A Very Bad Day

(Here’s my latest writing contest entry. Unfortunately it failed to make the finals, but that does mean I can post it now. If you’re curious about the finalists, you can read their entries here: Contest #49

The setup: You are stranded on a desert island with 3 items: a coconut, a dictionary and a mask. In 750 words or less, explain how you use those items to get off the island. Please comment and give me your thoughts)

A Very Bad Day

           Consciousness seeped into my body and pain followed closely behind. I was on my stomach, head twisted to my right and something had sealed my eyes shut. I could hear waves rolling in and memories of an anniversary cruise pushed their way to the surface of my mind.

I sat up, rubbing the saltwater crust from my eyelashes.  My fingers brushed a lump on my forehead causing it to suddenly throb. Now able to see my surroundings, I was on little more than a sandbar with a few palm trees and rocks. How had I gotten here? I couldn’t remember.

Scattered across the beach were piles of driftwood and debris. I began to search through them and discovered a cheap Bart Simpson Halloween mask, a water-damaged but intact dictionary and a coconut. I eyed the coconut hungrily.

Searching the beach I found a piece of abalone shell with a sharp edge. I spent the rest of the day prying off the husk, scoring the coconut with the shell and screaming at passing boats. My island was too low on the horizon for me to be seen and my thirst soon forced me to give up trying to get their attention.

As I worked, I kept replaying my last memories trying to coax the synapses to connect. My marriage was in trouble when Peter suggested an anniversary cruise as a way to rekindle our passion. He had been so attentive on the trip and hope had returned. I began to remember snapshots of that last night. Dancing. Peter bringing me drinks. Back at the cabin. Sitting on our private balcony. Looking at the stars.

It was late afternoon by the time I’d scored the coconut deeply enough to risk cracking it open. I tapped it against a tree trunk and was rewarded with a nice split. I guzzled the liquid inside and could feel my saltwater soaked tongue shrink in my mouth.

I used the last light of the sun to gather driftwood. Pages from the dictionary, twigs and dried palm fronds went into a pile. I was able to get sparks with a couple of rocks I’d found, but my kindling wouldn’t catch. Lights suddenly appeared on the horizon and I frantically tried again. Nothing.

Tossing the rocks in frustration, another series of memories flashed through my mind. Peter on the balcony, picking me up. Expecting a night of passionate lovemaking.  Tumbling through the air.  My head hitting the side of the ship. Peter had explained the life insurance policies saying, “you never know what might happen in Mexico” and I hadn’t questioned it. What a fool.

I dug some coconut from the shell and chewed it, hoping to at least relieve the pain in my stomach. I wiped the coconut oil on my shirt then groaned. That stain wouldn’t come out and I liked this blouse. Inspiration struck.

Stripping off my shirt, I wrapped all the coconut meat inside it and pounded until there was nothing but pulp.  I twisted the shirt and watched drops of coconut oil begin to fill the bottom of the empty shell. Pouring some oil on my kindling I struck the rocks together again. When a spark leapt into the pile, flame and smoke followed. I let out a whoop.

I looked up. The lights were still there but I needed something to launch the fire higher if I wanted to be spotted from sea. My thoughts spun. I detached the elastic from the mask and digging through the pile of driftwood found a forked stick. I pushed the elastic through the holes of the broken abalone shell and attached each end to the stick.

The boat had almost reached the other horizon. I crumpled more dictionary pages into tight paper balls and drizzled coconut oil on them. Was I too late? I dipped one into the fire and shot it into the air with my slingshot. The flames trailed behind like a mini-comet and once at the apex, flared with bits of burning paper fluttering down. It just might work. I fired again.  And again.  The distant lights stopped, and then grew larger.  The boat was heading right for me.

Once on board I hugged the fishing captain who barely spoke English croaked  “gracias” about a million times. My very bad day had just ended and my husband’s very bad day was about to begin.

 

 

Forget Me Not

(My take on Stephen King’s writing exercise from On Writing. Written in 2012. I learned more from this one exercise than I did from all the creative writing classes I’ve ever taken. Some adult language.)

      My career goal is to be a rock god.  Really?  That’s what kids wrote on their job applications these days?  Dick sighed.

      The intercom’s light blinked a few seconds before the phone actually rang.  He looked up from the pile of applications in front of him through the front window of his office.  His secretary, prim, disapproving Ellen, sat at her desk holding the receiver to her ear.

      He answered her call, “Yes?”

      “It’s time to pick up Nell for the party,” Ellen said.

      “Oh shit yeah, thanks”

      Dick hung up and tossed the applications into his briefcase so he could look them over again later at home.   Why did his best candidate have to fail the pee test?

       Ellen was still watching him. Was he just imagining the pity in her eyes?  He couldn’t blame her.  He was pathetic.  A real man didn’t get beaten up by a woman.

      He picked up his briefcase along with what was left of his pride and walked past Ellen’s desk.  He plastered a smile on his bruised and swollen face, “I have my cell so call if you need anything.”  She pursed her lips in a sort of smiling grimace but said nothing.

      Maybe it was time to make Ellen a cashier and find a new secretary.  She was just another reminder of Jane.  Every time he saw her he remembered the day his wife announced over the store’s loudspeaker that Ellen was giving him blowjobs at lunch.  He was surprised he still had a job after her stunt. What she said wasn’t true, of course, and filing for divorce seemed to soothe Ellen and corporate, but he had a harder time with the grandma who’d been in the toy aisle with her grandson and wanted Dick to get the kid to stop saying blowjob to everyone he met.

      Standing silently in front of Ellen he realized they were both probably thinking about the same thing.  He blurted out, “See you tomorrow” and quickly left.  Yes, he should definitely make her a cashier… or something.

      The offices of Save Now Drugs exited from behind the service desk.  Every time he walked past it he could almost see Jane standing there in that bright yellow dress, asking a clerk for the manager so she could show him the new line of cosmetics from Sofella.  He was lost the moment she turned her high-powered smile on him.   He bought her line of cosmetics… and a few other things as well.  Too bad he didn’t find out she was a paranoid, controlling bitch until after he’d said that bit about ‘til death do us part.

      Dick walked through the half empty parking lot to his car, detouring past the construction so he wouldn’t have to use his usual tae kwon do lie on the guys.  This project was his baby – a sign that could be seen from interstate.  He was still a little surprised corporate had found the money.  The men lowered the support posts into the gaping hole and tomorrow morning they were scheduled to fill it with cement.  Once that hardened, they’d crane the mother of all signage into place.  More profits meant a bigger bonus so the sooner that sign was up, the better.  Even though the judge had awarded him both Nell and the house, without Jane’s income he was on the verge of losing their home.

      After getting Nell from day care, Dick parked outside a house decorated with balloons.  He lifted her out of her car seat and said, “Remember last time and don’t eat so much candy, okay.”

      “I won’t daddy,” she said.  Now on her feet, she was skipping with excitement, her pigtails bouncing behind her.  “I just want cake and ice cream, cake and ice cream, cake and ice cream.”

      He smiled, “Don’t eat too much cake and ice cream either.  That will make your tummy hurt too.”  He took her hand and led her up the balloon-lined driveway.  Once she saw the other kids she ran off, her little hand slipping out of his.

      He loved her tiny hands.  When he first looked at Nell’s perfectly miniature fingers and toes, he thought maybe a baby would soften Jane’s rough edges and bring them together as a family.  Instead, after Nell’s birth, Jane had experienced some sort of break.  She became verbally abusive to Dick and overprotective of Nell.  The happy family he longed for would never be.

