"A Good Day To Die" - Contest #8

"A Good Day To Die"
(the eighth ACW monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "A Good Day To Die"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
April 15, 2002

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A Good Day To Die
by Mcgobot
dnmcrobert@hotmail.com
(Entry #4)

~Winning Entry~

This version has been edited, including a conversion from British spelling to American.
The original, unedited version is below.

"If you'd like to lie down on the couch, then we can begin. Try to relax."
"Sure."
Morgan sat on the leather couch and slowly lowered himself into a supine position, shifting his weight to try and feel comfortable, although the whole situation was, if not uncomfortable, certainly not normal for him.
He stared at the ceiling and was reminded of being at a dentist's office, but the soft voice sounded a lot better than a screaming drill. Situations like this, of enforced stillness, always served to make him inordinately aware of it, and his arms and legs fidgeted of their own accord. He heard the leather chair behind him being sat in, and both chair and occupier emitted sighs, as though each had simultaneously scratched an itch of the other.
"Have you ever been to a psychiatrist before, Morgan?"
"No."
"So the environment perhaps feels a touch clinical to you." The voice was soft and assured and Morgan made a conscious effort to relax, to make his mind and body as diffuse as the tones that effortlessly warmed the room.
"A little."
"I understand. Absolutely nothing to worry about though. We're just going to have a little chat. There's no need to discuss anything you don't feel at ease with, OK?"
"No problem."
"So, what would you like to talk about? Is there a particular issue you wish to explore?" There was the sound of a page being stroked over the top of a clipboard.
The room fell silent and Morgan continued to fidget. The invitation to disclose specifics temporarily froze his brain--a magician's assistant with stage-fright. Pick a card, any card. The silence wasn't oppressive, but Morgan was aware it was his turn to fill it, and that his mind wasn't going to give him much to work with. Besides, he only had a few minutes.
"It's ... it's more of a general thing," he ventured, his arms gesticulating redundantly, out of eye shot, glad of something to do, "a feeling of ... incompleteness." Rather like my answer, he mused.
"I see." A pencil scurried over the surface of a page, a dog scratching its chin.
Scritch.
"Do you think that sense of incompleteness stems from something in particular?"
"Well, I lost my wife and child," Morgan blurted out, not in anger or sadness, just in truth, and surprised himself. The pencil scritched again.
"Would you like to tell me a bit about that?"
Morgan gazed at the pure white ceiling, a blank canvas, and realized he would like to tell this person about it. Not a bit, but the whole lot. To give the thoughts that had bounced around his head a room to reverberate in. Where buried guilts and deeds could be exhumed and examined, to see if their smell of decay was as rancid as he feared. "Yes," he nodded, "yes I would."
"You can tell me as little or as much as you like."
Morgan took a deep breath, mainly because he felt it was probably the normal thing to do at this stage of the proceedings, and then began:
"The thing is ... was ..." He stopped. It sounded like a justification already; special pleading. Mitigating circumstances, your honor: nothing to do with me. No need, he thought. It's just me, a white ceiling and a pencil. Let's draw the outline before we start getting abstract.
"I was never any good with women," he resumed. "Always a bit, what's the word, gauche. Or maybe the word is just 'bad'. Not bad in the mistreatment sense, you understand. More in the sense of not being able to get one. Or even get one to look at me. I got married to the first woman who would have me."
"At what age was that?"
"Twenty-nine."
"And how old are you now?"
"Thirty-four."
Scritch.
"Was your wife your first love?"
"If you count unrequited love, she was a long way down the list. She was the first person I ever slept with, but I don't think I ever loved her. It was gratitude, I think. Gratitude and desperation. Like one of those starving kids in Africa people over here sponsor. They send the thank you letters to the West, but there's no real emotional connection. It's just sated hunger and need being acknowledged. When you get to twenty-nine, and you've got a body like mine, it's only going to get bigger. If no one wants you in your supposed prime," Morgan smirked ironically to himself at the word, "then what does the future hold? I thought it was my only chance and I took it. I wasn't about to let that bitch curtail her sponsorship of me."
"So you were still a virgin up to the age of?"
"Twenty-eight." The ease of which it slipped out surprised him, but also didn't concern him. The years of sexually explicit leering with drinking acquaintances, with only the vicarious experience of furtively rented pornography protecting him from the shame of publicly acknowledging ignorance, seemed irrelevant now. Morgan felt cocooned.
"Did you masturbate frequently before your first sexual encounter?"
"Plenty."
Scritch.
Every answer he gave was magically free of social consequence. No sniggers, no embarrassment. Nothing was ineffable. Morgan snuggled into the couch as if it were his own furniture.
"So, how did your marriage progress?"
"Badly. I got restless and I got bored. I forgot what she'd given me. She gave me herself when no one else would, but in doing that she planted the belief in me that others would give themselves to me, and it turned out to be true."
"Why do you think you began to feel that way?"
"Ingratitude, I suppose," Morgan shrugged, "or ambition. Or both. I took the self-belief I'd never had from what she gave, and then resented the constraints of the marriage which had given it to me. I started looking at other women, wanting other women, and eventually believed I could actually have them. This made me hate my marriage and my wife. The fact that she couldn't have children didn't help matters either."
"And how did you give vent to these feelings?"
"I fucked the next-door neighbor," Morgan gave a humorless laugh, "to put it bluntly."
Scritch.
"It started about two years after the wedding. Her husband was a trucker. It was ridiculously easy. I recognized some of myself in her. Lonely; defeated; desperate. It's extraordinary how emotions can pervert the process of natural selection. Pretty next-door neighbor falls for big, fat, ugly slob. She was a lot better looking than my wife, and a lot better in bed, too. We'd been at it six months or so when she got pregnant."
"How did your wife feel about this?"
"She doesn't know to this day."
Scritch.
"We were lucky. The dates coincided with her husband's time off. Close enough for her to claim it was his. We continued the relationship but I could never claim the child as mine."
"Were there any consequences?"
Morgan chuckled mordantly. "Well, there were for the wife. I treated her even worse after that. Of course, it was her fault all along wasn't it? She'd driven me to this woman, and then I had the child she'd also denied me. I heaped all the blame on her. It's funny, but the only times I got to see the child, I was too busy fucking its mother to pay any attention." Morgan paused. Spoken out loud, everything sounded a bit ridiculous. "Of course, I could never do what I internally accused the woman of stopping me from doing anyway. Her husband was an ex-marine. If it ever came out that I was the father of that kid he would have put me in the hospital. Whatever I may have told myself, I wasn't going to risk that. Anyway, in the end my wife sued for divorce, and I don't blame her. I treated her like shit. It must have been subconsciously what I was pushing for, but it ended up screwing me. The house got sold, so I had to move. I couldn't afford to buy anything in the same area, so I switched jobs and lost touch with the lot of them. Wife, mistress and child."
"Approximately when was this?"
"About 2 years ago. I drank and gambled for pretty much the year after. Blew most of the money I got from the house. Lived in dives and shit holes."
"And the last year?"
"The last year. The last year ..." It seemed so far removed from what had gone before that Morgan temporarily dried. The pencil scritched again. He wondered what was being written. It reminded him of his driving test; the sound of that pencil making unseen comments on his performance. The experiences of the last twelve months occupied such a different realm of memory for him that he had to scramble to find them. "This last year has been a slow turnaround. I managed to stop drinking and gambling. I even gave up cigarettes. I decided that hanging on to a failed past was doing me absolutely no favors, and wrote it off as a bad job. I started doing volunteer work with children. It gave me a sense of fatherhood. I got a steady job, and even started going to church. Who'd have thought it?"
"Who, indeed," the voice commented dryly.
Scritch.
A buzzer sounded. "OK, Morgan, would you like to know how you've done?"
"Yes, please."
"You can sit up now."
Morgan rolled over and thrust his legs off the edge of the couch, his hands scrunching the leather on either side.
"First, Morgan, let me explain the system to you. It's perfectly simple: anything voluntarily told offers redemptive credits against standard punishment for the relevant commandment's transgression. The commandments are, in fact were, set in stone, but we are permitted room for interpretation. I think that, room for manoeuvre or not, we can both agree that your actions were adulterous, and to be honest even the more liberal among us don't swallow the argument that being economical with the truth is not lying, so we'll tack that on as well."
"But ..."
"No 'buts,'" a pair of white eyebrows raised themselves, arching in a 'V' like a dove's wings. "You're not in a position to argue. It might be appropriate at this juncture to mention that you can consider yourself extremely lucky you couldn't afford that abortion. Yes, we knew all about that," the angel added in response to Morgan's stunned expression. "Don't think I don't understand why. He was an ex-marine, as you said. Better to be on the safe side. In the long term, though, it was for the best. You may also count yourself fortunate that I do not add 'coveting your neighbor's property' to your list of misdemeanors. Some of my colleagues would have you down for that soon as look at you. I personally regard it as a little distasteful to call a woman the property of a man, but others take a more, um, conservative stance." The being, which looked like an old man, tapped its clipboard with a pencil.
"The whole issue of masturbation is subject to constant flux. A few hundred years ago, with the amount of times you've touched yourself in an impure way, the Ten Commandments would be by the by. You'd have gone straight to hell. Recently, though, with the dressing habits of the modern female, and the prevalence of pornography in modern culture, judgements have been deemed a vote of conscience by the individual auditor. I admit myself, that were I to have genitalia, some of the young pop stars of today would prove a constant distraction. Plenty of my colleagues retain a more puritanical attitude to masturbation, which is their prerogative. Only yesterday, one gave a chap an entire millennium in purgatory for each incident. He's in for a long wait."
"But what about the last year?"
"Yes, yes, Morgan, that will all be taken into consideration, but let's not go overboard, hmmm? A couple of evenings a week with the kiddies is not going to completely tip the balance in your favor. Your attendance of Catholic church has made you our responsibility, and we're glad you chose our franchise, but I really can't absolve you of all wrongdoing, now can I? I have a performance appraisal coming up, and besides, it wouldn't be fair to the worlds' more pious inhabitants. I appreciate that getting run over by a bus before you hit middle-age is a misfortune, but rules are rules and I can't give you time off for so called 'Acts of God."' The angel chuckled to itself, stopping abruptly when it noticed Morgan's thunderous expression. "My apologies. That phrase gets me every time."
"So what do I get?" Morgan asked sulkily, kicking his legs out like a child in a high chair.
The angel scanned the paper, the eraser from the pencil touching its lower lip.
"Wellll ... I make it four-and-a-half thousand years in purgatory."
"Four-and-a-half thousand?" Morgan yelped incredulously, "You've got to be fucking joking."
"Swearing is another fortnight."
Scritch.
"But that's outrageous!"
"Not in the slightest. What is four-and-a-half millennia compared to eternity? And more to the point," the dove's wings flexed once more, "to an eternity in the fiery depths? I only work here the last Thursday of every month. Barry, the regular, would have sent you to hell just like that." The clicked fingers generated a barely visible trace of smoke. "All things considered, young feller-me-lad, today was a good day to die. Now, down the corridor, and give this to the receptionist." Morgan was handed a piece of paper. "Send in the next one on your way out."

