| 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 |
"Breakdown" (the fifty-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Breakdown" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Jan 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Breakdown By Catherine Rose Davis catherinerosedavis@yahoo.co.uk (Entry #15) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The car stopped somewhere between
Cairns and Alice Springs. “You didn’t put enough petrol in,” I said. Nick pulled the key out of the ignition. “The tank was full, Jane,” he said. I shrugged and got my compact mirror out of my handbag. Sweat and foundation had melted together so my face appeared to be sliding away. I took a packet of wet wipes from the glove compartment. “What are you gonna do about it?” I said as I wiped my face. Nick got out and slammed the door. The car shuddered. “Wet wipes are for babies,” he said through the open window. I threw the wet wipe on the floor and turned my face towards the dusty fields. A kangaroo watched as it chewed on grey-brown bush. A joey’s feet poked out from its pouch. The bonnet screeched as Nick opened it. The air tasted sour with petrol. I reached for my water bottle from the backseat. The plastic was hot and the water felt like morning sickness in my mouth. I got out. A fly landed on my face and crawled towards my mouth. “Want some water?” I said. Nick took the bottle and drank. “That tastes foul,” he said. “Yeah,” I said. “Do you think I should try unscrewing this bit?” said Nick. “How should I know?” I said. Nick wiped his oily hands on his T-shirt. “I was asking your advice,” he said. He glanced at my stomach then looked back to the engine. “Sometimes we need to make decisions together.” I walked towards the back of the car, kicking up sand the colour of dried blood. “Some things,” Nick said, “affect both of us.” I stopped and turned to face him. I pinched my arm. “It’s my body,” I said. Nick shut the bonnet. “It wasn’t just your body,” he said. I sat by the side of the road and pulled my knees up to my chest. “It was still part of me,” I said. “It wasn’t a separate thing.” Nick walked closer so he was standing over me. “It was mine,” he said. I drew circles in the sand with my finger. It felt gritty under my nail. I pressed my teeth into my tongue until I tasted salt and moved my head from side to side. Nick stepped back and leaned against the car. He wiped his arm over his eyes. I clenched my fists so my nails dug into my palms. “Maybe one day we could,” I said. Nick walked to the front of the car. He opened the bonnet then shut it. “There was a roadhouse a few miles back,” he said. “I could walk there and ask for help.” “In this heat?” I said. “It’s cooler now,” said Nick. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. I stood up. “We could work it out together,” I said. I went to open the bonnet. Nick shook his head. “You can’t fix it,” he said. “You don’t know how.” I watched him walk away until all I could see was the endless, empty road. |
| Breakdown By Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net (Entry #21) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Annie Tucker was cruising along US-1
in the no-man’s land between Jacksonville and Daytona Beach, Florida. Her
ML430 cruised effortlessly at 75 MPH with the sunroof open and Tom Petty
blasting on the stereo. She loved her new Mercedes and all its toys. She
watched the GPS navigation display on the dashboard – the arrow pointing
south, showing she was about ten miles from St. Augustine, the country’s
oldest city. It was past midnight. She hoped to make Daytona Beach and find a hotel with a vacancy. As Tom Petty stopped singing about an American Girl and Bruce Springsteen began belting out Thunder Road, the GPS blinked off. She just had time to wonder what was wrong when the lights flickered on and off several times, then stopped completely, along with Bruce. “Shit!” she screamed as she pulled off the road. She hit the emergency flashers. Nothing. “Shit!” she yelled again. She grabbed her cell phone and flipped open the cover. No Service. “Dammit!” She turned off the engine and got out, walking around to the shoulder and away from the car, hoping to get at least one bar, but there was nothing. The only thing she could do, she decided, was to make it to the next town without lights and call for service in the morning. She got back in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. “Oh, God, no,” she whispered, trying again. Nothing. It was completely dead. She was trying the cell phone again when she saw a headlight in her mirror. She hopped out and stood behind her car waving her arms in the moonlight. When it got a little closer, she heard the roar of the engine just as she realized it was only a single headlight. She didn’t have to think long about an encounter with some biker out on a dark highway. She got back in and hit the door lock button – nothing happened. She reached around and hit the manual lock just as the motorcycle pulled up behind her. She watched in the mirror as a man got off the bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, just a bandana wrapped around his bald head. He looked as big as a mountain as he approached her from the driver’s side. “Hey, lady, got a problem?” “No. I’m fine. Thanks” He pulled off dark glasses and looked at her with smiling, yet cold, eyes. He said, “I thought I saw you waving.” “No, just stretching my legs for a minute. I’m fine. Thanks, anyway.” She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. The man was huge, his muscular torso straining at the black t-shirt under the leather vest. The vest covered with patches and pins, a silver cross dangling from his right ear. “Lady, if you’re broke down, I’d be happy to give you a ride,” he said, “no helmet law in Florida. Just hop on back and I’ll take care of you. There’s a little roadhouse up the highway a bit. You make a call; I’ll buy you a beer. The name’s Jax.” “No, really, I’m fine. Just resting a minute and I’ll be on my way.” She held up her cell phone. “I just stopped to call my boyfriend. He lives close by.” “Yeah, whatever. Not many people take this road at night with the Interstate so close, but if you say you’re okay, I’ll be scootin’ down the road. You change your mind, I’ll be at the bar, about two miles down on the left.” With that, he turned and walked back toward his motorcycle. Annie gave a yelp as he slapped the side of her car. When he reached his bike, he hiked one leg over and put his sunglasses back on. With a push of the starter, the bike roared to life. As he passed, he tossed a casual wave with this left hand and she could see a patch on the back of this vest – Southern Cruisers. A few seconds later, his taillight disappeared over the rise. Annie realized she had been holding her breath as she let out a sigh. This was followed by fear as she remembered she was still in the same predicament. Getting out of the car, she tried the phone again – nothing. She thought briefly about walking somewhere. But where? There wasn’t likely to be cell service this far from the interstate until she got close to St. Augustine. She hadn’t passed anything since a crossroads about five miles back. Walking to the bar didn’t seem any smarter than getting on that bike. No choice but to wait for another car. The truckers all stuck to I75 off somewhere to the west. Why the hell did she decide to take ‘the scenic route?’ About fifteen minutes later, she saw the lights of a car coming from behind her. She waited until it got closer. It was definitely a car with one person in it, so she stepped out into the road again and waved. As the car came to a stop behind her, she saw it was a man in an old Volvo. “Miss, are you having a problem?” the man asked as he came around the front of his car. “Yes, please. My car died and my cell phone won’t work. I need to call for service or get a tow truck.” The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it briefly. “I’m not getting service either. I can give you a lift into St. Augustine, if that will help. My name’s Chuck.” he said, smiling pleasantly. She thought for only a second, what choice did she have? The man was slim with a neat haircut, wearing a sports-coat over a dress shirt and jeans. He stood back a respectful distance, letting her decide. “Thank you very much. Let me grab my purse and lock up.” She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She got her purse off of the floorboard. She was just about to reach for the key when she heard the man’s cell phone ring. She started to turn back toward him and say, “Hey, I thought you said –“ She didn’t get any further as the man clubbed her under the chin with his fist. She dropped her purse as her head banged back into the door’s window. “No. Please. I just –“ “Shut-up lady.” The man’s hand clamped over her mouth and forced her back against the door. “Not a word.” He flipped open his phone, “Yeah?” Yeah, I’m on the way, but I got sidetracked.” He leered at her. “I stopped for a little package I think you’ll like. We’re going to have us some fun tonight. I’ll be there in about a half hour.” He flipped the phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. Then he brought his hand up around her throat while he let go of her mouth with the other one. “We can do this easy or hard. We walk back and get in my car. I’ll wrap a little duct tape around your wrists and you can ride in the front. Or I can truss you up like a turkey and stuff you in the trunk. Your call.” “Wh-where are you taking me?” “We’re going to visit some friends of mine. They’re going to love you. We’ll all have a real good time.” “I’ll go quiet. Please don’t put me in the trunk. Let me get my purse.” “That’s a good girl. Nice and easy, grab it and let’s go.” She bent down to get her purse. As she started to stand up, she straightened her knees with all the force she could and sprang at the man. He was caught off guard, and stumbled back a step. It was enough for her to swing the purse with all her might and slam it into the side of his head. Before he could react, she was around the car door, running up the side of the road. She hadn’t gone far when she felt him catch up with her. He grabbed the back of her neck and shoved forward, causing her to lose her balance and fall. Her knees and palms were scraped and bloody as she tried to rise. Before she could get up, he had her by the back of the head and slammed her forehead down. “Well, missy, I guess you’ll be riding in the trunk after all.” He slammed her head into the ground again. She couldn’t hear anything as first a buzz, then a roar sounded in her head. She felt her body rise as he lifted her to her feet and started walking her back with a grip on her neck and arm. “Don’t say anything or I’ll snap your neck.” She realized then that she could hear and the roaring was real. She tried to turn her head, but he had her in a vise-like grip and propelled her forward as the roar got louder. As they neared his car, a dozen motorcycles came thundering up and stopped, surrounding them and both cars. She thought her nightmare would never end as the engines shut down and they got off their Harleys. Were these bikers Chuck’s ‘friends’, or was she about going from bad to worse? The huge, bald brute that had stopped before got off his bike and walked over. “Lady, you don’t look so good. Is this the boyfriend you was talking about?” “That’s right, I’m her boyfriend,” said Chuck, “We’re just having a little spat. No problem. Everything’s okay. I’m going to take her back home so we can kiss and make up. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” The man nodded her head with the grip on her neck. One of the other bikers, a small grizzly haired man with more grey than black in his mane, walked over with her purse. “Found this over yonder,” he said, handing it to the one called Jax. Opening it up, Jax pulled out her wallet and looked at her license. “What’s your girlfriends name, Sport?” he asked and grinned at Chuck, who was holding Annie by the neck and arm. “Look guys, you don’t understand. This isn’t any of your business. If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to take my girlfriend home.” the man said and started toward his car again. Jax glanced right and four bikers spread out between the Volvo and Chuck. He stopped and turned back. “No. You don’t understand,” said Jax, “we ride this highway. We’re sorta like the sheriffs around here, and this looks like a damsel in distress. Don’t it boys?” Some of the bikers laughed – some just stared, a cold smile on their faces. Annie began crying. She hadn’t cried yet, but now she was being fought over by a maniac and a gang of bikers. Jax looked to his left, “Doc, take the lady back to her car and see what you can do with her. “No, please. Can’t you all just leave me alone?” The one called Doc, grabbed a bag off his bike and started toward Annie and her captor. Doc was short with a huge gut. His hair was long, but bald on top. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and looked like a demented Ben Franklin. As he approached the pair, Chuck said, “Now, look-“ That was all he got out. Doc shifted his bag over his left shoulder and shot out with a straight right arm, catching the man in the neck. She felt both hands leave her body as the man stumbled backwards, a gurgling sound coming from him. In almost the same motion, Doc’s right arm cradled her shoulders and began gently moving her toward her car. As they got to her passenger side, he set her in the seat and took the bag off his shoulder. “Settle down, girlie. I really am a doctor. Was anyway. Forty-Third Medical Group. Got my training a long time ago in a little paradise in Southeast Asia. All those boys are Vets and they’ll fix your ‘boyfriend.’” He began taking gauze and antiseptic out of his bag and handed her a tissue, “Clean up your face and quit blubbering. We ain’t gonna hurt you.” “He’s not my boyfriend, he- “She jerked as she heard a howl like a wounded animal. “Easy,” said Doc, as he began cleaning dirt and blood from her scraped knees. “That’s just the boys educatin’ that feller. We knew he weren’t your boyfriend. Jax got to the tavern, said there was a lady broke down back a piece and got a few of us together to come see if we could help.” She heard her driver’s door open and someone reached in and popped the hood. She looked around and saw two more of the bikers under her hood with flashlights. The noises from the Volvo had stopped. Doc finished cleaning and bandaging her wounds and helped her back up. He held her elbow gently and walked with her back toward the Volvo. Jax was standing in front of it looking at the car. “That’s good enough, boys. The State Patrol will come along after while and take care of our friend here.” She looked at the car and saw Chuck stretched out on top, his clothes stripped to his underwear and his body duct-taped to the hood. His head thrashed from side to side trying to scream through the tape across his mouth. Just then, she heard her engine turn over and start. The two bikers who were looking under the hood walked back toward Annie. “Had a bare wire in your battery cable. Shorted out the ‘lectric system. We wrapped a little duct-tape around that, too. Should get you by ‘til you can get service.” The one talking looked at the Volvo and grinned. “Duct-tape, good for just ‘bout anything.” This time, she joined the laughter, the adrenaline draining from her body. “Well,” said Jax, handing her purse back, “we got your car started and Doc’s patched you up. I guess you’re good to go. We need to get outta here before the law turns up. They might have an objection to the way we handled that clown back there.” She took a card out of her purse and handed it to Jax. “If the police ask anything about what happened here, you have them call me. But before I go, I owe you an apology. How about we run down to that roadhouse you mentioned and I’ll by a couple of rounds of beers?” “You hear that boys? Saddle up, ladies buying!” With even more noise than before, the bikers all jumped on their bikes, revved the throttles, and roared south back down the highway. Annie got in and followed at a slower pace, vowing never to travel off the Interstate again. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place tie: #15, #21 Third place: #19 Fourth place tie: #4, #29 Sixth place: #20 Others receiving votes: #3, #10, #16, #18, #31 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Breakdown vsanders@twcny.rr.com |
#1 of 30 |
| 24 | |
| Silver shards scrape my shattered heart with every weepy sob "Tell me," I implore "How can life continue on when my child is gone?" |
|
| Breakdown Charissa Struble littlemissdogooder@swbell.net |
#2 of 30 |
| 97 | |
| Swollen pride Hides broken heart Time impatient Rips us apart Fading quickly A damn good thing Mourn our choices And all they bring Listen carefully Speak no more All is silent When you close the door Anger moves us Sadness shames Love forgets That we're to blame Moving closer To what feels right Fighting darkness While cursing light We embrace the familiar And reject the unknown Never finding the courage To be all alone Long lost memories Drifting away Photographic innocence Shows happier days A careless whisper A thoughtless embrace An image immortalized Without showing its face |
|
| Breakdown Charles S. Bretz Coachcsb626@sbcglobal.net |
#3 of 30 | |
| 2130 | ||
| I sat there on my porch, drinking my last cold beer,
wondering if the world was as cruel to other people as it was to me. The smoke
from the fire I had set in the grill was making my eyes tear, the type of tears
that make your eyes all bloodshot and dry. My mother used to ask me if I was on
drugs when my eyes looked like that. Well the hell with her and all other women
too. My God, I hate women. My ex-wife, I repeat my ex-wife was just like my mother. I’m kind of glad she left me. All she did night and day was nag, saying “I couldn’t do this and I couldn’t do that”. “Why don’t you go out and do something about that ragweed you call a yard.” “That’s not ragweed, that’s my garden.” I always wanted to finish that with a “bitch” or something to that effect but I never could work up the guts. “A garden! That’s no garden! What an idiot you are! You couldn’t grow a boil on your own ass, let alone grow a garden. You’re good for nothing.” I hated her but she was right I couldn’t grow anything in that… if I really did try. Why is it that the neighbors to either side of me can grow such nice gardens and such beautiful tomatoes? Look at mine; I can’t grow shit in that vegetable graveyard. It drives me crazy. I awoke in the night, sweat running off my face like dew dripping from leaves. Tomato leaves. I was sinking, sinking fast, my heels first then up to my knees. Plants getting larger and larger. I just kept going down. I was up to my neck Just my head sticking out of the ground. I looked like a pumpkin in a field of leaves, just waiting to be picked or smashed to pieces by some deviate neighbor kid. I hate those kids. I can’t scream, all I can do is wait. Wait for what? Death maybe. Visiting my mother at Chapel Hill Cemetery is something I do every year about this time. Looking around the place, it is so beautiful. Well kept, nicely mowed, flowers, etc. It’s kind of crazy if you think about it. Our dead are taken better care of now then when they were alive. Is that all I think about, death and that damn garden? What a beautiful cemetery my mother chose to be buried in. Why do people prepare for death? They spend their whole lives preparing for death. Why not just live life and then die. The end. Look who’s talking, all I do is live for those damn plants and they’re already dead. I wonder who the caretaker is around here. These plants are beautiful; the grass is so green and full of life. It’s probably all these… dead bodies… strewn around here. “Huh!” I hate to laugh but I have to because I just had a very morbid thought, maybe I’ll kill a neighbor kid and bury it in my garden. That would kill two birds with one stone. “Hah! That’s funny!” I have to leave this place. I am getting a very bad chill down my spine, the kind mother used to say was someone standing on your soul or a spirit passing through you. I don’t like it. I had to keep thinking about all those dead bodies being wasted here. I’ve got to go home before I do something stupid. But all those bodies, they wouldn’t miss one. No, that’s crazy, you aren’t a grave robber, you’re a…”good for nothing”. I hate that voice, why can’t she leave me alone. My head hurts, to much to think about. My head is spinning like a tornado with bits and pieces of the world swirling around inside. The only way out of this spinning torture is to find the eye…, the eye…, the human eye…, maybe just a piece of one, or an arm or maybe a leg. I’ll settle for an ear. I have to; the pain in my head is too much. I can’t take much more. They are calling me. “Take me”. “No!” “Take me, you good for nothing”. “Fuck off”. “Come on just one of us”. “You show her, who’s the best damn gardener”. “I’M NOT LISTENING”. “Come on show her”. “Show her…” “Show…” “Sh…” What a nightmare! Can’t believe I fell asleep with my clothes on last night. Last time I did that I had too much to drink at my sister’s wedding. What’s by my feet? Yuck, it feels like cracker crumbs. Holy shit, its dirt. What did I do? Did I fall asleep with my shoes on? No, please! It can’t be! I didn’t…! Oh Christ, don’t let it be! There it was slumped in the corner, a half decomposed mass of fleshy covered bones. There are maggots crawling in and out of the empty eye sockets and that black tooth grin. Stop smiling at me. You look like your happy I took you from your bed of warm earth. Those eyes are so dark and empty. They just stare. Looking and looking, as if they’re passing judgment on me. Those eyes keep staring. It just lays there, no words come out, but I still here you. “Get it over with or take me back, you good for nothing” I swear that was my wife’s horrid voice coming from the body. I work like I’m possessed. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop this craziness. “Just bury me and then forget you ever saw me”, mister rotting corpse said. “Shut up.” It’s too horrible to think about, but I still can’t stop my hands from digging the human fertilizer pit. With great fear and anticipation, I said “done”. “Not yet you boob, Put me in the hole and hurry before someone sees”, the deep growling voice says. “Maybe those neighbor brats saw something. If they did you know you’ll have to kill the little fuckers”, it snapped. “No, everything’s fine, I got it done in time. No one saw, I think.” Why am I talking to a dead body? If someone saw me they would lock me up and throw away the key. People would talk about the crazy guy that used to live down the street. You know the guy who would talk to corpses, like they were his only friends. What a loser. It’s been two months and it feels like just yesterday I performed that ghastly feat. I haven’t been out there since that morbid day. I’m afraid to go out there. I am afraid of the truth that lies in the weeds waiting to grab my soul. I’m not even sure if it really happened. Maybe it was just a bad dream. I think I’m going crazy. I’m afraid to leave the house. If it is real, I might be taken away to jail or an asylum, or maybe it’s out there waiting for me to use me in some perverse way as pay back for the terrible things I did to it. Oh Christ, please make it all go away! Oh shit! What was that? The door bell! It scared the piss out of me. I just dropped my beer in my lap. I can feel the beer soaking into my underwear. “Hi neighbor.” The fat man from next door, the one with the brat kids said. “Hi.” I said. I almost said, what the fuck do you want. “I was looking over the fence…he said” Nosy motherfucker bounced around in my head. “…the other day and noticed your garden.” Oh crap, he knows. I’m gonna have to make him disappear, then they’ll all be looking for him and they’ll track it back to me. What to do, what to do? “Well I don’t want to seem out of place but do you mind if I steal a few of those tomatoes”, he said kind of pushy like. “They are very beautiful; never saw nothin’ that looked so good.” “No!” I said bluntly like a selfish child, fatso wants to play with my Rock’m Sock’m Robots. Go home fat boy and leave me alone. “I mean not yet, they aren’t ready yet. Sorry.” “They look like they’re ready to me. Come on I’ll only take one.” “I said, no.”, Slamming the door in his face. Why did I do that? Now, he’s going to go back there and take one when I’m not looking. What should I do? I know I’ll go pick all the fruit from that garden from hell and that way fatso can’t take any. They’re mine anyways, no one else’s. All mine to do with what I want. I grew them. Well, with the help of whomever that is out there. He was right they are beautiful. They are so red and juicy looking. I’m almost afraid to try one. The hell with it, what’s the worst that could happen, they’ll taste like shit. “Stick this up your shorts dear.” I said raising the tomato to the sky, although I doubt that’s where she is. “Delicious” “Eat your heart out, Mr. Burpee.” The tomatoes lasted about three weeks. Then the garden turned back into ragweed after that first picking. It was almost as if the plants died with my sanity. The tomatoes would grow then just fall off the vine. The skin would rot and the guts would fall out. I haven’t been feeling to well lately myself, maybe I ate too many of those damn tomatoes. Looking in the mirror I’m starting to look a little pale and dried out. Dry, isn’t really the word for it, it’s more like peeling after a bad sunburn. The skin is coming off my body in sheets of dead flesh. Maybe it’s some kind of mineral deficiency or some kind of vitamin I’m not getting in my diet of tomatoes. I can’t stand to look at myself anymore. It feels like the world is falling in around me. I think it’s getting worse. There’s dead skin all over the house, floating in the air, and now I can’t feel my limbs anymore. The other day I burnt myself on the radiator and didn’t realize it until I saw my skin dripping on to the floor. My throat is always swollen and my nose is always running. Sometimes the snot is mixed with blood. My eyes are getting puffy and sometimes there’s a puss that oozes from the sockets. What’s wrong with me? I feel like I am dying inside and out. I can’t take these days much longer, they seem like they go on forever. I look like that creature I feared was living under my bed as a child. “Lord, what’s happening to me?” My toes fell off today and there are lumps that are oozing an awful smelling puss all over the parts of my body that are still flesh. I am at my wits end. Is God punishing me for what I’ve done? I am sorry, Lord. Please forgive me. Should I bring the body back and repent my sins. Yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do. Getting what’s left of the body to the cemetery was rough being in the state that I am. But I finally got it here. If it was a whole body I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. I had to drag the torso behind me, entrails dragging behind it. It left a path of innards and slime from my car to the gravesite. It is a good thing the grave is near my mothers or I would never have found it because I don’t even remember taking it. I threw it onto the ground where the hole should have been, but there was none. I didn’t really figure that it’s been so long that someone filled the hole back in. Why didn’t they call the police? I guess it’s easier to ignore the whole situation, then it is to attract unwanted, bad for business, attention. “What’s your name anyways buddy?” I said as I knelt on the ground by the missing gravesite, completely exhausted. Joseph Lieberman Our beloved father Always loving through the best of times And through the worst Of times with Hansen’s disease “Oh, Lord!” “No!” “Nooo!” “Noooooo!” “It can’t be, not leprosy! I didn’t mean to! I really didn’t!” “I don’t want to die!” “I DON’T WANT TO DIE!!!!!!!!!!!”
