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"Never Forget" (the twenty-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Never Forget" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), October 15, 2003 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Never Forget by walshnyc@yahoo.com (Entry #21) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Lieutenant Marcel had faced danger
many times in his long career, but still cringed at the sight of the needle as
it approached. He closed his eyes as the doctor moved closer. "You’ll barely feel this..." the physician said. "Do you have to go in through the ear?" The question came from detective Campbell, Marcel’s protege. "The injection can be given through a compliant spot in the skull, but it takes longer, and the lieutenant here is not a very patient man." The doctor explained. "But in the name of expediency, we can do it by going through the ear canal." As he said this, Marcel could feel the sting of the needle, followed by a tingling sensation as it was guided inside his head. "You’re sure this is safe?" Campbell, already a skeptic, seemed compelled to play devil’s advocate. The doctor ignored him as he pressed the syringe plunger. To Marcel, the sensations had not changed, but his eyes remained closed until he was sure that the needle was not only withdrawn, but out of sight as well. "I don’t feel anything," he said, opening his eyes. "You shouldn’t, at least not physically. You’ll feel a little disoriented when memories start kicking in, but you should adjust quickly," the doctor said. "How exactly does this work?" Campbell wondered. Marcel knew his partner was exaggerating his naivete, but the doctor responded with clinical aplomb: "‘Fillipkadic’ was developed in 2020's as a means of helping alzheimer patients recover lost memory via an injection directly into the temporal lobes. Early tests were promising, but the drug would ultimately fail, and even lead to extreme dementia in some patients . Most of those affected negatively were over the age of fifty, which is unfortunately the median age of the test subjects. Younger, healthier minds seemed unaffected, so when medical science abandoned the drug, it’s applications were explored elsewhere. Before long, it was successfully adopted as an effective tool in law enforcement..." "We started using it on witnesses," Marcel said, picking up the story. Trauma and stress can impair a person’s ability to recall events accurately, so we started administering ‘fillipkadic’ to see if it would enhance their abilities to give accurate information. We found that it exceeded expectations when witnesses started giving not only case specific testimony, but information about crimes that were written off years before. This led to a boom in successful prosecutions and crimes solved. Soon, cops got the idea to subject themselves to the injections, and suddenly you have police officers with infallible eyes for detail working the streets. Human error was suddenly less of a factor, and crime continued to plummet." "If it was so great, why didn’t you use it?" Campbell asked. "I was too old fashioned. I came by my skills through experience, and instinct. I didn’t trust a gimmick." "Then why take a chance now? You’re on the verge of retirement-" "Because I don’t want to end my career with that one unsolved case," Marcel said. " There must be something I missed, some detail, or piece of evidence that didn’t seem important at the time..." "What was the case?" The doctor asked. "It was a serial killer. Seven women, all strangled." "The ‘forget-me-not murders? Wasn’t that about twenty years ago?" "When is this stuff supposed to start working?" Marcel said, ignoring the doctor’s question. "It seems to kick in best after you’ve slept.. You’ll start recalling words and images that seem to have no context, then you’ll experience a surge in episodic memory." Content with the information, Marcel left the doctor’s office with his protege in tow. "You should just let me do the follow up on this, Lieutenant," Campbell said. "I thought you were supposed to getting me up to speed on your active investigations" "This one’s my ‘white whale," Marcel replied; "It’s gnawed at me for this long, so I don’t think I can quit unless I know I’ve tried everything to solve it. All I need you to do is back me up if necessary." "Of course." "Good. I’m going to head home and try to get some sleep. The sooner I can get this case out of my system, the better." *********************************************************************** Lt. Marcel poured himself a double vodka, settled into his recliner, and opened the case file which he had personally labeled twenty years earlier. He perused the handwritten report, zeroing in on underlined words and passages. He mentally re-familiarized himself with the details in the police procedural cadence that had become his second language: ‘Seven prostitutes, strangled, bouquets of flowers-- ‘forget-me-nots’; The bouquets were the cheap kind you found at bodegas all over the city; No evidence that the victims were sexually assaulted by the perpetrator; One suspect, a pimp with a history of violent crimes; Suspect was found murdered before he could be questioned; His murder unsolved, considered an appendix of this investigation; Later learned to have alibi for two of the murders--he was incarcerated when they occurred.’ Marcel closed the file, ignoring the crime scene photos that were already etched in his memory. When the murders seemed to end after the seventh victim, interest in the case waned, and he was told to designate it ‘unsolved’, and move on. Officially, he did as he was instructed, but the case remained open, becoming a morbid hobby that consumed his spare time. He would not let his career be defined by his failure. His determination to not be thwarted again augmented his reputation as one of the most respected cops in the city, and his career flourished accordingly. With two failed marriages to his name, his job took more from him than it gave, but he harbored no regrets. It was only the unredeemed victims that troubled his sleep, and with them in mind, he let his eyes fall closed, and in minutes, memories gave way to dreams. Marcel’s dreams followed a familiar, recurring scenario. He was haunted by the visage of Elsa Barlow, the first victim. He could see her, the color and life draining from her face, choked out, but he is never able to save her. But tonight, there was something else. It was an image of a man’s face surrounded by an ornate wooden frame, as if her were a living painting. The man had a dark, Mediterranean look, and seemed otherwise unfamiliar. Marcel wanted to stop the scene, freeze the image until it made sense, but the logic of dreams would not bend to his subconscious will. His aggravation was real enough to force him back into the waking world, but as the dreams faded, he found the image of the man still in his head, along with two other things: a name and an address. *********************************************************************** Lt. Marcel moved cautiously down the steps to the basement apartment. He had called for Campbell to meet him here, but he could wait no longer. The mailbox confirmed that the name from Marcel’s dream matched the occupant of the address, but neither name or location held any relevance to the detective. He double checked the status of his gun in it’s shoulder holster, and rang the doorbell. "Come in; I’ve been expecting you." As outside light followed the opening door and revealed his host, Marcel could see that it was the man from his dream. He was older and grayer, but nonetheless the same man. "Are you Ehrich Weiss?" "I am." He closed the door and led Marcel into the main room. The walls were lined with sepia toned photographs and old circus posters and memorabilia. Among other things, he surmised that his host was of gypsy descent. Marcel noted the man’s nervous gait, and watched as he sat at a small, round table and turned on a lamp that hung above it. "Why were you expecting me? Have you done something wrong?" Marcel could feel a rush of familiarity with his surroundings. He had been here before. "Have I, Detective Marcel?" Weiss revealed that he knew, or recognized him, but nothing more. "I want to ask you some questions about the ‘forget-me-not’ murders," Marcel said, still perusing the room. He spied the decorative wooden frame from his dream mounted on the wall behind Weiss. It was not a picture at all, but a mirror. "Mr. Weiss, did you kill those women?" He abandoned subtlety as fought back the words and images that flooded his mind. Weiss. A needle. A coin on a string. "No." "Can you prove it?" Cash in a brown paper bag. A gun. "I can offer proof of my innocence if I must." There was a calm about him as he watched Marcel. "Do you know who committed those murders?" A purple bite mark on a woman’s neck. "I do." "How do you know? Who is it?" Blue skin. Blood on a fur coat. "The answers are there," Weiss said, pointing to the mirror. Marcel looked quizzically at it as he approached. He lifted the frame to peer behind it, but found nothing but wall. He gently returned it to it’s original position, and looked into the reflective surface to discover that Weiss had risen from the table and was pointing a gun at his back. "Don’t turn around, or I’ll shoot," he said. "Stay calm, Weiss," Marcel said into the mirror image. "Don’t do anything you’ll regret." "I knew you’d come back," Weiss said, ignoring him. "That’s why I kept the gun. I thought I might need it as evidence against you, but I’ll kill you with it if I have to." "You keep acting as if we know each other, but it doesn’t make sense.." "You don’t remember me?" "I think I’ve been here before, but I don’t know when, and I don’t understand why I wouldn’t recall it. Things keep coming back to me, but I don’t know how it all fits together..." "Maybe I can help," Weiss said, a bemused expression on his face. "Twenty years ago, you came to me with a problem. You were young, and had a bright future, but you committed a heinous act. In a fit of jealous rage, you murdered a girl you had been secretly involved with." "What are you talking about? I would never-" "You told me how it happened; how she was holding flowers, a gift from another man, and you strangled her. You panicked, and tried to cover up the crime by repeating it. You used the flowers to attempt to frame the man who had given them to your lover. The man was a solicitor, a pimp. You told me that when the man could prove his innocence, you found him, and killed him with this very gun." "This is crazy! How could you suggest I was involved with those killings? What did I ever do to you?" "You came to me," Weiss continued. "It was months after the last murder, and you sought me out for a service that I could perform. Your conscience grew heavy, and your work began to suffer from it. You came to me because you had heard that I could erase memories so effectively that truth and reality were inconsequential. I applied a combination of ancient hypnotic arts and chemical manipulation of the brain, and I did as you requested under the threat of violence. I took away the memory of what you had done, plus any knowledge of the cash fee you paid for my services. I also took the gun you used to murder the pimp to keep as collateral in case you regained the memories and came back to silence me for what I know." "That’s the biggest load bull story I’ve ever heard," Marcel said, watching Weiss’s reflection. He could see his hands begin to tremble from the stress of holding the gun. He detective turned his head to make eye contact, trying to distract attention from his hand reaching under his coat. "Don’t move!" Weiss shouted. Marcel was already in motion, drawing his pistol and pointing it at arm’s length toward the gypsy. There was a simultaneous blast of both guns firing, and he felt a blinding pain as the bullet grazed his temple and shattered the mirror behind him. He watched as Weiss fell back from the impact of the chest wound, falling in synchronicity to his own slow motion descent to the floor. Marcel slumped onto his knees and hands, and watched as shards of mirror settled in front of him. He watched as blood dripped down from his scalp onto them, and in each piece he saw not his reflection, but the image of the seven women who had died by his hand. He recoiled in horror, lurching to his feet, his back against the wall, as he saw Detective Campbell burst into the room, gun drawn. "Lt. Marcel! Are you okay?" The younger detective eased him back down until he was sitting on the floor, and began speaking frantically into a radio. Lt. Marcel’s eyes wandered from Campbell, down to his own hands, which had released the gun and now lay trembling on his lap. "I did it." He said, sobbing, over and over again; "I did it." *********************************************************************** "How is he doing?" Marcel recognized the voice of Lieutenant Campbell, but did not bother to turn to the man who stood near his bed. "He has his good days and bad." The doctor replied. "Does he give you any problems?" "Not really. He’s been with us for ten years, so he’s kind of used to the routine. The only time he gets excited is when they replace his flowers once a week. He starts yelling "I did it" again and again. Makes you wonder what it is he did..." "What he did was solve a twenty year old case and finish his career with a perfect record," Campbell offered. "Unfortunately, the lengths he was willing to go to solve it may have contributed to his dementia." "Did the case involve a gypsy of some sort? He sometimes rambles on about a gypsy..." "The suspect he shot dead was a gypsy. Marcel suffered a head injury during their shootout, and he never could tell us how he knew the gypsy was the right guy. Luckily, there was enough evidence pointing to the guy to close the case. Nobody knows how Marcel remembers about the whole ordeal, but he’s a hero to everybody else that wears a badge. We send him flowers to hopefully remind him of the case, and to let him know we’re thinking about him." "They’re nice flowers. What kind are they?" "Forget-me-nots," Campbell answered. In his bed, Marcel turned, not to look to his old comrade, but to see the new vase of flowers. It was a typical cluster, but as always, his eyes were drawn to the ones with broken stems or prematurely wilting petals. He never failed to find at least seven in every bunch, dying before his eyes, the entire bouquet diminished by their presence. |
