| "Blowout" (the twenty-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Blowout" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), June 15, 2003 |
| Blowout by walshnyc@rcn.com (Entry #17) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "C’mon, assholes- pass, or get
out of the way!" Hannah scowled at the slow, blue sedan as she bore down on
it’s rear bumper. "What did you say?" "I wasn’t talking to you Phil," she replied, projecting her tone in the direction of the speaker attachment on her cell phone. "I’m stuck behind some tourists who won’t take the initiative and pass the slow moving truck in front of them." "Oh. I hate to bug you while you’re driving, but I really need to know if we’re going to use that last story for the winter issue. Have you had a chance to read it yet?" "All but the last couple of pages," Hannah replied, checking her side and rearview mirrors for a chance to merge into the passing lane and get around the car and truck in front of her. "Do you think we should use the story, or go with our next choice?" Phil sounded flustered and anxious. "I’d rather finish reading it before I sign off on it," she said, turning her attention from the mirrors to the small stack of manuscript pages that sat on the passenger seat. "I’ve got it right here, and I promise, as soon as I get a chance to finish it, I’ll call you back and let you know, okay?" "Do you think that might be some time before the end of the day? We really need to get the issue ready to go to press..." "Hold the phone, Phil- I’ve got an opening!" Hannah hit the turn signals in the same motion that she used to steer her vehicle into the lane to her left. Her right foot, tentative at first, plunged down onto the gas pedal, the centrifugal surge pushing her into her seat-back. She wanted to offer the occupants of the blue sedan a dismissive sneer, or at least an extended middle finger, but she was afraid to break her focus from the road. She had a clear shot to pass the truck, and she was going to take it. She could feel the car shift into overdrive, and hear the wind whistle through the sliver of space of open window through which she flicked her cigarette ashes. She was so deep in the moment that she didn’t notice the first raindrop on her windshield, but in seconds, her entire field of vision was filled with droplets exploding against the glass. "Shit." She eased slightly off the accelerator as she fumbled with the windshield wipers until they were on at full speed. She reached for the electronic switch that would close the window, but her concentration on the dangerous driving conditions led to a crucial mis-step; instead of sealing tight, the window opened further. In an instant, the interior of the car became a maelstrom of white paper as the manuscript pages became airborne. She imagined half a dozen potential tragedies in the moments it took for her to find the switch again and get the window up. She quickly regained her bearings, and was concentrating on getting safely past the truck when she thought she caught a rear-view glimpse of papers floating on the wake of the traffic behind her. "Double shit," she said. "What’s wrong?" Phil’s voice was a startling reminder that he was still with her. "I think we might have a problem running that last story; I think it might have just blown out the window..." ************************ Allison Kamen studied her husband’s profile as he drove. It was all she got to see of him when they were in the car as he would never look away from the road if they talked while he was behind the wheel. That was Steve in a nutshell; safe, steady, reliable. Boring. "This woman behind us is driving awfully close," he said after a confirming glance in the rearview. "Is she trying to pass?" "I guess so. I don’t think she has enough space just yet." "Maybe you should pass the truck first, and then she could follow..." "I don’t think that’s a good idea," Steve said, his hands securely grasping the steering wheel. "We’re already going close to the speed limit. Wait- here she goes..." Allison watched as the lone woman in the sporty little car sped past their own and disappeared beyond the obstructive presence of the truck. She envied the woman, the imagined freedom, the vicarious excitement of her life behind the wheel. "Why don’t you follow her so we can get around this truck?" "It’s starting to rain," Steve replied, making an observation and dismissing her suggestion in a single stroke. He turned on the windshield wipers even before the accumulation of drops made it necessary. And he didn’t even blink when the sheet of paper plastered itself right in his line of vision for a moment before it was swept aside by the wipers. "That was dangerous," Allison stated rhetorically. She didn’t expect a response from her husband, and was startled when he raised his voice and simply said "Hold on". There was a sound like a muted gun shot followed by a loud thump of something hard striking the under carriage of the sedan. Allison gasped as the car’s front end jerked violently to the left, only to be pulled back on course by her husband’s steady hands. "I’ve got it under control," he said as he eased on the brake pedal, and guided the turn signal into a right turn position. Traffic had slowed considerably in response to the rain, and they were able to navigate their way onto the paved emergency shoulder of the road. As he brought the car to a stop, he turned on the emergency flashers, then turned to his wife. "Are you okay?" "What was that? What happened?" "We had a blowout. I think we hit a piece of metal that was in the road," he explained. "I probably could have avoided it if I had seen it. I guess that piece of paper blind-sided me for a moment..." He seemed strangely serene, and even a little bemused as he spoke. "Are you okay? You almost look as if you enjoyed the whole experience." "Well, it is kind of exciting..." For a moment, Allison imagined that her husband’s adrenaline was affecting him in a way that belied his passive exterior, and that he was as electrified by the incident as she, but he quickly broke the spell. "This means we get to try out the Onboard Help system," he said as he reached for a button on the dashboard. Steve, who had meticulously researched the safety features of this particular sedan, was easily sold on the addition of the onboard system that linked the vehicle to a global positioning system and a subscription to a road help switchboard. Seconds after pushing the button, an operator’s voice came on. Steve explained the situation, after which the voice assured him to sit tight as a service crew was being dispatched and would be there in about twenty minutes to change the tire. "All we have to do now is wait," he said, turning to his wife with a content grin. Allison responded with a grin of her own as she undid her seat belt and moved toward him. "You were very impressive, the way you kept your cool like that," she cooed. "You really should keep your seatbelt on," Steve warned, nodding at the traffic that continued to zoom by in the nearby lanes. "I know a way we can make the wait go by faster," she said, undoing the clasp of his seatbelt. "I don’t know if we should-" "Relax, honey. My heart is racing, and you were so heroic, and the sound of the rain on the roof is driving me wild..." She undid his pants and pried them out of the way. In seconds, Steve was hard in her hands. "Consider this a preview of when we get to the hotel..." As she took him in her mouth, she could here the hum of the motor that reclined the driver’s seat-back into a more accommodating position... ******************** "Okay dude- hold it, hold it, hold it, and.... blow it out..." Denis grumbled as he listened to his friends in the back of the van. He squinted through the windshield as the rain fell harder, and the old wiper blades tried in vain to keep the view clear. "Dude, are you sure you don’t want to take a hit of this?" Keith called out to him. "No, dude," he grumbled. "I drew the ‘designated driver’ straw, and I’ll abide by it." "Dude, you are such a pussy!" One of the other guys taunted him. "Fuck you; I’ve been looking forward to this trip all year, and if I have to stay ‘straight’ for a couple of hours, it’ll be worth it. This is going to be the most off the hook surf party blowout ever..." "Yeah, well all I know is you’re gonna need to do some serious catching up in the getting high department..." Denis ignored the comment, his thoughts wandering to his new surf board, mounted on top of the van with the others. It sucked that it was raining. He had wanted to christen it in the ocean’s waves. Traffic had slowed when the rain fell harder, but had not adjusted when the drops had let up a little. He had a clear stretch of several car lengths in front of and beside him, but he maintained a casual speed. When he noticed the flashers on the blue sedan up ahead in the emergency lane, he slowed even more, and curiously peered over as he drove by. "Dude! That guy is totally getting blown on the side of the road!" He proclaimed. "Get the fuck out of here," Keith responded. "Who’s getting blown?" Someone else asked. "The guy in that blue car on the side of the road. He’s got his woman’s head in his lap, buffing his knob..." "You’re full of shit." "I’m not." "You are, dude. You’re just bored and pissed off because nobody’s riding shotgun up there with you." "I’m telling you-" Denis cut himself off, and suddenly spun the steering wheel to the left. The van shot across the empty left lane and across the meridian that separated the north and south bound lanes." "What are you doing?" Keith was suddenly in the passenger seat beside him, buckling up. "I’ll show you I’m not lying about the guy getting blown," Denis said, navigating the van alongside the southbound lanes without entering onto them. He waited until he had gone past where the blue sedan had been, and again made a sharp, looping left turn back onto the northbound lanes. As he maneuvered toward the right lane again, the van suddenly felt weightless beneath him, and the world and the highway was spinning around him at great speed. For a moment, everything moved in slow motion, then lurched back to normal as the rear end of the van came smashing to a halt against the back of the blue sedan. There was a tangle of arms and feet as the two other passengers had been thrown forward. A quick survey told Denis that nobody was seriously injured, but he began to wonder if he himself had experienced some sort of trauma. He could have sworn that he had seen something big flying over the van, something just out of his line of vision... ************************ Ray Rodriguez cursed his wife. Not under his breath, but loud, and to her face. "Gina, pull the fucking car over!" he shouted. "Fuck you, Ray," his wife countered. "Just answer the question: are you cheating on me?" "Why don’t you just pull over? You can’t drive in this rain like I can..." "No, Ray. As long as I’m driving, you can’t pull no stupid shit. You fuck with me now, I swear I’ll kill us both..." "You’re fucking crazy." "Are you screwing around on me?" "Who told you that shit?" "My sister says she saw you with that girl," Gina growled. "that girl from the club..." "Your sister is crazy." "Other people saw you, Ray. Other people told me. You’re making a fool of me, you piece of shit!" Ray folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "Fine. You keep driving. You better hope that you do kill us," he said. "because if you don’t, I’m going to beat the shit out of you the moment we pull over." "Then I’ll make sure I pull over near a cop," Gina responded. "This is the last straw, the last emotional blowout you’re ever going to drag me into. You’ll never hurt me again, Ray. Not physically, not emotionally, not-" The windshield seemed to explode as the object burst through it. Gina closed her eyes instinctively, the glass and water spraying her face. She heard the screech of the tires, the sound of the impact, but felt nothing. When she regained consciousness, her face was pressed into the car’s air-bag, which was covered with blood. She turned, looking for Ray, but he seemed mysteriously absent. A shattered, bloody surf board occupied his place, resting atop the inflated passenger air-bag, and impaling the upper portion of the seat-back. Under closer inspection, she realized that Ray was there, or at least his torso was, slumped forward beneath the board. She cautiously scanned her surroundings for the rest of her husband, but was distracted by a sheet of paper that was wedged into the seat where his head should have been. It appeared to be a typewritten page, blood soaked, except for two words generously spaced apart from the rest of the text. They read: THE END. ************************ "Hello?" "Phil? It’s Hannah..." "Where are you?" "I’m at a rest area off the interstate," she replied, exasperated. "Listen, Phil; I lost a few pages of that story, so I’m not going to be able to tell you if you should run it because I don’t know how it ended." "I’ve got a copy of it here; I could read it to you over the phone..." "That would be great, Phil," Hannah said. "Let me hear it from the second to last section break..." Several minutes later, Phil concluded with the words "The End", and waited for a response. "Well..?" "Let me get this straight; one guy gets his dick bit off, another gets beheaded by a surf board, but it doesn’t really matter because the story itself is a part of the story..?" Hannah asked. "Yeah, that’s the gist of it. What do you think?" "I thought it sucked," she replied as she lit a cigarette from a book of matches. "Go with whatever story was the next runner-up." She let the match burn for a few more seconds, watching the flame creep closer and closer to her finger tips until she had no choice but to blow it out. |
