Category: Theme Issues

The aged woman cautiously looked about the almost empty parking lot. A handful of cars remained. Employees, no doubt. Her car sat alone under the light. It had been a beautiful summer evening. A quick dash to the grocery store with only fifteen minutes to spare. The bag she carried was not heavy, just bulky. The few items inside shifted, tearing the paper-thin bag. The large oranges tumbled to the ground.

“Not again,” she mumbled. She clicked open the back end of the vehicle and placed the torn bag inside. She did not notice the dark figure near the side of her car. Without hesitation, she bent down and began retrieving the fallen fruit.

“Your purse, old lady,” demanded a shaky voice. Alison Chambers stood up, almost tipping over.

“What?” she asked, regaining her balance. She tossed the oranges in the open car. The ominous figure held a shiny steel serrated knife. The dark hood fell off his thick, mussed hair. The young man licked his cracked lips.

“You heard me…your purse…now…before I cut you wide open.” The crazy-eyed punk snickered. His hand trembled. Alison could see the sweat on his forehead. His T-shirt was stained. The dirty blue jeans hugged his youthful hips.

“Young man, I’m sure you can see plainly I do not have a purse. In fact, I do not carry a purse for just this reason,” explained Alison. Her heart beat a tad faster. She ignored the

increasing palpitations. A slight pain inched across her heavy chest. Her mind focused. With a little luck, she could diffuse the unfortunate situation.

The assailant glanced around. It was just the two of them. “You had to have money, old lady, to buy your groceries. So, give it up,” he shouted, leaning in closer to her face.

Alison immediately pulled back. She crossed her arms. “Exactly my point! I only bring what I know I’m going to spend. Nothing more…nothing less.” The young thug rubbed the back of his moist neck.

“Come on…you’ve got to have something. Nobody goes to the store with exact change. You’re lying to me!” he screamed. He thrusted the knife at Alison.

In a split second, Alison closed her droopy eyelids. She focused on his musky scent. Her self-defense instincts immediately took over. She had been practicing them for years. Her aged body reacted with precision. Within a blink of an eye, she moved out of the way and then grabbed his unprotected wrist.

“Damn!” yelled the young man as he howled in agony. The shining blade clinked as it hit the pavement. Wasting no time, Alison swung her heavy leg upwards into his open groin. The assailant crumpled in agony onto his knees. Crying out obscenities lost into the night.

“What the…?” spittle flew from his contorted mouth. Alison backed further away. She felt her pants pocket and retrieved her cell phone. She punched the number 911. But nothing

happened. The young thug was still grappling with his tender private parts. Tears streamed down his dirty face.

Alison could hear sirens in the distance. Someone from the store must have called. It wouldn’t be long now. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman was standing next to her. She smiled at Alison.

“I like your style,” said the stranger. Alison stared at the mysterious woman.

“Where did you come from?” questioned Alison. The woman had a pleasant face with a few wrinkles. Her hair was short and curly. A blue polo and capri pants fit the woman’s flattering curves.

“I don’t think this jerk will ever learn,” said a deep male voice. Alison’s eyes were instantly drawn to the strange man standing near the assailant, who was still crying in pain.

“Why do I get stuck with the likes of this kind?” The mystery man was tall and lanky. His flannel shirt and blue jeans hung loose. Short, dark hair and a long-pointed nose. He couldn’t be more than thirty. And he seemed to know the mystery woman.

“Where did you come from?” asked Alison. She looked back and forth between the two strangers.

“Same place as her,” he stated, pointing to the female beside Alison.

The young man on the ground was sniffling. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, honest!” he whimpered.

Alison’s eyebrows squished together. What was he talking about? She hurt him—not the other way around.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Alison. The woman beside her sighed.

“He didn’t actually kill you…well, his actions caused your heart to rupture. Your mitral valve was blocked. There’s no coming back from that. Even if the paramedics did arrive a tad earlier…it was your time.” It was then Alison saw the body on the ground.

“Is…is that me?” murmured Alison. Her wrinkled hand gently touched her quivering lips.

Before the stranger could answer, two police cruisers pulled up. A female officer jumped out of her vehicle, pulled her gun, and aimed it at the blubbering assailant. The other officer rushed to the deceased and immediately started to perform CPR.

“Don’t move…keep your hands where I can see them,” insisted the female officer. The young assailant had stopped crying. He remained still on the ground.

“My wrist…it’s broken. The old woman broke my wrist. Can you believe it? She kicked me in the balls, too. What old person does that?” he moaned.

“One who has to defend themselves against scum like you!” shouted the strange man. “I swear…” He shook his head. “Is this my penance?” He gestured his hand towards the crook.

“It’s up to the Almighty, you know this, Stuart.” The woman pointed to the sky.

“Anne…of course, I know this. But why me? Why am I tasked to guard a delinquent soon to be convicted of murder?” Anne shrugged her shoulders.

“I didn’t ask for this job, Anne. I had no choice in the matter.” He paced back and forth.

The paramedics arrived. Alison’s attention was drawn to the two older males as they rushed to the body—her body—white face and skin the color of ash.