      Dick pulled into in his driveway.  It would be at least two hours before the climax of cake would be reached and Nell would be ready to leave. He wanted nothing more than to take a nap – a luxury he almost never got to indulge in now that he was a single dad

      He approached the front door, purposefully looking up at the house and away from the bloodstains on the front step.  Dick thought the divorce would finally get her out of his life but he was naive.  Not even the restraining order could do that.  Now the bloodstain would be yet another reminder of how deeply enmeshed she was in his life.   Every time he came home he would remember last night when he opened the door and he saw a kettlebell flying at him.

      He should have known that would be her weapon of choice. After Nell was born, Jane had quit her traveling sales rep job and started working at the local gym as a fitness instructor.  It wasn’t long after that the physical abuse to Dick started.  She taught several classes but kettlebell was her specialty.  Last night, if the screen door hadn’t been closed it probably would have crushed his skull, but instead it slammed into his face just hard enough to cause blood to pour from his nose and pain to shoot through his skull.  His reflex had been to push the door, which had sent Jane, wearing her usual four-inch heels, sprawling.

      Albert, from next door, jumped on top of her, pinning her to the ground.  She screamed for someone to call the police and Dick tried to stop the geyser erupting from his nose.  Mrs. Thomas, who was watching across the street from behind her blinds, called 911, but Jane was incensed when it wasn’t Dick the police hauled away.  She was the one now sitting in the city jail, nursing her rage.

      He stepped over the stain and into the darkness of the entryway.  The door clicked behind him and an intuitive chill rippled down his back.  Something was wrong.  He froze in terror, listening for movement inside the house.  He heard only the ticking of the wall clock they’d gotten as a wedding gift.

      And there she was again.  Another reminder.  Damn he was sick of her.  What was it going to take to get rid of her?  Dick exhaled sharply, dropped his briefcase and locked the deadbolt.  Kicking off his shoes, he shuffled into the kitchen to grab a beer before heading into the living room to stretch out in front of the TV.  He flicked through the channels, past baby mama drama and ads for technical schools that promised a new and better life, if you’d just get your lazy ass off the couch and call.  He settled on a rerun of Home Improvement.  Tim had insisted on fixing the garbage disposal himself and Dick knew the super duper motor was going to cause problems.  Even so, he was quickly sucked in and when Tim let out a grunt, Dick joined in.

      They were mid-grunt when the Tool Man was replaced with the local anchorman.  “We interrupt this program for a public safety announcement.  There has been an escape at the local city jail.  Earlier today an inmate freed himself and his incarcerated girlfriend.  Two guards were killed during their escape.  The inmates were caught hiding in a culvert just block from the jail, however after an extensive search, the woman’s cellmate has yet to be found.  She is not known to be armed, but may be dangerous.  We are urging residents to keep your windows and doors locked and report any suspicious….”

      That familiar chill washed over him again.  His index finger twitched, turning the TV off though the rest of him was frozen.   His breathing was shallow, but he was getting enough air to smell it and he knew.  She was in the house with him.  He could smell her perfume.  He’d probably smelled it when he walked into the house.  His terror grew as he heard cla-click… cla-click.  He’d heard it a million times – her heels coming down the stairs.

      He was amazed at the thoughts that ran through his brain when he should have been looking for a way out.  Dick found himself wondering if she was still wearing her prison jumpsuit.  What favors had she offered the guard to get her perfume smuggled into the jail?  What price had that guard ultimately paid?  Did she have the guard’s gun?  Or had she stuck with the tried and true kettlebell. Where had she gotten the heels?  Maybe it was a knife this time.  What outfit would they dress him in for his funeral?

      He wanted desperately to give her a moving target but remained frozen.  “Where’s Nell?”  Her voice cut through his fear and sent him into motion.  Nell.  Yes, he had to deal with this for Nell.  His eyes locked on the fireplace poker leaning against the wall across the room.  He stood up slowly and turned to face Jane.  No prison jumpsuit – jeans and a red top.  It was kettlebell and knife.  He was pretty sure they’d pick the Armani since it was the nicest suit he owned.

      “She’s still at daycare,” he lied.

      She stared him down and then decided he was telling the truth.  “Well, I guess I can kill you and then go pick her up.”

      She came down the stairs and Dick backed up as if he was afraid, which he kind of was.

He reached back, wrapped his fingers around the poker and swung it around, saying mockingly, “No, please.  We can work this out.”

      Jane paused and studied the new situation.  He had her on strength and reach.  He swung the poker again and added a snarl for effect.  Now she was the one backing away.  She tried to throw the kettlebell at him but it dropped well short.   She slashed the air between them with the butcher knife.   Searching with her free hand, she found the door handle and said with a smile, “Guess you finally found your balls.  That’s fine.  I’ll go pick her up and you’ll never see her again.  That plan works too. ”  Nothing happened when she turned the knob.  Not realizing the deadbolt was latched, she turned to see why the door wouldn’t open.

      It was the opportunity he needed.  He slammed the poker into the back of her head.  The spike punched through her skull and into the brain, killing her instantly but he swung again.  “You will not take Nell,” he screamed as he swung.  The crunch of the bone was half sickening and half satisfying.  The satisfying part scared him a little.  Maybe he finally had found his balls.

      Dick stared at the crumpled heap in shock.  What had he done?  What did he do now?  No point in calling the paramedics since she was clearly dead.  He couldn’t call the police.   How would he explain multiple hits with the poker to the back of her head?  Obviously she was trying to leave when he killed her.  That was called murder.

      So even dead she made his life hell.  The solution would be to find someplace to get rid of her body.  He’d feel bad about the continuing manhunt, but considering her minor charges, he doubted it would go on for long.

      So where?  He could spend the night burying her out in the country but that wasn’t fool proof.  Shallow, hand-dug graves had a habit of being found.  He needed a deep hole where nobody would ever find her.  A huge smile broke across his face.

      The next morning he pulled into his usual parking spot.  The teamsters were already hard at work with the cement truck grinding away, ready to pour the foundation.  Dick leaned over and looked into the hole.  Other than a few shoe prints he recognized as his own, it looked undisturbed.  Harley, the construction boss, joined him.  “You all set?” Dick shouted over the noise.”

      “Yup.  What happened to you?” Harley pointed at his fading bruises.

      “Tae kwon do.  Didn’t block my sparring partner.”

      Harley nodded, impressed. “Want me to start pouring?”

      Dick grinned, “Pour away.  Let’s get that sign up.”  Harley shouted and gave a thumbs-up to one of his men.  Cement poured down the spout and Dick watched it ooze around the support posts until it covered the bottom of the hole.

      He patted Harley on the shoulder and headed inside.  Just yesterday he’d wanted nothing more than to forget Jane and now he’d think of her every time he saw that sign.  He smiled.  He didn’t mind so much anymore.

Writer’s Block

(This one was written around 2001.)

Alex struggled to find his muse as he stared dully at the blank computer screen.  A shrewish voice sliced through the cluttered apartment.  “Damn it, I told you to buy some ice cream on the way home tonight.”  He heard the freezer door slam.

“I’m sorry Julie.  You didn’t give me enough cash,” he answered.  He kept his back turned but he could picture her leaning in the doorway of the kitchen with four days of dirty dishes piled behind her.  A beer bottle clinked against her wedding band.

“You know, you are a worthless piece of shit,” she blasted.   “I asked you for one little thing – pick up some ice cream.  Do you do it?  No.  You come home from your piss-poor, $9.50 an hour job and then you sit in front of that piece of crap computer all night.”

The smell of her cheap perfume mingled with hairspray reminded him of bug repellent.  He could almost feel it soaking into his skin and making his eyeballs sting.

Alex stared at the filthy verticals hanging cock-eyed in the window and tried to let it roll off his back. He knew she’d been on her feet all day waitressing.  He finally worked up his courage and swiveled to explain again, “You only gave me five dollars this morning.  Even if I only get a salad, it costs me $3.50.  There just wasn’t enough left.”

