Garment District

In the freezing January rain,
I would wait for the 7am bus
To make it to the jewelry and garment district,
And report to my Persian boss
Mostly Monday was the arrival of packages
Of ordered socks that we had to bring in
Via a dolly & an old, squeaky, narrow elevator
While every muscle strain was traced on my face,
There was no tinge of compassion
Traceable on my co-workers faces
I thought downtown was the coolest place to be
Guess not when you go further to the east
Heaven heard me beg for an immediate thick skin
That I had not developed yet,
A little bit more patience, knowing there is so much
More to me than callousing these dirty hands
Not only do people here spoke different languages,
They had agenda that would milk you, even your spirit,
For every penny they put in your paycheck,
And store it in their warehouse
Where you could only dream of a better alternative
To pay your bills and loans

Settling

I settled for my ex
Sounds awful, but I didn’t know it at the time
When I married I was a five year college virgin
Unless you want to count sex for pay...once in Albany
Once in Paris...Paris, sounds exotic, it wasn’t

Anyway, I’d fall for any woman with any interest
In shy, insecure, socially awkward me and
Try to be a husband... a father...a lover
With the years and the tasks achieved it hits, we no more
Of a match than any couple who come together out of flaws

I don’t want to be someone you’re settling for says the male lead in
‘Sleepless in Seattle’ and I think back to my ex Rose who confessed
On our first date I really decided I didn’t like you
But you were a good kisser...why not give you another try

I think of her hero, my father-in-law the handyman deluxe – plumbing, woodwork, painting...
Name it and he can fix it ...add socially smooth...compliments the 80 year old at the wedding Joann, just as gorgeous as ever and she believes it and so do I
Finally I see my ex settling as well...she knew my faults... but only hinted at them

I did think you would be a good father

And if I looked hard at her I would have seen
Not so much a compliment
But that so much else she hoped for
Planned for...landed on this one single virtue

A good father

BIO SKETCH

     Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U. and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 100 journals in the U.S., Canada and England as well as five anthologies. He is five times a winner of an Allan Ginsberg Poetry Award sponsored by the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College. His poem ‘Why Do Lovers Whisper?’ has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2005. He has been nominated by the College of William and Mary for the University of Virginia anthology BEST NEW POETS OF 2006. He lives in Huntington, N.Y.

Haiku (wind)

Somewhere Between Flores and El Remate

    You’re a foreigner. Where are you from? American! And traveling alone? Most foreigners are afraid to take the local buses. I would be afraid. In fact, I wouldn’t be traveling alone myself except I didn’t have any other choice. Usually my son, or his wife, takes me. They own a car dealership, very successful. But they couldn’t drive me today.
    You will like El Remate. It’s not far. Maybe half an hour. You’re going to see Tikal? You won’t believe it, but I’ve lived here my entire life and I’ve never seen the ruins. I keep telling myself I’ll go, but now I think I’m too old.
    I’m going to see a woman. She is famous in this area, for speaking in tongues. My priest recommended I go see her—after my vision. I’ll tell you—I thought I was crazy, at first. After it happened, my husband took me to Guatemala City, and four neurologists—four!—looked at my brain. No tumor, nothing. I wondered—am I going crazy? Am I sick? But now I believe.
    It was two months ago, in the middle of the night. I was sleeping in my bed and I opened my eyes, all at once, like this! Then I felt a presence. I can’t describe it, other than to say it was powerful, beautiful. Then I looked down, and there, at the foot of my bed, was a great golden chalice. Yes, a golden cup! And then there was a man coming out of the chalice. He had on a white robe and sandals. The robe was open a little at the neck, and I could see his chest, with little dark hairs. He had long, brown hair, down to here.
    “Aurora, Aurora,” he said. That’s my name. And I cried out in fear. I was trembling. Do you see my hands now? I shake thinking about it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry, it’s just the presence—the presence!
    I asked him what he wanted of me. “Aurora,” was all he said, and then he was gone. I was alone. My husband wasn’t there—he lives with another woman.
    I don’t want to talk about that.
    When my husband came home—that’s when the whole mess started. The doctors couldn’t tell me anything. Doctors don’t know anything about God.
    When I got back home, I prayed and prayed. I was on my knees in my room, asking Him what He wanted of me. And He was there. Only the voice, this time, whispering in my ear. “Do not eat meat,” it said.
    I thought—it’s not possible! But the next day I knew. I was at a big family get-together, with my son and his family. They were serving churrasco, have you tried it? It’s delicious, grilled meat with spices. I sat down with a big plate of food, and opened my mouth with the fork right here, like this. And I couldn’t eat. Something, some force, stopped my hand! No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t eat!
    So I put down the fork. I knew I had to obey. But I’ll tell you a little secret. I’ve had meat once or twice, since then. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s hard! We Guatemalans are very good at cooking meat.
    May I ask you—what religion are you? Ha! I knew you couldn’t be Catholic. You listen to me. You’re a good listener. The Catholics, they don’t believe me. They say, “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you’re better than us.” They say, “You’re crazy, God doesn’t speak to anyone.” The only person who listened was the priest. The father told me to visit the woman, the one I am going to see now.
    Nobody knows I left the house today. They didn’t want me to go. My son, my husband. They refused to drive me. But I’m here. I’ll see the woman, and she’ll tell me why I’m having these visions, why He has chosen to speak to me. She speaks in tongues, did I tell you that?
    Wait—this is my stop. Driver! Stop here! You should come visit me sometime—will you be coming back to Flores? I live in the complex by the big “Bimbo” sign. Ask around, everyone knows it. I’d like to talk to you some more. Come visit me. Please. Have a nice trip—good-bye.

More Believable That Way

I walked through the empty cathedral
stopped
turned
looked back inside the two-storey church
       At the two rows of rows of seats
       each with pads before them to kneel on
       and slats behind each row to hold the song books
then looked to the back of the preaching wall
stepped up
walked to the back wall
looked up at the twenty foot tall mural of Jesus

good thing they pained him so tall
you know, so everyone could see him on both floors
       even in the back rows

I mean, you need a big sign
to remind you what you’re giving up your Sundays for

good thing they pained him so tall
it’s easier to make him
more ominous,
a mean, more glorious

and it’s easy to make him
more believable that way

exhaling

I’m exhaling cigarette smoke
as if I’m exhaling
the weight of the world

This poem can be found on
twitter.com/janetkuypers.

Translation

This is only a translation.
I cannot adequately explain
the torture & the trauma.
I do not have the words.

This poem can be found on
twitter.com/janetkuypers.

Darwin & Jesus

Darwin was kinder than jesus
he didn’t leave a trail
of self-destructive behavior in his wake
Jesus taught people to be victims.

Flat Out

Musical ability is out
the window.  It’s not
the thrashing skins next
door, or the plops in
the porch bucket, or
my grandma’s steady
snoring from her bedroom,
or my buzzing brother
with his head in a dead beehive.

It’s the cars with unserviced
shocks carving out an
erosion speed divot outside.
It’s the screech as the
drivers momentarily confuse
a bald pantiless doll for a
child. It’s the ping of pennies
fired from Dad’s coin gun
rebounding off side panels.
It’s the outrage in the voices
toward my Dad’s confederate
brother slinging lit water
balloons at the windshield
and daring a chase.

Take that, Dad mutters.
an empty click.
Dammit.  Never dry fire son,
he yells down the stairs.
Dry fire is wild fire.
Messes with your aim.

His careening laugh causes
me to miss a beat of my
inhale.  My death metal
dymphony about me
shifting lines.  My smothered
chorus hooked rib high.
My synapse sputters, writhes
and fuses dendrite refuse
from the evolution.

guilty among my roses

Derek Richards

jillian spends wednesdays
in her rose garden
plotting
one week it’s poison
the next it’s a gun
sometimes he’s even worth a prayer
just take him god
beat him
then send him to hell
jillian fixes roses in a heart-shaped vase
it’s thursday morning
the sticky dreams smeared on her lips
taste of coffee brandy
sweat and spoiled cigars
the static of his voice
a slur of razor
bruises beg for silence

jillian calls their daughter long-distance
it’s friday evening
the pork-chops are perfect, the whiskey chilled
she describes the insults as serenity
the knuckles as embraces
voiced sincerity thickened with practice
your father is a monster
stay in arizona
i’ll call you when it’s time
jillian digs through layers of mirror
it’s saturday afternoon
applies a carpet of blush over cheekbone
mascara softens the despair
the hairbrush is simply to calm the nerves
works well with xanax maybe this wednesday
mercy will find me
guilty among my roses

(originally published by Soundzine)

About Derek Richards

     After performing both music and poetry around the Boston area for twenty years, Derek Richards shed his fear of rejection and began submitting his work this past August. So far his poetry has appeared in over thirty publications, including; Lung, Word Riot, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Opium 2.0, Splash of Red, Calliope Nerve, Right Hand Pointing, Breadcrumb Scabs, Tinfoildresses, Poets Ink, The Foundling Review and Underground Voices. He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. His dog, cat and two ferrets admire his attempts to be honest, direct, brilliant and lucrative. Also, he wants you to know that he has compiled over 50 fantasy sports championships. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA, cleaning windows for a living.

from Book of Corporate Prayer

Our Pharma, who art on Wall Street,
hallowed be thy Profits
FDA approval come, Our Will be done,
in hospitals as in homes and nurisng homes
Give us this day Our Daily Meds,
and forgive us our generic drugs
as we forgive those insurance companies
who sometimes don’t cover the costlier ones
For yours is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory
of the Life Everlasting you will eventually come up with
Amen

Doomed to Repeating Rifles

If I was Hitlerian
I’d round up all the turtles in the world
And have ‘em all shot
Because they remember
The Founding Fathers
But they won’t tell us what they meant

the Warhol Exhibit (God)

My guess would be
Cream of Celery
Eternity’s in there
No foolin’
Mom’s kitchen
Tree-lined suburban streets
Sandy beaches
Christmas tree lights
Cream of Celery
All Power, All Illumination
Every Ascension
It’s IN THERE
Oh, no?
Touch it, and flip off Security
Trust me

The Last Chapter

As you close your eyes
One last single droplet
Wells up slowly
Until it spills over
And gently runs down the cheek
Leaving a glistening trail
As if to say goodbye, in and of itself
The trail flashes at you
But you didn't see
As your eyes were closed
Picking your final words
Before you close the book
And then, finally
A simple, I am sorry
Flying pages
Splattering ink
As the covers rush together
Trapping with them
That single
Forbidden tear

They Left Because

    #60 No one knew her name. The medics found out she was pregnant.
    #59 She started screaming during PT. She didn’t stop.
    #58 She talked back to the staff and didn’t like singing Christian songs on Sunday.
    #57 She wanted to get rejected only by the best. She was.
    #56 She showed off her mediocrity at the leadership course during Officer Candidate School for the United States Marine Corp in Quantico, Virginia.
    #55 After a stay at the local hospital everyone knew she wouldn’t graduate.
    #54 The staff wanted her to stay since she came up through enlisted ranks, but she got out anyway.
    #53 She went back to teaching.
    #52 She broke her foot. She wore boots for three days as she walked to chow while the paperwork went through.
    #51 She got red streaks up her legs from infected wounds. It’s called cellulitis.
    #50 She said there was a boy waiting for her back home.
    #49 Too quiet.
    #48 Too dumb to pass the academic tests. She tried again the next year.
    #47 She was squatting in a dress on her suitcase before going on liberty. The sergeant instructor reported she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
    #46 She mystified everyone by praying in Chinese. She wasn’t fluent.
    #45 She went AWOL, came back and dropped out of a ten-mile hump.
    #44 She never grew up.
    #43 She talked like a baby and couldn’t do a pull-up.
    #42 She lost every round of pugilstick fighting.
    #41 She didn’t want it bad enough.
    #40 Acute pain caused by damage to the spinal chord.
    #39 She contracted a cold that turned into bronchitis after opening her mouth during the swamp obstacle course.
    #38 Just tired.
    #37 She looked the platoon sergeant in the eye.
    #36 Scholarship athlete. Sprained ankle.
    #35 to #27 couldn’t hump a 45-pound pack. The rest got hairline fractures in their legs or sprained their ankles.
    #26 She graduated boot camp with 25 other candidates in her platoon. Later she dropped out of the Marine Corp, wrote poems and had gay thoughts.

No Man

Firing the slime of dread
Morals lost in glorious victories

Watching the horrors fumigate the living
Digging the shadowy peace that blossoms

Shuffle and scoff the murky courage
Spattering the scarlet ink across your eyes

Calling out to the afflicted trench
as all sanity evades the naive.

jobbed

I get on the bus and close my eyes.
“I can’t cut it,” I think.
“I’m just not doing it.”
Whatever “it” is.
The workday goes on. And on. And on.
I might as well be mopping floors in a gilded tourist spa in Greece,
or washing dishes in a greasy spoon in Toad Suck Ferry, Arkansas.
Small advances. Holding place. Unrecognized retreats.
Hours slip into lifetimes.
Delays pile up like unanswered invitations.
Cigarette breaks follow one another ad infinitum
silhouetted against stained granite
as far as the eye can see.
A good-for-nothing lifetime
of good-for-nothing years
of good-for-nothing months
of good-for-nothing weeks
of good-for-nothing days
of good-for-nothing hours
of good-for-nothing minutes
of good-for-nothing seconds
of good-for-nothing work.
Opportunity? What opportunity?
Look up to where the work is done behind desks and under tables.
If you’re there,
among the tidy,
generating digital paperwork no one will read
except for your initials on the bottom
success and failure fall into place behind cul de sac smiles.
“All honest work is noble,” goes the cliché.
But should we be grateful for every indignity
suffered in the name of earning?
Yes,
there is meat on my plate.
I just don’t have the teeth to chew it.

If I Should Die Before I Wake

    Was life eternal like the universe and time? Would our souls continue on forever, or were we relegated to this one shot?
    Would the afterlife remain forever our greatest enigma? The common conjecture has run the gamut, from heaven and hell to reincarnation to nothingness.
    No matter how strong our religious convictions, there would always be that shred of doubt. How could anyone be absolutely sure?
    The true knowledge of the afterlife would reap such benefits for mankind. All the conflicts stemming from religious differences could be resolved. But alas, there doesn’t seem to be any possible way to find out the truth short of our own demise — or was there?
    Steve Brown’s thirty year career in investigative reporting has seen its share of ups and downs. Although a brilliant journalist, popular and respected amongst his peers, shame and low self-esteem triggered drinking binges that often put his job in jeopardy.
     He was tired of the pressures of the job, and the hectic life-style of New York City. So, when the Courier offered him a buyout, he jumped at the chance.
    Not that he was ready for the back porch or the ole fishing hole, but he did seek a slower paced less complicated life.
    After selling his apartment, he bought his parents old farm house in Ohio and took over as editor of the Appleton Gazette. The relaxed responsibilities of getting out a weekly newspaper suited him fine.

    Moving back to Appleton brought back many memories of his youth, most were unpleasant.
    Growing up in the Midwest, he was the son of very strict religious parents — religious to the extent of church on Sunday and prayer meetings during the week.
    So, when as a teen he discovered that his sexual desires were not normal, he knew he couldn’t seek advice from his parents. After all, they had told him a hundred times homosexuals were sinners and would go to hell.
    This was the 60’s, being gay was not accepted behavior anywhere, especially rural Ohio. After college he and his secret moved east, never to return, not even for his parent’s funerals — until now.

    After a long weekend in which Steve wrapped up some business in New York, he arrived at his desk. He made assignments for his reporters and checked his mail.
    One e-mail in particular grabbed his attention. It was from Mary Whitten, daughter of prominent retired evangelist, Reverend Robert Finsterwald.
    “I would like to hire you to investigate the rather strange circumstances that occurred prior to my father’s surgery; he is currently recovering from a liver transplant in a nursing home in upstate New York.”
    After further communication Steve found out the complete story. Reverend Finsterwald was in grave condition, with only weeks to live. Since, his name was way down the list of recipients, he was offered a trial procedure that would give him more time.
    The doctors told Mary that he would be put into sort of a hibernation state — never done before. During this time, he would be in total seclusion, until a donor was ready. Even though it was risky, she agreed; she realized it was his only chance.
    It was almost six months later, when she was informed that the surgery had been successfully performed. Everything seemed fine. She was anticipating him moving in with her family and pursuing his favorite hobby, gardening, but when the reverend started making some very incoherent statements, like: “I want to go back.”, “The soul is everything.”, and “The universe makes sense now,” her plans were put on hold.
    The doctors thought the long hibernation period might have done some damage to his mental faculties, and transferred him to a full care nursing home.

