short-story

The Saragun Civil War

(First published by Literally Stories UK)

Brief introduction:

Today is an American Holiday, the most American holiday. On this 250th Birthday we celebrate the meaning of freedom by showing the world how pointless it can be.

But I remind the doomsayers that if you live in America, homosexuality is not illegal as it is in much of the world. Women are not required to wear certain head dresses in the USA; you can say anything you want about the fool in charge and not worry about suffering a fall from a high place as it often happens in Russia (the gravity appears to have stronger pull there). When you complain, please, once in a while acknowledge that you live somewhere where that is not against the law. I am far far away from the John Wayne P.O.V., but I can appreciate it without being a jerk about it. I do not attend church, but Christians, Jews, Muslims are usually good people and not the wild-eyed cunts you see depicted on screen. Moreover, if you are young and truly committed to improving things, then join the fucking peace corps. Grow up and lay off breaking shit at Starbucks. Do positive things that can actually matter. As it goes in America, Good Bless You and Up Yours! All at once.

Now on with the show–Leila

Auntie Bellum

Every society must schedule at least one civil war during its existence. It appears to be an unwritten cosmic law. Far be it from Saragun Springs to scoff at unwritten cosmic laws by continuously living in peace when such is considered abnormal.

So we took advantage of a little dust up between two residents of the realm and staged a Civil War last Tuesday. It began at 9 AM sharp (which, around here, seldom arrives before noon) and was scheduled to end before Happy Hour (which arrives earlier every day). But when nobody came back after lunch (scheduled for two, but taken at “9:15”) the affair was scrubbed and it became the sort of non result that both sides claimed as victory. Although “suppose we gave a war and nobody came back after lunch” doesn’t quite measure up to the profundity of the Sandberg line, we proudly claim to have come the closest to making the grade.

In a twisted, acidy way our Civil War was a reenactment of a conflict that never really took place (except for Big Talk). Some people might say that a reenactment of a non-event boggles the mind. But we of the Springs must ask how can a species that has never enjoyed a day without war in its entire existence be boggled by anyone or thing but itself?

Anyway, our little Civil (both tiff and spat, are more accurate) War began because talking herbivores are quick to lose their tempers and resorted to name calling and writing Big Checks with their mouths.

Witness:

The Haggisly Incident

Our Civil War began idiotically enough. Daisy Kloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess was playing in a Scrabble Tourney against a Lamb named Shaytan Shotten (the Grand Poobah of the Saragun Springs’ state of “Lambystan”). There is a bit of a tense rivalry between the closely related herbivores and it often raises its head during so-called friendly competitions. Soon enough insults got into the tiles, and when Daisy coined the adverb “haggisly,” it caused Shaytan to flip the board. I wasn’t there but I heard that both parties reared menacingly on their back hooves until the Second in Command of the Springs, and Tourney Judge, Renfield, got them to calm down.

Renfield informed me that there were a lot of “this ain’t over” flavored comments issued as the two trotted off in separate directions. Renfield declared the match a “mistrial” and that it would be rescheduled as soon as everyone “got her undies out of a bunch.”

Unknowingly the seeds of War were sown.

The Declaration of Sex Session

A couple of days down the line, Renfield entered the office, carrying a document.

“The Lambs have faxed another article of ‘sex session.’”

“Fax? Why not smoke signals?”

“They say they want Daisy’s head on a Pike–the fish, or an apology. They also want to re-renegotiate their bedtime.”

“Not again,” I said. Still, I was in a rare mood in which I promised myself I wouldn’t drink before noon unless I had a good reason. That was a good enough reason.

“Bring that pitcher and glasses over, would ya?” I asked as I pulled jugs of vermouth, gin and olives from my desk. For the next twenty minutes, Renfield and I contributed to the long, ongoing history of the martini.

We were both getting into our third when I asked her what the Woollie’s new complaint was all about. At the time I knew nothing about the dust up at the tourney (or I was told and chose not to listen). But as Renfield told me it all made sense in the usual twisted way. As you probably have deduced, “sex session” is their mature way of declaring secession. They had done so before when they objected to their mandatory bedtime of nine on school nights. I shouldn’t have caved in so easily.

As if on cue, Daisy trotted into the office wearing a military cap (which sported seven stars), a pair of aviator shades and white ascot. She was missing a pipe, but since that would have made speaking difficult and is not an object easily manipulated by hooves, Daisy had omitted it from her Douglas MacArthur ensemble (which was for the best because she doesn’t smoke anyway). She was apparently “attended by her attache” Pie-Eyed Peety, the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon (a living cartoon beer mascot), who wore an enlisted Pigeon’s cap that had three stripes on it.

Peety drunkenly flew onto my desk, as always perpetually blasted as hell, and stuck his beak in my martini and then washed that down from the bottomless can of PDQ Pilsner he totes wherever he goes. Peety is “drawn” on the surface of reality. He’s a two-dimensional, limned toon, but he does change colors in keeping with his mood. After sucking down the extra booze, he turned seaweed green.

“Don’t you dare yark on my desk, you little skid mark,” I told him. He ignored me and lay down for a nap on top of the dictionary I keep on my desk for old times’ sake.

Daisy climbed the ramp that gives small, flightless realm citizens access to my desk. There she stood, in all her military majesty.

“I see your generalship already knows about the ‘sex session,’” I said.

“I have not yet begun to fight!” Daisy stated proudly.

“You’re dressed like MacArthur and quote John Paul Jones,” I said.

“Wasn’t he in Led Zeppelin?” Renfield, ever her useful self, chimed in, even though everyone who knows anything about classic rock could see that yuk coming from a full thirty fathoms.

“Um, Daisy, I just heard about you getting into it with a Woollie at the Scrabble Tourney,” I said, examining my drink for Pigeon backwash. “Something about name calling creeping into the tiles–mainly your tiles.”

“The spoilly spoil sport flippingly flipped the boardly board–that means warly war,” Daisy, being an adverb addict, was especially eloquent while ignoring her role as the chief cause of the problem.

“War is a triple-score helly hell,” said Renfield, “best decided at the scrabble table.”

“‘And out of here faster than shit through a Goose’–Dean Vernon Wormer, Animal House,” Peety said in his sleep.

“That sounds like a great idea–what Renny said, not, well whatever he just spouted,” I said. “And before you object oh mighty Hooved One, you may choose what the spoils are if you should win.”

