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Preview of Serial:
Cycle of the Full Moon
Part 3: Waking Moon
Barefoot and Pregnant
Fran parked the car wondering whether Dan would be home. She would have appreciated his help but she knew better than to expect it. She killed the engine. The door to the garage was closed and she hoped that it meant he was here. She opened her door and got out of the car carefully, not wanting to fall, aware that her balance wasn't at its best. She walked to the trunk and opened it. She looked at the house hoping to see Dan hurrying out to help her. But he wasn't there and even if he had been she had come to doubt that he would hurry out to help her. Maybe he'd just stay seated and wait for her to call for help.
She took the bags and headed for the door when she felt the grip on her keys disappear and she heard them fall to the floor.
"Shit!"
She looked around her. There was no one to hear her swear. There was no one to help her carry the bags. There was no one to bend and pick her keys from the ground. She'd have to do it herself even though she wasn't quite sure how she'd do it. She looked down and didn't see her keys on the ground. It didn't encourage her in the least. She lifted the bags higher and put them on the car's roof. The paper bags remained there staying up and not letting her purchases spill on the roof thanks to a somehow precarious balance. She looked skeptically at the bags before she bent down and tried to find her keys. It was difficult for her. It had been weeks since she had last seen her feet while standing.
Dan liked to joke about it and tell her that she ought to follow a diet. It had made her laugh. But she had stopped finding it funny a long time ago. It had still been funny when it wasn't true. When she could still see her feet. Then it was funny. Now it was mean and she didn't want to tell him because she knew that if she told him that he'd tell her she didn't have a sense of humor. Then things would get ugly because she'd be hurt, and words would fly and they would argue.
So she had decided to take it. She'd be the only one to suffer, she'd sacrifice herself to his pointless jokes and doubtful sense of humor because it was best this way. Or so she liked to think.
But as she looked at the ground carefully, feeling her back begging her to stop she found nothing funny, and she wondered whether it was for the best that she should suffer in silence and let him believe that what he did was all right. She had the same rights to happiness he had, why should she be the one to suffer from his jokes in silence?
It wasn't fair. It wasn't what she had said yes to before the priest at the church. She had accepted to go through good and bad with him. With him. Not alone. But she was alone now. She was alone because he was off somewhere again and she didn't like it. It scared her. He was letting her down in the worst of ways recently. She was worried but she held on to him because that was what she had been told to do by everyone to whom she had asked advice recently.
That was - according to all of them - the right thing to do and she wanted to do right. So she shut up. She swallowed the tears, the words of anger that had been about to spill out of her in whatever order they could and she had tried to ignore the knot in her stomach. She had put it on her pregnancy and hoped to Fuck that she was right.
She put her hand on the ground and shifted her weight slowly. She got on her knees instead of crouching, hoping it'd be a little more comfortable, knowing it wouldn't be. She bent down lower trying to see under the car. Some part of her was scared that she was going to start labor because of what she was doing but she had to get inside the house. Her bladder had pressing needs right now.
She saw the keys. They were under the car a bit far for her but she thought she could reach it. Before trying she wiped the sweat from her forehead and brushed aside a lock of hair from her brow. She extended her arm as far as it would go feeling her back scream in agony at the outrageously uncomfortable position she had been forced to take but her hand closed on the keys just as she saw an orange roll on the other side of the car. Her paper bags had spilled their contents everywhere around the car. Murphy's Law.
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"So often is the virgin sheet of paper more real than what one has to say, and so often one regrets having marred it. "
Harold Acton
Preview of Bimonthly Serial:
Toy Soldiers
Chapter Five
"Boys, who would like to explore the moors with me today?" their Uncle Albert unexpectedly asked his four young nephews. "I'm sure you'll find them full of surprises."
"What kind of surprises, Uncle?" asked Patrick.
"Natures surprises," replied their uncle. "So who would like to go exploring?"
"I would," said Walter enthusiastically.
"Me, too," chirped up Dennis.
"What's there to see here except moors?" asked Reggie.
"You just wait and see, Reg. Keep your eyes open and you'll see beautiful living things here; moorland life that few people ever see," said their uncle, a knowing smile on his face. "The moors hold many secrets. But let's eat first. I'm hungry and you must be, too, so let's sit down and enjoy your aunt's pasties."
"I'm so hungry I could eat a scabby horse," said Reggie, grinning.
"Reg, you're disgusting," said Patrick.
"I could go a good pasty. I'm famished," said Walter. "But mostly I'm thirsty."
"I am, too. But there's nothing for us to drink in the basket," said Dennis. "I've looked. There're just two old mugs, but nothing to put in them."
"Don't fret your young head, Dennis. Soon you'll be drinking the sweetest and purist water in the world, and that water is not far from here," their uncle said. "Come! Follow me," and leading the boys away from the railway crossing, they again walked onto open moorland where the grass was short, soft and spongy. Directly ahead were the ruins of another ancient building where only the lower outer walls remained, ruins that were in an even worse state of dilapidation than those just visited. Pointing a gnarled finger on a shaky hand, their uncle said, "The good drinking water is close to those old walls. We'll eat our pasties there."
Dennis and Dove ran on ahead, the others following. But on reaching the ruins the boys could see no sign of drinking water except for a clear, shallow trickle that flowed for a short distance over gravel and smooth pebbles before disappearing into the porous soil of the moors. There was, though, plenty of undrinkable, milky-white china clay contaminated water in sight, for the same rivulet they had seen flowing beside the path at the beginning of the moors had made a detour before gushing through a narrow conduit in the railway embankment. There it had joined other rivulets to become a sizable river that flowed, swirling and gurgling over and around rocks and a bed of granite pebbles as it meandered its way through the moors, to eventually pass about thirty yards from the far side of the ruins.
"That's where your aunt's grazing rights end," their uncle said, nodding toward the milky-white river. "The river is better than any fence. The bullocks won't drink from it or wade into the white water."
"I don't blame them. But where's our drinking water, Uncle?" asked Reggie.
"Have patience, Reg. It's right here. You're almost standing on its source."
Puzzled, the boys gazed upon that trickle of clear water that so quickly became absorbed into the spongy soil.
"Where? We can't drink from that! There's not enough!" exclaimed Walter.
Keeping the same knowing smile on his wrinkled, weather-beaten face, their uncle said, "Have patience, and I'll show you." Usually a loner, Uncle Albert was already enjoying the company of his young nephews, especially as they were from the big city and completely without knowledge of his domain, the moors. He could show them and teach them many things they would never learn in a city, were his thoughts. Stepping to the head of the trickle, he stooped and with apparent ease lifted and moved aside a heavy slab of granite. One moment curious and the next amazed, all four boys jumped back in alarm as a jet of suddenly released crystal clear water shot out of the ground to a height of four feet or more before falling back with a splash, where it became and remained a sparkling miniature fountain.
"Ah, ha! Now what do you think of that? There's our drinking water," their uncle said, his face beaming and his voice sounding like a magician who had successfully completed his best trick. Taking the two chipped enamel mugs from the wicker basket, he offered one to Walter and the other to Reggie. "Try the water, boys. It's pure. It rises from a natural spring deep down within the earth, a spring that's probably been used by man and animals for hundreds of years. Go on. Fill up your mugs."
Preview of Bimonthly Serial:
The Dream Group
Book One - Gateways: Twelve people meeting each week at Miami International University to interpret their dreams encounter the ancient Aztec goddess Coatlicue and are thrust into a secret struggle between Good and Evil.
Chapter Seven
Magdalena was waiting for Paul in the Rat in M.I.U.'s Student Union Building. She sat shivering in a gloomy corner, the light reflecting off the pure white of her over-sized sweater. She'd chosen the white one because Paulito loved the way she looked in white. "Estupidos!" she hissed. They had the air conditioning going full blast but the weather was wet and cold. She tossed her head, reached up with both hands to lift the long black hair from her shoulders and dropped it. An attractive guy at a nearby table gave her the once over. She turned away, face an icy mask.
No, senor. I am not for you! Paul is my man. She knew, without a doubt. Saw proof in the way his long, serious face opened, defenseless before her. Felt it in the way his body responded to hers. Knew by the way they communicated without speaking, energy flowing in their glances, between their eyes and hands. She was as precious as music to him. His need made her feel powerful.
Her man, the first to really appreciate all of her; from the cuddly purring sex kitten to the cold almost cruel clinician. She could guide and nurture him or turn him on as she chose. He was totally responsive to her, accepting her limits, not pushing beyond where she wanted to go. She could let her hair down with him and let the moods flow and carry them both away.
She knew he adored her 132 pound, 5'7" body because he'd kissed and licked just about every inch of it. His easy willingness was more than a comfort to Magdalena, it was a requirement. She needed the sense of physical and mental control she had with Paul. Because once, long ago, when she'd needed it most, it hadn't been there.
The men she knew then hadn't treated her as Paul did now. They weren't fascinated by the combination of sensitivity, sexuality and intelligence. They'd only sensed the powerful female musk, and reacted to her warmth and friendliness as if they had been promiscuity.
And they'd been right. For in the beginning, when she was twelve, in Cali, Colombia, where she was born, it had been promiscuity. Not because she'd wanted it to be, but because it had to be.
She'd been as fascinated by her ripening body as were the men around her. They seemed to smell the difference in her. And of all the new sensations the blossoming sexuality brought, this power to command a man's attention was the one she liked best.
But it bothered her, too, and she struggled against it. After all, she was a good girl and wanted to stay that way. Yet this powerful attraction, so very different from how things were supposed to be in Church and school, was strong, nearly irresistible.
Giving in to the surging sensations, letting them guide and nurture her, made men treat her differently. Senor de la Vega, her science teacher, and Senor Enrique at the Church Youth Group seemed more attentive and talkative. Even Joaquin, the family handyman who'd known her since she was a child, looked at her with new eyes.
After those first shocking blood-stained mornings a few months after her twelfth birthday, it felt like she was under a spell. Going about with a small vacant smile, attention turned inward, she felt as if the awakening sensations were singing to her. She touched herself constantly.
