​Three nights ago.
He sighs, and throws two pills of Ibuprofen tablets into his mouth accompanying it with a gulp of water.
 “The crusher was clogged," he begins to say. "Dusts, red and white clouded the factory. We dug out lumps of mud earth before the machine started rolling again." He takes another gulp. “And it seems my body pains especially the one residing in my belly is becoming resistant to painkiller drugs.”
“Maybe it’s time you see a doctor. The bellyache, especially,” you say.
“Yes. But I have to travel all the way to Dubai since my insurance card doesn’t work here in Al Ain. We keep telling the foreman. He says he has reported to the management. Nothing else has been done.”
“Pity.”
“One has to save cost, you know. I will do with the drugs for now. I just need rest.”
Then
You are awake. The whining of the two-tier bed persists. You call out, “Kito!” “Kito!” You fling myself out of the bed. He is doubled over, eyes closed, mouth open but no words are coming out as they are held down somewhere inside of him, beneath where his hands are clutching at his belly as if stopping something from erupting. “Do you need the drug?” “Have you taken them?” Your voice rings.
*
Last night.
His voice comes out in a whisper like he is telling a secret, “Don’t worry,” he says in between the rising and falling of his shrinking chest. He blinks as the word worry drops out of his mouth. Before your eyes meet his, they travel to the tube attached to a bag half filled with tea coloured liquid whose other end is between his legs, hiding under the white sheet, and on to the zigzag lines bobbing steadily on the screen by the side of the bed. You try to hold his stare but his eyes lay in their sockets as though they are too small for them.
“You will be fine,” yousay.
“I have used all my money for this treatment,” he says. His breath pauses and his belly sinks. “But the hospital has been nice. It’s good you left the factory. I don’t have a university degree like you.”
“Thank you. I’ll come and see you once I get time. You know how it is with me too. I’m trying to settle down in the new job.”
“Okay.”
*
Morning
New job. Thursday.
This is the fifth job. You think you have finally gotten what you wanted. You are on it, slow and steady.
You enter the class to a curious disinterestedness, of eyes that skim you a look, and look away as though you are a little distraction. You write on the board. They dart glances of what-is –he-trying-to-do? They look away, shooting out throaty lines of English: “His skin is black.” “Maybe he needs washing, don’t you think?” “His nose is not like ours.” “Look at his ears.”  “And his hair.” 
“Good morning,” You say.
“Where are you from?” “Do you speak Arabic?”  “Please, what’s your name?” Their voices attack your ears. Competing.
Then they forget about you like a negligible speck of inconvenience on the yoke of their comfort.
And their legs carry their slim bodies, white, almost transparent like breakable glasses, here and there, hiding and seeking, climbing and jumping, up and down their chairs and desks, and throwing imaginary leather balls at each other, their shrieks clashing against their competing decibels so that in the mix, there is a scuffle of two bodies; one mouth sinks its teeth into the arm of another who charged, punched the other to the floor, and punches away.
Your palms slam the desk before you. Your voice rises above their din. Order. Silence breezes in. Brief. Disorder chases it away with a whimper. You don’t hear or see your hand fling to pay heed to your rage.
The school nurse looks at the skin of the child, aghast, waves you away with a frown, blurting out, “Khallas.” “Khallas.” Finish. Finish. And the principal’s offended voice sprints out from her office, finds you, barks at you, and chases you out of the school premises.
*
Afternoon.
Jobless.  Again. Your mind is your only audience.
“What now?”
“I don’t know, really.”
It’s May. Summer is rearing its head. The air here in the Emirates blows hot like breath from hell. The sky is clear. Always. If only your head is clear too, then you can think properly. She is aware. Her lone bright eye stares without cease to suck out the fats of your thoughts by hugging you with wetness. She doesn’t care that you have been standing here, waiting for the traffic to signal You to walk across the zebra crossing. Your legs want to curl under You. Your back is weeping. And your eyes are falling into your head because your stomach is grumbling.
Horns hoot, engines buzz, lights flash- red, yellow, and green. I walk across to the other side into a cafeteria. Smells of frying and burning greet me. No clanking. Eyes of owners in white tunics look your way except two fellows sitting face to face, sipping coffee. One burly, and the other is thin and bald.
Your order is here- a piece of flat bread and soup. You scoop enough soup with each pinch, and munch away. Your morning replays itself on every soft cracking of the dry puffs in your mouth. A glass of water pushes down everything. Your thought follows, but refuses to stay there.
 “We need labourers,” says the burly one. His paunch is forcefully imprisoned by his shirt. On it is boldly written: I am the boss.
The thin one grimaces and scratches the hairless spot of his head as if to resurrect invisible hairs of ideas. “Then we go for Pakistanis or Bangladeshis.” He pulls a sheet of paper handkerchief from the pack on the table and makes some notes. “But the agents are demanding more fees.” He shows the other what he has written.
The burly one belches loudly, “No!” And after a slurp, “I don’t want to lose this contract, you know.” His voice drawls, “A-fri-ca-nos! They are stronger and can work longer hours under the sun.” His face smiles. Lazily. He pours his eyes on what the other has written, “We can fix that.” His eyes brighten with a flash of Eureka-moment. 
Back on at the roadside. You stand amidst bodies of white-robed Pakistanis, brown around their necks and cuffs, Bangladeshis, gruffy in their work-stained coveralls and dusty safety boots, and Indians wearing moustaches of calligraphed birds in flight. The smell of garlic and sweat pinch your nostrils. Eyes like balls in a scummy puddle smile at you with a flash of nicotine-stained teeth. Its owner spits out a ball of green which bounces off to the middle of the road and gets picked by tyres until its trace is lost on the asphalt.
It will not fade out into nothingness. Your memory. Not now. Oh! These bits: factory- your body marrying dust, shovels, and sledge hammers; pick axes, wheelbarrows, and bricks, giving birth to waist pain. But your biceps have bulged to enviable proportions.
It’s the bowels and shits. Brush. Scrub. Clean. Mop. And the perfume of smells- sour, rotten, sticky all gathere on the doors of your nostrils. And stay there. Or they just hang on your skin.
You want to board the next flight home. Yes. Home is where the temperature is not an eternal high of forty degrees and above. Home is where the sky has the leisure of sucking up all the water in the land until she becomes drunk with heaviness, sparks across, and belches, then pours down, drumming on rooftops like fidgety fingers, and dancing on the ground excitedly. Her breath is soft air that seeps through trees flushed with green. And the trees are swaying in praise. Home is where mama’s voice is pleading with you to be patient. No, you don’t understand mama. No. You want to catch Bob, peel off his skin of lies, and leave him bare and red with purity. You are dialling his number. He doesn’t pick. He calls me with another number and says he can’t hear what you are saying. He hangs up. You dial. It hums dead. Forever. You know you can't catch him. You can’t. The money is gone. You are a finished business.
“My agent promised me a better job and salary. I paid a lot of money to come here too.” Kito says.
“This one is even my friend.”
“In my case, it was my cousin. “
“You cousin?”
 “Yes. Guy, na UAE be this. Na so we see am. You don come be say you don come.”
“It will be a miracle if he survives, “says the doctor. “His kidneys are damaged. The finality in his tone shatters any hopes you want to muster. It’s seven hours of flight away from Nigeria. You are jobless. Your friend is dying. You can’t help but ask yourself, "Why am I here?"
Oh! You want these voices in your head to shut up. Shut. Up.
Bus arrives after an hour. You sit next to a fellow black with headphones on. He smiles a welcome note, nodding his dreadlocked head to the sounds banging in his ears. You shake hands. His palm is rough as sandpaper. “I don’t shake hands,” Kito tells me. “I just nod or wave my hand.” This fellow here doesn’t appear to care if his rough palm tells the kind of job he does. “No,” says Kito. “I don’t want to make the other person feel the displeasure of your work-hardened palms.”
*
Labour Camp
Here again.
It's 3 pm.
Large buses like big boxes on wheels are packed along adjacent to the entrance gate. Bodies alight, squint, and trudge to their rooms. It is prattling alive with voices prodding through the thicket of nonchalance in the room where you have a space.
"My people think say I dey earn better money. Always dem dey say make I send money."
"No be small thing. Me sef, I borrow money send to my people."
"Hmm. I dey find am hard to save sef. How much person wan save? How much you wan send? And you go feed."
"And my last month salary no complete sake of say I argue with supervisor. I tell am say I get chest pain and I wan rest. Him no gree. But me no send am. I just go rest my thing."
"Imagine oo.  My own no go complete this month too.  Tomorrow I wan stay for house. My waste pain dey disturb me."
You listen. You don’t listen. You unbutton your shirt like an unwanted flesh that needs discarding, and allow the unnatural air of the buzzing air conditioner to collapse on you. 
You climb into your bunk- your room in this room of five bunks for ten persons, enclosed in it by walls of wrappers. You try to sleep accompanied by the further talk of hungry penises crying for unavailable vaginas. In the folds of your sheets, a reddish brown rests motionless. Your hand reaches and grasp it between the thumb and index fingers, smashing and rubbing to shreds until the red stain disappears. The smell floats about for a while. Some roach is scurrying leisurely on the roof of your bunk. You let it be. You don’t want to instigate the other roaches to come out from their safe places around, and no less do you want to disturb the Bunkie on top. Hey, but Kito is not there. He is not here to tell you how he has not had sex since he left Nigeria. Two years now. “I miss my girlfriend. My wife to be. I am saving for our marriage,” he says.
Your bed quakes under me like it is tired of my weight. No. It is doing what other beds are doing- quaking under the weights of bodies. This is music, and its rhythm drives me to sleep. Oh, sleep is the place to go to when your eyes close. You are happy. Kito is here. His head is thrown backwards. His eyes are thin lines on his laughing face. The laughter chokes you with pleasure. Then he says, “Guy, no worries.”He stands tall like a silhouette, close to me. You hold hands and squeeze. A smile sparkles through your eyes, and lightens up the streets. No eyes stare at you  like some translucent appearance to be seen through, nor are eyebrows raised in disappointment for not being able to; no causing lips wrap you up into a capsule of uselessness to be swallowed out of use, and no shade to mark you apart. Here, you are not a definition, a colour of unrefined speck.
*
Night
It’s Thursday. Tomorrow is weekend. Break.
You stroll pass married and unmarried bachelors, glued to the screen of their devices, chatting up concubines, wives and girlfriends in faraway places to fill the empty spaces of their absence. Others thrust their sex starved penises into available anuses, groaning out suppressed angst and pleasure. Those who can afford have left to abandon their bodies to the ladies of the night. Empty bottles lay like morsels of leftover meals, forgotten by their drinkers, who are floating in the glee of forgetfulness without the least guilt of transgression against the sign on the gate: ALCOHOL IS NOT ALLOWED HERE.
But Kito is being eaten away. What did the doctor even say?
It’s 11 pm. 8 pm on the side of mama. You dial her number. “How is Dubai?” Her voice, tired, steadies to normal. Mama always forgets. You want to say, It’s United Arab Emirates, Mama. Dubai is just one of the Seven Emirates. And you am in Al Ain, another Emirate. But you just say, “It’s fine, Mama."
“The night has come earlier,” she says. It has been raining all day. Business is low key. She thanks you again for the money I sent last time. She has bought more goods, and is hoping to expand her business. “Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow will be better,” she declares.  Now her voice is singing in my ears, dancing down my stomach. You have missed her Fufu and Bitter dearly.
“Tomorrow will be better,” you hear myself say out loud. No. You want to go home. You keep walking as if home is a few paces away.  
 