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A Good Day To Die
by Loretta A. Stradley
readlorey875@hotmail.com
(Entry #6)

~Runner Up~

This version has been edited.
The original, unedited version is below.

She won! She finally won the lawsuit she had been waging for the last five years. Mary was relieved and dead tired. The court case had taken a lot out of her. But it was well worth it.

With a blink of her left eye Mary turned down the courthouse hallway to the exit. Rolling down the ramp, she went to the van where Mr. Price was waiting. He was such a patient man.

May fifth? January sixth? September nineteenth?

On the way home Mary chatted away to an always-silent Mr. Price. She told him all about the court scenes and how her lawyers finally convinced the grand jury to decide in her favor.

August twenty-sixth? February third? July twenty-ninth?

She couldn’t believe that it had taken her five years to win. Five years of her miserable life, of pain and agony, to get to the point where she should have been before it was too late.

November eighteenth? March twenty-fifth? October first?

The lift lowered her gently to the sidewalk. With a twist of her lip the chair turned right and she went to the door to her house. Mrs. Price welcomed her with a smile.

“Mary, how did it go? Did you win?”

“Yes Mrs. Price, I won. I finally convinced them.”

“Well, it’s over now my dear. Why don’t you go get some lunch and take a nap? You must be exhausted, and a little lunch will make you feel better.”

Blinking her left eye Mary turned and went to the elevator. A puff of air and the elevator doors opened. Rolling on in she turned the chair around. With another puff of air the doors closed.

June sixth? April fourteenth? December twenty-fifth? Yes, that was it.

Sally was waiting for her as usual. After lifting her out of the chair and laying her in the hospital bed, Sally pulled Mary’s legs down so they laid flat. She undid the straps that kept the computer attached to Mary’s chest and placed the machine on the table next to the bed. She took the tube that ran to the respirator and popped it onto the tube in Mary’s throat. After attaching the heart monitor, the I.V. drip, and the stomach tubes, Sally pulled the covers up to Mary’s shoulders.
“Are you comfortable Mary? Is there anything I can do for you now?”

Mary blinked twice.

“Okay, then. I'm going to get something to eat too. If you need anything, you know what to do. I'm only a ring away.”

As Sally drew the drapes at the window, the room became dark. The outside ‘normal’ sounds went away. All that could be heard was the whoosh of the respirator and the beep of the machines. Closing the door behind her, Sally left the room.

The courts had ruled in Mary's favor. December twenty-fifth. How appropriate would that be? And how ironic would that be? What better day was there than the day of her birth to end her life? What a good day to die.

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Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.

A Good Day To Die
By April Joy
ajoy2be@yahoo.com

#1 of 9

The fog only added to her melancholy.
It muffled all sound except her own furtive thoughts.

Encased in her vehicle she craned her neck to gaze at the ring around the moon. There it hung, high in the dusk, bewitching her into meaningful motion.

"Stop, stop', it screamed. "Stop and run, stop and dance in my flame. Bathe in my luminary and be free!"

But, it wasn't an easy indisturbance.

Thoughts raced, mind swam. More to think, more to ponder.

She parked the car at the edge of the water. This was where it started.

The wind whipped her hair as she climbed from her safety net, a tomb, into the sweet salt of the ocean air.
And the moon hung in the sky. The ring becoming brighter and more ominous to her naked eye.

The sand was already drinking in the dew beginning from the condensation of the late night and it felt cool on her bare feet.

The water called her, sang out to her to move forward, to pay respects to its immensity, its power.

All the while, the moon continually bewitching her to heed to the spirit.

Where had it started? Which mollusk, which grain of sand began the circle?

Her only comfort was that thought...the beginning was all she had dreamed of.

But the foreboding of the unknown hung around her as a heavy load, undeterring from its finality of impending death.

The unknown; the fear is what she wanted refuge from.
She began peeling away her garments, neglecting thoughts of what they would say if they found her car still running or her clothes strewn across the sand.

The water was warm. She immersed herself once, twice, thrice and let the hot liquid pour over her forehead, her eyelids and down into her mouth. The salty taste awakened a need deep inside her that could never be quenched by material or thoughts from the physical world.

The need was great, the need was spiritual. Something not quite understandable by the skeptic mind.

She swam, she drank in the purity of nature around her.
There was a feeling here that she could find nowhere else.
Not a church, not the arms of a lover.

This, this was her sanctuary.

Her need to be filled, to be driven closer to God...turn over a stone and I will be there.

It was a need to be closer to her innermost self, and thus closer to death, life.

Closer to finality, closer to the beginning.

Answers washed over her as the water dragged her further and further away from the shore.

"Come with me,' it seemed to whisper, 'come with me and behold the answers, let go of the fear for eternity."

But was it a beginning, or was it an end?

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A Good Day To Die
by H.J. Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com

#2 of 9

Frank lined up the little plastic bottles in the splash of sunlight across his kitchen table, fiddling with them till they were perfectly in a row. Satisfied, he rose to get a mug out of the cupboard, pausing a moment to give his brittle joints a chance to prepare for the journey. Moving slowly, he poured himself a cup of coffee, his wrinkled hand trembling slightly under its weight.

He returned to the table and stared vacantly at the bottles he had assiduously collected since he’d received the diagnosis. He could still hear the young doctor saying all those words. Unnecessary words that had spilled from his mouth with an ease that only comes from having said them countless times. Words like ‘chronic’, ‘final stages’ and ‘possible future medical advances’. Words that meant nothing to him after hearing ‘a year, maybe two at most’.

He looked out the kitchen window at the roses Margaret had planted the first year they’d lived in that house, time warping back on itself till yesteryear mingled softly with today. ‘It’s not a garden without roses’ she had sweetly insisted, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. Frank had never been able to deny her anything, and in return she had asked him for so little. It had taken him years to learn how to dead-head them correctly after she’d passed away. One winter he’d almost lost them, and he’d spent weeks with thorn-pricked fingers from tenderly covering them with plastic, keeping them safe from the frost. Losing them would have been like losing Margaret again, and he couldn’t have taken that.

He took a sip from his mug, noticing that the coffee was more or less the same color as the spots that now covered his frail frame. He once had been what in his day was called a ‘strapping young fellow’. Tall, well-built and energetic. It was life’s cruel joke that he could still remember what it felt like to run like the wind, heart pumping fiercely within his muscular chest, arms and legs full of strength and speed, ready for him to push them just a little bit faster, a little bit farther. Funny that these days he couldn’t remember more important things like his social security number or where he’d left his keys.

The little bottles sat waiting for him saying, ‘Today’s the day, right? It’s as good as any other day.’ He purposely looked past them and reached for the letter lying in its ripped envelope. He pulled his bifocals out of his shirt pocket, not that he needed them to read it. He’d read his son’s letter over and over, staring at the photo of the four shining faces until the tears blurred his vision. Jeff and Marcia were concerned about him. An old man alone in a big house. Those cold winters. Jeff foolishly worried that the house held too many memories that would be painful to him in his solitude. Of course, Jeff still had his lovely wife healthy and at his side, so how was he to know. They urged him to come visit them in Florida, get away and enjoy the sun. Not so subtly they’d hinted at the wide variety of retirement options available in the ‘Orange State’. An ‘active elderly community’ they’d called it, for lack of a better term. He hadn’t told his son about his condition. It would only lead to endless questions, with answers Jeff would rather not hear.

His son was right, though. This house had memories popping up in every corner, on the mantle, at the base of the staircase, in the bedroom. Happy moments of a simple life, yet not an easy one. They had shared many lean years together, neither one outwardly complaining so as not to worry the other. But they had made it through. And the years they’d tried to have children, filled with horrible disappointments, Margaret’s agony heard from behind a locked door. Frank had finally swallowed his dream of bicycles and baseball, too fearful for Margaret’s health, when she had reached out to him, just a brush of a kiss on that clear summer night saying, ‘Darling, let’s try, just one last time. This time everything will be fine.’ And she had been right. God, how he missed her.

With a grunt of resolution, Frank stood up and brought the water pitcher and a glass over to the table. Setting them down, he once again eased himself into the chair. He knew his papers were in order, there would be no messy legal problems for his son to deal with. Slowly, he reached into his back pocket for the sealed envelope with Jeffrey’s name written in his now shaky hand. He hoped his son would find the answers to his questions within those pages, but in his heart he knew that some things cannot be explained, even when they were apparently quite rational.