There were lucid moments when she felt peaceful, whole and normal; moments when her energy was balanced and she was able to think about school, her family and God. Those were the times that kept her sane and gave Magdalena and her family the strength for the other times.
But they were only moments. The sexual power was dominating more and more of her thoughts. . . her life. One Sunday morning in Church, seven months after her twelfth birthday, she ceased struggling against the burgeoning power, and just drifted away.
Preview of Bimonthly Serial:
One Woman, Three Kings
The Bible tells us that 175 years after Moses led the Children of Israel out of Egypt, there arose a woman, Devorah, a daughter of Ephraim, to be a Judge over her people, a prophetess and a righteous example unto them. The Bible also tells us of Devorah's husband, Lappodoth; Barak, the great Hebrew general; Sisera the Canaanite general; Yael the Kenite, slayer of Sisera; and of Sisera's mother, Bethena. The Bible touches only the high points of their lives. What follows is a more complete story.
Chapter Three
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she'd learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte's name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte's Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim's seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
"Bring me a footstool and a table."
"Yes, Mistress." The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn't wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son's service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn't they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Preview of:
The Usual
Noreen paced from the kitchen to the living room. A stirring inside kept her on edge this time of night. By eight o'clock, she should be settled in front of the television or reading or doing anything but wondering whether or not to get ready to go to the bar.
Six months ago, one of her co-workers at the bank had asked her if she would like to join their group for Happy Hour at the corner bar a few blocks down the street. The small, smoky, dimly-lit bar was packed with other office workers from the area. Overcrowded, poor acoustics and uncomfortable seating had not exactly compared to the fast-paced, glamorous scene portrayed in beer commercials. After happy hour had ended at six, she ended up staying longer to listen to a woman she had just met tell her about her messy divorce. By that time, she had noticed the people around her were slurring their speech and speaking loudly while others were argumentative or sad. The atmosphere had become stifling and oppressive. She had sworn to herself as she walked home that she would never go there again.
By the next day, however, when she was invited along again, she went. In retrospect, she might say that it was exciting or that she found the passive filling up of her evenings was a remedy for her acute loneliness. By the time the group at work had drifted out of the picture for various reasons, Noreen had entrenched herself with the late night crowd. She went every night on her own. Among the regulars who had neither jobs nor any visible means of support, she had found a comfort, a kinship among them and a feeling of popularity. Each time she went, she noticed that she grew less apprehensive and at ease, developing acquaintances and finding herself in happy anticipation for the evenings to come.
I have nothing else to do, she told herself.
To her surprise, Noreen had been flattered by the recent attentions of Bo, a good-looking pool player with a lot of time on his hands and somewhat of a force at the bar. Noreen had noticed that he was sought after by the other women, recalling the disapproving looks from a few of them when she and Bo had started talking that first night. Now, she and Bo were steady companions at the bar and later at his place for after-hours parties.
The late hours she was keeping were making her job at the bank more difficult, but she smiled contentedly to herself that this was not a bad thing. She knew she would have to cut down on the drinking one of these days, but for now, she could handle it.
Thursday nights were the busiest at the bar. She had learned over the weeks that the regulars would be there every Thursday night; then would disappear until Monday to avoid the "rookies" who came on Friday evening after work and drank until Sunday night. What made the Thursday so busy was the urge to have one last party before the weekend with a spattering of "rookies" who wanted to get a head start on the weekend. She noticed that some of the so-called rookies had become regulars after frequenting the Bar for months, but were not part of the true inner circle. Not exactly clear on the rules of membership, she guessed that her relationship with Bo had been her entre into their group.
The regulars were a close network. Noreen had noticed that outsiders of any kind were unwelcome and not trusted. Conversations between the regulars were done out of earshot of others, even away from her at times, although she was considered a regular. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she had a gnawing concern that the secretive nature of the hard-core regulars was indicative of criminal behavior. Pushing back those thoughts, she rationalized that their secrets were none of her business and did not concern her.
But still, with those thoughts running through her mind, Noreen showered, pulled up tight faded jeans, pulled a black sleeveless tee shirt over her head and onto her braless form and slipped into her sandals. Grabbing her tiny purse and positioning the strap over her shoulder, she left for the bar at eight thirty.
The bar was in the lower end of the small community, walking distance from work and home. As usual, her queasiness was already making her feel slightly awkward. But she still felt good and knew she looked good as she walked right through the heavy metallic door and looked for Bo. There he was at the pool table. He looked up in unison with everyone else when she entered, as they all did whenever the door opened. Before he took his shot, he gave her a wink. She walked up to the barmaid, Aggie, ordered and paid for a draft before joining him at his table next to the pool table. Although he usually paid for her drinks, she wanted to make it clear she was not just another barfly hustling drinks.
Noreen watched Bo concentrating on his next shot and was instantly filled with sexual tension. His walk, his moves, his clothes, even the little diamond and gold pinkie ring seemed to have a sexual connotation, but the most erotic was the intensity of his concentration. The look in his eyes when he focused on the ball, estimating the impact one had on the next and calculating its path to one of the pockets. It all had the same intensity as when she looked into his eyes during sex. His hands holding the cue stick, she thought, were no longer just hands, but extensions of an intense sexual machine … like his mouth and his lips that ate food, drank, spoke words and smoked cigarettes in public. It all turned into an instrument designed only to incite pleasure.
"Hey, Babe," said Bo walking toward her after winning the game.
"Hi," she said, lowering her eyes to hide the intimidation she felt around him.
"How's work?"
"It's okay. About the same. Lyn said she might stop in to see me tonight. You remember, I told you about her?"
"Oh yeah. That'll be nice for you to have a friend to talk to."
Comet
They were siblings, both in their late twenties, about as well matched as vanilla and vinegar. His face was bland, flavorless, practiced at revealing nothing. To her, there was a hardness, a sharpness, to the way she looked out at the world from behind eyes that had long ago taken in the welcome mat. Her attire was at once street casual and armor against the world: an old army fatigue jacket with a Big Red 1 patch and sergeant's stripes, two buttons missing. Doc Martens. A pair of loose-fitting pants that had survived the eighties: thin material, elastic waistband, colors that were together only because they were compelled to be. He flavorless: khaki pants, a short-sleeve pale yellow shirt with a button-down collar, light brown Hush Puppies and a green sweater-vest.
They had come to the food bank, but not together. She had arrived several minutes before him and stood in line, agitated, talking to herself, muttering and gesturing, angry. A space opened up between her and those around her. When he arrived she immediately accosted him, picking up the thread of an earlier conversation, just as if there had been no interruption. "Mitch wasn't even there, asshole! He left before Mama went to bed." Her voice was low, harsh. Her eyes tried to aim resentment at him, but she was having trouble focusing.
His face was passive, betraying nothing beyond the fact that he was used to this, had been through it before. "Claudia…"
"Don't call me Claudia, asshole! You know I hate it. Goddammit! My name is Comet. Wait here." She stomped over to a volunteer sitting behind the sign-in desk. "What the fuck is that?" she asked loudly, pointing at the frozen hamburger patties in a box on the table. Then, seeing 'Claudia' on the woman's name tag, "Don't you hate that fucking name? It's shitty."
The woman turned and opened a door behind her. "Erin!" she called out in a thin voice. "Erin, can you come out here? Now?" An uneasy silence replaced the animated talking that had been going on among the people waiting for food. Some pointedly ignored Comet's outbursts, looking around the food bank as if for the first time, taking in the beat-up wooden shelves along one wall that held the boxes people used to collect their food, or looking down at their feet shuffling across the cold concrete floor. A little girl peered out at Comet from behind her father's legs, where she had taken refuge.
Comet had returned to her place in the line when Erin, the food bank manager, appeared. She talked briefly, quietly, with the woman behind the desk and then walked over to Comet. "If you continue with your inappropriate language you will be asked to leave and not allowed to return. Do you understand?"
"Who the hell are..." began Comet but she was interrupted by her brother who put a hand on her shoulder and stepped in front of her.
"I'm sorry," he said, "My sister is having some problems today. I'll try to keep her under control."
"Shit," Comet said and turned her back on Erin and her brother.
"I'm warning you," said Erin.
"OK! OK! I heard you! Now leave me alone. I'll be a real good girl and you can give me a lollipop when I leave, OK?" She tapped the shoulder of the man in front of her. "Got a match?" she asked, taking a cigarette butt from her jacket pocket and putting it between her lips. The man pointed at the No Smoking sign on the wall and inched away from her.
Comet replaced the butt in her pocket and turned to her brother. "Mitch wasn't even there," she said again. Her voice had lost some of its edge and she sounded almost mournful. "He wasn't even there."
"Clau--," her brother stopped abruptly, then tried again. "They found Mama's disability check on him. He took it. He stole it from her. Why do you keep defending him?"
For almost a minute there was no reply from Comet. Emotions flitted across her face in the same way colors flit across a cuttlefish, one replacing another, abruptly, unpredictably. "Eugene, couldn't you talk to Mama? Ask her not to press charges? She'll listen to you. Mitch isn't really bad." She tried to sound conciliatory but it came out cloying.
Eugene's face and voice both dropped their veneer of detachment, taking in their stead a look and a tone of disgust. He turned on her and in a low, harsh whisper told her, "He stole Mama's disability check! Of course I'm not going to 'talk to Mama'. Mitch is a thief, a jerk, a parasite. He's worthless."
Comet understood now that the war was lost but not necessarily the battle. She slapped Eugene, hard, the sharp sound of skin on skin slicing through an atmosphere already thick with tension. Without waiting to be told, Comet left, sending the little bell flying across the room as she jerked open the door. Once outside she turned, flipped everybody the finger and started yelling, her eyes bulging, the muscles in her throat knotted. "FUCK YOU! FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU! ALL OF YOU!" She ran off.
Once again Eugene's face was impassive. Nothing was there other than the red welt on his cheek. And the tear making its way down his cheek.
