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"Second Chance" (the forty-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Second Chance" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), June 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Second Chance by lee10@host365.com (Entry #14) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| He spat bile into the stinking pool
at his feet as the gut-wrenching waves of pain subsided. Shuddering, he wiped
his mouth, transferring a smear of vomit onto his fingers. He snatched a sheet
of paper from a table and left a clean square shape in the dust that covered
every surface, as it sifted down from the whitewashed brick ceiling with every
crump of nearby ordnance. He cleaned himself as best he could, then let the
soiled, crumpled paper fall to the floor. The paper had been a report about the deployment of troops around the city. It had been a lie. The troops didn't exist. His general had finally admitted the truth; that the army was finished, its ranks decimated on all fronts. He now lay in the centre of the bunker, shot through the head by the Fuhrer himself. A tidier death than he deserved, Hitler thought. There were only four other people left alive in the bunker. Three frightened soldiers and their sergeant stood against the wall. The privates were too young even to shave properly yet. They watched every move the German leader made, the terror in their eyes palpable. Their sergeant, whose ginger bristles were days old, stood in front of them, like a hen protecting its brood. One of the youngsters whimpered when a bomb landed closer than ever. The sergeant put out a comforting hand, silencing the boy. Hitler surveyed the bunker. The entrance was blocked by fallen masonry. The tiled floor was littered with broken furniture, the spilt contents of files, and bodies. The light was dim, the bodies in the corners being merely shapeless heaps. Eva was slumped against a wall, her limbs twisted under her. Her skirt was rucked up, showing the tops of her stockings and the pink tips of her suspenders. Green froth had bubbled and dried around her nose and mouth. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking. She had been his new wife, yet he felt only disgust for the state she was in. The poison had worked quickly, and painfully she'd fled the scene into death. He felt his temple, winced when his fingers found the raw slash, scoured by a bullet he'd not had the courage to put through his brain. It was over. The Third Reich was finished. His clairvoyant had failed him along with all the others. Like the general he'd lied. And like him, he was dead. Hitler looked at the body of his former confidant, lying half under a table. It was surprising how little he'd bled when the bullet had stopped his heart. Another thump. Another whimper. That morning, in the early hours, the clairvoyant had been unusually vague. Hitler had suspected the man had given up, had surrendered to fear under the vicious attack on Berlin. When pressed for the day's guidance, he'd only been able to stammer, "Five will remain but two will prevail." He'd been unable to clarify the statement. It made no sense to Hitler, who'd raged at the gibbering incompetent for ten minutes before shooting him in sheer frustration. Despair set his guts boiling again, as though a rank, venomous serpent that slept within, had woken to the horror and started feeding. Hitler slumped into one of the few chairs left unbroken, his knees drawn up to his chest. With his back bent and his hands clenched between his knees, he rocked back and forth moaning, oblivious to everything but his misery. His hair, normally slicked back as though painted to his scalp, hung lank and dirty. The shades of Europe's dead fretted around him. The agonies of the maimed and the displaced fussed and nagged, filling the bunker with their silent screams, but he saw and felt nothing beyond his failure. His attempts to remodel the world, to shape it to his own narrow beliefs, were dashed. The orchestration had become corrupt, discordant; his grand opus was drowned by the tenacity of the Allies' attacks. But as a shaft of lightening may crack open a black night sky with a blaze of white, so may a memory, a stray thought, have the power to smash through the black depths of anguish, pushing it to a lesser level, allowing a more potent idea to grab the mind's sole attention. And the clairvoyant's words returned, penetrated the Fuhrer's torment. As though struck by that very bolt of lightening, Hitler jerked upright. He leapt to his feet. The chair crashed over onto its side. With staring eyes he stalked towards the soldiers, eyeing them like a beast of prey, sure of a feast. "Five will remain!" he screamed. "Five will remain!" Startled, the sergeant tried to step back, but there was nowhere for him to go as Hitler stabbed a finger in his chest. "One," he shouted. He pointed to the others in turn. "Two, three, four!" He turned the finger on himself. "Five!" He stamped his foot in triumph. "Five will remain!" Shrill echoes ricochetted round the bunker, harmonising with the squeal of a bomb that whistled overhead to smash itself nearby. The soldiers hunched against the expected explosion. It didn't happen. Hitler smiled like some minor god and beckoned one of the awestruck youngsters to approach him. The boy moved slowly, in thrall, a rabbit to a predator's lure. Hitler removed his jacket. He pointed to the clairvoyant. "Take off his coat," he commanded. The boy looked at Hitler and didn't move. "Do it!" Hitler thundered. The boy stumbled to the body, knelt and struggled with the coat of the corpse. Rigor mortis inhibited the process but fear of his leader lent power to the task. When he'd finished he stood and offered the coat to the Fuhrer, who waved it aside. "Put this one on the body instead." He handed his own coat to the boy. "You two," he turned to the other youths. "Do you smoke? Do you have matches?" One boy nodded. "Excellent." His smile was that of a snake. "Set fire to all this." Hitler's gesture took in the entire bunker. "There's plenty of worthless paper you can use to get it started and body fat will keep it going." The boy began to gather paper and bits of furniture together, giving Hitler puzzled glances as he set about the work. Hitler watched him for a while, making sure the boy knew what was wanted. Then the Fuhrer gestured to the sergeant and the third soldier who was watching his comrades and fidgeting nervously. "Come with me," he said. He led them to a dark corner and pointed to a narrow wooden door. "Open it," he commanded. "It's the only way out now." The sergeant tried the door handle. The door was locked. He put his shoulder to the stout wood and pushed. The door didn't budge. He took out his gun, aimed at the lock, turned his head against splinters, squinted sideways, and fired. The lock shattered and he was able to open the door a few inches. More was impossible. It hit debris and refused to open any further. But it was enough. Hitler squeezed through the gap. As the sergeant prepared to follow, a bomb hit some distance away. The ground trembled. It was only a slight tremor but it was enough to detonate the unexploded bomb. Hitler and the sergeant were blasted from the bunker. The doorway collapsed, trapping the screaming soldier, cutting him almost in two. And condemning the other two soldiers to smoke and suffocation inside what remained of the bunker. The howls of the dying boy soon stopped and he sobbed his last breath. The sergeant and Hitler lay at the bottom of a flight of stone stones. Hitler pulled himself to his feet, staring at light above. His features shone with delight. "Two will prevail," he shouted. "The two of us. The beginnings of a new, mighty force." He ran up to the daylight, oblivious to the anything but his future. There were no enemy soldiers waiting for him and he stood on the last but one step. Around him the city burned but he knew, with the certainty of the insane, that he'd been given a second chance. He would start again to choreograph the world's destiny. This time, he would surround himself with men who were neither stupid like the clairvoyant, nor liars like his generals. For an instant he regretted Eva's flight into death. He believed himself to be a gentler, more compassionate man with her at his side. But destiny waited for him and he stepped up the last step, aware that the sergeant, the start of his new army, was at his heels. As promised by the clairvoyant, the two would prevail. The sergeant stumbled half way up the steps. Above him, silhouetted against the dawn, he saw his leader. Hitler was holding up his hands to the new day like a conductor standing before a symphony orchestra, mindful of the need to control the destiny of the disparate parts using only his genius and the power of his own character. He saw Hitler rise on the balls of his feet, as though reaching towards a distant era, and then the Fuhrer dropped his hands and the crescendo of war burst over their heads. |
| Second Chance Lori Lindsey cdms@alltel.net (Entry #15) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| “Shit,” David exhaled as
he slammed the cell phone shut and flung it toward to the passenger seat of the
BMW. With the momentum of the throw the small phone did not rest atop the tan
leather seat. It touched down close to the center and slid across the smooth,
slick leather dropping off the other side and resting somewhere between the
seat and door. He did not care. Right now he could care less if he ever saw that damn phone again. What he should have done was let down his window, toss it onto the blacktop of the interstate and let one of those huge, freaking eighteen wheelers crush it to pieces. Traffic was almost at a complete standstill, bumper-to-bumper, all eight north bound lanes. And, he was sitting in this black, sun-drawing, heat-catching trap of a car, with the temperature a good ninety-five degrees outside. The air conditioner worked overtime, the compressor turned on and off as he looked up and saw the familiar Varsity sign and thought about their delicious chili cheese dogs. David happened to look down at his gas gauge and realized he was sitting on a little over a quarter tank of gas. “Well, hell, that’s no good”, he said aloud and reached down to turn off the air conditioner switches to conserve gasoline. Then he rolled down his windows hoping for at least a little breeze. The sounds and smells of the city engulfed him. The stench of diesel fuel was the strongest since he was flanked in the front and on his right by transfer trucks. On his left was an old lady driving a huge Lincoln with four other old ladies as passengers. Their windows were down also, probably because all five were puffing on cigarettes. If they had left their windows up they would probably suffocate. Instead, they had decided to share with their neighbors, and David was getting more than his fair share since the only breeze came from that direction. He had two options: one, he could enjoy the carcinogen-enhanced air and save his gas. Or, he could put his windows up, enjoy the fresh cool air and run out of gas; probably stranding himself in the middle of the interstate with four lanes of traffic to either side. Debating what to do, a third option revealed itself. For some unknown reason the cars in the lane to his right moved up quicker than the transport truck and David glanced over his right shoulder, turned the steering wheel to the right and shot in front of the big truck, barely missing the trucks large silver bumper. A loud horn blew and as he glanced in his rearview mirror he saw the truck driver shoot him the little birdie that so many southerners like to share. Damn it Jack. Why couldn’t you have waited until I got out of this mess to call? David thought as he surveyed his new rolling neighbors. No more cigarette smoke to deal with but now he had a huge “hooptie” with three bouncing young black men enjoying their rap music a little on the loud side. He did not really mind the loud music (he remembered listening to Skynyrd as loud as the radio would play) but the deep, loud base vibrated his car and he hoped that he could move away from them soon. His mood had been better this morning. He had woken to the smell of bacon and eggs frying in the kitchen. After showering, shaving and dressing in his usual suit and tie he found his wife, dressed in a pair of white shorts and blue tank top, in the kitchen of their upscale Roswell home. His two boys, five and seven years old, sat in front of the television set eating their breakfast. (He could hear Dr. Phil now calling them bad parents for this, but if it wasn’t for cartoons the boys would be fighting and not eating.) “Good morning, hun”, he said as he entered the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’m finishing up your eggs now and the bacon is ready.” Miriam said as she flipped the eggs in the frying pan. “I don’t have much time. I’m supposed to be in the office in an hour and you know how bad the traffic can be.” David walked over and gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek and continued around to the table and took a seat. “Here you go,” she scooped out the eggs, placed them on a white plate with the bacon and toast. “You are too good to me.” David smiled, looking up at her. She is beautiful, he thought. I am such a lucky man. Miriam had not changed much over their ten years of marriage. She had had two pregnancies, but had regained her figure with no problem. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail with bangs that fell just above big blue eyes. “How was your meeting last night?” Miriam joined him at the table with her bowl of cereal. “What time did you get in?” “Oh, it went well. I was home around eleven. You were already asleep and I didn’t want to wake you so I did a little work in the study and then came up to bed about midnight.” He lied. He, flat out, lied to his wife. He had not had a meeting last night. He had gone to the Cheetah 3 with a couple of guys from the law offices on the same floor as his office, where he stuffed dollar bills in the g-strings of naked women. He just could not go home. He was too nervous about today and finding out whether he had gotten the big contract with AmeriTel, the huge telephone company. His consulting firm needed this contract; it would make or break him. “I tried to wait up for you but I was so tired. I have some news.” Miriam ate a spoonful of Frosted Flakes, a tiny dribble of milk sliding down her chin. “Good or bad?” Please be good, he pleadingly thought. “Well, I guess it all depends on how you feel about having another baby.” She smiled a huge smile and he knew she was happy. They had not talked very much about having another child. He knew that she wanted a little girl but he was not sure now was the right time with all that was going on at work. “That’s great.” He lied again. He did not want an argument, or even a long “discussion”, this morning. “I’m so glad you think so. I think it’s great. I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, I took a home pregnancy test and it showed positive. I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. Jesup so I can find out for sure.” Then she added in a whisper so the boys could not hear, “Maybe we’ll have a little girl this time.” David took a big bite of eggs so that he would not have to answer. Avoiding the subject had become easy for him and lying to his wife had become even easier. She had no idea he was in such bad financial trouble. He had kept it all to himself. There had been an agreement when they married, he would worry about the money and the bills and she would worry about the children and keeping house. Now he was stuck in this damn Atlanta traffic, wishing he had told Miriam from the start how bad his company was doing. Then, the telephone call from Jack had solidified it. His company was going bankrupt and he would probably have to file personal bankruptcy also. He owed for his posh North Atlanta home, this BMW, Miriam’s Escalade and he even owed on the diamond ring he had given her for their tenth anniversary last month. Not including all the credit card debt he had accumulated over the years. When his consulting company had started, five years ago, it had grown fast; possibly too fast. He had ten people working under him before he knew it; had an office on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta and the company was bringing in loads of money. Once his income jumped three times what it had been, he began getting in debt. After all, he could afford the payments now with the new income. Things had begun to take a downward spiral a year ago when he found out that one of his employees had been fudging on the time they were putting in on one of the contracts, charging the customer for time not spent. The customer had been the one to bring it to his attention. He made it right with the customer, refunding them what was owed, and he fired the employee. But word of mouth travels fast amongst companies and his reputation perished. He had not been able to bring in any new contracts for over six months now, had let seven of his employees go and was down to himself, Jack his assistant, and two employees that were finishing up year long contracts. Soon he would be without any work at all and would have to let the rest of his employees go. He owed the utility companies and had not paid the lease on his office space in over six months. His best friend Mark had subleased him his office space amongst Mark’s law offices and had let him slide thus far. But, now he wanted his money and their friendship was on the line. The traffic had opened up as it usually did once he hit the split of interstates 75 and 85 north of Atlanta. He was traveling along at a speed of seventy, his windows now up and the air conditioner cooling his sweat-soaked body. He looked in the rearview mirror at himself. How can Miriam stay with me? He thought. She has to suspect that something is wrong; I look like an old man. His black hair had begun to gray around the temples and his eyes looked weak and his skin pale with tiny wrinkles starting to surface at the corners of his eyes, black circles underneath them. David heard a loud horn blow and looked to his right to see the truck he had almost hit earlier come up beside him. The driver again held up his middle finger in the southern solute as the eighteen-wheeler raced by him. Pressing the accelerator, David gained on the cab of the truck and returned the gesture; feeling extremely satisfied with himself. He had never given in to road rage, though he traveled amongst it daily. Today, however, was another story. He did not care anymore. His life was coming to an end and if he could take it out on this truck driver, it would be better than taking it out on his wife and kids when he got home. However, after seeing the anger that flared in the driver’s face, he decided that maybe it was not worth carrying any further. He raised his foot from the car’s accelerator and let the truck pass him, the driver of the truck glaring at him from inside the cab. As the truck reached two car lengths ahead of him, he noticed that the cab was beginning to swerve a bit from side to side. Before he knew it, the huge truck jackknifed and began to slide in front of him, loud squeals and smoke rising from the rubber sliding across blacktop. He pressed the brakes to the BMW and began to pray that he would stop before he hit the truck. The truck rolled over on its side as the cables holding the huge logs on its trailer began to break, scattering logs everywhere. It was at that moment that David swerved, on instinct, and the BMW began to roll side over side. The air bag deployed slapping David in the face. He had on his seat belt so he was not thrown from the car but he was bounced around inside, his legs flailing about, his arms thrown wildly. It all happened so suddenly yet it seemed in slow motion. The car with the old ladies slammed head on into the cab of the truck and instantly began to burn. Other cars, he had not noticed until now, slid and jerked and screeched to a halt, some smashing into each other. David’s car finally stopped rolling and remained upside down, sliding across the blacktop on its roof and careening with the truck’s trailer. There was no explosion but the passenger side of the car, the side that smashed against the trailer, crunched and creaked as it gave way, bringing David closer than he preferred to the huge metal structure. For several minutes, tires screeched as wheels were locked, people screamed and horns blew; then the traffic around him, finally, came to a standstill. From his place, upside down in his BMW, he could see logs scattered across every lane, some up next to vehicles, and others atop them. And he hurt terribly. Something was terribly wrong with him. He fought to keep himself conscious. He was scared that if he went to sleep he might not wake up. It took what seemed like an hour for the rescue vehicles to arrive along with the ambulances. All this time he was in and out of consciousness and did not know how many vehicles responded. He could hear a multitude of sirens and could see lights of red, yellow and blue flashing amongst the sea of destruction. One time when he was conscious he saw a face peering in through the hole that served as his window and thought he heard someone yell, “This man needs to be gotten out right away. He probably has internal bleeding and needs to be at a hospital.” Then he was out again. In his mind he saw his beautiful wife and wished that he had his damn cell phone now so he could call her and tell her how much he loved her and the kids. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened in the past year and beg her forgiveness for the mess he had gotten them in. He wanted to hold her and kiss her. He fought. Fought to stay alive to give himself another chance to make things right. And, then he realized that if he died, he would be giving Miriam, the boys and their new baby a second chance. With the million dollar life insurance policy they could pay off everything he owed, personal and business, and still have money to start over. So, he gave up. Gave in to the excruciating pain and drifted off to a final sleep knowing that everything would be all right. He may not have a second chance at life but his family, who he loved dearly, would. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #14 Second place: #1 Third place: #10 Fourth place (tie): #4, #13 Fifth place (tie): #8, #9 Sixth place (tie): #11, #15 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Second Chance Colleen M. Criswell colleencriswell@gmail.com http://www.geocities.com/colleencriswell |