| Never Forget by Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com (Entry #19) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The ambient plain, diversified by a
few sullen boulders amid tall wavy grasses, lay like a darkened bowl in the
numbing November night. The air was memorably sweet by the last patches of
wildflowers and a sliver of silver moon in the turquoise sky gave but scant
illumination to the dark lantern of autumn. Only the gentle whisper of the
wind, a steady hum of crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl broke the
vain silence of a copse of gloomy trees, behind one of which a man waited, eyes
and ears attuned to the dusty road beyond. He stood tall and gaunt, clad in ragged scraps of various clothing, inadequate for keeping out the ubiquitous chill of the damp night. A tousled beard and unkempt hair framed a stolid, almost kind face, but if you peered into his eyes, you could see desperation and determination. Gripped tightly in his hand was a long sharp knife, heretofore only used for eating. He thought of his sickly wife and hungry children, concealed but two miles away, and firmed his resolve. Always an honest workman, for years he and his family had walked from town to town, farm to farm, seeking work and shelter. Often as not there was none and they slept in the forests. The past summer had brought a blazing hot sun each day that slowly withered the valiant crops throughout the parched, sere countryside. There was famine in the land now, sure to be followed by a cold unfeeling winter whence many of the weak and poor would die. Scarce a fortnight before, his wife had given birth to their third child out the in those clammy woods and nearly bled to death from the ordeal of delivery. A few small misshapen turnips and potatoes, gleaned from the orts of a farmer's field, had provided their last real meal three days before. There had been nothing but a few nuts and some tiny berries since. The other two brave children had become listless and sometimes cried quietly. Now a faint steady thrum of pounding hooves reached his ears long before he saw the two riders he was awaiting. As the road narrowed between a rocky incline and overhanging branches, the two horses slowed to a walk until the were directly opposite the waiting one. In their weariness of a long days travel, they never noticed the man who sprang out from behind a tree and grabbed the bridle of the lead horse. Shoving the stout merchant off the rearing stallion, he fought to calm the frightened animal. The subservient squire, who had been trailing, was now galloping down the road on his spooked steed, desperately hanging on and yelping with fear as his stunned master lay groaning on the rocky dirt. Quickly subduing the agitated horse, the gaunt man lashed him to a sturdy branch and walked briskly back to where the rich merchant lay slowly gathering his befuddled wits. Placing his gleaming knife at the fat man's throat, voice nervous with the unaccustomed excitement, he barked out in his most menacing tone. "Your purse, sir, and be quick about it or I will use this knife." "Here on my belt is my money," came the frightened stammered reply. "I beg of you, do me no harm. It is all I have." Slicing the thong that held the leathern purse to his belt, the robber gave a disappointed glance inside at the few small coins it contained. "Even now, with your life in my hands, you would lie to me? I know that you carry more than this pittance on your person. Shall I cut off your fingers one by one until you tell me or shall I slit your throat and find it myself?" "There is no need to use your knife, I implore you. There is one other purse in here," he said reaching inside his cloak. Instead, his hand came out with a glittering knife of his own and lunged at the highwayman! Alas for him, he was slow and fat and the murderous thrust was easily dodged as the gaunt man frantically smote him on the temple in passing, knocking him senseless. Heart pounding, he then rifled through the garments of the unconscious merchant until his found a small cloth sack, heavy with gold coins. "My humblest apologies," he murmurred wearily at the inert form. "Your squire will surely be back soon with help. I am a poor and desperate man and have never committed such a terrible act before, may God have mercy on my soul. You have far more money than you need and I have none. I know you would do the same as I for your family." Walking back over to the man's horse, he briefly considered taking it too, but for a poor man like him to be seen with such a fine animal would surely arouse suspicion and find him at the end of a noose. He looked in the saddlebags, finding some clothing, dried meat and bread. Contenting himself with that, he slung the leather bags over his shoulder and began the long trek back to where he had left his family, huddled in fitful sleep around their waning fire. The stars hung like pinpricks in the vast sky, seeming so close that one could tiptoe up and touch them. A melange of sleepy birds, awakening to the imminent dawn, began their chattering in various tongues. The freshness of the clear air and gentle morning dew was scarcely noticed by the solitary man trudging through the tall grass with a saddlebag slung over his tired shoulder and pockets burning with purloined gains. He would be forever changed by this night he would never forget. No longer able to hold his head up as high. To the east, a glimmer of a hazy orange dawn crept up over the mottled horizon, reflecting on the high puffs of a few scattered clouds, with the promise of the warmth of a new day. A weary man silently wept. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Never Forget by Lester F. McGlurk lestermcglurk@hotmail.com |
#1 of 21 |
| 126 words | |
| Never forget Said the old vet We went and fought Our freedom with lives and blood we bought For a price untold Our lives put on hold Those left behind Cannot, in their minds Begin to understand The love and pride we have for this land We do what we do For the safety of everyone—including you Never forget Urged the old vet Of the wars we’re compelled to wage We fight for our liberty, not out of rage It is wrong to have to kill others All of humanity, being our brothers He sat there Confined to his wheelchair The few coins I tossed in his cup Were inadequate to fill it up He smiled, his eyes noticeably wet His words haunted me: "Never forget" |
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| Never Forget by christina kissifernumber1@yahoo.com |
#2 of 21 |
| 53 words | |
| With a passing glance I look at my past. Reflecting on days gone by. Those who taught me how to love, Those who taught me how to cry. I'll never forget the importance of those, who shaped this mishappen person that I am. Some of them lovers, some family, most of them friends. |
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| Never Forget by Jessica Rock kjhrock@aol.com |
#3 of 21 |
| 1469 words | |
| I will never forget when I first saw my son
Jorge-Antonio he was Born, 7 pounds 4 ounces and the biggest and brightest
brown eyes, he just like the perfect baby. But he stopped breathing and was
taking away quickly later to find out he stopped breathing. As I saw him later
that day I know in my heart he would change me. The next day will be the
beginning of something new and something I will never forget. As I got ready to
take my baby home with me I notice his eyes and body doing weird things, I
called the nurse in and she grab him from my hands and left me alone. As I
waited for the doctors to tell me what was wrong, I could not help but feel
like something would be very wrong. The doctor comes in and says my son has had
seizures and they ran test and found that he had a rare brain disorder and need
to run further test to determine the severest condition. As two months went by
he lived in the NICU and on heavy medications. Till that one day the doctor
came in and said he will not live past two, I actually felt my heart brake into
a million pieces. How would I go on without him? His father had abandon us both
at this point and I have not left my sons side. A few months later they let him
come home. We went on and lived our life together happy as I could make it but
being a single mother of A sick child was very hard and challenging. Working and no time for Mr. Right But who would have known he would be right at my very own feet, at work. Kyle and I started out as friends and he took quit the attachment to my son. We spent a lot of time together and started to develop feelings, feelings I hide away since he did have a girlfriend. That girlfriend ended up cheating on him and left the doors wide opened for me not to think twice. He was great with my son and they had formed a bond. Kyle moved in with us and was part of our life; I finally had a daddy for him something I promised Jorge the nights we spent in the hospital alone. One day Kyle took us out to dinner and ask if we would move with him to Georgia and give Jorge what he needs, Kyle had got a job offer making good money. At first I was scared. Packing up our life and moving to a new place was going to be hard, how about he changes his mind once we are there what do I do then. But when he looked into my eyes I just said YES. As Jorge and I stayed behind for three weeks to pack and give Kyle time to find a place to live and doctors for Jorge. At that time I realized how much I really loved Kyle missing him put all my thought at ease. When we finally moved there it was good, and we started our new life with some good news, I was pregnant and we where getting married. Jorge will finally get the chance to have a family and a daddy. Our daughter Kathi –Mari was born the day after Christmas, 8 pounds 6 ounces, 14 days after Jorge second birthday. She was named after Kyle's mother Cathie she past away from breast cancer when he was twelve years old and then I thought my l’ll add my mothers name Maria, without the A. Things where going great I thought I could not be happier until Jorge got really sick one day and almost died. The doctors told us he doesn't have much longer to live. My world was crumbling down around me. After Jorge came home and was doing better I had a talk with Kyle. I told him that if we wanted to have a baby now will be the time, I did not want to wait till Jorge past away, and I did not want to feel like I was replacing him. On Jorge fourth birthday I found out I was pregnant, I was so happy I know that Jorge will be here to meet his little brother or sister. And in August Hunter Lee was born 9 pounds 4 ounces. Our family was complete and I was in my happiest state in my life, a time I will never forget. I had my three children together and we where all doing good and happy. But it all came crashing down 5 weeks after Hunter was born Jorge became very ill, and the doctors said he will not make it. I actually felt my heart brake and my feelings tingled all over my body. Why now. Just when I thought nothing could go wrong. That the doctors where wrong. As I had to leave my newborn and daughter with family members so Kyle and I can spend the last days by his side, I felt like a bad mother, I felt like I did something wrong. But every minute spent with Jorge was special and we will never forget. I watch him fight for ever breath, he was a fighter and strong. Stronger then me cause I wanted all his pain if only I could trade places. But on 11pm September 23, 2001 I watch him take his last breath, I felt him warm and I saw his might. Never forgetting the moment I fell on the floor and heard the heart monitor ringing. I can honestly say I will never forget his warm smile, his big bright brown eyes, the way he smell, the sound of his