| "It's Your Turn" (the twenty-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "It's Your Turn" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), July 15, 2003 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| It's Your Turn by Jennifer Turner jturner4@charter.net (Entry #11) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| My head hurts. It’s not
unpleasant, just painful. Where I hide, the pain is welcome, a reminder that I
still have a body. A gaseous odor singes my nose, another indication I exist.
The black is complete, disconnecting, liquid. A sound so loud I see it flashing
across the universe in my head as my ears register the noise and I recognize
the rumbling back-fire of an engine. I’m returning. The inner light of awareness sheds light on the hiding place deep within me and I crouch lower inside the black box, unwilling to emerge, but the light follows. Now the pain intrudes, becomes humongous as I enter reality. All the small aches and pains return. Wrists sting, feet burn from lack of circulation, and the pain in my head resonates from a spot above my ear. I moan deep in my throat. Lying on the nylon carpet covering the floor of a moving vehicle, I’m overwhelmed with need to relieve my bursting bladder. My legs actually respond to my mind’s command, and curl toward my chest. The driver takes a turn and I’m flung to a metal wall. I’m in a van. A white van, with lettering on the side. I’m swamped by recollection. I lay with my cheek pressed against cool steel, body thrumming in unison with the vibrations from the road and engine. My memory has caught up to the rest of me. The day started on a sour note. I should have stayed in bed, remained asleep instead of waking with a jolt, realizing my alarm clock never buzzed. An hour late for work, the supervising maid informed me I’d been fired. But I rallied, and during a lunch at the diner across from the hotel, I searched the paper for employment. An add for a job fair drew me to the strip mall six blocks away. My luck has changed, I’d thought, never realizing that it had, just not as I wanted it to. I waited in line for my turn to discuss a position at a competing hotel to the one I’d just been fired from. After fifteen minutes, I wanted to leave and spend the day wallowing in self-pity and chocolate. The temptation was so powerful, I turned to leave. "It’s your turn," the man behind me said. I should have run right there, should have gone home with Hershey and Calgon. I smiled, surprised and glanced back. Apparently the guy ahead of me had moved to another table, leaving me next, and it was, indeed my turn. "Thanks." During the conversation with the heavy-jowled sweaty man taking applications, I smiled and performed the groveling-disguised-as-congeniality bit that overcomes me every time I’m interviewed. I shook his hand and he smiled encouragingly. Hope followed me out the door and into sunshine. If only that was all that followed me. I walked, enjoying the high sun and cool breeze. A perfect day rarely came in late June–usually downtown stifled you with a blanket of lakeside humidity and heat that pulsed from concrete and melted tar. Head literally in the clouds, I didn’t register the footsteps rushing up behind me until a hand grasped my shoulder. I jerked in surprise. Had I screamed, perhaps things would have turned out differently, but I had no reason, at first, to think I needed to fear for my life. I remember this part in slow motion, as if my mind had to lose speed in order to make sense of everything that happened. The sun seems extraordinarily bright, the glare reflecting off the familiar face of the man who’d stood behind me in line. Except he isn’t smiling, his features contort into lines of malice. His hand on my shoulder yanks me forward, his other covers my mouth and I mewl like a dying cat, a full scream impossible as I hyperventilate from panic. He looms very close, his hand grows damp over my mouth from my rapid exhalations and spit. I smell cologne, strong, and it sours in my gut. He whispers in my ear, "It’s your turn." And pain explodes in my head. A fireworks of light and sparks that follow me into the deep hole where I hide when these kind of things happen. It’s just been so long since I’ve visited this deep black box, that I’ve forgotten it existed, blocked it from my conscience mind. But awaking there first, has curbed my panic just as the cool metal wall of the van soothes my heated flesh. The van stops. A door opens, slams. I close my eyes and force my body to relax. The urge to urinate recedes, as if knowing it’ll find no relief until later and won’t bother to resurrect itself until then. I hear men are incapable of this and I wonder if there’s more I know about the male anatomy. There isn’t time to access those files in my head as the squeal of rusty hinges and a flood of sunlight enters the back of the van. At the touch of fingers on my bare ankle, I almost flinch, but manage to hide my reaction. His face is clear in my mind as he drags me feet first toward the doors. Feigning unconsciousness is difficult as I fight the physical manifestations of my fear. My breathing is not controlled, my lids want to squeeze to keep from opening. "You’re awake." The voice is hollow, adamant, decisive. "Walk." I breathe silently for a moment, debating if I should . . . a sharp, cold point digs into the flesh beneath my chin and I open my eyes. At first all I see are black spots swarming over a color-filled backdrop. The spots fade, and the face of my captor becomes clear. His eyes are dead. Once I’m on my feet, he bends and cuts the telephone cord he bound my ankles with, using a wicked looking knife. He grasps my elbow, steering me toward the porch of an old house. From the corner of my eye, I can see it stands alone on a stretch of country road. No help if I scream. He’s silent as he helps me navigate the steps on shaky legs. I tremble from fear, but I’m oddly disconnected from it, as if my true self is still secure in the black box deep in my mind. We enter and I’m immediately assaulted by a feral smell, a primordial odor of ooze and human waste. I cough as my eyes adjust to the dimness. The house is empty, no furniture, no signs of life–in fact the opposite–a dead squirrel is nailed to a wall directly ahead of me. For a moment, my legs completely give out and I hear myself moan. "It’s your turn," he repeats as he shoves me toward a half-open door. A flight of steps go down to a lighted room–I can see the edge of a bare bulb dangling beneath a framework of pipes and vents. A basement. We descend, him behind me, a hand in my hair. My recent haircut, turning shoulder length hair to ear length, doesn’t give me much room to keep his hold from being painful. I hiss and step downward, hunting for a weapon I can use against him. Bare walls, bare floor, nothing but the bricks in the wall separating the steps from the back room. We wind around to the next wall and my bladder responds first to the sight waiting for me. Chains dandle from the ceiling, handcuffs dangle from the chains, and from the handcuffs, three women hang. They are nude, heads hanging so I can’t see their faces and I’m immediately grateful that they aren’t visible. But a second thought makes me wish I could–that they were alive. He’s planning on hanging me here with these women who don’t move, these women who must be dead. I’ll be hung up like a side of beef in the freezer back at the hotel. "No." It’s the first word I’ve spoken and I suddenly wonder why I haven’t been fighting since the moment the van came to a stop. "No, I won’t let you. You can’t do this." He shrugged. "It’s your turn." I decide to hate that line for the rest of my life. He’s so impassive, uncaring, almost bored. My death is not a boring event and I discover I’m truly offended by this. A hilarity that has no place in this dungeon of death wells within me and I start laughing. The sound is hideous, terrifying, high and shameful. It bounces off the damp walls, off the dead women, and my bladder releases. A look of surprise, then disgust at my loss of bladder control, crosses his face. I laugh all the harder. This man has no problems leaving women to rot in his basement, yet he’s repulsed by my natural response to the coffee I drank at lunch and my terror. He slaps me and the silence is immediate. In the quiet, memories of other hands slapping, punching, yanking on my clothes, rushes to the surface. I stumble backward, reach with bound hands for something to hold onto, find nothing, and fall on my side. The images of the past follow me down and I feel a rage break its bounds like a maddened red bull, a demon, rushing to the surface. A growl begins deep in my throat and when his hand falls on my shoulder, I turn and clamp my teeth into his flesh. I grind down, growling still, tearing flesh, mindless to his attempt to pry me off. Something pops beneath my teeth, blood flows into me and as he finally yanks free, I refuse to swallow and feel it spilling over my chin. He grabs my hair again, lifting me onto my feet and onto my toes. Through a leering snarl, he barks, "It’s your turn!" I spit in his face and bring up my bound hands, jabbing my thumbs into his eyes. A pain erupts strangely from my side and I see he’s stabbed me, but the pain is distant. I’m lost to all but the red-demon roaring through me, and out of my throat. The sound is powerful, blowing from my voice box with wondrous, awesome strength. He relaxes his hold on my hair and pulls back to stab me again. I grab his knife-hand with both of mine and snap downward before he can tighten his hold on my hair once more. I bite him again. He pummels the back of my head with his fists. The edge of the blade slices into my face, the pain hot and strangely invigorating. My teeth have become a machine with unstoppable pressure, designed to rip apart human-faced monsters. The hand trembles, the knife drops and I’m freed to turn on him with all the hatred I’ve harbored for two decades. Clawing, gnashing my teeth like a wild animal, I fight so viciously, he falls backward. Chains rattle and sway as his shoulders part them and we fall against the wall. He kicks out and I fly away, surprised and startled, I release my first scream, only it’s not terrified, it’s enraged. I land, roll, and see the knife. Grinning, feeling the cold wet of his blood and my spit on my chin, the cold wet of my urine-soaked pants, the hot wet of my bleeding side, I scramble forward and grasp the knife. Hands grab the collar of my shirt and I’m yanked up and back. The muscles of my slashed face ache as the grin I’m wearing widens. The knife is Excalibur and I distantly hear his first scream as I plunge it deep in his chest. It’s astounding how much strength I need to pull it out, and how my stomach quivers at the feel of it passing out of bone and muscle, and the responding rush of pulsing blood. But my rage has not receded and I stab him again, and again. I hear myself shouting, but it’s not until he’s no longer moving that I hear what I’m screaming. "It’s your turn! It’s your turn!" |
| It's Your Turn by C. Deane Campbell robndea@localaccess.com http://www2.localaccess.com/robndea/ (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| As I drove past the pumps at the
Gas-n-Serve, I noticed the black Dodge sporting personalized "PhilZ" plates
that matched the gold cursive letters running down the side of the truck bed. A
surge of adrenaline made me feel like a bird was caught in my chest – all
fluttering and tight. Even after all these years, seeing my first love caused
this same reaction. I struggled not to stare outright at the figure beside the truck as I nudged my little Accord into the gas pump next to his. Twenty-eight years of marriage to a short man had made me forget what a big man Phil is. It felt as if all the oxygen had suddenly vanished from the air. I was dizzy and having trouble remembering to breathe. I sat for a minute, drinking in the sight of him, and noticed the limp. That was new since I’d seen him last – what was it now, six or eight years ago? Perhaps the Arthritis Fairy had visited his house since then, she certainly had been to mine. Striving for a grace I no longer quite possess, I pulled myself out of the car and fumbled with the gas cap, my own arthritic hands slipping over the stubborn plastic. I swore softly, not entirely unaware that by doing so, I might catch his attention. Before I realized what he was doing, he had reached in around me, given the obstinate cap an extra hard turn and placed it in my hand. The tingle I felt when his fingers brushed against mine was strong enough to make me jump as another rush of adrenaline bumped my heart again. Hoping to cover the fact that I had purposely maneuvered my car into the pump next to his, I smiled and pretended to notice him for the first time. "Why, thank you. …Phil?" He pulled back and gave me a sharp look, obviously not recognizing me. Moving closer, he narrowed his eyes and I watched him assess the frumpy dress, the extra thirty pounds, glasses and gray hair. But his answer was delivered with all the smoothness of iced glass, and reminded me why I fell in love with him over thirty years ago. And why I had never quite fallen out of love again. "Diana!" Phil said my name as if I were a gift he had just opened that especially pleased him. "It is you." The words floated, soft and tender and exactly as I remembered. He stepped in close and I could smell his cologne and the fresh laundered scent of his flannel shirt, "I should have known, your smile hasn’t changed one bit." He still had that way of making me feel as if I were still sixteen and beautiful and hovering on the edge of womanhood. Phil had a confident way of touching a woman without ever asking permission; knowing his touch would not be rebuffed. That thought crossed my mind a short time later as I pulled my hands out of his. "Sure, it will be like old times." I’d responded to his invitation for dinner, and maybe a dance, if his hip held out. Like old times, except tonight, we were both free and single. # # # I looked it up as soon as I got home. The obituary was short and to the point. "Helen Townsend … survived by her husband of forty-three years, Phil." It had taken me the better part of an hour, but I had searched through each paper in the recycling until I found the obituary on a page from just over a month ago. The name was so familiar to me that I wondered how I ever missed it the first time around, but in rereading the date, I remembered I had been on vacation the day it was published. It figured; I had missed the one obituary I had been awaiting most of my life. Date of death was nearly a month ago, now. The notice explained much that Phil hadn’t told me – a long battle with cancer, a small graveside service followed by a celebration of her life at the local Grange Hall. The celebration service would have been about ten days ago. And here I was, chasing Helen’s widower, less than a month after she was cold in the ground. I wondered what she would think of that, but brushed that thought aside as I rose to answer the doorbell. My heart raced as I found myself fantasizing that it might be him