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"Scratch" (the fifty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Scratch" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), July 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Scratch By Micki Peluso Mallie1025@aol.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| A scratch, a scratch, upon my door
Old dog snoring, fat cat sleeps Something out there wants, implores Incessant racket—no relief Alone with these ungodly sounds I tremble as my fears unbound Not cat, nor dog, can sense or hear The scratches, scratching that I fear Some otherworldly beast seeks entry To the essence of my very soul I, in turn, must stand as sentry Lest spasms of fear take their toll Scrathes dig deeper, louder still Draw me to it against my will Tentively, I reach for the lock No! My mind reaches out to block The sublimnal urge to heed the call Of the scratching, scratching at my door Quaking, leaning back against the wall I smell fetid odors of evil’s spoor Lured seductively, I lift the latch Succumbing to the horrific task To confront a terror that knows no match It’s two feet tall and wears a mask! Night sky lit by blood-red moon Face to face with an irate raccoon! Its beady eyes reflect a glare Unafraid, it stands tall and stares I draw a breath, deep with relief Twas just a critter gave me grief Yet nights may come; how soon, how near? When it returns to refuel my fear And the hideous scratch upon my door No longer animal—so much more The coon dashes off across the lawn Innocent creature, perhaps. . . Mayhap, the devil’s spawn |
| Scratch By Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #9) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Just to get to the lobby door she'd
had to tip-toe around not only the lumpy red plastic bag, just sitting there,
shovel tossed casually over but, worse, another accusing glare from Fidel,
hosing the last streaks of red and minute shards of white into the dirt and
butts bordering the walkway and, if she didn't tip-toe fast enough, onto her
orthos and knee-highs, too. So it was no surprise to Yurekah to find the apartment quiet and only Arsenol there peeled to the altogether in his inflatable tub, tucked down into the newspaper and, judging from how it was rattling, clawing at himself behind it like nobody's business. Sinking under the weight of the long day, running rivulets of sweat from the Summer heat, she stood in the kitchen archway, eyes only for the window across the room, its curtains gently puffing. "Not again, Ars. Don't tell me." Arsenol wasn't about to tell her. He was too busy digging in that hair of his to even really hear her. Sighing, Yurekah clomped to the window and, parting the curtains, leaned out just enough to hook her fingertips into the Pick-a-Gard, swinging free in the afternoon sun, and pull it in. She did not reach out too far, though - she knew below her fifth floor nest still stood Fidel and his one, glaring eye, intent on glaring at her more, only from a safe distance. Where she couldn't spit right in it. Because, really, it wasn't like others didn't have these mishaps all the time. Not just here, in the Potiphar Housing Complex but n all those places she'd always yearned to hop aboard a bus and see but, on account of Ars, she'd never had the chance. Glaring now, Yurekah finished pulling the Pick-a-Gard - fresh little fang marks and just-drying spit marring its bars - into its housing with a clang and turned to Arsenol. George 8 had had some time to find his end. And she was hot and wet and work had been a grinding pile of stupid things and, now, just when she thought the day was done and she could relax and watch the news, with this mishap, she knew the evening held, for her, instead, not just begging the City's "Emergency Picker Service" for a Replace, but also figuring how to get Ars picked tonight. But there was Ars, cool in his tub of disinfectant, just ever-so the pine-smelly little Pharaoh... with his fingers shoved down deep into that nightmare hair of his. Yurekah was in no mood to play games. But she WAS in the mood to yell. "Okay, WHERE IS IT?" Arsenol - too engrossed in hiding and clawing to see that coming - jumped and, dropping the paper, almost toppled backwards out of his tub. Hardier livestock, creeping up the inflated tub walls, tidaled back in with their already dealt-with kin. So nothing could dislodge and catapult beyond the tub to squeeze under the baseboards or, worse, waddle into the living room, Arsenol - still grabbing at his scalp - stared at his sister and shook his head slowly, his face a mask of "uh oh." "I don't know what you're talking about." Yurekah watched Arsenol's eyes now darting everywhere but where she was. Oh, yeah, he knew what she was talking about. "Oh yeah, you know what I'm talking about. What you were doing while George 8 was figuring out the Gard and falling out the window. Give me the magazine." She thrust her hand at Ars. "What magazine?" "Whuh nagadine?" Yurekah, hand still out, pinched in her face and wagged her head in mockery. "You know 'whuh nagadine'. Don't play dumb, Ars, just give it here." Arsenol's "nagadines" had been a pox upon their house since they were young. It wasn't that she was a prude, oh, no, she understood that, for First Born Males like Arsenol who, from the Moses times, were censured by the Deity with never-ending nits were, also, doomed to lives devoid of normal social means - those magazines were a "necessary outlet." What she had trouble getting was why the harlots in those things had hair cascading from not only heads, but from all over and everywhere, too. Why even when they were completely "sans," they looked to be enwrapped in hairy rugs. That seemed excessive to Yurekah. Suspicious, too. It seemed in some way to incite in Arsenol perverse attachment to HIS hair - both head and lower down - till, even with the Department of Divine Infestation Management's nightly newscast "Hair Today, Nits Tomorrow" Public Service Announcements - Ars was so rabidly protective of his, now, receding mane of grey, when he trimmed it, she wasn't even allowed in the room. Came the day, though, Yurekah'd had enough, and put an end to the discussion. "You're fifty-three, " she'd yelled, "if you want an 'outlet', do what I do, watch the news." And, so, his "Hot Locks,' his 'X-Tresses' - became no more. And life went on. Till now. Clicking her dentures in disgust, Yurekah clomped across the kitchen to loom over Arsenol and shove her disregarded hand into the center of his sullenness. "C'mon, give." Arsenol stared blankly down at the pebbly-surfaced disinfectant roiling around him, and let the steady, "pit... pit... pit..." of nits dropping as he clawed do his talking for him. Bending close enough to Arsenol's ear so she'd be heard over the rasping of his nails, Yurekah clued him in on what was what. "Little brother, my bags are packed. Give me that magazine or sit here till they can't tell you from a giant bowl of rice when they finally break down the door." This was Ars' greatest fear - and Yurekah never failed to play on it whenever she needed to. And, also, when she didn't. So, that had ought to do it. And do it, it did. Still avoiding her glare, Arsenol leaned away and, after a few moments' digging under his tub, pulled out a sheaf of glossy stock and thrust it into her hand. "Hirsute Hotties?" Yurekah flipped through its damp pages. So many years and nothing changed: kneeling, bending, spread-eagled - each "hottie" looked to be enveloped head-to-toe in stuff she cleaned out of the sink trap once a month. She rolled the magazine into a baton. The better to wave and point. "So, tell me, Ars..." she waved and pointed, "I canceled all your 'nagadines' a long time ago. And George 8 only fetched the mail when I was here. "So, where's this from?" She stopped waving and pointing and switched to taunting, poking at Arsenol's shoulder with its edge. "You got friends I don't know about, Ars?" "Or maybe you found a way to go out by yourself when I'm not here? "Is that it, Ars? You finally figured how to move your nitty ass into the world? So you could "outlet" without me knowing? Is that it? Huh? Is that it?" She didn't really think this. In all her years caretaking him - other than the few times they'd been "sans" picker, with no Replace in sight, and she'd had to drag him to the docks to let the seagulls do the deed - Arsenol had never been out of the apartment. Not once. But she liked to say it anyway. Stinging from Yurekah's accusations - and the magazine pokes - Arsenol finally roused and, with the hand not scrounging his scalp, scooped up a mound of livestock from the jostling heap collecting in his lap and aimed it at her face. Because you don't live with Pickers your entire life without picking up a few things yourself. Pickers were small. And useful. But, also, nuts. So out of nowhere, when you'd least expect it, there they'd be, screeching, clambering up the shelves, flinging themselves off the cabinets, hanging from the curtains. Throwing books, dishes, bananas, whatever they could reach. And when there wasn't anything in reach - throwing poo. Arsenol realized a handful of nits wasn't the same as a handful of poo. But, sadly, Arsenol wasn't, right then, in the position to grab a handful of poo. Or he would have. Oh, boy, would he have. So nits would have to do. And, do, they did. Yurekah stopped grinning and clicking her dentures in sync with her pokes and, straightening, clomped back and back again from Arsenol and his unexpected ordnance. "Put that down, Ars. "NOW." Unimpressed, Arsenol sniffed and held his ground. "You gonna' leave me alone?" "I'll leave you alone, all right. Just wait and see." Yurekah, as older sister, had to have the last word, of course. Even if it was just in her head. Out-loud, though, was another matter. "First tell me where you got THIS." she waved the magazine as she yelled. "Someone GAVE it to me." Arsenol yelled back. "So you DO have a friend? Who is it?" Yurekah zipped through her memory for anyone who even knew about her brother. Other than Fidel, who was in-and-out all the time - snaking bananas from the toilet, replacing cabinet doors, re-hanging curtains, recently just stopping by to inquire, in his odd tongue, if anything was needed (but really, she knew, to glare at her some more) - she could think of no one. Yurekah, befuddled by the very thought that Arsenol might have a friend, had plumb forgotten to yell. Which dominoed Arsenol into plumb forgetting to be obstinate and uncommunicative. And, so.... "All I know is someone shoved it under the door this morning. Just after you left for work." Staring at the magazine, Yurekah slowly clomped around the tub full of Arsenol and his handful of nits to the kitchen table where she pulled a chair and whumped down into it. Arsenol, relieved, tossed his fistful onto the layer of floating done-fors and set to digging both hands deep into his hair. The air space before him flickered nits. "Yure?" As if the answer to the question of who was suddenly Ars' new best friend - and why - was buried between the follicles of "Hirsute Hotties'" cover harlot's strawberry blonde breast hair, Yurekah could not take her eyes off the magazine. "Mm?" "I'm itchy." "Mm." A droning, piercing, cranium-rattling noise roused Yurekah from her vision quest. Arsenol was whining. "All right already, so you're itchy." Yurekah slapped the magazine down on the table and frowning, turned. "No wonder. They're overflowing." She pointed to his tub where an army of nits was marching about on the land-mass created by layers of their previously-dispatched siblings. Arsenol stopped whining. "So, what are you going to do?" Yurekah heaved up to fetch the wet-vac from the hall closet. She was not looking forward to this. But at least the wet-vac would drown him out. A little. "I know it's not your favorite thing..." halfway down the hall, she could hear Ars revving up his whine again, "...but, from the looks of things, there's no time to call the EGS..." louder, louder, "...so what I'm going to do is clean you up..." louder, louder, "...and take you to..." silence, "...the docks." If she hadn't, at that moment, been passing by the front door on her way back to the kitchen with the wet-vac, no way Yurekah would have heard the tiny noise over her brother's shrieking. Standing on tip-toe, she peered through the peep hole. Nothing. She was just turning away when - there, again. Knocking? She peeped again. Still noth... no, there. Yes, knocking. Low on the door. Yurekah turned the dead bolt slow and cracked, then, eased open the door and, then, peered out. Then left. Then right. Then down. Well, what the....? There, staring up at her, a look of, could it be, concern? on its long, coarse-haired pink-and-brown-and-orange face sat, swaying tensely from side-to-side, a Picker. But not just a Picker - an Old-School Picker. A little thin, a little grey but, still, in mint condition. Yurekah clicked her dentures admiringly. She'd never seen one in-person, just in books. Dozens of years before she was even born the smaller, more cost-effective "Capuchin" model had revolutionized the Picker industry and "Orangs" had obsoleted to "collectables." Apparently unconcerned with either its collectability or even proper etiquette, the Picker bared a mouthful of large, stained fangs and gave Yurekah only long enough to grab a folded scrap of paper taped to the big, red bow around its neck before it reached out a long orange-haired arm and, shoving her aside, made a knuckly bee-line for the kitchen and Arsenol's unabated shrieking. Shrieking. Uh oh. The neighbors. Hastily, Yurekah reversed into the apartment and quickly closed the door. Well, if anyone complained, she'd say it was the news. There was always someone shrieking on the news. Especially during the weather segment. Door locked, Yurekah unfolded the paper. It took a few moments of squinting before she realized those lurching slashes