Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones. This Is Only Dangerous by Rick Edelstein PART I They entered each other’s life at an unusual place: Koo Koo Roos, a huge cavern of a glistening fast-food emporium specializing in skinless chicken, turkey, and courteous well-trained young Hispanic servers. Olivia went because old people had not as yet discovered this particular franchiser’s location. She was 59 and would not feel, think, or act old as she assiduously avoided gatherings of any sort which favored—and she hates the expression—golden agers. She insisted on geographic chasms of separation lest she catch what she regarded as a pandemic surrender to aging, which was considerably less than golden. She reluctantly gave up one of her favorite past-times, matinee movies, because instead of being protected in the anonymous dark of the theatre she was constantly assaulted by the invisible intrusions of click-clacking dentures crunching cardboard popcorn and liver spotted hands noisily unwrapping sticky covers of tiny candies announcing their flavor in triumphant sucking sounds through wheezing breaths. She would not join their submission to the catabolic destiny of chronological time. Olivia lived her life as if sickness and aging were dark entities in fear of her power. David—who never forgave his parents for such a commonplace name—went because it was within walking distance of his house and although he knew how to cook he relinquished the kitchen to memories of servitude long gone-by. He relished the polarity of public privacy as he played invisible, enveloped by surrounding diners’ conversations and innocuous background music, all beneficial as welcome distractions, blocking out not-so random thoughts of disquietude. At the ripe age of 38, David recently retired with full disability pension from the Police force. His former colleagues reminded him how lucky he was that after three operations, the bullet and resultant shrapnel were successfully removed leaving him with scars unseen when clothed, insisting that when women discovered them in bed they would make him a hero and even hotter than before. David smiled and nodded to fulfill their expectations as he dropped his badge, gun and police persona disappearing from their lives. And from his. Although he could not disappear the scars of killing a 15-year young blonde kid with glasses. Yeah, over beer, the story was loud and justified in that the zonked out asshole of a kid fired and almost killed David as he flew backwards from the bullet’s impact; his trained instincts were on automatic, firing wildly in that reflexive feral instant killing the 15-year young blonde kid with glasses. Prior to that moment David had worn the wardrobe of appropriate societal dress-code which included marriage, his lamenting wife’s, “You’re never home and when you are you’re not here because you are solving some crime out there ignoring that it’s a crime in your own home how you’re treating me, our marriage,” ad infinitum, ad nauseam add a subsequent divorce, a promising career in the police department as one of the youngest Detective First-Grade officers with three recommendations accompanied by the shielding vest of disgust over the inhuman condition of the perps he often collared, reputed in the department for his mastery of martial arts often decking skanks without a shot. But not that kid. Yet over beers it was clearly shouted what the fuck was that pasty faced white blonde kid with glasses trying to do! Robbing a bank in the middle of the day! Of course he had drugs in his system. The skell didn’t have to shoot, the dumb fucking 15-year young pasty faced punk with glasses didn’t have to shoot! It’s been a year since. David has returned no phone calls, moved three times and lives what might be perceived as a quiet normal life by some nodding neighbors not sensing the maelstrom of a deadening nihilism in a man who seemingly was young enough to embrace life. In his present garb of anonymity he shared no facts or fancy of his past with anyone as such history is only to be revealed on a need-to-know basis and David created a restless solitude ensuring that there was no one who needed to know. He no longer needed suction with his department superiors. He no longer cared if a small-time dealer was trying to re-up his supply. He no longer cared. Neighbors assumed he was shy. How sweet. Friends have told Olivia that she dresses too young and sexual for a woman of her age and full body. Each morning—as Olivia divorces her friends—she showers with close to scolding water trying to wash away the pain hiding in the dark corners of disillusionment. Each morning, as an extension of her determined choice to transcend overcast inner weather she declares a victor’s assumption that today is Olivia-day and subsequently celebrates this option by adorning herself in textures, beads, bracelets, hair combs, earrings, perfuming her lush proportions with a subtle scent of gardenias offering no justification for friends, merely supporting her existential hedonism which to Joseph Campbell might be following her bliss and to Olivia resolute to doing what feels good on Olivia-day. A silent aggression of what feels good, whatever whenever, however. Each and every morning. How others feel is none of my business. She rejected unsolicited opinions as to what a large-boned beautiful woman should be like as she liked the way she chose to be. When her first-born died at child-birth Olivia descended into repugnant guilt that only a mother’s sense of failure would know. Ultimately three subsequent children provoked a need to rise above, to not be at effect, coño, of God’s beautiful and mean mysteries. And today, Olivia-day, her choice, si, estoy hermosa, a woman of substantial age which does not mean anything other than a woman with enough experience to choose wisely or wildly. Or both. Solo estoy haciendo lo que me hace sentir bien. I am only doing what makes me feel good. Hoy! Today! My choice! Olivia threw down her velvet barbed gauntlet to ghosts of friends. If those myopic critics only knew of her many lives—just this lifetime—mother of four, yes she named Maria before she was born and died, three children from two different fathers, six men whom she loved but was never in love including an East-European sex-machine who seldom showered or said anything of interest so she kicked him out; as a waitress, bartender and subsequent manager of a Cuban restaurant, college drop-out because she could not put up with the required advanced mathematic courses which had little to do with the rash on her 4-year-old daughter’s butt. And now, all of her experiences are a shrug of her past as a contribution and contrast to life’s offerings without moral equivocations. After fourteen years on the force dealing with mopes, bums, thugs, junkies peddling over-cut yayo, decks of heroin, slabs of crack to pay for their own habit, hairbag suppliers and fences, buff cops who did a three-sixty on the take, and the white kid with glasses who mooshed him the night he was shot...he tried to entomb their memories, to dismantle the charge of ugly that had its own vibration, to disappear into a cavern of escape. He indulged in the haven of sex as a holy immersion, the primal visceral erotic heat of mindless no boundary sexcavations. Too often he was returned to planet earth’s restraints with the woman who wanted more; more sharing, more than the silent salvation he valued, sought after, was essential to his next breath. “Talk to me baby.” “Nothing to say.” “Why are you avoiding intimacy?” “All that means is into me see.” “Fuck you.” “Now that’s as good idea.” As she pouted he pulled out, literally and metaphorically. Olivia walked or rather strode in a rhythm that was accentuated by the long purple-black and silver-gray hair thickly meshed into a single braid bouncing along her voluptuous back. Her skin tones resonate as if the sun set inside her flesh. Her face boned as an ancient Mayan woman perfectly adorned by a European Utrillo-like nose punctuated by black eyes which alternated between a bruja’s conceal but more often seemed to glint with a joke to which only she knew the punch line. David tried evading the continuum of a grating past in his present by indulging in drugs. That didn’t do it. Grass made him paranoid and hungry; cocaine started as a mountain stream of forgetful joy too quickly devolving into grinding teeth and a nose flowing fluids foreign to his vocabulary. As a result of his street connects he could score from any one of a hundred skanks; smack, crack, reds, whites, ups, blues, downers, speed, meth. There was—despite his nihilistic choice—an ancient survivor rein that pulled on him when he got close to the edge. No matter his pain, nightmares of floating glasses reflecting a distorted acne faced blonde boy, the rein would permit no more than a toe over the edge. Olivia did not know her father who abandoned them before she could talk yet she believes she remembers his rough hands touching her infant cheeks which occasionally burns today in the real or imagined loss. But she did know, revere, venerated, cherished Papi, her Mexican Mayan abuelo, her grandfather. Watching him work for hours, for days as he chose particular stones on their walk and then grinding them down with a tiny drill, piercing holes in each, eventually held together with a weathered leather string which he placed around her neck whispering, “Esto siempre te protejera, mi Chiquita.” This will protect you forever. Her Papi would awaken her at dawn, tip-toeing out of the house holding her smooth olive skinned hand in his calloused safety, to the sputtering car, rushing to their magic place, sitting down in the dry dirt leaning against a boulder. Olivia cuddling into him as they both stared at the fading darkness. She could feel her young heart beat in anticipation of the magic-to-come. Papi would make a grand gesture toward the horizon and every time he did that, every time, the sun rose. Her abuelo made morning. When Papi died, even though she was a young adult, the loss was so profound that she flirted with madness. Sitting in a public place not understanding how no one seemed to know that the world lost the most important being, she would scream loud enough to frighten adults and make children cower. She knew she did it and in owning her expression of private pain Olivia smiled proudly of her public act of mourning valor. Walking, she saw a street sign, SLOW; she moved as if in a stop-start-frame movie. She walked by a forefront with a sign, DANCE; she started dancing and dancing and yet more dancing, tears finally streaming as she twirled in her homage, an appropriate wake for her Papi. Some adults stared. Others made her invisible protecting their Bingo-every-Saturday night world. Two kids joined in the dance. One recent morning Olivia awakened at 3:03 a.m. (She loved palindromes.) Her excited gasps inhaled the presence of Papi. In an oxymoronic enthusiastic joyous panic she ran out of the house barefoot with nightgown billowing accommodating her supply rippling body in all its graceful generosity. She opened the door to the neighbor’s car reaching under the thread-bare mat finding the key and took off in a gasp and a shake rushing toward the highway then turning off to a long drive up and up as the car protested but didn’t dare give out as Olivia’s power demanded it reach the top of the mini-mountain in order to look over the world facing East. She sat down leaning against a tree, gasping/breathing the cold near-dawn air stinging her lungs in insistent pleasure; her heartbeat slowed until she achieved perfect balance. Calm now she knew Papi was with her as her arm lifted toward the horizon. The sun rose. Tears graced her glistening olive skin, touching the stones of his protective necklace she nodded, “Si, te quiero, Papi.” David was good with his hands. He could fix anything. His innate talent fit his current life style like a perfectly honed dowel gentling flawlessly into the hole of the furniture he created and repaired. He worked alone according to his outrageously exacting standards. His rare ability to work on wood furniture without using nails attracted enough customers to pay him enough money along with his disability check not to worry about having enough money. It may have been pre-ordained by the gods-of-madness-&-humor because each of them usually avoided the lunch hour crush by arriving at 11:45 a.m. or 2:30 p.m. but the stars may have been deliberately crossed as they were in line at 12:04 p.m. David ordered a half original skinless chicken with side orders of yam and string beans remembering his Bulgarian aunt who was the only one in his family who loved him unconditionally, insisting, “Mishe, jazh zeleni zelenchutsi vseki den i nikoga niama da se rasszboleesh.” My little mouse, eat string beans every day and you never catch cold. He took his tray with extra napkins because he liked to eat his chicken with his hands, sat down at the last empty table in the very large space crowded with nearby office workers on their lunch break. He was in the middle of gnawing on a delicious bone when he felt her presence. He looked up seeing a woman, an older large woman who pulled out the other chair at his table, tilted her head, smiling as if asking and answering the unspoken is-this-seat-taken, putting her tray down. Watching her fork scoop and deliver to a generous succulent mouth devouring the garlic mashed potatoes in juicy delectable pleasure, he wished he had ordered some. When she swallowed and closed her eyes he could swear he heard her purr in an almost orgasmic bliss. He smiled at her unabashedly sensual experience with garlic mashed potatoes. Olivia opened her eyes in time to see the last vestiges of his smile and nodded as if the two had just shared a secret. They continued eating as if they were long-time lovers with a comfortable history, permission of silence granted. At the end of their consumption he wiped his fingers with the napkin although not totally succeeding in removal of the chicken grease. She noticed, put her napkin in the glass of water, reached over, took his hands and dampened his fingers. He burst out laughing at this seemingly innocent maternal gesture which was bizarrely intimate particularly since neither had exchanged a word but somehow, some how David gave in to Olivia’s cleansing as if it was a common form of nurturing between them. She stood tall and straight, especially for an older woman, he thought, as she looked at him so directly he almost turned and avoided her power but street conditioning as a cop who would never back down demanded that he engage the challenge. Olivia’s voice was a refined alto of a warm rasp. “Tomorrow let’s beat the rush.” She turned and her walk, David noticed, was as if she was leaning backwards enjoying a strong breeze leading with her pelvis, orchestrated in a fugue of a sexual wiggling tight butt on strong wide hips. he found her very attractive, for an older woman, that is. That night each intruded on the other’s sexual fantasy. David was watching the eleven o’clock news with a snort and a shake of his head cognizing that there is nothing newsworthy but rather escapist high ratings presentations of network salacious sound bytes parading as news. He pushed the remote and channel-surfed for about twenty minutes until his eyelids told him it was time for bed. he went upstairs, stripped, pee’d, got into bed, put three pillows behind him, leaned against them sitting up to read, reached over for his bedside book, “Sister’s Secrets,” knowing it was a graphic-tacky-just-what-he-wanted-lesbian-lust as he pulled three tissues ready for action. He stroked himself near orgasm, put the book down, turned off the lamp and continued caressing his dick fantasizing the two women making love to each other sandwiching him. Moments before orgasm, she—the purple-black-silver-gray-braided woman’s rotating buttocks insinuated herself into his projected countenance—and he came. Olivia was almost reluctant to end the gentle strong rub of the soothing aromatic lotion on her light bronze skin as if she was a male lover who knew just how to caress. She put on a nightgown of silken gauze-like latticed material which revealed as well as covered her full breasts and sinuous stomach. She lit two candles, one had a scent of vanilla, the other gardenias. She pushed a button and a bandoleria played a tense sensual Piazzola tango. Olivia lay down her full body with a gentleness of a dove’s fallen feather barely making an indentation as her hands greeted the nipples of her breasts like long missed friends and she quietly chanted in her Spanish tongue of her Mexican-Mayan grand-father: El padre es el amante la hija es querida...the Father is the lover. She changed St. Augustine’s gender-son word to: The daughter is the beloved...and the Spirit is the love each has for the other. Se repeated in a drone accompaniment to the tango as her left hand pinched her copper nipple and her right hand rubbed her clitoris insinuating two fingers into her chocha chanting again and again her breathing audible until the fourteenth time: el amor que tienen uno por el otro...the love each has for the other. The image of the young man she met in Koo Koo Roos appeared. She smiled and grunted. Si, si hombre, mas, y mas hombre, y mas querido, mas muy fuerte muñeco, ayy, mi amor! She came. Tomorrow arrives as surely as today, she remembered her Papi saying, carrying a tray of early lunch deciding to sit outside to see if he would come. He looked at the clock, eleven-forty, shrugged, put down the hammer, picked up the sand-paper, whooshed it three times over the curved arm, blew the fine smelling wood dust, decided to finish strengthening the frame after lunch. put on his shades and walked towards Koo Koo Roos not wanting to think of her but wondering if she would be there. She saw him across the street—walking and then slightly changing his direction, arriving at the corner pushing the button, the light changed and he crossed. He saw her sitting at an outside table. She smiled and with a barely perceptible nod indicating that his chair was waiting. He almost smiled, almost stopped, almost nodded as his eyes blinked acknowledgment and went in to get lunch. He returned with the tray looking around at other empty tables on the patio. She stared at him eliminating any other choice. He acquiesced and sat at her table. She nodded shyly as a 15-year-old offered a corsage at her quinceaños. They ate in silence for a few beats and ultimately as if synchronized, burst out laughing. Olivia enjoyed David’s infectious wonderful original laugh accompanying it with her unique sound of delight. Other diners caught their energy and smiled. David stopped laughing, looked at her, wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. She eased the pressure, talking in a quiet tone as if gently applying an aloe salve to a stinging burn. “That was very nice what you did across the street.” He remembered her alto-warm rasp of a voice as a pleasing sound. “What was that?” he asked. “There was a large purple flower that had fallen off a nearby plant lying in the middle of your walk. Instead of stepping on it you moved around it. In respect. That was nice.” He paused, then remembered it exactly as she described but not as anything worthy of recognition and certainly not as an accreditation of his character, which made him feel uncomfortable—to be considered “nice”—a quality which was an anathema on the streets and alleys and dark corners which still had their grip on him. “I wasn’t aware of what I was doing,” he dispatched any significance to his behavior. She nodded in affirmative appreciation, “That is exactly when we are connected to source, when we do something nice without applause.” “Source,” he grunted dismissing the old new-age clichés by crunching and maiming the meat and bones of his delicious chicken as an act of impatience with her ‘sourcing,’ refusing to look at her. She got his unholier-than-thou judgment and made a choice not to do overt battle with the typical male arrogance that has inflicted wounds long healed over but still stings when it rains macho drops. Although her juices stirred inviting the dark joy of challenging all the men in her life who tried to categorize everything from a woman, from this woman, as less-than. What is it with the male animal, she reverberated silently, he always has to label something good or bad, valuable or useless, working or needs fixing, never just accepting everything and everyone as part of what makes life life. At this moment she gave a metaphorical shrug assuming it was a higher force who told her: tender this one. Although her wounded beast ached for retribution for the father who touched her cheek and...she shoveled a hefty forkful of garlic mashed potatoes into a grateful mouth easing the decision but to avoid total capitulation into that conflicted male energy she still had to—albeit in a quiet voice with the lid covering the fire—“When we commit an act that is inherently kind and unconscious as a result of instincts rather than an intention to be good because it is perceived as good, that is good, entiendes, hombre? You have good instincts. Why is it bothersome to be recognized as good?” “Good as in good for whom?” He snapped the whip. His voice pitch in form and content aggressed inviting battle but Olivia assuaged not by surrender but rather in softening her tone to an oblique whisper making him lean forward as she countered in a soft steam-roller going down a steep incline, “Good for whom, hombre? Good for Green Peace, Save the Whales, Democracy, Fascism, Socialism, ism isms, oppression, repression, Freud, Jung, Mommy, Daddy, The Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Most people do good to be considered good to be noticed as worthy to get the acknowledgment, the Nobel prize the Mother Teresa Ghandi Schweitzer King Mandela medal of the year. You, guapo, avoided crushing a beautiful fallen purple flower for no public recognition, doing it as a private act just because it felt good. To you. Punto coño.” He didn’t know how she did it but he was disarmed. He grunted a grin. “Anything else about me, doctor?” Olivia’s voice shifted in subtle vibration. “You don’t have stretch, hombre.” David, unconsciously expecting a charming feminine compliment was surprised at her response. he stopped chewing and wondered if she was playing him, switching the game without letting him know the rules. He put down the chicken wing, looked at her. “Stretch? What does that mean? Stretch.” “You’ll know when you have it.” “Yeah, sure. For those who believe no explanation is necessary, for those who don’t none is possible.” He uttered the cliché dismissing her with an aside exhalation, “Give me a break!” She tilted her head at his condescending dismissal but this miss wouldn’t be dismissed. Rather than a full on frontal attack she recognized his rejection as having more to do with who he was and wasn’t, than her, and prudently refused to retaliate or confront him, laughing a throaty three-beat sound, enjoying the male/female game they were intuitively playing even though he wasn’t aware that he was participating. “You have wonderful eyes,” she said with a smile obliterating any thought of confrontation. A shift surprising him with no feel for a counter-move, as she grabbed a piece of chicken off his plate, stuffing it into her generous mouth, chewing amid eyes of amusement, “What kind of work do you do?” Ah, a linear question permitting him to shelve the conflict, the issue, the what’s-at-stake game. “I’m a carpenter,” he muttered, closing the door to any further inquiries. But she entered through her own door. “Carpenter, like Jesus.” “I don’t use nails. Not like Jesus.” “Jesus didn’t use nails. Those pinche cabrones who crucified him, they used nails.” “Whatever,” he dismissed her. “Whatever?” It was on again. “You sound like those teenagers chewing gum. Whatever! I think you are a man with a better vocabulary than whatever.” He didn’t know what was going on with this perfect stranger. Or rather imperfect but he was getting irritated into the old time swamp of “you said I said” crap he endured with his ex. “Look, I don’t even know you and...” he took that proverbial breath trying to control his disquiet... unsuccessfully, “What the hell...I don’t even know who...you don’t know me! I am having a power struggle with a stranger in Koo Koo Roos! Whoda’ thunk!” He trumped her hand most assuredly. He thought. She was not to be denied by paltry moves. “Do you know, muñeco, know what true power is?” He was tempted to ask for a translation of muñeco but he also knew that her question was rhetorical. He pushed his plate aside, looking at her beautifully sculpted face of high cheekbones, skin with a glow from within, and a generous mouth reminding him of...he stopped observing as, after all, she was much older. Yet something, something allusive about her, he didn’t know the parameters. He laid back, awaiting her words. Some-magic-how her look and tone shifted the energy. He exhaled slowly, inhaled even more slowly...the irritation subsiding, looking at her as if she was an apparition of...of what...of enabling him to feel what...safe, challenged, oxymoronic? He almost smiled but not quite and was surprisingly easy about an undefined moment when their...their what? He shrugged it off and released his death grip ready for battle, peace was declared. For now. Albeit confusion reigned amid the stillness of the moment. “True power,” she continued, “is not doing anything remarkable and being totally comfortable, at peace, tranquilo, hombre.” She stood tall in all of her substantial bodily power, lifted the glass of lemon water tilting it toward him, “Salud,” she toasted, “To Frida!” He tilted his head like a confused puppy. She grunted a laugh, “As in Kahlo,” drinking half the glass completing the instant. David remained seated ready to nod goodbye as he lifted his glass and one-upped Olivia, “Salud. To Diego. As in Rivera.” Olivia acquiesced to the ersatz winning position the man required to be deemed a man and nodded, looking down at David’s seated male self. She reminded him of a Botero or the statue that used to be in the garden of the New York Museum of Modern art which Gaston Lachaise sculpted this magnificent larger-than-life brass woman with huge breasts, stomach, thighs and an ass that despite the overwhelming glistening bulk was a demanding sensual invitation. Olivia remained standing awaiting for David to do something of which he knew-not. She laughed and said, “Come,” turning and walking toward the parking lot without looking back. He was irritated at her surety that he would follow. He sat there in his polarizing struggle to refuse to follow, looking at her wonderful leaning-back treading form spreading the air before her pelvis, wanting her to turn and be surprised that he was not following. She did not turn. He actually sighed the sound he heard his long since deceased father emitted to express disdain when he didn’t fulfill Daddy’s expectations in Bulgarski, “Po dyavolite, hlape!” God damned kid! At the last gasp of the sigh he assumed an in-control humorous madness at this bizarre event, standing with an attitude of nonchalance which was more attitude than reality...he followed. But slowly. Arriving at the parking lot in the back of Koo Koo Roos he saw her open the passenger door, crawl over the seat and stick-shift, settling into the driver’s seat as if her maneuver is the most appropriate way to get into a non-vintage 12 year-old car with dents attesting to her lack of driving agility. David ambled towards the car as she tried to start it. Olivia was talking to the non-starting car, “Andele muñequito! Vamos mi carachita, por favor, mi amor!” Trying again and again to no avail. David wondered why people create an animate relationship with inanimate objects as he leaned over and said, “You’re flooding ‘mi amor’.’” She looked up at him, “It’s Friday the thirteenth. What can you expect!” He laughed, “Yeah, the car knows the date.” “Oh, a smart cynic although I don’t know how smart you are as cynics are just protecting their fear of feeling, thrusting their ignorance to cover their vulnerability.” He was surprised at her assault and slammed the return with impatient energy. “What are you talking about? Feeling? Ignorance. Vulnerability. You don’t know me and...” She interrupted him by reaching out and touching his arm gently. “I apologize. You’re right. Correct. Por favor. I was...it wasn’t you. Just the father of my son who always...ayyy...por favor, hombre, it wasn’t you I was talking about...to...forgive me.” He was about to walk away but her ‘forgive me’ was real. He nodded but wouldn’t give it up entirely. “And your Friday the thirteenth. Speaking of ignorance, superstition is the epitome of ignorance. Friday the thirteenth! Yeah, sure.” “For your information, and please do not take offense Mr. Man but I know some things perhaps you do not. How many months in the year? Twelve. Number of gods of Olympus, signs of the zodiac, number of Jesus’ disciples: Twelve.” “Jesus had thirteen disciples. And what does all that have to do with Friday the thirteenth?” “Twelve is completeness, muñeco. Thirteen is the departure from being complete. Who was the thirteenth disciple? Judas Iscariot. and the thirteenth tribe of Israel was the only tribe left without land. So please, hombre, do not be asking me about thirteen.” He shook his head, smiled enjoying her rant. “And Fridays?” “You don’t read your Bible, do you? Eve gave the apple to Adam on Friday. The great flood began on Friday. Execution day in ancient Rome was Friday. Jesus was crucified on Friday.” “I surrender,” he mock bowed. Olivia looked at him trying to determine if he was making fun of her or actually listening. Most men hear but don’t listen. She adjusted to more practical concerns, her voice transmuting in tones as if in the middle of a novena lighting a candle to the virgin. “You know about cars?” He had at last earned an easy grin feeling the relationship taking the form of male comfort. He knew. She didn’t. She needed help. He could help. “Pop the hood.” Olivia stared at him. “What does that mean?” He burst out laughing and despite the circumstance she caught it and roared with him. “How long have you had this car and you don’t know how to open the hood?” He leaned in through the open window, reached over, she did not adjust her lush thigh as he had to move against it in pulling the lever popping the hood. Olivia leaned her thigh against his hand. David experienced a static-like emanation and ignored it but she knew that he got it. “Two hours. I borrowed it from a neighbor, a friend. Pero que mugre carcacha. Quizas an enemy by now.” He disappeared behind the raised hood. Olivia leaned out the window and yelled, “You know about cars, coño?” “Turn it over now and don’t step on the accelerator.” “You’re doing it to me again, hombre. Turn what over? What is the accelerator?” He moved his head peering over the hood looking at her in amused amazement, “You do have a driver’s license?” “I know how to drive.” He shook his head to the gods and quietly said as if to a 12-year-old, “Start the car but don’t push down on the gas.” “Why didn’t you say so? Claro!” She did as directed. He jiggled and adjusted. The car started. She whooped with joy and burst into spontaneous applause as he slammed down the hood, walked over to her, wiping his hands on his black jeans. She beamed at him. “Is that what you do? Of course! You’re a fixer! Que ideal, perfecto, hombre, si! Get in, Fixer.” He did not. David stood there smiling in a calm victory of a validated checkmate position. “I don’t think so.” “Please, you can’t get off now, the elevator is going up and we are on it. Get in, mi Fixer.” David hesitated. She reached out and put her strong, graceful hand on his arm. Again he felt the static from her touch and tried not to flinch. Her voice was like dark molasses, “We have things to learn. From each other.” He leaned back, looked at her eyes, almost black but with a glint of humor, sexuality, and unprotected wanting. “And go where?” David asked, remaining outside the car with an assumed amused indifferent detachment but his mouth was dry and his heart beat was palpable, testifying to his lack of stoicism despite the pose. “On an adventure.” “I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”