Julie pivoted on her three-inch spikes and headed for the door.  “Well, whose fault is that?  Turn off that damn computer and get a second job.  You know you’re wasting your time.  You’ll never sell anything.”

She put the empty bottle down on the end table stained with water rings.  He remembered grabbing the table off the street one night after someone had put it out to be picked up by the trash truck.  Their entire apartment was decorated in curbside chic.    She pulled back the dead bolt and chain on the door.  “I’m going out and when I get back, I want to see, the dishes done, the trash taken out and some ice cream in the freezer.”

The apartment door slammed behind her and bounced off the warped frame.  The manager hadn’t fixed anything in the building for over a year.  Alex knew he should try to fix it but home repair wasn’t his strong suit.  He got up and forced the door shut and reveled in the silence.

Alex decided to do his “chores” before playtime.  As he scrubbed the filthy dishes he remembered the people they were when they met ten years ago in college.  She had excelled in accounting and business.  He had been a young and gifted English major.   He just knew that the next great American novel lay buried somewhere within him.  Julie had seemed to believe in him even more than he’d believed in himself.  They had gotten married their junior year and she had dropped out of college to waitress and help put him through his senior year.   She planned to finish school as soon as he had established himself as a writer.

Everyone told Alex how gifted he was.  They also told him he needed time and practice to develop that gift.  At first he tried to hone his skills and make a living by selling articles and short stories.  Julie had been so excited when he’d received a $500 check for an article but, there had been no sales after that.  Alex wrote a novel that was rejected by every publisher he submitted it to.  Julie finally lost faith in him and demanded he get a job.  He would never forget the day when she sat him down in their tiny kitchen and said, “Honey…”  That was back when she still called him ‘honey.’  She’d said, “Honey, I think it’s time to grow up and face reality.  You aren’t going to make it as a writer.”  Her faith in him was gone.  His own faith was severely shaken but he couldn’t stop writing.

He had taken a data entry job not only to appease her but also because the monotony of keying in numbers left his mind free to create.   The years passed and he still hadn’t sold anything.  They were in the same cramped, run-down apartment and they hadn’t taken a vacation in years.  Julie was miserable.  It hurt him to admit it, but the harpy she had become was just as much his fault as hers.  He’d made a mess of both their lives.   Alex knew his writing had improved but he needed more time to truly focus on his craft.  He wondered how much better he would be if he didn’t have to earn a living.

After taking the trash out, he eased himself into the old desk chair balancing carefully on the three remaining wheels.   For the first time that day, Alex felt truly alive.  Even if he never sold a thing, he knew he would always write.  He loved words.  He loved pulling them out of the air and weaving them together to create something out of nothing.  Writing was the only thing that gave him joy anymore.  At first, sentences came haltingly.  But as he left the real world and entered his imagination, words and ideas began to flow from his fingertips.  He lost himself in a creative whirlwind.   Minutes, then hours passed without awareness.  It was the words… just the words.  There was nothing else.

At eleven o’clock all of Alex’s creativity was chased from his mind by two words.  Ice cream!  Nearly knocking the wobbly chair over, he dashed madly into the bedroom, found her stash, and peeled five dollars from the wad.  He hoped she wouldn’t miss it.

Just two blocks away was a convenience store.  As he hurried down the street a friendly voice called out, “Hey Writer-man.  How’s the book coming?”  His neighbor, a grizzled black man known as Macarthur leaned against a light post.  Retired but always well-dressed, he could be seen talking to passers-by as he puffed on an old cigar.

“It’s goin’ okay, Macarthur.  It’s goin’ okay, “Alex answered as he kept walking.

“That’s good.  You keep workin’ on it boy.  Some day they’re gonna be selling that book of yours at the newsstand up the street.  I’m gonna buy me a copy and read it.”  He chuckled from deep in his chest and then wheezed out a cough.

“Not if you keep smoking those things Macarthur.”

“When you sell that book, I’ll quit the stogies.”

Alex continued on, walking past open windows where he could hear the sounds of the day disappearing into silent sleep.  Across the street, a couple returning from their date, kissed goodnight.  Despite the poverty, he genuinely liked the feel of his block.  It still felt like a neighborhood where people looked out for each other.  Someday he hoped to start a writing program for the kids here.  They needed to know they could do something positive with their lives.  But tonight, his mission was ice cream.  Saving the world would have to wait until later.

When the alarm went off the next morning he tried not to wake his wife who was sprawled across the bed still wearing her clothes from last night.  Despite his care, Julie cracked open an eye and mumbled, “Geez, yer loud.  Go away so I can sleep.”

In the kitchen, he saw the empty ice cream carton sitting on the counter as well as a bunch of empty beer bottles.  She must have had the girls over.   He was glad he’d learned to sleep through her parties.

When he got to work, there was already a pile of papers waiting to be entered into the computer.    His fingers sped across the numeric keypad as plot points and dialogue skittered through his thoughts.  As the day wore on, he would discard the scenes that didn’t work.  In the evening he would pour the scenes that did work into the keyboard.

At lunch he sat alone in his cubicle with a notebook skimming the newspaper for new ideas and characters.  He was drawn to the headline, “Jailhouse Novelist Captivates Readers.”  The article was about a man who had been in prison for murder.  Thanks to taxpayer dollars, he’d gotten his college degree and had spent the remainder of his sentence penning a novel.  Now he was a free man and his book was wowing the critics and making him rich.

“It’s not fair,” Alex muttered to himself.  “I bust my ass to get my degree.  I bust my ass to find time to write.  It’s just not fair.”

Fair or not, he was back at work an hour later.  His supervisor wandered among the rows of cubicles swatting each one with a bundle of rolled up papers as he passed by.  Alex stopped working to silently hate the pompous walk his boss had acquired.  Then he turned slowly, scanning the rows of cubicles in the large office space.  His vision seemed to shimmer and then come into focus.  He could suddenly see his co-workers laboring silently in their cells while the warden was passing through the prison block.  As he recognized his prison for the first time, bile crept up the back of his throat.  Time seemed to stand still until Alex stood up and calmly walked out of the office.

At home, Alex printed out his novel in progress.  He also grabbed Julie’s cash.  He slipped the manuscript into a manila envelope while the cash went into a #10 envelope.  On his way down the street he ran into Macarthur again.  “Macarthur?  I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure.  Writer-man whatever you need.”

“This is my manuscript.  I want you to hang onto it for a few days.  Then I want you to bring it back to me.  This other envelope I want you to keep at home until after you see me again and I can explain.”

Macarthur looked confused, “Sure, I guess.  Where you goin’?”

“I’m going to the store.  I’ll see you later.”

Alex hesitated before entering the store.  He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked in.  Minutes later, the parking lot was filled with cops braced for a confrontation with their guns drawn.  Alex walked out, threw a bag on the ground and put his hands up.  A few dollar bills fluttered from the bag and scattered on the ground.   Within moments cold steel cuffs pinched his wrists and he was being loaded into the back of a police cruiser.

That evening, he had his first visitor.  Julie sat on the other side of the glass glaring at him.  “You dumb shit,” was all that came out of her mouth.   Her voice sounded distant and hollow through the mesh circle in the window.  He didn’t bother to respond.  Finally she added, “I’m filing for divorce, you know.”  He simply nodded and smiled as she turned and stomped out of the room.

Alex pled guilty. The judge took into consideration his plea and the fact that he had a clean record.  He was sentenced to four years in the state penitentiary just outside of the city.

By the time Macaurther tracked him down, Alex had already been transferred to the penitentiary.  In the visitation room, Macarthur peered at him with a glum look on his weathered face.  “Writer-man, what did you do?”