and curlicues were writing and, then, a few more secs of nose-scrinching to realize it was writing in her own language. Sort of. "Mississ Urika. Pleas to have munkie for insted munkie I skrape from fall tooday. She name 'Skritch.' Left by move tenent last munth. O and I hopping brothur make use maguzin I give, too. O and I bring toomorow auto tyre for munkie sit. Thanks you. Humblee, Fidel." Yurekah looked up. Well, if that didn't beat all. Fidel. Frickin' Cyclops Fidel. All this time she'd thought he was glaring accusations at her with his one, big, Cyclops eye. When, really, he'd been glaring something else. Yurekah found herself suddenly in a very peaceful place. Until she realized that very peaceful place was the apartment. The apartment - minus the shrieking. Dropping the note, Yurekah careened down the hall to the kitchen, hoping for the best. But, of course, her life being only what it ever was, not finding it. For there, in the middle of the kitchen, leaning back in his inflatable tub, lay Arsenol. Eyes closed, mouth gaping - snoring like the giant, frickin' useless, nit he was. With Skritch - having already made short-work of the livestock attempting to breech the tub walls, now settled happily behind him, his head in her lap, slurping up nits like they were, well, nits. Yurekah clicked her dentures disappointedly. No bus ride today. But, still. So as to not disturb their bizarre Pietà, Yurekah tip-toed around her fat little Pharaoh and his "solace" to the kitchen window where, parting the curtains, she eased up the sash and, unlatching the Pick-a-Gard, edged it open. Leaning out into the evening, she scanned the scatterings of figures hurrying across the Potiphar Houses' communal courtyard on their ways home from schools, from jobs - from bus rides - her eyes peeled for only one special one of the many. She found him, finally, trudging from Building Four, shovel on shoulder, dragging a red plastic bag. Someone else had had a mishap. Someone else would be begging the EGS tonight. Someone else might even be vacuuming off their useless First Born and dragging him to the docks and the hungry, hungry seagulls. But not her. Waiting till Fidel came close enough to see her there (should he look up) she, then, prayed mightily he would. And when he did, tonguing her dentures down first, she leaned out and lofted him her widest smile. And even gave a little wave. And Fidel smiled back and winked his one, great, eye. His one, great, gorgeous eye. And, suddenly, no bus rides, yet, but, still, like Arsenol, Yurekah had her "solace," too. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place (tie): #9, #10 Fourth place: #6 Fifth place: #7 Others receiving votes: #1, #2, #3, #5, #11 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Scratch lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 11 |
| 195 | |
| If I should scratch the surface of each day, at its start or even at its passing; if I would look beneath the film that hides unpalatable truths that lie submerged; if I should scratch the itch of conscience, whispering, when I am half-awake or near to sleep; if I could catch the gasps softly expired by those unknown to me but known to suffer; if I would scan the images ignored while darting through the business of the day, if I would honestly review the scenes, that drip with ease into vacuous dozing; or if I don the footwear of another and try to walk a mile within his shoes; if I could feel the sores his life’s inflicted and lose, like him, the blood too often spilt, then maybe I would chose to make a difference and start to repay something that I owe; but dawn and consciousness bring fading guilt and less important things snatch my attention. Selfishly, I’m not a saint-in-waiting. I try to treat the itch with First-World balm; with salves of alcohol and entertainment, I justify those things I will not alter. I cannot pass the eye of any needle. I dare not change the structure of my life. And though I sympathise with others’ worries, if I should scratch this itch, I too would bleed. |
|
| Scratch Robert P. Herbst herbst@gtcom.net WWW.MOUNTPERRY.COM |
#2 of 11 |
| 1409 | |
| During the course of everyday life, one is bound to get
a scratch or two. Every time I get one nowadays, I think back to the time I
found Hairball. Hairball is a stray cat I found under a neighbors building. She
was a neat little kitty, but with a slight frame and vile temper like a Siamese
Cat. Hairball had very sharp teeth and claws. I had walked to the corner of my block, for some obscure reason, and was on my way back when the rain started. Not a heavy rain, just a very light rain, but enough to quicken my step. I was almost home when I heard the first faint cry from the airway under my neighbors building. The airway was only about a foot long and maybe eight inches tall, but the fancy iron scrolling had long since been removed and there was just a hole under the building now. I stopped and listened. Sure enough there was a cat under the building and not a very big cat. There was a large cement flower box in front of the hole, which I reasoned provided even more safety for whatever had crawled in there. I slowly and carefully moved the flower box a little ways from the wall so I could look further into the hole. Unfortunately, the rain and dark clouds obscured all but the street light and this was in the wrong position to shine into the hole. The poor thing must have been terribly hungry to call out to a complete stranger. I hurried on home to get some of the cat food I had out for my own cat. I always kept a dish of dry cat food out for Big Cat. Big Cat is what I called my beautiful specimen of tiger striped long haired Alleycatus Nonspecificus Nedercat. (An alley cat of no specific origin or pedigree which had been to the veterinarian and is now nether boy nor girl.) I liked Big Cat, but there was a problem. For some unknown reason, Big Bat would wait until two or three in the morning, then it would climb up on top of me as I slept and pee on me. Not just on the bed, on me. Big Cat was about to become an outside cat. It didn’t happen very often, but once every few months would be enough. Returning to the spot where I’d heard the cry, I carefully placed a piece of the dry cat food just inside the opening. Then I stood back to see what would happen. I didn’t have to wait very long before a little paw reached out of the dark recesses of the hole and dragged the piece of food back into the darkness. There was a few seconds of crunching followed by more crying by my new found friend. I placed another piece of cat food in the hole, but not as far back into hole this time. I stepped back to watch. A small paw again reached out to grab the food. This time however, I caught a glimpse of a small nose as well. When the crunching stopped I moved forward and placed another piece of cat food in front of the hole but this time I remained where I was. I had also placed the food a little ways in front of the hole forcing the cat to come further out of hiding. Slowly, with great stealth and trepidation, a little kitten emerged from the hole, grabbed the food and darted back under the building. When the crunching stopped this time, I placed several pieces of food just outside the hole and along the wall of the building, forcing the cat to move further from the safety of the hole under the building. The little cat moved slowly out of hiding, crunching each piece of food with equal relish, and crept slowly along the wall of the building eating along the way. I reached out to touch the kitty and it darted away back into hiding. Obviously, this little cat was a really wild one. I again laid out a trail of food, but this time there was more space between the pieces and I laid a long trail away from the hole under the building. Once again starvation drove the little cat out of hiding and I found myself looking at a short haired tiger striped Alleycatus Nonspecificus, and a very hungry little one to boot. I dared not move as the little cat crunched it’s way along the wall, further and further from the hole under the building. As the little cat consumed the last piece of food, I pounced on it. I found I’d grabbed a buzz saw of claws and teeth as the little cat used all assents in an effort to once again be free. Fortunately, I’m diabetic and had long since lost most of the feeling in both my hands and feet. This, however, did not deter kitty in the least. At one point on the way back to my home, I let go of the cat with one hand to secure a better grip on the little ball of claws and teeth. The little cat hung from the side of my right hand by it’s teeth alone as I got a better grip with the other hand. Arriving back at my home and shop I wrapped the cat in a towel, because with all the rain, both kitty and I were soaked. Kitty continued to resist leaving horrendous looking scratches and tooth marks all over my right hand. Why the little beast didn’t go after my left hand still puzzles me, but with the job this little monster did on my right hand I was just as happy to have the cat leave the left hand alone. Once dry I placed my new cat on the floor next to a dish of food. I fully expected the cat to race for the nearest dark area and vanish for a week or so leaving only little piles of evidence of having been there, for me to step in. Instead, the cat defiantly sat down and began eating again. Over the years, kitty and I have become friends. This friendship does not extend to the local veterinarian. I had to take the cat down to the vet for "The Operation" making it a nedercat and confined the cat in my cat carrier for the trip. Kitty, not being any the wiser, accepted the situation without protest. The next year, however, was a whole different story. Anyone who tells you a cat doesn’t remember is lying to you. Kitty had developed a monster hairball and I was afraid it might die and the time for booster shots had arrived. Getting the cat back into the cat carrier was a blood bath in itself. I bore the scars of the struggle for the next several months. Long bloody scratches from wrist to elbow were only part of the battle. Once inside the cat carrier, I was treated to a long serenade of cat profanity all the way to the veterinarian.’s office. Because of the memorable struggle getting kitty into the cat carrier and the reasons requiring such an altercation, kitty is now known as Hairball. Once on the table at the vet’s office the cat refused to come out of the carrier. Snarling, hissing and spitting like a full grown wild cat, my little kitty braced all four feet on the door frame and refused to be dislodged. The veterinarian, pale of face and on the verge of trembling, backed away from the carrier telling me, he’d have to anesthetize the cat to get the poor thing out of the carrier. Needless to say, kitty had to get rid of her own hairball and I am now Persona Non Grata at the veterinarian’s office. Once home however, Hairball pranced out of the cat carrier unaided and sat there watching me as I taped and bandaged the scratches on my arm from getting her into the carrier in the first place. I thought I’d teach the cat a lesson. I snatched it up from the floor and took the protesting little beast out into the alley behind the shop. Placing kitty on the ground I mumbled, "This’ll teach you, you little monster." Kitty pranced over to some grass and began eating some of the greener leaves. Within minutes, the hairball lay on the ground in the alley and kitty was crying to get back into my home with me. |
|
| Scratch Colin Campbell colin@colincampbell.org www.colincampbell.org |
#3 of 11 |
| 401 | |
| After the funeral, the two of them came round as
arranged to divide up their Grandpa's things. 'Well, I don't think we should be sad,' Jane's voice was steady but her smile was weak. 'He didn't have much money but he had a good life. He wasn't famous but people round here knew him and they treated him with respect. I wish we'd known him better.' 'Yes people respected him. He was always smiling and he had his health almost up to the end,' said her brother Sam, 'and that's worth more than all the money in the world.' 'I've got the things ready for you,' Mum said quietly, but she didn't stay in the room to watch. She hadn't just put them all in a pile but had laid everything out on the floor in neat rows. At first they were reluctant to disturb anything as if this would be intruding into his private life but soon they got busy looking. They tried to spot anything of value but more than that they were interested in anything with links to their childhood and memories of their Grandpa. The old man’s watch caught their attention and they passed it back and forwards a good few times. It was a Rolex, very probably the only expensive thing he had ever bought himself in his entire life. 'Sam, it's a man's watch. You should have it. Do you remember when we were young and he had just got it? He was so proud of it. It was new and special and he just kept on looking and looking at it.' A grinning Sam interrupted to reminisce, 'And that was the problem. A few days later, these two young thugs picked up on the idea that it was worth stealing and followed him into the park. Good for Grandpa. He wasn't too young even then but he sent them running. He always said he could thank his walking cane for that.' From what we heard, they must have run through the bushes to get away for one of them had a nasty scratch on his face and the other had something wrong with his bum. 'You always loved that story. OK, you have the watch but I want this,' said Jane reaching for the cane. Just then Mum came in with cups of tea. 'Be careful!' she said, 'Don't scratch yourself on Grandpa's old sword stick. You don't know where it's been.' |
|
| Scratch stephanie spencer spencerfamdamily@comcast.net |
#4 of 11 |
| 2204 | |
| Ash was remembering seventh grade. Sitting in the cozy
window seat of her studio, she revisited a time when she was a faltering,
