Flash! Fiction 2 by Peter McMillan - HTML preview
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Copyright
The 31 stories collected in this anthology are reprints of Peter McMillan's and Adam Mac's flash fiction that have previously been published in various online markets.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictionally.
This anthology of short fiction by Peter McMillan and Adam Mac is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For more information about the license, visit
<https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/> First published: 2013 (out of print)
Reprinted: 2023
Cover photograph: Silversmith (view from), Chicago, 2009, P. McMillan iii
For L&O
iv
The Boots on the Shoulder ............................................................. 1
The Boss ......................................................................................... 4
The Boy Who Knew Too Much ....................................................... 7
The Bus Station ............................................................................ 10
The Death of Dogma ..................................................................... 13
Dreams ......................................................................................... 14
A Fantastic Commute ................................................................... 16
The Hives ...................................................................................... 18
How to Depose a College President—Being a Contribution to the
Expanding Internet Library of How-to Literature............................ 20
Insignificance ................................................................................ 23
Just a Passing Thought ................................................................ 27
Killer Voice Mail ............................................................................ 30
The Loose Screw .......................................................................... 34
On Top of It ................................................................................... 38
Our Haunted House ...................................................................... 40
Our Town ...................................................................................... 46
The Panhandler ............................................................................ 49
Poker Night at Papa G's ................................................................ 52
The Queue .................................................................................... 54
Reason Confounded ..................................................................... 59
Rush Hour in the Park ................................................................... 63
The Scientific Approach ................................................................ 66
v
The Volunteer ............................................................................... 70
The Walled City ............................................................................. 73
Stories by Adam Mac .................................................................. 75
Emil and the Vampire .................................................................... 76
An Invitation to a Beheading ......................................................... 78
The Lake ....................................................................................... 81
The Rat ......................................................................................... 84
vi
"Daddy, why are there boots on the edge of the road?"
"I don't know, son. Listen don't talk to me right now, OK? This is some pretty hairy driving. Rain, rush hour, slick tires."
"I think the man got knocked clean out of his boots."
"What man?"
"The man whose car was broken down."
"What car?"
"Umh, I dunno."
"Well, don't bother me, son. I'm really trying hard to concentrate here. Can't afford to have another accident."
"They looked like roofer boots. Me and Billy watched 'em put the new roof on his house, and they had boots just like that."
"Like wh— I thought I asked you to stop talking."
"Maybe they fell of the truck, you know, like after work, they change. I wonder if he had to buy a new pair. Are they expensive?"
"Are what expensive?"
"Roofer boots."
"What's a roofer boot?"
"I just said."
1
"Well, cut it out, OK. Wait til we get out of this traffic."
"Maybe it was a robbery. The boots guy stopped to help a sports car. Then he stole the car and the man's shoes, leaving the boots behind."
"Robbery? That's just silly. Now, hush."
"I think he took the girlfriend, too."
"What? Whose girlfriend? Now, would you please— "
"I think he got tired of roofing and wanted to drive down to Florida."
"What's in Florida?"
"You know, Disney, old people, Canadians, bikinis and stuff."
"What Canadians?"
"Old fat white ones. Snowmen! Get it?"
"Yeah, I got it. You've really gotta stop talking. Just for the next couple of miles, OK?"
"Daddy?"
"What, son?"
"Do you think Mommy will be OK?"
"Yeah. She's in a good place. They have the best doctors and nurses in the city. They'll— Yeah, son. She'll be fine."
2
"I hope so. I don't know what I would do without her."
"Me either, son. Me either."
"Daddy, I think I'm finished talking for now."
"OK, son."
On the inside shoulder of the freeway was a second pair of boots, but these were ignored.
First published in The Story Shack, February 9, 2013.
3
She was dead, finally. All of us went to make sure. We still couldn't believe it. We skipped the memorial service and went straight to the cemetery ... and waited. With steely eyes, jaws and fists clenched, we watched every last piece of dirt drop to fill in the hole, as if every speck of dirt was needed to hold the coffin in place.
Dirk, Paula, Aurelio, Stephen, Valerie, Alex, Ryan and the rest of us stood there until the gravediggers, or groundskeepers as they pre-ferred to be called, had left. The grave was now a mound in the midst of rows and rows of headstones, crosses and other markers.
We stood there until dusk — almost expectantly, so not quite satis-fied.
The groundskeepers finally came to usher us out. The gates closed at dark. Vandalism and debauchery had long plagues this cemetery, and overnight the groundskeepers became security guards.
We all went out for a drink, just like we said we would, but somehow it was missing the jubilation and relief we had all expected. So we just drank. Three or four or five rounds, I can't remember now.
Numbness was pretty much the common feeling, both emotionally and physically, for we literally stumbled down the stairs to the sub-way platform where we helped one another get on the right trains ...
more or less.
All night long, I must have half-slept, because I kept hearing her voice, though I knew it couldn't be. "It's quite straightforward, really." How many times she'd said that to me when I was new on the job. And after me it was someone else. "It's quite straightforward, really." And there was the "Please and thank you" benediction she 4
spoke every single time she gave you that little extra assignment that made you late leaving the office.
"Please and thank you."
"Really, it's quite straightforward."
"Please and thank you."
"Robert, it's quite straightforward, really."
"Please and thank you, Robert."
When the alarm went off at 6:00, I was up like a shot. The voice was gone.
Thanks to a wretched night, I was up, dressed and ready for work a full hour early. I phoned Ryan and Paula and we met for breakfast at the restaurant around the corner from our office building. Ryan and Paula looked even less perky than I felt. We kept our conversations on the food and the front page. Paula started to smoke but we stopped her before anybody saw. Ryan was fixated on his phone.
Neither seemed to notice, thankfully, but I was self-conscious and distracted by my excessive sweating. I felt like I'd been splashed with a bucket of my own sweat — my forehead, my scalp, my arm-pits, my hands ... were dripping.
In the elevator, we punched different buttons. I would be the first to meet her replacement, and they wanted me to phone first chance I got.
Still worried about my perspiration wetness, I toweled off in the men's room before cautiously making my way to her office. Her—
5
The door was closed, so I knocked, and a voice invited me in. It was a huge relief to find a man sitting behind the desk.
Subconsciously, I had feared that I would open the door and find her still there. I paused for a moment to take it all in, and he said,
"Would you close the door ... Robert, isn't it? ... please and thank you."
First published in thickjam, No. 254, March 7, 2013.
6
Alfred was a genius. When he was very young his friends stopped beating him up and making him do embarrassing things. One day, Ernie, the leader and spokesman of the gang, got the clever idea that Alfred could make them money.
It was summertime. School was out. They took the bus downtown to show off Alfred's tricks.
