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"The Button" (the fifty-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Button" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Dec 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Button By Alethea Gerding aletheaanne@hotmail.com http://bigalscomicblog.blogspot.com/ (Entry #20) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| “What can I getcha?” the
waitress asked as Annie slid into a seat at the counter. Annie glanced quickly
at the drink selections written on a white-erase board. She noticed that
“Mello Yello” once read “Mellow Yellow.” Someone had erased
the “w’s,” but, though faded, they were still visible. This
struck Annie as funny. Mello Yello was, indeed, the brand name, and someone in
the EatRite Diner had cared enough to get it right. Who? Maybe a Coca-Cola
executive once happened to stop by the diner. Annie imagined him calling the
waitress aside and clearing up the little problem. Or, maybe a teenaged
busboy/Mello Yello addict looked at the incorrect sign day after day until he
could stand it no longer. Some mystery person had cared enough to get it right.
The waitress cleared her throat, snapping Annie out of her reverie. And so, she
ordered a Mello Yello. It was 11:45, and she wasn’t meeting Becca until noon. No chance Becca would be early. When they were still college students, she told Annie that being so early all the time “hinted at desperation.” Becca always did have a keen sense of what was proper. The waitress put Annie’s drink on the counter, pulled a straw from her apron pocket, and slapped it on the counter after the drink. “Thanks,” said Annie. After sliding the straw into the bright liquid, she crossed her arms, put her elbows on the counter and began sipping. The drink’s fizz bubbled and struck her face. The bells on the front door jangled, and, wiping her nose, Annie sat up straight and turned to face the door. Not Becca; she still had at least 12 minutes to wait. Annie knew Becca would be upset she hadn’t stayed with her the night before. They hadn’t seen each other since Laura’s funeral six months ago. They’d talked on the phone, and both made weekend trips to check in on Laura’s husband and three-year-old daughter, but they hadn’t spent any time, just the two of them, to mourn their friend’s death. Annie wondered what Laura’s lawyer had to give them, and why they were meeting here, five miles from Becca’s home. She felt a familiar twinge of jealousy. She, Becca, and Laura had been inseparable through four years of college and even a few years after that. As they went their separate ways, and spent less and less time together, Annie always wondered if the other two were leaving her out. Not intentionally, of course, but Laura and Becca were both mothers. Annie was sure they bonded over the joys and frustrations that accompanied motherhood. She supposed she would never fully understand that huge part of her friends’ lives. The bells on the door jangled again, this time indicating Becca’s arrival. Taking off her sunglasses, she was rooting in her purse for her normal glasses. Annie chuckled. Becca had a “mom purse!” Annie wondered what all she had in there, and how long it would take her to find her glasses. The light in the diner was so dim Becca couldn’t see much of anything, especially without her glasses. Her left hand held the bag open, and her right rummaged through it. Baby wipes, granola bar, lipstick, flashlight, paperback, . . . glasses! Slowly adjusting to the dim light and sliding on her glasses, she saw Annie waving at her from a stool at the counter. Of course, Annie was already there. She’d known Annie for seventeen years, and couldn’t think of a single instance of Annie running late. Approaching the counter, she was surprised, as usual, at how old Annie looked. Until she was at least twenty-five, Annie had been carded entering R-rated movies. With coltish arms and legs, a jangly, awkward walk, and a soft, baby-fat face, Annie could easily pass for fourteen – when she was twenty-seven. Then came that horrible night seven years ago. Annie’s husband was driving home from the airport when he was struck and killed by a drunk driver. For the next two months, Laura and Becca camped out at Annie’s house, packing Matt’s things, addressing thank you notes, helping their friend. In those two short months, Annie seemed to age ten years. It wasn’t that Annie now looked old – she simply looked her age. Becca, who had put on a little weight with each of her three pregnancies, noted with some jealousy that Annie still looked very slim in her tight jeans and form fitting t-shirt. She wore her long hair in a ponytail, but there were a few grays springing out at the temples. The crows’ feet at her eyes weren’t deep, but they were noticeable. Laura had succumbed to breast cancer less than a year ago, and now there was something almost heartbreaking about seeing her happy-go-lucky Annie resembling an adult with a good start on middle age. They hugged, and Annie ran her left hand down the tip of her nose. “Sorry. I was sitting a little too close to my Mello Yello!” That made Becca smile – Annie might be a college professor, a thirty-five-year-old widow, but she still had Mello Yello on her face. That was her Annie. Annie picked up her drink and escorted Becca to a free booth. They placed their orders quickly, dispatching the waitress back behind the counter. “Do you know what he’s bringing us?” asked Becca. “All I know is it’s something from her will. I’m really at a loss,” answered Annie, bending her face down to sip again at her drink. That reassured Becca. She always wondered if Laura and Annie had grown closer as they aged, leaving her out. Becca was a stay at home mom, and her two friends had careers. She was sure they chatted for long hours about the frustrations of bosses, deadlines, and annoying colleagues. It reminded her that Annie had been too busy to fly into town last night. “You know you could have stayed with us last night.” “I had a seminar. It was just easier to fly in today.” “You didn’t have to rent a car . . .” Annie held up her left hand and waggled it. The gesture seemed to say “don’t worry about it,” but also “don’t bother me about it.” Annie changed the subject. “Do you know why he wanted to meet us here?” “Beats me. I live just around the corner, and never came here. Maybe she thought it would be convenient for me; maybe her lawyer suggested it. Laura knows, I mean, she knew . . .” Becca trailed off, not completing her thought. Annie looked away. She, too, struggled with talking about their friend in the past tense. It was so final. “So, do you even have a theory?” “I’ve been thinking about spring break – junior year. Remember the velvet tiger? Bengie?” Annie laughed. The velvet tiger was the tackiest wall hanging in a motel suite full of tacky wall hangings. Laura, always the boldest of the three, decided to take it back to Nashville with them. Annie remembered how much Becca fretted over the theft. Until the end of the semester, Becca visibly tensed every time the phone rang. The next Christmas, Laura gave Becca the tiger. Annie thought Becca would have a heart attack right there by the two-foot tree on their kitchen table. Becca, holder of stolen goods! Becca survived, though, and the Empress Motor Lodge never tracked down the culprits. Every Christmas, the tiger, nicknamed Bengie by Annie, changed hands. “When did we stop swapping that guy around?” asked Annie. Becca thought it had been Annie’s turn to get Bengie the Christmas after Matt died. She assumed Laura just kept him, but she shaded the truth. “I don’t know. Ten years ago?” The food arrived, and Becca changed the subject. “So, what’s your theory?” “Maybe some sort of goodbye letter? Or a request to do something for her? Like, look after Dave?” “You mean like how Melanie asked Scarlett to look after Ashley?” “I don’t know, Becca. Have you always harbored a secret love for Dave, Miz Scahlett?” Becca tittered. Annie continued, “No, I mean, like, maybe she wants us to spend time with Ellie. You know, tell her things about her mother.” “I hope Laura knows we’d do that without her asking us to! We’re her oldest friends,” said Becca. “Yeah, she knew. Do you know if she ever found her sister? That might be something to tell Ellie.” Laura’s older sister ran away from home shortly after their parents’ divorce. She was almost ten years older than Laura, and Laura admired her with the ardor of a little sister. She loved to spin wild tales of the things Deanie did in their youth. Laura channeled Deanie anytime she attempted anything wild – like stealing Bengie from the motel. “I don’t think so,” Becca shook her head. “That’s why it’s up to us to remember Laura’s youth! I’d tell Ellie about the time Laura’s car got stolen, and the insurance gave her that teeny tiny rental. We went to that 70s party in that – dressed like crazy fools, and in a clown car to boot!” Annie laughed; she wore platform shoes to the big party, and had almost broken an ankle trying to get in and out of the little car. “I think I’ll have to tell her about the time the power went out and we thought a serial killer was after us. I never saw Laura so scared.” The memories flowed, and the women laughed about their younger days. Before having three children made Becca “tsk” at the word “crap;” before becoming a widow made Annie cautious and standoffish to men; before fighting a losing battle with cancer made Laura past tense. They were so caught up in tales of the past they didn’t notice the entrance of the courier. “Rebecca Aaron? Anne Cassidy?” he asked the room at large. Both women raised their hands as though he were calling roll. Becca actually squeaked out “Here!” “I’m from Mr. Randall’s office,” he said, approaching the table. He pulled a clipboard from his shoulder bag. “I need your signatures here,” indicating a spot on the paper. Their signatures made, he reached back into his bag and pulled out a padded manila envelope. “Thanks ladies,” he said putting the envelope on the table and walking off. “That’s it?” Becca said. “He’s just the messenger,” Annie said picking up the envelope. “I guess it’s not Bengie. Too bad, I missed that tacky tiger.” She shook the envelope, held it to her ear, felt the edges with her fingers. “There’s something hard in here, though.” “Just open it.” Becca’s palms were actually sweaty. Annie pulled the red tab. Small bits of envelope padding fell into her soup. She pushed the bowl out of the way, inhaled deeply, exhaled, and reached into the envelope. There was something in there, hard, smooth, a little cold. She pulled it out. It was a round, plastic disc. She held it in her left hand, looked at it, confused. “Is that a campaign button? What does it say?” asked Becca. Instead of answering, Annie held the front of the button towards Becca. It was dark blue, with “Geraldine!” in white lettering. Annie raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, and stared at Becca, silently asking for an explanation. Becca squinted at the button, reached out her right hand. Annie handed it over. Becca turned the button over, looking for a clue. “Is there a letter or something in the envelope?” Annie picked up the envelope, peering inside while more grey padding flecks spilled out on the table. “Nothing. What the hell does this mean?” Becca cringed on “hell,” but bit back the urge to tell Annie to watch her language. Annie’s language was not Becca’s problem. “Did we know someone in college named Geraldine? Someone we’ve forgotten about?” “Geraldine is an old lady name. I would’ve remembered someone named Geraldine. I would’ve made fun of her. This is nothing more than a Geraldine Ferraro campaign button.” “Well . . .” began Becca, “Laura always sort of had a thing for lost causes. Mondale/Ferraro sure fits the bill.” “Sure, but what does that have to do with us? Does she think we’re lost causes? I wish this weren’t so subtle. I mean, it’s got to be a mistake. Or some sort of clue?” They batted around theories, each crazier than the next. Becca mused, “Maybe Laura had a secret identity! Or a second personality!” “Yeah, an old lady personality.” The waitress was beginning to give them the stink eye. They’d finished eating and were now just taking up a table. Annie signaled for the check. Becca continued her wild theory spinning. “Maybe she wants us to contact Geraldine Ferraro. You know, to lobby for breast cancer research or something.” The waitress arrived with the check. Annie held out a twenty dollar bill, and as the waitress turned back to get the change, Becca’s eyes widened. As soon as she was safely gone Becca hissed, “Her name is Geraldine!” “Oh, shit. She heard me say it’s an old lady name.” “Annie you really should watch your language. Here she comes.” Geraldine held out several ones, with a few coins on top. Annie broached the subject. “Uhm, I’m sorry if I offended you. I think Geraldine is a lovely name.” The waitress laughed. “It is an old lady name.” She fingered her nametag. “I don’t know why they put my full name on here. My friends call me Deanie.” |