#1 of 15 |
| 1742 | |
| I had a miscarriage on my birthday. We had only been
married a short time, nine months to be exact. The ultrasound had shown a
deformed egg sac, the shape of it was very possibly twins, according to my
doctors. I cried for a week. Not long after that, I went to my aunt and she and I talked. I have found speaking about it always helps scab over those wounds you know will never fully heal. I told her about the possibility that I had lost two children, not one. "That makes sense," she said to me, "you had twin brothers." I sat there in shock. Twin brothers? I shook my head, she had to be mistaken. I was adopted when I was almost two years of age. I remember that I always felt I was missing something. At the tender age of ten I asked my parents if I had any brothers or sisters. "No," my mother told me, "you were always an only child." The memory sat like a stone in my stomach. I had brothers, somewhere, I had brothers. I let that sink in as I went to my job at the theatre. I sat and pondered the situation, yet none of it added up. So, I did the only thing I could do, which was call my mother and confront her about it. She explained that yes, I did have two older brothers, biologically, however she had thought they both had died. She wouldn't explain why she hadn't told me before, tho I suspect it was simply due to the fact that she was trying to protect me in some way. She didn't know much else about it, the only person who might was the foster mother I lived with for the year I was with out a name. I stewed on this while my day progressed slowly in the box office and when I got home I called the woman who I had lovingly called Nanny all of these years. Nanny was a sweet woman, she and her first husband, who I called Pop-pop, had lived on a farm in Illinois. I would go back to visit every summer until I had turned ten and my parents moved out of state. I hadn't seen her since my wedding, and i felt bad for not keeping in touch with her, but I was determined to find out all I could. The conversation with her was short. She didn't want to tell me anything. Just like my mother, trying to protect me from some unseen enemy. I finally got her to tell me. I did indeed have two older brothers. "The oldest had rickets very badly and the other one was also handicapped," she explained, "that is all I am willing to tell you, other than I believe they went to the same home and they are alive." "That is all you know?" I asked hoping to get more out of the woman. "No," she sighed, "but you look like her." "Like who?" "Mary," she sounded like she was confessing, "that was your name too, Mary Alice. You look like her." The then proceeded to tell me how horrible this woman was, the details were horrible to here. We were found by social services, she told me. The oldest boy was about four and running around naked. I was in a play pen that was turned over like a cage, a rock on top of it, I was three months old and had lost over half my body weight. My middle brother was attached to the play pen by a belt that was tied to his leg. Mary and her nameless husband were gone for the day. That was all Nanny would tell me about that. However she then said she had cancer and would die with in the week. She stayed true to her word. She left this world and took with it any answers I had hoped to find. So, I did what I always do. I went to my aunt again and told her what I had found out. That I had no way of finding any more information out, I didn't have a last name to go by or what my brother's names were or anything. "Hallesy," she announced like the Amazing Kreskin. I asked her how she knew this and she told me that my mother had told her once. Straight to my computer I did run. I searched high and low. I knew my place of birth, my date of birth. I hit every web site known to man and a few that few knew existed. All I needed now was Robert Stack and maybe he could help me through my unsolved mystery. On the day of our first anniversary I received an e-mail. It was a doctor who lived in the town I was born. He had read my story on a forum board he visited and wanted to help me out. He refused to give me his name, but he did send me a copy of my birth announcement, the names of the biological parents and a phone number. I sat, uncertain what to do next. I had a phone number of someone who might hold the answers to what I seek. I was not sure what I wanted to do, how to proceed. So, I decided to just make the phone call. An elderly man answered the phone. I explained who I am, who I was and asked if he knew the people I was searching for. The man broke down in tears, he couldn't speak. A woman got on the phone and I relayed my story again. Yes, that was her son and her daughter in-law. She was my biological grandmother. We spoke quickly and she gave me another number to call. She took my address and promised to send me photographs. We said our goodbyes and hung up. Again, another phone call. This time I prepared myself but taking a quick shot of Jamesons. A woman answered. "Is this Mary Hallesy?" I asked. "Yes," she said. I gave her my name and explained that I was adopted. I gave her my birthday, "So," was all she replied. "I was born Mary Alice Hallesy," I explained, trying to go as slow as I could. It took a moment, for it to register. She started to scream something about the baby being on the phone. Someone she was calling Sissy. I realized she was speaking about me. I worked very hard on being pleasant, get what I need and be done with it. I sat there and heard her talk, but I didn't listen to it, couldn't listen to it. I was simply numb. I did not know these people, did not want to know these people. I felt like the stranger I was, listening into the private ramblings of two mentally challenged people, which they were. I eventually pried the information out of them. My brothers were Jerry Mike and James Ray. I promised to call again and to write. I never had any intention of keeping those promises. I again started my search. This time would be tough. My brothers had been put into the system, their names were probably changed, as mine was. For all I knew they would have no memory of me. I refused to let that sway me and started my search. Six months later I got a call from my husband while I was at work. There was a message on the answering machine from a woman in Illinois who worked with adoption cases. I rushed home and called the woman. She had been looking at the forum boards where i had posted my information and was touched by my case. She went on to explain that searches like this cost quite a bit of money. I told her I didn't care about that, I simply wanted to make sure that they were happy. Apparently I had said the right thing. She told me she was not going to charge me at all and that she had the information I needed. My brothers had been adopted shortly after I had been. They stayed together and she had the last known address for them. She gave me the information. She wished me good luck and rang off. I sat there in shock. This was the last of my search. I held in my hand the final key. I was petrified. I waited until the next day, my day off. I took a deep breath and called the number. An answering machine picked up and a woman's voice spoke clearly that no one was home, but if you would like to speak to Diana, Mike or Jim, please leave a message. I quickly hung up the phone. What do you say? I took another deep breath and called it again. I explained who I am, who I was, that I was adopted. I gave my birthday and that I thought that Mike and Jim were my brothers. If this was a possibility, please call me back. Ok it sounded insane. This woman probably was going to listen to the recording and think what a crack pot! She called me back. After putting me through the tenth degree, listening to my life story and how I came about my information, she finally declared that yes, Mike and Jim were my brothers. However, she was uncertain if she would tell them about me or not. I was hurt by this, tho she did explain that they were both handicapped and she was uncertain how they would take this news. She promised to send me photos of them and I would send her some of myself. She also asked for my parent's phone number because she would like to talk to them about it all as well. I explained that as long as they were happy and loved, I was able to accept whatever decision she came to. A few weeks passed and she did tell them. I spoke to them on the phone. Jim was hard to get to talk, he is very quiet. Mike and I have the same voice and the same laugh and the same love of the performing arts. We all got together with my parents, and met. They are part of my life now. Jim and Mike are wonderful uncles to my little girl. Diana is considered her grandmother as well. We have missed over twenty-five years of each other. We have a lot of catching up to do still. |
|
| Second Chance Lee Pletzers writer113@yahoo.com |
#2 of 15 |
| 2462 | |
| A white car. Screaming metal. Déjà vu… # "Jeff wake up." Groaning Jeffery opened his eyes. The bedroom was filled with light. His wife Sara was watching him. She was dressed in a tracksuit. Her huge swelled body stuck out at him. Worry flooded her eyes and that sent shivers of fear jutting down his spine. She was standing in the center of the room, a suitcase rested near her feet. "It's time," she said. It took a few moments for the words to penetrate. And when they did, his eyes snapped wide open and he was out of bed and on his feet in a second. "Are you sure?" he asked. She smiled. "Did your water break?" he asked pulling on a pair of trousers. "Not yet." "Okay," he said pulling on a jumper to kill the chill in the air. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine." Sara picked up her suitcase but Jeffery was quick to take it off her hands. He snatched the car key off the nightstand and headed for the connecting door to the garage. On his way through the kitchen he saw the clock. "Christ," he muttered, "it's five thirty in the morning." "I didn't pick the time. Oh my god…" Sara doubled over, gripping her stomach tightly. He was at her side in a second. "Don't fuss over me," she snapped, "get the damn car ready." Jeff smiled. Usually he liked it when she was angry. It somehow made her all the more sexy. But this was a different kind of anger. This one was stemmed from fear. No sir. He didn't like it one bit. Quickly he opened the connecting door and rush to the car. Starting the motor he fumbled with the automatic door opener. There was a satisfying click as the metal roller turned over lifting the door. Seated with the car engine purring nicely and the heater turned to full power, he reached over and unlocked the passenger door and waited for Sara to climb in. He rubbed his hands waiting for the heater to kick in. "You forgot something," she said. A smile curled her lips as she pointed to the suitcase resting against the doorjamb. "Fuck." He climbed out and rushed to get it, slamming the door in his wake. He thumbed open the hatch and tossed the bag in. "Please don't get upset," she whispered. "I'm not upset." "Stress?" she offered. Jeffery took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm just a tad worried about the suddenness of all this." "Most 'to-be' fathers are, I assume." "It ain't no assumption baby." He put the car into gear and eased out on to the driveway. It was dark outside and he flicked on his lights. Looking both ways, he pulled out onto the narrow side street. "If it's a boy, Dennis." Sara looked at him. "You've got be joking," she said. "That's the special name, you've waited all this time to tell me?" "Yep." He smiled as he pulled onto the main street. "Been thinking about it for a long time." "I bet you have." A white car with blaring music pulled up behind them. "Well, Stephen is old hat along with a whole bunch of names. And no one I know is called Dennis. It's a bit different but not weird and SF sounding." He stopped at a red light at the intersection and looked at her flushed face. "It hurts?" he asked. "Not really," she admitted. "It's green." Jeffery looked up, put the car in gear and moved forward. Déjà vu struck like a sledgehammer. But he hadn't time to think about it. There was no screeching of tires; no blaring horn just impact as the diesel-powered monster slammed into them. The car skidded sideways as the truck's grill pushed through the thin metal. Now there was screaming. The sound of metal ripped open by the striking beast and was being pushed aside, making way for the solid bars wrapping the grill. Jeffery saw it for a split second before it ripped off his shoulder and tore through his head. Somehow, although no longer a part of it, he saw every detail like watching a movie and remained calm as the huge nose of the truck shoved his torn faceless body aside and jumped toward his wife. Suddenly an enormous wheel crushing the seat his body was on like a flower under a child's foot obstructed his view. He screamed… # "Jeff, wake up." Groaning Jeffery opened his eyes. The bedroom was filled with light. His wife Sara was watching him. She was dressed in a tracksuit. Her huge swelled body stuck out at him. Worry flooded her eyes and that sent shivers of fear jutting down his spine. She was standing in the center of the room, a suitcase rested near her feet. "It's time," she said. It took a few moments for the words to penetrate. And when they did, his eyes snapped wide open and he was out of bed and on his feet in a second. "Are you sure?" he asked. She smiled. "Did your water break?" he asked pulling on a pair of trousers. "Not yet." "Okay," he said pulling on a jumper to kill the chill in the air. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine." Sara picked up her suitcase but Jeffery was quick to take it off her hands. He snatched the car key off the nightstand and headed for the connecting door to the garage. On his way through the kitchen he saw the clock. "Christ," he muttered, "it's five thirty-one in the morning." He reached for the doorknob. His hand froze inches from it. "What's wrong? Oh my god." Sara doubled over gripping her stomach. Jeff was at her side instantly. He put an arm around her. "Don't fuss over me," she snapped, "get the damn car ready." He didn't like it when she got angry. Each snapped word felt like Jack Frost head-butting him. He released his gentle grip on her shoulder and pushed past. He scooped up the suitcase and headed to the rear of the car. He thumbed open the lock and angrily tossed the bag in. Seated with the car engine purring nicely and the heater turned to full power, he reached over and unlocked the passenger door and waited for Sara to climb in. He rubbed his hands waiting for the heater to kick in. "Please don't get upset," she whispered. "I'm not upset." "Stress?" she offered. Jeffery took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm just a tad worried about the suddenness of all this." "Most 'to-be' fathers are, I assume." "It ain't no assumption baby." He put the car into gear and eased out on to the driveway. It was dark outside and he flicked on his lights. Looking both ways, he pulled out onto the narrow side street. "If it's a boy, Phillip." Sara looked at him. "You've got be joking," she said. "That's the special name, you've waited all this time to tell me?" "Yep." He smiled as he pulled onto the main street. "Been thinking about it for a long time." "I bet you have." A white car with blaring music pulled up behind them. "Well, Stephen is old hat along with a whole bunch of names. And no one I know is called Phillip. It's a bit different but not weird and SF sounding." He stopped at a red light at the intersection and looked at her flushed face. "It hurts?" he asked. "Not really," she admitted. "It's green." The white car behind sounded its horn. A barely audible voice screamed something unintelligible. Jeffery looked up, put the car in gear and moved forward. Déjà vu struck like a sledgehammer. He looked to his side as the steel wrapped grill of a truck slammed into the side of the car. For an instant he felt intense pain as his head crack. Felt cold air push against the sack enclosing his brain. Then he felt nothing… # "Jeff, wake up." Instantly he rolled onto his side, tossed the bed covers from him allowing an easy escape from the warm paradise, and stood up. "It's time," he said. Sara smiled. "It sounds like you've been through this before." She was dressed in a tracksuit. Her huge swelled body stuck out at him. He stepped into a pair of trousers and pulled a thick jumper over his naked torso. He didn't smile in return. A nagging feeling of dread washed over him and he felt reluctant to go. But pushed on. Sara was about to give birth to their first child. They both agreed it was a boy. They passed through the kitchen and Jeffery looked at the digital clock. "Christ," he muttered, "it's five thirty-two in the morning." This felt all too familiar. "Oh my god." Sara doubled over gripping her stomach. Jeff was at her side instantly. He put an arm around her. "Don't fuss over me," she snapped, "get the damn car ready." He did as she ordered. He knew better than to argue with her in her present state of mind. Bitch… Seated with the car engine purring nicely and the heater turned to full power, he reached over and unlocked the passenger door and waited for Sara to climb in. He rubbed his hands and blew on them waiting for the heater to kick in. Cold winter air filled the small car. Jeffery shivered but it wasn't due to the cold. It was something else. "Please don't get upset," she whispered. "I'm not upset." "Stress?" she offered. Jeffery took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm just a tad worried about the suddenness of all this." "Most 'to-be' fathers are, I assume." It was dark outside and he flicked on his lights. He eased out of the driveway and looking both ways, he pulled out onto the narrow side street. They were silent as he pulled onto the main street. "Carl," he said trying to break the icy silence. "What?" Warmth had returned to her voice. "Carl," he repeated steeling a glance at her. Sara was rubbing her stomach. "I've been thinking about it for a long time." "I bet you have." A white car with blaring music pulled up behind them. "Well, Stephen is old hat along with a whole bunch of names. And no one I know is called Carl. It's a bit standard I know but at least it's not weird or SF sounding." He stopped at a red light at the intersection and looked at her flushed face. "It hurts?" he asked. "Not really," she admitted. After a