MAYBE LATER THE QUID

Photographer - Tobi Brun

MAYBE LATER THE QUID

(One Act Play)

Scene

Backstage is a narrow hallway. Between two windows is a sideboard with a vase of cut flowers, a tray with decanters, mixers and a bowl of ice.

Stage front is the den. An easy chair with a reading lamp is extreme left, not easily seen from the hallway. A sofa, right, faces the chair.

Characters

Wilma – in her mid-forties, full-figured but quite attractive. Her hair is going gray and in a style that is slightly dated.

George – early fifties, tall, pale, slender, soft physique, hornrims, scholarly look. In brown slacks and turtleneck,

Frank (Wilma’s husband) – Forty-eight, tall, dark, athletic.

Curtain

Wilma enters backstage left. Frank is two steps behind her. She is in a dark knee-length satin party dress. She stops and begins unsnapping the buttons on the back of her dress. Then she leans against the sideboard and removes her shoes.

She is obviously miffed. Frank is in a dinner jacket and he has a conciliatory expression.

George, Stage front, is seated in the armchair reading a magazine. Wilma and Frank take no notice of George, and he pays no obvious attention to their arrival.

Frank: Come on now! Show some understanding! You know these things come up.

Wilma (stops and turns around): It never happens when you have a golf date. And this is the first time we’ve been out together in months! Surely, they could have gotten somebody else!

Frank: Look, baby, we sweated for years. We couldn’t have kept a house like this on what we were making before. I worked my tail off for this situation, and damned if I’m going to let it slip through my fingers because the night shift can’t…

Wilma: …can’t get along without you?

Wilma, carrying her shoes, exits stage right. Frank steps behind the sideboard, fetches a large Styrofoam cup from a compartment and mixes himself a drink. Faces stage front, and after a pause, faces the direction she has exited.

Frank: You make it sound like you think I like being called to the plant at night.

Wilma (from offstage): That’s certainly the way it looks…

Frank: Look, it’s Friday night. The plant is closed tomorrow. Now, if the night shift doesn’t make production tonight, I’d have to call them all back tomorrow – cost us tons of overtime. But I don’t expect you to understand!

Wilma (entering stage right, now dressed in shorts, pullover shirt, and slippers. She has a novel in her hand.): Oh, I understand all right! You knew we had planned to go out, and you, Mr. Big Shot, Mr. Fixit, couldn’t arrange to have somebody…

Frank: Well, I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed. But I’ve got to go.

Wilma: You’re going to the plant dressed like that?

Frank: I keep some work clothes down there.

(Frank reaches to kiss her, but she pulls away. He carries his drink, exits stage left. Wilma places the book on the sideboard and puts some ice in a glass).

George: Mix one for me, will you? Bourbon and soda, a little ice.

Wilma: GEORGE! What are you doing here?

George: Entering without breaking.

Wilma: How did you get in?

George: Trade secret.

Wilma: If you don’t get out of here this minute, I’m calling the police!

George. Call away, sweetheart. I won’t try to stop you.

Wilma: George, you’re insane. Why on earth are you here?

George: It’s not for larceny. Nothing I would need to steal.

Wilma: (Stepping closer to George) Surely you’re not here after me?

George: I’m just now realizing what a sexy lady you are, but no: I do not currently have rape in mind!

Wilma: Then why, George? Why are you here?

George: Maybe a little quid pro quo.

Wilma: Never mind the Latin. Give me a straight answer. And I might not call the police after all. I might just smash something over your head!

George: I hope it won’t come to that. Anyway, I’m here for confirmation and then a bit of justice.

Wilma: Justice? George, I’ve never done anything to you!

George: Perhaps not. But you’re the quid.

Wilma: So, I’m ignorant: tell me what that means.

George: Tit for tat, Love.

Wilma: It still doesn’t make sense.

George: Okay. So, you and Frank went to the Baxter’s party this evening. Right?

Wilma: So?

George: And while you were at the party, Frank was called to the phone?

Wilma: Yes.

George: And what was the nature of that call?

Wilma: It was from the plant. Some trouble with the night shift. He said they needed him right away. This happens from time to time.

George: But you found it particularly annoying tonight!