| The Button mrwrleft@yahoo.com (Entry #19) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Liz liked that his name was Robert,
the same as her husband’s. There are certain moments when a woman wants to
say the name of her partner aloud. Both men having the same name saved her some
confusion. She met this Robert in Kinko’s when the worker messed up her copies and she requested a manager. She noticed sparkles of excitement in his eyes when he first looked at her, and sparkles of humor when he listened to her complaints and she, somehow let him lull her into resolving their disagreement at a nearby Starbuck’s. Liz stretched with the pleasure of remembrance. It was eight-thirty AM on Wednesday. The beach, where she always took her daily morning stroll after dropping the kids at school, was almost completely deserted. She looked to the horizon and her train of thought switched to contemplation of her life, in general. Everybody she knew thought she had it made. Fifteen years ago she married a successful attorney. Now she was the “lady of the castle” as she often defined herself. She had a big house, a Jaguar, a yacht, trips to Europe to dine at the restaurants in the Eiffel Tower, or take gondola rides through Venice, or ski in the Swiss Alps. Among her relatives, she could sit with a proud and accomplished countenance, even with just a hint of arrogance - well-dressed, well-groomed, and feeling above all their skirmishes and territorial disputes. Her husband and their kids were her life. But was she HAPPY? Was this life to her ultimate liking? Something she wanted to live... or something she just settled for? Back when they’d first met, their relationship was new, exciting, different. Robert Powell came across as smart, witty, charming and certainly much more attractive than all the other people in town, including Tony Beady, her high school sweetheart. “You promised, you promised!” Tony screamed back then. Stupid childish promises. She, finally, had to serve Tony with a Restriction Order. Liz shrugged away the unpleasant memory. Back then, when she was twenty-two and Robert was forty, the difference in age didn’t seem so great. But now, more often than not, she really felt it. His age manifested itself now in many ways, from the top of his head, where Liz could see bare skin, to the heavy breathing when they were hiking. The special diet he had to follow, and the blood pressure medicine he had to take, and today - how romantic - the sample of his urine that she had to take to the lab for his kidney test. But especially it was noticeable in the bedroom. From spontaneous and frequent, their lovemaking became much less spontaneous and, alas, so much less frequent. To hint this to Robert was humiliating; and he, as if realizing his shortcomings, became suspicious and possessive. If she could only have those moments of excitement, of passion, back! A gust of wind made her quickly button her coat. “Excuse me, Ma’am. May I have some of your time, please?” Startled, Liz quickly turned around. The tall man standing close behind her made her shiver. Not that she sensed anything threatening, in fact he seemed as polite as an experienced salesman, but his appearance from “thin air” so near, in such a deserted spot, made her feel if not alarmed, then, at least alert. On one hand he looked old: wrinkly face, grey hair, eyes that seemed faded and lacking. On the other hand, though, his smile and demeanor was that of a relatively young man. One sure of his charm and trying to make use of it. “Sure.” Liz’s answer lacked confidence. “Are you a reporter of some sort?” Robert was a respected member of the community and now and then, their photograph flickered in the local newspaper. “Of a sort, and don’t worry I won’t take much of your time.” The man giggled. “Weirdo,” Liz mentally rolled her eyes. Nodding, the man pulled out a gadget. At first, Liz thought it was a movie camera, but it turned out to be a cell phone-looking device, only considerably larger. “Could you please hold this for me?” He handed the gadget to Liz, showing signs of an approaching sneeze. Liz held it through two sneezes and then gave it back. “Bless you.” Now looking at it from his side, Liz saw that the display panel had two viewing areas; the left one was labeled “Bio-Time Server” and the right one was labeled “Bio-Time Receiver,” with a button labeled “Transmit” in between. To her great surprise, Liz saw that the left panel contained the information: Name: Elisabeth Powell Sex F Marital Status M Biological Age: 37 Psychological Age: 22 Donated Age: 0 ..... Her information. And the right one contained the information, apparently, of the reporter: Name: Leslie Berwick, Sex M Marital Status S Biological Age: 77 Psychological Age: 50 Donated Age: -43 “How do you know this about me?” Liz moved closer to the gadget. “A little patience, Ma'am.” Berwick winked at her and then again looked down at the gadget that displayed the green status line message. “Loading Transmission Matrix. Please wait....” As soon as the message changed to “Ready to Transmit” Berwick looked around the beach in both directions and hurriedly pressed the “Transmit” button. The message box showed: “You are about to transmit 20 Bio-Time years from Elizabeth Powell to Leslie Berwick. Are you sure?” “Wait just a second!” Liz sensed something was wrong. “Whatever you’re doing - I don’t want you using my name.” “I’m afraid, Ma’am,” Berwick smirked, about to press ‘Yes,’ ”You don’t have a choice.” “Not so fast, Berwick!” Liz heard a new voice and observed the gadget suddenly flying through the air to land in the sand several feet away. “Shit, Woollard,” Berwick rushed after the devise as fast as he could, “didn’t your mother teach you to knock?” The man who’d kicked the gadget out of Berwick’s hands was faster and took a position between Berwick and the device. “I see you jumped quite far back this time Berwick. Admirable move. I didn’t even know that Global Planetary Security System was calibrated starting from only the year 2050. We were quite lucky to keep a tab on you all the time since you sold thirty Bio-Years to the Hong Kong broker.” “You’ll never be able to prove this, Woollard.” “Two bio-days ago you were in your forties and now, from the looks of it, you’re in your late seventies.” “All circumstantial,” Berwick breathed heavy and with whistle. “True. But now we caught you in action.” Woollard glanced at Liz, “and you’ll be persecuted with all the severity of the Pirate Law.” Berwick, apparently concluding that he lost this argument, swung at Woollard. But he wasn’t fast enough and with one short right hook to the jaw, Woollard dropped him. Leaving him laying face-down in the sand, he picked up the device and turned to Liz, who was in a state of complete bewilderment. “Special Agent Ben Woollard.” The man gave a slight bow. “Sorry you had to go though this, Mrs...” he looked at the left panel of the devise, “…Powell. Luckily, I arrived just in time.” “In time for what?” “To stop this man from committing a...,” Woollard hesitated, “...a crime; a dangerous crime Ma’am.” “Well thank you, officer.” By now Liz somewhat had come to her senses. “What type of crime?” Woollard hesitated again. “Let’s just say that this man,” he pointed at figure of Berwick still spread-eagled in the sand, “was trying to steal your personal property.” “Property? I don’t understand.” Liz helplessly looked at the that devise that Woollard now held in his hands.. “I am afraid, Mrs. Powell, I am not in a position to tell you more than that.” “But how come he chose me?” Liz pointed to the still unconscious Berwick. “How did he know I would be here?” “An accident, a pure accident. You just happened in the wrong place at the wrong time.” With this Woollard pulled several times on his lower lip, mumbling to himself. “Still I am not sure how he was able to bypass the Transmitter security. To do that he would need a DNA sample.” Then changing back to his loud official tone. “Tell me, Mrs. Powell, did Berwick somehow get access to your fingerprints?” “Well… he did ask me to hold the thingy while he was sneezing.” “Ah, there we go.” Woollard smiled, satisfied. “That’s about it, then. Unless, of course, you have other questions?” “Yes, Officer Woollard, actually, I do. What did the lower number on the panel mean? The one that said I was twenty-two?” Woolland looked up, trying to arrange his explanation. “It’s the number that describes how old you feel - rather than how old you, actually, are.” He turned away from Berwick and looked at Liz. “Don’t ask me why. Someone must have added this option out of sheer geekness.” He chuckled at his own joke. At this moment, through her peripheral vision, Liz noticed that Berwick had awakened and was holding what appeared to be a gun - and aiming it directly at the unaware Woollard. “Officer!” Liz screamed, “HE’S GOT A GUN!” Woollard spun around pulling his own weapon. Two laser beams sparked at the same time and both men instantly evaporated. *** Shaken and exhausted, Liz sat on the sand with her thoughts in disarray. What was she supposed to do, call the police? They would think she was crazy. Did all of this actually happen? Oh yes it did: the device was still laying next to her on the sand. Woollard apparently had reset it, but the power was still on. What happened was unbelievable; made absolutely no sense. Well, no, actually, it made sense. But only to her. No, not only to her, but to millions of people some time in the future. After seeing the laser shots, Liz was now sure of that. What a mess. Liz started crying. Everything happened so fast. Two people just died in her presence and she couldn’t do a thing about it. It was nice at least that there was no blood or anything. But still.… The tears continued to roll while she wished that someone big, strong and kind would come to her and help her calm down.... Phooey! This was just stupid. Stupid. She was a grown-up, a responsible adult. Not a child in need of parenting. She raised her hands and held her temples. What was so strange was that, here she was, all of a sudden, in possession of this weird gadget that seemed it might be useful in some way. If only she could think of how to use it. Suddenly, with widened eyes, Liz looked at the device, turning around a thought in her head. If she could give Robert five years of her life then their difference would be only eight years. Then the difference in age with Robert wouldn’t be so drastic. Who knew, maybe this would return to them those emotionally fulfilled moments of excitement, of passion. Five years? What difference would giving up five years make? What could possibly happen to her over those years? Nothing but frustration and boredom while she gradually lost her definition of herself. What was she living for anyway? What was her purpose - procreation? She had already done that. Robert and she didn’t plan to have more children. Certainly, she still needed to care for them and love them and stuff, but really, at this point in time she was sort of living on overtime. Five years? If she wanted to go ahead with it, she better do it fast, because who knows who would pop up next from the thin air. Nervously, Liz looked at the device. There was no keypad except for numbers. She entered the number five. Woollard talked about DNA. But how could she get Robert’s DNA? Wait. Liz ran toward the car and fetched out Robert’s urine sample from the floor next to the driver’s seat, where she’d stashed it and, turning her nose she poured a drop of it on the recipient side of the device. Yes! Robert’s data appeared on the panel. Now she thumb printed the server side and her data appeared as well. Liz pressed the button. “You are about to transmit Five Bio-Time years from Elizabeth Powell to Robert Powell. Are you sure?” Liz was shivering. Was she really ready to give away five years of her own youth so that Robert and she could, perhaps, experience emotional fulfillment? What if she was making a mistake? What if this turned out to be a stupid useless gesture? What if the spring in a relationship with the same man was possible only once? Her psychological age was twenty-two. This meant she hadn’t grown as a person at all since she got married. The new Robert, though... he was exited about her - and he was excited NOW. Now, even when she was much older than him. With him she could definitely experience emotional fulfillment again and grow as a person. With him, or, hell, maybe with some other Robert. Robert #3. “In the wrong place at the wrong time,” he’d said. Nope. It was exactly the “right place and at the right time!” Liz pushed the ‘No’ button, reset the device and quickly redid the procedure, only this time putting her husband on the “Donor” side and herself on the “Receiver.” Five years? No - I want to go back to the beginning, back to the point where I found Robert... and began losing myself. Liz entered the digits “one” and “five” and pressed the “Transmit” button. “You are about to transmit Fifteen Bio-Time years from Robert Powell to Elizabeth Powell. Are you sure?” “Oh, yes,” Liz said out-loud, and pushed the button again. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #19 Second place: #18 Tied for third place: #1, #12, #17, #20 Others receiving votes: #2, #8, #13, #14, #15, #16 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Button Stanley Boothman stanley_boothman@yahoo.com.au |
