August 2002 | fiction
short fiction by Kathy Fish
([email]mrsfish1960 [at] yahoo [dot] com[/email])
[b]July[/b]
A hot breeze blows through the bedroom window. Jake Harvey looks up from his tattered Huckleberry Finn. The elm trees whisper. Their limbs bend, telling sign language secrets only he can decipher. People come and go from his little room but he doesn’t notice. He listens and watches and waits.
[b]August[/b]
Swaddled in the moonlight that streams through his window Jake Harvey likes to imagine himself the offspring of ghosts. He closes his eyes and raises his fingertips to the ceiling but he does not levitate. He sleeps and dreams of his sister Emily.
[b]September[/b]
Only his mother comes and goes from the little room. She reads Huckleberry Finn late into the night when Jake can’t sleep. A corner of the curtain brushes his cheek and he turns to see the elm trees offer up the full, fat moon to him like a communion wafer.
[b]Author’s Note:[/b] Kathy Fish writes both full length and flash length literary fiction. Two flash pieces were published in the premier issue of The Painted Moon Review and her story “Cardamom” will appear in Vol. 18 of Thunder Sandwich.
July 2002 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
I’ve got a streak of mean.
Yesterday I had to take the bus to work because the chariot was in the shop. I love to ride the bus because you meet all kinds of friendly persons from the lower socio-economic stratum. They’re far more interesting than rich white people.
So, anyway, I’m sitting on the bus near the driver and we stop for a wheel chair person. The bus has a lift platform that pushes out and down for the chair to roll up on. When the chair person rolls up on the platform, it pulls the bus over a fraction of an inch to the right, and the curb is too high at that spot so the platform is still in contact with the sidewalk and it won’t retract. After several unsuccessful tries, the bus driver, a short, black, female dynamo wearing black leather racing gloves, gets up and orders everybody sitting on the right side of the bus, maybe thirty people, to stand up and move over to the left side of the bus to shift the weight of the bus to the left so the platform will lift up enough to retract. The driver has to explain the concept several times before everybody gets the idea, but once they do, everyone cheerfully gets up and moves over and the bus shifts to the left just enough so the driver can operate the lift. Then everybody sits down and we’re on our way again, the whole bus laughing and talking about the experience.
About three stops later, the wheelchair person gets off the bus, again using the lift platform. But two other persons get on at the same stop, and they sit – you guessed it – on the right side of the bus, so the lift won’t retract again. This time all the people on the right side of the bus see what needs to be done and they all get up and move over to the left side of the bus again. All except this one fat lady. She had stood up on the previous occasion, so it’s not like she doesn’t know the score. She just doesn’t want to get up again, so she stays in her seat reading her book, no doubt thinking that the weight of one person won’t make any difference on a loaded, 40,000 lb mass transit vehicle. So she’s the only person on the right side of the bus.
The driver keeps trying to operate the lift, but it’s still stuck on the sidewalk. She tries and tries and the thing beeps and clicks and groans, but it won’t retract. The fat lady stays in her seat, reading her book. The bus driver keeps trying. She can’t see the fat lady because of all the people standing in the aisle, but everybody else on the bus is looking at the fat lady, waiting for her to get up, but she keeps on reading.
Finally, I get tired of it and I yell, “Hey, lady, get up and move over!”
The lady looks up and everybody’s watching her and she’s watching everybody back, and I can just see what she’s thinking: “If I stand up and move over, and the lift works, everybody will think it’s because I’m so fat.”
So she sits there for a minute more, and the lift still won’t retract, so finally, very reluctantly, she stands up and moves to the left side of the bus. At that instant, the lift pulls free and the driver is able to retract it.
So I says loud enough for everybody to hear, “Yup. It was her.”
Like I said: I’ve got a mean streak.
Just goes to show, though, that it ain’t over ’til the fat lady stands.
