Stalker The wolf kept his head low. His black fur shone in the moonlight as he crept forward. His paws fell lightly on the grass, leaving imprints. His dark blue eyes watched the prey before him: a flock of sheep. He flicked his fangs with his tongue, creeping forward as he let out a low growl. His gaze shifted up as one of his many prey lifted its head, looking in his direction. He stopped, digging his claws into the dirt as he leaned back. His breathing slowed, and his body remained motionless as he waited. The single alerted sheep lowered its head to the grass.
The wolf sprung forward. His black fur flat against his body, he sprinted at the herd as his paws throwing loose dirt behind him. Saliva flew from his maw as he leapt at a sheep. His front claws and fangs sunk into flesh. The wolf and the sheep tumbled to the dirt, and the predator tore into its prey. Crimson splattered across grass and wool, and the sheep screamed before being silenced by a violent ripping sound. For a moment, both animals were still, but only the wolf rose to its feet. The wolf tore into its meal, chomping bloody flesh as he licked his chops. Pound after pound of meat slid into the wolf’s stomach, but before he could finish his meal, a loud crack split the air. His ears perked up, but when another crack split the air, he yelped as something hot tore through his flank. He darted toward the trees he’d emerged from, crack after crack entering his ears as shards of dirt and bark hit his pelt. He didn’t stop running until the cracks ceased, finally allowing him to stop and turn back toward the sheep carcass. Standing at the edge of the tree line was a form he knew all too well. He could smell the smoke, salt, and confusing unnatural odor of the two-legged body. His ears perked up again as the form shouted something, and he lowered himself to the ground as he crept forward. He had a meal to finish. The wolf watched the two-legged form, his gaze unwavering as the wind whistled through the trees. The smoke continued to drift into his snout, but he pressed on, nearing the edge of the trees once again. As he approached, another of his kind barked, and his eyes shifted lower. By the two-legged form stood a black and white canine, and their eyes met. Each let out a growl, but when the wolf bared his teeth, the other canine let out a whine. It turned to flee, yanking the two-legged form backward with it. The two-legged animal’s voice, lower than before, spoke again, yanking its companion toward it. The wolf watched as the other canine tore itself from the two-legged animal’s grip and fled, leaving only the wolf and his new prey. The wolf let out a low growl, concealing himself in the shadows of the final few trees. Baring his teeth, the wolf charged forward, leaping for the two-legged animal. The two-legged animal screamed like the sheep before it, and both tumbled to the ground as a final crack split the air. As silence fell upon the earth, one predator rose and regained its hold on the flock of sheep beyond the trees.
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THE ROOMLisa was having another drink, her husband in the seat across from her.
“Darling, I said no hard feelings,” she said. She lowered her sunglasses to peer over the edge and flashed him a smile. “It’s only a divorce. No need to cry over spilled milk.” He was utterly speechless and trying to hold back any emotions he had at the moment. “You can’t do this to me, to us. I love you, what can I do to prove it?” he said. He got out of his chair, kneeling in front of her and pleading. He spouted off more than she cared to listen to by the way she yawned in his face. “You’re boring and I’d rather spend my days living in Rome, dear. They’d appreciate my tastes. You expect me to be at home cooking and cleaning and I’m not that kind of girl. I need to be free, to express myself. And you,” she laughed and held his face in her hands. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t stay married to you if my life depended on it.” He was visibly upset, standing up and grabbing her by the arm. “You’ll do as I say, wether you like it or not,” He said. She kept a smile on her face as she pointed the barrel of her gun that she pulled from her purse toward his abdomen. “You truly think you’re in charge. That’s cute,” she said, mocking him and pushing the barrel farther onto his skin. “Lets take a little walk. A few of my friends want to meet you and I do believe they’re even residing here today.” She led him through the maze of corridors at the hotel she had rented a room at, the retro decor blurring together the longer they walked. By the time they reached the large conference room Lisa’s soon-to-be ex husband was trying to get out of her grip any way he could. He trashed against her grip as she tossed him in the room without caution. “Ladies, this is Adam, our guest of honor,” she said. The room of women in hooded velvet robes all laughed in unison, nearing Adam’s body in the center. He scrambled to his feet, running toward the door from which he came, which slammed closed in his face. “Please, if she’s making you do this I can help you escape, we can all turn her in!” he exclaimed. They all shook their heads, the crowd parting in half as Lisa walked toward him. “You see, we all have the same ideals. Get rid of our freeloading husbands and we can live our lives as they were meant to be. Carefree,” she got as close as she could get to him, pointing the barrel at his head. She listened to him beg a few more times before she pulled the trigger, blood splattering on her face. As the group of women cleaned the mess Lisa found her way back up to the room, washing her face off in the bathroom. “To think, this is where he proposed,” she laughed to herself and shook her head. With the mess cleaned up and no reason to stay any longer, she checked out, throwing her things in the back of her husbands car and driving off to start her life anew.
DESOLATE ROAD The sky burned, and my skin melted into my car seat. Me and my broken down car were all that, that desolate highway had claim to. My attempts to use my phone to call for help became as futile as starting a fire underwater. If I just keep on walking it still might be hours before I come across help. I’ll just stay with the car. All I wanted was to get home, crawl into bed, and lay my head against my soft cool pillow. Yet there I was under the blanket of the scorching Texas sun being beaten down with the heat.
After the first hour I began to regret not taking up my father on his offer to fill up my tank before heading home. Though five hours later, my car became a prison and I it’s prisoner. Like an old television screen that was just turned off my vision became fuzzy. When would another person cross my path? Would I ever know the comfort of my bed again? A silent voice began to converse with me. “You idiot, you can’t even get home by yourself,” It said. “How was I supposed to know I wouldn’t come across another gas station?” I replied. The sun seduced my frail spirit and coerced me into a haze until finally I laid motionless in the front seat. A low rumble in the distance woke me from my heat induced slumber. The sun had since set while I was asleep, and now the radiant sun had disappeared leaving me in an ever-encompassing darkness. So dark was the night that I could not see my own hand when I put it in front of my face. The low rumble began to get louder and now a bright blue hue appeared to be approaching fast from the way I came from just twelve hours before. My knight in shining armor came speeding down the highway. How will they be able to save me if they could not see me. Fumbling around my dashboard until finally I found the button for my hazard lights. Pleading with the universe I begged that they would see my flashing my lights and would help me. The universe answered back immediately as the vehicle flashed his lights at me as to acknowledge that he saw me. Pulling off to the side, out of an old black square body Chevy pickup truck, a man who appeared to be in his early fifties hollered out his window, “Looks like you need some help there, friend”. Out of my dry throat I hoarsely hollered back “Yes sir. I’ve been out here all alone since noon. The man beckoned me to come to the passenger window. Quickly I scurried towards the truck and the man smiled a concerned smile. Starting to speak he stopped and tried again a few more times. “Sir, what is it?”, I asked apprehensively. The man looked at me intently before he spoke. “Young man, just around the bend up ahead about seven miles from here is a small town with a gas station. Did you even try to walk ahead?”. Y face began to burn as I felt like a moron. I’ve sat here and allowed myself to become dehydrated and to succumb to heat exhaustion, when all I had to do was walk a few miles up the road. I could have been home ages ago, instead I’m embarrassed in front of a stranger. “Now I’d be more than happy to pull your car into town to the gas station if you’d like”, he offered. My eyes fixated on the gravel I nodded my head. The man spoke again, “Look son this sort of stuff happens. All you got to do is chalk it up to the experience column and move on. That’s all you really can do”. He exited the vehicle and silently we hitched my car to the back of his truck and then we headed into town. Even though I was riding with a complete stranger, the vehicle was quieter than an open casket viewing. With pit crew like speed we unhitched my car, and I filled up my tank as soon as we got to the gas station. We nodded our heads in reassurance at each other. I sat in my car for a minute. Tears swelled in my eyes, hiccup like giggles emerged from my lips, and I proceeded to rapidly wrap my forehead around my steering wheel. Troika It was three o’clock on a Sunday morning in the summer of 1937, when the knocking came at the door. It woke both of us. My husband, Igor, went to open it, and I followed him. Three men stood there. All were in the uniform of the NKVD. The captain wore a side arm and his two subordinates carried submachine guns.
