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"The Chain" (the fifty-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Chain" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Nov 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Chain By amirarsiwala@gmail.com (Entry #13) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| THE WOMAN For Mrs. Jones this was the last blow life threw at her that she could handle. Mr. Doe, the bank manager offered her a glass of water from across the desk. She accepted mechanically. Nothing was penetrating her mind. She could see people moving about outside the office, and could hazily make out the voice of Mr. Doe somewhere in the distance. He was saying something in a kind tone, no doubt offering his ‘regrets’ and ‘extreme sorriness’. She was still trying to come to terms with the many sorrows life bestowed upon her, and this addition had shaken her will. It was still hard for her to accept that she was a widow; she doubted that she had yet fully realized that her husband died a year ago. The death was too sudden; one moment they had been the picture of a perfect happy family, and the next… The doctor had warned her that sometimes cancer could be inherited through the genes, but she didn’t even want to consider that possibility. April was a sweet child, all Margaret had left when George died. They were never very well off, but he earned enough for them to survive, and for April to go to the best private school. Right after the funeral ended, Margaret took the 2:15 bus to Kim, a small town in the middle of nowhere where she knew no-one, and more importantly, where no-one knew her. She had enough savings to open a small grocers shop; April could go to an ordinary school for the time being. Margaret vowed never to return to the city. But almost a year later she was forced to break the vow. History began repeating itself; the vomiting, the bleeding, she had seen it all before. But this time it was April. She got the cancer. Margaret never understood exactly what type of cancer it was, she didn’t care. She went to the same doctor in the city that George had. He recognized her. “You’ve come just in time. If you had been late again…”, Dr. Green trailed off, “But this is operable, we must operate on her within a week” “Thank God… what do I have to do?” “Just fill in the forms, and deposit the money” Margaret wasn’t one of those people who wouldn’t have already realized that money has to be paid; those kinds of people exist only in books and on TV. But she was still uneasy. She knew medical fees could be a lot, and she wasn’t sure if she could afford it. She had made quite some money over the year, and her simple lifestyle ensured that most of the money was saved. Dr. Green told her the amount. After a long time she felt genuinely relieved. She had that much! She had invested a substantial part of her savings in a bond issued by the local bank. She could redeem those and pay all the bills. She got April a nice shared room in the hospital, kissed her on the forehead, and promised to be back in two days. And now, the bank manager informed her that she didn’t have the money she thought she had. Because of some damn problem in some damn stock market. She wasn’t very educated, dropped out of highschool to take a job. Because of this she couldn’t figure out what the hell the bank manager was talking about. Margaret glanced at him. It isn’t his fault, she concluded. He seemed like the average small town man, slow, god fearing, and simple family person. He was obviously very sorry about the whole predicament. He was definitely looking very distressed. “I am really very sorry, ma’am. Its really just beyond my help. We all lost a lot because of the war, and with…”, he again started on with the technical details of why the loss happened. She listened blankly. Everything was over. All she had hoped for, all the dreams she had finally dared to dream, all of it over. After a while she left the bank, walking aimlessly wherever her legs led her to. She knew then that she was losing control over herself. THE BANKER Mr. Doe had known from the start that he shouldn’t have done it. At the time it didn’t seem all that bad. A simple change in the account books, and his greed would be satisfied. It was wrong, that goes without saying, but there was no way he could get caught. It was quick money. The idea developed when Mrs. Jones came in one day and said she wanted to invest the money she had. She had managed to save up quite a bit of money. She had thought of something safe like a fixed deposit. Mr. Doe quickly gathered that she did not have much knowledge of investment and money in general. He suggested that she buy some bonds issued by the bank. They gave much more interest, and in his opinion didn’t have much risk. She was still hesitant, but Mr. Doe gave his assurances and convinced her that it is the best option. Later, a little bit of fiddling with the accounts, making up some story to Mrs. Jones about the stock market crashing, and he would have pocketed quite some amount of cash. It was the perfect opportunity. The account books were filled; Mrs. Jones was left with only a third of what she invested. Reason: the war and the resulting slowing down of economy and devaluation of stocks. He had always known that lying to Mrs. Jones wouldn’t be easy. That was the part he was most afraid of. But now, each word that came out of his mouth pained him. She told him she needed to pay the money for her daughter’s operation. He had taken away the only means by which her daughter would be cured. He was a murderer. He shook away those thoughts. How was he ever to know that something like this would ever happen? The accounts have already been manipulated, if he was to return the money now, he would be caught. No, all must go according to the original plan. He will just have to lie. It was a choice between the girl, and him. He must protect his own skin. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep it out of his head that he is a murderer; that because of him, this woman’s daughter was going to die. That he stole the money that would have been used to cure her. He wasn’t a very religious person, but this completely shook him. Somehow he managed to finish the conversation with Mrs. Jones without breaking. But he was feeling guilty as hell. He was stricken with regret. If he had had ever known that such a situation could ever arise, he would have never done it. There was a picture of his wife and son on the desk. “What if something ever happened to him, and I couldn’t help it?” He let out an involuntary shudder, put the photo away in his drawer, and told himself to forget about it all. He couldn’t help it. He remembered that once his father had told him to go confess in Church whenever he sinned; that way he would be free of it. Mr. Doe doubted that he could ever be free of this weight he carried, but decided to confess nevertheless. He rarely went to Church, hardly ever attended Mass. He felt strange going there now. He walked directly to the confession booth without looking around. Inspite of himself, he began crying. THE FATHER Father John was in two minds. He was thoroughly shocked by what he had just heard. He always thought that Mr. Doe was an honest man. True, he hardly ever showed up in Church, but his wife was a role Catholic. She always made it a point to inform him why her husband was absent; and all good reasons they were. The events which happened over the last half hour were still replaying themselves in his mind. The banker had done a very despicable deed; he ought to be punished. Of course, he has already been punished by his own conscience, but was that enough? Sitting at his desk, and fiddling with a paperweight, Father John thought about Mrs. Jones. She was always a very religious person; in fact, she just came here this morning. She told him about her daughter and that she would be taking the money from the bank by selling some bonds. She prayed for her daughter, and he offered his blessings. Margaret was always very active in the parish; she was a part of all bake sales and community meetings. Her daughter, Alice, was a part of the choir. He knew all about her past, and was deeply sympathetic. He knew she had been wronged, and Alice would most probably die like her father. He knew exactly who was to be blamed for this. He knew that the person should be punished by law. But everything that happened in the confession box was confidential. Mr. Doe was already being punished by Him. Should he, or shouldn’t he report to the sheriff? Father John sighed; he had come to a decision he wasn’t sure he liked. THE SHERIFF Paul had not become a sheriff to sit around all day and do paperwork. Yet that was exactly what his job had been reduced to for the last few days. Paul was young, and had expected excitement and action when he took this job. True, this was a small town, but surely there must be some burglar on the prowl. Paul was getting bored. Nothing ever happened here. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a lengthy report on another petty case of trespass, when he heard a voice asking for him. Wanting to finish reviewing this report as quickly as he could, he impatiently gestured the visitor to have a seat. Besides, it probably wouldn’t be anything serious, would it? “Er….I wish to report a case of fraud by the bank manager”, said the stranger. This got Paul’s attention. He was in for a surprise when he lifted his head and took a look at the speaker. It was none other than Father John. Now, when a priest walks into a police station, you know something is seriously wrong. “Sorry for not recognizing you, Father. A fraud, eh? I always knew that character was suspicious. Are you sure of your facts?” As a matter of fact, Paul was suspicious of the bank manager ever since he joined as sheriff. He always did come across as a bit too greedy, and liked showing off his possessions. Of course, most folks didn’t think that wearing suits made in the city counted as ‘showing off’. A fraud. That sounded big. Finally, someone in this town was acting maliciously towards someone else. Paul stole a glance towards Father John. He was pretty old. He had arrived only a few months ago to replace old Father Michael who finally let age catch up to him. However, he defied all stereotypes by being surprisingly progressive. Now, in small towns like these, religion was paramount. Many people didn’t take to such a departure from the orthodox. But, eventually, everybody accepted him. He told his story. Paul did not know who Mrs. Jones was, but immediately felt angry towards the bank manager. Something must be done. He would go immediately to the bank and sniff around, see what he could find. He promised that he would use Father John’s testimony only as a last resort; he must not let people lose faith in the system of confessions. Evidently, this was the day Paul had been waiting for a long time. For, when he reached the bank, he saw something through the French windows which he would never have expected, not in a hundred years; here, in this sleepy town? He whipped out his gun. The bank was being robbed! An old-fashioned hold-up. Finally his dreams have been answered. And, what was more, the robber was a lady! Paul was going to remember this day for the rest of his life. Paul radioded in for backup. At first, the boys at the station thought it to be a joke, but they knew better than that. Paul hardly ever joked. Two more officers arrived within ten minutes. “We have you surrounded. You cannot escape, put down the gun and come out with your hands up”, Paul said on the loudspeaker. Nothing happened for ten minutes. Then a shot. Paul and his men rushed in. Paul took aim, and fired. THE END “We have you surrounded. You cannot escape, put down the gun and come out with your hands up” Margaret heard the voice. It seemed far, far away. It was getting closer. Slowly, she became fully aware of her situation. It was as if the last few hours had been a dream. Everything was hazy. But now, she found herself standing in front of a bunch of scared people, holding a double-barreled shotgun. She was robbing the bank. Reality was slowly coming back into focus. The fog was lifting off her brain. She started recollecting. Although she had long stopped drinking, after leaving the bank she went to a bar and ordered a bottle of whisky. She became angry at the Bank. How could they lose so much of her money? Didn’t they have the sense to invest the money properly? She thought continuously of Alice. The Bank had to pay. They had to give her the money, even if she would have to take it at gunpoint. Even as she was thinking this, she walked over to her neighbor’s garage, took their gun, and came here. She glanced around. The bank manager was standing a short distance away, crying. Margaret didn’t want to terrorize him, after all, he had helped so much. The gun started slipping out of her hand. Her ring caught in the trigger and it fired harmlessly on the ground. The whole bank trembled with the shot. Margaret saw three policemen storm in the bank; they must’ve have thought she fired at a person. One of the three pointed his gun at her. She glanced around, and caught the bank manager moving towards her with a strange resolute expression on his face. Her gaze shifted back to the policeman aiming at her just in time to realize that he was going to shoot. Margaret closed her eyes. The shot was fired. She could see April, on the eight birthday wearing that beautiful pink frock, when she was twelve and was caught smoking, and finally yesterday when she was told she would be cured. Surprisingly, Margaret was still alive. She opened her eyes and saw the bank manager lying on the ground in a pool of blood; he had jumped in front of her and taken the bullet. |
| The Chain By mrwrleft@yahoo.com (Entry #11) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I agree. Bein’ a security
guard, Nikee, ain’t much, but it’s honest money and it’s much
safer den what yer tryin’ to do. Not only is it dangerous, but once
ya’ get in, all da’ way with yer rear paws, dere’s no
turnin’ back, and you’ll only be able to break away, when yer dead.
‘N den hittin’ dem liquor stores like any uddah profession where
ya’ always have dere rivals. And if ya’ wanna’ stay in dis
business, ya’ have to know dat da’ job can mean death. Nah. Not from da’ movies. Back in da’ day, I was caught up in da’ shit myself, out in da’ old country. Ya’ think yer tough? ... just because I’ve put on some weight, ya’ might think…Nah. It’s da’ years and my appetite – never had a problem with it. But dere was a time Nikee, when I competed as a wrestler and was a lean mean fighting machine. Let’s drink to dat Nikee. Dis memory’s worth a drink. And I tell ya’, all da’ guys I trained with, all my closest friends: Bore, Strap, Toad, Brick were also lean and mean gym rats. ...nicknames? Hey...how do I know? I’m just tellin’ ya’ how it was, dat’s it. And, ya’ know, back den we all trained for da’ state championship. And our coach – Old Mr. Corrski, used to be a Jiu-Jitsu champ in his old days - he was such a hard ass in trainin’, very strict. But he meant good and we all respected him. And let’s drink for him, Nikee, let’s drink for Old Corrski. He was a good man. And when he got in trouble with da’ Strrakhovs, we all took his side. Oh, Strrakhovs? Didn’t I ever tell ya’ ‘bout ’em? Dat, Nikee, is a story in itself. Like ya’, Nikee, I was born on da’ bad side of town, ya’ know, where each block or two had its own gang. Huh, what did dey do? Da’ same as here I guess - tagged houses and bridges, kind of like dog pissin’ on da’ trees, markin’ dere territory. Robbin’ kids of dere pocket change, walkin da’ streets and defendin’ dere territories from uddah gangs. Stupid! I never took part in it. Dey wanted me, of course, even threatened me. Dat was one of da’ reasons why my pops sent me to da’ gym. So I could stand up for myself, be a real man. Yeah. But dese gangs were chicken shit compared to Da’ Strrakhovs. Da’ Strrakhovs were serious and meant business. Dey held da’ whole town in dere grip and were nasty sons of bitches, real dirty too - all of ‘em, but especially Pop Strrakhov - dere head. He did his time twice for robbery and was trialed for murder, but got away because of his connections. Police? Yeah. He fed dem up da’ way it was suppose to be done. No. Dey didn’t use guns. Dey used knives, chains, brassknuckles, but no guns. Where do ya’ think dey were from, America? Nah. In America ya’ can buy a gun in da’ local shootin’ range. But where I came from we had plenty a’ gangs, booze, whores, whatever! but guns... No, only coppers had firearms. Da’ Strrakhovs’ main thing was da’ taxi park - driving all da’ whores and dealing with pimps and thugs. Dey also was behind all da’ gambling and drugs. Not large operations, but big enough for our small town. ... no scary? All da’ local underground business used dere arbitrage and paid dem tribute. No one paid money unless dey’re threatend to, or need protection. So dey beat up Old Corrski... For nuttin’, just to show dey can. He was a proud and brave man. He walked da’ middle of da’ street with his head held high. He went through da’ war and saw death left and right. He didn’t show dem fear. So dey did it not because dey felt a dearth of respect. Nah. Dey didn’t beat him up to “impress” anyone or show how bad-ass dey were. Dey just felt dat da’ coach resisted dere ways and felt dey had take him out. People saw what happened. Dey surrounded him and started to mock him, “old fart,” dey said, destroying his dignity. To any dish-licker it’s a pleasure to mock a man of respect. N’ den one of da’ dish-lickers pushed him. I told ya’ da’ coach used to be a Jiu-Jitsu champ and, I tell ya’, if he had thirty less years instead of thirty more pounds, he’d, probably, fought ‘em off. But at his age… He did floor a couple of ‘em, though, but den dey all jumped him like fleas and held him while both Strrakhov sons pounded and kicked him; and when he fell to da’ ground, dey kicked him till he passed out. N’ den, dey just left him dere to rot. And when da’ ambulance came, he was just barely breathin’. *** We knew ‘bout it da’ minute he was picked up by da’ meds, even earlier. Small town, big gossip. The word traveled fast. I den knew we had to do somethin ‘bout it, and fast. Dey didn’t know, who dey were fuckin’ wit! By dis point, it just meant vengeance. Went to da’ hospital? Nah. After dat, it was all just a matter of minutes before we acted. We were off to get Pop Strrakhov first. No, he didn’t participate in the beating - not literally, not physically. His sons did, dey and da’ dish-lickers. As I told ya, he was behind everything. Plus he was dere leader, and a body can’t function without da’ head. And so we went dere, da’ five of us. How many of dem? Who cares? Da’ coach did teach me dis – in da’ street fight, it don’t matter how many yer fightin’, if yer afraid, ya’ won’t stand a chance against one. Always find da’ leada’, and get’em out of da’ way first, after dat, da’ palms will lay demselves out for ya’. No matter how ya’ gotta do it– chin, chest, gut, or balls…i’d say balls are da’ best, takes da’ man right out. Once da’ rest of da’ gang sees dat dere leader‘s down, dere startled, and are ready to run. So as I've said: Bore, Strap, Toad, Brick and me went dere, right to da’ taxi park, right to his office. Anyhow, on da’ way dere, dere were a couple of his dish-lickers. And ofcourse dey said, “Where da’ fuck do ya’ ‘tink yer goin’?” And I warned da’ guys “No Talking”, just throw one right in da’ gut and one to da’ nose and if he’s still standin, knee da’ nuts. Not dat I was in charge, I just happened to be ahead of da’ situation at da’ time. Oh but ya’ see. Da’ Strrakhovs didn’t exactly expect dat someone would take dem on. Not on dere lives, not from teens like us. People used to come to his office and kneel on dere knees. “Surprise!” dat’s what threw dem off. “Surprise!” is da’ best weapon. So I went in first, and when one of his rat boys stepped up to me, my elbow collided wit’ his