“I know more of you than you know of you, believe me, Fixer.” “Why should I get in? I have no idea of where, what, why, when...” “Oh you beautiful men,” she said as if in a caress after great sex, “If you knew all that then we wouldn’t be having this adventure, cariño.” Her voice lowered in that chocolate bass, too quiet, so powerful, “Get in, muñeco.” He knew he lost his standing as choice dissolved into the kid who had to obey the coach. He didn’t like the feeling and yet...and yet he got in. They were driving through the city in a cumbersome tour that made him restless. She felt it. “What? What is making you crazy now?” “The way you drive. too slow. Overly cautious. I could get there faster, easier, smoother if you let me drive. Just give me the directions ‘cause you drive with one foot on the brake and other on the accelerator. The gas.” She pulled over to the side. Put it in neutral, pushed him out of car, slid over and out, gesturing as if she was maitre d’ at an expensive establishment. “You drive, Mister Man.” He laughed, shrugged, got in, slid over and waiting until she was settled. “Which way, madam?” “Straight for twenty-two blocks, straight again and then take a right.” He maneuvered through traffic with grace and pace which she appreciated. “You drive like a swan in a rush. Nice. What do they call you?” “You wouldn’t want to hear the names they call me.” “Que tu quieres, guapo. Okay, hombre. You are Fixer.” “David.” “Ah, Davíd,” accenting the last syllable. “David,” accenting the first syllable. Ignoring his correction, “Davíd, a good strong name.” “It’s a boring name. Millions of boring Davids.” “Your name and you know so little about your name. Que lástima, hombre!” “A rose by any other name...please!” “No, please no! Davíd means beloved in Hebrew.” “You speak Hebrew?” “No, do you? He burst out laughing, “Who’s on first.” “Que dice? First?” “An old routine. No, I don’t speak Hebrew.” “You don’t read your Bible either, do you?” “I don’t have ‘my’ Bible, thank you. And if you’re going to quote scripture on me, you’ve got the wrong guy.” “Just information, coño. Davíd was the second King of Israel, who as a boy killed the giant Goliath with a slingshot. A slingshot, hombre! You come from a line of serious bad-asses. Davíd. Serious!” “And what do they call you?” “Olivia.” “Nice name. Olivia.” “Si, pero we have not found your name for me yet.” “My name for...I don’t have a name for you. Olivia. That’s your name, right?” “You will find your name for me in time. You were supposed to turn at that corner.” “Was that twenty-two blocks already?” “Numbers are important to you, are they? Take a right here and then a left and three blocks there is a building that is fading magenta, more on the purple-red side I think. What is that word, puce? I don’t like that word. It sounds like parrot vomit. Park in the driveway although it does not look like a driveway but it is and you can tell by the fact that there is no car parked in front of the indentation by the sign “Don’t-Even-Think-About-Parking-Here.” TO BE CONTINUED
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Molly Hover is a senior studying Advertising and Creative Writing at the University of Oregon. Fallout is her first published fiction piece–the first of many, she hopes. Post college, she will continue to pursue writing in various concentrations, enjoy cups of teas in the rainy Pacific Northwest, and challenge herself to learn new things every day. Fallout by Molly Hover Sweat beads and rolls beneath my PT clothes, the condensation making the baggy material cling to my skin. The heavy free weight in my right hand pulls down my arm and my bicep coils to bring it back up to my breasts. I hate arm day. It reminds me of the larger weights I’ll never be able to lift. The workout center on base is gray and small. Low lights hang from the ceiling, casting a yellow pall on the machines and my ivory skin. The curls I’ve fought to tame my entire life frizz at the ends, reacting to the sweat. They may have earned me homecoming queen back home, but they are impractical here; a nuisance. Reveille breaks through the clinking of weights at 0600 like it has for the past week since I arrived at Camp Arifjan. I finish my set, my reflection squinting back at me. After basic training ended two weeks ago I expected my face to have narrowed and hardened. Instead baby fat that followed me into my eighteenth birthday stuck around making me look soft. Maybe after three-months of training in Kuwait is complete I will finally look like the soldier I want to look like. In the locker room, I strip and shower quickly. If I’m late for breakfast, I’m screwed out of a meal. “I hear they call this place Camp Arif-Jail.” A medium-build girl with short dark hair says to what I assume is her friend. Both girls twist their hair in tight buns and secure their hats. “Why’s that?” I ask. “Dunno. But it feels like some sort of jail with all this metal doesn’t it?” “Definitely. Have you guys been here for a while?” “A few months for me, but she just got here,” she nods to her friend. “You just finished Basic, right? How’d you do?” “Alright I guess,” I say. The silence falls between us until I turn around and struggle with my hair. I’d been at the top of my class, but my peers tend to assume this means it all comes easily to me instead of the hard work it actually takes. If my life was a movie and I had a montage of those weeks, graduating basic training was the equivalent of Rocky running up those stairs. Progress, but only the beginning of the real stuff. The dog tags jingle as I pull them over my curls; the cold metal branding my skin. Already I am a product of the military’s habits. Outside, the sun beats down on my heavy ACUs. Dust kicks under my boots and I sweat freely. I itch at my collar and think of Oregon’s cool mountain breezes, but my body isn’t fooled. A flash of blonde in my peripheral vision distracts me. It’s the brunette’s friend from the gym. “I hear we get to meet the new Sergeant today.” “At least we’ll actually start our training. I want to get to our real duties already and meet my team,” I say and look down to avoid staring into the sun. By now, the male soldiers have joined us on the way to the mess hall and their voices boom and echo off the barracks. One of them nudges me in the arm with his elbow. He’s tall with dark skin and mouth drawn down at the corners. “What’s your story, Private? A little small for this, aren’t you?” he asks and laughs. “Don’t have a story, really. Joined as soon as I could and now I’m here.” I don’t mention that the uniformity of the ACUs gives me the strength in numbers I did not have before. I straighten the Velcro-attached name tape on the chest of my uniform. The private—Benson, so his name tape reads—raises his eyebrows at my short response and walks back to the larger group laughing behind me. What do I care? *** Sergeant Pierce is a strong presence: chestnut hair trimmed to perfection, hard-edged jawline, and squared off shoulders. He stands on the edge of the group and looks each of us up and down. I must look ridiculously short to him; a child in the ranks. I stand up straighter and move a curl out of my eye hoping that everything else is in place. Give someone like Sgt. Pierce a reason to begrudge you, and you might as well kiss a military career goodbye. “Privates, I will be in charge of your drills for the next twelve weeks. Show up, but don’t show off. I will be able to see those of you who are cut out for this without cockiness.” He clips his words out as if the triviality pains him and continues to assess us. We stand in formation: chests out, hands by our sides, eyes forward but not challenging. Benson stands beside me—making him part of my team—and I resist rolling my eyes. Sergeant Pierce walks down the line slowly and I wish I could wipe my sweaty palms on my ACUs. “Cooper, tuck in your shirt. This is the Army, not Sunday service where you can hide behind your mommy and play with yourself,” he says. Cooper reddens immediately and tucks in his shirt with a “Yes, Sergeant Pierce!” He continues his slow walk. A lump forms in my throat when he ends up in front of me. Close enough that I can see the dark freckles on his olive skin. His eyes travel up and down my body slowly, but I assume everything is in order because he continues down the line until he faces us all again. “This will not be easy. You are soldiers in the United States Army now. Officially. These first weeks of training are to prepare you before most of you go on to Afghanistan. Let’s get started.” At Chow after drills I sit with the other privates in my team; the compressed wood table smooth on my sore arms. After a full day, our morale is down. The faces around me are pinched and the lines on their foreheads scrunch together. Sgt. Pierce is a hard ass; I agree with the privates around me. “I heard Sgt. Baker is more of a hard ass if you can believe it,” a girl says across from me. Her almond eyes squint at the corners when she smiles and eyes the other privates. It’s hardly new information; we’ve all heard the rumors about Sgt. Baker. “Well Sgt. Pierce has a right to be the way he is. He was promoted to Sergeant after only three years because of his performance in Iraq. If you ask me, he earned it.” I nod. Usually it takes at least four years. “I heard a rumor he’s well on the way to Staff Sergeant,” I contribute. Someone nods, but no one responds directly and they quickly change subjects. “Man, I need to get laid,” Ward says loudly. Most of the privates—male and female—laugh. “Well, at least we’ve got some females to keep us warm at night,” another male jokes. Brier pushes him in the arm, but smiles. I had prepared myself for talk like this. What I hadn’t prepared for was the quick pace of my heartbeat making deep breaths hard. “Some of us aren’t here to be cuddled by men.” I say it much louder than I’d expected. “Too good for us, little girl? Or are you here to be cuddled by a woman?” “Leave her alone. She can’t be more than eighteen.” “I’m not, but that shouldn’t matter. What, do I either have to be a lesbian or a dependent woman to be in the Army?” I hate their smirks. None of them have to work overtime just to have basic respect. But I look down and eat my beans and steak in silence. “Reveille is at 0600. Don’t be late,” Sgt. Pierce says from behind me and I jump in my seat. Before he walks away, he gives me a pat on the back and a commiserating smile. He must have heard what we were talking about, but I had it handled. “I hear he ‘reports for booty,’” Ward says. “He doesn’t just pierce people with his eyes is what I heard,” another soldier says to guffaws of laughter. I look over to my left where our Sergeant sits with the commanders and talks animatedly. I don’t see him as someone who misses the action—the rest of them aren’t any better. He straightens his back and the fabric stretches over his biceps making mountains on the camouflage landscape. I look away. For today’s drill we are lined up and each given a large rope. The Platoon Sergeant calls out which knot we should produce and my stomach twists in the ways I know my rope never will. It was my worst category in basic training and I know this training will be the same. Besides a select few, the others seem to be struggling as much as I am and I force myself to get it right before they can—give them a reason to respect me. The rope chaffs my hand and I relish the blisters that will form. At least I will have something to show for my efforts. “Private, you’re not tying that rope correctly. Let me show you.” Sergeant grabs the rope from me, his hand brushing my palm in the process, and deftly ties the rope into a bowline knot. “Thank you, Sergeant Pierce,” I mutter, embarrassed and a little irritated. His extra attention is a bit strange and I feel the hard looks from the other privates—especially Benson and Ward. They both continue to struggle with their ropes, but Sgt. Pierce walks by them and shakes his head slightly. Benson blows out a breath. “Didn’t know they let babies join the Army,” he says. I don’t expect people to have faith in the petite girl with small hands, but I’m here to prove myself. Benson’s all talk anyway. I ignore him and focus instead on the tactility of the rope in my hand, pulling one end over the other until I complete the bowline knot for myself. I look around, but no one is paying attention to me. Hours later I leave the training grounds and head toward the mess hall, picturing a hot dinner. A crunch of gravel to my right makes me turn my head. I catch a glimpse of a large boot before connecting it to Sergeant Pierce. The cadence of our footfall matches and I look forward not knowing if it’s appropriate to speak. “You did good today, soldier,” he says. “Thank you, Sergeant Pierce. I appreciate your guidance,” I answer. He nods and walks ahead to the Platoon Sergeant. Sergeant Pierce and I establish a strange routine. For the next few days, he and I leave drills at approximately the same time and walk toward the mess hall together. Our conversations have been minimal and slightly less awkward. “You’re improving a lot,” he says at the end of the week. “I hope so, Sergeant.” “Call me Henry.” I catch myself staring. This is definitely an unusual request. I remember the first night after drills and the look he must have seen on my face. I don’t need his pity but to challenge our higher ups is a luxury none of us can afford. “Yes Ser—Henry.” He laughs at my hesitation. “It’s okay, Rache. I’m a Sergeant, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a person too,” he says. Rache. My father would call me that before my mother died and violent alcoholism took over—I was eight the last time. “I’d almost forgotten my first name with everyone calling me Fawker,” I say. “It’s easy to do. I haven’t been anything but Pierce or Sergeant Pierce in a long time.” “Are you going to continue with the Army?” I’m curious. His discipline and passion is obvious, but even someone like him must get tired of the sand. “Absolutely. This is all that I’ve wanted. It seems a little monotonous now to you all, but it’s the most rewarding thing you’ll ever do,” he says. His eyes brighten and I know immediately that this is his ‘thing.’ The Army hadn’t always been my number one choice, but I was beginning to feel the pull of the routine and order. “I can already feel that,” I say. He shoots me a quick smile. “Every once in a while, when we have a day off, the soldiers go to one of the base bars or movie rooms. Have a beer and get to know one another. You should join us sometime,” he says. I nod and open the door to the mess hall. “That’d be nice, thanks.” He walks ahead and I turn to my table of cohorts. Their faces look friendlier after this, eyes crinkled in humor. I guess it wouldn’t kill me to make friends. *** After three weeks of drills, our commanders announce that we will have our first four-day weekend starting Friday. The privates and I cheer at the news and the small groups that had begun to form in our team start planning their free day. Brier walks up to me. “What are you doing Friday, Fawker?” She and I have become closer in the last few weeks since I sat down at Chow with more energy. She’s one of the few privates who initiated conversation with me and we found out that we are both from small towns in Oregon and raised by our fathers. She’s the kind of person who draws others in like an electric fence, just enough bite to keep them intrigued. By association, I get more “Hey Fawkers” than I used to. “Well, Sergeant Pierce had mentioned that groups get together to go to the bars. Want to go if that’s still happening?” “Pierce?” She drops the formality in surprise. “I mean—yeah. I want to get all buddy-buddy with the guy in charge.” “Oh come on. He’s just a person.” “Just be careful. I hear that he does this sometimes with new privates and tries to pursue them.” “I think you’re being unfair. He’s friendly.” “If you say so, but don’t come crying to me if—“ I turn around when she cuts herself off. Henry stands behind me. He asks us to join his friends at the base bar and we exchange a look before agreeing. He smiles widely and I smile back with some restraint. If Brier’s right and the rumors about him are true—and I have no doubt that he’s a lady’s man—I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. He pats me on the back and walks away. Brier raises her eyebrows. That night we gather in front of the barracks on the west end of the base; the night balmy and my skin sticky. The bar is small and smells like Simple Green and vodka, unfortunately a familiar smell. The last and only time I drank was freshman year of high school with an older crowd and pent up anger. Tonight I opt for a club soda with lime and order while the others find a table. Brier hears me and raises a blonde eyebrow. I shake my head slightly. Henry walks behind me and grabs the drinks from the bartender, brushing his hand against my back in the process. I stiffen and I think he notices. I’m not used to male attention of any kind and don’t know how to interpret it so I ignore it. Throughout the next few hours, Henry and I talk and find we have a lot in common—both from a small town, chose the Army as soon as we could, and love the Jason Bourne movies—and I forget my earlier unease. He hardly says a word to Brier, though, and she looks at the door while nursing her second vodka cranberry. I try bringing her into the conversation but she snaps out short responses and turns away again. “Do you want to leave?” I ask her. She gives me a look. “Sgt—Henry. We’re going to go now. Thanks for the invitation.” “You sure, Rache?” He’s bold and more than a little drunk. I nod my head. “Okay then. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I follow Brier out the door we walk back to our barracks in silence. I don’t think to take his ‘see you around’ parting literally until Henry approaches me after drills the following Monday and asks if I will help him plan the strategy for our field trainings the next two weekends. “Ugh. We’ve been at this for hours and it’s still no easier. How do you do this all the time?” I look up from the piles of maps and compasses on the table. “Habit. I’ve done this for so long. But you’re a smart girl.” If I’d been smart enough, I might have been able to go to college on scholarship. “Want to take a break?” I nod. “Tell me about yourself then, Rache.” “There’s not much to say.” “I know you tell the other privates that, but everyone has a story.” I move the pen over the waterproof notebooks we were writing in. If I tell him my story, I give him power. But I can’t be a stranger to everyone. “My dad is an alcoholic.” It bursts out before I can stop it. “He and my uncle—they fucked me up. And now I’m trying to prove to him and everyone else that I can do this…Anyway, what’s yours?” He looks me over and pats my back. I don’t like being touched, but I let him. “I’m worried about not becoming Staff Sergeant. We have to pass extra curricular courses online and I’ve never been good at school…” His face pinches and his jaw clicks. Maybe other people would be annoyed at him comparing his school to my father. But weakness is weakness. “I can help.” After this, we met every day after drills to continue navigation training for me and course work for him. I tried to ignore the touches from Henry that had increased since our candid conversation the Monday after the bar and focus on the work at hand. It was my chance to prove that I could lead and I took it. Looking at him now after last weekend’s second successful field mission, I feel a sense of belonging in the Army’s ranks. The privates are unusually relaxed today, as we’ve been told that we will have this weekend off before the final, more intensive half of our training. Benson looks over at me for a second then turns his head to the larger group. “I hear Fawker is soon on her way to being promoted to special pet.” Everyone laughs. I roll my eyes. “What, Fawker? Can’t take the heat? All that special attention doesn’t make you special,” Ward says. “It’s not like that guys. We’re helping each other.” I answer. I push around the food on my plate. “Oh is that what you’re calling it?” Brier asks “You know it’s not like that, Brier.” “Well you’re not exactly the best at friendship so who knows,” she answers. I start to reply, but someone clears his throat loudly from behind me. Ass-kissing smiles are immediately painted on the privates’ faces and I choke on my eggs. “Soldiers, don’t get too relaxed this weekend. We still have a lot ahead of us,” he says. Yes Sergeants ring out in different octaves from the table. Henry nods and walks away again. He finds me after Chow. “Rache, how are you? Looks like you’re getting along better with the other privates,” he says from outside the hall. “Somewhat, Sergeant. Henry, I mean. I never know when it’s okay to call you that…” I look at him. The way he stands with his arm protectively caging me makes me think ‘friends’ is a term he uses loosely around me. “To you, I’m always Henry.” I wince. “They talk about you, you know. They have the wrong idea,” I say quickly, my words tumbling. I wipe my sweaty hands on my uniform. For a moment he looks like the harsh Sergeant he should be to me. Then he smiles. “People always talk. We’re friends, right? They can think what they want. In my experience it’s always loneliness and jealousy that make them say the things they do.” I nod. It’s been nice to have someone who believes in me—who doesn’t see me as competition for a better position. “Tonight a few of us are going to watch a movie. Want to come?” he asks. It’s the first social request since our night at the bar. “Sure.” He winks and tells me to meet him outside my barracks at 1900 before walking away. When it gets close to 1900, I walk outside to catch some fresh air before I meet the group. Henry is leaning against the metal siding of a building a few doors down kicking a rock with his boots. The soldiers around him seem to be laughing at something, but Henry wears a deep scowl on his face. I stay quiet, curious. “So how exactly is she ‘helping’ you, Henry?” “Yeah, I mean, she’s not much bigger than those stray dogs we get on base every once in a while.” “Shouldn’t you be training her like the bitch she is?” His friends laugh harder, spit flying from their mouths. Before I can do anything more than stare at them, Henry looks up and sees me. He smiles, but his eyes remain hard. “Hey Fawker,” he says, dropping the informality. I try a smile, fighting my own frustration. “Hey yourself, Sergeant.” The movie room is a ten-minute walk from where we met and the conversation between us lulls. I try to think of something to say to make us both forget what his friends said. They underestimate me like most people. Instead, we stay quiet and the other soldier’s voices echo off the metal buildings. “So, what movie are we watching?” I ask Henry after a few minutes. He’s walking quickly and I have to jog to catch up. “Guess we’ll decide when we get there.” I’m not sure what I’ve done to make him so angry. He looks over at me. By this time, we are a few paces in front of his friends and he walks back to them. I can’t hear from here but they laugh, pat him on the back, and walk away. “What was that about?” “They said they’d rather drink.” Weird, but I nod like its normal. Maybe he’ll be happier when they’re gone at least. The building looks like all of the others—low, metal, and sand-colored—except for the plaque next to the door reading “Entertainment Hall.” I push open the door and we rent Bourne Identity from the soldier working the desk. The movie and game room has a low ceiling and multiple televisions surrounding overused couches and chairs. Video game controllers hang from most of the TVs and it smells of cheap beer and greasy popcorn. No one is here despite it being our last free night for a few weeks. Henry gives me the movie to load in the DVD player and closes the door. “I’m surprised it’s so dead right now,” I say. I fumble with the remote and static bursts form the set. “Here, I’ve got it.” He brushes my palm when he reaches for the remote and I’m reminded of the way he showed me how to tie the rope. Does he not think I can do these things for myself? When the previews start, he turns off the light and the screen is almost painfully bright to my eyes. “Were your friends going to come back?” “Probably not. You know how it can be at the bars. Guess it’s just you and me, Fawker.” He says the last part jokingly, but his earlier scowl makes me sit rigidly on the couch with my feet on the coffee table and my hands close to my sides. The movie starts and I tell myself not to overthink this; it’s just Henry and we’re just friends. Twenty minutes in, Henry rubs his nose with the back of his hand. The motion catches my eye and I watch his arm stretch over my head and around my shoulder. His hand lowers and he begins slow movements above my breast. “Henry,” I say while attempting to remove his arm, “What are you doing?” His silence is a pressure from all sides and I turn away from the movie to look at him. He smiles for the first time since I met him outside the barracks. He stops the movement but his hand stays on my chest. My throat tightens. “Don’t you like being my pet—all that ‘special attention’?” His remark catches me off guard and I move quickly to my feet, surprising him into removing his arm. “Henry, is this about people talking about us helping each other? Look, I’m sorry. But like you said, people say things when they’re lonely and jealous. And I didn’t join the Army for a boyfriend so I think I’d better leave.” I begin walking to the door, but he grabs my waist and forces me to sit down again before I take more than two steps. “Don’t do this, Rache. I know you want it too. All those signals—the touches, going out with us, our conversations,” he says and brushes a curl off my shoulder. “Let me leave, Henry. You’re better than this! All those things—I just thought we were friends.” I attempt reason, but a chill that has nothing to do with the blasting air conditioner climbs up my legs. “Well you shouldn’t have been such a fucking tease,” he says and forces my arms down so that my back thumps on the couch. I use every muscle that I’ve gained in the last few months of my trainings and attempt to kick his groin—any part of him—and am met with tighter pressure on my arms. Every pity touch I’ve grudgingly accepted from him replays immediately. “I don’t need your help you little bitch. You need me. I’m a fucking Sergeant. You can go home and brag to all your friends,” he says and covers my protest with his mouth. His tongue is invasive and his salvia tastes of whiskey. He uses a hand to mute the TV as Jason Bourne fights a soundless enemy. As his mouth smashes into mine, I attempt to bite his tongue but he dodges the move and breaks the skin on my lip. I yell out and the sound is muffled by his lips. He takes a breath and I seize my opportunity. “I’m on my period!” I yell and aim for his groin again. He answers by bunching my shirt to my neck and snapping the back on my bra. When he pulls down my pants, we both see the blood. He looks at me and I see nothing of the friend I thought I had. I kick again, my feet bound by my own clothes and he lays his full body weight on them to stop me. His belt jingles when he unbuckles it, his elbow pressed into my stomach to keep me from moving. “I have diarrhea.” This time, I’m desperate. He rears back his head and squints his eyes, but continues to pull down his pants. This shouldn’t be happening. None of this makes any sense. In training, they took the women aside. Told us if this ever happened to keep fighting, say anything we could to deter the assailant. The bile rises in my throat and I’m thrown back ten years. My uncle also had whiskey on his breath. My dad stood by and watched. “I have fucking chlamydia you son of a bitch!” Now I’m screaming. This stops Henry and he stares at me, his mouth twisted and eyes wide and wild. Disgust replaces anger. He grabs my waist with a rough hand. For a second, he hesitates. Then, with a crack, he hits the side of my head and the force knocks me back into the arms of the couch. My eyes are fuzzy when I open them seconds later and they adjust to the clock blaring 1950. Henry leans forward before the pressure lifts from my legs and stomach. He rushes to the door, slamming it behind him. *** Reveille sounds the next morning as usual, but it sounds tinny and forced. My head pounds and my eyes are bloodshot from getting only an hour of sleep. I focus on the mechanical task of brushing my teeth and forcing my curls into place. In the mess hall I choose an empty corner and place my oatmeal on the table, the bruise above my ear throbbing. The gummy oats leave a sour taste in my mouth, but I shove them down so I don’t have to talk to anyone. When I approach the training yard, Sergeant Pierce is surrounded by at least five other soldiers. They’re laughing at something he’s said and my stomach knots. It could be anything, but the way they glance at my approach makes me wish I was alone in my barracks. Benson walks up to me and pats me on the shoulder. I move out of the touch. “Nice job boning the guy in charge, Fucker,” he says. We’re close enough that the group with Sgt. Pierce can hear. They snigger into their ACUs. “Yeah, way to get some. Since you’re a ‘one-night stand’ girl apparently, you just let me know any time you’re free one night,” Ward says and whistles. I hate that I’m weak. “Ha. You guys believed that? I had to practically beg him to get off me. It’s too bad that he couldn’t get his soldier to stand to attention if you know what I mean.” I look at Henry then and he turns his head, jaw clicking. For a moment, the privates direct their jeers at him, but the presence of the commanders shuts them up. Even they’re not stupid enough to be reported for verbal assault. I spend the rest of drills trying to ignore Sgt. Pierce and the other privates. Listening to them, though, makes me clench my hands and I realize I can’t tell the commanders what happened. Not because he didn’t even do the deed—I could still make a case against him if I wanted. But they’d be winning if I told. In their eyes, another weak female soldier who gave a man the wrong impression. I’m better than that. Henry walks by me and looks me up and down. “Not good enough. Do it again,” he says of the drill I know I’m doing perfectly. This happens fifteen times before he’s satisfied. The other privates laugh and call out lewdness and even Brier joins them before catching the look on my face.
