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September 27, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

She did her shopping alone today. Casually browsing the aisles looking for nothing in particular. It was strange. They were all grown. Finally. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Birds flown from the nest. Her husband was on the golf course. Enjoying stories and lies with his friends. She thought about what a good man he was. Then she thought about how content she was. It made her uneasy. And she liked it. She had always liked the sharp edges of things.

He’ll do well in college, she thought. Her youngest son had always been her favorite because of how different he was. Like her but unlike her. She sighed and placed an avocado in the plastic bag which crinkled with a noise she loved. She loved many strange little details of her white picket fence life.

Moving down the aisles aimlessly she continued to think about her children. It was hard to believe they had grown into adults. It was hard to believe that she was so old. She’d never expected to be old. She wondered what she would watch on television. She wondered if he would come home drunk again and fuck her. He seemed restless. Retirement didn’t suit a company man like him. He was driving her crazy. Maybe they would take a trip somewhere exotic. They needed something different.

He built his power base carefully. A marijuana business had never been something that interested him. It was lucrative though. When more than half of the states in the union found their sanity and legalized recreational use he invested in cultivation. Then he expanded to retail. He was a criminal but he was also a gentleman. He broke the rules but never for the sake of breaking them. He was cautiously reckless. By skirting the lines and applying grease where it was needed his business outgrew that of his competitors.

He had to kill one of them. She was a cutthroat. She was unhinged. When his competitor had one of his fields burned her people killed one of his employees. That was unacceptable. He went to his locker, took out one of the rifles and practiced for several days. Then he shot his competitor through the head from a hilltop a mile away while she was sipping white wine from a crystal glass. The glass didn’t break when it hit the deck of her home with expensive mountain views. Her head exploded and he had the rifle smelted down into its base elements. The deck was demolished and rebuilt so the realtor wouldn’t have to disclose that someone had been murdered in the home. His business continued to grow. His remaining competitors became more cautious.

When she arrived at home she thought about how empty the house felt. Then she got high and fisted herself. Got lost in a memory and talked to a man who only lived in her head. He didn’t come home until well after midnight. He didn’t fuck her. She wondered if he had someone else and realized it didn’t matter if he did. She dreamed about a demon who shape shifted into an angel. At times she forgot if the being had appeared as the angel or the demon initially. She realized it didn’t matter. In the morning he went into the garage and lost himself in a project. She got high on the porch. That night they began planning their exotic trip.

He took a small portion of his profits from the marijuana business and built a special place. In his travels all over the world to meet growers and convince politicians it was in their best interest to vote his way on legalization he’d come across a few very special parcels of real estate. Through a shell company he made a land purchase. Then he drew up a blueprint and hired an old friend who had gone into contracting after they left the military and the wars. The contractor was reliable and knew how to keep his mouth shut. The place took a year to build. It cost him millions. Mostly because everything had to be flown in from a great distance by seaplane. The house at the end of the world took shape. The special room inside was constructed exactly to his specifications.

When they did the final walkthrough his friend knew better than to ask any questions about that room. They were like that. There was no need to discuss what the room would be used for. They had been through so much together. There was no need to talk about what or why anymore. Some people just get things done.

The trip was going wonderfully. She was falling in love. She did that a lot. The girl was younger than her. Beautiful. Her husband was too busy drinking and playing golf on the savanna to notice that she was sneaking off to play with her new friend. The two of them were comfortable being apart together. When she and the girl finally decided to explore each others’ bodies fully it was magical. They got high and tasted everything including each other in the tent while giraffes grazed outside in the acacias. She drifted off to sleep and dreamed that she was being kidnapped.

Everything was ready. It had been for some time. The plane arrived on time. He had interviewed and hired everyone for this job personally. It went like clockwork. The girl arrived with the package on time. Everything had been planned meticulously. She woke up a little groggy. It took a few minutes to realize that she was in chains.

“Hello girl,” he said. “It’s been long enough.”

She fainted.

When she came back he was doing something noisy. She heard scraping and a crackling noise.

“Hello again girl.”

She struggled to see but her head was clamped into something. Something made of metal. She realized that her head was trapped inside a cage made of metal mesh.

“I’m going to brand you now,” he said quietly. The words sounded so loud inside her head. “It’s well past time.”

She thought about the history the two of them shared. About the decades in between the beginning and the now.

