| 1 2 3 |
"Out Of Gas" (the 104th ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 6 7 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Out Of Gas" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), April 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Out Of Gas By kstaley@gmail.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Jimmy’s apartment had the
earmarks of the backwash from a tidal wave that deposited its load of books on
every available space. Mounds and piles, some stacked neatly, others
precarious, some in places of honor, others seemingly kicked aside without any
kind of concern. Stacks of books served as impromptu tables that held reading
lamps here, dirty plates there. Rings from wet cups and drinking glasses left
circles on the tops of those piles closest to his chair. Other piles fused
together into giant pillars – used to hold more books. Only an overstuffed
chair facing the fire place escaped the piles of books. One book rested, pages
open but face down on the arm, while another, open and face down as well, sat
on the other arm. Standing at the front door, Eric saw Bob Roberts, the undergrad student who he’d sent to pick Jimmy up but who placed a frantic phone call to his office instead. “You’d better get over here quick,” Bob’s voice came out as a whispered hush. “This man is nuts! Completely gone.” Magazines and pages torn from them littered the floor like rose petals dropped in a wedding processional. Piles of books acted as path markers to the window, the kitchen, and off to what Eric assumed was Jimmy’s bedroom. “Where is he?” He asked Bob, peering over stacks and down pathways. “Somewhere back there,” Bob waved towards the back of the house. No sound escaped giving any clue where Dr. James Jasper Duncan, Professor of Astrology emeritus, might be hiding. “Back door?” Eric asked. “Not a chance. Just hope a fire don’t break out,” Bob said as he stood. “You think this room is bad. This is nothing. You can’t even get into some of the other rooms. God knows what he does for a bathroom.” “How do you know he’s still here?” “It hasn’t been that long since I called,” Bob said. “He was sitting in that chair reading when I got you. You told me not to let him escape. He hasn’t gone out the front door.” “Jimmy?” Eric called into the room and took tentative steps towards the reading chair, the only obvious piece of furniture in sight. “It’s time to head to the lab, Jimmy.” A small round head popped above one of the rear stacks in the general direction of the kitchen, Eric thought. Dr. James Duncan, 87, whose crown glowed as though waxed. Waves of snow white locks swept up the side of his head like an old wimple on a nun. “That you Charley?” Jimmy called. “It’s time is it then?” “No, Jimmy, it’s Eric. Eric Cauldor,” Eric said. “Charley’s been gone these past ten years.” “Say, that’s right,” Jimmy said as his head disappeared. “Where did he go again?” “Project manager at Lawrence Livermore now,” Eric said. There he stood. His current state of undress made him appear shorter than his listed five feet. Jimmy wore his ubiquitous, hand-tied bow tie, his trademark over decades of teaching, perched atop his bare throat. A starched white shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, was inside out. How do you manage THAT trick? Eric wondered. Jimmy’s suspenders clipped to his boxer shorts as he stood there sans pants, in socks that didn’t match in style or color. “Did Martha let you in? I didn’t know you were coming today,” he followed a path to his reading chair and assumed the throne. “I wasn’t aware our interview was today. I’m sorry, but I’m really not prepared. Perhaps tomorrow.” “What’s wrong with him?” Bob asked. He’d come up so quietly that Eric jumped. “I mean, he’s always been a bit eccentric, but this ... .” “What has he said? What do you recall?” “Who is Martha? He keeps saying she’s in the process of making us tea,” Bob said. “And who is Edward? He sure doesn’t seem to like Edward much.” “Martha was his wife,” Eric sighed. “His third. Edward was his only son.” “Was?” “Both gone,” Eric said quietly as he watched Jimmy pick up a book and begin reading. “Martha died twelve years ago. Edward was killed in Desert Storm.” “Jesus,” Bob said. “But – I mean – he talks about them as though they’ve just stepped out for a moment.” “I guess they have,” Eric said. “To him at least. Hustle back to the lab. They need you there worse than I need you here.” “Should I call an ambulance?” “I don’t think we need one,” Eric said. “I see no outward signs of a stroke and he doesn’t seem to be in any physical duress. Call the University Hospital and speak to someone in the geriatric ward. I’ll drive him over as soon as I get him dressed.” As Bob hurried from the house, Eric stood watching his mentor and friend silently. One of the brightest astrophysicists that ever lived now sat in the middle of a mental melt down. He glanced around the room, as much as his own sensibilities allowed. From the looks of things, Jimmy’s mental departure had been building to this moment for some time. “Oh, hello Eric,” Jimmy lowered his book, his reading glasses perched precariously on the very tip of his nose. “I didn’t hear you come in. Is it six yet.” “Just passed, Jimmy,” Eric said softly as he crossed to his friend. “Time we finished getting you dressed.” “Right. Say, who was that young kid you sent over earlier?” Jimmy placed his book on the arm of the chair and made motions to stand. “Sharp kid. Bright as hell. Reminded me – of me – at his age.” “Bob Roberts,” Eric moved to help the aged man. Jimmy stood, looked down, and slowly sank back into a semi sitting position in his chair, burying his face in his hands as his body slowly deflated. He was back from wherever he’d been. Eric could almost hear the brilliant mind click. “My God,” he whispered. “How long this time?” He looked up at Eric. “What time is it, Eric. The truth.” “Almost noon, Jimmy,” Eric said softly as he squatted beside the chair. “Impact?” “Fifteen minutes,” Eric whispered gently. “Fifteen – we’ll miss it then,” Jimmy said as he sat back in his chair and stared into a void. James Jasper Duncan would miss his life’s finale. He’d dedicated 45 years of his life to the study of the rings of Jupiter. He was the world’s leading authority on such matters. Other scientists studied the major storm in depth, finally probing it’s mysteries in 1995. Jimmy knew that the different colored rings on the planet were the result of violent wind storms, some travelling in opposite directions. His experiment – his thesis – his life was dedicated to the belief that if any life existed at all on the planet, it did so in the space between those storms. Three years ago, his package of probes lifted from Vandenburg in California. At the time, he claimed that it was the highlight of his life, when they let him push the button that ignited that massive rocket. “Kind of ironic,” he smiled at the time. “that the ultimate Jupiter probe would be launched atop a Saturn rocket.” Although data from the probes would take hours, perhaps days, to return any kind of signal to earth, Jimmy wanted to be present at impact. He designed three probes for hard landings, their data spewed back towards earth as they raced through the atmosphere. He designed three others for soft impact. One, his baby, he designed to let loose a small robot, programmed to move away from the probe in concentric circles to a distance of ten feet. Now it didn’t matter at all. Jimmy would never see the data, or again make sense of it in any manner that amounted to anything substantial. “So long,” he said, “so much has happened in these years. Did you know I’ve been married three times?” “No,” Eric lied. “Three kids.” “Three? But – I thought Edward ... .” “No,” Jimmy said as a hard sadness crept across his face. “Two others. Wish I could tell you where they are...whether they married...had children. I was always just too busy. There was always another lab – someplace.” He paused as his head sunk forward. “I was too busy to live life, Eric.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” “Few do,” James said, still examining the carpet between his feet. “That’s one of the blessings of old age. There aren’t many around who remember the sins of your past.” “We need to get you dressed,” Eric said. “It doesn’t make any difference now, does it? The lab, I mean,” Jimmy asked. “Whether I’m there or not? Hasn’t made any difference in almost 18 months, since Jupiter’s gravity claimed Martha for it’s own.” Martha. He’d named the experiment and probe after his late wife. “We’ll go to the hospital,” Eric said as he stood. “You need to be seen. Perhaps stay a day or so for observation.” “Oh - oh, no thank you, Eric,” Jimmy said. “It’s very kind of you, but I won’t be leaving here again.” “What? You can’t stay here, Jimmy,” Eric said as he looked around again at the squalor. “When was the last time you ate? At least go, get checked and have a good hot meal. You can decide later where you’d like to go. How will we manage the data without you?” “Just as you’ve done for six months,” he sighed and closed his eyes. “You haven’t needed me. Not really. My life was getting the probe there. That was my life, consumed my daily focus long into the night. I need some promises from you though.” “Okay. I promise. Just as soon as I see you in a hospital bed. Don’t make me call an ambulance,” he said with mock severity. Suddenly Jimmy sat up and grabbed his wrist tightly. Eric couldn’t believe that the old man possessed that much strength. “You must promise now, while you still can, that you won’t spend your life on the data that comes back,” Jimmy’s crystal blue eyes pinned Eric. “Live! In all of this, that’s something I’ve forgotten how to do,” he sighed and as Eric watched it seemed that air drained away from the old man like a slowly leaking balloon. “It’s time to get up, Jimmy,” Eric stood and reached for his cell phone. He dialed 911 and asked that an ambulance hurry. University Hospital was less than 10 minutes away, but the ambulance service came from the city EMS squad attached to a fire station a bit further off campus. By the time they arrived, Jimmy faded further. His skull looked almost skeletal, eyes and cheeks sunk deep into empty recesses. Although his eyes remained open, Eric was unsure Jimmy saw anything. As they strapped the old man to the gurney, one of the technicians called in Jimmy’s vital signs to the emergency room. “First case I’ve seen,” one of the technicians said. “But I’ve read about them before.” “What?” Eric demanded. “He’s simply out of gas. Cases like his cropped up first in American POW during Korea, then again in Viet Nam; GIs simply lost all will to live, went to sit down in a corner - and died, without fuss, without stirring, without reason.” As Eric watched, Jimmy smiled sadly at him and closed his eyes. “You’d best say any good bye you have. Cases I’ve read about say he won’t last the weekend.” Eric crossed to the gurney and took the old man’s hand. “Live!” Jimmy’s urgent voice barely cleared the stretcher. “I promise,” Eric said as hot tears began a slow parade down his face. |
| Out Of Gas By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| On Wednesday, 8th April 2010, Gordon