When Santa woke up, he lay still, as was his custom, and took account of his situation. He was in his home, in his bed. The phone was ringing. It was morning. Wincing back the familiar headache, he made a mental note (yet again) to cut back on the Schnapps.
            “Well Nickie, old boy, “he said to himself. “It’s another fine day and you don’t have to worry about fucking Christmas for another nine months.” He groaned with loud satisfaction, rolled over on his side, swung his legs off the bed and sat up. Lifting his arm, he turned his head and sniffed deeply. Rank pits. He would take a shower when he damned well pleased.
            He had to piss and was half-hard. With pride of ownership, he held his cock in his left hand, smiling through his fading headache. Last night, the Tooth Fairy had spent a righteous night: him bellowing and her screaming out their orgasms. He reached down to the floor for his lederhosen and pulled them on. “Nickie-boy, you gotta’ start using condoms. No telling how long she lingers at all those beds she sneaks around.” He combed his beard with his fingers pensively. A girl with her inclinations could spoil his sack of goodies.
         Scratching his belly absently, he stood and slid his feet into his slaps. “Goddamn bunions.” Hobbling for the first few steps, stiff-backed and bent over, he headed down the hall to the kitchen. The phone rang again.
            Eggs and bacon sounded good, but there were fresh mouse tracks in the frying pan. All the dishes were dirty and he was out of paper plates. Cold cereal in a coffee cup was an option, but… He sighed. It would take forever to get his stomach full one cup at a time.
            He should never have let Claudia get a job. She’d met some goofball at her twelve-step meetings who’d sold her on multi-level marketing. Now, she was always off at trade shows, showing product. Shit. Everybody knew what a loser’s scam that was. He’d talked to her until he was blue in the face. But she ignored him. Now they had inventory all over the workshop—and invoices! Who the hell needed invoices?
             He started to clear off the countertop; dishes in teetering stacks, take-out boxes, beer bottles. A mouse skittered behind the toaster. “Fuck!” He roared, jumping back.
            He picked up a barbeque fork and stabbed around behind the toaster. He yelled in the direction of the mouse, “I move more fucking product than anyone on the face of this fucking planet!”  A beer bottle fell over, the neck broke off, and the phone rang again.
            “Fucking bitch!  I should never have bought her those god-damned teeth!” He stood in the middle of his semi-modern kitchen—flourescent lights in a dropped ceiling, large pantry, Jenn-air, Viking, a dishwasher, microwave, marble countertop. It had cost a fortune to ship all these improvements. The installation had taken months. Between doing the kitchen remodel and Claudia using the workshop for her warehouse/office, the elves were getting bitchy—talking union.
          Who needed 400 cases of motor oil that you could also use to brush your teeth?
           Again, the phone started ringing. His lower lip trembled. There was a half-bottle of Jack in the cupboard, but he told himself last night that he was gonna’ work in the garden this morning, dig the warm earth, plant peppers, radishes and marigolds. He wanted to believe that connecting with the simple things in life would restore him.
           And in the middle of good intent he remembered a text his bookie had sent: The Knicks had Boston at home in The Garden this week—plus 3 ½. Garnett was injured and Shaq still couldn’t make a free throw. No. Today, he was going to start putting his life back together.
            After only a slight pause, the phone started ringing again. He glanced at it the way one would at a loaded gun. He knew who it was and what they wanted. He owed a lot of money. The trouble was that he’d never held that money in his hand—neither the wagers nor the winnings. He never saw the money, just like he never saw the faces of the little children. It was all abstract. Winning didn’t make him happy and losing didn’t bring him down. The only thing he ever felt was the jingle—the anticipation of placing a bet.
            How had it come to this? A hundred years ago he was the only man in the sky at night. He made toys of wood—there was no plastic. It all used to be so simple.
            Ignoring the phone, Santa took down the bottle of Jack and headed for the garden.
 
 

​In a tight white tank and pink and white extra short shorts, Tess heard the sound of the truck getting closer.  The huge red 18 wheeler barreled around the long curve as the sun began to set.  She waved her arms frantically, using her bright pink bag as a flag. Her heart began to race and she felt the sweat on her brow. The truck screeched to a halt, in front of her.  The window rolled down slowly.
"Where to little lady?" she heard a creepy voice ask.
 "As far as you can bring me." answered Tess.
"Hop in," the driver said. "What's your name darling?"
"Brittany."
"Well you can call me Goldie," the driver said flashing those two dingy gold teeth.


 Tess walked up to open the door of the truck. She quickly slid the zipper of her pink backpack open, to slightly expose the black and gold handle of her dagger.  Tess shifted the backpack to her right shoulder before closing the door. She sat on an old cracked leather seat that rocked as the truck began to move as "On the Road Again" played from the radio. Tess looked around the shabby truck, for any weapons. The knobs and buttons on the dashboard and radio were faded and there was empty Burger King bags and wrappers everywhere.  From the rearview mirror, hung purple, gold, and green, beads Tess was sure Goldie had gotten from Mardi Gras, that had just ended a day ago. After all that's where he had seen Mara, her best friend.
The smell of urine and liquor was so strong, Tess felt as if it were burning the hairs in her noise. The smell caused her to vomit but she swallowed it back down to keep from alerting Goldie .  Tess wasn’t listening as Goldie drove and talked.  She was trying to control her nerves.  You must wait until the right moment or you will die, Tess reminded herself.  No mistakes and no hesitations, you will never get this chance again.
 "Yeah, you sure are a sweet little thing," hissed Goldie, between those ugly gold teeth.
Tess faked a giggle. "So I've been told," she responded back.
"Vegas is my next stop.  A pretty little thing like you can do big things out there."
"Really?"
"Yes ma'am. I can set you up with a partner of mine when we get there, if you like."
"You won't live that long," Tess mumbled underneath her breath.
"What's that you said, pretty lady?"
"You would do that for me?" Tess quickly lied.
"Well hell yeah!"
"So what can I do for you, Mr. Goldie?"
"It's just Goldie, and you can do whatever your pretty little heart desires."
In that instant Tess went from nervous to angry. She knew now more than ever that this wretched creature needed to be extinguished. He had killed her best friend Mara, because she fought back before he had a chance to sell her to the black market. He'd snapped her neck and tossed her body out like the garbage that laid on the floor of his truck. Although there had not been enough evidence to convict him, the little bit of information she had gotten from the detective and her own digging had led her straight to him. This had been his regular route for the last 3 years and just like clockwork, she was in place at just the right time.
 Mara had not been the only girl he had tried to sell, but on her life, Tess vowed, she would be the last.
An hour had passed and Goldie rambled on and on, while taking a gulp from an old beaten up flask. Tess barely spoke, just an occasional giggle or "really?" here and there. She was waiting for the right moment, to execute the monster who took her one and only friend. The truck began slowing down.
"Well pretty lady, I gotta drain the main vein," sneered Goldie "care to hold it for me?"
"Sure Goldie, just come around to my side."
The truck came to a sudden stop and Goldie laughed loudly, "now that's what I'm talking about!"
Goldie threw the truck in park, hit the hazard lights opened the door and jumped out the truck. As soon as he got in front of the passenger door, Tess kicked it open, hitting Goldie in the face and knocked him down.
"What the hell!" he yelled.
Before he could get up, Tess was out of the truck and on top of Goldie. He struggled under her small frame, probably from the liquor. 
"I was going to have some fun with you first, but now I'm going to kill you slowly, he growled.
Tess punched him in the nose, so hard she heard the bone break. "Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit, you won't live to kill anyone else!"
Goldie fought to get up, swinging his arms wildly. Tess punched him a few more times. Goldie laid very still now; blood dripping from his nose and mouth.
"This is for Mara," Tess said and shoved the dagger all the way through his neck.

Author is originally from America, but has been living in Moscow, Russia for 24 years.
Life adventures: Musician, Stage Actor, Writer, ProfessorTwelve literary publications in America ( 9 short stories, 3 poems)
Regular contributor to “Russia-Insider” website featuring articles on Russian culture, politics and philosophy
 paulkindlon55@gmail.com

​      When my father began rowing the boat, I felt a surge of excitement, “Dad! How long will it take to get there?”
“Maybe an hour”
“Oh. This water looks really deep.”
“It is. I believe it goes down to around 500 feet in some places “
“Wow! Are there any monsters in the lake?”
“Ernest, that’s just in fiction. Monsters only live in the imagination. “
“Do you write about monsters?”
“Try not to. Actually, the island we’re going to is where I wrote my best story. Unfortunately, it was never published”
“How come? “
“That’s a very good question, son. I’ve often wondered about that. It had everything.Great style and structure. Believable characters. It was a story about an Indian woman who was pregnant and having trouble. A doctor came to help her give birth. After he assisted in the process, he discovered that the father had committed suicide just minutes before. Killed himself with a knife.
You see death is a natural thing. Just like life. But it’s also mysterious... almost as mysterious as the publishing game. You just never know.”
“Dad...is dying hard? “
“To be honest, a lot of factors come into play. What a person’s done, for example. Adventures. Scandals. Crazy lifestyle. A person can struggle for years without being noticed. Actually, writing is the easy part. Getting published is difficult. “
“But Dad...what about dying?”
“Oh that...well of course it doesn’t hurt. “

                                                                               "Originally published for The Opiate"

Sarah Koch was born and raised in Pennsylvania, spending most of her life in the reading area. She first started writing in high school, and now looks to finish a degree in creative writing. She currently goes to Full Sail University, and hopes to one day be a director and writer.

A smile on rosy cheeks marked the happiest days of early years.
          “Happy birthday!”
          The pair of young love watched paper tear from box, listening to the delightful surprise of squeals and giggles from their only flame in the tiny, two bedroom, grungy apartment. The world outside those pasty, thin walls seemed barricaded. It was bliss and nothing could pierce the shield they’ve built around their precious porcelain doll. Her smile faded to tears at the pure joy that came from such a sadly simple gift. She clicked the camera as the boy of now four held up his Transformer action figure, with realistic fighting action and buttons that caused parts to light up, move, or speak. His tiny teeth grinned ear to ear as he proudly displayed his new possession to his father, who replied with a face of seemingly equal shock and awe, as if he had never seen anything so wonderful.
                But nothing could be further from the truth.
              The fact was, the recession hit hard-hit everyone hard. Jobs were dropped left and right over the sides of this sinking ship. Most of those furthest from the carnage just shut their eyes and covered their ears and let those who would fall first take the plunge, while others of their ilk simply complained and made their stake in what they thought might patch this now pathetic bucket of nails. He did everything he could to keep his family afloat. He built his own life boat out of the scraps of whatever he could find. But the odd job here and there was barely sustainable. So little did he earn that, in fact, even with her moving away from “stay at home momming” their bills left them nothing for extra. Fun was that of a distant memory, what they could do had to be expense free.
            “Please, here, we have some extra, take your son to the movies.” Polite gestures from well-meaning friends and family came often.
                “No,” they would say, “we can do this ourselves.”
                The swelling of pride and so much more filled the room, almost so strong as to be pungent. It nearly pealed the original paint off the walls. But, so high on their little one’s happiness that it didn’t matter the smell. Hard work pays off… sometimes. They looked up at each other, mom and dad, and exchanged a relieved smirk.
         "Is there nothing more we can give him? Just one, single present?” The discussion just days before.
                “Honey, I know it’s hard, but he’ll love it. This is all we could afford right now.”
                “I could take another job.”
             “No, someone has to be around sometimes to take care of him, we can’t afford a nanny.”
                As their son flew around the room with his Autobot, mom put the camera down. She could only turn away. The tears may not have been out of sadness, but she couldn’t ruin it, not today. She couldn’t, yet all the weight of worry, of work, it seemed to push the flood gates wide open. Dad followed her into their bedroom. It was barely big enough for the bed they had brought over from their house. You could see a picture of it on the mold-colored walls. Yet even the selling off their home and most of their possessions couldn’t drain their sea of debt.
           He felt it too, as he lay down beside her. He clutched her hand tight as if he could feel her slipping away. He wished he could fix it, that this was something a hammer and nails would mend. But, unlike a bandage or a new coat of paint, nothing would cover the transition from a fenced in yard to nine hundred square feet of living space. He wiped his eyes, had to be strong. How could he put that on his wife and child? How could he even face them with just how far he let them down?
               “Autobots, roll out!”
             The strange sound jerked them both away from their off-white bed sheets. They leaned forward, sitting up as plastic red and blue greeted their dripping faces. And a no-longer laughing boy, determination his radiant cloak, squeezed between them, slipping under their cotton, red and gold comforter. He looked up at them, with the most serious expression a boy his age could muster.
                 “Thank you mommy. Thank you daddy.”
                And there it was. They wrapped their arms around him, entwining their gaze upon his cheeks. Their wet smiles felt less heave, if only just a little. And here, in this tiny room, at least they could keep the outside at bay, if only for the night.
​

M. M. Wildwood graduated from Vermont College of Fine Arts with an M.F.A. in Fiction in 2014, but since Starfleet doesn't exist yet and pterodactyl rider stopped being a viable occupation about 65 million years ago, M. M. settled in Seattle, where she drinks too much coffee while working on her first novel, Heartwood.