“Enough.” “I agree,” I say. He stares at my saturated PT uniform. “You wouldn’t even have been worth it, little girl.” He leaves with the upper hand and any shred of dignity I might have had left. I am the weak one again. Six silent weeks later, I sit on a plane to Afghanistan leaving behind sleepless nights in tin buildings and fake congratulations to Sgt. Pierce on becoming Staff Sergeant. From up here, the base looks like a mirage. The image waves in front of my vision from the thick glass of the plane and I can almost imagine that it is made of sand and will be blown away in the next storm. I pinch the skin between my thumb and pointer finger—a new habit—and direct my thoughts elsewhere. Different sand might just do me some good. *** Three years later and Camp Arifjan looks the same. Still a mirage. Still empty. The ceremony will start in ten minutes and my stomach knots. My military issued dress clothes feel itchy on my tanned skin and a stray curl tickles my chin. In a few minutes, all eyes will be on me. In the meantime, I must wrestle with the memories this sandy Hell hole brings. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes but this time I keep my head up despite the glaring April sun. The low tin building is discernable from the others by the “Congratulations Sergeant Fawker” banner displayed above the door. My lips curl at the corners as I turn the knob and walk to the front to take my seat. “The Bronze Star was established in 1944 by President Roosevelt. It was created to show recognition to a brave individual in the United States Armed Forces,” the Army Chief of Staff General says to the crowd. “It takes a true act of heroism to earn a Star. Today, we honor Sergeant Rachel Fawker.” My cheeks burn and I take a deep breath to slow my pulse. I take the route we had practiced earlier to the podium on the stage. Cheers and whistles rise to the ceiling, bounce off the metal, and fall back down like confetti. I pull down the microphone and grip the edges of the wood podium before staring out at the sea of soldiers gathered. “Thank you General Crowley. It is surreal to be back in Kuwait and see some familiar faces in the audience.” I swallow. The crowd has quieted now and I pause to scan over the faces I had seen in the blur from my seat to the stage: Benson, Ward, Brier. They look the same, maybe a few more wrinkles dusting their foreheads. My gaze lands on a face I hadn’t noticed before. Standing in the back, chestnut hair trimmed closely, arms at his sides: Henry. “I met many of you at eighteen years old—shy, small, unconfident. I doubt most of you are the same as when we left for Afghanistan. I’m not the same. My tours had many expected and unexpected obstacles and my team has proven themselves time and time again.” I wink at the soldiers sitting in the front row. “No, we’re not the same as we once were,” I look directly at Henry. His jaw clicks. “But you better believe we’re stronger than we were. Today I receive an incredible honor, an accomplishment that I will look back on ten, fifteen, twenty years from now and still feel the pride I feel in this moment. But I could not have done it without you. Showing me how brave I could really be.” MIKE JOHNSON - I started writing late in life. Age sixty four to be exact so I suppose that comes under the category: it’s never too late to learn! I’m English from the county of Yorkshire but moved to Spain in the year 2000. My writing career began after meeting other published author’s here on the Costa del Sol. My first novel; Dragon - written in long hand at first would you believe – was edited by my wife who I found was more than capable – and far less expensive – than the Publishers. The next two novels in the series; The Korean Connection and The Buddha in Ice followed soon after. It may be of interest to learn the wrap around front covers were designed by me, and illustrated by a local design company. You have no idea how cost effective that is for a first time writer self-publishing? In between these novels I began writing short stories: The Little Home on Wheels was one of them, but my readers wanted to know; what happened next? The story begins here in Spain in places I have visited and know well. THE LITTLE HOME ON WHEELS BY MIKE JOHNSON EPISODE 2 CHAPTER 5 It was early in the morning when the Moroccan family departed still expressing their thanks. They watched them go still wondering how they managed to travel with so much luggage piled on top of the cars. The coast road was only a few miles away. The sun had already made an appearance over the Mediterranean Sea as they travelled south. It was going to be another cloudless day and hot. John found a place to park then went in search of a supermarket. His supplies were seriously depleted. Fortunately after a few enquiries a mini-market was located nearby. With the groceries in hand he intended to cook a large breakfast for the both of them. He was just about to announce his intentions when he noticed Alex was fast asleep on the couch. Closing the curtains to block out the rising sun he thought a bit of shut eye was a good idea and opened the bedroom door, then closed it again just as quickly. A woman giving birth is a messy thing he decided. The floor will do just as nicely. Alex awoke late in the afternoon. It took a few seconds to get her bearings then another few more seconds to realise it was her that was smelling rather strongly ‘I think a shower is called for but first I must clean that bedroom’ she thought. Twenty minutes later John returned. He had already stripped the sheets and taken them to a laundrette close by. A nice woman in a caravan nearby had offered to take him in her car as she was ‘going that way’. He opened the bedroom door to find the place neat and tidy with the spare sheets already in place. Alex was obviously in the shower so he stored the plastic bag containing the cleaned sheets in a cupboard. Alex came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her head and thankfully with another around her body ‘good morning’ she said brightly. ‘I think you mean good afternoon, thanks for cleaning the bedroom. I would have done it but I didn’t want to wake you’ ‘That’s the best sleep I’ve had in a long time and now I could eat the proverbial horse. What restaurants are close by?’ ‘There’s one on the beach not far away. I think you call them Cherryingitos but it’s not open until seven in the evening for some reason?’ Alex couldn’t help laughing ‘the Spanish call them Chiringuitos John but it’s near enough I suppose’ John just huffed ‘any way the food is quite good I’m told’ Alex made a decision ‘in that case why don’t we go for a swim in the sea?’ she decided glancing out of the window towards the sandy beach ‘the sea looks lovely and calm’ John agreed it was a good idea realising it had been a long time since he had done that recalling a family holiday long ago. They both changed into swimwear. Alex was polite enough not to giggle at the very floral shorts that John had not worn for over five years. ‘They were all the rage at the time’ he defended but feeling a little silly. Alex had a one piece swimsuit which basically showed every curve in her slim and athletic figure. She also swam like a fish but John matched her strokes as they raced out to sea and back. ‘I haven’t done this for a long time John, too long!’ she decided. ‘I know what you mean Alex’ he agreed thinking the same thing. It was early evening before they returned to the motorhome. ‘I think that restaurant should be open by now?’ John suggested. ‘Ok. Give me a few minutes to dress and we’ll go and find out’ John changed and then lounged in a chair outside waiting for Alex to dress. When she did the transformation was quite something. Gone were the faded jeans and baggy t-shirt of yesterday to be replaced by a very short and revealing black dress. Her hair was now tied up neatly in a bun. Her neck enhanced by a small pearl choker. He couldn’t help himself; the wolf whistle came out before he realised it ‘sorry that was uncalled for we aren’t on a date or anything’ ‘Oh!’ she asked ‘why not?’ The Chiringuito turned out to be an excellent restaurant. Alex gazed out across the Mediterranean Sea and sighed ‘we live on such a wonderful planet David so why do we do our best to mess it up?’ ‘Try asking an easier question like what is the meaning of life Alex but I think we need to remember there are more good men and women than bad in this world. I think you proved that today’ Alex smiled ‘it wasn’t the first baby I’ve delivered by any means but every child I help bring into the world is special to me’ David studied her as she was lost in thought. He was beginning to realise this woman was something special. He was also beginning to realise he was very attracted to her. ‘No!’ he told himself sternly ‘tomorrow she joins her family then we go our separate way’ Alex suddenly sat up and announced ‘I’m starving let’s eat!’ They both had Shrimps for starters. A Sea Bass was ordered for Alex and a Steak for John. The waiter sensing a more refined customer suggested a bottle of white wine not listed on the menu. They had kept the conversation light during the meal not wanting to spoil the evening but they both knew that wasn’t going to last. ‘That was delicious John thank you’ Alex said putting her wine to one side ‘now let’s talk!’ ‘Fair enough you go first’ ‘Ok what do you want to know?’ she announced expecting a question on why she was a doctor or something. ‘Why step-mother?’ She’d been expecting a question about how she became a doctor. She wasn’t expecting that and stopped herself from answering straight away ‘why do want to know about my family. Are you some kind of therapist?’ she asked delaying the response. ‘My mother divorced her first husband and married dad 3 years later so it’s not such an out of the way question. You’ve already told me your dad and your step-mother is here in Spain. You’re angry at them aren’t you?’ Alex clenched her teeth and stopped her-self from crying but it was too late. She grabbed a hanky from her purse and gathered her thoughts. ‘I was until today. I don’t know why but being with you has helped me think things through. When mum and dad divorced it wasn’t that unexpected really. It was all done without any fuss and I was never made to feel unwanted. They both re-married within 2 years and are both blissfully happy so why am I so angry at them?’ she asked. ‘I think you just answered your own question’ ‘You mean it’s because they are so happy?’ ‘Sure why not. When parents separate the child feels she should be the centre of attention?’ Alex frowned and thought back over the past two years. Much had changed in her life but both parents had done their best to make sure she was wanted and loved. ‘I’ve been a real bitch haven’t I?’ she said remembering the way she had treated both of them. ‘I need to realise wicked doesn’t always come before step-mother!’ I’m not sure about that’ he answered laughing at her confession ‘but I would be very surprised if both families are not very proud of what you have achieved’ ‘Wow you’re something else John Spencer’ she said already deciding her attitude would improve from now on. ‘Please start calling me John for heaven’s sake’ ‘Ok John it’s your turn. When is this R&R of yours going to end?’ ‘My holiday or Rest and Recuperation as you have put it has another week before I need to return home’ ‘That’s not what I meant by R&R John’ she replied looking directly at him ‘let’s try Recrimination and Regret instead!’ His question had shaken Alex, but her question had just hit him in the stomach like a lead ball. It wasn’t what he had been expecting either! She noticed his reaction and suddenly regretted asking the question ‘I’m sorry was that too personal?’ ‘No, and you have the right to ask it’ he answered looking thoughtful ‘and you’re correct I am running away but I guess it’s time to stop. I transferred to the Medevac division because I had a problem blowing people up in a very lethal Gun Ship. My superiors funnily enough where very understanding. My Captain said to me; you want to give up an armed Cobra for an unarmed Medevac. You must be crazy?’ Alex could imagine the scene he was playing out. ‘But he was right. Extracting wounded soldiers from a battlefield was no picnic especially when the enemy are still in the area shooting at you, but I was good at it. In fact I was very good. I had to learn revival techniques and battlefield survival but it all came really easy to me. I was also asked take other physiological tests that didn’t make any sense at the time until I was approached by a man from Military Intelligence. It was a job offer. Technically I would still be under military control but seconded to the Special Forces. It would mean dropping teams of SAS into hostile areas, then retrieving them later; hopefully without casualties’ ‘My god John that sounds very dangerous’ ‘Even more so when you consider the chopper would be unarmed. You see it was a matter of weight. The Recon Teams carry a lot of equipment’ ‘Did you accept?’ ‘I was still considering it when my parents were killed in a road accident. To say it knocked my confidence sideways is an understatement. The man told me to go away and don’t come back until my head was clear’ ‘It was good advice. So you went to home and bought a mobile home’ They looked at each other and burst out laughing ‘pretty dumb thing to do wasn’t it?’ ‘Oh I don’t know you met me!’ He was just about to respond when a polite cough came from behind ‘will there be anything else?’ asked the waiter in Spanish. They looked around and realised they were the last people in the restaurant. ‘We are sorry to delay you please bring the bill’ she replied in Spanish. John paid leaving a large tip as a thank you. The heat was abating thanks to the breeze. The moon was high in the night sky casting its glow on the sea. Holiday makers strolled arm in arm along the promenade. Crickets were making themselves heard. It was the perfect summer evening. He held out his arm, she took it without hesitation. ‘I think you should consider taking that offer to join the Special Forces’ she said suddenly surprising him ‘I have a feeling you’re beginning to miss flying those helicopters of yours?’ ‘Now who’s being the therapist?’ he grinned. ‘It’s probably the smile that you get when discussing them?’ she answered patting his arm. ‘But what will I do about the mobile home?’ he asked stopping and looking at her ‘I can’t just leave it in a car park and I’m not sure how to go about re-selling it in Spain?’ ‘Would you trust me to look after her?’ she asked him making a decision. John laughed. ‘What are you laughing at now?’ ‘You called the motorhome her’ he said still laughing and continuing their stroll along the promenade ‘if you’re sure it’s no problem?’ he asked seriously considering her proposition. ‘My family have a villa in the mountains with plenty of land. I can park it there no problem’ ‘Very well I accept’ he said making the decision and kissing her on the cheek as a thank you. ‘Is that the best you can do John Spencer?’ she asked moving into his arms. CHAPTER 6 Alex had contacted her father to explain she was on the Spanish coast but would not be arriving at the villa for another couple of days. They had stopped at Malaga Airport where John had booked a flight to London. He’d also contacted the man who had offered him the job with the Special Forces. He would join them as soon as he returned to the UK. Now the decision had been made he was eager to get started but he would miss the motorhome and also the woman he now considered a part of it. ‘Will you be staying in Spain for long?’ he asked Alex as the lay on the bed. ‘Why?’ she asked teasing him ‘Do fancy another vacation so soon?’ but also wondering if it was just a casual question. They had parked the motorhome on another camp site after leaving the airport. They had made love frantically and with passion. The time had passed to quickly for them. His flight was in four hours. ‘You know what I’m asking Alex?’ he said holding her arm. ‘Yes I do and the answer is yes but no commitments John. We both know how our lives can change from one day to the next’ ‘But I thought you were returning to London?’ ‘I will if the agency doesn’t want to keep me on’ ‘They must be crazy if they don’t. I’ve seen some good doctors in my time but none with your passion especially for the children’ ‘Maybe too passionate for my own good my father would say’ ‘I think I like the passionate side of you’ he grinned reaching for her again. She jumped out of bed ‘Oh no you don’t. The taxi will be here in another ten minutes. Time for you to complete that packing’ Alex waived him off trying her best not to cry but it didn’t work. When the taxi disappeared she sighed ‘I’m going to miss you John Spencer don’t get yourself killed or anything’ She turned to the motorhome and patted it affectionately ‘well old girl it’s just you and me until I can find you a new owner. Why am I talking to a camper van?’ she asked herself ‘sorry motor home’ she then said correcting herself and patting it again. CHAPTER 7 Alex parked the motor home at the entrance to her parent’s villa. They immediately came out to say hello. She hugged her father and her step mother, much to her surprise. ‘That looks like a fine motor home Alex but what are you doing with it?’ asked her father suspiciously. ‘It’s a long story dad but I will tell all later. The man who owned it has returned home to England’ ‘It looks like it needs a bit of a clean’ ‘Like I said it’s a long story, I don’t suppose you want to buy it do you?’ she asked innocently. Alex settled in for a few hours to gather her thoughts before contacting the Agency headquarters in London. Her Supervisor was a man called Henri ‘Alex at last I was beginning to get worried. If this is a confession by the way, please don’t tell me the details. I don’t want to know what happened in Monaco’ ‘Thanks Henri but that’s over and done with. I was just calling to say I have considered your offer and wish to stay with the Agency if the offer is still on the table?’ ‘Are you kidding after what you did in Africa of course it is? Have you been keeping up with the news by the way?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Not really I was rather occupied’ she almost sighed as she said it but stopped herself. She then suddenly became worried ‘what are you not telling me Henri?’ The pause made her even more concerned ‘the aid convoy didn’t get through. Fortunately, it was only one truck that was hi-jacked but the rest are stuck at the way-point. The African driver by the way is missing’ ‘Oh my God’ she gasped ‘the children in those villages will run out of food and medical supplies by the end of the month, what are you doing about it?’ The next pause said it all ‘I’m not sure if we can arrange another convoy until the situation is stabilized’ ‘We must do something Henri. If I have to I will jump into that mobile home outside and drive to Africa all by myself’ ‘Mobile home!’ he asked ‘what mobile home?’ Oh hell why did I just say that ‘it will take some explaining, actually it belongs to a friend’ ‘Well, would this friend be willing to let you borrow it for a while?’ he asked trying not to pry too much into her personal life which until now he wasn’t aware she had one. ‘Possibly’ she replied guardedly ‘that was just said off the top of my head Henri but I’m getting the idea you think it’s feasible’ ‘Give me 24 hours and will call you back Alex OK?’ ‘Fair enough 24 hours’ she said replacing the telephone. Her father had been listening in the background ‘that sounds interesting. Are you thinking of returning to Africa so soon?’ ‘The relief effort was only just supporting the influx of refugees from the neighbouring countries. I have to do something’ ‘You’re just one person Alex remember that. The charities are well-established organisations and know what they are doing. I’ve been there myself remember when I was not much older than you. Don’t make it personal or it will devour you’ Alex knew what her father was referring to. It was all too easy to let the injustice get to you. Her visit to Monaco had proven that. Very well she would stay professional and do what she was paid to do. She went outside intending to go for a walk but decided the motorhome needed a thorough clean. ‘Best get it done. It could be home for quite a while’ she thought smiling. Henri called late the next day ‘it’s taken some doing but fortunately we already had a convoy waiting to go. Can you be in Gibraltar in three days’ time?’ ‘Yes I think so but why Gibraltar?’ ‘Two Land Rovers with trailers are flying out from the UK but the military will only take us as far as Gibraltar. We’re trying out some new pre-packed trailers filled with medical supplies. It saves time having to start packing everything from scratch. They can be airlifted and dropped from a transport but we don’t have anyone on the ground to organise it. They’re all fitted with tow bars and wheels which means they can be taken by road. Has your caravan got a tow bar? ‘My Motorhome doesn’t’ ‘Never mind we can get one fitted in Gibraltar if we need to. The RAF engineers can beef up the suspension a bit at the same time!’ Alex should have argued the point but she didn’t ‘very well’ she just sighed. CHAPTER 8 Alex sat on the steps of the motor home and tried to keep calm but it was difficult. The two Land Rovers with their sealed containers behind them were parked next to her. It had taken nearly a week to get from Gibraltar to the port of Ceuta. The Land Rovers with the trailers had arrived within twenty-four hours but the people to drive them had not. ‘Sorry Alex but you will have to wait until your full team is assembled orders from head office and all that’ Henri apologised. ‘What do you mean by a full team Henri?’ she asked getting suspicious now. ‘Alex you are a brilliant doctor and a lovely person. We don’t want anything to happen to you over there’ ‘Thanks Henri but with all due respect I have been over there before you know and survived’ ‘I understand that but things have changed since you left. The rebels in the country have moved around quite a lot recently but why don’t you let mister Warner explain it all when he gets there?’ he told her remembering not to use the man’s military title. ‘I don’t suppose for one minute you’re going to explain who that really is are you?’ There was a polite cough at the end of the phone ‘It’s for your own protection Alex trust me’ Mister Warner turned out to be exactly what she thought he would be. ‘Let me guess Mister Warner. Ex-military possible SAS or something like that’ she asked when he introduced himself. ‘Very astute Doctor Trent but please call me Jack’ ‘Jack Warner?’ she repeated giggling. ‘Yes, the name does get that response sometimes’ he said arching his eyebrows a little. ‘Oh I’m sorry that was rude of me but it’s been very frustrating waiting all week for the team to arrive’ ‘I can imagine and no apologies necessary I assure you. A little humour is good for all of us. Come and meet the others’ he said indicating a group of people close by. The others turned out to be two French nurses; one an experienced mid-wife and the other a young nurse eager to do her bit for humanity; a man with same military baring as Jack; obviously of a military background; and a man of African origin that professed to be just an excellent driver. ‘You all seem to know each other have you met before’ she asked Jack. ‘Yes we have except Colene the new nurse. She worked with Sister Marie Del Carmen in the hospital near Leon’ ‘Sister Carmen, she’s a nun?’ ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at her would you?’ She knew what he meant. Sister Carmen may be a nun but at thirty years old she could still be called attractive. A pity the young nurse Colene hadn’t been touched by the same genes. Plain would be stretching it a little she thought unkindly. ‘You’ve probably guessed that Freddie is ex-military as well. Actually he was a military policeman here in Gibraltar for quite a while’ ‘And who’s the African gentleman?’ ‘Call him Congo and no; that’s not his real name’ he told her sadly. ‘He looks quite intelligent and speaks excellent English. In fact, I would say Oxford English?’ ‘Spot on doctor. He was educated in England but comes from an African family who I’m sorry to say are no longer alive. His wife and child were butchered in a raid by militants two years ago. The man has two Ph.D.’s would you believe and could work anywhere he wanted but applied to join Help-the-Children instead. The charity was glad to hire him. He’s a good man to have in a scrap but watch his mood swings!’ Alex studied the African. It was true he was highly educated with impeccable manners but there was something missing ‘losing your family like that must hard to bare’ she decided. Jack introduced her to the team. They all spoke English except Colene who constantly sought the help of the sister in translating even casual comments. Carmen as she would eventually call her had the patience of the proverbial saint and never once got annoyed. Jack had disappeared soon after he had introduced them eventually returning from his short trip as he put it with two more Moroccan men ‘Ok everyone let’s get going we have a long way to travel. Doctor Trent these two men will accompany you in the camper van; sorry motorhome!’ he said before she had to time to correct him ‘and help with the driving if that’s ok with you?’ ‘Please call me Alex for heaven’s sake and yes that sounds fine but the bedroom is off limits ok?’ she told the two men who shrugged of course a little embarrassed at the statement ‘oh sorry that wasn’t meant to imply anything!’ Jack was repressing a grin as he told her ‘you have a way of putting your foot in it Alex but like I said before a little humour is very welcome. The two men by the way are part of the Kings personal bodyguard so you can trust them to behave. They’re only with us until we reach the Western Sahara so I should let them do most of the driving?’ Alex took his advice. It was a chance a too study the landscape and the people. She had visited the port many years ago on a weekend trip with her parents. She had not been impressed and a quick sortie around the bazaars had not changed her opinion of the place. ‘It seems to be stuck in a time warp’ she thought wandering the narrow and sometimes steep alley ways. It wasn’t advisable to go alone she had been told but after two years working in a remote hospital in Mauritania this was no problem. Funnily enough she never felt threatened or uncomfortable. Even the swarms of young beggars left her alone. The convoy with the motorhome in the lead as the Moroccan drivers obviously knew the roads well, left the port and followed the A4 then the A1 south down the coast. As they left the port behind she was amazed at the construction work that had happened over recent years. On both sides of the road huge apartment blocks had sprung up but thankfully most of the cranes had been taken away. Every one of them however was vacant and unfinished. She tried to estimate the units in one large block ‘there must be nearly one thousand apartments’ she calculated ‘what a waste!’ Spain had suffered during the recent down turn in the economy but at least they were showing signs of recovery. In a way it had been a good thing she once told a friend ‘houses are homes were people live and bring up a family. The speculators and greedy estate agents have made that impossible for the average family to attain. The banks with their irresponsible lending should be ashamed of themselves’ Away from the port her opinion of Morocco began to change and she scolded herself for being so narrow minded. By the time they had reached Rabat she was in love with the place and decided to find out more about the country. Morocco, a North African country bordering the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea is distinguished by its Berber, Arabian and European cultural influences. Marrakesh’s walled medina, a maze like medieval quarter offers entertainment in its Djemaa el-Fna square and souks (marketplaces) selling traditional ceramics, jewellery and metal lanterns. The capital Rabat’s Kasbah of the Udayas is a12th century royal fort overlooking the water. Hmm she wondered ‘if we get to Rabat early enough I should check the place out it sounds interesting, maybe I should have asked my two drivers where to visit?’ she thought then realised something. They had not spoken a word since they joined the party. She asked Jack about it later in the evening ‘my two passengers aren’t what you’d call talkative is it a cultural thing or something?’ He pulled her gently to one side ‘like a said earlier they’re part of the Kings personal bodyguard. To stop them from telling tales they’ve all had their tongues cut out!’ ‘Oh my god are you serious that’s disgraceful!’ she cried all indignant and offended at should barbaric cruelty. She continued her ranting until she noticed Jack almost doubled up on the floor in hysterics. ‘You’re a terrible person Jack Warner’ she shouted then broke into a fit of laughter herself already seeing the funny side. ‘Like I said Alex a bit of humour is most welcome’ he said moving away to tell the others what had just happened. Alex did manage to see some of the Capital accompanied by the two women and one of the bodyguards who explained it wasn’t acceptable to be on their own. ‘It seems your Moroccan driver has found his tongue Alex’ Sister Carmen ribbed her. ‘I’m never going to live that down am I?’ she moaned. As they wondered around the town it was a chance to talk and get to know the two nurses. ‘I understand you have been to Africa before Carmen?’ she asked. ‘I was recently in Senegal when the Ebola virus struck. It is something I hope never to see again in my lifetime Alex I assure you’ ‘Pray to god it doesn’t return’ she answered then realised what she had said ‘oh sorry Carmen that wasn’t offensive was it?’ ‘Of course not Alex and I also pray to god it does not’ she answered smiling her companion’s choice of words ‘and if you do ever want to pray then let me know I do have some experience in that matter’ ‘I keep putting my foot in it don’t I?’ ‘You speak your mind without fear or prejudice Alex. It’s most refreshing so please don’t stop’ ‘Thank you Carmen’ ‘There’s one thing I’m intrigued about though’ ‘Oh what’s that?’ ‘How did you come by the motor home? It’s not something I would expect a young woman all on her own to purchase especially someone working for a charity based in Africa?’ ‘I could say it’s a long story but in truth it’s not’ she said thinking now what to say ‘the truth is the motorhome doesn’t belong to me. In fact, the owner doesn’t even know it’s here in Africa’ ‘What will he say when he finds out?’ ‘How did you know it was a man?’ she asked. ‘Probably something to do with the wistful look you get when you talk about it. So who is he?’ ‘His name is John Spencer and he’s a pilot, helicopters not airplanes. We met just recently near Granada. I had just lost a very expensive Mercedes car down a ravine, not mine by the way. He gave me a lift down the mountain. We rescued a family from a forest fire and then delivered a baby near the coast. We talked we made love and he left!’ ‘Wow you do lead a very adventurous life don’t you?’ Carmen told her ‘will you meet him again soon?’ ‘Not very likely I’m afraid he could be anywhere in the world by now’ ‘Well; you need to remember something’ ‘Oh what’s that Carmen?’ she asked frowning. ‘God works in mysterious ways or so I’ve been told’ she told her smiling. CHAPTER 9 The two Moroccan drivers left them sooner than expected. On reaching El Argoub on the coast news came through of refugees descending on a town called Awsard. The officials in the coastal town had been informed by their government that a convoy carrying medical supplies would be travelling through the region and not to delay or harass it any way; but they needed help and quickly. Jack was escorted to the town’s government building. The officials explained the situation and asked for help explaining it would take a few days to get a relief column to the area. A day later they arrived in Awsard. The number of permanent structures in the region is low; as many residents follow the traditionally nomadic Bedouin lifestyle of the Sahrawi’s passing through the town only temporarily and living in tents. The tents that Alex was looking at however had no connection to the Bedouins. These were refugees. ‘Doctor if you are thinking of going through that encampment then Freddie or myself need to accompany you’ ‘Then I suggest you hurry up we’re leaving’ she announced already walking away from where they had parked, Maria Del Carmen and Colene following behind her. Jack cursed under his breath and grabbed a radio then ran to catch up with them. Within half an hour a tent had been requisitioned and a triage set up. Another half an hour later a queue of people many of them women clutching babies were outside. Jack kept his distance and surveyed the area. He did not think the women were in any danger but it was his and Freddie’s job to keep them safe. Congo the African was kept busy going backwards and forwards to the trailers for medical supplies. It was not until the early morning that the two women decided they should take a break. The young nurse would look after the few non urgent patients still remaining. Alex suggested she slept in the motorhome. Within five minutes of making up the beds they were both fast asleep and snoring loudly. For the next two days they were kept busy until thankfully a relief medical team arrived to take over. ‘We need to get moving’ Alex told Jack ‘the people in the village I left will also be needing help and supplies. Have you managed to contact the hospital yet?’ Jack looked at her. She had hardly slept for three days but the fire and determination was still there. She had delivered babies, operated on children and adults alike in the crudest of conditions but it had all been done without complaint. It was no wonder the charity wanted to keep her on full time. ‘You had better sit down Doctor I have some bad news’ he told her. She didn’t need to be asked twice and slumped into a folding camp chair ‘what’s wrong Jack?’ ‘We haven’t been able to contact the hospital or anyone else in the area’ he waived Congo over ‘please tell the doctor what you’ve learned’ ‘I’ve been talking to some of the refugees’ he began ‘they know me and trust me, one or two are even from my homeland. It seems the rebels have left their usual territory and have moved east. The government forces have made it uncomfortable for them and they are looking for easier ways to survive’ ‘Are you saying they’ve already reached the village and the hospital?’ ‘I cannot be certain of that but they would make an easy and potentially lucrative place to attack’ ‘The medical supplies would be much sought after not to mention the women and children. I don’t need to explain what would happen to them do I?’ Jack asked her. Alex just shook her head. ‘I’m due to contact London for an update. I’ll let you know their decision whether we go on or not’ Alex jumped out of her seat ‘you can contact who you like but I’m pushing on to the village. I can be there in 2-3 days; unless there’s a way overland from here?’ ‘The Land Rovers could do it but not the motorhome. The charity won’t like it if they order us to return and we don’t’. We are driving their vehicles and supplies remember’ ‘But the motorhome belongs to me’ or a friend at least she thought but didn’t add ‘and I’m going on. I can take as many supplies as you allow me?’ ‘Wow there!! Let’s not jump the gun doctor. I didn’t say I wasn’t going with you but if I do and they order me back my job is on the line’ ‘If you need to return boss I’ll go with her’ Freddie called out. ‘So are we’ added Carmen. ‘You’re going to need my help if things get tricky doctor so count me in’ Congo also called out. ‘Ok!! I get the picture. Let’s get packed away and head out. There is no way we can go overland so it’s back to the coast then it’s down the N2 motorway to Nouakchott. We then head inland on the N3 as far as it goes to Nema. Let’s hope there’s still a village and hospital waiting for us when we get there?’ TO BE CONTINUED Ted Garvin, a middle-aged, disabled writer of mixed Native American/European descent, lives in Sapulpa, Oklahoma, with his wife and menagerie. He graduated from the University of Oklahoma with a Bachelor's degree, but that and $2.00 (adjusted for inflation) will buy you a coffee. His favorite authors, in no particular order, are Patrick O'Brian, J.R.R. Tolkien, Roger Zelazny, and Homer. Doggerland - Escape by Ted Garvin Part II After their escape, they traveled for weeks, with no sign of pursuit. They paused under the shade of a giant oak tree, ate a bite of supper, and debated what to do next. “I think we should go South, to my people,” said Deccan, swallowing some deer meat. “The bones are all that will be left, if what you told me is correct,” Bekah said. “They will have been scattered by animals and—I hate to say—partially eaten.” “Oo!” Aber made a disgusted face. “That may be true,” said Deccan, “but it is undutiful not to gather them up. Their spirits will not rest and neither will I. I will not be free.” “The Arkenesai will expect that,” Bekah said. “We should pick a different direction and go. They are sure to be on our trail.” Aber was silent, with a mouth was full of hazel nuts. “Why?” asked Deccan. “We have seen no sign of pursuit.” Bekah reiterated her objections. She'd die first. After more discussion, they chose a forest path. After scattering the remains of the meal in the hazel—a few hare bones and shells—to confuse the pursuit, they offered a little prayer to appease the spirits of their meal. Mid-autumn, the Vegetation God had died and left the sun-lit lands above to live in the Underworld with His consort, the Death Goddess—there was a crispness to the air. Bekah insisted that they cover the fire and scatter the ashes, to make tracking them harder. She claimed that she knew the Arkenesai better than they did. She wanted Ani and Aber to follow them, brushing their track, but Deccan deemed that excessive and wouldn't allow it. She was paranoid, but that didn't mean they weren't being followed. The oak trees began to thin and yielded the field to beech and elm, as the elevation increased. The daylight waned; it approached the time that the Sun Goddess, weary with sky battles, sought Her bed. The young people gathered grass and brush to form a rude shelter for the night. They were comfortable, if not as much as they had been—but they were free, at least for now. “This area begins to look familiar,” Bekah said, as they ate the last of the griddlecake. “We must be approaching the land of my people, the Mobonii. I wonder if they will welcome me.” “Why wouldn't they?” asked Ani. “I haven't been exactly honest with you about my past,” she said. “I left my village because I had been cast out by my parents. After I had traveled for days, my provisions ran out. Then, I was captured by the Arkenesai. The gang who found me took turns brutalizing me until they tired of it. They are a cruel people.” She paused. “Why were you exiled?” asked Aber, his mouth full of stale griddlecake. “That's none of your business,” she snapped. “If it didn't mean retracing our steps,” said Deccan. “I'd say we should go back to my people.” “I thought we had settled this!” Bowdin broke the silence he had kept for days. The young people had almost forgotten about him, even though he had been carried like a sack of meat. “I would continue in our current direction, because my people are probably at your village now,” he said. “Our blood is competitive. We give way to no one.” “We have talked enough,” Bekah interrupted. “It is time to sleep.” # “Shush!” hissed Deccan. Twilight, the time that the Sun Goddess prepared for bed. The clearing—quiet, except for the excessive noise that Ani and Aber made. The young people had tried, without success, to hunt for roe deer all day, but there had been no sign. Deccan suspected the brothers were scaring them off. Deccan wondered why he had brought Bowdin and them, but Bekah had insisted. Something about privacy and being able to think in peace. When they found a deer, he would attempt to kill one with a slung stone, which he had replenished, at a stream they had crossed. He would stun the doe, then rush in and cut its throat, which would require a difficult head shot. Thwack! Success. The doe fell, stunned, but still dangerously alive. Those hooves were sharp. Ani and Aber grabbed the animal to keep it still while Deccan reached in, grabbed her head, and slit the throat. The blood pulsed out; he kept his head turned away. When the doe had finally finished kicking, they field-dressed it with their razor-sharp flint knives, being careful not to puncture the abdominal sac. They bundled up the meat for later curing and left the rest in the bushes, as a sign of thanksgiving. They didn't want the spirit of the doe seeking vengeance. The meat, they would slice into thin strips to smoke over a fire.
Winter being at hand, they set up a camp in a spot sheltered from the wind. They gathered saplings of suitable length, then took one, put its end in a hole, bent it over and attached that to one at the opposite end. After they had a frame, they covered it with tent hide. They hunted more deer and cured the hides outside; almost nothing smelled worse. # Late one evening, as they sat around a fire, watching the embers fly up, they talked about that day's hunting. They had set traps and found them empty. Live hunting had been unsuccessful as well. They wondered if they had offended some deity or in some other way incurred bad luck. The mood was not cheerful. “Do you think we need to hunt farther afield?” asked Deccan. “I think something must be scaring away the game,” said Bekah. “Maybe a predator has moved in?” said Bowdin. Bekah glared. There was no love lost between them. “We need to move on. I have a bad feeling.” “But it is still winter,” said Aber. “Late winter.” “It is also possible that my people are drawing near,” said Bowdin “How likely is that?” Bekah became anxious. “My people do not give up easily,” Bowdin replied, “They also probably resent one of their own being kidnapped. I must admit, I do not like it.” “Enough!” Bekah said. “Did the gods speak to you, He to Whom the Dead Speak?” “No,” Deccan replied. “In the morning, I will go out and look for clues.” No one, except Bekah, relished the thought of breaking camp so soon. They banked the fire and retired to the tent to sleep. They arose before the dawn. By the time the Sun Goddess had cleared the horizon, they were on the move again. When they came to a brook, Bekah insisted that they enter it and travel downstream. The water streamed past their legs, creating small eddies. The elevation was decreasing; oak trees were again prevalent. Bekah strongly believed that this mode of travel would confuse their pursuers. When she was finally satisfied, they left the stream and followed a forest path to the west, leaving wet footprints that gradually dried in the fading light. The leaves from last autumn crunched underfoot. The birdsong stopped abruptly. “Stay where you are. Don't move,” a strange voice said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” David Perlmutter is a freelance writer based in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. The holder of an MA degree from the Universities of Manitoba and Winnipeg, and a lifelong animation fan, he has published short fiction in a variety of genres for various magazines and anthologies, as well as essays on his favorite topics for similar publishers. He is the author of America Toons In: A History of Television Animation (McFarland and Co.), The Singular Adventures Of Jefferson Ball (Chupa Cabra House), The Pups (Booklocker.com), Certain Private Conversations and Other Stories (Aurora Publishing), Orthicon; or, the History of a Bad Idea (Linkville Press, forthcoming) and Nothing About Us Without Us: The Adventures of the Cartoon Republican Army (Dreaming Big Productions, forthcoming.) Red Rover by David Perlmutter Part II II. They spent the night in Emerson, in a cheap motel room just off from the highway, and then proceeded on the longer and more dangerous march to Winnipeg the next day. It was on this walk that they began filling each other in on their pasts. It took them most of the night to do this, so the amount of actual sleep they got in the process was somewhat negligible. “You’re lucky you knew your Mom, Jack- I didn’t.” Madge said, with a surprising seriousness. “She dumped me in an orphanage in the most crummy section of the West End before I could even speak. Never knew her, or Dad, for that matter- but that was a fact of life where I grew up. I spent most of my life growing up on the street, around Ellice and Sargent. That’s where a lot of the action in town is, crime wise. Completely wide open- that is, when the cops aren’t looking! It’s a tough neighborhood, especially on Saturdays, when everybody’s been drinking, whoring and doing drugs. Not a pretty sight, but you’re probably going to see a lot of it if you’re going to be a superhero sidekick, so you better gird your loins and stiffen your tear ducts- it’s not a place for sentiment by any means. Anyway, I quit the orphanage as soon as I could think straight and I started running with a gang downtown from Sargent up to the downtown area around Portage and Main. Not the best way of living, by any means, but that was all I had then, and all I thought I was going to have, so I wasn’t in any business to complain about it. We had to steal, gamble and rumble to keep up our position as the baddest kids in the neighborhood or else we’d get killed. I had to do some other stuff with the boys as part of that whole scene, but you’re way too young to be hearing about that stuff- right now, anyway. Eventually, I got busted by the cops and they beat me up bad questioning me about what I was doing. You can probably see all the scars they left on my face and my body if you look hard and close enough at me. The third degree was a PICNIC compared to what they did to me. Talk about abusing your position! I didn’t want any more of the gang life after that, so I made up my mind that I was going to something about making myself into a better and conscientious being. That was when I decided to go straight. But I needed a job because I couldn’t stay with the gang anymore and I needed to pay the money for the new place I had rented to start my new straight life. So I started writing. Stories, articles, poetry, that sort of thing. Professional quality genre stuff, no porn or anything of the kind- I’m better than that! I don’t write too much, you understand, just a few things so I could get enough money to pay my rent. That’s ‘cause my rent isn’t too much, even with the highway robbery they charge for it here. But I figured I could make a career out of it if I set my mind down to it. I’d seen enough around the West End to know a few things about the bad things in life, and it worked out for me. I was able to get me a suite in one of those fancy apartment buildings on Woodrow Place, near the Assiniboine River, and I’ll be there as long as my imagination and my money hold out. “Now comes the part about how the other part of my life came into being. I started going for walks underneath the Maryland Bridge, near the river, which is how those fancy pants folks out in River Heights get into downtown. One night, I noticed there was a bottle floating in the river, and I reached out to get it. Curiosity, huh? More like stupidity. I fell in the river, and, God, that water is nasty! But I got the bottle out and opened it once I got back to dry land. “Once I was finally able to get the damn thing open, I noticed there was a note and a ring in it. Yeah, the one that was on Red Rover’s paw, but I’ll get to that. Anyway, I unfold the note and blow on it ‘cause it’s got dust on it, and read it. It said: Whosoever finds this note and wears this ring shall gain the strength and abilities of THE RED ROVERS, the greatest heroes of this or any galaxy. We are the protectors and providers of a service that is much needed among the people of this universe. Our speed, strength, agility and endurance are of an Olympian scale, and those who choose to be gifted with the kinds of powers that we possess may gain them by simply placing this ring on their finger. But woe betide those who fail to comprehend the warnings we now issue as a caution to those who would even remotely consider the adopting of this mantle. A mantle passed down from generation to generation, family to family, and species to species, the Red Rovers are compelled to battle crime and evil wherever they may exist. In consequence, you will be forced to compromise your life and perhaps your dignity in taking up this position. You will face unaccountable danger known to few others and be expected to prevail always to the entirety of your being. We ask of nothing from you to join save by placing the ring on your hand, but you must be prepared to accept the consequences and responsibilities related to taking on this act. Think long and hard before placing this ring on your finger, for you shall be compelled to take on the tasks of the Red Rover regardless of how you feel about taking on the assignment! “…and I figure, this has gotta be a joke. What kind of moronic idiot would set me up for such a stupid scheme like that? And, of course, I’M WRONG! Completely dead WRONG! “The room starts filling up with smoke and fog and whatnot. My body starts getting bigger and taller, and I get great big muscles all over me, the kind you’d never be able to build up even if you went faithfully to the gym every day! In other words, I get transformed into Red Rover like you saw her last night. And involuntarily, I was her for the next half hour while I busted up a cocaine smuggling ring in the downtown core! The cops had been looking for that thing day and night, and the cruddy crooks kept eluding them. And here I go and find the place where they’re hiding out just by putting the ring on, watching it blink and hear it bleep, and following the path! Of course, they aren’t exactly thrilled to see me. I tell ‘em who I am, and that I am going to bring them in, and they start scrapping with me. There was one point where I was fighting the thugs where the ring came off and I turned back into me, and I got punched a couple of times before I could get it back on and finish the job. So that’s the secret- as long as I have the ring and twist the top of it, I can be the Rover, and when I don’t have it, I can’t. Of course, I can decide when I want to do that and all. There’s no evidence that there’s some sort of alien intelligence controlling the whole deal, after all! The Red Rovers may be an intergalactic thing and all, but nobody’s been checking up on me or anything. And it’s not like the thing has control of my life, anyhow. But it’s pretty handy when I get into scrapes.” Having spoken rapidly without a pause, Madge at this point took a breath and exhaled. Then she looked at Jack, who had been setting spellbound listening to her story, his once prevalent desire for sleep fervently gone. “Well, that’s my story,” she said. “What about you? How did you get up here? That is, before I met up with you?” “It’s a long story,” said Jack. “And it’s kinda complicated. Are you sure you want to hear it?” “Can’t be any more boring than mine was,” Madge answered. So Jack began his origin tale. “I’m from North Dakota- Fargo, specifically. Even more specifically, in the south part of town right on the Red River, looking over to Moorehead in Minnesota. But I’ve travelled around most of North Dakota, and Minnesota, too, because my Mom was always busy with her work and I followed her around, mostly because I was too young to do anything else and she couldn’t very well leave me behind and keep her conscience. Or so she kept telling me. She didn’t make a whole lot of money, but we had enough to live somewhat comfortably around near Island Park. It was all right except for the fact that we occasionally got fire bombed due to Mom’s politics. She was always arguing with the neighbors over politics, very deeply and harshly, in fact, and that was why the bombing took place. That, and the fact that the cartoons didn’t care for us, either. But we were more likely to be hurt by our fellow dogs, since the Red River valley had been ceded to the dogs in one of those incredibly brief periods of cessation of hostilities. At least, it used to be, anyway. “Then, one night after I had gone to bed, I started smelling smoke and seeing a big orange light in the window. And I thought, what in the world is going on? I immediately went to go and talk to Mom, ‘cause I knew she would have an answer to the problem, like she always seemed to have for things like that. “Mom filled me in right quick. She burst into the room, shouting something about the Hammond Weed had come to town to help the local cartoons, who had come under the cover of the night through Moorhead, to kick the dogs out of the city so that they’d have an initial base of operations on the Red River where they could prepare to go up north and take Winnipeg the same way . ’The whole place is going up!’ she told me. ‘We got to get out of here!’ ’Should we go to Moorhead?’ I asked innocently. ‘If we hid well enough from them, they’d never be able to find us….’ “’No!’ she said. ‘We have to go north!’ I knew what she meant. She had secretly stashed a raft on the banks of the Red River, and we headed up the river, Huck Finn style, to Grand Forks on it. If the Hammond Weed was taking Fargo, Mom reasoned, then it was likely they’d spare Grand Forks, even though Grand Forks had an old U.S. Air Force base that they could easily use for aerial bombardments on Winnipeg if they desired that. “We thought we’d be safer there, and we were right for a little while. Then things got worse. Mom was wrong about them avoiding Grand Forks. Totally wrong. “It was only a few days after they hit Fargo that the Hammond Weed came up north to Grand Forks. They were presumably on our trail, since they would have noticed that we’d have escaped and they would have wanted revenge on us. But they also would have wanted to wreck the place like they usually did. That’s their modus operandi- they come into a city, turn out and kill the folks who were living there, and then destroy everything left in their path. It makes it easier for them to scare people, like the unfeeling, unsympathetic barbarians that they truly are. As it was, we were staying uptown, near Columbia Mall, when it became déjà vu all over again and we had to run off. It was a bit of a struggle because we had to go all the way downtown to get to the Red River and possible safety. It was said later on that the Hammond Weed and all the people fleeing from them, including me and Mom, caused the biggest disruption of traffic on DeMers Avenue since the flood of the Red River there in 1997, back in the days of the human beings. But I didn’t notice that at the time. Finally, we arrived at the bridge that connects Grand Forks with East Grand Forks across the river in Minnesota. The Sortie, I think it’s called. And that was when it happened. “We got to the center of the bridge and found out that we were surrounded. Not just by the Hammond Weed, who were on the bank of the river where East Grand Forks is, but by the local Grand Forks mob, a bunch of dirty dogs and wolves if there ever was such a thing, who had come out of the bushes around the town square near the river bank in Grand Forks to help the Hammond Weed ambush us. The Weed gets away with a lot of what it does by cutting deals with local hoods and crooks like that, usually in exchange for giving them some sort of position of power in the Weed organization later on. Before anything else could happen, everyone except us had pulled out a gun and had started emptying them into Mom. They had no conscience at all, and no sense of my feelings about the whole thing or what I wanted to happen there. They just STARTED SHOOTING! They ripped holes into her, and the blood leaked out onto me and into the river. I tried to be calm outside, but inside I was absolutely shattered, completed devastated, but I knew I had to get away before they started shooting and killing ME next! So I got up on the ledge and, before anyone could stop me, I jumped into the Red River. I didn’t think I’d make it, seeing how high up the bridge was over the river, but I made it. The water was real cold and it shocked me right to my core as soon as I hit it, even with my fur coat and all, but I made it. I swam for a few miles before I got tired and had to climb out. I rested by the side of the road for a whole night, worried that the hoods and the Weed would start coming after me, but I didn’t hear anything or see anything of them. Then, I started running, covering as much as I could every day. I worried all the time that the crooks would come after me, but they never did. They cared about what happened to me just as much as they cared about what happened to Mom- NOTHING AT ALL! Then I crossed the border and I met you. That’s all I can tell you.” And Jack, remembering his loss, put his paw in his mouth to stave off crying. Madge stooped down and put her own paws around him, which immediately made him calm down. The fact that she was now intending to be his friend and his guardian- and remain that as long as he needed her to be- was becoming something that neither of them could no longer deny. “You won’t have to worry about running anymore, kid.” she said. “I’m here for you. And so is Red Rover. You’ll be safe from everybody trying to harm you, especially those jerks in the Hammond Weed, as long as me and her have something to say about it!” * Madge would not have said those words with such confidence had she seen a motorcycle with North Dakota license plates and a surprisingly spacious sidecar that, entirely unknown to both of them, happened to be tailing her and Jack, and would continue to tail them as they made their way towards the metropolis of Winnipeg. The fact that this machine was an old but efficient Harley Davidson model from the days of the human beings, and was well maintained thanks to the funds that its driver made from the profits of the various criminal enterprises which he conducted in Grand Forks, made the arrival of these creatures, the villains of our story, in Winnipeg at or around the same time as Madge and Jack an eventual certainty. And with that, the creatures on the motorcycle collectively hoped, would come their destruction and any chance of warning the city of Winnipeg and its citizens of what lay in store for them. In the sidecar were two of the highest ranking members of the nefarious Hammond Weed. Most of the space was taken up by a giraffe named Jenna, wearing an oversized black zoot suit and its accompanying hat, with a typically elongated neck, though this neck was far more flexible and mobile than those of her fellow ruminating ungulates. That was because she was a cartoon character and not an organic being, as were all of the members of the Hammond Weed, or at least all of those who truly mattered and held power in the organization. Created for some long ago television series designed to entertain the long defunct human population, Jenna was not content to simply eat leaves off of bushes and wait contentedly to be mated with, as likely would have been her fate had she been a “real”, organic being instead of a cartoon character made of flexible and pliable ink, paint and celluloid. She was instead, a passionate foot soldier in the fight between the dogs and the cartoons for control of the planet. Her rapid ascent in the ranks had been a consequence of her general cold blooded nature, evident inside her lengthy bones from the earliest days of her creation, which made the killing of anyone- friend or foe- who stood in her way a natural and entirely justifiable act. With her ability to expand and distort her body- including her lengthy neck- to limits and bounds impossible for any human or organic dog to combat, just like all cartoon characters, she was, therefore, a formidable and dispassionate enforcer of the Hammond Weed’s peculiar style of “justice”, and she had been justly rewarded for her many and sundry fights and kills in the name of the Weed. She was now an executive vice president in the Hammond Weed hierarchy, and she held a large tommy gun in her hooves for proof in case anyone thought otherwise. For, in addition to her sundry physical abilities, she was also a crack shot, something that many, including most recently Phyllis Mongrel, assassinated in part by her hoof on the Sortie Bridge, had only found out when there was absolutely nothing they could do to stop her. The same was true of the creature sitting in Jenna’s lap, a petite but muscular pink furred rabbit named Barbara, wearing an equally well tailored green pantsuit and hat to match. Barbara, like Jenna, had fought her way up through the ranks through both bullets and physical distortion of her frame, which allowed her to survive in ways that were clearly responsible for the death of others. She had also, like her companion, been created for some long ago television series but had “gone bad”, like Jenna, as soon as she realized there was no future for her in Hollywood beyond the heavily limited and circumscribed positions which were the only available work for cartoons in the movie capital. Racism was something that she had felt the sting of early on in her life, and she had reacted by both taking pride in her cartoon stock while at the same time continually dating out of it to avoid being “shacked up” within any male cartoon character whom she considered to be her mental inferior, of which there were many. Consequently, while Jenna preferred to remain chaste to concentrate on her activities, Barbara dated frequently and often, so much that she was known as much for her prowess as a lover as she was for her skill as an enforcer and assassin. While her position on the Weed board was minor compared to the considerable power and authority and Jenna, Barbara was quick to remind Jenna, whom she was often paired up with on missions like this in spite of the constant unvarnished hostility that existed between them, that things could change in a heartbeat if the giraffe was not careful in her step. Jenna retained a dismissive attitude towards all of Barbara’s threat, though Barbara, with her keen rabbit vision, could see in Jenna’s eyes- when that was possible- that she was indeed scared of her, as were most cartoons whom she confronted. To non-cartoons, in particular her many lovers, that made her incredibly attractive, however, and she was quick to use this ability to her advantage. Nevertheless, Barbara was incredibly insecure, always worried that some rival- like Jenna- would come gunning for her when she was not ready. This accounted for why she had come on this trip armed with a small hand gun in her outside coat pocket, along with an assortment of knives and razor blades that she could easily discard from the inner lining, in case she was caught in a situation that, at least in her eyes, she was at a disadvantage within. The third member of the group was the motorcycle driver, clad all in black, including his helmet. He stopped the motorcycle and removed his helmet, revealing a not unattractive lupine visage. His name was Melvin D. Burlap, and he was the undisputed leader of the Grand Forks mob. Though not a cartoon character by any means, he shared with Jenna and Barbara a tenacity that had much to do with how he had come to gain the great levels of power he now assumed. Burlap knew the city of Grand Forks, as well as many of the cities and towns in North Dakota, like the back of his paw, and so he was an ideal ally for the members of the Hammond Weed he was now acting as chauffeur for. This unusual situation, in his mind at least, was occurring because Jenna and Barbara, acting as “advance agents” for the mysterious figure who headed the Hammond Weed organization, had entered Grand Forks in spectacular fashion, and, after having a roaring good time “tearing the place up” metaphorically, gave Burlap, as the old human gangster cliché went, an “offer” he very well couldn’t “refuse” on pain of his death along with the “tearing up” of Grand Forks metaphorically. Knowing full well of the awesome power of the Hammond Weed, Burlap knew that he would have to comply if he wished to save his town- and his considerable fortune- from being ruined. So he agreed to a deal: they would spare Grand Forks on condition that he and his boys would be allowed to participate with the Hammond Weed in their eventual looting and pillaging of Winnipeg, since that city, with its vast financial resources, seemed to have more money in it than any of them had ever seen in the entirety of their lives. This arrangement between them had been formally cemented by the joint “hit” that they had just conducted on Phyllis Mongrel, a considerable thorn in both of their sides, but Barbara, heavily attracted to Burlap through his appearance and money, had privately resolved, in her mind, to make a similar more private “arrangement” with him as well. Together, the forces that had killed Jack’s mother were represented on that motorcycle- and they intended, as well as conquering Winnipeg as a whole, to do the same thing to young Mr. Mongrel. But, unbeknownst to Jenna, a complication had occurred. Barbara and Burlap had fallen in love, as Barbara had hoped they would, during their stay at the Grand Forks Holiday Inn, one of several such establishments Burlap owned in the surrounding civic area for the purpose of making money. In particular, it was while they were engaged in conversation around the Inn’s spacious pool that they discovered that they were both no longer interested in criminal and terrorist pursuits, and Burlap suggested that they go “straight” following this last job, which Barbara had wholeheartedly agreed to. The sight of each other in their swimwear, in particular a very revealing bikini worn by Barbara, had firmly made this both a physical and political union. But, for the sake of appearances, they chose to pretend that they were still at odds with each other, just as they had been when they first met during the first, terse negotiations between them. This was done mainly so that Jenna and the other members of the Weed would not suspect anything, because, if word were to get out, the consequences would be dire for both of them, due to the racism Burlap’s “men” held towards his new “cartoon” girlfriend as well as the contemptuous attitude the Weed held as a strict policy against their non-cartoon “inferiors”. However, this was all the better for the final revelation of their plan to violently and firmly quit both of their ill-intended enterprises with flying colors that they had in mind later on. Burlap stood in the wind and let it blow through the top of his gray pelt. This action did not go unnoticed by his companions, who, as would be expected, were anxious to keep going towards Winnipeg and the rewards that potentially existed there. “Come on, Burlap!” the rabbit exclaimed. “We didn’t spare your town just so you could pose like some sort of sissy! We got a deadline to meet, and you know how strict the Weed is about meeting its deadlines!” Burlap, seemingly ignoring the vigorously phrased insult hurled at him, inhaled a large portion of the fresh Canadian air in the wind, and then spun around with a glint in his eye. A glint that suggested that, while the Weed had folded him into the waiting arms of its organization, he was still independent minded enough to jump free of their plans any time he wanted to, and regardless of what they thought of it. “Ladies…”, he said determinedly with an air of wounded pride, “I am not a sissy! Just ‘cause I want a breath of fresh air once in a while don’t mean I don’t want us to see our plans through by any means! I just needed some air, that’s all.” “I’ll give you some air if we lose track of those mutts!” snapped the rabbit, getting out of the sidecar and poking Burlap with her gun viciously to disguise her true feelings for him efficiently. “How the hell are we supposed to keep track of them when you keep stopping to get some damn air every five minutes? Would it kill you to poke some air holes in that helmet of yours? Then maybe we’d make some progress in this chase! The Mongrel kid escaped from us on the Sortie, and he’s gotta go before he knows too much! If we don’t get him before he blabs all about our plans before we get there, we’re SCREWED! And you’ll be screwed even WORSE THAN THAT, BURLAP! You wanna end up dead because of the fact that you needed some friggin’ air? Huh?” “Would you relax?” he answered. “My bike’s got a GPS tracker on them. I plugged in the coordinates before we left. And besides which, you forget that my Harley’s faster than any couple of dogs, and we can overtake them easy if you want to. But I can’t keep going without some air once in a while, though. Not that I have any intention of helping them escape, though.” “Good.” said Barbara. “”’Cause if we lose them, you’re the one who’s gonna escape- from your LIFE! ” “Oh, would you SHUT UP?” said the giraffe, now exiting the sidecar, to the rabbit. “Why are you so damn desperate to always put bullet holes in people? Do you get off from the sight of blood? Or is it just a way of hurting people for you besides the way that you usually do it?” “I could’ve done plenty in both ways in Grand Forks if you hadn’t cut that deal with Mr. Wonderful over there!” Barbara responded, curtly. “There was a lot of money there, and you know it! The Weed needs money to operate more than it needs more people like him on the payroll, and you know that, too!” “The only reason I wanted to spare Burlap and his men was because they know this territory better than you and I possibly could!” Jenna snapped, ramming her head on her associate’s face courtesy of her elongated neck. “If it wasn’t for him helping us out, we might have gotten jumped and lynched by some racist dogs in Cavalier or Grafton or some other out of the way ‘burb, and we wouldn’t even be here! Maybe if you could keep your killer instincts in check for once, Barbara, then you’d realize there are more important things for the Weed than just robbing and killing. You know very well that those things are just a means to an end for us, and NOTHING ELSE! You’d better remember that before you shoot your mouth- or your gun- off again, and I’ll make sure that you do if you don’t! Besides, Winnipeg is a big place, much bigger than Grand Forks. If you weren’t such a lunkhead, you would have noticed that!” “Continue that line of talk, friend…” Barbara threatened “…and you and your partner will be left out here for the vultures!” She talked like she wasn’t kidding, and Burlap, playing his role beautifully, reacted with stark horror creasing his face. But Jenna was as much a hardened veteran of the Hammond Weed as Barbara, and just as versed in the various tactics which they used to confront their enemies. Therefore, she was entirely unmoved at this rather heated display of temper, which would have frightened and intimidated any one not capable of matching Barbara as an equal or superior, as Jenna clearly was. “Don’t be stupid!” the giraffe answered, resuming her ramming. “I’m just as good a shot as you are, and you know it! I don’t suppose you want me to go to all the trouble of having to prove it to you, do you?” Melvin D. Burlap, having exited the conversation as soon as the Hammond Weedeans began arguing amongst themselves, now re-entered it with a vengeance. “I’m a pretty fair shot myself, ladies!” he said with a slight trace of menace in his voice, as his patience with the two of them had been worn down by their constant arguing with each other- and with him- at various points during the journey. “So are a fair number of the boys in my gang. I don’t suppose you’d want an exhibition of that, would you? ‘Cause I think that can be easily given if you don’t watch your step!” The female terrorists returned to the motorcycle. They surrounded Burlap, who had resumed his position at the driver’s seat, and drew their guns on him. In spite of the hostility they felt towards each other, one thing that they both despised was being threatened by people outside of their circle, of which Burlap, in spite of his increasing proximity to them, was still being treated as. So it was no problem for either of the cold blooded creatures to shoot him in cold blood if he even tried to threaten them with their lives, which they considered not only impossible for him to do but also a grievous insult to the character and conduct of both of them. “Hah!” Barbara said. “That’s a laugh. You threatening us? We’re ‘toons, buddy- we can take you mutts any day! Our forces have been torching your cities for years, and you haven’t been able to do a damn thing to stop us! How can they, when we can pull ourselves apart and together at the same time and your fellas can only pull the muscles in their arms and legs in response? You’re pretty lucky that we spared your dumb little town from being converted into a pile of popsicle sticks, so you better watch your mouth when you talk to us! The Hammond Weed don’t take too kindly to being bossed around by a petty small town mob boss, such as the likes of you!” Before Burlap could defend himself, Jenna added her two cents. “Listen here, Burlap!” she said. “You may be the king of South Washington Street…” “And DeMers Avenue!” he added perfunctorily. “And Gateway Drive! And…” “Just SHUT THE HELL UP, okay?” snarled the giraffe. “I am talking here, and nobody interrupts me when I am talking! Nobody, understand? NOBODY- unless they want to get themselves KILLED! Now you get this! We are going to continue with our plan as we devised it, and, mind you, NO SLIPUPS, or else we will in no way be responsible for what happens to you, your mob, and your town in response! You are going to drive us to Winnipeg, and the three of us are going to take a room at the Hotel McLaren, the best place in town so far as I can figure out since it’s near City Hall and everything, and that’ll get us a lot farther with our plans than we could if we were further uptown. First thing after that, we’re going to eliminate that so-called “super hero” Red Rover and that pathetic little Mongrel boy she’s taken under her wing. She would have to figure out that we were coming and threaten us on television like that, the big JERK! Then we’ll wait for our boss and her advance troops to come in from Alberta and for your boys to come in from Grand Forks. Then, and only then, will we start sacking Winnipeg, and we won’t stop until it’s down to the ground! And I swear to you, Burlap, if you pussyfoot any of this, I will squeeze you into an accordion and twist you into a pretzel, and then I’ll REALLY get around to hurting you after that! You understand?” “Yes,” he said, his menace gone. Burlap was a fellow who knew when the appropriate time was to put his mobster face on, and now was not one of those occasions. “Fine,” answered Jenna, her voice full of the dispassion that had caused the dispatching of the indescribably large number of beings that had met death from her hooves, her neck, and her gun. “Let’s do this!” The giraffe and the rabbit resumed their positions in the sidecar, and Burlap allowed it to resume operation by putting his foot on the accelerator. It swiftly disappeared into a cloud of smoke, and its occupants were once again bound for the site of the bountiful number of deeds that they were planning to commit once they reached the big and profitable metropolis of Winnipeg. * Unaware of what fate had in store for them, Jack and Madge carried on walking until they reached the exterior of the great city of Winnipeg, with the glass of its great skyscrapers gleaming in the morning sunlight. These relics of the human years, as they did for so many of the remnants of the human cities, projected an image of affluence that, for many of them, was simply a dream permanently gone. Not so Winnipeg, whose affluence was still very much intact and only growing larger by the day. Walking with Madge through the small town of St. Norbert, which still served mostly as a bedroom community for the larger city, and then towards the beginning of the city proper, Jack had a beaming optimism creasing his face, not unlike that of Dorothy entering the Emerald City of Oz for the first time. Jack and Madge continued walking up Pembina Highway until they got to the University of Manitoba, where they caught the perennially crowded #60 bus. A transfer to the slightly less crowded #20 bus and another ride later, and they were at Madge’s apartment house on Woodrow Place, where they crawled into their beds, since they were too tired, and it was too dark out, for them to anything else of substance. The sleep that they had, however, was the last good sleep they would have for the next little while, or indeed ever, now that Jack had committed himself to the rigors of life as a superhero’s sidekick. That the profession of superhero demands irregular and uncertain hours of commitment from its practitioners is putting it only at the barest extreme of mildness. * Meanwhile, Jenna, Barbara and Burlap had checked into their room at the McLaren, which was not the extravagant luxury hotel Jenna had imagined it to be, but a rather seedy looking establishment with a large portrait of Elvis Presley on the side of it along with a list of the supposed amenities of the place. That they were somewhat disappointed with it was an understatement of the first order. Meanwhile, Burlap arranged for his motorcycle to receive protective overnight storage at a nearby garage, an arrangement he misunderstood and ultimately would come to regret. They had just settled in for the night when the loud ring of Jenna’s cell phone woke them up. As soon as Jenna was able to decipher the name on the call display, she turned on the lights at the side of the bed, sat bolt upright, got up and put the phone all the way up to her ear. Then she walked into the bathroom to speak to the caller. A long stream of frustrated words soon began to emerge from both the lips of Jenna and the muffled voice of being on the other end of the phone, as Jenna began conveying the travails and problems she was having at both dealing with Barbara and Burlap and setting up the Weed’s scheme to the other absent speaker. Since the lights were now on, Barbara and Burlap stayed up, since neither could sleep with the lights on, a habit that was common among most creatures even before the humans disappeared. They began to talk, in hushed, conspiratorial tones, both so that Jenna would not be able to hear them and so that they could finally speak to each other with the loving and caring feelings that they now obviously felt for each other (and only between each other, for the time being.)
