INDISCRETION I told him to come at two in the afternoon. I could barely remember him. Adam something. My husband, Roy, was on a hunting trip with his buddies in the Pocono Mountains. Our downstairs freezer holds hearts of geese, goose liver, and venison, meats I refuse to eat. I do not like to think of all the grown-up Bambis he shot with his bow and arrow.
Roy and I have as happy a marriage as most of my friends. I do tell my best girlfriend, Heidi, what really goes on. Roy would rather spend time with his buddies than with me. They play hockey at the indoor hockey ring, play ping-pong, poker, Scrabble, and Rummy Cubes. Did he ever think of asking his wife? The other night, as Roy and I were watching Action News, I posed a question. “Would you like to kiss any other lips than mine?” I asked. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “What does that mean?” I asked, searching his blue eyes. “Of course not!” he said and rolled over. What a beautiful body he had! I gently rubbed my hand over the tattoos on his back and kissed them. About a month earlier I received a typed-up letter from my former fiancé. I could barely remember him. Adam-something. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. Adam would be here in half an hour. How many times had I looked in the mirror, trying on this skirt or that outfit, and blow-drying my thick grey hair? Praise the Lord, I am still a beautiful woman at 63. Even my husband would tell me that. He was proud of me when he showed me off to his friends, like at his father’s funeral. His father was a miserable S.O.B. and I was unfazed when he died. “That’s it,” I said to myself, giving my hair a final plumping up in front of the bright bathroom mirror. My black silken dress was filled with birds on it, as if they would fly off to Guatemala or San Francisco. Sitting demurely on my flowered couch, reading “Becoming” by Michelle Obama, I peeked out the huge front window and waited for what’s his name’s car. His stationery was from a company in Newark, Delaware, where he was head of the Human Resources Department. Newark was only an hour’s drive from our three-bedroom split level. Our children, of course, were long gone. A long black Mercedes pulled up. It looked like an undertaker’s car. This was the man I was supposed to fall in love with? Or maybe not. I quickly sat up and Michelle Obama fell to the floor. I kissed the book and threw her back on the couch. Opening up the door, I waited for Adam to emerge from his car. Fear sprung through my bones. Was he crippled? Would he walk with a walker, a cane, did he look like Quasimodo, or Bradley Cooper? With my hands over my mouth, I waited for him to emerge. What was taking him so long? I walked up to his car and peeked inside. He was jotting notes on a yellow pad. I knocked on the window. He put up a finger, meaning, “Wait a moment.” “Sorry, Lori,” he said, as he came out of the car. “I was figuring out the mileage it took to get here.” I snorted. “You wanna come in?” I asked. “Please,” he said. I saw what he looked like. He was tall, wearing a black suit and striped tie, as befits a business man, and he was strikingly handsome. I looked stealthily to see if any neighbors were watching. The Myers’ dog, Rainier, was howling at the arrival of a stranger, as he always did. “Shut up!” I whispered, as I led Adam up the sidewalk. Even though it was early March, my white snow drops had poked their heads from the ground. I also noticed for the first time the green stems of the crocus. I held the door open and Adam entered. “Ah, you’re a creative woman,” he said, looking around. “I’m an artist,” I said as I motioned him to sit down on my purple swivel chair, piled with magazines. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I forgot they were there.” He yawned and asked where the bedroom was. I pointed upstairs. “Go up and look,” I said. “I’ll wait down here.” “What an asshole,” I thought. He explained that he was extremely tired from the trip and wanted to know a good place to take a nap. “Just crawl into my bed,” I said. After twenty minutes I heard him snoring away. I started wringing my hands downstairs. How come things never turn out the way we’ve planned? Pacing the room, I finally walked upstairs into my bedroom and took a good look at this Adam O’Riley. I climbed in bed beside him to see what would happen. How odd it felt being in bed with someone other than my Roy. How I missed my husband. After a moment, Adam spoke. “Lori,” said Adam. “You’re more beautiful than when we were going together years ago.” He began touching me and peeling off my clothes. I was unbelievably turned on the way Roy and I were at our honeymoon in The Bahamas. We made love over and over again. What rapture, what ecstasy I felt. I heard the door opening downstairs. It was Roy. I heard him taking off his muddy boots. “Babe?” he called. I said not a word. Taking two steps at a time, he entered the bedroom, where Adam and I were naked in bed. I held the white down comforter over our bodies. “And who might this be, sleeping in Papa’s bed?” he asked. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Adam got out of bed, changed into his suit and tie, and ran down the stairs. Naked, I walked him to the door, kissed him goodbye, and said, “Man oh man, what a great time we had.” I walked naked into the bedroom. “Okay,” I said, “call me names. Tell me you’re gonna shoot Adam, tell me what a mistake you made to marry me in the first place.” “Best choice I ever made, darling,” said Roy, taking me into his arms and pushing me onto the white feather comforter. We made passionate love for over an hour. “Roy, I’ve never loved a man the way I love you.” “Your body feels so good next to mine,” he said. I rubbed my body on all those tattoos on his back and arms. He was my man and I was his woman.
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Amirah Al Wassif is a freelance writer(28) years old,from egypt She has written articles, novels, short stories poems and songs. Five of her books were written in Arabic and many of her English works have been published in various cultural magazines such as praxies Magazine , the gathering of tribes, credo spoir, reach poetry, Otherwise Engaged literature and arts journal, cannon's mouth, mediterranean poetry, The BeZine ,spillwords,Merak Magazine, poetry magazine, writers Resist, the Bosphours Review Of Books, the Writer NewSletter, Call and Response Journal, Echoes Literary Magazine, Better Than Starbucks,Envision Arts, women of strength strong coutage magazine, chrion review , the conclusion magazine, street light press, many of her poetry and stories translated into Spanish,kordish,hindi and Arabic her children book, The Cocoa Book and Other Stories is forthcoming. Give me your teeth! Once upon a time, in a very far land which called Orshalim, there were three innocent boys sitting at the center of the immense fig tree.
The three cheerful boys were Ali, Peter, and Abraham, were playing with their poor toys with no stop, as their playthings were very old and dirty, they had tried all the time to imagine their toys clean and new, by this way, they could feel better and continued playing with joy. one night, the three boys gathered around a mysterious massive thing. The strange thing started moving from side to side, it was surrounded from alley to alley. Ali, Peter, and Abraham had looked at the moving thing deeply, they were watching how this weird thing dancing and jumping without taking a rest. When this big moving thing shook all the trees around them, the friendly boys approached too much from it, at this time, all of them saw the real thing, it was a flying plate, full of the most splendid, and delicious kinds of the desserts. The boys were taken by the extraordinary behavior of this flying plate, they watched it closely, then the marvelous desserts which were found in the plate rolled and performed a crazy dance, each piece of this wonderful candy went out from the plate, landed suddenly and jumped on the three boy's toes. Ali, Peter, and Abraham became very frightened and astonished, so, they had stopped for a long time, look and look, they waited all the night, and did not go home. Now this long night spent, and the boys still sitting down next to the magnificent plate, but when the sun arrived at its position in the sky, the flying plate which full of desserts had been disappeared. oh! Where is the plate?". Ali cried with fear. "I cannot believe my eyes ". Peter whispered to himself, and Abraham said in a loud tone, "it looks like a dream". The three boys were talking and talking, they were not sure if they saw a true flying plate with a wonderful candy which could dance and jump in all sides. Ali, Peter, and Abraham went to their home, as the three kind boys were neighbors. They reached to their country Orshalim and gathered together in the common yard, then they kissed and hugged each other, and all of them said "goodbye" in a peaceful voice. But the cutest boys did not know the harsh matter that waits for them in their houses. When the boys knocked their doors at the same time, their mothers opened quickly, and each boy entered his house, and each door had been closed. After that, the three mothers asked their boys about the reason for their delay on this night, their mothers would punish them if they would not respond, so, the boys told them about the wonderful flying plate, and they talked for a long hour describing its desserts, and its crazy dance, but their mothers did not believe them, and all of them decided to punish the three boys. The punishment was very, very hard for the boys, because it prevented them from playing, and going to any place together again. Ali, Peter, and Abraham were very angry and felt bad cause they used to go to the wide garden every night where the wonder flying plate was, but their mothers did not believe what they said and saw all this story as a lie from their children. So, the three boys were punished for many days, and they did not go anywhere. Peter was thinking all these days about a magical solution to their problem, he asked himself more and more how could they prove the flying plate truth for their mothers? Finally, Peter reached a good idea, these ones may help them. Peter decided to go to Ali and Abraham houses, as he wanted to call them and told their fellows about his new plan. Peter went to Abrahams house, he knocked softly on the glass window, wishing Abrahams mother does not see him. Now, Abraham knows the new plan, then they decided to go to Ali house and told him too, after minutes the boys were on their way to the garden where the flying plate sitting on the center of the massive fig tree. The boys arrived at the tree, and started watching the splendid plate, they were very delighted because of its charm, but suddenly Peter remembered their new plan to the flying plate truth to their mothers and said to Ali and Abraham these words in quick: "carry me, carry me, we shall get this plate, we shall hold it and show it wonder ability for our mothers to believe us, and would not punish us again". Ali and Abraham were very excited, so they started doing. Peter had been carried by his fellows, he tried to touch the plate which found in the center of the fig tree, but when he closed to it the plate disappeared. Peter repeated him trying many times, but every time, the plate seemed to be hidden from the boy's eyes. They did not know what the logical reason of what happened, however, they could not stop for trying. This night also spent, and the boys had failed in catching the wonder plate, so, they felt very tired. Suddenly, all of them fell down, Peter's leg had been broken, and Ali trouser had been torn, only Abraham was, well, for that reason, he helped his friends to go home rapidly. As the first time, mothers of the boys punished them, but this time the matter was worse because all the people in Orshalim repeated that Ali, Peter, and Abraham are liars, and because of their lies god punished them by breaking Peter's leg and tearing Ali trouser "the god punished Abraham too, cause he made him a fool boy, who believes his friends lie, and as a result of his foolish behavior, everybody in Orshalim made fun of him". Many days spent, and everyone in Orshalim repeated these words daily: Ali, Peter, and Abraham are fools and liars. Peter and Ali were locked in their houses, their mothers treated them hardly, and all people laugh at them. One day, Abraham woke early, and was thinking of his friends, he wanted to prove the truth of the flying plate to all, and the only question which surrounded in his mind " how"? After hours of thinking Abraham decided to go to the wide amazing garden alone, because of the hard conditions of his friends, so, he went straight to the place of the wonder plate. When the dusk covered the sky, Abraham approached to the center of the fig tree, at that time, the flying plate was dancing up and down, he kept watching the plate performance, and suddenly he tried to catch it, but as it was with Peter, the plate disappeared. Abraham never gave up, he tried and tried and tried, by the way, he fell down many times, and his leg had been broken, his clothes had been torn, but he decided to never go home without the evidence for innocent of his friends. Abraham spent three nights trying to catch the flying plate with no stop or rest, and finally, he cried, his tears, covered his awesome face, but also he did not give up. Now, something very strange happened, when Abraham caught the plate, a piece of paper fell down from the fig tree! Abraham was thirsting to read the paper, he closed to it, and had read the paper with wide eyes and mouth, something was written in it, something very weird, a single sentence says "give me your teeth" Abraham's arms shook with fear, he did not understand what the strange paper meant, so he wrote on the back of the same paper: how? The flying plate sent another piece of paper to Abraham, then he picked it up and read these words: "when you give me your teeth, I will be shown for you, and for everybody". Abraham felt fear more and more, but he decided to never go home without this evidence for his best friends Ali and Peter, so he wrote on the back of the paper: " how many teeth"? Then, the plate sent: "one tooth equals one piece". Now, Abraham understood the game, so he started giving the plate many teeth which he owned, he wanted to catch all the wonderful pieces of desserts, and made it shown to all his people After a week spent, Abraham went back to his home Orshalim, so all the people gathered around him, even the mothers and his friends Ali and Peter, all these folk were waiting for the wonder flying plate, then Abraham had shown it to everyone, all the people were watching with stare eyes. Everyone believed the three boys, after that, the people in this country wrote a proverb on the wall as honoring to Abraham courage in his wonderful friendship between Ali and Peter: The courage is rare as the flying plate of dessert few as the numbers teeth of Abraham that he could keep! Greg Davis is sixty-five years old. He is retired from a major aluminum company in Spokane Valley Washington after forty-four years as a grunt on the factory floor. He has been married forty-four years to the love of his life and biggest writing cheerleader, Laurie. He has maintained a passion for endurance athletics and is a life long runner. D.N.F.
