Matthew McAyeal is a writer from Portland, Oregon. His short stories have been published by "Bards and Sages Quarterly," "Fantasia Divinity Magazine," "cc&d," "The Fear of Monkeys," "Danse Macabre," "The Metaworker," "Scarlet Leaf Magazine," "Bewildering Stories," "The Magazine of History & Fiction," "Tall Tale TV," "Fiction on the Web," and "Necro Magazine." In 2008, two screenplays he wrote were semi-finalists in the Screenplay Festival. The Wolves A long time ago, in the twilight before a night of the full moon, a young Puritan colonist named Constant Turner was barricading himself into his home. This was not an unusual activity at the moment, as all the townspeople were doing the same. The difference was that they were hoping to keep danger out while Constant was hoping to keep danger in. It was thus a most inopportune time for someone to knock on his door. A knock came nonetheless. “Go away!” he barked. “Please, Constant!” said a very sweet voice. “I need your help!” The voice belonged to Obedience Child, the local seamstress and the prettiest of seven nubile sisters. Her sisters were named Patience, Mercy, Thankful, Hope, Unity, and Rachel. Constant had gotten to know Obedience quite well recently, since he needed so much clothing repaired these days. “Find someone else!” he said. “I cannot help you right now!” “Constant, please!” she begged. “It has to be you and it has to be right now!” He couldn’t say no to Obedience for long. Against his better judgment, he let her in. He knew he’d have to get her to leave before the darkness came, but how long could this take? The familiar sight of Obedience’s beauty was revealed as she stepped inside — her fresh face, fair skin, dark hazel eyes, and the little curl of dark hair peeking out from under her white coif. Like all the townswomen, she wore simple Puritan garments, but Constant did not think that the robes of a queen could have enhanced her beauty. Surely even Louis XIV, in his decadent court across the sea, could not hope for a woman so beautiful! Constant knew her well enough to know that her beauty on the outside was matched by beauty on the inside. She was not only a God-fearing hard worker, as any good Puritan colonist would be, but friendly, helpful, and cheerful. She always smiled a most loving smile at her fellow creations. Even now she was smiling, only it was a bit more nervously than normal. Constant hoped she would always smile at him like that, but her smile would disappear really quickly if she stayed there much longer… “Constant, I need your help,” she said. “My father wants me to marry John Black.” “Do you want to marry him?” asked Constant, trying to keep his voice even. He hated John Black and was sickened by the thought of Obedience marrying him, but Constant wasn’t exactly in a position to pass moral judgment on anyone else. “No,” said Obedience. “I cannot marry him. He is a wicked, ungodly man! You remember what he did to that Indian village during the war. That was the same night the wolf attacks started. It is God’s judgment against us, I am sure of it! But you knew it was wrong at the time. That’s why you stayed behind with the men building the palisade.” “Yeah, I suppose I did,” said Constant awkwardly. “Maybe you should go now.” “It’s dreadfully ironic that you were the first victim of the wolf attacks and on that very night no less,” she continued. “As I recall, you found yourself naked in the forest when you woke up the next morning. I still don’t understand how that happened. And just a month later, your entire family were the wolves’ next victims. Oh, Constant! I feel so bad for you and so afraid as well! How do the wolves get past the palisade?” “Well, no one knows that,” Constant lied. “You should go now.” “Constant, I want you to marry me!” Obedience declared. “Believe me, I know my father wouldn’t be happy with the match, but I don’t care! You’re the only godly choice! I’m ready to give up everything for the Lord and I can only do that with you!” “No, you can’t,” said a gruff voice suddenly. At that moment, John Black himself burst in the door. He was a tall, handsome man with shining black hair and he was pointing a musket at Constant! “If you think this is the way to court me, you are wrong!” Obedience yelled indignantly. “I’m not doing this to win your favor, woman,” John said with a condescending sneer. “I’m saving the town for a second time.” “You didn’t save it the first time!” “I did what I had to do,” he drawled. “Why should I have spared their women and children? The children would only grow up and the women would only breed more of them. My only regret about the war is that I didn’t kill King Philip myself!” “And how are you saving the town now?” asked Obedience, crossing her arms. “By putting an end to his attacks!” “Wolves are behind the attacks!” “No,” said John, shaking his head. “One wolf is. Him. He’s a werewolf, Obedience! The attacks always come during the full moon, the same nights he’s always too ill for his militia duties. But it’s over now. The silver bullet I’ve loaded into my musket will see to that!” “Werewolves!” scoffed Obedience. “Surely that’s an old pagan myth! We Puritans know better than to believe such foolish superstitions!” But even as she spoke those words, thick hair had started bursting out all over Constant’s body. “Go! Go!” he yelled at Obedience. “Get out of here!” “I will not leave with John Black!” she declared proudly. “He’s right about me!” yelled Constant, speaking quickly while he still could speak. “The wolf which attacked me was a werewolf and I became one when I was bitten! The next time I changed, I killed my own family! I’ll kill you next if you don’t leave! I’ve tried to stop the attacks, but the beast always finds a way! I couldn’t tell anyone! I didn’t want anyone to know! I really, really didn’t want you to know because I — because I love y—” At this point, the growth of huge wolf fangs suddenly made him incapable of human speech. Constant hated the way Obedience was looking at him now — with big, fearful eyes and not even the slightest smile. She was scared — scared of him! And she ought to be too, since the beast was rising up within him and he could already feel its monstrous impulse to rip apart her vulnerable, delicate body. Oh, how he wished he could save her from the danger! That would bring back her beautiful smile for sure! But he couldn’t. He was the danger. He flailed and snarled as he came down on all fours and burst out of his clothes. He was not a person anymore. He was a beast now. He did not recognize Obedience as a special person or even a person at all. She was just something to kill in the hopes that it would help satiate his violent fury. His only concern was that she wouldn’t be enough — not even close to enough! He would have to kill a lot more people than just her, so he’d better get started! The werewolf lunged forward. Obedience screamed in terror. John fired his weapon. The silver bullet found its mark. Tension dissipated as the werewolf collapsed. Being dead, Constant was spared the sight of Obedience collapsing romantically into the arms of her rescuer, John Black.
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The longest night arrives as if everything were normal, as if this street of dreams, bathed in shadow, is meant for us to enter, enchanted, to find a place of comfort here, to pray to a starless sky, blanketed in the absence of light. It’s better this way, easier to forget the day’s list of tragedies, the deaths of old friends, the plague besieging us, each alone in a curtained room, trying to breathe. We are Johah in the belly of the whale. We are Job, enduring a biblical sequence of tortures. We are the martyred Messiah’s procession of saints and centuries, crucified upside down. A lightless universe is ours now, a dubious grace freely given by the gods who take pleasure in human pain. We try not to remember nights spangled with sequined stars. Is this a blessing or a punishment, this quilt of death, this musty breath that sucks us up like the mouth of a New York subway, stinking of human decay? We wait until a roaring train arrives to carry us, masked and dying, jolting to whatever lies beyond the too-bright lights. There are times when it’s better not to see. The scent of fear infects our breath, our animal smell, crowded as we are on a blue planet, shrouded in a coverlet knit from the horrors of a discarded day, spinning on the dark side of the moon. Medusa Crashes the Party I know why you won’t look me in the eye. It’s not the glare from the golden scales that substitute for a woman’s skin, nor my hair of hissing serpents. I do not own a comb nor flowing robes of silk, for my body owns itself, in case you hadn’t noticed. Kings and revelers, I arrive at your feast to turn you into stone. You richly deserve it. You have impoverished the many and favored the few. Children shiver in cages while their mothers weep, and many a father has died with a knee on their neck. My eyes tell the truth, which is what you fear most. So drink your wine, partiers, and eat your meat and fruit, smell the rot which hangs in the air like the plague you deny. Sing your bawdy songs of pleasure while peasants die in your fields, poisoned by your villainous smoke. I will blow it back in your cretinous faces, while your limbs petrify, heavy with their own evil. Don’t look away. It’s too late for that. One of you will die each time a serpent uncoils as one of my beauteous tresses, each moment that our eyes meet across the distance of your luxurious lawns, your rose garden of decaying blooms. Reading Italian At nine, I used to sit at the kitchen table in the early morning, reading the cereal box while slurping Cheerios, then switching to Nancy Drew, hungry for stories to enter me like magic, like those that come to me today in the coded mysteries of la bella lingua. Now, I have abandoned books in English for those in the language of my nonno, which rises before me like the Duomo in Milan, Bernini’s saints in Vatican Square, or coins tossed in the Trevi Fountain. I swim the river of verbs, migrate to the garden of gender, pick my way through the toxic forest of pronouns. Today, I rediscover The Little World of Don Camillo. A simple parish priest despairs of the hippies who have invaded the village. Slipping into church, he talks with Jesus on the Cross, lamenting long-haired youth and Communists. Jesus looks down, reminds him that during his short life on earth, He, too, was a hippie. Then, tired of hunting words in three dictionaries, I slip between the sheets of a Harmony romance, a variation on Pride and Prejudice, with idioms for flirtation and underwear, with vowels bright as sequins on a cocktail dress. The couple plays verbal tennis until the eventual climax, a bedroom scene worthy of any bodice-ripper, involving consenting adults in a five-star hotel or a Gothic castle in the moonlight. These books are my friends, unlike the dreaded grammar texts or verb workbooks, which betray me at every opportunity. These books whisper to me at night, gossip about sentimental plots, distant lovers and Christ crucified, bloom inside me like a field of Tuscan poppies. Search The right word hides in a swamp, surrounded by toads with throats pulsing red like lost syllables, or curls up like the hedgehog in the boxwoods behind the garage which guards the tools that drill into meaning or saw into raw phenomena, leaving a trail of blood behind the rhododendron. And up in the attic the bats write on angled ceilings with the juices they drank from a victim’s neck. Basement vowels creep like mice, nibbling an old notebook full of dead paragraphs, or like dryer lint that clings to the dark sleeve of a Russian novel, a fabled remnant. The cellar steps groan from the weight of consonants, out of the lips of ghosts who never realize that the stairs beneath their feet are speaking in tongues. An old carpet lies rolled at the edge of nowhere, concealing not Cleopatra but the diphthongs of silent sopranos vocalizing up the chimney where, on the roof, dead reindeer resurrect themselves with blinking noses that defy the tyranny of winter- studded stars to light ancient carols for warm-bedded children dreaming of plums and toys. And the darkness inside a pair of snow-shawled boots spews a crush of pink peonies or a spray of sand from a beach in Miami that screams Save Me! into the mouth of the ever-encroaching sea. And the distant thunder of cracking icebergs answers in an unknown language, pulling words from the bowels of the tundra, sending them to the plains of Argentina and the caves of Seville, where flamenco dancers tuck them into guitars and decolletage. The search resumes tomorrow, when the sun will rise like a giant cauliflower in a broccoli sky. Lines and Spaces All morning, I have been telephoning abroad,
talking of politics, plagues and our vain efforts to control any of it. Our languages are clumsy, knit together with dropped stitches, our voices warming to distant communion. I swear one day I’ll visit Bordeaux and Berlin, see my niece in Madrid, drive to family in the hills of Lancashire, drink coffee again with cousins in Bergamo. I will renew my passport, subject myself to the ocean of airline indignities, arrive exhausted at a changeover airport bursting with more lines, security checks, immigration, full-body x-rays, human chaos. I’ve read of hijackings, the mass mayhem of guns, and nations’ sovereignty. Wars have been fought and tribes separated by tyrants, flags planted to claim an arbitrary patch of earth, a different alphabet. Elephants have crossed the Alps for this. Islands and glaciers have merged, emerged and disappeared into seas of fish and plastic. Here’s a photo taken from space of something not owned, miles beyond gravity and greed. Globed blues and greens shimmer through the cosmos, a topography not of our making, turning slow on its axis, sea and land a pas-de-deux to the inaudible music of the spheres. Who wants anything less would do well not to mend walls but lower them, stone by stone, open meadows to whoever’s feet leads them there to speak to their neighbors and sheep, to swap recipes, books, hived honey, to share a sunset that drops a purple cloak on our communal home.
BIOGRAPHY OF FRANK SPENSER - THE LIBERTARIAN PRESIDENT |
My name is Eaton Jackson. I am a Jamaican by birth, but now a naturalized citizen of United States. I have been writing for most of my adult life, aspiring to be read and found worthy of publication. Over the years, a few pieces of my works have been published in various publication. I am still aspiring to be found credible enough, to move from sporadic publications, to produce works that are regularly accepted. |
OLD MAN and OLD WAYS
when you were king dinosaur,
your tails knocking down trees so your long neck
could negotiate the 180 degree turn to the waterhole,
your feet trampling squashing
making freshly ploughed dirt tracks,
to reclaim the old ways
that you think time has colluded with history
to misappropriate from you,
and lock away in some jar
hidden away in some silo. Old men country, riding
shotgun.
riding against the wind, fighting the face-slamming wind,
kicking at the shadow of feet of the windmill. drunken hate rage tears
standing out there in the rain,
spitting hoarse slurs at the rain. white lightening illuminates your shadow boxing,
with time. for sweeping by you like a rushing stream
for inundating. cherished heirlooms rattling falling off the windowsill,
to act on it to charge the gates.
that the old ways are reclaimable. a wire hooks
under the icy water. searching
to prove that it’s a lie
that time
rising like a mist from under the earth
made extinct your family
of dinosaurs.
