Simply Fictional Tales

Southern California Writers’ Conference – L.A. 2010

2010-09-28T07:49:00.001-07:00

My second year attending the LA SCWC, it was again not held in Los Angeles, or even in L.A. County for that matter. The conference was held at the Hyatt Regency in Newport Beach – quite fortunate for me because I didn’t have to pay the exorbitant room rates. I live close enough that I commuted all three days.

Day One, Friday September 23
I attended the first seminar, “Getting the Most from the Conference", not feeling very excited or hopeful about attending the conference in general. It began with lots of smiling faces. It also began slowly. I felt that I would have been better off not attending that first meeting. The speaker didn’t even seem to be happy to be there herself. She came across tired, not at all excited.

The first workshop I attended was “Finding Your Voice and Approach in Nonfiction,” lead by Georgia Hughes. Georgia Hughes is an editorial director at New World Library. What a contrast from that first hour! I found her witty, friendly, and her workshop quite worthwhile. I met lots of interesting authors with unique nonfiction projects.

Workshop #2, I chose “Your Journal, Your Goldmine,” lead by Robert Yehling (author of seven books). His workshop really inspired me to get back to journaling (which I put down years ago). We did writing exercises on pace. For quick pace, I wrote about running the trail and trying to get back in time to pick up my kindergartner from school. For slow pace, I wrote about visiting my grandfather in the hospital just before he died. I nearly cried during that exercise. (Later I purchased Yehling’s book: The Write Time: 366 Exercises to Fulfill Your Writing Life)

I mingled about the terrace for Mixer then met up with Charisse Tyson (owner of Johnny’s Bar & Grill in Hollister), whom I met at last year’s meeting. We dined together, then adjourned to a hilarious Welcome/Introduction Seminar and evening speaker (Ellen Bryson, author of Transformation of Barthololomew Furtuno).

Having one car in the family nowadays, my husband and boys picked me up at 9:00 PM. I arrived home dead-dog-tired and went straight to bed.

Day Two, September 24.

I took the bus to the seminar on day two, something I haven’t done since I was 17 years old. $1.50 got me there – what a deal! (I was a bit nervous, not knowing exactly when to pull the cord, so I chatted nervously with other bus riders to learn the “ropes.”)

Workshop #1, I attended a Read & Critique, lead by Jeff Sherrat (author of Guilty or Else and other crime novels) and Gayle Carline (comedy columnist and author of Freezer Burn). I read from my novel, “One of Us,” and received very positive feedback. But I tend to receive positive feedbacks at Read & Critiques, and though it’s a spirit lifter, I don’t let it get me too high, because where it really counts, I see many rejections.

I had lunch with Gayle Carline, then rushed off with my first agent one-on-one, which I will write on at a later date. Quickly though, I’ll say that I left the first feeling the same ole’ thing and the second quite surprised and happy, not to mention impressed with the agent’s magnetic personality.

After the workshops and one-on-one’s, I had the pleasure to attend an agent panel, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The night ended with my husband meeting me for the banquet. The food was okay, the desserts were wonderful, the company even more wonderful, having met and re-met (from last year) even more writers attending the conference.

The evening ended with another humorous talk from the conference directors, Michael Gregory and Wes Albers. The evening speaker was author, Gregg Hurwitz, a man much, much too young for so many accomplishments. (Maybe he just looked young, but I was so tempted during question and answer time to ask him his age – Just how old are you Doogie? Hint of a little jealousy here – not of his age, but so many accomplishments for being so young : ) I enjoyed his talk.

Day Three, September 26

I was up bright and early. Drove myself to the conference to find the morning seminar virtually empty. I am so glad I made it, as the speaker Ernessa T. Carter, author of 32 Candles was interesting and inspiring. I purchased her HARDBOUND book directly afterward, not because I found the topic of the book particularly gripping, but because I found her so, so gripping.

Workshop #1, I attended Carline’s “Funny How? How to Write Funny.” And though I will probably never right funny, I found her workshop thoroughly funny. The entire room was laughing at some point. In the writing exercise though, I wrote so long in my set-up that I didn’t get a chance to get to the comedic situation that she set-up for us. That’s funny. (I also bought in my copy of Freezer Burn for Gayle’s signature).

Workshop #2, I attended “What I wish I knew Before Being Published” lead by Darlene Quinn (author of Webs of Power). I don’t mean to sound cocky, because I am not at all! But there wasn’t anything she spoke of that I didn’t know. Had I stayed the entire workshop, perhaps I would have learned something. I left after about an hour and mingled on the terrace with other writers, like myself, working on getting published.

Finally I attended the Awards and Farewell. And while waiting at the table with another woman, I started crying when she mentioned she had to get back to her animals. I really missed my family, PLUS her mention of animals, brought on my sadness of my Daisy Dog’s recent death.

At Michael’s Gregory’s last (of course, vibrant and humorous) words, I flew out that door, practically ran down to my car, and took that half hour drive home.

Overall, I call this conference great success. Loved the workshops, meeting new people and connecting with others from last year. Before I forget, there is one other author I neglected to mention because he didn’t run any workshops. Charles Redner, publisher of the Hummingbird Review and author of Down But Never Out. He had a stand out on the terrace with some materials for sale. We spoke at length as well about his book and the Hummingbird Review. I bought the review, but not the book, as I had already purchased too many books.

Anyway . . .

The Southern California Writers’ Conference / LA 2010 this year gets an “A”.

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The Spinner

2010-06-05T00:04:00.001-07:00

He stood on the corner, the sun shined against his golden locks. A sign the length of his body in the shape of an arrow flew up above his head. He caught it on a spin, then shot it around his back. “Luxury Apartments,” the sign read, the other side: “For Rent.”

Charlotte pulled her gaze from the spinner. She’d seen him before – they passed each other every day. He had first period Calculus, she had it second period. But they had never talked.

“Don’t Walk,” blinked from the other end of the cross walk. “Damn,” she muttered and reached back to press the button. Her eyes remained fixed on the spinner, transfixed by his sign.

One foot placed across the other, the spinner whirled around as he kicked the cardboard arrow up and over broad shoulders. Front and forward, he brushed the hair from his eyes with his forearm. Then he flung “Luxury Apartments” into the sun, rays reflecting off and on, as it spun its way back down.

Her eyes flickered in unison with the sun’s reflection. She reached back to steady herself against the post. Then the odor of something like rotten eggs blew in, and what felt like a hampered giant hammer, lightly pounded against her head.

Black . . .

“Are you all right Miss, . . . Misssss?

“Back away PEOPLE.”

Did someone call 911?

911?”

The sky was blue and bright as it stared down upon Charlotte’s body laying disjointed on the ground. “Wh, what?” she slurred to wide-eyed blurry faces.

“Oh my God.” She breathed in and shielded her eyes with her arm. With a groan she rolled over. Eyes closed, Charlotte pushed up against the ground. She wondered, “How much did they see? Who gave a damn what ‘they’ saw, but him, would he say anything tomorrow at school?”

“Idiot,” Charlotte sighed. “Idiot,” she moaned again and attempted to stand.

“No, Sweeteee!” A plump, red-haired lady who sat on her knees next to Charlotte pushed Charlotte’s waist to the ground.

“Let me go!” Charlotte rolled to her side and with both arms lifted herself up, dispersing bystanders who stood too close.

“She needs SPACE people,” someone yelled. “You saw her convulsing all over the place . . .”

“What the hell was that?”

“She alright?”

“SPACE, people,”

Space . . .

* * *

Charlotte’s mother darted out the front door to meet her daughter lumbering up the driveway.

“Baby,” Chantilly cried. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you hurt?” She caressed her daughter’s scraped elbow that was crusted with blood.

Pressing both temples firmly with her fingers, Charlotte stared at the ground. She raised one foot, placing it in front of the other. Her brain clenched with each step. She raised her head once, squinting from the sun and shot a look with a furrowed brow at her mother. “Leave,” she groaned.

Charlotte slept for the next six hours. Chantilly woke her with a mother’s gentle touch for an evening dose of meds. Charlotte mumbled incoherently, something about the pizza being a “bad lady.” Later she complained of a headache and guzzled a bottle of water before falling back asleep for another four hours.

“Charlotte? You ok?” Chantilly sat at the edge the bed. Pad of paper and pen in one hand, she rubbed Charlotte’s calve with the other. “You missed first period,” she said. “Why don’t you skip school today? Just practice tonight, , loosen your fingers . . .” Chantilly wrote the date atop the page and with a line divided it in two, vertically.

“Hmmm?” Charlotte rolled over onto her stomach.

“I need to know some things, Dear.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know. Did you have any grape fruit yesterday?”

“Oh God, I hate grapefruit.”

“Just checking, you know what it does.” Chantilly shook her head, “evil fruit.”

“I’m so tired.”

“Do you remember – how did you sleep – did you feel rested when you woke yesterday?” She scribbled something on the pad of paper.

“Oh Ma, come on . . .”

“How about video games, did you play?”

“Ya, right. I played a video game!”

“Think Charlotte, eat anything out of the ordinary?”

“Oh, come on!” Charlotte pulled the covers over her head.

“Triggers Charlotte! I’m trying to help. If we could just figure it out, we’ll be closer to stopping these things.”

“These things?” Charlotte shot up from beneath the blankets. “These THINGS?”

Chantilly jotted out a few lines on her notepad. “How about alcohol, Honey, did you drink anything?”

“Not old enough to drink.”

Chantilly sighed. “What about meds? Did you take them?”

“Of course. Haven’t missed a dose in ten years!”

“Well, Charlotte, remember that time?”

Chantilly scribbled onto her notepad. “What did you eat for lunch?” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and scanned through the contacts. “Go on,” she said.

“Forget it,” Charlotte said. She flung the blankets from her body and like someone recovering from surgery, painstakingly pushed herself off the bed and made her way to the bathroom.

* * *

Monday Charlotte skipped Calculus. After school, she searched for the boy with the golden hair. The sun was still high when she found him on the corner, the same corner as last week, spinning the sign above his head.

“Luxury Apartments. Luxury Apartments . . . For Rent.”

She looked away as the reflecting sun flickered its gleam. When the light blinked “Walk,” she crossed, closing the gap between herself and the spinner. She looked past him, avoiding eye contact and wondered if he noticed her in the pedestrian crowd. Then Charlotte jerked back when the reflection from his sign crossed before her eyes.

His legs apart, he flipped the sign and caught it behind his back. And then in one sweeping motion, he threw it high above his head – sunlight beaming, fluctuating before her eyes. She knew it was coming even before the smell, before the rotten eggs. She didn’t want him to see her. Well, she wanted him to see HER, her sparkling green eyes, her shiny black hair, her brilliant smile . . .

Her head spun, her brain vibrated, left fingers twitched. She heard a loud guttural noise, slow-motion-like, sounding far away. Then . . .

Black . . .

She came to on the sidewalk. She didn’t recall making it across the street. People murmured. Her head pounded. And then she was lifted.

“Back away, PLEASE,” said the young man dressed in white as he pulled the gurney Charlotte lay upon.

“You’ll be okay, young lady,” said the gentleman pushing the toe end.

Her vision blurred, Charlotte could not make out his face, nor could she tell if the spinner was among bystanders who peered down on her, as the paramedics loaded her into the truck.

She heard sirens blare just before she fell asleep, but not a deep sleep, more like a medicated, dull, kind of drunken sleep . . .

The sun shined brightly as a cougar crouched upon the rocks above the trail, eyed charlotte. She stared back, a violin case strapped over her shoulder.

His ears perked. The sun’s rays beaming upon his yellow coat, the cat stood upright. But when Charlotte removed the case from her shoulder, the cat crouched again, prepared to pounce.

Violin beneath her chin, notes commenced to drift away the Irish jig played at Custard’s last stand, “Gary Owen,” they called it – a playful, yet melancholic melody. Charlotte took a step back, and then another, as she dragged her bow across the strings. The cougar rose. Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks, her arm continuing to move the bow back and forth, back and forth across the strings. And the cougar lay down and purred to its tune as the meadow grasses sung out these words:

“Let Bacchus sons be not dismayed

But join with me, each jovial blade”

Charlotte took another step back. The cat continued to purr . . .

“Come, drink and sing and lend your aid

To help me with the chorus

To help me with the chorus . . .”

* * *

She slipped into a black, sleeveless gown without regret. Normally Charlotte shuddered at such elegance. Tonight she felt she earned it. She fought hard for first chair, week after week, another challenge. There were the tough ones, against long-time rivals. Some she feared might bring on seizures. But the challenges never did. One after another, she picked the other violinists off, winning each challenge, and anyone who challenged her, until they challenged no more, until Charlotte landed herself in the violin’s first chair – senior class virtuoso.

Chantilly zoomed in close with her camera, her eyes welled-up as her daughter lead the orchestra in tuning. The violin was an extension of her daughter’s body. It seemed like the music swept her daughter away – the old was dead and gone – the beauty down there on stage, she was perfection, she was the notes, she was the rests; nothing else existed.

But something else did exist. Charlotte saw him in the third row, golden hair, a twinkle in his eyes. She saw the spinner in the audience from the first note. It wasn’t until “Ode to Joy” that they made eye contact. And it wasn’t until the finale, “Hoedown,” when the two smiled at each other. She played with the gusto of the star fiddler at a square dance.

Stage lights dimmed. Charlotte rose, and bowed at the conductor’s direction. She tip-toed off stage without looking back at the standing ovation.

* * *

Heat waves radiated off the concrete. Charlotte saw the spinner before he saw her. He seemed lethargic, distracted, and he sported a plain, green baseball cap.

Nausea surfaced as she stood waiting for the light to read “Walk.” The sun’s reflection flickered in unison with the arrow’s spins; her eyes fluttered. Charlotte reached back to steady herself on the street post, when there at her feet, she saw it for the first time – a hat, a brand new green hat in fact, just like the one the spinner wore.

When Charlotte stooped down to pick it up, she noticed a smile on the spinner’s face. It was the smile that convinced her. She placed the hat upon her head, adjusting it some to shut out the sun’s reflection, more importantly, its flickering light as he spun the sign. She laughed out loud for not having realized before.

She made her way across the street with timid steps, increasing in confidence. When she stepped up onto the curb the spinner dropped his sign to the ground. He held out his hand to her and stumbled over the sign. They both laughed.

“Hi,” he said. My name’s Brad.” He looked nervously to the ground. “And,” he continued, “I promise . . .” He cleared his throat as if trying to recall a rehearsed vow. “I promise . . .,”

“Yes?”

Brad smiled. “To keep the light shining and never let it flicker before your eyes.”

Can It Be Any More Difficult? (Damn It!)

2010-03-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

So, I love fiction. But life takes over. Over and over and over again.

I used to read four plus novels a month. Now, I read a novel when I assign one to a student (by the way, the last was "A Day No Pigs Will Die" -- and I cried twice, BEAUTIFUL, SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL.) Anyway, I read fiction when I can (which is so, so rare), but I have only been paid for writing non-fiction. I have NEVER received a cent for fiction. And so I weep . . .

Not really. Not at the moment anyway. (But soon I'm sure I may).

Answer me this, the anonymous reader out there -- keep on writing eventhough there no chance a single soul will ever read it? Or write for the cash? I am in so much need of cash right now! A dozen plus non-fiction articles paid for doesn't pay much. But at least it's pay. What's a gal to do?????

Weep herself to sleep. That's what a gal's to do.

Yesterday

2010-03-02T06:12:00.000-08:00

Well, I've got another First Line Fiction, non-placing story to post. Pressed for time, I wrote it in about 2 days. Perhaps I'd stand a better chance if I took more time. Let's just call this an excercise in quick writing. : )

The first line supplied came from Stephen King: "Almost everyone thought the man and the boy were father and son."

I don't know what made me think up the story. I just let my fingers write it. You might also wonder what my fascination is with Annabel if you have read through this blog. I'll leave that for another post.

YESTERDAY

Almost everyone thought the man and the boy were father and son. They were often seen together back in Monroe City. But that was before the war. Even today, one would have thought the older was caring for the younger, like a father for his son. They in fact, came in on the same horse as they followed along the Mississippi. The man had been seen wiping the boy’s bloody face with a rag dipped into the river. But the man, he wore a union cap, blue uniform. The boy, his hands were bound with a rope, his hair long and knotted, beard overgrown and unseemly, his gray uniform tattered.

The horse halted approximately fifty feet of the outpost. Customers’ shoulders relaxed. A drunkard downed his shot of whiskey. The other man drinking at the outpost handed a coin to the other for losing a bet. The bet: Who’d next come up the trail – Union or Confederate?

The man who everyone thought was the boy’s father promptly pushed the boy off the horse. He landed on the wet dirt with a thud and rolled over onto his back. The boy’s bulging eyes looked up at the Union soldier.

“John!” The boy spit out a bloody tooth before continuing. “You ain’t gonna leave me here. Not without tellin’ me. How is Annabel?”

“Shut your mouth,” John said as he brushed the dirt from his coat. “The only reason you’re still breathin’, Wesley, is cuz I gone and promised your Pa.” The Union soldier looked down at Wesley and commenced to dismount. He gave the boy, whom he had known since he was a baby, a swift kick in the side, and walked toward the outpost.

“You’re a damn bastard Sir!” Wesley rolled over onto his side. “Damn Yankee,” he sighed before closing his eyes. He appeared nearly dead lying there in the dirt, his face sunken in, his body “all bones.”

“What can I get you Mister?” The owner of the outpost was a widow, her husband shot to death when a group of Confederates made their way along the river a year earlier. He lost his life for refusing to pledge allegiance to their cause.

“I’ll have what they’re having.”

She poured him a glass and busied herself. “Mister,” the woman said as she wiped out a shot glass with the apron tied around her waist. “I think your prisoner’s gettin’ away.”

John peered up from his whiskey. “I’ll be damned!” He chuckled as he watched Wesley stagger off into the brush. After tossing a silver piece onto the woman’s tray, John took the last swig of his whisky and casually walked off to his horse, stopping once to spit shine his boot.

The two drunkards snickered when John mounted. “Think he’ll catchim,” one said to the other.

“No doubt,” the other answered. “No doubt.”

The widow lifted her skirt and removed a pistol tucked into her garter. She secured it into her waistline with one hand and with the other, poured her customer another drink.

John rode off into the wetlands, finding little difficulty following the foot length mounds of mud left by the boy’s boots.

“Wesley,” John hollered. “No use runnin’.” And he kept on after those tracks, delving deeper into the forest, so close to the Mississippi now, he could smell it. It smelled like swimming in the summertime. It smelled like rowing Annabel across for an island picnic. It smelled like . . . yesterday.

John reached the gigantic river that meanders through these states and caught sight of Wesley running upstream, his hands no longer bound. “What the heck that kid doing? Thinks he can run home?”

Gentle green waters lapped the level shore. The sun began its descent behind a horizon hidden by oaks. Though he couldn’t see him anymore, John could hear Wesley’s feet fleeing in the distance. He dismounted momentarily to cut the entangled vine around his horse’s back thigh. A wood pecker tap, tap, tapped directly above.

“Better save your energy son!” John mounted again and made his way at a leisurely pace. The river’s bank gradually increased its steepness. The sky glowed pinkish-orange. Several minutes passed without hearing the boy when John came upon a Confederate coat caught on a branch. An envelope had fallen from the pocket onto the bank.

Bringing his horse to a halt, John dropped to the ground. “Not so,” he whispered as he scooped up the letter. He recognized his daughter’s handwriting instantly. Fumbling through the coat he found two more letters, both from Annabel, and shoved them into his pocket.

John yanked the boy’s the coat from the limb. He yelled out something unrecognizable and flung it into the river. Those letters remained hidden in his pocket for a good half mile however, his horse galloping at a slant. Reaching into his pocket he felt for them, just to make sure the letters were real. “How dare she?” he grunted. “The whore.”

He recalled holding his only baby girl for the first time. “Baby – hell, she’s no baby. Practically a woman now. But why Annabel?” he cried. “Why?” Remembering the letters Annabel’s mother wrote him before their marriage, he finally pulled his daughter’s letters from his coat. A tear dropped from his eye wishing his wife had not died before seeing their daughter grown. He wiped that tear and in the dim sun setting light he read.

My dearest Wesley,

Too many moons have come and gone since our lips last parted. I pray daily to the Lord for your safe return. I stopped in to see your Ma, and she is holding up heroically. She treats me like her own and is the only one I have been able to confide our secret. Your Pa, on the other hand, I’m afraid to say, does not wish to talk of you in my presence. I can see in his eyes though, his deep love for you remains.

Misty gave birth to a litter last week. Your Ma gave me the pick, an adorable white pup that sleeps by my side nightly. She will be a wonderful companion to our child, Wesley. My prayer is that you will return to greet our baby into this world.

My continual prayers are with you, my love. Please return to us safely.

Annabel

John crumbled the letter and held it in his fist for the next quarter mile. “I will kill you son,” he grumbled. “I can see your tracks. You don’t think I can’t catch a rat!”

The wind blew a cold breeze as the sky turned magenta-blue. A flock of ducks took off from the great waters, headed for the island a half mile across the river. His coat buttoned closed, John moved onward. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His baby girl would soon cradle a baby of her own. His grandchild.

Not too far away, the father of that child not yet born, staggered forward, practically within grasp of the man he feared. And then night fell, suddenly, a waning moon low on the horizon.

Both men wept that night. Tears only for Annabel.

John woke before dawn. The letter still crumbled in his fist, he kicked wet dirt over the campsite fire that he let burn all night. With aching limbs he mounted his horse. And he rode.

He didn’t even realize when he stumbled upon the boy’s camp. He didn’t smell the smoldering fire, didn’t see the sleeping lad next to the embers. What brought John to his senses was the rustling noise of Wesley scrambling to his feet and stumbling upstream.

John put his hand on his pistol. The river lapped at his horse’s legs as the wind picked up. John could hear summertime, childhood splashes along the river’s edge.

