"In The Closet" - Contest #13

"In The Closet"
(the thirteenth ACW monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "In The Closet"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
Midnight,
September 15, 2002 (EDT)

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In The Closet
By B. Miller
arethronok@yahoo.com
(Entry #4)

~Winning Entry~

She sat with her back to the wall, knees under her chin, boxed in by cleaning supplies. Voices rang through the linoleum-paved halls and echoed off tiled ceilings. She glanced up at the plastic covering over the fluorescent light fixture, wanting to take out the light bulbs so she could be in total darkness. She wondered if she would be able to remove it without making any noise.

It was doubtful.

She clutched her thin cotton gown to her body, tried to stop the shaking of her muscles, and wondered how she had gotten here. Her memory before fifteen minutes ago was a white blur. She rubbed her forehead with one pale hand, trying to recall anything useful. Nothing came to her except how she had arrived in the floor of this closet.

She had removed the IV needle from her arm, knowing instinctively how not to damage the vein. The tape peeled off her skin with a crackling sound. The point of the needle, free of her arm, looked wickedly sharp. She tossed it over the bars on the side of the bed and felt for restraints across her body. Finding none, she fumbled along the inside of the plastic bars, looking for a catch-release button to lower them. Her fingers found it in the darkness and deftly manipulated it, moving almost on their own accord.

She pulled herself to a sitting position, her thin arms trembling from the effort, and looked around. Light filtered into the room through a small square window in the door. A squat white table stood to the left of the bed. A phone, devoid of buttons, sat smugly on the table's surface, its white cord coiled around it like a sinister tail. She slipped her legs over the side of the bed. They looked like white bones in the dim light, jutting out from under the hem of her gown. She scooted towards the edge of the bed, feeling thin material ride up underneath her butt as she did, and stepped down onto the cold tile. Its chill bit into the soles of her bare feet. She stood there for a moment, leaning slightly to the right, then to the left, gaining her balance. She blinked a couple of times and ran her hands through her thin, tangled hair.

The door was locked. She bit her lips and looked around. A darker rectangle was set into the wall across the room, the dim round shape of a toilet bowl gleaming within it. She moved silently across the room and stepped into the darkness, her gown flowing around her pale form like the shift of a ghost.

Nothing was in there to help. A bare counter lined the wall under an industrial metal mirror. The toilet grinned at her in the darkness. She slipped back into the larger room and looked at the IV needle lying useless on the floor. A clear drop of fluid at its tip caught the light and gave off a mellow shine in the gloom, a dim blue-white jewel. Her eyes clouded for a moment as she stood there thinking, still biting her lips, her hands clenched into small white fists. After a moment she leaned over, picked up the needle, and pulled it from the IV tubing. She moved towards the door.

The doorknob was cold metal against her skin. She crouched down, bringing its keyhole to eye level, and worked the tip of the needle into its center. She moved her hand gently up and down, the pink tip of her tongue working out of the left side of her mouth as she worked. Her eyes narrowed as she twisted the needle slightly, feeling for the locking mechanism in the doorknob to catch against the tiny metal shaft. A tiny click told her she had found what she was looking for. She grinned, feeling the muscles of her face pull against one another.

She slowly turned the knob, not wanting the needle to break off in the lock. The quiet snick of the doorknob’s tongue coming out of the doorframe plate was a sweet sound in her ears. She held the door open an inch or so, then worked the needle carefully out of the lock again. It was slightly bent. After it was out of the lock, she folded it into her hand, careful to keep the tip away from her skin. It immediately began to warm against the surface of her palm. She stepped out of the doorway and pushed the door gently closed, doing her best to not make a sound.

The hall beyond her simple square room was darkened but easy to navigate. It must have been late; she could hear faint voices murmuring from an unseen alcove, the sound like pigeons cooing in dim twilight. She moved down the hall away from the sound, running one hand along the smooth white wall as she walked. Windows set into doors lining the hall regarded her blankly, shining like lidless eyes in the semidarkness. She moved as quietly as she could, hugging herself against the cold. The smell of antiseptic hung on the air, biting the inside of her nose.

A voice carried down the hall, ringing with mellow southern tones. “Twenty-nine’s got a problem with her IV,” the voice declared. “I’ll be right back, Nancy.”

A lance of panic shot through her chest. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a door at the end of the hall different from the others: it had no window. Seeing no other place to hide or way to escape, she ran towards it, her bare feet making quiet slaps on the cold tile. She reached the door and wrenched it open, praying it was unlocked and that its hinges were silent. The heavy door flew open with more force than she expected, and she had to hold on to it tightly to keep it from banging against the wall. She peered in.

It was a linen closet.

Warmer than a dumpster, she thought, and stepped in, pulling the door closed behind her and twisting the lock. A fluorescent light fixture set into the ceiling spilled white light down onto stacks of white pillowcases and sheets. She inhaled deeply, catching cotton fiber and dust in her nostrils. The scent of detergent was thick in the air. Smells better too.

The bottom shelf was about two and a half feet above the tiled floor. She put the IV needle on the shelf and sat down on the cold tiled floor. She shoved aside a box of toilet paper, making a hollow cubbyhole she could slide herself into. After positioning her back against the wall, she struggled to slide a crate of pine-scented floor cleaner in front of her. She finally managed and sat back against the wall, gasping for breath, the muscles in her arms and chest trembling with exhaustion. Once her breathing slowed, she could feel the cold settling into her joints again. She reached up over her head, felt along the shelf, retrieved her needle, and drew her knees up under her chin. She wrapped her thin arms around her shins. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.

Now she sat and waited for them to open the door to the linen closet.

After waiting for what seemed like at least half an hour, she began to relax a little. Her head lolled back against the wall behind her. She was getting sleepy. Her fingers loosened and the IV needle fell to the floor with an almost inaudible clatter. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The smell of clean sheets and towels comforted her. She knew that she would be warmer if she wrapped some linens around herself, but it seemed like too much effort to pull herself out of her hiding spot and stand up to get some.

Keys at the door. Rattling.

She was immediately wide awake, squeezing herself into the tightest spot she possibly could. She knew it was hopeless, but she still pulled the box of floor cleaner close to her, hoping it would hide her presence.

The door opened.

She heard humming, and the thin squeak of a wheel. She closed her eyes and hid her face against her knees, waiting for the inevitable. The humming, a warm, brown sound in the alcove of the closet, stopped. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and tried to make her breathing as silent as possible.

“Well, hello there. What you doin’ down there on the floor, miss?”

She opened her eyes. Legs, clad in white pants, were on the other side of the box of floor cleaner. She leaned forward slightly and blinked up at the owner of the voice, an older black man wearing janitor’s whites. One brown hand was wrapped around the handle of a mop jutting out of a yellow bucket on wheels.

He smiled. His teeth were white and straight, with a gold one in the front on the right side. “Y’ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, miss. Ain’t nothin’ here t’be scared of.” He looked up and down the hall behind him, then sidled into the closet and shut the door behind him, leaving his mop in the hall. He crouched down and looked over the top of the box of floor cleaner. She heard his knees pop as he moved.

He looked her over, taking in her thin form, her white gown, and her pale face. “You th’ one they’re lookin’ all over for, huh?” he finally asked.

She nodded.

He sighed and gestured at the floor. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

She looked at him doubtfully for a moment and then nodded, remembering the incredibly sharp IV needle in her hand. If push comes to shove, she told herself, I’ll shove this damn thing into one of his eyes and run for it. He seems like a nice guy, but…

But he was sitting down. He braced himself on one brown arm and settled onto the tile, the box of floor cleaner between them. “There.” He sighed. “Thank y’kindly, miss. I can’t squat s’long anymore.” He offered her an apologetic smile. She squeezed the needle a little more tightly in her hand and nodded.

“Now,” he said, pulling a large white handkerchief out of his right front pants pocket and mopping his broad brown forehead with it, “You wanna tell me why you’re hidin’ out in my supply closet?”

She studied his face for a moment and shook her head no.

He nodded gravely. “S’ok, miss,” he said. “I understand, not wantin’ to talk to a complete stranger. Let me introduce myself. M’name’s Silas.” He extended one long brown arm over the box of floor cleaner. She shrank back from it, mewling. The sound disgusted her.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, miss.”

She said nothing, only twisted the needle in her fingers, waiting for him to reach over the box again. He regarded her for another long moment, then sighed and pulled himself to a standing position. He began to work with the linens on the shelves above her head, talking as he worked.

“S’my last week here,” he said.

She said nothing, wondering what this had to do with anything.

“Y’know,” he continued, “I’ve been here for thirty years. Seen my share of girls like you, miss. Wish I could give you a help.” He paused. “Wish I could’ve helped any of ‘em.” His voice sounded heavier. He sighed and was quiet for a few moments, then continued on. “Dunno what I could do, though. I can’t sneak you outta here. And I guess them doctors know more ‘bout what they’re doin’ to you than I do. So what I prob’ly gotta go do now that I got my sheets all counted, is go on down to that nurses’ station at the other end of th’ hall and tell ‘em that I found you in my closet.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to continue. His legs made two straight white lines in front of the box of floor cleaner. She could hear his hands working on the shelves above her. She twisted the needle in her hand again.