But a bunch of boys, aged 8 to 11, with skateboards and smacking gum and wearing eye-opening T-shirts can be intimidating. So, Ernie told the gang to hang back and keep off their boards. Meanwhile, he and Alfred buttoned their shirts, tucked them in, spit out their gum, and crossed the street, heading towards an enclave of benches in the city plaza, near the fish pond. It was about half-past noon.
#
Alfred is introduced as a local prodigy (his word) and the youngest challenger of the world record for facts known by a single person.
Only in the third grade—well, just finished the third grade—Alfred knows more facts than just about anyone else in the history of the world. Ask him anything and he'll give you the right answer and even faster than a computer.
Of course, even the office lunch crowd is not that gullible but plays along anyway, taking it as a leisurely way to spend their lunch hour on a pleasantly warm, early summer day.
Alfred takes questions.
7
“Who was the Orioles' rookie DH in '77?” asks the fat, bald guy with hot dog relish dripping down his shirt front.
“Frank Robin-, er, Eddie Murray,” answered Alfred, a little more nervous than usual.
“That’s right, kid!” exclaims Relish still chewing as he tosses a gold and silver coin into Ernie’s cap.
“What's a lepton?” fires the lanky, acne-pocked Bluetooth host in between sentences to someone in his head.
“A family of subatomic particles that—“
“What do you mean, where'd I get that question from?” snaps Bluetooth looking over at Relish who was busily cleaning his tie. “It was all over the news last week when—“
“How much are this year’s hybrid cars?” interrupts the chipper blonde who lives to deny herself food.
“The Honda Civic is around $24,000, the Toyota Camry $25,000, the Lexus GS $55,000, and the Chevrolet Malibu is under—“
“That's good, thank you” transitions the impeccably professional twenty-something with the slit-eyed glasses. “Now, how about this one?” she asks furtively, leaning forward. “What's going on between the boss and Ted?”
“Why shouldn't he know?” asks Glasses facing a menacing stare from Chipper who is good friends with both Ted and the boss. “It's a fact, right? “
8
“OK. Here's another one,” pushes in the momentarily re-connected Bluetooth. “How many light-years away is the nearest intelligent life form?”
Alfred is stumped. He doesn’t know whether to give the correct answer. They’re probably not ready for it, he thinks.
Suddenly, the clock tower strikes one o'clock, five minutes ahead of time, and the rest of the gang bring out their boards and begin rac-ing and jumping, making a raucous commotion. In a purely coincidental reaction, a few more coins are pitched into the collection hat, and the office workers get sucked back into the buildings.
First published in Drunk Monkeys, April 12, 2013.
9
Andy would wish he had never seen the young teenage boy walking towards the men's room.
It was well past midnight in the bus station. One of the officers had said "Don't go into the restrooms alone,” and his partner added
“and whatever you do, don't fall asleep."
That unsettled Andy. His bus to Salt Lake City was another 6 hours away, and he was tired and had drunk a lot of water walking up and down the hills, killing time. He'd missed the famous cable cars; they wouldn't be back until the following year, he heard.
He'd already seen more than he wanted to see in the Mission District and that was in daylight. In the dark, the city had an altogether different atmosphere—foreign and threatening. It was better in the bus station as long as other passengers were around. But at this time of night, there were only two—Andy and a young black soldier—Army, it seemed.
The mood inside changed for the worse when an old white-haired giant wearing a baggy and soiled mustard-coloured suit lumbered in shouting loudly at an invisible companion. The old guy circled and studied the young soldier, who sat quietly staring unblinkingly at his Reader's Digest. On his second pass, the old guy stopped, wobbled a bit, and screamed in the soldier's face. The soldier must have been fresh in the service because his whole body screamed back in silent fear. The old guy kept screaming and then stopped as suddenly as a summer downpour and walked away.
Andy was angered but mostly stunned. What kind of person—
What kind of place was this where a person could be assaulted for 10
no reason whatsoever? And where were the cops—security, anybody?
An hour or so later, a pleasant, round little man, deeply-tanned from his bald pate to his sandaled feet and sporting a brilliant pink polo shirt, walked in, passed the soldier, and approached Andy. He engaged Andy in friendly conversation about the weather, the city, and finally religion. After judging that the man wasn't recruiting for a cult, Andy put his religious upbringing to good use. After 45 minutes of theological discussion, the pleasant, round little man politely excused himself and said he had to go make some money.
Over the next two hours, more came in from the streets—some almost normal. One of the “normals,” in a business suit but without the tie, was looking for someone in particular, but it seemed odd that he didn't stop to ask the soldier or Andy for help. A second went straight to the lockers and took out something, which he tucked away inside his 49ers windbreaker. A scary-looking couple, maybe a man and a woman, went into the men's room. Meanwhile, an ancient woman, her back crooked so badly the floor was just two feet from her face, settled into an out-of-the-way corner for herself, her cat, and her overfull grocery cart.
Just after 4:30, Andy saw the freckle-faced teen walking in the direction of the restrooms. Andy couldn't recall seeing him in the bus station earlier, but he wasn't sure. The teenager was carrying a suitcase. His short-sleeve plaid shirt was buttoned to the top, and his blue jeans didn't quite reach the top of his white crew socks.
The cops hadn't returned and probably wouldn't. Andy looked across at the soldier. His eyes were glazed over—the magazine lay limp in his lap.
Andy couldn't help himself. He had to warn the boy. It was the right thing to do. That's how he'd been raised.
11
But what if it was the kid that was the dangerous one. Maybe he had been an innocent, a runaway but had become an itinerant serial killer. Suppose he were to warn the kid, and the kid were to turn and give him that look—the look of a cold-blooded killer? And what if the kid had a serrated stainless steel hunting knife in that suitcase?
Out of the corner of his eye Andy glimpsed a head peeping out of the men's room, and quickly got up and walked over to take a seat next to the soldier.
First published in Larks Fiction Magazine, Issue 5, Volume 4, July 16, 2012.
12
In room 99 in the hospice wing of the nursing home, the cleaner is in the room when the resident’s breathing ceases. Standing over the bed, looking left then right, the cleaner takes the hand of the resident.
For an infinitely-filled instant, the cleaner experiences something.
There is no sound, no feeling, no image, no taste, no smell, no thought, no desire, no belief, only something vague, but unmistaka-bly real. It swallows everything and everything's opposite and everything in between—pain and pleasure, loneliness and belong-ing, fear and hope, love and hate, happiness and sorrow, strength and weakness, beauty and ugliness, black and white, rich and poor, big and small, truth and lie, life and death, infinite and human. Nothing can be discerned, but everything is still there.
#
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" shouts the nurse, entering the room, and surprising the cleaner who drops the mop handle, which bounces off the bed frame and clatters to the floor.
"Umh. Umh. N-N-N-Nothing. Just th-th-thought I—uh—heard some—uh—thing," stutters the cleaner turning towards the nurse.