Wilma: Yes, I did. We’ve had this party on the calendar for a month. He knew I was looking forward to it.

George: So, he told you he was going to the plant? That was his cover story?

Wilma: Cover story? Just what are you implying?

George: No implication, Darling: That call didn’t come from the plant.

Wilma: Of course it did! Who else would have called him?

George: You know, I think this must be the first time I’ve see you up close! And I must say I like what I see! Now, I’ve known Frank for years. We were never what you would call close friends, but I always rather liked him. We were in Jaycees together. And we see each other once in a while. Why, we were even thrown into a foursome of golf just a couple of weeks ago.

Wilma: Oh, he’s deep into golf now that he’s plant manager…says it’s for business reasons. But what does this have to do with that phone call?

George: The call came from my house. Now, how about that drink?

Wilma: You called Frank?

George: No. The call came from my sweet loyal Miriam. In short, Dear Lady, I am cuckold!

Wilma: Frank and Miriam? You’re putting me on! I don’t believe you!

George: Okay. Let’s start with the Baxter’s party. Miriam and I were planning to attend. Then yesterday at the office I saw some problems with our monthly report, which is always due on the third Friday of the month. So, last night I brought home a briefcase full of data and got to work on it. It was after three this morning when I finally got it straightened out. With me so far?

Wilma: Yes.

George: So, I was a bit tired when I got home after today at the office, but I was resigned to the party – Miriam simply doesn’t miss parties. But when I got home, she was waiting for me. She said I looked bushed and that since I had been up most of the night, and it wasn’t fair for me to have to go to the Baxter’s. I told her I’d be all right in going, but she insisted we skip it. Of course, I could see right through her.

Wilma: It sounds like she was just being considerate.

George: Oh, sure. But she had her face on.

Wilma: Her face?

George: Yes, her face. She’d apparently been home for an hour or two, but she still had on her public face. You see, she spends an hour in the morning putting her face on; then when she comes in for the evening,she spends a half hour taking it off. So, there she was at six o’clock in a robe, but with all that glamorous makeup in place, and her hair not far from being public-perfect. I chose to go along with her ruse, and I went to bed right after dinner. It was about nine when she looked in on me and assumed I was asleep. I heard her whispering into the phone, making the call you thought came from the plant. Then she dressed and tiptoed out.

Wilma: You’re not just making this up?

George: Hardly.

Wilma: And you somehow get the idea she was talking to Frank?

George: I’m sure of it. You know something I like about you, Wilma? You’ve got eyebrows. Real eyebrows, not the pencil marks that go on after the real things have been massacred.

Wilma: George, I think you’ve hatched some kind of fantasy, but I want to hear all of this. We’d better have that drink. I’m having a double.

George: The same for me.

(She mixes the drinks, steps down into the sitting room, hands his drink to him, takes a seat on a sofa facing him.)

George: You know. I’ve always been fascinated by you, from a distance. But my, my, up close you are scrumptious.

Wilma: You’re not so bad yourself. So, you were in bed. And you heard Miriam on the phone.

George: And she dressed and went out.

Wilma: Okay. I can accept that. Were you surprised by this?

George: Hardly.

Wilma: You and Miriam haven’t been getting along of late?

George: Oh, we get along all right. But we’ve been in different worlds for some time now.

Wilma: How so?

George: Well, for all those years she was the super-efficient housewife and hostess. Soccer mom, Queen of the PTA.

Wilma: Oh, I remember seeing her at PTA, looking so elegant…and her picture was in the paper all the time! We all envied her.

George: I can’t imagine why.

Wilma: Well, most of us at PTA were working moms, stretched to the limit. And there she was so chic…why, she was just like a little June Cleaver presiding over those meetings…so much poise…

George: But now both of our kids are gone. No soccer mom, no PTA. She still does Junior League and Tuesday Night Bridge. But she has added Cotillion Club, the Masqueraders, two or three more. And we go to everybody’s drop-in or reciprocal. She even goes alone to some of them when I can beg off.

Wilma: Quite an agenda.

George: We rocked along for a while, but then she began to notice that many in this little crowd she relishes are career women! So, she felt she had to be fulfilled! Had to get herself something meaningful to do. A job, in other words.

