping down the hall and to the stairs. Mostly, though, he sat on his balcony behind us wrapped up behind a wall of silence that neither Richard nor I could hope to penetrate. The old European didn’t seem to notice us, or probably didn’t care. It bothered us because outside of us, he was the only Anglo in San Lorenzo. We spoke of him in whispers. What secrets he must have, we wondered at night over our Bohemias. Time fades, and when it does, it’s like it never existed. I didn’t realize it until I found my watch in my overnight bag. I sat on the bed and wanted to cry. I didn’t know why. For the first time in my life I was scared. I realized that we were in San Lorenzo for nearly three weeks. My watch keeps the date as well. Richard just shrugged. “It’s just one of those things, you know. After all, we’re in a foreign country.” He needed a shave. “You can go to the station and wire Anne.” I bristled. I forgot all about her. “I think that’s a bit late for that.” “You never know. Maybe she’s got the policia looking for us. “ We promised ourselves that we were going to leave on the local bus come daybreak. We overslept and missed it by minutes, just in time to see it travel over the horizon like a sleepless snake. “No big deal. We’ll leave tomorrow.” Richard was wearing my sunglasses over a sunburned face. He really needed a shave. I thought it made him look very handsome. I bought a calendar that day and more bottled water. A week later, Richard cut my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face still looked too fat, but he did the bangs just right. I was pleased. In return, I trimmed his beard. We sat on the balcony and sipped our cockroach colas and watched the sunset behind the mountains. The smell of exhaust hung from the bus idling below, but it was tolerable. I leaned over, watching the old European walk toward the cantina. The cane seemed to only accentuate his limp. “I was told by this guy named Roberto that he’s been here for as long as he can remember.” Richard said, pointing at him as he walked into the cantina doorway. “Rumor has it that he’s from the south.” “South?” “Yeah, like Argentina.” He gave me a knowing look and drew a swastika in the dirt of the railing with his finger. THREE Roberto was the local schoolteacher. He was our age, twenty-five and had been teaching in San Lorenzo for three years. “The longest years of my life,” he would tell us as we got drunk at his house. Ximena, his wife, was a beautiful woman. I fell in love with her from the first moment I saw her. She was around five-two and rubenesque, with large almond eyes and thin lips that she would sprinkle with a pinkish lipstick, which reminded me of the girls in junior high. She knew I wanted her. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her when she was in the room. Occasionally she would jerk just slightly as she shifted her weight as she sat, showing me a little of her breasts that jutted out from under dresses too tight for her figure. I made a point of helping her do the dishes, but nothing would happen because Roberto would always be around, always trying to help out; excusing himself that he was a “modern man” and should help with the housework. I sensed that he knew, too, but Richard swore he never said a thing. I believe him. By now I have no choice. And I ached. Ximena and I took the bus to San Juanito one day for shopping. I was too scared to make a move. She pretended to be oblivious the entire trip. I bought several dresses and a pair of red pumps. I had not worn heels since my grandmother’s funeral. There was going to be a dance that Friday. When I got back to the hotel in San Lorenzo, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. Later, I got myself together and went to the balcony. I watched Richard and Roberto stagger out of the cantina singing Ramones songs. When Richard came in, I helped him into the shower and put him to bed. I sat in the chair and watched him sleep peacefully until I dozed off. The policia had taken an interest in our presence. One day, the local cop called Richard downstairs and he was gone for nearly all afternoon. He came later carrying two cans of orange juice. “Where’d you get them?” I stared at the cans as if they were gold. “Ernesto and me drove to San Juanito.” Ernesto was the cop. “So I guess there wasn’t any trouble.” Richard took his shoes off and flopped down on the bed. “Naw, they just couldn’t figure out why a couple of gringos would hang around here for no apparent reason.” “What did you tell them?” Richard reached in his shirt for his cigarettes. “What we decided to tell them a while back. The truth.” “They didn’t believe you.” There was no way they could. “They did. Ernesto understands.” He lit the Raleigh and exhaled sharply. “You know something? Ernesto’s been wondering about it too.” “Wow.” * * * I threw a pass at Ximena during the dance. The dance was held in the courtyard behind the church. Underneath an arch and out of sight of everybody, I slipped my hand down her dress and kissed her with my open mouth. She returned the kiss and I moved my hand down to her breast, placing a fingertip on her right nipple. Ximena licked my lip and knocked my hand away and gently pushed me back. “Little gringa.” She laughed. “I’m not your type.” I blushed. She held her hand in mine and led me back to the party. I was really embarrassed. As we came closer she turned to me. “I’m flattered, but you deserve better.” She let go and joined in a snake dance. As she moved out of sight, Roberto tapped me on the shoulder. “Ximena is a wonderful woman. Full of mysteries.” I smiled back nervously. Roberto put a finger to my lips. “Shush. Remember one thing: giving is not always the same as receiving. Remember that when you try to feel up my wife. Don’t misunderstand me, Ximena’s her own person and I like you. Just be careful. She knows how to hurt.” “You also don’t want to be known as la puta blanca,” he added before walking away. I blew off Ximena right then and there. * * * I thought about screwing Richard. Fucking a guy for the first time since high school was one thing; he being your best friend was another. I’d seen wonderful friendships destroyed by sex. But I had needs. I sat in the chair late the Sunday night after the dance. He was asleep and, as I looked down at him, I wondered how I was going about it. Was I going to put on garters and heels and some slim lacy thing and lie in wait for him tomorrow night? Would I seduce him romantically on the balcony as we watched another sunset? Or was I just going to jump him right now and get it over with? This was a serious dilemma; I had no idea what I was going to do. I’ve known Richard for over a decade. I should’ve known by now what he liked. Funny, we always talked about girls; well, it was a common interest. I thought about the women he went out with, and the psycho he married. None of them I liked, they were all cold and weird and not very good looking by any standards. But I knew what he liked. But what do I like? What would I want? This wasn’t something that was healthy either. Men may be weird, but so am I. I always desired the gray area; I only wanted to play fair. And I’m thinking about my best friend. I thought about Ximena underneath the arch. I did nothing. Identity should never be a crisis. * * * We sold our train passes to a pair of campesinos planning on crossing the border. There was only a week left before they expired and we didn’t want to go to San Miguel. When our money started to run out, Richard decided to tutor some of the locals in English while I worked as a projectionist for the town’s only movie theatre. It was a fun, and easy job. The owner of the theatre was Roberto’s uncle and he needed the break. The films were standard Mexican fare; romantic comedies and an occasional horror movie. I would sit in the booth with a bottle of tequila and several packs of Raleigh cigarettes. My smoking jumped up to about three packs a day; after a month I was coughing up yellow phlegm. But I sat back and watched the flickering images in front of me as I spat into the tissue and sipped tequila out of the bottle. Then I would come home and Richard and I would sit out on the balcony and watch the old European come around on his nightly rounds, tapping with his cane. What secrets does he hold? One never knows, maybe finding out was our motivation for staying in San Lorenzo. I couldn’t think of anything else that could hold us here. I thought about that a lot as I stared out the projectionist’s window. Why did I even want to spend the first night here, anyway? One night I noted that I haven’t seen the man with the tattoo since the first day in the cantina. Just who he was and what he meant was something I would run around in circles about it forever. So I didn’t think about him much; but maybe there was something about him that made sense after all. I was wearing lipstick again. Deep red. It made me look like a vampire, even with all the sun I got. Ximena told me that some of the locals were whispering that I was a bruja, a witch. This gave me a certain amount of respect from the villagers. They placed their faith in everything but the church, which was surprisingly empty on Sundays. Roberto said it had something to do with the Revolution; people in these parts really hate padres. Being a witch is kind of fitting considering the job working at the cinema. I seem quite the magician running those images of the outside world to campesinos whose idea of a modern city is Monterrey, if they’ve been that far. It also guarantees being left alone. The ashtray was always overfilled and the room stank of spilled tequila. But I would clean up after myself as Alfonso closed up downstairs. Once I spilled ashes in a film canister. I don’t think anybody would notice, but I carefully wiped the canister out. I felt like I was becoming more responsible, but maybe because I wasn’t willing to let Alfonso down. I’ve put on some weight since we arrived at San Lorenzo. I threw all my old clothes out and bought new dresses on my last trip to the city. This time, Roberto and Richard came with us. Roberto borrowed an old Chevy from his cousin Israel and we drove out to Monterrey. The city reminds me of New Jersey crossed with a refugee camp. Ximena and I bought new dresses and shoes and I found Richard a white linen suit, just like the one the old European wore. The four of us had coffee together at a sidewalk cafe close to the city center and walked the streets until dusk. We didn’t make it back to the village until close to four and Ximena and I slept all the way back, her head on my lap. By this time, we stopped eating at the cantina and would always have dinner at Ximena and Roberto’s house. After coffee, I was ready to go to work. The weather was always warm enough for us to take our meals in the backyard, where Richard had built a picnic bench out of some wood scraps he and Roberto found. Sometimes others would come to eat and talk. Israel would bring his guitar and sing; occasionally Alfonso came and talked film with Richard. Alfonso has good taste in films. He always complained of not affording to show the films he wants to show; stuff like Bunuel and Godard. Richard would wink at me as Alfonso spoke; we both knew there was a tinge of bullshit; he was just trying to impress the token supposedly sophisticated gringos. There was something pathetic about the old man. He had the money to go to Mexico City and open up an art house there, instead he stayed in San Lorenzo where the cockroaches starve. But on the other hand, we’re here too and I’m beginning to think that there’s no difference between us. Maybe we could go back, but after we wired all the money from our respective accounts in Texas, I’m thinking that maybe we’re trapped down here as well. The kicker came when I found myself suggesting to Richard that we move out of the hotel and find a house. I was even sober when I said it, as was Richard when he agreed. “Oh God!” I shuddered as I put my hand over my mouth. “We don’t belong here. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I lay down on the floor and shook with fear, drumming my heels on the floor. What was happening to me? I don’t belong here. Richard doesn’t belong here. We don’t belong together. None of this makes sense. I hate movies. We both had decent jobs back home and neither of us has written a word that I could think of since we arrived. I got up and looked into the mirror. I wiped the lipstick off, smearing it all over my face. I’m not me. Fuck, I flunked Spanish in high school. I never could deal with the syntax and I can’t roll my r’s. So why did I ask Richard in Spanish? I stared up at the light fixture with the blown out bulb that hadn’t been replaced in weeks. We really do need to find a house of our own. I unlocked the door and fell crying like a baby into Richard’s arms. I’m seriously losing my shit. FOUR The old European finally spoke to us. It was on the hottest day of the year, the temperature was hovering around 40 degrees centigrade, and, to top it off, I was sick in bed with dysentery. Luckily for us, a house owned by Israel’s dad had opened up when the family living there moved to San Juanito. The rent came to about three hundred thousand a month, which was expensive by the villages’ standards, but with us being gringos, it was only fair. Richard made just that much on a day’s work and we had plenty of space to move around in for a change. We bought furniture in San Juanito: a cool green fake leather couch, a coffee table, a bed and chairs. I bought a Samsung television at the street market in San Juanito with what was left of my savings taken from Texas and I would sit and watch it with Ximena every afternoon. The week before I got sick, it was Ximena’s turn to throw a pass and I rejected it without as much as a thought. It didn’t bother me; I guess I’ve gotten used to things being the way they are, even though I still couldn’t figure them out. But I had gotten very sick. I still haven’t gotten used to the local drinking water. I had broken out in a cold sweat the next day and in three days I had lost eight kilos. San Lorenzo’s doctor was out of town that week and Ximena would come over with herbs, but it didn’t seem to work. Richard had suggested driving out to San Juanito for a doctor and was walking out the door when the old European showed up. “I’ve heard that the woman is very sick.” I heard him say to Richard as he came into the bedroom. “I’m a doctor.” The accent was French, which was what Roberto said it was. I knew that accent anywhere. He was from Marseille, just like my first lover. But I wasn’t thinking of my first lover. I just wanted to throw up. He bent over and pressed his hand against my stomach. “Does it hurt here?” “A little bit.” He moved his hand lower. “Here?” “Oh yeah.” The pressure made me nauseous. “Well, it’s not a tumor.” He said in heavily accented English. I didn’t get the joke. He straightened and turned to Richard. “Severe diarrhea?” Richard pointed at me. Thanks, I’m the one who should know. “Yes. For three days.” I moaned. “Light colored stools?” He asked, sighing. “No.” “Dat’s goot.” His French now sounded more German. Maybe Richard was right. The old European reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an ophthalmoscope. It looked like something out of the forties; taped together with black electrical tape. He bent over me again and checked my eyes. “Hmm. I do not believe this is hepatitis. Maybe a mild form of dysentery. I could have told him that. He placed the ophthalmoscope back in his pocket. “Unfortunately, I have no medicine available. All I can say is watch her until Doctor Perez returns in the morning. I doubt there will be any changes.” He reached down and patted my arm. “You are very strong, don’t worry.” He said smiling. I smiled back even though his breath smelled of rotting gums. The old European stepped back, shook Richard’s hand and guided him back to the living room. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on their voices in the doorway but I couldn’t pick up a thing. Richard walked back in and kneeled beside me. I held my hand out and he held it with his, brushing my fingers. “Strange guy.” That was all he volunteered. “Tell me later. I want to sleep.” Then Richard kissed me on the cheek. I faded into oblivion and dreamed about the time I was at mass in Austin on Saint Lawrence’s feast day. I was the only one in the church and I was naked--no I was not--was I? No, that’s a metaphor for something. And I wasn’t alone. I turned and saw Roberto and Ximena sitting in the pew across from me. Ximena was wearing the dress from the night of the dance and her hair was severely pulled back, tied with a matching ribbon. I turned and saw Richard was at the altar, dressed in a white robe. I figured he’d be an altar boy. The old European was blessing the host, chanting in German. His back was turned but I knew who he was. Then he turned to face me and spoke: “Turn me on this side and eat; for I am well done on this side.” I awoke, the sheets covered with my sweat and I was shivering. Again, I sat there and wished I had remembered to bring my old copy of 100 Dreams Interpreted. But I’m beginning to catch the drift. I decided to go back to Texas once I felt better. I lay back down and buried my face in the pillow. It was so hot. I miss my air conditioner. My stomach cramps were still bad, I had a hard time moving as I tried to move my legs up into a fetal position, which was the only way I could sleep comfortably since I got sick. It had gotten dark and the light was on in the living room. I could hear Richard at the kitchen table, typing. He had been writing again, but he hasn’t shown me anything that he had written. But at least one of us is still doing something; since we got here I hardly worked on anything outside of a letter to my mother in our first week here. I wondered how she’s doing. I reminded myself to get back in touch with her soon; she must be really worried by now. I felt a weight on my heart. I kept so many things from her. After all these years, I wondered if she ever suspected. Well, right now it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference anyhow. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Why did I come here? Why am still here? Why can’t I just leave and go home? Am I really changing? I felt like my identity is being slowly stripped away; is it metamorphosis or something a lot worse? These are too many questions to ask yourself when you feel like throwing up. The rhythm of Richard typing lulled. I slid off the precipice into dreams. FIVE “One of these days I’m going to go back to Austin,” Richard sounded like he was joking. I was conflicted, though. I looked at him with a fevered look. I had just seen my reflection in the mirror. I had rather gotten used to it. Something about my face pleased me, and I didn’t know why. So it goes. We finally managed to get some decent films at the cinema. I’m going with Richard to pick them up at the film center at Monterey. I’m looking forward to seeing them. I sit on the back porch with the fresh concrete that the workmen poured only last week. Ximena walks by. She turns to smile and waves. I stretch out my arms and look out into the sun, offering myself, yet again. I close my eyes and begin to daydream para estar cerca del sol que me calienta. With a passion for storytelling spawning before he even could write, Pete Cotsalas, a Massachusetts native, does not feel accomplished unless he has written daily. Fiction is his passion. With a BA in English/Creative Writing he hopes to milk all the use possible out of this basic credential, and dreams of the world reading and enjoying his work. He is an avid reader and researcher in his spare time. To inspire himself, he often contemplates “If it exists, I can write about it.”
Tale of Yester year Quietly, Glee returned from the corridor, closing the door. “Commotion did not draw attention. Even that Friar, supposed to be the institution chaplain remains asleep in that chair.” Foul-smelling breath struck Ivanna’s nostrils as Froman leaned to whisper to her. “Something is terribly wrong with this man, methinks.” Nostrils expanded as he sniffed. “He has no scent. Even fairies hold a smell to me. Until now all that I could not smell were spirits. He is no specter, as solid as you or I. Somehow he is immune to my senses.” Unsure how to respond, Ivanna remained silent. Lack of smell, accompanied with this man survived a decade without succumbing to starvation made her weary as well. Trembling, regaining his composure, Chliste stepped forward to address the nameless man. “Before today I could not have cured your Barrier Shock. Answer to that riddle was never clear to me beforehand.” He stroked his chest, where new heartbeat throbbed. “I saw flashes of your memory as I restored you. One explanation exists. You are one of the Warlocks,” said Chliste, slowly. Everyone stared in shock. Froman growled, bearing his Wolf fangs. Glee nodded. “It has long been believed by some that one Warlock either resurfaced, or was not banished. Universally, scholars and leaders alike dismiss it. Philosophers however, argue that such a return is not only likely, but ineluctable. He has been here a decade. Many oddities occurred around then. The year there was snowfall on the coast. Never before had that occurred. Not long after that, the moon turned a shade of blue. Many of us were fearful this meant impending devastation. Atmospheric phenomenon must have been announcing his arrival.” “What is your name?” Fright tethered to Ivanna as she asked. She anticipated hearing information of which nobody else had been aware. Names of the Warlock leaders were never recorded. The Warlock shook his head with shame. “I do not remember… I have not identified with my original human name, in nearly twenty centuries, I believe.” Leaning forward, Glee spoke clearly. “We seek answers about Djinn.” “You know of Djinn? Preparation has begun, do you know this? My brethren are preparing for their siege upon the living realm. It will happen soon.” “Can you stall them from your position here?” asked Froman, with mistrust looming from his eyes. “No,” said the Warlock, solemnly. “Contrary to what the populace believed during our reign, the Warlocks are not a collegium. Chain of command existed, as with any system which disregards equality. If you desire to know of the Djinn, I can provide. Djinn is a name synonymous with power. Against his abilities, oppositions are reduced to ninnies. It was the Djinn who originally gave us Warlocks the power, which we abused. Djinn are all powerful. They thrive on benefiting others. Forming reality out of the desires of others substantiates and empowers them. Djinn are the archrival or evolution, parasitic, like ticks suckling blood. Acquirement forms one of the basic dictums Faraoise conceived for life. Part of accomplishment is strive and growth it requires. When Djinn supplement a wish, and provide it, eliminating that, it hinders life essentials. I realized that too late. In these days of old, reality of Fathach was incomplete. Oftentimes, gaping holes appeared in the sky. Fabric of our world had holes, like in a cheese block. Occasionally access to another realm was possible.” “Come along!” shouts of the shepherds echoed through the valleys of grassy highlands. Urging the herds of their animal companions along led to days of tireless journey. Scattered hoof-beats and incoherent bleats responded. From the Lower Grasslands, where their sheep and oxen grazed the eight men ventured to seek an audience with their beloved creator. Pristine, untouched soil was the gateway Faraoise preferred. Sixteen feet, of men accustomed to flatland braved the uphill strive to propose their request. A day’s walk before, in the northernmost village, the shepherds received directions from the townsfolk. A village Elder, a dwarf, directed them. “Walk the path north of the settlement, until it ends at the base of the mountain range. From there, follow the hillsides, until the pegs cease. On the first hill with no peg, you may make the call to Her.” Between dusk and dawn, by the light of torches, the shepherds marched, guided by the wooden markers, indicators of where others had summoned the attention of the creator. Upon these marked hillsides, the soil was no longer useable. Dozens of wooden stakes imbedded in the ground turned to hundreds. Hundreds of questions asked, and requests made. At the sight of yet another peg following daybreak, the fourth shepherd groaned, urging a wayward sheep to keep with the others. Out of the corner of his eye, the eldest watched him raise his staff, threatening to strike the straggler, but withheld himself. “All of this distance, for what?” shouted the fourth. Refraining from looking at his disgruntled companion, the eldest maintained his station at the head of the group. “Countless times I have told you. Change to Faraoise’s dictums cannot occur without her consultation.” Footfalls ceased beneath the eldest. Behind him, his seven human companions mimicked him. “We have arrived.” With a trembling finger, the oldest pointed to the next green hill, devoid of a peg. “There it is. Herds must remain here.” As the four-legged members of their troupe gnawed at weeds and dandelions, he explained. “Land up there must remain unimpeded, if we desire her attention.” “Shall we all go?” asked the second eldest. Dismissively, the first shepherd replied “No, I shall, alone. Faraoise discourages a large congregation. You know this. Stay and oversee the herds, the rest of you.” Upon the mountaintop, the eldest shepherd knelt, and stroked the virgin soil sensually. “Lend me your ear, I ask, oh creator of all beauty on which I stand,” he murmured. Bowing his head, he eyed the cloudy horizon, wondering how she would appear. “Such cordiality is unnecessary shepherd.” Soothing utterance from behind him startled the shepherd. Springing to his feet, he nearly caught his beard on the handle of his walking-stick. Rumors did the appearance of the naturalistic creator no justice. No measurement of beauty could describe what the mere man looked upon. Such hair, such complexion, it was as if a single ray of sun were reserved just to shine upon the nymph. Mixture of fear and hope swirled his heart in a whirlwind as he chose his words with discretion, posing the request. “Control over animals,” summarized the beautiful nymph goddess. Pacing the peak of the mountain, she looked at the shepherd. “This request is in