#1 of 23 |
| 1619 | |
| “I can understand English about fifty
percent,” Natthiya told me when we first met at the end of a long days
filming. We had both scored jobs as extras on a tele movie, a low grade
production aimed at the cable TV market in America which was being filmed on
Phuket Island in southern Thailand to take advantage of the cheap labour costs
in the country. She was an attractive young girl and the thought of helping her
out with her English studies was fairly appealing. “Actually you speak quite well”, I told her. “All you need to do is expand your vocabulary. I can help you with that if you like. Why not drop round to my apartment for some lessons." So at exactly high noon the following Sunday, there was a light tap on the door of my apartment and there was Natthiya, staggering under the weight of bags of barbequed chicken, sticky rice, spicy green papaya salad, and English text books. After gorging on the chicken and trimmings, we got down to the serious business of vocabulary enhancement. I’d decided that we should keep things a bit on the light hearted side, so we played a game of Scrabble, an ideal way to learn new words and hone ones strategic skills by placing the word tiles on the highest scoring squares on the board. She took to the game very quickly and at one stage was actually winning until I put an end to that nonsense by putting down a Q and a Z on a triple letter word score square, and followed that up with a few other sneaky moves. After all, we couldn’t have the student surpassing the teacher. The afternoon sped past and before we knew it, shadows were forming in the garden outside. It was time for the lesson to come to an end. She rose from her chair, giving the impression she was about to announce her departure. But no. “Come”, she said quietly, taking my hand and leading me into the bed room. She sat on the bed. “Shall I take off my clothes?” she asked. I replied that I thought that sounded like a wonderful idea and, being the friendly, helpful sort of fellow that I am, pitched in and gave her a helping hand but got a bit stymied fumbling for the clasp of her bra strap. “No, no, this is how it’s done,” she laughed, indicating the button between the cups of the garment. When pushed, the cups sprang apart dramatically, revealing two of the most delectable breasts I’ve ever had the pleasure of fondling. "Mind you,” she said as the last item of apparel was being removed, “ this will be as far as we can go unless you have a condom.” A small pause . “ You do have a condom, don’t you?” “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” and walked over to the wardrobe where there was a large selection left behind when my wife had to return to America to pursue her career, leaving me in Thailand to further mine. We inspected the array and discussed the merits of each one. There were all manner to choose from. Studded ones for heightened pleasure, coloured ones, flavoured ones, and some in a plain white box with a small pink heart embossed on it, that hadn’t even been opened. “Maybe we should try one of these”, I suggested. It had been an erotic experience, choosing the right condom together for our first big sexual adventure. However she was anxious to get down to business so we set to with gusto. Her enthusiasm and energy were boundless. Snippets of stories that I’d read about older men dying of heart attacks while having sex with young Asian bar girls flashed into my mind and I briefly hoped that I wasn’t destined for the same fate. But I threw caution to the winds and forged on regardless. After a climactic finale we collapsed on the bed, covered in perspiration. “You like to eat the young corn and I like to ride the old horse,” she said playfully. She was right. There was quite a gap in our ages. She was twenty four, while I was just on the wrong side of fifty. So I was quite pleased with myself that I’d been able to keep up with her, as it had been something of a marathon performance. "Now I'm your mia noi,'' she told me. " You know what that means?" I was familiar with the word, the Thai word for minor wife. Funnily enough I didn’t feel any guilt at the turn which events had taken. I loved my wife and we rang and emailed each other regularly but, as adultery and the keeping of mistresses, or mia nois, was a deeply entrenched part of the Thai life style, I simply adopted the “when in Rome, do as the Romans do” philosophy and didn’t give the matter another thought. However my wife was starting to become a bit peeved at my reluctance to return to America and had taken to ringing me up in the morning to enquire how the movie was progressing, generally around the time Natthiya and I had just finished our early morning love making session. "You sound a bit out of breath," she observed one morning after we'd just finished a particularly torrid session. I explained that I'd been down stairs collecting the "Bangkok Post" from the mail box and had had to run up three flights of stairs when I'd heard the phone ringing. However I was able to reassure her that the weeks were flashing by and soon the movie would be finished. And sure enough it all came to an end and I had to return to Australia. Natthiya and I spent a last week together in Phuket before time eventually ran out. On my first day back home I dropped my wife off at work before returning home to unpack and drown my sorrows in a large bottle of duty free vodka. Then I decided to send Natthiya an email. I sent it and returned to my un packing. By the time my wife got home I was fairly well under the weather. The vodka bottle was about half empty and the un packing was still un finished. She walked through the door and was distracted by the sound of the computer whirring away and went over to have a look. "What's this," she asked, as my heart sank. In my drunken state, I’d forgotten to erase the message and shut the machine down. Now the damning evidence was spread across the screen in all its glory. There was no way it could be explained away as a simple goodbye message to an old colleague as it contained a fairly explicit reference to our farewell round of love making. Natthiya had been determined to make a long and lasting impression, and had excelled herself. In the email I’d told her how much I’d enjoyed it and was looking forward to many repeat performances when we met again. Alcohol, adultery, and computers are a lethal combination. So the cat was well and truly out of the bag. To say that my wife was devastated would be an under statement. However, being Thai herself, she had an interesting theory on how such a thing could have happened. "You've been bewitched," she said. "That girl has put a black magic spell on you". There is a strong belief in Thailand that prostitutes and bar girls can completely ensnare and dominate their clients by using magic potions available from un ethical oriental herbalists. I promptly agreed that this must have been the case and told her that I’d break off the whole thing immediately. Then, as an added safety measure, my wife made contact with an old monk at the local Thai temple, which had been established to meet the spiritual needs of the American Thai community. He was a specialist in exorcism and, after much muttering of incantations in front of a huge brass image of Buddha, bathed in the light of a veritable fire wall of candles and joss sticks, he emerged from his trance and announced that I was, indeed, possessed. I surrendered an amulet that Natthiya had given me as a farewell gift which he said was her way of keeping me ensnared, and he destroyed it. Prayers were then offered up for my release from the clutches of this Siamese succubus. My wife also began fighting fire with fire by throwing herself into love making with a passion. She would then turn on the computer and rub salt into the wounds of her arch rival: "Dear Natthiya, I would just like to thank you for keeping my husband in practice. Today we made love seven times. It was great. Thanks again." This certainly had the effect of solving the problem. The following morning I turned on the computer to find this awaiting me: “Do not email me or ring me again. Go back to your wife. Love her. I love you too but I can see it is all over." I called my wife to come and look at the email. At first she was a bit suspicious. It all seemed too good to be true. After all, I could have written it myself. Such things are possible but not by computer semi illiterates like me. It took a while for the scars to completely heal but time, as they say, is a great healer and now the marriage has been re built. It was almost wrecked by an email, but eventually saved by one. |
|
| The Button Lorna Elliott lorna_k@mac.com |
#2 of 23 |
| 1740 | |
| Sarah held the envelope with both hands, staring at her
own name in disbelief as if someone had just told her she had misspelled it all