Brown, the Prime Minister of Britain and Northern Ireland, went to see the
Queen to seek her approval for Parliament to be dissolved. She gave her consent
and a General Election was therefore called for 6th May. Britain seemed to have
been holding its breath for the last three or four years but suddenly, there
was a sense of relief, like when an old woman takes off her corsets and has a
good scratch. It was Day One of the election campaign and I had a month to get my party’s policies across to the people in my constituency. Standing politicians have a record of sleaze, even downright theft if you consider the recent expenses’ scandal and new candidates, like myself had to convince voters that we were not ‘all the same’. The stench of corruption was still in people’s nostrils and it would be an uphill battle overcoming the apathy for which Westminster was responsible. I showered, shaved and dressed and pinned my bright, blue rosette to my jacket lapel. This would be the last moment of calm until after the results were announced. It promised to be a very busy four weeks. I’d studied hard and I thought I had all the Tory (Conservative & Unionist) policies at my fingers tips. My constituency chairman had advised me that the Economy, “With a Capital-E!” he said, would be at the top of the agenda, certainly in the beginning. Well, I thought, the phrase and the idea, “It’s the economy, stupid”, had helped to see Bill Clinton into the White House, so I’d go along with that. Getting the country back on its feet was crucial and the three main parties quickly put up posters that lied about the plans of the opposing parties. Gordon Brown, the Labour leader, claimed that David Cameron, the Tory leader, had done his sums on the “back of an envelope”. David Cameron replied, “Labour are so desperate to cling to power they’ve resorted to scaring people by making up things about the Tories.” The LibDems (Liberal Democrats), led by Nick Clegg, bitched about the other two. That first morning, I wandered round one of the shopping centres in the city’s suburbs for three hours, trying to hand out leaflets to people who didn’t want to accept them. It was a drizzly day and no one seemed inclined to stand and thrash out the issues with me. It wasn’t the baptism of fire I’d expected. These were the people Cameron called the, ‘great ignored, the honest, hardworking people of our country’. After three hours of rejection, I was in danger of losing some of my sympathy for them. Penny, the constituency party’s social secretary, accompanied me. She’d had more forethought than me and let me share her umbrella. I’d not thought to look at the weather forecast before leaving home. Lesson one learnt! Penny was a quiet girl, a brunette with average good looks, about twenty-five I guessed. She was not a firebrand like so many of the local politicians but was quietly intelligent. She kept in the background handing out leaflets, smiling at pensioners and small children. Just before midday an elderly gent, ex-army by the look of his erect stance and his tidy moustache, harangued me. He turned on me. “No, I don’t want one of your bloody leaflets,” he shouted. “It’s bound to be a pack of lies. You’re all the same. You spend too much time gassing instead of taking action. If you did less talking and more co-operating with all the other parties you might get things done instead of allowing our kids to run wild and letting the country slide further and further into debt. Broken, that’s what we are, a broken nation. And it’s all the fault of you lot!” He stormed off. “Shall I put him down as a, ‘Don’t Know’,” Penny grinned. “No,” I said. “He sounds like a LibDem. to me” Lunch was a cream cake from the bakers and afterwards, while I was still brushing meringue crumbs from my front, I was approached by two old ladies who had a query. I was able to assure them that the Tories would not cut their free bus passes, despite what Gordon Brown said. “Oh, that’s good,” one of them nudged her friend. “We won’t have to walk home after we’ve had our hair done then, Mavis,” she chuckled. The afternoon was a little busier than the morning had been, especially when the older kids were let out of school. “Does your party want to close all zoos?” an earnest and spotty lad of about sixteen asked. “Labour does, because it’s wrong to keep animals in captivity they say. I think all animals should be allowed to roam free and I will vote for the party that puts more money into preserving wildlife habitats all over the world.” He gave me a ‘so there’ look. I was ready for him. “Labour has no such policy,” I said. “It was the Charities Minister, Angela Smith, who said zoos should be closed, not the party itself.” Dammit, he came back at me like a rocket-launched missile. “Yes, but what do you, personally, think?” I thought if he were eighteen, I’d be losing a vote here and said, “I believe that keeping animals in zoos, regretfully, is the price we must pay to ensure the survival of the planet’s endangered species.” He was forced to one side by another lad whose tie was undone and whose shirttails were hanging out his pants. “Why do you old fogies insist on banning all recreational drug use and then go and drink yourselves to death? Hypocrites, that’s what you all are!” There was no quick answer to that statement and when a thin, blonde girl called him a dickhead and pushed him to one side in turn, I wasn’t displeased. “My Mum’s got cancer,” she said. “Labour says hospital waiting lists will get longer if you lot get in and you’ll cut the health service down and there’ll not be enough drugs and more people will die.” Tears came to her eyes and she turned and stormed off before I could answer. I would have liked to reassure her that the Tories would make more lifesaving drugs available and find the money by not funding such things as tattoo-removal on the health service and by putting a stop to foreigners coming here for childbirth and/or abortions without paying. But the girl had gone. Lesson number two. It’s not all about the economy, stupid! The kids had all moved on. “I see the Duchess of Cornwall has broken her leg.” Penny was reading the town’s evening newspaper. “Well I bet she’s not worrying about getting treatment on the National Health Service,” I said. We saw many mothers with their children, most of them too rushed to talk to us. We saw many smartly dressed businessmen, most of them managed to sidestep my attempts to engage them in conversation. And I lost count of the number of ordinary people who just didn’t see us, treating us like street furniture to be walked round. One man did stop, a painter by the look of all the splashes of colour on his overalls. We chatted and he told me his son was fighting in Afghanistan and how worried he was about his safety. I was able to empathise with him as my brother was in Helmand Province. Our conversation was not political. I doubt he saw my rosette but maybe he found strength in our common bond. I know I did. Lesson number three, politics isn’t everything. At the end of a long day, when the shops began to close, Penny and I prepared to move on, as far as the shopping centre was concerned, that is. “Can you manage a MacDonalds?” I asked. She raised an eyebrow. “No,” I laughed. “We won’t have it on expenses.” It had to be a fast meal as I was due to address a public meeting at the Town Hall, on the economy, of all things. I was well into my speech about how the Tories would cut waste in the nation’s huge bureaucratic machine and I have to admit I was enjoying the acoustics as my voice rang out above the heads of the audience. I had been warned about hecklers at such events but I was a bit blasé and didn’t see this one coming. I was describing how the Conservative Party would cut the number of MPs, thus reducing the cost of politics. “If you’re going to be made redundant before you’ve even been elected,” a voice came from the back row, “why am I bothering to sit here listening to you when I could be at home watching the football on the tele?” I was unable to answer because of the laughter that drowned out my feeble efforts. What’s more, he got the biggest round of applause of the evening. Lessons number four and five, don’t become complacent and don’t think the electorate are all fools. I talked myself hoarse over the weeks of the election campaign. There were times when I felt I was being a bit of a gasbag but I had no choice but keep going. Members of the constituency party were often at my side. Their support was invaluable and their experience prevented me from making too many pratfalls and Penny was always there, with a ready smile of encouragement or sympathy, depending on which I needed at any particular point. It was May 6th. At 10 pm. the polls closed. It was over thank God. I’d put myself up for election as a Member of Parliament and stepped way out of my comfort zone in so doing. I was back at the Town Hall where the count was being carried out. People were milling around but despite the bustle, conversations were being carried out in whispers, almost as though it would be blasphemous to do otherwise on such an important occasion. Only the candidates had nothing to do. Four other people were standing for election in the same constituency. They all looked drained. No doubt I did too. I was out of steam and out of gas and while the count was being carried out, I thought about the old soldier in the shopping centre and quietly made him a promise; if I were successful, I’d do as he’d suggested. I’d cut out the waffle and the unnecessary gassing which politicians love and get to work to mend this broken Britain, as quickly as possible. I vowed to remember the youngster whose Mum had cancer, the lad who seemed to think taking drugs was a lifestyle choice and the painter whose son was fighting a strange war. And I swore I wouldn’t take away the bus passes and the independence of old ladies like Mavis and her friend. I remembered the lessons I’d learned throughout the long four weeks of campaigning. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I might be a better man because of what they had taught me I thought about Penny who’d always been at my side, how she’d straightened my rosette when it became lopsided, how she’d driven me from meeting to meeting, how she’d listened in advance to all my speeches, however long they were, without complaining or looking bored. The whole affair would have been so much more difficult without her presence. She was still there, standing next to me. I reached out and took her hand. I turned to her and smiled. Penny returned my smile and let me keep on holding her hand. I was certainly a very lucky man, whatever the outcome of this evening’s count. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Out Of Gas kmoreside@yahoo.ca |
#1 of 7 |
| 2456 words | |
| Perin shut his eyes and let the wind blasted snow sear
his face. The gale kicked up by the departing helicopter was rapidly
diminishing, along with the deafening roar of its turbine motors. The snow felt
good on his face, a light punishment that he chose to endure, even enjoyed, the
grainy flakes quickly melting and running down over his chapped lips. His