strained moment of silence, Sara said, "It's green." The white car behind sounded its horn. A barely audible voice screamed something unintelligible. Jeffery looked up, put the car in gear and moved forward. Déjà vu struck like a sledgehammer. "Fuck," he muttered a moment before the impact. # "Jeff, wake up." Instantly he rolled onto his side, tossed the bed covers from him allowing an easy escape from the warm paradise, and stood up. "It's time," he said. Sara smiled. "It sounds like you've been through this before." She was dressed in a tracksuit. Her huge swelled body stuck out at him. "I have," he said and suddenly wondered why he would say such a thing. "Let's get going," he said cheerily as he picked up her suitcase and gave her a peck on the cheek. "At least one of us is eager," she said. In the kitchen, he stopped and looked at the old wall clock. The hands pointed out five thirty five. He reached for the door handle and froze. Something told him to wait, just another minute. "Baby," Sara said, "there's incredible press…Oh my god." The front of her track pants darkened. "Shit." He couldn't wait. Sara needed the hospital and she needed it now. Propping a shoulder under her arm he helped her to the car. She leaned against the body as he unlocked the door. Waiting until she was comfortably inside he rushed to the garage door and slid it open. Smiling at her he returned to the kitchen for her suitcase. A moment later, he was back at the car and tossing the suitcase onto the backseat. Starting up the car he rushed out of his driveway and without looking pulled onto the narrow side street. He rushed past nicely pruned lawns and well kept hedges. All shadows against the dusky curtain of morning. "Honey, the lights." Sara smiled at him. A white car. Screaming metal. Déjà vu. "I know," he snapped. Not angry with her but angry at the fact that as hard as he tried he was unable to remember something important. Something about… A white car. Déjà vu. "Please don't get upset," she whispered sensing his distress. "I'm not upset." Screaming metal. "Stress?" she offered. Jeffery took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm just a tad worried about the suddenness of all this. I have a feeling something's not right." "Most 'to-be' fathers feel the same way, I assume." Déjà vu. He stopped at a red light at the intersection and looked at her flushed face. "It hurts?" he asked. A white car with blaring music pulled up behind them. "Not really," she admitted. "Light's green." The white car behind sounded its horn. A barely audible voice screamed something unintelligible. Jeffery looked up. He shoved the gear stick into first and eased off the clutch. The car jolted forward and stalled. The car nose slid over the white line. The white car sounded its horn again and pulled out from behind them. Jeffery watched them pull into the oncoming lane and speed into the intersection. In the blur of speeding metal and chrome, they slammed into the front wheel of a Kenworth truck. The explosion shook the little car. The windscreen spidered and fell in on itself. A dagger of torn metal twirled through the air. Instinctively, Jeffery dived to cover Sara. Searing heat slammed into his back. The torn jagged metal dagger sliced through the opening and slid like a hot knife through butter as it passed through his neck and embedded itself in Sara's heart… # "Jeff, wake up." Instantly he rolled onto his side, tossed the bed covers from him allowing an easy escape from the warm paradise, and stood up. "It's time," he said. |
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| Second Chance Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net |
#3 of 15 |
| 1121 | |
| Stumbling out of an instant downpour, I caught my toe
on the unlit, top stair riser, making me trip up into the gloom. Other than the diffused gray of the sodden day behind me, the only light came from pairs of dull orange wall lamps set equally along each long wall as the room pulled away from me. Thankful for the shelter, a shiver climbed my spine as I looked back through the creeping chill that was invading the sanctuary. Looking back I noted the small rubber wedge used to hold the door open to the street. Someone was using this passage. My attention again returned to the room. Irregular objects materialize on pedestals under each ineffective light as my eyes adjusted. Curiosity and aversion to the rain led me to approach the first object. Understanding seeped in as I recognized the setting. I had stumbled into a service entrance for a museum of some kind. The object of my attention on the closest pedestal was a rusty bucket with a history imbedded via dents, scratches, and flakes. This pail was pre galvanization. The thin wire handle was far from symmetric now with bends and kinks betraying its life of use and abuse. Looking down through the bucket, I could see small irregular windows revealing the cream colored marble of the elegant apex of the pedestal. The contrast of the weathered bucket with smooth marble impressed me with visions of milking in the dark, lamp-lit barn. The vision takes me to 5 in the morning, a long-stored memory from a youth a lifetime ago in an era far removed from my business suit and silk tie. I was dreaming someone else's life. "What are you doing in here?" The "Maintenance" tag on the pocket of the young man instantly connected with the rubber wedge under the door. The startled lad witnessed a bedraggled, dripping "suit" invading his charge. He had no idea this was a VP of marketing in a major advertising firm. His look told me he only saw the pain in the face turning to look at him with hair plastered to forehead. Raindrops it seemed still streamed down from red-rimmed, glossy eyes under brows arched up in the middle. I couldn't reply. I simply walked back out into the rain, but it no longer mattered. The boy had been home. Across the street I noted the familiar rain streaked, green and white of a Starbucks. A 16 ounce Breve’ was calling. It would be the perfect brain fuel to help me sort out my information overload. Nestled in a warm corner near a window, I opened my case and pulled my laptop to the table top, opened up, and pressed the power button. A moment later I had the memo I had received this morning, front and center. I read again, the story of the buy out and the offer presented to me. If I was to join the new company, it would be in a junior position and at a much reduced salary. The new CEO acknowledged my accomplishments and contributions eloquently. It was clear he had done his research. I had been proud of my track record, and reflected back to all the cuts the company had made in the first few years of the new century. I had survived them all as a power player the company was counting on. Now expected to take direction from a junior, newly created director, with no track record, I was struggling with my pride. It was clear he was about to get a free ride on my hard work and experience. My former team was to be decimated with only Grace and Mark, the two most stellar account managers remaining. Bob, Kathy, Fred, Pete, Janet and Gail would all be gone as would be their road warriors, every one. This damn lump in my throat was sure interfering with my Breve’ The museum flooded back, and again my eyes were leaking. I looked up quickly to see if anyone noticed as I dabbed at my face with my napkin. Everyone was deep in their own world. The crying executive in the corner was not even noticed. I opened my mail program and selected my contacts tab, running a search for “Aunt”. There was her number. Pulling my Cell from my belt, I tapped in her number. I waited through three rings. “Hello?” “Aunt Peggy, it’s Bob. Good morning.” “Bob?” “Robert, Aunty” “Oh, Robert… Where are you? Are you here?” “No Aunty, I’m still in Seattle, but I have a question for you. Are you still interested in selling the ranch to someone in the family?” “…Uh, Sell? …You mean you? Robert, are you thinking of moving back home?” “I am toying with the idea Aunty. I sure miss the old place. Maybe it’s time.” “It’s been 30 years Robert; do you even remember the place?” “Aunty, I have been dreaming of the ranch for months now, and suddenly it has become more important than ever. The more I have achieved in the business world, the more I think perhaps, planting alphalfa, fixing tractors, mending fence, tending cows, and moving sprinkler lines means in today’s world.” “Wow, you do still remember. Ranching is not all done from a saddle. Not like the movies.” “Robert, Sam was just about to buy the place and make it profitable last month, but he was hurt in a car accident, as I’m sure you heard. He can no longer put in the physical labor needed.” “Yes, I heard. Aunty, I’m ready if you are.” “Well, you know you were my first choice when I decided I needed to move to town. This place is just too much for an old gal like me. You said you were far too deep in business to ranch. What changed? When can you be home so we can talk about this face to face?” “Aunty, I can be there next Monday. I just have some clean up to do here to arrange my retirement from this job. The company has been bought, and I was just served up a wake up pill.” “Aunty, I would very much like a second chance at a life I was meant for.” “OK Bobbie, I’ll see you Monday. I love you. Stay safe.” “I love you too Aunt Peggy, I will. ‘See you bright and early Monday morning.” On hearing the click and dead air, I folded my cell phone and clipped it back to my belt. Sipping my warm drink, I now knew what my answer would be to the memo. I typed out my reply, clicked “Send”, closed the mail program, folded the laptop closed, and grinned like a birthday child as a huge weight left my soul. I was getting a second chance. |
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| Second Chance P.S.Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#4 of 15 |
| 730 | |
| Mr. Philips looked despondently at his beloved Border
terrier as he carried him in his arms from the taxi to the vet’s office
door. That morning the inevitable had finally happened -his beloved
companion’s legs had finally given up. As he scratched his best friends head affectionately tears welled up in his eyes. “We have had fifteen years old boy, you can’t expect anymore than that. You have been the dearest companion a man could ask for. After Mildred died I had no-one, after twenty six years of marriage and not having any children I was all alone in the world. When Charlotte from next door brought you round, I told her I did not want a dog, that they were too much trouble and that I was quite content reliving my life’s memories by myself. Then I looked into your eyes old boy and I saw something so very extraordinary and captivating in them. That was fifteen years ago, and I don’t regret a single moment of It.-you gave me a second chance at love you did” The vet glumly examined the terrier and then Mr. Philips forlorn face as he spoke in a mellifluous voice. “Did you consider all we discussed last week Mr. Philips? We both knew that this day was coming and it truly is the best and kindest thing we can do you know, for the both of you.” With that Mr. Philips nodded and laid his beloved pet onto the shiny stainless steel table, by now he was desperately fighting back the compulsion to completely break down and weep, yet he wanted to remain strong. As he softly scratched the nose his closest companion for the very last time he sang in a whispered voice. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” As he sang the little terrier looked up lovingly at his master and despite evident discomfort managed to wag his tail. As he finished the song he paused for a few moments.. “Goodbye” he eventually said and with that he took a deep breath, and somberly left the surgery silently closing the door behind him. He decided he was going to walk the two miles home, to ponder his emotions and so he set off into the cool afternoon. Every step he took he encountered places and sights that brought memories rushing back. He smiled as he looked at the fire hydrant, the one he used to always like to raise his leg up on. He shook his head at the butchers shop, as he remembered the day he ate the sausages he had brought from there without him even realizing till they were almost gone. The park however was by far the worst, as this was there very special place; this is where they had visited practically every day for the last fifteen years. At first they had both excitedly chased and raced together playing with balls or Frisbees, but as the years gradually slipped by, they became far more contented to simply while away the time sitting on the bench gently absorbing all the wonderful sights and smells. Eventually he arrived home to his now silent house. Sullenly he hung the well worn leather leash and collar into his hall closet then he sat in his favorite chair, the one they always used to share, and wept. ***************** Ten weeks later the phone rang early one morning. As he picked it up he was excited to hear the vet’s voice which was far more cheerful than the last time they had spoke. “I am delighted to tell you that we have some wonderful news! The cloning was a complete and total success Mr. Philips, your terrier was the perfect specimen, and right now I am staring at a healthy young puppy identical in virtually every way to your old dog Chance. He even cocks his head to the left in the same curious manner as you scratch him behind the ears!” Excitedly Mr. Phillips thanked the vet and hung up the phone. Then with a renewed sparkle in his fading grey eyes he once more retrieved the leash and collar from the hall closet, put on his jacket and almost skipped out of his front door into the morning sunlight. “A second chance!” He thought grinning ear to ear. |
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| Second Chance P D Han pabs@readytogo.net |
#5 of 15 |
| 1229 | |
| Paul was an aspiring writer. He dreamed of being a
successful and established author. He wanted to be the next Nick Hornby, or the
next JD Salinger (for chrissake), or even the next Anton Zsandor LaVey, or as
some had muted a pissed off Douglas Adams. Even though he hated studying
English at school, and even though he failed miserably in his exams, he had
over time grown to enjoy both writing and reading as a means of enjoyment and
relaxation. He even managed to get one or two articles printed in a few magazines and eventually succeeded in getting not one, but four books published, books which in turn became reasonably successful albeit on a local level. In his opinion however he had a problem, partly a case of writer's block. You see he wrote far too much autobiographical analogies of life. He wrote quirky, odd ramblings, humour and irony that people didn’t see as being funny or paradoxical. At times, this frustrated Paul. Why couldn’t those that read his work see the wood for the trees? Either way he kept on scribbling in his own unique style, though what he really wanted to do was write a purely fictional best seller without worrying about, or rather slipping consciously or sub-consciously into reality and composing personal anecdotes and other such memoirs. Putting pen to paper, or rather in this day and age finger to keyboard, he started to write one or two imaginative short stories. In order to test the market (to tell you the truth), he joined a couple of online writers groups. This way he could air his drafts, receive feedback, and see if what he was writing was complete and utter garbage or something that could be developed into a globally and critically acclaimed novel. He avoided traditional writers groups. Well on one hand he felt it'd be like going round to the local Vicar's house for some tea and biscuits, and on the other hand he didn’t have time to mess about meeting in some obscure corner of the local library once a week with a bunch of deadbeat losers. The Internet was the way forward, fast, efficient and more groups to interface with and gain greater exposure with. One such group, an online 'club' advertised as an adult creative writing group (adult as in mature people over eighteen, not anything rude – no smut here) was particularly appealing. Each and every month the administrator of this group ran a contest by 'unveiling' a title. Members were then encouraged to interpret this title at will, and within a set deadline submit an entry, be it a short story or poem. Once the deadline had passed, members were then encouraged to critique the stories and vote for their favourite. As well as providing a competitive element, it also meant that there was an opportunity to receive valuable feedback and in turn improve writing skills. Paul liked this competitive element. It was different from the other online forums. Here there was pressure, stress, the clock was ticking away, and this got his creating juices flowing – boiling even, and in turn it provided unmitigated inspiration, more so regarding he had a story – well the first 600 hundred words of a story to be precise – that he'd put to one side many moons ago which he now resurrected and polished off just within the 2,500 word limit. He duly submitted his entry for critique and hoped that he might (with what was his first entry), win. Sadly things didn't turn out for the best. His work was viciously attacked. The critiques poured in alright, but each and every one was very, very negative. His effort was just that you see - an effort, a badly written, badly composed and factually incorrect pile of dog shit. This wasn't to quote from the website, 'getting helpful feedback on submitted work'. He was being accused of shoe horning his entry (some quirky American term), having a title that was contrived and wedged into an already finished piece of work. Paul argued the point to no avail. Fair enough he thought, he had taken something he had already written, but it was unfinished, the contest merely provided both the motivation and stimulation needed to complete it. As far as Paul was concerned, if George Lucas could successfully 'shoe-horn' stuff then so could he (well think about it – Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith – we all know what’s going to happen and whatever happens, it has to fit in with whatever takes place in Star Wars: Episode IV A New Hope, so you get a drawn out two-and-a-half-hour long movie which in the last five minutes ties up, or shoe-horns in any missing elements between what you've just watched and Episode IV – well apart from not explaining why R2-D2 didn’t get his memory wiped and why Obi Wan Kenobi is called Ben Kenobi or rather will be called Ben). Getting back to the issue at hand however it appeared some people out there in the vastness of cyberspace, entities that found pleasure in hiding behind words sent via email in order to air their alleged superior knowledge of life, the universe and everything, wouldn’t accept Paul’s slant. Sadly for the detractors, Paul fought fire with fire, maybe he was being just as stubborn or just as menacing as the defamatory critics, but he felt the urge, an overwhelming urge to fight for the right to defend his article. Yes he had a chip on his shoulder. He was a recent member and thus to coin another American phrase, he was a 'rookie' – or rather an outsider, more so when he considered the fact that he'd joined a writers group where the vast majority of members were bloody Yanks. Paul wouldn't budge. His critics wouldn’t budge. Catch 22! The verbal onslaught gradually sank to new depths, spiralling downwards into more and more personal attacks, until the club administrator stepped in and declared Paul's entry invalid, null void, destitute. Paul refused to give up and demanded an explanation, but it appeared the web administrator had taken the side of the masked assassins. Like British MP George Galloway, Paul had fell victim of being found guilty prior to any trial or hearing taking place, and much like MP George Galloway being picked on by the so-called superior US Senators, here was Paul, a proud British writer fighting back with all his might, quoting the aforementioned Member of Parliament declaring to be "the enemy within", accusing his critics of being "remarkably cavalier" whilst being ready and willing to unload all his ammunition with "both barrels". Paul was aggressive. He was being quite childish in a way, taking things far too seriously, and yet he was becoming quite violent with his correspondence – radical, extreme, militant. Ultimately, the administrator disabled Paul's membership, prior to offering him a second chance, provided he’d stop his one man war, and let bygones be bygones. His membership would be re-enabled if he would let the dust settle, after all this was a site that encouraged progress in the field of literary talent, not defending and attacking with poisonous venom stories that were deemed contrived. Paul stated once again his story was not contrived, but held back deciding to accept the clubs offer of a second chance, though in his bitter opinion it was him giving the group on the whole a second chance - a second chance to critique his work fairly. Another short story was punctually submitted. This time Paul hoped that the criticism would be positive and not so degrading, repulsive, cynical, and sacrilegiously insulting, provided of course the group on a whole would see through the backhanded sardonic ridicule and see his work from a lighter and more whimsical if not slightly eccentric point of view. The carrot was dangled; the bait was live and ready to be thrown to the lions. So what happened next I hear you cry? Well that my friends is up to you... |