“’Course, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop you from gettin’ up and leavin’, now is there?” he asked the empty air of the closet. “I mean, there’s a set of stairs down the hall to y’right. Might be I left ‘em unlocked when I came up from my last smoke break.” He chuckled. “Yep, might be. I’m forgetful in m’old age.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Yep, well, guess I’ll take m’self on down to the nurses’ station and let ‘em know you’re in here,” he said after a moment. “Mind now, I walk a little slower than I used to. Might be why they’re lettin’ me go.” He made a few more movements in the linen stacked above her head and turned to open the door.

She opened her mouth. It was a force of will to speak. She forced it out. “Wait.” It was a husky dry croak coming out of her mouth. She doubted he even heard it. The sound was barely louder than the squeaky wheels of his mop bucket.

His legs stopped in the open doorway. He said nothing, and didn’t turn around.

She licked her lips and tried to find her voice again. For some reason, this was more important than anything for her to say. More important than anything.

“Thank,” she rasped. “Thank… thank…”

Above her line of sight, he shook his head and smiled. “Ain’t no need, miss.”

She stopped trying to speak and closed her eyes.

“Y’take care, now. God blessya.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him. The quiet squeak of the wheels on the mop bucket began to fade down the hall. She could hear the faint sound of him humming again.

When she could hear him no longer, she pushed the box of floor cleaner out from in front of her and stood up. She put her hand on the doorknob and saw he had left it unlocked. She bit her lip, thinking. After a moment she turned the knob and pushed open the door a few inches. She looked out into the hallway. No one was there. Not even Silas.

She stepped out onto the cold tile of the hall and began to move silently away from the direction she heard him go. The hall took a left and she saw double doors with silver push bars at the end of a short cul-de-sac. A red EXIT sign glowed above them.

She walked to them and put her hands on the smooth cold metal of the push bars.

Here goes nothing, she thought. She pushed open the doors and started down the flight of stairs behind them.

After the first flight, she began to hum.

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In The Closet
By H J. Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com
(Entry #10)

~Runner Up~

“You are feeling very sleepy…”

Katherine willed her brain to focus on the words as they wrapped themselves around her, but she felt herself slowly receding inwards. Even the naugahyde recliner beneath her seemed to get farther and farther away.

Frank ‘The Great Mendini’ Miller leaned into his art, his voice soft as a secret, “Your lids are heavy. You can’t keep your eyes open…”

Across the room Brian grimaced in distaste, as if he’d bitten something sour, “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he whispered to his sister.

“Shhhh! We’re supposed to keep quiet,” she reprimanded.

Frank glanced quickly over his shoulder. The curtains in the bedroom had been drawn and he could just make out Brian’s cynical expression in the shadow. Katherine was already deep in hypnotic trance, she’d been almost feverishly cooperative. But Frank crooned on in the velvety baritone he used with especially stubborn audiences, “You are going back in time, back, back..”

“Come on, Viv,” Brian spat hoarsely, unable to contain himself. “This guy is a joke,” he waved his arm toward the Great Mendini at work with his mother, “he’s wearing a rented tux, for crissakes!”

Vivian looked crossly at her brother, willing him silent. She was desperate for something to work. Anything that would bring answers. Even if they came from a man who seemed more like an accountant than a spiritualist. Brian sensed the rebuff and plunged his fists in his pockets, retreating sullenly to the far corner of the bedroom.

The Great Mendini’s voice was now a gentle caress, an open hand reaching out, “Where are you now, Katherine?”

Katherine’s pudgy face was relaxed; the worried lines that had cut into her features over the weeks of tension had all but disappeared, “I’m at my desk. It’s my lunch break.”

“And what are you doing?”

“I’m eating my sandwich and watching the news.” Katherine replied calmly.

Brian moved back to Vivian’s side, lighting a cigarette to keep his hands occupied. He took a sharp drag and exhaled noisily, “This is ridiculous.”

His sister’s stern expression melted, exposing her own worry and doubt, “Dr. Fitzgerald said this is the only way to find out what happened,” she pleaded. “You know she’s completely blocked everything out. People do that when they’ve had a severe trauma.”

“Even if this does work,” Brian admitted begrudgingly, meeting his sister’s concerned gaze with his own, “We might be doing more harm than good. The only thing we might accomplish is making her suffer unnecessarily. Her mind is protecting her from what happened that day. Once we make her remember, she might never be able to forget it again.”

Vivian’s expression regained its assuredness, “Sometimes it is worth the risk.”

“I hope you’re right,” Brian said, turning back towards The Great Mendini hunched over his mother like a sculptor, his voice now touched with concern.

“Where are you now?”

Worry clouded Katherine’s features, her mouth tight, “I’m driving home. I didn’t even tell my boss I was leaving.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I know something is wrong. I have to get home. Quickly, before it’s too late. Before something terrible happens.”

”Ok, Katherine,” his words soft, “you are now parking in front of your house. What do you see?”

“Everything seems normal from out here, though the mail hasn’t come yet.” Katherine’s hands began shaking as she reached forward into the darkness, “I’m trying to open the door, but I can’t seem to grasp the key firmly. It’s jumping around in my hands.”

”Alright, you’ve got the key into the lock and you are opening the door.”

Brian began to pace, “I don’t think I can take this,” he said fishing for another cigarette while the other one sat burning in the ashtray.

Vivian wrung her hands nervously, “Oh god,” she whined to herself, unable to take her eyes off her mother’s perturbed expression, “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”

”You are pushing the door open. What do you see?”

“Something’s wrong. Everything is quiet. It shouldn’t be so quiet.” Katherine’s head began to loll back and forth as if negating it all, “I am in the hallway, all alone.”

“What do you do next?”

“I am going into the kitchen. Why is Harold’s lunch there? He didn’t eat it?” Katherine’s face twisted in confusion, “He would never leave his lunch untouched like that... where is he?”

Vivian gasped for air as she felt sudden, brutal understanding flood over her. She jumped up and grasped her brother’s arm like the side of a lifeboat, “Make him stop. You’re right. This is a mistake. Mom doesn’t want to go back in there. This isn’t going to help,” she felt herself sinking, “nothing can help…now,”

Brian looked on his sister’s collapse with a strange sense of calm, as if this was all somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s life, all too surreal to be happening to them. Maybe The Great Mendini had hypnotized him, too. Left him floating above the crisis instead of part of it, “It’s too late now, Vivian,” he said as quietly as he could, “Mom wanted to know. He’s taken her this far,” he took his sister’s face in his hands and forced her to meet his gaze, “It’s time we all knew the truth.”

The smooth baritone again, “What are you doing?”

“I am going up the stairs. I can’t understand where Harold could have gone,” Katherine’s voice has taken on an unnaturally high pitch, “And why is everything so quiet? I’m going up the stairs, but my knees are shaking, I’m not sure I can make it all the way up. I am feeling very tired now, I don’t think I want to see what’s in the bedroom.”

“You can do it. You are safe. You know you are loved and we are taking care of you. You can do this, Katherine.”

Katherine nodded quickly in response.

“Good,” Frank was reveling in his own power, enjoying the sweet momentum of reliving a tragedy. These people so desperate for the truth that they pay him to push away their own protection, exposing themselves to the horror once again, “You are reaching the top of the stairs. Are you going to the bedroom?”

“Yes, I can see the door at the end of the hall,” she responded in a voice still shaky, but with more resolve.

“Why are you going there?”

“Harold. Harold must be there. Everything is too quiet. Maybe Harold is sleeping in the bedroom.”

The Great Mendini pushed her along gently, “You are opening the door to the bedroom. What do you see?”

“He’s not here. He’s not lying on the bed, but…” Katherine’s voice cracked with fear, “But…”

“What is it Katherine?”

“I don’t want to open it.”

“What don’t you want to open?”

“The closet. I don’t want to see what’s there…I…I can’t,” She whined like a child, curling into the recliner.

“You are safe, Katherine. You can open the closet door.”

“But Harold’s in there. He must be. I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Katherine,” his voice grew firm, “go to the closet and open the door.”

Brian and Vivian watched as their mother reached out into nothing as if grasping the door handle.

“It can’t be…” Vivian whispered, horrified. She broke from her brother and sank into a chair.

Brian winced and turned towards the window wanting to look away, see anything besides his mother writhing in a past they could not change. He was faced with the heavy curtains forming a wall, pushing him back, no escape now.

“What do you see, Katherine?”

Katherine face was filled with horror, “Oh god, Harold, no!”

“What do you see?” The Great Mendini urged.

She began to sob, “Harold. I can see his eyes. Cold and empty, staring.”

Even the Great Mendini shifted uncomfortably, “What else do you see?”