tongue flicked out and tasted the crystal clear water. He opened his eyes to catch a final glimpse of the project’s jet ranger returning to the mainland, just before he lost it in the glare of the afternoon sun. Then his eyes sought out the package at his feet. It was a few seconds before he blinked away enough of the rapidly re-freezing water on his face to inspect it. He rubbed his face with a thick, heavily gloved hand. It was foolish to allow himself to get so wet. Already he could feel the loss of vital body heat from the evaporation of the new moisture. The package was a pelican briefcase, and the snaps momentarily confounded him, forcing him to take a glove off to work the mechanism. Instantly, the arctic wind numbed his fingers, and they stung painfully when the cold plastic snaps finally released. Inside the custom lining was a small black box affixed to a tripod. It was a Deep Sea Shock Monitor. Known as a DSSM, it was the Mark II, and an expensive bit of kit. Shipped here at great expense by Dyno-Cor, it was designed to monitor and report movements or calving by the Oclear glacier, the 1000 square kilometer chunk of ice that Perin was standing on. His own little floating island, as he thought of it. He set to work. Assembling the DSSM was easy, and moments later, after he had lowered its tiny sensor into the shaft drilled through the ice, his work was complete. Packing his gear back up, he stood, and looked around. The sun was low on the horizon now, time having slipped away from him while he was lost in his work. The Arctic Cat 440 snowmobile rested about 50 feet away. Trudging towards it, the snow squeaking from his boots, Perin realized he was cold. The wind was picking up, and the -47 degree temperature felt more like -70. He couldn’t wait to get back to his base camp, and sit by his heater. It was small, a one man camp, but had all the comforts of home. At least all he cared about anyways. He had his work, a comfy chair by his computer, a heater, and no one for 130 miles to bother him. Heaven on earth. He wished he knew if the sensor was working. He didn’t want to come back out here tomorrow. It took him three tries to get the snowmobile started. The handle for the pull cord slipping from his fingers. He realized he was shaking badly, and wondered when he had become so cold. He glanced at his thermos tucked into the pile of gear strapped to the back, but decided not to bother. If there was anything left in it, it would no doubt be cold by now anyways. Better to get going, get back to camp. He set off, frowning in annoyance that he had to drive straight into the setting sun, the glare preventing him from crouching low behind the oversized wind shield. As he rode, his mind wandered, and as it usually did when he wasn’t careful, his memory gravitated to thoughts of his wife and son. His son was 13 in three days, and he would have to make sure he sent a gift. He couldn’t believe that it had slipped his mind for as long as it did. He would have to put a reminder on his desk when he got back. It wouldn’t do to forget. Wouldn’t do at all. A sharp bump interrupted his thoughts, banging his head painfully against the wind shield. Jesus Christ, he thought. Pay attention to what you’re doing! He tried to turn his head to see what he had hit, but his frozen muscles refused to respond. He was having a little trouble concentrating. It took a conscious effort to slow down when he noticed he was having trouble seeing ahead. When did the sun go down? There wasn’t a hint of it on the horizon, but it was still light. His confused brain, normally sharp as a razor, sifted through the thoughts like they were lead weights. The sun wasn’t down; it was at his 9 o’clock suddenly. Forcing his limbs to turn the machine, he got back on course, and pushed the throttle all the way down. Perin had worked in the arctic for months now, and recognized the early symptoms of hypothermia. He needed to get back to camp. It seemed like only a few seconds passed when he noticed the sun was now on his right. He had steered a 180. Even more confusing, was the fact that the sun was noticeably lower. How long had it been since he noticed his error? 10 seconds? 15? Impossibly, the sun was telling him it had been several minutes. Worry started to gnaw at his gut, but he forced it down. He had been in worse spots that this. Think this through. How far out of his way had he gone? It couldn’t have been too far. C’mon! This was easy math! Take the speed and multiply it by the time right? But how far north had he gone before he turned east? No, that wasn’t right. He had ended up heading south, not east. The snowmobile had coasted to a stop while his addled brain tried to do the simple figures, and in anger, he punched the throttle again, not worried about the cold wind as his head swivelled back and forth, trying to regain his bearings. It was hot. And the stink rising out of the humvee he rode in was nauseating. It reeked of piss and unwashed bodies. He swivelled the .50 cal machine gun 180 degrees. As top cover on the rear vehicle, it was his responsibility to watch “the six” as well as cover the column of vehicles ahead. His fingers drummed a beat to the rock and roll music pumping from below him, and he tried to listen over it to one of the young men relive an obviously embellished encounter with some girl the night before he shipped out. He watched the desert sand skim by and relaxed, flowing with the bouncing of the vehicle, hypnotized by the waves of heat distorting everything. They were young, confident, hard as nails, and having the adventure of a lifetime. His one regret, that he had missed his video conference call that had been arraigned with his wife for 2 days after his son was born. He was jolted from his reverie by the squealing of brakes and the cursing from below him as the humvee skidded to a stop, just short of hitting the truck in front of it. The troops riding in the back of the truck had tumbled forward in an awkward pile at the front of the box. His loud laughter at their misfortune earned him several rude gestures which he returned with glee. The vehicle commander, a young sergeant by the name of Max, stepped out of the humvee and walked a ways up the column, trying to see ahead. Perin stared off into the haze, lost in thought. He was staring right at a dark lump when it moved. He watched in disbelief as the lump unfolded into separate shapes, men rising from the sand. He stood transfixed as Max’s head exploded from a bullet. Perin was confused. He hadn’t even heard a shot, and stared at Max, wondering if he was hallucinating. There was shouting, he remembered that clearly, but the rest seemed foggy. An RPG destroyed the truck directly ahead, killing the 8 men in it instantly. Still his finger refused to find the trigger of the .50. There were more screams and explosions, the RPG team having a field day with the tightly packed column of vehicles. The driver of the humvee was screaming at Perin to shoot. Finally, the .50 was jerking in his hands, spraying rounds wildly. The figures in the sand went down, shredded by the huge rounds. He wasn’t sure how long he kept firing for, but when he stopped, the barrel was smoking and his eyes and nose burned from cordite. He heard shouting. “Good shooting man! Damn good shooting! You got those bastards! Saved a lot of lives. You’re a god damn hero man!” but Perin’s gaze was locked on the dead soldiers in the vehicle ahead. They knew the truth. Their silence was mocking him. Silence. It took a minute to process. Something wasn’t right. Perin realized the sound of the snowmobile’s engine was missing. He was stopped, throttle still pinned down, and the only sound that of the wind and the ticking of the snowmobiles engine. He tried to think. Why had he stopped? He wasn’t home. He was sure of that. It was a long minute before his thoughts processed it. The snowmobile had quit. It was out of gas. He tried to move. His aching muscles barely responded. How long had he been just sitting there like an idiot? He had to get moving, generate a little body heat. At least he wasn’t shivering anymore. He was so thirsty. He knew he shouldn’t, but he took a mouthful of the snow that had packed onto his lap, the snow stealing valuable body heat as it melted in his mouth and cooling him further. Dragging himself off the machine, he forced himself to start walking. Hopelessly lost, he knew he needed to find shelter to survive the night. The lack of shaking was a serious problem. When the body’s core cools enough, it loses its ability to generate its own heat. You need a way to get more heat into you. He broke into a shambling, staggering trot. He was a fast little bugger, that was for sure. He dodged left as Perin went right, cruising neatly under a rack of dresses, as Perin almost collided with an elderly lady pushing a cart full of discount bin items. Perin cut left around the sweat suits and cut him off before he made good his escape down the toiletries isle. He caught him under the arms and lifted him swooping into the air. Squealing with delight his son first struggled furiously, then settled in for the short ride back to his mother and her shopping cart. The boy’s name was Terry, not exactly Perin’s first choice, but Perin hadn’t been there for the boy nor his mother for the first year and a half, so he kept his mouth shut. They found her three isles over, and as Perin plopped Terry back in the cart, she looked at him almost whimsically, like she was remembering something. Hesitating, Perin leaned forward and kissed her awkwardly, pretending not to notice her slight flinch. Everything seemed awkward now. They were strangers playing at being married, at being good parents. In reality, Perin felt he didn’t even know the girl before him, and was sure the feeling was mutual. It had been an extended tour of duty, and they had been apart for 19 months, and both had changed. Perin had become withdrawn and quiet. He suffered from nightmares that haunted him both asleep and awake, and they found they couldn’t even sleep in the same bed anymore. The worst though, was the senseless rages he fell into. Though not necessarily directed at her, he frightened her now with sudden acts of violence, like smashing his fist through the cupboard door when the overflowing items prevented it from closing properly. Or the time he kicked a dent in their car door when the plastic handle of the grocery bag he was pulling out broke, and the items fell on the ground. Too much had changed in 19 months, and not for the better, not with Perin. He ignored the flinch, kissing his son, who in turn ignored him, busily trying to open a box of puzzle pieces. It was so dark. Where was he? It took him precious seconds to realize he was face down in the snow. He knew he had to get moving, to get back. He tried to adjust his scarf over his face, wondering why he couldn’t grip it properly. He realized it was gone. He didn’t know when he had lost it. His face was hard and without any feeling. It felt like stone. Despite his on setting dementia, Perin felt a surge of fear. He opened his mouth wide, and felt his lower lip crack, but there was no pain. He rolled over on his back, trying to leverage the fear into energy, but he was so tired, and it was warm here, perhaps sheltered from the wind? He looked up at the stars. Perin stared at the stars, giving the girl by his side only a minimum of attention. She was blonde and cute, and had been all over him since she had found out he was a war hero. She also was not his wife. They had been fooling around on the hood of his car, parked by the local ball diamond. Perin wondered at his erratic emotions. A gamut of rage, which had drove him from the house, to lust, to numbness. Nothing. When he finally did get home, he didn’t even care enough to lie about where he’d been. She’d thrown him out of course. He’d been angry, but not at her, not at anyone in particular. What was wrong with him? He had taken the car, and ended up right back at the ball diamond, this time alone, so alone, staring at the stars. Perin was finally warm. Like someone had covered him in a warm blanket, and wondered if he was dead already. He didn’t feel the snow blowing against his face, nor did his numb limbs and aching muscles bother him. He thought of his son, and how proud he was of him. He’d definitely have to leave a memo to himself to send a gift. It wouldn’t do to forget. Wouldn’t do at all. It was three days later, while a young boy celebrated his birthday with friends and family that a Bell Ranger helicopter lifted off from its base in the arctic to investigate a communications failure with the operator of remote sensor station #21, on the Oclear glacier. |