|
| Second Chance Rita B. Fox daridi@zeelandnet.nl |
#6 of 15 |
| 2478 | |
| "Bye mom, I leave now," said Patricia while she walked
by. "See you after school time, I will be at home. We can have a nice cup of tea together. "How late will you be back?" Patricia didn't hear her mom, she was too far away to hear her mom. She walked through the hallway to leave. ~Lovely, the silence, when Patricia has to go to school. Not that I like to get rid of her, oh no, but it feels good, ~ thought Patricia's mother. Patricia went to Roosevelt University and was an excellent student, an A-student, at least that’s what her mother thought. There were no complaints from the school, always good report cards; A's and A minuses. So, Patricia's mother was under the impression that everything was okay at school. Patricia listens very well, and is always at home on time, even on the weekends when she goes to the disco. So there was no reason to worry. Patricia's mother went on with her daily duties. Patricia walked to the bus stop and waited for the school bus to come. It was nice weather, not to cold, with a little sun. Patricia put her school bag on the ground and seated her self on the bench. Languidly she took bubblegum out of her school bag and started to chew on it. ~Dammed, that stupid school bus is always late, thought Patricia. ~ She peered in the distance where the bus had to come from and looked angry. Angry as Patricia was she stepped onto the bus and walked straight to the back. "Good morning to you as well," said the bus driver while Patricia walked to the back seat and plumped down on it. The whole trip took 30 minutes, but for Patricia it seemed ages. As soon as the bus stopped in front of the school, Patricia snatched her schoolbag from the seat and walked into the school. "Good morning Patricia, it's good to see you. How are you today?" asked Miss Hasselbank, the English teacher. "Oh well, I could be better but I can't stay home forever I would miss too much school. But I'm okay for the moment. Thank you," said Patricia and walked away. Patricia went to the mathematics room, walked in and threw her schoolbag beside her table. She took her mathematics book. "Good morning boys and girls. Take your book and open it, chapter 16, page 109," said Professor Brown. The class did what they were asked to do. Patricia played languidly with her pen. In the second hour she would act again, pretend that she is sick, again. The 50 minutes seemed ages in Patricia's thoughts, before that bell rang. ~Hè, thought Patricia, it is almost time.~ "Hey Patricia, will you skip the next hour again? What are your parents thinking, that you are doing this?" Patricia laughed out loud. "They don't know a thing, Kimberly. Did you really think they did? My mom doesn't know a thing. That woman thinks I go to school as it should be and that I am an A-student." "You don't mean that," said Kimberly surprised. "I always change my report, the C and D to an A. I write the notes myself when I am 'sick' again and she doesn’t notice it. A donkey is smatter as she is." Patricia laughed. "So she doesn't know that you are more off than on at school and caught a few times for stealing clothes?" asked Kimberly. "No of course not. Do you think I tell that to my parents? No Kimberley, I don't think so." "No, I guess not. But Patricia, it won't last forever, you will be caught again." "No it won’t happen again. I know what I can and can't do. Where to look and where to go. It never goes wrong anymore, Kimberly. Believe me." Patricia knew, when she got caught again she would be in trouble. The first time it was a warning, the next time it would be more than a warning. In the meantime, Kimberly and Patricia walked into the next classroom. They sat down and took their book out and waited for Professor Russell to say what they had to do. This year they had to work for themselves in History. "Chapter 17 is what you have to do for today, folks," Professor Russell said. Patricia started with her chapter. Kimberly looked at her and shook her head as if she where trying to say: “Patricia, don't do it.” Patricia coughed regularly. Russell looked up often "Are you well, my girl?" asked Russell, worrying. "Yes, I'm fine thank you,” said Patricia. "When you feel sick you should go home and see a doctor. You are sick too often and you should have a check-up." "Yes, Sir" Kimberly looked to Patricia again. ~One time she will be in trouble, what a stupid girl Patricia is, thought Kimberly.~ Russell looked at Patricia, after she was coughing for 30 minutes. "Go home, go to bed Patricia, this isn't working. Be sure you are better the next time." "Yes Sir, I will," said Patricia, coughing and sneezing. ~Yippee, thought Patricia, at last, I thought he wasn't going to send me away at all. Yippee.~ As fast as she could, she grabbed her things and left the classroom. She heard Professor Russell saying, 'get well soon', as she left the classroom. ~Get lost man, thought Patricia.~ She ran down stairs and went outside. She threw her schoolbag in the air and turned around. "Yèèèèèèèhhhhhhhhhh," she screamed out loud, "I did it again and now I'll go to the mall." She grabs her schoolbag off the ground and left to the mall 'The Black Cat’. It was early in the morning, so it was quiet. Patricia looked into different shop windows. ~I'll go for a cup of coffee first, with a bite to eat, I’m hungry and after that I shall see if I can find something nice to take home, thought Patricia.~ She entered a small cafe and ordered a cup of coffee and a sandwich. She paid for them and took a seat near the window. She looked outside and saw people walking through the mall. Some where window-shopping, others where talking. ~Me get caught? No way. I know now what to do or not to do when I take something with me.~ Patricia laughed. She finished her cup of coffee and her sandwich, put her coat on and walked outside. She sauntered through the mall and looked in the jeweler’s window, shoe shop, the superstore's window and the clothing-shop. She decided to go the clothing-shop. Patricia browsed through the clothes that were hanging there.. ~A new pair of trousers and oh a new jersey to go with it that would be nice.~ thought Patricia.~ Patricia took some clothes with her and disappeared in a fitting-room. Quickly as she could, Patricia cut off the price tags and put the clothes in her schoolbag. Patricia tried on some other clothes, because she didn't want to attract any attention. Patricia came out of the fitting room and put the remaining clothes back and browsed for a moment. She held her schoolbag tightly under her arm when she left the shop. She to the ground. ~First of all a cup of coffee for the shivers and after that I'll walk to the park, to relax, thought Patricia.~ "Can I help you, miss?" asked the man in the snack bar. "A cup of coffee, please," said Patricia with a trembling voice. "Your coffee, $1,25 please." "Thank you." Patricia paid and took her coffee and looked around. Patricia wanted to leave the mall as soon as possible, she didn't feel comfortable in the mall. Suddenly she was startled by something. She felt that someone put a hand on her shoulder and something happened with her bag. "Cjaminski, security service, may I see your bag please, miss?" Patricia looked up and looked the man in the eyes. She let her bag go and ran to the exit. Cjaminski looked in her schoolbag and as soon he saw the clothes he started to run as well. Patricia ran without looking where she was running. Suddenly Cjaminski heard a loud bang. He ran even harder. He was startled by what he saw. A car hit Patricia. She ran across the street without watching the traffic. He took his cell phone and dialed 911 for an ambulance. The driver came out of his car, in shock. He was deathly pale and stammered: "I-i-i-t i-i-i-sn't m-m-m-y f-f-f-old, s-s-she c-c-c-rossed t-t-t-t-he r-r-r-oad w-w-w-ithout w-w-w-watching -w-w-where s-s-s-s-she w-w-was g-g-g-oing, I-I-I c-c-ouldn't s-s-s-top i-i-i-i-n t-t-t-t-t-ime. I-I-I-I e-e-h-h s-s-s-s-o s-s-s-s-orry." "It is alright mister, the police will be here soon. They will settle it with you. I know what happened, so don’t worry, it will be all right for you," said Cjaminski to the man. Cjaminski kneeled next to Patricia and stayed there till the ambulance came. Patricia was unconscious, so he didn't know how bad it could be. At a certain moment Patricia winked with her eyes and whispered: "I'm so sorry." "Please, girly, we will talk about that later, you had an accident,” said Cjaminski. "I'm so sorry," whispered Patricia again. "It's alright, the most important thing is to get you to the hospital as soon as possible, so you can recover from your injuries," proceeded Cjaminski. The ambulance arrived with blaring sirens. Everyone stepped aside. The ambulance stopped, the doors swept open. Two male nurses came out of the ambulance and took care of Patricia and wheeled her professionally into the ambulance. Cjaminski decided to go to the hospital in the ambulance with Patricia and stepped in the back of the ambulance. He looked in Patricia's schoolbag to see if there was any identification card or something that could tell him who this girl was. While male nurses took care of Patricia, Cjaminski looked at them. ~What brings a beautiful girl like her that far to do such things, thought Cjaminski.~ The ambulance arrived at the parking place of the hospital, still with blaring sirens. Again the door swept open and the male nurses wheeled Patricia as fast as they could to the E.R. Cjaminski dialed the number that was on the I.D.-card he found in Patricia's school bag. "Good morning, Mrs.Jones is speaking." "Good morning, Cjaminski, security service of 'The Black Cat', the shopping mall." "Can I help you, Mr.Cjaminski," asked Mrs.Jones astonished. "Do you have a daughter Patricia?” asked Cjaminski. "Yes, Mr.Cjaminski, but she isn't at home right now. Patricia is at school, but maybe I can help you," said Mrs.Jones. "Your daughter had an accident at the mall. She is hospitalized and it is better if you came to the hospital. I will tell you what happen when you're here," proceeded Cjaminski, calm but compelling, "it is St. Michael Hospital." "How on earth is this possible," said misses Jones, still in shock, "eh I will call Patricia's father as well." "I think that is a good idea, Mrs.Jones," said Cjaminski. In shock, Mrs. Jones called Patricia's father. They arrived together at the parking place of St. Michaels. They both parked their cars as close to the entrance as possible and ran to the reception. Agitated as Mrs. Jones was, she looked around to find someone who could help her. "Good morning, madam, can I help you?" said the woman behind the counter. "We are here to see Patricia Jones, she was brought in recently," said Mrs.Jones nervously. "The first corridor at your right, follow the red line. At the end of it you will find the E.R.," said the lady behind the counter. Mrs.Jones almost ran through the corridor. "Take it easy, love, maybe it isn't as bad as you think it might be," said Mr.Jones, running after his wife. "Patricia Jones," yelled Mrs.Jones, when she entered the E.R. "Good morning, I'm nurse Netty. You must be Patricia's parents, right?" "Yes we are," said Mrs.Jones. " Patricia's bed is there,” said nurse Netty and pointed to the bed near the window, "but that man in the waiting-room wants to speak with you first. The Jones' walked to the waiting room, where Cjaminski sat. "Good morning, Cjaminski, security service of the mall 'The Black Cat'. And you are Mr. and Mrs. Jones?" "Yes that is correct, we came as soon as possible." "First of all, I'm sorry to meet you in these circumstances. Your daughter was hit by a car just outside the mall. She ran away and crossed the street without watching where she was going," said Cjaminski. "I don't understand it, she had to be at school right now, what was she doing there," Mrs.Jones asked. "She ran away when I asked her about clothes she had taken without paying for them," proceeded Cjaminski, "the rest I told you already." "I don't understand it,” said Mrs.Jones and looked at her husband. "If it is okay with you, we can see Patricia now." said Cjaminski politely. "How is this possible? Patricia is an A-student. I never got complaints about her from the headmaster that there was something wrong. I don't understand it." Mrs.Jones burst into sobbing. "It's okay love." said Mr.Jones, "Let's be grateful that it isn't that bad. We will deal later with all the other issues, when Patricia is home." "I think that is the best way to do. Shall we go now?" Cjaminski said. . They walked to Patricia's bed. Patricia was very sleepy because of the medication. "Hello sweetie. What happened? Why did you do it?" Patricia's mom asked her. Patricia whispered with a broken voice: "Sorry mom, sorry dad." And she burst out in tears. Cjaminski looked at Patricia. "Patricia," he said, "I want to make a deal with you and your parents. This isn't the first time you took clothes without paying for them." In the meantime Patricia looked outside. Her mom became deathly pale. "I don’t know why you are doing those things, but I would like to make a deal with you. Is that alright with you?" Cjaminski asked Patricia. Patricia looked up and nodded. "Officially, I have to report it to the police, but the clothes are still here and I'm very sure, you've learned your lesson today. But I can't leave it undone. You and your parents have to go into therapy to solve the problems that there are. I want to be involved so I can see how everything is going, is that alright with you all? Otherwise I have to report it to the police. What will it be Patricia?" Patricia looked Cjaminski in the eyes. "Yes mister Cjaminski, I agree." "Good girl, I'm sure it will end well after all," Cjaminski said. Patricia knew she had no choice. She knew for herself as well, that what she did was wrong. This was Patricia’s second chance, given by Cjaminski, to change, to give her life a positive spin. |
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| Second Chance Walter Lee McElligott wmcauth07@juno.com |
#7 of 15 |
| 982 | |
| "There's no such thing as a second chance in life; only
a chance to make the same mistake twice," line in Comedy "State and Main,"
(2000), Written & Directed by David Mamet, starring Alec Baldwin and Sarah
Jessica Parker. I must disagree with the Vermont old-timer who delivered this line. I'm still enjoying the "second chance in life" with which God has blessed me. In fact, I've come to understand that each of us have only one lifetime on earth, a number of days that God has recorded for us in His Book of Life. Yet, before this became clear to me, I thought my life had been taken from me at the tender age of 17-years. Even my doctors could pledge only a 50-50 chance that I might survive spinal meningitis. It was almost was too late by the time they learned what was causing my tremendous headaches. Beginning in August, 1957, I suffered an awesome pain that had stolen peace from my days, until I lost consciousness for a few evening hours. My family doctors were as confused as I was about the excruciating pain hiding behind my eyes. Not until my left leg went numb did they think about transferring me by ambulance to a hospital. This was often a last resort in those days. Like the Texaco man who pumped gas for your car, the family physician that made home visits was becoming a being of time gone by. At Chicago's Cook County Hospital, I learned how mediocre basic diagnostic equipment and medical care was forty-eight years ago. Technicians and young interns initially misdiagnosed my condition as Multiple Sclerosis, an illness more frequently associated with teens of the 1940s and 50s. Their next step was a spinal tap, a test that had to be administered without anesthesia. I would later swear that they were trying to pull the top of my brain out the base of my spine. To my temporary relief, the medical staff finally diagnosed my ailment. My parents were then told that if they hoped to send me home alive, surgeons would have to drill several "burr holes" in my skull to relieve the pressure caused by the meningitis. My momentary feeling of reprieve was replaced by the fear that accompanied the frightening words, "Surgery on his head." What I didn't know beforehand was that God already had set my second chance in motion. He had made it possible for one of the nation's finest neurosurgeons to be on loan to the hospital I was lying in. "All went well," my parents told me much later. I remember nothing, because I spent the next month in a murky, silent coma until I regained consciousness in October, 1957. Immediately afterward, I began to receive the physical therapy that would enable me to go home, as the surgeon had promised. I've never forgotten the first words from my large therapist. I'm sure he thought he was speaking words to alleviate my worries over what was about to happen in that tiny basement room. He had to strengthen the deteriorated muscles of my left leg. Before he draped his strong frame across the crook of my frail leg, he said, "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." I still don't think even he believed the white lie he was telling. In spite of the pain I felt at my knee, I quickly realized that my leg had to be straightened before I'd be able to walk again. I was soon well enough to compete in wheelchair races down a hallway filled with ancient World War II beds occupied by cheering patients. After four weeks of exercises, and much to the head nurse's delight, I was discharged home. I spent several more weeks in a wheelchair as my mother and I made the long drive each day for therapy at the hospital's Outpatient Clinic. The most exciting day of my recovery occurred on Thanksgiving Day, 1957. My mother called me to dinner and with the support of a single crutch, I walked to the dinner table. I had been practicing this for many days, without my parent's knowledge. I have tried to make the best of God's gift of a second chance. I've spent my days coping with the aftereffects of the brain damage caused by the meningitis--left-sided paralysis and a seizure disorder. I knew that to benefit from the Lord's Gift, I'd need to rely on His help to overcome what now seems little more than a bump in the road of life. Granted this was a very severe bump, but with the strength God provided, I was able to conquer problems that caused a slight detour in my otherwise successful life. Looking back on this blessing of a second chance, I'm reminded of what He helped me accomplish. In spite of (or encouraged by) my disabilities I utilized my time appropriately, but certainly not perfectly. Like the movie character said, I have made my share of mistakes. Yet, I did graduate from high school and college, and was employed as a professional businessman in downtown Chicago for 25 years until I recently retired. My high school sweetheart and I will have been married 40 years this November, and our son and daughter have further blessed us with five beautiful grandchildren to enlighten our Senior years. Just a few years ago, I saw the original post-surgical X-rays for the first time. Considering the obvious damage done by my illness, I am truly amazed that I'm able to write this story, even though I'm limited to typing with my right hand. In conclusion, the important thing to remember about the miracle of a "Second Chance" is not being blessed with one, but rather, what you do with that gift when God bestows it upon you. |
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| Second Chance Dodge Reid dodge_reid@yahoo.com |
#8 of 15 |
| 334 | |
| “Hey there, stranger!” a boy calls out.