|
||
| Breakdown Kathy Lynn Blaylock humanneeds2003@yahoo.com |
#4 of 30 |
| 2500 | |
| She was wounded, trapped in a cage, and desperate to
escape. However, nothing she did or said helped to gain her freedom. Tara Blake
was giving up, she wanted to surrender her life. Willing to do whatever it took
to stop the monster that slipped into her darken room most every night. He was
her Mother’s youngest brother, and had been her favorite uncle, until she
had to live in the same house with him. That was when Tara, and her sister came
to know that monsters, were really real. Uncle Joe was the worst kind of monster, the kind that gained the trust of little girls, and then devoured their innocents; Night after night he found a way into the room Tara shared with her younger sister Kate. Once there he told them war stories, how prisoners could be tortured, and they were the kind of things he would do to them, if they ever told. Finally one night Uncle Joe came and took Tara from her room careful not to wake Kate. However, when you have shared a bed with someone most of your life, even in your sleep you seem to know, they are not there. That night wasn’t the beginning of their nightmare. However, it was the beginning of Tara shutting down. Kate woke in the early morning hours, and finding Tara missing, she alerted their Grandmother, who sent Kate back to her room. However, Kate slipped out of her room and watched as her Grandmother made her way down the darken stairs, in search of Tara. She knew that Uncle Joe had to of taken Tara, and it struck her that their Grandmother must have known too? There was just no other explanation, for her not turning on the lights going down the steep stairs. She had known, and done nothing to protect them. Kate wondered what kind of thoughts went through her Grandmother’s mind, what kind of monster could she be, to have a monster for a son? Standing at the top of the stairs Kate heard the loud voices, but could not make out what they were saying. However, she was more concerned about Tara, and what Uncle Joe had done to her. She could hear her sister crying, but all she could do was wait, and pray he had not tortured Tara, before Grandmother could stop him. A short time later, Kate heard water running in the bath room across the hall. She listened for a moment, as their Grandmother whispered to Tara. Sneaking across the cold tile floor, she listened at the door. Tara seemed so helpless, as the older woman told her never to tell anyone, not even Kate what Joe had done to her. Hate was eating away at the young girl, outside the door, and her temper was boiling over when she stepped inside the room. “Too late, Kate already knows, in fact I have known for a long time now. This isn’t the first time Uncle Joe came into our room, touching us down there. Washing Tara isn’t going to wash away the hurtful things he has done to her. I just want to know Grandmother; How long have you known? I know tonight isn’t the first time that you heard of what Uncle Joe has been doing to us.” “You are wrong Kate, I did not know. I thought the screams were from nightmares? I promise he will never touch either of you again, but you can‘t tell anyone.” “Our screams were caused by a nightmare, a living nightmare. Come on Tara, lets go to bed, I’ll push the dresser in front of the door.” From that night on the eleven and twelve year old girls barricaded their bedroom door with furniture, wedging the dresser and bed between the door and walls. However, Uncle Joe always found a way inside, slipping through the tiny cracks in their fortress. His abuse continued to the point that their Grandmother was forced to seek professional help for Tara. Tara started having nightmares, seeing a little man in the house, and he was after her. Night after night everyone was awakened with Tara screaming, that he was going to get her, only to find no one there. However, the next morning the girls woke to find the room next to theirs in a state of chaos. The furniture, even the heavy wardrobe would be in the center of the room, yet no one heard a sound in the night, except for Tara’s screams. With the help from the Doctor at the clinic, and his medications the nights grew relatively quite, however, they grew more dangerous. Tara was so severely medicated that Uncle Joe got braver, and began to follow her to and from school, the store, everywhere. Kate was determined not to leave Tara’s side, terrified of what Uncle Joe would do if he got her alone , and away from home. However, at school they felt safe, until the day Uncle Joe came to pick Tara up early, claiming she had a Doctors appointment. Unknown to him, he had to pass Kate’s class room to get to the office. It was nearing the end of the school year, and a rare occasion, for Mrs. Thomas had left the classroom door open for ventilation. Hearing someone walking in down the hall during class time, caused Kate to glance at the door. Horror filled her young heart when she saw her Uncle, and she knew he was there for Tara! “Mrs. Thomas, may I please go to the bathroom?” “You will have to wait Kate, we are in the middle of testing.” “I am sorry Mrs. Thomas, but I can’t wait!” Kate said nearly jumping from her seat, and running from the room. She ran into the office just in time to see their Uncle singing the form giving him permission to take Tara. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she glanced around the tiny room in search of Tara. Only when she saw her step safely from the nurses office did she find the nerve to speak. “You can’t take Tara anywhere today Uncle Joe, we have test she can’t miss them, and I need to speak to you in the hallway;” Kate said in a voice, that let him know, he had no choice but to hear what she wanted to say. All the while thinking he would humor her, after all he owned Tara, a fact Kate would realize in a moment. “Okay Kate spit it out, but know this Tara is mine, and when I am through playing with her, I’m coming for you.” “Uncle Joe, Grandmother said we could tell no one what you have been doing. She also promised you would stop, that hasn’t happened. We may not be able to stop you at home, but this is our school, if you try to take Tara out of here, I will tell them everything.” The look in her eyes must have told him that she would do just that, because his eyes seemed to flash fire. Kate stepped back when she saw his clinched fist, then slowly he placed his hands into his pockets. “You little bitch; You win, but remember not even you can keep me from Tara, and when I’m finished with her, I’m coming for you Kate, and I won’t be as nice.” Joe said, his words dripping with venom, as he turned and went back into the office, and pretended to call and cancel the appointment. “Come on Tara, I’ll walk you back to class.” Kate said taking her sister by the hand, leading her to safety. “Wait here, I want to see if he really leaves.” Kate said stopping around the corner. Standing close to the wall she peeked around, watching until she saw him exit the office, and then the building. “Come on, we have to go to the bathroom where we can talk;” She said once again taking her older sisters hand, leading her where she needed her to go. She often wondered now which of them was really the oldest? Tara use to be so strong, the leader. However, that was a million years ago, before they came to live at Grandmothers. Before that, their earliest memories were living with an alcoholic Mother, and an abusive Stepfather. Kate could remember Tara at four or five years old, standing in a kitchen chair fixing their breakfast. The beatings, the cigarette burns, and the masked monsters outside their bedroom windows many nights. Their screams always brought their Mother staggering into the room, and their Stepfather throwing open the window, laughing as he removed his mask. However, as evil as that life had been, Uncle Joe made them long to be living there. “Tara, we have to tell someone, do something. I think he is going to try to kill us.” “He was mad alright, what did you say to him?” “I told him, he wasn’t taking you anywhere, and if he did, I would tell what he has been doing to you.” “Oh Kate, I just want to die. I just want to take my pills, and sleep. I don’t want to ever wake up again. I can do that you know?” “No Tara, you can’t leave me! I won’t let you leave me. I’m tired of being afraid, and I’m tired of my sister being hurt, tired of you not being able to be my sister because of those dumb pills. Although you just gave me an idea, but we can’t talk about it here, somebody might come in. Side by side the young girls walked down the school hall, silently thinking, desperate for a way out. “I’ll meet you after school, wait for me here. Don’t leave the classroom Tara, Uncle Joe could be waiting.” Kate warned as she left her sister outside her classroom door, and went to face Mrs. Thomas‘s punishment for leaving class without permission. That afternoon Tara was waiting in her classroom as Kate had instructed, and they hurried out of the building. They wanted to catch up with the crowd that walked home from school in their direction. They had no desire to run into Uncle Joe, out there alone. However, they hung back from the other walkers, just out of hearing range. They had to come up with a plan to put a stop to Uncle Joe, once and for all! By the time they had reached the project where the lived, they knew just what they had to do. Uncle Joe had not come straight home after leaving the school, and their Grandmother was busy cleaning her closet. The two girls slipped into the kitchen. With Tara being the look-out, while Kate carried a chair over to the fridge. Kate knew which pills Tara took at night. God knows they weren’t the only pills she took now, but the little pink ones were what put her into a deep sleep. Carefully Kate took a small hand full, tightened the cap, and put them back in their place. Carried the chair back to the table, and got out the milk and cookies for their snack. They ate in silence, afraid to even look at each other. They had decided what they needed to do, and there was no point in talking. That night Tara only pretended to take her medication, she needed to stay awake. She and Kate had come up with a plan, a plan to have Uncle Joe, and his Mother wishing he wasn’t the monster he was. Shortly after dinner that night, Joe went up to the bathroom, leaving his open beer sitting on the coffee table. It was something he had often done, but something he would never do again. “Grandmother can we have some cake now?“ “Sure Kate, I’ll bring it right back, just let me put the clothes in the dryer.“ “Do you have the pills Tara?” “Yes but what if he catches us?” “He won’t if you just give them to me. Come on Tara this might be our only chance? Grandmother isn’t going to help us, and Uncle Joe is never going to stopped? Now give me the pills! How many of these do you take anyway?” “Two every night, so give him three. Hurry he just opened the bathroom door!” Kate had two thoughts on her mind as she dropped the tiny pills into the bottle. Saving Tara, and herself from Uncle Joe, and never losing Tara, again. They were sitting back in front of the television, eating their cake when he came back into the room. They could not wait for their Grandmother to announce that it was time for bed. However, they did not ask to go up early, for that was something they never did. Bedtime was a time they had been forced to fear, and never asked to leave the company of others. Soon Grandmother turned off the television, signaling the safe zone was closed. “Come along girls it‘s time for bed, you have school tomorrow.” Glancing over their shoulders, they were happy to find Uncle Joe was sound asleep. Now all they had to do, was wait in their room till they heard their Grandmother snoring. It was a familiar sound, a sound in the past they had grown to fear, it was the sound that alerted them, Uncle Joe wasn’t far behind. A short time later the frightened young girls quietly slipped down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Tara lifted Kate up to get the rest of her pills, and a glass of water. They split the medications, each taking the same amount from each bottle. However, when one came out uneven, it did not matter, they were simply left behind. Together they sat in the cold dark kitchen clinging to one another for comfort, until the pills begun to take effect. “It-it’s time Tara.” Kate said, her words slurring together. Standing Tara took two knives from the drawer, passed one to Kate, took her hand and left the room. Uncle Joe only moaned as Tara tugged at his zipper, and pulled the vile thing from his pants. “Ready.” “I’m ready.” Their timing was perfect, as if they practiced the scene a million times. Maybe they had, in their dreams. Two quick motions and Uncle Joe was relieved of his manhood, and his voice. “Let’s go outside, and watch the stars till we fall to sleep Tara.” “Yeah, let’s do that, maybe God will see us better there, and set us free?” Their bodies were discovered on the lawn the next morning; a neighbor stated he first thought they were sleeping, holding hands, their heads pressed together as if sharing a secret dream. Then a woman screaming shattered his peaceful thought. “I am Mrs. Thomas, and I know the truth behind the murder suicides. I received Kate’s letter today, and it painted a vivid picture, of the amplified breakdown, no one heard. |
|
| Breakdown Queenmont@aol.com |
#5 of 30 |
| 1975 | |
| “No booze, no boys, no noise,” ordered the
Dragon Lady of Long Beach Island. The over-the-top innkeeper overwhelmed Dottie and Doris. They hadn’t said hello. They merely crossed the porch’s threshold when the warnings spewed from her tomato red painted lips. The Queen Anne, a seedy Victorian guesthouse hidden behind a row of more elegantly ornamented homes, was their weekend retreat. The upscale Victorians’ turrets and lattices were festooned in fashionable coats of newly painted pink, purple, blue, or green. The Queen Anne’s tired white paint was chipped, as were the Dragon Lady’s fire engine red inch long nails. Exchanging “what are we in for” glances, Dottie spoke for both of them, “Auntie Grace, life in the big city is stressful. All we want is a quiet, relaxing weekend at the beach.” “OK, girls. So long as you stick to my rules, we will get along just fine. Would you like some popcorn?” “No thanks,” Doris quickly interjected. “Dottie and I are heading for the beach as soon as we change.” The world turned upside down as soon as change was uttered. A dazzling, sunny afternoon suddenly and inexplicably turned dark and ominous. Thunderbolts exploded. Accompanying blinding rain sheets, pushed by a spirited wind, forced Doris and Dottie to jump off the porch into the vestibule. “Popcorn, girls?” “OK, Auntie Grace.” Afraid to cross the Dragon Lady, as Dottie and Doris called her behind her back, they acquiesced. “Dottie you sit here” Grace Jones pointed to a red velvet, horsehair stuffed couch, a remnant from a bygone era that probably never had better days. “Doris, my dear, you sit here.” She instructed Doris to sit on an oak-stained rocking chair, without benefit of a cushion to soften the seat, which abutted the opposite end of the couch from where Dottie was placed. “This was your grandmother’s favorite.” Grace Jones deposited her large frame on the couch with a thud. Doris and Dottie suspected it would be an excruciatingly, long afternoon and an even longer weekend. It showed on their sullen faces. They had no place to go and nothing to do. Their mother, Grace’s sister-in-law, warned them ahead of time, but the prospect of a weekend at the shore won out. From a creaky, deep drawer in the carved coffee table, the Dragon Lady hauled out a red plastic bowl brimming to the top with popcorn. From a canister, she sprinkled a white substance on top. Doris grabbed a handful and tossed the kernels into her mouth. Choking, she managed to spit up what hadn’t been swallowed. “What did you sprinkle on the popcorn?” “Sugar, my dear. Popcorn needs a sweet touch, don’t you agree?” “No.” said Doris. “Auntie Grace, no one I know sprinkles sugar on popcorn. Popcorn is salted and buttered,” added Dottie. When Grace withdrew to the kitchen to scare up cold drinks, the two girls hid handfuls of popcorn in tissues, which they would toss out later on. They would tell Auntie Grace they had their fill when she returned. Dottie expressed concern, “Doesn’t arsenic have a sweet taste? Maybe we should save some for testing.” “Don’t get carried away. Auntie Grace may be weird, but she isn’t going to use poison.” Grace heard the last bit as she re-entered the room. “Poison. Oh yes my dears, I use it regularly.” Doris’ jaw dropped open. Dottie took a deep breath before daring to speak, “What’s your preference Auntie Grace?” “Christian Dior of course.” Giggling uncontrollably, the girls needed tissues to blot their tears and to blow their noses. “What’s so funny about Poison? I’ve worn it since 1985.” “Loyalty is a great trait,” said Doris in a comeback when she regained her composure. Grace poured tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. Before taking a sip, Dottie decided the prudent thing would be to ask, “Auntie Grace, did you add salt to the lemonade?” Doris could barely contain herself; however, she did refrain from laughing out loud when she heard Grace’s answer. “Obviously. It adds a special zing, don’t you agree?” “No,” said Doris. “No,” said Dottie, but strangely, it brought back memories of the oral rehydration solution that saved her life in Sri Lanka. “Earth to Dottie,” called Doris not knowing why her sister zoned out. “Sorry, I was momentarily transported to Colombo’s hospital where doctors used a solution of water, sugar and salt to reverse the effects of dehydration.” “The only Colombo I know was a TV detective. What Colombo are you talking about and why were you in the hospital?” “Auntie Grace, it’s a long story dating back to my days in the Peace Corps.” “Dickie always said you were a rebel with a cause!” “Dad admired my service even if it was very different from his service in his beloved Army, to which he devoted his life.” Doris and Dottie were Army brats who lived in many places in the United States and abroad during their growing up years. It’s one of the reasons Grace Jones, their father’s sister, was a mystery woman. It’s also one of the reasons their ties were so strong. No one they knew shared their unique past. In January, just six months ago, Dottie and Doris moved to New York to start the next phase of their lives. American Express’ Travel Division hired Dottie as an Account Manager to work with corporate clients. Doris joined the International Rescue Committee as their Asian regional representative shortly after the massive Tsunami struck in December 2004. Grandma Jones’ lawyer, Thomas Kinkade, explained at her will reading, Grace needed a purpose in life. The guesthouse was left to her, not Dickie. She reasoned, so Mr. Kinkade reported, her son’s military career and family were purpose enough. Apparently, Dickie agreed because he did not contest the will. Grace moved to Long Beach Island from San Francisco two years ago to run The Queen Anne or as some of her disgruntled neighbors would say, run it down. Doris and Dottie were ready for a break from city living when they called Auntie Grace and invited themselves to the Queen Anne. Grace was curious. Without hesitating she said yes. Besides she was lonely. There weren’t any other guests expected at the Queen Anne, whose reputation made it a guesthouse of last resort on Long Beach Island. “Did Dickie tell you much about me?” “Dad told us you were his younger sister. You are our only Auntie,” said Doris. Dottie added, “He said you had an independent streak like me. He didn’t elaborate.” “Well, let’s see. Dickie might have meant that I left home at 16 and didn’t look back. I was a hippie when it was hip. I shared LSD with Tim Leary and studied meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Unlike you, I was a rebel without a cause.” The girls shrank back when her laugh, masquerading as a growl from years of chain smoking, erupted. “Now I am a fat, old broad with no money to splurge on vices so I gave them all up.” Dottie made exaggerated sniffing sounds. “Not all, there’s still the veil of Poison in the air.” Any lingering tension evaporated. The trio of Jones let loose with loud belly laughs. “Auntie Grace, let’s celebrate. Are there any decent restaurants on Long Beach Island?” asked Doris. Grace preferred to wear her oversize, loose-fitting kimono sans undergarments, which made going to a restaurant impossible. “I’ll cook.” Even before Grace described her intended menu, Doris insisted, “Oh no, we want to treat you to a grand dinner. Dad sent us money for just such a special occasion.” The little white lie seemed not to matter to Doris as much as chancing a meal prepared by Grace. Dottie, who agreed with her sister, tried to make Grace feel guilty. “Don’t disappoint your newly found nieces. Dad would be displeased.” All the good will that had been established abruptly vanished. Grace resented the girls’ attempts to manipulate her. Through clenched teeth, she spit out a shocking response, “Get out. Get out now. Dickie Jones’ spies are not welcome at the Queen Anne.” “Auntie Grace, you’ll regret those words,” warned Doris. “We’re family!” “No, never. Doris and Dottie, shame on you.” Turning to Doris, Dottie said, “Let’s go.” Rotating to face Grace eyeball to eyeball, Dottie said, “We’ll be back. You haven’t seen the last of us thanks to Grandma Jones.” Wheeling their belongings, the girls scurried along Long Beach Island’s rain soaked streets trying in vain to avoid pools of water collected during the storm. The bus station was a welcome site. Dripping wet and shivering, the girls huddled together on the one long bench in the crude waiting area. Making the best of a bad situation, Doris commented to the bus driver, “Thanks for the limo ride.” They were the only passengers returning to New York on a Friday night, the start of a summer weekend. Doris and Dottie spread out, each one occupying her own two-seater. The sandman seduced Dottie, who drifted off to dreamland within 10 minutes of their departure. Doris, who hated confrontation, wasn’t so blessed. She fretted about the incident with Auntie Grace. No matter how many times she examined the day’s events, she could not make sense of them. Safely ensconced in their dry, cozy, one-bedroom, Murray Hill walkup, Dottie revealed to her sister what she meant when she told Grace they would be back. “I wasn’t picking a fight with Auntie Grace. I hoped to trigger her memory not to cause a breakdown. Dad told me there was a codicil to Grandma’s will stating the Queen Anne would be ours one day.” “One day?” “We inherit the Queen Anne either upon Auntie Grace’s death or if she is found to be incompetent.” Doris, the peacemaker, wanted to make amends with Auntie Grace. Dottie said that would be impossible. The very next day, the rebel with a cause mounted a legal attack on the rebel without a cause. Dickie Jones funded the operation, convinced they were doing what was best for Grace. She needed to be protected from her own worst enemy, herself. Detectives Lacey and Hobbs trailed Grace. They peeped through the Queen Anne’s massive windows with their binoculars. Neighbors on Long Beach Island cooperated with their investigation only too glad to rat her out in the hope that a new owner would make improvements to the deteriorating property. Grace ranted and raved on the porch for all to hear, “They think I’m crazy. But I am crazy like a fox. Grace Jones is a force to be reckoned with. Watch out. The Queen Anne is mine and no one else can have her.” Then she retreated into the Queen Anne’s inner sanctum. Electrical tape was wound tightly around all the doors and windows forming a cocoon insulating Graace from her perceived enemy. Paranoia wrapped its tentacles around Grace’s mind and warped her thought process. She felt more alone and lost than she ever had. Grace hatched a devilish plan to put an end to her brother and nieces winning possession of the Queen Anne. She switched on the oven and all the stove’s gas jets. Filled with a rage induced power surge, Grace piled the old couch, the rocking chair, and coffee table in the center of the living room. They functioned much as kindling did for a pre-game day bonfire. Before chickening out, Grace quickly lit a book of matches and tossed it into the room’s center. Instead of running for her life, she stood mesmerized by the glow and went down in flames with the Queen Anne. Her middle of the night tomfoolery delayed the volunteer fire department’s response time. Nothing was left standing. Walking among the charred remains as they paid their respects the very next day, Dottie and Doris swore the air was tinged with Poison. |
|
| Breakdown Alexandra Henderson Pianist123@hotmail.com http://pianist123.gather.com |
#6 of 30 |
| 1011 | |
| Amy couldn’t believe her luck. Today out of all days, she was getting a speeding ticket. Already behind on her rent and credit card payment, she wondered how on Earth she was going to be able to pay this fine. If she told her husband George about it, he would have a fit. He had already yelled at her for overspending on luxuries like fancy clothes, movies and spa treatments. As she sat in her car, waiting for the police officer to approach her with the write up, Amy wept softly and cursed herself. “Here ya are, ma’am,” said the officer. “Please sign here. You understand you can go to court or pay the fine, correct?” She perked up a bit. “I can go to court? No, I didn’t realize. …” She faded off. “Yes ma’am. February fifth is the court date. Show up then and you can argue your case. Have a nice night and drive carefully.” He tipped his hat, as a true Southern gentleman does, and headed back to his patrol car. Amy sighed. Maybe I can get away with it this time, she thought. After all, she was only clocked going 50 in a 35. That could be argued, right? Why was I going so fast? She though. The whole ordeal of the ticket completely left her mind blank. Oh right. She was racing to the pharmacy before it closed at 6:00 p.m. She looked at the clock--6:10. She sighed again, heavily. She turned around and headed home, where she was sure George was waiting. As she pulled into the driveway, she saw George’s office light was shining. Great, he’s working, she though happily. Maybe she could get away with coming home late--again. George wasn’t very happy when Amy arrived later than 6:30. Although loving and kind, he wished for his dinner to be prepared and paper on-hand when he came home. This irked Amy slightly, only because as it was 2006 already, she felt she should be regarded as more independent. Nevertheless, she appeased to his wishes so that trouble didn’t enter “paradise.” She entered the house cautiously. It was already 6:45. “I’m home! Anyone here miss me?” she yelled. The office door creaked open and footsteps sounded loudly on the wooden floor. “Hey there Babycakes,” said George kindly. “What’s for dinner?” He gave her a kiss. Amy looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you being so loving? You don’t mind that I’m late?” “Oh, it’s okay, Hon. I figured you were on the way home. Did you bring back dinner?” “Uh, no. We have chicken in the fridge. Did you want it fried or baked?” “Fried--it’s tastier.” Amy started to make the breading. She was nervous about telling George of the ticket, and not because he’d get mad. The reaction from her late arrival made her wonder if he was feeling okay. Would he feel the ticket was no big deal? George put his arms around her waist. She jumped. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” His deep brown eyes showed concern and love, not anger or a feeling of betrayal. “Sorry hon. It’s just that things are a little hectic. I’m late paying some bills and might have to work half as much next month. They’re thinking of downsizing the department and I’m not sure if I’m going to be laid off. Plus, I just got a speeding ticket and I just don’t know what to do.” She broke down sobbing into the chicken breading. George comforted her. “It’s okay baby. I’m a little upset, but only because you’re upset. It’s okay…shh…we’ll figure it out…shh….” Amy continued to cry, but felt safe in George’s arms. After the last few months of his nitpicking and grouchy behavior, Amy was relieved to hear him be so understanding. “You’re not mad? I thought you’d be furious, especially since I’ve been spending so much money.” “I’m fine--just been under pressure lately. But it’ll be okay. We’ll work things out.” Amy smiled and went back to making dinner, while George set the table. It was quiet for once. Usually, the television was on or the children outside were yelling. Tonight, though, only the kitchen clock made its usual ticking sounds. During dinner, George rambled about his day at the office. As a salesman, he made a reasonably good commission. The only problem was he had to generate his own leads. With a metro population of 500,000, his chances were good but limited. Usually, he sold upgrades to existing customers. As George talked about selling Doug Marsen a new camera, Amy found herself drifting off into space. Why is he being so nice about all of this? She started to tear up, and one fell on her plate. George stopped talking. “What is it? Look, I said things would be okay. You’re just stressed or something. Maybe we can take a vacation.” “I know,” said Amy. “I just don’t understand your character change. Are you hiding something?” “Lord, Amy. I’m fine about this. You need to get over whatever this is and get back to being you.” She quickly wiped her eyes. “You’re right. This is silly. How’s the chicken?” “Great. Any dessert?” “Nope, sorry. No time to get it today. Say, how about we go to the beach this weekend? That could be fun.” George smiled. “Sure babe. Anything you want.” He cleared the table and washed the dishes, being careful with the china plates. Amy, meanwhile, started thinking about their mini-vacation and smiled. Maybe it’s not so bad after all, she thought. She plopped herself in front of the TV, where George joined her a few minutes later. They cuddled lovingly and watched “Wheel of Fortune” like they had done every night since they were married. Amy looked up at George, and snuggled closer, knowing she had everything she ever needed. She smiled. She wasn’t sure what feeling had come over the house, but she knew she was fortunate. More so than any money a game show could bring her. She had broken through, and found herself stronger than ever. |
|
| Breakdown Darby Diana addbm@aol.com |
#7 of 30 |
| 119 | |
| Natures fury has taken our homes, New Orleans has drown in a disaster storm, People are fighting to survive, Mercy is needed to stay alive. Soldiers came with food and drink,they cared. Babies died from the unbearable heat, Elderly citizens drown from criminal neglect. Criminals looted and raped,they didn't care about respect. New Orleans police ran,they were cowards of the storm. Five days without food or drink, Surviving was at it's lowest brink, Drain waters ran on our roofs,walls fell with destruction, There is total darkness in The Big Easy. Air Force choppers rescued me from hell,while politicians failed us, I feel as though I survived a hellhole of terror and death, I am an American citizen,I survived Katrina. |
|
| Breakdown Lorna Elliott lorna_k@mac.com |
#8 of 30 |
| 991 | |
| “There you are,” Mary says to the man who
isn’t her husband, a surge of relief giving her the strength to prop
herself up on her elbows in the bed. “I’ve been waiting.”