Wilma: I heard she had gone to work. I was surprised.

George: She’s on her third or fourth gig by now. Says it gives her independence.

Wilma: You resent her independence?

George: Not her independence, per se. But, you see, other things changed. She not only took on a job, but a new persona. No longer the conservative empress, she’s now a socially active career girl, a forty-eight-year-old who wants to look thirty. She diets and does aerobics. Bought a ton of new clothes. And she makes her face up as if she’s going on camera. She even seems to talk a new language, the jargon of the workplace supplemented by the hours she spends in chat rooms.

Wilma: I haven’t seen her for some time, but I bet she looks fabulous.

George: That’s what I hear! I married Sandra Dee. Then there was June Cleaver, which wasn’t so bad. But now – get this – she’s Audrey Hepburn! That’s right. Skinny as a rail, the Hepburn hair, the whole ball of wax. But so bored with her husband! Except for parties, we just never spend any time together. And believe me, this wasn’t my choice! I get my own breakfast and leave before she does. We do have dinner together. But I fix my own and she fixes hers - dietetic stuff I can’t stand. Then, if we are staying in, I read or watch television, and she closets herself with Internet.

Wilma: Except for the meals and Internet, sounds a lot like Frank and me. If he gets off work early enough, he heads for the golf course. I still fix dinner, though. But back to Miriam: independence and all, this doesn’t necessarily mean she is having an affair.

George: I’m not claiming any psychic powers here. But I suppose I saw it coming. She was getting that far-away, longing look, almost like she was in some kind of romantic dream. But, of course, none of this was directed toward her husband. Then a few weeks ago the look seemed to take on a new intensity. I knew something was up.

Wilma: You could have been imagining all this.

George: No way! I had some positive indications that hanky-panky was going on. But since I didn’t know who she was carrying on with, I just kept my mouth shut.

Wilma: So, you decided it was Frank? Well, I just don’t believe it!

George. Tonight should prove it, even to you!

Wilma: You heard Miriam make a phone call and then leave your house. But did you actually listen in on the conversation?

George: I wasn’t on an extension if that’s what you mean. But I heard enough. I know she asked someone on the other end of the line to page somebody. And after a pause, she literally purred through the phone.

Wilma: But still, what on earth makes you think it was Frank she was going to see?

George: As I said, I was sure she was carrying on with someone. I would have played detective, but I don’t think I would be very good at it. But then the facts just dropped in my lap!

Wilma: The facts? What facts?

George: A few weeks ago, I saw them together in Rosie’s having an intimate drink.

Wilma: What’s so wrong about that? They’ve known each other for years. Remember, they were in high school together.

George: Yes, it sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? And I wasn’t busy at that moment. I could have followed them, but I really thought nothing of it. And I didn’t mention it at dinner. But she did! She told me she had taken the day off to visit Georgia over in Maysville. Georgia is the sister she seldom sees – it’s a fifty-mile drive.

Wilma: Then Miriam lied to you?

George: No other way to put it. Did Frank happen to mention this innocent drink to you?

Wilma: No, he didn’t. But having a drink with Frank and lying about it? That doesn’t prove that she and Frank are having an affair.

George: There’s more. And I didn’t relish the job of bringing you the bad tidings, but maybe this is better than finding it out through the gossip that is sure to follow.

Wilma: Gossip? Have you been hearing gossip about Frank and Miriam?

George: No, I haven’t, but I suspect there is already talk about them at work.

Wilma: At work? Where does Miriam work?

George: You mean you don’t know?

Wilma: Know what?

George: Well, brace yourself: Miriam is in public relations…at the plant where Frank is now general supervisor!

Wilma: Miriam works at the plant with Frank? My goodness!

George: That wouldn’t be the expression I would use.

(Wilma stands, takes George’s glass, approaches the sidebar, mixes two drinks and slowly returns to George. She hands George his drink and takes her seat.)

George: Another thing I especially like about you, Wilma: your legs! You have healthy, provocative legs.

Wilma: They’re too fat! And Miriam has such trim legs. I envy her ankles.

