Freddy the Syrian Hamster by Sam Kandej

Freddy the Syrian Hamster by Sam Kandej Syrian hamsters can live up to three years. ONLY three years. Just imagine: you adopt a baby hamster when he’s two or three months old in 2026, and then he’s a senior in 2028. I don’t want to talk about his death, as this story is NOT a sad one. I adopted Freddy when he was three months old. My younger brother had bought him from a local pet store for only a pound, but he soon lost interest in poor Freddy as if a hamster were a lifeless toy. “I’ll take care of Freddy from now on. I won’t let you mistreat him, dummy.” I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to be heard by everyone in the house. Freddy was not my first pet. Before him, I had a nice rabbit named Alice. We let her live with her own species in a city park after six months of living with us. She was chewing everything, and we couldn’t afford to fix the damage. Before Alice, we had a miniature turtle. He was small and cute—perfectly pocket-sized. We decided to do him a favor and release him back into the wild. A nice, still pond was the plan. But my dumb 12-year-old brother chucked him straight into a fast-moving river. “Whyyy?” I screamed. My brother just stared at the churning water, looking confused. “Don’t turtles live in water? I saw it in a documentary.” “They’re big turtles. Big!” I could already picture our tiny turtle being swept away forever. “Our turtle WAS miniature. YOU killed Lucky.” One night at around two in the morning, I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Freddy standing right behind me. “Hey! You forgot to feed me tonight? Are you going to punish me for making noise at night? Or is it because your girl dumped you?” “Freddy? Are you speaking? Why is your voice so loud for a small figure like you?” Freddy turned red and shouted at me, “Are ya going to feed me, or should I cook something myself?” “Can you also cook?” I asked, ready to believe everything. “Of course I can’t. But I’m sure I could if I wanted to. I’m way smarter than you, halfwit!” He spoke rudely, staring right into my eyes. I wasn’t sure if this was a dream or what, but to be honest, I was enjoying it. A talking, unruly hamster is certainly a necessity in everyone’s home. “What would you like to eat, Freddy?” I asked, unwilling to leave my bed. “Let’s start with nuts first. I also want my scrambled egg ready in half an hour.” “Or?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “Or you’ll face the consequences.” “Freddy, don’t threaten me! I’m way older than you.” “You’re just a dummy! Now get your small ass moving. I want some nuts right now, right here. Can you understand English, or do you want me to say it in Spanish and German, too?” I felt both shocked and impressed. Shocked because my cute Freddy had turned into a scary thug, and impressed because he could speak three languages. I once tried to learn German but gave up after two months. I gave Freddy some nuts, scrambled egg, and sunflower seeds that night. Freddy let me go back to sleep at 5:30 after giving me a long lecture on the importance of feeding pets moderately and frequently. I listened very carefully because I didn’t want to piss him off. Freddy was only ten centimeters tall but had a dominant, strong-willed character. I couldn’t say no to him. Every night, he kept me awake ordering different stuff to eat and drink. Sometimes I would sit and eat something with him. Fruits and nuts were our favorites. With Freddy’s help and determination, I learned to speak Spanish fluently in eight months. Freddy was indeed a very good teacher, but sometimes he would smack me hard to make sure I took my lessons seriously. On New Year’s Eve, Freddy let me know he’d decided to make his biggest dream come true—visiting some Asian countries. I really didn’t want him to go, but he wasn’t my captive. Unfortunately, we cannot lock our loved ones in a cage. Uh, Freddy, I miss you! It’s been a year since you left us to see the world. Freddy has sent postcards from China, South Korea, Japan, and Thailand. He writes to me about his adventures and the girls he’s met in recent months. Two days ago, in an email, he mentioned that he might decide to stay in Southeast Asia for good. And I wrote back that I just want him to be happy wherever he is. Now that Freddy is not home, I feel lonely and isolated once again. Sometimes I miss him so much that I stay up the entire night eating Freddy’s favorite snacks. I wish him all the best and a very long, healthy life.

Same Kandej

(The images are of Fang (the brown fellow) and Rags, circa 1972, plotting as always. They were lovely boys who were together for seventeen years; I am sure they would have approved of Freddy the Syrian Hamster–Leila)

The Burial of Angel by Sam Kandej

(We are pleased to run the work of Sam Kandej or Iran for today and tomorrow. He is a special person indeed–the Eds.)

The Burial of Angel by Sam Kandej I’ll never forget June 3, 2026–the day Angel’s body was found on the main road. Apparently, she was hit by a car or something, but there were no witnesses. By noon, word had spread, and everyone in the village knew that our beloved three-month-old kitten was no longer among us. “I can’t believe it. Angel was playing in front of my shop around ten. She was so happy, chasing butterflies here and there. I can’t believe her gorgeous brown eyes are closed forever,” Mr. Thomson told me when I asked him whether we should dump the poor thing or do something more respectful. “Normally, they dump dead cats, but Angel wasn’t just any cat. She became everyone’s sweetheart in a very short time. I don’t feel good about dumping her. How about burying her somewhere near the woods?” Mr. Thomson suggested. I immediately agreed and left the shop to let anyone who might have been interested know about the burial that afternoon. Almost all the elderly villagers said yes, perhaps because they had nothing else to do or perhaps because they themselves were getting close to death. Natasha, a seven-year-old girl who had played with Angel several times, showed up with her mother, too. In total, including me, there were thirteen people standing silently around our lifeless Angel. “We should say something, shouldn’t we?” Natasha said to her mom. “What, dear? What should we say?” “Something nice. I saw that in Harry Potter. When Aragog died, Professor Slughorn said something that I don’t remember now.” Natasha’s mom looked around, and her eyes met mine. Without a word, she indicated that it was my responsibility to say something. Something nice? I looked at the sky first. It was starting to drizzle. I remembered the day I lost my five-year-old daughter and my lovely spouse in that damn accident. The image of my little Summer laughing while chasing butterflies made my heart ache. “I do believe in God and life after death for humans. I’m a religious man. You all know that. But I don’t believe animals will have an afterlife. For them, this world is all there is,” I started my eulogy. “You know, I believe God created us to torture us. It seems that He enjoys it. Why should an innocent…” “What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?” Mrs. Smith, an eighty-four-year-old woman whom everyone called Aunt Smith, shouted at me. I felt raindrops on my hand and then on my nose. It was getting colder, and I was shivering slightly. “Where was God when my Summer perished? Where was God when this poor kitten was hit by an irresponsible driver? Where is God when a child dies of cancer?” I looked around. Everyone’s mouths were open in shock, especially Natasha’s mom. Only Mr. Walker was nodding in agreement since he was an atheist. “Listen, we all know you have suffered, but…” Mrs. Smith tried to calm me. “But what? Am I insulting God? Am I a jerk now? Just tell me, please. Why does life have to be this hard? Why does it have to be this heartbreaking?” I could no longer stop it. My eyes filled with tears, and the harder I tried to hold them back, the less possible it seemed. The rain helped wash them away, but I couldn’t hide them. I felt ashamed of myself, knowing that Natasha was standing there, watching me fall apart. “Let’s bury the cat,” Mr. Thomson urged everyone to wrap up the funeral. “Let me do it. Please. For God’s sake.” I was crying as I walked toward Angel. I hugged her. Kissed her once, twice, three times. Hugged her tightly for a minute or two. I hadn’t been brave enough to go to my own daughter’s funeral. I stayed at home, unable to face the darkness. I put Angel in her small grave, patted her gently, and said goodbye.

Sam Kandej

My Best Friend by Bill Tope

Dr. Arnold Schopp, DVM, glanced at the caller ID; he didn’t recognize the number. The time was 5am. Picking up his landline, he said, “Hello?”

“Oh! Hi! My name’s Livy. You don’t know me, but I got your number from the men’s washroom at The Stagger Inn, the tavern in the Central West End?”

Arnold blinked. He’d never heard of the place. Was this a crank call? he wondered.

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I’m a porter at the tavern during the mornings, before they open. I’m working my way through nursing school, Arnie; Class of ’96! Yay! Is it alright if I call you Arnie?”

Arnold shrugged, but his caller couldn’t see it, so he said, “Okay.”

“I’m having some trouble with my hand,” Livy went on. “And I thought maybe you could help.”

Arnold shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, where I found your name and number, underneath it said, “For a Good Hand Job, call Arnie, at…” and she read off his phone number. “Are you a doctor or something, Arnie?”

“Well, no,” he said. “I am a veterinarian, however.” He was almost sure he wasn’t being pranked. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“I stuck it in the wringer on the mop bucket when I was mopping the floor and then wrung it out. It hurts,” she added.

Arnold went on to tell his new friend how to treat the injury, with ice and later with heat and so on.

“Thanks so much, Arnie,” said Livy with a little squeal.

“How are you doing in nursing school?” he asked.

“I’m just ending my first year,” she replied. “I’m doin’ real good. Thanks for asking.”

It occurred to Arnold that Livy hadn’t many places to turn when she encountered the vicissitudes of life, so he told her, “It’s the very least I can do, Livy. I’ve got to go for now, but you’ve got my number. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay,” she said with a gulp.

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold lifted the receiver of the landline in his all-night animal clinic and said, “Hello?”

“Arnie?” asked a young, shrill female voice. “It’s Livy.”

“Hi, Livy,” said Arnold, smiling. “What’s going on?”

“Ooh, I smashed my head,” she lamented, her voice revealing a tremor of angst. “I was taking the laundry out of my washing machine and the lid closed on my little peanut head!”

“Are you alright?” asked Arnold with concern.

“No!” she said loudly. “It hurts. I think I might have a concussion.”

Arnold frowned into the phone. He knew it was unlikely that the light-weight lid of a washing machine would do much damage. He told Livy so.

“You don’t care if I die!” she shrieked. “I have a drop of blood on my forehead and I think I might’ve fractured my skull, Arnie.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Unlikely,” he suggested.

“I’m thinking of going to urgent care or to the hospital or to Minnesota…” began Livy.

“Minnesota?”

“The Mayo Clinic,” Livy explained. “That have an excellent trauma unit for head injuries, Arnie.” Livy, Arnold remembered, was a student nurse, now in her second year.

“How much blood did you lose?” asked Arnold.

“One or two drops.”

“Do you have a knot or your head or anything?” he asked next. “Do you feel sleepy or dizzy or…”

“No,” said Livy, “but I almost for sure fractured my skull. “The parietal bone, or the zygomatic arch or the…”

“Livy, put some ice on it,” counseled Arnold. “Do you have any insurance yet?” he asked.

“No. And I need a CAT scan and an MRI and a cognitive assessment…”

“Well, if you feel that you must get medical treatment, hospitals can’t turn away anyone who’s deathly ill. Go to St. Elizabeth’s, here in town, and see what they say. Okay?”

“Okay, Arnie,” replied Livy. “Thanks.”

“You bet, Livy. Let me know what they tell you.”

“You’re interested?” she asked with surprise.

“I am,” said Arnold.

“Goody,” she said.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold glanced at his watch and lifted the receiver.

“Arnie,” said Livy, her voice staticky over the line. “I had an accident.”

“What kind of an accident?” asked Arnold.

“I was painting my flower boxes and I got a splinter.”

Arnold envisioned Livy, bringing her middle finger to her lips and sucking on it.

“How big?” he inquired.

” ‘Bout a quarter of an inch. It hurts!” she wailed, holding the finger up in Arnold’s mind’s eye for his inspection. He shook his head, thought about the spaying and neutering operations he had pending at the clinic. “Do you think I need a tetanus shot?” she asked.

