On the dark marble counter
next to the unplugged microwave
it flops up and down
until I grab hold
of the undeniable truth
scale back its layers
gut its essence
and examine its innards
before I head-off
any misconception
that this has anything to do
with a fish.

Randy Lee White earned a Master in Arts, Major in English from UNC Charlotte in 2007. He lives in the Charlotte Area and is an avid reader. He enjoys hiking, golfing, and camping with the grandchildren. He has been published by Underwood Press. For additional information, visit the author’s website: www.randywhitenow.online.

Hosta
wins in the end.
It’s not tenacity,
not only.
A weed’s tenacious.

It’s the refusal to take
no
for an answer.

Would you like
to go out with me?
No.
Great! I’ll pick you up at seven.
(Three nights in a row.)
Why did you marry him?
He wanted it so much.

Hatchet hosta, douse roots
in boiling water laced with lye.
Hosta will feign defeat, then little
soldiers sprout in six days’ time.

Sprinkle paving stones atop.
The plant will circumvent,
bloom hardier, and lush.
It covers so much ground.

Transplant it, roughly,
to the dusty verge,
steep banked and dry.
Perfume with fumes,
Neglect all summer.

Next Spring, take compliments
on its behalf, behave as though
its spread were long intended.
Give it welcome. Sips of water.

Treat the strong as tender
as the weak.

Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry, and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com

            Kincaid only saw the whites of the creep’s eyes moving in the darkness toward the foot of his bed. His own eyes took time to adjust as he tried to move, to do anything – even reach for his gun as the creep lifted the blanket revealing his feet.

            In the morning, he would tell himself it was a dream. Surely, he had not seen the creep cut open his foot carefully removing each bone. How could he, even from the angle, it would’ve been awkward to see what the creep had been doing. Besides, there had been no pain. The morning revealed no scar. Nor had there been any blood on the sheets or the floor. It had to be a dream. At least, that’s what Kincaid told himself.

            The creep, finishing the first foot, moved to the other. Anger turned into sadness as the creep began to replace each bone with something else. The dreaded helplessness filled his heart as his head lulled back waiting for the morning sun to make the night go away.

            “You creep! I bet you ran background on her, didn’t you?”

            Kincaid lifted his hands in front of him, “No, not this time.”

            The radio squawked in their cruiser at a code which sounded like ‘582’. They both paused, Kincaid slowly reaching for it when someone else responded and he let his hand drop.

            “Nothin’ big happens Thursday.” Tee, his partner, said in his thick creole accent as he leaned his head back and looked up at the roof of the car. “When’s da date?”

            “Friday.”

            “’Morrow? After quittin’ time?”

            “Yes.”

            “She know you a cop?”

            “Yes.” Kincaid said not appreciating the interrogation.

            Partners were like brothers or at least they could be. He and Tee had been together longer than any duo in the department and that held some gravity. Tee had mentioned that it was Kincaid’s willingness to try and get along with anyone that had been the factor of them being together for so long.

            “She know you might be late?”

            “Yes mom. She’s a nurse. She knows what it’s like to not be able to get out on time.”

            “Don’t give me that shit. We’ve been together long enough. Bein’ a cop isn’t for everyone – twice true for cop’s wife.”

            “Yeah, I guess.” Kincaid said, his eyes following a boy walking alone with the hoodie up. He looked at the dash to see the temperature and thought, it could go either way. That’s how September felt sometimes. It was close to quitting time so it was close to school being out. His eyes followed the kid to see anything out of the ordinary. “I don’t want to marry her. I just want to….”

            “You do.”

            Kincaid turned away from the kid in the hoodie to look at Tee.

            “You don’t know it. You love being in love.”

            Those words drifted with Kincaid as he crawled into bed that night. The old maroon sweater tossed on the chair next to his gym clothes still gave off a musty odor from this evening’s workout. He worked out so he could eat whatever he wanted. Sweat on top of sweat, maybe it was time to do laundry.

            He did love being in love. Not that he would admit it. He had spent his high school years writing poetry. Poetry seemed like a way to express his need for love, but not a way to get a woman. The week he threw away his Pablo Neruda was also the week he got his first date. Single women don’t want love poems.

            He rolled over on his bed to his nightstand and looked at the printout. She was 25. A few years younger than him. That was ok. He didn’t want to be like Tee who was pushing forty on his third wife. She had no priors. Four addresses in the last 3 years. Might be something, might be nothing.

            He thought about her smile. Head cocked to the side as she tapped his badge and asked if it were real. Women liked the uniform. If she had been a thug, she’d be eating pavement. The flirting was nice. The name texted before he watched her walk away.

The number brought to the cell phone company. Routine call. Last name found. Background printed. He crumpled up the paper. Good thing he remembered to look at it before bed. If things went well, he did not want her finding it.

Kincaid’s eyes opened to the creaking door to see the creep’s silhouette in the dark doorway. Kincaid tried to find something to get a feel for the creep’s height. Something for him to get his measure in the morning as the paralysis took hold. The creep seemed short, but never stood close to anything that Kincaid could get a full measure. His head looked large on the small, almost cartoonish body. As he walked quickly, purpose and knife in hand.

            Kincaid’s mouth went dry. He felt it bob open probably looking like fish pulled out of the water about to be cleaned. His breathing became short bursts.

            Stabbing into his ankle, the creep cut from ankle to thigh. Kincaid felt a fiery pain surge through him. His hands clenched but could not raise them into fists. Tears came.

            In the morning, he would decide it was stress.  As he turned the light on in the bedroom before leaving, just as before and when he had first gotten up, no blood and no scar. What had the creep done with his bones? What had he put into his legs?

            His fingers rubbing his eyes closed. Stress, he told himself. Closing his eyes, not wanting to accept that someone might be drugging and torturing him, he saw the creep in his mind’s eye. The toothy grin as he moved from one leg to the other.  

            “Dis kills me wit dis job.” Tee said tapping two sugar packets.  

            “What? The kid asking you every day if you want donuts?” Kincaid smirked as Tee looked at him.

            “Nah, man. isn’t dat. Let him have fun. It’s waitin’. We come here every day waitin’ for da call. We don’t get called when dings are good. Only when bad. It givin’ me anxiety brotha.”

            “How long have you been doing this again?”

            “Comin’ on 15 years dis November.”

            “Yeah, what about trying to transfer departments or maybe another job?”

            “Nah, I like dis most days.” The radio squawked and Tee picked it up, “We on it.”

            Two miles up the road, Kincaid took a hard turn. The sirens were mute. Best not to make a scene as they pulled up to the house. They heard the yelling before they got to the front door. Tee went first, knocking hard on the door.

            “Hello Officers.” The door opened.

            Tee looked the man up and down before reaching for his gun. Kincaid caught just a glimpse as the man turned and ran away. His knuckles were covered in blood.

            “I got him!” Kincaid shouted charging past Tee.

            Kincaid flew out the backdoor and over the fence following the guy. His chest roared like an engine. He could see the man’s tactic, and it wasn’t a horrible one. The man was going to run around the block to his car. He felt his legs move faster and stronger than they ever had. Maybe that time of the treadmill was paying off.

            Knocking into a kid on a bicycle, the man kept going. Even as the kid was halfway back on his feet, Kincaid easily jumped over both the kid and the bike. When Kincaid tackled the man, their cruiser was in sight. He heard sirens in the distance. He assumed it was for an ambulance as he yanked the man’s hands behind his back.

            The man was out of breath, panting wildly, as Kincaid walked him to the cruiser. Kincaid smiled. He was careful not to say anything. Other cops would mumble threats or something nasty to the guy. That had never been Kincaid’s style. The smile was gone by the time he got within sight of the house.

            He closed the back of the cruiser door as the ambulance pulled up. The paramedics ran up, but seeing Tee’s face in the door, he knew it was useless.

            “Nice catch.” Tee said as he walked up to the front door.

            Kincaid nodded.  

            “You know when you turn 30, you won’t be able do dat no more.”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            “Seriously dude, I ain’t never seen nobody jump over a fence like dat. It was like you had robot legs or something.”

            The line wouldn’t return to him until the next day or two. When he was quiet and thinking about the creep. He rubbed his face feeling tired. What was happening to him?

            “I’m sorry the date didn’t work out.” Elen said as she smiled into her phone.

            “It’s ok.” Kincaid said laying on his couch, looking into his phone. “Work happens. I’m a cop, I get it.”

            They smiled at each other until a small awkwardness crept in.

            “This was good.” Kincaid said finally, “I’m glad we still kind of got a date.”

            “Yes.” She frowned. “I should get back.”

            He could see the small foil in front of her where her sandwich had been. Smiling as she rose to throw away her trash, he watched her body, thinking it would’ve been nice to see it in person. She paused, only neck to hip visible, before leaning down. She blew a kiss before hanging up, “Text me.”

            Walking around the house, he checked every window and door. Everything was locked. The house seemed quieter after the last hour of talking. He looked unconsciously for any sign of an intruder.