MUSING ON MICHAEL
birthmarks, lacerations scars,
yours found a boulder to hide behind ME.
and while your high-pitched clown’s laughter
at the crumbling house bricks,
of my eccentricities. And while
the chaos of falling faulty construction, yours
was given the luxury of my helium-filled
controversies,
concealing by the fact
your own crack-filled self-assurance of normal,
on a thread-mill, I flesh out your wild reams,
and your crazy screams reaching grabbing hands,
at THIS at ME. At your neon-reflected selves,
how far out on the gang-plank
will I ballet for you?
as long as you remain with me on this thin film of frozen
lake,
cheering on the thrills
no safety nets
below,
to finally conclude about whose selves,
these projected shadows on the walls of,
moon-dancing across planets galaxies the moon dancing back
in sync,
The quietude
after the thunder, the dusk cloud the film of ash hanging on our eye lids
the acrid burning in our noses,
and in this eerie freeze,
to dissect:
scornful fingers sifting through the distended caricature,
to find Billy Jean.
CHEMICAL TOUCHES SELF
Bending twisting the mirror ‘cause she had to teach herself the mixing of colors,
not like the color wheel says, but making paint to cover the naked ugly
to cover it.
Mirror at a selfie angle,
deft flicks angled brush strokes, re-makes new selves.
Pride instead of shame:
flicks like the tongue of a lizard, up the burdened hue of self.
base colors first, until she finds the shade that doesn’t remind her of
her mom’s thick-lipped mispronunciation of her name
to strangers......to Mrs Scott, the English teacher.
to be pretty as the girls on the labels of her cosmetics,
to bear the pain of tattooing her new name
with sanguine grunts of nearing a journey’s end,
to wipe the cut clean,
to wipe the tiles of droplets
of
blood.
To sit again before the frosted mirror,
veins after veins melanin after melanin
plucking them out.
the implants now like when her cousin did her corn rows in the kitchen
sink of dirty dishes. strands of hair and paint splashing on the
countertop. mother cursing from the room:
“You two nasty girls make sure you clean up my kitchen, Ya all hear me?”
More excruciating to fit in than to pull out,
but the pain like an investment of tremendous gain.
she mops up the place of her discarded self,
re-sists: to put on the final coat of reconfiguration
on.
Her mom is doing double shift at the nursing home and her cousin
is hanging over at her boyfriend’s house ‘ cause his mom is also doing
double shift.
so she had to. to re-do herself by herself.
ain’t relying on nobody. she hums...
Her cousin’s boyfriend isn’t even worth it...
BACK TO THE POTTER’S WHEEL FOLKS WE KNEW
to silence to a void to black hole.
you abruptly did this breaking of hearts
in a bubble of forever in a room full of life and love.
you concocted this bittersweet laughing crying
no grammatically correct goodbye. As in
the last remaining spot of semi-dark
you slipped on your backpack. And
without looking back. You walk
through the door closing it softly. behind
you. Still
enmeshed
in unsafe assumptions,
a room remains. to be jolted
by the fading light of a plummeting
star.
the music the felicity stops
abruptly.
disemboweled.
happiness. scattered heaps silhouetted still, somehow. in the pitch darkness
as an imperceptible trail of light tapering
tail
ends a journey.
this engulfing sense of finality.
friends and bystanders stand
looking up into the void
where the final tiny infinitesimal
microscopic.
idea of. memory of a
disappeared
light.
AMERICA IS QUIET LIKE THE QUIET AMERICAN
Her highways empty. Her off-ramps
Lead into eerie well-lit towns and rest areas.
From inside windows from outside windows:
Silhouettes, ghost, apparitions appraising each other,
A noose-like fear that dare not allow itself to be swallowed. So
Nothing moves. No one breathes. Shallow breaths.
Swallowing shallow breaths. Stale shallow breaths.
So scared of each other’s ghostly existence we
Look through windows which no one opens.
We brace against the door, which no one opens.
The keys hidden from our own ghostly selves.
The ingrained orderly queue,
breaks up like earthquake earth, shells falling of like lobsters
Hissing pans of water.
Hysteria, into anger at losing control.
America is quiet. Loud quiet. Primal quiet. Stupefied at the paralysis
As something primordial creeps on the finger that flick the switch. Up
Crawling up along the elbows, shoulders, up like the underside of the face of a cliff,
up the nose, down the throat into the lung.
Sucking at oxygen.
vampire’s blood gurgling sound.
Scream.
Frozen in the intubated throat.
To break from under leagues of oceans’ weight
Crushing.
To break from the bunker of home. To run out onto
Empty streets,
To punch at the imprisoning emptiness,
To hate something that appropriated everything.
America is quiet. But for the humming sound
AC window units, refrigerated trucks
portable morgues.
An emerging writer, Sharon has been published in Good Old Days Magazine and has just completed a memoir of her family. She also writes of traveling the world and the people she met while working for Pan American Airlines Born and raised in Southern California, Sharon graduated from San Diego State University and lives with her husband in Escondido, California |
Old Man Forester
"Don't hunt in Pamo Valley. That’s Old Man Forester’s ranch, and he would just as soon shoot you on sight as not if he finds you hunting on his place without permission."
Pamo is a remote Southern California valley. Hunting there was a jealously guarded privilege reserved for family members and a few select friends. Trespassers weren’t welcome, but the temptation to hunt was just too much for one avid woodsman to resist.
Lean and fit, Jack was a fisherman by trade and a dedicated sportsman during deer hunting season. He heard the warnings to steer clear of the valley and was willing to take his chances. In the predawn hours of a Saturday morning, he and a couple of buddies parked their jeep at the valley's edge and trekked down onto the ranch.
Mrs. Ellingwood lived in a lovely adobe home mid-way through the valley but had no ownership interest in the ranch or its operations. Just as she sank into her favorite chair to enjoy the morning’s first cup of coffee, she was interrupted by a rap on her front door. Wondering who could be disturbing her at such an early hour, Mrs. Ellingwood put her coffee aside and struggled out of her chair. She strolled across the room, opened the door, and beheld three strangers.
"Pardon us, ma'am," Jack said. "We’re sorry to disturb you, but my buddies here and I have hiked down from the top of the hill. Would it be all right with you if we did a little hunting in the hills around here?"
"Yes, of course, you can," she said. She wished them good luck as they went on their way and returned to the peace of her morning coffee.
Armed with permission to hunt, they hiked off-road the rest of the way across the valley into the surrounding hills and bagged their deer. They loaded their trophy onto their backs and began retracing their steps back to their jeep. As daylight began to wane, they decided to hike over the ranch roads to save time and, by early evening, reached the barn area with five miles left to go. A farmworker pitching hay into a wagon by the barn greeted them.
"Nice buck you have there," he said and stopped his work to admire their hunting success. "You fellas have permission to hunt on the ranch?" In the short conversation that ensued, it became clear they did not.
"Well, be careful going past the ranch house," the worker said, pointing down the road on which they traveled. "That’s Old Man Forester’s truck in the driveway, and he’s gone home for the day.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Jack said.
The worker resumed his pitching, and the trio continued silently down the road, hoping to avoid notice.
Clad in faded blue bib overalls, Old Man Forester was sitting on his front porch enjoying a cigarette before going inside to wash up for dinner. He observed a group of strangers passing by in the dusk, stood up, clapped his battered hat on his head, went to his truck, and drove out to intercept them.
He pulled up beside the hunters. “Looks like you boys have quite a load there,” he drawled. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “A ride would be much appreciated,”
“Well then, I guess you better get in.”
They unloaded the deer into the bed of the truck, and all three crowded into the cab.
"Whew!” Jack said as the truck began to rattle down the road. “Thanks! We were afraid for a minute you might be Old Man Forester,"
A long pause followed before there was a reply.
"I am Old Man Forester."
A heavy silence hung over the truck’s cab as the hunters contemplated their predicament. Then, the hint of a smile crept across his face as Old Man Forester reached into the pocket of his bib overalls, withdrew a pack of cigarettes, and said, “You fellas care for a smoke?”
It was an awkward introduction and the start of a long friendship. Jack could hunt on the ranch, but not alone, always check in, and never leave trash behind. As thanks for his hunting privileges, Jack brought lobsters he trapped, oysters, and yellowtail tuna as a gesture of appreciation. He also left the deer’s liver at the ranch house on his way out of the valley.
If there was liver and onions for dinner, Old Man Forester knew Jack got his deer.
Tony recently took early retirement from a senior lecturing role in academia, prior to which he practiced in a National Health Service psychology team. He specialised in autism, intellectual disability, and person-centred support. Tony’s second non-fiction book will be published by Jessica Kingsley in March 2022. His fiction has or will appear in Blue Nib, Templeman Review, Literally Stories, Litro and Extinction Rebellion Creative Hub. He lives a skimmed-stone’s bounce from Margate, England, and is finishing a couple of novels. https://tonyosgood.com/ |
John Wright Windows Limited
‘Smoothing your night with slide guitars, you’re listening to Dave Arnham, navigating the old ship Melodious FM over the whole of southern England. We’re broadcasting from a temporary studio in Ramsgate harbour – covid-19 emergency, remote working, doesn’t affect the radio, we’re all professionals here. Don’t panic, carry on. Not in the harbour, don’t be ridiculous, Dave, on a boat in the harbour, afloat even – best be precise – so we’re practically a new generation of pirate radio DJs, brought to you by John Wright Windows, for all your uPVC needs, boutiques in Canterbury, Tonbridge, Folkestone, even Gillingham.
‘It’s coming up to 3am on Friday morning. We’re halfway done, not done in, or done for, oh my no, just a joke, and we’ll be together throughout the night, handing over at six for traffic with Marc Essex, which means we’ve three hours of calm chat remaining, a drop of news, and satiny sounds remaining, so snuggle up, settle down with Dave Arnham.
‘As you’ve no doubt cottoned, cotton bud yourself if you’re not clear, if you’ve been listening you’ll know tonight’s a special show, exclusively the domain, not a Domaine, hallo vineyards, the domain of the immortal Bob Dylan, given it’s the great man’s birthday, bound to die soon, how old is he? and that song was the mellow, and the very beautiful, and very true, She Belongs to Me.
‘Not that it’s possible, owning a woman, oh my no, just a joke, this isn’t the eighties, not those days today, perish that thought, and the song, 1965, of its time, the song’s ironic. I was four. Concerns Bob’s wife, though maybe not, all in the ear of the listener, I suppose.
‘It’s all quiet on the Kent front, no weather even, calm as can be, Beaufort zero, sea like a mirror, no waves, he said waving, not drowning, a small fire’s smoke would rise straight up, a distress flare would lifting aloft without deviation, and now it’s time, he said, filling, drilling the hours of night for your pleasure, for the news from our Maidstone studio, where Leisa with an unpronounced e is waiting to tell you about America’s latest blunder, and Europe’s most recent frustrations with the UK, no political bias, no flies in our house, news eagerly awaited by the nocturnal of Kent, insomniacs united. What else would you do on a Friday morning?
‘Hi, Leisa. Good to have you with us.’
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Leisa. Yes we can. How’s life in Maidstone?’
‘Hello. I can’t hear the cunt.’
‘Now Bob Dylan with One Too Many Mornings.’
‘I think there’s a fault on the feed–’
‘Leisa, shut up.’
*
‘Thanks for the headlines. An eruption! Let’s play a song for all the people in Indonesia, never been, heard it’s nice. Here’s the eternal Bob with Shelter from The Storm.
‘Snuggle up, settle down with Dave Arnham on Melodious FM. And once again, Leisa apologises.’
*
‘Tonight marks my fifteenth year, where does it go, time? keeping you company, sponsored this year by John Wright Windows Limited, for all your uPVC needs, truly, I’d use no one else, though now I live on the yacht, twenty-three foot sailing cruiser, 1973, White Horse 38, rare, ketch built, polished, I’ve not much need for windows, do we sailors even call them that? though I have needs, what man doesn’t? more wishes I suppose, and as Leisa said, I met her at a Christmas party once, feel I knew her so well, from her voice, with the news, though abrupt, caustic, as you heard, in person, and as she said later today we expect the latest economic data post-Brexit, peri-Covid-19, so don’t jump, it’ll pass, close the window, wear a mask to bed, oh my no, just a joke, and–
‘We have a caller.
‘Jan – are you there? You’re through to Melodious FM. You’re live on air, with Dave Arnham. You’re speaking to the only DJ foolish enough to volunteer to work nights, only joking, a man, still, just about, who will play a sleek Dylan song soon unless you speak, my love. Jan? From Herne Bay? Jan? Never took to Herne Bay, myself, not after–’
‘Hallo, Dave?’
‘You’re alive! just my joke, how are you, my lovely?’
‘Dave?’
‘Yes, Jan. Can you hear me?’
‘Dave?’
‘Jan? Can you hear me?
‘Let’s move on, time is pressing, see if we can reach out to Jan to call back later. Call back, Jan. There’s just me, on the boat, waiting.
‘Alone with the airwaves.’
*
‘Dave?’
‘Jan?’
‘Dave?’
‘We can hear you. How are you doing, my love? Is it okay to call you that? Can you hear me? Is there– the line, dead, dead weight waiting, oh my no, try again, Jan, keep reaching out. Hallo?