Fabian says nothing, responding instead with a smile that spreads to his eyes as he crosses his legs, sitting on the small chair at the other side of the room. She wonders what time it is until the one o’clock news starts on the radio. “You have to do it today,” he says eventually. “Are you ready?” “I don’t know.” Mary starts to weep, silent bulbous tears nudging down her cheeks. “I’m not sure I can.” “It’ll be better for everyone once he’s gone.” “What about the children?” Her mouth goes dry just thinking of them. She tries to stop her hand trembling as she plucks another cigarette from its packet. “They’ll be taken care of.” “But they need me!” she persists, wiping her eyes with her knuckles, as her tired lungs force a sharp uneven breath. “Not as much as they need to be away from him.” “Maybe I should take them somewhere first.” “No,” he says sternly, “you don’t have time for that. I’ll be with you. We can go after it’s done. You’ll be free.” “But what if he sees you?” “He won’t, trust me. If you don’t do this, your children will suffer eternally. You have no choice.” She sighs, pushing her lank damp hair away from her face and stands up, tying the dressing gown cord tightly around her waist. Wandering nervously into the kitchen, she surveys the potential weapons. The rolling pin beckons her from the sideboard, the heat behind the oven door begs to be unleashed and she pictures her husband’s face shoved inside, a fistful of his hair in her hand. The knives gleam at her temptingly and she slides one out of the block, running her fingers across the blade, watched only by the heavy saucepans hanging over her head. The inside of the house is serenely quiet, but she looks out of the window prompted by the muffled laughter of her children as they play around their father, while he pushes soapy suds around the roof of the car. Killing him is too much for her to think about and she creeps back up to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Fabian is still sitting on the chair in the corner, smiling. “He’ll be coming back inside in a while,” she says. “Lunch will be ready soon.” “That’s when you take your chance.” His eyebrows rise as he leans forward, deliberately lowering his voice. “You will go downstairs, pick up a knife, and when he calls you over to sit with him at the table, you turn on him,” he said, calmly, his palms pressed together as if to stress the importance of his words. “Stab him in the chest - aim for the heart - he’ll be dead within twelve seconds.” “But he’s my husband!” she cries. “He doesn’t deserve this.” “You know what will happen if you don’t.” Mary can feel his impatience as his expression casts dark clouds and white anger into her soul. “Mummy?” A child’s innocence melts the atmosphere. “Daddy wants to know if you’re going to have lunch with us.” Mary turns her head towards the doorway and sees her daughter, her wide-eyed face perfectly framed with a superfluity of golden hair. “Of course I will, sweetheart.” She shivers as she smiles, drawing together her silk lapels still damp with forgotten tears. If only there was another way. “Who were you talking to, Mummy?” As if playing hide-and-seek, her daughter’s eyes search the bedroom and its vacant furniture. She walks over to her mother, expectant arms outstretched, sticky fingers yearning for the comfort of her touch. “No one darling,” she says too quickly, kissing her forehead. She smells the delicate familiarity of her own child’s skin, mixed with a hint of the wind that has ruffled her hair. “Run along now – I’ll be down in a minute.” But in reality I’m slowly losing my mind…Mariah Carey’s voice leaps from the radio, the sounds dancing around the bedroom. As the words of the song seep into her ears, she is overcome with fury. Fabian has gone from the chair and she walks past the mirror, not bothering to check her appearance. She doesn’t see his shadow in the reflection, laughing as more dark figures converge behind him. The children are in the bathroom washing their hands when she reaches the kitchen, her bare feet sticking to the cool tiled floor. She steps on a piece of Lego, but scarcely acknowledges the jagged pain in her heel. “Sit down Mary, I’ll bring everything over.” She watches her husband as he opens the oven door, sliding the quiche out carefully with awkwardly gloved hands. She sees him distributing four small mounds of salad onto each plate. We’ll only need three, she thinks. Her fingernails leave angry crescent shapes in her thighs as she fights the urge to lash out at him, but the pain in her skin isn’t enough to overcome the compulsion to destroy. She tiptoes over to the knives and pulls the largest one out. Fabian is nowhere to be seen. “I’m so sorry, Jim,” she says as he spins around, his silent mouth gaping open. Everything feels as if it is in slow motion. She plunges gleaming steel into flesh, stalling only briefly as it teases stubborn bone. Then it glides in deeply, more easily than she could ever have imagined. “Mary!” he cries as she falls to the floor, a crimson stain blossoming across her impaled midriff. The children run in and start to scream but she can feel nothing but peace. As she closes her eyes on her husband’s face and the world, the shadows fall away and the voices in her head are silent for the first time. |
|
| Breakdown LD Rucker ruck9085@comcast.net |
#9 of 30 |
| 1974 | |
| “Stupid thing,” Lisa said through gritted
teeth. She was about to pound the steering wheel again, and thought better of
it; the last time she did, she bruised her fist. Sighing, she crawled out of the car, and slammed the door. Walking a few steps, she turned back and glared at the lime green monstrosity that sat there as if mocking her; or worse laughing at her. The ‘car’ was a 1975 Yugo; her sister Lea’s idea of a joke, but Lisa sure as hell wasn’t laughing. Glaring past the car, she heaved her shoulders in an exaggerated sigh. Nothing ahead of her or behind her; nothing but miles and miles of nothing, but miles and miles. “When I get home, I’m gonna give Lea something to laugh about,” she said.. She walked back over to the crippled car and reaching in through the open window, grabbed her purse off the passenger seat. She reached for the keys dangling in the ignition, then shook her head. “If someone is desperate enough to steal this pile of shit, then they’re in worse shape than I am, so more power to ‘em.” She looked up the road, then turned around and looked back in the direction she’d come. Making up her mind, she turned around and headed up the road. No need to go back the way she came, she already knew what was back there. Yeah, a bitch of a twin sister who’d had the luck of winning the lottery. Of all the people in the world to win eighty million dollars, why in God’s name did it have to be Lea? Lisa kicked out at an empty beer can that had most likely been tossed out of the window of a passing car. She picked up her pace, trying to put distance between herself and the hateful lime green Yugo. She thought about the morning that Lea came screaming into her room, her face streaked with tears. “I won!” She kept screaming those two words over and over again, until Lisa finally, pulled the covers down off her head and glared at her sister. “Won what?” she asked crossly. Of all people, Lea should have known how badly she hated being woke up. “The lottery! I won the lottery.” Her face was split by a huge grin; her eyes sparkled with tears of joy. “Sure you did, and I have a date with Brad Pitt tonight, so if you don’t mind, I need my beauty sleep.” Lisa tried to pull the covers back up over her head in an attempt to dismiss her sister, but Lea was having none of it. She grabbed the cover and yanked, nearly dragging Lisa out of bed in the process. “Look,” she said, shoving the lottery ticket in Lisa’s face. “See? I won.” “Good, you can buy me a car and my own house, with guard dogs to keep inconsiderate sisters from disturbing my sleep.” Lisa closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and finally Lea gave up. “Okay, I’ll buy you a car, a used Yugo, just for being so mean,” Lea said, as she turned and left. She was true to her word, Lisa thought, looking back over her shoulder at the used Yugo. And now here she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, the damn car broke down, and her with no cell phone. Not that one would work way to hell out here. **** Lisa had been walking for what seemed to be hours. Her feet had blisters the size of quarters on them from the shoes she’d worn. She always chose fashion over comfort, and now she was regretting that little foolishness. She hadn’t seen a house or another car for miles, and the sun was beginning to set. Thankfully she wasn’t the one that was afraid of the dark. She grinned as she remembered tormenting Lea with tales of vampires and werewolves and other murderous creatures that lived in the dark; tales that obviously stayed with her sister, because to this day she still slept with her bedside lamp burning. As she limped along, other acts of cruelty crept into her mind. Like the time she’d locked Lea in the closet and went to the prom with her date. Lisa had been wild about Bo Bowers, but he was wild about Lea, and that infuriated Lisa. In her mind she was the prettier of the twins, even though they were identical. She had the blondest hair, the bluest eyes, the smallest waist, and by far the best personality, but Bo had asked Lea to the prom. How was Lisa to know that Lea would have a conniption fit locked away in that dark closet? How was she to know that Lea had been so traumatized that she had to be sedated for days afterward? Well, it served her right, Lisa thought. But, there were other cruelties, too. Worse ones, her mind whispered. “Just whose side are you on?” she said into the gathering darkness. Okay, so I did some other things that were a bit over the top, but Jesus, I was just teasing her. Were you? “Great, now I have to listen to my conscious dis me.” She shook her head, “I didn’t do anything that really hurt her.” But you did, and you know you did. Sleeping with Danny was for her own good. It proved he was a lying, cheating snake. I saved her from him. Danny thought you were Lea, and you know it. You counted on it. “He should have known the woman he claimed to love and was going to marry better. It wasn’t my fault he was so stupid.” The darkness was thicker now, leaching out from her like an oil slick from a wrecked freighter. The night noises were magnified in the still air and Lisa felt herself shiver. “I’m not afraid of the dark,” she shouted. “I’m not afraid of anything.” But you are, aren’t you? She stopped in her tracks and let her eyes sweep the broad open spaces around her. There were no trees to hide threats, no rocks to shield danger, or to hide behind. “This is stupid,” she said, squaring her shoulders and taking a step. She stopped, one foot poised above the ground. Was that a footstep? She listened intently to the night, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. She shook her head, then proceeded. A few steps farther and she froze again, her head cocked, listening. The symphony of the night had ceased. There was no sound, and Lisa felt a chill race up her spine. She clenched her fists and was surprised to find her palms moist. Grimacing, she rubbed them vigorously on her pants legs, then stopped, sucking in a huge breath. Was that a step? She could hear the blood as it rushed from her heart to her brain, and she looked down. Her heart was pounding so fiercely, she was certain that she would see it rhythmically pulsating against the white fabric of her blouse. She took a tentative step, then another. Nothing. Although the night chorus had not re-struck, she felt her confidence return and she took another step, then froze. Yes, that was definitely a step and it was close, very close. She fought the urge to turn around, terrified of what might be lurking just steps away from her in the dark. Was this how Lea felt locked away in that closet? Did her heart pound so fiercely when Lisa shut her up in the root cellar that night? Did visions of horrifying bloodsuckers fill her mind as it was now doing Lisa’s? Oh God, she thought, if you let me live through this night, I will never, ever scare my sister again; or anybody else. Taking a deep breath, she took a step, and the creature behind her did as well. She groaned with terror, and squinted into the darkness ahead. Wait; is that a light up there? Searching her mind, she tried to remember the stretch of road she was on and it dawned on her that Malloy’s farm was on this road. Had she come far enough from the breakdown to be able to see the lights of Malloy’s farmhouse? She took a deep breath, question is can she outrun whatever is behind her? I’ve got to try. Saying a quick prayer, Lisa sprinted. She could hear the echo of her pursuer’s footsteps clattering on the pavement, but she didn’t turn around. She ran; she ran as fast as she could, her heart nearly bursting from her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She felt the old familiar stitch in her side, and yet she ran. Stopping was not an option; nor was looking back over her shoulder. She knew her mind would shut down if what was behind her was one of the creatures she had tormented Lea with, and so she ran, and she prayed and the thing behind her kept up. It got no nearer, it didn’t overtake, it just followed. In her heart, in her head, she knew that vampires and werewolves were fictional creatures. Logically, she knew that what was pursuing her could not be either, but logic did not have a place in this footrace; only survival. Ahead, the lights of the Malloy farm grew brighter, and it gave her hope. With a final burst of energy, she sprinted through the open gate and down the dirt lane, but now she couldn’t hear the footsteps behind. Now she could hear the breathing, the harsh breathing, feel the hot breath on her back. Oh God, her mind screamed, I’m not going to make it. She screamed; the sound primal, terror filled it echoed off the barn, through the fields, to the very front door of the Malloy house, and miracle of miracles, the front door opened and there stood Mr. Malloy, a shotgun held to his shoulder. “Please help me,” she screamed, dashing for the porch. “It’s going to kill me.” She made the porch steps and collapsed in a heap at the startled farmer’s feet. There was silence for a minute, maybe two, and then unbelievably, Lisa heard a chuckle; a chuckle that quickly turned into a giggle, and then roaring laughter. Daring a peek, she spread her fingers and looked up in confusion. Mr. Malloy was laughing so hard, tears were streaming down his face. He bent over and placed his palms on his knees and laughed harder and Lisa felt the beginnings of anger creep over her. She’d nearly been murdered by some loathsome creature and this lunatic was laughing at her? “This is not funny, Mr. Malloy. I could have been killed,” she said, an angry flush coloring her cheeks. Her comment only served to cause Mr. Malloy to laugh harder, and Lisa was really getting angry. Getting to her feet, she stomped her foot in rage. “What’s so damn funny?” she demanded. Trying futilely to stem the laughter, Mr. Malloy pointed. Lisa wanted to look, needed to look, but at the same time she was terrified. What if this man was a murderer? What if he controlled the creature that tried to kill her? Losing the battle to control his laughter, Mr. Malloy reached out and grabbed her shoulders and forced her to turn around. She resisted, but he was strong and finally she gave in, letting her body be turned to face whatever horror awaited her just off the porch. She felt the blood rush to her head, and her face flamed. Mr. Malloy’s laughter pealed forth and Lisa’s shoulders slumped in humiliation. Standing at the foot of the porch steps, eyes huge and liquid stood a black and white calf. “Never had no man eating cows around these parts before,” Malloy choked. |
|
| Breakdown roger@cowboylogic.net |
#10 of 30 |
| 1947 | |
| That rich prick bleeding out on the Seven Eleven
parking lot didn’t deserve to be driving this ride anyway. He probably
screwed little old ladies out of their life savings to afford this Escalade. I
bet he was one of the scum that called in Gramma’s mortgage when Grampy
died. Sly let the warm wind cascade his long bleached hair back out of his face as he wound all the windows down, jacked the tunes and drove the boom-base into the cellar. Sheeatt, this thing could stroke the rap. The black Caddy sailed in and out of traffic with sweet abandon as he left the city limits with dying light of the sunset at his back. This ride had to be in the barn by 9 but he was going to feel it before turning it into cash. Kathy watched in the mirror as the foundation lifted and rolled south with the tears burning white rivers down her cheeks. The phone call still burned in her brain as her sister’s words rolled back out of their unkempt bed at the center of her existence. “Randal is mine. We are leaving for Chicago in the morning and there is nothing you can do about it. Kathy, he never loved you, it was always me. I simply wasn’t available and you were.” Kathy turned to look at the pistol nestled in the duvet on the bed. It looked so simple. The gun was beautiful… chromed, white mother of pearl handles. The death machine was crafted for her hand and felt like a natural extension when she lifted it. The weight was sweet to her hand and arm as though it were home. Her sister spoke again in her head, “You already signed the papers. You will have nothing. You need to move out by the end of the week and go back to life on the farm. The Chicago law firm will make sure all is done by the time we get back from our whirlwind cruise.” The voice broke into a cruel laugh. She lifted the weapon to her face and turned it slowly until she could see a short way down the barrel. Her wrist was twisted and this began to feel un-natural. She tasted the muzzle and felt some comfort in the metallic sensation and light smell of gun oil. Swinging around to look again to the mirror, she saw the spotless bed behind her. What a nasty mess that would make. The gun dropped again to the bed. This bitch has never been in 4 by 4 I’ll bet… Sly swung the Cadillac off the intestate to the access road and then a sharp 90 degree right onto a two lane heading off into the desert. Sparse minutes later the Escalade left pavement and bobbed sleekly over a dirt road, dust ascending like a delighted fog around the rear windshield wiper and settling on the upper edges of the window, bumper and spare wheel. Sly reached over to the passenger seat and snatched the sweet Fedora from the leather and placed it in the best possible attitude over his flying locks. I bet I look like Kevin Federline. He cranked the wheel and the Caddy headed into the scrub brush and rock. Within moments the car was doing calisthenics it had never experienced in its two year life. Sly knew he had better not damage the goods, but how often do you get to bush pop with a Caddy? Bouncing through a dried creek bed Sly bent the nose of the Fedora on the ceiling with a whoop and a girlish giggle he was glad no one would hear. Suddenly the nose of the car was aiming at the first stars of the night sky and just as suddenly the line of view was directed at the ground 8 feet in front of the hood. A Jarring crash ended the ride and Sly sat amid dust and tinkling cast iron of an over heated and abused engine. Slightly dazed, the door popped open to release the boy to reconnoiter his situation. Everything seemed good to go but for the hole that had eaten the front right of the car. He could not see the bottom of the wheel in the hole. Kathy hated this Ranchero Villa now. The oasis in the desert was now only a prison for her self pity wallow. She could not escape it and it could not escape her. Out the grand front windows she saw the setting sun pushing dull shadows toward her from the sentinel cacti silhouetted each side of the driveway. She used to think of these tall guardians as her protectors. Now they were witness to the breakdown of her life. The fountain in the roundabout was listless with a diluted energy that seemed now more a drain than the source of energy she lavished in for the last 7 years of her life. To her left she reflected on the stables where the horses grazed quietly, unknowing on the flakes of hay she had feathered out for them this afternoon. The gun had found its way back to Kathy’s hand and was now simply a part of her. Pacing and reflection took precedence now and thought process was automated at the best, intermitted and lost at the worst. Kathy stumbled from room to room in a loose circuit, always finding herself peering out the huge glass entrance. The TV news in the background bemoaned another car jacking and showed the ambulance slowly leaving the parking lot with her dead husband. She heard or saw none of it. Kathy sat quietly at the bay seat now and with the short barrel of the gun in her grasp, gently tapped out show tunes on the window sill. The Warn winch molded stylishly into the bush guard of the front bumper caught Sly’s eye. Within short minutes he had figured out the release mechanism and had tugged the cable under the lifted left front of the car, back along the wheel and hooked to a broken pine tree. From the drivers seat, Sly learned how to use the winch and successfully tugged the car back out of the hole. After winding the cable back onto the spool and eyeing up the damage, he figured the car was some worse for wear but should still bring a pretty nickel at the barn. Carefully he backed the car out of the creek bed and in the new night with one less head light he limped the damaged car back to the dirt road. The undercarriage was hurt and it wasn’t long before Sly realized it was not going to be easy to get back to the highway let alone the car barn where he was to sell this rig. The front end of the Caddy wove like a prize fighter and a sharp little skid sounded with each rotation of the left front wheel. He pulled out his Black Razor and after two and a half rings he spoke into the phone, “Hey Cap, I may be a bit late with the Caddy. The piece of shit is fucked up and the front wheel is falling off. I’m just off exit 133 a couple miles and may need some help here.” The cell spoke back in blatant and no uncertain terms leaving Sly’s face much brighter in the dash light. “What the fuck? I snatch 3 prime rides a week for you and this is all you have to help your best horse? What the fuck do you think? I am a rookie? Give your head a sha…” The phone connection closed and he stopped talking to the phone and directed a most impressive string of colorful dialect at himself. The blue beams of the HID lights found the dirt road and he looked both ways for a clue as to which would be the quickest route to the end of this piss ass adventure. One way was the paved road he had come in on, the other way was a distant light of a crib of some kind. He headed slowly for the light. Night had fallen now and Kathy had dropped from logic. She stepped out the door and walked to the fountain. The blue red and green lights shone up on her past the foot long Coy schooling toward her for the shaker food. The light soothed her skin and cast shadows backward up her face. She turned and sat on the edge of the fountain watching the driveway without a thought in her head but the image of a black Escalade with Satan at the wheel. She saw lights coming up the long drive but her brain didn’t even register that they danced slowly from side to side as they crept up the rise toward the cacti gate posts. The only thought was left far inside her subconscious and never got close to being realized to her. Just over the rise Sly picked out several high powered yard lights and the top floor windows of a bitchin’ pad. He had slipped on the dudes leather bomber jacket and moved his 38 to a comfortable outer pocket. This slam dance was gonna get his freak on again. He would come out smellin’ like fuckin’ money. The noises under this ride are getting nasty. I think it’s going down soon. The nose of the Cadi-illiac presented itself between the guardian cacti and the right front wheel flopped flat on the ground grinding the machine to a halt. Shit! Sly grabbed the handle imbedded in the door and pulled to open. Kathy stood quietly to her feet, raised her arms in front of her and aimed the pistol as she had been trained at the gun club. Her left hand rested on her right hand to steady in the triangle. The target was 50 feet away. She was good at this distance. Sly’s eyes were glued to the headlights careening up behind him and the broken caddy. This car was crazy. His adrenalin rose boiling in his veins as he contemplated his chances of darting into the ditch across the dirt lane before the fool spread them all through area 51. The asshole was too close. He ducked reflectively as the red beamer blew past his wreck and slid sideways into the circle driveway between the fountain and the house. Diane thrilled at the fact she blew past Randal in his own driveway to claim victory over her sister in person. She giggled as she saw the slow moving dud duck in his Fedora as she blew his doors off. She jumped victoriously from the Beamer squealing her pleasure Randal would feed her need until she drained him and Kathy could climb back under her rock. She was on her way. Diane dropped her Gucci bag and fell quietly to the dust. A small hole seeped from her forehead and a larger hole gaped softly from the back of her head as she died in the driveway. Sly jumped out to scream at the nutty redhead screaming in the driveway. “Hey you fuckin’ bimb…” He was slammed back against the car with a thump to his chest. His diatribe was cut off with frothy blood and he died clutching his chest and searching for breath. Joe slipped quietly into the back of the ambulance and checked the front latch to make sure the stretcher was secure. His partner was watching from the drivers seat. Joe nodded. “Let’s go Bud.” “Man, I can never figure out how someone in a dream street life like this can have a total breakdown. |
|
| Breakdown Steve Rhodes scrhodes2002@yahoo.co.uk |
#11 of 30 |
| 943 | |
| I have to admit that horses are not my favourite
animals. The old adage "dangerous at both ends, and uncomfortable in the
middle", summed them up perfectly as far as I was concerned. So, when it was
suggested that we should give up a days hiking through the rain forest
surrounding the lodge we were staying at, in favour of a days horse riding, I
was sceptical. However my parents insisted that I should give it a go and not
let preconceived notions get in the way of a possibly pleasurable new
experience. So I went outside and joined the other riders who were mounting up for the days fun. My horse was brought up but, just as I moved forward to climb aboard, I noticed something decidedly odd about it. It's eyes were rolling. Then it started to foam at the mouth. I backed off just in time to avoid its thrashing hooves as it flung itself on the ground, rolling around and lashing out at anything in its way until it kicked over the clothes line and tangled itself up in a mass of wire and clothes pegs. Everyone was aghast, especially myself, as I stood silently contemplating the hideous fate that would have befallen me had I been astride the creature when it had its siezure. It was untangled and led away gasping but, just as I was preparing to shed my riding boots and don the faithful old hiking boots, I was reassured that this was a most unusual occurrence and I shouldn't let it detract from the pleasures of the days ride. A replacement mount was led up to the saddling area and I was coerced into reluctantly climbing aboard. It didn't take me long to realize that I should have stuck to my guns and gone hiking. Not only was the wretched animal uncomfortable, but it had a foul disposition and hated all the other horses in the group. Every time one would get too close or attempt to overtake him, he'd lash out viciously with his hind legs, sending the horse and its terrified rider scurrying for safety. He also had a will of his own. Every time the track forked, instead of obediently following the others, he'd set off up the other track and our expedition leader would have to gallop after us and lead us back to the group. The ride was a nightmare. He sensed that I was terrified and had no control over him, and delighted in making life difficult by veering over to any side of the track that offered a nice low - hanging prickly vine that would un seat me if it got me round the neck. The day developed into a game of nerve warfare with him shaping up as the clear winner. Our route took us along narrow trails on the side of sheer rock faces. He'd walk as close to the edge as possible so I was treated to stomach churning views of the abyss that we could well plummet into if he lost his footing. Consequently I had no appetite for the delicious lunch our expedition leader prepared but was grateful for the break and the opportunity to walk around under my own steam and iron out some of the aches and pains that were starting to set in. I was even contemplating walking home but it was pointed out that I'd never make it back to the lodge on foot before night fall, and the last thing one wanted was to be wandering around in the forest at night. So, all too soon, we re mounted and set off for home. If anything the journey home was worse than the trip out as he would break into short, sharp gallops every time low hanging vines occurred along the way in a last desperate attempt to knock me out of the saddle. But I was a wake up to this trick and stooped low in the saddle, resting my head against his neck for protection, thus forcing him to put his own neck on the line if he wanted to decapitate me. But then he must have got a whiff of home and the manger full of oats and chaff and the other delights that were to be his ill gotten gains for his days "work". He broke ranks and took off like a rocket. All I could do was hang on like grim death as we roared through the forest, leaving the others far behind. We careered out on the road leading to the lodge, and, as we approached, I saw to my horror, a stout wooden gate about four feet high blocking our way. It had been open on the way out, but someone must have shut it, in violation of un written wilderness rules and regulations that state that you must leave gates the way you find them. But there was no time to worry about the rights and wrongs of the situation. We were bearing down on the gate at break neck speed. All I could do was offer up a brief prayer, grit my teeth, and hang on for dear life. In fact I froze in the saddle as we leapt over the gate in a classic show jumping manoeuvre to thunderous rounds of applause from an admiring throng of picnickers. Back in the saddling paddock I fell off the horse and hobbled off to our cabin where my father, who had watched my triumphant return in absolute horror, presented me with a small glass of rum. A gesture that I'm sure saved me from having a nervous breakdown. |
