She never walked without fear. Every pothole, every curb, every alley and every doorway, shielded a darkness ready to rise and engulf her world. As she walked, she counted her steps. Every block, every door, and every home had its number of steps, and she had to know her end of day total. If she forgot a number, she had to walk the count again. Otherwise, the darkness would release, and the safety of her small house would be lost forever. Every day she counted her steps, over and over, dreading the day her rituals no longer contained the darkness.
Time of death – 1630 hours. Cause of death: heart failure.
Tom Park sighed. The Hospital Director was not going to like this. “Did I not make it clear that only Dr Nelson could perform this procedure Dr Park?” “It’s my duty, Sir, to...” “You knew the risks!” The questions were relentless. There was no way out. He’d have to tell him the truth. “I did it for money.” The Director gasped. “Yes. I’m paid to save lives – or at least try. Aren’t you?” Next time he’d charge the hit-woman more to finish her botched-up jobs, Tom thought. May 22. They came in ones and twos and stood on the barren hill.
"Who brought the flowers?' Sandra asked as she noticed the artificial bouquet. Nobody knew. No one asked the question, Where were you? because they all knew who had been in the missing building and who had not. They rehashed their stories. They paced the outline of the nonexistent building and talked about where the front door had been, where the limits of the basement stood, where the stage had been. Samuel told them his issues from a punctured lung would never leave him. They all missed the building. They missed their three friends who could never come back. “What’s new?”
“I'm reading Jane Austen's Emma. I see the young Alicia Silverstone's face in every page, every paragraph.” “I don’t know that one.” “I’m not sure it’s to be taken seriously.” “Are any of them?” “I thought so. But I had an epiphany in the doctor’s office yesterday. Now that I’m half-way through this one, my fourth Austen, I’m convinced she’s a satirist, a wicked one.” “So what’s wrong with that? Can’t you take her seriously if she’s satirical?” “It’s embarrassing, though, to have only figured this out after four novels.” “What did you put in these burgers?” Bob adorned a pink top from Hospice Angels. He threw another to Jeff.
“The secret is to look solemn and keep your eyes averted at all times. NO EYE CONTACT.” “It’s an easy fifty. Pronounce him dead, call the mortuary.” Shortly, they were ushered into a living room with a hospital bed and equipment softly hissing around a shrunken old man. Thirty anxious people milled about. “The eyes…no contact” Bob reminded the neophyte. Jeff was so self-conscious he ended up rolling his eyes in circles. “I’m not dead yet, Groucho,” hissed the wasted man.“There goes your fifty bucks.” “Hurry up, Harry!! I’ve got 12 people signed up for shark feeding.”
“It took me a while to prepare the chum.” “Where’s that gorgeous blonde wife of yours?” “Gloria didn’t want to muss her pricey hairdo – or her expensive nails or high-priced wardrobe. Not to mention the jewelry. All genuine stones, of course.” “Oh, come on, Harry. You knew she was high maintenance when you married her.” “High maintenance is one thing, but the bitch is spending me into the poor house.” “Later, Harry. Load the chum and start the boat. Hey, what are blonde hairs doing in the chum?” ‘Beautiful,’ he said.