|
| Out Of Gas David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com © 2010 David Griffin |
#2 of 7 |
| 1843 words | |
| I told Mom the weather balloon I bought at the surplus
store would come in handy someday. And the gas grill from our next door
neighbor’s trash was a crucial find. But just as vital was the tank of
helium I stole from the welding company on Lincoln Avenue. I’m sure the
workers still haven't missed it from where it sat on the back dock. George and
I will return it, with only a little gas missing. We are two resourceful
thirteen year olds. Actually, I will be fourteen this coming November 18, 1962.
I am ascending above the ground, like an angel flying off on a training mission. The leaves rustle and the birds chirp and somehow these familiar sounds have a heavenly ring up here. We built our airship in the woods and dragged it out on the grass. Figuring it would carry only one of us, we flipped a coin. I won, and climbed astride for my maiden flight. Up, up and away! As I rise peering out from the assembled parts, I watch the trees slide down and away to reveal this perfect view of God’s creation and the Valley View Golf Course. The damned contraption really lifted off, ever so gently. There’s George down on the fairway, waving. I should let off some gas and go back down. I really hate to. This was supposed to be a short test flight, but being aloft is so wonderful, even if it is quite breezy. Big white puffy clouds push their way across the huge blue sky. I’m traveling with them toward the city and the river. The clubhouse gets smaller and the fairway drops away as I head out over the valley. Back there, George is still waving, but frantically now. This is fun, but I’m too high and the edge of the golf course is coming up. If I don’t land now, I’ll soon be over the rooftops of the city’s crowded neighborhoods. It would be dangerous to drop down among them and try for a landing. For the hundredth time, I check the tightness of the old medical tubing that runs down from the balloon and snakes into the cooker between my legs. I lean to the right and reach down under my hip and let off a burp of helium by turning the dial from Simmer to Roast. Whoa! I drop like a stone, and the wind whistles through the old fishing net that suspends me from the ancient U.S. Government weather balloon. I’m going to crash! I don’t know how far I plunge before leveling off, but far enough to scare the crap out of me. Much lower now, there are trees on one side of me and power lines on the other. Thankfully, nothing is in my path and I’m maintaining altitude. But as I glide past the edge of the golf course, I look ahead and realize I will hit the top of a rapidly approaching house. I come sliding in across the roof, my feet touching down and dragging along the shingles. I try to skid to a stop, but I’m moving too fast. Lunging desperately to the left, I grab for the chimney. It’s out of reach, and then I’m slipping off the far end of the roof, back into the air. I see the homes below fall away as the street runs downhill and my height above the ground increases. My feet are treading air, as if they’re hoping to find purchase on anything solid, like a drowning man in water over his head. I feel nauseated, but I’m in one piece, heart pounding in my ears. I don’t know how to get this thing on the ground. It’s moving faster than I ever imagined, and now I’m too scared to land. This is turning into a pretty dumb stunt! I could be home reading my older brother’s copy of Playboy. I look beyond the city and past the river to the gentle green hills in the distance. They seem so far! But if I make it over there, the other side of the valley will naturally rise up to my altitude and rescue me in a safe embrace. A field of soft hay would be a welcome landing spot. That would be the perfect ending to my voyage. I could drop in on my cousins who live in that area. If I master the art of flying in the next ten minutes, I might swoop down and land majestically in their back yard, instead of crashing into a neighbor’s swimming pool. Or I could just give up sooner, when I reach the river. Pull the cork and hope to land in shallow water. I don’t swim very well, so three feet would be just about the right depth. However, I have an entire city to cross before I land anywhere. Beneath me, hundreds of rooftops drift under my toes in the afternoon silence, broken only by an occasional car horn or a bus roaring up the hill. Along James St., a woman waiting for the bus near Zalatan’s Grocery Store looks up at me and screams. I wave nonchalantly and force a devil-may-care smile. No need for her to worry, I’ve been reading up on aeronautics since I was twelve. Damn! I think I’m losing altitude again, but I’m still going too fast and there’s nowhere to land. If I can get past South Street, the terrain will drop down rapidly toward the river, a terrific glide path right into the water. I sail toward the downtown center of the city and feel the heat rise up to meet me. The wind comes from a new direction, then another, as the tall buildings cause a confusion of breezes. A moment ago, I was well away from the large gold painted dome atop the city’s major bank, but now it’s coming my way. It’s hard to tell whether I’m slightly above or below the flag on its pinnacle. I’m certainly relieved when a gust pushes me upward and away in another direction, because crashing on a dome and not sliding off could be quite a challenge. Now I’m nudged east toward the twin spires of St. John’s Church. They’re quite tall and definitely in my way. Next to the church sits the high school, where I’ll begin the 9th grade this fall, if I live. I’m a really good Catholic at times like this. I’m promising more rosaries than I could ever say in a lifetime. If I survive, I’ll be on my knees until I’m 80. I might as well plan to become a monk and forget all those things I wanted to do with girls when I found one who would let me. A persistent horn blares below me, but I keep my attention on the two steeples until I’m elated to find myself pushed between them unscathed. Then, I peer down at the scene below. It’s George in his family’s old Buick, driven by his mother. I didn’t think she knew how to drive. She doesn’t seem to be managing very well, and people are running in different directions as she slowly steers the car down the street, sticking her head out the window and peering up at me, occasionally driving up over the curb. I feel bad she is so worried, worse to think what will happen when she catches up to me. I’m moving north again, and soon I cross over the river and the New York State Thruway. I had thought about dropping into the water, but chickened out when I passed over it. It looked deeper than I expected. I’ll wait for the grassy hill near my cousin’s house. I suppose all of this might be worth the trip, since they just bought the first color TV in their neighborhood. But if watching Gunsmoke in color was the goal, I probably should have taken the bus. The land begins to rise slightly, and now I hear a hiss from the tubing. Helium is escaping from the balloon and I’m losing altitude fast. I’ll soon be out of gas and really out of luck. The winds are getting stronger and I see dark clouds on the eastern horizon. I’m blown west along Riverside Drive for a short distance, then pushed up a side street. I’m so low now I can hear kids yelling. A girl my age looks up and waves. She seems completely unfazed by a boy flying over her house as he sits beneath a weather balloon, hugging an outdoor grill between his legs. Giving her a jaunty wave, a silly thought occurs to me and I loudly inquire if she wants her burger well done. A ripping sound tells me the fishing net has begun to part and the miniature airship starts a roll to the right. There’s a field of corn below, and I spot my cousin’s house close by on Trenton Road. The gas is running out and the ground is now coming up fast. The homemade dirigible George and I spent so much time building … perhaps two hours … scrapes into the ground and with a fluttering noise mows down a thousand cornstalks. The craft hits a bump and bounces high, then suddenly drops, slamming the earth with a great thud. My teeth slam shut so hard my entire jaw will hurt for days and I’m flipped off the cooker like a flapjack, landing on my back in the corn. Without my weight, the magnificent flying machine lifts up, struggles for air and soars onward. I jump to my feet and run away, but the backyard grill seems unwilling to call it quits. I’ll discover its final resting place when I read tomorrow’s newspaper. My cousin is not at home, but my aunt welcomes me at the back door. “Did you walk all the way from home?” she asks, incredulously. “No, I flew.” “Uh huh,” she says without a flicker of doubt. “Well, how will you get back?” “I think a friend and his Mom are coming to pick me up,” I say. “But there’s no need to let them in.” "You're green all down your back," she says with some concern in her voice. "Rough landing," I say. "I'm new at this." “Well,” she says, “come in and have a cookie while you wait. And do you hear sirens?” “Yeah, I saw a flying saucer crash out back.” “Ha ha,” she laughs, “you’ve got more stories!” In the local newspaper the next day: The Utica Observer Dispatch July 1, 1962 CONTRAPTION NOT FROM SPACE! ------ Launched By Persons Unknown, says Sheriff ------- Astonished Homeowner was asleep in hammock ------ He Will Keep Grill ------ “Not from Mars,” say local firemen, “maybe from K-Mart.’ |
|
| Out Of Gas Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#3 of 7 |
| 1870 words | |
| I was seventeen. Seventeen and a knower of all things;
a listener to no one; so full of smarts that it hurt. That kind of seventeen.