|
| Breakdown Barbara Hyde wifemomwriter@yahoo.com |
#12 of 30 |
| 320 | |
| This can’t happen, not now! What are you talking about? Do you have any idea just how bad this is? You’re babbling again, Clyde. Man, you just don’t get it. It’s the end of everything! Nothing can be that bad. Take a whiff of this! I don’t need any weed Leon. It won’t make a difference. What has got your hair standing on end, Clyde? Libby’s coming. So, Libby’s always been good to us. She’s got Bert with her. Bert…Bert! Oh, man, not Bert. I told you. I told you. And no place to hide. But Bert will take us to…THEM. Yeah, like I said, the end of everything. I won’t go. They can’t make me. Yes they can. Bert can. You know that. I’ll fight him Clyde, I’ll… No you won’t. What can we do? Nothing. We can’t run. We can’t fight. We go along. But Clyde… I know Leon, I know. Bert and Libby arrive. They give the order to go and Clyde and Leon fall into step. I can’t do it, Clyde, I can’t stand it. Just keep it together Leon. It’ll be over soon. I’m scared too. It’s too much. I’m going to make a break for it. Don’t do it Leon! You’ll never make it! I’ve got to try. Anything is better than THEM! No, Leon, NO… A calf breaks away from the herd, running over the uneven ground. A cattle dog tries to head it off as the calf zigs and zags through the sage brush. A man on a horse shakes out his lasso as he urges his steed after the stray. A gully comes into view and the man reins his horse abruptly to the right to avoid what the calf did not. The rocks and the fall are merciful, breaking Leon’s neck. The rider straps his limp body over the back of the saddle to take into the branding camp. |
|
| Breakdown Robert Davis savidbor@gmail.com |
#13 of 30 |
| 992 | |
| Announcer: “And next we have Ben Levine for your
comedic pleasure. Let’s give Ben a round of applause!” He walked onto the stage a little nervous as he stepped into the spotlight, but the crowd's loud cheers quelled some of his nerves. The previous act had been very funny, and they were in a good mood. He waited for the clapping and cheers to die down before clearing his throat. “Ahem. Thank you, thank you. I’ll be your entertainer for the next thirty minutes and I know we are going to have a great time.” The audience was quiet, the laughs waiting just under the surface. All he had to do was set them free. He needed a gem. “Let’s start out with one of my favorites. You may have heard it before, so don’t ruin it for those sitting next to you!” He could feel the anticipation building. Timing was everything. “Okay, okay, ready?!” “Yeah!” yelled out the excited crowd. “Okay! A man walked into a bar… OUCH!” He let the punch line sink in. No one laughed. He was confused. That was his favorite joke. This comedy club was full of stiffs! The silence was becoming uncomfortable. He hadn’t wanted to use his best jokes so early in the show, but he could tell that he had little choice from the way the audience was looking at each other, shrugging and murmuring. “Okay folks, sorry about that. I know what you mean. Some jokes are just too funny for this sized theater, so let’s move on to some that will really tickle your funny bones.” The audience was silent. “Why did the chicken cross the road?!” He asked the crowd. “You suck!” came a response. He stepped back, stunned, but quickly regained composure and plastered a smile back onto his face. “Almost, Sir, but alas no. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the cherry pie of course!” He slapped his thigh, laughing. He loved that joke too. It took a few moments for him to notice that no one else was laughing. The audience was completely still. Was he really so funny that he had shocked them to silence with his magnificent humor? His friends did tell him he was one of a kind, and his mom always said he was hilarious. Maybe it was true. “Get the fuck off the stage you hack!” Then again, maybe not. It was the same voice as before. His knuckles tightened around the mic. “Sir, can you calm down please. You’re ruining the show for everyone.” So it was one heckler. It wasn’t as if the entire crowd was booing. “I know what you guys need. You want some interaction. Okay, everyone repeat after me, “How much wood can a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?!” This one would grab the audience. It was his little brother's all time favorite. “Sit your ass down man. Your jokes are moronic!” It was that voice again, and this time he pinpointed its origin to a balding man sitting in the third row. “Excuse m…”, he started, but was interrupted. “Boo!” “Boo!” “Get off the stage!” “You suck!” It was coming from everywhere and everyone. Why was this happening? His mom never lied. ‘It is a sin to lie’ she always said. His face turned a shade of red with embarrassment. He pointed his finger at the man who had started it all. The asshole in the third row was now standing up and continuing on with an onslaught of insults. The red in his face was no longer of embarrassment, but of anger. “Why don’t you sit your fat ass down, sir? No one paid to see the bald man get upset.” The audience fell silent. The man’s jaw dropped wide open. He looked angry and his hands curled into tight fists. "Why don’t you come down here and say that, bitch? Let’s see if you fight better than you joke,” said the man, smirking. He turned an even deeper red. It was over. “Bonzaiii!” he screamed as he threw down the mic and vaulted off of the stage. Like a missile he flew into the air, over the heads of the astonished first two rows, until finally spearing the smirk off of the man’s face as they crashed through the seats and down to the floor. Women screamed and men shouted in surprise. Announcer: “Everyone please be calm and exit the theater. SECURITY, get this man out of here!” He was in his own world as he sat on the bald man’s chest and pummeled him. “My mother does not lie, you asshole!” he shouted. “My mother does not lie.” The man was out cold by the time security dragged Ben off of him and threw him out of the club. All of the while he kept murmuring, “My mother does not lie…” A tall, lanky man stepped out of a cab and walked into the Emerald Comic Club, curious about the ambulance out front, its sirens wailing. The entrance hall was filled with crying women and angry men. Clearly something had happened here. There were also police who appeared to be trying to piece together what had happened from the different hysterical guests. With many apologies, he made his was through the crowd to the front desk where a receptionist was profusely apologizing to someone over the phone. He waited patiently for several minutes until it was clear to him that the receptionist was purposefully ignoring him. On the desk he saw a small bell. He pressed it three times. Ding. Ding. Ding. The receptionist stopped talking. She looked at him furiously. “What do you want?” she asked. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was scheduled for the 6:00PM show. I am a little late. Some asshole rear-ended me and drove off. I’m a comedian. My name is Ben Levine. |
|
| Breakdown Jennifer zoise30@gmail.com |
#14 of 30 |
| 45 | |
| Chipped away Poked and prodded Pulled apart For all to see Humiliation unnoticed Numb with neck veins and Furrowed brows Flayed middles, gutted Senseless Histories dissected Vanity, infidelity, Lost credibility At last an end Merciful, terrible Emotion unspent, unfelt Memories unremembered Breakup, and then Breakdown |
|
| Breakdown Catherine Rose Davis catherinerosedavis@yahoo.co.uk |
#15 of
30 Winner |
| 511 | |
| The car stopped somewhere between Cairns and Alice
Springs. “You didn’t put enough petrol in,” I said. Nick pulled the key out of the ignition. “The tank was full, Jane,” he said. I shrugged and got my compact mirror out of my handbag. Sweat and foundation had melted together so my face appeared to be sliding away. I took a packet of wet wipes from the glove compartment. “What are you gonna do about it?” I said as I wiped my face. Nick got out and slammed the door. The car shuddered. “Wet wipes are for babies,” he said through the open window. I threw the wet wipe on the floor and turned my face towards the dusty fields. A kangaroo watched as it chewed on grey-brown bush. A joey’s feet poked out from its pouch. The bonnet screeched as Nick opened it. The air tasted sour with petrol. I reached for my water bottle from the backseat. The plastic was hot and the water felt like morning sickness in my mouth. I got out. A fly landed on my face and crawled towards my mouth. “Want some water?” I said. Nick took the bottle and drank. “That tastes foul,” he said. “Yeah,” I said. “Do you think I should try unscrewing this bit?” said Nick. “How should I know?” I said. Nick wiped his oily hands on his T-shirt. “I was asking your advice,” he said. He glanced at my stomach then looked back to the engine. “Sometimes we need to make decisions together.” I walked towards the back of the car, kicking up sand the colour of dried blood. “Some things,” Nick said, “affect both of us.” I stopped and turned to face him. I pinched my arm. “It’s my body,” I said. Nick shut the bonnet. “It wasn’t just your body,” he said. I sat by the side of the road and pulled my knees up to my chest. “It was still part of me,” I said. “It wasn’t a separate thing.” Nick walked closer so he was standing over me. “It was mine,” he said. I drew circles in the sand with my finger. It felt gritty under my nail. I pressed my teeth into my tongue until I tasted salt and moved my head from side to side. Nick stepped back and leaned against the car. He wiped his arm over his eyes. I clenched my fists so my nails dug into my palms. “Maybe one day we could,” I said. Nick walked to the front of the car. He opened the bonnet then shut it. “There was a roadhouse a few miles back,” he said. “I could walk there and ask for help.” “In this heat?” I said. “It’s cooler now,” said Nick. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. I stood up. “We could work it out together,” I said. I went to open the bonnet. Nick shook his head. “You can’t fix it,” he said. “You don’t know how.” I watched him walk away until all I could see was the endless, empty road. |
|
| Breakdown Gloria Watts Gfwatts@aol.com |
#16 of 30 | |
| 1223 | ||
| It started as a small inconsolable hurt that grew into
a dark burning pain filling his head. She’d left him and he didn’t
know why. At first, he sat for hours, her words tumbling about in his head. He tried to make sense of it all but somehow her words slipped away, left him struggling, asking why? He couldn’t believe she’d left him, he kept expecting her to walk through the door. At night he dreamt she’d come back was lying beside him. He could feel her warmth, hear her soft sighs as she slept, her arms entwined with his own. He wanted her as never before. He wanted her back. He woke up drained, his eyes smudged, his chin shadowed with uncut growth. He had to see her. He waited outside her flat, watching her come and go. Later he followed her to her workplace, timed her as she went in and out. He listed the people she met, her colleagues, her friends, strangers she spoke to while travelling to work, the waitress that served her lunch. He couldn’t resist following her even though winter’s dark clouds crowded out the blue sky, brought heavy rain and on some days, snowflakes that swirled like tissue wings and thick snow underfoot. He had to know. Muffled tight against the freezing wind or showers of rain he hovered outside diners and on corners watching, always waiting. At night, he followed her as she walked along the cold dark alleyway, always just behind her as shadows played on dank walls and moonlight chased his footsteps. He dwelt endlessly on her betrayal, her heartlessness. He wondered who her new lover was. He began to resent her, her smiles, her jaunty steps. The new shoes that she bought, bright red with high heels, that he hated and the evenings when she sat with friends drinking coffee, her face alight, her hands animated as she joined in their futile chatter. He started drinking, just the odd glass at first, but soon he had empty bottles littering his small untidy flat. He had to talk to her. He had to do something. He waited near the park, knowing she usually walked across the green on Sunday afternoons. When she didn’t appear his rage was more than he could bear. With trembling hands he found the small bottle of Scotch he now kept in his coat pocket, downed a few swigs, the hot fiery liquid burning the back of his throat, warming his chilled body but leaving the ice in his heart untouched. He trudged back to his flat, shut the scruffy door behind him and sat; a still silent figure, shifting through the thoughts that filled his head. His mind was calm, his thoughts clear. He knew what he had to do, his mind was made up – he searched through the junk cupboard, found the battered box, opened the lid and took out the gun. She knew he was watching her. Each time she left or entered her flat he was there hovering on the corner or lurking behind the boundary wall. She wasn’t too worried, she thought he would get tired, give up, even realise how foolish he was behaving. Two weeks later, he was seen outside her office building. She’d felt angry at first, then guilt flared and she’d felt sorry for him. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him but he’d taken their break-up badly. He’d been angry; she’d expected that, had stood silent as his anger grew to fever pitch and cruel words pored from his mouth. She’d left quickly with just one bag, knowing that he might not be able to resist that first slap and then…. She’d been 18 when she met him and had instantly fallen for his charm and his gentle brown eyes. He was much older than she but she didn’t care. Within a month, she’d moved in with him, delighting in his small, neat flat, their domesticity. He was everything she thought he might be, intelligent, thoughtful, generous, and a great lover. She’d been willing to learn and had given herself up to him, had taken pleasure in his intense lovemaking. He’d enjoyed rousing her, his soft fingers dancing over her skin, gently tracing the line of her neck and shoulders; his delicate touches to her back and spine bringing a warm, tingly anticipation. His kisses, butterfly soft on her neck and the rounded curve of her breast had brought exquisite pleasure flooding through her, as she soared high on an ocean of desire. It hadn’t lasted. His possessiveness, his jealousy, his obsession that she was seeing someone else had driven him mad. His anger came from nowhere and nothing she said or did would appease it. Their early friendly bickering had grown to become fierce hot quarrels. His rage rose to a blistering, fiery anger that made him walk away and left her empty. Until the day he hadn’t walked away, the day he had lashed out and caught the side of her cheek with his fist. Instantly sorry he’d wept, his head resting on her lap as she’d gently stroked his hair. There were too many bad days, more that she could bear. She had to leave him. She left work late, and feeling tired after a long day, tried to hail a taxi but after ten minutes gave up and decided to walk home. She moved along the broad pavement, leafless trees standing like sentinels silvered by the moonlight, and crossed on to the common. The wide expanse of grass was deserted. With the wind freezing her face, she walked towards the short-cut ally that would take her to the main road and to her flat. High damp walls enclosed the ally. Its dirt path was strewn with stinking rubbish and small stagnant pools that she tried to avoid as she hurried its length. Wide-eyed she pulled her coat collar high against the dank air, her ears alert for the sound of muffled footsteps. He appeared suddenly as she rounded a corner, looming out of the darkness, his face drawn and grey, his eyes red-rimmed. He wore an old creased raincoat, sodden, the collar torn, the belt hanging loose, his hands hidden in the pockets. Without thought, she reached out her hand, seeing in her mind the man he used to be and left it there frozen as he withdrew a hand from its pocket and she saw the gun. Suspended in time, the ally’s silence embraced her as his eyes bored into her. Her eyes followed his every action, as he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The shot, loud in the still air, echoed the ally’s length and shattered the stillness of the evening. The reporter from The Telegraph dogged Inspector Bryant’s footsteps, eager for first chance at the story and was rewarded with details that appeared in the following morning paper.
|
||
| Breakdown Cynthia Lynne writerswarehouse@yahoo.com |
#17 of 30 |
| 1786 | |
| Few things in this world had truly made an impact on
Cassidy. From all outward appearances she never seemed affected by her
environment, neither touched, angry, happy, or emotional in any way. Everyone
called her cold, unfeeling, and distant. In their frustration, she was accused
of having a heart of stone or steel. She thought that the labels of callousness
and inhumanity leveled at her time and again were undeserved. The consensus was that a breakdown was inevitable. They seemed to wait for it, hope for it. Somewhere inside, the floodgates would open one day and she would never be the same. Cassidy never thought that it would happen that way. She wasn’t holding anything back; it was just their expectations, what they wanted to see written on her face. When someone was particularly critical, she argued her case. Perhaps they didn’t believe her because, even as she fought, her expression never changed. There were many occasions when others were brought to the brink of tears, yet she failed to respond, expressionless and without more than a comment in a flat monotone. It was frequently a subject of debate and discussion, and the reason many deliberately excluded her from gatherings. Weddings, funerals, even babies could not bring a single change in her manner, so it seemed pointless to include her when her disinterest would be a distraction. A few thought it was an illness to pity or reason to fear for her future, but most looked at it as a sign of some flaw in her character, or perhaps her soul. Cassidy tried to shrug it all off, saying that she just wasn’t as animated as most. She practiced in the mirror for hours on end, trying to fake it enough to get by, but still people would comment how unrealistic that forced smiled was. No actor, to be sure, she gave up the attempts, ‘It’s their problem, not mine. They just don’t understand.’ It was an affliction that no one could really understand, though the theories abound. A vast array of psychologists tried behavior modification and put her on countless prescriptions. She was documented and studied, watched because some were fearful that she would become some deviant in society. In every interview, though she answered reasonably and with words of conviction, they often suspected some mental defect. The host of labels attached to her only added to the family’s disturbance, but seemed to merely roll off of her back. Even a brush with death wasn’t enough to encourage a “normal” reaction. One day, when Cassidy was twelve, her family was trapped in a house fire. The stairs were impassable and everyone met up on the third floor landing. Her father rushed the whole clan into his eldest daughter’s bedroom. He was sure that this trauma was significant enough that she would be inconsolable or, at the very least, afraid. They poured into the room and found her calmly tying sheets together to act as a ladder to escape the approaching flames. The youth suggested they tie up the bassinet so they could lower the baby down, rather than carrying it, for safety’s sake. Though astonished, they obeyed. By the time rescuers arrived her family was on the front lawn. Cassidy had secured the baby into the makeshift contraption and was lowering the little boy safely into Daddy’s waiting arms. She followed them slowly to the ambulance that had arrived. As they assessed the family the paramedics suggested, “I think she’s in shock. We’ll need to get her to the hospital.” He could see that the rest of the family, as expected, was distressed. They were frightened and tearful, while she remained stoic, undisturbed. “I assure you, she was nowhere near the fire,” her mother said. “She’s fine, but you can take her if you want.” Emily stared at her daughter through tear-soaked eyes, almost with disgust at the lack of any response. She confided to the paramedics, “It’s unnerving, isn’t it? Cassidy’s always been like that. I haven’t heard her cry since she was six months old. It’s like someone just turned her off one day.” Her mother’s words had reached her ears, but the young girl made no effort to contradict the statement, only staring at her kin. Yet, twenty years later, the comment still echoed in her mind. She was well aware that her apparent lack of emotion was an issue with everyone, but she’d made sure to treat it as a blessing. Her social life throughout her life made it particularly difficult. Males especially seemed put off that she didn’t smile or flirt. No one could see how alone she felt. “Are you okay?” People would say, “You don’t look happy. Are you mad?” She wanted to scream, “I am happy, damn it!” Man, it was just easier to be alone. It could serve her well to appear aloof on the job. Her lack of expression proved a benefit. It meant extra psychological testing, but she followed her dream. As a police officer she wasn’t crippled by fear. She did feel nervous, even frightened at times, but it never showed, appearing confident and brave, even when inwardly she cringed. Her partners laughed outright at some of the stupidity that they ran across as criminals made a major blunder and getting caught, but her look of serious consideration was a tiny comfort. Even her aggravation and frustrations never showed, so she looked content. Cassidy managed to do so well that she received commendations for remaining calm under pressure, had developed a reputation for being solid and true, and was even wooed by the federal authorities to join their ranks. She did, and found considerable success. People noticed her more, accepted the lack of expression as a minor flaw, and began to involve her, and she flourished. Some even said that they could see a hint of a smile, or a bit of a frown. She found comfort in the observations she heard. “It’s in the eyes,” a few said. “That’s where your emotion can be found.” Her father died and within a year her mother fell ill. She returned home to be by both of their bedsides and found each still felt dismayed. At her father’s passing Emily asked her to leave. “I can’t look at you. You’re so unfeeling. It’s an insult to him. He loved you and deserves better than this.” Cassidy had loved him too, just as she loved her mother. Knowing how upset the woman was, though, she left. It wasn’t worth an argument. Now, at her mother’s deathbed, she was faced with the woman again. “Surely, you’ve cried for your father by now.” When Cassidy didn’t respond, Emily wept, “Will you cry for me? Will anything ever touch your heart?” Watching her mother’s tears fall she wept inwardly with her, but didn’t make a sound. Her eyes stayed dry. “I don’t know what I did wrong. I can’t understand what happened to you. You’ll never be happy until you come out of your shell. I’m so afraid for you. When you do finally crack, you’ll have a breakdown and it’ll crush you. I just hope it doesn’t come too late to help you find some happiness in this world. I just hope there is something inside that is loving and good,” the older woman wept. Cassidy shook her head and then closed her eyes. Finally asking the woman who’d so long criticized, “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I am happy? Why could you never accept that, just because it’s not written on my face, it isn’t inside me somewhere?” Emily didn’t respond, and the two never shared another word, sitting in silence each lost in their own thoughts. Within hours her mother was gone. Cassidy stayed in their house. For days she sat by the empty bed where her parents had always slept, and where both of them had died. A single tear escaped, unseen, just like it had when her father had passed, but still nothing was written on her face. After the funeral, expecting some reaction from her, her siblings, who were all grown up as well, gathered with her in their parent’s room. Someone asked, “How are you?” Cassidy didn’t know what to say and stood up. She turned around to look at their faces, the grief apparent on each. Glancing at the mirror, her face was unchanged. “Apparently my breakdown isn’t ready to come. I’ll miss them and you guys, but I’ve got to go.” She said her goodbyes and excused herself. A year later she returned home, to sit at their graveside and remember them both. Her life had changed. Holiday meals were no longer a family event. She felt isolated, and more alone to know they and her old life were virtually gone, but in other ways her life was better and much more fulfilling. The pressure of her expression and appearances, or lack thereof, was gone. It felt like a weight she’d always carried was finally gone. “I just wanted to say hi, and tell you I miss you,” she said to the headstone. After a moment adding, “You know my life isn’t empty, Mom, it’s not like you said. Work is real good, and I’ve made a few friends.” Cassidy looked at the clouds overhead, “I hope you both forgive me for not crying when you passed. I don’t understand it either, but I promise I feel all the same things that you did.” A voice from behind her cleared his throat. She waved the man forward, “Mom and Dad, this is Thomas. We’re going to be wed. I know that he’d like you, and no doubt you’d feel the same.” Thomas stepped closer and as she stood up, slipped an arm around her, saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to know you two. I hope if you’re up there watching you can see how much I love Cassidy. I’ll make her happy, I swear it.” He kissed the woman he held and the corners of her mouth turned up as she looked at him. Smiling into her warm loving eyes he said out loud, “You see a breakdown wasn’t necessary to bring her to life. Her feelings were always there, lying deep in her eyes. A little love and understanding was all that it took to bring it to her face. She’s going to be just fine, and I’ll be here with her. Always.” Cassidy stepped to the headstone, placed her fingers on top, “I love you both, I always did.” A tear escaped and fell on the ground, unseen. She turned and smiled again at Thomas, “C’mon, let’s go home.” |
|
| Breakdown Beatrice Horowitz beatriceh@berk.com |
#18 of 30 |
| 2319 | |
| Missy Hawkins opened the door just as Ginger was saying