muzzle. Hearin da’ noise in da’ distance, I knew da’ guys was working da’ rest of da’ rats while I was hot on pop’s trail. When I got in, he looked at me with dose bug eyes, ya’ know - “where da’ fuck did you come from?” After dat, grabbing him by his shirt, pullin’ him from his chair across da’ table, and through da’ floor. He was bitchin’ like dere was no tomorra, and tried to threaten me, but I kept quiet, and started kickin him. I was so pissed, dat I ravaged da’ heels of my shoes on da’ crain of dis mudafucka. I had those good dress shoes my pop had bought me, and after da’ fact I felt dis was excessive. But at da’ moment I didn’t care. And let’s drink to dat Nikee, ya’ know why? Cuz riddin’ da’ town from Strrakhov’s is something worth drinking for. Da’ uddah guys of course were taking care of da’ rest of his dish-lickers. But dere wasn’t much resistance dere. In five minutes of fighting eight or ten of dem rat bastards lay on da’ asphalt face-down. But dis wasn’t it, of course. Dere was still his sons. And dey both was of da’ same bone as dere dad - cocky, obnoxious, stubborn. And so we sent Toad to check if dere were playing cards in da’ square by da’ taxi-park. And dere were. And we ran dere and we kicked da’ shit out of dem as well. Dey tried to fight back, but dey was outclassed in spectacular fashion. All was taken to da’ hospital on stretchers. Yeah. And dat was da’ end of Strrakhovs. And I’m glad I was a part of dat. And ya’ know Strrakhovs never got back at us. Nah. Da’ Strrakhovs was done for, finished. Da’ whole city knew ‘bout it. Like I said, small town, big gossip. The word traveled fast. Everybody knew dey got da’ shit kicked out ‘a dem. Everybody knew dat da’ Strrakovs returned no more. So dere tail of dish-lickers dropped from dem right off. Dat was it for dem. No more. And what happend next... hmm... it was kind of weird what happened. Dis was a couple of days after all five of us sat in da’ pub. One man came to us, we knew him. He was da’ owner of da’ little mom’s and pop’s clothing joint, and asked us to protect him from a couple of goons who robbed his store. He offered us money to do the job. And lets just say it revolved around dat kinda’ thing. Vacuum ya’ say? Ah… good thinking, Nikee. Dere cannot be a vacuum - da’ gamblin, and smugglin, and whores; it all went its merry way. So dere still needed to be a fist, a power, da’ arbitrage, so pimps and thugs could go to if dere whores was beaten, or a gambler if his card debts wasn’t paid, someone who would pay police its kickbacks so dey wouldn’t stick dere snouts in da’ street business. And ya’ know who did it, who turned out to be having da’ organizer talent – Da’ Bore. He led da’ uddah guys behind him. People even came up with da’ gang name “Da’ 4-H Club.” And for a while he ran large operations. Dat’s what I heard, dat’s what I heard. No Nikee. Dat’s not something I want to drink for. Once I realized where all dis was goin’, I stepped aside. Da’ Strrakhovs was just an episode. I never wanted to be chained to dis life – da’ stronger a guy pushes away da’ weaker guy until anuddah stronger guy comes and pushes him away. It’s up to you, of course. Ya’ see all dose guys who used to be my buddies have got places, and I’m here, working as a security guard. Dey got to be a real force in our town. Brick is still one of da’ main guys of da’ local Mafia. Strap became the Chief of Police. Toad the Mayor of da’ city. And Bore… Bore is dead. Funny how easy I said dat. He used to be my best buddy. We used to go fishin’ when we was kids. Our houses here, next to each oda, our muddahs went to da’ market togedda’... And now, he’s over dere ... dead, and I am here with ya’. ... People told me dat in five years or so, dere would come anuddah strong guy in town, some lowlife from prison and told Bore to shrink down his operations or else. Bore didn’t agree. Dere was a big fight. I heard fifteen people on each side and Bore died in dis fight with da’ dagger stuck five inches in his heart. No Nikee. ...and my advise is... don’t chain yerself to dis type of life. Yer young, and ya’ll still get yer break. It is still possible to live on da’ side, neutral like Switzerland. Ya’, let’s drink to dat. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #11 Second place: #13 Third place: #3 Others receiving votes: #5, #9, #10, #12, #16, #17 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Chain roger@cowboylogic.net |
#1 of 17 |
| 1697 | |
| JR grinned wide to himself as he watched the boys bent
to the task of inventing games of adventure and brave exploration on, in and
around the rusting machinery tucked into the edge of the saw grass that
bordered the tidal backwater. The Mid Summer Savanna heat soothed his bones and this porch chair was perhaps his favorite spot in the world At 9 and 11, these boys were well versed in the natural dangers of the saw grass blades and the critters it housed so he wasn’t too worried at their play, but he kept a watchful eye anyway. Colt Jr. was his real name, or rather Colt Cornerbrook the 3rd, now shortened to JR to designate him rather than his old daddy or long past grand daddy. Now he was the grand parent and his long life was now centered on the life and times of two unlikely brothers. Colt Cornerbrook the 5th was all African. His features were classic and strong with the nose, mouth wide set sparkling brown eyes and wind resistant ears tucked close to his short cropped hair. Colt was standard in size but perhaps a little wider in the shoulders than most his age. Alex Cornerbrook the 3rd was a study in contrast from Colt. He had a head of hair like curly flame. Its texture was the same as Colt’s but the color came straight from his grand dad lost in the civil war 50 years ago. Alex had the same nose carried by Colt, but his ears were more like sails and his eyes were the deepest green-blue JR had ever seen; almost the color of the saw grass blades. His Scottish heritage stood out with pride and his English granny surely gave him his resolution and determination. He was a tad slighter than Colt, but almost a head higher. Suddenly the boys got interested in something behind the wheel of the old rake and they fished it out of the saw grass roots. From where he was sitting, JR couldn’t tell what it was but he could see the boy’s adventure had taken a turn. As they became quiet to study their new artifact, JR dropped his attention back to his book and pipe. Listening to their conspiratory banter and chuckling, JR relaxed even more into his book. The chapters were flowing strong now and he couldn’t wait to turn the page almost as if he was wandering down a new creek bed and yearend for the view around the next bend. Suddenly the boys were at his knees giggling and snorting in an obvious attempt for his attention. JR looked up winked at them and dropped his eyes to the page only to watch his book fall to the porch floor and fold several pages under in a permanent bookmark. He jumped to his feet and stood for a moment in abject shock as he saw Colt grinning back at him with a steel collar around his neck attached to a rusted old chain connected to Alex’s pink knuckled hands. “Look at my horse Grandpa, Aint he a beaut?” It was the boys turn to be shocked. In what seemed one motion, JR had the chain in hand, the collar was opened with a rusty groan of a long forgotten hinge and the devastating chunk of history swayed knowingly from his life hardened hands. JR felt the chain telling him the boys had to lose a large slice of innocence. Sadness folded over JR like a southern night and his breathing grew rapid and shallow as he contemplated his task. “Alex, run and fetch your Mama. Colt, I want you to go into my room and bring me the book wi’ the green cover offn my writin’ table” As the boys ran off to do his bidding, JR pulled together the three porch chairs and gathered another from just inside the door. Colt showed with his grandfather’s book and a moment later a puzzled Alice was tugged around the corner of the cabin by a much too concerned little red head. With a well respected quiet authority, JR pointed at the chairs. “Have a seat”, he murmured and pulled his chair around to face his bewildered audience. He lifted the book in his left hand and the newly discovered chain and collar in his right. “Alice, do you know what I’m holding in my hands?” With a quick study, she shook her head so he carried on. “Boys, what do you know about slavery?” After a short silence Colt offered, “We aint aspossed to talk about it Grandpa” “It’s a bad word Grandpa, we gets our mouth washed out if we talk about it.” added Alex. “Well, let me ask my question a bit different. Do you know what a slave is?” Another silence, a bit longer as the trepidation built. “No Grandpa, we do…” Alex was cut off by Colt finishing his sentence. “It’s just a bad word.” “Let’s move up a generation, Alice my girl; can you explain to the boys what a slave is?” “Oh, Daddy, I don’t want to talk about that. Can’t we just let it go?” “Sweet Tater, we can’t. The boys already hear the word in the school yard and in secret whispers from their friends, the trouble is, they don’t know why it’s bad, just that it is bad. This means they can get any kind of picture in their heads and it can screw up their whole lives. Look at these boys of yours. It is far too obvious they will have to face far more than the average set of brothers.” “I know Daddy, I…Well…I just hate to bust up their happy world.” “My girl, either we explain it proper, or they learn it elsewhere and it aint gonna be sugar coated no how” At this, Alice dropped her eyes to the porch floor and began to steel herself for the lesson about to be served. “First things first Alice, explain to the boys their hair colors. I know this is gonna be painful, but it will be far less now then down the road a spell” Alice jumped right in with tears tracking down her cheeks. “Alex, I was married for two years to your daddy when he was lost overboard from the ship he was workin’ on. They was shippin’ tobacco to France and he was lost when they hit a huge storm. Son, he got to know you for only a few months but you were everything that mattered in his life. We was everything that is, but you were his pride and joy. Alex your Daddy’s name was Alex Stewart after his daddy lost in the civil war many years ago. His kin folk came from a place called Scotland.” Before the boys could interrupt, she continued with Colt’s story. She looked deep into Colt’s welling eyes. “Baby Boy, I was so heart broke from missing my Alex, I stayed crying in my bedr’m for months. Finally your daddy came ‘long and convinced me my life wa’n’t over. He made me feel good and taught me how to smile again. He also taught me the most important thing. I could love again and I could go on with my life.” Alice again dropped her eyes to the floor. “Colt, once he was done teaching me that he left, but he left me with another precious gift. He left me with you. Under the circumstances, I kep’ The Cornerbrook name for all of us.” “Some day, I hope our lives will include a new daddy, but I ain’t in a hurry, when it is his time, he will be here to share our love.” Alice turned her tear flushed eyes to her father and the boy’s faces turned to follow her gaze. “Well done my girl, well done.” JR took a moment and pulled his little family close for a group hug. The boys were still silent, absorbing a new reality. “Now boys, over the next few weeks we are gonna go through my book on just how we got to this place in our lives and why this chain means so much. Today I simply explain that folks with no color to their skin held people with color in chains such as this and made them work at what ever job they decided they should do. It went much deeper than that, these folks with light skin believed they owned the folks with dark skin. They called these owned people, slaves.” The boys were now enraptured with the revelations but were silenced by a myriad of emotions that could not allow them yet to process and react to what they were learning. As they listened, they simply watched the rusty chain sway in their grandfather’s hands. JR continued, “About 50 years ago, this country voted in the most amazing president in history and he pushed through laws that ended slavery and made us all free. It cost a lot though, thousands of Americans, light of skin and dark died to make this change come to pass. This meant that you boys and your Mamma here have always been free and have never had to experience the pain of feeling less than one of god’s creatures. We live in wonderful age where we can become the best we can be.” “Don’t get me wrong, there is still a lot of pain and hatred over that war, but at least we are on the right track to heal and move on.” The boys looked at their mother and each other before looking back at their grandfather, still unable to voice how they felt. “Tomorrow boys, we start on the history book, but today’s lesson is no man or no woman has the right to own another human.” With a deft toss, the chain sailed with uncanny aim to the center of the scrap heap beside the blacksmith forge. JR stood and entered the cabin. “I’m going for a nap, be here in these chairs tomorrow at 8 o’clock.” The clatter of the screen door provided the punctuation on the end of his sentence. |
|
| The Chain André H. Fredrick m3rc134@yahoo.com |
#2 of 17 |
| 19 | |
| life of domino events the bondage of cause & effect iron links that tie me to this very moment |
|
| The Chain P.S Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#3 of 17 |
| 1922 | |
| “My momma always told me I should never have
married Bobby Jones. I guess I should have listened to her, she understood what
she was on about. It was a beautiful wedding, I suppose, on March 12th 1959. I
was just seventeen and he was only twenty-one. I thought we were so mature, I
thought that we knew it all, and I thought that the fairy tale would come true
and we would life happily ever after…I guess I should have listened to
her…she told me what would happen, she warned me I would end up just like
her. For the next three years, I suppose we were sort of happy. He found work
on the railroad, and I gave birth to Mary, she became my whole world. But then
things began to turn…Bobby changed. He began to get demanding. He would
want me to wake up before him, and cook him a full breakfast, you know the
kinda stuff, Sausages, eggs, grits and cornbread. I had to make sure not to
wake him up until it was completely cooked and sitting on the table wit a mug
of fresh coffee…Or else he would get mad and he would…He
would…Anyhow that wasn’t the worse of it, no siree, he expected me to
clean the house everyday he did and do his laundry on top of taking care of our
baby. When he arrived home at six, supper had to be on the table waiting for
him good and hot. I finally just couldn’t cope anymore, no siree. That is
when the hitting and stuff got really bad…Then he started drinkin’
and things they just got even worse …What was I supposed to do? It was on
a hot summer balmy night when I got the idea; I was sitting on the old porch
sipping my ice tea, when it suddenly came to me... Like an inspiration I guess
you’d say. It was so simple. The very next night I had his evening meal on
the table when he came home from work. Fried pork chops, collard greens and
mashed potatoes. I will never forget. He then cried out for his beer. I poured
it in the glass as I always did. Only this time I added a few of those sleeping
pills that the doctor had prescribed for me. That doctor Wilson sure was a nice
old fellow…He kept on telling me to go and get help, when I showed up with
all of my bruising and such like. Anyhow, I crunched them up, those pills I
mentioned, all good like, and slipped them into his beer. It fizzed a bit at
first, and I was sure that he was going to taste ‘em. But, he simply
guzzled it straight on down and demanded another. I did not have to wait long
after that at all. He dozed off good and proper like. Yes siree, he slept like
a baby he did. Then I dragged him to the kitchen, and chained him to the gas
cooker…It was about then that Mary woke up and came in, she looked at her
daddy a bit funny , all chained up like that and such like ,lying on the
ground. But I gave her a big hug, and I told her that it was for the best. Mary
was always afraid of her daddy anyhows. I then turned on the gas. After a few
minutes when the smell began to get real strong I woke the son of a bitch up.
It took some doing, I can tell you. Well at first, cus as soon as he realized
that he was chained up good and proper like, and he could smell that gas, he
kinda of woke up all quickly .He began a hollering and a screaming, a hollering
and a screaming he did, I have never seen anyone look so scared in all my long
days. I had to laugh I did, you see It was his idea to live all the way out
here, miles from the city. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to
move so far from momma, but he insisted and he always got his way. There
wasn’t a neighbor within a quarter of a mile. I gotta tell you it felt
good watching him writhe there all helpless. Real good, yes siree. When the gas
smell got even stronger I then lit a candle on the kitchen table, and me and
Mary raced on out of there. We were outside about ten or fifteen minutes, and I
was beginning to doubt if it was going to blow up or not when all at once there
was a big explosion. Boy did it ever go up…Ooooeee, loud enough to wake
the very devil himself I reckon…The police, fire and ambulance came, yes
siree they surely did, they all made such a fuss that I ever did see, and shook
their heads and whispered to themselves. I was proud of the way I acted, all
tearful and hysterical Took ‘em only a bout two hours or so to get the
fire put out. There weren’t a thing left, everything was gone…Yes
siree it surely was… Everyone said it was a horrible accident it must have
been, and how lucky that Mary and I had gotten out of the house. They
wouldn’t even let me see the body, or at least what was left of it, they
told me that I would be so upset, that it had actually been blown apart. I
thank the good lord above that they never found that chain though, the one that
I used to attach him. That would have taken a whole lot of explaining that
would of. No siree, they didn’t ask me a whole bunch of questions. They
all kinda felt sorry for me and Mary I reckon. Anyhows all of the local folk
were real good and kind to us after that and fortunately for us Bobby had a
pretty decent life insurance with the railroad, and they took care of us real
good and proper. We never wanted for much of anything. I started to take in a
little sewing to help us get by, and we moved into a little ol’ house
right near momma. Things went on pretty well after that. It was in 1973 when my
poppa went and gone and had that heart attack and died on us, and my dear old
mother departed just a few months later, she just fell asleep one night and
never woke up again, the doctors never could quite figure it out, natural
causes they said.. I reckon she just couldn’t live without that old coot,
I do. Actually missed the abuse is what I’m a thinkin’. That made me
really sad losing momma, and Mary was a teenager by then and I was beginning to
lose her too. The next few years were pretty rough…Then the worst thing I
could ever imagine went and happened. Mary told me that she was going to get
married herself, and she was just eighteen! I begged her, yes siree I surely
did, just like my momma had begged me. But she wasn’t havin’ any of
it,let me tell you, her head was filled with all the same poppycock that mine
was when I was her age. So she and Charlie Simmons, they went and tied the
knot. I knew Charlie’s dad, and he was always a bad un, and you know what
they say about the acorn not falling far from the oak tree. Six months later
she gave birth to my grand daughter Rebecca. What an angel she surely was, but
all the folks could figure the math, theys all knew that she was pregnant
before they got hitched. Some folks took to calling her such filthy
names…Filthy I can tell ya, names I daren’t repeat here no siree.