“Shreds. It’s in shreds,” the sobs racked her body uncontrollably now, “My Lotto ticket! The Mega number is still hanging from his mouth.” Katherine collapsed.

Vivian’s head dropped into her hands, “My god. One hundred and twenty million dollars in catnip!” she broke into tears, “Why? Why did this have to happen to us?”

Brian punched the wall, “I’m going to kill that cat.” He turned and looked at his mother crumpled on the chair moaning “my mega number, my mega number….”

“No. I’m going to spay him first.” He snarled, “Then I’m going to kill him!”

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

In The Closet
by Emi-Chan
EmiChan14@aol.com

#1 of 13

"Eight one-thousand, nine one-thousand, TEN!" Chloe screamed from her place in the next room. "Ready or not, HERE I COME!!!"

I buried myself deeper within the folds of material surrounding me. Chloe would never find me here. She was afraid of the dark. She told me so herself. I wasn't afraid, though. What could possibly happen to me?

There was a scream from downstairs as Chloe yelled, "Gotcha!" I smiled to myself. One down, four more to go.

"There are monsters in the dark," I remembered Chloe saying one time when I stayed overnight at her house, "I've seen them myself. Mommy says they aren't real, but I don't think she's ever seen them."

I pushed the thought of monsters out of my head as I listened, waiting for Chloe to find everyone else. Then I could come out, because then I would win and we could all play again ... and maybe I could even use this hiding place again. It was a nice place to hide.

I heard something that definitely wasn't Chloe finding someone. It was a loud creak, coming from inside the closet. I jumped in spite of myself. It couldn't be a monster ... could it?

"They always make creaking noises," Chloe had informed me with a knowing air, "but besides that, you can't tell they're there unless they come up right in front of you, 'cause then you can see them ... well not really. You just see their shadow."

My heart began to beat a little faster, and I barely noticed when Chloe captured someone else. What if it was a monster? Would it try to get me? Would I be able to escape if it did?

If there was a monster in here, I had to look closely so I could see it before it came right up close to me. I strained my eyes as hard as I could, but I could barely see anything, it was so dark. Sometimes, I thought I saw a dark shape, but I couldn't be sure. I swallowed. Maybe this wasn't such a good hiding place after all.

"A monster tried to get me once," Chloe's voice came to my mind again. "I felt it try and grab me my shoulder, but I escaped. I ran and told Mommy, but she told me to go back to bed ..."

I stayed as still as possible. Maybe the monster wouldn't see me. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, and pretended I wasn't there. The monster can't see me, I told myself, I'll be fine.

I heard another creak ... even louder this time. My heart began to thump so loudly, I felt sure the monster could hear it, and I found it hard to breathe properly. It was coming closer. I could feel its presence in the closet, which seemed to be shrinking by the second.

Something brushed my leg and my eyes popped open. I let out a scream and ran out of the closet. "MONSTER!!" I yelled, "THERE'S A MONSTER IN THE CLOSET!!"

Within seconds, everyone had congregated in my room, looks of terror mixed with curiosity on their faces.

I calmed down somewhat and said, "There's a monster in there. I felt it try to get my leg!"

Chloe laughed, and I could tell that she was laughing at me. I stared at her in astonishment. Why was she laughing? Wasn't she the one who was afraid of the dark?

To my dismay, the rest of the kids began laughing, too. I felt hurt. Why didn't they take me seriously?

But then I saw what they were laughing at. I looked down to see Mitsy, my black cat, serenely walking out of the closet, through the various childrens' legs, and out the door.

I would never be afraid of the dark again.

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In The Closet
By Larry Hooten
lmhooten@myexcel.com

#2 of 13

He lay alone, motionless, in the closet. He had no idea how long it had been. There was a time when he had been free, playing in the sweet sunlight, without a care in the world. Those were the days! He had often been taken on family vacations, on trips to museums and theme parks, and almost daily on magnificent backyard adventures! He had witnessed wonders large and small, from the Grand Canyon to the World's Largest Ball of String. He had adventured hanging beneath a great delta wing while the ground fell away beneath him. He had been the focus of Harry's attention back then, and every new discovery was pointed out to him with a magical sense of excitement. Now he lay among the dust bunnies, his head twisted at an odd angle, his right arm turned behind his back.

At least he didn't hurt, though, not like the day Harry had fallen on him, breaking his arm during that stunt with the bike. He had never thought of Harry as irresponsible, even though Harry's great size in comparison to him was often the cause of many of his troubles. But that was years ago, when he was still an important part of Harry's life. Lately, it seemed as if he had been completely forgotten. He couldn't imagine what had happened to put him in his current predicament. The light beneath the closet door was fading now, would he spend yet another night alone and unrecognized?

What crime had he committed? He could not remember a time in which he had done other than what Harry had required of him. He had been given fresh clothing, but only as Harry had determined his needs. And he had never, ever been hungry. He had occasionally been allowed to play all day, fighting with valor on countless fields of honor, facing childish villains and monsters, and coming away laden with glory and honor, but never had he imagined that Harry of all people could become the kind of monster seen on the evening news. Now all his experience counted for nothing. He laid there, seemingly forgotten, victim of the one who had once loved and cared for him over all others! His face was turned up, had been for uncounted ages, staring with glazed eyes at shirts and pants, coats and sweaters that hung on the hangars above him.

Oh, to be free to leave this place of darkness! Sounds penetrated the closet door, small rustlings and low voices signaled that rescue was heartbreakingly close, but as he was unable to move or make any sound, he could not attract the necessary attention. The bedroom light snapped on, illuminating the crack at the bottom of the door, and Harry's heavy tread approached. Would he remember their old camaraderie and forgive whatever he had done and let him out of this terrible place of darkness? When would his punishment end?

The door opened! Light flooded into his darkness. Harry's visage loomed large above him. But rescue was not on Harry's agenda today. He only reached out, grabbed a jacket, and turned. Walking away and leaving the door open, he left one small lonely presence unregarded once again. Harry wasn't even concerned that he might escape! He lay face up, his head twisted at an odd angle, his right arm turned behind his back. Harry hadn't considered his plight at all. He hadn't cared if the door was open or closed, he didn't even care that he was unable to move so much as a fingertip in his current circumstance. Harry hadn't even glanced in his direction as he lay there, prostrate before him. What kind of monster had Harry become? Hours passed. His lonely soldier's vigil continued. He had never been one for thinking. Perhaps it was better that way. This sort of abandonment could drive a thoughtful person insane. Instead he simply let time flow on in its own inimitable way.

Eventually, Harry returned. But now instead of picking him up and telling him all about his adventures, Harry picked up the phone and began talking to someone called Susan. Had he been replaced? Was there to be no rescue at all? What of all the legions of darkness that needed vanquishing? What about the military parades, with his GI Joe insignia showing proudly on his chest? Would there be no more backyard adventures?

He lay alone, motionless, in the closet. He had no idea how long it had been. There was a time when he had been free, playing in the sweet sunlight, without a care in the world. But those days were gone forever. He was now simply another toy tossed carelessly in the closet.

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In The Closet
By Denise Mallas
denisemallas@hotmail.com

#3 of 13

You can close the door again,
but already you have seen
what hides in there,
quiet and unwanted.

You know that you can go in,
alone without the eyes of family and friends,
their judgments and their bitterness.
But even you must tiptoe,
careful not to see too much,
fearing how you might react.

But your daughter is there,
Wanting to come out,
hoping to have you beside her,
fearful of your rejection,
needing your love.

You look around to see
that no one else is there.
You open the heavy door,
ready to see your child inside.
You sit down next to her,
on the cold, bare floor
and look into her face.

There are tears in her eyes.
She is sorry to be who she is.
Her face is turned downward,
still trying to hide her self.
You stand up and then reach down
and take her trembling hand,
pull her up to stand level to you.

You can see her clearly now,
the person she truly is.
And you unexpectedly understand
that her love for a woman
and her need to have that woman
as a lifetime partner
does not change your love for her.

You put your arm around her,
and nudge her toward that door
as you and your child
come out of the closet
together.

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In The Closet
By B. Miller
arethronok@yahoo.com

#4 of 13
Winner

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In The Closet
By Tom Campbell
topcat@spiritone.com

#5 of 13

In the closet of our dreams a musty odor emerges. Nearly forgotten fantasies of what we could have been, what we would like to be, lie mouldering in dark corners, high shelves, or mothballed in hard to open drawers. Each dream, when chosen for reexamination, must be dusted off, polished, washed, and scrutinized under the stringent light of the closet's bare bulb, to see if it is still the same, has become discolored, or even emanates the same bittersweet aroma it used to have. We free them at random the from the dregs of the silent closet to be rejuvenated in the warm sunlight, bonding with that joy of being in another place, doing something else, with all the attendant utopian happiness. Despite the melancholy ignored fact in our peripheral vision, that these dreams will forever go unrealized, we need them as a means of chameleon escape into the otherworld of our projecting persona, giddy and confident, whirling in the rush of a cinemascope fairytale, buoyed for the moment to shed our skin. Alas other duties arise, other thoughts crowd in, and so the dreams are hurriedly and regretfully tossed back, in the closet.