    Steve, intrigued by the story, agreed to look into the situation. He went to the nursing home and interviewed the reverend and the doctors who supervised the hibernation process. He found out that it was top secret, and nobody was discussing it.
    Calling on all of his expertise from years of investigative reporting, he uncovered some unbelievable news. A story that would top anything he had ever reported.
    He discovered that the evangelist’s heart was actually stopped, and he had been frozen — dead for six months!
    This new method of freezing a human body left it perfectly preserved, for an indefinite period — almost like time had stopped at the instant of his last heartbeat!
    The common method of cryogenic storage of a human body does irreversible damage to the organs and tissues, due to the extreme low temperatures. This new method combined warmer temperatures slightly lower than freezing, a tissue friendly anti-freeze solution that replaced the blood, and a computer that somehow monitored and coordinated the entire process.
    This exciting news was a major story in itself, but it was completely overshadowed by his interview with Reverend Finsterwald, in which he vividly described in great detail every experience during that six month period. After hearing his account, Steve was convinced he had the strongest case ever made for “Life after Death.”

    In the interview, the reverend first describes events similar to other “Life after Death” experiences already documented. Like: the light at the end of the tunnel, etc.
    Then he revisited his whole life. Almost as though he was watching a movie, and he was the star. He was shown how his personal interactions with people affected their future lives.
    Next came a period of complete silence and total blackness, this seemed to last for weeks, although he had no way of measuring time. As this period progressed, he became more conscious of his increasing knowledge and awareness of all past and present, personal and earthly, events and mysteries. Like the truth about his father’s disappearance, the locations of a famous missing aviator’s plane, and The Lost Dutchman’s Mine to the actual truth of salvation and everything else he had ever wondered about.
    Then the blackness finally gave way to a glowing warm presence that surrounded him. He knew instantly that this presence was godly. His awareness and knowledge continued to grow and now it included all things in the afterlife.
    Stars slowly appeared, until the whole universe was visible to him. He saw all the new worlds where souls had migrated to for thousands of years — there were hundreds no thousands of them. It finally made sense why the universe was virtually limitless.
     There were souls traveling through space on their way to their new worlds. Looking like shooting stars on a clear summer’s night, each one specifically attracted to their best fit world.
    He added. You must understand about the soul. It is everything. Literally, the soul is your salvation, and it is not a yes or no proposition. True your next life can be heaven or hell, but it can also be everything in between. Life is a game of sorts, and the soul is your scorecard.
    During your life, your reactions in different situations directly affect your soul. Unselfish, constructive and positive acts that give you a good inner feeling were really your soul growing in strength and energy. Conversely, selfish, uncaring behavior weakened your soul and gave you an empty, unsatisfied feeling in the pit of your stomach, and if your soul continued to weaken, it would have less of an influence on your actions. Eventually, you would have little or no remorse for negative or evil acts, and when death would come, without a strong soul you would linger forever in the shadows of life.
     Only people whose souls have grown from virtuous actions would be rewarded, make the long journey to their new world, and metamorphose into a new and improved life form.
    Soon, he realized he would be traveling to his new world. Meeting deceased family and friends even his pets would be there. His next life could last five hundred years or more, and after that, who knows, the next great mystery.
    The leaders of the new worlds would come from the most decent of humans. They would form societies based on fairness, kindness, and a true democracy. The earthly mistakes of the past would not be repeated.
    Next, he realized that he was traveling through space — soon he would be reunited with his wife, family and friends. The prospect of living in an almost perfect world where evil, crime, wars, hunger and hate don’t exist excited him no end.
    Suddenly, he was jolted. Like a lightning bolt had struck him. Everything went blank. The next thing he knew he was in a recovery room hospital bed.

    Steve was impressed with the overwhelmingly sincere delivery by Reverend Finsterwald, and noticed no indication of mental problems or disorientation.
    The two struck up an almost immediately trust and friendship, and would talk for hours at a time about everything under the sun.
    Reverend Finsterwald insisted that Steve drop the title when he talked to him.
    “You got it Bob.” pause “I’m curious, why do you get so much enjoyment out of gardening. I mean pulling weeds and all, it just seems like work to me?”
    “True there is a lot of work, but there is a lot of satisfaction too. Take my sunflowers for example — from a little seed, a beautiful plant maybe six or seven feet tall will grow. You can enjoy it all summer, and then in the fall you still have the healthy seeds to eat.
    Tell me Steve what interests you outside of journalism?”
    “Well, although I’m not a current fan, I love reading all I can on baseball pre 1970. Back when it was a sport not a business.”
    “Me too, I particularly liked the 1930’s. I don’t have much interest in today’s sports either, although my late wife Betsy and I used to take in a local high school football game once in a while.
    We loved gardening the best. She would take care of the tomato plants and roses, and I always grew some sweet corn and of course my sunflowers.
    But mostly, the three of us just enjoyed each other’s company.”
    “The three of you?”
    “You bet. We had a black lab Boots for almost 17 years. I knew I was about to rejoin them when I was brought back.
    I know you’re a good person Steve. I can feel it. Don’t ever worry about death, you’ll be ok. Down the road, who knows we may meet again. I think you would fit very well into my world.”
    “Bob, one thing I’m curious about? When you were in the afterlife could you have communicated with the living if you wanted to?”
    “Sure, though it depends a lot on your circumstances. How you died, how close you were to the living, but it wouldn’t be a direct type of communication. It would be more of a sign of some kind, but still it would be unmistakable as to its origin.”
    “I’ve got to ask you,” said Steve. “Did you see God?
    “No I didn’t see him, but I knew he was there.”
    “How long will the afterlife go on?”
    “I don’t have all the answers, Steve. Like you found out in the interview, the afterlife is a continuing process of refinement. The next life isn’t the end. It will last longer and be so much better, because the worlds will be filled with good people, but eventually some form of death will come again and another life will begin. How long this process will go on I can’t say? Look at the universe, there is so much more to fill up.”
    “What influence does God have on the living?” asked Steve.
    “I don’t believe any. Were pretty much on our own — why would he throughout history let the corrupt few have so much and the many have nothing? Why would he grant a girl’s prom date prayer and let millions go hungry? No Steve, as far as the living are concerned, God just monitors our actions. His response is shown within our own souls.”

    Armed with this interview and the secrets of the new cryogenic storage process, Steve first thought about selling the story to some tabloid magazine. Eventually, however the reverend and his daughter convinced him that this story could serve a much greater purpose.
    If they could convince the world, that the life after death experience that the reverend had was what everyone else should expect. Then what? Would the combination of knowing the secret of salvation and the truth of the afterlife end all religious conflicts? Would the constant tension in the Middle East end? Could all the domestic behavioral issues based on man’s interpretation of religion be ended? Would there even be a need for formal religions anymore?

    After several meetings with the evangelist, Steve felt comfortable enough to confide in him. His personal secret, which only a few of his closest friends knew, needed to be told to someone he respected — someone who could give him advice, and end his personal torture.
    The evangelist convinced Steve that his salvation was determined by the goodness and strength of his soul. His sexuality, over which he had no control, did not doom his afterlife.
    Steve felt that a tremendous weight had been lifted off him. Finally, after all these years the feelings of guilt and shame left him. They were replaced with the single purpose of spreading the evangelist’s story to the world. The movement to convince mankind of the afterlife truth had begun.
    Both the reverend and Steve were sure that in order to get the attention of the United States let alone the world they would need another person to experience the freezing process, or better yet multiple subjects of varied faiths. If they all reported a story similar to Mr. Finsterwald wouldn’t we then have a strong if not irrefutable argument for the afterlife?
    But what a task lay in front of them. To get mankind, not just the people of the United States, to agree on conducting an experiment of such magnitude and far reaching consequences certainly seemed farfetched, but then again so did bringing a man back from the dead after six months.

    To get the ball rolling, Steve knew he must first sell the reverend’s story to the American public. His connection with the media made it easy to set up several talk show appearances. This effectively stirred up some interest, but without some way to substantiate the story it quickly went the way of crop circles and alien abductions. Interest faded, and Steve knew he needed the media to take him seriously.
    He was frustrated. He knew in his heart that the reverend’s story was true, and that there must be a way to prove it, but how?
     “Wait a minute, there was a way,” he thought. “Sure — why didn’t he think of it before?”
    In the interview, the reverend mentioned how life’s many mysteries had been revealed to him. He had mentioned several things. Maybe some of the mysteries could be verified? For instance, how about the location of his father’s remains who disappeared sixty-five years ago, or Victor Corrigan’s plane from his failed attempt to cross the Atlantic in 1926.
    The details of the evangelist’s experience were becoming quite sketchy, but he did clearly remember his father’s disappearance.
    When he was a young boy his dad left on a business trip and never returned. Although, his mother and him knew foul play was involved they could never convince the police. While in the afterlife, he learned exactly what his father’s fate was, and where his remains were located.
    Late one night in 1943 his father was returning home on route 37. He stopped to help what looked like a stranded motorist. After he got out of his car, he was jumped by two men, beaten, robbed and shot. They buried him in a shallow grave, took his car, and were never caught.
    The exact location of the grave was approximately one hundred feet north of the highway, and one and a half miles west of the highway 51 intersection.
    Even though it was a whopper of a story to sell, Steve went right to work putting a search team together. He had enough good friends in the media who thought highly of him, and after several weeks of recruiting, Steve rounded up twenty-one people. He hoped the reverend’s directions were accurate, because his search team could give him only the one weekend.

    They had a sunny forecast as the designated weekend arrived. The team armed with shovels and metal detectors gathered at the coordinates given by the reverend, and then slowly searched in an ever growing circular pattern.
    It had been so long ago, that any visible signs would have disappeared. The best hope was that a metal detector would pick up coins, a belt buckle, or maybe even the alleged bullet.
    Starting early Saturday morning, they searched with no luck until night fall. A very dejected group gathered around Steve for instructions.
    “I appreciate everyone’s effort today; please don’t get discouraged. I pray tomorrow will be different — this means so much. If he is here, we must find him.”
    Unfortunately, Sunday didn’t go any better. They knew they were running out of time and daylight, as the worn out team members gathered for dinner.
    A very impatient Reverend Finsterwald demanded that he be allowed to join the team in this last effort to find his father’s remains. Although, against the idea because of the hilly terrain and the reverend’s poor health, Steve realized he might be there only chance, and let him come along.
    “After all,” Steve reasoned, “who would have a better instinct?”
    The team had covered the location given, plus an error factor of ten percent with no luck, and was perplexed as to where to try next.
    The reverend was assisted by Steve and his daughter Mary to the original starting point. He looked around for about fifteen minutes and then almost trance like walked straight to a place near a small group of trees and pointed down.
    “Dig here,” he shouted.
    Steve ran over with his shovel. After digging down a foot or so, he found some bones and a partial skull.
    A cheer rang out from the search team. Tears flowed freely as Steve hugged the reverend and his daughter — they were confident that these were the remains of the reverend’s father. They had solved a 65 year old mystery with information that only the afterlife could have provided.

    The bones they found were more than enough for an accurate DNA test, but it was ten long days before the report came back.
    Positive of the results, but concerned there might have been an error in the testing, Steve nervously opened the envelope, and read the results to the reverend and Mary.
     “They are 99.9% sure that the remains are related to you, reverend.”
    Even though he was already sure, the conformation still overwhelmed him and tears again welled up in his eyes.
    They all embraced — realizing the importance of this news.
    “Now, we’ve got something to give the media,” Steve announced.
    “But how?” asked Mary.
    Steve rubbed his forehead, “I’m not sure. We need a lot more proof than this, but just the same I think a return visit to a talk show wouldn’t hurt.”

    Within the month they appeared on the two top rated talk shows. Steve not only mentioned the finding of the reverend’s father, but told of his plans to locate the remains of famed aviator Victor Corrigan.
    The new information was well received by the American public — ratings were off the chart for the two shows. The sensationalism of this story generated media frenzy, for two weeks the story aired almost continuously.
    Steve knew they were off to a good start, but needed to solve another mystery to really cement the support of the American people. Unfortunately, Reverend Finsterwald couldn’t remember the location of the famous missing aviator.
    “What was so very clear — is now just bits and pieces. I’m sorry Steve, but I just can’t, it’s too sketchy.”
    “Don’t worry reverend; I think I know a way.”
    Steve had done a few articles on hypnotism in the past. It was an amazing tool for bringing back forgotten events.
    After being put under, the reverend responded and gave precise directions to the location of Corrigan’s plane — 51.35 degrees latitude and 10.27 degrees longitude at a depth of 1257 feet — 90 miles off the southern coast of Ireland.
    This information was given to the media, and after being aired over all the major networks, the public immediately demanded action from their representatives in Washington. They wanted the United States to act on this information and send a search team to the site.

    As interest and support grew for the “Afterlife Movement”, a gathering opposition composed of conservative politicians and religious leaders both traditional and extreme.
    The basis of their opposition was the movement’s view on salvation versus the long standing accepted version of the major faiths. They preached to the public how it was sacrilegious to support the movement and that it was the work of the devil.
     The opposition used every tactic they could, to bring down the afterlife movement. Mainly, personal attacks on the reverend, and Steve Brown. Saying the reverend was not mentally stable after being frozen and using Steve’s now well publicized sexuality against him.
     The serious matter of life after death had become the top subject of late night comics, who never missed an opportunity to crack a joke about Steve or the reverend.
    However, after an attempt was made on the reverend’s life, Washington had seen enough — the situation had become an embarrassment. They decided to put an end to it. Although, privately hoping they would find nothing, they caved into the public demands and sent the navy submarine rescue team to check out the site.
    On board were all the concerned parties: Steve and the reverend, religious leaders and several prominent congressmen. The major news networks were also there ready to film, if the long lost plane was brought to the surface.
    When the navy arrived at the location, they checked the depth and found it to be almost exactly what the reverend had said. They then launched a manned submarine. Soon after reaching the bottom, it spotted a small single engine plane. Securing it with cables the main vessel brought it slowly up. Camera crews were in position as the plane came into view.
    Unmistakably, in big letters “The Red Lady” number 37 the famous plane of Victor Corrigan was back above the surface for the first time in 82 years.
     The news instantly circled the world. People were stunned. They didn’t know how to react. Did this mean that the religious teachings of the last two thousand years were in error about salvation and the hereafter?

    The opposition came up with a counter plan. With some clever twisting of the truth that would have made any defense attorney proud, they argued that this only proved Reverend Finsterwald was a prophet — a psychic who had a true gift for solving earth bound mysteries, but in no way did it confirm that his version of the afterlife was correct. In an instance, they had taken the proof of victory away from the “Afterlife Movement”.
    Instead of verifying the reverend’s experience, by solving two mysteries, he was now being looked upon as another Edgar Casey or Nostradamus — no doubt a gifted person, but not one who had returned from the afterlife.
    What could they possibly do now that would convince the world. Nothing short of finding a major religious article, like Noah’s Ark or the Ark of the Covenant, the chest that carried the Ten Commandments.
    So, one more time the reverend was put in a deep hypnotic trance, but when asked to reveal their locations, he couldn’t. He didn’t know where they were, or even if they existed at all. Had it been too long since the afterlife experience?
    They were so close to getting the world’s support for a multiple freezing experiment and the likely verification of the reverend’ story, but now they’re chances seemed all but lost.
    Steve was dejected, and worst of all he felt that he had let the reverend down. With all his years of investigative reporting, all his connections with the media, still he had failed to sell the story of the millennium.
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said the reverend. “Maybe, the afterlife was always meant to be a mystery?”
    “We gave it a good try, didn’t we?”
    “Yes Steve, we may not have won over the world, but we have given a vision of hope to many who were lost.”
     Realizing they had nothing left to try, the two agreed to return home, and resume their lives. Although disappointed in the failure of the afterlife movement, they were both happy in what they had gained from the whole adventure.