With bloodshot eyes, Wesley peered back at his captor.

John raised his pistol a mere yard from the prisoner. He noticed a gash in the lad’s left arm, dried blood soaked into the standard issue Confederate shirt. A flock of birds rustled the leaves in the trees over on the island. Then the smell of yesterday overcame John as Wesley dove into the river. John aimed for his head, his finger flush against the trigger. He never planned to tell anyone that he lowered his pistol. Only Wesley would know.

Standing there on the bank of the Mississippi, he watched Wesley swim the great river, his daughter’s letter still held within his fist. And then the sun finally peaked above the horizon -- a new day, not yesterday, but at least a day that would not bring grief to his precious child.

Orphans

2010-02-02T05:59:00.000-08:00

I have been rather discouraged with my writing, with my running, with so many things in myself. That is my nature. I would love to adhere to Winston Churchill's words that "Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm." So, in the spirit of keeping that enthusiasm (before I even read this quote), I wrote a little diddy for a on-line short story contest called Firstline Fiction. They provide the first line (from a published work) and you pump out a story. Then after all stories are submitted, each contestant receives 6 of them to read and rank. Winners are determined by these rankings. The line for this contest was "A boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railway tracks," a line from author Michael Chabon. With no idea where I was going, because I don't usually write stories very quickly, I roughed out my entry overnight, finished it up the next day and submitted it, I believe on the deadline day. I didn't win; I didn't place. But that is OLD news. The experience however, was quite fun, and it did give me something to post here. My entry for First Line Fiction, Contest #5:

Orphans

A boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railway tracks. The sun peeked above the horizon, casting a brilliant light upon the two. Snow capped the westerly mountains, beneath which stood the schoolhouse, where a group of finely dressed men converged beneath a tree to discuss ousting their mayor.

No one from these parts could say they’d seen the boy and his bird before. One of the bystanders at the schoolhouse remarked that he appeared to be talking to himself – the boy, not the parrot. Had one of those townsmen ventured down the hill and crept up on the two, they would have learned a different story.

“I told you that I don’t want to hear it,” said the boy. With a distorted face he shook his head, apparently agitated.

“We should have turned back at the mines,” said the parrot. “I told you so, told you so, told you so.”

“Ahh, shucks. Ain’t turning back now. Now hush your mouth and leave me be.” The lad pulled a prune from the pocket of his long tattered coat and threw it to the ground.

“I told you so.” The bird made an odd sound, sort of a giggle, before he swooped down and grabbed the fruit. “We shouldn’t have left . . .” He ruffled his turquoise colored wings. “Should have turned back at the mines . . .”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” the boy said. He leaned his shoulder forward for the parrot who landed awkwardly, clawing into his master’s coat.

“There!” the parrot exclaimed while puffing out a brilliant green chest. His head nodded toward the group of men outside a freshly painted schoolhouse. “We can look for rest there.”

The boy glanced up on the hill, the men no longer languidly lingering about, they raised their arms in frantic gestures. The boy hesitated before moving onward. “And what then? You think those folks ain’t gonna ask why a ten year old boy wanders these parts alone? Stupid bird,” he exclaimed.

“I know of a spot, just past the schoolhouse there.”

“What?”

“Ah! Should have turned at the mines,” the bird squealed. He flapped his enormous wings, slapping his master’s ears. “Stupid boy! I’m old enough to be your father!”

Now, the boy knew darn well that the parrot had been around a lot longer than he. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he was the bird’s first owner. Before Ma died in the hotel fire she said that the parrot came from Pa’s side. He never knew Pa to ask him. When he questioned the bird, he would never let on how many masters he’d actually had. The boy never thought to press for an answer.

Meanwhile, a brawl erupted among the men on the hillside. Several women burst forth from the schoolhouse. And the boy and bird could hear their shrill voices, seemingly urging the men to stop. There was one particular woman, who stepped away from the group and walked cautiously down the slope. Her dark hair worn past her shoulders flew about from the gust of wind growing in the valley.

“Keep walking,” said the parrot. “Get along.”

“I thought you said –“

“What do you know what I said? I said get along.”

The boy stopped dead on the tracks, determined to settle this now. He didn’t want to hear it later from the bird, “We shoulda this, we shoulda that . . .”

“Just wait one darn second,” said the boy.

Fists flew atop the hill as the woman made her way in the boy and parrot’s direction. At the bottom of the slope she grabbed hold of her skirt near the knees, and lifted it well above her ankles. Then she took off running across the rocky terrain.

“Get along,” screeched the parrot.

Women continued yelping on the hillside, blows landed in rage despite their pleas. The woman with her skirt pulled up above ankle-high black boots continued running toward the boy and his parrot. She tripped twice on the rocks. But that didn’t stop her. A hundred yards away from the railroad tracks she began waving her arms. “Please,” she screamed. “Don’t go!.”

“Crazy woman,” the parrot muttered. “Can we go now?”

The boy fumbled in his pocket and threw a prune to the ground. Expecting the bird to fly down from his shoulder, the boy changed direction and walked straight on to the woman. He could see her clearly now – fresh face, pink lips, large, dark alluring eyes; she was about twenty years old.

“I’m waiting!” The bird pecked his curved beak against the boy’s head.

The woman stumbled forth, tears streaming down her cheeks as she slowed to a halt. “Charlie,” she wept. “I’ve been looking for you almost ten years!” She held her arms out to the parrot.

“Graawk,” the parrot said.

The boy looked to the woman, then to the parrot. “Charlie,” he whispered, "how does she know your name?”

“Graawk.”

“Where did you go? Where have you been?” The woman fell to her knees. “It took me days to find my way out of the mines.”

"Mines?” The boy lightly smacked the bird on the side of his head. He looked to the men still fighting on the hill, then down at the woman who wept into her hands. Finally, he turned to stare down Charlie, who refused his eye contact while perched on his shoulder.

Not a cloud existed in the sky as the sun blared down on these three in the windy valley. The woman squinted looking up at the boy and his bird. She hesitated, hopeful Charlie would utter a kind word.

“Graawk . . ."

“Ahhhhh,” moaned the woman. “I’ve missed you so much. I couldn’t go home. Heck, Charlie,” she sobbed. “I had no home!”

“Charlie!” the boy screamed. “Say it ain’t so, PLEASE Charlie.”

“Graawk.”

The woman sobbed and reached out to caress the bird’s neck.

The parrot jerked away from her touch. And he saw that tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. Ruffling his feathers, Charlie shook his head. “Women!” he screeched.

The parrot then spread his wings and took flight from the boy’s shoulder and flew up along the railroad tracks. He flew on, toward the westerly, snow-capped mountains. While the men on the hilltop mended their wounds, the boy and young woman comforted one another in each other’s arms. Then after some time, the two made their way up the hill together, to make their lives in this small, yet prosperous mining town.

Excerpt from "Beyond the Pale," Chapter 26

2010-01-22T22:36:00.000-08:00

Too many months have passed since I last posted on this blog. Life and my other hobby take up much of my time nowadays. I want to write, yet I grow so discouraged because I don't make the time (I need more than a few minutes here and there -- I need blocks of time). Regardless, I am going to bounce back, and as such, I thought that I'd post my final excerpt from Beyond the Pale. (In other words, if you want to read it in its entirety, please send a publisher my way : )

This chapter is somewhat of the denouement chapter in that it sums up the answers to 1) whatever happened to the Tsars (that my hero so gallantly fought against in writing his underground publication), and 2) how did Jov turn out (Jov is the boy that the protagonist raised as his son). This denouement chapter, #26 takes place 5 chapters after the climax, which I have not blogged (on purpose, in hopes of peaking your interest). This novel totals 27 chapters plus an epilogue which is probably the actual denouement, but that's for later for those who read it in its entirety.

I hope you enjoy (though it's quite a depressing topic). Please comment if you are so inclined. ACTUALLY, I'M BEGGING YOU. : )

Chapter 26

1917, Ekaterinburg

“All over by Christmas,” Nicholas II had said. Despite everything a good number of people still had faith in their beloved Tsar. They wanted to believe him. They were let down as usual. They should have been used to it by now. But when you want to believe, no amount of evidence can convince you otherwise.

Instead, Russians saw nearly two million casualties just in the first year of The Great War. By the second year, men who fought so bravely for Mother Russia, thousands of them barefoot most of them starving, were limited to a mere ten bullets a day. At the Warsaw railroad station seventeen thousand wounded soldiers lay unattended in the cold rain and mud. The Tsarina’s gesture to turn the Winter Palace into a surgical bandage factory proved moot.

Thousands of refugees trudged east along railroad lines, their belongings piled in carts. Superiors cut off the hands of soldiers who deserted. Even off those who surrendered. In 1915, Colonel Miasoyedov was executed for spying for Germany. Many fantasized things would surely turn around with the traitor gone. But then, the unspeakable, The Great Retreat – one million Russians surrendered. That was about all he could take. Nicholas II fired the Grand Duke Nikolai and the Tsar assumed Supreme Command of the Army himself.

“Incompetence Abounds,” one writer reminisced of another dissident’s words.

It was a bloody war, that first world war. Trench warfare – dig in and get buried alive. And while world war ravished Russia from the outside, Civil War ate away at her insides. The cancer dug deep. Whole peasant villages were slaughtered. The White armies with too many generals and not enough soldiers fought bitterly against the Red forces, who though grand in numbers had too many infantry and too few generals to win anything decisively. The country had not known a greater time when so many Russians had suffered.

Then finally in the month of March, 1917, Nicholas II, who was always a reluctant tsar, abdicated his throne. Revolutionaries celebrated in the streets. Countless civilians took quickly to their homes in prayer, fearful over what they were in store for next. But for Nikolai Romanov, as Nicholas II was known afterward his abdication, a lifetime burden had finally been lifted. He, his wife, Alexandria, their children Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Alexis and Anastasia along with their entire retinue lived quite comfortably under house arrest for some months. For once in his life Nikolai could play a game of dominos unbothered by the demands of Mother Russia. Gardening was just gardening – a tranquil activity that Nikolai had never experienced the likes of. He had after all, been groomed as a Tsar from the day he was born.

In captivity Nikolai finally got to do what he wanted – forget the pressures of the people. He read fine books such as The Count of Monte Cristo. He even had time to enjoy a Russian great, Leo Tolstoy. He read War and Peace for the first time. He played carefree tennis. Wrote in his diary and told stories to his children. In Anastasia he saw a beauty emerging he was sure the world had ever seen the likes of. All of his daughters he imagined finding fine young suitors, perhaps abroad, Great Britain, France, maybe even in Russia where they’d raise their families in the tradition of their ancestors. His young son, Alexis, he prayed daily for his health. This young man who reminded him so much of himself could really make a difference in the world someday. He had a heart of gold. Yes, Nikolai had dreams, dreams that his children could somehow lead happy lives, normal lives, in a world better off than he had left it.

Nikolai always was a dreamer.

And he kept on dreaming those dreams. They did not die until July 17, 1917. He had noticed a change in the guards for days. They had grown rude, refused eye contact. Butter and coffee disappeared from Nikolai’s luxuries. They even refused Alexis his treatments. Something was up, Nikolai was sure of it. But when he and his family and their servants were roused out of bed at 2 AM, he thought they were just in for a move to another location. But to the basement?

“There’s been a shooting in town,” one of the guards said. He shoved Nikolai’s shoulder to get him moving.

“You’re safer in here,” another said, his eyes downcast.

Anastasia cried that she wanted to bring along Joy, their King Charles Spaniel. At first their guards refused. But somehow Nikolai was able to talk them into allowing the dog. The pup provided comfort in the dark, crowded basement. Her tail was still wagging when the order was read: “Shoot the prisoners.”

Nikolai could not believe his ears. “What? What?” he said. He lept in front of his children. Alexandra screamed. With that the firing began and the room filled with smoke. Young Alexis was finished off with two shots point blank to the head. Anastasia they stabbed several times with a bayonet. The only survivor to the massacre was Joy who whimpered over the pile of bloody corpses until the last one was dragged out.

* * *

Three young Checkists pounded on the door of one Smirnov family, 3 AM.

No Answer.

“Bring it down,” Jov hollered. He gave the door a swift kick. Nothing stood in the way of the Cheka and its duty. Stop the bourgeois counter-revolutionary. Anyone, everyone was suspect. “I said, knock it down.”

The two other Checkists threw their shoulders into the door. It crashed to the ground with just one attempt.

“Please take me, leave my family be,” said a middle aged gentleman who stood in the entryway. He was dressed in suit and tie, not your regular Russian sleeping attire. Behind him on the floor was a suitcase.

“Going somewhere Smirnov?”

“No!” his wife screamed. “Leave him, he didn’t do anything wrong.” The baby in her arms cried and pulled at his mother’s breasts for comfort. She wailed along with the child, then shook him some to try and hush him.

The man turned to kiss his wife. He caressed the child’s head before picking up the suitcase.

“He’s not going anywhere lady.” Jov chuckled. He pulled a pistol from his trousers and shot the man dead on the spot. He landed at the feet of his screaming wife and child where his coat soaked up the pool of blood.

The woman stood in the same spot and screamed hysterically with her child as the three Checkists ran throughout the two story home filling their cloth bags with whatever they could find – silver, jewelry, cologne, flour, vodka. Jov found a silver hair barrette with a single ruby at its center that he pocketed especially for his mother. He also found a cameo broach. Dasha always loved cameos, perhaps he’d start collecting them for her. There were plenty of bourgeois homes to pick through.

All three stumbled out onto the street, laughing, drunk with riches. The air smelled of smoke. A woman screaming could be heard in the far distance.

“Loot the looters,” the Checkists sang out in unison. A couple blocks away another group of young Checkists yelled back the same – a phrase many had heard that Lenin had coined himself.

“Loot the looters.”

Jov reached into his bag and opened a bottle of vodka. He took a swig, and then another before passing it on. The sun was beginning to peek above the horizon as Jov and his comrades moved onward in their search for bourgeois counter-revolutionaries. They playfully jumped over heaps of garbage left in the street. Trash collection had ceased for quite some time now. Taking swigs off the vodka they’d shoot at the rats that scurried about. Cockroaches ran for cover when Jov kicked at the lumps of garbage.

“Loot the looters,” the three drunken Checkists hollered. They laughed uncontrollably, but there was nothing really that they found particularly funny.

Jov whistled a catchy tune as the three danced up the steps to the front door of a large home. They didn’t know who lived there. But it looked suspicious all right – the curtains pulled closed, the porch swept clean, no name plate on the stoop. Looked like the type of home that housed perhaps some fancy cameos.

The three young Checkists pounded on the door. 5 AM.

No answer.

“Bring it down,” hollered Jov. He took another rather large swig of Vodka. He gagged, then wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “I said, BRING IT DOWN.”

(c) Lauren D H Miertschin

Walk this way? Think not, how about RUN? (Or at least trot)

2009-11-26T23:00:00.000-08:00

This is not a "Simply Fictional Tale." This is merely meandering . . .

I laughed when Bugs Bunny said, "walk this way," and some other character copied his haphazard walk. I laughed harder when Eyegore in Young Frankenstein said it also to Dr. Frankenstein, who imitated his limp in order to "walk this way." Aerosmith sang those words also when I was in Junior High, or was it grade school? Doesn't matter, I thought it was cool.

Now . . .

I don't want anyone telling me to "walk this way." I'm not certain that I ever did. Sure I thought it was funny, thought it sounded cool before. Heck, I didn't really know when I was a kid -- I couldn't verbalize what I felt. But I felt it. I felt: don't tell me to "walk this way!" Why? Because I can't! It feels awkward, it feels wrong.

Thing is . . . or rather, problem is, it's always been said: WALK THIS WAY! The Greeks said it to Socrates, and because he wouldn't, he had to drink the poisonous hemlock. The Pharisees said it to Jesus, and because he wouldn't, he had to carry his own cross to be crucified upon. Martin Luther lucked out when he nailed his 95 theses upon the Catholic Church doors. John Calvin wasn't so fortunate. Neither was Martin Luther King, Jr.

I cannot put myself anywhere near the people mentioned above, and even countless others. But I can say: I CANNOT walk this way. I have never been able to walk this way! And I suspect this is true for most people. They just don't want to say it. Isn't it so much easier to say, okay, sure, I can walk that way? It's easier than being branded a rebel, an outcast, nerd, a geek, an idiot.

Easier yes -- but as far as I know, we only grace this earth once (perhaps more, but I'm not gonna count on that -- and besides that -- so what if we visit more than once, we certainly have no recall of other lives here). So, why not go ahead and refuse to imitate that limp? Run if you want to. Heck, how about skip? Or even gallop? This is your life after all, give it YOUR best. And don't care whether you can walk this way! Run even if you're too big or too old. Carry a spare pair of shoes on your hands if you feel like it. Embrace a dorky picture of yourself. Wear white open-toed sandals in the winter! Trot down to the store, run down to the store, crawl down to the store, drive your S.U.V. down to the store (if you are so lucky) and forget about walking this way!

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin (As if it needs to be (c)! I'm not sure that anyone's reading these blogs. Prove me wrong, and feel free to comment, especially on the fiction : )))))

My Top 100 Favorite Books

2009-11-21T12:17:00.000-08:00

I could rearrange this list from week to week. And there are many other books that I've read worthy of making this list. I doubt the top 3 will ever change -- though it is possible.

(Omitted from list: Holy Books, friends books, children’s books)

1. Uncle Tom’s Cabin / Harriett Beecher Stowe

2. Black Boy / Richard Wright

3. Brother’s Karamozov / Fyodor Dostoevsky

4. Corelli’s Mandolin / Louis De Berniers

5. Grapes of Wrath / John Steinbeck

6. The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank / Anne Frank

7. The Catcher in the Rye / J.D. Salinger

8. Les Miserables / Victor Hugo

9. 1984 / George Orwell

10. The Color Purple / Alice Walker

11. Notes from Underground / Fyodor Dostoevsky

12. The Good War / Studs Terkel

13. All Quiet on the Western Front / Erich Maria Remarque

14. Dracula / Bram Stoker

15. Uncle Tom’s Children / Richard Wright

16. Eight Men / Richard Wright

17. Cry, the Beloved Country / Alan Paton

18. Berlin Diaries / Marie Vasilnikoff

19. Anais Nin’s Diaries (all of them) / Anais Nin

20. The Good Earth / Pearl S. Buck

21. To Kill a Mockingbird / Harper Lee

22. Boy / Roald Dahl

23. Native Son / Richard Wright

24. The Island on Bird Street / Uri Orlev

25. Going Solo / Roald Dahl

26. The Screwtape Letters / C.S. Lewis

27. The Winter of our Discontent / John Steinbeck

28. East of Eden / John Steinbeck

29. Memoirs of a Geisha / Arthur Golden

30. Tortilla Flats / John Steinbeck

31. Brave New World / Aldous Huxley

32. The Outsider / Richard Wright

33. The Long Dream / Richard Wright

34. Illusions / Richard Bach

35. Blue Beard / Kurt Vonnegut

36. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Café / Fannie Flagg

37. Taras Bulba / Gogol

38. Cat’s Cradle / Kurt Vonnegut

39. Bird by Bird / Anne Lamott

40. Surprised by Joy / C.S. Lewis

41. Me Talk Pretty One Day / David Sedaris

42. Cold Sassy Tree / Olivia Burns

43. Reflections on the Psalms / C.S. Lewis

44. Naked / David Sedaris

45. Franny and Zooey / J.D. Salinger

46. Raise High the Roof Highbeam, Carpenters . . . / J.D. Salinger

47. The Glass Harp / Truman Capote

48. A Grief Observed / C.S. Lewis

49. Til We Have Faces / C.S. Lewis

50. Savage Holiday / Richard Wright

51. A Pen Warmed Up in Hell / Mark Twain

52. If I Forget Thee Jerusalem / William Faulkner

53. The Four Loves / C.S. Lewis

54. Breakfast at Tiffany’s / Truman Capote

55. Of Mice and Men / John Steinbeck

56. The Reader / Bernhard Schlink

57. Lawd Today! / Richard Wright

58. Over to You / Roald Dahl

59. Letters to Children / C.S. Lewis

60. My Uncle Oswald / Roald Dahl

61. Cannery Row / John Steinbeck

62. The Crucible / Arthur Miller

63. The World According to Garp / John Irving

64. Diary of a Madman & Other Stories / Nikolai Gogol

65. Tom Sawyer / Mark Twain

66. Crime and Punishment / Fyodor Dostoevsky

67. Don Quixote / Cervantes

68. Wuthering Heights / Emily Bronte

69. Stones from the River / Ursula Hegi

70. The Tin Drum / Gunter Grass

71. House of the Dead / Fyodor Dostoevsky

72. Fahrenheit 451 / Ray Bradbury

73. Candide / Voltaire

74. Robinson Crusoe / Daniel Defoe

75. The Odyssey / Homer

76. Crime and Punishment / Fyodor Dostoevsky

77. Lolita / Vladimir Nabakov

78. A Clockwork Orange / Anthony Burgess

79. A Prayer for Owen Meaney / John Irving

80. The Sorrows of Young Werther / Geothe

81. Mother Night / Kurt Vonnegut

82. Nine Stories / J.D. Salinger

83. The Slave / Isaac Bashevis-Singer

84. Like Water for Chocolate / Laura Esquivel

85. The Aeneid / Virgil

86. The Inferno / Dante

87. The Bell Jar / Sylvia Platt

88. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest / Ken Kesey

89. Midnight Cowboy / James Leo Herlihy

90. At Play in the Fields of the Lord / Peter Matthiessen

91. A Literate Passion Anais / Nin/Henry Miller

92. Angela’s Ashes / Frank McCourt

93. The Long Walk / Slavomir Rawicz

94. Tale of Two Cities / Charles Dickens

95. Johnathan Livingston Seagull / Richard Bach

96. The Underdogs / Mariano Azuela

97. The Great Gatsby / F. Scott Fitzgerald

98. Things Fall Apart / Achebe

99. The Chocolate War / Robert Cormier

100. Anna Karenina / Leo Tolstoy

101. Exodus / Leon Uris (Oops, I just had to sneak one more in : )

Excerpt from" Beyond the Pale," Chapter 9

2009-11-14T20:51:00.000-08:00

Chapter 9

1890, Kiev, Russia

Jov Baklanov tossed a tattered, leather boot at the black, long-haired mutt perched up against the sofa. She barked wildly out the window at a white cat that pranced about in the littered alleyway, seemingly enjoying the dog’s frustration.