June 2002 | back-issues, fiction, poetry
[b]Don’t ask me to play Uno[/b]
I saw my dog’s eyeball on the ground this morning. Okay, I didn’t but my brother did and he was so upset that he cried. He’s 10 and a big boy and isn’t supposed to cry so I knew I had to stay in the car. Mom hit Diamond with the car but I think he was okay. Diamond is our dog, and boy is he smart. We taught him to play Uno this morning. He sat outside the window of our house and we set his cards up in front of him and he points a paw at the card he wants to use. He gets it right usually, but he is a beginner you know and so I win most of the times when we play.
Diamond walks to the bus stop with us every morning. This morning Mom went to school with us because she was going to talk to my class, so we went in the car instead of in the bus. I like it better when Mom drives anyway because there’s this kid down the street and he has a crush on me and he follows me around and bothers me and my brother and his brother tease me about it. I tried to tell him to leave me alone but boys just don’t listen. My brother says I’ll end up marrying him, I know I won’t.
I don’t know where Diamond went. When I got off the bus this afternoon he wasn’t at the end of the street waiting for me. He usually is. I called and called for him and then I figured he must be out in the field. We have a big field in our yard and I like to play in it. My brother says a monster lives there, but he only comes after 8 year old blonde girls named Renate. I don’t believe him, of course, I’m not dumb, but I let him think I do. When I was 5 he told me the car would come alive and eat me, I believed him then, I was such a child. I’ve grown now though. I still like to do the things he does so I try to keep him happy. Once we wrapped my Barbie doll in newspaper and set her on fire and then buried her. I didn’t know why we had to bury her, my brother said it’s just what you do. I figured it was so Mom wouldn’t know we had destroyed her. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but Mom found out when I told my aunt about it and got mad at me. My aunt asked how I was enjoying the doll she gave me for Christmas and I told her I enjoyed the fire best. She hasn’t given me Barbie dolls for Christmas anymore which is good because I hate the things. I want more Transformers, but they say those aren’t girl toys.
My brother said that Diamond’s eyeball was on the ground. He’s going to need his eye so I’m going down the street to find it. How’s he supposed to see without it? I can’t understand why everyone seems so upset. My brother is crying and says I won’t see Diamond anymore. I told him of course I would, -I’m- not the one who lost my eye. He just looked at me and kept crying. Mom came in and told me that Diamond ran away. I’d run away from this place too. If he’s not careful my brother might try to wrap him in newspaper and set him on fire. If you see a dog with one eye running around the neighborhood tell him that I love him. Tell him I’ll let him win at Uno if he’ll just come back and play again.
[b]Flight[/b]
Age 4
I think I can fly. No one has told me anything different. I hold onto the rails of our stairs and leap three steps at a time. I fall, go tumbling down and smash into the concrete. I get back up and try again. I know I can fly if I can just get the timing right. My mom combs her hair into her face and puts her glasses on over it. This causes me to run and hide every time. I’m afraid of clowns and Santa Claus and Mom when she does that but not of flying. I watch the sky for airplanes and birds for hours. I watch the clouds. I believe that will be me someday. I know I can fly.
Age 5
I think my younger brother should be the one to fly. Running out the door to check the mail I knock him off our porch. He falls 9 feet and gets up laughing. I go into hysterics. I still think maybe I can fly sometime but wonder what would happen if I tried to and fell like he did. On my birthday, I open the car door before the car stops and tumble out onto the concrete. I’m beginning to think I’m clumsy. Clumsy people shouldn’t fly. I get a balloon but it escapes my grasp. I pitch a fit until they promise me another one, just to shut me up. It works. I think the car in our garage is going to come alive and eat me. My older brother tells me so and he wouldn’t lie. I make him go in there with me every time I need anything. Maybe airplanes eat people too. I begin to wonder if flying is such a good idea after all.
Age 7
Every time my dad is supposed to visit, my brother plays tricks on me. I still think he won’t lie and so I believe him every time he tells me he sees the car. I go running outside. I trip and fall over my feet. A piece of plastic cuts into my leg. I can see the bone and I poke at it. Mom tells me not to. When she’s not looking I poke at it again. I’m not afraid of blood.
