"Sarah's Fault" - Contest #3

"Sarah's Fault"
(the third ACW monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "Sarah's Fault"
2000 words or less.

Deadline:
November 15, 2001

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Sarah's Fault
By E. B. Hinton
e_b_hinton@yahoo.com

~Winning Entry~

It was all Sarah’s fault really.
Being born with great intelligence can be a burden, but Sarah always looked at it from the other side. While others like her hid their intelligence from the public eye, she embraced it, even reveled in it.
“I found a way,” she told me that day at the beach just a few months ago.
“A way for what?”
“To open a door to another world.”
I laughed, but one look in her eyes told me she was serious. I had known her too long to know that she was serious when that look crossed her face. To distract her, I refilled her glass of wine. She ignored it, choosing instead to look at a pair of seagulls chasing each other at the water’s edge. The silence between us lasted until the gulls finally flew away. I hoped that she wouldn’t resume the topic, but she did.
“Think of it, Richard,” she said, her eyes showing that light that meant she had latched onto something and wouldn’t let go. She reached out and touched my hand, her eyes fixing on mine. “A doorway to another world. A chance to see what our lives would be like if we had taken different roads.”
“Sarah, I know that you don’t think like other people, but please, what you're talking about is…” I let the sentence hang, not wanting to say it. She finished for me.
“Crazy.” She nodded. “I know.” She fell silent again.
I bit my lip, wanting to say things to her, to talk her away from these crazy dreams; to tell her that I loved her, that she could come away with me. Anything to draw her away from this damned obsession of hers.

When I had met Sarah in college, I knew how smart she was. A freshman myself, I had naturally been drawn to her the way new people do in strange surroundings. What I later learned was of her passion for finding a way to change the past; to discover some way to make things better by altering that which had already occurred. She had been almost literally laughed out of school when she turned in her senior thesis on time travel. She had agreed to write a new one in exchange for graduation. And graduate she did, at the age of sixteen. I was twenty-two by then, but we were friends and had begun to grow fond of each other.

When she finally turned eighteen, our romance officially began. For three years we had been happy; she at her job as a research assistant for a major computer company; me at my job as a reporter. Tentative plans had been made for marriage. Things were as they were supposed to be. Then someone had approached her about her thesis. The first one. How her mysterious benefactor had ever found out about it was beyond me and she never would tell me, but he had read it and had liked what he had seen. With his money, she had built a lab of her own, surrounded herself with the best and brightest scientists in the world, and set out with one mission: find a way to travel through time.

When she first told me of it, I had laughed, but that look came and I knew that she was dead serious. I did the only thing that I could: I supported her. I tolerated night after lonely night, waiting for her to come home, knowing that she was either working too hard to notice the time or had passed out from exhaustion.

“...tomorrow.” she said.
“Hmm?”
“I said, we’re going to try to open the door tomorrow.”
“Why, honey? Why is it so important?”
Her bottom lip set and her brow creased. I brushed away an errant strand of her brown hair that fell onto her face.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
“Understand what? That your family life was horrid? That you want to find some way to go back and make it better? I’ve said it so many times before: the past is the past. You can’t live there. You need to put it behind you and move on.”
She turned to me, her face lined with anger. “You just don’t get it, do you? If I can look into another world, a parallel dimension perhaps, then maybe I can see a place where I wasn’t treated like an animal. Maybe I’ll see a world where I was loved and respected.” She paused. “A world where I was accepted for being different.”
“Jesus, Sarah!” I stood and brushed sand from my shirt. “You talk as though you were tortured on a daily basis. You know, there are people out there that have it a lot worse than you did. All you care about is getting some sort of praise for being a genius.” I leaned over and said the one thing that I will regret until my dying day. “You’re so god-damned selfish. Go. Go and open your damn door and get all the praise you want. Just don’t expect it from me.” I turned and walked away. I knew that it had hurt her, that my criticism had hit too close to home, but my anger wouldn’t let me turn around and apologize.

I finally returned home, but of course she wasn’t there. I wanted to say I was sorry for the horrible things I had said. I wasn’t sure why it had upset me so. Perhaps because it had been a beautiful day and she had brought up work yet again. Perhaps it was because we had put off the wedding yet again. I paced around the living room a few times, then decided I’d go to the lab and make my apologies there.

When I finally got there, people were buzzing about, monitoring large machines that surely cost a small fortune, and a general feeling of busyness filled the air. I walked past white-coated lab assistants and blue-coated technicians. I had been here a few times before, but had never really gotten the chance to meet anyone. A few gave me a look as though I didn’t belong (which I didn’t), but no one bothered me.

I saw Sarah sitting at a large desk that had several monitors mounted on it. Information passed by on the screen faster than I could follow, but she never stopped writing down things that only made sense to her.
I stood behind her and cleared my throat. “I just ran into this guy who says he was very rude to a really wonderful woman and he wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know how. He thought maybe I could make a go of it.”
Her eyes never left the screens. “I’m busy.”
I hunched beside her chair. “Look, Sarah, I’m really sorry for what I said. I really am. Why don’t you come home, I’ll make a late dinner, and we can talk this out.”
“All systems report ready, Dr. Polves,” an assistant said from a nearby console.
Sarah nodded and stood. As I watched her, I noticed where her gaze fell.

On the far side of the room sat a large rectangular-shaped, steel frame against a concrete wall. Wires ran from it in all directions to various pieces of equipment throughout the room.
“Uh, Sarah-”
“Shush.”
The rectangle began to glow as energy both went into and out of it.
“Sarah,” I said, a little more insistent this time, “what are you doing?”
“We’re opening the doorway.”
I watched in fascination as the concrete framed by the metal began to disappear, to be replaced by what looked like a blue sky. Towards the bottom of the doorway it started to turn green and I realized that I was seeing grass. A flash of light went out from that blue sky and passed through the room. When I opened my eyes, the doorway was fully open. Almost as one, all of us in the room went closer to that blue sky and green grass, all of us silent. Sarah led the way and stopped just inches from it. She slowly reached out and her hand passed through the plane between our world and wherever that world was. When she pulled her hand back, she looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. It was that certain smile that always made me catch my breath and made me love her even more.

“Are we ready?” she asked.
In response, the group parted and several remote-controlled carts covered with green tarps rolled through the aisle that the people formed. The machines passed through the doorway and instantly appeared on the other side. The tarps fluttered in a light breeze, but otherwise seemed unaffected.
“Let’s go,” Sarah said as she grabbed my hand and started pulling me along.
“What?” I stopped her and the others in the room flocked past us, walking through the doorway without reservation, most of them smiling.
“What’s going on, Sarah?”
“Last week I found out what all of this-” she gestured to the room, “-was about. They want to use it to go out and conquer other worlds; worlds that have never heard of war, or torture, or armies, or any of it. I can’t let them do that.” She looked through to the other side where the people had removed their lab coats and were unpacking the carts. “A group of us decided that we wanted to leave this place, this world, for a better one. We’ve spent the past week opening door after door, trying to find the right one.” She pointed at the doorway. “That world is uninhabited as far as we can tell. None of us have anything to keep us here. The ones that do are all at home with their families and friends. Please, Richard, come with me.”
“What about the equipment and the research?” I asked, honestly curious.
“It’s set to have a critical meltdown fifteen minutes from now.”
I tore my eyes away from the people and the grass and the sky. “Were you going to come and get me?”
She smiled coyly. “I knew you’d come. I know how you are. You can’t stand being mad and that’s just one of the many things that I love about you.” She reached out and touched my face. “It’s not about my past, it’s about my future. I can’t be here with you forever when all I see is death. I want us to raise a family in a better place.”
My breath stopped and my heart skipped a beat. “A family?”
“Yes, Richard, a family. Come with me. Please.”