 ​ 
The smell of the morgue hit Frankie hard. The disinfectants burned his nose after the long hours at the gym, where the smell of sweat and blood and dirt pervaded. As he walked toward Raja’s office at the back, the slap of his dress shoes against the sloped tile floor echoed in the dead air.
     Frankie glanced sideways at the wall of metal drawers as he passed them. He knew The Lioness’s body was in one of them, but he didn’t know which one. This unnerved him, as if not being able to see her body made her death less real, even though he had witnessed it himself not even a week ago. Had he been younger, the crunch of The Lioness’s vertebra coming unstacked beneath the force of The Grizzly’s fist might have kept him up all week, but he’d seen too much over the decades, and so her death only lingered in his stomach, as a deep, familiar ache, and in the feeling that he’d cast his eyes across the gym one day and see her in the practice ring. He looked firmly away from the wall of metal drawers.
     The door to Raja’s office was partially ajar. Frankie knocked on the frame. From the way Raja jumped at the noise, Frankie might as well have fired a handgun.
     “You scared the fuckin’ shit outta me, man,” complained Raja when he realized that it was just Frankie. “Jesus, it took you long enough to get out here.”
     “I was busy,” said Frankie. “I still am. So cut the niceties and tell me what was so important that I had to drive all the way out here.”
     He had a gym to run and a stack of paperwork to wade through before the insurance company would even think about paying out.
     “Sorry, man, I just—this shit’s gonna blow your fuckin’ mind.”
     Despite his diction, Raja was the best coroner in the city, and it was that reason only that had summoned Frankie here at Raja’s bequest.
     “Get to the point,” he told Raja.
     Raja grabbed a piece of paper off his desk and shoved it in Frankie’s face. Frankie took the paper from Raja and glanced over it. It was a read-out from a series of blood tests.
     “You see that?” asked Raja, pointing to a number. “That number isn’t normal. The Lioness’s potassium was too high. Weird high. So I ran some more tests. Did you know that she was taking beta-blockers?”
     “That’s impossible. The Lioness was tested before her last match. If she hadn’t been clean, she wouldn’t have been allowed to compete.”
“Let me guess. Q told you the results?”
     “You know that,” said Frankie. He frowned. “You think Q was dosing The Lioness?”
     “Not just dosing.” Raja licked his lips and smoothed his short, black goatee down with one hand. His eyes darted nervously to the partially open door. “I think Q poisoned her.”
     “What?”
     “Hyperkalemia—high potassium—can be a symptom of foxglove poisoning,” explained Raja. “Certain medications—beta-blockers, for instance—can make individuals more susceptible to foxglove poisoning. At the time of her death, The Lioness had foxglove in her system. Not enough to kill alone, but combined with the beta-blockers, it would have thrown her game off.”
     Frankie folded the paper up and put it in the breast pocket of his suit.
     “Does anyone else know about this?” he asked.
     Raja shook his head.
     “Good,” said Frankie. “Keep it that way.”
     “Fuck, man. If the Federation finds out about this, it ain’t just Q’s ass on the line. It’s going to be ours, too.”
     Frankie stared at Raja with his one good eye. His other eye, made of glass, stared straight ahead. The effect was disconcerting and occasionally made Frankie appear cross-eyed. Had he been a softer man, he might have been thought stupid.
     Twenty years in the boxing business and eight in the drug business before that had given Frankie an edge not easily diminished. The retribution of the Federation officials if they found out that he had failed to report his full findings concerning The Lioness’s autopsy scared Raja, but their retribution, although endlessly creative and painful in Raja’s imagination, was still merely hypothetical.
     Frankie was definitely not hypothetical.
     Raja swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
 
                                                                             #
 
Frankie sat in his office. He hadn’t moved an inch since coming straight from Raja’s. The gym had closed hours ago and even the janitor had gone home. He was so entrenched in his thoughts that he jerked when the door was thrown open and a canvas bag landed heavily on his desk. He caught his papers just before they were swept over the edge and looked up at Q.
     “Go on,” said Q, thrusting her lower jaw forward as she spoke, as if she had to tear her words out of the air. “Open it.”
     Frankie unzipped the canvas bag. He knew what the contents would be before he saw them, of course. What he was unprepared for was the smell: the ink on the crisp, bank-issued bills was so strong that Frankie felt his balls tighten.
     “Where would you even…” Realization struck Frankie, crumpling his stomach. “You bet against The—”
     Q held one finger up against her lips, the barest hint of a smile edging onto her mouth. “Let’s just say, I’ve come into a sudden windfall.”
     Frankie stared at Q. He’d thought, all this time, that it was only about revenge. But it was more than that. It was the damn game. It destroyed people, not just bones and bodies. It decimated that intangible part of a person that acted as a natural balance against humanity’s most self-centered desires; it took a person’s soul and wrung it out like a sopping bar rag.
     “Is this… supposed to be some kind of bribe?” asked Frankie.
     Q scoffed. “No. It’s the fee.”
     “The… fee…” Q wanted to fight? “I’m not— you think I’m going to contract you?”
     Q looked up at him, fixing her solid dark eyes on his face. “You’ve been practically begging me to fight since you first saw me at Rick’s.”
     “I’ve changed my mind,” said Frankie.
     “I’ll put it this way,” said Q. “If you don’t agree to contract me, I’ll go to the Federation and tell them that you told me to do it.”
     She handed him a slip of paper. A betting ticket. He saw the name scrawled on it, recognized the scrawl because it was the same chicken-scratch signature resting at the bottom of The Lioness’s contract. Q had signed his name on the bet.
     It was supposed to be a threat, but unlike Raja, Frankie was not afraid of The Federation. He’d lost everything there was to lose. Well, almost.
 
                                                                                  #
 
Most boxers picked out their names when they registered their contract with the Federation. Some, like The Viper, earned theirs the old-fashioned way: on the street. People had cursed each other with her name. They whispered it in the dark and they made up legends about her.
     “They call her The Viper,” Alejandro had told Frankie a long time ago, “because she only strikes once. Then bam. You’re dead.”
     Frankie had been nineteen at the time and dealing crack. He was high when he’d laughed at his cousin and said, “I ain’t afraid of that bitch.”
     A week later, he had been walking home alone at three in the morning, feeling brave because of the shit in his blood or maybe because of the .45 Smith & Wesson tucked in his waistband, when next thing he knew, he was stretched flat on the concrete, a knife pressed up against his throat.
     “You afraid now?” she’d whispered. The Viper’s voice knotted itself around his throat, choking his vocal chords.
     “Fuck… you…” managed Frankie.
     The Viper shoved the knife into his eye without hesitating. He’d screamed, clutching his face, as blood poured down his skin, slippery and slick.
     “Fuck! Fuck you! You motherfucking little—” He’d started crying hysterically, the tears and snot mixing with the blood.
     Through the mess and the blistering pain, Frankie saw the moonlight catch The Viper’s face as she rose above him. She smiled, her face a calm mask, and she watched him bleed. One side of her mouth lifted slightly, and her eyes were as cold as Hell.
     He would never forget that smile. When even Frankie’s memory of being nine and seeing his father’s bullet-strewn body in the morgue faded to the soft blur of something that could have happened to someone else, that memory of The Viper never dimmed. It was as if, instead of losing his eye, it had simply become stuck on that single image, haunting him with no concern for whether he was asleep or awake.
 
                                                                              #
 
Frankie didn’t hear that The Viper was even thinking about contracting until after she had signed with Lou. Frankie knew he should stay away from The Viper altogether for the sake of his one good eye, but he felt compelled to see her again. He’d quit the drug business the day The Viper had cut him. It had been a turning point for him, and he felt he owed her, in some strange way, for the turn his life had taken. He had a real job now, helping Rick out with his gym.
     A boy who sometimes washed the floors on the weekends ran in, hollering about The Viper. It took a few minutes to calm down the boy enough to get the full story out of him: The Viper had signed a contract for five years. Frankie didn’t know what price she’d gotten, but it was probably record-breaking.
     Eventually his curious need to thank The Viper overcame his sense of self-protection. The next day, before his shift, Frankie stopped by Lou’s gym. It had been three years since The Viper had stabbed him. A terrified boy was with her in the practice ring, trying to steady the bag as The Viper wailed on it. Sweat broke out on Frankie’s skin. A sharp ache started in his socket behind his glass eye.
     He walked up to where she was boxing and touched the boy on the shoulder. The moment the boy realized that someone wanted to relieve him of his duty he fled. Frankie gripped the bag and nodded around the edge. He licked his lips, which were dry.
     “Hey,” he tried.
     The Viper didn’t respond. She just raised her fists and started hitting the bag again.
     “You know, you could have gotten a better deal if you’d signed with my boss,” said Frankie.
     “Don’t talk.”
     “I was just trying to make conversation.”
     The Viper quit punching.
     “No one asked you to make conversation. And you don’t know shit about my deal, so don’t fucking pretend. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, so just fucking leave me alone.”
     “Fine,” said Frankie.
     He started to leave, when The Viper slugged him on the bicep so hard his arm went numb.
     “Fuck!” he cried. “Why the hell did you do that?”
     “I remember you,” said The Viper suddenly. “You’re the little pussy that cried when I cut up your face.”
     “Like you wouldn’t have cried if someone stabbed you in the eye?”
     Without a word, The Viper ripped off her gloves and pulled up the loose shirt hanging over her sports bra. On her stomach there were five twisted white marks the size of quarters.
     “I didn’t,” she said.
     Frankie breathed out, sharp and quick. His vision fractured; in his left eye, he saw The Viper smiling cruelly over his bleeding body, while in his right eye, he saw the woman before him now. She held her anger in her hands like it was an extension of that knife in that alley years ago. But Frankie knew anger wasn’t a weapon. If anything, it was a bellow, and the more it was worked, the quicker you burned up from inside out.
     Frankie reached out and touched her hand. He didn’t hate The Viper. He couldn’t hate her. He hovered his fingertips over the smooth back of her fist. He didn’t breathe. The Viper looked at him, eyes digging into him with as much heat and pain as her knife four years before, but she didn’t push him away.
 