‘And she’s gone.
‘Next up, You Ain’t Going Nowhere. This is Melodica FM, sponsored by John Weight Windows, for all your uPVC needs. Take it away, Bob. Take it away.’
*
‘Of course, I expected not be to here, not in a rope about the neck way, not dying, though let me tell you, there have been dark times, as I think I’ve said before, no, I mean in England, working nights to fill the coffers still, the emptied accounts.
‘By now I had a mind to be living in Cephalonia, lovely, have you been? the south of the island? villa, not too showy, writing my memoir, waking early, making coffee in a French press while my toes enjoy the cold tiles of Greek mornings, chill in the air, warming later, high twenties, taking a cup of black upstairs to Jane, ex, as you know, she takes it black, or used to, before settling on the veranda to work until lunch. Tapping away, dropping names, Timmy Mallett, worked with, nice fellow, keen to be loved, funny hat, setting out the truth once and for all, all the smiley people in the media, sad, as if waiting to be switched on by the audience, made real and vibrant by others, needed, dull when alone, tap tapping the memoir, I’d be, listening to birds, wind through olives, insects, tell it all, from childhood to the Falklands, tracer rounds, helicopter landings, moss, Goose Green, smacked in the thigh, shattered, phone calls to Jane, pain killer, a voice across the ocean, upended world, and on to now, in Greece, well-earned retirement, investments, careful, typing and tapping away, enjoying the view down the valley to the sea, before Jane would wake to a warming 10.30am, setting off in her jeep after toast with honey, local, butter, local, she’s lovely, sunglasses on her head, not too much make-up, classy, sending stones, dust fly on the road, off to the donkey sanctuary, where she’d volunteer, great organising, Jane, encouraged me to work nights, more intimate she intimated, though the audience is direful, nice word, not made-up, meaning the numbers, not the quality, said I’d have the space, I suppose she meant for herself, but by now I’d be on the veranda, counting my blessings, my pills, pain killers, writing, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my computer words, which are only pixels, and odd, fractured, alone with memories, because I worked with them all, let me tell you, in the late eighties, and the nineties, everyone knew me, media presence, everyone worked with me, television, not just the hero stuff, tough work though, all that recalling Goose Green, and I suppose I could have presented a wildlife show, Dangerous Animals, ex-Army, but then guest DJ Radio One (once), Radio Two (twice), then local (forever), it would all come out on that veranda, how Jane found our perfect place, took me in hand, a villa overlooking a valley leading to a bay of sand, the call of the sea, afternoon swims after a lazy lunch, back to the poolside for an afternoon snooze, wasps, ants, controlled, and kissing Jane beneath olives, shutter the heat of the afternoon, dip in the pool, bit of heaven Jane said, but the money, and then she had a better offer than a night-time DJ, someone to keep her warm, in black coffee, dark night, and I suppose not waking to a man in fatigued cold sweats seemed attractive, changed the sheets each morning without a word, and pillows, too, beaten, a monthly expense, but we once had it all planned out, her donkeys, my writing not so much a kiss and tell, more a type and yell, some of the things, oh my, it was a different time, but faithful I was, unlike Jane, unlike my colleagues, let me tell you, my book would have told it as it was, no bean unspilled, unspoiled, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club, Flock of Seagulls, great timeless tunes, oh my, the amount of alcohol and blusher, hair styles, frills? curlers? Level 42, Lion Sleeps Tonight, don’t get me talking about curlers, and Jimmy S, clunk lick, everyone knew, down at the old bull and bush, but not me, I had Jane, thought I did, safe as houses, so–
‘Time for more Bob sleekness, take my mind off, saw him once in Dallas, amazing, with Only a Pawn in Their Game. Take it all away, Bob.’
*
‘Once again, thank you for being so open, Jan. It can’t have been easy, the one partner, since childhood, snatched away by this awful disease, compounded by diabetes, genetic, not lifestyle, Dominic Cummings disregarding the spirit of the lockdown, not easy at all, seventy-five is no age these days, eye-test shenanigans, one rule. Jan, it’s just another change.
‘When I was a lad, sixty seemed ancient, all change, everything does, like the permissibility of planets, norms adjusted, what gives people the right? nothing’s fixed, Jan, it’s natural to feel purposeful as driftwood, pulled from a seashore building by storms, flung, out, what’s this bit for? a lintel floating? heavy, waterlogged, yet balsa light, don’t worry, hang on, Jan, you will get through this with your kids and grandkids calling around, early days, early nights is what you need, invest in sleep, and it’s natural to mourn, that’s part of the process, steps, like alcoholism, and my dad, well, we never got along, always asking questions, a firm hand and tired eyes, worked hard, All Spice, bitter not lager, no to the Common Market, thought we’d live like that forever, Enoch’d us, rivers of bilge, but Jan you see everything changes, that’s the only fixed thing, so the Army seemed the natural place for me, routines, see, Jan, routines, to keep going, the Army taught me a thing or two, escape, bolt hole, bullies, and then next thing I was on a ship, miles of waves, never thought I’d be doing it for real, worse, I thought, worst would be Ireland, the Provos, at worst, but everything changes, do you see, Jan? and on the long journey down south, more a cruise, lots of beer, see the sights, I thought I’d joined the wrong service, so that’s a change there, Jan, must have been all those blue waves, never ending, the sea, calling, transformative, I read our ancestors swam regularly, and we stopped, mid-Atlantic, Captain said, “Over the side!” so went swimming, lark, huge shark, right by us, can see your toes clear as day as you paddle, always predators, waiting, and the blue nothing goes down forever, and I thought, what if the ship leaves us here? HMS Redacted for Security Reasons, leave us in the middle of somewhere else, adrift and lost, all at sea as they say, and we scrambled back up, sharpish, not mates, not really, just people I worked with, and when we arrived down south it was cold, and there wasn’t enough of anything, really stretched, every second counted, each step mattered, made a man, or broke him, but nice to get on dry land, so there’s another change, Jan, and the smell of jet fuel, the stain of diesel on pure water, cold as a father’s eyes after a long shift, and there was wet mud, boots, the acrid burning of the school, Goose Green, you probably saw me on the news, the thin bloke shaking, tired out, lost on low tussock hills, blood, thirteen mile yomp, Jane waiting at home, kept me going after the wound, pain killer, Argentinian snipers, close run, head shots some, kept me sane thinking of her, blue south Atlantic eyes, her arms, her tongue at my ear, flown home, quicker, then interviewed from a Hanover hospital bed, radio producer said I had a certain voice, spoke, spoke well, truly, plus loved banging tunes, trial, given, gave it a go, special guest, audience participation, took off, Pebble Mill at One, met Felicity Kendall (lovely), Sandra Dickinson (beautiful), Liza Goddard (determined), the Krankies (bit niche), then it all became a bit samey, did a few documentaries on television, woke nights, depression, they said, didn’t buy into the tablets, trauma? maybe, A Soldier’s Homecoming being my most famous television work, BBC Two, late night, critics loved it, then I was asked to write a book, so all these changes, Jan, best seller, but then what? like the sea, shipping forecast, to local radio in the end, home, nice home, curtains to Jane’s liking, spotless kitchen, didn’t cook much, nice bedroom, didn’t sleep much, warm duvet, couldn’t move, and she was reticent, who wouldn’t be? and no children, one of those things, tried, a bit, at first, then hobbled by night work, IVF, five cycles, small fortune, egg harvesting, the horror of hormones, and Jane, well who can blame her? certainly not me, and so I bought the yacht, the good ship Lady Jane, with the left-overs, twenty-three foot, home and studio in these strange times, comfortable, and stayed, moored in Ramsgate harbour, staid, waiting for the weather to turn, while Jane took a cruise, several, with her new partner, he showed her Jamaica, land of his family, Windrush scandal, awful, poor bloke, all I showed her were wounds, she said, and they’ve still got the house, I put in all the windows, Jan Weighs Windows, bit limited, amazing quality, self-cleaning, eat your dinner off them if horizontal, oh my no, only joking, and now, despite her age, though she’s younger than me, counts for a lot, biology, and given she’s not been shot you see, not yet, oh my no, just joking, nor yomped, or seen a friend dissolve in red, here one moment, mush the next, and she is, I hear, Jan, with child, and I’m happy for her, what we always wanted, and I’m genuinely happy for Jan, lovely, which is a change, you see, and I wish them both well, he seems nice, after therapy, which is a change for her, and he’s added a conservatory, but before I become maudlin, let’s have Bob’s dulcet voice croon away discomfort with the unctuous If Not For You.
‘This is Melodise FM, across the south of, not the Atlantic, but England, dear old Blighty, setting sail from Greece, and verandas, Europe, ya-sas, not much call for veranda’s here, buy John White’s Widows, you know you want to, Bob, take us away, far away, for pity’s sake.’
*
‘We can expect spectacular sunsets then, Leisa?’
‘Yes, David. As the ash travels the world, we will–’
‘Dave.’
‘Pardon?’
‘My name’s Dave.’
‘Yes, that’s what I said–’
‘Though actually it wasn’t. You sounded like my mother. Oh my no!’
‘Pardon?’
‘Not granted. Fifteen years. The wrong. Fucking. name.’
‘I–’
‘We’ll be back to you in an hour, Leisa. Here’s Bob, with Just Like a Woman.’
‘Cunt.’
*
‘You’re listening to Dave Arnham on Melodrama FM, in partnership with Jan Weighs Wimples, for all your PVC needs, with specialist boutiques in Canterbury, Tonbridge, Folkestone, and colour me shocked, Gillingham.
‘Earlier we spoke with Jan from Herne Bay, not been there for years, since the bypass, excuse, you see, I suppose, don’t want to upset Jane, whose house is in Herne Bay, a posh bit, not run, not mill, though the clinic is in Athens, too close to home, the clinic, cost a small fortune, he can afford it, ICSI, like IVF on steroids, older mothers a speciality according to the internet, sex choices, probably able to deleted mental illness, who wouldn’t? because it turns out it was me, Jan, who had the deficit, not just wounds or wet sheets at night, while foxes perform wheelie-bin ablutions, it was me, Jan, don’t you see, which is another change from thinking you’re firing on all cylinders, when you’re not, you’re knotted-up, and though you cannot tell the microscope doesn’t lie, immobile sperm, and some deformed, like the big bloke in The Goonies, but with tails, and you have to face up to these changes, these ideas about what passes for normal, like the poor people in Indonesia, under ash, in the end it helps crops grow, makes a human reach up and out, and I’m happy for her in the house with its new conservatory, in Herne Bay, and I’ve seen him walk our dog, never cared much for it, seen him, when I happen to be over that way, I suppose, and her new husband, tall, quiet, kind, smiles a lot, walks my dog, but I’ve the Lady Jane, and when this pandemic is over, we can hope it will end, Jan, back to normal, when we’ve returned to normal, Jane, Jan, I’ll slip out of the harbour, head to France, I’ve done the homework, you see, planned a route out, away, down Portuguese coasts, sardines, Gibraltar, stopped off there once, ate paella, punched a baboon for stealing, then southern France, wine, Sicily, wine, follow the sun to Greece, ouzo, and a house with a veranda, and I’ll write it all, from fame to now, from promise to broken, got the title, Broken Soldier, all the colours of the wrong rainbow, whitewash nothing, blue sky, clear water, dolphins, fry, olives, rent a veranda, when the seasons turn and the waves settle, a change being as good as a rest, new start, ex-pat radio, might start up a business, windsurfers, kayaks, holiday makers, indemnity insurance, and in the afternoon, when Jane does not come back from the donkeys, I will have a plate of food, bread, cheese, more bloody olives, a glass of local something, spread my arms, catch the wind, go sailing around the island, and not feel lonely, and not give in, because it’s a good life, yes? and better than Goose Green, and it was only my leg, and when I’m sailing I will text Jane, roaming rates permitting, ask her, ‘Guess Where I Am?’ and hope she replies, stay hours in an agitated waiting room of a boat, because this is dealing with change, Jan, it is not about being heroic, got that tee-shirt, hid the medal somewhere, wet sheets, pillows beaten, Jane’s frightened eyes at my thrashing about at night, who can blame her? putting up with me? and when she replies, I’ll breathe, swallow a blob of sick in my frightened throat, and I’ll say, chirpy-like, ‘I Am Where We Dreamed of Being,’ not with an edge, and she’ll reply, write something flippant, perhaps, knowing Jane, ‘Bognor?’ because laughing is what matters, Jan, even when your throat is thick with sadness, tired from caustic emojis, coated by purple longing, and though you don’t know if another step is just too much bother, you step on, you’ve got to laugh, local DJ jokes, walk the plank, John Williams Windows, unlimited, for all your movie needs, and you keep going, Jan, it’s horrid, but you do, drop the past, it will pass, though you don’t want it to, I suppose I understand you, Jan, as any man can understand a widow, sitting quietly in the afternoon lounge with the light fading, waiting from friends who never come, social distancing they say, they’ve always an excuse, or a widow staying up all night in fear of half a bed, we know that feeling, don’t we, love? so perhaps laughing even if it sounds full of lies thick as yellow custard is the right medicine, laughter, not custard, you kind of keep swallowing, I suppose, and one day, Jan, one day you won’t need to think about laughing, you won’t need to engineer your face, re-arrange your hands to mock casual, and it will come naturally, you’ll just laugh, your hands will know what to do, all by themselves, and hours will feel light not leaden, bright not grey, hallo, where did the time go? and you won’t stop to think, ‘I have no right to this happiness, it does not belong,’ because you bloody do, Jan, and happiness does, Jan, though it is hard after thirty years of love, you deserve a bit more, and you deserve regret, too, like feeling upset, not Goose Green upset, but a little, reasonable upset at seeing a conservatory usurp your home, or a strange man walk your dog, because at the end of the night, it’s your right to be happy, as it’s my right to deserve Greece, memoir, and to want Jane to come back to our well-deserved veranda.