It took all of one second. I had no one here either. Maybe that’s why she had chosen me as well, but it didn’t matter. I loved her and would follow her anywhere. I took her hand and stepped through the doorway to our new lives.

That was several months ago and we have all settled into a routine here. All in all, things are going well. Several of the assistants have gotten together; some have even married and are working on their own families. And Sarah found out that she was pregnant yesterday. That’s why I’m writing all of this down. I wanted to someday tell our child, “it’s all your mother’s fault.”

It’s Sarah’s fault for finding this world for us; it’s her fault that I love her so much; it’s her fault that I’m happy.

THE END

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Sarah's Fault
By Dice Elm
diceelm@yahoo.com

~Runner Up~

The mail man got a surprise today!
He wasn’t expecting such a gift!

He saw the wee blonde girl,
On the porch, waiting for him;

Such a cherubic smile --
All dimples and eyes.
He thought, ‘What an angel to brighten my day!’

He smiled back,
As he reached in his pack,

Opening the box in front of him --
A sudden blur of orange sprang for his face,
Envelopes flew,
And a yeowww rang in his ears.

When the fur had cleared,
He heard a woman’s shout,
And a young boy’s answer, -
“NO, maw --,
Honest -,
It was Sarah’s fault!”

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Sarah's Fault
By Michael A. Wells
michael_wells@prodigy.net

~Honorable Mention~

Dwight had known Sarah for almost three years. At their young age this seemed an eternity. Both considered their relationship the “real stuff." It was assumed that sometime within the next couple of years, they would take the next step in their relationship. They often talked about marriage, but only in very vague terms.

This morning Dwight was awaiting the 7:23 Preston Ave. bus. His sincere hope was that his transportation was just delayed. By his wristwatch it was exactly 7:27 and not a good sign.

Several times in the past two weeks Dwight had been late for work, a habit he had tried hard to break. Earlier in the year he narrowly survived a stressful meeting with his supervisor on the subject. Again, Dwight stared at his watch and glanced south on Preston. He sighed heavily.

Dwight was fully aware the next bus was not scheduled to arrive until 7:44. It would not get him to work on time. Would this make his third or fourth tardy episode inside of two weeks? Somehow, his stomach didn’t seem to think it mattered much. He felt the weight of doom.

If Sarah had not insisted they take the summer trip to Raycene beach, they might have saved enough to have a car by now. She could have driven him to work and he would not be late again. He had a small wisp of anger in his thoughts. Then he pictured Sarah again in her early morning glow. “Damnit! Why did she look so darn appealing in the morning?” His anger softened. Still somehow this all seemed Sarah’s fault, not his.

Three full minutes past a quarter of eight, the next Preston Ave. bus screeched to a halt in front of him. The door swung open.
“You boarding son?” the bus driver queried.
“Oh, yes!” Dwight scurried aboard as he collected his thoughts and quickly seated himself in the first available seat.

During the next couple of stops his mind reloaded with excuse after excuse he would provide to his boss, Mr. Boardman. He rationalized he would not be too terribly late. Still, this was almost becoming a habit and would not set well with Boardman. He hoped his boss was late too, perhaps with an outside appointment. His mind again turned to more possible excuses. Sarah got to the shower ahead of him ... he had no control. No, Sarah’s mom called long distance and was very ill. Somehow such a line seemed inappropriate besides untrue.

“Braxton Ave." the driver’s voice bellowed.
Dwight looked up from his thoughts ... this was his stop. He felt a lump in his throat as he stepped down to the curb and the bus doors slammed shut at his back. Turning west on Braxton, he could see flashing lights from emergency vehicles a half block away. After crossing the intersection he was better able to distinguish the source of the commotion. Smoke poured from the windows on the upper floors of Dwight’s office building. Policemen and fire officials held back a small but growing crowd of people. One was Mr. Boardman.
“Dwight! You’re here!” he shouted.
“Yes sir,” came Dwight’s weak response.
With that, Boardman gave him a crushing hug. Much like one of his famous handshakes. “Good to see you son! Things happened so quickly, I was afraid you didn’t make it out.”

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The Other Entries...
(In the order they were received)

The Mystery Of Sarah's Fault

Cynthia Clark

Twas a starry night in June,
Underneath the full of the moon.
Shadows pass beneath the trees,
The smell of death, upon the breeze.

Echoed voices, deep in the night,
Telling tales, by the campfire light.
Chirping crickets, the hoot of an owl,
Nothing unusual, of these night sounds.

Closer and closer, the footfalls came,
Warily approaching, the campers domain.
The narrator, continued with his tale,
Sounded so real, said so well.

Closer, and closer still,
It began its climb Up the steep hill.
The smell of smoke, the smell of fire,
Fueled its need, to climb higher, and higher.

As it rounded the top, the crowd became silent,
Instinct warned them of impending violence.
They shivered in fear, of its approach,
Knowing this was no joke.

Nearer, and nearer, closer it came,
To it, this was fun, and games.
The thirst for blood, the need to eat,
Up ahead, it smelled fresh meat.

It slept by day, and traveled through the night,
It had a deep fear, of the sunlight.
The shadows had become its home,
Silent and swift, it had become.

Eyes that glowed, with a golden fire,
Its thick black coat, was to be admired.
Claws, long and sharp as knives,
All necessities, to keep it alive.

Only two feet, to walk upon,
Five toes, minus the two, that were gone.
Over seven feet tall, it was said to be,
Some tales, had it swinging through trees.

The campers began to panic now,
They had to leave, had to get away somehow.
Everything was left behind, except their guns,
From a fast walk, they switched to a run.

The empty campsite was such a treat,
For the puppy, that had nothing to eat.
The narrator had told his tale so well,
So much fear, over a pup, that had come from the
Middle of nowhere.

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"Sarah's Fault"

Paula Sheehy

“Sarah! What are you doin’,” Momma yelled through the kitchen screen door, “Your

gonna break your neck the way you toss yourself around like that.” Sarah liked to

twirl till she turned blue and passed out. Momma didn’t mean to put the blame on

Sarah so much but bein’ the older sister Sarah was held to be more responsible even

though she was only ten. There were six of us and she had to help Momma take care

of us all. Mostly everything ended up bein’ Sarah’s fault whether it was or it wasn’t. I

figured it was just because she had to be a good example and Momma was tryin’ to

teach her how to be a lady. The one thing I didn’t like was watchin’ daddy beat poor

Sarah till she couldn’t walk. I used to sit with her and wipe her tears away from her

eyes. I wished I could take Sarah somewhere far away she was so pretty with

blonde hair and eyes that were so blue the sky couldn’t measure up. I was just a boy

then scrawny and small bout four years old. I just loved my big sister Sarah.

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Sarah's Fault

Quill Enparchment

Sarah sat alone at a party smoking her cigarette and pondering life as she knew it. Men approached her with lust in their eyes, but none of them could speak to her soul - a soul that had been mortally wounded by a love surrounded in shame and secrecy.

Her slinky black strapless dress certainly flattered her feminine frame. Every time she stood up to fix herself another drink, the flowing skirt followed her sleek curves. Such a beauty was too much for the men in the room to handle. The cheap come-ons poured all around but she chose to sit alone with her drink and her Marlboro Light. Her shoulder was as icy as a Christmas snowflake.

As she scried into the smoldering cigarette, it became an anthropomorphic reminder of the life she dreamt of having. Ashes burned, then seemingly disappeared into oblivion, just like the hours spent with the man she loves. Nicotine, that addictive substance, ran through her blood in a stream as much as the lust she craved and could not live without. Both had a calming effect and savory taste. Both were cancers set on destroying her.

Her lover Ethan was no ordinary man. He and Sarah had connected on a level beyond the mortal realm, creating a bond unlike any in history. It was as if their swords were forged on the same star.

