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"My Corner" (the sixty-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "My Corner" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Dec 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| My
Corner By V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com (Entry #17) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| They stood there up against the
wall, smiling, till the man in the cashmere overcoat and matching wool fedora
passed. He did not return their smiles, he did not nod, he had nothing for
them. By all appearances, he did not even see them. He was on his way to meet some very important people, and they, standing there - smiling, waiting - were just not them. Holding off till he had crossed the street and was out of earshot, the taller of the two reached up a bony hand and pulled her thin coat closer 'round her throat and scowled. "You see how these bastards are? Too good to even look down their noses at you." "Cheap prick," she spat after his retreatng back. The rounder of the two looked up at her new companion and, tugging at her own lapels, curled her lip and did her best to make it look like something smelled. "Yeah, 'cheap'... is right," she spittled back. Apparently agreed, they turned as one and glowered at the cashmere'd man until he was just one more grey-clad dot lost in the sea of buses, cabs and other, no doubt, just as cheap and prickish dots that were the distant city street then turned back to each other. "So, you were going to tell me something. What was it?" said the rounder of the two, the look of something smelling melting into amable interest. "Well, okay, here's the thing, like I was saying," the taller one resumed, "So the other day I'm standing here, right in this very spot, in fact 'cause you know... this here is my spot. The only spot I've had since I got in this biz. Don't know no other, don't want no other, neither." She shook her rather longish head hard, side-to-side and braced herself against a sudden gust. A wrapper from a candy bar flew by. The rounder one stared after it, then back to her companion. "So I'm standing here in this spot - my spot - minding my own business, watching all these cheap prick bastards just pass me by like I don't even exist when, all of a sudden, I hear this noise." As if starved for entertainment by the grind of waiting and smiling in the thankless cold, the rounder of the two gave a gasp. "A noise? Oh, my! What kind of noise? And where from?" "Giggling. Giggling and talking. From just around there." The rather longish-headed one unhooked an arm from its embracement of herself and gestured a bony thumb toward the edge of the graffiti'd wall in front of which they were standing. Her companion, closer to the corner, leaned sideways and peered around its crumbly edge. Finding no giggler had manifested from the telling of the tale, the rounder of the two righted herself, a strange look flashing briefly across her ruddy face. Her companion deemed it disappointment but did not care; her shorter, rounder friend was what she was. And what she was right now was about to learn something. "Giggling? That's odd," the short one mused. The tall one glowered straight ahead and pursed the long, thin line that was her lips. "And who was it, giggling?" she asked, though she wouldn’t know one from the other, being so new herself. She’d just met her companion, here, no more than half an hour ago, after all. "One of them newbie bitches, don't know her name. Who knows. Who cares? They come, they go, you can’t keep track of them, the way they come and go. The only thing I know for sure is she was on my corner. Trying to muscle in on what's mine. And that's all I needed to know, you know?" "Absolutely," the round one nodded her small, round head, her small, round eyes watering slightly from the chill winds. "So, what'd you do?" "For real, is right. Effin' A." The taller one sniffed and held herself tighter, dancing her lanky weight from one long foot to the other for warmth. "So what'd I do? Well, lemmie tell you... wait, hold on." A woman - scattered, hurrying, laden with bright red shopping bags and with a smudgy child dragging and whining on the end of each fleece-coated arm - had appeared out of nowhere. Though they watched and waited as they always did, neither the taller nor the rounder cracked a smile. They neither of them wanted that kind of attention. In honor of the season, each packed from head-to-toe into identical green snow-suits with red trim, it was difficult to tell but, being slightly more dishevelled, it was probably the boy who proved their point by screeching to a sudden arm-dislocating stop and wildly gesturing a red-mittened hand at them. "Look, Mommy! Look - see the funny ladies!" probably the boy shrieked. The taller one gritted her teeth behind the thin, white line that was her lips and glared at him as if she wished she could bite him. The rounder one just hugged herself and bit her lip and looked down for her feet but, finding only coat-clothed bosom in the way, looked down at that, instead. "Mommy," however, had had quite enough of that for the day, thank you, and wanted only to see a hot bath and a cup of tea with brandy so, not even hearing him, she simply leaned harder into her work and, like a fleece-coated dray horse, pulled at the shrieking green-and-red homunculus until he was dislodged and dragging, still shrieking, down the street again. His identically green-and-red snow-suited sister - silently still just dragged. The "funny ladies" breathed out. "See, that's why I never had kids. Whining and screaming all the time. Nothing but dirt and noise. Effin' pains in the ass, just getting in the way, just dragging you down," the taller "funny lady" finally grumbled from behind her, strangely, now, slightly watery red-eyed scowl. The rounder "funny lady" - not thinking herself all that funny, really and particularly not at that moment - stared blankly straight ahead then, shaking her little round head, sighed and put on her biggest apple-cheeked smile and forced out a burble: "Okay, so, you were saying...?" "What?" The taller of the two was somewhere else. "The other day? You know, what you were telling me? The giggling newbie...?" "OH. Yeah, right. Well, okay, like I was saying, I hear this giggling coming from around the corner, and turns out it's one of the latest batch of newbies." "So, what was she doing? Just standing there, giggling? That's kind of odd, isn't it? You think she was ill or something? I mean, like mentally ill? Lots of girls go into this line of work because they aren't suited to anything else. They can't pass the psych tests anywhere else. Or so I've heard, anyway." The rounder of the two was excited, now. She'd taken a psychology class back in the day, before she'd given it all up for this. Excited herself, however, but for different reasons, the taller of the two was not listening. "And you know what I catch the newbie bitch doing? Talking up some guy." She stopped and shook her rather longish head in, even now, disbelief. "Honest to God, she's standing right not... what... three, four feet away, just around the corner from here, from me - just around MY corner - talking up some guy. Smiling and batting her eyes and giggling at him." "No. Unbelievable. The nerve!" The giggling, the batting - the shorter of the two was, indeed, appalled. "How old was he? The guy?" "Oh, I dunno', I didn't look at him, didn't care. Old enough to have his wallet out, is all I needed to know." "He had his wallet out? Oh, dear... she'd gotten that far already?" The shorter one was almost speechless, but not quite. "Yeah, she'd giggled and batted her newbie eyes and, who knows, bet she even pushed herself out at him - and you know, he's a guy, so he just ate it up. And out came the wallet." "Well, that's terrible. Just awful." The taller one said nothing, now, just stared into the slowly darkening day. The moments passed, each moment colder than the next. Finally, the rounder of the two piped up. "So then what happened?" The taller of the two, as if frozen in place, continued staring straight ahead. "Well, what do you think happened?" "I can't imagine." "You can't, huh?" That seemed to defrost the taller one slightly. She looked down at her inquisitive companion and stretched the line that was her mouth into a hint of smile. "Well, it's MY effin' corner so, you know, like what else is gonna' happen? I hauled it 'round to where she was and let her know what's mine is mine. And not hers. Not hers, not nobody's. Just mine." "Meaning what?" "Meaning... she got what was coming to her, is what." "I'm... not sure what that means." Indeed, the rounder one was flummoxed. And unsure whether the goose bumps she suddenly felt were from the increasing wintry gusts or something else. "Means what it sounds like it means. Means there won't be too many guys pulling their wallets out for her no more. Not just on this corner, but on any corner. Not unless she's collecting alms for the 'Disfigured and Deformed.'" "You mean....?" "Yeah, I mean." The taller one - smiling, now - unhooked her arms from around herself and, reaching up under her coat, untangled her waist rosary and rattled it out into the evening chill with an even more chilling laugh. The rounder one noticed the edges of the large, silver crucifix on the end of it glinting oddly. "It's amazing how sharp you can get these things, with just a nail file and some elbow grease," laughed the taller one. The rounder one, though she knew she shouldn't be, was curious. "What happened to the guy? The guy making the donation? "He saw the blood and screamed like a little bitch and ran. I knew he would. It was just him and her and me, here. On my corner. No one else around. Just like now." The rounder one looked 'round. The day was darkening and the cold night was sweeping in and everyone else had long since realized and found their homes. And she saw how all alone she was. Alone but for her tall companion here - standing so close, so very close, now, staring - who'd sidled up so suddenly, out of the blue, and asked if she'd like help collecting for the Christmas Poor. This corner was new to her, just given her that morning and in a lonely spot. And, so, she’d said, why not? And now she knew why not. She lifted her arm slightly and gave her watch a hasty glance - her ride back to the residence should be there any minute now. If only she could stall. But glancing back up, she saw her tall companion's eyes and felt her breath and heard her say "what's mine is mine" and saw the silver flash and knew it was too late. |
| My
Corner By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| They were an unlikely pair except
that they were exactly alike. Tall, thin, sandy blonde hair parted on the
right. Ever since first grade, people had mistaken one for the other, or when
they saw them both together, assumed they were twins. C. Wakefield Taylor had the great fortune of being born into a family that understood the power of a good name, a name that warbled forth from the tongue in harmonious tones of aristocracy and wealth. From a young age, Quake found his world to be one of open doors, eager handshakes and warm, inviting smiles. Teachers excused unfinished homework assignments, fathers willingly let him date their virgin daughters, and no one ever falsely accused him of stealing hubcaps the way they did to kids with names like Stanley Burkowski. In high school Stosh watched with envy and admiration as Quake was invited to join all the right clubs - the bridge club, the service club, the drama club. On a lark he even joined both the Young Republicans and the Young Democrats, and for a week in early October of his senior year, served as president of each (pretending to be Quake the Republican and Stosh the Democrat) until Mr. DeFrancesco, the faculty advisor to the Young Democrats, put an end to the nonsense. As so often happens with childhood friends, Stosh and Quake went their separate ways after high school. Quake got a scholarship to an exclusive, private college in New England, joined a fraternity, and was elected class president his junior year. Stosh took out a government loan and went to State for a semester. He would have stayed longer except he met a nice Polish girl from Irvington. Next thing he knew, little babies started coming down the pike. By the time he saw Quake again, at Nifty's Bar the night before their twenty-fifth high school reunion, Stosh was scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel, between jobs and unable to make child support and alimony payments. "Stosh, m'man. How they hanging, Bro?" There was only one person who ever called Stosh "Bro." His eyes scanned the dimly lit interior of the bar. He saw his mirror sitting in a corner booth, grinning broadly and casually swirling