at the door. It might be Phil, unable to wait for our dinner date later this evening and arriving for a quick, pre-dinner rendezvous…. When I pulled open the door, a uniformed agent for a local messenger service shoved a packet of papers at me with a clipboard to sign. Curious, I took the packet into the kitchen, opened it and began to read. "Hello Diana. If you are reading this, then I am gone. Or perhaps you know that by now…" I thought of the obituary I had just put down. A cold breeze touched the back of my neck. "I found out today that the cancer therapy I have undergone for the past six years has finally come to an end and we’ve run out of options. It’s funny, really. The doctor told me to go home and put my affairs in order, and it made me think of you. So I decided to finally write this letter. Something hard and heavy settled into my stomach, and I eased myself down into my chair at the kitchen table, one hand pushing against my ribs in a vain attempt to ease the ache. "When you first came into our lives, I thought you were an aberration, a brief deviation on the part of my loving husband. I was right, wasn’t I? You were just Phil’s way to let off steam and reaffirm that he was still the laughing bachelor that could attract a pretty girl if he just put his mind to it. My heart was thumping in my chest and I felt a wave of nausea roll over me. Perhaps I should have just tossed the letter in the trash, but I owed her more than that. "Did he tell you where I was that night he first met you? If my source is correct, and after all of Phil’s confessions I’ve endured, I think it is. Anyway, he was at a drunken barbeque with some of his friends while I waited at the bedside of our newborn daughter. She came early, and was too sick to take home. It was me who rocked and watched and waited by her bedside until she got stronger, and then brought her home to get to know her daddy – whether he was ready or not. I told myself Phil’s absences during those first months were just his way of coping with a family for which he wasn’t prepared. He seemed so vulnerable and so scared of fatherhood. So frightened that he turned to you, at least for the short term. I set the pages down and went to the cupboard. I found Bob’s Old Bushmills tucked in behind my good serving dishes and poured myself the first drink I’d taken since Bob died five years ago. So often had I recalled the night I first met Phil; I could envision it with my eyes open. The gentle, laughing, dark haired man who offered me a ride home that turned into a drive into the country on a warm June night. How he had told me he was divorced, and the father of a new baby and how I consoled him and eased his fears of fatherhood. Like I would know. What was I then, all of sixteen? My hand trembled as I picked up the pages and continued to read. "Then, without any warning, he suddenly became attentive, considerate, and anticipated our every need. Years later, his brother confessed to giving Phil a good man-to-man talk. At the time, I didn’t care why it happened, all that mattered was that I had him back and you were out of the picture. For a little while, anyway. Crying for hours into my pillow so my parents wouldn’t hear. That’s how I remembered the first time Phil left me to return to his family. "But you kept turning up and the whole pattern would repeat itself – late nights, missed appointments. Sometimes, he would be gone for a week at a time. Until I was thirty or so, I consoled myself with the idea that he always came back to me. You could have him for a night, but had him for all the other times. My stomach was roiling. How often had I lain in bed dreaming of those whirlwind nights when Phil would suddenly appear, whisking me off to a Neverland of dancing and bright lights? Every time, I would drop everything to rush into his arms. The occasional guilt I might feel at my contribution to the affair was brushed aside as easily as a frail spider’s web. Like a web, however, strands remained. "And your calls. I hated those the most. Do you remember the first time you called here looking for him? Neither of us knew about the other, but after that call, I guess we both did. He came back to us for a long time after that. The drink I had poured earlier had disappeared, so I got up to make another. My hand trembled and some of the whisky splashed onto the counter. Funny, my legs were weak and trembling the way they did the day I first called Phil and Helen had answered the phone. His divorce had been an invention of convenience, and I vowed to never be taken in by his charm again. Bob came into my life not long after that. Nice steady, stalwart Bob. Not a drop of magic in his blood. Marrying Bob had been a good thing, everyone said that he was a great father, and most of the time; I didn't miss Phil at all. "But sometimes, the calls would come in the middle of the night, and even though you never said anything, I always knew it was you. What, were you lonely? Didn’t your husband satisfy you the way Phil could? I wondered about that. I wondered what it would be like to be you, and wondered if you ever thought the same. The heat crawled up my face and my stomach gave another little twist. She had always known. I thought I had been so clever, calling from pay phones late at night, just to hear his voice. "And driving by at all hours of the day and night. The paper drifted to the table and slipped into the puddle of condensation. All those years, I thought I had been so devious, so sly. Helen had known all along. I felt the ridges of my once smooth skin as I wiped away tears of embarrassment and shame. I was an old woman. An old woman who had spent her entire life infatuated by the smooth talk of some other woman’s man. And I hadn’t even been clever about it. I stared as the pages soaked up the condensation ring from the table, blurring the ink at one corner and sipped my Old Bushmills. I wanted to pick those pages up and toss them in the woodstove, to stop reading and never know the depth of the pain I had caused. But I didn’t. She had needed to write this and I would read it…I owed her at least that. "You took him from our son’s graduation, you know. I hated you for that. There were plenty of other occasions you ruined, but that was the worst. Did you know you had him on our 18th anniversary? And on at least one of my birthdays? You were a ghost in this house from the first time he met you. My heart hurt. I had waited, too. Her words could have been mine. How often did I make arrangements for private parties for two that turned into lonely nights for one? "Sometimes, I picked up the phone to call your husband, to ask him how he felt about your relationship with my husband. But I didn’t. I liked to think that it was because I was better than you. But it wasn’t that. I really didn’t care about you or your marriage. I didn’t call because calling you would have made your presence in our lives even stronger. And until recently, there were times I actually believed that you had gone for good. I didn’t want to read the next part. I wanted to run away, to make myself another drink and sit down in front of the television and watch some stupid show and pretend that I had never fallen in love with another woman’s man. I felt lightheaded and could hear the thumping of my heart as I found my place at the bottom of the page. "But you weren’t gone, were you? When Phil couldn’t be here for my first chemo treatments, I knew. I wanted to believe he was stronger than that. But we’ve been together for thirty-three years, and after all this time I know him. Reliability isn’t what I fell in love with, or the reason why I always took him back. If I hadn’t been so near tears, I would have laughed. Of all the people in the world, I probably was the one person who did understand why Helen let him back into her home and heart. Every time. "Until the cancer, I always imagined that Phil would die first. I used to fantasize about meeting you then, about how I might gloat over the fact that I had finally ‘won’, because Phil could never again leave me. But I’ve known for a while now, that isn’t going to be the case. I worried about you and what might happen after I’m gone. Then a funny thing happened. One day I realized I was no longer angry with you. "It occurred to me we are more alike, than different. We certainly share the same taste in men. I am about done with this game. I think it’s time for you to live a while in my shoes, to understand what I’ve been feeling all these years. It’s your turn. I hope it’s everything you expected. Helen" I poured the last of the Old Bushmills into the sink, rinsed the glass and set it on the drain board. I jumped at the sound of the doorbell. His shadow waited patiently, silhouetted behind the drawn shade. I stared at the papers scattered across the table as the ringing eventually faded into the silence of the early evening. After a long while, I rose and began to straighten the kitchen. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| It's Your Turn by C. Deane Campbell robndea@localaccess.com http://www2.localaccess.com/robndea/ |
#1 of 15 Runner-up |
| 2499 words | |
| As I drove past the pumps at the Gas-n-Serve, I noticed
the black Dodge sporting personalized "PhilZ" plates that matched the gold
cursive letters running down the side of the truck bed. A surge of adrenaline
made me feel like a bird was caught in my chest – all fluttering and
tight. Even after all these years, seeing my first love caused this same
reaction. I struggled not to stare outright at the figure beside the truck as I nudged my little Accord into the gas pump next to his. Twenty-eight years of marriage to a short man had made me forget what a big man Phil is. It felt as if all the oxygen had suddenly vanished from the air. I was dizzy and having trouble remembering to breathe. I sat for a minute, drinking in the sight of him, and noticed the limp. That was new since I’d seen him last – what was it now, six or eight years ago? Perhaps the Arthritis Fairy had visited his house since then, she certainly had been to mine. Striving for a grace I no longer quite possess, I pulled myself out of the car and fumbled with the gas cap, my own arthritic hands slipping over the stubborn plastic. I swore softly, not entirely unaware that by doing so, I might catch his attention. Before I realized what he was doing, he had reached in around me, given the obstinate cap an extra hard turn and placed it in my hand. The tingle I felt when his fingers brushed against mine was strong enough to make me jump as another rush of adrenaline bumped my heart again. Hoping to cover the fact that I had purposely maneuvered my car into the pump next to his, I smiled and pretended to notice him for the first time. "Why, thank you. …Phil?" He pulled back and gave me a sharp look, obviously not recognizing me. Moving closer, he narrowed his eyes and I watched him assess the frumpy dress, the extra thirty pounds, glasses and gray hair. But his answer was delivered with all the smoothness of iced glass, and reminded me why I fell in love with him over thirty years ago. And why I had never quite fallen out of love again. "Diana!" Phil said my name as if I were a gift he had just opened that especially pleased him. "It is you." The words floated, soft and tender and exactly as I remembered. He stepped in close and I could smell his cologne and the fresh laundered scent of his flannel shirt, "I should have known, your smile hasn’t changed one bit." He still had that way of making me feel as if I were still sixteen and beautiful and hovering on the edge of womanhood. Phil had a confident way of touching a woman without ever asking permission; knowing his touch would not be rebuffed. That thought crossed my mind a short time later as I pulled my hands out of his. "Sure, it will be like old times." I’d responded to his invitation for dinner, and maybe a dance, if his hip held out. Like old times, except tonight, we were both free and single. # # # I looked it up as soon as I got home. The obituary was short and to the point. "Helen Townsend … survived by her husband of forty-three years, Phil." It had taken me the better part of an hour, but I had searched through each paper in the recycling until I found the obituary on a page from just over a month ago. The name was so familiar to me that I wondered how I ever missed it the first time around, but in rereading the date, I remembered I had been on vacation the day it was published. It figured; I had missed the one obituary I had been awaiting most of my life. Date of death was nearly a month ago, now. The notice explained much that Phil hadn’t told me – a long battle with cancer, a small graveside service followed by a celebration of her life at the local Grange Hall. The celebration service would have been about ten days ago. And here I was, chasing Helen’s widower, less than a month after she was cold in the ground. I wondered what she would think of that, but brushed that thought aside as I rose to answer the doorbell. My heart raced as I found myself fantasizing that it might be him at the door. It might be Phil, unable to wait for our dinner date later this evening and arriving for a quick, pre-dinner rendezvous…. When I pulled open the door, a uniformed agent for a local messenger service shoved a packet of papers at me with a clipboard to sign. Curious, I took the packet into the kitchen, opened it and began to read. "Hello Diana. If you are reading this, then I am gone. Or perhaps you know that by now…" I thought of the obituary I had just put down. A cold breeze touched the back of my neck. "I found out today that the cancer therapy I have undergone for the past six years has finally come to an end and we’ve run out of options. It’s funny, really. The doctor told me to go home and put my affairs in order, and it made me think of you. So I decided to finally write this letter. Something hard and heavy settled into my stomach, and I eased myself down into my chair at the kitchen table, one hand pushing against my ribs in a vain attempt to ease the ache. "When you first came into our lives, I thought you were an aberration, a brief deviation on the part of my loving husband. I was right, wasn’t I? You were just Phil’s way to let off steam and reaffirm that he was still the laughing bachelor that could attract a pretty girl if he just put his mind to it. My heart was thumping in my chest and I felt a wave of nausea roll over me. Perhaps I should have just tossed the letter in the trash, but I owed her more than that. "Did he tell you where I was that night he first met you? If my source is correct, and after all of Phil’s confessions I’ve endured, I think it is. Anyway, he was at a drunken barbeque with some of his friends while I waited at the bedside of our newborn daughter. She came early, and was too sick to take home. It was me who rocked and watched and waited by her bedside until she got stronger, and then brought her home to get to know her daddy – whether he was ready or not. I told myself Phil’s absences during those first months were just his way of coping with a family for which he wasn’t prepared. He seemed so vulnerable and