Melanie stops. Please, she prays, let it be anyone but Jake. She turns around. Before her is a tall, lanky guy with skater hair and a boy’s attempt at a mustache. “Hi, Jake.” “What have you been up to?” “Not much.” “Want to go to a party? It’s at Kenny’s house.” “Not really.” “Oh, okay then. See ya around, I guess.” Jake walks away. Melanie watches. He is looking down, scuffing his shoes on the sidewalk. She watches as he approaches a cross walk, he doesn’t look up, and a car flies through the intersection… “STOP!” she yells and snaps her fingers. “Not much.” “Want to go to a party? It’s at Kenny’s house.” “Sure, what time?” He smiles broadly, “Tonight, things should start around 8-ish. His parents are out of town. See you then, okay?” “Sure, see ya.” Melanie watches. He is running to the crosswalk, trying to make it across before the light changes. She watches as he approaches the cross walk, he turns around to give her a wave, and a car flies though the intersection… “STOP!” she yells and snaps her fingers. “Not much.” “Want to go to a party? It’s at Kenny’s house.” “Umm… Not really.” “Oh, okay,” Jake looks down and shuffles his feet. “I’ve got a better idea, want to go to a movie? Just us?” “Which one?” “Umm… Why not that new movie with Lennifer Jopez?” “A chick flick?” he wrinkles his nose, “I think I’ll pass. Well, I’ve got to go. I promised Kenny I’d help him set up… See ya.” Melanie watches. He approaches the intersection; the light is red. She watches as he waits, the signal turns green, and he crosses. She turns, continuing to walk down the street. “God,” she says, “What is it with people these days?” |
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| Second Chance Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#9 of 15 |
| 1673 | |
| From the river, the ship’s mournful horn sounded
up and down the empty streets, haunting the neighborhood. The first lorries of
the day were rumbling across the bridge toward the sleepy markets. Under the
bridge, a young girl yawned, rubbed her almond eyes, and stretched. Molly
pulled on her boots and wrapped her threadbare cloak around herself. The
mottled glow of dawn began to lighten the stale grey clouds as she picked her
way down the riverbank. She drew a hard bread heel from her pocket and munched
on it as she picked her way among the wildflowers. She hoped it would be a good
day as she was hungry and lonely. The gay profusion of unique flora always brought a twinkle to her eyes, as if in a knowing kinship. Her nimble fingers swiftly gathered them into pleasing bouquets, tied them with bits of discarded string, and wrapped them all in a wet rag to keep them fresh on the long walk to the market. A few people nodded and smiled at her and to them a shy smile was bestowed in return. It would be a long day as few in the multitude would buy her flowers until the end of the day when they were bound for their homes. She would use the pennies she had earned to buy bread and apples and perhaps a piece of boiled meat or fish and maybe even enough for a sweet bun. Though she always had to keep a wary eye out for pickpockets and lechers, she passed much of her time singing some of the lilting songs her mother had taught her. Then it was back to her little nest with her blanket, spare clothes and various items neatly tucked into a sturdy wooden box, which also served as a table or chair. Her modest meal was eaten while watching the rainbows of the sunset ripple over the murky river; the only time of day when the sluggish waters assumed a magical aspect. As darkness limned the city with grotesque shadows, the girl snuggled into her blanket and lay down her weary head. The next day as she stood on her corner, a corpulent man, opulently attired, looked her over. "My name is Mr. Carruthers. I have a position open in my household for a scullery maid. You may apply if the situation is of interest to you." Molly replied hesitantly, "I'm not sure..." "Well become sure young lady. I would think it would be vastly preferable to peddling those flowers on a street corner. I am going over to the tobacconists shop and when I return I shall have your answer." As he waddled off, Molly tugged at the sleeve of the boy who was following him. "Excuse me. Are you in that gentleman's service?" The boy doffed his cap and said, "Yes'm" "Mightn't you tell me what sort of household he runs and what sort of treatment I might expect?" "Truthfully, he's a hard one. The pay is low and the food is just scraps off the dinner table. There would be a cot for you in the servant's quarters." The lad paused before continuing. "He does take liberties with the help, that would likely be required of you." Molly hung her head, her raised hopes dashed. Much as she would like a job and a roof over her head, however rude the circumstances, she could not accept the position if it meant compromising herself. She turned and walked away slowly but the boy caught up with her. "Listen. There's a situation for a maid at Mr. Fotheringay's house, two doors down from us. He's old and kindly and treats his servants well. Nothing would be expected of you other than your normal duties. His address is Number 12 Kings Lane." "Thank you ever so much..." "Jack. Jack Johnson. P'raps I'll see you again if we become neighbors. Here comes old man Carruthers. I've got to go." "Jack! What are you doing dawdling here? Come carry this parcel." Molly obtained the position. After a long journey through city streets, asking directions a few times along the way, passing though squalid sections she never wanted to see again and finally impeccable neighborhoods she would like to revisit, she arrived at 12 Kings Lane. Mr. Fotheringay, white-haired and conservatively clad, explained her duties as upstairs maid and lady-in-waiting to his daughter Elizabeth. He also thoughtfully gave her a shilling advance to buy some new clothes. The clothes she had on, her best, wouldn't do in her new surroundings. Though clean, they were old and frayed. Molly couldn't have been happier. Her duties were not too burdensome; making up the delicately carved four poster beds, dusting the beautiful Queen Anne furniture and lavishly embroidered draperies. She had never even been inside such a splendid home before. Mr. Fotheringay was quite complimentary of her work. Best of all, she had become less like a lady-in-waiting to Elizabeth, who was but a year older than she, and more like a companion. Molly even helped Elizabeth with her lessons. It was quite unheard of for a servant to be educated but Molly, who had learned her letters from her mother, mastered the tasks quite rapidly. Elizabeth was an only child without anyone in the house to talk to, so as they giggled over dresses, she recounted amusing tales of her forays into the social life of the upper crust. Molly had already poured out her story. Her father lost at sea before she was born. Her mother at her sewing machine all day in their tiny flat. Then when she had died of typhoid three years ago, there was a succession of horrid orphanages and finally a workhouse that she had run away from after two days. Her little nest under the bridge was safe and cozy. Despite a few hard times, most people had treated her well, offering her bits of food and clothing when they could. Sometimes she had spoken to the children that passed by but she was seldom asked to play their games and had felt terribly lonely at times. Jack took to calling on Sundays when he could and they sat on the back porch talking. He was also an orphan. Though he spoke seldom of his rough earlier life, he would tell her of his ambitions to be apprenticed to one of the trades. Usually they would exchange stories about their respective households though Molly was careful not to make him too jealous as his lot was the harder one. Sometimes they just spoke of nothing much at all but looked out at the world in comfortable silence. In her was awakened a heart that had been mute and sleeping. He had a way of making her laugh and on occasion he would bring her some sweets he had liberated from his kitchen. When Molly was delicately devouring a lemon tart, sitting on the porch swing looking out at the kaleidescope of blooms in the well-ordered garden (though she still preferred her sassy wildflowers), she was as content as a cat napping on a sunny windowsill. That is until the day Mr. Fotheringay's brother came to stay at the house. He was a blustery man of middle years who seemed to have little regard for anyone other than himself. The staff avoided his swaggering ways and leers. Only his brother Mr. Fotheringay spoke with him at dinnertime or afterwards with the cigars and brandy, and not always pleasant discussions either. On the third day he cornered little Molly in an upstairs bedroom and made advances to her. She slapped him but he slapped her back. Her heart was beating fast in terror as he clapped a large hand over her mouth and grabbed at her frightened struggling body, saying that it was part of her duties to obey him. A kick in the shins was what he recieved in reply as Molly broke away from his foul clutches and ran out of the house. As if abandoning her job wasn't bad enough, you coudn't just assault a member of the gentry. There might even be a warrant put out for her arrest. She knew she would never have another chance to go back. Two days later, as a ship’s mournful horn sounded over the grimy riverfront, a little flower girl reappeared at her usual corner, cloak wrapped tight against the grey drizzle. On her pleading face as she offered her bedraggled bouquets, it was hard to tell the tears from the rain. Near the end of an unproductive day, when she had made barely enough for bread, Jack appeared. Molly hugged him in relief to see a familiar face, but she also bore some trepidation as to why he had come. "I've been looking for you. I thought I might find you here. Mr. Fotheringay wants to tell you his brother has left for good and he wants you to come back home." "Home?" "Yes. Your home, our home now. Mr. Fotheringay offered me a position if I could somehow find you so I shan't have to go back to that beastly Carruthers. Will you come with me?" "Of course I will," Molly cried without hesitation. It would be going too far to say the sun broke through the clouds at this moment, but it felt like that to Molly and Jack as they walked hand in hand through the labyrinth of streets back to Kings Lane. Mr. Fotheringay apologized profusely for his brother's behavior and promised the man would never set foot in his house again. Elizabeth prattled on about how things would be different and maybe they could adopt her and then maybe get Molly a fine dress so she could be presented next season and find a suitable match. Jack just smiled. "That is ever so kind of all of you," Molly said gratefully. "I would proud to be part of this family and dearly love to go to a ball in a beautiful dress and see all the elegant people. As far as finding a match, perhaps I have already found one." Jack smiled at her again and Molly flew into his arms. |
|
| Second Chance mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#10 of 15 |
| 2444 | |
| "Sorry, no change," Frank Marrow turned his head away
from the soliciting look of a man who stood under one of the lamp posts in the
parking lot as he made his way from his car to the office building. He was a
just your average filthy bum and, normally, Frank wouldn’t even cast a
look in his direction. This time - and this was the reason their eyes met - he
was attracted by the content of the sign that hung from the bum’s neck:
"Forced to poverty by Corporate America. Please help." Frank felt compelled to give the bum something, just because his sign had managed to break the monotony of the usual bum signs, but he held himself; it was against Frank’s principles to give charity to an unreliable source. ‘No chance, man!’ "Thanks a bunch," the bum mumbled at Frank’s retreating back. Surprised by this sarcasm, Frank looked back and paused. The bum’s face was somewhat familiar, although Frank couldn’t quite place it. He shrugged it off, though, and continued to the office - he had bigger fish to fry. In his office, Frank scanned his e-mails and stopped at the one he’d been waiting for - the one from Geoff Pavlocheck, the company’s Chief Credit Officer. Skimming through it, Frank felt a burst of excitement such that he had to pause and get control of its joyous tingling before reading it again, this time slowly, savoring it. This was great news, fantastic news. His long and arduous fight with Richard Black’s group from the Retail Channel over whose system would become the dominant, company-wide business model, was over. And Frank had won. Richard had been a fierce competitor, but he was too cocky, too arrogant and too blatant in his arrogance. And now he was crushed, wiped out, reduced to nothing. Frank used to hate him, but not now, not anymore. Frank leaned back into his chair, reflecting. No, with Richard it wasn’t personal – it was business. When two people compete, one wins and the other one is left behind. My success, even at the cost of Richard’s failure - is still, simply, my success. Had Richard won - he’d have done it with the same ruthless gusto as Frank had shown. The news, it appeared, had already traveled through the department and co-workers stopped by to congratulate Frank. Oh … he understood their maneuvering well. Now that he was a "maverick" they all wanted to jump on his bandwagon. Frank didn’t mind of course - make me your dictator and I will rule with a benevolent iron hand, he always said. Frank joked with the well-wishers self-consciously, displaying an ability to laugh at himself, and yet taking care to show his newly acquired strength: "It was a tough fight, totally unfair, lots of gouging and kicking and spitting but, eventually, I won and taught the bastard a lesson." In the midst of these congratulations, though, Frank felt uneasy and couldn’t wait to be alone and, as soon as everyone had finally left, he closed the door to his office - the action that usually signified him being involved in important phone conferences - and sat tensely in his chair. Frank felt a strange desire to mutilate his body: to rub his face hard as if trying to tear it away from the bones of his scull, to press his fingertips against the bone of his eye sockets, as if nothing inside him fit or felt right; as if he had no form or definite volume – just an amoeba of meat and juice. Delirium like this, a secret that Frank didn’t share with anyone, came to him sometimes, unexpectedly, and Frank had no clue as to why it invaded his otherwise stable and logical existence. At moments like this he felt as if he was alone in the Universe, cast adrift, isolated, so very alone. He felt as if he lived in a disguise, in a state of "pretend," that he kept from everybody and at all times. Luckily for him, this state never lasted very long. The thought of Richard again showed up on his internal menu. Nope, Frank didn’t hate Richard. In fact, he even sympathized with Richard and, under different circumstances… Frank shook his head in unison with his thoughts. But Richard should have known with whom he was dealing, that was his undoing. Instead of trying to be a friend he not only publically opposed Frank’s ideas, but ridiculed them as well. Ah, who cared - he took his chance and he lost. And now he was a candidate to stand under lamp posts in parking lots begging for handouts because he’d been: "Forced to poverty by Corporate America," too. hehe. Apparently, indigenous to the same association, the morning bum’s face floated into Frank’s mind. Only, now, suddenly emancipated from the camouflage of the beard, moustache and dirty, tangled, hair, to his surprise, Frank recognized this face as belonging to his old high school buddy – Brian Graham. Back in those days, when Brian was a wide receiver and Frank was a quarterback, they both enjoyed somewhat of a local celebrity status. Those were the times: parties, drinking, fights, girls. Often, now, Frank drew strength from those memories in moments of stress. After graduation they still called each other a couple of times, but then the connection was lost. How could Brian end up with the wrong end of the stick? Knowing what Brian had been like in school - a total party-animal - he must just not have given a fuck about his work, must have shown up to work drunk or hung-over. Or must not have shown up at all. But they weren’t in high school anymore, Frank sighed. Frank had realized that much very quickly after graduation and had made adjustments. Brian, apparently, hadn’t. Still Brian, although a fuck-up, was a good guy – one of "us." Even if it was his own fault, it just wasn’t right that he was a bum and had to beg for money in parking lots. It wasn’t right that he slept on the pavement, didn’t have enough to eat. It was wrong. It was fucked up. And he, Frank, couldn’t let that stand. He suddenly felt he should do something - feed him, clothe him, take him home, give him a taste of what he used to be, used to have. Give him back his dignity, his self-respect, his reason-to-be. Give him a second chance at life. Yes, Brian could always pull himself together on the football field and would pull himself together in life. And he’d be thankful, because he’d understand kindness, real friendship. And he’d be motivated. Brian would pick himself up and get back on the right track for good. Owing everything he was, owing everything he was going to be - owing his new life - to Frank. *** Outside in the parking lot, Frank looked at the bum closely, just to make sure. Yep, it was Brian, all right. Feeling almost euphoric, Frank smiled and put his heavy hand on Brian’s shoulder. It had been Frank’s intention to tell Brian that he was Frank Marrow, his old high school buddy, but the words stuck in his throat; to his surprise, up this close - Brian stank. Badly. In such a combination of smells that Frank suddenly realized he didn’t want Brian in his Beamer. He’d never get that stink out of it. And then - what about taking him home? He hadn’t thought of it before but now... with Brian smelling this bad, not to mention how he looked... that would be out of the question, too. Frank imagined his wife, Merriam, screaming at him in her usual sequence of hurried, nervous, exhales: "Are you completely out of your mind? What is this you brought home - a bum? Just look at him - he’s filthy! He stinks! He’s absolutely repulsive! What were you thinking?" Frank imagined how she’d wrinkle her face like she’d eaten sour cherries and, demonstratively close her nose with her fingers. Frank rubbed his chin. "Hey, guy - remember I told you this morning I had no change? Well I still don’t," Brian looked at him as if saying: ‘So then why are you bothering me?’ "But," Frank smiled widely, "I DO have cash. I don’t have it on me, though - it’s in my car. You want it? Wide-eyed, Brian nodded. "Well, let’s go, then." *** The sun was at its highest point as they walked to Frank’s car and Frank could clearly see bids of sweat on Brian's forhead. This, however, in Frank's mind didn't translate into any advantage for Brian. Frank actually could have given the money to Brian right on the spot. He wanted to go to his car because he didn’t know whether to open up to Brian or not, and he wanted to win some time and feel him out first. "So tell me, how did Corporate America do you in?" Brian, forehead lowered, looked at Frank from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Frank’s tone was playful, almost mocking, while Brian was used to treating this topic with a seriousness of almost dramatic proportions. Yet he felt uncertain, now, whether it was the right time and place to express it. Frank was quick to realize this. "Come on, man, spit it out!" "What happened to me has happened to thousands of people. I worked for a company, but you know, I’m not so good at taking commands. I don’t like climbing the corporate ladder, all the butt-kissing and intrigues. I hate corporations. Especially since the ‘80s when the courts gave corporations the status of "Personhood." Now their ruthless operations have the same human rights afforded individuals under the Constitution." As they walked Frank cast quick testing glances at Brian. He remembered him being outspoken and brusk, but this "proclamation" style was something he didn’t expect. He sounded loony. "Wait a second, man. I asked you what happened to YOU?" "Nothing…" Brian looked away, toward the rows of cars. "…I just started my own business… and…" His tone, hollow at the beginning steadily rose to almost accusing wrath. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize that common folks do not have the same individual power as corporations. Since globalization of "Free Trade," people are quickly being channeled into consumers, and those who resist will be… consumed." "OK, yeah... and, so... your business?" "Went belly-up. You know how it is - the successful take from the unsuccessful. In fact, the goddamn feeding frenzy’s never been more obvious since the ‘90s to the present." Frank had no idea what Brian was talking about. Nor did he much care. But that did not stop Brian - warmed to his subject, now, he seemed to gladly interpreted Frank’s expressionless mask and averted eyes as ardent disagreement. "Oh, you may think free and open competition might hurt the individual, but it benefits the state. And the stronger and more independent each person is; the harder they strive for greatness then the greater the nation becomes. And, yes, that’s true - to a degree. The Founding Fathers chose competition as a means of providing the needed quantity of goods and services, with the highest quality, for the lowest cost to the consumer. But this concept has worked… well…" he squinted, "for about 140 years. Due to Corporate interests and the arrival of "The Right To Organize," resources have been centralized. And I tell you - the concept of a flourishing small business is such hogwash! Large corporate interests consume these naive people as soon as their business interferes with a corporate competitor. Those small businesses that continue to survive are almost always businesses that show no threat to corporate bottom line." "Uh, sure. Anyone ever tell you you sound like a Commie?" "Not a Commie – exactly the opposite - an individualist. The Founding Fathers could not have imagined our present day situation. Individualism became the ‘sacrificial lamb’ for big corporations. Will individuality ever return?" Brian was, clearly, deeply into some kind of "zone" and on a roll. "Not unless individuals rise up and enact violent revolution..." Hearing this Frank mentally rolled his eyes and decided, just in case, not to show Brian which car on the lot was actually his. He paused for a moment and noticed the car of Leon Blum, also a Beamer, but a more expensive 750LI model. Leon had always supported Richard Black. Now he would be quiet for a while, but Frank knew at some point in time their paths were bound to cross. He sped up, came at other side of Leon’s car, turned away from Brian and pulled his wallet from his inside suit pocket and, only then, turned to Brian, smiling, just in time to hear his closing statement: "...and overthrow the corporations’ court-appointed status of ‘Personhood!’" Finished, Brian stood back, wild-eyed, puffing out his chest, as if he were delivering a great oratory before an enormous, appreciative, audience. "OK, well, here it is, guy," Frank interrupted, stretching his hand to Brian and giving him a wad of notes. "It’s your lucky day!" Brian, stepped down off his imaginary podium, peered deep and hard into Frank’s eyes... and, with what seemed to Frank, unbelievably, a look of disdain, accepted the money and casually stuffed it into his filthy trouser pocket as if it were something inconsequential, self-evident. As if it were something owed him, Frank thought. "The question for me is this: Is the illusion of security and the standard of living provided to us by Corporations a better alternative than going it alone, knowing we are liberated and free to pursue our ‘More Perfect Union?’" There was an awkward minute when both stood silent, staring. "Well, I’ve got to get back," Frank looked at his watch. "To chase after the deposits of corporate spoils, no doubt!" Brian sneered. "Go ahead, back to... to your stock options, to your illusion of standards of living, and your belief that this nation is the most powerful force on the face of the earth." Frank looked at Brian, shrugged, shook his head, and started walking back to his office. "Go back to your plastic and planned obsolescence, to your corporate slavery!" he heard Brian screaming as he went. *** When Frank got back to his office, he went straight to his window and looked down at the parking lot, rubbing his chin and biting his lip in thought. Keeping his eyes on the lot, he reached back for the phone, picked it up, and dialed. "Security? This is Frank Marrow. There’s a suspicious character hanging around the parking lot; yes, he’s bothering the employees. Oh, sure, absolutely - he definitely looks like he might be dangerous. Yes, would you please? As soon as you can. Thank you." |
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| Second Chance Theresa Grant Grant_Theresa@msn.com |
#11 of 15 |
| 2302 | |
| "Eddy, what’s the matter? How come you’re
looking like that?" asked his grandma gazing at his long face. "I’m just angry is all." "With whom?" She asked. He plunked his skateboard on the floor and sat at the dinner table. "With you and Granddad. I don’t want to go away this summer." "It’ll be all right," said his grandma. "No, it won’t." He drummed his heels against the chair’s support, each kick louder than the last. "You trying to kick the legs off that chair?" Grandma teased. "We’re not sending you away. We’re sending you to your mom." "A perfect stranger who hates me," Eddie said, both hands under his chin and elbows on the table. "Ruth doesn’t hate you. She sent for you, didn’t she?" "After ten years," Eddie said, "I hear nothing from her—nothing. Now, boom, she wants me–sure. She probably wants a farm hand." "She wants a chance to prove her love for you," Grandma said. "Granddad and I should’ve talked more about your mother, but we didn’t know what to say." Grant/Chance 2 Eddie glared. "I could still stay home and you can forget all about sending me away." "This summer is going to answer a lot of questions for you," said Grandma. "This will be a second chance for you and your mom to be together. You’ll be ok– I promise." "No, I won’t." He kicked the chair and jammed his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. "Waking at five, helping with the animals and shoveling manure; that’s not how I want to spend my summer." "Your mom has farm hands," Grandma said. "I think what she wants is a son." "Eddie snorted, and said, "She should have thought of that before she dumped me on you." Grandma got up, pulled him from his seat, and tightened her arms around him. For a moment, Eddie wished he were four years old again, and she would, hold him in her lap–instead, he edged away and flopped back in the chair. "My whole summer is shot." He shifted in his chair. "I want to go sailing with Jack." "You can go sailing with your friends next summer. Your granddad and I believe this visit will be a good experience." She gazed at him above her eyeglasses, "I swear, you don’t weigh more than fifty pounds. The farm will fatten you." "I’ll never have food like yours, on the farm." "Child, there ain’t nothing but food like mine on a farm." "But it won’t taste like yours," he said, and laid his head on the table. "I grant you, your mom ain’t never learned doing nothing with all her hired help," she said, "but you won’t starve with the cook there." Grant/Chance 3 This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. How could he change their minds? "My softball team is counting on me. Please, I worked all winter to play this summer." "I’m sorry, Eddy. They’ll have to do without you this time," she said. "Do you and Granddad want to get rid of me, too?" "Boy, the sun don’t rise and set for us without you," she said, and stroked his forehead. "Finish eating. I’ll help you pack." He leaned into her, hugged her and kissed her hand. "I’m going to miss you and Grandad." We’ll miss you, too. Come. We’ve got to get you to Baltimore Washington National." . . . Eddy boarded the plane for Madison, Wisconsin, and stared out the window at his grandparents till the plane flew out of sight. When the plane landed in Wisconsin, Eddy got off, looked around, and stared at a beautiful, tall black woman standing next to the passenger’s arriving sign. Soft caramel curls framed her oval face like a portrait. She wore a simple white dress with pink flowers. "Hi, baby." Her soft voice reminded him of his grandma’s. "Do I know you?" he asked gazing at her. She put her arms around him. "I’m your mom." Eddy flinched and pulled away. She smiled and rubbed his cheek, with the back of her hand. "The car is outside. Are you Grant/Chance 4 hungry?" He remembered what his grandma had said about his Mom never learning to cook and he said, "No." "I have food waiting. So, whenever you’re ready, let me know." "Yes, Ma’am." An hour later, his mom drove through an open black, wrought iron gate with a sign painted in large red letters: Green Valley Farms. They stopped in the winding drive of a large red brick house with dark gray shutters. A tall white picket fence surrounded the house. There were red roses blooming around a trellis, near the side of the house, and bright yellow pansies lining the entry way. "Didn’t I see this place on Celebrity House Party?" he teased and shaded his eyes from the bright sun to stare at the luscious green landscape. "Rolling hills, thick velvety green grass and miles of white board fencing," she said. "I hope you like it here." She laughed, took his hand and helped him from the car. "Come with me." she led him around the back of the house. "I’ve never seen a barn painted orange, red, and blue." "My favorite colors," she said, "makes my day bright." Everything looked nice, but he wouldn’t love this farm. He wouldn’t be stuck here every summer, cut off from the real world. These furious thoughts whirled around in his head, and his insides writhed with anger once more as he explored the farm. "This is the chicken house. You’ll get a chance to see how the eggs are collected, and to Grant/Chance 5 see how the milking is done." "Am I expected to do all that?" he asked, and thought, I bet she has a smelly old goat that she wants me to bathe. "Not unless you want to try something. Hired help does everything." Confused, he ran his hand through his hair. There must be some other reason she ruined my summer. "Why did you send for me?" "I missed seeing you grow into your teens," she said, smiled and winked at him. His mom’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he realized they had walked all the way back to the house when he was lost in thought As they stepped inside, he slipped off his Air Jordan sneakers, his feet sank into plush carpeting, and he walked around the room, enjoying the softness of the pile against his feet. He edged to the queen-sized bed, peered out of the two windows, on either side of the bed, and saw miles of green carpet-like lawn. "Cool." he said and peered up at the high domed, white ceiling with stained oak beams. "This is a nice room." "It’s yours." She smiled and ruffled his black curly hair. "Come to the dining room and help yourself to food." He threw his suitcase in the closet and went to the dining room. She pulled a chair from the red cherry-wood dining table, next to her. "Sit here, baby. We got ham, creamed potatoes, green beans and apple pie. Can I get you something to drink? Lemonade, ice tea . . .coke?" "Could I have a coke, please?" Grant/Chance 6 "Course you may," she said and smiled. Eddy licked his lips and eyed the food. "Did you cook this food?" "No. Marie, my cook, made everything. You’ll meet her later." Good. He could relax and eat what he wanted. He finished eating and stood up. She stood and put her arm around his shoulder. "Did you like the food?" He moved away and answered, "It was ok." "I got a another surprise for you. Follow me." She took his hand and led him a quarter of a mile to a large lake. "Momma and Daddy told me how much you love sailing. These two boats are mine." The lake shimmered in front of him. His stomach wrenched and he stared wide-eyed at the boats with sails hanging loose and flapping in the breeze. "This lake runs into Lake Mendota. We can go sailing tomorrow, if you’d like," she said, and squeezed him. "You can teach me how to sail." He followed her back to the house, and he yawned and stretched. "I’d like to go to bed." "Okay, sleepy head. Go ahead," she kissed his cheek. "I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early " He slid into his pajamas and hopped into bed. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps, and he kept his eye lids closed. She sat on the side of his bed, leaned over and kissed him. He lay still. He wouldn’t say goodnight to her. Then, he heard her footsteps leaving and he turned on his side and drifted into sleep. The next morning, before the sun rose, he got dressed and passed his mom’s room, on his Grant/Chance 7 way to the dining room. She sat before the mirror, brushing her hair. "Come. Sit beside me." She slid near the end of the seat to make room for him. He entered and stood by the door, watching her reflection, and noticed a wedding portrait of her and a man. "Is he my dad?" "Yes. You have his keen nose and brown eyes." He stared at the picture. He had the same high forehead, and the same thick eyebrows. His dad’s hair was lighter than his. "Did you love my Dad?" She turned around and gazed at him. "Your father and I had a good marriage." "Then, why did you get divorced?" "Hoo-ha! A serious question right off the top." she paused, sucked in a breath, and answered, "we grew apart, and he found someone else." He thought a minute, then asked, "did my Dad love me?" "Yes, but people change, and life isn’t always fair." If she and Dad loved him, why did he get dumped on Grandma and Granddad. She must think he’s stupid. "Come on, Ms. Bracken. Breakfast is getting cold." "Marie is calling. We’d better get to the dining room." He followed his mom, and walked swiftly down the stairs to the dining room. "Eddy, this is Marie." "Hi, sweetheart," said Marie, and pinched his cheek. " I got hot cakes with blueberries on top, syrup and grilled sausages. Take a seat and enjoy your breakfast." Grant/Chance 8 Marie was short and round and wore her long red hair in a bun on top of her head. He thought it looked like a big red doughnut. His mom pulled a chair from the dining table and sat next to him. "After breakfast, we can go horseback riding." Eddy didn’t answer. He gazed at her and said, "I want to know more about me. Why did you send me away?" "Not now. Later," she said and began eating." "I want to know now?" He stared at her and tightened his lips together. "Not in front of Marie. I’ll tell you later," she whispered. "You just don’t want to tell me, but I know why," he yelled and ran from the table. "Eddy, come back." He hurried to the lake, climbed into the larger boat, unwrapped the sails, and released the boat from the dock. The sailboat rocked with the waves. She doesn’t love me. How could she? he wondered as he steered the boat and gazed at the sky. I’m going back to Grandma and Granddad. He had sailed an hour, when a font of dark clouds chased away the sunlight. Looks like a storm’s coming. No matter. This boat can cut right through it. Thunder grumbled and bellowed. Lightening snapped against the side of the boat. Wind rattled and whipped the sails. He became anxious, and cleared his throat, breaking up the lump that formed. What was Grant/Chance 9 he doing? he asked himself. He had to get to the other side . . . near town. Rain began to hammer the deck, and Eddy started to think, maybe he should go back to shore. Gust swirled around the boat followed by a burst of thunder. The boat swung violently, as Lightening hit the water. Wild eyed, he searched for something to keep him inside the boat. He found a rope, and tied one end of the rope around his waist and the other to the railing of the boat. Desperately, he held on to the rope. Wings of water whipped against his face, as he continued further out to sea. Terror seized Eddy’s heart. He bit his tongue, tasted blood and prayed, "Lord, please don’t let me drown. He felt as if he’d been tumbling inside a giant washing machine as he went over raging waves. He shivered at the thought of what might happen if he couldn’t reach the shore. No, he wouldn’t think about it. A good swimmer, he could swim for twenty minutes without tiring. Ok, don’t panic. He’s almost there. Stay cool. The storm was behind him. He docked at the south west side of the lake, near the University of Wisconsin, tied the boat to the dock and hurried inside. People stared at his wet clothes as he hurried inside the building. He saw a pay phone, in the lobby, and he dialed the number for the farm. "Mom?" "Eddy, I’ve been half out of my mind," her voice sounded unsteady, as though she had been crying. "Where are you?" "The University of Wisconsin. I took one of the sail boats and ran into a storm." "Wait! I’ll be there in minutes," she said. Grant/Chance 10 Eddy waited until his mom came through the door. She trembled and fell on her knees. "Are you all right?" "I’m fine, Mom." "O, Lord, I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d have drowned." She pulled him into her arms. He gazed at her. "You love me?" "With all my heart," she said and cradled him in her arms. "Then, why did you give me away?" There was a moment of stunned silence, and a look of freight passed over her face. She stammered, "I— I’m sorry. After your father left us, I became depressed." She tried to stifle her tears. "So much that I had to be institutionalized. I couldn’t function, much less take care of you." "You did take care of me," Eddy said and kissed her. "You gave me to the greatest parents anyone could ask for." "I love you, Eddy." She drew him closer and hugged him. He smiled and said, "Let’s go home, Mom." |
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| Second Chance Rex@Kansaswind.com |
#12 of 15 | ||
| 2483 | |||
| I awoke to screaming, but my mind was still not cleared
of the nightmare I had been living. Jan screamed even louder when I sat up,
