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"One Last Hurrah" (the 105th ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "One Last Hurrah" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), May 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| One Last Hurrah By Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Something warm and salty found a
path down Sally's tired face and moistened the corner of her ever so dry mouth.
It was hot. It was humid. Why was there never any air-con in these dreadful
little airfields in the middle of nowhere? Too long without sleep was bringing
all kinds of thoughts struggling into her consciousness. She thought of the
heat and of all the things she had forced herself to do on this one last trip.
But most of all, her mind returned again and again to thoughts of death.
"Too late for tears now," said the spotty young Customs Officer. His uniform hat was a size larger than it should be and was held up mostly by his ears. However, he was the one in authority. He was the one who had opened her trusty old backpack. Neither of his colleagues on duty had bothered to wear their hats and neither looked like they would do what he was doing with his finger. The old gray haired Officer called over. "Don't do that. We don't do that here. We only do that in the movies." The young Officer paid no attention. This was his interception, his case, his first rung on the ladder of promotion, the break that could get him something new and shiny to sew into his uniform. He put his index finger back into the powder in the biscuit tin. This was his moment for he was the one who had found it carefully sealed up with tape and wrapped around in underwear at the bottom of Sally's backpack. Slowly, he held up his powder coated finger for Sally's fellow travelers to see. Everyone was now gathering all around the little drama and he was center stage. The old Officer called again. "Stay clear of that stuff. You don't know what it is and you don't want to scramble your brains." But the finger went straight back into his mouth and the young Officer leaned forward to look Sally straight in the eye for this was the way to get at the truth. "So what's all this powder then," he said. Sally looked back. Her face contorted just a little and her shoulders heaved but she wasn't sobbing. "It's Father's ashes," she said. “I'm bringing him home now. You can have some more if you like. I'm sure he won't mind." And a ragged little cheer rang all around. |
| One Last Hurrah By David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com © 2010 David Griffin (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| During the second world war,
everyone mobilized for the conflict in one way or another. If you weren’t
fighting in the skies over France or slogging up the boot of Italy, you were
back home dealing with rationing and black-out shades and air raid drills. You
could have been climbing fire towers or standing on the roofs of tall buildings
waiting to spot enemy airplanes if they chanced to come over U.S. territory. In
my hometown, the citizenry felt especially vulnerable to air attack, because we
were only a hundred miles from Canada and you couldn’t trust those damned
Canadian Frenchies to do anything right, much less shoot down an enemy plane
before it flew down our valley and dropped a load of bombs on us. This fear from the skies persisted into the early days of the Cold War as folks continued to climb tall buildings and watch for menacing aircraft. But by 1957 damned few citizens thought it worthwhile to sit perched atop a water tower to watch a supersonic Russian bomber scream by overhead with an atomic bomb hanging from its belly. Better to be high-tailing it out of town. However, bureaucracies never die and the Civil Defense Department continued to enroll anyone interested into the Ground Observer Corps. My friend George and I were two 13 year olds who were definitely interested. We figured a U.S. Government assignment would be much more exciting than working on our Boy Scout merit badges. The man at the Civil Defense office gave us a condescending smile, but he signed us up. He explained the Observers’ duties … report any enemy planes we might see. While on duty we would be in telephone contact with the Strategic Air Command in Syracuse, 50 miles away. We knew the SAC guys would be hunched over their big radar screens and scanning the skies for “bandits,” but they needed our help. We were the men on the scene, able to call out the tail numbers, or something. I asked Mr. Holcomb if enemy airplane tail numbers would be in Russian, but he appeared to not hear me. Instead, the man handed us a clipboard and said to fill our names in any time slot we wanted to work. The schedule was empty. We were the only volunteers for that month and may have been the only volunteers all year. George and I were probably performing one last hurrah for the Ground Observer Corps in our town. Undaunted in our enthusiasm, we walked out on the roof of the city’s largest hotel the next day after school. The wind whistled around us and blew stray leaves and scraps of paper up against a dangerously low wall that ran around the perimeter of our gravel surfaced aerie above the town. If not careful, we could easily trip and plummet to our deaths in the street below. We used the key from Mr. Holcomb to open a grey box mounted on a pole next to a skylight glazed with whitened glass and frosted with fresh bird poop. In the box were binoculars, a booklet of silhouettes for identifying airplanes and a grey colored phone with a label above it reading “Report.” While I was wondering what to do first, George picked up the phone and spoke into it with the officious voice of a junior grade lieutenant. “Reporting for duty … Sir!! What? OK, thank you. Sir!!” A Sergeant named Carmodelli had just said he wanted us kids to behave ourselves up here on the roof. Kids? We were official government plane spotters! Utica is ten miles from a former US Air Force base and five miles from the county airport, so the sky was quite busy with aircraft. But soon, among the commercial DC3’s and the Air Force F-86 Saber Jets engaged in training flights, we spotted a Russian MiG 15. We were pretty sure of it. Of course, now that I reflect on the odds, it seems unlikely that a Russian MiG had penetrated the North American Air Defense Shield and was flying around the countryside unnoticed by the American F- 86’s. But George was certain the bogey he was peering at through the old binoculars absolutely matched the silhouette in the booklet. In fact, he was thoroughly convinced of it. Also, he pointed out that as duly sworn plane spotters we were not to question procedures or to analyze likelihoods, but just report our findings. And he was sure we were looking at a Russian MiG 15 fighter jet. Trying to stall the inevitable, I asked, “Does it have bombs on it?” “Would it matter?” asked George. “Well, yes,” I ventured. “After all, it might be a peace mission or they might be surrendering.” “I don’t see a white flag,” said George. “Well, at that speed a MiG 15 can’t just hang a flag out the window, George,” I whined. “Are you refusing to perform your sworn duty as an official Ground Observer Corpsman?” he asked in an intimidating voice. “No, of course not,” I said. “I just think we should give this some thought.” “You think about it,” he said. “I’m going to take out an enemy plane before it hurts somebody.” George picked up the phone and spoke loudly to Sergeant Carmodelli. “Sir !! My associate tells me that a Russian MiG 15 is in the air over Utica. Intentions unknown! Sir !! What? No, sir, my associate has perfectly good eyesight and he thinks you should scramble a squadron of fighter jets, pronto! Sir !!” I could hear an obviously angry voice squeaking on the other end of the line. George listened intently and then he spoke into the phone. “How much?” he asked. He nodded and put the phone back in its cradle, a serious look on his face. “Well, what did he say, George?” I asked. “The sergeant says you’re to be court martialed and hanged in the morning,” he said. “What!? Well, what about you?” I cried. “I’m getting a reward for bringing you in to the Air Base,” he said. “I’ll split it with you, if you get your father to drive us.” As I said, bureaucracies never die and they seldom get it right. A year later I received a large envelope from Washington with a letter inside saying the Ground Observer Corps was now and forever a scrubbed mission. Attached was a scroll that announced President Eisenhower’s appreciation for my 10 years of devoted public service. I was 14 years old. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| One Last Hurrah Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#1 of 7 |
| 2382 words | |
| Northern Pacific’s ancient steam engine – No.
