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"Visitation" (the sixty-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Visitation" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Oct 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Visitation By Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #12) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It was hot, it was dry, it was
arid on the day that el ángel came down to Milagros who, well-side, was praying for some respite for her little town. For her town had turned into a dust bowl and the fields full of maíz were dried up and the drink of fresh agua you needed would evaporate right from the cup. And the townsfolk were giving up dreaming (having given up hoping last week) but Milagros had faith still within her so she went to the well for a peek. Crunching through the brown plants and sere grasses with her little Aysús on her hip up the hill to the well she marched gamely and, once there, she stared over its lip Just to find it still empty, no agua el sol still beating down from on high but she scrunched her eyes ever so tightly and she sent a prayer into the sky And then... nada. Just bugs busy buzzing ‘round her face as they searched for a drink while Milagros stood quietly waiting feeling, now, her heart starting to sink. All at once, though, the ground started moving and she felt her cabeza go numb and Aysús, who was clutched to her, tightly looked confused and stopped sucking his thumb Then she seemed to be lost in a dream-scape where the time - it was moving by half; and a strange smell of violets and licorice made her feel like she needed to laugh. So she laughed with her mouth held wide open till she fell to the ground, out of breath and Aysús, who she still held tight to her would have been suffocated to death If el ángel had not appeared thusly and had snatched up the child from the ground and then, hanging him up by his diaper on a tree-limb, he turned without sound To Milagros who, awed and admiring cast her gaze down - she felt this was wise, for she knew she was in divine presence (and she couldn't quite focus her eyes) And el ángel walked toward Milagros... or he floated - well, that's how it seemed - and Milagros stood still, barely breathing, and she blushed, for she'd never quite dreamed That one day she might meet with un ángel while her niño swung wild by his pants and that ángel would turn and walk toward her through the dried grass and agua-starved plants Then el ángel came close to Milagros oh, indecently close, but she smiled when he reached down and took her frail mano and it set her small heart beating, wild When he looked down into her black ojos and she gazed up into his grey eyes and he leant down and kissed her lips lightly and she gave out a tremulous sigh For his kiss cooled like snowflakes in summer yet it flashed through her in heated waves and his kiss tasted like the cane sugar that her madre gave her as a babe. And his kiss smelt like roses in springtime and she felt her heart soaring up high and the sense of belonging it gave her made her feel young and safe and alive. And his kiss soothed like goose-down in winter but it woke like a green meadow breeze and she found herself hugging him tightly, only half from the weak in her knees. But, then, suddenly, her legs gave under and she felt her cabeza go 'round and her ojos went hazed and unfocused... and she woke in a pile on the ground Where she found herself rolling in agua and she felt herself muddy and wet from the rain pouring down from heavens, and this wasn't the all of it, yet And she peeked in the well, filling nicely and she looked at the plants, drinking deep and she found little Aysús, still swinging from the tree - smiling, soaked, and asleep. And she saw the town's people out dancing in the streets - ankle deep in the mud and she took in the maiz fields, now drenching like the grass, much relieved by the flood But she felt herself lost in this deluge that was falling in sheets from the sky - and she felt her small heart softly breaking and she found herself starting to cry For her ángel had just up and vanished; her town saved, he had probably gone home. And Milagros felt lost and abandoned. And Milagros felt small and alone. And her chest felt like it was on fire as her heart shrank and withered inside till the only thing left in Milagros was the husk of her love, cracked and dried So she unhooked her wet, snoring Aysús, and trudged back to her house, sad and weak unaware that she could not distinguish ‘tween the rain and the tears on her cheek. And the town's people danced till all hours and rejoiced how they'd no longer burn, while Milagros sat quiet in her kitchen, praying now for her ángel's return. It was hot, it was dry, it was arid on the day that el ángel came down to Milagros who, well-side, was praying for some respite for her little town. |
| Visitation By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| In the ritual that it has become, I
start with my left foot. I place its heel flush against the wall, then bring my
right foot around so that it is directly in front, with its heel touching the
toes of my left. Because it is important to be accurate, I am careful not to
allow any space in between. I put one foot in front of the other and pace off
the width of my cell. Six of my feet wide. Then, in the same manner and with the same precision, I calculate the length, starting at the far wall and measuring to where the door used to be. Eight with a toe and a half left over. It is the same as it has always been. I had no reason to suspect that it would be any different, yet still it gives me comfort to know that it remains unchanged. It is how I preserve my sanity. The cell is damp and, though it did no crime to which it will admit, the air that is imprisoned here with me is foul and putrid. There are no windows, and neither is there a door, though once there used to be, but that was before they filled it in with stones and mortar. As if the existence of a door might in some way hold forth the promise of my release. Thus, in the cell to which I have been sentenced to live out my days -- the cell that has neither windows nor doors -- there are only walls. Thick slabs of stone that extend without interruption to the ceiling. There is no way for me to know if it is day or night, winter or summer, today or yesterday. It is a world without time. The past is forever, and there is no future except never. A single bulb, suspended on a chain far above my head, provides the only illumination. The light is always on. It is my sun. It is my moon. It is my night. It is my day. It used to be my god. Due to the heinous nature of my crime, the authorities, in the rightful exercise of their wisdom and their vindictiveness, determined that I should live out the remainder of my natural days without ever again being allowed contact with another human being. In keeping with the dictates of the state, my meals are delivered in a most mechanical and impersonal manner. They arrive through a narrow slit in the wall where the door used to be, the slit having been left there for the sole purpose of feeding me. My food, which is quite ample though rather tasteless overall, comes to me pushed along the floor by a cardboard plow. It arrives without benefit of either plate or tray. It is the way one might feed an animal. The arrival of food attracts the other residents of my cell, the cockroaches. They emerge from the corners and from behind the commode, all a-twitter with excitement. I delight in watching their shiny brown bodies crawl over my food, sampling this and tasting that, gorging themselves like pigs being fattened for the slaughter. It makes me feel good that I treat the cockroaches so well, that I share my meal with them. In a way, I would guess, they are my friends, my only friends, the only living things with which I have any contact. Then, as they scurry back to the nooks and crannies from whence they came, their little tummies all full and their appetites satiated, I step upon them. I murder them. I crush them beneath my foot and grind my heel into the floor. There is no greater joy than listening to the sweet, delicious crunch of death beneath my foot. Thus it is that I have adjusted to my circumstances, praying to a light bulb and crushing cockroaches. Every undefined moment of my existence, be it an hour or a day or a year, is exactly like the one that preceded it, and it gives me peace of mind to know that each moment in which I live will also, in turn, be exactly like every moment that follows. If I want not more than what I have been given, I can not be disappointed. Or so I thought until the devil slipped a note into my cell. It is not a note in the usual sense that one thinks of such a thing. No billet-doux, elegantly penned on fine parchment, its most personal contents kept safe from prying eyes by the discrete and yet casual application of sealing wax. Nor is it an application for a favor, the type a merchant might employ in the course of his business affairs, seeking perhaps a meeting on Tuesday next, should such time be agreeable to all concerned. No, the note is nothing like that, for a note like that would never be allowed the likes of me, lest in some way my evil be such that it is capable of contaminating even the sender of such an innocent missive. No, this note, this note from the devil, arrives, not by the usual post, but rather by the most clandestine of means. It is contained within the gristle of my stew, its characters so minuscule and difficult to decipher that, were I not so attentive to even the most minute details of my own existence, I might have missed them entirely. I brush the cockroaches aside, flicking them against the wall, getting them out of my way. For the moment at least, letting them live. I stand up, cradling the gristle in my hands, tilting it first one way and then another so that the light may best illuminate the writing. My eyes have grown weak during the time I have been incarcerated here, and the writing is small. But I persist, going over the script again and again until I am sure that I have it right, that I have read it correctly. The devil, it seems, would like to visit me. I am elated. Overjoyed. The prospect of companionship intoxicates and exhilarates my soul. Tears fill my eyes and blur my vision. I wipe them aside so that I may continue reading. But first, the devil tells me, I must get rid of my god. I have never thought of such a thing before and find myself hesitant to act on even so simple a request. It would be easy enough, I think, to remove a shoe and hurl it toward the heavens above, striking a mortal blow against my incandescent god as easily as I might crush a cockroach. And yet, I do not. The devil does not leave me alone. He eggs me on. Unless, of course, he writes, you are scared of the dark. He thinks me a child, this devil, tethered to my mother's apron strings no doubt, and afraid to cross the street on my own. Yet he is the one who would do well to apprentice at my knee. I remove my shoe. Yet still I equivocate, doing not more than hefting it in my hand a time or two so that I might gauge its weight and thereby reckon the amount of strength one would need to cast it toward the light. The devil senses my weakness. Lose the god, he writes, lose the god and I will share with you the secrets of the universe, of the stars and the moons and the galaxies beyond. He has played his hand, this devil, and played it well, for like all mortals, I wish to know such things. I fling the shoe above my head. It is unerring in its trajectory. There is a brief, explosive burst of light. Reflexively, I close my eyes. Electrical sparks crackle above me, and I drop to the floor and cover my head. A shower of glass rains down upon me. When it is done, I grope the floor, seeking out the gristle. It does not take long for my fingers to find it. I lift it gently from the floor and bring it to my face, my hands cupped together as if in prayer. Slowly, I open my eyes so that I might read the note, for the devil has played his hand, and I have outplayed him. To my dismay, there is but darkness. No longer any god of the filament. No longer any light by which I might read what the devil has written. I hold in my hands the secrets of time and life and death and all that is both between and beyond ... and I can not read it! For the devil has played his hand, and he has played me for a fool. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #12 Second place: #6 Third place: #10 Tied for Fourth place: #8, #16 Others receiving votes: #13, #15, #18 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Visitation judyegr@sbcglobal.net |
#1 of 19 |
| 74 words | |
| Panoramic visitation Scanning over every nation, Studying our transformation From a spaceview observation. Prolonging still the mystery. They watch us with consistancy, Implanting a malignancy, Promoting every fallacy. With every object that is hurled, The discs of silver are impearled, Expectations are unfurled, Bringing mans' kin to our world. Believers say that they know why The startling starships often fly Around the earth and in our sky Say they await the day we die. |
|
| Visitation Robert P. Herbst herbst@gtcom.net WWW.MOUNTPERRY.COM |
#2 of 19 |
| 1058 words | |
| I know it was many years ago but the memory remains
fresh in my mind. I had a little grocery store in a semi private community in