‘It’s 4.34 and you’re listening to someone who was once Dave Arnham, on Melon FM, full of fruits, in partnership with Jan Wrangles Windolene, no advertising, for all your latex needs, oh my no, only joking, who listens anyway, I mean really listens, it’s lonely, life, full of suds and sudden changes, sullen exhausting nights, Jan, can’t you sleep either on damp sheets cold from fear of being left behind? but hold on, lovely, it’s me and you against the world, like Jane & I, ladies first, but who listens truly? and I’m not losing it to loneliness, don’t think that, Jan, but after fifteen years of working nights, one hundred and eight months of not writing my memoir, I did BBC Look East, great crew, reminded me of being a guest on Challenge Anneka, very tall, and once I was on Kilroy, chiselled, spittle-grey hair, Noel Edward’s Christmas Presents, don’t ask, fifteen years of not sailing to Greece, journey interrupted by divorce, I loved her, may still, still, still life’s a series of traumas, pinball Dave, living on a boat adorned like a memorial, well, it makes you wonder, Jan, and doubt, doubt is natural, don’t beat yourself up, hold on, Bob Dylan now, Everything is Broken.’
*
‘I was always the romantic one, flowers, wine, perfume, pedestal, stockings, not for me, oh my no, only joking, rose-tinted, whereas Jane was more pragmatic, hard choices to be made? she’s your man, though friends, sided with Jane, naturally, I don’t mind not seeing them, like the dog, when I’m passing, he’s not that big he wouldn’t fall if I caught him right, despite therapy, though friends said they imagined what with me being an Army man I’d be the doer, but here’s the thing, Jane, Jan, here’s the thing with change, experiencing a thing changes you, takes the bluster out, natural filter, removes the BS, leaves behind less tangible things, more understanding, like being sensitive to the grain of a shelf you touch in the night, or the knot in the wood of a deck on a boat marooned in a harbour, no matter the sanding and varnish, comes up lovely, and the more you know the more you know you’ve less certainty to play with, Jan, do you hear what I’m trying to say?
‘It takes it out of you, losing someone.
‘Squeezed lemons, Greek.
‘And you’ll hear people say “be strong” and that’s as it should be, even when you want to let go, it’s wise to hang on, until you can’t, so let go before the fingers let go for you, I suppose ignore my hanging on advice, what do I know? as Jane used to ask, I’m dangling, not hanging, because here’s the truth, men are vulnerable, weak, Jan, and you shared how your husband was terrified of death, cried, called for his mother not you, that must have been hard, but you went through it, for him, and though after you regretted telling him to man up, be brave, all that, remember you meant well, like that one friend who stood by me saying I’d get over Jane, when we both knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t, that I won’t allow myself to accept our ending, not in a bullying way, not in a restraining order way, but in a sending Jane a cassette of our favourite songs way, which was still wrong, I’m told, like all the cards, and the bunches of flowers, and the dedications to her on the radio, wrong, actionable, metoo is thing, but in a way that lets Jane know I still, you know, have feelings, and still believe in verandas.
‘I hold on to the hope of getting help, if there’s any point now Jane’s not about, and I still believe in writing the memoir, I was in The Bill, played a corpse, then a paramedic, different episodes, of course, and I’ve made a start to be honest, to be honest, on the memoir I mean, perhaps not what I mean, starting with writing about our marriage ceremony in Sardinia, beautiful, cost an arm and two legs, white dress, long, not showy, couldn’t breathe she looked so lovely, god how I cried, like the baby we’d never have, at her being there and choosing me, talk about out of my league, crying at her slim brown arms making my heart burst with butterfly kisses, and her dark hair, sheer beauty, caught in the light of my eye, not captured by staid cameras, and I write in the book about the celebs there, too, Yvette Fielding couldn’t make it, some Blue Peter commitment, how the other celebs could not understand love as Jane & I might name it, and I have to confess, Jan, that she’s in every chapter actually, Jane, not Yvette Fielding, Jane’s at the beginning, when as a boy I imagined a wife, could describe her, and when I defined us by not being my parents, who shouted mostly at each other, kitchen sink drama, Army escape, there she was, waiting in the wings, and I’ll tell Jane that she’s in the middle, too, obviously, our awful search for children, gooseberry bushes having spikes, nascent fruit stolen by birds, and all the tissues and tears, injections, periods, apprehension, blame, poor Jane, the things she went through, coping, with me, with friends having children, drop of the hat, godmother is not the same, and Jane’s in the end of the book, too, in the absence of verandas, in not finishing the memoir, usual tripe, in fact, when I finish writing every page there she is, staring at me, waving from the indent, at the end of sentences, she’s still everywhere, dedication page, thanks, any entry in the index, Jane, and I don’t mind, apologies, Jan, not all about me, but it does seem, these fifteen years, I’ve an audience of one, Jan, as you mentioned, still talking to your husband, still putting out two plates, two cups of tea, because speaking to space is better than no dialogue at all, even if you feel lost at sea, or trapped on a boat in a harbour in the middle of the night.
‘I remember, fresh back from Hanover, Jane asking me what it was like, and I said something trivial, you know, downplayed words, and she asked what I’d left at Goose Green, and I said, ‘People. Love–’ and I was about to add to the list of lost things, when I realised she thought I’d said, ‘People, love,’ and I didn’t correct her, I wouldn’t know where to begin, so I said, ‘One day I’ll go through it with you,’ because that’s what it’s like, I know that now, it’s going through it every day, but this time with someone who should dare to love you, but she wasn’t happy, Jane, you could tell by the way she stared out of the window into the garden, watching birds visit the water feature, taking bits of moisture with them like pearls of happy, stealing from our supply, I couldn’t find the time to top it up, but the days turned, and I tried to entertain her, make her smile, and then months turned like the world, and there were seasons, and years, and still no word, and I suppose Jane tired of waiting, who can blame her? not me, I understand love has an expiration date, like the dog’s chip, change of ownership, there was no need for that when they kept the old address, but she kept on, Jane, waiting, asking, ‘What did you leave at Goose Green?’ and it’s a question I still can’t answer because it would mean speaking of everything, of myself, and it’s too big, the words are too long, so you see, I don’t blame Jane, and I like my little boat, easy to keep clean, tidy, and there are no kids or dogs to make a mess, and the deck is almost like a veranda.
‘Dave Arnham on Lady Jane, buy windows, get the economy going, it’s 5.42, and despite the best efforts of a volcano, the world turns, and that offers new perspectives every day, and one day soon there’ll be a spectacular sunset, or sunrise, Leisa says so.
‘Here’s Blowing in the Wind.’
*
‘Final caller of the night, just as light breaks, and the harbour’s still as a pond, too early for others, not for us, just us, snuggled up, settled, down, and the Lady Jane might as well be balanced on a glass dry dock, and as Leisa braces herself for more news, one last caller to Dave Arnham, on Malodour FM, brought to you by Jane Washes Windows, limited, for all your–’
‘Dave?’
‘uPVC– hallo? I hope you’re okay, love.’
‘Dave?’
‘You’re live on air.’
‘Dave?’
‘Jane?’
‘Dave.’
‘Jane, is that–?’
‘Dave.’
‘Jane, oh my Jane, oh–”
‘Dave!’
‘I’m okay. I’m just crying. It’s not serious–’
‘Dave Arnham?’
‘Who?’
‘Dave.’
‘It’s you, Jan.’
‘I just wanted to add–’
‘A final song before we speak to Jan from Herne Bay. This is Dave Arnham playing the everlasting Mr Dylan’s I Shall Be Free.’
Captain Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. He was the commanding officer of an aircraft squadron and a Human Resource Management Center. His 90-plus articles have appeared in a wide variety of publications. His areas of specialization include Leadership and Management development, and customer relations among others. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away With It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, 60 Odd Short Stories, and Empaths. He was the coleader of the Veterans’ Writing Group for nine years and was the lead editor and designer for the three books, Away For The Holidays, Listen Up! Things I learned From the Military, Stories That Must Be Told, and advisor for At Ease: Now That I Have Time to Think About It recently published by the Veterans’ Writing Group of North County. |
When I Knew It Was Over.
I’m not talking about the end of the world or even a movie.
I’m not talking about Trump or riots or racism.
I’m not talking about dessert or dinner or a nap.
I’m not even talking about a book or story or football game.
It was simple, a young woman in the Garden store,
In the checkout area, she was down on her hands and knees,
With a scraper, taking up the social distancing tape.
I took her picture – she objected. I didn’t care this was history in the making.
This goes into my Kennedy assassination memory drawer, my first solo, birth of my first child. And others that I can bring up to re-savor.
I thought this tape should be collected and turned into a monument, a painting.
Sold in gift shops, saved for children and grandchildren, placed in time capsule.
Like pieces of the Berlin Wall or bits of dust from the moon – if we really went there.
I’ve had the virus – no I don’t know how I got it – I certainly didn’t go out to try to get a natural immunity.
I was fatigued, had no appetite – no I didn’t lose my senses of taste or smell.
Didn’t have much of a fever if any at all.
Did have trouble with my balance and I did have visual hallucinations.
They, the hallucinations were fun. Entertaining and I‘m glad I knew what they were.
Like to be able to turn them on and off – but I don’t think the substances to do that are on the shelves at CVS.
I’ve had the vaccine, both shots, Pfizer, I have the card in my wallet.
I’m a walking test site but I’m too old to donate my hard-won antibodies and t-cells.
I am collecting masking tape, let me know if you have some.
There is plenty of off-white and blue. I need some red and yellow to produce a vital, reminiscent reminder of the “Winter of darkness.”
Oh, it’s going to have a mask, D3 incorporated into the design.
I’m aiming for MOMA.
Sandra Clough spent her gotta-make-a-living years in the corporate world. Upon retiring, she fell into fiction writing and what fun it’s been! Her work has appeared in Talking Stick (a literary journal published in MN); Whisperings – A Literary and Visual Culture Magazine (published in CA); Bards and Sages (print and digital); several online journals, including Scarlet Leaf Review; and Cricket Magazine (for children ages 9 to 14) published one of her earliest children’s stories. Sandra lives in Minnesota with her husband of 55 years. |
The Power of the Shoes
When Raymond stammered about “something simple,” Debra patted his arm and assured him she’d take care of everything.
“You’re just the last piece of the puzzle, sweetie,” she added.
The night John asked me to be his plus-one for a work party, I pulled my box out and dusted it off. The earliest clippings were of whipped-cream gowns and multi-tiered cakes with figurines on top. Styles may have changed, but my fantasies hadn’t.
It was true that I hadn’t known John very long, and I could see that he was a bit of an odd duck – but who doesn’t have their quirks? I closed my eyes, brushed my cheek with a satin sample, and smiled. He just might be the last piece of my puzzle.
~~~
I must have tried on a hundred dresses before I found the perfect one for the party. A little, black slip of a thing that was understated and sophisticated, all at the same time – like the one Audrey Hepburn wore in that movie I can never think of. The sexy, crazy-beautiful shoes, however, found me. Silver, strappy sandals with stiletto heels that practically leaped into my arms. Unfortunately, they cost nearly as much as I paid for my car every month.
I dithered for twenty minutes before I remembered what a friend once told me: Never underestimate the power of the shoes.
John was an accountant, and he might not understand such an extravagance, but those shoes were an investment in my future.
When the doorbell rang the night of the party, I yelled come in, then stayed out of sight for a few minutes to heighten John’s anticipation. As I made my entrance, I looked down at my sexy, crazy-beautiful shoes and willed them to do their magic. To my disappointment, though, he barely said hello before rushing me out the door, mumbling something about wanting to find street parking so he wouldn’t have to use the valet.
Obviously, I was right about John being tight with his pennies. If he was so concerned about paying for parking, he didn’t notice how stunning I looked, he’d better never find out what my shoes cost, or our relationship would likely be over faster than I could say Jimmy Choo.
We drove around the fancy downtown hotel twice before John conceded that he would have to let the valet park his car. I said a silent thank god as he grudgingly handed over his keys. Hoofing it in those heels would not have been pleasant.
Another valet opened my door. John’s several-years-old Mazda sat low and the young man gallantly held out his hand. I took it and swung my legs around, daintily planting one stilettoed foot, then the other, alighting smoothly. He grinned self-consciously and made a clumsy bow. I curtsied and smiled back. The magic had begun. I glanced around to see if John had seen, but he was busy getting his parking stub tucked safely into his wallet.
Inside, we took the escalator with several older couples. The women looked uniformly aloof – and dowdy, in long sleeves and high necklines. A couple of them stealthily cast sober glances in my direction. The men, though, smiled broadly and nodded – giving John, it seemed to me, their seal of approval.