Alex smiled calmly.  “It’s okay Macarthur.  I just traded one prison for another, but at least here, I have time to write.“

Macarthur shook his head and said, “I brought you your book like you wanted.”  The corrections officer had finished inspecting it and handed it to Alex.

“Thanks.  Inside that other envelope I gave you is some cash.  Take it.  Buy yourself some good cigars.  All I ask is that you use some of the cash to bring me notebooks and pencils now and then.  Will you do that?”

“I think you’re plum crazy, boy, but I’ll do it.”

Walking down the cellblock and flipping through the printed pages, he couldn’t wait to get started.  Time was no longer an issue – nor was paying the rent, buying groceries, or his wife’s expectations.   As the door to Alex’s cell clanged shut behind him, joy surged through his veins and bubbled out in laughter.    For the first time in years he felt truly free.

Road Rage

(Not sure when this was written… probably in the late 90s early 2000s. I do remember it was written for a friend’s Halloween story party. Everyone came with an original, spooky story and we read them aloud by the fire. This story could definitely use some work.  Some adult language and violence.)

Ripples of heat bounced off the bubbling asphalt as a molten flow of cars oozed down the 101 freeway into the Los Angeles basin.    A fatal accident up ahead had backed up traffic for miles.  Richard watched the needle on his temperature gauge flirt with the red zone.

“Damn,” he punched off the air conditioner button with one hand and powered down the window with the other.  Sitting in the center lane, he was boxed in among the rows of steel chariots.  They played a slow-motion game of chicken, jostling to get off at the next exit and take their chances on surface streets.  Richard glanced at the clock in the dashboard.  His headhunter had informed him that if he was even 30 seconds late for the interview at the law firm, he might as well not show up.  He only had 15 minutes left to get there.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn…” with one eye in his rear view mirror and the other eye on the brake lights in front of him, Richard waited for a gap in the right lane.  His SUV’s blinker pulsed impotently as each driver pretended not to have seen its request.

He got his break when a distracted driver of a Lexus took a fraction of a second too long to move forward.  Richard gave the engine a surge of gas and cranked the steering wheel.  Brake lights flashed ahead and he found himself in the almost unforgivable position of blocking two lanes.   He glanced in his rearview mirror to see several people shaking their heads at his poor lane change.  In particular, the Lexus driver’s face was warped in an ugly snarl.

Traffic eased ahead and he was able to change lanes fully but the driver of the Lexus responded by flashing his lights and honking his horn.  Richard extended his arm out the window and gave Lexus-man a friendly wave.  Then he slowly dropped one finger at a time until only his middle finger remained upright.  He was so intent on watching the expression of Lexus-man that he missed the brake lights and lightly tapped the black pickup in front of him.   Seconds later, the distracted Lexus hit his bumper.

Richard was a little stunned by the 3-car fender bender but realized his airbag hadn’t inflated.  Nothing was broken.  No bleeding.  All in all, he was lucky – until a hairy arm reached through his open window and grabbed his throat.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you little piece of shit,” a deep voice growled.  Out of the corner of his eye, Richard could see the driver’s t-shirt stretched across mounds of muscles.  The big ape’s face was hidden by the shadow of his black cowboy hat.  Richard slapped weakly at the vice on his windpipe.   He fumbled around looking for something to use as a weapon.  By accident his fingers brushed the electronic window controls.  Before the cowboy realized what was happening, the window clamped down on his arm leaving him screaming in pain.  The cowboy’s grip broken, Richard scrambled, gasping, across the seat and opened the passenger door.  He frantically tried to remember where the tire iron was stored but he’d never changed a flat.

He would have to try to reason with this guy.  Richard edged cautiously around the back of his SUV when he ran into Lexus-man whose face twisted even deeper into a mask of hatred as he snarled, “you cut me off you prick.”  Lexus-man had had no trouble locating his tire iron and stood with it clenched in one hand.  To Richard’s right was the muscle-bound cowboy and to his left was the tire iron wielding Lexus-man.  Not much of a choice.

“Guys, guys,” he started.  “It was an accident… a little fender bender… and I have insurance.  Let’s not turn this into World War III.”

Neither one seemed impressed.  Richard scanned the nearby cars hoping someone would come to his aid.  Instead, dozens of angry people gathered in a tight circle to witness the blood sport.   Their frustration had overflowed and he was as good a whipping boy as any.  Richard widened his stance and prepared to go down swinging.   His eyes locked on Lexus-man.  Richard wasn’t much of a threat at 5’10” and 140 pounds, but if he could get the tire iron away, he could probably protect himself from the cowboy.    He curled his lips in a snarl of defiance and rushed the man.  As Richard barreled into him, he felt a bolt of lightening strike his left forearm and explode the bones within.  Blinding rage poured through his veins as they tumbled to the ground.  He climbed off the man and stood hunched over with one arm dangling at his side.  Lexus-man lay dazed where his head had bounced sickeningly on the pavement.

Richard knew he should feel concern for this businessman with a head injury.   As if watching from a distance, he saw the fingers on his good hand close around the tire iron.  It slid easily out of the slack fingers of Lexus-man.  A quiet whisper told him he could face jail time for what he was about to do but his screaming blood drowned out that whisper.   Richard raised his arm to finish Lexus-man off but heard the cowboy coming up behind him.  He whirled and both men froze as their eyes locked in mutual loathing.

Richard swayed unsteadily.  Pain throbbed through his body and with each beat of his heart he felt as if he might lose his mind.  His vision began to dim and darkness swallowed him.

The people on that freeway saw Richard’s eyes roll back in his head and his body shake with a tremor.  As a roar burst from deep in his throat, his eyeteeth sprouted into fangs while his hands and feet transformed into savage claws.  His limbs and torso contorted and lengthened into canine appearance shredding his thousand-dollar suit.   The arm that had been shattered by the tire iron glowed from within and was made whole.  His transformation complete, the beast peered out through glowing red eyes to survey the food supply.  He spotted a nice juicy one back by a red mini-van, but first, the man in front of him would make a nice appetizer.  He raked his claws across the chest of the cowboy and blood seeped through the gashed t-shirt.  The cowboy screamed in pain and his eyes roll back into his head as well.

The creature that emerged from within the cowboy’s body resembled an ape-demon.  The two monsters began to battle it out amidst the metal carcasses of abandoned cars.  Drivers ran in terror from the nightmares come to life.  As they fled, pushing and trampling became epidemic.  Soon those on foot were caught up in desperate attempts to reach safety and fists started flying.  In an avalanche of rage, the men and women of Los Angeles released their inner demons.  It was an orgy of carnage.  Claws and fangs ripped at scaled flesh and the scourge expanded in a widening circle.  The rage flowed down exit ramps unto city streets.  It crawled into parking garages and sex shops.  It rode up elevators and seeped into crowded swimming pools.  Within an hour the entire city was engulfed.

After killing the ape-demon, Richard loped down the freeway bounding across the roofs of cars, swiping at anyone who looked like easy prey.  Occasionally Richard would leave the freeway to hunt on the street and in buildings, but he always returned to his favorite sport of stalking his prey among the abandoned cars.

The battle raged throughout the city for hours.  The anger and frustration Angelenos had barely kept under control for years could no longer be contained.  Bodies lay discarded on the sidewalks and a river of blood flowed down the freeway.  By late afternoon, the humans who hadn’t been transformed by their rage were either dead or hiding.   Those hiding were beginning to lose hope of ever seeing another day.