He thinks he can live without booze. He knows he cannot live without running. Ten miles into a planned twenty mile run, the excesses of the night before are hard upon him. Saturday night Wild Turkey and Sunday long runs offer up a Pandora's box of ugly. Headache. Bad stomach. Bad attitude. None of the well rested feel-good that should be there. In his lean, taught frame, alcohol and near world-class running are not mutually exclusive. Instead, they symbiots in a turf war for his body and soul. The long, hard running has a purpose. In two weeks, in a small, late Fall local marathon, he will make his stab at meeting or beating the Olympic Trials qualifying standard of two hours and eighteen minutes. It's doable. His training says so. Despite the drinking, three plus years of 100 mile weeks has filed him down to a razor blade. A freak of nature. A running machine burning alcohol as a major fuel source. He has a master's degree in exercise physiology. Also a shit job. Night janitor at a hospital. Nothing has come of the degree. The custodial gig is a last effort at self-sufficiency. Pay the bills. Put food on the table. Keep running. He works on the oncology floor. The motions of work require little of a frame slim, yet robust. While finishing the mopping he hears a groan, soft, yet rending, coming from one of the emaciated forms lying in the ward. The groans never fail to punch through his loner crust. He wants to be unnoticed going through the motions of work. Yet the unfortunates on this floor, the desperately ill, offer him some of the more human moments of his day. Devon, a young woman with end-stage leukemia, always has a smile and thumbs-up for him. Tonight she looks even more gaunt and wasted. Tells him that she has been fighting cancer for five years. Tells him the fight is feeling like a losing one. His response of "stay strong" seems pitifully lame. From the hospital to home is a thirty minute walk through a descending scale of social disorder and criminality. His "neighbors", the junkies and homeless, who inhabit the alley behind his digs, do not see him as a potential touch for panhandling. There is a low-key, easy approach in how he treats these creatures. The lowest and most vulnerable of humanities children. All his judgments are turned inward. He walks safe through one of the most crime- ridden areas in Chicago. Midnight. The day's work done. Let the party begin. Another gray day in a gray existence. At least the morning's run went well. An eighteen miler with the second half three minutes faster than the first. A classic negative split. That deserves a tall one. No water. No ice. Just to take the edge off. The edge off of what? His mind sidles up to the truth. Tries to nestle against it. Then, catching a whiff of the truth, recoils for the umpteenth time. Loses the battle. He will start the next morning's run with a hangover. DNF. Did Not Finish. The official results of the last Olympic Trials marathon designated him as DNF. One of a dozen runners who, whatever their reasons, failed in their attempt to grab at something special. Once every four years special. Make the Olympic team and it's the red carpet all the way to the Games. Prize money. Gear. Access to the best medical care and training facilities. The Big Rock Candy Mountain. Just three, the strongest and the smartest. On a specific day, in a one-off race, three runners will do whatever it takes to gain the largesse offered by the U.S. Olympic committee. Fourth place? Nice try. See you in four years. DNF? Don't call us. We'll call you. One month after the Trials, his lucrative contract with Nike was cut off. Something about performance expectations buried deep in the fine print. One hundred grand a year. Gone. A non-finisher does not last long in the ultra-competitive grabbing of what money is available to professional runners. CEOs do not care about DNFs. Why running? After an implosion worthy of a black hole, why nail your hopes of something better to this, the ultimate in delayed gratification? The answer is at once simple and complex. As simple as breathing and movement. Of carrying the endorphins well into the rest of your day. Of being good at it. Better than a tiny fraction of the earth's population. Some people do yoga. Some play the tuba. He runs. It's the biggest bullet in his arsenal. The complexities are about wanting to be consumed by the workout. The pain of oxygen debt, something the body recoils from, must be embraced. At eighty minutes of a two hour run, the cumulative effort demands your complete attention. This is where the stresses, bad thoughts, and disappointments bleed away. Nothing matters but what is going on here, right in this moment. The ultimate paradox. By drawing yourself inward, your world expands. Effort, diamond-hard effort, plus focus equals oblivion. Sunshine and a monster headache greet him the next day. At sixty minutes of a ninety minute workout, the morning's repast of a banana and Gatorade are a foul sludge in his stomach. Feet and lower back aching. For all the gripes and groans he is flicking along at a pace of just over five minutes per mile. With a stride so light and quick as to be barely audible. Binge drinking has not touched his running yet. Has it ruined relationships? Absolutely. Made him a loner? Definitely. Turned a life of huge potential into a swirling toilet bowl of a mess? Oh yeah. On shift that night, while cleaning up the vomit of an end-stage leukemia patient, he notices that his feet are still aching from the morning's run. His shoes, with little tread left and no arch support, are worn out. The three pairs he rotates through are all in the same state of disintegration. Money must be found to replace them. Either forego his whisky or work overtime. He laughs a bitter, self-aware laugh. Of course he will work the overtime. For all the miles he is a nobody in the panorama of big time marathoning. If he qualifies for the Trials he will still be a nobody. Just one of a hundred or so runners who bang out their mileage and exist on the economic fringes. Earning just enough scratch to keep them in food and shoes. Two kinds of runners inhabit this gray area. Those on their way up and those on their way down. At age twenty-nine there is not much left of his so called career. He's all in. Pushed all his chips into the pot. Make the Trials and maybe start living again. Whip the drinking. Get a better job. Walk the earth with a small portion of self-respect. Add something to a life of black and blue toenails and little else. Ten days out from race day. He looks at his running journal. Does the math. Sixteen thousand miles over three plus years. Very few easy runs during this odyssey. The workouts have an edge to them. A hard point where the easy, warm-up phase ends and the tough running starts. A starting gun goes off in his head. The stride accelerates. He draws inward. Seeking that place where pain can be ignored and a cheerless life is put on the back burner for awhile. The hard running is done. Tomorrow, until two days before race day, when he will do no running at all, the workouts will get shorter and slower. Tapering down. Letting the body heal the muscular micro-tears that are a fact of long, hard running. Not only the body tapers. The mind must be forced out of its long-worn groove of preparation, effort and recovery. Only recovery matters now. The next morning's run gets easier. Physically easier. After thirty-eight months of bashing out miles at or near his cardiovascular redline, an easy day is an abomination. Wasted time. However, a well-executed taper phase is critical. A screwed-up one could trash everything. Ten miles at a pace of six minutes and thirty seconds per mile does not raise his heart rate above ninety. He will do the taper. The alternative does not bear thinking about. That evening at work, an end-stage cancer victim dies. These passings never fail to affect him. Another quiet battle lost. A life snuffed-out because of a genetic defect. No choice. Suddenly scared, he hurries down the hall to check on Devon. Near silent, he peeks in her room and finds her asleep. The aura of fear dials down. In a moment, anxiety, he pinches himself. Among the dying he is still alive. Guilt, never far below the surface, takes over. The next day's taper workout begins after vomiting six shots of bourbon consumed last night. Another ten-miler, even slower than yesterday's. The thought of bypassing this phase and doing nothing is strong. Forget this jogging shit. Despite the no-progress feel, the ease of these runs is vital. To gather strength and hemoglobin. To make the mind and body ready. His musings at work that night take a worn path. Eleven years ago good grades and better running had bought a four year ride to the University of Wisconsin. A chance to shed a steel town background. Athletic and academic success opened doors and eyes. He lost the hard- sounding Pennsylvania twang of home. Disconnection from old friends and family followed. A wry, patronizing attitude toward a life of shift work developed. One thing he could not get rid of. A hard-wired tendency to alcoholism. Three generations of his family had punched the time clock and self-medicated in the low-rent dives near the plant. Factory workers did not reach high. Graduate high school. Maybe. Get a steady, soul-grinding job with good pay and a union card. And, if you were lucky enough to live that long, a pension and a gold watch. His folks knew he would be different. Would break the familial cycle of birth, mill work and death. Would not succumb to a life of cholesterol-laden breakfasts, baloney sandwiches and thermos after thermos of black, muddy coffee. After work, with mason jar half-full of bourbon to aid his conjecture, this bad train of thought persists. Ruminate and grab the bottle. A rotation that has settled deep in his bones. University life and four years as a professional athlete had merely painted a thin veneer over his roots. Nothing thick enough to withstand life's more bitter moments. Nothing to prevent a backward march to the stag-heap of his origins. Four days out. The taper is going well. His body, long used to the steel-hard grind of I 00 plus mile weeks, is reveling in the forced ease of the workouts. His mind is another matter. Denied the pressure-valve relief of hard running a mean, hyper-sensitive edginess is settling in. The six mile trot at seven minutes per mile does nothing except to provide a forum for the musings of the day. As the slow plod of the workout continues, his mind turns back the calendar to the day, thirty-eight months ago, when the mirror showed him all he needed to know about just how far the fall had advanced. A passion, no matter now deep in the marrow it resides, can die of neglect. It is not puffed out like breath extinguishing a candle flame. The resemblance is more akin to the slow, tortuous march of some cancers. In the end, nothing is left but a carapace. As hollow and empty as forever. After a thirteen month stretch in which running had gone from an annoyance, to an imposition and finally to impossible, he had acquired two new friends. Lethargy and denial were now his drinking buddies. Always showing up once the level in the bottle had gone down a few inches. Offering warmth and numbness. Great reasons to sink farther down into the arm-chair. Try to disappear into it like a turtle into its shell. Armor against the world outside his door and inside his head. What does it take, once self-pity becomes as natural as drawing breath, to start some kind of rescue mission? When is it time to throw yourself a life preserver? The bathroom looking glass supplied all the flint-hard evidence needed. In the time between one eye-blink and another, a cerebral snapshot was taken. What started as a bi-weekly shave ended, halfway through, with the razor in the sink and a near catatonic examination of what stared back. The appraisal started small. First the face. Though twenty-nine years old, a diet of fast food and booze caused an acne breakout worthy of an adolescent. A sallow hue made him think of the beginnings of cirrhosis. Youth has deserted this countenance. Lines etched deeper. Wrinkles starting to appear in the corner of his eyes. Hard life. Hard face. A long look at his midsection showed a twenty pound gut hanging over the waistband of his boxers. No longer unique, he has morphed into what, in his conceit, he once thought of as the masses. A doughy, overweight farce of what he once was. The drinking that night was more thoughtful. Instead of the suck-it-down, self- medicating rapidity that brings on the sweet insensitivity, a scrap of reflection crept in and took cautious root. Five shots of Wild Turkey would not wash away what had been laid before him in the mirror. The image was lodged tight in that part of the brain that deals with survival, its whisper low and demanding. "What are you going to do about this?" The road back began with nothing. The first workout, decided on the night before during the quiet thinking time just before dawn, would be a three-mile run at seven minutes per mile. Despite a sixteen month hiatus his vanity, still mired in what once was, sneered at this tiny dot of a run. Hardly worth the effort. The next day started with the familiar feel of a hangover. Two cups of bad coffee and a banana do nothing to damp down a bad temper. At noon, garbed in gear with the rank smell of clothes long unlaundered, he took the first steps of this brief but critical first run. At one mile, he was on pace and in oxygen debt. Hi stride, once the bouncy step of the superbly fit, was now a low, heel and toe shuffle. No fluidity. No power. Sweat came soon and by the bucket. By mile two, with a heart rate hovering around 180 beats per minutes, the stop lights of this urban run provided small sips of air desperately needed. Twenty-one minutes and forty-five seconds after starting the ordeal is over. The last mile a death march of slow, grind it out running. But running nonetheless. There would be no workout the next day. Or the day after. Quads and calves, long accustomed to disuse, screamed their protest. Spending money that would have gone towards booze, he bought enough cubed ice to have an ice bath. That choice, ice over alcohol, was lost on him as he sat in the frigid water. Trying to ease the soreness out of muscles that once would have taken no notice of twenty-one minutes and forty-five seconds of running. Three runs would be done that week. After the first effort the other two workouts were slower. A grudging nod to his lack of fitness. The week's total of nine miles was light-years distance from the !50 that had once been the norm. But it's solid. A bit of soil from which more, just maybe, could grow. Now, three plus years later, he allows himself the smallest vestige of self-satisfaction. Whatever else has happened to him, the hard fact remains that he can still train at a high level over a long period of time. This thought brings out a small, but sincere