                                                                                #
 
Frankie was at Ezekiel’s, the crappy, run-down little bar on the corner, when Lou came in. It’d been four months since he’d contracted The Viper. Lou slapped the bar with a fifty and told the bartender, “Keep them coming.”
     “Tough day?” asked Frankie. He was surprised to see Lou at the bar at all, let alone in a hurry to get drunk. There was a big match in just a few days’ time, and if he’d been in Lou’s shoes, he would’ve been keeping a close eye on The Viper to make sure she didn’t over-train and wear herself out.
     “Goddamn woman,” said Lou.
     Frankie lifted his eyebrows; the skin around his false eye shifted, creating the illusion that Frankie was horrified by Lou’s slander, not merely interested.
     “I can’t fucking believe it.” Lou covered his head with one gigantic hand and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Of all the people to pull this kind of shit, her? That’s what I don’t get.”
     By now Frankie was sure that Lou was talking about The Viper, but he had no idea what she had done to piss Lou off this bad. Had she tried to get out of her contract? Fighters couldn’t be forced to fight. But there were financial penalties; earnings had to be paid back in full, with twenty percent interest, and late fees totaled hundreds per month. Since most people were driven to fight because they were too broke to do anything else, the financial incentive to finish out their contracts was high.
     “What did she do?” asked Lou.
     “The goddamn bitch got knocked up.”
 
                                                                                  #
 
Within a month of her pregnancy hitting the tabloids, The Viper shocked the world again by announcing that she was engaged. Frankie had never heard The Viper talk about the man. He didn’t even know where they’d met, or when. He knew better than to ask The Viper about her pregnancy directly; they didn’t talk about things like that. They rarely talked about anything.
     It wasn’t the fact that The Viper had gotten pregnant that had riled Lou up; it was the fact that she refused to get an abortion. The contract provided for this contingency, too; fighters were exempt from the ring for the duration of their pregnancy plus two weeks.
     Frankie didn’t know what The Viper’s fiancé thought about her pregnancy. He was a withdrawn man. Quiet. He wasn’t a thug, didn’t deal crack, didn’t own a gun or a gym. He didn’t even attend the matches. Frankie knew it was a fruitless exercise to try and guess at The Viper’s endgame, but she had wrapped her coils around him too tightly to stop now.
     He didn’t allow himself to think of the possibility that the child was his.
 
                                                                               #
 
When The Viper’s daughter, Q, turned four, Frankie took her to see her mother fight. Q’s father didn’t protest when Frankie showed up on his doorstep to pick Q up, even though Frankie didn’t think he had been expecting him. The Viper’s husband just let this strange man take his daughter away.
     They took the train to the arena where The Viper was fighting. As the train sped through the city, Frankie stared out the dirty window. Q didn’t say anything.
     The arena where The Viper was fighting was massive, the largest on the coast. The cheapest chairs were only five bucks a pop. Two men in suits met them at the door and escorted them to a reserved section.
     After Lou had told Frankie about The Viper’s pregnancy, Frankie had quit his job at Rick’s and started working for Lou. He still worked for Lou, technically, but Lou’s mother had fallen ill and Frankie was managing the gym fully in Lou’s absence.
     The benches in the reserved section were cold and hard, but the view was better and no one jostled them while flagging down the concessions boy. Giant screens lined the walls like paper, capturing the ring from every side. As Q’s mother stepped into the ring, the screens captured the first swish of yellow silk around her strong thighs.
     The fight was quick. Eight minutes. The Viper knocked her opponent down and slammed her fists into her face like she was forging steel. The cameras caught it all in high-def, down to the flecks of blood that beaded her face like wet freckles. The corner of her lips lifted, exposing white teeth rimmed in red.
     Frankie shivered. He’d seen fighters die in the ring before, but the concentration on The Viper’s face made his balls shrink. He glanced at Q. Her eyes were dark and flat as she took in the fight. He had taken Q to the match on The Viper’s orders, but as he gazed into Q’s undisturbed face, Frankie felt the hot breath of doubt curl around his neck.
 
                                                                           #
 
“I’m worried about Q,” Frankie told The Viper. “I think maybe I shouldn’t take her to see you fight anymore.”
     The Viper’s fingers were twisted around his neck, nails digging into the soft valleys between his vertebrae. She pressed her mouth against his body so hard she drew the blood up to the skin.
     In retrospect, his timing could have been better.
     The Viper’s grip tightened. “What are you implying?”
     “Never mind,” said Frankie.
     “No, tell me.”
     Frankie knew she was going to hit him. He could already feel the blood spreading through his mouth. He knew it was going to hurt, too, but he knew it wasn’t going to hurt as much as being stabbed in the eye with a knife. He was no longer a scared boy, mistaking his ego for just cause to run his mouth like he was some kind of rapper. Something real was at stake. It didn’t matter if he was the child’s father or not; Frankie had developed a concern for Q. He wanted to submit to the woman with her murderous hand wrapped around his throat, out of desire for her as much as self-preservation, but he found he was unable to.
     “She isn’t bothered by any of it,” said Frankie.
     To his surprise, The Viper didn’t strike him. She released his neck, and stood up, pulling her discarded clothes on.
     “I forgot that you’re so normal,” she spat.
     Frankie didn’t try to stop her from leaving.
 
                                                                           #
 
Contracting his own boxer was harder than Frankie had expected. The paperwork was the easy part. Waiting for it to be approved took three years. As he waited, he scraped together as much as he could, so he would be able to afford the sixty thousand for the contracting fee when the time came.
     Frankie kept himself busy, but simultaneously ignoring The Viper and keeping one (distant) eye on her, was a task made all the harder by the fact that they ran in the same circle. The first time he heard someone call Q “her mother’s daughter,” Frankie felt regret flare up in his joints. He had never wanted to be a father, but he was feeling the years pile up like shovelfuls of dirt, and with it came the instinctual desire to leave a legacy of his own behind.
 
                                                                             #
 
Everyone else expected The Viper to finish her contract and collect her money and take her husband and child and retire somewhere quiet. Frankie had learned a long time ago that The Viper was more liable to do the exact opposite of what everyone else expected.
     And that’s exactly what The Viper did: before the blood even dried on her shorts after her final fight, she signed herself over for another five years.
 
                                                                            #
 
Frankie was surprised when The Lioness approached him seeking a contract. He knew the business as well as anyone, but he was unproven. She manipulated these facts, wedging him into a corner. In the end, she negotiated a bargain that Frankie was careful to never discuss with his peers, who would have undoubtedly made some crude comments about his balls being located into The Lioness’s gym bag.
     As a freshly-approved contract holder with his first fighter, The Lioness, Frankie was guaranteed a ticket to The Viper’s final match of her second contract. Without his new status, he would never have been able to get in. Ticket prices had tripled, then tripled again. The match had been sold out for five months. Those who couldn’t get into the arena watched the match unfold on streaming billboards and TVs and phones. They gathered in parking lots and bars.
     Even the reserved section was packed with contract holders and fighters and family members. Frankie had come alone. On the far side of the section he spotted Q, also alone. Nine years old now, Q was starting to resemble her mother a little more, but her black eyes, which watched emotionlessly, were her own. Frankie looked away.
     As The Viper climbed into the ring, Frankie studied her. He had seen photographs of her over the years, but none of them had captured her face the way the wall-sized screens did now.
     She had suffered injuries. She had scars. The ridge over her right eye had been permanently smashed in a couple years back and had healed crooked. The damage did not stop her from captivating everyone’s gaze who looked at her, though. Her long hair was shorter, but the cut only accentuated the strong, hard line of her neck and the smooth, wound muscles of her shoulders.
     Tension hummed in the air. If The Viper walked away from this match she would be the first person in the history of the Federation to finish two contracts without serious injury or death intervening.
     The Shark sized up her opponent from across the ring. Her eyes, thin slices in her face, narrowed in on The Viper. When the bell rang, the two boxers moved in. They circled like beasts, each trying to sense fear, to analyze when and where to strike first to seize the upper hand.
     An uneasy feeling grew in Frankie’s stomach. Everyone expected The Viper to win the fight. Everyone wanted her to win. As the fight progressed, Frankie’s unease colligated into something observable: for three rounds, The Viper didn’t raise her hands except in defense.
     Between the third and fourth rounds, Lou got up in the ring and spoke hurriedly to The Viper. After Frankie and The Viper’s falling out, Frankie had left Lou’s gym to strike out on his own, forcing Lou to come out of his quasi-retirement. Time had not been kind to the other man. Frankie could see the sweat glistening on Lou’s brow; it was worse than The Viper’s. The Viper listened to Lou as she poured water on her face. Then she nodded and stood up. The referee checked to make sure both opponents were ready again, then rang the bell.
     Immediately, the fight changed. The Shark had sensed The Viper’s weakness. She didn’t hesitate. The Shark feinted and when The Viper raised her arms hastily to defend herself, she struck. Pinned against the side of the ring, The Viper couldn’t move. Even if the Federation rules had allowed it, the referee wouldn’t have been able to stop The Shark. Beneath her fists, The Viper’s bones broke like boulders cracking. By the time the buzzer went off at the end of round four, The Viper was already dead.
 
                                                                         #
 
Frankie went to check up on Q after the funeral, only to find the house that The Viper had lived in with her husband and Q stripped and empty. Frankie didn’t blame them for wanting to move, nor did he expect to see Q ever again. He stopped sleeping well, spending longer days at the gym, focusing all his energy on The Lioness’s career.
     And then one day he stopped by Rick’s gym to meet with his old boss and there she was.
     “Q?”
     She had turned at the sound of her name, even if it was from unfamiliar lips. Frankie was struck by how much she looked like The Viper. Q could have been her clone, except for her dark eyes and her short hair, which was cropped close to her head, almost buzzed. Her face was the same, especially the set of her mouth.
     “I didn’t know you were still in the game,” said Frankie.
     “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
     “I’m— I was— I knew your mother. Did Rick contract you?”
     Confusion lifted from Q’s face. “No, I’m not a boxer. I patch people up.”
     “People?” asked Frankie.
     “Yeah,” said Q. She nodded at someone behind Frankie. “Like her.”
     Frankie glanced over his shoulder. The boxer that Q had nodded to was warming up in the ring. Frankie recognized her instantly, even though he had only seen her fight once. The Rat was the lightest boxer in the Federation. She was relatively new, having only been contracted seven months before. Frankie knew she wouldn’t last long. She probably wouldn’t even make it through her next fight. She just didn’t have the strength that the bigger boxers did.
     “You’re wasting your time fixing her up,” Frankie told Q. “If you want, I’ll contract you. I only have one boxer currently, The Lioness. She’s good. A lot better than The Rat.”
     From the ring, Frankie heard The Rat call to Q. “Is that guy bothering you, babycakes?”
     “I’m fine,” Q reassured her. In a quieter voice, she told Frankie, “Look. I’m not signing a contract. With you or anyone else. Period. I don’t care who my mother was.”
     “Sure,” said Frankie. He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Q. “In case you change your mind.”
     He hesitated then. He could tell how Q felt about The Rat. He wanted to tell Q not to get attached. That The Rat wouldn’t make it. But then he shook his head and said, “Nice seeing you,” and headed for Rick’s office.
 
                                                                            #
 
A year passed before Frankie got the notice: The Lioness’s next match would be against The Rat. Frankie closed his eyes. He could visualize the fight. The Lioness, dressed in gold, would draw the fight out and toy with The Rat for a round or two, maybe even three. If The Rat was dumb enough to underestimate The Lioness, she might think she had a chance. But eventually The Lioness would grow bored or angry. Then she’d flip like a switch. The Rat, being a mediocre boxer, would probably try to clinch and wrap her arms around The Lioness to break her momentum. Already tired, the novice move would exhaust The Rat, and seal the outcome.
 