voice. The first time I held him and the last. The happy times we had and the sad. The moment I told him it was OK to go and I said my last good-bye. How could I forget the one person who changes my life for the best, who showed me how to love and to live life? He gave me a family, he was an angel who was sent down to guide me and show me what life is and how I needed to think of other but myself. Today I talk to him as if he was still here and so does my children. Kathi still shares that special bond with him, Hunter did not have much time with him but I know he is Jorge gift to me and Kyle. I came to know how strong, Kathi and Jorge bond really is. Six months after his death Kathi was in a deadly car accident, almost died. My sister –in- law Carrie and I where on our way to put up her sister so we can get our hair done for Carrie's wedding, Kathi was sitting right in back of me, as I talked to Kathi I notice Carrie was not stopping at the stop sign and the next thing I know we where spinning and when we came to stop I saw Kathi, blood every where, I thought she was dead, I thought to myself I lost my second child in Just six months. Why didn't god just taken me? When I saw her lifeless body I began to beg Jorge to take care of her, as she was air lifted to the hospital and rushed to the Operating room she flat line leaving my husband with out knowing if she was alive or dead, four hours of surgery she came out alive and well, she stuffed major cuts and bruises to her head and face and she amazed doctors with a full recovery in just 4 days, they say she is very lucky to be alive and with no compilations. She sure had her angels with her, and she sure did. And when she came home and said "Mommy I saw Jorge he is OK he has some boo-boo's like me but they will go away just like mine." My eyes filled with tears of joy my son help his sister see her way back here, not letting her leave with him just yet. She talks to her brother a lot and tells me things he does or has said to her, Hunter has also learn his name when he turned one by just pointing at his picture. I have heard her conversations with Jorge and Her grandmother. They say kids see what we can’t and I believe that. Life is a gift and only if you try hard enough you will find the meaning of it and I did my son, the one who will live in my heart, the one I will never forget. |
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| Never Forget by joeigana@yahoo.com |
#4 of 21 |
| 290 words | |
| Him: Hello my friend it’s been a long time I remember you told me I could call anytime Something came up we have to talk Meet me outside let’s take a walk I just wanted to tell you I’m glad to be the one Who touched your heart for the very first time I’m thankful that I’m someone Who you would listen and talk to anytime I also wanted to thank you for the times you spent with me In my mind they will always be Thank you for the memories just the same In my heart they will always remain Her: Please don’t ask me if I still care Please don’t ask me if the feeling’s still there Because a long time ago what we had has come to an end And now I purely think of you only as a friend I wanted to say this a long time ago And there’s something I want you to know I’ve found someone new in my life I hope saying that wouldn’t cause a strife He’s someone I love very much And never have I felt such Love for someone before And he loves me too yes I’m sure I know you weren’t expecting To hear me say these things I know you hoped I was going Back to you but it’s not happening I know my happiness means everything to you And that is why I am asking you to Let me live my life with him and let me go But that would be hard I know Him: Only one wish is all I ask Do this for me a simple task Always remember though my heart is beset You have an old friend who will never forget |
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| Never Forget by bluesmeranda@cox.net |
#5 of 21 |
| 262 words | |
| Based on the painting "Pornokrates" by Felicien Rops
Painting found at http://undertow.arch.gatech.edu/homepages/gt7267a/pornokrates.gif Drunken woman found in heap at base of historic Grand River library building. (AP December 16, 2002 by JQ Public, reporter) Gail Summerfield, the Grand River, Ohio, Children’s Librarian was shocked and horrified this morning when she found the body of 27 year-old Maggie Doyle laying naked and blindfolded atop a pig carcass on the ground at the corner of the ten-story library building. Ms Doyle’s boyfriend, who identified the body stated, "Maggie took Pricilla, her prized sow, out for a walk late last night, and never came back." When asked if the victim was dressed at the time, the boyfriend blushed. The County Coroner stated that there was evidence of consensual sex, and fixed the time of death to be between 10 and 11 pm last night. Police are speculating that the death was the result of some kind of bizarre sex-cult ritual. The victim was apparently wearing a vibrating sexual devise at the time. It was the noise of the vibrations that first attracted the 81-year-old librarian to the body. "The buzzing was interfering with my hearing aid," says Mrs. Summerfield. "I’ll never forget the site of that woman, and that poor pig! No I’ll never forget it as long as I live!" Police speculate that the victim was also apparently wearing glass Christmas ornaments from her body jewelry, as the pig and the victim were found surrounded by broken shards of Christmas ornaments. Animal Rights activists are up in arms over the senseless cruelty to the pig. |
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| Never Forget by mishalynn28@comcast.net |
#6 of 21 |
| 824 words | |
| Wham! Right in the back of her head. That’s what
Jennifer felt like doing to her supposably best friend. She wanted to reach
right out and grab hold of her tight blonde curls and slam her head into the
steering wheel of Karen’s Audi. It took all the strength she had not to
cause the prissy bitch any pain. Everything would have been fine. Everything would have stayed the same between them if she had kept her mouth shut. The old adage ‘the truth hurts’ sure did come into play now. The truth was the Karen had gone to the police. She said she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She had to tell the truth before she went crazy but Jennifer knew the real reason she had been betrayed. Karen wanted to save her own ass. They had been stupid. It was just a joke. A stupid teenage practical joke that resulted in murder. "They just want to question you to see if our stories are the same. To see that I’m not lying." "I can’t believe you think we’re responsible. We didn’t kill that woman." Jennifer said glaring over as she lit herself a cigarette with trembling hands. "We didn’t do anything." "Yes we did." Karen said sharply. "We wrote those letters. We made those phone calls." "How were we suppose to know that guy was nuts?" Jennifer yelled at her. "How are we to blame? It was just a joke." "I know that. Don’t you think I know that? I can’t get that picture of the bloody bat, they had in the paper, out of my head. I see it all the time. I can’t sleep. Eating is out of the question. I had to tell." Karen replied as tears welled in her eyes. "I had to." "You had to? What the hell is that an excuse for betraying me. We vowed never to tell. It was all a game." Jennifer puffed hard on her cigarette. All she could think about was the betrayal. "I’m sorry that guy did that to her. I really am, but, I can’t change what happen. We’re probably going to jail." "Why?" Karen glanced over at her. Her blue eyes still held traces of the tears she hadn’t shed. "Why would they send us to jail? We didn’t beat that woman to death." "No we didn’t. It’s illegal to perpetrate a hoax. That’s what my Dad told me. He hasn’t stopped yelling since you called. I had to tell him what was wrong. He said I’ll probably spent the next two years in Juvenile Hall. It’s a good thing we’re only sixteen. They could try us as adults." Jennifer huffy tossed her lit cigarette out the window. "All because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut." "He raped her too." Karen said. "He’s still free you know. He could come after us. He could do the same thing to one of us. We know who he is." "It was just a few letters." "Twenty three." Karen stated plainly. "Twenty three very detailed letters. Why did we do that?" "Just because we wrote a few naughty letters to a guy doesn’t make us killers. He’s the one that went to her house. He’s the one that raped her. He’s the one that took that bat and killed her." Jennifer was near panic as they got closer to the police station. "We caused it. Do you remember what we wrote? All those things we said she wanted him to do to her. Why her Jennifer? Why that lady? You never told me why? You said she was nobody. You said she was just someone on the street. You knew her name, her phone number and her address. Why her Jennifer?" Karen was screaming at her. Jennifer couldn’t think straight. She could slap her friend. She could literally do some damage from her advantage point. A couple rapid blows to the head would shut her up. "Shut the hell up Karen." "Tell me why? It was your idea in the first place. It was from the beginning." "Your not coping out of this. You wrote the letters. It was in your handwriting. Your as much to blame as I am." "Are you saying this was my fault. Your twisting the facts. Why that woman? She was so pretty. So young." Karen put her blinker on for the police station. "Can’t you just tell me why?" Jennifer had no intention of telling the back stabbing bitch anything. She couldn’t be trusted. She had proven that already. She knew why she chose that woman. She had chosen the perfect woman. She never intended for her to die just suffer a little embarrassment. Maybe cause her a little pain. The same pain Jennifer felt when she found out the perfect little woman was sleeping with her Mother. She would never forget her Mother’s betrayal and she would never forget Karen’s either. The End. |
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| Never Forget by tora_ahlstrom@yahoo.se |
#7 of 21 |
| 2323 words | |
| As Genevieve slowly stirred the poison into the
chocolate fudge cake mix, tears were running down her pretty face. She couldn't
believe that George had done this to her - but at the same time she could all
too well believe it. After all, hadn't she been warned? It was just that it had been so unexpected. Genevieve sighed and wiped her face. A small piece of chocolate stuck to her chin, like a beauty mark, and emphasised the paleness of her skin. She wasn't at all like George's first wife, the athletic, adventurous Alicia, who sported an all year round tan from cross country running/hiking/paragliding or whatever outdoor sport she was into at the moment. Genevieve had overheard George saying that Alicia was so fit that she could crack walnuts between her thighs. Genevieve thought that she had heard a hint of longing in his tone, but she tried not to "be silly". That's what George would say if she brought up the issue, the dreaded issue of George secretly missing his outgoing wife, that in reality he was sorry that he had traded her for the quiet, shy Genevieve. "Hush, my little Dresden-girl", he would smile, and kiss her softly. He'd go on to tell her how he couldn't stand all that outdoor nonsense - horseback riding at a ranch once weekend, trout fishing in an Alaskan stream the next, and never any time to just sit down and enjoy their beautiful home and each other. "You know that I wasn't happy with Alicia the last few years. I would have left her anyway, it was just that I didn't have the strength until I met you." He would give her one of his looks, the one that made her want to hug him forever, the one that made her want to stop all her paranoid thoughts and just live happily ever after. She often wondered why she couldn't. When they first met, she didn't know that he was married. He avoided the question by telling her that he "was lonely", and she took that as he was single. She had wanted him to be single, because when she saw him, with a face so handsome and - in her eyes - almost glowing with goodness, she knew that he was the one who could protect her from the evils of the world. He was her knight, he was her armour, and the fact that he rather sneakily dodged the very important question of if he was married or not just made her more sure that he was meant for her. He bought her a precious china figurine after they had been going out for a month and told her that it reminded him of her. The frailty, the pale and exquisite colours, the beauty of the features. She blushed with delight when he first kissed her - for she was not looking for a quick and sordid affair and wouldn't let him kiss her during their first four dates -, and he whispered that it made the resemblance with the doll even more obvious. "You're my china doll now, aren't you?" he asked softly and she couldn't but nod quickly, almost indistinguishably. She didn't dare to look at him as she worried that he would see the all her feelings come welling out through