smile. Three days out. The last workout, a five miler at seven minutes and thirty seconds per mile, is not enough work to raise his heart rate above seventy beats per minute. His body, super- charged by days of enforced leisure, is begging to run hard and fast. The taper has been done perfectly. He has hated every minute of it. Two a.m. Twenty-nine hours to go. A drink in an unsteady hand. A hyper-tense state of mind is taking over. Bourbon does little to ease it. Abruptly, he lunges out of his chair and bolts for the door. Leaving his drink half empty. The junkies that are his neighbors greet him with bleary eyes, sunken veins and friendship. They never seem to sleep, these creatures of the night. Their circadian rhythms trashed by needs far deeper than the simple exigency of rest. Movement. If you can't run, walk. Try to move away, albeit at a slower pace, from the chaos that has taken root in his mind. The pace quickens, very close to a jog. Clenching his fists in a rictus of muscular contraction, he slows down. Forces ease into a body spring loaded to the breaking point. His destination is a stretch of trail a couple miles from the urban blight of home. A peaceful place of trees and greenery. He rarely runs hard workouts here. Saving this spot for easier, more contemplative trots. Three a.m. This hour provides the silence needed to quell the static of a brain stuck between channels. Finding a tree to sit under, he rests his arms on his drawn up knees. Lowering his head to his arms, the tuner knob in his mind finds a station called "My isolation. Oh Lordy, how far it has come." Up until the D.N.F., friends and relationships were part of his social landscape. Running buddies, both male and female were constants. Women were drawn to him. Being a good listener, plus not the usual slab of jock-meat, made casual bed-partners easy to acquire. After the no-finish, these connections began their slow trickle away. As he built the walls around him that did not allow visitors. There was one acquaintance who tried to stick it out. More than a consort but less than a fiancé', she alone had the guts to knock on his door. Hard and loud. To arrange a date. To "air him out a little", as she jokingly but not maliciously said. To keep trying. Four months passed. Running became a resentment. Despite her patient persistence, her doggedly upbeat demeanor, he could not find any kind of grip to arrest the slide. Their outings became desultory affairs. The bed divided into "his" and "hers". No meeting in the middle. For her, months of this was enough. The end came on a day depressingly familiar in its structure. Their date that night spoke volumes. Three hours at a bar. Forced conversation interspersed with double shots of bourbon. At two a.m., each went their separate ways. The next morning, while nursing a hangover with bad coffee, a note is slipped under his door. Its content brief and direct. "It's over. Do not try to contact me." She had grown weary of cleaning up his emotional messes. Three plus years had passed since she walked away. No effort to reach her was successful. No grapevine rumors of where she had landed. No light down this tunnel. Strange thoughts on this night turning to dawn. A whisper of daylight. Cold and stiff, he raises his head. Emerges from the chrysalis made of arms and legs. Having spent the last three hours sweeping his messes into a neat pile, fatigue and a unfamiliar sense of relief have taken hold. A small ort of personal growth flames to life. On the walk back, he breathes on this ember with shallow, gentle breaths. It is seven a.m. Twenty-four hours to go. Back home, sleep is the issue. There will be no work this evening. Playing every ace he has to hit race day fit and refreshed. Undressing, he spies the half-finished drink. In the fine, generations old tradition of family self-medicating, he slams the booze down in one long gulp. Three ounces of straight spirits. Bed time. Two p.m. Awake after six hours of troubled sleep. A quick look out the window shows the weather is continuing to be clear and cool. The edginess is riding him hard. Like an addict going off the junk, nine days without a hard run has left him unable to sit still or hold a thought in his head. Time for the day before race ritual of checking out the gear to be used. Starting with the shoes, he notices again that the insole of his left shoe is broken down. Taking a phone book and opening it to the middle, he cuts out an outline of his foot a quarter of an inch thick. Wraps it in two layers of duct tape. A crude but adequate cushion is the best that can be done. Looking at it, a bitter laugh escapes him. Like the boozing, the cushion is a bad patch to a worse problem. After a late afternoon carbo-load of lightly sauced pasta and three glasses of Gatorade, he lies down and tries to tame a body in a fever-pitch of readiness. Breathing deep and slow, a bit of tension is released. Working from the shoulders down, he wills relaxation into the large muscles of arms, back and legs, Calm for the first time today, he nods to sleep. Eight p.m. Lying atop a bed that hasn't been made in a week, he does a quick physical exam. Quads okay. Calves okay. Shoulders stiff but not a problem. Now for one more snack and a short walk. Try to damp down the pre-race jitters. There will be no brave "I won't drink tonight" moment. Back from his amble, his hand grips the jar hard enough to make wrist tendons ache. The bourbon, dark amber, has already started to melt the ice cubes. The taste of it is at once repulsive and craved. Letting the booze slide down his throat, he again commits the act so loathed for its lack of self-discipline. Along with a slight rising nausea, the burning and numbing so sought and needed start. Happy hour had begun. Midnight. Four hours of cogitation has left him tired and with a headache. On this night, some quiet thoughts of crawling back to this point of superb fitness would have been in order. Instead the ogre that lives down inside him begins its whispering. Telling him that he is a screw- up. A whiner who hasn't the guts to pull himself np. I need some help he thinks. Something, during the race, to remind me of why I'm doing this. Taking out his pen knife, he scratches DNF into his forearm. As the radio plays the Creed song, "My Own Prison", blood seeps onto the floor. Minutes pass. He takes his cleanest dirty towel and dabs the blood away. Reminding him of a cheap jailhouse tattoo, it will ride with him today. Four forty five a.m. Awake and nervy. Heading out the door, he is greeted by junkie Ray, the oldest and therefore the strongest of these miscreants. Reaching into his pocket, Ray pulls out a crumpled dollar bill. Blowing a bit of meth off it, he offers it up. Saying "After yo race get yo self a cold soda. You be real thirsty then." When available cash consists of assorted change and a dollar bill in need of detox, and you need to get to the start area of your race, you take the bus. With no decent warm-up gear, you throw on board shorts and a hoodie. The garb fits well, sitting amongst addicts and other early riding malcontents. They stare at you with sunken eyes, their addictions singing in their veins. Your quads and calves give you away. Strong, well-formed muscles. The kind that can withstand years of hard running. As out of place on this five a.m. ride as a screen door in a submarine. The kind, if you can keep your mind right, that could pull you to the finish line faster than the Trials qualifying time. Aloof and alone. One hour before start time. Jogging easy up a side street a block away from the marshaling area, his mind starts to drift. "Bad discipline" he thinks. Now is the time for drawing inward. For the melding of mental focus and physical energies. To ask the most crucial questions. How are your guts today? Are you ready to run the redline? That place where the pain of oxygen debt makes a mockery of rational thought. Where a body wallows in extreme glycogen depletion. He centers his thoughts. Answers the question. On this day, which so much is riding, of course he will run the redline. This is a small, local race. Maybe 500 runners. One starting line. One gun. One big happy family ambling off down the road seeking their goals. Nobody notices the thin, intense guy decked out in frayed dry-lite shirt and shorts. For him today is a one-off shot at improving a life of too much drinking, Top Ramen and an armpit of an apartment. There will be victory. He will cross the finish line first. His practiced eye tells him no one else running today has the chops to challenge the Trials qualifying standard. Winning without beating the standard would be a big, fat nothing-burger. Buck-naked last with the standard would be everything. With no other runners in his league, today it will be a long, way out in front time trial. Discipline will be crucial. Also keen focus and the shutting out of everything extraneous. Glance at your Timex and dole out your energy reserves like a miser with his pennies. Your world will be the width of your body. Not much to do in the twenty minutes left till the gun goes off. Keep moving. Go to the start line with a pulse rate of 120 beats per minute. Optimal for a strong first couple of miles. Out on the bare periphery of his awareness the fitness fair is hawking the latest shirt, shorts and shoes combos. Well-meaning but naive athletes will wear these brand new items today. Looking great while their quads and feet get pounded into jelly. Ten minutes left. First call to move to the start line. The worst time. Shut down the doubts and retie your shoes for the tenth time. Try to keep the dial on your nervous energy down low. Some folks already staking out their territory just behind the line. He shoulders his way to the front. Past moms with jogging strollers, teenage cross country runners and old guys in sleeveless, salty shirts. Three minutes. Pull off the warm-ups. The cool autumn air puts the final charge in his system. Make sure your watch is in stopwatch mode. Check the pace goals scribbled on your arm. Try not to doubt what is written down. Don't' lose your nerve. Don't recalculate. Remember the countless miles. The killer workouts. The bleak, early days of the road back. When a five-mile run was a victory. One minute. Everyone around him is getting pumped up and vocaL He can see the starter approaching. Lean forward, one foot just behind the line. Settle in and wait for the release of the gun. Five minutes and fifteen seconds per mile. Run one, repeat twenty-five times. These numbers are burned into his being. Far more than a goal, they are a gateway to something better. Something earned. The ability to run at this pace is paid for through a stark, unyielding learning curve. The curve allows for no pretenders of wannabes. This gateway will only stay open through nerve and grit. Three of what could have been his best years of training and competition have been washed away by alcohol. Today's effort could bring him close to what he once was. And close, like in horse-shoes and hand grenades, is good enough. Those who saw him as he streaked past initially thought "Here is an imposter. Some bozo race jumper looking for fifteen minutes of fame." Only when the aid station attendants started calling back and forth did they realize the same race number kept appearing. Somebody, with a quick, powerful stride was running at a speed these small marathons rarely see. His awareness so turned inward the effort was discernible only in a distant corner of his being. He ran past mile markers, check points and aid stations. Past years of disappointment and self-loathing. Past the drinking, the denials and the day labor. All this acquired baggage he left by the side of the road. Like so many gasping, defunct runners. There was a vague perception of crossing the finish line. His eyes, glancing upward at the auto-timer, took in a time over two minutes faster than he needed. From a long ignored, rational fragment of his brain comes the thought that now the exertion bill must be paid in full. Oxygen debt, ignored and shoved aside, screamed its existence. With his vision graying at the edges, on legs just able to support him, he wobbles away from the line. Up ahead was a table with water and Gatorade. Up ahead are the Trials. Finish plus twenty minutes. High fives and people he doesn't know congratulating him. Thirty ounces of liquid replenishment have gone down and stayed down. The shock of the effort is still deep in his musculature. Everyone wants to know who is this dude? And why has he graced this small marathon with a monster run. A race official appears and glad-hands him in a most vigorous and intrusive manner. Says he has qualified for the Trials. Says he is the first runner from this small race to do so. Says blah, blah, blah. Like there isn't a profound, visceral realization of what just went down. While this mucky-muck continues to beat his gums, the exhausted athlete puts on his best thousand-yard stare. Gives a terse thank you and wanders off to get a banana. Finding a corner removed from the finish line noise, he sits cross-legged with fruit and water at his side. Time to lean the head back, close eyes and breathe deep and slow. Tune out the vocal hum. Slow down the pulse rate and let the body begin healing. After a few minutes, this calm reverie is shattered by a bull-horned announcement about the awards ceremony. Sipping his water, he notices a trio of teenage girls, all with slim Barbie bodies, giving him the eye. He ducks the awards ceremony with an excuse about having to catch a bus. The prizes being slipped to him, with another intrusive handshake, by the race director. While leaving, a reporter from the local fitness rag accosts him. Hands over a business card and says he would like to do a "then and now" piece. Immediate alarm. This guy has recognized him. The bus ride home eases some of his anxiety. The swag for winning, a glass sculpture of a runner in high bouncy mid-stride and a two hundred dollar gift card from a fitness retailer, rests on the seat beside him. His glance falls on this bounty. A smile, barely a lifting of the lips, emerges. Albeit at a very low level, he is once again a professional athlete. He arrives at the stop near home. A block away is a Seven-Eleven. Remembering the gift from junkie Ray, he treats himself to a cold soda. The thought comes hard and sweet. A hard core addict cares more about me than most of the populace of an indifferent world. Home. After a shower and snack, he fixes a weird cocktail of Gatorade and bourbon. A symbolic melding of what is good and not so good in his existence. Eases a drained musculature into an armchair. Allows himself to absorb what happened today. A three-plus year odyssey is over. Promise made. Promise kept. The thought comes that too many doors are in front of him. Which to open? Which to remain closed? Tired of this existence? Yeah, mostly. But this grounding in near poverty has worked some steel into him. Hard lessons