Ethan spent his evenings with a cold, heartless wife. A selfish woman who believed marriage was bound by duty more than love. He claimed he would leave this beast as soon as certain obligations had been met. At that time, he and Sarah would commence a new life all to themselves, with never-ending happiness.

Sarah had never met his wife and wondered if she was truly the wretch Ethan claimed her to be. Perhaps she was a wonderful, sweet, kind, generous angel whose back was being scarred by a prowling wolf.

But if the wife honestly were such a beast, perhaps she deserved this punishment. After all, a marriage is about making one's spouse happy, is it not? If she were so heartless and uncaring, she must not have loved this man, at least not as much as Sarah did. If Sarah had a husband like Ethan, she would ensure that he had all the love and attention he needed so he would never be tempted to fulfill his desires outside the relationship.

Nonetheless, he was with the wife, not Sarah that night. She felt obligated to go on with her life, live it to the fullest, and not let this obsession ruin the evening.

As the mistress attempted to shrug off the malady that confined her, she donned her best smile, wondering if any of the men in the room could possibly touch her soul the way Ethan did. Were any of these men as intelligent, as charming, as sensual? Could they evoke emotion and provoke cerebration? Could they touch her, caress her, seduce her the way Ethan could? Or would they all just leave her with a cold case of dysphoria?

Sharks swarmed around her in a mad feeding frenzy. Their slimy skin and ruthless manners nauseated her yet she danced to the music allowing them to attack with their pathetic attempts at seduction. "Just get this night over with!" she pleaded with the gods.

Enough of this torture. It was time to come home. A little Chuck Mangione in the CD player, a cigarette and shot of vodka should end this night on a more pleasant note. Hypnotic trumpet sounds graced the air as Sarah fell on the couch with her vices.

"Rat-a-tat-tat." It was the door. Peeping through the eyehole she spied Ethan covered in blood and barely able to stand. She flung the door open and helped him inside. Running to the cupboard for some honey and aloe vera, she came back to tend his wounds.

"She got drunk again. Threw the Waterford crystal vase. Damn good aim with a little Captain Morgan in her," he testified. His shoulder, all the way down his arm, was a cobweb of wet, shiny crimson laced with olive-toned flesh. Sarah carefully removed his shirt, plucked the shards out of his skin and applied her homemade ointment.

Seeing him in such agony confirmed his stories of the wretch who took his name. How could he have stayed with this woman for 15 years? Calling her a "woman" was actually quite a euphemism for she was more execrable than feminine.

What comforted him more than the first aid were her soft kisses - gentle, warm and soothing. Her lips glossed over the abrasion in hopes that her love would heal. Those kisses soon moved up his neck and covered his ear, his cheek, his forehead. He motioned for her to move her head upwards as he reached for her lips.

Their tongues soon wrapped around each other fueling their passion. The ecstasy consumed her. She flung her head and arched her back, moaning and panting, squirming in delight. She paused suddenly to gaze into his eyes, communicating with him just how much she loved him and wanted to please him.

She began to kiss his chest all over. His masculine, musky skin drove her wild. She unbuttoned his jeans and continued her kisses along his manhood. The feel of his soft skin enveloping his firm shaft was joyous as she pressed her cheek against it.

Her mouth absorbed the entire piece as she let her tongue dance with its favorite partner. Around and around she devoured him, doing a combination tango of sucking and licking while her hands commenced a stroking motion.

Finally she led him upstairs to the hot tub. Excusing herself for a second, she mentioned to Ethan to remove the rest of his clothing and step in. Warm but not scalding, the bubbles felt invigorating. All his stress seemed to just disappear.

A moment later Sarah came back upstairs with a couple of cocktails in hand. She had already been hitting the Stollies but a little more shared with Ethan would make the perfect touch to such a seductive and unexpected evening.

Chuck Mangione still echoed in her stereo and set the mood as she entered the tub with her dress still on. Sure, it seemed bizarre but the wet silk dress clung to her body and showed every curve a woman could have. Holding her tighter and tighter as she sat on his lap facing him in the hot tub, he kissed her neck and moved his mouth down her shoulders and chest until his teeth and tongue reached her cleavage.

Using his teeth as a tool, he pulled down her strapless dress and began caressing her nipples with his tongue. Pressing harder and harder, she moaned with delight. The warm water made her taste even more delicious.

But he was not about to go unrecognized. Her hands found their way around his back, massaging all the workday stress from his body, with the utmost sensitivity to his wound. Stroking and stroking, her fingers fondled every follicle of his hair. As her love juices started to boil, she began moving back and forth on his lap noticing the growth of his penis as it got harder and harder.

Teasing her was just part of the fun. His fingers found their way up her dress. Surprise, surprise. No panties to get in the way. Further and further his fingers roamed, noticing how juicy she was. As if the juice were not enough evidence of how much she missed him, her moans became louder and louder just like her grip on his head became tighter still.

The passion was too hot. He had to take her. With the remnants of her dress still clinging to her, he inserted himself into her canal. She glided her hips, arched her back and rode on top of him as Ethan thrust with every ounce of energy he had, pounding himself deeper and deeper inside her.

By the expression on her face it was clear that she was between the world as we know it and the realm of sheer ecstasy. She enjoyed him so much. To feel him insider her. To smell his musky, masculine essence. To meld with his soft and sensuous skin. It all drove her crazy and now, with her orgasm nearing, she cried out in her least-modest voice, “I love you so much.” And she meant it.

This orgasm was the most intense she’d ever experienced. Perhaps it was the long wait. Or maybe it was the vodka. Or more likely, it was his weakened condition, which exhibited just how vulnerable and human he really was. For some reason, his victimization made him all the more desirable.

Still feeling the throbbing from Sarah’s orgasm, Ethan continued to stroke back and forth inside her until his own orgasm arrived. Another intense moment this night would bring. His entire body stiffened as Ethan collapsed in her arms, his penis still loitering insider her.

"Crash." Something outside had made a frightful sound. Sarah threw her dress back on and ran to see what the clamor was. A small, intoxicated woman stumbled from the mangled car shouting obscenities and throwing pieces of the wreckage.

Ethan recognized the voice as that of Emily, his abusive wife. Apparently she had followed Ethan, even in her drunken condition. She made it as far as Sarah's home before ploughing into an oak tree.

Sarah immediately dialed 911 and reported the incident. The police found fresh blood on the bumper even though there were no animals or humans in the vicinity of the crash. Blood wasn't the only thing they found, though. The remains of Ethan and Emily's two young children were also in the back seat, neither had been wearing seat belts.

Sirens blared through the night. Surely there was not enough vodka to drown out the sounds or the images of those two children. Were they victims of their mother's wrath and intoxication or victims of Sarah's lust for their father? If only Ethan had not been on his way to Sarah's house, perhaps those two darling angels would still be alive.

Insomnia kept Sarah company throughout the night. She feared falling asleep for if she did, surely visions of those children in their dying moments would fill her dreams. The shrill of the sirens, of a drunken woman's wrath, of a hidden love discovered in such a heinous manner - it was all to much for her conscience to bear. "Just get this night over with!" she once again pleaded with the gods.

Sunrise brought relief but only so much as to mask the burden she carried. Sarah sipped her coffee slowly, wondering how she was going to make it through the day. Again, she lit a cigarette and watched the ashes smolder as she pondered life as she knew it.

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Sarah's Fault

H. J. Lazarus

A hairline crack leads to the plane

well-hidden deep within her rock,

Her crust thinner than it appears;

You’d never think to hear her talk

That she’s been doing this for years…

.....Oh, she feels the strike-slip coming!

Yet this façade is quite a strain

She just cannot resist the stress,

Though outwardly she seems to mock

Her earthly woes with great chagrin;

In secret stratums she must knock

Back everything she can cram in…

.....Oh, she feels the thrust-force coming!