“When did you have your last one?” Arnold asked her.

“Six months ago, remember, when I dropped the can of peas on my foot and thought I might’ve broken the third metatarsal or the calcaneus? At the ER they didn’t want to do a full-body scan because I didn’t have any insurance and I wouldn’t leave until they did something. So they gave me a shot.”

Arnold sighed. His young friend was a bit of an alarmist. “I think you only need a tetanus shot every ten years or so…”

“Oh!” said Livy. “That’s right, I remember it from class.”

“I’d just wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide, dress it with merthiolate or iodine and wrap it up. You’ll be fine, Livy,” said Arnold.

“Thanks, Arnie,” said Livy gratefully. “You’re the best!”

The dial tone popped back on.

_____

Arnold, on duty as usual at his animal clinic, picked up the telephone on the second ring. He knew it would be Livy, his irrepressible friend from the college. She called every day at the same time: 5am.

“Hi, Livy, how’s tricks?” he asked, pleased to talk with a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Arnie,” she fairly burst through the line. “I’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” he asked, barely avoiding appending “this time” to the query.

“I’ve been picking weeds out of my garden,” Livy explained. “And my fingers are cramped. I think I might have myasthenia gravis or something. Maybe Parkinson’s.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Not a chance,” he said.

“Well, I’ve sure got weeds,” she asserted. “What do you think I…”

“Livy,” said Arnold with what patience he could pull together, “you need to start making some decisions on your own. You’re an adult, and you’re old enough,” he said, perhaps more harshly that he’d intended.

“Arnie, did I catch you at a bad time?” Livy asked him.

“Well, kind of. I don’t mind…I like talking to you every day, but sometimes you need to just stand on your own two feet and decide. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t hurt his sensitive young friend’s feelings. She was so easily hurt…

_____

“I met a guy, Arnie,” said Livy one day.

“Where did you meet him?” asked Arnold.

“At a party thrown by one of my friends from school,” she said.

“Is he a nursing student too?” he asked.

“No, he’s a medical student, Arnie. We partied and I got a little bit drunk and later we kissed and made out.”

“Be careful,” cautioned Arnold. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you, Livy.”

He could almost see her nod. “Gotcha. We didn’t do anything I might regret,” she said. “Robert–that’s his name, Robert–asked me out on a regular date tonight.”

“That sounds fine,” said Arnold approvingly. “Is he known among your friends; I mean, does he have a good reputation?”

“Yes,” she said. “All my friends say he has a lot of girlfriends, and none of them turned up dead or anything. He graduates next year,” she said.

“Well, have a good time, Livy.”

“Thanks, Arnie. I’ll talk to you later.”

_____

Arnold didn’t hear from Livy as usual the next morning and he wondered how she was. She usually called every day from work, when she was cleaning the tavern to pay her way through school; she had done so since they met over the telephone more than a year before. Finally, he checked his phone directory and found the last number she’d used. He dialed it up.

It rang and rang but the call went unanswered. Arnold called again several times, until, on the fourth try, after the phone rang endlessly at the other end, she picked up.

“Hello?” said Livy in a whisper.

Arnold frowned into his receiver; Livy sounded so down.

“Livy?” he said.

After a moment, she said, “Hi, Arnie. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Arnold said. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Livy,” he said, “what have you been doing? Why haven’t you called me?”

“I was only doing what you told me I should do,” replied Livy. “You know, take responsibility for my actions, make decisions, and…” Her voice drifted off.

“Livy, does this have anything to do with Robert?” Arnold asked.

“I went out with Robert,” she said dully. “I trusted him, like you said.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, gripping the receiver fiercely, “what happened.”

“Robert took me out, like he said he would,” she replied. Before he could inquire further, Livy whispered, “Robert raped me, Arnie.”

Arnold’s blood ran cold. He listened intently, but Livy said no more, until finally, she murmured, “He hurt me, Arnie.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, “I am so sorry.”

“I know, Arnie. Because you’re my friend. I know you don’t always have time for me and I need to stand on my own two feet and…”

Arnold listened and thought he could hear Livy softly weeping.

“…it was my own fault anyway,” she continued. “I should’ve known better than to go back to the home of someone I only just met. I…I’d never made love before, and I didn’t know what to do when he told me to take off my clothes…”

“Livy, it is not your fault,” said Arnold firmly.

“If I’d just done what he said, then he wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said.

“A woman makes decisions her whole life, Livy, and she doesn’t always make the right ones. But, whether you said yes or not, it was rape. He made the decision for you, Livy. Rape is not about a man’s needs or even what he says he wants. It’s about domination and control and inflicting humiliation on his weaker victim. Do you understand me, dear?”

“Yes, Arnie,” replied Livy. She sounded to Arnold as though she were regaining some of her composure. Which gave him heart.

“So,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault…?”

“That’s right, Livy. Where are you now? Are you at home?”

“I’m in a little diner in the Central West End, near the tavern I clean,” said Livy.

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” he asked.

“I was…ashamed,” she admitted.

“Livy, have you received medical attention? Have you seen a professional?”

“No, Arnie.”

“Give me the address,” he told her. She did. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes, Livy, and we’ll get you the help that you need.”

“You mean you’re coming for me now?”she asked in a small voice.

“Right now,” he said.

“Then we’ll finally get to meet face to face, Arnie. Goody.”

Minutes later, Arnold pulled his animal hospital vehicle into the parking lot of the small diner described by Livy over the phone. He glanced at his watch: it was a quarter past 6am. He’d never met his friend, but knew she was 20 years old. The place was half-filled, but he discerned Libby almost by instinct.

A smallish, thin woman with light brown hair, she occupied a booth near the end of the cafe. She looked up at him as he took a seat opposite her. They sat and looked at one another for an impossibly long moment, before Livy said, in a voice that Arnold recognized instantly, “You came.”

A waitress materialized as if by magic and Arnold asked Livy if she wanted anything. There was a half-drunk cup of coffee before her, with fully a half dozen opened Splenda packages lying in disarray in her saucer. She shook her head no.

Arnold insisted she have something to eat, so she ordered French toast. He ordered a coffee. They spoke in low, confidential voices until their order arrived. Livy’s appetite appeared to be piqued by the aromatic French toast and she dug in, smothering the dish with butter and warmed maple syrup.

As she ate, Arnold told her what would happen next.

“I’ll take you to the emergency room,” he said, “and they’ll check you out. They have a rape crisis unit on duty there, 24/7.”

“What will they do?” Livy asked. He told her.

“They are associated with law enforcement, Livy,” he said. At her stricken look, he assured her that she was not in trouble, but rather Robert. “Forcible rape is a felony, Livy,” he told her gently but firmly. “No one can make you cooperate with them, but think of all the other young women and girls that Robert might inflict himself on in the years to come.”

That sealed it. She agreed to talk to the rape counselor and the cops.

“I feel like I failed you, Livy,” said Arnold contritely, reaching across the table and touching his friend for the very first time. It was warm where they touched.

“You’ve done so much for me, Arnie,” said Livy in a stronger voice. “And you’re still doing it. No one has ever been my friend before. Not like you.”

Arnold felt his heart break. “I love you, Livy. You are my very good friend.”

“You’ve done so much, Arnie,” said Livy again. “Could I ask you to do me one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“Come around to my side and give me a hug, alright?”

Without another word, Arnold rose from his seat, came around and sat next to Livy and gave her a tremendous hug.

For the first time that morning, Livy smiled.

“Goody,” she said.

Bill Tope

Saragun Headquarters, Washington State

Light on His Feet by Bill Tope

“Are you really going to start dating him, Meg?’ asked Kris, standing in the doorway to her housemate’s bedroom.

“I’m going out with him on one date,” Meg corrected her. “After that, I’ll play it by ear.” She pulled on clean jeans.

“What’re you gonna do, go dancing?” asked Kris acidly. “Or hiking in the woods? I know, you can do your five-mile run with him.” She exploded with harsh laughter.

“I don’t think you’re funny, Kris,” said Meg. “Jonah may not be the starring halfback on the school’s football team the way your boyfriend is…”

“He can barely walk, Meg,” Kris interrupted. “I’ve seen him in action at the bookstore at the mall. What do you see in him anyway? Is he loaded or something?”

“I don’t run a credit check on my dates,” said Meg pointedly.

This quieted Kris, who had been known to do that very thing.

“I did that one time…” protested Kris.

“Twice!” snapped Meg.

“…alright, twice then,” admitted Kris. “You have to enter a relationship with your eyes wide open, ‘hon,” she said.

Meg sighed. “I know you’ve had some issues there, Kris. But you come from money, and I don’t. I don’t need to worry about a golddigger, ya’ know?”

“He probably only wants to get in your pants,” said Kris peevishly.

“I forgot,” said Meg. “You never fool around with your boyfriends…”

“See, you’re thinking of him as a boyfriend already,” charged Kris. “Well, make him use protection. You don’t want to get knocked up and have a baby that has what he’s got, whatever that is.”

“Don’t worry,” said Meg dryly. “I can always consult Planned Parenthood.”

Kris threw up her hands in defeat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t.

_____

Meg stood before the bathroom mirror, toweling off after her shower. She thought back to how she’d met Jonah Fenster at the bookstore and then gone out on a date with him tonight.

“Can I help you find anything?” he’d asked.

Meg regarded him. He was an average-looking boy, around her age, 2o, and dressed casually in denim and flannel.

“Do you work here?” she asked. Meg had never seen him before.

“No,” he said in all earnestness, “I just wander in and out of all the stores in this mall and try to strike up a conversation with the prettiest girls I can find.”

Meg blinked at him and he grinned winningly.

“Yes, I work here,” he admitted. “Are you looking for texts for your classes? You go to the university, don’t you? I know I’ve seen you on campus.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m taking college algebra and second-year zoology.”

“I know just what you need,” he said. Then he stepped away, and Meg found herself staring. He walked with a pronounced limp and moved with the aid of a cane. “C’mon,” he told her, and she filed behind him. Walking three aisles over, he knelt and snatched a book from the shelves and handed it to her.

“College algebra,” he announced. “C’mon,” he said, leading the way across the shop. “Don’t dawdle, follow me. What’s the matter,” he cracked, “you’re not crippled, are you?”

Meg gasped in horror. Had she been staring at him? she wondered. “I…” she began.

“Hey, lighten up,” the young man told her. “It’s my own little joke. Okay?” He grinned again.

Meg felt immediately at ease. “Okay,” she said.

Later, at check out, she struck up a conversation with the young man, who told her his name was Jonah.” He was growing on her, she found.

“Jonah’s an unusual name,” she observed, revealing her own identity.

“It’s Jewish,” he told her, as if to clear the air.

“Oh,” she said, unsure what he expected her to say.

“You don’t mind purchasing your merchandise from a Christ killer, do you?” he asked straight-faced.

“I don’t think that’s at all amusing, Jonah!” Meg scolded.

Jonah’s face turned crimson. “Sorry, Meg,” he said. “It’s just that I get that sort of nonsense from the unwashed masses of this town…this state…this country.”

“Please don’t lump me in with them,” she said. “I wash regularly.”

“Point taken,” he said humbly. He handed her her change. As she turned to go, he said impulsively, “Meg, would you go out with me–on a date?”

Just then, several more customers came up to the checkout. and because she was still a little sore at him for what he’d said, he considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. But no. She twirled back to face him and said, “Alright.”