    Steve stopped at a small motel outside of Harrisburg. He was just too worn out to drive any further. A good night’s sleep was definitely in order. Tomorrow would be a big day. Would he still have a job at the Appleton Gazette? His name and his sexual preferences were now common knowledge throughout the country. Why would a small town newspaper in the Midwest want a gay editor?
    He was ready for bed, but he was also starving. There was a little greasy spoon next to the motel. After ordering a burger and fries, he went to the restroom. When he returned, he noticed a couple men laughing in the booth across from him. He went to sit down, but saw a puddle of ketchup on the seat.
    “We don’t like faggots in our town,” said the bigger of the two men.
    Steve tried to ignore the comment, when the other one said, “Look, she’s turning red. We better stop — don’t want to make her cry.
    Steve knew confronting these two would go nowhere, and just walked out. He was half way back to the motel, when he was struck and knocked down from behind.
    Dazed, he heard one of the men say, “This is what we think of queers around here.”
    They alternately kicked Steve until mercifully he passed out. The next thing he knew a nurse was standing over him.
    “Mr. Brown, I’m afraid you’re in pretty bad shape. You have multiple broken bones and contusions. I think you’ll be with us for a while.
    The men who did it got away clean. The restaurant help couldn’t or wouldn’t identify the men. Steve decided not to pursue it. This incident just proved how desperately the world needed to know the truth about the afterlife.
     While recuperating the Reverend Finsterwald and Mary stopped in — it was good to see them both. A long talk perked Steve up, and gave him a positive outlook, that he would shortly need.
    The next morning’s phone call brought the bad news that Steve was expecting.
     “Steve,” said the Gazette’s acting editor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person to tell you this, but we cannot hold the editor’s position for you any longer. I’m very sorry. We hope you will understand?”
    “I fully understand — I was hoping for a different response, but I’m fine with it, really.”
    Just before his release from the hospital, he got more bad news. Reverend Finsterwald had suffered a massive stroke just days after his visit and died almost immediately.
    Mary wrote a letter to Steve soon after the funeral.
    “Dear Steve,
    My father wanted me to convey all the respect and love that he felt for you. The adventure we all shared the last few months was so purposeful. How few will ever experience what we did. To have the knowledge before hand of the great beyond is the greatest gift one could have. Till all of our paths cross again.
    Love Mary”
    Steve was both sad for Mary and himself, and yet very happy knowing the reverend was in a true paradise — reunited with Betsy, old friends and Boots.

    Losing the editor’s position turned out to be a blessing, Steve was now free to write on whatever subjects he wanted, without having to please a board of directors. He retold his experiences with the reverend in his first book, titled “If I Should Die Before I Wake”, which turned out to be a best seller. He received letters and e-mails by the thousands from people whose lives had been changed after reading the book. The Afterlife Movement had not been a failure; it was an on-going success.
    Relaxing on his back porch, Steve reminisced. His life had come full circle. He was not ashamed of himself anymore, and he was not going to hell as his parents had made him believe. He was full of satisfaction and self esteem. His parents had been wrong, but for the first time he didn’t hate them for it. He knew that they were just telling him what had been drummed into their heads their whole lives. Tears came to his eyes, when he realized how much he loved them and missed them. He felt warm and uplifted; he knew that their souls were basically good and they would all be together again someday.
    Surveying the back yard — how green and lush everything looked. There was something else — something caught his eye in the distance. Was it — yes it was. The color was magnificent, a bright golden yellow. Sticking out from behind the old barn making an effort to find the sun’s rays was a very tall sunflower.

Paranoia

2084

    “Kill the traitor!” the Chief, a 7-foot-monolith, commanded.
    “Sampson can’t be the mole,” the albino midget protested. “He’s been my partner for 15 years. Always has my back. Saved my life once. And when we spend down time together, he always reveals a passionate love for our country. He’s a great patriot, Chief.”
    “You’re myopic, little man. From where I stand, I’ve got a clear view. And what I see confirms my suspicions. So kill him, Bronson. Or there will be consequences.”
    “Consequences?”
    “Yes.”
    And the Chief sauntered off, leaving the little man alone in the catacombs where all assignments were given.

    Like Bronson, Sampson was a senior agent. He was also the Chief of Psychiatry at the Institute of Trust. A mole had penetrated the Agency. He and Bronson had searched for the traitor for the past three weeks to no avail. Now, the shrink was the primary suspect. Of course, he did not know that he was a suspect or that he had already been found guilty and sentenced to death.
    In order to survive, Bronson had to kill Sampson although he knew his partner was innocent. If he did not obey the Chief, someone else would kill Sampson and come for him too.

    Deputy Chief Johnson limped into the Chief’s luxurious office, as vast as a grand ballroom, on the 200^th floor of the Trust Foundation building. The walls were snow-white and lined with flowing red and blue bookcases.
    “Come in, George.”
    “Yes, Chief,” the ghostly, emaciated cripple, who stood only 5 feet 4 inches tall, muttered.
    “Please, George. Don’t be obsequious! Call me Guy. At least when we’re alone.”
    Johnson nodded in agreement but remained silent.
    “Relax, George. You did well. Got me the information I needed. I’ve ordered Bronson to obliterate Sampson. I do believe he’s our mole and...an alien too. Can’t trust those psychobabble freaks.”
    Johnson grew a fat smile. Then he added: “He’s our primary suspect, Guy. Yet agents Wright, Brothers, and Biggs are not beyond suspicion. And don’t forget our loathsome cockroach Bronson.”
    “I see.”
    “Well, what shall we do?”
    “You will get rid of them, George. Clean house before there’s a full-fledged alien invasion.”
    And Guy Orwell turned his back on Johnson, a signal to the Deputy Chief that he had been dismissed. Johnson hobbled off.

    After midnight, the alien slithered into the catacombs, removed his mask, and shrieked relentlessly into the dark void. Soon It would rule with absolute power.

    The Institute of Trust was the entire 6^th floor of the Trust Foundation building. Sampson’s office was located in Room 66, a labyrinthine universe of dark secrets.
    Bronson rang the bell and the romantic receptionist buzzed him in. Wearing a gold jacket that hid his .38, the midget entered Room 66, and smiled wickedly at Barbara Orwell, the Chief’s daughter.
    “Dick’s waiting for you,” she said dreamily.
    Bronson nodded and sauntered off through the meandrous maze. Clutching his .38, he knocked on Sampson’s door.
    “Come in, Charlie.”
    Bronson entered, pointing his .38 at his partner.
    Sampson rose. He pointed his .44 Magnum at the little man. “Got an anonymous note warning me about you. Thought it was phony until you pointed that thing at me. Goodbye, Charlie.!”
    And the two men opened fire, killing each other. The Chief watched from his office, having planted three cameras in Sampson’s office.

    Wearing a human mask, the alien entered the mammoth office.
    “Come in. All’s well. Our suspects are killing each other. An anonymous note has been floating around. Everyone’s paranoid. How sweet.”
    “My idea.”
    “Well done. But Barbara’s upset about Sampson’s death. Thought she was in love. Well, she’ll get over it.”
    “Don’t worry. I killed her!”
    “What?”
    Slowly, he removed his mask and revealed his grotesque face and gargantuan alien body. And the monster, a.k.a. George Johnson, slithered toward the Chief, shrieking relentlessly, as It watched the Chief’s bulging eyes and trembling, flailing body. Soon, it would swallow and devour the dumb creature alive.

BIO

Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Kristy

    I was nineteen when given my first anti-depressant due to extreme depression. I was on it for awhile and my doctor felt I was not responding to it well. He wanted to put me on a therapeutic dose which would require hospitalization on a psychiatric ward. I was rather reclusive and unresponsive those first few days and it was then I first saw her. She walked into the room we ate our meals in and then used as entertainment for card games or to just socialize. She was blond, wearing a vertical black and white night gown and white socks. I knew right away we would not get along.
    I learned her name was Kristy and we were in the same therapy group. She had an opinion about everything but not in a snide way. One day I was the focus and we were talking about my fear of driving. “I’ll teach you how to drive” Kristy said. The social worker looked at her and said “Do you have to be such a Fufu about everything?” I busted out laughing. I had never heard that term before and it was perfect for Kristy. From there on I started calling her “Fufu” and she started calling me “JuBear.”
    She pulled me out of my reclusiveness as we became nearly inseparable. One time I said something to her and she went in her room slamming the door behind her. I thought I had hurt her feelings and felt really bad. I was knocking on her door apologizing. She finally came out with a strange look on her face, then spit a mouthful of water on me and took off down the hall with me in pursuit. This was typical between us, running around threatening each other. An older patient told us we should not carry on that way as we were upsetting the patients and could wind up in the State Hospital.
    Kristy had a problem with cocaine. I don’t remember where she stood with alcohol. She denied she was any sort of addict. A staff member and I got Kristyto go to a 12-step study. I was a full-blown- but recovering- alcoholic. The three of us went over the steps. At one point Kristy referred to herself as an addict. This was a huge breakthrough. Even Kristy was surprised how it slipped out. As much as I hated meetings, I offered to take Kristy to the alcohol rehab next door where meetings were held. I did not anticipate any obstacle, but they would not let me go. They didn’t think I was stable enough to leave the premises. I threw a fit because I promised Kristy I would go to the meeting with her. They sedated me and knocked my ass out for hours. I awoke in a fog and Nurse Peggy was standing in my doorway. “I didn’t mean for them to knock you out so bad” She said. Kristy still went to the meeting. I was so proud of her.
    One day when I was walking by Kristy’s room, no one was in there and I smirked at the stuffed animals Kristy had brought with her all lined up on her made-up bed. One of them was a little bear with sunglasses. I took it and hung it by her light chain. She never said a word about it.
    We weren’t always inseparable. You could find us in different places doing our own thing. I recall one night in the recreational room, Kristy sitting in a chair against a window. She had a pad of paper in her lap and would randomly jot things down while smelling a rose she held in her hand. It was a rose someone had given her. I found myself touched by the sight and later wrote a poem about it:

Sitting in the corner
Writing a letter
Holding a rose

Tell me who it is
On your mind-
I don’t want to know

Your eyes far away
Gazing into space
Smelling the rose

Was it the rose
You wished just once
He would have given you?

Just once you wished
He would have said
“I Love You”

He took the fantasy world
Of the beautiful princess
Turned it into a whirlwind

Is there anything
I could say
To make the princess smile again?

    I don’t recall the conversations we had, I just recall having a lot of fun and if you are having fun on a psychiatric ward, you are not dealing with your issues as to why you are there in the first place. The one conversation I do remember is after her discharge date was set. As it loomed closer we exchanged addresses and phone numbers and both admitted when we first saw each other were sure we would not get along. The day Kristy left was very emotional. Her family waited between the Nurse’s station and the elevators while Kristy clung to me sobbing. She tried going to her family only to turn around and hold onto me again sobbing. She seemed so helpless I got a tissue and held itto her nose so she could blow. I did that twice. Her family was getting impatient and she had to go. I watched the elevator doors close and lingered a moment. It was winter and I often wore a flannel robe over my t-shirt and jeans.
    When I got back to my room, there propped up on my pillow was the bear I had hung from Kristy’s light chain. It was small enough to fit in my robe pocket. I wandered around lost with this little bear poking out of my robe pocket.
    About a week went by and I didn’t have a roommate so I was able to keep my light on late and one night wrote a letter to Kristy. It was pretty late when I shut my light off. The next morning I awoke and there stood FuFu next to my bed! I bolted up and gave her a big hug. She was just there a few days as they decided to put her in short-term recovery in a facility about three hours away. I think they arranged it so we wouldn’t see each other before she left. After she left I went into a downward spiral, becoming reclusive and not eating. I was sent to a long-term treatment place but only lasted a week before realizing I was not as sick as these people were. I started eating then signed myself out Against Medical Advice (AMA) and went home.
    I constantly tried to call Kristy but she would never come to the phone. It’s not like she knew who it was. She just didn’t take calls. She would write though and I wrote quite a bit. After she was released we talked on the phone a few times. She got involved with an abusive guy and had his baby. She was on the phone with me one day when there was a lot of noise in the background and she yelled “No! Don’t!” and told me she had to go.
    One day when my mom picked me up from work she told me Lisa called and was a realtor showing a house in our neighborhood. I walked in just as she was seeing a couple out. “JuBear!” She yelled “FuFu” I yelled. She was just finishing up so offered to take me home. It started pouring rain and she had to collect her signs. She pulled into my driveway honking the horn yelling “The loonies are here! The loonies are here!”

    That’s the last I had any contact with her. I did a people search on her and think I found her. I tried to contact her but heard nothing. I guess she does not want to be found.

Somewhere Between Flores and El Remate

    You’re a foreigner. Where are you from? American! And traveling alone? Most foreigners are afraid to take the local buses. I would be afraid. In fact, I wouldn’t be traveling alone myself except I didn’t have any other choice. Usually my son, or his wife, takes me. They own a car dealership, very successful. But they couldn’t drive me today.
    You will like El Remate. It’s not far. Maybe half an hour. You’re going to see Tikal? You won’t believe it, but I’ve lived here my entire life and I’ve never seen the ruins. I keep telling myself I’ll go, but now I think I’m too old.
    I’m going to see a woman. She is famous in this area, for speaking in tongues. My priest recommended I go see her—after my vision. I’ll tell you—I thought I was crazy, at first. After it happened, my husband took me to Guatemala City, and four neurologists—four!—looked at my brain. No tumor, nothing. I wondered—am I going crazy? Am I sick? But now I believe.
    It was two months ago, in the middle of the night. I was sleeping in my bed and I opened my eyes, all at once, like this! Then I felt a presence. I can’t describe it, other than to say it was powerful, beautiful. Then I looked down, and there, at the foot of my bed, was a great golden chalice. Yes, a golden cup! And then there was a man coming out of the chalice. He had on a white robe and sandals. The robe was open a little at the neck, and I could see his chest, with little dark hairs. He had long, brown hair, down to here.
    “Aurora, Aurora,” he said. That’s my name. And I cried out in fear. I was trembling. Do you see my hands now? I shake thinking about it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry, it’s just the presence—the presence!
    I asked him what he wanted of me. “Aurora,” was all he said, and then he was gone. I was alone. My husband wasn’t there—he lives with another woman.
    I don’t want to talk about that.
    When my husband came home—that’s when the whole mess started. The doctors couldn’t tell me anything. Doctors don’t know anything about God.
    When I got back home, I prayed and prayed. I was on my knees in my room, asking Him what He wanted of me. And He was there. Only the voice, this time, whispering in my ear. “Do not eat meat,” it said.
    I thought—it’s not possible! But the next day I knew. I was at a big family get-together, with my son and his family. They were serving churrasco, have you tried it? It’s delicious, grilled meat with spices. I sat down with a big plate of food, and opened my mouth with the fork right here, like this. And I couldn’t eat. Something, some force, stopped my hand! No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t eat!
    So I put down the fork. I knew I had to obey. But I’ll tell you a little secret. I’ve had meat once or twice, since then. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s hard! We Guatemalans are very good at cooking meat.
    May I ask you—what religion are you? Ha! I knew you couldn’t be Catholic. You listen to me. You’re a good listener. The Catholics, they don’t believe me. They say, “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you’re better than us.” They say, “You’re crazy, God doesn’t speak to anyone.” The only person who listened was the priest. The father told me to visit the woman, the one I am going to see now.
    Nobody knows I left the house today. They didn’t want me to go. My son, my husband. They refused to drive me. But I’m here. I’ll see the woman, and she’ll tell me why I’m having these visions, why He has chosen to speak to me. She speaks in tongues, did I tell you that?
    Wait—this is my stop. Driver! Stop here! You should come visit me sometime—will you be coming back to Flores? I live in the complex by the big “Bimbo” sign. Ask around, everyone knows it. I’d like to talk to you some more. Come visit me. Please. Have a nice trip—good-bye.

Fortunate

    Reed admired Jasmine’s ass as she walked over to Clevis. Her cheeks were round, and knew from plenty of practice how to bounce to the techno beat when she walked. They tensed up when she bent over and leaned into Clevis. Clevis sat in a wobbly chair with his hands in his short pockets on his chubby thighs, smacking on what Reed knew was at least his second slim-jim. Clevis stared blankly into the dark through gold colored wire-rimmed glasses. Reed watched him, hardly able to make out his eyes because of the glare from the spotlight hitting the thick lenses on Clevis’ spectacles. Reed sat there, puffing on his cigarette, since there wasn’t really much else to do with it. He held it in his hand, examining it as he exhaled a sigh of smoky air and thought about everything besides cancer, besides death.