Checking the pulse and breathing, the nurse relaxes a bit. Recognizing the expression on the cleaner’s face, the nurse reaches out
"First one, huh? It’s alright now. Just mind yourself, ‘cause the state regulators are in this week."
First published in Postcard Shorts, March 13, 2013.
13
For some time he had dreamt what people dream when they grow old. The recurring theme — death ... and his death. Dreams of facing a vast lightless emptiness. Always ending with his getting swallowed or blotted out. Of being removed entirely from the world and from other people's memories.
Oddly, he didn't hide his dreams. Sometimes he joked about his
'dark epiphany' and its 'interminable rerun.' At one family gathering
— his Aunt Katy's wake — he said, far too loudly for the small room, that he'd love to break into one of his night-time silent movies and yell "Fire!" No laughs. Subsequent failures on similar occasions moved him to give up on black humour.
As he'd gotten older, he'd turned into an unpleasant, bitter, mean person. He didn't seek company, and it didn't seek him. He begrudged the money solicited by charities. Resented people who exploited their disabilities to get to the front of the line. Hated minivans, SUVs and shiny poser pickups — he still drove his or-ange Carmen Gia convertible — for the way they blocked and the people they cocooned. Caricatured everyone, and basically, found fault with everything.
His dreams, weighty and unrelenting, gradually worked changes on him. Indeed, coming around to accept them as a personal revela-tion and wake-up call, he decided to focus on assuring the most favourable circumstances on his death.
His wife noticed it first — the change — and one evening at a French restaurant celebrating her birthday, she commented that it was as if he'd been reborn. As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't, fearing that particular image might trigger a reversal. But he 14
didn't slip back. In fact, he praised her "charming way of putting things."
Downtown on workdays, he sought out opportunities, and being cheerful and kind energized him. During lunch breaks, he walked through the financial district, getting to know the regulars — the panhandlers, the buskers, the food vendors. He even visited a couple of shelters for the homeless and for abused women but wasn't welcomed with the gratitude he'd expected. Undeterred, he continued to circulate among the people.
In a dramatic concession to his wife, he now accompanied her to the upscale retirement home where Mother — his wife's mother —
lived.
Weekends got busy as he and his wife went out to parties, the theatre, the symphony and even opera, and, for the first time in their marriage, began to host parties of their own.
Then, one hurried Wednesday afternoon in heavy traffic on the way home from the train station, he swerved sharply to the right to avoid a pothole and ended up forcing a motorcyclist off the road right into a telephone pole. In his rear-view mirror, there was no movement on the ground. Seeing that no one was looking his way and the light was still yellow, he floored it.
He couldn't be late. Jason Ripley, Sr. of Applewhite, O'Donnell and Ripley was reading Mother's will at five.
His old dreams never bothered him again.
First published in thickjam, No. 288, June 4, 2013.
15
Lately, he hadn't been feeling himself. Overworked, burnt out. Covering for this person then that one. Pulled in all directions. Spread thin and stretched beyond his limits.
It was standing room only on the morning express train, and he stood wearing a freshly-altered suit with the back of his head mashed up against the roof of the car. In twenty years riding the train, he'd never been so cramped. From his vantage point, he could see the little heads, tucked behind newspapers, chattering away on the phone, or retreating behind shuttered eyelids and puls-ing earbuds.
At Union he realized he was stuck and couldn't easily dislodge himself. Twisting his broad hips and long legs to the edge of the aisle, he watched upside down as the passengers shoved under and past, paying him no more mind than they would a column in the station concourse.
Once the car was empty, he was able to kneel and bend until he came loose, and in a semi-squatting stance, still stiff, he waddled out the door. After unfolding to his full height, he looked up and down the tracks for the nearest exit. It was on the other side of the tracks. Seeing that no one was looking, he grabbed the CCTV
camera and pointed it away, and in one great stride crossed from platform 5B to 5A. Squeezing through the narrow double exit doors, catapulting down the station steps, and finally swimming above a swirling stream of tiny heads on short, bifurcated pedestals, he made his way to street level.
It was too early for the sun. The city lights cast faint shadows in the dawn. Cabbies honked and there was a multilingual cacophony of loud and excited voices in the cab rank.
16
Pedestrians and drivers dared and double dared over the last bit of amber in the traffic light. A homeless person, unable to get his attention, spat at him as he walked by holding a handkerchief to his face. A gaggle of teenage girls crashed into him and, on turning their heads, screamed and ran.
He hurried away himself. In two effortless steps he reached the opposite curb where he knocked over the pompous doorman of the Royal who was signalling a limousine to pull up. Getting to his feet, the servant, red-faced and ripe, with a tone that comes from years of service, launched into a fusillade of spiteful and contemptuous remarks. Mid-sentence, the lumbering colossus, provoked, gazed down on the round, red, balding head and squished it between thumb and forefinger.
He waited in a makeshift jail in the port lands, while the authorities debated their extrajudicial options, namely whether to ship him to the zoo or the museum. It was the museum. There, a new tailor—
this one a PhD in anthropology—outfitted him with clothing suitable for a wide range of exhibits BCE.
First published in Linguistic Erosion, August 19, 2012.
17
On a clear day I can see the old man across the way. He stands there on his balcony, like a captain on the bowsprit of an old sailing ship, scanning the surface of the massive housing tower in front of him—mine.
Usually, the air is thickly gray up here on the 97th floor, and I’m sure he can’t see my hive any more than I can see his. That and the boredom probably explain why, when I do see him, his examination is so thorough. But, no doubt, I’m projecting.
Anyway, it was one of those rare days that we met. We waved, nodded our heads once or twice, and even tried to speak though our voices didn’t carry on account of the overhead traffic noise. It’s worst—the noise, that is—from 5:00 to 10:00 in the morning and 4:00 to 9:00 in the evening, but it’s growing more constant even in the wee hours of the morning, especially due to increasing commercial traffic.
Sundays, on one of the two state holidays left, offer one of the best chances for a clear day, and today’s one. I haven’t opened my blinds yet, nor have I peeked to see if he has. First, I’ll order up a coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, read the paper, and watch an episode or two of I Love Lucy on the digital screen in the kitchen.
By 10:03 a.m., the blinds have already opened, programmed to ex-terior light levels and my late sleeping schedule. The curse of old age—one of many, actually—is that as life gets shorter, the sleep-less nights get unbearably long. His are now open as well.
I pick up my cigarette case and head for the balcony. Ordinarily, I smoke the smokeless cigarettes, because they’re the only ones 18
that are legal, but today, I thought I’d have a real cigarette. The to-bacco in these is as black as the market they came from.
In the background, I can hear Rickie chiding Lucy. As I open the door to the balcony, the warm air that rushes in nearly suffocates me with its heavy stickiness. Through the glass, it looked like a beautiful day. I always forget that the smell and the feel of the air never clear up when the gray lifts.