Sash glanced up. He faced her, rocking slowly as the bus hesitated in the traffic. Dark hair, cut long. Dark, warm eyes. Quirky, but interesting. Kind-looking. In the cramped space, she’d tucked the generous bunch of lilies close to her, so as not to inconvenience anyone. The creamy blooms illuminated her face. Like she’d just won a pageant. He smiled shyly at her, then cocked an eyebrow in expectation. Sash felt the thrill of flirtation, wondered whether, just maybe, this guy might be interested. Where might that go? ‘How are you going to cook them?’ he asked. A two-parter from Marlene Goldberg
I Main Street. Motor vehicles speed by. Shoppers window-shop on this cool spring morning. Secluded from the hubbub below, windows closed, air-conditioner on, Annie plays piano. So smart of Herbie to get double-glazed windows. Lying on the sofa, gazing at the trees rustling, scattering some indignant sparrows, she dreams. The bell rings. Herbie’s sister. He’s been hit by a bicycle. As the rumbling bus growls to a halt at the mouth of the hospital, coughing the two women out, they rush out. Opening his eyes, unable to speak after his emergency tracheotomy , Herbie remains for observation. She has her Herbie. II It's on the news. An explosion on Main Street had bombed the flower shop across the street from Annie’s apartment. Shrapnel had hit the music shop right next door. The street is strewn with blood red rose petals. Music sheets are floating in the breeze. Miraculously no one has been injured. But the terrorist has escaped. Police are chasing him all over Main Street. Police will be conducting a house to house search for the terrorist. Annie, asleep, doesn’t hear the intruder climb over the veranda. “Dear Ms Birnie, thanks for submitting your manuscript to Expendable Agents Inc. Unfortunately, it doesn't fit our requirements and you are not a celebrity so we can't take it any further...” 'May we take this opportunity to wish you blah blah,' thought Edie, deleting the message, not bothering with the 'Many thanks for letting me know' reply. Nowadays, she figured she didn't need agents to know she was a nicely brought up gel. Agent rejection number 25, however, hadn't reckoned on one thing. Edie lifted the phone - “Ann-Louise, Jane and Rejoice – are you still in the hit woman business...?” Picture thanks to pixabay. "Can I get you anything?" I asked her. She'd been flitting in and out of sleep, and looked tired. She struggled a smile saying, "I could perhaps eat something." I knew what was required. First I dry-fried a cinnamon stick, ground cloves and cardamom seeds, added a little oil then gently sautéed some sliced onion. Next, I browned some diced chicken then added coriander, cummin, fenugreek, turmeric, ginger, garlic, chilli, salt and some chicken stock. Twenty minutes later, I served it with basmati rice. "Ah," she said, "to die for." It was like this every week. Next Friday, beef curry. Their relationship was moving too fast. He’d have to find a nice way to end it.
Her heart skipped a beat as she walked into the restaurant. Proposal? First, her news. Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he mentally rehearsed his speech. She watched him reach into his pocket then suddenly clutched her stomach and ran to the bathroom. He smiled as realisation dawned. Maybe it could work. She came back looking brighter. “I’m breaking up with you.” “What? Actually, I was going to break up with you!” “That’s what we’ll tell people then. You broke up with me.” These stories by Eric Smith appeared in a series starting on 10th May 2014. Although each is a stand-alone tale in itself, they clearly belong together. To reinforce that, he published them out of order; I hope I've rearranged them correctly here.
OF MICE AND MEN Two gangs—the townies and the farmers—sat on either side of the classroom. Except Nancy, who sat in the back so nobody could hit her with spit balls. The kids should have been too old for the book, but work/study curriculum was intentionally unchallenging. Some kids were illiterate; they’d been socially advanced not by proficiency. Mr. Jones tried to get them discussing why Lenny and George stuck together, but kids gave him crap about the guys being queer. Nancy enjoyed reading, especially Steinbeck, and writing essays. Jones never saw her again and had little to tell the cops. CONVENIENCE The store was empty. Most people drove twenty-five miles to shop now. Nancy wondered why the boss kept them both on. “You got two choices after high school,” Katelyn said. “Either you work or get married. I have to decide, because we only have a year to go.” Nancy didn’t understand where Katelyn got this idea. Every married woman worked, even if they had three or four kids. “So which do you think you’ll do?” “I’ll tell you one thing. Whatever I do, it’ll be a long way from here and I’ll have a good boyfriend who treats me right.” HOOKEY Nancy played hookey from work/study, stole thirty-three dollars from her mom’s tip money coffee can, and hotwired Joe’s Ford. She eased from the lot before he came to. *Shit, eighth of a tank.