The smell of her own flesh burning made her feel more loved than she ever had before. She cried as she realized she would never leave this place. The wandering and wondering were over. She was home. She was his.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: abduction, creepy, dark short story, kidnapped, short fiction, short story, slave

The nature of starlight

March 30, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

The rainy season came early that year. It was a time of upheaval. The portents said trouble was inevitable. That the monsoon would be much worse than usual. Crops would fail and things would be washed away. The soothsayers spoke louder than normal. They charged extra coins for our fortunes. Made nuisances of themselves.

I prepared. Something in my bones told me that the predictions I kept hearing were right. Something big was coming. I stockpiled extra food and made the house ready. The metal shutters and drainage ditches cost me a great deal.  Almost everything I had went into the readying. After two moons I felt that all I could do had been done.

I waited. Wrote my stories. Planned for the worst. Hoped for the best. Everything is nothing more than thinking and talking small steps. One foot in front of the other. Over and over. That’s how we move through life. The only difference between myself and others is in the way I see the process. The walking is all the same.

Ah, but when you can see where to go. That’s when the light and dark places all turn magic. That’s when each step takes you a little closer to heaven or hell. The places in between are just waypoints on the journey. Waypoints that bring one side or the other closer to being focused and real.

—

You two. Such beauties. Let’s get you out of that rain. Don’t let the flood wash you away. Don’t worry. This house will stand. I’m glad you knocked. We’re on high ground and I can use the company.

Sisters are you? Let me get some soup and coffee from the kitchen. You’re so young. Are either of you old enough for coffee? I’m not sure. We’ll risk it tonight. The winds are blowing so hard. Come in. Let me shut the door before the cold follows you inside.

This place was made as a refuge from all the ugliness out there. Take off your shoes and warm your toes by the fire. I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t mind the cat or the dog. They are friends.

Sit there, on that comfortable couch. Nothing will come in and hurt you. Not the storm. Not the worries that followed you. Not any hunger nor any pain. I’ll ensorcel away your demons with my words and the spells I know.

Sit. Enjoy this haven. We’ll talk in a moment after your bellies are full and your skin is warm. Be at peace. You are home. For as long as you wish.

Gather yourselves while I take stock of you two. So pretty. Why are your eyes doubtful? It’s dark outside. Not in here. Let me tell you a few things while you eat and drink.

That fire was made with wood I chopped and dried myself. I cut the fuel from the trees on this land. They are a beautiful gift that must be managed with care.

The soup is made from things I grew with my own two hands. Potatoes, leeks and thyme. The coffee beans grew in the field over that small hill you came up to get here.

Everything I have to offer is as much yours as mine. This house, the land, safety from the storm. Be at peace, little sisters. My hospitality is good and honest.

The two of you look tired and the rain won’t stop anytime soon. I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night. I have extra room and warm blankets. The storm can’t get in.

—

Soon the sisters trusted me. Once the fire, soup and coffee had warmed them inside and out I showed the girls to the bedroom and let them talk together a little while so they would know their hearts better. In time, they asked me to tuck them in and tell them a story. I told them about the way starlight on your toes keeps you young forever.

Soon they were drifting into a dream state with soft smiles on their faces. When I knew they were content and saw that they would soon sleep, I doused the lights. We joined each other in the world of slumber and woke up to find that the storm had passed us by.

The rainy season came early that year. The predictions were right on that count. In one thing though, the soothsayers were wrong. The rains were fierce but they didn’t last long. My girls stayed on. They are with me still. I love watching my beauties tucked in warm under the blankets on cold nights. They whisper and giggle together. Then we talk about the nature of starlight.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: fantasy, short story, starlight

Stem

October 31, 2013 by Pen Leave a Comment

The little girl walked down the dirt road slowly, holding the last thing her protector had given her. Her jet black hair hung limply, despite the strong wind gusts that stirred leaves and raised little dervishes made of dust. She did not seem to see the bleak landscape around her. Her brown eyes stayed always focused on the thing in her hand. She clutched it tightly to remember him by.

A storm brewed nearby, malevolently. Cracks of thunder broke the silence from time to time. Each thunderclap engendered the same reaction in the solitary little girl. She clutched at her dress with her free hand. Her lips pursed and she squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. Then her lips moved.

“Master, protect me. Keep me safe. Show me the way. Give me strength.”