| Blowout by Glen lee10@host365.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Together they watched the end of the
world. They didn’t at first consider that all life could be extinguished,
though they knew that fear, pain and loss would be the outcome. From experience
15 years ago of the volcanic earthquake that had devastated their town, they
knew of these things. Both Marcus and his wife Deventa had been crippled in
that earthquake and couldn’t run from this latest disturbance, but even if
they had good legs and sound lungs, they couldn’t go. Their master, the
merchant Agripola, and his wife had fled as the first rumblings had been felt,
taking with them what personal belongings and jewels they and their younger
slaves could carry. Even the youngest of Agripola’s children, three-year
old Gaius, had carried a small satchel of valuables. They had fled to the
harbour, from where a rich relative’s boat carried them across the bay
from Naples to safety. Marcus and Deventa had no relatives. They had no jewels
or valuable belongings to save. Being slaves, they had nothing but their duty
to their master. Their duty was to watch over the villa and the shop in their
master’s absence, to prevent looting. Valuable oils and spices were stored
in the rear of the shop in terra-cotta urns and on his return, Agripola would
expect to find these urns intact. Heavy wooden doors led from the shop into the street. Marcus closed them. He could hear fugitives still trying to escape the heaving, straining earth, stumbling and falling over loosened cobblestones and scattered, discarded household items. The paved areas of the town were gritty underfoot as dust and ash settled. Marcus could hear the crunching of grit beneath fleeing feet as he bolted the doors. The air was thick with dust. He could taste it. By now the sun had set and with nightfall there should have been some relief from the heat of the day, but it was growing hotter. Beads of sweat covered the mosaic floors, making the way slippery as Marcus limped through the rooms of the villa into the central courtyard, his haste giving his already awkward gait a grotesque appearance. Jerky shadows flared up on walls as he passed, cast by oil lamps that he extinguished as he went, to save the master’s oil. He hastened into the garden of the courtyard where Deventa was sweeping away the softly falling dust and fine ash. The fountains had ceased to flow. The surges and strainings of the birth contractions of the volcano’s eruptions had fractured the pipes. The fruit trees were covered with a grey ash, which silently rained down as gusts of warm air breathed on them, shaking them silently. Marcus took the brush from Deventa’s hand, and gently touched her cheek. She smiled. They had been through a lot in their years together. Tonight was just another drama to be faced side by side. Taking her hand he led her to a marble bench. This was the first time since they had entered the household that they had sat on this seat but there was no one left to scold them for this forbidden act. The villa was their own. The two sat down. Marcus took Deventa’s hand. They had a perfect view of the end of the world. The grey of the deepening dusk was torn by crimson and gold flashes of lightening streaking from the top of the volcano. Building up towards the crescendo, faster and ever closer together came the flashes, so bright now that the shadows cast by them were deeper and blacker than those cast by the two oil lamps still lit in the garden. The two slaves felt a deep rumbling from way, way below in the earth. "Aie" breathed Deventa in awe. "The gods are very angry with our city." A tear slid down her cheek, cutting a channel through the dust to the corner of her mouth. The earth growled and became as fluid as the waves of the ocean. Marcus could see the tremors flowing towards the villa. As yet no buildings had fallen but cracks were beginning to appear in the walls and loosened tiles were sliding down the roof. The mural painted on a small shrine to the household gods was flaking, pools of colour mingling with grey ash and old offerings. The two were seated as far away from the villa’s walls as possible but they knew this was no guarantee of safety. Blue light flickered around metal statues, as though the gods had breathed life into them. Sparks if brightness jumped the void between statues, leaving flares of brilliance behind Deventa’s eyelids as she watched, fascinated. As they waited, they saw black motes being cast from the mouth of the volcano, in relief against the flaming sky high above them. A ring of fire appeared around the rim and began, slowly, to spill over and trickle down the sides. Marcus and Deventa could no longer hear the screams and sounds of fear and flight from the streets of the town. Their ears, their eyes, their every sense were tuned to the grand opera at which they had front-row seats. Marcus reached for Deventa’s hand. They were afraid, but believed in the strength of their gods. They knew that men were only powerless playthings, to be cast aside on a whim, so they quietly and humbly awaited their fate. As the overture to the grand finale was played out before them, the air thickened with sulphurous gases. The breathing of the two old people, their hands clasped together, laboured and slowed. Their gods were merciful. Marcus and Deventa slipped slowly and easily away into death before the final eruption of Vesuvius buried their home in the town of Pompeii. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Blowout by C. Deane Campbell robndea@localaccess.com www2.localaccess.com/robndea/ |
#1 of 17 |
| 2476 words | |
| Doris swung her dripping hair out of eyes and swore
softly at the stinging in her knee. Scrambling around on the rough asphalt had
definitely cost her a six-dollar pair of pantyhose, and if this storm
continued, probably her best dress as well. Squinting against the rain, Doris
turned the light on the wilted tire. An eight-inch gap split the treads of her
nearly new whitewall. A closer look revealed a clean gap, as if the tire had
been split by a very sharp knife. Doris felt lucky, if she'd been driving any
faster, the blowout might have thrown the car right off the road. "Shit." Doris stood and banged the flashlight hard against the fender. "Shit. Shit. Shit" each expletive was accented by a sharp bang. It felt good to slap the car. To hit something that couldn't hit back, that wouldn't make her feel guilty or afraid. It felt good right up until about the fourth "shit" when the light blinked out. "Oh, Hell." Doris leaned her back against the fender. There was no way she could change the tire in the dark. Hell, she wasn't sure if she could change a tire in full light with written instructions, but in the dark it would be nearly impossible. She rubbed her forehead in an effort to push away the tension trying to build into a headache and wondered how the Hell she had managed to get herself into such a stupid situation. The evening had started out bad, but what did she expect from a funeral reception - dancing and music? The service had been fine until the end when they all filed past the open casket. Doris had barely muffled a horrified gasp when she saw that the heavy foundation caked on the familiar face of her receptionist didn't quite cover the bruises lacing her neck like a dark string of pearls. At the reception, she had stifled her outrage as Brigit's husband, enveloped by a flock of doting women, flawlessly played the part of a grieving spouse. Doris had watched, disgusted, as the single women competed for the attention of the freshly widowed male; teeth bared to each other in sickly sweet smiles. One stupid cow pulled her chair in close and held Alan's head to her breast as he was suddenly overcome with tears of grief. Perhaps it was only the women in the room who saw the glint of triumph in her eyes when she glanced up over his heaving shoulder. A few minutes later, Doris was certain that she was the only one who caught the look of pure hatred on Alan's face when she turned unexpectedly to find him staring at her from across the room. Doris had dumped her wine into the kitchen sink and left through the back door. Brigit's death had been ruled an "opportunistic homicide by stranger". Doris had agreed with the "opportunistic homicide" part, it was the "by stranger" tag that made her see red. Alan Blaundt had murdered his wife Brigit. Worse, he was getting away with it, and Doris was the only one who knew, or cared. Brigit had been found in the alley behind the finance company office where they both worked. The cops said it looked like she was attacked as she was leaving. A junkie, they said, had grabbed her from behind as she turned to lock the door. He had choked her into unconsciousness, then ransacked the office looking for cash. In his apparent rage at finding the office bare, he had returned to where she lay and kicked her repeatedly, driving a rib deep into her lung. It took most of the night to drown in her own blood. Doris got back into the car. She dialed 9-1-1 twice before she finally shined the flashlight onto the faint cell display to see the tiny words "no service". "Damn." Doris bounced the useless cell phone onto the car seat. Nothing much worked well in Doris' life anymore -- not the car, or the phone, or her marriage. It was her failed marriage to Jim that had drawn her close to Brigit. Until the day Brigit had walked into the ladies room and found Doris trying to cover a large bruise with makeup, the perky blond had been just another bright face at the front desk each morning. "That looks painful." Brigit had leaned in close to the mirror to examine her perfect lipstick. "I've had a few of those, myself." "I doubt it." Doris had felt the heat of an angry flush creeping up her cheeks. She couldn't imagine how a pretty little blonde would ever know what it was like to come to work in eighty-degree weather wearing long sleeves and a scarf to cover marks that some bastard had laid on her. But Brigit had met her glance in the mirror and hadn't looked away. "Maybe it's different for you, but I know my old man has marked me up just like that when I've mouthed off." Brigit had looked away to rub at a non-existent flake of mascara beneath her eye. "Not that I ever let that stop me." Brigit had grinned at Doris' reflection in the mirror. She sobered a bit and added, "unless he takes out one of those damned knives of his. I don't argue with no blade." Doris had been taken aback by Brigit's blunt honesty, "No, I don't suppose you would." "Maybe one of these days, I'll get me a gun. Guns beat blades hands down." Brigit had looked Doris right in the eye and Doris hadn't doubted her for a moment. Too bad she'd never gotten the gun. That had been two months ago. Doris had confessed to Brigit that Jim had often hit her, but never as bad as that previous weekend. After knocking her nearly unconscious, he'd left to "cool off" and Doris had been terrified he would return before she could get out of the house. "I left so fast, I forgot to get even a change of clothes. All I grabbed was my purse and keys." Brigit hadn't said a word. "I didn't even have a shirt or bra. I just drove around in my pajama top wondering what to do." Brigit had sipped her coffee and then asked quietly, "So, just exactly where did you end up?" Doris had told her about the shelter, the women's group, the confessions and the horror stories. She told bout calling the cops and how the counselor sat with her while she filled out a complaint and how she'd had Jim arrested. Brigit sipped her cold coffee, and made a face, "So, now you're free." "And what about you?" Doris had been so caught up in her story; she'd forgotten to ask about Brigit's relationship with Alan. "Well, he's got a decent job, you know." Brigit wouldn't look at Doris. "And he is so sweet when he isn't mad." Doris added, softly. "And he doesn't get mad all that often, I bet," Doris continued, not waiting for Brigit to agree. "So it seems such a shame to throw away 100 percent of the relationship, when only ten percent is bad." Doris' voice was steady and strong, "Sound about right?" Brigit had made another face, "Except when he drinks - then it's about a 60/40 split, to be more accurate." Suddenly, Brigit stood and began to scoop up the sugar papers and straws littering the cafeteria table. She picked up her tray and headed for the exit, "I'm not ready, yet. I will leave him, but not just yet." Doris had reached into her purse, found the card from the shelter, then leaned over and tucked it into Brigit's skirt pocket. She looked directly into Brigit's eyes, "For when you are ready." Doris smiled into the dark night at the memory of that conversation. Since that day, they had talked often. But after that first conversation, Doris hadn't pushed. Too well, she remembered the so-called friends in which she couldn't confide - judgmental, enlightened women speaking with contempt of "any woman who would put up with being beaten", as if it were a simple choice. Doris was determined to be a friend to Brigit. So she didn't harp, though she couldn't avoid tossing in the occasional, "How much longer can you tolerate this?" comment when Brigit would show up in long-sleeves and a scarf. Then two weeks ago, Brigit had bounced into the office, eyes bright, her smile nearly breaking free of her face. She scampered over to Doris' desk before she even had the chance to put her purse away. "I did it." Brigit held up her wedding-ring-naked left hand as proof. "I called the cops and kicked the bastard out." Doris