Then I watched the same cycle happen all over again before my eyes…
Charlie began treating Mary, just as my poppa had treated my momma, and just as
her papa had treated me….I had to do something, I just had too. This time
it was real easy. Charlie had one passion, motorbikes. Yes siree, he surely
loved his bike, more than Mary and little Becky if you ask me…It did not
take much to fix his brakes. Just a little adjusting with the wrench, I learned
all about it from a library book, I never was one for books, but they showed it
nice and easy likes how to set the brakes, it wasn’t hard for me. I was
kinda proud of that…They say that he died in an instant, that he had been
going too fast down that hill…I am truly thankful for that I am. Mary was
horrified for the longest time, and kept giving me funny looks. Perhaps she was
remembering the last time she saw her poppa alive, and her mind was beginning
to figure things out…Anyhows, Mary and Becky came to live with me after
that. Boy they were real good times, nice and cozy it were, the happiest of my
life…We went on like that for a good number of years, boy the time surely
did fly by, until the inevitable gosh darn went and happened, just the other
week, Becky told me and her momma that she too wanted to get married. I
reckoned I had better do something about it real sharpish like this time. Nip
it in the bud so to speak. I aint a young woman anymore, you see, no
siree…. I found out where that beau of hers lived I did, Johnnie Jenkins
was his name…I reckoned this time I would make it look like a robbery. I
waited outside his place one morning, good and early it was, and I carried with
me a hammer I did. I had planned about hiding outside of his place, and leaping
out and whacking him on the head, then go in and take a few things…I gotta
tell y’all it was quite exciting for an old country girl like me, I could
barely sleep the night before. Anyhows, there I was, hiding in the shadows and
all, and I saw him leave…. But, just as I was about to lunge out and hit
him on the head good and proper like, he turned about and caught me red handed,
it only took a moment for him to hold me down, although I surely did put up
quite a struggle, I managed to get one good scratch in to his face I surely
did.. You should have seen the strange look in his eye, to see his girl’s
grey haired grandmother coming at him with a hammer. Anyhows, the police came
and arrested me they did, and when we got to talking, down at the station, over
a glass of ice tea, all of the rest sort of came out. So here I am. I know that
I don’t have many years left, and they say that confession is good for the
soul. I kinda feel a little better all ready, I don’t mind telling you.One
mighty good thing came out of it though…Johnnie broke it off with Becky
pretty darn quick after that…Yes siree he surely did” The judge looked at the frail grey haired lady standing in his courtroom bound in chains, who had just told the strangest confession he had ever heard, and shook his head in disbelief… |
|
| The Chain Charles Brooks angelus725@yahoo.com |
#4 of 17 |
| 2196 | |
| A Knight All Evening Prelude: -The scene: The camera comes into focus and the audience will realize it is the night- time view from beneath the street. You’re seeing through a run-off gutter of a city’s sewer system. Then the focus will slowly float out the garbage-caked opening and the major landmarks of Paris are shown to give the feel of the place. Everything is run down and it is obvious this is the home of abject misery. The camera shows the slum, then pans to the garish façade of a cabaret club, to the other side of the slum, to two gentlemen, obviously well above the financial means of all those here. The audience will wonder if the two are lost. Others will think to themselves with a nervous laugh that those men need to run like the antidote was across the finish line! The camera zooms all the way into the face of one of those wealthy white men, who is possibly misguided, most certainly about to be deceased, but then the audience hears the man’s pounding heartbeat, his quickening breath. The camera will pull in to the profile of the men and then slowly turn to show he is terrified, staring at the cabaret club where now the audience has the full frontal look at the despair that rendered man nothing more than a desperate beast of the jungle. -The camera turns back to the same man as before where then the high-pitched, but obviously male, voice begins to speak aloud as if each of the audience members were to step into this curious gentleman’s head. (Breath and heartbeat pick up as the dialogue is read.) Voice of the cabaret front man: You are in Paris, France, year 1925. Flappers are the rage. Cabaret is in full swing, the most daring dogs finding the lewdest show in town. Yesterday a group whispered about this place. Yet ,those co-workers were not in sight. It was dangerous to wait outside so severely late at night. So, You and a friend are attending a new cabaret opening just in front of the very slum your childhood self told stories about before bed. So dreadful were those tall tales you were assured all those fragile, chattering sleep-over chums would be tortured and silently sobbing for their mommies until morning… But nonetheless, here you stand, staring into this gapping mouth of Hell whose rotten breath seems the stench of something far, far worse than death. They were kids’ stories, right? Are you shaking? Certainly not! Thank Mother Mary you had a hard drink before the taxi tussled up! How about that quick stop, en route, to hump the nerve- numbing love of Madame Opium. That’s the stuff to thickened up some bravery! And on that chemical crutch you leaned your sad, quivering spine as you and your friend all but sprint to the ticket box. I watched you cross that filth-flooded street. It must have seemed a blind, panicked eternity! Oh but see! There is no line between you and that familiar glass smeared and gored, there’s always a circular hole cut out so you and the ticket salesman might hear each other. Human ingenuity! Well done, monsieur! Only a few steps more, ticket in hand, and soon you can crawl into a shadow inside, catch your breath. Then you can finally mop that sickly, cold sweat off your forehead. You know that this nauseating film, now soaking into your collar, can only be caused by the crippling creature of pure primal Fear. -No one outruns Fear. In you go, and beg the Fates you don’t look like you feel. Then, here, you think to look back, making sure, though a bit belated, your friend was indeed still behind you. -Sigh- You see him. Yet he doesn’t look half as harried as you. Funny that. Oh now, Don’t feel so bad. And this is how you feel as you enter the poorly lit main room, stage leaning, nowhere seems clean enough to sit! In the name of Zeus, this furniture is haphazardly tossed about and broken. The waitresses were attractive, -but they all wore that world beaten expression which runs to the bone. Poor girl used up before she sees thirty. So give the little tart something else to think about and send her for a drink! -A double? Yes monsieur, of course! Light a smoke and relax. Later you could run back by the opium den again… Yessss, now you’re better. Still horror-ill, but better. Hey, has love ever made you feel that way? You know, like Fear? Could you even imagine? I mean, what that would do to a man? -No, you say? Maybe it isn’t that you can’t, but you won’t. I swear you shall after the show! Go sit down up front. I promise you safe and sound in here. Adieu my good man, I have to leave you now, but remember this last query: Do you think a man is really released from the womb mad as a hatter, or perhaps they contract it once exposed? Like a disease? Some say that about love. The Show Kicks Up The Scene: Camera goes around the room as if still looking through the well dressed gentleman’s eyes. You see one waitress pretending to be amused as a fat drunk pulls her into his grubby lap. But that is contrasted by a table just behind them with three men, similarly well suited, lounging casually as if nothing in the world was to fear from the high class rubbing elbows with degenerates. The room fills quickly you see with a motley crew with representatives from society’s every class. A spot light comes on, the stage explodes with color, the audience winces back. The drink arrives and you drink it. The gentleman is visibly better after he swallows. The camera goes back to the stage where now music erupts and a man bursts from behind the center curtain. He dances around the stage as eight or so young women in only the smallest panties money could afford as clothing. The camera pulls in while the man, still dancing, can be seen in detail. He wears a three piece suit made from blue silk. His smile is enormous and inexplicably unnerving. Holding out his arms as if trying to hug the crowd, this middle aged, balding, tubby monkey began to speak. Same voice as narrator: “No less than tragic, are those souls too timid for this magic- made evening.” -pause as a few ticket holders look at the stage, confused- “You leaving or staying, boys?” -pause, most citizens sit, still bewildered, in the theatre. Yet a few still slink towards the door… “Ah, but by leaving, are you loosing your happy home’s last best try?” -some of those leaving stop and reconsider their current course- “Let’s make sure, shall we?” -some sit down- Welcome back! Now believe you Now bound across your bed in the arms of a poet knight alive long ago. Spin naked by this euphoric, molten mad love story. Send to bed baby Todd and Suzy. Go on! Good night! -pause- All gone? -pause- Good! Now, let’s learn by getting lost loving your very soul’s second self beside a childhood’s enchanted lake. you two blushing beneath a well-broken blanket in the tall grass. -I have! Lead your little gal outside with a blanket at dusk. Cast away the candles, allow the stars to light her eyes tonight. You love that lady down now, -and then be her knight all evening. The Warrior Poet: “I have a story about to start. -pause, no answer- Would you be planning to walk West?” -pause, no answer- Then consequently I considered my adamant cadence might’ve come across too eager. Like I’m a little spinny in the skull this silent giant may think me. -pause, the once silent man now nears our elderly, tale-telling traveler. A few words were uttered, and… - Well hey! we fellas must be walking on the same lucky day! The mountainous man said his name was Horace, and yes, he was headed West! It’s cold. He and I pull together, the wind whipping behind, pushing us right along. We just like two vagabond peas in a pod right here! -Horace makes a mumble- Which managed then to set me on debating, then believing he was telling this old-timer it was now or never. Leaving the inn I wait to whole-heartedly hoped the Traveler’s Wind would be a bit kinder once inside the Fountainhead Forest. - another, deeper breath- And coming closer, away from the cold, I started here this story on Heaven’s love once leading two hearts to wonder, SOMETHING eons forgotten love of Kristina- and her teacher, preacher, and knight- Sir Robert Evensong. On some certain subject matter terrific for our long drudgery, -checking the time- Now telling a tale, I honest injun swear to you here, was first whispered by a fairy, wandering loveless, weeping the forest angels are known to trod. A Knight for an Evening (The Warrior’s Dream): It is nothing less than tragic, there are souls too terrified of gallant, timeless magic, they would refuse a chance to gain it all, or lose. Hold hands and rush for this second, euphoric start. But perhaps you haven’t heard of his name, seen his face, been rescued. He should be a Knight. His colors, worn around your heart, cannot fade, do not give up, and given only once in his life, to she who eclipses him completely. And so you, beautiful shimmering in this afternoon sunshine. You should hear this story, so go sneak out the back, bring a warm blanket, and daydream by the lake inside your mind. Get lost in the tall grass. Recline, close your eyes. I’ll whisper you a romance, this song of a knight and his Everything.. … In my old life, in those ancient hours of honor and complete abandon, I recall I was a knight. But only one thing, one immaculate thing, is remembered after that, her, and she’s all I care to know. I met her, as most do, with a glance, a crowd, and that mad dash made to catch her. Her silken skin shone above the sun. Eyes like a thousand heavens. A smile I swear did sing In the wind, her iridescent, golden hair -enchanted. I found her by a fountain. Struck speechless, a gaping fool, there before her standing without a breath. -Can you imagine? She simply said hello, and by that innocent word I was won. Then her smile again, with laughter like the flight of a seraph. Her touch would ground me. So I bowed a good day, and every day thereafter. The next months, were wound in the first glow of wanting’s wonder. We courted, wooed, loved and swooned by our every second. We walked until the road ran out, and then rambled down it again. I would have rode below Hell, to hold her. Tore down Heaven if meeting a cherub was her wish. I denied her love nothing. If she requested one waltz on a quiet Wednesday afternoon, I would give her my hand and grant her two. We were wed, mother’s weeping. Taking the rest of our lives bravely with us, a new life we started living. We were laced inside and wished well. And all of this, too pure perfect, warmed me as if some miracle had joined my dreams, and given me their daughter as a gift. On crusade, I save the drowned Ophelia, but my heart only heard her head resting on our pillows. I longingly returned to her, our hands entwined in Fate. Walking swarthy and wild, I am romantic, but never late. I bring her treasures of sunflowers, strawberry shortcake, and dresses like butterfly wings. Yet all she asked were kisses, and a nap. -Never the trouble I was due. And I vow to her again, as if first in love, that I unhinge my armor for only she, my beloved. I can save earth for our kind, but myself I save for only one lady. She who wears my sapphire heart. The sapphire? My lady crinkles her curious brow from the blankets beside me. It is a stone King Arthur knighted me by with the love he gave dear Guinevere. I kept that jewel until I met you and I placed it at your feet, every day blissfully, again, and again, and again… I answer to one God, appeal to only one Her, and would fight until time’s end for Her Everything. My muse. My second breath. I picked this princess who proved fairytales are alive and free. One who has lived, one who has saved me. Soon, in the quiet hours, I will wander home where she and I shall slide down slowly and rest against our quaint castle’s cushions. She’ll wish to slumber, which I can only surrender, to such a brilliant, innocent face! I’ll sweetly sing her a rhyme while I gather her up, that lithe curve and grace, all against my champion chest, and with a wink, slip her silently up the stairs. |
|
| The Chain Henrick Glutonlumps princeofthegnomes@yahoo.com |
#5 of 17 |
| 244 | |
| The tall dark man dressed entirely in black, sat there locked within the tiny chamber. Strange noises fill his ears. Stranger stenches fill his nostrils… He tries to decipher the mysterious foreign tongues he can hear wagging and laughing nearby. He knows they are scheming, understanding this must be some wicked form of revenge. All at once a horrible stir wells up inside of him. He begins to sweat He begins to shake And he begins to regret… Regret all that he had done that evening. Why had he been such a fool? Now he is destined to be positioned here tormented, held captive within these claustrophobic confines, fated to pay the ultimate price for his imprudence. Suddenly there is an explosion deep within his gut. He fights the increasing desire to scream out in agony, as a fire seemingly ignites in his very belly. Then his body begins to expel… Violently, forcefully, uncontrollably. On and on the onslaught continues, seemingly ceaseless. The stench becomes increasingly unbearable… Finally, deciding the worst of his ordeal had surely passed, yet, still praying for death to quickly take him, he cleanses himself, with trembling fingers… Then somehow finding the courage and strength deep within him, he stands on wobbly feet, and pulls the chain. Without any remains of dignity he head back out from the dingy lavatory, at the rear of his local curry house, and back to the rest of his Saturday night drinking pals… |
|
| The Chain Queenmont@aol.com |
#6 of 17 |
| 2279 | |
| The bright red mane, framing Sheila’s pear shaped
face, swayed as she paced like a caged lion – back and forth – in
front of 553 West 51st Street. Even though she told Dave to be at the theater
by 2:35, he didn’t materialize until 2:55, 5 minutes before curtain. He
acted nonchalantly as if he was on Dave time. It was a pre-theater ritual,