There were no introductions. “Go and get your pistol, colonel,” said the officer. One of the guards, his gun raised, followed Igor into the bedroom. When they returned, the captain said, “Get dressed. You are coming with us.” I expected my husband to protest, to argue that there must have been a mistake, but he said nothing. Except that as he put on his uniform, with one of the NKVD thugs standing on guard, he mouthed to me, “Tell Kornichov.” By now I was shaking uncontrollably. He returned to the hallway in his uniform. The captain reached forward and tore off Igor’s three rows of medal ribbons, and then his colonel’s shoulder boards and the red star on his cap, and threw them on the floor. The captain nodded to the guards, and they began to search the three-room apartment. They took pictures off the walls, dumped books from the bookcases, slit open the mattress on our bed. They checked the flowering plants on the balcony. They found my diary and confiscated it. All the papers from my husband’s desk they swept into one of our suitcases. They also took my Communist Party card and my doctoral diploma. When they had created sufficient chaos, they gave Igor the suitcase to carry and turned to the door. Ignoring the three men, Igor put down the suitcase, turned, and embraced me. “I will come back, Annushka,” he said. Tears were running down my face. I could not say anything. There was no question of sleep. Like a robot, I began to sort out the mess the security men had left. Where had they taken Igor? Why had I not demanded to know? How could I find out? When they found they had made a mistake, would they release him immediately? Whom could I ask for advice? Then I remembered that Igor had told me to contact Andrei Borisovich Kornichov, his best friend. He was four years younger than Igor; they had met at the Frunze Military Academy when they were both captains. I would call him at eight this morning, when he would be in his office at Sixth Army Headquarters. But then it occurred to me that the telephone line from the apartment building might be tapped, and I would run a risk of compromising Kornichov. But then again, they had my diary, which recorded the many visits and dinners we had had with him. And my husband had asked me to contact him. Oh, it was all so complicated! I must ask Igor; then I remembered. I sat on the sofa, frozen, for a long time. In the end, I made a decision, and came back to life. I made a cup of tea, dressed, and went out. I greeted the neighbors I passed in the hallways and on the stairs. They all looked away from me. Despite the early hour of the arrest, word had clearly spread. It was the beginning of June, and the trees were in full leaf. It was an hour’s walk to the headquarters of the NKVD at the Lubyanka prison. This was a name that brought dread to every Soviet citizen from the Baltic to the Pacific. Everyone knew of the screams from the cellars, of the people who went into the building and did not come out, of those who returned via a long detour to the labor camps, and would not talk of it. As I entered Lubyanka Square, at that time called Dzerzhinsky Square, I saw a long line of women outside the huge block of the building. Most of them were carrying parcels. I went to the back of the line and asked a middle-aged woman where I could get information. “This is the only place,” she said. “But it will take three hours to reach the window.” “I must find out where my husband has been taken,” I said. She must have seen my desperation. “Moya bednaya dorogaya,” she said, taking my arm. “My poor dear. When was he arrested?” “Last night. He is a colonel in the 29th Rifle Regiment.” “If he is military, they would certainly have brought him here.” Her face became blurry. She caught my arm before I collapsed. I retched. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I have not eaten.” The line was passing us by as new people joined it. “I am carrying food for my dear one. I can give you something, comrade.” She started to undo the string round the parcel, but I stopped her. “I could not possibly,” I said. “Is there no food in the prison?” “Very little and very bad,” she said. “This is a way to keep in touch. When you get to the window, the guard will check the name on a list. If he accepts the parcel, it means your husband is still there.” “And what if he rejects it?” “It means your husband is not there any more. Listen, my dear, it is best if you come back tomorrow. If you come at six, you will be near the front of the line when the window opens at eight.” “Thank you for your kindness. I hope your husband is soon released.” “It is my son.” I walked back slowly to the apartment. When I got to my building, the concierge, a fierce old woman, said, “There is a message for you, Citizen Moroshkin. From a Major Kornichov. He asks you to call him.” The name of the concierge was Rubika, and she had never forgiven us for refusing to bribe her whenever we needed a plumber or an electrician. She listened from her seat by the door as I made the call. Kornichov answered. “Anna Mikhailovna, I won’t be able to get away until 7.00. Is it all right if I come at 7.30?” I had completely forgotten that we had invited him for dinner. “Andrei Borisovich,” I said. “Is something wrong?” “No. No. Yes, come at 7.30. We shall be delighted to see you, as always.” I made stuffed dumplings. I was still acting automatically, thoughts of Igor in the cells at the Lubyanka whirling in my mind. Andrei was right on time. As soon as I opened the door, he said, “Anna, what’s wrong?” “Igor was arrested this morning.” “My God, this is terrible news.” He put a finger to his lips but kept talking, asking me for details, as he went around the living room, checking baseboards, looking behind pictures, examining light fixtures. Then he did the same in the bedroom, the tiny bathroom, and the kitchen. “It’s all right,” he said, “We can talk.” I poured us each a glass of schnapps, which I knew Andrei preferred to vodka. “What can I do, Andrei?” “Igor will be in the Lubyanka. You could take some food for him.” “I know. I went this morning, but the line was too long and I didn’t have any food. What is happening, Andrei? How could they arrest my Igor? I know about the purges of course, but I never dreamed they would affect us. The world doesn’t make sense any more.” Andrei took the bottle and poured us each more schnapps. “What is happening is this. Since Nikolai Yezhov became head of the NKVD last year, there has been a massive increase in arrests. In the last six months close to half a million people have been detained. Those arrested have begun to realize that the more people they name as accomplices, the sooner the interrogation will be over. If each prisoner names 200, and each of those 200 names another 200, soon every citizen of the Union will be in a labor camp. The NKVD is becoming overwhelmed.” “But how can they suspect members of the armed forces, of all people?” “You know that Marshall Tukhachevsky was arrested last month. All officers like him, who were commissioned when Trotsky was Minister of War, are in jeopardy. Almost all the army and corps commanders have been arrested.” “But they will find Igor innocent, surely?” “Anna, you must prepare yourself. No one is ever found innocent. Well, except if the NKVD accidentally picks up an informant. And sometimes even they are convicted. They need informants in the camps, too.” I served up the dumplings. Andrei set to with relish, but I found myself unable to eat. “Eat up,” Andrei said. “This may be a long process, Anna. It is too early to lose faith.” “Andrei, I just can’t bear the thought of Igor being mistreated.” I began to cry. “It’s a terrible thought, Anna, but they don’t always use brute force. The usual method is called the conveyor. Teams of interrogators question you non-stop day and night. After a few days you don’t know what you’re saying or even what you’re thinking.” “And what happens after the interrogation is over?” “Once the confession is signed, there is a two-minute trial, then three possibilities. Shooting. Labor camp, or ‘Ten years without right of correspondence.’” “What does that mean?” “Shooting.” “But Igor has done nothing at all.” “Certainly he’s done nothing. But there is a saying that the penalty for doing nothing at all is ten years.” “I shall write to Comrade Stalin. He cannot know what is going on.” “Your letter would never reach him. And you would be arrested the next day. And he does know what is going on. He, not Yezhov, is directing this purge. But his lust for numbers is out of control. There are quotas for every district. In some parts of the city, the NKVD is pulling names randomly out of the Moscow Directory.” We talked late into the evening. Whatever happened, Andrei said, I could rely on him to do everything he could. He would return at the end of the week to see how I was getting on. I slept fitfully that night, waking frequently from terrifying dreams. I got to the Moscow Suvarov Cadet School, where I had taught mathematics for the last six years, at my usual time. One of my colleagues was in my classroom. “The Director wishes to see you,” he said. The absence of a greeting was less than polite, but I did not press for an explanation. The Secretary in the Director’s anteroom said, “Citizen Maroshkin, the Director wishes me to tell you that you have been deprived of your position.” I pushed past her and opened the door of the director’s office. He was at his desk, and jumped up in some confusion. He was tall and gray haired. “Comrade Director, I don’t understand. What is happening?” He had always been very courteous, using the polite form of address and praising my work. Now he stumbled over his words, his face flushed. “Citizen, you are, ah, have been declared the wife of an enemy of the people. I’m afraid there is, ah, no longer a place for you here.” It would have been pointless, and unjust, to dispute with him. What else could he have done? I left his office, and the school, first interrupting the lesson in my classroom to fetch some personal items. The students were mostly seventeen-year-olds. Some glared at me, others looked more sympathetic. Deprivation of my work, which was my vocation, was a staggering blow. But I had other things to think about. At least I now had the day free, and could take a package to the Lubyanka. I made cabbage soup and put some in a jar with a screw lid. I wrapped two boiled potatoes in newspaper. I put a stuffed chicken breast in a brown paper bag, and finally filled a jar with juice made from boiled fruit. I did not know whether messages were allowed, so I did not write one. I wrote on the outside, Colonel Igor Sergyevich Maroshkin, ORS (Order of the Red Star). It was about noon when I joined the line in the square. I had eaten before I left home, and felt ready for a long wait. I noticed that people, almost all women, in the queue were talking to one another much more than was customary in Soviet crowds. I felt conspicuous in my white blouse and navy blue skirt. The woman behind me looked at my parcel and asked what was in it. I described the contents. “Ach,” she said. “You cannot send in glass. It could become a weapon.” “And all the other things the guards will confiscate,” the woman in front of me said. “It is bread the prisoners need. Or potatoes. Calories.” “Don’t put ‘colonel’ on the parcel, just his name,” another offered. “Angel moy,” another woman said, “Your husband has just been arrested?” “Yesterday.” The women clucked sympathetically. For me, there