to Robert, “Jordan said she can stay over.” “Welcome! Welcome!” Missy yelled, pulling them into the vaulted entryway. Disco music pounded out at them from the living room. A cluster of men surrounded the bar in the dining room. Ginger headed across the floor, hopping over the rolled up rug and flicking the skirt of her white halter dress. “Gentlemen, can’t someone here buy a lady a drink?” “What lady?” “Allow me the honor.” “Finally got rid of Robert, did you?” And she was drawn into the center of the group. One stinger. Two stingers. Four couples were grinding hips together across the bare floor. Ginger perched on a stool and hiked her skirt up along her thigh. Then Larry Hawkins grabbed her and spun her into bebop, complete with a swing through his legs and a matching whoosh backwards, holding on tight at their wrists. She landed with a whoop and spun around to find Jay watching her from the edge of the dance floor. His brooding eyes did not respond to her defiant flip of a glance. Christ, what a bore. She headed for the bar. He appeared just in front of her, and before she could jerk her gaze away he widened his eyes at her and opened his mouth slightly to show his tongue. Their old party trick curled her lip, but she jerked away before seeing his response. “Conga, Conga!” Larry yelled into her ear, grabbing the back of her waist. The snake formed quickly and twisted across the floor, changing leaders and bumping against its audience. Ginger turned a corner and saw Robert gazing down into the eyes of Barbie Hawkins, Missy’s younger and recently divorced sister. Two beats on she spotted Jay slumped in the audience with his wife, Maureen standing rigid at his side. If she could get Robert away from Barbie long enough to talk with Jay, then anything her husband said could be twisted into evidence that he was aware of her stuff with Jay, and they would have to cool it then. It just might work. The music rolled into a rap beat, and Missy sped into the middle of the disintegrating line, calling out, “House tour! House tour!” “More like renovation as a competitive sport,” Bruce Tompkins said into Ginger’s ear. Got that right, she thought, but she joined the growing group anyway, grabbing Robert by the arm on the way to the pantry. Ten-foot high glass cabinets displayed rows of delicate stemware. Ginger jiggled her Target tumbler at Robert’s smile and glimpsed Jay’s forlorn eyes just beyond. She leaned in close and whispered in her husband’s ear, “I think Jay Cochran is following me.” The kitchen moved by in a blur of granite and stainless steel. Luckily, the Hawkins had gone for grandiose in the family room, or the huge fieldstone hearth would have just been over the top, Ginger thought. She turned to whisper this witticism to Robert, but Missy was flinging open French doors and beckoning her audience through. “Careful, now, there’s no railing yet. But I have to show you this view.” The group tumbled out onto the bare platform of an unfinished deck. People laughed and exclaimed. “Like being up in the sky, Missy.” “Bet Larry had to special order the posts for this. How high are we?” “Fifteen feet at the far end. Don’t you love it?” Jay sidled next to Ginger. “I have to talk to you,” he breathed into her left ear. “Jay!” Maureen shrieked through a drunkenly desperate smile. “Jay, I love this! Can we do this to our place? Look at this view!” Jay wrenched his attention momentarily away from Ginger to deposit it on his wife. Having gained his focus, Maureen hopped about and gestured wildly at the edge of the open deck. “Let’s do this, Jay.” She spun around, tottered sideways in a dizzy stagger, fell forward and soared off the end of the deck. “Omigod,” said a voice. Two men rushed to the edge and knelt. Ginger peeked over their heads. Maureen lay in a heap fifteen feet below, her right leg sticking out from her body at an unnatural angle, gazing up at them and looking surprised. Jay ran out onto the lawn from somewhere below the deck and fell beside her, sobbing, “Get help. Get help.” By the time the ambulance arrived two blankets covered Maureen’s flattened form at the center of a crowd of kneeling partygoers, who took turns putting an arm around Jay’s shaking shoulders. Ginger stood with a small knot at the bar, finishing another stinger. LGot to admire Maureen’s tactics for regaining Jay’s attention, even if a little extreme, and she opened her mouth to share this witticism, and then thought better of it. She wasn’t that drunk. When the ambulance left, its lights flashing back around the cul-de-sac and out onto Beech Road, Ginger was taking wet platters from Barbie’s rubber-gloved hands, drying them and stacking them in the pantry. A small mob of women jockeyed with each other for useful tasks in the cleanup, but Ginger held her ground. After the flow of materiel from the party rooms had dried up, she went back out through the family room to the deck, where Robert stood smoking with three other men. She accepted a cigarette and the momentary blinding of the lighter flame in the dark. Someone observed that Missy always threw memorable parties. Someone else guffawed. Missy’s voice could be heard behind them. Sshh, said one of the men, it might have been Robert. The unfamiliar nicotine spun Ginger’s head. Robert’s voice said clearly, “We might as well go home.” And Ginger thought with regret of the now wasted agreement to have the sitter sleep over. **************************************************************** An affair at work can begin when a glance is held a fraction too long, and then it happens again. A knowing look, a thought or attitude not shared with the rest of the project team. Accidental touching occurs once, repeats itself. Fantasies of intimacy are born and bounce back and forth. Each player takes a turn stepping over a previously established line, coming closer. Who will say something? Who will grab? Ginger and Jay had taken up these roles the summer before the party. The other members of their team gave no sign that they noticed anything. On a Tuesday morning, a month into the game, she was twisting in front of her bedroom mirror in order to admire her backside when her husband came into the room. She pulled her smile into a frown and inquired, “Do I have a spot on this skirt?” “Nah,” and he headed for his closet. So, between his indifference and the stone-faced staff, she decided it was possible she could take the flirting farther with Jay. One Friday they scheduled a working lunch with Al from Accounting. At eleven thirty Al cancelled. “You guys go ahead and tell me on Monday what you come up with. I got to get my youngest from school, she’s got a fever.” Halfway through the slow consumption of their hamburgers, knees touching under the table, Jay said, “Let’s take a ride.” When his SUV pulled into the driveway of Travelers’ Rest Motel, she curled sideways in her seat and smiled at him. It had seemed easy in the next weeks to let their families believe that their workload required late hours on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Jay was the one who suggested to their boss, Carver, that as a team he and Ginger could get more done by staying late on Wednesdays, as long as they could make up the time with their families on Thursdays. Robert and Maureen only encountered Carver at the annual holiday party, and that was months away. Ginger might have felt guilty. She certainly would have said she did, if asked. But nobody asked, and her liaison with Jay enlivened her whole life. She laughed harder at Robert’s jokes, cheered louder at her son’s soccer games, and enthusiastically helped her daughter with math homework. Her life at home supplied material for those Thursday afternoons on the Travelers’ Nest sheets, after they had panted through sex and lay ruminating on family life, sharing their wry frustrations and wise insights. Jay might have felt guilty. He said he did. She concurred. Then they would drown out their guilt in escalating declarations of passion. As long as those around them turned blind eyes, she was safe. He had two kids in grade school and a faithful wife; it was impossible that he would break free of that and threaten her own marriage. A perfect arrangement, perfectly balanced. The office holiday party came and went. The sense of danger in the affair had thrilled and frightened her in the lead up to the party, but Carver couldn’t have cared less about his employees’ spouses or what they might have to say about work schedules. Afterwards, Ginger and Jay laughed with relief on the motel pillows and replayed all the moments when Robert or Maureen could have left off munching on the shrimp display and crossed the room to demand of Carver, “When does this special project end?” They didn’t, and the danger had passed. She began to get bored. The sizzle in their situation had broken down. She did love her husband and children, after all. Really, should she be doing this? Could she get out of the arrangement? The idea of a long-term relationship had never figured in her fantasies. During the lazy afternoons in motel half-light, the big event over, holding hands next to bare skin and sharing the small deceits that keep marriages moving forward, they had prided themselves on never lying to each other. Their mutual honesty lent legitimacy to their sneaking about. That and the sense, built up by their declarations of passion for each other, that they had discovered a pure relationship that had a right to exist outside of the common social structure. One Thursday she broke the assumption of utter candor between them. Instead of saying she just wasn’t in the mood, she told him that it was the wrong time of the month. Which it wasn’t. The second time she tried this, he acted suspiciously hurt and observed that he could count weeks, after all. She said she wanted to break up, he became distraught, she insisted, he left roses on her car seat; she broke down and took him back. His love declarations were becoming histrionic. How could she get out of this? Maybe she could lie and say Robert suspected something. The Hawkins’ invitation arrived. This was their annual cattle call party for all of Vista del Mar, a good excuse this year to show off their recent renovations. If Ginger could get Robert to talk to Jay at the party, say anything at all, she could tell Jay it was evidence that her husband suspected their betrayal. Any hint of discovery should dry up his passion in a blink. Of course, things hadn’t gone like that at all, but the party had still yielded material for a breakup. A man whose wife has broken her back does not have time for trysts on Thursday, or any other day of the week. Summer dried into autumn. Jay hired personal care attendants, and his sons started getting into trouble at school. Ginger found another job in November. She skipped the annual shindig at the old office. None of the neighbors threw a New Year’s party that year. One Monday in March, stopping for milk on the way home, she saw Jay at the convenience store. He had lost weight and started to go gray. Pity washed through her. “You want to go to lunch?” His eyes lit up. “How about the Coq au Vin?” They met on Thursday at 12:30. She arrived first and watched as he wove his way through the tables, gazing hard at her face. He sat down and pushed away the water beaker so that he could reach for her hands. “How’s Maureen doing?” “She’s hanging in there.” “And the boys?” “Oh, you know, having their problems. God, Ginger, I’ve missed you so much.” She tried to pull her hands away, but he held on harder. “How’s the gang at work?” “The same, you know. It is so good to see you. It’s Thursday, you know. Bet they have a room at the Travelers’ Nest.” “Jay, listen.” She’d managed to work her hands free. “I just wanted to see you again as a friend. This has been awful for you. I wanted you to, uh, know that, uh,” no, don’t say I still care for you, “I’ll help you any way I can.” Jay straightened in his chair, still gazing at her. Opacity glazed the ardor in his eyes. “That’s it?” “Uh, yeah, I, I wanted to tell you that.” “That’s it?” He repeated. His eyes drilled into hers. “You think I’m your, your pigeon?” He stood up slowly, pushing the chair back and placing his napkin next to his empty plate. His hand darted out, grabbed the beaker and tossed its contents into her face. The sudden splash blinded and choked her. She clutched the table edge, blinking and coughing water from her mouth and nose. As the room swam back into view, tires squealed outside. A waitress came over. “Hon, that was assault, that definitely was assault. You gotta press charges. I saw it all. What a chump.” She was mopping at the table with a towel, and she began to blot Ginger’s lap. “No. Thanks, its...” Ginger grabbed her bag and knocked the waitress’s ministering hands away. Back in her car, the heater on high to dry her off, she began to laugh. Harder and harder, losing control, wiping away tears, all the way back to work. |
|
| Breakdown Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#19 of 30 |
| 1690 | |
| The train I'm on has become my cradle. Rocking me
gently as it lumbers slowly eastward from the coast, its wheels play an endless
clinkety-clinkety symphony on the train tracks below. I have been drifting in
and out of sleep for the better part of a day and a half now. Reality blurs
into dreams and dreams become reality. I wish it would go on forever, but my
wish is not granted. The train slows to a stop, coming to a halt in what seems
to be the proverbial middle of nowhere. I look through the window and shiver at
the sight of snow outside. It is only then that I notice her, and at first I am
not sure if she is real or a leftover dream fragment because of the way her
image, reflected in the window, is superimposed on the desolate landscape
outside. "Going far?" I hear her ask. Wrapped in a buffalo skin robe, she sits across from me on the other side of the aisle. She is fashion model beautiful with a deep tan, high cheekbones and coal-black hair that falls easily to her waist. I wonder just when it was that I died and went to heaven, for women of her caliber generally do not lower themselves to speak to the likes of me, not even to ask the time of day. "Chicago," I manage to blurt out without stuttering, "and you?" "Rugby," she says. "Rugby? I don't think I've ever heard of that before." "We're just about there," she says, looking out the window beyond me as though she is studying the scenery. I think the barren, snow-covered plains are no different than they were an hour ago, and I can't imagine how anyone could possibly know where we are. "Is that why we've stopped?" I ask. "No, this train doesn't stop in Rugby today, though it should." "Why's that?" "For the experience of it. For the cosmic experience of standing at the geographic center of the continent: Rugby, North Dakota." "You sound like you work for the chamber of commerce there," I joke. Is that where you're from?" "Born, raised, and someday to die." I don't like women who speak so lightly of death, even if they are beautiful. I turn away and look out the window, but there is nothing to see. The snow is coming down heavier now, and the world outside the train is a blur of white. I can no longer tell where the ground stops and the sky begins. I assume this is why we have stopped, that the track ahead has become impassable. "I am of the earth," she says, not reading my body language and continuing our conversation, "and I live there because doing so pleases my Spirit Guide." "Really? That's very interesting. I've never met anyone with a spirit guide before. Is it anything like a GPS receiver?" She doesn't react to my snide remark. "We all have Spirit Guides," she says. "Begging your pardon, but I don't think I do. Now I know I should have picked one up the last time they were on sale at Wal-Mart, but it plumb slipped my mind." She reaches across the aisle and places her hand on my forearm. Her touch, like her voice, is gentle and soothing. "Why do you keep insulting me?" she asks. "Look, I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean anything personal by it. I guess I just don't believe in all that mumbo-jumbo, woo-woo kinda stuff, that's all." "But you're here, aren't you?" "Yes, I am. But that has nothing to do with a spirit guide. I'm here because I no longer want to be where I was before." "I think you are of the wind," she says. "You mean you think I'm full of hot air?" "The wind is only the wind when it moves. When it can no longer move, it is no longer the wind, and then it dies. Would you like to hear more about it?" "No, thank you. I don't want to hear about the wind dying." "Are you afraid to talk about it? To talk about death? That's very natural, you know." "What I am and what I am not afraid of has nothing to do with this." "I still think we should talk about it ... while there is still time." "What do you mean, 'while there is still time?' Are you trying to tell me I'm going to die soon?" "I never said soon." "Look," I say, filling her in on my recent life history, "I really haven't gotten much sleep for the past day and a half. I guess I'm just not one of those people who can sleep sitting up on a train that jostles me back-and-forth all the time." "Is the lack of sleep a problem for you?" "No, sleep is not a problem for me. You're a problem for me." "You sound cranky, you know." "I'm not cranky. It's just that, like I said, I haven't gotten much sleep lately. That, and it's cold in here." "I hope you don't think we'll be able to talk about this after your dead. That won't be possible, you know." "For your information, young lady, I don't think about what I'm gonna do after I'm dead because I don't think about dying." "Everyone thinks about dying." "Well, not me. I don't think about dying," I tell her. The tone of my voice is harsh and unfriendly. I must be out of my mind to speak to such a beautiful woman in that way. I pull my collar up around my neck and try to change the topic. "Have you noticed how cold it's gotten in here? Do you think maybe there's a window open somewhere or something?" "You keep trying to change the subject," she says, and I get the feeling she has read my mind. "Yes, quite frankly. Yes, I am." "It won't make any difference, you know." I am cold, and I am tired. I do not wish to speak to this woman any more. I hunch up my shoulders and bring my arms in tightly against my chest to preserve the little warmth I have left within me. "I think I'd like to try to get some sleep now," I tell her. "Shall I take that to mean you do not wish to talk any more?" "Yes, that's exactly what it means." "Then why are we having this conversation?" "Let me see if I can make this clear to you. 'We' are not having a conversation. When one person is trying to sleep and the other person is doing all the talking, that is not a conversation." "Would you like to have a conversation?" "No, I would like to sleep ... And get warm," I add, almost as an afterthought. "That's a lot like death, you know." "What is?" "Sleep." "Look, I just want to be left alone. To be warm and to be left alone. Okay?" "You don't want to sleep any more? Is that because I told you it's like death?" "No, I still want to go to sleep. Death has nothing to do with it. And, if you don't mind, I would like to be left alone." "Do you want to die alone?" "Yes - I mean no." "Then can I watch you when you die?" she asks matter-of-factly. "Good God, lady! Do you know how sick that sounds, watching someone die? Why on earth would you want to do something like that?" "So you wouldn't be lonely." "Well, thank you very much, but no thank you. Besides, dying alone is not the same thing as dying lonely." "I only meant that ... " "I don't care what you meant. You're simply going to have to get your jollies some other way, not by watching me die." "I never thought it would be jolly, watching you die." "And you're damn right about that, let me tell you. Damn right. When I go, I'm gonna be kicking and screaming right up to the last minute. There won't be anything pleasant about it." "Ah, now we're getting somewhere." "What do you mean?" "That part about kicking and screaming. That's talking about your death, isn't it?" "No, that's talking about life. About living. There's a difference between the two, a very basic difference. A little bit of breathing every now and then, a little eating, a little sleeping, some kicking, some screaming. That's not death. That's life." "And death is ... " her voice trails off, holding on to the last syllable, as if she is asking a fill-in-the-blank question. "I don't know. Look, I'm feeling very tired. And I'm cold. Cold through and through. I don't know, maybe death is like that, like being so tired and so cold that you just don't want to go on any more." "Do you think that when you're dead you'll be tired and cold?" "Yes," I tell her. I'm willing to say anything now - anything. "And lonely?" "Yes, I suppose it would be lonely to be dead. Listen, can I ask a favor of you?" "Of course." "Can we talk about this tomorrow? I really need to go to sleep now. Please." "Because you're tired?" "Yes." "And cold?" "Yes. Yes I am." "And lonely?" "No. No, I don't feel lonely. Not with you here." "Then you may go to sleep now," she says and opens her buffalo skin robe. I accept her invitation and cross over to the other side of the aisle. I lay my head against her chest as she wraps the robe around us. She begins singing a Lakota lullaby, and I am not cold any more. I let my eyes close slowly, taking pleasure in the sensation of her embrace and the beauty of the song. "And tomorrow," I whisper to her, "we'll finish our little talk tomorrow, all right? Would that be all right? If we talk about my death tomorrow?" "Welcome home," I hear her say as the clinkety-clinkety train sound starts up again and then fades off into the distance. "Welcome to Rugby." |
|
| Breakdown Heidi Bolton heidib@iinet.net.au |
#20 of 30 |
| 2364 | |
| It was a stormy night in April, 1995. Gordon was
driving down the highway from work, on his way to meet his girlfriend at a
restaurant in town and she was the last person he felt like seeing. He was
thinking about how much hard work Katie had become when something ahead caught
his attention. There was a car stopped on the side of the road, it’s bonnet popped up. Checking his watch, Gordon decided he could stop for fifteen minutes and still make dinner. Putting his head down against the rain, Gordon rounded the bonnet of the broken down car and stopped when he saw a beautiful woman staring at the engine frowning. The rain had made her dark hair fall onto her face and when she looked up, Gordon noticed just how striking she was. Her eyes were large and green and had such a depth to them he felt mesmerised. “Hi, need some help?” Gordon asked, breaking out of his stare. The lady laughed and looked back at the engine, shrugging. “Yes, but to be honest I have no idea what is wrong.” “Well, I can’t make any promises that I will know either, but I can certainly take a look for you. I’m Gordon by the way.” “I’m Ally.” Ally took Gordon’s extended hand softly. Walking around to the front of the bonnet, Gordon leaned into the engine and prayed that he would know what was wrong with the car. Ally leant against the car and watched Gordon with her head cocked to the side. He was sweet, stopping in the rain to help her out. But better yet, he was cute too. Not in that pin-up boy sort of way, but in a shy, wholesome way. He had dark hair that was neatly pushed from his face, but she could tell it would be tousled on weekends, relaxed. Gordon’s brow creased as he looked up at Ally ten minutes later. “I’m really sorry.” He said. “Oh no, what?” “I have absolutely no idea what is wrong!” Ally laughed at Gordon, how lovely it was that a man would admit to not being able to fix a car. “But the good news is, I have a mobile phone and I can call NRMA Road Service for you.” Nodding, Ally jumped into the front seat of the car out of the rain. Gordon joined her in the passenger side. After calling NRMA, he insisted on staying with Ally until they showed up. She tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary but he refused to leave a lady out here in the dark on her own, and secretly, Ally was happy for the company. The conversation flowed easily between Gordon and Ally. As they sat in the car with the rain pelting down around them they learned where each other lived, what they did for a living, and that they were both in a relationship. In one of the few pauses, Ally softly asked, “Do you believe in fate?” Gordon watched the rain patter down the windscreen in front of him. He thought of his girlfriend, sitting in the restaurant, she would be agitated, checking her watch every minute as her temperature rose. Then he thought of the beautiful, funny stranger sitting next to him in this darkened car, on a deserted highway. “I think I do.” He whispered, looking over at her again. “Do you?” Ally glanced down at her hands as they fidgeted in her lap. When she spoke, she sounded hesitant, almost nervous. “I was supposed to meet my boyfriend Sam tonight. We had a fight yesterday and I went home mad as I often do with him.” Gordon nodded silently. It was silly, but he didn’t want to hear about Ally’s boyfriend. Ally continued. “Today we spoke on the phone and he said that if I really loved him, and wanted to stay with him, I should show up at his art exhibition tonight. I didn’t even think twice, just got in my car to show up as I always do. But on my way over I started to wonder what I really want, and then…” Ally paused as she chose her next words carefully. “And then I broke down and…” They both jumped at the sound of a tooting horn as bright lights filled the car. NRMA road service had arrived. Gordon jumped out of the car to greet the service man. Ally slumped back in her seat feeling foolish. “And then I met you.” She finished. Gordon cursed under his breath as he rushed into the restaurant and saw Katie alone at a table. He was 45 minutes late and he knew he was in deep trouble as she sat toying with a half empty glass of wine. She looked up and saw him across the room, her face red with anger. Standing up, Katie flicked a ten dollar bill onto the table and sashayed over to Gordon. “What time do you call this?” She asked in a dangerously low voice, walking straight past him and out into the cold wet night. Gordon followed her, “Sorry Katie, but…” Turning on him once they were safely outside, Katie silenced Gordon with a glare. “But what Gordon? What is so important that you couldn’t have dinner with me?” “There was a breakdown, on the highway, I stopped to help. We can still have dinner, it isn’t that late!” Katie put her hand up, “So yet again you have put someone else before me. That just isn’t good enough Gordon.” “I have never put someone else before you, what do you mean?” Rolling her eyes upwards Katie almost spat the words out. “Oh so you’ve forgotten about seeing your mother on our anniversary instead of me then?” Gordon laughed, incredulous. “She had taken a fall and was rushed to hospital! I had to go and see if she was alive for Christ sake! Come on now, you are being ridicules.” Katie shook her head at him in a pitying way. “You know, I gave you chances Gordon, but I really think I deserve someone who knows how to treat me better.” Katie pouted her bottom lip. “I think maybe we should break up.” Gordon let out his breath slowly and ran a hand through his damp hair, tousling it as the rain continued to fall around them. His mind wandered back to Ally, her dark hair and playful green eyes. Looking at Katie, who stood impatiently with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to argue with her, he knew how unhappy he was, and how unhappy he had been for a long time. Gordon only felt relief when he realised what he had to do. “Ok then, if that’s what you want. I think maybe we should too.” Katie’s mouth fell open, forming a perfect O. It only took a moment to compose herself, to cross her arms defensively. “It’s what I want.” She nodded. Gordon kissed her forehead lightly and started to walk away. “Gordy?” The tremble in Katie’s voice made him stop and turn back to her. “You are going to call me tomorrow, right?” She looked vulnerable, almost sweet if you didn’t know her better. Shaking his head sadly Gordon smiled, and turned to walk away into the night. He could hear Katie’s angry shouts following him the whole way down the street. Ally took a deep breath and walked into the exhibition. It was almost empty, except for Sam sitting on a far bench, staring up at his own artwork. Ally’s heart sank in her chest. “Hey stranger.” She spoke softly to him, touching his back lightly with her fingers. Looking up, Sam smiled sadly. “You came.” He stated. Ally swallowed and nodded. “But you are late. Which means you had to think about it, and that’s not a good sign.” Taking a seat beside him Ally let out a long breath and hung her head. “I was on my way, but my car broke down. It took this long to get it fixed.” She left out the part about meeting Gordon, about sharing a moment with him in her car as they waited for the NRMA. She left out the part about how they talked more in that hour than her and Sam had in their entire relationship. Sam looked up, a hint of hope moved across his face. “So you meant to be here on time?” Ally lifted her head to meet Sam’s eyes. The sadness there matched her own. “Do you believe in Fate Sam?” She asked the question for the second time that night. Sam frowned, his eyebrows crossing in confusion. “No, why?” Ally turned to look at some of Sam’s artwork hung before them. He really was such a beautiful artist. It was a pity he didn’t take as much time and care with the people in his life as he did with his art. “Because I do, and I think I broke down for a reason. I think it was to show me that we have broken down Sam. That it is over between us, no matter how much we try to pretend it isn’t.” Turning back to look at him, Ally saw his eyes were resigned. He knew this was coming as much as she did. He sighed. “I know we died a long time ago, but I thought maybe that was normal. That we were like a married couple who no longer had to speak, who just lived in harmony side by side.” “Except we aren’t married Sam, in fact, we don’t even live together! If we are like this now imagine what we would be like after we were married for ten years! Or twenty!” Ally couldn’t help but laugh. “We were good once, so good. But we have to accept that it is over and move on.” Sam nodded again. “I know.” He repeated. Standing up he helped Ally to her feet. “I will walk you to your car.” And Ally took his arm one last time. It had been two months since Ally’s car had broken down, and she still couldn’t help but strain her neck to see if that man walking down the street in the other direction might be Gordon, or if that car beside hers in traffic might be his. She knew he had a girlfriend, was probably madly in love with her, but Ally just couldn’t get Gordon out of her head. She had to go find him. Packing up her car Ally left her house one morning and drove to the town where Gordon lived. She racked her brain on the way for the names of the pubs he said he hung in, the name of the advertising firm he worked for, anything that would lead her to him again. Gordon shook his head as he left the last restaurant. He must be mad, he thought. Two days ago he had been sitting in his office absent-mindedly tapping his pencil on his desk thinking of Ally…that soft skin, those amazing green eyes… when his boss had walked in and ordered him to take some days off. He had noticed how absent Gordon had been lately and was worried. Gordon was going to refuse the time off until his boss said “Go visit someone for a few days.” He had said it innocently enough, not meaning anyone in particular, but Gordon took it as a sign that he should try to find Ally. But two days later, after looking for the antique shop she owned, searching all the restaurants she had mentioned that day and anything else he could remember, Gordon had turned up empty handed. Deciding he was just being stupid, after all she was probably off somewhere loved up with her artist, he turned to go home and forget about her once and for all. Ally climbed back into her car dejected. It had been two full days of searching for Gordon and she had found nothing. A lot of people knew him, but he wasn’t around. He wasn’t at work because he had taken leave and his buddies at his local hadn’t seen him for days. Shaking her head as she started the car Ally thought to herself that she was just being silly anyway. Of course she couldn’t just turn up to this strangers town and expect him to dump his girlfriend to get to know her better! She must have imagined the chemistry between them. It was late and rainy and she was confused about Sam. It was time to go home and put Gordon out of her mind. It was starting to turn dark as Ally turned onto the highway. She had the radio on loud, trying not to think of Gordon anymore. In the distance something caught her eye. It was a car pulled over to the side of the road in almost the same spot she had been when she first met Gordon. Ally thought about how appreciative she was of Gordon stopping for her that time, and decided she would pull over too. Slowing her car, she gasped out loud when she saw the person beside the bonnet. Gordon was screwing the oil cap back in place as he heard a car slowing down near him. It was getting dark and the car had its headlights on, preventing him from seeing the driver, or from seeing the car itself in any detail. Gordon shook his head, glad someone was kind enough to stop. It was the end of a very bad couple of days, he couldn’t believe he had now broken down to top it off. Walking over to the now stationary car, Gordon approached the open window and gasped. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Ally said, her eyes dancing at him with laughter. Gordon was barely able to say a word. How did she end up here? After searching for her for days this is how they run into each other? Leaning down closer to those beautiful green eyes, Gordon finally kissed Ally’s soft lips. “So Ally,” he whispered. “Do you believe in Fate now?” |
|
| Breakdown Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net |
#21 of
30 Runner-up |
| 2484 | |
| Annie Tucker was cruising along US-1 in the
no-man’s land between Jacksonville and Daytona Beach, Florida. Her ML430
cruised effortlessly at 75 MPH with the sunroof open and Tom Petty blasting on
the stereo. She loved her new Mercedes and all its toys. She watched the GPS
navigation display on the dashboard – the arrow pointing south, showing
she was about ten miles from St. Augustine, the country’s oldest city.