learned. Keep training at this high, intense level? Not for a while. Take the obligatory downtime. Cut the mileage back and let the body heal. Satisfied with these conclusions, he eases out of the chair to fix a fresh drink. His quads bark in pain like a hard kicked dog. He smiles. They will determine when it is time to work hard again. What happens tomorrow? The easy part of his lodestar is done,. You do feel better about you? Somewhat. Wake up in the same place. Go to the same job. Come home to the same bottle. There is work still to be done. This makeover is far from complete. Tomorrow comes gray and frigid. The November Witch, a weather system of icy winds and lake-effect snow, has arrived. Outside his place, the junkies are hitting the thrift shops and charities for enough clothing to withstand the cold. A bitter, late fall wind, straight off Lake Michigan, rips down the alley. Making a mockery of their cardboard shelters. The long winter survival has begun. He opens his eyes to a day of possibilities. To decisions to be made. To a musculature wallowing in lactic acid. Quads and glutes sensitive to the slightest touch. It will be a day of careful movements. Both physical and emotional. A breakfast of yogurt and coffee help a mind already trying to sift through what needs to be done. Don't bother with the reporter who wants to do a story on him. Deal with that later. Trying to remember if the phone bill was paid this month, he pulls out that most august of tomes, a phone book. Sifts through the yellow pages to the "substance abuse" section. There is a clinic not four blocks away. Finding the phone in working order, he dials the numbers. Listens to the ring and abruptly hangs up. Not yet. A late afternoon walk, to help the soreness and provide a forum for some think time, is in order. Being one of the favored few who wear shorts year-round, he pulls on a hoodie and heads out the door. Out in the alley, the cardboard-box community have a burning barrel going. The barrel will be kept going till spring softens the air. Ray greets him with an eight-tooth grin and a hand slap. "How you doing?", Ray asks. "You look a little bent." He smiles at this description. It's not uncommon to walk like you have a serious case of arthritis the day after a marathon. "Doin okay", he says. "Just a little stiff." Taking a few steps, he remembers. Turning back, he says, "Thanks for the soda. It went down real easy." Ray's gap-toothed smile lights up the darkening afternoon. His urban hike, with no destination in mind, heads uptown. Hoodie tied tight and hands deep in pockets, he bends against the gale blowing straight off the Great Lakes. His body states with finality there is no use trying to start this cold motor today. Twenty minutes later, home nursing a toddy, he tries again to sort through the fresh complexities threatening to leak under the front door. Yesterday I said tomorrow. Jesus, he muses. Sounds like bad country music. Trite but true. Too many tomorrows have come and gone. The yellow-page ad for the clinic said, "Walk- ins welcome." Great, he thinks. Maybe I'll even jog in. A connection, spun-glass fragile, is conceived. A union between something he can do and something desperately needing done. The next day starts with good intentions and a thirty-minute jog. There will be soreness and zero-spring in his gait. Thirty minutes done with a low, back on the heels shuffle. No matter. All first efforts after a marathon are more shamble than run. Trot completed, he is now standing and staring at the entrance to the clinic. Fifty-feet away are double doors. Slowly, mindful of his sore legs, he walks back and forth. Eyeing the doors like a wary animal, sizing up an unknown and therefore dangerous adversary. The thought comes clear and strong. This is not the way I want to do this. I will not spill my guts toa stranger. The connection is shattered. Blown apart by misgivings and ego. Hours later, after another three p.m. to 11 p.m. shift of mopping, cleaning and disinfecting, the march of empty bottles continues. It had been tough at work that evening. Two deaths on the floor. Devon, the leukemia completely taking over her gaunt frame, loses her battle. Another rat gnawing on his conscience. Chewing vigorously on a sense of guilt that implores him to do something, anything to take control. Slouching further down in the chair, he eases his head back. Relaxed for the first time in a long day, his defenses stand down. An infinitesimal bit of prescience is allowed in this state between dreaming and waking. His mind's eye sees a single empty bottle. The bottle splits, forming two. These two split, Two squared, three squared, four squared. Bottles upon bottles. The macabre mitosis continues. Soon they are crowding in on him. The divisions go on and on. No room to move or breathe. A feeling of being absorbed into this heap of glass starts. His molecules breaking down. Worse, his self, that which makes him unique, is eagerly committing to this dissemination. Giving up, tired of upholding the facade of him. His screams come out silent. The insidious decomposition grinds on. The bottles, utterly indifferent to his pleas, take every last atom. Adding one more victim's impurities to their silica. I am afraid to open my eyes he thinks, is there anything left? Anything of the mass of blood and bone that is me? With eyes closed, he runs a hand over legs stiff with inactivity. Pathetically grateful for solidity of flesh, a tear escapes from under his eyelids. An angry hand slaps it away. A wee smile appears. "Christ Almighty" he says, addressing the dark muse responsible for the apparition. "You didn't have to hit me over the head". The muse answers. "Yes, you needed it." A new day with one less decision to be made. A single empty bottle, its contents having been poured down the sink, sits on the table next to him. Taking a felt pen, he writes on the vessel. "Dear bourbon. You are gone. I am still here." Outside the November Witch makes her reluctant departure, grumbling thunder as she leaves. The junkies emerge from their cardboard Hiltons and gather around the burning barrel. They smile their dental nightmare smiles. They have survived. To score more junk. To continue lives most people would sneer at. Throwing on his warmest hoodie he makes for the door. The wind, though blustery, has lost its knife-edged feel. Forget the sore legs. Do a run long enough for a bit of internal cleansing. This workout, akin to the confessions of the Catholic faith, will offer absolution. A forum to acknowledge his mistakes and forgive himself. The run is strong for being so close to the finish of a marathon. Eight miles at six minutes per mile pace. Enough for a good sweat. Enough to make him realize that he needs this. Today, tomorrow, forever. Workouts lined up and stretching over the horizon. Instead of empty bottles he would surround himself with miles of running. One thing is certain. There will be no "peaceful accord" with booze. No detente. It will be a battle royal. A kick in the gonads, gouge the eyes street fight. And once you have the bastard on the ground, put the boots to him for good measure. Remember, bourbon would love to do the same to you. He awakens the next morning to twenty-four hours of sobriety. It arrives after a fidgety night and a bad case of two a.m. munchies. Not much to shout about. But enough to hang his hat on. Enough to say "this is impossible". Now for coffee, a banana and a run. I'll probably screw this up. This thought shows up just as the run moves from easy to more serious effort. However, the twenty-four hours of temperance has found fertile ground in the essence that makes him what he is. In a reversal of his glass-bottle delirium, substance will be added to his being. The day's mail brings his time confirmation from the marathon. Also in the envelope is an RSVP for the Olympic Trials. He stares at it. Minutes pass. Yes or no? Taking pen in hand, he marks the "yes" box. A good goal to help keep him clean and sober. A good path. It will not be a solo traverse of this path. A single empty bottle, with a crudely lettered dictum on it, will ride with him. Nerio O. Brillantes is an aspiring writer. He is an adult student of Full Sail University, studying screenwriting and flash fiction writing. A US Navy veteran, Nerio also plans to write short stories of the science-fiction and mystery genres as well as novels. He still plans to become a feature writer/op-ed columnist. His stories are published in the Scarlet Leaf Review magazine. High-tailers: The D.B. Cooper Case Tall redhead helicopter pilot Hank Paller walked along the side of Farmer Mills' long barn. The short blonde former farmhand Daniel J. Ostley walked alongside of him, trying to keep up. "What's going on, Hank?," said Daniel. "D. B. Cooper," Hank said. "Who's D. B. Cooper?" Dan said. Hank bent pass Dan and peaked into the barn. He stood in front of Dan and looked at him. "D. B. Cooper was a guy who went on a plane ride in order to steal at least a million dollars." "What happened?" "He got away with it," Hank said. "What does that got to do with us?" Hank glanced at his former police helicopter. "We're going to look for him." "We don’t even know where he is." "Speaking of which, we better not let Old Man Mills know where we are. Get in the copter." Hank looked around for the old farmer. Dan walked to Hank's copter and climbed into the co-pilot's seat (or cockpit). Hank ran to the pilot's seat and climbed in also. The propellers spun and the helicopter lifted off the farm grounds. "All's well." "With the helicopter?," said Dan. "With not seeing Farmer Mills," Hank said. "So, D. B. Cooper got on a plane and stole a million dollars, and got away with it??," said Dan. "Yep, he hasn't been found since that happened a long time ago," said Hank. "And we're going to try to find him." He held both pilot control sticks. "We don't know him, Hank." "Oh, we're not going to meet him. We're just going to see where he actually is." "Suppose, he's dead." "You know, Danny Boy, I'm not even sure where he is." A clanging clanging at the belly of the helicopter. "What the heck is that?" said Hank. Dan looked down below him. Farmer Mills threw a pitchfork at them. "The Farmer Mills." The helicopter or Hank's helicopter lifted higher into the air and away from the Farmer Mills' farmgrounds. The aerial craft moved forward and disappeared in the aerial distance. While piloting the helicopter, Hank looked all around at the earth surface below him. Dan also looked around at the same area. "Uh, Hank, what are we looking for?" "Anything or sign of or related to D. B. Cooper.". The helicopter lands in the midwest part of of the United States and onto the land estate of a big mansion. "This place seems safe enough from Farmer Mills." "But what are we doing here?," said Dan, the two young men step out of the aerial vehicle. "Cooper is said to have stolen at least a million dollars," Hank said. "If he did, he might've spent it on this mansion or hidden it." "You mean . . .." "Yeeahh, we could find ol D. B. in here, sleeping. Or just find out about the money." "Are we gonna take the money, Hank?" "No, especially if it's used up. Besides, if it wasn't, what would we do with it?" "Return it for a for reward," Dan said. Hank looked at him. "Okay, new plan. First, we look for D. B. Cooper. Second, we find out about the one million dollars. Third, if we find it or any left, we'll return it for a reward. Or else, if we don't or can't find it, we'll move on." The high-tailers walked forward toward the front gates of the mansion before them. In the Company of Blue And ReddI was riding in a dump truck next to two guys: One was the driver and the other was the co-driver. The co-driver was a young man same as I am, mid-thirties. He
had a thin body frame and dirty-blonde clean cut hair. The driver was his coworker, probably, his best friend. The driver seemed to be in his early-forties with a little thick body build and slightly-greying dark hair. He was clean-cut, too. "Where're you going?" Said the driver. He kept his eyes on the road, while he asked. "Uh, northwest," I said. "We're going that direction, too," the co-driver said. "Kind of." "I'm Blue Retton. This is my business partner, Redd Puller." Blue was still driving. "You're Blue and he's Redd?" I said to the two of them. "That's right. Sounds funny, doesn't it??". Blue sounded serious. "Say, what's your name?" "It's Whiley Jones," I said to Blue and Redd. "Whiley? Not Whitey," Blue said. Like Wiley E. Coyote," Redd said. "Yes, but there's an 'h' in the spelling." Blue suddenly stopped driving their dump truck. He glanced at his sideview mirror. I didn't hear any siren, but a highway police officer appeared at Blue's side of the truck. "Any problem, officer?" "You boys heading anywhere?" Blue, Redd, and I looked at each other. Blue looked back at the highway officer. "Just Northwest-South," Blue said to the officer. "Don't leave any farther than that," the officer said and disappeared, walking back to his patrol car. Blue looked at Redd and I, and said "He must like dump truck business es.". Mehreen Ahmed is an internationally acclaimed author. Her books, The Pacifist, is "Drunken Druid The Editors' Choice for June 2018", and Jacaranda Blues,"The Best of Novels for 2017 - by Novel Writing Festival. Her flash fiction, "The Portrait" chosen to be broadcast by Immortal Works, Flash Fiction Friday, 2018. Cambridge University Press,Scarlet Leaf Review,Twelve House Publisher, USA,The World of Myth Magazine, Literary Yard, Fear and Trembling Magazine, Terror House Magazine, Connotation Press, The Punch Magazine, Furtive Dalliance Literary Review, Straylight Literary Magazine University of Wisconsin-Parkland, English Department (the magazine currently offline),VelvetIllusion Literary Magazine, Storyland Literary Review, and more. amazon.com/author/amazon.com.mehreenahmed https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5267169.Mehreen_Ahmed https://theeditorschoice.wordpress.com/ https://novelwritingfestival.com/?s=Mehreen+Ahmed https://www.instagram.com/p/Bje8wnBF5Z7/?taken-by=the_editors_choice https://www.abebooks.co.uk/servlet/SearchResults?kn=Mehreen+Ahmed&sortby=17&xpod=on&cm_sp=pan-_-srp-_-xpod The Fountain of The Twelve Lions One delightful spring afternoon of 1203, a Moor princess by the name of Zaida, stood gazing at the Nasrid gardens from an alcove near her palace at Alhambra. At the palace entrance, rows of majestic pines and hedges adorned these gardens with myrtles and myriads of roses in yellow, pink and red; the white tiger lilies, the unfathomable bushes of lilacs, the carnations and the scarlet geraniums were some among the flowers. Most prominent were the roses, flanked alongside and around the fountains of varied shapes and sizes; a posy of roses, overlooked either the circular or the elongated basins, while the tall hedges rose above every flowerbed, setting boundaries between the gardens and the main thoroughfare.