George: Rot! The older she gets, the more her legs will resemble pipe stems. But yours are something I could build a dream on.

Wilma: Well, thank you. But back to the subject: how long has she been working at the plant?

George: Oh, seven, eight months.

Wilma: Frank has been going to work and seeing that sexy little thing every day!

George: Unless she is visiting her sister!

Wilma: Frank has always been a flirt, but I just can’t imagine…something like this would usually tear me to pieces, but I guess it just hasn’t registered yet.

George: You said a while ago that the routine around my house reminds of you and Frank. How so?

Wilma: It’s a long story. For years we were struggling financially, four kids, you know, and Frank was just a line supervisor then, and I worked part-time. So, when Junior got to high school, I took a full-time job, especially since we wanted a bigger house. But even with the added income, we were going into hock – for a while we had three of them in college at the same time! But then they made Frank general supervisor – that was four years ago. The pay was great, and we’re in much better shape now. But, of course, he’s working longer hours, and there are those damned night calls. Still, I just never imagined…

George: I can assure you I am not imagining…

Wilma: Of course, I didn’t know he was seeing her at work every day, but even if I had known – oh, I don’t know. But it is strange he never mentioned to me that Miriam works at his plant.

George: There’s an obvious answer to that.

Wilma: And you are convinced that they are…uh…

George: Misbehaving.

Wilma: Thank you for that euphemism. Do you know where they are going tonight?

George: First, he’s going to the plant and park in the lot. She’s probably picking him up right now. I could guess where they’ll go from there.

Wilma: Do you know how long this has been going on?

George: I’m sure of three weeks, but I suspect it has been a little longer than that.

Wilma: I just can’t take all this in. I just never thought Frank…

George: And until a few months ago I never thought of Miriam going down this road. But I saw it unfold before my eyes.

Wilma: So, what are you going to do now?

George: Do? Miriam is toast. I dread breaking all this to the children, but I’ll not be spending another night with her.

Wilma: Divorce?

George: Certainly. How about you?

Wilma: I just don’t know, George. You’ve obviously known about this for a while. Me? It has just now hit me in the face.

George: You mean you could go on with Frank, knowing what he has done?

Wilma: I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. You see, when I took on a job it was simply because we needed the money. And, frankly, by now, with Frank so tied up, I’ve come to depend on the job as an outlet – just to see some people I like. Moreover, even with Frank’s new pay scale, the money is important. Junior has at least another year in college – he’s in Navy ROTC and he’ll be an ensign when he graduates, but we still have another year’s tuition to worry about. And Elizabeth is getting married next summer – weddings aren’t cheap. So, the idea of throwing Frank out right now would have to be carefully considered.

George: That’s your business, of course. But I’ve had all I can stand.

Wilma: Maybe I’ll look at it that way after it all sinks in. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if I had paid more attention to him. He’s been on me for some time about being more stylish, and about losing weight.

George: Losing weight? Wilma, how any man could look at you and want to change anything!

Wilma: George, you’re just being kind…to a scorned housewife. I know I am overweight!

George: Rubbish! Miriam eats all that rabbit food and she works out, so she can stay so tiny. That Audrey Hepburn look turns a lot of people on, but to tell the truth, she looked better to me when there was more meat on her bones. No, Sweetheart; you stay as you are!

Wilma: But I’m still stuck with a husband who obviously has eyes for a size 4. I suppose we could consider marriage counseling. Had you thought of that?

George: Emphatically no! Can I have another drink?

Wilma: Yes. I might not have one. I had at least one at the Baxter’s. But, what the hell: this is an unusual evening, and I can sleep as late as I like in the morning. (She stands and takes his glass) George, would you take your glasses off?

George: What?

Wilma: Your glasses. I’ve never really seen your eyes.

George: Okay. (He removes his spectacles).

Wilma: (She bends over until her face is only a few inches from his) Hazel! I thought as much. You know, you should wear contacts.

George: For crying out loud: why?

Wilma: You are hiding your best feature, that’s why. You’re kinda cute with your specks off.

(She goes to the sideboard.)

Wilma (at the sideboard): I think you should leave when you finish this one.

George: I don’t want to go, Wilma. I want to be here when Frank gets home.

