| "The Third
Ring" (the seventh ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Third Ring" 2500 words or less. Deadline: March 15, 2002 |
| The Third Ring by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| This version has been
edited. The original, unedited version is below. |
| Night was
coming quickly, pouring in through my window. I felt I would soon drown, unable
to continue breathing in all the darkness, but it wouldn’t have been right
for me to go. I had to wait till I was called to dinner. She’d always tried to make me understand, and I’d always resisted. I thought my mother was embarrassingly outdated, with her dinner dresses and silver patterns held up to me as the highest examples of the truth. I never saw any of that stuff in other homes. All the moms in our neighborhood drove around in SUVs dressed in baggy sweaters, stretch pants and sneakers. At first I’d used that as a defense, only to hear “That’s what drove your father to his grave -- the commonness of this place!” That’s when all this started, although even she understood it was too late. Maybe that’s why she was so insistent, making up for lost time. But you never can. What’s lost is lost. I knew I shouldn’t fidget, although my legs were starting to ache a bit, crossed ever-so-nicely at the ankles. My hands folded gracefully in my lap. I had known all about them when the first reports started terrorizing the neighborhood. I could see them from my window, moving silently in their pack, yellow eyes against black. Not that I told anyone. Not that I had anyone to tell. The dance classes were pleasant enough. Waltz, Fox Trot, Tango. Although, I was the only teenager in that group of golden oldies. Mother preferred it that way; wouldn’t want me running off with my dance partner from the other side of town like in one of those black and white movies she watched deep into the night, falling asleep in her nightgown and robe -- her Cinderella slippers hanging off her heels. My teacher said I had good rhythm and was light on my feet. I try to remember that. It’s important. First it was Mr. Parker, one night out walking his dog never to come back. They found his remains in the park. Good thing they have dental records, there wasn’t much else there. Right away there were TV cameras combing the neighborhood for the story. I watched them come and go. A couple of the more daring reporters actually came to our house and tried to talk to my mother. She thought she refused them politely. I would say she was ‘curt,’ because it would be unflattering to say she was rude. She was the same way on the phone whenever we were called by a telemarketer or somebody like that. She never answered the phone right away. That was very important. “A lady never answers the phone on the first ring, it would make her seem desperate. On the second ring, he'd know she was waiting near the phone. It’s only on the third that doubt starts to enter the caller’s mind. ‘Where is she?’ ‘Is she off with some other gentleman?’ But on the fourth, he’ll hang up frustrated, and she’ll miss the call.” This was one of her most important rules. All the others -- dance cards, soup spoons, thank you letters -- only existed in this fantasy world she'd created within these walls, but she couldn’t keep the phone from ringing. The outside world had a way in. I could feel my stomach rumbling, and the chill of the night was making me shiver in my thin dress. I chose the sky blue one because I knew it would make her happy. I’d always particularly hated it, with its stiff bodice and gauzy skirt, but even I understand that there are times when appearance is of the utmost importance. The heels on the matching blue pumps are still black and shiny. Who knows? I might actually wear them outside sometime. People didn’t start to panic really until the garbage men. They are still wondering how all three of them happened to be out of the truck at the same time. They speculate that the driver foolishly left the truck to help out his coworkers. Mr. Parker was one thing, frail and in his late sixties. But these were big burly men who could lift a fifty-pound can over their heads like it was nothing. Of course I wasn’t surprised. All you had to do was watch. There were more of them now, eight or nine. Each one appeared to be a different breed. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a wild hunger. I think it's the hunger that kept them together. Mother found the fear funny, even though she had never seen the pack. I certainly didn’t tell her about them. She would be horrified to know her daughter could be seen peering out her bedroom window at odd hours. Not that anyone in the neighborhood noticed me up there. It was easy enough to forget we were here. We were quiet and kept to ourselves. Mother thought the attacks were the proof that she’d been waiting for, that this decadent society was finally destroying itself. She imagined some neighbor-turned-psychopath terrorizing those responsible for garage sales, community car washes, Fourth of July street parties, and all other examples of tacky suburban life. It would be beneath her, of course, to voice these opinions. Not that she ever spoke to the neighbors anyway. But the prom was different. The last bastion of good breeding and refinement. Out come the gowns and the tuxedoes. The big shiny cars and expensive restaurants. For one fleeting moment, time turned back on itself, sending both parents and children to a sweeter, more innocent day. My father had proposed to her at their senior prom, and she had her wrist corsage and his boutonniere framed in the hallway. I had no idea how she expected me to go to the prom if she’d never even let me speak to a boy, I think she’d overlooked that part. But she’d been working on my gown for months when she first heard the news. She was livid, maniacally cleaning the kitchen, grumbling under her breath, “A rap band! How could they? Those … those … ignorant … I will not stand for this!” On and on endlessly with the Clorox in the sink, the bleachy smell filling the kitchen, unable to clean the nonexistent stain. The stars were so tiny that night, so far away. I used to think if I could just get past my window I could touch them. But on that night they were the glistening sands of time sprinkled lightly throughout the universe. I had been forced to change to position #2, legs crossed at the knee. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold the position for very long, it’s never been comfortable for me, but my ankles had gone numb and I needed to move a bit. Then it was the Pinkley’s boy Robbie, riding his bike after school. That really pushed everyone over the edge. A small boy in broad daylight. Even I was surprised. I’d never seen the pack during the day, and I’m pretty observant. That was when the police cars started to patrol and everyone stayed inside. It amused me, everyone living like I'd been living, trapped inside their own homes. My mother was another story. She had no fear of the classless psychopath. She had her own mission. She’d lock me in with strict instructions and off she’d go, door to door with her petition to save the dignity of the high school prom. I watched as she approached the houses across the street, trying to graciously convince the neighbors to sign. They all stared wide-eyed, trying to comprehend this level of insanity. A woman roaming the streets with a petition against rap music when five people had been brutally killed in less than a month. I could see from their frantic gestures that they were pleading with her to return to the safety of her home. She would wave them off airily and continue down the street. Every day she’d return, more frustrated than the day before, and patter around the kitchen muttering. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, I had other words floating around my head. New words I had never applied to my mother before. “Embarrassment,” “Indignity,” and even “Crazy.” Had she forgotten everything she had been teaching me all those years? So many rigid rules controlling my behavior, and she was waltzing up and down the street like a common wacko! Really, she should have known better. That afternoon when she went out, I noticed that she didn’t even put on her hat or gloves. How many times had she told me a lady’s hands should never be seen in public, and wearing a dress without a hat is like walking around naked? I set out our tea in the parlour and waited -- at least one of us still had some manners. With the first low howls in the distance, I knew. And, I would show her. I would show her how a real lady should act. When I heard the savage barking coming up the street, I was ready. I knew all the neighbors would be looking out their windows now. I could hear her screams while scrambling up the walk. She’d lost all sense of composure, right there in front of everybody. Quite unbelievable. Finally on the porch, she reached the door she'd taken so much care to lock. The doorbell rang. Mother had always told me to never knock if there was a doorbell. At least she still had some manners. That’s when the strange ripping sounds started. This was my finest moment, though, and like a lady, I waited. Somehow, she managed to ring a second time, but the sound was cut off by a strange gurgling and cracking. It didn’t ring a third time. I guess Mother was wrong about some things. |