Immediately upon turning around after closing the balcony door, I see the old man, and we exchange waves and nods. We light up at the same time and start our ritual survey of the other’s hive.
Something seems different about the old man. He’s unsteady on his feet and he’s grabbing the balcony rail hard. The cigarette drops from his lips, and he releases his hold on the rail to scratch his arms and neck feverishly, losing his balance and free falling 97 stories down to the pavement below.
Stunned, I stare at his empty balcony and can’t believe it! All this time, I’d thought the old man was just a reflection in the window across the way.
First published in Liquid Imagination Issue 14 August 2012.
19
How to Depose a College President—Being a Contribution to the Expanding Internet Library of How-to Literature These days everybody seems to want to know how to do something, and they want to be told in 500 words or less.
I've been commissioned, sort of, by a virtual company with a P.O.
Box in Oklahoma City to write a how-to piece in the how-to genre for a how-to website. These websites, popping up like mushrooms, are encyclopedias of unqualified information, and I'm thinking I may have found a niche for myself.
I am committed, sort of, to this new Internet-age writing form that blends technical knowing-how with fantastic knowing-what and that enables everyman to become an expert, a writer, a creator and not just a consumer. At $10 a guide, I have to be committed, sort of, because I've got a lot of writing to do.
The guide that you will be reading is my first attempt in the how-to genre.
In this guide, I'm going to tell you how to overthrow a college president.
First, make sure that conditions are favourable. Watch for signs like these:
The faculty senate passes resolution after resolution de-manding the president's resignation.
Loyalty within the administration is divided. Even the reg-istrar has chosen sides—both of them.
Time magazine reports on political turmoil in the college, and it isn’t about the football program.
20
Second, make contact with the leaders of the opposition. Start with the guys in Math and History. Business, Education and Engineer-ing—they're followers. Philosophy and Literature—they’re too thoughtful. Athletics—they’re guardians. Best to start with the agita-tors. Everyone else will fall into line as the campaign gathers momentum.
Third, strategize. Identify the enemy's weakness. For example, if the president's only support might be an indifferent student population, the high-level plan would look something like this, 1. The objective is to remove the president’s support.
2. The campaign must be short, intense and well-publicized.
3. The campaign must be completely student-driven and volunteer-based.
Fourth, deliver at every stage of the campaign.
1. Educate students about the issues in a manner that is unbiased and consistent with the campaign objective.
Students must be talking about the issues.
2. Mobilize students against the president. Deploy a massive feet-on-the-ground, door-to-door petition drive. The petition and the signatures must be legitimate. The number of signatures, in the thousands, must evoke wide-eyed surprise.
3. Stage a media event for the coup de grâce. Coordinate local media for a surprise photo op in the president’s office. The media presence must be so overwhelming that it sends the president’s secretary running for the door.
4. Present the petition calling for the president’s immediate resignation. The president will have a broad but uncon-vincing smile for the cameras.
21
5. Wait. In two or three weeks, the board of trustees will announce a national search for a new president.
And that’s how you overthrow a college president.
The usual disclaimers apply.
First published on The Short Humour Site, 2012.
22
Ashen cloud banks pile one upon the other in the darkening west-ern sky. The setting sun manages to filter only a few solitary amber rays through the layers of thick cloud. As if pierced by countless pinpricks, the cloud canvas lets through isolated beams of sunlight, refracting the light as the clouds mass and then expand to cover the twilight sky.
The glass of the shop windows catches the rays of sunlight that find their way through the clouds and bounces them back through the sultry air into the hurried eyes of the people passing from their labour to their leisure. The eyes of the crowd do not reflect these chance glints any further but absorb them as charcoal does.
A mantle of gray-black falls suddenly, draping itself across the shoulders of the earth, and instantly there is momentary pitch-black darkness all around. The lights of the village do not anticipate the abruptness of the transition to night. Street lamps begin to hum noisily as their globes gradually brighten, the heavy clicking sound of traffic light control boxes rises in intensity directing the play of colours above the street intersections, and private windows begin to emit their light soundlessly, forming rectangular patterns of whiteness on the sidewalks and streets.
The stillness of the brief eclipse quickly gives way to tempestuous gusts of wind, rushing around corners, down the corridors of streets and lanes, whipping about, scattering bits and pieces of trash, and blowing dirt and sand into the emptiness of passers-by's eyes.
The relentless winds blow in a storm of rain, driving the rain like nee-dles into the exposed flesh of the comfort-seeking mass of pedestrians. The faces of the crowd seek refuge behind their buttoned coats and upturned collars. Hats float off into the darkness, 23
away and beyond the village's scattered umbrellas of light. Traffic signals, regulating the movement of human and machine, blink in complete obedience to the prescribed design of their makers, while the swell of the crowd overflows the ordered lines and right angles of the streets and sidewalks. The din of honking horns and screeching tires fills the intersections with a dissonant and unpleasant noise that is from time to time joined by the loud swearing and the banging of fists on metal by pedestrians violating intersections from all directions.
The disentanglement of flesh and metal proceeds quickly and cha-otically. The wind and rain and blackness hasten a resolution to the confusion. A few stragglers pass by in obscurity to one another, brushing against one another, plashing through the rivers of rain-water overflowing the sidewalks, gutters and streets. The rain becomes so dense that the changing traffic lights resemble a kalei-doscope—colours flashing, changing, merging. Red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow, flashing faster red green yellow red green, merging redgreenyellowredgreenyellow ... WHITE—
One man, indistinguishable from the numbers preceding him to this corner, steps out—into the street from his curb corner and splashes into the choppy waves of the river coursing through the intersection and is swept away into the black void.
Next morning, the crowd, returning from its leisure on its way to its labour, stops and stares with bloodshot, vacuous eyes at a hat that has found its balance on the globe of a lamppost but the traffic light clicks and whirs to green and the eyes turn away to face the dawning of a new day.
First published in Linguistic Erosion, November 4, 2012.
24
The boys had swimming practice last night and I waited for them in the library next door. There’s only so much you can do. A swim meet’s one thing, but practice? Lap after lap after lap. Besides, the boys get embarrassed when their buddies see me.
I found a book of collected short stories by Shirley Jackson, a name I remembered from high school along with Flannery O’Connor and Truman something or other. These, for me, were the strange and provocative ones—the ones that stood out. Not Hemingway or Faulkner or Steinbeck.
Of course I had to re-read “The Lottery.” It had been so many years. As I read it, it seemed that the story fell into place, like I knew it. Nevertheless, it was disturbing just as it had been in 11th grade. But I was drawn in. I didn’t recognize any of the other titles, so I skimmed through the introduction to see what else might be worth reading, and I chose “The Renegade.”