her life. "John? It's here!" she called upstairs towards the vacant bedroom doorway, a mixture of simultaneous dread and excitement rising up within her. 'What is?" He emerged, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, his face still pale from sleep. "The letter from the agency." She did the sums quickly; it had taken them three weeks to reply. Each morning the absence of a response had unfastened a little piece of the hope she carried within her, like petals falling from a dying flower. Convinced they had chosen someone else, she had pursued other options in the vague expectation that she might find another job so perfect in many ways but one. Ripping the envelope open with her thumb, she unfolded the sheet of paper inside. As her eyes darted over the page, a wide grin bore straight, white teeth. "I got it!" she cried, but then the stark implications reawakened in her mind. John hadn't been as sold as she was on the idea of her working there- not because of the company or the long hours but because of the location. "It's in bloody Bethnal Green, Sarah," he had sighed, reading the application form. "You couldn't have chosen a more dangerous area if you tried." She couldn't deny it; he was right. It was the type of area in which no one would ever aspire to live. Grey, greasy streets lined with dark alleys and boarded-up shop windows didn't make for a particularly aesthetic walk to work, unless you were a fan of amateur graffiti art. Groups of men huddled together in smoke-filled pubs, their pints of cider in one hand and betting slips in the other, while teenagers roamed in gangs; matching hooded tops and baseball caps ensuring they looked like young disciples of the grim reaper. "I'll be fine. It's not that far from the Underground station." "That's not the point." She had wondered whether his protestations had anything to do with the fact that she would be earning more than him, but had dismissed the notion almost absently. "Look, we live in London. If I get the tube, I might get blown up. If I get the train, it might crash. If I get the bus, I might get mugged. It's just the risk you have to take." She laughed inwardly at the irony; John had decided after 7/7 that he would start cycling to work, a far more treacherous commute- kamikaze style- yet he saw fit to worry about a four-minute period each day when she became a pedestrian. "Still," he had persisted, "I'm going to buy you a panic alarm. It'd make me feel better." She had awoken with a jolt on Monday morning, an hour before the alarm clock was due to pierce the atmosphere. Her suit and an ironed shirt hung on the back of the door in preparation for the big day ahead. As she got her coat, she remembered the small white device on synthetic rope he had given her the evening before. "I got you one," he had said, awkwardly pulling out a piece of cardboard too large for his pocket. "Thanks" she had replied, trying to sound both genuine and interested. "What do I do with it?" "Wear it around your neck when you're travelling to and from work, and if anything happens or you feel threatened, just flick the switch and press the button." She had stared at it in disbelief, wondering whether anyone ever had the wherewithal in such scenarios actually to remember to use it. "Bye!" she shouted, slipping it around her neck. Even with her coat concealing it, she felt like an idiot. What if she knocked it and it went off at work or worse, on the tube? It would cause mayhem. And what if she forgot to take it off? Her new colleagues might think he'd made her wear a GPS tracker. "Are you off?" He ran down the stairs, arms outstretched. "Good luck today, darling." She tasted toothpaste as he kissed her, and he glanced down, smiling at the alarm hanging just above her waist. "Well done, you remembered." Seconds after stepping out of the house she slipped the alarm over her head, and ignoring the tugs of guilt, shoved it into her pocket. After all, she had fought to get this job, and she wanted to make a good impression. She couldn't risk it going off at work. Full of nervous anticipation, she got on the Underground and joined the rows of grey-faced commuters, staring blankly up at the oblong advertisements for travel insurance they had already read. * * * * * At the end of her third week, Sarah felt as if she was starting to settle into her new job. Faces were becoming familiar, she knew her phone extension by heart and had learned where the best places were for proximate sandwiches. The area didn't seem that bad after all. "Sarah?" She looked up from her desk, her eyebrows slightly raised. It was Maggie, one of the girls in Admin. She was dreadful with names, but felt sure she had got this one right. It was hard to forget Maggie with her plethora of blonde curls and piercing green eyes. She knew she was divorced, but only because Maggie took shameless delight in broadcasting the minutiae of her life to her co-workers. "A few of us are going out for some drinks after work on Friday night, and we were wondering whether you'd like to come?" Her voice was smoky and deep, with the faintest hint of Cockney, as though she had practiced for years to lose it completely. "I'd love to" she replied. "Where are we going?" "I'll email you later." Maggie winked and walked away, a glint of mischief in her eye as her manager appeared. It was going be a 'large one,' a term she had heard Maggie use one morning as she passed her on her way in, frozen and sucking on a cigarette. An hour later, the cold, damp air nagged at her face and hands as she traversed an unfamiliar and eerily deserted street, armed only with an address. She felt angry with herself that she hadn't finished that report earlier, but since the client had rung her at five minutes to six she had felt compelled to stay behind and finish it. She'd never heard of the street name scrawled on the yellow post-it note, which taunted her about her lack of local knowledge. Cursing herself for not having taken the mobile numbers of any of her new colleagues, she turned and glanced left and right looking for a sign to the station. The air was dense with fog, and her solitude in the dim light made her feel as if she were a small insect trapped in amber. There weren't any taxis she could flag down to ask for directions; not unusual for a Friday night, but the road was completely deserted. Failing to turn up was an embarrassment she would have to explain away on Monday, but she hoped it wouldn't preclude another invitation. She walked at a brusque pace, the only sound the clip-clop of her heels punctuating the night air in stiletto staccato. She stopped dead when she heard a man's voice shouting indeterminately, holding her breath so that she could listen more closely. There must be a pub somewhere near here, she thought, perhaps I can ask them? Shivering, she drew her coat lapels across her body, and hurried towards what she thought was the source of the noise. She stopped at an alleyway, her shadow casting a menacing figure against the empty boxes and bins stacked up on either side of the brickwork. "Stop!" she cried, "Leave him alone!" The buildings all around echoed her voice mockingly as she reacted to what she could see. Two figures leered over what looked like a bag at the bottom of the narrow path, but her instincts told her that her eyes were mistaken. At that precise moment something profoundly human took over her rational brain, and she cast aside all instincts of self-preservation. "Stop!" she shouted, louder this time, her voice unsteady as she ran towards them, clutching her handbag under her left arm. One of the black silhouettes at the end of the alley froze in mid-strike, like a cardboard-cut out. Sarah didn't get a good look at either of them, except that her last thought was how young they both looked. As he turned to confront her, his anger seemed to shift seamlessly onto his new target. "You stupid bitch!" he exclaimed, before landing his bejewelled fist on the side of her face with enough force to stall a train. She couldn't remember waking up, or sensing the gentle movement around her. She had no memory of the sensation of the cold, wet tarmac pressed against her cheek, and the smell, the awful steely odour of the alleyway, as if the city itself were sweating, pores clogged with filth and the smell of her own blood. But she recalled the wailing; the high-pitched, unrelenting squeal that didn't leave her ears even when she awoke to the stark brightness of a hospital. John. John was with her, squeezing her hand. Even through the blur of the lights she could see the turmoil in his face; both worry and "I told you so" fighting for recognition. "What happened?" Her mouth felt immobilised; the words weren't coming out as she intended. "Ssh. Don't try and talk yet, darling." A uniformed policeman entered the room and appeared close up in her peripheral vision. "We'll need to take a statement from you, madam, when you're ready." She squeezed John's hand back, hoping he would sense she needed reassurance. A stray bullet of a question bounced around in her head, but willing it to stop was an exercise in futility. Why didn't I just call the police? "You're a bit of a heroine, Sarah," the officer continued. "The man we found in the alleyway had been stabbed. If you hadn't triggered your rape alarm we might not have got to you both in time." "Rape alarm?" She whispered breathily. "But I didn't press the…" "Ssh," John persisted tenderly. "Get some rest." |
|
| The Button Queenmont@aol.com |
#3 of 23 |
| 1473 | |
| “Pretty girl. Pretty girl. Pretty girl. Pretty
girl. Pretty girl,” squawked Jazzy. “Clam up. That’s enough babble for one night,” I urged my well-spoken parakeet. “We need our beauty sleep. Call me ‘pretty girl’ tomorrow. Shut up!” Damn it all, where had I hidden my airplane-garnered stash of elusive earplugs? Not in the nightstand drawer. Not in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Not even in the kitchen’s gadget drawer. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, brought on by the flurry of activity scurrying from room to room, all thoughts of a peaceful sleep vanished. “C’est dommage!” TV’s middle of the night meager offerings turned me off so I pressed the off button. While I wished an inspiring read were beckoning, no book was in sight. The phone was. The illuminated digital clock readout blinked 2AM. But it was 2PM in Singapore. Perfect! Inevitable! My sister could be called at that hour. AJ (short for Amy Jane), my younger sister with a wise, old soul, was a Foreign Service Officer operating on behalf of the US in Singapore, her third overseas assignment. Named for Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women character, she suited her name – daring, stubborn, mischievous, and loving described her as they did the book’s Amy. She was a published writer too. “Button It Up Barney,” her funny children’s book hadn’t caught the eye of the buying public so she couldn’t retire from the service. With the advent of email, we spoke less frequently, but communicated more regularly. Thousands of miles physically separated us, but we were intrinsically bound by a strong family tradition, a weird sense of humor, and heaps of love. Depressing button 2, every autodial beep announced one of her number’s 15 digits. AJ’s chipper hello rewarded me after waiting for 8 long rings. Assuming my role as family drama queen, I ranted, “You’re my savior. Robbed of sleep I was going stir crazy!” AJ interrupted, “At your service, this knight in shining armor gallantly shields you from the rigor of spending a night alone.” Both of us laughed. I must have sounded pretty desperate. “While patience is a virtue, it isn’t my strong suit.” “You’re a genuine type A! Take care, I don’t want to travel half way around the world to nurse you back to health after a heart attack,” AJ teased. My life was a piece of cake with decadent chocolate frosting and a cherry on top compared to her life. I was a single, successful media buyer who led a hectic, semi-glamorous life in New York. But Americans representing their country overseas had become targets of an insidious enemy that morphed in many forms making detection and capture tough. Months ago, I learned from “60 Minutes” a plot to execute the US Ambassador and other embassy employees in Singapore had been fortunately foiled. Amy Jane never mentioned the incident until I did; she didn’t want me to fret. I didn’t need her permission to worry; I worried all the time. Overtly calm, internally I was a jumble of raw nerves not able to be numbed because I was “smoke-free.” I hadn’t been able to master her cogent advice, “Only worry about things you can influence or control. Embrace your life.” “Are the Gurkas sharp as ever?” I joked, but I was hoping AJ was still protected by the knife wielding, Government-hired armed force. “Yes, ‘the boys’ wave each time I enter and exit the compound,” she said with a detectable, smile in her voice. Deliberately changing the subject, AJ continued, “It’s been way too long Jo. Your status in the 100% club is in jeopardy.” Only three people were members in good standing. Most friends and family waited to catch up with AJ during home leave. Mickey, Stan and I were the only valiant voyagers who visited AJ in all her posts. They had already been to Singapore so I was the last in line to maintain my rank. Bitten by the travel bug when a college student, I had platinum status, globetrotting credentials - passport filled pages bearing stamps from countries in Europe, South America, and Asia. More cautious since 9/11, I stuck closer to home, not that I was guaranteed safe passage in my own city. But the idea of deliberately heading into harm’s way caused a red-blotchy rash to creep up my left arm and the rhythm section of a Latin band to beat in my chest. To avoid hyperventilating, I swung my head between my wobbling knees and took extended, deep breaths. My middle initial “C” stood for caution not courage. Closing the deal, AJ proffered, “Singapore is the perfect antidote for a New Yorker. It’s slower pace, sunny disposition, and miles of high-end stores will work more magic than your chiropractor’s manipulating fingers. I’ll throw in a long weekend in Bangkok and set-up an appointment with Navindar.” AJ made her case airtight when she mentioned going to the jeweler’s in Bangkok. Navindar manufactured magnificent emerald, sapphire and ruby rings, necklaces, bracelets and earrings for top US jewelry stores and the occasional, privileged, private client. “Does Raffles still seduce visitors with their original Singapore Sling?” I asked knowing I could do with a drink or two to neutralize my nerves once on the ground. AJ could read me like a book, “Don’t become unglued. You’ll love it here.” Before closing, we agreed on dates. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I promise to book my flight today.” What a ghastly expression! All I meant to do was reassure AJ. My panic attack was short-lived. A soothing, Asian-accented agent answered the phone after I plugged in my profiled information, “How can I assist you Ms. March?” Focused on finding a free ticket, I inquired, “How many miles are needed to book an award ticket?” “Just one moment. May I put you on hold?” Avoiding the inevitable stalemate, I gave my permission immediately. Without it we would have continued to go around in circles like Abbott and Costello’s famous “who’s on first” routine. “Ms. March, you are very fortunate. The number of miles required to fly to Singapore has been reduced to 40,000 until December 15th. Are you prepared to book now?” My mind said no; my voice said yes. My voice won the battle. On November 25th, only seven days later, I was to depart for Singapore. Fourteen days later, enshala (God willing), I was to board a plane headed for New York. God had another plan for me. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in Columbia Presbyterian Hospital recuperating from a nasty car accident. I don’t believe the Land Rover had any dents, but I had plenty! As I was crossing 81st Street, a driver too eager to turn right didn’t catch sight of me until it was too late. Splat, I was laid out across the pot-holed pavement unable to recover my body movement or my dignity. Helpful passers by called 911. Within minutes an ambulance carted my broken-boned body to the hospital. A team of emergency room doctors assessed the damage and doped me up more successfully than multiple Singapore Slings would have. A second team of orthopedic surgeons pieced me together. Two or three days passed before I called AJ. My speech, still slurred from pain medication, let her know something was wrong, very wrong. But I managed to inject a dose of levity, “On a shopping spree, I was literally stopped in my tracks. You must have been a naughty girl. Now there is no gift for AJ and no Jo going to Singapore.” Having held my emotions in check until then, a tsunami of sobs and moans flooded the 9th floor and almost burst AJ’s eardrums. Stunned into silence, it took AJ awhile to respond. “I’m broken hearted Jo. Will you be out by Christmas?” She paused to regain her composure, “Will I get to win the 100 yard dash for the first time?” “No and definitely no!” My competitive streak re-emerged, a clear recovery marker. “Jo March, this is a hell of a stunt to escape traveling to Singapore.” AJ knew it was far from a prank by my voice and from the doctors’ dire prognosis. My Taurean stubborn streak combined with my New York moxie would aid my recovery. I would walk again, especially with AJ in my corner. AJ’s entrance into my hospital room was remarkable. Decked out in redeemer regalia breastplate and all, my knight came to rescue me. Both of us laughed. An enveloping hug followed which made me feel safe. Then we plotted. AJ’s emergency leave allowed her to stay until the New Year. As soon thereafter as the doctors gave permission, I would be medevaced to Singapore to recuperate. Glad to be alive, I finally grasped AJ’s proposition, “Only worry about things you can influence or control. Embrace your life.” |
|
| The Button James E. Tate Jetate@sbcglobal.net |
#4 of 23 |
| 579 | |
| My heart beat wildly and I knew we’d never escape
the man with the shovel! “Watch out!” I shouted to my friend, Ursula, as we cringed on the button-shaped Golgotha hilltop. The fierce man moved closer and waved the shovel menacingly. I shot a glance behind for an escape route. Not the rocky cliff – to leap was sure death! I knew it was risky to break from our group while preparing for the Passover Feast. But visiting Golgotha was a must during our first trip to Jerusalem since the Crucifixion of Jesus. Our little caravan was closely-knit on the journey. Some rode donkeys, but most walked, eager to participate in the annual event. On our pilgrimage from Nazareth we traveled the same Galilean road Jesus had taken when only twelve. No doubt He’d been as wide-eyed as I on seeing Jerusalem, the famous city, shining with palaces and strong walls. Through Damascus Gate we saw a swarm of merchants lining the crowded streets. The Temple drew our attention like a magnet. Such an awesome sight, standing like a jewel, the heart of our Jewish nation! I saw tents springing up on the hillsides as we made ready for tomorrow’s springtime feast of the Passover, beginning at sundown, the 15th of Nisan. Ursula and I now knew we should have remained with our group, but how could we have known of this danger? But the immediate question facing us now is, can we escape this maniac? I could feel my heart pounding as I fumbled with the button on my tunic. The scruffy man swung the shovel from his shoulder. Would he attack us? A mass of tangled hair framed his drawn features. We watched, helplessly trapped. Just ahead of us, he stooped low, shoveling dirt into a hole. “What’s he doing?” Ursula whispered, fear showing in her eyes. “Sh-h! He must be the one they were talking about.” I said. “Who? When?” “Back at the tent. ‘The crazy one,’ they called him. He goes round filling holes all the time.” “I’m getting out of here!” she said, crouching behind me, ready to scurry away instantly. “He’s blocking the trail. We might reason with him. I think I’ll talk to him.” “No!” Panic filled Ursula’s voice. “You don’t know what he might do.” Standing there on windy Golgotha, I pulled my tunic close and asked, “Excuse me sir, is this where the cross of Jesus stood?” He didn’t answer. A strained expression twisted his face. I felt a sudden chill mixed with compassion as he fastened me with a stare. Trying to be brave, I softly I asked, “Why do you fill the holes?” “B-Because of Him,” his reluctant reply spoke volumes. “Him? I couldn’t help notice his red-rimmed eyes fill with tears. “Jesus, King of the Jews.” Feeling safer, I ventured, “It’s so sad he was crucified, but what about it compels you to fill these holes?” As he stood there weeping, he replied, “He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me.” The sad-faced man appeared to be in a state of shock as he leaned on the shovel debating whether to say more. “You see, I dug the hole for the cross!” With pity, I replied, “Oh, but when He died on that cross, He made it possible for the holes in our lives to be filled!” Shocked at my words, his mouth dropped. “What do you mean?” I answered, “Sir, we need to talk.” |
|
| The Button Gary R. Hoffman www.authorgaryhoffman.bravehost.com www.lulu.com/grhotra grhotra@yahoo.com |
#5 of 23 |
| 624 | |
| Margaret threw the pencil down on the table. She wadded
up the piece of paper and threw it as hard as she could towards the
wastebasket. She missed her target and winced because it felt as if she pulled
her shoulder out of its socket. “Damn it!” she yelled out loud, even
though she was by herself. She grabbed her right shoulder and rubbed it.
“That bastard!” she cried out again. She walked over to the phone sitting on a counter that divided her kitchen from the dining room. She dialed four numbers and hung up. She stood with her hands on her hips, while tapping her foot on the floor. She walked back to the sink and got a glass of water. She then returned to the phone and dialed the a complete number. “Hello. Ashley residence.” “Betty, this is Marge. He’s done it again.” “Oh, no. I thought he’d agreed to quit his drinking and running around.” “Oh, he did! That lasted for two nights!” Margaret started walking around her kitchen with her cordless phone. She was making circles around the island in the middle of the floor. “Do you know what he did last night?” “Well, no.” “He gets in about ten. Drunk as a skunk again. He then proceeds to unload a bunch of crap into the garage. Stuff I think he probably stole from work. Anyway, I can’t even get my car in there now! Then he has the gall to come in the house and try to have sex with me. I’m just so sick and tired of his drinking and staying out late. I even sat down tonight and started to write him a letter saying I was leaving him and wanted a divorce.” “So where’s the letter?” “Oh, I threw it away. Lord knows what he would do if he ever got a letter like that. He usually doesn’t seem to need a reason to beat on me. Give him a reason and who knows!” “Marge, you’ve got to get out of there. The man needs help.” “I know. I just don’t know what to do or where I’ll go.” “You could come here.” Marge kind of snorted. “Why? So he could come to your house and disrupt everything there. That would probably be the first place he would look.” There was a long pause between them. “Well, let me know if I can help,” Betty said. She had been through this conversation enough to know nothing she could say was going to help. “Yeah, well…, thanks for listening.” Marge hung up the phone. She turned out the lights and headed for the stairs. At least I can pretend to be asleep when he comes home. Once in bed, she tossed and turned. No position seemed to be comfortable. After about fifteen minutes, she heard a car pull into the driveway. She pictured the scene in her head. He was now fumbling around to find the right button on the remote to open the garage door. She then heard the garage door open and the car pull in. She heard the sound of the engine change as he put it into park. He was now trying to find the right button to close the door. After a few seconds, she heard the door close. Surprised he could do anything as drunk as he probably is. She kept listening for the sound of the engine to cut off. It kept running. Stupid ass! Probably passed out before he got the car shut off. At that rate, he’s going to kill himself, being in a closed up garage with the engine running. Margaret suddenly smiled to herself, rolled over, and slept better than she had in years. |
|
| The Button Henrick Glutonlumps princeofthegnomes@yahoo.com |
#6 of 23 |
| 124 | |
| As I watch her slowly disrobe That woman that I have been wed to for seventeen years, seventeen blissful, wonderful, exciting years- I still get chills. I still have the same passion. An overpowering, God I am so blessed, passion, as I experienced that very first fateful night… That single most erotic night of my life. But more significantly I am filled with a complete sense of overwhelming love and completeness. Then I lay eyes gently upon my very favorite body part, and allow them to softly, lovingly caress it. The most sensual part that afforded life- Life to our three strong handsome sons. With trembling fingers I reach out to touch it, the most beautiful body part of all… The belly button. |
|
| The Button sideline17 lazdom@ono.com |
#7 of 23 |
| 130 | |
| maybe if you pushed long enough past her warm wet resistance you would find the button that would make her dance for you wiggling those native movements she could spread herself gloriously full she says it’s hidden this virgin soft spot just escaping her reach and though she’s longing for you to touch it she’s grown weary of the search you think it a myth this feminine mystique when pleasure comes to you as easily as breathing and yet you still feel the urgency hoping she will feel spent and she’ll walk along the overpass without pausing once to wonder about the air and asphalt there and lock all the sharpness away from shaky hands the promise of one more day if you can keep pressing gently on maybe |
|
| The Button roger@cowboylogic.net |
#8 of 23 |
| 2387 | |