Broken rocks beneath the surface.

Thus begins the fleshy fever,

Gobbling, gorging, all to block

Out fissures in her fragile soul;

Then staring blankly at the clock

She counts to ten, kneels to the bowl…

.....Oh, she feels the trembling coming!

The rising plume starts to heave her.

Dark seismic waves will propagate,

Her swollen tongue tasting like chalk

Till she has spewed forth all the pain;

Still shaking from the aftershock

One fleeting moment she seems sane…

.....Oh, she feels redemption coming!

In her relaxed but deformed state.

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SARA’S FAULT

Winona Johnson

The trees were gray and twisting themselves into lovely drab braids. Sara didn’t find any of that very alarming, but for some reason the loud music that seemed to be pounding out of the air seemed to be affecting her balance.
And the wood nymphs were laughing at her.
“I think Sara is drunk,” said one.
“I think Sara is mental,” said another.
Then the ground came rushing up, and like the trees, the world went gray.
It didn’t used to be that way. The nymphs didn’t always laugh at her.
Once upon a time in a happy forest far away she had been one of them.
Or had it all just been a dream. It very well could have been a dream.
Then the sun came up and Sara woke up and the only thing more intense than her hangover was the degree of coldness in her feet.
Someone had stolen her shoes.
It figured. Now if only she could figure out where she was, maybe she could find her way to a new pair of shoes.
“Sara,” a very non-nymph like voice called out from somewhere not in front of her face. “Sara, are you awake yet? I brought you some new shoes. You are missing your shoes right? I know you are because I heard Sheryl say she wanted them so Toby took them.”
Sara sat up and was amazed at how familiar the pace looked now that she could actually see it.
She was also amazed to see Lizzie Loke standing there, one hand on her him, the other dangling a pair of warm looking sneakers.
Lizzie Loke shouldn’t be there. She wasn’t a nymph. Lizzie had frizzy hair and an annoying voice; she was wearing a green sweater dress and did not know how to accessorize. She looked absolutely tacky.
“What in the hell are you doing here Lizzie! This isn’t your place!”
“This isn’t your place either anymore, is it Sara. You’re no longer a nymph, are you Sara?”
Sara hung her head and studied the nail polish on her cold toes.
Lizzie smiled a sweet crocodile smile and helped Sara put on the shoes.
She lifted her up off the cold ground too, and helped her stay standing.
Sara was grateful and belatedly confused by Lizzie’s sudden appearance.
“Thank you,” Sara whispered, because anything louder than a whisper sent off bottle rockets in her brain. “Where did you come from?”
“I came from heaven, Sara. I’m your fairy god mother sent to protect you from the nymphs.”
“Do they hate me?”
“Yes, Sara, they do, and it’s all your fault.”
And together they left the place.
For Sara, there was no happily ever after, there was only the shame of being normal.

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Sarah's Fault

rejuvenescent

I idolized my big sister Sarah while we were growing up. She was two years older, but she was also smarter and prettier. I felt slow and plain next to her.

Sarah had lots of good ideas. One time, she came to me with her lips painted red. "Let's play beauty parlor," she said.

"We're not supposed to mess with Mom's things."

"She said it was okay. I'll be the beautician, and you can be my customer."

I doubted Mom would have given permission to play with her makeup, but I couldn't resist Sarah's enthusiasm. We grabbed fistfuls of cosmetics from my mother's dresser, and brought them back to our room. I sat on the floor, while Sarah applied generous amounts of foundation, eyeshadow, and rouge to my face.

Then she took a hank of my hair and wound it around the round brush of the curling iron. Soon my scalp started to burn. "Ouch! Sarah, it's too hot! Take it off!"

"I can't get it out, it's all tangled up," she said.

"Well, untangle it," I said.

"I can't, it's too hot to touch."

"Do something! It's burning me!"

Sarah unplugged the iron, and after a couple minutes it cooled down. Sarah started trying to free it from my hair. She kept tugging my hairs out. "Ow! Ow!" I complained.

After a few minutes, she got up. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said, and ran out.

A moment later, Mom came in. "Janie Ellen MacGregor! What have you gotten into! Shame on you!" I started to cry.

Mom gathered up her makeup. Sarah came back a minute later. She had wiped her lipstick off. "Sarah, why weren't you keeping an eye on your sister?"

"Sorry, Mom. I was in the bathroom."

Mom tried to get the curling iron out of my hair, but eventually she had to cut it away. Short little pieces of hair stuck up on the top of my head in a patch for weeks afterward.

When I thought about it later, I realized Sarah must have run out just in time because she heard Mom coming up the stairs. I wasn't mad at her for deserting me; I was impressed that she was so clever. I wished I could be that smart.

Sarah always pinned the blame on me when we got caught doing something wrong. One time, we were unloading the dishwasher. Sarah was carrying one plate at a time from the dishwasher to the cabinet. I picked up two plates and carried them at once. "Look, I can do it twice as fast as you."

Then Sarah picked up all the rest of the plates, six of them, and started carrying them to the cabinet. But they slipped out of her hands and crashed to the floor.

Mom ran in. "It was Janie's fault," Sarah said. "She said she could be faster because she could carry more." I just started crying.

Sarah made sure everything was always my fault. I might never have challenged her, except one time she did something really mean. She didn't just blame me for a mistake; she did it on purpose.

I was at the dining room table, painting a picture of a girl and a horse by a barn. It was almost done, and I was really proud of it. Then Sarah came in. "I'm going to paint one, too," she announced.

Sarah painted quickly, using the big brush. I used the skinny brush, and I took the time to clean it well between each color. I was still putting the finishing touches on my picture when she had filled her entire page. She sat frowning at it. "That's nice," I said, then went back to the detail of my horse's mane.

Sarah picked up a jar of paint, and tilted it over my painting. "Stop it," I said, and kept painting. I thought she was just kidding around. Then she held the jar over me, and tipped it a little further. "Cut it out!" I said. I could see the paint quivering at the lip of the jar, ready to roll over the edge. I didn't really think she'd spill it. Then a bright blue stream of tempera trickled down the front of my shirt, into a puddle on my lap. I did what I always did in times of crisis: I started crying. Then I sobbed as Sarah drizzled paint on my picture and on the floor next to my chair.

She dropped the empty pot of paint in my lap, and went running. "Mom! Janie spilled paint ALL OVER!"

Mom yelled at me for messing up my clothes and the floor. I didn't tell on Sarah. I was crying so hard, I couldn't have gotten the words out, even if I had wanted to.

Mom crumpled up my ruined picture without even looking at it. Later on, she hung Sarah's picture on the refrigerator.

I saw Sarah's picture every time I went into the kitchen. Every time I saw it, I felt bad again. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how mean Sarah was, not just that time, but all the time. Realizing it made me feel even worse. I felt hurt, but also I felt stupid for looking up to her.

The next week, Mom took us shopping after she picked us up at school one day. She stopped at the little grocery store on the way home. The old man who owned the store waved at us from behind the counter. I waved back. I always thought he was a nice man, but by the end of the day, I thought he must be my guardian angel.

"Can Janie and I go look around?" Sarah asked.

"Go ahead, but keep an eye on your sister," Mom said.

"I'd rather stay with you," I said. I'd been trying to avoid Sarah.

"Go on, Janie, let me do my shopping in peace."

We were drooling over the cereal aisle, when Sarah climbed up and stood on the first shelf. She turned to face me and held on to the shelf behind her back, blocking the view of the Froot Loops and Count Chocula. "I'm king of the hill," she said.

"Get down," I said.

"You have to do what I say, or you can't look anymore."

"I don't care." I started walking away. Sarah followed me, walking along the bottom shelf, hanging on above.