was nothing to do but go home and start again. When I got close to home, I stopped at the bakery across from my apartment building. The next day, my parcel was accepted at the prison. The third day I went to the bakery, as I waited in line, I saw Zadinka, the concierge, walking quickly across the square. When she reached the shop, she called to the baker, “Do not serve this person! She is the wife of an enemy of the people. Also she is not working. She is sotsial'nyy parazit, a social parasite. He who will not work, let him not eat. Lenin.” A young woman with glasses in the queue added, “And Marx.” “I am not a parasite! I am unemployed.” “Citizen, there is no unemployment in the Soviet Union,” said Radenka. There is work for all. Get out and find it.” I went home. On my door, someone had pinned a paper with the words, “Enemy of the people.” I remembered that Andrei was coming over. He arrived promptly at 7.00. I served mushroom and potato soup and buckwheat kasha with liver. “The loss of your job is serious,” Andrei said. “You must have an income. In education, the best you could get is child care, which pays almost nothing.” He was silent for a minute. Then he took a notebook from his pocket, wrote on a page, tore it out and handed it to me. It said “Alex Bushmanov, Dept. 31C, Avtozavodtsy. Dorogoy Alexandr Vasilevich, Please do what you can for the bearer. Do svidaniya! Till next time. Andrei Borisovich.” “We grew up in the same village in the Crimea,” Andrei said. “The Avtozavodtsy is the Stalin Motor Works. It’s in Proletarskii District, a twenty-minute walk south of the Paweleska Railway station. The works employs nearly 40,000 people. Many of them are immigrants from all parts of the Union. The NKVD can’t keep up, though they’ve arrested many members of the management.” He paused. “The work may be hard, but you will get paid and food is cheap at the factory canteen.” Before I left to go to the factory the next morning, I found Nadezhda, who lived in a communal apartment downstairs. She was slightly impaired, and lived by doing errands and odd jobs. I instructed her about taking bread to the Lubyanka every day. I gave her brown bags with Igor’s name written on them, and enough money to buy a loaf each day and keep the change as a tip. I would make the delivery myself on Saturdays and Sundays. The Proletarskii District, in southeast Moscow, was a long way from where we lived, and it took me some time the next morning, and several requests for directions before I found Department 31C at the factory. On the way I passed the sports hall and the winter garden. The Motor Works was a huge industrial complex, and a Soviet showplace. Outdoors, closely-cropped lawns were edged with meticulously kept flowerbeds. Bushmanov, a big man, had an office with barely room enough to hold him and three typists. On his door was a sign saying Advisor to the Assistant Director of Personnel. He read my note and nodded, putting it in his pocket. He asked for my passport and copied my name on a form. Then he took the form to one of the typists and had a few words with her. She was clearly familiar with the procedure, because she quickly made up three new forms, then led me out of the room. First we went to another office, where I received a works identity card, then to a store room where I tried on several sets of coveralls until I found one small enough. Finally, we walked into a huge workshop, where automobiles and trucks in various stages of construction moved along, hung from conveyor chains, as men and women worked on them. The typist yelled to me over the noise, “The system is based on that of Henry Ford in the USA. Soon we will overtake American production.” We stopped at a work station where a male and a female employee were putting wheels on ZiS 5 trucks. The boy and the woman would lift the wheels into place, the boy would start the nuts and the woman tightened them with a hand wrench. The typist spoke to the boy and gave him the last of her forms, and he left. I stepped into his place. The conveyor did not stop, and I immediately found myself helping to haul a wheel into place, grabbing nuts from a box and screwing them on the bolts. I was too slow, and my co-worker had to work like a whirlwind to do half of my job as well as her own. Over the noise, the typist yelled, “Comrade Isayev, this is Comrade Moroshkin.” My partner nodded. She was of medium height and wiry, probably about 30, but with some deep lines in her face. After I had worked for half an hour, I felt as though my arms were falling off. I tried boosting a wheel with my knee, but it threw my partner off and she slapped my leg. Suddenly the conveyor stopped. There was shouting from all over the line, and mechanics ran to the location of the stoppage. Isayev pulled out a tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. “Each time the line stops, our pay is docked,” she said. You have not done this kind of work before.” I shook my head. “It will get easier. In a week, you will be working like me.” The stoppage lasted about twenty minutes. Somehow I made it to the end of the day. My fingers felt numb. On the metro, I could not raise my arms to the overhead rail and had to find a place near the door where there was a vertical pole. That night, I slept little. My shoulders ached, and so did my back, and it was impossible to find a comfortable position. Radinka, the concierge, stood up when she saw me as I was leaving for work in the morning. “Citizen Moroshkin,” she said grimly, “You must leave your apartment.” “Leave? What do you mean?” “By Sunday midnight. By order of the Housing Committee. Another family is moving in on Monday.” “I don’t understand. Comrade, what am I to do? What will I do with the furniture? Where will I live?” “That is not my concern, citizen. Everything will be confiscated if you are not out on time. There is a letter for you.” I tore it open on the way to the metro. I thought it would be something about the apartment, but it was from Communist Party headquarters, announcing my expulsion from the Party. On the train, I thought of the days when Igor and I would take a break and stay in one of the Moscow hotels, the Lux or the Oktyabr. One night would cost 50 roubles, which was more than my weekly pay at the factory. My face must have shown my stress, because after we started work, Natalia Isayev said, “A bad day?” When we talked, we had to shout, but at least no one could hear us over the noise of the machinery. I could not speak, I just nodded. “Tell me, moya devushka, my girl,” she said. “My husband has been arrested and I have to leave our apartment,” I said. “I guessed something like that. My husband also, he is out there.” “Where?” “Where one laughs and a hundred weep. Do you have anywhere to go?” “No. I have nowhere. I must leave by Sunday. Where do the people live who work here?” Some live in barracks. The boy you replaced sleeps in the factory, under a bench. Many workers live in Shanghai, as I do. Ah, I see you don’t know it. It is a slum, not far from here. You would not want to see it.” “No, I would like to see where you live, Natalia.” “All right, you can come after work and have a drink with me.” It took half an hour to walk to Natalia’s place. On the way, she showed me one of the barracks. They mainly consisted of huge dormitories, with several hundred beds. The beds had mattresses filled with straw or leaves, but no sheets, blankets, or pillows. Men and women lounged on the beds smoking and reading newspapers. After the barracks, we came to a seemingly endless area of shacks built of canvas, corrugated steel, and random pieces of wood. In some of the shacks, you would not keep chickens. The street became a muddy track. This was Shanghai. I did not see any bathhouses, indeed there did not appear to be any running water or electricity. We entered a hut through an open door. Two men sat at a table with glasses and a bottle. There were three beds, no windows. That was all. As we came in, the man with his back to us was saying “That prick-face in the Kremlin…” I gasped. He could not possibly mean our father, the universal genius, our beloved Iosif Vissarionovitch! The man sitting facing us immediately struck the other on the mouth. “There is a visitor,” he growled. I looked around the room. There was no sink. On the table was a bread box, a primus stove, and a kerosene lamp. “This is cozy, for three people,” I said. “Three!” exclaimed Natalia. Six! The other three are on the night shift.” Natalia introduced us, using only first names. “This is one place where we can speak freely,” she said. She pulled a bottle and two glasses from under one of the beds. “To free speech,” she toasted. The three others raised their glasses, and I felt I had to do the same. The man who had been struck, who looked Tatar or Uzbek, did not seem resentful. “You have been turned out?” he guessed. “It was the NKVD,” I said. “Ach, the bastards. They are killing hundreds, every night, at the Butovo shooting range, the vlagalishcha.” My heart went cold. Early Saturday morning I was at the Lubyanka with a parcel containing a loaf of bread and six boiled potatoes. The parcel was accepted, but when I tried to ask questions, the warder shouted at me to move along. I had made up my mind I would live in one of the barracks. I arranged to move in Sunday night. I went to Pawn Shop 56, a few blocks from our apartment. The pawnbroker sent his horse and cart to fetch our stuff. I had to give him everything I could not fit in a small suitcase. I got a very low price; there were too many other people doing the same thing. It was only enough money to keep me in food for three months. I did not put the money in my wallet, but in a small bag that I tied to my bra. These were my emergency funds. I was learning not to think. How else could I have survived the sight of the empty apartment? The place I had lived in with Igor for four years, the place of so many times of great happiness. As I left the building, suitcase in hand, the concierge Radinka was at her post. She said maliciously, “Goodbye, Citizen Moroshkin.” “Goodbye,” I said, “and good riddance to you.” “Fascist scum! Trotskyite!” she yelled after me. The first night at the barracks, I did not sleep at all. I did not undress, and I was too warm in the stifling dormitory. As a newcomer, I had been given a bed near the water closet at the end of the huge room, and a procession of people, men and women, passed all night. I felt hung over, irritated, and itchy in the morning. However, this was my fifth day on the production line, and the work did not seem as bone-breaking as on the first day. During the morning, Natalia shouted to me. “They shot Tukhachevsky.” “Tukhachevsky? When?” “Saturday night. After his trial.” Tukhachevsky, who in World War I earned five medals for bravery in combat, escaped five times from German captivity, and became a marshal at 42. “He confessed,” Natalia shouted. “To what?” “To being a German agent.” I was attaching nuts to bolts with sore fingers. If they could break Tukhachevsky, then who could withstand them? The second night I slept like the dead, and woke to find my emergency money gone. My first thought was, “I will never get the furniture back.” But I surprised myself by my lack of emotional reaction. It was gone. There was no one to accuse, no one to complain to. How someone knew where to look, and had taken it without my waking, I don’t know. But I’m told there are Russian pickpockets who can strip you naked without you noticing. I