            He crawled into bed thinking of laying flour on the floor so he might catch a footprint. Maybe that was silly. But by the time he thought he should just do it; he was already too far into sleep for action.

            “I bet if I ate any of your cookin’, I’d get food poisonin’ too.” Tee said as he looked down at the radar detector. “At least, we don’t do this alone.”

            “I didn’t cook for the department.”

            “Yeah.” Tee laughed.

            Kincaid rolled his eyes. Looking for speeders wasn’t exactly their beat. The potluck, which Kincaid had contributed a dish, had taken out the traffic enforcement department with a bad case of food poisoning. A local newstation got wind of it. Kincaid, Tee, and a few others were reassigned temporarily to keep the speeders at bay.

            “I can cook.” Kincaid said after a minute.

            “Sure, you can.” Tee said. “How dat nurse?”

            “She’s good. We’ve had a few little meetings. Nothing big.”

            “No big date. She’s stingin’ you along?”

            “Nah, we’ve hadn’t been able to do a date date. We’re trying for this coming weekend.”

            “Ha! Love happens or it doesn’t. It’s all in da timin’. Perfect timin’ – anyone can get together.”  

            “Who cooked the food that made everyone sick?” Elen laughed as they walked hand in hand through the mostly closed downtown area.

            “I don’t have any idea. Most of them are back now, thankfully.”

            “Sounds like a tough week.” Elen turned to Kincaid. They could hear music coming from the small brewery up the road. “I bet it was your dish”

            “My dish?”

            “What did you cook?”

            “Salmon.”

            “Salmon! Now I have no doubt, you made everyone sick!”

            “What?”

            Her eyes narrowed. She investigated his face. He leaned in for a kiss when she drew back. Her hands on both cheeks as she looked deeply into his face. “You didn’t make salmon.”

            “What?”

            “No. Nothing so fancy.”

            “I’m insulted.”

            “No, you’re not.” She smiled.

            “Then what did I bring.”

            “You’re not exactly a chef.”

            “No. I’d like to be.”

            “You’d like to be?”

            “Yes, sure. Why not?”

            “You brought something simple.”

            “Simple?”

            “I’ve seen what you eat for dinner.”

            “And?” Kincaid laughed.

            “Probably a dessert. Something store bought.”

            “I am appalled….” He said before smiling and nodded, “At how insightful you are.”  

            In the darkness, he lay awake listening to her gentle breathing. When he thought of it, he began to watch the door. It wasn’t that he had forgotten the creep. He simply had accepted it as a dream. No proof. No evidence. He was a cop. He worked scenes that investigators painstakingly searched. There just wasn’t any to find. No scar. No blood. There wasn’t even blood when the creep cut him open.

            He heard the door creek. Turning his head to look, he saw nothing. But in the hollow doorway, he could feel the creep watching. But only that. Maybe Elen was a way to keep him safe. Or maybe she was in danger too.

            Research for a cop is different. You have more access. Sometimes it’s a matter of the right words being strung together. Less obstacles to jump through. Different programs designed to put you on the right path.

            Kincaid waited for Elen to stir. As he leaned over to kiss her, he flexed his hand, he wondered why it felt different. He paused mid-embrace to look at his hand before turning and looking at the empty open doorway.

            “What?”

            “Nothing.” He said as he looked for a scar.

            She rose slowly and while he busied himself getting ready two hours early in the dark, she would pause and embrace him. Finally, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back.

            “What?”

            “I need to go.”

            “Okay.” 

            “I’m sorry. I just…”

            “You’re fine.”

            “I can’t wait to see you again.” He studied her face hoping she felt the same.

            The department was busier than he had expected. The overnight shift wrapping up loose ends so they could leave on time. People waiting to punch out.

            Kincaid thankfully found his desk unoccupied. The shared desk system was easy with separate shifts unless you came in early. He tapped on the keyboard turning on the screen before looking to see if anyone was paying attention.

            The Wit App was relatively new. Kincaid had found it useful in the few times where he needed a picture to match the witness’s description. Bringing the witness into the station and following the prompts helped suspects get established.   

            He typed in the initial boxes with fake information. Fake witness address and name and number. Then he entered in the approximate height which wasn’t a horrible guess considering he was horizontal when he saw the creep. Then he typed in the body build before selecting one that would politely be called Big Bang Theory casting requirements. Except maybe the creep was thinner? Big head. Wide eyes. Small body. Was that right?

            It wasn’t perfect. But he considered it was close. He thought about making the teeth look sharper. Was that real? Were the creep’s teeth sharp or was his mind just making them sharp?

            “Hey bub, what are you doing in this early?”

            “Someone has to do real police work around here instead of sleeping all night.” Kincaid said before turning around.

            “How you doin’, Kincaid.” Josh waited for Kincaid to stand and give up the desk.

            “Good, Josh.” Kincaid turned back to the computer.

            “Making a sketch of one of the Roswell aliens!”

“Alright, well, I’ll see you later.” He could feel Josh pause, staring before relenting and turning around. Kincaid stared at the image. It did look like one of those old alien pictures. Was the picture accurate?

            Kincaid typed a few notes in the margins of his sketch. Things about the teeth and the eyes that he didn’t want to forget. Then he right clicked, copying the image before pulling up the mugshot database to paste it in.

            The circle began to form as the computer took the image of the creep and tried matching it. Kincaid leaned back in the chair looking over his shoulder. He didn’t see anyone. He thought to go get a cup of coffee, but decided it was best to not leave the computer. Josh had made him paranoid.

            He pulled his phone out and played the same bubble popping game he had been playing for years. When the circle disappeared and a box appeared saying, “NO MATCHES FOUND”.

            “I can’t believe you’re dragging me into this.” Kincaid said giving Elen a little nudge.

            “You’ll love it.”

            He smiled instead of asking outright how she would know. It was best not to argue. Just accept. As they walked through the double doors, the room felt more like a science laboratory. Each station appeared to have an oven and a fridge with cooking utensils.

            “Anywhere that’s open.” The woman in front of the class said.

            Elen and Kincaid found a station and talked while other people began filling in.

            “Good evening, because of the holiday season upon us, tonight we’re going to learn how to cook a turkey. This is usually done once or twice a year, but it can be fun to do anytime and have leftovers for a week if you’re especially busy. Now, there’s a lot of good ways to season the turkey or brine it overnight before you cook, but we’re going to do the quick and easy way. We’ll also make a few sides while the turkey cooks.”

            “I just go to my mom’s for thanksgiving.” Kincaid whispered.

            Elen jabbed him with her elbow.

            “Okay, so first we begin to prep the turkey. This is more than just seasoning, but we need to spread the legs open and begin to pull out any gizzards and….”

            “What’s a gizzard?” Someone asked.

            “It’s basically the turkey belly. You can eat them if you want, but most people just throw them away. There might also be giblets in a package in the turkey that we can use to make gravy. We need to pull it out first before we can prepare the turkey for cooking.”

Elen grabbed the turkey’s legs and pulled them apart. There was a large crack as she did it and Kincaid felt his stomach catch in his throat. He watched as she reached into the turkey. Flashes of the creep rushed his mind as Elen carefully pulled out the gizzard and found a small semi-frozen bag of giblets.

Pull them out to prepare the turkey for eating, Kincaid thought. Kincaid looked down at his legs and then his hands. Pull out what you don’t want so that what goes in is for cooking.

“When da last time you hit the gym?” Tee asked poking Kincaid’s belly.

“Uh, I’ve been putting it off lately.”

“Busy wit da lady?”

Kincaid smiled, but truth be told, he didn’t know why he hadn’t been hitting the gym.

“You don’t want to hear dis, but babies and cats get fat when happy. We no different. After thurty, the fat harder to lose.”

“Thanks partner.”

            When Kincaid’s eyes opened, he saw the creep’s smile showing all his teeth. Kincaid couldn’t move. A brief reflective flash that he knew instinctively was a knife as the blanket was pulled back and Kincaid’s arm jerked forward.

            Kincaid felt disconnected as the creep worked. He wanted to cry out, but felt a tired resignation, hearing a crack that sounded just the turkey had the week before. He met the creep’s eyes more than once. Seeing the glee, he closed his own unable to bare the sight.

            When the creep was finished removing all his bones, what would happen next?

            By morning, the feeling of dread had dissipated but not completely. He should tell somebody. If only because what if it wasn’t crazy. If he told Tee or any other cop, it would just lead to either more questions or someone looking at him like he was crazy. Nor would his family be a good outlet. His mother, half-crazy in a nursing home, was the only one who would’ve believed him. But even then, believe what?

            He admitted to himself after thinking through people in the medical field that he was just eliminating everyone but Elen. He pulled out his phone and texted her.

            LUNCH?

                SURE, TIME?

                WHATEVER WORKS FOR YOU.

                LIKE HOSPITAL FOOD? NOON?

                C U THEN

            “What are you saying? Is this a dream or do you think this is really happening?”

            “I…” Kincaid looked down at the half-eaten hamburger. “These hamburgers are pretty good. Maybe I should grab a few for dinner.”

            “Just because they’re hospital food doesn’t mean they’re healthy.”

