Diorama by Kate Campbell
Preview:
Maybe it was months ago or a few weeks after the end. It's hard to say exactly, but the time came when Ray, Martha's oldest son, exited the fog of his repressed grief and acted. He moved through the San Francisco apartment he'd lived in most of his life to her bedroom door. Timidly, he entered the room where she'd slept and worked for more than forty years, entered her sanctuary. He stepped softly, as if to an altar, sensed her presence.
Her fleshy smell, stale and doused with cheap rose cologne, lingered in the air. Art implements-colored pencils, Exacto knives, scissors, dried up markers-stood in a plastic carousel on the drafting table where she'd left them. Ray studied the collection through a swing-arm magnifying glass, flipped on its circular bulb and read the hugely distorted letters on the pencils. "Number Three, Burnt Umber, Carmine." He spun the overburdened device, watched it wobble, and slid the wooden container from the mortuary under the light, the box heavier than he remembered when he'd carried it home, the tiny bones fragments clicking against the box's sides.
Popping the lid with his thumbs, he peered through the magnifier into his mother's gray residue. She'd been called variously an artist, a floozy and drunk, a nut job, typist, chiseler and free loader. She'd been pretty in her youth, in a dumpling way, he thought, round, vivacious, but too intense and off kilter. Her brown hair had flowed over her shoulders and framed her full face, turquoise eyes. She liked being called Mademoiselle, and encouraged shop girls to refer to her that way, but, in fact, she didn't speak a word of French, except for Frère Jacques.
He and Gus, his younger brother, had called her Mom to her face, Martha behind her back. Now that she was gone, Marty is how they most frequently referred to her. Although, in truth, they don't talk much about her-or anything else for that matter.
Ray settled into her swivel chair, felt the odd shape of her cushion, the peculiar form her bottom had made in it over the years. The seat did not fit him, but shifting into the mold brought a strange energy to his brain, not memories really, but feelings of street corners and playgrounds, bakeries and drug stores. Vivid images of places he'd stood with his mother as a child, the tone and timber of her voice, waiting for traffic lights to change, the feel of the wind, the smells leaking from doors and windows, sirens wailing. These came to him now kaleidoscopically, imparting light and sound, ennui and a certain familiar excitement, a connection that was at once intimate and distant. He sneezed. A gray puff, an essence, rose from the box, swirled into the sunlit dust moat that cut through the broken blinds.
The truth, he thought, is that he hated her, not her exactly, but the feel of her entwined in his psyche, inculcated into his musculature, into the shape of his fingers and the set of his teeth. Without closing his eyes, he sensed her coming home, fumbling with the lock, talking loud, then more softly to a stranger, a man. They growled together like excited animals about to feed.
Ray gripped the covers and sensed them taking off their clothes, a girlish yip, the slick sound of hands sliding down taffeta, her slipping into bed beside him. He knew the nudge, anticipated the signal, got up in the dark, and slinked away. He found the blanket conveniently hidden behind the couch in the living room for these occasions. He rolled up in it and pretended to sleep through the grunting and rhythmic creaking going on in the next room.
In the morning, before school, he'd tiptoe through the flat, find what he could to eat and wear, but his shoes were still under the bed where they slept. He softly tapped on the bedroom door, turned the knob, dived for the floor and backed out on hands and knees with his sneakers, held his breath to avoid the smell of booze and sweat. His mother slept unconscious, pink tit plopped over the edge of the musty covers, her swarthy companion stirring, rolling over, fluttering an eyelid. There was fumbling with the front-door lock, a squeaking now when the door opened.
"Hey, Ray, you here?" Gus stamped his feet on the little throw rug in the hall, sighed, slammed the door.
"In here," Ray said, too softly he realized when the sound reached his ears. "In here," louder this time.
"Why're you sitting in the dark?"
"It's not dark yet." Ray got up and gave the chair a turn, walked to the makeshift shelves that lined one wall of the bedroom, turned his back to his younger brother. He surveyed the jumble of gaudy fabric and colored construction paper, scuffed boxes and binders stuffed into flimsy metal racks and lopsided particle-board shelves. He lifted a diorama, a miniature Victorian-style dining room in a three-sided box, inclined his head to study the setting.
"She made all this little furniture, you know, even the chandelier," he said over his shoulder to his brother, four years younger, but older looking with his thinning hair and crow's feet.
fic·tion (fikSHen), Noun: Prose literature, esp. short stories and novels,
about imaginary events and people; Invention or fabrication as opposed to fact.
Preview:
The vast court room in the Frank Crowley Courts Building was a current reminder for Guy Slade of his past, present and future. Slade sat behind files that were stacked on the dark mahogany table. The table seemed small with all the paperwork scattered on it. But the four chairs pulled up to it showed it's true size. No matter the situation Slade only allowed one other person to sit at his table, his client. Today that was Rodger Jay Jones, a man that knew the desk well from a past trial in 2002. The prosecution referred to this desk as "Slade's wife" rather than the defense table due to the amount of time he spent with it. The prosecution table is where he always promised himself to be at. Slade was going to be the fighter of crime and he was. The person that never would help the guilty go free, instead he would make sure that they paid for their crimes. Now instead of giving him hope, the prosecution table brings him shame.
It was the twelve jurors that peered from their box that changed that for Slade. Twelve jurors that looked much like the ones he was looking at now in this packed room. If not for that box he would still be fighting crime. Working for the people of the State. He told himself that there was no test in sending away the guilty. That he needed more of a challenge. But really he wanted to be a big shot. Freeing criminals gave him an opportunity to hang Benz keys from the oak key holder of his new house. The jury box was also a reminder of his ex that left him. He found himself repeating her final words out loud to himself in the swarming court room: "Your eyes have gone from liberty blue to desolate gray. I worry about what this job has done to you," he said while restructuring his papers. Slade was oblivious to the traffic of people walking into the court room and to the woman that found a seat on his table.
"Frankly, I do too Slade. Did you sleep in your car last night? You could at least get a tan so that the white line where your ring was won't be a constant reminder that she left you". ADA Mercedes Hayward sat with her legs crossed on the edge of his table. All she cared about was that the guilty were punished for their crimes. The money was plenty for her to get by on and she never desired more, which could be seen from her JC Penney blouse and skirt she had on. Guy Slade hated her. She was everything that he should have been. She was everything that he was at one time.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there. And just for the record I like the tan line. It works great on the college girls; once they see it they are oh so happy to make me feel better". Slade removed his eyes from the jurors and placed them on Hayward's legs. The thought of pushing her off his desk brought a smile to his face.
"Well don't tell me you have nothing to do if you retire. Sounds like you have a post career as a sugar daddy. Isn't it a little soon to be dating?" She shifted her legs knowing that Slade was gazing at them.
Slade shook his head. "If memory serves me right you were the first to ask me out after Heather left me."