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In The Closet
By Susan Culver
sculver@fone.net

#6 of 13

(Based on a true story.)

His first memories were of shoes. Old shoes, faintly fragrant still from long gone summer days. New shoes, smooth to the touch and leather scented, seeming to call for sunlight as they waited beside him in that closet. There were other things too, dust and fabric. Clothing on hangers above his head, some hanging low enough so that, if he stood, he could feel the silks and cottons upon the fingers of his left hand, while with his right he clutched his bottle and took a drink now and then. And sometimes he could hear Momma's voice, her clear laugh and her delicate whisper and the deeper tones of her male companion. There were moments when her footsteps came so close to the door that he could see the shadow of them in the thin light streaming beneath it. Those were the happy, hopeful moments in his life; the times in which he was so sure that the door would open. That he'd blink through the bright and see her standing there, a smile would travel across her beautiful face and for just that instant, with the male companion gone away, she'd want only him.

"You've been such a good boy," she would whisper then, with arms waiting to hold him. Perhaps he'd be scooped up into those arms, she'd change his pants and fill his bottle, so kind and caring with every deed. She would hold him close then, and whisper in his ear. She would call him her precious secret, would tell him how close they were to getting out of this place and going somewhere better than this.

Sometimes it happened this way, other times it did not. Other times, the door would be flung open and his arm would be grasped. He'd be pulled from the darkness without any warning. His bottle would be carelessly tossed from his grasp and, while his pants were still changed, it would be in a rough manner punctuated by scolding.

"When you gonna stop messing your pants?" She'd demand to know during these times. "When you gonna give up that bottle?" These questions, unanswered of course, were followed often by reminders of his age - nearly four years old. Reminders punctuated by cursing. He was not so precious a secret then, but a burden that she was forced to bear. "Not ready to be a Momma," she'd mutter and then she'd do the very worst thing of all. She would be silent. She would angrily walk away to fix some dinner for the two of them, and she would not say a word during the cooking or eating of it. He would try to cajole her from this state with every cute little boy mannerism he could think of, but the end was always the same. The closet again, the click of the lock. New shoes on her feet tapping across tile and the slamming of the front door.

He grew to hate that closet. He wished she'd hurry up and take him to a better place, though he could not even imagine what that place might be. Anything would be better than this, he thought. Until...

Until one day when the door was opened once more, and this time it wasn't Momma's lamplit face staring back at him, but a strange face he'd never seen. He could hear Momma crying on the bed. And the stranger, while not being so rough as Momma was sometimes, was not too gentle about pulling him out either. "Why'd you do it?" The stranger asked Momma while lifting him from the floor. Momma was crying and he began to cry too, trying to fight his way out of these unfamiliar arms.

"I couldn't afford a baby-sitter," Momma explained through her tears. "I didn't have anyone to help me. I locked the door so he wouldn't get into nothin' while I was out. It was just for a little while."

The stranger grew silent then - that same silent anger that Momma, herself, sometimes wore - and began to carry him toward the door. "Don't you understand?" Momma cried out after him. "I had no other choice."

Children should not be locked in closets. That's what the stranger said, and took him to a home where a lady lived. The lady had lots of kids, they ran all over that house. He was set on the couch and the lady moved in close with a smile too wide and asked him if he wanted to run too.

He didn't know how to run. His legs never worked that way. What he wanted now was his bottle. Where did his bottle go? Seems he had it when the stranger lifted him up but by the time they made it to the car, it was gone. His tongue found the place on his teeth, the smooth groove that bottle had made, and he sat with his tongue pressed against his teeth and didn't say a word to that lady or any of her many kids. He was angry like Momma now, this lady was the burden he was forced to bear. He spied a small door on the opposite edge of the room, and he spent his time wondering what was on the other side. He could see in his mind a small and dark space. With shoes on the floor, clothing overhead. He longed for his bottle and a chance to sit in there where things weren't so bright and where there was still a chance that, the next time that door opened up, Momma would be on the other side with a smile for her precious secret.

He went back home to Momma for awhile, but all had changed. He wasn't in the closet, but she wasn't happy either. Not ever. She was tired and silent all the time, and sometimes he'd catch her watching him with a strange and sad expression on her face. The day came when she took him by the hand and they walked from the apartment together. They were going some place better, he decided, and anticipation filled his heart.

To a small church they walked and up a long row of stairs. "Sit down," she whispered and pointed to the top step. Obediently he sat, and smiled up at her in the sunshine. Without remembering to smile back, Momma turned and walked down those steps once more. She must have forgotten something more than her smile, surely she'd come back soon. He hummed the song he'd often heard her singing, and his tongue found that familiar groove. He rocked himself back and forth on that step and imagined that it was she who was rocking him. She...

She never looked back. She never said goodbye. Daylight faded, a car drove up. The stranger stepped out and walked towards him.

"Well, at least she tried," the stranger said in consolation while buckling him in the back seat of the car, but the sound of those words said so much more than the words themselves. Momma never tried hard enough the be the kind of Momma he needed.

Years went by and those grooved teeth came out. New ones took their place, and a new Momma replaced the old one as well. Life was a series of strange faces in a sea of brightness, always telling him to run. He didn't know how to run. Even now, he misses his bottle, and the smell of new leather shoes. He misses the Momma he once had, the one who was happy sometimes. He still hears her song in his memory, and imagines the shadow of her feet in a small stream of light. And when he thinks of it this way, it always fills him with that same old hope. The hope of something wonderful and worth waiting for just outside the closet.

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In The Closet
By Loretta A. Stradley
readlorey875@hotmail.com
www.issues-mag.com

#7 of 13

The muffled noises woke Samuel from his sleep. Sitting up, the boy stared at the closet. It must be getting hungry he thought to himself. He heard the thing moving around and growling low tones. Lying back down, Samuel went back to sleep.

The next morning Samuel found the watch on the closet floor. It was smashed into a million pieces as if someone had whacked it with a big rock. Sam fretted! What was he going to tell Mother? He didn't break that darned thing. That thing in the closet did. But Mother would never believe him. She never did!

He heard her coming up the stairs. He started to perspire! Now what was he going to do? She would ask about the watch and he would have to tell her what happened. He would have to tell her the thing in the closet did it.

Sam remembered the last time he told her the thing in the closet did it. He remembered the angry look in her eyes when he told her that he hadn't killed his brother. It was the thing in the closet. He felt the belt on his back slamming into his pasty white skin like long cigarette burns. She beat him so bad that time he couldn't walk for two days.

He fretted! Dang it but he was sick of Mother! She never believed him about anything. All Sam ever got was the belt and she called him the most awful things!

He listened to his mother's heavy breathing. He listened to her heavy footfalls. Someone that big had trouble getting around.

Sam went over to the closet and leaned against the closed door. He could hear the thing in the closet moving around. He also could feel the anticipation. Somehow the thing in the closet knew what Sam wanted. He never had to say anything!

The door to his room flew open. Mother stood in the doorway, strings of faded blonde hair hanging in her face. Her eyes were full of anger and hate. Her full lips stretched into a thin line of disgust.

"Where is your brother's pocket watch Samuel?" she yelled.

Opening the closet door Sam pointed to the floor of the closet. There laid the watch in minute pieces, bits of wire and glass imbedded into the rug on the closet floor.

"The thing in the closet did it, Mother! Not me! I didn't do it!"

Her eyes got meaner looking and her cheeks became redder. Her anger pulsed over him like the waves of an ocean. She stormed to the closet and faced her son inches from his face. Her breath reeked of alcohol.

"You worthless murderous wretch! I will show you that there isn't anything in the closet! You are to blame, not some stupid fairy tale!" she said.

She walked into the closet and bent down to pick up the smashed watch. As soon as she was all the way in Sam slammed the door shut and locked it!

"Samuel, open this door immediately!" Mother yelled.

Sam walked backwards to his bed watching the door, listening to her pounding on the door and calling him all sorts of bad names. He heard one wild high-pitched shriek and then his mother's bloodcurdling scream! The police wouldn't believe the thing in the closet existed either but Sam didn't care anymore.

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In The Closet
© 2002 Christine James
christine.james@loconotion.com

#8 of 13

They had to move out in the end. They all looked a bit pale and relieved when they got into their shiny blue sedan at the end of the driveway. I heard the squealing of tyres as the car u-turned and sped off after the removals van. Thank God they were gone! They were sickening, with their snotty nosed kids always yelling and shouting. Drawing on the walls and climbing out of windows. Ridiculous! Not the kind of children who should be in a house like this. For goodness sake, I’ve been here since people left calling cards on the hallstand, took tea in the pagoda and dressed for dinner. I know how people should behave, and it’s not like this latest lot. Or the one’s before that, or even before them. There hasn’t been a decently behaved family here since the Winchesters. And even then, things changed, things happened. And why? Because nobody seems to care what’s hidden in their closets…

But enough of that. The past is past, and a good thing too.