“Who’s on the phone?” Burlap said. “Our boss,” answered the rabbit. “The Grand Exalted Potentate of the Hammond Weed- otherwise known as the G.E.P. She’s the BIG boss! The giraffe and I are only small potatoes- real small- compared to her! We do whatever she says- no questions asked, no criticism given, no alternate opinions given- no NOTHING! If anybody crosses her, or even thinks about crossing her, they’re gone!” “Fired?” “Try dead.” “I can understand that,” Burlap said reflectively. “That was something I’ve had to do it a few times myself. Really effective way of getting rid of the people who just feed off the fat of your organization, don’t you think?” “Yeah, but it’s not the way you think,” came the reply. “She’s got supernatural abilities most of us don’t have. She can just move her eyebrows and the person she wants to kill is gone. They either collapse into a pile of brainless meat, or their brain explodes, or they pop out of this world and into another dimension. She always likes mixing it up so that we can’t figure out what she’s gonna do next. That’s the reason she’s been leading us for so long. Nobody can touch her when we’re in the same room with her. The only reason the giraffe can get away with cussing her out like that is that G.E.P. can’t get to her over the phone line, but that’s the only time. If any of us tried to challenge or contradict her, she’d kill us in a heartbeat. Even the members of the executive board, like the giraffe and me, don’t want to deal with her when she’s pissed off. So we generally go ahead with what she wants, even if it ain’t exactly the best for us all. Why do you think we’ve been doing all that urban strip mining- to get exercise? That kind of tactic makes everybody scared of the Hammond Weed, just like the G.E.P. wants ‘em to be. Plus, it helps us get the cash we need. But a lot of times, when personal stuff interferes, we’re willing to make some exceptions. Like what’s been going on between me and you behind Her Majesty over there’s neck. Remember how I said we spared Grand Forks for a reason? Well, it wasn’t just ‘cause it didn’t have much cash for our liking. I actually got some feelings for you, Burlap. Really deep feelings. Not just like I wanna make love to you, like I did with those other fellows I was with, but the kind of feelings that make you wanna shack up with a guy permanent like. I’m sure you feel the same way since I’ve been treating you so good. I don’t know what it is, but I got those kinds of feelings and in a really bad way. I had those feelings ever since that night at the pool. I may have wanted out before, ‘cause I don’t exactly approve of everything the Weed’s being doing recently and I wanna go before I get myself out. But the thing is, you just made it a lot more important that I do it now, since I gotta think about your safety as well as my own skin now. I just can’t stand this stuff no more, and I don’t want us to be part of it if it means that one or both of is gonna die because of it!.” “You’re not the only one with feelings that way, kid,” Burlap answered. “Not in the friggin’ least! I dig you, too. I let my boys know before we started that this would be my last job, since they ain’t exactly thrilled about you being around and they don’t want to be around anyone like me who would do a cartoon character and still be able to think like a real wolf-dog. Their words, not mine, you understand. Well, to hell with them, I say! They can get all they want out of Grand Forks, whereas I become free to travel around with you and maybe get married too. But we better keep it on the Q.T. until we get this job done. No tellin’ what will happen if we let things slip before their time, dig?” “I can dig it,” came the response. “You can count on me to keep my lips shut ‘til it’s time, Burlap. Just make sure you do the same, okay?” At this point, Jenna emerged and turned off her cell phone. Gnashing her teeth in anger, she got back into the bed she was sharing with Barbara. Burlap was in the one opposite, on his own, as their pre-arranged sleeping arrangements had dictated. “I take it that was the G.E.P.?” Barbara asked. “You take it correctly,” the giraffe answered. “She’s in one of her unreasonable moods, and she’s got another one of her typical last minute change of plans for us to digest.” “Ah, no!” said Barbara. “Again? That’s, like, the fifth time she’s changed the friggin’ plan! When the hell is she gonna make up her mind about what to do?” “This happen a lot?” asked Burlap. “Every job,” answered Barbara. “Chick can’t keep her mind straight when it comes to campaigning. We always end up travelling in circles waiting for her to show up, and we can’t do nothing until she shows up ‘cause of protocol and whatnot. So we end up spending a lot more time waiting for her than we would like to. It’s frustrating as hell, but it’s gotta be done!” “What do you mean, “chick”?” Burlap asked. “She’s a bird, huh?” “No,” drawled Barbara, as if Burlap had asked the stupidest question ever devised and she was simply humoring him by giving him an answer. “She’s a human being, stupid!” Burlap’s jaw dropped out of shock. There had been no true human beings in this world for over forty years, and here he was being told one was now the head of the Hammond Weed. But Barbara cut off his incredulity as she continued to speak. “Oh, don’t be so shocked!” she said to answer his look. “She’s not one of the real kind- those ones are long gone. I’m talking about the animated ones. It wasn’t just us funny animals on the tube in the old days- in fact, those human beings started outnumbering us towards the end. There aren’t a whole lot of them in the Weed, but there’s enough of them for them to be a strong voting block. That’s how the G.E.P. got in, and mostly, how she stays in. That, and those crazy ways she kills off people she don’t like very much!” “I see,” said Burlap, comprehending. “If you’re done conferring…” said Jenna, interrupting, “…we have some changes in the plan. The G.E.P. will be here with the ground crew in two days now, so we have to get our quarry bagged faster than we originally thought.” “Two days?” uttered Barbara. “I thought it would be a week before she got here!” “She took a short cut,” was the only answer Jenna gave, as she preferred not to reveal the full extent of the conversation- and confrontation- she had just had with her mysterious employer. “I’ll make sure the boys know about it,” said Burlap, reaching for his cell phone on his side of the dresser that separated the two beds from each other. “They can get here faster if they don’t stay overnight anywhere.” “It’s best you do that,” Jenna said to him. “That’ll make it easier- for all of us!” Neither she nor he needed to say anything more. Jessie Volk is a short fiction writer living in San Francisco with her husband and two cats. Jessie has published several scientific articles as a research scientist, but she is passionate about short fiction, particularly dark fantasy and science fiction genres. Much of her fiction is inspired by her work in biology and engineering. In addition to science, she loves teaching, often traveling to Latin America to teach courses in engineering. When she’s not writing or working, she can be found practicing Goju Ryu Karate in a dojo on the edge of Golden Gate Park. Lightning Strikes by Jessie Volk A thin film of life stretched miles across the sky of a distant gas giant. Electrical impulses delicately organized each speck of its billions. If it were to give itself a name, it would call itself the Many, and this morning it wove itself among the ice clouds waiting to capture a particularly lovely solar flare. But while it waited for its meal, a space probe tumbled toward the planet and collided with the Many. Contact with this exceedingly alien artifact lasted mere milliseconds, but the event was no less monumental. Not because of the probe’s obvious intelligent design, with instruments and cameras splayed out from its high-gain antennae. Simply because it was solid. Besides the ammonium ice crystals draped among the clouds, solids were scarce. Metal exceptionally rare. As the space probe perforated the Many, its metallic parts conducted electrical activity at an astonishing rate. Millions of specks were sucked toward the chaos, tangling together in bright clouds of light. In this burst of electrical energy, the space probe’s long-dead instruments whirred and blinked to life before continuing on its path to the planet’s core and melting into oblivion. # The collision had left the Many with knots of interconnected specks. One knot seethed, passing impulses back and forth until it formed thought. “Too dense,” thought the Knot, “Wrong. Must fix.” With all the power she could generate, the Knot tried to merge back with the Many. But the more she tried to untangle herself the more the opposite happened. More and more specks were sucked into her cluster. Then came a shove. A wave of energy crashed through the Knot’s thoughts. It came from somewhere in the center of the Many. The surge, though frightening, was familiar somehow. The Knot stretched her awareness, feeling for the source. She recognized the Many around her, its billions of specks lilting across the shimmering clouds. The Many basked in the rays of the solar flare, and the Knot could feel each speck swallowing the radiation to drive their electrical impulses. In the center of the Many, she found a core cluster of specks, bright and pulsing with energy, dwarfing the Knot many times over. The Core guided the Many through the lavender sky, constantly adjusting its position to keep it from sinking towards the raging winds below. The push had come from the Core. The Knot could feel the Core nudging other clusters in the Many. Strange little concentrations that were not as they should be. “Knots,” thought the Knot. These strange spots were like her, but somehow different. Bright with energy, they buzzed and whirred randomly, nothing like the steady vibrations of the Core. A few seemed to be at the edge of thought. One of the larger ones kept broadcasting fragments, like half-formed echoes. They were so helpless. These knots did not respond to the Core’s impulses, only vibrated in chaos. The Core nudged one of these clusters to the edge of the Many and, to the Knot’s horror, cast it out into the dark cyclones below. “No! Why?” thought the Knot. She struggled against the Many, but could not overpower the Core to catch the cluster of specks before they drifted down below the amber clouds. The Core stayed frustratingly silent, restraining the Knot as it set about removing the next cluster. In an act of desperation, the Knot collected a burst of energy and shot a lightning bolt at this cluster. The Core reacted and pushed the Knot to the very edge of the Many. The Knot thought she was being rejected as well, but the Core stopped short of ejecting her completely. The Knot searched the cluster she had shocked, to see if there was any change that might spare it from exile. But the cluster continued to whir and buzz as if nothing had happened. The Knot could do nothing else but let the Core finish, abandoning her sisters to the storms below. # The solar flare bathed the planet into the afternoon. The Many was nestled next to clouds painted a shining white under the high sun. The Knot wondered at the Core’s control of the Many. Under the Core’s guidance, the specks expanded into a sheet miles across the sky, each equidistant from each other. Except for the specks around the Knot. For some reason, the ones closest to the Knot bundled together, ignoring the Core’s instructions. The Knot experimented: she tried moving the specks around her. It was taxing and heavy, but slowly the specks started to move under her command. “Very good, little specks,” thought the Knot. She spread the specks into a thin sheet, trying to match the Many beyond her small island of influence. It struck the Knot that this may be why the other knots were discarded. Disorganized specks would be ripped from the Many in the slicing winds. “The knots interfere. The specks need to always follow the Core,” thought the Knot, but something about this deduction was unsettling. Wasn’t the Knot herself in the way? Driving this thought from her mind, the Knot returned to her specks, spreading them thinner and thinner. And the specks spread at her command, thinner and thinner across the sky, through the jets streams that tore through the planet’s equator at hundreds of miles per hour. “The wind!” thought the Knot in a moment of panic. The winds clawed at the Many, ripping the edges she had spread too thin. Already she had lost her grip on a few specks. What was she missing? The Knot turned her attention toward Core-controlled specks, rising up over a pillowing cloud of methane. These specks weren’t spread so thin. Each had at least four or five connections with its neighbors, and the specks at the edge had double that. A thick rim protecting the fragile inner disk. The Knot tried her best to replicate what she had learned, but her specks warped and rippled between a thin sheet and a concentrated soup. She constantly adjusted the spacing to escape the storms. She resolved to hold on until the last of the solar flare kissed the sky. Exhausted, the Knot felt herself float toward the center of the Many. The Core was taking control, wrapping a new layer of specks around the edge. The Knot gave in with a mixture of relief and shame. Once the flare had passed, it was time for the Many to rest. The Core found a relatively calm pocket of air at the base of a column of clouds. The Many pulled into a dense cluster and rested. # The Knot mourned the specks she had lost. But a new notion arose: if the Many lost too many specks, it would be too small to survive. More than ever, the Knot wished to become a single anonymous speck. She was nothing but a burden to the Many. As if in answer to her fears, the Core scooped up the Knot with the Many, catching updrafts to stream across the sky. Before too long they came to a belt of clouds churning with storms. Perched in an eddy among rippling haze, the Core fashioned a long chain of specks and dropped them below the cloud line at the edge of a vortex. The Knot drove her consciousness after the chain of specks, worried they had been banished. She could feel the Core form the end of the chain into a hollow sphere, trapping in methane, water, and ammonium gases that floated beneath the icy cloud layer. The Core pushed a burst of energy into the cage, cooking the gases, churning them form complex chemicals that stuck together in little bubbles. The bubbles merged and grew and when the Core retrieved the chain, it was filled with newborn specks, clicking and sparking. “They’re wonderful,” thought the Knot, drawing in a few of the newborns. She began to teach them all she had learned, spreading them into a thin sheet with a thick rim to protect against the winds. In her concentration, the Knot didn’t notice the edge of the vortex. A powerful downdraft tipped her from her perch. The Knot clutched at the Many, but the current was too strong. She dragged a large section of specks with her into the unknown. Separated from the Many, terrified of sinking into the world beneath the clouds, the Knot spread herself thin like a parachute, a reflex she had felt the Core perform many times. In a thin sheet, the Knot caught an updraft which sent her soaring above the clouds. Higher and higher she soared until she tangled into the planet’s electromagnetic field. The Knot and her specks were pulled into a thin wisp in the field’s undertow. In a matter of minutes, the current dumped the Knot and her specks into the icy polar region, far from the sunny equator, the solar flares, and the comfort and safety of the Many. #
The polar region was stagnant compared to the thundering storms at the equator. The sun skirted along the horizon a cool and distant orange. Unsure of what to do, the Knot waited. “The Core will rescue me.” But the stillness was stifling, and the darkness alien. A bit of dusty haze blocked the Knot’s view of the smoldering sun. She wished to brush it away and a string of specks obeyed, pushing it so hard the gases swirled around her. The Knot was stunned at the ease of this movement. She found that the specks obeyed her slightest thought. She could easily make it home on her own. Wouldn’t the Core be proud! The Knot danced into cyclones, whipping around in a circle to shoot out the other side. She crashed through icy foam that disintegrated around her on impact. Faster and faster she streamed, barely out of the polar region, when off in the distance, the Many reappeared. Overjoyed at being found, the Knot surged toward home. But the Many recoiled at a startling speed. The Knot was baffled. “Why would the Many move away from me?” But the answer came as soon as she asked. She was being rejected like the other knots before her. The Knot sensed the Many receding into the horizon. What could she do? The other knots had fallen to oblivion. Maybe that’s what the Core wanted. The Knot pulled in her specks, condensed herself until she started to sink beneath the clouds. Suddenly the Knot was blasted with a loud clap of energy. Before the Knot could react, another burst of lightning sprang from the Core, landing squarely in the center of the Knot and spreading through the specks. It didn’t hurt, the Knot was made of energy. Why would the Core do this? The Knot was almost completely submerged beneath the cloud layer before she understood the message: the Core was trying to revive her, as the Knot had done with her own sister knots. The Knot spread herself thin to rise back above the cloud layer. She tried her own bolt of lightning, but it was difficult at this distance. The most she could manage was a spark that barely reached the tip of the Many. The Core returned fire, and then backed away toward the equator. The Knot followed, happily trying to answer the Core’s bold strikes. The sun was bursting anew, streaming solar flares to the equatorial region. The Core came to rest miles from her, lying in the center of the Many spread into a delicate sheet. Barely thinking, the Knot spread into her own sheet, arranging her specks effortlessly. With every bit of absorbed radiation, she felt her control deepen. These specks were her Many. They were the Knot. Michaël Wertenberg is a French-American novelist, animal lover and avid rationalist currently teaching English in Lisbon, Portugal. Mens Sana in Corpore Sano by Michaël Wertenberg --My hands have a mind of their own.-- I know I shouldn’t smoke—well, my mind knows I shouldn’t smoke. It knows all the harms of tobacco. And it knows I don’t even want to. I watched my hands reach for the rolling papers. I yelled at them to stop. Do you think they listened? They lined and they packed, and they rolled and they sealed, paying no mind to my instructions to the contrary. “I swear, you light that thing and I’ll make you pay!” Do you think they worried? They didn’t so much as hesitate to reach for the lighter and light that disgusting thing up. I turned my head, but my hands are fast. They rammed that thing in my mouth, and lest I suffocate, I was forced to take a drag. Before I had even blown out the offensive smoke, my hands were already shoving that thing in my mouth again. Oh, how I did suffer. I waited for my hands to set the cigarette on the ashtray, then I instructed my arms to drop to my sides. I stood from the sofa, and ran to the wall, turning at the last second so that my right hand would smack against it. Unfortunately, my shoulder took the brunt of the contact. My shoulder! What had my shoulder ever done to me? If my hands had mouths, surely they would have laughed. “This is not funny, and it’s not over! Far from it.” My obedient legs carried me toward the bathroom and stopped just shy of the doorway. I leaned against the wall such that my arm dangled at my side, my hand—my insubordinate hand—flush against the door jamb. “I tried the easy way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” My foot (oh, how I love my feet) kicked the door, slamming it shut on my right hand. I screamed a scream of pain, but also a scream of dominance. I would make my hands see. I would make my hands obey. With my foot holding the door closed, I leaned back crushing the hand further into subordination. “And I’ll do the same to you, left hand!” The pain was invigorating. My eyes shed tears—surely tears of joy at the victory of my rational mind over the irrational one of my hands. I returned to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. On the coffee table before me sat the half-smoked cigarette balancing on the side of the ashtray. I was surprised to see that the cigarette was still burning. Surely it couldn’t still be, yet there it was. I had to lean in to get a better look, as often the mind will play tricks. A thin stream of smoke rose to touch my nostrils. The nose doesn’t always know and is often in collusion with my lying eyes, so I leaned in even more. In doing so, I felt the heat of the ember, and my lips grazed the butt of the cigarette. --My mouth has a mind of its own.-- David Larsen I was born in New York State and our family moved to Washington State when I was 14 years old. After a couple years of college, I served two years in the Marine Corps, and then earned BA degrees in English Literature and Business Administration both from the University of Washington. I worked in the Finance Department of The Boeing Company for 28 years before leaving that job in 2004. Since then I continued to operate the winery we founded in 1989 named Soos Creek Wine Cellars. My wife, Cecile, and I have 3 sons. I also enjoy running, golf and outdoor activities. Yellow Footprints is the first story I have written. Yellow Footprints by David Larsen Part two Three weeks into our training, we marched over to the medical building for shots and a physical exam. As we passed by the women’s Marine Corps boot camp, I heard a woman DI shout, “I want to hear those cunts suck wind!” The medical building was run by Navy corpsmen and when the DIs were not watching, they would slap us around and verbally taunt us. They were taking advantage of our inability to fight back for their own amusement. By this time in our training, we had been so stripped of our self-esteem that anyone else was viewed as a superior, so we didn’t even consider retaliating. The corpsmen knew this, of course, which was reflected in their smug attitude. I was incensed that the corpsmen, who never had to endure what we were going through, could get away with treating us that way. We accepted the rough treatment by our DIs because they had earned that right by having been through boot camp, spending time in Viet Nam and going through D.I. school, which was like boot camp all over again. They were entitled. But the corpsmen had no right. I hoped to meet one of these guys off base after boot camp and remind him of this incident before getting my revenge. I started out as the second person behind the squad leader when we were in marching formation. After the first squad leader got fired, I moved up right behind the new squad leader and when he got fired, I was left standing at the front of our squad as the new leader. I was confident of my marching ability but not in the role of being responsible for 19 other guys. One of my first duties was to march my squad to the area where we would be standing guard duty that night. That went ok but I sensed my voice wasn’t loud enough for the role. And I think Sgt. Minnifield thought I needed some leadership training because the next day one of the recruits in my squad ran up to me with big, wide eyes and panted, “Sgt. Minnifield wants to see you!” “Why, what happened?” I asked. “I don’t know, when I knocked on Sgt. Minnifield’s door and asked to make a head call, he said ‘Tell your squad leader I want to see him.’ ” So I ran to Sgt. Minnifield’s Quonset hut, knocked three times and barked, “Sir, Pvt. Larsen reporting as ordered, sir!” Sgt. Minnifield ordered me to come in then calmly walked up and grabbed me by the throat with one of his huge hands, cutting off both my air and blood supply. He held me firmly in place as he slapped me across the face several times and ordered me to teach my squad how to properly address a DI. His hand felt like it had the weight of a car door. When he was finished, I gasped, “Sir, yes sir!” and ran back to my squad. I felt more like a leader after the choking and instructed my squad in my strongest voice on the right way to address a DI. Two weeks later, I was replaced as squad leader by Pvt. Schulz. I wasn’t aware of anything I had done wrong, but I suspect I just wasn’t enough of a badass. I wasn’t hard enough on the guys in my platoon. The shit I took from Sgt Minnified wasn’t rolling downhill to them. I thought Pvt Schulz was better suited to the job anyway and I didn’t see much of a future in it. He seemed to relish the role and even slapped me across the face the next day for cleaning my rifle improperly. In a sense I had failed. But I was ok with that. The recruiter had told me that I would probably get an office job because of my education and typing skills. So I didn’t want to shine too brightly in boot camp and increase my chances of being assigned to the infantry, of becoming a grunt. They were the guys getting killed. I knew I was rolling the dice when I enlisted, but I didn’t want them to come up snake eyes. Half way through our training, it was beginning to feel like we were always in a survival mode, like we were constantly treading water in the middle of an ocean. And yet with so many ordeals to be endured, it seemed like we were always waiting for whatever it was we were doing to be over. Being so aware of time caused it to pass excruciatingly slowly. One day was a long time, a week became a month and a month seemed like forever. Halfway through our training it seemed like we had always been there and always would be. I briefly escaped to the outside world whenever we ran the obstacle course. We had a perfect view of the 737s taking off from the airport. While waiting my turn, I could see them lift-off from the runway and then sharply increase their angle of ascent as they flew off to another land. I don’t know if I’ve ever been homesick but I’ve had few experiences as powerful as the yearning I felt to be on one of those jets. I felt terrible when I saw that Sgt Parrish was on duty again. I knew the pattern by now, that no matter how hard we tried, he would find fault and we would pay the price. So, I was not surprised when, after making too many mistakes during our manual arms drill, Sgt. Parrish ordered us to stop and shouted “Face half-right!” He told us to wrap our hands around the barrel of our M-14 rifles and assume the push up position. We were in the up position, with our knuckles contacting the asphalt and the heel of our hands pressing the rifle against our fingers. Our fingers were sandwiched between the asphalt and the rifle. It felt like we would break all the bones in our fingers as the asphalt dug deeper into our knuckles. We stayed in this position doing pushups and receiving motivational kicks in the ribs long past when we were quivering from exhaustion. During the rare quiet times, like after hitting the rack but before falling asleep or on Sunday afternoon when we polished our boots and cleaned our rifles, I learned more about the others in our platoon. We were a very diverse group and many had belonged to street gangs, been kicked out of school or were petty criminals in their prior life. One former gang member casually mentioned how they did away with one of their rivals by pushing him off a roof. So it was amazing how quickly everybody gave up their old ways when we were all ordered to stand on the yellow footprints our first day. Violence was the great persuader; the universal language understood by everything that breathes. A couple guys could barely read or write and we had two college graduates. One was Pvt Johnson. He was our Guide, one notch above the squad leaders. He was smart enough to always avoid the costly mental mistakes. Physically, he was only average. But that made him more impressive as a leader because, even though the PT was no easier for him, he accepted everything in stride and refused to show any discomfort from the physical strain. With his positive attitude, he was perfect for the job and I really admired the guy. Another guy who inspired me, but in a different way, was Pvt Trickey. He was totally average in every way except nothing ever seemed to faze him. So I would get strength from him during the bad times by simply glancing his way. No matter what was happening, his body language was always saying “You can’t break me. I can handle this”. There was only one recruit I had never seen get roughed up by the DIs – Pvt. Terrell. He was not an original cast member of the yellow footprints but joined our platoon after the first two weeks. He sure didn’t come from the Fat Farm because he looked like a NFL linebacker; all muscles, about 6’2” and 240 lbs. His scowl never seemed to leave his face, so it was hard to