which these two life-long friends performed over and over again. They first met on the stage at the ripe old age of 7. Each had been cast in “Bottoms Up,” a musical fairy tale written by Dr. Robert Smithers, the director of the Valhalla community theater company. They assumed their characters’ names, Tony and Joanie, as real life nicknames from that day forward. Twenty-six years later their love affair with the theater remained their strongest bond. A warm embrace, at the green painted doors of the Irish Arts Center, rekindled their unshakable connection. Although they were both inveterate theatergoers neither had ventured this far west, well beyond the mainstream theater district, to see a show. Dave gallantly held the door for Sheila. As they entered the small theater, they left the bright day behind both figuratively and literally. The half empty house provided them with the opportunity to shift to front row seats, which brought them within spit shot of the actors and ensured they wouldn’t have to peer between the heads of other theatergoers to see the action. Rage, unleashed by a second-rate life ascribed to the ill intent of previous generations and exacerbated by remaining family rivalries, was so brilliantly acted by the play’s central character that it was tough to watch without recoiling. He mercilessly taunted his cronies making them as miserable as he was. When a stranger, an African refugee who was seeking an honest day’s pay for a hard day’s work, joined the small town, all Irish construction crew, all hell broke loose ending in murder and mayhem. Prejudice provoked the murderous act. The African killed one of the construction workers. Sheila’s silence and crestfallen face let Dave know she was embarrassed by the twists and turns on stage. Gently placing her arm on his was intended as a gesture of support. Everyone had left the theater when Dave and Sheila rose from their seats and headed towards the exit without having spoken. Dave connected with the story on the stage at a visceral level in a way that Sheila never could although she was acquainted with the Barama legend. Mr. Barama, Dave’s dad left his native Nigeria to make a better life for himself and his young family in the country where the streets were supposed to be paved in gold. When he arrived in America, he quickly learned that for a black man with accented speech, the mean streets were covered with grit, grime and crime. He came in peace and left in a body bag, gunned down by thugs who didn’t want his kind in their lilywhite neighborhood. Dave’s Auntie Laurel became their savior when she rescued Dave and his mother and took them to live with her in Yonkers. His mother and auntie worked tirelessly as maids, cleaning the houses of rich suburban families, to afford Dave the best possible education at private academies. A scholarship funded through A Better Chance supplemented their efforts. Dave went to Andover and then remained in Massachusetts for his college education. In the 26 years since his father’s death, life became easier for an African-American, especially one with a Harvard business degree. Money, harvested from fields of green at a high powered investment bank, bought Dave a modicum of happiness. People like the hoodlums who killed his father showed Dave respect, at least to his face, because of his status, which is what mattered to him. The play dredged up negative feelings about his dad’s death and the way minorities were treated in America that he had deliberately buried years earlier. Turning to Shelia, he spoke in a barely audible whisper, “I am not sorry we saw the play. It has been years since I entertained political thoughts.” His voice grew bolder, “I usually prefer to live below the radar screen, but my guilty conscience tells me I can’t afford to.” Shelia, a political junkie, had tried unsuccessfully to seduce Dave to join this march or that political rally over the years. “The play must have had a profound effect to make you take your head out of the sand, my ostrich friend!” When she paused to judge his reaction, he nodded in the affirmative. She continued, “Your reawakening could not have come at a better time.” Raised in a predominately, lilywhite suburb in a house cleaned by Mrs. Barama, Shelia rebelled against the stereotypical image of a JAP. Armed with a Stanford Law degree, she chose to brandish her JD on behalf of incarcerated underdogs. She worked for the Innocence Project. Dave, who respected her intelligence and treasured her toughness, joked that if he was ever falsely arrested because he was black, he had a direct line to the best defense attorney. Clinging close to each other to avoid a group of teens drinking out of paper bags, Shelia and Dave made tracks to a pub on 10th Avenue, advertised on the back of the theater program. Settling in at a round corner table, he ordered a vodka martini with a twist and she ordered a glass of what the waiter described as buttery Chardonnay. Theater had been the only safe subject for discussion until that day. Pandora’s box opened and spilling from it was opinionated chatter about current events. Sheila embraced the change. Dave was like a race horse who couldn’t wait to get out of the starting gate. “Let the person without sin cast the first stone.” Dave chuckled at his biblical reference. Shelia applauded which encouraged Dave, “The blame game is in full swing. None of the Gulf States’ two bit players, masquerading as leaders, is strong enough to adopt Harry Truman’s slogan, ‘the buck stops here.’ They are pathetic, self-serving, low-lifes inventing excuses while millions of people needlessly suffered.” “You are preaching to the choir. If we aren’t willing to be part of the solution, we are by default part of the problem! How do you intend to contribute?” Fiscally conservative, Dave was socially progressive. He had no political party affiliation. He saw no need for one because he never voted. On the other end of the spectrum stood Sheila, who was a loyal Democrat with strong, liberal, activist leanings. Sheila’s direct question didn’t surprise Dave. But this new unexplored territory was disquieting so Dave informed Sheila, “I’ll have to give it serious thought. When I figure it out, you will be the first to know.” Saved by the appearance of a young, tattooed waiter at their table, Dave ordered a second round of drinks. He turned to Sheila indicating to the waiter she would place her dinner order. “The grilled vegetable sandwich please. Leave off the fries and double the portion of salad. Thanks.” “Still a vegan! I don’t know how you survive.” Turning from Sheila back to the waiter, Dave placed his order, “A medium rare burger with the works for me.” Scrutinizing the Supreme Court was obvious since it was the Sunday before the first Monday in October. “If I were President, you’d be my nominee,” Dave pronounced. “Aspiring to be President, are we?” They both laughed at the prospect. Sheila continued, “I’m flattered, but I’m more likely to win the Mega Millions than to win a judicial appointment. My interpretation of constitutional law would be an anathema to many politicians on both sides of the aisle.” Dave couldn’t resist indirectly patting himself on the back, “Are you surprised I am so well informed?” “Nothing about you surprises me. I wouldn’t expect less.” “The right to die issue is one of the first cases out of the chute this fall. What’s your take?” “It is a real conundrum. My inclination is to say government has no place legislating personal decisions, but there is a catch 22. If someone stands to inherit a fortune, hanky-panky could ensue under the guise of personal freedom.” “I hadn’t thought about it from that angle. What if a caretaker decided to pull the plug because a patient was a burden? The potential for negative repercussions is mind blowing.” “As cogent and persuasive as those arguments are, I would still opt for the right to die for myself. Would you?” “Without a moment’s hesitation.” Dave pulled a pen from his blazer pocket and began to write on a clean, cloth napkin nabbed from the next table. He handed the neatly penned document to Sheila who read it out loud, “I, David Barama, of sound mind and body, hereby authorize Sheila Lund to pull the plug should I become irrevocably incapacitated. Under no circumstances should I be kept artificially alive. Signed, David Barama. Dated: October 3, 2005.” The witness line remained blank until the waiter came by to clear the table. “Please put your John Hancock here. You are witnessing a personally, historic event!” The waiter, an aspiring actor, obliged signing his name, Rocco Grinder, with flourishes and swirls. He thought it was cool. An uncomfortable chill went down Sheila’s spine, but she didn’t rock the boat. Carefully folding the napkin in thirds to protect the writing, which remained on the inside, Dave placed it in his blazer pocket for safekeeping. Doubtful that a court would uphold Dave’s document, Sheila allowed the dramatic gesture to stand uncontested. She didn’t want to burst her dear friend’s bubble. Dave placed two crisp $20s in Rocco’s hand and said, “Thank you.” The overly generous tip put a big smile on Rocco’s face. Sheila promised to keep an eye out for his name in the theater pages. “Our paths may cross again.” Advancing no more than 50 steps, a sight stranger than fiction confronted Sheila and Dave. A taxi, horn blaring, drove onto the sidewalk taking aim at a disheveled, elderly man. “In god’s name what are you doing, man?” shouted Dave to the turbaned taxi driver as he ran to push the elderly man, who was weaving back and forth, out of the way. “He’s a human be” And then there was silence. The taxi pinned Dave under its right wheel knocking him unconscious. A frantic Sheila called 911 urging the operator to send an ambulance and the police. The commotion alerted Rocco and his cohorts who ran from the pub to lend a hand. Sheila shrieked, “Rocco get that guy, the one wearing the turban.” Raja Singh is how he was identified on the placket inside the yellow taxi. He couldn’t outrun Rocco’s crew who collared him less than a block away. Rocco, who stood guard wielding a baseball bat while Big Ben, the bartender, sat on him, overlooked the fear in Singh’s eyes. Screaming sirens announced the arrival of the police cruiser and ambulance from opposite directions. Two strapping police officers with bulging, forearm muscles lifted the front end of the taxi so Dave could be removed by the EMTs. A flood of tears that mixed with Sheila’s black mascara, striping her face black and white, created a macabre look. But she was a glass half full kind of gal who kept hope alive. All didn’t appear to be lost because the EMTs felt a faint pulse and could detect a hearbeat. The ambulance sped off to Roosevelt/St. Lukes with Dave’s limp body. When it was Singh’s turn to speak, he waived his right to have an attorney present, and told his story, which he naively expected would free him. “I came to America from India wanting to make a better life for my young family. Religious freedom was what I expected, but from day one people made fun of me because of my turban.” Turning towards the elderly man, who was sitting on the curb, he continued, “This old drunk hurled stones at me and his talk was spiced with vulgarities. In America I shouldn’t be treated disrespectfully because I look different.” Singh’s compelling story couldn’t justify his actions in much the same way that the African’s murderous act in the play was inexcusable. Sheila told Officer O’Reilly she was confident Singh’s self-defense argument would fall on deaf ears in a courtroom, even if the jury were comprised of immigrants. “I intended to scare the old man to bring an end to his taunting. When this other man ran in front of the taxi, I couldn’t stop in time. It was an accident.” “You’d better pray he lives,” is all Officer O’Reilly said before placing him in the back of the police cruiser for the trip to central booking. Sheila hitched a ride with them to the hospital. There would be no need to test the legality of Dave’s napkin inscribed document. An EMT informed Sheila that Dave died in the emergency room soon after the ambulance delivered him there. In a state of bewilderment, Sheila babbled, “ I considered ‘life imitates art’ a cliché. But, my god, when they actually collided, on the same day, it was nothing short of mind-boggling. Tony, I am so sorry. Joanie misses you.” Uncontrollable sobbing overtook Sheila who loathed the intolerance that led to Mr. Barama’s death and to his son’s death 26 years later. Lulled into thinking society had made significant strides before Dave’s death, Sheila realized that bigotry was alive and still living in America. Like chains that shackled earlier generations, prejudice tied the hands of the Baramas, the Singhs, the Lunds and for that matter all Americans. |
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| The Chain Nathalie Freson nats@netvision.net.il |
#7 of 17 |
| 78 | |
| You and I are bound together From my womb to your bowels The rippled cord will twist and turn around you In a life-giving embrace Our own food chain; For what’s mine becomes yours. And like the ying and yang, We’ll be whole. You’ll grow within me And I’ll feel empty without you. And even when the time will come to sever our elemental bond, You and I will still bear the mark of our primeval love. |
|
| The Chain Rachel Green rrrachel@thefamily.plus.com |
#8 of 17 |
| 112 | |
| These chains that decorate so gaily here, Made of gold that sparkle like your desire, Bind me with Yuletide winter solstice cheer Such intimate moments as you require. A single band of chain for your delight Will represent the gift of love today And sparkle in the softly glowing light Of candles lit to keep the dark at bay. For such a light I hold within my soul, My love for you infuse my very heart; Like golden chain, the light will keep me whole Together, we, and never more to part. I thank the Gods for all that brought me home; To wear your chain and never more to roam. |
|
| The Chain Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#9 of 17 |
| 749 | |
| By my watch it is 3:08 Tuesday afternoon when the
chains clankety-snake their way over the courtyard wall. Their forged links
resonate as they bang against each other and scrape the rough texture of the
thick adobe, and I think they make a sound that is something like church bells
would make if I knew what church bells sounded like. Church bells calling me to
come get my religion. They are, these chains, as they always are, on time. They are never early. And they are certainly never late. It is always Tuesday, and it is always 3:08. For my watch is broken and has no other time to give me. Every day is Tuesday, and every time is 3:08. In its way it is good that my watch should be stuck so on the time that it is, for that is precisely when the chains come over the wall. Were it stuck on any other time, the chains might not come at all, and my life would be as empty as the courtyard where I have lived every Tuesday since forever. Father will not let me go outside the walls. "There is nothing out there," he says. "Then where do the chains come from?" I want to ask. "And what about the voices I hear sometimes that mumble their uninvited way over the wall and into the courtyard? The ones that come in the night when it is dark and I can not see to tell what time it is?" But I do not ask these things for the man is my father and I am his son, and that is the way of the world, that the son should obey his father. The chains have ceased their wiggling and become silent now. They hang motionless against the wall, their jingly church bell pings having emptied themselves from my ears and become a timeless echo in my memory. From my hidey place behind the far-corner pinion, I watch them. Study them. Envy them. Wonder what it would be like to grab them and scamper-scale my way up and over the wall. I could reach them, I think, were I to walk over and extend my arm. My eyes dart up and down, from the ground to the chains and back again, as I estimate the distance involved. Maybe if I stood on tip-toe ... surely, if I jumped ... perhaps with a running start ... surely, the chains would be within my grasp. And, if they weren't, at least I would not fall far. Skin my knee perhaps. Or bruise a knuckle. Maybe chip a tooth. Though, of course, I would have to explain to Father how I did these things. How I tried to climb up the chains and over the wall. Perhaps it would be better if I waited until I grew a little older. A little taller. A little stronger. Just to the point where there was no chance of failure. But how will I know that I have waited enough? That I am old enough and tall enough and strong enough to get over the wall by myself? How will I know that enough time has passed for these things to happen to me when, in my courtyard world, time never passes and it is always and forever 3:08 on a Tuesday afternoon? Though I know them not, there are those, I suppose, who would like to know when they are going to die. They are of the kind that would be grateful for the chance to get their affairs in order and mend their fences and make their peace with the world. I do not count myself among them, these people that I do not know, though I wonder if they envy me my plight and my fate. But do they know that I do not wish to die at 3:08 on a Tuesday afternoon? I fear that things are happening too fast. That there are too many thoughts crowding themselves into my mind and there's no space left for me to think. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I decide that I will wait a minute. Yes, just a minute. A minute and no more. For that is all the time I will need. I look at my watch. As soon as it says 3:09, I tell myself ... as soon as it says 3:09 I will climb up the chains and over the wall. |
|
| The Chain DarrylBrooks@comcast.net |
#10 of 17 |
| 2498 | |
| The man on the dock was gagged and duct-taped to the
chair. In addition, several loops of chain wrapped around him and the chair,
disappearing into a coil at his feet. A cinder block sitting on the edge of the
dock was shackled to a length running out of the coil. I sat on a bench at the edge of the dock, trying to keep warm and waiting for my quarry to wake up. It was the dead of winter and everything was quiet around the lake. I had come looking for the man the day before, tracking him to this cabin on the shore of Carters Lake, north of Atlanta. My mind drifted back to the day my client, Betty Austin, walked into my office. “Are you Joe Powell?” she said tentatively as she stuck her head in my door. “Yes, I’m Joe Powell, can I help you?” “I hope so. I don’t know where else to go. I got your name from Mike Holst at the police department.” Mike worked missing persons. He occasionally gave out my name to people when they couldn’t help. The police wouldn’t file a report until someone was missing at least forty-eight hours. If they were an adult with no sign of foul play, the police could do little. “Please, sit down and tell me what I can do. Let’s start with your name” “I’m sorry. My name is Betty Austin, and my husband is missing. His name is Mark, Mark Austin.” I took out my pad and started taking notes. “I assume the police couldn’t help?” “They took a report and said they would file it and order a lookout. Detective Holst said that without some evidence of a crime, they couldn’t do anything. They said he may have just taken off on his own and would come back when he was ready. Mark wouldn’t do that. He’s never done that.” “How long have you been married?” “Two years. We’ve hardly been apart since then, except when Mark goes away on business.” “And you know he’s not away on business now?” “He would have told me. He doesn’t just leave without telling me.” “Okay. Tell me what happened.” “He called me from his office three days ago, Friday morning. We were talking about how we would spend the weekend. He interrupted to tell me he had another call he had to take. That was the last time I heard from him.” “Where does he work?” “He works for himself as an investment counselor.” “Could one of his clients called him away suddenly?” “He still would have told me and come home to pack. Besides, he hasn’t answered his cell phone. It’s been three days. I don’t know what to do.” “I’ll take a look, but I can’t promise anything.” I took some more information, filled out a contract, and arranged to meet her at her husband’s office in an hour. She left and I called Mike Holst. “Mike, it’s Joe. I wanted to call and thank you for the referral.” “And pump me for information.” “And pump you for information. Did you guys look into this at all, or turn up anything interesting?” “We checked out his office and home, and came up with nothing. His car’s gone. No reason to believe he didn’t just drive off. We’ve got a lookout on the car, but there’s not much else we can do.” I drove over to meet Mrs. Austin. She let me in with her key, disabled the alarm, and accompanied me inside. It was a small one-room office with a waiting area in the corner. A massive oak desk was almost clean except for a computer. “See anything missing or out of place?” I asked her as I started the computer. “No. But I don’t come here very often.” I went to work searching his computer files. He didn’t have a password on his system. I guess he thought the lock and security system were enough I was scrolling through the files created on the day he disappeared. “What time was your last phone call with him?” “About two in the afternoon,” she answered, “Did you find something?” “Not yet. This won’t take long.” I put my flash memory key into the USB port and copied all the files from the last two days. I would have better luck working through them without the distraction. He saved the last file at two-ten. I shut down the computer, and then spent a few minutes going through his drawers and files. Not much there – he kept most records on his hard drive. I walked out with Mrs. Austin and waited while she locked up. “Let me get started looking into this. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” I drove back to my office and started my computer. Inserting the memory key, I looked at Mark Austin’s files, beginning with the last one. It was a termination letter between Austin and someone named Al Bowden. There wasn’t a phone number, but there was an address on the west side of town. I drove out there and found the place. It belonged to a house set in the trees, sheltered from the commercial area that surrounded it. I rang the bell and a very attractive woman in her forties was answered the door. “May I help you?” “Yes. My name is Joe Powell and I’m looking for Al Bowden.” “I’m Mrs. Bowden. May I ask what this is in reference to?” “I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into the disappearance of Mark Austin. He apparently is an associate of your husband. I’m just trying to get a line on what he was working on at the time of his disappearance.” “Well, I wouldn’t know anything. I don’t keep up with my husband’s business.” “Can you tell me what sort of business he is in?” “Real estate speculation. Some stock trading.” “Can you tell me where he is or how to contact him?” “He’s out of town. He has a cell phone, but he’s not answering it.” “Is that unusual? Him not answering his cell?” “Not really. When he’s tied up in a deal, he’ll turn it off and he visits some remote areas. We have a cabin up at Carters Lake that doesn’t get service, but he rarely goes up there without me. Not in the middle of winter.” “Well, thanks for your time.” I handed her my card. “If you hear from him, could you ask him to give me a call?” That might have been another dead end, but there were still two men missing at the same time. I don’t believe in coincidence. I went back to my office and got back on the computer. Scrolling through the files I downloaded from Austin’s computer, I found a cell-phone bill he had downloaded last month. Using that, I went online and got his account. I scrolled through the list of calls. There was none after the day he disappeared. The last inbound call was at 2:17. The same number was his last outbound call at 4:02. I decided to stop for the day and head home. The next morning, I received a frantic call from Alicia Bowden. She sounded worried - I finally got her calmed down enough to tell me what was going on. Her husband had called her the night before to tell her that he was in Chicago on business and would be gone for a few days. She said he sounded very nervous, but he finally assured her that everything was okay. He said he loved her and would be home Friday. “So why do you think there’s a problem?” “He didn’t sound right, but wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I couldn’t sleep all night worrying about it. This morning, I checked caller ID – he was calling from our cabin. He’s not in Chicago. I’ve been calling all morning but nobody answers. I’m afraid something is wrong, and I didn’t know who to call.” “What’s the number for the cabin?” She gave me the same number as on Austin’s cell-phone bill. I got directions for the cabin and hung up. I worked in my office until after lunch, and then headed for the mountains. I got to there late in the afternoon and scouted the area. It was dusk as I pulled into the drive of a cabin close to Bowden’s. From my scouting that afternoon, I knew that most of the cabins were empty. I went down to the lakeshore following it around to the Bowden’s. Behind the next cabin, I had to use my flashlight to circumvent a small construction site. Someone was building a dry-dock. There was a hoist, cinder blocks, and a large coil of chain resting on the path next to the lake. It was dark as I approached the back of the cabin from the lake. I stopped as I heard a loud splash and turned off my light, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I saw motion on the side of the cabin. I slipped behind a hedge and waited. A man wearing a sweat suit was raking the path that led around to under the deck. A wheelbarrow rested there with a rolled up rug in it. I had no idea why someone would be doing yard work at this time of night in the winter. After the man raked up to the house, he disappeared around the front, and then lights came on in the cabin. I went under the deck and hoisted myself onto the deck where I lay flat and looked in the sliding door. The man was at the sink scrubbing his hands with a brush. The sweat suit had spatters of what looked like blood on the front. He wasn’t the man in the photo Betty Austin had given me, so it wasn’t husband number one. I assumed it was Al Bowden, but I wasn’t sure. The man went to the laundry and stripped off the sweat suit, putting it and a lot of bleach into the machine. He then went to the bar; poured himself a tumbler of bourbon, sat in a chair in his shorts, and began to drink. I watched and waited until he finally passed out. Then I went to work. **** The man in the chair came awake. When he became aware of his situation, he began to hyperventilate with fear. “Calm down – you’ll breathe easier. You only have to be afraid if you don’t tell me what I need to know, or lie to me. Then, you can fear sinking to the bottom of the lake and staying there until that chair rots off your bones.” The man looked wildly around him, trying to scream through the duct-tape. I walked over and slapped him once, hard. “When you calm down, I’ll remove the tape so we can talk.” His breathing slowed and got deeper as he tried to compose himself. When I thought he was ready, I ripped off the tape. “Who the hell…” I slapped him again, and he shut up. “Here’s how it’s going to work. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them. If I can’t get what I need from you, I don’t need you, and I kick that block into the water. There’s no one around to hear you scream.” After that, he became more cooperative. “Who are you and why were you in that cabin?” “It’s my cabin. My name’s Al Bowden. I’m here on vacation. My wife will be back any minute.” I kicked the block. It fell over and hung a few inches off the edge. Bowden’s eyes locked on it in fear. “That’s one. The next lie and it goes in the water. I’ll find out what I need with or without you. What are you doing here and where is Mark Austin.?” I could see his mouth form the word ‘who’ but his eyes cut back to the block. “Look, I didn’t mean to hurt him. We were just talking, but he wouldn’t listen.” “Talking about what?” “I’m about to close on some land next to I-75. They’re going to cut a new exit there and the land will be worth ten times what it is now. He’s doing the financial planning for the family that owns it and was going to tell them. He was dropping me as a client – said it was a conflict of interest. I couldn’t let that deal slip away.” “So how did you get him here?” “Called him on his cell. He said he was just typing up a letter to me. Then he was going to see his client. I talked him into coming by here first so we could work out a compromise where everybody makes out. It wasn’t far out of his way.” “So you got him here, then what?” “I tried to talk some sense into him. This deal was worth a hundred thousand huge profit. Told him I’d split it with him, but once the owners knew about it, they wouldn’t need us. We had to move before the DOT started talking with landowners.” “But he wouldn’t listen.” “Who the hell does he think he is? He just shook his head and turned away. I grabbed an old conch shell of the table and whacked him in the back of the head. I didn’t mean to hurt him – I just wanted him to stop and listen.” “Where is he now?” “In the crawlspace under a tarp. I threw the shell into the lake last night and cleaned up the cabin. I was trying to figure out what to do with the body. I don’t know what happened after that. “After that, you passed out. I loaded you into the wheelbarrow that held your bloody rug and hauled you down here. I borrowed some equipment from next door and waited until morning.” “What are you going to do now?” “Al, you’ve been very cooperative. I’m just going to leave you now with one thought.” With that, I stood and walked over and kicked the block into the water and walked away as it started dragging the chain into the lake. His screams grew hysterical as I walked up the path to the cabin. He rocked over and knocked his chair over, hoping to stop the chain’s progress. The screams drowned out the sound of the chain hitting the water, but I turned and watched as the last of the links slid off the pier into the lake. He screamed on for a few more minutes before he realized the splashing had stopped and he was still on the dock. He finally looked around and saw that the chain attached to his chair ended where the coil had rested earlier. Someone would find him eventually. I had some very unsettling phone calls to make. |
|
| The Chain mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#11 of
17 Runner-up |
| 2044 | |
| I agree. Bein’ a security guard, Nikee, ain’t
much, but it’s honest money and it’s much safer den what yer
tryin’ to do. Not only is it dangerous, but once ya’ get in, all
da’ way with yer rear paws, dere’s no turnin’ back, and
you’ll only be able to break away, when yer dead. ‘N den hittin’
dem liquor stores like any uddah profession where ya’ always have dere
rivals. And if ya’ wanna’ stay in dis business, ya’ have to know
dat da’ job can mean death. Nah. Not from da’ movies. Back in da’ day, I was caught up in da’ shit myself, out in da’ old country. Ya’ think yer tough? ... just because I’ve put on some weight, ya’ might think…Nah. It’s da’ years and my appetite – never had a problem with it. But dere was a time Nikee, when I competed as a wrestler and was a lean mean fighting machine. Let’s drink to dat Nikee. Dis memory’s worth a drink. And I tell ya’, all da’ guys I trained with, all my closest friends: Bore, Strap, Toad, Brick were also lean and mean gym rats. ...nicknames? Hey...how do I know? I’m just tellin’ ya’ how it was, dat’s it. And, ya’ know, back den we all trained for da’ state championship. And our coach – Old Mr. Corrski, used to be a Jiu-Jitsu champ in his old days - he was such a hard ass in trainin’, very strict. But he meant good and we all respected him. And let’s drink for him, Nikee, let’s drink for Old Corrski. He was a good man. And when he got in trouble with da’ Strrakhovs, we all took his side. Oh, Strrakhovs? Didn’t I ever tell ya’ ‘bout ’em? Dat, Nikee, is a story in itself. Like ya’, Nikee, I was born on da’ bad side of town, ya’ know, where each block or two had its own gang. Huh, what did dey do? Da’ same as here I guess - tagged houses and bridges, kind of like dog pissin’ on da’ trees, markin’ dere territory. Robbin’ kids of dere pocket change, walkin da’ streets and defendin’ dere territories from uddah gangs. Stupid! I never took part in it. Dey wanted me, of course, even threatened me. Dat was one of da’ reasons why my pops sent me to da’ gym. So I could stand up for myself, be a real man. Yeah. But dese gangs were chicken shit compared to Da’ Strrakhovs. Da’ Strrakhovs were serious and meant business. Dey held da’ whole town in dere grip and were nasty sons of bitches, real dirty too - all of ‘em, but especially Pop Strrakhov - dere head. He did his time twice for robbery and was trialed for murder, but got away because of his connections. Police? Yeah. He fed dem up da’ way it was suppose to be done. No. Dey didn’t use guns. Dey used knives, chains, brassknuckles, but no guns. Where do ya’ think dey were from, America? Nah. In America ya’ can buy a gun in da’ local shootin’ range. But where I came from we had plenty a’ gangs, booze, whores, whatever! but guns... No, only coppers had firearms. Da’ Strrakhovs’ main thing was da’ taxi park - driving all da’ whores and dealing with pimps and thugs. Dey also was behind all da’ gambling and drugs. Not large operations, but big enough for our small town. ... no scary? All da’ local underground business used dere arbitrage and paid dem tribute. No one paid money unless dey’re threatend to, or need protection. So dey beat up Old Corrski... For nuttin’, just to show dey can. He was a proud and brave man. He walked da’ middle of da’ street with his head held high. He went through da’ war and saw death left and right. He didn’t show dem fear. So dey did it not because dey felt a dearth of respect. Nah. Dey didn’t beat him up to “impress” anyone or show how bad-ass dey were. Dey just felt dat da’ coach resisted dere ways and felt dey had take him out. People saw what happened. Dey surrounded him and started to mock him, “old fart,” dey said, destroying his dignity. To any dish-licker it’s a pleasure to mock a man of respect. N’ den one of da’ dish-lickers pushed him. I told ya’ da’ coach used to be a Jiu-Jitsu champ and, I tell ya’, if he had thirty less years instead of thirty more pounds, he’d, probably, fought ‘em off. But at his age… He did floor a couple of ‘em, though, but den dey all jumped him like fleas and held him while both Strrakhov sons pounded and kicked him; and when he fell to da’ ground, dey kicked him till he passed out. N’ den, dey just left him dere to rot. And when da’ ambulance came, he was just barely breathin’. *** We knew ‘bout it da’ minute he was picked up by da’ meds, even earlier. Small town, big gossip. The word traveled fast. I den knew we had to do somethin ‘bout it, and fast. Dey didn’t know, who dey were fuckin’ wit! By dis point, it just meant vengeance. Went to da’ hospital? Nah. After dat, it was all just a matter of minutes before we acted. We were off to get Pop Strrakhov first. No, he didn’t participate in the beating - not literally, not physically. His sons did, dey and da’ dish-lickers. As I told ya, he was behind everything. Plus he was dere leader, and a body can’t function without da’ head. And so we went dere, da’ five of us. How many of dem? Who cares? Da’ coach did teach me dis – in da’ street fight, it don’t matter how many yer fightin’, if yer afraid, ya’ won’t stand a chance against one. Always find da’ leada’, and get’em out of da’ way first, after dat, da’ palms will lay demselves out for ya’. No matter how ya’ gotta do it– chin, chest, gut, or balls…i’d say balls are da’ best, takes da’ man right out. Once da’ rest of da’ gang sees dat dere leader‘s down, dere startled, and are ready to run. So as I've said: Bore, Strap, Toad, Brick and me went dere, right to da’ taxi park, right to his office. Anyhow, on da’ way dere, dere were a couple of his dish-lickers. And ofcourse dey said, “Where da’ fuck do ya’ ‘tink yer goin’?” And I warned da’ guys “No Talking”, just throw one right in da’ gut and one to da’ nose and if he’s still standin, knee da’ nuts. Not dat I was in charge, I just happened to be ahead of da’ situation at da’ time. Oh but ya’ see. Da’ Strrakhovs didn’t exactly expect dat someone would take dem on. Not on dere lives, not from teens like us. People used to come to his office and kneel on dere knees. “Surprise!” dat’s what threw dem off. “Surprise!” is da’ best weapon. So I went in first, and when one of his rat boys stepped up to me, my elbow collided wit’ his muzzle. Hearin da’ noise in da’ distance, I knew da’ guys was working da’ rest of da’ rats while I was hot on pop’s trail. When I got in, he looked at me with dose bug eyes, ya’ know - “where da’ fuck did you come from?” After dat, grabbing him by his shirt, pullin’ him from his chair across da’ table, and through da’ floor. He was bitchin’ like dere was no tomorra, and tried to threaten me, but I kept quiet, and started kickin him. I was so pissed, dat I ravaged da’ heels of my shoes on da’ crain of dis mudafucka. I had those good dress shoes my pop had bought me, and after da’ fact I felt dis was excessive. But at da’ moment I didn’t care. And let’s drink to dat Nikee, ya’ know why? Cuz riddin’ da’ town from Strrakhov’s is something worth drinking for. Da’ uddah guys of course were taking care of da’ rest of his dish-lickers. But dere wasn’t much resistance dere. In five minutes of fighting eight or ten of dem rat bastards lay on da’ asphalt face-down. But dis wasn’t it, of course. Dere was still his sons. And dey both was of da’ same bone as dere dad - cocky, obnoxious, stubborn. And so we sent Toad to check if dere were playing cards in da’ square by da’ taxi-park. And dere were. And we ran dere and we kicked da’ shit out of dem as well. Dey tried to fight back, but dey was outclassed in spectacular fashion. All was taken to da’ hospital on stretchers. Yeah. And dat was da’ end of Strrakhovs. And I’m glad I was a part of dat. And ya’ know Strrakhovs never got back at us. Nah. Da’ Strrakhovs was done for, finished. Da’ whole city knew ‘bout it. Like I said, small town, big gossip. The word traveled fast. Everybody knew dey got da’ shit kicked out ‘a dem. Everybody knew dat da’ Strrakovs returned no more. So dere tail of dish-lickers dropped from dem right off. Dat was it for dem. No more. And what happend next... hmm... it was kind of weird what happened. Dis was a couple of days after all five of us sat in da’ pub. One man came to us, we knew him. He was da’ owner of da’ little mom’s and pop’s clothing joint, and asked us to protect him from a couple of goons who robbed his store. He offered us money to do the job. And lets just say it revolved around dat kinda’ thing. Vacuum ya’ say? Ah… good thinking, Nikee. Dere cannot be a vacuum - da’ gamblin, and smugglin, and whores; it all went its merry way. So dere still needed to be a fist, a power, da’ arbitrage, so pimps and thugs could go to if dere whores was beaten, or a gambler if his card debts wasn’t paid, someone who would pay police its kickbacks so dey wouldn’t stick dere snouts in da’ street business. And ya’ know who did it, who turned out to be having da’ organizer talent – Da’ Bore. He led da’ uddah guys behind him. People even came up with da’ gang name “Da’ 4-H Club.” And for a while he ran large operations. Dat’s what I heard, dat’s what I heard. No Nikee. Dat’s not something I want to drink for. Once I realized where all dis was goin’, I stepped aside. Da’ Strrakhovs was just an episode. I never wanted to be chained to dis life – da’ stronger a guy pushes away da’ weaker guy until anuddah stronger guy comes and pushes him away. It’s up to you, of course. Ya’ see all dose guys who used to be my buddies have got places, and I’m here, working as a security guard. Dey got to be a real force in our town. Brick is still one of da’ main guys of da’ local Mafia. Strap became the Chief of Police. Toad the Mayor of da’ city. And Bore… Bore is dead. Funny how easy I said dat. He used to be my best buddy. We used to go fishin’ when we was kids. Our houses here, next to each oda, our muddahs went to da’ market togedda’... And now, he’s over dere ... dead, and I am here with ya’. ... People told me dat in five years or so, dere would come anuddah strong guy in town, some lowlife from prison and told Bore to shrink down his operations or else. Bore didn’t agree. Dere was a big fight. I heard fifteen people on each side and Bore died in dis fight with da’ dagger stuck five inches in his heart. No Nikee. ...and my advise is... don’t chain yerself to dis type of life. Yer young, and ya’ll still get yer break. It is still possible to live on da’ side, neutral like Switzerland. Ya’, let’s drink to dat. |
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| The Chain Roy Greene hadleyct@hotmail.com |
#12 of 17 |
| 2419 | |
| “I say we pull it,” Christian Paille said,
staring at the vidscreen with a pensive scowl pinching his close-set eyes.