But hope sometimes arrives when it’s least expected.   Richard was toying with some simpering humans when his demon-brain noticed a change in the light.   Everything around him was bathed in a delicious red glow.   He peered up to see the sun sink behind the incoming fog bank and spread pink tendrils across the sky.  One by one, those creatures left bloody but living, stood to inhale the sunset.  One by one, they remembered there was more to the world than hate.  One by one, beauty flooded their senses and released their souls.

Richard emerged from his blackness confused and disoriented.  He heard a gasp behind him and turned to see a naked woman spattered in gore.  She had a gash on her forehead, and her eyes were wide with horror as she stared at him.  Looking down he saw his own blood-covered nakedness.  What had they done?  What had happened?  He tried desperately to recall the past few hours and was horrified when his memory revealed flashes of his own hands ripping into flesh.  He suddenly remembered being on all fours and lapping blood from a marble floor.   As the memories flooded his mind, he spun slowly surveying the destruction around him.  Mangled cars and devastated bodies littered the freeways, outlined against a backdrop of smoke hanging over the city just below the smog layer.  It was a vision of hell.  Richard clenched his head in his hands willing the images to vanish.  As each person began to remember, a horrified wail began to float through the air in mourning for what they had unleashed on the city.

In a daze, the tormented survivors of this demonic road rage stumbled in the growing twilight to search for their cars in an attempt to find a way home.   When the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, it was the second time that day darkness fell on L.A.

Scarier than Fiction

(This story is a re-telling of an experience my best friend had while in high school.  There is little dramatic embellishment. Written in the late 90s)

It was the middle of October in 1978.  My friend Sue, a junior in high school who lived in a small farming community, was at her locker after school when she noticed Diane Boswell a few lockers down.  Sue barely knew her, and had been surprised to find out Diane had recommended her as a babysitter to the new family in town.  She didn’t know much about the family but she had spoken to them on the phone and learned their name was Smith, they would pick her up at 6:30, they had one toddler, wouldn’t be out late and the money was good.

Sue called out, “Hey, Diane.  Thanks for giving my name to the Smiths.  That was really nice.”

Diane looked up, startled, “Uh… yeah… uh, I had plans.   Gotta run.”  As she hurried by with her head down she whispered, “I’m Sorry.”

Sue was puzzled as she watched Diane walk away but she  shrugged her shoulders, grabbed her books and headed for the bus.  That evening she waited eagerly for the Smiths to pick her up.  She had already put together her baby sitting kit of games, stickers, candy and a toy or two.  When the Smith’s white van pulled up, she shouted a quick goodbye to her mom and ran outside.  Sue reached the van and was a little surprised to find Mr. Smith sitting in the car looking straight ahead and not making any move to greet her or open the door.  She suddenly felt uncomfortable climbing into the van of a complete stranger.  She tapped cautiously on the window.   Mr. Smith turned slowly, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, and reached over to open the door.

“Hi,” Sue said.  Mr. Smith merely nodded and they made the 5-mile trip in silence.  Sue began to wonder just what she’d gotten herself into.

Mrs. Smith was a little more talkative than her husband.  She welcomed Sue into the kitchen while her toddler clung tightly to her leg.  “Thank you so much for helping us out tonight,” she smiled warmly at Sue.  “This little burr on my leg is Sam.” Sue bent down and said, “Hi Sam. How old are you?” Sam ducked behind his mom’s leg and wouldn’t even peek around to look at her.

“He’s a little shy,” Mrs. Smith said.  “He’ll warm up.  So…  let’s show you where everything is.”

She showed Sue what Sam was to eat for dinner and went over his schedule.  Sue was excited when she learned that Sam was to be in bed by eight.  That was only about an hour away which meant she would have the rest of the night to watch TV, read and generally goof off.  This was her favorite kind of job.

Mrs. Smith peeled Sam away from her leg and put Sue in charge while she finished getting ready.  Sue coaxed him into the living room and was surprised to find it completely bare.  The only thing in the room was an old TV.  She realized it was a good thing she’d brought her baby sitting kit.  She was doing her best to get Sam out of his shell when Mr. Smith made an entrance into the living room.

He finally spoke, “I need to give you some instructions.”

Sue followed Mr. Smith into the kitchen, trailing Sam behind her.  He walked over to a door and said, “This is the basement.  We’ve been doing some work down there so it’s a little torn up.  No matter what you hear, don’t go in the basement.  Is that clear?” Sue nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“The phone is to be used for emergencies only.  We should be home shortly after midnight.  Do you have any questions?”

“No sir.”

“Good,” he turned and left the room.  Fifteen minutes later the Smith’s left for the evening.  Sue went to work trying to keep Sam occupied but no matter what she pulled out of her bag, he would only cling to her silently.  The next hour passed slowly but finally it was time to put him to bed.

She grabbed Sam’s hand and said, “Okay, Sammy-boy, it’s time for bed.”  Immediately his face scrunched up in fear and he began to cry.

“Sam, it’s okay.  It’s time to go to sleep and dream good dreams.”  But no matter what she said, he could not be consoled.  She took his hand and led… well, sort of dragged him up the stairs to his bedroom.  She pushed open the door to his room and flipped on the light switch.

The first thing she saw when the light came on, was a large German Shepherd chained to Sam’s bed.  It didn’t make any threatening moves, but its eyes were locked on her.  Sam began to whimper.  Then she noticed that for a child’s bedroom, this room was very bleak… only a dresser and bed.   Doing her best to skirt the dog she got Sam into his pajamas and put him in bed where he lay sobbing quietly.  Sue told him a story but he wouldn’t stop crying.

She had an idea.  “Sammy, stay right here, I’ll be right back.”  When she returned she had a small teddy bear.  “Here you go Sam,” she said, “This is my friend Rex.  He kept me safe from monsters when I was little.  You can keep him.  He’ll take care of you.”

She held the bear out to Sam and he cautiously took it.  He looked into Rex’s eyes as if in silent communication and then hugged him to his chest.  For the first time that night, he gave her a little smile.

“Good night sweet Sam.  I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” she assured him.  He was much calmer now that Rex was there to protect him.  She turned off the light and left the door open just a sliver.  Everything seemed to be quiet so she tiptoed downstairs and stood surveying the barren living room.

She grabbed the remote from the top of the TV and plopped down on the carpeted floor.  As she flipped through the channels she found nothing but static on any channel.  She got up and fiddled with the rabbit ears, but nothing changed.  “So much for that idea,” Sue said to herself, “I guess maybe it’s time to do some homework.”

She opened her backpack and pulled out her Algebra book when she heard a clank.  It was incredibly loud and seemed to be coming from under the floor.  She froze, waiting to see if it would repeat.  Perhaps some tool they’d been using in the basement had fallen over or something.

Then she became aware of a new noise.  It sounded like someone was dragging a cement block across a concrete floor.  Now, in a normal situation, these noises wouldn’t have bothered Sue at all.  She was a farm kid and there was a certain toughness about her.  There were many nights her parents had been out late and she had been home alone on their secluded property.  Not once had she been afraid of a creak in the house or a thump outside.

This was a whole different situation.  The entire series of events led up to something very wrong in this house.  Sue got up, went into the kitchen and stood listening by the basement door.  She barely dared to breath.  After about a minute she came up with the theory that maybe a tool had fallen against a cinder block and caused it to slide down something.  Hey… it could happen.  She started to move away from the door when…  BANG!  It sounded like someone had slammed a large-link chain on concrete.  About 20 seconds later the dragging noise happened again.  That was no fallen tool.

Her mind sifted through possible explanations for the strange noises.  Perhaps there was a broken pipe.  Maybe there was some piece of equipment that made those noises… a pump of some kind.  What if there were workers in the basement.  But, that didn’t make sense.  Why wouldn’t the Smiths have told her about them?