When Jonah picked up Meg at her on-campus apartment, Kris, thankfully, was not there. Meg let him in.

“Nice digs,” he said, looking about.

“Do you live on campus too, Jonah?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I live with my mother, in the city.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very stern,” Jonah went on, without preamble. “Lots of hand-holding and pressure to succeed. Nothing but As on the report card,” he said. “And no dating on Shabbat–from sunset on Friday through sunset on Saturday.”

“Oh!” said Meg. “Do you want to do this tomorrow night then?”

Jonah smiled and shook his head no. “I’d love for you to meet my mother,” he said.

“I think that would be nice,” said Meg, who wasn’t sure.

She’ll want to introduce you to the Shadchan for the shidduch.”

“Pardon me?”

“The matchmaking,” said Jonah. “Naturally the Shadchan, or matchmaker, will want to research your family, your resouces, the caliber of your estate. Then there will be the nedunya, or bride’s dowry,” he translated for her.

Meg finally began to catch on she was being ribbed. “Sorry, Jonah, you’re out of luck. My family doesn’t have money.”

“Doesn’t have to be cash,” he said. “Do you have any herds, property, slaves…?”

“Jonah,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “do you ever manage to get a second date?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “You’re the first girl who ever agreed to go out with me.”

Meg furrowed her brow a little. She was unsure when he was kidding.

“We better scoot if we’re gonna make that movie,” Jonah said.

They quitted the apartment and walked to Jonah’s car. Meg was instantly impressed. It was a brand new 1993 Mustang convertible, blood-red.

“Ooh, nice wheels, Jonah,” cooed Meg, touching the door of the car.

“Jews have to display their wealth ostentaciously…” began Jonah, but Meg cut him off.

“Give it a rest, okay, Jonah.” She peered into his blue eyes.

Jonah nodded. “Lemme get the door,” he said, and held it for his date.

After the movie, they sat in the rapidly-emptying theater and Jonah asked, “Was the film too much in character for me, Meg?”

“Schindler’s List,” said Meg. “I would’ve expected nothing less–Jew boy!”

Jonah opened his mouth, closed it again and leaned in and kissed Meg’s lips. After a moment, she kissed him back.

“Umm” they both murmured.

_____

Sitting in a small diner following the movie, they discussed the film they’d just seen. Jonah mentioned an obscure detail that Meg had completely missed. She said so.

“I did too, the first couple of times I saw the movie,” Jonah said.

“How many times have you seen it?” Meg asked him.

“Tonight makes eight,” he replied. “When she didn’t say anything, Jonah added, “It’s more than just a film, Meg. It’s a historical event, a remarkable cinematic achievement.”

“I thought it was good,” Meg admitted.

“I guess it means more to me because I’m Jewish,” admitted Jonah. “You see, most of my mother’s relatives perished in circumstances depicted in the film. They were worked to death or taken by train to death camps–Todeslager. The Nazis had six such camps during the Second World War.” He began naming them: “Chelmno, Treblinka, Sobibor, Belzec…”

“What, you have them memorized?” asked Meg, surprised.

“Of course.”

“But why?” She didn’t get it.

“You look at your photo albums or old 8mm movies or VHS videos of your family, right?” asked Jonah.

“Yes.”

“Well, for many Ashkenazic Jews–those from Poland–this is all we have. Old newsreels and still pictures from the era. When I look at the old footage I wonder, is that my great grandfather or uncle or…” He trailed off.

“I think I understand, Jonah,” Meg told him.

When she returned to her apartment, Meg found Kris there in the company of her boyfriend, Troy.

“How did your date go?” asked Kris, seemingly with sincerity.

“Fine,” replied Meg. “We saw Schindler’s List.”

“Woo hoo,” said Troy in a loud voice. “More of that Holocaust crap.”

“What do you mean?” asked Meg.

“That’s just Jew bullshit, Meg,” said Troy boisterously. “Ooh,” he said, effecting a high-pitched voice. “The poor Jews, six million of us gassed. If I ate kosher, I’d have gas too!” He laughed, joined in his mirth, much to Meg’s chagrin, by Kris.

Meg looked closer and realized that the couple were wasted. Empty wine bottles sat upon the coffee table and the effluvium of pot had gathered in a cloud of blue vapor near the ceiling. Screw it, she thought, I’ll just go to bed.

“I know Jonah Fenster,” said Troy out of nowhere. “He’s manager of the track team. Ha-ha, can you imagine?”

“He’s a hard worker,” said Meg defensively, remembering Jonah’s boundless energy at the bookstore. She watched Troy run his ham-like hand up the back of Kris’s sweater. She seemed to accept it, but she didn’t look happy about it. Meg began to walk toward her bedroom.

“Hey, girl,” said Troy, who had his hand between his girlfriend’s knees now. “You’re not goin’ to bed, are you? It’ ain’t even one yet.”

“See you in the morning,” she said, hanging up her jacket on a hook.

“I thought we could have us a Troy sandwich,” said the jock.

Meg stared at him, uncomfortably.

“Kris, you tol’ me she’d go for it,” Troy said. “That’s why I stayed aroun’ tonight. C’mon, darlin’,” he told Meg, “that hebe didn’t wear you out, did he?”

Meg rolled her eyes and took off for her room.

“Do you prefer sucking a circumcized cock, or the real thing?” he shouted after her, then laughed like a braying jackass.

Meg slammed and locked her door.

_____

When Jonah showed up at Meg’s apartment for their second date, a week later, Kris was present this time.

“Come in,” she told him cooly, and he followed her inside. “Where are you kids going on your date?” she asked.

“Brazier’s,” replied Jonah, naming a popular music venue.

This stopped Kris in her tracks. “The dance club?” she asked, staring at his cane.

Seeing her look, Jonah said, ‘Uh huh. I can’t wait to get out there on the dance floor and cut a rug. You think Meg will be able to keep up?”

Kris stared at him.

“She’s a little gimpy,” he added, “but cute.”

Suddenly Meg appeared in the living room and said, “Hi! Ready to go?”

“Could I carry you, honey?” asked Jonah in an old man’s voice.

“No,” Meg said, playing along. “I’ll try to keep up. Just don’t start running, like last time.”

Kris mutely watched them depart.

At the night spot, Meg and Jonah sat nodding in sync to the contemporary beat of the band.

“I like them,” said Meg. “Who are they?”

“They’re called Nirvana,” replied Jonah. “They’ve been around for about a year.

“You think you can get them to record your tune for the film?” she asked. It had been Jonah’s idea to scope out the new talent. He produced movies for his film classes.

“Uh huh. Provided they don’t explode off the stage and become famous before we’re ready to produce the spot. They sound like they’re primed to just take off.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” said a buff 20-something, inserting himself at the table between Meg and Jonah. “Could I have this dance? I’m Mike,” he said.

Meg glanced uncertainly at her date.

“Okay with you, dude?” the man asked Jonah.

“Go ahead, Meg,” Jonah invited.

With a smile, Mike pulled out Meg’s chair and she joined the man on the dance floor. Jonah watched them with quiet bemusement. But his eyes were steely.

Suddenly there was a sexy, willowy female at Jonah’s elbow and he turned her way. She wore a red dress with black sleeves. Her scent was electrifying.

“Wanna dance?” she asked in a voice which brooked few refusals.

“Sorry,” said Jonah.

She turned up her nose, sniffed and stalked other prey. In seconds she was on the dance floor with someone else. The song ended and another started up and Meg and Mike remained on the dance floor. Following the conclusion of the second tune, Mike deposited Meg back at her table.

“Thanks, dude,” said Mike, and he hastily corralled black sleeves and began dancing with her without missing a step.

“I’m hot,” said Meg, fanning herself with a hand.

“You’re right about that,” Jonah said with a grin.

Meg placed her hand on Jonah’s arm. “You didn’t mind, did you?” she asked.

“Well, I’d prefer if you’d devote waking every moment to me. It’d help if you got your own cane,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes and punched his arm.

“Seriously, though, Meg,” said Jonah. “I can’t dance. But, everyone’s got limitations. I mean, you probably couldn’t knock off 1,000 situps.”

“Can you?” she asked, her eyes wide with awe.

“Hell no!” He scoffed.

The evening concluded in Jonah’s car, with what Meg’s older sister had always called “heavy petting.” Meg considered inviting him in, but then demurred. This was only their second date, and she didn’t want to come off as easy. They sat back, catching their breath, with Meg waiting for Jonah to ask her out again. Suddenly she had a brainstorm.

“You wanna come to dinner next week?” she asked.

Jonah looked at her in all seriousness. “Do you keep kosher?” he asked.

Meg’ mind spun. Kosher? she thought. She wasn’t sure what that even meant. “Uh…sure.” she said.

“I’m only teasing, Meg,” he said, his face breaking into a grin. “We aren’t observant Jews, except for Jewish Holidays. Anything you prepare will be fine.”

Meg relaxed and Jonah moved in for a goodnight kiss.

_____

After they’d finished Meg’s home-cooked dinner, and the dishes had been cleared, the couple sat on the sofa in the living room, drinking the second of two bottles of wine that Jonah had bought. Meg leaned her head on Jonah’s shoulder, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Meg was suddenly concerned about the rest of the evening. She had had only two lovers in her 20 years, and could count on just two hands the number of sexual experiences he’d had. Would Jonah be a more experienced lover? she wondered. She heard a soft humming in her head; she was comfortably buzzed on the wine.

Jonah leaned in and kissed Meg’s neck, her face, then her lips.

“Umm,” she purred. “You’re a good kisser,” she whispered.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said

6 months later

“Jonah,” said Meg pensively, “am I ever going to meet your mother?”

Jonah sighed. They had had this discussion many times in the past several months. Meg had visited Jonah’s home many times in the interim and had even spent the night there with him, but Meryl Fenster had never been in residence. The first several times Meg passed it off to mere chance, but lately it had been eating at her. Was it a concerted effort on the part of Jonah and/or his mother to avoid what might prove to be a confrontation with the son’s non-Jewish lover?.

Lover, thought Meg. She’d never possessed that identity before Jonah. It took some getting used to, she decided. Today found the couple once again at Jonah’s. He had stepped out to the newsstand to buy the Times. When he returned she asked him, “Why is your freezer locked?”

Jonah did a double take. “What?” he asked.

“The freezer in the basement, Jonah. It’s locked.”

“You’ve been down in the basement?” he asked with a little smile.

“You weren’t here,” Meg explained, “so I went exploring. When I got to the basement, I found this enormous chest freezer and when I tried to lift the lid, it was locked.”

“I didn’t even know it had a lock,” said Jonah.

“Why should it be locked?” she asked again.

Jonah shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe Mom does’t trust the housekeeper not to steal the beef brisket.”

“Jonah…”

“I don’t know. Really. I’ll ask her when she gets back.”

“Where did she go again?” inquired Meg.

Jonah appeared to turn the question over in his mind for a moment, before he replied, “Albany.” When Meg stared at him, unconvinced, he added, “We have some real estate–apartment buildings–in the capital. She goes up there, or I do, a couple of times a year.”

Meg nodded. “Is your mother avoiding me, Jonah?” she asked.

“Of course not, honey,” Jonah assured her.

“It’s been almost exactly a year since we met,” she pointed out, “and I have yet to even see her.”

Jonah stepped to an armoire and snatched a framed photo of an older woman off the top. “This is her. I thought I showed you before.”

Meg frowned. “That’s not the same. I want to see her–in the flesh, Jonah.”

“After the new year,” he promised, raising his palm.