            “But it’s food in a hospital. Shouldn’t it…”

            “You’re avoiding my question.” Elen, her no nonsense nurse demeanor coming out, placed her hand on Kincaid’s.

            “I feel like it’s real, but I know it doesn’t make sense.”

            “It’s impossible.”

            “Sure. I know that. There’s no physical evidence. There’s no proof.”

            “Why haven’t you done more like set up a camera or what did you say you thought about doing? Flour on the floor?”

            “He doesn’t come regularly. It’s not like, he’s there every night.”

            “But he’s there often enough?”

            “Maybe I’m afraid of what that might mean if I do set up something for proof.”

            “What….” Elen paused as the words came out slowly, “What do you think it might mean?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “It’s easy to lie to yourself.”

            “Than what?” Kincaid snapped. “Either I’m lying to myself or I’m crazy!”

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “Maybe this was a mistake.” He took the printout of the sketch that he had handed her before folding it back into his pocket. “Maybe it’s just stress or…” He started to rise when she reached out and grabbed his arm.

            “Why not come by tomorrow afternoon and I can see about giving you an x-ray?”

            “I…?”

            “I’ve seen them done a thousand times. I know what to do and I’ve seen enough x-rays to be able to tell is something if wrong. We’ll just look at your legs.”

            Kincaid looked down feeling grateful but strangely more afraid. “I’m sorry I raised my voice.”

“You’ll do it?” She held his hand. “You came to me. Not your partner or anyone else. Let me help.”

“Okay.”  

            Had he felt time pressing or was it the creep? Again, he thought of the turkey as his chest cavity lay exposed. The creep dutifully leaning over him working. The horrible part, as a tear rolled down his cheek, was the sound as the creep bent over him working.

            Tee leaned against the cruiser watching as Kincaid walked up from the convenience store. Kincaid, holding a bag of food, turned his head to see what Tee was nodding towards. Leaning against the side of the building, a kid had his hoodie up blocking his face.

            “What?”

            “Don’t know. Got a feelin’.”

            Kincaid walked up to the kid. No hesitation and didn’t even look to see if Tee followed. The kid tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Whatever the kid had, was in his hoodie.

            “How ya doin’?” Kincaid asked.

            “I didn’t do nothin’.” The kid said crossing his arms in defiance.

            “What do you have in your pocket?”

            “I don’t have to show you shit!” The kid said.

            The back of Kincaid’s hand made an echo as it bounced across the kid’s face knocking the hood off. The kid slowly pulled out a lighter. Kincaid grabbed it then grabbed the back of the kid’s hoodie and tossed the kid forward onto his stomach. The kid scrambled to get up when Kincaid started to shout, “What else….?”

            “You okay, pa’tner?” Tee’s deep and calming voice seemed to put Kincaid at ease.

            “Yeah.”

            The kid turned around and looked at them. “Watchu still doin’ here?” Tee said. As the kid started running, Tee turned to Kincaid, “What was dat about?”

            “You had a feeling.”

            “No. You’ve never done nothin’ like dat.”

            “Kid needed a lesson.”

            “I lost my temper today over nothing.”

            Elen paused and looked at Kincaid laying on a hospital table. Her lips pursed together of all the things she could or maybe should say. In truth, her initial reservations about him were wrong. She was happy she had stuck it out. Maybe he’s just stressed. He wasn’t the slob she saw on those first video chats where she could see the dirty clothes and unhealthy food.

            “What do you see?” He asked finally as she stared blankly at the x-ray on the screen.

            Her eyes clicked back into focus.

            “What?”

            She looked the x-ray up and down. “I… I’m not a doctor. I just…”

            “What?”

            “I don’t really see anything that looks out of the ordinary.”

            Kincaid’s shoulders slumped. Was it good that there was no proof? He was changing. He felt it. Maybe he was being prepared like a turkey. When the creep was finished, what then?

            “So, it’s all in my head.” He said finally.

            Elen’s finger touched part of the xray. A part of the bone that glowed a little brighter than the others. Nothing substantial. Nothing that meant she should say anything. After all, it was crazy talk. This was to try and calm him down.

            “Kin, I think you’re okay. Stress does strange things to the body. Sometimes we don’t really know how or why, it just is. The mind is powerful. It might be good to get, I don’t know, some meds to help you take it easy a little. Something to help with the stress. Especially with Christmas around the corner, maybe it’s good to take the edge off a little.”

            “What about a bone biopsy?”

            Elen couldn’t help the laugh and instantly regretted it. “I think that’s a little excessive. Maybe try working through your stress first. I know you said you exercise, how’s that going?”

            The word ‘excessive’ echoed as he walked down the basement steps into his makeshift gym. The poster on the wall, Rocky Boaboa with his arms lifted in victory perched in front of his treadmill. He touched the treadmill seeing a small layer of dust. He wiped it off before going upstairs and closing the door.

            Wiping a few beads of sweat from his head, he rose and saw the thermostat was set to 74. Maybe he was coming down with something. He took off his shirt feeling his body begin to burn up.

            He went to toss the shirt of the floor when he paused and put it in the hamper. He crawled into bed. Fevers create hallucinations, he reminded himself. Knowing that he was just as likely to hallucinate the creep as much as anything else.

            He grabbed his phone to call Elen. She’s a nurse, maybe she can…. His thoughts trailed off. ‘Excessive’ she had said and laughed. Besides, feeling his body burning up even more, he probably caught something at the hospital.

            As he laid his head back on the pillow, beads of sweat began to soak it. He took a deep breath feeling the exhaustion hit. Holding his phone, his hands shook as the door opened.

            The creep walked slowly into the room. Kincaid tried to move, just to call someone, anyone. His hands trembled before going still. The creep bent over him smelling before opening his mouth to bite into Kincaid’s arm. The teeth grazing the phone case causing it to crack as it fell to the floor.

            Kincaid’s mouth opened wide to let out a muted scream as the creep grinned his bloodied smile walking to the foot of the bed. Kincaid shook as he tried to remember his training. He was going to go into shock soon. He had to act. He had to do something. The creep paused at the foot of the bed. Their eyes locked. Kincaid felt the first bite and his eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling.

            Tee lit a cigarette waiting by the cruiser. Kincaid was always on time. At least except for the past few weeks. When he finally rounded the corner, Tee flicked the cigarette on the ground.

            “I tried to call you.” Tee said as Kincaid walked up.

            Kincaid pulled out his phone. Part of the case was cracked. He shrugged, “Didn’t see it.”

            Kincaid nodded as he got into the passenger seat.

            Tee walked around to the driver’s side. “I guess I drive t’day.”

            “Let’s go.”

Kris Green lives in Florida with his wife, two-year old son, and new baby daughter. His first story was published in 2018 through Morpheus Tales. In the last two years, he has published ten short stories and two poems.

There’s an unexplainable truth to the simple fact that life transforms from an eternity of days into a flash of a mere blink, that can not be avoided, can not be denied. I couldn’t neglect this fact when I saw the eyes of the man who I knew so well, yet seemed like a legend from the days of old. His appearance although like that of a beggar, invoked no pity, but revolt in which I knew I’d join in a heartbeat, if he’d ask me. But I also knew, he’d never do so. His tall posture had shrunk in the two years that I had not seen him, his clothes were dusty, his hair gray with dust, too, and his hands steady, but grainy with dirt. He had become thinner and I could see his jawline had become finer, his lips smaller, his cheeks had sunken, and his eyes seemed to have lost their almond shape, as the rest of his features had become more prominent, leaving his eyes somewhere else. The bright green that I remembered, was almost missing in some kind of a misty, almost foggy gray.  When he spoke, his voice felt like a faraway thunder of a storm that brew in a distant landscape. I saw the flash and felt almost transported in every corner that he had been during this time.

“I’m almost done.” He said as he held a glass of water that the waiter brought for him.

I looked at him and didn’t speak. The whole truth lay bare before me and there was nothing I could ask.

He had been away, when the unrest had started in the city. His wife and daughter were home alone and were attacked by a band of criminals who wounded his wife and kidnapped his daughter. I was the doctor on call that night and I took care of his wife. His daughter was found dead a week later in a stream, on the path to the mountain. When she was brought for examination, the medical examiner found she had been raped by twelve men. She was only sixteen years old. Same age as my daughter. I was enraged, furious – not with justice, but with a big “why” that I didn’t ask because I wanted an answer, but because it should not have been there in the first place. That “why” should have never existed. When he came to pick up his child, I knew well that he would do what I would do. He wouldn’t seek justice, or revenge. No. Things are simpler when one loses a child. One goes mad with grief, and that grief becomes the only purpose of life. He disappeared in that goal, and I only heard rumors of where he’d been. One time I heard he was in the north, another in the south, another out of the country – and all this time, I knew, he was pursuing his grief.

He drank the water. We stood on high stools near the bar and looked at the men who were playing pool. Then, he got a pen out of a pocket of his jacket, gave it to me, and smiled. “Here. Keep this to write prescriptions.” He then shook my hand and I saw him walk out. I felt like I knew, but often we don’t believe what we know. Knowledge is too unbelievable, and we choose to believe what we don’t know. 

