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"No Trespassing" (the thirty-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "No Trespassing" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), May 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| No
Trespassing by lee10@host365.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Gordon Hawkins died this morning.
Sitting at his desk, he closed his eyes and quietly slipped away. He’d
never been more than a vague presence in the corner of the large, bustling
office, so his death had probably occurred some time before anyone noticed.
The telephone attracted our attention. Usually, it never rang more than once before he’d carefully pick up the receiver and whisper into it, "Hawkins. Accounts." His low voice was as innocuous as bland wallpaper, present but rarely noticed. Today, the telephone rang and rang. I could almost hear the caller’s impatience in the stridency of its tone. I looked across the office and saw Gordon, sitting erect as usual, though I think with hindsight, there was a slight slump to his shoulders. He sat with his pen in one hand, holding down the paper he was working on with the other. He would not allow any disorder into his working life and the desktop was in its customary tidy state. Each pile of invoices or queries was neatly squared off against its neighbour. Paperclips were kept in a pot to contain their wanderings and his stapler was at right angles to the computer screen. The only thing out of place was the ringing telephone. I was the first to leave my desk, despite the frowns of the supervisor. I caught one or two questioning looks as I eased my way through the crowded office. The ringing stopped as I reached the desk and looked down at him. No one spoke. Uncannily, no other telephones rang and no computer VDUs gurgled. I expected him to look up. Gordon hated the attention of others. I expected to see an embarrassed blush rise up his face. I expected to find that he had merely fallen asleep. I touched his shoulder gently to wake him. A small bubble of a sigh escaped his lips and he slid, inoffensively, to the floor. "Oh!" was all I could say, and to avoid the obvious truth I glanced at the desktop. The invoice he’d been working on was made out to WHELMERS (RUGBY) LIMITED and concerned ball bearings. I looked down at the still, silent figure curled at my feet and felt sad that the last thing on Gordon Hawkins’mind must have been ball bearings, four gross of them. No one moved, least of all myself then, as the silence stretched towards eternity, a fax machine purred and a woman screamed. Pandemonium followed the scream. Someone shouted for the duty first-aider. I glanced up and saw the supervisor sit down heavily in her chair as her legs gave way beneath her. Her face was white, bleached by the horror of a death on her shift. A small oasis of calm enveloped the corner of the office in which I was standing, Gordon Hawkins’ body at my feet. "Oh, Gordon", I said as the familiar knot of shame lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed. "I am so sorry." An agitated medic arrived and jostled me out of the way. There was no room in the confined space behind the desk for a useless, middle-aged woman so I moved away. I heard the medic thumping Gordon’s chest and to give them privacy I began to shepherd the younger members of the staff out of the room, encouraging them to take an early coffee break. "Yes, mum", one cheeky young man grinned. "Are you paying, mum? Can I have a biscuit, can I mum? Can I?" I didn’t get angry with him. Fear is often masked by silly humour. At least I had his attention. It wasn’t on the corpse in the corner. Half an hour later everyone from our office was in the canteen and people from other parts of the building were crowding in, curious to find out what had happened in Accounts. The volume of chatter was high but the occasional sentence carried to where I was sitting. My fingers were tight around a coffee cup but I couldn’t stop trembling. The cheeky young man was telling the pretty blond receptionist from Human Resources about last week’s presentation. "Of course," he was saying, gazing down her cleavage, "Everybody gets a gold watch when they’ve been here 30years, but Hawkins was so old, he must have been given half-a-dozen of them." The blonde buttoned her blouse up. "You do exaggerate Ray. He was only 45." "Hmm, well. He seemed older. They say he came here when he left school and never worked anywhere else." I could have confirmed this but I didn’t want to be part of any conversation. The niggle of reproach I’d felt for years was blossoming. The rising heat of guilt threatened to overwhelm me. The presentation had brought back the past and I’d worn my disquiet ever since, a cloak of misery for the weak-minded person I had once been. The supervisor was gossiping to some of her friends. Her normal, over-blushed colour had returned to her pinched cheeks. She was a woman who had a need to show off her rather-limited intelligence and was enjoying the attention. "He was always a funny little man," she exclaimed. "Kept himself very much to himself. Never let you get too near him. He was the sort who wouldn’t let you trespass on what he considered to be his own personal space. Trouble was, a space the size of Accounts was not big enough for him." She giggled. "He always went red whenever I got to within a few feet of him. Couldn’t handle the presence of a real woman." She sipped her coffee and laughed, "and you should have seen how uncomfortable he was at the presentation. He sat at the end of the row, next to Bertha Looms. She’s fat and pushing 50 but you’d have thought she was Marilyn Monroe the way he fidgeted in his seat. I thought he’d fall off his chair. It was very funny watching him." Pushing her cup to one side, she leaned over the table. "Of course, it wasn’t so funny for poor Bertha this morning when she touched him and he fell down dead. Still," she sat up straight again. "Bertha’s not got much imagination. She’ll get over it." I pushed up the sleeve of my blouse and looked at my gold watch. It was nearly noon. We’d been out of the office for over an hour and I decided to see if Gordon had been taken away yet. As I passed by the supervisor I swung my bag onto my shoulder. It hit her on the side of her head. "Oh, I’m so sorry," I apologised, adding to myself, "for having invaded your personal space with my handbag." I’ll give her "unimaginative", I thought. As I approached Accounts the lift doors were closing on a plain, light brown coffin. I knew there was no one who cared if Gordon Hawkins lived or died so he would probably be buried in that cheap box. But I cared, Gordon. It took me a long time, but despite what happened, I cared. The door to Accounts swung open and the Managing Director joined me. "A sad day, Mrs. Looms." I didn’t reply and we watched the red floor numbers above the lift counting down until Gordon Hawkins left the building. I turned away and went into the empty office. The supervisor’s telephone was ringing. Someone wanting gossip, I thought and ignored it. The office had always been a busy one, even thirty years ago when I joined the firm, my head had buzzed with the comings and the goings of dozens of people. I sat at my desk and began to collect the papers that had scattered earlier when I’d jumped to my feet. I gazed towards Gordon’s desk. He’d been taken on a month after I started. His job had been to move papers around from one desk to another; emptying Out trays and filling up In trays. Apparently, management had said he could expect a bright future in Accounts. I saw again that smiling, dark-haired young man approaching. I remember we’d flirted when he’d dumped a particularly heavy pile of papers in front of me and I’d pretended to feel faint at the thought of the extra work. He’d had a lovely smile, warm and honest, and I began to be attracted to him. A chat across the expanse of my desk was fine however, but young Mr. Hawkins had a problem, a habit that I found difficult to handle. He could not understand the concept of not invading the personal space of others. It wasn’t just me he stood too near to. I watched him in conversation with others. The more they backed away, the closer he followed. Of course, in the Ladies Rest Room, we younger girls bitched and swapped scandal when there were no older and more mature women present to stop us, and one day, one of the subjects we discussed was this habit of Gordon’s. "He makes me feel so uncomfortable," Sylvia said. "If he does it to me again, I’ll make him back off." She made a gesture as though she was pushing him vigorously away. "And I shan’t care if that old fool of an office manager is looking either." Sylvia was three years older than I was. I idolised her. She was everything I was not; slim, blond, clever and confident. In later years I realised that she had been brassy and over-opinionated but at sixteen, I was dazzled by her. I took on board her thoughts on life; her ideals became my own. One day, not long after that conversation in the Ladies, Gordon waylaid me in the corridor. "Bertha," he began nervously and sidled a little too close, "can I ask you something?" I backed away to give myself a comfortable space between us. He moved closer. "What do you want, Gordon," I snapped, thinking of how Sylvia would handle this situation. "Will you?" He hesitated. "Will I what, Gordon? Hurry up, my break is over and I’ll cop it if you don’t get a move on." I was starting to worry. I was terrified of Mr.Black, the office manager. He’d never told me off, but I’d been present many times when he’d given others a good dressing down and I didn’t want to be the object of his anger. Gordon moved even closer. We were practically touching and I could go no further. The wall was pressed against my back. Cornered and frightened, I forgot Gordon’s lovely smile. I forgot the warmth I was beginning to feel for him. I thought only of my discomfort and of Sylvia. "Gordon," I screamed, violently pushing him away, mimicking Sylvia’s action. As I did, the door to Accounts opened. "Back off. You’re always doing this. I hate it. Everybody hates it. Don’t trespass on my personal space." Sylvia’swords flew from my mouth and rang down the corridor. Mr.Black stood in the doorway but I didn’t notice. I was too intent on tearing a strip off Gordon’s hide. He was looking at me in bewilderment, stuttering, "But I only wanted to ask you to come on a date with me." It was too late. I couldn’t take back my scream. Mr.Black misunderstood the situation and Gordon was severely reprimanded by the Personnel Manager and nearly lost his job. Even Sylvia had a go at him when he finally returned to Accounts in disgrace. I was too embarrassed to apologise and over the years that followed, Gordon retreated into himself. He never invaded anyone’s space again and vigilantly protected his own against trespass. I don’t know if Gordon ever forgave my accidental betrayal. After that day we only spoke on matters concerning the job. Eventually, I married another young man from the office, who left me after two months to emigrate to Australia, with Sylvia. I sighed and returned to the present. There was a babble of staff returning to work. The supervisor came over. I looked up at her. "You can take over Mr. Hawkins desk for now," she instructed, "and clear up his outstanding queries." She simpered at me as I got to my feet. " And I may consider giving you his job on a permanent basis. You can move your things across to his desk anyway. It’s the perfect corner for someone like you who can work with the minimum of supervision." She probably expected me to be squeamish and to protest but if so, she was disappointed. I could tell from the smirk on her face that she considered it payback time. Maybe for all the times during the years we’d worked together, when I’d been right and she’d been wrong over some accounting procedure or other, or maybe she was merely sore with the blow from my handbag. I didn’t say a word. I heard the cheeky young man mutter behind my back, something about, "Dead Man’s Shoes", but I was pleased with the move. I’d not been happy working in the middle of a crowded office, amongst a gaggle of noisy youngsters, whose conversation consisted of sex, pop stars, football, drink and drugs. On the contrary, Gordon’s corner was perfect for me. I was beginning to feel the need to keep the rest of the world at arm’s reach. I would enjoy keeping his desk tidy and his paperclips under control and if occasionally I slipped into daydreams of what might have been, the telephone would surely ring and bring me back to reality. |
| No
Trespassing by V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Trud took off her helmet, unbuckled
her wrist monitors, and fell back into her chair. Well, there it was, then. The
Tokyo deal was a wash – and all because of that bitch in Singapore. Trud
could have choked her. Just like… like… THIS. "Here’s for you,
bitch. And here… And here…." Trud happily wrung the Singapore
bitch’s imaginary neck until, suddenly, noticing her hands, fluttering