Wilma: When Frank gets home? He might be late. Once or twice, he’s stayed at the plant all night.

George: He won’t tonight. Miriam will be sneaking back home in an hour or two.

Wilma (Hands him his drink): Here you are. (She takes her seat) Now, what’s the point of you being here when Frank comes home?

George: I told you: tit for tat.

Wilma: You told me that, but it doesn’t make sense.

George: What’s not to make sense? He’s been shacking up with my wife; when he gets here, he can assume I’m shacking up with his!

Wilma: But you aren’t!

George: Wouldn’t he assume that…coming in and finding me here? And you looking so fetching?

Wilma: He won’t necessarily think that. Your presence here even at such an hour wouldn’t automatically mean I had gone to bed with you!

George: What about when he gets a call from Miriam?

Wilma: Why on earth would Miriam be calling here?

George: To warn Frank.

Wilma: Warn Frank?

George: To warn him that I am in bed with his wife.

Wilma: That’s ridiculous. Where would she get such an idea?

George: From the note she’ll find on the table in the entrance hall.

Wilma: A note saying what?

George: Saying that Frank has been romping with my wife, so I thought I would romp with his.

Wilma: But George, you aren’t! You said you were not planning to rape me!

George: Minute by minute that idea becomes more appealing, but no, that’s not in the plan.

Wilma: Then what is the plan?

George: I just want to see the expression on Frank’s face when he finds me here. And it gets sweeter when he answers the phone and talks to Miriam.

Wilma: Then you expect Miriam to call here as soon as she reads that note?

George: I’d bet the farm on it. Frank will come waltzing in, all flushed from his antics, and he’ll find me here. He’ll babble and stammer and ask some foolish questions, maybe even get angry. And then the phone will ring. Miriam will read him the note. That’s what I most want to see.

Wilma: George, that’s diabolical!

George: Maybe sadistic is a better word. That’s the way I picture it.

Wilma: I have to admit it sounds like a cute little drama.

George: And all the while, I’m with such an attractive companion.

Wilma: I’m duly flattered. Nobody’s said such things to me in some time. But before these drinks take effect, we need to think clearly. While I admit I’d like to see this farce played out, I just don’t think it is too smart.

George: I thought it was brilliant.

Wilma: As a stage farce, maybe. But as a practical matter you might be cutting your throat.

George: Oh?

Wilma: All right, let’s be practical. You want a divorce. On what grounds?

George: Why adultery, of course.

Wilma: You think it will hold up in court? All you’ve got is the drink at Rosie’s, and the fact that she sneaked out tonight. That’s hardly proof.

George: Oh, I don’t even need tonight; I’ve already got the goods on her.

Wilma: The goods?

George: I told you I knew something was going on – something besides my imagination. Well, you see, the glamorous Miriam was just too careless about detail. Would you believe that on two occasions she paid for motel rooms on the family credit card?

Wilma: And you found the receipts?

George: Of course. They came with the monthly statement. I went by the motel to tell the manager he’d made a mistake, but he convinced me there was no mistake – he even described Audrey Hepburn! That’s enough to take to court. I’ll take her to the cleaners. We’ll sell the house and then split the equity. But she won’t get a penny of alimony!

Wilma: Okay, so you’ve got a case. But what about Miriam? She’s got a note that says you’re shacking up with me!

George: True.

Wilma: And when Frank finds you here, and with me, well, not exactly dishabille, but perhaps dressed for accommodation? That amounts to countersuit!

George: I guess I hadn’t thought of that.

Wilma: And what about me? Suppose I decide to get a divorce, say, after we get Junior out of school and we pay off Elizabeth’s wedding? Frank can always claim that I had an affair with you!

George: I see your point. It takes the wind out of my sails.

Wilma: Let’s think a minute. Maybe we can salvage a little something out of tonight…

George: You’re feeding my fancies…

Wilma: None of that. Not tonight, anyway. Look, when you came here, where did you park?

George: I didn’t. I walked.

Wilma: Did anyone see you?

George: I don’t suppose so. I thought you would be home from the Baxter’s by the time I got here. Your back door was unlocked, so I came in and made myself at home. If anyone had seen me, I suspect the police would have come calling.

