A mutual friend read about her on Facebook. I felt numb when I heard. Numb is too strong, I felt nothing, nothing at all. Not sadness, not regret. It was just another death. Could have been anyone. Even though she had been my first—first love, first kiss, first sex. Thirty years ago we shared every minute, every breath. I certainly had that. The memory of who we were before we became strangers. The oddest sensation was emptiness. I looked everywhere for my feelings. But they had vanished, as if they had crept out of the house in stocking feet.
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I waited in the shadows, my rifle ready for the wild boars.
Hundreds of plants lay uprooted before me. A pleasant breeze, coupled with the eerie light from the full moon playing hide and seek among the slow-moving clouds, lulled me to sleep. A loud snort startled me half-awake. A huge boar sat before me, pointing a rifle at me. It was my rifle. Far beyond, the electrified fence moved steadily backward, enclosing more and more forest. Several wild animals jumped over the fencing, advancing menacingly towards me. I saw the boar’s claws tightening over the trigger. “For you,” you said, handing me a single red rose.
“Thank you,” I said, surprised by your sweet gesture. I wondered where you’d gotten it. We were just kids. But it didn’t matter. That day, I began to fall in love with you. And every time you gave me a red rose, I fell in love with you again. Once I said, “We can’t afford it.” “Love is priceless,” you said. Every week for 65 years, you gave me a red rose. Now I slowly approach and gently lay a single red rose over your heart. “For you,” I say. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.” “But it has to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!” “I’m not going to argue the point.” “But people are actually buying them?” “Yep.” “Why?” “For some, it seems to be an actual fashion statement, but for most people, I think it’s just something they can wear to a Halloween party or pass on to someone else as a joke gift.” “I remember years ago when there were jokes about people having braided armpits. But nose hair?” “Yep. I call them “Nose Hair Extensions” and, I’m embarrassed to say, some of them are braided.” Autumn was in full glory with the sun shining upon an array of jewel tone colored trees. It was a perfect day for a wedding. The bride and groom exited the church and were greeted by applause and floating bouquets of iridescent bubbles.
Departing for the reception, I overheard the bride's mother comment, "I hope Lynn's and Bob's love remains as beautiful as these bubbles." To which Lynn's father responded, "Let's hope their marriage lasts a lot longer than these bubbles." My silent sentiment, however, was, "I hope the reception offers lots and lots of champagne bubbles." Luna spent her weekends laying on top of the highest crypt in the cemetery, sunbaking with a book—the ideal location for a girl desirous of solitude, void of male intrusion.
A gentleman named Claude sought peace there too. He didn’t like heights, so he’d always sit on a park bench below, writing his sonnets. One Saturday, Claude wasn’t there, so Luna searched all over the graveyard, until she found him weeping by a cracked tombstone. “Anniversaries are always hard,” he breathed, forcing a smile. Luna examined the time-worn inscription. Claude Arthur Augustin. Poet. Fell from a building. 1835. "It's too late to change" the darkness whispers to me.
“You’re too far past the crossroads to take a different path. Too many souls have been taken to start again and go another way." Until I'm reborn, this darkness will remain my sole companion. Only home I've ever known. It comforts me, and makes a mother's fear and a father's shame more bearable. "Told you it was too late to stop,” breathes my companion, as it’s invaded by strobing lights. Lying down, I gazed at the holes perforated by hot lead oozing my bitter red regret for a life unlived. Sports day and Father Julian is in charge of St. Barnabus boys. Sister Bernadette chaperones St. Annunciata’s girls.
“Good afternoon, Sister Bernadette.” Dark brown eyes amidst striking features melt at the sight of her. “Good afternoon, Father Julian.” A rosy hue spreads across her porcelain face, matching wisps of red hair peep out from beneath her wimple. Shyly she lowers her beautiful green eyes. “Will you take tea,” he offers his arm and they stroll across to the refreshment tent. Marriage claims two members of our brotherhood and sisterhood proclaims the diocese newsletter. A match made in heaven. Jane loved observing wildlife as she drove the rural roads. One summer evening, turning a bend, she saw a magpie. Her stomach lurched. Whenever she saw a solo magpie, she was compelled to scan her surroundings to find another. She would keep looking until she found that magpie’s mate. Today she was lucky as she noticed a second magpie almost immediately. The tension in her stomach melted. As she relaxed, she failed to see another bend in the road and swerving, she drove directly into an oncoming lorry.