The End
© 2010 David Gardner
Preview of:
Ms. Melton Regrets
The icicle-covered silver train crawled into the empty station, mixing white smoke with swirling snow. Steamy, fogged windows made visibility impossible. Fortunately the conductor announced the location, "Sunset…Sunset."
Drinking tea in Alexander only hours earlier, and here Kate was in Sunset. She couldn't believe it.
Struggling to keep her balance, Kate battled her way through piles of snow and ice. Luckily, the car rental office was next door, and even though it felt like she had walked a mile, she successfully picked up her Jeep. The next challenge was finding the school that would soon launch her new life. Driving almost at a standstill, she finally focused in on the white wedding cake known to very few as Sunset Gardens School for Girls. As she trudged up the path to the main entrance, sweat began to form on her forehead and the back of her neck. "Take deep breaths," she whispered to herself. "Everything will be fine." As she warily approached to ring the bell, the front door flew open.
"Oh my, you must be Ms. Melton, am I right? Well of course you are who else would be out in a snowstorm like this? I'm Ms. Ebersole as you may have guessed, we've been corresponding for some time now about this new position of yours."
Kate cut her off by saying, "Yes, it's dreadful outside, is there somewhere I can hang my coat and scarf?"
Ms Ebersole responded immediately.
"Please let me, I'll hang them in the closet to dry, there's plenty of room."
"Ms. Ebersole, while I have your attention, my full name is Katherine Melton, most people call me Kate, why don't you join them?"
"Oh, yes, of course, informality is best, I prefer it, yes, call me Millie, that would suit me just fine. It stands for Millicent you know. Of course you know I'm such a silly Nelly sometimes. Your predecessor insisted on calling me Ms. Ebersole, oh well, she was a funny duck. She frightened the students to death with her temper. I just had to let her go. I'm alone now. I like to split duties with one other teacher. That arrangement covers the fifteen girls quite well. I prefer to keep everything small and manageable. After all it's my school. I can do whatever I want. One thing Kate, before I say another word, and heaven knows I will say another word, I want to assure you that I never believed those rumors. I never thought you had anything to do with the fires at those schools. The press has been picking on you from the beginning, and they never had any proof, no proof at all. It's preposterous. Anyway, I believe in you, you're a kind gentle soul, I can tell. I just wanted to tell you that now, upfront."
"Well, that is especially comforting, Millie, thank you. Now, if you would be so kind as to show me where I'll be staying, I'm exhausted from all the traveling."
Millie led her toward the stairs.
Kate fell in love with the balcony attached to her elegant new quarters. The room was something out of Virginia Woolf, done in exquisite good taste yet with a neglectful touch of dusty antiquity. French doors led out to the balcony, piled high with fresh snow, and little white lights sparkling from two small pines placed on either end.
She sat in a rocking chair, covered by a warm woolen shawl. All she could see out of the window was black and white shapes swaying in the fierce wind. Her eyes closed. She was almost asleep when voices and visions began to weave their way in and out of her consciousness.
"Go wake your father, you miserable cur. Tell him to get his drunken ass in here or he'll go without, and I'm not kidding. Get going, slug along."
Kate sprung out of the chair. The elongated shadow of her step-mother lingered in the room, she couldn't erase it.
When she began to doze again, the ringing phone in her room shocked her awake. The man calling said he was from The Limelight Film Company. They were proposing to make a short film on her activities at the school.
"Sort of a Day in the Life of Ms. Melton," the director pointed out to her, "just a few snippets and we'll be off. The public will be so pleased to see you in your natural habitat, living just like any other educator of our little ones. You have a lot of fans you know."
"Honestly," she pushed her hair away from her face and rested her hand on her hip.
"No one should give a fig about what I am doing now, this is most unusual."
"We're only a few blocks away, please give us a few minutes, and we'll stop bothering you."
Coincidence held the high card in her unfortunate fall from prominent teacher to her present status of a frightened woman hiding away in a little-known, small private school. There had been devastating fires in her last two positions. No one was hurt, but both dormitories had been razed.
Even though nothing had been proven to implicate her, she lived under a cloud of lingering suspicion.
This man could harm her with bad press if she didn't cooperate. She felt she had to go along.
Telling Millie about this film plan wasn't going to be easy. She decided not to mention it. Thank God the girls were on vacation so it would only be the two of them.
The crew arrived carrying their gear over their shoulders, and a little bald man named Allen Wilkins introduced himself as the producer/director.
Wilkins attempted to loosen the women up with light hearted compliments.
"What a splendid school you have here, the property is so dead kept, I mean well kept, and the house is immaculate. Those are lucky girls you have, absolutely."
Kate became disinterested and began walking towards the exit door. Watkins noticed and yelled out, "So, are we ready to get started?" Millie stood dumbfounded, looking to Kate for an explanation, which never came. Kate did nod at her, trying to convey agreement and cooperation.
"Kate, why don't you go up the stairs and then walk back down slowly. Try to keep a suspicious look on your face. Millie, you come out of the office over there and notice Kate on the staircase. Got that?
Preview of:
The Phoenix
The phoenix is a legendary bird that lives for several hundred years before it burns itself up. However, it starts a new life from its own ashes of the fire. If You find Your phoenix nature You will discover that You are almost immortal and invincible no matter what difficulties You are facing You always come back to new life.
Billy (William) had hurt me beyond any measure, I had invested five years of my life in this relationship. I had wasted five years of my life for nothing. He had been lying to me from the very first day, but I did not want to listen. Our friends had warned me, but I was blind. Blind for love. Madly in love with what I considered a work in progress. I was sure that I would have been able to fix some flaws on the road. I thought it was a 'learning by doing' process. I assumed that Billy would appreciate my work and that we shared the same ethical standards. I had ignored on purpose all the signs. I was so stupid.
Billy has never been able to keep his dick in his pants. At the beginning of our story, five years ago, I had thought that the quality of our relationship would teach him better. We first met in a disco, a gay bar, I was new to the city and he offered me drinks, he was funny, he was handsome, I was horny and lonely, we finished making love two hours later in his car. For me gay sex was a new world. Sure, I knew I was gay for a long time, but back home the maximum I could ever hope for was the slight touch of a hand or a kiss and the occasional group masturbation at school. Billy introduced me to a new set of emotions. He was the first to make me discover how beautiful it is to feel a big dick in my warm hole. At first it hurt, but once you get used to it, oh wow, I loved it. We met the next day and the next, always making love, ops, no …, not making love, it was only sex, instant gratification of his horny impulses. I was mesmerized by him. He was a successful entrepreneur, sort of. He had an insurance agency and made good money, nice car, big apartment on top of the agency. As I was looking for a job, I was in the seventh heaven when he offered me both a place to stay, (in his bed), and a job in the agency. For five years I have been running for him, working for him, solving his problems, organizing things. He never paid me, at least not money. I was working late hours meanwhile he went out for "public relations" trying to find new clients. Well, at least I learned a job inside out. Insurance business is far from easy, you have to mediate between so many opposite demands.
Now I realize that I have been his slave, in his shabby office and in his bed, he lacked any sort of respect, and, fuck him, he never lost an occasion for some outside 'fun'.
Oh no! Don't You believe I am totally naïve. I know that in gay life this is acceptable, but it was not acceptable for me, and the few times that I found out and got furious, he always promised and promised and promised. Oh, Billy was good with words, he could enchant everybody, including me. He used to admit that he had had some fun, but he was only in love with me and that I was his "top priority".
But this last time was one time too much. Jason was just a kid, barely 18 years old. How could he? Sure, I knew that Billy always liked younger, I was 10 years younger, … but not with a school kid!
The bomb exploded one afternoon when Jason came into the office and staged a hysterical scene. I was sitting at my place in the front office, but their shouts where echoing until the street. Jason was madly in love. The typical uncontrolled love of a teeny at his first experience. Billy had probably picked him up at a gay bar or a toilet and they had unprotected sex. Billy never liked condoms.
Jason stormed out of the office shouting: "I will report you to the police, You AIDS-fucker! I hope You will pass the rest of Your life in a jail fucked to bleeding death by a hoard of ugly hairy old men, Bastard!"
As usual I pretended nothing had happened, but obviously I did not speak to a word to Billy for the next few days. I am not able to express my anger. I never fight. But the worm was eating me inside. The tipping point came when, while doing the springtime laundry at home, I found in one of his jackets a folded paper slip with the test results: William T. Smith-Braxton: "hiv+ positive". The paper dated back a full year. I almost fainted on the spot. Billy and I never had protected sex and he had been fucking me in my ass almost every single day. If he was positive, I had no escape. I went to vomit in the loo. Jason's outburst : "I will report you to the police, AIDS-fucker! I hope You will pass the rest of Your life in a jail fucked to bleeding death by a hoard of ugly hairy old men, Bastard!" started to make more sense than I ever had imagined. I am not a fighter, fighting was a useless loss of energy. Billy was not at home. He was out for "public relations". I called my friend Laura and arranged to stay with her for a couple of days. I felt so sick. Sick of being used, sick of being betrayed, sick of being so stupid, sick of believing in "priorities". Billy had been cheating on me in the worse ways.
Laura had just divorced and was only too glad to host me in her huge villa. When I told her the whole story she got incredibly furious. "Go to the police!", "Get a lawyer!" All I could think of was to go the hospital and make the test myself. I was so weak, all the life energy had left me, sleeping alone in Laura's guest bedroom did not help. I was crying and crying. I got constant diarrhea.
The test results arrived 9 days later, as I suspected I was hiv+ positive. The doctors gave me lots of information and support. They said that the overall situation was still ok, that I did not need immediate medication, that I had to be careful, that I had to come back on regular visits every month.
Night at the Races
My parents went to Roosevelt Racetrack to play the trotters every night of the week, and they always took me along. On the ride out my mother, Fran, would do most of the talking. We were on the road for about five minutes one Friday night when my mother started.
