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"Phoebe Saw The End" (the thirtieth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Phoebe Saw The End" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), February 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and should not be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Phoebe Saw The End by lee10@host365.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It’s Brussel sprouts for lunch
again. I can smell them from here. I can taste their putrid flesh, the stench
is so strong, even this far from the kitchen. If I had the strength at
mealtimes, I’d spit the damned things out at the woman who feeds me.
I’d love to see them spattered across her false smile, but all I can do is
drool green slime and she says, "Come on, Phoebe. You won’t be a big,
strong girl if you don’t eat your greens." Then she scoops it up with the
plastic spoon she uses and shovels it back into my mouth. She must know I hate Brussels. I think she enjoys seeing me suffer. Now, what’s her name? Why can’t I remember the woman’s name? It’s Jacky or Jenny or something like that. She’s such a non-entity; such a bland woman, I can never remember her name. She gets her kicks by doing voluntary work. She has power over us. Is that what she likes? She’s strange. She must enjoy taking Bob Frobisher to the toilet, or why would she do it? At least I can respect the paid help. However badly they’re paid, they do it because they must. I can understand that. I’ve had to work hard, too, in my life. But that Jacky-Jenny woman, with the mouthful of horses’ teeth, I can’t make her out. I wonder if she knows how yellow her teeth are? And she never puts her hand in front of her mouth when she yawns or coughs. Just shows me her big, stained teeth and her bloated, white tongue, inches from my face. Badly brought up, that’s what she is, despite her lah-di-dah accent and her pearls. They’ve put my chair in a draught again, but at least I can’t see the television. I loathe daytime programmes; the Richard and Judy rubbish and that slimy Kilroy-Silk, so I’m not forced into joining in with their inanities. But from this place by the door, I can’t even see the garden, except for the dead clematis hanging from the brick wall in the far corner. The back of Dorothy Styles’ armchair is blocking out most of my view through the window. I don’t think it’s raining, but I’m not sure. The sun’s not shining. That’s all I can tell. Dorothy’s got her knitting out again. She’s not done much this morning. It’s painful to watch her. Her knuckles are so swollen, what she’s done so far is full of holes. But it doesn’t matter. I doubt her nephew would wear a sweater in those colours anyway. His name may be Joseph, but purple, pink and green? I don’t think so. But what can you do when you rely on other people’s relatives to give you their leftover wool? She says she’s got to keep knitting to stop her fingers from seizing up. The woman’s a fool if she thinks she can keep arthritis at bay at her age. It’s pathetic she should keep trying. I’ve been watching. She’s taken five minutes over one ‘knit-one, purl-one.’ Sometimes I wish my eyesight had failed along with the rest of me. I can see what’s happening around me in the lounge and most of it is disgusting. One of the helpers, the small girl with blond streaks in her hair… Susan I think her name is, yes, Susan….. she’s just brought Bob back from the toilet. He’s stopped in the doorway and messed himself. I can see it, plain as anything. He’s got no socks on and brown sludge is running down his legs and into his slippers. And I don’t think they’re his slippers either. I’m sure they’re the ones Fred Loomes had for Christmas. God, but Bob smells. Susan wants to clock him one. I can see it in her face. Her lips have gone all thin and colourless. She’s turning him round. Back to the loo, Sue! She’s paid minimum wage to clean up old men and women. I think it's terrible. Especially as the owner of the Home swans around in a big, expensive car. And now the scent of diarrhoea has joined forces with the Brussels. That’s a double dose wafting into the lounge. And to think I pay good money for this. Elsie Carlisle’s wetting herself. They always sit her on a plastic cushion, which’ll wash afterwards, but this gusher’s a good one. There’s a little waterfall spilling over the seat edges. The carpet under her chair has gone yellow since she was moved into the Home six months’ ago. Elsie’s crying. So you should, you dirty, old woman. Why they don’t put her into thicker pads, I don’t know. She stinks. Just like Fred. He always walks round in a cloud of piss-smell, too. I can hear the tea trolley coming down the corridor. I hope the wheels miss the brown blodges Bob left behind or it’ll track all through the lounge. Ah, good. The cleaner’s got there first. She’s a foreign girl. Bosnian or something. I can’t understand a word she says. Someone told me she was from Newcastle, but that can’t be right. I’d understand her if she was English. She’s a big-boned girl. Looks like she’d be more at home mucking out stables rather than an old folks’ home. Dorothy’s put her knitting down. She’ll drop off to sleep in seconds. She usually does just before elevenses. Sometimes the staff wake her. Sometimes they don’t. Depends who is on. Most of them don’t care. We’re just useless meat. And Dorothy has that old-woman sour smell. It’s very off-putting. I was right. Her eyes are closed and she’s snoring. I wouldn’t bother waking her up just for a cup of tea if I was the help. There, that’s right. Give her a wide berth. Do I want some tea? Of course I do, silly cow, even though it will taste disgusting through a straw. Watch what you’re doing woman! Concentrate on me, not on the Tele. She nearly stuck the straw up my nose, but she doesn’t care. Just giggles. I only ever get half a cup before the help gets bored and goes on to the next person. "Got to get on," they say. "Got lots to do." What they mean is they couldn’t care less about a disabled old woman who can’t help herself. It doesn’t taste like tea used to anyhow, so it’s no great loss. I’m glad, in a way, I can’t speak properly after my stroke. Saves me having to say, "Thank you," for such poor service. The words would stick in my throat. ’Phoebe Da-Dah’ they call me. Now that is really original, isn’t it? There’s a tear on Dorothy’s cheek. I wonder if she has a faulty tear-duct like me, or if she’s dreaming? Wonder if she’s dreaming about that time when we were eighteen and I married Thomas? I know she fancied him and she cried when I showed her the ring he’d given me. Lucky Dottie. She ended up with nothing but a nephew to knit for. I got the white wedding, and the lying, thieving bastard that went with it. I was the one with the black eyes and the split lips. I didn’t even throw my bouquet in her direction when I left to go on honeymoon. We were never friends after that; never spoke again for over half a century. I remember when we were growing up together in next-door houses. We were like sisters. She was always the quiet one. I was rough and climbed trees to scrump apples, while she played in the shade with her dolls. Yet we were friends. I’d forgotten, but we used to share all our secrets, until Thomas Fairfax came on the scene that is. Dottie’s smiling now. She has such a lovely smile. Despite the wrinkles, her smile has not changed. I’d forgotten too, just how gentle a person she is. She was my very best friend and she put up with all my impatient and ill-tempered ways. There, look. Her knitting has slipped from her hands and the ball of purple wool has fallen onto the floor near her feet. You can smell Fred coming before you can see him. He was a horrid little boy and now he’s a repulsive, musty old man. It’s disgusting. They should put old men in a different Home to women. At least today he’s not exposing himself. One of the staff must have buttoned him up. He’d never have remembered himself. Fred’s never still. Walks round and round all day, clumping along with his zimmer frame like a leech on a tripod. And when he has one of his shouting and swearing fits, it’s quite frightening. He reminds me of my dead husband. Fred’s cussing now. The ball of wool seems to have upset him. That’s right, Susan. Take him away. Lock him up for all I care and give the rest of us a bit of peace. Something’s wrong. Dottie’s still asleep. All that noise and commotion haven’t woken her. No. No. I don’t think she’s sleeping. I think she’s stopped breathing. I’m sure she’s slipped away. Otherwise, she’d wake and pick that wool up. She’s not moving. Her eyes are closed. Her head is drooping. Her lips are beginning to go blue. I can’t call for help, but I don’t think I would, even if I was able to. It would be cruel to put her through the trauma of attempted resuscitation like they did with Florrie last month. What they put that poor woman’s body through was unforgivable. Thumping and banging her chest and screaming at her to wake up. And I heard Dottie say to Elsie only yesterday that she’d had enough, that it was time to go. So I’ll just sit here quietly and keep her company. It’s little enough repayment for all my harshness towards her. I’m glad Dottie had her hair done yesterday. She wouldn’t have liked to leave here looking a mess, even in a coffin. She was always the neat and tidy one. Dear Dottie. I’m so sorry for all the wasted years when we could have been friends. It was my fault, my bad humour that kept us apart. You tried many times to reach out and I shunned you, but at least you’re not alone at the end. I can’t hold your hand but your soul touched mine and my heart goes with you. No Brussels for you today, old friend. God bless. Wait for me, won’t you dear? I shan’t be far behind. |
| Phoebe Saw The End by Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com (Entry #18) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| A sharp wind was whipping the sail
smartly against my face as I hung on to the spar for dear life, and life and
death it was. I was shaking with fear, wondering what I, Thomas Anderson, was
doing 60 feet above the deck of the Phoebe and not clerking in a staid London
bank, but more importantly, I was wondering how I was going to get down from
there. The captain, a brute of a man named Amos Dynever, had forbidden any of the crew to climb up and help me, so all the men could do was watch and see if a green 17 year old boy would make it down on his own or plunge to a certain death. I had been sent up to reef a topsail that had come loose and the captain had it that I would do my job or else. Half an hour I hung up there, too scared to move until my arms grew numb. I knew I had to make a try now or never. I took a tentativive step toward the mast but Captain Amos yelled out for me to do my duty first. Having little choice, I inched back out and managed to secure the sail to the cleat with fumbling fingers. The crew made noises of approval and angry now, I began working my way back. Once I slipped and my feet went out from under me but I managed to regain my footing, make it back to the mast, and climb back down the rigging, hands sore and bleeding. That was but one incident among many for the crew of the Phoebe. The capain ruled with an iron fist and more than once I had seen a man smote with that fist to lie unconscious for hours, even when a bucket of seawater was poured over him. I didn't ask to be on this god-forsaken vessel but this is how it came about. I was raised on a farm in Berkshire, the youngest of four brothers. We all worked hard from an early age, tilling the soil and taking care of the various livestock. The rolling hills and verdant pastures of the countryside were always a source of pleasure and discovery for me. I knew I would never inherit the farm but was quite happy growing up there. At age 16, my father decided I should go to London and learn a trade so I was soon apprenticd as a clerk in one of Londons large banking establishments. I found some squalid lodgings and reluctantly applied myself to my new duties, albeit in an airless room in the centre of a teeming city that rather frightened me. About a year later, there was some money missing from one of the accounts and the blame was laid on me, though I was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. I was summarily discharged. My father insisted I stay in London and learn another trade but I was unable to find other employment without any references. That led to the fateful night. I had gone out for a pint or two with a companion. We became seperated and I found myself lost and wandering down by the dockside. Stopping by a pub to ask directions, I was invited to have a drink by a couple of rough looking fellows and couldn't very well refuse. One led to another and soon I was singing sea shanties with them and