1354 – chuffed impatiently as the engineer tended the water flowing into
the big boiler from the hydrant nearby. Steam wafted into the cool October
afternoon and floated lazily over the tracks as it dissipated. Big Mike Axel
stared off into the rising Cascade mountains, whose flanks nature painted in
festive yellows and reds. “Boy they sure don’t make things like this anymore.” Big Mike turned to address the speaker, a yard worker come to examine the massive engine. A kid, was his first thought, not even a glisten or glimmer of an idea when the foundries poured the steel for this. “Not in 50 years.” Big Mike flashed his show grin, one he reserved for the gawkers. He nodded and turned back to his task. As engineer, he monitored everything that happened to the locomotive. The best thing about filling the boiler from a fire hydrant was speed. While hydrants lacked the style of the old water tower, today they made Big Mike was thankful for the shorter the time he had to exchange small talk with the yokels. He was tired of the show. He’d directed 1354 up and down the state for the summer, hitting every small town festival and county fair with a siding close enough to accommodate rail traffic. From thirty feet, the antique steam engine sparkled like new. Fresh silver paint on many of the fittings lent an artificial elegance to the engine. High gloss black paint on its steel gave the impression of dignified age, like an old tuxedo liveried butler serving an ancient family. But that was just patina. When you stood close, within arm’s reach, new cosmetic veneer couldn’t cover the scars from years of hard use. Tattered and frayed at the edges, dented and worn like her crew of three tired old men, Engine No. 1354 sat on the siding at one final water stop before climbing into the Cascades for the last time. Cremation and scrap salvage awaited at the end of this trip. “They sure don’t,” Fast Eddy Murray said, hurrying along as fast as his eighty-three years allowed, picking up the conversation as though he’d been party to everything from the beginning. Eddy stood before them resplendent in his conductor’s uniform. Jet black pants with a satin piping down the inseams; a five button coat over a stiff white shirt; his conductor’s hat cocked jauntily. Silver pins sparkled on the front of his jacket, each representing a rail line that Fast Eddy Wiles worked in his long career. Eddy glad-handed the kid and turned to address the small knot of yard workers gathered at the rear of the engine. “Rolled out of the factory in 1922. As near as we can tell, she’s rolled over three and a half million miles of track.” “Don’t suppose we could peek inside?” “Against policy,” Eddy said. This group maybe had a better claim than the run-of-the-mill public. They worked the yards, worked the diesel monstrosities that replaced steam driven engines. “Besides, you probably wouldn’t understand a lick of it anyway. Why, there aren’t but a handful like Big Mike left in the whole country that could ramrod this thing up Snow Shoe and down Hurrah Hill.” “I thought Hurrah Hill section was just some local legend,” said the youngest. “No train’s been down that break since the mines closed back in ’57,” said the oldest and his eyes narrowed. “A maintenance short crew went through about a week ago,” the youngster said importantly. “Come through just after daylight. I thought they was lost when they took off down that siding. I mean, I ain’t never seen nothin’ use that stretch. Why do they call it Hurrah Hill anyway?” “Well, going up takes damn near every ounce this here girl can push,” Eddy relished this tale and often embroidered it. “Then, just when you get to the very crest atop Snow Shoe, why over she goes, biggest roller coaster drop you ever saw. I’ve known ramrods that won’t go down her nose first, but back down like pussies. “And you gotta watch that turn,” the oldest said. “At the bottom there’s one hell of a hair pin turn. You doin’ more than five and it’ll snatch the wheels right out from under ya.” “Sounds wicked,” the kid smiled broadly. “That’s why they wanted Big Mike here,” Eddy nodded to his friend. “He’s gone down that stretch any number of times. Got nerves of steel, Mike has.” “You sure?” The oldest said, doubt filling his voice. He turned to stare up the old mine tracks. Weeds and rust pointed to a spur that hadn’t seen use in decades. “Damn stretch was the devil to pay when it was kept up regular.” “Inspection crew come through,” Eddy nodded. “You think they’d risk this baby if the road wasn’t sure?” “Why not send you over Yakima way?” “Freight’s got the right of way,” Big Mike said, naming the death knell of the old passenger service. “Don’t forget AMTRAK,” Eddie added. “What with their run and the freight schedule, we’re pretty far down on the priority list.” “We’re done here,” Big Mike said as he closed the hydrant. Too many questions, too many curious souls who knew far too much about their route. Such things disturbed him. All of the pieces of their plan fell exactly where they were supposed to. This was no time to let a nosy local figure it out. He crossed to the base of the cab and sighed as he reached the steps. As a young man, he couldn’t wait to leap into the cockpit. Now, the effort to make just the first wrung from the cinders seemed monumental. “You alright?” Harry Weis, the brakeman, looked down from the cockpit window, checking on his friend. Filling the boiler was really Harry’s job, but he lacked the energy and ability to climb down from the cockpit. Mike nodded, grasped the handrails and slowly pulled himself aboard. Fast Eddy followed with only slightly more speed. “Thirty-seven years and eight months since I left,” he sighed as he turned to Harry. “You’d think, with all the modern improvements, they could make getting in and out of this tub of steel a bit easier, wouldn’t you?” Mike settled onto his stool and watched the pressure gages carefully, his eyes scanning each dial, years and years of experience chasing cobwebs from his cranial closet. He was home, feeling confident in this place and position, feelings he’d not had in decades, washed over him like a gentle bath. “Think of it this way,” Harry said. “That’s the last time you’ll have to climb up.” Mike sighed. “He make it?” Harry nodded to what appeared to be a pile of rags in the corner. Mike fished his glasses from the front pocket of his coveralls and examined the pile of rags. A shrinking old man nested on the floor in the corner, out of the way of all foot traffic: The Duke of Denver, last real hobo left as far as Mike could tell. “Duke?” Mike asked gently. “You with us for this?” “Gettin’ so a man can’t find a warm place to sleep any more,” the Duke said as he gathered his old blankets closer around him. “I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was Big Mike Axel.” Mike eased the throttle open and the giant engine lurched forward. “You know him?” Mike said as he looked back from his window. “He’s of an age.” “Nope,” Eddy said squinting. “Never did this run. He thought he smelled a rat though, didn’t he?” “Who’s he?” Duke asked. “Yard dick,” Harry said. “Thought they wouldn’t have no use for rail dicks any more,” Mike said as he fed more power to the engine. “I ‘spect to find a rail dick sittin’ beside Saint Peter this evening,” Duke said. “Just waitin’ to bust my ass one more time.” “We got anything left, Mike?” Harry said, turning to look at the dial. “I’m crowdin’ yard speed as it is, Harry,” Mike said. “I don’t wanna call no undue attention.” “Kick her ass hard,” Harry said. “The dick got in his truck