    Reed looked around the room, checking out the crowd, looking for action. His eyes got caught on some messages that had been scratched into the old wooden table where he was sitting. GINA LOVES TODD was carved into the cheap, soft wood except TODD was exed out and TO FUCK MIDGET NINJAS was written beside it. Reed got a little excited because he took karate in second grade. But that’s probably not enough. Besides, he thought TODD would most likely get mad if he knew GINA was into him. Just in case, Reed grabbed the knife from the silverware set. The utensils were wrapped in a crimson napkin, which was folded carelessly in a trash-ass attempt at an origami flower. A pretty orchid. He wrote REED WAS NOT HERE, cutting into the glossy finish with the stainless steel blade. The S, which he found a bit hard to carve out, looked more like a lightning bolt than anything else. He moved to another table, near the back, a little farther from the stage and pervert row.
    Reed looked at the girls dancing in the room, and then he looked at the guys watching the dancers. What a bunch of sad losers, he thought. He saw all the customers drinking and looking at boobs, just trying to forget everything for a night. That’s when he realized Clevis needs that feeling. He worries too damn much.
    None of Reed’s other friends wanted to go out that night. They were all going to school and working during the summer. Reed was only working, with Clevis, 7 to 3:30 at a factory where it was hotter than a fucking sauna. It smelled bad too. But not as bad as the old men who go into the sauna, sit next to you without any clothes on, their mummified balls hanging down too low, then ask if you played highschool football.

    Reed was stuck out for the night with Clevis, bored, sipping on a White Russian, and wishing his manly friends were there so they could talk about animals. He turned to see what Jasmine was up to, if she got Clevis to pay for a lap dance. It looked like they were just talking. She was seated next to Clevis, facing him, really engaged. Reed was surprised that anyone would actually find the kid interesting. He’s probably talking about the chick in the office at work that he’s in love with but ignored by, or bragging about how many grapes he could fit into his mouth at once. 27. Or maybe he was being funny, because Jasmine was laughing and reaching out with her hand, gently touching his forearm. Techno thumped in the background and made Reed think about Morse code.
    Reed saw Jasmine get up and walk through the exit to the back room behind the stage. He went over to Clevis just to see what was going on.
    “So what the hell are you guys so chatty about?” Reed questioned Clevis.
    “Dude, Jasmine’s getting me my first lap-dance! She said she’ll bring her friends out and I can pick whichever one I want! God, you were right, this place is A-Mazing!!!”
    Clevis had a grin of excitement on his face, and a glaze of possession twinkling over his eyes. He looked like a kid in a candy store—a kid with a gun who could get whatever the hell he wanted. Reed was jealous. He’d been going there for weeks; this was Clevis’ first time.
    The girls came out from the back room with Jasmine- six tight, skinny bodies, mostly tan, but some a faded orange from the spray shit that comes in a can. They all had matching neon green thongs like Jasmine and similar hair styles, like they all came from some Matel factory assembly line. But then Reed saw one girl trailing behind. The spotlight caught her, and Reed saw the dark, sexy outline of her figure. She was a little bit thicker than the other girls, healthier looking anyway. Her auburn hair hung down, kind of curled in some parts—wavy, like in a painting. Gorgeous. She looked forward as she walked, staring confidently with blue eyes, which were dark, but beaming in the spotlight. Clevis looked up at her as she came to join the group of Barbies that stood before him. The mysterious dancer wore a dark red thong that reminded Reed of the napkin at his table. Around her chest she wore a cross that reminded Reed of, well, nothing. He wondered if the crucifix was just part of the costume, or if it was something important that she forgot to take off.
    The girls stood there, eager, not just because they really liked to dance, but because Jasmine had told them all that Clevis was a virgin, and anyone could tell just by looking at him it was true. They thought they would have some fun with him. The girls watched as Reed and Clevis whispered to one another, discussing the options. Reed told Clevis that he should go for the auburn haired one with the cross his first time because she was different from the rest. He said she would be something to remember.

    “Ohh YEeaahhhah! This is awesome!!!” Clevis seemed to be enjoying his first lapdance he was getting. Reed watched from the back of the room. To him it looked like the stripper was getting into the whole thing as much as Clevis was. The girl bobbed up and down with her ass between Clevis’ thighs and tossed her hair over when she swung her head, releasing dark curls that sprang out in every direction. Her necklace spun around her neck, at times gaining dangerous speed. She then turned around and leaned over Clevis, placing her slender, toned arms around him and supporting her weight with the back of his chair. She released onto only one arm and pulled Clevis’ face into her sweaty chest with her free hand. Her necklace was left dangling between the two of them. From his seat, Reed could almost see Jesus dancing right before Clevis’ eyes.
    It was at this point in the girl’s dance routine that Reed noticed there was something unnatural about her movements. Her arm suddenly appeared to go stiff and she was falling into Clevis. She continued to dance, but not along with the music that was playing from the box speakers set up high in the corners of the room. It was like somebody sped her up, and knocked her out of sync with the DJ.
    “I Love TITTIES!” Clevis exclaimed, throwing both his hands up in fists of “hoorah” as the brunette’s breasts slapped uncontrollably across his face, nearly causing him to lose his balance even sitting down. The crucifix took flight like a G.I. Joe on a spaceshuttle, floating.
    Reed knew something was not right, but he couldn’t tell exactly what from far away. He watched the girl buckle at her knees like she had taken a tranq dart in the leg and pounded her face into Clevis’ crotch, her head tremoring violently. She bounced to the ground leaving a trail of drool from Clevis’ lap. A gooey river ran down his leg, dripping, making a small pool around her head as she lay on her side going rigid. Her body tensed then released, again and again, spasmodically on the dirty floor.
    “O God, you are CRAZY!” Clevis eagerly awaited her return to his chair.
    Reed started laughing and couldn’t stop. He was in complete disbelief. He moved closer, watching the stripper as everything became clear in the dim lighting. Her eyeballs were rolled back in their sockets, like they were hardly hanging on by a single retinal nerve. A creepy redness was in the place of her shaded blue eyes. It was a crimson that reminded Reed of the napkin, of her thong. Reed wondered how long it would take Clevis to figure it out, or if anyone else had even noticed yet.
    Reed looked around to see if anyone was witnessing the seizure taking over the girl’s body. She was on the floor still, salivating more than ever. Her fingers screwed up into her palms like the onset of rigor mortis. Clevis finally sensed something was amiss and stopped cheering. The stripper flopped around, like electricity violently ripped through her body, like some unseen force hammered the shit out of her. She kicked and moaned as if a barage of BB’s pelleted her ass from every direction. Clevis’ face went serious pretty damn fast when he looked down at the girl and realized the situation. He panicked and grabbed another stripper who was busy grinding the pants of a lawyer looking guy at the nearest table.
    Music stopped and the lights came on. Someone drinking a Bud Lite screamed. Nearly everyone froze just where they were, even the older guy picking his nose. His hand paused in mid-air and displayed a yellow and green crud hitching a ride on his pinky. Next stop: the padded armrest of his chair. Reed looked around and saw one man smacking on a chili dog as the young girl fidgeted, rolled, and gasped for air. The man neglected to wipe the mustard crusting on his chin as he sat, absorbed in the messy meal, completely unaware of his surroundings. Reed was in disbelief once again. Since when do they serve chili dogs here? How much are they? Can I get one with saurkraut, maybe some extra cheese?
    Jasmine ran to kneel down at her friends side as everyone backed away to give the stripper some flopping space. Almost everybody stood watching the girl squirming, shaking on the ground, struggling in pain to take back control of her body. Jasmine put one hand behind the girls head and cradled the weak body in her arms, holding her close.
    “Is there a doctor in the house?” she called out, throwing her head up to the audience in what Reed saw as a seemingly exaggerated state of distress.
    “I’m a doctor.” One man said, his eyebrows narrow and focused—his posture upright.
    “Well, can you help her” Jasmine asked.
    “Oh, well, actually, I mean, I’m a chiropractor,” the man reluctantly confessed. There was a pause. Then his shoulders and chest caved in as he released a breath he’d been holding in way too long.
    The man explained he had not technically graduated yet and would be in a shit load of legal trouble if he attempted to save the girl and failed. He also admitted that chiropractors are not real doctors. They’re holistic healers who can’t prescribe medicine or perform surgery. Reed thought the guy looked incredibly depressed.
    “Go sit down.” Jasmine told him, annoyed with chiropractors.
    “I’m a doctor,” another man spoke up from behind the crowd. He had just walked into the club minutes ago and gotten a vodka tonic at the bar. Apparently he couldn’t see the girl amongst the mass of people gathered around her and Reed saw a somewhat confused look on the man’s face as to what was going on—with the lights being turned on, with the mob of people, the silence in the club. The guy asked why he had to get a glass from the back shelf and pour his own drink at the bar. He said he was pissed he couldn’t figure out the register and he didn’t know where they kept the limes. The man said, “Please, could somebody assist me with the citrus?”
    Jasmine ignored his questions and complaints.
    “OK, good, so you’ve actually graduated?” She wanted to be sure this time.
    “University of Florida, Class of ‘05” The man walked closer, holding his drink in one hand, and snapping together his mimed Gator Jaws with his other. Reed thought it looked more like an angry duck. Clevis stared with his eyes fixed straight ahead, but on nothing in particular. Reed could tell he didn’t know what to think.
    “So can you save her?”
    The man pushed through the crowd, using his Gator gesture to force the unwilling to cooperate.

    “Oh Shit! What the hell happened? Is she dead? What am I supposed to do?” He had a look now of total astonishment and panic on his face when he saw the body.
    “Aren’t you trained to deal with these kinds of situations?”
    “No, nooo. Not like this. You see, I’m an ichthyologist. A Ph.D.” He explained, often using his hands in a swimming motion, that he knew a lot about fish, about their mating and their feeding habits. He made puppet movements with his hands and puckered his mouth. He really had a wide range of knowledge and he shared the fruits of his education with the others.
    “I like what I do,” he said.
    “I’m a taste-tester for novelty condoms,” the one woman in the bar who wasn’t flossing with neon threads or serving beer spoke out. She forced herself to step forward. “I love my job! And my life!!!”
    The ichthyologist welcomed her to speak in the circle, and began clapping slowly at first, and quietly. He looked around the room, nodding and raising his eyebrows, encouraging others to join in. Even the chiro slapped his clumsy hands together. He clapped with flat palms like no one ever taught him how to properly applaud. Reed mumbled something about a seal then just looked at Clevis, who was still terrified and was now beside Jasmine, kneeling down before the girl on the floor. Reed wondered why Clevis cared so much.
     One by one, members from the crowd of men stepped into the middle of the circle saying their name and telling more about themselves, like they had special stories to tell. Like they were all part of some kind of Homeric epic and everyone should know about their journeys. One by one, they forgot about the stripper lying on the floor. The pretty stripper who just moments before had been dancing in the spotlight, the life and energy of the room. Even Jasmine was caught up in the new atmosphere. She let the young stripper’s head slip from her grasp and plop once again onto the hard wooden, dirty floor. The girl’s arms shook at her sides. Reed stood on the inside of the circular crowd. He looked down at Clevis on the ground holding the stripper’s hand, waiting for him to start crying.
    The others kept speaking. Reed learned why they were not with their women. One man was an attorney for a large firm downtown. His wife caught him snorting a line of her birth control pills he had ground up, desperate for any kind of high since she had flushed all his coke. She left him, and took the kids with her. Another suit managed accounts at one of the banks in the city. His wife walked in on him jacking it to a history channel documentary on cannibalism. He came right when she walked through the door. She bit his arm then left. But she didn’t take a thing, not one bag. Jason was a news reporter for the local station and he didn’t really know where his wife was.
    “I haven’t really seen her in a while,” he stated, matter of factly.
    Pathetic. Everyone is so lonely. They’re all looking for someone to listen. Reed looked at the crowd and noticed how they were all connected, somehow. He looked at the young stripper and saw how blue she had become. He glanced up at the bar and saw chili dog man fixing himself another snack, this time with even more mustard. He didn’t have to pay for it.
    As the crowd spoke, people made friends. Men took time to hear things that they never would have stopped to listen to otherwise. The few women, besides Jasmine, remained outside the crowd. They talked about pedicures and make-up. Reed listened to the drunken men and wished Clevis would do the same.
    As if awoken from simply a late night nap, the previously unconscious girl pulled her hand out of Clevis’ desperate, longing grasp. She rolled over and propped herself onto her knees. The stripper looked around at the men gathered in a circle and yawned. She made eye contact with Reed. He stared at her without concern, but curious as to why she appeared so put-together and seemingly undaunted. He watched her brush off her legs when she stood up to walk away. Without a word to Clevis and nothing more than a passive glance at Reed, the girl walked through the crowd, the oblivious group, and made her way towards the exit. She strutted down the dark hallway with the only lighting coming from near the door-way at the end. Jeff saw her left hand grab hold of her necklace and adjust the charm, still intact after all the ruckus. Clevis screamed after her, still kneeling down on the floor.
    “Wait! Don’t go! I love you!!!”
     He put his head down to hide tears and a red face. He sniffled way more than Reed could handle. Clevis worried too damn much.

    Reed shook his head as he stood there lighting a cigarette. Through the dimmer of smoke he watched, squinting, as the girls body transformed into a mysterious silhouette.

Sniper

    Benny had watched the old woman for weeks. She was one of a number of elderly widows living in Chicago’s Albany Park, a crumbling neighborhood made up primarily of Swedish and Russian immigrants. Her house, wedged narrowly between boxwood hedges, was a two-story yellow frame with peeling paint. Time and sun had faded the trim over the years, bathing the entire structure in the washed-out tones of an old photograph. The place’s most remarkable feature lay behind the picket fence separating the property from the sidewalk: colorful flowers, every hue of the rainbow, and lush green foliage blanketing the small, but well-cared-for yard. The colors reminded Benny of the pages in his collection of Avengers comic books.
    Benny sat with his back resting against the sagging side of a dilapidated, alley-side garage a half block down the street, baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, shading his pimply face. His yellowed T-shirt had soaked through with sweat, becoming transparent against his skin. Beneath his dirty jeans, socks that had not felt the tug of elasticity in years disappeared into new, black high-top Converse sneakers. “Felony shoes” the cops called them, ‘cause they were made for running.
    He’d figured out the old woman’s routine. It was similar to several others Benny had taken advantage of. On or about the last day of the month, her social security check arrived in the mail. And, like clockwork, the old bat would put on her Sunday dress—a garish, filmy print featuring large blue flowers on a white background—and walk first to the bank and then to the grocery store. Benny had followed her and noted the sizeable wad of bills she’d pulled from her purse to pay the grocer.
    This morning had been no different. He’d stayed well back of her, but her routine was the same. Now all he had to do was to wait for her to go to bed. Benny had been creeping houses since he was fifteen. At first, he’d made sure no one was home, using a pry bar on the door, and scavenging for items he could fence. Then, in one house, he’d happened on an envelope from the Social Security Administration stuffed with tens and twenties. The idea occurred to him that if he played it right, he could forgo the middleman and go directly for the cash. The elderly, he concluded, liked to keep their cash close at hand. And that was fine. Close to them was close to him.
    In the two years since his revelation, he’d brought in the amounts he needed to keep himself in high-dollar sneakers and to score enough marijuana to keep his mind off the parade of men his mother dragged home with her every night. On the positive side of that situation, she was always too preoccupied to notice when he sneaked out of the house.
    His successes had made him bolder. He’d graduated from empty houses during the day to occupied ones, but after the household was asleep. Only then could he be sure the money was in the house. Over the nearly two dozen places he’d broken into, he’d had only one close call—an old lady who’d awakened while he was still in her bedroom, and screamed bloody murder. Benny was fleet of foot, though—something he prided himself on—and he’d been three blocks away before he’d heard sirens in the distance.
    The sun had already dropped below the old house’s gables. Soon the lights would come on in the kitchen, then upstairs, and then the windows would go dark. In a few hours, he’d be ready. Benny rose from the ground and stretched. He would have plenty of time for a sandwich before going out again. Maybe he’d cage an Old Milwaukee from the stash in the fridge. His mom never remembered how much she had, anyway. He smiled as he ambled down the alley toward 3rd Street, thinking about how he might spend his money.