pointlessly before her, she stopped. Oh, God - Jack. How was she going to explain this to Jack? He’d be inter-officing from Hawaii tomorrow to hear how the deal had gone down without a hitch. Trud shivered. She knew her boss all too well - his customary, quiet, "Look, Trud – don’t give me no bullshit excuses, just tell me EXACTLY how you fucked up, that’s all I want to know" might very well, this time, be followed up with an even quieter, "Oh, and Trud – call Accounting and tell them where you want your severance check sent." Shaking, now, Trud pulled a bottle from the behind the stacks of magazines on the shelf next to her desk, poured out half a glass of its brown contents and, grimacing, gulped it down. The burning in her throat spread around and out and everywhere till her whole body felt wrapped in a mantle of comforting warmth and she thanked God she worked from home, now; she was never able to "medicate" this way when she was at the office. But the liquor wasn’t working so well this time, she was warm, but she could still feel panic nibbling at her edges. Distraction. That’s what she needed – something to distract her. Talk to someone, maybe. Ron? Yeah, she’d tell Ron what was happening. Not that he could fix anything – hell, he probably wouldn’t even know what she was talking about, he never, really, took much interest in her business - but at times like this, when the going got rough, his quiet presence seemed to have an almost sedative effect on her. She leaned over her desk and pressed the intercom button. "Ron!" she yelled into the box. "Ron!" Nothing. Goddamnit, where the hell was he when you needed him? "Ah, jeez, no rest for the weary…." wafted briefly through her mind, followed immediately by, "Ah, phooey on that." No. No self-pity, not for her. She stepped out of her office onto the path that lead past the kitchen door, around the house, directly to Ron’s office. "Ro-ooo-n! Ro-ooo-n!" When she got there, Ron was in his customary pose - helmet on, slouched in his chair, feet on the desk, his eyes closed, and otherwise all tangled up in wires, with sensors clipped, it seemed, to just about every available space on his body. "Ron!" Trud turned his chair toward her and yanked his helmet off. Ron jerked up and opened his eyes wide. "What? What?" Seeing it was only Trud, he relaxed back into his chair. "Why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m busy?" "Busy with what?" Trud stood back, waiting, her hands on her hips. "Fiddling with some ideas." Ron free-lanced for several advertising companies and often needed to come up with, he claimed, "original ideas." He glanced at Trud with irritation and, leaning forward, attempted to grab his helmet away from her. "Wait," Trud held him off, "I need to talk to you." Seeing that Trud was not going to give up, Ron sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at her. "Well?" he asked, irritation oozing from him. As Trud told Ron all about the deal and the Singapore bitch who’d screwed it up and how many new ones Jack was going to rip her tomorrow for not seeing it coming and nipping the bitch in the bud, she suddenly noticed that glassy look in his eyes that always indicated the absence of his virtual presence. She waved her hand in front of his face. "Hey! Hey, Ron! Yoo-hoo, Ronnie-baby, Ronnie-boy – you there? Or are you back with your whores cybering across the Net?" "Oh, don’t be stupid. Leave me alone!" Ron yelled, tearing his helmet from Trud’s hands. Adjusting it on his head, he turned his chair abruptly so his back was facing her. For an instant Trud wanted to scream, to tear all those wires and sensors off him and throw it all in the garbage. She wanted to communicate her self to him… to HIM… not to just his body. But she refrained from doing more than pulling herself together and muttering, "OK, Mr.‘Too-Busy-With-Ideas-To-Listen-To-Your-Wife.’ We’ll see who’s 'stupid,'" and turning on her heel, stomped out of his office and back around the house to her own. "Yessir, husband, mine – we shall just see who’s ‘stupid.’" Trud felt she knew what his "ideas" were pretty well. She was almost certain he spent most of his time in the "Cyber Sex" section of the web’s "Psycho-Reality Universe." Otherwise why would he need so many sensors attached to him? Two snapped to her wrists did the job for her, and for most people. What he fastened to himself obviously weren’t sensors, then, but probably those "Neural Signal Amplifiers" she’d heard about, the ones that delivered sensations to the organs faster than body chemical signals could. It wasn’t difficult for Trud to find out Ron’s "User Name." He wasn’t very creative about it and used "RON74879" in all his web engagements. To obtain the password was more difficult, since Ron used "Thumb Print Recognition" software to Logon. Nothing was impossible though – every technology has a twin that does exactly opposite of its sibling. And for a while, now (without his knowledge, of course), Trud had Ron’s "Thumb Print Double." With that and a "Synthesized Organic Finger Glove," she was able to generate a password. The only difficulty was the program also recorded "Finger Pressure Characteristics," and Trud had to make many attempts at pressing the "Thumb Print Double" into the sensor before the program authenticated her as her husband. Once in she could, of course, choose from a number of "Prefabricated Virtual Characters" offered by the program, but their personalities were too general, their emotions and reactions too "cartoonish," and none of them allowed for personal perception so, instead, she decided to build her own. It wasn’t as safe and, in some instances, could end up in heavy "V"-Neural Damage (so she’d heard), but she needed a more advanced character if she wanted to detect Ron’s "V"-Life. Trud downloaded the basic matrix from her "Astro Profile" and took a fifteen-minute psychological test to enhance her "Virtual Character" with "Advanced Sensory Features." Concluding with the addition of "Stealth" capabilities, she was ready to go. First she visited several of the more trafficked Cyber sites, employing a "V"-Investigator to search for Ron’s "trace." The results came up negative, so Trud rearranged her resources and ordered a search among all the heterosexual erotic and porn sites. Surprisingly, those results came back negative as well. "Could he be gay?" she wondered. "No… no, he can’t be." She knew her husband – though lazy and out of shape, when it came to the bedroom, he performed OK. Well, perhaps better than OK. Oh, what the hell – he was pretty damned good. So, if he wasn’t on any of the erotic or porn sites, then where WAS he? Perplexed, she hung for a while in "V"-Limbo, till, slowly, a thought came to her. Trud always "sensed" Ron much better than she "understood" him. Why not use the same approach in this "V"-Search? Trud moved all available resources not only from Logical and Cognitive areas, but also from Visual, Kinesthetic, and Aural into Olfactory – thus becoming, for all intents and purposes, a "V"-Bloodhound. Right away she picked up a scent and, allowing her nose to lead her through the labyrinths of the Web "Sub-Universe," finally reached a juncture where the scent became almost overwhelming. Quickly replacing resources and re-establishing "Visual," she saw she was deep inside the basketball-based "V"-Escape site, "V-Ball." Immediately Trud saw Ron. But not the Ron she knew in her everyday life. Not the sluggish, overweight schlub who couldn’t be bothered to cast more than tired words and irritated attitude at her. This Ron was taller, tighter, stronger, and many times faster than the Ron she knew. With great surprise she noticed how easily, fluidly, precisely, he ran the court, passed, penetrated, jumped, layed-up and dunked. Surprised and, then, mesmerized by this unexpectedly impressive version of her normally unassuming husband, Trud found herself inadvertently drawn into the excitement of the crowd, gasping and applauding in rhythm with the intricacies of the game. When Ron faked three players, rose to the basket and dunked with not only power, but authority, Trud – caught in the moment, unaware of her surroundings – let out a delighted scream far too real to be drowned out by the "V"-Screams of her fellow spectators and, instantly, felt at her elbow the presence of a "V"-Cop. "User, you are trespassing on ‘Emotional Property.’ Remove yourself now." "Wait a minute," Trud sputtered. "This is the property of my husband and, therefore, it’s mine as well. I can be here if I want." "User, your relationship with ‘Primary User’ is without significance here. If ‘Primary User’ wished to share this ‘Emotional Property’ with you, he would have designated you as a ‘Shareable User.’ The database does not indicate that he has." "Why don’t you check more carefully. ‘Account Number 267SDT-367673, Password: Labor.’ If you look that up, you’ll see he’s not only my husband, but I have "Global Power of Attorney." "’Global Power of Attorney’ does not include rights over ‘Sub-Category: Emotional Property.’ Remove yourself now.’" "Oh, this is ridiculous. Look – see my husband? that’s him down on the court, running the ball. Let me speak with him. Once he hears how stupid you’re all being, he’ll give you any permission needed for me to be here. It was, obviously, just an oversight that he didn’t do that in the first place, I’m sure of it." Trud could hear the "V"-Crowd becoming restless. "What’s happening? What’s going on?" flowed in waves around her. "User, remove yourself NOW." Trud sat back on the bench and glowered straight ahead. "No. I’m not going anywhere until I speak with my husband." "SECURITY! SECURITY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY!" Suddenly, the game – the squeaks and grunts and ‘swishes’ of which had been droning metronomically in the background throughout the interrogation – stopped, and all eyes from every direction now turned away from it and onto her. Mortified, Trud’s only other awareness outside of finding herself, suddenly, surrounded on all sides by "V"-Cops, was of the sound of the game ball as, loosed, forgotten, it bounced and bounced – slower and slower – till it bounced a final, forlorn "tap" and rolled mutely out-of-bounds. "EJECT THE INRUDER! EJECT THE INTRUDER!" Both teams and the audience chanted. Trud felt herself being pulled and, then, yanked not only off the bench but completely off the site and, within moments found herself dangling ridiculously somewhere on what appeared to be the grey fringes of Cyberspace. Ripping off her helmet and wrist sensors, she jumped from her chair and ran out the door, back around to Ron’s office. "You bastard!" she yelled, shaking him vigorously and tearing off his helmet. "Why did you eject me from the game?" Ron rubbed his eyes with both hands. "What game? What the hell are you talking about?" "Don’t play the idiot. I know all about you and your stupid ‘"V"-Ball’!" Ron remained silent for a moment, pondering her, then: "Wait – you mean that ‘intruder’ was YOU? Funny, it didn’t LOOK like you. How come it didn’t, I wonder?" Ron got up and pushed past her out the door and around the house to the kitchen. Oh – that’s right, Trud suddenly remembered. She’d used the "Stealth" feature; even detected, it would still disguise her identity. The wind knocked out of her sails, she trailed after Ron and, passing behind him as he stopped at the refrigerator, plopped down at the kitchen table. Drumming her fingers distractedly on its blue-checkered tablecloth, Trud watched silently as he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer. Damn, that was close, Ron mused to himself as he rifled noisily through the counter drawer for the bottle opener. Lord knows what would have happened if he’d not finally given in and, just to get the salesman off his back, purchased a month of his "Intruder Alert" services. Way too expensive, he’d been thinking himself a real moron for falling for it but, if you asked him now? Hell, the damned thing had just paid for itself ten times over. Caught her just at the beginning of the game, it had. Before she’d had time to catch HIM. Catch him with the Head Cheerleader in the women’s showers right AFTER the game. Man, that had been fun. But wasn’t it always? Ron coughed to hide his smile. Finally locating the prodigal bottle opener, Ron slammed the drawer in with his hip and, throwing himself into the chair across the table from his pouting wife, pried the cap off his bottle with such vigor it flew half-way across the table to land just inches from Trud’s still drumming fingers. Ron quickly grabbed for it and, making sure his movements were just conspicuous enough she wouldn’t look away, put the bottle down, leaned forward in his chair and, straining around the edge of the table, aimed the bottle cap at the garbage can way across the kitchen, next to the sink… and threw. Spinning silently, the crimp-edged metal circle flew right past Trud’s sulky scowl and landed with an extremely satisfying muffled "clink" at the bottom of the can. Oh, yeah, baby – in your FACE. Grinning, now, Ron relaxed back into the chair. Yeah, that "Intruder Alert" service was working out just swell. But, still – it’d been a close call; Trud had somehow managed to breech his "Primary Security System." Tomorrow he’d give that salesman a buzz and see what the guy had by way of "Automatic Revolving Security Definition Upgraders." Grabbing the bottle again, Ron lifted it toward his wife and smiled broadly. "Cheers, Babe," he toasted and, craning his neck back, took a long, happy, greedy, pull. Trud watched her husband for a few moments through, now, narrowed, unblinking, eyes, then quietly rose and went back to her office. She had some hacker friends she’d just remembered she needed to call. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #3 Others receiving votes: #1, #5, #6 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| No Trespassing beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#1 of 10 |