“Iffly if?” Daisy snorted. “Thatly will be the dayly day.”

And it was so decided that the match that had ended in that “mistrial” would decide the outcome of the Civil War. Faxes were sent and the terms were thrashed out and the battle was set to appear in a field in the Enchanted Woods. Still, maybe a backstory is in order. If Daisy won, haggisly would become an official word, if it went the other way, Daisy would have to express her support for Critical Graze theory, in which Goats systematically (and erroneously) consider themselves superior to Sheep (who say it is the other way around).

Why are the Lambs such little entitled monsters instead of sweet cuddly creatures, you might ask? Well, the Anita Know Function (Saragun Springs’ Virtual Assistant, a for real ghost in the machine, not a metaphorical one, either) will explain:

“In 2024, several thousand Scottish Blackface Sheep entered Saragun Springs via an accidental opening of the interdimensional vortex that connects us to Earth and other realms. There is no such thing as an illegal alien in the Springs, so they were welcomed aboard. We have extended a standing offer to return any Sheep to Scotland at any time, but to date none have elected to return to the Old Country, possibly due to the fact that they are not on the menu in the Springs nor are they harassed by Dogs.

“The Sheep have remained normal Sheep after crossing over, but ever since any Lamb born in the Springs is a Talking Lamb. The Lambs are intelligent, precocious and obnoxious little brats of the highest order, these are not mild mannered Lambs. Thus we established a Rock and Roll Lamb School run by our resident Witch HeXopatha.

“Even though there are no other school age creatures in the realm, a faction at the school has introduced Critical Graze Theory to the students. The proponents say that the school is a thinly disguised Lamb reservation.”

Sigh.

Someday They Will Give a War and Everyone Will Go to Lunch

Further faxes determined that the Civil War would be a team resumption of the Scrabble match that ended with the infamous “haggisly” incident, and no longer a one on one affair. Daisy chose her drunken au de camp Peety, while Shaytan first enlisted the aid of the recently born Buckfast the Geep–who despite being half Goat, half Sheep is the Lambystan’s Chosen One. But she changed her mind because A.) Buckfast is Daisy’s half brother; B.) Bucky is gleefully illiterate and wishes to remain so.

A further complication involved the fact that Peety, though not completely illiterate, has a vocabulary limited to quotes from 80’s slobcoms and action films. In fact, you have to look long and hard throughout Saragun Springs to find individuals who have the basic skills necessary for scrabble. And even the ones who can will pretend they can’t because they find life to be easier that way.

Since Lambystan is really the Lamb School campus, nearly all of its citizens are literate (save for Buckfast), but it was decided (by me, for I too can be unreasonable) that two of the same species cannot be teams (“diversity” is often the soul of unreasonableness). Shaytan selected a Black Rat named Melanie, who is one of the Great HeXopatha’s minions. Any positive number in the Rat literacy rate is a stunner, yet Melanie can read, having learned the skill in service of her Master.

Juan Gee, a human-sized Allosaurus who gained Saragun Springs sanctuary after being rescued from a science fiction movie on earth, was Daisy’s choice. Juan is a Mexican-American-Jurassic actor, and learned to read even though his lines were usually limited to various roars and grunts. Juan is a sweet person, although he is currently under the delusion that he is “Kathy” in Kate Bush’s various Wuthering Heights’ videos. Hey, if it makes him happy, right? Besides, maybe it is true. Anyway, Juan arrived at the war in the red dress. Quite fetching, actually.

The table was set as there were the three chairs (Juan’s tail serves as his “chair”–he curves it “in” and rests on it).

Naturally this is when and where new bullshit dropped.

“He can’t sit like that,” Shaytan kvetched, pointing at Juan.

“How come?” Judge Renfield asked. “He can’t sit any other way, nor could you if you had a big tail.”

“I dunno,” Shaytan said craftily. “He might be able to see what I’m going to play.”

“That’s the objectively object of the game, you dunderly dunderhead,” Daisy said.

Then both she and Shaytan raised onto their back hooves, like before. Fortunately, the board had yet to be laid, or someone would have flipped it.

“Ah, Jesus,” I said, watching from my office. I muted the volume and gazed out my window. A Butterfly zipped past, and there were little Sparrows and Finches and Ladybugs. It was all pretty zippity-do-dah, out my window.

On the tablet that held the Civil War, however, when I finally looked back at it, both Daisy and Saytan were seated again. But this time both of them were seated with their backs facing each other. Melanie the Rat and Juna Gee were away from the table, on which the board had yet to be placed, chatting and laughing. It was a time for decisive action.

“Tell you what, gang,” I said into my microphone, which connected to speakers Penrose the Flying Weasel had placed in the trees. “Why don’t you break for lunch–pizza all around, on me,” I said. That cleared the area in no time.

I spent the rest of the day drinking martinis, smoking, gazing at verdant nature and occasionally glancing at the War tablet. But no one came back to the table.

Daisy and Renfield finally wandered in after a while; neither said anything about the War and I certainly did not bring it up.

So, here we are, stuck for a wow ending. Over two-thousand words spent on something that almost happened twice should say something. Could use that as a cheap literary symbol against war. But symbols against wars are almost as annoying as the wars are themselves. So, I closed the file. And placed it under “Ugsome stuff that goes nowhere.”

Through the open window, toward Lambystan, I heard a large rumbling, like thunder. I went to the window and saw what appeared to be a giant geyser of caramel colored foam in the distance. This was accompanied by the combined cheers of many Lamb voices.

Daisy and Renfield paid no attention. They were setting up the Monopoly board.

“Um, do either of you know what happened to the mentos and diet coke the Boss sent through the vortex last month?” (The stuff “she” sends greatly enlarges upon passing through the vortex. Two litre bottles become the size of torpedoes.)

“I think that should be obvious to you by nowly now,” Daisy said, pretending to choose between the game tokens, before selecting, as always, “The Boot.”

“Right?” Renfield added. “You really need to know how to let things go.” (For the record, she picked “The Hat.”)

There was a second instance of rumbling, a geyser and cheers coming from Lambystan.

“All righty,” I said. I was sitting at a crossroad of the soul. I could continue the pointless war or I could just let it go.

I closed the window and chose “The Iron.”

(image by CJA unless it is DWB, nah, pretty sure it is CJA, unless, of course it is…; header by Leila, I know that much)

The Drifter Presents Mississippi

“I’ve been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down.” – Bob Dylan

They were sitting on the steps of William Faulkner’s grand old mansion, just the two of them. No one else was around.

