Tag: Fiction

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Always Them by Amanda Hart Miller

Amanda Hart Miller

Always Them

(Previously published in Apeiron Review)

Little girls can be stolen, especially a little girl with sad, heavy-lidded eyes and a too-small jacket, a girl who carries a stuffed unicorn in the crook of her arm and rubs it against her lips again and again. She waits all alone at a bus stop by a patch of winter-gray woods. The few houses on the street have cardboard taped to the windows and junk on the porches. To put a bus stop here, Johnny feels, someone must have been asleep at the wheel.

Johnny has been watching her now for 41 school days. He marks off the days in his notebook, which he then tucks away. Johnny’s head doesn’t work as well as it used to, so he can’t remember these things unless he writes them down. He writes other things about her, too:

 

Girlie has ribbons in her hair today but they fall out she keep putting them back in. Girlies hair don’t cover that bruze. Girlie got candy bar today. Girlie stares and stares at the moon this morning I want to be there too Girlie.

On his most daring of days, he trills a bird call and she turns around to see nothing because he’s behind the trunk of a big tree. He rests his cheek against the bark and listens to his heart scurrying back down his throat.

He wears trash bags and rides his bike along the main drag in what is a small town. People say it’s because his wife got burned up in a house fire and he went crazy. He’s written this down. He doesn’t remember that happening, but he does remember lying with Bea after love, her skin silky and scented like almonds and sex, don’t ever leave me but he doesn’t know where she is now. And sometimes he remembers the men under the overpass tying him up and lighting him on fire Ooh-wee… he’s lit up like a Christmas tree but usually this stays deeper inside him in someplace that can’t be remembered but eats him up just the same.

Girlie sometimes tries to trick him, he thinks. She brings chalk and draws pictures on the sidewalk, and she works on them so hard that she has to press her lips together tight so she can think, but suddenly she’ll look up quickly, at his tree. The mornings are getting darker, though. It will soon be the longest night of the year.

After the bus comes and takes Girlie away, he copies her chalk drawings into his notebook. She mostly draws hearts and flowers, and he likes to pretend she draws them for him. When he copies them into his notebook, they are for her.

On January 20th, the sky is much more gray than white. A van pulls up to the bus stop. When the man inside puts down the window and says something to Girlie, she stands up from her drawing and cocks her head. She takes three steps back from the van, and Johnny feels like he’s one of the tiny hairs on her skin—just as bristled and scared. She takes another step back and then looks toward Johnny. He forgets to hide because he falls into her eyes for years before she looks back to The BadMan, who is opening the van door until he, too, sees Johnny.

The man shakes his head and mutters something angry that Johnny can’t hear. The van purrs as it rolls away.

Girlie is smiling at Johnny, thin lips closed and dimples showing. Now there’s this thing linking them, hurtling him through a rabbit hole of jittery nerves so he comes out the other end pumped and fretting at the same time.

The bus comes then and Girlie gets on. He can see her through the window, through her clothes to her skin and even deeper, to her heart sending all that blood around, and even deeper than that, to what it all means. The world has always been just the three of them: Girlie and The BadMan and this block of flesh that is Johnny’s to place between them. With trembling hands, he pulls out his notebook.


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Escape from the Siren’s Lair by Stephen Barber

Stephen Barber

Escape from the Siren’s Lair

The ancient who first told the story of Athena’s birth from the skull of Zeus must have had a hangover like this. I may not be the mythic god-king of Olympus, but I surely feel a tiny enraged person trying to burst forth from my head. My mouth feels like it is lined with a particularly old and ratty carpet, and my stomach is a churning maelstrom of cheap booze and chicken wings.

As the world became clearer in the morning light, I realize that the smoke stained, floral print wallpaper and wrinkled pink bed sheets were unfamiliar. There was also a gently snoring creature under the covers to my left.

 

What had happened? How had a quiet night of libations at the Badger’s Den led me to these odd surroundings? Who or what is this comatose form lying next to me, and for the love of God, why am I naked? All of these thoughts bounced around my already aching skull. Recollection of the night before was still fuzzy; my brain was trying desperately to shift out of first gear.

There was something about Popov and a hint of shame but a more complete picture was not quite forming. An investigation of this sleeping being under the covers next to me was in order. I leant over and pulled down the sheets to reveal the sum of my indiscretions.

Oh unmerciful Bacchus, what hath you wrought upon me!

The naked wrinkled visage of the Badger’s Den’s most storied and reviled barfly, DeDe, lay before me, a woman old enough to be my mother and in no way the sexy Miss Robinson type. If Helen of Troy’s face could send a thousand ships, DeDe’s distorted mug could sink twice that number.

With this jarring discovery, my synapses began firing and the mortifying memory of the night before began to invade my tortured mind. What began as a quiet evening of beer and billiards had turned into a debauched foray of plastic bottle vodka and reckless abandon.

