* The Short Stories Club *'s topics - tribe.net

New Bard and Book Club FREE with forums

2008-04-12T02:18:00Z

Hi everyone
I have 2 sites that are dormant that I am trying to propagate with writers and book reviewers. They have forums attached as well. They are free...so the only thing I need now is people to start to network there and show some artistic impression with words...
I look forward to seeing you there.

http://www.sacredgoddessbard.com
http://www.sacredgoddessbard.com/forum

http://www.goddessbookclub.com
http://www.goddessbookclub.com/forum

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

"Tom Rainmaker" A short story by MadMark.

2008-03-26T21:15:51Z

Tom Rainmaker had a wonderful life, a long life that now, in the cool afternoon fall was coming to an end. His wife sits now beside the medical bed set up in his room caressing his grey thin hair, her smile sad but filled with happiness of a life of great memories. Three fully grown children stand underneath the window outside amongst scrambling children talking nodding crying. The sound of the children rising up into the air wafting through the window and into Toms dying ears mixing with the magic smell of decaying leaves sparking memories of his own child life. His minds eye raced, he heard his mother calling him at this same house, she stood at the door with a dish rag in her hand wearing a golden sundress sparkling in the summer sun. He wiped his boyish hands on his muddy overalls and stuffed the frog into his breast pocket “coming,” he mumbled as is eyes fluttered in dream. His wife’s eyes filled with the ocean. Tom felt her tear on his cheek. Beneath the fluttering eyelids he stood in the drenching rain calling out to her, His muddy overalls changed for a dripping brown military uniform and black shoes. He screamed at the old farmhouse until the lights started on. His huge grin revealed his perfect white teeth. The rain fell around him, Her dad appeared on the porch, she appeared in the window. I love you” he screamed through the pouring rain. “I love you and I will marry you”. I can not die! and will not die over there! I will be back and ill marry you.” Her tears were the same as she waved from her bedroom window sad, sweet buetiful tears that fell now at his deathbed. His mind moved onto the vivid memory of the war and the scars that forever changed his entire understanding of life. His back against the dirt berm of the bunker, explosions all around his friend John from Omaha dead’s eyes staring at him, his body torn off at the waist. Awake for twenty four hours the cammand came, charge!! This is it! Run straight into the wall of bullets and cannons. As he turned to jump out of the bunker into the face of hell he didn’t think of the Charlie horse in his thigh, or the cuts all over his body, All he thought of and all he saw was her. He ran toward her. His uniform pristine and starched now black shoes polished hit the train station platform running through a glorious celebration of the survivors he dropped his bag and swooped her up in his arms spinning her around shedding all the horror right there in the train yard seeing only his wife crying shrieking as he held her caressing her head now as she sweated. “Push now! Push now! Almost there!” the doctors voice bled into the sound of the crying baby and the silence of the struggling mother. He looked at his lover you did it baby it’s a boy you did it, I love you. “
She caressed his head now looking down at her lover grey and accomplished. Their children came in the room together sorrounding their beloved father’s bed. They took his hand and their mothers hand. “Remember my fourteenth birthday when dad slipped bringing in the cake with all the candles lit singing happy birthday and the glowing confection went flying through the air splatting right on the table. They all laughed with non focused eyes, lost in the sharp smell of memories. Yeah dad laughed and laughed and stuck a couple more candles in it and lit em and started singing again, happy birthday to you… that was too funny. We ate that cake right off the table. It was alright. They all laughed. Remember the time dad went sleepwalking
Toms eyes fluttred slower and separate, then they opened to see his buetiful wife above him and his three children around his bed all crying and smiling holding on to each other and holding on to him. He took a deep breath and smiling his infamous grin reached out for his wife’s face. Touching her face caressing her cheek he looked her in the eyes solomley and said “That was fun” . his words trailed off into a whisper, his arm fell to his side and his last breath exhaled. He was dead.
Tyler opened his eyes and the blur and disorientation began to wear off he came into focus. Coming back into reality he knew his friends he had grown up with were around him, he couldn’t here them yet though, he remembered taking a huge pull of smoke from a long pipe his friend Kevin made from tuotulin tusk. He began to hear their laughter. His vision came into focus, their they were, his friends he knew so well that they were made up partially of himself. “But how, what the Holy Shit.” His friends rolled with laughter around him. “You were out man, totally fucked up by the elhorn root, I tolled you that it’s a life altering trip man.’ ‘What? A trip?” What an unreal trip. He thought. “So real. M, M , My name was Tom Rainmaker, I had a famly, I was in a war!”
“Yeah, Yeah! heavy huh!”
“I was in a war too, I lived in a place called Germany. HEAVY trip man.”
Tyler looked at his friends, he knew they were real, Kevin, Tim, and Monica all watched him smiling at him. They had all went first on this new powder root given to them by a tribe elder. “How long was I out, the last thing I remember was hitting the tusk,?”
About twenty five minutes, you hit the pipe said something about your mom and fell back into the pillows that monica kindly set up for you. We told you that it is a doozy, you never done anything like elroot. Tell us about it. What happened to you.
Well, my name was Tom Rainmaker, I had a wife and three kids…….

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

The Return of Professor Jenkins. . .

2008-03-25T02:07:08Z

I had raced on my bike to get to the lecture hall as quickly as possible, but still had arrived a little bit after the talk began. My zoology professor had strongly recommended attending the talk to her class and not quite being an A student, I felt perhaps I should attend.

As I entered the lecture hall I found all seats filled so I stood at the back of the hall and listened to the talk.

I was enthralled.

My professor had raved about Professor Jenkins from whom she had taken a class twenty some years ago, when she herself had been a student. Dr. Jenkins had had a brilliant career when he suddenly disappeared from the scene a year after the class she had taken. She told us that his class had been the crucial factor in deciding to choose zoology as a career.

I found the brief article in the campus newspaper somewhat intriguing. Jenkins’ new paper, which had been mailed to the university a few months past, was described as revolutionary and the article also said that his views about evolution were radical. Although I had not read his paper, the topic of his talk was entitled “The Evolution of Cats.” I was certain that his talk would focus on his findings in the paper.

During the talk, I found that I was both shocked and impressed. This is truly a radical idea, I thought to myself!

His theory, that cats were evolved from snakes, was incredible. He described the tail structure of cats, as compared to the tail structure of snakes, as well as offering a comparison of the eyes, the teeth, the brains and the comparative social behavior of the two animals. It was mind-blowing. Quite impressive. I began to understand the excitement of zoology, as his findings were both compelling and persuasively delivered.

The head of the Zoology Department was quoted in the article about the talk as saying, “Dr. Jenkins’ theories will turn the study of zoology on its head. After only a few minutes of the talk, I believed!

Unfortunately, after several minutes I found I could not remain in the hall. I had rushed out of my previous class, not taking time for a bathroom break, but I could not hold off any longer.

Taking care of my business as quickly as possible, I returned to the hall to find the room filled with applause. Professor Jenkins was receiving a standing ovation as he was escorted off the stage by two tall gentlemen, exiting to the side.

A little disappointed, but still excited by the talk, and quite hungry, I decided to ride off campus and get a tofu burger.

I jumped up on my bike and rode down the narrow alley beside the lecture hall and slowed as I saw a white van parked by the side exit door. Professor Jenkins was being assisted into the back of the van by one of his escorts, who buckled him in and closed the door.

I paused in the narrow space by the van to walk my bike on past, when the name on the van caught my eye. “Pinehaven,” it said.

“Excuse me, I asked the gentleman leaning against the van, who was finishing a smoke, ”is the professor going to a funeral?”

“A funeral?” said the gentleman, “Why’s that?”
“Oh,” I said, “I just saw the name on the van and thought. . .”

“You thought that Pinehaven is a cemetery,” he laughed. “That’s a good one! No, Pinehaven is a mental institution.”
“A cemetery,” he repeated, as he laughed and walked around the van to open the driver’s side door.
That was an odd exchange, I thought as I rode my bike to MacTofu’s.

Later that evening I got on the internet to learn more about Professor Jenkins. The sources all described him as a brilliant young professor, who had twin doctorates in psychology and zoology, but who was chiefly known for his contributions to zoology. Jenkins had ended his academic career early, simply vanishing from the academic arena without fanfare.

Both psychology and zoology, I thought. I was filled with excitement. My principle problem in school was that I couldn't make up my mind between sociology and zoology. I loved animals, but was fascinated by human behavior. How could I have two careers so different? It looks like Professor Jenkins had managed it. After a successful career in academic zoology, he left to enter a career as a psychologist at Pinehaven. Maybe I could do that too!

I realized that I had a strong desire to learn more about my mystery professor.

Next, I did a google search for Pinehaven and my city.

“Aha!” I said, as I found a web page that gave me a description of Pinehaven as well as directions to drive there. it was located just outside the city.

A few days later, as I drove to Pinehaven, I mused to myself. I too would like to pursue dual academic careers. While I had a great love of sociology, Imy interest in zoology was growing. Could I possibly manage having two major careers? If Professor Jenkins has done it, perhaps I could, as well. Although no one has so far described me as brilliant, I was still young in my academic career, only a sophomore.

As I pulled into the driveway for Pinehaven I was impressed by the lovely grounds. Inside the high wrought iron fence, was a green expanse of well maintained lawn, several pine trees, and lovely flowers growing near the large brick building.

At the front desk I checked in and said that I was a student of zoology at the university and had seen Professor Jenkins’ talk and wondered if I could meet with him. She looked at me for what seemed like a long minute and said, “I suppose that would be possible, but you really should have called in advance. Let me see what his schedule is for today.”

She looked down at some papers on her desk as I chattered away, a little bit excited. “Of course, if he is too busy today, I understand. If I could only have ten minutes with him and I am willing to wait, or come back another day. I found his talk really exciting, imagine that cats could be evolved from snakes!”

“We thought his paper was quite good, as well,” she said, “and we were very supportive, and pleased that the university liked it. Unfortunately the paper he is working on now seems not to be so promising.”

“Oh, what is that?” I asked.

“This one is an explanation of how horse shoes originally grew on ironwood trees,” she replied. We had hoped with the paper about cats and snakes that he was showing some signs of improvement, but now he’s back writing the loony stuff.

“But I think you can visit him this afternoon. He is just finishing up an art activity now, and after his meds you can see him for a few minutes. It might do him good."

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

The Hitman and The Girl

2008-03-02T04:10:20Z

I was a hitman. I hit people, not with a baseball-bat, or a cricket-bat, or the infamous hockey-stick, but with a bullet, a 7.62x39mm bullet. A bullet, which when moving at 710 m/s, spurted blood with merciless precision— beautiful, indeed. I wanted the blood to reach further distances with every shot, just as a baseball hitter wants the next home-run to break all records.