William Faulkner himself definitely wasn’t around, at least not in the flesh, since he’d passed out of this mortal coil about twenty-eight years earlier. The mansion, Rowan Oak, was now owned and operated by the University of Mississippi, not too far away.

If you don’t know who William Faulkner is, it’s okay. For the purposes of this story, all one needs to know is that he lived in and wrote about the U.S. South across the first half of the twentieth century and beyond, and he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1949/’50 for doing so, AND HE RICHLY DESERVED that prize and any other prizes you can think of.

Local wags who knew Faulkner in Faulkner’s own day had dubbed him Count No ’Count. It meant Count No-Account and it was intended as a slur against Faulkner because he generally ignored everyone else in the town both before, and after, he became “famous.”

There were some people in the town that he liked.

But he was a sensitive soul (you would have to be in order to produce all the great writing which he produced, up to and including getting yourself awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature four years before Hemingway himself did, which really pissed off Hemmie even though he rarely admitted it, although he did admit it sometimes, especially when he was in his cups).

Faulkner was a sensitive soul, and he had discovered that most people, one way or another, insulted his writing, even when they were trying to compliment it.

And that is a hard fate to bear. Even for the guy who wrote “The Bear,” one of the greatest novellas in English of all time.

In France right now, William Faulkner is as popular as France’s own Marcel Proust and as Edgar Allan Poe is. Even in the South, on his own home turf, Faulkner’s fame cannot come anywhere near to touching what he has achieved in a separate nation far across the seas.

Although I’ve never been there in person and never will be there in person, most likely, I still say (because of Faulkner, and Poe) long live France! (Sometimes I feel like I must’ve lived there in a former life, and now I’m just an exile; both of my grandfathers were French Canadians recently transplanted to the USA.)

…

The main character in this story was twenty-two years old at the time this story takes place; and the other main character was twenty-three.

It, or they, were a he and a she, or a her and a him, and though they both thought they were completely “grown up” at the time (of course), neither one of them had any idea how young they still were.

The year was 1990. No one on the Planet, and by that I mean no one on the Planet at all, had any idea how much the world was about to change in the next few decades.

But only young people of any era would’ve ever done what these two did next.

They went around to the back side of Faulkner’s house, broke in through a window, and climbed into the old mansion that still had most of the original furnishings in it from decades and decades ago when Faulkner and his family had lived here together.

The act of breaking into a decaying plantation mansion that had once been an utter ruin which Faulkner purchased for five hundred bucks in the 1920s and then refurbished, over decades, all by himself, did something to the young man and the young woman who are this story’s heroes.

Before they knew what was what they were rolling around all over the floor in Faulkner’s former dining room and then they rolled under the dining room table together, there on the thick carpet, luxuriously glued to one another, making out.

Back then they still loved “making out,” which meant kissing, hugging, holding, and exploring each other for hours on end without even going “all the way” sometimes.

When they burst forth from Faulkner’s house again a few hours later, both of them were so full of health and life and youth and happiness that they literally were glowing (people had told them more than once in the bars that they literally had a visible aura) with strength, joy, confidence, fearlessness, and a full-on open-hearted appetite for whatever the world had in store for them.

…

Which is not to say that they were always perfectly happy with one another, at all.

For instance, she had been far from perfectly happy with him a few days ago when he almost drove the car straight off a dock into the ocean and killed both of them. Accidentally.

They had driven all the way down to Mississippi from Chicago because they wanted to see William Faulkner’s famous haunted mansion. But once they got to Oxford, Mississippi, they realized that the ocean itself was only a few hundred more miles away, after all.

So without discussing it for more than five minutes, they made the impulsive decision to skip over Faulkner’s famous haunted mansion for now, drive down to the ocean and check it out, then swing around and head back to the mansion tomorrow or whenever.

In 1990, everything they needed for this road trip was inexpensive and affordable, including gasoline for the small, fuel-efficient car they were driving, diner food, cheap motels, cigarettes, music tapes purchased at truck stops for the cassette player and, of course, alcohol.

But he’d been driving too much at this point. She had helped out with the driving periodically, but he did ninety percent of it. And he had been driving for so many hours now without a real break, that he suddenly realized he couldn’t even figure out how many hours it had been. She was sleeping in the passenger seat. He rubbed his bleary eyes and lit another cigarette and continued to drive. He took a swig of the cold, stale coffee he had at his side and stubbed the cig’ out in the ashtray, accidentally burning his index finger. As he was doing so, he looked up to notice that THE OCEAN WAS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF THEM AND THEY WERE ABOUT TO DRIVE OFF AN INDUSTRIAL DOCK STRAIGHT INTO IT, meaning the dark, pounding waves of the ocean. He had been circling around trying to find a better road and he’d known they were in the ocean’s vicinity because he could smell it but there were no towns around and it was blackest-night cloud-dark and he was a Northerner who’d never even been to Mississippi or any other Deep South state except Georgia and Florida for that matter.

He SLAMMED on the brakes and the car stopped with its nose right over a thirty-foot drop straight down into the black ocean water, the salt waves nailing the sides of the drop and spraying up over the hood of the car.

She was jerked forward and stopped by both the seatbelt but first his arm which flung out rightward to protect her. Yes: his arm was faster than the seatbelt.

After she almost murdered him about seventy different ways, she finally snuggled into his shoulder and let him continue driving on into the night in the other direction.

…

On the way back north to Faulkner’s haunted mansion the next day, they took another detour and went through the Delta so they could see the place where Muddy Waters and all the other Delta blues greats like Mississippi John Hurt and hundreds or thousands of others are from. And they saw that the Delta now looks much like the Delta did then, and that every time two roads cross one really does think of Robert Johnson who made a deal with the devil at the crossroads so he could play so good. Homeric Mississippi is, by far, the poorest state in the Union and it is also, far and away, the place (if you had to choose one place) which has produced American music itself. Not only Muddy Waters but also Elvis Presley are from Mississippi. Without Muddy and Elvis, no rock and roll as we know it, without rock and roll as we know it no Beatles, without the Beatles no ’60s, without the ’60s no world as we know it now. Mississippi is the underdog, the lowliest one, the slave state of slave states, the most insulted and injured of all the states, the one place that looks more like Africa than any other state, too. And from here has come the one and only art form America ever truly invented other than the cinema and the short story (Poe again), rock and roll, of which rap and hip hop are only developments, extensions. As so often in life, it turns out the lowliest one is in many ways the greatest one of all, by far.