                                                                             #
 
When the referee ordered them to punch out, The Lioness’s lips curled. She raised her fists and a second later her left hook crashed into The Rat’s face. Frankie heard her spine snap. As The Rat fell, Frankie looked at Q. She was standing on the sidelines, clutching a bloody towel. When her mother had died ten years ago, Q hadn’t even cried. Like it wasn’t her mother who had just been killed, but some washed-up boxer on television. Now, as she watched The Rat die, the only indication that Q even knew her was the way she gripped the towel so hard that her skin seemed to thin out, exposing the hard ridges of her knuckles.
     When Q showed up at Frankie’s gym a week after the fight, Frankie was surprised, but pleased. He had heard rumors that Rick was getting out, that he just didn’t have the dough to back a new boxer.
     “It’s going to take me a little time to free up the money to register your contract,” Frankie told Q, “but I’m good for it.”
     “I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” said Q. “I’m not here for a contract.”    
     Frankie leaned back in his office chair. “If it’s patching work you’re after, I don’t have an opening at the moment.”
     “I don’t care. I’ll start anywhere. You’re looking for a janitor, right?”
     Frankie sat up. “You can’t be serious.”
     Q looked at him evenly, her dark eyes steady.
     “God, kid, if your mom could see you now. It’s true, though. The weekend boy quit. If you’re willing to scrub down the gym for peanuts, the job’s yours.” He sighed and ran a hand over the stubble on his scalp. “You absolutely sure you don’t want to contract?”
     “I’m sure,” said Q.
     “Alright. But if you change your mind, you know where my office is.”
     They stood up and shook hands. Before he had even let her hand go, a sudden commotion erupted outside of his office.
     Frankie made it to the railing just in time to see The Lioness release the body of Frankie’s patcher. He crumpled like a rag doll, neck snapped cleanly, like The Lioness was just cracking her knuckles.
     “I told him to stop harassing her. The paperwork—” Frankie sighed, then turned to Q who was crowding the railing next to him. “How do you feel about a pay raise?”
 
                                                                              #
 
Frankie thought Q would crack eventually. That she would give up her stubborn act and ask him to contract her. Frankie had seen plenty of people seduced by the game. People who had sworn up and down that it was the devil’s sport, that it should be banned, that it was wrong to sanction killing, even if it was trussed up with rules and lights and celebrities. In his experience these people were among those who experienced the greatest rush when the blood flecked their faces as the boxers in the ring fought.
     While he waited for Q to crack, he had to admit that she was good at her job. She cleaned and stitched and bandaged. She pushed and shoved and tugged until bones popped back into vacated joints. She rearranged the sweat and sinew beneath skin to make people whole again.
     He had gone back for some papers he had forgotten in his office when he saw them. The Lioness had Q pushed up against a locker, one hand around her throat, the other stretched out, palm down and spread wide, on the metal behind them. He stared at them through the cracked locker room door. As he watched, he saw The Lioness kiss Q roughly. Frankie turned away, closing his eyes as the weight of that night in that alley came over. It had been a long time since the vision of The Viper in the moonlight had haunted him, but it came back to him in an instant. Frankie breathed in, the stench of bleach rising from the floors steadying him. Frankie quietly climbed the stairs to his office and grabbed the file on his desk before sneaking back out.
     The next day, Q came into his office and dropped a packet on his desk.
     “The drug test results,” she explained. “No surprises. The Lioness is clean.”
     Before she could leave, Frankie pointed at the chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit.”
     “I’d prefer to stand,” said Q.
     Frankie looked at the surface of his oak desk, searching for the correct words. “Are you… I mean, is everything… alright?”
     “I’m fine,” said Q, crossing her arms. “Can I go?”
     Exhaling, Frankie leaned back in his chair. “Sure.”
     After Q left, Frankie wondered what he was going to do. While Frankie didn’t care what The Lioness and Q did on their own time, he needed The Lioness to keep her head clear. In a month she was going up against The Grizzly, and while The Lioness had crushed all her opponents so far, Frankie thought that she was getting a little careless lately. The Grizzly was not someone The Lioness could afford to toy with while fighting. She was fairly new to the game, but had come on stronger than any boxer in years. People were comparing her to The Viper. In the three matches she had had so far, she had crushed every opponent in the first round. The bets, although illegal among the contract holders, were already piling up against The Lioness.
     Q, for her part, was as inscrutable as her mother had been. He was glad he couldn’t reach inside her mind and see what she was thinking; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make his way through the dark tangle that called Q’s skull home. As for the paternal instinct guiltily welling like quicksand in his stomach, he couldn’t do anything about that, except make peace with it, he supposed. He wasn’t the kid’s father in any way that actually counted.
 
                                                                            #
 
The Lioness made it all the way to round three. Then The Grizzly got lucky, or maybe it was The Lioness who had been lucky all along, barely escaping every move The Grizzly made. The Grizzly’s scarred knuckles crashed into The Lioness’s jaw, cracking her cheekbone. The Lioness staggered back on the canvas, the arches of her feet lifting off the ring as her six-foot-three frame fell.
     The screens caught the moment, blowing it up so that everyone in the arena could see it. But Frankie didn’t look at the screens. His eyes were focused on Q’s blank face.    She wore a mask of cold neutrality, emotionless as a coroner’s camera. If she felt anything as she assessed the damage, her body betrayed none of it, not even to Frankie.
     Frankie knew that The Lioness was finished before her shoulders slammed into the ground. Her body bounced once, twice, before skidding to a stop, skin fighting friction, flesh torn up, ripped away from muscle-wrapped bone.
     The Lioness’s body came to a rest less than three feet in front of Frankie. Dark blood ran down her broad shoulders. As Frankie stared at The Lioness’s still eyes, the deafening silence that had settled over the audience broke and everyone began screaming at once.
 
                                                                              #
 
Q was still staring at him, the bag of money gaping open-mouthed on the desk between them. She could be bluffing. But the edge around Q’s mouth was the same edge The Viper had worn during all her fights.
     Maybe he could talk her out of it, thought Frankie. Maybe they could split the profit from the bet and go their separate ways. He could finally retire. And Q could shape up. Maybe even get into medical school if she wanted. She had a real talent. She could meet a nice girl and settle down.
     Even as he extended his hand to shake Q’s, Frankie knew that it was the most hopeless sort of wish, the kind that would do more than never come true; it would eat at him with the acidity that only regret was capable of, until the part of Frankie that hated the sport and what it was capable of rendering people into, metastasized.
     That was when he’d really die. Not thirty years from now, when his shriveled body lay in a cot in the hospice wing of a hospital. No, thought Frankie as he extended his hand to shake Q’s, he was dead the moment Q’s hand clutched his.

William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle).

Picture: Wikipedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lath_and_plaster

Kevin looked at himself in the mirror, making a last adjustment to his tie. He stepped hurriedly from his bedroom, already late.
   “Holy crap.”
   He stood stock-still, mouth agape. There, in the middle of the living room, an arm stuck out from the wall. He shook his head and stared at the horror before him.
   He took a few steps back — away from the human arm emerging from the wall. The hand clenched, then the fingers relaxed, clenched, and relaxed. Kevin moved closer. The entire arm, from shoulder to hand, was jutting out of the drywall. There was no hole, no damage, nothing to indicate the arm had forcibly poked through the wall. Rather, it appeared as if it were part of the wall itself. The two were seamlessly joined.
The arm moved again. It bent at the elbow, the hand touching the wall in several places. It slid over the surface, stopped, rubbing fingers and thumb together. The arm repeated the action, sweeping away from the wall. Extending its fingers, the hand grasped empty air. Then the arm relaxed, hand hanging limply.
  Kevin leaned as close as he dared and examined where the skin connected to the wall. He couldn’t see any breaks. Tentative, he poked the shoulder. The arm stiffened. He ran a fingertip down the upper arm, but it remained motionless. He hesitated, then looked closer at the muscle, and the hand suddenly lunged out and seized his forearm. Kevin jumped back in alarm, but the hand’s grip was tight and he couldn’t pull himself loose. He seized the wrist, pulling it in one direction as he pulled his own arm in the other.
   The arm’s grip slackened and Kevin pulled his forearm free, letting go as he did so. The arm flopped against the wall. Outside, a man yelled “Help! Help!” Kevin gaped at the arm for a moment, then ran to the window. Down one story, across the street and just inside the entrance to a small park, a man was screaming. He held his left hand over a gruesome wound: his right arm was gone. Kevin looked back at the wall, then out the window just in time to see the man run down the street and out of sight.
   Leaning close to the window, Kevin looked first left then right. Not seeing the man, he turned back to the arm in the wall. He placed a palm on his forehead and took a deep, steadying breath. Just then, a movement caught his attention in the corner of his eye. He turned back to the window and watched as a jogger come into view from the left. The man ran down the sidewalk toward the main entrance of the park before turning and taking two steps down the path. His body seemed to slam into something solid, knocking him backward. His shoulders hit the ground, but his left leg remained suspended in the air, no longer visible from mid-thigh down.
   Kevin whipped around: a leg kicked out from his wall. It wore an ankle sock and running shoe. He looked again to the park. The jogger flailed his arms, trying to grab onto something to pull himself up. But there was only air. He thrashed and yelled. His leg was gone. Kevin turned again to see the leg dangling from the wall, not believing what he was witnessing.
   Two people ran to the jogger’s aid. The first took off his jacket and covered the stump, while the other pulled out his belt and tied it in a tourniquet around the thigh. A police car came into view and the first Good Samaritan dashed into the street, waving his arms. He stood at the driver’s door, pointing back to the jogger.
   A dog passed, sniffing at a sign at the park entrance before raising its leg. The police officer was now running to the jogger, startling the dog, which scurried into the park and disappeared behind a bush. From behind Kevin a dog barked, and he spun around. The front half of the dog stuck out of the wall, its front paws on the floor. Its tongue hung out of its mouth as it panted. Seeing him, it barked again.
   Kevin ran up to the animal, stopping when it growled. He looked frantically about his apartment, wondering what to do. The animal stopped growling and stared at him. Kevin grabbed the dog’s collar and placed his other hand below the neck. He pushed; the dog didn’t budge. He pushed again. This time the dog went limp. Kevin let go of the animal and stepped back. Its head, front paws, and upper body hung limply from the wall, spilling onto the floor. It looked dead.
   A woman screamed. Fearing the worst, Kevin looked out the window then again at the wall. A child’s forearm was holding a balloon — in Kevin’s living room. Kevin grabbed at it with both hands and pushed. It didn’t move. The hand opened, and the balloon floated to the ceiling. Agitated, Kevin looked around the room before running to the kitchen. Yanking open a drawer, he used both hands to sort through various items until he pulled out a hammer. He ran back to the hallway and pounded the area surrounding the child’s arm, breaking the drywall. He dropped the hammer, grasped the forearm, and pushed the child’s arm into the wall. He let go and grabbed the hand. Shoving it flush up against the wall, he saw it disappeared. Kevin leaned over and looked through the hole. Nothing was visible. It simply looked like the inside of a wall.
   He ran back to the window. A woman gripped the hand of a little girl as she pulled her away from the park. The little girl was crying. Kevin scratched his head, staring at the park’s entrance. He turned back to glance at the wall.
   Many voices now sounded below. A teacher was leading a group of small children into the park. Kevin froze, gazing back and forth between the window and his wall. He ran to the apartment door, yanking it open. He bolted down the stairs, burst from the building. Several cars honked as he dodged between moving vehicles, sprinting toward the teacher. “Please don’t go in the park!”
   The woman looked startled. “Why not?”
   “It’s not safe.”
   “Not safe?” She sounded suspicious.
   A small boy walked around them, clearly making his way for the park.
   “No!” Kevin grabbed the boy and pulled him back. “Don’t go in the park.” He moved into the middle of the entrance and held out his arms. “You mustn’t go in here. It’s dangerous.” He shifted position, his foot catching a broken piece of sidewalk. Kevin lost his balance, turning to his left, and landed face forward with arm outstretched. There was a bright flash; he blinked. He was looking down, but not at the sidewalk; it was something else. He turned his head and scanned the area. He was in his apartment. His head, right arm, and part of his chest were sticking out of the wall. He could hear yelling coming from the park.
   Kevin pulled back, but, like the others, he couldn’t move. Shifting his weight, he pulled again. Nothing budged. Pushing on the wall with one arm, and on something solid with the other, Kevin found he couldn’t move his body forward or back. He looked down and saw the hammer. He reached out, straining for the handle, got a fingertip on it, and managed to slide it closer. Finally, he grasped the handle and brought the hammer level to his head. Then he pounded on the drywall. Chips flew and a cloud of dust formed as the wall cracked and crumbled. He twisted. He pulled. He twisted again. Bracing himself, Kevin jerked his entire body. He flew backward and fell into a sitting position on the sidewalk.
   “Oh my God, mister, are you all right?” The teacher stood over him, a look of utter panic on her face.
   Kevin sat, dazed. He held up his hand and looked at the hammer. “Don’t go in the park.” He jumped up without another word and dashed back across the street. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into his apartment. Raising the hammer, he pounded away at the wall. He smashed the drywall, section by section, pushing it between the studs. He broke the area around the dog, pushing it back into the wall until it disappeared. Kevin did the same for the leg and arm, continuing until he had reduced the entire wall to rubble.
  Standing back, he surveyed the damage. There was a large piece close to the ceiling, so Kevin reached up and hit it several times. He walked up and down the length of the hall, poking at broken pieces with the hammer as chunks of drywall fell to the floor.
   Somebody outside called out and Kevin went to the window. The teacher and the children stood by the entrance, looking up at his apartment. Three boys on skateboards came down the sidewalk, rolling into the park. They pushed off several times and disappeared down the main path. A dog came out from behind a bush and walked up to the children. Several of them stopped to pet the animal.
Kevin waved to the teacher, who turned back to her students. He glanced back at the hallway as they walked into the park. Nothing happened.
   He went back to the kitchen and put the hammer away. Taking a broom and dustpan from the utility closet, Kevin walked to the hallway and picked up pieces of drywall. He swept everything into the center and collected everything, even the dust.
There was an indistinguishable noise. He stopped and listened. Hearing nothing more, Kevin changed his grip and swept the broom across the floor. There was another noise. He stopped again.
   A voice issued from the bedroom. “How the hell did I get here?”