Age 8
I get a bicycle for Christmas, but when I try to ride it, I end up in the briars. I don’t try again for 3 more years. I play with transformers and matchbox cars. I still like airplanes. I make them out of Legos. Mom yells every time she steps on the ones I leave in the floor. I climb the trees in our yard and pretend I’m a bird. I’m not afraid of anything, except for the monster in our field. My brother tells me it’s there and he wouldn’t lie. My dog dies but I think maybe he just flew away. My younger brother’s description of the body doesn’t give me much hope though. Every time I have to go to bed when I’m not ready, I think about flying. I’m in my first spelling bee. I think that there may be something I’m good at and I practice all the time. I get out on an easy word because I’m nervous in front of an auditorium full of people.
Age 9
We live with my grandmother for a year. There is no flying. She makes me wear dresses when I don’t want to, but I love her anyway.
Age 11
A friend tells me, I’m the ugliest person he’s ever met. I wonder what my enemies think. My self-esteem plummets. I think it’s going to crash. I let people copy my homework so they know that I’m worth something. I receive 13 awards at the end of the year graduation from elementary school. I tie for the highest academic average. My mom and step dad are proud but I don’t really care. Airplanes aren’t on my mind anymore. My youngest brother is born. I have three brothers now. My second brother tells his class that we named the baby M.C. Hammer. They are suitably impressed. Patrick seems like a common name compared to a name like M.C. Hammer.
Age 13
I think I’ve forgotten how to fly. I have no self-esteem. I don’t speak. I have a few friends but I think they just feel sorry for me. I get lost in books instead. I watch Star Wars over and over. If I can’t fly, I can watch people who can. I’m in love with Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. I think I’m ugly. My older brother tells me so and he wouldn’t lie. I cry but only when I know he isn’t paying attention. I tell him I think he’s uglier and he has a big nose. I go to my two-year-old brother for comfort. He loves me. He thinks he can fly. I remember when that was me.
[b]Two sides of the same coin…[/b]
I have been the hunter
I have been the hunted
I’ve tracked down men with
the reckless abandon of a
she wolf in heat,
lusting after their hairy, fur
covered bodies
and their howls of ecstasy
as I sucked them dry.
I have been pursued,
coaxed out of hiding by
sugar-coated words:
“I’m not going to hurt you.
It’s okay to come out.”
only to feel a gun poking
in my side.
I have run in circles,
howling at the moon,
getting nowhere,
my frustration
dripping like spittle from
my mouth and
sticking to my sweat coated fur.
I have fought battles with my heart.
I have run away into
hiding and licked my wounds
until I felt it was safe
to come out once again.
I have poked my snout
into places I was not
ready to handle yet.
A paw into a snake’s hole,
I have learned from experience.
I have faced death and come out on top.
I have raised my paw as a symbol
of truce one minute
and maliciously torn into flesh the next.
I have given myself over to these primal urges.
I have been meek as a puppy
and fierce as a protective mother.
I have sought out a quiet life,
yet I have been sucked into a wild pack.
I have lived for myself.
I have lived for my brothers and sisters.
I have served a dual existence.
I have turned a smiling eye in your direction,
masked a heart full of pain.
I have loved the feeling of
wet grass under my body.
I have rolled down a hill
only to end up covered in briars.
I have searched for one who notices both sides of me.
I have curled up in a corner
and covered my eyes with my paws.
I know the beauty of dark, damp places.
I have hidden from people knowing
they only cause more of this pain,
but now.
now I hold out a paw
and wait for you to take it
knowing things can never be as they once were
[b]Barbies[/b]
First, you must understand
this all happens for a reason.
The baby bird
pushed out of its nest
by the hand of GOD,
the squirrel
that lost its home,
evicted by an angry tornado,
the raccoon
that fried on the power lines
but took the power with it for a couple of hours,
the mother
who stares into space
is asked what is wrong and says nothing.