and he’s headed this way.” Big Mike opened the throttle wider. Steam roared from the stack, but 25 tons of steel takes its own sweet time gathering momentum. Noise from the external speaker on the truck echoed off the surrounding hills, but 1354’s roar swallowed it all. When the yard ended, the service road turned into an ugly trail of switch backs and hair pins, climbing in and around gullies and canyons that the rail line bridged over on aging trestles. The yard dick’s call faded, although Big Mike thought he heard sounds of a siren before billowing steam erased it all. Bright Indian summer sun blazed the way ahead of them. The four men gathered near the back of the boiler, drinking coffee spiked heavily with whiskey. They pointed to different natural landmarks naming again every stream and creek they crossed. “I see they let ya drag a caboose,” Duke said from the window, his long grey locks waving as the train picked up speed. “Where did they have to dig that up?” “Cut the heart out of rail traffic when they stopped dragging the reds,” Fast Eddy said. “All the romance – pffft - guess they got unnecessary.” “Like us,” Harry said. “Still, no complaints. This here propane gas that fires this old girl sure beats the hell outta the shovel and coal. I don’t get dirty no more. Carol Ann would have liked that.” His voice trailed off to find a memory of a fifty year wife now seven years gone. Each man found memories of loved ones - children here, there - some gone as well; wives and friends, mostly gone but each soft memory brought new smiles. Big Mike agreed to this trip only after Edith finally reached the point where she didn’t know who she was or what planet she was on any longer. Bear Paw Mountain rose ahead of them as the tracks peeled away from the interstate corridor. A snow line dusted the top quarter of the mountain in white splendor. The cosmic artist, in its infinite design, decided that today no snow fell below this line – and dappled the lower mountain flanks in shades of green, broken by the occasional oak or red maple splalshes. Deer flashed across the tracks and Big Mike tugged on the whistle, smiling as they dashed up the tracks and darted to the side, stopping at the top of the berm to watch the strange apparition slide by. “Bear Paw?” Fast Eddy asked. “We’ll be climbing Snow Shoe in ten minutes,” Big Mike said. “This is your last call, gents. No stopping once we start climbing Snow Shoe.” “Let ‘er rip!” Eddy cried, a bit too loudly, a bit too much elation in his voice. “I been ready for years,” The Duke of Denver said. “Hell, it’s been years since I could catch a car sittin still on the tracks, much less one in motion. I’m best off here. No commotion, no fret, no tears.” Big Mike looked at Harry, his friend for more years than either cared to remember. They’d traveled thousands of miles, seen beauty and terrors untold and unremembered, memories that carved lines and creases in each face. Harry’s full white beard covered most of his age lines but the patches from his last bout with chemo peeked through here and there. “It’s time,” Harry said. “I better do this now. Can’t think of any other way I’d rather.” “No chance?” Mike asked softly, keeping their conversation as private as the small cockpit allowed. “Not this time,” Harry shook his head. “Gone too far into the spine.” Mike turned to the control panel and, with a learned hand, opened the throttle as far as he dared on this unused section. Snow Shoe Mountain rose off to their left as the engine fought up the grade. “Nearly there,” Mike said as he eased the throttle open wide. His passengers grabbed places near the windows of the cockpit to watch the majesty of the mountains rush by. An early, heavy snow covered some of the younger trees, making them bow, as if in homage to their passage above the snow line. Not even China wanted No. 1354. Time designated the old girl for salvage, every rivet and bolt. She was a rolling scrap pile, taking space better used by newer, stronger, younger machines than she – and used by those newer, stronger and younger than he as well. “Summit less than a minute boys,” Mike announced unnecessarily. “Get your HooRah’s ready!” Full open, the old engine still had life and lent a portion of its power to Big Mike. He felt life streaming back into him and willed the old girl up the slopes. Steam howled from the old seams and a few of the gaskets hissed loudly, pleading for relief. Mike smiled, ignoring the dangerous grade flags, those few not rotted away, and leaned on the throttle, making sure they had all the old girl could give. Old 1354 almost left the tracks over the top of the summit like a car in some cop show. Mike laughed aloud at the image of his steam locomotive leaping from the top of the hill in its rush. Wild eyed, his crew cheered like teenage boys on the fastest roller coaster ever. Leaning out the window, each gave whatever voice he had left to cheering the old girl on. “HOORAH!” Four voices called in near unison as their stomachs and hearts raced with the engine. 25 tons of metal and steam roared over the crest and down Snow Shoe Break – towards the aptly named Suicide Hairpin awaiting them at the bottom. And voices echoed back – voices of other crews now long forgotten cheered them from the rim of the canyon as the old girl roared through Suicide Hairpin and left the tracks - doing close to 85 the investigators would say later. “One last time boys!” Mike yelled. “HOORAH!” |
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| One Last Hurrah David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com © 2010 David Griffin |
#2 of 7 Runner-up |
| 1169 words | |
| During the second world war, everyone mobilized for the
conflict in one way or another. If you weren’t fighting in the skies over
France or slogging up the boot of Italy, you were back home dealing with
rationing and black-out shades and air raid drills. You could have been
climbing fire towers or standing on the roofs of tall buildings waiting to spot
enemy airplanes if they chanced to come over U.S. territory. In my hometown,
the citizenry felt especially vulnerable to air attack, because we were only a
hundred miles from Canada and you couldn’t trust those damned Canadian
Frenchies to do anything right, much less shoot down an enemy plane before it
flew down our valley and dropped a load of bombs on us. This fear from the skies persisted into the early days of the Cold War as folks continued to climb tall buildings and watch for menacing aircraft. But by 1957 damned few citizens thought it worthwhile to sit perched atop a water tower to watch a supersonic Russian bomber scream by overhead with an atomic bomb hanging from its belly. Better to be high-tailing it out of town. However, bureaucracies never die and the Civil Defense Department continued to enroll anyone interested into the Ground Observer Corps. My friend George and I were two 13 year olds who were definitely interested. We figured a U.S. Government assignment would be much more exciting than working on our Boy Scout merit badges. The man at the Civil Defense office gave us a condescending smile, but he signed us up. He explained the Observers’ duties … report any enemy planes we might see. While on duty we would be in telephone contact with the Strategic Air Command in Syracuse, 50 miles away. We knew the SAC guys would be hunched over their big radar screens and scanning the skies for “bandits,” but they needed our help. We were the men on the scene, able to call out the tail numbers, or something. I asked Mr. Holcomb if enemy airplane