"All stand for the honorable Judge Blackthorn". The bailiff scrutinized Ms. Hayward until she found her way behind the prosecution table.
"Please be seated. For the record please note that Texas VS Jones is underway after our lunch break." Blackthorn motioned the crowd to sit without looking up from her notes. To her this was an open and shut case and a complete waste of tax payer dollars, if she ever saw it.
"Mr. Slade you can call your next witness, please." Blackthorn shifted back in her chair, glaring down at Slade.
"The defense would like to call our final witness. Rodger Jay Jones." Slade waved his arm towards Jones as if the court was just meeting him for the first time.
Jones rose from his seat. His leg chains echoed over the whispers that broke out in the room while he walked to the witness stand. From here he had a clear view of his son talking to Ms. Hayward.
"Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Jones smiled his yellow teeth to the thought of God. After what he had been through there could not possibly be a God.
"I do." He gazed at the crowd that came to see him. His smile seemed to disappoint the witnesses that came to see a monster, quoted as being a cold blooded killer in the local papers. His calm demeanor while giving basic information was almost as if he knew what to expect from this trial. Which is what is to be expected from a man with the most expensive and renowned attorney in the state. It was no secret that Mr. Slade only defended the guilty.
Slade tapped his pen in the spot on the table that had been worn to bare wood by him. He waited to get up until the whole court room was honed in on him. "Mr. Jones how did the police catch you?"
Jones shook his head still smiling. "They didn't. I turned myself in."
Texas Clout by Logan Seidl
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My Wife My Job My Shoes by Guy Cranswick
Synopsis: Another place. A ragged shore, and I was clambering over rocks, but I did not know where I was. In my two hundred fifty dollar a night room the air-conditioning pimpled my skin, a telephone at my ear. The buzz of the line disguised the interminable pauses. Talking, however stagnant, had joined the list of things Helen and I could not do. Having got the 'hellos' done, my wife said, "I want you to move out when you come back". I paused for a long time with responses colliding in my brain. "No more chances", she said, "you know that". And only then, said something. "We've run out, out - " Helen could postpone her subject - "of time, of love, then." Time called and there was no dispute, not long distance; only the telephone company profits. And so begins Sam Kellett's long journey: from New York to a remote village in France; and from the wreckage of his marriage, Sam makes a new start, finding new possibilities in his search for three men from the past. Order from Barnes & Noble.
Alabama Snow by James Randall Chumbley
Synopsis: Artist and writer James Randall Chumbley comes out of hiding after three years since his last bestseller with his most revealing book ever, 'Alabama Snow." The author has written a tender, heartbreaking story of how his mother lost her dreams-growing up poor, the daughter of a sharecropper cotton farmer in rural Alabama-and his attempts of trying, for years, to save her from mental illness and alcoholism. Plus, his own struggles with facing the break-up of the love of his life, whom he met just a month after his mother's death, which almost pushed him to suicide. Find out how a message of hope from her saved her beloved son from meeting the same end as his father. Order from Amazon.
Out of Thin Air by Kathryn Netzel
Preview:
He had popped eight pills before you made it home from school, twelve before you had the mind to call an ambulance. It felt like any other day, until it wasn't.
"How many more did you take?" you shake him, cupping his shoulder joints in your hands. "How many?"
"I don't 'member." His skin is melting; it feels like your hands are submerged underwater as you hold him. You prop him upright and check the bottle. There are five little white pills left, and when you shake the bottle he follows the sound with his eyes, as if God himself is going to climb out and save him.
"I'm calling 911."
"Don' worry 'bout it. I'm good."
You reach for the phone on the end table and he fights you, his hands wrestling to grab onto any part of you, but missing every time.
Then he stops breathing.
He grabs at his throat, his tiny pupils disappearing inside his bulging eyes. He falls to the couch and starts scratching at his neck, scraping off little bits of skin with every swipe.
"911 what's your emergency?"
****
You blink and you're back at the office. It's 3:45 and you should have clocked out fifteen minutes ago. You put your computer to sleep, slip your coat off the back of your chair, and sling your book bag over your shoulder. Various co-workers tell you goodbye and have a good one and see you tomorrow and you just nod and wave to the ones you like and walk out into the cold. You wish you had brought your friend the book you'd bought her a few weeks ago for her birthday and you feel bad because you're going to meet her right now and you've forgotten three times already. But she's the kind of friend that really only keeps you around so she has someone to talk about herself to and you realize that she probably forgot that you never gave her the book in the first place. You wonder what she would do if you could actually tell her what was going on in your life because she never lets you get more than a few words in at a time. And you ask yourself why you keep people like that around but you keep walking towards the café anyway.
****
The first time your brother got caught drinking, your mom asked him why he drank so much at once, and he told her that nobody loved him before he fell back into unconsciousness and a part of her died that day. He slept for sixteen hours. You remember creeping into his room and lifting up his comforter, just to watch his chest go up and down. You remember sticking your finger under his nose, the same nose that you have, and waiting for his exhales. You went back in your room and sat on your knees with your hands clasped together, knowing that God wasn't real but crying to him anyway.
He told everyone he was upset because he liked Ashley Evans at school and he asked her out for homecoming and she said no and he came home and just wanted to get drunk, and he snuck into your neighbors' house and mixed all the liquor they had together into a huge plastic cup and then drank and drank until he threw up all over himself and your mom came home from work, hours later, and found him passed out naked in her shower with scalding hot water burning his back. Maybe he had something else going on that no one bothered to tell you about; some depression or anxiety that would explain his dangerous tendencies. Maybe he was just stupid. But you've learned to stop asking questions because nothing makes sense anyway.
The next day mom and dad sat him down. You weren't invited to the conversation, so you camped out on the stairway to listen in. They told him that they were disappointed, that he wasn't doing well in school and now this? That they'd lost their trust in him and it would take a lot of work to regain it. They told him that they'd been hearing a lot of rumors from other parents about what he'd been doing all those late nights out, and he told them that it was all bullshit and they were just making it up out of thin air. He told them that there were plenty of times you've gone out and gotten drunk and you're not even in high school yet, and why didn't you ever get punished for anything? And you were so mad at him for ratting you out that you wanted to run down there and tell them everything you knew about him, all the little secrets you kept for him.
A car honks at you while you're crossing the street and you realize you're going down the wrong road. You don't want to go down the alleyway so you decide to keep going and just turn down Grand Avenue and double back because Grand always has more cars and more people and you feel safer. And you wonder if your friend will be mad that you're late because you don't like to walk in the dark and the longer it takes you to get there the less time she has to tell you everything new in her life since the last time you saw her.
Preview:
"Just 'cause you're part of the family, you think you can cross me? "
"You got it all wrong, boss. I ain't done nothin' wrong.
"Get outa my sight!"
"But, boss, I'm innocent. I swear on my kid's grave!"