so scared of fatherhood. So frightened that he turned to you, at least for the short term. I set the pages down and went to the cupboard. I found Bob’s Old Bushmills tucked in behind my good serving dishes and poured myself the first drink I’d taken since Bob died five years ago. So often had I recalled the night I first met Phil; I could envision it with my eyes open. The gentle, laughing, dark haired man who offered me a ride home that turned into a drive into the country on a warm June night. How he had told me he was divorced, and the father of a new baby and how I consoled him and eased his fears of fatherhood. Like I would know. What was I then, all of sixteen? My hand trembled as I picked up the pages and continued to read. "Then, without any warning, he suddenly became attentive, considerate, and anticipated our every need. Years later, his brother confessed to giving Phil a good man-to-man talk. At the time, I didn’t care why it happened, all that mattered was that I had him back and you were out of the picture. For a little while, anyway. Crying for hours into my pillow so my parents wouldn’t hear. That’s how I remembered the first time Phil left me to return to his family. "But you kept turning up and the whole pattern would repeat itself – late nights, missed appointments. Sometimes, he would be gone for a week at a time. Until I was thirty or so, I consoled myself with the idea that he always came back to me. You could have him for a night, but had him for all the other times. My stomach was roiling. How often had I lain in bed dreaming of those whirlwind nights when Phil would suddenly appear, whisking me off to a Neverland of dancing and bright lights? Every time, I would drop everything to rush into his arms. The occasional guilt I might feel at my contribution to the affair was brushed aside as easily as a frail spider’s web. Like a web, however, strands remained. "And your calls. I hated those the most. Do you remember the first time you called here looking for him? Neither of us knew about the other, but after that call, I guess we both did. He came back to us for a long time after that. The drink I had poured earlier had disappeared, so I got up to make another. My hand trembled and some of the whisky splashed onto the counter. Funny, my legs were weak and trembling the way they did the day I first called Phil and Helen had answered the phone. His divorce had been an invention of convenience, and I vowed to never be taken in by his charm again. Bob came into my life not long after that. Nice steady, stalwart Bob. Not a drop of magic in his blood. Marrying Bob had been a good thing, everyone said that he was a great father, and most of the time; I didn't miss Phil at all. "But sometimes, the calls would come in the middle of the night, and even though you never said anything, I always knew it was you. What, were you lonely? Didn’t your husband satisfy you the way Phil could? I wondered about that. I wondered what it would be like to be you, and wondered if you ever thought the same. The heat crawled up my face and my stomach gave another little twist. She had always known. I thought I had been so clever, calling from pay phones late at night, just to hear his voice. "And driving by at all hours of the day and night. The paper drifted to the table and slipped into the puddle of condensation. All those years, I thought I had been so devious, so sly. Helen had known all along. I felt the ridges of my once smooth skin as I wiped away tears of embarrassment and shame. I was an old woman. An old woman who had spent her entire life infatuated by the smooth talk of some other woman’s man. And I hadn’t even been clever about it. I stared as the pages soaked up the condensation ring from the table, blurring the ink at one corner and sipped my Old Bushmills. I wanted to pick those pages up and toss them in the woodstove, to stop reading and never know the depth of the pain I had caused. But I didn’t. She had needed to write this and I would read it…I owed her at least that. "You took him from our son’s graduation, you know. I hated you for that. There were plenty of other occasions you ruined, but that was the worst. Did you know you had him on our 18th anniversary? And on at least one of my birthdays? You were a ghost in this house from the first time he met you. My heart hurt. I had waited, too. Her words could have been mine. How often did I make arrangements for private parties for two that turned into lonely nights for one? "Sometimes, I picked up the phone to call your husband, to ask him how he felt about your relationship with my husband. But I didn’t. I liked to think that it was because I was better than you. But it wasn’t that. I really didn’t care about you or your marriage. I didn’t call because calling you would have made your presence in our lives even stronger. And until recently, there were times I actually believed that you had gone for good. I didn’t want to read the next part. I wanted to run away, to make myself another drink and sit down in front of the television and watch some stupid show and pretend that I had never fallen in love with another woman’s man. I felt lightheaded and could hear the thumping of my heart as I found my place at the bottom of the page. "But you weren’t gone, were you? When Phil couldn’t be here for my first chemo treatments, I knew. I wanted to believe he was stronger than that. But we’ve been together for thirty-three years, and after all this time I know him. Reliability isn’t what I fell in love with, or the reason why I always took him back. If I hadn’t been so near tears, I would have laughed. Of all the people in the world, I probably was the one person who did understand why Helen let him back into her home and heart. Every time. "Until the cancer, I always imagined that Phil would die first. I used to fantasize about meeting you then, about how I might gloat over the fact that I had finally ‘won’, because Phil could never again leave me. But I’ve known for a while now, that isn’t going to be the case. I worried about you and what might happen after I’m gone. Then a funny thing happened. One day I realized I was no longer angry with you. "It occurred to me we are more alike, than different. We certainly share the same taste in men. I am about done with this game. I think it’s time for you to live a while in my shoes, to understand what I’ve been feeling all these years. It’s your turn. I hope it’s everything you expected. Helen" I poured the last of the Old Bushmills into the sink, rinsed the glass and set it on the drain board. I jumped at the sound of the doorbell. His shadow waited patiently, silhouetted behind the drawn shade. I stared at the papers scattered across the table as the ringing eventually faded into the silence of the early evening. After a long while, I rose and began to straighten the kitchen. |
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| It's Your Turn by tom_set@yahoo.com |
#2 of 15 |
| 726 words | |
| Yeah, I'm a wolf. The Big Bad Wolf. So what? Everyone
hates me because of that little fracas with the Little Red Riding Hood brat,
but I'm here to tell you, I'm really a pretty decent guy. Yeah, you've all been
telling the story for years but it's slanted, you got me all wrong. I'm
thinking to myself it's time I told my side of the story. It's your turn.
Lemme tell you a few things about wolves before we start. We used to be admired, revered, sacred, until the Church declared us evil and you know how much pull those suckers got. They got a real attitude problem ya know. We keep to ourselves and don't bother nobody. Yeah, we're meat eaters. You won't catch me sitting down to some friggin' spinach, radish, and arugula salad. We're sympatico with the ecosystem, thinning out the herds of the weak and old. That brings me to Granny. It was lean times. I had nuthin' to eat for days, and I was sniffing around Grandma's chicken coop at the edge of town. Then the old bat come out on the porch and drew on me! I was peacefully loping away - I know when I'm not wanted - and she still let me have it with two barrels of buckshot. I was picking those friggin' things out of my butt for a week. Granny didn't play fair, shooting at me when my back was turned, so I'm thinking I'm gonna have to learn her a lesson some day. Well a little bit later, I runs into this snooty little Red Riding Hood kid. I'm chatting with her nice and pleasant and she lets on that Granny is sick in bed. I figure, here's my chance to even up the score with the old bird. I tell the kid to go pick some flowers for her sweet old granny, and I hightails it over to the cottage to beat her there. Yeah, it was a sneaky trick to pretend to be the kid just to get Granny to invite me in but you do what you gotta do. She was laying in bed all weak with her shotgun clear on the other side of the room, so I pounces on the wrinkled old buzzard and gobbles her up with one swallow. That'll learn her the rules of Queensbury. Fair is fair. Then the Red Riding Hood rug rat comes a knocking at the door. I'm trying to figure some way to get rid of her but the persistent little whelp woudn't go away. She comes in a skipping and and a singing and starts pestering me with all these questions about my eyes and nose and what not. I can see that the little snitch is getting wise to me. Now there was hardly enough meat on the kiddo to make two tacos but I'm thinking she'll be a fine dessert. So anyhow I gulps her down too. I had to do it to keep her from squealing on me, dontcha see? I'm not a young wolf anymore so after a big meal like that, I need a nap. I figure it's pretty safe there in the cottage so I lays back down on the bed and starts snoozing pretty good. When I'm sawing logs like that you could run a freight train through the room and I wouldn't hear a thing. So I'm conked out and along comes this huntsman who I guess had been chatting with that snotty little girl. He hears 'em whining and moaning there in my belly, so he slits me open and lets 'em out. Then they all get the bright idea to fill my up tummy with some stones. Now that's a dirty trick to play on a guy. I was walking around an inch from the ground all lopsided. It was rough I tell ya. It took me days to poop out those stones. It was like giving birth to Godzilla - two dozen times. No sir, I wouldn't wish that on anybody. Well that's the real story and I'm glad it was my turn to set the record straight. No, there's no moral, I'm not the friggin' brothers Grimm. I just hope you'll feel more kindly about me from now on. It don't really matter though, I'm already miles away. |
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| It's Your Turn by nightmare4241@comcast.net |
#3 of 15 |
| 298 words | |
| "Clarence, it’s Thursday, and it’s your
turn." "Thursday all ready! Damn! OK, OK. My turn, right." Clarence steps into the next room, and begins to prepare for the night’s work. "You’re sure that it’s my turn Ethel?" "Yes, I’m sure that it’s your turn" "Your quite sure that it’s Thursday? I’d swear it’s Wednesday." "Christ-A-Mighty Clarence! Of course it’s Thursday. We had meat loaf, didn’t we? We always have meat loaf on Thursday, not Wednesday. Wednesday is bridge night, and we eat at the diner." "Oh, that’s right. OK, OK." No sense whining about it now. Clarence knows he’d been beat. He has spent his entire working life learning that lesson, and he’d learned it well. The only thing to do is to get his special clothing on and get ready. "What do you think? The brown one or the black one?" "You wore the brown one last time. Wear the black one." "All right, the last one." "I said the BLACK one you silly goat!" "Yes dear, the black one." Clarence starts with the bottom, a few stray threads showing from age and years of use, the head gear last. The outfit complete, he slips past the barking dog. Stupid dog never recognizes him in these clothes. He sits down in the working area, and waits patiently. Finally, she arrives, wearing her own special clothing. "Remember, next Thursday, it’s your turn to be the low one. I’m ready- mistress." There, standing enticingly, is his wife of sixty years, wearing her outfit of patent leather and orthopedic shoes, holding a small whip in her right hand, and a quad cane in her left. At eighty-one, she needed the support. Clarence began the ritual, dressed in a loincloth and leather hood. "Me Tarzan, you Jane. Me your love slave." |
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| It's Your Turn by Clald4u@aol.com |
#4 of 15 |
| 439 words | |
| As Brianne scurried down the dimly lit hall in her
too-small spiked heels she slipped on the waxy floor and righted herself just
in time. "Freaking janitors and their freaking buffing machines" she spat aloud as she scurried on hoping she still could make it in time. "Attractive model; versatile and ready for that one defining "shoot" to Fame, the ad had read. Now 29 , Brianne had pounded the pavement in search of that almighty big break. The right makeup pretty well hid the traces of dissipation she had indulged along the way. Good bone structure helped out and her "assets" were still holding up. But soon enough gravity would begin to take its eventualtoll. This knowledge lent a certain air of desperation that she was hoping that she could mask during the course of the interview. Now ahead she saw a door with a plague that read "Al Sharp, Photographer" Straightening her barley there skirt and rearranging her features in what she perceived to be a winning smile, she grasped the door knob and pushed it open. Slinking into the room, she noticed that there were no other girls in the waiting area. Her smile faded as she took a seat on a worn couch with loose springs. Her anticipation began to fade as she mumbled to herself, "Another lousy dive. And where's the receptionist? Ain't even got enough class for lousy receptionist"! As she sat there, however, her resentment turned to a sense ofunease. She stared at the heavy, grimy door which apparently led into another room. Should she knock on it? Or maybe she should just chuck it and head out the way she came in. As she hashed over this idea she saw the interior door slowly opening. Nervously she got to her feet. As the door continued to open it revealed the lithe figure of a young man with an attractive and boyish face. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long ," he apologized in a courteous manner. Relieved she preened herself and purred, "Nah, I'm ready now." Walking through the open door into the dimly lit room she began to make out shapes, human forms, but oddly displayed and with glassy stares. "Make yourself comfortable" the voice cheerfully stated. As she turned around she saw the man, his back against the door. His boyish face was now twisted in a maniacal mask. A mindless terror consumed her as she saw the weapon in his hand. Horror, disbelief and hopelessness gripped her being as she heard the chilling words now filled with a deadly meaning, "It's YOUR turn now."... |
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| It's Your Turn by Swanstar99@aol.com |
#5 of 15 |
| 1538 words | |
| Hannah Somers carried the steel birdcage to the table.
