Kristen Langereis is a Dutch-American writer living in Amsterdam. With no pets or children, she still finds ample time to fall behind on daily tasks. She is of the opinion that a sandwich tastes better when made for her by someone else.

  Anatomy of a Cover Up

   I knew a lot about death, even then, including what a dead body smelled like. It’s a fun way to open a conversation. I could tell you what embalmed flesh looked like. It’s flaked skipjack.

     You see, Dad could only eat white meat tuna – albacore packed in water. He took it with bread and butter pickles and too much mayonnaise. He wouldn’t touch skipjack, nor would my mother. She wouldn’t even buy it because it’s poor people food. Dad said skipjack reminded him of the cadavers he worked on in school. He mentioned it every time she made him his tuna sandwich, which was every Friday, and he only finished about half before he’d get that look which said the good tuna had turned from safe to dead in his imagination. So, I always ate that extra half sandwich – thinking it would be a shame to waste it when my mother took such pains to open both a can and a jar.

     I was nine when I thought for sure I would know how a decomposed body might smell. When pilfering a third, or fourth popsicle from the back freezer I had left the door ajar. The majority contents, stuffed every which way next to Lean Cuisines, bags of party ice and popsicles of every flavor were the individually-wrapped remnants of a butchered whole cow. Dad had traded the cow for oral surgery more than five years prior. I remember thinking we were going to pick up an actual, living breathing cow when Mother drove us to the ranch south of the city. I should have been tipped off by the two big coolers she brought, I suppose. But I was young, and happy to be allowed in the front seat next to the air-conditioning. The cow traveled home with us disassembled.

     The steaks, tenderloin, and roasts had been eaten first and the remnants, garbage-meat as Mother called it, lived in our utility room freezer. My carelessness caused everything in the freezer to defrost and dozens of cherry-mottled white butcher paper packages, some visibly stamped Heart/Short-Ribs/Tripe, mingled their bloody juices with a corn syrup rainbow. Mom screamed and shut the door. She said we must to wait until nightfall, while Dad slept, to bring everything to the big black garbage can in the alley.

     When he started to snore she grabbed my hand and a roll of black garbage bags. We snuck out back to clean and dump it all. I think we both knew that even though there was slim chance our family would eat tripe, especially cooked by her, that he still wanted to hang on to it, just in case. I was sworn to silence. But, as it goes with crime, eventually someone finds out. Weekly garbage collection had just happened a few days prior. Everything we hoisted that night into big black garbage bags festered, cooked, and decomposed further within the big black garbage can. Our across-the-alley neighbor called 911 because he thought someone had dumped a dead body. Since he was a cop, I figured he should know. I figured that a dead body smelled like old, dead cow parts, cherry popsicle frostbite and panic.

     I tell that story to this day, never mentioning that now I really know what is the real smell of death, and adding that Dad never thought that the huge amount of dumped meat which had caused a minor neighborhood ruckus was indeed his. Even at the end, we kept that from him too.

James Barr is a freelance writer who created TV commercials, radio spots and ads for a variety of clients. He now loves writing these stories without a client peering over his shoulder or trying to fit 60 seconds of copy into a 30-second spot.

Another Star is Born

All Andy wanted was a quiet night at the movies. But you don’t always get what you want. Instead, what Andy got was a starring role in an acrobatic drama played out in front of a packed house. Andy also had no idea that the lady with the long blond hair seated in front of him, a complete stranger, would become his unwilling co-star.

On that fateful night after work, Andy stopped into the local cinema to see the latest hit. The theater was packed. With a long movie ahead of him, Andy hit the men’s room, and then stopped for the requisite tub of popcorn. All this made him late to the darkened, crowded auditorium. Crawling slowly down the main aisle toward the silver screen, Andy was almost to the very first row before he spotted a seat. Of course, it was inconveniently located in the middle of a very long row.

So Andy began doing the familiar stooped, slow motion sideways crablike shuffle to his seat. Along the way, juggling the overfilled tub, Andy dribbled fresh, hot buttered popcorn down the backs of people in the first row. Finally reaching his seat and just before he sat, Andy realized his fly was open. Somehow, with the tub now under his arm, Andy did a quick zip and began to sit, spilling even more popcorn.

Just then, the woman in front of him screamed and jerked her head back. It seems a long strand of her hair had become entangled in Andy’s zipper as he tried to zip it shut. The plot thickened.

Trapped in this frozen moment, the two unwilling co-stars paused in what appeared to be a very bad yoga pose. The woman’s head was tilted toward the ceiling. Andy was locked in a half seated position, not wanting to actually sit and risk pulling out half of his co-star’s hair. The house lights came on. Ushers rushed from every possible door. The audience stood and for a tiny moment, the whole world stopped.

Seeing the problem, one of the ushers arrived with scissors, but the woman was adamant. She was not having any of her hair cut by an usher. Therefore, a slow motion sideways limbo began. In perfect unison, Andy and the entrapped woman slowly shuffled step by step to the aisle, the hair being passed over the lowered heads of a row of seated moviegoers. With each step, the film stars maintained their frozen poses on their way to the aisle.