With a deep sigh he very carefully filled the water glass. He must open each capsule and empty them into the liquid. Once he’d started there would be no turning back. It had taken him months to collect enough medication under a prescription for his false symptoms from the new doctor. Soon his real condition would be apparent, and it was doubtful he would be able to convince the doctor to refill it. No, this was a one shot deal. If he lost his precious little supply through some silly indecision, he would be forced to live through it all. It wasn’t so much his fear of the pain, although in his quieter moments Frank admitted to himself that suffering was not something to take lightly. But it was the loss of control, the slow disintegration of what had been a man that he couldn’t stomach. The relentless mutiny of his once able body. The mere thought of it made him shudder violently, setting off a round of racking coughs.

‘Life expectancy’ he muttered aloud, his own private joke. He marvelled at how the media flaunted modern medicine’s ability to ‘increase life expectancy’. But at what cost? You could only expect less and less out of life. What might have been a quick end fifty years ago was now dragged out interminably, and we were somehow supposed to be happy. Thankful even. ‘Thankful’ Frank scoffed, perhaps to the Margaret who continued to share their home with him in his mind. He got up and rinsed his coffee mug, leaving it on a tea towel to dry.

Shaking his head, he once again looked out on his well kept garden and was surprised to see a hummingbird buzzing at the Birds of Paradise that lined the side of the house. Brilliant turquoise and shimmering pink darted back and forth along the narrow ‘beak’ of the flowers. It moved so quickly from one flower to the next that for Frank’s tired eyes it actually disappeared momentarily, only to magically reappear at the next bloom. Frank had read somewhere that their wings flapped at fifty-five beats per second, and that all that beauty and joy flitting endlessly about weighed next to nothing. Margaret herself had told him that if a hummingbird ever stops flapping its wings that it would die. Frank looked out at the roses, bursts of yellow, peach and red. Her roses. Their roses. He knew he would never use his precious little supply. Not on that day, or any other. He knew he’d never join the ‘active elderly community’ alongside his son’s family in Florida. He would stay right where he was, tending their roses, flapping his wings like the wind.

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A Good Day To Die
By Winona Johnson
just_mystic@hotmail.com

#3 of 9

There was a sour silence in the room, interrupted only by the occasional clink of a spoon on a bowl.

From the parlor Rory heard Lucy say much to loudly, “I’ve told you a thousand times - the candle holder is on the left,” followed by a clunk and a wail from her easily upset daughter.

Lucy was much to young to be a mother, but no one had mentioned it. No one had mentioned who the father was either. He expected no one would.

All around the table people glared at him. In every pair of eyes the flames of hatred danced as if they worked in a topless bar, all energy and no substance.

Rory cleared his throat, trying to find a proper way to excuse himself from the table of enemies that had once been his family. From the way they growled at him one would think he had killed Dennis himself.

The only kind word since his return had been from his father who had clapped his shoulder and said, “War is hell, Rory. Don’t nobody blame you. You did what you had to do.”

But he blamed himself, and quite obviously so did everyone else. He had smelled the blame as soon as he stepped into the house again for the first time. One whiff was all it took - the whiff of despair.

The parlor door banged open and Lucy’s daughter was running around the dining room with a broom between her legs like a hobbyhorse.

Rory decided this was as good of a chance as any to make his escape. He left the table and chased her around, out of the dining room and back into the parlor, where he trapped her in a corner.

“Little Miss,” he said. “Are you practicing witchery?”

Shyly the girl nodded her head.

“Did you know witchery is against the law?”

She shook her head.

“Yep, its against the law, and, by law, we’ll have to impound your broom.”

She started crying.

Rory hadn’t expected that. Neither did he expect Lucy to come storming at him as if he were trying to rape the child instead of play with her.

Taking her daughter she left Rory alone in the parlor with an angry red handprint across his cheek.

He walked around, preferring to be alone in here than in the den of beasts that was the dining room.

There, on the mantel, just to the right of Lucy’s precious candleholder, was a picture. It was the last picture taken of Dennis and him, just before they left.

They had joined the army together, had served under the same Sergeant.

“You never take your eye off the enemy!” Sergeant often shouted.” Never! Not even if a purple bunny runs by with Alice in Fucking Wonderland right on his tail! Not even if it was naked and riding a horse! Why? Because a purple bunny won’t kill you, but your enemy will!”

Rory touched the charm on the chain around his neck. It was a sick kind of charm. It was the bullet that had killed Dennis.

Rory remembered finding him, lying bloody in the marsh, wounded much worse by the bullet in his chest wound than by the shrapnel an earlier explosion had left in his arm.

“It’s a good day isn’t it brother,” Dennis had said, as if he wasn’t dying, strangling on his own blood and whatever was left of his lungs. “Yes, definitely a good day. I think we’re going to win this one. In fact I think that, if you don’t count the explosion, we’re doing fairly well.”

Blood was coming out of his mouth and out of his chest, but Rory couldn’t make him stop talking. Dennis just pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Five-nineteen…was that a purple bunny?”

Then he was dead, and Rory wished he had died too, because the hell of war was nothing in comparison to the hell of your family when you let your baby brother die in combat.

Drowning in his sorrows he left the parlor, left the whole house behind him. He wondered if they would care when he was dead. They probably wouldn’t. His own life had never measured up to a pound of Dennis’s shit where his family was concerned.

But he had dearly loved his little brother, and planned to rejoin him very soon.

He walked until he reached the quarry Dennis and he used to swim in as children. He kept walking until he had reached the top and could look down into the depth of the hole, then kept walking until he was over the edge and falling.

His body objected. His arms flailed out, tearing his hands to shreds trying to find something to catch on, and then there was something to catch on. It was a rope, old and rotten, that had probably hung down the quarry’s side since it opened.

He gripped the rope and suddenly he found himself wishing that he had paid more attention in gym class. He realized that the only thing between him and death was that rope, and that he didn’t want to die as bad as he thought he did, but by then the rope broke and it was too late to change his mind.

The water rushed up to meet him, then hungrily sucked him down. Too tired to fight fate, he just reached up to hold his brother’s killer.

Since his brother’s death that bullet had been where his hand went in times of stress. Now drowning in much more than his sorrows, he gripped it tighter than ever.

He saw his brother, dying in dirty water talking about what a good day it was.

He saw his brother, naked and riding a horse.

He saw a bright light at the end of a long tunnel.

Five-nineteen, he thought. Was that a purple bunny?