had hugged Brigit tight, then felt her wince at the pain of the embrace. That last beating must have been terrible. "About damned time, honey. Did you have him arrested?" Doris loosened her grip on Brigit's poor arms. "Arrested and filed a restraining order against the bastard, just like you told me." Brigit looked five years younger. Doris grinned like she'd won the lottery, it was nice when someone actually took your advice. "Let him find a new apartment!" Doris remembered how Brigit had sounded so defiant, so sure of herself. "I am not going to be his victim another day!" Except she had. Doris knew it in her heart. Doris climbed out of the darkened car and followed the fading headlights north. There was an intersection about a mile ahead. She would thumb a ride from there to a gas station. The thought of calling her mother galled her a bit, but what else could she do? She sure as hell wasn't going to call Jim. And at least it had stopped raining. Her car's headlights dropped behind a curve in the road, and Doris realized how dark the night really was -- and cold. The rain had stopped, but Doris was soaked to the skin. Doris couldn't stop thinking about Alan. Yesterday she had bumped into Elizabeth in the bathroom at work. Elizabeth had been nearly bursting to tell her newest gossip: the police had questioned Alan, but let him go. "Can you believe everything that little blonde put him through?" Doris was appalled. "They let him go? Why? Because he works for the County Prosecutor?" Elizabeth looked at Doris as if she had just bent over and started talking out her butt. "What? Because they didn't slam him into a cell you think he has some sort of high-level political connection? That's ludicrous!" Elizabeth's voice took on a whiny, indignant tone. "I mean, they questioned him, didn't they?" Elizabeth wouldn't look at Doris and seemed to be talking to her own reflection. "Dear God, honey, ever since you had your 'little trouble' with Jimmy, you only see the absolute worst in men. Alan is one of the sweetest guys. Even in spite of him being so good looking and successful and all." Doris had stopped listening at "your little trouble". Elizabeth called getting beaten to a pulp a "little trouble"; what the hell did she think "big" trouble was? Drowning in your own blood, maybe? "Besides," Elizabeth just couldn't take her eyes off her own reflection in the mirror, "Alan has an air-tight alibi." Elizabeth smiled at herself, "According to my friend Gretchen, Brigit kicked Alan right into the arms of a new lover, and he was with her the night Brigit died." "In fact, I am seriously considering fixing him up with my cousin Eleanor." Elizabeth turned to examine the line of her new Liz Claiborne suit in the mirror. The fuchsia silk had cost a fortune. "Of course, I'll have to wait until all this commotion blows over." She stopped turning and frowned critically at her seventy-five dollar hair cut. "Commotion." Doris could hear how flat her voice sounded. Brigit's violent and painful death at the hands of a man who claimed to love her was just a "commotion" to Elizabeth. And Alan was still a "catch". Doris had leaned over the sink and turned the faucet on full blast, then lowered her hand beneath the water, redirecting the stream until it squirted over the front of the silk Liz Claiborne suit. "Oh. Oops." Doris shook the water from her hands on the back of the suit, being sure to cover any areas she might have missed. Elizabeth's screech echoed from the tile walls as Doris added, "I didn't mean to cause such a commotion. It must have been an accident." She had pulled the bathroom door open so hard she had strained a muscle in her arm. But it had been worth it. She felt herself smiling at the memory. She heard a low rumble that might have been thunder. Doris glanced up at the sky, but saw only the faintest outline of gray clouds above. Then a light flashed on the treetops and she realized a car was approaching. Doris sighed with relief and stumbled over to the shoulder to wait. The headlights grew brighter and higher on the tree line, then she heard the car slow nearly to a stop as the drive crawled past her empty car. "Come on, come on…. I'm up here. Hurry up." Doris muttered aloud. The rain was starting up again, and Doris was anxious to be warm and dry. Finally, she heard the car accelerate as it rounded the curve. "Thank God," Doris muttered. The car pulled over to the shoulder. "Hell of a night for a blowout." A voice drifted out through the open passenger window. Doris thought she heard the driver chuckle. "Look's like you got yourself in a bit of a fix," the voice sounded familiar, but straining to see through the rain, Doris couldn't make out much but the outline of the driver's head in the darkened car. Without warning, the gentle rain turned into a deluge and Doris opened the door, slid in and slammed it closed, pushing the button to raise the window against the sudden downpour. She leaned her head back on the soft leather upholstery, closed her eyes and relaxed into the dry warmth of the car. "Thanks. I was thinking I would have to walk clear to the highway." Doris massaged her shoulders and rolled the tension out of her neck. "No problem." The voice held a note of sarcasm. And as a splinter of cold began to work its way up her spine, Doris realized where she'd heard that voice before. Her breath caught her throat as she turned toward Alan's voice. She caught the strong smell of alcohol now and heard the slight slur to his words as he put the car into drive. "I'm always willing to assist a friend, especially one that was so helpful to my wife." |
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| Blowout by kahus@tstt.net.tt |
#2 of 17 | ||||||||||||||
| 34 words | |||||||||||||||
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| Blowout by L.L. Rucker ruck9085@bellsouth.net |
#3 of 17 |
| 2288 words | |
| It is truly amazing how in the blink of an eye, your
whole world can change. One minute you’re happy go lucky, enjoying the
hell out of your life and the next you are in a living nightmare with little
chance of waking up. I know, because it happened to me. I was drunker than Cooter Brown and driving was definitely not in my future. I came to the party fully intending to get bombed out of my skull and had handed my keys solemnly to my friend Derek, who had pocketed them with a grin and a pat on my back, assuring me I was doing the sensible thing. I wanted to get totally smashed, then maybe the pain I was feeling over Bethany’s decision to end our three-year relationship would at least subside enough for me to get one full night’s sleep. Things were going great for a while. I was chugging beer after beer and the pain was numbing at last. I munched on some chips and wonder of wonders they stayed down! I discovered I was starving, so I wolfed down a few pieces of pizza and then returned to drowning my sorrows. The party was a huge blowout and beginning to rev up; then I looked up and saw Bethany coming through the door with Todd fucking Pierson, his arm draped possessively over her shoulder. She was grinning from ear to ear, that lopsided grin of hers. Her big, beautiful brown eyes were sparkling with humor. Her cheeks were flushed and I froze where I stood, the beer halfway to my lips. I felt my heart twist painfully in my chest and with a supreme effort I managed to tear my eyes away from the hateful sight. How could she be with Todd fucking Pierson? How could she be out on a date with another guy just two days after handing me my heart, shredded to pieces like so much confetti? It obviously wasn’t broken, cause I could feel it hammering in my chest. But oh God, how it hurt! The music was blaring and people kept shoving drinks into my hands. I had progressed from beer to booze and hadn’t even noticed it. Not even the first shot of Jack fazed me. I swallowed it down like it was water and didn’t even flinch. My face was getting numb and I knew that it was time to stop drinking while I was still upright and mobile, but every time I put the glass down I’d spy Bethany, in Todd’s arms, dancing or just standing and I would hunt for a refill, anything to deaden that awful pain in my chest. Nothing worked, not really. I drank the whiskey down and chased it with beer, but the pain was still there and I knew if I didn’t get out soon, something bad was gonna happen. Todd fucking Pierson was someone I knew and someone I had always hated. From way back in grade school, he and I had been bitter enemies and now here was Bethany, my Bethany, standing there big as life and twice as beautiful, with her arms around him instead of me. I remember punching a wall or something and felt the pain shoot up through my arm and hit my head like a ton of bricks, but it did nothing to ease the pain in my heart. I grabbed a bottle of Jack and made my way through the crowd and out to the pool. I found a chaise, pulled it over behind some shrubs , flopped down in it and turned the bottle up. The whiskey ran down my throat like liquid fire, but I didn’t even flinch. It must have made me blind, cause I didn’t see Bethany and Todd come out of the house, not at first anyway. They stood in the shadows, so close to my chaise that I could have reached out and touched them. I felt the anger inside me begin to burn like a smoldering ember, flickering, but alive. When he pulled her into his arms, I felt that ember ignite and felt the flames of hatred burning my heart. When Bethany kissed him, the flame became an inferno of jealous rage and I got unsteadily to my feet and uttered an outraged roar. Bethany pushed Todd away from her like he’d burned her and looked around guiltily. When she spotted me, her face flamed red and she began to stutter an explanation, but I was having none of it. She was my girl; mine! The last three years of high school, the last three years of my life had been spent loving this girl and I was damned if I was gonna let Todd fucking Pierson put his weasely hands all over her! I let out a roar and charged Todd, my head down like an enraged bull and that was my mistake. As drunk as I was I just kept right on going over and hit the concrete deck with a thud you could a heard in Cleveland. I lay there stunned and furious. Not only had that miserable bastard been kissing my girl, he had also made a fool outta me. With a great deal of effort I rolled over onto my stomach and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. I raised my head and looked at the two of them standing there, surprise on their faces, surprise and something more. Their eyes were sparkling with suppressed laughter! They were laughing at me! Bethany began to giggle and Todd joined her and before long they were both roaring with laughter. Bethany laughed till tears ran down her cheeks and she could hardly breathe and Todd? That son of a bitch was not only laughing at me, he was smirking! Smirking! I felt the fury rising and swallowed to control it. Losing my cool out here like this was a sure way to become the laughing stock of this crowd. I got slowly to my feet and mustering as much dignity as I could, I made my way carefully back into the house. My rage knew no bounds. I was furious and I was gonna kill Todd fucking Pierson. Figuratively speaking that is. I grabbed a beer on my way through the kitchen and gulped it down. Then went looking for Derek. I found him standing in the hallway with a coke in his hand. Derek wasn’t drinking. He was my designated driver and he was sober and he had what I wanted second most in this world at that moment. My car keys. I got in his face and demanded my keys and he stubbornly shook his head no. But by this time reason had totally skipped out on me and I shoved him hard against the wall, put my forearm against his throat, rummaged through his pockets and triumphantly pulled out my keys. Derek grabbed my arm and tried to wrestle the keys from me and I remember shoving him, hard. He hit his head on the wall and slid down limp as a rag doll. I never even gave him another thought. All that was on my mind was Bethany and Todd fucking Pierson. The party had about wound down. There were still the usual hangers-on holding out till the bitter end, but for the most part the revelers had staggered, crawled or in a very few cases, walked out to their respective rides home. Drunkenly I made my way back out to the pool area and looked for the two of them. I knew I was drunk and I knew I was asking for trouble, but at that point I didn’t give a good God Damn. I spotted the two of them in a clinch and walked, staggered really, over to them. I grabbed Todd fucking Pierson and spun him around catching him with a sucker punch to the jaw that sent him spinning to the pool. His movements perfectly choreographed with the thumping of the bass drums of the music blaring from the house. He fell into the pool and I grabbed Bethany by the hand and began to drag her toward my car. She was screaming at me that I needed to go help Todd, that he might be drowning and I told her I couldn’t care less if the son of a bitch died. She struggled against me trying to jerk free and I held on tighter to her hand, dragging her across the back yard, through the gate to the driveway. At five foot two, a hundred pounds, she was no match for my six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds. I dragged her to the car and threw her inside locking the door behind her. She fought and kicked trying to open the door. I hurried around to the other side and got in, quickly relocking the doors. I tried a couple of times to hit the ignition with the key, my hands shaking. Finally I got it in and I twisted it hard, breaking the key off in the ignition. The engine