having the time of my life. That is until the next morning. The dank hold of a seagoing ship is where I awoke feeling sick and groggy. The two men whose company I had been enjoying the previous night had been sent there to shanghai a few crew members, since no decent sailor would sign on with captain Amos Dynever of the Phoebe. I was put to work immediately and if I didn't learn fast enough, the toe of a boot would be used to spur me along. It was miserable work for weeks on end. The hardtack and mouldy biscuits were barely edible and I got very little sleep. The worst was whenever we ran into rough seas as they made me violently ill yet the crew had to keep at their tasks even more asssiduously lest we founder. We were bound for the Americas, I discovered; a place I had only heard about but had rapidly been colonized for the past century. I dreamed of escaping from this hellish vessel but was quite sure I would be closely watched, perhaps even locked up belowdecks, whenever we finally made port. Then one morning, as we were a day or so out from land, the ocean was becalmed and the ship wallowed in the truculent waves with just a bare wisp of wind fluttering the sails. Since there was little to do, I stood at the rail gazing at the halcyon sea as it stretched out to meet the equally blue horizon of a clear sky. Fish could be seen cavorting nearby and the tang of the salty air smelled sweet. I asked the mate how long this would last but he replied sourly that this was only the calm before the storm. A big nor'easter would surely blow in soon and I'd better pray we made safe harbor before it hit. True to his word, that night a steady rain began to fall. Within the hour it was pelting down on us in raging torrents. The gently rolling waves were replaced by towering breakers that slammed into the Phoebe unmercifully. The command had been given to strike the sails and we had done so. Now all that was left was to hang on for dear life while wave after wave washed over the decks as the ship lurched out of control through the raging seas. The captain was forward at the wheel trying to keep the ship abreast of the huge rollers but it was a hard task as one could see only a few feet into the sharp driving rain. All of a sudden there came a mighty crash as if the ship had struck rocks. Many of the crew were flung overboard to surely drown in the tempest. It was only by desperately grabbing onto a hawser that I was able to spare myself a similar fate. It soon became clear that the ship was breaking up, the damage was irreversible. Captain Amos had ordered the longboat lowered and I pulled myself toward it by the railing. When I got there, he snarled that the lifeboat was not for the likes of me, whereupon he picked me up bodily and flung me over the rail into the cold ocean. I knew then that my life was over. Resisting the urge to cry or cry out, I floundered about for several minutes until I brushed up against a piece of planking. Grabbing onto it, I paddled toward what I thought must be the direction of land though my efforts were futile. The waves carried me where they would and it was all I could do to gulp down a deep breath before the next wave drove me underwater. The cold of the ocean was beginning to numb me and I was so tired I almost relinquished my grip on the wooden plank until I felt my feet hit bottom. A few more waves knocked me down as I tried to wade ashore but I kept doggedly going forward. Finally reaching the beach, I staggered a few yards, half-dead, before I collapsed with exhaustion. The next morning, I awoke to the dawn of an soft orange sun creeping over a calm azure sea. I looked out about a quarter of a mile to where the Phoebe had struck land. She had been mostly demolished as only the prow was still sticking out of the fierce rocks. Gazing down the beach, I saw that a few bodies had been washed ashore. Picking my way among them, I saw that they were all dead. The last one was the captain. Apparently the longboat had capsized and all hands had been lost. Looking down somewhat squeamishly at his bloated face, I said softly but with no little emotion, 'Amos Dynever, you'll never brutalize and torture me or anyone else ever again'. I couldn't resist giving his body a sharp kick and I jumped back in pain as my toe hit something hard. I checked all of his pockets and found that the greedy captain had not left the ship empty-handed. Stuffed everywhere were more than a hundred gold coins. Cramming them all into my pockets, I took one last look out to where the Phoebe saw the end. Never again would I have to work on that cursed ship. Turning inland, I figured I had more than enough money to begin a farm of my own in this place called America. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: Tied for first place: #5 and #15 Tied for second place: #12 and #13 Others receiving votes: #4, #6, #7, #10, #11, #16 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Phoebe Saw The End evntplnr@yahoo.com |
#1 of 19 |
| 407 words | |
| Damn, there it is! I saw it. There it was. I have a
knack, a talent, whatever, for seeing endings before even beginnings. That is
the worst. Seeing how something ends before I know anything about the people,
the characters, and the emotions. It all becomes a photograph in my mind; a
snapshot telling the whole story without knowing the story. Knowing only the
end. It’s like hearing the punch line before the joke. Like reading the
last paragraph of the book before the novel. You know it’s the end but
don’t know how you got there. It’s like going to the airport to watch people disembark from their plane. It’s especially gratifying at the international terminal. All those foreign languages thick in the air; words tumbling over each other. Hugging, smiling, crying, confused and lost. Sometimes wandering around. It all seems so interesting at first. And so I saw the end this time, too. It zoomed into my consciousness like a too bright light. Damn, damn, damn. The protocol for this phenomenon has not been established. I don’t think. I was meeting a man for dinner. A blind date. I had arrived early to survey my date immediately upon his entry. I wanted to know if he was polished and, if so, how much? I watched him approach the maitre ‘d and announce his arrival. He nodded his head and immediately turned in my direction. He smiled. A handsome, masculine smile that tripped up my heartbeat. I considered walking over to meet him halfway but thought better of it. I saw a snapshot of that shampoo commercial and knew my hair wouldn’t bounce like that. As he made his way through the room to me, I saw it. The end. I saw a snapshot of the end. Our end. I was fat and looked like my Aunt Theresa. He was paunchy and looked like someone out of Don Rickles’ family album. Mostly, we looked bored. Around us were more images, unclear physically but understood emotionally. It wasn’t a good feeling. He walked up to me with his hand extended. We sat and talked a while over wine. The snapshot of the end framing the scene. I may need medication. Further inspection discovered his hairline had begun its march to the top of his head. I knew I wasn’t wrong. He never laughed. Not one time. The smile at the very beginning was the one and only. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Jenn Malatesta nekrosys@isoc.net |
#2 of 19 |
| 12 words | |
| Our love was epic, An eternal romance but Phoebe saw the end. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Tom Set tom_set@yahoo.com |
#3 of 19 |
| 609 words | |
| They looked like a typical suburban couple, settling
down on their couch for an evening of tv. For the record, she was a trim
thrirty-something with leonine mane of red hair and he looked good also what
with his weekly tennis and a few pickup games of b-ball with the guys. It was
sweeps month, May 6, 2004, and the channel was set to NBC. "I don't know why we have to watch "Friends"," she complained. "Because it's the final episode. You gotta watch the final episode 'cause everyone will be talking about it tomorrow. We gotta keep up with pop culture, babe." "Why do we? You know I hate that show and even you said it wasn't funny. I don't know why you watch it. The guys are pathetic idiots and the girls are airheads." "I know, it sucks swamp water, but it does have six of the best boobs on television." "And what's wrong with these puppies," she said cupping her ample bosom. "Why look at those actresses when you can have the real thing?" "Aw, guys always want what they haven't had yet. Besides, I've already been there, done that." She slapped him playfully and not lightly either. Settling back on the couch with some Wheat Thins, she continued the attack. "So what kind of shocking revelations are you expecting? That it was all a dream, or that they're making a pilot for a reality show, or that the girls are lesbians?" "Don't even go there." "Aha! One of your favorite fantasies, I'll bet." She snuggled up to him and cooed in his ear. "Now tell the truth. Do you fantasize about boinking Rahael or Monica when you're making love to me?" "Uh...no." "Liar! You took too long to answer. Well I fantasize about Jim Belushi and Jack Black and Drew Carey." "You do not. You've never slept with a fat guy in your life. Anyhow Joey and Rachel have to end their infatuation, Chandler and Monica will do something wierd, Ross has the baby to deal with, and Phoebs marries Mike." "Feebs? That's her nickname? If I had that name the girls in high school would have teased me into an eating disorder. Who is Mike?" "Her boyfriend. I've heard rumors on the net and talk shows. She may play the dumbest character on "Friends" but Phoebe saw the end." "She does have a real name you know. It's Linda or something." "Lisa," he said reverently. "Lisa Kudrow. You liked her in Romy and Michelle, Opposite of Sex, Analyze This." "Oh, right. She's good, but the only end you care about seeing of Phoebe's is when she bends over." "Very funny. Well you have to watch the endings of these series. It's like with Seinfeld or M*A*S*H or Cheers." "Oh yeah? Well I don't have to. Tell you what," she said in her husky voice. "Prove that you love me." She took off her shirt and unhooked her bra. "Forget this crappy show and come to bed with me right now." "Don't let those bad boys out," he whined. "That's not playing fair," Getting up and walking out of the room, she stopped at the door, hip-canted, and looked over her shoulder seductively. "See you in the bedroom, Big Daddy." He was sunk and he knew it - she usually got her way. He got up with some resignation and gave one last wistful glance at the tv as the theme song was beginning - "Well no one told me it was going to be this way". Turning off the volume on the remote, he did hit the record button before dutifully following her in. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#4 of 19 |
| 80 words | |
| Pheobe saw the end, In fact she saw it bend, This way and that, Like a quickly falling cat She saw it writhe and turn She even saw it burn, It puckered, it suckered, She even saw it muckered It went left, it went right, Round a corner so tight, It popped up, it popped down, Whizzing round town Phoebe saw the end, She wanted to share and lend, To friends who were dumb, But it went up her bum |
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| Phoebe Saw The End lee10@host365.com |
#5 of 19 Winner |
| 1767 words | |
| It’s Brussel sprouts for lunch again. I can smell
them from here. I can taste their putrid flesh, the stench is so strong, even
this far from the kitchen. If I had the strength at mealtimes, I’d spit
the damned things out at the woman who feeds me. I’d love to see them
spattered across her false smile, but all I can do is drool green slime and she
says, "Come on, Phoebe. You won’t be a big, strong girl if you don’t
eat your greens." Then she scoops it up with the plastic spoon she uses and