"Get out!" Mario Polzetti screamed as his brother-in-law Giovanni headed for the door, certain to be hunted down.
"Now get out of my sight you smooth-talking low life. No one crosses me and lives. Just crawl right back into that rat hole you came out of and disappear. Got it?"
As the door closed, Mario picked up the phone, dialed, and spat out instructions, "Got a job for you. It's Giovanni. Do it."
Mario Polzetti, in his early sixties, was short, stocky with an olive complexion, black swept- back hair and the boss of one of New York's largest crime syndicates.
****
The winter sun shone weakly through the east-facing window of Detective Dabrowski's office onto a desk piled high with papers. Behind it sat a man in his thirties with gangling legs that seemed to go on forever. His spiky hair and bewildered expression gave the impression he'd been electrocuted. But Leroy Dabrowski always looked that way.
The office door flew open and a disheveled junior detective called Sam almost fell in. "Been another murder, boss: Polzetti's brother-in-law."
Dabrowski looked troubled. "Polzetti's never far away when there's something bad going down, but we can never get anything on him. He covers his tracks like a prairie dog."
"It would be good to pin this one on him," Sam replied.
"Get me the details. I'll go check it out," Dabrowski demanded.
The phone rang. He picked it up but before he could speak a voice on the other end demanded, "Get in here, now!"
Dabrowski rolled his eyes. "On my way, Chief."
"The Chief ain't happy?" the junior detective asked with a snigger.
"Sure he is. Just can't resist my winning personality!"
The phone rang again. It was the sharp and incisive voice of the Chief. "You comin' or what?"
Dabrowski headed out the door.
Behind a desk sat a man whose double chin seemed to engulf his entire face. The Chief leaned forward and pointed a finger, then changed his mind and instead banged his fist on the desk.
"Another murder - sure to be connected with that damn Polzetti - but still no arrest! What in hell's name are you doing about it?"
"Well…"
"You any closer to nailing that sleazebag?" he shouted, beads of sweat running through his open collar and down his neck. "We're looking like idiots. The Press're crucifying us. People on the street are demanding answers and so am I!"
"I know but…"
"You've got twenty four hours, or I'll have your badge. You catch my drift, Dabrowski?"
"Sure, boss."
Becoming even redder in the face, the Chief shouted, "How d'you feel about traffic duty for the rest of your life?"
Dabrowski pulled a face. "Not the career path I had in mind, boss."
"Twenty four hours, that's what you've got. Now get outa here!
****
Dabrowski returned to the police precinct later that day to report his findings to the Chief.
"Not surprised the brother-in-law was bumped off. Word on the street is that he'd been making a play for control of Polzetti's cartel. Seems that Giovanni was having dealings with another syndicate. Polzetti wasn't happy."
"You got anything that puts him in the frame?"
"Not yet, boss, but I'm working on it. Something of interest, though, is that people on the street say there was an argument between Polzetti and his wife at a restaurant. They say she got up and stormed out after an exchange of words. I'd say it was probably because he had her brother executed."
The Chief rubbed his chin. "Better watch her then. She's probably on Polzetti's hit list and in line to be the morgue's next guest."
"Have I done well, boss? Does this mean I've got a reprieve from traffic duty?"
"Go on. Get out of my sight."
Mario Polzetti by Rod Hamon
Literary Licence by Hettie Ashwin
Synopsis: Imagine an author in her prime and she wants to retire. Easy it seems. Except writing is in her blood. Literary Licence follows the fortunes of Ursula Drewsbury as she discovers retirement is more than gardening and cups of tea. She creates a pseudonym only to discover he is larger than life and her ego is piqued. So what to do? Killing him off would be easy for the best crime and fiction writer. Or is it? Ursula is beset by more than a passing problem as she tries to kill her pseudonym Lloyd Langton and escape the law and the paparazzi. Her postman, a rather large Russian, just complicated an already farcical situation by being hopelessly in love with her. Ursula's problems compound when an imposter turns up purporting to be her pseudonym, and it takes more than a bit of wheeling and dealing, plotting, conniving and smooth talking for Ursula Drewsbury to come out smelling like a rose, with the help of the imposter, a postman, a savvy reporter and a 10,000 pound reward. Order from Amazon or from her Blog.
Terminal Romance by Niki Aguirre
Synopsis: The characters in Terminal Romance are searching for love, searching for each other, searching for physical and virtual encounters. Whether they are cyber stalkers, foot fetishists, love-struck professors, or monogamists with platonic fantasies, Niki Aguirre’s sharp and funny stories explore the twists and turns of online dating. These meta-vignettes are more than boy meets girl on blind date. This is the Internet as virtual frontier. An uncharted territory where misfits and romantics collide with cynics and geeks. Terminal Romance exposes the uncertainties and complexities of love and our need to reach out and connect at all costs. Order from Amazon.
Human Horses and Bangla by Anand Dubey
Preview:
They had the decency of arranging the pickup rickshaw up to the bus stand... which wasn't really required as the men though frail were habituated to walk long distances; they (Dalals) were epitomes of benefaction and courtesy... before the operation... but the return trips weren't so comfortable... but happier... there was pain of course but a heavy pocket always helped.
Men laid under the shades of banyan trees; chatting but not laughing... workless but hackneyed... penniless yet careless. In these arid lands of Jalipara in west Dinajpur district of West Bengal, patches of green maize were scarcely peppered but soothing green of paddy and golden wheat are nowhere to be seen.
Jatin Jali looked sad... a grim sense of uncertainty hooded his big dark eyes. Last year there was no rain; all their prayers went unanswered... offerings went futile, as if rain god had enough flowers, incense sticks, coconuts and sweets... he was rich and satisfied, along with the priest; unlike his wretched devotees; he had already given the baubles and jewels of his wife Astomi Malakar as collateral to the village Munshi Lakshmiram Handsa. Even his brother who pulls rickshaw in Kolkata, Dulal Jali, failed to save enough money.
It was during the torrential monsoon rains that the streets of the metro city coagulated... drains refused to carry the water and waste to Hooghly and his big wooden rickshaw wheels were the only ones who made their way to the passengers... human horses and their chariots of fire fared the flooded lanes of Kolkata when taxis and trams refused to do so. Marwari... the usually fat businessmen paid even double the regular fare and refrained from haggling.
Rain was the life line... connecting all the problems and people together but indeed holding the solutions.
Without rains their fields slept barren... dead and cracked... even weeds dried and gave up. Jatin like other tribal inhabitants of Jalipara was now forced by the nature to give away his ancestral land as collateral and work as a sharecropper for the local landlords and munshis. Their fields were no mere dead piece of lands, but like a mother who has fed them and their children... took care of their livestock, brought them fortune, clothes, festivals and blessings from the heavens.
Jatin waited for the rain... only blessings from the rain god could save his motherland and only couple of days ration remained... Jatin and his wife were already eating ¼ of what they used to eat and saved one time meal for their children.