You must understand
that everyone in the world is happy.
The man who just lost his baby,
left her on top of the car
and can’t find her now,
still smiles at Seinfeld.
The woman who begs for money,
is content on the street
but needs it to pay her Internet bill,
hums a song to herself.
The kid who failed a test,
lost his dog,
and yells at his mom
goes outside to play ball.
Finally you must understand
that none of this matters.
It’s words, on a page,
fucking each other and fucking the world,
thrust together
by a girl who played
with words instead of Barbies.
[b]What I should have said[/b]
please forgive me
if i can not always speak
and as you watch and wonder
if it was something you said
know that it was
please do not ask me what
or strive to make things better again
the damage is already done.
by Renate Moody (c) 2002
([email]renate [at] poetryuprising [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Renate Moody lives in Roswell, GA with her husband. She graduated with a B.A. in English in 2001 and now seeks the perfect life and career. Until she figures it out, she contents herself with writing about the search. More of Renate’s work can be found on her web site at [URL=http://www.poetryuprising.com]www.poetryuprising.com[/URL]
May 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a short story by Joan Horrigan
([email]joanhorrigan [at] msn [dot] com[/email])
Every time I pull into the guest parking at Benson’s Tooling Company and walk around to the shipping entrance, I know that Tim is going to have a story about one of the employees that he just can’t wait to tell.
“Well, if it’s not old Mike from Mills Metalworks! Howya doin’, Mike? Makin’ a load of sales and a lotta money?”
“Fine, sure, and you, Tim?” Tim, who had been in Shipping for twenty years, always said he knew what really went on at Benson’s because of his vantage point here at the shipping entrance, close to the corner from the main lobby. He knew which people and what products came in and went out of the company, each and every person here involved with getting the product out the door and what each one did to get it out. He knew all their stories and all their troubles because, for some reason, everyone confided in him, probably since he’s the oldest guy here.
Tim was a keen observer of people and was highly intuitive for a guy. When he told a story, it was usually about what had happened, rather than what was happening, with a fellow employee. He did keep a confidence, but afterwards, he had a new story. He certainly didn’t mind sharing them either, even with outsiders like me, just trying to make a buck and get a free lunch off the snacks and goodies these companies always have setting out, especially now that the Christmas season has begun. And they say women gossip. Today it was Janie’s turn under Tim’s microscope.
Tim knew Janie better than anyone, even if Janie hated him, which she did, he said. He told me about Janie finding her husband. Tim knew her like a book, at least that was what he would have me believe, claiming he was a firsthand witness to it all, from the first spark to the wedding vows. Now he thinks she’s pregnant, just by looking at her, even before Janie does. He might stretch a point, but he was fairly objective and could tell a story, so I listened.
“Sweet lonesome Janie was watching all the activity going on at the L. A. Convention Center last March when she and I had to man the company booth,” Tim started out saying, “then she spied this tall muscular dude working across the aisle from us. He was one of them manager types, pointing, telling and showing the six flunkies working for him how to hang the drapes for the backdrop, set up the tables and display all the tools on them. It must have been his air of authority that swept her up in the moment as she watched him in action, and I guess he was kinda good looking, at least to Janie, but she didn’t realize then that it meant finding her husband,” Tim informed me.
“Westec was growing in frenzied activity for the colorful week-long showing,” Tim explained. “Giant manufacturing machinery, some equipment as big as semi-trucks, and I ain’t exaggerating,” he claimed, “clear on down to bolts and drill bits, were being hauled into that giant cavernous convention building. All the companies were setting up their industry booths, like we were. The products would be on display to manufacturers from all over the country. The annual event was one of Janie’s favorites, she said, as it got her out of the office and away from that batch of rowdy wise-cracking biddies, the sales girls she oversees.