“So we’ve heard,” Samuel Matthieson acknowledged, his own eyes rolling briefly toward the ceiling. “What we haven’t heard is the precise reason.” An exasperated harrumph came from Abigail Gorin, sounding all too natural from the aging dowager. “We all, I assume, were witness to the same trial? How much more precision do you need?” Matthieson gave his head a small shake. “Enough to put me at ease no matter what the penalty is. And, I’m sorry, I just don’t have it.” Becca Rhodes shrugged from her slumped posture in the chair closest to the door. “Be a helluva lot cushier if he t’weren’t vid-side,” she grumbled around a wad of gum, like a petulant child barred from some uncertain desire. The eyes of all five Links shifted at least briefly toward the blindfolded man on the monitor. His eyes were, of course, concealed, but the middle-aged banker’s fear was evident in the trembling set of his lips and the sweat beginning to stain that ecru cloth barring them from meeting his gaze. “What Professor Mule means,” said Robert Williams, the first to look away, “is: are we sure the punishment will fit the crime? I think I’d sleep better if I knew.” “Please stop calling me that,” Matthieson groused. Williams lifted his brows in a facial shrug. “Fine. Sam-Mule.” Matthieson sighed, but made no further effort to get his compatriot to use his rightful name. “It’s not up to us, anyway,” Paille snapped, finally tearing his gaze from the screen. His doughy face was ruddy now and trembled with barely repressed excitement. “We’re assigned with determining guilt or innocence. We pass judgment. Our task isn’t to decide his punishment. That’s up to the Arbitrators.” “One of our hands may pull that chain,” Matthieson chided. “You’re not the least bit curious about the effect of that action on this man’s fate?” A dark chuckle slipped from Rhodes. “How keen was he ’bout the kismet of the folken he’d mayhap kill when he slipped into his Komodo all pumped on giddies.” “I believe I understood the intent of that gibberish,” Mrs. Gorin admitted with some reluctance, “and have to concur. Although there are far less vulgar manners of expressing the notion.” She cast an imperious frown at the cud-chewing teen with the purple-blue hair and the piercings depending from every visible orifice, but Rhodes was too busy studying her metal-tipped nails to notice. With a derisive snort, Gorin turned her attention back to the others. “This fellow killed three people—one of them a child!—driving about in a drug-induced haze. It is quite evident he employed very little thought as to the outcome of his action. Why should we proffer such consideration?” Matthieson offered a small, rueful smile to the elderly woman, then appraised each of their fellow Links in turn. “It’s not about him. It’s about us. If we pull that chain,” and here he shot a disdainful glance at the polished steel assemblage hanging to the left of the monitor, “we assume responsibility for whatever comes of that particular action. Can each of say you won’t wonder what we’ve done, that there won’t be some regret?” “None here, I’ll tell you that.” Paille stroked the chain with a beefy hand, and smiled when panic flitted across Matthieson’s haggard face. “Don’t worry, Mule. You know nothing will happen until all the Links are in place. But I, for one, am ready to put my card in the slot. In fact...” With that, the bulky fellow slipped a hand into his inner jacket pocket, produced his Link-card with a flourish, then slipped it into the top slot on the right side of the monitor. The thin glass bar above the card slot flashed to green. The blindfolded man on the screen flinched. The others gasped, but Paille, who had been focused on their reactions to what he’d just done, merely smiled. “Come on! You all know he deserves it for what he did.” “He knows,” murmured Williams, a frown creasing the smooth forehead beneath his smooth pate. “Of course I know.” It was Paille’s turn to frown now, for the others weren’t looking at him, but rather at the screen behind him. He glimpsed back, but had no idea what he was supposed to be seeing. “What the hell is wrong with you people?” “Mussulli,” Matthieson said. “He cringed when you put your card in.” Rhodes groaned. “T’was punk ’nough viewing him! If he’s gonna unhinge when I slip him the tag ... I dunno!” “For Mater’s sake!” cried Paille. “How the hell do you even know it was the card? Ever heard of coincidence?” There was a soft click, and they all turned to Mrs. Gorin, who was reaching into the black clutch purse on her lap. “Coincidence is plausible. Regardless, I choose to use my card whether or not the murdering scoundrel knows it. In fact,” she added as she stood with the help of her gold-handled cane, “I hope he does know. I hope he considers what led him to this place and cries mercy from whatever gods he believes in.” With a breathy laugh, Paille stepped aside, making space for the woman to insert her Link-card. The glass panel above it flashed green. On the monitor, the prisoner began shaking his head in denial, mouthing something none of them could hear. It was either a subtle kindness or a clever ploy that no speakers linked the two rooms. “Fez’net!” cried Rhodes, using the modern slang for the tamer Fuck! Mrs. Gorin gave a pursed, decidedly strained smile. “Serves him right.” “Next?” Paille said through his own sardonic smile. By the time Gorin was comfortably nestled back in her chair, no one had responded to Paille’s query in either word or movement. “Come, come!” she admonished, tapping the floor with her cane to emphasize both words. “He did it, we know he did it, and not all the liberal notions in the world will alter his fate. In fact, there may well be mercy in taking charge of this situation here and now.” Frowning, Matthieson gestured wildly at the screen, his somber brown eyes affixed to the widow’s faded blue ones. “Mercy? In this? The only true mercy would be to allow him to serve out his sentence, get some rehabilitation!” “Spoken like a true liberal, Professor.” The dowager spat the honorific, as if it were a curse. “But our prisons are woefully overcrowded, as a man of the social sciences must surely know. Let us say, however, that your proposal is taken, shall we? What is the likelihood that our friend there will last a month? If he is not slaughtered for his ability to confound justice here—as is very often the case, I hear—then how long before he is murdered for a scrap of bread? For space in a crowded cell? For denying another prisoner sexual gratification? Or for seeking it himself?” Rhodes giggled, but it ended in a strangled tone, almost a sob. “Yes, yes,” Matthieson admitted. “Prisons are well-stocked, but is this the answer? Murder?” “It’s called justice,” Paille said. Shaking his head, the professor sighed. “No second chances? No appeals? Just instantaneous justice dealt with the pulling of a chain?” “It beats the alternative.” This from Williams, who had grown silent and pensive. Now, the balding man stood, blinking his inward-gazing eyes before blowing a resigned sigh from his nostrils. “I say get it over with. An eye for an eye. Isn’t that from some scholar’s book, Professor Mule? Give and take? Tit for tat? Well, I’d rather get this done here and now, not worry about what’s happening to him in some prison cell, not worrying that I made the wrong decision. Besides,” he wiped a hand up his sweating forehead and across his bald scalp, “if those were my family members he’d killed, I’d want some justice. Real justice. I’m in.” With a flourish, Paille gestured toward the vidscreen like an attendant indicating the entrance to the shuttle. Williams stepped forward, dug the Link-card out of his back jean pocket, and hesitated. His gaze flicked toward the monitor, then away to the third slot in the line. With a trembling hand, he inserted the card and the sliver of glass above flashed green. He turned back to his seat, angling right and avoiding whatever was happening on the screen. So he never saw Bertrand Mussulli buck in his chair as though he could break his metal bonds with sheer exertion. Nor did he lift his gaze to the monitor once he took his seat. “T’ain’t my minding, what road done git him here,” Becca Rhodes said, standing. “But he’s here, dare ya to say false, and I’s done wit’ him.” She dashed forward, eyes downcast just enough for her to see the final slot in the wall. With a defiant grimace, she slid her card home and scurried back to her seat. “Ineloquent, my dear,” Mrs. Gorin chided cheerily, “but effective.” Rhodes seemed not to have heard, only stared into her lap where her hands rubbed energetically against the thighs of her leather pants as though to rid them of some taint. “Last, but not least,” Paille said, and they all turned to Matthieson. Even Rhodes lifted her heavily lined eyes enough to cast him a glance before returning to whatever was so interesting in her lap. “There has to be another way!” the professor said, but his voice quivered enough to belie this belief. “You know there isn’t,” growled Williams, perhaps feeling that if he could convince Matthieson of this he could rest easier about his own decision. “He killed three people,” Rhodes muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Matthieson shook his head. “So we join him? We take up where he left off?” “No, fool!” snapped Mrs. Gorin. “We finish it. We end it here and now and give the families of the victims some measure of peace.” “Besides,” added Paille, “we’re not doing anything but passing judgment. We have no idea what will happen to him, and we shouldn’t care. All we’re supposed to do is decide if he’s guilty enough to pull the chain. What happens from there is up to the Arbitrators, not us.” He shook his head, and his jowls waggled. “Someone who’s spent his life studying culture and history should understand this better than the rest of us.” “Pretty to think so,” grumbled Matthieson, “but I understand about as much of what will come of this as you. And that is what bothers me.” “Conscience is a luxury that not even I can afford,” Gorin said with a sniff. “He did it,” Rhodes claimed, again as if to convince herself. “Is he guilty, Mule?” Williams asked, his voice taking on a pleading, almost screeching tone. “That’s what we decide here. We’re not killers, we’re jurors. We’re Links in the Chain of Justice. Just shove your gods-damned card in the slot and be done with it!” Matthieson swallowed, his eyes moving frantically in their sockets as though seeking some way out. “Guilty or innocent, Professor,” Paille said. “That’s all we decide.” Matthieson looked to the piggy man beside the monitor, then his gaze flitted to the screen. Mussulli no longer struggled against his bonds. Instead, his head hung in defeat and sobs racked his body. After a moment, the professor glanced at the fourth slot in the line, then his own head sagged. “Guilty.” “Now you’re tal—” Paille cut off when Matthieson’s head whipped up toward him, tears glistening in those angry eyes. But Samuel Matthieson said nothing. He dug into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and dug out the final Link-card. He shuffled forward as though fighting some unseen restraint and lifted his card to the mouth of the slot. He stood there for a full minute, that card resting tentatively on the edge of the abyss, but no one in the small Observation Lounge spoke. Not until the card was shoved into place and that final green light glowed. On the monitor, the prisoner raised his head heavenward, then let it fall again. But none of the Links saw. “Now,” Paille said, with evident glee, “if I may do the honors?” Without awaiting confirmation—though there was no objection from any of the others, either—Christian Paille stepped past a stunned and sobbing Matthieson and took the chain in his hands. “Justice has been served, and don’t it taste fine.” He pulled the chain. On the monitor, white light flashed within the prisoner’s room. When the overwhelming glow ebbed, all that remained was a boxy steel chair, its restraints still arching as though containing an invisible occupant. “It was the right thing,” Mrs. Gorin said, not unkindly to Matthieson. With a grimace, he looked up at her. There was the faintest gleam of the overhead lights in his moist eyes, and then the room exploded in a splash of white light. “It had to be done,” Arbitrator Siddons said, staring at the screen as the white glow ebbed to reveal the five vacant Link chairs facing the now-dark monitor. Arbitrator Stevenson shook her head with regret. “I understand that, but there was that one...” “Matthieson?” Arbitrator Lutz said. “Yes, well, what’s that saying about one bad apple? Works the same in reverse, doesn’t it? One good apple won’t restore the integrity of a barrel of rotten ones.” “And over nothing,” sighed Arbitrator Mulgrew. “Over some imaginary prisoner.” “They had no way of knowing that,” Arbitrator Jung said. “Nor should they. This was a test, and they failed, plain and simple.” A slight, mocking smile lifted the corners of Stevenson’s mouth. “Is anything ever that simp—” But before she could complete the thought, there came a brilliant flash that effectively ended it. “As the fellow said,” Councilor Bartleby said, “it had to be done.” Three of the other four councilors nodded. But the fourth grimaced, shaking his head. “And what of us?” Councilor Dow enquired. “Who oversees the overseers?” They frowned at each other, but none had an answer. Nor was there time for one as the Chamber Room was suddenly awash in an explosion of brilliant white light. On the Surveillance Deck, the five Executioner’s shared an anxious expression, and waited with dread for what may come... |
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| The Chain amirarsiwala@gmail.com |
#13 of
17 Winner |
| 2498 | |
| THE WOMAN For Mrs. Jones this was the last blow life threw at her that she could handle. Mr. Doe, the bank manager offered her a glass of water from across the desk. She accepted mechanically. Nothing was penetrating her mind. She could see people moving about outside the office, and could hazily make out the voice of Mr. Doe somewhere in the distance. He was saying something in a kind tone, no doubt offering his ‘regrets’ and ‘extreme sorriness’. She was still trying to come to terms with the many sorrows life bestowed upon her, and this addition had shaken her will. It was still hard for her to accept that she was a widow; she doubted that she had yet fully realized that her husband died a year ago. The death was too sudden; one moment they had been the picture of a perfect happy family, and the next… The doctor had warned her that sometimes cancer could be inherited through the genes, but she didn’t even want to consider that possibility. April was a sweet child, all Margaret had left when George died. They were never very well off, but he earned enough for them to survive, and for April to go to the best private school. Right after the funeral ended, Margaret took the 2:15 bus to Kim, a small town in the middle of nowhere where she knew no-one, and more importantly, where no-one knew her. She had enough savings to open a small grocers shop; April could go to an ordinary school for the time being. Margaret vowed never to return to the city. But almost a year later she was forced to break the vow. History began repeating itself; the vomiting, the bleeding, she had seen it all before. But this time it was April. She got the cancer. Margaret never understood exactly what type of cancer it was, she didn’t care. She went to the same doctor in the city that George had. He recognized her. “You’ve come just in time. If you had been late again…”, Dr. Green trailed off, “But this is operable, we must operate on her within a week” “Thank God… what do I have to do?” “Just fill in the forms, and deposit the money” Margaret wasn’t one of those people who wouldn’t have already realized that money has to be paid; those kinds of people exist only in books and on TV. But she was still uneasy. She knew medical fees could be a lot, and she wasn’t sure if she could afford it. She had made quite some money over the year, and her simple lifestyle ensured that most of the money was saved. Dr. Green told her the amount. After a long time she felt genuinely relieved. She had that much! She had invested a substantial part of her savings in a bond issued by the local bank. She could redeem those and pay all the bills. She got April a nice shared room in the hospital, kissed her on the forehead, and promised to be back in two days. And now, the bank manager informed her that she didn’t have the money she thought she had. Because of some damn problem in some damn stock market. She wasn’t very educated, dropped out of highschool to take a job. Because of this she couldn’t figure out what the hell the bank manager was talking about. Margaret glanced at him. It isn’t his fault, she concluded. He seemed like the average small town man, slow, god fearing, and simple family person. He was obviously very sorry about the whole predicament. He was definitely looking very distressed. “I am really very sorry, ma’am. Its really just beyond my help. We all lost a lot because of the war, and with…”, he again started on with the technical details of why the loss happened. She listened blankly. Everything was over. All she had hoped for, all the dreams she had finally dared to dream, all of it over. After a while she left the bank, walking aimlessly wherever her legs led her to. She knew then that she was losing control over herself. THE BANKER Mr. Doe had known from the start that he shouldn’t have done it. At the time it didn’t seem all that bad. A simple change in the account books, and his greed would be satisfied. It was wrong, that goes without saying, but there was no way he could get caught. It was quick money. The idea developed when Mrs. Jones came in one day and said she wanted to invest the money she had. She had managed to save up quite a bit of money. She had thought of something safe like a fixed deposit. Mr. Doe quickly gathered that she did not have much knowledge of investment and money in general. He suggested that she buy some bonds issued by the bank. They gave much more interest, and in his opinion didn’t have much risk. She was still hesitant, but Mr. Doe gave his assurances and convinced her that it is the best option. Later, a little bit of fiddling with the accounts, making up some story to Mrs. Jones about the stock market crashing, and he would have pocketed quite some amount of cash. It was the perfect opportunity. The account books were filled; Mrs. Jones was left with only a third of what she invested. Reason: the war and the resulting slowing down of economy and devaluation of stocks. He had always known that lying to Mrs. Jones wouldn’t be easy. That was the part he was most afraid of. But now, each word that came out of his mouth pained him. She told him she needed to pay the money for her daughter’s operation. He had taken away the only means by which her daughter would be cured. He was a murderer. He shook away those thoughts. How was he ever to know that something like this would ever happen? The accounts have already been manipulated, if he was to return the money now, he would be caught. No, all must go according to the original plan. He will just have to lie. It was a choice between the girl, and him. He must protect his own skin. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep it out of his head that he is a murderer; that because of him, this woman’s daughter was going to die. That he stole the money that would have been used to cure her. He wasn’t a very religious person, but this completely shook him. Somehow he managed to finish the conversation with Mrs. Jones without breaking. But he was feeling guilty as hell. He was stricken with regret. If he had had ever known that such a situation could ever arise, he would have never done it. There was a picture of his wife and son on the desk. “What if something ever happened to him, and I couldn’t help it?” He let out an involuntary shudder, put the photo away in his drawer, and told himself to forget about it all. He couldn’t help it. He remembered that once his father had told him to go confess in Church whenever he sinned; that way he would be free of it. Mr. Doe doubted that he could ever be free of this weight he carried, but decided to confess nevertheless. He rarely went to Church, hardly ever attended Mass. He felt strange going there now. He walked directly to the confession booth without looking around. Inspite of himself, he began crying. THE FATHER Father John was in two minds. He was thoroughly shocked by what he had just heard. He always thought that Mr. Doe was an honest man. True, he hardly ever showed up in Church, but his wife was a role Catholic. She always made it a point to inform him why her husband was absent; and all good reasons they were. The events which happened over the last half hour were still replaying themselves in his mind. The banker had done a very despicable deed; he ought to be punished. Of course, he has already been punished by his own conscience, but was that enough? Sitting at his desk, and fiddling with a paperweight, Father John thought about Mrs. Jones. She was always a very religious person; in fact, she just came here this morning. She told him about her daughter and that she would be taking the money from the bank by selling some bonds. She prayed for her daughter, and he offered his blessings. Margaret was always very active in the parish; she was a part of all bake sales and community meetings. Her daughter, Alice, was a part of the choir. He knew all about her past, and was deeply sympathetic. He knew she had been wronged, and Alice would most probably die like her father. He knew exactly who was to be blamed for this. He knew that the person should be punished by law. But everything that happened in the confession box was confidential. Mr. Doe was already being punished by Him. Should he, or shouldn’t he report to the sheriff? Father John sighed; he had come to a decision he wasn’t sure he liked. THE SHERIFF Paul had not become a sheriff to sit around all day and do paperwork. Yet that was exactly what his job had been reduced to for the last few days. Paul was young, and had expected excitement and action when he took this job. True, this was a small town, but surely there must be some burglar on the prowl. Paul was getting bored. Nothing ever happened here. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a lengthy report on another petty case of trespass, when he heard a voice asking for him. Wanting to finish reviewing this report as quickly as he could, he impatiently gestured the visitor to have a seat. Besides, it probably wouldn’t be anything serious, would it? “Er….I wish to report a case of fraud by the bank manager”, said the stranger. This got Paul’s attention. He was in for a surprise when he lifted his head and took a look at the speaker. It was none other than Father John. Now, when a priest walks into a police station, you know something is seriously wrong. “Sorry for not recognizing you, Father. A fraud, eh? I always knew that character was suspicious. Are you sure of your facts?” As a matter of fact, Paul was suspicious of the bank manager ever since he joined as sheriff. He always did come across as a bit too greedy, and liked showing off his possessions. Of course, most folks didn’t think that wearing suits made in the city counted as ‘showing off’. A fraud. That sounded big. Finally, someone in this town was acting maliciously towards someone else. Paul stole a glance towards Father John. He was pretty old. He had arrived only a few months ago to replace old Father Michael who finally let age catch up to him. However, he defied all stereotypes by being surprisingly progressive. Now, in small towns like these, religion was paramount. Many people didn’t take to such a departure from the orthodox. But, eventually, everybody accepted him. He told his story. Paul did not know who Mrs. Jones was, but immediately felt angry towards the bank manager. Something must be done. He would go immediately to the bank and sniff around, see what he could find. He promised that he would use Father John’s testimony only as a last resort; he must not let people lose faith in the system of confessions. Evidently, this was the day Paul had been waiting for a long time. For, when he reached the bank, he saw something through the French windows which he would never have expected, not in a hundred years; here, in this sleepy town? He whipped out his gun. The bank was being robbed! An old-fashioned hold-up. Finally his dreams have been answered. And, what was more, the robber was a lady! Paul was going to remember this day for the rest of his life. Paul radioded in for backup. At first, the boys at the station thought it to be a joke, but they knew better than that. Paul hardly ever joked. Two more officers arrived within ten minutes. “We have you surrounded. You cannot escape, put down the gun and come out with your hands up”, Paul said on the loudspeaker. Nothing happened for ten minutes. Then a shot. Paul and his men rushed in. Paul took aim, and fired. THE END “We have you surrounded. You cannot escape, put down the gun and come out with your hands up” Margaret heard the voice. It seemed far, far away. It was getting closer. Slowly, she became fully aware of her situation. It was as if the last few hours had been a dream. Everything was hazy. But now, she found herself standing in front of a bunch of scared people, holding a double-barreled shotgun. She was robbing the bank. Reality was slowly coming back into focus. The fog was lifting off her brain. She started recollecting. Although she had long stopped drinking, after leaving the bank she went to a bar and ordered a bottle of whisky. She became angry at the Bank. How could they lose so much of her money? Didn’t they have the sense to invest the money properly? She thought continuously of Alice. The Bank had to pay. They had to give her the money, even if she would have to take it at gunpoint. Even as she was thinking this, she walked over to her neighbor’s garage, took their gun, and came here. She glanced around. The bank manager was standing a short distance away, crying. Margaret didn’t want to terrorize him, after all, he had helped so much. The gun started slipping out of her hand. Her ring caught in the trigger and it fired harmlessly on the ground. The whole bank trembled with the shot. Margaret saw three policemen storm in the bank; they must’ve have thought she fired at a person. One of the three pointed his gun at her. She glanced around, and caught the bank manager moving towards her with a strange resolute expression on his face. Her gaze shifted back to the policeman aiming at her just in time to realize that he was going to shoot. Margaret closed her eyes. The shot was fired. She could see April, on the eight birthday wearing that beautiful pink frock, when she was twelve and was caught smoking, and finally yesterday when she was told she would be cured. Surprisingly, Margaret was still alive. She opened her eyes and saw the bank manager lying on the ground in a pool of blood; he had jumped in front of her and taken the bullet. |
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| The Chain Clytan Fernando clytan2005@yahoo.com |
#14 of 17 |
| 2499 | |
| It was overcrowded and a strange odour was hanging in
the air at the Patna train station where Peter Jackson stood amidst a wave of
people many of whom were staring at the foreigner as if he was an exhibit at a
museum. Peter had become accustomed to the staring during the course of his
weeklong stay in India. A tall well-built white American with a backpack did
however seem terribly out of place at a train station overflowing with natives
of darker complexion. Peter was a thirty something tourist who was visiting India mainly for its beauty and the spiritual heritage it encapsulated. He had sharp facial features and wore gold-rimmed spectacles below his smooth blonde hair that readily fluttered in the evening wind. Peter was traveling to Varanasi in Northern India. But little did he know that this train journey would be a violent ride and he would be forced to commit murder. He adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles as he boarded the first class coach of the train and retreated into his cabin leaving the commotion and the staring eyes behind. The cabin was quite comfortable if one ignored the blue rubber-coated cushions that felt like stone and the odd cockroach, which was commonplace on the Indian Railways. He exhaled with a swooshing noise as he sat on the dreaded seat and noticed that the coach seemed empty and he was probably the only passenger on the coach. There were six small cabins on the coach resembling tiny rooms with sliding doors. The coach had two toilets at either end that smelled of ammonia. It’s going to be a lonely ride Peter thought. At that precise moment the door slid open with a loud creak revealing an Indian woman wearing a sari (which is a traditional Indian attire). Peter looked at the woman and she gave him a pleasant smile. Peter did get a warm welcome wherever he toured in India and the people were extremely kind. Peter smiled back at the sari-clad woman who now seated herself on the opposite seat. She was dusky with a pleasant face and child-like smile in her early thirties but one could easily mistake her for a twenty year old. “Are going to Allahabad, sir?” inquired the woman in her Indian accent. “No” came the prompt but calm response. “I am heading for Varanasi”. “Wanted to see the religious rites practiced on the banks of the Ganges River”, said Peter as he stood up and heaved his backpack onto the luggage rack over the seats and sat once again. The horn sounded and with a sudden jerk the train was set in motion. “I am Peter Jackson.” He said extending his right hand towards the woman. “And you are miss….” “Doctor” she clarified “Padma Sharma”. They shook hands. “Are you a practicing doctor?” Peter asked sounding utterly surprised. “Yes” came the reply “I practice at my dispensary here in Patna” “And what do you do?” “I served in the U.S. Army but now I am working as a fitness instructor in Atlanta” he said with a twinkle in his eye. The years at the army had been the best in his life and he was proud to have been of service to his homeland. *** The train had now picked up some momentum and was hurtling away from the train station. The sun was dropping away in the west, as was the urban locale that was rapidly being replaced by thick forest. At the head of the train the saffron and cream liveried WDM-2 diesel locomotive was leaving behind a trail of black smoke as it accelerated towards the wilderness. Ram Kumar sat in the cab of the locomotive enjoying his mouthful of tobacco. The thin 50-year old had driven locomotives for the past twenty years. His train was now tearing through the thick blanket of trees in the twilight. Ram leaned out of his cabin, the wind lashing hard at his face, only to see yellow light ahead, which meant he had to slow down. The train crawled like a twisting serpent and slowly came to a halt just before the signal that had now turned from yellow to red. This was where the main line joined the branch line and was a routine stop for the train. That was to be the last routine occurrence on the train that night. The events that followed were anything but routine. Ram Kumar saw silhouetted figures emerging out of the trees on either side of the locomotive. His heart skipped a beat and then he felt it banging against his ribs. His fear was justified, as this region was known for violent dacoit attacks. Now the figures approached the locomotive and their long rifles and pistols came into view. He heard a bang on door and another one…the door was being forced open. He was trapped. A man entered the cab as the door flung open. Ram Kumar saw his bloodshot eyes, which was all he could see of the masked man. Ram Kumar was at gunpoint as the signal turned from red to green. The train set off with a jerk slowly picking up speed again and the long barrel of the rifle was pushed against his temple inducing pain. A few masked men had boarded the train apart from the one who was standing beside him. “Jaan pyaari hai toh chalate raho!!” threatened the masked man in Hindi (the native language). It meant that Ram had to keep the train moving if he wished to live. Ram had to do something. He was not going to take it any longer…. he was waiting for the right opportunity to dispose off his uninvited guest and that opportunity was approaching them at 100 km/hr. It was the bridge over the river Son. As the locomotive rumbled over steel bridge Ram made the move he would later regret. He grabbed at the barrel of the rifle and pushed the masked man towards the door with all his might…there were two loud gunshots. Both bullets hit the floor of the cab. Surprisingly, the masked man was caught completely off-guard and the thin Ram had overpowered him. The masked figure fell backwards through the door, and fell off but he still held on to the arm of Ram Kumar and both of them plummeted out of the locomotive and towards the river below. The train was now moving at speed without anyone to control it. It was a disaster waiting to happen. *** “Interesting!” said Dr. Padma seemingly amused at Jackson’s credentials. “First an army man and now a fitness instructor” …quite an unexpected combination she thought. The pair seemed to have struck a chord in a few minutes and they seemed at ease in each other’s company as if they knew each other for a long time. A friendship was blossoming. As Peter glanced out through the window into the twilight, the train was slowing down and eventually halted in the middle of the dense forest. Just then the door of the cabin slid open again with a creak and a soft thud. An obese man in a black coat walked in. “Can I see your ticket, sahib?” said the man politely sitting next to Peter. He was the Ticket Collector. The foreigner produced the ticket, as did his lady companion. The train gave a jerk and was set in motion again. Both the tickets were checked and returned. It took just a few minutes. “Happy Journey!” he greeted and slid the door open. Just then there were two loud bangs. They seemed to be coming from the coach in front…. but they were in the first coach behind the locomotive. It did not make sense to Peter but the bangs should have come from the locomotive. Peter knew at once they were gunshots. “We are being attacked…b-by dacoits!!” said the Ticket Collector. “I think we will be safe in here but I think the driver is….” he slid the door shut and locked it from the inside. “…Well god knows whether he is alive!” They were inside the cabin. Immediately Peter heard a faint splash in the water below that nobody seemed to notice. Jackson read the words embossed on the metal above the windows: PULL CHAIN TO STOP TRAIN EMERGENCY ONLY Instincts told him stopping the train was necessary… a gunshot in the locomotive meant the driver was dead. He eyed the red cylindrical handle that dangled with the chain. He pulled it. “That will engage the emergency brakes and we may be robbed of money but at least we will live to tell the tale.” Said the Ticket Collector. The train did not slow down at all. In fact it gained more speed due to the gradient of the terrain. Jackson pulled again with all his might but the train kept moving briskly. “This chain does not work!” Peter looked alarmed for the first time that night. “Now what?” “There is one chain in every cabin but they are all linked up. If this one does not work then none of the others will.” Silence. “You could go to the Guard’s Cabin and pull the chain there.” The doctor who was silent until now seemed to come up with a possible solution. She looked calmer than the two men before her. The Guard on Indian Railways was the same as a Conductor on any European Express train. “The Guard’s cabin is on the far end of the next coach.” The Ticket Collector sighed. “It will be very dangerous if there are d-dacoits on board and…” “I am going in there” Peter interrupted in a stern voice. “Alright then as you wish… walk to the end of this coach and take the narrow passage that connects it to the next coach. Walk to the far end of the coach and there is cabin at the end with a red door.” Explained the Ticket Collector. “Be careful the dacoits are generally armed. You will be no match for…” “I will take care of that.” The circumstances had awoken the army man inside the pleasant tourist. He left the cabin, and followed the path to the end of the coach where one of the smelly toilets was located. Peter stood there facing the narrow passageway to the next coach. Suddenly, there was a loud bang. Without any warning a shot was fired and a searing pain gripped his shoulders. He realized the source of the bang was only a few feet away. He turned around and flung his right leg in the air as he pivoted on his left in one swift and well-rehearsed motion. The spinning right leg hit the wrist of the attacker and his handgun flew in the air. A split second later his right shoulder collided with the attacker’s stomach. When Peter recovered from his ‘spinning heel kick’ (as he called it), he saw a masked man lying face down on the floor and the toilet door was ajar. His attacker had cleverly used the toilet to ambush him. He grabbed the handgun on the floor. The masked man did not move. He turned over the seemingly lifeless body and found that it was indeed lifeless. The man was dead. How did he die? Peter thought. He soon discovered that the man had committed suicide by chewing on a cyanide capsule that he wore around his neck. Why suicide? Why? Peter’s thoughts were running wild and suddenly the searing pain in his shoulder returned. The bullet had scraped a chunk of flesh off his left shoulder but it had not completely penetrated his shoulder. He passed through the narrow walkway to the next coach as the train rattled along at a good speed without a driver. He entered the next coach and it looked exactly like the previous one except that its last cabin had a red door – the guard’s cabin. Another smelly toilet greeted him at the entrance. He opened the toilet door with the handgun clenched tightly in his right hand… but it was empty. He trudged along the length of the coach eyes fixed on the red door. You have to stop the train! His head was spinning …his legs buckled under him. He was loosing blood. He felt a push from behind and he fell face first on the floor… blood rushing through his nostrils. His spectacles fell a few feet away from him. He turned himself on the floor facing the ceiling. Everything was blurred. Two masked men now pointed their weapons at the foreigner. Peter noticed that his handgun rested just behind the spot where the two men stood. He could barely see it but it was there. He made an instinctive lunge for the handgun and dived between the two masked men. Time had frozen… it took forever to reach the handgun. Bullets were fired…but they hit the metal floor. Finally he reached the handgun and fired at the blurry human images he saw. Several shots were fired of which Peter at least fired four. He felt a searing pain coupled with heat in his right thigh. Then there was silence. Two corpses rested on the floor before him and blood spatter was everywhere. Beyond these corpses was a red door. Peter could no longer walk he crawled toward the door. He knelt on the floor and pushed. The door opened. Inside was the elusive chain. Pull the chain! Pull it dammit! The train swayed violently now. He reached for the cylindrical handle which was not red but bright orange. It was too high… he had to stand up. He stood up with gritted teeth held on to the handle and his feet gave way… he fell but did not leave the handle. The chain may have been pulled due to the force of the fall…but all he saw was darkness and then there was peace. *** Peter opened his eyes. His vision was blurry… he was not on a train. He stared at the ceiling lined with fluorescent lights. Next to him he saw a familiar face. “You did it Mr. Jackson!” Dr. Padma sounded excited. Peter realized he had managed to stop the train. “You are in Patna now and this is my dispensary.” “Those people you killed last night were not dacoits!” she continued. “What?” Jackson almost leapt off his bed. “They were members of an unknown terrorist outfit. They were attempting to plant a bomb on the train without being noticed by anyone. The driver fought hard but fell into the river. He is alive and well.” “Why did one of them commit suicide?” Peter asked conversationally. “He feared being interrogated by you. He chose death rather than revealing the identity of his organization or his own identity.” Terrorism…. Was it slowly devouring humanity? “You need complete rest Mr. Jackson.” She smiled and walked away as his eyes closed and he went back into his slumber. |