Then the set of shelves started to wobble, and before she could get down, they tipped over. Sarah fell to the floor. Boxes of cereal avalanched down on us. For an instant I was sure that shelves would start toppling down throughout the store like dominoes, but the shelves on the other side of the aisle held steady.

"Sarah? Are you okay?" I said.

"Yes," came her muffled reply.

Mom came calling for us. She sounded afraid, but I knew she would be furious soon. The man who owned the store set the shelves upright, and we climbed out from the wreckage. I was so afraid, I was shivering. We'd never gotten into trouble this big before.

As soon as she was sure we were okay, Mom asked what happened.

"Janie climbed up on the shelves, and they fell over!" Sarah said.

"She's lying," I said. I hadn't planned to say it; it just popped out. "It was Sarah's fault."

"Was NOT," she said. She looked shocked. I'd always taken the blame without saying a word.

"Was, too," I said. I wasn't sure if Mom would believe me, but it felt good to tell the truth. I didn't feel as scared anymore.

"WAS NOT!"

"Stop it," Mom said. "I'll reimburse you for the damage," she said to the grocer.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that. I don't think there was too much damage," he said. "Only a couple boxes broke. Maybe your girls can just put the boxes back on the shelves."

Mom glared at us, and we started picking up the boxes. "You're too kind," she said to the grocer. "I'm so sorry about this."

"While they're doing that, maybe you'd like to come back in my office, and look at the tapes."

"Tapes?" Mom asked.

The old man pointed to a camera in the corner. "I got those cameras installed to catch shoplifters. Everything that happens in here is recorded."

"Oh, we've put you through so much trouble already. I don't think you need to bother with that," my mother said.

"It's no bother. I apologize if I'm out of line, but if I thought one of my girls was a liar, I'd want to know which one."

So Mom went with him back into the office while we put the boxes back on the shelves. A few minutes later, she came out and helped us finish, without saying a word. Then she bought her groceries and took us home.

Sarah was grounded for two months: a month for climbing on the shelves, and a month for lying about it. It was the first time either of us had ever really been punished before. She had to go straight home every day after school and stay inside. She couldn't go to Scout meetings or soccer. She even had to miss her best friend's birthday party.

Not as many things were my fault after that.

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Sarah's Fault

poet_crafter

shouldn't have been walking there
at that late hour
dressed the way she was
that Sarah
never should have made him mad
or got under his skin
burning the toast coal black
or making his eggs too soft
couldn't have meant it
when she chose the stage
over a white fence
and calls of "ma" from
breezy porch swings.
that Sarah.
never should have tried to be an astronaut
how could she attempt to carry the weight
of the country on her shoulders
and why bother making speeches
picketing outside companies that
can see that
it's all Sarah's fault.

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Was it Sarah’s Fault?

Adam Heigh

Dr. Reinhip was just about to retire from a 36-hour shift when his beeper went off.
"Oh great not another one," he growled under his breath.
"Calling Dr. Reinhip to ER. Code red." The hospitals' intercoms beamed.
"All right I’m here. What is it this time?" he asked the nurse rolling his eyes.
"Female, age 21, gun wound to her left femur." The nurse read from her chart.
Reinhip dressed in scrubs then saw the young woman. When he walked in, he had to rub his eyes fore the beauty lying on the gurney in front of him. She had blonde hair, green eyes, nice perky breasts, well-defined figure with equal stunning facial features.
"Damn, she is fine." He thought to himself.
"Well what can we do for you today?" he asked the babe in distress.
"How bad is it d-doctor," she asked shaking.
"Well, let us take a look shall we. Lifting the blanket, he winced. How could a beautiful woman like this have an injury like this? "What’s your name sweetie?" He asked trying to keep the girl’s mind off the pain.
"S-Sarah," she stuttered.
"Well Sarah, we are going to have to put you out and take some tests to see how extensive your injury is. How did this happen anyway?"
"Somehow I shot myself with my dads 10 gage shotgun. I-I don’t remember a lot but the loud bang then the indescribable pain." The nurse came over and gave Sarah a shot of something. Blackness greeted her with an Erie but comfortable feeling.
"Poor girl she’s going to lose her leg." Reinhip said hanging his head.
Sarah awoke sometime later In the Intensive Care Unit. Still groggy from the pain medication she called for a nurse. The nurse came in and Sarah proceeded to tell her about getting something for her leg that it was asleep. Saying nothing to Sarah, the nurse just walked out. After a couple of minutes her, parents emerged in the doorway followed by the nurse.
"Mom, they gave me some medication to take away the pain but now my leg is asleep." Her mother hung her head and buried it in her husband’s armpit.
"Somebody tell me what’s wrong with my leg damn it!" Sarah screamed.
"I believe I can answer that," a voice said from the doorway. Sarah careened her neck to see who it was as the voice emerged from the door.
"Dr. Reinhip, what’s going on? My leg is fine right?" Sarah said crying.
Reinhip sat on the edge of Sarah’s bed and placed his hand on top of hers. Telling the story of how infection was about to set in and about how the surgery went.
"Surgery?" Sarah asked stunned. Lifting her bed sheets Sarah nearly passed out. Her beautiful tan leg gone. In its place a five-inch stub wrapped in cotton. Sarah asked everyone to go and leave her alone. Glancing over in the corner Sarah saw a pair of aluminum forearm crutches. "OK now lets take this slow." She said to herself swinging her leg off the side of the bed followed by the stump. Looking around to see if anyone was in the room, she stood up. "A little shaky and groggy but really not half bad," she grumbled to herself. Grabbing the railing of her bed, she began to hop. She then hopped over to her crutches and placed her exquisitely soft tan arms through the cuffs. "Bad looking, nope, not bad at all." Sarah said lifting her stump up and down. "It’s not my fault that I have always wanted to be an amputee. And finally my wish has come true." Sarah said standing naked in front of the full body mirror. A huge smile came over her and she began to laugh and cry at the same time.

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"Sara’s Fault"

Margot Woods

It really was all Sara’s fault but it is wrong to say it quite that way. I mean, fault implies something wrong. There was nothing wrong with what Sara did, in fact she pretty much did everything right. And that is why I just keep insisting it was her fault that I took that deep breath and stepped into a new phase in my life.

The ringing of the phone caused me to stop in my tracks and head for the office.

“All Good Dogs. May I help you?”

“I can’t believe we listened to you,’ the voice on the other end was all but screaming.

“Huh?” I know, that’s not one of my brightest or most clever responses, but what can I say? I mean, just how should you respond to a statement like that and to top it off I didn’t even recognize the voice.

“I spent years saving up for that table and now it is ruined and it is all your fault and I hate that dog and I am never going to speak to my husband again and you should have to pay for the table top and I think I am going to make my husband get rid of the dog and why would you tell him to do something like that?”

Wow, I didn’t realize that one person could get that many words out without ever stopping to take a breath. The trouble was, I still didn’t have a clue as to who this was nor did I have a clue as to what on earth she was talking about.

Sticking my neck out, in my most pleasant voice I ask for her name and please would she mind starting from the very beginning.

“Start from the beginning?” she shouted, “I did start from the beginning. He jumped his dog up on my coffee table and now the top is in ruins. And HE said you told him to do that.”

“Please, first tell me your name and then tell me your dog’s name.” I figured at least that would give me some place to start.

“Oh, I’m sorry, its just that I am so upset about my table I can’t believe he would do something so stupid I can’t believe you would tell him to do something so so so,”

“Slow down, you still haven’t told me who you are.”

“This is Mardi Dupont and its my husband’s dog.”

“OK, Mardi, what is your husband’s dog’s name?”

“Ice Breaker” and we call him Ice.” Finally, I was getting somewhere with this conversation. In fact, I was now thinking I might even be able to be a participant.