Western Connecticut, right on the New York State border. I was running it alone. I worked the store seven days a week from 7:00 in the morning to well after 9:00 at night. On Sundays, I’d get up at 4:00 AM and drive the 30 miles to a bakery store for fresh doughnuts, cakes and pies. I did this because, in this little community I was the only game in town and the folks who lived there had come to rely on my being open. On this one particular day, I felt sick. I didn’t get sick very often, but I felt really lousy on this day. I was living only a mile or so from the store and the drive up the hill to get to work was an interesting experience, as the road seemed to be moving sideways under the car. Now I knew the road wasn’t moving, so this had to be a sign I was good and darn sick. Things didn’t get any better after I opened for the day. In fact my situation was getting progressively worse as time went on. By noon, I’d had it. I put a sign in the window indicating I’d be closed for the day and closed up. The drive back to where I was living at the time was not peasant. I’m thankful I remember so little of it. About half way home I got cold. Really cold. Even the cars heater didn’t help. The house I Lived in, was built on a hillside overlooking a lake. Ordinarily this would have been an ideal situation. Today, however, I dreaded the thought of having to go down a flight of stairs to get to the livingroom, kitchen area. The stairs seemed to have a mind of their own. They moved away every time I tried to take a step. Once downstairs the cold closed in on me big time. I sat down in front of the TV to try to get warm. Nothing helped. I just seemed to get colder. I decided to get into bed but the bed was yet another flight of steps down. As I moved down I hung onto the railing with both hands. About half way down my teeth began to chatter from the cold, I had to clench my jaws to keep from shaking my teeth apart. I made it to the bed, threw off my clothing and collapsed into my nice comfortable water bed. The cold persisted and now the very touch of the bed linens hurt my skin. It felt as if they were covered with sharp spines. The pain was intense but I pulled the covers up over me and tried not to move. The cold was getting worse and the pain of the bed linens was nearly unbearable. I had to get warm at any cost. Summonsing all my courage I rolled over and shoved the heat control for the waterbed mattress all the way up to the highest point and lay back to wait. I knew the temperature would only go up one degree each hour but it was all I had the strength to do. I grit my teeth and pulled the bed covers up around my neck and tried my best not to move. The pain of the linens on my skin was intense to the point tears welled up in my eyes. I have no idea how long I lay there bearing the pain. Suddenly, I felt nothing. I wasn’t cold nor was I hot. The bed linens didn’t hurt any more. I didn’t feel good but I didn’t feel bad either. It was as if there was a total absence of all feeling. Then I saw the three figures standing by my bed. They were dressed in brown cloth robes which covered them from their heads on down to where I couldn’t see anymore. They were standing close to the bed and I couldn’t see all the way to the floor. There were hoods drawn around their heads so their faces could not be seen. The robes were tied at the waist with some kind of rope. They just stood there looking in my direction. One on each side of the bed and one at the foot of the bed. Then the ones on either side of me reached out to me. I felt myself float upwards. There was no fear nor a sensation of flying, I felt nothing. I was floating a few feet over where I had just been laying. I still couldn’t see their faces and there was only a dim light from outside to illuminate the room. I felt rather than heard someone say, "Put him back. Were not ready for him yet." I had no idea who had said it, but I slowly settled back into my bed. The pain and cold came crashing back onto me like a wave. The three people were gone without a trace. I didn’t really care. I hurt too much to worry about it. I lay there for a long time not daring to move. Slowly sleep overcame me and I drifted off in a sound sleep until morning. At day break I was up and going just like I usually did. What ever it was which caused me so much pain was gone and I felt pretty good. It was once again time for me to go and visit with my father who I had put in a home because he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He had become a danger to himself. I think putting him in the rest home was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Anyhow, I went to see him every other day and opened my store on these days, only after my visit with him. While I was at the rest home, I asked one of the nurses about what had happened to me the day before. Her explanation was simplicity itself. She said, "You died. For some reason you came back. It happens a lot to the people who live here in the rest home. We hear stories like this almost every day of the week." Was it a dream or did it really happen? I guess I’ll never really know for sure. |
|
| Visitation roger@cowboylogic.net |
#3 of 19 |
| 1721 words | |
| “This life is a fucking piss off.” Tom was tramping through damp underbrush back to his camp after a miserable days hunt and was about fed up with the only joy he seemed able to find anymore. The expletive even surprised him as it fell right out of his thought process, bounced splashing off the fiddle head ferns and assailed his own ears, accustom only to the easy shush of wet leaves. Life hadn’t been fair to Tom, he lost his parents early, His wife of 15 years was now married to his old hunting partner and any pleasant memories of those 15 years were wiped away with visitation arguments and child support increases. This was why Tom was hunting alone. It seemed these days he was the only friend he had. About now was when he recognized the telltale squish between his toes that indicated a hole in the sole of his neoprene hiking boots and a feeling of why not kick me, the line starts here. A strange sound broke his mope and pinned him to his spot in the trail. The sound was metallic and his first thought was the cocking of a gun. Slowly but surely he eased to the ground and melted into the large Salal bush at his knee. Just his luck he would be picked off by a hair brain with a hair trigger who thought deer wore camouflage. Tom listened for some time and heard the sound twice more but it seemed to be in the canopy somewhere and he began to scope for blinds in the trees. Nothing. A half hour passed with Tom straining all his senses but there were no more sounds that didn’t fit and the birds even started moving around him, preparing for evening roost. One of his senses did however, pick up a signal and that was his sense of smell, something like a mixture of rust and roasted coffee stroked the air just enough to let him know it was there. He knew he had another mile and a half to put in to get back to his camp, but he may have stumbled on someone else’s. Tom had to move. This was no place to spend the night with a leaky boot. Straining to ease his pinging muscles, he stood and began to move one foot at a time down the game trail with camp feeling much more important. Perhaps hunting alone was really not such a good idea after all. All was quiet now so he picked up his pace. “Screw the hunt. I’ve had enough for one day.” Again his outside voice broke silence. Measured steps and a matured woodsman’s gate soon had him making good ground and camp soon slipped into view. An hour later Tom, in dry clothes was sitting on his tailgate, eating a fair good meal wrangled from his truck camper. A fire was crackling warmly near by and hot coffee was steaming at his side. The rain had turned to mist about noon and now stars were poking through the clouds in the deepening dark with a welcome glitter that eased his troubled soul. Even in hell there are good moments he thought, this time with his inner voice. While contemplating the growing basket of sparkles over his coffee the wildest moonbeam he ever saw slid down through the breaking clouds, then changed in hue to a silvery bronze glow. There was no sign of the moon to create such a beam so amazement helped Tom’s coffee cup levitate slowly down to the tailgate. He watched as the beam grew more bronze and started moving through the now darkened forest. It made the tops of the trees it brushed look like their needles were on fire. At first the beam slid across the bow back mountain, then down the broken ridge to the south and on down to the alpine meadow where the logging road broke over the hump onto this plateau. There was another metallic click like the one Tom heard on the trail but this time louder and in the direction of the source of the beam. The beam changed direction and was now on its way toward his truck. Toms hand was sliding up the seat at the back of the camper and wrapping around the butt of his 308 hunting rifle. Another click and he became aware of the now quite strong smell of rusty coffee. A quick glance at his own cup stated the obvious; it was not his coffee that he smelled. The third symptom of this experience was beginning to show. Tom’s hair was on end. All of it. Literally, even his head hair was sticking out like he was a large magnet and his hair was iron filings. His arm hair was fluffed and even his chest hair and genitalia sent sensations across his body like a breeze through his hair. Tom was not enjoying this. The beam was sweeping the scrub spruce on the plateau now and was nearing his camp. The rifle was readied and a loud question was in the chamber. Tom was aware of a shake in his hands but worked his best to ease it off. “Probably a damn helicopter looking for a green horn”. “There goes that outer voice again” Now he was talking to himself out loud. “Shit!” The beam broke out into his camp and pulled up a seat on his campfire. The sparks were simply drifting up their own shining chimney. Nothing changed for a millennium in Tom’s mind then three men and a woman simply lifted out of his fire and stepped back to be lit by its light, impervious to the heat and flames. Tom had a feeling his gun was of little use here. For another eternity, they didn’t speak, they just watched him. The clothes they wore were a little city for this setting, but wind breakers and sweaters made Tom feel they were feeling the chill. “What the hell” He didn’t know if that was inside or outside voice and he really didn’t care anymore. The smallest guy grinned a perfect smile and said “Hi Tom.” The rest of the committee smiled with this and nodded in greeting. The little guy seemed to be leading this slide into insanity so he opened again with, “It’s been a while and you don’t remember us but for a cup of your coffee, we’ll enlighten you to our last visit and fill you in on what this is all about. Slowly, without a word, Tom’s rifle found it’s berth and camp chairs were unfolded from a little used plywood box on the back end of the camper. A new pot of coffee was perked on the propane stove and Tom showed amazing patience before asking, “Who the hell are you?” “Well Tom, We three are your parole board and this lovely lady is your wife.” The little guy was still leading the way. “Parole board?” If I didn’t know for sure I was going crazy right now, I’d say you were out of your friggin gourd” Tom made a mental note that he had edited his statement automatically for the lady. The skinny guy now leaned forward and presented what looked like a pen to Tom. “Please take this; it will help explain what we are talking about” Tom reached out and took the stylus and it clicked that strange sound and the rusty coffee smell overtook him. Reality began to settle around him now and the setting faded away from campfire to softly lit meeting board room with glass walls framing a city world at dusk with millions of lights like stars spreading around this tower they sat in. These people were no longer human and by now Zil knew he as not human either. “Hello Bel, Lar, Ras… sure good to see you again Gix, How long have I been gone this time? This time Ras, the warden chimed in. You have two human life times in, Zil, one more to go. I have to say this one was your toughest so far, but you get to start fresh with the next one so make it your best. Tom just had a heart attack and died back on earth, when you are done your visitation with Gix, you will begin your last term. Gix smiled coyly, stood and walked around the table to lead Zil into the visitation room. As they entered she flicked her hand across the opaque switch stand and the walls filled in to leave them to their own resources. They dropped their shells and merged at once. Within moments the room was radiant with their light. Memories of Gix were sweet and they carried Zil a long way. There was no way of escaping this confinement and the black existence was increasingly painful. Unfortunately those memories were beginning to fade now and his whole existence was comprised of the paradox he found himself in. Bathed in warmth and nourished to the extent of his every need, yet contained and bound in this black senseless existence. Suddenly there was a surge and Zil felt the support below him give way slightly. Panic set in as his benevolent prison began to give way. The movement stopped and his heart rate begin to slow. Zil stretched to ease the weight concentrating on his head and shoulders and suddenly another tremor, this time bigger and his world rushed out around his head and shoulders leaving him grasping and pushing to spread the pressure away from his head. Zil slipped and his prison walls crushed down on him. His head was squeezed through a crevasse it couldn’t fit through and he felt his energy waning. Just as he thought he could gain some strength another push from his walls and his left shoulder were trapped. His struggle subsided now. He was giving up. This was his end. Again the pressure from all sides and this time he didn’t resist. A moment later he was screaming at the top of his lungs and gasping for breath in a freezing hell of light and noise. Finally some relief in the form of a warm, wet smoothing that pushed away the cold for a few moments then the shock of cold metal against his bare skin. The warm cleaning continued for a short time, he was wrapped tightly in cloth and placed at in the arms of his mother. Moments later Zil found a nipple and drank in a new life that pushed out the final memories of Gix and the board. |