shovels it back into my mouth. She must know I hate Brussels. I think she enjoys seeing me suffer. Now, what’s her name? Why can’t I remember the woman’s name? It’s Jacky or Jenny or something like that. She’s such a non-entity; such a bland woman, I can never remember her name. She gets her kicks by doing voluntary work. She has power over us. Is that what she likes? She’s strange. She must enjoy taking Bob Frobisher to the toilet, or why would she do it? At least I can respect the paid help. However badly they’re paid, they do it because they must. I can understand that. I’ve had to work hard, too, in my life. But that Jacky-Jenny woman, with the mouthful of horses’ teeth, I can’t make her out. I wonder if she knows how yellow her teeth are? And she never puts her hand in front of her mouth when she yawns or coughs. Just shows me her big, stained teeth and her bloated, white tongue, inches from my face. Badly brought up, that’s what she is, despite her lah-di-dah accent and her pearls. They’ve put my chair in a draught again, but at least I can’t see the television. I loathe daytime programmes; the Richard and Judy rubbish and that slimy Kilroy-Silk, so I’m not forced into joining in with their inanities. But from this place by the door, I can’t even see the garden, except for the dead clematis hanging from the brick wall in the far corner. The back of Dorothy Styles’ armchair is blocking out most of my view through the window. I don’t think it’s raining, but I’m not sure. The sun’s not shining. That’s all I can tell. Dorothy’s got her knitting out again. She’s not done much this morning. It’s painful to watch her. Her knuckles are so swollen, what she’s done so far is full of holes. But it doesn’t matter. I doubt her nephew would wear a sweater in those colours anyway. His name may be Joseph, but purple, pink and green? I don’t think so. But what can you do when you rely on other people’s relatives to give you their leftover wool? She says she’s got to keep knitting to stop her fingers from seizing up. The woman’s a fool if she thinks she can keep arthritis at bay at her age. It’s pathetic she should keep trying. I’ve been watching. She’s taken five minutes over one ‘knit-one, purl-one.’ Sometimes I wish my eyesight had failed along with the rest of me. I can see what’s happening around me in the lounge and most of it is disgusting. One of the helpers, the small girl with blond streaks in her hair… Susan I think her name is, yes, Susan….. she’s just brought Bob back from the toilet. He’s stopped in the doorway and messed himself. I can see it, plain as anything. He’s got no socks on and brown sludge is running down his legs and into his slippers. And I don’t think they’re his slippers either. I’m sure they’re the ones Fred Loomes had for Christmas. God, but Bob smells. Susan wants to clock him one. I can see it in her face. Her lips have gone all thin and colourless. She’s turning him round. Back to the loo, Sue! She’s paid minimum wage to clean up old men and women. I think it's terrible. Especially as the owner of the Home swans around in a big, expensive car. And now the scent of diarrhoea has joined forces with the Brussels. That’s a double dose wafting into the lounge. And to think I pay good money for this. Elsie Carlisle’s wetting herself. They always sit her on a plastic cushion, which’ll wash afterwards, but this gusher’s a good one. There’s a little waterfall spilling over the seat edges. The carpet under her chair has gone yellow since she was moved into the Home six months’ ago. Elsie’s crying. So you should, you dirty, old woman. Why they don’t put her into thicker pads, I don’t know. She stinks. Just like Fred. He always walks round in a cloud of piss-smell, too. I can hear the tea trolley coming down the corridor. I hope the wheels miss the brown blodges Bob left behind or it’ll track all through the lounge. Ah, good. The cleaner’s got there first. She’s a foreign girl. Bosnian or something. I can’t understand a word she says. Someone told me she was from Newcastle, but that can’t be right. I’d understand her if she was English. She’s a big-boned girl. Looks like she’d be more at home mucking out stables rather than an old folks’ home. Dorothy’s put her knitting down. She’ll drop off to sleep in seconds. She usually does just before elevenses. Sometimes the staff wake her. Sometimes they don’t. Depends who is on. Most of them don’t care. We’re just useless meat. And Dorothy has that old-woman sour smell. It’s very off-putting. I was right. Her eyes are closed and she’s snoring. I wouldn’t bother waking her up just for a cup of tea if I was the help. There, that’s right. Give her a wide berth. Do I want some tea? Of course I do, silly cow, even though it will taste disgusting through a straw. Watch what you’re doing woman! Concentrate on me, not on the Tele. She nearly stuck the straw up my nose, but she doesn’t care. Just giggles. I only ever get half a cup before the help gets bored and goes on to the next person. "Got to get on," they say. "Got lots to do." What they mean is they couldn’t care less about a disabled old woman who can’t help herself. It doesn’t taste like tea used to anyhow, so it’s no great loss. I’m glad, in a way, I can’t speak properly after my stroke. Saves me having to say, "Thank you," for such poor service. The words would stick in my throat. ’Phoebe Da-Dah’ they call me. Now that is really original, isn’t it? There’s a tear on Dorothy’s cheek. I wonder if she has a faulty tear-duct like me, or if she’s dreaming? Wonder if she’s dreaming about that time when we were eighteen and I married Thomas? I know she fancied him and she cried when I showed her the ring he’d given me. Lucky Dottie. She ended up with nothing but a nephew to knit for. I got the white wedding, and the lying, thieving bastard that went with it. I was the one with the black eyes and the split lips. I didn’t even throw my bouquet in her direction when I left to go on honeymoon. We were never friends after that; never spoke again for over half a century. I remember when we were growing up together in next-door houses. We were like sisters. She was always the quiet one. I was rough and climbed trees to scrump apples, while she played in the shade with her dolls. Yet we were friends. I’d forgotten, but we used to share all our secrets, until Thomas Fairfax came on the scene that is. Dottie’s smiling now. She has such a lovely smile. Despite the wrinkles, her smile has not changed. I’d forgotten too, just how gentle a person she is. She was my very best friend and she put up with all my impatient and ill-tempered ways. There, look. Her knitting has slipped from her hands and the ball of purple wool has fallen onto the floor near her feet. You can smell Fred coming before you can see him. He was a horrid little boy and now he’s a repulsive, musty old man. It’s disgusting. They should put old men in a different Home to women. At least today he’s not exposing himself. One of the staff must have buttoned him up. He’d never have remembered himself. Fred’s never still. Walks round and round all day, clumping along with his zimmer frame like a leech on a tripod. And when he has one of his shouting and swearing fits, it’s quite frightening. He reminds me of my dead husband. Fred’s cussing now. The ball of wool seems to have upset him. That’s right, Susan. Take him away. Lock him up for all I care and give the rest of us a bit of peace. Something’s wrong. Dottie’s still asleep. All that noise and commotion haven’t woken her. No. No. I don’t think she’s sleeping. I think she’s stopped breathing. I’m sure she’s slipped away. Otherwise, she’d wake and pick that wool up. She’s not moving. Her eyes are closed. Her head is drooping. Her lips are beginning to go blue. I can’t call for help, but I don’t think I would, even if I was able to. It would be cruel to put her through the trauma of attempted resuscitation like they did with Florrie last month. What they put that poor woman’s body through was unforgivable. Thumping and banging her chest and screaming at her to wake up. And I heard Dottie say to Elsie only yesterday that she’d had enough, that it was time to go. So I’ll just sit here quietly and keep her company. It’s little enough repayment for all my harshness towards her. I’m glad Dottie had her hair done yesterday. She wouldn’t have liked to leave here looking a mess, even in a coffin. She was always the neat and tidy one. Dear Dottie. I’m so sorry for all the wasted years when we could have been friends. It was my fault, my bad humour that kept us apart. You tried many times to reach out and I shunned you, but at least you’re not alone at the end. I can’t hold your hand but your soul touched mine and my heart goes with you. No Brussels for you today, old friend. God bless. Wait for me, won’t you dear? I shan’t be far behind. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Ulrike Kranz-Sedlock ulli.sedlock@ppmcarolina.com |
#6 of 19 |
| 370 words | |
| Phoebe saw the end, Phoebe could hear her heart pumping in her ears. She looked down to the ground that could hold her future. Sending prayers up to the greater being that she knew exists. Slowly she lifted her head to look ahead, taking in the distance she had to bring behind her, to be safe again, bask herself in the glory of survival and superiority. She heard a shot in the distance. Her muscles contracted, she pounced forward like a tiger that was crouching behind a bush, waiting for his prey to let its guard down. She started sucking in the cool crisp air. While she was running for her life she started thinking about her family. How much they needed her. The strength they had given her all her life. She had it in her, she was a survivor. So the thought. "Just a little faster, a little further" her thoughts started to tumble together in her mind. "A couple more seconds and I am there", sweat started to run down her face, she didn’t notice it. Only had the goal in mind, survival, in a cruel and punishing environment. Her muscles swelled, as if they wanted to burst through her skin. The shot still echoing in her head. She started to feel an overwhelming fear, turning into panic. The noise around her became mind numbing. She had to drown it out. Had to go forward, no breaking down now. Her future would depend on her pulling through. "Faster, faster. They are not going to get me. Never. " She heard them closing in behind her, their breaths in her neck. Invigorating and pushing her to go the distance. Everything became clear to her now, her whole life started to make sense. The sight cleared as she approached the last turn. She could sense victory. Her head held high she pushed forward. Not giving into her pursuers. There it was, Phoebe saw the end, and a sudden rush of energy propelled her forward and through the finish line as the winner. One hundred meters in eleven seconds. She was the first one on top of the podium. Now she could clearly see the beginning of a new life. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#7 of 19 |
| 2281 words | |
| A slim, brunette sat anxiously on the dirty red vinyl
seat nearest the exit of the subway door, nervously folding a piece of paper
until it could be folded no more. She was on her way home from class late that
night. Phoebe hated her Thursday night philosophy and ethics class which
didn’t finish until after 10 PM. She tried to find any other class she
could take so she wouldn’t have to take the subway at night. The subway or
"T" was filled with some students, but mostly a lot of punks which frightened
her with their boom boxes blaring. They were yelling, swearing and using
seemingly "made on the run" language only they could understand. It made her
extremely uncomfortable as the train jostled, and her body jumped as the doors
flew open at each stop. Folding paper helped her keep from crying and making
eye contact with them which could provoke confrontation. Her body shook each
time one of them just walked past her. Their voices went right through her
making her feel sick. She was sure they were carrying weapons of some kind, and
she said a silent prayer until they passed by. Phoebe prayed a fight