So naturally I didn't believe her at first when my sister told me about Grandpa's car. How could I not know he had one? I'd never seen him drive it. Never even heard him talk about it. But there it was, sitting in this stand alone garage that he rented for it over on Bloy Street, down the block and around the corner from his house. A shiny black 1949 Packard Super 8 Deluxe sedan. "When did he get it?" I asked, buffing the door with my shirt tail and checking out my reflection. "I dunno. I think he's had it for a while." "No shit. How'd you come to find out?" "Billy Pierce told me." "Billy Pierce?" The thought that Billy Pierce might know something I didn't was humiliating. He was this creepy looking kid who lived next door to my grandparents. One of his eyes always looked out kinda sideways like, even when he was talking straight at you, so you never knew if he was looking at you or staring off in the distance some place 'cause you didn't know which eye he used for seeing. Billy Pierce had the hots for my sister. "Yeah, he takes care of it for him." "You mean he drives Gramps around, like a chauffer or something?" "Don't be silly. He takes care of it. You know, he washes it and polishes it. That sort of stuff. He doesn't drive it. Geez, not with his eyes. Come to think of it, I don't even think Grandpa drives it." "He doesn't drive it? Shit, then what the hell did he buy it for?" "Just so he could say he had one, I guess. You know, like they say in all the tv commercials. Buy this here car and own a piece of the American Dream. Something like that." Grandpa had come over from Bratislava when he was in his early twenties, which was right after the turn of the century. In those days you could practically step off the boat and get a job, which is exactly what he did, working for the Jersey Central Railroad. Anyways, he made a little money, set some aside, and a year later sent for Grandma to come join him. The two of them started a family, struggled through the Depression like everyone else, sent three of their kids off to war – with only two of them coming back – and now here it was, a half century after Grandpa had passed through Ellis Island and he's living this life of luxury that my sister calls the American Dream. Owning a car that he doesn't even drive. Just so he can say he has one. The American Dream. Which got me to thinking that, if Grandpa was too old to use his American Dream car for anything except to leave it sitting in a garage, maybe he'd let me have it. Just like that. Just up and give it to me, like for a graduation present or something. 'Cause I was seventeen and full of dreams. So just like that, without telling my sister or anybody else what I was up to, I walked on over to his house to ask Grandpa if I could have the car. And all the way there, there's this movie-like thing playing in the back of my mind, and I'm seeing myself cruising the square in downtown Chapman, and I've got my arm hanging out the window all cool-like with a pack of Camels rolled up inside my sleeve. Yeah, that'd be me all right, living the life of Elvis or James Dean or somebody cool like that. Cruising Chapman in my shiny black Super 8 Deluxe. I'd get myself some running boards and some fender skirts for it so's I could make it into a real cream puff, and next thing you know I'd have some knockout chick snuggled up all close to me. And she'd be draping herself all over me, feeling my muscles and calling me Johnny-Johnny-Johnny, just like that, all night long. "Grandpa," I said, starting right off the minute I walked in the door, "I've got this dream." How was I to know he was having a heart attack? I didn't get the car, of course. In the end, pretty much no one did, though it wasn't for lack of trying. No, Grandma just kept paying the rent on the Bloy Street garage – it was only a buck or so a month – and Billy Pierce kept getting his dime, or whatever it was, each time he went over there to clean it and polish it. After all, what's the point of having a dream if it don't look real spiffy like? Even if you are dead. Which is what gave me the idea to steal the damn thing. You see, when you're seventeen and two thoughts come together in your mind like that – one right after the other, like it did for me with dreams and death – well naturally you're gonna think that it's some sort of sign. What people like to call a message from beyond the grave. You hear them talking about that sort of stuff all the time. How they had this vision of their Aunt Sophie for instance, who had been dead for more than a year, and how this real life-like vision of her came to them when they were sound asleep one night and said something like your second cousin Karl will be born with six fingers. And damned if something like that wouldn't turn out to be true. So I figured this was Grandpa's way of talking to me from beyond the grave, that he had somehow put those two thoughts together in my mind – the dream thing and the death thing – and that it meant he wanted to give me his car. Except that I knew no one would believe me. So I decided to take things into my own hands and deal with the devil directly. When you're seventeen and you're convinced the devil lives inside one of Billy Pierce's eyeballs – though you're never sure which one – you're not as scared of him as you ought to be. "I'll give you a dollar," I said, looking squarely at the bridge of his nose so I wouldn't have to look at his eyeballs none. "That's more than you'd get in a year. And I'll even polish it for you." "And all you want to do is what?" "I just want to sit in it for a while, that's all. I miss my Gramps, you know." "What is it, some kind of religious thing?" It was just like the devil to bring up religion at a time like this, when I'm waving a dollar bill in front of his face. "Yeah, something like that. So what do you say, Billy? A dollar for the keys? And remember, you won't even have to polish it this month." I thought of suggesting what he could do with a dollar, just to help him see how much I was offering – how he could take a date to a Sunday afternoon double feature at the Mayfair and have enough left over buy her a Coke afterwards, for example – but I knew that would involve my sister. Selling my soul was one thing, but I wasn't about to sell my sister's soul to no devil. Leastwise, not for a dollar. Luckily, I didn't have to. I put the keys in my pocket where the dollar used to be and slowly sauntered on down the street toward the garage. Now, inside, I wanted to dance or run or skip or something. But there was no way I was gonna let the devil think I'd just gotten the better of him in a deal. Besides, it wasn't like the car was going anywhere. Some dreams – the really big ones – are worth savoring, and sauntering would get me there plenty soon enough. The garage on Bloy Street was one of those old wooden things. Probably used to be a barn back when Chapman was more rural – populated mostly by farmers and the like – which was before things like televisions and four lane highways had a way of making the city swallow up what folks used to call the good life and spit it back out as something called suburbs, which pretty much everybody hated. Except when they wanted to watch Ed Sullivan or Uncle Milty, of course. Or go cruising up and down Main Street in a Packard. Anyways, it wasn't like the thing was locked the way real garages are nowadays. All I had to do was take the weathered two-by-four out of the brackets that held it in place, swing open the doors, and there she was: my very own American Dream. I opened the door and eased myself in behind the steering wheel. Just sitting in her was like something from heaven. The whole interior had a sort of texture to it. The seat, the inside door panels, the armrests. You could close your eyes and run your fingers over it and feel the little bumps and ridges as your hand glided across the fabric. It was like being on one of those expensive sofas they have in the lobby of the Robert Treat Hotel over in Newark, which I actually did one time when my Uncle Sal got married to some girl whose daddy was real rich 'cause he owned some big construction company, so I know what I'm talking about when it comes to luxury. This was gonna be great. Me driving a genuine American Dream car. I slipped the key in the ignition, pulled out the choke and pushed in the clutch. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga. Something like that. And then nothing. She didn't catch. Probably from sitting around too long. I turned the key again. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga. Still nothing. "She ain't got no gas in her, you know." The voice belonged to Billy Pierce's left eyeball, which was staring at me through the passenger side window. I hoped like hell it wasn't the eyeball with the devil in it. I'd been so wrapped up in my own little dream world, I hadn't noticed that he'd followed me all the way to the garage. "Whaddya mean?" "I mean it ain't got no gas, that's what I mean. Your grandpa drained all the ethyl out of her years ago." "Shit, Billy. Why didn't you tell me?" "I dunno. I figured it didn't matter so much if all you was gonna do was sit in it. Why, you want your dollar back?" "Nah, that's okay." I took the keys out and tossed them back to him. "You can keep the buck. Use it to go to the movies or something." There didn't seem to be much point in fighting with the devil any more. After all, you can't get much lower than trying to steal a dream from a dead man. |
|
| Out Of Gas glenlee10@sky.com |
#4 of 7 Runner-up |
| 1964 words | |
| On Wednesday, 8th April 2010, Gordon Brown, the Prime
Minister of Britain and Northern Ireland, went to see the Queen to seek her
approval for Parliament to be dissolved. She gave her consent and a General
Election was therefore called for 6th May. Britain seemed to have been holding
its breath for the last three or four years but suddenly, there was a sense of
relief, like when an old woman takes off her corsets and has a good scratch.