It was past midnight. She hoped to make Daytona Beach and find a hotel with a vacancy. As Tom Petty stopped singing about an American Girl and Bruce Springsteen began belting out Thunder Road, the GPS blinked off. She just had time to wonder what was wrong when the lights flickered on and off several times, then stopped completely, along with Bruce. “Shit!” she screamed as she pulled off the road. She hit the emergency flashers. Nothing. “Shit!” she yelled again. She grabbed her cell phone and flipped open the cover. No Service. “Dammit!” She turned off the engine and got out, walking around to the shoulder and away from the car, hoping to get at least one bar, but there was nothing. The only thing she could do, she decided, was to make it to the next town without lights and call for service in the morning. She got back in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. “Oh, God, no,” she whispered, trying again. Nothing. It was completely dead. She was trying the cell phone again when she saw a headlight in her mirror. She hopped out and stood behind her car waving her arms in the moonlight. When it got a little closer, she heard the roar of the engine just as she realized it was only a single headlight. She didn’t have to think long about an encounter with some biker out on a dark highway. She got back in and hit the door lock button – nothing happened. She reached around and hit the manual lock just as the motorcycle pulled up behind her. She watched in the mirror as a man got off the bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, just a bandana wrapped around his bald head. He looked as big as a mountain as he approached her from the driver’s side. “Hey, lady, got a problem?” “No. I’m fine. Thanks” He pulled off dark glasses and looked at her with smiling, yet cold, eyes. He said, “I thought I saw you waving.” “No, just stretching my legs for a minute. I’m fine. Thanks, anyway.” She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. The man was huge, his muscular torso straining at the black t-shirt under the leather vest. The vest covered with patches and pins, a silver cross dangling from his right ear. “Lady, if you’re broke down, I’d be happy to give you a ride,” he said, “no helmet law in Florida. Just hop on back and I’ll take care of you. There’s a little roadhouse up the highway a bit. You make a call; I’ll buy you a beer. The name’s Jax.” “No, really, I’m fine. Just resting a minute and I’ll be on my way.” She held up her cell phone. “I just stopped to call my boyfriend. He lives close by.” “Yeah, whatever. Not many people take this road at night with the Interstate so close, but if you say you’re okay, I’ll be scootin’ down the road. You change your mind, I’ll be at the bar, about two miles down on the left.” With that, he turned and walked back toward his motorcycle. Annie gave a yelp as he slapped the side of her car. When he reached his bike, he hiked one leg over and put his sunglasses back on. With a push of the starter, the bike roared to life. As he passed, he tossed a casual wave with this left hand and she could see a patch on the back of this vest – Southern Cruisers. A few seconds later, his taillight disappeared over the rise. Annie realized she had been holding her breath as she let out a sigh. This was followed by fear as she remembered she was still in the same predicament. Getting out of the car, she tried the phone again – nothing. She thought briefly about walking somewhere. But where? There wasn’t likely to be cell service this far from the interstate until she got close to St. Augustine. She hadn’t passed anything since a crossroads about five miles back. Walking to the bar didn’t seem any smarter than getting on that bike. No choice but to wait for another car. The truckers all stuck to I75 off somewhere to the west. Why the hell did she decide to take ‘the scenic route?’ About fifteen minutes later, she saw the lights of a car coming from behind her. She waited until it got closer. It was definitely a car with one person in it, so she stepped out into the road again and waved. As the car came to a stop behind her, she saw it was a man in an old Volvo. “Miss, are you having a problem?” the man asked as he came around the front of his car. “Yes, please. My car died and my cell phone won’t work. I need to call for service or get a tow truck.” The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it briefly. “I’m not getting service either. I can give you a lift into St. Augustine, if that will help. My name’s Chuck.” he said, smiling pleasantly. She thought for only a second, what choice did she have? The man was slim with a neat haircut, wearing a sports-coat over a dress shirt and jeans. He stood back a respectful distance, letting her decide. “Thank you very much. Let me grab my purse and lock up.” She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She got her purse off of the floorboard. She was just about to reach for the key when she heard the man’s cell phone ring. She started to turn back toward him and say, “Hey, I thought you said –“ She didn’t get any further as the man clubbed her under the chin with his fist. She dropped her purse as her head banged back into the door’s window. “No. Please. I just –“ “Shut-up lady.” The man’s hand clamped over her mouth and forced her back against the door. “Not a word.” He flipped open his phone, “Yeah?” Yeah, I’m on the way, but I got sidetracked.” He leered at her. “I stopped for a little package I think you’ll like. We’re going to have us some fun tonight. I’ll be there in about a half hour.” He flipped the phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. Then he brought his hand up around her throat while he let go of her mouth with the other one. “We can do this easy or hard. We walk back and get in my car. I’ll wrap a little duct tape around your wrists and you can ride in the front. Or I can truss you up like a turkey and stuff you in the trunk. Your call.” “Wh-where are you taking me?” “We’re going to visit some friends of mine. They’re going to love you. We’ll all have a real good time.” “I’ll go quiet. Please don’t put me in the trunk. Let me get my purse.” “That’s a good girl. Nice and easy, grab it and let’s go.” She bent down to get her purse. As she started to stand up, she straightened her knees with all the force she could and sprang at the man. He was caught off guard, and stumbled back a step. It was enough for her to swing the purse with all her might and slam it into the side of his head. Before he could react, she was around the car door, running up the side of the road. She hadn’t gone far when she felt him catch up with her. He grabbed the back of her neck and shoved forward, causing her to lose her balance and fall. Her knees and palms were scraped and bloody as she tried to rise. Before she could get up, he had her by the back of the head and slammed her forehead down. “Well, missy, I guess you’ll be riding in the trunk after all.” He slammed her head into the ground again. She couldn’t hear anything as first a buzz, then a roar sounded in her head. She felt her body rise as he lifted her to her feet and started walking her back with a grip on her neck and arm. “Don’t say anything or I’ll snap your neck.” She realized then that she could hear and the roaring was real. She tried to turn her head, but he had her in a vise-like grip and propelled her forward as the roar got louder. As they neared his car, a dozen motorcycles came thundering up and stopped, surrounding them and both cars. She thought her nightmare would never end as the engines shut down and they got off their Harleys. Were these bikers Chuck’s ‘friends’, or was she about going from bad to worse? The huge, bald brute that had stopped before got off his bike and walked over. “Lady, you don’t look so good. Is this the boyfriend you was talking about?” “That’s right, I’m her boyfriend,” said Chuck, “We’re just having a little spat. No problem. Everything’s okay. I’m going to take her back home so we can kiss and make up. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” The man nodded her head with the grip on her neck. One of the other bikers, a small grizzly haired man with more grey than black in his mane, walked over with her purse. “Found this over yonder,” he said, handing it to the one called Jax. Opening it up, Jax pulled out her wallet and looked at her license. “What’s your girlfriends name, Sport?” he asked and grinned at Chuck, who was holding Annie by the neck and arm. “Look guys, you don’t understand. This isn’t any of your business. If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to take my girlfriend home.” the man said and started toward his car again. Jax glanced right and four bikers spread out between the Volvo and Chuck. He stopped and turned back. “No. You don’t understand,” said Jax, “we ride this highway. We’re sorta like the sheriffs around here, and this looks like a damsel in distress. Don’t it boys?” Some of the bikers laughed – some just stared, a cold smile on their faces. Annie began crying. She hadn’t cried yet, but now she was being fought over by a maniac and a gang of bikers. Jax looked to his left, “Doc, take the lady back to her car and see what you can do with her. “No, please. Can’t you all just leave me alone?” The one called Doc, grabbed a bag off his bike and started toward Annie and her captor. Doc was short with a huge gut. His hair was long, but bald on top. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and looked like a demented Ben Franklin. As he approached the pair, Chuck said, “Now, look-“ That was all he got out. Doc shifted his bag over his left shoulder and shot out with a straight right arm, catching the man in the neck. She felt both hands leave her body as the man stumbled backwards, a gurgling sound coming from him. In almost the same motion, Doc’s right arm cradled her shoulders and began gently moving her toward her car. As they got to her passenger side, he set her in the seat and took the bag off his shoulder. “Settle down, girlie. I really am a doctor. Was anyway. Forty-Third Medical Group. Got my training a long time ago in a little paradise in Southeast Asia. All those boys are Vets and they’ll fix your ‘boyfriend.’” He began taking gauze and antiseptic out of his bag and handed her a tissue, “Clean up your face and quit blubbering. We ain’t gonna hurt you.” “He’s not my boyfriend, he- “She jerked as she heard a howl like a wounded animal. “Easy,” said Doc, as he began cleaning dirt and blood from her scraped knees. “That’s just the boys educatin’ that feller. We knew he weren’t your boyfriend. Jax got to the tavern, said there was a lady broke down back a piece and got a few of us together to come see if we could help.” She heard her driver’s door open and someone reached in and popped the hood. She looked around and saw two more of the bikers under her hood with flashlights. The noises from the Volvo had stopped. Doc finished cleaning and bandaging her wounds and helped her back up. He held her elbow gently and walked with her back toward the Volvo. Jax was standing in front of it looking at the car. “That’s good enough, boys. The State Patrol will come along after while and take care of our friend here.” She looked at the car and saw Chuck stretched out on top, his clothes stripped to his underwear and his body duct-taped to the hood. His head thrashed from side to side trying to scream through the tape across his mouth. Just then, she heard her engine turn over and start. The two bikers who were looking under the hood walked back toward Annie. “Had a bare wire in your battery cable. Shorted out the ‘lectric system. We wrapped a little duct-tape around that, too. Should get you by ‘til you can get service.” The one talking looked at the Volvo and grinned. “Duct-tape, good for just ‘bout anything.” This time, she joined the laughter, the adrenaline draining from her body. “Well,” said Jax, handing her purse back, “we got your car started and Doc’s patched you up. I guess you’re good to go. We need to get outta here before the law turns up. They might have an objection to the way we handled that clown back there.” She took a card out of her purse and handed it to Jax. “If the police ask anything about what happened here, you have them call me. But before I go, I owe you an apology. How about we run down to that roadhouse you mentioned and I’ll by a couple of rounds of beers?” “You hear that boys? Saddle up, ladies buying!” With even more noise than before, the bikers all jumped on their bikes, revved the throttles, and roared south back down the highway. Annie got in and followed at a slower pace, vowing never to travel off the Interstate again. |
|
| Breakdown prof.lal@gmail.com |
#22 of 30 |
| 40 | |
|
Beyond vision's field Across decibels Amid insensate nerves Disappearing. Plotting escapades Into chimerical oases Smug, foolish, drugged Inventing illusions On borrowed blinkers. Born again The silken fist Holds my hand Ushers me back In forsaken paradise. |
|
| Breakdown info@takecareofyourskin.co.uk |
#23 of 30 |
| 103 | |
| Just as a door must firmly close, just as a mourner
places their rose. A sense of sadness fills the heart of a living sentence that
has now been passed. Time can mend the wound so deep, the one small comfort that we seek, but now it all seems far away locked up in life's personal safe. How can this day be best forgotten with the memory so vivid and feelings down trodden. Is this the end or the beginning of something that would be better forbidden, but for now just looking back and hearing that tune, it happened all too soon. |
|
| Breakdown Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#24 of 30 |
| 584 | |
| Sometimes in the blessed ebony night, dreams come which are sometimes logical and often beyond comprehension; revealing a side of yourself you knew you had but was buried so deep, you dared not admit it. Roosters crowing bring you back up, up to a world of difficulty - nothing is ever easy. And while Gabriel blows his horn, you call on whatever inner strength you have left to fight the flow and establish your place. In the grey cold dawn, you feel like cavorting, damning the bourgouis and playing the pipes of Pan. It's not too hard to avoid the Christmas music but inevitably you get sucked in; something you wanted to believe in but age has jaded you. You throw off the shackles (in a perfect world) break free, and shout to the whistling wind and ubiquitous drizzle - "I am Me!" But the chickens still peck at the corn and the pigs snort in their mud bath. Shouldn't it be easier, the path laid out for you ever so cleverly; but we lean towards the road not taken. So where is the list of positives, balanced against the unfulfilled potential? The jester comes by in various forms to amuse you, the raconteur to spin tales of how it glorious was, the jongleur to sing songs of heroism and lost love. And the bird in the clock appears every hour to chirp Cuckoo! Take a time out. Take to your cozy bed with chocolates and books and sexual dreams. You won't live there but you can survive there. Marking the inexorable hands of time until your body eventually gives up on you. How sweet the retreat. You have fought the good fight, come out with some victories. but the weight of the world has inevitably shrunk you down to your insignificant place. I want to live, be, create, make a difference! Yeah you and a million others who eventually accept their role, their fate, and do what is expected of them. I want to leave my house at midnight in the gayest gypsy garb I own and howl at the moon and prowl the near deserted streets that I now own. I have the guts to do it. Do you? But it's so much easier to stay under the radar; a bunny in the warren, a snake in the grass, perhaps imagining onesself an eagle on a perch waiting to swoop. Ha! It is for all these things we strive and fail, create and elate, keep firearms in our gingerbread houses. For we can never be Mozart or Dickens or Beethoven or even John Grisham. There is only a personal happiness in our own creations. Perhaps a total dedication would produce something universal and everlasting, but most of us are destined to be dilettantes. I can live with that. I enjoy my contributions to literature, art, and music, if no one else does. They will die with me and not live on - still they give me pleasure. What more can one ask when freed from the workaday world to craft dreams with words and create something that was never there before? The coyote sends his yelp from the cold distance, the owl bleats his nocturnal hoot, the earthworm wriggles under our feet, and the sun still rises every day. I sing the body eclectic, I raise my bar, I send my shafts through the somnulent populace. I breakdown from the mold and stay true to myself. What more can one want? | |
| Breakdown JoAnn Clarke wbaycars@bigpond.net.au |
#25 of 30 |
| 237 | |
| There once were some children, who lived in a town,
just like mine. They each had a computer that had many games, just like mine. The children used their computers from morning until night, playing the games, just like mine. The children had parents, who both worked very hard, just like mine. The parents did not like the games on the computer, just like mine. The parents were worried about their children, who played on computers, just like mine. For the children had forgotten to use their imagination, just like mine. One day the town had a power plant breakdown, that turned off the computers, just like mine. The children, who lived in the town, didn't know what to do, just like me. They went outside, into the sun and into their yards, just like me. They looked at each other and scratched their heads, just like me. “I found a ball”, one of them said. They started to play catch, just like me. They started to run, hop and jump, laughing and giggling, just like me. There once were some children, who lived in a town, just like mine. They found they still had an imagination, just like mine. The children had parents, who worked very hard, just like mine. Now the town's parents set 'Breakdown' times for computers, just like mine. And the children discovered that using imagination was such fun, JUST LIKE ME. |
|
| Breakdown lee10@host365.com |
#26 of 30 |
| 2497 | |
| It was as though a light had been switched on, plunging
me into brightness and a nightmare. But it was probably the silence, above
anything else, that brought me back to my senses; a silence that was thick with
foreboding, squeezing, hard, heavy on my shoulders, threatening us with unnamed
monsters. But the monster was not unnamed; it was not unknown. It was me.
The face of the woman in front of me was as white as the wallpaper up against which she was being pressed. Her mouth was a tight, red circle of surprise. At this frozen moment in time, the picture in front of me was like a photograph taken with an exploding flash. Her bones, thin in any event, appeared as sharp ridges, the shadows under her wide, bright eyes were dark-purple bruises. A wisp of greying hair, shaken loose in the attack, straggled down over her high forehead; a question mark as to what had just happened. She hung, like an insect pinned to a board, on the backdrop of flowery wallpaper. A bunch of pink roses seemed to be growing under her outspread arms. Like hairy armpits, I thought, and giggled. On the stairs behind me, I heard a quite snuffling, quickly suppressed. My daughter. I ignored her and waited to see who would make the next move. My mother? Or myself? My hands gripped her wrists even harder. I dare not let go. I was terrified both of what I had just done and of the repercussions that would, inevitably, follow. I stared at the backs of my hands, the knuckles white with tension. Somehow, I’d broken a nail, chipping the pale pink varnish. A faint wisp of her perfume, Soir de Paris, warmed by our passion, tickled my nose. I didn’t remember what my mother had said that had caused me to lose my mind and attack her. Did I hit her as well? I had no idea. One minute we’d been standing in the hall arguing, the next, I had her pinned up against the wall. I think I remember screaming at her. I seem to recall spittle spraying from my lips. I’m sure I’d felt a surge of delight as I forced her into submission, as I slammed her against the hard, unyielding surface. Now? I was empty. Empty of rage, empty of hate. Tendrils of fear slid into the vacated corners of my mind and I knew I would suffer for this. She was afraid now, but she wouldn’t stay that way for long. It was not in her nature. Seconds lengthened into minutes. The blood began to flow back into her face. Her cheeks became pink. Her neck reddened; the glow spreading upwards as outrage slowly replaced terror. The backs of her hands were against the wall and her fingers, which had hung limply between us, began to clench. I felt her resistance increase. I could feel the strong pulse in her wrist. I tightened my grip, too terrified to let go. My face must have belied my inner turmoil and her hands became flaccid again. This was the first time in my twenty-three years that I’d had the upper hand with anyone. I was the mouse of the family, the youngest and the most easily intimidated. My two big brothers had tormented me but it was nothing to what my mother had done once they left home. Until that landmark time, she’d fought with them, ignoring me. I’d kept my head down and let them do battle. But when they’d gone, nothing stood between the two of us except my poor bewildered Dad. I loved my father but he was weak. I took after him and mother ruled the roost. She dictated everything; what we wore, what we ate, what we watched on the television, and what friends we had. Most of the time there was a sort of peace, an armed truce in which Dad and I claimed the white flag and submitted to her moods. I would have liked a mother who smiled, who hugged me, who told me bedtime stories but my mother was cold and had little affection. She always did her duty by me though and by the time I was five, she’d taught me to read. I believe it was so that I wouldn’t ask her to read those bedtime stories that other children seemed to find comforting. Other girls went shopping with their Mums and were treated to flimsy, ridiculous party dresses and strappy shoes. I didn’t even get to go to any parties. Despite everything, I constantly sought her approval. I never got it. As I grew up, I wanted her friendship. It was withheld. On one occasion she told me, her voice heavy with scorn and sarcasm, that if she wanted a friend she certainly wouldn’t find one in this house! Daddy winced but said nothing. When I was fourteen, my Mother again did her duty and told me the facts of life. She was embarrassed. She hated the chore, it was obvious. Dad was working late and she stopped me one evening as I was packing away my homework before going to bed. “You’d best know the facts of life before it’s too late,” she muttered. I grinned. We’d done that lesson a couple of years ago in class. “Wipe that silly, smutty smile off your face, my girl,” she snapped, “and listen to me.” I stopped grinning. I listened. “Never let a man touch your body,” she said. Was that it? I waited, but it seemed that was indeed ‘it’. I went upstairs to bed puzzled. Maybe she’d say more the following night? But she didn’t speak on the subject again. Apparently that was enough. Except that it wasn’t. At sixteen, I knew all there was to know about sex and when I met a boy who said he loved me and that he’d look after me every day of my life, I was easily seduced. Gently, he persuaded me into his bed. His smiles, so readily given, filled the void inside me and I fell in love. ** I told Dad I was pregnant while Mother was up town doing the shopping. He was as frightened as I was. “You’ll have to tell her,” he said. Then he admitted, “Though goodness knows how!” “Help me, Dad. Please!” I begged. He shook his head. “No,” he grumbled. “It’s a woman thing. I’d only be in the way and she’ll blame me for letting it happen.” The door closed behind him and he went down his allotment. It took me ages to find the nerve. It was beginning to get dark and I knew Dad wouldn’t be able to hide down the allotments much longer. He was expecting to come back to a row. He might even nip into the pub on the way home for a bit a Dutch courage. It had to be done. The words had to be said. Dad wouldn’t be able to take the strain of keeping a secret from her for any length of time, so when her favourite soap was finished, and she was in as good a humour as she would ever be, I blurted out the news. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. She gave me a look as though I was something nasty that had just crawled from the gutter and was dirtying her home. Her nose wrinkled as if the air stank of corruption. She was sitting down but still managed to draw herself away from me. She made me feel I was tainting her with my presence. She didn’t ask me if I was sure; she didn’t ask me who the father was. She didn’t ask how I thought I’d manage to bring up a baby when I was totally useless, as I’d expected. “Well,” she looked at my stomach. “You’ve made your bed so you’ll lie on it!” And she went to bed. When Dad returned home and I told him what had happened, he was as amazed as I was. We both suspected that the following day would bring the storm crashing down over our heads. I’d have liked a hug from him, but he was unpractised in showing me any affection. A pat on the shoulder as he went up to his room was all I got. I lay awake all night worrying about Mother’s strange reaction. Surely, if she didn’t care about me, at least she'd be concerned about what the neighbours would say? The dawn chorus finally lulled me to sleep and I was too exhausted to hear the alarm. It was eight o’clock when my bedroom door slammed open. “You! Slut! Get up!” Mother shouted. “Now!” I stumbled downstairs feeling nauseous. But the cause was fear not morning sickness. Mother was waiting for me. Dad had gone to work. I think she’d let me sleep until he was out the way. It was always her way to pick off the opposition, one by one. There was no sportsmanship in her games. “Thanks to you,” she said calmly, “I haven’t slept a wink all night.” “I’m sorry, Mum,” I mumbled. It was the only part I took in the conversation from there on in. She had it all worked out and told me, in no uncertain terms, what she thought of me and my behaviour and of my future. None of it was flattering but I took it all in silence. It was easier than protesting and bringing real invective down on my head. Surprisingly, mainly due to the power of her personality, it happened as she’d planned and within the month, a startled Dave and I were married and living in a flat above a hairdressing salon in the centre of town. In the Registry Office I could tell Dave was having second thoughts but my mother intimidated him and his own parents were too thrilled with the coming grandchild to question the marriage. For a short time we were happy but then Dave’s smiles began to fade and by my fifth month they’d gone altogether. I could do nothing to please him. I’d jumped out of the frying pan into the fire and I didn’t even have what little support Dad had been able to give me when I was living at home. But I’d made my bed and I was determined to lie in it. Dave, however, fancied other sheets and left me during my seventh month. In the early spring I’d lay in bed with the baby pressing on my bladder disturbing my sleep, or kicking me in the day whenever I dozed on the settee. The days lengthened and I took long, peaceful walks, enjoying seeing the daffodils on the point of unfurling their yellow trumpets. For days on end I spoke to no one but the supermarket checkout girls. There was no one to carp at me and no one to find displeasure with everything I said and everything I did. I was not alone when my waters broke. I was in the biscuit aisle at the supermarket and managed to drench the shoes of the poor young lad who was stacking the shelves. The Manager was very kind and called an ambulance and my twins were born without a couple of hours. I held them both and realised I’d never be alone again. I cried and hugged them and swore to be a devoted mum, always. My cloud finally had a silver lining and the three of us would have a loving home and a wonderful future. I was just seventeen. What did I know? Mother visited us in the flat every week, on Tuesday, for one hour. She was still doing her duty, which consisted in finding fault. She’d had three children. I could tell her nothing. It was very warm the last time she visited the flat. The babies were two months old and were fast asleep in their cots near the window. I let Mother in and she crossed the room to peer at my daughter and my son. “These children need some fresh air,” she nagged and opened the window. “No, Mum,” I said, “Don’t!” Too late, the stench of hair-perming chemicals flooded into the room. She slammed the window shut. Her mouth was a thin, pursed line. She glared at me as though defying me to point out that this time she was wrong. I made a pot of tea and we drank it in silence, as usual. Before she left, she looked briefly at the babies, sniffed in disapproval and never saw my son again. He died in his sleep. I feed them both in the early hours then found him the following morning at daybreak when his sister started to howl for a feed. He was cold and blue in his cot. My son, my baby, was dead and I fell apart. I couldn’t cope. This was one bed I couldn’t lay on and Mother did her duty again. She allowed me to go back home. She took the two of us away from “that dreadful flat with the appalling smell.” I briefly wondered, as I finally began to come out of my long depression, if she felt any guilt over the death of my baby. Did she think she’d poisoned him that day? My daughter and I paid for her magnanimity. She made sure of that and for the next four years she fed and clothed us and made my life a misery. Not one day passed but that she let me know how I’d disappointed her and how much I owed her. Her disdain wore me down and I constantly slid along the edge of another nervous breakdown. ** I had to loosen my grip. I had to let her go. Yet I daren’t. She was waiting, I knew, for my inevitable weakness to appear. The sharp clarity of the scene faded until only my mother’s wide eyes remained in my vision. They were bright but wary still. Then, a rush of sensation, a mixture of fear, guilt, sorrow and a terrible dread, overwhelmed me. Her perfume, so familiar over the years, reminded me of my childhood and of my growing up years. I remembered the time that followed the death of my little boy. During my depression, she’d cared for both my daughter and I. It had been a strangely serene time. Mother had done what she had to do with courage and stoicism. She’d played the martyr well but she’d left me alone. I heard the scratching of a key in the lock of the front door. Daddy’s home, I thought as I relaxed my grip on her wrists, slid down the wall and crouched in a tight ball at her feet and escaped into the sanctuary of a mind lost and confused, reassured only by the knowledge that Mother would take care of us all. |
|
| Breakdown Sideline 17 lazdom@ono.com |
#27 of 30 | |
| 1802 | ||
| This could only happen to me. The steering wheel feels cool against my forehead in this heat. Obviously if the car breaks down, the air conditioning does too, especially since my air conditioning was an open window going 90 through the desert. My cell phone is dead as a doornail on the passenger’s seat beside me. I thought I had charged it before I left, but that’s pretty much par for the course. I thought I had a lot of things under control before I took this trip. Jesus. My first thought was ‘If Mark were here…’ but then that’s it, isn’t it? If Mark were here, I wouldn’t be here. If Mark were here I wouldn’t be making a road trip across the land that God forgot, because there wouldn’t have been any point. It’s not my nature to regret what I do, but I’ve got that prickly feeling that I made a very, very bad choice. And Mark’s voice ringing in my ears doesn’t help much. I’d waited till Sunday after breakfast to bring it up. He was sitting in the recliner with his decaf and his paper and I’d hoped he’d be distracted enough to let this slide by. ‘Hon, I just got a wedding invitation from my cousin Claire.’ Mark answered with a half-interested ‘Who?’ ‘Claire. She’s actually my mom’s cousin’s daughter. So what does that make her to me?’ ‘Basically nobody.,’ Back to the paper. Good. ‘My second cousin, or once or twice removed or something.’ ‘Hmmm.’ I tried to sound casual, ‘So, it’s next month back in San Diego.’ ‘Your cousin still lives in your hometown?’ ‘No, but her mom does. I guess she decided to have it there for her.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Yeah, anyway. It’s on the sixteenth.’ He put down the paper. Damn. ‘You’re not thinking of going, are you?’ ‘Well, actually I was.’ ‘Forget it.’ He stood up and started pacing, like he does before starting one of his monologues. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no way you’re going to get me to waste a weekend for some second cousin I’ve never heard of. Your whole family battering me with ‘So when are you two little love birds going to tie the knot?’ in their rented tuxedoes and pink taffeta explosions,’ he sat down and crossed his arms, ‘I’m not going.’ ‘That’s ok, I understand,’ I paused, then ventured slowly, ‘you don’t have to come.’ He furled his brow like a disgruntled school teacher, ‘You’re still planning on going?’ ‘Yeah. I’d like to.’ One of my more brilliant ideas. The windshield’s covered with crud, but I can see enough of nothing for miles ahead of me to know I am royally screwed. I’m contemplating getting out and checking the engine, but since I don’t know a spark plug from a summer sausage unless there’s a big ole sign with an arrow saying ‘the problem’s here, stupid’, there wouldn’t be much point. And although the sweat’s now making the back of my shirt stick like cellophane, something tells me that leaving the confines of my car under this noontime sun would be a bit like the frying pan vs. fire dilemma. I choose to wait. ‘It’ll cost you a fortune to fly all the way out there for the weekend, unless you flew stand-by or something. And that’s only if you could get a flight.’ ‘I was thinking I could just take Friday off and drive.’ ‘Have you gone mad? Do you have any idea how far that is? You’d have to cross the desert. Alone.’ He came over to me and pretended to knock on my head, ‘Hello? Anybody home? Anybody sane?’ I shrugged away from him. ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this. It’s just a road trip.’ ‘But for godsakes, why?’ This was a tough one. I needed to steer clear of the truth, like way over to the next county. ‘Well, lately I’ve been feeling like, you know, I’d like to have more contact with my family,’ it was a stretch, so I added, ‘We’re so distant.’ ‘You can’t stand your family! Your mother drives you up the wall, and you barely speak to your brother. So you’re going to some unknown cousin’s wedding?’ ‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ I offered lamely. There was a storm brewing in his head, a thunder of thoughts as he started to piece it together. Quiet as death he said, ‘Who else is going to be there?’ I started to fidget with the fruit bowl on the table, avoiding his stare, ‘How would I know? Family, I suppose.’ His voice went cold. ‘Family and friends, right? Old friends from your hometown? Maybe Steve is going to be invited?’ I took my best shot at acting offended. ‘Talk about paranoid! Like she’s going to invite my ex-boyfriend to her wedding.’ Of course I knew fully well that Steve was going to be there. My mother had called me about the wedding two days earlier to give me her own personal push to get me there. She had never liked Mark, and often said she didn’t like the person I’d become since I’d been with him. The truth is they had never got along, which was part of the reason I had moved so far away. Of course that just gave her one more thing against him. ‘Hi sweetie. Did you get the invitation to Claire’s wedding yet?’ ‘Claire’s getting married?’ I didn’t even try to hide the envy in my voice. Mark’s fear of commitment was another reason my mother didn’t like him, which always reminded me of that old joke ‘The food was terrible, and such small portions too’. ‘Yes, cousin Carol called me about it a couple of days ago. They’re having it here in town.’ ‘Uh, mom. I don’t think Mark is going to want to go. You know he feels uncomfortable around so much family.’ ‘He hates us.’ ‘I didn’t say that.’ ‘You didn’t have to. He hates when your attention isn’t centered solely on him. And he probably hates that all our attention is centered on you.’ ‘Let’s not start, mom.’ ‘Alright darling. But Mark doesn’t have to come. You could come alone, and that would give you time to catch up with all your old friends.’ She paused for effect, ‘And there’s someone coming to the wedding who would be very excited about catching up with you.’ Coming from my mom that could only mean one thing, ‘Steve’s going to be there?’ I paused and checked the small rush I was feeling before continuing, ‘C’mon, when are you going to give up on that? That was years ago, it’s over. Done.’ ‘That’s not how Steve feels,’ she said slyly. ‘Now wait just a minute. How do you know what Steve feels anyway?’ ‘Well, you’ll just have to come back here and find out for yourself.’ My mother could be so infuriating. She was always playing these little games with me, and I always fell for them. Now look where it had got me. I’m getting seriously thirsty. I haven’t seen another car on this road for at least an hour. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a car on this road all day. Of course when I was zipping along with the breeze in my hair I felt so lucky to have this road all to myself. I actually have Mark to thank for that. In the end he was really helpful getting ready for the trip. He figured out this route that would save me tons of time driving. I was amazed that he was being so supportive, since it was so unlike him. I was actually shocked after how our discussion had degenerated into a horrible fight. ‘You would just love that, wouldn’t you? To take off for a weekend to go screw your ex.’ ‘It’s a wedding, remember? I’m going to celebrate a happy day with my family.’ ‘Yeah, so your mom can fill your head with shit against me. She hates me, you know. She’d be thrilled if we broke up.’ He suddenly grabbed my arm so hard it hurt, ‘But nobody’s going to separate us.’ ‘Listen, it’s a special day for my family, and I’d like to be there,’ I said as calmly as I could although I was shaking inside, ‘and nothing bad is going to happen. You just have to trust me.’ I had never seen such an expression on his face before, a look of pure fury. But then it simply disappeared, washed away as he let go of me. ‘Ok, you’re right. We trust each other, don’t we,’ he smiled this weird little smile and walked away. I was sure that he was going to ignore me for a time, or start saying nasty little things like he would normally. But a couple of days later he came in with a bunch of maps to help me plan for the trip. It’s been a crazy month. He’s been so nice, so sweet. I even considered cancelling the trip a couple of times. I mean, we’re so happy now why should I rock the boat. But then I would remember that look on his face and it would give me chills. So in the end I went, and here I am. I guess I should probably get out and prop up the hood like a respectable adult. Someone’s bound to come along sometime. It’s actually not as hot outside as it was in the car, but now I feel like the sun is going to eat my skin right through my clothes, and the black satin strapless and matching thong I’d packed aren’t going to help me too much. Now where’s the damn latch for the hood? Oh my god! I’m looking at the engine, and there it is! A note with a big ole arrow pointing at one of the hoses. But as I start to read, my legs give way under me like rubber, and if I had one drop of liquid left in my body I would cry until I floated away. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that my fate will be quite different from that.