It was even more disturbing, because I experienced it on a raw emotional level unlike “The Lottery,” which had been a text, a specimen we dissected and analyzed. This time I felt real empathy for the protagonist who was abandoned and overwhelmed by the chorus of voices who wanted her dog dead. The dog had killed a neighbour's chickens and had to die. There was no other way. Everyone saw that. Everyone but her. Her children had heard the talk in school, and while they were having lunch at the kitchen table, they lustily described in graphic detail how the dog, the family pet, should be killed. The mother, shocked and horrified by their calcu-lated bloodthirstiness, felt ripped out of her world, as if it was her that was wearing the loose nail-studded collar on a long rope, rac-ing full speed towards a yard full of chickens.
25
That was too much. Too visceral. I put the book down and went over to the computers to check my email and the first story I saw was about this dog that had been shot 100 times with a pellet gun and survived. This couldn’t be true, I thought. A hundred times?
Would that be just one really and truly mean, twisted person or could this have been another chicken-killing dog? And what are the chances of seeing this news article after just reading the story, I wondered. My curiosity was piqued, so I scrolled down beyond the end of the story to see some of the comments, and I was stunned.
Everyone, to a person, wanted the culprit(s) who had shot the dog to be caught but not just arrested. There were energetic calls for extreme and even wickedly creative violence against the perpetra-tor(s). The chorus cheered. There was no dissent. I, too, found it very, very difficult to disagree.
Thank goodness my sons interrupted before I had a chance to type my response, because I’m sure, being a Libra, I would have regret-ted acting so precipitously.
The younger one yelled over my shoulder, “Did you see that? Billy sent me the link. Man, when they catch that guy they oughta—”
“Put him in a pen with a starving pit bull,” interrupted the older one.
“Joey downloaded a video of a dog fight. It was so gross, and it went on and on. That guy wouldn’t have anything left but—“
“Boys,” I said, “let’s just go home, I’m feeling a little dizzy. We’ll get a cab. Your father can pick up the car tomorrow.”
First published in Fiction365 November 13, 2012.
26
Michael, I saw old Mrs. Kravitz this morning. I said hello, but she just mumbled something and went back inside. I feel so bad after reading about that poor old couple.
That's just her way, hon. She's a cantankerous old—
Yeah, Mom. She's just a mean old witch always muttering and spitting from her toothless, gummy mouth.
Tristan, enough! And Michael, you shouldn't encourage him. Here, I've got dinner. Gyros, from this new place downtown. She's not the most agreeable person, but—
But nothing! Don't you remember Goldie's getting so sick. She poisoned him. Said he was always digging up her flowers. Weeds more like.
Now Tristan, we've discussed this. Goldie's got a very sensitive stomach, and it doesn't help that he eats garbage. I'm not particularly fond of the old woman either, but I don't think she'd poison a dog. Honey, these beef gyros are delicious — not dried out like Niko's — and the tzatziki's just right.
You know, I remember last fall when her husband was so sick — I didn't know he had died — and I stopped by with that expensive Thanksgiving flower arrangement. She didn't even open the storm door. But before she closed the front door, I caught a glimpse of the oxygen and other supplies lined up in the hallway. I was so embarrassed.
Look Mom, don't let this guilt thing make you crazy. She's not worth it.
27
He's right, Beth. We've had our disagreements, but she's never met us half-way.
Like the permanent shadow on her Florida room?
Come on, I thought we agreed that if the city approved our building plan, we weren't obligated— I mean her house is too close to the property line anyway, and besides, like I told her, she could always put in skylights.
Michael, you didn't?
Why not? Obviously, it was before the foundation went in. The de-veloper asked me to come along and try one last time to get her to sell, so we could build out instead of up, remember? Her husband was there. The only time I ever saw him. But he was asleep in his wheelchair, covered in tubes and didn't add much.
Good God, Michael! I can't believe you—
Mom! You can't be serious. How can you even think of taking her side? Don't you remember when we first moved in, I offered to mow her lawn? She just snorted and slammed — not shut, but SLAMMED — the door? And how about the time she screamed at Catherine for parking on her driveway. "Get the hell off my property," she said. Remember? And Goldie. She did hit him once. I saw it.
Well, I think both sides have their grievances, but like I said before, we've tried to be good neighbours. Sometimes it just doesn't work out. But it's not our fault. I mean if she were to die like that old couple — God forbid, of course — no one could blame us.
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I know. You're right. But I just can't help wondering how that old couple could have been there for 12 days. Oh my God! Look at the time! Gotta go. Michael dear, your dry cleaning's in the walk-in.
Give me a call when your plane lands, OK? Tristan honey, I'll be late, so please don't forget to walk Goldie before you go out tonight.
Love yah!
First published in One Million Stories Writing Project's The Sharp End, March 2013.
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Hey baby, I'm still at work but I'm taking the day off tomorrow. I bought some things today I think you might like to see me in—or not in. Be over five thirtyish. I'll shower at your place, then we can go out. Bye baby.
Beep
Hi Mr. Nichols, this is Marcy and I'm calling from AAA Doors, Windows, Kitchens, and Bathrooms. We specialize while others diversify. We're currently working in your neighbourhood. Today and tomorrow, we have a team of friendly, professional project managers in your building complex providing free estimates to 25
lucky condo owners. We want to save you the hassle of making an appointment, so we'll come to you. Someone will be by later today.
Be assured that our project managers are not salesmen. They oversee all our projects, so you know they will give you reliable, expert advice. Again, my name is Nancy, and, if you prefer not to be contacted, please call and we'll take you off the list. That number is (555) ***-****. I'll repeat—
Beep
Mikhail, my man, 'sup? Listen man, gotta score, like right now. You owe me bro'. Got this real hot chick, dig? Visiting a cousin or somethin. From Brazil, man. Yeah! Speaks no English, but no problemo.
By in a few. I'll let myself in. Ciao!
Beep
Mr., um, Quondam, the book you special ordered has arrived. It was quite difficult to locate a copy, because only 10 copies were published. It's a real limited edition, and if I may say, that's a bless-ing, because it's truly revolting—probably even illegal. Since you 30
already paid and I don't want anything more to do with it, I'll hand deliver the book myself. I've got your address. And, please, Mr.
Quondam, let this be your last order with us.
Beep
Michael, Mr. Jones here. Something's come up, Michael. Mr. Smith says the, er, drawings for the Mayfair campaign aren't yours. Says they're Mr. White's. That's not good, Michael. I'm very disappointed in you, Michael. You shoulda been straight with me. Mr. Smith's on his way over to give you a lift. Good-bye Michael.
Beep
Mickey, this is your sister, Annie, if you're there, please pick up. It's Dad. He's had a heart attack. They rushed him to emergency, and I need you here to help with Mom. She's losing it. I persuaded Father Donovan to stop by and give you a ride since your license is still suspended. Mom said you called Dad earlier today. What did you say to him?