That night, in bed, Meg had an awful dream. She jarred awake and stumbled down the stairs to the cellar, where she saw the vast deep freeze, as long as an outsized coffin. Its hum was a loud drone. She attempted to raise the lid, but it wouldn’t give. Desperate for answers, she turned to a workbench, found a pry bar and inserted it under the lid. She strained with effort, until at last something popped and the lid moved.

Pulling the cover up, an inner light flashed on and Meg fell back in horror. There in the depths of the freezer lay Mrs. Fenster, wrapped in a large transparent bag, unmoving. She looked exactly as she had in her photo. Meg gasped and cried out. the lid slammed back into place, catching Meg’s thumb. She screamed in pain. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and then everything went black.

When she awoke, Meg sensed a metallic, medicinal taste in her mouth. She felt lethargic.

“Hey, sleepy head,” whispered Jonah, touching her shoulder. She flinched. Her boyfriend was a murderer, she thought with terror. “You alright, Meg?” he asked softly. “Did you have a bad dream, babe?” Jonah asked. Meg nodded mutely. “Tell me about it.” Meg did.

To his credit, Jonah didn’t laugh outright, but he did tell her patiently that she had imagined it all.

“Show me,” she said, still unnerved by the dream. With a nod, Jonah got out of bed, followed by Meg, and they went to the basement. There Meg saw the huge old freezer. It looked exactly as she remembered it.

“Open it,” she said. He did. And there it was: hundreds of pounds of beef brisket, prawns, lobster, black salmon and other comestibles of a higher order.

“Where was she?” he asked.

Meg frowned. “Right here,” she said, indicating the far wall of the compartment. Hurriedly Meg checked the lid, saw no telltale scratches.

“You had a dream, honey,” Jonah said again. “Come here,” he said, enveloping her in his arms. Meg took a deep breath and let it out again. Then she winced at the pain in her thumb.

_____

Meg never did get to meet Meryl Fenster. Jonah’s mother perished in an aviation disaster over the Atlantic Ocean just three months later. It was all over the media. A flight from LaGuardia, bound for Israel, exploded in mid-air. Reading a transcript of the manifest printed in the newspaper, Meg saw the name of the woman who would have become her mother in law in just six months time, just following graduation. Jonah seemed strangely unaffected.

While Meg and her sister had been consigned to an orphanage and then a series of Foster Homes following the passing of their parents at an early age, Jonah had lived the entirety of his life with his mother. So Meg passed his dull reaction off as his leanings toward fatalism, that brooding belief that everyone dear to him was destined to abandon him. She wondered if he felt that way about her too.

There were no remains to account for following the tragedy, so the families held symbolic farewells to their loved ones. Meg stood with Jonah at the graveside of Mrs. Fenster, looking askance at the large white casket. It reminded her eerily of the freezer in Jonah’s basement. She shivered.

After the service, back at the house, Jonah said wistfully, “Mother would’ve loved you, Meg. She did love you. Although you never met in person, she knew what you had done for me, what you mean to my life. We talked about you all the time.”

“I loved her too, Jonah,” she said.

_____

Following graduation, the wedding was put on hold. Getting married had once seemed important to Jonah, for his mother’s sake. But he seemed not to care anymore. Meryl, like her son, had few friends. In fact, at the funeral, Meg was struck at how few people had known her personally. The only people who paid their respects were business acquaintances of long standing and most of them sent their regards by way of cards or floral arrangements or surrogates: paralegals or junior business associates. Hadn’t anybody really known Meryl Fenster? wondered Meg. She began to have an eerie feeling that the woman had never really existed.

“Who do you want me to invite to the wedding, Jonah?” Meg asked one night. Following graduation, Meg had moved into the brownstone. It was a three-storey structure and had many rooms; Jonah, because of his lameness, used only the first floor, and Meg found she had little interest. It sort of creeped her out a little.

Jonah shrugged. “Whoever you want,” he replied.

Meg, an orphan with no relatives she knew about, aside from a sister, had cultivated few friends. Jonah was the only serious boyfriend she’d had and he seemed to be growing more distant each day.

“Do you even still want to get married?” she found herself asking him.

Jonah was a long time in answering, and when he did, his response was an unconvincing, “Of course.”

Meg felt herself shiver.

“You’re everything to me,” he said dully.

_____

Rather than get a job in her major–teaching biology–Meg decided to continue her studies. She enrolled in graduate school. Jonah encouraged her to continue her education, rationalizing that they didn’t need the money from her potential income. Jonah was likewise enrolled in the school’s graduate film school. For once Meg didn’t have to scrimp; she found she rather enjoyed the easy life. And, in the year following his mother’s death, Jonah began to loosen up some and was almost his old fun self.

April, Meg’s sister, older by one year, finally paid the couple a visit. The sisters regularly conversed by telephone, but this was April’s introduction to her sister’s husband.

“Ooh, Ril’,” cooed Meg. “It is so good to see you!” The women embraced. “How do you like teaching?” she asked. April was on summer vacation.

“Eighth grade English is the lowest rung on the ladder, Meggie,” answered April. “But sometimes, you find wheat among the chaff and you can help them along, nurture them, ya know?”

“Are you still writing your novel?” asked Meg.

“Yes!” April laughed. “It’s 800 pages, with no end in sight!”

“You’ll be with us for two weeks,” said Meg. “You can use our computer and work on your bestseller.”

“Thanks, Meggie.”

Jonah stood in the background, brooding, observing but not participating in the exchange.

_____

“Meggie,” said April over breakfast three days later, “are you and Jonah alright?”

“Sure,” replied Meg. “Why, what do you mean?”

April shrugged. “I don’t know, he’s so quiet. We haven’t exchanged ten words since I got in. Does he hate me?”

“Of course not, Ril’,” said Meg. “Jonah is just quiet and it takes him a while to get to know people. It’s nothing to do with you. Really.”

April looked uncertain. “Alright. I thought maybe I did or said something wrong.” She shrugged.

“No, hon’. I told you about Jonah’s mother dying…”

“But that was nearly two years ago, Meggie.”

“They were very close,” confided Meg.

“What was she like?” asked April. “You don’t think Jonah holds it against me that I didn’t show for the funeral, do you?”

“He knows you were teaching and couldn’t get away. We had to hold the service straight away, Jewish custom and all that.”

April nodded. “I’d like to get to know Jonah better, Meg. You two are the only family I’ve got.”

“I know, hon’,” said Megan, laying her hand on April’s arm.

But things got no better between the two most important people in Meg’s life; they got much worse.

A couple of days later, April surprised everyone by ordering in a pizza for dinner. As they sat eating, Jonah grew very still, uneating.

“Not hungry, babe?” Meg asked Jonah.

Jonah suddenly slammed his closed fist down hard upon the pie. “Pork!” he shouted loudly. “It’s not fucking kosher!”

April’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, Meg told me you don’t keep kosher, Jonah. Is today a Jewish Holiday?”

“Ignorant slut!” stormed Jonah, flinging the pizza off the table and then stalking off.

Meg and April stared at one another in confusion.

“I don’t understand what his problem is with me, Meg,” April complained later. “I’ve tried to meet Jonah halfway, no, more than halfway, and he won’t cut me a break. It’s either the silent treatment or episodes of unbridled rage. Last night he flung his wine glass against the wall!”

Meg shook her head. There was nothing she could say. Lately Jonah was becoming obsessive, almost refusing to let Meg out of his sight.

“Meg,” said April in a serious voice, “come with me, to Rochester. You’ve got your teaching certificate and could resume you studies and get your Master’s at the university there. I can get you on at the high school as a science teacher.”

“Meg, I don’t know…”

“The cost of living, the climate, the community; it’s one of the best places to live in the state of New York, in all the country. You’re not happy here. Come back with me during next semester break and check it out, at least. Pretty please?”

Meg finally smiled. “Well, when you say ‘pretty please’…”

From the landing leading into the basement, Jonah quietly listened.

_____

“When you get your new PC, email me,” said Meg as she said goodbye to her sister. “Everyone’s using one now,” she said.

April said she would, and slipped out the front door of the brownstone.

As the door clicked closed, Meg said to Jonah, lurking in the shadows, “She’s gone now, Jonah. You can quit hiding.” There was weariness in her voice. The past two weeks had been very trying for Meg.

“Are you going to Rochester, Meg?” asked Jonah in a hollow voice. She looked up. “I heard you and your sister talking about it. She wants to take you away; well, I won’t have it, goddamnit.”

“You were evesdropping?” asked Meg, picking up on a queer vibe.

“I lost my father when I was only six,” he said, “and my mom left me too, five years ago. I won’t let you go, Meg. You belong to me.”

“Jonah,” said Meg slowly, “Meryl died only two years ago.”

Jonah shook his head nervously. “She died when I was 19,” he said. “She wanted to leave me to. Wanted to get married to a haberdasher, Mr. Braunweiss. He only wanted her money,” he said bitterly, raising his voice.”

“Jonah,” scolded Meg cautiously, “you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” he said, taking a faltering step in her direction. Meg backpedaled.

“Your sister can’t have you, Meg,” said Jonah. “I fixed her brake line and she’ll never make it back to Rochester.”

Meg’s mind spun wildly. April! She had to reach her. Chris had one of those new cell phones; she had to call her! She moved to the land line.

“No!” shouted Jonah, interpreting her intent. “No calls.”

A terrifying thought struck Meg. “Jonah,” she whispered. “That boy who asked me to dance at the club all that time ago. He died that same night when his brakes failed on the freeway. Did…did you do something to his car too?”

Jonah’s grin was a skeletal ricktus. He began closing the distance between them.

Meg’s breath caught. Jonah had a huge transparent bag in his hands. Desperately, Meg took flight, evading her crazed husband, and coming upon the stairs to the second floor. She flew up.

Jonah, because he was physically compromised, plodded up the stairs one difficult step at a time. Meg turned on the landing and ran up the stairs to the third storey.

“You won’t get away, Meg,” Jonah called after her in a sing song voice. He was mad, she thought.

Meg halted at the door to one of the building’s many bedrooms and twisted the knob; it was locked! She ran to four other rooms, but each of the doors was also locked.

“You’re really starting to piss me off, Meg,” said Jonah after scaling the final flight of stairs. Meg hid herself in a small alcove, holding her breath. She could hear Jonah’s stertorous footsteps as he grew nearer.

_____

The middleaged man limped with the aid of a cane and refilled Karen’s wine glass. She smiled, all blue eyes and white teeth. “So,” she said conversationally, “have you ever been married?”

“Once,” said Jonah. “But it didn’t work out. She wasn’t of our faith,” he explained, “and she wouldn’t keep kosher.” He grinned winningly.

The Turtle by Adam Kluger With Artwork by Dreck

Jacob Shellstein was a soft-spoken New York Dermatologist who enjoyed collecting stamps, studying birds, reading Revolutionary War books and treating his patients.

When his wife had just about enough of their normal existence without the luxurious perks her other Upper East Side friends seemed to enjoy and flaunt in her face daily, she served Jacob with papers charging him with being “withdrawn, cruel and unusual,” and she took custody of their teenage daughter Annabelle, and moved in with that hedge fund manager Juan Carlo Esposito-Caron whom she had been having an affair with for years now.