I played for another hour and went home. I was twirling the pen in my hand and felt as if I was playing with something holy. I looked at it as I walked and realized it was a simple BIC pen, with very little ink left. “I guess I’ll write two or three prescriptions with this.” I thought and then felt as if my words choked my brain.  There was the second “why” that I knew should not have existed, but the rage was gone, and the fury was but a soft sigh that had gotten used to the time that had passed by. When I got home, my daughter told me I had to go to the hospital. She was white with what seemed both joy and fear.

“Do you know what has happened?” I asked.

“I think the man whose daughter was raped, was found dead.” She said almost stuttering for words. I could sense she wanted to say more, but I left.

There was his life flashing before me, yet again. The knowledge of what I didn’t want to believe was now impossible to neglect. I rushed to the hospital and when I got there the police were also talking with the M.E. about time of death. In the span of over an hour they had found twelve bodies – and one suicide.

I put my hands in my pockets and felt the pen again. I knew, I was his note.

Aida Bode is a poet and writer, whose works have been published in a variety of online and print magazines including, The Drabble, Silver Birch Press, Neuro Logical Magazine, Prelude, 34th Parallel, Transcendent Zero Press, West Texas Literary Review, Three Line Poetry, The Raven’s Perch, Clay Literary, Necro Magazine.

She’s authored/translated the novel David and Bathsheba, two poetry volumes, Rated and True Cheese, and a quotes collection, A Commuter’s Eye View. Aida holds a MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University.

Aida is a Pushcart Nominee.

When the Ghost

of my husband deigns to roll over
next to me in bed, or grabs a mosquito
out of the air with his ever-quick fingers
leaving a round drop of blood on the white sheets,
or presumes to tickle the sole
of my foot with the feather of his breath,
or walks to the window to pontificate
on how stars twinkle but planets don’t
I simply cast him that withering look
that all wives possess, the one that turns husbands
to dust and I blow him away, making sure
to do so before our son sees

Lyndsey Kelly Weiner is a graduate of Stonecoast MFA and teaches writing at Syracuse University. She blogs at haikuveg.com.

The first time I saw the man in the old wheelchair he was parked on the sidewalk near the entrance to The Gilded Oak. Rasps and croaks escaped his throat while he scraped out nonsensical lyrics. Gnarled fingers wrapped around a paper coffee cup and coins jingled in time with the song. A smell like wet dog drifted from his toothless grin. One pant leg was balled and tied at the knee.

I put my head down as I passed. The hotel doorman seemed to notice my unease. He stepped out around a cement pillar onto the sidewalk and shook his finger at the man in the chair.

“Come on, pal. Can’t be doing that here.”

The singing stopped and the man in the chair grunted. I heard the chair’s rusty brakes release followed by the whump-whump of the tires rolling over cracks in the sidewalk. The doorman went back to his post. His silver moustache twitched while he held the door for me. I nodded my appreciation and gave him a dollar.

I had three nights in the city; the type of business trip my ex-wife, Cheryl, used to hate. The higher ups at Brooknan Property Group only cared about making money and the core strategy was always the same: find a property with a desperate owner and snatch it for the lowest possible price. A company wide conference where we heard the same thing over and over seemed pointless. There was a time when I looked forward to the trips as a chance to blow off steam but that was before Cheryl left.

When I finally got to my room, I didn’t feel like leaving. A day of meetings and monotonous presentations had taken their toll. I loosened my tie and kicked my shoes onto the purple carpet. The mini bar caught my attention; all expenses paid did have its perks. I found a small bottle of brandy and emptied it into a paper cup like the ones they give you to rinse at the dentist. Then I stepped out onto my balcony and breathed the late winter air.

The Gilded Oak sat near the bottom of a steep hill and my third-floor balcony overlooked a street lined with shops and restaurants. I could just make out the pedestrians crossing the intersection at the top of the hill. To my right was an arcade and a place that made fudge. Then the main street ran down to a bridge that crossed an impressive river. Ice covered the embankment that led to the river’s edge and a large yellow sign warned pedestrians to stay clear.

I sipped my brandy and looked out to the sidewalk directly across the street. The man in the wheelchair was back.

His arms pumped furiously to get the chair up the hill in an impressive display of upper body strength. I could see his face reddening with exertion in the fading light. His eyes shone with fierce determination.

One of his wheels lost traction near the top of the hill. The wheel spun and the chair veered towards traffic.

I found myself clenching the railing.

Somehow, he corrected himself. At the top of the hill he stopped and wiped his forehead. He reached into a pouch at the back of the chair. I could make out a brown paper bag that stayed pressed to his face for a long minute. I started to lose interest.

He put the bottle back and suddenly wheeled out into the middle of the road. The chair stopped in the left turn lane and oncoming traffic swerved around him from both sides.

He’s going to kill himself, I thought.

I couldn’t look away.

He spun the chair so it faced downhill and whooped loudly enough that I could hear from down the hill. The chair shot forward. His arms pumped mercilessly until momentum took over. The skinny tires hissed and sprayed up twin trails of moisture. He was flying.

Right below me, where the road started to narrow, a car swerved sharply to avoid him. The driver honked and the man in the chair cackled. He kept picking up speed. The chair lurched and shuddered when it left the pavement.

I could see the ice warning sign at the river’s edge.

That’s his plan. He’s going to drown himself.

Somehow, the chair skidded to a stop on the frozen grass right before the icy downhill. I shook my head in disbelief. The man in the chair clapped his hands together and laughed through his gummy smile. After catching his breath, he turned around and started back up the hill.

He didn’t make it to the top. A siren wailed and flashing blue and red lights lit up the night. A police car pulled out from a lone side street just up from me. The man in the chair made no attempt to flee.

An officer with slicked back hair stepped from the car and opened the back door.  The man in the chair tilted his upper half to the side. The officer picked him up easily and set him in the backseat. With a practiced motion, the officer folded up the wheelchair and laid it in the trunk. The car pulled away from the sidewalk and made a right turn at the top of the hill.

I spent the rest of the evening like I’d spent most nights since the divorce was finalized. I poured a second drink and flopped down on the bed. My mind drifted back to Cheryl as I aimlessly flipped through TV channels. She hadn’t just hated the business trips; she’d hated my job. More accurately, she would say she hated what the job was doing to me.  She couldn’t see that the executive money was too good to pass up.

In the morning I showered and shaved. The hotel soap seemed to leave a fine film on my skin and the shampoo smelled cheap. I locked my door and checked that my tie was cinched tight. A young family left their room a few doors from me. A mother and father with a little girl.

The parents looked tired but smiled when their daughter asked about plans for the day. The little girl wore pink pajamas. Her hair was tied in pigtails with a red bow. She ran her fingers along the wallpaper on the way to the elevator and smiled like staying in a hotel was the greatest thing that could ever happen. I found myself wondering what life would have been like if I’d had a child with Cheryl.

The little girl looked up at me while we waited for the elevator. “I like your tie.” Her dad squeezed her shoulder.

I smiled. “And I like your hair.”

She giggled and tucked in behind her dad’s leg.

In the lobby I grabbed a bagel and coffee. I made my way to the front doors and cursed the fact that the conference center was two miles away. The doorman nodded at me when I passed through. Outside, I sipped the coffee while I waited for a cab. I grimaced. The coffee tasted burnt and bitter.

I looked around the concrete pillars to check for a cab and was surprised to see the man in the wheelchair parked in the same spot I’d seen him the day before. He waved his cup and sang loudly. A woman walking by gave him a quarter and he flashed his gums.

I turned back to the doorman. “Who is that?”

He followed my gaze with his beady eyes. “That? That’s Turbo.”

“Turbo?”

“Have you watched him go down the hill?”

I nodded. “Fitting. He trying to kill himself when he does that?”

The doorman shook his head. “Says he’s practicing.”  

“Practicing for what?”

“No idea. No one really knows much about him. He’s a vet I think. Cornered me once. Told the same story five times in five minutes. Said he found a wedding ring in the sand while he was in the desert. Took the ring home with him. Says it told him to come here. He’s been causing problems for a while now.”

I watched Turbo sing. His eyes were vacant and wandering. The intensity I’d seen while he rode up the hill was gone. “Are there no shelters?”

“Sure there are. Trouble is he’ll never stay more than a night.” The doorman smirked and added, “Says the ring tells him this is where he needs to be. Right on this hill at all times.”

A cab pulled up and cut the conversation short. The doorman opened the back seat for me and waved as I slid in.

We spent the first part of the day in an impressive conference hall listening to board members give drawn out inspirational speeches. After a catered lunch, we broke into smaller focus groups.

. The last seminar was led by a chubby man with a goatee who introduced himself as Vincent. I found myself looking at my watch while Vincent spoke and was surprised when he called my name.

“Mr. Conlin, your office has performed consistently well in recent years. I’d love to hear your perspective.”

“On?”

He seemed perturbed that I hadn’t been paying attention. “What’s the most important thing you look for when considering a potential candidate?”