fired to life and I floored it, the engine screaming. As I dropped the shifter down into drive I saw Derek running toward the car, waving his hands frantically. I shot him the bird, and then stomped on it and the car lurched out of the driveway and into the street. It had rained and the roads were wet and slick. The headlights and the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement made it hard to see the white lines. I grabbed Bethany’s hand and tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t having any. She jerked her hand away and turned in the seat away from me. Out on Summerfield Road, I felt my anger retuning. How dare she treat me like this? I loved her. She was my life. I tried once more to talk to her and she threw my hand off with a sneer. "I hate you!" She said those words as calmly as she would have said good morning and they ripped through my heart like a buzz saw. With a roar of pure fury I stomped down on the accelerator and felt the car lurch forward. I would make her take those words back. I would scare the hell out of her. The Widow Maker was just up ahead, it was a giant oak tree that had the scars of hundreds of wrecks on its gnarly trunk, and had left dozens of drivers permanently scarred from her kiss. It sat in the apex of a murderous curve. If you were lucky enough to survive a date with the Widow Maker, you carried the scars for life. I felt the car slide into the curve, and I heard the blowout. The popping tire sounded like a shotgun blast; and I heard Bethany scream. I was glad she was scared. I felt the car begin to slide and then it began to spin and Bethany screamed louder. The car was doing three sixties with sickening speed and I could see the Widow Maker looming larger with each revolution. I tried my best to stop the car’s sickening spins, but I had underestimated the wet road, and seriously overestimated my driving skills while drunk. With one final revolution I saw the Widow Maker slide by, and felt a horrendous jolt as the car slammed into the tree on Bethany’s side. Her continuous screams of terror abruptly silenced. And the world around me went totally black, and completely silent. I woke up here in the hospital three days ago. It was rainy, cold and dreary. The nurses were polite, but not one of them smiled at me or spoke any more than they had to. The doctor told me I was lucky. I got a broken arm and a concussion out of the wreck. Yeah I was lucky all right, if that’s what you wanted to call it. Bethany wasn’t so lucky. She’d been killed instantly. That’s all the doctor would tell me and that was enough. She was dead. Killed by me in a jealous rage. Dead. My heart was broken into millions of pieces, never to be whole again. The woman I had loved for three years was laying in a coffin in Patterson’s Funeral Home and all I got was a broken arm and a concussion. I guess over the last few days I have cried about ten million tears and prayed for death at least that many times. If I could do it all over again, I would have walked away and left my angel, my Bethany, in the arms of Todd fucking Pierson. At least she would have been alive. Oh sure it would have hurt me to see her with him, but it would have been nothing compared to the agony I am in right now. No one has been to see me, except my parents, I can see the disappointment in their eyes every time they look at me, the disappointment and the underlying anger. They too had loved Bethany and I had taken her from them as well as everyone else. The doctor just came in and told me I could go home today. Home. Somehow that word sounds foreign to me. They say home is where the heart is. Well my heart is laying in a coffin at Patterson’s Funeral Home, and everyone knows you can’t live without a heart. It is a medical impossibility. I know this and I know what I have to do. I’m on the eighth floor you see and the window is open. The Widow Maker has claimed another victim. |
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| Blowout by Swanstar99@aol.com |
#4 of 17 |
| 1872 words | |
| Savananah Powers stood at the top of the mountain. Her
brown eyes looked down to the finish line. Nervous but ready, she wondered, if
she could make it down the mountain, for her first snowboarding race. The sound
of the gun started the race for the five snowboarder finalists, competing in
the Global X-Games, in Whistler, British Columbia, Canada. They were on their
way down the seven-mile stretch on Whistler Mountain. She was the only finalist
for the North American region, that included Canada. Unlike skiing with poles,
she used her waist and her lower body to navigate the sharp turns, and to keep
from falling. This was Savannah’s first professional snowboarding
competition, while the other four finalists, were experienced. To her left, was
a German, and an South African, and to her right, was a Japanese snowboarder,
and a Peruvian. She tried to focus on staying calm. She dressed in warm clothes with snow goggles, including a ski mask. She tried not to show her nerves around the others. This was the biggest blow-out snowboarding competition for the year. Savannah knew, that she hadn’t reached the one mile marker yet, as she slowly zigzagged. She was scared of failure, and wasn’t sure, if the other four showed their aggressiveness with mean looks and stares, to intimidate her completely. Savannah had a heart of steel. She saw the first blue flagged pole in front of her, as the other four snowboarders tried to beat her. She edged her way over to the pole with all of her power, and quickly touched it. She moved her way to the middle, and came closer to the red pole on her left . She dared not to look back, or look even further down, when she knew that her family and friends were cheering her on for support. She also hoped, that it wasn’t going to be shown on TV, like on "54321", a new action sports show, on the Fox Sports Network, when profiling the race to become famous. That made her even more nervous. She wished she knew when she reached the one-mile marker on the mountain. Seven miles, or eleven kilometers was still a very long way down the mountain. She felt the tension between the other four finalists. She’d sworn, that her German nemesis was talking to her in German, cursing her for taking a bit of the lead. That made her even more confident, and put the speed in her snowboarding. Right now, she knew her speed was at 15 MPH. That was almost too slow to the others. She needed to kick it up at notch, at full force. Going down the mountain, was a major adrenaline rush for her. She felt the wind blowing around her. She felt it tickle her scalp by feeling the coldness of it, as she picked up speed. The plastic ski googles itched in front of her brown eyes. She remembered that before the race started, her coach and agent told her there were an equivalent of fourteen flagged poles-seven red ones, and seven blue ones. There were two flags for each mile. She approached the first red flag to her left, and closely touched it with a light bend. She then moved her way back over to the middle of the mountain, with all of her gusto to win this competition. Now she knew, the Japanese snowboarder mumbled something in her native tongue. Maybe she should tell them off in French, for once, if this televised competition wasn’t censored on TV. She’d finally made her first mile marker, and had twelve more flagged poles to go, as she was a little further down. She took the lead and did better than expected, that made her smile. Although she pushed herself faster, she was careful not to overdo it, and risk injuring herself. Savannah feared that it was going to happen to her one way or another-something terrible like being hurt by the others. In a couple of seconds, it was going to be crunch time. She could imagine everyone cheering for her at the finish line. She can imagine it in her mind, especially her husband’s voice. There were inches between her, and the other four finalists. It was the equivalent of being tackled by a quarterback, during a touchdown. Right, right, right, she thought to herself. She had to go back to the right side once again for flag number three. Her head throbbed, and started to give her a nasty headache. Was it from altitude sickness? Or from the cold temperature itself? She didn’t know for sure. Enough already. There shouldn’t be any talking, while concentrating on the slalom race, and being focused on winning the race. If push comes to shove, then she’ll use force without getting disqualified by losing track of time, missing poles, or using roughness. She hoped they would be disqualified. She heard all of them speak in their native tongues about her. She wished for a translator even more. She was going to tell them, mildly soft, to shut up in French: "La ferme!" It was a mere distraction for them. She would easily pick up the speed, and take over the lead. She nudged her way over to the second blue right flag. She approached it, and just barely touched it, with a light touch. She knew, that it was going to cost her dearly, and maybe, even the competition, by causing them to hurt her.. The four other females scared her senseless, since they had muscles, like a female bodybuilder; and even for good sportsmanship, she introduced herself to them, wished them luck, and tried to shake their hands. They didn’t reciprocate the favor. But now, Savannah Powers knew, that they were going to incapicate her in some way, like doing damage to her knees-she had a bad feeling about it, and knew that it would slow her down. She rushed over to the left, for her second red flag. She barely touched it, and forced herself to go faster. Between the five of them, it was neck and neck. She felt like she was going to throw up. But, she had to suck it up until she reached the finish line. She had another six miles to go, and eleven flags left to touch by passing the first round of flags. She felt a cold presence behind her, which was fear. She gulped. Her bones were getting tired. She needed to pull herself together and kick up her speed another notch, and increse her speed. She was approaching the middle of the race. Not only did she have to touch the flags without getting disqualified, but she had to do it in the fastest time. If she did, they would dock a minute from her winning time. She didn’t even want to look back at her rivals. Just by looking at the shadows of their presence, was more than enough for her. They raced, and snowboarded over to the next flag. They were barely breathing down her neck. She moved her tired body, back over to the third right blue flagged pole. She knew, that there was a PA system somewhere, where the radio and TV broadcasters were taking down notes. They’d zoomed across, when she felt even more chills down her spine. The German on the right side of her, and the South African on the left side, tag-teamed against her, and collided with her, as she held her balance for a moment. She started to slowly topple over, as the Japanese snowboarder, and the Peruvian, tag-teamed her some more, by ramming her to the ground, and smacking their bodies to her knees. In pain, she cried out. They should all be disqualified, and let her win to this race by default. The crowd was shocked, as Savannah tried to get up. She felt incapacitated, and couldn’t move. She needed medical attention, but tried to finish her race. Luckily, she didn’t fall all the way down to the ground, while trying to stand up. She held her ground, as the others passed her, and took over the lead. Pop! Somehow, she felt like Nancy Kerrigan, during the 1996 Winter Olympics trials in Chicago, as they were her Tonya Hardings. They did damage to her knee, which made her more angry. It was more likely, that they’ll go after her other knee too. Somehow, she had to go on, in pain, and with one good leg, one good knee. She tried to hold her weight, stood up, and resumed the race, losing ground time for her fall and bad knee. "Referee! Disqualify the other four. They rammed into me, and did damage to my right knee. Help!", she shouted. She limped over to the middle of the mountain, and felt dizzy, and almost lost grip of herself. She sucked up the pain, and the nausea, and needed to beat them somehow, while waiting for help. Her knee throbbed. They blew out her left knee. They aggravated her. She had to pull herself together, and get through this. Time was running out, before it was being docked as her additional finish time. She had to be care on twisting, turning, and moving her left knee somehow. She scooted herself over, and slowly made her over to the right blue flagged pole. She tagged it, and had five flagged poles touched, and under her belt. She had nine more to go with one bum knee. There was no way, that she can catch up to them, unless they were disqualified by the referees, or fell down, or both. She knew, that she lost this by chance. She knew, that failure wasn’t an option, and couldn’t quit, due to her knee. They would be giving her a chance, if she had somebody to hold her up, and help her finish, like her husband, who knew how to ski and snowboard too, in his free time. She grimaced in pain, looked pale, and felt even more nauseous. She couldn’t go on. She might also have a concussion from her fall. Maybe they could be arrested for unnecessary roughness, and assault-and-battery. She heard an announcement on the loud speaker, that those four finalists were being disqualified, for assaulting her, and would dock time to their ending times, when they finish. That was good news for Savannah, as she would officially win the race with an injury. She could just hear them curse. It served them right. Just then, her husband snowboarded to her on the mountain, as he told her, that everything was all right, and that, the paramedics were at the finish line. The crowd cheered her on. Seconds later, one by one, her husband helped her touch all of the flagged poles, until they reached the bottom of the mountain. When she officially won by default, they examined her knee, which they determined was torn, and badly damaged, and wrapped her knee up in a knee brace. After she received her trophy and winning money, she was escorted to the nearest hospital, and before being interviewed. It was a blow-out competition, when good girls like Savannah did finish last and first . . . . |