| The Third Ring by MrWrLeft MGAFT@aamescorp.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| This version has been
edited. The original, unedited version is below. |
| In an old
fairytale two frogs fell into a bowl of sour cream. The brim of the bowl was
slippery so neither of them could leap out. One of the frogs, thinking that in
this situation death was inevitable, stopped swimming, sunk to the bottom of
the bowl and died. The other frog didn't want to give up so easily and despite
common sense continued to kick and flap. He struggled like this all night. In
the morning when all his strength had left him he felt a hard surface under his
feet. By kicking and flapping the frog had made butter out of sour cream. The
frog stepped on it and jumped out of the bowl. That’s kind of how I go about my life. If you get stuck in a bowl with sour cream you'd better start kicking and flapping. There is no guarantee that you’ll eventually get to the hard surface, but if you don’t you’ll definitely drown right away. Family legend stated that my great-great grandfather was an artist who worked for the famous Faberge, the personal jeweler of the tsar’s family in Sanct-Petersburg. In appreciation of one of the greatly executed orders, encrusted malachite plates were made for the tsar’s birthday. In return, Faberge personally presented my great-great grandfather with a special ring. I don’t know how true the legend is, but the fact remains: we have a beautiful diamond ring of great workmanship from the last century. It's quite elegant with gold surrounding a two carat diamond. "Sanct-Petersburg 1842" is engraved in Cyrillic lettering on the reserve side. We referred to it simply as the "Faberge ring." The ring has been in our family for generations and when we were going to emigrate to the United States we wanted to preserve it for future generations. Either that or sell it in the States; life of an immigrant was not going to be easy. A little startup money would never hurt. The problem was however, that we only had the right to bring wedding rings. A third ring was out of the question. The Russian government didn't want any valuables to leave the country. We could have sacrificed my wife’s wedding ring and let her wear the Faberge ring instead, but my wife was strongly against it. But, the value of the wedding rings was under 500 rubles each. The Faberge ring was worth at least 5000 rubles. In Russia, people were used to obeying government regulations. There was a joke about some employees who were called to a meeting at the end of the day. "Tomorrow morning everyone is to be hung", said the boss, "Any questions?" One employee raises his hand. "Should we bring the rope from home or will it be provided by the company?" We thought it was ludicrous to leave the Faberge ring in Russia. Why should we anyhow? It wasn't fair! The kicking and flapping efforts were preceded by the agony of hesitation: to hide or not to hide, that was the question. Eventually, a decision was made to plant the ring in a shoe. This option was expensive (100 rubles), and less reliable than swallowing and then removing it later from feces, but the only one possible under the circumstances. Alex, my younger brother who also planned to emigrate in the near future, had the business mentality in the family. He found a specialist in this type of operation. The man worked as a mechanical engineer on the Likhachevâ’s automobile factory, but was making way more money from his “hobby.” He explained to us that he'd remove one of my shoe's heels and replace it with a hollow one. The resulting cavity would be filled with a special rubber insert, customized to accommodate the ring. He insisted that the construction and the material of the insert would make the ring undetectable by X-rays, a notion that Alex had disputed in an attempt to lower the price to 80 rubles. However, the maestro was firm on price and we had to take our chances. Upon receiving a down payment, he took a clay impression from the ring and told us to come the next weekend to finalize the deal. He also advised us to use old shoes. First, they are less suspicious to a customs officer; the different heel would look like a regular repair. Second, they would be easier to throw away afterwards. The next week, the rubber insert was indeed finished and we saw with our own eyes how the maestro put the Faberge ring inside, then plugged the insert in the heel and glued it to the shoe. We brought the shoes home and left them on the shelf to wait until our day of departure. When the judgment day finally came, suitcases were packed and a taxi carried us to the airport in Sheremetievo. My brother, with his wife and a couple of our friends, followed us in their car. While standing in the huge line to the customs inspection, my confidence in the success of the enterprise had really shaken. The horrible results of disclosure were going through my mind. I could clearly imagine them stopping us and confiscating the ring. That would have been only the beginning of the problems; our visa and permissions would be canceled and I’d probably end up jail. It felt like I was swimming in sour cream. After about twenty minutes in line I gave up. “Alex”, I whispered into my brother’s ear, “The hell with it! I can’t. It’s too dangerous.” He nodded. We went to the bathroom to trade shoes. His shoes were new and half a size smaller, but I didn't care. Boy, was I glad we did the switch. The customs officer seemingly knew; in fact, I had a suspicion he knew exactly what he was searching for when he asked me with sardonic politeness to take my shoes off. “I presume you are not hiding any extra valuables?” “Everything you can find is yours,” I tried to joke. But seeing the icy stare of his clear blue eyes I choked and said, “I mean, we don’t have anything that is not declared.” In the following minutes, my shoes, well, my brother shoes, were shredded to pieces. I was taken to a room where my stomach and intestines were X-rayed, which put an end to the thought that I should have done it the alternative way. After I came back, I started frantically repacking my suitcases, which had been emptied and scattered all over a counter. “Am I ok?” I asked the officer when I finished. “Yes”, he said, hiding his disappointment, “you may go.” “Michael, your shoes!” Alex screamed from somewhere behind. Indeed, I was so petrified that I forgot I wasn't wearing anything but socks. “Officer,” I said, pointing to my feet, “I can't go like this.” The officer didn't say anything. It was as if he totally lost all interest in me. “May I go back and put on another pair of shoes?” “If you do,” said the officer noticing me again, “we will have to check your luggage again.” “Okay officer, I'm not going back, but can you just be so kind to pass me those shoes?” and I pointed towards the shoes that my brother was holding on the other side of the search booth. Seeing such obedience, the officer could not find any arguments against this little favor. He stepped towards my brother, grabbed my old shoes, fastidiously carried them through the search booth and threw them on the ground in front of me. I thanked the officer, quickly put the shoes on, and sent Alex a thank you through the air. Quickly, I went to catch my family who were preparing to board the plane. The third ring would make it after all. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Third Ring by Jody Ray jodys101@hotmail.com |
#1 of 7 |
| I stood looking into the cold
black eyes of a person I thought I knew. "We don’t have to do this." I
told him, more like pleaded with him. "I have to know for sure Jordan.