defiance of my design, Shepherd.” Gazing at the sunrise, among the most beautiful spectacles she manifested, she shook her head. “Conception of mine is rooted in harmony among living things. Infringing on this seems dangerous.” “Understand, please my humble creator.” As he spoke, the oldest shepherd removed his wool cap, wiping sweat. “Respect for our animal companions does not waiver. However, it is difficult to view them as equals. They do not possess our intelligence. Speech itself evades them. Simply, reasoning with them is trivial. We do not intend to unravel your success. We merely need to be able to use minor force. Something perhaps they will respond to. In the past you have allowed this. Tradesmen, what of them? They cut and modify wood and rock for their purposes. Daily, we burn wood for cooking and warmth.” “Wood and rock serve dual purposes.” Faraoise scooped a fistful of pebbles in her glittering palm, eyeing them. “Methods the tradesmen use are the only way. Furthermore, stones and trees have no feeling to speak of.” “Plants then, we devour those for food. Do they not live, feel?” “Do you argue, shepherd? Vegetation knows its place. Until this dawn, I believed you did as well.” Reluctantly, Faraoise allowed the herding. Silence followed, as she pondered. “Go. Return to your pastureland.” With a nod, the shepherd murmured an apology for wasting her time. “Go with my blessing,” concluded Faraoise. Wearily, she turned her eyes, seemingly comprised of pure starlight upon him. “Trust that I will not regret this decision, may I? Plant your staff at the base of the mountainside, and commence herding.” Not long after permission for herding was granted, thievery and murder were born in the same day. The youngest had a goat, the most reliable buck of any shepherd. One morning back in the grasslands, he awoke to tend to his dairy goat flock. As he brought his herd in from the pasture, he noticed his prize buck was missing. Guessing that a predator carried it off in the night, he resolved to keep better watch in the future. Later that same day, as he returned from the forest, with an armful of firewood, he passed the fifth shepherd, feeding a goat tethered to a stake outside his own milking shed. Immediately, the eighth youngest shepherd recognized the goat as his buck. With a clatter he dropped the faggot of wood. “My buck, that is my goat! You took him from my herd?” Out of utter rage, likes of which he never knew, the eighth shepherd ripped a grapevine from a nearby tree. As the fifth turned, he wrapped it around his neck, and pulled back with all his might. The two fell backward. The older shepherd gasped for air, and clawed at the vine. Pressing his teeth together in fury, the younger watched as the older man’s lips turned blue. Then he collapsed and lay motionless. Strained muscles receded as the dead shepherd’s head fell into the other’s lap. “What… have I done?” After burying the body, he attempted to behave as though nothing occurred. He gathered grain, attempting to disremember his deed. Walking downhill, toward the pastureland, he was approached. Sight of this being caused him to drop the sheaf he carried over his shoulder. Barley was strewn all about. Look away. Every instinct he possessed told him to ignore this creature. But he could not. Never before had he seen a creature so formidable. “Who, what are you?” Mouth agape, the youngest shepherd stared, astonished that Faraoise would spawn such a thing. With a deep, echoing brogue, the creature replied. “In the tongue of your budding world, I believe it would be pronounced Djinn. I visit from an obscure realm, on the fringes of existence. You desire power, shepherd. All of your remaining brethren have sampled it. Do not deny, you felt a heightened sense of it as you throttled your fellow man. Today, I come here to honor your wishes. Power you shall have, not only over sheep and cattle. You will have dominion over everything which your creator bestowed upon your little world.” That was what the Djinn did. Upon realizing their newfound power, the seven remaining shepherds began by constructing the First Tower. Defying Faraoise’s harmonious design once again, they pulled rocks and clay from the ground, and heaped it, forming a tall structure, casting a portion of the continent under a shadow. Such irregular use of her materials caused Faraoise to appear herself in the grasslands. In horror, she watched as these deeds she did not approve unfolded. An ox turned on a spit, over a roaring fire. Bones lay at the shepherds’ feet, flesh gnawed to the sinew. Pain itself gazed at the shepherds from Faraoise’s face. Starlight vanished from her eyes. It looked as if two tiny eclipses stared from her sockets. Faraoise hid herself thereafter underground. After she disappeared, something fluttered from the sky: a small speck, with a pattern, cold to the touch. It landed on the forehead of the youngest, as he sealed a stone of the tower with more clay. Imprint of the small frozen object remained on his head forevermore. “Before that day, not a being in Fathach had seen snow,” the youngest Warlock concluded the anecdote, staring into the cracked chamber-pot beside him, dry as an autumn leaf. “That tiny snowflake was the first. Snowfall began that day, and did not cease until we parted the clouds.” Head hanging shamefully, the Warlock finished his manifesto. “More empowered we became here, the more powerful the Djinn became in his own, perpetually feeding off of the synergy of our wish. Only Djinn themselves occupy their realm, therefore they do not cope with other beings until traveling to others. They caused plague in the fairy realm which the Selkies and the banshees, and Puca came from as well. With every Djinn-granted wish, there comes immeasurable price. For us, the price was our very heart.” He touched his chest. “It was the most precious gift which Faraoise entrusted us with. We were petty, used it for bargaining. Never will I forget the look in Faraoise’s eyes when she looked upon us compiling that tower, without a drop of sweat, or use of a tool.” Questions stampeded through Ivanna’s mind in such a galloping flock, she did not know which to ask first. “In the Death Realm, had you ever encountered the other shepherd you murdered?” “No, he was not there. As it currently exists, the Death Realm was not spawn until the War, as a plane of existence in which to banish us. In the days of Fathach’s youth, I do not know where departing souls of the dead went. Faraoise may not even know which realm.” Myria was in just as much disbelief as Ivanna. “Everything, the warlocks’ power, their enslavement of Fathach, The Days to Forsake, and devastation and extinction which accompanied them, it was all the work of some magical being from another realm?” Wide-eyed Glee voiced perhaps the least helpful question following the tale. “That first tower you constructed, of rock and slate, that must be the Cairn of Milo, it remains there.” Nobody bothered to dignify this observation with acknowledgement. Ivanna shook her head. Anachronism of the storyteller’s presence remained unanswered. “I do not understand how you are here… How did you escape the realm which you and your accomplices were banished to?” “A fastidious hidden exit,” he explained. “Many do not know of its existence. Fewer are able to find it. Aboveground once again, it matters not. Without my brethren, and being the only no longer desiring the power, I am nothing.” “Curing his Barrier Shock was not enough,” murmured Glee to Ivanna, Froman and Myria behind him. “Potentially, he could be the most valuable ally attainable for our upcoming war. However, he seems downtrodden, not of his body. Of his soul, I mean.” Within Ivanna’s mind, a theory surfaced. Looking at the mark on the young former shepherd’s forehead, where the first snowflake struck him, something occurred to her. Perhaps it would help. Or perhaps it would not. Instinct was urging her to try it. Approaching Chliste, Ivanna asked the strangest question a woman of her vast education likely would ever inquire. “Can you make snow, Chliste?” Chliste conjured a gust of cold winter snow in the bedchamber. Through the miniature snowstorm, Faraoise’s voice whispered “Malgreg.” In amazement, Glee watched as the snow melted into water, dripping to the stone at their feet. “Did she say Malgreg? What does that mean?” Echoing the strange word, the young Warlock uttered “Malgreg.” Eyelids expanded. He gazed at the reflection of his visage staring up at him from the water pooling on the floor. “That… that was my name, Malgreg.” Unseen force caused him to stand from the bed. Bones crackled as they moved for the first time in years. A grin spread across his face. “Malgreg, I am Malgreg!” Before her eyes, Ivanna watched as an overlord dissipated, and man dead for centuries was reborn. Yet another heartbeat joined the collective pulsing energy of their fledgling resistance. Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. Cargo In the quiet pre-dawn darkness along the Seattle waterfront a cloaked and covered lone figure scans the harbor like a spy from a bygone day. The fedora is his one capitulation to eccentricity. The trench coat, still a common sight in this town, belonged to his father. Back when he was young and a new immigrant he adopted the hat and took on the coat after he became hooked on old Humphrey Bogart movies. That was nearly thirty years ago and many times since then these things have served well as his umbrella. And, unlike an umbrella, they are not easily forgotten when temporarily laid aside. Never married, Bo Chen spends most of his time and efforts on a small business and apartment in Chinatown but, sadly, it doesn’t keep him from being lonely. The melancholy nature of the empty bay seems to match his own mood as forlorn thoughts creep around in his head. At the nearby wharf, under large spotlights hanging from the overhead cranes, the container ship from Shanghai is secured and readied for unlading. Bo has been tracking it and his container of expensive green jade figurines for the past two weeks. Several purchases at his shop hinge on this delivery, not to mention the investment he has in it. Mental calculations tell him that the container with his merchandise should reach his warehouse in about two days. Logging this into his smart phone calendar, he turns to leave, then notices that the rising sun over the Cascades is about to set aglow the whole wharf area. Brilliantly painted cranes, reaching out and canted over the ship’s length, turn a fiery color, like a row of red mantis ready to feed. The scene lifts Bo Chen’s heart. Doing business in Seattle is a pleasure. Once the unlading begins he knows that it will continue around the clock until it is done. It is still early and all is as it should be. Tugging his fedora, Bo Chen heads for the public market along the seawall. He still has time to have some tea and one of Sum Lee’s steamed pork buns before opening his shop. A loud hiss of air brakes makes Bo jump when the diesel rig backing his container stops just shy of the warehouse loading platform. This is the big day he has looked forward to. Anticipation, combined with his efforts to make sure that there are no mistakes right up to the end, have his already high-strung nerves more on edge than usual. After inspecting the bill of lading and checking the container locks and seals Bo approaches the driver. “Everything seems to be in order, you can unhook and drop it right here.” The driver seems a little surprised. “Don’t you want to open it up and check the contents?” “I’ve been doing business with these people for a long time,” Bo says. “The locks and seals are good. It’s fine. I’ll do the inventory later. You can go.” The driver shrugs his shoulders, hops down from his cab, quickly unhooks and drops the container on its fore pods, then heads back to the port to wait in line for his next container. Bo watches him disappear into the commercial So Do traffic before starting to unlock the container and break the seals. Finally he has possession of his wares. In his excitement he fumbles and bangs the first lock several times while removing it. Reaching to remove the second lock, he freezes when he hears tapping inside the container. His heart pounding in his ears, Bo doesn’t move for many seconds. The tapping comes again. Bo quickly gathers himself, taps out a simple cadence, and waits. Almost immediately the cadence is repeated. Rattled and scared, Bo uses his sleeve to wipe his sweaty brow before he removes the final lock. Cautiously, he disengages the latch and pulls the doors open. Immediately he is repelled several feet by the stench. But not before he sees a person lying on a thin pad in the space nearest the door. Also there is what appears to be the bottom part of a 55 gallon oil drum that has been cut off and made into a toilet. It is half full. An almost empty plastic container of perhaps 15 gallons has been used to hold water. Food wrappers litter the rest of the vacant space except for one large cardboard box that contains a few unopened wrappers of some kind of jerked meat and a few rotting fruits and vegetables. Boxes of jade figurines occupy all the rest of the shipping container and have been more or less walled