|
||
| Breakdown Linda McGrath linda42@comcast.net |
#28 of 30 |
| 342 | |
| What makes her a gypsy is how she feels inside where the longing to keep moving ,and being stilled ,collide. The wish to be content , always denied... by a voice that rules her spirit, " I need to be free", it's potent, powerful, and can't be subdued look closely now ,and i bet you find , it also lives in you. She hungers to touch and taste ,what she dreams to be real what her eyes have yet to see, her mouth has yet to taste.. her being has yet to feel, See as she is starved, no rhythm to the pace caught up in a cycle , of an unforgiving, endless race. She never crosses the finish line , to feel she did her best no closure, to just move on, and allow herself a rest. She lunges forward, reaching with her entire body to get the tips of her fingers , beyond that yellow tape.. She envisions her victory, thank you's, but mostly her escape. Within a second and an inch , of completing her life task a weight latches to her ankles, and drags her body back. She claws and crawls, as the blood trickles down her hands and knees.. she gasps for air and in a whispered scream , you can barely hear, a plea of desperate prayer, " Please let me go, Oh God, the line's getting so far away! just once, just this once I need to cross, I beg you, please don't take it away!!!!!! " Her voice fades , along with the dreams known only to the gypsy's heart... and when she awoke, not one word spoke, as she'd been placed , Back At The Start. She could have walked away, given up, and said to hell with it, but despite the strife, her dreams demanded life, and wouldn't let her quit. She positioned herself , awaiting the sound of the gun, and "Runners begin your race!" She ran like the wind, determined to win, as silent tears streamed down her face. |
|
| Breakdown cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#29 of 30 |
| 2479 | |
| Whuh? Where...? Maeve turned her soggy senses outward. A small, hard, room in shades of dark and chilly dark and darker, still was all she could latch onto; a place somehow not really like the other times but, still, not yet quite different enough to make her actually care. She cleared her throat and dragged her tongue across her lips. A little dry and sore, oh, damn, please say she didn’t catch a cold... a cold... a co... you know what, come to think on it, a tall, cold one would really hit the spot right now. She turned her face to face the sudden-realized sound of murmuring somewhere out past that door she could just barely see across the room. Might that way lie a tall, cold one to help her ease her poor sick tonsils’ woes? Only one way to know. Slithering off the cold, hard, edge of the whatever’d been her bed last night, she wobbled in place a moment then, equilibrium achieved, lurched toward the door. The flap-flap of her shoe-less, hose-less feet across the cool, stone, tiles sang out, “find shoes, find shoes,” and, naturally, she had to laugh. How many times had her bare feet percussioned out that tune? Well, actually, more like how many times had her bare foot? So many morning afters spent peg-legging through some stranger’s after-party mess to finally find her long-lost right or left. Or, once in a blue moon, not find the prodigal shoe at all. Those times Maeve just laughed and shrugged and flap-clopped home. Never in her memory, however, had she ever lost them both at once. This was, indeed, a first. Maeve made a mental note to have an extra tall, cold one to celebrate. Okay, okay, an extra two. But that was later, after she had found her shoes. Or shoe. For now - the door. And through. Into a buzzy green-tinged hall and to the left and up the narrow, creaking steps. Maeve marveled at the wood veneer encasing everything in sight - faux knotty pine, she thought - and even gave a smirking rap-rap-rap to gauge its shallow depth. Then wondered even harder, now, just where she was. Again, no time to muse on “wheres” - another door. And through. And out into the open-air, into a space also decked-out in floor-to-ceiling vinyl grain. She did not stop to rap these walls; instead Maeve just bee-lined past the plastic verticals and several well-worn wing-back chairs in varying shades of nondescript pushed up against them, straight for a pair of dark-stained, real-wood doors from which, behind... the murmuring lure: the sound, she’d just decided had to be her fellow celebrants wondering, “Where’s our Maeve? Her tall, cold ones are getting warm.” About to push on through, she paused to laugh - she loved this part. She always did. No idea where she was, and even less a clue to who had brought her here but, in the end, what difference did it make? The company she kept was always AOK by her as long as her best friend “Chief Tall Cold One” was there to help her find and grab and hold the laughing things and, then, escort her home. Again, she laughed. Well, actually, she tried, but found the laughter snagged on thorny thoughts. On sudden recollections of what awaited her at home after the night was finally laid to rest and she’d flap-clopped it through their door, one sling-back on, the other one... oh, jeez, Bren, I can’t tell you where or who, the stupid thing is gone, is all I know. Who cares? God’s sake, it’s just a frickin’ shoe. Of course, Bren. One more “lost sole in purgatory.” As you say, just like me. Yep, there was Bren. So always sober-serious now, so always waiting for her in the dark: wet-eyed from drowning in his blues, or glowering, seething with the news that everything was wrong. And, then, always, inevitably, the puffing up and huffing off to “meetings” in this basement or that rectory. Really, she would just like to laugh it off, how hard and dry and humourless he’d turned since, as he said, he “finally found some peace” - but she really didn’t dare, it took so little for him to ratchet up the “Whens?” You know, the “Whens?” When was she going to realize? When was she going to face the facts? When was she going to cut the shit? When was she going to stop her crap? Stop being such...? Stop drinking to...? Stop running from...? Stop this? Stop that? Stop breathing. Living. Being. Bren never said those last, three, things of course. But that was how it felt to her when she came home feeling no pain and stepped into his scaulding rain of “When?” And, then, of course, the red-eyed stares and sighs. And, then, the tired creaking from the chair and slo-mo shuffling to the door. And, then, the turn and plaintive: “Mae, the meeting’s down at Saint Xavier’s today, come sit with me and feel the sweet relief, give it a chance, your world will change, you’ll finally find some peace in it.” A different tune entirely from what ol’ Bren would sing back in the day, when Chief Tall Cold One could have been his brother, and every other night would find the three of them out in the streets, loudly informing closing time on how the only people who have peace are dead. Yeah, that was what Bren said. Maeve tried again to laugh but all that came was heat and crackling air. These were the times Maeve was desperately grateful for the Chief. He always helped her navigate the mindfield that was, now, Bren in daytime, Bren at night, Bren in the afternoon. Them being no longer friends, Chief, of course, was gas-on-fire to Bren, but Maeve didn’t like to think what she would do if it was ever her alone without the Chief to hold her hand and light a candle in her heart when Bren and his forever “Whens?” would overwhelm the world with dark. Maeve stared at the set of gleaming yellow knobs that marked the center of the heavy double doors. Their brassy glow in stereo against the dark-stained wood were nicely warming, and she shook her head to clear the icy webs that always grew and reached and caught and dragged her down and down and down so far there was no longer “up,” when she’d been dry too long. And, yes, indeed, she had been dry too long, her mouth was parched, her throat was sore, and all that stood between discomfort and relief were just these party-hiding double doors. The thought made Maeve want to laugh - she tried, and, out one came. A real one, too, not just a squeeze-box wheeze of air - and, greatly pleased, she donned her brightest party smile and barged on through. “Drop your Schnapps and grab your Heinies, wake’s over, kids - let’s get this funeral off its ass and into dancing shoes.” The yet another faux-lined room sat in its buzzy yellowness, quite clearly unimpressed. Nonplussed, Maeve hovered a sec to note the dusty plastic rubber plants set here, the service table over there, the faintly cheap and worn and ugly everywhere. Bearings achieved, she huffed and scowled her way around the clot of regimented metal fold-out chairs that center-staged the room, hell-bent toward what seemed to be the only other person there, a gentleman in the first row. Who also seemed, to her, as she closed in - even hunched forward, face-in-hands the way he was - like someone she should know. Or maybe not. Maybe he just looked the type who knew where murmuring parties and her friend, The Chief, might be. And, so, Maeve slipped up behind and was just getting set to give her most disarming laugh and tap him on his rather spiffy-suited arm when, suddenly... “oh god oh god oh god oh god.” murmured the man into his hands. “oh god oh god oh god.” She almost laughed. Not that she meant to gloat but, hell - been there herself, and many times, right on that breaking edge. And there was just one parachute she knew to ease the plunge to float. She cleared her throat - still raw and dry - and leaned on in. “What you need, doll,” she croaked over his muffled moans, “is something tall and cold. Which way’s the bar?” “oh god oh god oh god oh god...” “Yeah, doll, okay, I know, I know. Just point me to the party room and in a sec I’ll...” “oh god oh god maeve oh god....” “...ge....?” Wait - was that her name? “oh god maeve maeve oh god oh god....” It was. Maeve stood straight and padded back a step. And back. And then, again. And fell into an empty fold-out chair. And stared. The whining voice. The build. The hands. The spiffy suit. Could that be... Bren? She stared some more. Why, yes, it could. Again. My God, it was. Well, what the hell. Suddenly chilled, she wrapped her arms around herself and gave a little cough, which really hurt. She must, indeed, have caught a cold. A cold... A tall, cold one - or ten - certainly would soothe. And, probably, her throat, as well. She watched her shoe-less, hose-less feet - two feeble, bony, ghosts - as they hooked and clung to the lower rung of the fold-out chair before her. And, slowly, dawn broke past the puzzling place in which she was immersed and cast its wakening rays across her buzzy yellow world. Well... there it was. No wonder she couldn’t find the party, find the bar, find her tall, cold one. Enlightened, now, she straightened in her chair and glowered at Bren’s heaving back and shook her head and, leaning forward, spit: “Oh, Bren - you are too much. Too frickin’ much. The way you always have to have your way. I can’t believe each stinkin’ time you’d say, “Come on, Maeve, just come and sit” and I’d tell you, ‘No way’- that didn’t mean a thing to you. No, you just bide your time and wait till I’m so drunk I can’t say shit and haul me to your loser meeting anyway. How sick you are. A frickin’ lunatic.” She scowled around the ugly, buzzy, room. No wonder it was such a dump. No parties here, hell no. Just whiny losers crying in their apple juice. “OK, big shot, big shit so, tell me, then, which one is this? Your crappy Saint Xavier’s? The frickin’ ‘Y’? Which whiny loser meeting did you drag me to against my will? And where are all your whiny, loser friends?” ‘oh god oh god maeve oh god oh god oh god.” Maeve sucked her teeth and sneered. “That’s right, ignore me like you always do. Yeah, once again, it’s only about you - and who the hell am I? I’m just this... thing... you drag arou....” “Ahem... um... Mister Neff?” Maeve jumped. A stocky man in a slightly tight black suit was standing way too close. She pressed her hand over her pounding chest. “Good grief, don’t sneak around like that! You nearly scared me half to death!” “I say, EXCUSE me, Mister NEFF?” He lightly nudged Bren’s back. Bren flinched and whipped halfway ‘round in his seat, eyes staring, wide. “WHAT? WHAT?” The man squatted down behind his chair to “entre nous.” “I’m sorry to have to bother you with technicalities,” the man began, all whispery and sweaty-faced, “but it’s been all day and we’ve a wee less than an hour to get her to the... um... the place.” He gave a tiny, almost painful laugh. “You know - the crematorium. And it takes our men at least a half an hour to ready the remains.” Maeve’s eyes followed his stumpy hand as it gestured out across the room to something she’d not seen before - a long, black, shiny box sat on a black-draped stand. She didn’t like the look of that. “So, the thing is, Mister Neff, though there’s every possibility the others may just be held up, we really need to have the service now....” Bren bugged his eyes and moved his mouth, but not a sound came out. Then, suddenly, he jumped up, pointing wildly toward the box. “Why is it CLOSED?” The stocky man heaved from his squat and gave a sweaty cough. “Oh, you don’t know? Well, once again, I do apologize, you’d ought to have been told. Briefly...” he took a breath, “briefly, it seems the things your wife, um... inadvertently... consumed destroyed more of the outer mouth and nose than we’d, originally, assumed. “And in cases such as this it is our policy to keep the casket closed. I’m sure you must agree.” Bren neither “yes’ed” nor “no’ed.” He just stared at the box. “oh god maeve oh god maeve oh god oh god oh god.” And, then, he flew. Clattering through the rows of fold-out chairs, up to the double doors and slam-bang-boom and through. The stocky man in black just watched him go. “I guess that’s a “no” to the service, then?” he grinned and turned and slowly angled toward the open doors, carefully navigating through the sudden sea of tangled chairs left scattered in Bren’s hasty wake. Safely negotiated, he stopped to pull a pocket watch and frown, then, “OKAY, GUYS - THE PARTY’S DONE IN VIEWING TWO. COME BREAK ‘ER DOWN” and left the room. Maeve sat and watched as men came in and cussed the long, black, shiny, box off of its stand onto a wheeled cart and out, only to wheel back in a long, white, shiny box which got cussed in its place, then righted fold-out chairs and lined them nice and neat and - since tomorrow was the Ginkel party, so someone said - set up another couple rows and, finally, turning off the overheads, closed tight the double doors. And, in the room, alone, Maeve just sat until she’d had enough of vast and cold and shades of dark, and plastic dark, and ugly, claustrophobic dark, and turned her sharpened senses in until she caught, again, the luring murmuring in the air and, looking at her shoe-less, hose-less feet, decided it was time to flap-flap them on home to Bren. To thank him for his help in finally getting dry. To thank him for pouring it all out down the sink that day, and leaving for a meeting, so she could enjoy, alone, the “sweet relief.” To show him how her world had changed. And, yes, how different it was, now she had reached the answer end of “When?” To share with him how peaceful she was now, without the Chief. |
|
| Breakdown boluraphael@yahoo.com |
#30 of 30 |
| 189 | |
| The beauteous face of sky above Rays of gold of sunlight day glow, And darksome veil of night loosely hang Its twinkling many stars in drifting clouds Their beauties so delicately lie, But touch of the nimbus where blows Break the face into tears of rain. The pacific sight of the sea Zephyr set in waves of smiles, And ripples that caress the blue face Ember of crimson sun that set even Divinely lit with immortal touch, But grip of the east wind where hold Break into rage that it storms thru. The goodly realms and cream of earth, Green leaves with blossoms of springtide And red and gold of wood in autum, Dwellings of diverse arrays in thy grace Embrace thy face in arts of the race, But rumbles of the plates where touched Break into quake that scared your face. The peaceful countenance of man, Cherubic mien of early days And sonsy lass frame of growing time, Mortal set in the lovely size and shape The reflection of immortal kind , But the hand of fit when it touched Break into ill that mare his grace. |
|
| Breakdown Deborah Penn Turnerloonybin@aol.com |
#31 of 30 |
| 97 | |
| There’s a girl I know E’er since she was a baby For years I watched her grow Into a young lady In school she was popular A Miss Society Friends were never far She had personality Does anyone know why Old friends were left behind? No matter how we try The drugs confuse her mind She tells lie after lie To her mother and father Just so she can get high She'll end in the gutter This girl she grew into Throws her life down the drain We don't know what to do Everyone’s in such pain |
|
| Breakdown walshnyc@rcn.com |
#32 of 30 |
| 2383 | |
| “Thank you Grant. We’ll have more on this
tragic fire coming up at eleven. This is Tracy Shea for Channel 7. Good night,
and good news…” ************ “Are we clear?” Larry the cameraman nodded that the feed had indeed ended. He lowered the camera from his shoulder, stepped forward and took the microphone from Grant’s hand. “Do you need a lift to the station?” he asked. “Yeah; I’d appreciate that,” Grant replied, scanning the crowd. He expected to see the unwelcome face that he spied during his report, but it was nowhere to be seen. “The van’s up the block,” Larry called out as he disappeared through the crowd of curious onlookers, firemen, and other news-people. Grant followed. He had almost cleared the throng before being stopped. “Hey- aren’t you that guy from Channel 7? Grant Ryder?” A woman had grabbed his arm and was looking up at him with excited, probing eyes. He’d barely managed to mutter a ‘yes’ before her voice pierced his eardrums: “I knew it! So- when are you going to be an anchor?” “I don’t know-” “I don’t like that Mark Matthews. I like Tracy, his co-anchor. Are they seeing each other?” “I, uh-” “Why did they get rid of Chet Stevens? I liked him so much better than Mathews…” “I don’t know,” he said, prying himself free. “It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am, but I really need to get back to the station…” “Oh, it’s so tragic. Fires are so terrible. Those poor people…” The woman’s voice trailed behind him as he walked faster, trying to find Larry. He didn’t see him, but he did locate the news-van parked up the block. He lowered his eyes, quickened his pace, and headed towards it. “Grant! Wait up!” Grant froze in his steps and turned. “Vernon? I wasn’t expecting to see you here…” “What’s the rush, Grant?” he said with his usual smirk. “ I’d ask ‘where’s the fire’, but I think that would be in bad taste…” “And yet you felt the need to say it anyway…” “What’s that?” “Nothing. What are you doing here?” Grant was sure of the gist of this conversation from the moment he spotted Vernon in the crowd during his report, but humored his boss. “You’re a field reporter, Grant, so consider this a field evaluation,” Vernon continued. “I watched your reports, and once again, you failed to go for the money-shot during an interview.” “Money shot? Are we actually admitting that what we do is pornography now?” “Don’t crack wise, Mister; I’m still your boss.” Grant shook his head in resignation. “I know what you wanted; I just couldn’t do it…” “What part of it do you find difficult? You were the first reporter to get Mr. Gonzales-” “Garcia.” “Whatever! You have first dibs on a man who just lost his wife and children in a house fire, and all you can think to ask him is whether he knew what might have started it?” “I didn’t even want to ask him that…” “You’re not supposed to want to ask him that! Look, Grant, television is a visual medium- it thrives on images; your job is to help us get that image- the whole story summed up in a single picture. Sometimes it occurs naturally, and we happen to be lucky enough to catch it, but sometimes we have to coax it out of people. That’s why we want you to feed them the line-“ “I thought my job was to report the news. I didn’t get a degree so I could learn to ‘stage manage’ people’s emotions by asking how they feel when they just suffered a tragic loss. It’s insulting to them and us!” Grant could feel his face become flush from his anger. “You think it’s exploitation; you think it’s crass, or even unethical, but let me tell you- everybody does it. Channel 4. Channel 9--“ “Chet Stevens never did it.” Vernon scowled, then continued as if he’d never been interrupted: “It’s getting harder and harder to grab the audience’s attention. That’s why we go after the ‘breakdown’ shot. Sorrow wracked faces, mournful wails, collapsing in grief-those are moments of truth that grabs the viewer by the balls and heartstrings!” “Why can’t a person stoically dealing with their personal tragedy be that moment? Why drag their pain to the surface?” “Because nobody feels apathy for the person who is ‘dealing with it’. A face distorted by grief appears on screen for two seconds during a teaser for the eleven o’clock news, and people are going to tune it to find out what the story is,” Vernon said. “And these people you describe as stoic are usually just in shock when we first get to them. You ask them how they feel because sometimes their brains are too overwhelmed to realize that they should be feeling anything. You’re actually helping to usher them to the next phase of coping…” The speech seemed to come to a vague end and Grant just stared at him blankly. An awkward moment passed before Vernon spoke again: “Why are we standing here?” “I was going to catch a ride back to the station with my camera guy, but I don’t know where he is,” Grant said. He peered through the van’s windows but did not see the driver. “He’s probably off taking a leak somewhere. I’ll give you a ride; My car’s at the other end of the block…” Before Grant could think of an excuse to turn down the offer, both men were startled by the approach of a shadowy figure. “I knew you would be here,” the man said as he was upon them. Grant wasn’t sure what was going on, but in a flash, he was certain of two things: the man wore a mask and had a gun. “I’ve got a ‘special bulletin’ for you gentlemen,” he announced. “Get in the van, or you’re dead!” ******* Grant sat on a metal folding chair in the tiny, dark room, and considered trying the door again. It had been a few hours since the abduction. As per instruction he drove the news van to the industrial park area near the river. The gunman had climbed into the back of the van and kept the pistol trained on his head while Vernon cowered in the passenger seat. They pulled the van directly into one of the warehouse loading entrances where both men were instructed to get out. Grant had been led to and locked in this room. Vernon’s location was unknown. Their assailant had said nothing beyond driving directions and an assurance that he had not hurt Larry. That seemed encouraging, but Grant still had no clue of what any of this was about. He stood to try the door again when the knob’s rattle startled him back into the chair. “Come out,” the gunman said. Grant had his first clear look at him. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and seemed to have a stocking mask on underneath a ski mask. “This way.” He pointed with the gun, then followed as Grant walked in the direction he was told. They entered a large room, well lit, but vacant except for Vernon, mouth taped, and tied to a chair in the middle of the room, and Larry’s camera set up on it’s tripod, pointing right at him. “What is this?” “An interview. You interview him. We’re going live at eleven.” The gunman stepped over to the camera and returned holding out a microphone and some index cards towards Grant, who took both. “These are your questions. You can read through them if you want, but he doesn’t get to see them. We want the most honest emotional reaction from him on camera, okay? Now go take your place…” Grant walked over to the ‘x’ made of tape on the floor near Vernon’s chair. He looked angry, but it may have been fear. The gunman had moved back over to the camera and seemed to be studying it, but the gun remained pointed uncomfortably at the camera’s subjects. He then pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, and spoke inaudibly into it. “Okay- take off the tape!” The gunman yelled. “We’re going in three, two, and… go!” Grant yanked the tape from Vernon’s mouth with a satisfying ‘rip’. He cleared his throat and began reading: “Good evening. I’m Grant Ryder, and this is a special report from Channel 7 News. Earlier this evening, my producer and I were abducted from the scene of a house fire I was reporting on, and as a condition of our guaranteed safe release, our captor has arranged this exclusive interview. It may not be entertaining, but I, uh, according to our captor, it will be newsworthy.” “Stick with the script!” The masked cameraman yelled. Grant moved on to the next card. “Vernon Baxter, I regret to inform you that your car has been stolen, your house has burned to the ground, and your dog is dead,” he read. “How does that make you feel?” “Karen…?” Vernon’s voice cracked. Grant looked toward the camera for confirmation. “Read the next card,” the gunman yelled. “Your wife was not in the house at the time,” Grant read. “She left minutes before the fire started. She had just received photographic evidence that you had been cheating on her, and is believed to have gone to her mother’s. How does that make you feel Mr. Baxter?” “Fuck you.” Grant read on, compelled and curious. “Your mother died in a second rate nursing home because you couldn’t be bothered to move her to a nicer facility; how do you feel about that? You’ve bragged about cheating on your taxes; how does it feel to have that out in the open, Mr. Baxter?” “What the hell do you want from me?” Vernon screamed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I don’t know what you want me to say!” He had achieved the ‘breakdown’ moment. “I want an honest response,” the cameraman yelled back. Grant looked down at his cards to see if this was written there. It wasn‘t. “When people turn on the news, why the hell can’t they just get the news? When did celebrities screwing each other become so important? Why are political pundits suddenly more newsworthy than the topic they’re supposed to comment on? And for the love of God, why do they keep showing that water-skiing squirrel? It’s not news! It’s not even cute anymore!” “We give the people what they want!” Vernon screamed back. “If you don’t like it, then read the newspaper! Or avoid the news altogether!” “Avoid the news? I used to be the news!” In a move worthy of a soap opera cliffhanger, the gunman pulled off and flung is mask to the floor. “Chet Stevens?” Grant stared in disbelief. The former Channel 7 anchor had more wrinkles, and his hair gone grayer, but it was unmistakably him. Vernon seemed surprised, and somehow more scared than he had been earlier. “Now let’s be rational here, Chet..” he said. “Rational? Tell me Grant; what do they tell people around the station who wonder whatever happened to me?” “Just that you retired…” ‘They said I was obsolete! That my kind of newsman was going out of style! When the hell did real news become obsolete? When did the truth go out of style?” Chet raged. “And it wasn’t enough to just let me go with dignity! No, this asshole takes me out to lunch, then brings me back to his office with a few drinks in me before he drops the axe. He knew how I would react, and made sure he got the whole unpleasant scene on camera somehow! He probably thought it would be funny to e-mail it to his friends for a laugh, but it got out. Those things always do… “Look, Chet, I’m really sorry about the way things turned out for you-” “Bullshit! When that video got around, my chances of landing another on-camera job were sunk! I became a laughing stock among my peers, and my wife left me, taking half of my retirement with her!” “I never meant-“ “It’s shits like you who are ruining the business,” Chet ranted as he approached Vernon’s chair. Grant stepped away, eyes still on the pistol. “All you care about is the bottom line, and you whore out the news to the lowest common denominator to get it! It’s all fancy graphics and moody music, and the networks have become so beholden to the sponsors that the truth now belongs to whoever pays the most for it!” He seemed to run out of breath and suddenly recall Grant’s presence. “Do you know how to work a camera?” he asked. “Yeah.” “Go over there and zoom it in on Baxter’s face.” Grant had a sudden, horrible flash of Vernon’s fate, but did not want to beat him to it, so he obeyed. He looked through the view-finder as his producer’s face filled the frame. “I knew my days behind the anchor desk were limited,” he said. “I know I’m a dinosaur, but I thought I would be able to live with stepping aside if it meant progress-- if it was for the greater good. And every night at six and eleven I sit amid the shambles of my life and still can’t figure out what it was all for. And you want to know how it feels? Do you want to know what it looks like- the real face of the moment of truth?” In a single fluid motion, Chet raised the gun to his temple and squeezed the trigger. The act happened off camera, but the evidence splattered Vernon’s’s face in living color, his expression a mask of blood and horror. Grant retrieved Chet’s cell phone and dialed 911. It never occurred to him to shut the camera off. The ratings would prove to be phenomenal… ***** “Coming up on the six o’clock news; Channel 9 anchor Grant Ryder will talk about The ‘Chet Stevens Incident’ on it’s second anniversary; also, in our studio we’ll ask Grant’s former producer Vernon Baxter how it felt to survive that ordeal, and coming up a little bit later, a squirrel who loves to water ski!” |
|
| Breakdown Kevin B. Barron newkevin@pacbell.net |
#33 of 34 |
| 2501 words. Not eligible for judging. | |
| The silver Mercedes slowly pulled into the garage, the
metal door sliding down behind it, sealing it off from the outside world.