|
| Visitation bren60@bellsouth.net |
#4 of 19 |
| 2061 words | |
| “Miss Marcum, when Pastor John comes in I would
like to see him in my office.” Pastor William Johnson was standing at her
desk flipping through the mail. “I can’t believe this, here it is the
middle of summer and we are already getting catalogs for Christmas items. Bah
Humbug.” “Now do you think the Lord would like to hear one of his chosen saying ‘bah humbug’. We have to place our Christmas order in early so we aren’t rushing around at the last minute. Some of us like to plan ahead.” Miss Marcum was always on top of things and Pastor appreciated it when she was. She kept everything running tip-top. “Don’t you worry Miss Marcum; I am not cursing our blessed Christmas season, but the commercialism. I am sure that God himself is cursing what we have done to his holidays. I wonder what he thinks of the Easter Bunny.” Pastor Bill looked up and then continued. “Sorry, Father we will never get it right, because we are dirty rotten sinners. There is your mini sermon for this lovely Tuesday morning. We are all dirty rotten sinners and with the grace of God we might make it. Do I hear an amen? I will be in my office and remember to send John in to see me.” “Good morning Bill, Miss Marcum said you wanted to see me?” John Travis had only been at Trinity Church for five months and already all the women of the church were inviting him for Sunday afternoon dinner. They either were afraid he was not being fed properly or they had an unmarried daughter they wanted him to become better acquainted with. Pastor Bill marveled at how he was managing to keep in shape with all the goodies that were passing through the offices of late. Even the senior pastor was enjoying having a new minister at the church. “Come in John, how did chapel go at the academy this morning?” “I did’nt catch anyone sleeping so I am guessing it went well. I saw a lot of our youth group members there so I felt at home.” “Super, it is always good to get that first one under your belt. Now I have a little project for you this week. I would like you to go on a visitation to see the Forrest sisters over in Rothschild. There are three little ladies in their eighties and nineties. Think you have some free time to go for a visit this week?” “Sure I would be glad to go. I really enjoy this part of my ministry. I will go call and make an appointment to go as soon as possible.” John rose to go to his office Pastor Bill raised his hand to stop John, “Why don’t you let Mrs. Marcum make the appointment! She is very good with them, hard of hearing you know. I will tell her right now, what day would be good for you?” “Thursday!” “Miss Marcum, call the Forrest sisters tell them that Pastor John will be coming out for a visit on Thursday morning. I cannot hear you, there is static on the line,” Pastor Bill blew into the phone. “What, did you say? Maybe you had better call the phone company also. Thank you Miss Marcum for all the good work you do. It is a ministry that is appreciated by us all. Bless you Miss Marcum. She will make the call. Their place is off Sugar Mill Boulevard. You can get the rest of the directions from Miss Marcum.” “Good, I know that area and I am looking forward to it. As I said, I really enjoy going on visitation. I especially enjoy the home cooked meals. Not that I expect a meal every time I visit mind you, I miss mom’s home cooking and I am tired of Marie Callendar’s TV dinners” It was ten o’clock, Thursday morning when Pastor John left the church to make the 25 minute drive to Rothschild. Arriving at the home of the Forrest sisters, John was surprised to see such a beautiful home very well cared for with beautiful gardens surrounding the house. It was not what he had pictured. When he climbed the steps, he felt like he was stepping back in time. There was serenity about the place that made him feel like he would love to come back here often. He turned the crank on the front door. As he waited, he saw the front window curtains pull to one side and a face peek through them. He smiled and knew that he was being very carefully scrutinized. The front door opened so quickly it made John jump. “Yes, who are you? We don’t want whatever you’re selling so you might as well turn right around and go back where you came from!” “I’m here for a visit, ma’m, Pastor John Travis from Trinity Church,” John looked into the face of a tiny little lady, whom he would suspect was very good looking in her day. “Oh, land’s sake, come in boy. Betty Marcum said that you would be over to see us. Welcome to the Forrest home. I am the oldest, Patricia Forrest. You can call me Miss Patricia, if you like, seeing as you are a preacher. I don’t let most young folks call me by my first name. But if you call me Patsy, I will show you to the door faster than you can blink an eye. I taught school for 54 years and I graduated from college at the age of 53. Now what do you think of that.” Patricia Forrest led John into the parlor and sat him in the big winged back chair. “This was daddy’s chair and we let all our gentlemen guests sit there. We don’t have many but we get a few. Why just last week we had some man out here selling us cemetery plots thinking we would all want to be together. We got rid of him in a hurry. We thought he was a nice doctor coming for a visit. But as soon as he opened his case and brought out his brochures from Angel’s Walk Cemetery.” “It wasn’t Angel’s Walk!” a voice from the hallway announced the entrance of another Forrest sister. “This is my sister Mildred Forrest Pierce Bastiani McCarthy. She has four daughters with the last one he was an over sexed Irishman.” John rose as another beautiful older woman with the most beguiling smile came into the room. “Patricia, how you talk in front of the pastor! Please excuse her she never liked any of my husbands but that was only because she never could get one of her own. It wasn’t Angel’s Walk, Pat; it was Meadow Lark Garden’s. We have lived here almost our entire lives daddy built it for mother. We were all born here and all returned here. We don’t have much of a desire to go to our final resting place all together. Patricia has been in this house all of her life. Our brother James raised his family right here. Our other brother Thomas died in Germany in the war at the age of 19. We haven’t gotten over that yet. He served his country well and received a metal. Then of course there is our sister Adelaide. We call her addled Adelaide.” “Mildred, please be kind when you talk about Addy. Our sister Addy never grew up. She has always been a sweet little girl and we take good care of her. You will meet her at lunch. Right now she is in the garden playing,” said Patricia. “I’m looking forward to it. Now tell me about your teaching and college when you were 53?” “Yes, I taught and went to school at the same time. I taught in a one room school house and I got my two year degree and was teaching for quite a while. I taught second grade and such dear little ones I had. Not all of course but most were charming. Anyway, in order for me to keep teaching children I had to get a bachelor’s degree. So I went back to school at age 50 and I was on the Dean’s list every quarter.” “That is really an accomplishment. Congratulations on that, Miss Patricia. Now Miss Mildred, tell me about you. You have four daughters?” “Yes, and I have eleven grandchildren they are all over the country. but the apple of my eye is Millicent. She is a legal secretary and works right here in Rothschild. Are you married Pastor?” “No, ma’m I’m not. The good Lord has not provided me with a mate yet, but I know he will.” “Well, maybe I can help the Good Lord a bit,” said Mildred. “With eleven grandchildren and nine of them girls maybe there is one in the bunch. I think you would like my Millicent.” “Oh, good Lord, Mildred, stop pushing your brood off on every man that walks through the door. Just because you want to be a great grandmother is no reason to be so pushy. I’m going to finish our lunch. We will eat on the terrace. It should be ready in about 20 minutes.” “That will be nice your yard is beautiful. Do you ladies keep up the gardens?” “Oh, my no, our nephew James Jr. sends his men over once a week and they take care of the lawns and the weed pulling. Addy likes to pull off the dead buds. Have you heard of Forrest Landscaping over in Crawford? That is our nephew, James Jr. He never charges us because he says that he wants his children to be married in the gardens. Shall we go out to the terrace?” Mildred held out her arm for John and they walked through the house to the terrace. Patricia was standing on the edge of the lawn calling to the other sister. Soon a little old lady with long flowing white hair came out of the gardens and walked shyly up to the terrace. She never took her eyes off John. “Addy this is Pastor John Travis. He is the preacher at our church and we invited him for lunch,” said Patricia in a very soft kind voice, not at all like she talked to her sister Mildred. “What happened to Wild Bill did he kick the bucket?” Addy walked over to John and looked up at him. “You’re a tall one aren’t you? Good looking too. Did Mildew start pushing her grand daughters off on you? We have to endure that every time a young man walks down the street.” “Miss Addy it is good to make your acquaintance. Pastor Bill is still at Trinity. Fortunately the church is growing and so the elders decided to hire a second pastor.” “Ah, that’s good. I like Wild Bill he used to come out here a lot. My sisters, Mildew and Parsley said that I am mean to him. I can’t help myself because he has a funny nose. I just asked him if he could put out a fire with his nose. He should be in the record books with that nose. Tell me if you have ever seen a nose that long. Not a noble nose at all. What do you think?” “Addy, please be pleasant. We like John and we want him to come back.” Miss Patricia was placing little sandwiches on the table. Mildred was behind her with a pitcher of tea then Patricia returned with a bowl of potato salad. “John, would you please do the blessing?” asked Patricia. “Yes ma’m, shall we hold hands and bow our heads. As John prayed Addy watched him carefully. “Well, Johnny you never opened your eyes. That is good! God doesn’t want you to open your eyes because he comes down here with us when we pray and we can’t look at him.” John putting his arm around Addy saying, “And how do you know that my eyes were closed, Miss Addy? Were you peeking?” “Oops, I’m caught!” Addy giggled. “Well, someone has to keep an eye out for God’s people and I have elected me.” After a lunch of cucumber sandwiches and a tour of the gardens, John left his visitation with the Forrest sisters and a promise to return often. On the drive back to Crawford, John knew that he would indeed return often, but next time he would grab a burger on the way out of town. |
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| Visitation Sal Amico M. Buttaci sambpoet@yahoo.com http://www.freewebs.com/sambpoet |
#5 of 19 |
| 1181 words | |
| Max Dollar sat in the corner of the monkey cage,