off with mesh from the small area near the door. Except for some dried feces that must have splashed up on the boxes near the toilet, all seems to indicate that the cargo shipped undisturbed. Still scared, Bo stares at the unmoving figure lying near the door. Dressed in filthy clothes with what looks like a large bloodstain on the front of the trousers, it is hard to tell if it is a man or a woman. Not knowing what to do, and unsure about getting involved, he finally decides that he should get closer and try to see if this person is injured. But before he can do this the prone figure suddenly raises an arm over their eyes, blocking the light, turns their head toward him, and says in Chinese accented English, “Do you have some extra pants? I forgot to bring tampons.” Hau Ming, in her mid thirties, was born in Shanghai to parents who later died from abuses that they had suffered during the cultural revolution, leaving her to be raised and educated in a Catholic orphanage. As she grew and matured Hau showed great promise with her catechism as well as her academic subjects, prompting the nuns to send her on to be educated in one of the better Shanghai universities. There, near the end of her studies, and to the dismay of her patrons, she met and married another bright student. They produced one child, a girl, not long after they wed. Tragically, however, one night during the Lunar New Year celebration a large van loaded with fireworks exploded during the traditional New Year’s Lion and Dragon Dance. Several in the crowd were severely hurt. Three were killed outright, including Hau’s husband and little girl whom had been standing next to the van. Hau Ming was just returning with refreshments and was further away from the blast. She received serious burns to her right arm and a lesser burn to the right side of her face. The intense flash of heat singed and burned most of her clothes, leaving her lying and smoldering in the street like a freshly doused fire log. When her wounds healed and the grief for her loved ones became less painful, she decided that life was too short to wait for the auspicious. Now was the time to risk a new life. Her old one was surely gone. The aroma of the roasted teriyaki chicken from Dong Chang’s Barbecue Shop tells Bo how hungry he is. His mouth waters as he climbs the steps to the apartment over his shop via a separate outside entrance. Sniffing the sweet smoky smell of the barbeque, he wonders if he should have bought two. Hau Ming, a few pounds lighter than before, has not failed to clear her plate for the past two days--ever since he brought her home from the container. It was not hard for him to do the right thing for someone in such a helpless position. He was always big hearted despite the face he put on during his business actions. Bo Chen gave over his bedroom and most of his bath and slept on the couch. Falling asleep while watching TV had always been easy for him anyway. That was the easy part. Getting her clothes was a little different. With no experience buying women’s clothes, he had to rely on sales help from the people at the little used clothing store down the street. When Hau first appeared in fresh clothes Bo plainly saw what an impressive and feminine person she was. The cloth and cut of the Asian apparel accented the intelligent bone structure of her face and complimented her willowy figure. A little taller than Bo, she looked nothing like the starved figure he had first seen on the floor of the container. Almost immediately he began to feel a little change in his moods as well. Helping her pleased him. After knocking on the door at the top of the steps, Bo unlocks and enters the apartment. Still preoccupied with his thoughts about the pleasant changes in his moods, he at first doesn’t recognize his own place. The scent of a sandalwood joss stick accompanied by the soothing twangs of pipa music stroke his senses. Discarded on a small seat in the bay window that overlooks the street, Bo notices the jacket to one of his old lute albums. Obviously Hua Ming has mastered his ancient turntable stereo. And the apartment looks so much neater and cleaner than he ever keeps it. On the small dining table there is a fresh bowl of steamed rice, a platter of stir fried bitter melon with scrambled egg, and a steaming pot of tea. Smiling broadly, Bo sets the roasted chicken down and admires the laid out table. When he looks up Hua is leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him. “I hope you like bitter melon,” she says, “I was surprised to find it.” A bit alarmed when he hears this, Bo knows that she must have gone out to get the bitter melon. For her to wander the streets of Chinatown alone, and so soon, was a little unsettling. He remembers when he first set foot here and how nervous he was. He couldn’t help but admire her gumption, however. Very quickly he is learning that she is a remarkable woman. And probably would be good at business, he also quickly concludes. “I do like bitter melon.,” Bo Chen replies. “You must have gone out. Where did you get it?” “At the vegetable market on top of the hill,” Hau said, nodding toward the commercial square nearby. “I think the area is called Little Saigon. I had only a few Chinese Yuan but when I explained in Mandarin that I was out of dollars they were very nice and eager to change my Yuan. Probably they will use them at their ancestral shrines.” “Yes, I know the market,” Bo said, “they are Vietnamese-Chinese, nice people. And prosperous too.” Hau remembers the stories her parents used to tell her when she was very young. About being prosperous, then stripped of their possessions and sent to the countryside for agricultural labor. They had warned her of the dangers of being prosperous. So long ago that was. She rarely recalls such lessons. It surprises her a little that Bo elicits such deep memories, and at the same time, a long dormant kind of curiosity. “Is it important for you to be prosperous, Bo Chen?” Hau asks. “I suppose so,” Bo replies. “That is why I left China. It’s not everything and I know it will not buy happiness but it’s something.” They silently exchange looks, and then with their own thoughts, ride the notes of the pipa coming from the stereo. After a few moments Hau suddenly laughs for the first time and says, “And it’s good for business, right, Bo Chen? Sit down. We will have our dinner.” Except for a small clump of rice and chicken bones, the dinner dishes are bare. Not much had been said as they ate. Most of that time had been spent eating. And with full mouths, it would have been hard to understand each other anyway. Bo was helping with the cleanup until Hau shooed him away. “I can do this Bo Chen. Go to your couch and rest. It has been a long day and you must be tired. Did your jade customers follow through on their orders?” “Some of them did,” Bo replies, “all the ones that I notified. I am confident from their reactions that I will do well by the shipment. Are you sure you don’t want my help with the cleanup?” Bo didn’t like such chores before but sharing the task with Hau was different. He wonders how long it will last, how long should it last. “You go on now, relax and watch your news. I can finish here,” Hau insists. She notices the difference in Bo from many of the men in China. He doesn’t seem to mind helping in the kitchen. She had heard that Americans, even Chinese Americans, could be like that. Interesting. Before her mind can roam more a field about such things she turns to the task at hand. However, these thoughts about Bo that she puts aside are not new to her. The TV news is all about the immigration issue. People are complaining about foreigners sneaking into their country. Bo wonders how they would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. Then he smiles and has to admit that, in a smaller and smaller world, and its many issues, many Americans feel that they only have one foot. And, quite naturally, this leaves them crippled. However, this thought is getting to close to politics for Bo Chen. Recalling the graffiti he had seen scrawled on a railroad coal car, “I am a free man. I do not vote,” he will just stick to his own business. And helping Hau. After the news passes and the crazy reality shows begin, Bo turns the TV off and begins to make his couch, wondering what is taking Hau so long in the kitchen. Then he notices that the kitchen is dark. Under his bedroom door he sees that the light is on. Hau must of gone to bed while he was watching the news. That didn’t seem like her, not saying goodnight. But no big deal. It had been a long day. Dressed down to his underwear, he is just about to switch the end light off when his bedroom door opens. In a very pretty Chinese bed dress, framed by the doorway and the shadowy interior of the bedroom, Hau leans against the door jamb, lifts one hand to her hip and boldly stares at Bo for what seems like a very long time. Then with her face still as blank as the Chinese mask of calm, she almost whispers, “Bo, you don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know.” Bo Chen admires the dress and the lithe figure of Hau that it reveals. Long gently curved legs end in bare feet with painted toenails. The allure that Bo Chen suddenly feels is not new to him, but the honesty of its pedigree with Hau is unknown. And exciting. Bo stands and slowly joins her, feeling the give of the wooden floorboards with each step. Intimate talk about their union wanes to a thoughtful silence and the shared pleasure of being spent. So serene is the silence that talk just seems not quite good enough. After a while Hau finds the will to break the silence. “I enjoy being with you Bo. There are things about you that a woman needs to have in a man. Things that are not all that common.” “Hau, I could say the same thing about you,” Bo replies. For him there is a kind of relief that these words bring to his soul. “You are still young and I am very happy that you can still like me. I want to do what is right. For me. For you. I admire you and what you have risked to get here. I don’t want to do anything that would hurt that………….it all seems pretty complicated when I think about it. You’ve never even mentioned what you went through to get here and I promised myself I wouldn’t ask.” Hau smiles and looks down to the bed covers for a moment, then looks up at Bo. ‘You didn’t know it but you were helping me before you ever saw me. I knew who you were and I guessed what kind of person you might be. I would probably not have tried such a dangerous stow-a-way if I hadn’t known some things about you.” “You must of met my exporter, Sun Chan,” Bo says, “he is the only one I know where you come from.” “Yes, I have known him a long time. He was a good friend of my husband’s. He set up the whole thing because he thought I might have a chance with you.” Bo Chen smiles, “I’d say that you have got me pretty good. I’m weak as a kitten.” “Not that way, you,” Hau Ming, says as she slaps him on the shoulder. “That just happened with a little push from me….sooner rather than later. Sun Chan said that he knew you as a sensible, decent person. Someone who didn’t take advantage of people. He didn’t tell you about me because if something went wrong he didn’t want you to have any knowledge of it. No money was passed or even discussed. He felt that it was something he could do to honor the dead by helping the part of them that lived.” Bo Chen feels humbled in his own uncomplicated way and simply nods as tears flood the eyes of Hau Ming. “I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done,” Hau says. “You have shown me that I can care for someone again. I am more alive because of you. And now I need to find work and carve out my existence in this country. Like you once did.” Bo Chen’s stomach does a flip flop when he hears this. Was she now going away? He doesn’t like the fear that suddenly possesses him and pushes it aside in ways not unlike the way he pushed aside his loneliness. “Do you want to leave? I suppose there are better opportunities out there somewhere, but you should plan carefully. Of course I will help you if that is what you want.” “It doesn’t matter what I want. It would be nice to stay with you but you must know that I need to get a hold on my life and that can only come with work.” Bo Chen does understand. It's not like something that he’s never done. But with him it was all within the system. This is much different. Searching his mind, he takes a deep breath. “I have a suggestion. My trade in the jade market is really going to take off. And when it does it will require my full attention. There will be no time for the other parts of my business. If I don’t hire help I will have to shut them down and I don’t want to do that. You could work in my shop and take care of that. There is a small kitchen, bed, and bath in the back of the shop that you could use for your own if you want. And I could pay you for you work as well.” Bo pauses and looks at Hau. Moments pass as Hau thinks about what Bo has just said. She sees the utility in the whole set-up at once. And help beyond any she had ever expected. Plus they could see which of the many ways their relationship might go. “That could work, blessed be you Bo Chen,” Hau Ming says, “but we must be very