Beep
Hello, Mike? I'm so sorry to bother you. Sorry, it's Sofia, from the apartment below. I don't know if you remember We met in the lobby a few weeks ago when I was moving in. we exchanged phone numbers, um, so that's how I got your number. Is everything OK up there? It sounded like you fell maybe from a ladder. I'm a little worried, because it got real quiet. I'm gonna call the super in case you're hurt and can't come to the door, alright?
Beep
First published in The Rusty Nail, January 2013.
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It's still dark. Seven by the dashboard clock. But that's nine minutes fast.
Engine idling high and the windows mostly clear, he takes a deep breath and shifts into reverse, zipping backwards down the driveway and crunching through the wake of snow and ice left by the plow.
Thank God, no one is coming, because that spin landed him facing the wrong way, and he needs a five-point turn to get right.
That's a minute gone, and the train leaves at 6:55. On dry roads, it’s an easy five-minute drive, but—
Steering with his knees as he struggles with the seat belt, he speeds down the snow-covered streets, dodging overturned blue and green recycling boxes, sloshing hot coffee in his lap, and fling-ing papers from his briefcase all over the backseat.
Under the circumstances, stop means rolling stop, and a red light means yield.
The station is still three minutes away, but its 6:53. A long stretch of nearly empty road makes it possible to drive twice the speed limit.
The second-last red light is the one that worries him. Thank God there’s nobody here! A stealthy left on red gets him through the light and into the final stretch. It’s 6:55 and the parking lot is almost empty. Running and slipping and sliding through the front door of the train station and up the escalator to Platform 3, he’s made it with no broken bones or ripped trousers.
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Through the loudspeakers, a crackly voice announces that the next train will be delayed 20 minutes. Out of the cold in a glass-enclosed shelter, he pulls his cell out and leaves a message at the office.
Looking off to the east where the sun should be rising soon, he tries to make conversation with the attractive young woman next to him, remarking how he hates this time of year because of the short days. Leaning in to hear her reply, he sees she’s talking on her cell, so he apologizes but freezes when she says “Good night.”
First published in Clever Magazine, Summer 2013.
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Andrew hated flying. He hadn't flown in years. He had good reasons. Eight years earlier, his plane had crash-landed in the Arizona desert. A year later, en route to Chicago, his plane got caught in a downdraft and, for a moment, appeared headed right into the sea of green corn below.
Even before these close calls, he'd never cared much for airplane disaster movies, but afterwards he wouldn't finish a movie if there was a scene about an airplane in distress. He walked out of several. Nevertheless, images lingered. For this flight, a transcontinental flight to attend his father's funeral, he had bought a first class ticket because he wanted to get as far away from the wings as he could. If there was something on or wrong with the wing, he didn't want to know about it. If it's going to be bad, he thought, at least let it be quick and painless.
Finally, in the air and out over the water, Andrew leaned over and asked his neighbour, a middle-aged man wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt, to close the window blind. The flight attendant had insisted the window blind be kept open for takeoff. Regulations, she said. At the same time, she asked the man in the billowy blue flowered shirt to stow his bag in the overhead compartment. Instead, he offered to make it more compact so it would fit under the seat. He jostled things around and finally shoved the bag under his seat.
The beverage service was dispatched quickly and efficiently. No one got a lapful of hot coffee. For most, it was too early for alcohol, but not for his neighbour who got a double bourbon on the rocks and then another five minutes later. Everything seemed normal.
Quiet in first class. The Times or the Wall Street Journal opened wide in front of every other person. From economy, the excited conversations of families or groups travelling together, and the hy-34
peractive screams of young children were benevolently muted by distance. Classical guitar flowed through his earphones. Outside the window on the other side of the aisle, the plush white cottony clouds hid the ocean, and that was good.
Lunch service seemed to follow closely on the beverage service.
When it arrived, he picked through the meal package methodically as if he was taking inventory. Nothing unusual, at least until he had finished eating. That's when he saw a short, fat, silver screw with a head like a mushroom. Just lying there on the floor. It was a machine screw, the kind used for metal on metal.
Where could it have come from? He didn't expect to find another screw, but he double-checked all the packaging that came with lunch. He checked the tray table—the top, the bottom, and the sides. Nothing was missing. Overhead, he didn't see any exposed metal. He felt his seat and the one in front. He looked up and down the aisle. He got up and investigated the overhead bin. Frustrated, he sat down, fastened his seat belt, and glanced over at the man in the blue Hawaiian shirt who had gone to sleep. He glanced at his neighbour's lunch, which hadn't been touched, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
He wondered what he should do. He thought about calling the young flight steward and showing him the screw, but he imagined the steward would shrug it off and say it was probably a loose screw from a food trolley or something. Nothing more. Certainly no reason to worry, he would say, then he would walk away tossing the screw in the air like a kid playing jacks.
Andrew hadn't thought about that. A screw missing from a food trolley. They probably do get handled pretty roughly and you wouldn't expect food trolleys to be maintained by the same people responsi-ble for airplane maintenance. And, with that, Andrew settled back and turned up the music.
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He suddenly jerked forward upon hearing the grating sound of metal rubbing on metal. Of course, he wouldn't be able to see the metal of the airplane because it was covered by the plastic facade of the cabin interior. So, with his music off, he listened to locate the noise, but the metallic scraping sound had disappeared.
He tried to relax again, but he began to imagine where that screw might have come from. Maybe it wasn't from a food trolley. That's just what they say to get passengers to relax and leave them alone.
What if it was a screw holding together two pieces of the curved fu-selage's metal skin? And what if the wind, at 600 miles per hour, was forcing those two sheets of metal apart, so that the rivets and screws were popping out all along the spine of the aircraft? How long would it be before the plane was ripped apart at the seams?
His eyelids popped open. The flight crew had to be warned. This time he wouldn't be put off like he had been by the steward. Someone who understood had to see. But the screw? Maybe there was another one. Maybe a lot. His neighbour was still sound asleep, so he removed the food tray, lifted the lid, and checked the grilled chicken, the green beans, the pasta, the cookie, and cellophane packaging for the plastic cutlery, but no screw.
Clearing away all the food, he buzzed for service. The steward came, collected the garbage, and asked if there was anything else.
Andrew started to shake his head, then decided he had to ask for the screw. So, he did. The steward said he didn't know what Andrew was talking about. Andrew raised his voice, and several heads popped up. He lowered his voice again and reminded the steward of their conversation, the screw, the food trolley. But the steward earnestly restated that he'd never seen the screw, much less taken it. Andrew backed off, confused by the man's evident honesty and his own clear recollection.
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He apologized, said that he must be overwrought—his father's passing on top of his real fear of flying—and asked if he could have a drink. Something stronger than the ginger ale. How about what his neighbour had ordered before he passed out, er, went to sleep?
