Kinky Norm
by
It’s not often I’ll go down that way these days, especially not since they built the bypass. But whenever I pass my old school, squeezed in between Saint Augustine’s Church and the new 24-hour Tesco’s, the nostalgia grabs my arm and twists it like a Chinese burn. I glance across at those three storeys as if I still expect to see the flat-chested eleven-year-olds metamorphosing into high-heeled young women. As if I’m still scanning the classrooms for the teachers who ushered all those Catherines, Bernadettes and Marys through the messy process of adolescence. Searching for poor Mrs. Surtees, who never stood a chance in the popularity stakes. Never stood a chance when Mr. Crawford was around; Mr. Norman Crawford, Kinky Norm.
Kinky Norm! Where did those nicknames come from? We didn’t worry much about their provenance back then; as long as they were derogatory was all that mattered.
Did he know? There’s not a lot that schoolgirls can keep from their teachers. But he never said anything. It wouldn’t have been out of character for him to have picked us up on it: first congratulating us on our rebellious creativity, then challenging us to defend our choice of adjective. He could have had us squirming just like in class, when, called upon to critique a verse from An Anthology of English Poetry, we struggled to please him with an analysis he would judge both spontaneously artless and The Right Answer.
We called the other English teacher Gypsy Surtees, although, with her pale skin, straight skirts and woolly jumpers, she might have been mistaken for an off-duty nun. Ironic, then, that it was she who, much later, let drop about the extra restrictions on teachers in Catholic schools. Such as that they weren’t supposed to mention sex; at least, not before the sixth form. (Which was hard, I suppose, for the English department, with Romeo and Juliet and Sons and Lovers on the O-level syllabus.) Her unsolicited disclosure during A-level Chaucer had the air of the confessional about it. As if, in capitulating to a regime that would confine our carnal knowledge to innuendoes in the Carry On films, she’d let us down. But really, what business was it of hers? It was Kinky Norm, with his jazzy shirts and ties, who had charge of the development of our literacy skills throughout our first four years at that school.
Kinky Norm was the department head. This we deduced as much from the fact that he was a man and Gypsy Surtees was a woman, as from the splendour of his top-floor classroom with walk-in cupboard attached. There, squeezed in along with the shelves housing the thirty-odd copies of the set texts, as well as the special books that weren’t for general distribution, he had a desk to do his paperwork, and a kettle. Even we could appreciate the prestige of a private place that did not have to be shared with children or other teachers.
Kinky Norm courted the precocious kids, girls who were ahead of the rest in either our intellectual or psychosexual development. We were the oddballs who would find ourselves, a few years later, either winning prizes at university or cooped up in a tiny flat in a tower block with too many screaming babies. In other lessons we’d be sitting rows apart, like unrelated species. But in the English class we were pushed up against each other and incited to write poetry. Poetry that didn’t rhyme; poetry ostensibly exploring the vagaries of adolescent angst, which the swots were too busy studying to feel and the slags too busy experiencing to articulate.
Kinky Norm would let us linger in the classroom after the lesson was over. While he did his business in his cupboard-cum-office, we’d sit on the desks with our feet on the chairs discussing last night’s telly. When Kinky Norm popped out with his mug of instant coffee, instead of chastising us for squandering our sacred privileges on idle chatter, he’d offer one of us a book. On the cover there might be a picture of a couple of teenagers on a motorbike, or half undressed kissing in a shop doorway, and he’d say, “Catherine” (or Bernadette or Mary), “this is just the book for you.” And we’d blush and say, “Aw, thanks, Mr Crawford.” Thanks for thinking of me (and not Bernadette or Mary) when you were making your coffee in your cupboard-cum-office.
At that time, we didn’t carry our schoolbooks in a brown leather satchel, nor in a nylon backpack, but in a wicker basket like those our grannies used to take shopping. A floral plastic budgerigar-cage cover in lurid fruit-gum colours with elasticated edging that held it snug around the rim, served to protect the contents from prying eyes and inclement weather. When accepting Kinky Norm’s books, we wouldn’t stop to browse through the pages, but would bury them in our baskets among the rubble of pencil cases, geometry sets, and slide rules. Our delight at being among the chosen ones was not something to be making a song and dance about. These books were to be consumed with a torch under the bedclothes, not downstairs on the sofa with our parents watching Z-Cars.
Kinky Norm watched over the hurried interment of the books with a wry smile but whether at the act of concealment or the hiding-place itself, I couldn’t say. But we knew he disapproved of those baskets that took up too much space under our desks, and in the huddle outside the classroom when we were waiting for him to open up for our lesson. “Put that stupid thing on your head,” he snapped once at Patricia Maloney, who was unlucky enough to be at the front of the throng when he opened the door.
Patricia Maloney did as she was instructed, of course. She lifted up her basket and walked into the classroom bearing her load on her head like an African woman bringing a pitcher of water home from the well. Had her desk been at the front, she might have managed to get away with it. But it wasn’t and she didn’t. Half-way to the back she lost her balance and the basket fell to the floor, only just missing Christine MacBride’s shoulder. That’s when we all learnt how impractical those budgerigar-cage covers were. As the basket fell, the weight of the contents forced off the cover and everything spilled out onto the floor. Everything! Not only the paraphernalia of school work, but her personal things as well: girl things, woman things, things a man should never see. Half the class gasped while the other half giggled, and Kinky Norm said, “Christine MacBride, give me a definition of imbroglio. Quickly girl! Come on, now!”
Poor Patricia Maloney! She wasn’t to know that her basket would be performing somersaults in Mr Crawford’s English class when she’d secreted a packet of sanitary towels among her exercise books that morning before setting off for school. The rest of us might attempt to distance ourselves from the spectacle but, even as we laughed, we all shared in the shame of those girl-things woman-things lying exposed on Kinky Norm’s classroom floor.
Was it Patricia Maloney’s basket that triggered the demise of those innocent break-times with Kinky Norm? Hard to say for sure. At first, it seemed that nothing had changed. The supply of specially-selected paperbacks continued as before. There may have been a greater urgency to hide them in our baskets, a deeper blush to our cheeks as we avoided our teacher’s gaze, but not enough to cause alarm.
We didn’t sit down together and discuss what we were going to do. There was no plan. No ringleader. It just happened: one of those spontaneous eruptions of adolescent exuberance that our schoolmaster had dedicated his career to nurturing. If you put raging hormones in a test-tube together with overexcited brain cells and shake them up, sooner or later, something’s got to happen. With or without unreliable basket covers to act as a catalyst.
Kinky Norm knew all about schoolgirls and what we needed. He knew that, despite the attempts of the priestly authorities to keep us down, girls will become, well, young women. Even so, he seemed as surprised as we were when we leapt at him that day. He didn’t make us stop and analyse, list all the different synonyms of passion. He ran.
And we followed, our platform soles beating out a tattoo down the four flights of stairs. Aroused. Urged on by the look of fear on his face. Thrilled. Transported far beyond the accounts of teenaged fumblings in the books he lent us.
When we reached the ground floor, the carpet must have slowed our pace somewhat. Perhaps it was friction -- we had learnt about it in Physics a couple of years before -- that enabled Kinky Norm to get to the staffroom before we could catch him.
As the door slammed behind him, we looked at each other and laughed. Panting, straightening our ties, we walked back up the corridor and out into the playground, one group for a fag behind the bike sheds, the rest to check on our homework. It wasn’t long before the bell rang to signal the end of break and we piled back into school for our next lesson.
Needlework, I think it was, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it.
Anne Goodwin lives in Nottinghamshire, England. Her short fiction has so far found homes with Quality Women's Fiction, Carillon, Cantaraville, Pen Pusher, All Write, Espresso Fiction, Laura Hird Showcase, Ashby Writers, Still Crazy, and Beat the Dust.
Ugly
by
I pour myself another, because a sunset is a hard thing to face on a sober stomach. My sister says she’ll be by later, but I doubt it. I haven’t been much fun lately, wallowing in martinis and memories.
I limp over to the balcony. Romance hovers, a pungent stench in the darkening air. I, like a true addict, can’t help but suck it down, savoring all the flavors of what I am not on the back of my tongue. I collapse into a chair and shake out a cigarette to fend off the loneliness.