careful. I have a Chinese passport tucked away so I can get back to China if I have to. But my real name and who I am must remain secrete, else I could be detained and deported. That would be very unpleasant.” Bo and Hau discuss their plans far into the night. They create a believable story about Hau’s background and determine that, at least to begin with, their true relationship will remain secrete. But even if it becomes known such things are not that unusual to begin with. They can handle it. Life will be good. Month after month, with Bo and Hau working hard and providing good customer service, the tourist shop in Chinatown, now newly named The Jade Emporium, brings in good profits. Because they work close together, careful though they are about their relationship, some people eventually begin to see the little signs of a deeper attachment between them. Signs like a fleeting soft look or a little consideration between employee and employer that is just a bit beyond the normal. But like they had both expected, such recognition is no big deal. People have lives to live and they live them. Who has time to make judgments about people that are not directly involved in their own lives? Live and let live. Dong Chang, American born and still relatively young, rents the shop space directly across the street from Bo Chen’s Jade Emporium. Not really a part of any neighborhood in attitude, Dong is arrogant and self-centered in the little interaction he has with others. Consequently, his barbeque business is marginal at best. Bo and a few others shop there occasionally and they have learned to just go in, fill the order, pay for it, and get out. Along with his unpleasant manner, Dong Chang is also nosey and quick to deliver up gossip, seeking opinions on its worth. But despite these business problems Dong owns a nice house in Bellevue, drives a new car, and never has much trouble paying his bills. Even when he falls short with his barbeque business, which is most of the time. Ironically, this is due to his past trouble with the law. As a way to get his criminal drug charges dismissed and get started in a lawful business with funds from the government, Dong agreed to become an informant for the Immigration and Customs Enforcement or ICE. Paid monthly for his spying and reporting on Chinatown, Dong brings in a good income as long as he can keep ICE happy and deliver up illegal immigrants. Dong Chang, in simplest terms, is a rat. On the way back from the Post Office with his box mail, Dong Chang stops on the sidewalk and admires his cover. The rows of barbecued chickens, hanging from hooks under the bright warming bulbs in his shop window, form an eye-catching display. Chickens of teriyaki brown staggered with chickens of soy sauce white, like the dark and light squares of a checkered tablecloth, capture the eye long enough to stir the digestive juices. After unlocking the shop door Dong turns the “Back In A Minute” sign back to “Open” and tosses the mail on the counter beside the register. Immediately his eyes fall on one particular envelope with the United States Seal on it. It must be his monthly check from ICE. Quickly, Dong grabs the envelope, looks to the door to make sure he is alone, and tears open the envelope. Sure enough, there is the check. Dong smiles and considers closing his shop. Who needs to work when they get nice checks like this. That’s when he notices that there is also a note in the envelope. This is rare, usually the nondescript treasury check is all that he receives. As he reads the note a frown comes over his face. It informs him that it has been three months since he has delivered up anyone to ICE. And that this will be his last monthly check if this continues. Dong drops the note on the counter then looks past his barbeque display directly into the glass front of The Jade Emporium across the street. He can clearly see that Hau is helping a couple of customers while Bo Chen is absent. Dong has had his suspicions about those two across the street and he has heard the gossip. Only, when he tries to get any further tidbits from his few customers, they are not forthcoming. Dong has been a rat for some time and he has learned the little telltale signs of concealment. He has suspected that there might be something there for him to exploit. And there are no penalties from ICE for being wrong. Having detainees, innocent or guilty, gives both him and ICE relevance. He knows that many of the Chinese immigrants have some things hidden in their closet. A warm body is what he needs now. The jingle of the front door bell calls Dong away from his schemes as the local vagrant, known simply as Jack, enters his shop for a cheap box lunch of chicken thigh, steamed rice, and a tiny packet of soy sauce. Jack is a peaceable older white American that hangs around Chinatown when he is not at the nearby mission, where he gets most of his meals and a place to sleep when it becomes too cold on the streets. Pretty well known by the shops in Chinatown, he is courteously tolerated, even when he has no real money to spend. Bo Chen and Hau know and treat him with respect when he sometimes comes in to marvel over their jade ware and engage in a little conversation about how it is on the streets. But other than a place to get his box lunch when he can scrap together a little money, Jack has no use for Dong Chang. Dong treats him poorly, always taking his little money as fast as he can, then shooing him out into the street. Today is no different. Dong rudely slaps down the box lunch on the counter, grabs the money and starts shooing him away. However, Jack doesn’t move. He wants a small bag to keep his lunch warm until he can eat it. Now fuming, Dong grabs a plastic sack and rakes the box into it, then shoves it over the counter, pushing it into Jack’s chest. “Now get moving,” Dong says. “My money not good enough for ya,” Jack grumbles as he takes the bag, and leaves the shop. Walking down the street a short distance to the Hing Hay park, Jack takes a seat at one of the tables in the Grand Pavilion, a memorial to those Chinese-American veterans killed in World War Two. People about the park gather to practice Tai Chi, play chess, or just relax, as Jack pulls his box from the sack and begins to eat. While he is eating he sees, stuck to the bottom of the box, a slip of paper with some sort of fancy seal on it. Curiously inspecting it, he discovers that it is the notice to Dong Chang from ICE saying that he needed to deliver up an immigrant or lose his check. It was not signed but simply noted, “Your Agent.” Your agent, thought Jack. What the hell does that mean. Jack had noticed the arrival of Hau to Bo Chen’s business and he had wondered the same things as the others around the neighborhood but it had seemed too ordinary to give any thought to. But this slip of paper is something out of the ordinary. Putting the note in his pocket, Jack finishes his lunch and heads back up the street to The Jade Emporium to look at the nice figurines and have a chat with Bo or Hau. He likes them, they are nice to him, maybe they will be interested in his little piece of trash. When they discover the real business of Chang’s Barbeque Shop Bo Chen and Hau Ming move quickly. Hau can not risk being detained and losing her anonymity. So far there is no trace of her existence in America. After quickly moving their valuables to storage they use Hau’s secreted Chinese passport to purchase a one way ticket for her to Shanghai. With his US passport, Bo buys a visa and round trip ticket on another airlines for two days later. Sun Chan will assist Hau until Bo arrives. All along Bo and Hau had considered that it might come to this so they are OK when they kiss goodbye at the Seatac International Airport and Hau boards her flight. Two days later Bo temporarily closes The Jade Emporium and follows. Looking like support for a military infantry platoon involved in an urban attack, the armored personnel carrier and its accompanying jail vans roar to a stop in the street between The Jade Emporium and Dong Chang’s Barbeque Shop. Dong watches through his front window, smiling as if he has just won the lottery…..until he sees the armed and helmeted squad that spews from the armored personnel carrier turn toward him instead of The Jade Emporium across the street. Like a fire team rushing an enemy bunker, these men burst into his shop, breaking the latch on the door, knocking the tiny doorbell to the floor, and waving their automatic weapons in his face before rushing to the back kitchen and office. There oven doors are torn from their hinges, pots and pans scattered helter-skelter, and files dumped to the floor as they “search” his shop. When he tries to stop them the squad leader pushes him against the wall, shoves a search warrant in his face, and says, “This is 107 South Market Street isn’t it?” In horror Dong sees his address on the warrant instead of the 106 South Market Street address of The Jade Emporium across the street. So scared he is hardly able to reply, he says, “Yes but that address….” Dong doesn’t get to finish his statement before the squad leader shoves him aside and says, “Just stay out of the way and you will not be harmed. It’s a woman we are looking for.” Before Dong can reply the man is gone to the back of the shop with the rest of them. Completely shocked, Dong is planted against the wall near the door until a man dressed in regular clothes walks in, looks him up and down, then says, “Are you Bo Chin, the owner of this shop?” “No,” Dong replies, “I am Dong Chang. This is my shop. You have the wrong address. Bo Chen’s shop is across the street.” When this mistake is realized the raid is immediately called off. But not before Dong Chang’s shop is wrecked and unfit for business. An internal review later determines that no evidence exist that any illegal activity has taken place at The Jade Emporium. And other than Bo Chen, a United States citizen, there is no one who lives on that property. Dong Chang, suspected of providing false information in order to keep his monthly check, is no longer of any use to ICE. He takes his personal stuff from the barbeque shop, gets in his car and drives back across Lake Washington to his home, never to be seen in Chinatown again. Following a simple signing marriage service at the local Office of the Civil Affairs Bureau in the West Nanjing Road district of Shanghai, Bo Chen, Hau Ming Chen, and Sun Chan hail a taxi just off the start of the famous pedestrian street. In the hubbub of Shanghai’s premier shopping street the well dressed threesome stand out among the mass of humanity strolling to and from the many stores of the area. Mixing with the crowds is a small electric engine pulling crowded covered booths on its circular route up and down the 3.4 mile long street. Rather than squeeze in aboard this miniature train to the Jing’an Temple Park at the street terminus, Sun Chan wisely chooses to take a taxi the short distance and outflank the crowds. Once they reach Jing’an Park they let the taxi go and enter the green refuge, quickly fading into its quiet interior. Bo and Hau, taking their first married walk, guided by Sun Chan, meander along the various paths and beautiful lotus filled ponds. Smiles, light conversation, and breaths of fresh air are mixed with the more complex talk about their new business arrangement. When Bo Chen returns to the United States and his jade import business Hau will manage the Shanghai end of the business until a spousal visa for her is approved. This will give Hau time to gain experience in the overall business. Meanwhile, Bo Chen, who is already quite prosperous from the jade business, hopes to expand to more emporiums in the Seattle area. It is expected that when Hau arrives in America she will become the general manager of these Seattle operations. Eventually, the hope is that an internationally renowned business, owned and managed by the three, can take a good share of the jade market. Their light, optimistic mood is partially put on hold by delightful awe when they emerge into a clearing among willow trees, small waterfalls, and glassy ponds, with a beautiful Balinese restaurant as the center piece. Here Sun Chan runs ahead, spreading his arms, and laughing. “You two remain here,” he yells back over his shoulder, “and enjoy the view. I know the people here. I will go ahead and set up your first meal together as a married couple. I know just the thing.” When Sun Chan calls them, Bo and Hau join him at a table with a nice view of their natural surroundings. A red color, the symbol for good fortune and joy, is seen throughout the dishes spread over the table. From Peking Duck, with its cooked red hue for fidelity and happiness, to the red lobster of celebration, to the long stranded noodles for longevity, served with vegetables and the sea cucumber of selflessness, it’s all there. Followed by red bean soup for its sweetness of life and happiness. The smells, tastes, and sights, all compliment the forward looking threesome on this auspicious occasion. An occasion that Hau had given up on and one that Bo Chen though would never come. Sun Chan is just happy to be there and have such good friends and business associates. He can feel, with the proven insight of the