| My life had been destroyed. I was a ruthless bastard and my path to the top was littered with the shattered dreams of my opponents, but I didn't deserve this. That had been business. I had certainly curtailed the careers of a few, but I never ruined their complete lives... or at least to my knowledge I hadn't. Better said, I suppose, I never intended to ruin a life, just a dream. My demise had been planned and played out not only to remove me from a job, an industry or a livelihood, but from society or perhaps air breathing life itself. My nose had been rubbed in my crash as well. Candice was already married to my nemesis. I wonder if he has an inkling he is next. Looking back, I see how easy I was blind sided. I could see an attack coming from Jeb, I could see one coming from Candice, but I had not the imagination that would allow me to see them scarring my little daughter with this mess and turning the cannon that was society at both of us. They simply accused me of molesting my little girl. Of course she denied it and the medical report and investigation proved she was and always had been safe. ...But it didn't matter. "Successful Hotshot accused" had hit the paper, the TV news, the world found me guilty, the court didn't have to. My career, my home, my family, my friends, all were gone. I tried moving to New Mexico, but I was so well known I had no safe haven, and all my money was now gone. I had no resources to travel or rebuild. Today I sat on a park bench buried in 6 months worth of beard and hair growth, an old Mariners cap and a shabby overcoat. Beside me sat an old rice sack with all my possessions and on the other side sat Black Mac, a genius savant with a drinking problem. "Hey Mac, looks like snow. Think we can find a place to get out of the elements?" "Sure Popeye", His smile showed a set of pearly whites that seemed strangely out of place in this place and time. His black beard contrasted and framed them in a way that set his smile apart from the life he was living. Mac's nickname for me came from the can of spinach with the pull tab lid I shared with him when we first met. It was the last of a small bag of food given me by the friendship center. Mac led me through the grimy industrial neighborhood and down a flight of steps to a hidden basement entry of an old Produce packing plant. Old steel posters of vegetables still hung along the walls. Over the stairs was a shiny picture of a bunch of spinach. The door was not only locked, but chained. Quickly Mac pulled an empty 45 gallon drum used for trash, over to the door and tipped it over. Without a word he pointed at a window above the door. It was closed so I thought he was about to smash it. Much more nimble than I would expect, Mac scampered up onto the drum and pulled out a short, well worn pocket knife. With a very slight bite into the window-to-frame crack, a quick twist repeated a few times quickly gained finger grip and he pulled the window open to a 90 degree angle with little effort and no noise. He grabbed the Drain support to the side of the window and one leg after the other, he moved to a sitting position on the window ledge. "C'mon" He disappeared into the building. I clambered up onto the barrel a bit less elegantly than he had, and quickly followed his example. As I entered, he pointed at the window above me and the handle on the inside of the window frame. "Close it" I did, and then stepped onto the old steel desk that was planted against the door. "C'mere" I followed as Mac led me up three flights of stairs to an old processing oven. Beside which was stacked armloads of old pallet lumber. Opening the oven door, he displayed a very well used fireplace. From a steel cupboard he produced matches and a stack of news papers. I noticed the top paper in his stash because of my picture in a business suit. He added it to his process Pulling out a sheaf of paper, he crumpled a few and laid the bed for his fire. In moments we were warm and cozy on a couple of wooden crates Mac hardly ever said more than one or two words at a time so what happened next shocked me some. He pulled out a chess board and hand carved figures I couldn't identify. They were carved in formations I could understand for use, but they had no relationship to Kings, Queens, Naves or bishops I had ever seen. In a most polished diction, he asked, "Popeye, do you play? Would you like a match or two to pass the time?" In stunned silence I nodded and he set up the field. "What shade would you like?" I noted one set was natural and one was rubbed in dark oil. "I'll take Dark. Thanks" Three games went by with neither of us rushing. This man was obviously a master so I won none of them, but I did learn form each game and the resulting challenge was slightly more even, "Popeye, you gots game. Lemme ast you sumpin' man." I noticed that his polished diction had returned to" street". "Shoot." "If'n I could show you a place where you could build yo' life agin', would you build it diffn'?" I thought about this for a moment. "You bet your ass I would. Far too late, I learned that the reason I should have been successful was for my family. The life my little girl has to live now is my only real regret. All of the rest of us got what we deserve or at least will in the end." He moved a pawn and looked me in the eye. "Wha's the bes' thin' y'can do fo' y'girl now?" "Well I have had lots of time to think on that, and I suspect the best I can do for her is to stay as far from her as I can. Any connection with me from now on would just deepen the pain she has to live with." "You ready t'move to 'nother country" "I would in a heartbeat if I had the means." "C'mere" Mac stood and pulled a candle from the steel cupboard. He lit it with a sliver and motioned for me to follow. Night had fallen so the light of the fire in the oven and the candle were the only means to see. In the next room, Mac opened the steel door on a breaker panel and pointed at a small button by itself near the bottom. There was no marking and the button was a simple white half inch diameter cylinder. "When you ready, push dat." He headed back to the fire so I followed. After sitting down, he said "Yer turn." No amount of pleading could get me any more information and Mac went back to mostly single word comments. The games wore thin as my mind raced at the challenge put to me and the enigma sitting across the board from me. With my next captured king, I excused myself from the game and tried to get comfortable on the floor while Mac put the game away. After struggling for hours with racing questions in my mind, I slept. When I woke, Mac was gone and the room was lit with a bright daylight. Looking out a broken window I saw a skiff of snow. The shelter had indeed been more than I could have hoped for. Quickly I checked the next room, and the button was still unimposing, but for the fact it was there. I slipped out of the building to get down to the friendship center for the chance of a breakfast, and to search out Mac to see if I could get any more information. Scrambled eggs, coffee and toast were welcome, but no one had seen Mac at all today. I tried panhandling for a while, but the snow had made everyone hurry from point to point and I found I was avoided more than usual. Evening found me in worse shape than morning so I headed back for the sanctuary Mac had shown me, hoping to find him and a warm fire. No Mac, but the fixings for the fire were as we had left them. I was shocked to see my picture again on the top of the newspaper pile. How many copies had he gathered? A cursory look found no more and I was soon warm and dry in front of the handy oven fireplace. As darkness began to fall, my curiosity began to outweigh my fear of the unknown and I headed for the button. I stood in front of it until I could hardly see it for darkness and reached for it one last time. My hat was in my hands to give me as much light as I could get. I pushed it. Awareness began to seep in as the poke to my ribs was getting more and more uncomfortable. "Hey Popeye, wake up," "Stop it man, I'm awake dammit." I began opening my eyes to the bright white heat around me but slammed them closed again against the glare of a hot midday sun. Slowly I worked them to slits and soon was able to focus on the chuckling black man in a red tunic sitting over me on a small hillock. Welcome Popeye, to my home. There was no hint of street slang. I looked around now, but could not recognize where I was. The grass seemed glorious, but I could not identify any of the flora around me and even the grass blades were different having three edges instead of two. "Mac, Where are we? How did I get here?" "You pushed the button my friend. Look above you." I looked and noted that I was lying at the foot of what looked to be a tree trunk of utility pole with no branches. Gray in color, rough in texture as tree bark would be, but for a smooth patch and one small white button. "If you ever want to go back, remember this place." I looked up at the grinning Mac and noted he was holding a white tunic and some thronged sandals in front of him and I shot a glance down to find I was naked. He chuckled at this and my head snapped back to look at him in time to collect the garment around my ears. Standing quickly, I slipped it on like a tee shirt then sat again to lace on the sandals. While doing this, I noted my Mariners cap on the ground. I reached, picked it up and put it on. This defiantly helped with the sun. Mac broke out in a huge belly laugh that left him choking and gasping at the end. In indignation I planted my fists on my hips and glared at him, but he only laughed harder and pointed at me. "Look at your reflection Popeye." He was pointing at a small silver edged pond with cool, deep dark green water a few paces from where I fumed. The image was indeed funny, and through a couple of self conscious snorts I began laughing too. A Greek Mariner was chuckling back at me from my reflection. "Are we in Greece?" "You have come a bit farther than that my friend, welcome to the 5th planet in the solar system 51 Pegasi. The closest Humans have been able to come to seeing this place is a radio signal from what they call 51 Pegasi b, a large planet near our sun. We see it as the "Eye" of the sun, a black spot often seen when looking though a filter. We like to call this place Tera, nothing fancy like Xanadu or something you can't wrap your tongue around." "Wow." Mac grinned. "Am I in some science fiction dream here?" "Yep, but going forward, it is your life and it is by far more real than your last one, because you are going to deal with nature in a much more direct way here. Technology is isolated. You will live your life here a few centuries back in Earth terms. There is no media, no TV, no radio. If you want to gain information, you need to communicate directly or read simple hand written books." "Technology is here, no doubt, but it is controlled by the few and for those who have lived all their life here, these few are the local gods. Think the wizard of Oz here. Smoke and mirrors." I blinked a couple of times while this was settling in to my grey matter. "Aren't you describing a tyranny here? Isn't this a dictatorship?" Mac chuckled at this. "Before you get all liberal on me, try adding benevolent to your rant. Isn't it beginning to sound like most religions you know?" "The golden rule here, is "be good or else". Of course, that means you have to live with someone else's idea of what good is." My head was spinning now. "So this is an imposed utopia?" Mac stood up, still smiling and as he did his hands were full of equipment. "Popeye, turn around and look at that button. Press it now, or come over here and take these. You have some heavy boot camp to go through." I turned to look at the insignificant little button, then turned to Black Mac. "My name is Paul." "OK Popeye Paul", he handed me a long bow and quiver; "Let's get on with your training. Remember this little pool for later. This is your bathtub. Just upstream, that little creek is your kitchen sink." He headed for a grove of white trunked trees with glistening silver leaves quivering around low hanging fruit or nuts. I followed. |
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| The Button Cynthia Lynne Parker writerswarehouse@yahoo.com |
#9 of 23 |
| 1580 | |
| The lieutenant stood at full alert, her finger poised
for action. Should the worst befall their wary band, she at least was ready.