One of the paramedics took over for the officer. Minutes ticked by. He checked her pulse. He looked up at his coworker and then shook his head from side to side.

“She’s gone. Let’s get the gurney.” Minutes later, they lifted Alison’s empty shell.

“Hey! Hey! What about me? My wrist is broken. I need medical attention!” shouted the young man, still on the ground.

As they pushed the gurney inside the back of the ambulance, one of the men turned to respond.

“You can catch the next ride,” he said through gritted teeth.

The female officer holstered her weapon and pulled out her handcuffs. The male officer read the murderer his rights.

“Let’s go, buddy. I’ll take you to the hospital.” They helped the young suspect into the backseat of the cruiser and clicked his free hand to the steel bar.

“Stuart, you’re going to miss your ride,” stated Anne. Alison could not wrap her mind around the scenario unfolding before her. Was she dreaming? Or was she really dead?

“Oh, that’s funny, Anne. Really funny! Ha, ha!” Stuart twirled into a circle and then disappeared.

“Where…where did he go?” asked Alison.

“Wherever Henry Wilson goes,” replied Anne. “You see, Stuart is his guardian angel. He’s been tasked with guarding the man who just happened to cause your death.”

Alison watched as the ambulance pulled away with silent flashing lights. The police cruiser containing Henry Wilson sped out of the parking lot.

The other officer left behind was speaking on her shoulder mic. Then, she opened her trunk and pulled out the yellow crime scene tape.

“I’m Anne, by the way—your guardian angel. We should be going. There’s nothing left for you here anymore, Alison.” The middle-aged woman gave a slight smile.

“I can’t believe…” Alison’s words trailed off.” Was she truly dead?

“I know. It’s a lot to take in. In time, you’ll come to grips with it.” Anne slowly turned and then looked back at Alison over her shoulder.

“What’s next?” asked Alison. And then suddenly, a miraculous peacefulness consumed her soul.

“Well, that’s actually up to you. Let’s take a walk, and I’ll give you a few pointers…” The two women then disappeared into the swirling white mist under the heavenly starlit sky.

—

Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. She lives with her partner and four canine companions. Retired from one of the largest library systems in Ohio, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.

It was a nearly two-hour grueling trek, but finally, I found an acceptable campsite. The night was falling rapidly, and of all the tasks I had to perform, making a fire was perhaps the most important. I dropped my gear and got right down to it. With the flashlight in one hand and the large hunting knife in the other, I did some quick chopping and stomping to reduce a few dead branches to a pile of firewood. Almost everything was damp, but I found enough dry wood to burn. There were plenty of twigs lying around for kindling. With those, I made a second pile. Pine needles, moss, and birch bark would have been great for tinder, but it was too dark to scout out these items. Fortunately, my backpack had a fire starter kit and a box of waterproof matches. I struck a match and said a prayer to the patron saint of campfires, hoping the damp wood would burn. The spark caught hold, and I leaned in close and blew into it. There was more smoke than fire at first, but soon, the tiny flame breathed on its own. Its survival was the most crucial thing in the world just then. I didn’t need to cook, but I needed the fire’s warmth, light, and protection from insects and wild animals. I fed more wood to the flames and sat back on my heels to admire my creation. When it was strong enough to sustain itself, I moved on to the next important thing: 

setting up camp. 

I spread the shell on the ground near the firepit and snapped the flexible rods together. After threading them through the fabric sleeves, I carefully bent them to create the loft and popped the ends into the grommets at the corners. I was in a rush, so I took a chance that there wouldn’t be much wind that night and didn’t bother to stake the tent down. I did, however, cover it with the fly. I couldn’t take a chance that it wouldn’t rain. When my humble abode was erect, I returned to tend to my precious fire. 

Darkness descended like a thick blanket over my tiny camp, completely isolating me from the rest of the world. Orange and gold flames curled around the logs in the pit, casting enough light to push back a bit of the night. Shadows swayed eerily around the camp’s perimeter, enhancing the mystery of the evening. Still, I breathed a profound sigh of relief for the first time that day. The race against the setting sun was over. I was where I needed to be, off the grid and out of reach. There wasn’t another person in the world who knew where to find me then; that was precisely how I wanted it. 

I sat on a stump beside the fire, removed the knee brace, and assessed the damage. Since the bumbling incident earlier that evening, when I stumbled and plowed face-first through a massive spiderweb, I was limping again. Sighing away my annoyance at the possible setback in recovery, I rubbed my hands together and began to massage the injured joint. While gazing into the fire, I reflected on what had been a most trying year. 

It began with the death of a dear friend, with whom I sat as she lost her battle with cancer. The following season, I caught and held another young woman who attempted to throw herself off a bridge. Those life-and-death encounters, happening in such succession, seemed to 

affect me in ways I had yet to come to terms with. Then, shortly after that came my own brutal fight for survival against a group of thugs for some stupid gang initiation, as was explained by the district attorney afterward. The confluence of these seemingly unrelated events had me contemplating those existential questions for which there were no easy answers. “Who am I? Why am I here? What should I do with the time I have left?” 