Double bourbon, yes, that's it, but no ice. The steward returned with the drink and a pillow. Andrew thanked him and started to apologize, but the steward waved it away as unnecessary.
Andrew swallowed the last of his drink and, within minutes, he had fallen asleep, seat reclined, his head back against the headrest, mouth partially open. He must have slept quite a while, because he was woken up by the steward who asked him to move his seat forward to prepare for landing.
His neighbour was up and fiddling around with his carry-on bag under the seat again. He told Andrew that he had lost something or, rather, something had come loose. He had bought a toy for his nephew and it was very elaborately constructed, but the threads at one of the joints must have been stripped, and now, he was missing a screw—a short, fat, silver screw with a mushroom-shaped head. Had Andrew seen it?
First published in Lowestoft Chronicle Issue 13, Spring 2013.
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The heaviness weighing him down was no greater than usual, but Edwin still had to crawl out of bed and wriggle along on the floor to the pile of clothes he'd peeled off the night before. Days like these were why he wore sweats. Even so, getting dressed while flat on your back is for contortionists, he thought.
There was no point in going to the bathroom yet. He had to work up to it and in the meantime he had to tighten his muscles to hold back that uncomfortable pressing feeling. Either that or resign himself to dragging his smelly, squishy self around the apartment while he tried to find a way to get on top of the heaviness.
He'd found different ways, but none permanent. Alcohol would have brought him numbness, but he wouldn't, not again. Sometimes he would sit in his dark apartment and obsess, fixating on what had gone wrong, until eventually he wore himself out. Hours, sometimes days, later he would wake up with the heaviness lifted. Once he had accidentally stabbed himself with a pair of scissors while opening a package from his wife, Muriel, and although he discovered that the intense pain displaced the heaviness, he was too squeam-ish ever to self-injure. In recent weeks, he had had some success getting out from under it by mental focus. Today, he sensed, was one of those days.
He slithered over to the bookshelf where he kept pictures of his children, a boy and a girl, 8 and 10. The two picture frames had been moved from the bottom shelf to the top shelf and back many times. Lying there prone between a coffee table littered with newspaper classifieds and a lumpy and soiled futon, he saw the photos of Charlotte and Charlie on the bottom shelf. And today, unlike many days when they provoked regret and self-loathing and resig-38
nation, they stirred in him a powerful desire to get over it — the heaviness.
He couldn't see the clock, but judging from the familiar early morning sounds of the apartments on either side and above, he guessed it was before eight, so he had time. Today, he had the kids all day.
He was supposed to pick them up at 9:30. They wanted to go to the amusement park once more before school started. Charlotte wanted to ride the Ferris wheel and the water slide and go through the haunted house, but not alone, and Charlie had to do the Bullet, the Mixer, and especially the Particle Accelerator, again. He'd promised the kids they could eat all the cotton candy and caramel apples they wanted as long as they didn't make themselves sick and didn't tell their mother later.
Edwin was now standing upright, stretching his limbs in all directions, eyes on his kids' happy faces. Before setting off for the bathroom, he reached down and picked up the picture frames and put them on the top shelf, eye-level. He was afraid next time they wouldn't help.
First published in Free Flash Fiction, August 19, 2012.
39
We had a haunted house when I was growing up. It wasn't even a block away, over on State Street next to the Catholic Church, which had its own graveyard. From the gate in the rusty, hooped wire fence, the house was mostly hidden by Spanish moss hanging down from the live oaks' enormous branches and by overgrown bushes and vines that covered the walls all the way up to the second story. Abandoned and run-down and full of all sorts of evil and danger, so everybody said, it was the scariest place in town. Out back, the pine woods we used to explore came to an abrupt end after stretching all the way down to the railroad tracks and out beyond the integrated elementary school at the edge of town.
My friends, except Charlie who lived near the elementary school, all lived on the same block as me. We had everything in reach. The high school, on the west side across the street from my house, had a ball field and two basketball goals, like a real basketball court, on-ly on asphalt. St. Thomas and the haunted house were on the south side. The Baptist Church, where my dad was a preacher, was on the north side. It had a pecan orchard, and we used to get paid a nickel a pound. On the east side was the strip of stores we called downtown. We spent a lot of time in The General Store looking to buy baseball cards, army men, toy cars, and firecrackers. The stores on Main Street faced the railroad tracks, which were laid out on an embankment just in case the creeks rose.
All of us were born and had lived our entire lives here. Charlie was the most foreign one. He had a strange last name that must have been 10 letters long with only one little vowel squeezed in. His father's father had been in the German cavalry in WWI and his sabre was mounted on the wall in their den where we sometimes watched the Saints play. World War I didn't matter a whole lot to us. We did-40
n't know anything about it. All we knew about was the second one
— the one with the Japs — and that was from the movies.
Lane and Cory lived next door, and we had a secret tunnel between our yards lined with pine straw. They were Methodists and their dad owned the hardware store. Lane, the oldest, was expected to take over the business one day. Cory was quiet.
Earl, twice our size and age, protected us from the bigger boys. He was especially hard of hearing and spoke funny on account of it.
We figured he was deaf since his momma was always screaming at him, inside the house and outside, too. He never talked about his father.
Bobby was the fastest kid in school, and the girls all liked him best.
He lived with his grandma and ate sandwiches covered with may-onnaise, didn't matter whether it was a ham sandwich or a banana sandwich. Gross me out. He invited me for lunch once, but I never went back a second time.
Most days after school we did stuff together and didn't go home until dark or later, depending on how persistently we were being called home. Every day was spontaneous — homework rarely kept us home. One day we'd ride across the tracks and go through the other part of town looking for Lucius and watching for Eddie. Lucius we liked, Eddie we feared. Another we'd play football in my side yard. It was like a magnet for the high school boys who got out later than us. It never failed — well, sometimes in the rain it did — but what 10-15 guys would stop by to play. We were still in elementary.
They were big. Usually they made us watch, but sometimes they'd let us play if we promised not to cry. Cory was known to. Earl and Bobby were the best. Earl wasn't afraid to tackle anybody, and Bobby could outrun or fake off every one of them; we knew these 41
guys weren't as good as the high school football team, but we never let on.
In our last year at Lott Elementary, we faced a new challenge. A new kid — frail and freckled wearing ugly black glasses half the size of this face — moved into a trailer in the vacant lot where we used to go and hide in the waist-high grass when we were younger.
Billy was sickly-looking and no good at sports, but he had great toys and once Bobby and I got caught playing with his train set while they were out. Billy covered for us telling his parents he'd told us it was OK.
Well, after that we had to let him in. Lane said we should give him a test though, an initiation. Charlie said we should make him go in the Anderson house. He meant the haunted house. No one could think of anything worse, so we agreed. None of us had ever gone in.