Off to the sides of the dusty road on which the girl walked, bodies littered the landscape. They lay in the creek. They hung across the fences on either side of her. They were scattered like flotsam and jetsam across the fields surrounding the road. Some, not yet surrendered to the inevitability of their own impending deaths, struggled and moaned. A few cried for their mothers, lovers or friends. The little girl heard one man crying for water.

“A mercy,” he begged. “Water for my lips before I go to the next life.” His voice was strong until the last two words, when it faded to a croak. He grimaced and closed his eyes.

The girl shivered, for she knew the power that came from words on the lips of the dying. She clutched the thing in her hand more tightly and averted her eyes from the destruction all around her. Then, despite herself, the girl looked at the man who had begged for water. Three arrows protruded from his stomach and another from his groin. He looked back at her for a moment and his hand reached out. Then his eyes closed. The hand fell. He spoke no more.

The girl’s lips moved again. “Give him peace.” Her hands rolled the stem. It had perhaps been some flowering thing at one time, but now it was only a ghost of what it had been. It had a stalk. A single damaged flower petal clung stubbornly to the top of the stem. The petal was half pink and half black. Like the litter of human beings scattered around the walking girl, the stem was a dying thing.

She closed her eyes and continued walking, trusting her feet to keep her on the road.

The wind gusted, roaring in from the north. The air around her grew cold. She shivered and made a sign of some sort against her chest. Her white dress swirled around her ankles as dirty dust rose in spirals around her. The pillars of dust rose high into the air, dwarfing the girl.

Fat, gray rain clouds scudded in the sky, moving rapidly over her head. At the edges of the fields around her, trees began to bend and groan as a merciless wind pulled at them, swaying even the strongest and oldest of them from top to bottom. The forest came alive with loud shivers of protest, joining in the cacophony of those whose lives leaked out into the soil around them. The dance of the wind and the forest trees grew frenetic.

She continued walking, trying to ignore the increasing sense of foreboding. As the air grew colder and the noises of the storm grew louder the voices of the dying were eaten by the wind. The sky turned from grey to black and rain began to fall. At first only a few fat drops came down, but those were soon joined by an endless multitude of brothers and sisters from the heavens. An army of battering drops grew larger and colder until they changed from water to ice.

Liquid began to pool in the ditches on both sides of the girl. In minutes, the channels became rushing streams. Soon, almost mercifully, the dying men in the fields began to drown in the deluge. In the falling hail, few of them had enough energy or fight left to do anything but let go of the world.

Her white dress clinging to her body now, the little girl tried not to watch the injured men as they succumbed. She tried not to think about how many souls were being claimed but failed. She saw the man who had been begging for water pull himself upright against a fence for a few seconds. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell into the thing he had been begging for and it drowned him. The girl wondered if he managed to swallow any water to assuage his thirst before he died.

The rain continued falling. The ditches began to overflow. Soon the road was no longer a road. The two streams on either side of her joined forces and rose until the water was pulling on the bottom of the her dress. It threatened to pull her feet out from under her each time she took a step.

Soon, bodies were floating by, brushing against her feet. The hail stung her skin. As it grew in size it began to more than sting. Her pale skin soon became mottled with red splotches. All the world turned to water. Stumbling now in the wind and the current, the girl began to despair. Unbalanced, she fell with a splash that went unheard by any ears but her own.

As she fell a corpse brushed against her. She flailed, in a panic and rose quickly, but only by the greatest effort. The girl found herself barely able to stand against the fury of the storm. Mud stained her dress now, and her black hair was disheveled. She coughed dirty water from her mouth and trembled. The water pulled at her yet again. Angrily, like a hungry beggar.

The hail grew even larger, and it began to rip her skin. It battered her and when it hit her in the head, the pain made her dizzy. She began to panic.

“Save me,” she begged, and looked up into the sky.

Lightning flashed. It blinded her. The thunder clap came almost immediately. She felt it resonate powerfully in her chest. Then something unexpected happened. The stem in her hand quivered. She felt the movement and flinched. Her hand went numb and opened of its own accord.

With the single half-dead petal still clinging to it, the stem fell through the rain towards the water flowing past and around her feet. She grabbed desperately and failed to snatch it. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream of despair as she thought of the dead man who had given it to her, promising her that he would always protect her from harm.

“I will bring you another flower when I return,” he’d said. Only he hadn’t returned. She had waited until the food ran out. Then she went looking. She had found him dead in the forest, a large wound in his back. He’d caught a rabbit, which she’d eaten through her sobs. Her master was also holding another stem in his dead hand. The petals of its flower were crushed. She’d left it with him.