| 1929 words | |
| "I said how long has she been sitting here?" I knew my
question was a simple one but since it was unanswered, I asked again, this time
louder. "Umm, I’m not sure Miss Hunn. I just started my shift," the uniformed officer answered. He never introduced himself but from his ID badge, I saw that his name was Constable John Savage. What an unfortunate name for a police officer. "Well, I suggest you go and find out!" I spoke sharply. Probably too sharply really, but the thought that Carly had been left to sit alone after what she had gone through, made me so angry. "And see if you can rustle up some sandwiches. The poor thing looks starved." The young officer scuttled off, grateful to be let off so lightly. I knew what they called me behind my back. Attila the Hun. With a last name like mine, it was probably unavoidable. Not that it worried me. I was used to ruffling a few feathers, and if it meant giving some children their dignity back, then I’d keep on doing it. I was the only trauma counsellor in the entire police department, and it made for a very busy life. Who said country living was dull? I turned to watch the young girl sitting on the only chair in the police station’s entrance foyer. Her clothes were torn, and the stuffed toy that she was clutching looked like it had seen better days. Yet, the way she was holding it, I knew that she wouldn’t give it up easily. It would have to be disinfected of course. There was no way around that, but not just yet. She needed to heal and it could end up being the one thing that would help release the horrors. "Carly?" I called out tentatively. There was no response at all, not even a flicker of recognition. The shutters were down and no-one was home. That worried me more than the torn clothes and tattered rabbit. She had closed off totally. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder and squatted down beside the chair. "Sweetie, you remember me don’t you? I’m Rachel, Mummy’s friend." Still no answer. She either had chosen not to talk or her mind had closed down completely. Considering the trauma she’d just witnessed, the latter was probably more likely the reason. Children have an amazing ability to shut off from reality, especially if that reality was too much to bear. Seeing her mother bludgeoned to death was something her little mind just couldn’t handle. When the police were called to the house, they had found a frightened little girl cowering in her mother’s wardrobe, in her hands, the phone that she had used to call the police. At least she had the presence of mind to do that. How long she had sat in that wardrobe was anybody’s guess. Forensics would probably come up with some answers on that one, but right now I had to find a safe place for Carly to stay, and if her mother’s murderer was still in town, I had to be doubly careful. Constable Savage returned with some sandwiches and an offer of a spare room, which I accepted quickly. The reception area of a police station was certainly not ideal for a child of her age. Sitting down in an interview room, adorned with wanted posters, I realised that the alternative wasn’t much better, but at least Carly was away from prying eyes. She had no problem gulping down the sandwiches I put in front of her. It looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Rummaging in my bag I searched out the chocolate bar I had bought earlier in the day. I barely had time to tape the wrapper off before she snatched it out of my hands and devoured it. "You liked that didn’t you Carly?" I spoke calmly, keeping my voice at an even keel. She looked up at me and nodded her head. "Do you know that the Easter Bunny is coming this weekend? That will be nice won’t it? I don’t know about you, but I love chocolate! How about see if we can get some hot chocolate to warm you up sweetie?" She nodded one more and I was relieved to see that she hadn’t retreated again. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Perhaps that included children as well. I knew from my other visit to Carly’s house that food was usually in short supply so it may have been several days since she had eaten a proper meal. I had been called in just once to assess the family situation. That was almost six months ago. Something must have happened to trigger the recent events and it would be up to me unlock that from Carly’s mind. I called the reception desk asked them to find something more substantial for a very hungry girl. While we waited, I took out my box of tricks, as I called it. In it I had everything a little girl would want. A mirror, some hair slides, scrunchies and a hair brush. It would be hers to keep, I told her. Taking out the brush, I began tackling the knots in her hair. It looked as if her hair hadn’t been brushed in days. A good shampoo and condition wouldn’t hurt, but until then, this would have to do. I soon had the knots out and pulled back in a style that suited her. Carly’s eyes lit up when I gave her the mirror to look. "There you go sweetie. You look so pretty like that. You have beautiful hair. You can keep these. It’s my present to you." She looked up in awe. With Carly sipping on some hot chocolate and munching down on some take away chicken the receptionist had managed to scrounge, I began to review her notes. It was such a sad case but unfortunately not uncommon. Her mother, a ward of the state herself, had no role models to look up to and knew nothing about raising a child when Carly came along. The father had taken no responsibility at all, leaving Sky to raise their child. Not a good start to life I suppose, but it was a situation many young girls found themselves in. Sky, however, took a path that lead only to destruction, and it was most probably this path that ended in her demise. I saw several arrests for prostitution, and one for possession of cannabis. Not a really big rap sheet, but one that brought her to the attention of my colleagues. I noted that she had been assaulted on several occasions but had never pressed charges. Maybe she had taken one "John" too many. I closed my eyes for a moment on what felt like the beginnings of a clanging headache. Not having breakfast or lunch hadn’t helped either and Carly’s chicken dinner was looking rather appetising. Rubbing my eyes quickly in a vain attempt to ease the tension, I turned to face Carly. "Carly sweetie," I spoke quietly, waiting for her to look up. "You did a good thing calling the police. You should be proud of yourself. It was a very, very brave thing darling." Hoping it would evoke a reaction, I waited. Carly continued to eat, saying nothing. She had hung her head down again to avoid my eyes. It was then I saw a single tear drop to the table. "It’s okay to cry sweetie," I told her, offering her a tissue from my supply. She patted her eyes and blew her nose. "What happened to Mummy was very sad. Whoever did this will get caught." Carly screamed in terror and I quickly enveloped her with my arms, trying to comfort her best I could. Her body shook as she sobbed uncontrollably. This was the breakthrough I needed. Carly’s mind had put up a "no trespassing" sign before and until that was gone, there was absolutely nothing I could do. I knew from my own experience that until grief is felt, you can never move on. It took years for me to learn that and I prayed that it wouldn’t be the same for Carly. I saw myself all those years ago, hoping that someone would take me away from the horror of my life, but no-one did. Night after night my father would beat my mother senseless then he’d start on one of us. I would hide in my closet, just as Carly had done last night. I saw my father beat my mother so hard, that her bones in her cheek shattered. Until of course, my mother decided that she was tired of being a bunching bag. He didn’t see the knife until it was too late. The look of surprise on my father’s face has stayed with me. I’ve never forgotten it after all that time. Not even my teachers, who must have seen the bruises, ever asked me how I was doing. All I wanted was for someone to give me a hug and tell me that they loved me, but not even my own mother was capable of that. All the love had been beaten out of her I think. I could feel the tears picking in my own eyes and once again the grief welled up inside of me and I found myself not only consoling Carly but crying for my own lost childhood. We sat for what seemed like hours and I thought the tears would never stop but they did eventually. She sat there with one arm clutching her rabbit, and the other, my arm, not wanting to let go of either. She still hadn’t spoken, but I knew that would come. The phone buzzed and I picked it up, knowing it would be information on a safe house. "Miss. Hunn?" It was the director of the town’s foster care program, as small as it was. There was always a waiting list for children. "We have a foster family downtown who are quite happy to have Carly. They’ve just moved from the city and have been foster parents for 20 years. I think it would be ideal." I thanked her and arranged for a time to meet with the parents. I hoped they would be understanding people. It would take a lot of love and kindness for Carly to feel safe and loved again. "Well, Carly, it looks like we have a place for you to stay. Some really nice people would like to meet you this afternoon. They have a room all ready for a little girl like you." The fear in her eyes crept back in, although it probably never left in the first place, but the added uncertainty of meeting new people probably made it worse. She looked down again, her shoulders drooping. "Don’t worry sweetie, it will be alright," I reassured her. "And you can always ring me whenever you want. Come on Carly, let’s go and see what they have in the vending machine. I’ve got a craving for chocolate." She nodded resolutely. Gathering up my bag and folder, and collecting the rubbish that had accumulated, we headed for the door. "Rachel?" Carly called out. I held my breath and waited for her to continue. "How will the Easter Bunny know where I am?" "Oh, don’t worry about that sweetie," I told her as I shut the door behind us. "I’ll make sure he finds out." It was a beginning. |
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| No Trespassing dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#2 of 10 |
| 170 words | |
| Get off my land, the farmer said, Do it now, or you’ll end up dead. See that sign? It means get out. Hit the road, you filthy lout. I’m not going, I say to him, Staring at his shotgun rim. I’m staying put, cos, I am free, Take or leave, that’s my decree. He pulled the trigger and shot my head, Leaving me for certainly dead. My resting place a cow’s last meal, Smelling like potato peel. They don’t eat them I thought, My soul stricken, my mind distraught. I’ll haunt him though, was my decision, This is what I could envision. He slept at night until I came, Playing upon his eternal shame. I cried and howled until I was hoarse, Sweating now, he was of course. Get out, he’d said, and left me dead, But I’m still here, to drink his beer, And laugh in his ear, and shed a tear, Until he’ll die and no longer lie, About his deed, he would concede, A rash decision indeed. |
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| No Trespassing lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 10 Winner |
| 2256 words | |
| Gordon Hawkins died this morning. Sitting at his desk,
he closed his eyes and quietly slipped away. He’d never been more than a
vague presence in the corner of the large, bustling office, so his death had