On the outskirts of the palaces, lay several meandering mountain passes leading to these princely homes of the Moorish Emirates. The towering torre de las infantas, one of many towers built on the hilly slopes of one of the voluptuous mountains, served as a distinctive landmark. Visible also were the snowy peaks of Sierra Nevada, or the snowy range in Spanish, whose snows of spring still melted over the horizon. A terrain most formidable and stark for not being garnished with that many magical groves, perhaps, but, owing to the precipices, this view added an inescapable look of sublimity to the landscape. This afternoon, the air was heavy with the seductive aromas of diverse oriental flowers. Princess Zaida stepped out into the Jannat-al-Arif, or the architect’s garden. She stood on its edge and took a few exhilarating puffs of the fragrant air. A sensuous atmosphere infused with the sound of a cascading waterfall, and perfumed flowers, lent an unearthly perspective; the pregnant orchard laden with oranges, lemons and pomegranates. The chirrups of a lonely dove to boot, an expression of an idyllic milieu, short of an oriental paradise. Wandering through these orchards of many years, princess Zaida heard whispers. She listened. They pulled her into the realm of the other; otherworldly creatures conferred with her. She went into a stoned, trance state. Her almond eyes widened to observe elements that she was only privy to. She began to walk. The soft rustle of her green, resplendent dress stirred an inner sense of foreboding. Along this trail, she plodded by the leafy vines over the lofty, Moorish walls to the hilltop of Assabica. Her shadow fell under the Torre de Comares. Set against a backdrop of the court of the myrtles, this another notable tower housed the throne room of the North African ruler of the Nasrid dynasty, Mohammad the 1st. She left the tower of throne behind as she drifted through to the Puerta del Vino, the wine gate towards Alcazaba, not too far from the gates of the wine, an old fortress of the Moors. She trod lightly down a pebbled path. Hundreds of intertwining, serpentine paths, broken midway into Escher-like painting of nonlinear staircases, into narrow flights of stairs without any marked ingress, or egress. Her own royal apartments, the magnificent rooms of The hall of Abencerrajes, were close to the Palacio de los Leones, the Court of the Lions. These rooms were notable for superb craftsmanship. Every ceiling in these rooms was decked with a bejewelled dome and a central star theme made of muqarnas prisms. The motif continued, and gradually merged into the square shaped floor under the hanging muqarnas spandrels. Rooms shimmered with speckled pearls of pink rubies, white sapphires and sparkling diamonds in gilded silhouettes of an unrivalled beauty of an oriental, fairy tale. But she was depressed. To lighten her mood, her palace maids organised the flamenco dance at the fountain of The Twelve Lions. The princess’s laughter rang in unison with the gentle sway of the plash from The Twelve Lions; doves chirruped away. The palace became an enchanted Eden. Then she heard the ghosts again. Their sighs encircled around the cold marbles of the pillars, within its Arabic inscriptions of the mosaic halls; purportedly, imbued in history. The princess began to talk incoherently aloud. “I cannot do what you ask. I can’t … , you horrible creatures of fate and death. How could you?… Is this true, indeed? What they say? Someone’s trying to kill the seven Nasrid princes? Awful! It’s awful! Owwwww! … What’re you saying? That I should pray, not take this potion? You say, do not take those pills. Push her away. Push the nurses away. Come, come away with us. We will take you down an ethereal path ... a new land of wondrous spirits …,” The whisperings continued until she was brought to her bedroom. A psychiatrist called upon to assist her. “Is this malady in the head?” The handsome psychiatrist of thirty years tried to decipher. She sat erect on bed. She looked placidly outside through the palace windows at a melancholy sunset, decided that this evening reflected her own tetchy mind. Mourning became her, like Electra. She viewed at the other Alhambra palaces at a distance in the departing sun; how the facades looked just as tetchy in red. Her nurses stood by her bed with herbal concoction in a silver chalice, gently nudging her to take some. She took the goblet and swallowed the potion. “These voices drive me crazy,” the princess complained. “You might have to take medicine regularly. That’s what they are for.” “No medicine has ever worked for me.” “They will work just fine this time. I’m sure of it.” “Tell the voices to leave me alone. Give me a cure for this disease.” “Tell me more about them.” “They call themselves The Moirai.” “The goddesses?” “Yes, that’s what they call themselves, The goddesses of fate.” “Hmm.” “Why do they haunt me and hound me so?” “You are unwell, that’s why,” says the psychiatrist nonchalantly. “I see these three ghastly shadows dancing at sun down, spinning threads in flowing robes. I hear them each whisper to themselves, and to me.” “What do they say?” “Oh, about the same.” “Can you tell me what these sisters say to you?” “Oh, these are diabolic, vile ghosts of darkness, whispering nonsense that no one wants to hear.” “Like what?” “They are here again.” “No they’re not, be brave. You take some rest. We will be in the next room,” the psychiatrist said. And they left her side. The sun dipped on the edge of the Assabica. Darkness crept into the room. A deathly light is cast. The flustered princess in a limbo of a grisly underworld and her own of the living; another psychotic episode loomed. In that distorted reality, she grinned. She spaced out. Her expressions turned from grim, to stoic. The fleeting hours passed. Another change occurred. Her hands on her ears. She shook her head vehemently. “No.No.No. Go away!” she screamed. Something tried to calm her down. They put a supporting hand on her back, massaging it up and down the delicate spine. Beautiful bones. But it didn’t work. The princess was inconsolable. She narrowed her edgy eyes; silent tears oozed out of those kohl corner slits. The princess wailed. Then she was aggressive and suddenly strong. Her fragile demeanour replaced by an unsightly pallor of purple; her voice, a shrieking nightingale. She rose and stood tall. She levitated mid-air, thin like a leaf of autumn, but dropped thick through like the granite of colosseum. Anyone watching her now would stand petrified. There was no match for this newfound brawn. Stepping down from bed, she began to follow her whisperers. She glided through air, walked over the jaded waves of the Darro River, and tried not to lose sight of the three spinning goddesses. They took her through a secret passage of a garden. A garden, hidden from the public eye for centuries. Under a shroud of moss, the wild ferns and the wet heaps of parasitical creepers, the garden spread sidelong up an old, Moorish wall. In the far corner of it, a creaky, wooden door appeared to be slightly ajar. She allowed the voices to egg her on, as the priceless princess followed them. She sleepwalked over a dead log. Her aerial body rose above it; she, a blind seer of an alternate plain, followed them through the great palace gates, then headed further away into the depths of the garden’s jaded hedges. She plummeted and fell on the stump of an old, oak tree. In demonic possession, she lay there clutching to her emerald dress. Her whisperers hissing by her side. Under their influence, she rose again and saw a portal open before her eyes; a fiery ball showed itself like sharp torch-light through a dark tunnel. It began to move towards a door. Gawking at it, she realised that the dot now assumed the shape of a man. Her lips parted. Her tear stained eyes glistened. Her dress remained in her clutches. The female voices came and went intermittently. “Come with me, princess,” commanded a hoarse, male voice. “Where?” Came the automatic response. “Come. You have a mission to fulfil.” “A mission to fulfil? What mission would that be?” “Take this.” The fiery figure offered her a sword studded with precious rocks, asking her to hold it. She slipped her tiny palm robotically over its hilt. Her hand now locked under the man’s iron fist. Her eyes, a decanter of damp tears of frozen acids. “What’s this?” “ Follow them. The Moirai,” he instructed. The apparitions, the three goddesses jetted through the air to propel her into the portal until they arrived to the regal bedrooms of her cousins. All her seven cousins, the future Moors of Alhambra lay asleep, breathing heavily on the stately beds. The Moirai prodded her. She made a beeline for the young princes’ rooms. Then picked them up one at a time. She complied and carried them out to the fountain of The Twelve Lions. While the naked sword rested tight in her other firm hand, she gathered them, and held them tight by the locks of the black mane. They slept standing; the life size rag dolls of men drugged with opium poppies this morbid moment. She wielded her sword. And in one precise strike, the incisive blade sliced right through their ebony necks. She saw it through, this massacre at the fountains of The Twelve Lions; the severed heads of all her seven cousins, lay scattered amok along the cross-paths of the ponded blood. A job well done, the other worldly sprits relished in the success. At a lightening speed, they unplugged themselves from the princess’s hook and took the sword to release her. She entered her domicile alone, but she felt dead lost like the last unicorn. For this freedom came at a cost; a far cry from peace. As soon as they disbanded her, the pale princess lost her balance, and fainted in the garden of hedges, a few steps away from the fountain floor. She did not wake up until the warm touch of the human hand jolted her back to full awareness. She found herself not in the garden, but within the walls of her own quarters, with the psychologist and nurses pouring over her in deep concern. “What just happened?” she asked. “Something strange happened, your royal highness from the effects of the medicine. We were not here but by looks of it you had hallucinations after we left you to rest in your room. And you did some pretty crazy things.” “Like what?” she asked. “Sleepwalk. You sleepwalked, my royal highness. We found you among the foliage of the hedges, not too far from the fountain of The Twelve Lions. Your sleep was deep.” “What was it? I can’t remember. Was it a horrific nightmare?” “No, it was a delusion,” the psychiatrist answered. “That maybe true. I do hear voices in sleepwalks.” They looked at each other. Princess Zaida held the young psychiatrist in her mesmerised gaze. After a while they both smiled. Whether or not this was true, that was hard to gauge. But the princess’s delusions foretold a surviving legend, not easily beguiled by imagination. At some point in history, those princes, her cousins were actually killed at the same place and in the same manner by some elusive red hands. To this day, it remained a mystery as to why or who murdered those young Moors at the fount of The Twelve Lions. Jonathan Ferrini is a published author who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA from UCLA in Motion Picture and Television Production. SuperhighwayI’m assigned to a county road crew picking up trash along the interstate highway wearing an orange vest and helmet. There are four of us on the crew who live in half-way homes and required to work until our probation periods expire. The crew consists of an obese, single, middle aged Caucasian woman named Fanny convicted of welfare fraud for collecting benefits from three social security numbers to support the horde of rescue dogs she loved. Her orange vest barely fits around her rotund body. She shares the sugar cookies she carries providing us with a needed surge of energy getting us through the day. Lopez is a slightly built Mexican immigrant who was convicted of workers comp fraud. When his knees gave out working as a laborer for a construction company, he was awarded workers compensation benefits. He mowed lawns and climbed ladders cleaning rain gutters to support his pregnant wife and three children before the insurance investigator caught him working and pressed charges. Jackson is a tall, lanky, chain smoking Black man in his seventies who fancies himself as a “Mack” and entertains us about his glory days of wearing full length mink coats, driving his custom Cadillac, wearing gold jewelry, and enjoying a stable of girlfriends. He was convicted of check fraud which supported the grandchildren of several of his former girlfriends. I was assigned the position of “siren blower” requiring me to face the crew and oncoming traffic sounding the warning siren if danger approached allowing the crew to seek safety. Our boss is Deputy Horace who drives the orange county van which tows a trailer including our portable plastic toilet. He is tough. Regulations require we get a one hour lunch and two 15 minutes breaks but Horace only gives us a half hour to eat the unappetizing County provided sack lunch. The smug Deputy is nearing retirement and never leaves the van with the air conditioning roaring. He loves the Rolling Stones. The volume is so loud I can hear the lyrics despite his windows being closed. He plays video games and eats greasy burgers, chips, and gulps down discount store brand cola. The five galloon water jug provided for our hydration is empty by noon and Horace refuses to fill it. Each crew member is responsible for filling a minimum of ten orange trash bags and cleaning ten miles of highway in ten hours. The only time we hear from Horace is when the van’s loud speaker barks, “Pick up the pace or I’ll keep you out all night with two demerits each!” Anybody accumulating ten demerits violates their parole and is sent back to prison. Working in the darkness is treacherous as were only visible by our orange vests and a single flashing amber warning light atop the van. We’re often the recipients of cruel remarks shouted as drivers speed by, You got what you deserve, Losers!” What did I deserve, I wonder? The sun is beating down, the payment is scorched, and I’m drenched in sweat inhaling the noxious exhaust fumes. I have a headache, feel nauseous, and I’m angry that life dealt me a “bad hand”. I know as the day progresses, obese Fanny will be unable to keep up the pace, Lopez’s blown knees, and Jackson’s chronic smokers cough will also slow us down requiring us to work late into the night with the possibility of demerits. I won’t go back to prison. I may dash into traffic and end my misery but I’d rather wait for the opportunity to kill myself taking Deputy Horace with me. The Stone’s lyrics resound from the van, “I look inside myself and see my heart is black” The trash we pick up along the highway symbolizes lives gone haywire. Most of it is cans, bottles, fast food packaging, and condoms but today we found a weathered photo album and a baby doll. The photo album depicted a happy family I envied and wondered what had befallen them. I spied a used hypodermic needle which reminded me of my mom who died of a heroin overdose while I was in prison. I grew up in the high desert of Southern California. It’s sun scorched, flat, and runs along Interstate 15 towards Vegas. Trailer home and apartment rents are low. The major industry in the area is meth production. Dad split leaving me and mom to fend for ourselves. Mom graduated from alcohol to opiates to heroin and couldn’t raise me. My aunt and uncle filed papers to assume my custody motivated by the specter of being paid by the County as foster parents. They sobered up long enough to pass muster by the county. We lived in a doublewide trailer home. My aunt’s husband, Brady, drove a sewage truck for thirty years. His job was to pump sewage from portable toilets and clean out the filthy plastic bathroom enclosures. His retirement gift for thirty years of service was the sewage truck he drove. He was a schemer but never let anybody in on his scams. He was always tinkering with the truck and one day opened the sewage tank exposing the vile odor from human excrement. We lived miles from the closest neighbor and my aunt and uncle didn’t mind the smell because they were drunk most of the time. He climbed inside the smelly tank and installed compartments always telling me to “beat it” if I came close to watch him work. Dinner was fast food, a can of chili, or frozen dinners. My aunt would often slip into my room in the middle of the night drunk. I’d pretend to sleep as she caressed my body with her hand hoping I’d awake and take her. She would curl next up to me and fall asleep. In the morning, I carefully slid out of bed, dressed, and left for school. I suspect Brady was aware of his wife’s behavior but didn’t care. On my eighteenth birthday, I was given a birthday present of sorts. I was handed the key to the sewage truck and told that it was now registered in my name. Brady wanted me to drive the truck to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and then to Nogales making a stop in each city while unknown people attended to the sewage tank. I asked why and was told, “Because we’ll cut off your mom’s heroine fixes. What’s your decision?” I