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"The Day Pill" (the thirty-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Day Pill" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), March 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Day Pill by lee10@host365.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The house didn’t differ much
from any of the others on the street. The Victorian architect had had a love of
Gothic melodrama and the houses all reflected his taste. Turrets, brooding
eaves and small, secretive windows were the norm. Each house, in the Gothic
tradition, stood aloof from its neighbours, sheltering behind ivy-covered yew
trees, deep-shading rhododendrons and banks of brambles. Every house, except
for the one at the end of the street, was occupied by a single, elderly person,
most of whom had few, if any, visitors. There was no one therefore who cared
enough to be vigilant about the comings and goings of the members of the large
family at No.10; no one to be intrigued that all the inhabitants seemed to work
the night shift; no one to be curious as to why there were no children in the
house. The old lady at No.9, in one of her lucid moments, had heard the yapping
of a dog one midnight, but other than that, the ‘Joneses’ kept
themselves very much to themselves. Baleron was the first to leave each night. As soon as the last light had faded, he left the house to walk to the City Morgue. His wife, Veronica, was in a bad mood and had refused to make him a pack-up. "Get a snack on the way," she’d snapped, turning her back to him. "You usually do." Baleron slammed the kitchen door on the way out. "Old soak," Veronica muttered. The youngest member of the family, their grandson Jeremiah, giggled. They all knew of Granddad Baleron’s predilection for meths. and how the local homeless who slept under the railway arches were easy pickings for a man of Baleron’s experience. "And you can get yourself off to work too," Veronica spat at Jeremiah, "before I lose my temper with the lot of you." Jeremiah raised his eyebrows but expressed no other comment. He could tell his grandmother was twitchy but knew she wouldn’t leave the house till last. She trusted no one else to leave it secure. And truth be told, Jeremiah was hungry too. He hadn’t time for a long-drawn out argument. So, discreet rather than valorous, Jeremiah picked up his car keys and left the kitchen to his grandmother and her ill humour. * Jeremiah crossed the red and white tiled hall and was just reaching out for the front door catch when he heard, "Jerry, you’re not going without me, are you?" He hadn’t seen his cousin Lucinda where she’d been rummaging in the hall cupboard. She bumped the cupboard door closed with her hip and started to struggle into her coat without dropping her handbag or the leather boots with the high heels that made her superb legs look longer than ever. Jeremiah groaned. He loved the beautiful Lucinda but hated to drive her to work. She always chatted companionably while he fought to keep his hands off her. Lucinda sat on the hall sofa and began to pull on her boots. "You weren’t going without me, were you?" She looked up at him, knowing that he would be blushing. "Jeremiah Jones." She stopped what she was doing. "You’re putting on weight." She stared hard at him. His blush deepened. "Have you been over-eating?" "No, ‘course not," he mumbled. "Turn around," Lucinda ordered. "Come on." Jeremiah backed away from her. "We’re going to be late." Lucinda stood up. In those boots, she towered over her cousin. She ran a hand appraisingly down his sleeve. "You are definitely getting chubby, Jerry. You’d better be careful or you’ll be gross by the time you’re five hundred." "Don’t be stupid, Lucy," Jeremiah protested. He didn’t speak again and Lucinda chattered non-stop about diets until he stopped the car at the Odeon Cinema where Lucinda worked as an usherette. The pickings, she always said, were easy amongst the people on the back row. "Thanks for the lift. See you later, Jerry. And don’t forget, girls prefer the lean, hungry look." * Jeremiah only did a five hour-shift so had to work doubly hard to complete all his work and still to find somewhere, or someone, on whom to feed. His luck seemed to be out and he was beginning to think the diet Lucinda said he should try was being forced upon him. He managed a couple of small nibbles, but the sweetness he sought eluded him. Until he rang the doorbell of Flat 24, Larchwood House, that is. Instead of the fifth scruffy yob in a row, the door was opened by a fresh-faced woman. She was about 25 years of age and she smelt perfect. Jeremiah grinned. "Pizza delivery," he said. He was quick and before the pizza had time to go cold, he was leaving, wiping a gleaming drop of red stickiness from his chin. He liked delivering to the flats. The lifts were perfect places to meet the women and girls he sought and by the end of his shift he was feeling much happier. He had chatted to and had fed from a total of five women of childbearing age, all of whom were on the pill. Their blood was nectar, ambrosial, with the fragrance of honey. But, he admitted ruefully, it was fattening. * Jeremiah’s brother, Evan, worked at a 24-hour petrol station. It was interesting work. He saw, and interacted with, a great variety of people during his ten-hour shift. He and Jeremiah were rivals for the love of the gorgeous Lucinda and he was constantly on the look-out for any advantage that Jeremiah might be making. He pictured Lucinda, her white skin so pale it was almost translucent. He imagined the taste of her soft, wide, red lips and he sighed. He had to find a way to remove Jeremiah from the scene. He’d overheard the conversation earlier that evening between Lucinda and Jeremiah He too had noticed that his brother was indeed putting on a great deal of weight and he suddenly realised why. Pervert, he thought. I’ll fix him. As if on cue, Jeremiah pulled up by one of the petrol pumps on his moped. He waved towards the payment kiosk where he knew his brother would be lurking and watching and he began to fill the tank with petrol. Evan rarely bothered to come out into the discomfort of the elements but the night was mild so Jeremiah didn’t think too much of it when Evan appeared by his side. "Hi, Jerry," he said. "You O.K?" "Sure," Jerry replied. "Fed well tonight?" Jerry grunted a noncommittal response. "Me," Evan continued, "I’ve had a reasonable night; three lorry drivers, one motorcyclist and the two drivers of a long-distance coach going to Aberdeen. There were a couple of pretty little girls; married, but so young they must have been newly weds. I was hungry still, but I let them go. Feeding from them would have been nasty." He waited for Jeremiah to join the conversation, but his brother said nothing. His answer was plain however. Even in the artificial light of the petrol station, Evan could see the deep red colour rising up Jeremiah’s neck, threatening to drown his face in a rising tide of guilt. Hmm. Gotcha, thought Evan. * It was the family’s habit to meet in the living room after work to compare notes on the day and to check that there was no hint of their life style being detected by the local people. Dawn was not far off when they all assembled, all twenty-six of the Joneses; two grandparents, five uncles, six aunts and a babble of cousins. Evan sat as far from Jeremiah as he could. He coughed in a manner that everyone knew meant he was seeking their attention. All conversation stopped. Evan pretended to look embarrassed. He tried to make it appear as though he was reluctant to broach a subject but, with regret had no choice. Jeremiah had a feeling he knew what was coming. His heart sank. "I… I mean, we… well that is…," Evan stuttered, "we have a bit… well a lot of a… a problem." Jeremiah’s head was the only one that didn’t turn towards Evan. "What do you mean, son?" their father, Oscar asked. "I hate to do this, you understand but I… I feel, really, I have no choice…I…" "Get on with it, boy," Baleron growled. "It’s… it’s Jeremiah," Evan blurted out. There was silence. For long moments no one spoke. "What about Jeremiah?" Baleron stood up. "What about Jeremiah," he repeated in a loud voice that reverberated around the room. Evan shrank into his chair, seeming to be trying to make himself smaller. "He’s developed this," he sought for the right word, "addiction, yes, that’s it, an addiction…" "For what?" Baleron thundered. "Human oestrogen!" The resulting silence hurt the ears of the family until, finally, Baleron spat out the word, "Pervert!" He turned on Jeremiah. "How dare you bring your filthy ways here?" He raised his fist to strike his grandson. Jeremiah leapt to his feet. "You’re a lush. You’re no better," he screamed facing the older man. "Everybody laughs at you behind your back. At least I’m a man, not a drunken old sot who gets high on second-hand meths!" "A man. You think you’re a man." Baleron pushed aside Lucinda’s chair to reach Jeremiah. She fell to the floor, unnoticed by all but Evan who crept across the room to help her up, to hold her in his arms while she stared in fright at the two angry men. "No decent man feeds off the human female hormone. It’s forbidden." "By whom? By old fossils like you who are too feeble to get a share?" "You’d better go to your room, boy, before he kills you," Oscar grabbed Jeremiah’s arm. "Dad," he shouted, "leave him alone. He’s only a child." "He’s four-hundred and ninety years old. That’s old enough to know better. Get him out of my sight. Tomorrow he leaves. While I’m paying the bills, he’s forbidden to enter this house, ever again." Jeremiah faced up to him. "You can keep your house. It’s a dump. I’m going and I’m going now." He ran from the room, leaving his mother, Dora screaming. "No, Jeremiah, you can’t go now. The sun’s up." Everyone scrambled to their feet, racing after him, shouting a cacophony of conflicting instructions. Jeremiah raced across the hall, ignoring the howling mob at his heels. He snatched open the door and ran out into the early sunshine. It was only when the warmth caressed his face that he realised what he had done. He shrieked and raised his arms to protect himself. And nothing happened. The family stopped at the door. No one dared to follow him outside. Something was wrong. The laws of the family’s universe were not operating as they should. Any self-respecting vampire would be a pile of ash by now. Baleron seized the small black dog that was cowering under the hall table, afraid of the loud voices. He threw it outside, into the sunshine, to the horror of Aunt Valerie whose dog it was. "No…ooo…ooo," she moaned as her pet burst into flames and shrivelled to become a very small pile of ash before her horrified eyes. Jeremiah lowered his hands and turned to face his family. "The enormity of what he had done overwhelmed him. I’m so sorry," he cried. "I knew it was wrong, but it felt good. I was arrogant. I was stupid. Forgive me, Gran’pa. Please forgive me." Shaken, he dropped to his knees, weeping tears of humility and humiliation. But Baleron was not listening to him. "It’s the antidote," he breathed excitedly. "The antidote to the day’s effects on our people. This is like the Holy Grail. It’s what we’ve been seeking for centuries." He turned to the family and whispered, "Like turning base metal into gold, the antidote to sunshine has always eluded us. And my grandson has found it." Aunt Phoebe started to sob loudly. She’d always wanted to walk to the park to feed the ducks. It was not much to ask of life and now it seemed that maybe her ambition would be fulfilled. "We must do tests," Baleron said. "To make sure that the human contraceptive pill is indeed the Day Pill we’ve sought for so long." He turned to Evan. "Tonight, you will call in sick to work and you will go out and get yourself some human oestrogen. How long have you been taking this medicine?" he shouted to the still kneeling Jeremiah. "One month, Grandpa." Jeremiah felt it safe enough now to get to his feet. "Give or take a day or so." He brushed dust and dog ashes from his knees. "Good," said Baleron. "You will continue to do what you have been doing and you will show Evan the ropes." He rubbed his hands together with delight. "If the experiment works and Jeremiah has indeed discovered the Day Pill, we will all try it. And you," he smiled at Lucinda, " will experiment by taking it too, my dear. In the unadulterated form that human women do." Lucinda groaned. She had no wish to take the pill. She had no desire to go out into the daylight. It would turn her face brown and chap her lips, and the inevitable weight gain on the pill, was more than she could bear. And…. she would have to marry one of her fat cousins. |