It was a psychopathic condition, but I seemed to enjoy it. I didn’t know what a psychopath was until my girlfriend told me. She said she wanted to do me because I was a psychopath, the likes of whom she hadn’t been with before. When she said that, I took my pistol out, put it on her head, and did her as if I were doing my normal job. She liked it. She liked the fact that I was a merciless psychopath. She once said, ‘we stick around well, you know what I mean.’ And I gave her that bad-guy look and replied, ‘give me a bullet and a head and I’ll show you what sticks around even better.’

She brought me a phone one day. A Motorola Razr. She said, ‘Hey, Vicky, keep this phone with you all the time so that I can stay in touch with you. Not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’ So I stayed in touch with her, not as much with the phone as with her. The phone just like any other electronic device started to weigh down on me.

It’s fine if you’re taking care of a girl or a gun, but a phone, absolutely not; for something as ridiculous as a phone you need to be really demented. I hated taking care of the phone. Keeping it in my pocket, I would take it out several times every hour just to check whether it was working or not. With guns in my pocket, the phone seemed out-of-place. The light would always be on, but the bars on the far left top-corner seemed jittery. They would disappear on me every time I stepped out of hiding. In hiding, they were in surplus, more than the number of spoons I had at my place. It was weird. A phone? Why would anybody require a phone?—only if someone wants to carry something in their pocket. But if you’re so insistent on carrying something, carry rocks, or guns. What about bullets? I knew how lonely people were. Who did they think would call them?—not I. I could put a bullet in their head, but I couldn’t call them. One day a guy called me and asked me to hit him. Why? Because no one ever called him. So I hit him. A 9mm bullet hammered into his head, because no one ever called him. Cool.

I was about to hit this man the other day when my girl called. I didn’t know what a booty call was before that conversation, so I got scared when she announced it to be a booty call. Was I required buying her new boots? I didn’t like taking her out shopping, so the thought of new boots scared me. I rushed back to her, leaving my job untouched. And it turned out that the booty call was something else. If not as scary as taking her out shopping, it was enough to make me sweat.

Vicky, don’t be a dog, now. You like it, don’t you?’

I didn’t disagree with her, but I really wanted to return the phone, which had started all the sweaty, tiring, rocking, drama. I wanted no more of that phone. I wanted my freedom back. I wanted to feel that I could pop open anyone’s head without having to fear about its terrible ringing sound. But it didn’t happen. The crazy phone stayed with me.

Things got a little quiet between me and my girl. I enjoyed a lot more time with my guns. I stashed away the phone so that it would die its natural death and leave me alone. But no, it didn’t stop bothering me. It kept ringing and ringing, and I was booty called again and again. Away from my guns, I started to wither away. Just like a gun without bullets, I was rendered useless.

‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a Blackberry, so that I can stay in touch with you even more, well not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’

Blackberry. That was it. My decline. A cool name but a horrifying product. I was no longer a man. I was a Blackberry subscriber. Internet. Email. All that other crap too. Just a click away. No, I didn’t need any clicks. I needed my gun, for god’s sake. Blood. Crap. Thud. End. Everything just a click away. I wanted some of those clicks. Heavens knew it, once I had the Blackberry, I was booty called more than ever. Actually, I spent more time taking care of her booty than my guns. I didn’t want any calls anymore. I wanted my guns. I wanted them all.

‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a laptop. That way you can be even closer to me. Much closer.’

And so I got this Laptop.

A “black box,” I’d say. Two layers sandwiched together, with buttons on one layer and a TV-like screen on the other. Switch it on, and the fan starts throwing out heat waves. I very rarely switched it on, but whenever I did, she was here and it was cold.

‘Why do I require a laptop?’
‘Vicky, you require a laptop, because it makes you human. A laptop makes you a complete man. Before the computer you were a primitive man, but now you’re a modern psychopath. I haven’t done it with a modern psychopath, so I bought you a laptop.’

Laptops make a person human? How? Guns and bullets make people human. Whack a head or two and enjoy the feeling. But no, I was required to open the damn black box and search for ways to satisfy her booty. Google, Yahoo, and all those Chinese herb names that can help men grow stronger and bigger. What crap! What about a gun and a few bullets to help a man grow stronger and bigger? What a waste! Where the hell are my guns, I shouted? And she said, ‘Yeah, come on.’

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Short Story Up

2008-03-01T20:44:29Z

Pen Noir (www.pennoir.org) has decided to put up a short story and some poems of mine on their website. Take a look if you're interested: http://www.pennoir.org/rachelolivier.html

They accept submissions year round.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Call for Entries: A Child's Guide to Teasing Bees

2008-02-17T00:31:19Z

Because I felt like doing this again.

Children’s stories this time, 100-1000 words, poetry also accepted. Think Ogden Nash, Charles Addams, Lemony Snicket.

Oh, and they must contain at least one bee.

Due by December 31, 2006.

Comment below or email me at holderfield/gmail/com

Unlike the Anthology, this one will be in B&W, so it will be cheaper. I will send a PDF version to everyone accepted, as well as making them eligible for heavily discounted print versions and limited edition Bee Shirts.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Cthulhuvida, the handcarved webcomic, is now available in book form.

2008-02-12T06:24:15Z

http://lulu.com/mckenzee

I adapted the Hymiskviða to Lovecraft's North America. Each chapter is illustrated with a linoblock print, also by me.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

WRITERS WANTED...

2008-02-09T05:49:41Z

Poets, novelists, essayists, short story writers, playwrights, journalists...If you write and have a site that you would like to like to mine, then I would like to hear from you. A reciprocal link will seal the deal...PLUS you will also have access to my new blog, where you will be expected to post your excerpts and related material on a regular basis. Oh, wow! He’s got to be kidding! All of that FREE publicity and exposure!

Ayup...I have my reasons. But I’m also very interested in helping to promote my peers whenever and however possible. And my current project just worked out that way. So, if you interested, please get back to me ASAP. There will be limited space!

The 2 sites in question are as follows:

The Portfolio: http://rdklove.googlepages.com

The Portfolio Blog: http://rdkpf.blogspot.com/

Serious inquiries only, please.

RD Kennedy

For those of you who are NOT writers but enjoy quality literature, this also applies to you, because ALL visitors/readers WILL be allowed to post comments on the work they read. You may also know happen to know some writers, who are always looking for another place to promote their work and gain additional exposure. (We’re almost as bad as musicians!) Be SURE to spread the word and ask them to check this opportunity out, as well. You know how it works...

rdk1421@hotmail.com

(Please mention WRITERS WANTED in subject line!)

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Pen Noir Accepting Submissions

2008-02-05T17:14:31Z

Pen Noir is currently accepting submissions.
We publish poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction with a shadowy edge. This does not mean that your work should feature mass murder, S&M or suicide (though if that's what you write about, by all means, submit it). We're looking for work permeated by a dark aesthetic or sensibility. Traditional and experimental forms are welcome.

Length for prose: 8,000 words maximum.
For poetry: Submit between 1-4 poems.
No previously published work.

Submissions are read year-round. Our editorial staff is composed of volunteers, so please allow up to 6 months for a response. Once you are notified that your work has been accepted, it will appear on the webzine for one month. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. We wish we could offer payment, but cannot at this time.

Art Submissions are greatly encouraged. Please submit art via e-mail in .jpeg form.

All submissions must be submitted in the body of an e-mail to:

pen_noir@yahoo.com
www.pennoir.org

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

A Place for Short Stories -- help!

2008-01-02T17:08:19Z

Hi There,
my name is Stefano, with a group of writer friends we put together this website: alpha.dublit.com
dublit is on online community of writers, readers & listeners of short-form literature.

I need some help to get the website bootstrapped with some good quality content... who wants to help posting one of your stories?
In case the idea thrills you we are looking for beta testers. We don't have money to pay you but we can give you one of our kickass t-shirts ;-)

The idea is.. sign up on alpha.dublit.com, click on submit audioshort and read one of your best stories (there is an online recording tool), done! At this point people can listen, rate, review your story.

Thanks for any writing contribute!!

Stefano

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Guilty Pleasure gets a brain

2007-12-31T19:28:30Z

This is just to alert tribe members to a new dating site specifically for writers: www.SingleWriters.com. It emphasizes intelligence and talent over looks and status.

Some good writing posted on the site, too!

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Writing Sci Fi

2007-11-01T21:02:48Z

I have started taking steps to write out the sci fi story burning in my brain for the past 20 years. I would love to find other writers to talk with about wrting, organizing, flushing and more. Not sure how many of you writers here are into sci fi, but feel free to contact me to talk further. If you live in Portland Or then hey lets go have tea or lunch.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

Nature Writers?

2007-10-19T05:28:22Z

essays, poems, prose, fiction, sci-fi, other?

are there any nature writers out there today in e-space?

deadline for the november issue of Why Vandalism?
October 29th, 2007

www.whyvandalism.com/
submissions page:
http://whyvandalism.com/submissions.html

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Absence a new short story by M.R. Merris

2007-09-29T00:54:28Z

Absence

To Ms. Deborah Meyers

Before the dogs woke, before the men scraped the ice off their windshields and went off to work, before the sun got up, in the dream-before-wake did Mark Morse begin to grasp how his ex-wife, Lisa Hoodd, was still in him and how she wasn’t. And what wasn’t her was actually him and what wasn’t him was somebody, something else or God.
Before he could pee, bitterness would rise from his heart and poison what good she had imparted in him. At first he could not see the venom destroying what was left, but after many mornings where he drew the covers over his head and howled to God did he begin to see how little his bitterness was. It was then, as he held the silly and the sad, the truth and the deceit, did he feel the dynamic of the marriage. It was then he wondered if he was wrong for marrying her, wrong for leaving, or was the whole damned thing God’s will.
This suspicion slowly ate a hole in his heart. So when he was tired of the bleeding, at two and a half years, Mark took it to John Lobos, his therapist. He remembered John’s calm voice at the session when he responded to Mark’s distrust with, “It didn’t work and it won’t work and you know it. She wanted the divorce! Has she given you any indication that she wanted to try it again? Mark you didn’t respect her and you don’t trust nor respect her now. Dude wake up!”
Mark realized all his verbiage about the sacredness of family and staying together for the kids’ sake was bullshit. All he wanted was not to be alone, no matter what lies he had to live, no matter who he had to hurt or how much he was hurt.
“Why do you still try to make it work in your heart?” John said.
“Cause I love her,” he said automatically, amazed at what stumbled out.
“Yes, you might have, but it’s not that.”
“What is it?”
“We have talked about this before. She represents Mom…
“…and I want to make it right?”
All you could hear was the clocking ticking above Mark’s head.
“OK. It’s what my couple’s counselor, Barbra Bayer, said fifteen years ago. I wanted the Universal Teat and Lisa didn’t want the job. What do I do with what’s left of her in me?”
“You know.”
“Do I?” asked Mark, as he looked Jon Lobos in the eye as John glanced at the clock and intoned, “It’s time.”