Life was not all tragic for this poor man... and finally rain did come. Pouring water from heaven, sprinkling life in everything... palm trees danced and thirsty lands laughed, kids went crazy... jumping and howling; riding the buffaloes. Jatin was inside his low roofed hut, he rose up from his charpoy; soothing smell of wet soil dragged him out...
"Gods are happy... finally our prayers worked... " shouted Jatin in sheer exhilaration. In that moment he felt ultimate felicity, a feeling that all his problems were solved, rain had washed away all the omens and greenery filled his heart.
They danced... Jatin, his wife and their four children... they danced like all other villagers desperate for rain... desperate for life.
One of Jatin's friends, Chhoto Murmu, came along and invited him, "let's go to Sorens den... freshly brewed Bangla (homemade liquor) is waiting for us... it's a happy time friend... it's the time of rains... "
They were joined by couple of more farmers, they ordered two bottles of Bangla and poured a glass for each... Chhoto ordered fried nuts for snacks. They laughed, chatted about the future prospects, about the problems being solved, debts being paid... forgetting the wretchedness surrounding them... a sense of oblivion captivated them from the worldly issues; they transcended into a state of well-being... they were happy... as happy as only drunken men can be.
However that gusty starting was short lived and the rains didn't continue to flourish the fields. Gloom canopied the village, Jatin looked sadly to his emaciated wife... consequently Astomi handed him some papers...
"Please, munshi ji mortgage my land... I swear by it to pay you back the debt and interest by the year end... if the rain comes... our fields will flourish... I have already purchased the best seeds and collected some dough for pesticides... " requested Jatin.
Munshi interrupted him in between...
Lakshmiram kept scribbling on his long notebook, occasionally spitting red liquid into a bowl, without looking up he said, "save that rain speech of yours, I don't know what you will bring next time for the collateral but you might like to use it again... by the way you won't be able to get any cash from me this time as your debt from the last season has already consumed your jewelry and your land will compensate for the interest."
"Munshi ji... please calculate and adjust something... increase the interest rates if you want to... but please give some money... our ration is finished and we can carry on for only couple of more days before starving to death... " cried Jatin.
Preview:
The four of them were snowed in for the evening, which was ok by Alex. Three beautiful women, and one man. Every guy's dream, right? Alex and Andrea had been happily married for twelve years, and Andrea's two best friends, were at present, single. Melissa had just gone through a nasty divorce, which had ended Alex's friendship with her ex-husband. Any man who beats up on women, is no man at all; and thus, Alex had tossed out their friendship with the evening's garbage.
Sheila, Andrea's voluptuous next-door neighbor, had an open, and unashamed crush on Alex for as long as she had known him. This little fact did not bother Andrea in the least; she trusted her husband totally, satisfied him completely, and she knew Sheila well enough to know that she would never do anything to ruin their marriage.
Melissa, on the other hand, was already drunk, depressed and lonely as hell.
Andrea had spent the last several weeks helping her through the final stages of her divorce, and was on edge that Melissa had already consumed four and a half glasses of brandy in the two hours since they had arrived.
It was the onset of nightfall, on a late November evening when the four of them had gotten together to celebrate Andrea's promotion to Vice President of Advertising. Their dinner was eloquent, yet simple; baked salmon, marinated in Andrea's special lemon butter and light rum sauce. The side dishes, Melissa and Sheila had brought along to help cut time in the kitchen.
The conversation flowed as freely as the liquor, and the evening was progressing well. With their dinner over, Andrea suggested that hey all move into the den, with the warm glow of firelight to set the mood.
Alex sat in his favorite king-sofa recliner that he picked out purposefully to clash with Andrea's refined taste in decor. She allowed him that luxury because he had seduced her in that very chair, while the store manager was off busily attending to other "serious" customers. She had scolded him for taking such chance in public, but she was quite turned on by his inventiveness and brazen lust of the moment.
The girls plopped onto the thick pile carpet in front of the warm roaring fire, each with a fresh drink. Alex had his usual thin-lipped mug of premium beer. Sheila scooted closer to Alex to tease him.
"Hey Alex, want to play strip-poker?" She giggled.
"You'd have to ask Andrea that question Sheila," Alex coolly replied. "It's her party!"
"How about 'Truth or Dare?" Andrea changed tactics, catching the gleam of her husband's eye.
"I'm not-" Melissa protested. "Well, I don't think that's such a good idea Andrea. Do you remember the last time we did that?" Melissa said, trying to be persuasive. "You got mad as hell at me because I told you that I hooked up with 'What's His Face,' in our Culinary Arts Class."
"Well sweetheart, you were still married at the time, and it was risky as hell," Andrea scolded her. "I had to think fast when Asshole called over here looking for you. I didn't know where the fuck you were or what the fuck you were doing, or who the fuck you were doing it with!" Andrea let her have it. "Besides, two wrongs, don't make a right!"
"I don't think it's a good idea either," Alex added. "You girls always play the truth part, and never the dare. Where's the excitement?"
"Oh, I don't know about that Alex," Sheila said with a raised eyebrow. "You never know, you might be witness to a 'Cat Fight,' Rrreeer!" She teased, showing her claws.
"Or maybe," Melissa chided in. "Sheila will take off her clothes and make X-rated snow angels outside!" Melissa laughed and spilled her drink on the stone hearth. "Oops! Alcohol abuse!" She looked at Alex with her best bedroom eyes. "Al, be a darling, and get me another drink."
"It would be my pleasure Mel." Alex caught a glimpse of Andrea's disapproving eyes as he got up and padded over to the bar to get Melissa another brandy. He poured himself another beer, taking pleasure in the mechanics of opening an ice-cold bottle of Michelob Ultra, and pouring it into his favorite mug, light foam forming as it reached mid-pour in the glass. "Oh Yeah!" He handed Melissa her glass and listened in on the game, already in progress.
"Truth!" The two girls said at the same time as they ganged up on each other.
"Ok now, something secret," Melissa said to Sheila. "Something that you've never told anyone else before."
"Ok!" Sheila said, matter of fact, and turned towards Alex. "Alex, I'm madly in love with you! Have been since the day I met you," she confessed.
"Bullshit! That's no secret!" Andrea attacked her with a fluffy pillow. "Now you have to take our dare!"
"Ok! Ok. Ok... Go ahead, and make my day!" Sheila surrendered.
"Wait a minute, come over here Andrea." Melissa pulled her just out of earshot, whispering, then giggling. Andrea nodded in agreement and they both faced Sheila.