Dr. Jacob, not one to get overly emotional, became even more withdrawn. As his practice started to dwindle and his finances suddenly dissipated after a contentious settlement (not that the good Dr. Jacob ever had any intentions to contest a thing), he looked through the mail on the kitchen counter of his new “bachelor” pad and saw a missive from an organization he knew well, “Doctors without Borders.” The telegram was from an old colleague he also knew quite well, Dr. Felicia Winstrom, she was in Guatemala handling a leprosy outbreak and she desperately needed her old mentor’s help.

Dr. Jacob was on a plane to Guatemala the next morning.

Felicia and Jacob had been more than just colleagues. He had wanted to marry her at one time but the timing had never worked out. Their love affair and shared passion for helping others made them perfect potential life partners. Dr. Jacob read about George Washington’s theory of enlightened procrastination on the small prop-plane as it circled over the Green Mountain Range and Jungles of Guatemala.

Felicia was just coming out of a tent when she spotted Jacob–she went to him, put her arms around him, pulled down her surgical mask and kissed him passionately with tears running down her eyes.

“You came, you came…my dearest love…I knew you would …I knew you would”

Felicia collapsed in Jacob’s arms, clearly sleep-deprived and overwrought. Jacob carried her to her small hut, laid her on her bed and let her sleep.

After speaking in Spanish with a couple local doctors and nurses Jacob got a better grasp of the nature of the outbreak –and knew from the description of the symptoms, exactly which type of leprosy it was, the warning signs to look for, and the utmost importance of keeping certain acutely infected patients away from the general population. Upon receiving those instructions, the nurses rounded up the patients with those particular symptoms.

Dr. Jacob explained to Felicia when she awoke that time was not on their side and that it was absolutely essential to try out a new, relatively untested, infectious disease treatment on at least one of the patients to see if it might reverse the awful symptoms.

The local doctors found a willing volunteer, a 10 year old boy whose face was starting to bubble like a gourd. Upon administering a large and painful hypodermic with a strong steroid and drug that had recently been FDA approved, the young patient’s symptoms started to go into remittance within 48 hours. The look of joy and relief on the boy’s face and the local doctors was matched only by the love in Felicia’s eyes for Dr. Jacob.

The rest of the acutely infected patients were quickly administered shots and all seemed to be under control except for one minor incident where an old villager, who did not appreciate the size and pain of the needle, and perhaps the nonchalance of Dr. Jacob, jumped up screaming from the table and bit his arm. Dr. Jacob calmed the old woman down, finished administering the shot, checked his arm and quickly wiped the area on his arm with a alcohol swab, bandaged it and continued on with the hundred or so remaining villagers.

The next morning, Felicia kissed Jacob on the cheek and was quickly off in a helicopter to another village area in the Ticataxa Region after having received a telegram regarding another outbreak. She couldn’t say no. The letter to Jacob included a photograph, a poem and a promise– that when the time was right they would find each other once more–and never be parted again.

Jacob felt relieved and was happy for the first time in what seemed like years.

When Dr. Jacob got back to New York he immediately started to feel funny.

He went into his office and gave himself a full physical. What he saw caused grave concern. He administered the hypodermic with the anti-infectious disease serum and waited 48 hours.

No improvement.

The symptoms were getting worse.

Of course, it must have occurred when that old woman bit me–but why did her leprosy symptoms go away–could I somehow be resistant to the cure?

He looked in the mirror and was shocked by his appearance.

His face looked almost reptilian.

Dr. Jacob was horrified, panicked and confused but knew exactly what he must do.

He needed to quarantine himself immediately. He packed a couple bags full of supplies, put on latex medical gloves sanitized the area, placed a hand-written quarantine sign on his outer door and waited for dark.

He drove upstate at night to his small, broken-down cottage in Millbrook where he kept a small laboratory and research center and often studied birds and nature. The area was beautiful for nature lovers with the nearby Innesfree Gardens and various farms, but of no interest whatsoever to his ex-wife. “Let him have his little nature shack she told her attorney, it’s not worth anything.”

Jacob called a trusted colleague and told him what had occurred and that he couldn’t risk starting a leprosy outbreak by infecting an ill-equipped hospital staff and that the best solution was either to find a cure in his laboratory–quickly– or kill himself by tying himself to a chair and lighting the shack on fire. There was no other way as he saw it.

His good friend could not believe the situation was so dire. Dr. Jacob assured him it was so.

“Paul, remember my old Medical School nickname?

“The Turtle?”

“That’s exactly what I look like now.”

“Jacob, …no…”

“I’ve got to go…no time.”

Jacob Shellstein was awarded the affectionate moniker of “The Turtle” early on by his adoring Columbia Medical School classmates because of his last name, his tortoise shell glasses, his methodical nature in the lab, his withdrawn personality outside the lab and because of his preternatural intelligence– if ever a man was the embodiment of a wise old turtle it was indeed Jacob. He graduated the top of his class and became a leading global specialist on infectious diseases. His charitable, pro bono medical work around the globe over the years had positively impacted thousands of lives.

Jacob carried the two large red plastic containers of gasoline up from the basement and plopped them down on the carpet next to the rocking chair in the study. He took a favorite old book on George Washington and placed it on the chair and then he went back into the lab.

He biopsied his leprous flesh and tested it for hours under the microscope. He poured through old books and scanned the internet looking for any similar cases of patients with similar reptilian-looking skin.

He thought he found one possibility about 20 hours in but it was a false lead–so he kept plugging away.

He listened to Gershin’s Rhapsody in Blue as tears ran down is turtle-like face, He loved the song and it made him think of his beloved daughter Annabelle Blue–who he might never see again.

His good friend Paul called and asked if Jacob wanted or needed anything.

Jacob joked– “a cure would be nice.”

“Absolutely, said Paul, awkwardly–let’s pray for that–what about a Blonde Russian Hooker? he joked in a thick Russian accent –a call-back to an old medical school joke about what would be a good solution to any problem? Jacob laughed and replied, “No Paul, she would probably just say, “I von’t fuck turtles!”

“Hang in there buddy–if anyone can figure this out, you can.”

Jacob smiled and then suddenly a light bulb went off. Joking about hookers suddenly made him think of a whole new group of unapproved FDA rejected HIV drugs (Interferon6QP & Glaxiclaplonase) that had shown great promise in tests on mice in combating certain infectious diseases when used in combination–but the potential side effects were still totally unknown if used on humans. Jacob probably still had the recently mailed samples in his medical kit –never used– he glanced into his study at the two containers of gasoline–and then quickly rifled through the kit. After preparing the hypodermic he said a short prayer. He quickly wrote a last will and testament with instructions to leave everything he owned to Annabelle Blue along with a brief note to her and he emailed it to Paul. Then he phoned Paul and left a message on his voicemail and told him that one bullet, or a torch thrown through the study window from a safe distance of at least 10 feet –would ignite the gas containers and set the house on fire and protect everyone from this new strain of untreatable leprosy and that NYPD/ Hazmat– if they have not already– should simply light his old apartment on fire as well-to be safe.

Jacob Solomon Shellstein, or the grotesque creature he had suddenly become, then took the large hypodermic needle and jammed it in his arm. the image of George Washington flitted quickly through his mind as he gasped in excruciating pain, closed his eyes, and then everything …just…went….black.

Two years later at a solemn dedication ceremony at City Hall, the Mayor of the City was heard saying, “…Today we remember the heroic spirit of a New York doctor whose courageous actions and selfless decisions protected the lives of thousands of our fellow New Yorkers…”

Later that day a family walking by Belvedere Castle in Central Park stopped at a little area before the Delacorte theatre.

“Now, what’s this big surprise?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Annie and I thought you might like this little part here Darling–it’s called…”

“I know exactly what it’s called Felicia, you minx…it’s Turtle Pond–home to red-eared turtles, loons, frogs, ducks and soon one very beautiful, retired and very pregnant wife of mine.

“Oh, Jacob… I’m so indescribably happy.”

The three of them hugged and soon there would be four.

Adam Kluger and Artwork by Dreck

Moon Haiku by Joshua St. Claire

distant streetlight third-quarter moon 

so late 
it’s already tomorrow 
ALL CAPS MOON 

just black coffee 
that year I was
 the crescent moon 

just another cirrus day moon 

CTRL f the moon 

sfumato 
moonlight 
through the Atlantic mist 

after the last streetlight moon 


leaving it 
untitled 
the moon 

migraine 
curled up 
into a trapezoid of moonlight 

moon through altostratus 
a porchlight turns on 
at the end of the lane 

another haiku 
about nothing 
new moon night 

Joshua St. Claire

 (Image by DWB)


Those Summers in Nantucket by Adam Kluger (Artwork by Dreck) (Artwork featuring bare naked ladies warning for sesnsitive souls)

(Note-it is our serene pleasure to bring Adam Kluger on the site. He is a first rate writer and a fine fine artist despite the somewhat effacing name of the artist–The Eds.)

Paul had been heartbroken…

There was nothing better for a broken heart… than new pussy.

Paul started painting houses in Nantucket.

That’s where he met Kathy.

She had a big smile, blonde hair and a confident, easy way about herself. She was also really nice and pretty and intelligent too. She saw Paul on the roof of a house without a shirt on listening to the radio and painting a window frame. She worked down the street at a muffins shop. She would be attending Harvard in the fall. On Nantucket all the kids worked part-time summer jobs. At night they would go to the beach for bonfire parties or to summer houses for keg parties.

Paul and Kathy hit it off nicely. She would come back to his basement room and they would get busy. If Paul hadn’t still been pining over the girl who broke his heart he probably would have been able to give Kathy more. But there wasn’t anything to give. So it was just sex. And the sex was really good. For a straight-laced kind of chick she had a killer body and she was always so neat and clean and there was something about being on an island in the sun that makes fucking so much better.

Paul was already accepted to Bard.

This would be his summer for fun and Kathy helped him heal with terrific blowjobs and guilt-free sex. She seemed happy to have a good looking guy to bone and it was pretty uncomplicated.

The following summer, Paul would get a job scooping ice cream in town at the Old Corner Shoppe. He wore a fruity looking pink shirt and didn’t pay much attention when a pretty young blonde girl with short spiky hair started flirting with him. Her name was Stephany and she worked at a gas station pumping gas. Her uncle was a famous movie star and she had grown up on the Island. She was a smoking hot chick and Paul offered to give her a ride back to her house after his shift on the back of his moped. Granted, a moped is not nearly as cool as a motorcycle…but it’s also not nearly as lethal…when they got back to her house they quickly got undressed and jumped in a shower together. Paul couldn’t believe how sexy this chick was. Tanned and beautiful. He brought his “A” game with him into her bed because he wanted to be invited back again and again. Luckily, his enthusiasm was rewarded and he would end up fucking her throughout that summer.

One time on the beach he joined her and her girlfriend on their blankets.

He was asked to spread orange suntan lotion from France on both of them… Paul couldn’t help but notice how friendly and familiar the girls were with each other as they took off their tops to let Paul spread the lotion on their hot tan bodies. He suggested that If they were hungry that he would be glad to make a “sandwich” with them. The girls just laughed and nothing ever came of the idea…a little bit later Paul did take Stephany behind a dune and started fingering her. She could have fucked anyone she wanted on that Island. Before she met Paul she probably did…none of that mattered. She loved riding on the back of his moped and he loved rubbing baby oil on her body when they showered together after a torrid boning session. The sun, the surf. Hot blonde chicks, doobie and tooling around on a moped on a beautiful island.

It couldn’t get any better.

One serious bummer though was the day Paul almost drowned.