After a time with his body, she had started walking.

The only people she’d seen since finding her dead master had also been dead or dying. In a daze, she had looted the bodies, walked and prayed. She was not sure how many days and nights had passed.

The stem disappeared into the water and she thrust her hand downward again, plunging it into the frothy, muddy maelstrom. Her hand made contact with something hard. It felt like a large piece of wood. She realized that something was happening under the water. Something was growing down there.

The ground beneath her trembled. She felt her body rising and her mouth opened. The water receded and she realized that the ground was pushing itself higher. In the center of the rapidly growing hill, the stem had anchored itself the to the ground. As she watched it grew thicker and thicker. The single pink and black petal grew as well. Its color changed and become more radiant as the black faded away and the pink grew vibrant. New pink petals began to sprout from the top.

In moments the plant had grown to twice the height of the girl. Soon it towered over her and the petals formed a protective pink umbrella that the now massive hail simply bounced off and fell to the ground in a circle around the canopy. The girl entered the safety of the shelter. She clung to the stem of the now massive plant and watched the storm wash the wicked world away.

Time passed, and the sun returned. The girl stood. Tears fell from her eyes as she thought of her dead master and his promise to keep her safe. She kissed the stem, and prayed a prayer of thanks for her safety, then continued on her journey.

 

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: dark short story, dust, fantasy, fiction, flowers, master, short story

The faceless

October 17, 2013 by Pen 2 Comments

It’s a hot day. Not the kind of hot you know. The kind of hot only Satan could have dreamed up. The air is dry. No breeze. Everything outside is baking. Eight in the morning and the temperature is just creeping over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. We’ll hit 130 in the shade later. If only heat was my biggest problem.

Today, I’m going outside the wire. To the place where all the abuse happened. They call it Abu Ghraib. A prison. A place of hopelessness. The generals want me there to show that we don’t beat and torture people there anymore. That progress is happening. A prisoner release with media coverage. That’s my job today. I’ll take pictures and sing them a happy song made of words. About how great and beneficent we are. I’ll be fascinated by the truth beneath the pastiche and hate my role as the troubador of bullshit.

We will be driving through the most violent place on earth. An occupied city called Baghdad. One of the oldest settled places on the planet, where millions are currently involved in what the leadership of the occupation calls a “low intensity civil war.” I wonder how the thousands dying in that war each month would feel about the description of their murders.

I am a coward scheduled to ride inside an armored bus they call “the Rhino.” Tons of steel and air conditioning with convenient gun ports for shooting comfortably at any attackers. The ride will be more than an hour, on roads that are swept daily for evidence of bombs. Yet I am afraid. I know from personal experience that no one is immune to the numerous types of bombs that the occupiers are constantly being attacked with. I am an occupier to most of Baghdad. The ones who don’t actively hate me are mostly indifferent to whether I live or die. They have their own survival to worry about, and none of them live inside a protected, fortified perimeter like I do.

No, the average Iraqi lives in a city full of gangs, bandits and murder squads. They are subjected to a dusk to dawn curfew where uniformed gangs roam and terrorize. Some of the gangs are trying to make things better and others are just there for revenge. Sunnis were in charge for 30 plus years. The ethnic minority, they had all the privileges. Now the Shia are in charge, and they want revenge for being oppressed. If the Americans don’t break down the door and take away all the fighting age males in your house it might be one of the other gangs. If you’re Sunni, the Shia might come and take your brother or father away. They’ll tie his hands behind his back and put a power drill up to his skull and start drilling holes in his head. Take whatever information they can and then put a bullet or six in him. Or if you’re Shia, the Sunni might blow up your car while you are on your way to work. It’s a back and forth. Both sides hate each other passionately. Both sides pay lip service to the occupiers and make bombs to attack the foreigners with.

The convoy leaves on schedule. Schedules are important to us. We are sandwiched into our armored box on wheels. In the front and in the back are Humvees with machine guns mounted in the turrets. I would hate to be one of those guys. Bullet magnets.

We drive through the maze that exits our “Green Zone” and enter the world most who were born here have to live in. We call it the Red Zone. They call it hell. Eyes take note of us. Thousands of eyes. Dark eyes. I can feel them boring into the armor and penetrating the thick glass that is designed to stop projectiles. The hate is palpable. It settles onto me like a heavy weight. My chest sinks. My heart beats faster. I wonder if today will be the day. Every day feels like it might the last day here.