I’ve always wondered. You know that." Those eyes looked every bit of a
hundred years old. "What is there to know Zack?" "What!" he spat back at me. His sun burnt skin turned even redder as he choked back anger. "I expect that coming from you Jordan. Mr. So cool he’s modest!" He wobbled his head side to side as he spoke. It was the same mocking gesture I had seen him do to others many times in the past years. Nothing was ever simple for me. My whole life was a maze of things that were in no way simple or easy. Hell, turning on a light switch could sometimes be a hard thing for me to get done. I always equated it to the fact that I had been still born. Since I wasn’t even meant to be here my share of luck hadn’t been allotted. Had it not been for modern medicine intervening on my behalf I would be nothing more than a statistic. Instead of thanking the doctors I loathed them in my on way. That was the paradox of my character. My own views dug deep into Darwanism and the survival of the fittest theory. In my own strange way I despised the fact that I wouldn’t have made it on my own. I figured life gave me more obstacles to overcome than normal because of it. "You gave me this idea Jordan. You even created this situation. She was always mine. I don’t care what she told you. I could look in her eyes and tell that it was me she loved all along." He was starting to break. The stress of the situation was beginning to take it’s toll. "Zack. I know your hurting man. Look at the facts for a moment before you do something we may both regret." I had to try again, "She came to me. You and her were over. Everyone knew that. I took her in. Hell I had to leave my job because of it. No matter how much you think the two of you had she and I both knew without saying it that we had more. Shit man! I am looking at jail time over all of this." He stood across the hood of the car eyeing me down. His pain must have been enormous. I could almost feel it as though it were a tangible thing. I felt guilt too. For having caused it. In the background of our little universe I could hear police radios. Every now and then if the wind was right I could catch the mechanical working of a firearm being readied. The soft scuff of a boot heel as it’s wearer jockeyed of a better angle on the kid who held all the aces. The truth was that Zack may only have been a kid, but he was playing an extremely grown up game. I had the very sure feeling that no matter how I ended up after this he would be done for. He slid a polished flat wooden case across the hood of his primer painted trans-am. It stopped just shy of my trembling hand. I knew what was in it without even looking. It was the mate to the pistol he had in his belt. A fifty caliber muzzle loader. An antique from a time when men settled disputes not with words or lawyers, but as gentlemen. It was a life or death game dating from medieval times. The ritual had come to be known as a duel. One shot to decide the argument. "Your not in to deep yet Zack." I didn’t look at the box that was growing strangely warm against my hand. "Tell the police what you did with Terri. Tell whoever is at the other end of your radio that you won. Look at all these people." I motioned toward the crowd of students and teachers in the filling bleachers. "You don’t want to hurt all of them over something that is just between you and me. Hell at least let them go." "I let them go and the stakes go down Jordan. Then it would just be us and Terri. Cops don’t care about kids like me or even rapists like you. I could blow us up and be doing them a favor." His voice was hoarse and dry. It wavered as he spoke. All the adrenaline was making him shaky. "If you loved Terri at all you wouldn’t put her through this." Somewhere on the other side of the bleachers echoed the nervous bark of a police k-9. Across town came the ring of the two thirty bell. A single solemn ring. I thought of Poe. I thought of the girl I loved and I thought of all the trouble this had caused. "You got two more Mr. York." He nodded at the case next to my hand, "It’s loaded. Just put it in your belt and meet me on the fifty yard line." He abruptly turned and strutted out to the center of the football field. I looked at the Police officers that surrounded us with their guns drawn in sweaty hands. They were looking back at me! That was of little consolation. They were supposed to have the answers for this kind of thing. Instead they looked like my students always did before a test. Lost. I had to remember I was in a small town. The most extreme thing the Police did here was write out parking tickets. I knew that their lives were on the line too. So were the lives of they’re own children who sat in the stands watching…scared. Being involved personally in a situation clouded objectivity. From the moment Zack announce over the loud speakers that the bleachers where wired with explosives everyone was scared. To prove it he blew up an unused section of them. The stands reserved for the visiting team. Then to show how well prepared he was, he had several cars in the parking lot next to the football field blasted. A couple of houses in town had gone up after that. Those who had started to run sat down. They couldn’t drive away and if they did their houses might be wired. Might as well watch the show. The police responded. They were made aware of their limitations via cell phone. Take any action against Zack and the whole party is over. Zack not only had a two way radio but had placed several small cameras in the area. The man controlling the bombs could see it all. Zack had his vital signs being monitored as well. Anything funny at all and "BOOM". He had thought of everything. His request was simple. He wanted to a duel with me. If I won it would all be over and he would surrender, if he wasn’t dead. If he won. Well…he hadn’t told them about that yet. The Police signed me out of City Lock Up, where I was awaiting sentencing for statutory rape. I had been Zack’s History teacher for three years. I had been his ex-girlfriend Terri’s lover for one. She was somewhere in town strapped to explosives because of me. I couldn’t blame Zack because none of it would be happening if not for me. My guilt was overwhelming. During my ride from jail The Chief of Police had broke down the situation to me. The kid’s dad owned a local construction business. That’s where he had gotten the explosives. All the other shit could have been purchased at Radio Shack or over the internet. Whoever was setting things off for Zack was more than likely watching, online. The Chief told me that the boy was monitoring his computer connection. Anything goofy and the kid would know. No traces, no hacks, nothing, or else. My heart sank when he told me Terri was missing too. He wanted to know how the kid knew about dueling. I explained to him that Andrew Jackson had dueled with a man on the White house lawn over remarks about his marriage. I was the kind of teacher that liked to make learning fun. History is a fascinating subject. I put on a mock duel in front of the class with cap pistols so that the students could get a sense of how strongly our former President’s conviction really was. It is one thing to say the word duel. It is quite another to bring the word to life. The Chief congratulated me for a job well done and didn’t speak another word to me. Except to turn occasionally and call me names. The two forty-five bell rang through town. Another doleful "boooonnnnggg." It seemed to echo forever on the cool November wind. I steeled myself to the fact that I had no other option. I went to the center of the football field to meet my former student for what would be our last class. "Do you think this is how it was back in the day Mr. York?" He was smiling oddly. I could see the reflection of the afternoon sun in his dark eyes. Someone experienced in the duel would consider the sun in their eyes a disadvantage. A target silhouetted by backlight can appear several times bigger. He hadn’t thought of everything. I grew slightly more confident. "How do you mean Zack?" "I feel so alive. You know?" "I feel afraid Zack." Despite my advantage. I was very afraid. It had been years since I had fired a pistol. Even then I wasn’t very good at it. "Nawwwww! Of me?" He smiled even broader as though I had given him a compliment. "Yes… I guess. And for all those innocent people over there. If anything goes wrong…" my eyes indicated the full stands. "As long as the cops listen and you do what you are told everyone will be alright. My buddy online will email the locations of the bombs to the FBI and all will be ok." "How do you hope to get out of this provided you kill me?" "Don’t you worry none." Zack patted me on the shoulder in reassurance. Out of the corner of