“Someone shut that dog up. Before I kill it.” Jov said. He winked at the dog, as in actuality, the two were best buddies.

Her tail curled under, the dog whimpered and ran along the old, but well cared for sofa, jumping into Axel’s lap.

“She’s all right. Aren’t you lady?.” Axel stroked her back then growled at the dog to play along with Jov’s puffed up aggression.

“Dasha, get this dog out of here. Damn it!” Jov fought back a toothless grin and continued delving into his stack of papers.

“Like I said . . .” Axel cleared his throat. He felt embarrassed rushing his friend. “I need something right away.”

So far, it looked as if Saint Petersburg was his only answer. Contacts might shed news on the fisherman; they’d have a rundown on safe houses, some printing sources, possibly an exchange for a few gems.

“Sure, I understand. Important business our friend has.” Jov thumbed through some more papers. “You’re masquerading as one of us then, eh?

“One of you?”

“A gentile.” Jov smirked. “I barely recognize you comrade.” But neither the absence of a beard nor mustache really threw Jov. After pawning a diamond for a mere fraction of its worth, Axel had a new look tailored in town, something more “establishment”, less traditional – stiff, high collared white shirt, black trousers, matching vest and coat. Getting around in Saint Petersburg meant looking the part.

“Of course, a gentile.” Axel tugged at his bow tie in discomfort. “Something to get me across the border,” he admitted, then butted noses with the dog he had known since she was a pup.

“Well, I’m your man.” Jov waved a piece of paper about. “Here’s one Filip Kakovka . . . No, he’s sixty-five.” Jov shook his head before he cleared his throat and spit into a tin can on the table. “How about Mishenka Rachek? Thirty-six, Moscow. Sure, he fits you. Brown hair . . . eyes brown. What color your eyes comrade?”

“His eyes are blue,” Dasha said. She surprised the two as she stood in the doorframe and silently admired Axel’s affection toward her dog. “Steel blue.” Dasha smiled and waved to Axel, not to further interrupt her husband.

“Good to see you Dasha.” Axel pushed the dog from his lap and stood to greet the woman.

“There you are. Now get that mutt out of here.” Jov sneered at the dog before returning to the task at hand. “Errr. I know I’ve got a perfect passport for you somewhere.”

Fiddling with the waistline of an oversized, second-hand dress, Dasha took a seat next to Axel on the sofa. “This new look suits you,” she said. “If I hadn’t known, you’d gone and found yourself some kind of official position – with the government perhaps?” She patted her leg for the mutt who jumped up into her lap and showered her face with kisses. “Oh, Sabina, that a girl. Calm down. Yes, calm down, puppy.”

“How about Fyodor, thirty-one? Wait . . . no good.” Jov eyed the dog and shook his head smiling. “Good; I’m glad to see that what the man of this house says goes.” He pulled another stack of papers from the floor and barked at Sabina. The dog yiped back, to which Jov let out a hearty laugh.

“You should come around more often,” Dasha said in a lowered voice. Her dark hair fell on bare shoulders where the neckline had slipped off. She blushed and looked away, using one arm to quickly pull it back up over her milk-white shoulder.

“Stefan, twenty-nine. No . . .”

Axel squeezed Dasha’s hand. Her eyes darted to her husband who shuffled still through his jumbled stack of counterfeit papers.

“Always a pleasure seeing you both. You know that.” Axel patted the couch for Sabina who eagerly switched laps to shower an abundance of licks upon his face.

“That damn dog still here?” Jov swatted at a fly that lingered about his face. Suddenly his hand shot up and snatched it midair.

Dasha shuddered, Axel’s grin displayed some amusement.

“Damn Fly,” Jov grumbled, and threw it to the ground where it lay lifeless. “Now where was I? Dog out, fly dead. Yes. Here it is,” he said. “Alek Raskolnikoff, thirty-six, brown hair, blue eyes.”

Dasha threw her head back and laughed. “Sounds like a character out of a novel,” she said. “But then again, our friend here is just like a character in a novel. Wouldn’t you say, Jov?”

“Eh?”

“Dasha, our resident romantic.” Axel shook his head in mock pity for all poor romantics amongst Mother Russia. Funny he didn’t realize he was one himself. Romantics seldom ever do. Sabina hopped from his lap, her tail wagging, she nudged at his feet as if she agreed.

To signal that Dasha knew darn well Axel was a romantic too, she sneered and rolled her dark eyes away from him when she stood to grab at her dog. Who in the movement wasn’t a romantic? One had to be in order to take the crazy risks involved with subversion.

“Come on Dasha, knock off that book stuff will you? We’ve got business to conduct. Take the mutt and leave.” Slapping Dasha’s rear with his spare hand, Jov handed Axel his new identity.

“Oh, she’s harmless, let’s go Sabina.” Dasha leaned forward and hugged Axel. “Stop through on your way back,” she said. “Stay a few days.”

Jov agreed and extended the welcome. He slapped Axel hard on the back. Then with both hands he grabbed his friend’s shoulders and turned him to face head to head before he kissed both of Axel’s cheeks.

Axel embraced Jov a bit longer than customary. He didn’t leave before he paid his friends generously – a quarter-karat diamond for their services, double what he’d planned on paying. Said he hoped he’d be back by fall. Then departing, he sadly reflected on whether he’d see them again, or whether like the fisherman back home, and so many like him, they’d disappear in the night.

* * *

The train parted a thick layer of fog as it rolled into Saint Petersburg. Axel peered out his compartment window, scrutinizing strangers’ faces. A small group of people walked in and out of the mist on the platform. An old man sat hunched over the stool of his shoeshine, reading a newspaper as he waited for the morning rush.

Axel waited for a good portion of the travelers to exit the train before disembarking himself. When he did, he made a deliberate attempt to appear confident – as if he belonged there. He had mastered the look. His strides were long, his attention forward, in a straight line for the dispersing crowd. The conductor’s uniform a dark blob in the corner of Axel’s eye, vanished with distance.

“Paper! Get your paper here,” hollered the paperboy who was not actually a boy. Thinning, gray hair indicated middle-age. Yet he measured a little over three and a half feet tall.

“Get your paper here!”

A policeman emerged from the fog, casually meandering toward the train. He stopped to chat with two women who waited for their luggage. The women were pretty and young, batting eyelashes at the officer as he lit his pipe. The officer’s presence did not appear to shake Axel, who kept up his pace on past the “paperboy”. He would have kept on walking right through the station and out, directly to his contact’s flat downtown, had a single finger tap on his shoulder not stopped him short.

“Excuse me,” the conductor said looking over the rim of his glasses. Axel sensed a tinge of hostility in his voice. “Please sir. What does it take to get your attention?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Axel said. “How can I help you?”

The conductor sighed. “Double checking passports,” he said. “You walked right past me on the ramp. Now, please. Your passport, Sir.” He held out his palm.

“Why, certainly.” Axel set his bag on the ground. Making an effort to appear unconcerned, he stepped back from the conductor to gain some space.

“Mandatory re-check. With this cholera outbreak, never can be too sure. Just last week we caught a quarantined family of four trying to enter our city with false papers. Can you imagine?” The conductor shook his head, apparently disgusted.

“I can assure you . . .” Axel pulled at his tie, then abruptly stopped fiddling.

“Passport?” The conductor held out his hand again.

“Paper! Get your paper!” The paper boy held the headline page up above his head. “Twenty-five traitors face the firing squad . . . Read all about it here!”

His attention torn between the news and the conductor, Axel reached into his coat to retrieve documentation. With it he pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “I’m already running late,” he said feigning annoyance by the delay. His strategy: intimidate with a slight air of authority. That usually worked for him. Only once did he need to outrun a touchy situation. That happened in Kiev when he was twenty-five years old, ten pounds lighter, and his feet could carry him practically as fast as a horse. Axel wasn’t so confident he could do it again.

Briefly looking up from Axel’s finely counterfeited papers, the conductor waved over the officer who still chatted with the ladies. “Ah, Mikel,” he hollered. “I have one for you to clear.”

Excusing himself, Mikel lit his pipe and made his way to the men. “On time for once,” he shouted. “I believe that’s some kind of record. Three times this month, if I’m not mistaken.” The officer let out a laugh and continued so laughing until he reached the two men on an increasingly crowded platform. “Let me have a look.” Mikel took a puff from his pipe and grabbed the passport. He looked over Axel, then diverted his eyes to the bag beside him on the ground.

“Alek Raskolnikoff is it? And what are your plans in our fine city?” He puffed on his pipe, staring intently at Axel.

“Why Gentlemen.” Though Axel didn’t as much as blink, his gut tightened, tiny beads of sweat formed at the back of his neck. “I have the pleasure of visiting your gorgeous city on a matter of business . . .”

Mikel exhaled a puff of smoke at Axel’s face. “Business of what type?”

Axel fanned the smoke away with his hand. The hair at his nape seemed to rise. And he could feel the sweat beading at his temples. He also felt the presence of someone standing behind him, but dared not turn around. They had him trapped now. His best chance, he thought, was to grab his bag and try to outrun these goons. But he’d have to move quickly else lose the element of surprise. A strong hand pressed down onto his shoulder before he could make that move.

“Professor Raskolnikoff, there you are.”

Both the conductor and police officer recognized the man behind Axel. No doubt, Axel recognized Stefan’s voice at once – just like in their school days, Stefan’s influence preceded him.

Axel’s shoulders relaxed. He took in a breath, ready to play the game. But he couldn’t help but wonder what the chances were of meeting his friend again so soon. How could Stefan possibly have known he’d be there? He had after all, deliberately misled his friend about his travel plans when they met on the train.

“Paper! Get your paper here.”

“We were afraid you didn’t make it.” Stefan leaned into Axel and kissed each of his cheeks. A neatly groomed mustache and well-combed hair contrasted the disheveled drunken Stefan he met on the way to Kiev. Though a hint of vodka lingered on his friend’s breath.

“Appreciate you meeting me here,” Axel said.

“Ah, Stefan.” The officer cleared his throat. He puffed out his chest. “You can vouch for this man?”

The conductor eyed Axel suspiciously.

Stefan put his arm around his friend and with the other picked up his bag. “Why certainly, we’ve been eagerly awaiting to hear more about the professor’s thesis at the university.”

“Is that so?” The officer gave Axel a look over again and glanced behind his shoulder to the conductor.

“Say, Mikel,” Stefan said, “you might have caught his piece in The Petersburg Quarterly”

“The Petersburg Quarterly you say.”

“Certainly, you must have seen it – “Why the peasant refuses to better his lot” – I know you appreciate the intellectual articles.”

“Oh sure, now that you mention it,” he said not looking directly at either of the men. “It’s a pleasure making your acquaintance, Professor Raskolnikoff, is it?” Mikel’s face reddened as he returned the passport. “Sorry to have kept you.”

“Not a problem,” Axel said, anxious to take his chance at an exit. “Just doing your job.” He adjusted his bow tie.

“Come.” Stefan slapped his friend’s back. “I have a coach waiting.”

Don't Touch The Glass

2009-11-07T19:45:00.000-08:00

I don't know about this one -- I figured what the heck! Post it, then file the story away.

Danny lurched from his mother’s vomit-stained lap. He hit the floor with a thud. Face tensed. Eyes widened, he pulled at his stomach, yanking, yanking, like something tore at his flesh. The wail that escaped his lips woke Ericca from a fitful sleep. Yet no one else seemed disturbed. Except for Danny’s mother. Except for all mothers. Some turned in their sleep. Others simply hollered for no apparent reason.

A stern-faced guard looked on as Danny cried into the floor. His mother pulled him into her arms. Then she sat inches from Ericca’s feet and cradled the six-year-old while he moaned a low, steady hum.

Ericca smiled, yet deliberately refused eye contact with the boy and his mother. Didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable. No. She didn’t want to feel uncomfortable.

“The air,” the boy’s mother said. “Why don’t they turn off that damn air?” She balanced her son with one arm, with the other pulled a black shawl from the chair and covered him. “Middle of winter for chrissake.” She nestled back in the chair, whimpering son solid in her arms.

A soft breeze blew outside the E.R. on this cloudless night. The clock above the nurse’s window read 11:58. It seemed like it read a couple minutes before midnight, all night. Ericca covered the blood on her white button-up blouse with a torn People magazine. For sure, she thought, a rib poked through. A dull throbbing radiated from the bandage taped across her ribs.

“They’re trying to freeze us,” she surprised herself by muttering out loud. Clearing her throat, she scanned the room. Who are these people? She sensed they were here every night, different faces, familiar bodies, murmuring in low tones.

Ericca hugged her ribs, tensed, then coughed. Danny flinched. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed then fought against the tickle at the back of her throat. She shifted her weight and looked away from the boy. Hell. What kind of infectious bacteria had seeped in by now?

Outside the ER’s neon EXIT that flickered against a black night, Ericca found a smoker hovered over the trashcan – a boy, probably nineteen, wrapped in a faded denim jacket. “Got an extra smoke?” She held her ribs firmly applying pressure where she was certain that the rib poked through.

“Last one dude,” the kid said. “Want a drag?” He held out his half smoked cigarette.

“Ah, that’s all right.”

The boy chortled. She knew what he was thinking. Cold stone bitch, that was what he was thinking, and she ached to defend herself, but weariness pervaded. Thirty-nine years old, she’d had grown weary of lots of things. Bike rides, a simple pink flower, a bright sun . . .

Inside, a runny-nosed seven-year-old girl had taken Ericca’s seat. A pockmarked boy took up the two chairs beside the girl. His head propped up on a letterman’s jacket, his right leg hung to the side. The other foot rested on the next seat. A bag of ice had all but melted over his swollen foot. Double take on the feet. God, he had big feet.

Across the aisle, a family of five surrounded an elderly man in his wheelchair. A woman leaned in and adjusted his yellowed shirt collar. He stared vacantly at the aquarium, home to a translucent anemone and lone clown fish. A teenage boy stood gazing at the orange and white striped fish. He coughed on the glass, and then wiped the mist away with his bare hand.

Coughs meshed with whispers across the waiting room. Danny let out a soft yelp in his sleep. His mother cringed. Staring again, Ericca couldn’t help herself.

Danny opened his bloodshot eyes and forced a half smile for his mother who refused to relinquish him from her cradle. Yes, she kept her cool, but the strain in her eyes revealed a front ready to fall.

Danny’s eyes squeezed shut. He moaned then grabbed his stomach again.

“Can someone help this kid?” Ericca took a stance in the middle of the room, arms hugging her waist. The nurse behind the glass partition didn’t look up. Even the armed security guard who stood diligently aside, ignored Ericca. Everyone in the room ignored her. Even Danny’s mom. Even Danny.

Double doors opened. Heads turned toward the nurse who emerged. A tennis match came to Ericca’s mind. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Mark Jo . . . han . . . o . . . san.” The haggard looking woman double checked her clipboard, eleventh hour of a twelve hour shift. Wisps of blonde hair hung haphazardly from red plastic barrettes shaped like bows. Her scrubs were badly stained, new stains, brownish-red.

“Mr. Johanosan?”

Wheels squeaked as someone pushed the elderly man’s wheelchair. Ericca took a breath and held it as as the old man who erupted into a into a coughing fit in his sleep, passed by. Slowly, she exhaled as everyone returned to their preoccupations. Two women thumbed through strewn about stacks of outdated celebrity magazines. Alternately, the ladies snapped their chewing gum without reservation. They neglected to notice the man with a heavily bloodied and bandaged arm who jerked with each snap. All the while, a delirious two-year-old boy, happy to be up well past bedtime kept his mother busy, running back and forth across the room. The boy’s mother finally caught him by the sleeve.

“We had a little head injury tonight,” she explained to Ericca. “He was vomiting.” The boy yanked on his sleeve to no avail. “Looks okay now,” she said as if apologizing. “No. Don’t touch anything,” the woman said and pulled her son away from the magazines. She rummaged through her purse, one hand still gripping the boy’s arm, he gave a tug and ran off toward the automatic doors. “You’re in big trouble now, Mister,” Mom said and gave chase.

Another hour passed: same people, same scene. Besides Mr. Johanosan, one other patient was summoned behind double doors – Danny and of course, his mother. Relieved. Ericca didn’t have to look at them anymore.

2 AM. A young woman, mascara smeared across her face, stumbled to the nurse’s window. Her hair was dyed orange, meticulously formed into spikes. “Please! My father.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “They brought him by ambulance,” she cried. Without a word, the nurse buzzed in the girl.

The air conditioner blew a couple notches colder as the two-year-old’s mom struggled to keep her son in her arms. She carried him to the aquarium, his legs wiggling, wiggling. “No. Don’t touch the glass,” she said. His fingerprints had already left smudges.

Double doors opened. Heads turned to see the new nurse on duty. Her flower patterned scrubs clean – pressed with no stains, complimented neatly tied back gray hair.

“Ms. Stevens,” she said. “Ericca Stevens?”

Ericca moved forward and looked back at the room as if to say good-bye to longtime friends. Gum snapped, magazine pages crumpled. The clown fish swam circles at the water’s edge. And the two year old boy’s mother restrained her son as she rubbed his fingers clean with antibacterial wipes.

A new world appeared behind the double doors, an underworld revealed. Lights brightened. Radiologists, respiratory therapists, RNs, LVNs, interns and orderlies moved back and forth like well oiled cogs. An unattended long haired man’s wheelchair faced the wall. “They’re killing me,” he screamed. His head abruptly dropped. “I told you to fucking shut-up!” he said before he banged his forehead against the molding. An orderly knocked into Ericca as he rushed to the belligerent man’s side.

“Crazy night,” Ericca’s nurse said. “Fraid there’s not much room at the inn.” She smiled then directed Ericca to sit in a chair between two occupied gurneys in the hallway directly across from room D. “All we have for now, Dear.” With that, the nurse checked Ericca’s name on her clipboard list and disappeared down the hall, but not before crossing her shoulders then chest in the sign of the cross with her fingertips.

Some adults, a few children sat outside Room D. A few of them wept, while others’ eyes revealed a swollenness that only arises from extra-duty weeping. Two men dressed in simple dark suits sat clear-eyed and somber just outside the group.

Phones rang. Ericca clutched her ribs. The man who lay in the gurney beside her coughed and hacked for a solid ten minutes. Brown chunks of phlegm fell to the floor. Ericca held her breath, then tried to synchronize breaths with the gurney man so that she might not breathe in what he breathed out. She was grateful that the woman in the gurney to her other side slept soundly.

Somewhere outside the E.R. someone smoked a cigarette. The aroma smelled divine, a reminder of simpler times for Ericca. The door to Room D opened and out walked a teenage boy. One swollen-eyed woman rose from her seat. She hugged the boy as he passed on her way into the room.

“Miss Stevens? Ma ‘am?”

The man on the gurney increased his hacking. A respiratory therapist stopped by to administer oxygen from a tube. Little pieces of phlegm fell onto her white lace-up shoes. Down the hall a woman was barking.

“Ma ‘am?”

“I told you to shut up, godammit!” Thud. Thud. The nurse didn’t react to the head banging down the hall.

“Code nine. Code nine.”

“Ma ‘am?”

She was asleep, or at least she figured so. But Ericca could see everything – the nurse, silent to her ears, simply a woman standing in front of her opening and closing, opening and closing her mouth. The door to Room D opened and a weeping woman walked out, her face buried in her palms. A man moved her hands away from the face, kissed them, then disappeared behind the door.

“Miss Stevens?”

“Huh?”

The two year old boy darted by, mother in tow.

“Don’t touch the glass,” Ericca said.

“Pardon me?”

“Ah . . . I’m sorry.” Ericca shook her head, reminiscent from earlier that evening when she tried to keep herself from falling asleep at the wheel.

The man exited Room D, hand clenching a handkerchief. He took another neatly folded one from his pocket and he handed it off to the next man entering the room.

“Are you the doctor?”

Room D’s door opened to allow three more visitors all at once.

“No. Just here to check your vitals.”

Then out in the hallway while a doctor pressed onto Ericca’s ribs, the teenager with orange spiked hair entered Room D. Ericca tilted her head to watch the door while a doctor wrapped her ribs with fresh gauze. She spent maybe five minutes total with Errica, then ordered x-rays which revealed three cracked ribs, none of which poked out.

While Errica waited for discharge papers the orange-haired teen emerged from room D. She let out a wail when the small group of people surrounded her. Slowly they began to lead her off. Room D visitors ceased. The door remained closed. And the group outside dispersed, except for the two suited men.

The woman down the hall was still barking. Phones rang. Nurses murmured about a troublesome patient. The hacking man to Ericca’s side snored loudly. An orderly wearing green scrubs had rolled away the sleeping woman in the gurney for a cat-scan. The two dark-suited men rose from their seats. They stepped through Room D’s door with not as much as a look to each other. And a few minutes later they emerged. One man on each end, they rolled away a gurney that carried a body covered with a white plastic sheet.

On her way out, Ericca walked behind the mother carrying her two-year-old who was finally asleep. She fought an urge to pet the boy’s head. Familiar faces remained out in the waiting room. She stopped to pay the clown a visit. He seemed to swim gleefully about, his orange and white stripes turning in and out, rippling like a belly dancer. No wonder they called them clowns, Ericca thought. She ran her hand along her bandages, then placed her hand on the finger smudged glass. The clown wiggled his fins then darted into the anemone that closed its protecting translucent fingers around him. Then Ericca breathed in the smell of the E.R., Lysol, Band-Aids, antiseptic, before walking out the doors to a sky that glowed orange, welcoming the day’s new sun.