prosperous, the auspiciousness of this event. After dinner and a couple of glasses of China’s fine Dragon’s Hollow wine the mood is languid and light until the final toast by Sun Chan. “May prosperity and happiness follow you all the days of your life. And may those days be as long as the noodles that we sip between our lucky lips.” Bo and Hau laugh and drink from each other's glass while Sun Chan has a sip of wine then goes into his pocket for a key card. He extends the card across the table to Bo Chen. “You Bo Chen and Hau Ming Chen are registered at the Crown Plaza Hotel, the penthouse, Shanghai Harbor City. The address is on the card. Just show it to the taxi driver. At the gate you will find a golf cart waiting to take you to the main road where your taxi is waiting. Now go on and enjoy each other like there is no tomorrow. I will call you in a day or two. For now, I will remain here a while, perhaps have a drink with my friends in the kitchen.” After sincerely thanking Sun Chan and returning all his good wishes, Bo and Hau slowly walk along several small waterfalls to a gate where their cart and driver await. Dusk is falling quickly and the lights of the city grow larger as they motor along the paths back toward the main road. As soon as they arrive a taxi pulls up. Bo follows Hau into the backseat, shows the driver the address, then leans back in the seat with Hau, contented, as the brilliant, colored neon lights of Shanghai whiz by, like tracers from a fireworks show. Having truly enjoyed each other and slept, Bo and Hau stand at the suite's glass wall overlooking the Harbor. In the unusually clear dawn it seems as if all the earth, with its lands and seas, stretches before them. “I never dreamed that life would give me this path to tread.” Hau quietly reflects. “I hope that I fulfill your life, Bo, like you are fulfilling mine.” Amazed at Hau’s ability to capture the moment for both of them Bo replies, “You do….to the brim.” Leaning against each other, sensing the feeling and thoughts that envelope them, there is no need for more words as they gaze down on the many ships anchored below as well as those sailing out to sea. Suddenly Hau becomes rigid, goes to her toes, and points to a container ship about to leave the harbor. “Look Bo, that ship, that looks like the…………..” “I know,” Bo says as he puts a finger over her lips, “I saw it. And this is as close as you will get to it or anything like it…….ever again. Wherever you are will always be the best of all possible worlds.” Both their eyes well up as Hau relaxes and puts her arm around Bo. Turning a little toward him and searching his face, Hau says, “Really, Bo Chen?” “Really, Hau Ming,” Bo replies, “I love you.” Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. THE SAINT OF THE POCONOS She was sick of it. Another bulging manila envelope poking out of her mailbox just outside her door. She threw it on the living floor in a pique of anger. Then she picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Who are these people, anyway?” she thought. Frauds, without a doubt. “Fraud.” That was her husband’s favorite word. This politician, that politician. They were all frauds. She opened the envelope. She, Margie Morris, was awarded a certificate for being a “defender of the orphans” at Father O’Hara’s dude ranch in The Pocono Mountains, 102 miles north of Philadelphia. “Honey,” she said to her husband, who was reading The Sunday Times and sipping on his coffee, which they drank throughout the day, “Would you mind if I went on a little road trip?” She showed him the contents of the envelope – address labels, tiny gold stars, a rolled-up Phillies cap, since they lived in the Philadelphia suburb of Abington, and to top it off, a solar-powered calculator. Norman shook his head back and forth. A stern man, he nearly began to laugh, but stopped himself. “You’re not working?” “I’ll just tell them I need some time off. That my carpal tunnel is acting up.” “Is it? I don’t want you lying to the library,” where she was the children’s librarian. “Happens to be true,” she said, showing him her small hands with their pink-painted nails. She left in the morning, driving the “truck,” as they called their red Jeep Grand Cherokee. Margie took the back roads so she could watch the scenery in the middle of March, where a series of snow storms had closed her library and made hermits of everyone. She and Norman had a “marriage of convenience,” where each one did what they pleased. “If you’re sleeping with anyone, Norman, keep it to yourself.” Whoever the woman was who wore lilac-smelling perfume was his current dalliance. She tried not to be bitter. She was grateful for so many things he provided her with. Material things, that is. Not love anymore. She longingly look out the window at pine trees, dusted with white sprinkles of snow which glittered under the white cloudless sky. The white sprinkles reminded her of – what were they called? – nonpareils, wafers of chocolate with tiny dots of hard white sugar. She took a sip of her still-hot Dunkin Donuts coffee, which she sipped from a thermal cup. At home, in one of his unkind outbursts, Norman had said to her, “Why do you make so much noise when you sip your coffee?” She was mortified but what was there to say? Later she called her sister Donna, the manager of a Starbucks Café. “What a jerk!” said Donna. “I’ll tell you why you make that noise. So do our customers. It’s the best way to appreciate your coffee, to best savor the taste. Babies do it!” Margie certainly couldn’t remember nursing Norm Jr. or Cecile or Eugenie, but Donna was a smart one. The red Jeep charged along the highway like a sonic stallion. Margie had shut off the GPS. It was like their friend, Lorraine, who talked too much, and always wore smeared lipstick. “Frog Hollow Rest Stop” read a sign. Margie pulled over, used the ladies’ room – “all that coffee,” she thought, and vowed not to drink another sip – sat in the truck and reached into her brown paper lunch bag. “No, you won’t,” she said to herself, about eating the Thin Mints first. In the rest stop, she picked up her egg salad sandwich on rye, complete with minced olives, and watching the people go by, she took one delicious bite. She leaned her head back in the car in silent ecstasy, while seeing a father and son go into the rest room. Yes, Norm had once been like that with little Norman. She was so proud of him for being a good dad. She wrapped up the other half and put it in the paper bag. The Thin Mints were wrapped in foil. Five of them. She put them in the passenger seat and began to drive away, but not before biting into one of them. Her granddaughter Chloe like the Samoas best. Too sweet for old people like Nana, coming up on seventy-three in July. Squashed squirrels, their white bellies up, were in the middle of the road. Once they’d stepped in the Rubicon of the road, you never knew if they’d make it or not. Margie instinctively patted her chest in sympathy for the families awaiting back home, all curled up when they slept, using their tails as warm quilts. Big fat snowflakes begun to fall. Margie switched on her wipers while wondering about her decision to reach the so-called dude ranch by twilight and then turn around and go home. Her Jeep lived up to its name as one of the best vehicles to drive in the snow. Mercifully, the snow stopped and she allowed herself another nervous sip of coffee. She punched on the GPS. A mature woman’s voice spoke in a British accent, “Your destination is in two more miles on the right.” Norman must have chosen this voice. Did the woman wear lilac perfume? One day before driving home from the library, Margie drove to the Willow Grove Mall. She went to the perfume department. “May I help you?” asked an attractive older woman at the Clinique counter named Lou. All the counter people wore black. “Do you have anything that smells of lilacs?” Margie asked tentatively. “With your attractive auburn curls,” said Lou. “I have just the thing.” She brought over a clear-colored bottle and spritzed it on Margie’s wrist. “Mmmm,” said Margie. “Wonderful.” She explained she might come back and buy it as a gift. What? For the “other woman?” Lou gave her her business card, which Margie put in her pocket, then tossed it out as she was leaving the store. And, then, sure enough, a blue sign decorated with a white fence and horses, appeared on the right. She could not wait to catch “the fraud and con man” in the act. A little frightened, she pulled in and saw a long driveway awaiting her. Young men, some wearing jeans, others in shorts, had their sleeves rolled up and were shoveling the long drive. One wiped his face with a striped kerchief, another fanned himself with his knit cap. A few waved at her as she pulled up to a large white house with a porch. “Park in the back,” said a young man pointing. She parked her Jeep, quickly ate the last Thin Mint, and walked around to the front door. Apparently “the savior” had been notified, as he appeared on the front porch. “My goodness,” she thought, “he’s a real priest. Apparently.” He was an old man who wore a long black cassock. His hair sprouted in whiffs on his mostly balding head and he stared in wonder at his new guest. She clomped up the stairs in her suede boots, and stuck out her hand. “Hello,” she said, not knowing what to call him. “I’m Margie Morris.” She wanted to say, “And I’d like to use your bathroom and for you to feed me,” but instead she blurted out without thinking, “I so love those packets you send me and wanted to meet, well, the man behind them.” He smiled. “Father O’Hara is my name. Won’t you come into our humble abode.” She gladly did. Humble? It was huge. What had he done with all that money? She stomped her wet feet on the rug, then decided to remove her boots. “You must be hungry from your trip from….?” “Oh, Abington, Pennsylvania. Yes it was quite far but my pony and I made it,” she laughed. “The facilities are in there,” he said, pointing to a rest room that turned out to be spotless. He served her a ham and cabbage meal since St. Patrick’s Day was only yesterday. He invited her into the living room to talk about their work here at the dude ranch. “I don’t run the ranch atall,” he said with a mild Irish brogue, “but I’ve got me some fine young men who help with it.” “Bobby!” he called. “Comin’ Father,” said a young voice from upstairs. He ran down the steps with an accustomed quickness she remembered when Norm Jr. was young. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Morris from far away in Abington, Pennsylvania.” “Hello, Mrs. Morris,” said the young man. “Pleased to meet you.” The three of them sat and talked, while sweet-smelling logs burned in the wood-burning stove. “I loves these cozy evenings,” said Bobby, who wore a white Stetson hat. “Can’t wait till spring blows in. Neither can the horses.” The Father explained it was one of the ways they made money. People from all over the area stayed at a nearby hotel and rode the horses during the day. The orphans, who ranged in age from 12 through 20, lived either in the house or in small cottages on the property. “You wouldn’t happen to need a job, Mrs. Morris, would ya?” asked the father. “And what kind of job is that? I know nothing about horses or shoveling snow.” “Bet you’re a darned good cook and maker of splendid cookies with icing on them and coffee.” “You know me through and through though you’ve never met me before.” “Your thoughts, Mrs. Morris?” She was quiet for no more than two seconds. “I would be honored, Father,” she said. Margie Morris and her auburn curls and borrowed white night shirt slept soundly in a bouncy bed with stuffed animals lining the outside. She fell asleep as she dreamt of making spice cookies with vanilla icing and chocolate-covered sprinkles. Here she would find love and meaning. Who said age seventy-three was too old to begin again? Caleb Payne is a college student from Full Sail University who has lived in Maryville, Tennessee, since the day he was born and aspires to write for a living. While caring for his sick mother Caleb works part time as a receptionist with H&R Block and attends Full Sail University online for his undergraduate Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Caleb has received an award for excellence in English and was accepted into the Pre-college Upward Bound program, only offered to a handful of individuals in Tennessee. Art Heist “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Ryan said, rubbing his mustache as he looked over his fake police uniform for any wrinkles. “How did I get dragged into doing this.” Ryan said to himself as he waited patiently for his partner to arrive. “You got dragged into this because you love to steal remember?” A deep voice said from around a corner. Ryan jumped in response to the sudden voice, his slender frame jerking upwards in fright. A tall lean body rounded the corner wearing a uniform that matched Ryan’s. “Dammit, Tim!” Ryan shouted, turning to face the tall man he had paired with to undertake this particular heist. “Why do you insist on always trying to scare me, when you know I’m already a bundle of nerves?” Ryan asked his friend as he dusted his uniform off, making sure that the clean cloth remained untarnished from dirt. “Well, I