hurriedly checked my suitcase. My wallet was still there in the hidden compartment. I had more than enough money to last until my first pay day. I took my meals in one of the many workers’ canteens. The food was not good, but it was very cheap. Although I was always slim, I lost weight, but I gained muscle. It was late one afternoon, a month after I started at the factory, when, as we bent to pick up a wheel, Natalia said, “Do you know about your hair?” “What?” I asked. “You’re lousy.” I dragged my nails across my scalp and looked at them. My self-possession deserted me, and I gave out a howl. The conveyor moved on with one wheel of the truck missing. There were yells and curses from the men down the line, which shuddered to a stop. But by now I was half-way across the shop floor. I recovered my presence of mind sufficiently to fetch my suitcase and dump the overalls at the barracks. I also stopped at a chemist shop and bought a bottle of lice shampoo. It was imagination, but I felt that my scalp was on fire. The concierge at Andrei’s building knew me well from the several visits I had made with Igor. She apologized that she could not let me in, as Andrei had not yet returned from work. I walked around the block eight times before I saw him coming toward me. “Andrei Borisovich,” I began, and burst into tears. “I am so sorry. I quit the job you got for me. No, don’t come near me. I am lousy! I have lice! I must wash my hair right away!” He led me to the doorway to the apartment block, we both signed the register and walked up the two flights of stairs to his two-room apartment. There was no chance of a shower. The toilet was down the hall, and did not even have a wash basin. “I’ll put some water on to heat,” Andrei said. “Do you want me to leave while you wash?” “No, it is all right,” I mumbled. “I think I will go and get a paper, anyway,” he said. After he left, I removed my clothes, and examined my armpits and pubic area. Fortunately they were not infested. I poured hot water into the kitchen sink and rubbed the shampoo into my hair, vigorously and for a long time. I rinsed my hair several times. Then I changed the water and repeated the process. I was dressed when a knock came on the door signalling Andrei’s return. I told him I was going to go to a small hotel. “Let’s talk about that over dinner,” he said. He had been a bachelor since his divorce before I met him, and he cooked well, using the single burner to make cheese blintzes with plenty of cinnamon. I was grateful after the bland food of the factory canteen. “When I was a captain,” he said, “I used to live in a communal apartment, three rooms with five other officers. Before that, in barracks. I am glad to have the space and the privacy. It is less than you are used to, Anna, but I want you to share it. You can have the bedroom for your exclusive use. I will sleep on the sofa. Let me say at once, Anna, that I have no ambitions other than to continue our friendship as it is and has been.” “I couldn’t do that, Andrei. It would not be appropriate. It’s very kind of you, but people would talk. And I would not be good company. I am so anxious and grieving for Igor…” Andrei let me babble on until I ran out of things to say. Calmly and respectfully, he answered each of my objections. In the end I said. “Well then, let’s try it for a day or two.” When I woke in the morning, Andrei had already left. My first thought was that I would cook him something really nice for dinner. I chose Chakhokhbili, a Georgian dish made with chicken and tomatoes. On the way out of the building, I chatted with the concierge, Olechka. I asked whether she knew of any job openings in the neighborhood. She said the day-care across the street was always looking for workers, because the pay was low and the work part-time. I immediately went there and applied. The Director, a woman in her fifties, asked about previous employment. I told her frankly I had been fired from my previous teaching job as the spouse of an arrested officer. She hired me anyway. The teachers worked in two shifts, 7.00 am to 1.00 pm and 1.00 pm to 7 pm. I was taken on for the morning shift, and started work the next day. I was in charge of eleven 4-year olds. They were adorable, and well looked after. You never saw a child with a snotty nose. The program consisted of games, stories, songs, and physical activities. They had two compulsory naps, at 10 am and 4 pm, and a good lunch at noon. I was not using my expertise in mathematics, but compared to putting wheels on trucks, the job was heaven. I insisted on paying our food bill, which consumed most of my pay of 20 roubles a week. I took on all of the cooking and housework. I did the laundry, pressed Andrei’s uniform, shined his shoes. All this time, Andrei had been making enquiries about Igor. I later learned that he had, at personal risk, written to Yezhov, arguing for Igor’s innocence. All he could come up with was that Igor was still in the Lubyanka, which we already knew. We both understood that this meant a confession had not yet been extorted from him. I was still employing Nadezhda to take bread to the prison. I went down to the basement one afternoon in July to give her the money for the next week. She was sitting at the table on which she slept at nights. On the table was a brown paper bag with my husband’s name on it. Nadezhda was eating the bread from the bag. “What on earth are you doing?” I exclaimed. “They did not accept the parcel today,” she said. My heart turned over. “Only today?” “Yesterday also.” I was angry with her for not telling me immediately, but too preoccupied to scold her. My fear about Igor being interrogated was now replaced by my fear about his fate. There were only two possibilities: he had been sent to a camp, or he had been shot. A strange thing, to be hoping that your husband has been sent to an arctic camp to do unbearable work at 30 below zero. Andrei said, “I may be able to get a look at the list…” “Of those sent to the camps?” “No, of those…” “Who have been shot?” He nodded unhappily. Days went by. I slept badly, dreaming of cellars and men with pistols. I could eat almost nothing. Catching my face as I passed the mirror above the sink, I saw a woman with hollow cheeks, dark circles under the eyes and lines of strain around the mouth. Only my four-year-olds provided distraction. It was about a week later. Andrei came home more silent than usual. I was impatient but fearful to question him. It was after dinner when he said, “Anna, I have bad news.” “About Igor.” “Yes. The name, I. S. Moroshkin…” he swallowed, then continued, “appeared on a list of those shot on the 20th of July.” I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my cry. Then I ran into the bedroom and threw myself on the bed. I sobbed and sobbed. Tears were unending. At some point in the evening, Andrei came in. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I am so very, very sorry.” I was still crying at midnight. I felt that I was going insane, that the only escape was into insanity. I got up, went into the living room and lay down beside Andrei. “Hold me,” I asked him. “Just hold me.” Slowly my sobbing subsided, and I went to sleep in his arms. Andrei was gone when I woke. I managed to hold myself together through the morning at the preschool. In the following days, I became two people. One was the public persona, composed if somewhat sad. The other was the grief-stricken widow, sitting alone, crying quietly, her thoughts full of memories and of the terminated hopes for herself and Igor, the brilliant future he would have had, the children we might have had together. All ended by a bullet in the back of the head. Igor would encourage me, not forcefully, but by the occasional word or question, to talk about my feelings, and would listen by the hour as I spoke. Thus summer stretched out its warm days into September. Leaves on the trees turned gold, russet, scarlet, then fell. After the first frost, the nights became cold, but the days were warm and cloudless. Then in mid-October came the first snow storm, snow set in at the end of the month, and crews of men and women with shovels appeared to clear the roadways. At the preschool I had to deal with children’s buttons, pull felt boots on their four-year-old feet, and hoods over their blond heads. My grief was still sharp, but not as oppressive. I began to realize that in many respects I was fortunate. I had not been arrested, as were many wives of enemies of the people, I had not been sent to a camp, I had a place to live, sufficient to eat, and a job that I enjoyed. My passport had not received the damning stamp saying I could not live within 100 kilometres of Moscow. And I had a good man in my life, who made no demands on me, but seemed to appreciate my company, as I did his. Gradually our shared life began to open up. Andrei would occasionally invite a colleague and his wife over for dinner, or we would meet at a restaurant. These were people he trusted, and who had enough courage to socialize with the widow and best friend of an enemy of the people. He never introduced me as his wife or fiancée, or even his podruga, girlfriend, but simply as his druga, friend. Christmas Day was not celebrated in the Soviet Union, but it fell on a Saturday, and we went to a private party at a restaurant where caviar and Russian champagne were served. There was a gramophone with a lot of records of American music. I loved dancing, but Andrei was a hopeless dancer, so our efforts at the tango were unsuccessful and we stuck to waltzes. We lived on hope in Russia, and so we stayed up late on New Year’s Eve to welcome the New Year in the hope that it would be better than the old. Some time between eleven and midnight, Andrei put on a serious face and said, “Anna Mikhailovna, I have something important to ask you. I have come to care for you deeply, and I can honestly say I love you. We seem to be able to live together very harmoniously. I think we are very compatible (we had not slept together since the day I learned of Igor’s death, and we had never kissed on the mouth). Don’t answer yet, I have more to say. I understand that Igor will always be first in your heart. That is as it should be, and I shall always think of him as my best friend. He is, in fact, another bond between us. Therefore I have the honor to ask you to marry me. Let me add something. If you decline, I want us to continue just as we are, as roommates, and I would not discourage you from looking for a husband elsewhere. I want you to take as much time as you need before giving me an answer.” The thought in my mind was what Igor had once said, “I know no one of greater integrity than Andrei Borisovich.” “Andrei Borisovich,” I said, “I love you too. How could I not? You have been so enormously kind to me. But I cannot accept your proposal. I am the widow of an enemy of the people. I don’t know why I was not shot, as were so many other wives and their families. I have been expelled from the Party. If we married, you would endanger your career, and perhaps also your life.” “Naturally, I have thought about this, Annushka. It is true that the purge of the army is not yet over, but the most vulnerable are officers senior to me and Party members. I am thankful I never joined the Party. Nevertheless, we all live with the sword of Damocles over our head. That is nothing unusual for a soldier. So let us accept it and live our lives as fully as we can.” “It is just that I could not bear to lose another husband.” “I will not