They rolled out of the Delta and back into Oxford, Mississippi, just as the sun was going down. Their mission now was to locate another cheap motel but first they spent a few hours that turned into a few more hours drinking, smoking, and telling tales to each other and others in the bars with the jukebox always being fed.

All the cheap motels seemed to have NO VACANCY signs a-glowing as they went out looking for a place to bed down for the night. It was past midnight by now, and she was worried he’d do something stupid like almost drive off the edge of the world into the abyss of night and chaos again. As they drove out toward the edge of town, both of them noticed a large, bright, white hotel lit up like something out of The Great Gatsby and with the bright-red VACANCY sign on.

They both walked into the lobby and literally were blown back in their tracks, stunned and terrified, when they saw what it was they saw, standing there in the lobby.

The four things they saw standing there in the lobby at first seemed like four creatures straight out of the Book of Revelation come to life out of nowhere. They almost looked like they could move, and like they were about to move, to pounce, that is.

It was four African lions, two males and two females, stuffed and kept in huge, massive, glinting glass cases.

The lions’ unexpected presence here made them so uncanny that both the main characters in this story suddenly felt like they’d entered Neverland and Wonderland simultaneously with their spirits jerked around into the sixth dimension.

Their paws were beyond massive. Their legs were so powerful it chilled your soul. Their bodies were so lean, huge and muscular that it was unbelievable. Their incredibly long tails stuck straight out behind them. The manes of the men were more impressive than anything humans have ever built and the faces of the ladies were so serious and serene that it was like being doused in holy water thrown in your face and eyes just looking at them.

The young man and the young woman who are the main characters of this story were crushed by the utter horror of the tragedy of these four lions killed and stuffed and stuck in glittering cases in the lobby of this Mississippi-Gatsby hotel. At the same time, the beauty of these creatures, even in death, even in this condition, was so profound that it was like entering a green primeval forest filled with sunlight to be in their presence, maybe even the Garden of Eden. And then they realized that the lions were in heaven. And then they knew that the four lions were angels.

The boy and girl, because they both had been transformed back into their even more youthful selves right now, both went around and around and around the four lions, again and again and again: studying the lions, talking to the lions, being terrified of the lions, being in awe of the lions, consoling the lions, asking forgiveness of the lions, reaching out as if to pet the lions, laughing with them, thanking them, praising them, then standing there silently holding hands and staring at the four lions. The sleepy desk clerk had disappeared somewhere when he realized these two were in their own little world and he didn’t care.

But then the desk clerk re-emerged and the two of them grew up again and were twenty-two and twenty-three again as they got a room, floated up three flights of stairs, floated down the hallway, found their white room, unlocked the white door, floated into the white room, and peacefully attacked each other. She fell down onto the gigantic bed with all the pillows behind her head while stripping off her shirt and he fell down gently into her arms after peeling off his own shirt and the waves came and the private magic started all over again, a private magic that cannot be described and will not be described and could never be described and shall never, ever be described and that would result in the birth of healthy, glowing twins when she was thirty-nine years old sixteen years later at which time the private magic, that kind of magic anyway, disappeared from the earth forever, gradually and then suddenly.

Let me repeat that: it disappeared from the earth (from their world) forever. Amor fati, Nietzsche’s great concept, means (in English) love of fate and one real thing it means is that we must love it when good things go away from us as much as we loved it when good things arrived, whether we like it or not. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, and to die is different from what anyone supposed, said Walt Whitman. And luckier.

There are very many kinds of death in this world and one of those kinds is the death of your former self, and former selves, uncountable; but the ghosts of the past still live on in Mississippi.

The Drifter (Images by The Drifter)

The Blinds by Christopher J Ananais

(Images of the Mighty Django, by CJA)

The destroyer is coming. He wants to undo everything. It doesn’t have to be like that. A world where everyone is against you.

The dog is barking. It means trouble. He’s out in the yard causing problems, but you love it. The air conditioner kicks on. It’s loud and churns cold air, but costs money.

A creak under foot to the door. You look at the black house that looms on the hill. All the cool air is behind you then suddenly it’s in front of you too. Tombstones stagger down the hill—getting so big you can read one. It proclaims, from across the street, leering over a wrought-iron fence, like an unwelcome eye, “FOREVER MORE.”

Black shadows abide like open wells. One wrong step and you’re forever falling.

All the little American flags in the graveyard drop to their staff. Like they are “at ease” for the coming of night. The dead are still known by their rank in this world.

The dog is inside the living room. He is staring into the kitchen like someone is standing there. He won’t take his eyes off this apparition like they are holding the instructions on how to raise the dead.

This worries you—you worry a lot. You know God hates a coward. “What are you looking at?”

The dog’s toenails click around in the dark. The fan on the air conditioner is coming in for a landing. A bar of dying light is on your dirty fingernails perched on the keyboard. You never learned to type, but the words spew like a rabid dog’s drool. You send scorching letters then regret it.

An ear worm goes through your head again. A song fragment, like a subliminal message, has played for three days straight and it won’t stop. You fall into its guitar thrum and openly sing the song in your mind. You know this is not the cure.

Samsung, in white, floats up and bounces from edge to edge on the black TV screen, like Pong. The dog is bouncing around the room from corner to corner, just like this word, but you love it.

“Oh, my God, lay down you freak of nature!” Then a low streak runs through you, all of your wrongs—that you can remember—some you will never forget. One is earmarked to be your final thought, all cascade down from the black cloud of the past, “I’m sorry, Pooch.”

There is a heaviness in the air. The smell of rain and it hits, without God’s knowledge, and pounds on the roof and pounds on the metal air conditioner. Rain helps, but the rain is being channeled away from the land. The marshes, which re-energize the groundwater, are filled in. The destroyer likes this. He desires famine quenched by leagues of sea water.

A thickness in the throat. The words are getting hard to swallow. People of your generation, “Gen X” are dying at a rapid rate. They were the uproar for a minute, which now seems like a second. Where are they now? Buried in the Earth’s axis? Each previous generation must in its hypocrisy hold up the Earth. “The Lost Generation” knows this well.

You watch a lot of TV and feel like a power somewhere enjoys this. A power that reeducates your mind to seek laziness and comfort. A way and will that becomes the spoke and wheel of your life.