These people are fatalistic about death. I am not. I do not want to die. I do not want to be torn apart by a blast. Two days ago I was knocked down by one while in the shower. The concussive force of a car bomb a mile away rattled the trailer I live in so much that it was lifted up and then slammed back down. When I got back up from that, I found myself trembling. The aftermath made it worse. A thick column of black smoke outside attended by the attack helicopters that always swarm like angry bees to watch over the rescue responders on the ground. They told me after that explosion was a targeted attack on policemen waiting to collect their monthly pay. Many of them were ripped to shreds. And I am afraid it is my turn now.

The others on this bus annoy me. Some pray. I do not believe praying will make any difference. Sometimes I do it anyhow but only because it is an old ritual. Some talk to avoid introspection. I avoid them. I do not want to make small talk to pass the time while waiting to die. I sit in the back, with the interpreters. If anyone on this bus is hated more than the occupiers, it is the people who speak for them.

One of the men talks to me. “Where are you from,” he asks? I tell him I am from everywhere. It’s true. I have lived all over the world. I claim no place as my own. He tells me about his family. How his brother, father, uncles and cousins have been killed since the occupation begins. He wants to leave Iraq. That is his only goal. To get a visa to go to Europe or the United States. He wants to get away from his city. He wants to leave his country. I understand. Not everyone here is a fatalist. He doesn’t want to die for nothing. Like all the males in his family have.

I give him my e-mail address and tell him I’ll try to help.
We arrive at the prison. Behind rusty barbed wire and chain link fences, hundreds of men are milling. They are quiet, calm and carefully watched. The air crackles with their energy. It stinks of their sweat. I see a man in a wheelchair. He has no legs. I wonder what he possibly could have done to be locked up in this sweltering hell. Hundreds of eyes watch me. Some are guarded, some are cold, but all are interested. They see my camera. Many turn their faces away, to avoid being captured in the lens.

Guards around the perimeter hassle me. “No cameras,” says one. He has a Mossberg shotgun. I show him my badge authorizing the camera. He grimaces but shuts up and walks off. I walk the fence line trying to shoot through the fences, trying to focus on the eyes of the prisoners. I am frustrated. I climb into a guard tower after making small talk with one of them. He becomes accommodating when I take his picture. There are always some like him. They want to be recognized. They are proud of the freedom they bring to foreign lands. Of the bad guys they stop.

A politician begins speaking. Then some generals. The foreign general goes first. Then the Iraqi general. I don’t know what they are saying but I know it is mostly bullshit. I take a few pictures. That is required. The commanding officer will want at least one photo of these people to make himself look good to them. I can hear him ingratiating himself now, in his deep drawl. He believes Jesus wants him here to help these ignorant people who are too stupid to manage their own country.

The gates of the prison open. The guards tense, ready for any trouble. Men begin to emerge from the pen. They stink. The temperature has risen to near 120 degrees now. I am sweating freely and drinking water non-stop. Running around with my camera. One man is clutching a Quran, his fingers spasmodic, his lips pursed in prayer. The legless man is pushed awkwardly through the double gates by a fellow prisoner. I wonder if they are friends, or if some guard just said, “Hey you, push the legless guy. Now!” I wonder if he had to wave a shotgun around to get taken seriously. I wonder what these guys did to get locked up in a sandy cage where the heat cooks them all day every day.
And I remember the pictures. Of the ones my fellow soldiers beat and tortured and made into human pyramids covered in their own excrement. I am sad, but I keep snapping the photos and taking my notes so I can write a story about how great we are now at freeing prisoners who have promised not to rabble rouse anymore.

I see haunted eyes among the faces. Other men have hopeful eyes. A few look desperate to get away from this place. Some are fighting their own urges to run to the waiting buses. I am getting dizzy from the heat. Many of them are wearing towels on their heads but I have to wear a Kevlar helmet. It’s heavy and doesn’t allow any airflow. Eventually, I am finished photographing and taking notes. Four hundred men are distributed onto buses that will take them to different parts of the city where they will meet family members and be reunited. I wonder how many of these men have no family members left.
Then my retinue is back inside our armored, air conditioned bus. The recently freed prisoners get to ride in non air-conditioned, unarmored charter buses that look like should have been put in a junkyard 20 years ago. The temperature is nearing 130 degrees. I am spent. I sit in the back of the bus again, and prepare to cross the world’s most violent city back to my bubble of unreality where we can swim in a dictator’s pool and sing karaoke at night while the life flight choppers bring the injured and dying in over our heads from all around.