That’s when her mind inevitably turned to some eerier explanations.  Maybe they hadn’t mentioned workers in the basement because they had a reason not to tell her.  Like maybe they were doing something illegal.  Or, what if there was a huge dog chained below.  Maybe it was some sort of misshapen and distorted human monster.

Mr. Smith’s words rang in her head, “No matter what you hear, don’t go in the basement.”  But, how could she not?  She stood in front of the basement door with her hand almost grasping the knob.  Her breathing was shallow, eyes dilated, and adrenaline was surging through her veins.  But she stood frozen, unable to grab and turn that knob.

She willed her muscles to clench just as… BANG!  She ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.  About half way up she got control of herself and sat down, trembling.  She couldn’t go into Sam’s room because she didn’t want to wake or frighten him.  And besides, there was the hound from hell.  But she couldn’t bring herself to go down the stairs either.

Eventually, the noises just stopped.  She wasn’t sure when they did, but it was about midnight when she felt calm enough to go down the stairs.  She dragged a chair from the kitchen and put it by the living room window.  She decided to pass the remaining time by keeping an eye out for the Smiths.

Over the next hour or so, not a single car approached.  It was about 1:30 when she heard a familiar clang below her.  The noises had started again and the Smiths still weren’t home.  She decided it was time to get some help.  She went into the kitchen and picked up the phone.  When she put the receiver to her ear, she was relieved to hear a steady dial tone.  She dialed her home number and waited to hear the phone ring.  Instead she got complete silence.  The line was dead.

Sue depressed the telephone hook and then let it up.  The dial tone rang out steady and clear.  Again she dialed her parents number.  Again the phone went dead.

She went over her options.  She had no transportation to get Sam out of here, so leaving was not an option.  The phone didn’t seem to work, so calling for help was not an option.  Something was in that basement.  Perhaps the dog chained to Sam’s bed was there to protect him from whatever it was.  But what was going to protect her?  She realized that this was becoming an emergency situation.

“That’s it,” she practically shouted!  She remembered Mr. Smith’s instructions, “The phone is to be used for emergencies only.”  Maybe they had done something to the phone and it could only dial 911.

She picked up the receiver again and gave it a try. She was thrilled to hear it begin to ring… and ring… and ring… and ring… and ring.  No one ever picked up.

Sue’s hand was shaking violently as she hung up the receiver.  The tremor in her hand soon engulfed her entire body.  She sank onto the floor in a quivering mass of fear.  She was on her own in a house full of unknown terrors.  She crawled into the living room as the noises continued below.  She pulled herself into the chair by the window and hugged her legs to her chest.

She sat frozen this way until almost three in the morning.  The noises in the basement had stopped long ago but she had been unable to convince herself to move.  She barely blinked as she prayed for the Smiths to come home.  “Please, please, please,” she whispered to herself.  And then she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.  A wave of eeriness washed over her shoulders and down her back.  In slow motion, she turned to see what was behind her.  Standing in the doorway was Mr. and Mrs. Smith silently watching her.  She had seen no car approach the house.  She’d heard no door open or footsteps across the room.  They seemed to have simply appeared.  They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.  Then Mr. Smith spoke, “I’ll take you home now.”  That was all he said, then, or on the entire ride home.  Sue wasn’t sure which experience was worse, the night in that house, or the silent ride with this disquieting stranger.

Two weeks later, Sue learned that the Smith’s had vanished.  They left no forwarding address and supposedly their few belongings were still in the house.  The owners of the property were furious because there was an unknown stench in the house and they were unable to rent it.

 

So, that’s the story Sue told me years later when we were roommates in college.  I have to be honest, I didn’t really believe her at the time.  I thought she was getting a kick out of scaring me.  Then one year Sue invited me to spend Thanksgiving with her family on the farm.  Once there, I remembered her babysitting horror story.  I asked if we could go to that house.  At first she refused.,  but then she realized that my curiosity might provide some answers for what went on that night.

She drove me to the house, but refused to go in with me.  It was daylight out, but as I pushed open the creaking door, I flicked on the flashlight I was carrying.  It was obvious it had been several years since anyone had lived there.  There was a thick layer of dust on every surface. and cobwebs draped the corners and doorways of every room.

There was nothing to be seen on the ground floor or the upstairs and finally there was nowhere else to look but the basement.  I stood in front of the gaping black hole that was the stairway.  My flashlight beam hardly seemed to put a dent in the darkness.  I took a deep breath and made my way cautiously down the stairs, swinging my light around the unfinished basement.  The room was empty but in the northeast corner was a red door.

By this time I had the heebie jeebies like you wouldn’t believe, but I was determined to fully explore the basement.  I pulled the door open and saw something furry inside.  I let out a scream and jumped back.  When I realized it hadn’t moved, I entered the little room and got closer.  That’s when I saw exactly what it was.  It was a small stuffed teddy bear that had been ripped to shreds.  Was this Rex?   I scooped up the small toy and carried it out to the car.   I watched the color drain from my friend’s face.  Never again did I doubt the truth of her story.

You’ve heard the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction.  Well, sometimes truth is scarier than fiction.

 

Sanctuary

 (This one was a writing assignment in a creative writing class I took in the late 80s. We were given the word “sanctuary” and told to write whatever we wanted about it.)

He raced headlong down the narrow cobblestone street, sword in hand.  Open doorways beckoned to him, but he did not stop.  They could not hide him for long.  Where was it?  Not more than two hours ago, he had wandered by, hardly giving it a second thought.  These streets turned and twisted so.  As he ran, he tried to listen for sounds of pursuit.  He could hear nothing over his own ragged breathing.

He was ready to give up, when he turned a corner and saw the small, gray church.  Stumbling, he ran up the steps to the large wooden door.  With his remaining strength, he pounded against the wood.  The dull thud seemed to be soaking into the door.  “Sanctuary…

I seek sanctuary.”  There was no answer.  He sagged against the door.  “For God’s sake, let me in.  I seek sanctuary.”

Just as his pursuers came around the corner, the bolt slid back, and the door opened into cool darkness.  He fell face down inside the church and the world began to seem distant.  He heard voices discussing his fate.

“In the name of the King, this man is to be brought before the council.”

“He has sought, and been granted, sanctuary.”

“So be it, Father.  But be warned, this man is a murderer.  Should he step outside this church, his freedom is forfeit.”

“Of that, I am well aware.  Good day, Captain, and God bless.”

“Good afternoon, Father.”

The man on the floor rolled over as the door was closed.  He had caught his breath and was now trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the church.  There were candles dimly flickering at the front and pale colors spilling through simple stained glass windows.

A bald, wrinkled head pushed its way into his vision.  “Good day, young man, my name is Father Dominique.  What, may I ask, is yours?”

“Cedric.”

“Well then, Cedric, let’s get you to my quarters.  I’m sure you could use a wash and a hot meal.”  As he helped Cedric to his feet, he caught the gleam of chain mail at his neck.  “While you are in the Lord’s house, I ask you to lay down your arms and remove your armor.  This is a house of peace, not war.”

An hour later, Cedric was washed, cleanly dressed, and leaning back on a stool.  He was full of good food and wine.  Father Dominique was pouring them another glass.  “What will you do now, Cedric?”

“The guards outside will soon lose interest, and I will be able to slip out unnoticed.”

“They spoke of murder.  Did you kill someone?”

Cedric smiled, “Yes, I imagine I did.”

Father Donimique began to wish he had never made the vow to accept all seekers of sanctuary.  At the time it had seemed a good way to assure that those who had erred, would have a chance to repent.  Though Dominique was an old man, he had only joined the priesthood in the last few years.  He, therefore, carried with him all the idealistic notions of a young acolyte.  Cedric’s flippant answer reminded him of how naive he was.

“Who did you kill?”