| The Day Pill by jacket@smartchat.net.au (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I stare at the keyboard. Nothing. I
stare at the monitor. Nothing. I stare at the bottle of pink oval pills and
bite my nails. Actually my nails are gone. What I am biting is skin, the hard
dead skin that forms on your fingertips when you have been biting them for
years. And sometimes I bite too deep and they bleed. It is very difficult to
type with bleeding fingers but I can’t think of anything anyway so it
doesn’t really matter does it? The pills were a gift from a friend. Not a close friend, a new friend, one that I don’t quite know well enough, which is why the pill bottle is still full, unopened even. "Here try these," he’d said. "They’ll open doors," he’d said. "They’ll open the doors behind the doors." I met him at the pub. He wasn’t anybody special, certainly no one that I would go out of my way to say hello to. I was standing next to him ordering a drink, a whiskey sour with a teaspoon of sugar… When I happened to notice that he was speaking to a woman, a very ugly woman. Mind you I didn’t know she was ugly until I had finished ordering my drink. Up until the moment that I turned and saw her face, I believed he was talking to the most beautiful woman in the world. In fact I was really looking forward to gazing upon this stunning creature so that when I peered over his shoulder and came face to face with… Well let’s just say I let out a little squeal and poured my sweet whiskey sour all down his back. Anyway we got to talking and we discovered that I was a writer with writer’s block and he just happened to have the very thing. So here I am frantically rubbing my cracked and bleeding finger stubs over my lips, it’s a comfort thing, staring at a blank screen and an unopened bottle of pink pills. It’s funny, I’m actually afraid to even touch the bottle, let alone open it. I’ve never been a pill kinda gal. The words Day Pill are typed in pink on the label. That’s it. What the hell is a Day Pill anyway? His name is Clive, the guy that I met at the pub. Not unattractive, odd though, definitely odd but his smell was quite lovely. It reminded me of marzipan and glace cherries, just like Gran’s Christmas cake. And he had a way about him, he was unlike anyone I had ever met. I wasn’t really sure what it was at the time but looking back it occurs to me that it was his ability to pay attention. Never once did his eyes wander. He just listened and listened and listened. And he looked at me as though I were the most beautiful woman in the room. It was quite intoxicating. Then he offered me the bottle of pills. And I took it and said thanks. It’s a clear glass bottle, average pill-bottle size with a white lid. It is in my hand now and it feels really heavy, like a snooker ball. The pills rattle as I turn the bottle in my hand. I am looking for a list of ingredients but there isn’t one. I try to pry open the lid but my fingers are too sore so I use my teeth. We talked for hours. Me mostly. I told him how I was great at first lines but then…nothing and I held out my hands and showed him my battle scars. "What you need is a key," he said. The lid peels off and drops onto the floor and I watch it roll away. I shake one of the pills into my left palm. It sits there like a small nipple. I put the bottle down on the bench and push it away from me. "A key to what?" I ask, but he’d gone I get up to get a glass of water. I pop the pill into my mouth and wash it down, then I wait. I bite my nails and stare at the screen. Then something amazing begins to happen. A word appears, then another and another. Soon the screen is full and somewhere, deep in the folds of my mind I hear a door. It slams shut. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #9 Others receiving votes: #5, #8, #1, #7, #10 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Day Pill tom_set@yahoo.com |
#1 of 12 |
| 79 words | |
| The morning pill is icky just made of vitamins Its base concoction's tricky to cleanse away your sins The evening pill is gentle and helps you mellow down You'll feel quite sentimental and bask in your reknown The night pill makes you tired and soothes an aching head With visions so inspired all night you'll dream in bed The day pill is quite zippy as all your work gets done It can be almost trippy and isn't very fun |
|
| The Day Pill dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#2 of 12 |
| 96 words | |
| The Doctor prescribed a pill, Which made me very ill, He said to be sure, To lay on the floor, Or stand on the window sill I asked for another, I said for my brother, Who was diseased, But he wasn’t pleased, And said he wouldn’t bother I begged and pleaded, Because it was needed, To dull his pain, On days it would rain, And to my surprise he heeded He produced a round one, As big as a bun, He said it’s for day, But to suffice to say, It made me poo a ton |
|
| The Day Pill lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 12 Winner |
| 2247 words | |
| The house didn’t differ much from any of the
others on the street. The Victorian architect had had a love of Gothic
melodrama and the houses all reflected his taste. Turrets, brooding eaves and
small, secretive windows were the norm. Each house, in the Gothic tradition,
stood aloof from its neighbours, sheltering behind ivy-covered yew trees,
deep-shading rhododendrons and banks of brambles. Every house, except for the
one at the end of the street, was occupied by a single, elderly person, most of
whom had few, if any, visitors. There was no one therefore who cared enough to
be vigilant about the comings and goings of the members of the large family at
No.10; no one to be intrigued that all the inhabitants seemed to work the night
shift; no one to be curious as to why there were no children in the house. The
old lady at No.9, in one of her lucid moments, had heard the yapping of a dog
one midnight, but other than that, the ‘Joneses’ kept themselves very
much to themselves. Baleron was the first to leave each night. As soon as the last light had faded, he left the house to walk to the City Morgue. His wife, Veronica, was in a bad mood and had refused to make him a pack-up. "Get a snack on the way," she’d snapped, turning her back to him. "You usually do." Baleron slammed the kitchen door on the way out. "Old soak," Veronica muttered. The youngest member of the family, their grandson Jeremiah, giggled. They all knew of Granddad Baleron’s predilection for meths. and how the local homeless who slept under the railway arches were easy pickings for a man of Baleron’s experience. "And you can get yourself off to work too," Veronica spat at Jeremiah, "before I lose my temper with the lot of you." Jeremiah raised his eyebrows but expressed no other comment. He could tell his grandmother was twitchy but knew she wouldn’t leave the house till last. She trusted no one else to leave it secure. And truth be told, Jeremiah was hungry too. He hadn’t time for a long-drawn out argument. So, discreet rather than valorous, Jeremiah picked up his car keys and left the kitchen to his grandmother and her ill humour. * Jeremiah crossed the red and white tiled hall and was just reaching out for the front door catch when he heard, "Jerry, you’re not going without me, are you?" He hadn’t seen his cousin Lucinda where she’d been rummaging in the hall cupboard. She bumped the cupboard door closed with her hip and started to struggle into her coat without dropping her handbag or the leather boots with the high heels that made her superb legs look longer than ever. Jeremiah groaned. He loved the beautiful Lucinda but hated to drive her to work. She always chatted companionably while he fought to keep his hands off her. Lucinda sat on the hall sofa and began to pull on her boots. "You weren’t going without me, were you?" She looked up at him, knowing that he would be blushing. "Jeremiah Jones." She stopped what she was doing. "You’re putting on weight." She stared hard at him. His blush deepened. "Have you been over-eating?" "No, ‘course not," he mumbled. "Turn around," Lucinda ordered. "Come on." Jeremiah backed away from her. "We’re going to be late." Lucinda stood up. In those boots, she towered over her cousin. She ran a hand appraisingly down his sleeve. "You are definitely getting chubby, Jerry. You’d better be careful or you’ll be gross by the time you’re five hundred." "Don’t be stupid, Lucy," Jeremiah protested. He didn’t speak again and Lucinda chattered non-stop about diets until he stopped the car at the Odeon Cinema where Lucinda worked as an usherette. The pickings, she always said, were easy amongst the people on the back row. "Thanks for the lift. See you later, Jerry. And don’t forget, girls prefer the lean, hungry look." * Jeremiah only did a five hour-shift so had to work doubly hard to complete all his work and still to find somewhere, or someone, on whom to feed. His luck seemed to be out and he was beginning to think the diet Lucinda said he should try was being forced upon him. He managed a couple of small nibbles, but the sweetness he sought eluded him. Until he rang the doorbell of Flat 24, Larchwood House, that is. Instead of the fifth scruffy yob in a row, the door was opened by a fresh-faced woman. She was about 25 years of age and she smelt perfect. Jeremiah grinned. "Pizza delivery," he said. He was quick and before the pizza had time to go cold, he was leaving, wiping a gleaming drop of red stickiness from his chin. He liked delivering to the flats. The lifts were perfect places to meet the women and girls he sought and by the end of his shift he was feeling much happier. He had chatted to and had fed from a total of five women of childbearing age, all of whom were on the pill. Their blood was nectar, ambrosial, with the fragrance of honey. But, he admitted ruefully, it was fattening. * Jeremiah’s brother, Evan, worked at a 24-hour petrol station. It was interesting work. He saw, and interacted with, a great variety of people during his ten-hour shift. He and Jeremiah were rivals for the love of the gorgeous Lucinda and he was constantly on the look-out for any advantage that Jeremiah might be making. He pictured Lucinda, her white skin so pale it was almost translucent. He imagined the taste of her soft, wide, red lips and he sighed. He had to find a way to remove Jeremiah from the scene. He’d overheard the conversation earlier that evening between Lucinda and Jeremiah He too had noticed that his brother was indeed putting on a great deal of weight and he suddenly realised why. Pervert, he thought. I’ll fix him. As if on cue, Jeremiah pulled up by one of the petrol pumps on his moped. He waved towards the payment kiosk where he knew his brother would be lurking and watching and he began to fill the tank with petrol. Evan rarely bothered to come out into the discomfort of the elements but the night was mild so Jeremiah didn’t think too much of it when Evan appeared by his side. "Hi, Jerry," he said. "You O.K?" "Sure," Jerry replied. "Fed well tonight?" Jerry grunted a noncommittal response. "Me," Evan continued, "I’ve had a reasonable night; three lorry drivers, one motorcyclist and the two drivers of a long-distance coach going to Aberdeen. There were a couple of pretty little girls; married, but so young they must have been newly weds. I was hungry still, but I let them go. Feeding from them would have been nasty." He waited for Jeremiah to join the conversation, but his brother said nothing. His answer was plain however. Even in the artificial light of the petrol station, Evan could see the deep red colour rising up Jeremiah’s neck, threatening to drown his face in a rising tide of guilt. Hmm. Gotcha, thought Evan. * It was the family’s habit to meet in the living room after work to compare notes on the day and to check that there was no hint of their life style being detected by the local people. Dawn was not far off when they all assembled, all twenty-six of the Joneses; two grandparents, five uncles, six aunts and a babble of cousins. Evan sat as far from Jeremiah as