Once upon a time, I luxuriated in the anonymity of living in a hotel suite. A whole life contained in three rooms and an oversized closet. Meals brought to me on trays of silver salvers. Mother should have told me that such an existence was a good back-up plan for one who cannot walk. Maybe that way it wouldn’t have taken me so long to find myself here. Perhaps. The only thing I’m certain of is I’ll empty another bottle of gin tonight as I brood over the twisted, limping path which has shaped me into this creature of loathing and longing.
Our mother didn’t marry our father until I was nine and my sister was twelve. Before that he was like Santa Claus, only visiting occasionally, but with presents. Then one day Mother asked us if we’d like to live with Father all the time. Of course, I leapt at the chance, thinking this meant presents every day. I remember my sister being more skeptical. She was looking for the razorblade in the apple. Maybe she knew the only reason we were moving was because Father’s first wife had died. Only now had he found fulltime space for his second-string family.
We met our new half-sister--whom Mother always made us pretend was simply our stepsister--when we climbed out of our ten-year-old Nissan at our father’s house, the moving van trailing us like a stray dog. Before that I’d had no clue our step-sister existed. When we shook hands with her for the first time, my sister’s mouth pinched as if she had eaten something sour, and I mimicked her. Our stepsister’s face broke open in a grin revealing the pre-packaged cuteness of a missing front tooth. In someone else’s backyard, a cat screamed.
That was our beginning. We were too young to understand what we would become to each other. I set my feet on the path that made me a villain before I became a woman.
You know our story. Don’t pretend your mother didn’t read it to you. Don’t pretend your ideas of romance weren’t formed by countless viewings of Disney’s version of events. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. Don’t pretend you don’t think I’m ugly.
Of course, we hated her. If you had been there, you would’ve hated her, too. She shone with goodness. We covered her in soot to hide from ourselves. We teased and taunted her, trying to catch her out, trying to make her less. We tore chunks out of her school reports and stomped them muddy. Then we crouched behind doorways watching her as she cried, silently daring her to tattle. We became uglier in the process but that mattered little. We weren’t so much worse than other people; she was just so much better. But she never let us win. No matter what cruelties we employed, she always told the teacher she had been careless and accidentally ruined her own homework.
She had birds for friends. The creatures of the air sensed her perfection and came at her command. Don’t tell me that is normal. Any child trying to make friends knows that the first rule is: Fit in. She simply didn’t fit. Not in our household, not in the world at all. But it took her much longer to figure that out.
I’m not sure if she realizes it even now. Maybe she sits in her palace wondering why the universe can’t meet her standards. Fallen as I am, I would be able to forgive her if she had ever despaired. If she had ever broken. If she had ever allowed herself to be ugly, if only for a moment, then we might have become friends. We could have laughed about our war over cocktails, giggling about lentils, ashes, and pumpkins like a couple of schoolgirls. But no, she reigns on, as untouched by our imperfections as ever; so I sit here, hating her at a distance.
I wrap my dressing gown more tightly around me, trying to shut out the evening’s chill, light another cigarette, take another mouthful of gin, and remember.
She thought she had found a kindred spirit when all she had really discovered was a dance partner. The 3/4 time of the waltz blinded her for just long enough to confuse charm with integrity. She married him so he could appreciate her beauty and share it with the peasants, sprinkling it over them like spring rain.
I wonder if it would have been different if she had allowed herself to be caught. If, at midnight, instead of running, she had stood before him in ashes and rags and challenged his love on the ballroom floor. Wasn’t most of her allure the chase? The mystery? What kind of true love expresses itself in a tarred staircase and the demand to marry the right-sized foot? She captured him with a game, and she kept him by refusing to admit she was captured.
At first, he was enamored with her goodness. It shone through the arch of her back where his hand rested and her refusal to break curfew. He admired her willingness to ensconce her cruel family in his palace. He wanted to give her the world to see what she would do with it. But that got old very quickly. In the end, she destroyed him far more thoroughly than she ever did me.
Can you picture fucking goodness? Perfection in your bed? She could yield, but she could never bend. She always refused to beg, and she would never claim mastery. She was, in the purest sense, frigid. She can produce heirs in abundance but will never deign to fake an orgasm.
Long after he had ceased to love her, her prince still obsessed over her. He pounded against her walls. He squandered his charms upon her. He left bruises and hated himself for it. Once more, she had succeeded in making those around her ugly.He came to me, because he was desperate. I was his last hope. He should have known better; so should have I.
I remember his hands caressing my legs. His lips worshiping the scar on my heel. Kneeling before me as if to put the slipper on my foot this time. Saying, “How much you must have loved me. To let your mother cut off your heel for me.” I never had the heart to tell him that it had never been about him. Then, it was about the crown, about being a princess. Later, we both knew it was about her.
We had the affair in order to be caught. Both of us thought it wouldn’t take long. We weren’t cautious. He would flirt with me at dinner, running his fingers over my hand where they clasped my wine glass. His eyes would linger, and I would spread my lips in a smile that claimed secrets. We displayed ourselves so she would grow suspicious. What fools we were to think we could touch her. Hadn’t we whispered, our passion-dampened limbs intertwined, about how cold she was?
In the end, we made love in the garden where she took her afternoon walks. She came upon us there, my legs spread over the marble bench, skirt bunched at my waist, one breast uncovered, a strand of my hair between his panting lips. We fell apart, triumphant. He dove into her arms. Assuming jealousy. Begging forgiveness. I knelt on the ground, hoping she’d have an ounce of caring left over for me, a single morsel of hatred.
The birds dove out of the sky, striking for my eyes. For a blessed instant, I believed they had come at her command. She would blind me for stealing what was hers. But my victorious scream died as their feathers merely grazed my face and then dispersed. My eyes opened to find her shooing them away, her repentant spouse sprawled behind her.
“It’s all right,” she told me. “They’re gone.”
But after that, nothing could be all right. I couldn’t meet her prince’s eyes at dinner, both of us feeling our private failure. That’s when I knew I would never win. I could take a knife and hold it over her breast, and she would forgive me with her dying breath. So I fled.
And here I am, desiccated and deserted. In homage to our eternal roles, I send my bills to the palace, and without a murmur, she pays them.
Now, I need to see the dress. It hangs in the closet in private splendor. I am truly drunk by this time. With my permanent limp, I can’t make it without stumbling. I fall to my knees and crawl to the closet doors. I kneel before the dress like it’s a shrine, as if a single piece of clothing could make a difference in our war. I don’t know why I stole it. I couldn’t have believed it mattered. I’d stolen her husband. Next to that, what’s a ball gown?
Before I pass out, I wonder if I ever had a chance to walk the other path. If I could have challenged her with goodness, killed her with kindness. Was I ever pure enough to make that choice? If so, it was a long a time ago, and I certainly can’t go back now.
So she wins. She is a princess. She is good. She is beautiful. I wonder if he’s ever found any joy in it. Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe she has her own hidden stash of gin bottles. Her own secret shrine with a gold slipper upon it where she kneels drunkenly wondering what would have happened if she had stuffed the toe, pretended her foot was too big, and spent the rest of her life curled in the warmth of the hearth ashes, persecuted and content. The thought makes me smile, lying as I am on the thick hotel carpet, too drunk and tired to rise.
Emily Kissell is currently pursuing her M.F.A. in creative writing at the University of Florida. Her fiction has appeared in Kalliope, Word Riot, and Dante's Heart.
A Partnership Made in Heaven
by
“A partner! I have never needed a partner! Did I need a partner to slaughter all the first-born heathens of Egypt?” Azrael was livid. “This is outrageous, Gabe!”
“I’m just the messenger, Azzy, reporting what the Divine Office told me.” Gabriel tried to mollify Azarel, a task most angels thought impossible.
“I’ve performed the role of theAngel of Death alone for over forty millennia, and now the D.O. assigns me a partner!”
The Messenger sighed and allowed Azrael a moment to stew in his frustration. “Think of it as an apprenticeship,” Gabriel said, choosing his words carefully. “Who better to educate a young pup like Uriel, than a cagey veteran Archangel like yourself?”