Wilma: Perfect. Now finish your drink and get the hell out of here.

George: I don’t want to go home.

Wilma: No, don’t go home. Go somewhere, a motel, anywhere but home.

George: And?

Wilma: Things won’t play themselves out like you had planned, but close enough. Try this: Frank comes in thinking he’s gotten away with another tryst. He brushes his teeth and is about to enter the bedroom. The phone rings. Audrey Hepburn Miriam reads the note to him. He gulps and steps into the bedroom and finds that I am not there. He may go to bed by himself, but I doubt if he’ll get any sleep.

George: Where will you be?

Wilma: In Elizabeth’s room. He won’t look for me there. Aw, he won’t look for me anywhere – he’ll be too stunned. I sleep late on Saturday mornings. When I get up, I might ask who was on the phone last night. You see, I’ve gotten sadistic too. He’ll mumble something, anything but the truth. I’ll accept whatever he says and shrug it off – just let him wonder how much I know…

George: Then you aren’t going to confront him about all this?

Wilma: Not frontally. I told you about the situation with the kids; I’ve got to stay the course for a while. But he’ll know! He’ll know that I know! That’s enough for now.

George: When will you confront him?

Wilma: Oh, I don’t know. I’ll just let him stew. And when he finds out that you have left Miriam, he’ll stew even more, especially since it will dawn on him that I’m sleeping in Elizabeth’s room every night. He may come to me then with a big confession, which he’ll see is a waste of time.

George: You’re really cool! And here I was hoping you’d be all broken up, and with my shoulder to cry on.

Wilma: With your glasses off? I’m a pushover for hazel eyes. But, no, it’s time for you to go.

George: Can I call you tomorrow?

Wilma: No, George. I’ll be puttering around the house while Frank has the shakes. If you should call, it would give him some ammunition. And I can’t call you – I don’t know where you’ll be. How about this: I’ll call you from work Monday.

George: That’s a long time…

Wilma: I’ll give you a blow-by-blow. Should be worth the wait. Now go!

George: All right. Maybe this scenario is better than the one I had in mind. But I do hate to go. You’re such a…

Wilma: All that’s music to my ears, Hazel Eyes. But let’s follow the script. Out, now!

George: No goodnight kiss?

Wilma: Not with so much at stake, and with my self-control eroded after, what, three, four drinks?

George: Well, I’ll only say you’re the loveliest lady I ever didn’t seduce!

(George rises and approaches the door)

George: Wilma, do you suppose we…I mean, later…

Wilma: We’ll keep in touch during this siege. And afterward? After a graduation and a wedding? Who knows?

(Wilma stands. George comes to her. They embrace and share a modest kiss. She watches as George leaves.)

Curtain

Roy Haymond, Jr. a career classroom teacher, the writer and briefly of a smalltown weekly. Pubs in obscure journals in 16 states and Canada. Retired to a rural enclave, writes and plays tenor sax.

‘The Delicate Peas’ & ‘Time Flies... Slowly’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Delicate Peas

The Delicate Peas—

charging.

Puttin’ up their dukes

sweatin’ scents and

knocked up against the rounding walls

of scratched iron ropes

holding all the burden.

An enclosed load:

trailing

down

down

to a scraped iron bottom

baring the eye of a silver abyss

staring up a disapproving lid

hijacked from another vessel

sizzling shots of oil

punching and staining the o p e n air.

Can’t get no type of handle on it!:

The punches, stains, and sizzles—

hollerin’ and fingerin’ insults,

now sticking to surfaces.

Underneath, candy corn flames

spittin’ shades of cornflower blue

instigate a heat of confessions.

Peas testify in clusters ‘stead of one by one

causin’ all that troubled water

to pop-up speech bubbles

exhaling streams of cuss words

theys regret soon as theys say ‘em

so—

they make ‘em repent &

‘vaporate all that smoke

in to the thin air.

Time Flies... Slowly

Blank pages eat space

migrate reams of time southward

nest waste without haste.