Colbalt Green

2009-11-02T09:15:00.000-08:00

This short story is another one from the archives -- I'm guessing that I wrote it about ten years ago. First clue that it's an oldie, again: First person point-of-view (and once again male). And the second important clue that this one is an oldie, is that it's mainly a narrative (which like the 1st person pov, I'm not into anymore).

The story was originally tittled "Strange Water," and I loved that title. In fact, I titled this story before I even knew what I was going to write. Then three friends read the story and all three said that this should definately be called "Colbalt Green." My husband agreed. Now I'm not one to change a title just because someone suggests it, but four people out of four? That convinced me. So, I'm wondering, what do you think? Colbalt Green or Strange Water?

Colbalt Green

(Strange Water)

By Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Nature’s Tonic. Dad, Mom, Deb, they loved the stuff. Couldn’t get enough, you know. Like, who cares about water? For me, tap’s good as anything. Don’t trust none of those fancy waters.

Mom started first. The Dame said, “Single best thing you can put into your body.”

Couldn’t fool me. I saw the effects of that strange water right off.

You should have seen her – singing to laundry, dancing down the hallway. Called the family to dinner in a damn song. Nature’s Tonic turned this place into some crazy musical extravaganza. A regular music hall, for godssake.

Sure, first it was only humming. But then the whistling started. Mom dug out these bizarre boxes she called eight tracks. Before I knew it, she bought a stereo, a pile of cd’s. You should have seen it. The Dame put radios in the bathrooms, one in the kitchen, another in the hall. She bought Deb singing lessons. Even had the piano tuned. Dad couldn’t believe how fast Mom picked it up again. Said he never heard her play so good. He was sure one to talk. I never knew Pops even owned a fiddle.

And Dad, Mom, and Deb – they thought I was the crazy one.

Right.

Say, what self-respecting water comes in Cobalt Green bottles anyway?

“There’s no such color as Cobalt Green,” Mom and Deb said.

Distraction: the oldest trick in the book. Well, not exactly the oldest. “There is so a color Cobalt Green. It’s the color of Cobalt Blue, only green,” I told ‘em.

Ha.

Wouldn’t have been so bad, you know, if it hadn’t been day in, day out. Don’t get me wrong, I like music and all. But damn, it wasn’t just Pops singing in the shower, you know. Dad, Mom, Deb, they sang at the kitchen table, sang to the T.V., performed concerts in the living room. You should have seen it. Mom at the piano, Dad with his fiddle, Deb beltin’ out a song. Who knew she had a voice like that? The water I tell ya. Heck, she’s only a kid. A kid with a stack of awards . . . not to mention that date to sing the anthem at the Hollywood Bowl.

We were becoming a regular Partridge Family for godssake.

She tried to get me musical, you know, The Dame – drums, tambourine, anything . . .

“Here, have some water. Just play along, Sweetie.”

“Not likely,” I said, not to hurt her feelings and all. But what could I say? I was a well-adjusted, happy guy, you know. No way you’d catch me singing and dancing like some damn fool.

The stuff this family put me through . . .

In broad daylight, smack in the middle of the grocery store, for godssake, Mom broke out into a sing-along with intercom music. You can be sure that I was out of there by the second note. What were people going to think?

The dame’s whacked, that’s what they thought.

Mom really went nuts when Deb won that scholarship and the whole family that crazy, European Musical Masters Tour. You should have seen it; when Mom found out she skipped around town singing at the top of her lungs. I couldn’t show my face outside the house for days. You would have thought it had been her life-long dream to see this guy Bach’s harpsichord, or Beethoven’s grave.

You should have seen them. “La, la, la, lalalala,” they sang.

Dad, Mom, they threw a big bash to celebrate. Aunt June, Uncle Jack, Mom’s friend Rita, they all came. The Adams next door even showed. Suspicious all right. As far as I knew, the Adams had never set foot in our house. I’ll tell you, at the rate Mrs. Adams gulped down that Nature’s Tonic, I sensed she’d be back.

“It’s the single best thing you can put into your body,” Mrs. Adams said.
She’d been talking to The Dame.

I call that night the turning point. The twelve packs of sodas, not a single one touched. Hardly a brew cracked all night. As a matter of fact, the next morning I checked and counted all but three beers gone. And two of those I took myself. Slipped out to guzzle them underneath the house. Wasn’t even missed, you know.

You can believe they sure did guzzle the ole’ Cobalt Green though. You should have seen it. Had ourselves a regular jubilee. Deb took up the mic, Uncle Jack strapped on the accordion. In and out, in and out. Aunt June jumped up and down banging a tambourine on her hip like some lunatic. Then there was Pops. He played that fiddle like a mad dog, Mom beside him at the piano – grinning like some sort of schoolgirl. Then Mr. Adams pulled up a chair and whipped out a harmonica. Mrs. Adams got so damn excited, she danced around her husband’s chair, real sexy like, sitting on his lap sometimes to bump and grind to the music. Talk about embarrassing.

Then about midnight the cops finally showed. “It’s about time,” I said. I called about that strange water half a dozen times before. But if you can believe it, they didn’t come knocking about the Cobalt Green. No, they showed because of the NOISE.

“How about a beer boys?” The Dame asked in a sweet, hospitality-like voice. An obvious attempt to win them over. She actually played “The Theme from Dragnet” for the cops. Can you imagine?

“Mighty kind of you to offer, Mam’,” one of the cops said, “sure you understand, duty and all.” Well, to make a not so long story even shorter, Mom, you guessed it, passed them the ole’ Cobalt Green. They had no idea . . . unsuspecting victims, you know. Never saw it coming.

Before I knew it, those two cops were dancing a jig, whistling to some Irish Folk tunes off the new stereo. You should have seen it. They left last among the party goers, two in the morning, for godssake.

You can’t blame me. First things first, you know. I fired up the internet to find out just who made Nature’s Tonic. And here’s where it got even stranger. The bottle said that the ole’ Cobalt Green was pumped from natural springs in Texas and bottled in Corina, California. Funny thing though . . . there’s no damn Corina. There’s a Corona all right – out near San Bernardino somewhere, dairy land. There was also a Covina, Los Angeles County, some god forsaken place. But no Corina.

The Dame said I ought to try another map. That I did. In fact, I checked twenty-five different websites. And as I suspected, not a single one listed a Corina. All had a Corona though, and each one, a Covina.

“Look,” I told The Dame, slapping my stack of printouts before her. “What do you have to say for your ole’ Cobalt Green now?”

Mom giggled.

“Obviously, they’re hiding something.”

“Oh, Sweetie,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just a typo.” Then tap, tap-tap, tap, she proceeded to drum out a jig.

Typo. Yeah right.

I’ll tell you what I thought. It’s like the Pied Piper, you know, only this time he’s bottled in Cobalt Green. No, the Piper didn’t whistle the family off to Europe. It’s the Pied Piper who’s gonna call them back. After that, I don’t know. Maybe it’s some kind of communist plot to lure us out to the country, get us all rural again. Maybe the government just wants to put us out graze. Hell, who can tell? For all I know, Hollywood’s behind that strange water, the ole’ Cobalt Green – some crazy scheme of a talent hunt.

Well, I didn’t bite, that’s for sure. The night before they all left for Europe, I waited until The Dame and Pops fell asleep. Then I crept into Deb’s room to break the news. As I figured, she was still awake, checking her list to make sure she packed everything. She was humming a tune over the headphones. I remember the song: “Bridge over Troubled Waters.” Apropos.

I told her that I hadn’t really been packing and all. That it was all a facade.

“But your suitcases,” she said wide-eyed.

“Stuffed with blankets.” Had no intention of traveling to Europe – not with this whacked-out family. I said that I was sorry and all, but I thought she ought to know. She’s my baby sister, you know. Didn’t want her to worry.

“But what about Mom and Dad?” Her eyes welled up with tears real sad like. “Andrew! They’ll drag you along if they have to. Ohhhh,” she whimpered, “if you make us miss the plane, they’ll kill you.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” I assured her. “Mom and Dad, they won’t miss the flight for the world, you know. Tomorrow when they see I’ve left, and you won’t say a word,” I told her, “you all will just have to leave without me.”

My news came as a shock. Poor Deb. She looked like she might burst into tears. So I, very gently, you know, covered her mouth with my hand. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll be back home once you’re all gone.”

I could tell that Deb didn’t like my plan. She cried, despite my hand covering her mouth. Fortunately, The Dame and Pops didn’t stir, and I got a promise from her that she wouldn’t holler as soon as I left.

At three in the morning when I was certain the entire house slept, I laid out the note about how I wouldn’t be going on their dream vacation, because it was so dorky and all. I didn’t mention that the family was just too damn whacked to be seen with in public – even in Europe. Didn’t want to lay it on too hard, you know. I ended the note with something about how in a few days, they could reach me at home. Then I grabbed a sleeping bag, a couple those leftover beers and headed for the storage cupboard in the basement to hide out.

Heard a couple of doors slam. Pops made some grumbling noises. Couldn’t make out any words, but I could have sworn at one point Pops was singing.

After a couple hours I finally I heard the van pull out of the driveway with some classical tune blaring from the stereo. I can’t tell you how glad I was about my decision. Besides, attached to the note upstairs about how furious they were, how they’d call me, and how I’d better stay out of trouble, was Mom’s bank versatel card for my “basic needs.”

I got quick to work as soon as they left. Pulled up a list of every bottled water company in the damn U.S. Thirty-seven of them, you know. Who would have thought? Yet, not one of them Nature’s Tonic.

Wasn’t surprised.

Finally I phoned the grocery store manager. “Can you please give me the name of your Nature’s Tonic Distributor,” I politely asked. “I really love the stuff and can’t get enough.”

“Listen punk,” she said, “You call again and I call the cops.”

I waited a day and phoned again. Said I owned a café in town, needed fifty cases of Nature’s Tonic. I only needed to know when they expected their next shipment, you know. Damn, you’d have thought I was asking them to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

Meanwhile, I hit the library to research strange water situations. No luck at all, when this grandma-like librarian showed me an article on this funky film, nothing more than a pain in the ass to load up on some square dinosaur box. It talked about a drug called Lithium that’s found naturally in some water. Well, Lithium’s this drug they give manic-depressed patients, you know – those people who one minute are perfectly happy, then in the next practically suicidal. I know a few myself.

Anyway, the article went on to say that the Fountain of Youth that ancient guy from Italy searched all over Florida for, was probably this Lithium water. Didn’t mention though, about the drug keeping you young. More likely, you might not care so much about getting old. Well, from what I could make of it (you know those academic types, gotta use ten sentences when they could say it in one), Lituium makes you feel evenly fine. Fine all the time, in other words. You know, like nothing is terrible, nothing is wonderful. Just how life is naturally, you know.

The article went on to say that there were pockets of Lithium water all over the country. Towns sometimes boomed around the water. The rich and famous dudes vacationed in these towns, drank and swam in pools of the stuff. Then when it dried out for some reason or another, well the town just died. Hotels closed, people moved out, the place became a regular ghost town.

Certainly a case of strange water you know, but the article made no mention about Lithium making you sing, nothing about dancing, or playing the fiddle. Awfully nice of the librarian to find me the article though. Without her, you know, I might never have realized the solution to our strange water problem around here.

I decided to put an end to the Pied Piper myself. Decided to dry this town out. Sure I might turn this place into a ghost town. But that was just a risk I had to take. And fortunately for me, time was on my side.

For an entire week, I watched the grocer’s shelves. Customers grabbed up the ole’ Cobalt Green by the case. When I saw the supply falling low, I grew giddy knowing soon I would make my move. Giddy, can you imagine? And then finally, one Monday afternoon it happened; I arrived to fully stocked shelves of Nature’s Tonic. Four shelves high, Cobalt Green glistened down the side of an entire aisle. There was an old woman humming some church hymn who reached for a six pack. A mom with her baby strapped across her chest, sang “Sunshine, my only sunshine . . .” as she loaded her cart with the stuff. Truly a sad sight.

Well, I returned to the store an hour before it closed. Waited by the newspaper stand outside so I could enter with other customers. Didn’t want to stand out, you know. So later, when I slipped into the back, ducked down between some crates, I would be scott free, and no one would ever realize that I hadn’t exited the store, being no one noticed me enter.

Didn’t have to wait long, cramped down there on the floor. Within the hour, I’d say, the place pitch black, death quiet, except for freezer motors running and shit, I decided to make my move. I pulled the ski mask over my face, bolted up and made right for it. First in the back, I located a hundred or so cases of the stuff neatly stacked. I took a short running start and pushed my weight head-on into it. You should have seen it, the entire stack fell as one chunk, smashing the bottles into a million Cobalt Green pieces. Tremendous noise, I’ll say. Surely someone must have heard. So I rushed off like mad to the front of the store to finish the job.

I huffed and I puffed and I pushed all my weight into the aisle. That damn thing wouldn’t budge. So I just started kicking bottles off the first shelf all the way down the aisle until I reached the end. Then I turned and made the trip back bent over and all, and pushed the bottles off the second shelf. I did the same for the third shelf, this time, running upright. Then I gave it another try, maybe now the aisle was light enough to tackle. Yes, indeed. I pulled it down in three sections, crashing the last of the Cobalt Green to the floor.

Except for bumps and bruises to my head from bottles that fell off the top shelf, my plan went down without a hitch. Without wasting any time, I burst out the back door, sounding the alarm. I sprinted two blocks to the mall. Took in a movie before I headed home, victorious over the ole’ Cobalt Green.

Victorious, until they restocked a week later. On a Sunday this time. Who delivers on a Sunday? But I was prepared, you know. I did the exact thing again, hid out until everyone had gone, donned my black ski mask, then destroyed all of that strange water. There was much improvement in my speed. Accomplished the deed in half the time, with half as many knocks to the ole’ knocker.

I had to act cautiously after that, you know. There’d been a write-up about me in the paper and everything. “Water Bandit,” they dubbed me. No doubt, everyone expected the culprit to show up the night of the next shipment. But you can be sure I didn’t make an appearance. The beauty of it was, I didn’t have to make an appearance. The Post Office did it for me. In fact, the grocer got my letter in a day. Oh, you should have seen it, the entire aisle of the Ole Cobalt Green taped off. They didn’t allow anyone near the stuff. That was, not until those dudes figured exactly which two bottles had been tainted. Of course, they didn’t find any. The letter was just my genius hoax, you know. Where’s a kid like me gonna get cyanide?

After hoax number one, I printed up a flyer, five hundred of them to distribute throughout town – in mailboxes, newspapers, church confessionals, all about how Nature’s Tonic was dangerous to your health. I put in some clever stuff about how the company’s procedures were unsanitary and all. “One customer even found a rat’s skull in her bottle of water,” I wrote.

After the flyer, I had more planned, you know. I’d dry this town out yet. Had been practicing with gunpowder, learning to make a bomb, and all. I swore I was gonna blow that damn aisle down. Then maybe they’d learn – stop it already with the Cobalt Green. I won’t quit, you know, not until I’ve chased the Pied Piper out.

The Dame, Pop’s they’ll be back real soon. Sure, I guessed they’d be back sooner. Any day now, they’ll rush through the front door. Back for a bit of the ole’ Cobalt Green. It’ll be tough for them once they find out we’re just about dry. But I figured they’d get over it all right. Until then, I’ve got myself some peace and quiet. No more strange water. No more silly song.

Excerpt from "One of Us," Chapter 1

2009-10-31T00:41:00.000-07:00

Summer
Chapter 1

Charlotte let out a wail that traveled to the edges of their thousand-acre ranch. Armadillos stopped in their tracks. Tiny white butterflies paused on blades of grass swaying in the hot August breeze. A rattler or two slithered out from beneath a rock, stunned. Somewhere a dog howled. And three or four newborn kittens emerged from the barn.

“Get it out of me,” Charlotte screamed. “Get it out!” When once modesty prevailed, she made no attempt to cover her exposed breasts. Instead Charlotte slapped at the nurse, the doctor’s daughter actually, with no real nurse training at all. Nurse or no nurse, Charlotte wasn’t about to let the young woman tie her fists to the bedpost that her husband hand carved for their marriage.

“You’ve got to push Charlotte.” The town’s only doctor leaned in and forcefully pried Charlotte’s knees apart.

Hatred peered through the dark hair that hung over Charlotte’s eyes. And she did happen to note that the recently purchased General Electric oscillating fan provided absolutely no relief. It was at her insistence that her husband paid the only electrician in fifty miles a small fortune to come out and wire the place. Before that, Dwight swore that they would do without the modern convenience. Despite his wealth, her husband was a man of simplicity.

“Get it out,” she screamed. “What kind of doctor are you? Ahhhhh!”

A pound sounded from the bedroom door. “Don’t let him in,” the doctor growled.

“Dwight?”

“Damn it Doc – what are y’all doing to her?”

Charlotte struggled to raise herself from the bed. Balance lost, she fell back onto the mattress. Before she could raise herself again the nurse had her left wrist yanked back. Charlotte pulled and fussed but had not the strength to fight the doctor’s daughter as she tied her wrist to the bedpost.

“You bitch!” Charlotte wiggled and squirmed. “Untie me,” she screamed.

A succession of pounds came from the bedroom door. “Give her some whiskey,” yelled the shaken male voice from behind it. Awaiting the birth of his first child, Dwight had no idea the trouble little ones made coming into this world. “My God Doc. I can’t stand it.” Thud, thud, thud.

“Ahhhhhh!”

The nurse made a movement towards the door. She didn’t think that she could stand it either. Her first birth as well, she thought that Dwight might help his wife through this ordeal.

“You stay put Dolly,” the doctor snapped.

“Come on Doc, let me in.”

“Dwight!”

“PUSH Charlotte.”

Before Charlotte even realized, the nurse had her other wrist successfully tied back to the bedpost. She tugged, but the knot only tightened.

“Push!”

“What do you think I’m doing – Damn you!”

“Push!”

Charlotte blew at the hair obstructing her view of the doctor for a better look at the man she intended to fire first thing in the morning. She swore underneath her breath that he’d never work in Dublin again – in the whole county of Erath for that matter.

“Push!”

Charlotte groaned, finding little energy to scream. An urge to pound her tied back fists overwhelmed her instead. Yanking her wrists only tightened the ties further. So she bucked like a wild horse and though it did not relieve the pain, possibly even worsened it, the ruckus at least provided her some satisfaction of having done something about the throbbing pain in her thighs that radiated up into the abdomen.

Dolly placed her hands on Charlotte’s belly and pushed in her father’s direction.

“Push,” he hollered again from the end of the bed. His hands still held her legs apart despite the wild bucking. Then finally, “I see the baby – yes siree, that’s a baby,” he said.

“Ahhhhh! Please Lord.”

“Push. You can do it Charlotte. Push.”

Charlotte bore down and let out another monstrous scream. Dolly jumped back. But then with a look from the doctor she fell onto Charlotte’s belly again pushing, pushing, pushing. Charlotte bore down and like with the last, thought this one would finish her strength.

“Push!”

Charlotte obeyed without complaint and with that, a small baldhead crowned between her legs. The doctor smiled, relieved. Charlotte found comfort in his expression.

The nurse leaned her weight into her hands placed on charlotte’s abdomen, and pushed from her end some more.

“Just a little longer,” Doc said. With a scalpel he cut her where she would otherwise tear. Charlotte shrieked – this scream was unlike all the others, one that would add three or four gray hairs and steal her voice for the next week.

A succession of pounds sounded from the door more forceful than before. “I’ll knock this door down,” Dwight threatened.

“Damn it, PUSH WENCH,” screamed the doctor.

“Daddy, please.”

The doctor’s cheeks blushed with embarrassment that his daughter should hear him use such language. But she’d have to get used to it, he reasoned, if she intended to work with him again.

Charlottes eyes bulged, but not over the language. “Damn you,” she mouthed. She whimpered a cry and bore down with all of her might.

“You can’t expect me to do this all myself,” the doctor said. With his forearm he wiped the sweat from his brow then bent in to gently tug at the newborn’s head. One shoulder slid out, then the next, and like a damn bursting, flowed the rest – a tiny pale chest, spidery arms, stomach, skinny legs with scrawny toes and along with it all, what everyone had been anxiously waiting for . . . a penis. Baby boy screamed furiously, seemingly angry that someone yanked him from a cozy sleep. His face flushed with color, his little legs squirmed and kicked.

“Will you look at that?” the doctor exclaimed. He held the baby up for Charlotte to see.

She reached out for her baby. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Thank God.” Charlotte could manage no other words. She merely whimpered as all the hate she had felt for the doctor faded away.

Thud, thud. “Come on Doc,” Dwight hollered.

“Let the father in.”

With the baby in arms the nurse unlatched the door then hurried over to the hand basin where she scrubbed the screaming boy clean. His bottom lip quivered from the chill. Even the hot August air of central Texas was cold compared to a mother’s womb.

Dwight usually didn’t mind the heat, never much did. People often commented how he rarely broke a sweat – even out beneath the hot sun as he drove his herd into town. Now, he just stood there, his felt hat pressed against his chest, his Sunday best shirt drenched in sweat. “Charlotte you did good,” he said. “We have a baby boy.” His voice cracked, his eyes teared up. He didn’t notice the agony across his wife’s face as the doctor leaned in with needle and thread, poking in and out of her skin, to repair the cut he’d made.

“Here you go, Papa,” the nurse said. “Congratulations.” Wrapped in a clean bed sheet, she handed baby Payne to Dwight. They all noticed that the world seemed to pause for a glimpse at the Payne heir. He would after all, have claim to some of the best land outside Dublin, Texas, not to mention the best herd of Red Angus west of the Mississippi. Even Dolly noticed the two cardinals that landed on the bedroom windowsill to take a peek. A gang of squirrels frolicked on the lawn below, as if to celebrate the newborn.