The scowl on Azrael’s face relaxed. “An apprentice, you say?”
Gabriel hoped that Azrael would find the prospect of acquiring an apprentice to be only mildly annoying, compared to the clearly offensive notion of a partnership. Gabriel walked the line of assuaging the Angel of Death’s pride by applying flattery, while ensuring he understood what the Divine Office expected of him. The Angels of the Old Covenant such as Azrael often felt underappreciated in the post-Incarnation era.
Gabriel continued to placate the Angel of Death’s pride by applying flattery. “The Divine Office seems to think this would be an extremely beneficial partnership--”
“Is it a partnership or an apprenticeship, then?” interrupted Azrael. He had a habit of being impatient.
“Uriel has recently been promoted from the Seraphim choir to the ranks of the archangels, so strictly speaking it would be a partnership. Of course, you would be the elder . . . um . . . more experienced partner.”
Azrael seemed placated, but continued to give Gabriel difficulty. “The Angel of Death does not need a choir-boy-sidekick, but if the D.O. has ordained it, then I’ll make the best of it.
A cheeky grin formed on Gabriel’s face, “That’s the spirit! Let’s meet the other half of your tandem.”
* * *
Uriel was celebrating his surprise promotion with the Seraphim at the Choir Loft. A banner hung over the snack table. It sported the Hebrew phrase, “Seraphim loseraph et-hasinim!”: “Seraphim don’t burn bridges!”
Gabriel found the newly promoted archangel at the snack table throwing Cheez-Its into the air and catching them in his mouth. He was also putting Bugles on his fingers. His beardless chin had cake frosting on it. If Uriel was embarrassed by his appearance, he didn’t show it.
“Uriel, I’d like you meet Azrael.”
Uriel removed the Bugles from his fingers and extended his hand to the Angel of Death. Azrael, both taller and broader than Uriel, looked down at the younger angel and grasped his hand tightly.
Uriel smiled and blurted, “Nice to meetcha!”
Azrael nodded his head without expression. He had a habit of making a chilly first impression.
Gabriel patted them both on the back, attempting to dispel the awkwardness. “Uriel, you’ll no doubt find the work of an archangel a bit more challenging than singing in the choir. Azzy has agreed to be your study-buddy until you learn the ropes. We could find none finer than Malach al-Mot, here, to work with you.”
Uriel ventured eye contact with his pokerfaced partner. “I’m looking forward to working with such a heralded archangel.” This was an understatement. Uriel had been ecstatic since he had learned that he would be paired with Azrael. Since meeting his new partner, however, his enthusiasm had waned. Uriel found it strange how a being made of light could appear so dark and grim. All of the Seraphim Uriel knew were friendly. He just hoped that Azrael would eventually warm up to him. Being immortal, time was on his side.
Gabriel cleared his throat to fill the void left by Azrael’s palpable silence. “Well, fellas, report to the Divine Office after the Lauds tomorrow. Davarel will dictate your first assignment.”
“Sure thing,” chirped Uriel.
Azrael remained silent.
Davarel led both archangels through the atrium of the Divine Office to her desk, where she picked up a golden scroll. “Gabriel just delivered your first assignment.” Davarel unrolled the scroll and looked it over. She nodded. “Hmm . . . looks like a typical case of pubescent tween possession; nothing outside your range of abilities. The possessed is a female, Katherine, aged twelve. Father Lawrence McPhail, exorcist for the diocese of Springfield, has been praying all morning. You two shall be the mode in which the Divine Office answers. Here’s the address: 17 Possum Trout Rd. Nixa, Missouri.”
Azrael nodded, turned, and walked out. Uriel smiled and took the scroll.
Being made of light makes for easy travel. They were instantly in Nixa, Missouri, at the intersection of West Street and Mt. Vernon Street.
“Wait here.”
The voice startled Uriel. It was the first time that Azrael had addressed him. Even if it was a terse command, it was a step in the right direction. He was almost expecting to complete the mission without hearing his partner’s voice.
Uriel watched as his partner, now clad in a grey pinstriped suit, walked into the People’s Bank of the Ozarks. Azrael spoke with a teller, who led the Archangel into the vault housing the lock-boxes. The archangel emerged from the bank moments later carrying a small metal baton.
“I keep my piece on Earth,” explained Azrael. “After the Incarnation, the D.O. banned all weapons. Probably should have banned ‘em sooner. Might have prevented the Rebellion.”Uriel could not remember a time when angels were permitted to carry weapons. “What sort of weapon is that?” he asked.
“It’s more of a tool really, and hopefully I won’t need to use it,” Azrael replied, ignoring the younger angel’s question.
“Now, there are two ways to handle a possession like this, newbie. If the exorcist is worth his salt, he’ll expel the demon from the girl. And when he does,” Azrael tapped the baton tucked into his belt, “I’ll cut the little bugger down.”
Shaken, Uriel swallowed and asked, “Do you mean you’re going to kill the demon?”
“That’s the idea, choir-boy,” Azrael replied.
“Aren’t demons immortal like us?” Uriel thought it was a fair question, but Azrael chortled at his new partner’s naiveté.
“What kind of education do they give you choir-boys?” chided Azrael.
Despite risking further ridicule, Uriel pressed Azrael further. “They’re our kin aren’t they?”
“Yes, but only in the way that orangutans and fleshies are kin. Can I assume you know at least about ‘The Fall?’”?
Uriel nodded.
“The first fall, I mean. Decessus Primus: DP for short. When DP occurred, it was both a physical and a metaphysical event. On the metaphysical level, DP introduced evil into the universe. On a physical level, DP introduced death.”
Uriel was thankful that Azrael had dropped his condescending tone. The younger angel was also shocked how smoothly the words were now flowing from the Archangel that, moments ago, he thought might have been a mute or at best spoke only in chopped phrases.
Azrael continued, “As you know angels are made of light. But, we are not purely light. To say an angel is composed of light is like saying that fleshies are composed of water. Light is the main ingredient for angels as water is for humanity. When fleshy physicists explain light they talk about a and ß particles, and ?-rays. It will be centuries before they discover the type of light found in angels. We angels, Uriel, are made of something called ?-molecules.”
Uriel listened closely.
“A single ?-molecule,” Azrael continued, “is composed of two photons and three atom of æther, ø2Æ3. The element æther gives form and structure to light.”
Uriel was lost.
“But you asked about immortality. You see, we are light, but we are also matter, and all creatures made of matter, even ?-molecules technically, can die. When ?-molecules decay, at a half-life of 3.7 billion years, they are replaced by new photons. So, as long as a single proton-emitting star exists, we cannot die.”
Uriel was still confused. “What about the demons?”
“Right, the demons are a different story. Lucifer and his followers rejected the light and exiled themselves to escape it. While they hid from the light, their protons were replaced by skotons. Skotons, like protons, can form waves or particles. When skotons are combined with æther they produce dark matter.”
“So, we’re light and æther, and demons are dark and æther?” asked Uriel.
“Yes. And while fleshies can handle light, they don’t do so hot with dark matter. Assuming she was just recently possessed, our girl has only minutes before her vital organs become necrotic.” Azrael spoke as if he were reading from a textbook.
“If Fr. McWhatever can’t coax the hellion outta her, then I’ll intervene. The demon will recognize me, and once he realizes that he’s going down, he’ll try to take the girl with him. My primary objective is to terminate the demon. If the girl can’t be saved, then it’s no feathers off my wings.”
Uriel nodded, hoping that he would have no role in the deaths of both a fleshy and a demon.
Neither Fr. McPhail nor the demon-possessed the girl noticed the two archangels enter the farmhouse room. The scene was what Azrael expected. The priest, young for an exorcist, was clutching a crucifix in one trembling hand in the other a plastic bottle of holy water.
Despite his anxiety, Fr. McPhail’s rite seemed to have an effect. The girl, whose face was pale and marked with pimples, convulsed and shivered in the far corner. She was repeating odd sounds that a human tongue normally would not be able to make; sounds like waves crashing against rocks came from her mouth. She hissed and gargled. It was an evil sound, and Uriel tried not to appear frightened.