he could. He coughed in a manner that everyone knew meant he was seeking their attention. All conversation stopped. Evan pretended to look embarrassed. He tried to make it appear as though he was reluctant to broach a subject but, with regret had no choice. Jeremiah had a feeling he knew what was coming. His heart sank. "I… I mean, we… well that is…," Evan stuttered, "we have a bit… well a lot of a… a problem." Jeremiah’s head was the only one that didn’t turn towards Evan. "What do you mean, son?" their father, Oscar asked. "I hate to do this, you understand but I… I feel, really, I have no choice…I…" "Get on with it, boy," Baleron growled. "It’s… it’s Jeremiah," Evan blurted out. There was silence. For long moments no one spoke. "What about Jeremiah?" Baleron stood up. "What about Jeremiah," he repeated in a loud voice that reverberated around the room. Evan shrank into his chair, seeming to be trying to make himself smaller. "He’s developed this," he sought for the right word, "addiction, yes, that’s it, an addiction…" "For what?" Baleron thundered. "Human oestrogen!" The resulting silence hurt the ears of the family until, finally, Baleron spat out the word, "Pervert!" He turned on Jeremiah. "How dare you bring your filthy ways here?" He raised his fist to strike his grandson. Jeremiah leapt to his feet. "You’re a lush. You’re no better," he screamed facing the older man. "Everybody laughs at you behind your back. At least I’m a man, not a drunken old sot who gets high on second-hand meths!" "A man. You think you’re a man." Baleron pushed aside Lucinda’s chair to reach Jeremiah. She fell to the floor, unnoticed by all but Evan who crept across the room to help her up, to hold her in his arms while she stared in fright at the two angry men. "No decent man feeds off the human female hormone. It’s forbidden." "By whom? By old fossils like you who are too feeble to get a share?" "You’d better go to your room, boy, before he kills you," Oscar grabbed Jeremiah’s arm. "Dad," he shouted, "leave him alone. He’s only a child." "He’s four-hundred and ninety years old. That’s old enough to know better. Get him out of my sight. Tomorrow he leaves. While I’m paying the bills, he’s forbidden to enter this house, ever again." Jeremiah faced up to him. "You can keep your house. It’s a dump. I’m going and I’m going now." He ran from the room, leaving his mother, Dora screaming. "No, Jeremiah, you can’t go now. The sun’s up." Everyone scrambled to their feet, racing after him, shouting a cacophony of conflicting instructions. Jeremiah raced across the hall, ignoring the howling mob at his heels. He snatched open the door and ran out into the early sunshine. It was only when the warmth caressed his face that he realised what he had done. He shrieked and raised his arms to protect himself. And nothing happened. The family stopped at the door. No one dared to follow him outside. Something was wrong. The laws of the family’s universe were not operating as they should. Any self-respecting vampire would be a pile of ash by now. Baleron seized the small black dog that was cowering under the hall table, afraid of the loud voices. He threw it outside, into the sunshine, to the horror of Aunt Valerie whose dog it was. "No…ooo…ooo," she moaned as her pet burst into flames and shrivelled to become a very small pile of ash before her horrified eyes. Jeremiah lowered his hands and turned to face his family. "The enormity of what he had done overwhelmed him. I’m so sorry," he cried. "I knew it was wrong, but it felt good. I was arrogant. I was stupid. Forgive me, Gran’pa. Please forgive me." Shaken, he dropped to his knees, weeping tears of humility and humiliation. But Baleron was not listening to him. "It’s the antidote," he breathed excitedly. "The antidote to the day’s effects on our people. This is like the Holy Grail. It’s what we’ve been seeking for centuries." He turned to the family and whispered, "Like turning base metal into gold, the antidote to sunshine has always eluded us. And my grandson has found it." Aunt Phoebe started to sob loudly. She’d always wanted to walk to the park to feed the ducks. It was not much to ask of life and now it seemed that maybe her ambition would be fulfilled. "We must do tests," Baleron said. "To make sure that the human contraceptive pill is indeed the Day Pill we’ve sought for so long." He turned to Evan. "Tonight, you will call in sick to work and you will go out and get yourself some human oestrogen. How long have you been taking this medicine?" he shouted to the still kneeling Jeremiah. "One month, Grandpa." Jeremiah felt it safe enough now to get to his feet. "Give or take a day or so." He brushed dust and dog ashes from his knees. "Good," said Baleron. "You will continue to do what you have been doing and you will show Evan the ropes." He rubbed his hands together with delight. "If the experiment works and Jeremiah has indeed discovered the Day Pill, we will all try it. And you," he smiled at Lucinda, " will experiment by taking it too, my dear. In the unadulterated form that human women do." Lucinda groaned. She had no wish to take the pill. She had no desire to go out into the daylight. It would turn her face brown and chap her lips, and the inevitable weight gain on the pill, was more than she could bear. And…. she would have to marry one of her fat cousins. |
|
| The Day Pill nytmare63@yahoo.com |
#4 of 12 |
| 1179 words | |
| Danny started getting sick around lunch. The light
headache had become a sledgehammer pounding on the insides of his skull by the
end of his ham and cheese sandwich. The butterflies in his stomach morphed into
a flock of buzzards wearing iron spikes on their wingtips. The rest of the guys
talked, smoked, and generally had a good time as they ate their bologna and
cheese or peanut butter and jelly. Danny knew better than to get to close to
Stan. If the boss saw him like this, he’d be fired for sure. Danny
couldn’t afford to loose this job again. The pay was too good. When he finally left for the day around six p.m., he thanked God he decided not to wear his coat this morning when he left. Anybody who saw him or rode with him in the car would probably have thought he was crazy, running the heater on full in July. The inside of the car felt more like ten degrees, not the ninety degrees the radio claimed. There was someone twisting his stomach around in knots inside him. Every now and then, his stomach felt like it was in a vise. The pain was so unbearable; he could barely hold his foot on the gas and his hands on the wheel. His muscles were alive, slithering around under his skin like a mass of snakes hungry for a meal. When he did make it home, he was glad nobody else was. Renee was still at her girlfriend’s house, and Dad was probably at work. No one would see him, no one would ask those stupid questions. "How was you’re day at work?" or "are you all right?" Mom was always accusing him of being high. Danny wished he were high right now; he would feel so much better. Danny knew if he took three headache pills and lay on the couch, he could lie on his face on the sofa and close his eyes. He might not vomit, but even that wasn’t a sure thing. The cat curled around his right arm as it dangled over the side of the couch and mewed for attention, but Danny’s near-miss right hook ended that problem. Quickly, Danny sunk into a world of pain and despair as the illness took over. It was seven p.m. when Renee walked in. She knew not to bother Danny, and Danny was glad for that too. He didn’t want to yell at his sister, and he didn’t want her to know anything about this. Of course, he knew Renee knew everything about it. My little sister, my best friend, probably thinks I’m a loser and just another druggie. He gave a silent snarl to Renee and then went down to his bedroom in the basement. Dad would be home soon. He had already been through Danny’s room last week, and yelled at Danny about the syringe and blackened spoons he found. Dad always seemed to be mad at Danny, so he didn’t talk to Dad much. Dad knew, of course, but Danny felt he could keep one step ahead of Dad’s suspicions because Dad was so naïve. He could be a real idiot when it came to teens and their activities. It was much easier to talk to Mom anyway, she understood better. He was glad when he heard the footsteps on the ceiling above. Too heavy for Renee, so Mom was home. Danny needed comfort, Mommy comfort. "Hey Mom." "Hey baby." Mom always did have a way of making Danny forget how lousy he felt. "You got sick again?" "How’d ya know?" "I guessed when I saw you holding your stomach." "Huh! You always were the smart one." "Are you keeping your promise? No junk, right?" Danny looked up slowly; wiping back his sweat soaked hair from his eyes. The circles made him appear as if he had been in a fight. "It came on at lunch. I didn’t think I was going to make it. Kevin says he can hook me up with a meth pill." Mom slowly nodded her head as she calmly held her son and rubbed his back and neck. "Sweetie, you've got to see the doctor. You need help." "C’mon Mom, I don’t need a lousy doctor I just need to get through the day. Kevin can hook me up. It isn’t junk; it’s medicine. Wouldn’t you rather see me better than this?" "Sure I would, but methadone is junk too. You promised me yesterday that you were going to see the doctor. Why are you going back on your word now? You’ve gotten sick earlier and earlier in the day." "I think you’ve exaggerated a little Mom; how the hell would you know if I’ve gotten sick earlier and earlier. Were you there?" "Ah c’mon Danny, I can tell these things." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I’m talking about you Danny! I’m scared damn it! I’m tired of living through your sickness. I’m afraid that one day, you’re going to do too much and die. You need help to get past this. You’re an addict!" "Mom!" Danny’s anger grew more and more. Mom loved him more than words can describe. Danny knew this, but when Danny gets sick, and angry, he has lost control of the monster inside, that monster has left it’s mark on his mother’s cheek; an experience that Danny regrets and Mom is happy to avoid. "Danny, I could have you arrested. That way, you would get help." "Don’t worry about that. Just a little longer and I’ll get a new job and then, I can quit that fucking job. It’s just all the pressure from Stan, and Kevin and all the rest of them fuckers. I’ll stop messing with the junk then, I swear to God. Please Mom." "That’s what you said last month, and the month before, and before that." "Mom, please." Danny clutched his stomach hard and bowed his head down as the pain wracked through him. Mom never could say no to a crying boy. The tears and the sweat running down Danny’s face make her give in and reach into her bag. She moves her stethoscope and name badge from treatment center where she works at aside and takes out a small, blue pill sandwiched between two paper cups. Danny had won again. He knew that Mom didn’t want him around Kevin. He would just get more heroin instead on the methadone pill. If she was careful, she could sneak the meth out. If she got caught, she would be fired, and probably loose her nursing license at least. She couldn’t stand to see her only son suffer this way either. Junk or methadone, either way, Danny had won and lost. The dose of methadone would get Danny through part of the day tomorrow, until the withdrawal sickness returns. Danny greedily gobbles down the pill, crying again in shame. Thirty minutes later, Danny the Good is back and Mom breathes a sigh of relief. He’ll be okay, until tomorrow’s day pill was needed. |
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| The Day Pill Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#5 of 12 |
| 916 words | |
| Doctor Leonard stared hard into his patient's eyes,