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A Good Day To Die by Mcgobot dnmcrobert@hotmail.com	#4 of 9 Winner
This is the original version. See the edited version above.
'If you'd like to lie down on the couch, then we can begin. Try to relax.' 'Sure.' Morgan sat on the leather couch and slowly lowered himself into a supine position, shifting his weight to try and feel comfortable, although the whole situation was, if not uncomfortable, certainly not normal for him. He stared at the ceiling. His physical position reminded him of the dentists slightly, just with a soft voice preparing to perform extractions instead of a screaming drill. Situations like this, of enforced stillness, always served to make him inordinately aware of it, and his arms and legs fidgeted of their own accord. He heard the leather chair behind him being sat in, and both chair and occupier emitted sighs, as though each had both simultaneously scratched an itch of the other. 'Have you ever been to a psychiatrist before, Morgan?' 'No.' 'So the environment perhaps feels a touch clinical to you.' The voice was soft and assured and Morgan made a conscious effort to relax, to make his mind and body as diffuse as the tones that effortlessly warmed the room. 'A little.' 'That's fine. Absolutely nothing to worry about. We're just going to have a little chat. There's no need to discuss anything you don't feel at ease with, OK?' 'No problem.' 'So what would you like to talk about? Is there a particular issue you wish to explore?' The sound of a page being stroked over the top of a clipboard. The room fell silent and Morgan continued to fidget. The invitation to disclose specifics temporarily froze his brain- a magicians assistant with stage-fright. Pick a card, any card. The silence wasn't oppressive, but Morgan was aware it was his turn to fill it, and that his mind wasn't going to give him much to work with. Besides, he only had an hour. 'It's.....it's more of a general thing,' he ventured, his arms gesticulating redundantly, out of eye shot, glad of something to do, 'a feeling of.....incompleteness'. Rather like my answer, he mused. 'I see.' A pencil scurried over the surface of a page, a dog scratching its chin. Scritch. 'Do you think that sense of incompleteness stems from something unaccomplished, or something attained and then lost?' 'Well I lost my wife and child', Morgan blurted out, not in anger or sadness, just in truth, and surprised himself. The pencil scritched again. 'Would you like to tell me a bit about that?' Morgan gazed at the pure white ceiling, a blank canvas, and realised he would like to tell this person about it. Not a bit, but the whole lot. To give the thoughts that had bounced around his head a room to reverberate in. Where buried guilts and deeds could be exhumed and examined, to see if their smell of decay was as rancid as he feared. 'Yes,' he nodded, 'yes I would.' 'In your own time.' Morgan took a deep breath, mainly because he felt it was probably the done thing at this stage of proceedings, and began: 'The thing is, was...' He stopped. It sounded like a justification already; special pleading. Mitigating circumstances, your honour: nothing to do with me. No need, he thought. It's just me, a white ceiling and a pencil. Lets draw the outline before we start getting abstract. 'I was never any good with women,' he resumed, 'Always a bit, what's the word, gauche. Or maybe the word is just 'bad'. Not bad in the mistreatment sense, you understand. More in the sense of not being able to get one. Or even get one to look at me. I got married to the first woman who would have me.' 'At what age was that?' 'Twenty nine.' 'And how old are you now?' 'Thirty four.' Scritch 'Was your wife your first love?' 'If you count unrequited love, she was a long way down the list. She was the first person I ever slept with, but I don't think I ever loved her. It was gratitude, I think. Gratitude and desperation. Like one of those starving kids in Africa people over here sponsor. They send the thank you letters to the West, but there's no real emotional connection. It's just sated hunger and need being acknowledged. When you get to twenty nine, and you've got a body like mine, its only going to get bigger. If no-one wants you in your supposed prime,' Morgan smirked ironically to himself at the word,' then what does the future hold? I thought it was my only chance and I took it. I wasn't about to let that bitch curtail her sponsorship of me.' 'So you were still a virgin up to the age of?' 'Twenty eight.' The ease of which it slipped out surprised him, but didn't concern him. The years of sexually explicit leering with drinking acquaintances, with only the vicarious experience of furtively rented pornography protecting him from the shame of publicly acknowleding ignorance, seemed irrelevant now. Morgan felt cocooned. 'Did you masturbate frequently before your first sexual encounter?' 'Plenty.' Scritch Every answer he gave was magically free of social consequence. No sniggers, no embarrassment. Nothing was ineffable. Morgan snuggled into the couch as if it were his own furniture. 'So, how did your marriage progress?' 'Badly. I got restless and I got bored. I forgot what she'd given me. She gave me herself when no-one else would, but in doing that she planted the belief in me that others would give themselves to me, and it turned out to be true.' 'Why do you think you began to feel that way?' 'Ingratitude, I suppose,' Morgan shrugged, 'or ambition. Or both. I took the self belief I'd never had from what she gave, and then resented the constraints of the marriage which had given it to me. I started looking other women, wanting other women, and the belief I could have them made me hate my marriage and my wife. The fact she couldn't have children didn't help.' 'And how did you give vent to these feelings?' 'I fucked the next door neighbour,' Morgan laughed humourlessly, 'to put it bluntly.' Scritch 'It started about two years after the wedding. Her husband was a trucker. It was ridiculously easy. I recognised some of my previous self in her. Lonely; defeated; desperate. It's extraordinary how emotions can pervert the process of natural selection. Pretty next door neighbour falls for big, fat, ugly slob. She was a lot better looking than my wife, and a lot better in bed, too. We'd been at it six months or so when she got pregnant.' 'How did your wife feel about this?' 'She doesn't know to this day.' Scritch 'We were lucky. The dates coincided with her husband's time off approximately enough for her to claim it was his. We continued the relationship but I could never claim the child as mine.' 'Were there any consequences?' Morgan chuckled mordantly. 'Well there were for the wife. I treated her even worse after that. Of course, it was her fault all along wasn't it? She'd driven me to this woman, and then I have the child she also denied me, and I can only see it on the occasions I'm too busy fucking its mother for it to make any difference. I heaped all the blame on her.' Morgan paused and stroked his beard with his right hand. Said out loud everything sounded a bit ridiculous. 'Of course, I could never do what I internally accused her of stopping me from doing anyway. Her husband was an ex-marine. If it ever came out that I was the father of that kid he would have put me in hospital, and whatever I may have told myself, I wasn't going to risk that. In the end she sued for divorce, and I don't blame her. It must have been subconsciously what I was pushing for, but it ended up screwing me. The house got sold, so I had to move. I couldn't afford to buy anything in the same area, so I switched jobs and lost touch with the lot of them. Wife, mistress and child.' 'Approximately when was this?' 'About 2 years ago. I drank and gambled for pretty much the year after. Blew most of the money I got from the house. Lived in dives and shit holes.' 'And the last year?' 'The last year. The last year.....' It seemed so far removed from what had gone before that Morgan temporarily dried. The pencil went Scritch again. He wondered what was being written. It reminded him of his driving test; the sound of that pencil making unseen comment on performance. The experiences of the last twelve months occupied such a different realm of memory for him that he had to scramble around his brain to find them. 'Last year has been a slow turnaround. I managed to stop drinking and gambling. I even gave up cigarettes. I decided that hanging on to a failed past was doing me absolutely no favours, and wrote it off as a bad job. I started doing volunteer work with children. It gives me a sense of fatherhood. I got a steady job, and even started going to church. Who'd have thought it?' 'Who indeed,' the voice commented dryly. Scritch. A buzzer sounded behind Morgan's head. 'OK, Morgan, would you like to know how you've done?' 'Yes, please.' 'You can sit up now.' Morgan rolled over and thrust his legs off the edge of the couch to perch on it, hands scrunching the leather on either side of him. 'First, Morgan, let me explain the system to you. It's perfectly simple: anything voluntarily told offers redemptive credits against standard punishment for the relevant commandment's transgression. The commandments are, in fact were, set in stone, but we are permitted room for interpretation. I think that, room for manoeuvre or not, we can both agree that your actions were adulterous, and to be honest even the more liberal among us don't swallow the argument that being economical with the truth is not lying, so we'll tack that on as well.' 'But..' 'No 'buts',' a pair of white eyebrows raised themselves, arched in a 'V' like a dove's wings, 'you're not in a position to argue. It might be appropriate at this juncture to mention that you can consider yourself extremely lucky you couldn't afford that abortion. Yes, we knew all about that, Morgan,' the angel added in response to Morgan's stunned expression. 'Don't think I don't understand why. He was an ex marine, as you said. Better to be on the safe side. In the long term, though, it was for the best. You may also count yourself fortunate that I do not add "coveting your neighbours property" to your list of misdemeanours. Some of my colleagues would have you down for that soon as look at you. I personally regard it as a little distasteful to call a woman the property of a man, but others take a more, ah, conservative stance.' The being which looked like an old man tapped its clipboard with a pencil. 'The whole issue of masturbation is subject to constant flux. A few hundred years ago, with the amount of times you've touched yourself in an impure way, the Ten Commandments would be by the by. You'd have gone straight to hell. Recently, though, with the dressing habits of the modern female, and the prevalence of pornography in modern culture, judgements have been deemed a vote of conscience by the individual auditor. I admit myself, that were I to have genitalia, some of the young pop stars of today would prove a constant distraction. Plenty of my colleagues retain a more puritanical attitude to masturbation, which is their prerogative. Only yesterday, one gave a guy a millennia in purgatory per wank. He is in for a long wait.' 'But what about the last year?' 'Yes, yes, Morgan, that will all be taken into consideration, but let's not go overboard, hmmm? A couple of evenings a week with the kiddies is not going to completely tip the balance in your favour. Your attendance of Catholic church has made you our responsibility, and we're glad you chose our franchise, but I really can't absolve you of all wrongdoing, now can I? I have a performance appraisal coming up, and besides, it wouldn't be fair on the worlds' pious. I appreciate that getting run over by a bus before you hit middle age is a misfortune, but rules are rules and I can't give you time off for so called "Acts of God"'. The angel chuckled lustily to itself, stopping abruptly when it noticed Morgan's thunderous expression. 'My apologies. No pun intended.' 'So what do I get?' Morgan asked sulkily, kicking his legs out like a child in a high chair. The angel scanned the paper, the eraser from the pencil touching its lower lip. 'Weelll... I make it four and a half thousand years in purgatory.' 'Four and a half thousand?' Morgan yelped incredulously,' You've got to be fucking joking.' 'Swearing is another fortnight.' Scritch. 'But that's outrageous.' 'Not in the slightest. What is four and a half millennia compared to eternity? And more to the point,' the dove's wings flexed once more, 'to an eternity in the fiery depths? I only work here the last Thursday of every month. Barry, the regular, would have sent you to Hell like that.' The clicked fingers generated a barely visible trace of smoke. 'All things considered, young feller- me-lad, today was a good day to die. Down the corridor, and give this to the receptionist.' Morgan was handed the piece of paper. 'Send in the next one on your way out.'

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A Good Day To Die
By dreamweaver1901@msn.com

#5 of 9

I was going home, driving quietly on the lonely back road just out of Clovis, when I got the call. I pulled over to the side of the road and came to a stop as I lifted the phone from the belt loop holster. I listened intently to the brief message, “six two five,” then following a very brief break, “it’s a good day to die”.

A rush of adrenalin hit me as I floored the truck, gravel spraying from beneath the tires as I turned and sped toward Clovis. It had been four long years since I had visited a particular post office box, other than to clear it of the occasional trash mail, and I was flushing with anticipation of finally hearing of another mission.

Sliding the blade of my pocketknife beneath the flap of the pale green envelope, I pulled out the double folded paper and read the curt message, DEA-2mia-BOL-EL-CONREQ.

“Shit, it’s Bolivia,” my whispered curse as I walked out of the post office.

I stopped at the service station on the corner, pulling the truck close to a lone secluded payphone. Dialing with one hand, and sorting quarters from loose change with my other, I waited for an answer.

“Belle’s Boutique, may I help you?” the warm feminine voice answering asked.

“Confirm number seventeen,” I replied quickly.

“Thank you sir,” and following a short pause, “Albuquerque, tenth, zero six hundred,” then just a click and the dial tone as the call dropped off.

The sun was just a sliver of light on the horizon as I arrived at the ramp of the public parking area. I recognized the airplane immediately as agency equipment. I kind of chuckled to myself at how anyone, other than of course the CIA, would even consider leaving a sleek airplane, such as the Learjet I was approaching, painted all-over white. To me it was just so obvious.

The black sedan waiting for me in Virginia was also obvious. Why even the driver wore the dark sunglasses and suit one immediately associates with government agents. At least he bid me a polite “good morning sir,” as he held the door. I snickered to myself at how glad I was to be simply a contract operative, those sunglass and suits were just too much.

“Damn good to see you Dave, come on in” the Deputy Director, Ed Woodward, said as he gestured for me to enter the office. He rose to extend his hand to me.

I gave him a quick once-over. He hadn’t changed much in four years. The furrowed creases in his leathered face had possibly deepened. He may have acquired a few more gray hairs at his temples, but with his close-cropped, flattop hairstyle, it was hard to tell. He still had the same athletic, lean frame though. He probably still participates in the morning exercises with the academy recruits, I thought to myself.

“Its good to be back after such a long hiatus” I said, feeling the unmistakable power in his grip as we shook hands.