her eyes and scare him away. It was around this time that one of Genevieve's friend had told her that she had heard that George was married. Genevieve locked herself in her adorable little flat and cried for a week. Deep down, she had known about the marriage, but had decided to pretend it didn't exist. It broke her delicate heart to know that George would never be hers, but it almost killed her that her prince had lied to her. When she didn't return his phone calls, nor showed up at work (George was waiting outside her office at the end of each day for the full week, with a huge bouquet of flowers), George went to her flat. He asked forgiveness for his lie - albeit more like an evasion of the truth than a lie, as he put it - and offered to instantly divorce his sporty wife and marry Genevieve before the year was over. Genevieve's heart was torn in two pieces - one that wanted to fling herself into George's arms and forget the incident had ever occurred, and one piece that just couldn't get over the fact that he had betrayed her. As Genevieve already was deeply in love with George, the forgetful, forgiving part of her heart triumphed. Alicia moved out, and Genevieve moved in to her castle. In the beginning she tiptoed through the big house, stubbed her sensitive toes on the rustic furniture, and had nightmares about Alicia coming back to chase her. In the dreams Alicia was always dressed for climbing, with ropes to choke and ice-pikes to hack Genevieve into gory pieces. She knew that it was silly of her to think of Alicia as a blood thirsty maniac, but the guilt of having snatched another woman's husband rested heavily on her shoulders. It made it easier to think about Alicia as a monster, rather than a woman who had been left, rejected, disqualified. The guilt, however, was not the main problem. Genevieve battled constantly with the fear that one day George would wake up, look at her, and realise that he had made a mistake - she wasn't his special little china doll after all and he wanted to take her back to the store. Another fear was that she should have listened more carefully to the second part of her heart, the one that told her that to George it was all just a fling. This part of the heart knew that serial monogamists are great for commitment - at least for a while. And once their patience is up, it doesn't matter what you do, what you have put up with or what a fantastic woman you are. After all, George had had no trouble leaving Alicia, had he? Genevieve knew from friends that Alicia was very popular; a hoot and a holler, always up for anything remotely crazy, and to make it all worse, a sincerely good person. She had even asked to meet with Genevieve for lunch once the divorce came through, to show that there were no hard feelings. Genevieve hadn't wanted to go, but George had thought it would be nice if they could "all get along", and for his sake she had accepted the invitation. She was a bit concerned about the getting along-part though, and wondered if it would mean that they would have Alicia over for supper every Sunday? George let a big belching laugh at this, and told Genevieve that Alicia would only ever eat energy bars, or anything else that you could get the maximum nutrition and energy out of in a minimum of time. "When you can get your daily nutrition in a pill that you take every 24 hours, Alicia is going to be the first person to the store to stock up" he explained. "I don't think she ever considered sitting down for a three course meal". The lunch had, indeed, been brief. Alicia was off on a rafting expedition and had 45 minutes to spare. She talked happily about how many adventures she could go on now that she didn't have to "take care" of George, while devouring a steak in less than half the time it had taken to cook it. Alicia pushed her salad around the plate and tried not to think about George in bed with this dreadful woman. Yes, she was open, easy going and extremely friendly, but did she have to be so nice? After all, Genevieve had stolen her husband! When Alicia had paid the bill ("no, dear, I insist! See it as my wedding gift to you!") she seemed to drift in her thoughts, just for a short moment, and then turned to Genevieve with a serious expression: "Well dear, I hope you and George will be very happy. You are probably more compatible than he and I every were. I hope you'll take care of yourself as well. You seem like a sweet thing and I'd hate to see you hurt." "George would never hurt me", whispered Genevieve, careful not to meet Alicia's open gaze. "I know he wouldn't pet, but you have to remember that he was married to me and left me for you. If they've done it once they can do it again. Men...can't live with them, but they're great in bed, aren't they?" With these words of wisdom Alicia swept out of the restaurant, leaving kisses on cheeks and admiring looks behind. Genevieve felt like she had shrunk to the size of the china doll George had given her and could hardly get down off the chair without breaking. Genevieve poured the cake mix in a heart shaped dish, and dried her tears. She had been upset by Alicia's prophecy, but had decided to try not to spend more time thinking about it. After all, they were words of a woman scorned, even though the woman in question seemed absolutely delighted to have been scorned. Now she wondered if she should maybe have listened a bit more carefully to Alicia. Instead, she and George had gone on to lead their peaceful, quiet, life. She re-decorated the house with exclusive furniture in harmonious colours, he came home early from work to be with her. Occasionally they invited friends over for candlelight suppers, but mostly they were alone, cocooning, cuddling and enjoying each other. He seemed happy, she was as happy as she could get, never fully allowing herself to believe her luck. Up until that morning, she had been doing fine. She had made breakfast and seen George off for work, pruned the roses in the garden and practised a piece on the piano that she knew that George would appreciate - a small Intermezzo by Haydn. Delicate, light, simple - like their lives. With a sound that Genevieve could have sworn was ominous, the postcard fell on the doormat. Genevieve picked it up and found a beach, white and virgin, and a sea, softly blue meeting it under a sky that didn't wear a cloud. The text on the front read "Beach of Love". Genevieve tried to read the postmark, but it was smudged and she could only make out individual letters. The message on the card was on the contrary all too clear to her. "Never Forget", it said, in big feminine handwriting. There was even a small heart around the D, the signature of the sender. She read the name and address over and over again, hoping that the card had been delivered to their house by mistake, but knew that she was only fooling herself. The card had been sent by a woman, with a name starting with a D (Doris? Daphne? Davina? she wondered to herself, trying to create an image of the woman that had decided to destroy her life.) and it had been sent to George, her George. While she cooked dinner, she searched her soul for a reason to go on. She couldn't - wouldn't - live without George, that was the only thing that she was sure of. "When George comes home", she thought, "we'll have this lovely dinner. I won't spoil it by confronting him with the postcard - I don't want him to lie to me tonight. I want us to have a relaxing evening together, then go to bed and make love for the last time, fall asleep in each others arms to never wake up again." She took the roast chicken out of the oven and put the cake in as she heard him come up the driveway. She inspected the perfectly set table, fixed her hair and went to the door to open it for him. "What a welcoming" he mused as she kissed him tenderly. "Hey, is that chocolate fudge dough on your chin?" He kissed away the little spot and looked content. "It sure tastes like it! What are we celebrating?" Genevieve put her head against his chest, her arms around his neck and held back the tears. "Just us, darling. Just us." *** 3000 miles away, Laura and Debbie has run out of post cards and starts pestering Debbie's mother for more. "Please Mom, we're having so much fun! Can I have some more money for stamps as well?" "I don't understand what you girls do with all these postcards - how many penpals can you have?! When I was your age I was busy making real friends and talking about boys. Why don't you go out for a while tonight? And Debbie, will you please get rid of all these old phone books, it's the last time I ask you!" "OK, later Mom, we'll go over to Laura's now". "You're not really going to get rid of the phonebooks, are you?" Laura looks worriedly at Debbie as they bike down the street. "Of course not, I just said that to calm her down" Debbie sneers at Laura. Jeez, how stupid can the kid get? "How would we get all the addresses otherwise, stupid. Anyway, do you think that your mom will give us some money?" "Don't call me stupid, I'm not stupider than you! If I get her to give me money, can I sign the cards?" Laura makes a begging face. "Well, it was my idea...but OK, you can sign the first 5, and then we take turns." Debbie decides to cut the girl some slack, she's not that bad after all. "Great! I just wish we could see the look on peoples' faces when they try to figure out who the cards are from! I bet they look hilarious!!!" |
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| Never Forget by nightmare4241@comcast.net |
#8 of 21 |
| 574 words | |
| Johnny stared up at the angry black sky, and stood up
straight. His face was away from the ground and out of the mud for the first
time in an hour. A single streak of lightning cracked the rain clouds, and he
laughed at how the falling rain felt as it washed the mud and salt from his
face. He came here every year for twenty years now. No boy should grow up
without a father, and Johnny’s had been taken at a tough time in
Johnny’s then short decade of life, or without a mother He could still
hear the songs she used to sing though the house. Mom always seemed to make the
most mundane of chores seem like the greatest pleasure on earth. Mom’s
sister and brother-in-law had raised him well, he couldn’t take anything
away from them, but they just weren’t his parents. He couldn’t even visit their graves; there were no graves. There wasn’t anything visible that belonged to his parents alone. Johnny remembered the memorial service vividly. Memorial-that’s what you got if you died but didn’t leave a body to bury or burn. They didn’t even get a gravestone to Johnny to cry over by himself. Their names were two of many on a monument erected in their honor. That was all that remained of Johnny’s mother and father. Names on a stone and an ugly scar on the ground where nothing grew. Grave-sides were supposed to have flowers, not bare earth surrounded by trees and homes. In truth, Johnny shouldn’t be the only one here today, but he would be. He hoped many others would be here today to celebrate the death-day of their loved ones, but he knew better. "Hello John. Nice to see ya again." The same man was elected sheriff again. Nothing much changes in a small town. Time has stopped for many. "Yep, nice to see you too. The rain’s ended. Should be a beautiful day after all." Johnny hated small-talk. It’s the kind of awkward stumbling over the English language you did when you had absolutely nothing of intelligence to say. "Yes sir, it should at that! Beautiful day for the ceremony." "Yep" "Tell me John, why?" "Why what?" "Why do you keep coming back?" "Because I love them, and I miss them, and someone should! My year runs from September eleventh to September tenth." "The only reason the mayor still holds this ceremony every year is for fools like you and I. Shenksville had it’s day in the sun, twenty years ago. Nobody cares now. Bin Laden is just a distant memory. No one heard from him in years. Afghanistan might as well be a state, and Iraq with it. The tenth anniversary of the dedication of the new World Trade Center and Footprints Park was yesterday." "SOMEONE HAS TO BE HERE! THESE PEOPLE ARE DEAD, DON’T YOU GET IT! IF WE FORGET NOW, IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN!" "Yes I get it son, the question is, do you?" Johnny turned hard on his heel, falling over the memorial stone and knocking a tooth out on the black ground around it. The sheriff stepped away. The local high school marching band was here, and he might as well help them unload. By the time they would finish the out of tune rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner," Johnny would be gone, until next year. "Someone has to remember. We can never forget." |
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| Never Forget by JimWinter2@aol.com |
#9 of 21 |
| 1455 words | |
| "Return to Penzance please", I said to the man at the
ticket counter at Paddington station. He hardly glanced up as he shoved the
ticket under the screan. I handed over the money, "Thanks", I offered. He