was arrested at a state agricultural inspection station when x-ray equipment alerted officers to the hidden compartments Brady constructed in the sewage tank which he packed with meth. I was facing a forty year sentence for interstate transfer of narcotics. The US Attorney was a kind woman nearing retirement. She offered me a plea deal if I flipped on Brady. I wouldn’t rat because my aunt and uncle would cut mom off from her heroin. I was a first time offender and the US Attorney knew I was protecting my mother. She took pity on me and recommended to the judge I receive the minimum five year sentence. The judge told me I’d be young enough to begin a “normal” life after prison. Guys like me couldn’t live a “normal life” because we never had one. After sentencing, the US Attorney approached me saying, “Timmy, don’t let the past dictate your future.” Drivers routinely throw garbage at us. Lopez was hit by a full diaper and Jackson was hit in the head by a vanilla milkshake. They were humiliated. Deputy Horace is napping despite the resounding Stones lyrics, “I see a line of cars and they're all painted black… I see people turn their heads and quickly look away” Fanny was quick to aid Lopez and Jackson. She tapped on the window jarring Deputy Horace awake. Although I resented Fanny for slowing down the crew, I sympathized with her because she was subjected to vicious daily taunts from drivers about her weight. She politely requested towels and water to clean up Lopez and Jackson but Deputy Horace only threw a dirty towel at her and closed his window. Fanny did her best to clean them up using the dirty towel and the last of the water in the five gallon container. The humiliation from the thrown garbage served to motivate the crew to finish before dark and get home to forget about the day. Fanny struggled to keep up the pace. Jackson’s cough worsened and he spat bloody mucous. Lopez was hobbling with both knees ready to blow out. Jackson whispered, “Timmy, come check this out!” The crew was standing above a smelly trash bag. It wasn’t uncommon to find decaying pets but as we examined the bag, it split open revealing a stillborn baby girl. I ran to Deputy Horace to report the finding. He rolled down the window and I was engulfed by the cool air-conditioning. He said, “Bury it and forget you ever saw it. I don’t want the paperwork and you don’t want the demerits!” He closed the window and returned to his video game and I returned to the crew with the instruction. Lopez was kneeling and reciting a Catholic prayer in Spanish. Fanny was cradling the baby doll we found. Jackson had located the most serene location he could find under a California pepper tree which would provide shade over the unmarked grave we dug. Something snapped in me. My childhood and the job was like moving through the stages of purgatory and the final stage before entering hell was finding a baby in a trash bag with orders to bury it alongside the highway to avoid “paperwork” and “demerits”. I was ready to end my misery and take Deputy Horace with me. It was a typical week of long days and nights but at dusk one evening, I noticed two cars racing each other. One of them split off into the adjoining lane cutting off a semi truck trailer which clipped the racing car sending it across the highway slammed by oncoming traffic but the semi truck trailer was out of control and heading directly towards us. It was my opportunity to end my misery as the semi would kill us all. My finger quivered on the trigger of the warning horn. I had come to respect my crew as friends and knew they had loved ones to return to after probation. Although I had nobody waiting for me, I recalled what the judge told me and I sounded the warning horn. Lopez hobbled slowly and Fanny was too slow to avoid the oncoming semi but with the help of Jackson, we dragged them both into the safety of the culvert seconds before the semi slammed into the orange van. Deputy Horace didn’t hear the warning horn and the van was crushed into a metal ball and sent rolling onto the highway leaving behind a trail of blood. Traffic came to a sudden halt. A chorus of horns from frustrated drivers is drowning out the sirens of rescue vehicles approaching the carnage. The people racing by us day after day with contempt, pity, or sadistic pleasure for our plight were now glued to their cell phones, and possibly, confronting their own mortality and meaningless lives. Jackson muttered, “You got what you deserve, Losers.” We discarded our orange vests and helmets wondering down the highway towards a fate unknown but united in the belief “our pasts wouldn’t dictate our futures”. From a distance, I could hear the Stones lyrics still playing inside the crushed van, “I have to turn my head until my darkness goes…
If I look hard enough into the settin' sun My love will laugh with me before the mornin' comes” Scott Binnings is currently enrolled in the BFA program for Creative Writing for Entertainment with Full Sail University. Binnings has worked as a Usability Tester for a Virtual Reality startup in The Bay Area called Nomadic. He independently operated and tested a VR studio and his documentation became the source material for engineer testing and Standard Operating Procedures. He has also provided Technical Support and assisted with Sales, Customer Retention, Customer Service, and Fraud Analysis for large inbound call centers at large companies like Apple, Cox Communications and smaller sized ISP’s. Binnings has worked as a telephone interviewer for the Gallup Organization and has conducted public opinion polls, customer satisfaction surveys, political surveys, et al. He attended several semesters after high school at a Liberal Arts College, where he majored in Psychology, then Multimedia Graphics and Animation. Binnings discovered his knack for creative writing in primary school. He also demonstrates a natural talent for drawing, sketching, and cartooning. When he is not busy with school, he enjoys cartooning and playing drums. Scott Binnings can be contacted on LinkedIn. Angel of the Morning Dewdrops sparkle at dawn as busy bees buzz about the buds of blooming begonias on the back patio of Room 107.
Inside, the radio plays to drown-out the noise from the overpass. This is, after all, the new Howard Johnson’s, just off of Exit 42. “Just call me angel of the morning…” plays as Burt and Connie lie in bed, their bodies drenched with sweat. Connie lights up a Virginia Slims with a pack of hotel matches from the ash tray. Burt turns to Connie. “You’re on the pill, right?” “No, why?” says Connie. (On the Radio: “Mama told me not to come…”) “Well, I just assumed you had that covered, what, with Women’s Lib and all.” “Women’s Lib?” “I told ya in the beginning, I’m a married man with a family and a career and I do not want that to change.” “I’m still kinda married, too,” says Connie. “Yeah right. Two doped- up kids exchanging vows in the back of a VW van?” “Yeah, so?” “Look, marriages happen in a church or a courthouse, not the back of a van. What you call marriage sounds more like a Manson family Christmas.” “Well, then you’re the cheater, not me.” (On the Radio: “Your cheatin’ heart…”) “Maybe so, but that makes you the other woman.” Connie puts on her silk pink robe and storms past the iridescent orange, yellow, and brown striped bedspread, which blends seamlessly into the chocolate brown shag carpet beneath her feet. She steps out onto the patio. (On the Radio: “What the world needs now is love sweet love…”) Meanwhile, Burt puts on his favorite silk smoking-robe, with his initials “B.R.” on the left lapel, written in cursive. He ambles toward the kitchen past the industrial- strength toilet cleaner and air freshener. Fortunately they are offset with the aroma of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. He pours a round of cocktails and carries them out to the patio. He smiles as the scent of flowers in bloom become stronger. He sniffs the air and his smile becomes sour. “What’s that? Are you smoking marijuana?” Connie extends a lit joint to Burt and says, “Here.” (On the Radio: “Your love is lifting me higher…”) “No. I don’t do drugs and I’d prefer if you didn’t do them around me, thank you very much.” Burt slams the drinks down and steps back inside. Smoke comes from Connie’s mouth as she laughs and says, “Oh my God, you’re such a narc! You’re like my dad or something.” Burt speaks from a small opening in the sliding patio door. “Yeah? Well, if I were your dad, you wouldn’t be doing drugs. I’d also make sure you take all your contraceptives or no dessert for you, young lady.” “Gross.” “Just kidding, but seriously, Connie. Do you have any idea what would happen to me if I fail a drug test? I’d be black-balled by every major airline from here to Istanbul. No more lavish weekends, to say the least.” “You call this lavish? It’s Howard Johnsons.” “Name a place and we’ll go. Ever seen Big Ben? Statue of Liberty? The Louvre? Finest hotels in the world. The best room service, but if the money train stops, uhh.” (On the Radio: “I’m your vehicle, babe. I take ya anywhere you wanna go…”) “You’re bummin’ me out. Look, I don’t care about your money and I’m not trying to threaten your marriage or your job. I just like being around you, having someone smart, who has their shit together for a change.” Burt stands up and turns his back to Connie. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars, cash, right now if you just play ball.” Connie looks away. Her hair shines like gold under the glow of sunlight. The scent from the flowers-in-bloom is sweeter than ever. Burt snaps a begonia stem loose and turns to Connie. “Here you are, my beautiful flower.” She looks up and smiles as a busy bumble bee buzzes about the beautiful begonia in Burt’s hand. Burt bashes Mr. bee and it stings him, which blasts Burt’s face with a plume of petals and pollen. “Ow! Son of a! Damn thing just stung me!” Connie chuckles. “You have pollen in your mustache.” Burt holds his hand up to the sunlight to examine the sting. He pulls the stinger out and turns to Connie. “Let me take you to Paris for the weekend. I want you to see the sun come up behind the Eiffel Tower from the Honeymoon Suite at the Hotel Montaigne.” “Tempting.” “No. You, lying buck naked on a bed in a French hotel room eating grapes is tempting.” (On the Radio: “A Goddess on a mountain top…”) “Sure, why not?” “That’s the spirit.” “I’m still young and have my whole life ahead of me.” “Amen to that, sister.” “I mean, what was I thinking? I need to get my shit together before bringing a child into this world. I don’t want it to have to go through what I went through growing up.” “Hell yeah! Let’s have a drink.” “Yeah. Let’s.” “That’s my Connie-girl.” She stands up and they join hands and walk inside, together. Burt flees to the kitchen to prepare the cordials as Connie dives onto the bed. She lies on her side with her hand on her cheek. “So, what does Mrs. Richards think of your exploits with younger women?” (On the Radio: “All that’s left is a band of gold…”) “Bah, she doesn’t care. She’s too busy with her own life. Kids, school, the usual.” “So, she does know?” “More or less. I mean, we have an understanding. I travel a lot and, ya know, what she don’t know don’t hurt her. She has a very nice life.” “Hmm. Sounds lonely.” “Well, you’re still young. Your priorities are different. I mean, ya can’t hardly expect a married mother of 3 in her 30’s to look at the world the same as a 19 year- old stewardess school graduate who never left The Valley.” “Yeah, about that.” Connie sits up on the edge of the bed. “As long as we are clearing the air, making a fresh start, there’s something you should know.” “Oh yeah? What’s that?” “I uh… I’ll wait until you’re done making the drinks. You’ll probably want to sit down for this.” “Should I be worried?” “Well….” (On the Radio: “With all the charms of a woman, you’ve kept the secret of your youth….”) Bob Raymonda is the Founding Editor of Breadcrumbs Magazine. In 2018 he co-founded the podcast production company Rogue Dialogue, which released its first show, the science-fiction audio drama Windfall, in February of 2019. His work has been featured in Luna Luna Magazine, OCCULUM, Gravel, Peach Magazine, and Yes Poetry, among others. Learn more at www.bobraymonda.co. VISOR Rooney has a new job in a roadside casino. They’ve been popping up all over the place since the blast, which is funny because the country (what’s left of it anyway) stopped using cash before she was even born. For many years, they used the barter system, but even now with the new government trying to establish some generalized rule over the remaining contiguous United States, they’ve switched to bonds. Even so, scavengers and scallywags alike show up, day in and day out, with a pocket full of Jefferson's stolen from abandoned bank vaults and dead collectors’ homes. Ready to lose all they have to the house, as long as it keeps them away from their other responsibilities. Rooney wears one of those cute little neon visors on her head, which is nice because it obscures how much of her hair is falling out. Her friendship with the radioactive muties that roam the earth has sustained, her whole life. And so, she uses a little comb every morning to try and hide that bit of her mortality, dons the green cap, and walks the eight miles from her shed to the Casino day in and day out. She’s a dealer at the blackjack table right as you walk in from the highway. This isn’t like the casinos from the old world. It’s all musty and beat up, a few lamps blinking intermittently with bulbs that desperately need to be changed, and barely a color in sight. There’s still plenty of booze though, and a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the air even with all of the windows propped open. The bartender, a handsome mutie named Chuck, walks over to her and sets a little plate down next to her deck of cards. Delicately wrapped in a napkin and tied up with twine are three perfect sugar cookies. Chuck kisses her on the cheek and she squeezes his hand. Without saying anything, he leaves to fill up Harry’s drink at the slot machines. What was that about? Asks Pullman, one of the regulars. Sad sack of shit doesn’t have a pot to piss in and still comes here every day to throw it all away on Rooney’s fixed hand. She peers over the top of her glasses, which hover around the edge of her nose. Scuse me? The monster over there gave you those cookies. What’s that about? Rooney scowls. Scientists have disproven previous studies saying that muties were the cause of poor post-war air quality. Their wholesale slaughter has long been outlawed by the new government, but ignorant folks like Pullman still roam free and ready to sling their trash. You gonna hit or you gonna stay, Pully? Rooney asks, glancing at her own hand. She’s got blackjack (she’s always got blackjack), and he has a jack and a three. There’s no chance in hell he’s getting out of here without diving deeper into debt. She takes a bite out of one of the cookies. It’s still warm, and just the right amount of crunchy and chewy. She blows Chuck a kiss and he catches it out of the air in one skinless hand, puts it into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. Gives her a wink. Oh, I see how it is. Didn’t know we had any monster fuckers here, Pullman continues, cracking his knuckles. He reaches across the table to grab one of her other treats. Chuck laughs from across the room, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Pullman puffs his flabby chest out like he’s got something to prove, Oh yeah? Who says? Frieda, the only other person at Rooney’s table, groans. Will you just take your turn already? I’m having a lucky night, I can tell. Rooney pats Frida on the crook of her elbow as if to say, don’t you worry about this jabroni honey, but she doesn’t say anything. She just grabs Pullman’s greasy fist and, without breaking a sweat, crushes five of the smallest bones in his hand. He’s wailing and wailing, screaming like a baby really, and she just laughs. Takes another bite of her cookie and says, What’s that, Pullman? You’ll stay? Thought so. Frieda looks shocked from the exchange but determined. She gives Frieda another card and lets her think for a minute that she’s actually won, before flipping over her own hand and showing off her patented ace/jack surprise. Pullman’s still on the ground grumbling like an infant, or and idiot (whichever you prefer), and grumbles: You bitch. Chuck comes back from around the bar and hands the prick a pile of ice chips wrapped in a dirty dishrag and says: She may look old, but she sure as heck bites. Rooney laughs and laughs. She kisses Chuck on his mouth, even though half of his lips are gone, and runs her fingers through his patchy hair. Asks Pullman: Who’s the monster now? TULIP There is a nursery at the end of the world. Only, it really isn’t the end of the world. Everybody acts like it’s the end of the world, and there was a lot of killing there for a few decades, but things are starting to even out. The weather’s still a mess and nobody really trusts each other anymore, not even the elected officials in the new government, but if some jamoke can open up a nursery in Topeka, Kansas and stay in business after a nuclear war, that must mean we’re all doing something right.
