Colbalt Green

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.

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Excerpt from "Beyond the Pale," Chapter 6

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

(c) Lauren D.H. Miertschin

2 Short Poems

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

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.

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

The Breaking

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.

(c) Lauren D H Miertschin

The Tower

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

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.”

(c) Lauren D. H. Miertschin

Annabel Lee

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