“St. Pat, here, is doing his best, but he ain’t gonna hold her together, choir-boy.” Azrael clenched his mouth. “I’m going to intercede.”
Azrael seemed to have no problem with dealing out death, but the mere thought of it still horrified Uriel. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “I have an idea.” He was scared and excited, but his mind was clear and lucid.
“We’re gonna lose her, choir-boy.” It was the first time he had said “We.” “Give your idea a quick try, and then we’re doing things my way.” He removed the baton, which extended to the floor and curved into a scythe.
Uriel wasted no time. He outstretched his arms, spread his wings and released an otherworldly scream. The windows exploded outwards. The room vibrated. The air swelled and blurred with his howl. The sound was several thousand octaves above the human auditory range, but the possessed girl’s hands covered her ears. Her body went limp and collapsed. Uriel closed his mouth, and the room stopped shaking.
A piece of the wood from the rafters fell on the bed, and dust floated down behind it. Katherine’s eyes fluttered. She exhaled a grey miasma from her nostrils, and she vomited a thick, bilious ooze. The dark gas dissipated, leaving a stench. Fr. McPhail, who had crawled under the bed, dry-heaved and ran out of the room.
Azrael was stunned. “Holy castrati! What was that?”
Uriel was out of breath. He smiled and replied, “Hashem, the divine name . . . in B minor.”
“You’ve got some serious pipes, choir-boy.”
“Just a tool, really. . . .”
Azrael bent down to examine the girl. She was breathing, but her inhalations were shallow and labored. From the puddle of vomit Azrael grabbed a creature, which resembled a fetal monkey with a long tail and a flat face. It was covered in mucus.
“That explains it,” he said, holding up the creature by its tail. “Fertilized incubus. Not much the exorcists could have done after our girl here was inseminated by a demon.” Azrael crushed the demon in his hand. A puff of grey-green smoke came from his hand.
“Girl’ll be fine. Gonna reek of decomposing æther for a few days. Poor kid. She’s not going to be too popular with the boys at the next middle-school mixer.” Azrael had returned to his curt expressions. Then he turned to Uriel and shook his hand. “Nice work, Uriel.”
Azrael’s hand had slimy demon guts on it. “Thanks.”
Erik Lenhart is a Capuchin Franciscan Postulant in Brooklyn, NY. He graduated from The University of Scranton in 2006 with a degree in Theology. His interests include Judaism, Science Fiction, and running.
A Soul Without Instructions
by
Joshua's wife put a hand to his temple and tried to soothe him. The night felt tense. Reality seemed ready to erupt. If he could just slow down, Joshua thought, he could sort it out. Tomorrow he would stand before the colonists and make all their dreams come true, but for right now he saw himself in a vision carrying those dreams uphill in a sack and, God, it felt heavy. Tomorrow they would build a world.
Joshua got up from bed and stepped to the terrace. Thick glass surrounded him, thick enough he imagined to withhold the vacuum of space. The stars were twinkling. In his mind he connected them and formed a net. Everything bespoke capture, imprisonment. That would never do.
The terrace upon which he stood occupied but a small portion of a much larger space station, which sat in orbit around a planet a billion, billion light years from Earth. Joshua had traveled here because he was one of those who could. He had opened himself to possibilities beyond space and time, and those who could do likewise eagerly followed. They numbered millions now, with more arriving each day. Their vessels were powered by faith, able to leap spectacular distances simply by believing that they could. Long ago each of these pioneers envisioned for themselves a better world and shared those visions and found a union with others. They gathered slowly, naturally, without pretense, awaiting a destination and the means through which their vision could be realized.
Joshua came to it a bit later. Upon hearing of those less ambitious experiments—wherein smaller cities had been actualized—he sensed that plans were in the works for a much larger project: a grand scale production requiring someone who could see simultaneously both the bigger picture and all of the smaller details necessary for reality construction.
Somehow Joshua knew that only he possessed the skills to help them bring their world about. He saw himself as a dreamer. A builder. But it wasn't until he could see himself as both that the work could truly begin. Tomorrow would be the day. His vision of himself would be the key.
His wife stood at his side now, held him, and wished him love. Together they watched the revolutions of the desert world below. The colonists chose a desert because it was metaphorically easier to understand. If they could've imagined an empty white space or even an empty black one they would have, but the mind tends to populate its voids with objects and people. So they chose a desert, let it be dead, and let themselves be its saviors.
Joshua held on to his wife and brushed the hair from her face. He would've liked to have spoken but words were a distraction. Over the years he discovered most conversations were unnecessary—merely incessant chatter drowning out the moment. Our gestures, our expressions, even the unspoken language of our intentions said all that needed to be said, conveying our true meanings in a far more eloquent manner. Although it had been several centuries since Mankind unlocked the secrets of its creator-friendly existence, only recently had there begun to develop a peaceful silence to most human interactions—a quieting of anxieties, a sharper focus. Humanity's progress did the human race proud, but its concentration still tended to drift away from the present moment. Joshua served as proof of that tonight. Tomorrow there would be no allowances made for meandering thoughts. Tomorrow he would need be as solid as the steel upon which he stood. Perhaps it was better then, that he experience all his doubts in a rush tonight.
Joshua knew himself to be a confident man, but building a world...that proposed quite an undertaking. He leapt back to his childhood and saw himself playing in the yard, building snow forts and swinging on monkey bars, letting it all flow, allowing his imagination to paint over the world around him, to gently cover it with a veil-thin layer of his own reality—his invisible space stations and his bodiless starships. They were there, no one else could see them, but they were there.
Over the years he held fast to his whims. He let himself play and structure and restructure until he became adept—until he could bring his own reality to the fore, shape it in ways that allowed others to see.
Standing among the stars Joshua shook his head. Could such as this even be called a talent? Showing others his fantasies? He was not by nature a reductionist., but tonight he found himself questioning everything.
He saw no use in going back to bed. Long hours lay ahead; better he stay mentally active, better to play. There were video games and holographic cubicles and a thousand other entertainments available to him, but Joshua preferred the corridors of his own imagination. He tumbled for a while there, seeing himself as a knight, as a quarterback, as a ship captain. These were good fantasies, exciting adventures, and they helped him gently brush aside his doubts.
The space station, upon which he imprinted so many years of his life, this mass of metal and glass hanging in the eternal night, would soon be abandoned as his home. He would have to stop dreaming of it and he found this always a sad thing. But the past remained past and humanity moved quickly these days. Thank God that worrying about the future no longer held our focus. Thank God humans had realized the importance of the Now. Joshua could still remember tales told to him in his youth of the days when every consciousness suffered the clutter of a thousand distractions. How could they have ever sorted themselves from that mess? It must have been a frightening time back then, each of them believing they were a soul without instructions. How could they not have sensed the constant messages from within?
Joshua reprimanded himself. Another lesson that humans had learned was not to look back with arrogance upon earlier versions of themselves. He hugged his wife tightly, in bed again and glad of it. Perhaps he had been wrong earlier. Perhaps the final hours should be spent with her, relaxing, soaking in the familiar one last time before clearing space for a new creation. She journeyed with him in all things, no questions asked, her faith a constant source of strength for him. They and the other colonists lived years in preparation for this, waiting for the moment to evolve, exploring their inner landscapes until such time that familiarity with themselves bred a confidence that would then ensure the effortless execution of their task. To act before the moment was right was to court failure. They displayed patience above all.
When he awoke the next morning Joshua took a tour of the station. He found everyone gone. Even his wife. He knew they would be waiting for him down on the planet. They realized intuitively his need for solitude at this most important time.
As he exited each room and corridor Joshua imagined it disappearing behind him, returning to the half-formed ghost reality that he would call his memory of the place. He was letting it all go. He was preparing.
As the shuttle took him to the planet, Joshua made sure that he existed in each moment through which he traveled. Nothing could be better practice. He focused on each layer of the atmosphere as he descended. The spot upon which they would gather proved to be the spiritual, psychic, and electromagnetic center of the world. Joshua imagined the plateau as hundreds of miles wide, like a continent in the air, and he landed at the foot of it. He thought it metaphorically important for him to climb by hand to the top. It represented a rising out of the depths for all involved.