“‘[i]Janie, quit staring and come back to the real world![/i]’ was all I yelled at her, but she jumped back at me so fast, saying, [i]’Damn! I hate you Tim. I hope that guy didn’t hear you say that.'[/i] Then she cringed, and I knew she was already interested in that dude across the aisle, so all I said was, [i]’Put the stuff in that case over there, then set the case on the table and put the tools back in it.'[/i]
“I could almost hear her thinking, [i]who the hell does he think he is ordering me around like that. He is one pain in the butt![/i] However, she did as she was told, as is her custom and for the sake of her job, even if it was only [i]’stupid bald Tim from shipping who had no authority over her.'[/i] She knew I was watching her and she wanted to keep her job as it was all she had in the world. Her job was her life, her identity even. She had worked from inputting data to sales to lead position in less than four years and planned to keep it that way. Being head of sales was a lot different that just selling on the phone and taking orders, as she found out. Janie had more authority and mostly answered the girls in sales’ questions and kept track of all the tooling orders coming in and out of Benson’s manufacturing plant. It was a tough job, but she could handle it and got respect by doing it and doing it well.
“One of the girls in sales said she hadn’t been on a date in almost a year. She just goes home to an empty apartment. Who knows what she does then, probably talks to herself or to an imaginary boyfriend or watches movies till two in the morning or gets on some game-playing binge on the computer. What else could she do? She’s too shy to even admit to herself that she’s lonely, but you can see it on her face.
“Anyway, about that time, this dude from across the aisle walks over and asks to borrow her pen. Janie gets all flustered looking for one, and he starts up this conversation, saying something about her beautiful red hair. Well, Janie brightened up and before you know it, they are getting acquainted and taking off to the concession for lunch, just leaving me standing there. Said his name was Ken something. So I decide it’s time for my lunch break too. I follow them and I sit at a table near Janie where she doesn’t even see me. I was curious as to what that dude was gonna lay on her.”
“Are you sure you weren’t just a little jealous, Tim?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Jealous? Well, maybe a little, but she’s too young for me, Mike. You know,” he admitted?to my surprise. Then he continued.
“Janie’s cute freckled face gets all animated when he brings the sandwiches back to their table, and they are talking up a storm. I only caught parts of it, something about him owning his own company in Houston and even having an airplane and going all over the country on business or some such thing. Anyway, he is pouring it on and impressing the hell out of Janie and seemed to have a thing about her red hair. I heard him mention that twice, saying his mother and sister both had red hair and his wife, if he ever found one, would definitely have to have red hair. Then sure enough that evening he comes over and asks to take her to dinner [i]’at a much nicer place,'[/i] he says, and she goes off with him. So I have to drive back alone.
“The next day at work, she was telling the girls in sales about meeting him and was all excited that he could even be interested in her. He continued taking her out every evening after Westec, leaving me stranded every damn day of the show. By the end of the week, Janie was acting like she was definitely in love. She was getting better looking every day too. She got her hair styled differently and was wearing nail polish. She announced he was coming back on the 25th for three days and wanted to see her again then. All the girls were cheering her on because they knew how much this meant to her.
“On Monday after Ken had been back, she reported that he wined her and dined her in the finest restaurants at the beach, downtown and in Beverly Hills. He was coming back in two more weeks too.
“After his next trip to see Janie, she tells the girls that they had shopped together on Rodeo Drive, where he picked out a beautiful diamond bracelet for her. Janie loved it, but there was something wrong with the clasp, so it would have to be repaired before she could take it. He promised to send it to her at her company by Fed Ex as soon as it got repaired, as he didn’t want the package left on her front porch. Janie even missed Friday that week before he took off again for Houston.
“A couple of weeks later, she started looking a little sad because she said she hadn’t heard from him. The girls were telling her he had to be super busy if he owned a company and not to worry. Another week went by and Ken still hadn’t contacted Janie. He didn’t email or anything, just seemingly disappeared, but every day she asked Curtis, the tall lanky Fed Ex delivery guy, about the package she was expecting.
[i]”‘No package today, Janie. Maybe it will arrive tomorrow'[/i], Curtis had answered.