probably occurred some time before anyone noticed. The telephone attracted our attention. Usually, it never rang more than once before he’d carefully pick up the receiver and whisper into it, "Hawkins. Accounts." His low voice was as innocuous as bland wallpaper, present but rarely noticed. Today, the telephone rang and rang. I could almost hear the caller’s impatience in the stridency of its tone. I looked across the office and saw Gordon, sitting erect as usual, though I think with hindsight, there was a slight slump to his shoulders. He sat with his pen in one hand, holding down the paper he was working on with the other. He would not allow any disorder into his working life and the desktop was in its customary tidy state. Each pile of invoices or queries was neatly squared off against its neighbour. Paperclips were kept in a pot to contain their wanderings and his stapler was at right angles to the computer screen. The only thing out of place was the ringing telephone. I was the first to leave my desk, despite the frowns of the supervisor. I caught one or two questioning looks as I eased my way through the crowded office. The ringing stopped as I reached the desk and looked down at him. No one spoke. Uncannily, no other telephones rang and no computer VDUs gurgled. I expected him to look up. Gordon hated the attention of others. I expected to see an embarrassed blush rise up his face. I expected to find that he had merely fallen asleep. I touched his shoulder gently to wake him. A small bubble of a sigh escaped his lips and he slid, inoffensively, to the floor. "Oh!" was all I could say, and to avoid the obvious truth I glanced at the desktop. The invoice he’d been working on was made out to WHELMERS (RUGBY) LIMITED and concerned ball bearings. I looked down at the still, silent figure curled at my feet and felt sad that the last thing on Gordon Hawkins’mind must have been ball bearings, four gross of them. No one moved, least of all myself then, as the silence stretched towards eternity, a fax machine purred and a woman screamed. Pandemonium followed the scream. Someone shouted for the duty first-aider. I glanced up and saw the supervisor sit down heavily in her chair as her legs gave way beneath her. Her face was white, bleached by the horror of a death on her shift. A small oasis of calm enveloped the corner of the office in which I was standing, Gordon Hawkins’ body at my feet. "Oh, Gordon", I said as the familiar knot of shame lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed. "I am so sorry." An agitated medic arrived and jostled me out of the way. There was no room in the confined space behind the desk for a useless, middle-aged woman so I moved away. I heard the medic thumping Gordon’s chest and to give them privacy I began to shepherd the younger members of the staff out of the room, encouraging them to take an early coffee break. "Yes, mum", one cheeky young man grinned. "Are you paying, mum? Can I have a biscuit, can I mum? Can I?" I didn’t get angry with him. Fear is often masked by silly humour. At least I had his attention. It wasn’t on the corpse in the corner. Half an hour later everyone from our office was in the canteen and people from other parts of the building were crowding in, curious to find out what had happened in Accounts. The volume of chatter was high but the occasional sentence carried to where I was sitting. My fingers were tight around a coffee cup but I couldn’t stop trembling. The cheeky young man was telling the pretty blond receptionist from Human Resources about last week’s presentation. "Of course," he was saying, gazing down her cleavage, "Everybody gets a gold watch when they’ve been here 30years, but Hawkins was so old, he must have been given half-a-dozen of them." The blonde buttoned her blouse up. "You do exaggerate Ray. He was only 45." "Hmm, well. He seemed older. They say he came here when he left school and never worked anywhere else." I could have confirmed this but I didn’t want to be part of any conversation. The niggle of reproach I’d felt for years was blossoming. The rising heat of guilt threatened to overwhelm me. The presentation had brought back the past and I’d worn my disquiet ever since, a cloak of misery for the weak-minded person I had once been. The supervisor was gossiping to some of her friends. Her normal, over-blushed colour had returned to her pinched cheeks. She was a woman who had a need to show off her rather-limited intelligence and was enjoying the attention. "He was always a funny little man," she exclaimed. "Kept himself very much to himself. Never let you get too near him. He was the sort who wouldn’t let you trespass on what he considered to be his own personal space. Trouble was, a space the size of Accounts was not big enough for him." She giggled. "He always went red whenever I got to within a few feet of him. Couldn’t handle the presence of a real woman." She sipped her coffee and laughed, "and you should have seen how uncomfortable he was at the presentation. He sat at the end of the row, next to Bertha Looms. She’s fat and pushing 50 but you’d have thought she was Marilyn Monroe the way he fidgeted in his seat. I thought he’d fall off his chair. It was very funny watching him." Pushing her cup to one side, she leaned over the table. "Of course, it wasn’t so funny for poor Bertha this morning when she touched him and he fell down dead. Still," she sat up straight again. "Bertha’s not got much imagination. She’ll get over it." I pushed up the sleeve of my blouse and looked at my gold watch. It was nearly noon. We’d been out of the office for over an hour and I decided to see if Gordon had been taken away yet. As I passed by the supervisor I swung my bag onto my shoulder. It hit her on the side of her head. "Oh, I’m so sorry," I apologised, adding to myself, "for having invaded your personal space with my handbag." I’ll give her "unimaginative", I thought. As I approached Accounts the lift doors were closing on a plain, light brown coffin. I knew there was no one who cared if Gordon Hawkins lived or died so he would probably be buried in that cheap box. But I cared, Gordon. It took me a long time, but despite what happened, I cared. The door to Accounts swung open and the Managing Director joined me. "A sad day, Mrs. Looms." I didn’t reply and we watched the red floor numbers above the lift counting down until Gordon Hawkins left the building. I turned away and went into the empty office. The supervisor’s telephone was ringing. Someone wanting gossip, I thought and ignored it. The office had always been a busy one, even thirty years ago when I joined the firm, my head had buzzed with the comings and the goings of dozens of people. I sat at my desk and began to collect the papers that had scattered earlier when I’d jumped to my feet. I gazed towards Gordon’s desk. He’d been taken on a month after I started. His job had been to move papers around from one desk to another; emptying Out trays and filling up In trays. Apparently, management had said he could expect a bright future in Accounts. I saw again that smiling, dark-haired young man approaching. I remember we’d flirted when he’d dumped a particularly heavy pile of papers in front of me and I’d pretended to feel faint at the thought of the extra work. He’d had a lovely smile, warm and honest, and I began to be attracted to him. A chat across the expanse of my desk was fine however, but young Mr. Hawkins had a problem, a habit that I found difficult to handle. He could not understand the concept of not invading the personal space of others. It wasn’t just me he stood too near to. I watched him in conversation with others. The more they backed away, the closer he followed. Of course, in the Ladies Rest Room, we younger girls bitched and swapped scandal when there were no older and more mature women present to stop us, and one day, one of the subjects we discussed was this habit of Gordon’s. "He makes me feel so uncomfortable," Sylvia said. "If he does it to me again, I’ll make him back off." She made a gesture as though she was pushing him vigorously away. "And I shan’t care if that old fool of an office manager is looking either." Sylvia was three years older than I was. I idolised her. She was everything I was not; slim, blond, clever and confident. In later years I realised that she had been brassy and over-opinionated but at sixteen, I was dazzled by her. I took on board her thoughts on life; her ideals became my own. One day, not long after that conversation in the Ladies, Gordon waylaid me in the corridor. "Bertha," he began nervously and sidled a little too close, "can I ask you something?" I backed away to give myself a comfortable space between us. He moved closer. "What do you want, Gordon," I snapped, thinking of how Sylvia would handle this situation. "Will you?" He hesitated. "Will I what, Gordon? Hurry up, my break is over and I’ll cop it if you don’t get a move on." I was starting to worry. I was terrified of Mr.Black, the office manager. He’d never told me off, but I’d been present many times when he’d given others a good dressing down and I didn’t want to be the object of his anger. Gordon moved even closer. We were practically touching and I could go no further. The wall was pressed against my back. Cornered and frightened, I forgot Gordon’s lovely smile. I forgot the warmth I was beginning to feel for him. I thought only of my discomfort and of Sylvia. "Gordon," I screamed, violently pushing him away, mimicking Sylvia’s action. As I did, the door to Accounts opened. "Back off. You’re always doing this. I hate it. Everybody hates it. Don’t trespass on my personal space." Sylvia’swords flew from my mouth and rang down the corridor. Mr.Black stood in the doorway but I didn’t notice. I was too intent on tearing a strip off Gordon’s hide. He was looking at me in bewilderment, stuttering, "But I only wanted to ask you to come on a date with me." It was too late. I couldn’t take back my scream. Mr.Black misunderstood the situation and Gordon was severely reprimanded by the Personnel Manager and nearly lost his job. Even Sylvia had a go at him when he finally returned to Accounts in disgrace. I was too embarrassed to apologise and over the years that followed, Gordon retreated into himself. He never invaded anyone’s space again and vigilantly protected his own against trespass. I don’t know if Gordon ever forgave my accidental betrayal. After that day we only spoke on matters concerning the job. Eventually, I married another young man from the office, who left me after two months to emigrate to Australia, with Sylvia. I sighed and returned to the present. There was a babble of staff returning to work. The supervisor came over. I looked up at her. "You can take over Mr. Hawkins desk for now," she instructed, "and clear up his outstanding queries." She simpered at me as I got to my feet. " And I may consider giving you his job on a permanent basis. You can move your things across to his desk anyway. It’s the perfect corner for someone like you who can work with the minimum of supervision." She probably expected me to be squeamish and to protest but if so, she was disappointed. I could tell from the smirk on her face that she considered it payback time. Maybe for all the times during the years we’d worked together, when I’d been right and she’d been wrong over some accounting procedure or other, or maybe she was merely sore with the blow from my handbag. I didn’t say a word. I heard the cheeky young man mutter behind my back, something about, "Dead Man’s Shoes", but I was pleased with the move. I’d not been happy working in the middle of a crowded office, amongst a gaggle of noisy youngsters, whose conversation consisted of sex, pop stars, football, drink and drugs. On the contrary, Gordon’s corner was perfect for me. I was beginning to feel the need to keep the rest of the world at arm’s reach. I would enjoy keeping his desk tidy and his paperclips under control and if occasionally I slipped into daydreams of what might have been, the telephone would surely ring and bring me back to reality. |
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| No Trespassing Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#4 of 10 |
| 338 words | |
| Mighty men, and those who pretended to might, savagely
fought the great battle . 'Neath a torrid sun in a far-off land, sharp
broadswords wielded their savage strokes, oft clanging on the shields of
panicked desperation. Nay, but not often enough. The stentorian cries of brute
combatants galloping into their battle for vainglory, mingled with the piercing
screams of the mortally wounded men and the brays and snorts of wild-eyed
horses as they slipped in the bloody mud. Many had not imagined such carnage
and gore when they sallied forth from their homes on caparisoned prancing
steeds so long ago. But invoking the sacred name of their God, they fought the
brave fight. The cause was cloaked in righteousness; to defeat the savage infidel who did not believe in the true God. To return in virtuous triumph with tales of great deeds, and with vengeance for the lives torn from those who had gone before. With God on their right hand, his terrible wrath would make enemies tremble before their singing sword. Bloodied in divine belief, their reward would be Heaven's salvation. The horrid earth piled with the guilty dead as the battle whirled fro. With joyous shout they surged forward into magnificent glory, only to be fiercely repulsed by the deadly counterstrokes of rampaging hordes. In close ranks they charged in blood frenzy again and again and slew blindly left and right. Hot battle sweat poured o'er their grim visages as one by one they fell, calling with their last raspy breaths the name of their God. When the soft red sun sunk over the purple horizon, the cruel slaughter was mercifully finished for that day. The battlefield of their truth was strewn with pious bodies. The many slain, in visions of eternal life, ascended the ethereal white clouds and approached the Kingdom of Heaven in full belief of their just reward. But the gates swung shut, bearing the legend: Ingressus Non Permattere - and they found themselves spiraling downward into the maw of a fiery Hell. |
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| No Trespassing Rachel Muller designbyraven@yahoo.com |
#5 of 10 |
| 1988 words | |
| Throughout my entire existence living in the western
parts of Nevada, I’ve lived within sight of the walls. As a young child I
never understood their presence and when I asked my parents, they would shake