After a while you believe your ways are hurting you and doing no good. There is constant pain. The steady flow of apathy won’t quite erode, but there is no quicksilver of action. No heroics…

You’ve done something wrong when you were drunk. People are yelling your name out on the street. One or two want your blood. They’d like to shut your coffin lid. God hates a coward.

The dog is barking, senses trouble and does something. You want to stop writing these words. They are bothersome, maybe even loathsome to a reader, a fellow sojourner of the dwindled spirit. The vainglory of youth has vanished—you were scared then too.

What to do? Where to go? Then you remember another friend has died. Wait for the clamor to subside.

Take it slow to the mortuary. No need to hurry. Sit under the tree and read Emily Dickinson, ride in her “carriage of immortality.”

On the way, on the street, a fracas, becomes violence between two red oligarchs of rage. A fracture—one’s hurt. The other is slap-happy. A defunct phone booth bears witness, but wordless for a long time now. The lines of communication are down.

Cars are lined up, and the black hearse backs out of its embalmed shell. You are late for the departed but you are lock-step now.

Your friend in the hearse, in the new lines of a bronze casket, breathes one last breath of death.

Nothing left but…

Doornails, church bells and a brief farewell.

THE END

Chrisopher J Ananias (with our appreciation for Django)

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)

The Health Care Snare by Frederick K Foote

(Note: Frederick has recently published poetry with us. But  he is prominently a creator of short, trenchant, witty prose, which we are happy to present today–The Eds.)

“Good evening, I’m Mavis Williams of American Evening News. Our program has been preempted by a special message from the White House and President Amanda Jackson.

We now take you to President Jackson.”

“Over the last decade, the United States of America has been on the edge of economic disaster. As my grandfather would say, we are surviving by the skin of our teeth.

To make the nature and extent of this threat clear, let’s look back at our recent history.

A decade ago, our country, regrettably, entered an ill-conceived and unprovoked war with Iran. That misadventure has extinguished over 30,000 lives and wounded over 100,000 others.

The War has cost us over 600 billion dollars to date, and our compensation agreements continue to burden this nation.

And that war has cost us support and friendships with many, if not most, of our past allies. We are still repairing these relationships.

The cost of his War, combined with the rising cost of health care, especially health care under the federal Medicare and Medicaid programs, created an unprecedented budget challenge.

Our honest assessment of our health care systems was that they were the most expensive in the world, but other, far less costly health care systems in other nations had far better health care outcomes.

Under increasing dissatisfaction from the public, the growing frustration of health care providers, and the declining number of private health care insurers, we sought a meeting of all the players in our health care system. The past administrations were open to all approaches to extract ourselves from our cascading predicaments.

And as you all know, we initiated a Manhattan Project-style development that merged the resources of our technology, artificial intelligence, and vast libraries of health research and information.

And with sweat, blood, and tears, creativity, imagination, and dedication, we produce a modern miracle—the Internal Health Care Monitor, or as most of us call it, IHCM, or simply, the Chip.

The Chip is about the size of a quarter, but half the weight, and is most commonly inserted just under the skin layers on the inside of the upper left arm.

The Chip has a living battery that draws its power from the body. Under normal circumstances, the Chip does not have to be removed; it is updated online and sends its information the same way.

All your vital functions are monitored 24/7, 365 days a year.

And this encrypted data is sent to the Department of Health Monitoring Evaluation, or DHME, where robust AI systems evaluate your health status and notify you and your health care provider when necessary.

In essence, you have the world’s most experienced and knowledgeable healthcare provider at your service at all times.

This health care system is the envy of the world.

For the last three and a half years, we have been testing and evaluating this system on members of our armed forces.

Three months ago, our evaluation of this system was completed and is now available online for everyone. I encourage you to read at least the executive summary of this fascinating report.

One of the many amazing results found in this 1,200-page document is that during the first two years of using the Chip, our healthcare services’ military costs were cut by 50%.

And our sick leave absences decreased by 60%.

In 73% of cases where medical assistance was required, no visit to a physician or care facility was made or required. Our AI diagnostic systems worked to a tee, and medication was prescribed and quite often delivered within less than two hours of diagnosis.

I found the results of this report absolutely incredible, and I would like to give my thanks and appreciation to the thousands who worked tirelessly to make this vastly improved system available to everyone in this country.

Now, we are ready to make this remarkable system available to all Americans. No one in this country will be denied access to this Promised Land of quality care for all.

Understand that billionaires and fast-food workers will receive the same quality of care.

Those who have no income will have the same access as everyone else.

I know you wonder if this program is safe. I don’t know if I have the words or knowledge to convince you of the safety of this system; however, I have Dr. Lisa Limbaugh, who is an expert on this system and will provide any level of detail required, and she will be here to answer your questions, from the very technical to the very basic.

However, in this particular arena, I believe that actions speak louder than words. My husband Godfrey and I both have Chips, and we have had them for 18 months now. With no adverse experience and have recommended the Chip to our children. That’s how safe they are to me.

Now, I’m turning you over to Dr. Limbaugh to answer your questions and explain in more detail how the Chip works.

Please ask your questions, read the Report, and check with service members and women about their experiences with the Chip.

I hope you choose to join Godfrey and me in the greatest healthcare revolution in the history of humankind.

Good night, and may God bless America and this endeavor.”

***

A conversation in a secure room in the White House between President Jackson and her Chief of Staff, Bong Yee, immediately after the President’s message to the nation.

“Damn, Bong, I need a shower. I feel like a used car salesman. How did we get into this mess?”

“Ms. President, the Democratic Party followed State Craft, our AI’s suggestions—”

“Shit, more like directions.”

“—on developing the Chip and on selecting you as our candidate, and here we are. One happy family.”

“Yeah, I still wonder why you came along on this unjoyful ride.”

“You asked me to, and we have been friends since law school. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to peek behind the stage and see what is really going on.”

“You know curiosity killed the cat. Any new info on the fucking Chip?”

“Dr. Limbaugh and her stiff-lipped crew of medical grand masters believe the Chip is performing as designed, and we should trust the magic of AI and move ahead with implanting the chip worldwide.”

“Damn, Limbaugh scares me worse than that fucking AI. So, what are our reckless scientific rebels saying?”

“Well, they are performing their test beyond the scope of AI, and they have evidence that the Chip has abilities well beyond what Dr. Limbaugh claims.”