tail numbers would be in Russian, but he appeared to not hear me. Instead, the man handed us a clipboard and said to fill our names in any time slot we wanted to work. The schedule was empty. We were the only volunteers for that month and may have been the only volunteers all year. George and I were probably performing one last hurrah for the Ground Observer Corps in our town. Undaunted in our enthusiasm, we walked out on the roof of the city’s largest hotel the next day after school. The wind whistled around us and blew stray leaves and scraps of paper up against a dangerously low wall that ran around the perimeter of our gravel surfaced aerie above the town. If not careful, we could easily trip and plummet to our deaths in the street below. We used the key from Mr. Holcomb to open a grey box mounted on a pole next to a skylight glazed with whitened glass and frosted with fresh bird poop. In the box were binoculars, a booklet of silhouettes for identifying airplanes and a grey colored phone with a label above it reading “Report.” While I was wondering what to do first, George picked up the phone and spoke into it with the officious voice of a junior grade lieutenant. “Reporting for duty … Sir!! What? OK, thank you. Sir!!” A Sergeant named Carmodelli had just said he wanted us kids to behave ourselves up here on the roof. Kids? We were official government plane spotters! Utica is ten miles from a former US Air Force base and five miles from the county airport, so the sky was quite busy with aircraft. But soon, among the commercial DC3’s and the Air Force F-86 Saber Jets engaged in training flights, we spotted a Russian MiG 15. We were pretty sure of it. Of course, now that I reflect on the odds, it seems unlikely that a Russian MiG had penetrated the North American Air Defense Shield and was flying around the countryside unnoticed by the American F- 86’s. But George was certain the bogey he was peering at through the old binoculars absolutely matched the silhouette in the booklet. In fact, he was thoroughly convinced of it. Also, he pointed out that as duly sworn plane spotters we were not to question procedures or to analyze likelihoods, but just report our findings. And he was sure we were looking at a Russian MiG 15 fighter jet. Trying to stall the inevitable, I asked, “Does it have bombs on it?” “Would it matter?” asked George. “Well, yes,” I ventured. “After all, it might be a peace mission or they might be surrendering.” “I don’t see a white flag,” said George. “Well, at that speed a MiG 15 can’t just hang a flag out the window, George,” I whined. “Are you refusing to perform your sworn duty as an official Ground Observer Corpsman?” he asked in an intimidating voice. “No, of course not,” I said. “I just think we should give this some thought.” “You think about it,” he said. “I’m going to take out an enemy plane before it hurts somebody.” George picked up the phone and spoke loudly to Sergeant Carmodelli. “Sir !! My associate tells me that a Russian MiG 15 is in the air over Utica. Intentions unknown! Sir !! What? No, sir, my associate has perfectly good eyesight and he thinks you should scramble a squadron of fighter jets, pronto! Sir !!” I could hear an obviously angry voice squeaking on the other end of the line. George listened intently and then he spoke into the phone. “How much?” he asked. He nodded and put the phone back in its cradle, a serious look on his face. “Well, what did he say, George?” I asked. “The sergeant says you’re to be court martialed and hanged in the morning,” he said. “What!? Well, what about you?” I cried. “I’m getting a reward for bringing you in to the Air Base,” he said. “I’ll split it with you, if you get your father to drive us.” As I said, bureaucracies never die and they seldom get it right. A year later I received a large envelope from Washington with a letter inside saying the Ground Observer Corps was now and forever a scrubbed mission. Attached was a scroll that announced President Eisenhower’s appreciation for my 10 years of devoted public service. I was 14 years old. |
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| One Last Hurrah Valetta Cannon sandytmpa@yahoo.com |
#3 of 7 |
| 681 words | |
| Violet's roses theme failed to work because Cassie
couldn't get the weekend off and at the last minute, called to give Violet the
grim news. Just after the carnation candles passed that point of ever being
party material again. Penelope's ill-conceived yet flawlessly executed "Top Ten Romance Movies of all Time" theme showed the most promise out of all five of the tragically jilted parties. She'd even created the most awesome Grant, Gable, Cooper and Sinatra, custom tablecloth. But Cassie's two hour late, stumbling entrance desecrated their devilishly handsome faces with strawberry creme punch. I'm allergic to strawberries but somehow got assigned clean-up crew while Violet held back Cassie's hair and Penelope called for a lawyer. She'd just plead insanity, she said, her vicious glance at Cassie's exposed neck making me glad for cleanup, over Violet's job. I was almost cruel enough to feel overjoyed when Cassie forgot entirely about Jessica's girlish, horses themed gala. "What, are we twelve," Penelope had hissed while sneaking a hoof-shaped cookie. There wasted away two hours of my life. I could have slept. Nicole crashed and burned at surprises when she tried to "redirect" her daughter's "Graduation Celebration" to her home. Whoever heard of getting someone to their surprise party by inviting the guest of honor to a conjured one? Anyway, apparently Cassie wasn't bursting to congratulate young Sophie on her advancement to the 9th grade. What a selfish selfish girl. It poured buckets that night and rain makes me sleep like a baby. If only. Upon pressure from Cassie's mom, Cassie's dad reserved the best restaurant on the East side of town and even sent a limo to pick up my dear cousin. Apparently Mohinder, who by the way fills a cap and suit like nobody's business, tried navigating around the fire trucks for a good twenty minutes. However once he'd realized his would-be passenger was the weeping, soot-clad madwoman wrangling two protesting, squirming cats, he'd come by the party empty-handed, just to dish. Aunt Brenda slapped that poor man silly while zooming out the door. "My daughter could be crying for her mama, you sick jerk," she'd scolded. Of course once she left we'd huddled into his personal space to squeeze every last detail out of that fine example of the male form. Today it's my turn. Today Cassie's papers are all in order and her parents' eyes stream soul rain and I discover all the truth of why the other parties failed. There's the note about family time disappearing when training was accelerated due to demand of fresh troops. And the story of Cassie's one too many downed shots with her fellow platoon members when she received her new launch date - the same day she'd bought that dreadful purple maid of honor dress for. Exhausted from intensive training and pre-dawn drills, Cassie had used those precious minutes she could have been munching on hoof-shaped cookies to squeeze her fellow private's shaking hand while she worried over the sick mom she couldn't take time off to visit. Somehow a graduation celebration stood small in the shadow of a funeral ceremony for Cassie's bunk mate's brother. Just landed in Afghan sand two months prior, that young man. Cassie's cat rescue made the papers. The mayor really loves those crazy balls of fur. Fortunate she'd been helping an old classmate move and was running late. The paper ended the secret. She'd spilled it all out the next day while nursing a burnt hand and gashed leg. Here we'd thought she was headed for art school in France. How green we'd been. Before revelation, any party planned for this ungrateful, selfish cousin made me saint of the day. What a favor to pay ditsy, twenty year old, always tardy Cassie. But nothing seems now worthy, not photo slideshow on the big screen, Penelope strumming Cassie's favorites on her Fender, Violet's carefully crafted cruise ship cake, Nicole's leaning tower of gifts, Jessica's dashing, eligible big brother or even my first time in a nice dress since Y2K, of perhaps the last time I'll see my newest hero. |