“Indeed it is,” he replied, “Mary, could you please bring a couple of coffee’s when you get a moment,” he shouted through the open door, and finally releasing my hand from his hearty grip.

“So, how was your flight?” he asked, motioning for me to be seated.

“Real smooth and comfortable thanks,” our conversation interrupted as Mary placed a small platter with two cups of coffee on the corner of Ed’s desk.

“Thanks Mary,” Ed said, as Mary was leaving and closing the door behind her.

“ So how’s the quiet life in New Mexico?” Ed asked, opening a packet of sugar and stirring it into a coffee.

“Real quiet, real dusty and REAL boring,” and we share a little laugh at my reply.

“So tell me Ed, what’s going down here?”

“Well we got some trouble in Bolivia again,” he stated tersely, leaning to rest his arms on the desk as the warmth of his demeanor changed abruptly to the cold steeliness of his true persona.

“Bad shit I assume from the message about the missing DEA agents.”

“Real bad. Three days ago, we received a message from the Bolivian FELCN that we lost two agents. They were intercepted and killed by some drug kingpin, name of Alvarado, just out of Cobija. We don’t know for sure if they revealed anything much, but we have to assume the worst. This Alvarado was reported to be personally responsible for their deaths, and by the photo’s I’ve seen of their bodies, their interrogation was particularly brutal. This is one vicious mother we’re dealing with.”

“The UMOPAR not able to take him down? I thought they still had a large base in Cobija?” I held the small Bolivian paramilitary group in particularly high regard, both for their tenacity and bravery.

“Yeah they do, but Alvarado himself now rarely leaves La Paz. He’s got the local Carabineers in his pocket. The goddamn government won’t allow the UMOPAR to operate in La Paz, and it’s just too dangerous for FELCN operatives to attempt setting up their own operation. We think all the local police, and possibly the local FELCN, are corrupted to a certain extent, just how far we don’t know. The embassy is gathering all the local Intel they can.”

“So if we take down this Alvarado, what do we get out of it?”

“Maybe the end of his entire organization. That’s the reason we have to move quickly on this. The UMOPAR killed three of his top lieutenants in a plantation raid a week ago. Alvarado’s entire operation is severely weakened at the moment, and we want to act before he has time to regroup. Right now, as far as FELCN can determine, there really is no known upper chain of command in place, and no heir apparent.”

“Is Alvarado doing a lot of moving around?”

“Just around La Paz. That’s where we’ll have to take him. We have him under constant surveillance. All radio communication is monitored, but a lot of code has been sent lately, so we know he’s trying to reorganize his operation.”

“Anyone local we can really trust in La Paz?”

“Yes, we still have Hector Arturo working with us there. He’s as reliable as ever.”

“Hector is a good man. I certainly trust him,” I stated, trying to visualize just what Hector might now look like since I had last worked with him on the Columbian border, four years ago. He was, without a doubt, the best agent the Bolivian anti-narcotics force had ever recruited.

“Hector is the one who will gather the Intel for the operation. You’ll be working closely with him. We’ll use the embassy as a base of operations. We’ll also have UMOPAR support at the airport as needed. The local FELCN also want to help support the operation, but I can’t trust any of their agents, other than Hector. We’ll use them strictly to disseminate false Intel.”

“With such little support, this one will have to be real tight. Is the embassy good to go?”

“Absolutely. We’ve got all non-essentials moved out and over a dozen of our own people are now in place. We’ve worked our Asses off getting the whole network up and running after so long, and it’s all came together. This is our first operation since start-up, and we don’t intend to let it fail. There’s a lot riding on the success of this mission, and we’re ready. Now its up to you,” Ed stated matter-of-factly.

Well this was it, decision time. I could get up and walk right now and never look back, or commit to the operation. These were simply my only two choices, and I knew Ed was expecting an immediate answer. I saw his penetrating look as he waited.

“Well, I need both the money and the rush, so go it is,” I saw Ed’s face instantly brighten at my acceptance.

“Excellent,” he replied exuberantly, “I’ll have you at the embassy in three days. The paperwork is already in work.”

I was still wondering just how he seemed so sure I would accept the assignment, when he broke my train of thought with his offer of “Come on, lets get you some lunch.”

The wafting breeze of the thin, cool, morning air sent little shivers down my spine as it drifted down my opened collar. I had been laying, waiting and ready for over an hour. The street below me was coming to life as the bustle of vehicles and pedestrians quickened. I saw the door of the building across the street open. Two burly individuals stepped out onto the steps and surveyed the street from both directions, intently observing all the increasing activities. Everyone, even a thug like Alvarado, had his or her daily routines. These routines made my job easy. The only real unknown was escape.

I slowly closed the bolt and settled into a ready position. The conclusion near, as one of the men moved back to open the door, holding it wide open in anticipation of someone leaving. I immediately recognized the pockmarked face of Antonio Alvarado as he stepped into the morning sunlight.

I felt the recoil slap the rifle butt into my shoulder, the suppressed report of the sub-sonic round barely audible over the din of the busy streets below. I watched as he staggered, the look of shocked incredulity on his face as he looked down at the quickening spread of bloodstains across his shirt. I kept the reticle crosshairs centering his chest, only sliding back onto the rooftop when I saw the telling slump of his body buckling. Antonio Alvarado was dead.

I abandoned the rifle and case on the rooftop. I quickly made my way down to the street below, rappelling gingerly between the narrow passageways between the two buildings, stuffing the silk gloves into my pocket as I entered the street. I walked directly to the largest throng of shoppers roving the vendor stalls set up along the street, unobtrusively blending into the crowd. I casually dropped the gloves into a trash receptacle as I sidled up beside a couple of rather rotund ladies, engrossed in a heated barter with a vegetable vendor.

Already I could hear the wail of sirens on the adjacent street as the Carabineers raced to the scene. Several other people had taken notice of the sirens, and were looking down the street with some curiosity, trying to get a glimpse of what was attracting the attention of so many police.

I rounded the corner of Calle Rendosa and hopped into the back seat of the waiting car, driven by my trusted accomplice, Hector Arturo. He sped away from the curb of the narrow street and headed directly to the Embassy.

“Is all well?” Hector inquired tentatively, the apprehension heavy in his voice.

“Yes Hector, all is well. Just watch you’re driving and we’ll be fine,” I replied calmly, trying to reassure him as I noted the nervous beads of sweat on his cheek, “you did a great job, everything went as planned.”

“Thank you Senior,” he replied, his gaze intent on the street as he spoke.

As Hector wove his way carefully down the narrow, winding street, I looked around; taking in the sights of what I hoped would be my final look at La Paz. The streets were getting crowded with women leaving the barrio below us, and Hector was waving frantically at the small groups, trying to rush their crossing of the street to hasten our pace. I looked out the side window to the shantytown spreading below Calle Rendosa, wondering if any of the drug money generated by men like Antonio Alvarado ever managed to filter down to the grinding poverty and squalor of the barrios that ringed La Paz.

As we turned into the Embassy drive, the armed guard approached the car. Recognizing Hector, a gesturing wave to proceed summoned the opening of the gate. I could hear the whine of the helicopter engine spooling up as we passed through the twin pillars of the entry. Hector pulled up on the driveway, as close to the helicopter as possible. He turned to me.

“Take care Senior, good luck, it was good to work with you again,” and he extended his hand.

Returning his firm handshake, I replied, “Take care Hector, and once again I thank you for your assistance. You are a trusted friend,” the broad grin across his craggy face revealing his appreciation of my words, trusted friend.

I trotted from the car, stooping below the whirling blades and into the opened door of the helicopter, a flurry of dust signaling our hasty departure as I closed the door.

We landed a few yards from the jet commander, parked conspicuously by itself on the far end of the ramp, surrounded by well-armed UMOPAR soldiers, shielding their faces from the flying grit of the downwash. I sprinted toward the airplane the moment the helicopter skids touched the tarmac. It was already airborne by the time I was just a few feet clear of the rotor arc. The right engine of the airplane was already starting as I cleared the threshold of the door, a youthful soldier closing it behind me as he gave the pilot the all clear. A rapid taxi to the end of the runway and we were off, the city quickly receding behind as we gained altitude.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I opened the bottle of water and packet of cookies provided in the armrest holders, chuckling to myself that this must be a CIA first class flight. Bottled water was always present, but the packet of cookies was an unusual amenity. It had been a while since I last ate, and the cookies were a welcomed tidbit. I hoped the operative we were picking up at the UMOPAR base in Cobija had the foresight to arrange food for the flight to San Salvador.

As I leisurely watched the stark, barren, beauty of the Andes slowly meld into the carpeted green of the lowlands, I thought about the mission. It felt good to be back in the saddle again, so to speak. The neglected infrastructure of the agency by the previous administration was certainly resurrected to its former stature. The precision and effectiveness of this mission was testimony to the well-oiled workings of the present ‘elimination’ sector. I felt heartened at the support from certain individuals in our Government. I knew they realized how effective this sector could be, albeit unpopular.

Looking to the lush green below brought thoughts of home. It was such a contrast to my own parched and windblown patch of solitude. Bleak as it was, I was looking forward to some quiet, my thirst for the adrenalin rush of my profession having been temporarily quenched. I closed my eyes, letting the subtle humming of the engines lull me closer to slumber.