Hand over hand he raised himself up until he could see the outcropping of rock upon which he would stand. When he at last stepped out to the edge his heart rose in his throat. He looked out upon a sea of faces—millions and millions—and only himself to direct them. They were gathered close and their movements were as the undulations of the sea. Each came for their own reasons. Most could not name them if they tried. They were guided by intuition, finding this sufficient. Joshua wondered again about earlier Man and his lack of faith. In the end it all proved necessary, he realized. It all sponsored growth.
Joshua raised his hand and the undulations ceased. Movement became a distraction they could not afford. Humanity had been performing this ritual since the beginning of time, but only recently, within the past few centuries, had they discovered the internal processes of their own creations. The cliché came to him, so utterly simple. Having been raised with it all of his life Joshua found it comfortable and familiar—words which never failed to put his mind at ease and into a meditative state. He thought of it again now: like removing the training wheels from a bicycle. That was it. That was all there was to it. But until humans could believe in their ability as riders, the wheels remained a necessity.
Joshua closed his eyes and removed the training wheels from his mind. He pictured those below, each of them meditating, reaching out; each of them playing with images in their own minds, guided by whim and fancy. What a joyous, jubilant undertaking—the birthing of a world! Each imagined their place in it; each stayed upon the path of harmonious thought. Each held a place for themselves and for others.
Joshua stood above it all, concentrating. His thoughts came unforced, his visions unfolded naturally. The flow was as a fist unclenched. They all became as one in that moment. Each individual's vision of a perfect world flowed into his own and they spun as if on a carousel, with color and light surrounding them, as reality itself tore loose from their being and painted the desert around them. Within his mind Joshua shouted the joy of this moment. He was falling and they were catching him. He saw himself carried from one to the next upon their uplifted arms. No one had opened their eyes. They dare not open them—not until everyone, to the last man, woman, and child believed in the truth of what they would behold.
Joshua kept on with this greatest of passions, with what all those who had supported him throughout the years ceaselessly encouraged him to do: he kept on dreaming. And at last the dream was made real.
Joshua opened his eyes. He found the world altered, forever changed—the desert vanished into memory. Their world, their perfect world lay sprawled before them. The empty plateau now yielded a garden. And Joshua smiled, knowing that they were not, not a single one of them, a soul without instructions.
Mark Joseph Kiewlak's poetry and fiction have been in print for some fifteen years now. In 2008 his work appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Wild Violet, The Oracular Tree, and AlienSkin, among others. He was privileged to have served as judge of the 2007 Wild Violet Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).
Mind Storm courtesy of Art.com
The Story of Thomas, The Twin
by
“These are the secret sayings which the living Jesus spoke and which the twin, Judas Thomas, copied down.”
—The Gospel of Thomas, The Twin
(Author’s note: The Gospel of Thomas, The Twin, was among the Gnostic Gospels discovered near the town of Naj Hammadi in 1945. This is Thomas’s story.)
From the true beginning, before our conception and birth, Jesus was different. Although physically identical to me (the Creator’s little joke, I suppose), Jesus possessed power that I didn’t. Even in infancy, Jesus drew people to him. Mother nursed us side by side, but when she lacked the milk to satisfy us both, I tasted hunger, not Jesus. She weaned me first. Mother refused to wean Jesus until it became a scandal in our little village.
We were playmates, but never soul mates. When I played the Roman centurion, Jesus was the prisoner I scourged. When I was the High Priest, Jesus played the publican or even the leper outside the temple. “Don’t you want to be more than just a carpenter’s son?” I asked him.
“Thomas,” he told me, “there will be time enough for that.”
Our lives diverged shortly after our eleventh birthday. Someone in our village tortured and mutilated a black lamb and left it to die beside the communal well. The elders interrogated all of us children. A code of silence prevailed until they questioned Jesus. He could not lie. The elders punished the guilty boys and made them compensate the lamb’s owner. The boys threatened revenge. They whispered that Jesus must pay.
Several weeks later, I stole wood from our father’s bin to make a toy. He caught me and commanded me to stay late and clean his carpentry shop. As I finished, I heard noises outside the window. I hid, but Peter and the rest of the boys quickly found me. “I’m not Jesus. I didn’t do it!” I shouted. They wouldn’t believe me. Perhaps, they chose not to believe me because even at age eleven my brother’s magic was feared by the devils in our town.
They beat me and threw me to the ground. They kicked me until my screams filled the night, but that did not satisfy them. That’s when they noticed Father’s tools. They selected a large mallet and two spikes. They spread my arms across the workbench and nailed my palms to the table. That’s where Jesus found me several hours later.
I shouted out to him, “Where were you when they attacked me?”
When he didn’t answer, I knew he’d heard my screams. Finally he said, “Some things must come to pass.”
Jesus removed the nails and wet my wounds with his tears. By morning, my hands had healed.
From that day on, we were no longer identical twins. I was the one with the scarred palms and the cold dark eyes. And twenty years later, a carpenter like my father, I crafted the cross on which the Romans laid him.
Paul Lewellan is adjunct faculty at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois. Paul has published short stories in South Dakota Review, Iconoclast, Big Muddy, Porcupine, and others. He has just finished a novel, No More White Houses, about the clash between white privilege and race on a college campus. It’s a comedy.
Calvary courtesy of Art.com
An Author’s Guide to Cover Letters
by
[Ed.-Note] The following e-mail turned up in my inbox a few months back. Being writers as well as editors, we immediately empathized and decided to mark them all with a "yes."
Dear Editor:
After shopping my story “Ain’t Gotta Chance” to a long list of magazines, I have acquired an impressive variety of cover letters. As we all know, submission guidelines do not always tell the whole story. That is why many publications ask those submitting to read the magazine—in order that they might learn the intangible qualities distinguishing said magazine, and not, of course, to sell copies of their obscure publication to the only people who might read it.Thus begins the part every author dreads—finding a way to hook the editor.
I am, therefore, requesting a simple favor. Please read over a few of the sample cover letters I have included, marking them with a simple “yes” or “no” to indicate whether or not you like them. And, if you find, therein, a reason to publish any of these letters, please feel free to do so.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
1
Dear Editor:
To save you a form letter when you decide to reject my manuscript, I am asking that you simply return this letter, checking the line which best explains why you have decided not to accept my work.__ Brilliant work. Astounding. But your typing is horrible.
__ I loved the story, but I had a bad experience with someone of your same name.
__ My wife just left me and I have to take it out on someone.
__ I don't think you've suffered enough yet as an artist.
__ If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
2
Dear Editor:
I've read all the "How To Get Published" books. I know what a "slush" pile is. I know the secrets of the industry, and if you don't publish my manuscript, I plan to release the following truths to the media.Top 10 Real Reasons for a Slush Pile
10. It's a great way to break in the new kid.
9. If it gets tall enough I won't have to look at the guy across from me.
8. When the boss walks by, I want him to think I have a lot of work so he won't give me more.
7. We're always looking for coasters for our coffee cups.
6. The office budget is a little low, and we couldn't afford Post-It notes.
5. The office budget is a little low, and we couldn't afford toilet paper.
4. We need balls for the waste-paper basketball championship.
3. We get a tax break based on the weight of paper we recycle.
2. Origami helps relieve the stress.
1. If we have to suffer reading this stuff, you have to suffer too.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
3
Dear Editor:
Please, please, please reject this manuscript. I've got this great scam going where my wife works, and I stay home and write. If I actually get something published, I'll have to start working at writing.Don't even look at the manuscript. Just wait six weeks and mail it back. If you see it, there's a chance you might like it. I can't risk that.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
4
Dear Editor:
Before I get started, just let me say that I am not like those unsavory people who use tricks just to sell work. I am certain you know the type of person I refer to. Many people would spend hours working on some clever letter. You, however, would never fall for such transparent behavior.Whatever your opinion of my work, I will accept your answer. One thing I am not is a complainer. I can accept criticism. I really appreciate the time & consideration.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
P.S. You are welcome to keep my manuscript on file if later publication would be better. Just let me know when you’re ready.