Footsteps overhead gave cause for much reflection, as those gathered far below could do little but wait to see who was coming, whether friend or foe. Nineteen days in isolation, defending the post from unseen enemies who threatened their very existence. The team had armed themselves and hunkered down to wait for the Captain’s return, with word of victory, defeat, or surrender. He’d gone above to get news of the battle that had raged above them, and left two teams behind to keep working, when at last the battle seemed over. The final order he’d given was to set up a defensive position and to hold their posts, come what may. There was no way to know yet which side won. These men and women were the last of the teams in the lower levels of the complex, and they were frightened. They were not skilled warriors, but technicians and mechanics, civilians who knew nothing of politics or war. Three years before they’d built the base, and begun to set up a colony. The final step was to get the mine into full operation, and then the settlers could be welcomed. Well ahead of schedule, they’d completed the task and were installing the last of the hardware when the news finally reached them. A coup back home, the international government set up ten years before was under attack from forces within. Zealots of the dissidents had infiltrated the system. They threatened to destroy the fragile balance. Acts of terror, had been stopped long ago, outlawed as acts of cowardice and ineffective, but were now the tactic of choice for this band. Millions of innocents were being killed in one attack after another. The news related each incident in horrific, graphic detail as if the world were bathed in the bloody trail of violence. Sad news to all, of course, but it had little to do with this outpost, surely it would end soon, one way or another. More reports started to reach them. The aeronautic facilities were under rebel control, and the defensive grids and military bases were the newest targets. Satellites were taken over or destroyed, cutting off contact with home. Months ago the warnings began to come over the radio that a new power controlled the world and would claim this base as a penal colony for enemies of their regime. Surrender or die came the order as the ships began to come, hard and fast. The Government that had sent them there also sent ships to come to their defense, but the teams would have to stave off the initial assault and hold their ground until their defenders could arrive. Their Captain took command, dividing the entire contingent into teams and set them to the task of defending the outpost until the military reinforcements could come. Lasers and rockets meant to defend against random natural disaster of rogue comets and asteroids that threatened were now turned on fellow humans. He was successful, until the reinforcements came. The enemy and their defenders were in the same vessels, undistinguishable from the ground. Fearful of damaging the wrong ships their leader could do little but watch in horror as they fired on each other. Four weeks of fighting in the heavens above their tiny rock, twenty ships battled furiously, and the Captain could only wait. The rugged hero came below and gave his final commands, telling them that only four ships remained and were approaching fast. No contact meant he couldn’t be sure which side had won the battle. They’d arrive within a day or two and the teams must hold the post. Six days passed without word. Finally the shaking of the ground as debris and wreckage fell had stopped. The lieutenant had subjected them to a week of endless drills. And in the quiet the constant supposition and scenarios had left them all on edge, resigned to whatever fate awaited them. As the alarm sounded and footsteps began to make the descent to their level tension had reached a fevered pitch. Resignation gave way to fear and panic. The lieutenant tried to give those around her a look of confidence, but knew their eyes were not on her, but on the winding stairwell that thumped with approaching footsteps. A dozen men at least were coming, judging by the deafening clunk of heels. . Her finger hovering over the button twitched. One push and the power would be severed. Without energy from the massive power systems the oxygen, the heaters, the light, and their lives would all fade to nothing. Could she kill them all? These men and women were her friends. She would rather they die at her hand than at the end of a bullet. Closer and closer the footsteps came, louder and louder. At last, they should be in view. The lieutenant craned her neck to look at the mass of faces pass the opening of the girders she was peeking through. None of them were familiar. Her heart began to get a sinking feeling. “Step there and identify yourselves! We have you surrounded!” Thankful her voice didn’t waver; she called out the order again. “Stop there! Or you will be shot!” The Captain’s voice rang out, “Stand down. I have returned.” Men and women from all around her rose from their concealed locations and began to gather in the central room, though the lieutenant held her position. The finger she had poised over the button was still ready to fall. She asked, “What news, Sir?” He stepped into the room ahead of those he brought down with him, and the Captain announced, “An agreement of surrender has been reached.” “Theirs or ours?” “Both. Earth was destroyed, and we are all that survived of the human race.” The lieutenant, as every member of the team, stared dumbfounded at the declaration he’d made so calmly. Her finger hovered another moment as she considered what she’d heard. These people were all that was left of humanity? Enemies who’d been the cause of the end and a ragtag crew sent to build a colony in space were the only humans left? If there were no hope of return to Earth, would it not be kinder to just end it for all of them now? She could let their entire race end with a simple push of a button. Enemy or not, they were kinsmen, and they were all that there was. Everyone would have to work together for the common good. As long as a few humans exist the race might one day grow again into something of what it was, wouldn’t it? They were in a lifeboat. This button would sink them. ‘Hope still exists,’ the lieutenant thought. She pulled her finger away from the button and bowed her head, to mourn for the part of humanity that was lost. Just then, a bullet was fired into her skull. With the last of her energy she looked at the Captain who stood facing her, the drawn gun still smoking from the heat of the firing of his pistol. “It was our surrender,” he explained. “Earth is theirs. I just couldn’t let you kill us all.” The lieutenant looked down at the button. She could not raise her arms. With the last effort and her last breath she leaned forward over the console. Voices called out, “No!” She fell into the panel and her forehead slammed into the button as she fell lifeless to the floor. The power shut down, the noise of the vents pumping oxygen stopped, the lights flickered and went out, and the temperature began to dip drastically. The blood from her wound froze almost instantly. Everyone tried to rush up the massive stairway, screaming in terror, knowing full well that they would not make it more than a few feet. The Captain turned the pistol on himself, tucking it under his chin. He fired the shot and within a second his body hit the floor just as the emergency lights came on. The cold of this tiny rock in space would become a tomb recording these final moments forever in the looks of panic frozen on each victim’s face. Anyone in the domed city above would also meet this end. The compliment of soldiers of the revolution waiting to take the inhabitants into custody would also fall in this final strike. Martyrs all, to a battle for power over their home world, each side losing men and women who believed in their side above all. This tiny rock in space was hoped to be a jumping off point to the rest of the worlds out there, and then was to be used as a penal colony. Instead it became an icy tomb. It would become a testament to the inevitable end of life, the folly of war, the search for and loss of power, and the human condition, good and bad. In time others would come, use the work of those who died, clean away the debris and remove the bodies that were captured in the icy grip of space. Haunted, perhaps, but the possibilities of this place would relegate this incident to merely a vague lesson, a tragedy, and the entire thing would eventually be forgotten. A moment reduced to a footnote in history, or perhaps, in time, a legend. |
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| The Button Eva Bell evabell@bgl.vsnl.net.in |
#10 of 23 |
| 2495 | |
| I was going on thirty three, and the natural urge to
settle down had begun to niggle. It had intensified since the day two grey
hairs became visible in my forelock which I so proudly sported. “Have I missed the bus?” I wondered, “Have I waited too long? Thirty three and never been kissed, while most of the girls I know are reveling in their roles of wife and mother.” It hadn’t mattered this far. I had a business to run. My father was a dealer in antique furniture. He had a vast collection of priceless pieces that sold well. Many times, I accompanied him to auctions all over the country, and watched him as he examined each piece to check if they were genuine antiques, before he could make a bid. He could tell the age of the wood and the designs that had worth. I learnt the secrets of becoming a good antique dealer. As I grew proficient in the job, Dad gave me more responsibilities, so he could take time off for his other work. Both my parents were artists. But my father had a business to run and could not pander to his artistic inclinations. They lived on an isolated farm, far from the din of the city. They were children of the ‘hippie’ generation. But while Dad had outgrown his youthful eccentricities, and settled down to being an astute businessman, Mother continued to live in her surreal world, surrounded by paints, brushes and canvases. When not painting, she was out in her vegetable garden tending and whispering to her plants. Hidden among those vegetable creepers, there was a modest crop of Cannabis too. When her paintings grew too many to store, Dad would organize an exhibition cum sale at her studio. An advertisement in the papers would bring Art lovers to her door. She was good with her landscapes. People bought them for their living rooms and offices. From time to time, some Art critic would give her a good review. Mother lived in a perpetual limbo of expectancy, waiting for the day when her paintings would be catapulted from her small studio to the finest galleries in the world, and Dad hoped it would happen. And then one day, I was turning the pages of a magazine. “Dad, look at this,” I yelled excitedly, “Isn’t this one of Mother’s paintings?” “How did it get into the magazine?” Dad wondered, “We should have been told about it.” “Wait till you hear what the critic has to say. He calls it the work of a genius – the subtle blending of colours, the three dimensional effect! He compares it to the Impressionist canvases – something like Renoir.” “Let me see,” Dad said, grabbing the magazine from me. He was smiling with happiness. “Can’t wait to tell your Mama she’s been finally recognized. But wait…..the name of the artist isn’t hers. He’s called Claude Nazareth.” “No,” I said, “Someone’s been stealing her work or reproducing it.” “I’ll just have to visit this gallery, and see who this rogue is,” he said, a determined set to his jaw. He looked through his records. Claude Nazareth’s name did not even figure in the list of buyers of Mama’s paintings. I was never to know if Dad really met up with this artist who had appropriated Mother’s paintings and made it his own. Late that night I heard that he was involved in an accident, and was in critical condition at a hospital. I rushed there only to be told he was dead. “We couldn’t save him. It was a nasty stab wound through his heart. The last words he said was ‘I found the truth.’ Does that mean anything?” Among his possessions that were handed to me was a shiny gold button. “It was clutched in the palm of his hand,” the doctor said. “Perhaps it may be of sentimental value to you.” I turned the button over and over. Could it have belonged to the man who killed him? Should I turn it over to the Police? But perhaps they had already been through his things and found it of no importance. We buried Dad in the corner of the farm. Mother would have it no other way. “We’ve been together since we were teens. I’ll have the consolation that he’s still here,” she said. I was afraid for her. Would the shock of his death unhinge here? Would it drive her more often to the Cannabis patch in her garden? Father had been the solid anchor of her life. No one could replace him in her heart. Now that I would have to run the business myself, I would not be able to give her all the attention she needed. “Don’t worry about me dear,” she said, “I’ll be fine. You have your work. Your father took so much pride in his business. I’m sure he has taught you well.” With Dad gone, I was engulfed in loneliness. It was about this time that I saw the two grey hairs on my head that got me all worried. “Goodness me!” I thought, “Will I have to remain an old maid all my life?” I had no other life apart from the business. No close friends, no lovers, no time for socializing. But now I wanted it all before it was too late. The investigations into my father’s murder had slowed down. There were no leads at all. As far as I knew, he had no enemies, though he had a large number of acquaintances in the Business world, from all over the country. But often as I thought of him, the name Claude Nazareth popped up. He had been on his way to accost the man. By now, this had become a popular name which appeared in the newspapers from time to time. There was an exhibition by the man in one of the larger galleries in town. I decided to go and see for myself. As I stepped in I knew. “Oh my God! He’s a thief,” I yelled. I felt my knees go wobbly as I dropped to the ground When I came to, several anxious faces were peering down at me. But the arms that cradled me and ran a moist handkerchief over my face, was the one I looked up at. “My dream come true!” I thought in that instant, “This is the man for me. How safe I feel in his arms!” I didn’t realize he was staring until he said, “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Let’s step out to the canteen and have a cup of coffee to revive you. Then perhaps you can continue your walk through the gallery.” I already felt better. “This is my lucky day,” I thought, “Prince Charming to my rescue!” “So what caused that fainting spell?” he asked, “Do you often do that in public places?” “No, this is the first time. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and this one was the last straw to break the camel’s back.” “What?” He seemed so solicitous of my wellbeing. “Come with me,” I said, as we went back into the gallery. “Look at that and that and that.” I pointed to several paintings. “They are all my mother’s paintings. The mediocre ones in between are probably the handiwork of this artist. You can tell the difference from a mile away” James Ambler, that was his name, looked incredulous. He must have doubted my sanity. “But haven’t you heard of the famous Claude Nazareth? Every one of the paintings is his. Why would such a famous artist claim a ‘nobody’s’ work as his own?” “She’s not a ‘nobody.’ They are probably stolen from my mother’s studio or bought at her sales over the years. I must get to the bottom of this.” “Wait Miss. Don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve already created a flutter with the fainting episodes,” he said. He took me to each picture at which I had pointed, and showed me the name of the artist in the corner. It said Claude Nazareth.” “My mum signs her name ‘Cindie.’ Looks like it has been painted over and signed with a flourish. I must meet the man.” I took out my camera to photograph the paintings that were suspect. I knew it belonged to Mother. “No,” said James, snatching it away, “Don’t you know photography is not permitted inside the gallery?” I couldn’t stop the tears of frustration. How I wish I could pound the truth out of that man! I sought out the curator and demanded to see the artist. “He never leaves his house. He’s a recluse. His exhibitions are always arranged by his agent. We have to respect his privacy.” “I must go and see my mother,” I said, walking out of the place. “Going already? We’ve just met,” James grumbled. “At least give me your telephone number so that I can call you sometime.” “You do that,” I answered as I rushed off. It was a very long drive to my mother’s farm. As usual, she was in her studio. Wiping her hands on her paint-spattered apron, she gave me a hug. “Good to see you girl. But what brought you here at this hour? Aren’t you supposed to be at the shop?” There was concern in her voice. “I just had the urge to see you Mother,” I bluffed. There was no use bothering her about my fears. I was very sure someone was making a lot of money on her paintings. I looked around the studio and tried not to show my chagrin. Gone were the landscapes and pictures she had painted all her life – quiet country lanes, cattle grazing in meadows. Her paintings always had a country flavour - pictures that conjured up the perfume of blossoms or the gurgling of brooks; something that could quieten agitated minds. Everything had changed since Dad’s death. Now her canvases were garish in colour – large blobs of paint splashed indifferently. The colours camouflaged the cries of a lonely heart. She saw me staring. “There are tears I cannot shed. This is the only way I can work at my grief, darling.” “Mother, what have you done with the rest of your paintings? Are they all sold?” I asked. “They are all safely put into storage until I’m in the mood to have another sale,” she said, pointing to a cupboard in the corner. I opened it and found it was nearly empty “All gone?” she gasped, “But who could have taken them? We’ve never had a single theft in all the years we’ve lived here. None of my paintings were insured. I never thought they were worth very much.” “Apart from your signature, do you have any other identifying feature which no one else would know about?” “Yes, my own special barcode – two wavy lines half an inch long in the right upper corner, blending into the paintings.” True to his word, James contacted me a few days later. “I’d like to know you better,” he said, and my heart did a little jig. And so began an incredibly beautiful interlude in my life. He was courteous, affectionate and very dependable. He took a keen interest in everything I did, and was very impressed by my business acumen. “If only I knew how invigorating love can be, I would not have waited so long,” I thought. James said he was a Sales manager for a leading pharmaceutical company. As such he had to travel for almost a fortnight every month. I hated his absences. I wanted him to be with me all the time. “Let’s get married,” I said, “Then you can give up your job and help me with my business.” He was fine about getting married, but not about quitting his job. “I’m not going to work for my wife. I don’t want to end up a harassed husband. I would have no place to run.” He was laughing when I almost threw a fit. But after a few months, he gave into my wishes. My mother hadn’t met James as yet, though I had told her all about him. She was happy for me. “You deserve some happiness dear. You’ve been carrying a heavy burden since your dad expired. Now James will be there to share it.” But when they finally met, I knew from Mother’s expression that she was not happy. She called me aside. “Marry him if you must. But don’t take him into the business as yet. There’s something furtive about him. I get very bad vibes.” I laughed it off as Mother’s eccentricities. Life was a dream. I blossomed afresh in his love. He was so considerate, and I knew he loved me dearly. Months later, James went out of station to see his old parents. A rat had somehow sneaked into our bedroom through an open window, and chewed up a corner of James’ suitcase that had been pushed under our bed. Anxious to see if it had damaged any of the contents, I pulled it out. I knew where he had kept the key. So I opened it and overturned the contents. At the bottom was a heavy navy blue coat with golden buttons. But one of them was missing. “The missing button!” I thought, “I must have it somewhere.” An icy hand had slowly begun to clutch at my heart. I delved into the pockets. In an inner pocket properly zipped up, was a brochure with the pictures from the gallery where I had met him. Against each was marked the price at which they were sold. There was a bank book too, in the name of Claude Nazareth. The money entered in the book was a small fortune. I quickly searched for the single button which was in my dying father’s hand, and compared it to the ones on James’ coat. It matched the others. Hastily, I thrust the bag and all the evidence in a bag, and got into my car. I had barely gone a few yards when it careened all over the place. The brakes had been tampered with. I jumped out and hailed a passing car. “Please drive me to the police station,” I begged. James my husband was a thief and murderer. Now all he had to do was get rid of me, and he would come into a lot of wealth. He had fiddled with my car hoping I’d have an accident. “I’m not going home till James is in custody,” I told the Inspector, I’m too scared.” I could not leave Mother behind. We took the first available flight out of the city to lie low for a while. I heard that James returned with a swagger in his step. He walked right into the arms of the Law. “So she had the missing button after all,” he cursed aloud. |
|
| The Button Catherine Rose Davis catherinerosedavis@yahoo.co.uk |
#11 of 23 |
| 542 | |
| The two men sit side by side. Only their eyes move.
They look at their dim reflections in the shiny floor. They look at the white
wall. Mostly they look at the phone. They do not look at the centre of the
control panel. The man on the right bites his top lip. He grips his gun so his knuckles are white. The man on the left slouches slightly. He rests his hands and gun on his lap. Occasionally he glances to the right. The sound of breathing is like a slow clock counting down. The man on the left opens his mouth then shuts it. The man on the right faces the wall. His eyes are open very wide. “Could you do it though?” says the man on the left. The man on the right jerks his head forwards then straightens. He moves his teeth inwards. There are drops of blood on his top lip. “If the phone rings three times, I mean,” says the man on the left. “Would you…” he nods towards the control panel. The man on the right stares at the wall. “They made it sound easy, didn’t they?” says the man on the left. “Just press…” He slouches down further in his chair. “But people,” he says, “I mean they’re actually real people. Not like us but…” He strokes the barrel of his gun with his thumb. The man on the right looks at the phone. His eyes are narrow and his forehead is creased. The sound of breathing is like a slow clock counting down. “My girlfriend’s pregnant,” says the man on the left. He smiles lopsidedly, showing half his teeth. The man on the right shuts his eyes. “Amazing, isn’t it?” says the man on the left. “I can make life just like that and I can…” He turns his head almost in the direction of the control panel. The man on the right opens his eyes. He bites his top lip. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” says the man on the left. “My girlfriend. She thinks I’m at training camp. She doesn’t know…what could happen.” He pulls his legs in so his feet are under the chair. He bends his neck back so he is looking at the ceiling. It is the same white as the wall. The sound of breathing is like a slow clock counting down. “It won’t happen, will it?” says the man on the left. His gun knocks slightly on his knees as his hands shake. “The phone won’t ring.” The man on the right looks at the phone. He presses his lips together. “I mean, there are babies, children. They can’t…They’re innocent,” says the man on the left. The man on the right loosens then tightens his grip on his gun. “Could you do it?” says the man on the left. “I don’t know if…One press and…” The man on the right stands and turns towards the man on the left. He lifts his gun. His finger is on the trigger. “Hey, hey,” says the man on the left, “I didn’t mean…”I’d do it…I’d do it… I…” The phone rings. The phone rings. The phone rings. The sound of breathing is like a slow clock counting down. |
|
| The Button Ian Foss ian.foss69@tiscali.co.uk |
#12 of 23 |
| 699 | |
| “Mummy, what’s this button for” asked
the little girl, pointing to a button with a bell on it. The little girl’s mother glanced in her direction. “Oh, don't press that button darling, it’s not allowed” she warned. A quizzical look appeared on the little girls face. “But why is it not allowed” she enquired. “Because darling” her mother explained “The lift will suddenly stop, and the monster that lives inside of the lift will get very cross and eat you up when you get out of the lift” The little girl thought long and hard about what her mother had just said, then unprompted started to laugh uncontrollably. “Don't be silly mummy; everyone knows that there are no such things as monsters” The little girl’s mother faked a cross expression and pointed angrily at the speaker grille next to the bank of lift buttons. “If you press this button, the monster will speak to you through this” she growled. “Also, the monster will be very grumpy because he hates being disturbed while he is sleeping” Not certain as to if her mummy was telling the truth or not, the little girl moved away slightly and held tightly to her hand. “Where is the lift going mummy?” she enquired. Her mother turned to her and said “To the thirteenth floor darling, I need to find a dress to wear at Aunty Sarah’s birthday party next week” “Aww mummy” she wailed “that’s boring; I want to go to the toy shop” Her mother controlled her rising levels of impatience and lent down to her daughter. “We can go to the toy shop, as soon as I have found a dress” she promised. The thought of being dragged around a shop, looking at lots of boring grown up stuff, did not appeal to the little girl in the slightest. She crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip in protest. Life was so unfair she thought. At this point, a mischievous grin crossed her face. While her mother was not looking, she turned towards the button panel and studied the buttons. She saw the pretty one with a picture of a bell on it. Before her mother had a chance to stop her, she reached out a tiny finger and pressed it. “No” screamed her mother, but it was too late. “Oh you naughty girl, I told you not to touch that, now the ugly monster is going to eat you” The eerie shriek of the alarm filled the tight confines of the lift and made the little girl jump with fright. Her mothers face was turning a delicate shade of scarlet, and thoughts of wanting to curl up on the floor and die were crossing her mind. Shortly thereafter, a gruff voice barked from the speaker grille. “Who has just pushed the alarm button” growled the voice menacingly “Do you know that it is a serious offence to press the alarm button without a good reason” Her mother started apologizing profusely for her daughters outrageous actions. “I'm very sorry” she said “My five year old daughter pressed it by mistake” There was a silent pause, followed by incessant murmuring's. The mother stared angrily at her daughter. “See what you've done, you've woken the monster and now he is going to eat you up, as soon as we get out of the lift” Barely able to control herself, the little girl collapsed into fits of laughter. “No he won't mummy, he’s not real” Within a few seconds of the alarm being silenced, the lift began to ascend once more towards the thirteenth floor. A delicate ping filled the air as the lift reached its destination. Slowly the doors parted and the lights from the shop floor poured in. Feeling triumphant, the little girl proudly proclaimed “See mummy, I told you there was no monster” Then without warning, a big, fat, hairy and extremely ugly monster filled the gap in the doors and stared at the little girl. He reached out a massive arm and grabbed hold of her and swallowed her whole. Her mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I told you not to push the button” she thought. |
|
| The Button Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#13 of 23 |
| 2053 | |
| The attic was cold. But then everything in Maine is
cold in December. Cold and damp. The air that blows from somewhere out in the
Atlantic and blusters across Casco Bay has a way of penetrating the skin and
settling in upon the bones where it lingers for days and makes you think you'll
never be warm again. Never. Not ever. He wouldn't have gone to the attic that afternoon if he'd had his way about it, and neither would he have let his sister tag along. Not if it was up to him. But it wasn't up to him. Because if it were, he would have been out playing hockey with the guys instead of | |