anxious schoolgirl. Then, she was still known as Ashley, an erroneous
name for her as it implied perky popularity. She had clung to that name,
though, and its image until she graduated from high school, fervently hoping it
had the power to change her into what she thought she wanted to be. Her first
college roommate, a decidedly hip Indian girl who had renamed herself Beckett,
determined she should be called Ash instead. Beckett said it sounded
sophisticated and intelligent, not “so cheerleader.” Ash had
willingly, gratefully accepted a fresh identity. After two decades of
successfully living with this persona, being haunted by memories of her 12-year
old self was disconcerting. Ever since she had received the invitation to her reunion, pieces of 1982 had started creeping uninvited into her mind. In particular, she was taken aback by the memory of when she scratched Karl Jensen. Ash had dismissed their encounter a long time ago; it seemed a juvenile incident, not worth thinking about. But now she wasn’t so sure. It was redefining itself as an actual attack, primal and fierce for the two of them. Ash remembered feeling Karl’s greasy skin buried under her fingernails until her bath that night. Now, nearly 25 years later, she could vividly picture details from that afternoon, as though a hidden camera had captured random images in the dim hallway. Her turquoise velour v-neck, a favorite until that day; the tiny frog she’d received for her last birthday, innocently pinned on the collar; Karl’s ill-fitting, yellowed t-shirt and his dirty farm-boy jeans. She saw her gawky glasses slipping down her nose; mousy bangs drooping over her eyes; Karl’s sweaty face wedged next to her hunched shoulders. Most keenly, though, Ash now remembered the sick churning in her stomach as she slashed at his beefy arms snaking around her waist. It had only lasted a few minutes and no one else seemed to know what was happening. How significant could it have been? That day had started like most others in her junior high life. Everyday she read Judy Blume on the bus to school, greeted her two best friends at their lockers next to hers, went to the library to compare homework answers, and daydreamed about the boy she loved but would never speak to before he moved the next year. Ashley was aware of how other girls – most of them former friends from elementary school who still lived on her street – had a different approach to the before-school hour. They did not read on the bus but gossiped brashly over the seats, and instead of comparing homework, they smirked about how it didn’t get finished because they were at the high school football game until ten o’clock. And Ashley knew those girls did not daydream and shy away from boys; they spent the morning flirting with eyeshadowed glances and demure giggles. But once she had established her two best friends at the beginning of the year, Ashley felt more comfortable with her routine. She didn’t think anyone really noticed her, and she pretended not to care. Ashley and her two best friends, Lisa and Shelly, usually strolled around the basketball court after lunch. They didn’t really like the game and never wanted to actually play, but the court was where everyone, including the outcasts, could hang out. The three behaved like all unpopular junior high girls, standing outside the crowd with their last-year outfits and flat hair, talking too loudly with exaggerated gestures about movies, boys, and clueless parents. On a good day, their behavior would simply be ignored by everyone around them. If their presence registered at all, it was only peripherally and dismissively, like noticing a penny on the ground. Though she wasn’t entirely sure, Ash now believed Lisa and Shelly accepted their outsider status with disinterest. They never did get why their friend threw a party whenever she bought a new issue of Seventeen; there was no agonizing over what to wear and which purse to carry when they finally agreed to go with her to the mall. Ashley was sure they would no longer be her best friends when she got to high school, and it turned out she was right. Sometimes their behavior did get noticed. The desperation in Ashley’s voice would perk the ears of girls who might have been just like her, if their parents had more time than money to spend. On these days, someone like Katie Seaton would be bored by her companions’ dull rants and divert her attention to Ashley’s group. Now here’s something fun, she would think, narrowing her gaze at their knock-off jeans and cheap sneakers. Because it would be time for the bell, Katie had to decide quickly whether to go with the “Hey, I’m your new best friend!” approach or just a walk-by killer remark. The first tactic was crueler and so more entertaining, but it required preparation and commitment. Katie, who would soon command everyone to call her Kate because it was “more mature and smart,” settled for the barbed comment that would pierce Ashley’s heart. But Ash knew now that Katie (Kate) had given her a gift by pointing out her faults. Everything anyone popular said then was used like a blueprint to transform Ashley the misfit into Ash the enviable. The worst days, Ash considered now, were when other unpopular kids hurdled into her circle in front of everyone. Usually they were running across the court – no one cool runs in junior high – screeching about a test score, a Mork and Mindy joke, or something equally uncool. Ashley had some guilt about the repulsion she felt when these interlopers arrived; she tried not to be too obvious when she distanced herself. But if she were wearing a stylish new outfit, which only came from begging and promising to do all of the laundry for a month, or if her hair had miraculously feathered perfectly that morning, Ashley would have to bite her lip and turn away. Why can’t these people see how stupid they are? she thought furiously. She willed her burning eyes not to cry and made up an excuse to leave for class early. Then she would walk, not run, toward her locker to take deep breaths while gathering her thoughts and books. Lisa and Shelly didn’t seem to notice she was upset, for which Ashley felt both relieved and irritated. When she got home from a black-cloud day like this, Ashley would spend the afternoon pouring over her stacks of teen magazines. She prayed to be like the girls on those pages – unworried, flawless faces, fun skirts and cute book bags with handsome, athletic boys watching them walk by. In front of her mirror, she would act out scenarios with the boy she loved but never spoke to. There, she could be coy yet engaging; her clothes looked fine and her hair stayed curled; she knew what to say. At the end of those crushing days, Ashley would silently cry in bed, angry at herself and her parents and her friends for not knowing how to do things right. The day of that scratch, Ashley awoke to the clock radio playing her favorite song by Rick Springfield. She sleepily smiled at the poster of him she had taped to the wall next to her bed. After an imagined conversation with Rick, during which she was utterly witty and delightful, Ashley got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. A deliciously familiar aroma made her nose tickle and eyebrows raise. My mom never makes cinnamon rolls on a school day, she thought dreamily. It is Friday, right? Ashley was a believer in good omens and so far, things were going her way. When she slipped into her velvety turquoise top and designer jean skirt (for which she had pleaded relentlessly in the fall), Ashley felt almost perfect. She fingered the little frog pin her mom had given her last summer and decided to attach it to the v-neck collar. Studiously following the step-by-step pictures in her magazine, Ashley moussed her hair into an acceptable style. She smiled at her reflection, thinking today might be a good day to talk to the boy. In the end, the grown-up Ash considered, there would be little to smile about that day. Ashley bounded off the bus feeling like one of the lucky girls in her magazines. She had left her book inside her backpack on the bus and tried to follow the conversations of the popular girls around her. One of them even glanced her way as they moved toward the lockers. Lisa and Shelly looked surprised and complimented her outfit as they headed to the library. When they walked in, Ashley saw the boy she loved standing at the circulation desk. Instinctively, she spun around and scurried to a table across the room. When she recovered her confidence and glanced up, he was gone. Karl Jensen, an oafish boy she had known since 1st grade, was in his place, looking at her. Because she was disappointed in herself and the missed opportunity, Ashley frowned at Karl and turned away. Later in the day, after the bell at the end of Science class, Ashley absently collected her notebooks and headed for the door. She was preoccupied with the sorry state of her hair, an emerging headache from memorizing atomic numbers, and her frustration about the boy she loved. Suddenly, Karl Jensen was at her side, crowding her toward the wall. Ashley furrowed her brow at him and mumbled, Excuse me. Because she was not used to attention from anyone at school, it didn’t occur to her that Karl was intentionally colliding with her. Hey, what’s the problem? he murmured in her ear. Ashley stopped and found herself pinned against a locker. Her eyes frantically searched the hall for a witness or rescuer, but somehow it was already deserted. She wildly looked up at Karl, her mind all at once blank from fear. Ash, rising to make another cup of tea, was bewildered by the clarity of this memory. But something was nagging at the back of her mind, some detail; Ash couldn’t get it to come forward. She frowned, closed her eyes and tried to call up more from that afternoon she had left behind, the lonely girl she had abandoned. He was talking to her. I said, what’s the problem? His voice was more rough than she had imagined. Ashley cocked her head and squinted at him. It’s you, she whispered hoarsely, staring at the boy she had loved. He moved impossibly closer so his chest pressed against her and she could feel his breath on her forehead. The hard handle of a locker jammed sharply between her shoulder blades, but Ashley knew if she moved her body, she would rub against him. What she had secretly dreamed about for two long years – to not only be noticed by this boy but to actually feel his touch – now made her nauseous. Confusion paralyzed her; her heart recognized this boy as an object of affection while her brain screamed danger. Ashley squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head, hearing his voice – she just never realized it sounded so rough – in her ear. Everyone says you like me. Don’t you want to talk to me? She started squirming but he pushed harder against her. One hand reached down and groped at the hem of her skirt while the other snaked around her waist. Ashley dropped her notebooks and felt her fingernails ripping into the boy’s arms. One hand tore away from her skirt, the other shoved her to the floor. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling, fearful of his retaliation, but the boy had disappeared. Teachers and students were peering out from classroom doorways, wide-eyed. At first, she didn’t know why they were staring; the whole thing had seemed a silent nightmare to her. How did they know? But then she heard her own sobbing - noisy, harsh gasps, like she was drowning. Someone stepped toward her, holding out his burly hand to pick up her notebooks and help her to the office. Ashley looked up at Karl Jensen, the lumbering farm boy she’d known since they started school. She glanced around at all the other faces, many of them the popular people she admired and aspired to be. No thanks, she said, grabbing her things and motioning Karl away. Ashley straightened her skirt, adjusted the frog pin, gave a nudge to her glasses, and walked down the hall alone. Ash, brows furrowed, gripped her cup. She had imagined herself a heroic victim all these years, letting herself pine for a lost love who didn’t exist and allowing herself to dismiss a sweet boy who did. Her eye caught the reunion invitation propped against the mail basket. She wrote the date on her calendar. As she finished her tea, Ash pictured Karl Jensen and looked forward to seeing him again after all these years. This time she would thank him, and offer her hand. She hoped he would accept it. |
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| Scratch |
#5 of 11 Winner |
| 197 | |
| A scratch, a scratch, upon my door Old dog snoring, fat cat sleeps Something out there wants, implores Incessant racket—no relief Alone with these ungodly sounds I tremble as my fears unbound Not cat, nor dog, can sense or hear The scratches, scratching that I fear Some otherworldly beast seeks entry To the essence of my very soul I, in turn, must stand as sentry Lest spasms of fear take their toll Scrathes dig deeper, louder still Draw me to it against my will Tentively, I reach for the lock No! My mind reaches out to block The sublimnal urge to heed the call Of the scratching, scratching at my door Quaking, leaning back against the wall I smell fetid odors of evil’s spoor Lured seductively, I lift the latch Succumbing to the horrific task To confront a terror that knows no match It’s two feet tall and wears a mask! Night sky lit by blood-red moon Face to face with an irate raccoon! Its beady eyes reflect a glare Unafraid, it stands tall and stares I draw a breath, deep with relief Twas just a critter gave me grief Yet nights may come; how soon, how near? When it returns to refuel my fear And the hideous scratch upon my door No longer animal—so much more The coon dashes off across the lawn Innocent creature, perhaps. . . Mayhap, the devil’s spawn |
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| Scratch mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#6 of 11 |
| 1599 | |
| The bell rang, jerking James from an unsteady sleep.