Inside the cage was an injured white dove. She peeked through the bars to check
on the dove. The bird had been brought to the sanctuary three months ago. The
bird had damage to one of its wings and was also very hungry. After the bird
was fed, its wing was fixed and then checked for any disease. Hannah had been
taking care of it ever since that day. Each day she fed the bird, gave it medicine, checked on its bandaged wing.She always talked to the animals she worked with.This brought a lot of teasing, but she didn’t let it bother her. She had just earned her Veterinary degree, and wasn’t only the youngest person on the staff, but the newest. The staff was very friendly and had made her feel welcomed. She also knew they would’ve kidded her about something, Hannah had just given th em the ammunition. They would’ve had a field day, if she told them, that it seemed to her the dove recognized her voice. Each day when she entered the room, she would talk to all the birds. After the first week, she noticed when she spoke, the dove would hop to the front of its cage. She took care of many other birds, besides the dove. Hannah and the other employees took care of more than one hundred birds. About half of them were on the endangered species list, so it was very important that they do all they could to nurse them back to health. Now, after three months at the sanctuary, it was time to release the bird. Hopefully, it would rejoin its family. Hannah was very sad to see it go. She wouldn’t have minded keeping the bird as a pet, but that would’ve been against the sanctuary’s policy. She put on her gloves on and slowly opened up the door to the cage. The dove wouldn’t be let go, until Hannah inspected the bird’s wing and checked on its health. Most of the animals had been given names, and Hannah had named the bird, Peace. She chose the name, because doves were symbolic to peace, as it suited the dove. "Peace, this is your big day. If you’re healthy, and if you show me you can spread your wings, I’ll be able to let you go free. You’ll be able to join your family", Hannah said. Hannah’s green eyes looked over Peace very carefully. She took out her stethoscope from her pocket, and checked her dove’s heartbeat. Everything was fine. She then looked into Peace’s brown eyes. They were bright and cheery. Hannah smiled, as Peace chirped at her. Peace was happy, healthy, and ready to return to the great blue beyond. Hannah’s smile disappeared. It was time to inspect her broken left wing. "Okay, Peace, I’m going to unwrap the bandage off your wing. Don’t move it until I tell you too, okay? It should be healed nicely by now", Hannah said to her. Peace didn’t move. Hannah sat down on the stool and very carefully unravelled the bandage. Hannah sighed through the process. As she slowly took off the tape bandage, Peace stayed very still. "That’s it, nice and easy, Peace. We’re halfway there." Hannah smiled. The bandage was off, a couple of seconds later. But, before she can let Peace move the wing, she needed to inspect it. The scar on the top of the wing had healed nicely and was barely noticeable. "Looking good, Peace." Hannah now needed to test the wing’s movement. She slowly moved it up and down, and then left to right. "Okay, Peace, it’s your turn. Slowly lift your wing up. Don’t force it. Go slow, move it even if it’s a little bit. Your wing may be sore, but it has to be able to propel you to fly", Hannah told Peace. Peace chirped, and half-nodded at Hannah. She turned her brown eyes towards her white left wing. With all of her might, she slowly tried to lift her wing up a bit. It moved slowly but surely. Peace struggled. Hannah frowned. Maybe, she needed more time for her wing to heal, she thought to herself. "Take it easy, Peace. I know it’s hard. Don’t push yourself." She paused. "Now, let’s try for you to move it down a bit, okay? . . . ." She took off her gloves, and ran her fingers through her short auburn hair. She watched as Peace tried to maneuver her left wing. Slowly, it moved a bit. Maybe it was too soon. It made her half-smile, crookedly. Peace moved her wing back to where she started. Hannah felt sorry for the poor thing. Maybe it was too soon. "Okay, Peace. Slowly but surely, you’re getting there. Does it still hurt?" Peace appeared to bob her head. "All right. "It might still be sore. Have patience, Peace. We’ll get you flying again, hopefully by later today. Now, let’s try to move left and right." Hannah very gently moved the wing back and forth, so that Peace would get the idea. "Once you get the feel for this again, you’ll pick up speed and mobility." Peace began to chirp. "If I didn’t know better, I would think you understand me. Just because I talk to you, I don’t really think you understand me. Boy, can you imagine the teasing, if I ever said that to someone here?" She again slowly maneuvered her wing to the left, and then moved it back. Peace chirped again. Hannah gently petted her head and sighed. Hannah slowly repeated the process several more times, all the while softly talking to Peace. Peace didn’t try to move away. Then she started moving her wing on her own. "Peace, you’re mkaing real process." Now, she had to slowly flap her wings up and down and pick up speed. When she did that, she would be ready to propel herself to flight. For the next fiveteen minutes, Hannah watched Peace continue to move her wing. She was really getting the feel for it now, and her speed was speed was progressing from slow to moderate. She didn’t really need to move it fast, just enough for her to take off. Hannah decided to give the bird some rest, and closed the cage. "Okay Peace, I’m off to take care of the others. You rest and I’ll come back, and we’ll try again." Hannah spent the next hour cleaning out the cages, and putting food in their cages. A couple of the others needed some of her tender loving care; and she took her time with them that they needed. She headed back to Peace’s cage. "Alright Peace, let’s try again", she said, as she opened the cage door. "It looks like your speed is getting better. Are you ready to try to lift off from your perch, and move around your cage?" Peace chirped. She opened the door all the way back towards the next cage. Peace moved closer to the door. She was going to need Hannah’s help. She chirped again. "Okay. I’ll help you up to the perch." Peace went on top of Hannah’s glove, as Hannah carried her over to the perch in a huge walk-in cage. Hannah lifted her off, and gently placed her on the perch. "There you go. Better?" She smiled. Peace stared at her. She was happy to be out of the little cage and into all this space. "Okay, you have more space, let’s try again." Peace hopped around for a while before trying her wings. She then picked up speed a few seconds later. Peace looked over at Hannah, and then hesitantly flew off her perch. She moved around slowly at first. Then she flew past the stool Hannah was sitting on, and headed to the perch. She was so much better, she had really made progress. Before Hannah could say anything, Peace took off again. She flew past Hannah again and again. She looked ready to be set free. Hannah sighed, she wanted to cry, but she knew she had to be ready to let her go. She looked over at Peace, and thought Peace almost looked as if she too was sad. "Well, I’m sad to say you’re much better; and it’s time for you to fly and join the others. It’s your turn to fly towards the sky." Peace chirped. Hannah half-smiled. She picked up Peace, put her in the smaller cage, and headed for the door. She stepped outside. "All right. On the count of three . . . take off. Please remember me, Peace. I’m really going to miss you. You’ve been a good patient here. Stay out of trouble and be careful. Ready?" Peace tweeted. "Okay. One . . . two . . . three. Fly!" A few seconds later, Hannah watched Peace take off slowly, look back, and then pick up speed, as she headed towards the sky. Hannah heard a few chirps, which she took to be thanks and a goodbye. Hannah waved to her, grabbed the birdcage, and headed back to her office to work on her report on Peace . . . . |
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| It's Your Turn by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#6 of 15 |
| 1009 words | |
| "It's his turn it's her turn, it's your turn. Oh
noooooo!" came the chorus of voices from the squeak of the radish to the
squishy drool of the tomato to the bass rumble of the rutabaga and everything
in between. It was cold and frighteningly dark there in the vegetable bin of
the refrigerator but it was even more frightening when the door opened and the
light went on because that usually meant it was someone's turn to go. "What do you mean it's their turn?" the littlest carrot asked meekly. She was new to the bin and unsure of what was going on when a zucchini, the head of lettuce, some scallions and one of her carrot friends had been lifted out by one of the giant people. "It's too horrible," sobbed the onion, "I won't tell her" "We don't really like to talk about it much," added a yellow pepper. "We'll let the head of lettuce tell her," said a mushroom dourly. "He always comes back, though smaller every time, and he has seen what the giant people do out here. The littlest carrot lay shivering and wondering and snuggled a little closer to the other carrots. It had been warm out in the field where she grew up. Her leafy green hair had waved in the breeze and basked in the sunshine. Even the grocery store wasn't too chilly and you got a shower every ten minutes but this cold refrigerator took some getting used to. Soon the head of lettuce was tossed back in with a little thump, looking a little ragged and quite smaller. The littlest carrot wanted to ask him about the outside world of the giant people but was too shy. Luckily, a dirty looking potato saved her the trouble. "Mr. Lettuce. We have some newcomers here today who want to know what happens out there. Tell them about the giant people. Give it to them straight." The head of lettuce settled back with a sigh. If he had been one of the giant people he probably would have settled back in an armchair and puffed thoughtfully on a pipe. The giant people are what's know in their world as vegetarians. We are all called vegetables to them, except when you see a apple or mango or grapefruit on the shelf above. They are called something different but it's just the same for them. The giant people use vegetables for what they call eating. They put us in their mouths and that's the last you see of us." That didn't sound very pleasant, thought the littlest carrot. "And some times," the head of lettuce continued, "they put us in a thing called a pan over a hot fire. You should see the changes that happen to you then." All of the vegetables began murmuring to each other in worried tones except for the turnips who just sat there stoically. "You left out the best part," an ear of corn said sweetly. "You always do." "You tell them then," replied the lettuce a trifle crossly. "My story is done." Well it's like this." The ear of corn began in her glorious ringing tones. "We believe that we are all reincarnated as flowers. Even if your body is gone you still have