A warm glow of self-confidence enveloped me. I didn’t care what stuffy old women thought. I always practiced good posture, and now I stood even straighter.
As we approached the second floor, we could hear typical happy-hour laughter and the underlying buzz of conversation. John had said the party was an annual affair, to celebrate the end of tax season, and the accountants were feeling festive.
At least, most of them. John was immediately snagged by a pudgy, balding man who peered at me through thick glasses and mumbled an apology, assuring me he would only talk shop for a few minutes. Thrilled to see how important my boyfriend was, I said not to worry, I'd be fine.
I secured a glass of Merlot and found a place to stand where I could check out the crowd. Before long I noticed three young men looking in my direction. Wanting to appear approachable, I smiled and assumed my most flattering stance. (It’s the way Academy Award nominees have their photos taken when they pause on the red carpet. One very high-heeled foot is planted ahead of, and slightly across, the other. That causes the opposite hip to jut out just a bit, which – besides being very sexy – makes the thighs look significantly thinner.)
The boys (they looked quite young) came over and introduced themselves as junior associates. When I said I was there with John, there might have been the briefest instant of surprised silence before they told me they worked on John’s team. Another thrill shot through me, hearing that my boyfriend had a team. They arranged themselves in front of me and gave me their undivided attention.
They wanted to know where I’d met John and if I’d known him long. I explained about us meeting at my cousin’s wedding a couple weeks earlier and turned the part about my having a little too much champagne into a funny anecdote. “It was so embarrassing,” I said, blushing. “I couldn’t believe it when he called two days later and asked me to be his plus-one!”
The junior associate nearest me glanced at the others and I thought I caught a knowing ah, before he said (with a slight smirk?), “Yeah, the boss likes guys on the partner track to bring plus-ones to company functions.”
Before I had time to consider the knowing ah (and the possible smirk), the rest of what he said hit me: John was on the partner track – and he chose me to be his plus-one!
“Where is our leader, by the way?” the middle one asked.
I explained that John had to talk shop with a colleague for a few minutes. Another quick glance passed between my companions. “That’s John,” number three said, shaking his head. “Brings a beautiful girl to a party, then keeps on working.”
Flattered, I smiled demurely, but a moment of awkward silence ensued – till somebody noticed my wine glass was empty. “Let’s get you another one. It’ll probably be a while before you see John again.” He snagged a glass from a passing waiter. It would have been rude not to accept.
I did hesitate a second, though, because while I normally hold my alcohol fairly well, I did not want a repeat of the champagne incident. I had purposefully decided to stick to red wine that evening. Since I don't actually like red wine all that much, I reckoned that would make it self-limiting. But from then on, every time I sipped my way to the bottom of my glass, someone handed me a full one.
I don't know how much time passed, but during John’s few minutes of shop-talking, the boys had gotten me another one several times, and I was feeling rather giddy. (The occasional hors d'oeuvre – in this case, cucumber slices with dollops of cream cheese, topped with sprigs of dill – while ever so tasty, soaks up very little alcohol.)
Finally, I saw John heading our way. I unwound my legs, preparing to draw him into our circle so he could see how well I was getting on with his team. Just then, though, dinner was announced. That was probably fortunate because I was having a little trouble getting my words in the right order. John didn’t actually offer me his arm, but I took it anyway – partly because I was proud to be his plus-one, and partly because I needed something to hang onto. We joined the crowd inching toward the ballroom next door.
Inside, John steered us to a table near the front of the room – where, like at a wedding, the important people would sit, looking out at the crowd. When we sat down, I realized I was ravenous. (Booze always makes me hungry.)
Small, scrolled menus lay across each place-setting, promising, as best my blurry vision could make out, a feast:
Asparagus spears drizzled with citrus-infused hollandaise
Cream of shiitake mushroom soup with shaved shallots
Hearts of romaine with blue-cheese crumbles and cherry balsamic vinaigrette
Chilean sea bass atop sun-dried tomato risotto
and, finally
Vanilla bean flan with burnt sugar
John was still conversing with his colleague who had taken the seat on the other side of him (the poor guy was alone – apparently, not on the partner-track), so since I didn’t have to make conversation, I relished every scrumptious morsel of our meal. The three delightful wine pairings, however, left me a bit sleepy and I nearly dozed off before the senior partner, Alfred Turner, started his remarks. Luckily, John accidently bumped me, since we were directly in his boss’s line of sight. I sat up straighter, determined to concentrate.
First, Mr. Turner welcomed everyone, especially, he said, spouses and friends. I smiled and tried to catch John’s eye, but he was staring straight ahead. At the part about it having been a good year, and promotions and bonuses being in the offing, though, John did turn his head an inch or so in my direction and give me a tight smile. (After all, he was on the partner track and I was his plus-one.)
When the speechifying was over, I took a deep breath and willed myself to be alert for the after-dinner socializing. No doubt John would want to introduce me to Mr. Turner. Then I noticed a commotion on the other side of the room. The waitstaff were moving tables off a dance floor, and a small ensemble was setting up.
I couldn’t believe it. John hadn’t mentioned there would be dancing. (I love dancing more than just about anything, and I’m good at it.)
While we waited for dishes to be cleared and the band to start, I looked around at the beautiful ballroom. Flattering lightening from elegant chandeliers illuminated the space that would easily accommodate 250 guests. And of course, I knew the hotel’s food was wonderful. It was a perfect reception venue.
Interrupting my thoughts, the music started. John looked like he’d taken root in his chair, but I wasn’t going to be denied – and I’d make him happy about that. I pulled him to his feet and shooed him onto the dance floor. As bands always do at events like that, they lured couples in with a slow tune (one everybody loves and that’s easy to dance to). My high heels made John and me fit perfectly and I snuggled into his arms. We swayed side to side to a dreamy rendition of Unforgettable, which segued into My Funny Valentine.
When Alfred Turner and his wife danced past, I realized (now that a bit of the wine-fog had burned off) that they were on the escalator with us when we arrived. She pretended she didn’t see us again, but he gave us another smile and a nod, and I swear John held me a little tighter after that.
I could have stayed that way for hours; but, catching most people unawares (although I was anticipating the change-up), the quartet swung into Puttin' on the Ritz. I shook my head vehemently when John gestured toward our table. This was one of my favorite songs and my pulse quickened along with the musical tempo.
While John did fine with the slow dancing (which really is just swaying), his up-tempo moves were more than a little stodgy. I, however, had enough style for both of us, and this was my chance to shine for him and our chance to shine for his boss and his friends.
I thought I could bring him along with me; but, as other couples, intimidated by the change in pace, began drifting toward the sidelines, John’s movements became even smaller and slower. He quickly lost all momentum, until he became more of a prop than a partner. I stepped away and began sashaying around the dance floor on my own.
Maybe it was the wine, or maybe...it was the power of the shoes. (Those stilettos made it easy to exaggerate every movement.) I knew I looked fabulous. (The heels made my legs look and feel like they went on forever.) And, of course, my dancing was spectacular. (People were always telling me I could have gone professional.) John’s eyes had to be popping.
Suddenly, I remembered a comic routine I'd done in a high school dance recital. The guy I was paired with (supposedly) couldn't keep up, so I ditched him and grabbed another. John was, unwittingly, playing his part perfectly. I threw him a goodbye kiss and danced my way over to a knot of on-lookers.
There, I snagged the hand of one of John’s team members I’d been talking to earlier and pulled him in before he knew what happened. I vaguely noticed the stunned look on his face as I twirled an arm's length away, then spun myself back toward him.
My back side was supposed to end up nestled against his front side, but the kid knew nothing about real dancing. Our bodies didn't meld the way they were supposed to. They collided, like a ball of soft mozzarella hurled at a brick wall. There was no flexibility in his stance and his knees buckled. My feet tangled with his and in an instant, there we were, in a heap on the floor.
It’s too bad I didn't break my ankle. If I had, I wouldn't have tried to get up. And, if I hadn't tried to get up…well, maybe I wouldn't have barfed on my shoes.
~~~
The next thing I remember is sitting in John's car in front of my apartment building. He reached into the back seat and thrust a paper bag into my arms.
I sat for a second, clutching my expensive, sexy, crazy-beautiful, fouled shoes, thinking he would get out and open my door, but John stared straight ahead.
I opened my own door and swung my legs around, planting one bare foot, then the other. I braced one hand on the dash to hoist myself up and out of the bucket seat. Before shutting the door, though, I leaned in.
“I think your friends liked me,” I said – extra pleasantly, hopefully – but the car had already started to creep forward. As it sped up, I cupped a hand to my mouth so my voice would carry.
“No worries about my shoes,” I called to the dimming taillights. “I got them on sale.”
The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes
It was thirty years ago, but I can still remember the very first time I saw her like it was only yesterday. I doubt I will ever be able to forget. It was the greatest moment of my life, although at the time, it was probably the scariest. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone get shot. But when I saw those bullets just bounce right off her, I thought she was Superman.
I know now, of course, that she was not invincible.
The day started out as any other. It was just me and my father, as it usually was, and we were at the bank. It was the first stop on his list of errands; it also turned out to be our last.
The bank wasn't as crowded as it usually was in the mornings, there were only two people in line when we walked in. My father was holding my hand. I was only ten years old, I still enjoyed holding hands with him. I wasn't really paying much attention. My focus was on the lollipop bucket that was by each teller window, silently choosing which color I wanted. That was always my treat for coming to the bank. So when the doors opened behind us, I didn't pay it any mind. Surely just another customer.
I was wrong.
I got knocked into my father as two men shoved me aside when they barged past the line. They were dressed all in black, wore ski masks, and were both toting guns.
“Everybody stay still and shut up!” One of the men yelled at the top of his lungs. Both men were so huge, I was positive they must have been professional wrestlers or body-builders. In hindsight, they probably weren't that big, but to my very young eyes, they might as well have been giants. Now, I had also never seen a gun before in my life, I mean a real gun, and my eyes nearly bugged out at the sight. They were petrifying. I remember thinking they looked much heavier and deadlier than they looked on TV cartoons. Not even to this day could I tell you what kind of guns they were; that is something I still know nothing about, but I did know that all guns were deadly. Thus all guns should be feared.
My father grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me behind him. He kept one of his hands on my shoulder, pressing me into the backside of his hip. I clutched his belt, my face buried into the side of his shirt, where I could peek around him and see what was happening. My father was my hero, still is, and I had never seen him scared before, but I could feel how tense his body was. I could see his hand shaking.
Someone screamed. A lady by the pitch of it. Immediately, one of the robbers yelled, “Shut up!” And that was the end of the screaming.
Meanwhile, the second robber had made his way over to one of the teller windows. The robber threw a bag in the teller's face, lifted his gun so she could clearly see it, and demanded, “Fill it up, lady.” I saw the woman's hands shaking as she grabbed some money and began putting it in the bag. Her eyes looked close to tears. She kept her head down; I'm sure she was deliberately trying not to look at the gun that was not even a foot away from her. I felt bad for her. I wonder if she ever worked in a bank again after that...
That was the moment when she stepped in, and my entire life changed.
Everyone turned to look as one of the doors opened, and a small girl strolled in. My jaw involuntarily dropped as I watched her walk into the lobby. I don't think I was the only one who had that reaction, judging by the complete silence that filled the bank. It was like time froze, no one moved, not even the robbers. We were all staring at the little girl.
She looked about my age at the time, maybe a little younger. She was thin, stick thin, and I couldn't help but wonder if she had eaten anything in the last few days. Her hair was the darkest shade of black I had ever seen, or have ever seen since, and had a bouncy curl to it that fell to her slim shoulders. It would have been pretty if it hadn't been so tangled. Her skin had what seemed like a pink hue to it. At first I thought it was just the effect of the bank's lights, but I learned later that her skin was indeed pink. But even all these features took a backseat to the girl's eyes. There was no white sclera, no colorful iris ring around a black pupil. Instead, her eyes were just bottomless pools, and that morning in the bank, they happened to be pools of a dark orange color, like burnt caramel.
Then reality came crashing back as one of the robbers shattered the stunned silence. “Don't move!” He yelled at the little girl.
I saw her jump at the sudden noise, her head spun to look at the man. She stared at him for a second, then decided to walk towards him. My eyes widened as I watched her approach the armed robber. I heard someone else gasp.
The robber swiveled his gun and took aim at the girl. “Stop! Don't take another step, midget. I won't hesitate to shoot a child,” he threatened. I felt my father's hand tighten on my shoulder and he pushed me further behind him, but I still stretched to see around him. I think everyone in the bank took a collective breath in, holding it as we watched the big gun pointed at the small girl. Even the second robber, still at the teller window, was staring at the girl.
She did stop. Everyone released their breath.
Apparently not liking how the situation was playing out, the second robber turned back to the teller, snatched the bag from her, and made his way over to his partner. “Let's go,” he murmured, his eyes warily on the child.
Just when his partner was about to agree, the girl started walking towards them again. I could see both robbers' eyes widen through the eye holes in their face masks. The first robber raised his gun again. “You little sonova-” he started, then pulled the trigger on his gun. Point blank shot.
A chorus of “No!” arose from everyone inside the bank, but it was snuffed out by the deafening sound of the gunshot. It was a sound that, seemingly by magic, had the ability to drown out any other sound in the vicinity. It demanded its own spotlight.