'This is getting to be ridiculous.' The clock's neon display showed three
twenty four AM. James sat on the bed and shook his head trying to clear the fog from his mind, and feeling envious of the monotonous breathing sounds his wife was making. 'Everybody has to take care of their problems,' he sighed, 'and I've got to deal with mine.' The bell rang again. "I am coming dam it, coming." His feet finally found slippers in the dark; he got up and went to the room at the end of the hall. Lily, his elderly mother, lay on the bed holding the little bell in her hands, ready to ring again. Although it had been two years now since she had gotten ill and moved in with his family, he couldn't get used to her new look. Her wrists and elbow pits were all bruised and covered with wires, hoses and the connector for dialysis, a pacemaker bulged on her chest from underneath her yellowish pale skin, both of her skinny legs had dressing covering sores that refused to heal because of the diabetes. Her eyes despite the brown rims around their perimeter, and carrying an expressing of prolonged suffering, still somehow managed to look pretty. "Can you scratch my back?" Her voice, transversing somewhere between screeching soprano and hoarse contralto, filled the room. "God dam it," James' voice was apathetic and almost void of anger. "Don't you understand I need to go to work at six? I can't live like this. I am just going to collapse one day. It's ok when you need to be changed, but this scratching's gonna kill me." "It's itching. So bad. Please, I tried to do it myself, but I can't reach it. It's right between my shoulder blades." Lily lifted herself on one arm a little and demonstrated how her hand couldn't reach her back. James wanted to object. Words almost escaped his lips, but he held himself, and only inhaled and shook his head. 'When will this finally end?' He sat on Lily's bed, ran his hand underneath her nightgown and scratched the requested spot. The skin felt dry and wrinkly. "Ahhhhh...Gooooood," Lily's half closed her eyes and opened her mouth. "A little more to the right now. Ahhhhh….Goood." She opened her eyes. "And they say the soul is not connected to the body. What hogwash." "Let me put some cream on it." He spread a generous splash of cream all over her back and rubbed it in. "Ok, then," he got up, his mind already trying to catch the tail of a dream that still roamed somewhere in his mind. "Wait, don't leave. I see so little of you. I want to tell you something." "I need to go to sleep, mama. I have to get up at six. You know that." "Yes, yes. I know." She sighed. "You're right, you go." James got up, stepped out of the room, but then stopped in the middle of the corridor, came back and sat on Lily's bed again. "Ok. What did you want to tell me?" Lily's face relaxed into a smile. "Back when I lived in San Diego, I went to this club at the library." James sighed again. He had heard this story many times. "You know I like lectures surrounding arts and literature. So this one lady got up and started telling about her son who was an artist. She said how his art was misunderstood and how we live in this commercial world that doesn't appreciate pure art, and talked about the great old days when things were different. Then I got up and told her that Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo and all these great artists and writers, they all worked for money. Dumas even killed Grimot - the silent Athos’ servant - because his editor changed his payment arrangement from paying by the number of lines to paying by the number of words. Then this lady told me that she wasn't talking to me. And I told her "Really, who else are you talking to? No, my dear, you are actually talking to me." This was so funny." Lily laughed. James also laughed. Not because the story was funny - he heard it many times before - but because this reminded him of his childhood, the time when his mother told him the tale of three bears. This made him feel warm, cozy and nostalgic of his childhood and his mother, the way she was back then. "Ok, thank you. Let me kiss you and you go to sleep. I will too. I am tired." James got up and went to his bed. 'Soon I am going for a vacation,' he thought right before the fat fuzzy paws of a dream took command of his mind. *** "No mama, don't worry. I am not going to leave you there until you die. It's only for one week while we'll be on vacation. They're going to drive you to your dialysis just the same." James made arrangements to place Lily in the "Kennedy Center", the place he put her last year when he and his family went for vacation. "I am afraid I'm not gonna see you again." "You will mama. It's only one week. Nothing's gonna happened in one week." "It stinks out there and I don't mean it in a figurative sense." "Mama, but I cannot leave you here. Should I not go?" "No. I'm not suggesting nothing. Go on your vacation." *** Cancun was what James needed: ocean, sand, food and drinks everywhere, activities for body and oblivion for the mind. Lying on the beach and looking at aqua colored water he barely uttered words as if he didn't want to get into deeper layers of neither the ocean nor his mind. *** "Don't you want to call her?" James' wife Beth stood in his office, looking at the pile of bills, credit card, insurance payments, and letters on his desk. James rolled his eyes up. "Of course I do. It's justÉhe thought of the dodets at work that had gotten out of wack in his absence and the luggage that had gotten lost on the way back from Cancun and the roof leak above his mother's room. "It's just, let me sort of get a handle on things. You know how she is. She'd want me to bring her here right away." On Friday though, Beth made an arrangement with the "Kennedy Center" that Lily would be brought back home on Monday. On one hand James was glad he would see her, but on the other he was bracing himself for difficult nights. On Saturday, at around two o'clock James was laying in front of the TV watching the ball game, when the phone rang. He barely acknowledged it because his wife has picked it up. Then, he heard the cramp in her voice, its sudden rise and fall. "What's up honey?" he sat upright on the couch watching his wife walking into the bedroom with the phone receiver in her hand, lips shaking and tears in her eyes. "Her heart stopped." *** James recognized the people who came to the funeral and was thankful to them for coming. But at the same time, strangely, he was totally indifferent to them as if their only role in the proceeding was to compose an audience for his speech, for his last tribute to his mother. One thought chased him down and was tearing him apart like a successful carnivore. 'Why in the world had he allowed it to happen? How did it happen that he wasn't with his mother in her last hours?' James knew that he wouldn't be able to talk well. His throat spasmed, connecting in some obscure physiological way to his eyes, causing them to drain liquid. More importantly, he didn't know how to explain to all these people who his mother was, so different from any other person, someone who didn't fit in the template of the typical mother or grandmother. He felt helpless, trapped in the task of explaining or even translating of who she was into their language. "My mother was not a very well understood person. She was proud, and strong. I mean, in her spirit. She was born talented and always tried to reach her potential. But she couldn't. She didn't have an easy life and whatever she wanted to accomplish she had to pay the triple price. Her health was so fragile. And it always was on her way. But she had such spirit, such tenacity. The last two years she spent with us, she was very sick and both of her doctors, a cardiologist and the nephrologist, were surprised how she was able to live so long being so sick. They couldn't understand what kept her alive. But I did. Even when she was very sick she still had a hope that she would recover and will be able to be productive, to make her contribution." At this moment James had to stop and cried because the thought of him not being there at her last minutes of her fight, choked him. He really did what she was afraid he would do left her there to die alone." He tried to say something else, but he couldn't. *** Two weeks passed and things seemingly started falling into place. Although the absence of his mother felt strange, unexplainable, and temporary, James tried to get what happened behind him. He went to work, worked out, ate with appetite went to the movies. Only at night, when everyone was asleep, in total thick stillness he could clearly hear his mother's voice coming from her room. "James, what happened? Come here and scratch my back! Scratch my back. ScratchÉ" |
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| Scratch dream_2_write@yahoo.com |
#7 of 11 |
| 1100 | |
| "C'mon, c'mon" he said, through clenched teeth while
shifting from one foot to the other. "What are they DOING?" The lady in front
of him turned slightlyand gave him a hesitant smile before facing forward
again. This scrawny, pathetic-looking man was obviously anxious about
something. "I know it's my night. I can feel it. This is IT" he thought. "Have a nice day, sir" called the clerk towards the retreating back of the customer who was leaving. He flexed the fingers of both hands rhythmically as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. The lady glanced back again, with a slight frown on her face. He saw her troubled look and gave a shaky laugh. "I'm jes'a lil' nervous tonight," he explained. "I'm feelin' lucky. I'm bout to win BIG! I know it." Look," he said pulling out a handful of what she thought were receipts. They were in fact scratch-off lottery tickets. "I won $16.00 this week. I ain't neva won that much at one time." “Do you play often?" she asked. "Oh yes. I play every day. At least ten dollars. I'm Scratch, by the way. That's what they call me. Scratch is my name, lotto's my game. Jes gimme a beer and my lucky coin, and I'm in heaven." Another customer completed her transaction and the line moved forward. "This here's my lucky scratcher," he said showing her a coin on a chain around his neck. "Me and this coin, we go way back," he said lovingly as he held it in his right hand, stroking it softly with the fingers of his left hand. We been togetha through thick and thin, for betta and for worse. That's more'n I can say for my wife." he said with a short bark of laughter. Others in line turned and glanced at them. The woman thought he might be a little strange, deranged if you considered his appearance. He looked like he hadn't seen the sun in years and like he hadn't eaten in weeks. He wore faded blue work pants with several spots of what appeared to be dried food. His matching blue work shirt was unbuttoned on the top half and the shirt beneath it appeared to have been white at one time. Stringy black and gray hair stuck out from beneath the dirty gray cap he had sitting on the top of his head. It didn't appear to have been washed or combed lately. "What do you mean by that, Scratch?" she asked. "Oh, she left me high and dry. Jes' up and left. She tole me I love scratchin' more'n I love her. I jes couldn't git her to understan that I'm workin' on our future. She wanted to put our money in da bank. Can you imagine? Les' say I have a hunnerd dollars in tickets and I win on ALL of them. Look how much money dat is! If I only win one dolla, I didn't lose nuthin and I can jes buy anotha ticket. If I put my money in da bank, I ain't gonna git but maybe two or three dollars in a month. When I win da big one, we can put dat in da bank so won't nobody steal it." "It's simple enough, but my wife didn't git it. She tole me I was crazy and left. I tried to git my daughter to explain it to her, but she don't understan neither. She brings me a plate of food every night, but she don't really talk to me but to ask if I need anything. I tell her the same thing every time: I got my scratcher and my tickets, I don't need nuthin else. She jes’ shake her head and leave. But jes' you wait," he continued as the line moved forward