    The moon was bright when Benny returned to his spot by the alley and surveyed the street. That was good because it meant he’d have some light to see by, and he could minimize the use of the small Maglight he’d stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. The post-midnight neighborhood was quiet as a cemetery, nothing moving, no porch lights glowing, no traffic. He moved out of the shadows, crossed the street, and opened the picket fence gate. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he tiptoed up the steps and listened at the front door. Benny felt the adrenalin pumping through his veins as he slipped the pry bar between the door and the doorframe and applied slow, steady pressure.
    The door gave way with a soft thunk and the air around him filled with the faint aroma of cooked cabbage and onions. As he moved quietly into the front hallway, an older, musty smell pervaded his nostrils, like old books left mildewing in a closet. He took a deep breath, surveyed his surroundings in the wan glow of the moonlight, and waited for his heart rate to slow. To his left lay an open living area—a couple of chairs, a desk, and a sofa. To his right, sliding double doors closed off what might be a parlor or a room used for storage. Directly in front of him, a long hallway and stairs led up to the second floor. He was disappointed at seeing no hall table, a favored location for placing house keys and purses.
    He moved cautiously into the room to his left, slipped the Maglight out, and flipped it on. The small circle of light revealed nothing of interest until he shined it on the desk. There, lying among an array of framed photographs, was the old woman’s purse. His heart rate jumped again as he reached inside and spied the fat roll of bills secured with a rubber band. Jackpot.
    He was just stuffing the roll into his jeans’ pocket when he heard a soft click and the room was bathed in bright light. Benny turned in surprise, dropping the Maglight. The old woman stood in front of the double doors, now slightly open. She held an old-looking rifle in her arms, the muzzle pointed directly at him. Benny swallowed hard.
    “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, pronouncing “what” with a “v” like vhat.
    Benny said nothing. He judged the distance between himself and the door, wondering at his chances if he ran. Then his eyes trailed back to the rifle, a bolt-action relic that looked much too heavy for the woman holding it. Still, the muzzle remained steady on his chest.
    She gestured with the barrel toward a spot in front of the sofa. “Sit.”
    Benny didn’t want to sit. If he sat, his movement would be hindered, his chance for escape diminished. But the look in her eye compelled him to move. He sat down on the floor, his back to the sofa, the wad of bills creating a small lump in his pocket. The old woman took a chair next to the desk some ten feet away, resting the rifle across her knees, her finger still on the trigger.
    “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Though she wore a housecoat and slippers, her eyes showed no signs of sleep. “I’ve seen you following me, saw you today at the grocery and up by the alley, later.”
    Benny wanted to say something—anything—but the words buzzed around in his head like flies trapped in a jar. Finally, he managed, “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry,” she repeated, her features emotionless, looking at him as though he were a roach on her kitchen floor.
    Benny’s eyes darted around the room, settled on the desk and the photographs. He nodded in that direction. “Your family?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
    The woman turned her head slightly and her eyes softened just a bit. She slipped her finger from the trigger guard and pointed at a photo showing a thin young man and woman in brown uniforms. The man had a rifle strapped to his back; the woman had her arm through his. “That was my husband,” she said. “We fought in the Russian Army during The Great Patriotic War.”
    It was working, Benny thought. If he could just get her distracted enough, he might have a chance at the door.
    She gestured to another photo in which another smiling young man, also in uniform, stood on the platform of a railway station. “And that was my son, Arkady. He was killed in Afghanistan.”
    Benny pointed to the framed certificate centered between the two previous photographs. It featured a brass-colored circular medal suspended from a brown, red, and gold ribbon. The writing on it was foreign—he could tell that much. It looked like no alphabet he’d ever seen. “What’s that?”
    “A medal of valor,” she said. She touched the certificate with one gnarled finger. “Our snipers received such a medal when they killed fifty or more Germans.”
    So, the old man had been a sniper. That explained where the rifle had come from—probably brought it with him when he and the old lady came to America. He pulled his legs up in front of him, thinking of making a break for the door. But at his movement, the woman snapped back to attention, her eyes narrowing.
    “Tell me,” she said, “how many people you have robbed.”
    “None,” Benny said. “I never robbed no one, never been arrested or nothing.”
    “You were robbing me tonight, and I think you have robbed many people in my neighborhood, old women like me, yes, because you think we are helpless?”
    “Like I said, I—”
    “Did you know Missus Pavlichenko, who lived just down the block? Someone broke into her house four months ago. She awakened while the robber was still in her bedroom and called nine-one-one.”
    Benny shook his head. “I never—”
    “She was dead of a heart attack when the police arrived. Did you know that? I think that was you who killed my friend.”
    Oh, Jeez. The old bat was crazy. She was gonna pop him while he sat there on his ass. Beads of sweat formed on Benny’s forehead and upper lip. “Look, you can’t just shoot me ‘cause some old lady died of a heart attack. The cops—that’s murder—they’ll put you in jail.”
    A thin smile pulled at the corners of the old woman’s mouth. “I don’t think so, an elderly widow like me, and even if they do, my husband and son are gone. Except for a few friends, I don’t have so very much to live for.” She shifted the rifle, pointing it at Benny again. “And you with no arrests? What will they do if I call the police? Give you a slap on the hand? That is what I think will happen, and then, before long, you will be back robbing my friends and neighbors again, maybe kill someone else, maybe even me.”
    Benny watched as her finger tightened on the trigger. Oh, Jeez! Oh, Jeez! She’s gonna do it! He bolted up from the floor, smacked the barrel of the rifle as he swept by the old woman, and yanked open the door. In seconds, he was down the steps and out into the yard. He cleared the fence with inches to spare and ran for all he was worth down the darkened street. A half-block away, he paused for a moment and chanced a glance over his shoulder.
    The old lady had come out onto the porch, light from the open doorway casting her body in silhouette, the rifle she still carried bisecting her thin frame like the cross portion of a crucifix. While Benny watched, she descended the steps and threaded her way slowly through the rows of flowers, stopping at the fence line.
    A strangled yelp of triumph escaped Benny’s throat. He’d made it! He turned and loped off again, the steady fwap, fwap, fwap of his sneakers sounding to him like the beating wings of freedom.
    He’d almost made the corner, was bathed in the glow of a streetlamp, when the front of his chest exploded and the rifle’s report echoed in the still night air. His feet left the ground—no wings of freedom here, though—and a split-second later, he crashed face-first onto the street. He tried to move but nothing worked. He shifted his gaze, saw the blood pooling around his body, thought of his mom. Wished he were home in his bed. In the few remaining seconds of his life, Benny had time for one last thought: It wasn’t the old woman’s husband who was the sniper...

Good Eats

    “C’mon girl! Why do you spend so much time putting make-up on? It don’t make no difference anyhow, you know that.” Frannie’s mother yells at her through the bathroom door.
    “She’s right” Frannie speaks aloud to the mirror “it really doesn’t make a difference.”
     The mirror reflects the hurt felt by her mother’s comment. Frannie would give anything to look like her mother, Sarah. A thirtysomething woman with that emancipated anorexic binge and purge body to die for, with 38 double d’s to boot. The type that the most educated men turn to slobbering slack-jawed knuckle dragging cavemen when she enters a room. The one that always gets the most tips at the bar. Many times Frannie has wondered how she ended up with the fat gene.
    “It’s my turn to open up the bar and you’re making me late! You wanna get me fired? Someone’s gotta keep this family in the lap of luxury. Get a move on.”
    Lap of luxury. Right. Frannie thought. A two bedroom, one bath, roach infested dump with a refrigerator empty save last night’s pizza and three day old Chinese leftovers, cupboards stacked full of Cup O’ Noodles, and a 13 inch TV with a coat hanger for an antenna. She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, hooker red lipstick poised in midair, staring intently at her face. She begins to see certain porcine qualities start to emerge. With a sigh Frannie puts her make-up away.
    “Alright, alright. I’m ready, okay? You don’t have to drive me to school, you know.”
    “Shut up and get in the car.”
    Frannie hates being driven to school by her mother. It’s only a five-minute walk from the apartment. As soon as they enter the parking lot the jockos and pimply-faced dweebs do the double take so fast one would think whiplash would be an epidemic, and say pretty much the same thing:
    “Get a load of those tits! Jeeesus! I can’t believe she is Fat Frannie’s mom”
    Sarah pretends not to hear but the attention she gets is the only reason she insists on driving Frannie to school. “Fat Frannie” is the creative label Frannie is known as throughout the school. Every once in a while “Chunky Chick” and “Fat Bitch” pop up, but “Fat Frannie” seemed to have had a pair of legs all it’s own since elementary school. No one knows her birth name. It’s been a rumor since she was a freshman that if you brought a box of Twinkies on your first date she would suck your dick. When Frannie first heard this she was totally insulted. She hated Twinkies. Frannie said would only accept a box of Ho Ho’s for a blowjob. No pun intended. But then she is kidding. Frannie is still a virgin in all areas except a kiss courtesy of one Stuey Steinberg in the 8th grade that paid her $1 to see what it would feel like. He never did tell her if he liked it.
    A therapist once told Frannie her pain was self-chosen. Frannie told her she wanted to stab her in the neck and ask her if the pain she was feeling was self chosen as a consequence of saying such a thing to an obese patient with self loathing and low self-esteem.
    She is not Frannie’s therapist anymore. The doctor decided further therapy visits would be unproductive.
    “Oh . . .My. . .God!... Donnie’s been looking for you.”
    Frannie turned to face her fair weather friend Maureen. Frannie characterizes her as a fellow fat chick but without the intelligence to realize how unappealing she is. Maureen’s favorite past time is shopping at swap meets and buying second hand clothes ten sizes too small for her fat ass thinking someday she will fit into them. Everyone should have a goal, right?
    “You heard wrong. Why would Donnie be looking for me? You really need to learn the fine art of filtering information through the bullshit radar, Mar Mar.”
    Barely out of the car and she’s telling me the jocko I’ve had a major crush on since 4th grade is looking for me. This day is not going well. Frannie thought.
    “No really, he asked me himself if you had come to school yet.”
    The 1st period bell rings and Frannie and Maureen start walking to class. They are about to walk in when they hear:
     “Hey Frannie.”
    Frannie turns around and there is Donnie in all his toe headed sleepy blue-eyed letterman jacketed glory. She feel like she is going to faint. Is this what they mean by getting the “vapors”? Frannie thinks.
    “Uh, hey. I was wonderin’ if you would like to uh, go get a burger or somethin’ Saturday night?”
    Frannie is stunned. She didn’t know what to say. The only thing she could think of was:
    “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah I’m good.” Donnie says “Uh, do you want to or not?”
    “Okay.”
    “Cool, I’ll pick you up at 7. Where do you live?”
    “That’s okay, just meet me at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Wyatt and 6th.”
    “It’s a date. See you then.”
    She is frozen, standing there watching Donnie’s retreating back.
    “FRANNIE! Are you going to stand there all period or are you going to come in and join the rest of us?”
    Mr. Mathis, Frannie’s homeroom teacher, startles her making her jump an inch or two in the air and causing her to piss her panties a little.
    “Okay, okay I’m coming in! Jeeez! You like scaring people like that Mathis?”
    “No my dear Frannie, only you...heh heh.”
    Asshole, Frannie thinks.

    Once again Frannie is in the bathroom standing in front of the mirror thinking if this is really happening.
    “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fattest of them all?”
    The mirror is a silent un-blinking eye staring back at her.
    “Its okay.” Frannie sighs, “We both know the answer.”
    Running late, Frannie rushes out the door.
    The 7-Eleven parking lot is the usual hang out place for guys who can’t get dates. Of course if you ask them why they are downing slurpees instead of swapping spit, and other biological fluids, with a girl on Black Hills Point, the response would be they are there by choice. Yeah right. Losers. Tonight is no exception. The parking lot is packed. Frannie resists the urge to get some comfort food. A couple of moon pies sounds good right now. The decision is made for her when Donnie’s tricked out Trans-Am rumbles into the parking lot. Donnie’s family is more upper middle class than most in this town. All conversation stops and heads follow his car to where Frannie is standing. He leans over and opens the passenger side door.
    “Get in.”
    As they drive out of the parking lot everyone is looking at them. The windows are up and she can’t hear what they are saying but she can read their lips:
    “What the fuck is HE doing with HER?”
    “They are all losers.” Donnie says. “Don’t worry about them.”
    Frannie settle back into the car seat. Iron Maiden’s “Die With Your Boots On” blasts from the cassette player. He turns down the music and looks at her.
    “How are you doing? Is your mother working tonight?”
    “I’m okay. Yeah, she is working tonight. She works every Saturday night. It’s her biggest tip night.”
    “I bet with all those drunks wanting to cop a feel of her tits. Oh, uh her assets. Sorry.”
    “It’s okay. I know what she is.”
    He glances over at her, turns up the music, turns his head back and concentrates on driving. A veritable fountain of conversation, Donnie is. The trans-am pulls into the crowded parking lot of Athens Burgers, the local greasy spoon. The kind of place one would walk into and half expect to see John Belushi behind the counter screaming “Cheeburger, cheeburger, chips, chips”. Saturday Night Live was so much better back in the ‘70’s.
    They stop at the drive though menu. Before Donnie can open his mouth the menu board speaker spews out:
    “My God! It’s Fat Frannie with Donnie! Someone please tell me I’m on shrooms.”
    A faceless voice from the back says:

    “He’s slummin’ He just wants to get his dick wet tonight.”
    Frannie leans over to Donnie and says:
    “So Donnie, are you just . . .slummin’ tonight?”
    “They’re stupid.” He says. “Don’t listen to those idiots, they are just mad they have to work on a Saturday night. So, what do you want?”
    Looking at the menu board Frannie decides, what the hell?
    “I want a triple cheeseburger, a large order of chili-cheese fries, and a super size chocolate shake”
    Donnie stares at her for a second, turns his head, tells them what she wants and orders a hamburger, fries, and a small soda for himself. They pull up to the window. Brianna, the school head cheerleader, takes Donnie’s money, hands him his drink, and says:
    “Are you that desperate? Dude, spanking your monkey and cumming in a sock is better than her. What are you thinking? Well . . .if you must, here is some advice. Just roll her in flour and look for the wet spot. Heh heh. Look for the wet spot. Heh heh. I crack myself up sometimes.”
    “Shut up, Brianna.” Donny says.
    Frannie leans over and tells Brianna through Donnie’s window:
    “Hey Brianna, how does it feel going though life with a strippers name? I bet you got a pole in your bedroom to practice your moves.”
    “Good one, Fat Frannie. Is that all you can come up with?”
     “Yeah well, good luck in explaining to your bastard children how spreading your ass cheeks for a $1 put them through private school, you stupid twat.”
    Donnie blows soda through his nose onto his custom steering wheel. Brianna is stunned at the insult. Laughter from her co-workers filter out the take-out window.
    “Jesus, you go for the throat, I’ll give you that. God that was funny. Score one for Fat Frannie. Oh . . .uh . . .sorry.”
    “It’s okay” Frannie says, “I’m used to it.”

    How did I end up here? We ate our food and started driving and the next thing I know we are parked on a ledge overlooking the town. Frannie thought.
    The car is parked in the hill area surrounding the exclusive Black Hills Golf Course. Cars to the left and right of them with steamed up windows and squeaking springs keeping time with the tempo of Saturday night adolescent bliss.
    “The view from here is amazing. Hard to believe all those lights below is where we live.” Donnie says. “But I can’t wait leave for college and play football. How about you?”
    “I feel the same.” Frannie says “You can’t help but feel underneath the freshly mowed manicured lawns there is this undercurrent of decay, just under the surface, corrupting and sucking the life out of the people who live here.”
    “Wow Frannie, that’s deep.”
    Suddenly she feels his hand rest on her thigh. High up. Like, pussy hair high up. She stiffens and closes up her legs a bit.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing” Frannie says.
    Donnie removes his hand from her thigh, grabs her hand and places it on his crotch. She can feel his erection through his 501’s and can tell he is a helmet not an anteater. She starts to pull away but he grips her hand firmly and keeps it in place.
    “So . . .Frannie. Fat Frannie that is, are you going to live up to your rep?”
    She looks at his face and sees all pretenses are gone. This “date” was about one thing and one thing only.
    “C’mon Frannie, don’t look so disappointed. You knew what I wanted. Oh please, do you actually think I would have any more interest in you than a one off back seat fuck?”
    Frannie just stares at him. “No” she says, “I guess not” She silently starts to cry.
    “Stop it! Stop crying!”
    Frannie continues to cry because she knows he is right and yet she still went along on this “date” even though she pretty much knew how it would end. Why did I do this? What is wrong with me? Frannie thought.
    “Goddammit, I said stop it!”
    The next thing Frannie feels is Donnie’s hand backslapping her across the face. The salty taste of blood fills her mouth.
    “You cockteasing bitch, why did you make me do that? Why can’t you just shut the fuck up?”
    “I am sorry I disappointed you. Don’t hit me anymore. Take me home. Please.”
    “Nope, not until I get what I want. If you’re not up to it you can get out and walk home”
    Frannie gets out of the car. It backs up and speeds off.
    “Fucking bitch!” She hears Donnie yell as the taillights disappear. Sobbing, Frannie starts to walk home.