* * *

A week after Mark’s session with John, Lisa called to talk about his visitation schedule for the next two months. After the scheduling was done there was a lull in the conversation, which usually meant it was time for Mark to bid his goodbye. Instead he heard himself offer. “In our absence our presence is defined.”
“What do you mean?” Lisa Hoodd said, surprised.
“The space in each of us that was filled with the other is absent. What is left now is perhaps, the essence of the other.”
He waited in the heavy stillness and through it he heard her heart beating in her breath.
“Like negative space?”
“Yeah like negative space.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I agree with you.”
“OK,” said Mark.
The silence was so pregnant with meaning and without meaning it shivered Mark’s back; he didn’t want to know its meaning so Mark broke the silence with, “I think I’d better say goodbye.”
“Goodbye Mark.”

* * *

“In our absence our presence is defined,” thought Lisa Hoodd, fresh from her bath, as she walked across the street to the Dunn’s to pick out a kitten for Mike, her younger child. Lisa chewed on Mark’s statement as she chewed chocolate: slowly, savoring every crumb, allowing the rich taste to float into her being and fill her instinctive need for solace. When she was with Mark, she allowed his words to flow threw her and she compulsively looked for hidden meanings in them. She was dedicated to always striving to be growing, always analyzing anything and everything that went on inside and outside her. She knew what he was saying and doing had a deeper meaning and that meaning had another level and her life was committed to find those levels and always be aware of where the levels were and how they came and went. Mark didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to go to work, write, make his models and take care of the kids. He didn’t mind her analyzing what was in her and what on the outside was affecting her. He would listen and, when asked, give his comment, but he didn’t want Lisa going “inside his head” and being his therapist. That was Barbra’s job, not hers. When she did it, which was often, it would drive Mark nuts. He didn’t want to live his life committed to “self realization.” In fact every time he said the word it would come out in a shell of mockery.
When they split, her need to hammer out the hidden meaning of Mark’s words vanished. So when he made the statement about absence, she was expecting it would roll over her, but it didn’t. Somehow a small hidden piece stuck in her mind and she mulled it over and over trying to see if it was true for her, and it wasn’t. There was a pain, a guilt, a remorse that something of Mark didn’t stay in her. Thirteen years of marriage and she could walk away and never think of him again. Something was sad about that, something terribly sad.
Lisa was thinking about this when Hank, Mike’s first cat, popped into her mind as she walked over to the Dunn’s, to look at a new litter of kittens. When Mark left, Lisa had promised Mike a cat, and had kept her promise. Mark, like her father, hated cats, so in the past when Mike had wanted one, the answer was always no.
Mike called Mark and they all went to SPCA together. Mike started to wander through cages of cats, and couldn’t make up his mind. Mark had found an old black male cat, scarred, beaten up and mean. He was playing with him as if he was a kitten. A young volunteer at the SPCA was watching in amazement as Mark petted the cat. He asked the volunteer if he could hold him and the kid said yes. The kid opened the cage and the cat walked out into Mark’s arms. He cuddled him and the cat purred. Mike came up to Mark and began to pet him as well. When Lisa and her older child, Joe, tried to pet him, the cat would pull away and snarl. Mike asked Mark if he could have the cat and Mark said yes on one condition: Mark could name him. Mike thought about it for a second and nodded his head, yes. Mark held the cat up over his head by the scruff and said loudly, “This is life and his name is Hank.” The boys and she turned red in embarrassment: Mark didn’t even notice.
He was always doing that, doing things that embarrassed the boys and her. It made her so mad, him embarrassing her and the boys with his strange behavior. That is another reason the marriage fell apart, besides the abuse: he wouldn’t behave as she wanted. He said he would try, do what she wanted him to do, and then act so silent and stiff that it made her angrier. He wouldn’t just be relaxed and interact with people in a relaxed way,
She never could break him of it. Mark wouldn’t conform to what Lisa thought was right. Barbra said to both of them that they were fighting for power in the relationship, and this could be true, but it sure felt like he was trying to embarrass her in front of people to prove a point. When they talked about it, Mark always blew it off and this led to her saying something and then to him saying something, and it went on and on, getting more vicious all the time. Finally, if lucky, Mark would leave the house screaming that she was not his mother. She knew that. All she wanted him to do was to behave in a way that wouldn’t embarrass her in front of people. He just couldn’t or wouldn’t do it.
After he left and he came over to see the boys, he would be very quiet and formal like a mannered guest, which he was. But she could tell that he was holding back something and she didn’t like it, still. She didn’t mention it.
All she ever wanted was for her marriage to be successful. And when it wasn’t, or when she realized that it wasn’t going to be, she became a bitter vindictive bitch, and she knew it. She had wasted 13 years of her life with a boring brute who had beaten the love for him out of her. Whenever he came over to see the boys, she cold feel her cheeks suck in as if she had eaten a dozen lemons and she would be cold and short with him.
But when Patt came over, she and the boys would play board games or listen to his stories or watch movies. Everything would be light and fun. Not the weary-gray boredom that Mark brought with him.
Hank didn’t last either. It was total Hell. Mike let Hank out at night and he fought anything with four feet. The fights kept her, Mike, and the neighbors awake every night for nearly three months. She couldn’t bring herself to take Hank back. Mike would spend hours playing with Hank as if he was a kitten. Mike could even stroke his scars and fresh wounds. Hank would sleep on Mike’s belly when Mike took a nap. Mike loved Hank and Hank loved Mike. It would break Mike’s heart and she wouldn’t do that again.
The cops had just left for the second time that week after there had been a call about Hank disturbing the peace. Lisa finally had to admit that it was better for all concerned to take Hank back to the shelter and try another cat. She was about to tell Mike that when a red Ford 150 barreled around the corner and drove over Hank as if he was a beer can and drove on with black smoke belching out the tail pipe.
Usually Hank would barely miss at getting hit by an inch but this time he didn’t. Maybe it was because his left eye was almost closed with bandages from last night’s fight or maybe it was from the vicious scar on his left hind leg he got from a fight with an opossum last week. Whatever it was, Hank froze when he heard the truck rounding the corner, looked the driver in the eye, snarled and jumped into the truck’s tires, fighting the tires with all his might.
There was a quiet that was unique for the neighborhood. No birds singing, no Harley riding up, no deep thunder of the latest Gangsta rap as their low riders full of bling hit the speed bumps. Nothing.
A young male cat across the street saw the whole thing. He came over to Hank, sniffed at what was left and then stood guard. Hank had fought him last week and he still bore the wounds of that battle. Lisa grabbed a box and ran out to the street and picked up Hank and took him back to Mike, who was stunned. The young male cat followed her up the porch steps and lay underneath the wooden bench that ran around the porch, like Hank used to do. He began to meow a fugue, a fugue for a fallen enemy.
Mike took the box from Lisa and went to his room and cried for over an hour; just like he did when his father had left. She felt so helpless: just like when Mark left.
Mike called his father later that night and Mark drove in from Benicia to comfort Mike. Mark sat on the couch with Mike and said nothing for a long time. Lisa wanted Mark to say something, ask Mike how he felt, but she knew that to say something would do more harm than good and so she stayed silent
That was a year ago. Since then Lisa asked Mike if he wanted another cat and he said no. And kept saying no until yesterday when the Dunns asked Mike if he wanted to come over and to play with some kittens. Mike went over after supper and stayed for an hour. When he came back, he had picked out a kitten and named him Mocha after the mocha coffee drink. He asked if he could have a kitten and Lisa said of course he could.
Now, they were going to pick up Mocha. She had gotten all new stuff that morning and looked forward to raising a new a kitten.
“Hi Cathy. How do you feel?” Lisa said to Cathy Dunn as she waddled down to the stairs steps, 6 months pregnant. Cathy’s hubby, Frank, had opened the garage underneath the house and let Mike play with the kittens.
“Ready to pick up Mocha?” Cathy said to Mike and he replied with a head nod of yes.
Cathy had waddled over next to Lisa and whispered to her, “Who owns the blue van that I have been seeing around lately?”
“That is Patt’s, a former student of mine.”
“Is that a perk for teaching high school?” asked Cathy.
Lisa smiled.
“Mommy can we go now?” said Mike with Mocha purring in his arms.
“Yes, we can. Thanks Cathy for the kitten.”
“Anytime, feel free Mike to come over and play with the kittens any time you want. We won’t be keeping them for long”
“Thanks Cathy,” said Mike as he held the kitten in his arm and nuzzled it with his nose.
Lisa and Mike walked out of the garage and back across Majestic. “Nosy bitch,” Lisa muttered under her breath.