again. "They'll come runnin' when I hit it big. She'll come home." She looked at him, momentarily speechless. "Move up," he said. "It's your turn." She turned to the counter, her mind blank for a moment, having forgotten the items in her hands. As the clerk rang her purchases, she dug through her purse for her money. She could hear Scratch behind her, shuffling his feet excitedly. She could feel him peering over her shoulder, so that he could see the ticket display. She silently handed the clerk her money and received her change. As she turned to leave, she looked back. "Good luck, Scratch." she said. He simply grinned at her as he moved to the counter, thrusting his tickets at the clerk to redeem them. She paused for a moment before going out the door and looked back. She saw Scratch twirling his coin between his fingers as he examined the display rack. One would have thought he was in a jewelry store examining fine diamonds. She sat in her car for a moment looking at the door to the store. A few moments later, Scratch came hurrying out. He went to an old, faded blue truck with various dents and dings that she had noticed parked a few spaces from hers. It must have been wrecked at one time because one fender was a faded and rusted tan color. It looked as if someone replaced it and never painted it to match. The windshield was cracked in several places and there was only one hubcap. The front bumper hung slightly askew. The windows were down and when she walked past it, she saw how filthy the inside was. The upholstery was faded and she was unable to tell what color it should have been. There were discarded scratch-off tickets all over the seats and floors. She thought she saw a couple of beer cans poking from under the seat. As she pulled from her space and started to drive off, she saw him in the car with his head down. As she drove past, he looked up and saw her. He waived excitedly. "I scratched four and already won two dollars!" She gave him a small smile, waived, and continued on shaking her head. She drove slowly down the road, thinking how sad it was for him to be all alone and squandering his money. A few days later, she brought the newspaper in from the porch and took it to the kitchen. As she waited for her coffee to cool, she opened the paper to the local news section. She stared open-mouthed at the headline on the first page. It read "Local Man Wins Largest Payoff in Scratch-Off History." Under the headline was a photo of Scratch with a large grin and a check for $50,000. |
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| Scratch Linda Hinslea Nelson bren60@bellsouth.net |
#8 of 11 |
| 1362 | |
| Charlotte came out into the yard and looked around. It
was going to be another beautiful day. She walked to the fence and called to
others to come join her. Why did she always have to ask them, why didn’t
they invite her occasionally? They were certainly a thoughtless bunch. “Good morning, Charlotte.” said Prissy. “Did you sleep well?” “Yes, Prissy I did, thank you,” answered Charlotte. Charlotte was determined not to ask Prissy anything. Everyday it was the same thing! How did you sleep? Lovely weather we are having! What are you going to do today? Nobody had an original thought. Charlotte was getting sick of the mediocrity of everyone’s thinking. She was ready for a change. Oh, boy was she ready! She would have to think of something. Today would be different of that she was sure. “Charlotte, here comes Lucinda. I wonder what juicy bit of news she has for us. I hope it is good.” Prissy was jumping up and down, anxious for her friend to join them. “Lucinda, what’s new?” Prissy called out as she came into the yard. “Oh Priss, don’t encourage her.” Charlotte begged. “Bah, Lucinda is always very interesting. You have never appreciated her. I think you are a wee bit jealous.” “Ha, jealous, don’t be ridiculous! Jealous of what, you think I am jealous of that old gossip. Once she starts talking, she is soon controlling all the conversation. Most of what she has to say is either very boring or a down right lie. Prissy you know she makes most things up.” Charlotte exclaimed. Lucinda ran over to them, “Oh girls I have to tell you before Trudy gets here. Did you hear about her, I think that Robby is sweet on Trudy. She is all a twitter every time he comes around. I think they are an item.” Charlotte rolled her eyes, “You think or you know. I mean it is important to know these things for sure before you go telling others your news. Besides, old Robby is sweet on all the girls. Everyone knows he is a real Casanova!” “Oh Charlotte, you always have something negative to say about my news. Well, I bet I know something that you girls do not know. The people in the house over there are going to sell everything and move to Florida,” Lucinda said, puffing herself up. She knew they had no idea about this sweet morsel of news. That should keep them talking for a little while. Prissy was so excited with this bit of information that she could not contain herself. “Lucinda, where did you hear this? This is really something. How long have you known they are going to move?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Prissy, I asked you not to encourage her. I have had enough of your gossip Lucinda; it can only get us all in trouble. I am sure what you are saying is not true, and if it is, so what! You had better make sure of your facts before you go blabbing it all over the place,” Charlotte was going to go some place else to be by herself. Some place where she did not have to listen to this kind of drivel. As she walked across the yard she saw that Belinda, Chloe and Trudy where coming out to join Lucinda and Prissy. Charlotte looked back at Prissy but she was sorry she did. With that backward look, Prissy took off across the yard to catch up with Charlotte. “Charlotte wait up, where are you going? The others are coming out, come back.” “No I am tired of it. I am tired of all the gossip and silliness that Lucinda always has to bring up. Sick of it, do you hear me,” said Charlotte shaking her head. She was getting madder by the minute and she wanted to get away. “Okay we will change the subject. Look there is Bill, he seems nice, don’t you think?” Prissy said trying to calm Charlotte. “If you like his type, personally I am not interested.” Charlotte turned and saw that Timmy Green was coming through the gate. Then, all of a sudden, she had an idea and started running. Running as fast as her legs could take her. She could hear Prissy yelling for her to come back but she was not even going to look back this time. She ran through the open gate, and across the street. This was it! This is what she had wanted to do all along. She went into the woods and she noticed how much cooler it was. She found a path she supposed Timmy and Bill had used when they went for their walks. Charlotte walked along the path and got further and further away from her familiar surroundings. Charlotte had lost all track of time! She must have been walking for hours. She had picked flowers and looked for little berries all along the way. Now, she was feeling very tired and wanted to sleep. Ahead she saw a tree with a low hanging limb that would be a perfect spot to take a nap. It was not long before she was sound asleep. Not being used to the quiet, she went into a deep sleep. She dreamt about a place that was quiet and beautiful. It was a place where everyone pampered her and she was so happy. She felt like a princess. She heard a noise and was suddenly alert. “What was that?” she thought. She looked around but did not recognize her surroundings. She saw only deep shadows of the trees. Where was she? What time was it? There was that noise again. Now she remembered she was in the woods. It must be Timmy and Bill looking for her. She started to jump down from the limb but stopped when she thought she saw something in the underbrush. “Did something move? Everyone will be worried, I should go back!” she thought. The woods were getting darker. She was just being silly. Charlotte waited a minute then jumped down from her perch and started back the way she came. First, she walked leisurely wanting to enjoy the coolness and quiet a little longer. She heard the rustle of leaves behind her and started to walk faster. Charlotte’s heart started pounding. She turned, yes someone or something was following her. She could not see anything but she just knew. If it were Bill or Timmy, they would let her know they were there. “B-Bill, Timmy,” Charlotte said. “I-is that you?” Charlotte ran as fast as she could. She was getting out of breath and was now wondering if she could make it home. Finally, she saw the light over the old farmhouse where Timmy lived. She saw Bill sitting on the porch. She was almost home. All she had to do was cross the road and get in to her yard. She made it across the street and then ran along the fence only to find the gate closed. Her shoulders slumped. Now what was she to do? “Hey pretty girl, what are you doing out here.” Charlotte turned and it was Timmy. He opened the gate and she ran inside. When she turned to thank him, he was already on his way home. She took a deep breath and walked into her house. She was ready to go to bed. She was not even worried about having supper. Charlotte decided to sleep in after her big adventure and woke up very refreshed. She went out into the yard and Lucinda was already telling some fantastic story to the others. Lucinda turned her back on Charlotte. Good, now Lucinda knew how Charlotte felt about gossiping. Prissy walked up to Charlotte and asked. “Good morning, Charlotte did you sleep well?” “Yes, Prissy I did, thank you,” answered Charlotte with a big smile. Ah, it is good to be home again and safe with all my dear friends. “Charlotte, may I ask you something?” asked Prissy. “Yes, my dear anything,” answered Charlotte as she scratched up a piece of corn and bent down and picked it up with her beak. “Why did you run out of here like that and cross the road?” “Why, to get to the other side, of course!” answered Charlotte. |
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| Scratch Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#9 of 11 Runner-up |
| 2481 | |
| Just to get to the lobby door she'd had to tip-toe
around not only the lumpy red plastic bag, just sitting there, shovel tossed
casually over but, worse, another accusing glare from Fidel, hosing the last
streaks of red and minute shards of white into the dirt and butts bordering the
walkway and, if she didn't tip-toe fast enough, onto her orthos and knee-highs,