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| One Last Hurrah lins.writing@yahoo.com |
#4 of 7 |
| 809 words | |
| I find it funny how the feeling of hope comes and goes
throughout the day. It seems to grow every time I sit to rest a bit. When I was
young, I mean very young, I didn’t want to stop to take it easy; I kept
going and going. Now, that’s all I want to do, sit and rest this weary
body. “Mrs. Hasher, let’s get going. I want to swing,” Sally, said pulling on my hand. “We’re almost to the park, sweetie.” “Mrs. Hasher, why are you’re hands so wrinkly? Did you used to be real real fat?” Sally asked skipping next to me. “No child. I’m just getting old and my skin doesn’t fit as well as yours.” “Is that why you have all those brown spots on them too?” “Yes, dear. I remember when I was your age my skin was clear and fit me just like yours fits you. My hair was long and blond like yours too.” “Now your hair is beautiful! It’s shiny silver like your necklace. Will my hair get like that too when I’m old?” “Yes some day it will. My mother always told me silver hair was the gift God gave her to show His appreciation for all the hard work she did.” “Wow, God is so smart to come up with that. My mom says gray hair comes from all the things she has to put up with from me.” Sally scrunched up her face then made her eyes get big and gave me a big smile. “I like your mom’s idea better.” The sun danced over the park poking holes through the trees and catching the dew on the grass, turned the green blades into a carpet covered with diamonds. Sally dashed across it leaving a little trail of footprints to the swings. “Be careful Sally, don’t go too high,” I called, sitting down on the park bench. The breeze gently pushed the yellow heads of the dandelions up and down nodding their approval of the splendor of the morning. Behind the swings was a lofty hedge of lilacs sending out their delicate sweet fragrance. I drank in the awesome majesty before me and remembered Frank. ~~ “Darlin’ come sit with me, share the magnificence of creation. Life is short; don’t let it pass you by without enjoying it.” “Frank, it’s going to rain. Look at the clouds; they’re getting dark.” “So what? Every cloud has a silver lining. With the cloud comes rain and rain brings a drink for the earth, allows it to grow and produce wheat, fruit, and flowers. Look at the lilacs and take in the heady scent they share. Come swing, relish it, and embrace it in your heart. God shares it with me and I want to share it with you.” “Frank, we’re getting too old to sit in the rain, we’ll catch our death. Let’s go home and watch it from the porch.” “Darlin, look at you. You’re hair is silver and sits on top of you like an exquisite delicate cloud. You are my life; you will always be my joy. You are the rejuvenating drink for this parched soul. God blessed me with a woman of strength and hope. Come sit, share.” ~~ “Why didn’t I take time and swing with him? I guess I didn’t think our time together would be that short. He was my strength, my drink, and most of all my love. Why didn’t I listen to my heart instead of my head? You old foolish woman.” I glanced around to make sure no one heard me. Sally was still on the swing and waving. “Sally, come sit with me,” I said barely above a whisper and dabbed away the tear slipping down my cheek. “I’ll be right there,” she called dragging her feet to stop then added. “What’s that smell?” “That’s lilacs, the bushes behind the swings. Aren’t they delightful?” I said. “Yes they are. I like dandelions too. Here, let me see if you like butter,” Sally said picking a dandelion and holding it up under my chin. “Yup, you like butter,” Sally giggled and started to walk away. “Let’s walk over by the flower gardens. Maybe we’ll see a spider spinning a web.” We walked a ways, and there between the red and white tulips was a big web covered with dew and sparkling like a crystal chandelier. Catching the sun, the dew sent rainbows skittering over the dark brown fence. “If only my Frank could see this. I can hear him saying. “Come see, Darlin, remember Ecclesiastes 3:11; ‘God has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.’ This is our one last hurrah.” |
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| One Last Hurrah Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#5 of 7 Winner |
| 408 words | |
| Something warm and salty found a path down Sally's
tired face and moistened the corner of her ever so dry mouth. It was hot. It
was humid. Why was there never any air-con in these dreadful little airfields
in the middle of nowhere? Too long without sleep was bringing all kinds of
thoughts struggling into her consciousness. She thought of the heat and of all
the things she had forced herself to do on this one last trip. But most of all,
her mind returned again and again to thoughts of death. "Too late for tears now," said the spotty young Customs Officer. His uniform hat was a size larger than it should be and was held up mostly by his ears. However, he was the one in authority. He was the one who had opened her trusty old backpack. Neither of his colleagues on duty had bothered to wear their hats and neither looked like they would do what he was doing with his finger. The old gray haired Officer called over. "Don't do that. We don't do that here. We only do that in the movies." The young Officer paid no attention. This was his interception, his case, his first rung on the ladder of promotion, the break that could get him something new and shiny to sew into his uniform. He put his index finger back into the powder in the biscuit tin. This was his moment for he was the one who had found it carefully sealed up with tape and wrapped around in underwear at the bottom of Sally's backpack. Slowly, he held up his powder coated finger for Sally's fellow travelers to see. Everyone was now gathering all around the little drama and he was center stage. The old Officer called again. "Stay clear of that stuff. You don't know what it is and you don't want to scramble your brains." But the finger went straight back into his mouth and the young Officer leaned forward to look Sally straight in the eye for this was the way to get at the truth. "So what's all this powder then," he said. Sally looked back. Her face contorted just a little and her shoulders heaved but she wasn't sobbing. "It's Father's ashes," she said. “I'm bringing him home now. You can have some more if you like. I'm sure he won't mind." And a ragged little cheer rang all around. |
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| One Last Hurrah Toddwuo |
#6 of 7 |
| 2473 words | |
| He was a most peculiar man. The people of the upper
middle class neighborhood could be seen to stop raking leaves, gardening or
just chatting to watch him pull into his driveway. He didn’t actually
drive himself, a driver, not really a chauffeur, took care of those duties.