wishing that euthanasia was an option for him to recommend. "Miss Taylor, this is the..." he looked down at his notes, "...the twenty-fifth time you have complained that you've been abducted by aliens." "Twenty-sixth actually." "Okay, okay," he said, putting his notes to one side, and taking his glasses off, "we've been through this before, but did they rape you again?" Miss Taylor shifted in her seat across the desk, and brought a wrinkled hand up to her blouse buttoned tightly at her neck. "Yes they did and it was terrible. This time there were four of them. They took turns and..." "Miss Taylor," said Leonard, holding his hand up, "did I ever try to rape you?" She giggled and shook a wobbling finger in the air. "Oh...kay. Stay away from the cheese, Miss Taylor and take this." He handed her a quickly scribbled prescription. "This will help you sleep better. Until next week then." As Miss Taylor slowly rose from her seat, Leonard pressed a button on his desk and held it down. "Sarah, next patient please." Miss Taylor hobbled towards the door, using her walking stick as balance. "Remember, it'll be twenty-seven next time," she said. Doctor Leonard rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. Who's the next patient? Hopefully a drug addict or something; someone I can attempt to give real advice to, he thought. He looked at his schedule. Oh no, Ralph Frederick. "Hello doc," said Ralph as he squeezed past Miss Taylor at the door. "I've got something to tell you!" Ralph closed the door and stepped quickly across the room to his seat opposite Leonard. "I've really got..." Leonard held up a finger without looking at Ralph and pretended to study notes on his desk. After a few moments, he looked up. Ralph looked more excited than usual, his eyes particularly wide with enthusiasm and his hands gripping the arms of the chair. The whites of his knuckles stood out. He was obviously bursting to say something, but Leonard decided to keep the silence for a few moments more. Ralph crossed and uncrossed his legs and almost bounced in his seat. Leonard had already made a diagnosis of mild delusional disorder, but had privately referred to Ralph as a 'complete, but harmless nutter.' Thirty-five years old and he thought he was a werewolf. Okay, I get these people in my job, he thought, but they piss me right off. "So Ralph, tell me." "I'm not a werewolf anymore doctor. Isn't that great!" "It's wonderful Ralph, wonderful. What leads you to this conclusion?" "I didn't change last night! No ripping of foxes throats, no running around in the middle of the night, no ruined clothes in the morning..." Leonard again held his hand up. "And what do you attribute this non-change to Ralph?" "Do you know what, doctor? I reckon it was just the act, yes just the act of talking to you about it. You really helped me, you really did, and I want to thank you, I really do, in fact, I'd like to make a donation to your institution here doctor, I really do, I..." The hand came up yet again. "You're a little excited Ralph. Need to calm down somewhat." "Okay, okay. But I'm so happy doctor, know what I mean? No more howling at that damn moon. You don't know the emotions that sight can give. I just had to howl at the thing. Couldn't make friends, you know? I might rip their throats out if I wasn't careful and..." "I'm well aware of what you've told me Ralph, and now it seems some improvement has been made. " Leonard reached down to a drawer in his desk and pulled it open. "But there is still some work to do. I'm recommending that you come off the tranquillisers I prescribed and move on to these." He handed Ralph a small bottle. "What are these?" "Just something to calm you down, now it's all over. Take one when you wake, each day." Ralph looked at the bottle and twisted the top off. He poured a few tablets into his palm. He picked one and brought it up to his mouth. "No, not now, it needs..." Ralph popped the tablet into his mouth and swallowed. "Needs what doc?" Leonard sighed, "they just might react with other medication, that's all," he said. "Just make sure that you completely come off the previous tablets before taking this course." "Ok, doc," said Ralph. "Ooof." He grabbed his stomach and bent forward. Shit, thought Leonard, he's taken a tablet while on others. I should have stopped him earlier. He could get side effects like diarrhoea or headaches or..." Ralph slumped to the floor behind the desk, groaning and mumbling.Leonard reached for the intercom, but decided to stand instead. Maybe Ralph needed immediate treatment. A hand slumped onto the top of the desk, the skin dark and wrinkled. "Ralph? Are you ok?" Another hand came up to the desktop, this one with noticeable hairs sprouting from the fingers. "Ralph?" Ralph emerged from the floor behind the desk, hauling himself up by his hands pressed on the top. An elongated nose, ears pointing up through dishevelled hair and protruding sharp teeth made Leonard realise that the side effects were not what he thought they might be. "Doc," growled Ralph, "I used to be a werewolf, but I'm ok noooooooooowwwwww!" |
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| The Day Pill My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com |
#6 of 12 |
| 2436 words | |
| Falling…falling…and then Ted sat up and
swatted the air with his fists, trying to beat his evasive enemy. His chest
heaved in a rise and fall motion, as he tried to catch his breath. Heavy
perspiration lined his brow and the warm room added to his heightening body
heat, seeming to bake him alive. He tossed the flimsy covers aside and moved to
the edge of the bed. And hovered there, trying to slow his racing heart.
He closed his eyes once more and the scenes riveted by. That was a mistake. He did not want to remember. So much that was dead and buried. But were rising from their graves again; the undead that were coming back for him. His watery eyes that seemed to want to melt away like the rest of him, had no sorrow in them, but spoke of impeding doom. His deaden stare at the floor moved towards the digital numerals exclaimed in red; veins that told him it was a quarter ‘til five. He took a deep breath to calm himself from the nightmares, that he did not know haunt him every night. He took a pink pill from the top of his dresser and swallowed it whole, not needing any water. He waited with his head bowed down and sandwiched between his hands. They were columns that held him up and everything together, keeping him from collapsing and crumpling altogether. Moments later, his head cleared, his clouded mind parted ways to stinging rays, and Ted could sit up finally. As the memories of his dream slipped away, Ted felt some peace and rest from the estranged night. The nights had always been tough like this. The days were another matter. *** It was a late Sunday afternoon, and they were walking home church under the warm glow of the sun. His mother looked beautiful, wearing a pretty floral patterned dress, one of the few nice things she owned, though it barely covered the distinct bruises on her arms. Nor did her makeup conceal those on her face. But it was a beautiful day. Enjoying it while he could, Ted marched happily, like a little gentlemen, hand-in-hand with his mother, his smile shinning up at her, with no regret that the day was almost over, but marching forward, seeking the upcoming of whatever laid ahead. *** "Oh, hi," a pretty women in a light floral dress greeted him, as she fumbles with her keys. Ted stared at the pretty floral designs on the dress. They reminded him either of spring or summer, and also of something else, but he could not remember. "Uh, hi," said Ted to the women uncertainly once she finally found the right key to her apartment. "You new here?" "Yeah, just moved in. Don’t you remember me? You helped me carry in the groceries last night. That was really kind of you." Ted studied the women’s face and shook his head, "Must have been someone else." He them moved past her, down the hallway, and through the threshold, outside. The women watched him go with a quizzical look on her face. "I could’ve sworn it was him. Odd, he acts like we never met," she shrugged, sighed at the snub, and let herself into her apartment. *** The landlord sat on the stairs to his apartment building, in his stained undershirt barely covering his bulging stomach, sweating out on the porch listening to his portable radio. It was unbearable inside, though not a leaf stirred in the still trees outside, Hector preferred to be in his beloved street, just to be around the people and life itself. As the newscaster commented in his bored, one monotone voice that it would be another warm day tomorrow, Hector watched people walk by, sometimes giving them a friendly smile, or just chatting lightly with them. Some neighborhood kids were playing in the street; a complicated game that involved lots of running and screaming and laughter. On the other side of the block, some gals were conversing intimately in rushed and urgent tones, spilling whatever notion they have on the neighborhood, street, or of the world in particular. A building of contentment rose and fortified around Hector. As he watched the calm of the day ebb by into a different form: the haze of the warm sun shining gracefully down, and then as the day waned, a bit of its heat cooling, wrapping everyone in its embrace before slipping away. The darkening streets lit up again with electric streetlights and glowing windows, slowly the street emptied as everyone moved to go back home. Back to eat dinner and to talk of the day and to be with family. Home. Hector watched a figure swathed in shadow nearing the stoop, but was too far away to identify whom it was. The commenter on the radio switched to a women reporter, announcing that another body was found twenty year old college student found stabbed to death in the park. As the reporter continued to give all the grisly details, Hector watched as the now tall man slowly making his way to his step. The man stopped before the apartment building and paused as if he wanted to say something. "Hi, Ted," said Hector with a friendly but wary smile. "Hi, Hector," said Ted emotionlessly. "Work, late?" asked Hector still smiling. "Yeah." "How was your day?" the bulky man on the steps asked as he shifted positions and turned off the radio. He hovered over Ted, as he continued to question him, as if presiding as the judge in a court of law. "It was the same as any other day." Hector chuckled, "You say that everyday." "Well, you ask the same things everyday." The bulky man’s stomach seemed to rumble with him as Hector laughed some more. He patted Ted’s shoulder, said good evening, and let him in. Hector continued to sit on the steps although everyone had gone inside and it was getting dark. He wanted to breathe in the night air some more. And he had things to think about. "All these murders, do you think it could the same person who did it?" Hector asked Ted. Ted stopped as he was going through the threshold, and glanced back, studying his landlord’s form for a while before going inside, and moved aside to let the cat out. The moment cleared and Hector got up heavily and followed Ted. The cat sleeked down the steps, but licked Hector’s extended hand before slipping away. *** In Ted’s sparse apartment, there was little to determine what kind of person he was. No mementos, or personal items, or pictures, or books to give the room any personality. Just a table, a bed, a dresser, and a chair. Ted sat on the edge of his bad and stared at the pale yellow paint on the wall. Gradually, he worked his mind into a total blank. What he had done that day at the office showed no significance, therefore he allowed it no clear memory. All the days were a mass of blurs, to be collected and stored in the way back corner of his mind. Whenever he needed it, he could bring it out and use it later. He did everything methodically and gave it no thought. He left a part of his mind to do all the work automatically, very much like a machine doing its bidding and only that. The day washed over his mind and emptied into the faded yellow on the wall. Ted closed his eyes and rested sitting up. But then images began to flash by and close in the darkness underneath his eyelids. Soft images zeroing in into sharp razor cutting memories flooded and overwhelmed him. Coming back. He was standing in front of his house and watched as his mother was being dragged away by the policemen. Then he could see on the outside, himself as a nine year old quietly being taken into a car and removed from his home, never to see his house, or his mother’s face again. The memory of his mother’s estranged and tear-stricken features was etched as permanent scars in his mind. Then the scene switches to one at the orphanage. The boys and girls chanting, "Mama’s boy. Mama’s boy. Your mama killed your father. Your Mama’s a killer. She killed your father." And he could see it all, replayed in his mind all over again. It was much worse, much