5
Dear Editor:
Please, I am begging you to take this manuscript. Do you know what it is like to sit at the computer day in and day out? I have lost all my friends, and I don't go out anymore. I order pizza every night so I don't have to leave the house and stop writing. I made a solemn vow to be published, or die trying. I cannot forsake my vow, and it has become an agony to wait hopefully at the mailbox every day, only to have those hopes crushed with an impersonal form letter. Is there any compassion in your heart? Have mercy on the poor tortured soul of a struggling artist. Throw off the imperial chains of capitalism that twist your motives toward profit. Art has nothing to do with money. Art is the spirit. Art is self-expression. It is the root of the individualism that has allowed man to achieve the heights of our modern society. Or are you involved in the same conspiracy as all other publishers? They know I am the greatest writer of this century, and they have conspired to stifle me. I am the voice of the people, and the CIA is out to break the spirit of freedom. I am a brilliant mind, and the world is jealous of me. Fine! If that's your attitude, then just wallow in your cheap, tawdry, worthless life. I'll find someone else to publish my work. You may all be against me, but I will prevail in the end.Thank you for your time. I am including a SASE for your reply.
Sincerely,
Resha Caner
6
Dear Editor:
Please!Sincerely,
Resha Caner
Surprise! Resha Caner is a pseudonym. Since he has not yet summoned the courage to starve for the sake of beauty, by day Caner takes off his costume to work as a mild-mannered engineer. Yet, under cover of darkness, he writes. To date these efforts have yielded him selection as a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, and editor's choice at Bewildering Stories. His work has also appeared in AlienSkin, Fear and Trembling, The Muse Marquee, Haruah, MindFlights, Constellation, EveryDay Fiction, SNReview, and Residential Aliens, with more to come at Anotherealm.
Close Up of a Yellow Surface With a Black Image of a Person and a Trash Can courtesy of Art.com
Now and For the Moment
by
Somewhere on the streets of Paris, Michael was on his way to work. Someday he would thank her, but not today.
Sadie stepped out of the shower onto the black tiled floor. A full-length mirror caught her reflection. Small breasts, high curved derriere, and softly rounded belly were still firm. She ran a fingernail along baby fine hair, which ran from her navel and coarsened between her legs. Velvet brown eyes moved to the full softness of her mouth. Just a small, fifty-year-old woman and yet she attracted attention. She slipped on a dressing gown and looked out over the city. Sadie was no longer an English tourist; for thirty years the city had been her home.
***
Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet on the rue MongeBernardins was one of the lesser tourist haunts. Sadie often slipped into the cool interior, not to pray but for a momentary break from the bustling world of finance in which she was employed. Sometimes she stopped for coffee in a small café opposite the church. She watched tourists hustle along. They clicked cameras and gathered in groups for potted history lessons from a bored guide.
It was in the café she first met Michael. He’d walked to her table and regarded her with deep blue eyes. “It’s very full today. May I sit here?” He spoke in French, and she was pleased that he hadn’t taken her for a tourist.
“Of course.” She indicated the empty chair opposite.
“Spring is early this year,” he said easily.
Sadie looked up from her coffee cup. The man smiling at her across the table appeared to be in his twenties. His dark hair, a little too long, curled around his ears and touched the edge of his strong jaw line. A white T-shirt strained across the width of his shoulders.
“Spring is always early in Paris. That’s why it’s so wonderful.”
He held out his hand. “Michael Lewis and you are?”
“Sadie Young.”
“I’ve seen you here often. This must be close by your workplace?”
Sadie nodded. They continued to chat, small talk, about the weather and the theater until it was time to return to work. They ran into each other often after that and shared a luncheon baguette. Friendship grew in an easy uncomplicated way. They met after work, drank coffee, smoked strong French cigarettes, and lounged at one of the café’s sidewalk tables. Sadie loved his quick wit and youthful confidence. Under the surface of his happy go lucky nature, she detected a hint of ferocity that excited her.
***
It had rained heavily after a long dry spell, and now the sun skirted the clouds and promised a warm end to the day. Sadie hurried from the church toward the café. As she crossed through a cobbled archway, her feet slid and she toppled forward and sprawled on the pavement. Her embarrassment deepened with the appearance of Michael at her side.
“Are you hurt?”
Concern in his voice brought a flush to her cheeks. “How stupid of me.”
“Your knee, it’s bleeding.”
Blood ran down her shin into her shoe. “I’m okay—really.” She hobbled a few steps and winced as pain shot through her leg.
Michael dropped to one knee and lifted the hem of her skirt. “It’s a nasty cut. I’ll drive you home.” He gripped her arm. “Where’s your car?”
“Not far,” she said limping beside him.
He drove confidently through the narrow streets. Upstairs in her apartment, he bathed and plastered the cut and made coffee. He appeared in no hurry to leave as evening approached and the light faded.
Sadie’s stomach rumbled, and she remembered they hadn’t eaten. “You must be starving. We missed lunch.”
Michael got to his feet. “I’ll make something. How about an omelette?”
“Really, I’m perfectly capable of making something to eat.”
“I know, but I thought I’d spoil you,” he said with a grin.
They ate by candlelight and drank white wine on Sadie’s small balcony. In the distance the noise of traffic thinned to a faint hum as the city prepared for sleep.
Sadie glanced at the deserted street below. “It’s getting late.”
“Yes, I suppose I’d better go or I’ll have to pay rent,” he said.
She followed him to the door and, on impulse, kissed him lightly on the mouth. Michael’s arm slid around her waist, he curled his fingers in her hair, and she felt him harden against her thigh. His kiss was deep, and she relaxed in his arms. She knew she should step away; the age difference was too great, but she pushed it out of her mind and put her arms around him. They made love as if it had been choreographed—no moment of awkwardness that usually accompanies a first union.
The night sky lightened and nudged the roosting birds into a chorus of high pitched chirps.
“I think you’d better go, Michael. It’s almost dawn.”
He stretched and gave a chuckle. “You’ve done with me and now you’re throwing me out?”
“This shouldn’t have happened.”
“Why? It wasn’t good for you?” He sat up on one elbow and frowned down at her.
“Oh, of course it was good. It isn’t that—it’s just there’s so much difference in our age.”
“Pah, that’s nonsense!” He reached for his clothes.
“Not for me,” Sadie whispered.
***
Sadie rose early the following day, stepped out onto the balcony, and gazed out over the city, her city. Across the rooftops the recently erected Tour Montparnasse shared the skyline with the spires of the ancient Notre Dame and the iron lace of the Eiffel Tower. She ran her fingers through her short, dark curls and breathed in the smell of Paris.
The doorbell echoed through the flat, and she guessed it would be him. The night before had been wonderful; he proved to be a gentle and considerate lover. He'd explored her body slowly as if he were memorizing it and noting the secret places that gave her pleasure, the crook of her arms and below her ears. He sucked each of her toes, and his tongue travelled the length of her legs until the ultimate intimacy.
With a last look at the city Sadie hurried to the door. The flowers in his arms perfumed the hall. Sadie made no attempt to speak although his discomfiture was evident as she stepped aside to let him pass.
“I came to see if you’re all right,” he said handing her the roses.
Sadie buried her face in the softness of the petals. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
He’d judged them perfectly. Not virgin white of weddings and funerals, or the strident red of love and passion, but palest pink, deepening to rose at the tips, fragile like the beginning of love.
“I’ll find a vase,” Sadie said.
From the counter of the open plan kitchen, she watched as he roamed the living room.
She laid a finger on the water jug. “Coffee?”
Michael hesitated. “No, thanks. Will you meet me for lunch later?”
She smiled at the deceptively casual question. To say yes was to invite a further intimacy. She had the option of saying she was tied up with work for the next few weeks and she’d call him when she was free. She could distance herself until their night together was a memory tucked away in the corner of his mind. The moment lengthened. Somewhere outside a door slammed and voices exchanged morning greetings. She looked up at him. His body, tall and well muscled, seemed to fill the room. Could she indulge herself at his expense? Would there be a way in the future to say good-bye with the minimum of pain for them both?
She turned slightly so the harsh light from the window shone on her face. She wished him to see her wrinkles, the softness of her throat and let fate decide. She composed an answer to allow him a way out.