|
| Blowout by Glen lee10@host365.com |
#5 of 17 Runner-up |
| 959 words | |
| Together they watched the end of the world. They
didn’t at first consider that all life could be extinguished, though they
knew that fear, pain and loss would be the outcome. From experience 15 years
ago of the volcanic earthquake that had devastated their town, they knew of
these things. Both Marcus and his wife Deventa had been crippled in that
earthquake and couldn’t run from this latest disturbance, but even if they
had good legs and sound lungs, they couldn’t go. Their master, the
merchant Agripola, and his wife had fled as the first rumblings had been felt,
taking with them what personal belongings and jewels they and their younger
slaves could carry. Even the youngest of Agripola’s children, three-year
old Gaius, had carried a small satchel of valuables. They had fled to the
harbour, from where a rich relative’s boat carried them across the bay
from Naples to safety. Marcus and Deventa had no relatives. They had no jewels
or valuable belongings to save. Being slaves, they had nothing but their duty
to their master. Their duty was to watch over the villa and the shop in their
master’s absence, to prevent looting. Valuable oils and spices were stored
in the rear of the shop in terra-cotta urns and on his return, Agripola would
expect to find these urns intact. Heavy wooden doors led from the shop into the street. Marcus closed them. He could hear fugitives still trying to escape the heaving, straining earth, stumbling and falling over loosened cobblestones and scattered, discarded household items. The paved areas of the town were gritty underfoot as dust and ash settled. Marcus could hear the crunching of grit beneath fleeing feet as he bolted the doors. The air was thick with dust. He could taste it. By now the sun had set and with nightfall there should have been some relief from the heat of the day, but it was growing hotter. Beads of sweat covered the mosaic floors, making the way slippery as Marcus limped through the rooms of the villa into the central courtyard, his haste giving his already awkward gait a grotesque appearance. Jerky shadows flared up on walls as he passed, cast by oil lamps that he extinguished as he went, to save the master’s oil. He hastened into the garden of the courtyard where Deventa was sweeping away the softly falling dust and fine ash. The fountains had ceased to flow. The surges and strainings of the birth contractions of the volcano’s eruptions had fractured the pipes. The fruit trees were covered with a grey ash, which silently rained down as gusts of warm air breathed on them, shaking them silently. Marcus took the brush from Deventa’s hand, and gently touched her cheek. She smiled. They had been through a lot in their years together. Tonight was just another drama to be faced side by side. Taking her hand he led her to a marble bench. This was the first time since they had entered the household that they had sat on this seat but there was no one left to scold them for this forbidden act. The villa was their own. The two sat down. Marcus took Deventa’s hand. They had a perfect view of the end of the world. The grey of the deepening dusk was torn by crimson and gold flashes of lightening streaking from the top of the volcano. Building up towards the crescendo, faster and ever closer together came the flashes, so bright now that the shadows cast by them were deeper and blacker than those cast by the two oil lamps still lit in the garden. The two slaves felt a deep rumbling from way, way below in the earth. "Aie" breathed Deventa in awe. "The gods are very angry with our city." A tear slid down her cheek, cutting a channel through the dust to the corner of her mouth. The earth growled and became as fluid as the waves of the ocean. Marcus could see the tremors flowing towards the villa. As yet no buildings had fallen but cracks were beginning to appear in the walls and loosened tiles were sliding down the roof. The mural painted on a small shrine to the household gods was flaking, pools of colour mingling with grey ash and old offerings. The two were seated as far away from the villa’s walls as possible but they knew this was no guarantee of safety. Blue light flickered around metal statues, as though the gods had breathed life into them. Sparks if brightness jumped the void between statues, leaving flares of brilliance behind Deventa’s eyelids as she watched, fascinated. As they waited, they saw black motes being cast from the mouth of the volcano, in relief against the flaming sky high above them. A ring of fire appeared around the rim and began, slowly, to spill over and trickle down the sides. Marcus and Deventa could no longer hear the screams and sounds of fear and flight from the streets of the town. Their ears, their eyes, their every sense were tuned to the grand opera at which they had front-row seats. Marcus reached for Deventa’s hand. They were afraid, but believed in the strength of their gods. They knew that men were only powerless playthings, to be cast aside on a whim, so they quietly and humbly awaited their fate. As the overture to the grand finale was played out before them, the air thickened with sulphurous gases. The breathing of the two old people, their hands clasped together, laboured and slowed. Their gods were merciful. Marcus and Deventa slipped slowly and easily away into death before the final eruption of Vesuvius buried their home in the town of Pompeii. |
|
| Blowout by Becky Matthews arethronok@yahoo.com |
#6 of 17 |
| 2496 words | |
| The piece of plywood lay on the wet asphalt in the
middle of the road, an escapee from the back of someone’s pickup truck,
looking like the bashed-in lid of a cheap coffin. Nails stuck up from it at odd
angles like misshapen claws. Paul didn’t see it until it was too late to avoid. They ran over it with a dull snap and clatter. There was a jolting lurch to the right and the steering wheel became a live thing in his hands. The stitching along the outside seam printed thin fire across his palms as it twisted violently of its own accord. A growling roar rose up from underneath the car as they began to ride on one of the wheel rims. Beside him, Wendy sat bolt upright in her bucket seat, jerked out of the semi-doze she had been resting in, her eyes wide, her arms locked around her torso, the seatbelt a wide, even line crossing her chest. Her fingers, wrapped tightly around the door handle, were white and bloodless. He fought the skid, feeling the car jump and protest. His left foot slipped off the clutch and the engine howled. A bead of sweat, sudden and stinging, ran into his right eye. He felt the car trying to fishtail and brought his weight down on the steering wheel, lips skinning back to show his even white teeth. Then the shoulder of the road was under them and the car shuddered to a stop. The rain drummed a steady beat on the roof and water sluiced down the windshield in bold rivers. They both sat there for a moment, not speaking, breathing hard. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. Rain beat in on the seat. He climbed out, closed the door, and walked around the front bumper. The rain soaked his oxford shirt and plastered it to his skin. The tire was shredded. He stood there for a moment, looking down at it, the rain rolling down his cheeks and dripping off the end of his nose. He looked up and saw Wendy watching him through her window. The rain turned her face into a shimmering, wavery circle with two dark holes for eyes. He walked back around to his door, opened it, and reached in under the steering wheel for his keys. "Paul-" He closed the door on her voice without a word and walked around to the trunk. He opened it and began pulling luggage out with both hands. Two suitcases they’d gotten for a wedding present. A matching tote. Three duffels filled with clothes. And here, curled up on its side at the bottom of the trunk, an ancient relic left over from his college years - the brown leather satchel that he kept his personal things in, its strap coiled around it like the shed skin of a snake. He pulled it out, turned, and dropped it on the wet pavement with the rest of the bags. The small section of highway shoulder they had come to rest on looked like it belonged in a Greyhound station. He hoisted up the bottom panel of the trunk, the rain running down the back window and onto the carpeted interior. He began to wrestle the spare out of its little nest, pulling it halfway out of the trunk before he realized it was too soft to do them any good. "Damn!" He shoved the spare back into the trunk and dropped the floor panel with a bang. A semi thundered past, sending up white plumes of water that splashed his parade of luggage and soaked his slacks. The trucker leaned on his air horn, and Paul winced as a sharp sliver of pain needled into the center of his forehead and began to throb in time with his racing pulse. He slid a hand over his chest, feeling his skittering heartbeat under his palm. He willed his heart to slow down. After a minute or two it did. He wished dourly for a cigarette. Stop smoking, Paul, his doctor had told him four months ago. It’s killing your lungs and it’s bad for your heart. You’re thirty-two, overweight, and work in the corporate equivalent of a demilitarized zone. You’re already edging into heart attack country. Why buy trouble? A cresting wave of sickening self-pity washed over him. He turned and began loading the bags back into the trunk. By the time he was finished he was soaked to the skin and shivering, even though it was May. The rain pattered on his scalp and ran down into the bowls of his ears. He closed the trunk and got back into the car, grimacing at the feel of cold wet cloth under his butt as he settled into his seat. Wendy was staring out the front window. Rain ribboned down the windshield in long, thin streams and printed rippling shadow tattoos on her cheeks. "The spare’s flat," he said. She looked down at her hands. "Now what?" "Now I head up to the nearest exit and find a gas station that sells retreads." "Then what?" "I’ll get somebody to run me back down here and I’ll change the tire out." She glanced over at him and looked back down at her hands. "What is it, Wendy?" She looked out the side window, turning her face completely out of his view. "Nothing." He shrugged and opened the door. Rain fell in and spattered on the carpet. "I’ll be back as soon-" "I guess part of me was wondering if you’re going to come back." She was still looking out the window. Her voice was thin. He stopped, one leg already out of the car. "That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me." "Is it?" "Of course it is! Christ, Wendy, if I was going to leave-" "Close the door if we’re going to talk." He sat there for a second, one foot resting on the wet pavement. The craving for a smoke had come back with a vengeance. He closed his eyes and fought it back - until the image of a battered pack of Camels, half empty, hiding in a nest of papers and junk in the glove compartment, flashed into his mind. His eyes popped open. He reached across Wendy’s lap and opened the glove box. She jerked at the sudden movement. He pawed through canceled checks, the owner’s manual for the car, registration and insurance papers. And- "Paul?" Here, thank God, was the pack of cigarettes, nestled between a crazy-folded state map and a windshield ice scraper. He pulled the pack out - the cellophane crackling under his fingers like the sound of an old friend’s voice - hooked one out of the pack, and stuck it in his mouth. He pushed in the car’s cigarette lighter with his thumb. His hands were shaking. "I thought you quit." "I did." The lighter popped out and he lit his smoke, drawing the first lungful of smoke in deep, relishing the instant swimminess in his head and the acrid, heavy taste on his tongue. He coughed smoke out and stuck the lighter back into its niche. He took another long drag and blew it out into the rain. Some of the smoke came back into the car and he did his best to wave it away. She frowned, coughed into her fist, and cranked her window down an inch. Rain pattered in and made dark dots on the leg of her jeans. He hung his arm out the door, trying to keep as much smoke as possible out of the car. He knew he should feel guilty, but this was actually the best he’d felt on this long, scary day. I’ll feel guilty in a little while, he promised himself. Just let me enjoy this for a minute, okay? His throat was starting to burn, his heart had sped up a little, his fingers were tingling, and good Lord, it sure felt fine. He was starting to feel almost human again. Almost like his old self. Another semi grumbled by on the highway, its tall black tires sending up spumes of water that splashed his window. Wendy was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip. Finally she screwed up the courage to speak. "I want to go home, Paul." He sat and smoked and thought about it. "Me, too." They were both silent for a moment. Wendy took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew what was