* She filled it to a half outside town and ate at the drive-through. Four hours later Joe’s F-150 jerked, slowed, stopped. Now broke, she thumbed a ride with a cowboy 150 miles before checking in. He was snoring when she closed the motel door with eighty-four bucks. Nancy hitched with a lady who drove her to a diner. She asked for work, but got bitter coffee instead. NO STRINGS “No money?” She shrugged, staring at her coffee. “Hey, this ain’t the first time I fronted somebody a meal.” She’d heard this one plenty of times. He wore greasy coveralls—had a full beard and a kind enough voice. “I’d like a short stack and bacon,” she said. He waved the waitress over with his head. When her order arrived, the young girl wolfed it down. He didn’t hit on her or ask a bunch of stupid questions, which she appreciated. He left without saying goodbye. Twenty minutes later she stood on the state highway, her thumb out. HITCHING AT NIGHT After thirty minutes, a faded dually pickup stopped fifty yards up the shoulder. Nancy ran toward it, hoping he wouldn’t be creepy. She stood on the running board, leaned in the passenger side window to appraise him while he asked where she was headed. Maybe forty, a ratty fu-manchu, and deep voiced, he wore a broken straw hat and ripped, stained denim jacket. The cab smelled of beer. She climbed in, hiding her open buck knife by her right thigh. “I’m going to Denton,” Nancy said No reply, he just looked at her. Nancy’s hand tightened on the knife handle. NANCY A young couple found her a mile from town—a Jane Doe, empty pockets, no purse, jeans pulled down. June, the diner waitress, served her pancakes and coffee an hour before. “Rode hard, put away wet, even at her age.” Denton’s Sherriff was pissed. State cops on the way—jurisdictional crap. The Medical Examiner, Denton’s only doc, said the dead girl was about 20, no recent dental care, eyes swollen shut and cut up, probably with the buck knife lying under her—two sets of prints and on it. “Sexual abuse?” “Inconclusive. She put up a hell of a fight.” JURISDICTION The Sheriff and the doc had their noses out of joint. “Okay,” the trooper said, state ME finished his preliminary report; both sets of prints from the knife are in the system. Girl’s got someone’s skin under her nails. The trooper snorted. “Justin Shipley’s a bad boy; five years in Chino most recently and a lot of rough stuff in his priors. We’ll reel him soon, especially if he’s still driving that dually and hasn’t left Wyoming. He’s no rocket scientist.” “The girl?” “Nancy Martin, eighteen, single pot bust. Died with a full stomach. Contacted the mother, no interest there.” PERSON OF INTEREST The EMT taped Justin’s cuts. They should have been sutured; no one cared. “So why’d you do it?” Justin’s tats crawled up his neck. “You’re the cops; you tell me.” The lawyer appeared. “Gents, discussion ends right here. Justin is it? From now on say nothing to these officers without my sayso, got that?” “Look, counselor, we. . .” “You’ve informed Mr. Shipley of his rights? Hmm, I thought not.” “You know we’ll find your client’s skin under that girl’s nails.” “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, officers.” Five days later they learned someone else’s skin was under Nancy’s nails. SIXTH MAN Denton’s six-man high school football team flew down the empty state highway in Rusty’s F-250 Super Duty. They hooted when they spotted the girl waving her arms. Rusty stopped before reaching her and jumped onto the blacktop. When Nancy saw the other heads in the dome light she panicked. Before speaking, she cut Rusty through the sleeve of his letter jacket, dropping the knife. She raked her nails over his face, but Rusty cold-cocked her and dragged her to the shoulder. They peeled out before anyone came. Nancy died of exposure. None of the guys ever talked or bragged. Teresa had cheated. There was no denying. It was not the cheating that bothered her. Jack would certainly be disappointed. Possibly he would be devastated. This could be THE deal breaker of their five-year relationship: Betrayal.
What surprised the yoga devotee was relief. Well. This was an odd feeling. Perhaps psychologically Teresa was unhappy with the arrangement and was just looking for the impetus to admit that the whole philosophy that defined the relationship the fervent young couple had shared was flawed. Was it done? Over this? Feeling emboldened Teresa looked at the forbidden chili dog and took another bite. The smell of incense wafted in the room. As she gasped for breath she thought of her Chinatown visit, shelves of herbal remedies. The odor of incense invaded her nostrils, its pungent smell gagging her until she just had to escape, to get out of there, fast.
Her phone rang with the distinctive song she chose, humming the melody, tears welled in her eyes. The x-ray of her hand showed the doctors she’ll never play piano again. Pain, anguish in the singer’s voice. Pain of gnarled screws penetrating her tender pedicured flesh. Wrist fracture. “Taste this”, Li Chow soothed. “Ugh”. The workers gazed intently at the three buttons in front of them. One was red, one was blue, and one was green.
“Which one?” gasped Andrew. “What do I press?” “Well,” replied Stella shakily, “one will keep the monsters from attacking by activating a force field. One will cause the earth to be flooded with water forever. And one will launch every human being into space.” “But which is which?!” “Weren’t you paying attention at orientation?” Andrew sighed, shaking his head. He closed his eyes and pressed a random button. Things aren’t going great. Food’s okay and they’re polite; but honestly, I’m bored to death. That guy who keeps showing me his prize hammer? NSOH. Totally. At least his wife’s hot; nice of her to keep topping up my glass.