    Capped and gowned students fill the football field. Some look hopeful, some look scared, and most look bored. The football field is a sea of blue with seniors milling about with cameras taking pictures of each other. Overtures and promises of staying in touch fill the air. By the end of the summer the promises will be broken with everyone going their separate ways. Just like the graduating class before them, and before that. Nothing ever changes.
    Donnie and a buddy are hanging out by the field entrance.
    “Fat Frannie’s the valedictorian.” He says. “I wonder what she is going to say in her speech”
    “Dude, like, who cares.” The buddy says.
    “This sucks, man. I was supposed to go to college and play football. Now look at me, my leg in a cast and my football days are over.”
    “Shit man, that does suck. At least you went out a champion. Got a big trophy”
    “Yeah like that will get me a job.”
    Principal Lumley walks to the podium and addresses the crowd:
    “Okay class of ’85, find your seats.”
    A massive blue procession starts moving towards the fold up chairs in the middle of the football field. They are herded through a single line in the guise of “security.” Mooing cow sounds erupt from a bold few spreading out among the graduates. Light laughter comes from the bleachers reserved for friends and family.
    “Thank you all for coming out and supporting our senior graduating class. Just some announcements: Summer school starts in two weeks. Registration for incoming freshmen starts August 31st. Okay, well without further ado I present our class of 1985 valedictorian: Frannie Hewson.”
    The applause was almost non-existent. Frannie approaches the microphone, squares off, scans the crowd left to right and says:
    “I hate this school, and everyone in it. I hate this town, and everyone in it. Everyone can kiss my fat fucking ass. Goodbye.”
    Rumor has it Fat Frannie boarded a greyhound bus still dressed in full cap and gown for parts unknown. No one has seen or heard of her since.

    Donnie and his wife are outside the entrance to the newest restaurant in town. They look over the posted menu.
    “Oh wow, everything looks so good. I can’t believe a place like this would come here. And here we thought fine dining was Sizzler’s. Although I think this place is sort of pricey. Don’t you think?” Donnie says.
    “Yeah, maybe.” His wife says. “But I’ve heard the food is worth it”
    “Well I guess I should support our new local business. Being a pillar of the community and all, I have an obligation, you know.”
    “Oh stop it Donnie, you are a mediocre insurance salesman, at best. You print on your business cards you were the High School CIF All Star Quarterback for 1985. How pathetic is that?”
    “Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing my loving and supportive wife of 23 years . . .Maureen.”
    “Stop it. You know I love you. But I’m not ignorant of the fact you and your ex-high school jocks beer buddies are pussy whipped over the rumors of Ms. LaCharite’s supposed beauty and flirtations.”
    “Uh . . .uh moi? With such a beautiful and loving wife to come home to?”
    “You can be such an asshole Donnie. C’mon, lets get something to eat.”
    “Yes, dear.”

    I hate this town and everyone in it.
    Those words still invade Donnie’s mind when he’s had a few drinks. He still has dreams of leaving this town in spite of his marriage and kids. Does that make me a bad person? Donnie wonders. Big plans and dreams unrealized because he knocked up a local fat chick. His life thrown away because of a simple moment of weakness. How stupid is that? He hates his wife, his children, his friends, and most of all, himself. Is it any wonder he spends most of his waking hours planted on a barstool in The Croaking Frog, the local pub, three steps from his insurance agency? Jack and coke is his drug of choice. Isn’t life sweet? He thinks.
    “Hey Donnie! Man, that Hail Mary pass to Nelson to win that CIF championship was sweet. You were at the top of your game. Too bad you got sacked on the next play and blew out your knee. Bad luck that was. But hey, we were still champions, right?”
    “Yeah, we were.”
    That would be Slim Jim Tim reminding Donnie for the umpteenth time of his injury that derailed any college or pro football prospects. Slim Jim’s nickname is a reference to his sordid addiction to those grease infused mystery meat bar snacks. His continued existence should be the subject of a science experiment. Slim Jim Tim and cockroaches will be the only forms of life surviving the big one.
    “Hey, have you heard about that new restaurant in town? GoodEats? I hear the owner is a hottie.”
    “Yeah, I heard that too” Donnie says, “Me and the Missus ate there the other night. It’s kind of pricey, but the food is excellent. No sign of Ms. Hottie though. LaCharite. Interesting name.”
    “It’s French I think.”
    “French. Really. I would have never guessed. Thanks for the clarification Slim Jim.”
    “No problem, dude. Oh wait, you were being sarcastic. Okay I get it.”
    “Yeah I was. No one can put anything past you.”
    “Nope, nobody can...uh . . .oh damn, were you being sarcastic again?”
    “Yeah Slim Jim, I was.”
    “Hey, speaking of GoodEats, did ya hear it’s hosting our 25th anniversary reunion?”
    “Really? Wow. Well at least the food will be good. Our 20th anniversary at that pizza place sucked ass.”
    The door to the bar opens. The patrons shield their eyes at the offending daylight. They see an hourglass silhouette in the doorway. The form pauses, as if for effect, before entering the bar. No one recognizes her but everyone knows she is Ms. LaCharite, owner of GoodEats.
    “So Bartender is a well made lemon drop martini out of the question, or is this dump strictly beer and wine?”
    “Uh . . .no Miss I think we can handle that order.” The bartender replies.
    Ms. LaCharite slips onto a barstool two away from Donnie.
    “Well, you’re new” Donnie says “Have we met?”
    “Is that the only pick up line you can come up with? Wow, are you the slick one. What’s next? Do you come here often? What would your wife say, Romeo?”
    “Who, Maureen? Oh please, the old ball and chain probably has her fat ass parked on the sofa watching her soaps and stuffing her piehole with crunchy cheetos as we speak.”
    “Your wife’s name is Maureen?”
    Ms. LaCharite’s smile disappears and she quickly looks up at the Lotto monitor over the bar.
    “What? Is something wrong?”
    Her eyes drop from the Lotto screen and lock onto Donnie’s.
    “No, not at all. Your love and respect for your wife is inspiring.”
    “Aw, I care for her and all I guess. We got married very young. I never thought my life would turn out like this.”
    “We all have regrets. What about Maureen? I wonder if she thought her life would turn out like the way it has. Ever think about that?”
    “What’s she got to complain about? She stays home and I work. I try not to think about it too much. Hey, what do you say? There is a motel just a block away. I know the owner. I can get a nice suite cheap. Wanna bump uglies?”
    “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl but, uh, I’ll take a rain check, lover boy.”
    The bartender serves up the lemon drop martini. Ms. LaCharite sips cautiously.
    “Not bad. Thank you.”
    “No problem, ma’am.”
    “Word has it GoodEats is hosting our 25th high school reunion.” Donnie says.
    “Yes. I am looking forward to it. Very much so.”
    “Well, I hope you have a good menu planned.”
    “Oh yes. A very special one I am personally supervising.”
    “Oh wow, I can’t wait.”
    “Neither can I. Well I would love to sit and chat with such interesting men but I have a restaurant to run. Good afternoon gentlemen.”
    Ms. LaCharite slips off the barstool and is out the door seemingly in one graceful motion.
    “She is a hottie.”
    “Yeah” The bartender says as he pockets the $20 bill left for the $6.50 lemon drop martini.

    Donnie and Maureen are standing outside GoodEats looking at the menu for tonight’s dinner.
    “What’s so special about this menu?” Donnie says, “Man, she sure likes to deep fry stuff.”
    “What do you mean the menu isn’t special? What were you expecting?” Maureen says.
    “Oh . . .uh. . .nothing dear. Let’s just go in.”
    “I wonder if Frannie will make an appearance this year.”
    “Fat Frannie? That would be a riot. She is probably 400 pounds by now.”
    “You are an ass, Donnie.’
    “I love you too, Honey.”
    “Let’s go in have something to eat and try to have a good time.”
    “Yes, dear.”
    GoodEats was packed. Former classmates measuring their success against one another. Inwardly pleased others are not as well off, spending more time with those than the ones far more successful. Donnie and Maureen find their table and sit down.
    “Why is it I look forward to these get-togethers only to hate them once I have to suffer through them?” Donnie says.
    “Well dear, I am sure everyone else is thinking the same thing.”
    I hate this school and everyone in it.
    Why do those words pop into my head? Donnie wonders. He looks around the room and realizes it’s because those words express how he feels. His sports injury, guilt trip family, and meaningless job, has made him a nobody. He had such promise and fate took that away from him. Or was it Karma? No. Wait. Karma is good. Dharma is bad. What did he ever do to anyone?
    “Hey Donnie”
    “Hey Kevin”
    Kevin Matthison was Donnie’s defensive end in High School football. For a time he was also his best friend.
    “Missed you in college, man. We would have had so much fun.”
    “Yeah, don’t remind me”
    “Hey I wonder if Fat Frannie is gonna make it this year? That would be a hoot”
    “It sure would. I’m going to get a drink.”
    “Okay, see ya.”
    Donnie goes to the bar and orders a jack and coke, downs it, orders another and gets back to his table just as dinner was being served. The food was excellent. Everyone else must have thought so. Most conversations stopped as people just concentrated on eating.
    “The food is wonderful, Donnie.”
    “Yeah, I’m going to have to eat healthy for a month after eating this much fried food.”
    Dinner ends and the plates are picked up. Desert is now being served. Maureen is served a plate but Donnie is not. He starts to protest but a waiter seems to show up from nowhere.
    “Ms. LaCharite enjoyed her conversation with you at the Croaking Frog. Here is a special desert for you to enjoy.”
    “What?” Maureen says, “Are you kidding me? You had a conversation with her?”
    “Yeah, a short one”
    “Anything I should be worried about? Did you offer to bone her at the local motel?”
    “What? How would . . .no of course not.”
    “Uh huh.”
    Donnie looks at his “special” desert. A puff pastry sprinkled with powdered sugar. He slices into it and a red filling oozes out. He tastes it and a heavenly combination of flavors fills his mouth. It has just the right balance of sweetness and tart. It is amazing. Donnie wonders what the filling is made of. Passion fruit?
    Suddenly the din of the crowd lowers. All the guests look up as Ms. LaCharite enters the dining room. You could hear a pin drop.
    “Thank you all, class of ‘85, for having your reunion party at my restaurant. I hope the food was enjoyable and everyone is having a good time. A person starts clapping. The other guests join in.
    “Thank you. I know there’s been speculation about. Well, my name is Francine LaCharite. But I think most, if not all of you, would know me as Frannie Hewson, or Fat Frannie.”
    An audible gasp fills the room. Donnie is stunned. He is glued to the chair. Fat Frannie’s eyes lock onto his.
    “As you can see I am not the “fat” Frannie you remember” I once said I hated this town and everyone in it. I still do. This is why it gives me great personal pleasure to inform you all everything you all have eaten tonight was cooked, sautéed’, and deep fried, in my liposucted fat. Bon Appétit’.”
    The sound of scraping chairs and gagging fill the room as the diners make a mad rush to the bathrooms. Retching and vomiting sounds are audible through the swinging bathroom doors. Frannie walks toward Donnie’s table and stops at his side. Her eyes locked onto his the whole time. Why can’t I look away? Donnie thinks.
    “Did you enjoy my special desert?” Frannie says “I made it especially for you Donnie my dear. Want to know the ingredients?”
    Donnie nods. His face is pale. Beads of sweat appear on his brow.

    “Your puff pastry was filled with a cancerous tumor removed from my lower intestine. It took a lot of red food dye and sugar cover up the black color and foul taste. Oh and a dash of passion fruit puree”
    Donnie starts to feel nauseous and starts to gag.
    “Can one get cancer from ingesting a disease ridden tumor? I guess we shall see . . .won’t we? My dear Donnie.”
    Bile fills Donnie’s mouth. He swallows it down but the gorge comes back up. He rushes to the men’s room. As he door closes behind him he hears:
    “Ah yes, revenge really IS a dish best served piping hot”

The Mishap

    Lara knew she shouldn’t have made a stop to get coffee, but she was tired and partly addicted to having something keep her going. She had less than an hour to make it across town to pick up her son or the day care would charge her by the hour. She hated uptown day care systems, but it was the cheapest thing near her job. Come on, she thought, as the happy cashier took her money.
    Lara bit her nails and smiled nervously at the customers in line. She looked past them at her car that was parked in a tow zone to make sure it hadn’t been ticketed. How much time did it take to make a latte? She could do it much faster. “Lara, is that you?” a voice asked behind her. Lara turned around and saw an old friend of the family. It was her mother’s friend, Donna McKean, the town gossip of a high and holy variety. For some reason, Mrs. McKean was an expert manipulator—the type of person that found it permissible to intrude on the intimacies of one’s daily life and walk away feeling satisfied, leaving her victims replete with transparency and confusion.
    Lara wanted to scream at her misfortune. “It’s been ages, I tell you. Just ages. How’s your mother?” she asked. Lara managed a weak smile. “She’s great,” she answered. There was a loud call for a vanilla latte and Lara excused herself. It was a miracle that the tiny coffee shop could save her from the beginning of a definite bad day. “It was great seeing you, Mrs. McKean,” she said, walking away. “Well, where are you off to in such a hurry?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I need to go pick up my son,” Lara answered. “Still on your own, I see. I just told Mae the other day that you were just too fine a girl to be single. And having to raise a boy all by yourself. You know boys need a nice father-figure in their lives,” she added. Lara looked around at the patrons and the blood rushed to her face. “Was great seeing you,” she managed through clenched teeth and walked away.
    The wind whistled past her as she pushed the door open and stepped outside. There was a burly police officer putting a ticket on the car in front of hers, and she secretly wished it was Mrs. McKean’s. The wind tore through her wool coat as she unlocked the car and settled in. Lara saw a patron running outside of the coffee shop to dispute the ticket. She hit the gas and her car flew backwards, hitting the car behind her. The sound was as loud as she expected, and the police officer looked in her direction.
    Lara closed her eyes and cursed herself for getting out of bed that day. She pushed the car door open and went to survey the damage before the officer could. The unlucky patron continued to argue with him about the ticket, which would buy Lara time. There was very little damage to the car she hit, as it was an older model, but there was plenty of damage to hers. She ran to her car to grab a pen and paper to write down her details. Lara scribbled her information on her card and walked to the other car to tuck it in the windshield when she saw him. She let out a short gasp before walking around the car to look inside the backseat.
    Her eyes had not deceived her—it was a small boy, who looked around her son’s age, with his hands tied behind his back and duck tape over his mouth. He seemed to be unconscious. Lara was hysterical and beat against the window frantically, trying to wake him. The police officer walked over and tried to calm her down, but Lara found it difficult to speak. She cried and point at the car. “Ma’am, I see you’ve had a mishap here with this car—saw it myself actually. Now we can deal with this several ways, but I’m going to need you to get your license and registration,” he said.
    Lara shook her head and yelled at him to look in the car. A few more patrons emerged from the coffee shop and gathered around her car. “Ma’am, license and registration,” he said firmly. Lara hurried to the car and grabbed her registration. Her entire body shook at the horrific image of the boy. “Dave, is that you?” she heard. It was Mrs. McKean again. Lara closed her door, thrust the information into the officer’s hands, and walked over to try helping the boy again. “No, ma’am. You stay here,” he said. He waved at Mrs. McKean who walked over to the back of Lara’s car to investigate. She couldn’t make out the discourse, but heard the officer say, “Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. McKean. I’m taking care of this, so you just settle down.” Lara walked over to them, and Mrs. McKean looked at her emptily. “Davy, I know Lara, and there’s no damage to my car, so you just be on now,” she said.
    Tears streamed down Lara’s face and she screamed and yelled at the officer to look inside the car, that Mrs. McKean had hurt a little boy. He looked at her with incredulity. “Ma’am, if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you for disturbing the peace,” he said. “Disturbing the peace? Look in the car, you freakin’ idiot!” Lara yelled. The officer was annoyed at the apparent lack of respect she had for authority and handcuffed her. Lara begged him to simply take a look, but he was already pushing her into the back of the patrol car. She hung her head at the situation. She thought about the boy and wept quietly as he pulled away from the curb.