your head, they always leave that part, and your spirit goes on and on." That didn't sound so bad thought littlest carrot. Maybe whatever lies ahead will be pleasant. She wasn't sure what a flower was but just the very name, rolling off the tongue of the sweet corn, sounded pretty. She had seen a lot of changes in the past week. First being yanked out of the ground and thrown into a box. Then getting washed, put in a bag and then another box. A day and a half was spent bouncing around on a train and then the better part of a day lying around in the produce section of a supermarket. Oh the tales she had heard there! Then a short trip in a grocery cart, a brown paper bag, a bicycle trip in a knapsack, and now the refrigerator. She had had a lot of strange experiences and felt more world wise now. Several weeks were spent in the bin with many vegetables coming and going. They all had wonderful stories to tell about far off places like Florida and California and Oregon and even a chili pepper from Mexico although no one could understand what he was saying. The broccoli was breezy, the tomatoes hearty, the celery always had a crisp comment, and the bok choy kept them laughing with his jokes. Only the snap beans were a bit standoffish but you can't please everyone. One by one, all the carrots in littlest carrot's bag had taken their turn until she was the only one left. By now she was limp and bent over and growing little roots in several places. Then one day, she was finally lifted out. It was her turn. She shut her eyes tightly and hoped that nothing too painful would happen to her. "I guess when it's your turn..." she thought. "This one is a little too far gone," she heard one of the giant people say in a voice that sounded surprisingly loud to her after the gentle chatter of the vegetables. "Let's just throw it right in the compost heap." The littlest carrot found herself outside in the sunshine in a jumbled heap of warm moist dirt with many of her old friends, although they were much smaller now. "What happens now?" she asked everyone. A wise old parsnip replied in a very weak voice: "We lie around here for a long time and then get put in a flowerbed. By next spring we will be part of a flower." The littlest carrot thought that would be pretty nice. Plus she still had her body and some fresh roots - she might just be a strong carrot again. Whatever happened, it was going to be new and exciting and fun. |
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| It's Your Turn by lee10@host365.com |
#7 of 15 |
| 1524 words | |
| The nurse was fussing round my bed. I could hear the
squeak of her sensible shoes on the linoleum floor and feel the tug as she
plucked, ineffectually, at the bedclothes. "Don’t you think we could put the mask down for a while, dear?" she asked. Stupid bitch! No, I didn’t think we could put the mask down for a while. She could do whatever she wanted but I sure as hell was not letting go. The mask was attached to the gas and air machine and if anyone disconnected me from it, they’d be spitting teeth for a week! I opened my eyes a smidgen, enough to see the white-clad Nursey tidying the top of my locker. She switched to patronising mode. "What would you like, dear? A darling little boy or a sweet little girl?" "What I would like," I snarled, "is a bloody bacon sandwich!" As I spoke the pain returned. It hit like a tsunami. It wasn’t merely a loathsome sensation. It didn’t just hit part of me. I WAS the pain and I surfed away to a place of grey swirling clouds full of hot, sparkling flashes of pure, white light that danced ever more frantically as I screwed my eyes tight shut to fight the hurt. I was in a place beyond time, where the gas and air I hungrily sucked was an intoxicating wine that soothed the agony until it began to dissipate, leaving me gasping, sweating on a rubber mattress, beached in a small side room off the maternity ward. When I returned, the nurse was wiping my head. I swotted the flannel away with my free hand. "Stop fart-arsing around and leave me alone," I snapped. I wasn’t going to be interfered with by some fat cow I didn’t know. She raised her eyebrows. The slight smudge of moustache at the corner of her mouth twitched but she kept her peace and crossed to the sink in the corner of the room and began to rinse out the flannel under the cold-water tap. A strip of black rubber had been tacked to the bottom of the labour room door, to muffle howls of anguish no doubt and as the door was pushed open, it made a shushing sound, rubber brushing across linoleum, that became the susurration of waves and I soared on the crest of another powerful contraction, cradled in the arms of pain, dense and frightening. I fumbled the mask to my face and breathed deeply. Swept along, I think I whimpered, then I was abandoned again as the pulse washed away, leaving me wallowing in a quiet trough between two storms. I heard another voice, female, gruff. "Have mother’s waters broken?" it asked. Of course mother’s waters have broken, you stupid moron. Why don’t you ask mother? She’d tell you how they broke while she was on the way home from the shops yesterday. She’d tell you how she sloshed along a moving bus with her shoes full of a thin, warm liquid, praying no one would notice. She’d tell you how an old man of at least ninety had to help her off the bus and how her stomach that had been round and hard and taut for months had become rippling jelly. She’d tell you how she clung to a lamppost as the first little pain had punched her in the back, and then fled. She’d tell you how she knew THIS WAS IT! "Now, Mrs.Smith," the second voice said in a calm and reasonable manner. "I’m Miss.Hawkins, your midwife." She held my wrist and felt my pulse. I half opened one eye. The other was totally glued shut with sweat. To wipe it clear, I would have had to let go the mask. No way. I was sure this harridan would try to take it off me. If she did, I’d fight her to the death. Hers! She was a burly woman but I’d take her on. Her white smock stretched tight across her massive bosom. The small watch she wore pinned upside down, lay on her chest as though it was on a shelf. "You’re not my midwife. Where’s Carole?" I demanded. "She said she’d deliver me." "Oh, it’s Carole’s day off, dearie. She’s entitled to one, you know." She chuckled, "If you wanted Carole, you should have hung on for one more day." The smarmy woman looked delighted that my discomfort had been intensified. Carole and I had gone through the last eight months together and I expected her to be with me today. She’d promised! "I want Carole," I wailed, then I was nudged in the back with the intensity of a double-decker bus travelling in top gear and I didn’t care who delivered the damn thing. I think I shouted, "Just get it out of here." Then I was lost in the swirling, sparkling mists again. And soon the troughs became less frequent and I left the doldrums behind entirely. The peaks of pain became higher, unassailable, as I fought and failed to scale each one, until physical existence was scalding agony and my mind wandered and lost its way amongst rolling, spectre-filled fogs. Like an echo from a distant star I heard, "Don’t push, Mrs.Smith. Not yet." So I pushed. Like shitting bricks, it hurt, but I pushed. I wasn’t having some dried-out old spinster who’d never been through this, telling me not to push. I was angry and full of resentment but truth be told, I could no more help pushing than I could help breathing. "Dammit," I heard the midwife mutter to Nursey. "Get the sutures ready. She’s split." But I didn’t worry. The words only made sense later. At the time they were just white noise to add to the flashing lights and the total disorientation. Only the smell of rubber as I clung to the mask had any meaning at all. Again I pushed. I held my breath and pushed. It was like rolling a huge rock uphill and I dared not stop. I was told later that the mask broke at this point, pieces scattering across the floor and that I managed to shred the rubber. I concentrated. Now I started to work with the pain instead of fighting against it. "Nearly there," the midwife shouted. "Just one more, big push, there’s a good girl." And as we were in this together, I did as I was told and smooth as silk my child slid into the world. Gasping, trying to recover our breath, Miss.Hawkins and I smiled at each other. "Yes!" we said in unison. The nurse approached me with the flannel again. I apologised to her. "I’m so sorry I was nasty to you." She wiped my face. The cool flannel felt delicious. "Don’t worry about it," she grinned. "I’m quite use to it." "No, I mean. I’m truly grateful for everything you’ve done for me, both of you." "Keep your thanks for a bit," the midwife grunted from somewhere between my legs. "I’ve still got to stitch up the damage." But what were a few stitches in the most sensitive part of my body after the agonies I’d been through? I winced continually throughout the process but watched the nurse weighing my child before wrapping it up warm and snug. Soon I held the fruits of my labours in my arms. "Just mind you don’t sew it up completely," I teased the midwife when she paused to rethread her needle. "Ha, ha, ha," she said. "I’ve never heard that one before!" Cleaned up and presentable again, my bed was wheeled into the main ward, where I soon fell asleep. I woke to see my husband cradling his child in his arms, gazing at it with a look of wonder and disbelief. "She’s gorgeous." He looked down at me and smiled. "Well done, old girl. She’s absolutely adorable." He kissed the froth of dark hair on the top of her head. "And all the ones that will follow will be as beautiful." I shifted slightly. I discovered all my nerve endings were still raw and the movement sent fire racing through my body, setting every one alight. I hissed through clenched teeth. He didn’t notice anything and continued. "What a wonderfully exhilarating experience it must have been for you." Gently he touched one of his daughter’s tiny, clenched fists. "She’s perfect. We must start to make her a sister as quickly as we can." I couldn’t believe it. After what I’d been through over the last twelve hours, you’d think he’d give me some breathing space, but no, he’s already talking about the next time, and the next. How do you think he’d feel if he’d had his balls ripped off without anaesthetic? And then had them sewn back together by a female the size of the Incredible Hulk? With fists to match? Would he be so keen to undergo the ‘exhilarating experience’ a second time? I glared at him. "The next time, sunshine," I said to my beloved in a hard, angry voice that got his attention. "I’m having nothing to do with it. It’s YOUR turn!" |
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| It's Your Turn by Susan Donahue suzianne411@yahoo.com |
#8 of 15 |
| 877 words | |
| Being down and out in New Orleans was cruel and unusual
punishment, in Will Barger’s book. But, that’s as far south as the
Illinois Central ran, and riding the rails to the end of the line was the only
way he knew to escape the brutal cold of February in Chicago. The snow had been
three feet deep and still falling when he left the Windy City.