Misha was retired from his job and for the most part, from society as well. His
neighbors passive voyeurism did not bother him, in fact at times he would muse
to himself all of the wild ideas they may have conjured up to satisfy their
curiosity. Today they were in for a treat but this was not the motive for his
current actions. No, today the neighbors would be victims of circumstance,
circumstance that prevented him from using the discretion the previous
night’s darkness would have afforded him. Misha grew up in Post war America and had suffered injuries before birth in Iraq before coming to the States. His mother had been killed while pregnant with him. He had been saved by a fast acting surgeon that also adopted him and raised him to full manhood, if one could call his state of being, manhood. Years after his birth, the full extent of his injuries would become painfully obvious. His anatomy had been altered to the point of where sex appeal and drive were non-existent. The good doctor who raised him knew enough of psychology to help Misha understand how he was different from his friends. He also taught him how to hide his affliction, because in those times, explanations would fall on deaf ears and ostracism would be the only accomplishment. Misha would laugh at the pubescent jokes other boys would whisper as early developed girls would walk passed in school. He would even create some of his own. Later he would even date and make it as far as second base and rounding towards third. This made the disguise complete, almost too complete. The girls he dated were grateful for his restraint, even if they insisted he continue. This endured him to them and consequently his popularity grew. What also grew was the time he spent brooding while replaying conversations, wincing at memories of where he had omitted important facts or told tales of untruths, gently guiding his date to the wrong conclusion. Religion, illnesses, and early morning schedules were the usual excuses he’d given and had been accepted. The dance had been wonderful. Judy, his date, had been excited to be in his company. The hours at the high school gym seemed only minutes and now he found himself alone with Judy in her car on a deserted road. “Must have turned too early back there, I’m sorry” she said. “That’s ok, let’s just turn around at the next driveway and we’ll be back on track.” He replied. Judy slowed down and guided her car to a spot off the side of the road. She was silent and deliberate as she put the car in park and turned off the engine. Turning the key all the way towards her, Judy then reached over and turned the radio on. She found a station playing soft music and turned the volume low enough so they could talk quietly. He smiled and took his seatbelt off as she did the same and slide towards him on the seat. Judy had shoulder length black hair and felt silky smooth as he ran his fingers through it. He liked the feel of the hair against the skin of his fingers. It felt cool compared to warmth of her scalp. Judy shivered. “Are you cold, should we turn on the heat?” He asked. Judy’s wry smile was not exactly the answer he was looking for. She turned and brushed her lips against his. He responded by kissing he gently at first and then parting her lips with his tough to find hers. She moaned softly and let her hand drift down his shoulder to his ribs. She reached around his back and pulled him closer. “It is getting warm in here.” She said. They embraced again with deeper more passionate kisses. His hands found their way past the fabric of her blouse and under her bra. Fog crept up the windows as Misha’s cell phone rang. “Yes dad. Oh, the dance was great. . . Late, how late, my watch must have stopped” he said looking at his wrist and the sweeping hands of the luminescent watch. “I’ll have Judy bring me home, right away.” “What? Love you too.” Judy looked disappointed but also impressed. “You meant that, didn’t you?” “Meant what?” “You love your father.” “Yes, adopted father, but yes. Don’t you love your parents?” “Of course I do, but I would feel weird saying it in front of my friends.” “Oh.” “Oh, that’s all, just oh?” “No, sorry I have to get home; I’ve got a big test to study for the next couple of days, so my father has reminded me.” Judy looked down and didn’t even blush as she adjusted her bra and button her blouse. She peeked up hoping to see him staring in awe; instead he was buckling his belt and gazing at the stars. She passed this off as normal thinking he’s the one that had been embarrassed. Now at home Judy thought more about the evening. She had been with other guys and had to fight them off. Tonight was different; she had to make the first advances. This was nice but also strange. She had also felt other guys fully aroused against her thigh while they were kissing. She had had her hand resting on him and there seemed to be nothing, nothing at all. Maybe he preferred blonds instead but she dismissed this as silly. Maybe the test was on his mind, still he had gotten further than most and was not aroused. She thought about his possible orientation and then remembered his passionate attention to her breasts. She circled her fingers around her nipples making them as hard as he had just hours before. Her breathing quickened and she stopped, forcing her hands to fold in her lap before she lost complete control. The evening had been exciting and the gentleman she took home was very kind. Some day she would have him, completely. The combination of emotion and sexual tension had left Judy drained of energy. Yawing she got up from her night table and crawled into bed. The cool temperature of the sheets and bedding were a welcoming embrace as she drifted off to sleep. Later, her door slowly opened and Judy’s mind closed as she went off to a happy place where her stepfather could not reach her. Misha opened and closed the front door to his house quietly. He walked up the stairs to find his father waiting up for him in his favorite easy chair across the carpeted floor of the living room. “You’re early.” His father said. “Not all that early.” Misha answered. “Is there anything wrong?” His father asked. “Nothing out of the ordinary” Misha said. “I can’t say that I understand because to be honest to myself, I have no idea of how I would feel in your situation. All I can do is to try to help you to understand your feelings about the relationships and your actions. I imagine you feel you have betrayed your date, or more accurately, lied to her.” Misha frowned, was angered but that soon passed and was replaced a since of admiration. “How do you know these things? I have not said anything about what happened tonight.” Misha stated. “The dance was over long ago; you either went out to eat a late night snack or went parking somewhere. By your now blushing face I am sure that it was the latter. Knowing your condition is what makes this conversation difficult. If it were me I would be worried for the next weeks as to whether or not Judy would have her period on schedule. You on the other hand will be worried about whether your secret is still safe or not.” Misha was impressed. His father was very wise. They had a bond deeper than a relationship forged on paper. Their relationship was very special and precious, it was also very candid and open. Misha had little trouble relaying to his father exactly what had happened in the last hour. When he had finished his father looked sad and was silent for a time of