The nursery is one of Rooney’s favorite places to visit. The flora is all brand new. Radioactive variants of what they might have looked like in the old world, Eustace’s world, that is. Her mother isn’t one for flowers, so Rooney isn’t ever quite sure what she’s looking at on account of the fact that she never got that kind of education, but she still thinks they’re pretty. Gigantic reds and blues and greens and pinks and yellows cover the place from floor to ceiling, stretching themselves this way and that to maximize their exposure to the sun in the hot January weather. The girl who works here is pleasant. She keeps small flowers tucked behind her ears and is constantly repotting plants. Her father owns the place, a massive jelly doughnut of a man with one arm and a permanent scowl. Whenever he’s around she puts on a stony disposition to match his composure and lets it drop the second he’s out of earshot again. She must be in her early thirties. Rooney doesn’t just come here for the flowers. What kind of plant would you give someone for their birthday? Rooney asks, running her fingers along the slick bark of a hybrid rose tree. The girl stops what she’s doing and looks at Rooney with a warm smile. She tucks a strand of her brown hair behind her ear and rubs her chin, thinking. Tulips. Oh yeah? She comes out from behind her counter, nodding and walking to the other side of the hot greenhouse. Rooney follows, feeling the mist of the overhead hoses spritz the plants around her and momentarily cools off. They come upon a flower that’s at least four feet high, with a stem as thick as her forearm. Its petals are a deep purple with splotches of blue and orange. It looks almost like it’s been painted, like its a sculpture and shouldn’t exist. The girl runs her fingers along one of its bushy leaves. These things are a whole heck of a lot different then they used to be. But pretty, right? Rooney nods, putting her hand on the same leaf the girl is touching, and for a minute, on the girl’s hand. They lock eyes but hear someone moving around in the back, and the shopgirl recoils again. So whose birthday is it? Rooney blushes, not saying anything. Oh honey, is this for you? The girl asks, running the back of her hand on Rooney’s cheek. Rooney’s brain is on fire. If they were alone, she would kiss her now, but decides to settle for grabbing onto the girl’s wrist and squeezing it. The oafish owner barrels into the room shouting: Tulip! Tulip, where the hell’d you run off to? The girl, Tulip, jerks her hand away from Rooney’s face. She looks away and calls after him, Over here, pa. Her father’s wearing a rubber apron that’s stained in streaks of red. Rooney gets an uneasy feeling in her stomach, but she pipes up anyway: She was just helping me pick out a present for my friend’s birthday. He doesn’t even look in Rooney’s direction. How many goddamn times do I have to tell you not to leave the counter unattended? Tulip quickly walks back to the register, nodding profusely. Of course, dad. I was only away for a second, but… Did I ask you how long you were away? What if those damn muties came back? Who’d have warded them off? He makes a gagging sound, those freaks make me sick. Rooney feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. There’s no reason to be so insensitive, sir. Your daughter is kind, and if you really took a second to think about it, all these plants you have here are exactly like those muties outside. The pig actually turns to look at her this time. He doesn’t emote for a second, but instead extends his arm and points one gnarled finger at the door. Get out. Tulip tries to hide a frown. Says: Aw, dad, you’re being harsh. Don’t you have something you were trying to finish in the back? His face turns as red as his apron. He takes a deep breath before screaming: I SAID GET OUT. Rooney stares him down. She gathers herself and walks toward the door, dropping a scrap of paper with her address on it on the countertop as she walks by. Tulip mouths the words I’m sorry to her, but she shakes her head. She’s just fine, and it certainly won’t be the last Tulip sees of her, at least not yet. The bell rings on the door as she opens it to leave. She takes a deep breath of the warm midwestern air and heads off in the direction of the noonday sun. Andres Calzadilla discovered his passion for writing fiction at a young age and began writing short stories, as well as creating entire worlds for those stories. This eventually led him to pursue a career at Full Sail University, where he continues to work towards his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Other interests of his include reading, video games, and movies. He currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. FLASH FICTION STORY
It’s a dark, grim Winter night. I’d been walking on the side of the road for what feels like forever through the cold of Maine, wearing the most raggedy clothes. The only thing I have with me is my backpack that’s only filled with the bare essentials, and even then, it still weighs as if I have a bunch of cinder blocks stuffed in there. As I continue dragging my feet to the next pit stop, I hear the loud engine of a pickup truck. I’ve tried trying to hitch a good handful of rides, with no luck, so far. Nonetheless, I decided to give it a shot once again. So, I stopped dead in my tracks, and as the truck continued to approach me, I stuck my thumb out hoping to get the driver’s attention. As the bright headlights shine in my face, blinding my vision, I can hear the truck slow down more and more until it’s come to a full stop next to me. “Ya need a ride, son?”, The driver said. His voice sounds very rough and raspy, as if he smokes a hundred packs on cigarettes a day, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Uh, yeah, I do.”, I said. At this point, I was starting to get a little nervous. I’ve definitely worse people in my life, but this guy just looked plain creepy. His hair was a mess, and he had some of the dirtiest clothes I’ve ever seen. I mean, seriously, you would think that he sleeps overnight in junkyards. Nevertheless, he was nice enough to offer me a ride. “Well hop on in, then.”, He said as he patted the passenger seat with his free hand. I reluctantly climbed into the truck’s passenger seat. Immediately, an indescribable smell hit my nose like a freight train. The inside of this man’s truck smelled like an ugly combination of cigarette smoke, whisky, and vomit. There was an empty bottle of bourbon and cigarette packs on the floorboard beneath me. Once I got comfortable, the man started driving once again. “My name’s Randall, by the way.”, The driver said. “Chris.”, I said. We’d been driving for several minutes at this point, but I was still nervous. I sit there in my seat trying not to focus on the negatives of the situation. I needed a ride and this guy was nice enough to give me one. It’s as simple as that. There is nothing to be nervous about. “Where ya headed to, son?”, He asked. His voice once again sounding extremely raspy. “It’s…a long story.”, I said. I spent about the next half hour or so talking to him about my current situation. I don’t know if I really trusted him though, all things considered. As we continued driving, a light rain shower began. The rain drops hitting the truck like little pellets. Randall went on to tell me about his current situation. His family just left him without any prior warning. Just like that. That would definitely explain the bourbon, and why he currently looks so rough in general. “Damn, Randall.”, I said with genuine sympathy for him. “Can’t imagine what that’s like. What do you do for a living?” “Well…I’m actually an Uber driver” “Oh, that’s cool!”, I said before realizing that I didn’t have any money to pay him. “Um…wait…don’t Ubers have to be requested for, though? Why did you just offer me a ride?” “Mm…you seem like a good kid.”, He said as he looked over at me for a split second, grinning. “Wouldn’t want you to end up like me…” For the remainder of the car ride, we continue conversing about random topics and things. After about an hour and some change, we finally make it to my destination. The breaks screeching as we slowly come to a halt. “Well, we here.”, Randall said solemnly. “I guess this is where we part ways.” “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Randall.”, I said as we I shake his hand. “Take care of yourself.” “You too, kid” I gathered my things and exited the car. Once I was fully out of the car, I straightened my clothes out, and slanged my back over my shoulder. I glanced back at Randall as he drove away. Despite his appearance, Randall ended up being one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Guess that goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover. John W. Dennehy is an American novelist and short story writer. He studied creative writing at UNC Wilmington. His novels include Pacific Rising and Clockwork Universe. John's stories have appeared in Dual Coast Magazine, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Calliope, Typehouse Literary Magazine, and many more. DESPAIR Terrance returned to the shabby motel in the evening, exhausted from a long day at the jobsite. A grim makeshift dwelling for itinerate workers, it sagged with a rickety balcony overlooking the decrepit parking lot. The siding was asbestos, a permanent dark blue.