With this last lot the woman was as bad as the kids. Actually, that’s not true, because although the children were hooligans, they were innocent. I felt it was my duty to protect them, as obnoxious as they were. The woman… well it makes me shudder to think about her. Entertaining her friends to tea with all the airs and graces of a Duchess, dressing up to the nines, speaking in her oh-so-proper plumby accent about how ‘one’ should be charitable, bullying the housemaid until she cried, and then sneaking out to the potting shed to have it off with the gardener! Now there’s a charitable act! She thought no one knew, but who did she think she was fooling? Not her husband - who chose to ignore it. Not the gardener, who told the maid, who told the other maids working in the street, who told their employers, who sniggered behind her back at the pretentious tea parties. The children even knew she was up to something, but they didn’t know what. Poor little souls - no wonder they were so impossible. And of course, I saw it all. I saw everything she did and she didn’t know I existed.

As for the man, and I use the term loosely...well, suffice to say that you could almost understand why his wife went after the gardener. He liked to talk about his terribly important job. Something to do with terribly important finance and terribly important foreign investment. If here were asked to describe himself he would no doubt say, “I am terribly important”. He'd come home after seven with his briefcase and his newspaper, read the financial pages from start to finish - now, that I admire him for. What unimportant person could have that kind of dedication to a newspaper? He’d work on his computer all evening, analysing stocks and shares, grunting over graphs and spreadsheets. Then as soon as everyone else went to bed, he’d carry right on grunting - but not over his graphs and spreadsheets any more. Oh no - as soon as he heard the bedroom door click closed he’d take off his glasses, undo his shirt and within a few mouse clicks, he’d be in the online chat rooms looking for women! He called himself “wonderboy” and described himself as six foot four with blue eyes, dark hair and big feet. The he’d add, “Well you do know what they say about men with big feet…” If he managed to ‘meet’ someone gullible enough to swallow all that codswallop the talk would soon turn to sex and he'd sit up until four or five in the morning, sweating and panting over the keyboard. Grunt, grunt, grunt.

He didn’t know I was watching him because he didn’t know I existed.

Eventually I couldn’t stop myself. There’s just so much that anyone can sit by and watch. There’s just so much anyone can take. Maybe if they’d found me it would have been different. Maybe if someone had remembered me all those years ago. Too many maybes I’m afraid.

I started slowly. The computer would mysteriously switch off in the middle of the man’s cybersex sessions. At first he cursed Bill Gates. That annoyed me considerably. It’s amazing how much is attributed to Bill Gates, when actually you’d be surprised who’s really responsible. He stopped blaming Bill Gates when the books started to fly out of the bookcase, the paperweight hit him on the head, and the glass on the monitor cracked.

I was so satisfied with the state of his jellied nerves that I couldn’t stop. I began to build it up so that the whole household was affected - not just Mr unimportant. I messed with the electrical appliances first, turning off the oven while the Sunday beef was roasting, switching on the washing machine in the middle of the night. Then I started moving furniture around, knocking pictures off the walls, throwing china off the shelves. I protected the children though. Even when they clattered around the house shrieking at each other, I never did anything to hurt them. If only they’d found me things may have been different.

My favourite trick was at three one morning. I lined up wine glasses on the dining table, poured a little water into each of them and used the handle of a knife to strike each of them in turn, their chimes blending together into a tune…

“Just wanna be … your Teddy Bear
Put a chain around my neck and lead me anywhere…”

I played it over and over again until the lights went on in the bedrooms and I heard voices “what’s that?” “what’s happening?”, and then I swept the whole lot onto the floor. The crash was very satisfying. I hoped they’d find me after that, but they didn’t. They just panicked.

The next morning the woman attacked the maid again. That's when I started to get really personal. The doctors assumed that her husband had beaten her and reported him to the police.

Even after that they tried to hold on. They brought in their priests and their psychologists, they even called the police - but in the end they had to sell the house. They didn't take me with them of course, because they didn’t know I was there.

After all, who would bother to look into the back of a dusty dark closet to find a dirty, tattered grey teddy bear that time and a long ago child had forgotten?

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In The Cupboard
By parit_patel@hotmail.com

#9 of 13

All was quiet on the street. Not a passing car. Not a flicker of streetlight. Even the cats of the neighborhood had slunk into dank corners to rest. The moon did not shine, and thin clouds covered the stars.
Every member of every house in every small semi-detached bedroom slept soundly. All babies were fed, all televisions turned off.
The pale door of number 119 was closed, tight and strong. The heavy bolts were secured, front and back. All windows, closed. Inside the house all was calm. George slept soundly on his bed. Warm and snug under the large and expensive duvet given to him by his dad. His was the master bedroom. He deserved it he had argued. He had moved in before his older brother after all.

Two rooms down on the right slept the brother, Anthony. He had wanted the bigger room and even argued for it a while, but as always he conceded. His lot was not too bad though, he reasoned. His room was still big, and, while his blankets never felt as nice as his sibling’s he never felt cold.

Like all other houses on West Tepeten Cresent all was quiet in number 119. Downstairs, past the dark carpeted passage and into the well furnished living room though, the light was still on. An absent minded mistake by a determined little brother.
In this room, with the lights still on, stood a cupboard tall and sturdy. In the cupboard where the light couldn’t penetrate was an accident waiting to happen.

After a short spat between George and his brother earlier over who got to study where in the house, both brothers had stormed off in different directions. Anthony had stayed upstairs to work in the study, George had gathered his textbooks, notepads, pens and markers and carried them downstairs, throwing them down onto the coffee table in the lounge. He tried for a little while to work, he even surprised himself by finding some creative insights for his dissertation. Ultimately though, he knew when to give up. Unwilling to face his brother in the study, he exasperatingly threw his books into the strong and sturdy cupboard and stamped his feet on every step up into his bedroom.

These books were the trigger for the events that were to unfold that very night.
These books now balanced on the edge of a high shelf, inside that strong and sturdy cupboard, inside the living room with all the lights still on. Slowly, inexorably even, the thick paperback on top tipped over the edge.
It fell heavily catching a set of crystal tumblers on the shelf below, careening one into another till they began to roll off too. In one jarring crash fell book and tumbler to the floor. Shattering delicate pieces of valuable crystal. Falling so heavily so as to force the cupboard door so ever slightly ajar.

In his bed, in the smaller bedroom, Anthony awoke with a start. His nostrils flared, his eyes widened with sudden fear as he registered the noise from below. He fumbled over his bedside cabinet to find the switch for his bedside lamp. He blinked quickly against the light while his roving hand searched for his spectacles. Finding them too, he sat quietly, listening for something other than his rapid heart-beat. He heard a noise and jerked quickly before realizing that he could hear his brother in his room.
Gathering a plain blue t-shirt he moved quickly to the door, opening it slowly and peeking through the gap. Outside, where the lights were still of, George was leant over the banister trying to discern any shapes below. Anthony eased open his door a little more and slid out to join him.

“Did you hear that too,” whispered Anthony nervously, stating the obvious.

George looked at him quickly then looked down again before nodding in affirmation. “It came from the living room,” said George quietly.

“Are you su…,” started Anthony before catching a hard stare from his brother. He faltered slightly, his mouth gaping before he continued, “what do you think it is?”

George didn’t answer at first. His mouth tightened into an attempt at a grimace. Narrowing his eyes, he turned to Anthony, “I didn’t leave that light on,” he paused for effect, “someone must’ve turned it on.”

A ripple of panic rushed through Anthony and he took a deep breath to try and calm himself a little. He did not like conflicts of any kind, he quite candidly admitted to be afraid of them on many occasions. He leant onto the banister for support, trying hard to remain composed in case whatever was downstairs heard them. He looked across at George and realized that he held something in his grip. Leaning back to get a better view he saw that his brother held a large baseball bat just as you would a knife. His fingers working the grip; squeezing and loosening. Feeling slight more reassured with his brother’s foresight into their safety, Anthony relaxed a little.

“What do we do?.” asked Anthony in a quavering voice.

George opened his mouth to reply just as another book fell in the cupboard. Anthony yelped and jumped behind George at the sudden crash. When silence was assured he tried to scratch his nose and brush down his t-shirt as if nothing had happened. George paid no attention and focused once more on trying to catch some shadows down below.

“I think we should go down.” Stated George, not turning around.

Anthony tried quietly to say no in many ways. “Let’s call the police, we’ve got a phone upstairs,” he urged, “please George. I don’t want to go downstairs.”

George looked at him as one would a disobedient child for a moment before softening his face slightly, “if we call the cops, they’ll come in with their sirens on. Whoever’s downstairs will then try and hold us hostage.” He waiting for Anthony to understand, seeing his brother’s fear deepen, he continued, “if we go down now we can surprise them. Take them out and then call the cops when it’s safe.” He placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder reassuringly and knew then that Anthony would help him.