"The last time you wanted to bet on One Never Nose, I gave in, Sam, but not this time." She took a deep drag on her Pall Mall. "We are not losing this one," she insisted, exhaling, filling the car with smoke.
My father was a quiet man, short and balding, with the posture of someone much older than his thirty-five years. He thought my mom was the prettiest bleached blonde he'd ever seen. She always wore a little rouge, cherry-red lipstick, and whenever possible, a really knockout hat.
"She only lost by a head, for God's sake, give me a break," my dad said, his voice raised. "Bet she wins tonight, I just feel it in my bones." He firmly pressed in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
My mother and father continued bickering about their picks during the entire trip. Who were the best horses, who had the best odds...they went around and around on these topics until they finally agreed on the right nags to put their two dollar bets on.
I stared out of the window imagining what life was like in Australia. Ever since I saw a documentary about Australia I daydreamed about moving there. I was sure I'd have lots of great friends to have fun with. Yesterday, I told my homeroom class that my parents have a horse farm in the outback. It felt so great to say that, even if it wasn't true.
I can always tell when we're getting close to the track. There's a radiance that lights up the sky the way a space ship would. It's all you see, this tremendous glow surrounded by darkness. I have to marvel at the way my parents always remark on this phenomenon and how it seems to be a new thrill for them every time.
My dad swung our white-walled '53 Pontiac into the parking lot, circled the rows of cars, and finally found a spot way in the back. We all bundled up and trudged a quarter mile to the front entrance.
"Now, Emily Wilkes, you stay put here. Please don't get into any trouble, I have enough to worry about." Mom gave me a little hug. She smelled like Chanel No. 5, coffee and cigarette smoke. My dad was already heading toward the turnstiles to pay their admission.
"Bye, sweetie," Mom said, waving. "Wish us luck."
I was thirteen, too young to be admitted into the track, so my parents would leave me outside near the main gateway where they could see me. I always joined a few other track kids who got together to kill the two or three hours waiting time. I was their self- appointed leader. No contest because I was the oldest and most daring. I was tall for my age, with short blonde hair and green eyes. People told me I bore a markedly strong resemblance to my mother, that we could be sisters. I didn't agree. Anyway, it was my job at the racetrack to come up with cool things to do. The kids were getting antsy, so I had to invent a game for us.
"I'm sick of hanging around here," I said. "Let's go pick up thrown-away tickets. There could be winners in the batch." I proceeded to scrutinize the pavement. A kid whose name I didn't know said, "Oh, yeah, big chance of that. What do you think these turkeys are, stupid?"
"I found one once, big mouth!" I screamed at the boy. "My mother cashed it in for twenty two bucks, so just shut up!" The other two kids, Susan and David, giggled and looked down at the ground. We spent about an hour hunting for tickets then picked up a racing form someone had tossed away and tried to match the ticket stubs. We could see the tote board through the fence so we knew how the horses finished-win, place, or show. After pouring over each ticket, we agreed there was nothing in our meager findings worth a penny. An announcement came over the loudspeaker. "The marshall calls the pacers." Another race was about to begin.
"OK, I have another idea," I said enthusiastically. "Let's go to the parking lot and look over the cool new cars, won't that be a blast?" I got a fairly spirited response, so off we went. As we wove among all of those shiny autos, we called out to each other to share in our admiration for a particularly gorgeous one.
"I wish we could have a car like that," David said. "We've had the same clunker since I was born practically. If my dad would only get a job things could be better."
I laughed and said, "My parents named our car Hopeful, because we always hope we will get to where we're heading and back. Now if that doesn't tell you something. Ever since we've been coming to the track so often, they won't even hear about raising my allowance, so I don't think we'll be getting a new car too soo..." I stopped talking, distracted by something I saw that was too good to be true. A perfectly worn-in baseball glove and a Brooklyn Dodgers cap were lying on the front seat of the brand new red Ford we were admiring. The button on the door was up.
It's open, I can't believe it, I thought. I've wanted a baseball mitt for years, and the cap was a neat bonus. I asked the group to help. "Hey, crowd around me so I can grab this stuff."
"No," Susan said. "Don't do it, anyone. If we get caught we'll go to jail or something worse. My parents will kill me. I'm living with my mom and new step-father, and he really scares me to death."
David sputtered, "Look Emily, we shouldn't be taking anything, it's stealing. What's wrong with you anyway, you nuts or something?"
The kid with no name spoke, "I'll block you, girlie. Then we can look into more cars, and I can get something, too."
"Yeah!" I was overjoyed, "This is so cool." I really took a look at this boy now. He was what they call a rock, tough-looking, with blue black hair slicked down that ends in a duck tail. I figured he was about twelve. "So, what's your name anyway?" I asked.
"Sammy." He grinned and spread his legs wider, hooking his thumbs behind his belt.
"Oh crap, that's my fathers name, but nah, you're nothing like him. You got guts, my friend, just like me." I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "Let's get started."
Sammy looked at the other two kids and said, "Both of you chickens get out of here, and you better keep your mouths shut."
"Yeah, you better, or else," I chimed in, shaking my fist at them.
I tucked the stolen cap down the back of my dungarees, and the glove inside the armpit of my bulky jacket. We moved quickly between the rows of cars until Sammy spotted a beautiful pair of sunglasses on the dashboard of an open convertible. He put them in his back pocket, and we sauntered back to the main gate feeling very accomplished. I noticed David and Susan talking to some adults and pointing in our direction. Not good.
"Let's do this again tomorrow night," Sammy said.
The idea scared me. It was starting to hit me that I might get caught and that could be ugly. Even though my parents didn't notice much that went on when it came to me, they were sure to eventually catch on. It wouldn't work, I thought. Anyway, those little kids might be ratting on us right now.
"Nah, Sammy, that's it for me. Don't want to push my luck," I told him.
"OK then, more for me. You're the loser, Loser!"
He stomped off heading back toward the parking lots. Just as he was leaving, I spotted my parents coming out of the gate, looking around for me.
"Emily! We're over here," Mom waved her arms around in the air.
I ran over to them. "How did you do?" I asked.
"Well, we about broke even." My dad's voice was barely audible. I knew that was code for we lost.
"Yeah, now my feet are killing me," my mom exclaimed. "I can't wait to get home and dive under the covers."
As we drove out to get on the highway, two police cars sped by, their sirens blasting. They headed straight to the same parking lot we had just left.
"Lots of commotion lately," my mother said. "We were just having a discussion with some people about pick pockets and other riff-raff hanging around." Mom turned her head around to look at me. "You didn't see any funny business going on, did you?"
"Anything can happen out there," I answered. "There are no security guards or anything,"
"Well, I'm glad you're safe anyway, honey. Sam, maybe we should cut down on these trips. I don't feel right leaving Emily outside all the time, you know?" She reached back to pinch my cheek. "So, Sam, did you hear me, what do you say?"
"Sure honey. Whatever you think, I think," he responded.
I stretched out in the back seat. If I bent my knees, I fit perfectly, head to toe. The rest of the long trip was mostly in silence. I pulled the Dodgers cap out of my jeans and put it on, covering my eyes like a mask. My mother looked around to see what I was doing. I looked up and smiled.
"Sweetie, you look so adorable in that cap, doesn't she, Sam?'
"Thanks, Ma. It's always been one of my favorites." I tapped the brim, and then lower it slyly, this time to hide a very devilish grin. I can always count on them not to notice anything different about me.
© 2010 Eileen Elkinson
Preview of:
To the Victor Lie…
…he wanted out. He didn't know precisely where to go…just did what so many do when without direction, internal otherwise, except what magically appears in front of us, join the service young man there's never a shortage of wars or other cheap tricks to perform to while away the time, enroll in school perhaps, get married, follow in the footsteps, follow the path of least resistance as if it were laid out before us since the beginning. Answer all ye to call of the drummer beating his chest. From generation to generation, like geese that fly south-no not like geese at all, they have a purpose. And what about the service, the Sergeant/mother….
Someone once made a remark to the effect that there can be no winners in war, and perhaps that's true, perhaps....
Although Raymond, PFC Raymond Polanski, that is, was certainly deemed a winner or, I should say, victor-to thine own self be true, Raymond-he certainly didn't feel the victor, not from that hollow deep inside, the pithe of his tormented soul. Indeed, he felt quite the contrary to that, today especially, as he rode the train home having just returned from the war in the Middle East, his tour over.
Today PFC Raymond Polanski would reap the spoils, as they say. He'd be admired as he was awarded the distinguished metal of valor known as the Purple Heart, injured in the line of duty, even though the talk amongst his platoon was that the bullet that went through the fleshy part of his thigh may have been self-inflicted. His sergeant, having heard such rumor deemed it prudent not to follow up on this rumor with investigation for two reasons, the first being that it would be impossible to prove-no bullet, friendly or otherwise, no crime-and the second, because Raymond had so recently suffered the loss his brother in a skirmish a few weeks prior…again, no bullet, friendly or otherwise, and no body-due to circumstances of the skirmish Sergeant Timothy's Company was forced to retreat from the area and his body would never be recovered.
Today-for the first time in his life really-all would indeed admire PFC Raymond Polanski, it was his turn…a long time coming. He would be admired and cheered on for the victory, of survival, by all of those who had previously thought of him, if they thought of him at all, as little more than a sort of shadow or apparition-"What's his name, you know, Tim's bro…" the shadow who inconspicuously followed behind Timothy, looming in the darkness of his oft celebrated brother, Timothy Polanski, high-school heart throb, Captain of the team, any team it seems, followed by Captain of the Platoon.
Although, it can well be said now upon his triumphant return from the Middle East that things would be different, no more the discreet shadow, that is, now that his brother was listed as a casualty of that ancient ritual glamorized as War, other times, other situations, and sometimes quite indistinguishable, we call this enterprise by quite a different name.
Since the birth of brotherhood one might say, from the days of Cain and Able, we've referred to this act by a lesser name, murder. Aside from that, today PFC Raymond Polanski would be honored, inscribed forever in the great book of history as a soldier, freedom fighter. And, each year hence, this inconsequential, fallen-angel of decadent ideologies are exhumed…brass plated, tin cored, various badges of dubious honors spit-shined and polished to be featured in the circus of a Memorial Day parade.