a drink. "Quake, is that you?" The mirror wore a three-piece suit and a powder blue shirt that extended one-quarter inch beyond the jacket sleeve. Quake had gotten fatter over the years, and he'd lost some hair, too. But then, so had Stosh. "The one and only. Except when you're around, of course. Then there's two of me! Here, pull up a seat, m'man." Quake slid farther back into the booth and patted the now empty seat next to him. "Yeah, there's a scary thought - two of you. Somehow, though, you always had fun with that - pretending to be me." Stosh remained standing. "Oh, it wasn't so bad, was it? After all, I got you elected president of the Young Democrats, didn't I?" "You got my name elected president. The only thing I got outta that was a week's detention." "You would remember that, wouldn't you? Here, let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a drink. What'll you have?" Stosh signaled the waitress for a beer. "You could go a little more first class than that, you know. I've got the money." "Yeah, I know. I read about you all the time in the Trib." The Trib - The Scotchwood Tribune - was the local weekly newspaper. More coupons and advertising than news, nonetheless at least a couple times a year it ran an article about Quake under the general category of "local boy makes good." The articles provided an on-going chronicle of Quake's rise to power and influence on Wall Street for anyone who might be interested. "Stosh, you probably don't realize it, but I owe you a lot. Truth be told, I wouldn't be who I am today if it weren't for you." Quake motioned again for Stosh to sit down. His cufflinks sparkled, even in the dim light. Diamond chips, thought Stosh. "Huh? How you figure I had any part in you bein' you?" Nifty's was a loud place on Friday nights. A young crowd, either letting off steam or looking to score for the weekend. They made it difficult to hear, difficult to carry on a conversation. Stosh took a seat in the booth. "Are you familiar with prizefighting? Do you know much about it?" Quake asked. He swirled his drink while he spoke, letting the Scotch run over the ice. "Yeah, I watch it on tv sometimes." "No, not that, not that boxing they do now. I mean prizefighting, bare-knuckle brawling, like at the turn of the century when they kept at it until one man knocked the other out. Boxers like Gentleman Jim Corbett and John L. Sullivan - boxers like that - boxers who had character, Stosh. Boxers who had character." "Nah, I don't know about that sort of stuff." "Well, maybe it's time you learned, m'man, because that's what it's like out there. You go the distance and either you come out a winner or you get knocked flat on your ass." "So? What's that got to do with me?" "A boxer - a prizefighter - never fights alone, Stosh. He's always got people with him. People to towel him off or get him a stool to sit on between rounds. They call those people his corner. They back him up, they keep him in the fight, keep him going until he wins." Quake paused and looked up from his drink, "Stosh, you were my corner." "Nah, I can't take credit for something like that. I never did nothing, not really." Stosh shifted in his seat and looked for the waitress. "You know, I never understood that - why you didn't do anything. Why you never squealed on me. I mean, I did some wild and stupid things when I was a kid - and you - you always took the blame for it. Why, Stosh? Why did you do that?" Stosh shrugged. "I dunno. I just figured nobody'd believe me anyway." "So you just took it?" "Yeah, I guess. Besides, it was sorta my claim to fame at Scotchwood High, bein' a hood, gettin' in trouble all the time. Anyway, it's over with. It's in the past." Stosh pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up above his elbows. He looked around for the waitress again. "You're right about that, Stosh. It's in the past, and try as we might, there's no way to change that, now is there?" Stosh didn't answer. He craned his neck, looking for the waitress, but she was busy flirting with some customers. "I would, however, like to make it up to you. If you'll let me, that is." "Make it up to me? What the hell for? Besides, what are you gonna do, turn yourself in to the cops?" "No, of course not. That would be pointless. But let me do this, if I might - let me put a proposition before you. Listen to it. Listen to all of it, and then tell me what you think. All right?" "Am I gonna end up in detention again?" "Stosh, please, I'm trying to be serious here. I've given this matter considerable thought, and I'd really like you to hear me out. All right?" "Sure. What the hell. I don't care." "All right then, here's the deal. It seems to me that you got stuck with living - shall we say the ugly parts of my life - simply because we happen to look alike. I know now I was wrong to take advantage of you like that, and I feel badly about it, I truly do. However, as we both know, I cannot undo the past. On the other hand, I can change the future - or at least a small part of it. You with me so far?' "Go on." "I want to play the 'switch game' again, Stosh - just one last time - in which you are me and I am you. This will last for a period of thirty-six hours, which you will note, includes tomorrow's reunion. I wish I could do it longer than that - Lord knows I owe you a hell of a lot more than a day and a half - but I have to be in Vegas by Sunday." Stosh pushed up his sleeves again and started picking at the label on his beer bottle. He didn't speak until he'd peeled it completely off. "I dunno. Being you was never particularly good for me in the past, y'know. I mean, how do I know I won't end up dead or in jail or something?" "Stosh, please. Listen to what I'm asking for here. I'm asking you to give me a chance to atone for my sins while I'm still alive. Please, Stosh, don't deny me this. Not now." Stosh got the impression there was something Quake was holding back, something he wasn't telling. He had the sense he was talking to a man who was about to die. "So, you want me to pretend to be you for a day, huh?" "Yes I do, Stosh, and that includes everything. The Jag, my wallet, my credit cards. Everything, Stosh, everything. You want to spend the day buying up tv's and stereos and steaks? Do it. Put it all on plastic. It's yours. You want to spend the night with a young lady at a fancy hotel? Do it. Order champagne. Caviar. Lobster. It's what I would do. Only this time, you get to do it." "I get the sense you're not about to take no for an answer." "I never do, Stosh. I never do." Quake put his wallet and his passport on the table and slid them towards Stosh. "Hey, I'm not gonna need that." Stosh stiffened. He backed up in his seat and pushed the passport away. "Stosh, have you ever flown to Paris for breakfast ... on a whim ... with a babe? Impresses the hell out of 'em, let me tell you. You won't get in trouble, if that's what you're worried about. Hell, we look enough alike. You can pull it off." "No, I'm not gonna do that. I'm not gonna chance it. Not a passport." "It's a package deal, Stosh." Quake placed his car keys on top of the passport. "It goes along with the Jag. And the clothes in the trunk." Stosh put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. He began massaging his temples with his fingers. The offer was tempting - the car, the money, the clothes, the chance to live life in the fast lane. He'd be a fool not to take it. Still, he'd been a fool before. "You boys ready for another round?" The waitress had finally made her way to their table. "Yes, please." Quake answered for both of them. "I'd like another beer, and Mr. Taylor here would like another Cutty on the rocks." "See?" he said, turning to Stosh again. "See how easy it is being me? Now listen, I've got to go see a man about a horse, if you know what I mean. Take the time. Think things over. All right?" Stosh nodded. Quake slid out of the booth and walked towards the back of the bar. A minute later the waitress returned with their drinks. "Cutty," she said, putting the Scotch on a coaster in front of Stosh, "and a beer for your brother." She was cute. And she thought they were brothers, maybe even twins. Perhaps he could pull it off. Stosh took a twenty out of the wallet. He tried to imagine what Quake would do, how he would speak to a buxom waitress in a short dress. "Keep it, darling," he said and jammed the bill into her hand like an awkward teenager. It was pointless. Stosh couldn't fake living life in the fast lane for ten seconds, let alone a day and a half. He waited for Quake to come back and tried to figure out how he was going to reject a man who didn't take no for an answer. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Stosh took a sip of the Scotch. He didn't like it. He'd heard it was an acquired taste, but why would anyone waste the time when they could be enjoying beer. At twenty minutes, Stosh knew something was wrong. He stuffed Quake's things into his pockets and went looking for him. He was nowhere to be found. There was only one Jaguar in the parking lot, sleek and black and shiny new. It had a vanity plate that read QUAKE. The man went first class all the way. Stosh never intended to drive it. It wouldn't have felt right. Still, in his whole life, he'd never so much as sat in one. He could do that, he reasoned. He could just sit in it. Try it out. See how it fit, that's all. That would be enough. He wouldn't actually need to drive it. He opened the door and folded himself into the driver's seat. It fit very nicely. He ran his hand across the passenger seat. He'd never known leather so soft, so supple. It was like caressing a woman's breast. He closed his eyes and imagined. Was it true what they said about a Jag - that the engine didn't run so much as it purred. There was only one way to find out. He inserted the key in the ignition. As usual, Quake was the name on everyone's lips at the reunion. Donny Policastro said he knew for a fact that it was a mob hit, that Quake had been caught skimming profits off the top, and that's why they'd done him in. Crazy Peter Rohrbach told him it wasn't the mob, but the SEC - that Quake had been the target of an investigation, something about trading on insider information. Donny tried to explain that the Securities and Exchange Commission didn't usually blow up people they were investigating, but Crazy Peter didn't care. He was mostly in the conversation for the blood and guts of it. He loved hearing how the cops had found bits and pieces of Quake's body scattered over a four block area, and the only reason they knew it was him was that somehow his passport had survived the explosion intact. "Hey, Stosh, didn't you and Quake used to hang together in high school?" It was Allen Zwislocki, the class historian. "M'man, we were like brothers, we were that close." "Do you know anything about what happened?" "No, I'm afraid not, Allen. Haven't seen ol' Quake since high school. But, you know, he sure was one hell of a character, wasn't he? I don't know why, but for some reason, I always thought of Quake as a prizefighter. You know, the old-fashioned bare-knuckle brawler type ..." Stanley Burkowski absent-mindedly swilled his punch as he spoke. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place (tie): #9, #17 Third place: #5 Fourth place: #2 Fifth place (tie): #6, #12 Seventh place (tie): #1, #4 Others receiving votes: #11, #13 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| My Corner lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 17 |
| 120 words | |
| This desktop, scarred and stained though it be, is my territory, 9 to 5. These papers may have sat in piles for years, but they are mine. Move them, and disharmony will result. That stapler is eccentric but I know its ways. Don't touch! The pot of pens is full and will stay thus. The pens are all marked. I'd recognise them anywhere, should they stray. These drawers are private. They hold mementos of my life; boxes of bits and tins of tacks. I've counted every paperclip. I know what riches I possess. Keep out! This patch of carpet is worn; well worn since I came to this office as a boy. Thirty years I've lived in this space. I've seen people come and watched people go; a bystander, as the world passed me by at a safe distance. It's all I have. |
|
| My Corner anonymous |
#2 of 17 |
| 1084 words | |
| It was a brand new 1938 Chevy coupe, and it was
beautiful. I wiped the dash till it reflected like a black mirror. I used an
oil rag to rub down the steering wheel and gear shift. After the inside was
spotless, I shut the door and started on the outside. When I was sure there
wasn’t a spot or smudge on its lovely body, I put on my gloves, opened the
door, and put it in neutral. I pushed it down the hill and watched it tumble
over the side of the riverbank. A few moments later there was no sign of it.
Early the next morning I bought an oak tree. It was the biggest one I could get and still be able to lift. It leaned over the side of my old truck’s bed and rode to its new home. The road was bumpy, so the ride was slow out to the rows of growing oaks. I had started at the northwest corner of the property and began planting going east and south, keeping the number of trees even as I went. Papa had been in bad health for months. I knew he had promised Nate the farmland, and Nate made sure it was written in Papa’s will. It had cost me a week’s pay to get Nate to let me have the northwest corner. It was five acres of mostly rocks and sand, so Nate figured it wasn’t worth much anyway. Papa asked Nate why he wanted me to have it, and Nate acted like it was out of the goodness of his heart. Nate was bad enough, but then there was Vicky. I knew Vicky would get the house and any money Papa had left. She had already drained Papa dry. All Vicky had to do was ask, because she was ‘daddy’s little girl’. When Vicky had wanted a car, Papa had bought her a new Chevy coupe. And, Nate? Well, he didn’t even ask. He just took. It didn’t matter how much he robbed Papa, it was never enough. Booze and women were expensive. Papa should have had him arrested the first time, but Papa always made excuses for him. I think Papa saw himself in Nate. Then Nate started stealing anything that could be sold. Mama’s jewelry came up missing. Papa couldn’t believe Nate took it, but I knew he did. Nate partied for almost a week after that. Vicky was steamed! It wasn’t because Nate had robbed Papa. It was because SHE hadn’t gotten the jewelry. Nate and Vicky hated each other. As long as I didn’t ask for anything, they tolerated me. They thought of me as their ‘slow’ little brother. I always figured Papa blamed me for Mama dying. I was barely a week old and Mama just never recovered from the hard labor. The doctor said complications had set in. Papa said she just bled to death. Papa didn’t want to look at me after that, so he told the housekeeper to take care of me. It didn’t help that I looked like Mama, either. I always just tried to stay out of the way. One day I was hauling a tree out to my corner when I found Nate passed out by the side of the road. It wasn’t easy getting him into my truck. He was coming to long enough to cuss and take a swing at me. Then he’d pass out again. I left him in the truck and got out to get my tree from the bed of the truck. I had a hole ready for it and wanted to get it planted before the next rain hit. Just as I was lifting the tree, I heard Nate let out a whoop. I swung around and saw the drunken idiot fall head first into the hole! It must have knocked him out because he finally shut up. I looked at him stuck in that hole with his legs sticking up. It looked like he just belonged there, so I pushed his legs in and shoveled the dirt over him. My tree stands a few feet farther down than I’d planned, but I leaned it a little toward Nate so it kinda evened out the space. It’s been over a month now. The tree is doing great, and Papa thinks Nate is still partying somewhere. Last week Vicky told Papa she needed a thousand dollars to get her into acting school in Hollywood. Papa sold his horses and gave her the money. I helped her load her suitcases into the Chevy. It was bad enough that she took all the money she could get, but Papa wasn’t getting any better. I figured Vicky would run out of money just about the time Papa died. Then she’d sell the house and be broke in a few months. I walked around to shut her car door and said, “It’s too bad Nate got all Mama’s jewelry. I wonder if he ever remembered where he put the rings. Nate was drunk and told me he’d buried the rings in a jar by the cornerpost of the north gate. You should have gotten them, not him” Vicky pushed the door back open. “Oh, my god! You know where Mama’s rings are? Show me! Go get your truck! I’ll follow you!” It was so easy. Vicky was frothing at the mouth. She drove the Chevy behind my truck, and we headed out to the gate that borders the river road. She actually thought I was getting the shovel out of my truck to dig up a jar. What an idiot! One hard whop across the head and I didn’t have to dig even one shovelful…well…not until I got her to my line of trees. I was thoughtful enough to put her eight trees away from Nate. I figure Papa might have a week left…a month at the most. By then I should have close to thirty trees planted. I think I’m more like Papa than anyone ever realized. It must be something to do with the roots of my family tree. |
|
| My Corner Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net |
#3 of 17 |
| 1991 words | |
| A human life should be all about goals. It’s been a tough row to hoe but I now have my place and I have a plan drawn out in scratches on the flat stone wall. I wonder where that saying came from, “Row to Hoe”? I have no concept of how that phrase fits together because I have no idea what a row is in connection to a hoe… or why it should be so tough. Now let me tell you about tough. My short term goal is to survive. Selling the Sierra colonies Freon was wrong, and I know it. Getting caught was worse. What was really wrong however, was being reported by my own species. They gave up a decorated Colonel and I lost a hard won command. Jail on Turunta has been no picnic. I suppose the worst part is being caged with life forms I don’t know how to deal with. Try dealing for grog with a being that snorts new virus strains for a buzz. I have no vices, I have no entertainment and I have no companionship. Nowhere in this hell is another human. Today I celebrate my thirty eighth birthday singing “happy birthday to me”, over a carbon fiber bowl of some kind holding my daily slush. I have no idea what it is, but it has kept me alive through five of these birthdays now. According to the papers I have in my curled and yellowed envelope, I have three more to serve. Living this incarceration has been an education, some of which I have barely survived. Many of my bones have been broken and I have suffered serving as a toy for some of the bigger creatures. The home culture of this world has some amazing healing technology and currently I am not in a broken state. At least, I have come to realize there is a place for everything and everything in its place is the rule. As a toy, I own a little real estate in my corner of this toy box called prison. I have had some peace the last few days, as the world around me is not interested in my entertainment value. A new shipment of prisoners arrived recently and I have been forgotten in the novelty. I finished the cover for my new hiding spot and not even the locals have the power to find me, or draw me out when they need amusement. My little corner of this prison will offer me cover as the briar bush does a rabbit in the old stories. Stories I have scratched in every stone wall I find. It has been a long time since humans had a home town, but the stories handed down over the centuries have enabled us to carry some of it with us. All we can do is pass the stories from generation to generation and this very fact has saved my tenuous sanity. My plans for the next three years include several blank walls that are virgin to my crystal spoon. I go to work tomorrow on the sunny wall because the activity with the newcomers will be near the shelters. Even the guards will ignore me because they know I have nowhere to go if I did get out. This world, in effect, is my prison. Carefully I scratched “Lift here” in the face of the rock with a hand hold groove and smiled with the knowledge that the jailors and inmates had no idea my scratching was even a language. My anticipation built as I pulled the groove to reveal the secret hide-a-way built in my corner of the shelter. Closing the balanced stone that provided the door to my sanctuary, I found myself comfortably secreted in my corner. Above me was a hollow channel that bent and gyrated to the roof of the shelter. I found I could easily climb to the top, and a large flat stone from the outside wall facing the jungle, laid imbedded in the soft wet land soil. If I had a place to go, I would be free. To one side of me the balanced stone door rested on a center pin and to the other a home made grate providing air from the free world. Below me I inspected a comfortable cot and my inventory of writing spoons. Outside I head much noise and frivolity as creatures large and small enjoyed the new crop of prisoners through the screens. Some will be leaders by brute force, others will be followers and others yet will be entertainment for a bored culture of an indifferent population. After five years, there was little chance my place in the pecking order would change, so I napped. Dusk came and went leaving me darkness so I extended my nap to sleep completely comfortable for the first time in five years. Morning found me awake and rested, in a cool dawn. I quietly slipped from my virtual briar bush until the slop was served. I dipped my bowl and slid back to my corner to see if I could eat in peace. My arrival at the trough was early enough to keep my corner secret, and to get a top layer of the slush. Quickly, however, the feeder was being over-run and I felt it best to keep from entering my haven while in company of those who would ruin my sanctuary. Feeding was quick and uneventful leading me to believe the new prisoners would be introduced to the regular population soon. I set my bowl in my corner and slipped out to my waste pit to the call of nature. When done and returned, I made my way to my corner and sat to lick my bowl clean. Tucking my dishes into the corner, I went to work. Today I would write the story about Tom Sawyer and his fence on one of the sunny blank shelter walls. With all the activity, I should be left to my own devices. I completed the story over an expanse of flat rock, at about eye level and in the space of about 20 of my foot prints. Pleased with my effort, I started for my corner but was abruptly stopped with a massive swat that landed me on my back, breaking my spoon at the bowl. A Turunta guard glared at me as it rubbed its stubby hooves across my work. Inspecting for wall damage, it wore the shine off the letters, but the words stood as a testament to my little victory. Shaking its massive neck back and forth the guard kicked me once to punctuate its silent statement, then left me to my own devices. I sure hoped that didn’t mean they had decided to curtail my writing. Picking up the broken crystal handle, I limped back to my corner to see the pandemonium had moved toward the court yard so I slipped back into my corner apartment. I admired the hole in the wall, noting I had about six foot steps by ten to maneuver around my cot and with unlimited head room. This would be a good investment for the rest of my term. As dusk again fell, I heard activity outside my corner, but was not alarmed much because even if one of those creatures could read my scratching, none had the appendages needed to open my door. This is why I almost fainted as my door was swung open and a dark form jumped through, sprawling before me on the stone floor. Bolt upright on my cot, I made out the scrambling form of a human in the dying light. It could not see me for the lurch into darkness, but my eyes being accustom to the dim grate light began to make out the distinctive shape color and decoration of a Star Guard uniform. My grip on the sharply broken spoon handle eased slightly as I recognized the closest thing to home I had seen in over five years. The hapless prisoner squeaked a little surprise as he looked up to see a duplicate of his uniform draped around a man sitting above him. Only it had Colonel badges on it. “Wha…” I took a moment to digest the situation then replied. ”Attention!” The guy hopped to his feet and saluted. “Sit down!” I pointed at the floor. He sat. “N, R, n’ SIN” “Randal Philip Vasquez , Captain – Star Guard, Alpha Tango Foxtrot 6735 Alpha 17, Sir” “What’s your crime, Captain?” “Uh, Freon Sir.” “Seven years?” “Ten.” “Damn, OK. Make yourself at home for the night, but tomorrow you find your own corner. No one else knows about this spot and no one else is going to. I don’t want you going out when anything can see you.” “But the sign said ‘Lift here.’” “Did you see anyone else out there that could read that scribble?” “Sir! No Sir!” “How did you get here soldier?” “Well Sir, they picked me up in a bar and they think my LB250 had been seized but I gave them the location of a backup. My machine is parked in a scrap yard behind the Star Boar about two miles west of here. The code card is under the seat cushion. If ever I can get out of here, I have a ticket to the Tango colonies waiting.” “Get some sleep boy, Boot camp was a cake walk. You will have to toughen quickly.” Morning came quickly and I toe tapped the only other human I had seen in five years to inform him it was time to get our swill. This morning I decided to eat in, so dipping my bowl I quick stepped back to my cozy corner apartment. I had a feeling today the cage would be more of a zoo with all the new blood in the courtyard. “Either stay out or stay in boy, that door is off limits when anything else is around.” “Yes Sir, I’ll take the day to find my own turf like you suggested. Perhaps if things work out, I’ll try to get back for more advice when the coast is clear.” I pinged my time chip and was informed it was 2 of 10. It was getting late so I tucked into myself into my cubby and put my feet up for the day. My chip had just reported 4 of 10 when my door stone blew inward from the force of the panicked Star Guard. I jumped into my chimney and clung to the uneven passage way as the Turunta guard I had the run in with, grabbed the Captain by the neck and one of my crystal spoons. It squeezed the boy’s neck in the crook of its leg and snapped his head to the side like a plucked apple. There was no sound from the boy as he went limp. The spoon collection was inspected and with a billowing snort you might hear from a beef animal, the Captain was dragged from my hovel as the stone was raked from its pivot. My corner was no more a haven. With the noise of the fracas ebbing, I realized for the first time, the guard could not tell one human from another. I had just died in prison. I continued up the channel between the walls, pulled my horde of rope from the top most ledge in the jagged escape route and prepared for night fall. When my time chip spouted 9 of 10, I dropped down off the prison, stepped off the sunken flat stone and headed due west through a dual-moonlit jungle trail. I had a free pass to the colonies under the seat pad of an Lightning Bug 250 that was a slightly newer model of my old LB 200. I would be moving my corner to a new and much improved life in the Tango quadrant. |
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| My Corner LG Vernon LGVernon@aol.com |
#4 of 17 |
| 2381 words | |
| “I didn’t even know the woman.” That’s what I told him the first time Detective Bruno Janklow talked to me. We were at my front door in the four-story brownstone I lived in on Henry Street. He’d questioned me about a killing one floor below mine. A woman had been found dead in her apartment. It was hard to believe something like that had happened in my own building, and I told him that, too. It was hot that afternoon. Mrs. Schmidt, two apartments down the hall from mine, was cooking kraut and sausages with her door propped open again. Detective Janklow’s stomach rumbled. “Damn, that smells good.” He winked at me. “You suppose whoever’s cooking might have known her?” The wink surprised me, but I managed to shrug. “Beats me.” He left then, sauntering toward the stench at the end of the hall. I heard Mrs. Schmidt and her broken English, then the thump of her door closing. There is a god, I thought, wishing the plug-in air freshener in my living room wasn’t empty. Later that night, I headed out to work as I’d done a thousand times—for my evening shift at Calvin’s News. It’s a magazine store on the corner at the end of my block—one of those eclectic little storefronts you pass on your way to the subway. Besides magazines and newspapers, we sold smokes and candy and stupid stuff—like those fake tattoos, and rubber snakes, and fart cushions. We did a big business in fart cushions. I was just getting ready to pull the iron gates shut and close up for the night, when Detective Janklow showed up again. He nodded at me and picked up a skin magazine in the back of the shop. He thumbed through it, stopping once in a while, openmouthed, then dropped it back on the rack. He pulled a drink out of the cold case and wandered up to the counter. “That’s a buck fifty.” Janklow dropped a five on the counter and popped the lid on the plastic bottle as I made his change. He took a long drink, then sighed, palming his mouth. “Man, that hits the spot.” “I thought you guys drank coffee and ate doughnuts by the gross.” I flipped the ‘We Are Open’ sign with the conga-line of dancing bottles on it to ‘We Are Closed’, and turned out the lights. Janklow followed me outside where I locked the doors, then started pulling the security gates across the front. I glanced at the bottle dangling from his big fist. “All the caffeine and sugar in that soda is as bad for you as the doughnuts and coffee anyway, I guess.” “Doesn’t much matter,” he said, stepping onto the deserted sidewalk, “we’re all dying of something, huh?” He started to leave, then turned back. “You work here every night?” “Yeah, why?” The gates screeched as I forced them together. “Just wondered. The medical examiner says Junie Davis, the dead woman from your building, was killed about ten hours before her kid found her. That would be about eleven or so the night before. You were working down here on your corner, huh?” “I would have just got off. I usually close at eleven. But, not that night.” I locked the big chain-lock and pocketed the keys, thinking about the previous Thursday. “My dad needed help at his place up in Queens. I went up there for the day. Got home about two in the morning.” “Ah.” “Look, why the hell are you bothering me? I told you I didn’t know this wom— ” “—I just came in for a cold drink. The rest was just me thinking out loud, is all,” he said, dropping his empty soda bottle in the trash can on the sidewalk. “Sorry I upset you.” Shaken, I brushed past him and headed toward home, but he followed me. I stopped and turned to face him. “What do you want with me?” “Nothing. My car’s parked up the street here.” He gestured toward a dark blue, unmarked sedan half a block away. “I was finishing up the interviews in your building and thought I’d come down for a cold drink, that’s all. Your corner store was the closest place.” He smiled at me again. His eyes even crinkled up at the corners; but they were flat. Dark blue—and flat as a cat on the expressway. I started walking and he fell in step. “How long you been a dick?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant. I’d never talked to a cop before Janklow. “Long enough to have thought I’d seen everything.” That hit me, the things this middle-aged detective must’ve seen. “Bad, huh?” “Yeah, real bad.” He rubbed his face. “Whoever raped and murdered Junie Davis is a monster. She’s such a mess the M. E. says it may be a couple of weeks before he’s finished detailing her injuries. It took the evidence team twelve hours to process the scene. God, what a shambles.” We reached Detective Janklow’s car and he jammed his keys into the door lock, looking at me as the mechanism clicked. “Whoever killed her was searching for something, that’s for sure. I just don’t know what. It wasn’t like he was after something that was in the apartment before he arrived; it was like he was grubbing around for something he’d maybe dropped, or lost, while he was committing the crime. No drawers or cupboards ransacked, but all the cushions were out of the chairs and the sofa, the bed was stripped, the throw rugs were all in piles . . . and her body . . . well, she looked like she’d been thrown around for an hour. I don’t know if he found what he was looking for, or not . . .” He pulled open the door and dropped into the driver’s seat. “You’ve got my card. Call me if you hear anything, will you?” I don’t know why he picked me to dump that on. Maybe it was because I worked at the newsstand and he thought I might pay attention to the customers. Maybe it was because I’d lived in my building longer than anyone else there. Maybe he thought I had big shoulders. Who knows? I’ve sorted it out in my mind a hundred times since then, and I still don’t know why he picked me. But he did. I didn’t see Janklow for ten days. I was sitting at the lunch counter at Tony’s Deli, scarfing down a corned beef on rye—with lots of pickles and mustard—when he slid onto the stool next to mine and ordered a chocolate Coke, a bag of chips, and a chicken salad sandwich, on wheat. Janis Joplin was screaming about Bobbi McGee on the radio. “How ya’ doin’?” Janklow asked when Jessica, the new counter-girl, walked away with his order. “Fine.” We sat there, side-by-side, me in my knees-gone jeans and khaki-colored t-shirt, him in his brown sport’s coat and slacks—like mismatched bookends. His order came and he ate while we both admired Jessica, in all her tattooed and padded splendor. “Whaddaya’ want?” I finally asked around my last bite of sandwich. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’d heard anything.” “Nothing—except you guys don’t know you ass from a hole in the ground.” I couldn’t help it; he was getting under my skin. Just showing up out of the blue like he did. Like he was watching me. Spying on me. I gestured for an apple and Jessica handed me one as she undulated past on the way to another lousy tip. I took a huge bite of the fruit, then another, but it was mealy, so I tossed it on my plate. “Look,” I said, my mouth half full, “how about we make a deal?” “Whaddaya’ have in mind?” “You stay out of my face and I’ll call you if I hear anything. Does that sound fair?” “Why? Don’t you like my company?” “Fuck, no, I don’t like your company! Is that plain enough for you?” I stood up and put on my jacket. “You creep me out, man. Always showin’ up out of nowhere.” “Always?” He sat there just looking at me for a few seconds. I’ve never seen anyone sit so still. My heart pounded like I was guilty of something, and I felt like an idiot. It had been ten days. I tossed some cash on the counter then stuck my fists in my pockets and slumped back onto my stool like a nine year-old. Finally, he stuck out his hand. “Deal,” he said. “You call me. I won’t call you.” We shook on it. “Hell,” he said. “I know what it’s like. When I was your age, having a cop around would have bugged hell out of me, too.” He gave me another of his flat-eyed smiles. “No hard feelings.” The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I walked the two blocks to my corner and took over from Kyle, the day guy. All evening, I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting Janklow to jump out from behind a stack of magazines, just to say hello. But he never showed. I closed up and went home. A shower and three beers later, I started to relax. After a couple of days went by and I didn’t see Janklow again, I reached the conclusion that he’d finally gotten my drift. Heading for work that day, I detoured around three guys from Men Moving, who were hauling stuff from Junie Davis’ apartment to their van in the alley. There was an ‘Apartment for Lease’ sign in the foyer of the building. I got to my corner and took over from Kyle. Business was brisk in the late afternoon as commuters stopped for the papers, magazines, cold drinks, and candy. I even sold a couple of those damn fart cushions. Later, I watched the Cubs’ game on the fuzzy, nine-inch black and white TV we kept on the counter next to the register. I waited on maybe half a dozen customers between the end of the game and closing time. I locked the register and was getting ready to close the gates when Janklow came in. He nodded at me and headed to the back, where he grabbed a soda. He strolled up to the counter. “I know,” he said, smiling, “a buck fifty.” He laid out the exact change. There was something different about him. He seemed almost—I don’t know—almost jovial. I unlocked the register and dropped the money inside. “What’s up with you?” “Not much—been doing a little follow-up.” he said. “Just heading in for the night.” He smiled again. “You still working the murder in my building?” “Nah,” he said, “case’s closed.” “Closed? Really? I hadn’t heard?” I was actually happy for him. He chugged his drink, then burped, twisting the lid back on the empty bottle. “Not many people know.” He walked over to the gate and grabbed one side of it. “C’mon, I’ll help you close up,” he said. “My car’s parked near your place. I’ll walk back with you.” Together we closed the gates. Like buddies, almost. Almost. I snapped the chain lock, and we started up the sidewalk toward my brownstone. “Who did it—if you can say, that is?” “It turned out just like I figured—a guy in your building. I think I’ll be able to tie him to a string of other rape/murders across the river, also.” He walked beside me, his hands in his pockets. “Took me a while to get him though, but I finally did.” “How?” “Dental records.” “Dental records?” “Yeah. See, when I told you Junie Davis was a mess, I wasn’t exaggerating. Raped, strangled—and the perp bit her—in twenty-three places—by the M. E’s count.” He stopped next to his car just as two men came out of the dark and crossed the street. “Hi Bob, Jeff,” he said, as they walked up. He gestured in my direction. “Meet Sean, here.” “It’s OK, kid,” he said to me. “They work with me.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Like I was saying, I got the guy with dental records. Well, not really records, but close enough for now. See, I was lucky enough to get my hands on some pretty good dental impressions he left behind at a lunch counter one afternoon. I took ‘em to the M. E’s office, and they were able to match them to the bite marks on the victim’s body.” “L—lunch counter?” I stammered. “Yeah. You remember? The apple? Oh, and the lab was able to pull some saliva off it, too.” He smiled again, a bit sadly this time. “I’ll bet my pension it’ll be a perfect DNA match to the suspect fluids we collected off Junie’s corpse.” I started to back away, but Bob and Jeff stepped up. “Then there was this.” Janklow said, showing me the item he’d pulled out of his pocket. I didn’t want to look, but I did, anyway. It was a close-up photograph of a small, white, triangular-shaped object. “What’s that?” My voice was very still. Even I could hear the lie in it. “It’s your corner.” “My corner?” “Yeah—you know, Sean—your corner?” He gestured toward my mouth. “The chunk of front tooth you lost in Junie Davis’ apartment.” “Bu—bu—I loo—” “—I know. You looked all over for it, didn’t you?” He pocketed the picture. “But it wasn’t in Junie Davis’ apartment. It was in Junie Davis. The M. E. found it in one of the bite wounds on her right thigh.” I took a deep, deep breath. It was a relief, really. “I knew you’d figure it out the first time we met,” I said, scraping my hair back. “You have that bulldog look about you.” I couldn’t help tonguing the still sharp, recently-broken corner of my front tooth. Janklow opened the car door. “Yeah, I know. People have called me a bulldog before,” he replied. “There’s just one more thing I need to tell you.” I sighed and squared my shoulders—ready for anything. “What’s that?” Janklow smiled, and this time his eyes lit up like the rest of his face. “You’re under arrest.” |
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| My Corner Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#5 of 17 Runner-up |
| 2389 words | |
| They were an unlikely pair except that they were
exactly alike. Tall, thin, sandy blonde hair parted on the right. Ever since
first grade, people had mistaken one for the other, or when they saw them both
together, assumed they were twins. C. Wakefield Taylor had the great fortune of being born into a family that understood the power of a good name, a name that warbled forth from the tongue in harmonious tones of aristocracy and wealth. From a young age, Quake found his world to be one of open doors, eager handshakes and warm, inviting smiles. Teachers excused unfinished homework assignments, fathers willingly let him date their virgin daughters, and no one ever falsely accused him of stealing hubcaps the way they did to kids with names like Stanley Burkowski. In high school Stosh watched with envy and admiration as Quake was invited to join all the right clubs - the bridge club, the service club, the drama club. On a lark he even joined both the Young Republicans and the Young Democrats, and for a week in early October of his senior year, served as president of each (pretending to be Quake the Republican and Stosh the Democrat) until Mr. DeFrancesco, the faculty advisor to the Young Democrats, put an end to the nonsense. As so often happens with childhood friends, Stosh and Quake went their separate ways after high school. Quake got a scholarship to an exclusive, private college in New England, joined a fraternity, and was elected class president his junior year. Stosh took out a government loan and went to State for a semester. He would have stayed longer except he met a nice Polish girl from Irvington. Next thing he knew, little babies started coming down the pike. By the time he saw Quake again, at Nifty's Bar the night before their twenty-fifth high school reunion, Stosh was scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel, between jobs and unable to make child support and alimony payments. "Stosh, m'man. How they hanging, Bro?" There was only one person who ever called Stosh "Bro." His eyes scanned the dimly lit interior of the bar. He saw his mirror sitting in a corner booth, grinning broadly and casually swirling a drink. "Quake, is that you?" The mirror wore a three-piece suit and a powder blue shirt that extended one-quarter inch beyond the jacket sleeve. Quake had gotten fatter over the years, and he'd lost some hair, too. But then, so had Stosh. "The one and only. Except when you're around, of course. Then there's two of me! Here, pull up a seat, m'man." Quake slid farther back into the booth and patted the now empty seat next to him. "Yeah, there's a scary thought - two of you. Somehow, though, you always had fun with that - pretending to be me." Stosh remained standing. "Oh, it wasn't so bad, was it? After all, I got you elected president of the Young Democrats, didn't I?" "You got my name elected president. The only thing I got outta that was a week's detention." "You would remember that, wouldn't you? Here, let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a drink. What'll you have?" Stosh signaled the waitress for a beer. "You could go a little more first class than that, you know. I've got the money." "Yeah, I know. I read about you all the time in the Trib." The Trib - The Scotchwood Tribune - was the local weekly newspaper. More coupons and advertising than news, nonetheless at least a couple times a year it ran an article about Quake under the general category of "local boy makes good." The articles provided an on-going chronicle of Quake's rise to power and influence on Wall Street for anyone who might be interested. "Stosh, you probably don't realize it, but I owe you a lot. Truth be told, I wouldn't be who I am today if it weren't for you." Quake motioned again for Stosh to sit down. His cufflinks sparkled, even in the dim light. Diamond chips, thought Stosh. "Huh? How you figure I had any part in you bein' you?" Nifty's was a loud place on Friday nights. A young crowd, either letting off steam or looking to score for the weekend. They made it difficult to hear, difficult to carry on a conversation. Stosh took a seat in the booth. "Are you familiar with prizefighting? Do you know much about it?" Quake asked. He swirled his drink while he spoke, letting the Scotch run over the ice. "Yeah, I watch it on tv sometimes." "No, not that, not that boxing they do now. I mean prizefighting, bare-knuckle brawling, like at the turn of the century when they kept at it until one man knocked the other out. Boxers like Gentleman Jim Corbett and John L. Sullivan - boxers like that - boxers who had character, Stosh. Boxers who had character." "Nah, I don't know about that sort of stuff." "Well, maybe it's time you learned, m'man, because that's what it's like out there. You go the distance and either you come out a winner or you get knocked flat on your ass." "So? What's that got to do with me?" "A boxer - a prizefighter - never fights alone, Stosh. He's always got people with him. People to towel him off or get him a stool to sit on between rounds. They call those people his corner. They back him up, they keep him in the fight, keep him going until he wins." Quake paused and looked up from his drink, "Stosh, you were my corner." "Nah, I can't take credit for something like that. I never did nothing, not really." Stosh shifted in his seat and looked for the waitress. "You know, I never understood that - why you didn't do anything. Why you never squealed on me. I mean, I did some wild and stupid things when I was a kid - and you - you always took the blame for it. Why, Stosh? Why did you do that?" Stosh shrugged. "I dunno. I just figured nobody'd believe me anyway." "So you just took it?" "Yeah, I guess. Besides, it was sorta my claim to fame at Scotchwood High, bein' a hood, gettin' in trouble all the time. Anyway, it's over with. It's in the past." Stosh pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up above his elbows. He looked around for the waitress again. "You're right about that, Stosh. It's in the past, and try as we might, there's no way to change that, now is there?" Stosh didn't answer. He craned his neck, looking for the waitress, but she was busy flirting with some customers. "I would, however, like to make it up to you. If you'll let me, that is." "Make it up to me? What the hell for? Besides, what are you gonna do, turn yourself in to the cops?" "No, of course not. That would be pointless. But let me do this, if I might - let me put a proposition before you. Listen to it. Listen to all of it, and then tell me what you think. All right?" "Am I gonna end up in detention again?" "Stosh, please, I'm trying to be serious here. I've given this matter considerable thought, and I'd really like you to hear me out. All right?" "Sure. What the hell. I don't care." "All right then, here's the deal. It seems to me that you got stuck with living - shall we say the ugly parts of my life - simply because we happen to look alike. I know now I was wrong to take advantage of you like that, and I feel badly about it, I truly do. However, as we both know, I cannot undo the past. On the other hand, I can change the future - or at least a small part of it. You with me so far?' "Go on." "I want to play the 'switch game' again, Stosh - just one last time - in which you are me and I am you. This will last for a period of thirty-six hours, which you will note, includes tomorrow's reunion. I wish I could do it longer than that - Lord knows I owe you a hell of a lot more than a day and a half - but I have to be in Vegas by Sunday." Stosh pushed up his sleeves again and started picking at the label on his beer bottle. He didn't speak until he'd peeled it completely off. "I dunno. Being you was never particularly good for me in the past, y'know. I mean, how do I know I won't end up dead or in jail or something?" "Stosh, please. Listen to what I'm asking for here. I'm asking you to give me a chance to atone for my sins while I'm still alive. Please, Stosh, don't deny me this. Not now." Stosh got the impression there was something Quake was holding back, something he wasn't telling. He had the sense he was talking to a man who was about to die. "So, you want me to pretend to be you for a day, huh?" "Yes I do, Stosh, and that includes everything. The Jag, my wallet, my credit cards. Everything, Stosh, everything. You want to spend the day buying up tv's and stereos and steaks? Do it. Put it all on plastic. It's yours. You want to spend the night with a young lady at a fancy hotel? Do it. Order champagne. Caviar. Lobster. It's what I would do. Only this time, you get to do it." "I get the sense you're not about to take no for an answer." "I never do, Stosh. I never do." Quake put his wallet and his passport on the table and slid them towards Stosh. "Hey, I'm not gonna need that." Stosh stiffened. He backed up in his seat and pushed the passport away. "Stosh, have you ever flown to Paris for breakfast ... on a whim ... with a babe? Impresses the hell out of 'em, let me tell you. You won't get in trouble, if that's what you're worried about. Hell, we look enough alike. You can pull it off." "No, I'm not gonna do that. I'm not gonna chance it. Not a passport." "It's a package deal, Stosh." Quake placed his car keys on top of the passport. "It goes along with the Jag. And the clothes in the trunk." Stosh put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. He began massaging his temples with his fingers. The offer was tempting - the car, the money, the clothes, the chance to live life in the fast lane. He'd be a fool not to take it. Still, he'd been a fool before. "You boys ready for another round?" The waitress had finally made her way to their table. "Yes, please." Quake answered for both of them. "I'd like another beer, and Mr. Taylor here would like another Cutty on the rocks." "See?" he said, turning to Stosh again. "See how easy it is being me? Now listen, I've got to go see a man about a horse, if you know what I mean. Take the time. Think things over. All right?" Stosh nodded. Quake slid out of the booth and walked towards the back of the bar. A minute later the waitress returned with their drinks. "Cutty," she said, putting the Scotch on a coaster in front of Stosh, "and a beer for your brother." She was cute. And she thought they were brothers, maybe even twins. Perhaps he could pull it off. Stosh took a twenty out of the wallet. He tried to imagine what Quake would do, how he would speak to a buxom waitress in a short dress. "Keep it, darling," he said and jammed the bill into her hand like an awkward teenager. It was pointless. Stosh couldn't fake living life in the fast lane for ten seconds, let alone a day and a half. He waited for Quake to come back and tried to figure out how he was going to reject a man who didn't take no for an answer. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Stosh took a sip of the Scotch. He didn't like it. He'd heard it was an acquired taste, but why would anyone waste the time when they could be enjoying beer. At twenty minutes, Stosh knew something was wrong. He stuffed Quake's things into his pockets and went looking for him. He was nowhere to be found. There was only one Jaguar in the parking lot, sleek and black and shiny new. It had a vanity plate that read QUAKE. The man went first class all the way. Stosh never intended to drive it. It wouldn't have felt right. Still, in his whole life, he'd never so much as sat in one. He could do that, he reasoned. He could just sit in it. Try it out. See how it fit, that's all. That would be enough. He wouldn't actually need to drive it. He opened the door and folded himself into the driver's seat. It fit very nicely. He ran his hand across the passenger seat. He'd never known leather so soft, so supple. It was like caressing a woman's breast. He closed his eyes and imagined. Was it true what they said about a Jag - that the engine didn't run so much as it purred. There was only one way to find out. He inserted the key in the ignition. As usual, Quake was the name on everyone's lips at the reunion. Donny Policastro said he knew for a fact that it was a mob hit, that Quake had been caught skimming profits off the top, and that's why they'd done him in. Crazy Peter Rohrbach told him it wasn't the mob, but the SEC - that Quake had been the target of an investigation, something about trading on insider information. Donny tried to explain that the Securities and Exchange Commission didn't usually blow up people they were investigating, but Crazy Peter didn't care. He was mostly in the conversation for the blood and guts of it. He loved hearing how the cops had found bits and pieces of Quake's body scattered over a four block area, and the only reason they knew it was him was that somehow his passport had survived the explosion intact. "Hey, Stosh, didn't you and Quake used to hang together in high school?" It was Allen Zwislocki, the class historian. "M'man, we were like brothers, we were that close." "Do you know anything about what happened?" "No, I'm afraid not, Allen. Haven't seen ol' Quake since high school. But, you know, he sure was one hell of a character, wasn't he? I don't know why, but for some reason, I always thought of Quake as a prizefighter. You know, the old-fashioned bare-knuckle brawler type ..." Stanley Burkowski absent-mindedly swilled his punch as he spoke. |
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| My Corner RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#6 of 17 |
| 130 words | |
| This is my place. I am safe in here. Nobody will notice me. It is often that way, in every room of my life. Like a narrator of a story-plot, or a movie audience who sits in the corner of the back row of seats. I am not a leading role, the diva who receives all the praises. Center-stage is such a dread when you stand in the spotlight with only what you've got. Will the crowd roar with mockery once you take the wrong step or even forget your lines? But the players are reaching out, offering me their hands to take. Their voices are merrily chanting, inviting me to play my part in this never-ending tale. No time for rehearsals. Just come out and play, or you'll get left behind like an old toy, forgotten. I know there'll come a time for me to leave my corner and face the world with courage. When? It's up to me. |
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| My Corner http://tonylieu.com/ |
#7 of 17 |
| 1340 words | |
| Hollman Collins woke up on that Friday morning,
November 19th 2004, expecting nothing special. Hollman was an assistant, but
not any regular variety. There are executive assistants, and there are
administrative assistants, and then there are completely other kinds. He fit
into the latter category. Hollman woke each day never knowing what to expect. He earned a handsome salary by keeping the truly wealthy happy and comfortable. He could never explain how or why exactly he ended up with this career, but he was perfectly happy with it. Each day was an adventure, some more than others, some tedious, but never dull. Hollman's last employer was a very wealthy but very elderly man. Three months ago, he passed away. Given the nature of his profession, Hollman was very well connected with his potential employers, but even so, open positions came few and far between. This left most days generally uneventful. That morning, however, an expensive courier knocked on his door, asked for a signature, and offered him an unmarked white envelope. Inside the envelope was a small card, of heavy stock. The card was neatly printed with a time and date, early next week, and an address, in Nebraska of all places. With no better plans, Hollman decided to buy the plane tickets he needed to set out to attend the mysterious appointment. - - - - Hollman had researched, of course, and was prepared. He arrived at Lincoln airport with just the right time to spare. Ready to hire a taxi in case, he was not surprised to see a man in a well-tailored suit holding a sign clearly labeled "Collins". He simply approached, flashed the card the courier delivered last week, and was shown to a limousine. The ride lasted just over an hour, as Hollman had expected. When it was complete, and he found himself departing the limo to enter a truly palatial home, Hollman's suspicions were all but confirmed. If he was lucky, he was about to get a job working for Warren Buffett, one of the richest men in the world. A comfortable employer, indeed. A short wait in a plush lounge chair, in an equally plush lounge, was preceded by a polite but quite thorough security check, performed by a pair of burly gentlemen. Almost to the minute printed on the card, Hollman was summoned by a butler. He was lead through long hallways to enter into a wide room featuring a massive table surrounded by over a dozen large chairs, with thick carpeting underneath. Paintings covered the walls, with statues and sculptures on ornate tables scattered in between. Seated at the far end of the table was just the man Hollman expected, Warren Buffett. "Hollman Collins, I presume?" the greeting echoed lightly. "Indeed, Mr. Buffett. Thank you for inviting me into your home." "Very welcome, of course. And please, call me Warren. Come come, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair beside him. "Let me come right to the point. I have a very special assignment, and I've been informed that you might be just the man to complete it." He continued on to describe the details to Hollman, who upon hearing them accepted the assignment immediately. - - - - Hollman's first task was to recruit the allies necessary for completion of such an ambitious goal. Through some extended negotiations, perfectly natural for someone with his experience, he arranged a face to face meeting with Burt Rutan. "Mr. Rutan, I don't want to waste your valuable time. Very simply, my employer is very interested in you. Or to be more specific, with your company, Scaled Composites. You produced the ship that won the Ansari X-Prize, correct?" "Yes, that's right. We completed our second flight, securing the prize, just over two months ago." "Exactly. At this point, you represent the most space-worthy private corporation in the world. Being a private corporation, the option to hire your services on a contract basis exists, correct?" "Technically, yes. But Scaled Composites is not currently seeking external contracts." "Yes, that may be. But rest assured, one has found you." After a brief, but intense, negotiation Burt was won over. With the first player of the conspiracy lined up, the plan was set in motion. - - - - Hollman's next high profile target was Sir Richard Branson. A better co-conspirator could hardly have been designed from scratch. A massively rich dare-devil was the exact type to fit into the next empty slot, and the previous experience with his airline only sweetened the pot. In order to successfully convince Branson, and other key individuals, Mr. Buffett allowed Hollman to set up a base of operations in one of the less used, but still lavish, wings of his home. It was early February of 2005 when Mr. Branson arrived for Hollman's interview. "Mr. Branson, my employer has a business proposition for you," Hollman began. "That's why I'm here, chap! I know that much, but how about some details?" "We feel that you are the perfect individual to spearhead a new industry: commercial space flight. We believe it is a natural extension of Virgin Airlines." "Sounds exciting. Sounds quite expensive, as well." "Yes, expensive certainly. But uniquely beneficial. You may be interested to know that we have already recruited Burt Rutan to work with us, head of Scaled Composites, producer of the SpaceShipOne craft, winner of the X-Prize. We are quite devoted to this endeavor." "Sounds like you've something specific in mind, what's in it for me?" Again, the negotiation was heated and exciting. Again, a new and important name joined the list of conspirators. The plan's motion accelerated; within a few months the agreement between Sir Richard Branson and Burt Ratan was announced publicly. The smoke screen was lifted. - - - - With the visible cogs in the machine cheerily spinning, the hidden mechanisms behind were also beginning to turn. What was needed now was some grease on the gears; cash to keep the machine operating smoothly. Burt Ratan had agreed to secretly kick-start the operation with their $10 million prize, but with those monies rapidly dwindling, new funding options were critical. The next visitor to Hollman's operation was none other than William Henry Gates III. "Mr. Gates, I've called you here to reveal to you an amazing secret, and to recruit you as a member of our operation. I work for Warren Buffett, and I have enlisted the help of Burt Ratan, creator of the craft that won the X-Prize only a year ago, as well as Sir Richard Branson. You've likely heard the press about their plans for commercial space flight. "Let me assure you, this is but the benign public face to our organization. For a select few, we are engineering a monumental opportunity. What we need, though, is a clean source of funding. We have the money, but we need a safe path to use to drive it to our ends. We would like to recruit you with our unique benefit package, and your charitable organization as our monetary vehicle. We would like to donate over thirty seven billion dollars, with a certain percentage diverted for our own goals." What followed was a detailed, and convincing, explanation of how the plan for this money would unfold. What really sealed the deal of course, as for everyone so far, was the offer for Bill to join in. This position is all about the benefits. - - - - That was seven years ago, in early 2006. After around three and a half years, the first flight was ready. It took three more years to perfect the process, and complete construction. Then finally big day arrived. The secret moon base was complete, and ready for habitation. Set up on the "dark side" of the moon, it was completely invisible to the Earth, and all its man-made satellites. The launch pad was located, and the launch times were selected, carefully to avoid detection. The final result was the construction, and habitation, of the most remote corner of the world. A secret base, the new home for the most selective and elite group ever. For some, a vacation home. For others, just a new home. In August of 2011, when Warren Buffett moved to the moon station permanently, he allowed Hollman to accompany him. "Hollman, boy, it has been a truly impressive journey, these seven years." "I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. I'm honored that you invited me here." "I really couldn't say goodbye without letting you come here, to see the fruits of your labor. Here it is, my little corner, where I can live out the rest of my days in peace. Thank you, thank you for helping me fulfill this dream." - - - - Authors note: Although real-world persons and events have been woven into this story, it is a work of FICTION. |
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| My Corner Sideline17 lazdom@ono.com |
#8 of 17 |
| 70 words | |
| My Corner for barbara Oh Moon, Moon, Moon calling me to rewrite the tide, your milky gaze falling on the words trapped inside. Yet Art rose up, blotting your beam; Plath in pages of Seventeen. Spotting her stilled my pen. Ages since, a small life enjoyed, my corner well tended. Art needs bare walls, devoid of life, of love- ended. Sylvia tried to say Art consumes unfairly as sweet gas filled the room. She still whispers today and yet here you find me calling oh Moon, Moon, Moon. |
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| My Corner Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#9 of 17 |
| 246 words | |
| but, then, again... they've never drifted dead-eyed, through these empty echo streets and red-end alleys, mud-puddle slicks into which we liquid creatures shy to splash and ebb and eddy beneath our quaint illusions (our moons and suns and stars) soft mirroring suspensions emerging and retreating: celestial lurings, hung above entreating to discount our scars and whirl out our endurances and desperations in these swirling, tangled tangos to the base and feral pulses of the howling kinds of love. * and “evermore oblivion” are not the words they hear hoarse wheezed forever urging toward the coarse and quick salvations that are required as we grope blindly through the dark for dispensation... are not the benedictions mumbled ‘cross the satiating friction songs we sing to quench the hard and heated yearnings. are not the burning psalms, and whispered chants that coax our genuflections, historic tendings: our bendings forward leanings back, to take, endure the cold and clinic obloquies to the secret purchased in-betweens that fill the hidden lacks. those murmured words... those muttered prayers... sluiced up and down and freezing over our fake and whining dreams... encasing them to icy echoed screamings of the mind. * and, no, they've never, weary, staggered from their concrete corners back to the nowhere never weres in which they bide their times - their nears, their fars - between the puddles and the prayers and O... the suns! the moons! the stars! they’ve never dragged through fetid corridors through fusty honeycombs of hollow sanctuary - to blink then sightlessly disperse into their droning agonies, their solitaries, raging where each, en déshabillé, entombed awaits the massive grinding movement of the ages: holds breath and hopes the sere and callous universe again, recalls and, turning ‘round, waves them their nightly freeing, returns them to their eddying and ebbing, their leadened senses girded herding back out to the endless roil of starts and stops and consequences, that are, in final sum the screaming done this thing they also, clearly, never dream might be to someone else simply that someone else's only way of being. |
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| My Corner annettemiller@sympatico.ca |
#10 of 17 |
| 2450 words | |
| The first rays of dawn splash crimson across the
quiescent sphere of my vision. Sitting crouched down on my heels; I watch this
awesome sight, huddling closer to the glowing embers of last night’s fire.
Yellow smudged into red, cleaving the sky into bloody gashes. In an instant the fire ball rose, the mighty Ra. Shimmering in the morning light, pulsing with power, as he drags himself clear of the distant horizon, rising magnificently to claim his earthly kingdom, heat hovering above the barren earth, teasing us with promises of water. The rains hadn’t come this year, neither in previous years. I fail to remember how long ago it had rained, but I remembered well my cattle dying from thirst and starvation, as mother earth refused to offer up any sustenance for her lowly beasts. This place is my home, my corner of this mighty continent of Africa. The place which had seen my birth, watched as I grew up, was present as I played naked on the hot sand. Watched as I became a man, married my wives. Witnessed the births of my children, saw the squalid deaths of my ancestors I know this place, it is my home, it comforts and shelters me in life’s turmoil. I look back at the kraal, my families’ home. Mud walls baked hard under the hot African sun, the thatch grass roof golden in the morning light. We’re a large family; happy people, helping each other, sharing the wealth of the land. I watch as leggy brown hen struts past, stops, scratches in the dirt, brown dust rising around her gnarly feet, pecking hopefully at tiny pecks of grain. We scratch out an existence on these distant plains, much like this hen scratches for food in the dirt. A baby cries in the stillness, it’s my recently born son. A strong child, with lots of promise. One day he’ll make a good herd boy for my cattle. My other children, disturbed by the noise, start squabbling between themselves. The smell of cooking putu fills the air. A gangly youth rushes past, a thin film of sweat glistening on his smooth black skin. He’s the son of my cousin, Themba. Clutching a rusty tin, he struggles with the goat as he squats, taking the large black teat in his rough hand. “Vusi, hurry with the milk, the children want to eat!” I hear his mother shout. “Amadi, are you going to sit there all day and do nothing?” bellows my wife Siphokazi. I love her, but not that annoying voice of hers’. She goes go on so. “Are you going to let your family starve? Your children will die! Are you not concerned? They will all die like the cattle. Their bodies will lie out there in the veld and rot, because there will be no body left to bury them, because we will all be dead. You will allow us all to die, Amadi!” I put my hands over my ears so not to hear her. Xolani, my brother, comes out of his hut, scratching his stomach and yarning. He shakes his head, muttering to himself. “She’s a witch, that one! I don’t know how you tolerate her? You should have traded her for that donkey Lwazi offered you once, it would have been a wise exchange and, given us all some peace.” “Aah, but Xolani!” I remark “That donkey was useless, it never bore any young. Siphokazi has been fruitful.” “Xolani?” I questioned “What are we to do? Must we leave this place, our homes and, our families, like Bandile and Nathi, and travel to South Africa, to work on the white man’s farms or in their gold mines earning a miserable wage, while the white man gets rich on our sweat and blood! What are we to do?” “I do not know my brother, but we must do something and very soon as we are using the last of our mealie meal. We have only one goat left that we can kill and eat. If we eat old Akoko we won’t have milk or maas for our children.” There’s silence between us as we sit contemplating the situation. “What this Amadi? Are you not hungry, are you not coming to eat your putu and maas?” Siphokazi yells “We’re coming, my wife. We’re enjoying the morning air.” “Enjoying! Enjoying! That’s all you do. Enjoy yourselves, sit, eat and grow fat. We are all going to starve and, you sit and enjoy yourself!” “Siphokazi! What do you want me to do? Do you want me to leave my family, go to South Africa and look for work? Is that what you want?” I question, angry with her that she could even think of asking me to do this. “Yes! Yes, that’s exactly what I am asking you to do. You must do this thing, if you don’t your children will die of starvation!” “Women!” I shout “Do you realize that it’s illegal to cross into South Africa and seek work. I have no papers, nothing, I was not born there and, I have no claim to anything in that country. If they catch me they will put me in jail. Then what will you do?” “If you will not go Amandi, then I will go myself. I can not sit here day after day and watch my children die. That’s too much to ask any mother! Either you go and, take your brothers and cousins with you. Get work and, send us money for food, or I will go with Busisiwe and Nolwazi, and you can stay here and, look after the children.” “Agh, woman you drive me crazy!” I shout, getting up and leaving the family circle as they squat around the fire on which sits a big black pot of putu. “Amandi listen!” My brother shouts, getting up and following me. “Listen, I think perhaps Siphokazi is right. The time has come where we must take some action. There will be trouble for this family if we do not go. Together we will be alright. We can all get work at the gold mines. Save our money and, come home again. Perhaps then the rains would have come and, we can plant crops again, buy new animals and, the hard times will be behind us.” “Do you realize Xolani, that the Kruger National Park lies between us and South Africa. We must cross that park, do you realize the dangers there?” “It can be done, Amandi. We can do it. We have to do it. Look Bandile, Sizwe and others have done it and, look at them now. They’re working, sending back money and, their families are doing well. We can also do it! It’s not forever, perhaps 6 months, or at least till the rains come and, the crops will grow again.” “Ngeke! Xolani, ngeke siwuthole!” I exclaim “You know I don’t want to do this!” Before dawn the next day, five of us leave our kraal. There’s Xolani, my brother. Themba, my cousin and, Themba’s son Vusi. Vusi is nearly a man and, he can help gather fire wood along the way, cook meals and, in South Africa I am sure we can find him work on a white man’s farm milking cows or herding livestock. Finally, we managed to instill a sense of urgency into my lethargic brother Sipho, and, raised him from his bed where he was cuddling his new wife, he joins us on our trip. We carry with us enough rations to last us on our journey to South Africa. For the first two days our journey passed uneventfully. We walked from sun rise to sun set. Vusi, collecting twigs and branches along the way for our fire at night. We sleep soundly under a jewel speckled night sky. On the third day we reach the fence. An imposing barrier between Mosambique and the Kruger National Park. Designed to keep elephants, buffulo, rhino and other mighty beasts in and, the likes of us out. Treading a well worn path, we follow along the fence line for a few hours, eventually finding a hole in the fence large enough for us to squeeze through. During our three days of walking I had noticed a gradually change in the country side. Trees becoming scarce and, we had problems finding wood to make a fire at night. We had reached the mighty grasslands of Africa. Herds of springbok and impala, interspersed by the black and white hides of zebra graze contentedly around us. The grass, a rich golden brown, stretching out as far as the eyes can see. It stands tall, reaching almost to our shoulders and, sways gently as the wind plays between the stalks. We walk, alert to our surroundings taking care not step on snake’s that had come out to sun themselves on the bare earth. I notice garbage strewn around, a warn shoe, an old tattered shirt, scraps of clothing. A tree appears on the skyline, standing there alone. It’s branchers twisted, clawing skywards, nigrified by years of exposure to the elements. We decided to camp for the night beneath this solitary tree, collecting a few of it’s fallen branches to make a meager fire. Sharing putu and maas we talking of better times to come as shadows slowly lengthen and, the sun dips below the horizon. In the distance I hear the throaty roars of lions, tempting the darkness to devour the world. A cold shiver rans down my spine, I huddle closer to the flickering fire. There’s a rustling in the tall grass, as though something large pushed it’s way through. The wind I rationalized, my eyes searching the darkness beyond our ring of fluttering yellowness. I feel uneasy, my chest tightens, those icy fingers still playing along my spine. I feel eyes watching me, boring deep into my soul. I turn and, there it is! The largest lion I have every seen. It’s huge yellow eyes staring directly at me, probing the depths of my soul. The devil himself had paid me a visit. My blood rans cold, I gazed back into those pitch black pupils. The lion opens it’s mouth, lips curling back exposing enormous brown stained teeth, a guttural roar emanating from deep within it’s chest. I stared down it’s throat, down into the depths of hell. I can smell the stench of it’s putrid breath. Instantly the beast leaps forward, grabbing Vusi by the head, sinking it’s teeth deep into his skull. The boy screams, hands grabbing at yellow fur, a flash of gold as the lion disappears dragging Vusi screaming into the darkness. Shouting, I spring to my feet “VUSI!” Grabing a burning branch from the fire, I ran into the darkness after Vusi. Rapid movements all around me, yellow beasts, running, pasting me, rough fur brushing my body, yellow eyes following me. All around that terrible putrid smell. “Get into the tree, climb the tree!” I shout gaspingly. The moon slid out from behind dark clouds, casting an eery light on my surroundings. The lions had vanished, Vusi now silent. I glazed around seeing nothing. Themba cames to my side, crying for the son so savagely dragged off into the darkness there to meet an unthinkable fate. “Oh Vusi” he wimpers. “Come Themba, it is not safe.” I hear more rustling in the grass. “We must climb that tree, these lions have not finished with us yet!” I pushed Themba up ahead of me, the old tree creeking under the added weight of the four of us. Themba went out on to a branch, crouching there in his misery. Sipho and Xolani, cling to another grizzly branch. I creep on, slowly making my way up the trunk, finding a notch higher up where I squeese myself in. The night fell silent, the moon played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. Our small fire died submerging us in the blackness of the night. Movement in the grass again, yellow bodies milling around, throaty grunts, huge yellow eyes search the tree. I count seven lions, all intensely interested in making us their next meal. “GET AWAY!...... GO!......…FOETSAK!” I scream with all my strength. Fourteen yellow eyes stare back at me. One lioness rears up on her haunches, springing into the tree, wrapping her great powerful front legs around the trunk. Clawns gripping, tearing at the bark. With one swipe of her huge front paw she reachs Themba knocking him off his perch. Screaming he falls into the midst of the lions. “MY GOD?” I implore “HELP US!” The muffled, gargled screams from below stop, the silence rushs back, I strained my ears to hear over the pounding of my heart. I hear a faint shuffling noice, then nothing. Blackness. Xolane and Siplo grasp their branch tightly and pray. The moon glides out from behind the clouds. Eyes appear at the edge of the darkness. “Oh God!..... Please!....... No more!” The lions circle the tree, heads high sniffing the air, lips curled back, guttural sounds reverberating from deep within their throats. A lioness stretches lazily, slumping to the ground yawning widely and, proceeds to clean the bloody remains off her legs. The pride rests below the dangling legs of Xolane and Siplo. Scared my precarious footing will break. Frozen with fear, we pray, whispering between ourselves, fearful of disturbing the sleeping pride. A black maned male wakes, getting slowly to his feet. Without warning he rears up on his hind legs wraping his massive front paws around Xolane’s dangling ankle, jerking him off his branch. I shut my eyes tight, I can’t deal with this. Our streams mingling together, my world spinning out of control. I cried for my brother. My arms enfolded tightly around the tree. Xolane is devoured beneath the tree. The lions snarling and fighting amongst themselves, riping, tearing his flesh. I shiver uncontrollably, tears blinding me. I’d caused this. I should never have come here. God’s punishing me. Sobs gurgling in my throat. Abandoning his branch Siplo, moves beneath me, pushing hard against my legs to get higher up the tree. His head touching my hands, I encircled him pressing his ear tightly against the rough bark. We cling to each other. Crying. The immese cats stirred, stretching, huge eyes gazing up at us, in one bound a slender female mades it half way up the trunk, grabbing Siplo by the calf. He screams in agony, flesh tearing. Desparately I hold on to his head, I feel his body being pulled away from me. Our howls mingling in the gloom of the night. “OH GOD, PLEASE!” I begged, feeling Siplo body jerk clear of my hands. Big cats snarling, snapping, Siplo agnozing shrieks, bones breaking, blood flying, the rending of flesh. A long scream echoing in the darkness of the night. The promise of dawn splashs crimson across the sky. The lions rise and, sauntered off into the yellow grass. “A True Story” |
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| My Corner Wayne Eggleston erainer@netzero.net |
#11 of 17 |
| 57 words | |
| Today I was bad Mommy got mad Sat me in the corner here And now she thinks I’m sad I’m stuck here all day Can’t go out and play Sitting in my little chair Thinking of a way But I can pretend I’m playing with a friend Climbing trees and running wild Until my time here ends |
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| My Corner Effervescentlady@aol.com |
#12 of 17 |
| 1437 words | |
| Some might say that my corner was dark and dreary,
but it suited me to a T. The quiet and peacefulness surrounded me in a cocoon,
while I went about my work setting up my home. Nothing bothered me while I spun
my silk. I moved up and down the area. Attaching it here and there in a complex
pattern without jumping from a sudden vibration and accidentally attaching it
at the wrong spot. That would have ruined the entire thing. I looked long and
hard for just the right spot because of this. It had happened to me many times.
I thought I found the perfect spot. Then something would disturb me and mess
everything up. My home ended up looking like a lace doily that had been through
hard times. For once, because this corner was perfect, so was my home. I
settled back in contentment to enjoy my home and wait for dinner to arrive.
****** Dan and Eva surveyed the front of their new home. It may not have seemed like much to many, but it was their first home. They had saved long and hard to be able to put a down payment on it. The home was a one-story brick ranch style. Three bedrooms, two baths, and a fenced in backyard made it perfect for their needs. They had only been married for a year and this house would be perfect for the family that they hoped to have someday. Dan turned to Eva and swept her up in his arms. “You ready to start our new life?” Eva giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck; “We will only start our new life if you put me down so you won’t break your back. You carried me over the threshold the third day of our marriage." “Yes, but that didn’t count. It was the guest house at my parent’s place,” Dan said. “Besides, you aren’t heavy enough to break a spider’s back, much less mine.” “Oh my God,” screeched Eva! “Don’t mention spiders. You know how much I hate them,” she said with a tremble in her voice and a shiver running through her body. “Spiders have a place in the grand scheme of things too,” Dan said as he opened the door of their new home and carried Eva over the threshold. “They pretty much keep to themselves, help keep down the insect population, and make some of the most beautiful creations on earth. Have you studied a spider’s web? They are intricate, and each one is unique to the spider that spins it.” Eva shivered again. “No I haven’t studied a spider’s web. You think I am going to get that close to one. Spiders are ugly, hairy, and they bite. I don’t want one within two feet of me. Now put me down. I think I hear the moving van pulling up.” Neither noticed the hurried movement in the corner. ****** I watched with dismay from my corner. The new smells and vibrations overwhelmed me. Light, bright light, began to creep ever closer to me as it streamed through the newly cleaned windows. My lovely quiet haven was no more. ****** Dan watched from the bed as Eva stood before the mirror in the bathroom brushing her hair. She had a nightly ritual of brushing it one hundred times. She told him once that she loved the way the distributed oils made it gleam and shine. She was very proud of the long, thick, dark hair that fell straight down her back just brushing the top of her buttocks. Dan just liked the way the light shone through her nightgown and outlined her beautiful body while she brushed her hair. The sight never failed to arouse him. “Did you get that spider?” Eva asked as she placed the brush on the vanity, turned and walked into the bedroom. “Eva, I tried,” Dan replied as he moved to sit up in the bed. “I searched the entire area where we saw the web. I couldn’t find a thing. I think it must have been an old web. That spider is long gone.” Eva pulled back the covers, slipped into the bed, and curled into Dan’s open arms. “Damn, I will have nightmares all night long about that spider. You know that I won’t rest until we find it and kill it.” Dan pulled Eva up onto his lap. “Don’t worry baby. I’ll take your mind off that nasty old spider.” ****** He must have done a good job of it. Eva never moved as I crawled up under her precious long black hair and sank my fangs into the creamy skin of her neck. Funny thing though, everything went black for me too. A strange feeling crept over me, as I became aware of my surroundings. The first thing I noticed was the light. It didn’t seem to bother me as much as it did before. Things were very clear and focused. Normally, I couldn’t see very far and things were kind of blurry. You would think with eight eyes that I could see a lot, but that isn’t true. The next thing that I notice was the heaviness. I felt so heavy and I couldn’t move. I tried moving my legs and fangs, but where are they? I have to get back to my corner. I need my safe haven and time to think. ****** Dan stretched, rubbed his eyes and slowly turned over in the bed to wake Eva. He was a little surprised when his hand rubbed over cool sheets and not warm female flesh. Eva wasn’t a morning person. She seldom woke before him and never early enough that the sheets were cool where she had slept. Oh well, bathroom and then I’ll go see what she is up to, he thought. Throwing back the covers and moving to get out of bed, Dan froze where he was. There on the bed, where Eva usually slept, was the spider. He carefully eased off the bed, grabbed his shoe and squashed the spider. “Eva, Eva, where are you?” Dan yelled as he scooped the dead spider up in a piece of paper that was beside the bed. “Wait until you see what I got!” Dan entered the living room carefully holding the paper to keep the spider from falling out. He didn’t spot her in the living room or the kitchen. Re-entering the living room, he set the paper on the coffee table. Just as he was about to leave the room and search the house, he spotted her. She was crouched on her hands and knees behind the chair in the corner. “Eva! What the hell are you doing behind the chair.” Dan exclaimed as he walked towards the corner. He stopped in mid-stride in surprise as she spun around. There was a strange look in her eyes . . . “Honey, are you looking for that spider? You don’t have to worry about it anymore. Hold on a minute and I’ll show you,” he said as he turned to go get the paper. Cradling it carefully in his hands, he walked back to the corner to show her. He never knew what hit him. The cops said the neighbors called it in. They heard strange noises coming from the house. When they arrived, he was on the floor with Eva on top of him. Bite marks covered most of his body. His head had hit the coffee table when she jumped at him and it knocked him out. Nobody has been able to figure out why she bit him all over. As to Eva, she never spoke another word. A tear rolled silently down Dan’s cheek as he walked away from the window of the dark room. The nurses said someone had given Eva some silk and a crochet needle. She had been at it ever since. The web covered the entire left corner. She seemed content there. |
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| My Corner Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#13 of 17 |
| 814 words | |
| 'Don't worry. I still know how to fight my corner,' the
old General was smiling as he said it, 'I've been in this man's army a long
time and if the man wants deniability then I'll give him deniability.' 'OK it's time to go on. You'll be speaking under condition of anonymity and be aware, we will deny all knowledge.' The General smiled again, but inwardly he was thinking. No surprise there. The men in suits have never cared too much for being in the front line and the politicians they work for always look for someone else to give out the bad news. This time the best they could come up with in a hurry was me. Now I know they've got me on their expendable list. So what's new, but this time maybe I've got a list of my own. * * * * * The Press Briefing Room was full. The buzz of anticipation was even affecting the old media hands who usually reckoned they had seen it all before. There was only one real question and it was a big one. One of the 'household names' had been selected to ask it first, 'Well General, we all know what this is about. The Hubble Telescope just didn't have the resolution to show the Apollo Landers. But this new one does and one of the moon-landers is well, just not there on the moon where it's supposed to be. What's the official response?' 'Not so fast,' said the old General. Over the years he had been cast in the spokesperson role in several theatres of war. But this time he seemed to be playing it like a role in quite another theatre. At first he just avoided the question and he did this as skillfully as any politician. Of course he was pressed for a straight answer. In response he followed up with some hints that he might even be prepared to admit there was something strange going on. He was really getting their attention now. Those that new him well sensed he was much enjoying the sense of occasion. Those that knew their jobs well, and that was most of those present, had also noted quietly that he had so far said nothing at all on the expected caveat about speaking under condition of anonymity. Just in case and hoping the old guy might actually forget altogether, the digital cameras and the video cameras started to get busy. A few unfortunates had been sure this would be another of these 'unnamed source' events and hadn't brought their cameras. They resorted to taking pictures with their mobile 'phones much to the amusement of their better prepared colleagues. This all did not go un-noticed by the men in suits who were beginning to look uncomfortably at each other. Someone senior wrote out a short note ready to hand to the general to remind him about anonymity. Some of the others started thinking about who's fault it was that no one had made a standard announcement before the General started speaking. Again and again the media guys pressed for a straight answer. Of course they didn't really expect one but they had copy to file and deadlines to make and even non-answers could be written up with a nice 'conspiracy' angle. Sensing the time was right, the old General then raised the stakes with a completely unexpected, 'OK this is just way too important, I'll level with you.' After a long dramatic pause, during which he looked slowly around the room taking time to make eye contact with everyone present, he said clearly and carefully, 'I think some bastard must have stolen it, and you can quote me on all of this.' The media guys nodded with amazement and much enthusiasm. Oh yes they would quote him. Disbelief turned to a media feeding frenzy as more followed. The old General went a bit further though less directly, with hints of extraterrestrials, cover-ups and more besides. The men in suits were smart enough to quickly recover their composure and sense of mission. However they just weren't large enough to push past the men in uniform who always accompanied their general and the beginnings of a shoving and shouting match began to develop. This also got the cameras going. It was at this point that the general abruptly brought the press briefing to a close. Making his exit in a flurry of flashing cameras he paused for a brief word with the by now completely incredulous, men in suits, 'OK you guys, I've bought you 24 maybe 48 hours but after that, you'll have to come up with something yourselves.' And so he walked out and off into the start of his retirement. This turned out to be marked by an unexpectedly successful launch of his memoirs, a string of lucrative chat-show appearances, a good season on the lecture circuit and even some talk of a film. |
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| My Corner Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#14 of 17 |
| 905 words | |
| Once upon a time, there was a little flower that grew in a well-tended corner of a garden. This flower was quite unique to the garden. There were many beds of both common and uncommon flowers in a wide variety about her but she was the only one of its kind. This flower wasn't big | |