I am somber. I hear a bomb go off somewhere far away. Gunfire punctuates the moments all around us. These sounds have been my normal for months. I look at Ali, the interpreter. His eyes are sad, haunted. He goes to sleep. I wonder what he will dream about. Maybe his dead uncle, whom he said was very funny. His favorite person in the whole world. Murdered with a gunshot to the back of the head and dropped off in the street in front of his house, a piece of rotting meat.

I drink water.

The bomb goes off unexpectedly, ripping the world to shreds. Dozens die in the 130 degree heat. But today is not my day. And the target is not my convoy. Instead, one of the buses full of prisoners is attacked by a suicide car bomber as it pulls into the depot where waiting family members stand. Men, women and children are blown into pieces. I see the pictures later and wonder if the legless man was on that bus or another one. I’ll never know. I see him in my dreams sometimes. His thick glasses falling down the brim of his brown nose and the scars on the nubs where his legs used to be. I sobbed for him once. And for myself.

Now, years later, all those prisoners are blurring in my mind. They are becoming faceless ghosts who haunt me everywhere I go. I wish I could tell you each of their stories, but I can only tell you mine. Sometimes I wonder if Ali the interpreter made it out alive. He never e-mailed me.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: Abu Ghraib, dreams, Europe, forgotten people, Green Zone, Iraq, non-fiction, occupied country, pen, prison, Red Zone, revenge, short story, story, suicide, true war, war, war stories

Hemlock

May 20, 2013 by Pen 2 Comments

You did this. You bastard. Things would have been fine if you could have acted decent once in a while. Why did you insist on drinking all the time? Why did you insist on beating me? I hate you. I always will. It didn’t start that way. I used to love you with everything I had. You used to love me too. At least I think you did.

Back in high school, you were so gentle. At least I thought you were. You didn’t hit me until later. I knew you had a mean streak in you though. I remember when you kicked your dog. What was his name? Jack. That’s it. When you kicked Jack for shitting on the carpet. He couldn’t help it, and you broke his ribs. I remember thinking maybe that was too harsh. I had no idea you would be breaking my ribs too, just a few years later. You fucker.

You were such a sweet talker. So full of promises. You told me you’d buy me that cabin in the mountains. Why did we end up in a duplex in the valley? Because of you. Your goddamn temper made sure you couldn’t hold down a job. And you decided I needed to be constantly pregnant. How did you think I could hold a job when I was constantly preggers? Six children, you gave me. You fool. We couldn’t afford one child, let alone six. You cursed us to poverty. You cursed us to mediocrity.

If I didn’t love books, you would have undone me. I’d probably be dead right now because of you. You beat me within an inch of my life so many times I can’t count. But I’m resilient. I always came back from the beatings. You scarred me, but you never broke me. You worked me over good, but you never won. The six kids did more lasting physical damage than you did.

You. I’m not sure where it started to go wrong with you. Long before you broke Jack’s ribs and punched out a few of my teeth when I questioned you not paying the rent. I suspect you were broken when you came out of the womb. Your mom used to tell me that you were special. I think she was willfully ignorant when she said that. You were just mean. I’m guessing you used to get your jollies torturing small animals before we met and you whispered all those sweet lies to me. You deserve to rot in hell.

Why am I even talking to you anymore. You’ve given me everything I needed. I should just walk away. I don’t know why I’m standing her explaining anything to you. I should walk away. But for some reason I feel the need to stand here. You have to listen now. It is my turn. Shut up. You just shut up.

When you started hitting Shelly, I knew I had to do something. She is only seven years old, for God’s sake. I let you sucker me, and that’s my fault. But Shelly didn’t have a choice. You had no right to beat our child like that. She had no control. The doctors told you. I told you. She has nocturnal enuresis. It would have resolved but I think you were the main cause of it. You scared her. You shouted at her. You lurched around the house drunk and mean. They all hate you. I didn’t do that. You did that.