too. So it was no surprise to Yurekah to find the apartment quiet and only Arsenol there peeled to the altogether in his inflatable tub, tucked down into the newspaper and, judging from how it was rattling, clawing at himself behind it like nobody's business. Sinking under the weight of the long day, running rivulets of sweat from the Summer heat, she stood in the kitchen archway, eyes only for the window across the room, its curtains gently puffing. "Not again, Ars. Don't tell me." Arsenol wasn't about to tell her. He was too busy digging in that hair of his to even really hear her. Sighing, Yurekah clomped to the window and, parting the curtains, leaned out just enough to hook her fingertips into the Pick-a-Gard, swinging free in the afternoon sun, and pull it in. She did not reach out too far, though - she knew below her fifth floor nest still stood Fidel and his one, glaring eye, intent on glaring at her more, only from a safe distance. Where she couldn't spit right in it. Because, really, it wasn't like others didn't have these mishaps all the time. Not just here, in the Potiphar Housing Complex but n all those places she'd always yearned to hop aboard a bus and see but, on account of Ars, she'd never had the chance. Glaring now, Yurekah finished pulling the Pick-a-Gard - fresh little fang marks and just-drying spit marring its bars - into its housing with a clang and turned to Arsenol. George 8 had had some time to find his end. And she was hot and wet and work had been a grinding pile of stupid things and, now, just when she thought the day was done and she could relax and watch the news, with this mishap, she knew the evening held, for her, instead, not just begging the City's "Emergency Picker Service" for a Replace, but also figuring how to get Ars picked tonight. But there was Ars, cool in his tub of disinfectant, just ever-so the pine-smelly little Pharaoh... with his fingers shoved down deep into that nightmare hair of his. Yurekah was in no mood to play games. But she WAS in the mood to yell. "Okay, WHERE IS IT?" Arsenol - too engrossed in hiding and clawing to see that coming - jumped and, dropping the paper, almost toppled backwards out of his tub. Hardier livestock, creeping up the inflated tub walls, tidaled back in with their already dealt-with kin. So nothing could dislodge and catapult beyond the tub to squeeze under the baseboards or, worse, waddle into the living room, Arsenol - still grabbing at his scalp - stared at his sister and shook his head slowly, his face a mask of "uh oh." "I don't know what you're talking about." Yurekah watched Arsenol's eyes now darting everywhere but where she was. Oh, yeah, he knew what she was talking about. "Oh yeah, you know what I'm talking about. What you were doing while George 8 was figuring out the Gard and falling out the window. Give me the magazine." She thrust her hand at Ars. "What magazine?" "Whuh nagadine?" Yurekah, hand still out, pinched in her face and wagged her head in mockery. "You know 'whuh nagadine'. Don't play dumb, Ars, just give it here." Arsenol's "nagadines" had been a pox upon their house since they were young. It wasn't that she was a prude, oh, no, she understood that, for First Born Males like Arsenol who, from the Moses times, were censured by the Deity with never-ending nits were, also, doomed to lives devoid of normal social means - those magazines were a "necessary outlet." What she had trouble getting was why the harlots in those things had hair cascading from not only heads, but from all over and everywhere, too. Why even when they were completely "sans," they looked to be enwrapped in hairy rugs. That seemed excessive to Yurekah. Suspicious, too. It seemed in some way to incite in Arsenol perverse attachment to HIS hair - both head and lower down - till, even with the Department of Divine Infestation Management's nightly newscast "Hair Today, Nits Tomorrow" Public Service Announcements - Ars was so rabidly protective of his, now, receding mane of grey, when he trimmed it, she wasn't even allowed in the room. Came the day, though, Yurekah'd had enough, and put an end to the discussion. "You're fifty-three, " she'd yelled, "if you want an 'outlet', do what I do, watch the news." And, so, his "Hot Locks,' his 'X-Tresses' - became no more. And life went on. Till now. Clicking her dentures in disgust, Yurekah clomped across the kitchen to loom over Arsenol and shove her disregarded hand into the center of his sullenness. "C'mon, give." Arsenol stared blankly down at the pebbly-surfaced disinfectant roiling around him, and let the steady, "pit... pit... pit..." of nits dropping as he clawed do his talking for him. Bending close enough to Arsenol's ear so she'd be heard over the rasping of his nails, Yurekah clued him in on what was what. "Little brother, my bags are packed. Give me that magazine or sit here till they can't tell you from a giant bowl of rice when they finally break down the door." This was Ars' greatest fear - and Yurekah never failed to play on it whenever she needed to. And, also, when she didn't. So, that had ought to do it. And do it, it did. Still avoiding her glare, Arsenol leaned away and, after a few moments' digging under his tub, pulled out a sheaf of glossy stock and thrust it into her hand. "Hirsute Hotties?" Yurekah flipped through its damp pages. So many years and nothing changed: kneeling, bending, spread-eagled - each "hottie" looked to be enveloped head-to-toe in stuff she cleaned out of the sink trap once a month. She rolled the magazine into a baton. The better to wave and point. "So, tell me, Ars..." she waved and pointed, "I canceled all your 'nagadines' a long time ago. And George 8 only fetched the mail when I was here. "So, where's this from?" She stopped waving and pointing and switched to taunting, poking at Arsenol's shoulder with its edge. "You got friends I don't know about, Ars?" "Or maybe you found a way to go out by yourself when I'm not here? "Is that it, Ars? You finally figured how to move your nitty ass into the world? So you could "outlet" without me knowing? Is that it? Huh? Is that it?" She didn't really think this. In all her years caretaking him - other than the few times they'd been "sans" picker, with no Replace in sight, and she'd had to drag him to the docks to let the seagulls do the deed - Arsenol had never been out of the apartment. Not once. But she liked to say it anyway. Stinging from Yurekah's accusations - and the magazine pokes - Arsenol finally roused and, with the hand not scrounging his scalp, scooped up a mound of livestock from the jostling heap collecting in his lap and aimed it at her face. Because you don't live with Pickers your entire life without picking up a few things yourself. Pickers were small. And useful. But, also, nuts. So out of nowhere, when you'd least expect it, there they'd be, screeching, clambering up the shelves, flinging themselves off the cabinets, hanging from the curtains. Throwing books, dishes, bananas, whatever they could reach. And when there wasn't anything in reach - throwing poo. Arsenol realized a handful of nits wasn't the same as a handful of poo. But, sadly, Arsenol wasn't, right then, in the position to grab a handful of poo. Or he would have. Oh, boy, would he have. So nits would have to do. And, do, they did. Yurekah stopped grinning and clicking her dentures in sync with her pokes and, straightening, clomped back and back again from Arsenol and his unexpected ordnance. "Put that down, Ars. "NOW." Unimpressed, Arsenol sniffed and held his ground. "You gonna' leave me alone?" "I'll leave you alone, all right. Just wait and see." Yurekah, as older sister, had to have the last word, of course. Even if it was just in her head. Out-loud, though, was another matter. "First tell me where you got THIS." she waved the magazine as she yelled. "Someone GAVE it to me." Arsenol yelled back. "So you DO have a friend? Who is it?" Yurekah zipped through her memory for anyone who even knew about her brother. Other than Fidel, who was in-and-out all the time - snaking bananas from the toilet, replacing cabinet doors, re-hanging curtains, recently just stopping by to inquire, in his odd tongue, if anything was needed (but really, she knew, to glare at her some more) - she could think of no one. Yurekah, befuddled by the very thought that Arsenol might have a friend, had plumb forgotten to yell. Which dominoed Arsenol into plumb forgetting to be obstinate and uncommunicative. And, so.... "All I know is someone shoved it under the door this morning. Just after you left for work." Staring at the magazine, Yurekah slowly clomped around the tub full of Arsenol and his handful of nits to the kitchen table where she pulled a chair and whumped down into it. Arsenol, relieved, tossed his fistful onto the layer of floating done-fors and set to digging both hands deep into his hair. The air space before him flickered nits. "Yure?" As if the answer to the question of who was suddenly Ars' new best friend - and why - was buried between the follicles of "Hirsute Hotties'" cover harlot's strawberry blonde breast hair, Yurekah could not take her eyes off the magazine. "Mm?" "I'm itchy." "Mm." A droning, piercing, cranium-rattling noise roused Yurekah from her vision quest. Arsenol was whining. "All right already, so you're itchy." Yurekah slapped the magazine down on the table and frowning, turned. "No wonder. They're overflowing." She pointed to his tub where an army of nits was marching about on the land-mass created by layers of their previously-dispatched siblings. Arsenol stopped whining. "So, what are you going to do?" Yurekah heaved up to fetch the wet-vac from the hall closet. She was not looking forward to this. But at least the wet-vac would drown him out. A little. "I know it's not your favorite thing..." halfway down the hall, she could hear Ars revving up his whine again, "...but, from the looks of things, there's no time to call the EGS..." louder, louder, "...so what I'm going to do is clean you up..." louder, louder, "...and take you to..." silence, "...the docks." If she hadn't, at that moment, been passing by the front door on her way back to the kitchen with the wet-vac, no way Yurekah would have heard the tiny noise over her brother's shrieking. Standing on tip-toe, she peered through the peep hole. Nothing. She was just turning away when - there, again. Knocking? She peeped again. Still noth... no, there. Yes, knocking. Low on the door. Yurekah turned the dead bolt slow and cracked, then, eased open the door and, then, peered out. Then left. Then right. Then down. Well, what the....? There, staring up at her, a look of, could it be, concern? on its long, coarse-haired pink-and-brown-and-orange face sat, swaying tensely from side-to-side, a Picker. But not just a Picker - an Old-School Picker. A little thin, a little grey but, still, in mint condition. Yurekah clicked her dentures admiringly. She'd never seen one in-person, just in books. Dozens of years before she was even born the smaller, more cost-effective "Capuchin" model had revolutionized the Picker industry and "Orangs" had obsoleted to "collectables." Apparently unconcerned with either its collectability or even proper etiquette, the Picker bared a mouthful of large, stained fangs and gave Yurekah only long enough to grab a folded scrap of paper taped to the big, red bow around its neck before it reached out a long orange-haired arm and, shoving her aside, made a knuckly bee-line for the kitchen and Arsenol's unabated shrieking. Shrieking. Uh oh. The neighbors. Hastily, Yurekah reversed into the apartment and quickly closed the door. Well, if anyone complained, she'd say it was the news. There was always someone shrieking on the news. Especially during the weather segment. Door locked, Yurekah unfolded the paper. It took a few moments of squinting before she realized those lurching slashes and curlicues were writing and, then, a few more secs of nose-scrinching to realize it was writing in her own language. Sort of. "Mississ Urika. Pleas to have munkie for insted munkie I skrape from fall tooday. She name 'Skritch.' Left by move tenent last munth. O and I hopping brothur make use maguzin I give, too. O and I bring toomorow auto tyre for munkie sit. Thanks you. Humblee, Fidel." Yurekah looked up. Well, if that didn't beat all. Fidel. Frickin' Cyclops Fidel. All this time she'd thought he was glaring accusations at her with his one, big, Cyclops eye. When, really, he'd been glaring something else. Yurekah found herself suddenly in a very peaceful place. Until she realized that very peaceful place was the apartment. The apartment - minus the shrieking. Dropping the note, Yurekah careened down the hall to the kitchen, hoping for the best. But, of course, her life being only what it ever was, not finding it. For there, in the middle of the kitchen, leaning back in his inflatable tub, lay Arsenol. Eyes closed, mouth gaping - snoring like the giant, frickin' useless, nit he was. With Skritch - having already made short-work of the livestock attempting to breech the tub walls, now settled happily behind him, his head in her lap, slurping up nits like they were, well, nits. Yurekah clicked her dentures disappointedly. No bus ride today. But, still. So as to not disturb their bizarre Pietà, Yurekah tip-toed around her fat little Pharaoh and his "solace" to the kitchen window where, parting the curtains, she eased up the sash and, unlatching the Pick-a-Gard, edged it open. Leaning out into the evening, she scanned the scatterings of figures hurrying across the Potiphar Houses' communal courtyard on their ways home from schools, from jobs - from bus rides - her eyes peeled for only one special one of the many. She found him, finally, trudging from Building Four, shovel on shoulder, dragging a red plastic bag. Someone else had had a mishap. Someone else would be begging the EGS tonight. Someone else might even be vacuuming off their useless First Born and dragging him to the docks and the hungry, hungry seagulls. But not her. Waiting till Fidel came close enough to see her there (should he look up) she, then, prayed mightily he would. And when he did, tonguing her dentures down first, she leaned out and lofted him her widest smile. And even gave a little wave. And Fidel smiled back and winked his one, great, eye. His one, great, gorgeous eye. And, suddenly, no bus rides, yet, but, still, like Arsenol, Yurekah had her "solace," too. |