                                                                               END

David Macpherson is a retired internal medicine physician living on a small farm in western Pennsylvania.  He retired in 2016 as a Professor of Medicine from the University of Pittsburgh and as a Chief Medical Officer for the Veterans Health Administration serving as the lead physician in a mid-Atlantic region.  He is proud to have focused his medical efforts on US veterans.  He is married and has two adult children who serve as part of his network of reviewers who critique and help to improve his writing.  Most of the time, his family’s thoughts on his writing are correct, but not always.  Dr. Macpherson’s interest in writing fiction dates to the mid 1970’s.  During his medical career, he accumulated near thousands of excuses why not to sit and write fiction.  Since retirement, almost all of these excuses have vanished and he has drafted more than fifteen short stories and several flash fiction pieces under consideration.  In addition to numerous scientific publications, he has published two nonfiction pieces online in the Pittsburgh Quarterly.    His publication of “Grab and Run” in Scarlet Leaf Review is his first fiction publication. 

Crystal wasn’t the most experienced Wal-Mart cashier but after a year, she had seen a few things.  She witnessed two grab and runs.  When a customer’s credit card was declined, most would pull out cash or just leave in angry embarrassment.  But twice, they sprinted out of the store with the item.  The first time, the thief—Crystal couldn’t decide whether thief was too harsh a label—was a sullen, tough-looking man in his forties.  He stole a hunting vest.   Crystal started guessing who might bolt when a card was declined.  Not the frail woman buying cat litter—too proud.  Not the mother with toddlers in tow buying pastel children clothes—too slow.  On the third card rejection, she guessed right—a woman looking to be in her thirties, a hoodie covering most of her face, smelling of cigarettes and buying only tampons.  She didn’t run but kind of walked and skipped out with her head down, clutching the tampons by her side.  
   Crystal knew the security cameras hidden in the black bubbles on the ceiling captured their faces.  On her break, she asked Mitch, the manager, what happened to these people.  Mitch sometimes sat with employees on their breaks.  He had a doughy face and kind eyes that looked like he might try to convince you to be a Mormon.  But he never had brought up religion. 
   “We report grab and runs to the police.” 
   “So, they get caught?” 
   “I don’t think the police work too hard to catch them.  It’s small potatoes.  Honestly, I feel sorry for some of these people.”
   “Really?”
   “Yeah.  I shouldn’t say this but I didn’t report her.  First time I didn’t report someone.  Just too pitiful.”   Mitch looked at her like he made a mistake with his confession.  “Oh, I will if she does it again—let me know if you see her.”
   At the end of her shift, Crystal picked up the toys, kitchen gadgets, and other items abandoned by the customers in her checkout line.  She could have left them.  It wasn’t the cashier’s job to keep the impulse shelves neat.  The abandoned stuff wasn’t expensive.  But, she didn’t blame them for this litter.  They would have had to leave the line to return it.  Even if they left the line, they wouldn’t return the item to its proper home.  They would stuff it where it might take weeks to be discovered.  Good to return the item to the proper shelf, to its family, giving it another chance at a successful purchase and home, after its time away.
   In the sweltering Texas August heat of the parking lot after work, Sarah, the cashier Crystal talked to most, reminded her of the upcoming Labor Day party. 
   “You coming?”
   Crystal had attended last year’s party at a local dance hall two months after she started work.  She had sat most of the night wondering if any man would approach, like a middle school dance.  And none did.   Sarah’s stories the next day about who hooked up after the party, intended to be titillating, disgusted her.    
   “I don’t think so.  There’s a church event that same night.”  Crystal never went to church but it was a handy excuse.
   Sarah raised her perfect eyebrows.  “Too bad. You never know.”
   Crystal did know.  Since graduation three years ago, she had put on fifty pounds—not that she hadn’t tried to shed the weight. She had lost ten pounds on two different diets. But, the full-length mirror in her bedroom reflected little difference when she was lightest – any reasonable person would still label her fat. 
   In high school, she wasn’t small but she wasn’t fat either.  She had played softball, burning enough calories to keep the weight off.  And at night, her parents rarely offered food that comforted her.  When she moved to her own apartment, she couldn’t stop gorging each night: chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter crackers, and Swedish fish, along with a broad variety of sugared cereals.  Some nights she ate an entire box, adding too much milk requiring more cereal followed by more milk until she emptied the crumbs into her fading “Beauty and the Beast” bowl.  
   Some men liked big women but they were tiny or overweight like her.  Her ideal man would be tall, and muscular, with a great singing voice.  But becoming attractive enough for her to be a fitting partner to such a fantasy was just too much work.
   Each morning on her fifteen-minute drive to work, she passed the interstate entrance toward Albuquerque.   She imagined fleeing.  South to Mexico?  She knew little Spanish and the drug war casualties dominated the front pages—too scary.  East to Dallas?  Dallas people wore Niemen Marcus outfits as they bought healthy energy bars.  She would never fit in.  North to Denver?  Denver might be a fun place but she had heard it was expensive.   It stayed on her list. 
   As a child, she learned that the euphoria of vacation anticipation never matched the reality.  Her father had little opportunity or ability to generate income—Crystal never was sure which—and no sense of direction, so never took to the road.  Vacation was local, one night in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town after a day at Happy Village, the local amusement park.  At the free breakfast the next morning, her yearly family vacation near complete after a day and a half, Crystal watched the girls her age dressed in Disney apparel, giggling on their way to some magical place Crystal would never see. 
   On a clear cool morning in October, the entrance ramp pulled at her more than most days.  On a whim, she swerved across two lanes to enter the ramp heading west—a dangerous move.  No cars honked.  No damage done.  As she moved up the ramp, the open land of west Texas glowed in the morning sun.  She had joined her friends in complaining about the dull landscape but today, the openness pulled at her.  She pushed her 2003 Cavalier to seventy-five, the posted limit, and the fastest she had ever driven it.  The roar of the wind from the open windows, like freedom rushing toward her, plus a kind wave from a trucker with a breakfast sandwich in his hand encouraged her. 
   The car didn’t explode though the wind might have obscured a mechanical sound she couldn’t afford to fix.  She turned back at the exit for the town of Vega and got to work an hour late.  Mitch accepted her excuse, car trouble, without question—she never had been late before.  She started saving for a bigger trip. 
   Over lunch, Crystal made the mistake of telling Sarah, who took over any idea. Thin, pretty, just like the girls from high school, Sarah moved to Amarillo only recently.
   Sarah ate her usual small cup of low fat yogurt. “So when is our road trip, big girl?”
  The big girl name had become tiresome to Crystal.  “Not for awhile.  Got to save some money first.”
   “Just use a card.”
   Crystal’s credit card applications so far had been rejected.  “My card’s maxed out.”
   “Get another.”
   “Nah.”  Crystal added more salt to her fries.  “Hey, I saw that sign up sheet for softball. Wanna join?”
   “Nah, I’m not much good at sports.”
   “I was pretty good in high school.”  Crystal told her favorite story. “Broke a girl’s leg once.”
   It happened in practice.  She bowled Jenny Andrews over at second base when Crystal was in her sophomore year.  Jenny, a senior had ignored her the most—a real bitch.  Crystal saw Jenny’s bare leg in front of the bag and slid through as hard as she could.  To this day, she could still feel the satisfying, base note “thunk” of the bone breaking.
   Sarah stared at her and held her plastic spoon still in the air.  “That’s horrible”
   “Yeah.”  Crystal smiled.  
   Sarah never brought the trip up again and started sitting with the other cashiers on break. Crystal had lost a few friends before like this—girls who once would talk to her just stopped without a fair reason.  She hoped Sarah might play second base some day.  She changed her image of two girls on a trip.  Now the passenger seat would hold only snacks and maps, not a girl made of yogurt.
   A month later, the tampon thief was back in Crystal’s line.  Crystal stiffened—she didn’t fear the woman, only her uncertainty about what to do.  She couldn’t call Mitch—he was off that day.  The assistant store manager was a jerk and wouldn’t do anything.
   The woman looked even thinner than before, maybe anorexic.  She wore Keds and pants with an elastic waist for pregnant women, but didn’t look it.   Her upper body swam in a gray green coat several sizes too big.  She set two packs of gum on the counter and pulled out a five-dollar bill.  Good, no credit card craziness today.  As Crystal returned her change, plastic wrapping glinted from in an inside pocket of the woman’s coat.   Not tampons. Toothpaste? 
    “Is this all?”  Crystal said.  It didn’t come out the way she wanted.  It sounded like she was accusing her. 
   Crystal’s mother had taught her to look people in the eye.   This woman’s sunken eyes hid behind old sliding makeup.  But, this close, Crystal recognized her. “Carlie?”
Carlie froze.
   Three years ahead of Crystal in high school, Carlie had been a senior when Crystal was a freshman.  Crystal had envied her lithe body, pretty face and self-confidence—definitely in the cool crowd.  The only chink in Carlie’s statue as a goddess was she wasn’t very smart.  She never wanted to break Carlie’s leg but she was one of girls who paid her no attention.  Until today, Crystal never knew what happened to Carlie—from the looks of her, nothing good.
   “How ya doing?”  Crystal thought she asked with too much enthusiasm.
   Carlie pulled her coat together.  “Okay.   Do I know you?”
   “Oh, sorry.  Crystal Berlinger.  From high school.  I was a freshman when you were a senior.”
   “Oh.” 
   Carlie had no clue who she was.  And, about to shoplift, she wasn’t going to catch up on old times.  
  “Well, can’t chat now.  There’s a line,” Crystal said.  “There’s always a line.”  She giggled like a schoolgirl.  The senior girls always seemed superior, even years later, and no matter what happened to them.
   The lines on Carlie’s face relaxed.  “Thanks.”
   “Not a problem.  Maybe we can hang out sometime.”
 