The real past, that which lies in silent repose, which is to say that which really did happen, but will never be known…what of this? What can never be resolved is destined by default to live on, to play over and over and over again and again and again and forgotten is the man only-shamed perhaps as well, like those who've fought in unpopular wars, victors of a sort, whose innocence and courage bled to death on foreign dirt-land that he/her, himself/herself had never really understood-a look of ambiguity, a graven image, of WHY, galvanized by the suddenness of KNOWING WHY, chiseled into a rigor mortised face.
Raymond didn't feel the part he'd be expected to play today. The image of the flash of his carbine and flash of light he saw as his brother attempted to retrieve a wounded soldier seemed to converge, as if they were both integrated, one flash…
no there were two, I'm sure of it, there HAD to have been…Please God let it be so.
Blinded, you might say, at the time his finger quite independently decided to pull the trigger quite of its own accord, automatic, you might say, yet what haunted him the most was his brother's expression…
as if somehow his brother knew something he, PFC Raymond Polanski didn't. It was the unequivocal look of forgiveness, yet profoundly pure, a look wholly incompatible with any amongst the living. This is what spooked Raymond the most. He will continue to see this for quite some time as history slowly fades like sound of a train in the distance…the price of freedom?
That smile worn by his father's son as he so mysteriously looked his direction when the sniper's? bullet tore through his unprotected flesh. Would he again see that face, today, in that of his father? That is the rhythm of fear, that incessant drumming upon his psyche.
Preview of:
One Night Stand
Josh was standing in the middle of the room not sure that he was doing the right thing anymore. He looked about him for some answer and saw none. The wind was howling furiously outside. There was a small rasp against the windows which was the sign that there was a snowstorm outside. He didn't say anything to the other person with him in the room. He didn't feel like he had to. Maybe it was best to keep quiet for now. Just enough time to think of something to say about the situation, to decide about something. He had wanted her and needed her to be here tonight. But now he was sure that it would turn out to have been a terrible mistake. He was aware of her nakedness without having to look at her. They were still in the moment that follows sex and he shouldn't be standing in the middle of the room. He should be lying with her on the bear rug. He was naked like her. He could hear the cracking of the fire coming from the fireplace. The heat made him feel a little more comfortable.
He tried to avoid looking at the painting as much as he could. He didn't like being in the living room when he could avoid it because of it. It was hung above the fireplace. It represented the bedroom he used. There was someone in the bedroom. Or rather something. It looked like a human being but there was no flesh, bones or skin. It looked like it was made of smoke. It was clear and only its outline could be seen. One could see right through it. It was his uncle's last painting before he had shot himself.
Josh could feel her gaze on his bare back as he ignored the painting. He wanted to make love to her again. Because she was desirable, yes, but more important to him: Because he needed to escape his fear. He was getting scared and soon she would be too. It was unfair. He knew and had known from the beginning that it was unfair of him to do that but he had taken the decision to come back with this girl after having drunk three bottle of Jack Daniels - you can say a lot of things but Jack is the best. That had not been enough to escape the fear. She had been. For a time at least. But now it was over and he felt the need to escape. It had seemed a good idea while being drunk but now he wasn't so sure. He heard the TV turn on in the other room. He stopped breathing wondering what could have applied sufficient pressure on the remote control to turn the TV on. He thought that maybe it was the house. It had taken to doing that kind of things.
"Don't you want to come back by my side?" she asked from behind him.
He smiled, aware that she couldn't see it. It was painful for him to smile at it all. The concert at the Fox theater in Boulder had been the place where he had had the most chances of meeting a girl willing to follow him there. Because he didn't want to be alone. Because he was scared and he thought that he could be less scared because of her presence with him. Being alone in that house was far from enjoyable. He had thought that they would be able to make the fear go away by making love. The first thing she had done when she had seen the stupid bear rug he had been offered by his brother had been to pull him over there.
"The storm is getting worse and worse, roads are being closed and we advise you to avoid leaving your home if you can," the TV reporter said from the other room.
"You can still leave if you wish to," Josh said without turning.
Linda didn't answer. He had thought it was clear to both of them that it would only be the one night but he had been very drunk and half wishing to faint at some time or other. Now he didn't want to be left alone, he didn't want to stay in the house and didn't really want to get to know the girl he had picked up because it would only make things worse if he cared about her. He turned to look at her at last; unable to avoid her anymore when the only other choice was to think about the house.
"I'm glad you're staying," he lied to Linda.
"I didn't say I was," she told him, making him pay his lack of attention to her.
He sat by her side. She was lying on her stomach, it was warm in the room and they felt quite comfortable naked as they were. Somehow it maintained the illusion that they knew each other, they were able to stay naked without embarrassment whereas they were quite awkward about any sort of conversation. It helped them to feel that sex was close at hand because they could always use it when they had nothing more to say to each other.
"So, this is where you live?" she asked him.
Josh simply nodded, disappointed about the fact that the conversation was about the house, the number one subject he hated.
"Do you live here alone?"
"Probably not for the next few days. This snowstorm is going to be mean and long."
Linda nodded. She looked around clearly looking for something to talk about. She looked everywhere and then looked at him. She's fast, Josh thought with a smile. She could already feel it. There was something about the house; he had felt it too but it had taken him days to first realize that there was anything at all and he could tell by the look of mild fear and wonder that she felt a power. Where it came from he didn't know but he doubted this power had either of their best interests at heart.
She looked at him for some time, trying to read his expressions, wondering whether it was him that gave her the bad feeling she had. The one that was cramping her stomach telling her to get the hell out of here as fast as she could. He felt ashamed of himself because he had dragged someone into this mess with him but he hadn't thought about the storm. He could not remember having heard about it before tonight. He hadn't thought that whoever he would pick up would end up stuck in the house with him.
"If you want to go we can still chance it," he told her.
She weighed the proposition.
"They said not to go out if it could be avoided."
Mississippi Myth
The New Madrid earthquakes of December 1811 and January 1812 caused the Mississippi River to reverse its course. Is it possible a "merbaby" was washed upriver? Was one tossed ashore near LaCrosse, Wisconsin, where in time the mummified creature was discovered?
I have waited long, since a time beyond counting. Whenever you passed en route to the city, I called out. At first my voice was too faint. I willed it to strengthen. One day I sensed you heard me as a whisper in your busy mind. When next you passed I was aware of your glance in the direction of this decaying building where I dwell. My voice drew only brief attention until today-this miraculous day-when you no longer dismissed the calling. I listen.
The rusted bell clatters against the worn door. The aging antique dealer rises with effort from a stool behind the scarred counter. He nods. "Afternoon, Miss. Looking for anything in particular?"
"I've been drawn to your store for some time. Don't know why. Not yet."
For the first time I hear your human voice.
She lifts something from a shelf, turns the metal key at the back of a red-jacketed bartender. As he downs his pretend-drink, pretend-smoke puffs from both ears. She giggles.
Your laughter is music. You are a happy being. I hear your heels against the floor planking.
The tapping stops and then begins again.
Your steps move closer.
"Did you know this butter churn is chipped?" she asks.
The butter churn did not draw you in. I did. Move past the frayed books with their crumbling glue. They are not nearly old enough. You are responding to an ancient cry, a sorrow so deep you cannot pull it to the surface. I know of it, for the sorrow is also mine.
"The stand holding this old fish tank is ornate," she comments.
Yes, you like fish. You were part fish. Like me, you were of the water. Remember the night when it boiled and churned, pulling me from your arms. We screamed then, in unison. I still scream but in silence now. I hear your sigh. I beg of you, do not abandon your search. You and I have waited all this time. You are so close to discovery. Wipe the dust and smoke from the gilt-edged mirror. It hangs crooked on the wall before you. Witness the seeking in your mystical eyes.
"Give a holler, Miss, if I can be of assistance. Take a look at that Amish quilt, a collectible of rare design. Hand dyed. Old as the hills. It hangs next to the display case."
Yes, come. Then you will be nearby. Behind the streaked glass you may notice my still form, dried and shrunken. But I am not beyond recognition, not to you.
"A quilt doesn't interest me. Something . . . something more unusual."
I hear the shopkeeper's tottering steps.
"If it's the unusual you have an eye for, look there in the case on the middle shelf. You won't find a more unusual creature anywhere."
The shopkeeper sniffs the air.
"Speaking of the unusual, what's that fragrance?"
"It's an essential oil-bergamot."
Of course, in your human lifetime you would no longer smell of seaweed. Your eyes follow in the direction the shopkeeper points. I both await and fear your reaction. I hear your gasp.
She presses her face to the glass. "Oh . . . oh. Wherever did you find it?"
"Came with the shop. We advertise the creature." The shopkeeper waved his tri-colored brochure. "It's a come-on."
"Then it's not for sale?"
"Not unless they demolish the building. There's some talk of widening the highway."
"And when might that happen?"
"When the State gets around to it."
Your eyes caress my form. You do not laugh or wince as others have.
"Its tiny face holds such anguish," she says.
"Gives my wife the willies, I tell you. It's not fish, not human either. Wouldn't want those needle-thin teeth sunk into one of my fingers."
"Poor tortured being. It has ribs. See, there beneath the taut leathery skin?"
Her fingers massage the glass. "There must be a story. Were you told about its discovery?"
"Yes, the story goes that . . ."
I know the story. I was there. One day you, too, may remember when the floor of the ocean quaked and split. When the waves rose, sending the water of the great river backwards. Terrified, I tumbled and tossed in the dizzying waves until thrown high onto a bank. Mud covered my bruises, my physical wounds. Other wounds have yet to heal. As the mud baked dry, so did I. In time I arrived here to await this day.
She raised a hand to stop his words. "No need to tell me. I will come to know the story. May I leave my card? Notify me when the State decides."