Truth or Dare by Kelly Seale
Road Wench - It's a Tour, Not a Holiday by Shannon Meadows
Synopsis: Have you ever done a tour of Europe? Shannon Meadows has - about fifty times! No, she wasn't a crazed tourist, it's worse than that - she was a tour manager on '18 to 35' coach tours. Along the way she encountered back stabbers, bed-hopping casanovas, nudists, kleptomaniacs, thieving gypsies, disappearing drivers, wankers, got stuck in four-hour traffic jams while clients kept asking 'How long until we get there?', slept overnight on a gurney in a psychiatric hospital, and mediated bitch fights between grown women and men. This is the inside story of Shannon's first season on the road. All names have been changed to protect the guilty (the innocent are too boring to write about)! For anyone who has ever travelled and thought that the tour manager had the best job in the world, this is for you… Order from roadwench.com
No More Mulberries By Mary Smith
Synopsis: Miriam loves her life as a health worker in Afghanistan but her marriage to her Afghan husband, Dr Iqbal, is heading towards crisis. Ignoring his anger at her attending a teaching camp as a translator without him, she travels into a remote rural region hoping time apart will help her understand where their problems lie. As she undertakes a journey into her past, to confront the devastating loss of her first husband, Miriam realizes how her own actions has damaged her relationship with Iqbal. Set in the rugged grandeur of the Hindu Kush foothills, No More Mulberries is about love, commitment and divided loyalties. 'Her characters are complex with layered pasts (Iqbal's leprosy and the metaphorical and physical scars it has left behind - Miriam's lives in Scotland and with her previous husband) and uncertain futures… A lovely book which calls for attention.' - Janice Galloway. No More Mulberries can be bought from Amazon.com.
Finding Amy by LaShawn White
Preview:
I nervously stared into the wide mirror standing before me trying to figure out who I would most likely resemble. My mother maybe, or was it my father? I had already counted over fifty freckles on my pretty butter pecan face. I licked my peach colored lips while running my fingers through my wild, curly, untamed hair. Did those features belong to my grandmother? I blew out a breath of frustration over all the little but significant questions that had been puzzling me for what has seen liked hours.
"It's going to be okay Aisha." I looked up at the reflection of Officer Tucker standing behind me in the mirror and glazed back into her eyes. I shook my head absent mindedly without responding to her.
"Do you want to finish telling me what happened today?" Officer Tucker asked gently. I turned away from the mirror and nervously fiddled with the ring on my finger.
"Did you know that next weekend is my 16th birthday?" I glanced up from my hands to look at Office Tucker to see if she would respond, but sympathy was the only thing that graced her face. "My mom, she took me to my favorite store called "Spunk." I picked out a white dress that was a little above the knee, strapless, with little specks of gold throughout the top. It was truly beautiful. My mother loved it. She said to me, "Aisha honey, you're so beautiful and you don't even know it." I took my shaking hand and wiped away the fresh tears that came rushing to my eyes. "A truly bad person wouldn't say that, would they Officer Tucker?"
Officer Tucker wrapped her warm hands around mine. "Take your time Aisha. Don't rush it."
I nodded my head while taking several deep breaths trying to push back the amazing amount of pain that I felt in my heart from earlier today.
"When we left the store, we ran into an older woman. She was around the age of sixty and she looked at me as if she knew me. But how could she have known me Officer Tucker? Do you know what she said to me?" I asked in disbelief. "She said that I was her grandchild! Her grandchild!" My voice grew louder and shook with anger. "As if I don't know my own grandparents! I know that this is all her fault! Whoever she is, I know she's lying!"
"Calm down Aisha and just breathe." Officer Tucker wrapped her loving arms around me and slowly rocked me back and forward. "Just breathe honey." Once again I took several breaths until I felt my heart beat slow down to a normal pace again.
"What happened next?" Officer Tucker asked.
I tried to clear the fog away from my mind to remember what only happened hours ago. "When we got home my mom was frantic. 'Pack everything you can in one bag!' She told me. I asked her where we were going but she never told me. I thought she was acting until the knock came on our door."
BAM, BAM! "Open up the door, it's the police!" The voice bellowed from the other side of the front door. I turned my frightened face towards my mother with a look that questioned her with what to do. "Mom, what going on?" I asked her. My voice trembled with uncertainty. For some reason I knew that my life was changing at that exact moment and that my mother was fighting to keep it from changing..
"You have until the count of three! One..." The voice from behind the door shouted.
"Mom?" I cried.
"Two..."
Fear covered my mother's face like a blanket. "Aisha..." She whispered.
...Three!" Boom! Our front door came crashing in as several officers came rushing into our house. "Get down, get down!" The police screamed as they surrounded my mother.
"Aisha I'm so sorry baby, I'm so sorry!" My mother cried as she got down on her knees.
"Mom!" I screamed running towards her.
"Aisha you listen to me baby. No matter what these people tell you, remember that I've always loved you. Everything that I've ever done has always been for you!"
"Aisha, are you listening to me?" Officer Tucker said while gently shaking me. I rapidly blinked my eyes trying to shake myself out of the dream like state that I had slipped into.
"It's true, isn't Officer Tucker?" The reality of the situation was starting hit with a powerful blow as the realization of what my mother did and why I was sitting here today. "My mom kidnapped me, didn't she?"
Officer Tucker slowly nodded her head yes. "Yes, Carrie Thompson kidnapped you sixteen years ago right after your mother Susie Berkley gave birth to you and your twin sister. You're real name is Amy Berkley. I want to show you something Aisha." Officer Tucker got up and pushed play on a DVD player. On the screen was my mother or Carrie as I should now call her. She was talking to Officer Tucker from what must have been recorded from earlier today.
Preview:
I. June 1, 2008. My friends, my dear friends, my dear dead friends, I grieve for you, I mourn for you, I do not know why you died and I have yet not, amongst us, identically scarred forty ways, indistinguishable patterns of psychic shrapnel bursts, Swiss cheese personae, matching whacked peas in a holding pod for the Iraq induced insane, I stand alone, I stand apart, not yet dead, like a leprous beggar at the banquet of the wretched and the piteous, I flail against the gravitational density of His will, His resolve, and still I fail utterly, miserably, totally, to comprehend His design, His plan, the chaos of His choices and the randomness of His intentions, I do not understand why He took you only to position me like Pharaoh Menephtah at the entrance of Gehenna, to perch me upon the throne of Sheol like Moloch, alone, to flagellate my spirit, to lash my soul, to suffer the shame of continuance, the ignominy of survival.
****
Nurse, with your kind, strong hands, will you please repair the light, the filament is sputtering, the incandescent spasms of wolfram stab at my retinae like tiny kendo swords in the simian hands of malevolent homunculi, Nurse, why do you remain silent, hidden in the shadows, Nurse, why does the gloom frighten me so?