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| Scratch Kelly Kenney kelly.kenney@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/kelly.kenney |
#10 of 11 |
| 1994 | |
| The air was thick and humid. Rodney heard scratching on
the window. He looked around with a start, his heart pounding. Finally, he
realized it was the tree branch he had been meaning to cut away. “Why did
I watch that horror movie?” he chastised himself. The branch scraped across a pane creating an eerily haunting noise. With each scratch, his heart raced. “Get a hold of yourself man,” he said to himself as he sat up in bed. He debated whether or not to turn his stereo on. The house was too quite; the air too still. The electricity in the air heightened as lightning cracked. The impending thunderstorm he was dreading had finally arrived. He had hoped he would be asleep before the storm started. At that moment he heard his dog, Daisy, barking. Rodney smacked himself on the forehead. How could he have forgotten her outside? Wearing only flannel pajama bottoms, he headed out of his room and down the stairs. As he reached the front door to turn the knob, a strong gust of wind blew it open. Stepping on the porch, he pulled the door closed behind him. Rodney fought against the wind as he stepped outside to get Daisy before it started to rain. Holding his arm up to protect his face from debris rushing past him, Rodney slowly made his way through the harsh wind towards Daisy’s house. The wind whipped around his body and howled in his ears. He whistled for Daisy, but she didn’t come. He walked closer to her house but saw she wasn’t there. He grabbed the chain attached to the house and pulled on it. There was nothing but slack. Panicking, he pulled the chain quickly. Finally reaching the end, he saw her collar. “DAISY!” he called. “DAISY, COME!” he hollered, still receiving no response. Cold, fat raindrops startled him as they landed on his bare arms and chest. Rodney turned his face skyward and saw the pregnant black clouds tormenting him. He turned to walk back to the house, still calling for his beloved golden retriever. He noticed the front door standing open. A thunderous boom rattled Rodney’s teeth. He instinctively ducked from the sound. The sky opened up letting rain gush towards the earth. Rodney made a break for the safety of his porch. The porch was covered, but he still hated being outside while it rained. Rodney had what doctors referred to as astraphobia, the fear of thunder and lightning. It began nine years before when his stepfather chained him to a tree during storms. Now, at eighteen, Rodney used television and radio to drown out the sounds of a storm. As he reached the porch, his jet-black hair was matted to his head and water dripped down his face. His emerald colored eyes were wide with panic. Calling for Daisy, Rodney inadvertently shook his head causing his hair to fall into his eyes. Rodney desperately yelled for Daisy again. He ran his fingers through his hair, slicking it back. His heart raced and his breathing became labored. Crying and pleading, he called for her again. Panic because of the storm and fear for his dog combined to form tears that intermixed with rain as they both coursed down his face. The lightening cracked as it raced across the sky, illuminating the dark, heavy clouds. Rodney jumped in fear and ran into the house, slamming the door. He walked to the living room and turned the television on not caring what was showing. While lying down, waiting for the storm to subside, Rodney hid under a blanket and fell asleep watching Leno’s monologue. Rodney woke up with the feeling he was being watched. Bright orange sunlight was shining through the windows. He got off the couch and threw the afghan onto the floor. He rubbed his face, wiping the sleep away. He stretched and yawned while massaging his stiff neck. Scratching his head with both hands, he called for Daisy. “Come on Daisy. Time for breakfast.” Then he remembered the storm and that she hadn’t been on her chain. He grabbed his mud boots and ran into the front yard, still calling for her. He sloshed his way to her house. He heard a bark in the distance. “DAISY,” he called. There was another bark, slightly closer. “COME ON DAISY,” he yelled. Rodney whistled for her and she answered with another bark. A smile spread across his lips as he saw his golden retriever leap out of the woods and onto his chest. Her golden fur was caked in mud and dirt. A clump of fur missing from her side. Rodney took her inside to give her a bath. While shampooing Daisy, a door slamming in the kitchen broke the silence in the air. Daisy let out a low, throaty growl. Standing, he put his hand out to Daisy and whispered, “Stay.” Silently, he stepped out of the bathroom and went downstairs towards the kitchen. All the while, fighting the urge to yell “hello” out of curiosity and fear. The wind blew the tree branch against the window and he jumped a little. He shook his head and reminded himself to cut that branch as soon as he was done with Daisy. The sounds of pots falling shattered the silent and still air. Drawers were opened and slammed shut. Rodney heard clanging of jars in the refrigerator door. Rodney grimaced as a step creaked under his weight. Hearing the back door slam, he ran down the remaining stairs and through the kitchen. Reaching the back door, Rodney had a hard time turning the knob because of a slimy film covering it. Looking through the curtain, he was able to see branches swing where the intruder ran into the woods. “Damn it,” he cursed himself. He turned around and saw the mess in the kitchen. Pots and pans that were usually hanging on the pot rack over the stove island were now on the floor and the island. Water was running in the sink. Milk dripped from the fridge. There was flour scattered all over the table with exceptionally long three fingered handprints. The pantry door was open and saw all the shelves had been pulled down. Daisy entered the room, water and shampoo dripping from her coat. Her teeth were bared and a demonic growl escaped her throat. Rodney, fearing the sight in the dog’s eyes, jumped in the pantry and closed the door. Daisy ran out of the house, barking and growling. Rodney stepped from the pantry when he felt it was safe. He then shut and locked the back door, leaving Daisy outside with shampoo still in her coat. He debated on calling the Sheriff’s office, but decided against it. Nothing looked to be stolen. Rodney also didn’t trust him because the sheriff was the reason Rodney feared thunderstorms. Rodney cleaned the mess and made a shopping list to replace the food that was lost. He worried about Daisy. She had never looked so strange in the seven years he had her. He made a note to call the vet about that missing clump of hair. As he headed up the stairs to change his clothes, the tree branch tortured Rodney yet again. He stopped mid step and turned to go out to the tool shed. He found the chainsaw and revved it up. Two minutes later the branch was gone from the window. By dinner, Daisy still had not returned. Rodney was now very worried for his dog. He sat on the porch, waiting for her to come back up. As the sun was setting, Daisy limped from the tree line. Rodney jumped from the chair and ran to her. His heart broke as he heard her whimper. He picked her up and noticed blood trickling down her right hind leg. After taking her inside, he proceeded to shave off the fur to see what damage had been caused. A barely audible scratching came from the front door. Thinking he was hearing things, Rodney dismissed it. “What in the world is that?” Rodney gasped when the damage was revealed. The bite mark was something he had never seen before. Daisy whimpered as she tried to pull her leg from him. He held it steady as he patted her side. “Good girl,” he cooed. The blood steadily oozed out of the jagged triangular shaped bites. He knew he would have to take her to the animal hospital in town to get her stitched up and shots. He grabbed a towel lying on the floor and wrapped her leg to help stop the bleeding. Scratching like fingernails on a chalkboard echoed in the air. The sound sent a shiver down his spine. “Jeez. What is going on here?” Another haunted scratching came from the hallway. There was no denying that it was not the tree on the window. He had cut off the entire branch. An ear-splitting scratch made Rodney grit his teeth. Rodney couldn’t help but think the sound was getting closer to him. Daisy tried to get up as she started growling. Rodney patted his legs and called for her. When she was close enough, he grabbed her collar and guided her to the front door. He ran to his car and put Daisy in the backseat. He felt his pockets for his keys, but did a mental slap when he remembered he had left them on the table. He did not want to go back into the house, but he knew that in order to save his dog and to get away from the noise that haunted him, he had to. Rodney mustered up what courage he could and sprinted back into the house. Running though the living room and into the kitchen, Rodney did not look for anything but the keys that glistened on the table in front of him. He stopped for a moment. The keys were perfectly centered on the rectangular table. The keys not only glistened from the light above, but also because of a slimy film covering them. He reached his hand out and as he touched the keys, an elongated hand with three tremendously long fingers grabbed Rodney’s hand. His heart stopped for a brief moment as he looked up the long grey arm and into the vacant, soulless, black eyes of the intruder. Daisy, sensing something was wrong, squeezed between the front seats and jumped out of the open window. She landed yelping with pain, but ran to protect her master from the hideous beast that had been watching them for two days. Daisy followed the path Rodney had taken through the house. Her hair was standing on end as she barred her teeth and burst through the kitchen doorway at top speed. Barking and growling, she bit the muscular, yet thin, leg of the beast that invaded her space and threatened her master. The creature swung its leg and Daisy let go. Before Daisy could attack again, the creature opened its slit like mouth, revealing jagged triangular teeth. Clutching his chest with one arm, Rodney grabbed for the creature’s arm in an attempted plea. The final thing Rodney heard before his heart exploded was the ear piercing, high-pitched scratch sound that escaped from the mouth of the intruder. Rodney’s mother and step-father drove up to their house from their honeymoon three days later. His mother noticed the front door open and yelled for Rodney to come help unload the car. When Rodney did not come out, his mother whistled for Daisy. Yet she still did not receive a response. She placed her sunglasses on top of her head and made her way to the house, calling for both Rodney and Daisy. She stopped in her tracks when she entered the house. Rodney lay on the floor with Daisy covering his body with hers. Daisy had tried to protect Rodney to the very end. The official report said unknown cause of a heart attack. Both the vet and the medical examiner had never seen a heart explode with such force that it liquefied the lungs and burned the ribs. |