“Do they have any proof of their claims? As if that would make any difference. We have to move ahead with this, this questionable fucking experiment, or be in debt to China. When I was giving my sales pitch, I had a strong, almost irresistible desire to cancel the Chip and take our chances with China.”

“I, too, would rather deal with humans than AI, but if our rebels with a cause are right. It might be too late. We have already implanted the chip in the military. And the rebels believe the Chip can impact bodily processes, not just monitor and report on them.”

“What a mess. What a fucking mess.”

“Well, AI was right about you, you have that combination of warm grandmotherly caring and steel African American determination that made you appealing and electable.”

“Yes, but I wonder if my main attraction to AI was that I am controllable.”

“Amanda, I think they may be wrong on that one. The rebels will be here in a few minutes with their evidence. How do you want to play it?”

“We listen and learn and ask every damn question we can. We do not accept or reject the validity of their information at this time.”

“We leave them swinging in the breeze.”

“For now.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Bong, I hope that’s opportunity knocking.”

They smiled and bumped fists before they opened the door.

The Red Square on My Finger by Paul Kimm

I know she’s going to say it’s silly, and I’m being silly, but there is a square on my finger, on the top right of my right-hand index finger, just under the nail, to the side, a little red square. It’s not from a scar, or any kind of cut, because I’ve done nothing to cut myself, and it’s not from any kind of pressure either, as I haven’t been holding anything for long periods, or anything heavy, so the red square is from nothing I’ve done. Anyway, it’s not even a filled in square, but an outline in red, as though someone has meticulously taken a red biro and, whilst I was asleep, or not paying attention, has somehow managed to paint or draw this perfect red outline of a tiny square, no more than three or four millimetres in size, on the top of my right index finger, just below the nail. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I don’t know where it’s come from, it just appeared there a couple of days ago, it’s completely smooth, won’t wash off, and hasn’t changed colour or anything like that, just a red square on my finger. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and I know it’ll somehow annoy her, but I have to bring it up at some point, and am a little surprised she hasn’t noticed it and asked what the red square on my finger is, or more likely asked me why I’ve drawn a red square on my right index finger, but I’ll raise it tonight over dinner. It’s my turn to cook, so if I make an effort, then she might be more receptive to talking about the square on my finger. That’s it, I’ll go to the supermarket, buy food she likes, cook that, and then after dinner, just casually bring up the red square.

In the supermarket I’m careful to choose foods she likes, but also foods that can’t be accused of causing the red square. I mean she likes a three bean chilli, but kidney beans come in a tin, and opening the lid could cause pressure and leave a mark, then there is the red of the beans, and the thick liquid they come in, not to mention the same with a tin of chopped tomatoes, the fresh red chillies, the seasoning, a lot of which is reddish too, so making a three bean chilli is too risky, and whilst I’ve never seen a red square on my finger before when cooking a chilli, it could be decided that’s what it came from, and my claims that it was already there would be most likely dismissed, so that’s off the menu. So is beetroot, so no feta and beetroot salad as a starter, nothing with tomatoes, nothing that requires a tin opener, or too much chopping for that matter, and nothing with any kind of red seasoning, and so the more I walk around the aisles the more I seem to be crossing ideas off the list. In the end I settle for a pre-made vegetable soup that comes in a plastic tub, with some fresh sourdough bread, already sliced and packed, and then for the main a salad, as she does like salad with soup, but one in a ready to serve pack with lettuce, grated carrot, and sweetcorn, for which I can rustle up a dressing with what we’ve got in. The good thing is nothing is red, or in a tin, or needs chopping or seasoning with anything red, so none of it could cause a red square on a finger.

By the time I get back home, I’m not sure where all the time has gone, being sure I’d left the house early afternoon, but it seems the time in the supermarket stretched to a couple of hours, so I need to start getting the dinner ready as we like to eat early, no later than five really. The problem is, and I should have remembered, but we are out of olive oil and mustard, two of the things I’d hoped to mix, with a squeeze of lemon juice and salt, to make the dressing for the salad, but now need to think of something else. In the cupboard there is only soy sauce and some apple cider vinegar, and then in the basket where have we have our collection of dry seasoning there is black and white pepper, some pink Himalaya salt and a bunch of other dry spices, many of them red, which I can’t use. In the end I mix some soy sauce, vinegar, black pepper, and lemon juice from the plastic container shaped like a lemon and stir it with my finger, and then taste. I figure it’s good enough for the salad, but then realise I’ve used my finger with the red square to do this, and can’t believe I’ve forgotten it was there, but see that the skin is fine, and there is just a little sliver of brown from the dressing under the nail, but the red square on my finger is still completely clear to see. I can still tell her about it after we’ve eaten.

We eat, as we always do, or seem to always do nowadays, and I’m not sure when we started, in front of the television, watching a cooking show of some kind, watching people preparing food, tasting it, commenting on it, whilst we eat ours, that we’ve just prepared, and we might say something about our own food, but say more about the dishes on the screen, how they look nice, whilst we fork or spoon in what we’ve got, almost as though were eating two meals, the ones on our laps, and the ones on our screens, and sometimes I can’t tell what I’m tasting, and the soup and salad we have on our trays could be the dishes on the screen almost, because those are the ones we look at, just not the ones we eat.

‘Did you enjoy the dinner?’

‘Yes, nice and simple, just perfect.’

‘Sorry it wasn’t a three-bean chilli. I know that’s one of your favourites.’

‘Not at all. Soup and a salad with that lovely bread. That was perfect. That dressing was lovely as well, different but really nice.’

‘Ah, I forgot to get more olive oil and mustard in. I will tomorrow.’

‘No worries, will you go in the morning with me when I go to work? I can drop you off if you like.’

‘Ok, thank you. There is a reason I didn’t make the three-bean chilli though.’

When I tell her about the red square on my finger she puts her tray on the coffee table, and then takes mine and does the same, and puts her arms around me, and we cuddle in, her hands rub up and down my back and she tells me over and over that it’s fine, saying my name a lot, repeating the same words, but not asking me anything about the square, just saying ‘Oh, it’s fine love’, as she squeezes me, and I want to ask her what she thinks it’s from, how the square got there, but she holds me in closer, tightly, almost like she doesn’t want me to speak about it, and when I motion to say something she repeats the same words, and this goes on for a few minutes, and I’m grateful she’s not annoyed that I’ve done something stupid with my finger, and we enjoy holding each other, so I decide to not ask about it at all, and a few moments after I’ve decided this, we break off our cuddle, and she says she’ll doing the washing up. We pause the cooking programme, take the trays into the kitchen, and she tells me to go and sit back down and we’ll watch their desserts after she’s finished.