In the summer, I started researching. Hemlock seemed the easiest. I considered dimethylmercury, but it is too hard to get. Arsenic is too easy to test for. There were other choices, but hemlock seeds were easy to order. If you have taught me anything, you’ve taught me patience. I grew the plants in our backyard. It took four days to ship from Ohio. It took a year to get the plants big enough. You made fun of the plants, like you made fun of all the things in my garden. And you kept on being your rotten self. Treating me like dirt, and treating our children like a curse. You were foul that whole summer while the hemlocks sprouted.

When I started to mix the flowers into your meals, I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing. You got sick that night. Threw up a lot and complained that it was my fault. You weren’t serious, but you were certainly correct about that much. I did make you sick. I made you very sick. That whole month, I experimented with dosages. I got things just right so that you were too weak to be yourself anymore. But not so weak that you couldn’t suffer through it.

Remember that time you raped me? The first time? The one you apologized for? That was the last time you apologized for anything you did to me, to our children. You blamed your actions on the alcohol, but that was just a cover story. You always take whatever you can, whenever you think you can. I never forgave you for that. The insurance policy was my idea. Do you remember? No, of course not. You took the blood tests and I paid the premiums. So you wouldn’t think about it. I can’t believe I used to love you. You beat the love right out of me.

Tomorrow, they are going to pay out on the policy. George, John, Jr., Susan, Shelly, Michael and Tom are never going to have to cringe from you again. I’m glad I killed you. Now we have a chance at a real life. All the good you are ever going to do started the moment I decided you had been punished enough. I’ll never forgive you. I take no comfort from the fact that you are lying in the ground rotting. Your ugly face still haunts me. Your fists still pound me awake in the night. You voice still rattles around in my head. Sometimes, I wish I could kill you all over again, just to make sure you cannot come back.

Goodbye John. May you rot in hell. The children and I are going to the pound after we get the check. We’re going to get a dog no one wants. We’re going to name him Jack. He’s going to have a good life John. I’ll never come back here to visit your grave again. I hope it’s lonely where you are.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: dogs, Goodbye John, happiness, hemlock, love, murder, penfist, poison, revenge, short story, story

the world they made

May 5, 2013 by Pen 8 Comments

The dreamer worked carefully. His long, delicate fingers moved surely over the drawings and notes, adding a detail here, and a flair there. The black pen in his hands flew from point to point, and he occasionally brought the tip down in an emphatic motion. His lean arms flexed under the white lights mounted over the sleek metal of the standing desk where he toiled. Some trick of the light made particles of dust or some other matter shimmer from time to time around the workspace. The skin around his blue eyes wrinkled up as he leaned down to check a detail. As the dreamer looked up, the stress lines in his forward relaxed for a moment.

“What next love?”

The muse threw her hair back over her shoulders, an unconscious motion, one she did dozens of times a day. Her right hand came up to her face, and she pursed her lips. From across the room, she opened her mouth, then paused a moment. Her face lit up in a smile more real than the world itself.

“Can we have a talking goat?”

The dreamer considered. He flipped through several of the large drawings, concentrating. His brow went back into furrowed mode, and the black metal pen began to dance in his fingers. The pen did a roll, and a dip and then spun around in the air with a faint whistling sound. The dreamer’s left hand caught the pen in midair, stilling it for a half second. His eyes blinked. The air around his workspace sparkled. The dreamer drew in a breath, and the metal pen came to life again, its dance resuming.

“Yes,” he said finally. “We can have a talking goat. But we can only have one.”

The pen continued its dance, and the dreamer looked up, his blue eyes piercing and serious.

“Will you keep him company? Will you make sure he is happy? A talking goat needs care you know.”

The muse stepped a half step closer to her dreamer. Her body arched, she leaned in, and her lips pursed again.

“Of course love.”

She looked at her lover, the dreamer, and smiled.

“I’ll go make us lunch.”

The muse sashayed her way out of the room.

The dreamer forced himself to look away from her retreating form, and bent his head and focused, which was his wont. On the pages of his standing desk, he plotted and planned. The pen became a whirling dervish as ink flowed from its ball point tip. An hour passed, and the muse came back into the room, bearing fresh tomato soup with basil grown in the muse’s garden, and fresh homemade flaxseed bread slices covered in ghee butter.

The dreamer walked over to their table by the window. It looked out on the rooftop garden, high above a large metropolis where everything stayed busy all the time.

The dreamer stared into his muse’s eyes, which sometimes looked green, and sometimes looked brown, depending on the light.

“I think the clouds are perfect today,” he said between bites of his flaxseed bread. He white teeth showed just a bit when he looked at the muse. They never did any other time. She made him different, somehow.