He pulled his antique BMW to the side of the parking area, hoping to avoid dents from drunks. Once paved, the macadam was now a mixture of asphalt, chunks of tar, and dirt. Mostly it was dirt. Ascending the stairwell to the second floor, Terrance stood a lean six feet tall and took the steps two at a time. Melancholy clung to him like his sweaty t-shirt. He also wore dirty jeans and work boots. The building trim and handrail were painted white but were faded and flaky. When he reached the landing, Terrance wiped hair from his eyes, brown and artsy long. A few old chairs were scattered on the balcony. Some had been pulled from rooms and smelled musty. Old Harold sat squished in a chair. His saxophone lay on the deck, and a sheaf of music rest on his portly abdomen. “How you doing?” Harold said, waving. Nearly blind, his dark eyes only looked generally in Terrance’s direction. “Good,” Terrance replied. “How about yourself?” Harold smiled kindly. “Been better, but I’m doing okay.” “Didn’t clean up down at the intersection today, huh?” “Nope.” Harold grinned. “People just don’t appreciate fine jazz nowadays.” “I’m not so sure about that.” Terrance shook his head. “Well, not enough to make a contribution,” Harold said. “If you know what I mean.” Terrance shrugged. But Harold’s eyes didn’t seem to follow. “I guess not,” Terrance agreed. “But this might not be the best city for it, either.” “It’s not New York for sure.” “I was thinking Memphis,” Terrance said. “Memphis would be better for business.” Harold nodded. “Sure, sure would,” Harold agreed. “But how am I going to get there. You going to drive me?” “You have a point.” “Sure do.” “Well, maybe you could think about downtown,” Terrance offered. “More people are inclined to stop and pay tribute on a sidewalk than at an intersection.” Harold laughed and slapped his leg. “Pay tribute,” he repeated. “That’s why I like you boy.” He smiled. “Pay tribute,” he said again, shaking his head slightly. “I’m just saying …” “No, I hear you,” Harold said. “I’m not complaining. Doing just fine right here. Greensboro is just fine. But I could’ve done a little better today.” Terrance reached into his pocket. He pulled out a couple of dollars and tossed them into the saxophone case. “Mighty obliged.” “No problem.” Terrance smiled and headed for his room. The lock stuck, so he rattled the knob and jimmied the door open. He entered and found the room stuffy. Management had stopped by and turned off the air conditioner while he was at work. He stepped over to the window unit and cranked it on. The air conditioner rumbled to life, metal and plastic rattled incessantly. Terrance shook his head. “What a dive,” he muttered. Then he flipped on the outdated television, and turned the volume up. A news program came on. He heated up a microwave dinner, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels off the counter, and then plopped on the couch. The local coverage dealt with economics and crime. None of it mattered in his transient life. Muscles aching, he drank enough to numb himself to sleep. **** Terrance woke groggily. The mattress was too soft, cheap and old. He sat up and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, thinking just another month and he’d move on. A pack of Marlboros lay on the nightstand near a Bic lighter. He grabbed them. And then he pulled on a t-shirt, hanging halfway to his boxers. He walked into the kitchen, bones aching. His muscles were fatigued after three months of steady construction work. His head swirled from the booze, and his stomach felt nauseous. Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, he flicked the lighter and thought about the prospect of facing another day in the hot sun. He had relished the release from papers and grades at first. But now going to the jobsite was worse than class. At least in college he could sleep in. The buildings were air conditioned and no heavy lifting was required. He took a long drag and reached for the coffee pot. Looking it over briefly, he didn’t feel like making any. Terrance poured a small bowl of cereal to settle his stomach. Then he slid on his jeans and work boots and stepped outside. The balcony was quiet except for a woman leaving the unit at the end. Harold’s chair was empty. His saxophone was nowhere to be seen. Terrance descended the stairwell and slid into his BMW. He drove to a nearby Crispy Cream for coffee. Bought two and then quickly headed over to an apartment complex. He picked up a married worker, Rick. Rick sat slouched with the coffee perched against his pot belly. “This car is immaculate,” Rick said, looking it over. “Thanks,” Terrance said flatly, trying to brush it off. “How did you come by it?” “Uh,” Terrance mused. “Got it a while back.” Rick glanced at him skeptically. “How are you doing?” Terrance said, after an awkward moment. “Well, you know,” Rick said. “Morning comes early.” They both grinned. “Sure does.” “So, why are you even working construction?” “Same as you,” Terrance offered. “Need the money.” “Naw, I’m saying … a smart kid like you could be doing something more,” Rick said. “You know, work in an office.” “They don’t hire dropouts,” Terrance replied. Then he turned up the volume on the stereo, and the discussion fell off. He mashed the accelerator and the car sped up. Terrance whipped around the last tight turn leading to the jobsite. Clenching a handgrip on the door, Rick couldn’t conceal his fright of the intense speed. The car stereo blared, and Terrance felt power from the racing car and loud music; it pumped through his veins. Pushing the car to its limits made him feel like he had some control in his life. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, near a lot where a house was being built. Most of the other workers had pulled through ruts into the work area. But they either drove jalopies or heavy duty trucks. Rick and Terrance piled out of the car and strolled over to the worksite. Having a pot belly and stubby legs caused Rick to drop a few paces behind. They were late. Everyone else had already tossed their coffee cups and begun working. Terrance saw Gerald the foreman glaring their way. “Good evening ladies!” Gerald barked at them. They stretched it out and Rick fell even further behind. As they picked up the pace to a slow trot, workers jeered at them through windows and open beams. Some nodded in appreciation. Terrance suspected they’d heard the screeching tires. Splitting up, Rick headed for a trench he was digging behind the house. Terrance went around the side and climbed up a rickety ladder, a makeshift device serving as steps. He went into the room framed for a kitchen and walked over to the spot where he’d left his tool belt. It was gone. At first he thought someone had filched it. But then he realized that Bobby Lynn was getting some payback. Terrance looked around for him. Typically, he was easy to spot because of his emaciated body from smoking too much reefer. He expected to see Bobby Lynn’s slender mug pop between two studs with a wide grin, revealing his crooked, yellowed teeth. But Bobby Lynn wasn’t anywhere in sight. Terrance thought for a bit. Then he went out back and began climbing a ladder to the roof. His thighs ached, so he climbed the ladder slowly. Terrance glanced over at his car. He remembered getting it as a present for graduating prep school in New Hampshire. The brittle rungs chaffed his hands. He thought about how things had gone wrong. Beginning with the girl, and then dropping out of Duke. When he reached the roof, Terrance barely noticed the shingles were damp. Lost in thought, thinking of how his blue blazer was exchanged for a grubby t-shirt. The striped tie traded for a tool belt, and stone chinos for jeans. Penny loafers switched to work boots. He saw his tool belt perched on top of the chimney, and started up the steep hip roof. One hand holding the soffit trim of a dormer. His eyes focused on the tool belt, while his mind drifted to thoughts of the girl, then his feet began to slide. Terrance slipped downward fast. He churned his feet. At the edge of the roof, he essentially ran in place. Still holding the soffit, he pulled hard, while the other hand grasped at the roof, finding only air. Suddenly there was traction, and he began to ascend the roof. He saw a few guys looking up at him, their mouths agape. “His feet spun around like a cartoon character,” Mickey said. “He grew claws,” someone added. Terrance didn’t pay them any mind. He was unfazed about almost tumbling two stories below. He continued upward. He knew the other guys saw him as different. Most were high school dropouts; he had dropped out of a prestigious university, and it wasn’t because of his grades. Then he slipped again. Sliding down the roof, he tightened his legs and heard the eerie dispatch of grit breaking loose from the shingles. He dropped to the roof deck and skidded a little further. Then he got up and slowly ascended to the ridge. Terrance treaded across the peak and thought about his peers. He’d worked hard to gain their respect. At first he’d drawn a lot of flack. He had been weak and limber. But the work toned up his muscles. He learned to stifle their sarcastic remarks with his wit. Eventually, he understood they had an appreciation for hard drinking, hard work, and reckless driving. Leaning against the chimney gave him a bird’s-eye view of the site. He put on his tool belt. Early morning had begun sunny and bright, but in typical southern fashion, dark clouds moved in fast and unexpectedly. A clap of thunder. Sprinkles began to fall, dampening the work area. Looking down from the highest peak, Terrance felt despair hanging overhead with the dark clouds. Below, the workers hurried around grabbing sheets of plastic. They covered the lumber and prepared for the storm. Most had a skip in their step. Enough long days had already earned them a full week’s pay, so knocking off early on a Friday was a welcomed relief. Moving about like worker ants, they scurried around in joy. But Terrance was not enthused; he’d rather put in the time. A lonely room awaited him. He looked down at the soaking dirt. Scanning the piles of construction debris scattered about the site, he took it all in: plastic soda bottles and foam fast-food containers were mixed with strips of tar paper and bits of sheet rock; the bulk of the piles were comprised of discarded pieces of lumber and siding. A few domestic beer cans made it into the heaps. Cigarette butts were strewn everywhere, dotting the jobsite. The lumber being stacked and covered was the only benevolent thing below. With neatly cut edges and the concern that it was always afforded, the lumber brought him a pleasant feeling. Reminded by the scent of freshly sawed wood, he breathed in heavily. Terrance felt humid air enter his lungs. The pinnacle of the scene below was the kiosk in the corner of the lot. Terrance avoided using the chemical toilet at all costs. He marveled at how some workers could use the dank little chamber like they were at home. And others went in there to get some help through the day. The rain got stronger and saturated his t-shirt. Workers below wrapped things up more quickly, paying less attention to detail. Terrance carefully descended the roof to the worksite below. The lumber covered and tools put away, Gerald handed out paychecks in the framed-in garage. Then everybody scurried through the drizzling rain to their vehicles. Rick plodded off with another married worker. By the time Terrance reached his car, everyone had left. Some peeled out in disregard for the slippery roads. **** Inside the car, Terrance turned the ignition and the old BMW sputtered. He pumped the gas pedal and tried again. The engine roared to life. He let the car idle for a moment and turned on the stereo and windshield wipers. He slowly pulled onto the road and executed a perfect three-point turn. Then he headed back down the road he’d taken earlier. Only now he poked along instead of speeding recklessly. He took his time going home. Mainly because the dingy motel room was desolate. Other guys had reason to race home. Some had families. The rest were kicking up weekend partying early. As Terrance drove, the rain broke into a heavy downpour. A cloud of gloom slipped over him. He felt regret. While the rain pelted the windshield, and the wipers squeaked back and forth, everything seemed hazy. He felt as though he was in a dream; it seemed like he was just coasting down the road. Nothing appeared real. A chimerical trip. The car drove itself. Entering the city, it felt like the little BMW started and stopped at red lights on its own. Terrance functioned on reflex; no conscious thoughts. He felt trapped in a void, distinct from the rest of the world. Alone. Even though everything seemed unreal, Terrance knew if he swung the wheel hard, the car would swerve into a brick building. The sheet metal would crunch and bricks would pop loose. His front end would cave in. There would be broken bones, jaggedly piercing his skin, tearing through his jeans. Blood would spatter about the compartment. And the pain would most definitely be excruciating, and real. The dream would end; his bubble burst. The macabre image caused him to ponder a dark reality. If he died, nobody would care. Stopped at a light, his despair slipped away momentarily. He gazed over at some girls in a Honda. One of them slipped out her tongue, glided it around her lips, and then she blew him a kiss. For an instant his concerns seemed far away. He flashed an approving grin. The uplift made his surroundings seem tangible again. Terrance tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of music. The dark cloud of his misery ebbed. The rain let up and the car rolled along. As he turned into the motel parking lot, Terrance realized that he hadn’t lost the dark cloud. Despair loomed above the motel. It lingered there, almost waiting for him. The dingy hovel seemed to mock him. He turned off the ignition. The image of the filthy construction site came to mind. For a moment, he pondered about his working conditions compared to people who finish college. Depression entangled him. Terrance opened the car door. The rain had stopped, but the ground was saturated. Humid and getting warmer as the sun poked through clouds. Flipping the driver’s seat forward, he reached into the back for a large, black duffle bag. Terrance hauled it off the seat and drew it over his shoulder. He locked the car and headed for the stairs. His valuables were packed in the bag. Terrance typically brought it to his room at night, except when he was too tired or drunk to bother. Most days he lugged it to the car, leaving it in the trunk or on the backseat while he worked. When he reached the balcony, Terrance felt lightheaded. He shuffled along the porch. The edges were wet, but most of it remained dry, protected by the building. As he expected, the rain had driven Harold from his post at the intersection. He lay in a chair fast asleep. The saxophone was in its case on the plank flooring nearby. Terrance quietly stepped past, reaching for his keys. He opened the door and felt cool air permeate from the passageway. It smelled moldy. Stepping inside, he cut on the light and walked across the room. He heaved the bag onto the bed, and then he went to the small kitchen area and fished around for a glass in the cupboard. A fresh bottle of whiskey sat on the counter. Not quite noon, he poured half a glass, and took a seat by the window. On days like this, he usually sat on the balcony and listened to Harold’s yarns. But today he preferred the solitude. Terrance peered out the window and saw Harold slouched in the chair. His belly rose and fell peacefully in a tranquil stupor. Terrance gulped down the whiskey and then lit a cigarette. He set the empty glass on a windowsill. He took a few drags and looked outside. Nobody else was around. Terrance got up and poured another glass of whiskey. He drank it greedily, then sat down and took a few more drags from his cigarette. While he nursed the rest of the whiskey, his mind came back to the girl. She was an attractive sister of a prep school friend. At the time, he had been seventeen and she was much younger, but seemed mature. Turning to the window, he saw Harold growing restless. The woman a few units down walked by his room. She peered inside, but Terrance ignored her. His thoughts stuck on the girl. Blonde with blue eyes. He’d realized her lack of experience immediately. She didn’t handle it well. Harold sat up and looked towards Terrance. He seemed to want company. Terrance closed the drapes and focused on the bottle. Hours ticked by slowly. He eventually passed out slumped in the chair. Later, he startled awake with the vision of her blue eyes imprinted upon his mind. A bead of sweat ran down his face, despite the air conditioning. He reached with the back of a hand; his hairline was saturated. Sitting up, Terrance felt dizzy. His equilibrium was off, disoriented. He leaned back and looked around. The whiskey bottle was strewn on its side, empty. He had a smoke. Then he started to do what he’d begun many times. Terrance walked to the bed feeling muddled. He grabbed the duffle bag, slid it over, and unzipped the main compartment. Reaching in deep, he fished around and grabbed hold of his 9mm Beretta. Terrance calmly walked to the bathroom. He felt numb. His body was limber and everything appeared surreal. The walls and fixtures seemed blurry and indistinct. The pistol in his hand was the only thing with weight. He stepped into the tub. Then he glanced at the mildewed tile and the scum around the drain. Sitting down he clicked off the safety and brooded over his misgivings: the girl, dropping out of college, always disappointing his parents. He was desperately alone. He raised the pistol, opened his mouth and slid the barrel in. The metal was cold and the weapon felt awkward, clanking his teeth. Terrance closed his eyes. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He took a deep breath. The despair that consumed him seemed to entangle his lungs, so he inhaled again. The air was thick and heavy. His numbness was a buffer to fear. Then he slowly squeezed the trigger. Click. His body slammed back in the tub. Skull striking tile, the pain was extreme. Terrance screamed out in agony. Heart racing, his pulse quickened. Breathing heavily, he glanced at the pistol. Despair slipped away, replaced by relief. He sat in the tub, trembling. Shaking. A while later, he climbed out of the tub and slinked toward the kitchen. A bottle and a half of whiskey sat on the counter. He could use a drink. Ambling over, he rummaged in the cabinet for a glass. Twisting off the cap, he glanced at the amber booze. He started to pour, and then dumped the glass in the sink. Emptying both bottles down the drain, he sighed. Glass rattled when he tossed them in the trash. Terrance looked up. Daylight broke through a gap in the curtains, partly illuminating the dank room. . |
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