Donald turned off the ignition and stared at the now blank dashboard, except for the clock that innocuously announced 6:42pm in a pleasing azure. He reached into his shirt pocket, grabbed two more Vicoden and mindlessly popped them into his mouth. He winced as he bit down and chewed, the bitter taste spreading across his tongue. A quick swig of water sent the chewed up pills down to join the others that were already coursing through his body. He checked the time and did the math as to how long it would be before the next happy wave of nausea announced the arrival of the drugs. He sat back in the leather seat, closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. Better to give the Vicoden a few more minutes to kick in and enjoy a few more minutes of solitude. He opened his eyes and was disappointed that only a couple of minutes had passed. He sighed and opened the car door; a series of quick chimes reminded him that his keys were still in the ignition. He ignored the alarm and closed the door, content that the car will still be here in the morning. Donald walked through the foyer, his footfalls echoing off the vaulted ceilings and marble floors. In the kitchen, he could hear Jackie yelling and Roberta, their housekeeper, crying and apologizing in broken English. Donald felt sorry for his wife. She has been so on edge lately. He could not imagine what it would be like, living the life that Jackie has created for herself. On the board of numerous children’s charities, countless meetings and phone calls with potential donors, so many letters to write. As for Donald, he filled his days making sure that the next big studio blockbuster stayed reasonably on budget and managed to get into the theaters on schedule. He spent hours on the phone, making sure that the big stars got the big trailers and that some poor intern had attended to their every whim. Nothing he did ever saved any lives. However, as for Jackie, how many children were able to eat today, or received some life saving immunization or were able to attend school because of Jackie’s tireless commitment to the health and safety of the world’s children? Donald pulled his tie off his neck as he slowly ascended the spiral staircase to the bedroom. He could feel the Vicoden kicking in and it made the climb feel eternal. He could still hear the commotion from the kitchen. Still more yelling and crying and the sounds of frantic sweeping of broken glass. He felt badly for Roberta. She was very good and very friendly, but keeping up with Jackie’s demands had to be taxing. He couldn’t imagine what all the drama was about. There really wasn’t anything in the kitchen that was irreplaceable. He sat down on the bed, his eyes dropping down to the dresser below the window. The top of the dresser was almost completely obscured by photographs. Pictures of Joshua. Pictures of a time when things were different. A time when there was laughter and love in the house. It had been a long and expensive process in their quest to conceive a child. Their life filled with numerous fertility doctors, invasive and sometimes painful examinations, referrals, second, third opinions. Jackie bore it all with her usual fortitude. Donald lost count of how many times he had to go into some small room with well read but humorously outdated pornography, trying to stimulate himself to get one more sample for one more procedure. Fortunately, Jackie would occasionally accompany him in to the little room to provide some extra incentive. He never did really get used to having to hurry out of the little room, giving the little plastic cup to the nurse behind the desk, his face still flush, and still feeling somewhat out of breath. The nurse would give some nod approval or disapproval of his virility based how much he filled the cup. After many months and thousands of dollars, Donald and Jackie gave up hope on the medical profession and on their quest to conceive. In a moment of exhaustion and inspiration, they booked a last minute trip to Cancun. In the warm tropical air and trade winds, far for the pressures of life, their days and nights spent in mindless relaxation and blissfully unscheduled lovemaking, they conceived Joshua. The doctors could not fully explain the happy miracle. Jackie had her own theory. The cleaning staff of the resort was often leaving towel sculptures in their room every night. They somewhat resembled a Buddha, complete with a flower in its lap. She finally got the chance to ask one of the staff about the sculptures and was told that the sculptures were “Las muñecas del Niños”, Mayan fertility dolls. Thousands of years of Mayan culture and the beautiful people of the Yucatan managed to accomplish what western medicine failed to do. At least that was Jackie’s take on it. Donald didn’t care why, only that they were pregnant. Donald and Jackie shifted into parental life with much grace and ease. Days became months, cribs became daybeds, and tricycles became bicycles with training wheels. T-ball became underhand slow pitch. Until the day, a few days before Joshua’s ninth birthday, when they received the news that he had cancer. Days of baseball, laughter and ice cream for no reason became longs days of doctor visits and vomiting. Jackie quit her job and became Joshua’s full time nurse. Joshua lost his hair, his appetite and a shocking amount of weight. Donald and Jackie watched their pride and joy, their beautiful little miracle, slowly waste away. Joshua’s oncologist used every chemo drug that he had at disposal, but the cancer continued to be resistant to treatment. Each new drug would bring the possibility of hope, but eventually would only provide more torment. Finally, on the eve of his eleventh birthday, Joshua fell asleep in his mother’s arms and never woke up. Not long after the funeral, Jackie had a nervous breakdown. At the advice of friends, Jackie joined her first support group. Not long after, she started her own. From there, she moved from one cause to the next, committing herself to the mission that no child should ever suffer. All Donald could do was work longer hours, and stay out of her way. Even now, almost two years since Joshua’s passing, neither of them can even speak of the time when Joshua was alive. A back injury from a traffic accident introduced Donald to the miracle of painkillers. He found that Vicoden could do far more than just make his back feel better. The pain of getting up in the morning and facing another day became much more manageable. Unfortunately, Donald also soon found out that he had a very hungry monkey on his back. It had very sharp nails and required constant feeding. His only saving grace was that Jackie had no clue about his addiction. The last thing he needed was to explain to his crusader wife was that he needed drugs just to get through his day. The slamming of the front door snapped Donald out of his trance as Roberta hurriedly made her way down the driveway. Roberta was gently dusting off the pictures hanging in the kitchen when she noticed a slight vibration in the house; it was the sound of the garage door was opening. She looked at her watch; it was 6:42. Mr. Donald was home. She was dusting pictures of a young boy wearing a baseball uniform, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, a broad smile on his face. A boy Roberta knew was no longer alive. All that she knew was that his name was Joshua and that his parents missed him very much. She never bothered to ask what happened to him. She learned very early on that it was best to stay out of Ms. Jackie’s way and to do her job as invisibly as possible. She always found Mr. Donald very pleasant, but also very sad and distant. She knew that like Ms. Jackie, he was still grieving for the boy and that both parents were in a great deal of pain. She said a small prayer, as she always did while dusting around the pictures. A prayer that the little boy was in the loving care of Jesus and that someday the parents would find peace. The vibration stopped with its usual light thud, followed by a crash. The baseball picture had dropped from the wall and the glass had shattered at Roberta’s feet. Roberta recoiled as Jackie came out of her office, her Bluetooth still on her ear. Jackie saw the shattered picture on the floor and ripped the earpiece from her ear, slamming it down on the marble countertop. Roberta panicked and tried to explain that it wasn’t her fault. Jackie flew into a rage, yelling at the near hysterical Roberta as she frantically tried to sweep up the broken glass. She carefully removed the remaining broken glass from the picture and slid it from the frame. Jackie stormed into her office with Roberta trailing behind. She handed the picture to Jackie, trying to show her that it was unharmed. Jackie was hearing none of it and fired Roberta. She continued to yell at Roberta as she followed her to the front door, slamming it behind her. Jackie went back into her office, still holding Joshua’s picture. She sat down at her desk and started sobbing, the grief for her son overtaking her rage. Her guilt soon joined her grief as began to feel terrible for treating Roberta so poorly. She knew it was an accident and had no excuse for blaming Roberta. It was only a picture, even if it was a picture of Joshua. She composed herself and slipped her Bluetooth back on. She dialed up Roberta’s number and left a very composed and apologetic message. She asked for Roberta’s forgiveness and offered her a raise if she would come back to work for her. Jackie sat at her desk and took a deep breath, trying to figure out the reason for her outburst. The soreness in her nose reminded her as one possible answer. Jackie’s discovery of methamphetamine was at first a blessing. It gave her almost inexhaustible energy and nearly euphoric optimism that she felt she needed so that she could actually make a difference in the world. Jackie threw herself completely into the world of children’s charities. Unfortunately, Jackie soon came to discover that her “friend” had devious, ugly, dark side. She started to lose too much weight, became withdrawn and irritable, snapping at anybody who so much as disagreed with her. When she heard the glass break in the kitchen, she was on the phone with Sharon, the CEO of one her charities. Sharon thanked her for all of her efforts, but Jackie was becoming difficult to work with, and Sharon was concerned that Jackie might start to scare away donors. She suggested that maybe it was time for a vacation. A vacation with Donald. A man that she held in awe for going through life’s vicissitudes without so much as having to raise his voice. The long hours at the studio, juggling millions of dollars and placating the egos of some of Hollywood’s most rich and famous. He even came through the car accident and all the physical therapy still as the same rock steady Donald. She was truly grateful to be married to him. She was also grateful that she had managed to keep her drug habit a secret from him. She did want to have to explain to the world’s most perfect husband that she needed drugs just to get through the day. Jackie stared in to eyes of her dead son. She thought back to the day that photograph, the day of the Joshua’s homerun. Joshua was not of a baseball player and his baseball team was nowhere near the best in the league. Fortunately, what the team lacked in talent it more than made up for in team spirit. All the boys cheered each other on and somehow managed to stay positive even if the outcome of the game was not in their favor. An outing of minigolf or pizza followed many of the games. When the doctors diagnosed Joshua’s cancer, the team rushed to Joshua’s side, providing the same support off the field that they would during the game. When Joshua became too weak to play, each of the boys would take turns and come over after the game to give Joshua all the play-by-play details. Many of the boys and parents would visit Joshua’s during his all too many hospital stays. At Joshua’s funeral, the entire team came dressed in their uniforms and at the end of the funeral, yelled out the end game cheer, shouting Joshua’s name at the end and throwing their baseball caps in the air. Jackie realized that her steady stream of tears was starting to collect on Joshua’s picture. She grabbed a handful of Kleenex and gently dried off the picture. She took out a few more and blew her sadness into the wad of tissues. Jackie took a deep breath and headed upstairs. She felt the need for a quick visit with her “friend” before making dinner for Donald. She went into the master bathroom, sliding the dimmer switch on only as much as was needed. She figured Donald was in the bedroom and she didn’t want the light to attract his attention. She went into her makeup case and grabbed her large compact, which hadn’t been used for makeup purposes for quite a long time. Taking her usual seat at the toilet, Jackie drew out two small lines, put the straw to her nose and started to inhale. Donald sat at the bed. His mind now clouded by the arrival the latest dosing. Unfortunately, even through all the Vicoden, staring at the dresser with all the pictures of Joshua was still breaking his heart. His eyes welled up at the thought of his son, lying in the hospital, only a fleshy shell of the happy, healthy boy that he had been only a few months earlier. He opened the bottom left drawer, a drawer that was mostly dedicated to dress socks. He took out the pill bottle and stared. He felt grateful for the pills and simultaneously hating himself for being so weak. He slowly got off the bed and staggered towards the bathroom to get some water. Better just to end this day and start again tomorrow. The light in the bathroom came on to full. Their eyes met and for the first time in a very long time, they truly saw each other. |
|
| Breakdown M. K. fugirex@yahoo.com |
#34 of 34 |
| 2489 | |
| “I need some money, mom,” Buster said.
His mother shook her head, “In all of your 25 years, I never expected you to turn out like this. Since your dad died, you started doing drugs and ruining you and everyone around you.” Buster towered over his mother. “I’m tired of you keep reminding me how bad my life is! I need money!” Mom recognized that determination in his eyes, like when he cocked his fist over her last week when he had her alone again in the house, asking for money. All she had was disability and social security money for her and Tim, the youngest. Buster ignored that, knowing her middle son Manny helped with expenses and drove her places. “Promise you’ll spend this on your family and not drugs.” Buster snatched the money and left. Mom cried. # “I lost the Hollywood television writing internship,” Tim said. He just finished freshman year at Springtown University. His large round eyes widened behind his thick eyeglasses as he read a letter to his mother in the living room as the outmoded freestanding television played in the background. His 18-year-old twig of a body fell on the sofa next to her. “Look on the bright side, you were a finalist, one of the best in the country,” mom said. “You and Manny set such high hopes and get so down when things don’t happen the way you wanted.” She paused. “Don’t pay no mind to what your brothers say about you, Tim. You are a great young man who will go far in this world. Keep your faith.” She kissed him on the cheek, relishing how he was the only son that still allowed her to do so. Tim turned the television dial to watch an old “Twilight Zone” episode. The snowy reception dotted the screen. Tim watched television religiously in escapism. Manny walked into the room. He sat his tall burly trunk of a body in the chair opposite the sofa. His flat cheekbones made him look chieftain. He was 23 years old and landed a good job right out of the local Springtown University. His academics qualified him to enter the best colleges in the country, but he settled for the local college due to lack of money, and to stay near his ailing mother. He lived at home for the latter. “Tim lost the television writing internship,” mom said. Manny laughed. “You’ll never be a Hollywood writer. English is your worse subject, the only one you can’t get an A in.” “Hush up with that talk!” mom said. “If you keep sticking up for him, he’ll never grow up. Doggone momma’s boy.” Manny glared at Tim, who got up and left the house. Mom stood with her hands on her hips. “Apologize the moment you see him!” Manny said, “Change the subject. Mom, enough is enough. After daddy passed away, you haven’t been to the hospital. If you don’t let me take care of you, I might as well move out.” He got up and marched out the front door. She ran for the door and put her hand over her heart. She collapsed to the floor. # Tim returned later that afternoon and was horrified to see his mother down. She snored loud and raw. He lifted her to her daybed. Manny creaked the front door open. “Manny, mom blacked out!” Tim said. Manny ran to her side. “What happened?” “I found her on the floor when I came in, so I dragged her to bed.” “You didn’t do anything else?” “I just found her a minute ago!” “Move out the way!” Manny put his hand to her head, then left the room. “I’m calling the hospital.” Tim lifted his mother up to him. Slowly, her eyes opened. She stared at the ceiling blankly. “I…I see a bright light. Angels…floating toward me.” With eyes wide, he looked up and saw nothing. Instantly his heart was beating at full speed. Just as soon as she awakened, she went limp. “Mom?” Tim shook her. Manny ran into the living room. “What’s going on?” Manny pushed Tim aside and put his ear on her chest. “There’s no heartbeat. Why didn’t you say something?” “It was so quick!” A moment later, thunderous knocks beat on the front door. Buster let in the medics, who charged in with a stretcher. Tim watched the proceedings as if it was theater. It did not seem real to him. Mom can’t die, he thought, the Lord won’t allow it. The medics carried her out of the house. Like a faucet was left partly on underneath the stretcher, a line of urine drained from his mother into the grass. She disappeared in the ambulance. Manny dashed outside. “Stay here, Tim.” The house was quiet. Tim sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. The sight of his mother’s urine pouring to the ground, medics carting her to the ambulance, replayed over and over in his mind. # It was the afternoon when Tim’s brothers come back. Tim’s eyes begged for no bad news. Manny strained to hold back his emotions. “She’s dead. Heart arrhythmia.” Tim flopped onto the sofa. He looked down at the floor, mentally pinching himself, adding the news like variables to a seemingly impossible equation. She was actually dead. # Tim stayed awake in bed that night, wishing his mother would come back to see him. The next morning, he panned the living room, finally accepting that his mother was gone. Later, Manny got the mail and handed Tim a letter from college. His grades, all As and one B. He missed his first perfect report card of all As, due to English, again, after he knew he would do it this time. He felt tears well up in his eyes and he quickly scrunched his face to halt the pending cry. He had not cried since he was a little kid, not even when his father died, as his brothers embedded in him that crying was for sissies. # After the funeral, Manny took control of the house, cleaning up and throwing away things. As actuality set in as Tim got depressed over the Lord letting his mother die, leaving him to depend on mean and selfish brothers. In his mother’s bedroom, he tried to fight back tears again as he looked at a kid’s photo of himself that his mother still had on her dresser mirror, red lipstick from her kiss was still caked on it. He lifted her powder puff from its round casing, then her perfume bottle which stood majestically in front of old hand-made Valentine’s Day and Christmas cards from his elementary school years. He saw another photo that his father took, he recalled, and his brothers were in it along with his reluctant mother. She was so uncomfortable with her looks. Standing beside her sons, his mother was close to frowning, arms limp at her sides. “Come on, hurry up! Let’s pack up this stuff,” Manny commanded. Tim looked down at the floor, trying to gather his bearings and hold back his emotions like his brother, who was so methodical and objective in his pace. He began to toss things away carelessly, not dwelling on the memories. # Buster’s sane demeanor washed away and revealed his old self as Mom’s death floated further into history. Tim’s bike and Manny’s stereo were missing. “I borrowed them,” Buster said. “You can’t keep pawning stuff without asking,” Manny said. “I’ll have them back! Don’t get an attitude with me.” Buster balled his fists. “I want my share of the house. Buy me out.” The proposal shocked Manny. “I don’t have any money like that.” “Get a loan against the house.” Manny thought about this. It would help him get the house in tiptop shape, and get thieving Buster out of the home and back with his family where he belonged. Manny accepted the offer as Tim worried. # Yet another sleepless night for Tim, worrying how things turned out worse than he expected. His mind was in tangles. He felt increasingly lethargic since Mom’s death, but this was extreme. He had to use the bathroom but could not muster the strength to get out of bed. Once up, he leaned over and breathed out hard, extending each exhale as if to wring out the tiredness in him. He took Frankenstein steps out of his new bedroom using every wall along the way as a crutch. His arms and legs and back ached. He feared that he was having a mental breakdown. He thought about how little control he had over his life now, how powerless he was against his brothers, how his family was falling apart, how he missed all As this year, how he would never see his mother again, how the Lord did not keep his mother alive. The next day was worse. He could not get up at all. Tim was full of negative thoughts, returning to the darker ones over and over. He was losing it, feeling rudderless. # When the college course catalog arrived, Tim knew it was August. He feared that he would not be able to pull himself together before classes started. He had the wherewithal to circle a Psychology 101 course before the scheduling task overwhelmed him. He turned back over and sulked. He lost a lot of weight, which made him feel weaker still. He was tired of eating bologna and bread, spending tons of time on endless trips to the toilet for barely anything to come out. He lumped it together with all of the other things he tired of, had no energy to do or change. He felt anxious about having such an impossible to-do list that he could not stop adding to. Lying in bed for days did nothing to reenergize him. He then thought of how Manny just got a new television for his bedroom, which he did not let him in to watch. Buster was back visiting the house, taking things to pawn. Manny changed the locks to the house. One day Buster had Tim let him in. He moved the old television out of the living room toward the back porch. “I’m taking this. I’ll be back for it later when I get a ride to the pawn shop.” Tim knew that he would not see the television again. As clunky and static-ridden as it was, it was his last toehold of joy. “You can’t take the television,” Tim pushed the other end of it. Buster punched him in his face, knocking his glasses against the wall. As Tim fell to the floor, Buster kicked him in the stomach. Buster dragged the television outside and left. Later, police stopped by for Buster. He was not home. # On the morning of Tim’s first day back in college, he felt better. The television sat on the back porch for days as Buster hid from the police. Tim dragged it into his bedroom. He smiled as he watched cartoons. When he headed out of the house, Buster arrived with a scowled face. “Where’s the television?” He let himself inside and found it in Tim’s room. “I said I would be back for it. You’re not keeping it,” Buster grabbed the television. A car horn bonked repeatedly. “Buster, get your butt out here! I’ve got to go!” A masculine voice shouted from outside. “I’ll be back.” Buster said. # After psychology class, Tim lagged behind to speak to his professor, Dr. Beacon. “My parents are still living, bless their souls,” said Dr. Beacon as he shut his briefcase. He took off his gold-rimmed eyeglasses that matched his metal watchband and the rich colors in his tie. “I couldn’t imagine losing them, even in my old age. I would cry myself crazy. It’s okay to cry you know, despite what you were told as a boy growing up.” “I’ve been depressed all summer after my mother died.” Tim said. “The Depression Equation.” Dr. Beacon donned his glasses. He wrote on the chalkboard: Expectation > Actuality = Depressed Expectation < Actuality = Impressed “People get depressed when actuality does not meet expectations, and get impressed when actuality exceeds expectations. Your mother dying before you believed she would, feeling that the Lord let you down, being chastised by people no matter how hard you worked to be better, unable to control the negative actions of others and yourself…these, especially the religious and death-related expectations, are serious concerns. Many people struggle with these depressive concerns, though usually not all at once like you, and many people suffer breakdowns from just one.” A floating sensation showered over Tim, bubbling up a smile. Dr. Beacon said, “Putting things in perspective, tempering expectations with realism, these are keys to avoid depression.” Tim nodded. Dr. Beacon walked toward him and put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t give up your faith. To shift the sign from depressed to impressed, to get through mental challenges, it often takes belief in a higher power. That’s how African-Americans got through slavery. That’s the basis of Alcoholics Anonymous’s 12-step program.” # When Tim got to his bedroom, he was shocked and happy to see that the television was still there. He watched a Superman cartoon. To his dismay, Buster stopped by and stormed into his room. A gush of feelings splashed through Tim as he said, “I’m sick of you keep taking things from me! Ever since daddy died when I was a little kid you abused me, going on your evil romps during your drug highs. Beating me up, letting others hurt me, teasing me in front of people, running away from me when you used to let me tag along with you and your friends.” Tim felt the flood of tears, pent up for years, break the banks of his eyes and he quickly turned to the window to prevent himself from losing face. Buster was motionless. In a careful voice he said, “I don’t recall doing any of that.” “You did.” Tim wiped more tears from his face. He felt so embarrassed, like a sissy. Buster erected himself, letting go of the television. Quietly he said, “I guess I did. I must had ruined your childhood for you to insist so.” He backed up a few steps toward the doorway and shook his head slowly. Buster moped away, shutting the front door gently. He walked down the street like an injured man and disappeared. Tim stared at the television as a smile fought its way onto his face. He flopped backwards onto his bed, arms outstretched. He did not expect to keep the television, to beat his big brother for it. He impressed himself. He laughed, feeling the energy of it all recharge his body and soul, letting tingles of elation overwhelm him. He raising an arm up high and pointed at the ceiling. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club