“I’m s-s-scared George,” shook Anthony.
“yeah me too bro,” whispered George, “but we’ve got to do this yeah?”

George squeezed the hand on his brothers shoulder and waited for Anthony to nod. “ok, you go first,” said George easing Anthony in front of him, “I’ll be right behind you with the bat.”

“W-w-wait,” panicked Anthony, “I-I don’t want to go first. George, I-I…”

“If you go first,” interjected George quietly, “I can cover you from behind in case whoever that is tries to jump you. If you’re behind me and they manage to get me down, we’re both goners yeah?”

In his agitated state, Anthony accepted this logic and shuffled, despite his reservations to the head of the staircase. Working his way slowly down, step by step Anthony reached the bottom. Stopping at the foots of the staircase, he squeaked once more as George bumped into him. He turned round and found George staring at him accusingly. Putting a finger to his lips, George motioned with one hand for Anthony to move towards the living room door. Once there, they both stopped.

Leaning over, George whispered into his brother’s ear, “ok, on three, open the door and run in.” He narrowed his eyes and nodded in question. Anthony’s eyes widened and he leant back slightly, shaking his head rapidly from side to side. George narrowed his eyes further, and gripped Anthony’s shoulder painfully tightly. Nodding again, he didn’t release his grip till Anthony nodded.
Moving to the opposite side of the door, George pointed to the door handle. Anthony extended his shaking hand, wincing slightly as he reached it. George rolled his shoulders before nodding rapidly. Holding a hand up in front of Anthony’s face, he extended one finger…two fingers…three fingers and took a slight step forward before catching himself.
Anthony stood breathing heavily. The door remained close. George scowled fiercely and mouthed, “come on!!” Holding Anthony’s eyes until he nodded again.
Lifting his spare hand, George made a fist in front of Anthony’s face and extended one finger…two fingers…three!
Anthony twisted the handle and pushed the door open before feeling his brothers hand shove him into the room roughly. Stumbling over his own feet, he tripped and fell into the space behind the sofa opposite the cupboard.
George meanwhile had run into the room screaming and swinging his bat wildly round his head like a child hoping to hit something. When he had made no contact he stopped and took check of the situation around him. He scanned the room looking for any signs of intrusion before realizing that he couldn’t see his brother.

“Anthony!,” no response, “Anthony, are you ok?”

He caught some motion in his peripheral vision and he whipped round, bat at the ready. Anthony peeped over the edge of the sofa, “is anyone in here?”

George lowered the bat slightly and circled the room, “I don’t see anyone.”
The room was silent as the brothers started to relax a little. Another book fell in the cupboard and George took a flying leap over the back of the sofa to hide with his brother.

As the crash subsided, and silence settled again, George peeled his brother off his shoulder and peeked over the edge of the sofa.

“the noise came from the cupboard,” he stated, dropping back down.

Anthony gibbered with fear as George planned their next step of action. He breathed in deeply as realization hit him.

“shit. I know who it is,” he whispered to his brother, not waiting for a reply, “dad was telling me about him.”

“w-w-w-who?”

“some guy is trying to sue dad for damages or something,” he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, “it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“w-w-w-wha..”

“the guy’s a midget,” he paused, “dad said he was being threatened by a midget trying to sue him.”

“d-d-d’you think he’….”

“He’s the only one who can fit in that cupboard . Dad said he thought the freak was dangerous.,” George took a deep breath and muttered softly, “and now he’s come for us.”

He looked over at his brother and noted the fear in his eyes, “it’s ok Anthony, I’ve got an idea.” Shuffling over, he pressed the bat into his chest, “here take this.”

Anthony didn’t move. Seeing that his sibling had frozen with panic, George reached over and put one of Anthony’s hand on the bat before patting him on the shoulder and moving back. Anthony held the bat limply.

“I’ll going to try and sneak out without making any noise,” Anthony didn’t respond for a moment before his nostrils flared and he shook his head fiercely. George grabbed at the hand that Anthony had stretched out to try and stop him with and gave him a stern stare. “Listen to me,” he whispered, “I’ve got an idea. It’ll be ok. Just stay here.” Throwing Anthony’s hand down roughly he started to back away.

Dropping to the floor, he slithered out of the room on his belly as would a child playing war games.

Anthony cowered behind the sofa in a heightened sense of panic. His every sense strained to hear for any noise. His taut mind misinterpreted everything thing his body told him and in the silence he slowly convinced himself that he could hear another’s breathing. He gripped the bat tightly to his chest and prayed to the god he knew was on their side.

Without warning George threw himself into the room and Anthony screamed in blind fear. “Anthony!,” roared George, “it’s me. Quickly get up and stand behind me.”

Anthony froze, shocked at what he saw. George had stripped down to the waist and was holding a large shotgun in both hands.

“Anthony,” shouted George again, “quickly!”

Anthony scrambled up and raced to get behind George. Gripping both of George’s shoulders with his hands, Anthony stood shaking behind him. He recognized the shotgun as their father’s and for an inappropriate moment he felt cheated as his brother had promised him that he no longer possessed that destructive weapon. For that moment though, he did not mind. He felt protected.

“I could hear him breathing George”

George nodded. “Ok you tiny bastard,” screamed George at the strong and sturdy cupboard, “come out with your hands where I can see them. I’ve got a gun so don’t try anything stupid.”

A few minutes passed and the cupboard had not responded.

“He’s not coming out George.”

George tried to brush Anthony away, before he attempted a threat, “I’m going to give you till three. If you don’t come out. I will shoot you!”

“G-g-george,” quavered Anthony, “you can’t shoot him, Geo..”

“I’ll do what I have to do to protect us”

The cupboard did not respond.

“ONE!”

Anthony cowered, moaning softly.

“TWO!”

Anthony covered his ears and squeezed shut his eyes.

“THREE!”

Anthony screamed. The cupboard did not respond. George did not shoot.

When realization dawned upon him that no shots had been fired Anthony stopped screaming. Standing up and opening his eyes he half expected to see a midget with his hands up in the air. The cupboard doors remained closed and George still pointed the gun.

“h-h-h-he didn’t come out?”

George shook his head.

“so w-w-w-what now?”

At that moment. A inopportune moment as any that night that last book teetered on the edge and toppled. Spinning through the air in the space between the door and the shelf it fell. It caught the shelf below and tossed the last of the tumblers about before hitting the door and falling to the floor. The door, hit by one last book, had opened enough for the spring-loaded hinges to react and swung open fully. All of this happened in a split second.
George reacted.
Letting loose a primal scream of hatred he pulled the trigger and fired and fired and fired again into the cupboard. Each cacophonic shot thundered into each and every item in the cupboard. Shattering glass, wood and delicate delicate crystal.

All shots spent, all voice exhausted, George lowered the gun.

In all the houses nearby on West Tepeten Cresent, lights began to come on. The baby next door started to cry and the neighborhood cats began to howl and prowl once more. In our house, number 119, in the living room where the lights were still on Anthony dropped the bat. All around him in the cobalt blue smoke floated little bits of essay paper. His face was covered in tiny splinters of wood and glass. All over the floor, their crystal tumblers lay in tiny shards. Too small to even catch the light.

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In The Closet
By H J. Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com

#10 of 13
Runner-up

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In The Closet
By Ayodeji Aboderin
ayo_abod@yahoo.com

#11 of 13

There is a man I know, a more mysterious one you never saw. Though a perfect gentleman he is, his life is a wonder to many because he’s a different breed. When times are hard, and men are just getting by, then he’s out there giving away the little he’s got. He’s never perturbed by the times nor is he moved by adversity. He has an inner peace and calm that is uncanny, infact when the going gets tough, then he gets a-going. When men are saying there’s a casting down, then he’s saying there’s a lifting up.

This one is a wise one, full of wisdom and grace, the words from his lips are like cold water to a thirsty soul. So, drawn to him like a magnet, I met him and asked him the secret of his confidence, he smiled and said “ it’s in the closet”. In the closet? I asked. “Yeah, the closet”, he answered with a far away look in his eyes. “My Closet is a place of communion with God, times spent in the closet are times of refreshing and sweet fellowship with the Father. There I get to pour out my heart before the great King. It’s there in the closet that I settle all the issues of life, there I can cast all my cares and burdens unto God in prayer. That is where I can lay bare all my fears, my pains, my struggles, my secrets and my dreams, I can take them all to Him in the closet, that is where I get to be me. I bare all in His prescence, naked before my maker. There in the closet I stand, pouring out my heart, telling him where it hurts and always he answers me and says “fear not, my child behold I make all things well for you”.

“I wouldn’t trade time spent in the closet with all the riches in this world because in there He empowers me, emboldens me, strengthens me and assures me of success, of peace and joy, of victory won cheaply. Those things you can’t buy with money, it comes from divine providence and you can request them, up there in the closet. It is a place of prayer, a place of power with God, a place of battles fought and won, a place of divine assurance of victory in the journey of life”. As he spoke, there was this glow on his face, he was visibly translated and his face shone gloriously. I could picture him back there in his closet, laughing, crying, praying, talking to the Greater One he spoke of. I could see what he meant, this indeed was a special closet, not of shoes or clothes, but one of a sweet smelling incence, of propinquity with divinity, of a father-child relationship. And in that instant I coveted that closet experience. Can I come with you to your closet? I asked him, unsure of his response, unwilling to intrude into such warmth of closeness but desiring the closet experience more than ever.