I have to admit, I didn't actually see anything that first time. I had my face stuffed into my father's back, my eyes shut tight, my teeth clenched, and my fingers wrapped in a death grip around his belt.
Everything was silent for a moment after the shot. Then I heard, and felt, my father gasp. His wasn't the only one I heard. Only after he whispered, “Oh my God,” did I take my head from out of his back and peek around to look.
My jaw dropped for the second time that morning as I found the little girl standing like nothing had happened. He must have missed, was my first thought. But he was maybe a yard away from her, there was no way he could have missed. The girl was looking down at the ground by her feet. I followed her gaze and saw what she was looking at. A bullet.
“What the Hell?” The shooter said in disbelief, for once not yelling. I glanced over at them. Both men were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, staring dumbly at the girl.
The one still holding the bag of money grabbed at the other's arm. “Let's go,” he suggested quietly, but in the silence, everyone could hear him.
But his partner had crossed from disbelief to rage, as if the girl not being dead by his bullet was a personal slight. He shrugged off his partner's hand. “No. She's going to Hell!” He screamed as he released a hail of bullets, keeping his finger on the trigger and emptying the clip upon the child.
Screams again accompanied the gunshots. I didn't bury my face this time, I didn't even close my eyes. Instead I watched, with my eyes wide open, as the bullets flew at her, hit her, and simply fell to the ground at her feet. She didn't even flinch. I glanced up at her face and saw that she looked just as confused as the rest of us, maybe even more so. Her head was cocked to the side, like a curious puppy, as she stared down at the bullets scattered on the ground.
Then I heard the robber with the bag of money talk to his partner. “Let's go. Forget that freak. We gotta go!” He grabbed the other man's arm and dragged him past the girl, giving her a wide berth, and they both fled out the doors with their guns and money in tow.
I noticed one of the bank employees ran over to a desk and pressed something underneath the desk. I'm sure it was their panic button.
Everyone else's attention remained on the bulletproof girl. “How did she do that?” Someone asked. That question sparked an outbreak of suspicious murmurs and nervous whispers.
“Everyone please stay calm.” The man who had pressed the button under the desk walked into the middle of the lobby. “I've contacted the police and they'll be here shortly. Now, we can't force anyone to stay, but it's highly encouraged you do so because the police will want to talk to as many people as they can to get a detailed description of the situation and the robbers,” he announced.
“What about her?” A man questioned, clearly referring to the little girl.
“She could be dangerous...”
“Did you see the way the bullets just bounced off her?”
“The girl is a demon!”
A chorus of questions and remarks erupted, fingers pointed at the girl. If I learned anything that day, it's that people fear what they don't understand. The mutterings quickly grew into an aggressive mob. I watched the girl as she looked around at the crowd, and as she did so, our eyes met. I noticed her eyes had gotten darker, almost black now.
“Dad,” I tugged on my father's arm, but my eyes never left the girl. “Dad,” I repeated, “we need to help her.” My father looked down at me, glanced at the girl, then back to me. I stared up at him. His mouth was open, like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. I don't think he knew what to say.
Then I heard a pattering of quick feet. “She's running away!” A woman yelled.
I whipped my head back around and saw the girl reach the doors and run out of the bank, looking an awful lot like the two robbers that had just fled seconds prior.
“Someone stop her!” A man shouted.
“No! Let her go!” A woman argued.
“She's someone else's problem now,” someone muttered.
There were more words from more people, a mixture of fear and relief, but I wasn't going to let her go off alone when she was clearly lost and scared. Something was pulling me after the girl, and kids are pretty good at acting on impulse. I'm still thankful for that to this very day.
I didn't look back at my father; I didn't tell him what I was thinking. He would have tried to stop me, but he must have had some kind of idea what was going on, because his reaction was quicker than I would have thought possible. I sprinted out of the bank after the girl. I could hear my father's heavier footsteps behind me almost immediately. I hesitated only for a second after escaping the bank, searching for which direction the girl went in, and when I spotted her, I took off again at top speed. My father was now beside me, his long legs easily catching up with my own, but he didn't stop me.
She was on the sidewalk of the main street, staring out at the cars speeding past. I was terrified she was going to step out into the road. I wasn't too eager to see if she was car-proof, too.
“Hey!” I reached out and grabbed her arm as we got within range. She turned around and stared at me. Her eyes were lighter again, more orange, and they seemed to be getting lighter by the second.
“Woah,” I awed, staring at her eyes. They were so pretty despite the unorthodoxy of them. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She cocked her head again. It was a gesture I would become familiar with.
“It's okay. We're friends,” I gestured towards my father beside me, then smiled. “My name's Nicole.”
I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. I glanced up at him. “I don't think she can understand you, sweetheart.” He knelt down beside me and his handsome eyes turned to the girl. She looked over at him. “Do you understand English?” He asked, speaking slowly. His eyes searched her own, which were now as orange as a pumpkin. Her silence was our answer.
Then she reached up with one hand and gently touched my father's cheek. She brushed her pink fingers against the stubble. Her eyes shone even brighter.
I laughed. “I think she likes you, Dad.”
As her hand fell away from his face, he looked over at me. I looked into his eyes and knew what was coming. “Nicole...”
Before he could say anything further, I interjected. “Dad, we can't leave her. She's lost. And she doesn't understand what anyone's saying.”
The girl coughed. It alarmed both of us, but it seemed to surprise herself even more. Her eyes grew wider and she looked down at herself. I'll admit, I was amused at first, but if I knew what that cough meant at the time, I wouldn't have been laughing.
Then the sirens came roaring down the road and two police cars swerved into the bank's parking lot. All three of us watched as a police officer hopped out of each car and rushed into the bank side-by-side. I looked over at my father. “Dad, we gotta go, and she needs to come with us.”
I could tell by his face that my father was conflicted. I think he knew as well as I did that the girl needed help, but he was also wondering how we were supposed to help. The girl didn't understand a word we were saying.
So I forced his hand. I reached over and took hold of the girl's hand. Her skin was like a baby's, it was so smooth. “Come on, Dad. I know you feel it, too. We have to help her.” I glanced at her, her orange eyes were staring at our entwined hands. I smiled. I met my father's gaze; he had an argument on his lips, I could tell, but he was biting it back. “Let's go home.” I gently squeezed her hand and started towards the parking lot, leading her along. She followed willingly enough. After a few seconds, I heard my father follow as well. We skirted around the two police cars in the middle of the parking lot and got into my father's car. I helped the girl into our car and buckled her in for safety.
“I can't believe we're doing this...” I heard my father muttering to himself as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.
I was still holding the girl's hand as we sat together in the back seat. She was staring out the window, leaning so close it that her forehead was nearly touching the glass. I was struck with an idea and glanced up at my father in the front. “Dad, we need to give her a name.”
His eyes glanced to me in the rear-view mirror. “I'm sure she already has a name, honey,” he replied patiently.
“Sure,” I shrugged, “she probably does, but until we learn it, we gotta have some name to call her, right?”
He paused, then sighed. “And what did you have in mind?” He asked.
I thought about it for a moment. In truth, I didn't have anything in mind. I glanced over at the girl beside me, searching for inspiration. As if sensing my eyes on her, she turned away from the window and met my gaze. I smiled as I saw her eyes were now more yellow than orange. Then a line from a Beatles song came to me – the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
“How about Lucy?” I saw her lips curl upward into a small smile at the sound of the name. Her eyes seemed to brighten, but that might have just been my imagination. I laughed. “I think she likes it,” I rejoiced.
My father nodded. “Lucy it is, then,” he approved as the car turned into our driveway. He parked the car, killed the engine, then leaned back in the seat. I crawled forward between the driver and passenger seats. He turned his head so we were face-to-face.
“It's okay, Dad. We did the right thing.” I put my hand on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes, nodded, and sighed. “Yeah, I think so, too, baby. I just wish I knew how to help her.”
“You'll figure it out. You're smart,” I replied. He opened his eyes and we shared a smile. I was reminded how much I absolutely adored my father.
As we all got out of the car, Lucy coughed again. She glanced at me, as if she didn't understand why her body was doing that. I simply shrugged, coughing was no big deal, and with her hand in mine, I led her into the house.
My father was waiting by the doorway. When we stepped in, he knelt down before us. He looked first to Lucy. “You're safe here with us. We're going to help you.” He smiled, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. We both knew the words wouldn't mean anything to Lucy, but hopefully the message was conveyed. Then he turned those soft eyes on me and I could see some of the doubt run away. “Why don't you show her around the house? Give her a proper tour. I'm going to make a quick call to your Aunt Maria.”
“Can I ask why?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Believe it or not, she's smarter than me. She might be able to help us out,” he answered, then quickly added, “And if you ever tell her I said that, I'll deny it till the day I die.” He pointed a finger at me and narrowed his eyes.
I giggled. Aunt Maria was my father's older sister. I have no doubt that she would agree that she was smarter than my father, but I don't know if I could believe anyone was smarter than him. Even Aunt Maria. “Secret's safe,” I agreed. My father winked at me, then got up and walked away to make his phone call.
I turned back to Lucy. I saw her eyes were orange again as she turned to me. I nodded toward the staircase. “Come on, we'll start our tour upstairs.” I took her around our small house. I had a running commentary, as any good tour guide does. It's too bad she didn't understand any of it...
The tour ended in the kitchen. Let's face it, I was hungry; I figured she might have been, too. I walked her over to the round kitchen table and pulled a chair out for her. “You can sit.” I gestured to the chair. She just looked at me with orange eyes. I sighed, pulled out my own chair, and sat. Then I gestured for Lucy to do the same. “Sit,” I repeated.
She stared at me for a moment, long enough for me to think she still didn't understand, but just as I opened my mouth to talk again, she stepped toward her chair and sat down. “Yes! Good!” I nodded eagerly as she looked over at me for approval.
I stood up to grab some food for us. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Lucy begin to stand up, too. I spun around and put my hands up in a halting sign. “No. You stay.” I pointed at the chair. “Stay. Sit,” I commanded. She looked at me, then ever so slowly, sunk back down into the chair. I nodded again. “Good, good. Stay there now, I'll grab the food.” I slowly backed away from the table, keeping my hands up as if I could hold her in place with my mind. She kept her eyes on me, watching intently with those big, orange peepers.
I had to break eye contact as I got the food. I didn't know what she liked, so I just grabbed a smorgasbord of everything within reach. I went back to the table with my arms full of goodies and spread them across the tabletop. There were chips, candy, yogurt, apples, carrots, crackers, and more. Her eyes were now on all the food. I sat down beside her.
She glanced at me. I smiled. “It's food. You eat it. Here, try some.” I pushed some of it towards her. Again she looked at it, then back to me and cocked her head in that puppy way of hers.
“Food,” I repeated, picking up a carrot. “Fah-ooh-duh,” I enunciated, then took a bite. She watched me chew with great interest. I picked up another carrot and handed it to her. She took it, stared at it, then glanced at me. I remember even now how clearly that carrot matched her eyes.
“Fah-ooh-duh,” she mimicked me pretty well, actually. My eyes widened in amazement and I laughed out loud. Then she took a bite out of the carrot, as she had seen me do. As she chewed, I watched with awe as her eyes shifted from orange to yellow to a very light shade of pink before going back to yellow. When she finished chewing and swallowed, she smiled.
“Good, right?” I chuckled. “I can see you like carrots.” I pushed some more her way. She glanced at me, as if asking permission. I nodded. Immediately, she grabbed another carrot and popped it into her mouth like a pro. She happily munched away.
I thought she might like to try something else, so I grabbed one of the chocolate candy bars and offered it to her. She looked at it curiously. “Go ahead, try it,” I encouraged.
She glanced at me. “Fah-ooh-duh?” She spoke slowly, questioning.
I nodded. Lucy grabbed it and took a bite. Her face instantly contorted in disgust and her eyes changed to a dark shade of green. She stuck out her tongue and scraped the rest of it out of her mouth.
I laughed. “Okay, no chocolate. Noted.” I handed her another carrot. It seemed safe to stick with those. Her eyes shifted back to yellow as she took the carrot and gobbled it up.
I glanced up as my father walked into the kitchen to join us. Lucy looked up at him, did that little half smile of hers, coughed, then ate another carrot. I saw my father smile at her. She did have a certain charm about her. Then he turned his attention on me. “Aunt Maria will be stopping by shortly,” he informed.
“Yay!” I exclaimed. “Uncle Henry and Peter, too?” I asked. Peter is my older cousin.
“I don't know,” my father mused, “but probably.” He shrugged, then nodded toward the food on the table. “I see you got her to eat something, huh?” I like to think he sounded impressed.
I nodded. “She likes carrots.” I glanced at Lucy and grinned as she returned my gaze. “Don't give her chocolate, though.” I turned back to my father. “Wasn't a fan,” I chuckled.
My father pulled a chair out and sat with us. Lucy's bright yellow eyes were on him. She pushed a carrot towards him. “Fah-ooh-duh,” she offered.
His mouth dropped open and an amazed laugh escaped. “Thank you.” He took the carrot, and stole a glance at me. I was grinning like a proud momma.
Lucy coughed again, a string of them this time. My dad stood up. “I'll get some water.” He walked toward the sink and came back with a pitcher of water and three cups. He went to work pouring a cup for each of us. I saw Lucy watching him closely, her eyes were back to orange. My father slid two cups along the table, one to me and one to Lucy. She leaned forward a little and stared curiously into the cup. My father and I watched her. I don't know about my father, but I was thinking she surely must know what water was. You couldn't live without the stuff!