As the tensions of the day and city life drifted away, inevitably, my thoughts turned to Taz. The two of us had become very close. I recalled our last conversation with a pang of guilt. I tried to explain why I needed to make the excursion. She quickly pointed out all the potential dangers. 

“No one will be able to reach you,” she argued. “Did you consider that your family and friends will be worried sick about you?” She debated this and several other valid points, not too subtly implying that my personal needs might be selfish in this light. Her argument did not fall on deaf ears, though. I had already considered these and agreed. That’s why I’d omitted a few details, like the fact that I would be fasting the entire time. As for Taz’s argument, I understood the truth behind her words. She had a sense of adventure rivaling my own and didn’t like being left behind. After all, since we’d met, we had been rock climbing, sport cycling, mountain biking, hiking, and camping together. That competitive spirit was what I loved most about her. 

A rustling sound caught my attention, and I turned to see an eddy of leaves swirl into the firelight and out again. Flames fluttered, and something howled in the distance, sending a cold shiver along my spine. Suddenly thinking I needed a more robust fire, I scooped up the rest of the chopped wood and placed it in the pit. A pot of water with herbs that sat near the fire began to simmer. That blend of chicory, licorice, and bancha twig tea was supposed to curb hunger. I’d read that somewhere. I called the concoction “The Brew.” 

While the tea steeped, I went to my pile of gear to retrieve the one companion I did bring along. The zippered bag was roughly the size and shape of a rifle case. It contained no weapon of destruction, though. Knowing there was bound to be a lonely moment or two, I’d brought my backpacker’s guitar along to keep me company when the silence became too loud. I called it Onyx because of its black lacquered finish. After a quick tune of the strings, my guitar and I began to get reacquainted. Strumming softly and sipping warm Brew, I sat beside the flames until they burned to glowing embers. Eventually, weariness took hold, and my hands stopped moving of their own accord. Before I called it a night, I placed my feet firmly on the earth between the roots of that twisted stump. I closed my eyes and grounded myself in the tangible reality of the material plane. The night was still and peaceful, and I breathed it in. 

When the embers cooled, I rose to my feet. With Onyx in tow, I crossed the clearing to the tent. I was almost there when I felt a tingle at the nape of my neck. I whirled around suddenly to peer into the trees. Although my eyes could not penetrate the darkness, I knew something was watching from the depths of those shadows. 

—

Roderick Priestly is a martial arts teacher and owns a fitness studio in
New York City. He writes a fitness blog, “My Studio In The Heights.”
Once a year, he travels into the mountains on a solo sojourn for
inspiration and insight. He has worked as a professional
singer/songwriter/performer, studio owner/manager, private personal
trainer, and master trainer at New York sports clubs. He attended The
Ohio State University for music, The Fashion Institute of Technology for
computer design, writing workshops at Manhattanville College, and
writing groups. His work is forthcoming in Freshwater Literary Journal,
Perceptions Magazine, SLAB, and Umbrella Factory Magazine. He writes
using the pen name R.V. Priestly.

If you wake up next to me and cannot move, I will not eat you. I have taken every tender piece of you into my mouth to taste, and yea, Lord, it is good, but I have promised myself not to bite. I will only place my tongue in your ear and listen. 

A ghost might creep into your body as you lay in our bed, immobile. I will know it’s a ghost when my tongue hears it speaking in your head—it animates you: suddenly you talk and walk again, and I wonder—should I call a priest? A shaman, a wise woman, someone to exorcise you, evict the thing living underneath your skin—until I decide I like him, your ghost. His jokes, his smile, the sweet way he holds my hand in the street. I like him better than I ever liked you. 

Maybe he’s not a ghost. Maybe he’s an angel. Maybe he will sprout three more faces: a lion, an ox, and an eagle. When that happens, I will pull a feather from his wings and make a wish, and every candle in the house will blow out like a birthday party. 

He could be a pirate, a privateer, who has boarded your body like a boat, those candles attached to his hat like Blackbeard, sporting an earring and one untameable eye. Like a knife, he clenches me between his teeth, and I attach my mouth to his like the tentacle of some creature of the deep, but I don’t eat him. I keep my promises. 

Pirate and sea monster, ghost and cannibal, we suck and sway upon the sand. When, finally, he slips from your skin, shows me his face—divine and terrible!—we shall dance into the ocean, my beautiful friend and I. What’s left behind? A tongue, shriveling in a shell? Puppet strings of gristle, bones foundering in shallows—not you. Not you, my silent love. Just leavings on a plate—the things I swore I’d never swallow. 

—

A writer of fiction and poetry, Jennifer Maloney is a disabled woman living with chronic illness. Find her work in Litro Magazine, Literally Stories, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Neologism Poetry Journal and many other places. Jennifer is the co-editor of the poetry anthology Moving Images: Poetry Inspired by Film (Before Your Quiet Eyes Publishing, 2021) and the author of Evidence of Fire, Poems & Stories (Clare Songbirds Publishing, 2023) and Don’t Let God Know You are Singings (Before Your Quiet Eyes Publishing, 2024). Jennifer is also a parent, a partner, and a very lucky friend, and she is grateful, every day, for all of it.