their heads and go on about their work. I could tell the sight of the walls
hurt them, but they couldn’t’ leave. Something held them there. I
wasn’t old enough to understand, but I could see the strain in their
faces. "Its how they choose to live," my grandfather once whispered to me after I had asked. "Why would someone choose to live in a prison, Gramps?" I had asked innocently. "It all depends on what side of the fence you are looking out from," Gramps had responded sadly. "Are we in the prison?" I asked, my voice shaking in fear. "To the people living on the other side of the fence, yes, to us, we are the ones that are free." Than he had dismissed me, I was too young to understand. I was always too young. My family never explained. I had to learn for myself. I stand here, like most days and look to the scorched plains that slope towards the walls. I don’t dare get too close, even from a mile away I can see the dark shapes of the patrols. They march up and down the paths carved into the top of the walls. I heard the distinctive crunch of gravel as someone walked towards me. By the slight hitch in their breath I knew it was my Uncle Marvin. "Greets, Brin," He walked up to my side and tenderly touched my arm in greeting. "Greets, Uncle, come for the view?" "There is no view this side of the Rockies. Why do you come out here Brin?" "To understand." "I lived through it and still I don’t understand." He sighed and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. It was coming on dusk and the air had a slight chill. "They don’t even talk of it in school, how are we to know, if we are not told? I thought they taught history so we wouldn’t repeat mistakes?" I didn’t expect an answer; I was only voicing my dislike of the system. "The schools, not in sight of the walls teach it, we do not. We are too close, we all have family that live over there. They chose not to leave when the walls went up. It hurts to talk about it." "Please, Uncle, I can’t be kept in the dark, I have to know at some point." "I guess you are right, it is stupid to not talk about it. I’ll try as best as I can, but I can’t make any promises. I have tried to forget, it was dark times before they erected the walls." He took a deep breath, looked to me and smiled. It was a painful smile, yet it was meant to reassure. Himself, or me, I didn’t quite know. "It started innocently enough. California was a state of free thinkers and free spirits. Everyone was beautiful, because ugly just wasn’t accepted. Everyone with a dream flocked to the shores of the Pacific in hopes of great things, whether it was to act in the pictures, or to produce those movies, California was a place of dreams. Even before Hollywood was in existence, California had drawn in the dreamers, the treasure hunters, the ones with gold in their eyes. It was a land of hope. Yet, as the powerful grew in their fame, and the famous grew in their power, they thought themselves worthy of making mankind a better place. "They became blinded by fiction. California had become a land of fakery. Women, who were fifty, filled themselves with silicon and collagen, appearing to be in their twenties. Men stapled their stomachs and got hair implants – all to achieve this idealistic, material appearance. Actors and politicians became one in the same. You didn’t know what was reality and what was fiction. Yet, the people of California prospered and everyone grew richer. "The people of California, with their materialistic outlook on life, took it upon themselves to rid their world of everything ugly. It started with smoking. A good majority of the population was smokers, but the non-smokers, fueled by propaganda commercials, decided that smokers infringed on their rights, they banned smoking from public places." "But, smoking does kill, Uncle, isn’t this a good thing?" I interrupted. I didn’t know a soul who smoked. After the large tobacco companies went belly-up, because of lawsuits, you had to practically grow your own tobacco to smoke a cigarette. "It was a good thing and a lot of states followed suit. But it didn’t stop at that. After public places it became smoking in your car. Next they passed a law that forbade smoking at all, even in the privacy of your own home. Once the state government saw that they could get away with doing this, they pushed further. They attacked the food industry next. Fatty foods were heavily taxed, and then they were restricted. Fast-food chains in California, served only salads and Tofu burgers. At the time I thought it was amusing, I didn’t realize how they were slowly pulling every freedom from us, it was happening slowly, but it was still happening. "The California government was on a roll and no one was stopping them. The federal government was putting up some resistance, but California was one of the wealthiest states in the US by that time and was a major economic industry. They stayed quiet, the people of California didn’t seem to mind. "Exercise became mandatory. Companies in California had to enact a health hour and force their employees to exercise, unless someone was physically unable. It was a downward cycle, into total government control of a person’s ability to choose for themselves. Families with children were the most targeted. Thousands of parents were loosing custody of their children because of the new laws passed. If a child missed too many days of school, if your child watched too many hours of television, if your child didn’t spend a certain amount of time a day outside in play…they were taken away from the parents and put into foster care. Still, though, everyone thought it was just fine. They were happy when child after child was taken away from its parents. Child abusers were now parents who let their child watch more than one hour of television a night. "The federal government didn’t step in until California started exporting their un-employed and poverty stricken population to the other states. They were packing them up in buses and carrying them over the border into Nevada, Arizona and even some to Washington and Oregon. Finally the federal government was horrified. They demanded that California stop the eviction of certain minority groups. California refused and it resulted in the succession of the state from the US government. What the federal government hadn’t counted on was the loyalty of the military force, stationed in California. They backed California, which now had a very large military population, from every single branch of the military, their largest being the much feared Marine Corps. The executions started right after the succession. They were hanging and shooting anyone who they considered loyal to the United States." My Uncle shook his head and sat down on a large rock, making room for me as we looked towards the west and the beautiful sunset. "The walls went up almost immediately. Many of us have thought that it was planned. They began pulling random citizens from their families and shooting them in the streets. They cried in the local press that they were known traitors, still faithful to the US. Some were not executed, but thrown into re-education camps outside of the larger cities. The scientist, mostly geneticist and molecular biologist were given free reign to test on these human subjects. "Our family escaped out of Northern California, which was one of the last places they installed the walls. We weren’t the only family to leave, but there weren’t many. The only reason we left, because your grandfather, who was an Air Force Captain had been branded as a US loyalist after he resigned from the California Air Force. "The ones that stayed were under the opinion that every where else was beneath them, California was the best and only place they could live. They stayed and they hid behind their new wall." "Did we try to force them back? Even if they did have some of our military, we had a lot more, right?" I asked. "We did, but we were now the laughing stock of the World Governments. A lot of the US military were stationed across the globe. Most of them trying to solve other people’s problems. Some were even stationed in Australia, trying to subdue a civil war, and we couldn’t even maintain our own nation. We pulled all our troops in and hung our heads in shame. It has been like that ever since." "We could have done something." I didn’t understand how we could have let them just pull away like that. They had all been Americans and now they were re-enacting the Cold War of the middle 20th century. "The president at the time had only one solution, to talk them back. After he was booted and the new one stepped in, the conflict had gotten even worse. There were rumors that California was in possession of some of our nukes, there were threats from both sides. It was very ugly." "I remember those times." "They’re still going on." "So why do we stay here, in constant view of the gate?" I looked up, the large signs hanging from the ten foot gates visible from this distance. Their angry words, painted in red a testament to the views of the people within: GUARDS ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE "Because of these," my Uncle pointed to the large silver boxes that dotted the barren landscape. "The seismographs?" I asked. "It’s what we do; the federal government has allowed us to live out here, as long as we monitor those machines. One day soon, we’ll have a front row seat to the end of a world." I didn’t know what he meant, so I prodded him to elaborate. "It’ll happen soon. The charts show it’s going to happen. I don’t even know if California is monitoring them, but we are. The big one is gonna happen soon and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere on that coastline. The government has already begun evacuating the coastal regions of Oregon and Washington. They have issued warnings to Mexico and Canada. California has not responded in any way. They go about their business, they’ve lived through bad earthquakes, they believe they will live through another." My Uncle had a strange smile upon his lips, it didn’t meet his eyes. "They are so very egotistical, they can’t see further than their own noses." He hung his head and I thought I heard him sob, but it could have been a sigh. "Come in from the cold my dear." It was weeks later when the first trembling started. They were small at first, but then the intensity increased. My family was frantic and they quickly turned on the news. There was nothing, all our news channels could report, were the tremors that were felt as far away as the Mississippi. The newscasters feared the worse. There was nothing from California. It wasn’t until hours later that the first satellite reports came back. Half of California had broken up and fallen into the Pacific Ocean. The repercussions were being felt world-wide. The remaining California government that was still alive was begging the US for their assistance. We were sending in the Arizona and Nevada National Guard…we would never learn. |
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| No Trespassing raegirlwriter@yahoo.com |
#6 of 10 |
| 1312 words | |
| The old man paced the floor of his home. The wooden
floors creaked under his feet even though he couldn’t be any heavier than
a buck fifty. There was a shot gun on the table and his eyes kept straying to
it over and over again as he muttered under his breath. "Damn fools." Creak. Creak. Creak. "Meddling, neighbors." Creak. Creak. Creak. His hands, suffering from a slight case of palsy, were fisted and he shook them as his anger intensified. He had come home that evening to find that his gate had been opened and one of his horses were loose. He had spent nearly an hour trying to coax his favored mare back into the gate. She had found a nice patch of clovers next to the road and had been happily munching and didn’t want to go anywhere. Too old to ride her anymore, the old man had to literally pull her back into the gate by her mane. This hadn’t been the first time his tormentors had screwed with him. Every time he left his home, he came back to find some little surprise waiting for him. The first time he had found his dog sprawled out on his porch, it’s stomach distended and white froth trickling from it’s dead mouth. That by far, had been the worse of the attacks. Broken windows. Dog doodie on his back porch. It was always something. He was damn tired of this. "Kids. Must have been those trashy kids from down the street." Creak. Creak. Creak. He had to do something. He just couldn’t put up with hooligans that had no respect for a man’s property line. Inspiration hit and he rushed into his tool shed. He took out two pieces of large plywood and leftover paint, and then began painting bold, shaky letters across the surface of the wood. If this wouldn’t stop them, nothing would. When the old man was done with his work, he placed his paint stained hands on his hips and surveyed his job. "Not bad." He commended himself. He had taken to talking to himself after his wife had left him and his dog had died. He knew it was an insane habit, but who else did he have to talk to? Hurrying outside, he clutched his two large signs, a hammer and nails in his back pocket. They weighted his pants down, but his hands were full so he let them sink, his crack showing for everyone to see. "Neighbors’ll get a kick