my eye the bushes on the edge of the football field came alive with movement. It was the Police setting up for action. My anxiety multiplied ten fold making it hard for me to breath. Zack looked at them and scoffed. "They don’t worry you?" I asked amazed. They certainly worried me. If they did one wrong thing or took Zack for granted everyone would regret it. I knew it in my gut. "They can’t do shit." "If I do win Zack. Will you keep your word?" "Of course I will. I did everything I said I would so far didn’t I?" His tone tightened with each syllable. "And use my Sir Name from here on out. At least show some respect. I am acting like a gentleman you know!" The loud speakers suddenly came to life. It was a computer synthesized voice. Zack laughed at me as I flinched in surprise. I went from feeling frustrated and helpless to ridicules. I could hear the kids from my classes in my head, "Two for flinching." The voice that might as well have been the Grim Reaper’s echoed filling the arena, " We are gathered today on a matter of honor between Mr. Zachary Tyler and Mr. Jordan York. The weapons have been chosen. Gentlemen face away from one another. I will count out twenty paces and you will step as I count. When you hear the three o’clock bell ring you may turn and fire. Does everyone understand the rules?" "Face away. One…two…three…" I stepped as the monotone voice counted. My legs felt like they weighed more with every step. I could feel my stomach twisting into hard knots. I suddenly realized that I could die right here. The realization sunk in with every step. At twenty I halted looking at the trees that grew between the football field and the road. The winery air buffeted the thin branches slightly. I knew I should be feeling it too. I didn’t. My heart pounded in my chest despite my best efforts to calm myself. The thumping in my ears sounded like a heard of elephants. Panic struck when I realized that I might not hear the bell. I was ashamed that I was thinking only of myself. I closed my eyes chastising myself and tried to concentrate. I knew that me winning this was a sure way to get everyone out alive. If Zack kept his word. If I lost who knew what he might do to get away from the Police. I had time to wonder if getting shot would hurt at all. I had heard varying stories on the matter. A fifty caliber bullet was roughly as big around as my thumb. That would have to be very painful. The third ring of the bell sounded. I turned to find that Zack had beaten me to it. Smoke billowed from the muzzle of his pistol. It swirled him around like a living thing. He was so fast it stunned me. In contrast I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I was only vaguely aware of the smoked ringed figure in my sights. My own pistol’s trigger broke after an excruciating hell in which I fought not to tremor. The recoil came as a surprise. Like a vision from a hazy afternoon dream I watched as Mr. Zachary Tyler dropped his pistol and wide eyed, caught at his throat. Several long thick gouts of blood escaped his fingers and splashed across the grass in front of him. He sank to his knees and fell over. I watched him kick around for several seconds. The end for him came slowly as he finally bled out. After his funeral I spent some time behind bars for being involved with a minor. When my debt to society was paid I moved to the Western United States. Terri joined me later. He father The Chief of Police vowed to kill me if he ever saw me again. Even to this day when I hear bells I feel a heavy weight on my chest. Especially until after the third ring. |
|
| The Third Ring by Emnet Alemu eemnt@aol.com |
#2 of 7 |
| She put on the ring he had bought
her, Of course this one was the third one. She had three men in her shoes, All were fools, They were struck by her beauty And she was struck by their money, And now she had them buy her gifts Diamond rings, and more, And she of course controlled their minds with her body, She was selfish,greedy,all ugly inside But men are like dogs. Now she looked at the ring with her gorgeous eyes, She admired it smiling, But then she still wasn't satisfied, The third ring won't be her last. |
|
| The Third Ring by guy_in_az2001 guy_in_az2001@yahoo.com |
#3 of 7 |
| “Banfield and Marsh…in
my office,” lieutenant Williams barked as he strode past the desk where my
partner and I were indulging in the first cups of our usual morning coffee. He
continued to gesture for us to follow as he flung open his office door.
I gave Tom a quick glance as he rose from the chair across the shared desk. “I wonder what the hell’s up now?” Tom just shot me a scowl as he walked toward the office. I followed quickly and entered the lieutenant’s office just as he was sitting down. “Close the door Marsh,” he snapped. Tom was settling in the stuffed chair to the right of the lieutenant’s desk, leaving me the bare wooden one. The lieutenant leaned forward, “Alright, we got another body down on 4th and Stratton. Something’s going down there and I want you guys to get a handle on it. The chief is getting his ass chewed on this and we better get something going real goddamn fast. Shit runs downhill at an ever increasing rate, and we’ll be knee-deep damn quick. I sure as hell I don’t need any more shit around this place,” The lieutenant settled back into his chair after his tirade. I still felt uncomfortable in the presence of these men. Both the lieutenant and my partner, Tom Banfield, were a couple of hard-asses, and they certainly looked the part. Both had close-cropped flattop hairstyles, and both bore the hardened and leathery look of men that had seen and done things most had not. With the ink still wet on my detective badge, I was definitely the odd man out in this little circle. “So what we got so far?” Tom asked, pulling a small writing pad from his jacket pocket. “Well not a lot…GODDAMN IT MARSH…SIT DOWN. Ok, here’s what we got so far. Early this morning, some city garbage collection crew called in a stiff in an alley. A beat cop from the 25th name of Wilson was first on the scene. It looks like a possible gang drop, if this report is right. Multiple gunshot wounds. No I.D. apparently. No reports anyone saw the perp or perps, and that’s about it,” “Were on it Bud,” Tom said as he rose from the chair. I quickly followed Tom out of the office. I knew that Tom and the lieutenant were pretty tight just by Tom using the term bud. Hell there were only maybe a dozen people in the whole precinct he called bud, the rest of us were referred to by last name only. Twice we happened to be hanging out in the same bar, and he actually called me Dave once. Probably just an alcohol-induced mistake I presumed, as it never happened again. “I’ll drive,” Tom barked as we arrived at the parking lot. I crawled into the passenger seat. I had just barely gotten my seatbelt done up when he slammed the car into reverse. With a squeal of tires we were off, pulling quickly onto Clarence and proceeded directly to 4th. Tom was lost in his thoughts as we drove. Usually whenever he did speak to me, it was simply to rant about something or other. His former partner for the last ten years must have been either one of the old guard or a saint; I didn’t know which. He had retired before I transferred. Actually I filled his position, so maybe that was another reason Tom was such a hard nose with me. My thoughts idly wandered back to the vacation I had just taken. I couldn’t believe that just three days ago I was fly fishing, standing waist deep in the untainted, clear waters of a Montana stream. Now I was cruising the gutter of the inner city. What a contrast. I could almost feel the stench, filth and decay of this place pressing down on me. God I hated this cesspool of discarded dreams and forgotten humanity. The abrupt turn onto 4th jarred me back to reality As we approached the alley off Stratton, there was a small gathering of the usual street people surrounding the taped off entrance. We pulled up behind the ambulance, crudely referred to as the meat wagon by almost everyone in these situations. I followed Tom, envious of his take-charge attitude as he waded through the cluster of onlookers nearest our car. As we walked down the dank alley, the reek of decay and urine was heavy in the still air. I carefully stepped around a small puddle, wary of what its composition of fluids may consist of. As we neared the back of the alley, I saw the body covered by a sheet, tossed amid a heap of discarded cardboard boxes. Tom walked directly toward Edward Mathews, the medical examiner. “What we got Bud?” Tom asked as he bent over, using his pen to lift the sheet away from the victims face. I was close enough to see that it was a young Hispanic male. “Well this is it so far. Hispanic