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A Good Day To Die by Loretta A. Stradley readlorey875@hotmail.com	#6 of 9 Runner-up
This is the original version. See the edited version above.
She won! She finally won the lawsuit she had been waging for the last five years. Mary was relieved and dead tired. The court case had taken a lot out of her. But it was well worth it. With a blink of her left eye Mary turned down the courthouse hallway to the exit. Rolling down the ramp she went to the van where Mr. Price was waiting. He was a very patient man. May fifth? January sixth? September nineteenth? On the way home Mary chatted away to an always-silent Mr. Price. She told him all about the court scenes and how her lawyers finally convinced the grand court jury to decide in her favor. August twenty-sixth? February third? July twenty-ninth? She couldn’t believe that it had taken her five years to win. Five years of her miserable life, of pain and agony, to get to the point where she should have been before it was too late. November eighteenth? March twenty fifth? October first? The lift lowered her gently to the sidewalk. With a twist of her lip the chair turned right and she went to the door to her house. Mrs. Price opened the door with a smile. “Mary, how did it go? Did you win?” “Yes Mrs. Price, I won. I finally convinced them.” “Well, it’s over now my dear. Why don’t you go get some lunch and take a nap? You must be exhausted and a little lunch will make you feel better.” Blinking her left eye Mary turned and went to the elevator. A puff of air and the elevator doors opened. Rolling into the elevator she turned the chair around. With a puff of air the doors closed. June sixth? April fourteenth? December twenty fifth? Yes, that was it. Sally was waiting for her as usual. After lifting her out of the chair and laying her in the hospital bed, Sally pulled Mary’s legs down so they laid flat. She undid the straps that kept the computer attached to Mary’s chest and placed the machine on the table next to the bed. She took the tube that ran to the respirator and popped it onto the tube in Mary’s throat. After attaching the heart monitor, the I.V. drip, and the stomach tubes, Sally pulled the covers up to Mary’s shoulders. She then looked at Mary. “Are you comfortable Mary? Is there anything I can do for you now?” Mary blinked twice. “Okay, then, I am going to get something to eat too. If you need anything you know what to do. I am only a ring away.” Drawing the drapes at the window, the room became dark. The outside ‘normal’ sounds went away. All could be heard was the whoosh of the respirator and the beep of the machines. Closing the door behind her, Sally left the room. The courts had ruled in her favor. December twenty fifth. How appropriate would that be? And how ironic would that be? What better day was there than the day of her birth to end her life? What a good day to die.

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A Good Day To Die
By MGAFT@aamescorp.com

#7 of 9

"So you wanna head back to the hotel? We’ve already seen everything here." Bill looked at his watch and yawned.

"No, let’s stick around. It’s so alive and beautiful here!"

Bill shrugged. To him, all European cities seemed pretty much the same. Although imposing from the outside, they were old and uncomfortable inside. Bill could see all these architectural styles in some hotel in Vegas. The only thing he really liked was the skiing in Switzerland, but Sandra didn’t want to stay there for more than two days.

"You don’t understand, we can ski in Utah. Here in Europe we have to see more culture. Here everything literally breathes with culture. You on the other hand, want to spend all your time in the snow."

Bill had plenty of this "culture." All these old buildings and museums stuffed with pictures of dead people who weren’t even Americans.

They were sitting in a small restaurant named "Cortejo" on "Plaza del Los Flores" in Cadiz, Spain. Bill finished his hamburger, while Sandra was still struggling with the authentic "Ollie Podrida".

Sandra looked around with exaggerated excitement, as if right here, right now she was going to see something extraordinarily special that would make the entire trip well worth the effort.

The window display on the right side of the restaurant showed a crudely drawn hand promoting, apparently, a palm reading service. A lady sat outside in a chair behind a small table. She was dressed in a traditional Gypsy costume, yellow top, red skirt covered with cheap shiny beads. The table surface contained an icy drink that she occasionally took a sip of, a deck of cards, and a large black book.

"I want to talk to her," Sandra said. Bill rolled his eyes and gave her an "as if we don’t have these charlatans in the States" grin.

Dismissing his silent comment, Sandra invited the fortuneteller to her table.

She was not young by any stretch of imagination, but her black eyes with large pupils, deep and penetrating, carried traces of a former beauty.

"Senor?" she pointed the deck at Bill.

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Bill, confirming his English with a negative gesture.

"Senorita?"

"Si senora," Sandra smiled. Sandra was of third generation Latin American descent. Her mother spoke some Spanish, especially when the grandparents were visiting. Spanish was Sandra’s second language in high school and now she was taking an advanced course in college.

Bill, whose Spanish was only a little bit better than his French and German, quickly lost track of their conversation, but he didn’t look very interested to begin with. Throwing breadcrumbs to the flock of pigeons, he tried to think about the Lakers’ chances to win a NBA championship this year.

When they were done, looking at Sandra’s face transformed with endearment, he asked.

"So what did she say?"

"Esmerelda said that I am going to have a long and exciting life, that I’ll have a great career, a nice husband, and three children."

"Hmm… did ESMERELDA tell you you’ll be rich?"

"She didn’t say rich, but very comfortable. She said I would have a nice house and I would travel"

"Yep, of course. What else could she possibly say?" Bill sneered, "If she told people that they are going to be stuck at doing the same boring thing day after day from now on and until the rest of their lives, who would pay her?"

"You don’t understand. It’s a real prediction. Esmerelda wrote it in her book."

"How much did you pay her?"

"Ten dollars."

"Well, for ten bucks, I’ll tell you even more, plus I’ll write the prediction in English." Bill was talking in his regular tone of voice without hesitation or whispering, not anticipating that he’d be understood. He was surprised when the fortuneteller spoke to him in English.

"Mister is right. If I tell people bad things they will not pay. But since mister did not pay I can tell him a bad thing. Mister is going to die one year from today." She shot an angry stare straight at Bill, loading it with meaning she couldn’t adequately convey semantically.

"Yeah, right," Bill snapped. "Get out of here, you witch!"

The fortuneteller unhurriedly wrote something in her book, closed it and got up.

"I go nowhere. This is my home. You better go to your home and take care of your life."

Sandra was petrified. Everything happened so quickly that she did not have time to assess the situation and nurture the proper response.

"Why did you talk to her like that?"

"I didn’t know she spoke English, plus who cares… All this is bullshit anyhow. Stupid bitch! What right did she have to tell me all that?"

The spirit of the adventure was spoiled though. The next day Bill told Sandra that he was sick and tired of Spain, Europe and for that matter, of the rest of the World, and he wanted to go home. If not for the fact that they had prepaid two-way tickets he would have fled the same day.

Back at home, Bill didn’t appear to think about the prediction up until May, when Sandra jumped on him in a burst of excitement. Her campus interview with one of the one of the top consulting firms was a success. She'd be making forty grand from the start and she'd be traveling all over the US and maybe even abroad.

Bill wasn’t very happy. First of all, with the travel part. In her business suit, Sandra looked like a million bucks and he wanted to be there for her whenever she felt like "reaching out and touching someone." Also, her starting salary was just a little bit below his and he didn’t feel comfortable that his future wife might soon be making more than him. The thought of marriage had crossed his mind before, but never was of such high definition. But mostly he was frustrated with the fact that the prediction of the Spanish witch had turned out true for Sandra, and the possibility that it could turn out true for him.

When he cast some sarcastic remark about the prediction, Sandra had told him that her job was a coincidence and she actually forgot about the prediction herself, and that’s where they left it.

In the beginning of June, Sandra was to graduate and start her new job. A Saturday before that, while walking on Santa Monica beach, Bill proposed to her. Sandra was ecstatic. It was the one thing that had kept her life from feeling complete.

Bill felt confused. On one hand, he felt that marriage was a proper step at this time. On the other hand, he was "pouring water on the wheel of destiny," helping the Spanish witch’s prediction to come true. Of course, the witch said Sandra would have three children, but where was the guarantee that those children would be his as well?

Not allowing himself to believe in the prediction, he made some preparations just in case. He significantly increased his life insurance making his agent very happy, because in his appearance, Bill looked like a person of unblemished health. He went to the lawyer and rectified his will, leaving everything to Sandra. He took a trip to Boston to visit his parents, whom he hadn’t seen for a number of years, and contrary to their expectations he was very "nice and understanding" according to their own admission. He also took care of a number of small gray area matters, like letters from collection agencies, unpaid bills, parking tickets, moving his money from aggressive to conservative funds, and even visited the "Forest Lawn" mortuary, reserving a space for himself just in case. If anything happened, he at least wanted Sandra to be clear of all these petty matters. He also put new efforts into his health, something he used to not give a crap about. His drinking and smoking were now substituted with religiously going to the health club, buying groceries from a natural food store, and drinking vegetable juices.

The wedding was in September. Then they spent a great two weeks in Hawaii. Only now and then, Sandra noticed that Bill, who usually was quite a hell raiser, was excessively thoughtful, calm and careful, avoiding even swimming in the ocean, not to mention surfing.

When they came back, Sandra started getting very busy in the office. Not coincidently, her company had acquired a reputation of being a meat grinder. She left early in the morning and came back late at night. Also, because of Sandra’s bilingual background, she started to get some assignments abroad; first on the American continent in Mexico, Columbia and Argentina and once to Spain. Bill’s days were also busy, but when he came home he had plenty of opportunities to contemplate.

How would the day of his death progress? Would it happen in the morning or evening rush hour, or would it be one of those weird incidents of rare statistics? An accidental victim of a gang war, a hostage in a downtown bank robbery? Or maybe the beginning of Armageddon, it was 2000 after all. The Spanish witch gave her prediction on February 28th 1999. So hypothetically, whatever was going to happen should happen on February 28th 2000, or 29th because 2000 was a leap year.

Of course she predicted a happy life for Sandra, but she might be wrong.

The closer it came to the end of February, the more Bill became restless. To catalyze his anxiety, Sandra left for three weeks to Spain on an assignment and was due back on March 3rd, after "everything would be over." Despite missing her, Bill was relieved because now he didn’t have to wear a facade of "nothing special is going on."

On Friday the 25th, Bill deliberately mentioned at work that he felt bad and seemed to be catching flu. On Monday, February 28th he called in sick. He sat at home completely quiet, being even afraid to drive to the store. That was perhaps the last day in his life, and yet Bill did not feel any special significance of the moment. Beyond the feeling of anxiety, it was just as lonely and boring as any other day. He lay in bed in front of the TV, and drank beer.