“I can’t today, Michael, perhaps another time.”
“Tomorrow then?” he said quickly.
The apprehensive look on his face would not allow her to refuse. “Yes of course, where?”
“The usual place tomorrow at one o’clock?”
Sadie nodded. He’d made his choice.
The next morning Sadie dressed carefully in a cream shift dress that enhanced her dark hair and suntan. With a last look in the mirror, and her heart pounding like a schoolgirl, she hurried down the two narrow flights of stairs from her flat and out onto the hot street.
Her watch showed it to be barely twelve fifteen. She'd wanted time to compose herself.
Frank, her regular waiter, hurried to the table. “Bon après-midi, et ce qui peut je vous obtenir?”
She returned his smile and ordered coffee. Sunshine filtered between the leaves of the overhanging tree throwing lacy shadows on the white tablecloth and across her hand. Hands, she thought, tell a story of age more truthfully than the face. She looked down at her own. Not old yet, no raised veins or age spots, but yet no longer young. She tucked them between her knees. What was she doing here waiting for a lover young enough to be her son?
Frank served them the last time they’d sat at this table. “Your mama looks very happy today,” he said lightly, pouring coffee into Michael’s empty cup.
“Not my mama, just a good friend,” Michael replied.
They’d grinned at the waiter's mistake. Now her world had shifted. The words so natural a few weeks ago would cause her embarrassment now.
Sadie's hands tightened in her lap as she watched Michael thread his way through the tables.
“I thought perhaps you wouldn't come,” he said.
She could feel his nervousness as he bent and kissed both her cheeks. The smell of lemon soap and cologne drifted to her nostrils, and the bones went soft in her body.
***
Weeks of pleasure in each other’s company melted into months. Spring returned; the buds on sidewalk trees blossomed into pink flowers and then were gone. Summer came and the nights were heavy from the heat of the day.
They lay entwined, the shutters closed. A bottle of half-consumed white wine cooled in a large jug of ice by the side of the bed. Sadie caught a floating ice cube between her fingers. Tongue between teeth in little girl concentration, she ran it along Michael’s neck and across his chest. She watched his nipples hardened and bent her head to warm them with her breath. She put the ice cube in her mouth, and he groaned in anticipation and closed his eyes. Sadie slid down his body. Her icy lips enveloped him. They made love, and for Sadie it would be the last time. A young lion needs a young mate, she thought as she ran her fingers across his broad chest. It was time to let him go.
She’d seen his eyes flick to the short-skirted young woman who passed their pavement table and noted the reciprocal glances. Her heart ached when his head turned to follow passing couples that pushed prams or held children by the hand and strolled in the sunshine. She’d read envy in his eyes.
She touched him lightly and stroked damp hair from his forehead.
“Not yet,” he said contentedly. He took her hand and kissed it.
Pain knotted the pit of her stomach as she moved from the shelter of his arms and lit a cigarette. He stirred slightly, his eyes closed against a shaft of light that filtered through the balcony shutters. She pulled a satin dressing gown around her, knotted the belt with trembling fingers, and stepped out onto the balcony.
Paris was tinged with gold in the afternoon sun, and her heart flew across the city she loved. She turned back to the cool shade of the bedroom.
“Michael.” Her voice shook. “I’ve something to tell you.”
Maureen Wilkinson is a British author. Her interests range from travel to antiques. She has been told she has a warped sense of humor because she likes to hang naked by her toes in a tree and frighten the motorists. It’s when walking her German Shepherd her mind travels its own strange paths. Some of her many credits include short stories published in Flashme, Champagne Shivers, The Deepening, Literal Translations, Susurrus, Skive, and Bound Off. Northern Ireland Arts Council has just published four of her flashes in a newly released anthology.
Bordeaux Lounge courtesy of Art.com
The Happiest Day of My Life
by
It started innocently.
Many years ago, I worked in an office with large windows facing a busy overpass. I was standing by one of those windows one day when a woman in a passing car looked up and made eye contact. Naturally, I waved.
A chuckle escaped my lips as she turned and tried to identify me. It was the beginning of a year of window antics. When things were slow, I would stand in the window and wave at the passengers who looked up. Their confused looks made me laugh, and my stress evaporated.
Co-workers began to take an interest. They often stood just out of view, so they could watch the reactions I received, and laugh along.
Late afternoon was the best time. Rush-hour traffic filled the overpass with cars and transit buses, and provided lots of opportunities for my end-of-day routine. It wasn’t long before I had a following: a group of commuters who passed the window every day and looked up at the strange waving man.
There was the carpool crowd, the business lady with her children fresh from daycare, and a man with a construction truck who turned on his flashing-yellow light as he returned my wave. But my favorite was the transit bus from the docks that passed my window at 4:40 p.m. It carried the same group every day, and they became my biggest fans.
After a while, a simple wave became boring, so I devised ways to enhance my act. I made signs, saying, "Hi," "Hello," "Be Happy!" and posted them in the window while I waved. I stood on the window ledge in various poses, created hats from paper and file-folders, made faces, played peek-a-boo by bouncing up from below the window ledge, stuck out my tongue, and tossed paper planes in the air. Once I went into the walkway over the street and danced, while co-workers pointed in my direction to let my fans know I was there.
Christmas approached, and job cuts were announced. Several co-workers lost their jobs, and everyone was feeling down. Stress in the office reached a new high. We needed a miracle to repair the damage the bad news had caused.
While I worked a night shift, a red lab jacket attracted my attention. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. In a back corner of the office, I found some packing material: white sheets of cloth-like foam. I cut some of it into thin strips and taped the pieces around the cuffs and collar, down the front, and around the hem of the jacket. A box of foam packing and strips of tape became Santa's beard and, when that was taped to the hat, it all slipped over my head in one piece.
The next working day, I hid from my co-workers and slipped into the costume. I walked bravely to my desk, sat down, held my belly, and mocked Santa's chuckle, as they gathered around me, laughing. It was the first time I had seen them smile in weeks.
Later, my supervisor walked through the door. He took three steps, saw me, paused and shook his head, then turned and left.
I feared trouble. The phone on the desk rang a few moments later. It was my supervisor.
"Mike, can you come to my office, please?"
I shuffled down the hall, the foam beard swishing across my chest with each step.
"Come in," the muffled voice replied to my knock.
He did not turn in my direction when I entered and sat down. The foam on the beard creaked briefly. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. The only sound was the hammering of my heart.
"Mike..." This was all he managed before he lost his composure, leaned back in his chair, and bellowed with laughter. He held his stomach, as tears formed in his eyes.
I sat silent and confused.
“Thanks, Mike!” he said, when he regained control. "With the job cuts, it has been hard to enjoy the Christmas season. Thanks for the laugh. I needed it."
That evening, and every evening of the Christmas season, I stood proudly in the window and waved to my fans. The bus crowd waved wildly, and the little children smiled at the strange Santa. My heart was full of the season. For a few minutes each day, we could forget the loss of jobs.
I didn't know it then, but a bond was forming between my fans and me. It wasn't until several months after the Santa act that I discovered how close we had become.
My wife and I were expecting our first child that spring, and I wanted the world to know. Less than a month before the due date, I posted a sign in the window, which said, "25 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." My fans passed and shrugged their shoulders. The next day the sign read, "24 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." Each day the number dropped, and the passing people grew more confused.
One day, a sign appeared in the bus. "What is B DAY?" I just waved and smiled.
Ten days before the expected date, the sign in the window read, "10 DAYS UNTIL BA--DAY." Still the people wondered. The next day, it read, "9 DAYS UNTIL BAB- DAY," then "8 DAYS UNTIL BABY DAY," and my fans finally knew what was happening.
By then, my following had grown to include twenty or thirty different busses and cars. Every night, they watched to see if my wife had given birth. Excitement grew as the number decreased. My fans were disappointed when the count reached "zero" without an announcement. The next day, the sign read, "BABY DAY 1 DAY LATE," and I pretended to pull out my hair.