****
I am a warfighter, a wolf clad in shit dun khaki clothing, violence and death are my domain, pro Deo et Patria, today is my final day in the Suck, my Wake Up Day, my Day of All Good Things, the ignorant refer to the inside Suck as the Green Zone, the Green Zone really not green at all, the few semblances of nature in its grandeur the pitiful, zombied wraiths of palm trees stuccoed with desert sand a dried shit dun color, the ignorant refer to the outside Suck as the Red Zone, cognoscenti eschew the Green Zone, the Red Zone, speak only of the Suck, warfighters refer to all of Iraq as the Suck, warfighters refer to our lost war, the Vietnam War, as the Shit, Iraq is not a bodacious war as was Vietnam, Baghdad is not a sybaritic city, as was Saigon, there is no life in Baghdad, no night life, no day life, no infamous cafes or hotels or brothels, no exquisite bars or restaurants or strip joints, no villes selling the commodities of a conquering army's needs, black market cigarettes, black market booze, black market trinkets, black market food, black market electronics, black market intelligence, black market sex, never the opportunity for humping, thrusting, bruising sex, girl sex, boy sex, toy sex, ménage à trois sex, never scenes of lovely, leggy, buxom Iraqi babes in short, tight miniskirts and demure hijabs twirling gum on street corners, promising soldiers fucky-fucky, love you long-time, boom-boom you good, ten dollah, souldjah, perhaps in a black comedy, the Iraq of the first decade of the twenty-first century, the Iraq of the Suck, the Iraq of the REMF, superior in numbers to the warfighters who hold an unassailable edge in weapons technology, who disdain REMFs, who fear warfighters, who carry weapons while REMFs carry chips on their shoulders, it's as easy to kill a REMF as it is to kill a warfighter, easier, since warfighters instantly react to rockets and mortars, sprint to the nearest concrete, bumblebee yellow and black Duck and Cover until the indirect fire is eliminated, REMFs are caught like deer in headlights, frozen to the ground upon which they stand, waiting for a memo telling them how to react to the mortars and rockets exploding around them, not knowing enough to get out of the shrapnel bursts, listening to the shrieking whistle of the incoming round as it tears asunder the fabric of the sky, watching the world erupt in dirt and concrete geysers twenty feet high, feeling the explosive concussion in the pit of the stomach, between the ears like a kick in the solar plexus, a slap upside the head with a blunt edged sledge hammer, registering the tickling sensation not as an incipient hard-on but as the warm, wet, salty stickiness of urine as it cascades into boots, if the REMF dies, people cry, warfighters sigh, How could those rearechelonmothersfuckers be so stupid, confession, depression, repression, my head hurts, clarity comes hard to me, if it attends at all, as if burdened with presenile dementia I am easily confused, confusion embraces me, confusion clutches me to its spiky, thorny, hairy bosom, confusion whispers with hot, rank breath into my tympanic membrane, Welcome to the Suck, I refer to every part of Iraq, including Baghdad, not only as the Suck, never as the Green Zone, never as the Red Zone, as the Shit Dun Zone, I am easily confused, I never lie, if caught in such a falsity I will deny it, deny it, deny it, three times I will deny it, like Peter refusing to acknowledge Christ, turn the calumny onto your humble self.
****
Nurse, my head hurts, hello, is anyone out there, can anyone hear me, am I alone, am I bleeding, where is everyone, Nurse, is that my blood?
Bloom in Baghdad by A. M. ben Yitzhak
Shadowboxer by Paula Sophia
Synopsis: "Shadowboxer" addresses the plight of Willie Guyles, a rookie police officer with the Oklahoma City Police Department, as he struggles to fit in as a new recruit while dealing with a lifelong gender identity crisis. While working the streets with his field training officer, Guyles encounters a transgender prostitute who reignite's some old desires he thought he'd boxed away years before. Unable to trust anyone with his secret, Guyles decides to go to a transformation boutique in Dallas, Texas so he can satisfy a curiosity about what he would look like as a woman. During this process he realizes it's going to be harder than ever to box up his desires and move on with his plans to live the life of a hard-bitten law enforcement officer. Shadowboxer is currently available for download onto electronic reading devices from Amazon.com; Barnes & Noble, and All Romance Ebooks. It will be available in print in the near future.
Blackmore's Treasure by Derek G Rogers
Synopsis: The Legend of Blackmore's Treasure is part of the history of Prospect Farm. Tobias Allinson acquired the farm in 1645 and each generation since then has attempted to find the fabled treasure. None have succeeded... His descendant, a thirteen year old boy, suffers a serious accident whilst visiting the farm. During his time in hospital, he 'dreams' about events experienced by the original Tobias. In his 'dream' he takes part in the Battle of Naseby, meets Oliver Cromwell, Prince Rupert and other famous people he had read about in his history books... During his adventures a Sergeant Blackmore bequeaths his 'treasure' to him. The 'treasure' was never found; so the legend was born. Young Tobias determines to solve the mystery and find Blackmore's Treasure. Buy from Amazon.com
St. Marc's Man by Kyle Iverson
Preview:
Felix stepped out of the car. The breeze off the sea was cold so he pulled his leather jacket tight and flipped up the collar. The midday sky was gray and darkening. Felix hoped the rain would hold off for at least the half hour he needed. This was Felix's first time back to the rotting little house on top of the cliffs in over a year. Besides its perch soaring above the beach below, the house did not offer much to a visitor. Nobody lived within a mile of the old house. The roads along the cliffs were frequented more by deer than cars. It was small and all the wood was warped. It was full of mold and constantly damp. Felix however, was an uncommon visitor. He had used this house before. In times of need, he used it to hide out. It had also proven useful as an out of the way meeting place or a place to store items requiring certain extra cautions. Perhaps it could also prove useful as a vantage point to the beach if one had the desire to shoot a person walking on the sands with a high caliber rifle.
Felix stepped on the porch. The planks comprising the supports and floor were as rotten and damp as Felix remembered. The smell of the wet wood flushed forth memories in that way that scent can. The memories were many, always vivid and almost all of them painful. Felix closed his eyes, willing them away.
Flecks of whitewash clung ragged in the farthest corners of the woodwork. Years of wind and rain and salty air had long since removed the rest. Felix stood on the porch and looked around outside the place, his hand on the doorknob. Every time he left here, he vowed never to return. He always believed he'd never come back, until he did. Maybe after today he'd burn the place down, he thought. He could picture the inside of the house all too easily. The table just behind the closed door always wobbled no matter how many matchbooks you shoved under the legs. There was a single wooden chair next to it, missing an armrest. There was a pane-less back window that let debris carried by the sea wind inside. The house was really just a house. What Felix hated were the memories. He would only use this house in times of desperation. And now, he could never return without thinking of the blood.
Felix took one more look at the sky, searching the clouds for clues of the rain they would send that day. Nothing yet, he thought, aren't we lucky. He almost smiled at his own word choice, but the smell and his hand on the doorknob stole it away. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
His first step bent rotten floorboards under his weight. Again the dank smell invaded his nostrils. Tendrils spread from his nostrils to his brain. The Lancashire job. Blood spewing out of his father. The boat ride back across the Irish Sea, stabbing guilt that almost led him to end it all in the cold salty water. Even today, it was never far from his thoughts. No. I mustn't think about it, he thought. He leaned on the table, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched. Thirty seconds. A minute. The table wobbled. He shook his head hard and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He drew a long breath and focused. Not now, he thought. He took another long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils. The smell of the smoke replaced the smell of mold. He was ice again.