At night he checked the door locks several times and went to sleep leaving the TV on, and although realizing the stupidity of this action, Bill put a large kitchen knife (the biggest weapon he could devise) on the floor by the bed.

Getting up on the morning of the 29th, Bill sat on the bed thinking "the last day!" When he poured himself coffee, his hands started shaking. "Come on, get yourself together. Don’t be such a pussy, damnit!"

Bill pulled out a box of old family videotapes. Here he was, clumsily walking to the safety of his mother’s hands… She was so young back then. Here it was… His first baseball game, his first fishing trip, his first day of school, Christmas eve… as if it happened yesterday.

The 29th was coming to a close. Bill flipped the channel to Comedy Central. At least he’d die with a smile. He fell asleep at 11:46 PM.

******************************************************************************

He woke up at 6:30 AM on March 1st. Nothing, absolutely nothing had happened! "What a bitch! She tricked me!" Bill thought. Mentally he traced the events of the past year. Bill shook his head in disbelief. They happened because he let them happen. On the freeway, he wanted to be his usual self, forgetting the year of careful driving, attack the accelerator pedal. Surprisingly he was driving within the speed limit; something about him had changed.

Sandra called in the evening and said that her assignment was going to be extended for two more weeks.

"Honey, I miss you so much," she said. "I wish you were here with me. I’ll do all the arrangements, just say yes."

Bill was hesitant for a second.

"Okay, but on one condition. I want to see the witch," Bill said with irritation. "I gotta tell her a couple of nice words."

"Of course, honey. I’ll call the airline and order the tickets."

On Tuesday, March 7th 2000, Bill boarded Luftansa flight Los Angeles- Madrid. They spent two days in the capital and then on the weekend took a trip to Andalusia. This time Sandra did not stop for sight seeing, but wanted to get to their final destination Cadiz as soon as possible. They arrived in Cadiz by the Seville train at 12 AM on March 12th. After hotel arrangements were taken care of, they went to the "Plaza de Las Flores" to look for the Gypsy. They saw her sitting in the same spot as if she had never left it since their departure last year.

Bill wanted to walk right to her, but Sandra ran in front of him and held him by the hand.

"Honey, please don’t make a scene, let me start the conversation. After all, everything happened for the best".

"Don’t worry darling, I’m cool," said Bill putting on the breaks.

"Buenas Dias, senora."

"Buenas Dias senorita."

"No senorita, senora!" responded Sandra with a smile.

"Es este su marido?" the Gypsy said pointing to Bill.

"Si senora."

"What did she say?" Bill said impatiently.

"She asked me if you are my husband?"

"Where is your book?" he said, directing the question to the Gypsy.

"I’d like to see your book".

"OK. I see you want the book for, how you say, "anterior" in English?

"Previous" Sandra helped.

"..for the previous year?"

"Yes, yes for 1999".

"Wait here," said Esmerelda.

She got up and went inside her office. In a couple of minutes she came back holding the big black book.

Sandra quickly flipped the pages back to last February.

"Here it is,"

"So what does it say?" Bill urged.

"Oh my god!" Sandra exclaimed.

"What, what?"

"Yo regreso en un ano," she read.

"Well, translate?"

"It says that you'll come back to Spain next year."

Bill stalled for a second, like an idling wheel. Then he chuckled.

"Well, she didn't risk much with that kind of prediction, did she?"

"Quiere otra prediccion, senor?" the lady looked at Bill.

"What did she say?"

"She asked if you want another prediction," Sandra translated.

"Oh, no, no, muchas gracias, mu…uchas gracias!" said Bill and started to laugh.

Their train was the very next day. They walked about "Casco Viejo" slowly and aimlessly just feeling happy to be alive and be together.

"Do you want some Spanish food?" Sandra said, just to be polite, knowing Bill's taste.

"You know what…" Bill pondered, "what the heck, let's try the stuff".

Sitting in the train to Madrid and looking out the window, Bill suddenly turned to Sandra and slapped himself on the forehead.

"You know what, we forgot to see what she wrote for you!"

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A Good Day To Die By Heckter Ligtop ligtop@yahoo.com	#8 of 9
This entry exceeds the word limit with 2505 words. It is not eligible for judging.
There was nothing but silence sounds that echoed within the confines of the jaded cliffs. The air was dusty and dry as the midday sun hovered still, yet seamlessly pierced gallantly through shapeless clouds. Below in the valley lay an institution. Evil was smoldering as some may say. Once souls of kind men now housed clans of the misfits. Cad Devers sat calmly on the edge of his crumbling concrete cell and peered through rusted bars of iron to view yet another example of man gone bad. Death was prominent and Cad knew that his day was soon to be imminent. High above in the sky were the scavenger flyers also patiently awaiting the coming event. Their speed was amazing. Their courage was persistent and their composure elite and foreboding. What a wonder of nature. Cad often said, “hard to believe anyone would try to shoot and kill one of these wonders.” As Cad looked at these wonders, all he could do is just forget that there are places in the world that aren’t made out of stone. That there was something inside his soul that they just couldn’t touch. So Cad leaned back a bit and made himself comfortable inside the smooth and embracing cleavage of his concrete window as the event began to unfold. The warders formed a rough circle around the gallows. The gallows stood in a small yard, separated from the main grounds of the prison, and overgrown with tall prickly weeds which commanded the foliage. It was a brick erection like three sides of a shed, with planking on top, and above that two beams and a crossbar with the rope dangling. Feathers and excrement were spattered along the crossbar. The hangman, a callused grey-haired convict in the white uniform, was waiting beside his machine. He had little expression but one could tell this was not his first time assisting the carnage. His nickname was Cracker. He stood still with one hand on the rope and the other gripping a half-burned cigarette. Many in the prison think he traded his execution for building of this gallows. As he stood there, he nodded with sorrow down toward the prisoner. Their eyes met briefly and it was a truce of humanity that delivered serenity Big Sam’s day was upon him. He stood there with no emotion and tirelessly had expressions of grief. A long dark shadow from the sun formed on the ground below him, which to him was just a reminder of how dark and cold he had lived his life. Spinach laced his teeth showing indication of his last meal. His clothes draped over his weathered body, shattered with holes revealing little to no significant pattern. His hair was thin and brittle and laid unbrushed atop a face of mischief. One of the heavy set guards cleared his throat, pulled out a Camel from his right pocket and tapped the butt on Sam’s head before he lit it. This was Simon. He was the head guard. As Simon pulled air through his cigarette he bravely smirked to the prisoner and says, “ Move back two steps and raise your hand.” Simon was preparing Sam for his end of days. Sam always did what Simon said. This was just expected. A second guard firmly stepped up to the prisoner. This was Abe. He was wiry man and well respected. He kept a beard and carried himself in a stout manner. As he approached Sam, he initially kept both hands to his side. With a fake from the right hand, and a head fake down, he swiftly jerked his left hand and slapped Sam firmly across the face. He said, “Big Sam, you have done wrong, I am seriously unhappy about you.” Sam’s head flipped backwards and his staunch posture jilted him toward a mud puddle that was adjacent to him. Sam then looked up in dismay, put his hands behind his head, lowered his lips and slouched forward with purpose. He squinted slightly and remarked to the guard, what is your malfunction, you skinny ass barrel of monkey spunk? The guard realized Sam’s desperation and decided to let this slough off his shoulder. It is curious, but till that moment Abe had never realized what it meant to destroy a healthy, conscious man. When he saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, he saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it should be more, more than this, much much more. This man was not dying, he was alive just as we were alive. All the organs of his body were working -- hard to believe that a rope and a broken neck would end such solace. His toe nails would still be growing when he stood on the drop, when he was falling through the air with a tenth of a second to live. Nevertheless, Abe knew what must be done. He pointed to Sam, showing him the top of the gallows. He and the other guards all nodded in unison and made a mental acknowledgment to walk Sam to the top of the Gallows. So there Sam stood. His movements revealing signs of submission. He stepped forward and centered himself on the red X. As he looked out toward the Barren cliffs, the hope of freedom faded from the glare of his iris. The only image adhering to darkness in his eye was the dim shadow of the high-flying scavengers. Why would someone kill such a beautiful creature he thought? Below was the crackling of the shackles which rendered tormented displeasure. Ironic it was. The sound of the shackles was soon going to be transformed into the crackling of neck bones. The black cranial bag was a symbol of the gloom and horror. He was amidst the bleak and the damned. Cold and disastrous, the final embarkment of life as he knew it. What was racing through his mind? Did the pain and the final breath isolate his thought? Perhaps the joy and satisfaction of reaching the other side took hold. For then, a brief moment, he gathered some glee. Sam was having abdominal pains. He knew he was not going to be able to relieve himself. I guess to him he felt he would get the last laugh since when his body hang limp, the fetor from his drawers would remind the guards that what they had done was pure sour and distasteful. Cracker took the black bag from the brown box. He shook it a bit dislodging any static particulate from the previous prisoner. As he placed it over Sam’s head, he made some final comments. Nobody knows exactly what was said but perhaps from one prisoner to another, there was some compilation of bliss. The bag was secured and the rope firmly lay around Sam’s neck. The knot hung above Sam’s head, just enough to emit a shadow of despair on the scorched earth. The guards stepped down from the gallows. Simon turned briefly and saluted. Abe appeared to be saluting but merely brushed his hair back in respect. The warden looked down from above, as he snacked on some uncooked fruit. He kept his hands firmly by his side and maintained an erect position. His slight head shake was the apparent signal for the demolition. Cracker grabbed his handmade lever and before he pulled, made the last command. At the top of his lungs Cracker yelled throughout the yard, “all alert! Prisoners’ last stand . . . ” The lever was released and Sam’s dilapidated body flew through the floor bottom. There was the sound of the neck breaking and the squeaks of the weathered wood adjusting, as the lifeless swinging corpse slowly bogged to the effects of gravity. All seemed still as the silence seemed to command breathless reverence. As the noise mustered a silent flash, it seemed to encourage the intentions of the high-flying scavengers. The deed was done and another day at the institution was endured. Cad had watched all of this. In some ways he was happy for Sam. Sam was a victim to many of the top gay lords. Once they peg you, you are labeled the prison bitch, the cell whore, the lame insidious flame or perhaps the Brittany cave babe. In his mind he could see himself in Sam’s place. He could feel the ray of sun that Sam felt. He could see the flying scavengers from above. He could envision their flight pattern. He often wondered why someone would kill such a wonderful flying machine. He could feel the slap in the face and could hear the guards making comments of horror and demise. He could smell the death that was looming and detect the audible cracking of the neck. As Cad watched, he reflected back to what had got him in this rigid stoned fortress. Why did he fall victim to the devil’s shenanigans? Cad had always been a peaceful man. He was very diplomatic and poignant in his manner of socialization. He was from a very historic family. They operated and maintained a chain of Funeral homes. Even though Cad was exposed to death all his life, he still was very personable. Cad was in line to inherent the business even though he and his father had problems early in his life. He never could pardon his father for taking him to an unlicenced dentist when he was young. Cad placed high regards on his appearance and having what he called a gnarly grill made him very self conscience. It was very important for Cad to keep a clean driving record because at times he had to haul the cadavers. In fact, Cad had a clean record overall. That is until that one night, late December back in 1962. All he wanted to do was just enjoy the Presley concert, as all else were doing. The last thing he expected was to be hit on by a convoy of cross-dressers. Cad was in the rest room when the confrontation erupted. The crackling sounds echoing from the bowl supposedly revealed his whereabouts. As he sat there, one of the cross-dressers tugged at the door. At first Cad sorta snickered to himself. To him this was just another confused turd burglar. To discourage them, Cad flung some dung over the top of the stall wall. He was having some discomfort in his movements and did not want any distractions. Finally, he emerged from the stall and it was evident that things were going down. He tried to convince them he wanted no trouble. Nevertheless, things began to climax. A scuffle ensued. Cad ended up tangled with one of the men in drag. The man insisted that Cad perform some sort of romantic endeavor. Without hesitation, Cad pulled the hand blower from the wall and ramped it across the man’s head. He then grabbed the back of the man’s neck and scooted him across the slick floor and head drove him into a mirrored wall. He could see himself. Cad then leaped on top of the sink and flung himself airborne down on the man with his elbow landing tenaciously in place. While on the ground, he saw a brown folding chair in the corner. He gripped the back of it and jolted it in a swinging motion through the man’s torso. Finally, Cad scooped up the man and whirled him courageously upon a folding table which collapsed abruptly. The chaos subsided. Amazingly, the other cross-dressers stood there and were appalled with the activity. Cad knew he may have gone too far. This landed him second degree murder. That was just the beginning for Cad. Prison was yet another cluster of problems and conflicts that would put Cad in line for execution. Cad found prison life very difficult. He didn’t like the way many of them slobbered as he passed. The talk was that he was fresh meat. The more a man puts of resistance the more desirable they come. What Cad hated most about prison life was what every man feared. The sexual encounters. Cad was a man who was very secure with himself. The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up with a bunch of freaks. Cad spent most of his free time lifting weights and staying fit. He did this to protect himself. The only friend he had was a guy named Chamber. Chamber, what a story behind this guy. He didn’t put up with crap. He spent a lot of time in Solitaire. Both men looked out after each other. Cad was not sure he was ever going to get out but one thing for sure was he was going to remain unpolluted. Both Cad and Chamber thought they could take care of themselves except for the feared trio. They were Marvin, Jaeckel, and Meeker. These guys thought they were the Dirty Dozen. They were obsessed with the movie. Often they argued over who would play whom after they would watch it. They seemed to control the prison yard and interior cell quadrants. They were on a mission to recruit nine others. Seems like every prison has a group that tries to run things from the inside. They laid down the law and often manipulated the warden’s protocol. According to Darnell, the shop keeper, the trio had made their next pick. Cad is who they wanted. Cad was 47 years old. Although his life had gone astray and his destiny was corrupted, he liked who he was and he measured himself by the value of his self respect. He wasn’t a gambling man and seemed worried that one night he would be provoked by the trio. Word got back to him from Darnell that he was a marked man and that his time was soon. He painfully recounted the fate of Big Sam and honored his fearless departure. To him he would be better off falling prey to the flying scavengers than to be awoken by sweating and panting body intruders. Odds were against him avoiding them for long because records showed that eventually they scored. And when they did, they would all get another blue colored unreadable tatoo. So late one night as Cad sat in his window starring at the gallows, he listened as a guard walked by the cell. The next day was to be his day of disrespect. He was bothered and fragmented. He graciously embraced himself into the smooth cleavage in the concrete window of his cell and gawked up toward the open sky. He closed his eyes and felt peace within. Darkness and unity came upon his character. The next day the warden was called. Cad Devers was found dead face down in the smooth cleavage of the concrete window of his cell. He had suffocated and his life had been jolted. Cad was buried next to Big Sam out in the prison yard. High above the scavengers flew in circles as if showing respect to two wonderful peaceful souls.