"I once got as far as the front porch, but heard something and ran,"
said Bobby.
"It can't be that bad, since it's next to a church — my church, that's where I go," put in Charlie.
"Yeah, but your church has a graveyard in the back," said Earl.
"Our dad told us the house has been empty ever since he was a kid and that it used to belong to a family from Mobile," said Lane with authority.
"I heard the father killed everybody and then himself," I chimed in.
"They got a divorce, and the mother died of leukemia. The father was long gone, so the two little girls moved to Montgomery to live with an aunt," said Charlie.
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"But I heard that the two little girls never actually left," whispered Bobby, as if someone might be listening.
It was agreed that Billy would have to go inside. Earl offered to go and stay on the front porch, but we all said that Billy had to do it alone. I said he'd be alright, that we'd all be at the front gate and besides the police station was only two blocks away, and Bobby could be there in 15 seconds flat. Bobby nodded.
The next day we got Billy to come along to the Anderson house.
We told him our plan — that he had to go inside and stay for one hour if he wanted to join us.
"Why?" asked Billy.
"Because we said so," answered Lane.
"Why this house? Is it haunted?" asked Billy again.
"Of course it's haunted. If it weren't haunted, why would we ask you to go in?" I said, stating the obvious.
"Have you been in it?" he asked, looking first at me then at each of the others.
"I've been there," answered Bobby, which wasn't quite true but got us past that awkward question. And when Billy asked whether he'd seen or heard anything scary, Bobby said "I didn't see no ghosts or nothing."
"Enough questions, just get going, will you?" said Lane, getting im-patient.
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"Just one more. Where you gonna be if I call for help?" asked Billy.
"Right here, Billy," answered Charlie, patting the top of the gate with both hands.
"Ok, it's 5:30. It'll be getting dark soon and we don't have a flashlight," said Lane, cutting off any more questions.
"I have matches," said Billy.
"Just don't burn down the house," said Lane.
Billy was on the front steps in two minutes. We were staring, eyes fixed on the front door, ready to run. Billy bounced on the loose boards a couple of times making a hideous groaning sound, and then he gently opened the screen door and knocked politely on the wooden door.
"There's nobody there. Just go in," yelled Charlie.
Billy looked back at Charlie and waved, then he turned the door handle and walked in, closing the door behind him.
"Why'd he do that? Why'd he close the door? Now he's trapped,"
said a panicked Bobby.
This went on for a full hour. We couldn't see or hear Billy. We didn't know what had happened to him. Was he still alive? Had the ghost of the father or the little girls or somebody else taken him? Bobby was ready to run for help, but Charlie kept telling him to stay calm.
Earl said we should go in after him, but like a chorus we answered
"Not me." Cory swore that he'd seen something in one of the up-stairs window, but he couldn't say whether it was Billy.
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All of a sudden we saw a small round light approaching from the side of the house. That light burned out and another was lit. Billy was coming. He had gone out the backdoor. We were all standing there shouting "C'mon, hurry up. Run!" And he kept walking. When he got to the gate, the house was in complete darkness, and he had his back to it.
Until then we'd never had a leader.
Billy reached in his pocket and pulled out a small gold chain with a locket on the end.
"What's that?" I asked.
"It belonged to my mamaw," he said. "She lived here a long time ago." Then out of the blue, he shouted "Boo!" and Cory and Earl and Bobby nearly jumped out of their skins, and I felt a chill down the middle of my back. Even Lane twitched and took a step back.
After a moment, Billy stifled a chuckle, wisely, and apologized. "My daddy's gonna buy this house and fix it up so we can live here,"
added Billy. Charlie almost smiled, then tried to look inscrutable like his father, the principal.
Billy had pulled one over on us, but much as we wanted to give him a good pounding, we couldn't because he had the goods on us. After that we thought of Billy more as our mascot. As for our haunted house — it felt like another Santa Claus shock. But there were still youngsters who believed, and Halloween was just around the corner.
First published in Dew on the Kudzu - A Southern Ezine, June 14, 2012.
45
it wasn't like this when the high school football team won the state championship.
For many years now—maybe 25 or so—the land around here has been drying up. Some years we call it a drought—and the farmers still do—but most of us have grown accustomed to the hard red clay and the blue skies and the blood-red sun tipping on the hori-zon.
When the tractors come out to do their deep plowing in the peanut fields, if the wind is right, we smell the earth in the dust that blows into town and settles on our windows.
Visitors and people who have moved away say we have the most gorgeous sunrises and sunsets they've ever seen, but then they add “except for on the beaches or in the mountains or deserts.” We graciously thank them for appreciating our extraordinary ordinari-ness.
Many leave us every year. Sometimes we sense that it wouldn’t take much to lose the whole town. Somehow we keep a balance. We even brag that our town's population hasn’t changed in the last 25 or 30 years. But we don't belabour this point with our teenagers.
A few return. Some who couldn't live here come back to die here.
Some leave just to show they can, but these don’t usually stay away too long. Some live and die here without once leaving.
We know everyone's story. All the tragedies and horrors—we know about all of them and all about them—overwhelm us in their number and closeness. We know the names, the families, where they 46
worked, where they shopped, who they went to school with, if they went to church, what they did last year, the year before and the year before that. It’s not like in the city where—or so we’ve heard—
people live and die anonymously.
We knew from a boy the crop duster who flew into the power lines, or our brother who shot himself, or the old black man who walked among us with a sausage-like growth hanging down from his right eye for seventy years, or our best friend’s grandfather, an invalid who died at home in a gas explosion, or the young teenaged girl and only child, whose body was found in a burned-down abandoned house 20 miles north of here.
We endure all this but don't pretend to understand it. We try to protect our children, but they suffer from nightmares, too.
We resent being judged and ridiculed by outsiders. Yes, our church steeples are the tallest structures in town—well, except for the water tower. Yes, we have guns, and sometimes we kill ourselves, intentionally or not. It's also true that segregation never really ended. We have our private school, and we have separate churches and neighbourhoods, although some crossing over does happen now and again.
We still respect the hierarchy that wealth and status and tradition bring. We know that something isn't quite right, but in a small town there's only so much opportunity to go around.
All this we keep to ourselves. But this new business we can't hide.
It's all over. Our children, our brothers and sisters, our friends who are abroad call us and write us to find out what's going on.
What was once our pride and the source of our prosperity has become our shame and the reason for the quarantine. It is a blight, 47
and we don't know just how much damage it will do. It doesn't help to know that this came on us like a plague, something from outside that poisoned us to the roots.
Someone in our town will have to pay, because outsiders couldn't have done this without help. We're a civilized and Christian com-munity, but there's something timelessly appropriate about sacrifice. Right or wrong, someone must bear this cross for the town. That's the code. You have to know that.
First published in Dew on the A Southern Ezine, 12.24.2009.
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