wouldn’t break out as there had many times. Phoebe was a junior now at Northeastern University, but still had not joined a group of any kind due to her incredible shyness. She was comforted whenever she saw other NU students on the "T." She closed her eyes, held her breath, and tried to steady herself until she saw the end of her route coming up. Grabbing the pole near her seat, she would literally jump off as the train stopped and practically run home. Occasionally, she would see Danny, a student in her class, and try to catch up with him to ask if he had time to walk her home. It was an overwhelming relief just to see him, and then when he said yes. Danny was a football player at the University. While some football players can be total jerks, Phoebe thought of Danny from class as huge, thick and gentle. Noone would dare mess with him. She loved his shoulder length, brown hair – most of the football players shaved their heads. She needed a giant right now and always. She could actually breathe when she was walking with him. She felt safe, but today suddenly she said, "Dan could we just stop for a minute here? I need to catch my breath a little. I’m sorry to put you out like this," she blushed and looked away. She felt like she was going to pass out. "Phoebe, are you alright?" he asked trying to look at her face that was still turned away. "Do you need to sit down or something? Did something happen in class? Someone say something or hurt you?" he was truly worried. "Give me your backpack so you can sit down." Phoebe sat down and turned around to look up at him. God he really was huge. She felt like a fool, but then felt an inner curtain had fallen. She felt she could talk to Danny about how terrified she is to take the "T" at night. ‘I’m OK," she said, "I’m, …I’m, it’s just that I am so afraid of those guys on the subway I can’t breathe." And she started to cry. "Hey Phoebe, what’s wrong? You can tell me, I’m in no hurry." They stayed sitting on the curb, and she started telling him about the guys on the "T" with the language and weapons – the whole thing. Danny put his arm around her shoulder, and through more tears she told him how much she hated being so nervous and taking night classes and sometimes it was all too much. Finally, she stopped crying, and then suddenly jumped up and went to grab her things – she felt like a fool. "Hey Phoebe, what’s wrong?" "I’m sorry Danny, I, I shouldn’t have laid all that on you. I feel like a total jerk. You don’t even know me, and here I am crying like a baby about things you could care less about. You must think I’m such a loser. Oh my God, I am a loser. I am so sorry Danny, can you forgive me?" Danny covered her mouth with his hand. "Stop," he said looking deep into her tear swollen eyes. "You are not a loser, you did nothing wrong, you were just scared and needed to talk. I’m glad I was here Pheeb." He dried some of the tears from her face which only made her start crying again. "Come on," he said, "let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving and you’re too damn skinny, girl." At that, the tears slowed and a smile crossed her face. He kept his arm around her as they walked to be sure she wouldn’t run off. After they ate, they walked through the dormitory neighborhoods where battling stereo and home theater systems competed. It was Thursday night so it was relatively quiet since there was no football game on. They reached Phoebe’s dorm. She thanked Danny for walking her home again. "I feel kind of bad asking you to walk me home again tonight." He said "No problem, anytime Phoebe." She almost dropped when Danny asked her warmly "Would you like to go out, and I don’t know, do something this weekend? Unless you already have some plans." Phoebe had all she could to keep her feet from running; but through her stammering words and her hands traveling all over her face, she finally managed to say "Um, sure, I’d like that. Where will we go?" She was nervous because she never expected this, and also about going somewhere where there might be all football players. "I mean, will it be crowded?" Danny responded by moving closer to her, "Phoebe, relax; we can go wherever you want to go. Or we can just stay home and watch a movie. But I have to warn you about something." Phoebe’s shoulders and heart fell. He wasn’t what she thought after all. He was a monster. What could he possibly have to "warn" her about? She let her guard down; she should have known better. Her voice trembled as her flight reflex kicked in even as she tried to sound calm, "Um, what’s that Danny?" She closed her eyes waiting for his answer. "Phoebe….I am a cold blooded popcorn bowl hog. So if we watch a movie; be prepared. And I need a huge popcorn bowl- tons of butter – no shares." He cracked up laughing as he saw her face drop in relief as she looked at him. "I’m sorry", he said, "I couldn’t resist. You are just always so nervous; I was just trying to get you to laugh. Did I scare you?" Phoebe looked at his eyes which were beautifully widened with laughter. She couldn’t tell what color they were in the dark but she guessed hazel. "No, I mean yes, of course you did. Look at you, you would scare anyone! A popcorn bowl hog! You jerk! You scared me to death. I’ll get you for that one." She laughed until she cried. She couldn’t believe she actually dared to say that. Her tears were both from laughter and relief. "OK then, I’ll call you. Write your number on my notebook. We’ll decide what you want to do when we talk again, ok? I promise I’ll call," he yelled as he ran across the tracks toward his dorm. "Bye Phoebe!" God where did he come from she thought. Her shyness never even allowed her to look around her classes to see who else was in them. She only knew him from hearing him answer questions in class. Her fear never allowed her the option of even letting anyone get close to her. Now she was giving this giant of a man her phone number? Phoebe couldn’t believe this was happening. That she had actually talked to someone, an actual person. She felt so different; she just sort of walked around her dorm apartment in a daze, pacing back and forth going through her evening routine with a smile on her face. Checking her email, waiting for something in the microwave, when suddenly her cell phone rang. She jumped out of her skin, and didn’t know whether to answer it or not because it said "restricted" on the little screen. Noone ever called her. Maybe she should call the police. Finally, she hit the little green button anyway and cautiously said "Hello." It was Danny; making sure she was ok. Her heart leapt as she fell into a chair and laughed with relief. "Yes, I’m fine, how sweet for you to call and check on me, noone has ever done that." Danny continued "You were just such a wreck; I was really worried. I never met anyone so nervous about taking the subway. But you won’t have to anymore. I’m glad you said something. OK, well I have a load of homework. So I’ll see you this weekend Phoebe." as he waited for her to reply. Huge, gentle and thick she remembered. "Oh, yes, Danny. I’m sorry, Ok" she said finally after forgetting he was on the phone waiting while she was daydreaming, "I’ll..um.. talk, oh my God, see you this weekend." She remembered when they were getting something to eat, he said he was a sophomore on football scholarship. A criminal justice major. He was extremely confident and outgoing. Totally opposite of her. She wished some of that confidence would rub off onto her as she smiled to herself. The beep went off from her microwave, and she ran to grab the Orville which she had overcooked as usual. She wasn’t very hungry anyway. She was too shy to eat in front of Danny; but she did eat an appetizer and have a drink. Phoebe didn’t have a class on Friday which was great because she could go out, and get a new outfit for her popcorn date. She prayed Danny didn’t blow her off and end up being a jock jerk and not call. She would be not only heartbroken, but feel like such an idiot. She went to the mall and had a manicure. After hitting a few stores, she found a nice outfit that would work if they stayed home or went out. At least she thought it would. Here came those nerves. The closer to afternoon, the worse they would get. The dorm spelled of antiseptic cleaner as Phoebe scrubbed the bathroom spotless. She had already cleaned the small television area including polishing all the woodwork that had been there for ages and never been polished for just as long. No call yet and it was two o’clock now. Her hopes were fading. She was starting to get depressed. She headed for the kitchen to empty the barrels. The chute for trash was just around the corner so she shimmied the door with her laundry hamper. Her "across the hall neighbor" was leaving for the weekend so they said "Have a nice weekend," to each other. That was the extent of their relationship. They walked in stride as far as the trash chute, when Phoebe thought she heard a phone ring. She broke into a wild dash almost hitting her head into the wall as she lost her balance. Just before the fifth ring, she hit the little green phone symbol "Hello" she said panting, trying to catch her breath." "Is this Phoebe McKinnon?" said the male voice on the other end. "Yes, Danny, it’s me Phoebe. I was just down the hall emptying the trash and didn’t want the phone answer machine to pick up. How are you?" (Please don’t cancel, please don’t cancel) "I’m fine," he started laughing. "I just got out of practice. Sounds like I’ll have to bring you to our workouts to get you into running form." Phoebe let her breath out. "So are we still on for tonight?" Danny asked. "Don’t bail on me now with some lame excuse." Never in a million years she thought. "Yes, we’re still on. What are we going to do? I went to Crate and Barrel and got a huge barrel for popcorn so we’re all set." She waited for his response. "You did not!" He laughed. "You’re teasing me – hey do you want to go out for a movie or dinner or what – I’m up for anything you want." Phoebe tested him "I want to go to the scariest movie that’s playing." "What? No way. Are you sure? We can do that Phoebe if you want, but are you sure?" he was shocked. "Yup," she said. "That’s what I want. With a large popcorn of my own." Danny cracked up laughing. "OK", he said. "I’ll be by around five to pick you up – are you sure about this Phoebe, last chance?" "Never been surer of anything in my life." Phoebe hung up the phone and thought she had died and gone to heaven. She never thought she would feel this way. Never thought she would be going out on a date with a guy like Danny who she could feel so comfortable with, who made her feel so safe. Her instincts told her he was special and a keeper even though they had only spent a short time together. Phoebe finally saw the end to her self imposed prison, and was excited at the prospect of enjoying life for the first time. Someone had sent Danny to her, and she was not letting him go. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#8 of 19 |
| 560 words | |
| My studious reading of the document was interrupted by
the office door being flung open, as Michael rushed in. "It’s been stolen!" he said. By the beads of sweat on his forehead and the dark patches under his armpits, I could tell that he was serious. I had a question though. "So what am I reading?" "Tony, you’re reading a copy," he said, approaching my desk. "I’m sorry, but the original was far too important to hand out to all the necessary people." I fixed him with a stare, but kept my voice calm. "What’s the difference?" "Well," he said, brushing the sweat from his eyebrows, "the original had a little more." I wrestled with the immediate feeling of firing him on the spot, or strangling him. I did neither. My cool was paramount and well-known and I didn’t want to lose it. However, my wrath was also known. Michael was about to experience one or the other. "You give me a copy, and there are things missing from it?" He looked at the carpet. My voice rose ever so slightly. "What exactly is missing that I should have read in the first place!" Michael fiddled with his tie, scrunching it up, while his eyes darted from the floor to the ceiling. I enjoyed his dilemma, even though I knew something was badly wrong. "What’s missing Tony, is the part about his regeneration." I stood from my chair, walked around the desk and approached Michael to stand only a foot away from him. I could smell his fear as well as his breath. A double whisky for courage before he came in to see me, no doubt. "His regeneration? What was that doing in the document in the first place!" "I know, I know," he said, "that’s why we kept it out of the copies. We were thinking about it. I...I should have passed it by you, I know." I turned away from Michael. There was no point torturing him any further, but I’m sure he knew that he would have to find another source of income for his wife and four kids pretty soon. I tried to gather my thoughts. The view from our fortieth floor office to the bustling city below was comforting to me. "So," I said. "Whoever has the original document will know that the President is really a dead alien from the planet Ploog and needs plugging-in to the national grid every now and then. Great!" Michael scrunched his tie even more. "They might not have read it yet. We only noticed it missing thirty minutes ago and the information about the regeneration is in the last segment." "You are clutching at straws Michael. That document could have been missing for some time. Whoever has it will be aware very quickly of all that is in it." I paced the room in thought, while Michael stood shaking; a bucket of sweat now. The person, or group that has the document could bring the government down, or use blackmail, or destroy America, or even worse... The beep of the desk phone interrupted the silence. I snatched it. "Yes?" "Call from Pheobe Sir." Pheobe left three days ago, I thought. Off to travel the world. Why’s she phoning? I missed her; the best secretary I’d ever had. "Put her through." "Hello Tony." "Hello Pheobe." "Interesting last segment." |
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| Phoebe Saw The End beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#9 of 19 |
| 766 words | |
| Phoebe saw the end of the scotch tape when she wrapped
the last present but now it had disappeared and the children would be down in
minutes. There was only one more present to wrap but she had left it too late.