Oxygen

    The infection had finally been cured, the doctor said. “Your lungs will never be strong, Mrs. Maxwell, but there’s no reason you can’t live to a ripe old age.”
    “But if the disease comes back?” she asked. Mitch shuddered — how long he had endured that self-pitying whimper! Early in her illness, when a trace of his youthful love yet remained, he had been reconciled to eventual loss. Then, as years wore on, he’d come to relish the thought of her death, which would free him from a marriage unsuitable from its start. (He should have listened to his mother.) And now . . .
    “That shouldn’t happen, not after the success of this latest drug therapy, and the regimen of bed rest I’ve prescribed.”
    “But I still need oxygen to sleep.”
    “A large amount of lung tissue had to be excised, so it’s not surprising you have trouble breathing.” The doctor removed his glasses and wiped them studiously. “Keep using the oxygen, if it makes you more comfortable. Proper sleep is essential.”
    “We’re terribly grateful,” she said, “aren’t we, Mitchell?” Her wan face almost glowed.
    “Indeed we are, my dearest. Terribly grateful, doctor.”
    He took her home to their apartment in the Osborne, helped her lie down — the cab ride had overwhelmed her reserves — and then, ignoring her protests, fled to the sanctuary of his office.
    There he placed a call. “Mr. John Landon, please. . . . No, I am not a client of his. We are personal friends. Please say that it is Mitchell Maxwell calling.”
    “Hey, Mitch. Where you been keeping yourself?”
    “Busy, my dear friend, terribly busy. But now I wish to make up for my neglect of our association. I thought we might meet for a drink next Tuesday at, say, the Algonquin?”
    “What’s the deal?”
    “I need your legal counsel on a personal matter. My wife has been ill for a long time, and the duration of her infirmity has had unfortunate consequences.”
    “A drug problem?”
    “You are so perspicacious. I wish to consult with you as to whether one might assume certain authority . . .”
    “Not if she’s compos mentis, Mitch, if I get your drift. But we can go into details when I see you. What time?”
    “Shall we agree on five-thirty?”
    “Tuesday—it’s on my calendar.”
    He had many preparations to make, sufficient to exceed the resourcefulness of any lesser man. “Melissa!”
    “Yes, Mr. Maxwell?” His secretary appeared at the door.
    “Cancel any further appointments for the day. I shall be away for the balance of the afternoon and then the weekend. In an emergency, I can be reached at my apartment.”
    “Yes, Mr. Maxwell. And I’m glad to see Mrs. Maxwell is so much better.”
    “And whither draw you that conclusion?”
    “This morning, when she came by in the taxi and picked you up, I was just getting back from my coffee break.”
    “In fact, Melissa, Mrs. Maxwell is still gravely ill. A temporary remission allowed her to travel to the doctor’s office for tests. Now, excuse me. I must make a call before I leave.”
    “Want me to get someone on the line for you?”
    “No, and close the door behind you!” He pulled a tattered card from his pocket, read a number, and dialed.
    “JB&A Auto Leasing.”
    Mitch spoke softly. “This is Max Muller. Is my car ready?”
    “Ready for an hour now. Where y’ been?”
    “I shall be there in ten minutes.”
    From under his desk, he hauled out the carton he’d put there that morning. He carried it out with him.
    “That looks heavy, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Thank you for your concern, Melissa, but it is mostly air.”
    The rental office — sideline of a Midtown parking garage — was grimy and littered, smelling of stale soda and cigarettes, the sort of place where he would normally scorn to do business.
    “See your driver’s license, Mr. Muller?”
    “Here you are.”
    The man studied the photograph. A good likeness, Mitch thought, of his present appearance — mustache and eyebrows darkened in a café restroom, and the brown wig concealing his blond hair.
    “Okay,” the man said. “Now how ‘boutcher credit card?”
    “Do you not take coin of the realm?”
    “Huh?”
    “Cash, my good man. As you might put it, the green stuff.”
    “We ain’t allowed . . .” The man’s eyes widened at the size of the proffered bankroll. “How much is that?”
    “How much is the rental?”
    “Sixty bucks, if you have it back by midnight. And I’ll need secur’ty.”
    Mitch peeled off a pair of bills. “Here are two hundred, of which you may keep half, if after my return you show the same discretion as you are exhibiting at this moment.”
    “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing.” The man stuffed the money in the pocket of his greasy coveralls. There were tattoos on both his arms. The nature of the decorations, maudlin or obscene, was indiscernible in the light from a single bulb in the ceiling of his tiny cubicle.
    Over the Queensborough Bridge and into the borough from which it draws its name. The streets of Long Island City are a warren of factories and industrial storage facilities. There should be, he thought, a tennis club at the next cross street, one of those inflatable creations like a giant caterpillar, or a blimp come to rest amid the towers of masonry.
    Driving a block past the club, Mitch found the warehouse he was seeking, a corrugated-metal structure surrounded by a chain-link fence with bits of trash caught in the interstices. He parked and walked through the open gate.
    “Do you recharge canisters here?”
    “Yeah,” the fat man said, idly scratching a crescent of hairy belly pushing from under his tee-shirt. The garment, silk-screened “Thunderbird Spa — Where the Gorgeous Go,” was stiff with dirt. “Whatcha wanta chahge wit’?”
    “Carbon dioxide.” Mitch opened the carton and pulled out a small tank of burnished metal.
    “Says oxygen.” The man shifted an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “An’ it’s still got a little bit in it. Good t’ing I ain’t got dis stogie fired up.”
    “Oxygen is what it originally contained,” Mitch said, “but our model car club, in . . . Hicksville . . . has been using it for CO2 for some time now. I really must have it filled. We have a meet this evening. Were we to run out, that would be discommoding, do you not know.”
    “Yeah, don’t I not know. Well, dis heah tank’s rated for oxy, see, an’ weah not s’posed to fill it with cahbon di. I s’pose I could do it up to maybe eighty p’cent, but I’d wanta be comp’sated for d’ risk.”
    “I think our club budget can afford extra for insurance. How much did you have in mind?”
    “Twenny? One top of the fi’teen for refillin’, dat is.”
    “Done. Hurry it up, will you? I should like to be on my way before rush hour.”
    As Mitch walked into the Osborne, Pawlowski the doorman rushed to help. “That package looks pretty heavy, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Mostly air, Pawlowski. Be so kind as to ring the elevator.”
    In the apartment, he stowed the carton not in the pantry with seemingly identical others, but in his study. He looked at his watch, then dialed the telephone.
    “Hola.”
    “Feliciana, this is Mister Maxwell. Do you still have next Tuesday open?”
    “Si, just like I promise you.”
    “Be here at five o’clock. You have the key I sent you?”
    “Si.”
    “Mrs. Maxwell will be napping. Fix her dinner, and waken her at six. I shall be late, but you can plan on leaving about ten. Should you need to, you can reach me at the Algonquin Hotel. I shall leave the number by the telephone. Do you understand?”
    “Si, I read the number.”
    He came out of his study whistling the final duet from Faust. “Anne, my dear,” he called. “The sun is over the yardarm and I am about to mix a martini. Will you join me?”

    On Tuesday, he returned to his office after an excellent lunch. “Any calls, Melissa?”
    “On your spike, Mr. Maxwell. The one on top is a Mr. Goodring, who’d like to see you at four o’clock.”
    “Call him and make it four-fifteen. I must be away from three until a bit past four, at my dentist.”
    “The one I have the number for?”
    “A new fellow, recommended by a business associate. I shall give you his number when I return.”
    At ten of three, he left the office and walked to the Osborne. He let himself in the service entrance with a key not normally available to tenants, making sure — easily, given Pawlowski’s inattention — that by crouching and covering head and hands with his dark jacket, he could prevent the doorman’s seeing him on the monitor. If the fellow caught a glimpse of movement, he would be too lazy to react, and—Mitch had checked—the fool would go off at six. By the time anyone might ask him, he would have forgotten.
    “Mitchell!” Anne looked up from arranging a bowl of flowers in the entryway. “I never expected you home in the afternoon.” The woman was putting on weight, and looking better every day.
    “I had a meeting cancelled, my dear, and grasped this opportunity to tuck you in for your nap. You have not had your warm milk yet, have you?”
    “I was about to prepare it.”
    “That will be my pleasure.”
    He walked down the hall toward the kitchen, humming a hauntingly lovely passage from Swan Lake.
    A step into his study, where he took the tank from its carton. He carried it with him, and placed it next to the others in the pantry.
    He took milk from the refrigerator, poured it into a mug, and added a tablespoon of sugar and a dash of vanilla. From the cabinet he reached for a heavy crockery plate and from the utensil drawer a stainless steel serving spoon. Extracting a vial of sleeping pills from his pocket, he shook out three of the small blue tablets. Were three enough? Too many might be regurgitated. Perhaps four. He shook out another onto the plate and re-counted — one, two, three, four.
    They crushed, but with difficulty. Hard and slippery little rascals.
    “Mitchell?” Her voice came from the distance. “May I help?”
    “You stay there, my pet. I could not locate the vanilla, but now I have it.” However well-to-do her commercial family, she had been a common little baggage, the misplaced infatuation of his youth, one that was now about to be corrected. He scraped the blue powder into the mug, stirred vigorously, and placed it in the microwave. While it was heating, he washed both plate and spoon.
    After an initial sip, she made a face. “It’s bitter, Mitchell.”
    “Let me add more sugar.”
    “No, it’s not so bad, after the first swallow.”
    “Down to the teddy-bear,” he said, inspecting the bottom.
    “Oh, you are so funny!”
    “Now let us tuck you in, my precious dove, before the potion takes effect. Did you know there is scientific evidence that milk really does induce sleep?”
    He helped pull her dress over her head, and stood by as she sat to remove her shoes.
    “Would you like to cuddle awhile, Mitchell? You don’t have to go back to the office right away, do you?”
    “I have a meeting, my dear, or there is nothing I would like better. But when I return . . .” He waved coquettishly, with the tips of his fingers, from the doorway. He hesitated. “Before I leave, let me check that oxygen tank.”
    He pretended to look at the dial. “Almost empty, as I feared. This will take but a moment.”
    “I can try napping without it. I’m getting better so fast.”
    “My dear, I hope that your improvement will soon so warrant. But for now I insist you wear the mask while sleeping. Your lungs will heal faster if you avoid straining them.”
    “It’s so good to have someone care about me the way you do!”
    He exchanged tanks in the pantry and returned. There was a hiss and then silence as he hooked the new tank to the line. “I must be on my way.” He bent over her. “A last kiss.”
    As he stepped back, she smiled drowsily and reached for the mask. His last view of her was one of peaceful rest.
    He was back at ten past four. “Goodring here yet?”
    “Not yet. Did you bring me that number from the dentist?”
    “No need. I found the fellow’s work unsatisfactory, so am returning to my former.”
    “Can I leave at five o’clock, if you’re still in your office with Mr. Goodring?”
    “No, I may have a memo to dictate, but I shall be departing on the dot of five-fifteen. Is five-fifteen soon enough?”
    “I guess so.”
    “I shall pay you overtime, Melissa. In fact, you may write on your calendar, as a reminder, the time five-fifteen.”
    “Gee, Mr. Maxwell, that isn’t . . .”
    “Do as I say!” He waited while she complied.
    Later, as his guest was leaving, he asked her, “What time is it, Melissa?”
    “Five . . . five-twenty, Mr. Maxwell.”
    “Correct the calendar entry.” She entered the information, this time without argument. He walked out the door.
    It took him ten minutes to get to the Algonquin. He walked through the lobby, checking to see if the telephone cubicle was unoccupied. John Landon was already seated in the bar, a glass of whiskey in front of him.
    “Dear fellow, forgive me for being late.”
    “No sweat, Mitch.” The lawyer unfolded his skinny body from the chair, stood, and clasped Mitch’s hand.
    “Ah, but it is sweat, as you put it. I am five minutes late — or is my watch correct? What does yours say?”
    “Five-thirty-one.”
    “Is that not a bit fast?”
    “Maybe a minute.”
    “Then mine is correct — five-thirty. Bartender!”
    A waitress came. “Bombay gin martini, my good woman, straight up. Chill the glass in the freezer, please. I am willing to wait.”
    “How you coming, sir?” she asked John.
    “One mo’ time,” John half-sang, winking at Mitch. The waitress took the glass, looking puzzled.
    Mitch chuckled deliberately at his friend’s humorous reference. “Now let us talk seriously,” he said. “I have a sad reason for this meeting.”
    “What drugs is your wife on?”
    “It is a barbiturate, I believe, called Ambien.”
    “That’s the one been involved in a lot of suits. People’ve said it makes ‘em raid the fridge in their sleep. Can you believe it!”
    “It is not a question of litigation.”
    “Prescribed by a doctor?”
    “Yes, and he has been cautious in limiting quantities. But she saves them up, and then . . .”
    “How many? At a time?”
    “Two, perhaps three.”
    “Jesus, Mitch, I’d call the sawbones if I were you. What does it do to her?”
    “She falls into a deep sleep, and one is unable to wake her until the next morning.”
    “How can she do that and manage to breathe? Wasn’t she was on oxygen for a long time?”
    “She ties the mask to her face with a harness, so that it cannot fall off. And I am there.”
    “What if you had to travel?”
    Mitch managed not to show delight. “Fortunately, my friend, I am lately able to spend all my nights with the dear lady. During the day, however, I sometimes get a woman to stay with her while she naps. In fact, that is the situation this very afternoon. Feliciana has instructions to call me, wherever I am, at the slightest sign of difficulty.”
    “She’s not competent?”
    Mitch made himself smile. “She has a tendency to be rough, whereas I know the right amount of gentle patting to loosen the phlegm in my darling’s chest.”
    “Sounds like you got the bases covered. Still, I’d get your wife back to the doctor for a talking-to. People get tempted to increase dosage, and then they get hooked.”
    Mitch heard a cough, and looked up to find the waitress standing by their table. “Mr. Maxwell,” she whispered, “you have a call in the lobby.”
    “Thank you, my good woman. What time do you have, John?”
    “It’s five-forty, Mitch. Why do you ask?”
    “I must leave soon, but first I shall see why someone is importuning me at this hour.”
    He walked to the lobby and stepped into the cubicle.
    “Mister, this Feliciana. The missus, I no can wake her!”
    “She sometimes sleeps deeply, Feliciana.”
    “She no breathing. You come pronto?”
    “Of course. Have you called the doctor? His number is on the pad where I wrote this one.”
    “I see. I call.”
    After mussing his carefully combed hair and pulling his tie down from his collar, he walked quickly back into the bar.
    “Jeez,” John said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “My wife.” Mitch tightened his throat, making his voice crack. “Come with me, fast!”
    They started together for the door. Mitch stopped. “Hail a taxi, John.” He walked back and threw bills on the table. It would not do to have his standing harmed in elegant places.
    When they reached the Osborne, Mitch jumped from the taxi and ran inside, John catching up as he was stepping onto the elevator. The door closed behind them.
    “She’ll be all right, Mitch, you’ll see.”
    At their floor, the door opened, and Mitch raced down the hall. John followed, surely (surely!) impressed by his companion’s uncharacteristic panic. In the middle of the living room, talking with Feliciana, stood a policeman.
    “You’re not the doctor!” Mitch exclaimed.
    “Is this your home?” the officer asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you Michael Maxwell?”
    “Mitchell Maxwell.”
    “The doctor’s not here, but a patrolman trained in CPR is trying to revive your wife.”
    “How is it that you happen to be here? Has there been some . . . crime committed, officer?”
    “No sir. I was riding patrol with one of my teams—I’m squad lieutenant—when the doorman hailed us. Now come with me, gentlemen.” The lieutenant strode toward the bedroom, pulling the two in his wake.
    A blue-uniformed patrolman was kneeling on the floor, breathing into Anne’s mouth. Her legs stuck out from her slip — soft, white, blue-veined. Mitch felt a surge of pity.
    The young cop looked up, thick blond mustache and full cheeks. “No response, Loot.” He gave her chest five sharp pushes with the heel of his hand, then resumed the breathing.
    “Doctor he is here,” Feliciana announced.
    A gray-haired man came into the room, followed by a couple of attendants bearing a folded gurney. “All leave, please. Watch the door, officer.”
    As they waited, Mitch whispered to John: “She must not die. Not after all we have been through!” And then: “I do not know how I shall live without her.” And again: “The grief will be more than I can bear.” He was running out of words.
    The doctor emerged. “Which is the spouse of the decedent?”
    “I am he,” Mitch answered with suitable gravity. He moved to one side as the attendants bore a sheet-covered body through the living room and out the door.
    “I’m very sorry,” the doctor said. “There was nothing to be done. She had been in a severe state of anoxia.”
    “But she had oxygen!” Mitch exclaimed.
    “She seems to have taken a depressant, and may have suffered cardiac arrest. We’ll know after the autopsy.”
    “Will you go with them to the hospital, John?” Mitch asked. “I’ll follow as soon as I’ve tidied up the apartment.”