coming. Depression began to settle on his shoulders and chest like a wet gray blanket. "Paul-" "Don’t ask." She turned to him, near tears. "Why? Why can’t I ask to go home? You could go back, Paul. You could-" "I can’t." "But you could! It might not be as bad as you think… I mean, it’s the first time this ever happened and they might not be so…" she hesitated. "So?" "Harsh," she said. "Maybe they would understand." He let out a sharp, barking sound that was almost a laugh. "Are you serious?" She looked back out at the rain and didn’t reply. "You are, aren’t you? My God, you have absolutely no idea, do you? None!" Her shoulders started to shake. "I just want to go home," she said, her voice thick with tears. "I want to fix our car and turn around and go back to our house and-" He threw his cigarette down onto the wet asphalt. "There is no house, Wendy. There’s nothing to go back to." She rested her head on the cool glass of the passenger window and cried. Rain fell into her hair. He watched her weep, contempt welling up in his chest. He had always found a way to carry them through, and now she wanted him to do it again. And he would. He would. He would because he was- "Responsible," he said. "I am responsible." His hand drifted up and settled on his chest, where his heart was once again beating outside its familiar rhythm. The fear was back, fear he had been battling since the guys in gravestone gray suits had come to his office the night before with a search and seizure warrant. He closed his eyes. He pushed the fear back, willing it to go away. The fear began to recede. So did everything else. It was actually something of a relief. "What?" she asked, wiping her nose on the back of her arm. She turned around to look at him. Her eyes were wet and seemed too large for her face. "I am responsible for disappearing money," he said, looking out the windshield at the steady rain. "A lot of money. They don’t just slap you on the wrist for this much money." His voice was low and musing. He could have been talking to himself. She suddenly saw how pale he was, and how the wet hair plastered to his scalp in a thin layer gave him the look of someone much older. He looked gaunt in the dimming light of the late rainy afternoon, like someone wasting away from a crippling disease. Wendy felt a deep lancet of fear work its way past her confusion and sorrow and settle in the center of her heart. "How much money was it, Paul?" she asked. Paul stared out the window into the silvery rain. His jaw worked and bunched as he sat there, finally comprehending the enormity of the situation he was caught in. Caught, he thought, there’s a good word. No matter how far or fast I go I’m still caught. He watched thick fingers of water roll down the glass. The voice of the rain on the roof deepened. Thunder muttered a few miles off from where their car had come to rest on the side of the road. "A lot of money," he repeated in a mulling tone. "For this much money, they don’t screw around." His voice was hollow. He looked at her and she saw that his skin had turned the color of the clouds outside. His eyes were sunken and dark. His face twitched. Wendy bit her lip and reached a tentative hand out to stroke his hair. She stopped short when she saw his slack moon face pulling into a grimace that after a moment curved into a sickish smile. Her heart began to beat faster in her chest. For an instant she was convinced that Paul had had a heart attack out there behind the car and she was sitting here, alone, with his corpse. After all, hadn’t the doctor warned him about his heart a few months ago? That was why he had quit smoking in the first place. Now he was smoking again - did a dead man really need to worry about his heart? He looked back out the windshield again. She saw fingers of color creeping up his skin from the neckline of his shirt and how the hair at the nape of his neck was forming into little brown curls as it started to dry. The feeling that she was sitting in a car with a dead man began to pass, but slowly, like curdled milk down a drain. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, only wanting to break the dreadful silence that had fallen between them. "Paul-" "I’m going to go get a retread," he said in that same musing voice. He nodded. "Yeah. Retreads are cheap. Sometimes you can find a good one for twenty bucks or so." He opened his door wide and turned to get out. He could feel his heart racing, gunning hard like the engine of their car had when his foot slipped off the clutch. He didn’t mind it, though. It didn’t seem important anymore. "Paul, wait." He stopped. Both feet were on the wet shoulder of the road now. He didn’t turn around. "I love you." He nodded and stood. His knees popped. Rain beat down on his shoulders and the back of his neck. He pushed the door closed without looking back into the car. Wendy’s hand tightened on the door handle. She watched him, caught between wanting to get out and wanting to stay put. When he moved around the front of the car and started up the shoulder of the road towards the next exit, logic won out over love. Her hand, locked around the door handle, loosened and fell into her lap. She watched him, squinting into the rivulets of water pouring down the windshield. He walked with his head down and the rain beating on the back of his neck. His shoulders were slumped and his hands dangled at his sides like white drowned things. Another semi roared by and she saw the white sheet of water thrown up from its tires douse him, but his stride never changed. She watched him walk like that until the rain obscured him from view. |
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| Blowout by Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com |
#7 of 17 |
| 1051 words | |
| As I pulled out of the driveway, I breathed a sigh of
relief. The blue Fish and Game pickup did not follow me. I felt uneasy though
until I got to the little used road, which led to the place where I would pick
up the contraband. I became more confident as the miles vanished with still no
sign of Jerry, the driver of the blue pick-up. Then as I turned onto the mostly deserted road, I saw the blue pickup and tried to hide. How did he find me? Am I sure it is Jerry? As I looked closer, I saw his tall skinny form behind the steering wheel. My hands became so sweaty I feared they wouldn't hang onto the wheel any longer. I knew this road though. The many driveways led up to some beautiful homes offering escape routes. I made unexpected turns then drove up the driveways where I waited for a few minutes then returned to the main road. I repeated this a dozen times. Each time, however, the blue pickup appeared. The last time, I passed the driveway I wanted. I then took the next one, hidden by overgrown brush and vines and turned around making sure that Jerry didn't follow me. Then I made my way to the ferrets. We loaded the ferrets in my car. I relayed the story to my friend, and he suggested, "Why don't you stay here for an hour, Becky?" I agreed. The family made popcorn so I had some, along with water. After an hour had passed, I thanked the family and began the long journey back to Arizona. After returning to the main road, I couldn't believe my eyes. They popped and my jaw dropped open. Right behind me, I saw a blue pickup. I looked for a place to hide but found none. The 10:00 alarm sounded on my clock. I felt very uneasy and paranoia attacked my mind. I continued watching the pickup; I told myself Jerry didn't know my plans. He couldn't read my mind, could he? Could dad have told him? Not concentrating on the road, suddenly I heard what sound like gunshot then my car pulled to the left dangerously close to the median and I pulled against it. I'd had a blowout. I could not make an escape. Jerry would discover the ferrets, and I would probably go to jail or face fines or both. Jerry would know my errand, as would the whole nation. To avoid wrecking my car, I swerved off the highway and hoped I wouldn't get stuck. When my vehicle stopped, I checked the ferrets; they were not injured. Then I hid them more securely in my car. Jerry pulled up behind my car. I got out and asked, "Can you change a tire? I guess I've had a blowout." Jerry nodded then picked up his CB and called a tow truck. "Do you have a spare?" I shook my head. I asked Jerry, "Why are you following me? What have I done to deserve your attention?" "You, ferret-lover, babe! You know what I want. "I want to nail you and your ferret-loving friends. I need a promotion and your information will sure give it to me." Back at my father's house, Jerry asked me many questions that I didn't want to answer. Now I was a captive audience. On my previous visit to see my father, I had the unlucky experience of meeting the hired ranger, Jerry. Dad and Jerry decided to keep the area where my father stored the fruit extra wet so they could monitor the tracks. Jerry insisted on blaming ferrets or weasels for the damage to the grapes and apples. "Now I can kill those destructive and ugly creatures! Let me do a search or I'll blow out your window too." "How do you know I have them with me? Did you bug dad's phone?" "How is not the question, Becky. I know you have them. Now do as I say!" "Forget it, buster!" I moved between him and the back window and pressed my body against the trunk of the car. He pointed the gun there luckily out of harms way. "You can't shoot them unless you find them." "Move aside so I can." I moved aside but quickly enough so that when I opened the door, he could not harm the ferrets. While he searched other parts of the car, I gave them some food and water. Inside the car, I felt the beads of perspiration gather on my forehead as I held one of the baby ferrets. Its long gray body gave it the image of a snake. When I put it down, it rolled on its back in circles as if laughing very hard. When I looked at Jerry, he had a smile on his face.We both ended up laughing when the ferrets did their war dance and backed themselves into the corners. Then without warning, Jerry put the gun down and laughed. "I really had you going. This gun I never loaded so it wouldn't have harmed you. I'm sorry for the way I treated you." But he insisted, "You are breaking the law." I said, "I agree, but I believe these animals are cute and harmless. They cause no more destruction than dogs or cats." Jerry told me sad stories about ferrets biting and killing newborns and how this happened to his cousin's child. "But no one probably supervised that animal. All animals need supervision around newborns otherwise they can kill. Every other state in this country allows people to have ferrets as pets. Only California prohibits a good safe animal from being adopted and having a good home." Finally, the yellow AAA tow truck drove up. The driver changed the tire, and I finished my errand getting the ferrets safely to Arizona. Jerry thought about all he had seen in the last hour and all that I had told him about ferrets. He admitted that he made a mistake and offered to help me rescue others and find lobbyists in the Department that would help my cause. Two weeks later, Jerry and I again met at my father's house where my father told us that raccoons had made the tracks and stolen his fruit. |
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| Blowout by Yehia al-Jiddani l-Yamani IamyayaheIIo@aol.com |
#8 of 17 |
| 962 words | |
| Me, I’m nobody. John Doe Nobody. Her, she’s
Jess. That’s that, just Jess. That’s what she wanted to be known as,
and that’s all it said under the name of her band, Blowout! Exclamation
mark included. Like the sound of it? Blowout! I don’t, it’s
jackass-stupid-I don’t think she thought it up. Maybe the one on
guitar. But I like the sound of her, and I like the sound of the three
girls around her, all a little less cute,- aren’t they, though?-