male, approximate age twenty. Six gunshot wounds to the chest. Deceased for approximately twelve hours. No I.D. of any kind. Definitely dropped here due to lack of blood at the scene. Several tattoos that we may get something from once we examine the body at the morgue. Those brands are present too. That’s about it,” Eddie stated rather matter-of-factly. “How soon can you get me something to work with?” and Tom dropped the sheet back over the ashen face. “Gimme a couple hours, say about ten. I’ll know more by then” “Ok, ten it is. Let’s go Marsh” I could tell the wheels of Tom’s analytical mind were turning as we got into the car. His far off look was always a dead giveaway, and I was hoping he would soon start sharing some of the insight he had with me. I knew there was a lot to be learned from a man like Tom, but he had chosen to pretty much just cold-shoulder me so far. As we pulled away, I was a bit surprised when Tom said “Coffee?” “Sure” “There’s a little joint a couple blocks from here. Lets stop there and I can sort some notes.” And that was the end of conversation. I simply looked out the window at the near deserted streets. The cold, stark, and violent ambiance of this area was truly depressing, it being home only to the unsavory denizens of the drug, booze and prostitution glazed underbelly of the city. We sat in a back booth in the small diner. The interior was well lit and I noted how clean it was. All the furnishings were well worn, but the place was spotless. It wasn’t what I had expected in such a seedy section of the city. It was heartening to know that perhaps a few decent people existed in these miserable surroundings. “Let me fill you in,” Tom said, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Several murders have gone down here since you left on vacation.” “Any suspects?” “Gang war I think. Stratton has always been Hispanic gang turf, but that may be changing. We’ve had two murders in two weeks, both pretty much like we saw today, but with some subtle differences. I’m pretty sure it’s an escalating gang war. The morgue will confirm my suspicions.” “What sort of differences…what is it you suspect?” “Asian gang activity, possibly tong or some triad of theirs. I can’t be sure just yet, but I’m positive it’s Asian. All the victims’ bodies have a brand on the side of the face, and it appears that the brands are messages left for someone. I’ve seen things like this before.” “Jesus…drug war you think?” “Probably. The tong presence here is mostly drug trade, and the Hispanics have that pretty well sewn up in this area. Hang on; I need to make a couple calls. These damn new phones they issued don’t work worth a shit inside a building, and I need a little info before we go to the ‘cooler’,” cooler being his jargon for morgue. Tom walked outside the diner to make his calls. I sipped at my nearly untouched coffee and my mind just started to wander, mulling over nothing in particular. Tom’s barked “ Marsh…lets go,” snapped me out of my zone and I headed for the door, tossing a couple bucks beside the cash register as I passed. Tom was already in the car as I got in, and he pulled away quickly as I closed the door, slamming me into the seat. We were silent on the drive to the morgue, the quiet in the car broken only by the many expletives Tom used to chastise other drivers. We pulled into a spot at the city morgue and went inside. “Where’s Eddie working,” Tom briskly asked the elderly lady sitting at a front desk. She seemed to be used to his manner, and showed no emotion whatsoever as she simply stated, “number three.” As we walked the long hallway, our clicking shoes echoed our presence. I followed Tom through a doorway with a large brass identifier attached. As we entered, Eddie rose from his desk. “Hey Bud…what ya got,” Tom said briskly. “Have a look” and Eddie moved to pull back the sheet covering a body on the examination table. He lowered the sheet to the bottom of the victim’s torso. I had seen several dead bodies before, some in a lot worse condition than this one, but it was something that always momentarily un-nerved me. I don’t think I’ll ever be as casual about it as Tom. Hell it was looking at evidence to him, but I always thought of a body being someone’s relative or loved one. Christ this was just a kid laying dead here, the glaring ugliness of the entry wounds contrasting starkly against the skin. I couldn’t help thinking what a stupid waste of a life. I moved closer to the table. “The most notable thing is that the brand has changed again. There’s an extra circle, and it also was burned on the victim after death. No sign of a struggle. Six shots to the chest, and judging by the entry angles, four shots were fired while the victim was on his back. Only one was fired at a close enough range to produce any powder residue on the victims clothing. Five shots exited the body, but we recovered one bullet lodged against the spine. It looks like a .38 caliber bullet, and probably fired from a .357 magnum revolver. Ballistics is working on it now. We’ve got several of the victims’ tattoos on the computer at missing persons already, but no I.D. so far. That’s about it until the lab work is finished,” Eddie stood back, looking rather pleased with the progress he had made. “Marsh…look here…this is what I was talking about earlier, see these marks.” And Tom directed my attention to some small burns on the victim’s right cheek with his pen. “Yeah I see them. What’s the significance of the rings?” “It’s the third ring that’s important. It’s a sign that the triad is complete, so we’re dealing with tong for sure. All the other victims were marked with just two rings, now the triad is linked. See how the rings intersect each other. Looks like we got us a war.” “Well…where do we start?” I inquired, looking at Tom and waiting for an answer. “Lunch” and he shot a quick “thanks Bud” toward Eddie as he headed for the door. Lunch was a sandwich eaten while working at our desk. Tom busied himself making calls to others he knew in adjoining precincts, taking notes, and just getting a feel for what was happening on the street. I worked the computer. Tom had a distain for the computer, and never used it. His preferred method of gathering information was phone calls, interrogations, and burning shoe leather. I checked with ballistics on the bullet, and found Eddie had indeed been correct in his assessment. It was a .38 caliber bullet and due to bullet upset, it was more than likely fired from a .357 magnum revolver with at minimum a four-inch barrel. I cross-referenced that with pawnshop sales tallies and recent burglary reports, picking up a couple possible leads. I then checked with missing persons, and got an I.D. on the victim. His name was Jesus Martinez and he was just twenty-two years old. He had an extensive list of priors, all juvenile offences and nothing recent. I did get an address for his parents, so that may lead somewhere. A further check with the forensics report so far, yielded a little more information. Jesus had been lying on grass after being shot, and there was only one park in the immediate area, another possible lead. I checked all reports of Asian gang activities, finding that numerous reports had been filed recently. I continued working every angle I could think of on the computer and Tom was writing more notes with every call. As the afternoon wore on to shift change, Tom told me to wrap it up and come with him to the lieutenant’s office. It was turnover time. Once settled into the office, Tom started to spiel off his findings. His investigating had filled in a couple loose ends in mine. As Tom finished, both of the hardened veterans looked in my direction, with the lieutenant leaning forward, “Anything you have to add Marsh?” With quick glances toward my own notes, I told them what I had uncovered. Both listened intently as I rattled off the list of leads I had compiled. When I finished, the lieutenant simply said, “damn good work. Lets see what the night shift brings in…that’s all” We got up and left the office. Both sitting down at our respective chairs as we got to our own desk. Tom leaned forward, arms resting on the desk and looked at me, “that was some damn good work this afternoon. How about we hit the pavement tomorrow and check out your leads?” “Great” was all I could utter, stunned by Tom’s atypical response. As we cleared our desks, we headed for the exit. Tom suddenly slowed at the door. “Hey bud, feel like stopping off for a beer?” “Yeah…you bet…a beer sounds great” both surprised and elated that Tom had actually called me bud. “O’Malley’s?” “O’Malley’s it is,” and I followed my partner out the door. |
|
| The Third Ring by Loretta A. Stradley readlorey875@hotmail.com |
#4 of 7 |
| Watching! Always watching!