“Ice is a nice dog and last time I saw both your husband and the dog they were working just great.” “How about you tell me all about the table?”

I had earned my living training dogs and teaching dog training for many years and then took a break. Actually, I thought of it as going into semi-retirement. I still trained my own dogs and accepted a few clients now and again. Then my circumstances changed and I found myself in the position of having to go back to full time training and teaching. Now back to the full time stuff, I was once again struggling with the questions of how do you teach someone to train their dog and at the same time not become a marriage counselor, home improvement specialist and child rearing guru all rolled into one?

This time the problem was one of marriage counselor and home improvement specialist. Darn it, all I really wanted to do was train the dogs.

“My table, my beautiful table’, Mardi raged on. “We’ve been married for almost 4 years and that table is our very first nice piece of furniture. I saved and saved for it and he went and jumped Ice up on the top and now it has deep scratches in it.”

“Well, what was he trying to get Ice to do?” “Did you ask him?” “Wait a minute here, did this happen last night during the football game?”

“Yes it did,” she said slowly, “the commercials came on and he started telling Ice to ‘place’ and then Ice started running around the room in circles and finally jumped up on the coffee table.”

The muddy waters were starting to clear just a little bit. “Mardi, was Ice being a pest?”

“Well, yes he has gone from running away, trying to pick fights and never wanting to be near us to always being underfoot and in the way.” “All Marc was trying to do was to get Ice to go to his bed.” “Instead, the stupid dog ruined my table.”

Slowly, ever so slowly I managed to pull her side of the story out. Marc had been sitting in front of the TV happily watching the game and Ice was just being a big, friendly pest. Bored with the lack of activity, Ice decided to start some of his own. He brought Marc toy after toy with no success. Then he started nudging Marc, finally when halftime started, Marc got up and found the remote that activated Ice’s electronic training collar. And the games began.

The shrill peal of the phone jerked me out of a doze. “All Good Dogs, may I help you?”

“Yeah, help me and Ice get out of trouble.” Poor Marc, both he and Ice were still getting the icy shoulder from Mardi.

“So tell me what happened?” “How on earth did you ever manage to end up with Ice on top of the table?”

“Well, I was watching the game and Ice was really being a pain.” “He kept getting in the way of the TV and I kept having to tell him to down and he wasn’t really listening.” “I finally remembered that you kept saying if I didn’t have the remote in my hand and I wasn’t pushing the button it wouldn’t work.” “I did the dumbest thing, I pointed the TV remote at him and told him to sit.” “He actually sat”.

Laughing, I pointed out that it was pretty obvious that some training was taking place, I just wasn’t sure what kind or who was being trained. “Go on, what happened next?”

“Well, when halftime started I figured I really should go get the collar remote and work on that ‘place’ command you have been after us to do something about.”

“And?”

“And I got the remote but I didn’t bother to get a leash and it never occurred to me that I needed to look around at all the stuff in the room.”

“Meaning?

“Well, the dog bed I am using for his place was at the end of the sofa, on the other side of the coffee table.” “I tried to explain to Mardi that all that happened was that Ice exercised his options and tried out using the coffee table instead of the bed.” “After all he doesn’t even like hard surfaces so why would he want to jump on the table instead of going to the bed?” “I almost think he did it on purpose, just to make trouble.”

“Ice wasn’t trying to get you in trouble with Mardi but you are right about one thing, he was most definitely trying out all his options.” “Now do you understand why you need to have a leash on him and really take a good look at the surrounding environment before you start to work on this command?”

“Yeah, and I suppose you are going to tell me I should have turned off the TV and really worked Ice, that’s what Mardi did.”

“Surprise, I think you should leave the TV on and learn to concentrate on you dog when there is a need, no matter what the distraction happens to be.” “And Marc, call the company you bought the table from and get someone to come in and refinish the top.” “Then order a heavy piece of glass cut and beveled to fit the top, trust me, it is easier on the nerves in the long run.” “Oh and tell Mardi that all Ice is really doing is teaching the two of you how to become good parents one day.”

“You’re moving too fast for her.” “Let’s take a step back and work the command just a little closer to the platform for right now.” “Give Comfort more guidance until she understands what you want.”
Lucy moved Comfort around the training floor for a few minutes and then approached the small platform sitting in the middle of the training floor.

“Comfort, place” and with that Lucy pushed the button on the remote and simultaneously helped Comfort step on the low platform. By the third repetition Comfort was relaxed and moving onto the platform without any help from Lucy.

Ring, ring, ring. “OK, take a break while I answer the phone,” and I headed for the office. “All Good Dogs, may I help you?”

“My dog just bit my husband and the vet said I should call you.” With that I knew I was back training and teaching others how to train. Just that now days, I was finding the work less physical and a whole lot more mental. And you know, I still say it was Sara’s fault. I had been so sure I couldn’t train anymore and then I saw Sara. Watching her work made me realized that her training was more a mental thing than a physical one and I knew I could handle that part so here I am trying to be a dog trainer when sometimes I think people really only want a family counselor or a home improvement specialist or both.

Oh and about Sara, Sara was young, small and leggy. A shiny black bullet of a dog with a tail that never stopped is furious wagging and a tongue that constantly lolled out in a big grin. She took the commands being shot at her in machine gun fashion and never missed a beat. See, she really was perfect in her execution of her job that day and that is why I continue to maintain it really was all her fault.

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Sarah’s Fault

Marie Johnston

“Sarah! Where, the hell have you been?”

I turn away from the paint chipped front doors, to face my screaming mother, whose standing in the center of the living room with nothing on but a ragged, faded purple T-shirt. The shirt hits just above her knee, revealing her ugly, flabby, white, pasty legs. Legs, which along with the rest of her infected mind and body I’ve grown to hate.
My mind wanders as I watch the saliva foaming at the sides of her mouth. She continues to yell at me while chewing a piece of under-cooked steak, the remains of the steak swimming in a puddle of blood on a plate she holds in her right hand, and in her left hand a rusted kitchen knife.

“So what the fuck do I do now?” She asks me.

I blink twice, snapping out of my trance. The trance I run to for comfort, like a child who runs to their mother or father after wakening from a nightmare. But this isn’t a nightmare, there is no chance I will wake up one morning and be able to run into the arms of my mother or my father. My father isn’t allowed to comfort me when I’m scared, and my mother no longer knows how. My imagination is my comfort, it is the blanket that covers me, allowing me to fall under a trance to escape MY reality, HER insanity and to pretend that my life is as normal as the outside world is led to believe it is.
I answer her question, with the only safe answer there is; “I don’t know” I whisper.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” It’s your fault We are in this mess Sarah!” If you’d care about someone other than your self, maybe I wouldn’t have these bills that I can’t pay and the landlord threatening to evict us if I don’t pay the rent!” And wipe that stupid look off your face, don’t stand there playing that poor, pitiful Sarah bull-shit!” “Stand up straight!”

I pull my shoulders back like she commands, bringing my eyes to stare directly into hers, praying she will see the sincerity in them, and snap back to being my mommy and not the irrational monster I see before me.

My prayers go unanswered.

Instead, I follow her into the kitchen, I walk to the kitchen table, pulling out a rickety wicker chair that as I lower my self into, feeling as though it may break if any additional weight is applied. Regardless of how rickety it feels, it supports me.

“Get paid today?” Mother barks in a demanding tone. As she pulls out a gallon of nonfat milk from the rotting refrigerator, a sour smell pouring out as she open and then closes the door.

“Yes” I answer, hoping to bring her at least a small amount of relief, if only for a moment. Instead she simply demands the amount. “$207.68" I report, feeling more like an overworked husband who can’t keep up with the demands of his wife rather than a daughter.