Everywhere he looked in New Orleans, he saw places he rememberd from better days, when he was making big bucks, and there was no shortage of young ladies who wanted to spend romantic weekends with an up and coming junior partner. There were limousines and sports cars parked along Bourbon Street. Even the hookers looked well dressed. The delectable aroma of Creole food wafted onto the sidewalks, taunting him. He made his way through the French Quarter, and things only got worse. He noticed a man wearing a blazer jacket. It was obviously tailored, not off the rack. Ladies wore jewels he didn’t doubt were real. He overheard their laughter and conversations. Did these people talk about nothing but food? He hadn’t had a real meal in two days. He walked to the Cafe du Monde and settled down with a hot cup of coffee and a copy of the New Orleans Picayune someone else left on the table. Two couples at adjoining tables near him discussed dining earlier at the Commander’s Palace in the Garden District. He had eaten there the year before, with a client. "You look like someone sole your puppy." It was a girl's voice. Will looked up from his newspaper and saw her face. It could have graced the pages of any ski magazine. She just had to be a Gretchen or Heidi. "Oh, hi..." He was at a loss for words. It had been days since anyone had spoken to him. "Wanna join me?" He stood and pulled out a chair for the sandy haired girl. Old habits die hard. He might be poor now, but his manners hadn’t suffered as much as his pride. "Are you from out of town?" she asked. Will might have enjoyed the conversation more if he were not panicked at the idea that she might order everything on the menu. He was pretty sure he had enough change in his pocket for pay for another cup of coffee, but that would pretty much exhaust his resources. "Yes, Chicago. My name is Will, by the way." As cute as little blue-eyed Gretchen or Heidi was, he couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. It was time to weigh his options. He needed a job. He needed an apartment. He needed his life back. Will refused to concede that he was homeless, but the fact was that he had no place to sleep, no money, and his belly was empty. "I just love this place. I meet the coolest people here." Gretchen said...or was she Heidi? "You’ve got to try the begnets. They are to die for!" "Terribly fattening, I’m told." That should do it, he thought. No way she would order a plate of little square doughnuts and risk adding an inch to those trim thighs. Will Barger was absorbed in his own thoughts. She was a cute girl, and at another time, he would have enjoyed her company. He had troubles Heidi would not understand. He got the waiter’s attention and nodded. In a moment, a cup of coffee was set down on the table for the girl. Will took a sip of his own and thought about how low he had fallen since the last time he was in New Orleans. He was not a homeless person. He was certain of that. He wasn’t a junkie and didn’t drink. He wan’t crazy. He was just a little down on his luck. It had been three months since he worked. Strange how quickly a guy can go though his savings while applying for another job. Haircuts, dry-cleaning, rent, phone bills and internet connection were all essential for finding a new job. They added up. Two weeks after Christmas, Will found all his belongings out in the snow on the tree lawn in front of the brownstone on Astor Street which he called home back in Chicago. He had stashed some of his belonging at his girlfriend’s house. It didn’t take long before he found himself disentangled from that relationship. She dumped him. His membership in the Chicago Health Club lapsed at about the same time. Friends became scarce. Nobody would return his calls. "So, that’s how I did it, and you can, too." she said. "Pardon?" Will was still lost in his own thoughts. He had barely heard a word the girl had said to him. "I said, that’s how I made $10,000 since I came here last Tuesday. It was easy." Will blinked in disbelief. What was she saying? What had she been talking about all that time he was feeling sorry for himself? "Gotta go, hun. You can do it, too. I just know you can! It’s your turn." Gretchen, or Heidi, or whoever she was, disappeared into the crowd when the waiter came to refill Will’s cup and present the check for two black coffees. |
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| It's Your Turn by GPain97046@aol.com |
#9 of 15 |
| 693 words | |
| "You dumb broad, you’re the reason I lost the
party’s nomination for the senate," Saul said, his hatred spilling out.
"Really," I said quietly. He always blamed someone and that someone was always me. "With the drinking binges you and your doctor insisted were over, not to mention the ridiculous outfits you wear for attention." "I thought I was through drinking until you slept with my best friend." I poured myself a drink. "Not true," he smirked and I wanted to push his face against a brick wall. "Why?" I asked angrily and out of habit. "Why would you wear a red leather mini skirt, skimpy blouse and knee high leather boots for a speech at the senior center?" he asked, ignoring my question. "Peg said it was for a younger crowd so I dressed appropriately." I finished my drink. "You call dressing like a slut appropriate." "Why do you hurt me?" I poured myself another drink. "You do it yourself with the drinking," he said. He looked good in his three-piece blue suit. Saul took advantage of his physique with the cut of his clothes to accent his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He wore his hair neatly trimmed and never lacquered down with hair spray. Despite his mental abuse, I still loved him. The realization made me sick. "Your campaign people ignored me and decided themselves what I should contribute to your campaign," my voice faded to a whisper and my cheeks got red from the humiliation. "That’s their job." "They wanted me to sit on the campaign platform and just smile like some ornamental doll. But I didn’t and I made some good speeches for you." After I heard about his affair with my best friend, I went to pieces and started to drink, my old routine to keep sane in our marriage. "I want a divorce," he demanded. "Give our marriage another chance." The words tumbled. Would I never learn. "Not in a million years. It’s my turn to get my career on the right track without you dragging me down. My lawyer will get in touch with you." He left the apartment and his entourage followed him. I welcomed the silence after months of campaign noise.. With purpose, I went into the bedroom and searched for the envelope. I had put it under my hatboxes. Hugging it to me like a baby, I went back to the living room. I had enough sense to hire a private detective after his last affair. After some months, the detective had given me a bulging envelope full of proof. What was surprising were the pictures of Saul’s regular meetings with Gaglia, a notorious gangster. He was into something I hadn’t known about, something worse than womanizing. I put most of the proof in a new envelope and addressed it to the editor of the local newspaper. I called down to the doorman for a messenger and when he came, I handed it to him with relief and some regret. With a drink in my hand, I went in the bathroom and ran myself a hot bath. I put half a bottle of scented lilac bath oil in it to relax me. After undressing, I lay in the tub, with the windows open and when the warm air drifted in, it made the steam, which rose from the water, swirl. A candle burned by the side of the tub, its flames flickering in the breeze and I watched it send shadows shimmering up the wall. My body felt less tense in the water and I lay in the semi darkness with my drink in my hand. Exhausted, I knew I should towel myself off and crawl in the cool sheets of my bed but I had other things to do. "Toast to myself," I said, held my glass up and took a drink. "Another drink but this one to Saul. Burn in hell." I finished my drink in triumph. Poor Saul, you think it’s your turn but your wrong. It’s my turn right now, right here. I put my glass on the floor and quietly slid under the water to my death. |
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| It's Your Turn by Marguerite A. Brown NYfishtank@aol.com |
#10 of 15 |
| 2062words | |
| Still dressed in her flannel nightgown, Autumn spoke
into the cordless phone. She'd just swallowed the first sip of coffee when a
call from her sister distracted her from retrieving the morning paper from
outside her front door. "What do you mean, it's my turn? C'mon, Fallon, I distinctly remember when Dad died we'd both agreed Mom would be happier staying with you. Who said anything about taking turns?" "What's the big deal? It's not like we signed a contract saying I had to take care of her for life. Why're you being so selfish?" "Selfish?" Autumn pulled the phone away from her ear. She paused, took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. The action cured the urge to fling the phone across the room. She grabbed her cup of coffee, made her way over to the breakfast nook and took a seat. Bad news, it seemed, settled better sitting down. Her sister continued. "Can we please not argue about this? All I'm saying is, Mom's been with me for the past year and now . . . it's your turn to take over the responsibility for a while." Fallon lived just a few miles away in the small town of Hedgeport, Connecticut, with her husband, Joe, and their two teen-aged sons. The oldest of the two girls born to Sam and Rachel Fleming, she'd always been her mother's favorite—the one her mother chose to live with after their father passed away. Autumn pretended to listen. She knew first-hand that her mother had a way of voicing her opinion whether you wanted it or not. She must've said something, did something, pissed Fallon off somehow, and that had to be the reason for this sudden change. She resumed the conversation. "My turn? Don't be ridiculous. You know as well as I do Mom would never agree to live here with me and Nick. You told me so yourself. Don't you remember? That's why she's there and not here . . . Jesus, Fallon, what's gotten into you?" "Doesn't matter, this time she has no a choice," Fallon said firmly. "No choice? And what's that supposed to mean?" Autumn rested an elbow on the table, and lowered her head into the palm of her hand, the sudden throb in her temples signaled a headache. "None of this is making any sense," she said, trying not to raise her voice. "Why're you doing this?" "Tell you what . . . why don't you come by later and—" The floorboards creaked overhead. "Hey . . . I'll call you back. Nick just woke up." Autumn clicked the phone and downed her half-cold coffee like it was a double shot of whiskey. She ran her fingers through her hair wishing she'd never answered the phone, then dragged herself from the table to get the paper. "Damn," she muttered under her breath. Opening the front door to the chilly October air, she tried to envision what life would be like with her mother and Nick under the same roof. Okay, so maybe her sister did deserve a break, but Rachel moving in with them? She shook her head, bent down, picked up the paper and returned to the table just as her husband entered the kitchen. "Good morning," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Nothing good about this morning, she thought, forcing a smile. "Morning . . . phone wake you?" Nick nodded and idled over to a row of cabinets in their sun-lit kitchen. He pulled a mug off the shelf, poured some coffee, then turned back and took a seat next to his wife. "So, who called?" He stretched his arm across the table for the newspaper, unfolding it to the sports section. "Wrong number," she said, deciding to wait until she knew more before mentioning the developing crisis. She slipped out from the nook and walked to the stove. "Breakfast?" "Nah . . . big meeting this morning. They're ordering in. I'll just grab something there." "That's fine." She rifled through a drawer, found a bottle of aspirin, popped two, then began unloading the dishwasher. A few minutes passed when Nick glanced at the clock on the wall, folded the paper, and disappeared up the stairs. The minute she heard the shower running, she reached for the phone and punched in her sister's number. "Hi, Joe . . . yeah, I'm doing fine . . . Fallon there?" While she waited for her sister's voice, she stared down at her nails, silently cussing having to cancel her manicure appointment. This pow-wow with Fallon could take all morning. Fallon came on the line. "On your way?" "Not yet, but I will be as soon as Nick's gone." "Good . . . I'll be here." Autumn disconnected the call without saying good-bye. She stared out the kitchen window contemplating her future. She reminded herself how the relationship with her mother had been strained ever since she'd married Nick two years ago; that no matter how hard Nick tried to please Rachel, she refused to acknowledge him as her son-in-law. Nick was black and Rachel's lily-white upbringing prevented her from accepting her daughter's interracial marriage. Now it appeared Fallon was suggesting the three of them become roommates. She crossed her fingers, squeezed her eyes shut and looked up at the ceiling. "Daddy, if I never needed your help . . . ." Without another word, she dashed off to her bedroom. An hour later, she was pulling into Fallon's driveway. "Where's Mom?" she asked when Fallon opened the door. "Taking a nap." Autumn followed her sister into the den. "So . . . mind telling me what's up?" "Well, I didn't want to tell you over the phone, but Joe has been offered a wonderful opportunity to take a job in Europe. London, to be exact. Some coffee?" "No, thanks. Wait—did you say London? What the—when . . . ?" Autumn found herself sitting down again. Fallon took a seat across from her. "Joe's company is opening a division in London. They've asked him to get things set up, oversee operations—we're leaving in two weeks and we'll be gone for a year. We talked it over and decided it would be a chance in a lifetime for the boys. They could