Jane and the lorry driver were pronounced dead at the scene. The two geriatrics arrived ringside in a fanfare of hatred and contempt. In the blue corner, the Challenger commanded the sympathy vote. In the red corner stood the overweight, self-proclaimed Champion; he owed his title to a toxic mix of bullying, corruption and self-delusion.
They fought separate contests – the Challenger too weak to land strong punches, the Champion aiming only low blows, and missing. The fight ended when the Champion accidentally knocked himself out with three of his own misplaced low punches. Nevertheless, he dragged himself up to claim a points victory, awarded by three ringside judges he'd appointed himself. Jake awoke to the sound of his wife sobbing in her sleep. As he gently patted her shoulder she turned to him crying, “Jake, I had such a nightmare. I dreamed that we lost our health insurance, and we couldn’t get new insurance because of my breast cancer, and we went bankrupt and had to move into a homeless shelter. Our children couldn’t stop crying.
Jake shushed her and said, “Honey, that won’t happen. I won’t let that happen.” As Angela drifted back to sleep, Jake lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a single tear spilling down his face. Your fingers are still. I wonder if they will return my touch.
They are hardened by age. I wonder if you can still feel. If. The operation was a success or not. The rain starts and begins to come into the room. I should get up and close the window, but what happens if you reach out and I am not there. I let the rain fall where it falls. Your fingers are warm. Your eyes are closed. I hope that in your dreams you are young again, carefree, before time brought us here. Back then it was only her small hands that were allowed to hold and caress me. She would let no one else near.
I recall her beautiful smiling face looking down at me with love and tenderness and the small cry of joy she made as I played my sweet tune and my ballerina danced for that first time. Now I am long forgotten and left abandoned to sit gathering dust amid her many other discarded things. She has new amusements and no time it seems to listen to me play my music or to watch my ballerina dance. Free to Good Home
One thousand smiles in excellent condition. Hardly used due to Covid-19 isolation. Always covered with a face mask. Suitable for all ages in any weather conditions. Will co-ordinate with any outfit. Top of the range, excellent quality. Very productive and highly contagious; almost every time you use one you will get one back. I have more than enough and they breed faster than rabbits. Sure to appreciate in value. Get some now; demand will be high in the future when we are finally unmasked. Call me now on 0412 345 678. The blushing bride drenched in a gown of jean. Puffed princess shoulders like mutated blueberries, a billowing skirt stuffed by more-deserving tule, and pockets—of course to hold loose change—for the off chance there was a tollhouse on her way down the aisle.
A farce of design itself, created with no compromises to ease its inert dysphoria. Still, she walked through the holy doors with not a gasp bold enough to break the organ’s tune. Not a peep until the groom threw himself into a full-body laugh. “Sarah, you’re the dumbest woman I ever loved.” Forward, backward, slightly higher and forward pinning him between the seat and steering wheel, all the while he’s furious that the driver’s seat has an evil conscience. The backrest offers aid by scrunching him into an acute angle causing him to boil out a few choice words as he peers over the wheel to maintain control. I should feel sympathy. Laughter is too provocative. Besides, it’s a country road. Grumbling that his legs are sweating; the heated seats turned themselves on. Getting home has reached threatcon level because my legs will start crying from the high pressured hilarity any minute!
My English teacher scans the classroom. I scribble in my notebook, avoiding eye contact.
"Richard, what's your opinion?" Twenty pairs of eyes fixate on me. I stay quiet, hoping he picks one of the students raising their hand. "Hands down," he tells them, then hovers over me. "Richard?" He waits. Not able to withstand his arrogant smirk and my classmates' impatient stares, I surrender. "I can't remember anything I read. You happy now?" "Actually, I am." "Why?" "You may have a comprehension problem. Stay after school and I'll help you." I sit straight, take a deep breath. "Okay, I will." “He came in after midnight last night again, reeking of whisky and perfume,” Lydia sighed dejectedly.