sleeping off a two-day drunk. It wasn’t pretty. Meanwhile, in the next cage, Baratos was all of a sudden in a Gila monster cage here on earth, victim of an incredible look-alike phenomenon. On his star, everybody resembled the Gila creature. And how did the science masters back home miscalculate like this? To mark this cage as his destination? Who could beat that! Baratos had come from a world populated with what looked incredibly like these Gila earth beasts, and he was ordered to watch and learn, record and return, then present his findings to the good scientists on Corhai. For now Baratos lay motionless, watching Dollar’s raucous up-and- down breathing and wondering when the capuchin Limbo would exhaust himself and rest. Since Baratos arrived earth hours ago, Limbo was still jumping, chattering, and swinging monotonously from cage bar to bar. It was no small chore enticing the chimp to lift Dollar’s keys and pitch them into Baratos’ cage. Baratos had a telepathic brain that, unlike his tediously slow gait, could think in a hurry. He could mind-talk with creatures from anywhere in any galaxy to which his work took him. He could make decisions quicker and sharper than Gilas and chimps and humans like the dumb bastard Dollar the zoo monitor who probably slept with the good doctor’s nympho daughter Mina Cornwall or the zoo park didn’t care since he worked for free. Through the bushes Baratos watched slivers of moon and stars. It was past the midnight hour and soon enough the night would be a gone thing. Day would come and with it––at least he hoped––new-found freedom. Why he ended here he wasn’t sure, but he knew for certain he could not waste much more time impersonating a lizard dumb as a rock. Before the sun reared its hot head, he’d be down the freedom hole the voices back home assured him was built solely for his escape now and it would finally be “Goodbye, Max Dollar; goodbye, zoo creatures; goodbye, all you homo sapien boneheads! This Corhai Ranger’s cuttin’ outa here!” Then Dollar was up on his wobbly feet, doing a drunk’s best to make sense out of the senseless. “What the hell–?” he drawled. Limbo stopped leaping up and down. “Limbo?” he asked, hardly believing it was Limbo, more like an hallucination or a character out of a drunk-binge dream. It was Limbo all right, that freaking capuchin holding his freaking keys. “What the hell’s this mean?” Limbo scratched his hairy head with a huge pink index finger. Dollar repeated himself, this time slowly enough so it did not come out garbled and wet. “I said, what the hell does all this shit mean?” Baratos hid on the safe side of the cages, almost not breathing. He could easily have been a colorful clump of flowers on the edge of the wooded area of Dr. Cornwall’s zoo park. Did he expect Limbo to sit down and chat? Limbo is a chimp, Mr. Zoo Monitor, thought Baratos. Chimps don’t converse. Are you buzzed? Up there in the sky the moon hung restless. Baratos knew it would drift soon and in that nocturnal process blow his cover. His only chance was to break loose from what Dr. Cornwall referred to as “his caged garden of Eden.” Once daylight came, so would the zoo park attendants. It had been Dollar’s watch. Who could depend on him! A devout alcoholic. The only consolation was he had volunteered his night watch services gratis. Where he got coin to buy the hard stuff was anybody’s guess. Only Baratos knew and he wasn’t telling. Baratos knew it all except how he’d found himself in this earthly hell. It was a visitation gone wrong. And when he got back, he would not hesitate to share his rabid displeasure with the science masters. He was a Corhai Ranger, the only one they trusted, no matter where they teleported him. Was this visitation supposed to be a lesson in humility? Were they anticipating a whipped Baratos returning with his scaly tail between his little short legs? Dream on, boys. Corhai Rangers made you what you are! Finding the Gila monster gone missing had a sobering effect on Dollar. He could almost stand without weaving and the raggedy slur in his voice grew plaintive. “Ok, Limbo. Point at least. Where the hell is the ugly Gila they shipped in last night? The lizzie that lives in the cage next door? You ripped off my keys and unlocked its cage. You prankin‘ me? Come on, Limbo, help me out here! Where’s the friggin’ lizard?” Baratos could not blame the capuchin. Baratos, temporarily in the wrong place, maybe on the wrong planet––the wrong galaxy?––had played mind games with his chimp head and at least that old telepathic magic still worked: Limbo had stolen the freedom keys and helped him do a slow crawl down the path where he now hid beneath a clump of a flowering bush. Then Limbo returned to his cage to jump and chatter and swing. Nor was Max Dollar to blame. He was merely a loser trying to fix a bad situation. Baratos had counted on Dollar doing the usual dishonest night’s work for a night’s lack of pay. Of all nights to find ethics he picked this one. Baratos might have resembled the Gila monster, but he couldn’t be a dumb beast if he wanted to. He had all his life been a stubborn, hard-nosed elite soldier, trained to avoid captivity. He had intelligence that would cause grown humans to weep, and in his head he relied on the voices to lay out the escape itinerary from start to finish: from cage to freedom hole where he would descend miles down until he reached wherever the underground voyage would take him. Far from Cornwall’s garden prison. Far from the four barred walls of a smelly old cage. Free! Free! When the sun came up, life was back to normal. Limbo was in his cage. Dollar was transferred to voluntary work in the aviary. And Baratos? Well, those same voices directed him back into the Gila monster cell. Intuition told him the experiment had failed, whatever that experiment was. The deep hole would have to wait. Baratos didn’t have time to feel disappointed. He dragged his heavy frame towards the displayed tadpoles, small fish, and insects the new zoo monitor had delivered. As his jaws chomped down on a late dinner, he indulged in a quick private thinking before the voices tapped in. He thought of himself plummeting down that deep freedom hole, exiting onto an open grassy field that stretched fenceless for miles and miles. He visualized at the final end of his slow trek, a crew of soldiers –– the boys back home––ship antennae buzzing in the earthly air, waving him towards the steps of their ship. He would pretend he wanted to stay with the mission, do whatever the science masters originally expected of him. He’d play hard to get as the boys loaded him thrashing onto the ship. A true Corhai Ranger, Baratos would demand his visitation rights. |
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| Visitation Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#6 of 19 Runner-up |
| 1311 words | |
| In the ritual that it has become, I start with my left
foot. I place its heel flush against the wall, then bring my right foot around
so that it is directly in front, with its heel touching the toes of my left.
Because it is important to be accurate, I am careful not to allow any space in
between. I put one foot in front of the other and pace off the width of my
cell. Six of my feet wide. Then, in the same manner and with the same precision, I calculate the length, starting at the far wall and measuring to where the door used to be. Eight with a toe and a half left over. It is the same as it has always been. I had no reason to suspect that it would be any different, yet still it gives me comfort to know that it remains unchanged. It is how I preserve my sanity. The cell is damp and, though it did no crime to which it will admit, the air that is imprisoned here with me is foul and putrid. There are no windows, and neither is there a door, though once there used to be, but that was before they filled it in with stones and mortar. As if the existence of a door might in some way hold forth the promise of my release. Thus, in the cell to which I have been sentenced to live out my days -- the cell that has neither windows nor doors -- there are only walls. Thick slabs of stone that extend without interruption to the ceiling. There is no way for me to know if it is day or night, winter or summer, today or yesterday. It is a world without time. The past is forever, and there is no future except never. A single bulb, suspended on a chain far above my head, provides the only illumination. The light is always on. It is my sun. It is my moon. It is my night. It is my day. It used to be my god. Due to the heinous nature of my crime, the authorities, in the rightful exercise of their wisdom and their vindictiveness, determined that I should live out the remainder of my natural days without ever again being allowed contact with another human being. In keeping with the dictates of the state, my meals are delivered in a most mechanical and impersonal manner. They arrive through a narrow slit in the wall where the door used to be, the slit having been left there for the sole purpose of feeding me. My food, which is quite ample though rather tasteless overall, comes to me pushed along the floor by a cardboard plow. It arrives without benefit of either plate or tray. It is the way one might feed an animal. The arrival of food attracts the other residents of my cell, the cockroaches. They emerge from the corners and from behind the commode, all a-twitter with excitement. I delight in watching their shiny brown bodies crawl over my food, sampling this and tasting that, gorging themselves like pigs being fattened for the slaughter. It makes me feel good that I treat the cockroaches so well, that I share my meal with them. In a way, I would guess, they are my friends, my only friends, the only living things with which I have any contact. Then, as they scurry back to the nooks and crannies from whence they came, their little tummies all full and their appetites satiated, I step upon them. I murder them. I crush them beneath my foot and grind my heel into the floor. There is no greater joy than listening to the sweet, delicious crunch of death beneath my foot. Thus it is that I have adjusted to my circumstances, praying to a light bulb and crushing cockroaches. Every undefined moment of my existence, be it an hour or a day or a year, is exactly like the one that preceded it, and it gives me peace of mind to know that each moment in which I live will also, in turn, be exactly like every moment that follows. If I want not more than what I have been given, I can not be disappointed. Or so I thought until the devil slipped a note into my cell. It is not a note in the usual sense that one thinks of such a thing. No billet-doux, elegantly penned on fine parchment, its most personal contents kept safe from prying eyes by the discrete and yet casual application of sealing wax. Nor is it an application for a favor, the type a merchant might employ in the course of his business affairs, seeking perhaps a meeting on Tuesday next, should such time be agreeable to all concerned. No, the note is nothing like that, for a note like that would never be allowed the likes of me, lest in some way my evil be such that it is capable of contaminating even the sender of such an innocent missive. No, this note, this note from the devil, arrives, not by the usual post, but rather by the most clandestine of means. It is contained within the gristle of my stew, its characters so minuscule and difficult to decipher that, were I not so attentive to even the most minute details of my own existence, I might have missed them entirely. I brush the cockroaches aside, flicking them against the wall, getting them out of my way. For the moment at least, letting them live. I stand up, cradling the gristle in my hands, tilting it first one way and then another so that the light may best illuminate the writing. My eyes have grown weak during the time I have been incarcerated here, and the writing is small. But I persist, going over the script again and again until I am sure that I have it right, that I have read it correctly. The devil, it seems, would like to visit me. I am elated. Overjoyed. The prospect of companionship intoxicates and exhilarates my soul. Tears fill my eyes and blur my vision. I wipe them aside so that I may continue reading. But first, the devil tells me, I must get rid of my god. I have never thought of such a thing before and find myself hesitant to act on even so simple a request. It would be easy enough, I think, to remove a shoe and hurl it toward the heavens above, striking a mortal blow against my incandescent god as easily as I might crush a cockroach. And yet, I do not. The devil does not leave me alone. He eggs me on. Unless, of course, he writes, you are scared of the dark. He thinks me a child, this devil, tethered to my mother's apron strings no doubt, and afraid to cross the street on my own. Yet he is the one who would do well to apprentice at my knee. I remove my shoe. Yet still I equivocate, doing not more than hefting it in my hand a time or two so that I might gauge its weight and thereby reckon the amount of strength one would need to cast it toward the light. The devil senses my weakness. Lose the god, he writes, lose the god and I will share with you the secrets of the universe, of the stars and the moons and the galaxies beyond. He has played his hand, this devil, and played it well, for like all mortals, I wish to know such things. I fling the shoe above my head. It is unerring in its trajectory. There is a brief, explosive burst of light. Reflexively, I close my eyes. Electrical sparks crackle above me, and I drop to the floor and cover my head. A shower of glass rains down upon me. When it is done, I grope the floor, seeking out the gristle. It does not take long for my fingers to find it. I lift it gently from the floor and bring it to my face, my hands cupped together as if in prayer. Slowly, I open my eyes so that I might read the note, for the devil has played his hand, and I have outplayed him. To my dismay, there is but darkness. No longer any god of the filament. No longer any light by which I might read what the devil has written. I hold in my hands the secrets of time and life and death and all that is both between and beyond ... and I can not read it! For the devil has played his hand, and he has played me for a fool. |
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| Visitation lee10@host365.com |
#7 of 19 |
| 841 words | |
| This is true story but I’ve never told it before.