“AHA SHIT!” She sneers, taking the last bite of her steak, smothered in ketchup. Then she reaches for her glass of milk, but rather than taking a sip she throws it across the room. The glass shatters into a hundred pieces as the milk splatters down the wall and onto the floor. “I KNEW IT, ONCE AGAIN NOT ENOUGH!” She screeches, as she gets up from the table, grabs a bottle of pills sitting on the bar, and escapes to her room. The bedroom door slams shut. Finally the house is quiet.
I breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders relax, I survived it, I survived another episode. I sit in the chair for an extra twenty minutes to confirm she is done for the night. I then get up and retreat downstairs to my room. The spilled milk can wait. I’ll clean the kitchen in the morning.
It’s getting late, I should get to bed, after all tomorrow is my high school graduation.

I lie in bed, too excited and too frightened to sleep. Excited, because graduating tomorrow means’ I am almost out of this hellish prison that is my home, and frightened because it seems too good to be true, and she always finds a way to sabotage anything good. I know she is upstairs passed out in her bed, dreading tomorrow. I know she is dreaming of how wonderful it would be if I wasn’t graduating, and leaving her. How dare I leave her! She screams in her sleep. It is Sarah’s fault she is graduating high school, it is Sarah’s fault she is moving off to college next year, everything is Sarah’s fault.

I do it all because I’m selfish and I only care about myself.

My mother is sick, I have no idea what she has, or how to get her to admit she is ill, I have no way to explain to other people what is wrong with her. Everyone knows she is not well, like the dirty town secret, that no one talks about. Which is okay, when the secret is about someone or something else, but not when it’s my mom. Our friends have all left, our family isn’t allowed to talk to us, and anyone new in our life is only given so much time before, they are instructed to leave as well. So here I lie in my bed, all of these thoughts constantly in motion circling inside my mind, screaming this is all my fault, this is all my fault, I must have made her this way because I am selfish, and it is all my fault that I can’t fix her...

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Sarah's Fault

Although they were safely up out of the way of the Quarry's large machines, the heavy chain with it's pendulous load appeared to be swinging directly at her. Even with a megaphone to carry the Guide's voice over the din, there were moments that his voice faded, and she was only catching bits and pieces.

"Of what use would these hard hats be should some of that rock fall on us anyway?" Sarah thought about saying but she was afraid no one would listen.

Perhaps it was a trick of perspective from where she was standing. With each load, the large bucket thing appeared to swing a bit closer each time it dropped the rock and swung back. She wanted to get closer to the group. She tried inching closer to them, but realized there wasn't the tiniest bit of space, so she was stuck with being the last in her group of 5th grade students.

"If only I hadn't stopped to tie my laces, I could be up in front feeling safe." Sarah thought. Regretting that moment when she'd stepped on her own laces and had to stop and tie them. She'd been the last to leave the safe room after getting her hard hat, and listening to the guide explain the precautions of staying on the platform at all times during the tour.

Sarah was timid, self conscious, and shy by nature, so she was hyperconscious of her surroundings. The noisy machinery seemed so close to her that it was impossible to not let it pull her attention away. If she had paid attention, then maybe she would have understood the true meaning of what the Guide was trying to tell everyone.

She wasn't really thrilled with this field trip anyway. Even though a group of teachers went through a lot of trouble to come up with this tour idea to visit the local quarry. Part curiosity, part investigation, they set it up through a close friend of one of the teachers.

"Guess that's the teacher up there with the guide." Sarah thought to herself.

Standing against the rail of the platform, her attention was divided between trying to understand what the guide was saying and the machine which was picking up, swinging and dropping the rock into what looked like drums. Confirming that it missed her as it dropped the rock with a rumble, she would then turn her attention back to whatever the guide was saying.

Creak....swing.....drop.....rumble......creak......swing......load.

"It's what we believe to be part of a Sierra National Forest fault line"

Creak....swing.....drop.....rumble......creak......swing......load. "due to the discovery of the layers of rock we have broken"

Creak....swing.....drop.....rumble......creak......swing......load.

"that are, well, if you'd just turn around I'll show you!

" At this point the conveyer started up, the drums started rolling the rock towards the conveyer, the thing with the chain rested, and the entire class turned around looking at her! Sarah could handle it no more. She could not take the blame for this! She turned and ran towards the door. She had to get out of there. Why would that guide tell the ENTIRE class that she was at fault.

Her teacher found her huddled in a corner of the next room crying hysterically. It was the room where they had picked up their hard hats. With fear distorting her view, between sobs, her Teacher could only make out, 'Sarah's', 'fault,' 'lying,' broken,' 'show you,' 'and why did the guide blame me for breaking it?

' Sarah returned to School after spending a week at home under doctors care. She was supremely embarrassed when she understood her panic attack. Her class taunted her daily with snickers of "Sarah's Fault"

These taunts plagued her the rest of her School years. But, it did solve her problem of being self conscious and shy. The taunts, were in a way, an initiation into a new world of friends, who like her, had gone through similar experiences.