grunted, some thing. I made my way to the waiting train. This was a strange feeling for me, being invited to a college reunion at Boston Manor in a small village near Penzance. Boston Manor was my colledge back in 1950, where I gained my education, but more importantly, learned much from my friends. Old friends who I would be meeting up with in about seven hours, give or take a few. I made myself as comfortable as I could in the cramped seat and looked at my wacth. 11am. The train checked and chuddered as it made it's first movements out of the station. I was on my ways. I'd had an invitiation in the post a week ago, requesting my presence for the reunion of the "boys most likely to succeed". Yes, that was us, James, Edward, Charles and myself, George. I wonder which one of them sent it? Probably James, he was always doing things off the cuff of his neck. As the train made it's way out of London and into the West Country, I had dinner and drink and though about what it had been like back then, 50 years ago. I hadn't seen any of them for, well I don't even remember when and when. Yes, we were the ones most likely to succeed and we all did. James built up his hotel chain, Edward, his retail outlets across the country, Charles, his, well, shall we say, bookmakers establishments, and me. I'd made myself wealthy from selling sex, or as I like to put it - "showbusiness". A particular part of it particular anyway. My thoughts made me sleepy but I awoke as the station announcer screamed "all abord!" at Plymouth. I had more drinks and stared at the passing scenery of rocky beachfront and gently splashing waves as we made our way to our destinasion. After seven hours, we had arrived at Penzance. I got up from my seat and felt the blood struggling to replenish the veins in my legs. I keep fit for my age (I was sixty five by the way), but the seven hour journey had made me think to do better when I get back to my home, which at the moment seemed further away than it's ever did. More time on that exercise bike that Jenny, my daughter had so thoughfuly brought for me. We came to a stop at Penzance and I stepped onto the platform. The early October evening brought a mild but pleasant chill to the air. I looked for a taxis. "Boston Manor please", I said to the first taxis driver I could find. The 30 minute ride took me through lanes and past trees that I had seen so long ago. Nothing seemed to have changed. I had a feeling of being home, although I hadn't been here for 50 years. But 50 years ago, it was different. I new that. As we drew close to Boston Manor, I was aware that it's imperial structure was still imposing to me. Architecture which could never be realised again. The building was simply terrifying and awe inspiring at the same times. I paid the drivers and approached the huge door. Bang, bang on the door. I banged again just to be sure enough. I was surprised that after all these years, no bell had been fitted, but at the same time glad that it retained it's original splendour. The door opened, and I was welcomed by a rather large and thin grey hairey man. He looked as if he had lived in the building all his life, but I had no recollection of him. "Welcome Sir, the others are already here", he said. "I am Burham, the keeper of the Manors". "Hello", I replied and stepped into the hallway trying to look rectified, but probably not aceiving it. Burham showed me through to a small cloakroom. "Coat and luggage Sir?", he offered. "Oh, er, yes. Here." I took off my coat and handed it to Burnham who hung it up next to three others. Well, they were obviously here. I hope I hadn't been keeping them too long. "This way Sir", beckoned Burnham. He moved off in the direction of the two huge doors which I remembered as being the entrances to the Senior's room. Of course this was no longer a college and I wondered what the room was now used for. Burnham opened the doors. I followed inside behind Burnham who was walking in front of me. "Blake!, George Blake!, My God man, how are you?" "James? James Goodman?", I repleid as I took his outstretched hand in mine. and shook it vigorosly. "I'm fine, fine……er, how are you?" "George, couldn't be better", he said as he turned to allow me to be greeted by the two others, Charles and Edward. "Young George, you old bastard!", shouted Charles "We knew it was you who arranged this!", added Edward. "Charles, Edward, James, God", I stuttered, "It's so good to see all of you after all these years". We all shook hands vigorosly and repeated to each other how wonderful it was to meet again. "George, we knew it was you", said Edward again. "Hang on Edward", I replied, "you did say you thought this was my arangement, but it's not, I can assure you. Why did you think I set it up?" Charles interrupted, "Well we've been here for an hour talking about who's idea this was and it wasn't any of us. You are the last to arrive,so…" "Well, er, no", I replied, "I've been wondering myself". I've been wondering who couls have set this all up, you know?" We all looked at each other. Who could it have been? "No worry chaps, let's break out more drinks", said James to break theice. "Whoever it was may show or not, but has been very generous anyway. Let's remember the old times", when we were at school togther and had such terrifick times. With that, we talked for almost five hours while drinking old Brandy and Port while Burnham served us a delicious dinner of roast scottish beefs followed by cheeses and more BRANDY! We talked of old girlfriends, old schoolmasters, pranks we'd played and businesses we'd built. and shot down also. None of us would ever forget those times in fact we never forgot them. I would never forget that's true. Finally, Edward got back to the point which had confused us all. "So who did arrange this and bring us back together here?" he enquired to no-body in particulare. A door opened. Burnham beckoned to us. We stood from our seats and made the way to the door. "What's up old chap?", Charles enquired of Burnhams. Burnham turned and moved further into the room. He reached another door and stood still beside it. He said nothing. "Another surprise?", offered Edward. "Maybe the person who arranged this is behind that door", said James,seeming slightly unnerved. but not too inerved to to stand straight and wait for the oputcome. I had a sudden feeling of need. The need to open the door myself. "I'll open it", I said as I strode forward. As I reached the door, I looked at Burnham. "You must open it", he said, and with that, he walked away and out of the rooms, closing the other door behind him. while closing the other door behind him. Charles, Edward and James looked at me expectently. I turned the door knob and pulled the door towards me. I opened it fully. No light in the next room, just blackness. I had another need. The need to step inside the next room, as did all the others. I moved forward into the room and they followed. The door shut behind us. A dim light glowed in the corner and I saw a man sitting there. We moved closer to the lights. The man turned his face and we all knew who it was. Only a myth in our lives, but real in front of us now. The man stood and beckoned us. We all followed because somehow we knew we had to……we had to, because it was a real thing to do. believe me. The headlines in the national papers read that Show Business Entreprener George Blake and three friends had died in a plane crash after meeting at Blake's request to start a new business venture. Maybe it was me who aranged it after all. |
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| Never Forget by GPain97046@aol.com |
#10 of 21 |
| 803 words | |
| Rahab, a harlot, heard rumors Joshua’s army would
soon destroy Jericho. She looked out her window, but saw only bright sunshine
and sheep grazing in the meadows, a peaceful scene. In reality, Jericho was
anything but that. It was a city of drinking, debauchery and evil and Rahab had
been a part of it. Last month, a stranger came to Jericho and talked to the people about Joshua’s God. He told them how God had parted the waters of the Red Sea so His people could cross over to the other side and escape the Egyptians. She had wanted to ask the stranger questions about Joshua’s God but the king’s soldiers had dragged him away and then killed him. The seeds, however, of God’s love were already planted in Rahab’s heart by the stranger and she began to believe in God. A knock on her door brought Rahab back to the present and she went to answer it. Two men stood there and she knew, by instinct, they were from Joshua’s army. God had told Joshua to send two men to her home for needed information about Jericho. Saul and Salmon, the two men, asked her about the security of Jericho’s gates and the number of the king’s soldiers. She told them what she knew. Please tell me about your God?" she then asked. Salmon told her how God was guiding His people to the promised land, fed them when food was scarce and helped them destroy their enemies. They talked about God for over an hour. Mesmerized by their words, Rahab’s eyes sparkled like bright stars in the night. People shouting outside disturbed them. When Rahab looked out her window, she saw king’s soldiers coming up the steps of her house. "You’ve been seen in the city. Follow me quickly," she whispered. She took them up to the rooftop and hid them under the flax that she used to sleep on when the nights were hot. Saul sneezed and she cautioned them to be quiet or they would all be killed. Rahab was almost back to her front door when the some of the king’s soldiers burst in the door and shouted, "Where are they?" "Who?" she asked. "Two spies from Joshua’s army were seen in the neighborhood," the captain said. "Your men all know me. If I had seen the spies, I would have turned them in. I am loyal to the king." "Good but we must still searched your house to make sure they didn’t sneak in," and the men searched every room including the rooftop and found nothing. After they left, Rahab ran back up to the roof and told them the king’s men were gone. "Never forget me or my family when the fighting starts," she pleaded. "God will bless and protect you for what you did for us today. Take this scarlet ribbon and tie it to you window when the fighting begins," Salmon said. Rahab took a rope and threw it down the roof. "You must hurry before the city gates close. Your God go with you." A week later, Rahab ran outside when she heard distant trumpets in the air. "Joshua’s army will soon be here," she called to her family. She went inside, took the scarlet ribbon and tied it to her window. Excitement and hope filled her heart when she could finally see them. Her house stood near the walls of Jericho and she could see the king and his soldiers on the walls, ready to fight and defeat Joshua’s army. But Joshua’s army marched once around the city and then made camp in the nearby meadows. "Why aren’t they fighting?" Rahab cried out. It made her faith falter but her knowledge of God’s love helped keep it from disintegrating entirely. For six days, they marched around the city. On the seventh day and after marching once around the city, Joshua’s army stopped at the main gates and they all began to shout. It was so loud that Rahab had to cover her ears. Slowly, Jericho’s walls began to crumble from the noise. In the meantime, Joshua told Salmon to take Rahab and her family out of the city. When Rahab saw him, she smiled. "Your God didn’t forget me." When Salmon took them to safety, Rahab could see the morning turn to night from the smoke of Jericho’s fires. Joshua’s army burnt the city to the ground. Rahab’s faith was a dynamic one despite her past as a harlot. She was the only one in Jericho who had believed in the one true God and taken His offer of salvation. She later married Salmon, the father of Boaz, the father of Obed, the father of Jesse, the father of David the king. She became an ancestor of Jesus Christ through King David. |
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| Never Forget by lee10@host365.com |
#11 of 21 |
| 2429 words | |
| Touching, stroking, above all things, the hands were