press you, Anna.” The church bells, which once would have welcomed the New Year, had been silenced by Stalin, but at this moment, Andrei’s old clock on the mantelpiece began a whirring which meant it was about to strike. I took Andrei’s hand. “I will be your wife, Andrei Borisovich,” I said. It took more than four months to complete the formalities. I had no death certificate for Igor, and could not obtain one, so I had to divorce him. It tore my heart, but I told myself this was irrational. The process was bureaucratic but not difficult. Meanwhile, we continued our platonic existence. We had tacitly agreed to share the bed only after our wedding. We were married on May 14, a Saturday, when the parks of Moscow were full of tulips and flowering trees. We walked from the registry office to Red Square, but instead of making the conventional pilgrimage to Lenin’s tomb, we wandered among the apple and cherry trees of the Kremlin garden. Then we had ice cream at one of the “Ameriki” kiosks that Mikoyan, the Minister of Food, had introduced after his visit to the USA. We followed this by coffee in the summer café in Red Square. Our married life was better and more complicated than I had expected. Sometimes, when I was alone in the apartment, I would cry from a mixture of happiness for Andrei and sadness for Igor. Our lovemaking was often desperate from the knowledge that at any time doom could overtake us, that this time might be the last time. After work one day in September, I went to the clinic nearby on Leninsky Prospekt, and a week later told Andrei I was pregnant. I had always thought that it was I who could not conceive. Andrei was overjoyed. “Of course, we will call him Igor,” he said. He would lay his head on my abdomen and talk. “It’s a wonderful Mama you are growing inside, malyutka, little one,” he would say. Andrei bought me a violin, and I resumed the music I had abandoned at twelve to concentrate on mathematics. I visited our neighbors on both sides to ask if they would mind before I began to practise. Neither objected, and the old lady of the couple on our left would always say, “You play like an angel, my child,” whenever me met. We occasionally went out to a cinema, especially enjoying films by Eisenstein and Protazanov. Our favorite occupation, however, was walking. Andrei, of course, was an infantry officer, and I knew he took pride in joining route marches with his soldiers, and outmarching men half his age. But he never objected to our walks. We lived near the Moscova river and loved to walk through the parks along its banks. The summer came to an end. I and my four-year-olds, some of them now five, were browned by the sun from playing out of doors. A knock came on the door one afternoon in November. You must understand that this was the most dreaded sound in Russia in those days. More than thunder or police sirens or even artillery when the war began. I asked Andrei never to knock on the apartment door, even if it was locked. My heart beating painfully, I opened the door, and confronted—the ghost of Igor! I took in the iron-gray, close-cropped hair, the lean face, the colonel’s shoulder boards, the three rows of medal ribbons. Then I did what any woman in my position would have done. I fainted. I regained consciousness sitting on the sofa, with the ghost sitting next to me. I put my hand on his knee and squeezed. “You are real,” I whispered. “As real as you.” “Where have you been?” I seemed to be able to think only of banalities. “In Kolyma.” He held up his right hand. Two fingers were missing. “Frozen.” I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed the stubs of the missing fingers. Then I blurted out, “But I am married, Igor! We thought you were dead. I have married Andrei Borisovich.” “I know. I have been in Moscow a week. I have been rehabilitated, along with many thousands of others. Yezhov is finished. When the officials learned of my rehabilitation, they could not do enough for me. They provided me with a copy of your divorce papers, and the shooting lists from last June. The I. S. Moroshkin shot was either a clerical error or a different man with the same initials.” “But Igor, we must celebrate. Come with me and we’ll get some food and wine. Andrei will soon be home.” “No, Anna. I will let you break the news to Andrei. I will come back tomorrow. Tell Andrei that I have no wish to interrupt your lives. If you wish, I will never see you again.” “Do not say such a thing!” I gasped. I walked him to the door, having to restrain myself from embracing him with the passion I felt. I watched his back as he walked away down the corridor. He was as straight as ever. But when he was arrested he was four years older than me, and now he was ten. But then I realized that the events of the last year had aged me also. When I told Andrei that Igor was alive and was back in Moscow, he said, “This is the most wonderful news! It is a miracle. Anna, Annushka, you must go back to him.” “But I am your wife, Andrei. I am carrying your child.” “Let us talk about it, all three of us.” When Igor came the next day, he and Andrei embraced warmly. We chattered away, jumping from one trivial topic to another, our minds filled with more serious questions. “Igor Sergyevich,” I said, “Andrei Borisovich and I—“ “First let’s eat,” Igor said. “Then we will talk. I propose a toast, to you, Anna Mikhailovna, to you Andrei Borisovich, and to the expected little one.” We returned his toast, and all of us raised a toast to svoboda, freedom. I had used the month’s grocery money to buy champagne and a pheasant for dinner. When I had cleared the dishes away we sat around the table like three people about to play cards. Igor opened the conversation. “It would be dishonest of me to deny that I love Anna as much as I ever did. You are the two dearest people in the world to me. But I believe, Andrei, that Anna is yours by right of marriage and by reason of the child she is expecting. I therefore renounce all claims. I have been offered a posting to Novosibirsk. It is a promotion. You do not need to see me again.” Andrei said, “Whatever happens, Igor Sergyevich, our friendship is sacred. You were and are Anna’s first love. But for the catastrophe through which we are living, you would still be her husband. I am prepared to live with the memory of the happiest days of my life.” I spoke up. “Listen,” I said. “This is how it will be. I shall go to live with Igor. But I will stay married to Andrei until the child is born, so that he can proudly bear the name of Igor Andreevich Kornichov. Then, my love, Andrei, I shall have to divorce you and remarry Igor. But I want you very much to be part of our lives and that of the baby, as much as you can, and as much as you wish.” I think both my husbands were surprised at the clarity and decision with which I spoke, but no more than I was. I moved in with Igor as soon as he got an apartment, a spacious three-room place. I was delivered of a beautiful healthy son in March, 1938. With pain in my heart, I obtained a divorce from Andrei, and the next month I married Igor. Andrei was best man. As little Igor’s understanding developed, we told him all the facts of his parents and his birth. He understood that he had two fathers, but as soon as he could talk he called Andrei Uncle Andryusha. Former head of the NKVD, Genrik Yagoda, who had been dismissed in 1936, was executed in 1939, and his successor, Nicolai Yezhov, under whom we had suffered so much, followed him in 1940. It was said that Yezhov screamed and howled hysterically as they dragged him to the room with the sloping floor for hosing down blood, which he himself had designed. Any relief we might have had was ended when we realized the nature of the man who replaced him, Lavrenti Beria, known for saying “Give me an honest man for one night, and in the morning I’ll have him confessing he’s the King of England.” I was promoted to Assistant Director of the Day Care, and my salary rose to a magnificent 25 roubles a week. This was a time when a much wider range of consumer goods were available in the stores. The latest fashions were on offer in the high-class boutiques. The wife of the Minister of Food, Zhemchuzhina Mikoyan, led the move to manufacture perfume, hand soap, and washing powder. We lived comfortably, and because rehabilitated officers were untouchable, with some security. This period ended abruptly when the Germans launched their invasion on June 22, 1941. Both Igor and Andrei were sent to the front, in different sectors. I was suddenly called by the army to teach statistics, my specialty, at the Military Academy of the General Staff in Moscow. The older professors had been shot under Yezhov, and the younger ones had been deployed to the front. The students were the best and the brightest of the Soviet army, and eagerly accomplished the tasks I gave them: Using probability theory, how would you determine which parts of an aircraft are most vulnerable to anti-aircraft fire? Given lethal radius, enemy concentration, and production costs, determine which has the greatest expected value in terms of kill ratio, the Katyusha rocket or the 122mm howitzer. As I come to the end of this story, it is 1994, and I am 87 years old. My life has spanned the period from Tsar Nicholas II to the dissolution of the USSR. The entire Soviet experiment. How would we summarize it? Words are insufficient. My son is head of an engineering firm. He and his wife have a son and a daughter, Igor and Andrea. I lost my beloved husband—General Igor Sergyevich Moroshkin—four years ago to a stroke. Andrei’s death took place decades earlier. I received the following letter in April 1944, from a Major Dmitrovich somewhere on the Rumanian Front, and with it I will close this account. “Esteemed Anna! “I write with great sadness to inform you of the death of Colonel Andrei Borisovich Kornichov. He died leading his men against a machine gun post, throwing grenades as he advanced. “Colonel Kornichov was the bravest of men and the best of companions. His loss is deeply felt by all of his troops and fellow officers. “I send you my deepest sympathies, Comrade Anna Mikhailovna. My own grief is tempered by the honor that is mine to have been the friend of Andrei Borisovich.” Busing across Afghanistan and staying in Iran lead Jean E. Verthein to write poems and stories on the wonders of survival. Counseling students as an Adjunct Professor in Public and Social Work has been invaluable to her. Two Ragdale Foundation Grants and a Sarah Lawrence College MFA encouraged her publishing in St. Ann’s Review, Downtown Brooklyn, Gival Press, Green Mountains Review, Hypertext and River Press Review. In October, 2019, her literary historical novel Last Gentleman in the Middle Distance will be published by Adelaide Books, Lisbon and New York City. THE LODGING |
Nate Withers has been a student of Full Sail University’s Creative Writing for Entertainment Associate of Science Degree Program, since August 2018. He currently holds a position as a correctional officer at Lansing Correctional Facility, where he started in January of 2011. Presently, he holds a role on the facility’s Crisis Response Team as a negotiator. Withers is an enthusiastic gamer, (especially pertaining to tabletop games) and is keen to spend his time in fantastical places. He lives with his wife and two sons in Leavenworth, KS. |
Open Fields
“I’ve damned us all,” he said, returning to his cot inside. He sat down and reached for his cup of Arbuckle’s. “I’m sure of it this time.”