* * *

The next day found Mark at the First Street Pier’s parking lot in wet cold fog so thick that he thought he heard Boggy talking about a “beautiful friendship.” He was visiting Donald and Danielle, a mallard couple he knew. They would listen to him as he dumped his woes about looking for work, missing his boys, Lisa and other assorted things; like his sensitivity about his height or when in the Hell should he do The Steps.
When he left Lisa and everything fell apart, he would go to the First Street Pier to feed the ducks. One day when he was at the pier, Danielle and Donald waddled up to him and began to eat sour dough baguette out of his hand. It struck him this might be a sign from God, so he began talking to them, when no one was around. It worked better than his humans sponsor; the ducks had less tolerance for bullshit.
He knew he was crazy, thinking ducks actually knew what he was saying, but it appeared they did. Donald would peck at him when he had his head up his ass and Danielle would nuzzle him when pain would come.
After half a loaf Donald was getting full of bread and Mark’s bullshit and was walking toward a puddle of water to relieve himself when a new steel-colored Volvo station wagon whipped into the parking lot and nearly hit him. Donald flew away squawking at the rudeness of the driver. Danielle was beside herself and yelled at Mark to do something to curb his kind.
Mark sighed as he rose and began walking over to the Volvo. He was 15 feet away when the driver’s door suddenly opened and out popped Barbra Bayer, his ex- therapist. “This is strange,” muttered Mark as Barbra hurried over to Donald.
Barbra Bayer was a small, thin woman with bright eyes and a shoulder-length auburn perm. She was quiet, read some of the same books that Mark did, and called him on his shit. Also, she was Catholic and understood the quagmire that was Mark’s relationship with God. Lisa and Mark saw Barbra before they got engaged and for the next five years as a couple and then for another five seeing her separately.
Mark ended his relationship with Barbra three years before he left Lisa by saying that he didn’t trust her anymore. Barbra asked why and Mark couldn’t say. He knew intellectually that she had his best interest at heart and was evenhanded with him and Lisa. Mark knew that she loved him and would do anything to keep the relationship together. But in the end for some unknown reason Mark’s trust in her stopped and he had to leave.
It wasn’t until he had left Lisa, for a good two years, before Mark ever found out why the trust in Barbra had left. He couldn’t live with her loving him as he was so he had to run away. Barbara saw all of him and didn’t run nor laugh, just let him be himself and loved him for him. He finally had a taste of what he dreamed about all his life and walked away from it. He couldn’t stand it , it felt as if the world pressed him into the earth.
There was something else; something that had lately come to him, Barbra didn’t understand Mark’s alcoholism. It wasn’t until Mark got back to meeting and working The Steps did he realize this. He wasn’t mad. Many in the helping professions didn’t get it either. Only those who are in recovery or a few “normies” got what it was to be an alcoholic and Barbra wasn’t one of them. Something told him it was time to go, so he left.
“Did I hit him?” Barbara said as she ran up to see Donald shitting in the water. She looked up from Donald startled and whispered, “...Mark?”
“No, you didn’t hit him,” Mark said as Donald waddled over to Danielle and began to nuzzle her.
“Friends of yours?” said Barbra.
“Yeah, they are my the-rapist,” joked Mark.
“Hmm,” said Barbra and looked Mark straight in the eye. Mark didn’t crack a smile and wasn’t going to until he thought he’d better do it or else he would end back in the hospital for more than six days this time. Barbra’s eyes lit up and she laughed, “You haven’t changed.”
“No, I have,” Mark deadpanned.
“Oh,” she said, as she looked him the eyes. He felt her just being with him.
“I better go before I make a fool out of myself,” said Mark as he turned and walked toward his car.
“It is good to see you,” said Barbra to his back
“And, it was good to see you,” Mark responded.
When Mark got to his car, he turned and watched Barbra walking to the pier in the fog. Donald and Daniel waddled after her, telling Barbra all about Mark and how much he had changed in the two and a half years he had been in Benicia. Barbra stopped and allowed the ducks to catch up, and they walked out together towards the pier. It looked like Barbra actually understood them. Mark thought to himself, “Man this is weird.”
He was about to get into his car when a thought blazed through so hard it buckled his knees. It told him to ask for a session. Mark knew it was God and he’d better do it or else shit would happen until he did it. He called out to Barbra,” Wait up,” as he ran over to her.
She stopped.
“What’s up?” She said as Mark approached.
“Is the door still open?”
“Yes it is. I don’t have my book with me.”
“I’ll call. Same number?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” said Mark, looking her in the eye. He had meant more and Barbra got it.
“You’re welcome,” said Barbara.

* * *

The storm exploded in a torrent as Mark parked near the corner of Shattuck and Ashby. Thru the downpour in the traffic-stream Mark saw raindrops catching headlights becoming glass drops. When they broke on the Shattuck’s shinny blackness they explode in a thousand more tears. Mark watched rain until the alarm on his cell phone went off. He took his brown plaid cap off the passenger seat and got out of his Rav4. He walked 10 feet to the outside gate, dialed in the security code and went in.
Across a patio from the entrance he dialed the same security code in the second door, walked past Barbra Bayer’s door and into the waiting room.
Wearing a big smile, Barbra came out a few minutes later in a white linen jacket and matching calf length skirt. Underneath the jacket she wore a cornflower blue silk top. A set of white pearls hung slightly below the top of her collar.
Mark rose and followed her to her office and sat down on an ocher couch that matched the carpet. He listened to those fiercely falling raindrops as his palms sweated. He stuttered.
“I need to say something about the way I left therapy. I lost trust in you because you saw me down to my bones and loved me and I couldn’t handle it. It was all I ever dreamed about, to be loved for me. Yet when I had it from you I was scared. So instead of biting the bullet and staying with you, I ran out of fear, fear that I would love you and then you would leave.”
“There is a lot to love Mark and I wouldn’t have left.”
“Then why couldn’t Lisa love me like that?”
“Ask Lisa.”
The raindrops were dancing less viciously in their dance on the windowpane while the wind whistled.
“I discovered something,” said Mark, staring down at the floor
“What is it?”
“That in our absence we define our presence.”
Barbara thought for a moment then bowed her head slightly and smiled. Mark returned her bow and felt his cheeks warm as they drew up toward his eyes in pride.
“You are proud of yourself,” said Barbra.
“Yeah, I am.”
The wind drove sheets of raindrops into the windowpane for what seemed like a long time. The wind was a Greek chorus in some forgotten play.
“You know she is not coming back,” said Barbra finally.
“Yeah. I got the final decree last week.”
‘No. The decree is just a piece of paper, Mark. Get it out of that fantasy I know you have, that she is coming back. She is done with you. It is over. If you don’t accept that, you will get sick.”
“So she discards me like a used coffee cup?”
“Mark. Does it really matter? She doesn’t want you.”
“I doubt she ever did. All she wanted were the parties and the doll house I couldn’t build for her.”
“You know it is not about her.”
“Yeah,” Mark said dejectedly. “It’s about good old Mom. The scar that won’t go away.”
“It won’t. You have to learn to live with it?”
The rain came in waves growing louder and louder until it drove them to silence. After a minute the undertow returned and they could speak. Mark sat up and put his elbows on his knees and stared down into the floor.
“You know of breath work?”
“Yes,” said Barbra.
“I went with a friend to a free workshop and found an image that gives me peace when Mom pops up. It is of me looking at my mother when I was nursing. Her head is draped in a blue veil and she is dressed in a white smock. Her skin was like a cool, pale,
off-white porcelain. I am looking in her eyes and she wasn’t seeing me, she was far away and very overwhelmed. Her breast, so full of milk, always has a drop waiting to drop from the exposed nipple. I desperately want but can’t get it, ever. At first, when I had this image, hate would come up and it would become adrenaline flowing thru my veins. My righteousness would strut out with all of its mock nobility and then I would stumble, fall and make a fool out of myself. After I would pick myself up, I would have the strength to see what Mom is and what Lisa is. Afterwards I feel empty, alone and I know that I am not going to find peace until I accept what I got and didn’t get from my mother and move on. I will always be desperate for the breast, but the breast must be mine, not my mother’s. When the hate comes now, I pray and it becomes a whisper from my past.”
“Sound like you learned a lot.”
“I have known it for a long time. I get it now on a daily basis. Why didn’t you stop the mess that was my marriage before it started?”
“I was there to support the relationship.”
“Relationship space ship. It was shit from the beginning and you know it. Lisa abused me from the very start and then I began abusing her to defend myself. Why didn’t you say something to stop the abortion before the kids came? I brought two lives into this world and scarred them permanently, trusting that you would say something when it was beyond hope. We spent a good 10 years on this fucking couch and Lisa is still here. Hell, we bought you a fucking new car. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you wanted it to work.”
“But it was a shit pile pretending it was a house!” Mark cried out, collapsing back, sobbing so deeply that his torso rocked the couch.
“Barbra, the kids, I wrecked their lives.”
“Kids are strong.”
Mark shot up from the couch and stood towering over the seated Barbra. “And that is bullshit and you know it. In our case the scars from divorce didn’t have to be. ”
“Mark, please sit down or leave. And quit blaming me for your mistake. You were and are responsible for your own well-being. All I am is a tool.”
“A fucking tool that didn’t work,” mumbled Mark as he sat down on the couch exhausted. He threw his head back.
The raindrops were pinging instead of pounding the windowpane. The wind hummed.
“Mark,” said Barbra. “What did Lisa leave in you?”
“Nothing,” Mark said bitterly.
“I think she gave you something that is pretty great.”
“What’s that?”
“She gave you enough love to heal you enough to see that you are worth more than a bad relationship.”
Mark didn’t say anything so Barbra continued. “And what did you give Lisa?”
“Beside a lot of shit?”
“Yes, besides that.”
Mark thought hard for a minute and said, staring down into the carpet. “She once said to me, before I left, ‘Thank you for loving me enough so I could love myself.’”
“Mark, look at me,” demanded Barbra.

Mark slowly lifted his head like a man lifting a weight that is almost too heavy for him. He stared into Barbara’s eye and saw something that he didn’t expect to see. It was Barbra without the wall of therapist. She had let her guard down for a brief second and Mark could see a frightened child being held by a scarred woman. He finally understood why she hadn’t stopped trying. She was trying to make it work for herself.
“You acted out your own past in us. You tried to make you and your parents’ failed marriage work,” said Mark in a calm voice.
Barbara’s left eye twitched. She let out a giggle. Mark observed in silence. In his heart, he knew he was right. She darted behind the therapist wall.
“Do you think that I would do that?”
“Not consciously. No”
“Why unconsciously?”
“Because on some level you wanted us to succeed where you and your parents failed.”
“How did you know that my parents’ marriage failed?”
“Lisa told me.”
“Oh, OK for boundaries.”
“Some boundaries are meant to fall,” said Mark
There was a long exhausted silence. It was time for him to leave.
“There is one more thing,” said Mark. “Thank you for being in my life. For all the anger about what you didn’t or did do for me, what you did helped me immensely. I couldn’t have survived without your work.”
“And yours too.”
“Yes and mine too. Thank you,” Mark said and looked straight into Barbra’s eyes. In that moment he felt met. “There is one more thing that I need to say. I felt you never accepted Mark as the drunk. You don’t understand alcoholism.”
“Mark, you are more than a drunk.”
“No. I am a drunk and a dope fiend. I am complete in that.”
“Mark, you are more.”
“I am a drunk and dope fiend,” Mark said, looking in her eyes.
“Mark, you are limiting yourself. You can grow out of that place into something more.”
“I am a drunk and a dope fiend,” Mark said, as he still stared into her eyes.
Neither would give an inch and Mark knew it. He got up and walked towards the door.
“Mark,” said Barbra as he had his hand on the door. He turned and looked at her. Mark could make out a tear forming in her left eye.
“Mark, I have felt your presence by your absence.
“And I am so sorry it didn’t work.”
Mark bowed and left