|
| The Chain Akash Chatterjee akash_chatterjee@yahoo.co.in |
#15 of 17 |
| 2487 | |
| The Heroine The two room-mates happily disagreed on how to be happy in life. "It's hard to define happiness, Margaret," Sudipa said. "Take this- something to do, someone to love and something to hope for'." "Can't accept its middle. You need luck for that!" "Huh! It only asks you to find a Mr. Right. Goodnight." Margaret yawned and staked the sleep higher than the argument. "Good night," Sudipa also retired to bed while quipping, "Tough job, finding a Mr. Right!" The Hero The senior professor of the Calcutta Medical College was appealing to the outgoing batch at their convocation. "You unmarried guys, please get this thalassaemia test done. You know it best that if both the partners happen to be thalassaemia-carriers, then your children may born thalassaemic." They went for the test and on the day next , one of them collected the results and rushed to college canteen, where their core gang was chatting away to glory. "Hey! Only one's netted! Guess who!" "It's me! It's me!" A chorus followed with laughter before the guy could announce, "And the winner is.. Dr. Sandip Sen!" The sturdy-built Sandip alias Sandy ran his fingers through his curly hair with a mock seriousness and then said, "I need some stickers immediately!" "Why?" They asked in unison. He wrote something quickly on a paper and gave that to a mate who read it aloud: 'Swallow this fact before you're out to woo That, me a thalassaemia-carrier And if you happen to be one too Stop there, before feeling blue!'..." The gang roared with laughter and appreciation. The spring had then just signed on; the young and the dreamers had started decking up their minds to welcome that season of the seasons. And, Sandy was also one of them. Boy meets Girl "It's a strange phenomenon I observe in every spring." "What is it?" "Look at that Krishnachura tree. It's shedding some of its buds along with its dead leaves! You can't blame the breeze, that's normal in this season." "Highly romantic!" Sudipa chipped in. A new day was then unfolding amid the green paddy field and the rows of trees divided by the snaky village road of Maslundpur, a suburb near Kolkata. Sandy ignored the compliment and said, "There's a folk tale on these Krishnachura buds." "Interesting! Please tell me that." "Hmm. Once upon a time..." Just then Margaret yelled from a distance, "Hey Sudipaa! Come fast!" "Sorry! Got to go." "Okay!" He put up a smiling front. Sandy came here at his aunt's place, while Sudipa, the Hematologist, came here to speak at a seminar on thalassaemia organized by her batch-mate Margaret. Sudipa and Margaret were also fresh doctors like Sandy, and were about to join in different hospitals. So, they grabbed this opportunity to spend some days together before joining the grind of a job. "He's handsome. Isn't he?" Margaret winked at Sudipa. "Hmm.." Sudipa answered while stealing a glimpse of a fading Sandy. "He's different." "Like what?" "He's concerned about untimely death of the Krishanachura buds!" "Interesting!" "Yes it is! We don't even notice such a thing. Is it because we're trained to deal death casually?" "He's also a doctor, anyway!" "That's the problem.." Sudipa smiled on her own. Maybe he's romantic more than usual! They met again at a bathing ghat of a pond. Sudipa went there with Sandy's cousin brother Ranjan, who was one of the organizers of the thalassaemia seminar and the blood donation camp. Sudipa met Ranjan through Margaret and through Ranjan she met Sandy. They sat on the red-tiled circular-sitting place, while Ranjan settled for fishing. The bronzy, muscular Sandy looked lost amid the surrounding greens. Someone to love! Drib-drib-drib, pounded her heart, while stealing glances at him. Schoop, schoop! Ranjan drove a fish home. “Wow!” Quickly she gathered herself. “Sandy, please take these home. Now I'll take Dr. Mitra to our club.” He raised the angle-rod and the fish to Sandip. “See you then, Dr. Sengupta,!” Sudipa shrugged and smiled. “Orthopedists are usually left out in this manner!” Sandy couldn't help being sarcastic. “This way please,” Ranjan sounded like a jail warden. While following him, she fervently craved for that bronzy man, who was then fading out of the sight. Girl Loses Boy She woke up amid a cloudy morning the day next. By then Margaret had gone out somewhere. Quickly she prepared herself to go to Ranjan's house. Outwardly, to enquire about Margaret. Inwardly, to find if Sandy was there. But she found none there! Defused, she was about to return when Sandy showed up from a lane. “Good morning Dr. Mitra! What made you play truant yesterday?” “They kept me busy all along. What about you today?” “I'm available as long as you want to be!” “Then tell me that folk tale on Krishnachura buds!” “You like folk tales?” Sandy grinned. “Yeah. They bring back my mom's memory. I spent my childhood at Sikkim, a hilly area. There she would tell me the tales sitting beside the fireplace. She died there when I was seven.” “I am sorry,” he said, "come on in." “Sandy--” Someone called him from inside the house once they got in. “Aunt's calling. Excuse me." Spared alone, she now started recollecting the sweet nothings exchanged with him, that how they voted Robin Cook's novels or the Chinese dishes, or Denver and Lata's songs! Who knows if he also likes the blue shade! Childishly she wanted to play a guessing game. “Dr. Mitra!” Sandy entered with a plate of paratha and curry. “Please help yourself. Aunt's order.” "Help me with the folk tale as well!" She smiled and received the plate from him. “Okay!” He pulled up a chair to sit beside the window. “Hmm… there was a princess who earned a curse from a witch, who was accidentally omitted from the guest list of her birthday party. The curse said that if any dead leaf ever falls on the princess in spring, she would die instantly. Naturally, the countrymen prayed to save the princess. Then God sent an angel to her aid, who presented her another wish- that even if any dead leaf falls upon her, she would only be asleep! "Since that wasn't enough, the Krishnachura trees provided a solution. They decided to sacrifice some of their buds right before the spring to remind the princess to stay indoors till the end of the spring. Hence from then on, the Krishnachuras have been maintaining that habit! That's it, Princess Sudipa!” Suddenly a thunder hit outside and helped Sudipa to check her automated reply: Thank you, Prince Sandip! Now it started singing, the rain. Drip, drip.. bonding them to a mutually desired togetherness, but soon an all-drenched Ranjan entered and chopped off the tune. “Could have waited somewhere,” Sudipa said. “How can I? So many jobs are left before tomorrow,” Ranjan went inside to change. Oh no! Not again! Sudipa prayed to God. “I'll be back by ten minutes.” Ranjan came back and moved out again. The blood donation camp and the seminar was on cards tomorrow and the day next Sudipa was to return to Kolkata. This is the last chance to talk to him in private here! That too for ten minutes only! "Want to loll around?" Sandy startled her as her mind reader. "Oh sure!" They took to road under one umbrella, walking closer then ever. A few steps later, Sandip put his hand over her shoulder. A few more steps later, a strange mixture of love, desire and shyness engulfed them as they reached the pond side sitting place, arm in arm. A job done under impulse, both took time to open up. Sandy spoke first. “I heard you've got awards for your works on thalassaemia. That's great!” She presented a coy smile as an answer. He spoke again. “I need to learn more about thalassaemia. You know, I'm also a thalassaemia-carrier." Right then Sudipa was going to ask Sandip about his favorite color. BUT, after listening to his words she froze. Minutes later, she asked, ”How many types of fishes are there in this pond?” Surprised with this offbeat query, Sandip watched her a little before answering, “Don't know. I am also a rank outsider!” “That’s true.” Sudipa gently freed her hand from him under the pretext of tackling the trickling water-strains. “This untimely rain might bring cough and cold.” “Right. This is an untimely rain! Let's return.” He said after a pause. The sky thundered as if it cried to stop them when they stood up to return. “Just a minute,” Sudipa bent down and took time to collect her sandals, actually to search a way out from the rain and thunder that were to strike her from inside, sooner or later! Quietly they reached Ranjan’s house, when Sandy broke the silence, “I also need to learn about the seek-and-hide game from you!” “As you say! Got to go, Dr. Sengupta.” “Amid this rain?” ”I'm already wet." She shrugged, raring to go. "Bye!” With a dry smile she moved on, leaving behind a dream she was dreaming even minutes ago. Mind Game "Look, thalassaemia is a hypo chromic anaemia. It's an inherited form of anaemia caused by faulty synthesis of hemoglobin. This problem shows up at an early age. I tell you, now the number of thalassaemic children in India alone is over 3 million! Please don't raise this number through the marriage between two thalassaemia-carriers!” Sudipa paused and glanced over the seminar-audience, as if to find someone special, before resuming. “You know, I'm also a thalassaemia-carrier. See, I've also donated blood. So far so good, but think of the possible disaster if I marry another thalassaemia-carrier and give birth to a thalassaemic child! " Probation “Keep mailing me, you lazybones! We'd spend the next holidays together.” Margaret patted her back. “Hopefully!" Sudipa smiled, The near-empty train of Sunday now came. They shook hands before parting. I was right , Margaret. Luck plays a part in finding someone to love! See, Sandy and me were ready to tango but were denied any place for that! Now I've to make my own prescription to meet the concept of happiness! The train started moving, as that had no business in waiting for anyone’s secret soliloquy. Soon the Maslandapur station became a fading frame; Margaret became a dot and then vanished. She felt lonely. Despite the presence of some passengers, she felt she had started a lone journey, rather was pushed into it. What am I to do now? Popped in her mind, a big gang of cute little children wheedling with one another. I saved at least one or two of them! She tried to supplement the fantasy with her thought. New Time Sudipa reached the Metro Park with her team. They were to be felicitated today by the state cultural wing for their best performance in the All-India Deaf & Dumb Sports Meet held recently at Kolkata. While joining at a Kolkata hospital last year, she also founded and developed her club 'Sailing Snipes', masterminding every affair of it. She would start her day by supervising the activities of the club members. If she got up late, she would find a melange of human buds spread all over her room- at her bedside, on the floor, on the chairs, tables.. all waiting to deck her day with silent smiles and glinted eyes! This lovely arrangement of the morning would make her mind feathery, yet as heavy as the biggest gift to carry on; she would then try to topple her emotions before they showed up in her eyes! She booked her evenings with the study of sign language, as she wanted to be an expert communicator to the deaf and dumbs. That way the days flowed and now her organization, ‘Sailing Snipes’ had achieved recognition. "Hey Sudipaaa--" Margaret waived her from a distance. "You there! Come come!" The duo couldn't meet after that sojourn at Maslandpur. So they chirped on and on, when an announcement silenced them with a shock wave! “Now we call upon Dr. Sandip Sengupta and his boys to the dais to receive the awards. Ladies and gentlemen, This club, ‘Best Buds’ has won this year's State Sub junior Club Cup Football Tournament. Dr. Sengupta and his team please…” Yes, he was that bronzy, curly haired Sandy, who rose from the audience and walked towards the dais! The Chain Comes Full Circle They met at the lobby of the reception area. “Congratulations! You’re guiding them well!” “Thanks!” Sudipa smiled. “I keep your track through the newspapers!” He grinned. “You’re also going great guns!” “Don't we have things common between us?” He grinned again. Now for once, can that long held question be asked to Sandy? That what is his favorite color? “Well, Sandy, mind if I ask you a funny question? What is your favorite color?” “It’s Blue. All shades of it. Yours?” “Oh I am so happy!” “I understand! How’s life?” “I'm fine. You?” “Me too. Might feel even better after today!” “Why?” “Because I'll say you a sweet little sorry. I'm sorry, Sudipa. I misread you on that rainy day at Maslandapur. But then, I couldn’t even imagine that you could also be a thalassaemia-carrier!” “Yeah. I too felt terrible that day,” Sudipa lowered her head, “I felt I lost someone next to my mother.” “By the way, where did you get such a beautiful name of your club, ‘Sailing Snipes’? Must be flying high, Queen Sudipa!” “Collected it from the garden from where King Sandy also picked up his club's name, ‘Best Buds’! Haven't we become the Krishnachura trees now? With the assignment taking care of all the princes and princesses!” “Dr. Mitra, please join your team members for a group photo…” The announcement intervened. “Uff! Interruption again!" Sudipa laughed, “Excuse me Sandy.” "Uff!" He chuckled. "What next? See you or see you not?” “Ha ha ha! Look, we've so many children to start a family now!" A sudden blood rush and speechlessness attacked her, while he closed in. “We'll see!” She somehow managed to step back. "Here's my mobile number.” He raised his card. Way back home, Sudipa met a huge Krishnachura tree at the edge of the park. Its fiery-red flowers crowned its dense green leaves. She caressed its trunk. I can also be like you! Right then a word flashed in her mind. It should be 'many' instead of 'someone'! ‘Something to do, MANY to love and something to hope for!’ She suddenly giggled like a schoolgirl, waltzed a few steps to the amazement of her team and Margaret . Then the soft, diminutive rays of the sun were pecking the earth before surrendering to the evening. Happily she welcomed the darkness, as by then, an invaluable item was to gate crash and trickle down soon through her cheeks. It's not an item to flaunt around, the essence of love! |
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| The Chain Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#16 of 17 |
| 631 | |
| The small toolshed is dark, dingy, and dank. A dull
glow of sunlight feebly leaks through a couple of grimy windows. The shafts of
light glow on very little as most of the tools and devices for taming nature
were dusty and rusting. It was just the way I liked it, an ideal spot to lure
unsuspecting victims into my web of death! Perhaps that's a little melodramatic, but that is how I sustain life. How do you do it? What do you kill? If you saw my netlike symmetrical chain hanging outdoors, glinting in the sun, bejewelled by early morning dewdrops, it would appear to be a true work of art. The outside world with all its vast myriad glories often forgets the little ones. This beauty would be fleeting, though. Wind, rain, birds, and people would soon have the masterpiece in tatters, to be reluctantly rewoven in a more slipshod manner. No, I'm happy where I am. There is only life and death, and in between, food and shelter. Maybe it is more humane to slaughter the cow, rip the lettuce from the nurturing soil, pluck the peach, but I have to be made of sterner stuff. The entangled fly is slowly devoured, kept alive by having its extremities eaten first. It is fully aware of its inevitable doom but still valiantly struggles in pain until the end. How touching. How universal. Life went on for me peacefully with no connection to the outside world, its atrocities and folly. I built several webs to increase my haul and went to sleep happily every night with a full belly and a clear conscience. Until one day, the big ones entered my private little world. The door was scraped open, spilling brightness through its crooked rictus, and two large humans entered. One was a cheery overbearing middle aged lady who emitted a constant output of sounds. Following her was a sad looking nervous little man who had apparently been born without a backbone. He swung a broom around in a desultory fashion, destroying some of my meticulous handiwork, but I was safe within a deep crevice. The woman said something imperative that I didn't understand, but when the man came back and began hauling the implements of destruction out to the lawn, it became clear. When that was accomplished, he came back carrying a device I had never seen, though modern science would tell you it was one of the branches of the genus vacuum. Despite my best efforts to hang on with my strong tensile webbing, I was sucked through the maw of its tunnel and bounced into the stomach of the beast. Several of my legs were damaged and I had a nasty bump on the head. I became dizzy from all the swinging around and the added detritus that was deposited on top, afraid for my life and uncertain of what was to happen, but soon it ceased. Then the bag was dumped into a larger filthier container. I thought of crawling out but was too weak and buried too deeply. In the early dawn, it all was dumped into a truck and compacted. Only my flexible body saved my life. Morning found us in a large landfill where I dragged myself to the top of the heap. Flies and insects were buzzing and crawling about the huge steaming heap. I was thinking there could be a nice variety of meals here, though I am more concerned about sustenance than taste. Then a blackbird came hopping along and prepared to eat me with one sharp peck. At least it would be quick. Somehow I was quicker and shuttled under a decaying lettuce leaf. If only I could avoid the dangers, I could forsee a rich life here. |
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| The Chain lee10@host365.com |
#17 of 17 |
| 162 | |
| A golden glow hung over the field; and the light was alive. Each vibrant dot formed from a million pixels was a pulsing part of a awesome whole. And as a child was conceived in the world below, a dot, a globe, glared white-bright, to flare, expectant; a nine-month flowering. As the child was born, the light, light as thistledown, released, blew away; flew away, to be born, squalling new life below; and a small white bud took its place, awaiting conception; waiting for the battle of spermatic spirit to overcome the tough resistance of ovum; to bring the bud, throbbing, to gold sunshine. But a war brought blight and white buds withered as young men died. Buds died and withered as each young soldier was blown apart before re-creating his self. As each bud died, the field’s glow weakened. Whole swathes turned grey and fusty, as children who would never be, never were, and the chain of sentience was broken |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club