That was easy. “Drive.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Vincent wasn’t going to let me off. I leaned forward in the folding chair. “I look for someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes. Someone who knows their purpose and just does it.”

“What questions do you ask to determine whether someone possesses these attributes?”

I recalled the look in Turbo’s eyes when he willed his chair up the hill. “You don’t ask anything. A person like that? It’s in their eyes.”

There was still light left when I got back to the Gilded Oak. I was relieved to see that someone had restocked the mini bar. I poured a rye and then stepped onto the balcony. There was no sign of Turbo and I wondered if he’d already been thrown in the drunk tank.

A family stepped out of the arcade down the street. It was the same people I’d run into that morning. The little girl’s hair was still up in pigtails. She held a big pink ball and bubbled with excitement. The family headed down the sidewalk towards the river.

Then I noticed Turbo rolling in from the side street. He started climbing the sidewalk. I thought I was about to see a repeat of the previous evening’s performance. The intensity was back in his eyes and he looked ready for battle.

A shout near the bottom of the hill grabbed my attention. The little girl’s father was sprinting. Her mother screamed. I saw the girl’s pink ball rolling down by the river. The little girl was chasing it with her arms out in front of her.

She passed the warning sign for the ice.

I felt sick.

The girl’s father tried to close the distance. He wasn’t fast enough.

A hissing sound cut through the air. Turbo. He was riding down the hill at breakneck speed. The wheelchair blew past the girl’s father and Turbo skidded off the road at the same moment the girl hit the ice.

Her feet flew out from under her and she landed on her back. She started sliding down the hill and let out an agonizing cry.  Her small arms swung frantically in an attempt to find something to grab. The look on her face was one of pure terror. Then, she disappeared over the edge.

The girl’s mother cried hysterically. Her dad screamed her name while he ran.

“Emily! Emily!”

Ice crackled. Turbo hit the embankment at full speed. His chair spun until one of the tires caught an edge and he flipped violently. Turbo flew through the air and crashed down hard. His head smacked the ice. Turbo didn’t stop.

He dug his bare fingers into the ice and pulled himself down the hill. Momentum took over and he dropped over the edge.

I couldn’t see anything. Every sound in the city seemed to disappear. I held my breath.

The girl’s father reached the ice and managed to keep his balance on his way to the edge. He was shouting and holding his arms over the drop.

The girl’s head popped up. Her blonde hair was soaked and her face was bright red. The father stretched as far as he could and managed to grab the back of her coat. He pulled her up the rest of the way and then laid her on the ice. When she was safe, he leaned out over the edge again.

“Take my hand!”

The girl’s father stayed like that for a long minute. When he finally looked up his face was white. He had a hand over his mouth. The little girl’s crying seemed to jar him. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her then scooped her into his arms. The mother reached the ice and staggered out to them. Sirens wailed at the top of the hill.

Turbo’s faded blue wheelchair was still on its side. Empty.

* * *

I was still thinking about Turbo weeks later. One morning, I stepped off the train on my way to the office. A young man sat on the platform wildly strumming an out of tune guitar. His singing was loud and off-key. It was the smile on his face that stopped me.

An image of Turbo flashed in my head. I saw him jingling his paper cup and flashing his toothless grin. The young man playing guitar finished his song and I knelt down and put a five in his open case. He gave me a nod while I walked away.

As I stepped off the platform onto the crowded sidewalk, I found myself whistling the tune the young man had been playing. I didn’t know the name of the song; but I wanted to remember it.

I made up a name.

Turbo’s Song.

Tyler Koke is an author and musician from Toronto, Canada. He has a degree in History from Trent University. Through his experiences as a travelling musician and his many day jobs, he has gained a unique perspective into people. He attempts to explore humanity and emotion in his works.

The door to the elevator slid open and a man in a black suit stepped out. An older gentleman in a dark green cardigan sweater was approaching it from down the hall. He stopped walking upon seeing the other, who turned to face him. Neither moved for a moment but merely looked at each other.

“So, you have come,” the man in the cardigan said quietly. His shoulders folded slightly in upon his chest as he made the observation.

“Yes, Dr. Rovek, I have come,” responded the man in the suit. The tone of his quiet words was as starched as the white collar of his shirt.

“I was going to the coffee shop,” Rovek gestured weakly toward the elevator with the copy of The New Yorker he held folded in his hand.

“You’ll have to miss brunch today, Dr. Rovek.”

The doctor pursed his lips to the side and relaxed them again as he exchanged gazes with the man from the elevator. The man’s eyes had a polished look to them as if the light blue irises were hard spheres of glass suspended in liquid.

“Must it be today?” The doctor broke eye contact and looked over the man’s shoulder to the window at the end of the hallway. Sunlight poured in and created a bright trapezoid on the beige and green islimi-patterned carpet. “It’s a very nice day out.”

“It must be today.” The man ran his hands down the lapel lines of his suit, straightening it on his spare frame. It appeared to be silk and was finely tailored. The half Windsor knot in the red tie was perfectly positioned. “This morning,” he added.

Rovek pursed his lips to the side again. He took in a deep breath and let it out. When he had deflated, his shoulders seemed a bit more stooped. He turned and walked back down the hallway. The man in the black suit followed. The dark wood of the paneled walls was interrupted by three doors before the two reached the one marked with the number 275. Rovek carefully slid his key into the lock and then turned it with an abrupt motion. The mechanism clunked rebelliously. The man in the suit flinched slightly.

“It sticks sometimes, “ Rovek supplied.  “Do you mind if I make a pot of tea first?” he asked once he and the man were inside his apartment. “It relaxes me.”

“Fine. Don’t take too long about it.” The man did not sit, but simply stood three steps within the small foyer.

“I cannot make water boil faster than it boils,” Rovek said. He moved into the small kitchen and put the kettle on. “Would you like anything?”

“No.” The man rubbed his hands together idly. His fingers were long and very pale. In fact, the pallor of his skin was noteworthy. “Thank you.”

Rovek took a single blue and black-flecked mug from the cupboard and dropped a teabag into it, making certain that the string hung outside and directly opposite the handle. The man stayed near the door but watched each move the doctor made.

“Why don’t you sit.” Rovek gestured toward the round mahogany table attended by two matching chairs with maroon Victorian style cushions. A small vase rested in the middle of the table but it was empty. Two doilies lay in stark contrast against the dark wood, but the table showed several faded rings from misplaced cups.

The man looked at the chairs and the intervening floor space as if measuring the distance to them. With four steps he crossed the space to the table. He chose the chair closest to the door, turned it slightly so that it faced the doctor, and sat. For several minutes Rovek watched the kettle on the stove and the man in the suit watched Rovek.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Rovek said.

“Yes, I do. And you know why it must be this way, Dr. Rovek.”

“You could ask me to do something else.”

“The time for other options has passed. You knew it would come to this.”

The kettle began to make a slight hiss. Rovek opened one cupboard, stared into it for a moment, then closed it and opened another. He took out a small jar with a screw-on lid and set it alongside the blue mug. Then he pulled at a drawer. It caught halfway and he jiggled it until it opened fully. It made a metallic clattering.

“There is always a choice,” he said.

The man in the suit looked at him steadily but said nothing. Rovek took a small spoon with a long slender handle from the drawer. He did not put it down on the counter.

“Have you spoken with any others?” Rovek asked, turning back to the man. He was holding the spoon like a small wand. “Made arrangements for… for after?”

“Yes,” the man replied. “Everything has been taken care of. You needn’t worry.”

The kettle began to whistle very quietly and the steam made a smudge of white in the space above the stove. Rovek watched how quickly it faded into nothingness.

“It will take about an hour,” Rovek supplied.

The man nodded knowingly, “So you have said.”

Rovek pursed his lips to the side and ran a hand through his still-thick grey hair. “I’d want to be in bed in a half hour just to be on the safe side,” he added.

The man nodded. If anything his skin looked paler than it had when he entered. His fingers still moved idly against each other.

“Are you nervous?” Rovek asked.

“Why should I be nervous? It has been a long time coming.”

“Most people are,” Rovek shrugged awkwardly.

“I’m not most people,” the man said flatly. It was hard for Rovek to tell if he was trying to be funny, or just using it because it was a cliché.

The pitch of the kettle suddenly changed and grew markedly louder. Rovek turned the knob on the stove and the blue flame died away beneath it. He pulled a towel from a hook on a cabinet door and wrapped it about the handle of the kettle. He tipped it slowly over the blue mug and the water gurgled out onto the teabag accompanied by more ephemeral steam.

“Are you certain you do not wish to have some tea?” Rovek lifted the kettle toward the man politely.

“I am.”

Rovek set the kettle back on the stove, unscrewed the lid from the jar and with the long handled spoon he ladled a generous glop of honey into the mug. He stirred the tea for a few seconds and when he removed the spoon it was completely clean.

With two hands he clutched the mug and stepped across the tile floor to join the man in the suit at the table. He rested the mug on a white doily, but still held it before him with both hands for a moment.

“I always enjoy the smell of steeping tea and honey. It reminds me of my mother.”