He swung his knobby plastic guitar case on the table and slid the chair against the wall. He let his thoughts drift to Lucky. This is right, he thought. Lucky deserves this.
He found himself looking out the back window. The wind and cigarette smoke making him squint. Down the cliffs and across the beach, the waves were grinding together gray and cold. Their fingers reached and clawed up the beach, leaving debris boiling on the sand.
The view from the back window was exactly as he remembered. The wind would be a factor, though. Felix lost himself briefly in the specifics of trajectory. He still had that perfect, unencumbered view of the black marble memorial on the sand below. It had been installed almost five years ago to preserve hazy memories of people who died during the Troubles. Both sides on the same plaque. Felix spat.
He lit another Benson & Hedges. He could feel memories rotten as the wood creeping up on him again. He turned his focus to the damp little floor. He found the three parallel gashes carved into a floorboard and strode over to it. He pulled a flathead screwdriver from his pocket and set to work prying it up.
****
Lucky looked out at the sea. Coat pulled tight, the salty mist landed cold on his face and lips. Why had he agreed to come here today? This weather was too much for him. The waves were gnashing together under the grey sky, and it was growing dark. A chill penetrated the faded, fraying tweed of his jacket, even pulled tight as it was. He felt the wind's bite more than ever these days. He swayed in it and leaned heavily on his cane to keep from falling. Oh why had that damn St. Marc insisted we come today? And why the hell did he leave me here alone? If I fall I'll get swept away. Then what?
Preview:
I see no gleam of victory alluring
No chance of splendid booty or gain.
If I endure - I must go on enduring.
And my reward for pain - is pain.
Yet, though the thrill, the zest, the hope are gone
Something within me keeps me fighting on.
-Lieutenant Henry G. Lee
Philippine Division, World War II
Martha was coming. He listened to the slow, robotic shuffle her slippers made on the tile. She stopped beside him, lifted her shaky arm and held out an orange.
"This looks like a mighty fine one," he said, taking it from her. He used his pocketknife to shave the zest off the peel. It circled around the orange ball, forming curls under the blade. Martha's eyes were like two tiny planets gravitating towards a black hole as she watched each curl fall from his knife into the pot.
"Carl," she mumbled.
Will dropped the spoon and stepped back from the stove. "What'd you say?"
Martha grabbed the spoon and stirred, the jerky movements of her hand pushing the pot closer to the edge. Will stood and watched as the pot crashed onto the floor. The thick orange sauce spilling out slowly, filling the spaces between the tiles as it crept.
Carl…
Will watched blood spilling out from the soldier's head. A blowfly hovered over the red pool. Carl ran by and grabbed him yelling, "In the hole now! Go - go - go!"
Will licked the salty sweat from his lips. I'm still alive, he thought. Explosions made it difficult to see, but he caught glimpses of Carl running towards the hole between pillars of smoke and debris, fixed his eyes on him, and ran for it...
"Damn it Martha," Will snapped, He grabbed the towel from the counter and got on his knees to clean it up. She stood, frozen, staring at the overturned pot on the ground. Will glanced up and noticed the silvery strands in her damp hair.
It wasn't her fault. None of this was.
"That stuff didn't smell too good to me anyhow," he tossed the drenched towel in the sink. "How about we order pizza? Sound good?" She didn't answer as he walked towards the phone.
That night Will couldn't sleep. Through the open window the sky was clear and the moon full. He longed for a breeze but the room stayed thick and stale with humidity. His skin was sticky, he kicked the covers off.
He couldn't shake the memory of his old friends face. Why had Martha called him by Carl's name? He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled. His lungs groped for air just like being in Bataan again and he listened to a jet fly over the house.
Will shaded his eyes and looked up. Men ran past him towards the plane. Carl slapped Will's arm and yelled, "See Will, I told ya they wouldn't forget us."
Will had been lost in thoughts of Martha. Many times he'd spied Carl, cupping her picture in his hand, his eyes absorbing every inch of her face. Will spent a lot of time thinking about that picture.
The plane was a propaganda bomber, the first of daily flights dropping packages for the troops. The Japanese dropped bundles with pictures of naked women, letters encouraging them to surrender and tickets for armistice to trade for their freedom.
Through the trees he watched as the men laughed and passed pamphlets back and forth. He pulled a branch he'd found earlier from his pocket, the perfect size to form into something new.
Carl ran back over to Will, "Look what I got for you Willy, a picture of your very own." He handed Will a picture of a blonde stripper. "Pretty nice huh?" Carl laughed, "Have a few of my own too." Will watched him pat his top pocket. He wondered what Martha would think. He looked down at his picture and put it in his pocket.
"Now these we can use to wipe our asses with." He handed Will a ticket to armistice. The words printed on it said, "Use this ticket, save your life, you will be kindly treated".
"They expect us to buy this shit, can you believe that?"
Will shrugged as he kept his eyes on the note. "You think there's any chance they mean this Carl?"
"Don't be naïve Willy boy, they don't intend to give us freedom."...
Will lay on his side watching Martha breathe. The moonlight shone through the window making her hair look blonde again. She looked normal when she was sleeping.
Homecoming by Anne Short
These Pieces of Literature By Tyler W. Stinson
Synopsis: These Pieces of Literature creates and vividly paints a world completely consumed and devoured by misery and sin. Poems that are heart-breaking and breath-stealing and short stories that are disturbing and violent have birthed these pieces of literature. From the guilt-ridden and suicidal soldiers to the truly twisted and evil, These Pieces of Literature is the detailed description of the world that lives and breathes in my ever-waking head. The book is available on llumina.com
Beyond The Eyes: Illustrations by Cyan Jenkins and poems by Ellen Eldridge
Synopsis: For me, poetry is about understanding the rules of grammar and literature and breaking them in the most creative, and often disturbing, ways. Though poetry is most often written and least often read, Beyond the Eyes brings a collection of poems I've been writing over the last decade to light. The addition of Cyan's illustration to my words captures the intense feelings and perspectives enclosed in semi colons and commas. Each word carefully crafts meaning, my meaning, and what may appear as a spelling error is often double entendre or word play, so read Beyond the Eyes and play along. Order direct by emailing ellen@targetaudiencemagazine.com; through Amazon.com; and Lulu.com
A Penny Lost is a Penny Found by N. Joy Lutton
Preview:
The ring on her finger twinkled like magic fairy dust. It looked exactly as she had dreamed. A silver band holding up the princess-cut diamond like a crown. Across from her sat her own Prince Charming--a more chocolaty Prince Naveen, in human form, of course. Wondrously wide eyes, toothy, cavalier grin, and a chin that could cut diamonds. He looked as happy as she wanted to feel. Wishing for the fluttering of butterflies, she felt the slothy sliding of slugs in her stomach instead. This was it. The moment every girl and unmarried woman was supposed to dream of. Instead of taking mental memories of the man smiling across from her, the newly banded hand, or recording a video in her mind of the tiny resort towns passing by as the monorail rocked, she just closed her eyes and wondered how she got here. At the happiest place on earth and so unhappy.