the worst. The rape, some months later, was almost a relief. * Everyone’s attention was on the leader of the jury. Except mine, that is. I continued to watch the accused. Despite his forty-seven years, he was still a good-looking man. His blond hair was thick and fashionably cut. His face was tanned, the lack of lines hinting at recent plastic surgery. He was dressed in a conservative dark grey suit with a navy blue tie. His clothing, his poise, his demeanour throughout the trial proclaimed his innocence. I doubt he knew he was being observed so closely. What would he care about the slight, dark-haired man who sat in the well of the court day after day, drinking in the proceedings like a thirsty man taking in water. Once the leader of the jury, a nervous scrawny man with an oversize Adam’s apple had collected himself, Judge Justin Blakeney asked him to read out the verdict. The Judge’s voice boomed though the hushed court room. The juror coughed and tried to clear his throat. People leaned forward in their seats, determined not to miss the man’s words. "We find the defendant," he coughed again, then finished in a rush, "guilty." That was all I needed to hear and before Judge Blakeney had brought the squealing, shouting spectators to order, I slipped from the court. As I rang for the lift, my fingers brushed the dark-oak panels in the corridor of the Town Hall. Over the years, countless numbers of people must have done the same. The wood was polished to a deep, rich brown, the gleaming colour of horse chestnuts in autumn. It was all I needed to trigger the memories, but this time I was glad to start on a journey that I had taken so many times over the years in pain and anguish. This time, I knew there would be some sort of closure, an ending to the feelings of hopelessness, of powerlessness, of being lost and alone. * The bullying, I had quickly realised, was not about to stop. Foolishly, I had dared to believe that I had left the name-calling and the pushing and pinching behind when I left the village school. I was mistaken. On my first day at preparatory school, we new boys were lined up in the assembly hall, in order of height. I was at the end of the line. The master wore an ageing black robe, fraying at the cuffs. He was on edge and he couldn’t keep still. He strode up and down the hall, barking shrill instructions at us. He was a thin ferret of a man, whose voice grated like chalk on a blackboard. "My name is Squires, Mr.Squires," he screeched. "You will call me Mr.Squires, Sir!" I still could not quite accept my luck in being offered a place at such a prestigious school and gazing around at the dark wood panelling of the old building, I forgot to pay attention. A blow on the ear brought me back to his reality. "What’s your name, boy?" Squires screamed at me. "William P.. Porter, Sir," I managed to stammer. Some of the boys shuffled their feet or giggled nervously, glad they had not been picked on. "Mr.Squires, Sir!" His words were accompanied by a series of blows to my head. "Mr.Squires, S..Sir," I stuttered. "Umm. Porter. Our scholarship boy. Let me tell you something, boy." He paused and looked around to make sure the other fifty or so boys were listening. His voice dropped to a loud whisper. "We don’t like your kind here. We tolerate you at best. Scruffy little oiks like you should stay where they belong, in the gutter, not mixing with their betters." He looked along the line of boys. "All of you, never forget. An education at this school is a privilege and anyone," he looked hard at me, "anyone found wanting will soon be removed." My ear stung. I felt tears forming but managed to swallow the humiliation. This was how the bullying had started before. Again, I was the smallest boy in the school, the boy who didn’t belong. The master strode from the hall, leaving two prefects to show us where to go. The new boys were marched from the hall, the tallest first, led by one of the prefects. I was the last to leave, except for the second prefect. As I went to walk through the door, he stepped in front of me. I stopped. "Be warned, scholarship boy. I will never be far away." He stood over me and lifted his hand. Gently, he stroked my cheek. His hand was slender, the fingernails neatly manicured. His breath was sweet and smelt slightly of mint. His hair was blond, almost white. Light ginger fluff was beginning to appear on his upper lip. "Never forget," he murmured. "Whatever you do, I’ll be watching." He slapped my backside, almost playfully. "Go." He commanded, stepping aside. Frightened, I ran and caught up with the other boys. I sensed that the bullying here would be of a different order to that which I had experienced before. For months I was haunted. No matter where I went, Gerald Lester was there, waiting. Usually he was alone but occasionally he was with two or three of his cronies. When there were several of the older boys with Gerald, I was teased and tormented, the butt of stupid jokes. I was pushed around but I was rarely touched in a manner that was anything other than teenage horseplay. When Gerald was alone, he was like a cat playing with a mouse. He might give me a gentle cuff around the head, then would put his arm round my shoulders, pulling me closer, ever closer, murmuring endearments that made little sense. He liked to feel me trembling. With my head against his chest, he might unknot my tie, then slowly undo my shirt buttons, one by one, before stroking my childish chest. Once, he leant down and nibbled the soft top of my ear, each bite becoming harder and sharper till he drew blood. Then he licked the blood away with a rough tongue. His heart beat against my cheek. I counted. Each long stroke of his tongue across the torn flesh of my ear was five heartbeats. I had no control. He did as he chose with me. And he chose to escalate the frequency of encounters. Gerald had an instinct for choosing places in which to waylay me where he would not be disturbed. One day however, he miscalculated; or he may have been set up by the other prefects, one of whom had sent me to fetch a rugby ball from a little used store room in the gymnasium. The room was small and dusty. Old cupboards lined the walls and there were two low benches side by side in the middle. There was just enough space left to walk around the two benches. I was searching in one of the cupboards for the ball when Gerald followed me into the room. He closed the door behind him. "You didn’t forget, scholarship boy, did you?" He moved to stand close to me. "You didn’t forget that I would always be watching to see what you were up to?" He reached out. Grasping my arm, he turned me to face him. "Well? Answer me, then." But speech was beyond me. I was too frightened to reply. The room was suddenly airless. Gerald let go my arm and gently took hold of the lapels of my blazer. Slowly, he eased it from my shoulders and it fell to the floor. "Tell me, scholarship boy." He whispered, "You didn’t forget, did you?" I shook my head. He pulled my tie. The knot slid apart easily and he began to undo the buttons on my shirt. "There’s one missing," he murmured. "Somebody’s mother doesn’t love him enough to sew his buttons on for him, does she." I stood still with my eyes closed, my fists clenched. He undid the button on my trousers and pulled my shirt free, murmuring all the while, tuneless words that made no sense. His hand was on my zip when the door crashed open. "Well, if it’s not gay Gerry with his pretty playmate!" My eyes opened but otherwise I was unable to move. Four boys entered the room giggling. The last one, Joseph Headley, the school’s head boy, closed the door. "Shush, you lot," he ordered. Gerald spun round to face them. "Look at Gerry," Joseph pointed. "He’s a little excited I think, boys. What do you all think?" "Tell you what, Joseph," one of the boys replied, "that lump’s not going to go down without help!" His gesture was vulgar. The four boys laughed. Gerald tried to push past them. "Not so fast," Joseph leaned against the door. "You’ve come here for some fun, Gerry. I don’t think we such stop you, should we boys?" It must have been planned. They must have hated me as much as they obviously hated Gerald. But he was one of them. I was not. I was not important. Two of the boys grabbed my arms and stood me on the benches. "Carry on from where you left off, Gerry. There’s a good fellow." Joseph instructed. "I think you’d reached the zip, hadn’t you?" Gerald shook his head. "No. No." he said. The boy who was not holding me grabbed Gerald’s tie and twisted it. "Do as you’re told or we’ll fetch Squires in here and tell him how we stumbled on you and your little love nest." After a long moment, Gerald reached for my zip. He yanked it down hard. "That’s a good Gerry," Joseph applauded softly. "Now the trousers." I was held in a strong grip. Even if I had dared struggle, I would not have been able to break free. Within seconds my trousers and my underpants were around my ankles. Exposed, my penis shrank from the cold of the room. "And you’ve wasted your time and efforts for that thing," Joseph laughed scornfully. He had walked round the benches and stood next to Gerald. He flicked my penis with his finger. "Pathetic little creature. Can’t imagine what you see in it, Gerry." He looked down. "But you obviously see something I can’t." He moved aside and pushed Gerald forward. "Go on, Gerry. Touch it. See if you can get the worm to move." Gerald seemed to have forgotten that we were not alone in the room and he reached out. His hand was hot. Warmth flooded through me and to my shame I began to respond. I started to cry. I was not prepared for this strange rush of unknown sensations. "Let’s help Gerry," Joseph shouted "Let’s make sure he has some fun with his nancy-boy." The boys holding my arms twisted and turned me and took my feet from under me so that I was lying face down on the benches. The slats cut into my face. No one noticed, or cared. "Go, Gerry. Go Gerry," the boys chanted. Gerald caressed my backside roughly then he parted me with his fingers and, god help me, he raped me. Straddling me, time and again he thrust himself deep, tearing and burning. I tried to scream but some one pushed a soiled, rolled up handkerchief into my mouth. The four boys held me down while Gerald raped me. Someone was grunting in time to the waves of pain that swirled through me while Gerald gasped and moaned in my ear. The shock was too great. I blacked out, blanked out most of that awful afternoon. Consciousness came and went and my memories of what happened after that are patchy. With the exception of one memory, that is. I remember Squires standing over me as I lay on the benches, smeared with my own blood and faeces. There was no one else in the room. I don’t know how long I had been on my own. "Tut, tut, scholarship boy," he was saying. "I told you, you should never forget that you don’t belong here. And now it’s all over for you." Through the thin cotton of my shirt I distinctly felt his fingers lightly running up the bones of my back. * "Ping," the lift arrived. The door opened and I entered it. It had taken me several years to fight down and finally to conquer my fear of small, enclosed spaces. And it had taken me several years to be in a position to take my revenge. It felt good to have reached this point. The last word on the matter would be mine, albeit spoken through my proxy. * I was sitting curled up on the sofa reading a magazine when Justin arrived home. As usual, his bellow of, "I’m home", rolled down the hall of our small flat. He came into the dining room and tossed his hat onto a side table. "Don’t leave that there," I admonished him. "Sorry, Willie love." He picked it up and came across to the sofa. He bent over and waited. I offered my lips and accepted his kiss. "Your wish is my command," he said. "The deed is done." "Don’t shout so," I smiled at him as he sat down next to me. I smoothed his thick blond hair. "Tell me quietly." Justin grinned. His moustache, fair with a hint of ginger, bobbed as he tried hard but failed to hold back his glee. "For the rape of a minor in Sittingbourne on April 10th last year, I have given Gerald Lester M.P. a custodial sentence." He made a gesture as though holding up a glass. "I have given the abusive, slimy little snake the maximum sentence possible." I copied his gesture. "Twenty years?" "Twenty years it is." Then he added, "Raised a few eyebrows but I considered it a ‘most heinous crime’ and sentenced accordingly." He looked at me. "Did I do right?" I nodded. "Open the champagne," I instructed my lover. As he did so, I felt the weight of the chains that had bound me for so many years, slip away. Justin handed me a glass. I raised it and it rang against his. "Well done." I said. I looked into his eyes. "Never forget I love you." Justin turned an attractive pink colour, "and never forget that I will seek revenge for any slight." And Justin toasted me. He does so love the masterful type. |
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| Never Forget by mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#12 of 21 |
| 1500 words | |
| Anne White was a single mother who worked at Arlington
High School, about 25 miles from her home in Lexington, Kentucky. She had been
married and divorced three times - with three boys all from her first marriage.
These marriages had been difficult for her children not only from the stress
involved with their mom’s relationship, but also the uprooting of their
lives from changing homes and schools. They now lived in a beautiful, four
bedroom home where there was plenty of children the boys’ age to play
with. But all three boys, Joseph, Andrew and Jamie, had special behavioral
needs, one of which was Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). This caused them
serious problems, extremely difficult to deal with in a stable environment. So
they had difficulty getting along with the kids in the neighborhood. Plus with
the roller coaster environment she created for the boys with her multiple
marriages and adjustments, things would certainly get worse before getting
better. She really had her hands full. Unquestionably, with the apple not
falling far from the tree, Anne had some issues of her own to add to the pie.