He looked up at the man and their eyes met. They appeared to be weighing each other, measuring a mutual sense of readiness. After a moment Rovek dropped his eyes and took a sip of tea. He nodded to himself and took another sip.

“Shall I get my things?” he asked in little more than a whisper.

“I think you should.”

Rovek rested the blue mug on the table and slowly removed his hands. He stood and looked down on the man in the suit. There was a softness in his brown eyes. “Feel free to taste the tea,” he said and walked out of the kitchen into another room.

The man in the suit did not watch him go, but stared at the steam rising from the cup. It twisted upward in the still air of the apartment, moved by unfelt currents in the air. He leaned forward and smelled the aroma also rising from the hot liquid. For a fleeting moment he smiled but did not touch the mug. He eased himself back into the chair again.

Rovek returned shortly with a vintage leather messenger bag. It had thick brass buckles that were tarnished in places and rubbed shiny smooth in others. Rovek set the bag on the floor beside the empty chair, then sat in it once again. He took the mug in his hands and sipped twice.

“I’m ready,” he said quietly to the man.

The man removed his black coat and laid it carefully across his lap.

Rovek reached down and popped the two straps on the messenger bag. They had magnetic closures. The buckles were just decorative. He pulled open the top flap and reached within. He took a small oak box from the satchel and placed it on the table. It was about ten inches long and four across. It had etched silver at the corners.

“And roll up your sleeve, please.”

The man in the suit unclasped the cufflink of his left sleeve and rolled it in measured folds past his elbow.

Rovek opened the small wooden box and removed a syringe. It held an amber liquid not unlike the color of the honey Rovek had put into his tea. He held it up between himself and the man.

“Are you certain about your choice?”

“Yes, I am.”   

The man did not flinch as Rovek pushed the needle beneath his skin. He watched the steam still rising from the blue mug.

A. Keith Kelly grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation in Montana and worked for years as a fly-fishing and bird hunting guide before entering academia. He is now a professor of English literature and writing and lives on a bit of land outside of Atlanta, Georgia.

            My life took a haunting turn the day I reportedly died when the propane tanks behind my house exploded. I’d gone out to the St. Brigid’s High School parking lot to head home for dinner and found my two rear tires deflated. An hour later, the early edition of The Middletown News read, Heller Family Killed in Gas Explosion, with pictures of my mom, dad—and me.

            That day, Christopher Hegarty was fidgeting more than a nervous gnat during our weekly writing session. “Keep writing Valerie. I’ll be right back!” Chris said every ten minutes. I know now those flat tires saved my life.

            Christopher, my best friend, was a person who could somehow warp time. A Wrinkle in Time, Harry Potter, and The Time Machine were his user’s manuals, not fantasy novels. Chris wrote his own time displacement stories at St. Brigid’s, but their meddling protagonist was always a certain swashbuckling teenager, not the likes of that travel buggy inventor who saved Weena from the Eloi.

            In the real and present dimension, Chris was hardly a swashbuckler. He wore Woolworth pants hiked up to his armpits and duct-taped glasses drooped down his nose. The only color in Chris was the rainbow of Sharpie markers he kept in a pocket protector to code writing edits.

            Behind Christopher’s time warping ways was Sister O’Hennehey, the principal who captained Saint Brigid’s academic and religious ship. Dressed in a black habit, the Hen was an overbearing storm cloud that blocked light whenever she prowled the school’s holy galleys. Bursting from her white cowl was a plump red face decorated with an array of bristled chins, beady green eyes, and enough freckles to make Ireland proud.

            The Hen was chummy with Chris. Too chummy. “Master Hegarty, ye’re a lifesaver, gobless!” she said with a sideways wink in the cafeteria after I sidestepped the propane fireworks. Somehow, the Hen and Chris could predict the future, bend time, and change the present, so bad things wouldn’t happen. In this case, to me.

###

            How could I process alone—at sixteen—the deaths of my parents, my jilting of the grim reaper, and the baffling time warp? I quit school and took a job waiting the counter at Mel’s Blue Moon Diner, the local grease pit with four booths and eight counter stools. The tips helped me rent a matchbox of a mobile home—and buy pot. And then cocaine. Christopher turned up once a week, faking he liked the diner’s stale apple pie.

            Christopher walked into the Blue Moon the evening he graduated St. Brigid’s. “How’re things, Chris?” I cut him a friendly piece of what used to be apple pie.

            The fidgety gnat in Chris was back. “Good, Valerie. Good. You? I’m good.” He was carrying an early edition of The Middletown News folded in thirds and tied with twine. I know now the twine was to lock up the headline.

            His eyes shifted between the plastic Budweiser clock and the two toughs in the corner booth playing the Grateful Dead on the jukebox.

            “Quit staring, Chris!” I said. “You don’t know Tony and Sam Stoner? They’re waiting for me.” They sure weren’t there for a Mensa meeting.

            By the time the Bud clock turned to eight, the Stoners were sick of the creamed chip beef on toast. “Time to go to the overlook, Val,” Sam said and sized up Chris. “Can you get off early?”

            “Another piece of pie please!” Christopher hadn’t touched the first piece.

            “We’ll swing back at closing time, Val,” Tony said on the way out. A moment later, a red Chevy Camaro peeled out, ‘Truckin’’ belting from the CD player.

            “Thanks a bunch, Chris,” I said. “We drive to the overlook every night, to watch the sunset, drink Jack Daniels, and smoke a few bones. Mind if I close up?” Christopher switched seats to guard the door, about the time my wet dishrag hit his face.

            Loading the dishwasher gave me pause to think about Chris and about all that happened to me. In my heart, I wanted to leave the Stoners and come home to Chris and to writing poetry. I started to pencil that thought—for Chris to read later—on the back side of his newspaper:

            I turned the newspaper to find more white space. That’s when things got weird. Chris had snuck behind the counter while the words in me were percolating. He pressed me against the counter. “What do you think you’re doing?” I said. He put his arms around my waist; his body was hot and quivering. I elbowed Chris in the stomach and he doubled over, but still blocked my path out. The pie display went crashing when I climbed over the counter. Chris’s back stiffened and he came at me again, fists clenched.

             “Stop! Stop it! Help meee!” The veins in my neck popped out like bulging cords. “What has happened to youuu?”

            Then Chris started to drag me. I kneed his groin and bit his arm, cooling the assault. He shoved me into the one-seater bathroom so he could lick his wounds. The deadbolt made me feel safer, but like trapped prey. My heart was pumping overtime.

            Then I heard more dragging and peered through the keyhole. Chris was wedging one of the booths against the door. The keyhole went dark.

            Up on the bathroom sink, I squeezed into the narrow opening of the hinged glazed window. The sharp edges tore my white waitress blouse—and me. Red skid marks striped my chest, stomach and sides, spoiling my escape.

            I spotted Chris lurking in the rear parking lot. “You’ve got one more hour in there, Valerie!” he shouted. What the hell is he talking about? I thought.

            Finally, the Camaro—my rescue wagon—careened into the parking lot. Tony reported, “She’s not inside. The freakin’ door’s locked.”

            I shouted, “Tony! Sam! Help meee!” But their CD player was blaring the Dead’s ‘Touch of Grey,’ stuck on, ‘It must be getting early. Clocks are running late. It must be getting early . . .’

            “Whatchya do with her, pencil neck?” Sam shoved Chris, and then arms flailed and fists flew. With Chris on his back, the squealing Camaro kicked up pebbles, pock-marking Chris and his rusty Honda Civic. I admit to thinking, Serves Chris right.

            An hour later, Chris tapped on the cracked glazed window, holding together his mess of a nose. “It’s ten o’clock.” So what? I thought. In a moment, the booth barricade was sliding away. Then he tapped on the door. “Goodnight Valerie. Want a ride home?” I double-checked the lock.

            Shortly after the Honda Civic left, sirens echoed in the still night. I hope the prick got pulled over, I thought. Wrecked from Chris’s visit, I curled against a mound of toilet paper stacked in the corner and fell dead asleep.

###

            At sunrise, the bathroom door quaked. “Who’s in there? Open up!”

            “Don’t! Stop it Chris!” Startled out of a nightmare, I sprang up in a hurry and unlocked the bathroom door. There stood the three-hundred pounds of Mel with a toilet scrubber cocked to throttle a diner intruder.

            Mel blinked away the eyes of a man meeting the Holy Ghost and then wrapped me in a bear hug that cracked my spine. “Val! Valerie! You survived the fiery wreck!”

            “Wreck? What wreck?” I thought of Chris and the sirens.

            ““Didya bump yer head in the wreck? Have a look at yerself,” Mel said. The mirror behind the counter reflected my bloody, torn blouse and bruised face.

            Mel snapped open a paper from the morning bundle. “Lookie here, Val!”

            Three Youths Killed in Overlook Crash, the headline read. The article described a missed turn by a red Camaro at a switchback, a high-speed crash through the guardrail, and a flight into the beyond—at ten o’clock.