Each day the number changed, and interest from passing cars grew. When my wife was fourteen days overdue, she finally went into labor. The next morning our daughter was born. I left the hospital at 5:30 a.m., screamed my joy into the still morning air, and drove home to sleep. I got up at noon, showered, bought cigars, and appeared at the window in time for my fans. My co-workers were ready with a banner posted in the window:
"IT'S A GIRL!"
I wasn't alone that night. My co-workers joined me in celebration. We stood and waved our cigars in the air as every vehicle that passed acknowledged the birth of my daughter. Finally, the bus from the docks made its turn onto the overpass and began to climb the hill. When it drew close, I climbed onto the window ledge and clasped my hands over my head in a victory pose.
The bus was directly in front of me when it stopped dead in heavy traffic, and all the people on board stood with their hands in the air.
Emotion choked my breathing as I watched the display of celebration for my new daughter. Then it happened: a sign popped up. It filled the windows and stretched half the length of the bus. "CONGRATULATIONS!" it said, in big, bold letters.
There were tears in my eyes as the bus slowly resumed its journey. I stood in silence, as it pulled from view. More fans passed and tooted their horns or flashed their lights to display their happiness, but I hardly noticed them, as I pondered what had just happened.
My daughter had been born fourteen days late. Those people must have carried that sign on the bus for at least two weeks. Everyday they had unrolled it and then rolled it back up. They did that for me.
We all have a clown inside of us. We need to let it free and not be surprised at the magic it can create. For eight months, I made a fool of myself. Those people must have enjoyed the smiles I gave them, because, on the happiest day of my life, they showed their appreciation.
It has been more than eighteen years since that special time, but every year, on my daughter's birthday, I always remember the special gift they gave me.
Michael T. Smith lives in Fort Lee, New Jersey with his wife and son. He works as a project manager in the telecommunications industry and writes in his spare time. His stories will be part of a collection to be called “From My Heart to Yours.”
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Father's Hands Holding Baby's Hands courtesy of Art.com
Boba Fett Blues
by
So you want to know my earliest realization that I was just another boob consumer? Trace it back to my Star Wars Action figure days. Fish out the collapsible C3PO from a war-torn pile of crummy Jawas and Storm Troopers, no they’re all out of Snaggletooth again, but don’t fret there’s another Woolworth over by Fresh Pond Road if I could finagle my mom into a ride over there. The tough part was getting an advance on my already advanced allowance.
The thing was, if you clipped off enough of those coupons from the back of the action figure packages you could get a really nifty limited edition something or another. Feast your eyes on Boba Fett, the badass bounty hunter, puppet-strings of Jabba the Hutt. I was way psyched to be the first kid on the block with the hot new toy, especially since I’d read all about the missile that shot from Boba Fett’s backpack-launcher.
I played hooky in anticipation of the special delivery. Why waste a whole day through ho-hum math classes and those retarded fire drills when Boba Fett could be hiding in my mailbox? Mom’s deal was that if I stayed home I had to clean my room, take out the garbage, and other crap like that. In return, she promised to write my teacher a phony baloney sick note. She was quid pro quo all the way.
The big day finally came, but when I tore apart the package, my action figure didn’t have a launchable missile. It stuck there welded in place, without any buttons or levers to fire it out. I had to see for myself if it was possible to tweak the design to suit my bounty-hunting appetite. Equipped with a pair of pliers I fished out from under the kitchen sink, I went to work. Dislodging the missile was tricky. I started off gently and soon swung into a rhythm whereby my half-cranks turned into roundhouse yanks that finally stripped the ammo clean off Boba Fett’s back. It left me with a weird numbing feeling. Maybe neuter was more like it. It’s hard to say. As I sat there with the red, bean-sized missile in the pinch of my hand I just didn’t feel like gluing the stupid thing back on.
My buddy Kenji, the only other spoiled brat I knew who got everything he whined about, told me some dickweed from Oshkosh messed up his cornea blasting Boba Fett missiles off his front porch and that was why all the second batch figures were shipped neutralized. Kenji also mentioned that the puny Boba Fett was nothing compared to the new line (if you’ll pardon the pun) that was being launched, scheduled to hit the stores for the holidays. According to him the new line would be as tall as Rom the Spaceknight. This brawnier Boba Fett would fill the void of the inferior one loafing under my bed.
In the meantime Rom posed as my scab Boba Fett, until the bathtub incident whereupon the better part of his foot was caught and snapped off in the drain. Mom nursed Rom’s foot with the gauze she used to bandage my hands when I hurt myself digging around for baseballs behind the old ball field. The rejuvenated Rom met his ultimate demise outside the fourth floor window of the boy’s bathroom at my school. The parachute never opened.
When Kenji popped in the original Stars Wars on his Betamax, we made some startling discoveries: 1) it was Han Solo, not Luke who killed Greedo – Kenji liked to call him Guido; 2) upon closer inspection it did look like Princess Lea had an armpit-sniffing fetish after she and Luke swung to safety by way of Luke’s trusty grappling hook. 3) Jabba the Hutt had already made his first appearance despite Kenji’s insistence that it was Return of the Jedi where the tub-of-slob made his debut.
In their own right each of these were fascinating discoveries, but what bugged me, after catching Empire Strikes Back, was that Bosk, another mail-away bounty hunter, also had a nothing part. What was up with Kenner and their whole peddling enterprise gassing up kids’ hopes, getting us all psyched up to covet their action figures when they took away the best features (AKA Boba Fett’s missile-launcher)? And more importantly why were they pawning off these bit part bounty hunters? They didn’t have any of the characters from the cantina, not a single one, though Kenji and I wrote numerous letters lobbying for them – to Kenner, the Star Wars Fan Club for Midgets, George Lukas, Obi-Won Kenobi, whoever. Our only reply smacked pomposity. Wait until the droid factory hits the shelves so you smart asses can build whatever figures you want. O.K. so maybe they didn’t add that last part, but the sentiment was implied by the persnickety little ink-stamped signature on the bottom of the form letter.
We didn’t want more figures for the heck of it. We wanted to preserve the real-world integrity of Star Wars. Sure we had imagination, but it was cool to have Hammerhead and Walrus Man to spice up our battles.
One day Kenji and I got into a fight because he thought I took his Luke Skywalker light saber, a very jaundiced weapon with part of the tip spliced off. I’d lost mine some weeks earlier and had inserted a colored toothpick into the aperture underneath Skywalker’s wrist.
“I didn’t take your stinking light saber,” I said, “If you don’t believe me, here, take the toothpick. You should clean your teeth.”
That’s just how I said it. Of course, it didn’t go over well and that’s when he called me a grub.
“Not only are you a moocher,” he said, “But a copy cat too. You always want what I have.”
At that moment, I was furious and hurt by the assessment. My integrity, manhood, and friendship were insulted. An only child tends to blast a floodlight inward when the looker only needs a flicker. I took it to heart. Later on when his mom offered us a plate of Oreos and two tall glasses of milk he apologized.
“Forget it. I was only messing with you,” he said.
The thing is that little squabble did mess with my head. I could take punches, noogies, and the occasional pile-driver, but it hurt more that he thought, even for that moment, I’d stoop so low and steal his figure. It wasn’t the Jedi way.
I don’t really know when something loses luster. The cherished toy underneath the Christmas tree has a short half-life and simple, honest, malicious words leave permanent marks. To this day, I have a sweet spot reserved for Star Wars, though I wonder what’s at stake when I trade figures on Ebay. What stories belong to the Han Solos, Darth Vaders, and Chewbaccas? Did two buddies have a break-up? Who were the bullies, the nerds, and all the others who played with them? These things I consider when making trades. Playing with another kid’s old figures slips me into a forbidden past.
Kenji and I stayed somewhat friends, saw each other now and then when we played ball, burnt ants, and honed our joystick waggling skills. We shied away from action figures. Maybe I keep up with the Star Wars studs because I’m trying to make up for lost time. Maybe I haven’t grown up.
John Gorman is tying the knot on his M.F.A. at Pacific University. Some of his fiction has appeared in Mississippi Review, The Shore, Circle Magazine, Thunder Sandwich, Nexus, and elsewhere. He lives in New York City.
Little Kids Sword Fighting At Sunset courtesy of Art.com