Clean baby in arms Dwight approached the nightstand and poured a tumbler of illegal brew. He often said, “I’ll be damned if any lawmaker’s gonna stop the whiskey from flowin’ here.” He went to his wife’s side and carefully poured the liquid into her mouth as she lay on her back looking up to him. Baby Payne closed his eyes. Red faced and crinkled nose, he yawned.

“Hurry it up Doc,” Dwight said.

The doctor pulled another stitch through. Then he laid the needle down and wiped the sweat from his forehead again. “You’ll want this done right if the missus plans on more younguns – specially if she’s wanting a delivery as easy as this.”

“You did good Charlotte,” Dwight repeated. He pulled the baby up to his clean-shaven face.

With a weak hand Charlotte reached up and caressed the sheet that held her son. “We’ll call him Jeremiah,” she said barely audible.

Dwight hesitated. He had hoped for a namesake.

“Jeremiah,” she whispered. She reached for his cheek then caressed her newborn’s sheet again. “Jeremiah Payne.” She paused to contemplate the sound of the names combined. “Yes, Jeremiah, like your granddaddy,” she whispered.

“Jeremiah,” Dwight repeated, nodding his head to confirm approval.

“And no one, Jeremiah Payne” she added, “no one will dare disrespect you.”

A full twelve hours passed before someone put Jeremiah Payne into the arms of his mother for the first time. Looking back she couldn’t recall just who that was. All she remembered from that moment was that the only person in the room was her baby boy, Jeremiah Payne. Before then she had ached a great deal and called on the nurse frequently to change bloody sheets. But with her son finally in her arms, she let the blood flow without a whimper. She had yearned for her baby boy too long to be bothered by pain, blood or anything silly like that.

At age twenty-nine Charlotte imagined that Jeremiah would be one of many in a long succession of children. In her perfect world, baby number one would have arrived before she turned twenty, nine months after her marriage to Dwight. Who lives in a perfect world? Perhaps Dwight, she thought. But Charlotte had not. She’d be damned if anyone was going to take that perfect world away from her son though.

She squeezed her infant, kissed him on the forehead. So peaceful, his eyes closed in deep sleep, she could see Dwight’s features in the boy – his high forehead, light eyebrows, long dark lashes. A single tear ran down Charlotte’s cheek in gratitude – certainly he would take on the traits of his grand daddy later on. It was after all what the fortuneteller said. Charlotte would have a dark-haired heir, a boy to rule over others, one of authority and great mission. Charlotte rocked him in her arms, humming the only lullaby she knew as a child, a tune her grandfather taught her. Jeremiah opened his eyes and appeared to gaze in the distance. Then they both fell asleep together in bed – a picture reminiscent of a Cassett painting, except for the bloody sheets.

Charlotte awoke empty handed to the nurse tugging at her undergarments. She gasped at the sight of her vacant arms.

“Time for a change Missus.”

“My baby?”

“Don’t you worry, he’s with his father.”

“His father,” Charlotte whispered. She felt relieved now having finally given Dwight a child, and a son at that. For years her constant prayers couldn’t give him that. She wondered what he’d think if he knew about her visits to the gypsy – the one who pitched her tent with other traveling families on the southeast corner of the Twitchell ranch. It had taken her weeks to gather up all the items the gypsy needed to cast her spell – a toad’s left leg, a thorn less branch of the mesquite, and one hundred, brand new dollar bills. The money, the gypsy needed to meditate over, as money was the root of all evil. Charlotte wasn’t sure if the quote went exactly like that, as she remembered her granddaddy once said, “it was the love of,” or something like that. Regardless, the fortuneteller promised to return the cash. Never did. But Charlotte considered it a worthwhile investment.

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Excerpt from "Beyond the Pale," Chapter 6

2009-10-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

Sevastopol, Russia 1889

Six year old Joshua picked up a stone and threw it so that it skipped along the rippling edges of the sea. All the neighborhood children, and even some adults, tried to beat the record, eight skips – set by thirteen-year-old Yerik Levy two summers ago. No one even came close.

“Three hops. Did you see?” Joshua ran up shore and unwittingly kicked sand into his uncle’s lap.

“Well look at that!” Axel set his papers face down on a leather bag and grabbed for a flat round rock. “Give her a try.” He tossed it against a gentle sea breeze.

Joshua leapt, caught the rock midair and ran off toward the bay’s mouth. Then he sent it soaring barely an inch above the water where it touched down, hopping not three, but four times before plunking into the sea.

“Wow! Did you see? Did you see?” The boy paid no attention to the sand that flew up from his running feet and slapped at his face.

“Now that’s a champion’s throw.” Axel applauded his nephew. He glanced about casually, his actual attention focused off shore – up the bay where a lone fisherman rowed in toward the docks. “Say . . . I heard a certain someone’s mother is making pancakes dipped in sugar and cinnamon.”

“You don’t say!” Joshua ran up the sandy slope to the road and took off running as fast as his feet could carry him. He halted and turned back to the beach. “Are you coming or not?” He shrugged his shoulders and let out a laugh before racing home.

Axel picked up his papers and resumed translating articles he wrote for Witness into the German language. His underground publication was into its sixth year running. Not one issue missed since start-up. He prided himself in that; authorities gnashed their teeth over the same fact.

The fisherman pulled up to dock as Axel worked the final page. He waved to Axel who nodded. He scribbled out one last line as the old man tied his boat to the weatherworn dock.

Shoving the papers into his bag, Axel remained in the sand and watched. A man and woman fished from the shore down a ways, while their little girl dug for sand crabs. A group of teen boys worked at breaking Yerik Levy’s rock skipping record further down shore. Axel waited until a commercial fishing vessel sailed past the several rundown private docks on its way out to sea. Then he casually walked down the beach as the old man heaved two sacks of piked dogfish, lethargically twisting and turning amongst themselves up onto the dock.

“Good catch today?” Axel knew the answer – the old man was an expert fisherman.

“Better than you know.” The setting sun lit up the old man’s tired, leathered face. He spit onto the dock’s wood planks and diverted his eyes to the sack in his rickety boat.

“Let me get these for you.” Axel grabbed the sacks on the dock and threw them over his shoulder with little effort. The fisherman pulled the other from the boat and the two made their way up to the wood shack close to the road where the fisherman gutted and cleaned his catch before he would sell it to a mid afternoon crowd. As long as Axel could remember the old man had been supplying locals with their fill of fish.

Axel dumped the fish from his sacks into a tattered metal bin filled with sea water outside the shack. He then followed the fisherman into the building further behind a canvas curtain into a back room. A small desk stood against the wall where the fisherman counted his earnings out each night, made notes about the fishing conditions that day and what he predicted for the next.

He offered Axel a seat, took his at the desk. He lit his pipe and hesitated before speaking. “It’s got to be ready today,” the old man said finally. “I set sail in the morning.”

“Have it right here.” Axel pulled out the final draft of Witness, written out in three languages: Russian, German and Yiddish.

“Excellent.” He took a puff from his pipe. “Give me a look.” The fisherman flipped through the pages that reported anonymously on the pogroms, on the Tsar’s callous response. It listed names of men and women wrongly accused. It promoted resistance and strikes, but also showed another side of the argument that Axel still felt uneasy about – that is men have the responsibility to rid itself of bad governments. But how to do that mercifully, Axel spent many a night pondering and writing about. Witness used France and America as examples –dangerous comparisons to make in a world such as his. Lesser words if traced to Axel would certainly cost him his life.

“Oh, yes. I like this . . . ‘Campaign of Terror’.” The fisherman read on silently. “Oh, and this,” he slapped his thigh. “ ‘Holy Mother Russia Frowns in disdain.’ You should have been a poet mate.”

Axel chuckled. He took back the empty leather bag and held it close to his heart.

“Great stuff. But you scare me mate, working this close to deadline.” The old man lit his pipe again and grinned, revealing three or four gaps where teeth had rotted and simply fallen out.

The bag draped over his arms, Axel rubbed his hands nervously. He looked over his shoulder twice before speaking in a low tone. “Any word on materials? Not much paper to last.”

“Leave it to me. Next week maybe. Take one of those fish for now. And this sack too; thirty-five pounds of sugar here.” The fisherman pulled a key from his trousers and turned his back, situating himself purposely to shield Axel from the desk drawer where he secured his papers. If all went well, by nightfall the next day, Witness would be in the hands of university students, in the hands of bankers and other businessmen, and perhaps even the Tsar himself.

Axel took the sugar, Rebekah, he thought, would appreciate this, but the fish, its skin was smooth, no scales. He found it endearing that the old man couldn’t remember that Jewish Law didn’t allow Axel to eat such meat. So, as usual Axel had it cleaned and smoked and gave the fish to the old Turkish woman who lived in the wood crate on the edge of town. She refused to live elsewhere, despite a couple of offers from kindhearted families in town. On the average, most people shunned her. She did not adhere to any divine law, but what did that matter, Axel thought, when you’re starving?

* * *

Axel and his brother, Jared, along with several longtime neighbors rebuilt the Levin home in the same spot it burned down seven years ago. It was two stories, still modest, but made mainly of stone this time instead of wood. The shed out back survived the fire, though it leaned to one side due to years of weathering. The neighbors offered to build a new one while they rebuilt the house. Axel declined. Grass covered the hillside now between their home and the shore where homes once stood. A small creek once diverted by those families who used to live there, had finally dug its way back through, bound for the Black Sea.

Though many left town after the pogrom of ’Eighty-Two, a great number remained and rebuilt. The city also had many newcomers. People from Odessa, and as far as Brest-Litovsk traveled to Sevastopol to set up a home. Many businesses were back and running. And the Russian Navy brought much needed revenue with sailors who took leave in this scenic, waterfront city of Sevastopol. The widow, Ruth, who lived across the street from the Levins, made a good business selling poppy cakes to famished, half-drunken sailors. She often stopped by the Levins with a batch as well.

Sugar was quite a luxury and certainly not cheap, which explained Rebekah’s gratitude. Joshua screamed with delight because sugar meant the future held treats. But neither Jared, nor Rebekah asked Axel how he came upon riches such as this. They never asked him where he got the money or goods he brought home on a regular basis. Both suspected though, that it had something to do with the writings he produced working late nights in the shed out back.

“Let’s tell him,” Rebekah said after packing away the sugar. She looked at her husband and smiled. “We have wonderful news.”

“Well?” Axel leaned in forward.” I’m always in the mood for good news.”

“Soon . . .,” Rebekah blushed. “Soon,” she giggled, “another Levin baby will fill our days.”

“And nights,” Jared chuckled.

Axel slapped his brother’s back and reached out to Rebekah.

“Hooray!” Joshua jumped up from the table and holding tight onto his pancake ran circles around his mother. “I’m going to have a brother . . . A baby brother!”

“Or sister.” Rebekah pulled her son in close.

“I’d say we have cause for celebration.” Axel lifted his nephew and plopped him on his lap. “So you’re going to have a brother or a sister? Won’t your grandmother be delighted.”

“Hooray!” Joshua yelled again. He blew a wisp of hair away from his eyes.

“About mother . . .” Jared interrupted. “There’s something, I mean, oh hell Brother, we need to talk.”

Rebekah and Jared looked to one another. She nodded to her husband.
“Has she grown worse?” Axel’s smile faded.

“No, nothing like that,” Rebekah said. “She’s upstairs resting now, she wanted us to talk to you first.” She moved in close to her husband to provide a united front.

“We’ve been thinking,” Jared continued, “and well, we would like to take Mother with us.”

“With you?”

“Yes. Please. We can’t put this off much longer.”

“Put what off?”

“We want to leave, Axel”

Axel opened his mouth to speak. No words escaped.

“Now look, before you say anything. Doesn’t look like its going to get much better here. In Pinsk last week a man was dragged from his home. They beat him to death.”

“I know, I know.” Axel shook his head, fearful where this conversation was leading. Though he once pleaded with his father to leave Russia, Axel could not leave now. He felt his father was right; he did belong in Russia, this was their home.

“It’ll take years for Russia to recover from what’s happened. And I’m afraid, well, you know more so, the worst is yet to come.”

Axel pushed his nephew’s dark hair away from the boy’s eyes. He stared at his brother and nodded his head in regretful agreement. “But this is your home.”

“Axel, please.”

Jared took his wife’s hand. “You understand,” he said. “I want my son free to enter any profession he desires, attend a university if he wants. And Mother, no she hasn’t gotten worse, but she hasn’t got any better.”

“Come with us,” Rebekah pleaded.

“What do you say?” Jared held out his hand to Axel. He winked at his son who with sugar in the corners of his mouth concentrated on the pancake.

“Oh, Axel do.”

“I urge you to consider, Brother. We’ll leave for Berlin in a week . . . we can stay with Rebekah’s sister until we decide where next.”

“She has a lovely home,” Rebekah piped in.

Axel kissed Joshua’s head and set him on the floor. “You can stop,” he said.

“Why? What are you saying?” Jared looked anxiously at his brother.

“I have only one thing to say.”

“And that is?”

“My prayers will be with you,” Axel said. “The journey will be long.”

Tears fell down Rebekah’s cheeks. Despite it, she smiled, leaned forward and hugged Axel. “Come Joshua.” She grabbed her son’s hand. “We have much to do

2 Short Poems

2009-10-23T22:42:00.000-07:00

I gave up my attempt at poetry many a year ago : ) But here's a few for your entertainment (though comic it may be), if there is anyone out there . . .

PATRIOTISM (October 1994)

The statue moves,
I turn to follow.
Ruffle the cage no more.
And when it's over
return the shrine.
At ease, resume as before.

VISITING HOUR (November 1996)

I love you, he said from behind the glass.
Do you love me?

(A fine time to ask.)

I met a girl out waiting (from jamaica, she said).
Can you believe? She travelled so far.

Did you hear me? I love you, he said once more.

(Imagine that; he never said it before.)

One minute left! shouted speakers above.
Wives gabbed children; she closed her coat.

I'll leave you twenty, she said,
be back tomorrow.

With that she hung up the phone.

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Excerpt from "Beyond the Pale," Chapter 2

2009-10-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

December 5, 1941, Berlin

Hazel eyes peered through the slits of the Becker’s boarded up windows where the wood planks made deep impressions in Lisette’s cheeks. You could hear only her shallow breathing as she spied through the crevice on three young cadets, Schutzstaffel cadets, the S.S. She watched them intently as they walked past Gunter’s Laundry, past the jeweler, past the defunct bakery, then up to what was once known as Levin Books. There they crossed the street and headed directly toward Becker Watch Repair. Three pairs of black, standard-issue, knee-high boots stepped in unison across the cobblestone road, quickening to avoid a car that turned the corner, quickening to match Lisette’s heartbeat that raced at their approach. Through the slit her eyes seemed to meet those of the young man in the lead. Her heart pulsated up into her throat. Could he see her blinking eyes? Lisette jerked her head away nearly falling backwards as she rushed behind the display case like she could take cover.

“We’re dead,” she mumbled beneath her breath, “dead.” The tick-tock, tick-tock of clocks and display case watches pounded in her head, then moved down into her throat, then into her arms, then her legs. “Dear Jesus,” she muttered beneath her breath, “please save us.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Martin had a knack for startling his sister with an up, jovial-for-no-reason-at-all, demeanor. He removed his metal-rimmed spectacles and concentrated on the door. He too held onto the counter to ready himself. “Smile, Sister, and welcome our guests,” he said and grinned as if he were posing for the camera.

The bell attached to the door of Becker’s Watch Repair jingled as the cadets walked in, debonair in their starched black trousers and uniform coats decorated by red hakenkruez or swastika arm bands. Their boots echoed as they clapped down against the hardwood floor. The crescent shaped metal gorgets that hung from their necks swayed with each step, reflecting off the clocks and casting shimmers of light across Lisette’s face.

“Good evening, Officers. How may we assist you?” Martin threw a look at his sister to signal her silence.

The eldest of the three S.S. lingered behind the other two, his arms held stiff behind his back. Lisette and Martin’s eyes followed him as he slowly scanned the room, clearing his throat with slow melodic beats. The two cadets parted, allowing their obvious leader, if not officially at least self-appointed, to emerge between them. Caught in the room’s shadow his face remained dark. He cleared his throat then paused only to inspect the watches laid out on red velvet in the display case that ran along the room’s edge. His stone face didn’t flinch when the three cuckoos on the wall opened their finely carved doors to begin celebrating five o’clock. Two delicately crafted pewter clocks softly chimed in unison with the ornate Grandfather near the base of the stairs. The song and dance continued while the cadet cleared his throat again, seemingly annoyed by the pendulum at the staircase that swung in perfect time.

“I’ve a bit of a problem,” he said finally. He looked down at his coat and wiped a smudge from the black and silver bandolier across his chest. Then this cadet who seemed so sure of himself, wearing the uniform envied by young men throughout Germany, nervously tapped his steel-toed boot against the wooden floor. “Hoping you could help.”

“Trouble Boys?” Martin’s grip remained tight on the counter’s edge.

The last of the chimes sounded, the Grandfather silenced and the cuckoos shut their miniature doors entrapping painted birds inside. Again you could hear the constant ticking that had been drowned out by the chimes. Lisette hastily feather dusted the counter tops. Not for a moment did she remove her eyes from their customers.

“My grandfather, you see, fought for Bismarck’s dream . . .”

“Bismarck’s dream?” Martin stepped out from behind the counter and approached the cadet.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Lisette hummed a simple tune and dusted her way over to the hanging pendulum.

“Of course. The Vaterland, why what would we be without Bizmarck’s dream?” He looked to Martin, his brows turned inward, then glanced up at the door that led to the Becker upstairs home.

“Oh, of course. You must be very proud,” Martin said.

“Proud indeed.” He cleared his throat. “He’d be disappointed though . . .” The cadet stopped and caught his image in the wood framed beveled mirror that hung on the back wall. Every blonde hair on his head in place as if painted there, he nodded approvingly, and ran a knuckle along the little blonde mustache cut and shaven to resemble Adolf Hitler’s. “Disappointed to know I’ve broken his watch. All I have left of him,” he added, his eyes still on the mirror.

“Of course, of course.” Martin said. He chuckled. One with a keen ear, like his sister, Lisette, might have caught the tinge of nervousness in his laughter. But the cadet was not so keen, having finally pulled his gaze from the mirror. His eyes rested at the staircase.

“Let me have a look,” Martin reached out his hand.

The S.S. cadet adjusted the grinning skull and crossed bones pinned to his cap before he slid a hand into his breast pocket. Then as carefully as he might handle a Faberge egg, he pulled out a gold watch and detached the gold link fob from which it hung. He bypassed Martin’s outreached hand, and with a light touch placed the gold piece on the counter.

“She’s a beauty. Simple case, but wait to you open her up.” He placed a cuffed hand to his mouth to hold back clearing his throat. But the temptation overwhelmed the cadet and he relented with three quick clears. His two comrades let out a chuckle from the back of the room, where they huddled over a photograph falling apart at the well-worn creases from repeated folds.

“Indeed.” Martin silently admired the finely detailed roman numerals on a delicate golden-laced background. The solitary diamond imbedded above the twelve was worth more than all the watches in the shop combined.

The cadet took to tapping his foot again. “I could never get used to those wrist type watches,” he said. “A bit feminine, if you ask me.” The young man laughed and winked at Lisette who had momentarily stopped her dusting. With his look, she quickly busied herself, abruptly turning her back to the men.

A soft creek in the floor sounded from the second story. The cadet straightened his shoulders and anticipated the upstairs door to the Becker home to open. The fact that Martin fiddled with the watch upon his own wrist went unnoticed.

“Came in mighty handy for our boys in the last war,” Martin said.

“What’s that?” The tapping foot stopped. The cadet cleared his throat.

“Here let me see,” Martin said and wondered what was he doing, about to go on with a lecture on how the wrist watch helped men in the trenches during the last war, The Great War, the one to end all wars . . . to stall, he supposed. But why stall? Best thing, he figured, was to get these men out of his shop, the sooner the better. So Martin popped open the back of the cadet’s watch, admiring its immaculate condition and the twenty-one jewel count engraved in gold. “Most likely the main spring,” he said. “Might have one upstairs. I’ll be a minute.” Martin rushed up the staircase to their home, but not before shooting a stern look to his sister.

She knew what the look conveyed. Silence.

Fortunately for Lisette, the cadets had no time to spare, as Himmler himself previously ordered all S.S. in the vicinity to a meet at the central office that evening. An elite Schutzstaffel position was such an honor, one didn’t dare arrive even a second late. The cadets quickly said their farewells with a promise to return, giving much respect to Lisette and her watch repair on the way out. “Every business is essential to lebensraum,” the cadet whose grandfather fought for Bismarck’s dream said as they rushed out to make their meeting.

As soon as the bell above the door jingled Lisette studied the cadets through the boards again, watching silently until they turned the corner safely out of sight. Several minutes passed before Martin returned with a spring in hand. Disappointed for not receiving payment that day for the repair, he placed the watch onto the counter and dropped down into the patchwork, upholstered chair behind the cash register. He ran his hand along the worn arms recalling that he wanted his sister to mend the tear on the backside.

“Just how long you think we can keep this up?” Lisette bolted toward her brother. “Well? Answer me.” With trembling hands she grabbed at the apron tied around her waist. She used it to blot perspiration from her face.

“Wish we didn’t have to keep it all boarded up.” Martin pushed himself up from the chair and approached the window, longing in his eyes. “For goodness sake, only sunshine we get down here nowadays are streams through the cracks . . . such a shame.”