It was Day One of the election campaign and I had a month to get my party’s policies across to the people in my constituency. Standing politicians have a record of sleaze, even downright theft if you consider the recent expenses’ scandal and new candidates, like myself had to convince voters that we were not ‘all the same’. The stench of corruption was still in people’s nostrils and it would be an uphill battle overcoming the apathy for which Westminster was responsible. I showered, shaved and dressed and pinned my bright, blue rosette to my jacket lapel. This would be the last moment of calm until after the results were announced. It promised to be a very busy four weeks. I’d studied hard and I thought I had all the Tory (Conservative & Unionist) policies at my fingers tips. My constituency chairman had advised me that the Economy, “With a Capital-E!” he said, would be at the top of the agenda, certainly in the beginning. Well, I thought, the phrase and the idea, “It’s the economy, stupid”, had helped to see Bill Clinton into the White House, so I’d go along with that. Getting the country back on its feet was crucial and the three main parties quickly put up posters that lied about the plans of the opposing parties. Gordon Brown, the Labour leader, claimed that David Cameron, the Tory leader, had done his sums on the “back of an envelope”. David Cameron replied, “Labour are so desperate to cling to power they’ve resorted to scaring people by making up things about the Tories.” The LibDems (Liberal Democrats), led by Nick Clegg, bitched about the other two. That first morning, I wandered round one of the shopping centres in the city’s suburbs for three hours, trying to hand out leaflets to people who didn’t want to accept them. It was a drizzly day and no one seemed inclined to stand and thrash out the issues with me. It wasn’t the baptism of fire I’d expected. These were the people Cameron called the, ‘great ignored, the honest, hardworking people of our country’. After three hours of rejection, I was in danger of losing some of my sympathy for them. Penny, the constituency party’s social secretary, accompanied me. She’d had more forethought than me and let me share her umbrella. I’d not thought to look at the weather forecast before leaving home. Lesson one learnt! Penny was a quiet girl, a brunette with average good looks, about twenty-five I guessed. She was not a firebrand like so many of the local politicians but was quietly intelligent. She kept in the background handing out leaflets, smiling at pensioners and small children. Just before midday an elderly gent, ex-army by the look of his erect stance and his tidy moustache, harangued me. He turned on me. “No, I don’t want one of your bloody leaflets,” he shouted. “It’s bound to be a pack of lies. You’re all the same. You spend too much time gassing instead of taking action. If you did less talking and more co-operating with all the other parties you might get things done instead of allowing our kids to run wild and letting the country slide further and further into debt. Broken, that’s what we are, a broken nation. And it’s all the fault of you lot!” He stormed off. “Shall I put him down as a, ‘Don’t Know’,” Penny grinned. “No,” I said. “He sounds like a LibDem. to me” Lunch was a cream cake from the bakers and afterwards, while I was still brushing meringue crumbs from my front, I was approached by two old ladies who had a query. I was able to assure them that the Tories would not cut their free bus passes, despite what Gordon Brown said. “Oh, that’s good,” one of them nudged her friend. “We won’t have to walk home after we’ve had our hair done then, Mavis,” she chuckled. The afternoon was a little busier than the morning had been, especially when the older kids were let out of school. “Does your party want to close all zoos?” an earnest and spotty lad of about sixteen asked. “Labour does, because it’s wrong to keep animals in captivity they say. I think all animals should be allowed to roam free and I will vote for the party that puts more money into preserving wildlife habitats all over the world.” He gave me a ‘so there’ look. I was ready for him. “Labour has no such policy,” I said. “It was the Charities Minister, Angela Smith, who said zoos should be closed, not the party itself.” Dammit, he came back at me like a rocket-launched missile. “Yes, but what do you, personally, think?” I thought if he were eighteen, I’d be losing a vote here and said, “I believe that keeping animals in zoos, regretfully, is the price we must pay to ensure the survival of the planet’s endangered species.” He was forced to one side by another lad whose tie was undone and whose shirttails were hanging out his pants. “Why do you old fogies insist on banning all recreational drug use and then go and drink yourselves to death? Hypocrites, that’s what you all are!” There was no quick answer to that statement and when a thin, blonde girl called him a dickhead and pushed him to one side in turn, I wasn’t displeased. “My Mum’s got cancer,” she said. “Labour says hospital waiting lists will get longer if you lot get in and you’ll cut the health service down and there’ll not be enough drugs and more people will die.” Tears came to her eyes and she turned and stormed off before I could answer. I would have liked to reassure her that the Tories would make more lifesaving drugs available and find the money by not funding such things as tattoo-removal on the health service and by putting a stop to foreigners coming here for childbirth and/or abortions without paying. But the girl had gone. Lesson number two. It’s not all about the economy, stupid! The kids had all moved on. “I see the Duchess of Cornwall has broken her leg.” Penny was reading the town’s evening newspaper. “Well I bet she’s not worrying about getting treatment on the National Health Service,” I said. We saw many mothers with their children, most of them too rushed to talk to us. We saw many smartly dressed businessmen, most of them managed to sidestep my attempts to engage them in conversation. And I lost count of the number of ordinary people who just didn’t see us, treating us like street furniture to be walked round. One man did stop, a painter by the look of all the splashes of colour on his overalls. We chatted and he told me his son was fighting in Afghanistan and how worried he was about his safety. I was able to empathise with him as my brother was in Helmand Province. Our conversation was not political. I doubt he saw my rosette but maybe he found strength in our common bond. I know I did. Lesson number three, politics isn’t everything. At the end of a long day, when the shops began to close, Penny and I prepared to move on, as far as the shopping centre was concerned, that is. “Can you manage a MacDonalds?” I asked. She raised an eyebrow. “No,” I laughed. “We won’t have it on expenses.” It had to be a fast meal as I was due to address a public meeting at the Town Hall, on the economy, of all things. I was well into my speech about how the Tories would cut waste in the nation’s huge bureaucratic machine and I have to admit I was enjoying the acoustics as my voice rang out above the heads of the audience. I had been warned about hecklers at such events but I was a bit blasé and didn’t see this one coming. I was describing how the Conservative Party would cut the number of MPs, thus reducing the cost of politics. “If you’re going to be made redundant before you’ve even been elected,” a voice came from the back row, “why am I bothering to sit here listening to you when I could be at home watching the football on the tele?” I was unable to answer because of the laughter that drowned out my feeble efforts. What’s more, he got the biggest round of applause of the evening. Lessons number four and five, don’t become complacent and don’t think the electorate are all fools. I talked myself hoarse over the weeks of the election campaign. There were times when I felt I was being a bit of a gasbag but I had no choice but keep going. Members of the constituency party were often at my side. Their support was invaluable and their experience prevented me from making too many pratfalls and Penny was always there, with a ready smile of encouragement or sympathy, depending on which I needed at any particular point. It was May 6th. At 10 pm. the polls closed. It was over thank God. I’d put myself up for election as a Member of Parliament and stepped way out of my comfort zone in so doing. I was back at the Town Hall where the count was being carried out. People were milling around but despite the bustle, conversations were being carried out in whispers, almost as though it would be blasphemous to do otherwise on such an important occasion. Only the candidates had nothing to do. Four other people were standing for election in the same constituency. They all looked drained. No doubt I did too. I was out of steam and out of gas and while the count was being carried out, I thought about the old soldier in the shopping centre and quietly made him a promise; if I were successful, I’d do as he’d suggested. I’d cut out the waffle and the unnecessary gassing which politicians love and get to work to mend this broken Britain, as quickly as possible. I vowed to remember the youngster whose Mum had cancer, the lad who seemed to think taking drugs was a lifestyle choice and the painter whose son was fighting a strange war. And I swore I wouldn’t take away the bus passes and the independence of old ladies like Mavis and her friend. I remembered the lessons I’d learned throughout the long four weeks of campaigning. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I might be a better man because of what they had taught me I thought about Penny who’d always been at my side, how she’d straightened my rosette when it became lopsided, how she’d driven me from meeting to meeting, how she’d listened in advance to all my speeches, however long they were, without complaining or looking bored. The whole affair would have been so much more difficult without her presence. She was still there, standing next to me. I reached out and took her hand. I turned to her and smiled. Penny returned my smile and let me keep on holding her hand. I was certainly a very lucky man, whatever the outcome of this evening’s count. |
|
| Out Of Gas Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#5 of 7 |
| 104 words | |
| No songs were sung, and secrets were kept, when the world was young and the oracle slept. Then, fire came along and the oracle woke, with an ancient song that was lost in smoke. The land was farmed and the oracle said, what will be harmed with a world to be fed? Then the oracle cried will nobody listen, until you've all died like fish in the ocean? And nobody cares 'bout the oil and the coal and nobody hears 'bout the oracle's role. No one to shout and nothing to hear, if the gas running out is the atmosphere. |
|
| Out Of Gas kstaley@gmail.com |
#6 of 7 Winner |
| 1950 words | |
| Jimmy’s apartment had the earmarks of the backwash
from a tidal wave that deposited its load of books on every available space.