There has been a space of fifty years between the ‘visitation’, for
that is the only word that fits the event, and the present day. But at no time
was I frightened and despite the heartache that followed, there was a
‘rightness’ about the event. The dictionary describes a ‘visitation’ as an appearance by a supernatural being, seen or unseen. This is why I call my event a visitation. Something, or someone, spoke to me. I saw nothing, but the voice was loud and clear. I was ten years old, the centre of my own, childish universe, so it didn’t seem strange to me that God would give me an instruction. Everyone else told me what to do on a daily basis and according to Sunday school stories, God had the right to do the same. So I obeyed. Only one word was spoken but it was enough and as the echo faded, I turned to do His bidding. For those secular readers amongst you, don’t turn away. This is not a religious treatise just a first, and maybe clumsy telling of a story I’ve kept to myself for so long. The memory involves no histrionics, no flashes of light, no loud noises. It’s like looking back through an old, faded photograph album and only that one word has clarity and definition. I hear it now, as clear as it was that day. Mum and Dad had taken me to my cousin’s house to meet her new baby, her third child. I remember there were three adults and two other children clustered around the double bed, in which sat my happy, smiling cousin Stella, in her fussy, pink nightdress, holding her third son in her arms. The adults, that is my parents and Jeff, the proud father, talked over my head. My cousin’s older two sons scuffled, squabbled and were generally annoying. I stood between the two worlds, neither an adult nor a child. But then I was suddenly catapulted from the place where I was supposed to be seen and not heard, into a place where I had an opinion and I heard my cousin asking, “The baby’s name is Anthony. Will you chose a middle name for him?” “Who? Me?” I was startled. Apart from questions about school, I was not used to being addressed by adults. “Of course we mean you, you daft ‘epporth,” my cousin laughed. “We’ve used up all the boys’ names we had on this trio.” She gestured to her boys. Two of them giggled, the other, the youngest hiccoughed. “Oh!” I said. “Sure. You mean now?” “Yes,” Stella said. “Now would be good.” I looked round for inspiration. There was none. The room was small and apart from the double bed, the only other piece of furniture was a cluttered chest of drawers. The top was covered with knick-knacks, mostly, ‘Presents from Skegness and Mablethorpe’, all carefully arranged on crocheted doilies. “I’ll just go to the loo first,” I said and escaped. I closed the bedroom door behind me to cut off the sound of their chatter. There was no one else in the house. I looked over the banister, down into the hall. There was a strong smell of damp dog but he must have been outside. I couldn’t hear him scratching or yawning or slobbering over his food bowl. Then it was that I experienced my one and only visitation. “Eric,” I heard, as clear as if a man with a gruff but strong voice was standing nearby. There was no direction to the sound. I was surrounded by the tones of that single name. I looked along the landing, then down into the hall. The toilet door and bedroom doors were all closed. I was alone. What else could I do but go back into the bedroom and tell my cousin, “Eric. Call him Anthony Eric.” And to my surprise, because I hadn’t really expected to be taken seriously, it was agreed. The new baby’s name was Anthony Eric Draper. We were never that close a family and after Anthony Eric’s christening the adults didn’t meet up for another eight months; not until Anthony Eric’s funeral, in fact. I didn’t attend the funeral. At eleven years of age I was too young. I’ve often wondered if my cousin saw me as a bit of a Jonah who might bear some of the blame for her baby’s death. I never asked and she never said. She went on to have two more babies, both girls. The name Anthony was used for her first grandchild. The name Eric was not used again. I’ve often asked myself, did I really hear the name being given to me that day? Or was it the figment of an over-active imagination? I was always reading but I don’t think that Enid Blyton inspired me to choose the name Eric. I think it was given to me by God, and that it was always his intention to call the child home sooner, rather than later. I believe that what I heard was God naming, and claiming, his own. |
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| Visitation Author Pete lovewriting@comcast.net |
#8 of 19 |
| 1458 words | |
| Jake was eight years old when Charlotte and I divorced.
I took custody of him shortly thereafter, when she decided to seek her fortune
in California. While we were married, Charlotte mentioned moving out west on
many occasions. I never liked the idea because all my family lived in New York.
Neither did Jake. So when the question was put to him, Jake said, “I want
to stay with Dad.” I was delighted because not only was it the right
decision, it was the only one as far as I was concerned. There was no way that
Charlotte would ever take Jake away from me. From her blasé reaction, it
appeared that Charlotte was fine with it. Her interest to start a new life, far
away from me, was paramount and apparently more important than having a
relationship with her son. From the time of his birth, Jake and I were inseparable. Even as a tot, Jake always hung by my side. We watched TV, fixed things around the house, even mowed the grass together. As he grew older, we played ball, fished, hiked and did all the things that father and sons do. Jake was not a sickly kid, but he did have more than his share of colds and respiratory infections. Shortly after Charlotte left town, Jake developed a persistent cough. The pediatrician took chest X-rays and put him on antibiotics. Through the years, the coughs would come and go and I never thought much about it, attributing it to allergies and Jake’s susceptibility to colds. Every year, I would take Jake to his pediatrician for a physical. Because of his ongoing respiratory problems, it became routine for the doctor to order chest X-rays as part of his examination. Two weeks after his last physical (Jake had just turned twelve), I received an alarming phone call from Dr. Walsh’s nurse asking me to bring Jake to the office immediately. When I questioned her, the nurse would only confirm Dr. Walsh’s request and the importance of the visitation. I drove to the doctor’s office mechanically, worrying the entire time. Why wouldn’t they tell me the problem over the phone? I thought to myself. What was the urgency? Jake was still coughing, but that was normal for him. His cough had been there for years and Dr. Walsh never seemed concerned. He always gave Jake antibiotics and they did seem to help for a while. I had gotten used to the ritual. Jake would cough, I would call the office and the doctor would call in a prescription. We sat in the waiting room, anxiously anticipating our meeting with Dr. Walsh. Jake didn’t say much but I knew he was scared. His small hands were curled in fists and he rubbed his upper legs nervously, as if rolling dough. After what seemed like an eternity, a balding head peeked out the back office door. The doctor, robed in his white lab coat, signaled us with a nod of his head. I took Jake’s hand and followed the physician into his private office. Walsh took a seat behind his polished wooden desk and motioned for Jake and me to do the same. I sat down as instructed. Jake paced nervously behind me. “What is it Dr. Walsh?” I asked apprehensively. “What’s wrong with Jake?” Jake heard his name and turned towards the doctor. “It’s his X-ray,” he answered. “Yes,” I replied, “what about it?” Dr. Walsh took a deep breath and grimaced before answering. “I’m afraid Jake has a mass on his lung. The radiologists think that it’s cancer.” There was a long pause and the silence was obvious. I turned in my seat and looked back at my son. Jake had started to tremble, his face was pale, and fearful. I felt his terror or was it my own? I reached for Jake’s hand and pulled him around the chair next to me. I asked him to sit down and placed my arm around his shoulder holding him tightly. I looked back at the doctor studying his lips, waiting for an explanation. There was none. “Cancer, but how? There must be some mistake,” I said, rubbing Jake’s shoulder. “When we saw you a week ago you said it was bronchitis. You prescribed antibiotics just like always. What’s changed?” Dr. Walsh leaned forward, his eyes focused on the radiology report he held tightly in his hands. “It’s been there for some time,” he said swallowing. “His previous X-rays and the reports showed the mass. It slipped by me somehow. I don’t know how I missed it.” “Some time?” I asked. “How long…? How long has it been there?” “Four years,” Walsh answered, “four years,” he repeated, shaking his head, unaware of his repetitiveness. “I’m really sorry. Jake needs a PET scan as soon as possible. We need to stage the disease and…” the sorrowful physician stopped in mid sentence, hesitant to go on. I stared at the doctor unable to speak. I could feel Jake’s body shudder as the doctor mentioned the special test. He didn’t understand what it entailed but it sounded bad, nonetheless. “Four years?” I asked incredulously. “That’s impossible, what the Hell are you talking about? You must have the wrong report.” “It’s true – the reports are all in Jake’s chart,” Walsh replied, his jawbones visibly clenched and pulsing. “Radiology reports are filed away by my secretary, after I have reviewed them. Apparently, Jake’s were never given to me. I don’t know how they got by me. This has never happened before. You know how busy it gets in here. I called you right after the radiologist called me this morning. I wanted to get right on it. I know it sounds devastating, but there are treatments.” My eyes filled up as I turned to Jake sitting there petrified, tears streaming down his face. I could only imagine his trepidation. Cancer! How can this be? I thought to myself. A doctor fails to read his patient’s charts, reports and X-rays? Relies on his secretary to bring it to his attention? It’s unbelievable. I felt my adrenaline pumping and my blood pressure rising. My thoughts rambled on, faster and more furious. Probably on the phone with his broker...didn’t have time to read Jake’s report…interested more in his stocks. How many others are walking around with cancers they don’t know about? Jake may have to pay with his life. Four years ago, he might have had a chance. Now it’s probably too late. What does Walsh care? He has malpractice insurance to cover up his mistakes. What do we have? It isn’t right Goddamned it, it isn’t fair. I sat there looking at little Jake sobbing, and pleaded silently for God to help me; to make it go away; to make it all a mistake. My jaw clenched up on me; my mouth froze. I wanted to scream “Murderer” but couldn’t. I wasn’t just angry, I was mad! Suddenly, I felt the devil crawling up my spine. My heart and temples pounded in unison as red rage filled my soul with evil. My body was no longer my own. I felt possessed. In a split second, I was over the doctor’s desk, my hands wrapped tightly around his Jerry Garcia designer tie. Two hundred fifty pounds of me tugged at the shrinking knot that tightened like a tourniquet around the pediatrician’s neck. Walsh went bug-eyed as the noose choked out his breath. Jake stood there in his own panic watching his doctor’s face turn blue. Then, as all life appeared to leave the doctor’s body, I was released from the spell of madness. I sat this “sorry excuse for a doctor” back up in his chair and loosened his tie. He was still, his face blue, his eyes still open and bulging. I slid off of the desk and took a deep breath, not sure what had occurred. Whether Walsh was dead or alive was no longer of concern. The only thing that mattered was that I felt better, satisfied that justice was done. Jake seemed to feel the same. I took him by the hand and smiled at him. “Everything is going to be okay,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll get through this together.” I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to the little guy. He wiped the tears from his face, then smiled back at me and grabbed my hand. “I love you Dad,” he said, as we walked back into the crowded waiting room. “I love you too, Son,” I said, trying to hold back my tears. I approached the front desk and handed the nurse Jake’s chart, filled with four years of unread reports. “Dr. Walsh said to give you this,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Oh, by the way, he seemed to be quite breathless. You might want to look in on him.” |
|