“Forget the blasted windows.” Lisette glared at him, bewildered. “Somehow you convinced us to remove the boards upstairs – you think that flimsy shade will protect us? Have you any idea the cost to replace that window when it breaks? And it will you know. It will SHATTER,” her voice cracked, “next time London visits.” Gazing to the floor, she whimpered a soft cry.

The door at the top of the stairs cracked open then swung back to reveal a young woman’s petite silhouette in the frame. “Hush,” the silhouette whispered. “The neighbors, they’ll hear. Why don’t you come up?”

The young woman was Eva Graf. The only child of Martin and Lisette’s cousin, Eva, came to stay with the Beckers when her husband received orders to mend wounded on the Eastern front. Last she heard from her husband, Hans, he was somewhere outside Stalingrad – not a bad place for a German physician in the early days of the war. For a while Germany swept right on through Russia, and it looked as if the Fuhrer knew what he spoke of when he said they need only kick down Russia’s door and the whole rotten structure would come crashing down.

Eva dried her hands on the faded yellow apron wrapped twice around her waist. “Come, please – supper’s almost on.”

Lisette grabbed a metal box and threw in several watches from the display, the more expensive items, though few they were, along with the S.S. cadet’s watch. “Not right for her to take charge like that.” Lisette struggled to keep hold of the box, and stormed up the staircase, brushing her shoulder against Martin along the way.

Unaffected by her scorn, he winked at Eva. Then lured by the aroma of fresh bread he hurried behind his sister to their living quarters upstairs where Eva had pulled the blackout shade up for a moonlit dinner. She set the table with four settings, and fluffed a white cloth napkin over each plate to help show the way in night light. She frequently added little touches like that. Once she fashioned a floral centerpiece from butcher paper scraps. Another time she carved the dinner rolls into forest animal figures such as foxes and owls. Though white napkins didn’t help much on most nights, this evening, under a clear sky and full moon, the napkins seemed to glow.

When brother and sister arrived at the table, Eva rushed about as usual and checked the potatoes boiling on the stovetop. Then she neatly arranged a supper spread in the center of the table: a jar of jam and a stick basket of warm rolls, quickly cooling in the night air.

“Splendid,” Martin said as he pulled his chair up to the round table. He clasped his hands together and smiled wide, like one about to eat cake. “I am famished.” And he actually was. Martin was known for his large appetite.

Using the ends of her apron to grasp the silver platter, Eva placed the potatoes center table. Pleased that supper turned out just right, she took a seat for herself, but not before lining her glass up evenly with the fork.

Martin noticed the small detail about tonight’s supper that would upset his sister this time. And Eva knew that he noticed by the twinkle in his eyes. They both waited silently for the outburst.

“Mama’s silver?” Lisette’s eyes widened. “Martin,” she said, “how could you?” Lately she blamed just about everything on her brother.

“Nice touch,” Martin responded. Aside from the few watches though, that platter was the only valuable item the Beckers still owned. Everything else the family possessed, they sold after the last war in order to eat. Like most of their countrymen, the Beckers hoped that if anything, their Fuhrer would at least finally pull them out of the economic depression Germany had so long suffered.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” Eva said.

Martin jerked his head to look at Eva, his mouth full of bread, a dab of jam on his cheek. Lisette on the other hand, fixed her attention to spreading the napkin across her lap. “Mother’s best silver,” she complained but this time with an added shaking of her head.

“Chaotic market today.” Eva took in a quick breath “They forgot to ask for my coupons.”

“Wonderful.” Martin clapped his hands together and brought them up beneath his chin as if in prayer. He closed his eyes. “Double rations for tomorrow.”

“We’ve been blessed.” Eva smiled and squeezed Martin’s hand. “Come . . . eat up – there’s plenty,” she said. “Yogurt in the ice box too.”

“Like I say,” Martin said, “good things come to those who wait.”

Lisette rolled her eyes.

In supper grace, Martin thanked God for the extra food as music from their neighbor Gunter’s accordion spilled into their flat. The sound of knives hitting porcelain plates with faded, painted landscapes joined in with the sweet melody. For a moment there, Martin and Eva almost forgot all about the war that waged around the world.

Lisette, on the other hand resented them for their ability to drift away for even a moment. To damper it all, because no one should forget, she threw her fork on the table, a sort of outburst that was expected and becoming more and more frequent. “Him and his so-called perfect race,” she said, her voice wavering. “What are we, the Fuhrer’s personal pets?”

“Please . . .” Martin frowned, annoyed at her for pulling him from his reverie. “Careful.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked to Eva.

“I stay out of family squabbles,” she said.

Lisette knew for certain that Martin running his hands through his hair was a dig at her. She resented her brother’s good looks, his thick hair, his lucidness, most of all his, in her mind, his ridiculous positive outlook on things. “I can’t take it,” she growled.

“Be patient,” Martin said. “Please, be patient.” He helped himself to another roll.

“But our boys’, they’re pawns.” Lisette gasped to take in a breath. She didn’t want to hyperventilate like she had just twice the past week. “Oh,” she cried. “My baby, your only nephew Martin, just eighteen when they took him. Just a baby . . . and cousin Peter. You remember Peter,” she sobbed. “His Mama too, cousin Marta’s two boys – you played with them when you were young. Have you forgotten?” She paused to silently count on her fingers. “Mama, Hermann, Oskar and his wife – all gone,” she said. “DEAD.”

Lisette bowed her head and continued weeping. Eva reached out to her, but before she could take Lisette’s hand, a cluster of soft taps came from the kitchen pantry.

“No, not tonight,” Lisette said. She sobbed loudly and blew her nose into the dinner napkin. “I thought you fed him already. Oh . . .”

Eva bolted from her chair and rushed to the small walk-in pantry.

“Come, come – don’t be so hard on him,” Martin said and grabbed for the jar of jam. “We could use more company – more the merrier I always say.” He watched Eva as she walked into the pantry and thought about the wonders she performed in their home, how tidy and cheery she kept it. I could marry a girl like her, he thought. Then he shook his head quickly to wipe that thought from his mind.

With her sleeve, Lisette wiped the tears from her face. “Do you want the axe, Martin? One stroke – off with your head.” She pulled the dull side of a knife mockingly across her throat. “Our beloved Fuhrer, he does that to people like us you know. Why just last week . . .”

“Wait!” Martin said. “Don’t believe everything you hear, woman. No one’s coming with an axe.” He chuckled and patted his unresponsive sister’s back.

“Please! Both of you,” Eva cried from the pantry. “Good evening, Herr Levin . . .”

“Good to see you,” Martin hollered over his shoulder.

“Shhhhhh. I tell you,” Lisette said, her teeth clenched. “He’s going to have us all killed.”

Having retrieved yogurt from the ice box, Martin by now devoured it straight from the serving bowl. Though plain, it had a tinge of sweetness, a simple pleasure in times like these. Yogurt was one of the few items not yet rationed during this war. “Relish the simple pleasures,” he often said. In fact, he said that very thing this morning at the sound of a songbird out their window.

Waiting for Sunrise

2009-10-14T12:59:00.000-07:00

This one's from the archives -- written about fifteen years ago. The big clue that it's an oldie is that I wrote it in the first person point of view (a male pov at that!). I rarely write in the 1st person pov anymore. I used to find it easier, now I realize that it's much more difficult.

We scrambled through darkness. For hours . . . hell, maybe days. Days with no sun. Who knows. One thing for sure: enemy fire had ceased.

I don’t know . . . Jeez, who knew it would be so hard to tell this story? Hell. Well . . . anyone who knows the battlefield can tell you – to call out means death. All Jed and me could do was wait. Wait for that sun who took its sweet-ass time, before we could assess.

You tell me, where do we wait on a godforsaken snow covered mountain? A mountain that’s crawling with enemies, aiming to shoot our nuts off. Well, Jed and me drudged through waist deep snow. Dug ourselves into a snow cave – you know that hollow spot beneath branches? Like a dream, no, wait . . . a nightmare, slow motion kinda, we buried the entrance and crawled up to the trunk. I grabbed onto its icey bark, grateful for cover, but dreaming of that wartime Christmas Eve feast we were supposed to be enjoyin’.

Hours passed in blackness. Maybe it was minutes. Shucks. Who can tell? I shoved a stick through the wall, yanked it out. Then we switched off guard so the other could sleep. Neither slept. Instead we sat against the trunk and stared at that damn hole. We waited for dawn.

“She says she loves me,” Jed whispered. “Can you believe it? Loves me.” His teeth chattered as he spoke.

After months of no mail, it finally found our camp that night. Jed still clutched her letter in his pocket, like it were gold.

“Believe it,” I said.

He breathed quickly, his fingers smoothing the envelope’s fold. Poor kid scared to death, now that he knew she loved him, getting back to the States meant everything.

“Think they’ll find us?”

Figured he meant our company. But if they were going to find us, they would have by then. Last thing I saw was Major Helms surrendering. Those bastards mowed him down.

“They gotta find us, Kid.”

Had to give him hope. But hope crashed before we could grasp it, when the backside of our cave fell in. A bright light shot at us. We were blinded.

“Wer ist drüben?” said the shadow.

I grabbed my M1, pointed in its direction. Strange. The shadow didn’t move. I pulled the trigger. No kick; I pulled again. Oh shit! It was frozen solid. Jammed.

We were dead.

Then somehow during that second, a second that lasted forever, Jed brought down the wall of snow behind us, and pulled me out into the darkness. Scrambling on hands and knees, we were off back into the Ardennes. A shot whizzed past my head, another hit my shoulder.

I didn’t look back. You can never look back. Never. Instead, I pushed on through the snow, away from the light – that’s all that mattered – get away from the light.

I lugged my automatic behind me, fought to keep up with the kid. My legs felt like lead weights slicing through snow, my shoulder still gushing blood had grown numb.

“Go,” I said.

“I can’t leave you man.”

“Go,” I yelled. “Forget me.”

Crazy kid. He grabbed hold of my arms at the elbows and walking backwards, pulled me along. How far did he pull me? Hell . . . far enough. The kid was super human, didn’t even flinch. Then as instant as it had appeared, the stream of light disappeared, and we found ourselves hunched down behind a boulder on a hellish slope. For a while there, I thought maybe we lucked out and lost ‘em.

The sky glowed a dark orange as the sun finally began to make its appearance. Jed peered over the boulder. I rubbed my legs to gain back feeling.

“There’s just one of ‘em, I’m sure,” he said.

A light snow fell as his fingers ran along the envelope in his pocket. Soon the sun would rise above the horizon and we’d be able to make out where tracks led. Damn sun. Had it showed its face a little sooner, we would have known the rotten Nazi flanked us.

His first shot smashed into the boulder an inch above my head. Jed turned and fired his pistol while I rushed to remove mine from its holster. Damn. Why was it in the holster? The eternal question. A fricken’ holster is no place for a gun. Before I knew it, a silhouette dashed out from behind a tree and broad sided me. I slammed against the rock and fell face down into the cold. When I lifted myself out of the powder I saw that the blood cutting through the snow did not run from my shoulder. It flowed from Jed who lay a few feet away. Tough kid all right. Even when he was down. He raised his pistol and got that damn Nazi smack in the knee.

As I pushed myself up, the bastard shot Jed in the stomach and then, damn him . . . in the head. He shot again after that, and then again – God knows why – until there was only a click, then another. And another. That dumb bastard emptied his gun into my buddy who lay dying, clutching a letter from his girl.

Then the Nazi turned to me, and I saw for the first time that he was just a boy really, about Jed’s age. Not a day older. His eyes looked crazed, sweat trickled down his face. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his boots torn. He reached out to me and stepped back at the same time. The snow fell faster, heavier, until it covered his dark hair with a thin, white layer. He brushed the snow out of his eyes, then raising his gun threw it down and showed me his hands, palms out.

“Bitte . . . bitte,” he said dropping to his knees.

Sure, you’d think I had myself a prisoner. Good as gold you’d think – use him as a hostage, help me get my way back. I’d be a hero, collect myself some award. Shucks. You’d think that, wouldn’t you?

“Screw that,” I said. I bit my lower lip so hard that blood seeped down and warmed my frozen beard.

I shot once, and then again. Again after that. Emptied my gun into that son-of-a-bitch just as he had done to Jed. The guy’s eyes opened wide like he was surprised. Damn fool. He staggered for a second, and looked up to the sky, almost as if he recognized someone up there. Then, funny thing . . . he smiled before falling into the snow, and as his blood poured out to mix with Jed’s, the sun finally peeked above the horizon, shooting golden rays across the snow covered terrain.

“Damn sun,” I yelled. “What took you so long?”

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

The Breaking

2009-10-09T15:59:00.000-07:00

It might take more pages than the actual story to explain why I wrote this one a little over a year ago. Not sure either if anyone cares. So, I'll leave you with only this story, and with one note to say that I had no intention on demeaning anyone, or offending anyone. I use very little profanity in my fiction; in this case, it was needed.

THUD. The crash on the window ripped Carla from an ill-fated meditation. She tore off headphones, jumped up and ran toward the sound. Heart beating in her throat, she listened, careful not to move, she peeked out her bedroom window.

Nothing. A strong wind swayed the blackened trees. A half moon shined brightly. A train whistle blew in the distance. Teeth clenched, Carla yanked the curtains open. She refused to notice the calm, deafening silence.

No man wearing a hockey mask, tightly gripped a blood-stained knife. No strangled kitten hung from the Maple outside her window. No prowler. No mangled car. No reaper. Nothing but an empty street that whistled softly beneath waning moon.

She flung the curtain shut and made it to the light switch in seven steps. Seven steps back to the window, she tore the curtains open again.

Still nothing.

She closed them and waited, twenty-one, specifically seven, three times, carefully counted seconds before pulling the curtains open again. The neighbor’s orange tabby cat slinked about Carla’s mother’s car. Then he darted off and disappeared in the trestled honeysuckle along the driveway.

Curtains pulled closed again, one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand, four . . .

“Honey?” Mrs. Burke rapped at the door.

. . . one thousand, five, one thousand, six, one thousand, seven . . .

“Honey?”

. . . one thousand, eight, one thousand, nine, one thousand . . .

“PLEASE, are you all right?” Tap, tap, tap.

. . . ten, one thousand, eleven, one thousand . . .

“Carla!”

. . . twelve, one thousand . . .

“Carla! This instant!”

. . . thirteen, one thousand, fourteen. One thousand.

“What is it, Mother?” She marched seven steps back to the door, flipped the lock and yanked it open. “I swear. What is your problem?”

“Oh, Sweetie. You MUST answer me.” The wine glass in her mother’s hand half full, a white smile revealed it was her first for the night. “We’ve discussed this before.”

“I’m not a little girl. I’m twenty-five for goodness sake.” Her arms stiffened, fists clenched. “Mother fuck,” she screeched. “Mother f f fuck!”

“Oh Carla! I swear. You need to settle down.” Mrs. Burke took a gulp from her drink.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Off my back.” Carla returned to the window. The curtains yanked open, she studied the street. Curtains pulled shut – one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . .

“Sweetie, please, let me help you back to bed. You’ve a big day tomorrow.”

“Leave.” Four, one thousand, five, one thousand, six, one thousand, seven, one thousand, “LEAVE.”

“Don’t think that I can’t tell you’re counting YOUNG LADY.” Mrs. Burke took a drink. Her eyes teared as she approached her daughter. “What’s the matter Sweetie?” She reached an arm out and clutched her daughter’s shoulder.

“The noise. Didn’t you hear it?” Carla’s elbows locked. She clenched her fists again. “Mother fuck, mother fuck,” she said.

“Now that’s enough. You know your father can’t take this.” Mrs. Burke withdrew her free arm and took another gulp from her glass. Then she searched her daughter’s dresser for a coaster. Settling on a ragged, paperback copy of The Way of the Pilgrim, she set her glass down.

“Carla?” Mrs. Burke moved in closer. “Remember last week, you actually witnessed it? That bird, remember, smacked head-on into the window?”

“Mom! Of course I remember. But if that’s the case now, Mother F . . . Fff, that would be the sixth bird to crash into the window this month. Six Mommy. SIX.”

“Sweetie.”

“Mother fuck, mother fuck,” flew from Carla’s lips, her arms stiffened. Another peek out the curtains, she walked around the bed to ensure her steps added to seven before falling down onto the comforter. Her eyes shut tightly, eyebrows raised, then relaxed, raised, then relaxed. “I’m fine,” she said blindly. “Go away.” Carla flipped over onto her stomach. “Mother fuck,” she said beneath her breath. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . .”

“Sure Sweetie.” Mrs. Burke’ voice cracked. She stroked her daughter’s head. “You have such beautiful hair,” she sighed. “Most girls would kill for a natural auburn like yours.” A waste, Mrs. Burke thought; her eyes teared up. Then without saying another word, she retrieved her glass and took two large gulps to finish it as she walked out of her daughter’s room.

* * *

The hot water ran out before Carla finished her shower. Then the struggle. No matter how she configured getting dressed, she somehow managed contamination. Rookie mistakes, all of them. A toilet flushed without closing the lid. A toothbrush dropped into the sink.

Pound. Pound. Pound. “Damn it, Carla. The rest of us gotta shower.” Drew kicked the door. “Screw it,” he mumbled and ran downstairs to catch the bus. Carla’s brother was in the final stretch now, only a month left – his valedictorian speech already written and approved with only a few minor suggestions (like omit the Jesus reference and replace it with “higher power”). He had only to decide which of the several college offers to accept. Most likely, Drew would attend Pepperdine come fall.

“Carla, Sweetie,” Mrs. Burke greeted her daughter. She smiled, unaware of purple stained teeth. Bacon sizzled on the stove top, biscuits rose beneath an oven light.

“Good morning, Mom,” Carla’s eyes were puffy from crying. “I hope that you will forgive me for last night.” She pulled a chair away from the kitchen table with her foot. Soapy cleanliness wafted the bacon aroma.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“It probably was just a stupid ole’ bird.” Carla lowered her hips, landing butt on the seat precisely on the seventh count.

“Stupid ole’ bird?” Mrs. Burke scurried off to the stove, where she cracked two eggs into bubbling butter in a cast iron pan. “Better eat up, Sweetie.” Mrs. Burke peered over her shoulder, checked her daughter out head to toe, and then made an approving nod before turning back to the pan. “Don’t want to be late to your interview.”

“No more over-easy, Mom. I hate over-easy. And by the way, why is it do you suppose that birds keep crashing into my window? SIX TIMES, Mother,” Carla’s voice cracked. “When was the last time a bird crashed into your window? Ahhhhhhhhh.” Carla clenched her fists. “Mother, mother, mother, fff, mother ffffffuck . . .”

Mrs. Burke’s shoulders dropped. She smoothed her apron then carried Carla’s plate to the table – two eggs thoroughly cooked, no bacon. “I suppose,” she said, “oh, HELL Carla. I don’t know.” Mrs. Burke looked around for a glass before realizing she had none. “When I was a girl,” she said. “You know that cabin I told you about.”

“Big Bear?” Eyebrows raised, lowered, raised. Fists clenched, elbows locked, Carla walked over to the kitchen sink where she washed her hands under scorching hot water.

“Yes, sure, that one. I can’t remember a single trip to the cabin when some silly bird didn’t crash into the windows.” Mrs. Burke chuckled. “Those poor birdies just laid there on the balcony, then suddenly, like it was nothing,” she giggled, “they fluttered away.”

“Really?” Carla raised her eyebrows then lowered them and squinched her nose. “You never told me. How many times?”

“How many times what?”

“How many times, the birds, how many times did this happen?”

“Oh, lord, Carla. I don’t know.” She rubbed her eyes, sliding her fingers over to her temples where she made small circular massages. “Please take your meds now,” Mrs. Burke said. “And remember, no one at the interview needs to know about them. None of their business. I think it’s even illegal for them to ask.”

“Mother fff. Mother f . . . fu . . . fuck, fuck.”

* * *

Carla handed the Human Resources manager her completed application. Eyes focused on the computer screen the woman tucked stray hairs back into her piled up, chestnut brown updo. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes,” she said and tossed Carla’s application to a stack upon her desk, but not before adding a pink streak from her nail polish to the page. A keyboard clicked from the desk behind the woman, its monitor obscuring the employee whose busy fingers plugged in a stream of data. Carla counted the key strokes as she rushed off to the restroom where she could hide.

A flurry of raised eyebrows erupted inside the bathroom stall. Squinched nose, elbows locked, fists clenched. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . . “Ffff. FF . . . FF . . . fu, fuck,” she whispered. Carla regretted not taking her medications. They made her so tired. How was she supposed to land a job if she fell asleep during the interview?

Fluorescent light accentuated dark circles beneath her eyes, prompting Carla as she gazed into the mirror, to wonder how she would die. Car accident? Earthquake perhaps? Crushed beneath freeway overpasses. No, probably not. She always thought she’d be murdered. Eyebrows raised, then relaxed. Fists clenched, and then relaxed, she coated her hands with pump soap. Careful to scrub between fingers, along nail edges, she finally plunged them beneath running water.

“Mother,” she screeched and jumped back from the sink. “Call that hot?” She tore seven paper towels from the dispenser. Eyebrows raised, Carla stared back into the mirror, ashamed, knowing she would skip out on another interview. She could never work here, not when they couldn’t even guarantee her safety with a simple thing like hot water.

Damn, she thought. I could do this job too. Carla knew that if she could get through the interview, she’d blow them away with her number memorizing ability. Her bother, Drew, couldn’t even top her on that.

She nudged the bathroom door open slightly. The Human Resource manager’s head remained down as she poured through a stack of papers. Keys tapped away behind her. The clock on the wall struck a loud noon.

Eyebrows raised, then relaxed, raised then relaxed, Carla crept out from behind the door and made her way toward the exit. Human Resource Lady preoccupied herself with paperwork, but behind her a head poked out from the computer monitor. Fingers still plugged away at the keyboard, a young man with kinky blonde hair winked at Carla. He opened his mouth to crack his jaw and winked at her again, all the while his fingers tap, tap, tapping.