attend school there—experience another culture. Now do you understand why I need you to take care of Mom until we get back?" "Okay . . . any idea how we're gonna accomplish that? Mom doesn't like Nick. Plus, what makes you think Nick will want her there? Did you ask her if she wanted to go with you?" "Of course we did, but you know Mom. All she did was come up with a bunch of excuses. Anyway, it's a lot easier for her to stay here, cheaper too. And since she refuses to live alone, we've decided to rent the house out for the year, kinda cut down on expenses. Nick already offered the place to a guy on his job. Believe it or not, it was Mom who came up with the idea of staying with you." "You're kidding?" Autumn got up and moved to the window. Could it be their mother had changed? Something just didn't seem right. The sound of approaching footsteps jarred her from her thoughts. "Autumn, that you?" Rachel stood in the doorway. Autumn spun around in time to catch a look of sadness in her mother's eyes. "Hi, Mom." Her mother took a seat next to Fallon, who immediately excused herself and left the room. "How've you been?" she asked. "I'm okay—so what've you got to say about all this?" Autumn was glued to her spot by the window. Her mother shrugged, and lowered her head. "I feel so ashamed, Autumn. So ashamed for the way I've treated Nick, and now . . . now that I want to come and stay with you, how can he ever forgive me? And you, how can you . . .?" "Mom, the move would be temporary. Perhaps, once I explain the circumstances to Nick—well, we'll find a way to work things out. But I don't understand . . . why the sudden change?" Autumn moved away from the window and deposited herself next to her mother. Rachel raised her head and looked directly into her daughter's eyes. "Your father was such a loving man—not a mean bone in his body. I miss him so much." A tear formed a path down her cheek. "He always chided me for pretending Nick wasn't a part of this family. He once told me, 'one day you'll regret the way you've treated that young man'. He was a very wise man, your father, while I . . . I've been such a fool." Autumn suddenly felt sorry for her mother and placed her arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry Mom, we'll manage somehow. This could be a new beginning for all of us." She kissed her mother's cheek. Glancing down at her watch, she realized she still had time to make her nail appointment. She got up from the couch. "Listen—we'll talk some more about this later—got someplace I need to be—love you." She gave her mother another kiss, shouted a good-bye to Fallon, and left believing her father had answered her prayers. That night during dinner, Autumn filled Nick in on all the details. Despite his resentment over the way his mother-in-law had treated him, he was not one to harbor a grudge and agreed it would be better than forcing her to live alone. "It's the least I can do for your dad," he said. Two weeks later, Rachel moved in. That afternoon, Autumn helped her mother settle into the spare bedroom. There hadn't been much conversation between them, but Rachel seemed relaxed, comfortable with the arrangement; said she wanted to rest before dinner. "Make yourself at home, Mom. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," and she left her mother alone, closing the door behind her. Autumn kept herself busy in the kitchen. An hour later, she called out, "Pork chops okay with you, Mom?" She listened for an answer, got none, then realized her mother was still asleep. She'd just begun setting the table when she heard the key in the front door. Nick found his way into the kitchen, "Smells good in here. What's for dinner?" He planted his usual kiss on her forehead, then moseyed to the stove. "Where's Rachel?" he asked while snooping around the simmering pots. "Asleep in the bedroom. I think maybe she's nervous about tonight." "Don't worry, I'll do my best to warm her up. Who knows, she just may find my charm irresistible, after all." They both broke into laughter. "Tell you the truth, I have a good feeling about this," Autumn said. "I think Mom finally wants to make things right with you." She seems a lot more subdued than I'm used to, but it's definitely a change for the better." "Think she's being sincere?" Nick asked. "Absolutely, Mom's never been any good at acting." Autumn placed some silverware on the table. "How 'bout some wine with dinner?" "Great idea," Nick said. "There's a bottle of Chardonnay in the 'fridge." He pulled three wine glasses from the cabinet and set them on the table. "You handle the wine and I'll go wake Mom." She turned down the hallway. Nick opened the bottle, careful not to pop the cork. A real connoisseur, he prided himself with knowing how to properly maneuver a wine opener. He'd just poured a glass when he heard a loud shriek from the spare bedroom. He dropped the bottle and raced out of the kitchen. When he got to the bedroom, he found Autumn hovering over the bed, administering mouth-to-mouth to her mother's limp body. "What happened?" he asked, with a puzzled look on his face. The words flew from Autumn's mouth, "call 9-1-1—hurry!" His eyes shifted to the floor where an empty prescription bottle caught his attention. He ran for the phone. When the paramedics arrived, it'd been too late. Rachel was pronounced dead of an overdose. Nick had tried his best to console his distraught wife, but his arms did nothing to quiet her sobs. Overcome by shock, she kept repeating the words, "It was my turn, Nick. It was my turn." |
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| It's Your Turn by Jennifer Turner jturner4@charter.net |
#11 of 15 Winner |
| 2023 words | |
| My head hurts. It’s not unpleasant, just painful.
Where I hide, the pain is welcome, a reminder that I still have a body. A
gaseous odor singes my nose, another indication I exist. The black is complete,
disconnecting, liquid. A sound so loud I see it flashing across the universe in
my head as my ears register the noise and I recognize the rumbling back-fire of
an engine. I’m returning. The inner light of awareness sheds light on the hiding place deep within me and I crouch lower inside the black box, unwilling to emerge, but the light follows. Now the pain intrudes, becomes humongous as I enter reality. All the small aches and pains return. Wrists sting, feet burn from lack of circulation, and the pain in my head resonates from a spot above my ear. I moan deep in my throat. Lying on the nylon carpet covering the floor of a moving vehicle, I’m overwhelmed with need to relieve my bursting bladder. My legs actually respond to my mind’s command, and curl toward my chest. The driver takes a turn and I’m flung to a metal wall. I’m in a van. A white van, with lettering on the side. I’m swamped by recollection. I lay with my cheek pressed against cool steel, body thrumming in unison with the vibrations from the road and engine. My memory has caught up to the rest of me. The day started on a sour note. I should have stayed in bed, remained asleep instead of waking with a jolt, realizing my alarm clock never buzzed. An hour late for work, the supervising maid informed me I’d been fired. But I rallied, and during a lunch at the diner across from the hotel, I searched the paper for employment. An add for a job fair drew me to the strip mall six blocks away. My luck has changed, I’d thought, never realizing that it had, just not as I wanted it to. I waited in line for my turn to discuss a position at a competing hotel to the one I’d just been fired from. After fifteen minutes, I wanted to leave and spend the day wallowing in self-pity and chocolate. The temptation was so powerful, I turned to leave. "It’s your turn," the man behind me said. I should have run right there, should have gone home with Hershey and Calgon. I smiled, surprised and glanced back. Apparently the guy ahead of me had moved to another table, leaving me next, and it was, indeed my turn. "Thanks." During the conversation with the heavy-jowled sweaty man taking applications, I smiled and performed the groveling-disguised-as-congeniality bit that overcomes me every time I’m interviewed. I shook his hand and he smiled encouragingly. Hope followed me out the door and into sunshine. If only that was all that followed me. I walked, enjoying the high sun and cool breeze. A perfect day rarely came in late June–usually downtown stifled you with a blanket of lakeside humidity and heat that pulsed from concrete and melted tar. Head literally in the clouds, I didn’t register the footsteps rushing up behind me until a hand grasped my shoulder. I jerked in surprise. Had I screamed, perhaps things would have turned out differently, but I had no reason, at first, to think I needed to fear for my life. I remember this part in slow motion, as if my mind had to lose speed in order to make sense of everything that happened. The sun seems extraordinarily bright, the glare reflecting off the familiar face of the man who’d stood behind me in line. Except he isn’t smiling, his features contort into lines of malice. His hand on my shoulder yanks me forward, his other covers my mouth and I mewl like a dying cat, a full scream impossible as I hyperventilate from panic. He looms very close, his hand grows damp over my mouth from my rapid exhalations and spit. I smell cologne, strong, and it sours in my gut. He whispers in my ear, "It’s your turn." And pain explodes in my head. A fireworks of light and sparks that follow me into the deep hole where I hide when these kind of things happen. It’s just been so long since I’ve visited this deep black box, that I’ve forgotten it existed, blocked it from my conscience mind. But awaking there first, has curbed my panic just as the cool metal wall of the van soothes my heated flesh. The van stops. A door opens, slams. I close my eyes and force my body to relax. The urge to urinate recedes, as if knowing it’ll find no relief until later and won’t bother to resurrect itself until then. I hear men are incapable of this and I wonder if there’s more I know about the male anatomy. There isn’t time to access those files in my head as the squeal of rusty hinges and a flood of sunlight enters the back of the van. At the touch of fingers on my bare ankle, I almost flinch, but manage to hide my reaction. His face is clear in my mind as he drags me feet first toward the doors. Feigning unconsciousness is difficult as I fight the physical manifestations of my fear. My breathing is not controlled, my lids want to squeeze to keep from opening. "You’re awake." The voice is hollow, adamant, decisive. "Walk." I breathe silently for a moment, debating if I should . . . a sharp, cold point digs into the flesh beneath my chin and I open my eyes. At first all I see are black spots swarming over a color-filled backdrop. The spots fade, and the face of my captor becomes clear. His eyes are dead. Once I’m on my feet, he bends and cuts the telephone cord he bound my ankles with, using a wicked looking knife. He grasps my elbow, steering me toward the porch of an old house. From the corner of my eye, I can see it stands alone on a stretch of country road. No help if I scream. He’s silent as he helps me navigate the steps on shaky legs. I tremble from fear, but I’m oddly disconnected from it, as if my true self is still secure in the black box deep in my mind. We enter and I’m immediately assaulted by a feral smell, a primordial odor of ooze and human waste. I cough as my eyes adjust to the dimness. The house is empty, no furniture, no signs of life–in fact the opposite–a dead squirrel is nailed to a wall directly ahead of me. For a moment, my legs completely give out and I hear myself moan. "It’s your turn," he repeats as he shoves me toward a half-open door. A flight of steps go down to a lighted room–I can see the edge of a bare bulb dangling beneath a framework of pipes and vents. A basement. We descend, him behind me, a hand in my hair. My recent haircut, turning shoulder length hair to ear length, doesn’t give me much room to keep his hold from being painful. I hiss and step downward, hunting for a weapon I can use against him. Bare walls, bare floor, nothing but the bricks in the wall separating the steps from the back room. We wind around to the next wall and my bladder responds first to the sight waiting for me. Chains dandle from the ceiling, handcuffs dangle from the chains, and from the handcuffs, three women hang. They are nude, heads hanging so I can’t see their faces and I’m immediately grateful that they aren’t visible. But a second thought makes me wish I could–that they were alive. He’s planning on hanging me here with these women who don’t move, these women who must be dead. I’ll be hung up like a side of beef in the freezer back at the hotel. "No." It’s the first word I’ve spoken and I suddenly wonder why I haven’t been fighting since the moment the van came to a stop. "No, I won’t let you. You can’t do this." He shrugged. "It’s your turn." I decide to hate that line for the rest of my life. He’s so impassive, uncaring, almost bored. My death is not a boring event and I discover I’m truly offended by this. A hilarity that has no place in this dungeon of death wells within me and I start laughing. The sound is hideous, terrifying, high and shameful. It bounces off the damp walls, off the dead women, and my bladder releases. A look of surprise, then disgust at my loss of bladder control, crosses his face. I laugh all the harder. This man has no problems leaving women to rot in his basement, yet he’s repulsed by my natural response to the coffee I drank at lunch and my terror. He slaps me and the silence is immediate. In the quiet, memories of other hands slapping, punching, yanking on my clothes, rushes to the surface. I stumble backward, reach with bound hands for something to hold onto, find nothing, and fall on my side. The images of the past follow me down and I feel a rage break its bounds like a maddened red bull, a demon, rushing to the surface. A growl begins deep in my throat and when his hand falls on my shoulder, I turn and clamp my