out of my old ass," he muttered and laughed to himself. It was good to laugh about something. He was so tired of dealing with these damn trespassers. As he nailed up the signs, the large blue letters had a calming effect on him. He knew those people wouldn’t lay another foot on his property after reading the signs. "I have a big gun. No Trespassing." The signs screamed to any unwanted visitors that dared to come down his dirt lane. "That’ll get ‘em," he muttered, pulling up his pants and scurrying back to his house. --- On the other side of the road, hidden behind a tree, an old lady stood and snickered. She was trying to remain quiet so her estranged husband wouldn’t hear her. "Old son-of-a-bitch. And he wonders why I left his old smelly ass." She tried not to laugh, she didn’t want to be caught. Yet, as the thought of him chasing his old mare around the front of the house came back to her, the laughter almost bubbled over. She placed her hands over her mouth, like a child, to restrain it. "Paid more damn attention to that horse, than he did to me," she hissed. She was baiting herself. Working herself up to what must be accomplished. She had made a promise. A promise of revenge. She would get even with him, no matter what the cost. Especially after he refused to pay her alimony. Each day, as she walked to work, unable to afford a vehicle, wearing the stupid smock uniform of the local Sip ‘N Save, she swore revenge. This was supposed to be her Golden Age. She wasn’t supposed to be taking lip from snotty teenagers who couldn’t buy liquor. "That old fart is rolling in the dough! He can afford to pay for my apartment." It was the only reason she had married him. He didn’t have much of a personality and he wasn’t very attractive. The money was the only reason. She had tried to stay with him. She had tried to put up with all his bullshit, but at the end, it just got unbearable for her. "It was the smell," her monologue with herself went on. "Who refuses to take a bath? Just plain disgusting. Disgusting old bastard. Oh, and the talking to the dog, thing. That was ridiculous. Wouldn’t say one word to me, but have a million word conversation with the damn dog." The dog was the first thing she took care of, after she had left. Three Hershey bars and the dog was a goner. She knew the dog had been in the old man’s will, not anymore. She pulled the new fangled cell phone from her pocket. The old man in apartment B in her complex that she was dating, had bought it for her. At least someone knew that a woman needed presents to stay around in a relationship. She punched in a few numbers, and then whispered furiously in the phone as she watched her husband shuffle down the dirt lane to his house. Vengeance is definitely a dish better served cold. --- He had parked his car behind the house, so those damn kids would think he was out. He had all the lights in the house turned off. He wanted them to try to come onto his property now. Dusk was settling in and the darkness was making him sleepy. He sat back in his recliner and draped the shotgun on his lap. He was going to get them this time. A sharp thud of feet on his porch woke him from a light sleep. "Sons of bitches," he hissed and grabbed his gun. It was pitch black now and he saw a dark shape on his porch. It looked like it was only one hooligan. He would get them this time! He didn’t even wait; as he saw the black shape cross his window he opened fire. The buck shot tore through the window and knocked the intruder flat on its back. "I got you! You son of a bitch!" The old man was so excited he couldn’t’ stop grinning. He ran as fast as he could and opened the front door. Bright flashing blue and red lights immediately made him put his hands up to his eyes. "Well, that was damn fast!" He cursed. "Whenever you really want them, they never show up!" The cop must have heard the shot and hurried over, he was probably doing CPR or some other queer thing to the intruder now. The old man rounded the corner in the porch, where the intruder had fallen. He still had his shotgun in his hand; he had planned on finishing off the intruder. "Oh crap," were his last words as his eyes landed on the uniformed cop lying on his porch. He was so stunned at the thought that he had shot a police officer that he didn’t see the policeman pull his gun from his holster. The cop raised his hand and fired off his gun. The shotgun dropped from the old man hands as he reached up and clutched at his chest. As his knees gave out and the dizziness of lost blood began creeping in on him, he was sure that he heard the high pitched laughter of his wife. |
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| No Trespassing My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com |
#7 of 10 |
| 1676 words | |
| The little boy happily skipped or walked in a bouncy
way along his zigzag path, unable to contain his excitement. It was so strange
here, but in an invigorating way. New, that it was altogether another place to
run freely, here, in this big, huge space filled with people and…things.
His short legs could not match the great strides of the streams of adults. Sometimes he would run straight smack into that someone’s way, but it was okay. He’d crane his little head up to their height and bounce up a smile that would somehow reach them, and they’d stride across, making way for the wobbly toddler who knew how to be cute. But though his each step was preceded with either a giggle or an unabashed grin, he is often times ignored; save for a slight impassive glance down. Perhaps this is because people see the over exceeded effort in his smiling face, scrunched up too tightly, almost to a grimace; as if he was trying too hard to be adored. But always the sea parts for him, and still he wanders on, uninhibited. His childish delight and grin never fading from his sweet babyish features, as he moves on to the next person, seeking their love. Not far behind, two figures track him, keeping him within sight, as they look at these…things. They appeared a little worn as the day waned, rolling the stroller, holding bottles, food, and the objects that had once kept him busy. Though they were a little weary, they managed a little smile whenever his cheeks pulled and his eyes crinkled into a smile, privately sharing in his joy. They let him go on in his wavering path, letting his restricted freedom occupy him for the time being. "Luke!" they warned, seeing he had gone too far ahead. The little boy upon hearing his name looked back, his ramble, for the time disrupted. Luke retraced some of his steps back to his parents and looked at them questioningly. They glanced fondly down at their only child, reassured now that he was within their reins. A display suddenly caught their eye, and the mother and father leaned towards the showcase, heads huddled together, inclined a little toward the other, whispering, conferring, and acknowledging the show subject. No longer under the glare of his parents watchful eyes, Luke wandered off again as before, now hands clapping happily, loving the satisfying slap-slapping sounds that his palms made. He again beamed up at a passer-by, glowing up at them, enjoying his little game. Luke noticed a little girl standing in the midst of the crowd, looking around as if she was bewildered by all the noise and excitement. With one finger holding up her rose-budded lips, her huge almond-shaped eyes peered up at the milling people all around. Luke, exuberant now, to see someone his size, raced over, bouncing the whole while as he went. Yet when he reached her, to his disappointment, the little girl paid him no heed. Her eyes only stayed fixed straight ahead, not looking at him or anyone in particular, as though peering pass it all into the emptiness. Studying her, Luke noticed her little finger that seemed almost to be slanted unconsciously on her lip. He moved his hand her mouth as if to wipe away her dazed and overwhelmed expression. Shifting her gaze, the girl’s eyes turned to focus at him with her huge eyes. Luke, pleased that he had her attention, slid his palm across her lips again one last time before his father noticed what he was doing. He was then swiped away and scolded for having "inappropriately" touched the girl’s lips. The little boy did not know what he did wrong and he could not take the sudden harsh words that followed: Luke’s eyes exploded into tears as his father carried him away to his mother’s side. The little girl’s wide eyes followed them across the room; with the dazed look still permanently etched on her face. *** Years later, Luke stood at the corner staring in disbelief at the new addition in his living room. With the glass figurine glinting under the clear display case, perfectly set on the mantle, Luke felt compelled to touch it, to see if its perfection was really real. And then, far off, in the distance, he could hear his mother’s voice calling him, nearing…and then--- closing in. He slowly became aware of her stern tone. "Luke, do you hear me? You will not touch this statue, understand? Mommy just brought this and it was very expensive. She doesn’t want you playing around it and then accidentally breaking it. So no touching. Again, no running or jumping in the living room. Stay away from the glass box. It is for display only. Okay? Remember, it is not a toy," said his mother firmly, then gently gathered his face in her hands and looked steadily into his eyes to see if he fully understood. Luke tore his eyes away to glance at the now far, unreachable glass object, and finally nodded his acceptance. *** They sat at the coffee shop, sipping their coffee. It was raining outside and Luke’s girlfriend was trying to find a way to get closer to him. Though there was only a small flimsy, round table between them, it seemed like a complete obstacle course that she just could not get pass. She loved the dream-like quality about him, his good looks, and his gentleness, but Luke seemed untouchable in a way that said he was not totally hers. She looked down at her cold hand that had lain there, immobile on the table top for some time, baiting him to lay his hand over hers, she thought, so it’d be less alone. Finally, the tips of his fingers lightly tapped her forehead, snapping her out of her reverie. He laughed that laugh of his, and asked where had she been. "Luke," she managed to say teasingly, "with you, of course." Then she smiled and quietly slipped her hand underneath the table and folded it into her lap, wringing it back into feeling. *** His hand reached across the abyss that separated him from her. But her coldness only freezes his touch. She did not move when he laid his hand over her side. Her back towards him seemed like a stonewall that he could not climb over. Because he knew that it was miles high, he was afraid of the heights that if he did reach the top, even a slight breeze could push him over the edge, and then he’d plummet, forever falling… But he knew he had to undo his deeds and stone by stone, slowly tear this wall down. "Don’t touch me," she finally said. "After all you’ve done…" How could you? she said silently. How could you after all these years? "Please Grace, it was nothing. A mistake. It just happened." His wife for twelve years only fell into a deeper layer of silence that if only he knew, echoed and undulated her sense of lost, that stunned her out of words and froze her heart so that the pain will not kill her. As Grace fingered her wedding band that seemed to grow heavier and tighter, imprisoning her finger, she finally said, "Luke is coming home. For his sake, and then…" "And then what? What about us?" "Has it ever been about us?" Adam stared at her back, trying to figure out this woman he’d thought he knew, but realized that he never did. He turned to his side as well on the bed they shared; their two backs facing the other, and the space between them: a white moon strip that split the bed and them, though translucent but all the same greatly defined; their eyes and hearts that, now, could not meet. *** He was the only person there besides the strange women sitting at the center of the near empty cafeteria. She had been there for some time now. In the morning, when Luke had first arrived, he had seen her through the slide doors, like a lone black cloud, hovering over her cup of coffee, and still here she was now at lunch, doing no more than before. But continuing to pierce her sad eyes down at her untouched food. He watched her staring down at her meal, slowly pushing the cold food around on her plate. Once in a while, he would see a tear fall from her bent head, and then she seemed to be suppressing a sudden sob, as her chin trembled and her lip quivered in some kind of embitterment. Though still in indecision, Luke got up and walked toward the center of the room, toward the miserable women with his tray. As he neared her table, the suffering women finally looked up at him and seemed to acknowledge him with her wet eyes. Luke was suddenly paralyzed with the complete despair he could see that was so evident and uncontrolled in her eyes. He looked away and walked pass her, dumping his tray in to the gray cubicle as he was exiting. A tear slid down, as the women cast her eyes down once more. As the cafeteria doors closed behind him, Luke asked himself why he couldn’t ask her something…for instance, what’s wrong? Or leave a comforting word for the obviously distressed women, or ask why…why he had to be like this…so afraid to get near. *** His mother sat quietly at the table, her eyes fixed on her wedding picture that hung on the opposite wall. Luke laid a hand on his mother’s slim and seemingly fragile shoulders and asked her, "Mother, what’s wrong? Isn’t Dad coming?" Then jokingly, "I mean, you guys are inseparable…did something happen between you two?" His mother’s neck seemed to instantly snap back upon hearing those words, her head suddenly veered toward him. But Luke only saw the look in her eyes. Huge, sapphire, burningly clear eyes, eyes that undoubtedly said, No trespassing. |