This was the last thing she had on her mind when she left work. All she had
wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep forever. Of course, true to fashion, Roger was still curled up in bed, enjoying the last few minutes of sleep. It wasn’t his fault that they couldn’t get the presents they chose from the store earlier, but it sure would have helped if he had stayed up a little longer to help with the wrapping. She had come home from her night shift only to find the presents still in their boxes. He hadn’t even tried to wrap them. Ever since he had given up his job to look after the children he had excuses for everything. The presents had been in the closet for well over two days. Surely he had some time to do them, but no, there they were when she walked into the closest to change. The thoughts of grabbing an hour of sleep went out of the window. Hearing some faint stirrings from upstairs, she frantically clawed at the tape, finally finding its end and secured it to the final piece of wrapping paper. It looked totally out of shape but considering it was only a stuffed animal she doubted very much that it would matter. Taking a swig the coffee she had made an hour earlier, Phoebe grimaced at the bitter taste. She had gone along with Roger’s insistence of cutting out the sugar but she realised that there was a reason she sugared her coffee. Black coffee needed sugar. It tasted putrid without it. She eyed the candy they had hung on the tree for the children. It was the only time they were allowed sweet treats. Roger had made sure of that. Candy was a no-no. How much more would she endure at the hands of other people? Years ago it had been her first grade teacher telling her she had to drink the school milk and when she tried to protest, she was sat down and the carton almost poured down her throat. Two hours later, with the allergic reaction that came with it, the teacher asked her why she hadn’t spoken up before. She had tried but it was as if she was invisible, and that was how it was with Roger. She was so tired she couldn’t be bothered making herself another coffee. It had been a hectic night, with three more patients admitted to the ward. It seemed as if she had been on her feet the whole night. It had been made even worse with the ultimatum she had handed her boss. "So, you managed to get them all done. Sorry about that. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. You know drinking too much coffee will only keep you awake Phoebes," she heard Roger’s voice from the landing. No good morning darling, how was your day. Just another lecture "And it’s not good for you right?" she answered him quickly. "Well, you’re the doctor, not me." He put his hands up in surrender the way he normally did when trying to make a point only this time she just wasn’t going to buy into it. "Yes I am and right now I am a very tired one. So can you please make sure yourself useful and make me another." "Why don’t I make you a nice herbal tea instead? It will help you to help you relax. You know we’ve got Christmas dinner to cook yet." "Wrong. You’ve got dinner to cook. After the children open their presents, I’m going to bed. You invited your family. You can entertain them." By this time the children had all woken up and scuttled down the stairs, eager to see their mother and open the presents. She gave each one of them a hug and a kiss and looked at Roger, whose mouth was still open. In a deliberate motion Phoebe plucked a candy from the tree and popped it into her mouth. "And by the way," she spoke slowly, taking another candy. "I quit tonight. It’s your turn now babe. Nightie night everyone." With that she gathered her children in a group hug and then trudged wearily up the stairs, turning once to see the bewildered look on her husband's face. It was a beginning at least. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#10 of 19 |
| 2106 words | |
| "I'll tell you what you should do - cut his balls off!"
Gaea searched the eyes of her sons for the spark of conspiratorial understanding. They sat in the cave formed under the cliffs of Pindus Mountains in Epirus, Greece, hidden from the eye of omnipotent Uranus. All six: Oceanus, Coeus, Hiperion, Crious, Iaphetus and Cronus were huge, bulky and burly fellows and all but Coeus, were dirty and disheveled. The fire inside the cave licked the carcass of buffalo that Hiperion had stripped previously of its hide and now rotated on a primitive grill. Every now and then, one of the brothers got up, cut a huge slice of meat and sat back down enjoying the meal. "Mother," Oceanus stroked his always-wet beard, "like everybody I hate what father did to us, but what you've suggested is impossible. It interferes with the natural order of things." Two of his younger brothers: Hiperion and Crius, nodded their agreement with him as well. "Natural order of things." She mocked Oceanus’ intonation. "You are Gods. You should define the natural order of things." "Mother, dearest," mischief wrinkled Coeus’ face. "I’d say that the idea itself is quite fertile in a metaphysical sense of the word." He looked at his brothers expecting at least some appreciation for his remark. Not receiving it he sighed and continued, in a more serious tone. "Mother, it’s not that the idea is barbaric, which it is. It’s that it makes absolutely no sense. Yes, Uranus did throw us here in the worst pit of the Universe, yes, it is offensive, and yes, we have been force-fed this," he fastidiously pointed to the buffalo carcass, "meat of the wild animals instead of ambrosia, as Gods ought to be feed and yes it’s most disconcerting. But what does it have to do with castrating? Do you mean to imply, that if Uranus can’t appreciate his children, then we should forcefully revoke his right of having more?" "Ouch," usually slow reacting Iaphetus placed his hand underneath his garment and touched his own testicles, as if it was his own that was in danger of being removed. Gaea circled her sons with the look of freshly squeezed venom. "Is there at least one MAN among you, or did I invited only daughters to this meeting?" Gaea was short and fat, and among the humongous shadows, that her sons cast on the walls of the cave, her mothership, of these giants seemed unnatural. "You all are looking at this the wrong way," up until now silent, Cronus, Gaea’s youngest son, spoke up, putting down the buffalo’s leg, he’d been chewing on. "The question is not whether we should or should not do this, but whether we can do it at all. Uranus is immortal. There is no weapon that can hurt him." "This one can," Gaea pulled a shiny rounded metal object from the folds of her garment. "What is it?" everyone interested. "It’s a sickle." "Let me see it!" Cronus jumped up ahead of everybody and took a hold of the agricultural tool. "Is it sharp? It doesn’t look like anything. Mmmm… Sharp." He pulled his finger away, sucking on the cut he had obtained on his finger and allowing the sickle to be passed around the circle. "You don’t know what you’re doing, boy!" Oceanus’ eyebrows moved closer together in a prefabricated condemnation. "The consequences of your crotchety behavior might have devastative effects on all of us." "Oh yeah? I’ve heard enough of your old fart rants. You’re just scared of him that’s all. Well, he might be able to have his way with you all, but I am not gonna let him to push me around!" "Right son, right! Now I hear the words of a man." The fire in her eyes tapped the wicked dance of revenge. Oceanus got up with the craving to kick Cronus’ butt. Cronus in turn also jumped up and assumed a fighting position. "Hey, both of you, sit down!" Gaea screamed with such force that the echo reverberated long after the last sound escaped her mouth. Coeus also got up, came between his brothers and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. Oceanus reluctantly came back to his sit mumbling something about disrespect. "I see what you’re thinking, brother," he addressed Cronus. "You want to be the one to run the Universe, to propagate you self to glory and let your seeds dominate new life. But think about it, what can you offer to the Universe as a ruler? You don’t have a program or plan or actually any idea of what you are going to do once you seize the power. And so, skipping the excessive expounding, if by now, with all the mighty powers you’ve been granted as God, you don’t have even that much, what could be expected of you in the future?" Cronus listened and bit his nails, looking at his feet. Stubborn bullish expression freeze-dried on his face. Not waiting until Coeus would finish he screamed: "I don’t know! I don’t know and maybe I shouldn’t. Who cares what I would do once I’m there? What does it matter? And you… How is it despite all your fancy talk, you are still here? Well, I am not a talker, I am a doer!" "Iaphetus! Where’s Iaphetus?" Gaea affectedly exclaimed trying to relieve the situation. "Crious, didn’t he sat right next to you?" "He stepped outside on a real need, you know." Crious tightened himself until his face became red illustrating the nature of Iaphetus’ need. "Oh, poor boy, he always had weak sphincters," Coeus commented. "Huh?" One could physically sense the efforts, with which Hiperion searched his memory for the meaning of this word. "He always needs to take a crap when he’s nervous." Crious clarified and Hiperion started laughing loudly. "Hey you two, stop that," Gaea yelled at them. "If you’re to stupid to contribute to the conversation, than at least shut up!" And their laughs quieted down to a chuckle. "That’s my boy!" Gaea approached and attempted to kiss Cronus on the cheek, but despite him sitting down, she could reach only to his shoulder. "Oh, stop it, mother," irritation made an unexpected, high pitch tone in Cronus’ usually low voice and a sour grimace twitched across his face momentarily. Tearing the sickle from the hands of Hiperion "Give me that!" he exited the cave. "Did you try to talk him out of it?" Phoebe asked, as she chopped the meat on the wooden block, preparing the evening meal. "Of course, but you know your brother, Cronus. He is as stubborn as a donkey." "It’s not that I mind talking to him… It’s just… I am sure, Coeus has pointed out all the reasons Cronus shouldn’t go through with this. If he couldn’t convince him, then I am sure…" Phoebe pondered, as she finished cutting the roots, threw them in the kettle and blew the hair off her forehead, "he is not going to listen to me." "Phoebe," Rhea leaned in close to her, took Phoebe’s head in her hands and looked straight into her eyes. "Please. I don’t want you to talk to him. I want… I want to know what will happen. …To Cronus, to Uranus, to all of us, if he goes through with this. You’re the only one, who can interpret the signs." Phoebe whipped her hands of her apron, sat down on the rock and for several moments kept silence. She didn’t like doing it, because usually it made her sick. "I am afraid." She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "What if my foreseeing the future, would change the reality right now and in some strange, unpredictable way, would affect the future in a bad way." "Normally I’d be afraid too," Rhea pressed her hands close to her chest. "But how do your know that your foretelling of the future hasn’t been a planned part of this reality? More importantly, right now I am more scared not knowing the future, than to know it, however terrible it might be. Maybe, just maybe, then I would be able to stop him." "Ok... I’ll do it." "Oh Holy Spirit, come. Allow me to collect Grasses of health, Flowers of love, Roots of knowledge. Sky is my father. Earth in my mother. Moon is my destiny." As she finished, she threw the contents of the plate in the pool. The liquid began to seethe. "The matters of the past, Dissolve. The matters of the present, Calm down. The matters of the future, Open up." As Phoebe spoke, the liquid stopped seething and start turning counterclockwise, faster and faster, until its particles separated into dark green that attached to the walls of the pool and light and clear forming its center. In the middle of the clearing, Phoebe started seeing visions. With great difficulty, she was able to distinguish individual events. They flickered together, interfering and blocking each other like individual fish interposing in a school. Phoebe felt nauseated and had to collect all her will to achieve a trance like concentration, allowing her to make some sense of this crazy kaleidoscope. The vision cleared and Phoebe watched as images flashed before her eyes: Cronus approaching their father, while he lay sleeping, a stream of blood, pouring from a wound in Uranus’ pelvis. As she watched, drops of the blood fell to the Earth and huge monsters then emerged from it. Phoebe felt hot. The sticky sweat oozed through her pores, but she kept on, pushing herself harder and harder. The images continued: Cronus ceasing the heavenly throne, then his gloomy, nervous reign, visions of him, swallowing his newborn babies, her poor sister, Rhea, desperately pleading and weeping... Then she saw a new, young and powerful God, escaping the destiny of the others. Shrewdly, he extracted his siblings from Cronus’ belly and with their help, dethroned his torturous father. A horrible war broke out, between this new heavenly ruler and her own siblings, the Titans, Images of bright flashes of lightning and the Earth shaking under the feet of the Titans. Phoebe felt herself losing consciousness. This was as far as she could see. Collecting all her remaining strength, she made herself fall backwards. The water stopped turning. The liquid took on its usual turbid, oily appearance. When she opened her eyes, she was met with Rhea’s impatient, worried gaze. "It’s bad sister." Her blue lips made a striking contrast with her skin now pale with the tint of yellow. "If he goes through with this, his end will be horrible, just like Uranus’." "Why, Phoebe, what would happen?" "He would be dethroned?" "By whom?" "By his own child… Hurry… Stop him!" Having said that, Phoebe fell unconscious again. Rhea ran to her own cave as fast as she could. She entered the cave breathing heavy and sweating. Her wide hips so useful for childbearing, weren’t much help in running. "Cronus, Cronus, my love." "What is it, woman?" Cronus responded. His face was a mask of gloomy decisiveness. "Cronus, darling. Please, please, don’t do it, I beg you. Phoebe saw the end. It’s not good." "What!" Cronus yelped. "What do you know woman? Phoebe is a gossiper. Not her witchcraft and not anything anyone says or does, is going to stop me now. Each of you wished, but none’s got the guts do what I am about do." The last phrase Cronus almost hissed. "Please, my love, don’t do it!" Rhea screamed and fell to Cronus’ feet and encircled them, bemoaning. With one powerful movement, Cronus shook her off. "Let me go, you stupid cow." He stepped out of the cave and into the night. The metal object shone in his hand, reflecting the silver light of the moon. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Liandra McNeely Lian21Tx@yahoo.com |