Did he wink at me? She peered over her shoulder expecting to find someone behind her as she made her escape. No one. Eyebrows raised, lowered, raised, Carla was almost in the clear, mere steps from freedom. With one swift move she held out her arm, and keeping her stride, pushed the door open. A heart beat sped up into her throat. And as she took those final exit steps out the door, Carla turned back for one last look, against her better judgment. Lot’s wife who looked back at Sodom came to mind. Would she too turn into a pillar of salt?

“W-w-w-w-wait.”

“Mother fuck,” Carla said when she saw him coming after her. “Mother fuck.”

Ken caught up with Carla on the sidewalk, but remained some distance as he spoke to her back. “I think you’re per-per,” Ken slammed his fist into his chest, “perfect for the job.”

Carla spun around to face him. “What do you know? What the HELL do you know?”

Ken’s smile evolved into a jaw crack. He cracked it again. “You should sss-sss-st,” fist to the chest, “stay.”

Breathe. Breathe, damn it. Carla’s hand shaded her eyes from the bright sun as she raced off toward the alleyway where she was sure she’d find a short cut to the bus stop. One, one thousand, two one thousand . . . “Tomorrow I’m going to start feeling better,” she muttered. “Tomorrow.”

The alleyway clear, Carla averted her eyes from the trash and dirt strewn on the wayside. She picked up her pace to turn the corner, with a quick look behind her, the guy from the office gone.

Eyebrows raised, then relaxed. Fists clenched, she stunned herself with a jaw crack. Carla stopped dead in her tracks. She cracked her jaw again. And then again, erupting into a flood of jaw cracks. “Mother Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she yelled and turned to run back out of the alley.

“Where you headed so fast Missy?”

“Fff, mother fuck,” Carl screeched as she turned around, confused to find the source of that voice.

“Over here, Bitch.”

In front of her stood a man, a pull-over sweatshirt-hooded man, wearing blue sweatpants to match. She noticed his torn athletic shoes, but not the rock in his hand. THUD. He threw that rock so quickly, Carla didn’t have time to react. It hit her smack in the middle of the chest. She gasped for air, stumbled back.

As she turned to run the hooded man grabbed Carla’s arm and pulled her body to his. His breath reeked of liquor. She shuddered at the sight of an infected cut that leaked puss on his cheek.

“Like I said, Missy . . . Where you headed off to so fast?”

“Mother F f f f f,” Carla bowed her head and let out a single deafening wail.

The man jumped back, nearly losing his grip on his victim. “What do we have here?” He chuckled. “A fucking retard? Don’t tell me I’ve caught myself a retard. Oh lordy, lordy. I ain’t never had me one of them.”

Carla yanked at her wrist, but his grip did not budge. Millions of germs jumped from his cracked and caked-on-dirt skin onto hers. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three one thousand . . . “I’m such an idiot,” she screamed.

“Oh Sweetie,” he said. “Sweetie. Sweetie. Sweetie.” His grin revealed several missing teeth. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Mother?”

Before that heart beat could rush up her throat and choke her, she found the hooded man collapsed into her arms. His body weighed down heavily upon her, pushing Carla down onto the beer and piss stained asphalt. Billions of germs whirled about the two. A fly landed in the puss on his face. “This is how I die,” Carla moaned, “eatin’ alive.”

She thought she could hear fingers tap, tap, tapping. And there he stood, the kinky-haired blonde, three-hole punch in hand. He reached out to her with it and his face contorted in a jaw crack attempt. He contorted his face some more before closing his mouth. Then he helped her crawl out from beneath her attacker.

“Mother f,” she said. “He dead?” With her foot she poked at the hooded man’s abdomen, her left hand still clutching Ken’s.

“N-n-na. He’s s still breathing,” he said and gently pulled Carla way from the drunken pile. “Have this,” he continued and handed her the three-hole punch as if he handed her the jewels of the nation. “Use it wisely,” he said. Mouth opened, crack. “You’re no id-idiot.” Ken averted his eyes from her, then after cracking his jaw he looked back at Carla. “B-b-b-brea,” he said.

“What?”

“B-b-brea,”

“What?” Carla cracked her jaw.

“B-b-b,” Ken slammed his fist into his chest, “Break away,” he finally blurted out with controlled force. The two’s eyes locked on each other. “Once you ba-br-br BREAK AWAY, then it won’t m-m-matter.”

“What the hell?”

“You’ll know what I m-m-mean.” Ken smiled. He had a calming twinkle in his eyes. “Just care about now. Be f-f-f . . . Be f-f-fr.” Ken smiled. He’d try again later.

Carla released her hand from his and dusted off her knees. “Be free,” she mumbled to herself. She cocked her head looking at the friendly stranger, noticing straight teeth and a strong jaw. She licked her finger tips and smoothed down her auburn hair. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . . three-hole punch poking out from her purse, she locked arms with someone she thought that she might understand. Four one thousand, five, one thousand. And they both walked back to the office to see if she might land a job. Six, one thousand, Seven.

The Tower

2009-10-02T22:51:00.000-07:00

One from the archives -- you tell me: yah or nay, toss or file away?

A stroller and a Winnebago-like wagon, loaded with three toddlers, an ice chest and clip-on fan, sandwiched Tara as she scooted her feet across a sticky floor. Bruce’s fingers hooked into her belt loops. He pulled up behind her like a trailer in tow. Popcorn littered the floor. Air-conditioned air smelled of cotton candy, sweat, caramel, beer. Continuous haggling melded together into one sound – a sound they had grown to love. For them the whole scene conjured up irrevocable good moods. Tara and Bruce hadn’t missed a county fair in six years.

A row of smocked women reached out from behind draped counters, reminiscent of lepers who pawed after Jesus. They begged, challenged, even dared Tara to let them polish her jewelry. She flashed a ring with no signs of tarnish, a simple wedding band that fit loosely on her finger. They swore she’d walk away amazed, of course with a bottle of JewelKleen tucked into her bag for a mere $6.99. Tax included.

Behind them a young girl in a wheelchair roared with laughter. There was clanging and bells, rock and roll music, country western, applause, applause. Tara swore she even heard a bark. “Was that a dog?” she asked. But her voice only meshed together into that one sound – the county fair sound.

An orange balloon hovered above the chaos, creeping along, silently nagging. Tara followed it with her eyes until she crashed into the back of a leggy red-headed woman. The red-head spun around with the grace of a ballerina, then swayed, practically losing her balance.

“Watch it,” the woman growled and proceeded to plow her way through the crowd, swerving back and forth.

Opened mouth, Tara let an apologetic thought linger. A parachute tower loomed over the building’s glass ceiling. She shuddered.

Ashamed for resenting his wife, Bruce turned away. Why couldn’t she embrace the racing heart? Eyes glued to the falling parachute, he envied the screaming kids packed in like french fries. Lost in reverie, he reached for the balloon that crossed his path. It floated out of reach

His resentment did not go unnoticed, nor did the orange balloon. Tara ignored the former and watched the latter drift up and down, up and down. What did it mean? she wondered. What the hell did it mean?

“Must be a sign of good times.” The movie-star smile Bruce flashed revealed a pride in knowing what she was thinking.

“Sure,” she said and her eyes gazed past the tower in the sky.

“It dices, it slices, folks! We have for you here, the one, the only kitchen tool you’ll ever need.”

The crowd bottle-necked at those who stopped for a look. An amazing tool.

Like a seasoned chef the salesman tossed in a tomato, bell pepper, onion, both red and white. He turned the plastic handle and mixed up a batch of salsa in seconds flat. The crowd oohed and some of them wide-mouth awed. Tara denied the tortilla chip held out before her as she made for an opening behind a family of five. She cut off a stroller and lost Bruce to a group of Girl Scouts. Troop 339.

“Tired of dusting those hard to reach places?”

“We’ve got white fudge, double fudge, peanut butter fudge, and more . . .”

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you can make that old, cracked leather look brand new.”

“Foot massage?”

“Toe ring?”

“This hair tie does it all – braid, french twist . . .”

“Ice Cold Beer!”

Tara grabbed her husband’s hand and pulled him through the crowd to a row of aquariums with piles of oysters submerged in a few inches of water.

“For just eight dollars, take your pick – the treasure inside yours to keep.”

Bruce tugged in the opposite direction toward the beer. “I haven’t had one all day,” he complained. He flashed that star grin once more.

She fidgeted with the strand of pearls around her neck – four white pearls, and one black, treasures from county fairs past. Last year they found the black one. “A diamond in the rough,” Tara claimed – a sure sign that their marriage was meant to be.

Beers in hand the lovers zigzagged their way back to the oyster stand.

“You never know what you find.” The woman behind the aquariums held out her hand, her wrist adorned with dangling gold and diamond bracelets. A black pearl the size of a lemon drop lay in the center of her palm. “Worth five-thousand dollar,” she said. “Come, pick one.” After pocketing the pearl she swept her hand like a game show assistant, above the aquariums.

Tara stepped in, Bruce spooned up behind her. “How about this one?”

His wife tossed her long black hair to the side. “Bigger isn’t always better you know.” She grinned and batted yellow-brown eyes that many found so eerily attractive.

“That’s not what you said last night.” Movie-star smile once again.

A motorized wheelchair squeezed in between them. A biker couple pushed their way through the crowd for a better look. Which one held the largest treasure? No one knew.

“This one here,” Tara pointed to a black shelled oyster crammed in the front corner.

Bruce pulled a crumpled ten from his pocket. And before even giving change, the bejeweled woman took her butter knife and pried the oyster open.

Tara leaned forward. A white pearl would be nice – perhaps one with a tinge of pink. Her heart sped. Maybe they would find a treasure, one worth five grand.

Shells ripped apart, the woman dug her fingers into the gray jelly-like flesh. She didn’t flinch as she smashed it between her fingers. Hesitation first before she revealed its contents. Then she let the jelly fall between her fingers and plop onto the counter.

Empty.

“That sucks.” Bruce tugged on Tara’s sleeve.

“Wait a minute.” Tara pulled back. An empty oyster? What did it mean? Sure, that was always a risk. Never a consideration. Was she barren? “What the hell does it mean?”

“I need another beer.” Tara jerked her head back, in the same motion turned from the parachute ride towering above, and made her way to the doors. Like a brick wall, a scorching block of air hit her. And that irrevocable good mood melted away.

“Come on,” Bruce said. “It means nothing.”

Tara sweated in silence – onward past dime tossers whose hopes zeroed in on Budweiser ashtrays and colored glass, candy dishes. They moved onward past boys who tried their luck at basket hoops in hopes of winning a giant Spongebob Squarepants. Onward past corn dog stands, pork chops on a stick and onions fried up to resemble flower bouquets. Forward momentum, no eye contact with vendors, they passed the miniature train depot city, snow cones and funnel cakes, and sweet corn served with margarine, but not butter because of food and safety regulations.

An old oak, its trunk spotted with chewed bubble gum gave them shelter from the sun. Teenagers screamed as their ferris wheel cages spun around and around. Skateboarder Dave juggled two running chainsaws and an apple on stage. He grabbed a bite between catches as he wheeled about, but didn’t actually chew and swallow the apple. He dug his teeth into it, then spit out the pieces as he caught the next chainsaw midair.

“Come on babe, it didn’t mean anything.” Bruce noticed his wife soak up tears with her sleeve during Dave’s encore. “Let’s go back and pick again.”

“Forget it,” she said. “It is what it is.”

As the heat bore down, Tara and Bruce made their way across the thoroughfare toward the art exhibit on the other side of the fun zone. Bruce insisted they stop for another beer – heat seemed to evaporate the juice’s beneficial effects. Drinks in hand, the crowd parted at an organ grinder monkey dressed like a man complete with a top hat, checkered pants, yellow shirt and multi-colored vest. He wobbled along occasionally stopping to collect quarters from fairgoers.

“How adorable,” exclaimed Tara. Bruce agreed and they crashed their beers together in a motion for cheers before guzzling down.

As if he knew her, the monkey stopped at Tara’s feet. With a tap, tap to his top hat he bowed, taking his time to stand upright, as much as a monkey can.

“Always the object of someone’s attention,” Bruce remarked.

The foot-tall critter tugged at his Guatemalan stripped vest as Tara slapped Bruce for a quarter. But then the monkey reached up to Tara and did something organ grinder monkeys never do: he handed her a quarter. Laughter erupted from the crowd. The startled monkey jerked around, and tore at his vest. He scampered away, extending his hat in search of more quarters.

“That’s it,” said Tara. She forced the monkey’s quarter into Bruce’s hand and chucked her empty beer cup at the trash bin. Three cups fell from the overfilled bin to the growing mound upon the asphalt. She snaked in and out of vacant spaces as Bruce picked up his pace to keep up.

Undecided on the empty oyster’s meaning, Tara alternated between chewing her lip and grinding molars. Took a month to realize that the wounded crow on her front porch signified her grandfather’s demise. Took a whole year to see that a field of daisies outside her sister’s town foretold her niece, Daisy’s, birth. There’s a message somewhere, she thought, and picked up her pace.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asked when he caught up with his wife at the pigpens. “Don’t you want to see the bunnies? We never miss the bunnies.” He flashed a cavalier grin, a little less-assured than his regular movie star smile.

“Sonya,” she said. “Gotta see Sonya.” Tara continued on past the rabbit cages and fast maneuvered a cut through the chicken displays.

Bruce headed off a line of hand holding first graders all dressed in green t-shirts to catch his wife. “What about quilts, the cakes? We don’t do Sonya till after the glassblowers. Look there’s Big Bess.” He pointed to an oversized cow chewing her cud as she lazed in a pile of hay.

“Hi Bess,” Tara said and off she was again scooting her way through the giant barn.

Next to the Mexican village where an elaborate fountain splashed overtly blue waters, stood a yellow tent dwarfed by an aged Jacaranda. It was no ordinary tent – not like a camping sort that one imagines. It looked more like something out of the Arabian Desert, its thick golden folds of material tied back with green velvet cords.

The sign outside read: “Psychic Reading $25.00.”

Arranged in the shade of the Jacaranda was a makeshift waiting room that consisted of an ashtray, an overfilled trashcan, and three white wicker chairs complimented by a floor littered with tiny purple blossoms. A lone woman with dark hair, cut in the style of Cleopatra, sat in one of those chairs. Her skin was smooth and pale, painted to perfection – dark lined eyes, plum colored lips. Foundation make-up barely masked a chain of bruises around her neck.

She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray and stood to greet Tara and Bruce. “Darlings,” she said. A swirl of purple blooms blew about her golden sandaled feet. “Are we ready for a reading?” Not a glimmer of recognition shone in her eyes, but they sparkled with a soothing welcome.

Bruce eagerly shoveled out twenty-five dollars. Then with a flip of the monkey’s quarter he was off, mumbling something about winning a barbeque.

An oscillating fan provided little relief from humidity inside the psychic’s tent. Wind chimes dangled at the doorway. Sheer red curtains decorated the windows. Though richly colored pillows covered the floor, Sonya and Tara sat in folding chairs that faced each other with a card table between them.

After tucking the cash into her bra, Sonya took Tara’s hands in her own. She closed her eyes.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“What?” Tara braced for the worst.

Sonya shook her head. “I see you’ve had your hopes dashed.” She opened her eyes and looked into Tara’s, momentarily losing herself in the yellow specks circling her client’s iris. “Something you were expecting did not come through. What is this?” She squeezed Tara’s hands.

Tara fidgeted in her seat and pulled one hand from Sonya’s. With it she tugged at her strand of pearls. Her mind drew blank. She shrugged.

“Oh, but I see,” Sonya said without losing a moment of eye contact. “You’ve also recently come into a little money from an unexpected source. Yes?”

Tara laughed. “I wish.”

“Think about it.” Sonya winked at her client. “Sometimes it’s right there in front of you.”

She released Tara’s hand and removed a tarot deck from her black velvet pouch. “Cut the cards into five stacks and arrange them in a row,” she said. Then she asked Tara which of the stacks she felt most drawn to.

For no particular reason Tara picked the center stack.

Sonya paused, looked into Tara’s eyes then attempted to catch an unnoticed glimpse of the time from her turquoise studded wristwatch. Tara noticed. An uncomfortable silence ensued before Sonya bowed her head and with her eyes closed murmured a short prayer beginning with “Dear Heavenly Father . . .” Then she proceeded to turn one card up from each stack, all but the center stack.

Swords dominated the cards. Conflict. The ace reversed, its white-gloved hand gripped tightly onto the hilt, plunging forcefully downward. Sonya read fear. Eight upright – the blindfolded woman surrounded by eight swords stabbed into the sand told of Tara’s entrapment. A knight waging forward on a white horse, his sword raised, seemed a messenger of frustrating news.

“Tell me. Why are you so fearful?” Sonya reached for Tara’s hand. “You are afraid to move without knowing the outcome. You silly girl. Darling, you are so young. Take risks.”

Then she flipped over the center card. A bolt of lightening struck a tower, set it ablaze and out of the windows tumbled a man and woman, falling through the sky. The Tower.

Sonya took in a deep breath. “Catastrophe.” She shook her head. “The foundation. Yours is cracked. A sudden and major change will occur unless you make some fundamental changes.” She spoke less stridently. “You’ve got to throw out your old habits . . . bad patterns.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Of course, darling, do you know what I’m saying?”

Tara’s eyes teared up.

Tara could deny it, but the meaning was clear. Sonya’s cards meant no more scrutinizing – no more agonizing over meaning, no more horoscopes, no more trips to the psychic. “But . . .”

“Do it.” Sonya looked sternly into her eyes. She gathered her cards together and placed them back into the pouch. Then she grabbed her cigarette case, walked back outside to the Jacaranda shaded waiting room, and lit up.

Tara found her husband waiting outside the tent his eyes glazed over. She noticed a crushed beer cup neatly stuffed into his shirt pocket.

“Hey Babe,” he said and smiled not unlike the first time they met. He had always claimed it was love at first sight. “What next?”

Tara paused and glanced over at Sonya who gave her a wink. “What next? I don’t know what next,” she said and slapped her husband in the rear. “Should be fun to find out.”

Bruce eyed his wife. Then before taking off together, he walked over to the psychic’s waiting room and chucked the crushed beer cup onto the trash bin. “See ya next year,” he said to Sonya.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Sonya said, then took a drag from her cigarette.

© Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Excerpt from "Beyond the Pale," Chapter 14

2009-09-28T20:36:00.000-07:00

1900, Kiev

Five boys threw dirt clods at each other in the hills above the valley. For cover they hid behind the bronze St. Vladimir who carries a cross overlooking the village. They ran circles around the statue, hollered out racial slurs to each other in jest. Then they tromped through the damp grass, blazing a trail up the hillside. White butterflies went unnoticed flittering between wildflowers as the eldest of the group, Mikhail, took off running toward a cave. The others kept close behind. The boys always kept close behind Mikhail.

“I’m not going in there,” said twelve year old Dimitri upon reaching the cave.

"Ah . . . are you scared?” Nicholas asked. He gave Dimitri a shove.

“Come, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Mikhail slapped Dimitri’s back then tugged at the boy’s arm. His eyes told Nicholas to let him handle this. He possessed a certain talent convincing boys to do any number of things. Mikhail once in fact, convinced them to stow away on a passenger train all the way to St. Petersburg. All of the boys all got quite a whooping that night. But not one told their parents who instigated the scheme.

“Scared! Says who?” Dimitri lurched forward to return Nicholas’s shove.

“Sure, you’re not scared.” Mikhail placed himself between the two, straightened his back and puffed out his chest. “It’s just a little old hole. Nothing to be scared of.”

“Dimitri’s scared. Dimitri’s scared,” the remaining three boys sang. But then they quickly hushed with a look from Mikhail. Nicholas darted off and disappeared into the cave. Inside he hollered as all young boys do in caves – just to hear their voices bounce off the walls. Mikhail patted Dimitri on the head then casually took off behind the other boys to find Nicholas. He didn’t want to walk off too fast as he knew that Dimitri would soon follow. Couldn’t be too obvious either, so he picked up his pace slightly. The laughter that streamed out of the cave’s mouth enticed Dimitri. But he plopped himself down on a boulder instead of following the others, and rested his face in his hands.

“I am not scared.” Dimitri kicked at the pebbles in the dirt. “Am not, I say. Who do they think they are anyway?” He scooped up a handful of gravel and chucked it down at his feet. Then he stepped cautiously into the wide mouth of the cave and followed the playful sounds that echoed through the halls. Two tunnels branched off into darkness. He arbitrarily chose the left hoping that both led to his friends. After a few steps the tunnel curved to the right and daylight completely disappeared. Dimitri hesitated. He waved his hand an inch in front from face and could not see even the outline of his fingers. Only his admiration for Mikhail kept him moving forward. Running his hand along the moist walls, he stepped over a floor he could not see, then stopped to listen for the others. All Dimitri could hear was his own heavy breathing, and the slow moisture drip from the ceiling above.

“Mikhail,” Dimitri called out. “Stop fooling with me.” He took another step then swung around and scurried back to find the light. Before reaching the bend in the tunnel his foot caught a solid lump that he’d managed to side step on the way in. He flew forward landing face down in the cool dirt. With a shrill scream Dimitri scrambled forward on his belly.

Sounds of laughter echoed up the tunnel.

“Give me a match to light my cigarette.” Mikhail patted down Nicholas in the dark.

“Sure, sure, got one here.” Nicholas struck the match. In an instant the tunnel lit up.

“Look here,” Mikhail said puffing on a loosely rolled cigarette. “What are you doing there boy? Stand up and show some dignity.”

The others laughed as Dimitri jumped to his feet and brushed off pebbles embedded into his knees and elbows. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his face flushed from a mixture of embarrassment and fear.

“What’s that there?” another boy asked.

“Here Nicholas, give us more light.”