teeth into his flesh. I grind down, growling still, tearing flesh, mindless to his attempt to pry me off. Something pops beneath my teeth, blood flows into me and as he finally yanks free, I refuse to swallow and feel it spilling over my chin. He grabs my hair again, lifting me onto my feet and onto my toes. Through a leering snarl, he barks, "It’s your turn!" I spit in his face and bring up my bound hands, jabbing my thumbs into his eyes. A pain erupts strangely from my side and I see he’s stabbed me, but the pain is distant. I’m lost to all but the red-demon roaring through me, and out of my throat. The sound is powerful, blowing from my voice box with wondrous, awesome strength. He relaxes his hold on my hair and pulls back to stab me again. I grab his knife-hand with both of mine and snap downward before he can tighten his hold on my hair once more. I bite him again. He pummels the back of my head with his fists. The edge of the blade slices into my face, the pain hot and strangely invigorating. My teeth have become a machine with unstoppable pressure, designed to rip apart human-faced monsters. The hand trembles, the knife drops and I’m freed to turn on him with all the hatred I’ve harbored for two decades. Clawing, gnashing my teeth like a wild animal, I fight so viciously, he falls backward. Chains rattle and sway as his shoulders part them and we fall against the wall. He kicks out and I fly away, surprised and startled, I release my first scream, only it’s not terrified, it’s enraged. I land, roll, and see the knife. Grinning, feeling the cold wet of his blood and my spit on my chin, the cold wet of my urine-soaked pants, the hot wet of my bleeding side, I scramble forward and grasp the knife. Hands grab the collar of my shirt and I’m yanked up and back. The muscles of my slashed face ache as the grin I’m wearing widens. The knife is Excalibur and I distantly hear his first scream as I plunge it deep in his chest. It’s astounding how much strength I need to pull it out, and how my stomach quivers at the feel of it passing out of bone and muscle, and the responding rush of pulsing blood. But my rage has not receded and I stab him again, and again. I hear myself shouting, but it’s not until he’s no longer moving that I hear what I’m screaming. "It’s your turn! It’s your turn!" |
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| It's Your Turn by photofoxygirl@yahoo.com |
#12 of 15 |
| 1308 words | |
| The air in the lounge was thick with the smoke of fine
cigars and the smell of sex. I could feel the ripple of excitement float down
my spine like the fingertips of my masked beau. With my eyes half open I let my
gaze wander about the room. Stopping to study the supine form of a woman I had
not seen before. Her hair was long and luxurious. A thick mantle of black lace falling sweetly upon the deep wine velvet of the couch. Her skin was the color of fresh cream tinted slightly by the mellow warmth of candlelight. Her breasts were smallish but well shaped, and they heaved rapidly as she grasped the cushions beneath her. Her rounded thighs were tightly wrapped around a shivering mass of red curls atop the head of a lovely young woman. My gaze continued it’s lazy course about the room. Pausing once or twice to inspect other young couples and groups engaged in laughter or more. I was looking for him. The masked man of my dream. A gentle hand began to travel the length of my thigh. I could feel the leather of a glove as it moved up my leg. My eyes closed as though not mine to control and I gave in to the sensations of the evening. I felt the satin mask as it covered my eyes, a blinder to free me from my self and then many hands on my body as I gave in to the comforts of this lust. I stood quite still. Feeling the silk of my dress as it was lifted from my body, and then the cool whisper of air against my bare flesh. My nipples began to tighten in excitement and my sex responded with a familiar rush of wetness. I felt the eyes of a hundred people upon me. In the center of the room I stood like a fine painting up for auction. He moved aside to free me for the stares of those behind him, and then he stepped back in to inspect me for himself. His gloved hand felt hot against my skin, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw and neck. I needed to feel his velvet tongue inside of my mouth. I needed to take his long fingers inside of my body. I was shaking then, in fear, anticipation, and desire. Tiny beads of sweat began to dot my body like teardrops, and my hair began to feel like a weight to tie me down. His hands pulled my thighs apart and, still gloved, I felt his fingers separate the quivering lips of my sheath. I felt the heat of his stare upon the pinkness of my center. I felt his eyes devour the glistening moisture of my lust, and nibble upon the throbbing nub of my clit. He pushed me back into a velvet chair and spread my legs wide to show our audience. I could hear muted whispers from the couples all about us. They gasped at my pinkness, my wetness, the beauty of my open doorway and the tiny puckered rose lying quietly beneath. I felt his breath just inches from my ankle, a tiny caress of his tongue sliding up my thigh to tease the tender skin behind my knee. I arched my back at the sudden sensation and uttered a soft moan of pleasure and frustration. It was then that I felt a much smaller hand upon my other thigh. Its skin was like warm silk and touched me like a spring rain shower. I felt it begin to creep its way up the rounded hill of my leg, and reach the tender lips of my pussy. She did not enter the hot depth of me, but began to stroke my pink lips lightly, spreading them with her tiny fingers and teasing her way around my clit. Again I moaned softly, in frustration, in the agony of this display. And then there was a mouth upon my right breast. Hot and wet it pulled at my nipple and I began to fall into the not so gentle suction of this tease, and another mouth, on my left nipple, another on my mouth. Kissing me as I desired. A wet velvet tongue inside of my lips toying with my tongue, leaving me breathless. And more hands... So many I lost count, exploring me in every way. Groping my buttocks, grazing trails down my stomach. So many sizes and textures, men and women, gentle and cruel. I felt the unmistakable velvet hardness of a straining cock against my cheek. Sliding against my mouth and the mouth of the one who kissed me, and then a small wet fingertip plunging inside of my pussy with so much surprise that I tightened uncontrollably. God a velvety tongue flicking my throbbing clit, then closing about it to suck it with passion. I felt myself being pulled in a dozen directions, falling into each hand, each mouth... The finger was gone only to be replaced by a large cock; it slid into me smoothly and filled me wonderfully. And the mouth I was kissing went only to be replaced by a dripping wet pussy. Slick with desire and fragrant with the smell of fresh semen from it’s last occupant. I began to writhe as I sucked, and was sucked. My hands full of a breast and a hot pussy, Another cock entered me from behind, stroking in tandem with the first. I could feel myself full of everyone, everything. I began to fly in a million pieces. Overloaded with sensation I gave up that spark of myself and began to moan as an animal, twisting and bucking I was fucked, and fucked more. And I sucked the wet pussy, and I felt the mouth still drinking from the well of my own. I burst into a billion stars in a dark sky and felt the tide of wetness cover my own face as well. Then the first cock left and I felt a warm spray of hot juice on my belly. Making its soft expanse slippery for the hands the groped and played there, and a tongue entering the hole that cock once occupied, deep and searching it continued to thrust me further into the mindless abyss of orgasm after orgasm. And the cock slid from my ass and I felt remorse at its emptiness until it too was replaced, but by another cock this time, and every inch of me was covered by some unknown person, caressing me, pinching, nibbling, and biting. Taking possession of those private places I never would have dreamed to share. I was crazy then, moving uncontrollably. Seeking the hot touch of the unknown and trying to escape the mindless bliss I was being given. I screamed in terrible pleasure, and then it stopped. All hands were gone. Replaced by the gentle caress of one gloved palm floating up and down my stomach. The gruff touch of a wet cloth cleaning away the seed of the unknown. I felt the flutter of my dress against my side, as I was lifted into a stance, and then over my head to fall gently upon my hips. Then my blindfold was removed, and I once more looked about me. I saw the still quivering woman with long black hair being attended by a woman with red curls, and on each couch was a couple or group of people laughing amongst themselves or doing more. It was as though it had never happened, and I felt the gloved hand press a small paper into my fist. He was gone when I turned to see him, but the paper remained. It was the only proof of what had happened, and my certified membership into the fruitful depths of the Deprava Society. |
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| It's Your Turn by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#13 of 15 | |
| 2208 words | ||
"Wait, don’t rush." The Great Duke of Moscow Ivan the Fourth pulled the blanket to his chin and positioned his head more comfortably on the pillow. "There is still unrest in Novgorod. I know Novgorodians swore loyalty to me but it’s too fresh. They need time to get used to it. It’s one thing to send gifts and drink honey at feasts and another to send troops during war. Can I count on them? I don’t know." "It’s your turn, Ivan." his wife retorted, "I am telling you. The Mongols strength is not the same. Genghis and Batu khans are in the grave for three hundred years. The Golden Horde is weakened, disjointed, doesn’t have a real leader. Khans are fighting each other. The time to strike is now. How long will Russia be under the yoke?" Sofia, the daughter of Constantine Paleolog - the last despot of Byzantium, got up from bed and started pacing the room. Her eyes, full of concern like a Byzantine icon, seemed huge in the evening dusk. They were in Moscow's Kremlin 1485 years after the birth of Christ. Ivan looked up the ceiling, deep in thought. "All Europe," Sofia continued, "already has embraced the light of the Renaissance – constructed great buildings, painted beautiful pictures, sculpted immortal statures, wrote on paper that Marco Polo brought from China. And here we are - still, in the darkness, under the yoke of Mongols. All Europe was overjoyed when your great grandfather, Dmitri, handed the Mongols their first defeat." "Yes but at what cost!" Ivan objected. "Yes, Dmitri defeated Mami but within two years, Khan Takhtamish burnt Moscow and made Dmitri pay the Horde’s tribute all over again." "True," Sofia didn’t budge, "but that was a hundred years ago. Isn’t three centuries of slavery long enough? How long am I, a Roman Princess, to see my husband kiss the khan’s Basma?" She stopped and looked toward her husband. "Trishka!" Ivan yelled to his butler, who slept in the adjacent room, "bring me something sweet to drink." Trishka bowed deeply when he came in as he brought a silver ladle with kvass. Ivan sat on the bed, drank and gave Trishka the sign to leave. Then he got up, went to his wife and carefully placed his hands on her shoulder. The level of his hands showed he was much taller than her. "I know, Sofiushka, I know." His voice went low, almost to a whisper, when he put her name in the diminutive. "The Horde is not the same. But you are rushing! Come back to bed. Let’s share the night." Ivan saw the horsemen from the window in his guest hall. Lightly armored, with only curved swords at their sides, they stopped their stocky Mongolian horses in the middle of the yard and waited for the Great Duke. Their cold, slanted eyes looked around with dissatisfaction. "How many?" Ivan asked boyar Shuiski. "Five ambassadors and twenty guards." "What do they say? Did you position the translator close to them as I told you?" "Impatiently, Great Duke. They say Moscow looks too prosperous. People on the streets are dressed well. The market place has many foreign goods." "What else?" "They talked about the new brick wall around Kremlin, that it would be harder for Mongolian warriors to climb it during the attack and harder to burn the city." The Great Duke smiled sliding his hand through his blond mustache and beard. "What else?" "They saw a saw a newly built Uspensky cathedral." "So did they like it?" "They don’t understand much in beauty Duke, but they were impressed with its golden cupolas." Ivan chuckled. "They also said, Great Duke," Shuiski's face got serious and tense as he continued, "that Moscow hasn't paid the tribute for nine years." He lowered his voice to almost whisper. "This time, Akhmat doesn’t want negotiations. They said that Mongol honor demanded obedience, like it always has since the time of Genghis Khan." "Did they bring the Basma?" "Yes, one warrior held it wrapped in the sheep skin. ‘The Duke Ivan’ they said ‘would have to kneel and kiss it like a faithful servant ought to, like it has been for three centuries, or else…’" Once again Ivan weighted his decision circling through the arguments. Oh, he knew well the Mongol awe. He knew of the burned cities, disobedient dukes killed, peasants and nobles alike captured and taken to far away lands. He was fifteen when the mutilated body his proud father, Vasili the Dark, was thrown off the Church bell tower, then tied to the tail of a Mongolian horse and pulled through the the streets of Moscow, all for disobedience. Thinking about these events he felt a lump in his throat and, unwillingly, clenched his fists. And yet he lived in a new time. Through his slow, constructive efforts, both upper and lower Russia were under Moscow's control. Even Great Novgorod, which for centuries stood as an independent city-state, kisse | ||