He had been with a work friend at Nobadeer beach. They tossed around a football and scoped out chicks. They listened to some of Paul’s cassettes on a portable boom box w/ cassette holder. UB40…reggae…the Specials..ska…anyway, Paul dove in to cool off…swam out and did a little body surfing…it was pretty mellow so he went out further and further

He could hear the caw of the seagulls and he felt great.

That is, until he saw a huge wave building to an enormous swale about 15 feet high almost 50 yards away. Quickly he looked around and realized he had made a huge mistake.

He wasn’t a great swimmer and panic shot through him like an icicle.

Quickly he started to do a mad crawl toward the shore…He didn’t look behind him.

Before he knew it, he felt the pull of the Atlantic Ocean and then the huge wave crashed over him. The power of the wave was shocking. It spun Paul like laundry until he felt the ocean floor. Immediately he pushed off. Disoriented, but sure that he needed to get back above the water’s surface…

He did that finally and gasped violently for breath.

Fuck! Oh my God. I’m in BIG trouble he thought as he turned his head.

He was still very far away from the shore. But he knew he had to recover quickly and keep paddling desperately toward the beach all the while sensing a new, even bigger wave approaching.

At this point he felt he might end up drowning.

But he was way too scared to scream for help.

It would have terrified him even more.

No one could help him now. He was too far out.

He was a small pink dot fighting against a roaring dark green swirling ocean with no concern for his life or his survival.

Paul decided he would try a risky maneuver. Instead of trying to body surf the wave forward and then be sent somersaulting under the water again…he would dive right into the wave at its middle and then swim underwater for a few seconds until he reached the surface.

As the large wave came up upon him, Paul took a quick gulp of breath and hoped that his gambit would work as he felt the awesome power of the water pull him toward the wave…he extended his hands in front of his head and dove for the middle of the wave. If it worked he might just survive this awful ordeal…if he had miscalculated that would be it.

He was done for

As it turned out he had made the right choice. The strategy worked. He avoided getting tossed head over heels underwater again and after using the same technique two more times on slightly smaller waves he felt the sand and pebbles of the shore line. Never had he ever felt such relief before. He made a mad sprint for the beach and was knocked down one more time by a wave. Paul laughed at the Ocean’s final message…don’t EVER fuck with me kid.

He collapsed on the beach in the sand with seaweed wrapped around his body and salt, sand and mucous pasted on his face as he blew bubbles of snot and gasped for breath. His friend Bram ran toward him and asked

“Dude, are you ok?”

“Yeah man… (Cough, cough)

Paul could taste the salt and sand in his mouth…his body was sore all over and he started to shiver…

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Paul leaned over and puked out some salt water

“Are you ok? Should I get a lifeguard?”

“No man, I’m cool… (Cough, cough) …just need a beer.”

Paul was neither cool or thirsty…what he was and what he would never forget, was that he was VERY lucky…he was a survivor. Sure…but more than all that he was a lucky son of a bitch.

Sure he felt invulnerable that summer. He was in his physical prime and he was getting laid and life was good.

On this day, however, he discovered first-hand just how unpredictable and tenuous life could be. He’d think twice from now on before he would wade out too far on anything. Leave the lunar fringe for those with a suicide wish. He’d get his kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames but he’d exercise a bit more caution too.

Some rebel.

Red eyed and shivering Paul made his way up the beach on unsteady legs until he got to his beach blanket. Then he crumpled onto it and starting to puke out more salt water. A reggae song was playing on the tape deck and Paul could feel the warm sun caress his aching, shocked body…he lay there recovering, until he felt something cold and wet tap his shoulder. He slowly turned over and squinted into the rays of the sun as his pal Bram handed him a cold can of blue ribbon.

He felt like a new man. Like his past sins had been washed away. Like he had looked death in the face and survived. He had been given a second chance. He had guessed right in the face of disaster.

The summer was almost gone …and that beer tasted pretty damn good.

Later that Summer Paul would be living in a beach house with some other friends. One housemate named Werth was a deadhead and introduced Paul to shrooms. They had a keg party and Kathy was there…somehow Stephany heard about the party too and she came by to say hi…before you knew it…Paul hopped into her car without his shoes on and was off with Stephany. She kidnapped him and brought him back to her house on the edge of town for a hellacious boning session.

When he got back Kathy was gone…He made it up to her by fucking her the next night and then taking her to dinner at an Italian restaurant near the movie theatre. The film they watched later starred some English actor who would die years later at a bar in Malta.

There were other chicks that summer as well…there was a hostess at a restaurant where Paul worked part-time as a dishwasher…she was petite with black hair and she wore a lot of make-up. But she had a fine little body and she was always eager to tease Paul. Paul was lucky the night he drove her back to her place from the dance club. They were both pretty lit and when a cop asked Paul if they had been drinking. Paul admitted that he had had “one beer” but that he wasn’t drunk. Luckily, the cop was cool and let him off with a warning.

Paul almost backed up over a cliff shortly thereafter, but again luck was on his side that night…when he finally got the hostess back to her house for the bone, she got him so worked up with foreplay, that he shot almost on contact. Three strokes and that was it. Pretty embarrassing. He did his best to take care of her after with his hand. But the magic flirtation was over and that was the end of that.

Tom, a friend from the restaurant, always looked up to Paul because Paul was older and once rolled him a joint. Paul had a nice supply with him from Belsam’s, enough to last a few weeks. Anyway, out of the blue, while they’re smoking a joint after work behind the restaurant… the kid says,

” my younger sister wants to fuck you…”

Paul was surprised but interested and asked,

“Are you cool with that?”

.”Yeah, totally”

“I don’t know man. That could be kind of weird…you know”

…”dude, she won’t stop bugging me about it…will you just fuck her already?” or at least say hi to her?”

“Sure dude, bring her by…I’ll say hi.”

Paul felt like a rock star.

When she came by later that week, Paul was hanging out in his room with some work friends…a couple of guys and girls passing around wine and a joint.

“Hi, I’m Tom’s younger sister…Penny.”

“Hey Penny…nice to meet you.”

She had red hair and a nice little figure. Paul guessed she was almost sixteen.

Paul introduced her around and looked her in the eye from across the room…he recognized that look in her eyes.

Before long, she had worked her way over to where Paul was standing.

While obstructing everyone else’s view she casually reached behind her and grabbed the bulge that was starting to form in his shorts. Penny kept talking to the guy in front of her while at the same time she held firm to Paul’s now rock hard cock.

For a young girl, she was pretty bold.

Paul liked that about her.

When everyone else cleared out… she stayed.

Paul closed the door and turned around. Penny was already on her knees. She pulled down Paul’s shorts to his sneakers and then proceeded to give him a world class blowjob.

He didn’t fuck her though. That way, things never got weird with Tom for the rest of the summer.

Adam Kluger (and Dreck)

Flying Socks by Paul Kimm

The flight back home left mid-morning from the major city airport they always chose, in order for it to be direct, as Paul preferred to not have any changes, but because of recent political sanctions from many countries, and the need to avoid flying over a large amount of land mass, the flight time had increased from the normal eleven hours, to a total of fourteen, and so, whilst it was still direct, neither of them relished that much time in the air, Paul because of his fear of flying, and his wife because of that too, knowing that every bump, any minor shake, dip, or little wobble, would have him clenching his wrists, gripping the armrests and unable to speak or open his eyes for at least fifteen minutes after even the gentlest of turbulence had passed.

For her part, Zoe loved flying, the opportunity to sit in a comfy enough chair for a period of time, no guilt to feel about not being more active, no gym to go to, no yoga classes on board obviously, and so relaxing in front of a screen packed with dozens of movies, TV series, a few daft on-board games, and the delivery of three meals, and the free-flow wine to the seat was a perfect way to spend fourteen hours, as long as her husband managed to contain his nerves, these nerves impervious to the number of times he’d flown before, or the statistical knowledge he had about flight safety, the multitude of empirical data, all meaning nothing as soon as the first bit of mild mid-air shaking came.

The flight was at 9am and because of the time difference with the UK would arrive in London at 5pm at Heathrow, which was 11pm in the time zone they were in, so they would be able to get to the hotel and sleep off the flight as soon as they got there, ready to move on to their friends the next day, who they hadn’t seen since their previous diplomatic posting on the other side of the world, where they’d worked together for five years, and loved it, until almost two years ago when they came to the posting they were in now in a much colder part of the world, and so meeting up with Sandy and Malcolm would be a great reminder of life in warmer climes, and they knew they’d have a wonderful, albeit different from how it used to be, first weekend back home, catching up with their old pals.

As usual check in and security was efficient and within half an hour of arriving at the airport they were through and at the departure gate areas with their carry-on bags in tow and closer to three hours than two remaining before take-off, so they decided to find a place for breakfast, and if time after to browse the shops and perhaps get an additional gift for Sandy and Mal, some single malt for him, perhaps a Japanese brand, that obviously couldn’t be opened that weekend, and a fancy style accessory for Sandy, ideally something purple, this being her favourite colour, but first a bite to eat, and then a quick walkaround the airport retail offerings.

They went to the usual place they ate, the breakfast options being the best, much as the lunch and dinner options were when they took flights at other times of day, and after a couple of minutes looking through the menu Zoe ordered avocado toast, making sure there was no butter and that they removed the poached egg, and Paul, allowing the airport meal to be a treat before the long flight, broke their recently agreed commitment to veganism and ordered an omelette, asking for them to just keep the vegetables in, not include the listed cheese, as some form of concession to their plant-based eating resolution, allowing one ingredient to break the rule rather than two, mumbling something about a couple of eggs not really being a health issue anyway, and murmuring the words ‘free range’.

As they waited for their staple freshly squeezed orange juices to arrive, they didn’t speak, but looked out into the airport, watching people walk towards their gates, some rushing, overtaking other passengers, with their wheeled small cases whizzing behind them, whilst others, also clearly with ample time, meandered around, stopped to look at the same menu where Paul and Zoe were dining, but made faces about the prices, and moved on, perhaps in search of an over-priced, but still much cheaper fast food alternative elsewhere in the airport, which made Paul smirk slightly when these never really potential customers scurried off.

‘Come on, Paul. It is expensive here to be fair.’

‘Not for us it’s not.’

‘That’s a little mean though. When we first met the best we could have done is share a box of fries from one of those places, and then get on our budget airline. And, we’re not quite as well off nowadays anyway.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry, you’re right, of course. The good old days when we’d have some fries and a beer to share.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, or perhaps it was the bad old days! I think we agree a fresh juice is preferable.’

‘Of course. Anyway, did you pack my flying socks?’

‘No, you know where you keep them. Are they in your carry-on or check-in bags?’

‘Wait, I thought you mentioned you packed them.’

‘I didn’t mention them once. I packed my stuff, then we did the usual run through what we might have forgotten. You didn’t mention your flying socks once. I assumed you’d packed them.’

‘No, I didn’t! Good grief, this is nightmare. You know I can’t fly without them.’

‘Paul, check your carry-on then. For crying out loud, it’s a bloody pair of old socks.’

Despite the thirty years of regular flying, the hundreds of flights he’d taken, Paul had never got used to it, never managed to allow all the knowledge he had accumulated about flight safety enter his mind enough to calm his nerves, and even meeting pilots, and other aviation experts, who’d emphatically promoted the extreme unlikelihood of serious accidents, the data such as a aircraft using 85% of its mechanisms on take-off, no extra ones during cruising, and 15% on landing, meaning any technical issues would likely occur in the first ten minutes of flight, just meant nothing to Paul, as did the reams of statistics ensuring the absence of crashes, and the fact that they chose the most reputable airlines with the highest safety records, often at extra cost, all meant nothing as soon as there was a the merest of mid-air movement during a flight.