Mounds and piles, some stacked neatly, others precarious, some in places of
honor, others seemingly kicked aside without any kind of concern. Stacks of
books served as impromptu tables that held reading lamps here, dirty plates
there. Rings from wet cups and drinking glasses left circles on the tops of
those piles closest to his chair. Other piles fused together into giant pillars
– used to hold more books. Only an overstuffed chair facing the fire place
escaped the piles of books. One book rested, pages open but face down on the
arm, while another, open and face down as well, sat on the other arm. Standing at the front door, Eric saw Bob Roberts, the undergrad student who he’d sent to pick Jimmy up but who placed a frantic phone call to his office instead. “You’d better get over here quick,” Bob’s voice came out as a whispered hush. “This man is nuts! Completely gone.” Magazines and pages torn from them littered the floor like rose petals dropped in a wedding processional. Piles of books acted as path markers to the window, the kitchen, and off to what Eric assumed was Jimmy’s bedroom. “Where is he?” He asked Bob, peering over stacks and down pathways. “Somewhere back there,” Bob waved towards the back of the house. No sound escaped giving any clue where Dr. James Jasper Duncan, Professor of Astrology emeritus, might be hiding. “Back door?” Eric asked. “Not a chance. Just hope a fire don’t break out,” Bob said as he stood. “You think this room is bad. This is nothing. You can’t even get into some of the other rooms. God knows what he does for a bathroom.” “How do you know he’s still here?” “It hasn’t been that long since I called,” Bob said. “He was sitting in that chair reading when I got you. You told me not to let him escape. He hasn’t gone out the front door.” “Jimmy?” Eric called into the room and took tentative steps towards the reading chair, the only obvious piece of furniture in sight. “It’s time to head to the lab, Jimmy.” A small round head popped above one of the rear stacks in the general direction of the kitchen, Eric thought. Dr. James Duncan, 87, whose crown glowed as though waxed. Waves of snow white locks swept up the side of his head like an old wimple on a nun. “That you Charley?” Jimmy called. “It’s time is it then?” “No, Jimmy, it’s Eric. Eric Cauldor,” Eric said. “Charley’s been gone these past ten years.” “Say, that’s right,” Jimmy said as his head disappeared. “Where did he go again?” “Project manager at Lawrence Livermore now,” Eric said. There he stood. His current state of undress made him appear shorter than his listed five feet. Jimmy wore his ubiquitous, hand-tied bow tie, his trademark over decades of teaching, perched atop his bare throat. A starched white shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, was inside out. How do you manage THAT trick? Eric wondered. Jimmy’s suspenders clipped to his boxer shorts as he stood there sans pants, in socks that didn’t match in style or color. “Did Martha let you in? I didn’t know you were coming today,” he followed a path to his reading chair and assumed the throne. “I wasn’t aware our interview was today. I’m sorry, but I’m really not prepared. Perhaps tomorrow.” “What’s wrong with him?” Bob asked. He’d come up so quietly that Eric jumped. “I mean, he’s always been a bit eccentric, but this ... .” “What has he said? What do you recall?” “Who is Martha? He keeps saying she’s in the process of making us tea,” Bob said. “And who is Edward? He sure doesn’t seem to like Edward much.” “Martha was his wife,” Eric sighed. “His third. Edward was his only son.” “Was?” “Both gone,” Eric said quietly as he watched Jimmy pick up a book and begin reading. “Martha died twelve years ago. Edward was killed in Desert Storm.” “Jesus,” Bob said. “But – I mean – he talks about them as though they’ve just stepped out for a moment.” “I guess they have,” Eric said. “To him at least. Hustle back to the lab. They need you there worse than I need you here.” “Should I call an ambulance?” “I don’t think we need one,” Eric said. “I see no outward signs of a stroke and he doesn’t seem to be in any physical duress. Call the University Hospital and speak to someone in the geriatric ward. I’ll drive him over as soon as I get him dressed.” As Bob hurried from the house, Eric stood watching his mentor and friend silently. One of the brightest astrophysicists that ever lived now sat in the middle of a mental melt down. He glanced around the room, as much as his own sensibilities allowed. From the looks of things, Jimmy’s mental departure had been building to this moment for some time. “Oh, hello Eric,” Jimmy lowered his book, his reading glasses perched precariously on the very tip of his nose. “I didn’t hear you come in. Is it six yet.” “Just passed, Jimmy,” Eric said softly as he crossed to his friend. “Time we finished getting you dressed.” “Right. Say, who was that young kid you sent over earlier?” Jimmy placed his book on the arm of the chair and made motions to stand. “Sharp kid. Bright as hell. Reminded me – of me – at his age.” “Bob Roberts,” Eric moved to help the aged man. Jimmy stood, looked down, and slowly sank back into a semi sitting position in his chair, burying his face in his hands as his body slowly deflated. He was back from wherever he’d been. Eric could almost hear the brilliant mind click. “My God,” he whispered. “How long this time?” He looked up at Eric. “What time is it, Eric. The truth.” “Almost noon, Jimmy,” Eric said softly as he squatted beside the chair. “Impact?” “Fifteen minutes,” Eric whispered gently. “Fifteen – we’ll miss it then,” Jimmy said as he sat back in his chair and stared into a void. James Jasper Duncan would miss his life’s finale. He’d dedicated 45 years of his life to the study of the rings of Jupiter. He was the world’s leading authority on such matters. Other scientists studied the major storm in depth, finally probing it’s mysteries in 1995. Jimmy knew that the different colored rings on the planet were the result of violent wind storms, some travelling in opposite directions. His experiment – his thesis – his life was dedicated to the belief that if any life existed at all on the planet, it did so in the space between those storms. Three years ago, his package of probes lifted from Vandenburg in California. At the time, he claimed that it was the highlight of his life, when they let him push the button that ignited that massive rocket. “Kind of ironic,” he smiled at the time. “that the ultimate Jupiter probe would be launched atop a Saturn rocket.” Although data from the probes would take hours, perhaps days, to return any kind of signal to earth, Jimmy wanted to be present at impact. He designed three probes for hard landings, their data spewed back towards earth as they raced through the atmosphere. He designed three others for soft impact. One, his baby, he designed to let loose a small robot, programmed to move away from the probe in concentric circles to a distance of ten feet. Now it didn’t matter at all. Jimmy would never see the data, or again make sense of it in any manner that amounted to anything substantial. “So long,” he said, “so much has happened in these years. Did you know I’ve been married three times?” “No,” Eric lied. “Three kids.” “Three? But – I thought Edward ... .” “No,” Jimmy said as a hard sadness crept across his face. “Two others. Wish I could tell you where they are...whether they married...had children. I was always just too busy. There was always another lab – someplace.” He paused as his head sunk forward. “I was too busy to live life, Eric.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” “Few do,” James said, still examining the carpet between his feet. “That’s one of the blessings of old age. There aren’t many around who remember the sins of your past.” “We need to get you dressed,” Eric said. “It doesn’t make any difference now, does it? The lab, I mean,” Jimmy asked. “Whether I’m there or not? Hasn’t made any difference in almost 18 months, since Jupiter’s gravity claimed Martha for it’s own.” Martha. He’d named the experiment and probe after his late wife. “We’ll go to the hospital,” Eric said as he stood. “You need to be seen. Perhaps stay a day or so for observation.” “Oh - oh, no thank you, Eric,” Jimmy said. “It’s very kind of you, but I won’t be leaving here again.” “What? You can’t stay here, Jimmy,” Eric said as he looked around again at the squalor. “When was the last time you ate? At least go, get checked and have a good hot meal. You can decide later where you’d like to go. How will we manage the data without you?” “Just as you’ve done for six months,” he sighed and closed his eyes. “You haven’t needed me. Not really. My life was getting the probe there. That was my life, consumed my daily focus long into the night. I need some promises from you though.” “Okay. I promise. Just as soon as I see you in a hospital bed. Don’t make me call an ambulance,” he said with mock severity. Suddenly Jimmy sat up and grabbed his wrist tightly. Eric couldn’t believe that the old man possessed that much strength. “You must promise now, while you still can, that you won’t spend your life on the data that comes back,” Jimmy’s crystal blue eyes pinned Eric. “Live! In all of this, that’s something I’ve forgotten how to do,” he sighed and as Eric watched it seemed that air drained away from the old man like a slowly leaking balloon. “It’s time to get up, Jimmy,” Eric stood and reached for his cell phone. He dialed 911 and asked that an ambulance hurry. University Hospital was less than 10 minutes away, but the ambulance service came from the city EMS squad attached to a fire station a bit further off campus. By the time they arrived, Jimmy faded further. His skull looked almost skeletal, eyes and cheeks sunk deep into empty recesses. Although his eyes remained open, Eric was unsure Jimmy saw anything. As they strapped the old man to the gurney, one of the technicians called in Jimmy’s vital signs to the emergency room. “First case I’ve seen,” one of the technicians said. “But I’ve read about them before.” “What?” Eric demanded. “He’s simply out of gas. Cases like his cropped up first in American POW during Korea, then again in Viet Nam; GIs simply lost all will to live, went to sit down in a corner - and died, without fuss, without stirring, without reason.” As Eric watched, Jimmy smiled sadly at him and closed his eyes. “You’d best say any good bye you have. Cases I’ve read about say he won’t last the weekend.” Eric crossed to the gurney and took the old man’s hand. “Live!” Jimmy’s urgent voice barely cleared the stretcher. “I promise,” Eric said as hot tears began a slow parade down his face. |
|
| Out Of Gas kamtaakash@yahoo.com |
#7 of 7 |
| 1899 words | |
| “Josh, life is like helium filled balloons. The
more gas you fill into the balloon the higher it goes and the longer it flies
with the birds. The more you take in of the gifts that God has given you, with
this beautiful planet and all the blessings, the higher you will rise. You can
fly with the birds too one day, just Praise the Lord, live according to his
teachings and embrace life the good and the bad of it.” It was the same
message I got every Sunday from my mother, as the two of us passed the
amusement park on our way home from church. If I was lucky, mum would buy me an
ice-cream but that was rare. I would later learn that luck had nothing to do
with it. Mum would work an odd job here or there and with the money she
received she bought food and tendered to the bills. The ice-cream meant that
she would sacrifice something that she herself needed; like medication for her
arthritis. I learnt about the sacrifice that God made because he loved man so
much that he sent his own son to die in order to redeem us. I was taught this
philosophy along with many others at church on Sundays. But it was from my
mother that I learnt about God’s love. A true mother is a vessel of God.