and a little less passionate. No disrespect to the girls! You could see it on their faces, that only one stood out. Only one was sweating,-not shining,- and only one pair of eyes were closed, lids all silver glitteriffic. She didn’t need them to hold the audience, she had her lips, and the words she thought up all by herself, without the help of the three other, albeit awesome, bitches on stage. Leaping. I mean she’s leaping. Must feel like spreading her wings. Up up and up she flies. Look, up there, it’s her, blue hair and sparkle, glitter, sleeveless white tank top and sheer white panties. The mike’s over there alone, but tens of little fingertips are putting darker dents into this flying bird’s flesh. Jess is so happy, so carefree, so satisfied with the last note from her lips, that I’m going to fuck it all up like the asshole nobody I am. I think I’m laughing, but the other girls are still pumping out the hardcore notes, so I can’t tell. Jess has left them in her fairy dust. Me, I’m John Doe Nobody, but her, she’s a piece of artwork. Just look at her. Her skin is all wrong, dents and dimples here and there, pale enough, seethrough as her beersoaked tank. Her ears are high, her eyebrows blond, and there’s not one reason why I should know but she’s got birthmarks all up the front of her. Two inches above the belly button, three below a breast, and four, give or take, below another. Those are poky, the breasts, their nipples huge and puffy. Her nose is like a beak, her lips are thinner than paper. But she doesn’t care because she’s a punk. All those palms and fingertips carry her off into more of the trendiest of the trendy, who swallow her whole. And there I am, baldheaded, eyebrows as blond as hers, nose just as dangerously sharp, and lips just as pithy. If that sad freak from Powder were a few shades darker, I’d be him, give or take, sharper nose. Giving her my best and selfsame worst smile, I take her flailing arm and pull her from those who adore her, to those who only think they do. Me, the asshole. I dig in my heels and pull. She complains a little, but I’ve obviously got no ears to hear, or am just a plain dickhead, because I don’t react to a word of it. Once we’re on the edge of the crowd, looking in, and I’m standing behind her, I slap my hand on her breast like it belongs to me. "Hey Jess," I say into her ear, "do you like it? There’s more where this came from." And when she groans in disgust and throws fists at me and glares, I’m either not human, or I don’t understand body language, because my hand stays right where it is, on the less holy of the holies. "Get the fuck off me," she growls. The beer hasn’t touched her mind. Never does. She went into it,-alcohol,-thinking it would change her mind as drastically as virginity lost. Is why it didn’t. Hasn’t changed her body, either, because the headlock she puts me in is like steel without a single impurity. And my breaths are cramped together like a traffic jam, right in my throat. Then she punches me, right above the eye, and I feel my face break. "Ah ah I give," I say into her taut, smooth arm. "Chill." Jess lets me go and when she sees the smile spring to my face, she makes another go at me, stopped only by a friend’s arm. Only by that tattooed arm. I’ve taken a piss on her evening. La-di-da, I must feel good about myself. I get the hell out of Peabody’s because nobody wants me there anyways. Jess-wild animal she is; doesn’t take shit from anybody- follows me out. And, pointing one of her pretty claws at me, yells, "Who the hell are you? Huh? Why’d you touch me? How do you get off touching me, huh? Without asking me permission. I swear to god I’m tired of all of you guys who think you can touch a girl and she’ll be too drunk to throw your hands off, to tell you off, too. Whatever. Especially a girl like me. You see me up there singing my heart out about how strong I am and you come at me out of another century trying to seduce me the old-fashioned way. You know I’m not going to put up with it. You knew it. So. Who the hell are you?" Trying to hold my blood in, and keep it out of my eye at the same time, I say, "I’m nobody. Pete D’Ardenne. Just a nobody." Exactly right, Mister John Doe Nobody. Guys, send this around, staple it up, whatever. I want everybody to know that Mister Baldheaded Freak PETE D’ARDENNE is a fucking NOBODY, who needs to learn how to keep his hands to himself and treat a girl like she deserves to be treated. See everybody at the next show. It’ll be a fucking Blowout! Don’t judge the name, Noor thought it up, and, well, you know Noor. Sorry, babe! |
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| Blowout by mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#9 of 17 |
| 2130 words | |
| HORRIBLE, MISERABLE, WRETCHED DAY Another horrible, miserable day." I snapped, as I checked out the kitchen window. "I can’t take this, another rainy day. How do people in England… or…even Seattle live like this?" I was directing my misery toward my son, Danny, who was not only in the room at the time, but who had had to work outside the past week in this horrid weather. So I can imagine he hated it a lot more than I had a right to. He just kept eating his breakfast quietly and smiling. His mother was losing it this early simply over rain. "Did I say miserable – hold on, and I put my hand to my lips - let me think a minute for a more appropriate word here, because actually, "miserable" doesn’t come close: WRETCHED. That’s it; this is a wretched, wretched, day." My hands outstretched as I pushing on some invisible being as I emphasized the word "wretched." Obviously there was a need for some java here quickly. The coffee pot wasn’t the only thing about to blowout some steam. For some unknown reason, I was really starting to come unglued. Off to my bedroom I trekked, and pulled my son’s Colgate University sweatshirt over my head for another day’s warmth. I managed to wiggle my glasses out from the head of the sweatshirt without breaking them because I forgot to take them off first. Up went the navy sweatpants from the pile of warm clothes next to my bed. I stomped over to my bureau to seek out my "all natural" beige socks which are extra thick to keep my toes from freezing, and started looking for my slippers. At least getting dressed stopped the relentless whining, but not the sighing. It was June for crying out loud, and the rain kept coming every day – every doggone day. I should have a great tan by now. We hadn’t felt the warmth of the sun for more than one day in a row since last August. We were still turning the heat on in the morning to chase either the cold or dampness out. This, after an incredible harsh winter with huge amounts of snow and bitterly cold temperatures. So each day, we tuned in to our local television station waiting for the mostly-wrong weather forecasters to say that it wasn’t going to rain. But they wouldn’t! They just wouldn’t! And every five minutes, they would come on, and would say the exact same thing on every station. This was nuts! We were getting ready to throw something at the television screen while screaming out our frustration. Lacking the finances to blowout the screen, we put on another tanker of coffee. This is how our Saturday morning started. Now certainly continuous rainy days are not the end of the world, unless you happened to be a passenger on Noah’s ark – you just weren’t quite sure what was happening there. But, dear Lord, you’re pretty much stuck in the house, you can’t get anything done, and everything is just wet. If you dare go out, it drenches your hair, shoes; you have to run to get into the mall, blah, blah, blah. I had not been outside in weeks. Now, as I recall, during good weather, my favorite way to spend a day was sitting outside in my swinging chair with my 12 year old Maltese dog, Mandi, while I either read or quilted and drank coffee. She and I would just spend hours outside rocking, talking, and enjoying the beautiful weather. There was no way that would be happening anytime soon – those swing cushions were drenched. And Mandi just loved to be in that swing. I know she was missing it too. The reason we hated the rain so much on this particular day was the fact it was not just raining, it was down pouring - down pouring! It was expected to all day, and we had to go out and find a new car. Yes, you know the drill. Outside, walking around in circles in car lots, looking at seemingly hundreds of cars which all look alike after five minutes, while squinting at price stickers on windows. Your coat soaked through, your brain numb and twisted like a pretzel trying to figure out what the real price was and what the monthly payment would be. Now that’s boring and taxing enough during a nice warm sunny day, but during a downpour….it’s just too, too much. We were looking for a car for my daughter, Michelle, who needed to buy a newer one. Her car was acting up and not reliable. She lived on the other part of our small state of New Hampshire, and had come home to go searching with her dad at all the local car dealers. My husband, Dewey, had some friends he knew that might be able to give her a deal - he hoped. Michelle, who was my oldest child, had just recently graduated from college as a teacher, and now, thankfully, could afford a little more expensive and reliable transportation. There’s nothing like a paycheck after five years of being an impoverished student followed by six months of unpaid student teaching. They set off for their auto safari early Saturday morning. While they were gone, Mandi, who had been ill for the past three weeks, and I just hung around the house. I puttered around pretending to be doing some very minor house work, still sighing, and giving her attention to make her comfortable. She had been diagnosed with Cushing’s disease three weeks ago, and since she started taking the medication the veterinarian prescribed for her, she had been going down hill. We even decreased the dosage to see if that would help. It did, but only slightly. Mandi wasn’t eating, she could barely walk. It was really sad, and we felt hopeless; so confused as to whether this vet was treating her correctly or was a quack. Since it was Saturday, we had to wait until Monday to have her seen again. So we just tried to get her up and about. She wouldn’t even go out or eat. She mostly just slept. I sat in the chair next to her so I could keep an eye on her while I quilted and watched cooking shows. It was so miserable out that it had infiltrated the television programming. There wasn’t anything to watch on the television; not even any good old movies. Rocky Balboa wasn’t even around! Yes I was still miserable, and didn’t know why. Meanwhile, I kept getting updates on the phone from my husband about their car hunt. "Hi Hon, what do you think about a Cavalier or a Sebring?" he asked. "Yeah, that sounds good." I responded a bit snippy. "The Toyota’s are way too much for her right now." he added. "Yeah Toyota’s pretty much have the price market cornered." Like I knew what the heck I was even talking about. First of all, I hate cars. To me cars are just plastic, a little steel, lost of expensive parts and a way to get around. That’s it. As long as there is not a lot of embarrassing rust on it, I was happy. I had many ways to better spend my cash. "Well, we’re gonna keep on looking, I’ll call you later." He said as he hung up. After I clicked off the phone, I heard some strange yelping sounds coming from the parlor. I had been talking with my husband while folding laundry in the bathroom, so I dropped what I was doing and walked into the parlor. There was Mandi having what I guessed was a seizure on my husband’s lazy boy chair. My eyes bugged out as I took in a deep breath and searched my panicked mind for what to do first. I picked her up and tried to comfort her as I closed my eyes and my hearted started to taken in what might happen here. She settled after a minute or so of being held. I put her in her bed, and raced for the phonebook. My head was throbbing as I got in touch with an emergency vet hospital who told me to bring her right in. My heart was pounding so hard I could see it. Poor Mandi, what was going on with her? I got my things together, and placed her carefully into the front seat of the car. She was wrapped up in her blanket but wasn’t moving. While I drove, I had to keep touching her stomach to make sure she was breathing. I don’t know how, but I found this vet’s office (I had never been there before). I brought her in; she looked awful, just awful. The vet technician took her from me right away, while they had me fill out paperwork in the small waiting room. I waited for some time, expecting the worst, and then finally they called me in to see the vet. His name was Dr. Pascoe; he had a very quiet demeanor. In his hands were some test results, but Mandi was no where in sight. He told me Mandi was very ill, and went over the test results which proved out that statement. Suddenly, a lump developed in my throat. He continued telling me that she had kidney and heart failure; she needed a transfusion and a host of other procedures. His recommendation was that she be "put down." I was naturally shocked and devastated. I covered my mouth with both hands and tears started, as he was going through the test results. My stomach churned as he kept explaining things and asking me questions. I truly don’t remember what they were or how I responded. I couldn’t believe this was happening to my Mandi. I called my husband and said through my tears: "Mandi is sick, she is dying." He asked me where I was and I told him. He said "I’ll be there in ten minutes." I cried "OK," and hung up the phone and began sobbing. I slowly returned to the room where they had brought Mandi into the room wrapped up in a towel. She was lying on the stainless steel table. She wasn’t moving and just barely breathing. They had put an IV in her little paw. I kept talking to her and patting her, lying to her that everything would be okay. I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted my husband and daughter to see her before she died. Before she died – I couldn’t believe that was a possibility here. This was my bud, but she was my husband’s "girl" – she absolutely adored him. This was going to be unbearable. Meanwhile, I had no idea what was going on at the car lot, and wouldn’t find out until much later. Apparently, after hanging up with me, my husband and daughter jumped into our car and tried to leave the dealer’s parking lot. For some reason, there were a group of thugs just standing around behind his car. He put his car in reverse figuring they would see his reverse lights and get the message – but they didn’t. So down went the window, he asked them to get out of the way, he had to leave, and they wouldn’t. Then he yelled at them to get out the $*(! of the way, telling them he had to get to the hospital, his dog was dying. They sashayed and moved a bit, and one of these jerks went right over to my daughter’s window and grabbed his crotch. THAT WAS IT!! My husband had a HUGE mental blowout! He totally snapped! His car door could not open fast enough. He went right at all of them, and my poor daughter seeing what happened in a blink, jumped out also. She managed somehow to pull him off of them. Michelle screamed for him to stop, and apparently not thinking, even got between them which is pretty scary because my husband is huge. I don’t know any other details other than he isn’t in jail. The only detail that matters is that Mandi is gone, and thank God my husband and daughter did get to see her before she was put down. To say goodbye to our girl. We buried Mandi in our yard so she can still be with us. We naturally cannot believe it, and still feel the void in our lives since she went everywhere and did everything with us. It truly was a horrible, miserable, wretched day. None of us could have known how true those words would become - or the part they would play in our life that day and beyond. |