            I ripped the twine from the newspaper Chris left on the counter. The headline read, Three Youths Killed in Overlook Crash. It was my turn with the saucer eyes. “Look! Look Mel! A customer brought in this early edition last night—looong before ten!”

            Mel was sliding the second piece of pie into his mouth like a tic tac. “Afore ten, ya say?” He shook his head.

            I flipped the newspaper to make sure. In the margin was the start of my poem to Chris, ‘Come Home.’ My apron slid across the counter. “I’m taking the day off, Mel.”

            For a week, corned beef hash found its way to my stoop, God bless Mel. I quit the booze and drugs, and took inventory of my life that Chris saved—again. This time, he moved a mountain so I didn’t fly off one. How could I be upset about the diner incident? Heck, he was the time-bending swashbuckler of his fantasy stories. To me, at least.

            Ten letters summed up all that was important to me: words and Chris. I embraced words right away, writing poetry again with a new perspective on life and death. I tried to embrace Christopher too; stalked him, is more like it.

            He kept a safe distance, so I left my poetry in his mail slot at The Middletown News, much of it involving him. In time, my poems were published in the newspaper. Later, the newspaper featured an article, Valerie Heller, Local Poet. Then came a weekly column. I hit the moon.

###

            Three years later, Val Heller became Mrs. Valerie Hegarty. I still like the sound. Christopher managed the early edition production run at The Middletown News, and I was home in a sweat suit, trying to write poetry. We helped out at St. Brigid’s parish, cooked Irish dishes, and took bike trips. The simple joy was clouded at times though, when Chris hid away in the bedroom. I left it alone but knew the silence was about his weekly visits to Sister O’Hennehey and the early edition of The Middletown News.

            I wanted a family, but Chris insisted on birth control; the cloud over us had to clear. Finally, after three years of stonewalling, two bottles of Chardonnay did the trick in the tiny kitchenette of our mobile home.

            I was pouring his fourth glass. “But Chris, aren’t religious indulgences a Middle Ages thing?”

            “That’s right. But Sister O noviced in an Irish abbey built in the Middle Ages!” His tongue was lubed and loose. “That’s how she got into the racket of selling indulgences.”

            “How’d you earn them?”

            “Managing the holy water concession. Reserving seats for when our guardian angels popped in.” He shrugged and swirled wine. “Fluffy gems like that.”

            “But why you?”

            “Our families in Ireland have been tenants on the same farm ever since King Henry invaded County Cork.” He smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Cha-ching! She paid big!”

            “How’s The Middletown News fit in?”

            “That’s how the Hen’s boss upstairs delivers the indulgences. She’s a nun, not a paper girl. More wine?”

            “No thanks.” Then I went for the kill. “Why does this stop us from having a baby, Chris?”

            The cat grin drooped south, and a glazed, vacant look took his eyes to some dark place in the future. “Tell me, dear. Should we have children knowing they won’t have a dad?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” I parked a trembling hand under the table.

            “Sister O told me when I’m going to die. And how.”

            “Use your indulgences!”

            “Easy enough! Except the indulgences are for one person only. That’s you. If I alter what happens to me, I’ll be rooming with the devil,” he said wryly.

            “Oh my God!”

            “And sweetheart? The indulgences expire when I do.”

             “What happens then?”

            “Sister O works local, not long distance. After I die, she says I can still make a deal, but with the devil, not her.”

            My voice raised two octaves. “The devil? As in Satan?”

            “You heard right. That means, Valerie, when I’m gone, lose your knack for finding trouble.”

            “Y-you make it seem soon, hon.”

            Chris forced a plastic smile. “I can’t say when, dear. That’s part of the deal too.”

            My broken wine glass ended what felt like a shakedown. Heck, I wanted to seal Chris in bubble wrap! His cutting a steak became a death-defying act.

            One humid July night, we drove to the next town over to see Back to the Future in an air conditioned theatre. I checked all the exits, of course. Chris was fidgeting in his seat. He held my hand real tight and got teary even when the movie was funny. He looked at his watch and whispered, “Bathroom run. Want anything?” I watched alone as Marty McFly and Jennifer drove home in the DeLorean, freaked out about the future.

            After the movie, the manager checked the men’s room, but Chris wasn’t there. My heart was pumping ice water. I wanted to call Chris—or a taxi—but he had taken my purse. Then he called the theatre manager about a ‘family emergency.’ Said he’d swing back to pick me up. I wore out the lobby rug, hoping it wasn’t a delay tactic.

            Two hours later, the manager drove me the ten miles back to Middletown. Outside, the air felt cool and crisp. A thunderstorm had pushed out the heat and humidity, but the high winds had downed wires and tree branches everywhere.

            What I saw when we pulled onto our street made me retch and then hyperventilate. Our old Honda Civic was parked out front, all right. But an oak tree—big as a Sequoia—had fallen lengthwise onto our mobile home. It looked like a Greyhound bus flattened by a heavy-duty car crusher.

            My eyes rolled up in their sockets. I fainted dead away.

###

            “Ten more years passed. I buried what happened to Chris by writing. It took time, but in my late thirties the poetry started to sell, and sell big. I hired an agent and moved here to Manhattan two years ago.”

            “Aaaand here I am.” I peel myself off the sticky Naugahyde therapy couch in Doctor Fritz’s Midtown Manhattan office. “That brings you up to date, Doctor Fritz. Again. Do you still think I’m a candidate for Bellevue Hospital?”

            “Mrs. Hegarty, you’re a smart, accomplished woman. Yes, I want to believe you. But indulgences?” Doctor Fritz throws his hands. “Bah!”

            “My story checks out!”

            “Yes, it does. There’s just no proof your husband knew about the tragedies beforehand.”

            “Did you check with Sister O’Hennehey?”

            “We can’t find Sister O’Hennehey.” Doctor Fritz looks at his watch. “Oh dear. Same time next week, Mrs. Hegarty? We’ve lost track of time.”

            “Time is something you’re having a good deal of trouble with, Doctor!” I storm out of his office.

            Six blocks later, I kick off high heels in my East Side apartment. A cup of steeped chamomile tea calms my nerves after another fruitless visit with the hard-headed Doctor Fritz. There’s a rustle out in the hall. When I open the door, the tea cup shatters on the floor.

            The newspaper at the threshold is the early edition of The Middletown News. At a window, I scan Lexington Avenue. Across Park Avenue my eyes meet the stony stare of a nun, gray hair escaping her cowl. “Gobless ye,” she mouths. Then she kisses her crucifix, dries a tear, and wobbles away.

            I ride the elevator to the lobby and, outside, hale a yellow cab. “Where to, lady?” Sitting frozen, I clutch the paper, knowing what the headline must say. “Lady, I don’t have all day.”

            “Start the meter.” What should I do? I can survive by simply stepping out of the cab, but what about Chris?

            I peek at the headline: Plane Crash Claims Local Poet. I breathe meditatively. Somehow, the knowing brings peace.

            Eyes closed, my life glides by in a panorama, from St. Brigid’s and poetry to the time with Chris that never should have been. When I resurface, the cabbie is napping and the meter hits twenty dollars.

            I jostle the driver and cheer him up with the three hundred dollar bills in my purse. I won’t be needing them. “Gee lady, thanks! Where to?”

            “Airport.” I check my watch. “I’ve taken more time here than I should have. Please hurry.”

            The taxi pulls away from the curb and drifts into the dark passage of the Midtown Tunnel. The droning tires and the clicking meter register our journey through time. On the dashboard, the head of a Saint Christopher statue bobbles—up and down in affirmation. Yes, what he wants for us is crystal clear. Through him, I skirted untimely deaths in a kitchen, a Camaro and, alas, a mobile home. Today, I embrace death—and unite with Chris for an eternity.

            In what seems forever, all the noises stop and I emerge on the other side. Heaven knows, it’s about time.

A 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee, 2020 Best of the Net nominee, and 2020 Best New England Crime Stories finalist, John Mara is a multi-genre writer who tends to converse in the genre he’s thinking about and makes better company when it’s humor, not horror.

After tea, we
examine the garden on the balcony:
leaves, wires,
antenna spires, and corrugated cumuli
without hope
impale themselves on passing balustrades.
Two
swan-necked watering cans are kissing
friends.
Side-eyed I see she has no need
for me
so shy, I stare shoe-ward at
two squat
bodies sporting longing necks.
     Yet watering cans are such solid things,
     never clingy.
They are themselves
complete
even as they empty their bellies to feed
tomatoes.
And here I stand yearning to become nothing
if only
a home to my tenantless heart.

Unflattering shadows seared the bending grass, dipping over manmade and natural mounds, interrupted by depth, only to rise across the next towering hump. A tangerine sunset aided the pilgrimage, shimmering nervously as it delayed the inevitable plunge into the horizon of algae green waters. The sea roared with zealotry, lapping the base of the crag dozens of yards below the precipice, scattering the flotsam of wooden crates and fermented fruit discarded centuries past.