She sacrifices everything for the sake of her child even to her own suffering.
It was a winter night, I was in junior school and I heard a noise in the garage. I went to see what it was only to find my father dangling from the ceiling rafters by a piece of rope. When my mother came in she shrieked and wept. She took me in her arms and held me tight. When she calmed down substantially she looked me in the eye and said, “Daddy’s balloon just ran out of gas too quickly and he did not let anyone fill it up again.” My mother’s attempt shelter me from the truth was in vain. I think a large part of it was due to her determination to see good in the world. School a few days after my Father’s funeral provided me with the education and reality check that everychild goes through at some stage in life. The point when you realise that your parents have lied to you a lot, for whatever reason, whatever their motivation they have not been completely honest with you. I was sitting in the corner of the funeral hall after my father’s service. People were all meeting with my mother, hugging her and holding her hand. No one smiled but they all had that same look on their face. It looked practiced. I wondered as grown ups have they practiced that look and reserved it for funerals. A look that says I won’t smile, I wont laugh, I am not going to cry but I have to do something so I will just try to look sad andd concerned. Mrs. Peters, a busy body from church saw me sitting on the chair dangling my legs. She touched my mum’s shoulder, nodded her head and made her way to me. “Now, now dear, “ she said. “I would not dangle my legs like that or do you want to give the Devil a good old ride. No, no son I do not think your mother can deal with you joining your father in hell.” I was taught to always respect my elders. “Never talk back to your elders, Josh. It is rude and a sign of ill-breeding. Always be polite and even if you do not understand them or disagree jusst smile and nod.” I did exactly that. “Good Lord! “ cried Mrs Peters, “I speak of hell and the child lights up like a bulb. Andd at his father’s funeral. Poor Mary, God be with her. A widow through suicide and a crazy child. Poor girl, the Lord is really testing her.” Mrs Peters mumbled a prayer and then walked of clearly in search of another church fanatic. That night when all the guests had left and my grandmother and aunts and uncles went to bed. My mother came into the bedroom I was in and she sat on the bed stroking my hair. “How are you Joshy? You okay?” Mum had been crying. The tears still lingered in her eyes and her nose was red. “Is this room okay for you?” We could not afford the funeral so my mother’s parents and siblings arranged everything. After the funeral they refused to lets us go home and instead drove us miles to their big house in the city. “Mum…” I paused to get the right words, “what is suicide, and why is dad in hell?” My mom was stupified. After a moment of silence she regained enogh of her senses to ask, “Where did you hear that. Suicide and hell. Joshy who said those things?” “Mrs Peters. She said I was a loon and that she feels sorry for you cause you are a windo through suicide and that dad is in hell. What did dad do that sent him to hell? Will I go to hell as well?” She started crying again, I never got any answers that night she just held my head tight against her chest and rocked back and forth for a while . She stopped, kissed me on the forehead and left the room, switching off the light as she did. The nest mornng with the support of her family, the warm sun shining onto the kitchen table and my grandmother frying eggs at the stove, my mother pulled a chair and motioned me to sit by her which I did. “Mrs Peters was very naughty to say such things yesterday Joshy. But now that she has it is only fair that I explain a few things to you. It is okay if you are afraid of what I am going to tell you and you can stop me when you have had enough okay?” Mum went on about how some times some people cannot handle life and the obstacles that present themselves. Mum mentioned that dad had lost faith.“Without faith son, it is so easy to get lost. Joshy remember I told you that life was like a helium balloon. Well A bolloon gets filled with gas and left to fly. It dances with the clouds and for a while it is bold and joyous in the sky. As time goes by though, the gas begins to escape and slowly the balloon begins to shrivel up and cannot fly anymore untill all that is left of the glorious balloon is just the rubber that once housed all the gas. Sometimes the ballon hits a tree and pops before its time. Sometimes birds attack the balloon causing it to pop. The ballon is like you and me. We are skin and bones but we need something to fill us so that we can move and live, we need a gas of sorts. That Joshy is a soul. A gift from God just like the hellium in the balloons. Your dad was a balloon that was tired of flying. He did not want to shrivel up slowly and wait for the gas to leave him eventually, so he popped his balloon early on his own. When someone does that, it is called suicide. And suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Lord. That is why Mrs. Peteres said what she did. I am now a widow, not a window and you my boy are part orphan. You will hear these words quite often now I imagine so you must know what it means. A widow is a woman whose husband has died, like me. An orphan is a boy or girl who losers either his or her mum or dad or both. Do you understand.” Mum looked at me with love and concern. I did not understand half of what she was saying. My dad was a balloon and she and I have gas and that is why we are living and dad popped so he lost his gas. I was confused but something told me to just smile and nod, which is exactly what I did. That was many years ago. I saw many balloons shrivel up and run out of gas. I had many friends as well, joyfull balloons popped before their time. At twenty – nine I feel alone. My father killed himself, thae problems thatr plagued his heart and mind died with my mother when but I doubt that she knew the reasons herself. She was never bitter about his cowardice she just went on, living her life as a child of God. I did not make life easy for her. I grew up feeling lonely, hating the church for its talk of Hell and sin and nevre feeling good enough feeling as if we were made to do wrong and dissaponit that God so that we will suffer in hell. As a teenager I was into drugs and alcohol, ofetn ariving home in the back of a police car, bloodied or soiled but witless eaither way. Grandmother used to say, “What do you expect, the apple does not fall far from the tree, like father like son. Surprised he has not found a rope yet that fits his neck. Mother just cried a lot. I regret that behaviour now. I regret that I was unable to bring more joy to a women who loved unconditionally. I think of her and remember the continuos sacrifices she made for me in her life. That is my punishment I suppose the retrospective knowledge that I did wrong by my mother. I have never forgotten my mothers analogy of life . We are all but helium balloons running out of gas. I hope that at the end she was happy. I don’t know what her last moments were like . perhaps it was my own cowardice that ensured I was not there when she to ran out of gas. My mother died, clutching her bible on her hospital bed while I sat in rehab blaming the world for my life. I got out last week. I managed to skip the funeral, the dissproving faces of the remaining family members. The scournful, judgemental stares and the mumble prayers of the church goers. Through my mother’s sacrifices and the grace of whatever Power is out there my life has been good even though I have not admitted it before. It could have been better but it could also have been a lot worse. So here I am an engineer, a creator standing above the world alone. Is this what God feels like the power to create but for what, when there is no-one to share your existance with when there is no-one who understands you. I am a hellium balloon floating in the glorious blue heavens, alone. Soon I too will be out of gas and fall to the ground, shrivelled and empty. Whether or not any others will join me, I don’t know but it is about time I start enjoying what I have. I have life so for the first time I am actually going to start living. |
|