“The next day Janie was hanging around talking to me three or four times, but I knew she was waiting at the shipping entrance with the same question, getting more and more anxious about her package from Ken.
[i]”‘Could it have gotten lost? It’s a small package and could have fallen somewhere,'[/i] she had inquired of the Fed Ex guy with a more agitated and anxious tone to her voice.
“[i]’Sorry, Janie, no package again today,'[/i] Curtis told her. He had been repeating this message everyday now for over a month. Janie was developing a new forlornness in her face, he noticed, the same as I did. He himself even put traces on it every week, ever since she told him about it. However, she never told him what was in the package, just that it was expensive and she didn’t want it getting lost.
“It was going on three months, and Janie came out to meet the Fed Ex truck with faint hope in her heart now, but she still inquired about the package in her sad monotone voice. Curtis saw the devastation in her face and decided to ask her out to cheer her up, instead of having to give her the same negative answer. She accepted in a resigned way, and they went to a movie. Janie was mostly silent, Curtis told me. The movie helped because she didn’t have to engage in much conversation. She seemed a little better, I thought, on Monday when his truck pulled up, since she came out to meet him without asking about the package. Curtis knew she wanted to know, though, but was as impressed as I was that she didn’t ask, for the very first time.
“[i]’Hi, Janie,'[/i] he said gently to her and did not himself mention the package. They talked for a few minutes on casual topics while he was unloading the Fed Ex truck. Curtis waved goodbye to Janie when he drove off from the shipping entrance.
“That package was never mentioned again, but it led Janie to finding her husband, as she and Curtis married five months later in November,” Tim concluded. A big grin started spreading, overtaking his whole face.
“Tim, you ole son of a gun! You are one helluva story teller!” I said to him and had to add, “Why didn’t you tell me about Janie sooner? I’ve been coming to Benson’s once a week and hanging around here, feeling just as lost and lonesome as Janie. I would have asked her out, myself, if I had known that. So who’s this Curtis guy?”
“A guy strong enough to lift those heavy packages and Janie’s spirits! He’s a caring sort. I always thought of him as a wimp, really, until he showed his true colors with Janie. You know what he said to me one day? He said he wanted to get Janie a gift, a teddy bear he saw, and maybe that would make her feel better. He even asked me if I thought it’d be a good idea. Now, I knew he wasn’t a wimp, but a sympathetic sort when he asked me that. I told him it was a great idea and she’d even have someone to sleep with since he probably wasn’t up to it.” Tim laughed out loud remembering his own wisecrack and added, “No, right from the start, they seemed to have some kind of feeling connection…whaddaya call it, simpatico, yeah. It was kinda tender even, watching their love develop. One day Janie made cookies for Curtis. Another day he brought her flowers. They had a way of looking at each other liked they shared a secret, but they couldn’t keep it from me. They make a great couple.
“Curtis is still in night school but will get his teaching degree in June, he said. Then Curtis says they will be able to buy a house. He says he learned more working for FedEx, though, than he ever did in school, just by getting to know Janie. He says she is a lifetime study, whatever that means. You know how them educated guys talk.
“You’ll never guess how he proposed,” Tim continued. “I even saw that too, but I walked away so they could have some privacy because Curtis asked me to, but you know me, I watched. He had something private to tell Janie after he finished unloading the truck, he said. Anyway, I heard him say, [i]’Janie, here’s the package I think you’ve been looking for,'[/i] and handed her a FedEx box. When she opened it and saw a diamond ring and heard what Curtis said, you shoulda seen her jump into his arms. I could not believe it. She was all over him! I didn’t know that gal had that much passion. She kissed him a hundred times and never stopped smiling and saying [i]’Yes! Yes!'[/i] and hugging him.”
“That’s a great story, Tim. I get sick of those depressing ones. And you say Janie is pregnant now but doesn’t know it? That’s weird, Tim. How do you know that?” I asked. He was telling me when I had to interrupt him with, “…oops, here she comes now.”