Christina poured her some tea. “I don’t know how you put up with him. I’d never allow it.” “Yeah well, not everyone’s got a perfect marriage like you,” Lydia retorted as she sipped from Dimitri’s World’s Best Husband mug. “My Dimitri certainly is well trained,” gloated Christina. “Everyday he’s straight home, in the door by 5:15,” she declared smugly. Christina’s Dimitri was a clever man. He always made sure to visit brothels on his lunch break, so he was never ever late home. He loved birdwatching. He knew so many things about the avian variety, she didn't care to hear, so she left him to it.
She thought nothing of him sitting at the window, his ‘favourite window’, with binoculars, for hours, watching. She didn't even find it peculiar that he enjoyed this activity mostly at night. Birds, you see, were most interesting then. —Or his insisting the lights be off. This, she was told, was imperative. She never thought much about this, nor to look out from that ‘favourite window’, to see the alluring young nudist living by herself across the carpark. The American tour group is sitting in a restaurant in Edinburgh. Susie had signed up for the Dinner Tour, which included a meal and entertainment. This was part of the “British Isles in 10 Days” which was now in its eighth day. All Susie really wanted was a McDonald’s hamburger.
The waiter is serving what looks like a lump of potatoes, another whitish lump of something, and slices of a black sausage. The waiter explains, “This is haggis, a Scottish specialty.” “OK, I’ll try it.” Susie took a bite. Her face froze as her hand grabbed her napkin. She gagged. Warm hue: honey and amber, the first sip of whiskey. I went on a date and he called me vanilla before asking what my favorite ice cream was. I said pistachio, he said chocolate. We had a mundane conversation about his work and love for dogs. We each took home our leftovers in styrofoam boxes. I wished the sweltering embrace of love would reach me again but I never saved his name in my phone and when he texted I had forgotten him already.
 (Image: Peruvian Ministry of Culture) Since childhood whenever a cat approached him, Ron suffered from severe allergy with itchy eyes and runny nose. However, recently Ron realized his misery was slowly disappearing. He attributed this development to admiring the lovable cat on the cover page of a web-literary site, while submitting manuscripts there. He rationalized his good fortune to the healing power of a feline “Pavlov Response” (tele-medically).
Recently, Ron stumbled into an image of a historic Nazca painting of a cat on the surface of an ancient mountain in Peru. His allergy roared back, supporting his belief of “No two cats ever behave same”. He stared at the blank canvas again. She waited, leaning onto the worn-out balls of her feet, exhausted from another shift at the diner, recalling a time when he would cover canvases with stories that instantly transported her—not only to there, but away from here.
This was some bad karma, she was sure of it. It was her decision then, and now, looking at his frail back and trembling hands, she was the worst kind of alone. She raised a hand that reeked of garlic. Chicken soup again, but he wouldn’t remember. Then, he turned to her and smiled. I make landfall here every so often. Trip’s last leg is an hour’s toxin-purging travel by car uphill. With Pine aroma wafting in the air, I bounce back, away from sensory onslaught and humdrum of metro-life. The lodge where I stay sits on a grassy knoll overlooking a valley that drops steeply away into a ravine. This is where I love to spread my wings. The freedom to park anywhere along the paths wound around the haunting hills, and jot down impressions, unnoticed, with hardly any care in the world. When it’s time to go downhill again, my spirit toboggans.
Jeffords stepped down off the train. The ride from Tulsa had been tiring, and at 62 he was tired of tiring. All he wanted was to return to Oklahoma and his three-room cabin, and stay there forever.
But first, he had one last job. Salter came toward him, grinning. "I see you got my telegram, old man. Thanks for coming--and making my reputation!" The younger man made a move for his gun, but Jeffords was faster. One shot through the heart, and Jeffords holstered his gun and sat on the worn bench to await the next train back home. |