* * *

“I would like to talk about Mark for a minute,” said Barbra Bayer.
It was the week after the session with Mark and there was a knot in her stomach bottom that perturbed her. She didn’t know the why of it, but she knew the how of it. She must talk to Lisa about her and Mark.
“What about?” said Lisa, dressed in a white linen pantsuit. Underneath she wore a light blue silk top. Around her shoulders she had a gray wool shawl that matched the gray in her shoulder-length auburn hair.
Barbara was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck with a black chamois shirt over it. A dark green shawl was draped around her shoulders.
The second storm of the season had blown in the day before, and Lisa could hear the rain as Barbara spoke. She felt as if she would be sick if it rained anymore that winter. She felt cold, she always felt cold, and drew the shawl tighter around her and focused in on what Barbra was saying.
“Cold?” Said Barbra.
“Yeah. I have been cold since Halloween.”
“Yeah I know. Want me to turn the heat up?”
“No. I am OK. What about Mark?”
“Do you blame me for not telling you the marriage wouldn’t work?
“No,” said Lisa curtly. “I want to do Clear Compassion work,” Lisa whined.
“Did you ever love him for him?”
“No.”
“Do you feel that he loved you?”
“After or before he abused me?”
“Before.”
“And was it me or his mother?”
“You.”
The rain quieted down as Lisa almost whispered
“Yeah, in his own strange needy way.”
“Why did you marry him then?”
“Because I thought I loved him. All I wanted him to do was to be more acceptable, but he couldn’t. He said the wrong thing at the wrong time at parties and it was like pulling teeth to have him to take me out anywhere. We didn’t have any friends and the friends I did have never liked him after they learned about the abuse. They all thought I was a loser for staying with him.”
“Why did you?”
“The boys and what we have talked about before, I am a Four on the Ennegram and needed to make my relationships work. We have been over this and over this.”
“You told me, before you got married that you could always get a divorce if it didn’t work out. Does that seem strange to you?”
“Not given the circumstance I went through before I married him.”
“Do you believe in, ‘until death do us part’?”
“It’s nice if it happens. What is going on?”
“I just wanted to check something out for myself.”
“I don’t want to talk about my relationship with Mark. It is over and I want to go on. The girl who married him is gone and the woman who divorced him doesn’t want a boy who clings to his mother’s teat. I am not his mother. He disgusts me in his weakness, buying me flowers and saying it was from the boys.”
“He still cares.”
“I don’t want to hurt him, but it is over. It has been two and a half years. We are not getting back together. I am done with him.”
“And that is that?”
“Yes, that is that.”
“And you throw him away like a used coffee cup?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Do you feel his presence?”
“With or without the boys?”
“Either.”
All Barbra could hear was the steady hiss of car tires on Telegraph.
“Why?”
Barbra looked away from Lisa, dropped her eyes to her left and stared at the ocher carpet for what seemed like forever.
“I ran into Mark last week on Shattuck, and the only thing he said to me was, ‘in our absence we define our presence.’ ”
“Yeah, he told the same thing a while ago.”
“And did you think about it?”
“No. I have been too busy. I had a feeling it was about us and I didn’t want to go there.”
“It is and it isn’t. What I got from it is that when we leave, we leave the best and/ or the worst of us in each other.”
“And it is not black and white.”
“No, it isn’t. It is gray like the color of your shawl. It is mixed and messy and it gets everywhere and in everything. What I am trying to say is that some of Mark is in you and some of you is in him, and no matter how hard you try to build walls around you to keep that out you, you can’t. It is there and you can’t run from it, or change it or hide from it. I suggested that you look at it. God does talk through mouth of babes.”
“ ‘… And assholes of drunks,’ I know, I heard it many times from Mark. Why bring this up now? We have worked through my wanting out of the marriage. Why two and a half years later do you bring it up? Aren’t I supposed to be moving on? Aren’t we?”
“I know, and we have, but the onion is peeled constantly and it must be honored.” The knot that was in the bottom of Barbra’s stomach eased and she knew, in time, that it would disappear but she still felt like she failed and she didn’t know why.

* * *

Barbra let the professional 10 minutes lapse after Lisa’s appointment before she locked her office and began the commute home to Walnut Creek. It was smooth and she turned on the radio to let it drive the sadness and guilt out of her heart.
She smelled her husband’s spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove as she opened the door. He must have gone into the bedroom, she thought, as she heard the bath being run. She dropped her things on the bed and went into the bathroom.
“Hi,” she said to her husband’s back as he stood up from testing the water. Soap bubbles were on his hands as he grabbed a hand towel and dried them and walked toward her.
Barbra walked into his outstretched arms and buried her face in his chest and sighed. “This feels good.”
“Yeah, it does,” sighed her husband. “How was your day?”
“OK, and yours?”
“Great! “
Barbara began to sob.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can talk about. Just hold me. I need to be held.”
Barbra Bayer’s husband held her as her mascara ran down the front of his white dress shirt.

* * *

Lisa walked through the door and into her ten-year-old Mike’s arms. It was Tuesday and it was Mark’s night to bed with the boys. She could smell Mark’s chicken cacciatore and as usual it smelled delicious. She held her youngest tight and looked at the curl of his hair, just like Mark’s. She looked gently into his eyes, and saw Mark’s wide face, his cleft chin. It was too much; she broke the embrace.
“Hi,” said Lisa to Mike.
Her oldest came out from the kitchen and embraced the both of them. Lisa drank this and held it. She felt Mark’s essence in the boys. Finally she felt filled and broke the hug and kissed both of them on the cheek and walked through the living room/den into the kitchen.
“Where is your father?”
“He had to get back to Benicia to go to a meeting,” said Mike.
Lisa lifted the big pot of Mark’s chicken cacciatore. He didn’t cook much, but when he did, he did it well, thought Lisa as she put the lid down. She lifted the lids of the two other pots and saw the raw broccoli in the steamer and water with a swirl of olive oil in the other. She turned the heat on and walked back into the living/den area to her desk to check her messages.
“He did everything. He said that all we had to do was to cook the noodles and we could eat,” said the oldest, Joe, as he played on the PC next to her desk. Mike looked over his shoulder while he played.
“Any messages for me?” Lisa asked the boys.
“Patt called,” said Mike. “And he wants to know if he can come over tonight around 8 and what are you doing this weekend. He will call back later,” said Mike as he watched Joe defeat the Republic as Luke Skywalker.
“Oh,” said Lisa as she walked back through the kitchen and into her room. She felt like running a bath. The boys could watch the noodles and the broccoli, while they cooked, thought Lisa to herself. She yelled out to the boys, “I am going to take a bath. Joe, watch the broccoli and the noodles. I will be out in a few,” she said as she undressed and got into her bathrobe.
The tub filled quickly with the scalding hot water while Lisa put bubble bath and some bath oil into the water. They were presents from Mark when he got his new job. When the tub was full and before she got in to soak, Lisa went back into her bedroom and got her cell phone. She left it on the tub’s edge when she got in.
After 5 minutes or so of the bath’s delicious warmth Lisa looked at her phone to check the time. Mark would be at the meeting so he wouldn’t have his cell on, she didn’t want to talk to him, just leave him a thank you for supper. She pushed his speed dial number on her cell phone and eased back into the soapy warmth of her bath. To her surprise Mark picked it up.
“This is Mark. How can I help?”
“Aren’t you at a meeting?”
“I am walking into one right now. How can I help?”
“I just want to say thank you for fixing your killer butt chicken cacciatore dinner.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Mark in a calm, cheerful voice.
There was a long, awkward silence. Usually they would play the game of seeing who could hang up first. Both of them still wanted power. It had been going on ever since Mark had left. Lisa felt disgusted by this and knew it also troubled Mark, but neither of them would change or even mention it to the other.
“Is that all?” Mark said.
“No, it’s not,” Lisa said, relieved not to have to be the first one to go. “What I need to say I need to say now or I would lose what courage I have,” said Lisa, watching the words tumble out of her mouth in horror.
“So say it,” Mark said bracing himself for the worst, that she was pregnant by Pat. He knew of Pat from the boys and had to bite his tongue every time his name was mentioned. He could taste the warm blood from his tongue as it filled his mouth. He waited for the worst.
“I saw Barbra and we talked about what you said to her, your thing about absence. I found out that it was true for me. In your absence I feel your presence. Every time I look at the boys I see you, especially in Mike. And I just wanted to say that.”
“Do you feel my presence without the boys?”
Lisa went inside and poked around her heart and found nothing but scars draped in 3 a.m. screams.
“No.”
Mark hung up. Lisa put the phone on the side of the tub, closed her eyes and felt sadness run her mascara down her face, forming puddles before the iceberg-bubbles between her breasts. She began to think of Pat and began to play with herself.

End

M.R. Merris
copyrighted by the author.

7th draft
Benicia library
7/15/2007 2:11 PM

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Iberian Graffiti

2007-07-27T14:39:29Z

Night of Friday, 20th of August, 2004 was my farewell from my friends because next Sunday I would set off to Lisbon in the beginning of my Erasmus voyage. Some days before I had fallen down in the swimming pool and I had my hip worn out. We gathered in Dani’s house, we were Alex, Dani, Sara, Bea and me, to drink alcohol in huge quantities as we usually did. We used to drink whisky with coca-cola. We started to play to Trivial while we were drinking. It was Alex and me against Dani, Bea and Sara.

We got really drunk and the high level of alcohol in our bodies made Alex and me to go wrong more times than we expected. So, in the end Bea, Dani and Sara won the game. We prepared to go out. The direction was a bar in Huertas, in the town centre of Madrid.

We drank a few more glasses and it was a scandal. In a circle with other guys Alex began to talk loud, in front of some girls.

“This girl here is a bitch; I fuck her when I want. Look how filthy she is, the very whore” he was talking about Bea.
“Hey Alex, calm down” I told him, despite of my ethyl state.
“But look how bitchy she is, how whore”.

We were at the low floor of the bar and Alex went up to look around. When he came back he fell down the stair and he dug the handrail into his stomach. Bloody and with eyes lightened he came to us.

“Fuck off”
“Oh shit, Alex, be careful” I told him
“Fuck you, asshole”

I’ve been always very sensitive to what happens in my surroundings. And because of the alcohol in those moments I didn’t have a truth perception of reality. Then something happened. It was like if my identity was crossed with Alex’s one. Since then I began to behave like him and also I began to do stupidities. I stood up in front of the bar and I tried to steal anything by stretching my left arm. Then something happened – the waitress saw me and I did a sharp movement to get my arm out of there. It was at that point when I hit with the bar’s corner, it sounded “crack” and I had my collarbone broken. With the last lights I had in my mind I got out from de bar and I took a taxi to go back home.

When I got home I tried to put my arm in the best position I could, to be able to sleep, thinking that next day it wouldn’t hurt any more. Next day my arm did hurt even more. But I wasn’t going to sacrifice my Erasmus voyage because a stupidity like that, I thought.

I spent next day in my bed. I was a completely loser, with my collarbone broken and my hip worn out. But I needed to escape from that place, I thought, once more in a wrong way. I couldn’t give up my Erasmus voyage. Only getting out from home, there would be no matter at all, that’s what I thought. But matters were just in the beginning.

The dated Sunday, 22nd of August of 2004, the bus from Madrid to Lisbon departed. It was at last my freedom, after 21 years I was going to try life by myself. I slept a little bit during the journey, mostly because of the pain I felt in my arm. I felt like the owner of the world. I got to Lisbon very soon in the morning; so soon that they hadn’t even opened the underground. I was alone, with my collarbone broken and my pilgrim rucksack at my back, crushing my battered collarbone. It was an extreme situation. However, my pilgrimage experience gave me the courage to go ahead without looking back. After a bit more of suffering I got to the University. There wasn’t a living soul. It should be 8 in the morning and the only thing I saw was the security people. I was waiting, sleeping over my rucksack, in the open air, just waiting for people to wake up. At last I found the meeting point, the science building, where I could find the Erasmus coordinator. As I didn’t know what to do, I took down some phone numbers from some flats where I could accommodate. After a while, Ana Paula arrived, she was the coordinator, and she recognized me at a view.