Are these guys for real? One of them actually just used the word ‘smite’. I mean, who says that these days? It is SO uncool to be that serious. Time to stop being so low key. What if I tell the old dude that I think it was my dog that bit his hand? That should get a reaction. Awesome! Christina died a year ago. She was one of those people who could do no wrong. The pastor doing her funeral called her a flower.
Her buried was at the Forrest Cemetery near her home. While most of the graves there are surrounded by .dandelions, she grows roses. I know that to be a fact. I picked a bouquet and sat it on my table. The darn things refuse to wilt .I'm going to return them. BWhere the hell have you been?!
Sorry I’m late, Leo. Leo hit her hard. “You’re to be here when I get home! I’m done, Bitch! I’m moving in with Cheryl; she knows how to listen!” “Please, Leo, don’t leave me.” “Goodbye, you useless piece of crap!” Leo slammed out the door. Dina sank to the floor, sobbing. What’s wrong, Dina,” said her gentle neighbor Ron. “Leo left me. He never gave me a chance to explain.” “You deserve better than Leo. Let me take care of you.” “I just wanted to tell him that I won the $100 million lottery.” When we found him face down wearing a yellow outdoor coat and a pair of bright yellow wellington boots.
"Is he OK, do you think?" Ruth asked me. "I can't hear him breathing." I listened too, could hear nothing. I decided to be honest. "How should I know?" "Should we waken him to check?" she suggested. I snorted a response: "Rather you than me." Ten minutes later, Ruth did waken him, even tried lifting him from his cot. By now he was screaming, refusing to allow the coat and boots to come off. Yellow was staying. Two-year-olds know their mind. She watched the hot glob of glowing cream and crimson color glass on the end of a pole, as it swelled in the flame, turned and shaped by the glass blower. A demonstration at the art festival, the darkness of evening intensified the gem-like qualities of the molten glass, and Traci couldn't take her eyes off the process. The glass artist withdrew the glob and blew air into the pole, and the glass began to make itself into a round shape. She turned to the amazed stare of her boyfriend who had been watching her intensely. "I'm so turned on," he said. Can we go home?
After the love I said I am sorry. He asked why? I took his manhood into my hand and gentled it away. Thursts of flesh.
Forget it, I heard. Come to your senses.. And then there were me me, my hand and. A dream. She beat the weeds, looking for her son. “How many times do I have to tell him not to wander,” she breathed, her eyes darting as her arm sliced the air, parting bristly brush. “Joseph! Joseph, where are you,” she yelled, stopping to survey the area. The expanse of the field seemed to grow as she slowly scanned the area in search of anything bright amongst dull gold and brown weeds. Joseph loved rainbows and wasn’t above wearing it. It usually made the boy easier to spot in a towering crowd. “Where are you,” she whispered. Quiet was her reply.
My tuk tuk driver said I should keep my head down. I lit a cigarrette - Sportsman - and sipped from a can of Tusker.
Fuck it. Nairobi night is for sissies. I jumped out and realised that I was on a wrong side of Moi Avenue. My tuk tuk sped away. Suddenly I realised what it felt like to see my own colour of skin from other eyes. And then I ran. The place had been renovated: lots of wood, comfortable seats for guests, attentive guards. Behind their eyes, sadness at how few of their charges received visitors.
I roamed. Some faced me from their cages, whispering conversations so unfamiliar that I couldn’t guess their endings. Others huddled quietly in their cells, row after row, dreaming of a freedom which might never come. Mantel caught my eye and pleaded. She promised me riches beyond imagination, if only I was brave enough to liberate her. I made my decision. At the guard’s desk, I offered a small bribe, and suddenly she was free. Laura waded into the pool, CJ clinging to her shoulders. He squealed in delight as they floated through the cold water. Laura’s job was to distract him while her mother vivisected Anna’s marriage.
They spread towels on the grass next to the pavers. CJ watched the ants build sandcastles between the bricks and asked, ‘Are we giants to ants?’ He thought, ‘I wonder what we look like to people bigger than us?’ Laura watched him settle back, his little body taut, his eyes cerulean like the sky into which they peered. This is how Laura always needs to remember him. |
"Classic"
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