worse then the other times. The fists flying and pounding down on him, and the screaming that he did not know was his, and the swearing, and the decayed breath of a drunkard, cursing the world that was Ted’s. It was all happening now. Relentless. He cried and cried, breathing words for his mother. Finally, the beating ceased as it veered off him towards his mother, who had managed to drag his father off him. But it only slowed time again, and it was getting more painful now as she mother was getting all the abuse. She backed away towards the kitchen and the curses and spittle followed her, as she tried to defend herself from the deadening blows. It was useless to fight back this funnel of fury. He pushed her to the kitchen counter where she painfully bumped her hip, and slapped her hard again and again. His mother covered both sides of her face that were reddening as tears stung her eyes. She tried to get up, and Ted saw the opportunity to rush to his father, trying to hold him back, but that only distracted him for a moment or two. Tears finally fell from his mother’s watery eyes, and splattered on the kitchen counter. She looked down at that teardrop that had fallen and saw the outline of a butcher knife that fell into her hand and knifed into Ted’s father, again and again. His mother quietly watched his dead father’s crumpled body. She let got of the knife and her murdering hand lay slackened by her side. She reached for the phone and fumbled to dial 911. *** Though most of the people that were there were either dead or gone, the memory still lives inside him. The pain still does not lessen through time. Ted continued to stare at the now darkened wall and it all began to dissolve into a dark, bloody puddle, removed from him. *** It was morning again and Ted fumbled around for his pink pill, not wanting to open his eyes to see the sharp light, descending all over him, but to cuddle in the bleeding darkness, and be comforted by its strength. Ted swallowed down the pill whole, his agitation weaving down. He got up and prepared for work, as all other days before this one. *** A gleaming blade fell into Ted’s hand. The light reflected its power and Ted could feel its strength just by holding the handle. No one was around. They were all gone. There was only him, but for the corpse shells they left behind. Emptiness resounds emptiness and it echoes ten times as loud with only him there. This infuriates him and he starts to slash the walls in anger. The walls bled and the wounds become deeper with each stroke. They dripped to the floor, as they ooze out in pain and cried as red tears streak down the yellow wall, forever staining the faded wall. His beautiful, beautiful, magic knife. Satisfied, Ted moved on to the next piece of furniture: the bed, then the table, the chair. He walked out of the room and slashed everything in sight. Outside, the trees were left to quietly bleed sorrowfully, as the sap of their life melted from them. Slowly they fade into oblivion as he moved on. *** It was 11:50 pm, but Ted did not know that. His eyes only stared straight away, dead at nothing in particular, much like two hollow holes in a tree that do see anything before them. He walked stiffly without moving his arms that he left dangling to his side. His features were left expressionless, which wasn’t that unusual for him, but he now seemed to be empty, as if there was nothing behind those eyes. Ted walked straight to the kitchen and underneath the sink took out the butcher knife that so familiar to him so that it seemed to be molded into his hands. He went out to seek the victims of the night. He moved out of his apartment, into the hallway, and then towards the entranceway out. His immobile face and dull eyes seemed unreachable, as he sleepwalked. He pulled open the door and as about to make his way outside. He stopped and his eyes shifted as if he was going to snap out of it and reawaken, but it stilled as the night air passed around him. It gave the gray cat the opportunity to rush inside. It meowed in hunger, as it twisted in a zigzag motion between Ted’s legs in order to get in. Ted’s tangled limbs made him lose his balance and down he fell onto the steps, one by one, knocking down the portable radio that Hector had accidentally left on the step. Ted landed painfully on his stomach with the knife underneath him. And finally, finally true oblivion, so that he could rest at last. No more waking in the dead of night in a cold sweat after a nightmare, or any pink pills to forget and walking in a haze whether it be day or night. His mind cleared, for the first time really cleared, and he slept peacefully forever. He gave a soft groan, as it all became a sea of red and then black. Hector and some of the tenants rushed outside to see what all the commotion was about. They stopped in mid-step just outside the entranceway to see a body of a man cladded in dark clothes at the bottom of the step in a pool of blood. When the police arrived, they turned over the body, the tenants gasped, so spellbound that they knew this man who had done all these bad things, that they couldn’t look away, fascinated. Hector quietly commented, "I guess it was him after all." He gave the police the identification they needed, as he stroked his gray cat that had come back from racing into the puddle after dipping its paws delicately into it. It continued to lick its claws off some of the blood as it purred pleasantly, loving the gentle warmth. |
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| The Day Pill mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#7 of 12 |
| 1903 words | |
| He ran towards her smiling. Powerful yet graceful, his
body shined like a bronze statuette under the light of the setting sun. He
stopped and gently touched her arm. Ethel felt her knees go weak at his soft
caress. His features were straight and strong. His eyes, a deep oceanic blue,
sparkled and he looked at her longingly, seducing her with his warmth. Pulling her towards him, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. "Come with me, my love," he allured, carrying her towards the glimmering waves. "Mrs. Shultz, Mrs. Shultz, it’s four thirty, the time to wake up." Ethel opened her eyes and first moment didn’t understand where she was. But persistent smell of feces, the trademark of convalescent homes, quickly brought her back to reality. She’s Ethel Shultz, seventy six years of age, female, divorced, born on 11/12/1975 in Los Angeles, California, currently dwelling at 155 Fairfax Blvd. Kennedy Convalescent home, Room #25, Bed #3 "Mrs. Shultz, wake up." Nurse’s oriental accent, unpleasantly prickled her ears. Ethel wrinkled her nose as she took a quick glance in the wall mirror. The nurse’s full and round face smeared with the lazy benevolence like a pancake with the blueberry syrup, appeared as dissonance with her own bony and hard shaped features, long nose and bristly sparks of dissatisfaction in her dark intense eyes. "Who is it?" she inhaled and slowly, pressing her hand against metal railing pulled her body in the sitting position. "It’s your son." "Hi, mama," David bent down and kissed Ethel on a cheek, "I stopped for a second, just to say hi. Jessica’s waiting in the car. You know how hard it is to park here." "So?" Ethel looked at him in her usual non-blinking manner, cutting his thread short and putting another one instead in the ear-hole of the conversation. "Did you talk to Finestein? Can he sign the papers that this is the medically necessary?" "Well, mama," David tried to look her straight in the eyes, but eventually turned away. "That’s the thing… Doctor Finestein doesn’t believe it IS," he raised his voice stressing the last word, "the medically necessary. He feels, and I actually share his opinion, that in your age, it is too dangerous to experience such strong," he pondered looking for the right word, "emotions. And to be honest what you’re experiencing isn’t a dream per say. Your body doesn’t really rest. In fact it’s counter indicative or even harmful, for more than two hours." "Oh, spare me," Ethel waved at him, "Finestein is an idiot. Everybody knows that. And if you are agreeing with his opinion, then you’re an idiot as well… Did you tell him," she grabbed the anchor of forgotten thought, "that if he isn’t going to prescribe me the pills, I’ll take my service elsewhere?" "Mama, you know I won’t do that! Doctor Finestein has taken care of you for over ten years." "Blah, blah, blah… Doctor Finestein has taken care of you for over ten years." She repeated, trying to mock her son’s voice. "So what!…Look what a mess I am now!" Then switching the topic and addressing to her son, she continued, "How could a son of mine be so boring? Ah, " she shook her head with disappointment, "you didn’t take after me. You are the mirror image of your father. Miiiiror image!" "Mother, Please!" the note of impatience wavered in his otherwise patient voice. "Relax, I am not really planning to change a physician. But did you, at least, try to bluff?" "Mother, Doctor Finestein is fed up with your bluffs. He doesn’t even pay attention to them any more." "I don’t care, I want more pills! All I’ve got left is seven," she showed David the brown bottle that held the pills which, subsequently, she carefully pressed to her skinny chest. "Mother, please don’t torture me." "Well, forget Finestein. You should buy them then." "You know it’s not covered by either Medical or Medicare." "I know that. All the more reason for you to buy them for you poor, sick mother, who by the way, made so many sacrifices for you." "Mother, please." David made wry grin to the side. "Yes, she gave away her own house, so that her son could live there with his family." "Mother, what are you talking about? It wasn’t yours! For god sake you just lent me five thousand for the down payment." "Oh yeah? Who else would have lent you this money? Nobody! And so you have the house only because of me." "Mother, please… The total down payment was sixty thousand. Your money barely covered the closing costs." "Oh yeah? But without my money you’d be thrown out of escrow." "But mother, I gave you back this money with interest." "Yes, but I could have invested it and be rich by now. I’d be living in a mansion and not in this shit hole you dragged me in!" "Mother, first of all, please, don’t raise your voice. Secondly, it was your decision. Remember, after you had the stroke you decided we couldn’t give you the attention you needed." "Yes, of course, after your wife stopped feeding me." "Mother! What in the world, are you talking about? You doctor put you on a diet." "And you listened to him, to that idiot, Finestein? Oh, I hate my life. I want to die!" Quick tear shone in Ethel eyes. She turned away from David and shook her head in distress. "There is no point…, no point." "Mama, please, don’t go there." His expression drifted from carefully held irritation to ample indifference. "O’kay, O’kay, I’ll buy you the pills." "This time buy me something better though." "Better…In what way?" "Well something better that I have now. All these corny lines…" she shook her head in a pretend disbelief, "I wonder what idiot director comes up with them? I am not a superficial person why do they treat me like one? Buy me something of higher quality, something that would ensure the depth of the feeling." "But mother, those personalized pills are very, very expensive! One such pill would cost close to twenty bucks. Plus you would need a prescription – because they need to do analysis to come up with your psycho matrix. And these tests are also not covered by Medical or Medicare." "I know, I know…It’s all those damn politicians. A person works all her life and when it comes to the old age…here we go, you can’t even get a medicine." She didn’t notice how her head shook while she complained. "Forget personalized pills, then. But don’t bring me just plain nobodys. Buy me some actors. Give me twenty Cruzes…Ah, how I loved him in my teen years, I tell you… So make it twenty Cruzes, twenty Pitts, I loved him too, he had such a great body, so manly…twenty Depps. He was a man of small stature, but so cute, so elegant…" "What about Antonio Banderas?" "Oh, no, no, no… not my type at all. Plus he couldn’t even speak English… And of the serious actors… I want Kevin Spacey. I am not always about fun. I like a serious conversation at times." "How many?" "How many what?" "How many