reflection. After a long pause, he lifted his scotch and soda, signed and took a long slow drink from the glass. “This is what I mean. I cannot even come close to relate to what is going on in your young head. I think your secrete is safe. Ironically I should be upset about your experimentation into sex. I can only offer m “This is what I mean. I cannot even come close to relate to what is going on in your young head. I think your secrete is safe. Ironically, I should be upset about your experimentation into sex. I can only offer my regrets.” His father offered. “Regrets? Why would I have any regrets?” Misha asked. “Misha, it is good that you do not understand what you are missing, that you have only known the way that you are now.” Misha entered the night club slowly letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He fought back the urge to cough when he inhaled the smoke filled air. It was later in the evening and most of the men around the stage were drunk or nearly there. He stopped at the bar and paid for two glasses of Scotch, the minimum, that were already waiting for him at the edge of the dingy bar. “Hey Joe, how are you” the bar tender asked? He nodded and smiled his reply as he moved toward the stage. The music had ended and the girl on stage bent over and picked up the last few parts of her costume to the whistles and jeers of the patrons at the rail. She smiled and disappeared through the curtain in back while at the same time a dark haired beauty came though and the music accelerated to life once again. Misha slammed back the first drink, used part of the second one as cologne and dumped the remains on the floor under the table in front of the stage. Just than the girl turned and Misha managed a false drunken smile, his patients had paid off. He had found the one he had been looking for. Noticing the suit, the drunken state and the smile of appreciation, Candy zeroed in on her mark for the evening. He looked wealthy and she hoped this would be her one last hurrah. Years of experience had now taught him just how different he was. But instead of anger he had resigned to making a positive impact on the world he lived in. The name she had given him was Candy, but he knew that was not her real name. He got out of the car and quickly went around to her side and opened the back door for her. “A real gentleman, it has been years since I known a real gentleman.” Candy said. “I know.” Misha mutter to himself in a hushed tone. “What did you say?” Candy asked. “It feels like I’ve known you from somewhere else.” Misha said. “I seriously doubt that. This is a nice place you’ve got here.” Candy said while taking in her surroundings. “It will do.” Misha said as he led her inside. Inside Misha had his drive cook them some breakfast of waffles and eggs, while he mixed two Bloody Maries. He handed Candy hers and then started to explain why he had brought her to his house. Candy listened to his stories. She offered reciprocity by explaining why she danced at an exotic nightclub. Misha knew why and witnessed firsthand her talents. She mused at how she had beguiled him but felt the room slipping away. He had drugged her. Why had he drugged her? Didn’t he know she would have given him anything he wanted? Misha caught the glass before it left her hand and set it on the end table next to the couch. Candy’s questioning mind would have all the answers by the end of the week. Candy awoke in an apartment setup in the basement of Misha’s house. Sitting across the room from her was Misha. “Joe, what the hell do you think you are doing?” Candy asked angrily. “My name is not Joe, Judy, it is Misha.” “Misha! Wait, how do you know my real name? I think its sick, what you are doing here and especially using the name of a past high school friend.” Candy replied. “Friend! Try, reluctant lover after a dance date, Judy.” Candy’s painted face began to change to that of the innocent Judy she was so long ago. “I nearly had you in the front seat of my car.” Judy said recalling the awkward teenage sex they had attempted. “But my body or actions weren’t enough for you were they?” “I can’t Judy, I never could.” Misha stated in a matter of fact tone. He explained further by drifting into stories of the war and how he was wounded before even being born. “But you were so good. None of the others in high school could come close to the way I felt with you.” “It was all an act with no emotions or physical arousal as distractions. Does this sound familiar?” Misha asked. Judy (Candy) thought back to the night of the dance with Misha and then to her act on stage and how she draws men into the fantasy. “Judy, your stepfather is dead. He can’t make you do anything anymore. You can stop punishing all those men by offering what you never intend to deliver. You will come to believe this in the next couple of weeks of therapy” Misha said. Again, the room started to slip away from Candy, drugged, again. Misha had experimented and by trial and error had perfected a therapy to mend broken people. He used a combination of a drug induced dissociative state and cognitive psychological treatment. This creates subliminal lasting affects that reshape the patient’s personality. The causes of their low self esteem are replaced with positive self images. Through the next several weeks Misha’s forced therapy won and Candy disappeared, at least for awhile. “Goodbye Misha, you have fulfilled a vow of mine and I truly do love you.” “Goodbye Judy.” Misha said closing the front door as he watched his driver back down the driveway to deliver Judy back to a life she once had thought was lost forever. |
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| One Last Hurrah glenlee10@sky.com |
#7 of 7 |
| 1763 words | |
| It was his favourite time of the day. He wriggled on
his stool to find the most comfortable position and pulled back his hair,
leaning forward to stare into the mirror. It was surrounded by dozens of small
bulbs. The bright, white light they gave was unforgiving. “Crow’s feet,” he murmured. “I knew it.” He giggled. “But I can fix that. I have the technology.” The dressing table at which he sat was bathed in the light and was covered with jars and bottles and tins, of powders and paints. Scrunched tissues and used cotton wool balls, old lipsticks and beer bottle tops littered the Formica surface. He grunted. Must clear this up sometime, he thought, and then forgot all about housekeeping as he set to work on his transformation. He’d washed his face thoroughly before leaving home so the first step was to apply the cream base. He could have used a sponge but loved the slick feel of the cream, cool on his finger. He dipped into the large pot and covered his skin with the lightly scented goo. “Polyfiller,” he murmured, “but it does the job nicely.” He rubbed the cream in as gently as though he was rubbing Vaseline onto a baby’s sore bottom. “Not that I’d know anything about that.” Next, he sorted through a jar of brushes to find his favourite, the one made of artificial mongoose hair. He dipped it into a tin of face powder, a shade dark enough to cover the shadow on his chin that even a close shave could not remove. The brush was as light as a thin mist stroking his cheeks. It had the touch of the spring day that promises so much, then delivers with a refreshing, surprising, innocence. Getting there, he thought as he relaxed into his task. Blusher next. He glanced towards the wig he would be wearing later, the pink one with white highlights. It would need a complementary colour. He hesitated. The hot pink was too, what was the word? Yes, fluorescent, that was the word. It was too fluorescent. He needed something just a little more subtle. ‘Golden Bronze’ caught his eye. He unscrewed the lid. Perfect. The colour glowed. Even the harsh light couldn’t dim its glamour. “Fool’s gold,” he chuckled. That’s just what it was. Gold to fool the fools, just like the rest of the tools he was using. He dipped a sponge, a clean one, into the blusher, then lightly, so lightly he could hardly feel it, stroked the colour onto his cheeks. It was the colour of a newly cut apricot. “Luscious.” Then he sealed the makeup with a transparent powder. The effect pleased him but he was not yet at the point where he could afford to smile for fear of damaging the ‘paintjob’ as he called it. The eyes? The lips? What next? “The eyes, I think.” He reached for this eyebrow pencils and chose the deepest blue he had that wasn‘t actually black. With great care and the tip of his tongue licking his lips to aid his concentration, he drew in his eyebrows. He drew slim, dark lines that scoured the tops of his eyes and stabbed towards his nose like the thin blades assassins would carry. He drew a deep pink crescent above each eye, echoes of his long removed eyebrows. He lined his eyes with kohl and decided on cobalt for his eyelids. The cream was cold and tugged at the loose skin as he worked. The lips. Yes, the lips. What colour? Not bright red. Blood blue-red, he thought. He searched through the scatter of lipsticks in front of him and found the one he wanted. But first, he outlined the bow of her lips with a thin brown pencil. She filled in her luscious lips, finishing them with a coating of clear gloss. She didn’t blot her lips. That was for amateurs, she thought as she sat in front of the mirror with her mouth open, waiting for the colours to dry. She was panting a little with the exertion. She liked the expression. She could use that sexy pout later. There was a knock on her dressing room door. “Thirty minutes, Miss Luscious,” a young, male voice shouted. “Thank you, dear,” she acknowledged him. Thirty minutes, she mused, to adjust her underwear, to get into the skimpy costume that showed her legs right up to her armpits, to slide into her fishnets, to put on her wig, to walk to the stage. And to drench herself in perfume strong enough to drown out the waves of male testosterone that would be flooding her way in twenty-five minutes time when Miss Luscious began her act in front of all those boys at Les Bons Temps! All those naughty boys, she thought and finally, now her war paint was set, she allowed herself a smile. She was a star and the adoration of her audience was an aphrodisiac, lifting her up, amplifying her talents and she knew it was the best show she had ever done. It was breath-taking. It was like bathing in electricity, or drinking the liquor of the gods. And for a while, she forgot. The reminder came at the height of the last number. It was a snake, vicious and hungry, uncoiling in her lower abdomen. It was her memento mori. She felt her cancer twisting, strangulating, worse than it had ever been, having feasted perhaps on her vitality and wanting more. She gasped. The intake of breath fed into the last note of her last song and sustained it beyond what the orchestra was expecting. The note was pure and clear. She was a trooper. I’m going out on a high note, she thought, and she lowered one eye, in a deep wink. She followed through with a deep curtsey, her hand on her heart to keep in bounds the pounding within her chest. Everyone in the theatre went wild as the curtain was lowered. Out of sight, she sighed and beckoned two dancers to help her to her feet. Beyond the curtain there was whistling and shouts of, “Encore! Encore!” “Come with me,” she whispered to the dancers as her energy drained away. She held tight to their hands as the curtain went up. The volume of noise in the auditorium doubled. She smiled. She bowed. She let go the hand of one of the dancers and waved at her friends, the audience. She blew kisses. The response was more whistling and foot stamping. More shouts for an encore rolled round the walls but she shook her head. “Thank you, boys,” she said as the curtain fell for the last time. The dancers helped her back to the dressing room. “Do you need anything?” one of them asked. He looked worried. “No, dear heart,” Miss Luscious answered. “Just a little time on my own to recover. But thank you, anyway.” The door closed and she was alone. “What a swan song,” she said. She sat on the stool and wriggled to find the most comfortable position. There was none. As the adrenaline faded away, she felt her stomach ache. Her bones hurt. Her head was light She was nauseous. Enough, she told herself. Enough. She leaned forward to stare into the mirror. The bright, white light from the dozens of small bulbs was unforgiving. She sorted through the jar of brushes for the one made of artificial mongoose hair. She dipped it into the face powder and began to touch up her face. The brush was as light as a thin mist stroking her cheeks with the touch of a spring day. She unscrewed the lid of the ‘Golden Bronze’ blusher. The colour glowed. Even the harsh light couldn’t dim its glamour. “Fool’s gold,” she chuckled. She dipped a sponge into the blusher, then lightly, so lightly she could hardly feel it, stroked the colour onto her cheeks. They took on the colour of a newly cut apricot. Then she sealed the makeup with a transparent powder. The effect pleased her. She reached for the eyebrow pencil she’d used earlier, the deepest blue one that wasn‘t quite black. With great care and the tip of her tongue licking her lips to aid her concentration, she redrew her eyebrows, slim, dark lines they were, that scoured the tops of her eyes and stabbed towards her nose like the thin blades assassins would carry. She drew a deep pink crescent above each eye, echoes of her long removed eyebrows. She lined her eyes with kohl and applied cobalt on her eyelids. The cream was cold and tugged at the loose skin as she worked. She searched through the scatter of lipsticks on the dressing table top and found the blood blue-red one. She outlined the bow of her lips with a thin brown pencil. She filled in her luscious lips, finishing them with a coating of clear gloss. She didn’t blot her lips. She sat in front of the mirror with her mouth open, waiting for the colours to dry. “Luscious,” she murmured, thankful that the grey had gone from her cheeks. She took a bottle of vodka from a drawer and poured a tumbler full. Once the colour had dried on her lips, she took a sip. “Drown, damn you,” she told the serpent that lived in her intestines as she emptied the glass. She poured another then fumbled in her bag for the bottle of tablets. “This’ll finish you off, you bugger,” she raised her glass to her reflection and began to put the tablets in her mouth, each followed by a sip of the alcohol. The pain began to die. “Told you so,” she said. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks burned red. She decided to powder her face to tone down the effect but the effort was too much. The jar of brushes was just out of her reach. She managed to raise her glass in salute one final time. “One last hurrah, boys, to Miss Luscious. May she die in the style in which she lived.” |
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