wouldn’t scare you so much if you just learned to relax.” Tim said as he threw his arm around his partner’s shoulders in a sign of friendliness. “How do you expect me to relax in this situation?” Ryan said, throwing Tim’s arm off him in annoyance, walking towards the wall of the art museum and leaning backwards. “If we mess up, we’ll be locked up for years.” Ryan said, rubbing the temples of his forehead to alleviate the oncoming head he felt building up. “You worry too much.” Tim said, coming up beside his friend and patting his arm to reassure him. “As long as we follow the plan nothing can go wrong.” Tim said, smiling at his sticky-fingered friend and lowering his hand from Ryan’s arm. “I hope you’re right, Tim.” Ryan said, looking down at the ground. The sun was beginning to set, signaling that the time to strike was quickly approaching for the two thieves. “Time to take care of business.” Ryan said, pushing himself off the wall of the museum. “Seems to indeed be about that time, my friend.” Tim said, walking past Ryan towards the bulky wooden door of the security guard’s station. As the two approached, an overwhelming sense of excitement and fear overtook them. Ryan’s body began to shake as though he was freezing to death, Tim could hear him whispering to himself, “be brave, just be brave.” “Don’t worry, we can do this.” Tim said, the two now standing in front of the large wooden door. Tim reached his hand out and knocked twice on the large door, the force of his knocks making the door vibrate under his fist. Tim glanced at his partner once more as he waited for the night guard to answer and for their plan to be set in motion. Tonight was the night that they would make the impossible happen, tonight was the night that they would become rich beyond their wildest dreams. They were going to steal the most valuable painting known to man and live their lives in comfort. Alexa Wolfe started out acting, and working in the film industry. She is an entertainment industry veteran, currently seeking validation by studying creative writing in Orlando, FL. She is pursuing a career in screenwriting and was born and raised in New Orleans, LA; But she has lived much of her adult life in Florida. She is also an Air Force veteran who’s hobbies include surfing and rock climbing. You can follow her on Twitter at @AlexWolfePro. The Chase The crowd parted as the cars pulled up to the starting line in the streets of Los Angeles. Alex is the first car to take its place on the line. Her super clean purple BMW M3 screeched to a stop and revved its engine. Jess is the next to come to a halt, driving a Red Corvette Stingray. Then a black Mazda Miata finally takes its place on the line. Jess looked over to the unknown racer. He seemed to be a slender man with eyes that cut through her like a knife. He saw her looking and he licked his lips and blew her a kiss. “Come on girls! Let me show you what daddy can do for you,” he said. “Creeper,” Jess said. Alex looked over at him in disgust. “Oh yeah? Maybe you’d like to play with the toy I keep in my back seat,” she said. “It looks like it’s just your size.” He shot Alex a dirty look and looked toward the road ahead. Jess rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t just let it go, could you?” “Not a chance,” Alex said. The cars revved their engines as the coordinator took his place in front of the cars. The girls put on their ear-pieces. They paired with a beep. Jess squinted her eyes as she looked at Alex. “I see your wheels spinning, what are you thinking over there.” Alex smirked as she turned her attention forward. The coordinator dropped his hands, and all three cars sped off. Jessica pulled off in the lead and then quickly fell behind. “Damnit.”. “You’ve got to work on your shifting, bestie.” Alex pulled off in the lead with the creeper on her tail. “Thanks, I’m aware. You know, we all can’t be great at everything like you,” Jess said. She slammed her foot on the clutch, struggling to catch up. Alex grabbed her chest. “One can only hope I guess,” she said. Alex was head to head with the Miata when Jess closed in on them. “Welcome back to the show,” Alex said. “You were missed.” The Miata tried to slingshot around Alex but she wasn’t having it. In a final attempt, he cut his wheel left. Alex cut left then slammed her breaks. The Miata overcorrected and jerked out of control as Alex pulled off ahead. “Don’t mind me back here, I’m just the clean-up crew,” Jess said sarcastically. Alex payed no attention to the banter in her ear. She lined up in front of the Miata and slammed her breaks. He hit the brakes and jerked the wheel, spinning out of control. Jess took a deep breath as her car sped right at the defeated driver. She swerved right just in time to miss the spinning car. She took a sigh of relief as her car tires slipped on the grass. “You ok back there?” She glanced in her rearview mirror. “You know I can’t survive without my clean-up crew,” Alex said. “You almost got me killed! I’m not cleaning up shit for you.” Jess struggled to regulate her breathing. Alex chuckled as she slowed down for her friend’s sake. “Then what good are you?” “You’ll see the next time you need some tech fixed,” Jess said. Alex was approaching the finish line when blue lights sparked out of the darkness. She slammed her breaks and cut her wheel to the left, spinning her car around. Speeding off away from the cops, her speedometer reached about 90 miles an hour when she passed Jess. “Why did you turn around?” Jess slowed her car confused. On the other side of the turn she spots the cops. Alex’s voice was calm. “Cops.” The speedometer reached 120 as the blue lights reappeared in her rear-view mirror. “What?” Her voice shaking. Jess was on a collision course with one of the cars. “I’ll never make it. I’ll distract them.” She kept the wheel steady, and just as they were about to hit, they both swerved right. Jess hit her breaks, attempting to distract the cops from Alex. But the cops didn’t look back. “Come on! I’m trying to get arrested.” Jess slammed her fists on the steering wheel. She stopped her car and stared out of her window as both officers chased down her best friend. “What are you talking about,” Alex said. She took a sharp left into the city blocks. “They ignored me, and went after you,” Jess said. “You get all the damn attention, this just proves it.” A corvette cut her off and slammed the breaks. Alex struggled to get around the car as two cops flew out behind her. “What is this? Pick on the popstar day?” Alex said. “I told you, we all can’t be as cool as you,” Jess said. “Where are you now?” “Trapped,” Alex said. She was forced to a stop. “You might want to get the bail money ready, I’m probably going to the 33rd.” “Copy that,” Jess said. She turned her car and headed in the direction of the prison. Alex stepped out of the vehicle with her hands in the air. “Please come with me, Ms. Hayden,” he said. Alex looked at the tall slender man, dressed in a suit. “How do you know my name?” she said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Annoyed, the undercover cop turned around and flashed his badge. The two officers moved to grab Alex by the arms, and he put his hand up and signaled them off. “Miss Hayden…” he said. “My name is Alex.” The strange officer sighed. “Alex. It’s your father. There’s been an accident.” Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. THE BUS TRIP She sat in the middle of the huge Hagey Bus with a window view. She wanted to watch as much as she could without falling asleep. Her elderly father had driven her from their home in Parma, Ohio, to the tourist bus in downtown Cleveland. The bus driver, Stan, helped her on, as she had a pronounced limp. Polio. The epidemic was stopped after the Sabin and Salk vaccines had been discovered. How angry she’d been when the schools were flooded with entire families downing the sugar cube that held the Sabin inside. The poliomyelitis serum, with tiny wiggling half alive critters who longed to cripple and maim everyone, but were now thwarted for good. And, she, Gloria, was left with a limp. Under the pant leg on her left leg, she wore a hideous brace. She refused to date and only socialized with family members she didn’t even like. In her bedroom with its light-green wallpaper and canopy bed with white ruffles on top, she spent hour upon hour reading. Novels mostly. Stendhal, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Hemingway, and her favorite Flannery O’Connor, dead at 39 from lupus. “What’s the attraction to O’Connor?” asked cousin Millie over dinner one night. “Her stories were very odd, just like I am. I feel almost normal when I read them.” The Andrews family all lived together in a three story house on Norris Court. Gloria, refusing to work, was on disability, so she took it upon herself to make breakfast and lunch for the family while her mom had the honors of making dinner. Gloria was a vegetarian, believing her leg might heal that way. Tonight they had broiled chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered broccoli rabe, and home-made apple pie that Gloria had baked that morning. As the bus bumped along, Gloria’s eyes were slowly closing. “The Prayers of Flannery O’Connor” shut itself on her lap. She awoke and pinched each cheek to stay awake. She was a pretty girl with dyed black hair, the same color it was when the tragedy struck. Her mouth, outlined with the reddest of lipsticks, had a downward look, as if someone’s hands had stretched it every night so that it refused to smile. Did it matter? Gloria Andrews avoided mirrors. Forty people sat in the bus. The buzz of their conversation ranged from quiet – did they all sleep in synch? – to loud, as if they remembered where they were going – and quite a few honking snores. A tall woman stood up to stretch. She raised her arms above her head and heard her neck crack. “Ahhhh,” she said. “Ma’am,” called Stan, the bus driver. “I know, I know,” said the tall woman and sat down. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Stan through his microphone, “regulations state there is no standing in the aisles of the bus unless you need to use the restroom.” Stan wore a blue uniform and blue cap. His mutton chop whiskers decorated his face. Two men sat together behind Gloria. They were having an animated discussion about film noirs. “Was happy to get a couple of gals to our Film Noir Club at the Parma Library,” said Tony. “Finally!” said Karl, an older man, who had a thick German accent, and loved nothing better than war films. “If my wife Kathe were alive, she’d be there. She shared my love of exciting battle scenes, bodies riddled with bullets, blood pouring through their shirts. And that also includes cowboy films.” “Which we have yet to see,” said Tony. “Last week’s film “The Intruder” with the young William Shatner was one of the best we’ve seen.” “Did you notice his body language?” asked Karl. “Yep,” said Tony. “A master.” Gloria’s held was tilted to the side, so she could listen to them talk behind her. She had no idea she was unconsciously eavesdropping. Soon, though, she got bored. No one sat next to her, so she put her book on the empty seat, got up slowly, and headed toward the rest room. She kept her head down so she didn’t have to watch “the looks” as everyone watched her limp. Da-dump, Da-dump, Da-dump. When she entered the tiny restroom, she plopped on the seat with her clothes still on, just to give herself a rest. The bus was going around a corner, apparently, and she cried out loud. “You all right?” she heard a woman’s voice say. “Fine,” shouted Gloria. When she finished, she stood up to wash her hands and saw a woman’s face in the tiny mirror. The woman was pretty, if not beautiful. She had long straight black hair that fell below her shoulders. Her lips were outlined with enticing red lipstick. Was that how she looked? Quite attractive, she thought, and then banished the thought from her mind. She skip/hopped her way back to her seat. With her head on her chest, she had a long deep sleep, with little snores that briefly woke her up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Stan announced. “We are five minutes from Andalusia Farms, Flannery O’Connor’s final home.” To Gloria, it sounded like a canned speech but she wanted to hear everything he said and slapped her cheeks to stay awake. She turned on the little fan over her head. The day was beautiful and the Georgia sunshine caressed her face. Stan gave a brief history about Andalusia Farms, which he pronounced like an orchestra conductor: “AN-da-LUSIA FAAARMS.” Located outside Milledgeville, Georgia, the city has three colleges, local libraries and a high literacy rate. The farmhouse itself used to be part of a slave plantation. The passengers gasped. “Well,” said Stan, “you’re forgetting this was the deep South, the place where the four little girls were killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.” The bus was silent. And then Gloria heard the German man behind her say, “I would’ve wrung each of their cowardly necks…slowly.” The bus pulled into the vast estate. Most people stood up to have a good look at it. A woman in a green hat greeted the bus. “You made it fifteen minutes sooner than scheduled,” she said. “Traffic