#11 of 19 |
| 1050 words | |
| The dream came again, it was now the third time this
week. It was almost always the same, but lately it was longer, scarier. I was
staring at the picture by the side of my bed, my father in happier days before
the cancer got to him. I missed him like always, he would of been so proud of
me, published two books, have a wonderful family and a part time owner in the
family business. But the dreams kept invading my nights, it got to be so bad
that I stayed up for three days withought any sleep not wanting the dreams to
repeat. Fearing for my sanity a good friend of mine set me up an appointment
with Dr. Jankowski, today was to be our second session. "Good morning Phoebe. How are you feeling today?" I tried to stiffle a yawn as I sat down in the overstuffed wingchair. "I apologize Doctor, I didn't sleep well again." She scratched a few words onto her yellow legal pad, without looking up she asked me to continue. "Well these dreams, if you can call them that. Half the time they are nothing more than nightmares, where I either wake up shaking or sweating profusely." More scratching of her pen across the yellow pad. "And how long have you had these dreams now?" "About two and a half years now. Since my father died." Dr. Jankowski looked up from her pad and pushed her glasses back up her nose thinking this was just another repressed emotions case, maybe after a couple sessions and some hypnosis I can be free of her. "Do you believe that your father's death might have some signifigance apon these repetative dreams your having?" "At first I thought that was why, but I can't say that anymore." I could feel her prying eyes stare at me as I glanced out the window. "And why is that Phoebe?" I continued to look out the window, watching the white fluffy clouds sail on by, I could tell she was in a hurry, wanting to be free from me. "When the dreams started, I just took it as coincidence. I thought maybe my mind was being overactive and producing these nightmares but then things started to happen that seemed to make them a little more real, and that's what has been scaring me lately." "Go on." Her pen was rapidly scratching the surface in bold strokes, eager to capture as much information as possible. "The first dream I had I was in a movie theater, by myself. The movie was just getting ready to start and I was eating some popcorn, you would think harmless. Well I had just stuffed a small handful into my mouth when all of a sudden I couldn't breath and I started choking! I was afraid all of a sudden because there was no one around to get help. I then woke up from the dream as my dreamself had just passed out from pretty much asphixiation. I thought maybe it was just a nightmare so I put it out of my mind until about two weeks later. My husband brought home a movie for us to watch, so of course I popped us some popcorn to munch on. After we had sat down on the couch, I took a handful from the bowl and began to eat it when somehow a large kernal got stuck in my throat and I started to choke. I could feel my throat tightening, trying to completely close as this kernal seemed to wedge itself in more. Thankfully enough my husband was there to give me the Heimlich manuever and I was able to dislodge it. That then brought back memories of that horrid dream. Without saying a word I got up grabbed the bowl, dropping popcorn here and there and tossed the popcorn into the trash. This may sound like a coincindence to you, but weeks later I had another dream and another and another and is some small way they started to come true little by little. It got to be where I didn't want to do anything anymore. But this last one was a real doozie, and its got me scared the most. Im at the bank making a deposit when in comes these men wearing black coats and ski masks, they're here to rob the bank. They shoot up at the ceiling to get everyone's attention when a stray bullet deflects and strikes me in the chest killing me instantly. And the strange thing is I could swear I know one of the robbers, even though I can't see his face I know him. But to say the least I wont step anywhere near a bank for a while, superstitious or not i'm not chancing it." Dr. Jankowski looks up from her pad full of notes and pushes her glasses up once more. "I want you to do something for me, the next time you have a dream like this I want you to keep a notebook by your bed and as soon as you have these dreams write them down in as much detail as possible and we'll say, meet back here again in two weeks?" Phoebe got up and shook her hand, a little exhausted but feeling slightly relieved. "Thank you for listening Doctor." "Your quite welcome Phoebe, two weeks now." About a week and a half later Melissa, Dr. Jankowski's secretary knocked on her office door. "Yes come in." "Oh I hate to interrupt Dr. Jankowski, but I thought you might want to see this." She handed her a newspaper clipping from yesterday's paper, in bold black print it was labled: "Innocent bystander was shot today as two men were attempting to rob a bank accross the street. It happened at 10:45 as a young woman named Phoebe Custler was walking to work.....". She just let the clipping fall onto her desk, feeling a little shock and disbelief she pulled out her notes from her session with Phoebe and began to reread them. One note struck her, "Has repressed memories from Father's death, has induced dreams relating to death and therefore is applying dreams to real life becomming paranoid and slightly acrophobic." Maybe there was more to these woman's dreams after all. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Michael Memmelaar archangelimagery@hotmail.com |
#12 of 19 |
| 1252 words | |
| Phoebe tripped and landed hard on her knees. The coarse
pavement tore a hole in her new jeans, but she didn’t dare stop to examine
the damage. Her father looked back at her when he felt her stumble, and
glowered down as he nearly held her aloft by her right hand. "Are you trying to slow us down?" he sneered. "You know, if you can’t be at least a little careful when we go out, maybe we should just start staying at home when I’ve got you." Phoebe felt the heat surge into her face, but choked back the welling tears. The pain of her scraped knee coupled her father’s harsh words may have had her weeping once upon a time, but at twelve years old she was finally beginning to develop the callous around her heart she would need later to survive as an adult. No, this time she would not cry. "Sorry," she mumbled quietly, averting her eyes from his. Looking him in the eye during an apology always seemed to make him even more angry, though she couldn’t understand why. Phoebe’s parents divorced when she was six, and her life since then had been split between her parents’ homes, like so many other children that she knew. Every other weekend she was forced to endure her father’s short temper at her visits. She had often asked her mother why she still had to spend time with him-he didn’t seem to want her around. Her mother never answered her, not really, but would just roll her eyes and heave a theatrically deep sigh and told her that her father did love her and did want her and that she should try harder not to make him mad. Phoebe secretly though she just like those weekends to herself. The leaden clouds parted for a moment, letting in a greater hint of sunshine than the day had previously possessed. Phoebe’s father continued to half-lead, half-drag her through the sparse crowds milling in the streets. Pumping her short legs as quickly as she could to keep up, she still couldn’t keep her attention from wandering to the storefronts they passed. She had always loved this section of her father’s hometown. All of the stores looked like something out of one of the old black-and-white shows her mother watched late at night, comedies from a time where people thought the dumbest things were funny and everybody dressed like they had to go to Sunday school every day. They were all wood and big windows, peeling paint and dusty corners that made the whole store feel like a forgotten closet at Grandmother’s house. Still, they had a kind of magnetism that the slick plastic and neon pre-fab convenience stores and fast food joints couldn’t duplicate, a haughty air of faded importance that denied the banal splendor of suburban box-store castles. Storefronts passed them by as her father wove them through the thickening pedestrian traffic, but one in particular reached out and clamped itself on to Phoebe’s attention with a grip she couldn’t ignore. "Greenwich Toys," the establishment shouted at her in big, pale block lettering painted in mockery of a rainbow above the front door. Inside a little girl who looked about her own age was helping an old woman set up the window display. The woman, clad in a threadbare apron that had probably been red before the onslaught of dust and years had rendered it a rosy gray, was carefully assembling mannequins with hands that looked like nothing more than gnarled driftwood. Her little helper (a granddaughter, Phoebe assumed) was the one who was providing all of the agility needed to assemble the dummies. Phoebe tried to surreptitiously slow her fathers progress, literally dragging her heels so that she could watch this little girl, so like herself, really living the day-to-day life of that store. The window display was actually almost finished, and seemed to be a scene in which two happy plastic parents present their equally plastic child with a new bike. As Phoebe passed, she saw the old woman’s mouth tighten in growing disapproval as reviewed the tableau she had just assembled. Shaking her head, she seemed to give the little girl some quick instructions regarding her mannequin counterpart in the window. Nodding, the little girl took the child mannequin, a girl, and replaced it with a one of a small boy instead. The old woman nodded, the turned and disappeared into the gloom of her closet-store’s interior. Phoebe tried to stop, but was rewarded with a tug from her father that sent a brief stab of pain through her shoulder, but she continued to slow their progress to observe the scene before her. As she watched, the other girl again picked up the discarded little girl mannequin. Struggling under it’s unwieldy bulk, she clumsily made her way out of the window. And into the front doorway. Phoebe started as she passed the doorway, suddenly confronted with the reality of the little girl who had seemed so like an actress on a television screen through the window. Now she did manage to stop her father, who turned toward her with the same flat, angry, disgusted look he had inflicted upon her earlier, though this time is went unnoticed. The little girl, emerging on the raised wooden stoop leading up to the storefront, set the mannequin down gently. She took a moment to adjust its facing, and for a moment the emerging sunlight seemed to breathe life into a face of paint and plastic. Then, noticing her suddenly, the little girl spoke to Phoebe as if making as excuse for her actions. "See, she needed to get out and see the sunshine for herself anyway." "Phoebe!" her father snarled, shattering her private exchange with this little girl before her. "You stop screwing around right now, or you can spend the rest of the weekend in your room!" With one last plaintive look at the smiling shop-girl and her newfound synthetic sister, she allowed her father to drag her away without resistance. She watched the pair fade into the distance as she walked. Minutes later found Phoebe and her father rounding the corner onto a much larger avenue, the town’s main street in fact. As her father shouldered her way through the crowd, pulling Phoebe behind him as if she were no more feeling than a mannequin herself, she finally became aware of music fading slowly into the distance. Emerging through the throng to the street curb, she arrived just in time to watch the final float in the parade pass her by. "See," her father spat. "I take all the trouble to bring you down to this damned parade, and you slow us down so much that we missed it." He looked away, his anger becoming a private matter that he no longer wished to share with his disappointing daughter. This time, Phoebe’s eyes stayed dry. As she watched the parade ponderously make its way down the newly sun-touched street, she felt something new awaken inside her. Sure, she was only twelve, but now she, too, could finally see the sunshine for herself. Someday, she could take herself out from claustrophobic window display that was her life and step out onto her own street. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but she knew that she’d get the chance to carry herself to someplace that would let her be happy. And the float at the end of the parade carried Phoebe’s tears away forever. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End annettemiller@sympatico.ca |
#13 of 19 | |||||||
| 2338 words | ||||||||
Historical facts for this
story were researched from Time-Life Books on the Battle of Gettysburg.