With a trembling hand he untied the ribbon and pulled out an envelope from the package. Nothing was written on the front, but a wax seal elegantly pressed the back. Within the wax sat a crescent moon cradling the letter “D.” Tearing through the wax Arthur revealed a note;
-Vlad III Dracula
Arthur rose to attention as the door to the wagon opened fast. His shoulders quickly eased, and a half-cocked grin came to his face when he saw the brunette in front of him. He looked in to those eyes that reminded him of being out in the fields. They’d been through the mill, the two of them, yet she still radiated a sense of comfort over him.
“I’m sorry ‘bout Willie. Was in here just airin’ out the lungs a bit and I must of woke him,” Arthur said extending his hand to Belle. His grin turned when she neglected his assistance entering the wagon. “Yeah, I guess you’ve got the right to be upset.”
“I told you,” Belle wheezed as she closed the door behind her. “I vow to you.”
“Not you,” Arthur was barely able to notice the two wounds on her neck before she had her hands around his throat. “Come on Belle! His problem – with me -.” His words were stuck, and his heartbeat racing. He felt his eyes burning as he looked at her face. The muscles in his face spasmed as the tears fell on to his coat.
The snap being undone on his holster echoed over her snarling. Arthur’s hand trembled as it hovered over his Colt. His other hand placed on her chest where he would have once felt her heartbeat, but now it was just a shell of who she was. Why did I seek out this evil? Why didn’t I just ride off with her and settle down? We could have started a family, a farm. Arthur’s hand grew worse as he held her off, looking in to those eyes.
“I did this to you,” he cried out as she lunged forward again. His arm buckled as she forced herself on him. Wood splintered and Willie’s cage fell to the floor of the wagon as they hit the wagons wall. His lips curled and the blacks of his eyes grew, as the weight landed on his shoulders. He drew in a deep breath as he listened to his revolver skittering away in retreat.
As he returned his gaze to Belle, his muscles loosened and his breathing eased. Belle’s mouth hung open, slobbering and wheezing some more. He dropped his arms as she lunged at him again.
“I lov-,” was all he was able to choke out.
His muscles jerked and rose him from his sleep. Arthur sat up in his cot as he recalled the events that took place in his mind. He let out an unending sigh as he holstered his Colt, and thumbing through the remaining silver bullets he had left in his bag.
“Maybe it ain’t to late to quit chasing these demons.”
His words were interrupted by the sounds of something scratching against the wagon, and then the metallic clanging of the bell outside the door.
The First Fishing Trip.
“Are you exited to go fishing Ethan?” said Grandpa.
“Yeah Grandpa, I am,” replied Ethan.
Grandpa gets the boat started and they get moving. When getting close to the nearby bridge, they stop and wait for the bridge to be raised. Once raised they get moving once again. They pass by a small island spot and Ethan turns to Grandpa.
“Hey, can we go on that island there?” said Ethan.
“I’ll take you there on another trip,” replied Grandpa. “Let’s focus on today being your very first fishing trip.”
They come to a stop once the boat’s scanner detects a good amount of nearby fish. They get their fishing gear and themselves ready. Ethan on the left, being left handed, and Grandpa on the right being right handed.
“Alright Ethan, once you see the ball drop and feel the movement begin to reel them in. Remember to go in the opposite direction that the fish are swimming from,” said Grandpa.
They start fishing and catch a good amount of fish. Grandpa, being the first to catch a fish, catches a good size Bluegill. Ethan’s first being a large sized Striped Bass.
“Wow my God that’s a very large fish. I am very proud of you Ethan,” said Grandpa. “Let’s take a photo together.”
They take their photo with Ethan’s very large first catch and then continue their fishing. They collect a good amount of different types of fish. They catch Bluegill, Striped Bass, Brook Trout, and Largemouth Bass fish. Ethan goes to reel in his 20th catch. He’s really struggling to pull this one in, so Grandpa comes over to help him out.
“Wow Ethan you’ve got a real big fish on your rod,” said Grandpa.
Grandpa puts a lot of work into it and finally begins to bring the fish closer to the boat. He starts to reel it in more and more, but with a sudden change of direction.
“That’s odd, the fish is actually swimming toward us now,” said Grandpa.
As the reeling brought the fish closer and closer to the boat, the fish’s fin broke the surface of the water.
“Holy crap that’s a shark,” said Grandpa.
The shark quickly swam up and under the boat. The fishing rod’s base has a magnetic connection to the boat to keep it secure.
“Ethan that shark is huge, going under the ship is going to flip us over. We need to remove the fishing rod’s cable, I can’t just pull it out,” said Grandpa.
“Ok Grandpa, I…. I’ll grab the fish cutting blade,” replied Ethan.
Ethan grabs the blade and quickly begins to cut at the cable. He’s getting closer to cutting it off, the boat begins to tip over. He begins cutting it faster and, faster and finally removes it just in time. The boat tips back into position and they both collapse down.
“You, you did it Ethan, thank you for saving us,” said Grandpa.
“Yeah I somehow managed to,” said Ethan. “What are we going to do now?”
“Let’s head back to the dock and finish up there,” replied Grandpa.
They head back and get docked at Grandpa’s location.
“So, do we just bring these fish back for Grandma to cook?” said Ethan.
“We’ll do that for most,” replied Grandpa. “But we’ll skin some of the smaller ones to catch some crabs off the docks hear.”
They skin one of the Bluegill and put that skin in a net. They take that net over, with a second net, over to the edge of the dock. Grandpa puts the net with the fish skin over and waits just a moment. A crab comes over and puts its claw in to grab at the skins. Ethan then uses the other net to scoop up the crab.
“At a boy Ethan. Good job, now since this is your first crab caught, let’s take a picture of that as well,” said Grandpa.
Ethan kneels down and gets ready for the photo, holding the crab from behind the claws. The phot gets taken, but not as good as the previous one, for Ethan’s hands were shaking a tad bit while taking the photo. Once the photo is taken, Ethan’s grip slips and the crab turns and claws his hand hard. Ethan pulls his arm back and throws it forward, tossing the crab off and back into the water.
“Alright Ethan, perhaps with all that’s happened, we should end your first fishing trip here, said Grandpa.”
While her mind returns to the water’s edge of her native eastern shore, Lilli Reine’s laptop keys click away in Ohio - in wait. Nearly three decades of mentoring young women, early years’ travels and her faith bolster her depository of thoughts and perspectives. Her poetry has been published in Vita Brevis. |
CROOKED WINGS
“Why aren’t you dressed?” I push past the irksome odor and hit the off button on the coffeemaker. The back door rattles behind me. She scrapes her black toast, fragments caking around her elbows, sinking in her scorched coffee. Hair sprayed, eyebrows penciled to perfection, all else haphazard. I drop my purse a little too loudly. She doesn’t flinch. A tear tracks her nose and slides between her naked lips. And she scrapes.
“Well…, the phone rang. It was your sister.”
“And?”
“I couldn’t listen to her. Kept going on and on about.…” Her head shakes loose her trapped pain, “I hung up on her. Can’t believe I did that. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s over. You know, right? She’s safe now. She’ll be okay. We’re late.”
Her wool crepe dress is heaped on her bedspread, a semblance of the crumbs still on her kitchen table. She hasn’t worn it since Dad passed. I help her slip in. It swallows her frame, making a spectacle of her struggles the past year. I wonder if I will ever feel the grief reserved for mothers.
“We need to take her some clothes. What about that soft blush sweater dress she wore to your house for Thanksgiving? You know, the one with the pearl buttons along the shoulder seams and the lacy hemline. I love that on her. Reminds me of that sweet little dress she wore when you played Gabriel in the Christmas pageant. Remember?” Mom’s eyes flood with light and her mind rehearses that evening — what, twenty-five years ago? At least. I reel at the memories of us two vying for center stage in the spotlight of our parents’ adoration. “You were too cute, with your crooked wing. And your sister couldn’t sit still for love or money. Oh, I miss those days.” She has drifted to her ghosts’ sides.
My ghosts suddenly rush to taunt, reminding me of how my glorious, glittered wing got bent. Reminding me of how my sister shoved me to the concrete when I refused to let her try on my wings. Of how she always ran to Daddy toting tears at the ready. Of how her feathery lashes made all her fictitious words flutter like angel-wings. And how she would alight in his arms, a puffy pink cherub, chuckling. Maybe the two of them thought her the rightful heir of those wings. Maybe all three. Maybe I was the only one who saw the eyes that calculated moves, or smoldered at dissatisfaction, or seethed with envy. I seemed to be the only one forced to reckon with it all, really.
“I think that’ll work fine for today. Don’t you?” Mom’s words flush out my ghosts. They scatter and I’m freed. “She doesn’t need anything, Mom. They have gowns for her. We won’t see her today anyway.”
“Of course we will, silly! Whatever gave you that idea?” She picks up her Coach bag, checks it for mints, keys, lipstick. I open the door and she heads for the car, calling over her shoulder, “Check that door. Did I lock it?” I can’t recall my mother leaving home without telling someone to ‘check that door, did I lock it.’ I smile. Today my emotions need a free pass. Today I need to treat myself gently and allow the me’s of every stage of my thirty-three years to simply be — but gently, and in check.