cooperated,” said Stan, as he stood up and helped her board the bus. She came inside and he gave her forty tickets. She faced the passengers. “Good afternoon,” she said, in a southern drawl that was difficult to understand. “Flannery O’Connor welcomes you. If she were still alive – and how she loved life – she would be surprised that her final home, Andalusia Farms, has been made into a historic house. And that her collected short stories won the 1972 National Book Award for Fiction, eight years after her death. “Make yourselves at home. Take the self-guided tour. Obey the signs. When they say, ‘Do not sit on chair’ – or ‘Do not touch books’ – we mean it. The sound of an unpleasant buzzer will go off. Miss O’Connor would laugh if she heard it. “Otherwise sit where you like and touch what you like.” She emphasized the best things to view were a large pond with floating wildlife surrounded by summer greenery, the glorious peacocks and peahens which were tame and did not bite unless someone scared or threatened them, and the entire house, especially her writing room. “Enjoy yourselves! Take photos and come back again to see us, y’all.” Stan thanked her and followed her out the bus. He stood outside and helped everyone off the bus. He parked in a large parking lot with a white sign with peacock feathers on it that read “For Buses Only.” It was August, the hottest month of the year. A few white clouds like puffs of pipe smoke moved reluctantly across the sky. Hankies were pulled from pocketbooks and back pockets. Gloria took a good look at the two gentlemen behind her. Tony was wearing khaki shorts and a striped T-shirt. She wondered if he were married. The older German man looked like a movie star. Was it Clark Gable he reminded her of? He sure didn’t look his age. The disembarked passengers were moaning about how hot it was. What they soon learned was that the house contained no air-conditioning but was built to preserve heat in the cold months and stay cool in the hot months. Ceiling fans were in most of the rooms. In the dark of an evening, an occasional moth twirled round and round the fan blades, like a dog chasing its tail, she learned. The group dispersed. The film noirs fellows found a marble bench under a tree whose leaves acted as an umbrella. A large pond glimmered in the distance. Clusters of people walked toward it, fanning themselves with Andalusia brochures or their caps or straw hats. Gloria wore a long sky-blue dress that hid her brace. She was already in her mid-fifties and envied the numerous couples who had traveled together. “Oh, well,” she sighed. From her pocketbook she removed a Cleveland Indians cap. Folks from Parma were usually fans of the Indians or, upon occasion, of the Pittsburgh Pirates. She was faithful in her love for the Dominican Danny Salazar, who was named to the American League All-Star Team in 2016. She was attracted to him for the hardships he endured while coming up from hardscrabble Dominican Republic. As she walked about the estate, she looked up at the sky and down on the fertile ground that bore patches of red and yellow flowers whose names she didn’t know. “Miss O’Connor,” she prayed. “Please help me. I would be forever grateful.” She said this over and over like a mantra, sometimes the words slipping aloud from her lips. “Make this limp go away.” She took off her cap, deep blue with a red peak and the famous goofy-looking Indian in the front. She fanned herself with it. Truth be told, she kept it on her bedside table, next to her glass of water and pile of books. Often before she went to bed, she would lift up the cap, outline the Indian with her fingers, and say, “I love you, Danny Salazar.” “So, you’re an Indians fan,” said a woman catching up with her. Gloria couldn’t think of anything to say. “I’ve been watching the Indians forever,” said the white-haired woman in a shiny white pantsuit and sandals. “When I was younger, I’d listen to Jimmy Dudley, the radio announcer. You could see everything when that guy spoke.” “Well, good for you,” said Gloria, realizing the words came out wrong. “I mean, that’s really good, really great.” Gloria quickly wove away toward that great big white house with all the stairs. Where was the handicap access? Probably around the back. She walked over to the right of the stairs, grabbed the railing, and praying to Flannery, ascended the stairs, sweat pouring down her face and bare arms. Coolness surrounded her in the house. More stairs to Flannery’s writing room. She was panting and gasping by the time she entered and thought she might have a heart attack. She sank into a cushioned chair, clutching her heart. All she needed, she thought, were a few moments of meditation and prayer. With her hands steepled beneath her chin, she went into something akin to a trance, never hearing when a few other people entered the room. She wandered the rest of the house, marveling that a great writer had once lived here. Maybe she, the limping Gloria, should give writing a try. She did have one talent. She played the zither. Often after dinner, when the family was sated with mother’s food, they’d gather in the living room, as Gloria played tunes on the zither. “Do Amazing Grace” or “Oh Susannah,” they’d request. Her reverie was interrupted by Stan the bus driver. She glimpsed those crazy- looking muttonchops as he entered the dining room with its white linen table cloth embroidered with tiny flowers. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Bus,” he said with his stentorian voice. “Say your goodbyes to Andalusia Farms, and prepare to get home to Parma around 10 in the morning tomorrow morning. “Oh, no,” said a couple of women. They’d forgotten to visit the Gift Shop. All right, he said, and everyone flocked inside, including Gloria, who bought a black shirt with a huge peacock on it. Nearly everyone was asleep on the bus, which zoomed past a procession of lights: red traffic lights, yellow street lights, lit-up houses with bedroom lights still on, until finally it pulled into the parking lot of the Cleveland bus station. The bus lights switched on. People blinked their eyes and gathered their gear. Gloria gave Stan a five-dollar tip. Her parents had told her to. She took a final glance at his mutton chops. She entered the bus station, sat on a bench, and looked for her father. The old German chap came up to her. “I admire you, young lady,” he said. “Not easy walking around like you do. You’re a real Helden, as we say in German.” She stared at him. “Might you give me your phone number?” “Oh!” she said, surprised. It took her a couple of minutes to remember it, but she recited it slowly, and wondered if he would call, and what she would think of him if they went out. Robert Walton is a retired teacher, lifelong mountaineer and experienced writer. His novel Dawn Drums won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best ficiton. Most recently, his “La Loca” was published in Principia Ponderosa, the Third Flatiron’s Volume 18. He and his wife make their home in King City, California. Please visit his website for more information about him: Author • Educator • Mountaineer Well of Souls Her naked shoulder turned sideways as she slid between two green boulders and disappeared like smoke in darkness. Earlier, hot dust tingled in my nose like freshly cut spice. Earlier yet, dawn grew among declining stars. Abbas spoke beside me as we turned our horses onto a blank slate of desert sands. “Jonathan, you will see today the great treasure of our people.” I rubbed my eyes. “Worth rising so early?” Maryam murmured from my other side, “It is.” Abbas continued, “You enjoyed the feast last night - my mother’s rice with cinnamon, the lamb?” “Very much - the yellow melons, too!" “Does it not surprise you that rice grows, that sheep graze, that melons fatten here?” His left hand swept wide, encompassing rocks blood red in the sun’s first rays and still shaded dunes, pale as moonlight. My eyes followed the gesture. “Water flows from the Well of Souls even in dry years like this one. It flows beneath the earth through ancient ways to our fields. We could not live here in the sand sea without it.” Abbas lowered his hand. “Is it guarded?” He rubbed his dusty beard, now the color of twilight clouds. “Of course. Soldiers patrol far into the desert.” Maryam nodded. “Though the women of the well sometimes wander far.” “Women of the well?” I asked. “Bah!” snorted Abbas, “My little sister spouts an old wives’ tale!” Maryam shook her head. No, Abbas, it is women’s tears - tears of both joy and sorrow - which bring back the rains." Abbas muttered, “Bah!” Our ride ended at midday before three hills, round as mares’ bellies. “Abbas?” “Yes?” “The entrance is near?” “It is hidden." His dark eyes searched ahead. "Those rocks to the left are our guidepost. Come.” He jiggled his reins. Dust yellow as cardamom billowed from beneath the horses’ hooves as we hobbled them in the shade of two sandstone slabs leaning together. Maryam scampered ahead of us into a slit in the hillside. I followed Abbas into the opening. Coolness enfolded me. Pools stair-stepped away into a cavern’s depths. Waters trickled from one to another like words meandering from grandmothers' lips. Sunlight swords struck through crevices far above. One stabbed the farthest, greatest pool, made it bleed molten silver. Maryam’s voice chimed like distant bells, “This way!” Abbas shouted, “Wait for us!” She looked back, her eyes teasing like starlight on a midnight sea. "Wait, Maryam!" She cast off her robe and ran. Abbas called again, “Wait!” Her naked shoulder turned sideways as she slid between two green boulders and disappeared like smoke in darkness. Gathering clouds deepened dusk as Abbas and I rode between fields green with new plants and on to the city. I never saw Maryam again. August Jay was born on April 24th 1987 Phoenix Arizona. Writing has been a passion of his since he was a child. Right now, he's currently a student at Full Sail University. August has been self teaching since he was in high school. He started going to Full Sail in 2016 and is working towards his BA. August's goal is to become a creative fiction writer. The Mystery Box "Hold on I'm coming!" I yelled as I jogged to the door buttoning my pants. Why does someone always come by at the worst time? I opened the door and was met by my driveway and an empty street. No one was there, except for a weird box on my door step. I walked into the street across from my house. I scanned to see if I could see anyone. There was a person with a backpack on a sports bike, pedaling as fast as they could. "Hey!" I shouted, and as soon as the words left my lips, they turned the street corner and vanished. I walked back to my occupied front porch and picked up the box. The box was dark navy blue with a silver trim. At first I thought the surface was leather but, it felt tougher. It felt like it was made from some kind of lizard skin. The craftmanship was beautiful, like something out of a medieval fantasy novel. On the front were three closed latches keeping anyone from opening it, no keyhole in sight. I walked in the kitchen and placed the box on the table. Despite its size (which was about the size of my torso) it weighed almost nothing. Jamie was undoubtedly responsible for this thing. He was always buying these renaissance novelties, he must’ve ordered something before the...split. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of it. It really was a cool box, the way the sun gleamed on its surface almost made it look alive. Jaime never would’ve bought me something like this, I was almost tempted to take it for myself. Knowing him though, he would come looking for it, and I just want to be done. "Hey, your wizard box or whatever showed up here. Can you get it the next time you come to get your stuff?" I texted and attached the photo. It wasn't long before Jamie replied, "What box?" "The box in the picture smartass!" "You didn't send me a picture of a box, you sent a picture of a table." "Ugh you’re so difficult, just take it next time you stop by K?" "Are you off your meds today?" "OMG you’re such a jerk! I wish you would grow the FUCK UP!" Before I sent that last one, I heard a noise coming from the box, it was hissing. One of the latches popped off with what sounded like an exhale. Then there was nothing. My legs were paralyzed for what felt like twenty minutes. I finally made a move and called Jaime, no answer. What was this thing? Nothing about that sounded friendly or...human. My phone vibrated in my hands making me scream then dropping it on the kitchen tile. No damage, Mom was calling, I answered. "Mom?" "Elsa! Elsa!" "Mom!? Hello!" I could hear her breathing hard into the receiver. "Honey are you alright!?" "Yea why?" "Why!? Elsa, haven't you been watching?" "Watching what?" "Turn on the TV Hun, please turn on the TV!" When I turned on the TV I saw helicopters, dozens of police, and even the military. They were walking around...something. It was huge and had pinkish skin. Splashed across the news banner said, "GIANT MAN IMMOBILIZED BY US TROOPS". A helicopter pulled back, laying unconscious, sticking through half a building downtown, and covered in blood. "Jaime?" |
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