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| No Trespassing V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com |
#8 of 10 Runner-up |
| 2445 words | |
| Trud took off her helmet, unbuckled her wrist monitors,
and fell back into her chair. Well, there it was, then. The Tokyo deal was a
wash – and all because of that bitch in Singapore. Trud could have choked
her. Just like… like… THIS. "Here’s for you, bitch. And
here… And here…." Trud happily wrung the Singapore bitch’s
imaginary neck until, suddenly, noticing her hands, fluttering pointlessly
before her, she stopped. Oh, God - Jack. How was she going to explain this to Jack? He’d be inter-officing from Hawaii tomorrow to hear how the deal had gone down without a hitch. Trud shivered. She knew her boss all too well - his customary, quiet, "Look, Trud – don’t give me no bullshit excuses, just tell me EXACTLY how you fucked up, that’s all I want to know" might very well, this time, be followed up with an even quieter, "Oh, and Trud – call Accounting and tell them where you want your severance check sent." Shaking, now, Trud pulled a bottle from the behind the stacks of magazines on the shelf next to her desk, poured out half a glass of its brown contents and, grimacing, gulped it down. The burning in her throat spread around and out and everywhere till her whole body felt wrapped in a mantle of comforting warmth and she thanked God she worked from home, now; she was never able to "medicate" this way when she was at the office. But the liquor wasn’t working so well this time, she was warm, but she could still feel panic nibbling at her edges. Distraction. That’s what she needed – something to distract her. Talk to someone, maybe. Ron? Yeah, she’d tell Ron what was happening. Not that he could fix anything – hell, he probably wouldn’t even know what she was talking about, he never, really, took much interest in her business - but at times like this, when the going got rough, his quiet presence seemed to have an almost sedative effect on her. She leaned over her desk and pressed the intercom button. "Ron!" she yelled into the box. "Ron!" Nothing. Goddamnit, where the hell was he when you needed him? "Ah, jeez, no rest for the weary…." wafted briefly through her mind, followed immediately by, "Ah, phooey on that." No. No self-pity, not for her. She stepped out of her office onto the path that lead past the kitchen door, around the house, directly to Ron’s office. "Ro-ooo-n! Ro-ooo-n!" When she got there, Ron was in his customary pose - helmet on, slouched in his chair, feet on the desk, his eyes closed, and otherwise all tangled up in wires, with sensors clipped, it seemed, to just about every available space on his body. "Ron!" Trud turned his chair toward her and yanked his helmet off. Ron jerked up and opened his eyes wide. "What? What?" Seeing it was only Trud, he relaxed back into his chair. "Why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m busy?" "Busy with what?" Trud stood back, waiting, her hands on her hips. "Fiddling with some ideas." Ron free-lanced for several advertising companies and often needed to come up with, he claimed, "original ideas." He glanced at Trud with irritation and, leaning forward, attempted to grab his helmet away from her. "Wait," Trud held him off, "I need to talk to you." Seeing that Trud was not going to give up, Ron sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at her. "Well?" he asked, irritation oozing from him. As Trud told Ron all about the deal and the Singapore bitch who’d screwed it up and how many new ones Jack was going to rip her tomorrow for not seeing it coming and nipping the bitch in the bud, she suddenly noticed that glassy look in his eyes that always indicated the absence of his virtual presence. She waved her hand in front of his face. "Hey! Hey, Ron! Yoo-hoo, Ronnie-baby, Ronnie-boy – you there? Or are you back with your whores cybering across the Net?" "Oh, don’t be stupid. Leave me alone!" Ron yelled, tearing his helmet from Trud’s hands. Adjusting it on his head, he turned his chair abruptly so his back was facing her. For an instant Trud wanted to scream, to tear all those wires and sensors off him and throw it all in the garbage. She wanted to communicate her self to him… to HIM… not to just his body. But she refrained from doing more than pulling herself together and muttering, "OK, Mr.‘Too-Busy-With-Ideas-To-Listen-To-Your-Wife.’ We’ll see who’s 'stupid,'" and turning on her heel, stomped out of his office and back around the house to her own. "Yessir, husband, mine – we shall just see who’s ‘stupid.’" Trud felt she knew what his "ideas" were pretty well. She was almost certain he spent most of his time in the "Cyber Sex" section of the web’s "Psycho-Reality Universe." Otherwise why would he need so many sensors attached to him? Two snapped to her wrists did the job for her, and for most people. What he fastened to himself obviously weren’t sensors, then, but probably those "Neural Signal Amplifiers" she’d heard about, the ones that delivered sensations to the organs faster than body chemical signals could. It wasn’t difficult for Trud to find out Ron’s "User Name." He wasn’t very creative about it and used "RON74879" in all his web engagements. To obtain the password was more difficult, since Ron used "Thumb Print Recognition" software to Logon. Nothing was impossible though – every technology has a twin that does exactly opposite of its sibling. And for a while, now (without his knowledge, of course), Trud had Ron’s "Thumb Print Double." With that and a "Synthesized Organic Finger Glove," she was able to generate a password. The only difficulty was the program also recorded "Finger Pressure Characteristics," and Trud had to make many attempts at pressing the "Thumb Print Double" into the sensor before the program authenticated her as her husband. Once in she could, of course, choose from a number of "Prefabricated Virtual Characters" offered by the program, but their personalities were too general, their emotions and reactions too "cartoonish," and none of them allowed for personal perception so, instead, she decided to build her own. It wasn’t as safe and, in some instances, could end up in heavy "V"-Neural Damage (so she’d heard), but she needed a more advanced character if she wanted to detect Ron’s "V"-Life. Trud downloaded the basic matrix from her "Astro Profile" and took a fifteen-minute psychological test to enhance her "Virtual Character" with "Advanced Sensory Features." Concluding with the addition of "Stealth" capabilities, she was ready to go. First she visited several of the more trafficked Cyber sites, employing a "V"-Investigator to search for Ron’s "trace." The results came up negative, so Trud rearranged her resources and ordered a search among all the heterosexual erotic and porn sites. Surprisingly, those results came back negative as well. "Could he be gay?" she wondered. "No… no, he can’t be." She knew her husband – though lazy and out of shape, when it came to the bedroom, he performed OK. Well, perhaps better than OK. Oh, what the hell – he was pretty damned good. So, if he wasn’t on any of the erotic or porn sites, then where WAS he? Perplexed, she hung for a while in "V"-Limbo, till, slowly, a thought came to her. Trud always "sensed" Ron much better than she "understood" him. Why not use the same approach in this "V"-Search? Trud moved all available resources not only from Logical and Cognitive areas, but also from Visual, Kinesthetic, and Aural into Olfactory – thus becoming, for all intents and purposes, a "V"-Bloodhound. Right away she picked up a scent and, allowing her nose to lead her through the labyrinths of the Web "Sub-Universe," finally reached a juncture where the scent became almost overwhelming. Quickly replacing resources and re-establishing "Visual," she saw she was deep inside the basketball-based "V"-Escape site, "V-Ball." Immediately Trud saw Ron. But not the Ron she knew in her everyday life. Not the sluggish, overweight schlub who couldn’t be bothered to cast more than tired words and irritated attitude at her. This Ron was taller, tighter, stronger, and many times faster than the Ron she knew. With great surprise she noticed how easily, fluidly, precisely, he ran the court, passed, penetrated, jumped, layed-up and dunked. Surprised and, then, mesmerized by this unexpectedly impressive version of her normally unassuming husband, Trud found herself inadvertently drawn into the excitement of the crowd, gasping and applauding in rhythm with the intricacies of the game. When Ron faked three players, rose to the basket and dunked with not only power, but authority, Trud – caught in the moment, unaware of her surroundings – let out a delighted scream far too real to be drowned out by the "V"-Screams of her fellow spectators and, instantly, felt at her elbow the presence of a "V"-Cop. "User, you are trespassing on ‘Emotional Property.’ Remove yourself now." "Wait a minute," Trud sputtered. "This is the property of my husband and, therefore, it’s mine as well. I can be here if I want." "User, your relationship with ‘Primary User’ is without significance here. If ‘Primary User’ wished to share this ‘Emotional Property’ with you, he would have designated you as a ‘Shareable User.’ The database does not indicate that he has." "Why don’t you check more carefully. ‘Account Number 267SDT-367673, Password: Labor.’ If you look that up, you’ll see he’s not only my husband, but I have "Global Power of Attorney." "’Global Power of Attorney’ does not include rights over ‘Sub-Category: Emotional Property.’ Remove yourself now.’" "Oh, this is ridiculous. Look – see my husband? that’s him down on the court, running the ball. Let me speak with him. Once he hears how stupid you’re all being, he’ll give you any permission needed for me to be here. It was, obviously, just an oversight that he didn’t do that in the first place, I’m sure of it." Trud could hear the "V"-Crowd becoming restless. "What’s happening? What’s going on?" flowed in waves around her. "User, remove yourself NOW." Trud sat back on the bench and glowered straight ahead. "No. I’m not going anywhere until I speak with my husband." "SECURITY! SECURITY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY!" Suddenly, the game – the squeaks and grunts and ‘swishes’ of which had been droning metronomically in the background throughout the interrogation – stopped, and all eyes from every direction now turned away from it and onto her. Mortified, Trud’s only other awareness outside of finding herself, suddenly, surrounded on all sides by "V"-Cops, was of the sound of the game ball as, loosed, forgotten, it bounced and bounced – slower and slower – till it bounced a final, forlorn "tap" and rolled mutely out-of-bounds. "EJECT THE INRUDER! EJECT THE INTRUDER!" Both teams and the audience chanted. Trud felt herself being pulled and, then, yanked not only off the bench but completely off the site and, within moments found herself dangling ridiculously somewhere on what appeared to be the grey fringes of Cyberspace. Ripping off her helmet and wrist sensors, she jumped from her chair and ran out the door, back around to Ron’s office. "You bastard!" she yelled, shaking him vigorously and tearing off his helmet. "Why did you eject me from the game?" Ron rubbed his eyes with both hands. "What game? What the hell are you talking about?" "Don’t play the idiot. I know all about you and your stupid ‘"V"-Ball’!" Ron remained silent for a moment, pondering her, then: "Wait – you mean that ‘intruder’ was YOU? Funny, it didn’t LOOK like you. How come it didn’t, I wonder?" Ron got up and pushed past her out the door and around the house to the kitchen. Oh – that’s right, Trud suddenly remembered. She’d used the "Stealth" feature; even detected, it would still disguise her identity. The wind knocked out of her sails, she trailed after Ron and, passing behind him as he stopped at the refrigerator, plopped down at the kitchen table. Drumming her fingers distractedly on its blue-checkered tablecloth, Trud watched silently as he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer. Damn, that was close, Ron mused to himself as he rifled noisily through the counter drawer for the bottle opener. Lord knows what would have happened if he’d not finally given in and, just to get the salesman off his back, purchased a month of his "Intruder Alert" services. Way too expensive, he’d been thinking himself a real moron for falling for it but, if you asked him now? Hell, the damned thing had just paid for itself ten times over. Caught her just at the beginning of the game, it had. Before she’d had time to catch HIM. Catch him with the Head Cheerleader in the women’s showers right AFTER the game. Man, that had been fun. But wasn’t it always? Ron coughed to hide his smile. Finally locating the prodigal bottle opener, Ron slammed the drawer in with his hip and, throwing himself into the chair across the table from his pouting wife, pried the cap off his bottle with such vigor it flew half-way across the table to land just inches from Trud’s still drumming fingers. Ron quickly grabbed for it and, making sure his movements were just conspicuous enough she wouldn’t look away, put the bottle down, leaned forward in his chair and, straining around the edge of the table, aimed the bottle cap at the garbage can way across the kitchen, next to the sink… and threw. Spinning silently, the crimp-edged metal circle flew right past Trud’s sulky scowl and landed with an extremely satisfying muffled "clink" at the bottom of the can. Oh, yeah, baby – in your FACE. Grinning, now, Ron relaxed back into the chair. Yeah, that "Intruder Alert" service was working out just swell. But, still – it’d been a close call; Trud had somehow managed to breech his "Primary Security System." Tomorrow he’d give that salesman a buzz and see what the guy had by way of "Automatic Revolving Security Definition Upgraders." Grabbing the bottle again, Ron lifted it toward his wife and smiled broadly. "Cheers, Babe," he toasted and, craning his neck back, took a long, happy, greedy, pull. Trud watched her husband for a few moments through, now, narrowed, unblinking, eyes, then quietly rose and went back to her office. She had some hacker friends she’d just remembered she needed to call. |