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Sarah’s Fault

Derek Chilcoat

---- I never expected to get caught. Who does? So my position was not unique; handcuffed and wondering how I got there, how I let it happen to me. Like most people, I knew, not very deep in my mind, how I got there; it was Sarah’s fault. Before I met Sarah, life was simple. I made a good, honest living robbing little liquor stores. Nothing major, nothing remarkable, and no one ever got hurt. I wanted to earn my money and be on my way.
I wasn’t getting rich, but risks were minimal and I was proficient at my trade; I saw no reason to get into other more lucrative but riskier professions. I had associates in residential burglary, counterfeiting, grand theft auto, and a few who did the bank thing. We envied the bank robbers. Such a mythical occupation, and we knew the simple logic behind their motive; go where the money is. Banks.
But, wow. Banks took security and money a lot more seriously than a few years ago. All the cameras, security systems, armed guards, limited employee access, silent alarms everywhere. It was crazy. Few banks gave criminals a fighting chance to walk away with a healthy haul and leave no evidence. Like I said though, only a few could do it. The good ones. Not amateurs, and even they got busted. They just broke out and got back to their jobs.
Sarah liked money. She liked its power, its allure and its sex appeal. After stopping in a bank, we’d talk that night about money and robbing, and man, the more we talked the more heated up she got. Some of the best sex I’ve had was after our bank talks. And the best sex was when we role-played as bank robber and bank teller. Money turned that girl on, big time. And a turned-on Sarah turned me on, big time.
I didn’t notice what was happening until it happened. I spent a lot of time with accomplished bank robbers, but hey, we were part of a rogue family; conversations were not unusual, interaction was not taboo. And yeah, I devoted a lot of time studying banks, getting to know employees, customers, floor plans, and security elements, but I’ve looked into that stuff before. I knew I had options. So I did it. Before I knew it, I robbed my first bank. It was easy. Unfortunately, it was very easy. Small bank. Local yokel clientele. No fuss. In. Give me your money. Out. I don’t even know if they called the police. As I left the building, just me and the teller knew I robbed the bank. I couldn’t wait to tell Sarah.
“Hey, you wanna come home for lunch?” We rarely met for lunch. She would be suspicious.
“Lunch? Why, what’d you do, Dusty? What’s the occasion?” Suspicious and intrigued.
“Lunch. You know, the meal between coffee and cigarettes and supper.”
“Oh, I know what it is, I just don’t know what it is to you. We don’t do lunch,” she reminded me. I could hear the quotes around do lunch. “So, what gives?”
“Damn, this inquisition. You want to or not? If not, I got places to be, things to do.” It’s possible.
“Yeah, well you better not have other people to see.”
I loved her mind. So quick and nimble, what a turn on. I spat out a tired phrase, she completed it in her mind, turned it into a possible illicit rendezvous, and BAM! threatened me with a snappy warning. She was great.
“Only you, Blondie, I only have eyes for you.” It was true. I got a real kick watching all the heads turn her way. Anywhere we went they always craned their necks to see my girlfriend. Dumb luck or not, I knew I was going home with the woman they desired. Why look elsewhere?
“Yeah, well, don’t forget I got your dick and balls, too.” She lightened her tone. Convinced I wasn’t straying, she relaxed and teased me a bit. “So, if you’re looking for a nooner, I guess I’ll have to come over. You can’t do much without those things, can you?”
“Wouldn’t want to if it wasn’t with you,” I told her. I was gone, whipped beyond recognition. I didn’t give a shit either. Since I was blind to what the hell was going on, how could I give a shit? Not the point.
“Yeah, yeah, so what time do you want to do this,” she grumbled. She cracked me up. The first to admit she adored a comfortable routine, she was the last to admit change and spontaneity excited her.
“Is that a yes?” I wanted to hear her say it. No prettier word could be uttered than yes by my Sarah. That sweet bitch.
“Yes,” she relented. It was perfect. It wasn’t said, it wasn’t answered, it wasn’t told. She delivered the affirmation. It was perfect.
“Perfect. Be home by 1:30.”
“Christ, it’s already 12:45! How the - ”
“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. Just be home at 1:30. You’ve got time. I’ll be here.”
“All right, Satan, I’ll do as you wish.” What a kidder.
I wasn’t planning everything so she would come home and have sex with me. I could have waited until she got home from work and got that. No, I wanted her to come home and see the money, see what I had done for her. I did assume that with all that money lying around, she couldn’t resist fucking me. I was just there to receive. Not that that was a bad thing or an undesirable thing; it just wasn’t my intention.
She walked in and saw me sitting in her reading chair with my feet propped up on the moneybag like it was an ottoman. Her eyes bulged, her mouth gaped, purse and keys fell, and her legs thrust her body at me. I was rich and about to get a nooner from a feisty Sarah.
“Don’t you worry about the cops?”
I hadn’t. “Not really, why?”
“Well, you did rob a bank, Dusty. That gets more attention than knocking off a juice joint.” She stroked my thigh with one hand and tapped her lanky cigarette on the ashtray. “You don’t think the cops will find you?”
“Why would they,” I asked. “It’s not like I told the teller my name or looked into a camera while I asked for a million dollars. I’m telling you. It only took a few seconds and nobody saw me. Besides, fifteen grand ain’t much.”
Still nervous for me, she dropped the subject for the moment, “Okay. I just worry about you.” She said it, but it felt empty when I heard it.
“Don’t worry. It went smooth. I was smooth.”
Over the next few weeks, we had similar conversations, each more interrogative than the previous. I thought maybe she was a cop, or at least a snitch, and was gonna turn me in. It didn’t take much longer for me to finally hear the questions she had been asking. It was too much for her. Way too late, I realized I had been reliving my heist with the wrong person. I could no longer trust my soon to be ex-girlfriend. I was home less and drinking more. My fun, care-free criminal life, mutated into a paranoid existence. I moved out of Sarah’s apartment and slept at a nearby motel, but was still working on breaking it off with Sarah. She wasn’t letting me go and I wasn’t very good at leaving.
“We’re through. We’re done.”
“No we’re not,” she informed me.
Was this happening? I told her, but she disagreed. “What do you mean? I’m telling you - it’s over. I moved out weeks ago.”
“No. It’s not over. You’re not going anywhere.”
I wasn’t sober, but I wasn’t drunk, and what I heard wasn’t right. It sounded confrontational, like boiling hysteria and grist for a fight. That’s when I set her off with, “Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna stop me?”
I’d been hit in the nuts before, but never kicked with no warning and such swift force. If I coughed, they would have dislodged from my throat and knocked out her eyes. It hurt, but worse, I was mad. “You stupid bitch!” Holding my gut with one hand, I charged ready to strike with the other when CRACK! something struck my jaw. I think it was a foot, but it could have been a Mac truck. For a bank-robbing, street criminal, my fight with this chick was not going well.
“You’ll never leave me,” she seethed.
Crumpled on my knees, I struggled to gain some wobbly composure and noticed she was raring back to kick me with an uppercut. That’s when I changed my life. I swiped her foot from under her and her swinging kick sent her with a thud to the floor. I scrambled to get on top of her and restrain her for the moment.
“What the fuck are you doing! You’re fucking dead! I’ll scream my fucking head off! The cops - ”
Pinning her with my feet, I grabbed her hands with one hand and her throat with the other. She squirmed and struggled, but other than her distressed breathing she was quiet, so I listened for any neighbors stirring, anyone who might want to draw the attention of the cops. Convinced no one was interested in our spat, I looked down at Sarah.
Eyes wide with fear, she didn’t move much. She didn’t move at all. It was over. She had given up. But she was too quiet. She had stopped screaming, stopped coughing, and I didn’t feel her hot breath on my face. Realizing I still had my hand around her neck, I jerked it away and sat up fast. She stared at me, but still didn’t breathe. I left a very obvious hand print on her neck. The mark was so prominent, it looked like a ghost was still choking her. I just wanted her to let me go. And to not turn me in.
A million and two things shot through my panicked mind when I accepted that I had killed my almost ex-girlfriend. Most thoughts were cowardly and all were ugly. Guess that’s the kind of guy I am. I’d like to say I decided against all those things and turned myself in, but I’d be lying again. I decided to get rid of her body and head for Mexico. Within seconds of my decision, I heard the cops screeching their cars to a stop. It looked like we had piqued the concern of at least one neighbor somewhere. And it looked like I was going to be persuaded to rethink my decision to dump and run.
“Police! Open up!” BANG! BANG! BANG! The demand then the knock reminded me of the old gag of shoot first, ask questions later.
I climbed off of Sarah and backed away. Her golden hair, splayed over the hardwood floors, glowed from the sun pouring through her only window. With lifeless eyes, she watched me back peddle my way to the door and pull it open. “Yes officer?”
“We got a call about a domestic disturbance. You live here,” the biggest of the three burly cops asked me.”
“Used to. But I tried to move out. She wouldn’t let me,” I told them and pointed to Sarah’s sprawled body. “She just wouldn’t let me go.” I guess I knew all along she was bad news, but it’s always too damned hard to ignore that shit and just walk away.
Now I’m with my own kind. I walk and talk with rapists, murderers, arsonists, and yes, burglars. They think I’m here because I rubbed out some chick. I guess that’s true; incomplete, but true. I just wanted to rob banks for her and not get caught or turned in for doing it. I guess all that did happen, but not the right way.

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Sarah’s Fault!

P. Scott Garcia

I needed some sleep, but none seemed in the stars, tonight. I grabbed the pillows from the bodiless other side of the bed and covered my head. Mashing the bulk of three pillows against my ears, I sighed. Shrill sounds continued coming from the room down the hall.
One of my hands reached from underneath the soft mass into the air and hovered over the bedside table. Patting from side to side, I finally located the button on the top of clock radio and the ‘natural’ sounds of a babbling brook, bird twitters and insect buzzes joined the cacophony.
Louder! Louder! I thought to myself as I tried to locate the radio’s volume control.
Ahhhh…That’s a lot better. The screams from the other room seemed muffled by the overlay of the energetic nature sounds. But now the room sounded as if spring had sprung full blown into my suburban bedroom. I moved one pillow slightly to uncover my right eye. I peeked out at the gray shadowed ceiling. I wouldn't have been surprised to find dive-bombing blue jays ready to attack my body, lying solitary beneath the covers.

With one shiny tear glistening from my weary and reddened eyes, I knew that sleep was a sweet remembrance from the past. Baby Sarah was awake, and Daddy wouldn’t do…

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"You're Too Loose"
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