Instead Paul, ironically, given his diplomatic role was in the science field, though not as senior as it had been in previous postings, had turned to superstition to assuage his nerves, his flying socks, which he’d owned for close to two decades, being the necessary accoutrement for all his flights, those pair of socks, navy blue, with a white airplane motif repeated all over them, long since riddled with holes, making them unwearable, continued to be a travel essential for him, no longer putting them on due to their age and disrepair, but rolled into a tight ball they’d been in, unused on his feet, not requiring a wash for over twelve years, but a vital, needed, indispensable item of packed luggage, as somehow their presence on all his flights, in Paul’s psyche, protected him from any actual danger.

Their breakfasts arrived, but rather than tuck into his omelette he told Zoe to eat her toast, whilst he rifled through the contents of his carry-on, fully opened out on the banquette seating, removing each item, his spare underwear, laptop, removed from its slipcase, the couple of books he took on board, always unlikely to read due his need to close his eyes during any inclement weather, a couple of t-shirts, spare trousers, one smart pair of shoes, and a few small toiletry items, and two pairs of fresh socks, new, hole-less, clean, and not with planes on them, and therefore not his flying socks.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Paul, I get it, but you know the socks don’t make a difference, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I know that, but you also know how I am. I don’t know what do.’

‘Look, eat your breakfast first, before it goes completely cold, and perhaps we can look around the shops. Who knows? Maybe somewhere sells socks with planes on. Would a new pair do the trick?’

‘There’s no harm in looking I suppose. I don’t know for sure they’re not in my check-in luggage anyway, but I’d feel much better knowing there were at least some socks with planes on in our bags for sure, if possible.’

‘Okay, eat your omelette and let’s go and see what we can find.’

Ordinarily Paul was the first to finish eating any meals they had, Zoe being a much more delicate eater, carefully slicing her food, enjoying each morsel, whilst Paul wolfed his food, generally using his fork to break up his meals, only using a knife when the fork couldn’t manage it, and each subsequent bite entering his mouth whilst his previous bite was yet unswallowed, meaning he consumed most meals in a third of the time Zoe did, but this morning he barely touched his omelette, his worry overtaking his appetite Zoe could tell, even though he attempted to brush off his unwillingness to finish it as some nonsense about feeling bad he wasn’t sticking to their new dietary regime, turning her usual mild disgust at his eating to restrained impatience at his mendacity and reluctance to eat.

‘Are you going to finish your omelette?’

‘No, you’re right. I shouldn’t really be eating eggs.’

‘It’s an airport treat, right? Are you not hungry?’

‘You know, look, I’m just, well it’s my nerves to be honest. I feel a little sick.’

‘Okay, let’s go and browse the shops to try and find you some replacement socks?’

They went through a few of the stores, the first three, with their small selection of socks, selling, at best, some diamond patterned, striped, or dotted socks, but nothing with any kind of images on, and certainly not approaching anything related to flying whatsoever, but then they came across a new shop, selling only socks, a purely sock shop, with shelves, and revolving stands full of themed socks, which they decided to divide between them, being sure there must be something that would appease Paul’s fear, and could be taken on board with him.

Each rack and shelf was themed for the most part, from selected animals, foods, Paul being unamused when Zoe asked if he wanted the pair with fried eggs on, her hope at humour calming him wasted, then through to musical instruments ranging from guitars, to drums, to what looked like saxophones, then types of weather, an assortment of random household items including television socks, dartboard socks, and even coffee maker socks, which brought them to the section on transportation themed socks, which as they looked through the different shaped and coloured car;, yellow Volkswagen beetles, red Ferraris, green Minis, and also motorbikes, bicycles, ships, even helicopters, but seemingly none with planes, at which point Zoe went to ask at the counter.

‘Excuse me, do you have any socks with planes on?’

‘Ah, no, we’ve none left, I think. We do usually have a couple of designs, but out of stock at the moment. Sorry. We do have the ones with helicopters on.’

‘Paul, they’re out of stock, but there are the helicopter ones.’

‘Sorry, no. It has to be planes.’

‘Yes, sorry about that, he has a, well, he likes to have what he calls ‘flying socks’ with him on his flights.’

‘Zoe, there’s no need to bloody explain!’

‘We do have lots with different types of birds on if that helps, sir.’

‘No, socks with fucking birds on won’t fucking help!’

‘Paul!’

Paul stormed out of the shop, Zoe following him after apologising to the shop assistant, but he left at a pace she couldn’t match, and couldn’t see him, deciding perhaps he’d gone to other shops, searching for more possible sock replacements, thinking she could try to persuade him a t-shirt, a tie, any item with a plane embellished on it would do, even a small plane model, ubiquitous in airport shops, would be suitable enough, and so she trawled from one shop to the next, yet Paul wasn’t in any of them, and their time for boarding was approaching, he was nowhere in sight, so in the last shop she looked in she purchased the smallest sized toy plane they had, a small keyring with a biplane flown by a vintage aviator styled dog, and a chocolate bar with a Boeing jumbo jet emblazoned on its wrapper, then left, to head to the gate, hoping to see him there at least.

As she bolted towards their gate she glanced in each shop, café, and restaurant, quickly sweeping her eyes through the customers to see if Paul was amongst them, but no sign of him until she glanced into the airport’s only pub, an Irish bar named Mulligans they’d never stepped foot into, and saw his back, sitting at a bar, something he hadn’t done for over two years, and as she reached him putting her hand on his left shoulder, the barman placed a large whiskey in front of Paul, next to an already empty glass with barely melted ice inside it, and Paul beeped his card on the contactless pad without even acknowledging his wife’s presence, and before Zoe could speak, he’d taken his first sip, of his second drink, and let out an overly loud, satisfying gasp.

‘Paul!’

‘What? Exactly what?’

‘You can’t be serious. What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing, Zoe? I’m having a fucking drink.’

‘Paul, please, the flight will be okay, please put the drink down. Come on.’

‘The flight. I’m not getting on the flight without my socks. You go. I’m fine.’

‘I’ve got some possible alternatives, please have a look.’

‘There are no alternatives! I don’t want to see any fucking alternatives. This drink is the alternative, alright?’

‘Paul, honestly, you can’t do this, you know you can’t. You’ve been doing so well. Please.’

Paul put down his drink, turned on his stool to look directly into Zoe’s eyes, and that fierceness she’d seen in his eyes many times before, but not in the last couple of dormant years, made her want to step back, but he took her hand that wasn’t holding the plastic bag, and gripped her wrist, not speaking, not blinking, his face showing he was preparing what to say, but she knew whatever he said would be definitive, unnegotiable, inflexible, he would be staying in the bar, not flying, and rather than waiting to hear one of his old diatribes, his rambling tirades, the kind of nonsense speeches that ultimately got them where they were now. Instead, she directed her thoughts to being on the plane, the comfort of the premium economy seat, the choice of wines she might have herself, the selection of films she might get though, what the booked vegan meals might be like, how his absence and the empty seat next to her would be an additional luxury, and when his mumbling had finished, and he released her, she said goodbye, and went to the gate, smiling at the memory from a few hours ago of popping a pair of old socks, with planes on them, in the bin.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)

Bound and Gagged by David Henson

Evelyn sprays the dining room table. As she starts to polish the oak, she hears a footfall behind her and whirls around. “Oh…Jack, please don’t sneak up on me.”

“Sorry, Evie. A beautiful Saturday is calling. Go for a walk?”

Walk. The word jars Evelyn back to that night, waiting in front of her building.

Jack, if U can’t pick me up will walk to station, take train

Hold tight, Evie, won’t be much longer

Evelyn squeezes the cloth. “This morning? Outside? You should’ve given me a little more notice, Jack.”

Her husband’s shoulders slump. “Okay, I just thought…maybe break the ice, and you could see Dr. Philips in person this week. I think it’s time.” He puts his arms around his wife. “Pwease?”

Evelyn freezes. “Not yet.” She twists away. “Need to get this done.” She turns back to the table.

“I’ll scramble some eggs.”

As Evelyn continues polishing, she notices what appears to be a smudge and gives the area an extra spritz.

“Can you come make toast?”

A few minutes later, Evelyn is in the breakfast nook. “Bon appétit,” Jack says, setting down two plates of scrambled eggs and toast.

Evelyn forces a smile and stares at her food.

“Please, you have to eat.” He taps her plate with his fork. “It’s over, Evie. He’s behind bars.”

She begins picking at her food.

“Have you heard from Ms. Walsh lately?” Jack says.

“She called yesterday. Said they all miss me and not to worry about my job. The other accountants are covering and…” The image of the man forcing Evelyn into his van flashes through her mind. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

Jack presses his napkin to his lips. “You’ll feel better when you get back to work.”

where R U, Jack?

important meeting almost over

forget it walking to train

Evelyn squeezes her fork until her knuckles whiten.

#

The next morning, after Jack leaves for work, Evelyn notices an area she missed when cleaning the dining room table. She polishes the area until she can see her reflection. Again her mouth seems blurred. When she leans closer, an image comes into view. It’s her seated at a dining room table, bound and gagged. Evelyn jumps back, inches forward, and sees the image again. She gasps and charges out the front door. When she notices the cool concrete under her bare feet, she begins to hyperventilate, hurries back inside, and up to the bedroom.

Lying in bed, she tells herself to get a grip. After a few minutes, she wedges the bedroom door with the chair from her makeup stand. She thinks about calling Jack, but decides against it.

Evelyn spends the day in the bedroom, pacing, staring out the window, reading…When it’s about time for Jack to get home, she listens for the garage door. Upon hearing it, she opens the bedroom door, and lies back down with an open book on her stomach.

“There you are.”

“What…oh, Jack. Is it that time already? Guess I fell asleep. More important meetings today?”

Jack frowns. “Let me change clothes. Then I’ll make spaghetti.”

“No, you’ve done enough.” Evelyn starts for the bedroom door, then stops. “I’ll wait for you.”

#

The next morning before the alarm sounds, Evelyn creeps downstairs and approaches the dining room table as if it were a monster she’s trying to not awaken. She holds her breath, leans close, sees the horrifying image of herself, and screams.

Evelyn and Jack nearly collide on the stairs. He leads her back upstairs and retrieves a baseball bat from under the bed. When Evelyn calms herself enough to tell him what she saw, he puts the bat away and insists that the two of them go check the table.

“See?” she says, standing behind her husband.

“I see you’ve done a good job polishing.”

Evelyn describes to Jack what to look for.

“Sorry, Honey. I just don’t see it.” His eyes well with tears. “Oh, Evie. If you’d only waited for me.”

Evelyn hurries back upstairs.

#

Evelyn lies prone on the bed. Jack stops massaging her shoulders. “Let’s do a little experiment. Go into the living room,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

A moment later, Jack joins his wife in the living room; he has the furniture spray and a cloth. He goes to the coffee table, removes a porcelain goose and a Canals of Amsterdam picture book then polishes the tabletop. “If I’m right, you won’t see that image.”

Evelyn looks into the shiny surface, sees herself bound and gagged, and screams.

Jack steps back. “I don’t understand. Was there a coffee table where he…kept you?”

Evelyn shudders. “I’d rather not…I don’t…I just remember that big table…and…his breath. He was always chewing lemon rinds, and his breath reeked of them and…” She sinks to the floor.