With a knuckle you tap the glass mere inches from my body. You are remembering. I hear your thought: I will come for you, merbaby.
© 2010 Arlene Eisenbise
Preview of:
Want
The snow is knee deep and the wind is a wolf, running in circles around me. His blood is streaming into my coat, between my breasts and pooling in my belly button. I can't tell if he's even breathing anymore and the one little light of my home is so far away, it could be a star. But the idea of staying in that house, stopping myself from coming back to look at his frozen body in the morning, was just too much to bare. He is very heavy, and I am shocked that I am still going, still bearing his weight.
They had said, This is the Minnesota iron range - Winters are hard.
I had just wanted to be alone, get away from the disgusting eyes of Hollywood, the reports demanding, Are you clean now? Is this your last trip to rehab? When I finally reached this desolate place it had all been wonderful. Accept when I looked in the mirror. So I had covered them all, even the little hall mirror behind the key rack, because the track marks from heroine needles on my arms are black and not fading and, the lasting affects of drugs on my face, disgusts me.
He's breathing, I'm sure now. I think of the pot bellied stove full of burning wood, I think of my dog, Loki, at the door, waiting and surely freaking out. Because my dog had tried to stop me. Had looked up at me with serious brown eyes and said, Don't go. But I could see a hand jutting out of the snow, wet with blood and ice in the twilight. And I had run to lock Loki in the house behind me. I wondered what Loki would have said the odds were of a one hundred pound woman carrying this kind of weight a hundred yards through a Minnesota blizzard.
The wind hits me in the face with a thousand shards of glass and it rocks me back. My breath comes all of the way out of me, like the car accident and the choking seat belt that pinned my ribs and heart down.
This is insane.
When I arrived at the cabin everything had been so silent and lifeless. It was Loki who had convinced me that this was one of my very best ideas. He proved to me that there was life here; squirrels, chipmunks, crows, rabbits, all the things that could make his doggy life good. And then I had covered all of the mirrors.
He's getting heavier and my breath is coming out in long grindings. I keep my nose down in my scarf, trying to warm the air before it cuts me. It's not helping, it's just creating moisture and my scarf is a solid block of ice. My throat is burned and screaming.
I had thrown it all away for my next heroine fix. How long did you starve yourself? How long was the heroine the only thing that kept you moving? Look in the mirror, you're so ugly now no one will want to look at you.
You're wrong, he wants to look at me. He loves me.
Stupid little whore, did you forget he's dead? Past tense. He loved you.
Loki is in the window, ears up. I can see his black silhouette, wild hair stuck all over his head like some kind of royal bird. The relief of seeing him so close takes me to my knees and the cushioning snow feels unbelievably good. All of my strength goes into my right shoulder, trying to keep it from collapsing under him. I am certain that if I dropped him now I wouldn't be able to pick him up again.
It feels so good to sit, I am convinced I feel heat on the backs of my legs and hands. I'm not wearing long johns, don't own a pair actually, and jeans in this weather is laughable. He's not wearing anything but jeans. I never looked at his wounds and now I can only imagine his hands and arms and face, black with frost bite. It feels so good to sit and drift. My eyes are shut.
Why is he barking?
It wakes me and I look up at the house, so close. Loki is roaring as loud as a dog can scream. The barks are coming out of him so hard and fast they are becoming one long howling voice. He is panic stricken. His screaming gets me to my feet. My heart is pounding so hard I start to sweat. I try to hear the woods around me, but the sound of my rasping breathing is too loud.
Loki is terrified and so am I.
I get to the back deck and up the five steps, adrenaline is throwing me from one foot to the next. I am screaming with each lunge. Loki is still yelling at the top of his lungs. Instead of bolting to the door, he stays at the window, his huge size bristled out in violence and panic. He is not looking at me, but, at something behind me.
I get the door open and let the man go. The sound of him landing is a dead thud. I have to push him over so I can close the door. I lock it without asking why. Loki is there at my side, pushing me. He runs to the front door and I follow my dog. I lock it too.
He follows me upstairs to the only bedroom. I strip down and the blood is starting to register and my senses are starting to thaw. The wreak makes me gag. It smells like buck blood, heavy, musky and very long dead. I had come upon a dead deer three days ago, Loki had found it. The sun had been shining and warmed things enough for us to catch a whiff. But this was far beyond the smell of a cadaver. This is a deep rotted stench and I am overwrought to get it off of me. I run to the bathroom, turn the water on hot, all the way, stand naked beneath it and scream as my frozen skin becomes fire. As I sob Loki sits in the open doorway looking uncertain.
The smell is gone and my entire body is shaking. I am barely able to get to the towels, to wipe down before my knees collapse and I fall to the floor. I take in the realization that I have returned to my house, to my dog. I am alive. Loki comes to me and the smell of dog, the feel of his thick wiry hair under my hands, is heaven. He's nervous and he keeps looking over his shoulder. I watch him for barely a moment before his attitude slips into me and I stand. I smell it again then, that deep, choking stench and I am no longer tired nor relieved. I wrap myself tightly and clutch the towel to my breast. Loki goes into the bedroom where he sits at the door, staring down the long stairway, lit at the bottom by the fire.
When the Wind Blows
My son Daniel howls from within the forest. The noise is dreadful and his outrage is bone-chilling. He is paying the price for the careless people of this planet.
I am old now and ready to join the earth in the next month or two. The sputum I cough up is blood tinged and foul, a legacy to the self-destruction my kind was once so adept at creating. I was once a smoker in a polluted world. My time has almost come and with my departure the world's population of humans will be but a few thousand.
Although Daniel and the rest of the forest sadden me, I am not bitter. I understand that the earth had to fight back. The human species had tainted every part of the planet. From water to sky, plants, and soil, we had plundered and caused ruin. It was many years ago now when humanity discovered that it was not as clever as it thought, and that mother-nature had a few fail-safe mechanisms of her own.
A strange smell tainted the air in all continents. It lasted for almost a week and then the stinking fog rose up from the ground and clung to the earth. It was meters deep but as quickly as it came it disappeared again.
My wife and I were returning from a European trip. We were young professionals contemplating the start of a family life. The holiday was our reward for hard work before the nest was begun and we became housebound. Two months after the fog had cleared we sat in Munich airport looking at an odd photo on the cover of a German newspaper. Neither of us could read the language, but the picture was disturbing. At first Jan and I thought it was some kind of stunt. A morphed picture from the hands of a computer whiz. I can not forget the horror on my wife's face.
Soon television broadcasts were full of wailing mothers who stood beside their young offspring. Only the children's soft pink faces and torsos differentiated them from the saplings they otherwise resembled.
Daniel was born almost a year after it started and we fretted constantly while Jan was pregnant. By then every newborn child was affected and the changes were being seen in children as old as three. Desperate parents had tried to move their young, but once an infant had taken root there was no way of severing the connection without causing death. Specialists, of both medical and botanical types, were called in to help but it was useless.
When Daniel was born doctors were trying all kinds of new preventative therapies. Our son was six months old when the strange buds began to develop on his back, shoulders, and within the arches of his feet. We applied lotions and weed-killers. His bottles were laced with different courses of antibiotics, antihistamines and corticosteroids, but all to no avail. The new growth kept swelling and ripening.
Many parents tried to halt the grounding process by keeping their children shod with sturdy shoes, but when the time came, the roots would blast their way free. The change was inevitable.
The first forests were established in China, India and America. With such high populations their highways had become lined with the sprouted young. It was disheartening, as well as distracting, for drivers to see and hear so many wailing young faces rooted on the roadsides.
The governments, in their wisdom, started the forests within national parks. Before long the land was gobbled up. The deformities of these children had not affected their fertility, on the contrary, the population was booming. The plant-children went into procreation over-drive, shedding their spores on the ever freshening breezes. Soon parks had to be ripped up to make way for the crops of young. Over time the suburbs went too.
When Daniel's feet began to swell we decided to move to the country. Jan and I had wanted him to set down roots somewhere nice where we could be with him. Although we knew it was inescapable, it still broke out hearts the day it happened.
Our boy had just began walking two weeks before his first birthday. It was a difficult enough feat for a normal child. For Daniel it was made harder still by having misshapen limbs. The buds above his shoulders had grown unevenly and this made balancing difficult. We knew it was futile, but we still persevered with protective leather boots.
The morning it happened I had been transferring our dwindling funds on the home computer when I heard Jan scream. She had gone to the toilet, leaving Daniel alone for only a few minutes, but in that time the little lad had made it outside.
He must have crawled down the paved pathway to the bottom of the garden. Jan clutched my hand. With her long hair blowing in the wind, and her crazed and desperate eyes she resembled a wild woman. There was nothing I could do or say. For a moment we just stood and drank in each other's agony.
Then we raced to our son's side. In the few seconds we stood by him, he seemed to be straightening and stabilizing within the earth. Jan shook him and he wailed.
'Pick him up,' she begged me. 'Don't let him stay in the ground.'
She knew what she was asking me, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill my own son.
Day by day he lost the features that had made him human. His eyes became filled with sap, blind, and rock hard. A membrane covered his ears and nostrils, flattening out his features and taking away his senses. Only his mouth remained functional, although it would never utter comprehensible words, it still communicated his indignity and misery.
We watched our son grow over the years. He is a healthy specimen, tall and strong. Somehow he was still a source of pride to his loving parents. Even now he towers above many of the others. His long limbs and green leaves reach up to the sun and happily greet the falling rain.
Jan has long since died, and soon I will join her. Our planet is green again and the air is sweet. The Earth will remain in healthy existence thanks to these drastic changes. This is a good thing I know, but some days when the forests moan and wail; I have to clamp my weary hands over my ears while the tears stream from my eyes.