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| Blowout by nightmare4241@comcast.net |
#10 of 17 |
| 903 words | |
| After his head hit the carpeted floor, Steve enjoyed a
moment of lucidity, but just a moment. The pain crushing his chest stole his
clarity right back, and this time, it wasn’t giving it back. "So, this is a heart attack" he thought. "Hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t have hit that last line of coke." "STEVE!" Amy was always excitable. "STEVEN!" Mom? "Steven Argyle!" No, it wasn’t Mom, it was never Mom. It was Gladys, the governess, and how did Gladys come to stand next to Amy. She’s been dead for years. Steve remembers her well. "Steven Argyle, this room is a mess! Do you want your mother and father to see this room in this condition? Serve you right if they didn’t take you to the movies tonight." Mama had been busy with the various charities all week, and Papa had been away with business all week, but he was coming home tonight, and he promised to take Mama and him to the movies just as soon as his plane landed. He had to hurry though, so he worked hard, as hard as his five year old hands allowed. He put his toys away and straightened his bed linens, then out to the living room. He would be the first to see either one, as soon as they come in. One hour, two hours. As the sixth hour passes, Steven remembers Papa carrying him to bed. Guess the charities and business meetings ran long. *** "STEVE!" Holy Shit Amy! Chill out already. I’m just having a heart attack. Where did Gladys go? "Steve?" Steve stares harder at Amy. Why is she so damn hyper, and where did that little girl come from? Is that Rosie? "STEVE!" Yes, it was Rosie, but how...? Steve remembers the time... Rosie may be twelve, but she looks older. Steve knows he’s lucky that she’s his girlfriend, and not Larry Johnson’s. Rosie is the prettiest girl in the sixth grade, Larry is the smartest and most popular, and as long as Rosie likes him, Steve has one up on smarty-pants Larry. Steve is the luckiest sixth grade four-eyed boy around, until he saw Rosie with Larry in the woods behind the playground, and he’s smoking a cigarette? What really shocked Steve was she took a puff when he offered. "Rosie? What are you doing?" Larry looked his way first, then Rosie looked, and they both laughed. "Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!" "I’m not a Mama’s boy! You shouldn’t be smokin’ Rosie. Larry’s bad news." "He’s got more balls than you! Show me you’re not afraid and take a puff." "No, I’ll get in trouble." "That’s why Larry’s my boyfriend now, because you’re a Mama’s boy. Now get away from me, You make me sick." Steve couldn’t contain the tears. Why? Why did you laugh? Damn you Rosie, I loved you! I really did! "Why Steve, why? Why did you do that coke? I told ya not to!" Amy’s still just as unstable as ever. "I told ya not to!" Yeah, yeah, I know you told me not to. You told me don’t be a hog. *** "Like I told ya, this the good stuff." "It better be all that at a hundred a bag." "It is, best blow out there. Prime shit." "All right." Amy hit it first, separating, cutting, and lining the cocaine like a pro; a true artist with a razor. "Got a dollar?" Steve peels a dollar bill away from the group of twenties and fifties. Amy rolls it and sucks up the first line with ease, stopping to wipe her nose and escape into the fantasy. Now, it’s Steve’s turn. "Hey, don’t be a hog." Amy was right, and Steve knew it. He had already done a couple of hits just before she arrived; he was already high. "Baby, I’m serious." "I can handle it." "Truth was, he didn’t know if he could, and he didn’t care. Before he even felt the first line, he sucked up the second, then the third. That’s when he felt it, the crushing weight, like a really fat broad right on his breast bone, and he felt himself falling backwards. "STEVE!" The fall felt like it took twenty minutes, it was almost enjoyable. Of course, it was only a couple of seconds before he hit the floor. Ain’t that nothin’. All my success, all my money, and here I’m a stupid sumbitch foaming at the mouth on the floor. "STEVE! Speak to me! Oh God!" *** "Speak to me sir! What’s your name?" "Stop CPR for vitals check. Vital signs. BP 86/40, respirations eight and shallow. We’re losing him doctor." Oh give me a break. "We’re losing him." A long beep blares from somewhere behind him. "BP zero, pulse zero, respirations zero." "Epinephrine STAT!" "Right here." "Does he have any ID?" "License says ‘Steven Eugene Argyle’." "Really? The Steven Argyle of Argyle Enterprises. He owned most of the rental properties in the city." "Well, he’s a goner. What was he doing?" "He was at a party hittin’ some blow, his girlfriend called us." "Blow? What’s that officer?" "Blow, cocaine. Guess that means his heart did a blowout." "Yeah, right. Well, goes to show ya, he had the bucks, but he didn’t have the smarts." "Guess so." "All right then, discontinue CPR. Mark the time. Death occurred at 8:38 p.m. Cause: cardiac arrest, secondary to narcotics overdose." "Blowout, how funny." |
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| Blowout by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#11 of 17 | ||
| 1075 words | |||
Edward, father of the groom, certainly understood why his son lusted for Diane. She was gorgeous: blond, blue-eyed and tiny and curvy in all the right places. However, would his desire stretch for longer than six months? That was the question. Edward observed the bride-to-be from behind the cordial smile he flashed to the congratulating guests that flocked around both sets of parents. Her smile was charming, although calm and reserved. It's as if she rationed enthusiasm and amicability, expressing it in accord with what each guest was worth. In those rare moments when she mentally went back to herself, as though winking at her reflection, he caught the subtlest smirk of arrogance. The arrogance in itself didn't bother him if not for the reason it was spun. In her case it was caused by her expensive dress and her jewelry and a realization that she was the reason for this engagement blowout her rich daddy threw. "Edward, why don't you eat?" asked Alex, the bride's father. "I haven't seen you eating at all." "Thank you", he answered. "I ate as much as I possibly could. You don't want me to die in such a horrible way, do you?" They were already well beyond salads of delicate greens, cold appetizers and soups; in the middle of entrees. First it was lamb, then goose, then veal, then fish; then something else roasted, simmered or baked so elaborately that he failed to classify it as the flesh of a mammal, bird or fish. Dishes changed in ominous progression as if a restaurant menu was used for purpose other than a selection. Food was prepared in such abundance that a person possessing any common sense would suspect reasons other than actually eating. Edward felt a lump in his throat. Like a valve, the lump stood there obstructing consumption of the next serving of food. To Edward's surprise, the lump was not gastronomic in nature. It came to him as a vague clue of visual memories and because of its repulsive nature; it ricocheted unfavorably off the party, people and the bride. Untangling this clue, Edward first thought of his trip to Tijuana. Its memory spread through his consciousness like cockroaches with an array of dirty and hungry kids who begged foreigners on the border. 'Is that it?' he thought. 'Am I Mother Teresa?' Almost immediately, Edward realized that this was not so. The memory of Mexico shielded another one that somehow refused to slide forward to the light of consciousness despite his efforts. Trying to hide his irritation, Edward looked at the podium where the Master of Ceremonies temporarily suspended the efforts of the band. One by one the M.C. invited guests to say their congratulatory words. The content of each speech, although well rounded and appropriate, lacked individuality. Each successive speaker merely repeated the previous one until it was the turn of a little girl whose relation to the bride's family was lost somewhere in the branches of genealogical tree. Her speech, naive and simple, caused many sincere smiles that struggled their way through carefully arranged expressions like young spring grass between sections of a sidewalk. Looking at this girl with her bouncing curls and happy smile not darkened by unpleasant thoughts, he remembered another one. He met her during a trip to Russia five years ago. That girl also had bouncing curls. She was playing Vividli, customarily tilting her head and pressing a violin to her shoulder with her cheek. The violin seemed huge compared to her tiny body. Her face carried no trace of insult or bitterness from playing in the underground station with a bucket for donations in front of her. It was serious and concentrated only on the task at hand. Back then, Edward has given her lots of money - possibly more than what she would have gotten from her concerts. Having noticed the pack of bank notes, her eyes bounced with joy, but her hands continued to move and violin continued to cry. Having remembered this episode, Edward understood why he felt the way he did. His feelings had little to do with poor children of Ethiopia, Mexico and India. Edward looked over the banquet room where the ceremony had been taking place. People were sitting around tables stupefied by the amount they had eaten and drank. Some of them, though, were still chewing with the perseverance of a food processor. It had to do with the triumph of mercantilism and mediocrity over talent, which this blowout event effectively represented. He understood with unprecedented clarity that this proposed union wouldn't work and felt disgusted with its seeming inevitability. "It's your life, man", he had said to his son prior to the engagement, "It doesn't matter if I like her or not. I'll like her if I have to. It's you who I worry about." "How do you like the decorations?" the mother of the bride asked with a voice full of Nutrasweet. The fact that Diane made the decorations herself was known to all the guests way before the party has taken place. And yet it was kept as some mystery so that guests would have an opportunity to compliment her work inadvertently. "Oh, they are very pretty, simply gorgeous, gorgeous," Edward's wife readily responded. Edward looked at the columns in the false Empire-style covered with fake flowers. In vain he tried to come up with some polite and meaningless phrase; the sphincters of his mind couldn't hold up. "Tacky, tacky and once more tacky." He commented, pretending he hadn't heard about the bride's decorating efforts. "I wish they would invite a decent interior decorator or something; amazingly poor taste!" His wife was pinching Edward under the table with the potential to bruise him. "What are you talking about, idiot!" she hissed. "Didn't you know that Diane decorated it herself?" "Whoops," Edward said turning to Alex, who became red as a dahlia. "I mean the restaurant decoration, of course." At this moment Edward felt that the lump in his throat has dissolved. Looking into Alex eyes, he picked up a piece of cooked flesh from the current dish and bit into it with joy. He said, "Mmmmm. Alex, you should try it. It's delicious!" Alex gave him a stare that was full of hostile intentions. |
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| Blowout by suzianne411@yahoo.com |
#12 of 17 |
| 122 words | |
| Jam with the dhol and bomb the tumbi! Punjabi flames light a Bhangra blowout tonight. Illusions of magenta silks and saffron sunsets stir memories, ignited by fires of ancient harvests. Punjabi flames light a Bhangra blowout tonight, illuminate the skies, shine on sacred fields and stir memories, ignited by fires of ancient harvests. Let rhythms of India stir our souls tonight. Illuminate the skies, shine on sacred fields and dance with native passions, born of hunger. Let rhythms of India stir our souls tonight. Watch a thousand dark eyes reflect the light. Dance with native passions, born of hunger satisfied by blessings of an abundant harvest. Watch a thousand dark eyes reflect the light. Jam with the dhol and bomb the tumbi! |
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| Blowout by GPain97046@aol.com |
#13 of 17 |
| 1048 words | |
| "Why did you get rid of Jonathan? You know I love him,"
Gregory Irving said, his body stiff from the tension within him. "I was jealous," Jordan Lamar said. "You’ve been busy all year and only wanted me around when you needed an escort. Why Jonathan?" He banged his hands on the wall. "Not healthy to spend every waking hour with him." She looked at her watch, impatient with his whining. "I need a drink." He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself some Scotch. "Don’t you dare get drunk, not tonight. I’ve worked years for this night," she said. Jordan looked at the man before her. His suit fit his lean body perfectly and even at the age of sixty he looked young, well fairly young. His silver hair gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight from the windows, but his hazel eyes were full of pain. For thirty years Gregory had a successful show business career with Jonathan’s help, but in the last five years i | |