There was order to the ceremony, a clear delineation between the powers at be and the sheepish congregants. Towering several heads above their own, their traditional garb resembled the elongated and misshapen drawings of nightmarish mammals. From the soles of their feet to the faux crown, bulbous costumes had been draped around their skeletons, pumping their muscles to mythic proportions, every inch of flesh consumed by straight, vibrant fur borrowed from the unlucky forest dwellers. Eyeholes were surrounded by bushy brows, their mouths buttressed by even more intrusive mustaches. Together they swayed, from a distance merely harmless; cute, overfed imaginary creatures with exquisitely tall heads.

At the front of the column was their de facto leader of snow-driven pelt, their facial hair drooping in chocolate and chestnut. Behind them stumbled a black and yellow assistant, their back sewn together with an intertwining array of copper conch shells, a third creature striking the porcupine-like cluster with a wooden switch. The solemn tone echoed in a symphony of keys, their merry song alerting those who were far from worthy that everything was under control. A pack of ten followed in pairs, their lumbering, excessively long arms practically scraping the seaside path, worn from millennia of similar performances.

A gap, perhaps due to the changing elevation, meant that the fire-bearer had lost their rhythm. Straw, rather than fur, became their burden, should they dare let the flame engulf their fragile exterior they would immolate themselves, much to the disappointment of the others. Should they survive without so much as a measly rash, they could wield immense power. Smaller creatures skipped behind the flames, hibiscus-lined baskets of flamboyant fruit in hand, giggling at the wonkiness of their faux heads as they bumped into each other, their fur waving in the wind, giving them the appearance of a bird in flight.

And, behind it all, came the lumbering, unsure twitch of the tardy. “Fuck. Fuck all!” A partially buried rock tipped him face first, his mask cracking somewhere in the upper third. Underneath the chiming of the copper pipes, his expletives and frantic breathing were drowned perfectly. He shoved his palms into the dirt and boosted himself straight, steadying the bulbous disguise. His stubby hooves were cutting off the circulation to his jackboots, but the alter awaited them, he still had time. He had them right where he wanted.

The white-furred leader approached the simple bones of a stone altar, erected from the cliff itself, the stains of ceremonies past leaving a healthy red hue in the delicate rivulets. The assistant huffed to their side; the final chord was dimmed by the ocean waves. The others took their places in a semi-circle as the younglings placed their fruit delicately on the stone.

A raised hand silenced the congregants, though they had not attempted to speak. “May the mother approach?” Her hide tried mightily to conceal her pregnancy, but her girth, and her wobbling gait, left no doubt as to her purpose. Two others helped her up the slight incline and to their leader’s side. “The golden ring, please.” Another presented the halo from underneath their reddish fur and bowed before the mother. She tipped her head several feet out in front of her to accept the honorary decoration, twirling her neck to slip the loop halfway down the shaft of cheap plywood, glue, and papier-mâché. “This marriage shall bind you forever to the flesh of the earth. In this marriage, you, Mother Earth, will ensure the continuing blessings that we have endured since the coming of our people to this island.”

The underside of the altar chimed as the master of ceremonies revealed a crude blade, its curvature notched with previously unsuccessful whacks. “The siren of Kukeri has chimed from the consecrated grounds to the fertile water of the sea.”

There! From the bluff, he had not missed it. He huffed over the uneven ground, galloping as fast as his boiling costume would allow. He watched the sword spear the sky, the billowing clouds above lazily evading the strike.

“It is with the blood of this sacrifice that we-”

A spark ricocheted off the steel, snapping the blade cleanly at the neck. Among the gathered seethed the barrel of an onyx revolver, the hammer wrenched back to cycle the chamber. “You are all under arrest!” the masked shooter declared.

The inquisition began with a strange, heavy, unsure pivot. They shuffled slowly and faced the intruder, tipping their heads with interest.

Off came the animal death mask, tossed towards the raging sea. His cheeks were flush with anger and fear, his orange hair streaked with white from age. “Your hands! Let me see your hands!” They surrendered with tedious difficulty, the ceremonial garb much heavier than expected.

“Who are you to interrupt this sacred ceremony?” the white leader barked.

The revolver singled out the naysayer. “Have you gone foolish, eh? I am Chief Constable Howard Eckland and every single one of you bastards is under arrest.”

“I believe you-”

“Shut your putrid yap! You have been playing me for a fool ever since I sailed to this contemptible place. And you would have succeeded in ridding me, I had three-quarters of a mind to pack my things nearly a week ago and return to London, satisfied with my investigation. But you made one fatal mistake…well, several in fact!” Eckland muscled his way through the chosen people and stood between them and the ritual sacrifice. He poked the still-simmering barrel into the chest of a salt and pepper creature. “Your general store claimed to carry only the island’s freshest produce, but the manifest uncovered from the wreckage of the delivery schooner proved otherwise. A parcel of considerable weight was unaccounted for: one hundred and fifteen pounds of human flesh!”

A gasp escaped with the ferocity of a steaming kettle. “Not ground or carved, but a woman. A woman!” To the mother, he swirled, his free hand pointing emphatically. “Ill, with child, not of her own, but of another! I will get back to that in a moment. The three of you…” He scanned them leisurely and tutted disapprovingly. “I observed all three of you desecrating the fertile soil of Saint Dasius’ Cathedral, shovel and pickaxe in hand! What might you have unearthed? The Ghost of Harvests Past? No! Human remains, perhaps? Yes! But more importantly, the remains of your deceased husband!” He flung himself forward, stomping the ground in front of a shivering sky-blue creature. “A husband whose autopsy claimed he had committed suicide.” He chuckled, hiding his smile, and the answer to the riddle. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I would never think of stabbing myself seventeen times in the back and careening over the edge of a cliff on a motor bicycle to escape the ravages of the modern age!”

The crowd simultaneously took a stride back, the younglings seeking the warmth of their overgrown arms. “Yes, run to your elders, little ones,” Eckland chided. “A murderer, a mistress, a trafficker, a religious glutton! You preach serenity and peace here, but beneath the surface, you have angered God himself. Your attempts to poison me, betray me, stifle me, and entrap me in the depths of the ocean were all struck down by the faith in my heart! Your isolation has driven you mad! With power! With blasphemy! I have read your ancient texts and the law cannot abide by your methods. You will relinquish this poor girl into the custody of the Metropolitan Police Service. She will not bear your child, the son of Satan! You will not spill her blood so that your apples may grow another season!”

“But the economy-!”

Eckland bludgeoned the poor interrupter with a strike to the furry temple, knocking the beast into the brush. “Your bounty cannot be controlled by this pathetic sacrifice. It is madness! It is unbecoming of the purpose of our mission. You will no longer import these slave girls for your dastardly deeds! Now, I have enough cartridges here to lay every single one of you into a shallow grave of your own. If one of you so much as musters an attempt, I will blast a bullet through your brain.” A pair of iron shackles jingled from an interior pocket. “Minister Hardy, you will surrender yourself to me now.”

This request enacted a muffled murmur. Their heads swiveled, the spectrum of colorful hides dragging along the ocean breeze. Their leader carefully removed his mask and blinked through the sudden burst of the setting sun’s sharp cheddar hue.

Eckland’s smug smile, too, set, replaced with the curled, shivering lip of rage. “Who in the fuck are you!?” He marched to the altar and slapped aside the fruit baskets. “Where is Minister Hardy?” He wasted no time, addressing the congregants once more. “Take off these damn falsities. Show yourself to me! You, Mr. Hebridean!” But the general store owner did not appear underneath the black and white mask.

“Mrs. Marshfield!” Nope.

“Councilman MacGregor!” Not even close.

“Doctor Brennaman?” That one was just a dog standing on its hind legs.

The constable swallowed hard, his revolver shaking uncontrollably as he refused to steady over a particular target. “I demand that you tell me what in God’s name is going on here!?”

“We are protecting the island from evil spirits. ‘Tis tradition,” the leader solemnly announced.

“Lies!” Eckland screamed. “You intend to sacrifice this woman for your devilish plans. To raise the Father of Evil to bless your lot. Your bountiful harvest fuels your slave trade, it brings wealth to this island, and it corrupts the world with your greed. The bastard town of Suntershire shall know the wrath of the Metropolitan Police Service, and I, Chief Constable Howard Eckland, shall be the harvester of your righteous end!”

Silence bookended his spitting soliloquy. A few blinked; others snorted loose mucus back into their sinuses.

“Suntershire?” one of them honked. “You mean them bastards?”

A helping index sought to open Eckland’s eyes. He turned, following the stubby digit as several hundred yards down the coast, another ceremony was already in full swing. The neck of a willing sacrifice was presented, a sword swung across her flesh. With the decapitated torso vomiting a maroon foam, the towering wicker effigy that lauded over the worshippers burst into flames. From the ashes exploded the monstrous claws of an ancient deity, its cackling laugh reversing the very tides themselves and cloaking the sun in blood.

Eckland inhaled and cradled the brackish air deep in his lungs. “Goddamnit.”

Joey Rodriguez lives in New York City with his wife and daughter, and their Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Joon. Join Joey and his siblings twice a week for “Ever Thought Of It?” a podcast that answers film’s most unnecessary questions.