Ever since she could remember, Shawna could remember Disney. The magic that glittered from princess movie posters. The way she couldn't sit still as Tinkerbell waved a wand to start the Disney Sunday Movie on channel four. And how Mickey was on everything she wanted: socks and shoes, shorts and shirts, watches, belts, beach towels and bed blankets, lamps, toys, and lunch tins. He practically owned the copyright on her childhood. One ho-hum Sunday night, Shawna discovered her own dream to wish upon a star. At the tender age of eight, a vision and quest appeared on the new, five-year old TV set, right in the commercial break between Sister Suffragette and A Spoon Full of Sugar. Tinkerbell had just disappeared behind a big dented ball, announcing a four minute break before Shawna had to plant herself back in front of the TV.
She stood up and walked toward the kitchen, hoping to find more than crumbs in the plastic cookie jar. From the corner of her eye, she saw the TV mom that she thought looked like her mama. The woman, a little girl in pigtails, like Shawna had, and a big boy, were walking down a regular street. Only it wasn't a regular street. Shawna walked back into the room and sat down a few inches from the screen. Behind that singing, smiling family, was another happy family. That family was Mickey and Minney, Chip and Dale and Donald. The family kept singing: on a train, at the beach, with Goofy and Mickey, and in front of a big, white ball that looked just like the one Tinkerbell always flew to before commercials. At the end of the song, the family danced down the street, Mickey, Minney, and everyone dancing behind them. The singing stopped and yellow words came on the TV. She didn't know what the first one said but she knew "Disney" and the word "world". Disney World, she said, as if whispering the words would take her to that magical place. Her mind turned the idea over and over, a place, where people sing, and dance, and get to actually meet Mickey and Minney, and maybe even Goofy. Could dance with Donald (although Shawna would be too afraid she would step on his webbed feet and send him into a fit of naughty quack, quack, quacks). Maybe Snow White and Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty would be there. Maybe.
"Mama!" she screamed like she had seen another rat. Down the hall, she could hear banging from her bedroom. Like the bed had just come crashing into the room, like in that witch movie. But nothing came from the room across the hall. Shawna walked to the mouth of the hallway, "Mam-ma!" she said watching the door. A shuffling of feet and seconds later she saw her Mama flying down the hall to her.
"What?" she cried, eyes scanning the floor. "What's wrong, baby girl?" Green, plastic curlers clung to the ends of her hair, and tiny lines ran across the side of her face.
"Mama, I..I..." she said as she turned to the TV and pointed at the screen. Tinkerbell flew back to the marker and tapped it with a wand. Mary Poppins came on the TV, standing at the front door with a carpet bag and umbrella in hand.
"Baby," her mother said, walking to the TV. "I was sleeping, honey. I told you. You could stay up and watch the movie, but then right to bed. You are a big girl and can put yourself to bed after the movie and only get me if your sisters are picking on ya."
"Mama," Shawna said as she looked up at her mom with full-moon eyes. "Disney World." She looked at her mom.
"Oh," was all that came from her mouth.
"Can we go, Mama?" Shawna said as she wrapped her arms around the woman's socked legs. "Pleeeeease!"
Preview:
"Who is this?" I ask the woman on the phone.
Mr. Payne's daughter. He told her I interpret dreams.
I remember the conversation. Six months ago? Mr. Payne brought his extra garden vegetables and helped with the cost of fixing the long driveway from the main road, which we share. "I don't know how to reciprocate."
"Always give away the extra. People leave zucchini on the church steps." He laughed.
He cocked his head at me and I imagined how he flirted years ago. I nearly laughed at what he might be thinking. "I've written some books on dreams. If you or a family member ever has a nightmare and you want some help, I'd be happy to answer your questions."
He nodded, his thoughts locked away, the country way.
****
"What's your name again?" I ask.
"Laura. It's my daughter Jenny that's got the nightmares. Can you help?"
"I can try. How old is she?"
"Seven."
We agree on a day for them to come by. I'm retired, not licensed in this state. I tell myself I won't be doing therapy.
When they arrive, Jenny doesn't want to come inside. Her mother steps into the living room while Jenny takes a seat on the rocker on the porch. A moment later, from the window, I see her get up and bend to stare between the spaces of wood floorboards.
"She's afraid to sleep," Laura says. "Every night, she wakes me up. I can't have it."
"What's troubling her?"
"No trouble. She's got nightmares. Can you make 'em stop? I can't have it."
"I don't know. I can talk to her."
I step outside and the mother follows.
"Will you help me feed the fish, Jenny?"
She answers by frowning at me. We walk behind me to the garage for fish food. When she sees the pond behind the house, she grins. "Can we go fishing?"
"We're gonna feed the fish instead of them feeding us."
Jenny giggles, pleased she gets my joke. I hand her a cup of fish food.
The mother walks to the far end of the pond and lights a cigarette.
Jenny and I walk onto the deck and the catfish gather toward the rocks in our shadow. She dribbles pellets into the water.
"Sometimes I dream about them," I offer. A lie.
"Is it scary?"
"Sometimes my dreams are scary. Sometimes very scary."
"Mine, too."
When she doesn't continue, I say, "In my dream about the fish, they're hungry and I've forgotten to feed them."
"I dreamed of kitties in the barn. I didn't feed them too."
"That's a common dream."
She doesn't ask what it means. Adults ask that right away. They want to be reassured they're not crazy. I wonder what she feels she's failed to do. Who needs her?
She throws another handful and we watch the catfish, a swarming mass of movement, gobble pellets. One wiggles up on a lotus pad to eat. "Look!" Jenny says.
We watch the fish and I talk a bit about dreams of falling, flying, being chased. "I used to have nightmares of drowning. Or that I was driving and my car had no brakes." All true.
"Do you stay awake?"
"No. The dreams went away after I figured them out."
"I hate dreams."
I nod. "Everybody dreams. Not everyone remembers. You're lucky if you do. They have a secret message."
She looks at me as if she doesn't believe.
The mother sits on the back steps, out of earshot, I hope.
Jenny and I walk the perimeter of the pond. Frogs squeak and then splash as they hit the water, but I don't see them. Maybe she does.
We chat some more about dreams in general. I'm still pondering who or what the kittens represent when she offers, "My daddy twitches and howls in his sleep."
No Good Deed by Joan Mazza