   Six months later in April, Crystal was walking out to the parking lot after her shift and ran into Carlie as she got out of a beat-up, blue pickup truck.  She had parked in the spot for pregnant women.  Probably too lazy to walk but as she got closer, Carlie she was showing.  Her face was fuller.
  “Hi, Crystal.” she said.  “I was hoping to see you.”
   “You’re pregnant! Congratulations!”
   “Thanks.”
   “Who’s the dad?”  Crystal regretted the question—too nosy. 
   “Well, you know.  Just a guy. Not in the picture now. But it’s okay.  You on your break?”
   “No, going home.  My shift’s over.” 
   A flicker of disappointment crossed Carlie’s face.   She recovered.  “Oh, I thought I might see you at the check out.  Some day we can catch up on old times.”   She walked toward the store entrance.   
   WTF?  Old times?  If she tried this shit again, she would turn her in.
 
   By September, she had a week of vacation and $1000 in her savings account and had landed a card with $1000 in credit.  Her plan was to drive to Albuquerque then on to Los Angeles with two days at Disneyland and then the rest of California.  She had taken a few short trips on her days off as much as a hundred miles west just into New Mexico.  The sense of hopefulness and wonder what might be over the next hill exhilarated her each time and the car continued to hold up. 
 
   Beyond just getting away for a while, Crystal imagined finding something much better and never coming back.  Though she hadn’t formed a clear picture of this new place, the trip gave her a chance—like winning the lottery or finding a man who could love her.   Her perfect man had evolved from a sweet hunk to a Clyde Barrow type—handsome, muscular, and bad.  She would be his Bonnie holding up banks and stores across the Southwest.  They would start with her Wal-Mart, Crystal pulling out her Beretta to the astonished eyes of a pretty cashier.  
   She had bought a small purse, bright red vinyl with a gold strap, for the trip.  It wasn’t her style but was on the discount shelf for $10.  Normally, she didn’t carry a purse—too easy to leave somewhere.  For the trip, she needed something to hold the extra stuff she wanted with her at all times—wallet, pepper spray, Tic Tacs, tissues, gum, and phone.
   After her shift ended at 8:00 PM, she started out, planning to reach Albuquerque in the early morning.  She drove into the rust rose sunset, happily nervous at her first adventure, singing aloud with her headphones playing Tim McGraw’s “Indian Outlaw”.   
   She reached Santa Rosa, New Mexico, where she had planned her first stop, at 10:30 PM.  Despite the cheese crackers she ate in the car, she was ravenous because she had missed dinner.  The town offered only a few late night dining choices.  She imagined a stack of pancakes with a side of sausage.  Or maybe a big breakfast burrito.
   A trucker hunched over at the counter at the Old Route 66 diner.  Two men and a woman sat in a booth in the far corner.  Crystal chose a booth near the door.  She glanced up from the menu and saw that it was Carlie in the corner booth.  What the hell?  She planned a getaway and on her first stop, old times stared back at her.
   Carlie was thin again.  Crystal wondered who had the baby.  Carlie gave her a reluctant wave.   Crystal didn’t want to speak with her but had no other choice.
  She grabbed her purse and walked to their booth.  “Wow, amazing seeing you here.”
  “Yeah,” Carlie said.  Her eyes skittered.  “This is…we’re on our way to Albuquerque.”  She fidgeted with her hair. 
   “So am I.  Just starting out on a trip for a few weeks.”  Maybe too much information, but too soon to end this awkward conversation.  “How’s your baby?  Got any pictures?”
   Carlie hesitated.  “That’s who we’re going to see.” 
   The thin-faced man across from Carlie cracked a quick wry smile.
   “I don’t have pictures on me—they’re in the truck.  She’s real cute though.”
   “What’s her name?”
   “Ah…Sandy.”
   “After your mom, right?”
   “Un huh.”
   The server interrupted, offering more coffee.
   Crystal backed away.  “Well, I’m famished and still have to order.  Maybe I’ll see you around in Albuquerque.”  She waved at the two men.  “Nice to meet you.” Though, no introductions had been made.  “Take care.”
   Crystal returned to her booth and sat facing away from them.  She didn’t want to see them—they were ruining the mood.  She ordered and finished her meal and coffee as quickly as she could.
   Crystal had to pee but they hadn’t left yet.  She passed them on the way to the restroom.  Their food plates cleared, they sat silently sipping coffee.  Carlie waved a tiny nervous hand as Crystal passed.  Crystal smiled.
   When she came out of the bathroom, they were gone.  Crystal sat down to have more coffee and remembered her purse.  It wasn’t in the booth.  She looked under the table—only an old napkin.  About to panic, her hands shook.  Had she brought it to the bathroom?   She couldn’t remember.  She searched the stall.  Nothing. 
   “God damn it.”  She slammed the door of the stall.  “They stole it.” 
   She stared at the toilet.  She hadn’t paid her check yet and didn’t even have enough gas to get back to Amarillo.  She would not let them take her vacation from her.  Her body trembled with rage, growing, boiling and requiring release from something she had held inside for years—release generated by more than breaking a leg.
   She peeked out of the bathroom.  The server was waiting on a new arrival with her back to her.  The ceiling had no security cameras.   Crystal jogged out the door to her car.  Small potatoes theft—the police wouldn’t pursue her.
   She pushed the Cavalier to all it had, about eighty-five, as she reentered the interstate.  Carlie might have been lying about going to Albuquerque but Crystal didn’t think so.   She drove for ten minutes, the countryside black on a moonless night.  No cars ahead and only one set of headlights came from the opposite direction since she had started out again.  What could she do if she caught them?  Push them off the road?  Not likely with her tiny car.  Try to pepper spray them?  No, that’s in her purse too.  She settled on just getting a license plate number to give to the police.  Not Bonnie and Clyde stuff but still a story worth telling. 
   A layer of dust dimmed the blue pickup’s taillights.  The Cavalier overtook the truck faster than Crystal thought.  She was surprised they drove so slowly—probably thought she wouldn’t chase them so why hurry.  Dismissed.  Again.  Fuck them. 
   She planned to get the license number, then swing alongside and give them the finger.  But she clipped their left rear bumper as she swung out to pass.  Not really intentional.  But she wanted to get close.  She hit her brakes hard staying behind them.  The pickup fishtailed and whoever drove overcorrected.  For a second the truck skidded perpendicular to the interstate then rolled.  It rolled three times, like an Olympic vaulter, before landing upright.  
   Crystal stopped about twenty-five yards behind the truck that now faced her. Should she try to help this bitch, who stole her money?  She didn’t know first aide.  Couldn’t call 911—she didn’t have a phone—it was in her purse. 
   No headlights in either direction.  She turned off the engine and the cars lights.  No reason for flashers. 
  In her hand, she carried the sleek black flashlight she had bought for the trip.  As she walked the road, the smell of burnt rubber and radiator fluid filled her nose.  The guy who smiled at the diner lay face down along the side of the road, still as death.  The other man and Carlie bunched together against the passenger door.  Part of the man’s head was missing.  He made no sound or movement.  Carlie groaned, her right arm at a weird angle.  Her eyes were closed.  Like a Halloween party, blood covered half her face.
   Crystal found her purse alongside another leather purse on the floor. Her card and all her cash were there.  She found Carlie’s wallet in the other purse.  Her license photo showed her white-teethed smile from high school face.  The wallet held six $20 bills and some crumpled receipts.  She took four $20’s and left the rest.  
  
   As she walked back to her car, she watched the hills for headlights.  Lights would force her to run. But the night stayed dark.
   As Crystal pulled around the pieces of the truck scattered on the highway, she flipped Carlie off.   She turned on her headlights.  In her rear view mirror, tiny headlights blinked over the hill a few miles back. Once she got up to seventy-five, she pressed the play button on her phone.  “Indian Outlaw” started again.
                                                                 End

     The motion-activated museum doorbell rings as a couple carries their twin sons out of the museum, the children’s drool discoloring their shirts. Rachel massages her legs and leans against the compressed wood desk. The runner’s lunge pulls her hamstrings. Rachel's muscles relax and contort once again as she switches legs. Heavy work boots clip against the polished museum floor. Charlie yawns and rubs his bulbous belly. He pats Rachel on her shoulder. She recoils and peels the damp clothing away from her skin. The cotton fabric squelches as it separates. It gets canceled out by the front desk’s leather chair wheezes under Charlie’s body. The leather folds like a deflated soufflé. Charlie kicks off his size eight women’s shoes. They clatter against the floor like a grenade. The heavy shoe lands at Rachel’s sneakered feet. Rachel’s skin bristles and she turns her face away from Charlie. Her neck tenses and her nose burns with every shallow breath. Acid tickles Rachel’s throat.
 
    “What was your name again, kid,” Charlie asks.
 
    “Rachel.”
 
   “Ah, Rachel,” Charlie says. He scratches his salt and pepper beard. His skin rocks back and forth. Flakes of dead skin and dried wax flutter down Charlie’s baby blue button up shirt.  Rachel’s shudders and digs her stiletto shaped nails into her fleshy palm. “How long have you been a security guard, kid?”
 
    “Ten years, sir.”
 
   “Ten? Damn. Just how old are you? You look like a baby.”
 
   “Thirty-three, sir.”
 
  “Um.” Charlie fans his face with his hand, beads of sweat dribbling down his squirrel-like cheeks, and continues, “Twenty? A twenty-year difference isn’t that bad, right?”
 
   Rachel chuckles softly and retightens her unfussed ballerina bun. She twists her fingers and meticulously straightens her uniform. Once again, Rachel turns her head away from Charlie. Charlie smiles. His thin lips disappear under his heavy mustache. Rachel looks down at her silver watch, its black face ticks down the seconds to six fifty p.m. She nods her head towards Charlie and leaves. Her sneakered feet are squeak as she all but flies across the hardwood floor. Rachel’s movements slow when she passes through the adjoining room’s threshold. She exhales.
 
   The paintings of old kings and scenes of vicious battles clutter the satin red colored room. Rachel’s eyes focus on a painting of a ship caught in the grasp of the sea. The water holds the ship hostage, perpetually suspended without control and waiting to be crushed under the ocean’s titan strength. A beefy arm wraps around Rachel’s throat. She claws at the hairy hand. Dark red blood smears through the thick hair. Rachel speaks but all that comes out is gurgling as the hold around her neck gets tighter and a wave of damp breath puffs against her ear. It reeks of old cigarettes and fish. Her throat and mouth are flooded with a metallic taste when she clamps down on his hand. The assailant clenches tighter and huffs in her ear with every pulse. The edges of Rachel’s eyesight get hazy. Rachel goes limp in her assailant’s arms. He eases up and reaches to hold Rachel by her waist. Rachel gasps. She balls up her fist and pummels the man’s groin. The stench of cigarettes and fish grows stronger as the man deflates. Rachel spins around and snatches the man’s right arm. She twists it behind his back and pulls at his long, greasy hair, to reveal her attacker’s face.
 
   “Charlie, do you need help with something?” Charlie groans and tries to tug his arm free. Rachel pulls tighter and shifts her hand from his hair to the middle of his back. A soft push and Charlie yelps.
 
   “Fuck you, bitch.”
 