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A Good Day To Die
By callahan05@msn.com

#9 of 9

I couldn’t do it. I knew that she wanted me to, but how could I? How could I give the gun to my wife so she could use it to kill herself? How?

Look at her, lying there in the bed, folded up in the fetal position, her body shuttering as she sobbed. The cancer slowly eating away at her body. Robbing me of the joy that was once my wife and leaving in its place a whimpering mess of a body, something that I am repulsed to look at. I turn away and walk out of the room. I know she can hear me leave and for a moment I can hear her whisper, “please.” I close the door behind me, but do not move. It starts out as a small sob that I tried to chook back. It quickly develops into a full-fledged moan. I lose all strength in my legs and need the wall to support me. But, that isn’t even enough and I slowly slide down the wall, head in my hands, tears leaking through the fingers. I cried until I had no more tears left, but my body wouldn’t have that and I trembled.

One year ago she was so alive! We were running 5 miles everyday, biking up and down mountains. We planed on joining a rock-climbing club; maybe even try to climb Pikes Peak at some time. Now, a year of our time together wasted as we tried to fight this monster. A year without any response to the treatments. A year gone, never to be regained. Now she wants to quit? Why did we fight this for if we failed, why?

I try to stand but my legs are still too weak. I hang my head over the floor and punch it with all my might. The pain that shoots up my hand and into my arm serves its purpose, it lets me know that I’m still in the real world. That this isn’t just some nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

I crawl along the floor and with the help of the banister stand myself up. My legs still feel like rubber, but they support me so I trudge down the steps. Exhausted, I slump on the couch; the TV remote is next to me so I turn the TV on. I can hear my wife crying so I turn the TV louder, trying to drown her pain out with the noise from some television show. But, it’s no use; I can still hear her crying my name for help. I throw the remote on the couch and walk to the bottom of the steps and yell up. She needs help going to the bathroom. I hate these times when I have to help her walk and I have to help her take her pants and underwear off. It hasn’t gone to the point where I have to help her wipe, but we’re not that far off from it now. As I walk up the stairs I think back to a time when the only time undressed her was to make love. Those days are long gone, never to return.

I open the door to the bedroom and I see her struggling to stand up. I run over, “dear, don’t do that, let me help you.”

“I don’t need your damn help standing up!” She yells.

The fire, she never lost that, only now it’s turned into bitterness and hatred. Hatred of her own body and how it has failed her, hatred of me for staying healthy, hatred the unfairness of life. She uses my shoulder for support and she limps forward, ever so slowly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. We get to the bathroom door and she walks in, I stand behind her ready to help. “Get away from me, I’m going to do this myself.”

“But hon, you can’t.”

“The hell I can’t.” She said as she slowly lowered her pants. I could see the unbearable pain flash across her brow, determined to work through the pain she bit her lower lip. She dropped her pants then started to work on her underwear. “Get out.” She said to me, “Wait for me outside and close the door.”

I did as she told me.

I don’t know how long I waited but I could hear her sobbing. Waves of guilt and frustrations turned in my stomach and I felt as if I was going to vomit. I could end this soon and I could get the gun and give it to her, it’s what she wants.

I hid the gun a few weeks ago when I saw her grab it from the gun case. The way she looked at it scared me and I knew what she was thinking. I angrily pulled the gun out of her hand, it wasn’t loaded, but the bullets were easy to find in the gun case. I took them out of the case and told her to leave. We yelled, argued, and fought. But in the end she left and I hid the gun. I didn’t throw it away because I knew she would need it again. Today would be that day.

She called me into the bathroom, as I opened the door I saw her sitting on the toilet, pants around her ankles, sobbing, trying to get the pants off the floor, but she wasn’t able to bend down far enough. “God, help me!” She yelled.

I ran over and lifted her pants into her hands, and then I helped her off the toilet. We walked into the bedroom and as I laid her on the bed I said, “I love you.”

Our eyes meet and there was an understanding. We both knew that this was going to be the last time we saw each other. No words could express what I saw in her, for a moment the pain of her illness faded away and I saw her as she was when we first met. The woman I married was there still and even though I knew I was going to lose her, I forgave her and I understood.

I walked down into the cellar and from behind a small wood panel in the wall I found my gun. I loaded it and took it upstairs and placed it back in the gun case.

I took my car keys and yelled up, “I’m going for a drive. I love you.”

I opened the door and took one last look up the stairs; I could hear her moving off the bed and walking across the floor.

I walked out of the house, the door slowly closed behind me.

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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club