© 2010 Pam Farley
Marley Robinson's Mails
The clock struck 3:00 PM and Marley Robinson woke up from his siesta with a start. He was an old man with round gray beard and a short stern figure. He always walked with a cane stick; leaning on his for support. Marley put on his slippers, pulled open the drawer of his dresser, took out the keys and reached the door. He opened the door, walked out and closed it behind him. It was a dreary afternoon like all mid summer afternoons, warm, sunny and sleepy. The apartment complex looked forsaken and tedious too. Even the gossiping housewives were not around. Marley looked around for a streak of life and on finding nobody, nodded his head and walked down the parking space to the mail room
For a little over twenty years Marley had developed an endearing relationship with his little mailbox. Everyday, save for weekends of course, at 3:03 PM sharp one would definitely find him rendezvousing with it, turning the brass USPS key and looking inside it with the hands of a child for something delectable. It was not that he received letters everyday or he was a very important person whom people would miss everyday, I guess it was the very tension of expectancy and the sheer of opening the magic box that filled his dampened old spirit with youthful fervor. On most days, like today, his mailbox would be empty and Marley would close it with a clank and walk taciturnly back to his apartment. His retreating figure would cast an insignificant shadow which walked with him like his only loyal companion in silent, delicate footsteps. But then there were days when there would be a coupon or one of those red-yellow leaflets that you and I throw away instantaneously. On such days Marley's eyes would glitter, his heart would dance around like a clown and he would smile and wave to his neighbors (if he saw him around) letting everybody know that somebody had mailed poor old Marley.
In his apartment at night the insomniac old spirit would spent hours thinking about red and blue envelopes, flower printed letterheads, pictured post cards that might deluge his mailbox the following day. In his imagination he would reach almost to an orgasmic moment when his heart would race and he would gasp for breath as all the fantastic images converged into one focal point of deep desire. He could almost take his hand and touch the textured surfaces of cards and envelopes. He could tell if the paper had a metallic surface or if it was a recyclable material. However, he was less interested in the contents of those mails, he just mused about their outward appearance. Regarding their subjects his imagination never stirred and it would be judicious to say that he did not care about the substance. But as in our urban Serengeti when people have mastered the art of being deliberate amnesiacs, Marley's desires remained unfulfilled. He pined and yearned for holding the glittering marble papers instead returned everyday empty handed and lost.
But Marley Robinson was an unflinching optimist. In his youth he was a soldier in the US army and had fought several wars for the country. In the battlefields he had spent sleepless nights fighting relentlessly for his country and its men, and now as he fought with his own imagination, he refused to accept defeat. As summer gave way to a fall that year, Marley Robinson began feeling restless and disoriented. His cravings began to grow insatiably unbearable. One night as he was listening to the droning radio and looking out at the majestic dark night lurking outside, a brilliant yet dangerous idea flashed across his mind. He rose from his chair and began walking up and down the half lit room nervously chafing his palms. After an hour of so of meticulous meditation Marley made up his mind.
A couple of weeks later on one Wednesday after winter had began to move in hurriedly into the silly little neighborhood peopled by boring accountants, old men, ladies and gossiping housewives. The mailman and his dog walked sluggishly to the mailbox with bundles of letters, coupons and other things. After disposing the items into the designated boxes as he turned around to leave, he found a couple of red and yellow envelopes lying on the ground in the snow. "God, I must have dropped 'em" he thought as he picked them and brushed the snow from them. Then, he stared at the names of the addressee with a questionable eye and shoved the bundle into the box marked E-7.
It was a day of celebration for Marley Robinson. The mailbox had given him the best pre-Christmas present. For the first time in god knows how many years it was full, full to the brim with letters and notes. In glorious exultation he wanted to shout "Hallelujah, Hallelujah". He knew the neighbor' wife would be down at the mailroom any minute now and he waited with bated breath for the lady to arrive. A burning desire to shout overwhelmed his senses. He wanted to show to the world that vagaries of mind do come true. Mrs. Brigham was the wife of a retired school teacher. She had just retired herself from her position as a clerk in the local superstore and had taken up the new position of the greatest gossiper in the neighborhood. If you need any information about any inmate of the locality, I suggest you to knock at the Brighams' door and you would know it all. The lady was only four feet five inches in height, yet she possessed one of the shrewdest minds, always active, always thinking. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Brigham," Marley said on seeing the lady. "A very good afternoon to you too, Sir," Mrs. Brigham said wondering what the old man was doing in the mailroom at the unholy hour of 4:15 PM. Marley could almost read her mind. He knew that she had no idea that he had shifted base to a new mail hour only to show her how precious he was to the world. "What are you doing now in the mailroom, isn't it a quarter past four?" she asked. "I was not feeling well, so I came in late to check the mailbox," Marley said bringing out the fat bunch of multicolored envelopes. "Oh my, you must have a lot of well wishers," exclaimed the lady in a tone of utter disbelief. "Yeah, I do have a lot of friends writing to me from everywhere," Marley replied smugly. The lady uneasily contented herself with his statement and hurriedly started unlocking her own mail box all the while furtively eyeing
Marley marching out of the mailroom bearing in his hand his newfound treasure like some newborn's dad bringing his first child home.
The whole evening Marley faced the thrills of victory oozing out from his nerves. In his ecstasy he heard paeans being sung, band being played and flags waved. When he had returned home from the war people had actually greeted him like that. Now his mind recalled those marvelous lost memories to celebrate the wonderful day. For a moment Marley couldn't grasp the reality that he had got all that he had ever wanted for years: envelopes addressed to him. He had waited for this day for years and now as it stood in front of him, openhearted, the mere charm of it seemed frivolous after sometime. He knew he had tricked the world and himself and was still fooling himself by asking his own mind to act as a different personality and play the hide and seek game. To satiate a quirky imagination he had went ahead and posted letters to himself, in his own address. He knew at heart that he had no friends and foes, no family and no pen friends. In the big world he had nothing but himself and his quirky mind. He debated himself as he sat in his rocking chair with the unopened letters in his lap. But after a while his thoughts seemed to scramble in his mind and he lost track. His mind started weaving its wildest dreams of paper and color, of postcards and Chinese calligraphy. He didn't know what he was doing and why he was doing; the sense of nothingness that had cropped in for a while faded into the darkness and Marley Robinson began to laugh and wink with glee.
Marley's hilarity affected the world less and one mortal the most. The quotidian task of delivering bundles of letters to one mailbox chagrined the mailman and his dog deeply. The whole winter the mailman cursed Marley Robinson and his letter writing friends and had wished that they had found some other leisure pursuit.
© 2010 Barnali Saha
Preview of:
The Gypsy Eagles
Chapter 1 - Lake Constance
In the beginning I really didn't think much about it. It was an assignment like so many others. Just tour half of Germany and interview in every major city the clients for an in depth market research. I had been doing this already many times, it's an easy job. It's a lonely job. I have been driving all the way from Hamburg down south and so finally I arrived close to the lake of Constance. I never bothered to book hotels in advance, as I knew my schedule was unpredictable. Sometimes I could squeeze up to 4 cities in one day, others only one. But I kept the Michelin restaurant & hotel guide with me and wherever I knew I would stop I had a quick look to find something fancy to eat or sleep. I had never been to the lake of Constance, of course I knew it was famous and supposedly beautiful, that's why, after a quick look at the route map I finally decided to do some extra miles to try to find a cozy place to sleep over there. Right on top of the best of the best places there was the Steigenberger Inselhotel. Located in the old-town of Constance, on a small private island, in an ancient, former Dominican Monastery - the hotel offers a truly unique environment for its guests. A bridge leads you to the romantic old-town with its interesting lanes and alleys. Of course it was way over my budget, but being born under a lucky star, I decided to dare anyway. I arrived at 8.30 PM on a Thursday evening. The not so bright concierge just handed me over the official pricelist, but I just was in the mood to try my luck, I had nothing to lose. "I am sorry," I replied, "I really cannot afford your prices. I have a limited budget because I am here on business. However, it is already quite late in the evening and chances that You will occupy a room at your full rate are rather dim. So why you don't let me stay here and I pay you half your rate, which is more or less the maximum I can afford right now. You make a good business and I am happy. So you see, it's a win-win situation."
The concierge needed a couple of minutes to think about my proposal. (Germans are not known to be very bright in negotiating nor in being flexible.) However, a couple of phone calls and lots of charming smiles from my side later I got what I wanted.
"Sir, unfortunately we are quite full at the moment, so we can only offer You our lake view Graf Zeppelin suite, of course you will pay only half of our standard room rate." the concierge finally conceded, asking me if in case someone wanted it I would mind to move to a standard room. I diligently obliged and took possession of one of the most beautiful suites of the hotel.
I usually hate hotels, I had too many hotel rooms in my life already, but this place was magnificent beyond description. I was immediately in a fantastic good mood and anticipated very much the unforeseen long weekend in a new place, all to discover.
The next day I went by car for another two interviews in nearby towns and was already back soon after lunch time. Most unusually for April the weather was getting really beautiful and the sun was shining hot and everything seemed to be like in a summer fairytale. Once back in the hotel, I borrowed a bicycle and started to cycle in the beautiful park which lined the lake. I was mesmerized by its beauty, the trees, the flowers, the lake reflecting the sky and the nearby mountains, some of them still capped with snow. Not last the cycling was a welcome break from driving a car hundreds of miles on the highway.
As I proceeded in awe at one turn of the park I met Jeremy.