“Hi, guys, what’s going on today?” Janie had the brightest happiest look on her cute freckled face. You could tell she was in love by her big shiny brown eyes. And yes, she did have that rosy radiance and blossoming that pregnancy gives to girls. At least that was how Tim described it, and he seemed to know more about those things than me.
“Nothing much. Tim was just telling me another of his fantastic stories,” I hedged.
“Guess what, Tim? I’m pregnant!” Janie enthused excitedly.
“Yeah, we know. That’s what we were talking about.” Tim said in his all-knowing way.
“How the hell could you know that? I just found out yesterday.” Janie looked surprised and taken aback, but we just smiled.
April 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a fiction short by Kimberly Townsend Palmer
([email]KimberlyTP [at] aol [dot] com[/email])
Patient A is a living museum of femininity, and serves as transitory evidence of extensive neo-geo-psycho-socio-eco-political movement. Designed and built in the second half of the twentieth century, she first gained philanthropic prominence with a cynical, witty, overeducated man eight years her senior, Charles F. She stayed faithful to Charles F. for six months, but the intriguing tales of his former sexual partners, then numbering in the several hundreds, irretrievably seized her imagination. She left, and never looked back. She shops for new men the way other women shop for new shoes.
She invariably rejects both the too-easy conquest and the too-stubborn resistance. Every season countless men flock near to witness her fleeting, hormonally-induced states of passion, and observe for themselves her classic “XX” architecture.
If it seems that everything has already been said about Patient A, then it is up to the curious investigator to discover her for himself, for she offers infinite variety. She is a woman for night-owls, early-birds, strollers, culture-vultures, devotees of high fashion, low-lifers, luxury-seekers, ascetics, flower-givers, wine-drinkers, the avant-garde, the old guard, fans of high times, fans of art, or just plain fans. Spend your time walking with her through parks, along leaf-lined boulevards, window-shopping, drinking coffee in sidewalk cafes, or overdosing on her sweet, flowery smell. Patient A is the sum of all the men who have loved her, described her, and taught her. She combines the unique with the humdrum — note her fine, trembling sensitivity, her bullheaded obstinacy, her spurts of unbounded energy, her fits of restlessness, irrational generosity, contemptible stinginess, as well as her innate proclivity for sleeping all day on the couch, unwashed dishes piled high in the sink.
In her twenties, following several remarkably disastrous affairs with high-strung youths, she gradually assumed supremacy over William B., an older, stolid man with a government job. Beautiful buildings sprang up around her person, the arts flourished within her living room, and she gained renown as the sexual capital of the household.
She was kind and good and true to William B. for longer than she had ever been with any man. She wanted to settle down with her mate and raise a herd of children. Justice was what she had in mind. As you sow, so shall you reap. She had a set of rules in her head, and she did not break them until she had no choice left but to live or die. Everything unkind her husband said was made even heavier by something kind he left unsaid, and the weight of his personality dragged on her like a universe. Omissions are not accidents — in this belief she is said by many to be unreasonable. It’s so unrefined to object to an adulterous wife. He could have tried to even things out. She held the cosmos on her inadequate neck, and how it ached at night!
For a long time after she finally left him, she was afraid of love and all things human. There was no one left to speak to, and the fact that she never made anyone other than herself smile didn’t help. She realizes now every woman fights her own private war, and what seemed like losing was really winning. Every good thing is for such a very short time — bring forth roses in haste from the rocky ground, the growing season will not come again. She longs to drink honey from the honey-flower. She is free of barbed wire, yet cannot erase the blood of the sacrificed. How can she love again, ever?
She must do the best she can. Her last romantic partner told her to find a good husband. He, himself, was too much of an adventurer and would not fit the bill he imposed. Patient A believes everything will be all right, if only she can find the right man. He must be rich, not in money but in spirit. He must allow her to travel the world in safety. He must be like the father and mother she never had. He must both take care of her and let himself be taken care of — the balance herein is extremely delicate and can sometimes even be spoiled merely by improper breathing. This is an order impossible to fill.