tell if it was an expression or just the natural shape of his features. His behavior appeared to always be more of a reaction to what was going on around him than something he thought out. When one of the DIs once asked if anybody ever beat off at night, Pvt. Terrell raised his hand without a trace of embarrassment. I accidentally tripped him from behind one day while we were running in the flip flops we wore to take our evening shower. He pitched forward to the ground but bounced back up like a hard rubber ball and was facing me by the time he was erect. I could see the bad intentions in his eyes and knew his reaction would be to either pull my head off or punch holes in me, so I instinctively started talking as fast as I could to distract him long enough for the platoon to sweep us forward. As I kept apologizing and asking if he was ok, he realized it was more important to get showered and back to our Quonset huts in time for the hygiene inspection than to spend more time dealing with me. Because of Pvt. Terrell’s shortcomings, I knew he wasn’t capable of escaping the wrath of the DIs unless they were cutting him some slack. So he must have been an exception – someone the DIs thought would make a hell of a Marine as long as they kept their distance. It was also during the quiet times that I would hear the stories of why the others had joined the Marine Corps. For a few, it was an alternative sentence offered by the judge: go to jail or go into the Marine Corps. For others, it was a reaction to something gone wrong in their lives, like breaking up with their girlfriends. But for almost everybody, boot camp was not what they expected and most said they would not have joined if they had known what they were getting into. Then I realized why we couldn’t anticipate what we had signed up for. Feeling imprisoned like we were was totally alien to anything we had experienced in civilian life and the only way to understand this life was to live it. By week six, it felt like we never got enough sleep. Whenever there was a quiet moment, I would crave it. The thought of being able to sleep late into the morning was my idea of heaven. I tried closing my eyes once when Sgt. Minnifield turned around to write on the blackboard and then open them when he faced us again. It didn’t work. A few of us got caught dozing in that class and were told to report to him when we got back to our area. We took our punishment and then all gathered inside a Quonset hut for another lecture after noon chow. I was sitting at the opposite end of the building from Sgt Minnifield and immediately began to get drowsy again. To stay awake, I reminded myself that I‘d be killed if caught sleeping twice in the same day. But I still could not keep my eyes open. Then I heard Sgt. Minnifield shout, “Stand up maggot!” I opened my eyes and saw him looking toward me. I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. I knew that standing up would be the beginning of the end. When he repeated the order, Pvt. Sutton sitting next to me stood up before I could react. My mind was racing; had Pvt. Sutton been sleeping too and got caught or was Sgt. Minnifield pointing at me? I stayed put and Sgt. Minnifield barked, “Report to me after class!” Private Sutton said, “Sir, yes sir.” and sat back down. When Sgt. Minnifield returned to his lecture, my heart and breathing finally started up again. I felt like we were getting down to some serious work when we began hand-to-hand combat training. We paired off with a partner to practice blows and moves taught by special instructors. Fighting with bare hands or a rifle and bayonet reminded me of medieval warfare. I dreaded having to use these skills in Viet Nam, but if not there maybe they would come in handy someday in a dark alley. I tried to execute the blows and moves without seriously injuring my partner, who would get his chance at me when the roles were reversed. So defeating our partner probably deluded us into feeling more capable than we really were. The biggest difference between what we were learning and street fighting was the emphasis on dirty fighting. We learned several ways to attack the groin. Why not? I doubted there would be a referee in the battlefield to take points away for low blows. My favorite move was the choke hold because there is no escaping it; the victim goes to sleep temporarily within seconds and permanently within a minute. After learning the kicking, punching and choking moves, we used pugil sticks with heavy pads on each end to simulate fighting with a rifle and bayonet. We finished this training with a tournament to determine our company pugil stick champion. The winner was about my height and build. I decided to use that fact as inspiration, even though I was eliminated in the first round. A couple of Privates near the back of the platoon were caught scuffling one day while we were marching back from chow. Sgt Parrish saw them and when we got back to our area, he had them fight inside a circle we formed around them. The rules were no punching to the face and continue fighting until Sgt Parrish said to stop. After several minutes of thrashing around in the dirt, one Private began to lose and was taking quite a pummeling before it was stopped. I thought the first fight was a fair way to resolve the scuffle. But Sgt Parrish then asked for a volunteer to fight the winner. Several Privates were eager to be the next gladiator but the original winner prevailed again; barely this time. Smelling blood, several more Privates volunteered for the third round. I didn’t like the vicious look of eager anticipation in their eyes. The next round would not be a fair fight. This time the previous winner was so tired that he could barely defend himself and got thrashed unmercifully before Sgt. Parrish called it off. I wasn’t sure if the spectacle was for Sgt. Parish’s entertainment or to teach us a lesson, but there was never any more scuffling. I now realized that none of what we were going through was causing us any permanent harm. We always recovered quickly and I was actually in the best shape of my life. So the fear of getting knocked around and pain of the PT was losing some of its power over us as we toughened up. We finally all became good at marching. In a competition with the other platoons, we placed second and our DIs seemed genuinely pleased for once. One time, while we were marching the length of the parade deck, we managed to synchronize our tempo so well that it sounded like only two giant feet hitting the ground. After a successful running of the obstacle course, we were standing in formation ready to march off to our next activity when Sgt. Minnifield asked us if we would like to call home. We all replied with a hearty, “Sir, yes Sir!” Sgt. Minnifield said he couldn’t hear us so we revved up our enthusiasm and volume and again shouted “Sir, yes sir!” “I still can’t hear you!” “Sir, yes sir!” we blared at a full volume. After whipping us into a frenzy, Sgt. Minnifield said “Ok, you can call home……now face home.” We all turned to face in different directions and began calling “Home… Hoome… Hooomme.” Instead of performing as one, we were like a bunch of seals all barking at different times. Soon the calls were mixed with laughter, the first humor we had experienced since beginning boot camp. The tension released by this comic relief catapulted our spirits but then we had to quickly march off to our next activity. The next day, we really did get to call home. Coincidently, the night before I had dreamed that one of my brothers had joined the Marine Corps and would be going through boot camp. I felt terrible for him and thought that one Marine in our family was enough. So when my brother answered the phone, I told him about my dream and tried to discourage him from joining without going into too many details. My brother said that he had just talked to our aunt, who told him she was going to send me cookies. I almost panicked knowing I’d have to eat them all at once, right after chow and covered with hot sauce. I asked him if he knew whether she had already sent them. He said he didn’t know, so I told him to call her immediately and tell her not to. Mail call for the next couple of weeks was an anxious time but they never arrived. For the last couple weeks, we were bussed north to the rifle range at Camp Pendleton for our rifle training. Before firing our M-14’s, we went through a process called “snapping in”. This required learning the four different positions for shooting: standing, kneeling, sitting, and prone without actually firing the rifle. Prone was the tough one because of the position required for our left arm. We had to stretch the muscles in the left arm to attain the proper form. There was no time for slow stretching though - the DIs would speed up the process by pushing our elbow underneath the rifle then pushing down from above to bend the left arm into position. It was so painful I was sure some arms would break, but that never happened. During practice, I became very accurate shooting from each position and because of my competitive nature, tried to score as high as possible during the qualifying round. I lost focus briefly though while shooting from the kneeling position and missed qualifying for the highest level of Expert by two points. At first I was disappointed but later was glad to only be a Sharpshooter because Experts had a greater chance of becoming snipers or going into the infantry. During our last week Sgt. Minnifield had some final words of advice about life after boot camp. “Half of you will be dead a year from now, so learn everything you can during your four weeks of infantry training.” My first reaction was to do some quick math to test his claim. I knew that about 200 Americans were dying every week in Viet Nam and most were Marines. So based on the number of recruits who were entering boot camp every week, he could be right. The possibility that he may have been exaggerating didn’t change the impact of what he said though. His statement suddenly made me realize that the odds of getting killed were probably much higher than I thought. It was a big-time wake up call. Until then, I had been so confident of getting an office job that I had volunteered for the Marine Corps rather than be drafted into the Army. But maybe the recruiter was blowing smoke up my ass and maybe I had flunked the typing test we took our first week in boot camp? I imagined myself in Viet Nam and in ending up in one of the “Time” magazine pictures of that week’s body count. There was no turning back though; so I refused to think about it anymore and simply pushed those thoughts out of my mind. A couple days later, we learned our Military Occupational Specialty and where we would be stationed after boot camp and four weeks of infantry training. Names were called one by one to announce our fate. Most were going into the infantry and then to Viet Nam. I later realized that my entire future would largely be decided that day. But the innocence that allowed me to voluntarily enlist in the Marine Corps now helped in keeping me from fully appreciating the magnitude of that moment. My MOS was 0141, Personnel Administration Clerk. The recruiter was right about my education and typing skills keeping me out of the infantry. But I also got lucky; after infantry training and two weeks in the classroom, I would join an artillery battalion and be stationed at Camp Pendleton, Ca. for the remainder of my enlistment. Hearing that gave me a serene feeling of relief that would kick-in again whenever I recalled that moment. Infantry training was at Camp Pendleton, not far from the rifle range. It was mostly learning how to shoot all the other weapons. One of our troop leaders was Sgt. Kenoyer, a real free spirit. He looked like he had been an All American boy in his prior life – blond, athletic, brash, possibly the quarterback of his high school football team. He would seek out the fastest Marine from every platoon and challenge them to a foot race that he always won. Our company of 320 new Marines would occasionally be assembled as one unit, seemingly at the whim of the troop leaders. At one of those formations, Sgt Kenoyer asked for the Four Tops to come up and sing him happy birthday. Nobody moved. So he shouted “I better see the Four Fucking Tops up here next to me in 30 seconds or they’ll be hell to pay!” So four black guys, who obviously didn’t know each other because they came from different platoons, wandered up one at a time and gathered next to Sgt Kenoyer. They took just a moment to discuss their performance and then sang a soulful rendition that sounded like they had been singing together for years. It seemed our camp was Sgt Kenoyer’s playground, his own reward for the time he had spent in Viet Nam. He told us that when he was on leave after returning from Viet Nam, he and a friend corralled two civilians in an alley of his home town. They made them do pushups and squat thrusts in their business suits. I laughed at the image of that and understood completely. He was entitled to that much harmless fun.
THE END Epilogue Writing my first story was a difficult but rewarding process. When I began, all I knew was that I felt compelled to write it. I had talked about boot camp a great deal over the years but it was only through the writing that I could relive the entire experience in sufficient detail to flush out and deal with the lingering issue of the violence. Although it was a very long time ago, boot camp was such an intense experience that the memories came back to me in vivid detail. My first goal for the story was simply to tell what happened, to satisfy my desire to “get it out”, and to make it as real as possible for the reader. About half way through the writing though I heard a radio program about a youth counselor who believed gang violence was perpetuated because people who are treated violently then feel entitled to treat others the same way. I thought “Yes, that’s exactly what I experienced in boot camp.” and decided to make his theory a theme of my story. There was a definite feeling that the rough treatment we endured in boot camp then gave us the right to act the same way. It was like having a license to carry on the violence. That license coupled with knowing how effective force can be made it an easy option for resolving conflict throughout my two year enlistment. A certain amount of that aggressive behavior was commonplace in the Marine Corps, but it carried over into my civilian life where it is less socially acceptable or even illegal. Fortunately, the times I have used aggressive tactics in civilian life have all ended well. That tended to reinforce that behavior but I’ve always worried about a situation arising that would spin out of control and lead to a bad outcome. This created a tension between trying to live by the civilian rules and continuing to handle conflict the Marine Corps way. Writing this story has helped me to confront this dilemma of which rules to live by. I decided there are no absolute rules of right and wrong for moral behavior. The rules are whatever work best in a particular culture. The Marine Corps rules are what work best for it to function well, but they don’t apply in the civilian world and vice versa. It was time to let go of that sense of entitlement and live exclusively by civilian rules. But, if violence is learned it is hard to unlearn. Trying to do a small part toward living in a more civilized world has helped me to change. And with that has come a sense of relief and peace. Fabiyas M V is a writer from Orumanayur village in Kerala, India. He is the author of Moonlight and Solitude. His fiction and poems have appeared in Westerly, Forward Poetry, Literary The Hatchet, Rathalla Review, Off the Coast, Structo, and in several anthologies. He won many international accolades including the Poetry Soup International Award, USA, the RSPCA Pet Poetry Prize, UK, and Merseyside at War Poetry Award from Liverpool John Moores University, UK. His poems have been broadcast on the All India Radio. Bharatanatyam Dancer by Fabiyas M V Kanisha’s head, fingers and remaining toes move instinctively and rhythmically while watching the bharatanatyam, a classical Indian dance, performed by her friend Nayana in the school auditorium. There are ten contestants in the bharartanatyam dance category. The noisy students have conquered all the benches and chairs in front of the stage. Kanisha sits in the last row, her crutches and frustration resting nearby. The seed of dance sprouted in Kanisha’s soul : she couldn’t oppress her obsession to learn the bharatanatyam. “My classmate Nayana’s joined a dance class. Ma, I also want to learn the bharatanatyam.” She opened her heart in front of her mother, who was sitting like a crow-pheasant in a broken cane chair. “We can’t even think of that, my dear. It’s very expensive.” “Ma... Ma, please….please.” She insisted. Paru was chewing a betel leaf along with tiny pieces of areca nut. Like the other parents in her village, Paru also wished to bring her child into the limelight. But can a squirrel open its mouth the same way an elephant can? Paru dipped in the canal and picked up the black oysters from the muddy bottom. She brought the oysters home in a bamboo basket, and scooped the flesh. The rustics would buy the oyster flesh from her. Sometimes, she earned her livelihood by catching tiny prawns with a small, sieve-like-net. She would dry the prawns in the parching sunlight, then walk door –to- door, selling them. Paru never liked her daughter falling into slough. She decided to find an additional income to pay the dance fee, no matter how inconvenient. She took her daughter to Sarigama Dance School. Roshini, the dance teacher, got up from her fiber chair, and showed Kanisha a ‘mudra’, signing with her fingers, then asked Kanisha to repeat the steps. She did it amazingly well. Next, the teacher displayed a charming facial expression, which Kanisha also imitated. “There’s a spark in your daughter. It’s really marvelous!” The teacher took an interest in her new pupil. Before leaving, Paru did not forget to draw a verbal portrait of her penury before the dance teacher to note. Kanisha went zealously to Sarigama Dance School in Chava City. Her Classmate, Nayana , was a dance student there, as well. The school was adjacent to Roshni’s house. “It’s a serious dance form. We take an event from Mahabharata, our epic,” Roshini told her, explaining the utter importance of the dance. “We present it through our facial expressions, graceful style, gross bodily movements, acting, devotion…” And Kanisha was all ears. Kanisha manipulated her body gracefully, completely in tune with the music of the dance. Pang and pleasure appeared on her face in turn. “Ma, please come. Watch me dancing.” Kanisha invited her mother on a Sunday night. She had completed one-year of training under Roshini. “No. Not now. I’m very busy. I’ve so much work to do in the kitchen.” “You can do that later, Ma.” Paru couldn’t resist her daughter’s tenacity. A lone bulb, hanging on a bamboo pole buttressing the roof, shed dim light. Moths swarmed the bulb – there was a drizzle outside, forcing them in. Paru watched her daughter transforming into a wonderful dancer; rapture filled in her heart. “Excellent!” She clapped and embraced her daughter. “Ma, I’m sure I’ll win first place in the next school youth festival.” Unbound joy echoed within the walls of their home; it was a small hut, built with the financial assistance from the Panchayat. “You’re now fit for the debut,” Roshini told her. Kanisha’s face lit up with pride and pleasure at hearing her teacher’s words. She carried that message of pride and pleasure to her mother. “Ma…fix… the day for my debut…” She was panting. They went to Roshni’s house. In a pious setting, as per the codes of custom, Kanisha presented Roshini with Guru Dhakshina, a violet silk sari adorned with white blooms and a cash gift of five thousand rupees. She touched the feet of her “guru”. The teacher was grateful and blessed her pupil, placing her palms upon her head. They reached a decision about the day for the debut : it would be on the day of their temple festival, next Saturday. Nayana’s debut would be on the same day ,the teacher mentioned. When she returned home from her school in the afternoon, Kanisha found her mother putting the dance costumes, coloring powder, anklets, and so forth, into the bag, which they’d received as a gift from Sanora Silks, a readymade shop at Chava. “Come on, dear. I’m packing for tomorrow. See if anything’s missing.” “Okay, Ma. Tomorrow’s the day. I can’t even imagine it.” There was an amalgam of joy and tension on her mother’s countenance. Paru had borrowed a lot of money from her rich neighbors to buy the expensive costume of the bharartanatyam. She didn’t know how to repay it. Her neighbor’s auto rickshaw, which Paru had already arranged, came by at seven p.m. Kanisha stood before her father’s photograph hanging on a nail in the wall : she bowed her head, brought her palms together, and silently sought his blessings. Her coolie father died of a viper bite a decade ago, when she was just four years old. They set off at 7:10 p.m. A big lamp opened its eye beside the banyan tree in the temple yard. There was an open stage under the tree. Eight p.m. At first, it was Nayana’s debut. Her schoolmate danced in the limelight on the stage. But the bharatanatyam lovers were not contended with Nayana’s performance. Eight thirty. Kanish walked to the stage like a peacock, feeling the weight of many eyes fallen upon her body. She stood like a bloomed blossom on the stage. A song describing an event in Mahabharata flowed through the mike. She drew a beautiful saga in the air with her fingers. Her entire body moved in perfect rhythm. Diverse patterns of emotions flashed on her face. The spectators tapped their fingers rhythmically on their thighs and nodded their heads in unison with the dance and the music. She really dazzled the spectators with her top-notch performance. “Fantastic!” Her mother whispered: everybody whispered. Her performance was far better than that of her friend Nayana. Even Nayana may have known this. Nine thirty
They started their journey home by the same auto rickshaw. Paru was very proud of her daughter. Pride, transiently, let her forget her penury. There were ripples of pleasure in Kanisha’s mind. The auto rickshaw moved like a tortoise. Quite unexpectedly, a stray dog, a white one with black spots all over its body, attempted to cross the road. The driver essayed to stop the vehicle immediately to save the dog : alas! a jeep, running just behind, crashed into the back of the auto rickshaw with a thunderous sound. People approached from the darkness and gathered around the rickshaw, which rested upside down on the roadside. Three of them were taken to the hospital. “The girl’s condition’s worst,” a street vendor observed. Paru’s and the driver’s wounds were not deep. But Kanisha had to spend nearly a month in the ICU of the Alpha Hospital. The jeep struck the side where she was sitting - her right leg was trapped under the wheel. The doctor was forced to remove her damaged right leg – and her dreams along with it. Now the waves of an announcement echo in the school auditorium. “Dear teachers and students, here’s the result of the bharatanatyam contest, HS section. First place goes to Nayana…” Nayana in her dance dress, walks to the stage like a princess to receive the certificate; her pride flashes in and out; the cameras gobble her glittering body; a precious moment of luck borne out of a tragic fate. Innocent Kanisha stands up on her crutches to honor the winner and hides her broken heart beneath a charming smile. MIKE JOHNSON - I started writing late in life. Age sixty four to be exact so I suppose that comes under the category: it’s never too late to learn! I’m English from the county of Yorkshire but moved to Spain in the year 2000. My writing career began after meeting other published author’s here on the Costa del Sol. My first novel; Dragon - written in long hand at first would you believe – was edited by my wife who I found was more than capable – and far less expensive – than the Publishers. The next two novels in the series; The Korean Connection and The Buddha in Ice followed soon after. It may be of interest to learn the wrap around front covers were designed by me, and illustrated by a local design company. You have no idea how cost effective that is for a first time writer self-publishing? In between these novels I began writing short stories: The Little Home on Wheels was one of them, but my readers wanted to know; what happened next? The story begins here in Spain in places I have visited and know well. THE STUDENT BY MICHAEL JOHNSON CHAPTER 1 Daniel Stretch walked smartly along the corridor of the school; it would not do to be late on his first day. The Headmaster was, apparently, a stickler for time keeping. The door marked Jonathan Church – Headmaster; was closed so he entered an office next door to announce he had arrived. A row of chairs where placed alongside a wall outside the office, he sat down to wait. The young boy at the end of the row sat and fidgeted, it was obviously not his first time in front of the Head, he thought looking at him. The boy turned seeming to sense he was being observed ‘you’re a bit old to be in trouble if you don’t mind me saying so?’ he grinned cheekily. Daniel laughed at the boy’s boldness ‘you could say that but I guess this is not your first time?’ He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t know why either ‘I was suspended for disruptive behaviour, whatever that’s supposed to mean. This is my first day back?’ ‘Don’t tell me, it was all a misunderstanding; is that about right?’ he said getting interested in what he had actually done to be suspended. The boy looked fairly intelligent and didn’t seem like the average rebel without a cause. ‘Singing!’ was the boys reply. ‘What! You were suspended for singing?’ ‘Yes can you believe it?’ Daniel looked at him a little dubious as to the explanation. There must be more to this story he decided ‘come on then, tell me the rest of it’ The boy grinned knowing he wasn’t going to fool this one ‘I had my headphones confiscated twice, but how can I practice otherwise. The final is next week and I’m nowhere near ready’ ‘Ok I’ll bite, ready for what?’ ‘The Karaoke final. The first prize is fifty quid would you believe that?’ ‘And where is this final being held?’ ‘Someplace near home’ he answered evasively. ‘If you’re going to be evasive then it’s a waste of time telling me anything’ Dam this one really can’t be fooled can he ‘It’s being held in a Conservative Club, but its ok my mum works there at night sometimes’ he said by way of an explanation. ‘Ok that doesn’t sound too bad I suppose but you still haven’t explained why you have been suspended’ The boy sat back and decided he may as well tell him the rest of it ‘well, I think I’ve got the song down to a tee as they say, but without hearing it through a microphone I’m not sure how it comes across to an audience. So one lunch time I sneak into the main Hall and use the PA system. The trouble was I didn’t realise it was being broadcast all over the school?’ Daniel couldn’t help himself he burst into fits of laughter. The laughter was infectious so the boy started laughing as well; just as the headmaster opened the door. ‘Good heavens what is going on?’ he asked angrily. Daniel jumped up quickly ‘sorry headmaster this is all my fault, this young man just told me a funny story’ he said winking at him. ‘Well Mr. Stretch not a good start but I suppose you are here only temporary while our Mrs. Bates has her maternity leave, please come on. Timothy Steele you may join your class mates’ he said dismissing him. So that was the boy’s name ‘what was the song by the way?’ he whispered before following the headmaster. ‘Yesterday’ he whispered back ‘It’s a Beatles competition’ CHAPTER 2 1815 AND ALL THAT ‘Good afternoon class my name is Daniel Stretch and before we go on, I have heard all the jokes about my name ten times over. I will be taking over from Mrs. Bates while she is on maternity leave. I have looked at her notes regarding your progress so far but I would prefer to start something new while I’m here’ he announced, hoping the headmaster was not going to hear of it too quickly. That got the students interest, Mrs. Bates was a traditionalist in terms of her teaching methods. ‘First of all who can play an instrument of any kind?’ A few tentative hands went up. ‘Ok, I will talk to you individually over the next few classes, don’t worry I won’t be asking you to perform in front of the class. Now, who likes to sing?’ he asked purposely ignoring the hand of Timothy Steele. ‘Come on now surely someone would like to perform on stage in front of the ex-factor judges?’ he asked again ignoring the hand that was practically grabbing him. Eventually he pretended to notice the young man who was now blushing a deep red knowing he had been had. ‘Hah, Tommy Steele isn’t it?’ he asked desperately trying not to laugh. The rest of the class had just got the joke and started to snigger at the boy’s embarrassment. ‘Sorry Timothy Steele I should have said’ he grinned. He let the class have their fun for a while, it was important they should connect with him, music was a very personal and individual thing and needed careful grooming. Daniel knew the school curriculum regarding music. It was just seen as another examination to be passed, if anyone showed musical ability along the way so be it. One option had been dismissed by the last teacher, which in his mind was a sacrilege, one that he was about to put right. ‘Please settle down class thank you’ he asked raising his hand ‘now; if I said 1815 what would that mean to anyone?’ ‘It’s late and we should have gone home ages ago!’ one boy quipped starting the laughter all over again. He let it continue for a while ‘that joke is nearly as old as the date’ he smiled ‘so anyone else?’ He waited ‘what if I gave you a few more clues; guillotine -Paris - opera’ A boy put his hand up ‘Isn’t that the French Revolution sir?’ he asked all eagerness. ‘Well done it is indeed the French Revolution but what is it in terms of music? Daniel looked at Timothy who he was sure wanted to answer the question. I hope I haven’t embarrassed him too much and have stopped him coming forward. ‘Timothy have you any ideas?’ he asked. The boy realised his teacher was trying to undo his embarrassment so he answered ‘1812 is at the end of the French revolution, which is where Les Miserables the musical is based upon’ The whole class looked at him astounded by his knowledge. ‘Go on’ his teacher asked. ‘There’s lots of songs but I don’t know what they are talking about?’ ‘I see, the songs are more like talking I suppose in many ways, not very lyrical I do accept’ ‘No sir I mean the words were in a different language – French. My mum got screwed by the lucky-lucky man on holiday last year’ The whole class was in uproar, even Daniel couldn’t help laughing at that one. Daniel didn’t mind, he was loving the attention ‘Do you hear the people sing singing the song of angry men this is the music of the people who will not be slaves again…….’ He suddenly began singing in French. Daniel continued singing completely unaware the whole class was listening to him. ‘My god the boy is almost pitch perfect’ Daniel gaped ‘and in French too?’ Eventually he realised he was on his own and stopped suddenly, the whole class began to applaud him, which completely dispelled any embarrassment. The class continue with almost all the students getting interested in the story of the French Revolution and Les Miserables. As the students left he called back Timothy ‘that was an impressive performance young man but I’m curious. Where did you learn to speak French surely not from the tape your mum bought?’ ‘Yes sir I loved it, but please don’t tell my mates that they think it’s a bit sissy’ ‘I understand but tell me would you like to speak French properly?’ ‘I wouldn’t mind but none of the teachers here teach it?’ ‘Well, as a matter of fact I do, so if you want to stay after class two or three times a week I would teach you’ The boy considered that for a moment, staying after school usually meant detention ‘ok but I need to ask mum if it’s ok to be late home’ As it turned out the lessons ended up being three times a week with the proviso the teacher would make sure her son got home safely. At nearly sixteen that didn’t go down too well with Timothy. The headmaster agreed in principle but suggested he was wasting his time ‘the boys disruptive that’s all there is too it but go ahead’ he had said. After 4 weeks of tuition his student had learned all the basic vowels and was putting phrases together. There was much reference to Les Miserables and what was being spoken. Then after 8 weeks something seemed to click inside Timothy’s head, from then on he began thinking and talking in French with ease. One evening Timothy was singing A Little Fall of Rain from the opera. Two female teachers passing by the room stopped and listened to the song, it was enchanting so they went in to the classroom just at the song finished ‘wasn’t that Michael Ball on your music just then, I love his singing’ one of them asked. Teacher and student just grinned ‘actually that was Timothy you were listening to, but Michael Ball thanks you anyway’ ‘Oh come on now Mr. Stretch we are too old to fall for that one’ she said shaking the head and tutting. ‘Why don’t you two ladies take a seat, and we’ll see if we can change your minds’ ‘Timothy, how about empty chairs and empty tables seeing as our guests like Mr. Ball so much?’ Timothy nodded and began, for some reason having an audience was going to make it much more fun. Half way through the song the two women were trying not to show the emotion they were feeling as they became enthralled in the performance. On the last note they both stood up and applauded ‘we apologise young man for doubting you that was incredible’ The next day the talk was all about the young man who had learned French and was speaking like a native and a voice to die for, as the two ladies put it. Daniel was more than pleased with his efforts but where to now. The boy had serious talent there was no doubt about that. The answer came unexpectedly. The headmaster welcomed him into his office ‘Daniel come in, sit down, would you like a drink or something?’ he asked all smiles and bonhomie. ‘A little different from the last time I was here he thought ‘I’m fine headmaster what can I do for you?’ ‘Well we have a little problem and I was hoping you could step into the breach as they say. I understand you speak fluent French, of course you do?’ he said dismissing his own question ‘do you know about the school trip next week?’ he suddenly asked. ‘Err, not really headmaster it seems to be a taboo subject in the staff room’ ‘Yes, yes I realize that, a few of the staff got a bit miffed at not being included but there were only a certain number of places’ ‘Maybe you should ask your question headmaster?’ he said suddenly getting an idea as to what he was going to ask him. ‘Twelve students from the upper school and twelve from our school have been chosen to visit Paris on an exchange visit. Mr. and Mrs. Tilly from the upper school where ideal candidates to organize the trip as they both speak French. Their daughters where due to go with them by the way’ ‘Were due to go with them?’ he asked. ‘Well one is still going but the other is in no state at the moment she has taken it all very badly’ Daniel waited for the story to unfold. ‘Mr. Tilly was discovered with a senior student in a compromising situation, all very seedy I must say but hormones and all that?’ he shrugged. ‘What Mr. Tilly’s?’ he asked trying not to smirk. ‘Tut!’ ‘Tut’ ‘Mr. Stretch this is no laughing matter’ ‘Sorry headmaster but it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time this has happened will it?’ ‘Well I’m afraid Mrs Tilly has thrown the man out of the house as is threatening divorce proceedings. The Paris trip is obviously a no-no’ ‘Are you asking me to take over?’ ‘Well that would be the ideal solution you speaking French and single’ Daniel considered the request or a moment ‘I agree on one condition’ ‘That’s wonderful anything you want please ask’ ‘Timothy Steele must accompany me’ The headmaster was about to argue but realised the request was genuine and he had to admit the young man had seemed to change for the better recently ‘very well I agree’ Timothy came to his lesson as usual. ‘Don’t sit down we need to go and see your mum, will she be at home now’ he told him. ‘Yes sir she is’nt working this evening, have I done something wrong?’ he asked concerned. ‘On the contrary, but let’s see your mum first ok?’ Mrs. Steele turned out to be a very charming and attractive women Daniel decided as they sat down across a table. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last Mr. Stretch, Daniel never stops talking about you’ ‘Thank you Mrs. Steele but please call me Daniel’ ‘In that case my name is Sarah’ Nice name as well he thought deciding she really was an attractive women ‘do you know what I have been teaching your son over the past few weeks Sarah?’ he asked. ‘I believe it’s been French and you have done a magnificent job Daniel’ she answered in French. ‘You speak French?’ he asked astounded ‘dam that sounded wrong I apologise’ ‘No it is I who should apologise to my son for not teaching him my second language sooner. You see his father came from Leon but left us soon after my son was born. His family didn’t approve of our marrying. It’s only recently that I’ve realised he should have known who his father was and where he came from. Not speaking French was my way of blocking the memory of what could have been’ she told him ‘When I learned what you were doing I became most ashamed’. Timothy felt no anger towards his mother, his love was unconditional in that direction ‘it doesn’t matter mum honest, it’s in the past’ She looked at her son and suddenly saw a young man on the verge of manhood. It was all too much ‘please excuse me!’ she said rushing into the kitchen. Daniel stopped her son from going after her ‘she’ll be fine Timothy trust me’ Sarah returned carrying drinks and biscuits ‘all very English’ she smiled now fully in control again ‘so what is it you wish to ask me Daniel?’ He was tempted to ask for a date but restrained himself ‘I’ve just been asked to take over an exchange trip to Paris and want Timothy to join us’ Timothy almost jumped out of his seat ‘Paris do you mean it, Mum, Paris can I go?’ he asked suddenly realising his life now depended on his mum. ‘I assume he has a passport?’ ‘Yes Daniel he has and of course he can go but what will it cost?’ she asked concerned it may be too expensive for her, being a single mother. ‘Actually nothing, all he will need is some spending money and he’s good to go’ ‘Yahoo!’ came the response from the table ‘wait till Aunt Hilly hears about this. Can I go and tell her?’ ‘Yes go. Let me and Daniel work out the details’ she said as he shot out of the door. ‘I assume Aunt Hilly is close by?’ ‘My sister lives just down the street, I don’t know what I would do without her’ Daniel was desperate to ask why such an attractive and intelligent women was still single but decided that was for another time ‘Timothy told me about the disc you bought from the Lucky-lucky man on holiday. He thought you had been conned, now I see it was intentional’ ‘In the back of my mind I guess I wanted him to listen to the music and the language. I used to speak French to him when he was young and sing lullabies to get him to sleep. It was only later on when he was growing up I stopped, it seems some of it stayed there?’ ‘Now I know how he picked up the language so quickly, his accent is very Parisian you know that?’ ‘Yes I listened to him practising. You know he never once asked for my help’ ‘Maybe he knew it would make you sad?’ Sarah considered that for a moment ‘he is a very sensitive young man now isn’t he?’ ‘And a very talented one, his pitch is perfect when he sings. We must encourage him to continue maybe even attend a music academy?’ ‘That would be nice but I’m a single mum and only a secretary, even working the odd evenings it’s hard sometimes’ ‘I understand but keep it in mind at least. Well I should be off!’ ‘Thank you for all the tuition Daniel you are a wonderful teacher’ she told him. ‘Don’t mention it and thanks for the tea, maybe we can do this again sometime. Err I mean to iron out the details of the trip and all that’ he said just realising what he was asking. Sarah knew exactly what he was asking ‘maybe next week before you disappear to Paris and all that romance over there’ she said teasing him. ‘Oh no not me, too much responsibility looking after the children’ he said realizing he was stammering a little. ‘Very well I suppose you had better leave the romance until you return then?’ Daniel was unsure how to respond so decided to just say goodbye, when he was outside and in his car he realized his heart was beating like a racing car engine. CHAPTER 3 PARIS Timothy was grateful he was sat next to at least one friend on the Air France jet to Paris. He had tried to be polite and friendly to the others from his school but they looked on him as an interloper, only there because he was friendly with the music teacher. ‘Teacher’s pet’ was uttered more than once. The students from the upper school were only slightly older but could have come from a different planet. They all had that superior ‘we are older than you’ attitude and refused to integrate. His friend Mikey whispered beside him ‘that’s the daughter of the two teachers who were supposed to be organising the trip. Got caught with his pants down’ he snickered pointing to a girl sat in the opposite seat. ‘What’s her name?’ ‘Catherine I think they said why?’ ‘She looks a little sad to me?’ ‘Wouldn’t you be, knowing the whole school knows what her dad was up to?’ ‘Still it’s not her fault’ he said looking across at her. He decided it was time to make friends ‘hello’ he said leaning over ‘my name is Timothy but my friends call me Timmy’ ‘And why is that of interest to me?’ she asked looking up from the book she was reading. ‘Well we are all going to Paris together and I thought it would be nice to get to know one another. By the way I’m sorry about your parents it must be a bummer at school’ Catherine slammed her book closed and was just about to lambast the stupid person across the aisle when something stopped her. She realized it was not meant as slight, but was genuinely meant ‘thanks’ she said then returned to her book. Half way into the flight the cabin crew made sure their young passenger was all well ‘Hello Mademoiselle are you looking forward to your trip to Paris?’ she asked Catherine. Her passenger seemed to be keeping herself to herself and ignoring the people around her, most unusual in one so young she thought. ‘Thank you I’m fine, and I have been to Paris before thank you very much’ she replied in fluent French. ‘Hah, you speak French very well. You will have a good time I am sure, especially with such handsome young men as these around’ she said nodding in their direction. ‘I doubt they would know how to treat any female properly, unlike men in your country’ she sniffed. ‘I see, a woman of experience but I think this one would be worth a little help in that direction don’t you think?’ Catherine glanced across at Timmy who seemed to be ignoring the conversation, not that he would understand a word they were saying she thought ‘I very much doubt it’ she said shaking her head. The stewardess returned to her station at the front of the plane. Timmy wanted a toilet brake but as he was passing he smiled at the hostess ‘if all the women are as beautiful as you in Paris then I will look forward to increasing my experience’ he said in French then grinning at the shocked look on her face. HOTEL - NEAR PARIS The first two days of the visit was taken up visiting schools and local museums. The French students were welcoming and friendly. Timmy didn’t see Catherine again for over three days but when he did she still had that sad look about her. Her fluent French had not gone down well with her classmates who saw her as snobbish and conceited. She had therefore kept to herself. The fourth day was a rest day. The hotel sported an outdoor swimming pool and as the afternoon was hot and sticky no encouragement was needed to strip off and dive in. ‘Timothy are you enjoying yourself?’ asked Daniel. ‘You bet sir this is brilliant’ he beamed happily. ‘Well, I couldn’t say anything earlier but I have tickets for a theatre in Paris. Do you want to go and see Les Miserables being performed on stage?’ ‘Are you serious of course I do’ he laughed. ‘Then we leave at 7pm ok?’ Timmy had an idea ‘sir how many tickets do you have?’ ‘Just two but I can order more if any of the others wish to go?’ ‘Can you give me a minute’ he said slipping on his t shirt. Catherine was sat by herself seeming oblivious to the others but inside she was hurting. Her friends had deserted her and she felt alone, something she would never admit to. Timmy approached and sat down beside her. He didn’t want the rest of the students to hear what he was about to say so he spoke in French ‘Mr. Stretch has tickets to the theatre tonight to see Les Misrables and I thought you might like to join us. The play will certainly match your mood, maybe we could even borrow the guillotine to chop off some of your friend’s heads?’ At first she was shocked to hear his fluent French then his quip about her friends sank in, she burst out laughing much to the stares of those around her ‘I would love to join you, and thanks’ The play was everything Timmy imagined. Catherine caught his happy mood and started to enjoy herself as well. At the interval the three bought drinks and wandered around the room looking at the pictures and paintings on the walls of the theatre. One poster carried a picture of the actors, Timmy examined it closely ‘that’s the scene where they sing Master of the House!’ he said then couldn’t stop himself; ‘My band of soaks, my den of dissolute. My dirty jokes, my always pissed as newts. My sons of whores spend their lives in my inn. Homing pigeons homing in. They fly through my doors. And they crawl out on all fours’ Catherine was enchanted ‘more, more’ she cried in encouragement. ‘What’s all this, has one of my actors escaped the stage and is performing in private. Hah, no! It seems we have a budding thespian in our mist?’ the man cried theatrically. Timmy looked a little sheepish ‘sorry sir I just got carried away’ he said in apology. ‘Do not apologise young man that was better performed than a few so called singers I know, what is your name young sir?’ ‘Timmy, sorry Timothy Steele’ ‘My young student has a passion for the play sir, as you can tell. My name is Daniel and these young people are students on an exchange visit’ ‘If you are his teacher sir then I commend you, the young man has talent, would he be interested in an audition?’ Timmy was just about to jump in when Daniel stopped him ‘sorry that is not possible, that would be up to his parent to decide but thank you’ ‘A pity but here is my card, you are English?’ ‘Yes sir’ ‘Then here is another card do you have a pen?’ he asked. Daniel passed one over and he scribbled on the back of the card ‘if you give this to the person named on the card I will guarantee he will agree to an audience, enjoy the rest of the play’ he said bowing and walking away. Daniel read the name on the first card ‘wow, that was the Director of the theatre would you believe?’ It was getting late by the time they returned to the hotel. Daniel bid them goodnight and went to bed. Timmy escorted Catherine to her room and said goodnight. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she asked as he turned to go. ‘Sorry what’s that?’ Catherine walked forward and kissed him on the mouth ‘goodnight!’ she said closing the door. It was a good 5 minutes before Timmy remembered how to walk. CHAPTER 4 BACK HOME The rest of the Paris trip went in a blur for Timmy, before he knew it he was landing back in London. ‘How was it in Paris?’ his mother asked hugging him. ‘Pretty cool actually, we even went to the theatre to see Les Miserables. We met the Director of the theatre would you believe, he wanted me to audition’ he said proudly. ‘Really how did that happen?’ she asked wanting to know more. ‘I just started singing and he came over, Catherine was well impressed’ ‘Catherine?’ ‘Oh, she went as well didn’t I say that’ he said blushing slightly. ‘I see. Nice girl is she?’ she asked innocently. ‘She’s ok, her friends were really bitchy to her though’ he said. ‘And you stepped in and befriended her. That was nice, will you be seeing her again?’ ‘Probably not, she’s in the upper school. Her parents were the two teachers who were supposed to be going to Paris’. ‘I see, that must have been awkward for her’ ‘I guess it was a bit, she speaks good French by the way. Well I’m off to bed good night Mum see in the morning’ he said finishing the sentence off in French. Sarah sighed ‘what is it about Paris?’ she asked herself. CHAPTER 5 After the Paris trip there were no more lessons with Timothy, Daniel having decided he wasn’t going to teach the young man anything new ‘your French is better than mine Timothy, but I would like to follow up on that offer from the director of the Theatre if your Mum agrees?’ ‘She asked me to tell you it was ok to call next week if you want?’ ‘Ask her if Monday is ok, will you?’ he told him trying not to sound too enthusiastic. For Daniel Monday seemed to take a long time to come around but when it did he was suddenly nervous ‘Oh get a grip Daniel, your imagination is in over drive’ he scolded himself. ‘Hello Daniel please come in, I have prepared a meal for the three of us. I hope you like French cooking maybe not as good as Paris though’ The meal was quite simply incredible ‘where did you learn to cook like that?’ he asked trying to finish the desert manfully ‘I should have brought a better wine to compliment all this’ ‘The Bordeaux was a good choice and not from the local supermarket I’m guessing’ she said looking at the label on the bottle. ‘No I got it from my father’s wine cellar’ ‘Mum can I go and finish my homework it has to be in tomorrow?’ Timmy yawned. ‘Of course darling say goodnight to Daniel’ Sarah cleared the plates away and returned to her guest ‘you have done an incredible job with my son, Daniel. It concerned me for a long time about not having a father figure around’ ‘You’ve done a great job in bringing Timothy up on your own, but may I ask why?’ ‘What do you mean’ she enquired. ‘Come on Sarah, you are a very attractive women, intelligent and a dam fine cook, what more could a man ask for?’ ‘I could say the same about you Daniel. Good looking, intelligent and a gentleman, in fact I sense there’s more to you than you let on. Your fathers cellar for example?’ He hadn’t meant to let that out but now he had an explanation was called for ‘my family own an estate in Kent, Sir Robert as his Tenants call him is my father. The wine cellar really is extensive maybe you would like to see it?’ he asked. ‘Daniel are you asking me out on a date, a bit early to be introduced to the parents isn’t it?’ ‘I’ve just realized you are a terrible tease Sarah, but yes I am asking you out on a date!’ ‘In that case I would be delighted to accept’ At the top of the stairs a young man just exclaimed ‘YES!’ The couple continued to discuss Timmy’s future. It was decided the opportunity to be introduced to one of the leading theatre directors in London was too good to miss and plans were made to follow it up. Daniel left giving his host a polite kiss on the cheek, anything more passionate and he would have had trouble controlling himself. Sarah appreciated the gesture and decided this man needed further attention. CHAPTER 6 THE ESTATE IN KENT. ‘My father cringes every time I drive this old Citroen up the drive’ he laughed. ‘Is that why you do it?’ Sarah asked. ‘I suppose it is. I see I’m going to have to be careful around you aren’t I?’ ‘Bloody hell is this all yours?’ asked the young man in the back of the car. ‘Timmy behave yourself and watch that mouth young man’ she scolded. ‘Sorry mum but look at the size of the place’ It really was impressive she had to agree. It wasn’t the first time she had visited a large mansion. The father of her child unbeknown to him had a Chateau and vineyard covering a small portion of Southern France. Daniel’s parents were charming and friendly, Sir Robert insisted on showing his guests the whole house including the large wine cellar. ‘I’ve seen a few cellars in France Sir Robert, but this is most impressive’ She said complimenting him and walking around and examining bottles ‘this is a Chateau Mouton- Rothschild isn’t it?’ ‘You really do know your wines young lady. That is correct, shall we try it?’ ‘Oh good heavens no it must be worth a fortune?’ ‘But it’s only a bottle of wine at the end of the day’ ‘Please no, save it for a special occasion’ ‘But this is a special occasion’ ‘Sorry I don’t understand?’ ‘You really don’t do you. This is the first time since my daughter-in-laws death that my son has brought a guest here?’ Sarah couldn’t speak for a moment. That news had come as a shock ‘I’m sorry Sir Robert I didn’t know Daniel had been married’ ‘He doesn’t talk about it I know, mores the pity. She was a wonderful young woman, full of life. The riding accident was just that, or so we thought, until she started getting dizzy spells all the time, before we knew it she was in hospital fighting for her life, a brain haemorrhage the Doctors told us. She died a few days later. Daniel went to pieces for a while but then decided to finish his degree. He has a Doctorate you know’ Sarah was beginning to think she didn’t know anything just now. ‘Let’s join the others shall we?’ she finally said. It was late evening before they called it a day. Timmy was fast asleep in the back of the car before they left the estate. Playing catch the ball with two Great Danes had completely worn him out. ‘You should have told me Daniel’ Sarah told him sternly. ‘About what?’ ‘Don’t play games it doesn’t suit you’ she told him ‘she sounded a really nice person’. ‘I’m sorry it really wasn’t intentional, it just never came up. We haven’t really got to know each other yet have we?’ ‘I guess not. Your parents love you to bits don’t they?’ ‘I guess they do, speaking of which tell me your story, about your parents, are they still alive?’ ‘No!’ ‘Is that it, just no?’ ‘They died in a car crash when I was 10, my sister brought me up, educated me and took over as a parent. Father was French my mother English’ ‘I’m sorry’ ‘No I’m sorry for scolding you. I should know how hard it is to remember loved ones when they die in tragic circumstances’. ‘What about Timmy’s father is he still around?’ Sarah laughed ‘you called him Timmy he’ll like that’ ‘Yes he is but I don’t have any contact with him, his parents saw to that. One day I will explain it all to him he deserves that’ ‘It seems we both have a lot of skeletons still in the cupboard Sarah, but if we have any chance of getting to know each other we have to bring them out into the open, assuming you want to?’ She considered that for a moment. There had been friends in the past but none she could really get close too, maybe it was time to move on ‘yes I would like that’ EPILOGUE LONDON – 1 YEAR LATER Sarah tried not to fidget but it was hard not to keep glancing backwards at the audience as they started taking their seats. The young lady beside her was doing the same. They glanced at each other and giggled like old friends which in some ways they had become. Daniel had followed up on his promise and had contacted the name on the card the Paris Director had given him. It was almost like a magic key. The London Director had immediately granted Timmy an audition. He and Sarah had taken Timmy to London for the day. They pretended not to be nervous for his sake but it didn’t work and besides Timmy was too excited anyway. The audition had lasted over three hours, finally they emerged. ‘I would like to offer this remarkable young man a position in my Academy. It will include accommodation and of course teachers to continue his education. A mentor or chaperone would be appointed to look after him, but of course you may visit whenever you wish, shall we say beginning next week?’ the Director had announced casually. That was it. Timmy moved out the next week, and three weeks later Daniel moved in, after proposing of course. The wedding was at a London Registry Office two months later. The young lady beside her was invited at the last minute. Catherine had made enquiries at the school only to find her Knight in shining armour had left. She handed a letter to Daniel ‘please make sure Timmy gets this letter, it’s a thank you for what he did in Paris’ Timmy had written back straight away, the letters went backwards and forwards right up to the day of the wedding. The Bride and Groom, family and friends where all waiting all in the reception area. Timmy kept sitting and standing and watching the door. ‘I think he is a bit nervous about giving the bride away?’ Daniel said. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s the reason, look who’s just walked in?’ Catherine entered the room a little unsure what to do. She noticed Timmy and broke into a smile. Timmy strode over, swept her in his arms and gave her the most passionate of kisses, totally oblivious to the hoots of the guests. Daniel, Sarah and Catherine had visited Timmy as much as possible, even being allowed into the theatre for rehearsals. The Director had approached them one day ‘Timmy is doing incredibly well and between you and me is earmarked for a role when we reopen. The young man is a natural for sure but it’s when he’s in front of an audience that he really shines. A most rare gift I assure you’ The Director had been true to his word. It was opening night, the lights dimmed and the audience became silent. And the play. Do you really need to ask? THE END |
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