“The clouds are perfect today. Let’s put them in.”

So the dreamer did, as soon as he had finished lunch and kissed his muse on her pale forehead, and then on warm, receiving lips. It was his ritual. One of so very many he had developed since the two of them began plotting together against the reality in which they found themselves.

“I have to focus today. Our time is short, my love.”

The muse smiled, a bit sadly.

“I know love,” she said.

“After you garden, work on the list of who you want to bring, and then we’ll go to the oncologist’s office.”

The dreamer kissed his muse one more time, and bent to his task again. His hand, and the pen it held, came to life. His lips spewed up unconscious words, in an almost prayer like fashion. As the muse gardened, he built a world where her cancer was not killing her. He made forests for her, and wrote in special trees, old ones, with magnificently thick trunks that were thousands of years old. He planned the walks they would take, the ones where he could pretend to be astonished by the fact that both their names appeared together in the bark 50 feet above the ground.

The dreamer’s forehead dripped with sweat as he planned the view outside their hillside home. He labored especially intensely on the verdant greens in the grasses his muse would see out the windows of their underground home built into the hill, with the wall of windows facing east. The waterfall that came to life under the command of his mind and hand, armed only with his pen and imagination, flowed down the hillside and through the interior courtyard of the safe nest the two of them had talked so much about. That last retreat that they were going to flee towards.

Later, they went to the oncologist, and the muse was swabbed with alcohol and dosed. After, she was much braver than her dreamer, as he sobbed and held her while she threw up into the toilet. When her uncontrollable heaves finally stopped, and his eyes were clear enough for him to see, she looked up into them, and held his face.

“I love you,” she said. “I always will.” Unable to speak, he simply looked back.

The next day, it rained, and the dreamer and his muse slept in. She was sick, but well enough to hold on when he held her. They spent an hour just facing each other, eyes locked, in an easy embrace. Then he cooked while she slept the sleep of drug induced exhaustion. The dreamer came back into the room with her eggs and yoghurt, but she was too ill to eat anything. He cried, and she comforted him. She slept again.

He worked desperately. They were able to eat lunch together by the window.

“I’m almost ready love,” he said to her, later that evening.

She smiled through her pain, and her eyes came alive. Then, she had to sleep again.

He worked all night, and went through another ink cartridge. The drawer where he kept the spares was still mostly full. The dreamer worked frenetically, like a man possessed. He only stopped to check on the muse in their bed.

On a cold, blustery afternoon a few days later, the dreamer and the muse greeted their friends. She was pale, which was her normal, but also frail looking, which they did not associate her with.

Shaka, the poet, was the most visibly affected by how sick she looked. The group had not gathered in two months, and the muse was much changed.

“I’m so ready,” Shaka said, and gave the muse one of his great, big bear hugs full of pure love.

The small group gathered around the dreamer’s table.

Melanie, the tall, ethereal actress, and Matthew, her shorter, more intense partner, stood side by side as always, their bodies crackling with the electricity they generated in the inch between them.

Jennifer, the naturopath, wanted to say a few words, but the group shushed her.

“Time for that later,” said Ned, who had been a childhood companion to the dreamer, and who had once saved his life during a storm.

The dreamer looked at his muse, and then at each of their friends. His eyes, which were always engaging, seemed now to be pulling energy from each of these people he loved.

“Are all of you ready?”

They were. The dreamer opened the plain, unstained wooden door behind and to the left of his desk.

Jennifer forgot she wanted to give a speech in the light that came through from the other side. Starting with Ned, each of them went through in single file, except for the muse and her dreamer, who stepped through last, holding hands.

Several years later, under a pink sunset so beautiful that the muse wept with joy, the dreamer toasted his friends on the hillside.

“We have been here five years,” he said. The group toasted. “I love each of you with all my heart, and I want to thank you joining us on this wonderful voyage.”

“This world you made sure does have tasty grass,” said the goat. The group toasted, and the muse, who looked so full of joy she was about to burst, hugged Billy while he happily chewed grass. Then she kissed the dreamer on his lips. His eyes shone at first, and then welled with tears of happiness.

“Thank you,” she said. He said it back.

The music started, and everyone danced in the courtyard by the waterfall while the full moon watched.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: cancer, dreams, garden, love, magic, muse, pen, penfist, short stories, short story, the hill, writing

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