My Darling Phoebe, I see no end to this damnable war. Forgive me my darling, talking about the war before I inquire about your health. I hope you are well, and strong. How is Mother? I hope her leg is not troubling her too much. When I last saw her, some three months back, she was please that winter was finally releasing its hold on this land. She will do much better in the warm months. Father, of course never complains, thus I presume he is well. He must be busy now with the farm, attending to the cotton crop, and there are also the young horses to break. Oh I wish I could be there to help him, and of course be with you, my dear Phoebe. I am well, my darling, tired but that seems to be the complaints of all the men. I am thankful too that summer is upon us. It makes the going much easier. We left camp at 7 o’clock this morning and marched slowly and rested frequently. We traveled through some striking country, far different from where we have our farm. One benefit of this war is that I do get to see areas that I would never have traveled before, but I would forego all that if I could stay home with you and help Father with the farm. My ever tolerant stead Wicks, remains well and sound, which is important otherwise I too, would be walking. However, there are always problems getting the horses enough fodder. We must relay on the supply trains reaching us, and they are forever delayed or never arrive. Many of the horses have been found to have saddle sores, and this is always a concern of mine. I try and keep a thick blanket under my saddle to protect Wicks’ withers. He is a good horse and I would hate to see him suffer. We have camped close to a river, I bathed and visited with some friends. I will write more again tomorrow, as now I must prepare enough food for myself for 2 days.
We had a visit today by General Robert E. Lee. What a figure of a man he is. He has an air about him. Lee sits tall and erect on a magnificent grey horse, his hair, hanging to his shoulders, is snowy white much like the horse he rides. He was greeted by our Chief of Cavalry, Major Jeb Stuart. Major Stuart had donned his best attire for the occasion. He had on a brand-new uniform, topped by a long, black ostrich feather fastened to his hat with a large golden clasp. Even his horse had a garland of flowers. I suppose he has cause to be proud as the five brigades under his command had recently proved themselves far superior than the Federal cavalry. We are a month past our victory at Chancellorsville. It was truly magnificent. I hesitate to call any battle magnificent, as all war is dreadful, but I feel it is my duty to protect our way of life. General Lee inspected the troops as we stood in double ranks on a large plain. He inspected the ranks at a brisk trot. He was, however still able to spot the horses that had saddle sores. Some men had carbines that were not well cared for, and Lee made a point of noticing those things and took measures to get them rectified. I found it cynical that Stuart had on a new uniform, when there are many in our ranks that do not have uniforms at all. I have even seen infantry men matching with no shoes. General Lee stood on the top of a small hill and watched as we wheeled into four columns as General Stuart had us parade march past the admiring Lee. There were four bands playing, with many a rippling flag. The horses did not enjoy all the fuss, I think they would have been happier to have that time to graze. There were 22 cavalry regiments in all that paraded past General Lee today, which caused an immense dust cloud, that was generally very unpleasant. However, I feel honored to have seen General Robert E. Lee. Enough about the war, my darling. It is late evening and all is quiet. Wicks has his belly full tonight, as the supply train found us. Tom, the fellow Virginian that I spoke of to you when we were last together, is well and will be leaving in a few days to visit his family and to marry his childhood love, and I wish him all the best. It is with deep regret that I will not be able to stand up with him. His family are also farmers, so conversations with him are easy and always interesting. Hours are spent debating the best farming practices, and our favorite bloodlines in horses. I will give him this letter to deliver to you, as he is passing close by. Hopefully you might have one ready for him to bring back to me. Tom is a good man, and the best friend a person could have. Oh how I long to have some leave again to return home. It seems like a life time has passed since I was back home holding you in my arms. I sorely miss those beautiful evenings spent with you, sitting down by the lake. How peaceful it was watching the ducks going about their business, floating effortlessly on the shadowy water. Their white images mirrored in the calmness of the pond. How we sat and watched the evening mist rolling slowly like a white vale being pulled over the murky water. The sun dropping behind the distant hills, bathing the meadows in a beautiful golden hue. The young foals, in the nearby pasture, dancing and playing with each other, stretching their legs in practice gallops. How they bucked when the fading sun touched their backs. Oh how I miss these things my darling. I remember the rainy afternoon that we spent in the summer-house. The rain beating a tattoo against the windows. The grass in the meadow, flattened by its strength, and afterwards running with you through the wet grass, stopping to smell the flowers, and watching the water running slowly off the petals. Oh my darling how I long to be home with you again. Darling please convey my best to Mother and Father. I promise to write them soon. Must end darling, as the night moves progressively forwards the dawn and I must get some rest. I will write a little more in the coming days. Tom is not yet ready to leave and ride south to his home.
Yesterday was truly a terrible day. As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, three regiments of the Federal Army splashed across the Rappahannock River, broke through our picket line and galloped 4 abreast into our encampment. We were caught completely by surprise, hastily pulling on our boots and saddling horses. Major Flournoy, of the 6th Virginia, gathered about 100 men and charged headlong into the oncoming Federals. He was, however badly out matched, but it did gain us some precious time. It was a savage battle, but we gathered our men and made a counter attack, capturing Major Morris and driving back his troops, sometime in hand to hand fighting. Major McClellan and a few couriers, of which I was one, went to look for ourselves and by chance came upon a single cannon near the foot of Fleetwood Hill where it had been left when ammunition ran low. It was a 6 pounder. McClellan ordered the guns’ commander to move the piece to the crest of the hill from where we lobbed the few shells we had at the oncoming enemy. It was certainly a blood chilling experience to look down at the enemy as they advanced. Smoke from the cannon drifting in waves over the fields. Dead horses littered the ground, and men with terrible injuries lay everywhere. It was a sight that I will not soon forget. However my darling I must not worry you to much. I am well, and Wicks and I galloped to safety shortly there after. Must finish and give this letter now to Tom as he is preparing to leave. We will now have to remain at Brandy Station to refit our battered regiments and let the horses rest. You are constantly in my thoughts. Your loving husband Virgil.
My Dearest Phoebe, I was extremely happy to receive your letter which contained such good news. I am so pleased and proud to learn that you are with child. Oh my darling that is the best news I could ever have hoped to receive. Of course I remember that rainy afternoon in the summer-house. You were so beautiful and the way your wet hair clung to your milky white shoulders. That afternoon will forever be my most treasured memory. You say that you are due to deliver sometime in November. I hope that this war might be over by then, and I will be back with you. The beginning of July saw us involved in what was surely the fiercest battle of this war. It happened near Gettysburg. It was truly a horrible sight with bodies covering the ground and bloated horses lying every where. Blood stood in puddles in some placed on the rocks. The ground was red with the blood of the bravest men ever to fall in battle. I will not soon forget watching the men of the Confederate army swarming over the battle field, after the action had abated and raiding the dead bodied of their shoes and clothes. Our army is so badly supplied, that I wonder how we can ever hope to win this war, with its enormous cost to both men and horses. Please forgive me Phoebe for troubling you with all this talk of the war. We did promise to share with each other all our experiences. Please believe that I am safe and will remain so, so that I can return to you, and together live out our lives on the farm watching our children grow to marry, and themselves have children of their own. It saddens me to learn that Father has not been well. I am sure it must be a great hardship to him to have to oversee the running of the farm. I sorely miss my work on the farm, and there is not a minute that goes by that I do not wish I was back with you. Some of my fondest memories are of us driving in the buggy around the farm. Although the roads were rough, and I am sure uncomfortable to you, but it was well worth it to gaze over the fields with the snowy globes of cotton ready for picking. On Sundays I always attend Divine Service and pray for the safekeeping of my family. I will end now so that I can get this letter away to you. You are always in my thoughts dear Phoebe. Your loving husband Virgil
My Darling Phoebe, I have not received a letter from you and of course I worry. I hope you are well. Our men were cooking nearly all night, and at 5 am we were again on the march. There were skirmishing ahead of us, and we did take a few prisoners We think the enemy will retreat during the night. I am writing this while I sit in a pine thicket. We will sleep this night in the line of battle, however things are quiet presently. In the morning, we will send a detail to collect arms in the field. Most afternoons we have rain, and I have on occasion, been woken by a hail storm. Oh how that rain brings back memories of you dear Phoebe. How fresh you looked, smelling like a field of wild flowers. With that beautiful smell of fresh wet earth, so rich and full of promise for the future. I close my eyes and I can almost see you standing in front of me with your wet hair sticking to your neck, and how you laughed as the rain ran in rivulets down your face, and how your wet clothes clung to your body. I reach out for you, to touch you again, but my hands find only empty air. My heart aches for you darling.
The last two days have been peaceful and warm with our usual afternoon rain. We find that the enemy has withdrawn and we are taking this time to regroup, and rest our horses, there is a splendid pasture for the horses near the pine grove and Wicks use the time grazing. After days of no oats the supplies arrived yesterday, and once again he has his belly full. I have also used the time to rest, and visited with friends, and of course spend most of my time with Tom, who has been back for a while now, we engage in hours of talk. We have orders to cook 2 days rations, so I expect we will be moving again tomorrow. As the light is fading, I will end and promise to write again soon. Your loving husband Virgil.