Spaceys?" "Oh, ten would be plenty… What? Why are you rolling your eyes? You know I despise such spinelessness. If you have reservations, say them out loud!" "No, no. Not a reservation, just a thought… Of all this old actors, only one is alive now, I think, in his nineties and he is totally out of his wits. So yes, they manufacture these pills, but they have to apply special technique called neural averaging or refurbishing… and, trust me, it’s not the real thing, far from it. Why don’t you try some of the equally good looking, but modern actors like William Cole, or Crebus Vidi?" "Oh, go to hell. All these modern actors are so bi, if not physically, then mentally and so much toward a female. If I’d wanted a female, I’d ask for one, but I’m what you’d call "OLD FASHIONED." "Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me." David yawned and looked at his wristwatch. "Let me summarize. Twenty Cruzes, twenty Pitts, twenty Depps and ten Spaceys, right? And the remaining thirty just a regular blond guy type?" "No, make it fifteen blondes and fifteen dark haired ones, but make then European, I don’t care for hot Latino whatever." "Let’s see, " David pulled a calculator from his pocket, "seventy by four ninety five, that’s three hundred forty six and fifty plus the remaining thirty by twenty five cents – that’s seven dollars and fifty so all together it’s three hundred and fifty six dollars." he whistled. "Hm…I don’t think I can pay that much." "How much CAN you afford?" she emphasizes the word "can" keeping the question right between direct and rhetorical. "Two hundred give or take." David punched numbers on the panel. "How about ten Cruzes, ten Pitts, ten Depps and seven Spaceys? That would come roughly to one hundred eighty three and then the rest of it are sixty seven regular ones…" "I tell you what. I’d rather have twelve of each good looking ones and I can live with one Spacey and then 35 blondes and 32 dark haired ones." "You are going to spend two hundred bucks for these pills?" Jessica snapped at David when he returned to the car. "She’s gone completely insane and you are pandering to it." "What’s a big deal?" David turned his head away from her, looking at the stop light, "why can’t I make her happy? What’s two hundred bucks anyway, a price of a parking ticket." "That’s not the point. It’s not natural. She should be content with spending time with her children, her family. She should be happy with that. Especially at her age... Why she is …she is…" "When she is almost dead?" David melancholically assisted. "Is that what you mean?" "No. I didn’t say that, you did. You have a sick mind just like your mother! I meant when her health is not so good." "Oh, come on what do you know about happiness? And as far as her life is concern, what else is there for her to life for?" It was two thirty pm, the time for the midday nap. Ethel took the blue pill from the brown bottle and having swallowed it with the gulp of water, stretched her legs in bed and closed her eyes. In her blurred consciousness, the smell of feces became less noticeable until it totally disappeared. Ethel found herself sitting on the deserted beach, surrounded by the white sand, dark blue sea, light blue sky and occasional screams of sea gulls. She felt young and beautiful. He ran towards her smiling. Powerful yet graceful, his body shined like a bronze statuette under the light of the setting sun. "Mirada a esta vieja puta," a nurse sneered pointing at Ethel who breathed heavy and moaned in her bed. A mixture of pain and pleasure seemed extraneous on her face distorted in a grotesque grimace. "You mind you own business!" her supervisor snapped. "You better wake her up in two hours sharp. She’s paying our bills!" Casting the scuff look above the glasses at the nurse, she stepped out of the room checking something in her notebook. |
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| The Day Pill jacket@smartchat.net.au |
#8 of 12 Runner-up |
| 730 words | |
| I stare at the keyboard. Nothing. I stare
at the monitor. Nothing. I stare at the bottle of pink oval pills and bite my
nails. Actually my nails are gone. What I am biting is skin, the hard dead skin
that forms on your fingertips when you have been biting them for years. And
sometimes I bite too deep and they bleed. It is very difficult to type with
bleeding fingers but I can’t think of anything anyway so it doesn’t
really matter does it? The pills were a gift from a friend. Not a close friend, a new friend, one that I don’t quite know well enough, which is why the pill bottle is still full, unopened even. "Here try these," he’d said. "They’ll open doors," he’d said. "They’ll open the doors behind the doors." I met him at the pub. He wasn’t anybody special, certainly no one that I would go out of my way to say hello to. I was standing next to him ordering a drink, a whiskey sour with a teaspoon of sugar… When I happened to notice that he was speaking to a woman, a very ugly woman. Mind you I didn’t know she was ugly until I had finished ordering my drink. Up until the moment that I turned and saw her face, I believed he was talking to the most beautiful woman in the world. In fact I was really looking forward to gazing upon this stunning creature so that when I peered over his shoulder and came face to face with… Well let’s just say I let out a little squeal and poured my sweet whiskey sour all down his back. Anyway we got to talking and we discovered that I was a writer with writer’s block and he just happened to have the very thing. So here I am frantically rubbing my cracked and bleeding finger stubs over my lips, it’s a comfort thing, staring at a blank screen and an unopened bottle of pink pills. It’s funny, I’m actually afraid to even touch the bottle, let alone open it. I’ve never been a pill kinda gal. The words Day Pill are typed in pink on the label. That’s it. What the hell is a Day Pill anyway? His name is Clive, the guy that I met at the pub. Not unattractive, odd though, definitely odd but his smell was quite lovely. It reminded me of marzipan and glace cherries, just like Gran’s Christmas cake. And he had a way about him, he was unlike anyone I had ever met. I wasn’t really sure what it was at the time but looking back it occurs to me that it was his ability to pay attention. Never once did his eyes wander. He just listened and listened and listened. And he looked at me as though I were the most beautiful woman in the room. It was quite intoxicating. Then he offered me the bottle of pills. And I took it and said thanks. It’s a clear glass bottle, average pill-bottle size with a white lid. It is in my hand now and it feels really heavy, like a snooker ball. The pills rattle as I turn the bottle in my hand. I am looking for a list of ingredients but there isn’t one. I try to pry open the lid but my fingers are too sore so I use my teeth. We talked for hours. Me mostly. I told him how I was great at first lines but then…nothing and I held out my hands and showed him my battle scars. "What you need is a key," he said. The lid peels off and drops onto the floor and I watch it roll away. I shake one of the pills into my left palm. It sits there like a small nipple. I put the bottle down on the bench and push it away from me. "A key to what?" I ask, but he’d gone I get up to get a glass of water. I pop the pill into my mouth and wash it down, then I wait. I bite my nails and stare at the screen. Then something amazing begins to happen. A word appears, then another and another. Soon the screen is full and somewhere, deep in the folds of my mind I hear a door. It slams shut. |
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| The Day Pill topcat@spiritone.com |
#9 of 12 |
| 1271 words | |
| Macho, macho man I got to be a macho man "Geez. Don't these queers ever get tired of that song?" thought Jake O'Donnell. Standing by a back wall as unobtrusively as a bunny - and with the same twitching nose - he took in the gaudy scene of crossdressers, leather, Sea Breezes, and a wash of colored lights like a fireworks display gone horribly wrong. He wouldn't be in this cesspool of sinful sodomites if it weren't for the writing assignment that was due tomorrow morning. It's just research he told himself, but just the same he was glad he didn't see anyone he knew in there, especially anyone from the football team. The team was about as distant as a fourth cousin from him now, ever since he blew his knee out last fall. A third-string quarterback, he had been thrust into the game one crisp Saturday afternoon when the first two guys took hits that would have reduced Schwarzenegger to quivering marmalade. He'd moved the chains by handing off to Arturis Jones but on the fifth play, he never saw the SUV that blindsided him - and the ball went for a fumble. Wait a minute. No time for these thoughts now. I need to eavesdrop like a little old lady on a party line and find out what make these flouncing fairies dick. Did he just say dick? He meant tick. Worst of all, the story had to be fiction so he couldn't raid the frat archives or con a sorority sister into writing it. Creative writing was as alien to him as ancient Sanskrit yet had to do it himself or it was his butt. Then he'd be stuck in summer school in order to graduate, and it was as hot as Korean kimchee down here in the summer. Speaking of his butt, he hadn't noticed anyone checking it out. Not that he wanted them to but he felt as low as a snake's belly in a wagon rut that no one had even asked. Just as he was thinking that, there was a tap on his shoulder and a very attractive fag, dressed plainly in pressed jeans and a tight white t-shirt that said Crisco, sidled up and began to speak. "Hi, sweetie. I haven't seen you in here before. Are you lost or just here to make friends?" "Well yes... I mean no... but I ..." "Oh my God. You're straight! We don't get too many of those in here unless they're, shall we say, curious." Jake felt the red creeping up his cheeks until he was sure he resembled a semi-ripe tomato. "It's just that I have this paper to write and I can't, uh... " "plagiarize it, and it's due tomorrow." The gay boy sighed and blew a few smoke rings that were quickly dispersed by the powerful suck of the air-conditioning in the crowded disco. "You know I wish people would stop trying to dissect us like frog's in 8th grade biology. Are they born gay or is it the evils of a modern perverted promiscuous society? How perfectly dreary." "Well it's nothing like Freud or anything. It's more like fiction." "Now you're talking, sweetie. Did you know that I am an English major and I've have contributed several articles to Just Out magazine? Maybe I can help you with your little problem - for a price." "That would be great, thanks. I could pay you or something." "Or something. My apartment's two blocks away. I bet I can knock off this piece in less than an hour. Everyone says I'm fast. By the way, my name's Randolph." "Jake." They shook hands. Jake was a bit surprised at the firmness of his handshake and the sincerity of his smile. "Don't worry. I won't bite. At least not at first. This will be an exciting little challenge." They threaded their way out of the catacomb of coxcombs and soon reached fresh air, though it was a few minutes before the ringing in Jake's ears subsided. He had to hustle on his gimpy leg to keep up with Randolph who was setting a brisk pace. Entering the apartment, Randolph urged him to make himself at home, flipped on the computer, and went off to the kitchen to make a couple of drinks. Returning, he handed Jake something pinkish and said: "I'm afraid I haven't any beer." He shuddered to even utter that plebeian word. "Try it, you'll like it." Jake took a tentative sip and then took a larger one as he settled back in the soft upholstered chair, content as a calico cat on a sunny windowsill. "What is it?" It's a Cosmopolitain. Aren't they just yummy, and I make the best. Now what's this assignment?" Jake told him the title and Randolph sat back in his chair, looked at the ceiling Tiffany lamp for not even two minutes, then began furiously writing, his lean delicate fingers a blurry arabesque over the blue plastic keyboard. Jake was left to wander about the apartment, being asked occasionally for input. How different this apartment seemed from the guy's apartments he was used to. It was clean, in perfect order, and tastefully decorated, not even fairy