Anne had been a physical education teacher at the high school for over 10 years, and kept her slim figure from working out with the kids each day. The stress of keeping up with her own three hyperactive children at home helped also. She wore her light brown hair short and curly with added blonde highlights. Very cute with a nice, bright smile, but she always seemed frazzled. When you got close to her, you could see the toll the boys and her life had taken: crow’s feet, loss of sleep showing in her tired, cloudy eyes. Anne seemed to be a cheerful person; always wearing that bright smile on her face. But Anne had a hidden mean streak. Perhaps it was her way of dealing with the stress of her own children’s problems and failures. An adroit way of lashing out and making other children hurt like hers did. She could never forget how difficult it was for her children to accomplish even the simplest of tasks, while the children in her classes thought nothing of what was asked of them. As she watched this daily, she could feel a burning in her soul that caused an ache she didn’t know what to do with. There was one student that Anne began harassing before he officially entered the high school. His name was Zachary, and he was the son of the school secretary in one of the administrative offices. His father was the football coach so he was in the hallways a lot. Whenever Anne saw him, she immediately tweaked and screamed at him to get out of the building. When he tried to tell her he was there with his Dad, she would scream at him again to stop arguing with her and get out! Since he was embarrassed and unsure of what to do, he just left. He never said anything to his mother or father afraid he would get in trouble or cause them a problem. Anne found out through the school grapevine that Zach’s mother was an advocate for children with special needs like ADD. Although she had been abusing her son, Anne incredibly would regularly go to Zach’s mom, Maryanne, for help about her boys. Maryanne gave her all the time and information she needed; even calling her long distance at home to check on her. She knew what it was like having multiple children with special needs, and was happy to help Anne get through some tough times. Maryanne Carney was a mother of two – Zachary, now unbelievably a freshman, and Michelle, a college student. She had been working at the high school for about nine years, and had hit that seemingly mystical 40ish period of birthdays. Her son, Zach, also had ADD. He was very tall with brown hair and hazel eyes. He excelled in sports, and loved working out in the weight room and on the track. This hard work and dedication showed up on the football and lacrosse field. During his time in high school, he won numerous scholar athlete awards and a college scholarship. It really was quite the turnaround from his elementary school years when he was routinely thrown out of class for behavior issues. Zach’s ADD had taken its toll on Maryanne emotionally and physically. She tried to hide her gray hair and weight problem, but the Slim Fast wasn’t working since Ben and Jerry’s was her coping mechanism. Sometimes Maryanne said if she could keep a mini freezer with her, she would carry a supply of B&J’s around with her 24/7, and always have a spoon in her mouth." In her line of work, Maryanne came across a lot of "Zachary’s" each day in her office, as they were sent there too often for discipline. Maryanne had absolutely no idea that Anne was harassing Zachary over these years. Although other staff members were aware of it, noone ever said anything to her. If Anne would see Zach in the gym hallway working out, he would expect her usual bellow, "Zachary, get in the gym now!" Zach sick of her crap, coolly replied "Michelle said I can work out here." and continued to work out. This infuriated Anne. Michelle was the athletic trainer, and Anne would race to her office to check. Anne would continually lie in wait like a Fischer cat in the night, her eyes watching for him everywhere. When she saw her prey she would pounce, "Where are you supposed to be this period? Do you have a pass to be in here?" "Let me see it." The room was filled with other students but only Zachary would be questioned. He just brushed her off. She relished going to his football coach to complain: he left weights on the floor in the weight room, he was too loud…. all the while still going to mother’s office with that smile plastered on her face. At the end of Zach’s senior year, Anne wanting to complete her cycle of twisted deeds upon this young man, decided to empty his gym locker throwing all his sports equipment and clothing out, as well as his year book. Finally, Mama Bear found out about this, and let’s just say, the rest of the past years’ events came spilling out of that locker as well. Maryanne was furious, her heart falling to her feet, her mouth falling to the floor. She was so angry, she felt like she might pass out. Somehow she left work without remembering doing so. She was beside herself. Her mind flailing trying to put pieces together as she drove while thinking: all that time she spent helping this woman while she was hurting Zach. She remembered sensing that Anne seemed jealous of Zach’s success. Maryanne’s face was now so red she looked a tomato. She sobbed realizing this had gone on for years. She felt like a fool for not seeing it, and her guilt was deep. Suddenly she felt her breathing increase. When Maryanne got home, she drifted out of her car into the house. She made some coffee to try to calm down as her heart raced. She stood paralyzed in the middle of her kitchen trying to get her head around these events. Hours went by, and still she stood there, trying to make some sense of this. Slowly, nature began a process that provides for mothers whose children are harmed. She could feel that process advance full tilt in her mind, and Maryanne’s guilt now turned into contempt. The coffee pot emptied as Maryanne realized she had spent the last three hours plotting; just mentally plotting…. Her final thoughts out loud before starting dinner for her family were "You might hurt me, but don’t EVER think you can hurt my child and get away with it." She would now help Ms. Anne White in a very different way. Anne White had a lot to be worried about because the person she had been getting advice from, would never forget what she had done to her son. She would never forget how she repeatedly came to her office with that smile and used her to help her sons while abusing Zach. The plot began to take shape in her mind on its own as she knew she would use her position in the school, and now be the source of inconceivable grief and pain in Anne White’s life. And she would never know it, never see it coming, never know where it came from. A mother never forgets when someone hurts their child. They may eventually over time forgive, but they never forget. And depending on the circumstances, there may be payback involved which may not be appropriate. But the rules of nature take precedence over the rules of appropriate conduct. Word up: don’t ever hurt a mother’s baby; she will never forget. |
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| Never Forget by Debra Michelle McDonald TRELEAV@cs.com |
#13 of 21 |
| 12 words | |
| The gentle being, that nurture me through lifes evolution, I'll never forget. |
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| Never Forget by Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#14 of 21 |
| 1561 words | |
| There's not much you can say when the nozzle of a gun
is pushed hard into your nose, coupled with your arm being forced halfway up
your back. "Listen pal," my unseen attacker spat into my ear. I was listening. "You're coming with me." He led me to the right, by twisting my already painful arm, down the alley I thought I was passing on my way to meet up with 'Mad Dog Murphy' in the pub. Mad Dog would have to wait. The man behind me, with his gun pressing harder up my right nostril, had the upper hand. We walked awkwardly, his footsteps trying to keep in unison with mine while we stumbled along the alley, dodging rubbish bags and the occasional rat that scurried across our path. "You've got some explaining to do," he said between heavy breaths. I kept my mouth shut, but the smell of his acrid sweat told me that I was dealing with 'Mad' Micky McGonnal, one of the IRA's feared hitmen. Feared not because he was good, but because he was considereda complete nut case, even amongst us professional killers. Unstable. We reached an opening in the side of the alley. A door with peeling green paint stood before us. "Ok, we're here," he said. Nothing happened, apart from my arm being pushed higher up my back.I grimaced, but kept quiet as a sharp pain seared through my shoulder. "We're here," he said louder this time, obviously agitated. The door opened inwards. Micky marched me inside a dully-lit hallway. The gun nozzle left my nose and my arm was released at the same time as a boot thudded into my legs, sending me sprawling to the dusty wooden floor. I gathered my thoughts, and rubbed my arm, while the musty aroma of the hallway replaced the metallic smell of the gun. I looked up. Micky smiled down at me, gaps in his yellow teeth showing. "In there," he said, pointing his gun at a door to my right. I stood slowly, with Mickey's gun trained on me and pushed the door open. Candle flames flickered as I entered the room, causing shadows of the two men sitting at a table to dance on the wall. "Come in Steven, don't be shy," said one. "Please sit down." I couldn't make his face out, but I thought I recognised the voice fromsomewhere. The second man sat silent. I took a seat at the table. Mickey followed me into the room, closed the door and leant back against it. "Comfortable Steven?" said the man to my left. The strange shadows across his face, caused by the flickering candles, at first had me confused, but I could now see that he was James Harrison, considered to be the head of IRA operations in Belfast. The other man, who I didn't recognise, stayed silent. Light from the candles danced on his bald head. "I'm comfortable," I said, feeling far from it. "Steven, what happened to Patrick Mitchell?" The question came from the bald man. "He was killed by the British Security Services, ten years ago," I said. I was aware that they already knew that, but I decided not to take the conversation further. There was silence. Harrison seemed to look to the shadowed bald man for the next question. Micky still leant against the door. I thought about asking why they needed candles, but decided against it. I needed to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. I turned my left foot to the side to get the heel off the floor. Maybe the signal from the implant would be received better like that at the army monitoring post. "Who killed him?" said Harrison. "The Security Services." "The individual, we mean," said the bald man. This was coming too close to home I thought. Did they know it was me?Why would they play a game? "We think it was one of your team Steven," said Harrison, "and we have long memories." "Impossible," I said, trying to turn my foot further away from the floor. "I've known all of them since we were kids. They're loyal. None of them would turn." Harrison sighed and leant back in his chair. He looked to the bald man and then at me. "We know you're an agent for the services," he said. "Just tell us whokilled Patrick and you get the easy way out." I felt sweat appear on my forehead and run down my temples. The 'easyway out' was obviously a reference to being killed, there and then, but I wasn't about to admit to the killing of Patrick Mitchell. While the two men looked to me for an answer, I saw my gun fire the bullet into Patrick's head, ten years ago. "No, no," I said, "that's wrong. I'm no fucking turncoat. Someone's giving false information." I spluttered the words out and did my best to look offended rather than scared. The British Intelligence Services had taken me under their wing years ago, and I'd successfully played the part of IRA gang member, rising to local team leader, while having 'diplomatic immunity' for feeding information back to the Services. All had gone well for me over the past fifteen years and Although I'd killed, I was comfortable with the fact that with my information, many other lives had been saved. I'd only killed twice and Patrick Mitchell was one of those. He had been a young man with no redeeming qualities. A pure thug who only joined the IRA out of a love for violence. There was nothing in him remotely interested in the politics of the troubles and his only cure was a bullet to the head. I delivered it. I was confused now. They must have discovered what I was doing, but I had to keep denying that. But it seemed that they didn't know that I was the killer. I wondered if they'd keep me alive long enough to get their answer, or shoot me and look for the answer elsewhere. Mickey moved away from the door and I felt the cold metal of his gun nozzle against my temple. "Not here Mickey," said Harrison. "Tape him." Mickey held my arms behind my back as the bald man stood and took a roll of masking tape. He pulled a length and stuck it tight to my face, covering my mouth. I could feel wire cutting into my wrists as they tied my arms in place behind me. I was in trouble, but I was desperate to know if the signal from the contraption in my shoe was doing its job. Maybe I'd never find out. "Stand him," said Harrison. "You're going for a drive Steven. Not too far, but by the time you get to the destination, you will have the killer's name ready for us." They roughly pulled me to my feet and dragged me out the other side of the building. A disused industrial estate with nobody around. I knew that they were professionals at this game and my time was almost certainly over. There would be a drive to a remote field where I'd be made to kneel and a bullet or two would be pumped into the back of my head. I'd seen it done by others, for revenge, retribution, or to scare the opposition. It was all part of my life and I had a strange feeling of acceptance. I'd killed theirs, they'd killed mine and nobody knew when it would stop, but my time had come. They led me to a car, parked away from any lights. Mickey held onto me as the bald man opened the boot. He moved a few things around to make space and Mickey pushed me forward. The bald man looked at me. "Think about that name. Give it to us and we'll make it quick." For a moment, I thought the small red dot showing on his forehead was a reflection from some neon sign, but when his head exploded from the back, I knew what was happening. The bald man fell to the ground quickly and I felt Mickey's grip loosen on my arms. I let my knees buckle so that I dropped to the ground. I only heard one dull thud and Mickey's body joined me, the top of his head gone. I heard swiftly moving footsteps and wondered if Harrison was next for the kill. "Get out that way," someone said, "job is done." Someone grabbed me and pulled me to my feet. "Hello Steven," said the soldier, as he stung my face by ripping the tape off. I was relieved. They'd sent the best that the Services had to offer. "You got the signal then?" "What signal?" "The shoe thing. The one I had fitted three weeks ago." "No signal, no." I looked down at the two dead men. "Where's Harrison? Did you get him?" "Don't worry about him." The soldier winked. Things turned over in my mind. Who had been the master of this little episode? Who had been the key? Who had really been in charge? "I've been after that bastard for six years," said the soldier, looking down at the bald man. "He killed two of our boys. One was Harrison's lover, can you believe that? We've never forgotten." |