Cautiously, she brought her hand over the cup and slowly lowered a single finger into her cup. I knew exactly when her skin touched the water because a small, but audible, gasp came out. Her eyes got bigger and brighter. She looked up, first at my father, then at me.
I couldn't help but laugh. “It's water. You drink it.” I grabbed my water and showed her by taking a sip. She cocked her head as she watched me, then she returned her gaze to her own cup.
She grabbed her cup in her small hands and copied what she saw me do. She brought it up to her lips and tilted it until the water reached her mouth. I saw her swallow, then pull the cup away. She licked her lips, seemed to think about it for a second, then her eyes lightened to yellow. She brought the cup back up and drained it.
I smirked and turned to my father. “It's exhausting taking care of someone,” I commented.
He raised an eyebrow. “It is, isn't it?” He gave me a wink.
About twenty minutes later, Aunt Maria showed up with Uncle Henry and Peter trotting in behind her. My aunt was a small woman. At age twelve, Peter was already taller than his mother. Uncle Henry stood a good foot taller than his wife. We welcomed everyone in, hugs all around, and lots of talking over one another. I noticed Lucy was kind of hiding in the background, but she watched everything with a careful eye. My father and I brought everyone into the kitchen to meet her.
Aunt Maria stepped forward first. “Hello, Lucy. My name is Maria.” She offered her hand out to Lucy for a handshake. Lucy looked at her outstretched hand; her eyes once more a burnt orange. She cocked her head slightly.
“Whoa! What's wrong with her eyes?” Peter asked from behind his mother.
“Peter,” Uncle Henry warned with a disapproving glance and a quick shake of his head.
“What? Look at them!” He defended, pointing. Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry frowned at him.
My father leaned down towards his nephew. “Just wait, they change color, too.” Peter glanced up at him in disbelief. My father just smirked and nodded.
Meanwhile, my aunt still had her hand out, watching the young girl. Lucy looked from her hand, to her face, to me. I stepped up next to her, took her hand and guided it to my aunt's. I showed her how to position her hand, then Aunt Maria took it from there as she put her hand in Lucy's and pumped up and down. “Nice to meet you, Lucy,” she greeted, though she already knew that the girl didn't understand English.
As her hand fell back to her side, Lucy's eyes melted into a pale yellow. Mellow yellow.
“Holy crap,” Peter gasped.
Lucy had another coughing attack. I glanced at my father, who was watching her with some concern. Her coughing was becoming more frequent, and sounded like it was getting worse.
Uncle Henry leaned toward my father. “Is she okay?” He asked, his eyes on the girl.
“I don't know,” my father admitted. “She's been coughing more and more.” He glanced at my aunt, who met his gaze. They had almost identical hazel eyes.
“Sounds sick to me,” Peter put in his two cents.
Aunt Maria turned on him. “You're not helping here. Scram, kiddo, and take your cousin with you, huh? Go play outside for a while,” she suggested.
“Can Lucy come with us?” I asked, instinctively reaching out for her hand.
“Of course.” My father nodded with an encouraging smile. Peter grabbed a soccer ball from the closet that we could kick around. Lucy and I followed him out; Uncle Henry tousled my hair in affection as I slipped by. Lucy stuck by me, and I showed her how to kick the ball. Once she got the hang of it, she started to have some real fun, her eyes a bright yellow that out-shined the sun. She had to pause only once in a while when she had to cough.
I could see my father, aunt, and uncle watching us from the window. I saw their mouths moving, but obviously couldn't hear what they were saying. After what felt like only a few minutes, my father called us all inside again.
“What's up?” Peter asked. I think he saw something in his parents' faces that made him ask the question. Everyone looked so serious.
“We're going to take Lucy to the doctor, get her checked out,” Aunt Maria answered.
“I'm coming, too! I won't leave Lucy,” I argued, prepared for a fight.
“Don't worry,” my dad replied, “everyone's coming. Let's go!” He ushered everyone outside. Aunt Maria's car was parked next to my father's.
“Should we take two cars?” Uncle Henry asked.
“No.” My father and Aunt Maria answered at the same time as they walked past everyone. Sometimes they're so similar it's scary.
“Tight fit,” Uncle Henry whistled. “So, who's riding in the trunk?” Peter and I simultaneously pointed at each other, which made my uncle laugh.
Aunt Maria opened the driver's door of her car, pulled something out, and threw it to my father. Then she walked over to my father's car and opened one of the back doors. “Henry, you're in front with Matt. I'm small, I'll go in the back with the kiddos,” she instructed.
My father walked over to me and Lucy. I saw now that Aunt Maria had passed him a pair of sunglasses. He knelt down and placed them on Lucy, hiding her big, colorful eyes. She reached up and felt the glasses, but didn't try to take them off. Honestly, I thought they looked really good on her. My father nodded. “Just for a little extra protection while in public.”
We all piled inside, and I couldn't help but feel like we were in a clown car. Lucy sat basically on top of me, Aunt Maria was in the middle, and Peter was squished on her other side. Surprisingly, we didn't hear a word of complaint from my cousin. The drive wasn't long, but boy, it sure felt like it was.
Our family doctor was actually a childhood friend of my father and aunt. Apparently, while we were outside, Aunt Maria had called him and asked if they could come by with a special case. He agreed to help out and examine Lucy on his lunch break.
We barged into the reception area like a herd of buffalo. Aunt Maria walked up to one of the receptionists. They spoke for a moment, then I saw the receptionist get up and disappear down a hallway. Aunt Maria, meanwhile, turned back to us and gave a thumbs up. The rest of us sat down in the chairs and waited.
It wasn't a long wait before I saw a handsome man step out of a doorway on the side of the receptionist area and walk into the lobby. Doctor Alan. Like I said, he was our family doctor, I had gone to him ever since I could remember. I knew he was younger than my aunt, but older than my father. He had golden hair, blue eyes, and a dazzling smile complete with dimples. I am not going to lie, I had a huge crush on Dr. Alan.
He walked up to my aunt, gave her a hug, and shook hands with my uncle and father. He glanced down and gave a wink at me and Peter. I saw his eyes linger on Lucy for a moment. Her skin had gotten a little paler, but it was still more pink than normal. “Hello, everyone. It's so nice to see you all. Come on into my office and we can chat.” He gestured to where he had come from. We followed him back through the doorway; he led us down a short hallway and showed us into a room off the corner. It was a nice office, had a large wooden desk with three chairs in total, one for him and two on the other side for patients.
He closed the door behind us. “I apologize if it's a little cramped. It's a small office to be holding this many people,” he spoke as he walked over to his desk. He leaned back against the front of it, his hands gripping the edge.
“Thank you again for doing this, Alan. We really appreciate you taking your lunch break to help us,” Aunt Maria remarked.
Dr. Alan favored her with an amused smirk. “You were sounding a little desperate on the phone, Maria. So,” he clapped his hands together, “what can I help you with?”
As if on cue, Lucy started coughing. The doctor turned towards her. “I think I've found our patient,” he declared, but before he could say or do anything further, my father interrupted.
“Alan.” He stepped in front of Lucy, looking austere. “I need you to listen to me for a minute.” The doctor was looking at him, and I saw his expression change from curiosity to concern. “You're a smart man, and you're going to figure out pretty quickly that this is no ordinary little girl. We know she's special. We are the only ones that know, and we plan to keep it that way. Absolutely no one can know about her. Do you understand, Alan?”
The doctor was silent for a moment. I could see his eyes searching my father, trying to decide if he was being serious or not. Finally, he must have concluded it was real because he nodded. “Alright, Matt, I understand you. I won't say anything.”
“Wonderful,” Aunt Maria chimed in from behind everyone, “now if you are done frightening our good doctor, can we please get to helping Lucy?” She asked, as if reprimanding a child. My father stepped aside, allowing the doctor a clear path to the girl. She coughed and looked to me.
I smiled at her. “It's okay, Dr. Alan's going to help you.” I leaned over and took off her sunglasses.
“Woah,” Dr. Alan gasped he saw her eyes for the first time. Lucy turned to look at him with orange eyes. “Is she...wearing contacts?” He asked.
“No.” Everyone answered in unison.
“Um...okay...” He pushed off from his desk, bit his lip for a second, then nodded. “Okay, why don't you take a seat, Lucy?” He pushed one of the chairs over to her and gestured with a smile. I have to say, I was impressed with his ability to look and sound so calm, like he didn't just see a girl with big, orange eyes.
Lucy, however, just cocked her head as she continued to stare at him. He raised an expectant eyebrow. I smirked. “Sorry, Dr. Alan, she doesn't understand English. We don't actually know what language she speaks,” I shrugged. “But allow me to help.” I grabbed the second chair and pushed it next to the first, then sat down. I looked up at Lucy and patted the cushion on the chair next to me. She understood and sat down.
I saw the doctor grin. He gave me a grateful nod, then reached behind himself and grabbed the stethoscope sprawled on his desk. “Okay, let's start with the simple stuff first, shall we? I'm just going to listen to your heart, Lucy.” I think it must have been automatic for him to explain what he was doing, even though he now knew she couldn't understand him.
My father and Uncle Henry stood nearby, leaning against the wall. Aunt Maria and Peter had taken a seat in the doctor's chair on the other side of the desk. Peter was sitting on his mother's lap. My chair was right next to Lucy's. Everyone watched as Dr. Alan placed the earpieces in his ears and moved the chest piece toward Lucy. Lucy's eyes never left him as he placed the diaphragm against her chest. I saw his eyes narrow slightly as he moved the chest piece around a few times, pausing and listening. His brow furrowed as he removed the stethoscope from her.
He pursed his lips for a moment, turned his dazzling blue eyes on me, and held up the instrument. “May I?” He asked.
I nodded. “Go for it.”
He brought the stethoscope over and placed the diaphragm on my chest. He listened only for a moment before nodding and taking out the earpieces. “Thank you.” He smiled at me as he looped the stethoscope around his neck. He took a step back and leaned up against the desk again, half sitting on it.
“Well,” he started, crossing his arms, “I must confess, I had no idea why you felt the need to warn me beforehand, or why you looked so serious about it, but I believe I'm beginning to understand.” He glanced at my father. “You told me that she was no ordinary girl. I'm willing to bet that was an understatement.” He paused as he looked around the room. “This little girl has no heartbeat.” He glanced at Lucy. “It's quite extraordinary, actually.”
I gaped, and I doubt I was the only one.
“What?” My father and aunt asked in tandem.
“Cool,” Peter whispered, but everyone could hear him.
“Are you sure?” Aunt Maria asked, ignoring her son's comment.
The doctor turned to her. “You're welcome to take a listen, Maria, but there's nothing to hear.”
“But...how is that possible?” Uncle Henry questioned.
Dr. Alan shook his head. “I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me.” His eyes moved from Uncle Henry to my father. “Who is this girl, Matt? Where did she come from?”
Me and my father exchanged a glance. He sighed. “Truth is, Alan, we don't know much about her ourselves.” He then told everyone the entire story, starting at the bank with Lucy's appearance and apparent invulnerability, up to the decision to call Dr. Alan.
“She's bulletproof, too?!” Peter awed. “That's awesome!” I couldn't help but grin.
My father continued, still talking to the doctor. “I'm sorry to drag you into this, Alan, truly, but I didn't know what else to do,” he confessed. “And her cough was starting to worry us.”
Lucy coughed again and the room went silent. She looked around the room with wide, orange eyes. Then she caught sight of something that made her eyes shift to a lavender color. She leaned toward the desk, past the doctor, and picked up an orange pencil. She brought it up to her face, observed it for a moment, then turned to me. Her lavender eyes were beautiful and hopeful. “Fah-ooh-duh?” She asked eagerly.
I heard a few gasps; nobody except for me and my father had heard her talk before. I shook my head. “No, not food.” I took the pencil from her just in case she didn't understand and wanted to take a bite. It must have looked like a carrot to her. When I took it away, I saw her eyes change again, this time into a light blue. It tugged at my heart strings. “Hold on, Lucy, I'll try to find you some food,” I assured her with a quick pat on her shoulder.
I turned toward the doctor, who had been watching us with an amused smile. “Dr. Alan, do you have any food around that Lucy can snack on? Even just something small? Preferably not chocolate, though.”
He nodded. “I think I can help you out.” He pushed himself up from the desk. He glanced at my father as he made his way to the door. “Care to join me, Matt?” Though it was posed as a question, everyone in the room knew it was a command. My father nodded and followed him out of the room. Dr. Alan closed the door behind them. Still to this day, I don't truthfully know what was said between the two men once that door closed.
As we waited, the rest of us made small talk. My aunt and uncle asked me how school was going. The typical questions. Lucy coughed again, and we could all tell it was getting worse. She didn't look surprised anymore, but I thought it looked almost painful for her now. It still makes me cringe to think about it. I remember just feeling so utterly helpless.
After a few minutes, my father and Dr. Alan returned. The doctor stepped over to me and Lucy and held out his hand. “We had some of these in the waiting room. Hope it's enough.” In his outstretched palm were two blue lollipops.
I smiled and took the pops. “It's perfect, thank you.” I unwrapped one for Lucy and handed it to her. “Food,” I told her.