William Locke Hauser bio

    William Locke Hauser, after military and business careers, is engaged in a “third career” of writing fiction. Eighteen of his stories have been published, notably in AntiMuse (Best in Show Fiction, 2006) and Writers’ Forum (first prize, Summer 2007 contest); and, most recently, in Mobius (March 2009). He and his wife Helen Alexandra, an entrepreneurial businesswoman, live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

End Point

    “Honey, just get on the couch,” Mary, Simon’s aide, told Lisbeth. “Relax. Shh-shh.”
    Lisbeth didn’t see how she could do anything but relax. The blood was bleeding through her panties, onto her jeans, even though she’d put on a new pad in her bathroom before school started, only a few hours ago. She was too dizzy to care about the blood. She let Mary’s maternal hands lead to the couch in the section of the room called the “peace corner” because allegedly any student could sit there and manifest a feeling of inner peace. Lisbeth didn’t see how she could possibly feel peace so close to the other Elizabeth, who had demoted her to Elisabeth M. or “Elisabeth with an S” because Lisbeth’s mother didn’t believe in nicknames outside of the house. Never before had Lisbeth felt so peaceful anywhere. The pain immobilized her. Her mind couldn’t focus.
    That feeling, lying on the couch, was all she rememberedbefore she woke up in a hospital bed.

**

    Before the hospital bed, there was the hotel room bed.
    It was queen-sized, to big for one allegedly married (though living alone) man who claimed to hate excess. Outside of the classroom, Lisbeth only saw him demonstrate his hated towards anyone who took more than they needed by removing his wedding band before he got into the bed. He seemed to think letting her see it naked would make what he was doing worse. Little did he know, the symbol didn’t mean anything to her anyway. The stone had fallen out of Lisbeth’s mother’s engagement ring. For some reason, she’d stopped wearing her wedding band as well. It didn’t mean she cheated on her husband. Or even thought about it.
    At twelve years old, Lisbeth didn’t believe her mother was capable of having a single impure thought. Why else would she trust him? There had to be a reason deeper than their shared profession- teaching Montessori.
    Lisbeth didn’t believe that Montessori schools would bring world peace and were therefore the most important institutions on Earth, but he did. He believed his work justified his actions. Sometimes he called out Montessori’s name in between orgasms-always his, never hers. He explained that it was because it wasn’t her hotel room. Later, she forgot almost everything- the room and his explanations- yet remembered the screams.
    She also remembered why she’d been singled out. Of the twenty- four students in the classroom, Elizabeth H. and Elisabeth M. were the only two who had mothers who also taught at the school, making it seem logical that they’d get special treatment. Both their mothers assumed that the word “Montessori” had the same effect on pedophiles as cruxifixes- one of which Lisbeth’s mother wore around her neck, just in case- had on vampires: simply seeing it on the school’s sign would repel them. So they were both effectively helpless. Lisbeth only vaguely knew about rape and thought it only applied to women who were held at gunpoint, the same way she assumed that clinical depression only happened to people who were eighteen or older. She identified herself more as a teacher’s pet than a suicidal molestation victim, her real identity.
    Even though she thought it was legal, he kept it a secret. At first Lisbeth thought that he’d alerted Mary and Karl, the assistant teacher, as to where he was taking her, but then she realized only Elizabeth H., who went just as often, knew. If she ever refused him, he could stab her and no one would tell the police where to look, since Elizabeth H. had to keep the same secret. Once they got back, he always explained that he got caught in traffic, two coffees in tow for the other teachers. They always took the coffee and never asked questions, even though they’d driven the same route with no traffic.
    Lisbeth dreaded her turn. After she’d finished her mandatory community service hours at the nursing home with her classmates, he drove her back to the hotel. They were always alone in his car, even though teachers were supposed to take as many students as they could back and forth from the nursing home. He always set the radio to the BBC, the one radio station sanctioned by every Montessori teacher because it was from another country. He said she was lucky. She got the chance to learn from the BBC and there were men who would have made her expose herself in the car, where people could see it and that was illegal. But she wanted people to see it so she could get famous instead of going to the hotel room. She’d make the news for sure. So little happened in NoBo- a sloppy abbreviation for “North of Boston”, which her mother was trying to get her to use to refer to her hometown and the area around it- that a simple car accident would make the news for weeks.
    He’d take her into the lobby of the hotel and chat with whoever was working the desk. Every time he got the chance he did something that annoyed her to no end: he said she was his daughter. Lisbeth had a father. She lived with both parents, unlike Elizabeth H., who had a dumb distant step-father. And he had other children. He loved to tell her: “I was blessed by having all boys.” Lisbeth didn’t even know their names. His wife was Lisa. Elizabeth was his other sexual partner. In the past, there had been others, one named Lily, who was the ideal Montessori prototype, but grew up and was therefore unworthy. He built his schedule around his wife and mistresses, never visiting his sons. Once he even came out and said that women were a curse, yet he surrounded himself with them.
    The contradiction drove Lisbeth to fill reams upon reams of paper, filled with a story that was really an attempt to solve the puzzle. A puzzle that no one ever saw in its entirety. They only felt it groping with an invisible hand.

**

    “It would have been a ga-url,” a nurse with a thick Boston accent said, standing at the nurses’ station. Allegedly, nurses were some of the busiest people on Earth, yet this group bucked the trend, finding time to gossip on the clock, with Lisbeth in earshot.
    “My friend, Carol, she had a kid when her other kid was fourteen,” the other nurse said. “They could’ve passed them off as sisters.”
    “Mum’s in her forties. There’s gotta be some reason she hasn’t had another kid.”
    “Well, since her twelve-year-old got herself knocked up, good for her.”
    And that was how Lisbeth found out she’d been an expectant mother.
    She really should have told someone, Lisbeth’s pediatrician said, time and time again. But Lisbeth’s period, though it started early, was a complete mystery to her. When they started, she thought they would stop, soon. And then they had, without warning. She knew that sex lead to babies, but she thought she’d have to do it more times. That was what he said, when inspired by a movie she saw late at night, in the throes of depression-induced insomnia, she asked why he never brought a condom.
    Lisbeth was exactly eight weeks along when she miscarried and almost let it kill her, the one thing she thought she wanted. Lisbeth’s mother brought a calendar to her hospital bed and counted weeks until what would have been the baby’s due date. The due date was in the second week of October, right before Lisbeth turned thirteen.
    Drowsy on medications, Lisbeth rolled her eyes and her mother smacked her lips with delight. “Oh, those October babies,” she said.
    They asked Lisbeth to name the dead fetus, like they’d asked her to name the stuffed cat she’d gotten for her most recent birthday. Her mother suggested Autumn, since the baby would have been born in autumn and her mother had no desire to give that name to an actual, living baby or, even, as she later demonstrated a cat. Previously, Lisbeth had planned to name her first daughter Cheyenne, the daughter she’d have as an adult in California. She’d even written “Cheyenne” a few times on the edge of a worksheet, having no lined paper since it was banned from Montessori children. But that just seemed wrong for an October baby in New England. Cheyenne was a child who would never see snow.
    It was a snowy winter when Lisbeth miscarried. The snow drifts from a blizzard weeks ago endured when Lisbeth passed out on the playground, where they forced her to go after the couch. He’d told them he just thought it was a cold, his justification for making her get off the couch rather than calling an ambulance or at least sending her to the nurse. Nothing bad could happen to her, one of his girls, as he called all his female students. They’d found a snow-filled oasis.
    Lisbeth wanted a break from the snow. She decided to name the fetus April Rose. She imagined the name on the table of a file, one with limited space that would force the labeler to butcher April’s last name from “Madden” to “Mad”. She’d be “Mad April”.
    Back at school, people were getting suspicious, so Lisbeth’s parents let her stay home an extra few weeks. The damage wasn’t lasting, but they advised her to stop having sex and reminded her that her hospital stay wouldn’t have happened if she’d crossed her legs, like a lady. She never named the father. He’d sent her a card and stopped asking for sex. Still, he didn’t visit. Only Simon, devoutly Catholic mother in tow, came to see her in the hospital, after the bleeding stopped. Lisbeth knew he owed her more than a sloppy signature on a greeting card, which was identical to the one on her school records for the next two years. Her liberation started with that realization.

GENESIS 4

    “Good evening,” Ms. Johnson said to her class, noting that tonight’s turnout was lower than last week’s, which was lower than that of the week before. This disappointed but hardly surprised her. Over time the effectiveness of any threat of punishment diminishes if it isn’t backed up with action. And everybody knew the cops weren’t about to waste time chasing after people – mostly kids – who defied court orders to attend parenting classes.
    “Will someone volunteer to re-tell the story we were supposed to read for today?” she asked.
    Jade, a seventeen-year-old whose advanced pregnancy strained the seams of her dress, volunteered. Unaccustomed to receiving attention of any kind, she took secret pride in being one of Ms. Johnson’s favorites.
    “There was this farmer,” she began, “who had two sons, one named Cain and the other named Abel. The farmer was having a birthday and his two boys decided to give him presents. Abel, who liked to take care of animals, brought his daddy a lamb he’d raised, and Cain, who liked to grow stuff, brought his daddy beans and greens and things like that – ones he grew himself.”
    “What kind of presents are those?” asked Clayton, another of the students. “It was all the old man’s stuff anyway, wasn’t it?”
    “Very good,” said Ms. Johnson, encouraging class participation. “Can anybody say what’s important about Clayton’s question?”
    Zelda, the oldest member of the class, suggested, “that Clayton don’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’,” which got a big laugh from the rest of the class.
    “I just asked a question,” Clayton objected. “What’d I say wrong? Doesn’t the father own the stuff already?”
    “Well sure,” Zelda replied. “What’s any kid have that doesn’t belong to his folks? The point of this class, Clayton, is the daddy, what he’s supposed to do, what you’re supposed to do when you are one. Say your baby makes a little picture. He’s proud of what he’s done. ‘I made this for you,’ he says. So what are you gonna say? ‘That’s my crayon. That’s my paper. Get away from me, boy’?” which got another laugh from the class.
    Ms. Johnson, grateful to Zelda but also heedful of Clayton’s feelings, said, “All Zelda’s talking about here is being nice. You’re certainly correct, Clayton, that the lamb and the vegetables already belong to the father. But the boys are just doing the best they can. You could say that Abel and Cain aren’t offering their father the actual stuff, but rather the effort they made to raise good stuff. Understand?”
    Clayton gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
    “Good,” Ms. Johnson said. “Jade, please continue.”
    “So they bring their presents to their daddy and he really likes the lamb,” Jade said. “Pets it, holds it, thanks Abel up and down, tells him what a good boy he is, what a hard worker, how smart, all that. But he doesn’t go for the greens and stuff Cain brought. He just glances at ‘em and walks away, doesn’t say how good they look or tell Cain he’s done a good job or anything. Instead, he goes back to Abel and fusses over the lamb some more.”
    Ms. Johnson, reading the faces of her students, saw signs of recognition all over the room. Everybody present, apparently, at some time in his or her life, had made an honest offering to somebody else of something he or she deemed valuable – perhaps something as insubstantial as love – and had it rejected out of hand.
    “And then what happened, Jade?”
    “Cain got mad,” Jade answered, “and his father said something to him I didn’t understand.” She opened her lesson book to find the quote.
    Ms. Johnson paraphrased it for her. “If you do well you’ll be accepted but if you don’t, evil will try to get you but you must master it.”
    “I didn’t get that at all,” said Jade.
    “Anybody have an interpretation?” Ms. Johnson asked the class.
    “Sounds to me like the father’s telling the kid to stop begging for attention like some whiny little girl,” said Clayton.
    Zelda drilled him with a look of cold contempt. “Lord, lord,” she groaned.
    “What?” Clayton demanded of Zelda. “She asked what the father meant; I said what I believe. What’s wrong with that?”
    “Nothing,” soothed Ms. Johnson. “That’s one way of thinking about it. Anybody else?”
    “What I don’t understand,” said Jade, “is when the daddy says, ‘If you do well . . . ’. Didn’t Cain already do something good? It said in the story the vegetables were the best in the garden.”
    “Just means they weren’t good enough,” replied Clayton. “The kid thought they were good but they were really crap.”
    “All I can say,” announced Zelda, staring daggers at Clayton, “is I feel sorry for your babies.”
    “I know what you’re getting at,” Clayton shot back at Zelda. “You want this guy to tell his wimpy kid he’s the best thing since TV remote controls even though he doesn’t deserve it. The way I see it, the old man’s doing the kid a favor, getting him ready for the real world, where nobody gives a damn about your ‘self of steam.’”
    “But the story didn’t say anything about the vegetables being crap,” Jade objected. “I think you’re making stuff up, Clayton.”
    Clayton ignored her.
    But another student, Byron, who rarely spoke in class, suggested, “Maybe the father was just trying to get Cain riled up.”
    Pleased to hear another voice, Ms. Johnson followed-up. “Why would he do that, Byron?” she asked.
    “Don’t know,” Byron said. “But I had an uncle who used to do it to me all the time, said he was trying to teach me something but I could never figure out what.”
    “That’s it right there” piped Zelda. “That’s exactly what this story’s about – pure-T meanness. I understand about teaching lessons. I already got kids. I know when they need a swat. But this man in this story is doing nothing but sowing the seeds of hatred between those two boys.”
    “That’s what I think,” said Jade. “Even if he didn’t like Cain’s vegetables, he didn’t need to cut Cain dead like that. And even if the vegetables were crap, he could’ve at least told Cain so instead of chattering on about evil.”
    Ms. Johnson returned her attention to Clayton. “And what do you think about Byron’s observation?”
    Clayton took his time before answering, as if he weren’t sure whether he should speak at all. “The same kind of thing happened to me when I was a kid,” he said quietly, “except it was my mother not my father and I had a sister not a brother. Maybe it was because my pa beat her up a lot before he left but my mom just hated men and I was as close to one as there was in the house. I just couldn’t do a thing right, but my sister, she couldn’t do anything wrong.”
    “And how did that make you feel?” asked Ms. Johnson.
    “I wanted to kill her,” Clayton replied.
    “You wanted to kill your mom?” Jade exclaimed.
    “Nah,” Clayton replied. “My sister. I wanted to kill my sister.”

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet     I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?

    A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

    why veganism?

    This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

    so what is vegan action?

    We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
    We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

    A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)     cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.     I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

    Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer     The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

    We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)     I just checked out the site. It looks great.

    Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs)     Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool.     (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”)     Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

    Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies)     The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

    Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
    Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

    Mark Blickley, writer
    The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

    You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

    Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)     I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

    The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
    The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
    * on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
    * on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
    * on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
    The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)     Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

    Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
    “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
    “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

    want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)     Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

    Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
    Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

    Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
    Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

    Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.

    Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

    You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
    Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

    Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

    Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
    Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

    Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

    Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.