then sank back on a chair looking angry. "I've had enough of your tricks, mister! You've gone way too far this time." The pain on my chest reminded me of pulling all the hairs out when removing a bandage. Though it woke me up, I can't say I was paying much attention to Jan. 'Ouch' and 'Damn' were just two parts of the litany repeated several times before I thought to look for the cause of the pain. When I saw the brownish stain across my chest I immediately took the offensive. "What in Hell have you done to me, and what is this on my suit?" Suit? That really woke me up. I hadn't worn my suit since her Grandfather's funeral six months before. "Oh, Honey, I thought you were dead and then you moved and now I don't know what to think. What did you do to ruin your suit?" I stood up, looking around for answers. I had been lying on the couch in a suit I hardly ever wore. "Jan, you delivered this suit to the cleaners yesterday. 'Seventh Heaven,' remember? It isn't supposed to be back for another three days." Each movement brought another wave of pain as another row of hair was jerked out by the roots. My skin was stuck to my shirt and jacket by something which looked suspiciously like dried blood. Moving very carefully now, I peeled the jacket back. Though it was dried now, there appeared to be enough blood soaked into the coat to indicate someone had died. Me? A brief memory of the nightmare made me pause. Something about dying. I never had remembered my dreams, and very seldom even knew I had one. "I'll take that," Jan said. "I think you're about due for a new suit, since this one looks about shot." "Shot! That was part of my nightmare!" I took the coat and examined the front. "Look, here's a hole, and there's a bigger one in the back, as well as one in my shirt." "Don't just stand there, let me get that shirt off and see where you're hurt." Yep, that was my wife, taking charge and taking very good care of me. We cut the shirt off so as to postpone the pain from plucked hairs. The hole in the back was as big as a quarter, compared to a front hole the size of pencil. Jan held her breath and checked me over. Not a scratch anywhere near the clothing holes. "Get a shower," Jan ordered. "I'll throw this stuff away." Pieces of the nightmare flooded back into me and I panicked, almost falling out of the tub. "No, we need the clues. He said there might be clues!" "What and who are you talking about? Have you taken up drinking? Is this one of Roger's practical jokes?" I tried to concentrate. What did I know and where did it come from? "I had a nightmare, and I was dead. I don't know how, but there was a room. This man, I don't remember who, said something about a second chance. He said I would feel fine and could go back." "You met God?" Jan asked. "Somehow I thought that was reserved for people with a little more belief structure." "Not God," I said, "more of a bureaucrat type, but with a strange sense of humor." "The clothes! He was going to give me new clothes, but I kept these. He wouldn't tell me anything, so I told him I wanted to keep them for clues. He just smiled and said 'Are you sure you haven't been here before? That's against the rules'." "Wait a minute, where is that shirt? It's blue. I don't have any blue shirts." Jan, still obviously trying to remember the number for the looney bin, had a second thought. She disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a blue shirt, still tagged with tough plastic in three places. "I bought this from the Western Store last week. They had a sale on seconds. See the tear sewn up in the tail? I knew you'd need it for the musical." As though in a daze, she held up the bloody tail of the cut shirt. "This shirt has the same tear. Isn't it nice we're going crazy together? I've heard the worst part is the loneliness of it all." Questions kept surfacing on my tongue, then diving back into the numbness of sanity in my brain. "You know, we should keep a sample of this," Jan said. She brought sandwich bags from the kitchen and scraped some of the dried mass into one. "I wonder how long they'd keep me if I took it to the police station and asked what it is?" I took a long shower, trying to sort out everything that had happened. Clues, but to what? Had I been brought back from the future just to repeat a week or more of my life for lack of anything better to do? Though I felt a lot cleaner after the shower, none of my questions had been answered. Jan brought the bloody, ragged clothes to my chair and we started looking for clues. My billfold was the same as always, though we searched each scrap of paper diligently. The social security card had not changed in the three decades I'd had it. My driver's license was a month overdue for renewal, about par for the course. The pictures of my two kids in kindergarten had not changed. I made a note to ask for pictures of the three grandkids, figuring a change of scenery in the wallet might be good. Though I had twenty dollars, the only new thing was a withdrawal slip for $200 from our bank account. Jan questioned this, as we had been short on money, but how could I answer for what I would not do for another 4 days? The only paydirt was in the jacket. Tucked into the inside pocket was a largish piece of newspaper, mostly unreadable. Surprisingly, two articles stood out of the bloody, shredded mess.
"What's a Fibonacci Number?" asked Jan. "Something to do with rabbits," I replied, "but I'll bet for $170 million it would be worth some research." I immediately envisioned winning the lottery, but Jan came up with another objection. "How do we know when this happened? You've probably carried that paper since Grandpa's funeral." Unable to find a date on the paper, we continued to the second readable item.
"That kid was killed yesterday," Jan said. "I saw the news on TV while I was shopping. This might be next week's newspaper! You've been in a time machine!" The mention of a time machine crystallized my thoughts on what had to be done. Many years ago I had dreamed of the riches to be had for someone who could go back, even for short jumps. Then a friend, a lady somewhat older than me, had been badly beaten in an attempted robbery. She had slowly withdrawn, first from fear, then embarrassment due to the disfiguring scars. That was when I decided if I ever had access to a time machine I would make sure such people were put out of business. "Okay, we have one week to stop a murder," I said. "The lottery will be tonight. If it checks out, I'll be willing to believe in our source. You'll notice that the killer will be up to seven if he continues in order, and your little 'Seventh Heaven' soirée is coming up next week " "Wouldn't you like to make a little money on the side?" Jan teased, "I know $170 million isn't much, but he did say he couldn't spend it all. We could split it with him." "What would you do with that much money?" I asked. "And, for that matter, how do you play the lottery?" "Well, we should be compensated for all that danger. It appears you've already been killed once, or will be, or something like that. We could travel and build your underground house. You know, the little stuff. I'm sure any convenience store clerk could be persuaded to help you with the lottery if you told her you had a sure-fire method for predicting the numbers." Other than rabbit multiplication, it turned out Fibonacci numbers had other applications. I looked at possible dates and compiled a chart for the evening's lottery. Each number in the series is the sum of the preceding two numbers. Based on dates in early May, my chart looked like this. 4 5 9 14 23 5 5 10 15 25 6 5 11 16 27 7 5 12 17 29 Since tickets bought before Thursday would be on Wednesday's lottery, I scratched the first line. Only one 5 in the lottery numbers made me scratch the second row and Sunday was the eighth, so I could scratch all rows but the sixth and seventh. With the possibility of $170 million I didn't want to be too cheap, so I tried to think like a mathematician. I added a row of 5, 10, 15, 25 and 40. Jan was right about the clerks being helpful and I soon had a receipt for the three rows I had picked. On the way home I checked the gun shop for a sniper's rifle. I found a decent one with scope would cost me $400 and change. We waited anxiously for the lottery results, and the first number drawn was 23. I swore a bit, and before I was done realized that a ticket purchased after the drawing Wednesday would be in Saturday's lottery. Our mathematician was a night-owl, and I was too cheap to cover all the possibilities. By the time I looked back at the screen, my row of numbers for the fourth was peeking back at me. Astounded, I checked again. The oracle, the article in the paper, had been verified. Jan did not seem terribly upset at the loss of the millions we never had. Sunday morning was spent in research, then I borrowed a neighborhood dog which had bitten a mailman and two kids. Just a splash of two household chemicals assured that he would bite no more and that my research was valid. I purchased two gallons of each ingredient, a box of shotgun shells, and 200 feet of speaker wire. Monday I visited the park. Finding a storm drain which ran from the roof of the pavilion to the parking lot was a real stroke of luck. I ran the wire through the drain and left ample on each end for connections. I verified placement of the rooms in the building, then left my box of supplies over the false ceiling. I bought a deer rifle for half the price of the sniper rifle and sighted it in, then used a half box of shells for familiarization. Friday I was in the park by noon, sitting in the back of a rented van with heavy tint on the windows. I placed barricades in front of the men's room and completed my circuit. At the other end, I brought the wires inside the van and checked for continuity. After putting all the ceiling tiles back in place, I removed my barricades and retired to the van. The back windows tilted out, but I only opened the one pointed at the restrooms. After checking the view, I closed it again and sat back to wait. The party started at seven, but shortly before that a figure in coveralls walked up to the janitor's room, looked around carefully, then worked at the door with a tool. It opened, and he carried his bag inside. I waited, not wanting to nab a legitimate janitor. By seven thirty I was sure, but the restrooms on either side were heavily occupied. Finally at around eight it was just Death and me. I wasted no time hooking the wires to the connections I had checked earlier. My improvised explosive was a little too big. The door bulged a little but held, and dust exploded out the two restroom doors. Mr Death had time to open his door, then fell, gasping, and lay still. I had the rifle lined up, but did not have to use it. Death had taken a holiday, and I felt that I had gotten it right this time. |
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| Second Chance TPComputerman@comcast.net |
#13 of 15 |
| 1314 | |
| I never was very good at romance, so I figured that a
dozen roses and a box of chocolates would be okay. When you’re unsure of
something go with the biggest cliché in the book, that’s what I
always thought. ‘You’ll never get a second chance.Tthat one night 10 years ago was it, you never took advantage of it and now you’ll never know what could have been.’ That damn voice deep in the back of my mind said over and over again. I wish I could just shut it up for once. I’m not sure why, but I needed to answer it, “She invited me out, she wants to see me, it could happen again.” I pull off the highway and onto the dark country road she lived on. It would still be a few minutes until I got to her house and the voice continued to yammer on. ‘You’re not fooling anyone but yourself. She called you because she wants a friend, not someone who will make a move on her.’ ”No, it’s beyond that, she wants me, I just know it! It’ll be like that one time where we gave into our passions and just let things happen.” ’Gave into your passions?’ Can an inner voice mock you? ‘Come on! You chickened out, you never even got to second base, you just laid on top of her kissing then she told you to leave and you said ‘yeah, maybe that would be for the best.’ ”Nothing could have come from that, she was going off to school, there was no chance of us ever getting together and it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” ’And you’ve regretted it ever since.’ I did regret it but I wasn’t sure why. I know, deep in my heart, that what happened wasn’t real and anything that happened because of it wouldn’t be real. But, what if we had continued and had made love that night, would we have been together now? That’s what I regret, not knowing what would have happen had she not asked me to leave. I wasn’t going to force myself on her so what I did was right. Right? What do we have now? Two long time friends who can’t seem to keep in touch except for the occasional phone call at the holidays? Two friends who just need the company of each other to remind them of old times? Times when things weren’t as complicated as they are now? Times when all we needed was a ball, a wall and a warm day to spend the summer? ’What chance do you think you have with her,’ The voice said. ‘all she ever wanted from you from a friendship and you can’t let that one night define what’s going on now. The only reason she called to ask you out was because of the divorce.’ ”But I always believed in the second chance. I always believed that with her I could have one.” I pull the car onto her block and park in front of her house. I see her standing by the doorway. The porch light cast her into a dark silhouette yet I could tell she was still as beautiful as ever. I looked over at the flowers and box of chocolates in the seat next to me and decided that now was not the time to give them to her. First smart thing you’ve thought about today. Her features became clearer as I walked toward her. She had decided to wear her dirty blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. This was a casual dinner so she wasn’t wearing anything fancy, just a white tee shirt with a picture of a dog on it and a pair of blue jeans. She smiled, held her arms out and we hugged. “It’s good to see you.” “It’s good to see you too.” She replied. Reluctantly we broke the hug. “How long has it been?” I asked trying not to ignore the butterflies that always seemed to be there when I gazed into her hazel eyes. “Three years,” she replied. “Too long, we need to work on that for the future,” she laughed with me. “Where do you want to go to eat?” “There is a nice restaurant down the street, we can go there. It’s in walking distance but if you want to drive we can.” “No, it’s been forever since I’ve walked with you, let’s go.” It doesn’t matter that we haven’t had a good, long conversation in over three years. Everything came back as we walked. It felt good, comfortable, like a place that I should never have left. You never get a second chance. Don’t let this walk mean something it’s not. The night was full of merriment. Long forgotten people came back into our lives through old stories. Laughter came often as we relived the life we had together as teenagers. She had a guffaw that could be heard from great distances and I loved to hear it. A huge smile never seemed to leave her face and her eyes spoke more to me than any word ever could. Years melted away as we talked. I felt like I was 14 again sitting on her step telling her how one day I’m going to be a great writer and she could be my proofreader. Long before it should have the night ended and we walked back to her house. “You never really told me about the divorce,” I said, “what happened?” I didn’t want to see sadness in those eyes, she looked down at the ground, then lifted her head and gazed at me, “He told me that he wanted to move on and he didn’t want me there with him. He said that he needed to find his own life and I wasn’t going to be a part of that search.” “That’s got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “I mean, he had you, he married you, if I was ever married to you I’d never let you go.” “Well, he did,” she replied, “and from what I hear he’s not doing very good right now.” “How does that make you feel?” She shrugged, “Nothing really, it was his choice so he has to live with it.” “If he ever wanted you back. . . “ Before I could finish she answered my question, “No way.” She laughed at how quickly she answered. I placed my hand on her shoulder, “Well, like I said, he’s an idiot for leaving you.” She smiled, “Thanks.” We stopped in front of her door and she pulled out her keys. “Thank you, this night has been great. Something that I really needed.” I wanted to reach out and stroke her hair, I wanted to place my hand on her cheek and pull her close to me and kiss her. I wanted to ask her to invite me in so that we could continue what we started so many years ago. I wanted to do all those things, but instead I kissed her on the forehead and gave her a hug, “Anytime you need me you just call okay? I’m here for you.” She squeezed me tightly, “Thanks, you’re still one of my best friends.” We stopped hugging; I looked at her and smiled, “I’ll always be your friend.” She opened the door and walked into her house leaving me outside. I’m glad she wasn’t able to see my shaking hands. I wondered if she picked up the quiver in my voice as I said my good byes. I walk to my car. As I sit down I look over at the flower and candy. ‘See, I told you, you’ll never get a second chance.’ I started the car, then reach over to eat a piece of chocolate, “I think you’re wrong, I have been given a second chance. Tonight just wasn’t the right time, she needed a friend more than a lover and if I can be that friend then I’m going to be.” |
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| Second Chance lee10@host365.com |
#14 of
15 Winner |
| 1528 | |
| He spat bile into the stinking pool at his feet as the
gut-wrenching waves of pain subsided. Shuddering, he wiped his mouth,
transferring a smear of vomit onto his fingers. He snatched a sheet of paper
from a table and left a clean square shape in the dust that covered every
surface, as it sifted down from the whitewashed brick ceiling with every crump
of nearby ordnance. He cleaned himself as best he could, then let the soiled,