My son Virgil, It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the passing of your beloved wife Phoebe. The baby came too soon, and there were other problems too. The doctor did his best but was not able to save Phoebe or your son. I am so sorry. It was my greatest wish that Phoebe saw the end of this most tragic war, and you both would be once again united. May God keep you safe. Your father George. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End GPain97046@aol.com |
#14 of 19 |
| 648 words | |
| "Slut, whore," the woman screamed, hurtled
something at Lucretia and then disappeared into the crowd. When Lucretia came out of the building’s exit door, the heat about smothered the breath from her, the smells of the livestock droppings from the barn in front of her almost knocked her down and the blinding sun kept her from seeing the woman and the camera flash. She thought she felt something push her forward. The can’s contents hit her and she felt liquid sensations. She quickly put her hands over her eyes for protection. Phoebe, her friend, shoved her back in the building and into the nearest bathroom. She took some wet paper towels and wiped Lucretia’s eyes. "What the hell hit me? It’s worst than the pig smells." "Sour milk colored with red dye. Thelma Jane, I mean Lucretia, the woman hates you." Lucretia opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. The mess dripped off her short blond hair, her Italian white silk blouse, her black silk skirt, her black silk high heels and her four-carat diamond ring. "I didn’t see the fat slop. She ruined my outfit." "You need a shower." Phoebe held her nose and tried to wipe the mess of her friend’s clothes, rubbing hard as she did it. "Sorry some got on you. We look a mess." Lucretia started to giggle. She had met Phoebe at the country club soon after she had married the town’s richest old man. "Not funny. You don’t want Montrose to see you." "It would serve him right. He insisted it was a tradition that his wife have a picture taken with the county fair’s baking contest winners." Lucretia frowned. "I remember seeing her picture in the paper two years ago with her gray hair worn in a bun, her brown dress down to her ankles and her feet in orthopedic shoes," Phoebe said and it made Lucretia giggle again. "Piece of cake to break that thirty year marriage up. He loved my tight mini skirts halter-tops. Now that I’m his wife, I don’t dress that way and it drives him crazy." She held her diamond ring up to the light. "Beautiful. Too expensive for Boris." Phoebe sighed. "Took plenty of sex before we were married. Now I plead headaches." Lucretia smiled at the memory of bald- headed Montrose and his layers of fat. His money was worth it though. "Has Montrose heard from his ex?" Phoebe combed her hair. "No. After whining for months about loosing Montrose to a younger sexier woman, she left town. Good riddance." She clapped her hands. "Why did he marry her?" Wiping it lightly, Phoebe had gotten the sour mess off her. Lucretia’s clothes were full of stains. "Love I guess until he opened his eyes and saw me." "Where have you been keeping Montrose?" "Business. The more he makes and the more I can spend." The restroom door slightly opened and a voice said, "You sexy tom cat, wipe the lipstick off your face while I pee. I’m hungry." She growled when she said it. Lucretia rolled her eyes at the words. Her mouths opened wide at the person who walked in and who was in the hallway. "You bitch," Lucretia spat out. "Poor insecure thing." Artist, with dyed blond hair, a tight black leather mini skirt and black leather boots, sashayed in and closed the door. "Leave my husband alone." Lucretia’s face flushed in anger. "Can’t take it, huh? Remember how you got him? Well now I’m a carbon copy including no bra and he can’t keep his hands off me. He wants a divorce, too bad babe." She put on bold red lipstick, padded her hair in place and blew them a kiss. Phoebe watched Lucretia smash her fist into the mirror. Phoebe had seen the beginning and the middle. To her satisfaction, Phoebe saw the end. Artist was her aunt. |
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| Phoebe Saw The End Cam cam_nine@verizon.net |
#15 of 19 |
| 2450 words | |
| Trevor caught her just as she was half
slipped out the door. "Yo– where ya’ goin’, Feebs?" Phoebe resisted a sudden, desperate, need to wrest away and fling herself, shrieking, into the florescent sanctuary of the cool, aqua, hall and, instead, unfolded her most toothsome Civil Servant smile and allowed herself to be turned back toward him. "OH... Mister Pedik, well… nowhere. I mean, actually, well… yes… yes, I AM going SOMEwhere... but, nowhere SPECIAL. Just to the roof." His pig-cynical eyes stretched and narrowed up at her from behind the question-mark of smoke curliqueing from the soggy, chawed, stogie clamped between his yellowed choppers. Phoebe felt his grip on her arm tighten. "I dunno’, Feebs – looks to me kinda’ like you was tryin’ to sneak off… an’, y’know, it’s like I told ya’ – that ain’t an option. These…" Phoebe stopped counting the waves of revulsion washing across his face during his pause to muster the "just so" word, at six, "…types… didn’t show up here tonight on account-a’ no great love a’ ME, that’s for sure…." Disengaging his squinty scrutinization for the "truth" he was certain lurked in the shadows behind the smudgy lenses of her regulation black tortoise-shell glasses, Trevor flung it over his shoulder into the hazy inner of his penthouse sanctum. The pounding of the music the… "types"… who had showed up that night (not on account-a’ him) playing, till then, at top-volume had, just now, abruptly terminated in an expensive-sounding "crash," and the thick, pulsing, silence following was, to Trevor, disconcerting enough that, even though he hadn’t a clue what "disconcerting" meant, he was, nonetheless, pretty damned disconcerted, indeed. "Hm… yeah, well… bastards sure do love my HOOCH, though." He reeled in his, now, re-concerted glare and trawled it, once again, over Phoebe, still captive, quaking on the ironic "Welcome" mat. "But…" his rose-lacquered talons dug deeper into her arm, "Like I was saying... them characters, they’re here for YOU. When that ball drops an’ your 'fix' kicks in, they’re here to shake your hand an’ slap your back and get your autograph on their…" Trevor gurned gleefully around his cigar at the wit, pending,"…big, fat, asses. So they can bend over and smile for the camera with you. Like that." "They want the last story they drool at the Old Gleep’s Home to be how they was with ‘The Great Lady’ herself the night everything finally got made right." "So, don't disappoint 'em, Feebs." Trevor chomped thoughtfully on his cigar and pulled Phoebe closer. "More important – don’t disappoint ME. I invited 'em here for YOU. So you gotta' stay." "You GOTTA'." Phoebe leaned back as far as her bonds would allow. "Yes, of course, Mister Pedik… I know. And I will… I mean, I AM. Really, I'm just going upstairs..." she fleeted a glance through her smudgy lenses and Trevor's lattice of smoke down to its embered source, circling orange-hot a perilous less than six inches beneath her chin, "...for some air." "And, then, I swear - I'll be back. Before you know it - I'll be back." But Trevor - still glowering blasts of suspicion up into Phoebe's too-toothy smile - stubbornly retained his hold on her arm, and it was only when Chaz Pedik stumbled full-tilt blind 'round the foyer corner straight into his brother, (tidaling the foamy contents of his red, plastic, tumbler over - to his besotted mirth - mostly Trevor) - that Phoebe finally managed to disentangle from Trevor's conscripting clutches and, leaving the Pediks to their respective irate sputters and glazed shrugs, slipped the remaining half of herself out into the hall, there scurrying the hastily re-assembled sum of her parts, first, into the shadows about ten yards to the right... then into a sudden alcove... and, finally, up a flight of clackety metal stairs... …to the roof. Where, heaving open the unexpectedly heavy light grey enameled fire door, she stepped through and, stopping short, pointed her smudgy lenses up at the swirling, twinkly-speckled black vastness of the mundanely Manifested All (which seemed to Phoebe, at this height - twenty-five stories up - to be hanging unusually low), and inhaled the night’s crisp December's-end air. Air serene and still but for the muffled putterings of the oblivious city preparing, below to, once again (as it always had and - at least, as far as it, for the moment, knew - always would), "ring out the old and bring in the new." Sounds damped by distance and that pressing canopy of Manifested All into a tiny, minor symphony of Lilliputian tinkles, sprinklings of what sounded spontaneously deconstructing glass and, of course, the never-ending assortment of far-off car alarms, insistently bemoaning their confused aloneness into the deeply indifferent night. And, in fact, gawking myopically into the whirling darkness, above - at twenty-five stories up - it seemed to Phoebe she could, with only a wee of effort, reach out and grab one of the speckles twinkling tantalizingly down from that swirling blackness, and swing herself up and up and up again - till she was swung all the way back up into the sparkling, velvet, arms of the Ultimate All, smiling just behind. Well, she wished she could do that. But she was, for the next... (Phoebe raised her left wrist to her face till Timex met ophthalmologist's bemused prescription) - it looked to be, maybe, nine minutes or so... stuck down here in the middle of it – trying to figure what, exactly, to do. To tell or not to tell. And, so, with the very same wee of effort, Phoebe reached, instead, around her with both regulation navy blue polyestered arms, held herself as best she could against the brittle night air, and stiffly shuffled her spit-shined regulation brown sensibles across the lumpy, black tar paper to the roof's railed edge. Peeping over that railing twenty-five stories up, even for the sufficiently-sighted, there was really nothing to be discerned in any direction but the tiny, vague undulations of television ghosts dancing behind the panes of this or that neighboring building's resident exhibitionists' curtainless windows and, so, it was into the gaping maw of shadows and hazy washes of street-lamp lumens refracting,tangled webs up from the avenue, below, that Phoebe heaved her heavy heart. It had been a mistake. Surely, all she had to do was tell them what happened. Explain it to them. Surely... surely… surely, they'd understand. Suddenly ungrasping herself, Phoebe opened her left hand - clenched into a white-knuckled fist since well before she'd finally loosed herself from Pedik’s clutches downstairs - revealing a small, sweaty, square of folded, pink, paper and, turning her back against a chill breeze, Phoebe carefully unfolded it to its full status as the "Agent's Copy" carbon from one of your standard "TA-729-Z:REI [Requisition, Extraordinary Intervention]" forms. Signed and initialed and ticked and marginalia-d to the regulation letter, and crossed-tee-d and dotted-aye-d and, in other words, processed in every conceivable way so very absolutely according to proscribed "nth" degree's decreed protocol by, first, this Supervising Manager and, then, that Managing Supervisor, all the way up and down the hollow, red-taped corridors of The Ineluctible All's haloed official "channels," it would have been absolutely, unremarkable… ...but for - haphazardly angled across the dead-center... in the most alarming shade of angry, angry, red… ...(like an infected wound, Phoebe shuddered)… ...a large, block-font, rubber-stamped: "APPROVED." Which, normally, would have been for Phoebe (or any other Intervention Agent), cause for, perhaps, just one smallish celebratory… "taste"… (OK, maybe two) from the brown bag way at the back of the bottom left-hand drawer directly behind the empty ink cartridges and broken hole punchers and defunct "TA-927-Q:RVC [Requisition, Visitation, Cherubim]" forms (collectors' items now, what with the change, several years back, of child labor laws), followed by, at six-thirty or so - after the locking of the door and the dimming of the lights – as many desk-top buck-and-wings as could be, more-or-less, coordinated between the stapler, the phone and the piles of frazzled originals and stacks of fraying carbons and mountains of photocopies in triplicate. "APPROVED" was, however, the very last thing Phoebe wanted this particular requisition to be. Indeed, this particular req was - from the moment she'd realized the actual import of what she'd done - one she'd just wanted to disappear. But it hadn't disappeared. It had, instead, apparently just about raced the gauntlet of ranks and levels and departments and ended up interofficed right back to her an astoundingly lightning twelve precious days ago with the rest of the end-of-year "Agent Copies." Almost an afterthought, it seemed, tossed where she found it, between the usual quarter-inch of "RE-SUBMITs" and three-quarter's inch of "DENIEDs." Had she not been feverishly searching for it, she surely would have missed it. Phoebe very much wished she HAD missed it. What a different night this would have been. Had she just managed to, somehow, not see it - had it stuck to its neighbor… had it gotten folded back… had a small, self-contained, flash fire broken out where it sat midst her piles of frazzled originals and stacks of fraying carbons and mountains of photocopies in triplicate… had she simply misplaced her glasses that morning, as she, occasionally, did, and had to practically "feel" her way to and through work – she’d be, right this minute, home. Home in her regulation grey skivvies, curled up in the comfy spot between the fold-out’s riser and the metal cross-bar she really was going to have to do something about… (diet starting the moment the ball touched down) working her way through the last container of Mocha-Almond Ripple she was ever going to buy… attempting to distinguish one smudgy, horn-tootling, tuxedo’d (she guessed),TV commentator from the next… till the smudgy, silver, ball, finally, dropped and the smudgy, tootling TV commentators metamorphosed to fading voices hawking battery-operated feather dusters and onion-powered spice r | |