Jeremy was sitting on the lawn in the park with a electric blue cloth spread in front of him on which he offered his merchandise. Mainly crystal pendants and other 'new-age' objects, many of those prepared by himself. He had arranged his things like a small mandala and I really don't know why, but I had to stop my bike in front and started to chit chat with him. There was a special sparkle of paradise in his eyes which made it impossible for me to move further. The sun was shining high and Jeremy was a real beauty. 25 years, long curly blond hair a straight long nose and startling green eyes, golden brown tanned and sparkling white teeth. I guess it was his tan which attracted me most, as almost everybody else was white like milk. Jeremy was incredibly friendly and easy to talk to. In less than 10 minutes he already told me half of his life. Jeremy was from Brazil and was traveling through Europe as a backpacker for a couple of years. (Years !!!) He had been living almost everywhere. His smile was so charming that I had no doubt that he was actually making a good living from his crystal-trade. Nobody could resist his charm. As we were speaking, sending a short glance to the lake, he just asked me: "Hey, can I ask you a favor? Would you look after my stuff for a moment?" and as I said yes, without any complication or shame, he just stripped completely naked and jumped into the lake for a refreshing swim. Seeing this young man naked was a joy for my eyes, especially if you consider that something like this is totally forbidden in conservative Germany. Good God, when he re-emerged with the sun glittering in the drops of his fantastic golden brown muscular body, I probably was fainting for his beauty. Still wet he redressed in his Jeans and T-shirt and we went on with our chit chat for another hour before I decided that it was time to cycle back to my hotel. During that evening, consuming a lonely dinner at the lake front hotel restaurant I had plenty of time to re-examine my meeting with Jeremy. I guess it was love at first sight. I was also very envious. I was staying here in one of the most prestigious hotels of the world enjoying all the luxury you can imagine, yet I had the sensation that it was Jeremy who was living a better life. It reminded me about the bird in the golden cage (me), and the eagle (Jeremy) flying freely over the peaks of the world. I wondered if I was living the right life. 33 years old, still living under one roof with my family, although I had my 'own apartment' (a 64 sqm two room apartment on the ground floor), but most of my dinners were still with mum and dad, and of course the cleaning and my laundry was nothing which I had ever to worry about.
The next morning, I made a short detour to a bakery, bought some goodies and went to the place I met Jeremy the day before. He received me with a bright smile and I was wondering how it would feel like to kiss his beautiful mouth with these perfect meaty pink lips. He seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his. He asked thousands of questions. Questions about my life, my family, my friends, my education. He listened carefully and asked more questions. I felt very much at ease and also had no problem to disclose the fact that I was gay. Secretly, of course, I hoped that this would give our relationship the 'right' direction, but Jeremy did not indulge on sexuality, he just accepted whatever came as a beautiful gift. When I mentioned that I was staying at the beautiful hotel, which actually could be seen from where we were sitting, he said: "Oh, I see, you stay in a five sta'ar," He pronounce the word 'star' in a very odd but beautiful manner, "you see, I sleep here and my place is 'all sta'ars'!" he motioned the wonderful sky. I felt again silly. For sure Jeremy was not somebody to be measured with my own pity minded moral and measures.
My affection for Jeremy was growing and growing, therefore, without a second thought I asked him for a date. On the Austrian side of the lake in the city of Bregenz they organized for the same evening a wonderful concert, the opera Porgy and Bess from Gershwin. I have always been in love with the songs, especially 'summertime' sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, but I never actually had seen the opera itself. Jeremy of course accepted with a wonderful smile and we drove to Bregenz in my rented Mercedes. He looked absolutely beautiful in his jeans and simple white T-shirt and I felt out of place dressed in suit and tie driving a big car. For Jeremy money and status had no meaning at all, he lives day by day, enjoying the beauty of every moment with an intensity I had never felt. The opera was fantastic and we had the best of times. On the way back we were both singing the many incredible songs and had one good laugh after the other.
As we arrived close to my hotel, I pointed out that the night was getting a bit cold and if he wanted to sleep over in my place. He smiled and thanked me for the wonderful evening.
Preview of:
The 'Best Man'
CHAPTER 1
George's invitation came over the e-mail: "Please come next Saturday to my parents' house, I have an important announcement to make!" I was wondering what it was all about. George and I have been best friends for all our life, but in the last few years, due to universities in different cities we had a bit lost contact.
I sat back just thinking about George, we had so many memories, so many things in common, but for some reason I never dared to tell him about my recent choices. I only discovered that I was gay when I was in university. It happened at the swim team, one day after exercise I went for a steam bath in the local sauna and as I was lying down and just minding my own business, suddenly someone started to play with my dick. Ronald was just a year older than I was. We finished making love almost every day.
After the break-up with Ronald I started to meet other guys, I even joined the GLB group of the campus.
Now, that I was thinking about George, I realized that I had always been secretly in love with him. Of course we never became physical, but we have been closer than I have been with anybody else in my life. Not least I realized that all my gay-encounters had a startling resemblance … with George.
I was wondering what kind of announcement he was talking about in his message, but I was only too glad to see him, so I didn't give it too much thoughts.
I arrived as requested at 5 p.m. at George's parent's home. From the amount of cars in the driving way it was for sure something special. The first person I met on the doorstep was James, George's overweight cousin with whom we had spend countless summer holidays at the Hamptons. James was famous for getting easily loud and drunk or drunk and loud, whatever, he loved the two beers more than he should, but he was fun.
"Hello Mike!" James said with a grin.
"Hi James, do you know what this is all about?" I asked, but before he could say a word George shouted from the inside "MIIIKEYYYYY!!!" and rushed to hug me and place an affectionate wet kiss on my cheek. We have been hugging before but this time I felt it different, I checked his body out meanwhile he was hugging me like a drowning passenger would grab the life saver…
"So," I said with an embarrassed look at James, "What is this all about? Are you getting married?"
George dragged me into a corner of the entrance hall, "Sshhhhh, I will announce it this afternoon, YES! I am getting married, and I want you to be my best man! Do you agree?" I looked at George, he was dressed with a blue suit and yellow tie, he looked smashing, the black curly hair was shiny, his black eyes just sparkling stars, I was observing his mouth and was wondering how it would be to kiss him. I lost part of the conversation and said: "… marry you? … of course!"
In that moment a beautiful girl appeared at George's shoulders and said: "you must be Mike! Nice to meet you, I am Caroline"
George dropped my arms and went to hug his fiancée: "Caroline this is my best friend Mike, Mike this is my future wife, Caroline!"
I was still drunk by the whole thing. Caroline was a beautiful girl, as tall as George, startling ruby-red hair a very white skin and beautiful make-upped eyes she was wearing a short shoulder-less cream color dress with matching shoes. She was gorgeous.
"Not marry me," George replied jokingly, "be my best man at the ceremony!"
"Oh sure! What a honor! Nice to meet you!" and I grabbed Caroline's white hand with long fingers and beautiful manicured ruby-red nails, which although thin and long gave me a strong shake.
"I couldn't wait to meet the boy who first kissed my George, I actually was really jealous about you, George never stopped to talk about you." Caroline replied
"W…what??" I stuttered confused and blushed dark red.
"She refers to the accident at the Hamptons, when I hit my head diving from the rock and you gave me mouth to mouth …" George helped out.
"Oh … that …!" I shrugged it off with a gesture. We were 14 and George actually had been floating unconscious for a minute in the Ocean after the jump. What I did was the most normal thing in the world, nothing more, I never gave it a thought, but George used to joke about it quite often.
George dragged me into the large living room and I had to greet everybody. We have been growing up like brothers and I knew his family as well as George knows mine. Uncle Henry, Aunty Susan, Granddad Francis, Granddad Carl, the cousins James, Shirley, Bobby, not least George's mother Patricia and George's father Harold. The whole Boston-clan was reunited for the occasion. Everybody seemed excited, and Maria the old housemaid was running around serving drinks and canapés. I tried to find a quiet spot and needed to think.
An incredible sadness crept from my heart into my eyes, I was feeling how my best friend was leaving me forever. There were so many mixed feelings. I loved this family, they have been my family. Caroline was a beautiful girl. She looked like a model, she moved like an aristocratic, her smile was enchanting. However hard I tried to find a flaw, there was no flaw, she was just perfect. George was smiling his most beautiful smile he was obviously happy. George's parents were positively happy, why wasn't I?
What did I hope for?
The Gay marriage bill had just passed the vote just a few weeks earlier in the New Hampshire Senate and there was an ongoing heated debate on the subject. Neither my family nor George's would ever accept us getting 'married'.
Oh, what was I thinking? George was not even gay! But I could not help it to review the millions of images of George smiling at me and teasing me, our frequent wrestling, our playing in the pool. George's hand grabbing mine during his grandma's funeral.
It was Harold, George's father, who was calling for our attention, banging a spoon on his glass of champagne.
"Dear family, dear guests, you might have wondered why we asked you to gather here on such a beautiful weekend in May …" George's mother Patricia gave her husband a critical look and frowned to speed up his talk. Harold was famous for his long talks, he was a man who loved listening to himself. "… Well to make a long story short, we are here to toast to the engagement of our George with wonderful Caroline!" The guests broke out with cheers and toasts and George and Caroline were in the middle hugging and kissing to show the audience their 'love'. It looked like a well rehearsed piece of a cheap soap opera. From the distance I felt a short glance from George in my direction and obviously I toasted with an imaginary glass and a forced smile.
I left a few minutes later, with Harold still holding his 'short' speech, I staged an 'English exit', sneaking out early without greeting anybody in order to not disrupt and darken the free flow happiness.
I did not go immediately home. As I was driving close to an old graveyard, I stopped the car and went for a walk in the beautiful cemetery gardens. The place reflected my mood very well. As I was walking I scanned the old gravestones, most of them of husband and wife buried together for eternity. My heart was as heavy as lead and I settled on a bench and cried, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Why was I crying? George was still my friend! I would probably become the godfather of his children. But somehow, somewhere I was crying about myself. What was wrong with me? I wanted so much to have a 'normal' family, but I couldn't see that option anymore. I was running out of options. George has always been the man of my dreams. He has been my inspiration, he has been the shoulder to cry on in times of sorrow, he has been the person to party with the moments of joy. There has never been anybody else.
The reasons why I was gay were somewhere lost in the mist. Has it been the priest who has touched me when I was still in boarding school, or the fact that my mother had divorced when I was 3 years old and remarried to my stepdad a year later ? I couldn't say. Actually before the accident at the sauna with Ronald, I never had fantasized about boys, but once I had discovered it, there was no turning back. It was like the gates of heaven had opened and an incontrollable stream of joy and excitement had transported me.
I knew deep down that I would never be able to find a 'Caroline'.
But I probably could find a 'George'!
Suddenly a voice in my head said: "you have to fight for it!"