She wakes me up in the morning so I’m ready to get a lift to the supermarket on her way to work. It’s not much out of her way, but she might drop me off at the corner just down from the railway crossing so she can keep going without making a detour, and that’s completely fine I say, but she asks me if I’ll remember the way to the supermarket from there, and even though I tell that I will, she asks me to tell her the directions from that corner to the supermarket, and I describe the few minute walk to the crossing, where the tattoo shop is right next to the crossing, then after it you turn right, and the supermarket is just on left a few more minutes down, before you reach the train station, and she tells me that’s good, but then asks me how many minutes in total, and I answer five or six, and then she recounts for me the directions I’ve just given, and asks me again if I’m sure I won’t forget, and I tell her, I won’t, I’ve done it a million times, and there is no need to worry.

To change the topic I ask what she’d like for dinner, and she says a three bean chilli would be nice for the end of the week, and I tell her I hadn’t realised it was Friday already, but then I remember the red square on my finger, and I don’t want her to think, when I get round to telling her about this red square that’s appeared, that she thinks it’s from the chilli, or from the kidney beans, or even opening a tin of beans or chopped tomatoes, so I ask her if she just fancies something simple and quick like a soup and salad, with some nice bread for a change, and in a quiet voice she says that’ll be fine, and adds to not forget to buy some mustard and olive oil, for the dressing, and I say yes, I’ll make our usual salad dressing that she likes, and when she drops me off on the corner, just down from the crossing, she asks me if I’m sure I won’t forget the way to the supermarket and, and I say I’m completely fine, I remember the way, and I also won’t forget the oil and mustard because I don’t want to make the three bean chilli and that’s how I’ll remember to get soup and salad, but I don’t tell her that part.

As I approach the railway crossing the signal starts to whir and blink, and so I wait for the barrier to slide down wondering if it’ll be one train or two and how long I’ll be waiting to cross. It could be more than a five-minute wait, so I look in the tattoo shop window just next to the crossing for something to do whilst waiting for the one or two trains to pass. The display has sheets of white paper with designs of black-outlined dragons, roses, hearts, snarling tigers, topless mermaids sitting on rocks, ships, jumping fish, unfurled scrolls with a variety of names on them, all in the same curling script, and collections of football club emblems, all in lurid, hypnotising colours, bold greens, blues, and reds, yellows, purples, that are all beautiful and bright, vivid caricatures of reality, of life. The barrier stops whirring, and as I turn my eyes away from the window display, someone comes out of the shop.

‘Back again?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, ‘back again’. Are you wanting another square? Perhaps a triangle or a circle this time?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.’

‘Aha, it hasn’t worked then, has it?’

‘What hasn’t worked?’

‘Never mind, pal. Your missus said it might do something.’

‘My missus?’

‘It’s alright, mate. She was doubtful anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. All the best to you.’

He goes back into his shop, and I hurry over the railway crossing, take the right turn down towards the train station, the supermarket being on the left down that road before you reach the station, and I’m there within two minutes, so I get a trolley from one of the rows outside, and enter the supermarket, take a breath, as I’ve got there fast, and then I comb up and down the aisles to get something suitable for dinner, something that won’t raise suspicion, something that couldn’t cause redness or any kind of indent on my skin, no tins, or anything like that, avoid red foods; beetroot, even though she likes it, especially with feta cheese, and I definitely won’t buy any chillies, so I can’t make her favourite meal just yet, not until I’ve told her, and I need to make sure that she couldn’t think it’s from something else, that it’s definitely unusual, so I opt for a plastic tub of store brand vegetable soup, that’ll go well with the ready sliced sourdough they have, so all I need is a nice salad, not one with anything red in it of course, but maybe some lettuce, grated carrot, and I’ll make the dressing at home, with the olive oil and mustard we’ve got in already, that I’ll mix with a little bit of lemon juice, and a quick pinch of salt, so dinner will be a lovely soup and salad, and she likes that, even though we don’t have it that often. And, I realise it’s got later than I expected, it’s after one, but still gives me lots of time to get home and make the dinner; a dinner which can’t cause any redness, so that I can tell her about the red square, just the outline of a square, that has appeared on the top of my right hand finger, out of nowhere, that she’ll probably say I’m being silly about, that she may get annoyed about, and say it’s from opening a tin, or chopping something, but I need to tell her, so after the nice dinner, I’ll just bring it up like it’s nothing, the red square on my finger.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)

Hair like David Sylvian by Paul Kimm

A jumbled mosaic of magazine cuttings, pull-out posters, sliced up singles covers, newspaper spreads, stretched across Paul’s wall. All the bands were there: The Human League, Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, and, of course, Japan. Taking pride of place in the approximate centre of the sprawl was David Sylvian, Japan’s lead singer. David Sylvian holding a guitar, lent back, with swirls of street smoke swirling behind him. Wearing a double-breasted suit, with silver buttons, lipstick, eye shadow, foundation, and looking into the distance on his right. His hair, a huge wave of side-parted, blonde, combed floss, molded into a mass that lifts from all sides, covering his ears, cascading in a thick, purposeful fringe down to his eyebrows, slightly covering his right eye. David Sylvian was the best-looking man in the world and Paul wanted hair just like his.

Paul peeled a smaller photo clipping of Japan’s lead singer, a headshot with the same abundance of hair, from the wall. He rubbed the tiny blobs of BluTack off the back, rolled them into a single piece, pressed it on the wall in the small, empty square where the picture had been. He then slid the precious photo into his pocket and went downstairs.

‘Mum, can I have that four quid?’

‘I’ll have to give you a fiver, so bring me the change. What time is your appointment?’

‘It’s now, in ten minutes.’

‘Well, you’ll have to go in your uniform then. You’ve no time to change.’

At the moment Paul reached to take the five-pound note from his mother, his father walked into the kitchen.

‘What’s he got a fiver for?’

‘He’s off for a haircut. Round at Sandra’s.’

‘Ooh, off for a haircut, eh? Do you want to take a bowl with you for her to cut round?’

‘No. I’m getting it cut like David Sylvian.’