Then, they continued their easygoing limbo shuffle up the main aisle, out to the lobby and into the manager’s office. There, someone with adroit fingers and arcane zipper knowledge forced the zipper to release most of its captured hair. A perfect Hollywood ending.

After the police were convinced that there was nothing criminal about this event, the woman returned to her seat while receiving a standing ovation from her loving fans.

Andy, on the other hand, has never been heard from again.

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels, Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois with their dog Annabelle, who likes to walk them in the woods.

Vindle

After watching the wriggling snake rise into the sky, Vindle went inside and noticed smoke wisping from Kangle’s fingertips. She thought she was imagining things, but when she saw tiny flames dancing behind her husband’s ears, she knew what she had long feared had begun.

“I have been feeling a might south,” Kangle said when Vindle felt his forehead. “Maybe some fresh air would repair.”

“Probably wouldn’t harm,” Vindle said, hurrying to the kitchen to pump a stream of cold water over her hand. They decided to take a ride to Clavdon Creek.

Vindle hitched up Old Treb, and she and Kangle climbed into the carriage. By the time they got to the creek, Vindle’s clothes were drenched with sweat from the heat radiating from her husband.

Vindle pulled off her shoes and stockings, hiked her skirt and waded into the water. She started to hold out her hand for her husband to join her then thought better of it.

Kangle removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his trousers. As he eased into the water, Vindle heard a soft hiss and saw steam rising where the water lapped her husband’s knees. “We better go see the Doc,” she said.

***

Kangle sat naked from the waist up, soft blue fire rippling along his arms and shoulders.

Doc Ral shook his head. “You should’ve come sooner. I’m afraid it’s too late.” The Doc took Vindle’s hand. “Try to make your husband’s remaining time as comfortable as you can.”

On the way home from the Doc’s, a breeze flared Kangle and spooked Old Treb. The horse bolted and nearly rolled the carriage at Strack’s Fork before Vindle reined him in.

At their place, Vindle pumped a tub of cold water. Kangle stripped and stepped in. As he lay back and closed his eyes, the water began thrashing around him. “Refreshing,” he mumbled, exhaling a long crackling flame.

Vindle pumped water the rest of the day and most of the night to keep the tub full. Finally she could no longer move her arms. She watched helplessly as the water boiled away and Kangle became engulfed, his face twisting into a scream she would never forget.

Vindle used Kangle’s ashes to fertilize her flower garden. The following summer, the roses were the reddest she’d ever seen.

One warm evening, she caught a chill. By morning, she was coughing up sleet, and frost coated her hair. She didn’t go to Doc Ral, preferring to reunite with her Kangle. She left a note asking to be buried near the flower garden. She thought she and Kangle surely would produce the most beautiful roses in the world.

Neighbors found Vindle a week later encased in ice. They dug up the floribunda when they buried her. Though her roses never blossomed again, when Vindle thawed, she watered and fed the weeds. They grew thick and tall, sheltering chipmunks, voles and, occasionally, snakes, which fattened themselves and made a feast for the hawks.

Holly lives on the Texas Coast with her husband, teenage son, and three giant dogs. Her adult daughter just moved out, so she must have had her when she was ten. When she isn’t writing, Holly works full time as a corporate photographer.

When the Swell Breaks

This wasn’t how I planned to spend my thirty-ninth birthday, but here I am.

I’ve lived a good life, I think. I never finished getting my degree, but I have a job I love.

Loved.

My home isn’t a mansion, but it’s comfortable and enough. Two children, one of each, boy and girl. Check and check. Loving husband, check.

He’s standing in the hospital corridor now, talking with two of the doctors while I’m supposed to be sleeping. His eyes swing towards the room, and through the hatched lines on the window I can see his face. The last few months have aged him, taken him to that place you can never return from. He doesn’t look surprised that I am awake.  I know it’s time. We’ve known for a few weeks now, that this is the best option, and I’ve already said goodbye to the kids.

At first I was selfish, and heartbroken that they might not remember me. They’re only two and three years old. But after I had more time to think about it, I hope they don’t remember me. Not like this. This sterile hospital room with beeping machines and harsh lights, drowning everyone who enters in its sea of hopelessness.  Away from all of this, and maybe years from now, they’ll be ok.

But William, sweet William. He’ll remember every bit of it, I know him like the back of my hand. He was such a joyful man, and I’ve taken that from him. Me, and this damn tumor that they said would keep growing, taking over my brain like a parasite until I wouldn’t know who I was anymore. Machines could keep me alive for a little while, but I don’t want that for William, or for the kids. They need to be able to move on, and one day they will.

Not today.

William comes into the room with a doctor close behind him. The one who has never done this before.

“What’s it going to be then, eh?” I try to smile but the weight of it all pushes the edges of my lips downward. My voice shakes. “Miracle cure or sleep potion?” I know there is no cure.

Ignoring the question, William lowers the bed rail and climbs in next to me, holding me in his arms. We stare at each other and the swell breaks, pushing tears down both of our faces. He places his hands on either side of my face and kisses me softly. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with him forever.

I turn to the doctor and nod.