Nicholas lit another match and the boys inched forward to a lump in the dirt. It first appeared merely a pile of dirty clothing. Then Dimitri let out a yelp. “Look there,” he said pointing to what appeared to be a hand caked in blood protruding from the pile.

“What is it?”

“No! Can’t be.”

Mikhail moved forward and with his foot flung off a coat from the pile. “My God,” he said. “It’s a boy.” He grabbed Nicholas’s matches and lit three at once. He shuddered before he pushed his comrades aside for a closer look.

A boy indeed – stabbed in the neck and torso forty-three times, a coroner later concluded. A school bag nearby identified him as Andrei Krestyanov, a local fourteen year old missing for several days. His murder scandalized Kiev. All the newspapers wanted to interview the boys who discovered him. But none of their parents would allow it.

Plenty of stories were written about the poor boy’s murder. Jews, people said, the Jews were to blame for Andrei’s murder. The day of his funeral, a group of Russian citizens distributed leaflets throughout Kiev that claimed Jews murdered Christian children for blood to mix with their matzos. And the press repeated the rumor that the Jews practiced organized ritual murder. Like so often before, Russian sentiment toward the Jewish population disintegrated even further. Politicians argued against granting civil and religious rights to them. Others signed petitions demanding that the government bring justice to these “criminal Jews.” Many who thought otherwise feared saying so.

* * *

Axel Levin pulled closed his tattered coat and shivered. He shivered not because of a chill in the air, but from the blood thirst he witnessed from the barefoot peasants and jewel clad aristocrats packed into the courtroom, eager to see Efrat Mindel sentenced to die.

“Poor loser,” Axel said beneath his breath. He wondered how many more times Witness would report on an innocent man or woman sent off to Siberia, or worse yet, blindfolded before a firing squad.

“Mindel, Mindel, drinker of Christian blood,” yelled a toothless woman dressed in rags. She stood beside Axel in the jammed courtroom.

Axel knew damn well that Mindel was innocent, as did half the nation for that matter. The prosecution’s witnesses had been so poorly coached, their testimonies read like bad plays. Mindel’s terrible luck was that he just happened to work in a Jewish owned factory located near the caves where the boys discovered Andrei Krestyanov’s bloody corpse.

The crowds jeered the defense and hissed at the accused as he walked into the courtroom each day. All the while, Mindel sat at the defense table never turning his head to look back at the spectators. No, he stared straight ahead, straight into the eyes of those on the witness stand who spun outright lies. He never even spouted out in protest – proof, some said of his guilt.

A young woman with a child in her arms rose from the audience. “Give them the chance, they’ll murder your child too!” She spit at the defense attorney’s back. Many in the room gasped. Some clapped, then the courtroom momentarily fell quiet as the judge glared at the spectators. Silence prevailed until the judge ordered the peasant woman and her child thrown out.

Several spectators booed. When the judge ordered silence the shouts died out, but a quiet murmur persisted, especially when the prosecutor questioned a certain lady of the night, Sinovia. She swore that Mindel confessed to the murder after he paid her for a particular undisclosed favor. Several women in the crowd scowled and shook their heads at the revelation. A few men smirked, knowing exactly what sort of “favor” Sinovia was famous for. They would have preferred a bit more detail. But those who knew Mindel, had told Axel that he was not the sort of man to visit such women. Those who really knew Mindel were never called to the witness stand. And had they been, they might not have showed anyway. Witnesses for the defense had the habit of disappearing in the night.

Amidst this commotion, Axel noticed a striking woman who sat two rows behind the prosecution’s table. Dressed in the finest blue satin, her hair neatly waved, she inconspicuously patted tears from her face with an embroidered handkerchief. A teenage girl, Axel guessed to be a daughter, sat at her side. Something about that woman, the honey-color shade of her hair, the shape of her neck perhaps, drew him in. He saw the woman take the girl’s hand. The girl viciously pulled away. Her body language revealed disdain.

Axel had no more connections with the bourgeois, especially since Stefan’s betrayal. Yet he felt he knew this woman who wept at the trial of a Jewish man. He watched her back intently as she held her head low, as if ashamed to be seen in the courtroom. She did not turn to watch the scuffle that broke out in the back of the room. She did not participate in, nor did she acknowledge any of the outbursts that entire afternoon.

One man rushed forward. Kill them all!” he screamed. “Until not a single one’s left.” His face red and trembling, blue veins throbbing at his neck, he plowed his way through the crowd toward the defense.

“I will not have this in my courtroom,” the judge finally yelled out. “Clear my court this instant.”

People mumbled beneath their breaths as armed guards herded them out of the courtroom doors. The defense attorney put his arm around Mindel and whispered into his ear, while the prosecutor made his way through the crowd to the woman dressed in blue. Axel watched as she bowed her head before the prosecutor, a man in his late sixties, clean shaven and dressed in an expensive tailored black suit. He kissed the woman’s forehead then received the teenage girl with open arms.

“Oh Father, you will send that dreadful man away won’t you?”

“With any luck Sweetheart, he’ll never have the opportunity to kill again.”

Arm in arm, Father and daughter followed the crowd out of the courtroom doors, the woman taking up behind. She looked to the ground and patted her face dry with the handkerchief.

Axel obeyed an impulse to follow her through the crowd. She had a lightness to her walk that he found familiar, compelling, urging him to follow until he found himself with only a few people between him, the woman, daughter and prosecutor.

“Father, I do hope you will allow me to attend the shooting. I want to see that disgusting man die.” Unable to contain her excitement, the prosecutor’s daughter hopped from foot to foot.

The girl’s mother shook her head in protest. Taking the cue from his wife, the prosecutor held his daughter’s hand, moved stray hairs from her face and said something that Axel could not make out.

She yanked away from her father. “You ruin everything,” she screamed at the woman who had so drawn Axel. “I hate you!”

The girl pushed her way through the crowd, squeezing tears from her eyes. She blindly crashed into Axel just a few feet away. His eyes met hers – a deep brown, void of recognition.

“Out of my way, you bum,” the girl screeched and pushed onward.

Outside the courthouse spectators lingered about in hopes of the trial re-adjourning. Axel moved away from the crowd and rested at the feet of a larger than life statue of Alexander the Third upon his throne. Tearing pieces from his bread, Axel ate while contemplating the fate of Mindel. Absentmindedly he tossed the remains of his loaf to the ground.

Just as dozens of birds perched upon Alexander the Third’s stone robe swooped down to devour the crumbs, the woman from the courtroom stepped out from the Tsar’s backside. She held her head down and wrung her hands as she anxiously looked behind her.

“May I assist you?” Axel said. He found himself not looking at her, but past her, for the prosecutor and the teenage girl.

“Please.” Her eyes downcast she held onto the diamond and sapphire choker around her neck. “I have the means. I can pay,” she said.

Hints of something familiar in her voice, Axel clumsily rose to his feet. With one hand he swept his lap for breadcrumbs. “Pay? Dear lady,” he said. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. Why don’t you tell me who you are looking for and . . .”

“Axel, please,” the woman snapped. She rushed forward into his space. “I haven’t much time.”

Axel stepped back, stumbling over his feet. “I don’t understand.” He scanned the area quickly. “My name,” he said with urgency, “how did you know?”

“I beg you Axel, please take me away, help me escape.” She took the crumpled handkerchief from her closed fist and sobbed into it.

He studied the wrinkle in her brow, the strain in her pale blue eyes. He knew immediately that he had gazed into those eyes before, dreamt about those eyes before. But the eyes he remembered seemed stronger, more full of life.

“Ivana, could it be?” Axel quickly recoiled from the woman. “Some kind of trick.”

“No, please,” she said. “I promise, no trick.”

It was her eyes that convinced him. When he looked further into them, everything else fell away – the diamonds, the satin, the finely manicured hair. It was the woman he once knew who cried out from those eyes – the woman so passionate about their cause . . . the woman who he could not save from the wretched hands of Stefan.

Axel grabbed her shoulders, startling even himself.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin, tears welled in her eyes, she looked up into his. Her painted lips formed a faint smile.

“Ivana,” Axel cried in a hushed voice. “My God, you’re alive.”

Annabel Lee

2009-09-27T01:12:00.000-07:00

The pool hall erupted in hoarse laughter, like crackling thunder against a stormy sky. A lone woman center the attention flipped her black curly, unkempt hair. Patrons hushed. Brad’s heart sped. Her head back, she poured down a beer without even taking a breath. She didn’t look at him, but handed Brad her mug, winked at the crowd then bent over the pool table. The embroidered butterfly in the seat of her pants glittered beneath dim lights.

“Eight ball, corner pocket” she said. With one smooth motion she struck the cue in a manner that the eight ball obeyed.

The hall erupted once more, money exchanged hands. And this one woman among the guys began to rack them up again.

They made brief eye contact once. After that she caught Brad staring through mirror reflections. Brad knew just one thing that night: he had never met anyone like her. She was tough for sure, boisterous, a cigar hanging from her lips. Could she be a dude? He batted the thought from his mind. He had never been drawn towards masculinity. Still, there was something irresistibly feminine about this woman, not coming across in the faded blue jeans or the white crewneck t-shirt. The pit bull pup tattooed on her forearm didn’t add much to her femininity either. Except for the pale pink lipstick, she wore no make-up and not a stitch of jewelry. But she smelled of Gardenias, a fragrance that had lingered in the recesses of Brad’s mind since childhood. When she talked her mouth barely moved. And when she walked, her broad hips had a gentle sway that could rock him to sleep.

They were on their eighth beer now. “Last one standing takes the kitty home,” she pretended to slur and put a ten on the table. Her sultry voice caught his attention first – after that, no doubt her eyes. They were brown, an eerie sort of brown with yellowish flecks, and dark, thick lashes.

Of course, Brad put in his ten bucks along with the rest. Two hours later, one guy lay passed out in a corner booth. Another wandered outside. He forgot what he was doing and ended up at a bar down at the marina. Another snored loudly in the parking lot over his steering wheel. And three young men all at once had decided they were finished and attempted to kiss her good-bye. She managed without a fuss to wiggle out of their reach, then laughed about it afterwards.

No one would have thought she’d be the type for Brad. What were the guys going to say? Worse than that, what would Mary say? Heck, Brad knew Mary was bored. He was sure that she’d dump him for someone better. She might even understand, part amicably if she felt Brad really wanted that. Mary would never go for this though – dumped for someone so “uncouth” as she would undoubtedly put it. He could picture her now at their apartment; close up in the mirror he imagined, plucking minute hairs beneath high-arched brows.

“Drink up, Jack,” the brunette elbowed him. She never asked Brad his name. She called all the guys at the pool hall “Jack.” “I’m gonna drink you under the table yet,” she murmured.

“That’s twelve,” she hollered over her shoulder and slid the mug down to the bartender.

Brad watched the dark-haired woman intently. Studied her painted lips as she guzzled the beer.

“Who’s on for a game of darts?” Her fingers drummed the small table. Her nails were short, unpainted.

“Hey do you think,” Brad mumbled just as the jukebox blared. Can’t Get No Satisfaction.1 Hands stuffed in front pockets, he shuffled his feet back and forth like a school boy. “We could get together some time, maybe go for a drink?”

“Whatja say, Jack?” The woman shrugged and pointed to her ears.

“Get together,” Brad shouted. “Sometime? For a drink?”

“I don’t drink, Jack,” she said and threw another dart at the board. Bullseye.

“But . . .”

“What? This?” she said lifting her mug. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just one of those things.”

“Sure. I get the hint . . . ah, come on though, you gotta have a name?”

The woman took a gulp from her beer, then looked directly at him and stopped, hand poised to throw the dart. She smiled like she knew him, and the way Brad saw it, like she might be interested. “My name? Oh, Jack, how sweet of you to ask.” She whipped the dart across the room. Another Bullseye. With that she turned to Brad and laid a gentle touch to his arm. Her head tilted forward she locked eyes with his. “My name,” she said. “Well . . . I’m Poe’s woman.”

His grip loosened on the beer and he stumbled to catch it before it fell. “Hmmm. Poe’s? Wait . . . was her name Helen?”

“No,” she chuckled. “Annabel Lee,” she winked and threw another dart across the room. “Here Jack,” she said. “Why don’t we split the kitty.” She moved half of the pile of bills towards him.

“No, you take it,” he said. His eyes remained focused on her as he spoke. “I’m Brad, by the way” He said and with one hand fumbled for the phone vibrating in his shirt pocket until the thing flew out and crashed to the floor. “Damn,” Brad muttered as he swooped down to grab it. By the time he stood erect, Annabel Lee was gone, along with half the pile of tens, while her smoldering cigar Smudged with pale pink lipstick fumed.

* * *

“Not another minute,” thought Brad. His arm had not moved from Mary’s waist since the first reading. “Not another minute of this crap.” His fist clenched. Mary didn’t flinch. He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Some hidden joke we’re supposed to figure out?”

She squinched her nose and puckered an air kiss. Her multi-colored blonde weaved hair complemented an uncompromised complexion. The pair of solitaire diamond studs nestled in petite lobes twinkled with flickering candlelight.

Patrons cheered. Mary patted her palm. The stage lights at the coffee house brightened, and the young man behind the mic adorned in black bell-bottoms and a red turtle neck took a seat in the crowd. The audience’s applause crescendoed.

“Now, I wonder if he could tell me what it meant?” Brad grumbled. “Tumbling pansies, sky-high rye.” He laughed. “What the hell is that?”

“No,” Mary mouthed. “Not now.” She knew her fiancé hated this stuff. She wondered why she even dragged Bread along. Sure he looked good on her arm. He had a charming boyish look about him, exotic slightly with his hair cut like a dutch kid’s, skin tanned and tight. But he never said the right thing at her affairs and afterwards they’d inevitably argue.

Mary nudged out from under Brad’s arm. Applaud, applaud. Things sure weren’t turning out the way she had hoped. Brad still hadn’t decided on a career. Changed his major from philosophy to theology, and then now on to history – twenty-nine years old, and her boyfriend hadn’t completed his undergraduate degree. Pretty embarrassing.

Back at their apartment they fumbled around each other in a feeble attempt at routine intimacy. They fell on the bed clumsily. Her outstretched arm reached for the wineglass on her nightstand.

He smirked.

“What?” Mary said.

"Nothing.” Brad caressed her neck.

No. What?” She scooted away.

“Okay,” he hesitated. “Tell me something. What exactly did that poet say?”

“I hate it when you pull this shit. Didn’t you hear anything tonight?” she asked.

“Were you there with me or not?” Mary arched her back and pulled a white lace bra through her sleeve and flung it to the floor.

“What kinda question is that?” Brad took her hand. “I just can’t stand seeing it Mare. You’re way above normal intelligence.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Come on, I hate seeing you bow down before some poet who merely strings together a bunch of words that don’t mean crap.”

“Jerk.”

“What’s the deal?” Brad chuckled. “Thundering Tigerlilies? Morose Lagoon? Come on. What’s next? Is poetry nothing but mindless jibber? What’s the goal? You, of all people, should realize this, Mare. Where’s the beauty, for goodnessake?”

“Oh Brad,” Mary shook her head. “You have no sophistication. I don’t mean that in a bad way, Dear, but really, how much poetry have you actually read?”

“So that’s how it is.” Brad bounced up from the bed unzipping his pants. “I’m too simple minded to understand.” He let his trousers drop to the ground then kicked them beneath the bed.

“No, Honey, I didn’t say that.

“Ya. I know, I know, you studied poetry in college." Pantless he paused and took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it before continuing. “That gives you some kind of insight into that junk tonight. Come on, Mare. You know as well as I do, that was meaningless crap.”

“Don’t you see Brad – that’s exactly it. That’s what Timothy’ saying with his art.”

“Timothy?”

“Come on! The poet! He’s saying that everything is meaningless, Honey. We’re just all so afraid, scared to death really, to revel in the meaningless of it all – so we make up meaning. You make up meaning.”

“Revel in the meaningless?” That’s a stretch even for you, Maree.”

“That’s why you feel so threatened by Timothy’s poetry, Honey. It’s perfectly understandable – his words crush your world.”

“Well, that’s good stuff for you, something to crush your world, No, Mary. My world’s not meaningless”

Or is it? he thought. He left her on the bed for a beer in the kitchen.

“You never like anything I like,” Mary yelled as she hastily dressed.

Brad took a swig of his beer and leaned back to open the recliner just as the apartment door slammed. The television flickered shadows on the wall – a 1970’s western flick with unusually oblong actors dominated the screen. “Annabel Lee,” Brad whispered. He took another swig.

“Thundering Tigerlillies.” Brad chuckled, took a gulp, leaned his head back, and with a faint smile upon his lips, dozed off.

“It was a many and many, a year ago, In a kingdom by the Sea That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee.”2

* * *

Mary lay sleeping in their bed when Brad woke in the recliner and slipped out the front door. The pool hall had not yet opened when he arrived. He took a brisk walk down to the marina then went for a run, something he hadn’t done in over five years. His calves ached back up the hill to the pool hall.

He recognized the waitress in the parking lot and picked up his step to catch her. She looked behind her shoulder for a glimpse of the heavy-breathing guy moving in on her. Then finally she bolted and ran straight toward the pool hall’s doors.

"Ah, crap,” Brad said. He sat curbside and waited until the hall finally opened.

“Sorry guy,” the bartender told him. “Ain’t seen no broad looking like that.
Believe me, I’d remember. Annabel Lee you say?”

“That’s what she said.”

The waitress barely made eye contact with Brad. He called her by name, Amy, he gathered from the tag. But familiarity did nothing to disarm. She said she didn’t know Annabel Lee. He didn’t believe her.

Brad skipped his afternoon classes, instead settling back in front of the television. It aired a recolorized Doris Day flick where the women wore blue dresses and neatly combed hair.

He met Annabel Lee in his dreams that night. She wore a sky-blue dress, her wild hair tamed. It was only a fleeting moment, enough though that when he woke he turned over, aching for sleep’s return. He carried around that ache in his gut all morning and didn’t notice the apartment’s utter silence. Mary had not slept in their bed. He shrugged it off and dressed with no real plans, drank a cup of black coffee, then headed off for the pool hall once more. For the next week he skipped classes and hung out there. Amy still refused eye contact, and the bartender learned his name. Brad questioned newcomers and old-timers alike over games of casual pool, until finally his first break came.

“Annabel Lee, you say?” The tanned muscle builder rubbed his chin. “You bet, I think I do know. She hangs out at the lanes.”

Brad dropped the cue stick “You know her?”

“Don’t say I know her, if know what I mean. But, hey, to each his own.”

“These lanes,” Brad fumbled in his pocket for a pen. “Where are they? You’ve seen her there? Are you certain?”

“Ya sure – just like you described.”

Brad wasted no time making his way to Hitherto Lanes, a rundown bowling alley up the street from the county jail. His step had a spring to it, his whistle a chirpy tune. He sprang through the doors, scanned the bar, then the lanes. And there she stood, her back to him at the far end, the last lane. She wore a dress, red, above the knees, her calves like those of a runner’s – lean and strong. She turned before he reached her. Their eyes met. But not a shred of recognition shone in hers.

“Sweetheart,” she said. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?” She reached out her hands.

Brad took her hands in his. Nails painted red, the heart-shaped rhinestones attached to them seemed so unlike his Annabel Lee. He kissed them anyway, paused for a moment before looking up into her eyes. They were different somehow. Perhaps the lighting didn’t bring out those yellow flecks. He followed her eyes to her cleavage, more than he thought she would show, then back up to lock eyes again.

“Cat got your tongue?” She squeezed Brad’s hands.

Brad studied her neck, thicker than he remembered. Her eyes, where were the flecks? And there was rouge, green eye shadow. Where were the flecks? A dimple he hadn’t noticed nestled in her chin, and then . . . stubble. This woman had a five o’clock shadow. He yanked his hands from her firm grip and stumbled back.

“Annabel Lee?”

“I’m whoever you want me to be Sweetheart.” Gold fillings from her back teeth glistened under the lane’s fluorescent lights.

Brad’s heart sped up into his throat. And as the lights overhead flickered he turned and ran out of Hitherto Lanes. He never looked back at the woman in red. A longing for the scent of Gardenias overwhelmed him as he felt an end of his search for Annabel Lee.

His was one of three remaining cars in the lot as Brad dug around his pockets for keys. Amy approached from his side. “What is it?” Brad cleared his throat, but didn’t turn to face her. The woman in red at bowling alley came to mind. He shuddered.

“She’s in a committed relationship now, Annabel Lee. I just thought you should know.” With that, Amy walked away.

* * *

Brad returned to classes, largely behind in his studies. He spent late nights at the apartment, alone. In his spare time he caught old movies, did some running, and in the early morning hours wrote poetry. He had grown accustomed to this routine and turned out about twenty pages a week.

He made the trip up north one weekend to see the house his grandmother lived in when he was a child. Hopefully somehow her garden, spotted with Gardenias, had survived. Not even the house remained, in its place a myriad of self-storage units. Back at home he purchased a potted Gardenia to place on the kitchen counter. He wrote a touching piece about the plant that his college published, surprising some readers that a male had written it.

And then when he least expected it, Brad caught the strong scent of Gardenias while on his usual afternoon run. It struck him while crossing at the marina intersection opposite half a dozen nuns dressed in full habit. The scent didn’t fully penetrate his senses until after they passed each other mid street. He abruptly turned, tempted to run after them. But what would he say? Start sniffing the nuns like a dog?

From behind he could not make out one nun from the other. He resolved to let it go, as he had come to realize that it didn’t matter whether he found her. Her small presence in his life had filled him enough to last a lifetime. An SUV roared by, blaring its horn at Brad. He chuckled and waved at the car. Then he noticed while still standing in the middle of the street, that one of the nuns had a gentle sway, a sway that he was sure could rock him to sleep.

(C) Lauren Miertschin
1 “Satisfaction,” Rolling Stones
2 “Annabel Lee,” Edgar Alan Poe