garish. His own apartment had dirty clothes on the floor, CD cases strewn askew, and a pile of dishes in the sink of Matterhorn proportions. And no raucous rock. The voice of what he guessed to be Judy Garland floated through the sparse living room. True to his wordiness, Randolph had the piece done in under an hour. Jake skimmed through it and murmured his approval and profuse thanks. "Now you can do a little something for me," Randolph cooed. "Just sit back right where you are and let me give you a little head." "Oh no, I couldn't," Jake said with alarm. "I'm not gay." "You don't have to be. Just relax and enjoy, sweetie. Close your eyes and pretend it's a girl, if you must." "But I've never done anything like this," Jake argued. "I know. Don't worry. You won't be disappointed." Jake submitted, and later had to admit to himself, he didn't hate it. The next evening, after handing in his paper and taking his last final, Jake was at the usual bar where the frat crowd hung out. He spotted one of his booty call sorority babes, hitched up his chinos, smoothed down his rugby shirt, and sauntered over to her. " 'Sup, Mindy? You got anything goin' tonight?" "Not much. Just hanging out with the real guys. Where's your boyfriend tonight?" "What do you mean?" he asked with a premonition of dismay. "I heard you were at the gay club last night and went home with one of the nellie boys." Damn. He must have been spotted last night. Now the rumors were probably everywhere. He could see people pointing at him and a couple even made obscene gestures and laughed. He fled the bar and slunk back to his apartment. Oh well, screw it. In a few days he'd leave this cow town college behind and be working in the big city. That thought sustained him until the next day in class when he got his paper back with a big red F on it. His heart plummeted like John Denver's glider. Summer school - stuck here in shame for two more months. Bewildered, he went up to his teacher after class and asked what was wrong with his paper. "There's nothing wrong with the paper. It's written very well, surprisingly. The problem is, the assignment was "The Day Pill", not "The Gay Pill." |
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| The Day Pill Beverley Cull beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#10 of 12 |
| 2832 words Exceeds 2500 word limit. Ineligible for judging. Critiques still requested. |
|
| The stench of putrid flesh hung in the air. It was a
smell like no other and she wondered if the memory would remain with her
forever. This was something they never taught her in nursing school, and the
hospital she last worked in, was a picnic compared to this. Looking around the
makeshift ward, hastily put together the day before, she shook head in
disbelief. Five weeks ago she had been sunning herself on a beach in Bondi,
laughing with friends, on her last day of freedom. Susan knew it would be tough
but this was beyond tough, this was absolute bloody hell. Every bed available was in use and she had even had to scrounge some of them from the nurses’ tents. It had been a bad night of fighting, or so they were led to believe, with many soldiers either dead or clinging on for life. Goodness knows how many casualties there had been. The fact was she had lost count, and that was frightening. The night before some of the orderlies had bets on how many would die that night. Susan wondered what made grown men so callus that they would bet on another’s living or dying. Would she herself become cavalier about death? Most of men in her ward were critical. A lot of the time there was absolutely nothing she could do apart from holding their hands and pretending to be family or girlfriends when the delirium set in. When that happened she pretty much knew that they wouldn’t last through the night. "Bad night of fighting sister," the Chaplain turned to speak after giving the last rites to one of the soldiers. He was clinging on to life but as the night wore on, he had slowly slipped away. The first few nights of duty had been difficult. She spent half the time nursing dying men and the other half crying. Now the tears had dried and she wondered if she would ever cry again. That night when Private Jones’ mind started to wander, Susan called in Father O’Mara, knowing that he would never object to being woken during the night. He was a man dedicated to what he said was his "calling". The name and Irish brogue gave away his birthplace. That alone amused her when she first arrived at the base. So many different accents from all parts of the globe, united together to fight someone else’s battle that no-one could possibly win. What started as amusement quickly faded when she saw at what cost this union would bring. To begin with it had seemed like a marvellous adventure and the first time she had ventured outside Australia. It hadn’t taken long for the novelty to wear off and she was counting the days for her first weekend off. From what Father O’Mara had told her, he had been with the Army for most of his time as a priest and according to him, he wouldn’t have had it any other way, but the weariness in his eyes showed how much it had affected him. They had shared countless coffees as they worked side by side and he had given her some wise advice along the way. Susan looked up from the patient she had been sponging to answer. "It certainly was Father and there’s talk of more," she spoke, wiping away the sweat from her face. It was hot and the humidity only made it worse. It was nothing like the hot, dry days back home. She never thought she’d miss it so much. "Some sort of ambush and our men were in the thick of it. Now there’s going to be a counter attack," she explained, only relating talk she had heard in the mess tent. Father O’Mara shook his head sadly, and gently patted her back. He understood only too well, the toll it was having on her. "Sister! Sister! It hurts real bad!" A soldier called out to her. It was Private Rogers, the only soldier from his platoon to make it out of the jungle alive, well barely alive anyway. He was the only American on the entire base. Most of the soldiers they treated were Aussies and some Brits, but theirs was the closest unit and he was too sick to move. It didn’t look good at all. He had been found by a passing patrol, near death, a stab wound to his stomach. Although the doctors had operated and cut most of the diseased flesh away, gangrene had set in and unless the doctors could pull a rabbit out of their hat, the young lad was not going to make it out of Vietnam alive. There was only so much antibiotics could do. "Father, I need your help. In the infirmary there’s a blue box labelled with my name. Could you grab it as quick as you can?" With that instruction the Father rushed off on his mission. He was glad to have something to do. For Susan it had been a difficult night. Supplies were low and they had resorted to rationing the remaining medication. It was a sad decision to make, but the less critical the patient was, the more meds they could give them. The doctors hadn’t expected Kevin to last the night through and there wasn’t much Susan could do apart from making his remaining time as easy as she could. At least he wouldn’t breathe his last breath on a jungle floor. "Easy there," she spoke quietly, trying not to disturb the sleeping man beside him. She sponged the young boy’s face with cool water. His temperature was high and it had been like that for days despite all of their efforts. His breathing was shallow, a sure sign the poison had begun its way through the body. She reached down to lift the sheet to sponge the rest of his body but he seemed to be seized with a fit of shyness. He shook his head and, despite his weakened state, had a firm grip on the sheet covering his lower half. "Don’t worry Kevin. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before," she told him but he just gripped the sheet even harder. "Wouldn’t be right." "So where are you from soldier?" she asked, knowing the answer already but knew how much the men liked talking about their home towns. "New York city ma’m. Don’t ‘spose you’ve ever been there." "No, I can’t say that I have. I grew up on a sheep station in the outback. Don’t suppose you’ve been to the outback either?" she answered, and when he began grimacing with pain, she quickly continued. "I bet a good looker like you has a girl back home? How about it Kevin?" It was a question she asked all the men in her care. "No ma’m. It’s just my Mom and me, although I’d sure like one," he answered with a cheeky smile. His breathing was still laboured but at least he could smile. Susan knew she didn’t look like some of the models in magazines, but she had her fare share of compliments and by Kevin’s expression, she realised that she hadn’t lost her touch. At least his mind was on something else, and until the doctor arrived for rounds there wasn’t much else she could do. Nearly all the morphine was gone and the supply truck was due days ago. It was most probably another foul up by the Army. Nothing seemed to arrive on time but she was used to improvising. Back home on the station, her father had taught her everything he knew. There she had learnt to waste nothing. It was a pity her brother had no liking for the simple life. Had she been born a boy, she’d be back home running everything instead of here, nursing the dead or dying. Her brother would be able to move to the city instead of being stuck, as he put it, working with her father. When she had left to go to nursing school she knew how much he envied her. Little did he know that she would have jumped at the chance to stay but she doubted very much she would have had it any other way. Nursing was in her blood, but it was still a wrench having to leave home. If it wasn’t for a motorbike accident her parents never would have met. Her mother had nursed a young farmer back to health and ended up marrying him. He had talked her into giving up nursing and moving to the country. There she became the only nurse within a 200 mile radius so there was never a dull day at their house. Her mother had saved many a life and Susan had inherited her love of healing. She smiled at that thought, and with it came a rush of homesickness that came in a wave. Brushing away a tear that threatened to fall, she struggled to keep her composure. How she wished she home right now. "I’ve got it sister!" she heard the Father’s voice call out from behind. His voice startled her out of her daydreaming. He handed her the box which she took gratefully. It was none too soon. Kevin’s face had paled with the pain. She hadn’t even heard him arrive, that was how much she had been absorbed in her duties. His shoes hardly ever made a sound. Father O’Mara had figured it out first, of course, being so close to the men he served so faithfully. It was he that discovered that the nurses’ shoes made the same sound as the Viet Cong’s flip flops and it was why some of the men would wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night rounds. A bad soldier she would make not even hearing the enemy sneaking up on her and it was one thing that she dreamt of at night. She made a mental note to see if she could have some shoes made up as well. The last time she did rounds she found herself in a very awkward headlock and for a minute thought that she would end up in a body bag herself. For a wounded soldier, he had attacked her with a strength she could hardly believe. It’s amazing what reserves you have left when your life is on the line. Luckily an orderly had been nearby and was able to help her get free. "Thank you Father. These are my own special supply. I only give them out sparingly," she spoke, pouring a glass of water. "Here you go Kevin. Only one mind you, or heads will roll. Now, please don’t tell the doctor. Your meds aren’t due until rounds. It will help with the pain. It should last all day." Susan told him, as she and the Father helped him up. Kevin dutifully swallowed the pill and lay back again, the relief and tiredness clearly visible. For a lad of only 18, he had experienced what no person of his age should. He had lost his entire platoon, including his commanding officer. He had told her so himself, one of the nights she’d been on duty. He hadn’t been able to sleep. When he did, the nightmares came and with it, the guilt. If he ever did make it out alive, he would have to live with that for the