Sheeza shifted her weight on the large tree limb. She had been squatting there
on her haunches for a few hours already. But to be a successful hunter you had
to be patient. Turning her head towards the sound of the rustling, Sheeza watched as a kori came out of the foliage. Standing still it moved its antennae around sensing for danger. The ape'lit remained in her crouched position not moving a muscle. With mottled fur Sheeza blended in with the shadows of the greenery and the kori couldn't see her unless she moved. It wasn't close enough yet for her attack so she waited motionless. She had to wait until it got closer to make her move and her meal. As head of her clan and mother-sister to her family it was her job to bring home the meat. The younglings would be scrounging for insects and leaves. Her sister-aunts would be watching the babies back at the cave. Still not moving Sheeza watched the kori as it came closer. Still not knowing the danger it was in it continued to seek out the nectar-eating slugs underneath the bark of the tree. The jungle was alive with sound and color and the day was hot and sunny. Sheeza couldn’t wait to get back to the cave. The darkened den would be a relief from the noon sun. The kori continued to seek out its prey. With its gray furless hide and long nose it was not the most handsome creature. But the meat would feed the younglings and the larvae she carried. They needed nourishment the most right now so they could finish their transformation and be born. Sheeza watched the kori nearing her perch. It still had not seen her. The closer the kori got the tenser the ape’lit became. She was steeling herself for the attack that must happen. The clan needed the food. As she prepared herself for the leap a loud whine began. Looking up at the sky above the treetop, Sheeza saw the large meteor falling to the ground. Not knowing what it was she, and her unborn, died from the impact. The meteor came from a collision in space from the rings around the small planet. When two large asteroids in the third ring clashed the meteor was created. Larger than the planetoid, all life on the world was lost. (c) 2001 |
|
| The Third
Ring by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#5 of 7 Winner |
| This is the original version. See the edited version above. | |
| Night is coming quickly, pouring
in through this window. I know I soon will drown, unable to continue breathing
in all this darkness, but it wouldn’t be right for me to go. I must wait
till I am called to dinner. I understand this now, although it’s taken me
a long time to see things so clearly. She’s always tried to make me understand, and I’ve always resisted. I thought my mother was embarrassingly outdated, with her dinner dresses and silver patterns held up to me as the highest examples of the truth. I never saw any of that stuff around here. All the moms in my neighborhood drive around in SUVs dressed in baggy sweaters, stretch pants and sneakers. At first I’d used that as a defense, only to hear “That’s what drove your father to his grave- the commonness of this place!” That’s when all this started, although even she understood it was too late. Maybe that’s why she was so insistent, making up for lost time. But you never can. What’s lost is lost. I know I shouldn’t fidget, although my legs are starting to ache a bit, crossed ever-so-nicely at the ankles. Hands folded gracefully in my lap. I had known all about them, when the first reports started terrorizing the neighborhood. I could see them from my window, moving silently in their pack, yellow eyes against black. Not that I told anyone. Not that I had anyone to tell. The dance classes were pleasant enough. Waltz, fox trot, tango. Although I was the only teenager in that group of golden oldies. Mother preferred it that way, wouldn’t want me running off with my dance partner from the other side of town like in one of those black and white movies she watched deep into the night, falling asleep in her nightgown and robe. Her Cinderella slippers hanging off her heel. My teacher said I had good rhythm and was light on my feet. I try to remember that. It’s important. First it was Mr. Parker, one night out walking his dog and never came back. They found his remains in the big park on the hill. What was left of him. Good thing they have dental records, there wasn’t much else there, I think. Right away there were TV cameras combing the neighborhood for the story. I watched them come and go. A couple of the more daring reporters actually came to our house and tried to talk to my mother. She thinks she refused them politely, I would say she was ‘curt’, because it would be unflattering to call her flat out rude. She is the same way on the phone, the few times we are called by a telemarketer or somebody like that. She never answers the phone right away. That is very important. “A lady never answers the phone on the first ring, it would make her seem desperate. On the second ring, you know she was waiting near the phone. It’s only on the third that doubt starts to enter the caller’s mind. ‘Where is she?’ ‘Is she off with some other gentleman?’ But on the fourth, he’ll hang up frustrated, and you’ll miss the call.” This is one of her most important rules; all the others- dance cards, soup spoons, thank you letters- only exist in this fantasy world she has created within these four walls, but she can’t keep the phone from ringing. Cutting off the phone line would have seemed disgraceful. I can feel my stomach rumbling, and the chill of the night is making me shiver in this thin dress. I chose the sky blue one because I know it would make her happy. I’ve always particularly hated it, with its stiff bodice and gauzy skirt, but even I understand that there are times when appearance is of the utmost importance. The heels on the matching blue pumps are still black and shiny. Who knows? I might actually wear them outside. People didn’t start to panic really until the garbage men. They are still wondering how all three of them happened to be out of the truck at the same time. They speculate that the driver foolishly left the truck to help out his coworkers. Mr. Parker was one thing, frail and in his late sixties. But these were big burly men who could lift a fifty-pound can over their heads like it was nothing. Of course I wasn’t surprised. All you had to do is watch. There were more of them now, eight or nine of different breeds. The only thing they had in common was that wild hunger. It kept them together. Mother found the fear funny, even though she had never seen the pack. I certainly didn’t tell her about them. She would be horrified to know her daughter could be seen peering out her bedroom window at odd hours. Not that anyone in the neighborhood notices me up there. It is easy enough to forget we are here. We are quiet and keep to ourselves. Mother thought the attacks were the proof that she’d been waiting for, that this decadent society was finally destroying itself. She imagined some neighbor-turned-psychopath terrorizing those responsible for garage sales, community car washes, Fourth of July street parties, and all other examples of tacky suburban life. It would be beneath her, of course, to voice these opinions. Not that she ever speaks to the neighbors anyway, assuming that they’d listen. But the prom was different. The last bastion of good breeding and refinement. Out come the gowns and the tuxedoes. The big shiny cars and expensive restaurants. For one fleeting moment, time turned back on itself, sending both parents and children back to a sweeter, more innocent day. My father had proposed to her at their senior prom, and she had her wrist corsage and his boutonniere framed in the hallway. I had no idea how she expected me to go to the prom if she’d never even let me speak to a boy, I think she’d overlooked that part. But she’d been working on my gown for months when she first heard the news. She was livid, maniacally cleaning the kitchen, grumbling under her breath, “A rap band! How could they? Those…those…ignorant…I will not stand for this!” On and on endlessly with the Clorox in the sink, the bleachy smell rising up, unable to clean the nonexistent stain. The stars are so tiny tonight, so far away. I used to think if I could just get past this window I could touch them. But tonight they are the glistening sands of time sprinkled lightly throughout the universe. I have been forced to change to position #2, legs crossed at the knee. I know I won’t be able to hold this position for very long, it’s never been comfortable for me, but my ankles have gone numb and I need to move a bit. Then it was the Pinkley’s boy Robbie, riding his bike after school. That really set everyone over the edge. A small boy in broad daylight. Even I was surprised, I’d never seen the pack during the day, and I’m pretty observant. That was when the police cars started to patrol and everyone stayed inside. It amused me, everyone living like I always had, within four walls. They were too afraid to look out their windows, though. I too, stopped my vigilance, now that the streets were empty but the periodic passing black and white sedan. Except my mother. My mother who had no fear of the classless psychopath. She had her own mission. She’d lock me in with strict instructions and off she’d go, door to door with her petition to save the dignity of the high school prom. I watched as she approached the houses across the street, trying to graciously convince the neighbors to sign. They all stared wide-eyed, trying to comprehend this level of insanity. A woman roaming the streets with a petition against rap music when five people had been brutally killed in less than a month. I could see from their frantic gestures that they were pleading with her to return to the safety of her home. She waved them off airily and continued down the street. After that, she moved out of my sight, and I stopped watching altogether. Every day she’d return, more frustrated than the day before, and patter around the kitchen muttering. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, I had other words floating around my head. New words I had never applied to my mother before. ‘Embarrassment’, ‘Indignity’ and even ‘Crazy’. Had she forgotten everything she had been teaching me all these years? All these rigid rules controlling my behavior, and she’s waltzing up and down the street like a common wacko? Really, she should have known better. This afternoon when she went out, I noticed indignantly that she didn’t even put on her hat or gloves. How many times has she told me a lady’s hands should never be seen in public? Wearing a dress without a hat is like walking around naked, for everyone to gawk and laugh? I set out our tea in the parlour and waited- thank goodness one of us still had some manners. With the first low howls in the distance I knew. I went upstairs and pulled the blue dress from the closet. I would show her. I would show her how a real lady would act. When I heard the savage barking coming up the street, I was ready. I knew all the neighbors would be looking out their windows now, pushed past their fear. I could hear her screams, her scrambling steps up the walk. She’d lost all sense of composure, right there in front of everybody. Quite unbelievable. Finally on the porch with the locked door, I imagine she was trapped. She rang the bell. That’s when the strange ripping sounds started. Like a lady, I waited. Somehow, she managed to ring a second time, but the sound was cut off by a strange gurgling and cracking. It didn’t ring a third time. I guess Mother was wrong. |
|
| The Third Ring Callahan@ballardspahr.com |
#6 of 7 |
| My heart skipped a beat when I
heard the phone ring. I stopped in the middle of the upstairs hall and listened
carefully. I heard the second ring as I leaned over the banister; it rung one
more time and held my breath. Then silence. Our signal, three rings. He wants
to meet me tonight, but when? The phone rung once, then twice, and finally a third time. Half an hour. Where? Two minutes later the phone rang again, once, twice, three times. The park, it's the three-ring circus, that's what we called the half hour meetings in the park. Now all I had to do was sneak out without my parents knowing and I'd see James again. I looked down the banister and saw my dad hovering over the phone "Why don't they ever leave a message it's like the know the machine will pick up after the third ring." I giggled and headed to my room. I had not yet figured out how I was going to sneak out tonight. I used the 'visiting my friend' excuse the last time, but when I got home at 1 in the morning, drunk, I didn't think that would work again. No, I was going to have to figure out how to get out without them knowing. The park was only about 10 minutes away, if I ran I could get there in 5. I sat on my bed and thought. I needed some help with this one. I picked up my phone and dialed Nancy. She would help me. "What's up girl?" "I need your help." I whispered into the phone, just in case my dad was near by. "What do you need?" She whispered back. "I need to sneak out of the house without my parents knowing. Can you help?" "Anything for you, how can I help?" I whispered the plan into the phone. If my dad had one weakness it was telemarketers. He hated them with a passion. It's the reason we got an answering machine, to help screen them out. Tonight I was going to use that weakness to my advantage. I sat on the top of the landing and looked down the stairs. I had my coat in my hand ready to throw it into my room if I heard anyone approach. I waited for Nancy to call. The phone rang, and right before the answering machine picked up it stopped. Almost immediately after it rang again and stopped right before the machine picked up. I heard my dad walk over to the phone. I leaned over to get a peek; he was perched over the phone like a hawk. The phone rung, he reached down to pick it up, then stopped. The machine kicked in, but there was no message. Then, it rung again my dad picked it up. "Hello!" He yelled. Now was my chance. I knew that he couldn't see me from where he was at so I snuck down the stairs. I could hear him yell. "No, I don't want that. No, stop calling my house." My heart beat so fast I thought it was going to explode out of my chest. Hold him on the line for a few more minutes Nancy, keep him distracted for just a few more minutes. I knew to miss the third to last step; it always creeks when you step on it. The door was right in front of me; victory was close by! "Stop calling me, do you understand!" My dad yelled, and then hung the phone up. I guess my biggest mistake was not going for it right then, to just open the door and not look back. But I did look back. I looked back in time to see my dad storm around the corner and see me, jacket in my one arm, hand on the doorknob, in full sneaking pose. He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side. "Where do you think you're going young lady?" He asked. What could I do? I threw my jacket to the ground and ran upstairs screaming. If my father wasn't laughing so loud he would have heard the profanities flowing from my mouth and I'm sure he'd have punished me for another month. Today I stare out the window of my home, arms across my chest, fingernails bitten down as far as they can go and I worry. It's one in the morning and my daughter hasn't been home tonight. Times like this I wish I could call my dad and apologize, but it's too late for that. He died before Monica was born. I'm sure he's watching me, maybe he's laughing ironically, and maybe he's wishing he never gave me the family curse. I'm sure we've all heard it, "I hope your kid grows up to be just like you." Well Dad, looks like you go your wish. I see a car pull into the driveway, my daughter in the passenger seat. Even from where I'm sitting I can see that she's been drinking, another part of the curse I guess. As I watch her stumble out of the car I look at who's driving. It's not her boyfriend, I don't know who it is. Another concern, picking up strange boys at a party. The door opens and I'm right there to greet her. If her face wasn't white before, it sure is now. She looks at me blankly; I know that's she expecting for me to yell at her, or maybe even hit her(something my father never did to me thankfully) instead I cross my arms, look her in the eye and say "go to bed. We'll talk about this in the morning." I can imagine a prisoner on death row giving me the same look when the governor pardons him. She walked by me and ran up the stairs, I hear her bedroom door slam shut. Sitting on the couch I stare onto an empty TV screen trying to concentrate. Trying to figure out how to yell at my child for doing the same things I did when I was 16. I could yell at her until I was blue in the face, it wouldn't help. Hell, it didn't help me. All I did was go out again and again until I got pregnant. God, I hope that doesn't happen to her. Then, almost as if my father were here, I can hear his voice. "Tell her what you did, tell her the truth." "What?" I ask. "Tell her you're mistakes, she'll listen." "How do you know?" "She's just like you. You were never dumb, just rebellious. If I could have conveyed to you what could have happen better you wouldn't have had your boyfriend leave you when he found out you were having a baby. Tell her what can happen, tell her about her father, she will listen." Maybe it wasn't my father, maybe it was just a monolog in my head, but the advice was sound. I stand up from my chair and head upstairs. Her door is still closed. I knock. "Go away!" She yells, I can hear her crying. "I can't sweetie, let me in please, we need to talk." Painfully slow moments go by and the door opens. Her face is stained with tears and her eyes are a puffy red. I reach out and hug her as if my life depended on it. She hugs back, "I'm sorry mommy, I am." "I know dear, come on down stairs, we have lots to talk about." |
|
| The Third Ring by MrWrLeft MGAFT@aamescorp.com |
#7 of
7 Runner-up |
| This is the original version. See the edited version above. | |
| In an old fairytale
two frogs fell into a bowl of sour cream. The brims of the bowl were slippery
so neither of them could leap out. One of the frogs thought that in this
situation death is inevitable, stopped swimming, sunk to the bottom of the bowl
and died. The other frog did not want to give up so easily and despite common
sense continued to kick and flap. He struggled like this all night. In the
morning when all his strength left him he felt a hard surface under his feet.