She looked me from top to down and found out that I was an Erasmus student. She took me to her office and we talked for a while. She told me where the Portuguese lessons were given, so I went there. I took the free Portuguese course that was given to Erasmus students. When I came back I met Kathrine and Unai with Ana Paula, they were other Erasmus students interested in the Portuguese lessons.

After the introduction we went to the University Students Residence Office. Kathrine and Unai had a bed in one of the residences, but I didn’t because I did the scholarship steps in the last moment. This annoyed me a lot. But I couldn’t do anything else. From Madrid I had booked a bed in the Pousada da Juventude at Lisbon so I was going to that place after the Portuguese lessons. Kathrine showed me enthusiastically where the youth hostel was. They arrived to Lisbon on Sunday, and they had been looking around the city since then.

When I booked a bed for six days in the youth hostel I was a bit confused. I thought that I had to send the data of my Visa. Instead of that I sent the data of my debit card. So I sent another e-mail with the data if my Visa. According to this, people in charge of the hostel had the data of my two cards. This caused me an addition concern that I will explain a bit later.

Kathrine went to the city to take her things out of the hostel and carry them to the residence. Unai and I took the first Portuguese lesson. I was really clapped out. But I was ready to deal with these trials. My experience as an alcoholic provided me a supernatural strength.

So we spent the morning. In the afternoon Kathrine and Andre came to the lessons. Andre was another German guy.

Alfonso was still to come; he was another student from Madrid. When we finished our classes we divided, I went to take my bags and went to the hostel were I was going to live next 6 days. 6: the number of the beast. When I got to the hostel I was near to surrender. Then I saw a big queue next to the door. Until 4 o’clock they wouldn’t open. I waited for a while and at last we could enter. When I got to the counter they asked me if I had done the booking. I told them I did but they didn’t ask me for a sign or something like that. It seemed to me a bit strange. But I was a bit tired to ask. The only thing I wanted was to get to my bed and wait until my arm recovered. I got to the room and chose a bed while there wasn’t anybody else. This seemed to me strange too, because in the room there were 6 bunk beds and one normal bed. It’s supposed that rooms could have at most 6 people. It was number 6 again. So, why was there an extra bed? The pain from my arm didn’t let me think clearly. And, especially, I was annoyed that in the residence there was a free bed because of Alfonso’s absence.

At the hostel I knew a lot of people. There were travellers from the entire world, from Holland, from Brazil. All of them had much money in their pockets. I told them I was beginning my Erasmus voyage. The days passed without many changes. From 11 to 4 we had Portuguese lessons and after that I searched for any room I found in the advertisements at the University. Until the fourth day I couldn’t stand the pain any more and I went to hospital, to ask the doctors what happened with my arm. News wasn’t very good: I had my collarbone broken. They put me a bandage that made me look like a mummy. Despite of that, I wasn’t in the line to give up; I had to follow my road. That was what I learnt as a pilgrim in the road to Santiago. The day after I assisted to the lessons with all my upper-body covered with bandages until the neck and everyone was astonished. “What is doing here that drug-addict?” they would ask. However, I stayed like nothing was happening.

Then Alfonso told me that his room-mate was leaving just the night before I was leaving the youth hostel. So I decided to occupy the University Students Residence. With my arm in cabestrillo, it was an extreme situation. But I stayed there suffering like a dog. Alfonso found an advertisement of a flat with 5 rooms. He thought it was perfect for us 5. I disappointed him because what I wanted was to assimilate as much Portuguese culture as possible, not to lose my voyage inside the Erasmus bubble. Also I didn’t like my Portuguese lessons mates, I was not sure that a living with them could go well. According to this reasoning, I told Alfonso that at the moment I didn’t want to rent the flat with them.

But things weren’t proceeding so easily. The fact was that in doubt to my flashy dressing, in the residence they noticed that we were 5 and they only had 4 people registered. Then what they did at first was taking off the sheets from one of the beds that Alfonso and I shared. It’s not a problem; we took the sheets from a bed in Unai and Andre’s room. Next day the woman in charge of the residence dropped round our room. I was alone.

“How many are you in this room?”
“Two” – I said with no doubt.

Then, when we went to the lessons, they took a bed away from our room. It was excessive. It was the last night we were at the residence, because next day my mates were leaving to the flat they had hired. That night I slept in Kathrine’s room. I made a verbal agreement on a flat near the one where my mates would finally live. Then something happened. Ana Paula offered to me a bed in one of the residences from the University. But I messed up again, because I bet that the previous verbal agreement would go well. And it didn’t.

The thing is that the owner of the flat asked me the 300 euros that it cost for the following day. With the shitty cards from my father I wasn’t able to get more than 190 €. I hadn’t more money. On top on everything else, I ruined one of my cards by putting my password wrong for 3 times. I was very annoyed. Especially, I was surprised that I couldn’t get money from the cash point. My mind began to scheme that it was a possibility that the people from the youth hostel could have taken my data for buying through the Internet. I rejected a bed in a residence before all that. The world fell down above my head. So, after the flat owner told me that I couldn’t stay there any more I took all my bags to the other students flat, believing that it wouldn’t be a problem that I finally decided to live with them. I thought that they would be happy for having found the 5th passenger. Spaniards were happy. But Germans weren’t. They told that I couldn’t live with them in a definitive way. That I could stay with them for a week as a guest, and after that they would decide. In spades, I felt like a shit. But I had been working hard for that after all those absurdities.

Then I said, I just have to wait and watch time go by. The rest of the Erasmus students would arrive in a few days and I was sure that I would find in them someone nearer to my style. But pressure was still on my shoulders. Living in the flat with the German students and the Spaniards was a horror to me. I was there as a guest, with no rights. A fucking shit. The thing was that they told to Ana Paula that she looked for a 5th passenger that must be neither German nor Spanish. I went to the town centre with Unai. I got on a bit with him and with Andre. And so the days passed, until the Erasmus Introduction Date. I had gone back to the hospital and they took my dressing away. I was a bit more presentable. Then I met Macarena, a girl from Granada that has an important part in this episode.

The days after I did everything as possible for my Erasmus mates, helping them to find a flat, helping them in anything. I hadn’t a flat yet, but worrying about myself was the last thing I would do. I walked along Lisbon from top to down, my mates laughed at me saying that I was going to make a state agency. Life was pleasant those days; I was getting better all the time and connected a bit better with the Erasmus girls. I liked Macarena. But once again alcohol was my ruin. At last, the date – when I had to leave the flat from the two Germans and the two Spaniards – came.

That very day my mates offered me to stay with them. And I said that I agreed with them. But I had been talking about that with Macarena and she was the one who told me to leave them. With no flat at all, I had the enough face to tell them that I left the flat. That night all the Erasmus students went out, but I didn’t because I hadn’t any money. I had to go back to Madrid to pick up my other things and move definitely. Then I gave a letter to Unai, Andre, Kathrine and Alfonso, that I wrote, and 100 € for the 12 days that I had been living with them. The letter said – in an English written language quite correct – the following

“It’s difficult for me to write in this language, because it comes from a place too far from where I come from. But I thought it was the best I could do, for being understood by you all. Living with you has been so hard these days and that is the reason why I decided not to stay with you. I think you’re wrong with the idea of not accepting either a German or a Spaniard. Each person is unique and you are losing too much putting that limit to people from those countries. Do you know where I come from? In my ID card it may appear that I come from Spain, but I really come from nowhere.”

I got to bed and next morning I saw a funny picture. Andre and Unai where crying in the kitchen. They got a terrible fright. They thought that I had gone to the fucking street. Macarena slept that night with Alfonso. I was annoyed with that. I talked with Andre and I told him that he could go to sleep, that nothing really mattered, that I only wanted to express my sentiments, to be understood. And they understood.

The thing is that after all that episode my maniac mind began to think in an unstoppable way. It had been so much pressure. I was in a new country. I met new people. My collarbone had been broken. I had experienced an extreme living. It was so much to my young mind. Macarena was living in a flat from some gay people, until she found other to stay definitely. At that point I met Josep, another Erasmus student from Barcelona that was living there too. He was in Lisbon since two months before that day, working for an enterprise.

Josep was looking for a flat near Bairro Alto, which is a centrally situated area from Lisbon. Macarena and I agreed to go with him to see the flat. The thing is that there were only two free beds. So I said – “They go before me”, referring to Macarena and Josep. In my mind I had the idea to occupy Josep’s room in the flat from the gays, when I finally would move. Like Don Quixote, I tried to deshacer entuertos. So I said to Josep “When you leave the flat tell the owner that I’m interested, so you make a good impression to him”.

The place where Josep and Macarena where living at that moment was a sixth floor that had no elevator. It was a completely bohemian flat and I thought it could be interesting to live with gay people. So I told the owner that when I would come back from Madrid I would be interested in a room there.

When I arrived to Madrid I completely needed to drink alcohol. After all that I suffered I only had the illusion to drink huge quantities of alcohol to forget about life. I told my friends how I spent all those days in Lisbon. However, my behaviour was special. I was in highest point of my maniac phase. I thought all Spaniards were fascist, only because of the way they used the language. So I began to call all of them fascists, to my father, to my older brother, to my friends, to everyone I met.

One thing why I came to Madrid was to cancel my cards that have caused to me so many worries. I thought that the ones from the hostel had robbed me. The jigsaw pieces fitted. I couldn’t take any money, I had given the data of my two cards to the people from the hostel, and they were Nazis. Before I came to Madrid I told Ana Paula “People from the hostel are bad”, especially referring to their neo-Nazi ideology.

At home I told my parents that if they wanted I would stay in Madrid, I would renounce to my scholarship and all that stuff. In the beginning they said that I couldn’t give up the scholarship. Then my madness exploded. I told them the things clearly, and how much they did have fucked my life. They noticed I was quite nervous. So I began to insult them and calling them everything. I had so much resentment deep down. So they told me that I couldn’t leave, that I had to stay in Madrid. That was what I was waiting, that they told me the truth and took off their disguises. So I said “How? So you want me to stay. Please, stop fucking my life!!!” Next thing they did was asking me to go to a professional doctor or something. So I said “I’m not mad!!!” At last I managed to go back to Lisbon. But I was very, very annoyed.

Before I returned to Lisbon, I phoned to Macarena and told her I liked her. I also told her that my life was shit. Once again I couldn’t wait to the things happen as they have to. Definitely, my relationship with women was a complete failure.