While the vile liquid was disarming my inhibitions, DeDe had closed in like a hungry wolf to a wounded lamb. With a devilish toothless grin, she put her hand on my lap and asked if I could buy her a drink. Unlike wise Odysseus, I veered right into the siren’s boulder-like breasts. The unmercifully vivid memory of her telling me that I looked like a young Marlon Brando before slamming me into the cigarette machine and latching her gaping maw onto my mouth flooded back. I was not even spared the recollection of how her tongue was the flavor of bubble gum martinis and halitosis.

I began to shudder as the fuzzy details of the events after we stumbled back to her dingy apartment materialized. How she grabbed my crotch with a level of aggression that would have made Michael Jackson uncomfortable. It then proceeded to a coital experience comparable only to being caught in a fat, drunk crocodile death roll.

The decision to flee came quickly; I snuck into the bathroom, finding my crumpled clothes. Glancing at the mirror, I saw that my neck was covered in hickeys that looked like they must have been created by some sort of industrial vacuum. After leaving the bathroom, I went to make my final escape, only to be met with a sight of abject horror. DeDe had awakened and positioned herself between the door and me. Her whole shamelessly bare body jiggled menacingly.

She gave me a leer so filthy that it encrusted my very soul with its profane grime. Before my terrified mouth could make words, DeDe turned around, put her hands against the door, and jutted her megalithic ass towards me.

“If you want to leave, you’re going to have to unlock my door with your key one more time, honey.”

Vomit began to swell up my throat as I stared into the infernal abyss stretched open before me. Wildly looking about, I could see that all the windows had bars and that I was trapped. There was only one option left, and it certainly was not to use my “key,” as DeDe so euphemistically put it. I let out the war cry of a man who had nothing to lose and charged with all my might into the bovine buttocks blocking my path. With a tumultuous crash, the weight of DeDe’s vast carcass splintered the door from its frame, sending me tumbling to my freedom.


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Beauty Is Pain by Katherine Mazzola

Katherine Mazzola

Beauty Is Pain          

 

As the straps embedded themselves deeper into my skin, I continued to ask myself why. “Why am I doing this to myself?” The slightest movement would drive the wire deeper into my ribcage. The minute I saw my reflection, the heavens opened. Pushed up and perky, my breasts looked great!

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A Mother’s Grief by Jone Thurmond

Jone Thurmond

A Mother’s Grief

My dear children:

Never in my wildest thoughts would I have guessed that your brash, incredible injustice would cut so deeply a wound in my soul. Your actions against your own flesh and blood are more than any mother should want to bear. And here it is, that I must suffer and know the true meaning of your selfish actions. The injustice you bestow on others to justify your greed is beyond comprehension and your insensitivity toward others is evident by your total lack of compassion.

You each believe that you, and only you, have solutions to problems, that your actions will bring about your wanted results. It is not so. A selfish mind brings sadness that captures every movement. Malicious actions do hound forever and ever, as memories do not fade easily. So, if your capability for thinking were clear and bright, a twisted knot would never tighten around your mind. You demonstrate to me, your mother, that I am of little worth or respect, and that your madness will kill me. Well, I am not dead yet. You clamor to make my legacy a farce. I know that each of you believe that only you are right because it seems to works for you. Well, all lives are different, and no one should judge the actions of others, especially when their own actions are not worth substance.

It is with such grief that I find inner strength to write my feelings. You all are spoiled on my account and I find it greatly sad. To place a burden in my heart, that I am no longer viable or respected, is truly a tale of contempt. Within your heart and soul the deeds you perform herein show that character and love are not within your being.

I will not permit a child of mine to be deprived of livelihood. The unscrupulous intention to control and manage a life that is not your own is malicious and full of hypocrisy. Living a life as an insensitive person has many flaws, as only you can know. Do not judge; it takes skills that none of our family possess.

There is a future apart from your selfish souls, if only you could care and share. Behaviors are mirrored in your actions. They cannot be hidden. I will not pity careless actions that are destined to harm and hurt, and I will not condone your self-righteous traits. I cry in disbelief that such hatred exists within your souls, and surely if life were worth living, you would find comfort in being kind.

Fairness comes with generosity, and to my grief I see my children quibbling over how much is really theirs. Sadly, I see that each has nothing, nothing in this world to share. What is a life without caring and sharing? An unhealthy life may be one answer. I am ashamed, and I regret that I must be your mother.


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Bob by Star Dodson

Star Dodson

Bob

I remembered it as if it were yesterday. I was sitting at the table with my arms crossed, and my back slouched in the chair. I was there for some time just staring at this bizarre man sitting across from me. He had a calm demeanor and seemed content just twirling the tips of his hair through his fingers. He kept his legs crossed and seemed to make an oink sound over and over that reminded me of a pig. He held two packs of Marlboro Light cigarettes next to him on the table and repeatedly stated the fact that he had them, as if I couldn’t hear him or something. He would stare back at me like he was a champion of a staring contest, without any expression at all. He was a grown man acting like a child. I was only twelve, and wasn’t so sure I liked him.

My mother sat down with me and with a very compassionate voice started rambling on about life and how this may be hard but he needed us. She told me that his name was Bob, he was 35 years old and had Down’s Syndrome. I found out that his parents had passed away and that he had to live in a home for people with disabilities. She said that he would never grow up, kind of like Peter Pan. I thought that was kind of cool! She told me he was diagnosed with lymphoma cancer and that he only had about a year to live if someone didn’t help him. The doctors told her that it was amazing that he had lived this long. They didn’t believe the treatment would work and wanted to just let him go. She told me that he didn’t have anyone to stand up for him and that she wanted to help. At this time people with disabilities were cared for at home or went to special schools, so I was never around someone so very different from me. I was confused about him but understood how important it was to my mother. I was soon not going to care too much about his disability, just about him.

It was only a few days before I realized that this guy was a lot of fun! He would chase me through the house with his bandanna wrapped around his face like a cowboy, shooting me with his toy guns. He loved watching all my cartoons with me and I liked that we both enjoyed agitating my mother. He always asked me if I wanted a knuckle sandwich, then he would raise his fist and ask if I wanted to fight. I would always say yes and we would both start laughing and tickling each other. He loved to play karate chop and pretend he was the lion from the Wizard of Oz. He had bookcases full of tractor books and had ten etch a sketch’s. I would come in the room and he would be bent over with his face two inches away from a spiral notebook in his lap. He would fill an entire page of scribble and then explain the adventure he drew about. He had short brown hair that stood straight up in the front from twirling it all the time. He was short and only wore blue jeans and tee shirts with a brown belt. Bob and I settled in together nicely. My mom took him to a new doctor and his cancer treatment began very soon after. All his hair fell out and he didn’t even care except that he kept trying to twirl his fingers through his hair that was already gone. He didn’t even act sick or complain the whole time he received his treatments. His illness seemed to drain my mother quite a bit at first, but after he was able to beat the cancer, we were all home free.

Time seemed to fly and before I knew it I was eighteen and moving out. At times I wished he would have grown up with me but at the same time I was glad that he was able to stay fun and carefree. I got married and had three kids of my own. Bob loved it when they came to visit. Soon he was chasing the girls around the house and having a good time with them like we used to. The kids would ask him what sound a dog makes and he would meow or moo and make chicken sounds. Everyone who met Bob loved him and couldn’t get enough time with him. It reminded me so much of our time together. Soon my girls were getting bigger and once again, Bob was left as a child, as everyone grew up around him.

His mind never aged but unfortunately, his body did. As Bob aged, his health began to decline and my mother was no longer able to care for him. He was wheelchair bound and needed total care. As much as it killed her to admit it, she couldn’t physically lift him any longer. After time my mom agreed for him to come live with me, but we both knew it would be hard for her and Bob. It was an adjustment for my family also, but there were never any complaints. We all worked hard but his cheerful attitude and precious smile was worth every moment! I soon stopped complaining about the little things in life and tried to see life from his eyes. He was inspirational and showed me that there is so much more to life than what I give life credit for. He never lost his sense of humor no matter how bad things got. I would go into his room in the morning to get him out of bed and he would tell me I was fired. I would beg for my job back and he would laugh the whole time. He was my brother, maybe not by blood, but more importantly by love. Almost twenty years had passed and my life was changing all the time and his remained the same.

Eventually we had to call in a hospice nurse to help us. He was on oxygen and we were spoon-feeding him baby food. He was dropping weight every day. He was fifty-four now and it was rare at the time for someone with Down’s Syndrome to live past their thirties so we were lucky, but it didn’t seem that way. It was a long few months and we all knew the time was coming but we didn’t talk much about it. I was getting ready for bed one night when the nurse called me upstairs. She said Bob was having trouble breathing, that she was going to give him medicine to help him relax, and that we should call the family because things didn’t seem good. I couldn’t believe it. He had a great day, better than most. I asked my husband to call the family and went to be with Bob. I grabbed his hand and started to rub his fingers.

“Bob, can you hear me honey?” I could see his chest rising slowly trying to take a breath. He didn’t reply but I could see it in his eyes. He was scared and I needed to make him feel safe. I picked him up as if he would break into pieces if I made one wrong move. I sat on his bed and held his weak and famished body in my arms like he was a child. He leaned his head to the side and rested it on my shoulder. I could feel his last breaths flowing across my neck. As we sat together, I held tighter to his body, praying that he wasn’t in pain. My tears were flowing uncontrollably but I didn’t dare make a sound in fear that he could hear me crying and get frightened. I was ashamed of breathing as I felt him take his last breath. He was gone and I was lost. His nurse walked out and shut the door. I gently laid his lifeless body down and covered him up as if he was just going to bed. What I would give to hear him laugh just one more time. I leaned down, kissed him on his head and spoke.

“I love you buddy”