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| Scratch Missye K. Clarke captnmaverick@hotmail.com |
#11 of 11 |
| 1988 | |
| Over a cooling serving of potato fries and marinated
New York quarter cut steaks, half-filled glasses of Pabst Blue Ribbon sat
nearby waiting to be drained clean. The discussion pertaining to the sanity of
the storyteller was escalating to embarrassing heights. Talk was growing so
blue, the civility needed Miss Manners CPR. To the amusement of the other patrons visiting the 16th Street Diner, the conversation went along something like this: “Explain why those kids were glowing pink, dude.” “Define ‘glowing pink,’” offered Sebastian. “Pink, y’know, carnation-like, cherry-blossom, sorta—“ “Okay, ‘sorta’, ‘carnation-like’ and ‘cherry-blossom’ merely describes what level of pink; you still have not clarified how they glowed pink.” Sebastian interjected as he wiped his mouth corners too daintily to pass as a straight man in these parts, but he was laser-line fine in every aspect of his life. Hell, the Circuit City Geek Squad took lessons from this guy in microdynamics. He charged them by the kilowatt hour for chrissakes. “I don’t know how, dammit, they just did.” “The kids were glowing, you say?” “Yes, damn, for the fifth time, yes.” “I believe I can explain the how.” “Good, now that my fries went ice cold, how?” “Sunburn.” “At night?” “The children did not get the sunburn at night, Ron, they got the sunburn during peak sun hours and the burn developed over the course of the day to cause the glowing of the skin at night.” “They weren’t radiating sunburn heat, yo.” “And you know this, how?” quizzed Sebastian, cocking a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Did I mention he wasn’t a gay man? “When someone gets that nasty a burn, they’re throwin’ off heat like a fuckin’ furnace—like you did that summer in Cape Cod, right, Mr. Krabbs?” Sebastian ignored the quip and took a swallow of beer. “I still contest they were badly burned, Ron.” Trying another tact, this entered the conversation: “There were green kids, too.” “Were these three glowing ectoplasmic or a deep, dark mossy green?” Sebastian asked semi-rhetorically. “Bite me, Bastian.” “Please. I’ve not had dessert as of yet, so might I remind you to refrain from such course gutterings?” “How did you know there were three kids?” The slightest, almost hallucionegenic twitch showed itself under Sebastian’s left eye. His countenance remained unfazed, but this dude knew the deal, I could tell. “I merely guessed three children, Ron, not that that matters anything of what you’re attempting to have me believe.” I tossed in that three kids number just to trip him up. It worked. He got flustered. Being that I’m from Brooklyn, ain’t no damn way this fool was gonna bullshit a bullshitter like me. “So, the pink glowing came from a very bad sunburn?” “Most accurately.” “And the green kids?” “Shade of green, please?” “Like the Statue of Liberty, that kinda green.” Sebastian drained the last of the Pabst—the 16th Street eatery one of few places in Gotham to actually have that on draft—and signaled the illegal alien busboy over to refill his glass. He answered after having had time to think his conclusion over. More like he found that answer at the bottom of the PBR mug, either or. “However many there were, they were exposed to copper ore somehow and turned green over the course of their lives.” “Yeah, right.” “Plausibly you can offer another logical alternative?” “Sure. They were exposed to that copper after having been caught in a ditch from a collapsed copper mineshaft they were in the chimney cleaning out a flue for.” Sebastian tsk-tsked as he held a gaze on the city traffic clogging Sixth Ave, “Ron, Ron, where in the world would kids being exposed to that much copper over the course of their lives come to be that green and live to tell the story? Wouldn’t they have died?” Sebastian asked sensibly. This time I fidgeted—more accurately, my bladder did—but giving this prissy-britches a level gaze in return wasn’t broken by this sudden urge to pay the men’s room a call. “Not necessarily. Say there were three kids. Two coulda died, one lived; one died, two lived and one didn’t remember the ordeal but the otha one did; all three lived but one died later and the otha two did remember it. Capisce?” Dear cousin gave this rationale a nod, not insomuch as he agreed with the explanation but more to the fact that was the place to fit the nod in. Around Juan Pablo calling in Spanish for Hector to clean his station, including the table we were seated in and other diner patrons conversations and laughter in the air, I pressed on. “Explain about the blue kids and how they got that way?” Sebastian gave me a full-on grin, now. “Oh, there’re blue ones, too? Mother did warn her sister of those nasty things and such she was doing while expecting with you, but I didn’t think they’d manifest into this babble this late in life, especially yours.” Not expecting the cousin to fully believe me was one thing; I wasn’t expecting complete and absolute finality on the plausibility of … never mind … was another thing altogether. I was getting mad all the same. Especially yours? Now what in the flying prick did that mean? “Blue kids, Bastian,” it was said evenly, trying to keep a lid over the black-greeny-gold vat of anger rising in me. “Oxygen deprivation,” he said simply, tucking into his tiramisu delicately. I stared. Jesus, this guy even ate dessert with precision and a purpose. “The yellow children?” “Degrees of albinism.” “The orange kids?” “Excess beta-keratin.” “The grays?” “Dead.” My eyes narrowed as I countered, “Dead people don’t get up and walk, stupid ass.” “Zombies do.” This time I had to laugh and I did, raucously. It was a great outlet for my growing nervousness and just-checked anger. “So you can offer every rational explanation to these kids skin tones but not offer one for explaining zombies. Ha. That’s rich.” He chose to ignore this as he silently kept serving himself measured tiramisu bites. Figures. A trump card was still to be played, though. Not yet. Not just yet. “Purple children?” I asked. “Too many blueberries, blackberries and boysenberries, plausibly.” I felt an unhumurous grin rise to my lips. “Didn’t happen. Not where these kids were from, anyways.” He offered me a tiramisu bite. I declined. The vanilla scoop in its dish sat pooling before me now gave my innards the gentle queasies. He didn’t believe me. No one would. Trump card or not, what had turned into a simple conversation—simple … especially yours---took a turn to a place I hadn’t planned to go. I didn’t dare broach the bioluminescent ones. “What bioluminescent ones? Ron?” Ah, fuck, I said that aloud! “Nothin’.” I muttered to the melting Breyers as I took a little taste. A little taste was all I could manage; my mouth had gone as dry as sawdust as this was making the dessert taste like. “That wasn’t nothing, Ron. You said ‘bioluminescent ones.’ What are they? Who are they?” Sebastian asked clinically but his eyes were actually growing … kind? No way. When we were kids, he only had that same kind look in his eyes at the Channel Thirteen cooking shows and at the cleaning commercials on TV. He kept writing to the TV stations that carried The Odd Couple to get home cleaning tips from a Felix Unger that never existed, so many times, the head of ABC Network at the time, Rune Arland, had to write him back personally to brake the news gently. His consolation prize? To sit in the booth with Cosell and Gifford for an entire Monday Night Football game. He never took the tickets. “Why?” I demanded. “Hell, Sebastian, what do you care? Besides, you know something. Talk.” The nervousness in the gizzard took hummingbird wings form and I started to chew a fingernail. Resign softened Sebastian’s clean-shaven face and the look read it was s the right thing to do to tell me all he knew about the especially yours tag, anyway. “As she carried you to term, my aunt, your mother, went crazy, it seems. Claiming to have seen inter-dimensional cities, saw the Saturn’s moon Miranda’s cave-giants, there’s water-ice 26 miles under the surface of Titan, heard music in colors, smelled sounds and such. That level of nonsense wasn’t tolerated in our family—as you are well aware, Ron—and she was promptly quarantined to a comforting lodge where she could give birth to you and deal with whatever issues plaguing her. “From what public records and other recently released court documents has surmised, she was part of a study to test a new blood called HemaVoss. You see, she’d gone into premature labor with you and she’d started hemorrhaging. They obviously stopped the labor, controlled the blood flow but in the process, she’d lost a good deal of blood. So, she got the synthetic blood to sustain her while still expecting you.” I didn’t like where this was going … The hummingbird-like queasies grew into bat-wings. I wanted to ask … had to … “Where is she?” “Ron?” A man with a six foot long sword took the empty seat left of me. He—nothing else to call what seems to be a man, now is there?—was … “… absolutely glowing when she gave birth to you. Got to hold you, my uncle Sidney said. She sang to you, cooed to you, all that which new mothers do, I’d expect.” Sebastian finished quickly, then fed himself dessert double-time. “And?” I managed to offer. Peripherally, the man-gigantus was backlit, immersed and surrounded by a white diamonds and white gold … fire. Hey, I just scratched the surface in trying to describe what couldn’t be done with justice in this thread of Earth time. Gigantus smiled at me and nodded in the direction of the ladies’ room door. Standing there before it was my long dead little sister. She gave me a huge grin, missing baby teeth and all. I relaxed, even gave a slight wave. She giggled and held her Raggedy Ann doll high as she could stretch for me to see it … and I turned to give Sebastian the biggest, goofiest grin I knew how. “Ron?” he repeated. This time he sounded as nauseated as I’d felt just a few minutes before. Queasiness, gone. Anger, nervousness, what were they? “Yeah, Bastian?” I asked simply. “Is … is this gentleman seated with us going to take care of the tab, or am I?” my cousin managed, just before returning his tiramisu, steak and fries currently bathed in a gooey Pabst Blue Ribbon sauce. After that disgusting and patron-scattering scene, he slumped stone cold on the diner floor. In trying to revive an unconscious man, another customer inadvertently stepped on Sebastian’s right arm, hosting a pricey Movado watch, scratching and cracking its crystal and onyx face, busting three bones in his wrist in the process. Man, was he gonna be pissed when he learned of that! Looking to the direction of the ladies latrines again, the little girl wasn’t there. I gave the door a third look. Three ladies entered the bathroom. The little girl—my sister from long ago—was gone. “She was playing with me, Ron. She loves to swing and to play with her doll and to feed the ducks,” the visitor next to me spoke gently. Frantic patrons were pointing to me, calling 911, trying to revive Sebastian. It sounded miles away, even though they weren’t but two feet in front of and around me. “Emily wanted to see you. I am her angel, Pryskal. I am humbled and awed to have finally the chance to meet you in your plane.” I nodded. A ribbon of this strange afternoon remained frayed, though. “When he returns to consciousness, he will tell you more of your mother. He will not have remembered this afternoon, however. In time, I believe, he will come to tolerate your capabilities.” A pause. “Of the red children, though, they do not exist. God understands the confusion between reds, pinks and purples. Besides,” Pryskal said, standing, “pinks and purples look so much prettier on a soul, God thinks.” He misted to his dimension as EMTs entered the diner. Riding shotgun with Sebastian, Pryskal’s last line was completed with my thought: Hmmm. He’s got a very good point, there. Looked as if ol’ cousin o’ mine and I had a lot to dig under the dimensional—and conventional—surface. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club