Jack helps his wife to her feet. “I think I’ve got it. That table where you were—did it smell like this?” His hands trembling, Jack puts the bottle of furniture polish to Evelyn’s nose.

“What? I don’t know. I—”

“Think, Evie. I’m on to something here.” He spritzes polish on his wife’s wrist and pushes it toward her face. “Smell that and—”

“Get away from me.” Evelyn pushes Jack away, runs outside, closes her eyes, and breathes in the scent of fresh cut grass. and breathes in fresh cut grass until the lemon polish thins out, until her lungs feel like they belong to her again.

David Henson

Age Concerns by Paul Kimm

(We are pleased to debut Paul Kimm on the site today. It won’t be his last! Leila and DWB)

In the 1980s, I had a job working for Age Concern providing decorating services for the elderly. As long as they bought the materials, Age Concern sent me to paint or wallpaper however many rooms they wanted redecorating. Whilst a few of the people whose houses I went to barely spoke to me, the majority welcomed my company. Here are some of the stories they told me during my breaks. All of the below is true, and some of it is factual.

Mrs Goodson’s house

Mrs Goodson, 76, lived on the Easthill Estate. I was there to paint her kitchen and living room; white ceilings, magnolia walls, and all woodwork in white gloss. I did the living room first. After the first day, she insisted I didn’t bring a packed lunch as she’d feed me, and if I came earlier, would cook me a small breakfast too. So, from the second day I arrived at eight-thirty each morning, and for rest of the week, enjoyed a breakfast of two slices of white bread toast, buttered heavily, with two eggs. To show off her culinary prowess the eggs went from fried, to poached, to scrambled. They remain the tastiest I’ve ever had. For each breakfast she also insisted that I had a small 330ml bottle of Guinness with my breakfast.

It’s good for you. It’s the iron in it. Good for bones, blood, the lot. A little bottle like that, and some eggs, sets you up for the day. It’s what I’ve had for decades and I’m fit as a fiddle. It was my John who started us on it. He was seven years older than me, and only gone just last year. So, did him no harm, did him good. I get crates delivered, twenty-four in a pack lasts me for a month, at weekends I don’t bother, but during the week it’s just right. Keeps you fit. Here, let me show you.

She took me to her under stairs cupboard and opened it to show me the crate, half empty, with rows of bottles in it. Then we went back to the kitchen, and I sat down at the round table, with three chairs tucked under it. She cracked two eggs into a frying pan, and they sizzled and popped immediately, before sliding two slices of bread into the grill above the hobs.

I get them delivered. I can’t carry a box like that, but my John could, still driving he was, and could carry them up from the car. Like he never really got old, that Guinness kept him going. I never learned to drive mind you, so our Rob sold the car after, only for a few hundred pounds, as we’d had it years. John was good at looking after the car as well, had all the tools and that, he’d learned mechanics in the forces. He did that in the war too, fixing vehicles, always strong. He always said it was the Guinness, the iron in it, giving you strong bones, keeping you fit. He never was sick until the end. Never saw him once have a day off, and right until his last week he was carrying in those cases, bending over, and slotting them under the stairs. I can still bend down to get a bottle or two out myself, but it’s years since I could carry twenty-four of them like that. Tell the truth, don’t know if I ever could. Anyway, like my John, a bottle a morning keeps me fit. It’s good for you, and our Rob sometimes brings me another crate when he visits too. If you’re still here on Friday, you’ll probably meet him.

I thanked her for the breakfast, telling her how tasty the eggs were, and for the Guinness. I remember feeling very satisfied and full each morning so did some of the lighter decorating work first whilst the breakfast and drink settled. From the Tuesday to the Friday it took to finish the job she told me more about her John, his strength, and numerous skills, never becoming emotional in anyway other than a bright happiness reminiscing about him. On the last day I met her son, Rob, who was more than twice the age I was then.

You’ve done a smashing job here. Much appreciated mate. Kitchen and living room both look way smarter. It’s a good scheme they’ve got going with Age Concern. Might have to get you back to do more, if we can get me mam some more paint in. That’d be alright, wouldn’t it? The upstairs hasn’t been done for over a decade I reckon. Not since my dad got sick and couldn’t come down for years.

I assume he saw the confusion on my face, as he then told me more.

Ah, I bet me mam said nothing. She’s never spoken about it. Likes to remember him before he got ill, when he could still help around the house. I’ll say no more on it. She doesn’t want those years being the memory of him, and that’s fair enough. It’s best for her she lies to herself, and we go along with it. I’ll say nowt more on it. Thanks again mate, cracking job and may see you again.

When I left Mrs Goodson said thank you and gave me two bottles of Guinness to take with me. I don’t know if she ever got more paint. Possibly one of the other decorators got put on the job next time, but none of them ever mentioned it to me in the yard.

Mr Mason’s house

Mr Mason also lived on Easthill Estate, it being the biggest in town, and was having his living room, hallway and landing painted, a longer job because of the banister and higher ceiling in the stairwell. He would keep drinks and biscuits coming and watch me work, occasionally telling me stories of his younger life, whilst I was painting.

I’ll tell you the best story I’ve got lad. It was 1963, remember it clear as day, even though it was at night. Got arrested, didn’t I? Out of the blue it was. I was still in the army, had been for years, cos I stayed in after the war. I was in London, was driving a Land Rover. That was mostly what I did, drove about on errands for officers and that. A bunch of coppers pulled me over, and took me in. Arrested me for the bloody Great Train Robbery! Can you believe it? Remember it? Ronnie Biggs and them? They thought I was one of them because they’d escaped in Land Rovers, and there’s me in mine trawling round London, odd jobs for my gaffers, and they reckoned I was one of the robbers. Asked me questions for ages they did. Hours.

I finished a section of banister, put my brush and paint pot down, sat on a stair, and asked him what questions they had.

All sorts. It was like they’d decided. You know, like I was definitely one of the robbers. Was in my uniform and they said that was to throw them off the scent. I said to them to check the Land Rover, there was nowt in it, and they said it was probably a decoy. Bear in mind, I didn’t actually know anything about the Great Train Robbery. It wasn’t called that yet, and they weren’t telling me what had gone on, just asking me where the others were, where the money was, where I’d got the military uniform from. I didn’t know until they finally let me go, and saw the papers the next day. Eventually, they called my barracks to check. Someone came in, explained who I was, and they let me go. No apologies or nowt, like I’d wasted their time.

I bent down to get my paint and carry on with my work, but he asked me to wait a minute, so I sat down again.

Thing was, I remember it like it was last night. Never said this to my wife, but that was the most exciting night of my life. Got married, lived through the war, spent two decades in the army, but being arrested as a Great Train Robber is my greatest memory. I remember it more than anything. Every now and then it’s all I constantly think about. That’s the thing with being old, maybe the only good thing, lots of memories, so many of them, even if some of them visit you more than others.

I recall Mr Mason being quieter for the rest of the week. He was excited to tell me his story about being arrested as one of the Great Train Robbers but it was like it had exhausted him. He didn’t mention it again for the rest of the job, or share any other major memories, and by the last day he’d stopped watching me work.

Mrs Smith’s flat

Mrs Smith had a one-bedroom flat near the beach. You couldn’t see the sea from her window, but you could from the small, shared garden at the front. Mrs Smith had saved part of her pension for nine months to afford the paint for every room to be done. She was a soft voiced, but chatty lady who made me tea with milk, a drink I’ve never liked, several times a day, insisting I take a break with her, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her I didn’t like it. The twenty or so cups of tea I had in the week I was there being the most I ever drank.

I moved here after my Albert passed. I didn’t want to stay in a big house, like we had, bigger than we ever needed, so I sold it off, paid the rest of the mortgage and got this place. More than twenty years ago now. Maybe even close to thirty now. I wanted to be near the beach, and have a view of the sea if possible, but when everything was paid off there wasn’t enough for that. This place suits me though. I like it enough. Enough for me. Do I keep saying ‘enough’? Ooh, it’s a miserable word, isn’t it? Enough. Make do. Get by. That’s life though, isn’t it? Life is enough. Anyway, I’m getting all maudlin, and I’m not maudlin at all. I’m a happy person. Quite happy. Happy enough. That’s me, Paul.

Mrs Smith laughed at herself, telling me not mind her rambling, and I went back to continue the decorating. The next milky tea came just over an hour later.

Sorry about before. I don’t mean it like that. All that daft talk about ‘enough’. We had it good, me and my Albert. No kids. That wasn’t for us it turned out, so we had a nice house. No kids, and a big house. Too big for us really, but we had the money for it with no kids. We used to go on holidays abroad before others did, before it became all that popular. Cities and seasides. Seville and Marbella in Spain. Very nice. Rome and Almalfi in Italy. Very nice too. Then my favourites, Athens and the islands in Greece. Definitely the nicest. Anyway, listen to me twittering on. Am I saying ‘nice’ too much now? Deary me, I’m all ‘enoughs’ and ‘nices’ today. Those holidays were very nice though. We’d always send ourselves a postcard, addressed to our own house, with a little note about our trip, like we were writing to another Mr and Mrs Smith, so we had a memory and Albert quite liked collecting the stamps. Often they were waiting for us when we got back or arrived a little later on. I’ve still got them in an old biscuit tin somewhere. I’ll have to dig them out. I can’t remember what we wrote on them. It was a long time ago now.

The next day Mrs Smith searched the cabinets and cupboards in the room I was working in. She apologised for being in my way, even though she wasn’t. Shortly after returning to the kitchen she called me through for another tea.

I’ve found the tin of postcards. I haven’t looked at these in years. Could be ten or more, twenty even, since I’ve had a look. I thought we could look together if you like, while you have your tea.

She opened up the old square tin, the picture on its lid showing a photo of the biscuits it once contained. Inside, there was a stack of brightly coloured postcards, the paper on them looking soft to the touch. Mrs Smith took the top one, a photo of an old church with an orange tree in the foreground, and the word ‘Sevilla’ in the bottom right corner.

There you go. I mentioned we went to Seville didn’t I? Lovely orange trees everywhere. All over the city. Let’s have a look what silly message we wrote to ourselves.

She turned over the postcard, and on the back the right side had the address below the names ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’, but the left side was blank.

Oh, let me look at some more. We must have forgotten to write on this one. Ooh, one from Turin. We went to Italy more than once. Oh, no message on this one either.

Mrs Smith took out a pile in one go, turned them over, and started dealing them out on the table, each one with their address and a stamp on the right, but all the left-hand sides blank.

Well, I never! I told you yesterday we used to send ourselves a postcard, with a message. I was sure we did. Looks like I’ve gone and imagined it. So silly. It must have been to his brother Geoff, and his wife Gladys. They were Mr and Mrs Smith as well. That must be it. Silly me. I would have liked to read those messages, but Geoff and Gladys are long gone now too. I’ve no idea if they kept them. I’ve still got Albert’s writing though, on those addresses. Just not the messages. So silly of me. I was so sure about it when I told you about our little, silly postcard tradition. Now I can’t stop saying silly, can I? Oh well, it was a long time ago now, but so is yesterday nowadays for me. Everyday feels like a long time ago. Just so silly.

After that day I wasn’t invited into the kitchen as much. Mrs Smith mostly brought the mugs of tea to me. When I was painting the kitchen and the bathroom, if she wasn’t looking, I’d tip some of the tea down the sink. When the job finished, she said goodbye and asked if I might pop round sometimes for a tea and a chat. I said I would, but I never did.

Paul Kimm

(Image by CJA)