By kicking and flapping the frog had made butter out of sour cream. The frog
stepped on it and jumped out of the bowl. That’s kind of how I go about my life. If you get stuck in a bowl with sour cream you better start kicking and flapping. There is no guarantee that you’ll eventually get to the hard surface, but if you don’t you’ll definitely drown right away. The family legend stated that my great-great grandfather was an artist who worked for famous Faberge, the personal jeweler of the tsar’s family in Sanct-Petersburg. In appreciation of one of the greatly executed orders, incrusted malachite plates made for the tsar’s birthday; Faberge personally presented my great-great grandfather with this special ring. I don’t know how true the legend was, but the fact remains a fact, here we had a beautiful diamond ring of great workmanship came from the last Century. Elegant ornament made of gold surrounding a two carat diamond with the engraved Cyrillic lettering "Sanct-Petersburg 1842" on the reserve side; "Faberge ring" as we referred to it. It was in our family for generations and now when we were going to immigrate to the United States we wanted to preserve it for the future generations. That or sell it in the States; life of the immigrant was not going to be easy. A little startup money would never hurt. The problem was however, that we had the right to bring with us only wedding rings. The third ring was out of question; The Russian government did not want any valuables to leave the country. We could have sacrificed my wife’s wedding ring and let her wear the Faberge ring instead. But my wife was strongly against it. She had sentimental memories connected to our rings. Plus the value of the wedding rings must be under 500 rubles each. The Faberge ring was worth at least 5000 rubles. In Russia people were used to obeying government regulations. There was a joke about the people who were called to a meeting at the end of the day. "Tomorrow morning everybody are going to be hung", said the boss, "Any questions?" One employee raised his hand. "Should we bring the rope from home or will it be provided by the company?" Despite inertia, we thought it was ludicrous to leave the Faberge ring in Russia. We would not agree to that if we could help it. Why should we anyhow? It was not fair! The kicking and flapping efforts were preceded by the agony of hesitation: to hide or not to hide, that is the question. Eventually, a decision was made to plant the ring in a shoe. This option was expensive (100 rubles), and smilingly less reliable than swallowing and then removing it later from feces, but the only one possible under the circumstances. I had difficulty swallowing large objects; my younger brother Alex and his family planned to immigrate only in two more years. Alex, who usually had the business mentality in the family, had found a specialist in this type of operation. As we found out in a face-to-face meeting, he worked as a mechanical engineer on the Likhachevâ’s automobile factory, but was making way more money from his “hobby”. He explained to us that he would remove one of my shoes. Heels and would replace it with the hollow one. The resulting cavity would subsequently be filled with the special rubber insert custom-curved to accommodate the ring. He insisted that the construction and the material of the insert would make the ring undetectable by x-rays, a notion that Alex had disputed in an attempt to lower the price to 80 rubles. However, the maestro was firm on price and we had to swallow our doubts. Upon receiving a down payment, he took a clay impression from the ring and told us to come the next weekend to finalize the deal. He also advised us to use old shoes. First, they are less suspicious to a customs officer; the different heel would look like a regular repair. Second, they would be easier to throw away afterwards. The next week, the rubber insert was indeed finished and we saw with our own eyes how the maestro put the Faberge ring inside, plugged the insert in the heel and glued the compound heel to the shoe. We brought them home and left them on the shelf to wait until we had to go through customs. The judgment day finally came. Suitcases were packed and a taxi carried us to airport Sheremetievo. My brother with his wife and couple of our friends followed us in their car. While standing in the huge line to the customs inspection, my confidence in the success of the enterprise had really shaken. The horrible results of disclosure were going through my mind. I could clearly imagine them stopping us and confiscating the ring. That would have been only the beginning of the problems; our visa and permissions would have been canceled and I’d probably end up jail. It felt like the earth was removed from underneath my feet; I was swimming in some greasy milky liquid. When the wait was no longer than twenty minutes I gave up. “Alex”, I whispered into my brother’s ear, “The hell with it! I can’t. It’s too dangerous”. He nodded. We went to the bathroom to trade shoes. His shoes were new and half a size smaller, but that made no difference under the circumstances. Boy, was I glad we did that switch. The customs officer seemingly knew; in fact, I had a suspicion he knew exactly what he was searching for when he asked me with sardonic politeness to take of my shoes off. “I presume you are not hiding any extra valuables?” “Everything you can find is yours,” I tried to joke. But seeing the icy stare of his clear blue eyes I choked and tried to delude the meaning. “I mean, we don’t have anything that is not declared”. In the following minutes my shoes, well in fact, my brother shoes, were shredded to pieces, I was taken to a room where my stomach and intestines were x-rayed, which put an end to the thought that I should have done it the alternative way. After I came back from the x-ray, I started frantically packing my suitcases that all were opened with items scattered all over the officer’s counter. “Am I ok?” I asked the officer when I finished. “Yes”, he said, hiding his disappointment, “you may go”. “Michael, your shoes?”, Alex screamed somewhere from behind. Indeed, I was so petrified that I forgot I wasn't wearing anything but socks. “Officer”, I said, pointing to my shredded to pieces shoes, “I cannot go like this without shoes”. The officer did not say anything. It was as if he totally lost all interest in my persona. “May I go back and put on another pair of shoes?” I made a movement to go back. “If you do”, said the officer noticing me again, “will have to check your luggage again”. “Okay officer, I am not going to go back, but can you just be so kind to pass me those shoes?” and I pointed towards the shoes that my brother was holding on the other side of the search booth. Seeing such obedience, the officer could not find any arguments against this little favor. He stepped towards my brother, grabbed my old shoes, fastidiously carried them through the search booth and threw them on the ground in front of me. I thanked the officer, sat on the ground, quickly put the shoes on, sent Alex thank you through the air, and quickly went to catch my family who were preparing to board the plane. Thank god I felt the hard surface underneath my feet. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club