“I do not know.  I have only recently entered this country.  He wore the uniform of those outside.”

Dominique slammed his cup down and wine splashed onto the table.  “In God’s name, how could you have been so foolish?  Those are the King’s private guard.  They will not lose interest, and should you escape, you will be a hunted man.  Why?”

Cedric now set his stool down on all three legs.  His eyebrows drew together and a frown creased his face.  “We were engaged in some wagering.  He accused me of cheating.”

“Well, were you?”

“Of course I was.  That does not give him the right to try to cut off my head.  He was no better at swords than he was at gambling.  I tried to leave quickly, but they found his body before I got far.”  The seriousness of his situation began to sink in.  “Will you turn me over to the guards outside?”

Father Dominique hastily stood up and began to clear the table.  With his back to Cedric, he replied in a whisper, “I can deny no man sanctuary.”

Cedric moved to the window.  As far as he could see, the King’s guard surrounded the church.  Flames leaped and flickered on the surface of pounded iron and steel.  His stomach shriveled inside him.  “Father, have you no secret way out of this place?”

Dominique stopped by the cupboard and turned to face Cedric.  “Only one.  Come with me.”

He led Cedric into the church and moved to the front.  On the wall hung a roughly hewn crucifix.  “What do you see?” he asked.

“A crucifix, Father.”

“No, it is your only escape.  It is a man being punished for a crime He did not commit.  He died for the sin you committed today.  Accept His gift of salvation and those outside can never harm your soul.”  Father Dominique’s eyes gleamed with a light all their own.

Cedric’s shoulders sagged with disappointment.  “Father, I have not your faith.  While you say my soul would be safe, my body would still be in jeopardy.  If this is all you can offer me, then it would be best for me to rest and gather my strength for the morrow.  Show me a place where I may sleep.”

“Of course.”  Father Dominique bowed his head and led the way to some skins piled on the floor in a room off of his main chamber.  “I must leave for a time, but, you will be perfectly safe.  The King’s guard will not invade this sanctuary.”

“Where are you going.”

“I am afraid that the man’s remaining family will need to make arrangements for burial and could use some comfort.  I pray he does not leave behind a widow or child.”  With that, he slipped out the side door.

Cedric arranged the skins to suit him and lay down upon them.  Jumbled plans filled his head.  He could wait them out.  He could attempt to slip out in the darkness.  He could fight his way out.  Maybe a disguise would work.  Every plan was interrupted by thoughts of a young woman fighting back tears while cradling a young baby.  “Curse that priest for putting ideas of widows and babies into my head,” he said vehemently.

He had killed before and it had never bothered him.  The priest had reminded him that he was responsible for his own actions.  He tried to clear his mind and focus on his plans.  His thoughts again wandered to what his life would be like if he did succeed in escaping.  Being the youngest son of a landowner meant you had all the benefits of training and no opportunity to use them.  A life of drudgery under his oldest brother had seemed worse than death.  He had left his family and put his training to the best uses he could find.  Being the personal guard of wealthy merchants was not always exciting, but he had seen so much of the world.  He did not always need to work either.  As long as there was silver in his pocket, he worked for no man.  He did as he pleased and went where he chose.  He loved his life of freedom and knew that he had chosen well.

That life was over.  He could no longer invite strangers to his fire and exchange tales.  He would be looking over his shoulder every minute.  Again, it seemed he must choose a direction for his life.  Without taking much time to think, he knew that a life of fear would be even worse than a life of drudgery.  He must take the responsibility he had so long avoided.  With that realization, the sleep that had eluded him finally found him.

The next morning Father Dominique was surprised to find Cedric belting on his sword by the church door.  “Cedric what foolishness are you planning now?”

“Father, I believe my life as I knew it is over.  If that is so, I will live what is left to me the best way that I can.”

“You cannot hope to fight your way out.”

Cedric chuckled, “No, my father raised me to be a true man.  I fear I have let many of his lessons slip from me over the last few years.  But, last night, you reminded me of whom I was raised to be.  I will tell them my side and let them judge me.  Perhaps that will erase my sin.”

“No, Cedric, only God can do that.”

“Father, I do not think that I believe in your God, but if he truly does exist, would you pray for me?”

“Certainly, my son.”

Cedric reached out and clasped Father Dominique’s arm.  “Thank you for your kindness and your hospitality.”

Their eyes met briefly.  Cedric turned and opened the door.  He held his arms wide open in a gesture of goodwill.  As he stepped through the door, he found his sanctuary in peace of mind.  It was much stronger than the stone one he left behind.

No Further

(Written in the late 90s. Previously I posted an incomplete version. This is the completed version.)

Linda pushed the covers away and stumbled to the kitchen.  The blurry numbers on her clock radio read 1:58 a.m.   Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth and her eyes felt gritty. Water… she needed water.  She kept her eyes closed as she opened the refrigerator door and the light came on.  She blindly filled the glass and then drank deeply, letting the cool water slide across her swollen tongue and down her throat.

A vision of mist filled her mind.  What had she been dreaming before she woke up?  Mist…  Water…  Pillars…  Oh yes… the mythical Pillars of Hercules.  She had been standing in a boat on calm, mist covered waters staring at the inscription above the pillars.   “Ne Plus Ultra.”  Translated from Latin… “No Further.”  Legend had it that Hercules had carved out the Straits of Gibraltar joining the Mediterranean with the ocean.  He then inscribed the words “Ne Plus Ultra” to caution those who would pass through that this was the end of the known world… they should go no further.

The Pillars of Hercules had been the subject of her last research paper before she had resigned her position as professor of anthropology at the University.  She hadn’t thought of her unfinished paper in almost a year.   During that time she had purposely ingested as much alcohol as humanly possible in order to forget.   She had ingested even more alcohol than usual tonight because tomorrow… no, it was after midnight… so today was Halloween… the one year anniversary of the day her life had ended.

Linda leaned her forehead against the freezer door, closed her eyes and was back in the car a year ago All-Hallows Eve.  Her husband, Mike, was driving to the faculty Halloween party in a mummy costume.  Linda sat on the passenger side dressed as Cleopatra.  Every year they tried to out-do the year before.  That year wasn’t one of their best, but the image of an Egyptian queen leading a mummy around by a loose piece of cloth seemed amusing at the time.

She could see him so clearly… head thrown back laughing at some corny joke he’d just made… something about her ‘mummy.’  And then she saw his expression change to horror.  He swerved frantically to avoid a group of trick-or-treaters on the road.  Linda screamed and braced herself against the dash as the car spun out of control.  She felt a thud, heard the tinkle of glass and then the car slid to a stop.

Mike had done an excellent job of avoiding the kids.  She saw them frozen in fear on the edge of the road.   She could see they were teenagers with rolls of toilet paper in their hands.  And then the spell was broken and the teens, knowing they could were about to get in trouble, ran off into the night.  Linda turned to ask Mike what they had hit and that’s when time stood still.  Outside of the window she could see the splintered end of a signpost.  The blood smeared caution sign was resting on Mike’s shoulders… where his head should have been.  His cloth wrapped head lay on the seat next to her.

Linda shook her head to clear away the images from that night.  She needed a drink… but not of water.  She went out to the bar and flinched as she turned on the light on and saw her own reflection in the bar’s mirror.  Her pale face, unkempt hair and sunken stared from the mirror.  A small, ironic laugh escaped her.  Here she was mourning for the dead when she looked halfway dead herself.  Why not go all the way?

Of course, this was not the first time that thought had crossed Linda’s mind. She had struggled with depression for the last year.  Many times she had wanted to follow Mike so they could be together.  But, if there was an afterlife, why hadn’t Mike tried to contact her?  Not once had Mike come to her in a dream.  In the evenings, she would sit for hours waiting for the lights to flicker or to sense him in the room.  There was no sign that anything of Mike lived on after death.