| Visitation Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net |
#9 of 19 |
| 469 words | |
| It was Christmas in prison. The food would be better on Christmas. You’d get ham and turkey, cranberry sauce, potatoes with gravy. And pie. We never got pie. The other thing about Christmas was the visits. Your whole family could visit instead of just one person, and they could bring presents. Not wrapped, and it had to be on an approved list, but it was something. My visit was Wednesday, just before Christmas. The guards escorted us into the visitation room. Normally, you didn’t go until your visitor arrived, but they had decorations, punch, and cookies, and it was special. Some families were already in there. A new prisoner was with his wife and son. It was the first time he had seen his baby so this was a good thing. I grabbed a paper cup full of punch and waited, watching families brought in one by one from the guardroom. They were being searched and their gifts checked, so it was a slow process. Then I saw Billy, the guard from my block, come in. He spotted me, and then walked over. I could tell something was wrong. “Your visitation’s cancelled.” “What do you mean cancelled?” “Calm down. There was a problem with a gift they brought in.” He put one hand on my shoulder. “Your son brought a tie. You know that ain’t on the list. We tried explaining that, but he got upset, started crying. Then your wife got mad and began raising hell at the guards. We had to escort them out. I’m sorry.” “Sorry! You made my kid cry? Johnnie! Maria!” I began yelling for my wife and son, struggling toward the guardroom. Billy held me back while two other guards came over. “Johnnie! It’s okay son!” I yelled as the guards restrained me. I made one more lunge toward the door and a guard put a baton against my throat as the others pulled me toward the cellblocks. I jerked one arm free and punched the guard with the stick. That’s the last thing I remember as he raised it to strike me across the head. I woke up in solitaire, my head bandaged. Nothing to mark the passage of time, but the rotation of the lights and the meals. I think I’ve been here four days now, so today’s Christmas. I’ve never been in the hole on Christmas. I wondered if I would get ham and turkey. |
|
| Visitation stephanie spencerfamdamily@comcast.net |
#10 of 19 |
| 1387 words | |
| I’m starting to look forward to visiting day. The
first few after I’d arrived were frustrating; I wasn’t sure what to
do or say or how to behave, so I stayed behind. Everyone else would get so
wound up, except for Max, who just got more surly. There was anxious
anticipation as the other residents chose their best outfits and fixed their
hair. I always felt like I had that afternoon when gas crept around me as I sat
in the car. It was intimidating, menacing, a heaviness pushing down my throat;
I wanted to escape even while I welcomed the promised relief. Those first
visiting days I would hang back in my room, not letting myself ask if anyone
had come by for me. The others seemed to have a good time, hearing the latest
news from their families and friends. I guess I was afraid of having to explain
myself and feeling awkward about what to say otherwise. But now I think
I’m ready. As the time approaches, I haltingly head out to the main room. I’ve already put on my favorite sweater since the chill of late fall is finally here. Beth picked it out for my last birthday; I think she’d be happy to see me wearing it, if she comes. Max, as usual, goes out of his way to not participate. He growls that we’re wasting our time getting all excited for people who don’t really care, who forget about us the rest of the year. I remind him with a gentle nudge that all we have is time to waste. What else should we be doing? I ask as he ambles away, grumbling. But a dark part of me agrees with him, even as I tuck my hair behind my ear and straighten my sweater. What if no one comes for me? I wish visitors had to make appointments so I would know whether or not to risk going out there. It will be crushing to wait out there alone with desperate anticipation. My stomach starts to hurt as I watch the clock, wondering if I should try this yet. I decide to write down what I want to say to those who might visit, in case I get nervous and can’t think. Jeff: License yet? Job? Homecoming? Holiday plans? Beth: Volleyball? Boyfriend? Holiday plans? Tara: Still divorced? Still at the school? Still mad at me? I try not to be depressed realizing that only three people are likely to come. I know Mike will probably be with the kids, but I doubt he’ll actually sit and chat. Maybe I should think of something to say just in case. I can talk about his job; it’s a neutral topic and he’s always been proud of all the things he does. I wonder if he is dating anyone. Would it be weird to ask? It surprises me that I don’t feel sad thinking this. Must be part of my ‘readiness.’ I take a deep breath and gather with the others in the hall. We head out toward the meeting areas together, passing a cantankerous Max on the way. I smile nervously and tell him I’ll report back if someone came to see him. He snorts and turns his head away from our crowd. Those who know Max better shake their heads at my attempt to cheer him. Some people start to break away running toward their meeting areas as we get closer. It must feel quite gratifying, being so certain someone will be there, waiting and eager to tell all about what’s happening in the ‘real world.’ A few others look as anxious as I feel, despite the best outfit and hopeful smile. Like me, they probably avoid other visitations and have chosen Thanksgiving as a good time to give it a try. I look around at the few residents still strolling near me and resolve to get better acquainted with them after today. It would do me good to have some friends again. As I approach my area, my stomach clenches. I stop to steady myself; I close my eyes and swallow hard. A few yards ahead sit my son and daughter, looking so much older than I expected. Of course, I knew how much time was passing as I avoided all those visiting days but somehow I didn’t prepare myself. These people are nearly grown, and I’ve missed so much. I want to go back to my room, that heaviness crushing me again, and I start to turn but at once they both look up. I see that Beth is crying boldly and shamelessly, as she has always done. Jeff, my boy, is red-eyed and tight-jawed but shows no tears. I know he hates to be sad, it actually makes him angry; this is how he always was. Their father is nowhere around, a fact I note with sad relief. I continue toward them, the list of silly questions abandoned in my pocket for now. I smile fiercely to keep from dissolving into a grief that might push them away. I know the rules about touching visitors, yet I instinctively reach out toward my children. Beth looks up, her face appearing more baby-girlish than she would like, I’m sure, and whispers shakily, Why? I just don’t understand. Jeff, no trace of little boy in his sharp features, narrows his eyes and turns away. Before I can respond, he murmurs, She was just selfish; I’ve already told you that. I shrink back, stunned. What do you mean? I breathe. Neither looks directly at me and both are silent now. I realize their father must have said something like this. I look around wildly, wanting to hurt Mike for putting these words into my child’s mouth, for making him think such a thing. I’m seething, but I don’t want to ruin this visit. Should I try to explain myself or just find a way to enjoy our time together? I am suddenly weary and can’t decide. My head hurts; I want to run away again. I blurt roughly, I was trying to help you! I wanted you to be free and not ashamed or embarrassed or burdened anymore. My hands are shaking, my voice hoarse and trembling. Can’t you see that? Beth and Jeff stare past me, my son biting his lip and gripping his sister’s hand. I bend my head to catch their eyes – please, look at me, I beg. I notice a bunch of dark red daisies at Beth’s feet as she shifts to pick them up. Oh, I start to thank her for bringing them, they’re so pretty and perfect for a fall centerpiece. Beth absently arranges them in a jar before setting it down in front of me. Puzzled that she won’t just give them to me, I reach for the jar. My hand passes through the glass. I must have misjudged their distance; I make another grab and miss. My head is suddenly throbbing again. Beth and Jeff are turning away from me now, leaving, so I call out to them. Wait! I’m sorry, this isn’t how it should be! I have questions for you, things we can talk about! I need to know how you’re doing! Come back! I’m becoming frantic, bawling and waving, grabbing at the list in my pocket. I drop to my knees. Now I echo my daughter, whispering, Why? I just don’t understand. A strong hand presses on my shoulder. I look up at Max, his usual scowl erased by a kind frown and pained eyes. He helps me, shaking and sobbing, to my feet. I press my hands to my face to block out the joyful others. Max & I slowly walk along, keeping our distance from them. |
|
| Visitation stratamocaster@yahoo.com |
#11 of 19 |
| 2000 words | |
| “For Christ’s sake, Jack, I’m a plumber,
not a lawyer! Where the hell am I going to get five hundred bucks a
month?” “That’s tough luck, Dan. I hate it for ya.” Dan shoved his paperwork back into the dog-eared manila folder that passed for his briefcase and pounded his fist on the polished oak table. His ill-fitted suit bunched up around his shoulders as he laid his head down on the table, choking back sobs quietly. A tiny hand touched his elbow. “It’s OK, daddy. We still have vis’tation. It means we can go to the movies on the weekend.” Dan sucked up the agony in his heart and put on a tough mask. “Of course it does, squirt. We’ll go next Saturday for sure. Lissen, you better go with your mama now, but I’ll call you tonight. I love you baby.” “Love you too.” There were tears in her squeaky little voice as she backed away, finally turning and trotting to the other side of the courtroom. Dan walked like a bored zombie through the marble halls of justice and out to the parking deck. He walked the deck for over an hour, not really trying to remember where he’d parked his truck, but merely wandering, turning over figures in his head. He figured he could probably sell the truck, trade it in on a used station wagon and get a car top tool box, save two-fifty a month right there. Of course he’d look like a real cheeb showing up at the jobsite with a rig like that, but sacrifices were bound to be made. He could keep another fifty by cutting the cable back to basic. Maybe pick up ten a week drinking Milwaukee’s Cheapest instead of his beloved Bud. Still, nowhere near five hundred. “Whaddya want with that shitbox?” the used car salesman quipped. He was enjoying his own joke a little too much to note the pained expression on Dan’s face as he mumbled something about the price of gas, and tough times ahead, and you know. He was fortunate that Dan’s sorrow overwhelmed the urge to punch him. The paperwork filled itself out; Dan’s tools floated effortlessly from the stainless steel Toughbox in the back of his former truck to the rear compartment of the station wagon; his car payment magically dropped by two hundred and fourteen dollars a month; and the beater drove itself to Dan’s new rat trap apartment, the converted attic of a beautiful old house in a really dangerous neighborhood. He popped open a can of Milwaukee’s Cat Piss and poured a few swigs into the canned ravioli that burbled on the stove. He flipped on the pawnshop TV he’d recently purchased, and noting that it was tuned to the home improvement channel, promptly called Time Warner to cancel the service. Sitting in front of the tube with the pot of ravioli on a dishtowel in his lap, he ate right from the pot with a wooden spoon, enjoying the last few days or hours of his cable service, depending on the installer’s workload. Maybe enjoying is too strong a word. He heard the fashion-dweeb designer nasally rave on about the incredibly modern facelift he was about to give the old ranch style bungalow, but he wasn’t kept to the edge of his seat by the premise that the conservative homeowner, whose wife had signed them up for the show, had no idea what was about to happen. He didn’t even care enough to change the channel, his mind was elsewhere. He tried turning the TV off for awhile, but the silence crowded him, amplified his misery, and didn’t keep the downstairs neighbors from hearing him cry. He didn’t know if they could hear him—sure, he could hear the “Blood in the Toilet” heavy metal they played at all hours, but he wasn’t sure if they were jerks, or if the walls were thin, and was almost as apathetic about that as he was about the extremely self-engrossed interior