crumpled paper fall to the floor. The paper had been a report about the deployment of troops around the city. It had been a lie. The troops didn't exist. His general had finally admitted the truth; that the army was finished, its ranks decimated on all fronts. He now lay in the centre of the bunker, shot through the head by the Fuhrer himself. A tidier death than he deserved, Hitler thought. There were only four other people left alive in the bunker. Three frightened soldiers and their sergeant stood against the wall. The privates were too young even to shave properly yet. They watched every move the German leader made, the terror in their eyes palpable. Their sergeant, whose ginger bristles were days old, stood in front of them, like a hen protecting its brood. One of the youngsters whimpered when a bomb landed closer than ever. The sergeant put out a comforting hand, silencing the boy. Hitler surveyed the bunker. The entrance was blocked by fallen masonry. The tiled floor was littered with broken furniture, the spilt contents of files, and bodies. The light was dim, the bodies in the corners being merely shapeless heaps. Eva was slumped against a wall, her limbs twisted under her. Her skirt was rucked up, showing the tops of her stockings and the pink tips of her suspenders. Green froth had bubbled and dried around her nose and mouth. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking. She had been his new wife, yet he felt only disgust for the state she was in. The poison had worked quickly, and painfully she'd fled the scene into death. He felt his temple, winced when his fingers found the raw slash, scoured by a bullet he'd not had the courage to put through his brain. It was over. The Third Reich was finished. His clairvoyant had failed him along with all the others. Like the general he'd lied. And like him, he was dead. Hitler looked at the body of his former confidant, lying half under a table. It was surprising how little he'd bled when the bullet had stopped his heart. Another thump. Another whimper. That morning, in the early hours, the clairvoyant had been unusually vague. Hitler had suspected the man had given up, had surrendered to fear under the vicious attack on Berlin. When pressed for the day's guidance, he'd only been able to stammer, "Five will remain but two will prevail." He'd been unable to clarify the statement. It made no sense to Hitler, who'd raged at the gibbering incompetent for ten minutes before shooting him in sheer frustration. Despair set his guts boiling again, as though a rank, venomous serpent that slept within, had woken to the horror and started feeding. Hitler slumped into one of the few chairs left unbroken, his knees drawn up to his chest. With his back bent and his hands clenched between his knees, he rocked back and forth moaning, oblivious to everything but his misery. His hair, normally slicked back as though painted to his scalp, hung lank and dirty. The shades of Europe's dead fretted around him. The agonies of the maimed and the displaced fussed and nagged, filling the bunker with their silent screams, but he saw and felt nothing beyond his failure. His attempts to remodel the world, to shape it to his own narrow beliefs, were dashed. The orchestration had become corrupt, discordant; his grand opus was drowned by the tenacity of the Allies' attacks. But as a shaft of lightening may crack open a black night sky with a blaze of white, so may a memory, a stray thought, have the power to smash through the black depths of anguish, pushing it to a lesser level, allowing a more potent idea to grab the mind's sole attention. And the clairvoyant's words returned, penetrated the Fuhrer's torment. As though struck by that very bolt of lightening, Hitler jerked upright. He leapt to his feet. The chair crashed over onto its side. With staring eyes he stalked towards the soldiers, eyeing them like a beast of prey, sure of a feast. "Five will remain!" he screamed. "Five will remain!" Startled, the sergeant tried to step back, but there was nowhere for him to go as Hitler stabbed a finger in his chest. "One," he shouted. He pointed to the others in turn. "Two, three, four!" He turned the finger on himself. "Five!" He stamped his foot in triumph. "Five will remain!" Shrill echoes ricochetted round the bunker, harmonising with the squeal of a bomb that whistled overhead to smash itself nearby. The soldiers hunched against the expected explosion. It didn't happen. Hitler smiled like some minor god and beckoned one of the awestruck youngsters to approach him. The boy moved slowly, in thrall, a rabbit to a predator's lure. Hitler removed his jacket. He pointed to the clairvoyant. "Take off his coat," he commanded. The boy looked at Hitler and didn't move. "Do it!" Hitler thundered. The boy stumbled to the body, knelt and struggled with the coat of the corpse. Rigor mortis inhibited the process but fear of his leader lent power to the task. When he'd finished he stood and offered the coat to the Fuhrer, who waved it aside. "Put this one on the body instead." He handed his own coat to the boy. "You two," he turned to the other youths. "Do you smoke? Do you have matches?" One boy nodded. "Excellent." His smile was that of a snake. "Set fire to all this." Hitler's gesture took in the entire bunker. "There's plenty of worthless paper you can use to get it started and body fat will keep it going." The boy began to gather paper and bits of furniture together, giving Hitler puzzled glances as he set about the work. Hitler watched him for a while, making sure the boy knew what was wanted. Then the Fuhrer gestured to the sergeant and the third soldier who was watching his comrades and fidgeting nervously. "Come with me," he said. He led them to a dark corner and pointed to a narrow wooden door. "Open it," he commanded. "It's the only way out now." The sergeant tried the door handle. The door was locked. He put his shoulder to the stout wood and pushed. The door didn't budge. He took out his gun, aimed at the lock, turned his head against splinters, squinted sideways, and fired. The lock shattered and he was able to open the door a few inches. More was impossible. It hit debris and refused to open any further. But it was enough. Hitler squeezed through the gap. As the sergeant prepared to follow, a bomb hit some distance away. The ground trembled. It was only a slight tremor but it was enough to detonate the unexploded bomb. Hitler and the sergeant were blasted from the bunker. The doorway collapsed, trapping the screaming soldier, cutting him almost in two. And condemning the other two soldiers to smoke and suffocation inside what remained of the bunker. The howls of the dying boy soon stopped and he sobbed his last breath. The sergeant and Hitler lay at the bottom of a flight of stone stones. Hitler pulled himself to his feet, staring at light above. His features shone with delight. "Two will prevail," he shouted. "The two of us. The beginnings of a new, mighty force." He ran up to the daylight, oblivious to the anything but his future. There were no enemy soldiers waiting for him and he stood on the last but one step. Around him the city burned but he knew, with the certainty of the insane, that he'd been given a second chance. He would start again to choreograph the world's destiny. This time, he would surround himself with men who were neither stupid like the clairvoyant, nor liars like his generals. For an instant he regretted Eva's flight into death. He believed himself to be a gentler, more compassionate man with her at his side. But destiny waited for him and he stepped up the last step, aware that the sergeant, the start of his new army, was at his heels. As promised by the clairvoyant, the two would prevail. The sergeant stumbled half way up the steps. Above him, silhouetted against the dawn, he saw his leader. Hitler was holding up his hands to the new day like a conductor standing before a symphony orchestra, mindful of the need to control the destiny of the disparate parts using only his genius and the power of his own character. He saw Hitler rise on the balls of his feet, as though reaching towards a distant era, and then the Fuhrer dropped his hands and the crescendo of war burst over their heads. |
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| Second Chance Lori Lindsey cdms@alltel.net |
#15 of
15 Runner-up |
| 2494 | |
| “Shit,” David exhaled as he slammed the cell
phone shut and flung it toward to the passenger seat of the BMW. With the
momentum of the throw the small phone did not rest atop the tan leather seat.
It touched down close to the center and slid across the smooth, slick leather
dropping off the other side and resting somewhere between the seat and door.
He did not care. Right now he could care less if he ever saw that damn phone again. What he should have done was let down his window, toss it onto the blacktop of the interstate and let one of those huge, freaking eighteen wheelers crush it to pieces. Traffic was almost at a complete standstill, bumper-to-bumper, all eight north bound lanes. And, he was sitting in this black, sun-drawing, heat-catching trap of a car, with the temperature a good ninety-five degrees outside. The air conditioner worked overtime, the compressor turned on and off as he looked up and saw the familiar Varsity sign and thought about their delicious chili cheese dogs. David happened to look down at his gas gauge and realized he was sitting on a little over a quarter tank of gas. “Well, hell, that’s no good”, he said aloud and reached down to turn off the air conditioner switches to conserve gasoline. Then he rolled down his windows hoping for at least a little breeze. The sounds and smells of the city engulfed him. The stench of diesel fuel was the strongest since he was flanked in the front and on his right by transfer trucks. On his left was an old lady driving a huge Lincoln with four other old ladies as passengers. Their windows were down also, probably because all five were puffing on cigarettes. If they had left their windows up they would probably suffocate. Instead, they had decided to share with their neighbors, and David was getting more than his fair share since the only breeze came from that direction. He had two options: one, he could enjoy the carcinogen-enhanced air and save his gas. Or, he could put his windows up, enjoy the fresh cool air and run out of gas; probably stranding himself in the middle of the interstate with four lanes of traffic to either side. Debating what to do, a third option revealed itself. For some unknown reason the cars in the lane to his right moved up quicker than the transport truck and David glanced over his right shoulder, turned the steering wheel to the right and shot in front of the big truck, barely missing the trucks large silver bumper. A loud horn blew and as he glanced in his rearview mirror he saw the truck driver shoot him the little birdie that so many southerners like to share. Damn it Jack. Why couldn’t you have waited until I got out of this mess to call? David thought as he surveyed his new rolling neighbors. No more cigarette smoke to deal with but now he had a huge “hooptie” with three bouncing young black men enjoying their rap music a little on the loud side. He did not really mind the loud music (he remembered listening to Skynyrd as loud as the radio would play) but the deep, loud base vibrated his car and he hoped that he could move away from them soon. His mood had been better this morning. He had woken to the smell of bacon and eggs frying in the kitchen. After showering, shaving and dressing in his usual suit and tie he found his wife, dressed in a pair of white shorts and blue tank top, in the kitchen of their upscale Roswell home. His two boys, five and seven years old, sat in front of the television set eating their breakfast. (He could hear Dr. Phil now calling them bad parents for this, but if it wasn’t for cartoons the boys would be fighting and not eating.) “Good morning, hun”, he said as he entered the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’m finishing up your eggs now and the bacon is ready.” Miriam said as she flipped the eggs in the frying pan. “I don’t have much time. I’m supposed to be in the office in an hour and you know how bad the traffic can be.” David walked over and gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek and continued around to the table and took a seat. “Here you go,” she scooped out the eggs, placed them on a white plate with the bacon and toast. “You are too good to me.” David smiled, looking up at her. She is beautiful, he thought. I am such a lucky man. Miriam had not changed much over their ten years of marriage. She had had two pregnancies, but had regained her figure with no problem. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail with bangs that fell just above big blue eyes. “How was your meeting last night?” Miriam joined him at the table with her bowl of cereal. “What time did you get in?” “Oh, it went well. I was home around eleven. You were already asleep and I didn’t want to wake you so I did a little work in the study and then came up to bed about midnight.” He lied. He, flat out, lied to his wife. He had not had a meeting last night. He had gone to the Cheetah 3 with a couple of guys from the law offices on the same floor as his office, where he stuffed dollar bills in the g-strings of naked women. He just could not go home. He was too nervous about today and finding out whether he had gotten the big contract with AmeriTel, the huge telephone company. His consulting firm needed this contract; it would make or break him. “I tried to wait up for you but I was so tired. I have some news.” Miriam ate a spoonful of Frosted Flakes, a tiny dribble of milk sliding down her chin. “Good or bad?” Please be good, he pleadingly thought. “Well, I guess it all depends on how you feel about having another baby.” She smiled a huge smile and he knew she was happy. They had not talked very much about having another child. He knew that she wanted a little girl but he was not sure now was the right time with all that was going on at work. “That’s great.” He lied again. He did not want an argument, or even a long “discussion”, this morning. “I’m so glad you think so. I think it’s great. I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, I took a home pregnancy test and it showed positive. I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. Jesup so I can find out for sure.” Then she added in a whisper so the boys could not hear, “Maybe we’ll have a little girl this time.” David took a big bite of eggs so that he would not have to answer. Avoiding the subject had become easy for him and lying to his wife had become even easier. She had no idea he was in such bad financial trouble. He had kept it all to himself. There had been an agreement when they married, he would worry about the money and the bills and she would worry about the children and keeping house. Now he was stuck in this damn Atlanta traffic, wishing he had told Miriam from the start how bad his company was doing. Then, the telephone call from Jack had solidified it. His company was going bankrupt and he would probably have to file personal bankruptcy also. He owed for his posh North Atlanta home, this BMW, Miriam’s Escalade and he even owed on the diamond ring he had given her for their tenth anniversary last month. Not including all the credit card debt he had accumulated over the years. When his consulting company had started, five years ago, it had grown fast; possibly too fast. He had ten people working under him before he knew it; had an office on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta and the company was bringing in loads of money. Once his income jumped three times what it had been, he began getting in debt. After all, he could afford the payments now with the new income. Things had begun to take a downward spiral a year ago when he found out that one of his employees had been fudging on the time they were putting in on one of the contracts, charging the customer for time not spent. The customer had been the one to bring it to his attention. He made it right with the customer, refunding them what was owed, and he fired the employee. But word of mouth travels fast amongst companies and his reputation perished. He had not been able to bring in any new contracts for over six months now, had let seven of his employees go and was down to himself, Jack his assistant, and two employees that were finishing up year long contracts. Soon he would be without any work at all and would have to let the rest of his employees go. He owed the utility companies and had not paid the lease on his office space in over six months. His best friend Mark had subleased him his office space amongst Mark’s law offices and had let him slide thus far. But, now he wanted his money and their friendship was on the line. The traffic had opened up as it usually did once he hit the split of interstates 75 and 85 north of Atlanta. He was traveling along at a speed of seventy, his windows now up and the air conditioner cooling his sweat-soaked body. He looked in the rearview mirror at himself. How can Miriam stay with me? He thought. She has to suspect that something is wrong; I look like an old man. His black hair had begun to gray around the temples and his eyes looked weak and his skin pale with tiny wrinkles starting to surface at the corners of his eyes, black circles underneath them. David heard a loud horn blow and looked to his right to see the truck he had almost hit earlier come up beside him. The driver again held up his middle finger in the southern solute as the eighteen-wheeler raced by him. Pressing the accelerator, David gained on the cab of the truck and returned the gesture; feeling extremely satisfied with himself. He had never given in to road rage, though he traveled amongst it daily. Today, however, was another story. He did not care anymore. His life was coming to an end and if he could take it out on this truck driver, it would be better than taking it out on his wife and kids when he got home. However, after seeing the anger that flared in the driver’s face, he decided that maybe it was not worth carrying any further. He raised his foot from the car’s accelerator and let the truck pass him, the driver of the truck glaring at him from inside the cab. As the truck reached two car lengths ahead of him, he noticed that the cab was beginning to swerve a bit from side to side. Before he knew it, the huge truck jackknifed and began to slide in front of him, loud squeals and smoke rising from the rubber sliding across blacktop. He pressed the brakes to the BMW and began to pray that he would stop before he hit the truck. The truck rolled over on its side as the cables holding the huge logs on its trailer began to break, scattering logs everywhere. It was at that moment that David swerved, on instinct, and the BMW began to roll side over side. The air bag deployed slapping David in the face. He had on his seat belt so he was not thrown from the car but he was bounced around inside, his legs flailing about, his arms thrown wildly. It all happened so suddenly yet it seemed in slow motion. The car with the old ladies slammed head on into the cab of the truck and instantly began to burn. Other cars, he had not noticed until now, slid and jerked and screeched to a halt, some smashing into each other. David’s car finally stopped rolling and remained upside down, sliding across the blacktop on its roof and careening with the truck’s trailer. There was no explosion but the passenger side of the car, the side that smashed against the trailer, crunched and creaked as it gave way, bringing David closer than he preferred to the huge metal structure. For several minutes, tires screeched as wheels were locked, people screamed and horns blew; then the traffic around him, finally, came to a standstill. From his place, upside down in his BMW, he could see logs scattered across every lane, some up next to vehicles, and others atop them. And he hurt terribly. Something was terribly wrong with him. He fought to keep himself conscious. He was scared that if he went to sleep he might not wake up. It took what seemed like an hour for the rescue vehicles to arrive along with the ambulances. All this time he was in and out of consciousness and did not know how many vehicles responded. He could hear a multitude of sirens and could see lights of red, yellow and blue flashing amongst the sea of destruction. One time when he was conscious he saw a face peering in through the hole that served as his window and thought he heard someone yell, “This man needs to be gotten out right away. He probably has internal bleeding and needs to be at a hospital.” Then he was out again. In his mind he saw his beautiful wife and wished that he had his damn cell phone now so he could call her and tell her how much he loved her and the kids. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened in the past year and beg her forgiveness for the mess he had gotten them in. He wanted to hold her and kiss her. He fought. Fought to stay alive to give himself another chance to make things right. And, then he realized that if he died, he would be giving Miriam, the boys and their new baby a second chance. With the million dollar life insurance policy they could pay off everything he owed, personal and business, and still have money to start over. So, he gave up. Gave in to the excruciating pain and drifted off to a final sleep knowing that everything would be all right. He may not have a second chance at life but his family, who he loved dearly, would. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club