   Spit flies out of Charlie’s mouth and bubbles of saliva pool around the corner of his mouth. Rachel pulls harder. Charlie’s shoulder stays in place as Charlie lifts himself up with every tug. Rachel leans back and places her knee against the small of Charlie’s back. The rolls of fat give Rachel a stable cushion. Charlie’s shoulder starts creaking and shifting, centimeter by centimeter. Rachel heaves again and the arm goes with her. Rachel smiles and lets go of his wrist. Charlie’s arm falls to his side. It doesn’t respond even as Charlie shifts onto his back. Charlie clutches at his lumpy shoulder. His tears streak through his beard. Rachel turns on her heel and goes back to the front desk. The leather chair groans, deflating for the second time. Rachel stretches back and hoists her tingling feet onto the desk. Her watch beeps. The fluorescent colored numbers flash against the black background. Seven o’clock. Rachel grabs her belongings out of her locker. She loosens her black tie and unpins her nametag as her presses against the glass museum door. Rachel flips over the open sign.
 
   “Charlie,” she says. “Close up when you’re done.”
 
   Rachel grins and salutes the air. She blows him a kiss as Charlie rolls on the floor like a turned over cockroach. The museum doorbell chimes and the door hisses shut.
 

Well, I was a tiny thing. If I had a self before then, I don’t remember it. It was a Tuesday, the thirteenth of March, nineteen and twenty-eight. In the morning, the sky was a strange shade of blue-gray, a brooding color. And that whole brooding sky was pressing down on the place where I lived with Mother and Daddy. I was sad because I was too young for school, and I didn’t want to be stuck inside that little house all day long. I had planned to make mud pies. I felt gray that day.

You can’t visit it.

Because of the fire—the whole place is gone. Mother and Daddy was bringing the preacher home for Sunday dinner. The brown smoke filled the whole holler so thick they couldn’t even see their house, which was half-way up Push Mountain. Everyone from around here will tell you that the valleys are deeper than the mountains are tall. The rocks are worn to nubs with worry, and then the bottom fills up with all that pain. This whole place is rock. Mother used to say if you fell and cut your knee deep enough, you’d find a mountain underneath all that skin and bone. Mountains have memories, too. They hold every hurt and happiness inside of them in layers.

No, I never did hold much with church. I reckon you can find God anywhere, if you care to look hard enough. I prefer the springs, myself. There’s water running underneath everything around here, which accounts for all the caves. Jack and me had a piece of land with a little spring on it. That water was bright blue, so blue it seemed unnatural.  I could sit for hours next to that water. I’ve got some real peaceful memories at that spring. The water didn’t do much more than trickle, but it was enough to wash away the day’s ugliness for a while.

Only your mother can answer that. I loved her the best, and I loved her the best I could. And your uncle’s accident didn’t help.

Yes, I suppose you do look a bit like your mother—the same green eyes and strawberry hair. And freckles. She always had lots of freckles, more each summer. You don’t look exactly like I thought my grandson would. You’re tall for a Conway. Maybe you take after your father in that respect. I wouldn’t know.

All I got left is my memories, and there’s plenty of them.

A few years ago, a reporter came here all the way from Springfield wanting to do a story on me for the paper. He had on blue jeans with a pink shirt.  I always thought there was something funny about a man in a pink shirt. “You have an incredible gift,” pink-shirt man said. “Bull crap,” I said. I can remember what I did every single day right down to the fine details of time and clothes and weather. It’s like somebody’s made a movie of each day that I can pull one out anytime I want and watch. But what good is that to anyone? He got real mad when I wouldn’t talk to him. He was sitting right where you are, on that very sofa. Then I threw him out.

Yes, there’s some good memories. But all days exist in my head the same. What I mean is, I remember every little thing about the bad days just the same as I remember the good. February 24, 1947, is good one. Your mother was little, seven months old. She was setting in the kitchen of the tiny apartment we rented from Mrs. Klein, back before Jack and me was together. Mrs. Klein minded your mother when I worked at the shop. That apartment was one room with the bed over the steep steps and an itty bitty stove with only two burners and an oven so small it wouldn’t hold a cake pan. Your mother was sitting next to that stove and smiling at me as I fed her mashed string beans from a little silver spoon. “Here comes the fish,” I said in my nicest voice as I moved the spoon to her mouth. And just then, I had the best feeling. I looked at her open mouth and its sharp teeth and pink tongue lying there like a fat worm, and I knowed that feeling was love and that love was blue like the apartment walls.

You’ll need to ask your mother about that.

I’m sure your mother has all sorts of stories of how I was horrible to her. But that’s not exactly true, see. I remember every single thing that I ever done. In detail. The big problem was that we both was so alike. “You get me a sandwich,” she demanded one day in May 1950. She was three. She demanded a lot. Each time I set down with a magazine by the sunny window, she’d want more and more. “I’m thirsty,” she’d whine, even with a glass of water setting at her feet. And she kept wetting her pants. She knowed better. I’d take her to the toilet, and she’d piddle pretty as you please, but she refused to tell me when she had the need. So if I left her too long, there’d be a huge wet spot on her periwinkle rug and she’d laugh and laugh.

No, it was out of spite. It was sure enough out of pure spite. It got so the whole house smelled like mess. She was stubborn like that. Then I got married and had Jack Junior. And then the world loses all color completely and you can’t find where you put yourself because you’re too busy with other people and all their wants.

These days I want Bourbon for breakfast. It’s a balancing act, and Bourbon helps me balance. It gives me a blue feeling. When I drink, all these memories get mixed together. The good and bad bump and slide against each other until I almost can’t tell which is which. All them bad times do less knocking and walking around in my head. They tame and calm, like the beagle we had when the kids was little. He was white with dun and black spots. We called him Sputnik, after the satellite, and Jack learned that a few drops of whiskey in his water bowl would keep him nice and quiet all night. Without it, he howled and howled to beat the thunder.

Now, Daddy had a photographic memory, too, but his was for reading. He could recite all of the Ozarks County phone book and half of Ivanhoe, the part he managed to read before he left school. And also the newspapers and pill bottles and whatever other scraps of print he ran across. Mother was as sweet as you please, but she weren’t touched, as she liked to call me and Daddy and Will. Will, he could remember all the tiny bits of happenings, like me. My sister Kim has an awful memory, or at least she used to. But she’s still holding on to that time she says I stole her man right out from under her nose. And Elmira and Donna was always just regular run-of-the-mill folks when I knowed them.

Daddy? He died of a brain aneurism. Mother died of a broken heart. Last time I heard, Will was somewhere in Kansas. Kim’s still got herself all twisted around the past. Donna’s disappeared. And Elmira was the youngest of all of us. I’d been out of the house a while by the time she was growed. She was a roller derby queen until she got into dancing at them clubs. Garnet, she called herself. When she got too old, she used to clean the mirrors, and then she made costumes for the younger dancers. I don’t know what she could have made them out of—dental floss, I guess. Seems silly since what little clothes there wore they took of anyways.

The day you mother was born is not something I like to think about. The pain was pink and red. And I didn’t have nobody there in the waiting room. I called out for Mother plenty.

Well, people didn’t look kindly at that type of thing, having babies with no husband. I can still remember Mother and Daddy’s faces when I told them about your mother, though I didn’t know she was to be mother then. It was January 1, 1946. There was still wet rings on the coffee table from the party glasses the night before. “Mother, I have something I need to say,” I said. We was sitting on the tan couch. Its fabric was woven, tweed like. “I’m gonna have a baby,” I said. And she looked at the walls for a minute, and then her whole face crumpled in on itself like a piece of wrapping paper. And that danged couch was cutting into the back of my legs, and my shoulder was all wet from Mother’s tears. And when I finally could get up, I had little pink lines on my calves for hours and hours. And that’s all I want to say about that.

No.

The whole family’s whispered about me for years. But it ain’t Christian to judge people. “Tramp,” my sister said once to my face. It was the Christmas of 1943. She was hot because she’d brought home John to meet the folks but all he wanted was to fool around with me by the apple tree out back. I couldn’t help that this boy preferred me. He stood real tall and blue in his Navy uniform. He had soft hands. Kim was prettier than me but so serious. She’d found Jesus sitting in a pew at church. That’s just what she said—seed him sitting there next to her. Said he told her to be good and obey all God’s laws. From then on she was all about “Thou Shalt Nots” and “Don’ts.” Jesus never said such things to me. Course, I didn’t listen much to Him neither.

No, that soldier weren’t Grandpa Jack. I met Grandpa when we was living with Mrs. Klein. Jack was a good man, and one of them is hard to find. Our wedding was at the courthouse. August 4, 1950. The sky was blue as a robin’s egg, and so was the dress I wore. “You are now husband and wife,” the judge said. And I looked all around that room—at the mint green walls and the rows and rows of wooden chairs and the little blue piece of felt the judge put his gavel on. I knowed I’d remember it all. And on that day, I wanted to.

Jack was a real good father, ‘specially considering your mother weren’t his. She always loved him better than me. And he doted on Jack Junior. Jack kept them, you know, when I went away for the first time to Briarhill. Men didn’t take on such work back then.

One of them places for crazy people. I had what they call a nervous breakdown. I spent the first week alone in my room trying to forget. Everything was black and white. And I wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t because all them memories showed up in my dreams. But after the shock therapy, that got better.

Just a little tingle. Then the whole world got fuzzy for a while, and I could finally think about the future without the past worming its way in. There was a cool, blue world inside my head, like a big spring. And I could sit in that blue water and think about anything I wanted. It was something, while it lasted. Then it stopped working all together. Then I had to go back home.

Every good thing leaves.

Like Jack. Like Jack Junior’s crash. Like your mother. Or 11 March 1958. I was walking down the aisle at the grocery when it happened. One day I was going to have a baby, then I weren’t. It don’t do to talk about such things. My second husband, Bernard, left me some money. And I get Henry, my third husband’s, pension. So I get by. Now I just try to outrun the memories and jumble them all up in my brain. Up is down and down is up. That’s what life’s all about--staying one step ahead of the blackness.

I tried movies for a while, drug myself to every matinee for a whole year. I hid malted balls and cokes in my handbag. On February 8 I seed Steve McQueen drive his orange sports car through the air. I hoped I could make new memories with movies, nice ones, exciting ones. Ones I could pull out and smile over. I wanted the movies to mix with the movie memories in my head, but they never felt right. I thought about that Steve McQueen movie over and over again after Jack Junior’s crash.

I’m not sure I’d like to talk about that.

It was a little MG, flame orange. A convertible. No roof at all. If there had been, things might have been different.

November 7, 1975. I was ironing a shirt for Bernard when I got the call. The sky was a real ugly shade of pink, and I got so upset I scorched a hole clean through that shirt, right on the chest, over the heart. Ran right into a brick wall, they said. Didn’t even slow down any. At his funeral he wore a gray pinstripe suit that belonged to his daddy. The pants was too long, but no one noticed. I wanted his casket open so I could see his face. They worked for hours wiring his skull back together. And they put him in a wig. That’s the only think that looked dead about him, that silly little mouse-brown wig.

Yes, but not enough. And then there was that whole thing with your mother.

She told me I didn’t do right by her. Stood over there by that very window and wagged her finger at me, “You’re a horrible mother” she screamed. That was October 20, 1980. She had on a red blouse with white flowers, a pink sweater, and a pair of blue jeans. Your mother’s tears was clear. They weren’t no color at all. I’d always thought tears was blue.

I still don’t know. It don’t matter no more, I guess.

Now, you don’t have to go so soon.  Ain’t there nothing else you’d like to know?
​
My best and my worst memory is the same--June 6, 1932. I was seven years old when I first seed it. I was standing outside by the garage right under the old locust tree and my dress was sticking to my legs on account of the damp air and all them mountains was staring at me. But when I looked up the sky, it was the prettiest shade of blue. No clouds. Just a whole world of blue. And I could pretend I was flying up into it, away from Mother and Daddy’s shouting. Away from the rocks and the scratchy dress. I was all-over happy. And it was because of that blue. I’ve been searching for it my whole life. But now I think all that looking was a waste of time. There won’t never be another sky like that one, won’t be another blue exactly that color.