rest of his life. "Thanks sister. I didn’t want to complain, but it hurt real bad this time." "That’s what I’m here for Kevin. Now, just give it time to work. Close your eyes and rest. I’ll be by later," she told him, picking up her box. Father O’Mara had taken up the only available chair and sat quietly, his lips moving in a silent prayer, something she had seen him do many times. Religion was fine for some she supposed but she’d seen too much death to truly believe in a God that would allow all the carnage around her. She admired the fact that he was dedicated enough to devote his time to the men but declined suggestions of attending his services. Every Sunday her mother would be at church come rain or shine, and as a respect, when she was home, Susan would go along to please her mother, but that was a lifetime away. Stifling a yawn, she turned to tend to the other patients. There were a lot more hours to put in before she would get a break. The ward had begun to come to life and with that, a lot more work. The day staff had come on duty and most of the night staff had returned to their quarters. Susan had drawn the short straw. She was doing a double shift again. It would never be allowed back home but here, where nurses were in short supply, it was rule of thumb. Later, as she sat writing the notes for the day staff, she flexed her muscles, trying to get the kinks out. It had been a long night. Susan looked in on Kevin later that morning. The pain seemed to have lessened. He was resting a lot easier and his breathing had improved even more than before. His temperature was still way too high but even that had gone done. She was always amazed at the body’s ability to heal itself. "So, how goes it Kevin?" She asked after she took the thermometer out of his mouth. "A lot better sister but the pain’s still there. You don’t think I could have another one of those pills do you?" "Umm…. I don’t know Kevin. They’re pretty strong. I don’t want you do overdose," she whispered. "I shouldn’t have given you them in the first place." "Please sister!" He spoke urgently, grabbing her hand. "I promise I won’t tell." "You promise? Only one Kevin… that’s all I can give you." It was like a conspiracy with the two of them whispering and after Susan had given him another dose, he eventually fell asleep. It had finally taken effect. When the doctors made rounds later he was still sleeping. His temperature had gone done a few more degrees and his breathing was almost back to normal. "Well sister. It looks as if this young man may be out of the woods at last. Good work. Keep it up," one of the interns commented, slapping her on the back. They continued on their rounds and Susan breathed a sigh of relief. If only they knew. Working throughout that morning, she hardly had time to think, tending to the many patients and catching up with her paperwork she had neglected the night before. As far as she was concerned, her patients came first, no matter how many heated conversations she had with the matron. The paperwork would always be there, the patients wouldn’t. "Susan! The supply truck’s arrived!" one of the other nurses called out to her as she was finishing the last of her notes. "About bloody time!" She angrily spoke, turning around to find the Father standing behind her. "Oops! Sorry Father." "Well sister, we’d better get the blood stuff unloaded," he spoke, a smile forming. He loved to make the nurses squirm and Susan was no exception. "I’ve heard a lot worse Sister." Later that afternoon, when the matron had sent her off for lunch, the Father found her sitting in the mess tent. She looked worn out. She was pushing the food around her plate without much interest. The cook told her it was beef stew, but her tastebuds had told her different. "If you smother it with tomato sauce, I’m sure it will be a bit more palatable," the Father told her as he took the remaining seat next to hers. "I’d like to thank you sister for what you did for young Kevin. He’s not in any pain now. It’s like a miracle. The doctors are even thinking there’s a chance he may make it." "It’s early days yet Father, but it does look hopeful." "So, just out of curiosity, what did you give him? It really worked." The Father’s question hung in the air for a moment before she answered. "It has to be our secret," she told him conspiratorially, moving away from the other nurses. He waited eagerly for her reply, thinking she had discovered some amazing new drug. "Sugar, just plain sugar pills. It’s amazing what the mind can do," she whispered. The father sat with his eyes wide, a smile appearing. "Placebos? I’ve heard of it happening but whatever made you think of it?" "I know you would have heard of Florence Nightingale. One of her books is required reading at nursing school. She believed that the body was the best healer. She used placebos too. You should also be familiar with the old saying ‘physician heal thyself’…." "Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! Perhaps someone else had a hand in it as well eh?" |
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| The Day Pill trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#11 of 12 |
| 518 words | |
| A slight drizzle was falling in the sooty part of town.
Rows of ramshackle houses well past their prime culminated in a corner
convenient market where a bus was pulling up to the stop. Waiting patiently
there was a woman of indeterminate years wearing a threadbare coat and a
plastic rain hat. She clumped aboard in her sensible shoes and sat in her usual
spot near the front. "Mawnin', Hattie. How you doin' ?" spoke another woman across from her. "Well bless my soul, Ida. Mawnin' to you to. I ain't seen you in a coon's age. What brings you here?" "I gots to go see the doctor," the other woman sighed. "My arthuritis been actin' up something fierce." "I hope they gives you sumpin' fer it," the first woman said sympathetically as she removed her hat, shook off the tiny droplets, and folded it neatly in her lap. "Oh I been takin' pills and rubbin' linamints but they don't seem to help none," she replied plaintively. "How 'bouts you? Where you headed?" "I gots me a job downtown in an office. Bin there three weeks now." "Ain't that nice?" "Well yes'n no. The work's purty easy but my boss, Mr. Federer, is a real pill an' I gots to put up with him all day long. Alla time he be saying this ain't right, that ain't right, go back an' do this agin. I doan know how people git like that sometimes. Allus bein' mean and finding fault. Mebbe it's 'cause he so fat and nobody like him and mebbe nobody ever liked him but lawdy, you gots to be nice once in a while. I work hard for dat man but he never tell me I'm doin' good." "That's too bad, honey. I had me a mean boss when I used to work at the mill and there ain't nuttin' you kin do but do you work quiet like and wait for five o'clock. I know jobs is hard to find so you probably gotta keep dat one." "Doan you know it." The old bus turned a corner and started picking its way through the downtown stops. "I pray ever' day for dat man, Mr. Federer. I doan wish him dead or nuttin' 'cause the wouldn't be the Christian way, but I ast the Lord if he cain't make him nicer so I kin do my work in peace." "I hear you, honey. I pray the Lord will make my arthuritis ease up but sometimes it seem He doan listen so good." Hattie carefully put her rain hat back on as the bus wheezed up to an old brick office building. "I gots to go, this is my stop. You take care, Ida. Mighty nice seein' you agin." "You too, Hattie. Hope you work turn out better." "I hopes so too," and with that she shuffled down the steps. A dour assistant manager greeted her at the door to her building. "Miss Hattie Carmichael?" "Yessuh." "There'll be no work today. Mr. Federer died of a heart attack this morning. Come in at the usual time tomorrow." |
|
| The Day Pill GPain97046@aol.com |
#12 of 12 |
| 864 words | |
| "Stupid bitch, you thought you had me for life. Fooled
you." Jason put his head back and laughed. Macy, his wife, lay on the bed, her
long blond hair covered with blood, her blank blue eyes looked up at him. She
had tried to whimper while he cut her throat, but his hand over her mouth had
prevented it. He popped a pill in his mouth, took the gun from his pocket and went into Holly’s room. For an eight-year-old, her room was neat. Like her mother, Holly was obsessed with being orderly. She had her thumb in her mouth and her other hand was tangled in her blond curly hair. He put a pillow over her face and shot her. "One more to go." He popped another pill and went into Junior’s room. His shelves were full of model cars. He lay on his back, a mirror image of his father with the same light brown hair and brown eyes. Next week he would have been twelve. Jason put a pillow over his face and shot him. No struggle, he was a deep sleeper. Then he went to the living room and breathed a sigh of relief. After years of unhappiness, he had finally done it. He had a chance to do whatever he wanted when he wanted. Not a doctor that he had dreamed of being when he was in college but something more than working for a waste disposal company as Macy’s father called it, when it was really a garbage collection business. He had met Macy at a college dance and they had sex on the first date. She knew his life’s goal and she promised him she took the pill. She had no ambitions in life and all she wanted was sex. An easy lay so he thought. Two months later, she told him she was pregnant. He had slammed his fist down on the table in the restaurant and called her every name in the book. She had whimpered and begged and finally her father said that she was only seventeen. He married her the next day and worked in her father’s business. Macy’s goal in life had been to get married and get away from her father’s domination no matter what she had to do. She had done it at Jason’s expense. Her father made him drive a trash truck for years and then let him work in the office. After Junior was born, Macy refused to work and she spent money on clothes and other things. Two years later, sickly Holly was born and money went for doctor bills. He had sunk into debt, deep debt that kept growing. Macy refused to budget their money. When whining Molly was a year old, an idea began to formulate in Jason’s mind. He took care of the books at work and slowly he began to put some of the money into an account only he could access. He became a model father and husband. He volunteered for charity work on weekends and went to church every Sunday. He made the whimpering Macy and the whining kids happy, always with his escape in mind. Macy’s father he tolerated with clenched teeth. The unhappy years had caused him to take pills for nerves and for sleep. The nerve pill he called his day pill to get through the time with Macy and the kids. After he left this house today, he could throw them all away. It had been all been Macy’s fault. After years and the stock market, now he had plenty of money. He got a fake name and used it to get a new social security number. He would dye his hair blond and shave off his beard. He would have new mannerisms. He would be a completely new person. Now that his work was done, he went into the bathroom and shaved off his beard and decided to shave off his hair instead of dying it. After he was done, he smiled at his new look. "Jason, you’re a genius." He patted his baldhead and laughed. He went down to the basement and fixed the furnace. He had about fifteen minutes before it would explode. He had put his suitcases in the new car he had bought yesterday and it was parked twenty-five miles away. He threw his old watch on the floor and put on his new Rolex. He locked the door. Without looking back, he drove away in his old family car. It was a quiet neighborhood and no one had heard or seen him. At first, the police would think he had been killed in the explosion. About a block away, he heard the terrible noise from the blast. He smiled at his brilliant plan that had worked. He left the old family car and climbed into his Mercedes and his new life. He headed east where he would blend into the population. No one would find him. The fool never enjoyed his new life very long. While speeding at a hundred miles an hour and popping pills, Jason had been burned to death in an auto accident six months later in Boston. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club