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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! | |