|
| No Trespassing |
#9 of 10 |
| Removed at author's request. | |
| No Trespassing marionh7@comcast.net |
#10 of 10 |
| 2064 words | |
| My driver gently nosed the Mercedes into a parking spot
close to the emergency room. I bolted out, cursing the seconds it took to run
up and open the door. I was expecting the usual chaos- people screaming,
crying, just another Saturday night in the city. But I wasn’t in the city
anymore; I was on the tip of eastern Long Island. If you see it from the air,
Long Island looks like a middle finger sticking out into the Atlantic. From
where I’m standing, it looks like the finger is pointing the other way,
right toward Manhattan. Guess it all depends on your point of view. Inside, the place was nearly empty. There couldn’t have been more then ten people waiting, but they were clearly startled by the sight of me rushing in like a madman. I made my way to the desk and asked for Dr. Wilkes. To my surprise, he came out seconds after the nurse paged him. "How is she?" My sweet, beautiful baby sister Jen had OD’d on Oxycontin, a powerful painkiller. It wasn’t the first time. He shook his head. "She’s had a close call. The next couple of days are going to be rough, but we’ll get her through it. The thing is, we can only keep her three or four days, max. After that, unless other arrangements have been made, she’ll be back out on the streets. The bottom line is your sister needs some serious help, Mr.…." he said, fumbling for a name I’d never given him. "Ipswitch," It was an alias, but a good one. "Ok, Mr. Ipswitch. But I highly recommend an extended stay in rehab for your sister." I believed him. During the drive over, I checked him out. John Ainsley Wilkes was a veteran of the Haight-Asbury free clinics, where he’d seen everything from AIDS to X. Through the years, he developed a sterling reputation in the treatment of substance abuse. He was also the closest thing to compassion Jen was going to find in that joint. "You know a good place?" He shifted uncomfortably, as though his Birkenstocks were too tight. "I do. But it’s not cheap…and they don’t take Medicaid." I wasn’t a medical man, but I had no trouble understanding his lingo. The state-run places were crap; private funding was where it was at. "They take this?" I asked, throwing down a black AmEx with no expiration date or credit limit, signed Gregory K. Ipswitch. "Sure they do, but there’s something else", he said, his eyes holding mine. "Since you’re listed as next of kin, it is my duty to inform you that your sister was pregnant, but is no longer. She suffered a miscarriage." A red haze clouded my vision as bombs started going off in my head. "I see." "I’ll begin making the necessary arrangements for Jen to enter the rehabilitation program at Twin Oaks," he stated coolly, accurately diagnosing my condition. "You’ll be hearing from me shortly." I could tell by the stricken look on his face that while there might be hope for Jen, I was now considered terminal. **************************************************************** The house had stood empty for years, just another ramshackle pile of wood and brick ready for the wrecking ball. An official looking ‘No Trespassing’ sign stated that the property belonged to the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Trespassing on this land was a federal offense, subject to fine or imprisonment. My childhood home was now government property. I’d once been government property myself, just like Jen and Tony. A trio of orphans taken in by a pair of seemingly god-fearing, selfless foster parents thoroughly checked and approved by the state. When we were growing up, those "No trespassing" laws were broken every day. The parties responsible never got fined or went to prison. No one ever pressed charges, or even complained. The things that went on in that house weren’t the kind of things anyone wanted to talk about. I fired up a cigarette, enjoying the nicotine rush. Sure, smoking’s bad for you, but I was used to bad things. A few milligrams of tar and nicotine were nothing. My baby sister Jenna, now that was something. They say certain people don’t have to go looking for trouble, because trouble always finds them. That’s how it was for my brother Tony and me -we couldn’t play it straight with a ruler. But Jen was different. Better. She could have been anything she wanted to be. But now all Jen wanted to be was dead. And I wasn’t about to let that happen. "I-I’m so sorry," Jen had mumbled as they led her away on the gurney. Poor kid, she had nothing to be sorry about. At least she wasn’t feeling any pain now. Tony had been a different story. Dumb fuck got his head blown off during a two-bit robbery. That had to hurt. My brother was gone; my sister had tried to take her own life. She would have succeeded, if a neighbor hadn’t called the cops complaining about trespassers at the old Montgomery place. Too bad the call came about twenty years too late. But why had Jen picked this place for her suicide attempt? There wasn’t anything here for her but memories of the unspeakable things they did to us. Then it hit me. This was where the wheels came off. This was where it all started, and where it all went terribly, horribly wrong. Pregnant and afraid, Jen didn’t want the cycle to continue, so she tried to take the easy way out. She was terrified of having kids. We all were. But a good Catholic girl like her would never consider abortion. Suicide yes, abortion, no. Self-destruction never makes sense, but it was all we knew. All we had left. I walked the property line, wondering why the hell I was still standing. The only difference I could figure was that the same pain that ate up Tony and almost killed Jen was the one thing keeping me alive. People talk on and on about the power of love, but they totally underestimate the power of hate. That’s one mistake I’ve never made. "Mario!" I barked into my cell phone. "Bring the car around," Within seconds, the car appeared. "Where to, sir?" "Take me to church." I could see his eyebrows arch, but Mario kept his feelings to himself. That’s the nice thing about being rich; people do what you tell them to, without any unnecessary questions. Mass was almost over. I walked in just as the congregation was chanting, " …And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…" Even after all these years, I still knew the words by heart. I used to be an altar boy. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen." Father Flaherty was leading the service. I stood off to the side, waiting until he finished shaking hands with his flock before approaching him. I thought back to a certain visiting priest liked ‘em young and tender. He ended up in need of a permanent vacation after a visit from the good Father. He recognized me immediately. "Well, well, look what the angels dragged in. What brings you back to these parts, lad?" he asked, the Irish brogue still thick. "I’m house hunting," I said truthfully. "Around here? What happened, the Hamptons wouldn’t have you?" he asked, mischievous as a leprechaun. "Too crowded. Besides, this is where my roots are," I replied. Having never had a real father or mother, those were some pretty twisted roots, a fact no one knew better than Father Flaherty. "Aye, I see. You been to the grave?" No way. "It looks very nice. I feel as though somehow Tony’s looking down, and he really likes it too," I lied, handing over a thick white envelope. "Bless you, lad, Tony was always a good boy," he answered, matching me lie for lie. "But surely a busy man such as yourself didn’t come all this way just to make a donation," he observed, smoother than single-malt scotch. "I have a question for you, Father. Do you believe in evil?" "The Good Book tells us that our adversary walks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour," he answered serenely. "Ok, but what about houses? Does the ‘Good Book’ say anything about you know, evil spirits taking over a house or something?" Here I was, one of the most powerful men in Manhattan, but being around Father Flaherty made me feel twelve year old again. "Perhaps you should consult a realtor instead of a priest, laddie. If you’re asking if I believe in evil, of course I do. But at my age, I stay away from the spirits, unless they’re served with holy water!" he laughed. The old coot was incorrigible. I couldn’t help but smile. "Maybe I will talk to a realtor. I heard my old house is on the market." "Aye, a pity it all came to such a bad end," he said sincerely. "Truth be told, I always thought that land was the ideal spot for a project I have in mind. I pray God lets me live long enough to someday build a little place that will be a safe haven for our young people. So many of them have lost their way, " "Anything happening?" He shrugged. "I’ve requested the funds so often, I fear I’ve made a nuisance of myself. But they always turn me down. No money, they say-to which I say-Ha!" he retorted. Growing up, it seemed the only things that made Father Flaherty angry were suffering and injustice. It was good to see things hadn’t changed. Things hadn’t changed for me either. After wishing the Father a good day, it was time for me to take care of some things in the city. I checked on Jen, and then settled in for the four-hour drive. A few days later, Mario drove us back. I stopped off at the hospital. Jen was recovering nicely, and eager to start rehab. Right before sundown, I went to the house alone, taking a flashlight and a few other things with me. This time I went inside, shuddering as I walked down the empty hallways. If these walls could talk, they’d spew profanity. I opened the basement door and peered down into the black depths of what I considered the pit of hell. I was removing the HUD signs when a patrol car pulled up. The officer ambled over, saying "Hey pal, can’t you read? The sign says "No Trespassing," Reaching into my jacket would have been a mistake. So I didn’t. I politely asked the officer to, in Spanish. He looked at me like I was a freak. Using my best-broken English, I explained that I had the deed to the property in there, along with other documentation. It worked. Once he read through everything and realized he was talking to Hector Martinez, proud homeowner, he got bored and drove away. Later that night, the wind picked up. The usually quiet night came alive with the sounds of sirens as the entire Seaview fire department was dispatched to the old Montgomery place. In spite of their best efforts, it was too late. The place went up like a tinderbox. A subsequent investigation revealed that faulty wiring caused the blaze. Everyone agreed the important thing was that no one had gotten hurt. Turned out most people considered the house an eyesore that was dragging down property values. As for Hector, the general consensus was that anyone dumb enough to pay cash for a house and then not buy insurance (even though insurance wasn’t a mandatory requirement in a cash buy) got what he deserved. A few weeks later, Father Flaherty was opening his mail one morning when he received a call from his superiors informing him that a very substantial donation, consisting of cash and real property, had been made to his parish. Furthermore, this donation was specifically earmarked for the purpose of establishing a youth center. "Do you have any idea how this might have transpired?" they asked. "Why, I haven’t a clue. All I know is the good Lord said, ask and ye shall receive," he exclaimed. As for me, all I know is that done correctly, revenge really is sweet. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club