‘Who the bloody hell is David Sylvian?’

Paul retrieved the fragile picture from his pocket and held it out.

‘He’s the lead singer of Japan. He was voted the best-looking man in the world.’

His dad rested his left palm on the countertop, his right hand on his hip, and bent over double, almost touching the floor with his forehead, letting out a room rumbling laugh.

‘Man alive! He was what? Voted best-looking man on Earth? Oh my days! That’s bloody brilliant that is!’

‘Give me the photo back, dad. I have to go.’

‘Voted best-looking man in the world, was he? Bloody hell! If you held a competition for best-looking man in your bedroom, and you were the only voter, you still wouldn’t flaming win it! Classic. Absolutely bloody classic.’

His dad straightened up again and returned the magazine cutting. Paul took it and bolted out of the back door and all the way to Sandra’s Salon.

The door jangled when he entered the hairdressers. Only Sandra was there. She turned to look at him.

‘Come in, pet. You’re Paul, are you? Your mum booked you in I think.’

As Paul walked to the chair Sandra indicated he regained his breath and got the David Sylvian photo ready to show her.

‘How do you want it then, pet?’

‘Can you do it like this please?’

‘Aw, sweetheart, I’m not sure you’ve the volume for that style. Shall I just give you a trim?’

‘Can you try and make it look like the photo please?’

‘The thing is that you don’t have that type of hair. Yours is much thinner, pet.’

Paul didn’t respond. Sandra eyes met his, but neither of them spoke for a moment.

‘Alright, look, I’ll give you a trim and then see what we can do with a bit of gel and a hair dryer. Is that ok, sweetheart?’

‘Yes please.’

For the next thirty minutes Sandra worked at Paul’s hair, lifting up strands, snipping millimetres off the ends which then sprinkled on to Paul’s face, holding up his fringe and sighing, ruffling his scalp, flicking the hair dryer on and off to disperse the fallen hairs from his shoulders, standing back and viewing his head from different angles, and finally placing the scissors and comb on shelf in front of the mirror.

‘I’ll try some gel then. It might lift it a bit, but it’s not going to look like this fella in the photo. It’s just not, pet. Sorry.’

Sandra massaged the blue gunk into his hair, took a round brush, twisted Paul’s hair, and blow-dried sections, lifting, pulling, let out long breaths, moving the strands forward, backwards, side to side, sighed again, and stopped.

‘I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do for you. You just don’t have the same type of hair. Everyone has different hair. That’s just how it is sweetheart.’

Paul managed to mumble thanks Sandra, give the five-pound note, wait for the one-pound change, and wander home.

The next morning Steady and Pete were waiting for him at their usual meeting point to walk the remaining ten minutes to school.

‘Did you get your hair done then?’

‘Yes, at Sandra’s Salon.’

‘Like David Sylvian?’

‘Yes, I took a photo and she did it. It’s fallen out a bit now though. It’s flatter than when she did it.’

‘I’ll say it is! Sorry, Paul, but it looks absolutely nothing like him.’

They didn’t speak again until they entered class for register. When the teacher got to Paul’s name, both Pete and Steady interrupted.

‘Mr. Walson. Sorry, Mr. Walson. Can you move Paul down to ‘S’? His name is David Sylvian now.’

‘What are you pair on about? Stop being daft.’

‘But, sir, he had his hair done like David Sylvian yesterday. We need to change his name.’

‘That’s enough from you two. Shut up now.’

Going from register on the ground floor to Computer Studies on the third, Paul already started getting Japan lyrics sung to him in the corridors. When he walked in the whole room erupted into a clamour of tuneless Japan’s lyrics, cries of ‘here’s the best-looking man in the world,’ and peals of laughter. Paul sloped to the usual computer he shared with Pete and switched it on.

‘Quiet down! Quiet down!’

‘Miss! Miss! We’ve got a famous person in class today. David Sylvian is here!’

Most of the class pointed to Paul as they chorused the first line of Ghosts, their hit song. The commotion bellowed from the room, down the corridors, and into other classrooms.

After dinner break it was time for double Art. On the board was a large poster of Japan, slanted to the right, it’s four corners stuck with sellotape, David Sylvian’s face speckled with blue biro zits, his eyeballs shaded to make him cross-eyed, and finished off with a dribble coming from the side of his mouth. On the blackboard an arrow pointed to him with Paul’s full name in capital letters and the words ‘Japan’s new lead singer. Voted ugliest man in the world.’

Paul went to a seat at the back, using his sweaty palm to press down his hair all around his head, pushing firmer to iron his fringe to his forehead, forcing it toward his eyes as much as he could. During the two hours of double Art he didn’t look up once.

After the four o’clock bell Steady and Pete weren’t at the meeting point. A crowd of about thirty kids from different school years began following Paul home singing, laughing, poking, back-pushing, hair-tousling, and chanting ‘David Sylvian, David Sylvian’. The nearer to home he got the smaller the bunch of followers became, the last one crossing the road in silence as Paul reached his front gate. He went round the back of the house, stepped into the kitchen, dropped his school bag to the floor, and slumped against the closed door behind him. His mum was peeling potatoes at the sink.

‘You alright, love?’

‘Does my hair look okay, mum? Can you see anything different?’

‘Your hair looks fine. It is a little bit different I suppose’

‘Do I look anything like David Sylvian, mum?’

‘Aw, come here, love.’

Paul’s mum put her arms around him, her right palm on the back of his new haircut, his new fringe resting on her left shoulder.

‘Do I mum? Does my hair look like David Sylvian’s?’

‘No, love, I have to be honest, it doesn’t look anything like him. But listen to me, why would you want to look like the second best-looking man in the world anyway?’

Paul went upstairs, chose a cassette to listen to, put it in the slot, closed it, and pressed play. He got his stack of magazines from the top of the chest of drawers next to his stereo, opened the top draw, and took out a pair of scissors.

Paul Kimm

(image is of the esteemed author)

Originally published by Mono in October 2022

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

That Girl, Sadie by Bill Tope

i

“Well, what do you want me to do with her?” asked Mike, growing exasperated with his friend and housemate.

“Just take her off my hands for the evening,” implored Ed earnestly.

“I don’t know,” replied Mike, staring uncertainly into the living room, where teenage Sadie was lingering near the table containing all the bottles of alcohol for the Christmas party later that night. She was clad in faded jeans and a blood-red sweater.

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