He had this deep, sober look on his face when he turned to me and said “Yes,you may come into the closet with me but you have to know Him who commissioned the closet. He is the strong and breasted One, the One who saves your soul. Yes indeed, you may come because He wants for you to come. He has given a free invitation to whosoever wills to come”. He said “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give rest”, “I have paid the price for your unworthiness, if you will come to me, I will give you a new life, I will qualify you for the overcoming life”.

If you will, you can come into the closet with me, just ask the Master of the closet to come into your heart, make Him the Lord of your life. Today if you His voice, pay attention to what He has to say, hearken dilligently to His words and follow Him, then you too can have your own private, precious little closet, a closet of your very own just like me and if He meets you in that closet today, He will give you too the ability to reign as a king in this life. Now, are you ready to build your own closet? He’s waiting for you”.

Home

In The Closet
By Michael Upchurch
nurpu2002@yahoo.com

#12 of 13

He can see his star now. The setting sun has cleared a path, and in its wake a bright speck of green glitter shines just above the tree line to the west. His star is always the first one out, basking in the rays of the setting sun in defiance and casting its peculiar green light onto the clearing in which he stands. The bright green grass under his feet seems to glow in the image of that star, as if growing towards its light. Clouds are gathering in the eastern sky. They are dark and malevolent but somehow the sun has managed to frost their cosmic curves with its deep orange light. Night follows the clouds as they tear across the clearing towards his star.

Savage rain falls and drenches him, like shards of glass piercing his soul, and his heart soaks up the water and begins to drown. The clouds engulf his star and it is dark except for the shimmering rain. He is staring at the sky and soon he is screaming her name. His voice is pleading and painful, broken and crushed; his heart seems to gasp for air but it is drowning. There are never replies, only rain upon his eyes.

“Kate.”

“……..aaaaaaaaate!” and he wakes up screaming her name and gasping for breath. The dream is just as real every time and leaves its scars, one after another, deep inside.

*****

Among the many explanations he’d received, only one made sense to Plato. A particular doctor, Dr. Plaquered, had told him that he experienced a violent instance of trauma. When this occurred, his brain protected itself by storing information somewhere it would not be damaged. Basically, his brain moved all his memories into a room and locked the door. The task was finding the key so his consciousness could retrieve his identity. Dr. Plaquered told him this six months ago and so far there were no signs of any keys.

As far as amnesia goes, his case was extremely severe. Plato couldn’t remember anything. He had no name, no friends, no relatives, no job - no life. His current doctor proclaimed how proud he should be to have retained his sanity for the past six months. But Plato knew that was slipping too.

Dr. Plaquered told him he needed a name. So, after some deliberation, he looked on the bookshelves and saw Plato’s Republic and decided Plato would be a great name. Ironically, Plato’s philosophy, called Platonism, deals with the concept that the real world is made up of the unseen things we perceive in our mind, our thoughts and ideas, instead of physical objects seen through one’s eyes. Plato had many “unseen” thoughts in his mind. Unfortunately he did not “perceive” them, so he started to think the world he was living in was not quite real.

*****

The hallway stretches out in front of him as far as he can see until it finally disappears into the dark. Glossy, dark wood panels line the walls and ceiling. Ornate crystal chandeliers cast an eerie, dim yellow light across ancient cobwebs and piles of dust that gather on the floor or float through the dank air. Doors line the right wall. They are spaced evenly apart and continue down the hall as far as he can see.

He walks forward towards the first door. The floorboards scream with each footstep and a chandelier spins slowly, moving prisms of light across the walls. He reaches towards the golden doorknob without any hesitation, without any fear, as if this is his own home and he knows what lies beyond. The door is locked. He steps back and notices a silver plaque with an inscription, embedded in the door.

Walk amongst these shaded halls,
you know not what you seek.
Imprisoned between illusory walls,
because you are so weak.
You will never hear their calls.
Just lay down and go to sleep.

Comfort is slowly replaced by panic and this place begins to feel as haunted as it looks. The next door is locked as well, as is the next, and the one after. He follows the hall, trying every door, until he comes upon a door on the left wall. The door opens, but it is only a closet. There is a coat rack with several coats, a shelf and a mop in a bucket. He looks between the coats and runs his hands along the shelf above, then closes the door and continues down the hall.

He walks for miles and the hall never changes and every door is locked. He has passed many doors on the left wall and they are all closets containing the same things. Finally, he is exhausted and the panic is replaced by defeat. He lays down against the wall and his head thumps against the hollow wooden floor. As he drifts away he thinks of the inscription - Just lay down and go to sleep.

*****

‘This is where it all falls apart. I’ve had it,’ Plato thought as he pushed himself up off the floor. He was sleeping in the hall of his apartment building, right outside his door. The pulsing fluorescent light burned his eyes as he stood and looked around. His back felt like it was broken and there were marks, from the carpet, embedded in his face. The door to his apartment was locked so he assumed he never made it inside after work. In fact he wasn’t sure he made it to work. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep.

To make things worse, Plato couldn’t find his keys. He was locked out. Suddenly he had a strange feeling of déjà vu and cautiously looked both ways down the hall. Nobody was there and it was too quiet, as if the building was empty. For some reason he panicked, and knew he would go crazy right there if he didn’t get into his apartment. So he beat furiously on the door, as if someone would open it for him, and when he realized how stupid that was he lined up across the hall and lunged at the door, slamming his shoulder against it with all his weight. The door cracked and ripped open. Plato’s momentum carried him inside and he tripped as he came towards the kitchen counter. The edge of the counter rushed towards his face and he heard the terrible thud as his skull slammed against it.

When Plato woke he was no longer in his apartment on the kitchen floor, where his memory told him he should be. Instead, he was in a great, old, dusty wooden hall. ‘This is a dream. I got it. Don’t panic,’ Plato assured himself. The floor creaked as he got to his feet. There was a door in front of him and he reached for it’s golden knob. Trembling, he turned the knob. CLICK, the sound echoed through the hall like a gun as the knob came to a stop. Plato stepped back and saw the plaque with the inscription on it. As he read the words the memory of the hall flooded back to him and he screamed her name with all his strength. His voice reverberated off the walls and it was so loud he had to cover his ears.

Plato began to walk, finding that all the doors on the right were still locked, and all the doors on the left opened into closets. Once again, he exhausted himself and decided to go to sleep. The hall had grown cold though, and he could see each breath leave his lips. He would freeze, which might not be such a bad thing, if he lay down on the floor to sleep so he made his way to the next closet and closed himself inside. In the dark, Plato drifted away.

When Plato awoke, he was standing in the horrible hallway looking at another horrible door with a plaque embedded in it.

The purest things found anywhere,
a fleeting smile,
a forlorn stare.
Come back to light,
If you dare,
And walk not another mile.

Plato cautiously reached out and turned the knob. This had to be it, the way out, and the door opened……….into another closet. Plato turned and plowed into the door across the hall. His shoulder cracked and fell out of the socket, but the door held tight. He tried to stomp the door in, like the police when they raid a house, and he heard his ankle crack. The door didn’t budge. Plato turned to the other shoulder and threw himself against the door. He felt a bone break in his arm and his shoulder twist out of its socket. Finally Plato faced the door, ran straight at it and brought his knee up and forehead down when he hit it. His knee shattered and his skull split but this time the door gave and he plowed through.

Plato landed face first. Silver spots flashed, began to fade to black and his eyelids started to close, but he managed to fight it off. There was dirt in his mouth, and as his vision cleared he saw he was face down in grass. Everything was spinning, but he could see that he was in a field. His body, wracked with pain, was useless and he could not pull himself up so he lay on his stomach looking across the clearing. There was a steady stream of blood flowing from a gash in his head and he could feel its warmth across his face as it ran down and dripped from his chin.

There was a woman standing in the middle of the clearing, and just above her the sky was tinted dark orange as the light of day faded and the sun set behind her. This was his dream, Plato realized, as his vision fixed on the ethereal bright green star rising in the sky. The person in the field was Kate. She had her back to him, but he knew who it was, and the sight of her crushed him because he knew she was no longer his. Whether she had been real in his previous life, Plato did not know. But here, in his dream world, his reality, she didn’t exist. She was only another dream, manifested in this field.

“KAAAAATE!!!!!”

The only reply was the thunder from the storm that Plato knew was rushing towards him.

“KAAAAATE!!!!!”

“Go back. You don’t see me.” The voice came from all around Plato. The trees seemed to speak in unison with the sky and it was musical and intoxicating. It was Kate’s voice. “You can find your way back because you are strong and that’s why I love you so much. Go back and live and we can be together, but not now. One day. You don’t see me. You don’t see me. You don’t se……..” .