For the first few months after his death she had tried to find solace in work.  When that failed, she resigned her position and attempted to numb herself with alcohol.  Linda knew she was slowly killing herself.  So, now she reasoned, why not do it quickly?  Why not face her fears and go on that last, great adventure and see if Mike might not be waiting for her?  And if he wasn’t, what was the difference?  Life without Mike… death without Mike… it was all the same.

Before she lost her nerve, she went to the medicine cabinet.  Her doctor had prescribed some muscle relaxants and sleeping tablets after Mike’s death.  She vaguely remembered his warning not to combine them with alcohol.  A handful of each medication washed down with some Scotch should do the trick.  She collected her lethal supplies and without giving herself the chance to turn back, she guzzled the pills and booze.  She lay down in her bed and tried to relax and let her mind go.  Suddenly she became very self-conscious about her position.  How should she be lying when they found her.  Hands crossed on her chest?  No, too hokey. She felt more comfortable wit her hands by her side.   Better make sure her nightshirt was modestly pulled down.

Tap, tap, tap. What was that?  She had been drifting. Someone at the door?  She turned to look at the clock radio.  2:35.  Who would be at her door at 2:35 a.m.?  Ignore it… they’ll go away.  But the next round was a more insistent… thud, thud, thud!

She stumbled to the front door and peered through the peephole.  She saw a short, weathered, old Indian man with a backpack staring up at her.  Wait.   She knew him.  It was Anthony Begay.  She had interviewed him several years ago while researching Navajo shamanism.  How had he found her house… and what on earth was he doing here at this hour?

The world was swimming but she couldn’t take her eyes off the timeworn grooves in his face and the ancient soul within his dark eyes.  She was awakened out of her reverie by his calm voice saying, “Linda turn the handle and pull open the door.”

Her body obeyed and Anthony stepped through the door.  He moved into her house as though he’d been there many times before and she followed close behind.  He sat down at her kitchen table and began to rummage through the backpack.  He pulled out a red, plaid thermos, unscrewed the lid, and poured a cup of thick brown liquid.

Anthony motioned for Linda to sit and then pushed the drink towards her.  “Drink,” he commanded.  She obeyed without thinking.  The drink was slightly bitter but not as bad as it looked.   “All of it,” he insisted when she paused halfway through.  Linda noticed almost immediately that her mind began to clear.

She opened her mouth to ask why he was here but Anthony raised a hand and said, “Don’t speak just yet.  Allow the medicine to work.  I’m here because you called me…” Linda emphatically shook her head but Anthony continued, “Yes, you did.  Maybe not in a way you know, but you called and I heard.  You want to journey to the afterlife and find your dead husband.  What you did tonight would have given you the answers but left you no choice afterwards.  Instead, I am here to guide you where you want to go and then you can choose to return to this world or travel to the next one.”

Linda was intrigued.  “What would I have to do? “  Anthony’s face transformed into a mischievous smile and he pointed to the now empty thermos cup.  Linda grinned back, “You old coyote.  But there must be more to it.”

The shaman nodded, “Close your eyes,” and he reached out to touch her forehead.

Linda pulled away, “Wait.  What will I find there and how do I come back?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never gone on this journey.  But if you want to come back, it will be as easy as wanting to.  Now close your eyes.”

“So you will come with me?”

“No.  This is a journey you must make on your own.  I will start you on the path.  You will not see me again.”

Linda pulled away again, “But… how do I know it’s real… not just some dream… or some hallucination brought on by whatever was in the thermos?”

“Now, that is a question you should have asked long ago,” Anthony answered.  “You might wake one day and find out that your whole life was nothing more than a dream.  Maybe I am a hallucination brought on by those pills you took.  Maybe there is no difference between waking and dreaming.  Maybe what happens in dreams is just as important as what you do while awake.  Now, do you want to make this journey, or not?”

This time Linda did not pull away.  She closed her eyes and felt Anthony’s cool hand on her forehead.  He began to mutter something in Navajo.  His voice began to fade and was replaced by the sound of wind.  She felt herself spinning in space.   What was in that thermos?  She had a feeling her students would have paid good money for whatever it was.

Suddenly the spinning stopped and she felt sunshine on her face.  Linda opened her eyes.  And then closed them again… it was so bright.  Was this the tunnel of light?  She blinked a few times and her eyes adjusted.  No, strangely she was at the university campus.  It was a sunny day but the campus seemed to be empty.  And then she saw him.  Mike was standing just a few yards away next to a tree.  She stared for a moment, not believing her eyes.  He was dressed casually… jeans and a blue work shirt.  God, he looked good!  He was smiling warmly at her.  She moved quickly into his arms.  For so long she had dreamed of holding him.  She could smell his skin… feel his warmth.    Linda whispered, “This is heaven.”

Mike pulled away and shook his head, “No.  It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

Mike pulled her by the hand, “It is a place between heaven and earth.  You could say it’s your mind’s version of the Sea of Gibraltar.   And over there,” Mike pointed to the campus’ archway, “are your Pillars of Hercules.”

“I don’t understand,” Linda was lost in confusion.

“You have a choice to make,” Mike responded.

“I came here to find you and I did. We’re together now. What choice is there?”

“There is so much you don’t understand… won’t understand as long as you’re earthbound.”  Mike struggled to find the words.  “Death is not an ending at all.  It’s simply graduation day.  My life now is… well… it’s beyond words.  And yet, I cherish every second of life I had on earth and wish I had had more.”

Linda choked back a sob and said, “So do I.”

“But you… you still have more time if you choose to take it.  Let me show you.”  He took her hand in his and her mind was flooded with images of her family and friends gathering around her.  She was finally letting them into her life again.  She saw herself on a date with a new man.  She was laughing and her cheeks were flushed.  She saw her students graduating.  Then Mike ended the vision and reached up to caress her cheek.

“You must go back and live your life.”  He let go of her hand and moved towards the archway.  He looked back at her calmly, “I can’t stop you from coming through, but think long and hard.  This decision is forever.   I will always love you.  No further, Linda.  No further.”  He stepped through the arch and was instantly gone.

Linda began to sob and gasp for breath.  It wasn’t fair.  Anthony had told her she could find the answers to her questions.  She had found nothing but more questions.   If she went back there was sure to be a lot of pain but the promise of new beginnings.  If she went through the gate, she faced the uncertainty of what lay on the other side.

She screamed out in frustration.  She had spent her life searching for understanding… learning about other cultures and belief systems.  Her closest friends and associates were those who spent their lives teaching and researching the physical world around them.  But for all their knowledge, what did they really know?  Mankind would continue to push the boundaries of science but no matter how much was learned, this gateway marked the limit of man’s reach.  To pass through that arch was to venture into the unknown… the area of the map that used to say, “There be dragons.”

Linda stood paralyzed with the weight of her decision. Her mind swirled with images, thoughts, fears, and hopes.   Amidst the raging turmoil of her thoughts was a persistent knocking sound. She wished it would go away. It was making it hard to think.

 

All evening, children giggled nervously behind plastic masks as they approached her house and knocked on the front door. It was a dark house. Did that mean that no one was home? Or maybe it meant whoever lived there wanted to scare them before handing out candy. Or maybe… just maybe… some freak that hated children lived there and he would kill them all. They cautious approach and tentative knocks revealed their private battle between fear and hope.

And in her bedroom, Linda waged her own battle between the two. Her body lay unresponsive to their knocks… nightgown pulled down… hands at her side… prepared for death but barely clinging to life. Her eyes fluttered. She turned her head to the side and emptied her stomach over the side of the bed. Tomorrow might be a different story but today hope won and she would go no further.