designer on the TV bragging to the camera about the polka dot wallpaper he made himself from circular price tags he’d bought at the flea market for a dollar. He popped open another can of Milwaukee’s Sewer Runoff as he pitched the cook pot in the sink and ran some hot water. He returned to the futon sofa absent mindedly, barely noticing Carlos Santana as he hopped into Dan’s lap and walked around in a circle a few times before settling down to lick his hind foot and purr. “I know, Carlos. I miss her, too. Well, I miss ‘em both, actually.” Carlos didn’t seem to understand, he just kept licking. A few hours and a few beers later Dan began to flag out, nodding off and brought back to consciousness by lukewarm beer running into his lap, and Carlos Santana jumping out suddenly. Dan stood and stumbled off to bed. *** “It doesn’t look right.” “I’m sorry Mrs. Stanwick, but I’m not sure how you mean. What doesn’t look right?” “Well you see this tile?” “Yeah.” “It doesn’t look like these.” “But they’re natural stone tiles, Mrs. Stanwick. None of them look the same. I thought you wanted that look.” “Well I do. Just not that one. Or this one over here. Or those four. Would it be too much trouble to take those down and replace them with browner ones?” Dan’s cell phone began playing “You are so Beautiful,” indicating that his wife was calling. He made a mental note to change that as he answered. “Hey. Yeah. Ok. I know, I’ll do that. I’m with a customer right now. Can I call you back in a minute? OK. Thanks babe. Bye.” The last bit he had to add lib, as he was thanking her for raking his balls across a cheese grater. She was informing him that she was also suing him for alimony on top of the child support. “I can fix that for you Mrs. Stanwick, no problem. I’ll hunt through the boxes and find all of the brownest tiles, and just use them.” “That’s wonderful Dan, thanks.” *** “I’m not sure, Dan,” the lawyer said, “ have you got any proof?” “Not really. I saw his car in front of the house two days after she kicked me out. Does that count?” “Not really. I mean, you didn’t take any photos, right?” “No.” “So it’s your word against theirs. The best we can hope for is the judge liking your story.” “So I’m screwed?” “Looks like it. Unless you want to pull an “Alienation of Affection,” but that’ll scotch your visitation rights.” “Why’s that?” “You never adopted. When you married her you should have adopted Katrina, but for some reason you never did.” “Katrina was kinda scared at first, and it never seemed to matter after that.” “It matters now, Dan. You have zero rights, and only a few levers. Could you get her to testify on our behalf?” “She’s only eight years old, I don’t want to drag her into this shit. Look, never mind, just cut me an invoice and I’ll stop wasting your time.” “If that’s what you want. But we’ve still got forty five minutes, we don’t book partial hours.” “Just bill me.” *** The rain was coming down in sheets. Or maybe in down comforters. It was pissing down like a cow on a flat rock, as Dan’s dear old daddy used to say. He sat on the porch, leaning up against the wall of the house, drinking from the quickly thawing twelve-pack by his side. He’d taken his truck key off of the ring at the dealership, and neglected to put the station wagon key on; and in a hung over morning blur, he had left the rest of his keys inside. So he was sitting there, not really caring that the wind was blowing the rain at him under the porch roof, or that he had no real plan for how to get into his own damn apartment. He’d ordered a pizza with his cell phone. At least he wouldn’t starve. About midnight he carried his soggy drunken ass over to the door to his stairwell. He held the empty pizza box over the lower right hand glass pane in the door, and punched it out. He reached in through the jagged hole and tweaked the knob on the deadbolt, slicing his arm pretty good while pulling it back out. He made a mental note to avoid sharp objects while drinking in the future, and stumbled upstairs. He wrapped a dishtowel around his lacerated hand and secured it with duct tape. Nothing is ever really broken, he thought, it just lacks duct tape. Dan woke up wondering if his head hurt worse, or his hand. After a cup of coffee and a shower, he was sure it was his hand. He grinned through the pain on the job, prying up tiles that weren’t brown enough and replacing them with browner ones. He didn’t even have the energy to be pissed about it. He needed this customer, as his financial hole was about to get three hundred dollars a month deeper. Saturday came and went. He’d tried to get permission to pick up Katrina for the day, but Kristi had refused, saying she’d feel better about it after the alimony papers were signed and returned. He’d consulted with the lawyer, but still didn’t want to sign the papers. But he knew he didn’t have a choice. Sunday was spent repairing the broken glass in his stairwell door, and uniting all of his keys upon the ring. He called and talked to Katrina for a few minutes that afternoon. She’d tried to be tough, but ended up in tears. At least Jasper the cat and Jim the lizard were doing OK. He’d gotten that out of her before the sob fest. Dan wondered with every beer how bad it might get before it got any better. He knew it was unhealthy to drink like this, but it hurt so much, and the drinking made him kinda numb inside. He watched the prime time line up of sit-coms and crime dramas with a glazed apathy, not even missing the old cable choices. He daydreamed about taking Katrina camping like he used to, taking the dog and the pickup up to the mountains, fishing while she chased craw dads in the shallow, freezing cold streams. He remembered the peace the two of them had shared, and the love so strong and obvious it barely needed mentioning, except in a dying campfire light, sleeping bag goodnight. And he broke down at the memory when he suddenly realized the reason mommy didn’t care for camping anymore, the man who’d come between them. Sure, she’d had reasons, and he was sure that there were reasons she’d kept to herself, but he still felt betrayed. Two days. How the hell did she explain that to Katrina? How did she justify it to herself? Two days! Dan’s daydreams turned to daymares, where he was shooting this faceless loverboy in the driveway, and hauled away by the cops in front of screaming and crying girls. Daymares where he shot himself in the same driveway, to the same screaming girls. The dark fantasies abated with the application of many cans of Milwaukee’s Mother’s Milk, but the depression deepened. The TV maintained a relatively stable level of crappiness. Tuesday morning the station wagon broke down. He borrowed a buddy’s hunting truck to get to his jobs, and spent half the night lying in the gravel driveway under the station wagon, busting knuckles and cussing. It was the first night since the separation he’d not drank himself stupid. It’s tough to fix anything in a buzz fuzz, and he needed his vehicle. He’d picked up a painting job earlier that day, and while he hated painting, he needed money. The next night he got out the alimony papers and read over them. He knew what they said, but he wanted to read them again. After he’d finished he’d wished he’d just signed and mailed them. It was like grinding rep pepper in the wound. But he was back on the beer wagon in a big way. The sit-coms didn’t get any better. He woke up a little after midnight with a piercing pain in the roof of his mouth, and an awful cramp in his jaw. It took a few minutes for his drunken, addled mind to make sense of it, and remember where he was and what he had been doing. He took the pistol out of his mouth and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Don’t be stupid, Dan.” He said to himself. “Ya still got vis’tation.” |
|
| Visitation Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#12 of
19 Winner |
| 757 words | |
| It was hot, it was dry, it was arid on the day that el ángel came down to Milagros who, well-side, was praying for some respite for her little town. For her town had turned into a dust bowl and the fields full of maíz were dried up and the drink of fresh agua you needed would evaporate right from the cup. And the townsfolk were giving up dreaming (having given up hoping last week) but Milagros had faith still within her so she went to the well for a peek. Crunching through the brown plants and sere grasses with her little Aysús on her hip up the hill to the well she marched gamely and, once there, she stared over its lip Just to find it still empty, no agua el sol still beating down from on high but she scrunched her eyes ever so tightly and she sent a prayer into the sky And then... nada. Just bugs busy buzzing ‘round her face as they searched for a drink while Milagros stood quietly waiting feeling, now, her heart starting to sink. All at once, though, the ground started moving and she felt her cabeza go numb and Aysús, who was clutched to her, tightly looked confused and stopped sucking his thumb Then she seemed to be lost in a dream-scape where the time - it was moving by half; and a strange smell of violets and licorice made her feel like she needed to laugh. So she laughed with her mouth held wide open till she fell to the ground, out of breath and Aysús, who she still held tight to her would have been suffocated to death If el ángel had not appeared thusly and had snatched up the child from the ground and then, hanging him up by his diaper on a tree-limb, he turned without sound To Milagros who, awed and admiring cast her gaze down - she felt this was wise, for she knew she was in divine presence (and she couldn't quite focus her eyes) And el ángel walked toward Milagros... or he floated - well, that's how it seemed - and Milagros stood still, barely breathing, and she blushed, for she'd never quite dreamed That one day she might meet with un ángel while her niño swung wild by his pants and that ángel would turn and walk toward her through the dried grass and agua-starved plants Then el ángel came close to Milagros oh, indecently close, but she smiled when he reached down and took her frail mano and it set her small heart beating, wild When he looked down into her black ojos and she gazed up into his grey eyes and he leant down and kissed her lips lightly and she gave out a tremulous sigh For his kiss cooled like snowflakes in summer yet it flashed through her in heated waves and his kiss tasted like the cane sugar that her madre gave her as a babe. And his kiss smelt like roses in springtime and she felt her heart soaring up high and the sense of belonging it gave her made her feel young and safe and alive. And his kiss soothed like goose-down in winter but it woke like a green meadow breeze and she found herself hugging him tightly, only half from the weak in her knees. But, then, suddenly, her legs gave under and she felt her cabeza go 'round and her ojos went hazed and unfocused... and she woke in a pile on the ground Where she found herself rolling in agua and she felt herself muddy and wet from the rain pouring down from heavens, and this wasn't the all of it, yet And she peeked in the well, filling nicely and she looked at the plants, drinking deep and she found little Aysús, still swinging from the tree - smiling, soaked, and asleep. And she saw the town's people out dancing in the streets - ankle deep in the mud and she took in the maiz fields, now drenching like the grass, much relieved by the flood But she felt herself lost in this deluge that was falling in sheets from the sky - and she felt her small heart softly breaking and she found herself starting to cry For her ángel had just up and vanished; her town saved, he had probably gone home. And Milagros felt lost and abandoned. And Milagros felt small and alone. And her chest felt like it was on fire as her heart shrank and withered inside till the only thing left in Milagros was the husk of her love, cracked and dried So she unhooked her wet, snoring Aysús, and trudged back to her house, sad and weak unaware that she could not distinguish ‘tween the rain and the tears on her cheek. And the town's people danced till all hours and rejoiced how they'd no longer burn, while Milagros sat quiet in her kitchen, praying now for her ángel's return. It was hot, it was dry, it was arid on the day that el ángel came down to Milagros who, well-side, was praying for some respite for her little town. |
|
| Visitation mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#13 of 19 |
| 2280 words | |
| “What a weirdo,” Adele LeGrange, the hotel
receptionist, whispered to her night shift co-worker, Ben Raspberry, pointing
with a slight movement of her eyes at the back of the guest as he followed the