The rain began and washed blood over Plato’s eyes. He could no longer hold his head up and the world faded to blood red and then to black and then nothing.

Plato opened his eyes and everything was dark. He was no longer in the field, and he was no longer injured. When he stood he bumped his head, felt cloth and hangers, and realized he was in the closet again. He flung the door open, hopelessly hoping he was no longer in the hall. Frigid air rushed in and combined with the warm closet air to create a cloud of fog. Plato stepped out into his prison, shivering and hopeless, once again thinking of Kate and his heart breaking anew. There were jackets in the closet and Plato picked out a black leather jacket and put it on. The jacket fit perfect. Plato suddenly felt better, comforted somehow by the jacket, which felt vaguely familiar and gave him that sense of déjà vu he had in his apartment hallway. Plato reached into the inside pocket of the jacket. His hand grasped a stiff piece of paper and he pulled it out and it was a photograph. It was a picture of Kate and Plato in front of a house, his house he realized.

It all flooded back. He found the key and now he remembered everything. The hallway began to fade and a bright white light shone through as it became more transparent. Then there was nothing but light, and soon it began to fade as well.

Plato opened his eyes. He was lying on something soft, like a bed, in the dark and he was lost once again.

“KAAAAATTEEE!!!!!KAAAAATTEEE!!!!!”

Plato heard voices, urgent yelling, and then the sound of a door opening followed by a flash of bright, white light. Plato shielded his eyes and slowly uncovered them as fluorescent light flooded his retinas. There was a woman in a white dress to his left, and to his right were several machines.

“Dr. Plaquered, calm down honey, you’re in the hospital. Oh my god. It’s a miracle,” she paused and smiled at him, “You’ve been in a coma for ten months honey. None of the doctors gave you a chance.”

Plato tried to sit up but found he couldn’t move.

“Okay, just try to relax. You’ve been asleep for a long time and you’re very weak. Do you remember anything honey? Oh my, do you know who you are?”

“Yes, my name is Nathan Plaquered. I’m a psychiatrist at Emory hospital and I’m married to beautiful women named Kate. Where is she? I need to see her now!”

“Okay, calm down honey. Do you remember why you’re here?”

“No. I was in a hall and a field. Now where’s Kate?”

“Oh dear, you poor thing. You don’t remember the accident? The car crash? You sustained severe injuries. You dislocated both shoulders, broke your ankle, broke you arm, and shattered you right knee. You also split your head open causing hemorrhages and brain swelling and that’s why you’ve been in the coma. Just relax now, and we’ll take care of you honey.”

“Was Kate in the car? Where is she! In the field? Now!” Nathan screamed.

“Just relax hone…”

“NOW!!!!”

“Oh dear honey, you’ve just been through so much.”

Nathan knew before she said it.

“She didn’t make it. She was killed in the accident. I’m so sorry honey.”

Nathan had gone from one hell to another. He couldn’t stay in this world. The rhythmic beep on the machine next to the bed change into a steady high pitch noise. There was much yelling and Nathan felt hands on his chest as he watched the light slip away.

Nathan was in the green field again. His star glowed bright in the western sky, high above Kate’s head. She turned and faced him, arms outstretched. Nathan went to her and she was real this time. He held her forever and they walked away, hand in hand, and never were apart again.

Home

In The Closet
By bar8484@earthlink.net

#13 of 13

It was 5:30 PM on the Friday before a long weekend. Dottie Miller, Underwriting Director for Risk Management Associates, was anxious to get home. After turning off her computer, Dottie picked up her purse, shut the door and began walking over to the elevator.

“Good night, Mrs. Miller, have fun at your reunion,” April Stephens called out from the reception area.

“Thank you, “ Dottie answered. April was the latest in a series of eager young office assistants. “By the way, we’re pretty casual around here, so please call me Dottie.”

April’s face lit up. “Yes ma’am, I mean, Dottie, “ There was a frozen pause as Dottie waited for the elevator and April stared at her computer screen. Unable to endure the silence any longer, April burst out, “I can’t even imagine going to my 25th reunion,” she exclaimed, twirling a piece of highlighted blonde hair. “I can hardly believe next month it’ll be a year since I graduated high school!”

Dottie said nothing while maintaining her best professional smile.

“Dottie? I hope this doesn’t sound too corny or anything, but when it’s my time…” April paused to snap her gum. “…Well, what I’m trying to say is, when my 25 year reunion comes around and I’m that old, I want to have it all, just like you!”

”Excuse me?” Seeing the puzzled look on Dottie’s face, April continued in a breathless rush, “You know; like here you’re a big executive and I’ve seen from the pictures in your office, you’re married to a good looking guy, and your daughter, the one that’s away at college studying to be a doctor-wow, she is so pretty! It’s like you have everything! You are so lucky! “ April concluded, shaking her head at the wonder of it all.

Dottie took a hard look at the young woman. Was April sincere or just hopelessly naive? Or was this April’s way of sucking up, knowing there was an opening in Dottie’s department?

“That’s very flattering, April. It’s important to have goals.”

Their conversation was shattered by the sound of Tom Moran, the Marketing Director, bellowing “Aa-pril! Get in here, girl! We’ve got work to do!”

April giggled. “Sorry, I gotta go,” she smiled, cocking her head toward Tom’s office. Just then Tom leaned out his door. “Apr- Hey, Dottie. I didn’t even see you.”

“I was just leaving,” Dottie hurriedly explained, pressing the down button again. Thankfully this time the doors opened immediately and Dottie stepped inside. “Good night, everyone.”

“Dottie! Nice numbers this month,” Tom yelled as the doors were closing.

Alone in the elevator, Dottie clenched her fists. She couldn’t stand Tom and his good-ol’-boy ways. On top of that, Dottie knew for a fact he made more money than she did, even with all her seniority. But what could she do about it? Tom was the company’s Golden Boy, the apple of the CEO’s eye. Maybe April wasn’t so naïve after all.

As she drove home, Dottie found herself thinking about April’s remark. She wondered what April would say if she knew her role model was one performance review away from a pink slip, the beautiful daughter spent more time canoodling with her boyfriend than studying and the handsome husband was too busy with his own high-powered job to pay attention to his wife.

Dottie pulled into the driveway and parked her Mercedes in the garage. The lights were already on, casting a cheery autumn glow. But with Matt at work and Amy at Georgetown, Dottie once again found herself coming home to an empty house. Well, fine. She’d just eat the slice of Chocolate Hazelnut Decadence bought during her lunch hour, open a bottle of wine and start packing for her up-coming reunion. She would have liked Matt to accompany her, but he couldn’t get away. Her best friends Rita Garibaldi and Karen Lewis were also going solo. The women had been friends for over thirty years. Together they’d gone through schools, jobs, husbands and kids and to this day remained closer than sisters.

Taking off her pumps, Dottie walked into the kitchen. After setting the cake box down on the granite counter, Dottie hesitated, unsure what to do next. It still felt strange not having to cook dinner for anyone. Not that she minded cooking. During her year as an exchange student in France, Dottie immersed herself in the people, places and especially the food of that beautiful land. Another time, another place, she thought sadly. Back then, she dreamed of falling in love with a writer and spending her days painting by the sea. Who would have imagined that starry-eyed girl would go on to marry a computer nerd who barely acknowledged her existence? Would the Paris Dottie spend her days thinking about 401Ks, loss ratios, mortgages and jerks like Tom Moran? Whatever happened to that girl? The answer was simple: Life. At least her friends found a way out, Dottie thought ruefully. Following a painful divorce, Rita went on to become a sought-after interior designer who flew to her client’s lavish homes on their private jets. Karen reveled in raising her three children and working part-time as a travel agent. Thinking about her friends made Dottie realize what she was missing: a drink.

Walking over to the liquor cabinet, she uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux and poured a glass. After several sips, she felt ready to get started on her packing. Dottie wandered into the bedroom and went directly to her walk-in closet. Hanging behind the Ralph Lauren was a garment bag containing among other things, her old high school cheerleading outfit. With the upcoming reunion making her nostalgic and the wine making her giddy, Dottie removed the thick white sweater from its padded hanger and slipped it on over her silk blouse. She unbuttoned her skirt and pulled in her stomach, tugging the silly red and white cheerleading skirt up past her hips. To her astonishment it still fit, albeit a bit snuggly around the waist. Preening and strutting in front of the mirror like a schoolgirl, Dottie grabbed her cell phone and began punching in Karen’s number.

“You won’t believe this, but I’m wearing my old cheerleading outfit!” Dottie proudly proclaimed.

“I can’t believe you still have it, let alone fit into it, “ marveled Karen. “Wait till Jimmy Allison sees you-he’ll get sweaty all over again! Better bring an extra towel…” Karen teased.

“Very funny.” Dottie retorted. Jimmy Allison was the class geek, a red-faced boy with a strang