I came back to Lisbon. I phoned to the owner of the flat of the gay people, and asked him for a room. He told me he had one free, so I went there. I hadn’t slept during the trip. I was pretty euphoric. Just when I arrived I told Macarena that everyone had hit me since I was a child. Naturally that made her to go away from me. When things go well to yourself everybody stands around you, when things go worse, that’s quite different. So I fell in a brutal depression. I couldn’t stand Macarena’s rejection, but the truth is that I didn’t even give time to her to reject me. In the flat from the gay people I spent the evenings talking with them, with Alberto, one of the owners, a good fellow, and some French girls.

“I think that one of the reasons that the Castilian language is not being talked in the rest of the world is the pronunciation of the double r” – I commented one of my original ideas – “in Portuguese, for example, people pronounce the double r as they like, some times as in French, others as in Castilian”.
“Interesting” – Alberto told me.
“And after that parents bring to their children to the speech therapists, like Macarena” – I continued with my speech hyper-critic with everything from Spain. Macarena studied for speech therapist.

Another thing I told to Alberto was this

“People are not machines, we’re still animals” – I said with my typical grandiloquence. “It’s true; everyone has a shit, don’t they?” – Alberto told me.
“And after that they have to clean their asses!” – Alberto’s laughter thundered through the whole room.

I spent the days after really annoyed. I remember a Portuguese guy that saw me at the University and told me in correct Castilian: “I hope everything goes well to you here”. Then I met Andreu, a friend of Josep, who had come to see Lisbon. I came with him in his tourist trips and I told him everything I got in my mind; that was so many things. I thought that fascism had been too cruel with our beloved Iberia. That the truth artists from our native country did end in drugs or in psychiatrics. I was so affected by the Three Eleven Attacks in Madrid and I thought that the Iberian Peninsula still have a lot of Arabian influence, despite all that. Andreu listened to me patiently while we walked through Lisbon.

When Andreu came back to Barcelona I stayed like Don Quixote without his Sancho Panza. Loneliness made me go mad. I thought that they wanted to kill me because I was one of those who had found the truth. Like Martin Luther King, Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain before me. I began to think that I was like them, a fighting man for the good causes, a fighting man against fascism. And I went mad. What I decided was to buy a bottle of Scotch whisky and let my bizarre imagination run wild. I entered in a museum and I wrote everything I had inside my soul, that was to thank to every people I had met for curing my madness. Perhaps it was a bit late. When I got out from the museum I saw two people entering with what my hallucinations made me think that were fire guns. I went out from there and I walked to the next taxi station. I said to the driver

“Please, to the 25th of April Bridge”.

And he drove me there. I was with my bottle of whisky, my rucksack and my hallucinations.

At that time all my life passed in front of my eyes. I tried to find an explanation to my suffering. But I only found a bizarre reasoning. I began to think that I was a Messiah and I made a cross down the bridge. I was still drinking. I was completely drunk when I appeared in front of a train, just at the point to run over me. I was with other 3 Portuguese guys – I didn’t know what they where doing there. After the train episode I continued to drink till death. But now, to my hallucinations it was added a manic persecutory madness. I continued walking and drinking. What I remember was seeing some guys fighting in the street and a guy lent me his car to spend the night. Inside the car there was a notebook with some writings done by other Erasmus students. It was something like the guidelines for a cultural revolution within the European Union. It was too much for my young mind. I began to speak alone thinking that someone would be listening to me from any place. I began to thank every genius that had enlightened me. More than ever, I believed I was a Messiah. I tried to start the car in vain. I quitted the hand-brake and the car slit a bit down the road. A tramway was passing once and again. One of the drivers went down to look what was happening. What I wanted was that he helped me to start the car, but I didn’t find the keys anywhere.

A bit after the dawn I got out of the car. I began to walk barefoot over the paving stones from Lisbon. In a tree in front of the car I found a wooden stick that I used as a walking stick. So I continued walking until I found a park. There I began to ponder what I was experiencing. I swung for a while. A lady passed with her kids. Frightened, she moved further away quickly. After a while I took up again my long walk. In a wide street I found a police-man and told him that I had been robbed. I asked him for the hospital. He came with me to take a taxi. But I wanted to continue my particular viacrucis. So I said to the taxi driver that I wanted to go to Oriente, which is where expo 98 was made. When I arrived I began to drink a lot of orange juice in a refreshment stall in an eccentric way; some people who stayed in front of me for a while were really amazed. When I got without energy I went to next police station, inside a mall. They took me into a taxi and drove me to the hospital.

At the hospital what I said first was that I had fear about people. But they didn’t take care of me. They told me that the day after I would see a psychologist and after that I would see a psychiatrist. Policemen went to my house, the gays’ flat, and the two French girls came to pick me up. But I was still in my own world. When we got out of the hospital I began to ask for orange juice and I left them. Both girls let me go. I got to a gas station and I bought two bottles of Sunny Delight. After drinking them inside the gas station I began to vomit it. The shop assistant insulted me a little bit and I got out of that place.

The following thing I did was to call to the entry phones of some buildings I found. I wanted to have a speech with Einstein. After that I discovered the number of God, the 0. Mi perturbed mind deduced that our names where numbers in fact and that each of us had a number assigned. Authentic numbers were from 1 to 6. 0 was the number of God. From 7 and more it was a modern invention to get to number 10, so we got the decimal numeric system.

I continued walking and I entered the Jose Alvalade Stadium. I was like a wild goat. I began to empty the fire extinguishers and some water began to fall from the ceiling. I had a shower and closed my eyes. Then I thought I watched the Holy Trinity. I had never been so near from God, I thought. After that some police-men appeared with bad looking appearance and began to hit me. I stayed there like the Lamb of God that takes sin away from the world. At last other policeman arrived and asked me if I wanted to report the other policemen that had been hitting me. I said that I didn’t want to report them.

They took me to the police station and asked for my personal data. Then the owner and two other guys from the flat came. They brought me some clothes. But my madness was still in the air. First I went to a psychiatric a bit bizarre; the nurse that took care of me had a letter with her. I will never know what was written in it. They took some radiography from my body. I was still thinking and I began to believe that I was some kind of Terminator that had the brains of Jesus, kept during two thousand years in whisky barrels.

At last they took me from that hospital. They took me to other hospital and I was still doing my particular revolution. The doctor asked me why I was doing all that and I answered that I did it for women of the world. After a while, I landed in what was happening to me, they were imprisoning me. So I went even madder, if it was possible. I wanted to escape. I thought they wanted to wash my brains. I wasn’t so far from reality. I began to say that I was son of Johnny Depp and that I was a Mohican. I began to howl like North American Indians do, ooooh, oooh, ooooh, oooooh. They gave me some medicines and took me to the psychiatric centre.

I have some slight memories of what happened after that, but I think it’s not so important. Completely drugged, my parents came to see me. I talked with the psychiatrist and told him my revolutionary speech. And I began to write poetry. I threw some light inside that place. I was 2 weeks in that place. After that I came back to Madrid and I had a brutal depression during a long time. But now I see all that like a reborn.

Madrid, 27th of July of 2007.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Stories about foreigners living in China~

2007-07-20T18:22:16Z

Wanna share with you A lot of stories written by foreigners in China is here~
http://www.foreignercn.com/index.php/action_category_catid_70.html