“Who’s got my grand baby?” She catches me off guard, shifted in an instant from the big sister who got stuck with door detail to the single, hence always available, daughter who gets stuck picking up the pieces. I wrap around her frail shoulders. When did Mom’s stature escape her? Ten months ago, when my father’s heart gave way after he found my sister in an alley like a struck deer, losing body heat, laboring to breath, mangled? Or a week ago, when our world collapsed again? When my sister’s husband, Jude up and walked out, and she tried to make her newborn stop screaming? I wasn’t shocked. They all had limits, lines threatening to be crossed, taut as tripwires. We all knew it. Just didn’t know where they laid. My cheek presses into mom’s, reigniting her heartache and our fresh tears fuse. In the car, I’m firm — and tender, “Mom, it’s over. They’ve taken care of the baby. They’ve taken care of everything.”
I drive. She stares somewhere out there, and I hear a whispered tune that scrambles through my memories like an attic thief—
hush a bye baby
up in the sky
on a soft cloud
it’s easy to fly
She turns to me, tilts her chin, jaws tightening to arrest the quiver, and pastes a smile on her lipstick, “Carter’s baby clothes are on sale right now at Kohls. How about you pick me up around 10 tomorrow?” She turns back to her lullaby space, “You girls always looked so cute in their clothes. I can’t believe they’re still around.”
Raindrops patter the windshield. Tears, I think. The blades swipe. Wings. Heaven has banded with me. My breathing finds rhythm for one more moment. I pull in, park. I stop the blades, let the rain flood my mother’s view of the gurney by the back vestibule. The small Peace Box is swallowed by a spray of gardenias. Across the center console I touch the tenderness that rocked me moons ago. “Sure, Mom. 10 o’clock. Maybe they’ll have that red toaster I showed you. It’ll look great in your kitchen, don’t you think?” I turn off the engine, pull out my cellphone and call Jude. “You here? I can’t seem to get out of the car.” I slide the phone into my handbag, and say to no one, “He’s not coming.” The raindrops suspend. The gardenias are gone, their balm lingering to escort us inside.
Sabrina Rodriguez is a screenwriter and earning her Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree. She mainly writes for YA fiction and Thrillers. Her flash fiction “The Late Shift” was published in September 2017 in the Scarlet Leaf Review. In 2018 her short story collection "Snapshot Memories" was published on Smashwords. |
The Cadejo
# # #
I place a bowl of fresh dog food and clean water on the kitchen floor. Norbert, my older brother, enters the kitchen. His cellphone chimes again and again as he fires off texts. He sits at the dining table and notices the dog bowls. A heavy sigh explodes from his chest.
"When're you going to stop putting his food out? It's a waste, " he says.
I look to the living room and find Bowser's bed. It is pristine and fluffed. Not a single toy or hair mars its surface. Frustration seethes beneath my skin as I grab the dog bowls from the floor and toss them into the sink. The metal collides with the plastic bowls. Norbert jumps and freezes as he sees the fury disfigure my face. The back of my neck is tight as I stomp over to Bowser's bed and hoist it over my shoulder.
Norbert rubs his forehead. "We have to move on. A year is a long time to be missing."
"Easy for you to say. He wasn't your support dog."
I grip Bowser's bed. The lingering smell of dog treats and his muddy paws wash over me. Tear prickle my eyes and threaten to spill over. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my trembling, and open the front door. Bowser sits patiently on the doormat. His brindle coat is lackluster and matted. The skin around his stomach and neck is loose and hangs like drying laundry. A thin line of scarred skin wraps around his neck like a collar.
"Bowser?"
I spin around and toss the dog bed next to the TV. As I open the door wide, Norbert nearly falls off his seat. His phone clatters to the floor and silence filled the room. Norbert races from the kitchen and wraps Bowser in his arms. He leans back and holds Bowser's angular face in his hands. Norbert's body shakes as he wrestles with his sobs. Bowser tilts his head and pushes past Norbert. With his tail high in the air, Bowser scouts the house. He looms over his bed and sticks his snout underneath.
I help Norbert stand and we share a confused glance. Right as Bowser settles into his bed, the garage door opens. The metallic whine is muffled, but his pointed ears are alert. The garage door closes with a bang and like a whirlwind, in come my parents with Susanne, my baby sister. Their animated chatter dies when they spot Bowser posed like a statue in his bed. Susanne twitches in Mom’s arms. As quickly as their excitement died down, it reignites as they clamber towards Bowser. He whines as they nearly suffocate him.
Mom moves to bring Susanne closer to Bowser, but she crawls away. Her stubby arms and legs push her across the carpeted floor. I pick her up and hold her close. As Norbert closes the front door, Susanne buries her head in my shoulder. Her tiny body trembles. I tap Norbert’s shoulder.
“Does Bowser seem off to you,” I ask.
Norbert shrugs and says, “He’s been gone so long, who knows what happened?”
Norbert walks over to the kitchen and pulls out the dog bowls from the sink. He gingerly places them on the floor and picks up his phone. Without a word, Norbert walks back to his room, texting. I watch as Bowser walks out of my parents’ arms and sits in front of me. His deep brown eyes bore into me. I try to pet his head, but he evades my hand and sniffs Susanne. He lifts his lips and tries to catch her bottoms. I push him away and walk towards Susanne's room as I try to soothe her tears. Bowser follows closely behind. His nails click against the tile hallway. I close the bedroom door, and his soft scratching fills the room.
# # #
I'm convinced something's off about Bowser. Even when we offer his house food, he refuses to eat more than a few bites. I've only seen him take one sip of water since he came home. For a dog that's been on the streets, you'd expect him to be famished, thirsty.
As I clear the table, a soft cry from the living room shocks me. I wipe my wet hands against my pants and shuffle to the living room. Bowser is cornering Susanne on his bed. Every time she tries to crawl away, he steps in front of her. He licks her exposed feet and she lets out a blood-curdling wail. I race to pick her up and push Bowser away. If I wasn't watching him, I would never have believed it. His lips curl back, and a quiet growl rumbles out.
As quickly as the growling started, it stops as Norbert runs into the room with Mom and Dad behind him. They examine every roll on Susanne's body. When everything checks out, a collective sigh is released. Mom and Dad take Susanne out of my arms and take her back to her room, fussing over her while she drinks up the attention. I tug on Norbert's arm. He looks at me with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion.
"Bowser growled at me," I say.
He quirks an eyebrow. "We trained him out of that a long time ago. Did he forget his support training?"
I nod and try to find him. Bowser is nowhere in sight. I peek around the corner and don't see him, but Susanne's gentle struggles spark concern.
"Have you noticed how obsessed he is with Su?"
Norbert shrugs and says, "I guess? I don't know."
I tap my foot and nibble on my lips. Anxiety prickles underneath my scalp and skin. My stomach twists into giant knots.
"I'm going to keep an eye on him tonight."
Norbert sighs and says, "Just chill. I'm sure everything's fine."
I shake my head. The chill that runs through my body only intensifies. I rummage through the kitchen and grab a pile of snacks. With a hollow thump, I collapse into the couch and turn on the TV. The meaningless gossip and throng of advertisements play on the screen. Norbert rolls his eyes and walks away. On cue, Bowser walks into the living room and settles into his bed. His large eyes watch me. They stay on me like a telephoto lens as I reach for my first bag of chips. His ears twitch with every crunch as I chew. As I stare him down, Mom looks around the corner.
"Don't stay up too late," Mom says.
I look at my clock.
9:30 P.M.
# # #
I tumble awake. Drool is slick on my cheek and empty bags of food litter the couch. The TV's harsh blue light burns my eyes. I check my phone and the bright screen displays the time. 3:30 A.M. I stretch and go to clean my mess when I notice Bowser's bed. It's empty. All that's left is a deep hole where his body laid. I tiptoe throughout the house but can't find him. My body feels like it's vibrating as I return to the living room and see the back door open. Curiosity piqued, I grab my sneakers and cellphone, turn on the flashlight, and head out.
With a wet thump, my shoes sink into the damp ground. The scent of wet cement and dirt sticks to my skin as I trudge through the backyard. Bowser's rabbit-like prints lead to the edge of the fence and disappear. I take a deep breath and climb the wooden fence. As I reach the top, I lose balance. My body collides with the damp ground on the other side. A shot of pain flies down my side. I stand and shake it off, but a dull ache persists. I push it to the back of my mind and find Bowser's footsteps again. They lead into the dense forest on the other side of the service road.
The wet branches scrap against my skin. With each step, it gets harder to find Bowser's footprints. Streams of moonlight become wider between the trees. I almost don't need the flashlight anymore. As I reach the edge of the forest and to a wide clearing, hefty rain pours. It stifles my sight but not enough to hide Bowser. Without issue, his feet propel tufts of dirt. His fur is no longer brindle, but a rich black that glistens as water drips down it. His feet look more like hooves. He sticks his snout into the hole and rips out something and chews. I search the ground and find a nearby rock. With a feeble throw, the rock bounces off several trees before tumbling into the clearing.
Disturbed, Bowser races off into the forest. His movements are swift and agile. I wait for a few seconds before I sneak towards the hole. The smell hits me from several feet away. Rotting flesh and metal. I walk closer. I regret it immediately. The disfigured corpse of a small child sits in the shallow grave. It's more like a damaged doll rather than human.
I run away.
With every labored breath, the edge of my fence comes into view. That's when the rhythmic sound of pounding hooves breaks through the rain. It's faint but gets louder every passing second. I pump my arms, begging that it'll give me speed. As I approach the fence, I catch sight of Bowser charging towards me. His eyes glow red in the moonlight and a red chain hangs from the scarred skin of his neck. I blink away the rain from my eyes and the glow disappears, but his sharp teeth are still snapping at my feet.
I toss myself over to the backyard, but my relief is short-lived. Not even half-way to the back door, and a shadow moves to my side. I catch the last seconds as Bowser lands in the backyard. He lands with such ease that I'm amazed before it clicks. I bolt for the back door and he comes for me. My feet slip across the soaked ground, but it helps me reach safety, but only for a second. As I try to slam the door shut, Bowser sticks his snout into the gap. With all my strength, I fight. My hands start to slip. I swallow my distress and kick. My feet slam into Bowser's snout until he relents. The door closes with a reassuring click. For good measure, I lock the door.
Still trembling and soaking wet, I wake my parents. Mom's face loses all color as she takes in my state.
"What happened? Why are you all wet?" she shouts.
Dad, still half-asleep, asks, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, but something's wrong with Bowser. He..." I take a deep breath and continue, "I saw him eating someone."
Mom wraps her arms around me and holds me close. She rubs my back and smooths my hair. I could melt. That peace is broken when Bowser's bark breaks through the rain. Startled, Dad stumbles out of the bedroom. Dread drenches my bones as the door unlocks and Bowser's nails click against the tile.
When it stops, I turn and see him sitting in the door frame. All malice has disappeared, but the phantom image is still burned into my memory. Mom kisses my forehead and tells me to get changed.
"I know you've been having flashbacks of the mugging since Bowser left, but it was just a nightmare." She clicks her tongue. "Bowser will keep you safe."
"It wasn't a nightmare and he can't protect me anymore!"
Mom sighs. Her disbelief is written all over her face. I don't know what bothers me more, her disbelief or how Bowser looks smug as he trots into the living room.
# # #
After hours of searching, everything points to one thing, a Cadejo. I faintly remember Mom and Dad telling the story when I was a kid, but I never believed. Now, I doubt everything.
The afternoon light streams into the hallway as I reach Norbert's room. I bang on his door but no answer. I try again. Nothing. I peak at my phone and groan. Three hours left till date night. I furiously bang on the door until Norbert flings it open. His eyes are lined with deep dark circles. The beginnings of a beard tease his cheeks and chin.
"I need your help," I say.
"I was sleeping."
"This is urgent."
Norbert rolls his eyes and goes to close his door.
"Please, I think I know what's wrong with Bowser."
Norbert sighs and walks away but leaves the door open. Satisfied, I waltz in and close the door. I plop down on his bed and show him the articles I found about the Cadejo. Each details stories of violent dogs that feed on people. Almost always they have hooved feet, red eyes, and black fur. He reads in silence before scoffing.
"That's a legend to scare kids into behaving. Nothing more."
"I saw it."
Norbert rubs his face, exasperated, and says, "Maybe you were delirious. Yeah, he's been weird since he came back but who knows what happened to him."
"I don't think that's our dog anymore."
"So, an evil dog spirit makes more sense?"
"I saw him eating a child!"
Norbert goes still for a moment before responding. "If it makes you feel better, I'll keep an eye on him while Mom and Dad are out."
"Thank you."
Let's just hope nothing happens, I think.
# # #
My wish is ignored. One hour after Mom and Dad leave, Norbert and I hold a stakeout in his bedroom. The baby monitor sits between us. In what feels like seconds, a clattering and shrieking break through the quiet night. We turn to the monitor. Susanne is gone, and the crib is toppled over. We burst through his bedroom door and catch a glimpse of Bowser disappear through the back door. Susanne's pleas fade as Bowser puts more distance between us and him.
Norbert runs to the kitchen and grabs two butcher knives. He hands one to me. It feels foreign and heavy in my hands. I steel myself and hide my fear under rage. With ease, Norbert hoists me over the fence and lands next to me as I climb down the other side. He falls into step behind me as I lead him to the clearing. The tree branches dig harder into my skin as I whiz through the forest.
By the time we reach the clearing, my head is dizzy. Bowser stops digging his pit and spins to face us. His fur is pitch black again and his eyes take on a red glow. It matches the materializing chain on his neck. The stench of sulfur fills the air.
"You get Su," I say.
Norbert inches closer to Susanne as she tries to crawl out of her hole, but she slides back in. Bowser blocks Norbert's path and growls. I click my tongue to grab Bowser's attention. For a second, I capture his eyes. It freezes my blood. Despite the fear, I move. I charge forward and slide as Bowser jumps to get me. His hoofed feet glide over my face, grazing my nose and forehead.
I brandish my knife as Norbert grabs Susanne and runs to the forest. Bowser changes gears. He races to Norbert, but Norbert is faster. He slashes his knife down and catches the tip of Bowser's snout. With a yowl, Bowser stumbles backward.
With my teeth clenched, I plunge my knife into Bowser's back. The glow of his eyes and chain flicker before stabilizing. I place myself between Norbert and Bowser. Norbert slips his knife into my hand and runs home. Bowser tries to follow but I step between. His movements are sluggish.
"Sorry about this, boy."
I taunt him. He takes the bait. I slip out of his way and lead him back to the pit. Once again, I tease him and prepare my knife. One final time, Bowser bulldozes toward me. He doesn't notice the hole as I race away, and he slips into it. I run to him and slam my knife into his throat. The skin resists for a moment but the knife sinks to the hilt into his throat.
The glow evaporates. As does the chain. All that's left is a motionless body. Bile rises through my throat. I push it down, but the bitter taste doesn't leave my mouth even as I get home. Norbert hugs me close and apologizes, but it doesn't register. I just want to sleep. Without a word, walk to my room.
The plush mattress feels like heaven as it swallows me into its embrace.
# # #
I wake the next morning feeling refreshed. The stress of the last day has turned my limbs to mush. As I go to open my door, Norbert opens it. Any relief I felt washes away.
"You need to see this."
He drags me into the living room. Laying in his bed like nothing is Bowser. Any sign of a struggle has disappeared.
"You...you took care of it, right," Norbert asks.
"Yeah. I'm sure I did."
Bowser raises his head. I go rigid.
What looks like a smirk plays on his lips.
"We're screwed."
Diego Peña is a bilingual young man from Venezuela. A videogames, movies, psychology enthusiastic that writes stories focused into poetic and creative story telling. He possess a certificate on Academic English and is in the process of getting a Bachelor's degree in Creative Writing. Coming from a humble place he is looking for a better life as a writer. |
Framed Love
The woman that made me feel alive. The most beautiful human on earth that even with a lot of flaws I still considered her perfect. My cheri so sweet and sad. How someone so beautiful and kind can be that sad? I wonder every time that I think of her. But that doesn’t last for long because my mind gets distracted with the waviness of her dark brown hair, the gaze of her perfect hazel eyes, and his immeasurable kindness to all peoples.
That type of kindness that can kill somebody. That kindness killed more than once in different ways. From the beginning I knew what I was getting into as soon as my eyes intertwined with hers for the first time. With those magnificent hazel eyes reflecting her soul and her breath-taking pink lips left me speechless.
“Are you ok sir?” asked the lovely lady as she helps me to get up of the ground.
Pure silence. I couldn’t formulate a single word I was still wandering on the small universe of her eyes.
“Sir,” said the lady as she proceeds to ask, “What happened exactly?”
“What? Oh yes,” I said while trying to think of an explanation “I just felt in front of you” No shit sherlock I said to myself.
“Well I assume that it was because of you trying to take a photo of those girls with voluptuous attributes next to the fountain,” said the lady crossing her arms and pointing to the girl.
“Eh, no, of course no. I was trying to take a picture of you when a biker ran over me,” I said trying to not look like a pervert 32 years old guy.
“Oh, so you were looking at me?” said the lady putting herself a little closer to me.
“Yes, no, yes but I was tryin-,” I said, rumbling and taking a deep breath to continue “Ok I give up. I was taking a picture of you. But in my defense, originally. I was just taking pictures of the Fontaines de la Concorde.
She drops a little laugh “I know, you take pictures of me every time I come to this park. But I wonder, why taking so many pictures of this place if there are more interesting places in Paris,” she said while opening an umbrella, “Either way come with me, it's starting to rain. It will get worse, and I don’t see you carrying an umbrella.”
“Wait,” I said getting under the umbrella with her and I asked “You knew? Why did you let me take those pictures?”
“It feels nice to be considered pretty occasionally. Even more for me that I don’t feel that I am that pretty,” she said and looking down she adds “I don’t know exactly why you take them, but you don’t seem like a bad person, so I trust you.”
“You trust the random guy talking pictures of you?” I asked her followed with another question, “How odd for someone to do that, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” she said before making a small pause and adding, “but if you prefer, I may call the police instead of trusting you.”
“I was messing around, please do not call the police,” I said trying not to look suspicious to the public eye. “What do you want me to do to prove my innocence?”
“Let me think…” she said while looking around. “How about if we go to that cafeteria and you explain me why you take those pictures.”
I looked at her speechless.
That day under the powdering rain I knew… my life was over. I knew that my life didn’t belong to me anymore. I knew that my time, my strength and my soul didn’t belong to me anymore. Every decision, every action, everything that I did. I did because of her and for her. Everything just to keep her safe.
Before her I didn’t about the life of others, not even my own. The life of man that worth’s nothing. A life that she made worth something. But destiny had other plans for me. I had to pay the price for everything that I did wrong. Due to my mistakes she became distant, she didn’t want to know anything about me and the worst part is that, I knew that that would happen. I didn’t listen to myself. One day she just wasn’t there, and the only company left for me was an old camera and her memory.
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