Patient A has developed self-induced amnesia as an art form. Patient A hardly remembers her Mother and Father’s arms, their hearts and minds — where are they, why did they leave, what did they expect of her, anyway? Even so, she prays to their memory, which resembles nothing more than a pair of white herons dressed up as guardian angels — she prays — please deliver to me wisdom, please deliver strength, on your snowy wings bring me goodness and bravery. She sleeps, and in her dreams never speaks. Footsteps must be paced to meet an obstacle at every stride. Stillness is hard, so much harder than words.
Beached whales keep on breathing, trembling as their skin dries and cracks. Unaffected people gather pine cones for adornment. It is human nature to stand in the center of a thing. The most faithful feeling always shows itself by restraint. A match, not a marriage, was made between Patient A and her husband, William B. It was an unfortunate incident, fortunately ended. To define grace with any degree of eloquence requires an inquisitive hand. The only stronghold powerful enough to trust to is love. In the end, Patient A will be as ordinary and egotistical and hard-hearted as anybody else. If you nevertheless choose to pursue her, she will not be gracious, she will not absolve you.
April 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a short story by Alan C. Baird
The modern city formed by the ancient towns of Buda, Obuda and Pest basks in a riot of color – many leaves are flaunting their autumn tints in the warm afternoon sunshine. The majestic Danube flows through the midst of this glittering metropolis, with its historic bridges linking together millions of souls into a sophisticated city known as “The Paris Of The East.”
A sleek cigarette boat drifts offshore, through the sparsely-inhabited outlying precincts of Budapest. It’s a lovely day to be on the river… for some people.
Resting on a narrow ledge at the end of this streamlined craft lies an anchor, partly hanging over the water. A four-meter chain attaches the anchor to a human ankle, encased in a bright orange hazmat isolation suit. From behind the suit’s protective Plexiglas mask, a terrified face peers out, eyes desperately straining to look downward.
Below, the hand of a burly man is poised on the plunger of a syringe, leading into the suit’s oxygen supply line.
Istv�n lounges negligently on his deck chair, a short distance away. His friends might give him the nickname Pista, but he has no friends. Therefore, he encourages his ‘business associates’ to use that moniker. Zolt�n, one of these unlucky few, stands beside him, nervously pointing an automatic weapon at the hazmat suit, and awkwardly clearing his throat. “Pista, isn’t this a little harsh?”
“He betrayed the cause.”
“I suppose it’s not connected to his flirtation with Zsuzsi?”
Pista allows himself a nasty chuckle. “Perhaps just a tiny bit.”
“But he’s been a good friend to us. I’m sure he’s very sorry.” The face behind the Plexiglas nods vigorously.
“He’s been a good friend to you, Zolt�n. Are you offering to take his place?”
“N… no.”
“Then do it.” Pista signals to the burly man, who eagerly pushes the plunger. A muted wail emanates from the suit, and the face behind the mask looks down, incredulous. Pista checks his watch, muttering wearily, “Besides, we needed to test this sample, to see if it’s worth the money. They said to expect a few nerve spasms.”
The hazmat suit begins to twitch uncontrollably. In a few moments, the suit is jerking ghoulishly across the small ledge. Delighted, Pista claps his hands, as if keeping time with a gypsy dance. “Ho-pa! Clap with me!”
The burly man starts to clap, but Zolt�n turns away, disgusted. The hazmat suit tumbles off the ledge and splashes into the river. Pista promptly loses interest. “His waltzing days are finished. Let’s go.”
The speedboat’s driver pushes the throttle forward. As the launch streaks away, the floating, twitching hazmat suit drags the anchor off the back ledge, submerging the suit almost instantly.
[b]Author’s Note:[/b] Alan is a Harvard Book Prize recipient who recently coauthored [url=http://www.9timezones.com]9TimeZones.com[/url] – a hardback/softcover screenwriting volume. He lives just a stone’s throw away from Hollywood… which is fine and dandy, until the stones are thrown back.