Her eyes shined bright yellow as she took the lollipop from me. I opened my own and showed her how to lick it; I didn't want her to choke on it if she tried to swallow the entire thing. She watched me, then did the same to her pop. My eyes widened as I saw her tongue. It was a grassy green color, and it was forked! The doctor must have seen it, too, because I could hear him stifle a gasp. But when I saw her eyes flash a bright pink, then settle back to yellow as she kept licking, I couldn't help but laugh. At least she liked it. I glanced at the doctor and saw him smiling, too.
“So what do we do now?” Aunt Maria asked.
“Well, I'd like to try to get a little more information on our unique friend. I think I'll start by checking her temperature,” Dr. Alan answered. He walked around to the other side of his desk and pulled out one of the drawers. He rummaged around for only a moment, then pulled out a thermometer. He walked back around and knelt before Lucy's chair. It looked like he was going to propose.
“Alright, Lucy, can you open your mouth for me, please?” He was a quick learner, because after he asked, he then opened his mouth to show her what he wanted her to do. Lucy stared at him for a moment, then offered her lollipop to the doctor.
Everyone in the room laughed. It must have startled Lucy because she looked around at everyone with bright orange eyes.
“You are a very sweet, thoughtful girl, Lucy,” Dr. Alan praised. Lucy turned back to him.
“Here, I'll take that for now, Lucy. Then I'll give it back to you.” I reached over and gently took the lollipop from her hand. When she looked at me, I smiled to let her know everything was okay. She did her half-smile back.
“Alright, let's try that again,” Dr. Alan drew her attention back to him. He threw me a quick, grateful wink. I swear my heart fluttered out of my chest. “Open wide,” he instructed as he demonstrated what he wanted her to do again. This time, she nailed it. She mirrored Dr. Alan and opened her mouth. There was her green, forked tongue again.
The doctor smiled. “Good, very good,” he praised. He held up the thermometer and tucked it under her strange tongue as best he could. Gently, he placed a hand under her chin and lifted it up so her mouth closed over the thermometer. “You're doing great, Lucy.”
I don't know about everyone else, but I found myself holding my breath while we waited in silence. When the thermometer beeped, Dr. Alan let his hand fall from under her chin. He slid the thermometer out and studied the result. I saw his eyebrows rise, then he chuckled.
“What is it?” I asked. Even at that age, I knew the magic number was ninety-eight point six degrees.
His beautiful eyes fell on me. “Your friend is full of surprises.” Then he glanced up at my father. “Her temperature is sixty-eight degrees. Fahrenheit,” he clarified.
“Sixty-eight?” Uncle Henry repeated in disbelief.
“That can't be right,” Aunt Maria frowned. “Are you sure it's not upside down?”
Alan held up the thermometer. “You're welcome to take a look, Maria, but I assure you I'm reading it correctly. It's sixty-eight.” This time, my aunt took the doctor up on his offer and reached over and snatched the thermometer from his hand. She read it and frowned, but remained silent. I saw Dr. Alan smirk.
“So, what does that mean?” My father asked. He sounded tired.
The doctor met his gaze. “It means she is cold-blooded.” He looked back down at Lucy. “She's truly remarkable.”
“Cold-blooded?” I think my father was trying to wrap his head around the idea.
“You can check if you want, but I can tell you that the temperature in this room right now is sixty-eight degrees,” Dr. Alan explained.
Lucy had the longest coughing attack yet. I glanced around and saw everyone watching with concern. When the coughing stopped, Lucy looked to me. I tried to smile. I gave her back her lollipop, which she happily took and licked. I glanced at the doctor; he was watching her closely.
Before I could, Uncle Henry asked the question that was on my lips. “What are you thinking, Alan?”
The doctor glanced at Uncle Henry, then took a survey of the room and saw everyone was looking at him. He pursed his lips. “From all that I have seen and heard, this young girl has color-changing eyes with no pupils or iris, pink skin, a green, forked tongue, no heartbeat, is cold-blooded, and is apparently invulnerable to bullets shot from point-blank range. Forgive me, but I don't think it's out of the question, nor do I think I'm the only one to consider, that Lucy here may not be of this Earth.”
“Are you talking aliens, Alan?” Uncle Henry asked.
“Are you telling me that it hasn't crossed your mind, Henry?” The doctor raised an eyebrow.
Uncle Henry sighed. “I don't know what to think at this point.”
“Dad-” I began to turn around to talk to my father, but was interrupted by Lucy's coughing. It racked her body. She brought her hand up to cover her mouth. It was the first time I had seen her do that, and it worried me. When the coughing finally subsided and she lowered her hand, she stared at her palm. I glanced to see what caught her attention, and my heart dropped and shattered like glass on pavement.
“Dr. Alan, help,” I pleaded as I took Lucy's hand in my own. There was bright green liquid spattered on her palm. Immediately, Dr. Alan was on his knees in front of Lucy's chair. The next second, my father also dropped to a knee beside the doctor.
“May I?” Dr. Alan asked as he reached for Lucy's hand that I was holding. I let him take her hand, and as mine fell away, my father's hand was there to catch it. He gave it a quick squeeze. The doctor held Lucy's hand in his own, studying the liquid. He glanced up and noticed there was a spattering of the green liquid on her lips as well. Gently, he brought one hand up to her lips. “It's okay, you're doing fine,” he whispered as he observed around her mouth, then back to her palm.
“What is it?” My father asked, also staring at her palm. It looked like green Gatorade to me.
The doctor frowned. “If I had to guess, I'd say it's the equivalent of our blood,” he answered, still holding her hand. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingered on me and my father. “If it's true that she's not from this planet, then it's possible that she may be getting sick from the atmosphere itself.”
“What do you mean, Alan?” Aunt Maria asked.
The doctor explained, “If she isn't attuned to it, our atmospheric structure of hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen could be poisonous to her system. The longer she is here, breathing it in, the sicker she is going to get.” His voice was somber, regretful.
“But...if that's true...” I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence out loud. If it was true, then there would be no way we could help Lucy. If the very air made her sick, we wouldn't be able to save her. I felt my father squeeze my hand again. I looked to him. “What do we do?” I asked.
He looked sad. “I don't know, sweetheart,” he confessed.
Before anyone else could speak, there was a knock at the door. It startled me. I had forgotten there was a world outside that office. The doctor stood up. “Excuse me for a moment,” he apologized as he made his way to the door. He opened it just wide enough to fit his body through, blocking any view of Lucy.
“Sorry to interrupt, Alan,” I heard a female voice on the other side of the door, “but there are some men asking to see you.” There was a small pause. “They said they're from the government. They look serious.” She sounded nervous.
“Okay,” Dr. Alan mused. He glanced back at us for a quick second, then turned back to his visitor. “I'm sorry to ask this of you, Ariel, but I need you to stall them a little for me. Tell them I'm with a patient right now, but I'll be out after to speak with them. Okay?”
“Okay,” I heard her agree.
“Good. Thank you, Ariel.” He closed the door and turned back to us.
Before he could say anything, my father cut him off. “Alan, what's the government doing here? Are they here for Lucy?”
Dr. Alan's blue eyes focused on my father. “I don't know for sure, Matt, but I certainly don't have any prior business with the government. Do they know about her? Do they know that you're here?” He asked.
My father frowned. “I'm sure word of a bulletproof little girl got around after the bank robbery, and everyone at the bank knows me. If they told the authorities that I went after the girl, they would know to look for my car. And we took my car here...” he was thinking out loud, trying to work it out.
“What would the government want with Lucy?” I questioned my father.
He shrugged. “She's something new, something different, something literally bulletproof. I'm sure they want to study her.” He frowned. “I don't think we can let them have her, though. She's just a little girl, and they would turn her into some kind of...science experiment.”
“Down with the government!” Peter thrust his fist into the air.
“Peter,” Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry warned in sync.
Lucy coughed again, and again she raised her hand to cover her mouth. More of her green “blood” speckled her lips and hand when she took it away.
“What do we do?” I asked. “I don't want them to take Lucy away.” I looked to my father.
“Don't worry,” he took my hand, “they're not going to take her from us.”
Uncle Henry stepped forward. “But that still leaves the question of what do we do?”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Alan spoke up, “I think we need to make a run for it.”
Aunt Maria looked to the doctor. “Is there a back door out of here?” She asked. I think everyone had silently agreed that we had to keep Lucy with us and away from the government.
“There is.” Dr. Alan nodded. “Follow me.” Everyone got up. I took Lucy's hand in my own, making sure to grab the one without her blood on it. The doctor opened the door and we all followed him out. We went the opposite way of which we came in, further down the hallway. It was closed off from the lobby, so no one could see us sneak away. At the end of the hall was a stairwell. We all descended down, two-by-two, to the first floor.
The doctor stopped in front of the door and turned around. “Somebody has to go out first and see if the coast is clear. If they are indeed here for you and Lucy, they may have guards posted by the exits, in case you try to make an escape,” Dr. Alan explained. I was impressed he had thought of it, because it certainly hadn't entered my mind. I saw him look to my aunt and uncle. “It'll have to be one of you. They'll be looking for me, Lucy, or Matt and his daughter.”
Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry exchanged glances. “Rock, paper, scissors?” Aunt Maria asked with a raised eyebrow. I knew she was competitive, but I wondered if this was something she would want to win.
Uncle Henry waved his hand. “No need, my dear, I'll go.” Dr. Alan stepped aside from the door so Uncle Henry could leave.
Lucy started coughing again. It was bad, a long string of them that sounded like she was hacking up a lung. I helped her down so she could sit on the bottom step. I rubbed her back. “It's okay. You're okay, Lucy,” I whispered into her ear, hoping the soothing sound would convey the message. She brought her hand up and wiped away at the green on her lips. I could feel tears starting in my eyes. She was dying. We all knew it. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall; I hated feeling so helpless, watching the closest thing I ever had to a sister slowly dying.
Before I even saw him move, my father was on his knee in front of me and Lucy. He took one of my hands in his right and one of Lucy's hands in his left.
Then the door opened, and we all turned to look. Uncle Henry had come back. He shook his head. “Alan was right. There are guards at every door.” His report was met with silence.
I looked around. Everyone looked defeated, heads hung low. I couldn't hold back my tears any longer as my eyes met my father's. “It's not fair,” I cried. The cold tears ran races down my cheeks.
My father shook his head. “No, it's not. I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry.” He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Then he turned to Lucy. “And Lucy, you deserve so much better. I'm sorry,” he spoke, knowing full well she couldn't understand the words. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, too.
I saw her eyes change to a beautiful pink, and I knew she understood what the kiss meant. I smiled as more tears streamed down my cheeks. She quickly brought her hand up as she coughed again.
“I could try to distract the guards,” Dr. Alan offered. “I can let them question me, but I don't know if it would be enough to get you all out.” He looked sorrowful. “And I don't know how much longer our friend here truly has.”
As if in response, Lucy coughed again, spitting up more blood. She didn't look good. Her pink skin had become very pale, nearly translucent. As I stared at her through blurry, tear-filled eyes, I couldn't help but think this was not the right place for her to die – in a cold stairwell hiding from the government. It was as my father had said, she deserved so much better.
Lucy turned to me, and our eyes met. “You're my sister, Lucy. I love you. Never forget that.” I nearly choked on the last words as I cried.
For what would be the last time, I saw her eyes change to orange and her head cocked to the side as she reached up to my cheek and gently touched the tears running down them. Her lip curled up in a small smile. Her eyes flashed a bright pink. Then she coughed, and I saw her eyes dim. She laid her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.
To this day, we still don't quite know how or when it truly ended. There was no heartbeat to go off of, but her kaleidoscope eyes never opened again after that. She had passed away. My heart is still broken. She was my sister, and I love her endlessly.
The End.
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AADIL FAROOK
ALAN BERGER
ALEXANDRA BAFF
ANDREW HUBBARD
ANTOINETTE BOYD
APRIL MCDERMOTT
BEN GILBERT
BOB THOMAS
BRETT MORALES
BRIAN RIHLMANN
CAPTAIN RON PICKETT
CATHY BEAUDOIN
CHRISTIAN WARD
CLINT BOWMAN
CONSTANCE JOHNSON
COREY SHIELDS
DAVE EARNHARDT
DAWN RONCO
DHARMPAL MAHENDRA JAIN
DONNA PUCCIANI
DOUG HAWLEY
DOUG WESTENDORP
DR ANGELA JOHNSON
DR. HARMEET KAUR
EATON JACKSON
ENDA BOYLE
GARY MORSE
HALEY OH
IAN WENZEL-GARAY
JIM WOESSNER
JOHN BALDWIN
JOHN LANE
JOHN MURO
JON CARTER
JOSEPH VITO ROMANO
KELLY PINER
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD
KEONA GINGRAS
KIMBERLY WICKSTROM
LEO AYLEN
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARGOT HUGHES
MATTHEW MCAYEAL
NDABA SIBANDA
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
RANDAL A. BURD JR
RENA ROBINETT
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
RON KATZ
ROSALIND KALIDEN
SALONI KAUL
SANDRA CLOUGH
SHARON SINGLETON
SHOUNAK REZA
SPENCER GODFREY
STEPHEN MEAD
SUCHOON MO
S W BRACKETT
TONY OSGOOD
WILL NUESSLE
WRITER GO HYEE