bellboy with his suitcases upstairs. “Why?” Ben’s smile was calm. He had been with the hotel for five years, had seen all kinds of people, and was hard to impress. “I dunno’. He looks kinda’ like,” she bit her lip and looked up trying to conceptualize her observation, “like an actor in those old silent movies.” “Charlie Chaplin?” “Older.” “Rudolph Valentino?” “Yeah, from that time, but not handsome. More like a bad guy, you know, with these big bushy eyebrows and a big curvy nose. But it wasn’t even that...” she rushed, seeing the skepticism crawling into Ben’s face. “It was...” she cringed from the effort and then gave up, “I just had this feeling. I don’t know.” *** Ben was wrapping up a phone reservation when the guest described by Adele earlier appeared standing across the counter from him. The man was tall and big and, despite being focused on the matter at hand, Ben couldn’t help but notice how saggy the skin below his chin was, and how his hands and the part of his arms coming out of the ends of his sleeves, were covered with the same dense black hair as the outgrowth curling up from the triangular opening in his light green silk robe. The man waited impatiently, turning his head around and darting a non-blinking stare at other hotel guests and personnel as they went about their business. When Ben finally finished the man leaned in, conspiratorily. “Is there an entertainment in this town?” “Oh, sure, Sir. Let me give you this brochure. It lists all the local attractions. We even have a regularly scheduled bus that could take you to all the famous tourists spots and bring you back to the hotel. For example....” “I mean THE ENTERTAINMENT ceremony, if you know what I mean,” and his voice rose from very low to a shrieking overtone. At the same time the guest craned his neck toward Ben and raised his right eyebrow unnaturally high, as if he was preparing to adjust a monocle. It took Ben as long to realize what the term “entertainment” meant under the circumstances as it took to exhale “aha.” “Sure, Mister...?” He looked inquisitively at the guest. “Barnaby, Mr. John Barnaby.” “Sure, Mr. Barnaby. Any ethnic preferences?” He added with a collaborative whisper. Mr. Barnaby only opened his goggled eyes even wider and now raised both eyebrows. “I mean do you want White, Oriental, Latino, Black?” “As long as they are from this planet they are OK. But I want the one that performs in the most typical way.” Ben’s face melted into a polite smile and then right away dimmed with concern. “You mean....” “The most typical.” Mr. Barnaby confirmed. Ben helplessly turned toward Adele, who was secretly listening to the whole conversation and was sitting there, her face red and her lips tightly shut from holding in her laughter. “Sure Mr. Barnaby, I’ll make sure to send you the most typical one.” As the guest moved toward the stairs, Adele finally broke into laughter. “Didn’t I tell you he was a weirdo?” “Just a dirty old man on vacation,” Ben answered phlegmatically as he searched for something on his computer screen. *** Tammy looked more like the CIO of a small company than a call girl. Her bronze hair was held in a tight pony tail, her expensive navy suit hid her naturally curvy bust and hip lines, and her blue eyes looked at Mr. Barnaby coldly and businesslike through her no-nonsense thick-rimmed glasses. “So what’s on the today’s menu, honey?” Since he didn’t respond right away, she took a Palm Pilot from her purse and continued, “How many positions do you want?” “I want the most typical.” “Ok,” she nodded “So let’s say the traditional man on top - the Perfumed Garden type, the Doggie position and the one where the woman’s on top – the Butterfly, good?” Mr. Barnaby nodded. “What about fellatio for starters, huh?” she made a sucking sound with her lips and smiled invitingly. He nodded again. “Anything else? How about anal for dessert?” “Is this typical?” Mr. Barnaby raised his right eyebrow. “Typical?” Now Tammy momentarily raised her eyebrows. “There’s no such thing, honey, as typical in these matters. Someone might not do this at all, but someone else might do this all the time.” “I want the most typical.” Mr. Barnaby insisted. “OK,” Tammy rolled her eyes; “I guess if fifty percent of the people do this all the time, it’s pretty fucking typical.” She looked at her Palm Pilot counting out loud: “One hundred dollars retainer for the visit, two fifty for penetration of any kind, a hundred dollars for two extra positions at fifty bucks per position, a hundred and fifty dollars for fellatio, and a hundred dollars for anal. All together,” she smiled charmingly, “seven hundred dollars even, thirty percent down.” Mr. Barnaby craned his head forward and added with as much pleading intonation as he could master: “Will you dance for me?” Tammy smiled “You mean strip?” “Yeah,” Mr. Barnaby’s eyes sparkled. “Sure. That’ll be another...” she stopped for a second “You know what, I’ll do this one for free today, just because you are so cute.” She got up from the chair, counted the pack of bank notes that Mr. Barnaby handed her, removed the ponytail ribbon and shook her hair allowing it to spread over her shoulders. “What music do you want, honey? Wait, I know: ‘Typical.’ But what kind of typical? Soft Rock, Disco, Pop, Blues... Classical?” she now was looking at the panel of her MP3 player. “Classical,” Mr. Barnaby scratched his left palm with the fingers of his right hand. “Ravel?” Mr. Barnaby nodded. The sounds of “Bolero” filled the room and Tammy started to strip. She wasn’t a professional dancer and some of her movements lacked grace. Yet Mr. Barbary looked at her with great attention, rocking impatiently on the bed and producing strange gurgling sounds. “Bul... bul... bul... bul....” When she topless and Tammy approached him, hinting with her movements for him to remove her last garment, he unexpectedly got up from the bed, passed by her and started to dance himself. At first Tammy just sat on the bed in a dull stupor, but then she started to laugh louder and louder. Movement for movement Mr. Barnaby was repeating her dance, except that her sexy movements looked ridiculous and funny implemented by his large, fairly flabby and very hairy body. Tammy could only exhale between laughs. “Oh, man, oh this is funny, oh baby, I should fuck you for free just for this....” When Mr. Barnaby finally finished and sat down next to her on the bed Tammy, still giggling, lowered herself in front of him onto her knees and pulled open his pants. What she saw there abruptly interrupted her laugh. “Where is it?” She now looked straight at Mr. Barnaby’s face. “Where’s what?” “Where’s your d… your penis?” Following her gaze Mr. Barnaby looked at the little knob that hung between his legs. “Is it not good?” Tammy’s eyes were big. “Not good? I don’t know. Maybe it’s good for something, but certainly not for what we were about to do.” “Is it too small?” “You could say that again, bud.” “How big did you expect it to be?” “Well, at least six inches. Based on your height and stature I was actually expecting something around eight. But forget what I expected. I don’t think at the most excited state you’ll get more than two inches out of this thing.” “Wait a second” Mr. Barnaby suddenly got up, went to the bathroom and almost immediately came back. This time, to Tammy’s amazement, Mr. Barnaby’s penis was, if not huge, then of a nonetheless very considerable size. “How in the hell?” she stared at his organ completely overwhelmed. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I mean I’ve seen weird things, but this? Oh, my God!” “Is it good now?” Mr. Barnaby raised his right eyebrow as if nothing really happened. Tammy took his penis in her hand and touched it just to make sure it was real. And it was, very much real, red even purple, hot and hard - the way a real excited penis had ought to be. Tammy went through the routine, still from time to time looking at Mr. Barnaby and shaking her head. Being utterly preoccupied with the unusual transformation that Mr. Barnaby’s organ has undergone, Tammy did her job fairly mechanically, without taking her usual pride in her job. She even, absentmindedly, did a “Reverse Cowgirl” instead of a “Butterfly”, to which Mr. Barnaby only responded with the same gargling “bul... bul... bul... bul...” sounds. Only when she was working through the anal penetration, Tammy noticed that Mr. Barnaby didn’t climax even once and per professionalism finally overpowered her bewilderment. She felt she owed it to the guy for his money and she doubled her efforts. But after another half an hour and trying another three positions, she understood that it was just not meant to be. Tired, sweaty and somewhat irritated, Tammy rolled away from him and crossed her hands underneath her head. “You got a cigarette, cowboy?” Mr. Barnaby, with his penis still keeping the right angle with his body, got up, took out a cigarette and a lighter from the bedside table drawer, gave it to Tammy and lit it for her. After taking a couple of deep drags she shook her head and said: “Must be not your day, brother. I’m sorry. I owe you one.” At this moment Mr. Barnaby became very serious. He got up from the bed, pulled another drawer from the table and took out a little velvet-covered box and, kneeling down on one knee in front of Tammy, looked straight up into her eyes, opened the box and took out a ring with largest and clearest diamond Tammy had ever seen and, holding it in front of her said, in his low and crackling voice: “Would you marry me?” Tammy’s jaw dropped. She got up abruptly, as if a wasp had bitten her and started quickly dressing. Then she rapidly grabbed the remaining money from the table and opened the door. Standing one leg in the corridor, she could only utter: “You are something man, you are something else... oh, my fucking, god. I swear... I swear....” She wanted to say something else, but only shook her head and slammed the door. *** Mr. Barnaby got up from the floor, put on his robe and waited by the door, making sure his visitor was, undoubtedly, gone. He then sat at the table, opened his laptop and turned it on. The screen lit up displaying another face. The word “face” here could be used only conditionally because what was looking at Mr. Barnaby - blue and ivory with three large dark holes in its cheesy porous midst - was anything but a human face. They, then, started to converse and the language they used would have surprised any linguist, because it wasn’t any language known to man since the ancient time. Yet converted by the Universal Intergalactic Translator, their conversation would sound approximately as follows: “Was the training to you received in handling your costume adequate?” “In general yes.” Like the blue cheese face, Mr. Barnaby also didn’t make any mouth movement. “I had some difficulties in maneuvering facial expressions, but I think that our engineers did a marvelous job, considering that they worked from such dated information. The previous visitation was almost a hundred earth years ago and it involved no actual physical contact with the Earthliers. The costume was designed after a cinematographical character, as I recall.” There was a movement on the blue cheese face. “But there was, in fact, one miscalculation,” Mr. Barnaby raised his voice making an important point. “...one of the details of the anatomy, very insignificant from our point of view, was made un-proportionally small. And, should I not be very resourceful, in the decisive moment....” “Oh, our viewers are familiar with your resourcefulness as well as with your other merits. So you saved the day again? How?” “You’ll see everything with your own eyes on my video report. Now I want to talk about something important....” Mr. Barnaby made a pause, which the blue cheese respectfully held. “Well it was concluded, by our previous team of observers, that the mating ritual consisted of several stages. First the male had to stand on one knee and give a female the ring made of heavy metal and restructured polished carbon. Second the participants had to legitimize their mating by letting other members of the community to know about it and then entertain them with a feast and a dance. And only then the actual mating happened by both participants making a contact with their consumption openings....” “...I found out this view was incomplete and, in fact, actually partially incorrect.” “In what way?” “By personally participating in an authentic mating ritual!” There was a moment of silence after which the blue cheese face produced gurgling sounds “bul... bul... bul... bul... ...This was a ground-breaking experience and will enhance our knowledge!” “Absolutely. First of there was a whole series of rituals involving placing the male excretion tentacle into a female excretion opening. The symbolism of it still eludes me. While the meaning of this is hidden in the past, I think it has to do with ancient hunting. More | |