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| Never Forget by My Nguyen idlemousse@hotmail.com |
#15 of 21 |
| 1456 words | |
| Hearing the ring after a monotone of silence pierce the
constant air, dulled the youth into brooding inattention. The adults
invigorated in happy bravado, clamored and weaved through the pews. Faked,
pushed smiles (maybe sincere but looked false) plaqued the surface and stayed,
fixed there to cover emotions yet unearthed and other feelings breathing
remotely fused yet with too much power. Silent nods acknowledged the ghosts and waved and talked to the spirits in the air. Whispers and suppressed laughter politely kept to a minimum, quietly promote the room alive again. Dust twirled around and breathed merrily the weekly flowers brought to enshrine the worship. Circling the cycle of worthies intertwined with memorized verse lines. Flowing in from the sentry windows, flew in the rays of the sun and light, wind but held the sky blue and clouds along with the streets, signs, cars, lummering buildings, and other people from entering into the luke-warm room, cool and resistant. Rustles of paper announced the return and total reign. A voice thin and reedy crossed the sky and heavens for another Sunday. Wh-whispering did not cease and but did not stop those behind sheltered hands from listening either. Conversation finally fell unnoisily and uncorruptively rose again to sing a salute, a hymn of rejoices. Ponderous stillness filled with bits of grunts and coughs choked the air, then erupted again in small short, interval of bursts. Time. The surface broke and rippled in colors. The minister shuffled his notes; papers filled with layers and layers of conscious, to be repeated over and over again. In the next. Latered. Finally. "Yes (umm---) as I was going to mention, are there any prayer requests this afternoon?" Silence. And then a creaking of a seat. Absolute. Starting again, "Well...let me remind you of those that are weak spiritually, in pain, suffering and lost even in the kingdom of God. Though it might not be you who have not stirred off the path, remember all those around you who really need the guidance and help. Have compassion. Remember His love. That to serve Him is to others as well. Remember his sacrifice as he died, the son of God died on the cross to repent for our sins. "As I was reading the Bible last night, I admit, I realized I had forgotten, but now as I have remembered, our Savior is always with us. He is merely everywhere. Even when we close our eyes and see darkness." Silence. Alive, dead? "Of course, now, anyone have anything they want to bring up or address anything to the church?" Waiting. All heads turned ‘round and ‘round searching for a brave necessity, hand that did not appear; it had never vanished for it had never been and did not rise only after the third day. hhhhhhh,"Ah yes, Mr. Ngon." "Good afternoon, ong ba anh chi em of the church. Well, I would like to say today how I would like to thank the members of the congregation for their prayers for me and my family during our time of trouble. Perhaps without your endless understanding and sympathy, I would not be here or have the will to show you our gratitude. Although not everything is resolved yet and we are still trying to reconstruct out lives as best as we can, we are also under the impression that things will get better for we have faith in God. If somehow we weren’t saved today, I don’t think our strength would have lasted to this day to fight off what’s left. "As you know, my wife has fallen sick and my job situation has become unstable, and other little misfortunes has built up into a fortified wall. Well, my wife is better now as she is with us now next to me here. But I would like to say that believing in Him has helped us and you supporting us has also push us to struggle through much of our hard times." "Well, thank you." With a stiff nod, he curtly in joints that rusted, proceeded to situate himself next to his somewhat recovered wife enough, that is, to show her presence. "Anyone else?" asked the revered minister with quaking eyebrows that shifted in knit patterns on his brow. A shaky voice quavered in the river of ripples, stirred from within. Her voice resonated and sent out messages, calling for the heart felt pity much needed, wailing for attention and murmurs of guilt to proceed down the aisle to the back; echoing, echoing pass the childishly silently bored and indifferent. Firmed and shakily she started, "I want to thank the congregation also for their well intentions and prayers. My husband is getting better." She paused to stifle a sob from ranging too far into her vocals or merely for effect. "...he-he...he has lost a lot of hair and the medication has made him extremely ill and his appetite has not been that good since then." A deep breath inhaled. "And, well, it is getting harder...(crackling, voice crackling) and harder and harder to see him like this (crackle) and I really, really (swooshing her head slightly right and left as she said this) don’t know how to cope. But please keep praying for us please, for faith." "Thank you, Mrs. Luong. Let us remember to pray for Mr. Luong and hope that his cancer will subside somewhat and whatever He decides, even if it is His will to take Mr. Luong to His side then we will know that it is his time and meant to be. "Ah, yes Mrs. San, you may speak." "Well, members of the congregation, I would like to show you my respects." Nodding to, nods back. Simply a game of reflex. Sounds of movement crumpled. "Only the other day, we were having breakfast at the pho restaurant really tired and everything after one of the boys called and announced that he wanted to see us. So we were on the road back from Santa Ana and I looked back as I was driving and as I looked back at the car behind me, I was thinking to myself that, that car was going too fast and just as I was thinking that, she ran right into the back of the car and I thought, ‘Oh, God, what now?’ as I sort-of expected the whole thing was going to happen anyways. But as I looked over to the culprit, I realized that she was more victim than villain. She was just a girl, innocent enough wearing a Vons uniform and everything and suddenly I felt sorry for the poor girl. She just stood there crying and I looked at the car to access the damage. It was sort-of busted a little. She kept saying how sorry she was and I felt that the accident was even more dramatizing for her as the offender. So I said to her that everything was really okay and tried to comfort her a bit. After that we exchanged phone numbers and left. Well, me and my husband, who was there the whole time, we were all safe and sound and luckily survived with no fatal injuries. Even though it was an accident that had fallen onto us, God was with us and protected us the whole way as we had come out of it alive and with minimal damage. And so it could have ended up as a grave tragedy, but God showed me forgivance and understanding." The churchgoers’ response was of approval. Once glazed features had freshened up. Robotic movements functioned in closed tones; awoke somewhat and became a little more animated during the break. And still the grove prospered as each member of its own gained any such unmaterialistic value, seemingly useless unless in times of greater need. "Well, thanks Mrs. San for your inspiring story. She has come across a possible tragedy, yet her judgement has provided her another alternative of compassion. Well, have we any other requests following?" Silence was placed in the folds again and rubbed so deeply into searing commitments that would not dance away never frightened of damnation, strayed from its path. Awake!!! Awake!!! Awake!!! But none heard the shout. Settled deep within, maybe they were pondering real significant worthwhile mysteries or lost dreams. The sun, skies, and clouds; they were all the same in substance. Only the positions remain the difference noticeable. Closer and closer, will they more forward? "Anyone else?’ A hand meekly raised. "Yes?" "Um--, my back is kinda aching really bad most the time. Especially in the afternoons. Well, please pray for me." "Oh, yes, of course." A stomach rumbled loud and clear. "...Well, alright. Please stand up as we pray. And never forget …" |
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| Never Forget by Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com http://www.juliesworkshop.netfirms.com Buy my new book, DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH http://www.1stBooks.com/bookview/14200 |
#16 of 21 |
| 1155 words | |
| "Jared, I won't let the terrorists stop us. I want to
celebrate RoshHashana with my neighbors. I don't want to be so paralyzed by
fear that Ican't visit or share a meal with them." "But Eva, we have baby John to consider. What if the terrorists didtarget our home? Would the baby live? What about us? I really don't wantto die like our friends on the other side of town." "Luckily, we don't live where those types of people hang out. We live ina safe neighborhood where we don't need to fear for our lives. So please,Jared, go and ask Armany and his wife to share the holy day with us." Reluctantly, Jared went down the street and asked the Abrahams to dinner.He needed to return a book that he'd borrowed. As he walked the block tohis friend's house, he heard footsteps behind him. He looked behindhimself but saw no one. He walked faster praying that he wouldn't beharmed. As he neared the house, he felt the cold steel of a gun in hisback. "What are you doing running around? Haven't you Jews learned yourlessons yet? You have no right to be here. Now get out of here and don'tlet me see you on this street again or I'll kill you." Confused and frustrated, he continued to the Abrahams. Armany pulledJared inside. "What was that all about? What did you do to upset thatman?" "I don't know," Jared gave the book to Armany, "He just said that Jewscouldn't walk on this street. We've always walked to each other's housesbefore. I'm not sure what is different today." "Eva and I want you to share Rosh Hashana with us this evening. Eva hasworked all day making lamb with all the trimmings, and we want tocelebrate and fill you up after your fast. Will you come?" Cleo started to shake her head. "Oh Jared. After what just happened toyou, I don't think it would be wise. I appreciate your thinking of us,but I just don't want any trouble. Please thank Eva." "I'll tell her, but I know she'll feel heartbroken. She so wanted to havethe meal with her friends. In any case, if you should change your mind,feel free to come. We'll eat around 6 p.m." Moving through the street like a fugitive, Jared ran the block to hishouse. No one followed that time. He thought maybe it was a drunk. I'lltell Eva and maybe she can call Cleo. Entering the house he told his wifewhat had happened. But he also told her of his suspicions that the manwith the gun was a drunk. Picking up the phone Eva dialed the Abraham's number. "Cleo, I heard ofthe holdup and wanted to tell you that Jared now thinks the man was adrunk. Jared had no problem coming home. The street seemed as quiet asalways. He wanted me to assure you that nothing would happen. Pleasewon't you come? We haven't had a dinner party since the pregnancy." "If Jared is sure, it's safe we'll come. Around 6 p.m. right?" "That's right. We'll have a good time. You can play with baby John and wecan visit. Oh, I'm so excited." Armany told Eva, "I think I'll call the police just to alert them of thepossibility of terrorism on our street. I don't want to alarm you, but Idon't feel right about going to the party. I'll call and ask that someonekeep a lookout. I don't want to get killed tonight." Hours passed slowly, and Armany didn't see any strangers on their street.He sighed deeply. He hoped that his worry was unfounded. He began torelax and returned to his garden. The time to go came. The couple dressedand started walking to the White's house. About halfway there, the sameman that bothered Jared grabbed Armany's arm. Armany yelled, "Cleo, runthe rest of the way." Cleo hesitated. Which way should she go? Home tosafety or to the White's where she may also be endangering them? Sheobeyed her husband and headed for the White's, but not before she sawArmany kick the assailant in the groin. Cleo smiled Armany also liked tomake a joke of everything. Seeing an escape, Armany pulled Cleo with himup the steps to Jared's house. He pounded on the door. Coming to the door, Jared's forehead knit, "Are you okay? You seem to bebreathing hard." "We're fine. We just want to get out of the street." Jared asked, "Were you followed? Are you hiding from someone? You bothare acting strangely." Cleo headed to the kitchen and the companionship of Eva. Eva immediatelysensed that something was wrong. "Cleo, what happened?" "Oh, Eva. It was horrible. A strange man grabbed my husband and draggedhim toward the river. My husband, the quick-thinker that he is, kickedthe assailant where it hurt and escaped. We aren't safe here anymore,Eva. What are we to do? We can't even go a block without being attacked." Eva pulled her close and rubbed her back. "Oh, Cleo. You are safe now.Let's try to forget what happened earlier and enjoy our dinner. I cookedyour favorite: potato pancakes. Besides soon the authorities will havethe troublemakers under control then we can live normally. Let's justtrust God to help us. We are here to celebrate God's forgiveness. Let'sforgive this stranger as well." When Jared heard of the attack, he put the dog in the front yard. "Now wewill know if anyone is out there." The foursome sat down to eat. Afterthey gave thanks, they began enjoying Eva's delicious cooking. When Evawent to get the ice cream for the dessert, the dog barked ferociously.Jared ran to the door. Sure enough, a strange man stood with a gun."Don't shoot!" The gunman paid no attention. He pulled the trigger. The dog fell and theassailant rushed into the house. He pulled the trigger again and againunconcerned about where the bullets went. Jared rushed outside. He didn't want his beloved dog to die. Seeing thewounds to his dog | |