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Ghost Story

2007-06-22T22:27:53Z

She walked into the bar. She was feeling apprehensive and excited all at once. She had come a long way to take a break, she told herself. Suddenly she became aware of her surroundings. The present moment became like a long arm yanking her irresistibly out of her thoughts and her past and landing her quite firmly in LaFitte’s, the oldest bar in New Orleans and quite arguably, the country.
Suddenly her ears filled with the tinkling of glasses, the whispers of fervent and intimate conversation, flirtatious laughter and a crystalline voice dominating the other senses, singing, lamenting.
Her nose was shot through with shards of cigarette smoke, liquor, perfume and piss. The latter came care of a sign in the corner of the bar that read “Men’s Room” and pointed to an open door leading to the outside brick wall.
Her eyes darted quickly filling up like glasses of water with visions of sequins, wool, wrinkles, makeup, weathered skin, smoke and eyes. Eyes looking directly at her. The eyes belonged to the crystalline voice. The voice belonged to a woman. The woman was playing piano and singing “St. James Infirmary”.
Celeste sat down near the piano and waited to order a drink. She sat near the piano because in her shy nature and being alone she thought she could give the impression of coming to a bar by herself because she wanted to listen to some music. The truth was that she needed to escape her thoughts and her heart. She needed to drink. The waitress came by. She ordered a gin martini with two olives. Gin. Tonight felt like a little reckless. Or maybe she felt a little reckless and she hoped the night would pick up its cue. The drink came; she gave the waitress a credit card and opened a tab.
The woman at the piano finished the song. She got up from the piano and sat down to her drink at a little table near where Celeste was sitting. Someone else got up and started playing “House of the Rising Sun”. Celeste looked at the woman and said, “You play beautifully”.
The woman looked at Celeste, studied her face for a moment and smiled openly and said “Thank you. My name is Beauty. Beauty Poirier. And you are?”
“Celeste. Cade. What kind of…where did you..where does that name come from?”
“From a horse.”
“You were named after a horse?”
“Indeed I was not. The horse was named after me. The horse and I were born on the same day. My Mother got mad that my Father was staying on the farm to watch the foal be born while my Mother was in the city giving birth to me. So my Mother told my Father that she had stolen his name for the foal, Beauty, and named their new daughter with it and if he dared name his new foal after his daughter he’d be the laughing stock. Then my father stole the name back and named the foal Beauty anyway because he was mad my Mother didn’t name me after his grandmother. So you see, the horse was named after me because I was born first.
“Well, that’s quite a story.” Celeste said.
And with that they were off to a grand start of a very interesting evening. They swapped storied, flirted with boys, flirted with each other, drank and had an all around good time.
The bars were all starting to give last call. Celeste and Beauty tumbled out of LaFitte’s and into the damp, thick New Orleans night. The walk back to Beauty’s was uneventful except for a quick stop in an alley so Celeste could relieve herself of the contents of her stomach while Beauty gracefully and skillfully pulled back, held and caressed Celeste’s long sleek, ebony hair. Finally they arrived at Beauty’s house. They chose Beauty’s because Beauty wanted to show Celeste where she had been born. Sort of an epilogue to the story of her name.
Beauty’s house was a Spanish mansion in the heart of the city. True to the Spanish style before the French arrived it was a simple house front, one color, few windows, no balconies over-looking the street. Once inside the main entrance however, all of that changed. They entered a dark courtyard filled with trees and Spanish moss and three storied of windows and balconies on every façade overlooking the courtyard.
Celeste stopped and stared. Beauty turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a strong feeling of de ja vu.” It would be the first of many that night.
They crossed the courtyard and entered into the main foyer of the house. They crossed it directly and proceeded up the Tara-like marble stairs to the upper levels. They walked down a long hallway and entered a doorway on their left. Beauty announced, “This is the room I was born in.” And then she ran across the room and jumped onto the bed. She collapsed back in a fit of laughter. Celeste came over to her and lay down next to her. Beauty said, “I hate this room.”
“Why?” Celeste asked.
“It’s so full.” Beauty replied and closed her eyes.
Celeste looked around. Actually, it looked pretty spare to Celeste. The bed, a bureau, a chair by the fireplace and a green bottle on the window ledge.
Celeste turned back to Beauty. Beauty’s eyes were still closed. Celeste lay there a long time staring at Beauty. Beauty was not beautiful at all but she had the kind of eyes that made Celeste want to wake Beauty up so she could stare into them again.
Then she realized that Beauty was asleep in her own bed and she was only a stranger in a stranger’s house. She got up and went to the door, turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. Suddenly she felt a cold wind slap her across the face. She froze. It came up so quickly she didn’t know what it was. She looked to her left down the hall where the wind had come from and saw a shut window facing the street. She regained her composure, took a deep breath, shut Beauty’s door and started down the hall. As she moved carefully down the hall she began to notice a dark mass at the top of the stairs. It looked like someone’s shadow but she was having a hard time explaining that to herself because there was no light for a shadow to be there. Then she saw the shadow move slightly and this she couldn’t take. She turned and ran back into Beauty’s room and shut the door. She looked for a lock underneath the handle. She found a key and turned it and checked the lock. Then she went to the chair by the fireplace and sat down.
“I’ll just rest a while. I’m drunk, that’s all.” She said to herself. She saw that there was kindling in the fireplace. She hesitated but then decided to build a fire. She spent some minutes getting the fire going and this process was very distracting and relaxing for her. She sat down in the chair again to enjoy the fire and get warm. She started to laugh to herself, “of course there are ghosts in this house for God’s sakes. It’s New Orleans.”
Then a green glint from the fire caught the corner of her eye. She looked to her right and noticed the green bottle on the windowsill. But this time because of the firelight she noticed it wasn’t a green bottle at all. It was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it. Absinthe. She got up, walked over and saw that it was sitting on a tray with all the appropriate accoutrement: a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen; a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She had always wanted to try this. She brought the tray over to the chair and sat down. Uncertainly she began to ritualize the drink. She picked up the bottle and started to pour, no, first you take the sugar and pour the Absinthe over the sugar, right. Then you light the spoon on fire and breath in the fumes. Then you stir the spoon in the glass, that’s right. Then you sip the drink. She put the tray on the floor and sat back and began to sip and breath. Just like you do when you are drinking a really nice wine. Breathe and sip. Sip and breathe. She felt like she was falling in slow motion, backwards and it felt so nice. She finished the glass and put it on the tray. She lay back and melt into the chair.
When she awoke she saw little flickering lights filling the room, faster and faster. She opened her eyes fully and saw light everywhere, all over the room. She adjusted her eyes to the lights and saw that they had forms. She stood up. She felt woozy but calm. Then she heard whispering all around her. She went closer to one of the lights and saw that it was a person! A woman dressed in an old-time ball gown and she was saying something, “This is my coming out dress. Do you like it? My Mama knew I’d want to be buried in it. I had cancer and I died when I was nineteen…” her voice faded as Celeste moved onto the next one. A man dressed as a Civil War soldier, “…I never knew death would feel so terribly lonely and scary. I kept thinking it must be like what a deer feels when she’s put down on the hunt…” Celeste looked all around the room and saw that these ghosts filled the room. Their stories filled the air.
Then Celeste heard her name. She turned and there was Beauty sitting up, holding something in her arms.
“Celeste, come sit on the bed.”
But by now Celeste’s suspicions were growing and she was too unsure to move.
“Why?” Celeste asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s time for you to say goodbye.” Beauty said and she held out the bundle in her arms.
Celeste looked sideways at Beauty, “What are you talking about?”
Beauty brought the bundle back to her chest and said, “Come say goodbye to your baby.” And with the word ‘baby’ Celeste sank to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” She couldn’t stop denying and yet wanted to badly to hold her baby. But she couldn’t move from her spot on the floor. Finally, she held out her arms as long as they would go and whispered, “Please may I hold her?”
Beauty said, “Of course.” And brought the baby to her.
Celeste sat there for a long time and held the baby and sobbed and said, “I’m sorry” over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Finally Beauty said, “Tell me your story.”
And Celeste did. She spoke as if she hadn’t spoken for years even though everything had happened in the last 11 months. She had taken ten month old Sara out to the nearest Bodega for some milk. It was only a block away so she didn’t bother with the Bjorn or stroller. She didn’t see the truck backing out of the alley, his backing signal blending with all the other city noises. Everything after that happened in slow motion: her shoulder getting knocked, something yanking her back, her baby up and out of her arms, landing under the tire of the truck, the screeching, the pounding the screaming, the sirens. She only remembers from that moment on she couldn’t stop screaming. They wouldn’t let her see the baby after that. And after that, it seems everything went wrong. Nothing went right after Sara was gone. She could no longer focus on work, her husband asked for a separation. Everything happened so fast. And she found herself in New Orleans on a ‘getaway’, telling herself she was starting over. She looked at Beauty. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am your Enlightened Witness.” Celeste didn’t understand. “When a baby dies it is very different from an older person dying. This baby, any baby that dies, was never meant to be here for very long. They came here to do a very specific job. A job you are not allowing your baby to do. Their job is to cause suffering.
You are not grieving the loss of your child. Indeed, you have all but forced this part of your life out of your memory. Sara came here to offer you the experience of suffering. There is something born of your suffering that you will do. But if you never suffer, if you never grieve, if you never allow yourself to experience your loss, you will be lost. You will never do what it is you came here to do. You must grieve, you must suffer. You must lose your child in order to gain your voice.”
But I don’t want to gain my voice. I want my child back.”
“Your child has already done her job. Now you must do yours. Her soul will not move on until you do. Your soul will not move on until you do.”
Celeste looked down at her baby and started crying again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She lay down with her baby in her arms…
Celeste awoke with a start. She was lying on a floor. She sat up. She was in an old, musty room. It looked abandoned. There were no sheets on the mattress of the four-poster bed. Dust was everywhere. She got up. She couldn’t believe it. This was Beauty’s room. Beauty Poirier. The room where Beauty was born. Celeste examined everything. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. There were cobwebs everywhere. She stood there for a long time trying to absorb the evening, this room. Finally she decided to leave. She walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it and just as she was about to step out of the room a glint of green in the morning light caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head to her left and looked at the floor and there it was: a silver tray. On the tray was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it, a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen, a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She stared at the items. She thought about going over to them, decided against it and left the room.
She walked down the creaky now half-lit hallway. Down the decrepit stairs and out the door half off it’s hinges. She marveled at the shambles of a courtyard. She got to the main door and looked back astounded at this dilapidated, abandoned building. She walked outside to an overcast, cold, windy New Orleans day looked up into the sky, smiled and started walking back home.

The End.

Story by jessica margaret dean
12.27.04

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

Seeking Short Stories of a Carnivorous Nature

2007-05-29T20:48:53Z

Hi guys! I'm trying to find good art/writing to put in an ezine I'm designing entitled Vociferous Union. The subject of the upcoming issue is VORE: eating, consuming, devouring, etc. Details below if you're interested/have something that might fit the bill!

"Are you as fascinated with the concept of consumption as we are? Do you have an interest in eating, food, shopping, fire, or other subjects which deal with the idea of consuming or being consumed? Perhaps you should submit your work to our E-Zine, Vociferous Union.

We are looking for:
-Video Art
-Poetry
-Short Fiction
-Prose
-Essays
-Photography
-Tunes
-Other (?)

That deals with the subject of consumption, eating, devouring and being devoured. This does not have to be in a literal sense. Works concerning fire as a destructive force are valid. Works concerning political consumption are also valid. We're trying to take a look at the concept from all angles, so if you have something that might suit do send it along!

TO SUBMIT: send something to djdeathsquad@gmail.com.

This is a small, non-corporate art project & online gallery (no ad revenue) but as we believe artists should be paid just like anyone else, we would be happy to place a paypal "donate" button next to your submission if printed so that people can give you money if they like your work. We'll also promote you with a photo, brief bio, and a link to your website/studio/myspace page.

The zine will be printed in an elegant flash format (posted on the web). Due to launch July/August. The zine will be printed quarterly and old issued will remain available to the public. We will try to respond to all entries, but please forgive us if we don't have the resources.

Thanks for reading!"

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

A place to share short stories

2007-05-11T18:31:06Z

Hi,

Some of you might be interested in a new site I was involved in setting up

www.portrayl.com

It's basically a writing site where writers can post and showcase their works with a cool little twist: other people can add onto the stories creating new stories going in a different direction. It's a cool way to just write a short story but contribute to a whole book!

The site is completely for writers (I do try my best, and have also posted some chapters on the site as nshah, but I'm no writer), so if you have and suggestions for the site or if there is anything you would like to see on the site, please reply to this post or let us know directly. It's for you, so you should be able to enjoy using it.

Thanks for reading everyone
Neeraj

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

New to this tribe

2007-05-04T16:23:56Z

So I figured it’s high time I joined this tribe, since short stories are one of my favorite genres. That, coupled with the fact that it tends to be my favorite form when writing should have clued me in earlier.

I’ve been writing for just under two years and feel I’ve come a long way in that time. For those of you interested, there are a couple dozen short stories as well as a short one act comedy, several vignettes (or short shorts) and some poetry on the Blog. They are posted chronologically in order so if you’d like to see the progression, just go all the way back to the last page and work forward. My subject matter and style is all over the map, so if a particular piece doesn’t strike your fancy, something else might. I always enjoy feedback and suggestions, so please feel free to do so either in a message or in the comment section.

I’m also an avid reader who loves reading short stories and it will be nice to have a place to discuss the reads. I adore Angela Carter, Paul and Jane Bowles, Somerset Maugham, Bradbury, Mrabet, Finney, McKenna, Dahl, Poe and dozens of others who write in this form. My latest find is Collier, which I describe as a Brit. in Brooklyn concerning his slugging verbiage.

So anyway hello everybody, my name is Steve and I’m a short-story-aholic.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

New tribe

2007-04-19T11:58:55Z

http://tribes.tribe.net/revolutionizedversion1/tribeallposts?action=DeleteTopic&topicid=32d3232d-5d53-4286-94db-feafa3edca22

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

always accepting submissions

2007-03-24T15:43:50Z

always accepting submissions
why vandalism? is an online arts journal currently accepting submissions from visual artists and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

www.whyvandalism.com/

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies