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"Last Gasp" (the eighty-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Last Gasp" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), June 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Last Gasp By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "I don't want to live any other way
than this," Mrs. Lindsay told her husband over coffee and bagels one morning.
She said it very casually, as though she were commenting on the weather or what
Mrs. Johnson, her tennis partner, had worn to the charity ball last week. She
went on to explain how she'd run the numbers every way she could think of, but
the results always came back the same. With inflation approaching double digits
and the stock market in sharp decline, there was no longer any way their nest
egg could support the both of them in retirement. "What do you think we should do about it?" asked Mr. Lindsay. "We should make a pact," said his wife. "A pact?" "Yes, a pact, a contract, a business proposition. Call it what you will." "And how exactly would this proposition work?" he asked. "Well, let's say, for example, that the market goes down again today." "Yeah, then? Then what happens?" Mrs. Lindsay spread a thin layer of cream cheese on her bagel. "Well, then I believe, Albert, that one of us would need to die." "And this is something you just thought up, off the top of your head?" "Albert, I refuse to clip coupons. I can't live that way. Don't you see? If one of us were to die, then the other, at least – after a suitable period of mourning, of course – could get on with life quite comfortably, given the value of the insurance policy in effect on the life of the former." She sounded like a lawyer. Whereas, the party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as the deceased, and so on and so on. "Have you thought about the how of it?" asked Mr. Lindsay. "I mean, would you want one of us to kill the other? Is that what you have in mind?" "Oh no, of course not, Albert. The odds of getting caught are simply much too high to justify that kind of solution." The lawyer had become an actuary. "Well then, what does that leave us? Suicide? Insurance companies won't pay on a suicide, you know." "Yes, Albert, I'm aware of that." "And … so?" "And so who's to say, for example, that a vehicle traveling down the interstate late at night when the driver is very tired – even one doing a very legal seventy miles per hour – couldn't accidentally veer out of control when the driver dozed off? And what if that vehicle, just for the sake of argument you understand, happened to then hit, let us say, a bridge abutment?" "God, but that sounds gruesome." "Well, I'm sure it's not the kind of thing one would want to come upon on a full stomach – you know, as a witness or a passerby or something like that – but I hear the death itself is quite quick and painless really." "You sound like you've researched the matter rather thoroughly." "Really, Albert," she said as she got up from the table. "I'm sure you'll agree that one of us should be taking the initiative here. Listen, as long as I'm up, would you like me to freshen your coffee?" Mr. Lindsay politely declined the coffee and spent the rest of the day in the den watching one of the financial news channels on TV. Mrs. Lindsay sat beside him, consoling him and holding his hand for most of the morning, but when a new spate of political unrest in the Middle East caused the market to drop over three hundred points in an hour, she left to go shopping. That evening Mrs. Lindsay made her husband his favorite meal for dinner: meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. She served homemade apple pie with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert, though she took none for herself. She said she'd put on a couple pounds recently and that she really needed to start watching her calories more closely again. After the two of them cleared the dishes, Mrs. Lindsay excused herself to go upstairs and get ready. It fell to Mr. Lindsay to set up the dining room. He placed a new, unopened deck of playing cards in the middle of the table, flanking it left and right with their insurance policies, his on the right, hers on the left. Finally, he took the keys to the Lexus out of his pocket and placed them on top of the cards. Mrs. Lindsay came back downstairs wearing the new Zonde Nellis evening gown she'd purchased that afternoon. The saleslady had been correct. The black dress contrasted beautifully with the pale color of the woman's skin and the silver-gray of her hair. If it weren't for the deep green of her emerald earrings – her favorite ones, the ones that brought out the color of her eyes – she could pass for a vision in black-and-white. Mr. Lindsay pulled out a chair for his wife and stood behind it while she seated herself. "So, this is it, is it?" he said. "Yes, Albert, I'm afraid it is. Now be a good boy and tell me the rules again." She'd left it up to her husband to come up with a way of determining which of them would live and which would die. "There are no rules really. We cut the cards one time. High card wins. That's all." "All right," she said and pushed the cards toward him. "You go first." His hand shaking slightly, Mr. Lindsay slid his thumbnail along the top flap, broke the seal, and removed the cards from the box. "I'll shuffle them three times," he said, struggling to control the emotion in his voice. "That should be enough." "Albert," Mrs. Lindsay whispered softly, "there's just one more thing." "What's that?" "Good luck." |
| Last Gasp By Ken Staley madhatterat50@yahoo.com (Entry #11) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| “Do you remember our summer,
Chaz?” Eddie Coynes scanned her card. Wilma Jakes, single, 72 - 3rd grade teacher to most of Falls City young. Principal emeritus; spinster; other, less polite whisperings that invariably followed a woman opting to remain single all her life. Now reduced to a file card, Stage 5 blazoned in bright red across the top margin. Scratched out and dated, the progress of the flu in four lesser stages traced the end of her life in clinical precision. “Of course I remember,” Edward said as her hand tightened on his with a strength that few would guess she still possessed. First climbing temperatures that exceeded anything previously known in medicine, then extraordinary hallucinations accompanied by un-guessed physical power; all classic symptoms of Stage 5. Now a waning, world wide, pandemic, Stage Five was the terminal end of the disease. Measured fevers sometimes shot over 108 and stayed there for the duration, “frying the brain” one intern said. 106 was as high as most thermometers went, even professional thermometers peeked at 108. Once diagnosed as Stage Five, necessary physical restraints locked patients to the bed before violent hallucinations began. Those terrible dreams always came. Lately though, Edward found that some of those dreams, as terrible as they were, echoed truths of lives long past. He’d heard dying confession of infidelity, of larceny grand and small, of arson, even murder. Wilma Jakes’ confession wasn’t first. Hers just carried a bit more surprise. As principal emeritus in most Falls City schools, she led a modest life in a tiny Cape Cod, across from the elementary school she loved so much. Falls City loved Wilma Jakes so much that, on her final retirement, the school board renamed the elementary school after her. Her death bed confession burst his illusion of her as the old, spinster school teacher. He looked down at the emaciated form, an old woman, flesh sagging from her bones, white hair thinning as her body temperature killed it at the roots; as modestly dressed as time and illness allowed. Sweat glistened from her forehead. Eddie knew that shortly she would bathe in the last of her bodily fluids, and, before sunset, join over 1000 Falls City residents in a mass burial pit. He pulled the sheet up, covering her as much as possible, released himself carefully from her grasp and stood. “Please don’t go, Edward,” her crystal blue eyes stared directly into his. Without a doubt, Wilma knew him and why he was there. “Edward Coynes, isn’t it? Falls City’s own Eddie Money, 7th grade math teacher?” She smiled at him, a wry smile, able even in the last stages to find humor. “Stage Five I see.” No secret; stage five was the only time you got a ‘private’ room in the Markum Middle School – and restraints. “You’re an immune then?” “Pressed into duty when the health staff started getting ill and dying,” he nodded. “They used my room here when the elementary school over-flowed.” “I was sorry to hear about your family, Edward,” she said, fighting the restraints a bit. She glanced at them. “I do suppose these are really necessary, though I think I’d break my old bones before I actually hurt anyone.” “They’re more for your protection than mine, Miss Jakes,” Edward explained as he sat down. He loosened them slightly, but not enough for her to slip away from. He studied her carefully, white shock of dying hair, skin patchy almost translucent from too few liquids and too much internal heat. “Who was Chaz?” Edward burst out before he could stop himself, then hung his head in shame. Such death bed secrets were sacrosanct. She started, then smiled at Edward and, as he watched, in spite of the rising fever and emaciated form, years melted away and he saw in her smile a young woman, lithe, tall, beautiful. Her blue eyes bore into him for a moment, then she relaxed. “I seem to have talked a good deal more than I should have,” she said primly, ignoring him for the moment. “Ah, Chaz, I haven’t thought about you in – well, far too long,” she sighed, a dreamy, far away sigh. “Mr. Edward Coynes, Chaz is a secret I’ll gladly take to my grave. Just don’t you tell a soul. I have my image to maintain, after all.” And she laughed as merrily as Stage 5 rushed her away, back, to a better time. Vivid memories escaped her frying brain and took flight in a soliloquy of a young woman in the prime of youth, in the prime of her sexuality. “Montparnasse on the Left Bank,” she said, her eyes wide, seeing Paris as she remembered. “You were so wonderful, so exotic and vibrant. Your colors so vivid.” “Merde!” She said loudly in a different voice - his voice. “Trash for you American tourists. Fit only to pay my rent or to line my bird cage.” A painter then, in Paris on the banks of the river Seine those many years ago. Wilma’s post-graduate dash across Europe spilled out, ending in a long stay in a shoddy Paris flat, dining and wining with the bohemian of Europe. “I am Charles!” His voice, rushing out of the mind of a dying woman as her memories escaped like the spring breezes she remembered. “Charles le Mornet! Do not forget! The world will remember the name le Mornet!” It did. Even Edward recognized the artist’s name. More recently in auction houses, his famous miniatures and his later paintings fetched obscene prices. As her dash through her young life continued, Edward noticed the locket around her neck. How her locket made it this far was beyond him. Usually, such jewelry disappeared right after admissions, by hands assuring the patient it would be “locked away for safety sake.” Stolen, in other words, Edward thought. A small weld answered his question. Still, as much weight as she’d lost, the small chain and its large pendant slid easily from her. He snapped open the locket. A miniature, a small nude, a very young, incredibly detailed Wilma Jakes spread across a couch, stunning in its detail and fine work. A Charles le Mornet original! His mind raced back to a summer, so many years ago it seemed now, when he and an incredibly, beautifully young Alicia accompanied a small group of Falls City seniors to Europe as chaperones. While their small group joined others in an English tour of the Louver, Edward found himself captivated by early 20th century French painters. Charles le Mornet - now Chaz. An entire corner of one of the smaller galleries displayed a bulk of his work. Stunning in his use of bright colors and shadows, his exceptionally detailed nudes now flooded Edward’s memory. He looked again at the locket, at the withering form on the bed and realized that she was his model, famous for her red hair almost waist length, alabaster skin, her glowing youth seemed to melt from the canvas into the heart of the viewer. “Would you do me a favor, Edward?” She was back. No point in hiding what he was doing. He closed the locket and put it in her hand where her small fist tightened around it. “Yes, of course, Miss Jakes,” Edward said as he took a damp cloth to her forehead. Wet sheets clung to her. “Wilma,” she insisted. “For today, Wilma.” “If you’d like, Wilma.” An awkward feeling swept over him. She’d been his 3rd grade teacher after all. “He kissed me, such delicious kisses,” she sighed and he could almost see his Paris flat in her eyes, hear the sounds of the street in her voice. “Kiss me like Chaz. Just once will do, I think. This shall be your reward for all you’ve done, Edward,” and she thrust the locket back into his hand. So he kissed her. While he tried to be chaste and modest, she would have none of it. Her mouth gaped open and she came alive under him, no flu, no Stage 5, not the ravaged form of an old woman but the rapier strength of a sexually aware woman. Such passion, such possession. And she died, her last gasp coming in her last kiss, images of Chaz easing her through the final veil. For the first time in over a year, since that awful graveside of his wife and child, a human soul kissed his awake and Edward Coynes cried. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #11 Second place: #5 Third place: #13 Fourth place: #12 Fifth place: #8 Others receiving votes: #2, #3, #4, #6, #9, #10 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Last Gasp ecdericd@comcast.net |
#1 of 14 |
| 406 words | |
| It was June 25 when I got on the boat at approximately
10:30 a.m. are ship had begun sinking a few minutes before I couldn’t
believe my eyes so many people were either or missing dead mothers crying
children screaming I didn’t want to leave any one but only 200 people
could fit after every boat was packed bout 11 people were left behind. I felt
so selfish leaving them behind maybe we could fit at least 3 more people I
thought to my self but we had already left the the ship I began sobbing when I
thought of them their eyes filled with tears begging for someone to take their
child along but we just couldn’t. When we got near land every one began to cheer their was a small island in the distance when we reached the island every one jumped off the boat and on to the sand we then made a plan to survive intell some one found us. We were split into teams of 100 half of us would find food and half of us would build a fire and a camp ground my team had to get the food we searched for hours and then we finally found a small pond with lots of fish we could just reach in and grab one their was so many. As we walked back to camp we smiled at each other the fire and the camp grounds were done. We showed them the fish and we started cooking. When the food was done we all ate hungrily. We finally got to sleep some where around 12:50 a.m. and we woke up at 11:30a.m. my group went to the pond and the other group started cleaning water to drink. We finished at about 7:20p.m. then we started to eat at about 8:00p.m.. The next day I woke up early and went exploring I found a deep lake with a water fall. Decided I would stay a couple night by myself their I went and found some wood and built a fire. Latter I went to the pond to get some fish it was almost 4:30 when I started to eat. And at about 10:00p.m. I went to sleep unlucky I rolled over in my sleep and fell into the lake as I took my last gasp for air I died. On august 16 1999 199 of the people on my boat were rescued at approximately 2:30 a.m. |
|
| Last Gasp Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#2 of 14 |
| 799 words | |
| "Gran, please go and see her before it's too late."
Susan had come to terms with the idea that the old lady had little time left in
this world. The tears had passed and they could talk more openly than ever
before. "You go and see her if you like." said Gran. "She's your grand-daughter too," said Susan. "You're in the same hospital and her ward is just a couple of floors away. Go on, go and see her." "Well I've got cancer and she's only having a baby with that toy-boy of hers," Gran spoke quietly in case anyone might overhear. "Oh Gran, I seem to remember Grandfather was a good bit older than you but I suppose that was different." "Yes, it was different. He could speak properly. He didn't wear a silly red baseball cap and he didn't have any other strange habits either, at least not any I'm going to tell you about," said Gran who could still grin even if it hurt to laugh. "You mean Grandpa wasn't a strange foreigner," said Susan. "You said it," said Gran. "She can do what she likes with her life but I think she's wasted all that education and thrown away any chances of a good marriage. What's more, I've made sure none of my money will go to her and her foreign toy-boy and their brat-to-be." "Gran, that's not nice." "I don't need to be nice, I'm old," said Gran. "Anyway, it'll mean more for you and I don't want to hear any more about it. Let me sleep now." Hours later and alone in the small hours of darkness, the old lady awoke from the unnatural sleep that painkillers bring. She reached for the bell-push for she could sense something new and strange about her grasp on life. As she waited for the nurse she became aware of a quiet sense of peace and contentment. However, this stillness was soon gone. In its place came a ringing in the ears that grow louder with every passing moment. The nurse arrived and gently lifted the old lady's wrist to check her pulse. Gran thought at once that something was different about the nurse but at first she couldn't quite understand what it was. Then she saw it wasn't the nurse that had changed. She was watching the scene not from safe-in-bed where she should have been but from high up, floating near the ceiling. What's more, she could see herself for there was a strange other-self lying in the bed. She waved and called out. The ringing in her ears made her voice sound faint and far away. Neither the nurse nor the other-self paid any attention. After a little while, the nurse and the other-self became much less interesting as if what they were doing wasn't really important any more. Reality changed and she found herself in a dark tunnel moving at speed towards a light that had a special quality about it. At first, it was far off but soon she was close and could feel what the light was radiating. It was love. She glimpsed a movement beyond the light. Barely seen but instantly recognized, it was the figure of her husband who had gone before her all these years ago. He was waving as if to tell her to go back but she didn't want to go back. "Why should I go back," she said in a voice that didn't need her to move her lips. "See this and you will understand." The words came out of the light, so gentle but so firm that there could be no place for any thoughts of dissent. She was shown her life as if in an instant. It was all there, what she had done, what she had not done, and what remained to be done. There was so much still to do. "You can go back now and start over with a new life." She felt herself falling back. She struggled to hold onto her memories but she knew she could not take them with her. They were beginning to fade away, soon to be forgotten like old winter clothes put aside with the turn of the seasons. So an old soul came down to dwell in a new baby who had a mother who loved her and a father with a strong accent and a red baseball cap. A hastily summoned doctor joined the nurse at the bedside of the old lady for whom life had run its course. The nurse said, "She was struggling so hard to speak with her last few breaths. It was as if she had remembered something important." "So what was so important," said the doctor. "She wanted to change her will." "Too late for that now." |
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| Last Gasp chrischram@gmail.com |
#3 of 14 |
| 342 words | |
| What the...? Where the hell am I? Can't see.
Everything cloudy. Can't hear. Buzzing! Loud buzzing in my head. What's that? A shape there in the clouds. Looks like... a person. "Hey over there! Who are you? Where am I?" No answer. He's not moving. Clouds lifting a little. Person looks like... looks like... ME! Lying on a bed. Not moving. Unconscious? DEAD? I'm looking down on... ME! I'm not moving. Am I dead? Nearly dead? I've heard of this out-of-body thing. Seeing yourself from the outside while dying. How did this happen? I don't remember. Remember... Wait... I remember pain. PANIC! Overwhelming piercing PAIN! BLOOD! Blood all over! Then nothing. Then this. Me down there dead... or dying. "Why me? Why now? Not fair!" Can't reach me down there. Too far down. Getting farther? Getting farther and farther down there! "Listen! STOP! I'm not ready! Not yet!" No answer. No one there to answer. No one here but me... and me down there. I guess this must be it. I'm not coming back. Will anyone miss me? Below, my body makes an almost imperceptible twitch. A shallow sigh. Gone. * * * "Hey buddy, you with me here?" "Wh... What?" "It's OK. We see this all the time. Some just don't like those needles and get all panicky. Is this your first blood donation?" "Blood?... Donation?... Blood donation. Yeah, my first time. Is it done?" "No, but it'll only be a few more minutes. You kind of went away on me for awhile when I made the stick. How's that arm feel?" "Just a dull ache. It's OK. Not much ache at all." "Good. You're almost done now. You know, some never come back." "Never come back?! I thought this was supposed to be safe!" "Oops, bad choice of words. No no, I meant they don't come back again to donate. Some just find this whole process too scary, but others keep coming back every couple months. How about you? Think you'll be coming back?" "I... Uh... Yeah, I think so. I can do this again." "Great. We'll look forward to seeing you. OK, You're done. Let's get this needle out." Sigh. |
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| Last Gasp Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#4 of 14 |
| 1034 words | |
| The muddy jeep hurtled down a steep ravine, tumbling as
it neared the bottom. Two men inside it didn't notice the crash as they were
near dead from poisoned darts. A fading yellow bulldozer also had a dying man
in it, a lethal dart sticking from his neck. Up strode a proud painted native
to watch him die. With the man's last gasp he looked over and said in a weak
voice : "You will never win." That evening in a nearby section of the Amazon rainforest, the cackling of birds, croaking of toads, and wierd sounds from other night creatures, were carried by the softly rustling wind. Around a small fire, a council was being held. "You have done a foolish thing, Yantu," the Elder said. "Those men are evil," he replied, "and must be stopped." "Yes, they are evil, but how do you think we can stop them?" "We must. We have been here hundreds of years. This is our home. We are brave and have the right to..." "Yes we have right with us, the right to survive." The Elder in his colorful woven robe of honor, chewed thoughtfully on a betel nut. "Now, because of what you have done, they will bring soldiers here. You must think about that and face the new ways." Yantu lay back to mask his helpless anger and frustration, and looked up through the canopy of leaves and tall trees to the few stars he could see burning calmly overhead. He knew the old man was right but that didn't make him feel any better. Morning brought a warm sun, fighting its way through the dense foliage where multi-colored birds chittered and squawked through their daily rounds and play. The men went to hunt, familiar with every inch of the forest and alert to its dangers. The women tended their gardens or walked over to the little river that gurgled down to join the breadth of the Amazon. Potatoes, yams, and other fruits of the earth were prematurely plucked, carefully washed, and placed in woven baskets. Today was different. The women, a few with a tear in their eye, packed up their clothing, utensils, bowls, and a few other necessities and mementos. All else would be left behind but they could always rebuild again somewhere else. Everyone knew that flight was imminent. Several miles away, another council was being held. The rain beat down on the largest of a conclave of tents where some workers and a few officers of the army sat, presided over by Captain Garcia. He looked impeccable in his clean brown uniform, from his squared cap to his shined boots, as he began in a loud raspy voice. "This is the last straw. Those natives must be moved or exterminated. I will not tolerate this one day longer" "They're pretty scary." said a worker. "But I don't want to go up there again and have to look out for blowguns and arrows. Besides, isn't it their land anyhow?" "No, it's not. It belongs to the Company," said the Captain striding back and forth. "That's why I have a hundred men coming up from the city. They will be here tonight and march to the site tomorrow morning to clear the natives out. You can be back at work the next morning. Everyone will still be paid for today and tomorrow. Until then, relax, enjoy a day off." Fat chance, most of the workers thought. Huddled in dripping tents, unwilling to go out in the downpour with the mud, snakes, and squadrons of huge mosquitos that didn't seem to mind the rain. Most of them had no political feelings about the forest or the natives. Yes, the pay was good, nearly double what they usually made, but they longed for the day when they could go home. It was not as bad for the natives in their snug waterproof huts. Small trenches had been built, and lined with large leaves so that there was a runoff in the little village. The men had come back late that afternoon with a tapir and a couple of large birds which were cut up and thrown into the large community cauldron along with the last of the vegetables that hadn't been packed and a few spices. Everyone had their own bowl which was filled to the top. When the liquid was cool enough, they drank it all, then ate the food with their fingers. "I still say we should stay and fight for what is ours," Yantu said, flailing his arms in pride and anger. "We could ambush them and perhaps they will become afraid and confused and go back." "Noble plan, young one," replied the Elder sadly, "but what use are we against rifles that kill at ten times the distance that we can?" Yantu hated to face the inevitable, and sat in brooding silence the rest of the night. He raised his head only a few times to look around at the beautiful, vibrant forest - the only home he had ever known. The next morning arose bright and fresh, with steam rising from the forest floor. Parrots flew by with their territorial squawks. Raindrops on the trees glinted in the light. Then a scout came running into the village. "Aiiee, they are coming. Many soldiers." The Elder gave the signal and everyone grabbed their possessions and fled into the forest by paths only they knew. All except Yantu. He stood quietly with his bow and arrows behind a large tree at the edge of the village, determined to kill at least one soldier. When they were close enough, he stepped out and let loose four arrows in rapid succession. He was pleased to see three of them found their mark then he turned and ran. Before he had gotten many paces, the fusillade of bullets whizzed past and two found him, one going through a lung and one lodged in his neck. He tumbled over, panting, blood seeping from his mouth. The nearest soldier reached him with gun drawn but saw that the native would die very soon. With his last gasp, Yantu said to him : "You will never win." |
|
| Last Gasp Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#5 of 14 Winner |
| 978 words | |
| "I don't want to live any other way than this," Mrs.
Lindsay told her husband over coffee and bagels one morning. She said it very
casually, as though she were commenting on the weather or what Mrs. Johnson,
her tennis partner, had worn to the charity ball last week. She went on to
explain how she'd run the numbers every way she could think of, but the results
always came back the same. With inflation approaching double digits and the
stock market in sharp decline, there was no longer any way their nest egg could
support the both of them in retirement. "What do you think we should do about it?" asked Mr. Lindsay. "We should make a pact," said his wife. "A pact?" "Yes, a pact, a contract, a business proposition. Call it what you will." "And how exactly would this proposition work?" he asked. "Well, let's say, for example, that the market goes down again today." "Yeah, then? Then what happens?" Mrs. Lindsay spread a thin layer of cream cheese on her bagel. "Well, then I believe, Albert, that one of us would need to die." "And this is something you just thought up, off the top of your head?" "Albert, I refuse to clip coupons. I can't live that way. Don't you see? If one of us were to die, then the other, at least – after a suitable period of mourning, of course – could get on with life quite comfortably, given the value of the insurance policy in effect on the life of the former." She sounded like a lawyer. Whereas, the party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as the deceased, and so on and so on. "Have you thought about the how of it?" asked Mr. Lindsay. "I mean, would you want one of us to kill the other? Is that what you have in mind?" "Oh no, of course not, Albert. The odds of getting caught are simply much too high to justify that kind of solution." The lawyer had become an actuary. "Well then, what does that leave us? Suicide? Insurance companies won't pay on a suicide, you know." "Yes, Albert, I'm aware of that." "And … so?" "And so who's to say, for example, that a vehicle traveling down the interstate late at night when the driver is very tired – even one doing a very legal seventy miles per hour – couldn't accidentally veer out of control when the driver dozed off? And what if that vehicle, just for the sake of argument you understand, happened to then hit, let us say, a bridge abutment?" "God, but that sounds gruesome." "Well, I'm sure it's not the kind of thing one would want to come upon on a full stomach – you know, as a witness or a passerby or something like that – but I hear the death itself is quite quick and painless really." "You sound like you've researched the matter rather thoroughly." "Really, Albert," she said as she got up from the table. "I'm sure you'll agree that one of us should be taking the initiative here. Listen, as long as I'm up, would you like me to freshen your coffee?" Mr. Lindsay politely declined the coffee and spent the rest of the day in the den watching one of the financial news channels on TV. Mrs. Lindsay sat beside him, consoling him and holding his hand for most of the morning, but when a new spate of political unrest in the Middle East caused the market to drop over three hundred points in an hour, she left to go shopping. That evening Mrs. Lindsay made her husband his favorite meal for dinner: meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. She served homemade apple pie with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert, though she took none for herself. She said she'd put on a couple pounds recently and that she really needed to start watching her calories more closely again. After the two of them cleared the dishes, Mrs. Lindsay excused herself to go upstairs and get ready. It fell to Mr. Lindsay to set up the dining room. He placed a new, unopened deck of playing cards in the middle of the table, flanking it left and right with their insurance policies, his on the right, hers on the left. Finally, he took the keys to the Lexus out of his pocket and placed them on top of the cards. Mrs. Lindsay came back downstairs wearing the new Zonde Nellis evening gown she'd purchased that afternoon. The saleslady had been correct. The black dress contrasted beautifully with the pale color of the woman's skin and the silver-gray of her hair. If it weren't for the deep green of her emerald earrings – her favorite ones, the ones that brought out the color of her eyes – she could pass for a vision in black-and-white. Mr. Lindsay pulled out a chair for his wife and stood behind it while she seated herself. "So, this is it, is it?" he said. "Yes, Albert, I'm afraid it is. Now be a good boy and tell me the rules again." She'd left it up to her husband to come up with a way of determining which of them would live and which would die. "There are no rules really. We cut the cards one time. High card wins. That's all." "All right," she said and pushed the cards toward him. "You go first." His hand shaking slightly, Mr. Lindsay slid his thumbnail along the top flap, broke the seal, and removed the cards from the box. "I'll shuffle them three times," he said, struggling to control the emotion in his voice. "That should be enough." "Albert," Mrs. Lindsay whispered softly, "there's just one more thing." "What's that?" "Good luck." |
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| Last Gasp glenlee10@sky.com |
#6 of 14 |
| 1644 words | |
| Mr.Samuel Turner is dead. He died two weeks ago at the
age of 48 and his whole household is still trying to come to terms with the
loss of such a good man and such a caring Master. I’m convinced his death
was a direct consequence of the city’s labour troubles. I am so angry when
I think about what the other factory owners have done. It was greed, pure and
simple that led to his death. It is 1895. The century is old and there is a great deal of strife in the shoe industry. Many owners exploit their workers and even bring in machinery, in order to make greater profits at the expense of those workers. Obviously, the Union has objected. The situation is so bad that one City Councillor likens it to a ‘war’, and factory owners throughout Leicester have locked-out their workers. They don’t care if these men and women starve. The machines will still be able to run when the lockout has finished, though some say that the Boot and Shoe Trade will suffer permanent injury, by opening the way to further competition by the acute Yankees. And once they’ve got a foot in the door, they’ll be slow to take it out again. For some months, Mr.Turner returned home each evening, beaten down with worry. He held out for as long as he could but in the end, although he had a good relationship with his workers and with the Trade Union, and would not replace people with machines, he was forced to lock out his own people. He had no choice. He was only one of several men in the firm who made decisions and if the firm hadn’t followed the Federation line, the Master would have been labelled a ‘scab’. He was in a dreadful position and his health suffered because of it. He’d been unwell a year or so ago but seemed to have regained his spirits, until the unrest that is, and early in March he suffered a decline. His doctor recommended that he go on a sea cruise to recover his health. The Mistress, Mrs. Mary Turner, agreed and the Master and his business friend, Mr.Edmonds, left for Calais on the evening of Thursday, 21st March. I’d helped the Master pack his trunks; finding his hatbox, folding his shirts just so, counting out the number of collars he would require and packing the warm clothing he would need for the trip. He was worried but as he said, there was nothing more he could do. He told me as I busied myself that he’d done his best to alleviate suffering amongst his workers by making arrangements to help them tide over the difficult period, whether he had the money back or not. Sunday, 24th March was a dreadful day in the City. Between 2 and 3 pm there was a most terrific storm of wind. It did a great deal of harm locally, including damage to the chimneystacks at our church, the Baptist Church on Wigston Road. I remember thinking how that would distress the Master when he learned about it. When the winds died down we all breathed a sigh of relief. We did not expect though that worse was yet to come. We did not know that our Master was dead. We were told of the tragedy by telegram quite soon after it happened but we only learned the full details from a letter which Mr.Edmonds sent to the Leicester Daily Mercury and which was printed yesterday, on 6th April. I have a copy of the paper here. The Mistress sent the housekeeper down stairs with it. It seems the two travellers had landed safely in Calais and had gone overland through France without incident. On reaching Marseilles, they’d boarded their ship about 4 pm on the Saturday afternoon. The ship sailed and they had a pleasant start to their voyage into the Mediterranean Sea. They retired for the night at ten o’clock but although Mr.Edmonds fell asleep straight away, he was wakened half-an-hour later to the sound of the Master walking about his cabin. Mr.Edmonds called out to him and asked if anything was the matter. “No,” the Master replied. “The cabin is a little stuffy and I’m going back up on deck again for some air.” Mr.Edmonds popped his head through his cabin door and saw that Mr.Turner was well wrapped up as he was wearing his heavy ulster, so he worried no more and went back to his bed. On deck the Master spoke to an engineer, who thought he looked pale and asked him if he was unwell. The Master said, “I don’t feel quite up to the mark.” The engineer, a Scotsman, advised him to go to the other side of the ship where it was more sheltered and would be more pleasant. The pair walked across the vessel together, then the Master sat down on a wooden seat and suddenly expired. An English doctor amongst the passengers was hurriedly sent for but could only pronounce life to be extinct. My poor Master, it seemed, had died from heart disease or the rupture of a blood vessel near the heart. The awfully sudden nature of the death, of course, caused much consternation throughout the vessel, Mr.Edmonds said. He tried in vain to persuade the captain of the ship to return to Marseilles to deliver the body to land, but neither financial nor other considerations had any effect. So after the certified time had elapsed, my Master was placed in a coffin and on Sunday, 24th March, the day after he had died, he was buried at sea. Another passenger, an English clergyman, the Reverend D.Jackson, said the burial service. The Reverend Jackson is a Church of England vicar but though my Master was Baptist, I don’t suppose that matters. Mr.Edmonds must have been dreadfully worried as he was unable to let anyone know of the Master’s death until the following Tuesday, when the ship docked at Piree, a small port on the Greek coast. From there he was finally able to send off a telegram to the Mistress. At the same time he sent the letter to the newspaper, which was not received until 6th April. Piree, it appears, is such a small place that there is not a daily mail service. Of course, as soon as we had all read the newspaper, there was a flurry of gossip in the household. I overheard two of the maids talking. They were both very upset and one swore that the great storm was the fury of the Master coming home. I was forced to chastise the silly girl. “It is only a coincidence that the Master’s burial at sea happened at the same time as the terrible wind. You’re a foolish woman if you think our friend and benefactor would frighten us and he certainly wouldn’t be responsible for damaging his beloved Church!” Today is Sunday, 7th April, 1895 and a Memorial Service and has just been held for my Master, the late Mr.Samuel Turner. I was lucky enough to find a seat with the rest of the household in the Baptist Chapel, where the rostrum of the sacred edifice was dressed in black. Several hundred people, including many of his workmen, came to pay their respects to this most generous and Christian of men; so many in fact that there had to be an overflow service in the Schoolroom across the road. Reverend Greenhough took the main service. I admit I sobbed when he said, “That he should die with only strange faces about him and be buried where no fond tears could be dropped upon his grave, could not but add a peculiar pathos to regretful memories. Yet after all this was a matter of sentiment; it did not really matter where a servant of God died and where he was buried, whether his requiem was sung by cathedral choirs or by the murmurs of the sea. Immortality, resurrection and The Master’s reward were quite independent of these things.” My tears lasted right through the service and I was unable to read from my hymnbook. I doubt I was the only one. Reverend Greenhough reminded us that the foundation of Mr.Turner’s good citizenship was his obedience to Christ. He had taken his religious convictions into his political work, where politics, to him, was a question of getting justice done, human rights recognised and society raised. He finished by saying; “The whole community will be richer, permanently richer, because such a life had been lived in its midst. The remembrance of such a life will remain as a stimulant to good men, as a rebuke to selfish and unworthy men and as a source of inspiration to all.” As I left the church, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, a stiff breeze sprang up and rustled the new, green leaves of the silver birch tree near the gate. A shiver ran down my spine. I tried not to be as silly and superstitious as a housemaid but my immediate thought was, ‘It’s my Master’s last gasp!’ Then the sun found a gap in the clouds, bathing the mourners in the brightest of spring’s promise and I realised that maybe my Master, Mr.Samuel Turner, had returned home, after all. |
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| Last Gasp Theresa |
#7 of 14 |
| 682 words | |
| Ann stood, looking out through the fog at the Irish Sea and to the horizon beyond. She had lived here for years and walked this path along the cliffs often. Somehow it seemed a more fitting place to think of James. More so than than at the base of a cross commemorating his death and that of his ship mates at the Kilrush Burial Ground, "somewhere off the coast of California." Even after thirty years of raising their children alone, Ann could not think about James without a sharp intake of breath and a crushing pain in her chest. She put all of this aside during the day, raising their two babies, because he would have wanted it. She loved them too, of course, but she would never love anyone more than James. The day was for them, but the night was for her. In those dark hours she thought about the brief time they had together. Three years in total, staring when Ann was nineteen. James was twenty-six when he left on that voyage. Ann knew the risks for both of them. They were both on their own, though. An odd thing in Ireland, where family ties sprawl across the country. Long voyages were risky, but when Ann found out she was pregnant again, they had no choice. James was hired onto a seven month journey running goods to and from California. She remembered when he kissed her, baby Ciara, and unborn Aiofe goodbye. When Ann found out that the ship had been lost in a storm, she thought she was dying. She gasped, clutching her head, her face, her chest. She thought she would explode. All she could do, and all she could ever do, was think about what it must have been like for him. They were the same, and she could not believe she hadn't known. Confusion, water, yelling, the sound of breaking wood. She thought about him in the water being tossed around, coming to the surface, gasping for air, and then being sucked back down. Sometimes she imagined he hit his head and slipped mercilessly into unconsciousness. Other times when she thought about it, he held onto driftwood long enough to see the ocean calm, the bodies of his mates, and the wreckage. Maybe even the shore, too far off. It didn't matter, because he was never coming home. But Ann could never stop mulling over his possible torment. She felt like she died every time she imagined he did. She looked down at the water, crashing against the bottom of the cliff. Cold, merciless. It was a murderer and it had no sympathy for her. It didn't care that she could see it from her house, or that it served as a constant reminder of death. But Ann didn't blame the sea. She would have remembered every day anyway. Thirty years. That is what she had promised herself. Thirty years later their girls were grown. They lived in Dublin and were married. Occasionally they visited, but a cloud they had grown up with and yet never completely understood hung over the house of their youth. Ann didn't care that much. They were reminders of life, and a chore that she had completed. She dutifully cared for them and carried them into adulthood. Not a perfect life, but it was tolerable. Ann had no time to wallow in the grief that consumed her life at age twenty-two, not with two babies and no one else. It was hard. Sometimes waves would flash in front of her eyes and she wouldn't hear her children's voices, but rather cries of dying men. Ann tried to set the waves aside for a later time, when they could be fully dealt with. Now her job was done, and James would have been satisfied. Ann exhaled slowly, watching the cloud of her breath fade. Then she walked forward. She gasped as she hit the water, the cold numbing her instantly. This is what it was like. She sank and bobbed with the harsh waves. She imagined she heard yelling and thunder. | |
| Last Gasp Micki Peluso Mallie1025@aol.com |
#8 of 14 |
| 1490 words | |
| Hank awoke a little after noon. Usually an early riser
who enjoyed watching the sun rise over the Palo Duro canyons, deep below the
Texas plains—last night’s binge at the Rock n’ Bull Saloon had
laid him low. He took a swig of the “hair of the dog” to quell the shakes and pulled on his boots. One boot, actually. He’d slept, shirtless, with the other one on, caught up in his pulled down denims which hung at his knees. He was a bleary-eyed mess. Changing his clothes, he noticed blood on his shirt and jeans, but wasn’t cut anywhere. Wonder what the other guy looks like? He was too sick to give it much thought. Half a dozen eggs over easy, hash browns and a rasher of bacon would settle his rocky stomach. Hank tried, but couldn’t remember much of the tear he’d been on that night. Scary. The blackouts were becoming more frequent now. Gotta cut down on the booze, he thought. “Not as young as I used to be.” Hank scratched his unshaven face, but didn’t shave. Not yet—way too shaky for that. “Where are my damn keys?” he spoke out loud. His half-wolf, half sheepdog, Alpha Blue, raised his shaggy head. The animal grunted and went back to sleep. He’d seen it all before. Hank’s keys were in the jeep parked next to the scruffy pine tree he’d barely missed hitting the night before. He swung his legs into the four-wheel vehicle, revved the engine and headed for town; stopping at the mail box standing at the edge of his long driveway. While shuffling through junk mail and bills--planning on dealing with them on a full and sober stomach, a large flyer caught his eye. What the hell is this? He wondered. More junk mail? Yard sale poster? No, this was a personal cardboard message with large letter, stating: MEET ME AT THE CORRAL BEHIND YOUR BARN ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNSET. I PLAN TO SHOOT YOU DEAD. IF YOU REFUSE, I WILL SHOOT YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. YOUR CHOICE, MISTER. WHAT YOU DID WILL BE AVENGED. There was no signature. Damnation! Hank thought. What did I do last night to deserve this? His appetite for breakfast left as he returned to the house to think. His mind was blank, then slowly images flitted across his vision—a young raven-haired woman with sensual green eyes and a body a man would die for. Would he? He remembered no more. A nap would be just the thing to revitalize his body and jog his memory of what he might have done to be challenged to a shoot out. It was 1998, for Pete’s sake. Who does shoot outs? A chill down his spine warned him not to take this threat lightly. Hank rose from his nap around three in the afternoon, showered, shaved and searched the fridge for something to fill his grumbling, queasy stomach. He chugged another shot of bourbon whiskey, and drank a pot of strong black coffee. The grandfather clock that had been in his family for generations, chimed the hour—four o’clock. The sun set early above the canyon. He’d need to face the shootist soon, hoping to make him see reason. Flashbacks of dancing with a darkhaired beauty came to his mind. He remembered leaning her back to for a long, hungry kiss, just as a huge man with red hair and matching beard, swung the saloon doors open and strode across the room. Hank laughed briefly, thinking he looked like an actor in a spaghetti western. The first punch slammed him across the floor, followed by a pummelling so fast and brutal that he passed out cold. He never saw the man grab his screaming woman by her long hair and drag her out the door. He remembered nothing, except waking in his own bed, stiff and sore. His bleary eyes missed the bruises rising on his face and the bloody cuts around his nose and mouth. Now he figured this fight was triggered by a jealous boyfriend, or worse, an irate husband. Hank usually steered away from married women . . . but most of the past night was still a blank. He hoped not to need it, but loaded his 22 calibre pistol, shoved it into his holster and headed for the coral. Alpha Blue tried to follow his master, but Hank locked him in the house, something he hoped not to regret. He spotted a small figure walking toward the corral. Sagebrush tumbled across the barren plains as the sun, about to set, glared brightly in his eyes. Hank was not in the best position for a shoot out, but then this was his first. As the small figure approached, it grew no taller and Hank figured he was either facing a midget—better known now as ‘little people’, or a young lad of ten or twelve. “What can I do you for?” Hank called out to the short stranger, whose western hat covered most of his head and fell down over his eyes. A grin spread slowly across Hank’s face as he observed him lugging the shot gun in both arms. He was dressed all in black; a leather vest over a black tee-shirt with black jeans and boots. Even with three inch heels on his knee-high cowboy boots, the lad could not be more than five feet tall. “You caused my mama to die. Now you will die too.” The steely cold voice was deadly and resolute, spoken in an obviously low tone. “What’re you talkin’ about, son? I ain’t killed no one. Put down that heavy gun and let’s talk some.” “No need for talkin’ Mister. And this gun ain’t heavy. You die today as my mama died last night.” The last sentence was spoken with a slight tremble. “I’m no angel, Boy, but I never kilt no one in my life, whether they deserved it or not.” Hank startred to walk toward the boy, but stopped as the shotgun rose up straight at him. “I saw you with her last night. Disgusting. Dancing and kissin’. I followed her to the saloon to get her home before it was too late. Pa dragged her home and slit her throat and” . . . the voice quivered, Mama died in my arms. When my Pa fell asleep, drunk like always, I took the axe Mama used for beheading the chickens, and cut him across his throat.” Before Hank could digest the impact of the small figure’s words, a blast from the shotgun blew out his guts. He dropped to the ground, still able to pull off a shot, but had no heart for it now. It was just a boy, avenging his mother. Not firing, even as he felt his life slipping away, make Hank feel as if he’d somehow atoned for his part in this tragedy. He realized that while he hadn’t harmed the child’s mother, his actions led to her death. “Justice served,” his last gasp through blood streaming from his mouth, as his lungs filled with fluid and his pulse slowed to a flutter of a beat. As he lay dying, the child walked up to him. Eyes as blue as the Blue Bonnet blossoms of Texas brimmed with tears. He aimed again, but then sure his first shot was true, he dropped the shotgun and stood over Hank, tears streaming down his face. “We’re even now,” he said, sobbing. I would wish that you rot in hell, but instead I asked God to forgive you your sin against my mama. The fault now lies with me as killin’ is a big sin.” The boy knelt and pressed something into Hank’s hand, then rose and walked slowly away, bent over like an old man, dragging the shotgun behind him. Hank’s watched the boy’s hat slip off his head from a gust of desert wind. Long raven curls sprung loose, blowing in the breeze. Lord Almighty, I’ve been shot by a wee snippet of a lovely young girl. May God forgive us both. Hank’s last thought as his guts spilled out on rivers of blood was whether Hell really was hotter than Texas. Hank’s drinking buddies found him a few days later, after he’d not returned their calls. They weren’t his first visitors. Buzzards, coyotes, crows the size of hawks had dined lavishly on his sun-baked corpse. Alpha blue had broken out of the ranch house by hurling himself through a window, chasing the scavengers away. He lay by his master as the blistery sun baked them both during the day and bore the frigid cold of the desert nights. Rigamortis had set in from the first day he’d died, but his friends were able to pull out a hand carved wooden cross from Hank’s half-closed fist. The words, “Forgive me.” were etched along its length. |
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| Last Gasp matawheeze@gmail.com |
#9 of 14 |
| 1372 words | |
| I'm old now but I remember it real good. The newspapers
called it a CRIME OF PASSION. Big headlines, all in capital letters. There was
a picture of her with handcuffs on when she got into the cop car. Chips, they
called her Cherie, of course, all dressed in white. The picture in black and
white. The world in black and white. The reporters came around and asked me questions. The cops too. I'd known her forever, since back in high school when we moved down the street from her family. Chips and me had been pals right from the git go. I didn't know anybody and she didn't have any friends, at least none who'd come this side of town. Nobody went to the Chapman place twice. Hardly once really, since Chips wouldn't ask 'em. You never knew when the fights would start there but the whole neighborhood knew when they were going on. Chips would sneak away as soon as she could and hang out at my house until her Mama came to fetch her back. It wasn't much better but since my Dad left us, and Mom worked, it was leastways quiet. She loved the quiet. Sometimes we'd just lay on my bed together not, saying anything, for hours. Anyway, nobody was happy at the Chapman house. Emma, that's Chip's older sister, got a job at the Super Drugs in North Bend. She moved out soon after and that was the last anybody ever heard from her. She didn't even show up at the trial though I heard the cops found her and talked to her about Chips. But she didn't know Gary and couldn't tell them much. Chips never said a word. The cops and reporters heard all about her folks and the fights when she was young from folks around town. They knew about her marrying Gary and how it seemed like an absolutely perfect marriage. Everybody said they were happy. He was steady and he loved her. They didn't have kids, but planned to. I know Chips loved him at first. In school, Gary was the kind that you had to like and she took to him like butter to toast. Chips might of been a loner but with her pale face and those big dark eyes a person could lose themselves in? She learned real quick how to use her looks once she found a guy she wanted. She met him, made up her mind, and was gone. She didn't even finish school. I hated that, it was so sudden. Where was I? Oh yeah, I didn't see her so much after they got hitched. They went off to Nevada somewhere the day after his graduation and she moved in with Gary. They bought a house over in Twin Lakes, that subdivision by Pinewood? I went there early on when Chips was happy to show off the new furniture and the new life. She was pretty smug about how good things were. It got old real fast admiring the house and the yard and all, and I was working two jobs so I really didn't have time to sit around and drink coffee. But I went anyway since I missed her so bad. Gary didn't want Chips to work so she kept busy around the house. I never saw a place so clean where people really lived. It was nothing like where we grew up. She had these cute little china statues with doilies underneath on the tables, and cups and saucers for the coffee instead of mugs. The kitchen table was real wood and she had those fancy flower shaped soaps for company in the bathroom. I wouldn't use one though. I couldn't bring myself to muss it up. It was everything we'd always thought about having when we were kids. Chips had managed to get it all. But Chips didn't seem all that happy to me after a while. We'd sit with our coffee and she'd listen to me talk about my jobs and the kids, and money troubles. She told me how Gary came home from work and told her all about his day. How he'd talk from when he got in the door until dinner was done. Then they'd watch TV, they had one of those big color sets, and he'd tell her all the news stories and talk through the commercials. He'd just tell her every little thing. She said it was like an addiction, like he was high on his own voice. I couldn't see what her problem was. My Rick never talks to me at all. Its hardly like I was in the house unless ask him something when NASCAR is on. 'Course then he's more likely to take a swing than say anything. Most of the wives I know would pay a week's grocery money to hear more than "Gimme a beer." Seemed to me that Chips was complaining about nothing. That Gary was a smart guy. He did something with a computer and sales. It was about when he began working at home that Chips stopped asking me over to visit. I called once or twice but I could hear Gary in the background. Chips'd whisper how she didn't have time to chit-chat and would hang up. She didn't want to chit-chat with old friends now that she lived in fancy Twin Lakes. I did't ask her over to my place neither. Her house was so fine and I just couldn't bear her seeing the chipped formica or the dishes piled up. I drove by her house a few times envying the immaculate yard. Even the weeds seemed to know better than to bother that place. It was so refined. How could she not be happy living there? The whole county was shocked when they found out Gary was dead. Somebody heard the shot and called 911. They found him sitting in front of the TV like he did every night, holding his gun like he'd shot himself. Chips was standing there, quiet, looking at Gary with a big smile, just waiting. The sheriff decided she'd shot him and put the gun in his hand and they arrested her right off. I'd just gotten home when my Mom called me to say she'd heard it on the news. The biggest thing in Joseph County in a long time so the newshounds were on it fast. I hardly had time to shower, throw my clothes in the wash, and start dinner, when the first reporter called me, asking about Chips. I told them how I was so upset and I couldn't get over it; how great her house was but I said as how she just couldn't be satisfied with it all. It was real exciting to have all those reporters and the police wanting to ask me things. I thought sure Chips would say she was innocent but she never said anything at all. It all died down pretty quick once the fuss of the trial was over. I still remember the way Chips stared at me when I was up there testifying about her and how she'd gone off to live that perfect life. She just looked and looked, like she knew something and wasn't going to tell it. I don't know what she was thinking. I only told the truth when they asked me stuff, and I knew she could've done it. It was easy for her to seem like one thing and then be another. The verdict was hard. I guess all that perfect life thrown away irritated a lot of folk and the prosecutor was gung-ho to make a name for himself. He ran for state office a year later as I recall. I never thought they'd execute a woman and I very nearly called up the police to stop it, but thinking about my kids slowed me up and I didn't. Chips could have told somebody what she thought but she didn't say anything neither. I never went to that jail to see her. Never talked to her or wrote a letter. What could I say? That it was love? She must have died thinking it was hate. And I'm here, all tired and done, waiting for my dying. Wondering if it was... |
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| Last Gasp DawnMarie Portoff dawnmarie.portoff@yale.edu |
#10 of 14 |
| 37 words | |
| Late in the afternoon Alone by the side of the river Staring at the water Trying to remember how to feel better Growing and healing At last feeling something Starting to feel better Preparing to move on |
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| Last Gasp Ken Staley madhatterat50@yahoo.com |
#11 of
14 Runner-up |
| 1413 words | |
| “Do you remember our summer, Chaz?” Eddie Coynes scanned her card. Wilma Jakes, single, 72 - 3rd grade teacher to most of Falls City young. Principal emeritus; spinster; other, less polite whisperings that invariably followed a woman opting to remain single all her life. Now reduced to a file card, Stage 5 blazoned in bright red across the top margin. Scratched out and dated, the progress of the flu in four lesser stages traced the end of her life in clinical precision. “Of course I remember,” Edward said as her hand tightened on his with a strength that few would guess she still possessed. First climbing temperatures that exceeded anything previously known in medicine, then extraordinary hallucinations accompanied by un-guessed physical power; all classic symptoms of Stage 5. Now a waning, world wide, pandemic, Stage Five was the terminal end of the disease. Measured fevers sometimes shot over 108 and stayed there for the duration, “frying the brain” one intern said. 106 was as high as most thermometers went, even professional thermometers peeked at 108. Once diagnosed as Stage Five, necessary physical restraints locked patients to the bed before violent hallucinations began. Those terrible dreams always came. Lately though, Edward found that some of those dreams, as terrible as they were, echoed truths of lives long past. He’d heard dying confession of infidelity, of larceny grand and small, of arson, even murder. Wilma Jakes’ confession wasn’t first. Hers just carried a bit more surprise. As principal emeritus in most Falls City schools, she led a modest life in a tiny Cape Cod, across from the elementary school she loved so much. Falls City loved Wilma Jakes so much that, on her final retirement, the school board renamed the elementary school after her. Her death bed confession burst his illusion of her as the old, spinster school teacher. He looked down at the emaciated form, an old woman, flesh sagging from her bones, white hair thinning as her body temperature killed it at the roots; as modestly dressed as time and illness allowed. Sweat glistened from her forehead. Eddie knew that shortly she would bathe in the last of her bodily fluids, and, before sunset, join over 1000 Falls City residents in a mass burial pit. He pulled the sheet up, covering her as much as possible, released himself carefully from her grasp and stood. “Please don’t go, Edward,” her crystal blue eyes stared directly into his. Without a doubt, Wilma knew him and why he was there. “Edward Coynes, isn’t it? Falls City’s own Eddie Money, 7th grade math teacher?” She smiled at him, a wry smile, able even in the last stages to find humor. “Stage Five I see.” No secret; stage five was the only time you got a ‘private’ room in the Markum Middle School – and restraints. “You’re an immune then?” “Pressed into duty when the health staff started getting ill and dying,” he nodded. “They used my room here when the elementary school over-flowed.” “I was sorry to hear about your family, Edward,” she said, fighting the restraints a bit. She glanced at them. “I do suppose these are really necessary, though I think I’d break my old bones before I actually hurt anyone.” “They’re more for your protection than mine, Miss Jakes,” Edward explained as he sat down. He loosened them slightly, but not enough for her to slip away from. He studied her carefully, white shock of dying hair, skin patchy almost translucent from too few liquids and too much internal heat. “Who was Chaz?” Edward burst out before he could stop himself, then hung his head in shame. Such death bed secrets were sacrosanct. She started, then smiled at Edward and, as he watched, in spite of the rising fever and emaciated form, years melted away and he saw in her smile a young woman, lithe, tall, beautiful. Her blue eyes bore into him for a moment, then she relaxed. “I seem to have talked a good deal more than I should have,” she said primly, ignoring him for the moment. “Ah, Chaz, I haven’t thought about you in – well, far too long,” she sighed, a dreamy, far away sigh. “Mr. Edward Coynes, Chaz is a secret I’ll gladly take to my grave. Just don’t you tell a soul. I have my image to maintain, after all.” And she laughed as merrily as Stage 5 rushed her away, back, to a better time. Vivid memories escaped her frying brain and took flight in a soliloquy of a young woman in the prime of youth, in the prime of her sexuality. “Montparnasse on the Left Bank,” she said, her eyes wide, seeing Paris as she remembered. “You were so wonderful, so exotic and vibrant. Your colors so vivid.” “Merde!” She said loudly in a different voice - his voice. “Trash for you American tourists. Fit only to pay my rent or to line my bird cage.” A painter then, in Paris on the banks of the river Seine those many years ago. Wilma’s post-graduate dash across Europe spilled out, ending in a long stay in a shoddy Paris flat, dining and wining with the bohemian of Europe. “I am Charles!” His voice, rushing out of the mind of a dying woman as her memories escaped like the spring breezes she remembered. “Charles le Mornet! Do not forget! The world will remember the name le Mornet!” It did. Even Edward recognized the artist’s name. More recently in auction houses, his famous miniatures and his later paintings fetched obscene prices. As her dash through her young life continued, Edward noticed the locket around her neck. How her locket made it this far was beyond him. Usually, such jewelry disappeared right after admissions, by hands assuring the patient it would be “locked away for safety sake.” Stolen, in other words, Edward thought. A small weld answered his question. Still, as much weight as she’d lost, the small chain and its large pendant slid easily from her. He snapped open the locket. A miniature, a small nude, a very young, incredibly detailed Wilma Jakes spread across a couch, stunning in its detail and fine work. A Charles le Mornet original! His mind raced back to a summer, so many years ago it seemed now, when he and an incredibly, beautifully young Alicia accompanied a small group of Falls City seniors to Europe as chaperones. While their small group joined others in an English tour of the Louver, Edward found himself captivated by early 20th century French painters. Charles le Mornet - now Chaz. An entire corner of one of the smaller galleries displayed a bulk of his work. Stunning in his use of bright colors and shadows, his exceptionally detailed nudes now flooded Edward’s memory. He looked again at the locket, at the withering form on the bed and realized that she was his model, famous for her red hair almost waist length, alabaster skin, her glowing youth seemed to melt from the canvas into the heart of the viewer. “Would you do me a favor, Edward?” She was back. No point in hiding what he was doing. He closed the locket and put it in her hand where her small fist tightened around it. “Yes, of course, Miss Jakes,” Edward said as he took a damp cloth to her forehead. Wet sheets clung to her. “Wilma,” she insisted. “For today, Wilma.” “If you’d like, Wilma.” An awkward feeling swept over him. She’d been his 3rd grade teacher after all. “He kissed me, such delicious kisses,” she sighed and he could almost see his Paris flat in her eyes, hear the sounds of the street in her voice. “Kiss me like Chaz. Just once will do, I think. This shall be your reward for all you’ve done, Edward,” and she thrust the locket back into his hand. So he kissed her. While he tried to be chaste and modest, she would have none of it. Her mouth gaped open and she came alive under him, no flu, no Stage 5, not the ravaged form of an old woman but the rapier strength of a sexually aware woman. Such passion, such possession. And she died, her last gasp coming in her last kiss, images of Chaz easing her through the final veil. For the first time in over a year, since that awful graveside of his wife and child, a human soul kissed his awake and Edward Coynes cried. |
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| Last Gasp lins.writing@yahoo.com |
#12 of 14 |
| 1226 words | |
| Carrying Gary Grasshopper in his pickle jar home, Davy
walked up the knoll behind his house. The breeze made the grass ripple and
brought the scent of trumpet vine mingled with a light whiff of moonflower
growing at the edge of the yard below. Davy had caught Gary last week and made
a nice home for him. He put grass, a shell for water, and even a rock for Gary
to sit on to watch Davy. Sometimes he put in a daisy to act like an umbrella,
giving a bit of shade. Every day, Davy changed the water and put in new grass
making sure Gary was comfortable. “Hey, Gary, wanna come out of your vacation home?” Davy asked. Slowly, Davy opened the huge pickle jar and gradually lowered the jar to its side. He lay in front of the opening to watch Gary. Little by little, the grasshopper walked between the stalks of grass. Next, he went under the daisy’s head that nodded a bit when the breeze slipped into the jar. Gary stopped on the edge of the container, looked right at Davy and wriggled his mandibles. “Are you trying to tell me you’re afraid? Come on out. It’s time to be free again. I liked taking care of you, but I’ll be going to school soon and won’t have time. I know your family will want to hear all about our trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm last weekend.” Gary took a giant jump out of the jar, landing on a clover top, riding it like a seasoned cowboy. “Boy, you’re good! Hang on and have fun. Hope to see you soon. I’ll come up the hill to visit you. I’ll tell you all about my day. Remember, I’ll be in first grade and in school all day, so don’t look for me at lunchtime.” Gary hopped again, this time he landed on a spindly leaf of grass. He stood on its tip, moving up and down a few times, then dove to the ground. Davy peered down at him and waved. Gary cocked his head, twisted his jaw in a sort of smile and leapt away. Davy turned over on his back and watched the clouds drift overhead. “I’ll miss you, Gary.” He sniffed and wiped a teeny tear from the side of his face before it slid into his ear. His mother called from the back door. “Davy, it’s time to go to the store.” “I’ll be right there,” he said, picked up the jar, and dumped it out. Then he put the rock and shell back in, and closed it. “See you tomorrow, Gary,” Davy called over his shoulder. “Davy, what happened to Gary?” His mother asked. “I thought he missed his family, so I let him go. Where should I put his house?” “Put it in the garage next to the empty flower pots. I’m proud of you for taking good care of Gary.” “Thanks, Mom. I told him I’d visit him on the hill, and tell him all about my day. Do you think I’ll ever see him again?” Davy’s eyebrows scrunched, forming crooked lines in his forehead. “He might be there, but he may be too busy telling his family about all the fun you guys had at the farm. Wash up and let’s get to the store so we can make a cake for dessert tonight,” she said, patting his backside. Davy dashed to the mudroom sink, climbed up on the hippo stool, pressed the head of the elephant soap dispenser and giggled as the soap squirted out of its trunk. “Mom, I really like this new soap thing. It looks like he’s spraying me. Gary liked to watch me wash up. I miss him already, and it’s only been a little while.” Davy rinsed his hands, stepped off the stool, and grabbed a towel from the monkey towel rack. Its outstretched hands clasped a wooden rod that held the towel. “Will I have time to run up on the hill when we get back from the store?” “Yes, plenty of time. I don’t have too much shopping to do.” The store was busy and it took a lot longer than Davy had hoped. His only thought was to get back home to see if he could find Gary. Davy didn’t care that his mother bought some chocolate chip ice cream to go with the cake. He did laugh a little when she picked up a giraffe towel for the mudroom and snickered at the zebra dish for the potpourri she bought last week. “Davy, do you feel alright? You’ve been very quiet since we left the house.” “Yes, I’m fine. I’m afraid I’ll never see Gary again. I know I couldn’t keep him forever, but I liked talking to him. I think he liked watching all the fun things I do. Things like when we went to the farm, or the picnics in the yard, and when Dad took us out flying kites.” “You can scoot up there as soon as you help put the groceries away. Even if you don’t see him, you could sit and tell him about your day. He might be there listening-he blends well with the grass,” Mom said, pulling into the garage. Putting things away didn’t take long. Davy’s mother was getting the ingredients ready to mix up for the cake and Davy tugged on her apron. “Mom, may I go look for Gary now?” Davy asked in a quiet voice. “Yes, of course. Don’t worry, you’ll probably find him,” she said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “If not, maybe you’ll see a member of his family. Then you can tell them and they can pass it on to him.” “Mom, you’re the greatest! I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sure they’ll know me because he’s told them all about me,” Davy said, darting for the door and smiling from ear to ear. Davy ran most of the way up the hill, then stopped and got down on his hands and knees. Peering through the blades of grass, he looked for Gary. “Gary, Gary. Come out; come out where ever you are. I’ll tell you all about my day.” Davy carefully crawled forward a few feet. “Gary, or any of you grasshoppers that know him, listen to me. Today I went to the store with Mom and we bought a new towel with giraffes on it and a zebra dish for that smelly stuff she bought last week. I know you’d like the dish, ‘cause you liked Oh, Oh the donkey, at the farm last week. Well, I hope you can hear me, Gary. I miss you lots and lots. Hope you’re having fun with your family.” Davy sat down next to the tree at the top of the rise. “I really hoped I’d find you again, Gary.” He sniffed and used his shirtsleeve to wipe a tear from his cheek. “I want you to know I had so much fun with you. I liked to watch you when you’re mouth wiggled. It seemed like you were talking to me.” He lay on his belly in the grass, examining each stalk. Something dropped on his head. Without thinking, he slapped. When he looked into his hand, he saw Gary, his little mandibles moving in his last gasp. |
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| Last Gasp njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#13 of 14 |
| 1607 words | |
| My dog is dying, but he won’t die. That sounds
horrible, but it’s the truth. Let me tell you about my Shep. I recently lost my other dog Brandy and the mourning was over. It was time… I wanted a puppy, so I went to the local shelter. The woman at the desk asked me what kind of dog I was looking for and I replied very confidently, “I want a smaller female lap-type dog.” She smiled and said I could look through the kennels and see if any pup was what I was looking for. She added that sometimes an older dog might work out, too. It was up to me. I walked into the kennel section and there were so many puppies and dogs I wasn’t sure I could find one that was “the right one.” Cage after cage noses were pushed through the wires and tails were wagging and everyone was yipping and jumping for attention. It was almost overwhelming. So many dogs that wanted and needed homes. How would I ever single out which one was for me? Would I find my dog? Then I spotted a pup, sitting near the back of his cage. He looked at me with bright eyes. I bent closer to see him better. His eyes were amazing! One was blue and one was brown. I wondered if he was blind in the one eye. I softly called him and he came up to the mesh, leaned into it and just looked at me. He wasn’t jumping all around, he wasn’t barking, he was just pleading with those remarkable eyes. I found my pup. I went back to the office and told the lady I wanted the pup in cage B-12. She looked up the records, then paused and carefully said, “Well, it’s not a female and he isn’t exactly a lap dog. He’s going to be quite a big fellow when he’s grown.” “I guess I didn’t really know what I wanted when I first came in because that’s my pup. Is he blind in the one eye?” She shook her head. “No, he isn’t blind. It’s an inherited gene. He can see just fine. We don’t know much about him because he was picked up as a stray, and no one claimed him. Our Vet thinks he’s a mixture of German Shepherd, Collie and Malamute. We figure he’s about 4 months old because of his teeth, but we can’t be certain of his exact age. He’s been wormed, has all his first shots, will need to be neutered and is available for adoption.” I signed the papers. That was fourteen long years ago and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. Shep was for me, he was my dog from the start. Intelligent, playful, easy tempered and always happy. We’ve had great experiences which are stored in photos and my memory for all time. Yes, Shep is a large dog, and he‘s reached the age of 14 years, which is old for a large dog. I’ve been expecting something to happen because of his age, but until yesterday, he was holding his own. Oh sure, he was getting hard of hearing and a bit stiff in the back legs, but nothing major. He still had his get up and go attitude. He was still a happy dog. He had the most alert, intelligent eyes a dog can have. The eyes tell us so much. I figured I’d know when it was his time by his eyes. Up till yesterday there wasn’t a clue. Then yesterday happened. He had a stroke or a heart attack or something, I really don’t know. All I know is something happened, very quietly. He got up at his usual time and we went out for his morning walk. He sniffed everything available, went pee and even pooped, then continued sniffing flowers and grass and air. We came in and he had his breakfast, then got a treat, and went to take a rest in front of the TV. Around 11:00 AM my husband noticed his breathing looked funny so called me to look. It was kinda “puffy” if that’s how to describe it. Short puffs of air, then long pause, then another puff. It wasn’t panting, it was just the way he was trying to breathe, like he couldn‘t. If you watched his chest and stomach, it was like the breath rippled across it. He didn’t make any noise or jerk or anything, just lay there breathing funny. I touched his head and he looked at me, but his eyes weren’t bright, and he didn’t thump his tail, which is what he always did when I pet him. I hunkered down and ran my hands over his body but couldn’t feel anything unusual and he didn’t wince or anything. Nothing except the funny breathing. Maybe it would pass? He continued to lay in the same spot and his breathing did go back to normal for the most part, but ever so often he’d give that puffy kind of breathing, like he couldn‘t get his breath. I tried to get him up to see if he could walk, but he just looked at me. No thump either. I knew it was time, his eyes told me it was time. I’d turned him over to God years ago and asked God to watch over him. The only thing I asked was that when it was his time God would take him gently. Over the past few years I’ve had many conversations with God about Shep. When we neutered him and he wouldn’t leave the stitches alone. When he got Lymes Disease even after being vaccinated for it. When he tangled two years ago with the porcupine and had to be sedated, the Vet warned me that because of his age, he might not pull through. I couldn’t let my dog suffer with a mouth full of porcupine quills, so we took the chance. I left it in God’s hands. I guess it wasn’t Shep’s time then, because he came through without mishap. So now I did the same thing. I turned the matter over to my God. I told Him we couldn’t get Shep into the car to go to the Vet to have him euthanized. Two older people trying to lift a hundred pound dog into the back of a Chevy Blazer just didn’t work. It would have traumatized him even more. I reminded God (as if He needed it!) that all I asked was that He take Shep gently. I didn’t want him to suffer but I also didn‘t want to make that final decision. I wanted God to take him. I watched him all that day. He never moved. He didn’t eat supper. He did drink a bit of water when I held a bowl in front of him, but that was it. Still no thump of the tail. It was time, God, it was time. Please take him! But He didn’t. Around 9:00 PM Shep managed to struggle to his feet and staggered into the kitchen. He was very disorientated but he wanted to go out. He circled the table like he forgot where the door was. One thing he wouldn’t let himself do apparently, was urinate in the house. We got him out, he watered the flowers, turned and staggered back into the house. He flopped down in the same place and stretched out flat. For lack of a better word, I slept on the couch with one eye open because I knew his time was near and I wanted to be there for him. At one point, Shep gave what I thought was his last gasp, but it wasn’t. It was just a gasp. I sat on the floor next to him and removed his collar. I thought if he knew I was letting him go, he would let go, too. But he hung on. I don’t understand that. How can he hang in there so long? Why wouldn’t he give up? Why didn’t God take him? I don’t know. This morning I got up and Shep was still breathing, albeit weakly. What were we supposed to do? Was I missing something? What did God want me to do? I was willing to surrender him. Was I supposed to make the final decision and get him in the car somehow? Then my Mom called and said she needed me to come help her. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but she was crying. What was I to do? I couldn’t make my dog more important than my mother. My husband said, “Go” so I went. When I got home, Shep was gone. It was over. I loved Shep and he knew it. He loved me and I knew it. Good-byes are so darn hard. If you don’t love animals you may not understand. But don’t you ever, ever say to me, “Well it was just a dog.” Because if you do, I may punch you in the nose. He was more than just a dog, he was my dog. He was my friend and companion for fourteen years. He will be missed. Will I get another dog? I won’t for a while because we still have Shep’s mate Molly. She is suffering, too. She knows he’s gone. She spent time lying next to him last night. She washed his face and ears. She knew. Animals can feel loss, just like a human. It will take a while for her to recover, but hopefully she will. Because life does go on. |
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| Last Gasp Heather Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#14 of 14 |
| 52 words | |
| The last gasp is mine. The one- ness, the meaning dissolves and free-float follows. You slowly fading- hands on skin gone numb- and me, coming into myself, like cracking a safe. And yet pulled back-those clinging limbs, for a moment I don’t understand the sweat between us, why we are so salty. And I’m already forgetting that lovely little death, that nanosecond when two who are one in a breath return to one. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club