Annette Young is indebted to the glints of writing that have now entered her life as a tool to hone aspects of joy. Teaching also silhouettes such aspects. Her hope is to continue these embryonic writing encounters so that they become daily fixtures of exploration that are a fulfilling meal that sample various glimpses of daily observations in organic life transactions. She has had the fortune to have a piece of poetry entitled, Swooped, published in From Whispers To Roars Volume 5 Issue I, as well as Spectacle Of Spectacles, published in The Write Launch. She was also graced with the occasion to have her short fiction work, Utensils, published in an anthology entitled, Below The Poverty Line.

‘Heart dissolving under the moon; I'll never surrender; Life forces; The witch protector; Water\melon Road’

The Witch Protector

Heart Dissolving Under the Moon

I’ll Never Surrender

Life Forces

Water\melon Road

Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force. He earned an MA and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He worked as a house builder, pipe-fitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender.

‘Cormorants’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cormorants

IT WAS HERE at last – Learning at Work Week, the annual opportunity to ease some of the bureaucratic grind and elevate himself, and possibly his colleagues, to a place of greater happiness. In amongst the thicket of e-mails rearranging his priorities, assigning further tasks without renegotiating existing deadlines, he’d already delivered two seminars locally on haiku: Birds (with a plethora of feathery examples from the classical literature) and Fuzzballs (squirrels, foxes and assorted other furry urban-dwellers).

He got them comfortable, ran through a PowerPoint on the history of the form – putting Issa’s randy houseflies to extended use – then broke and invited them to leave the building, walk around outside with their eyes open. Then he led them haiku step by step: observations, connecting images to small line-bursts of emotion, paring it back to an essence that fused the elements into something higher.

Next up was a trip north, to Pitlochry and the fish people.

But first he had to rewrite this damned Education circular. One message responding to the initial issue, bristling with exclamation points, had pointed out its flaws: did he realise it took two long drives, expensive harbourside parking, a return ferry trip and three days in total to get her child to the dentist, from the island in question? Could he possibly take this into account, in the next edition of his little pamphlet? It was a fair cop, but he would soon be done, and leaving mid-afternoon for the Freshwater Laboratory, and tomorrow’s final workshop: Fish.

‘You finished, Neal?’ asked Karen. ‘Need to zip that across to Mal for the stats, then whatshisface to get it set.’

There was an acid note under the banter. He glanced at his watch, then stuck his head over the rim of his cubicle. Two hours, forty nine minutes and – thirty eight – seconds to go.

‘Almost – be right with you!’

Outside, something slithered up to the edge of the abandoned dock, plopped in. A gull honked past indifferently.

He got back to work.

*

There was no travel money for the trip, and the day and a third came out of his holiday allowance. No subsistence, either, so he’d packed peanut-butter and banana sandwiches, hoped to find somewhere cheap in the woolly wilds.

But still Neal felt his spirits lift as he waited for the carpark barrier to rise. The Circular was done, on its way to the printer’s; he would come back to something concrete from the latest stage in his ‘fast-stream journey’. At home, Daniel was working his usual hours – hours paid far better than his own – and he didn’t expect to hear from his partner till he pulled back into the driveway. Neal rolled his shoulder, tuned the radio and got comfortable.

Pitlochry, here we come!

On the back seat was a warm stack of prints. No screen or projector was available, so he’d gone old school: handouts, scratch paper, a box of pencils filched from the School Inspectorate’s stockroom. He’d amended his slides a bit, made them proper handouts, and he smiled as he remembered the examples.

Draining the ricefield –

a fish also

heads home

(Issa)

Or

Old well,

a fish leaps –

dark sound

(Buson)

They were delightful, and he hoped to see some really specific, salty work emerge from the experts. Daniel had shuddered. He was on his way from vegetarianism to veganism – it seemed a lot easier now than years ago – and could see the joy in flying birds, small mammals scuttling around the undergrowth. But fish?

‘Ugh – reminds me of Fridays!’

Craig, the genial organiser of L@WW, didn’t get it either. He’d made Neal a cup of tea, adding three sugars.

‘Birds, alright – majestic, an that. Poetry. Foxes, too. Slinkin around winkin wi’ cunning. But fish?’

‘Well, yes – fish.’

‘Don’t they sorta – ya know, sit there?’

‘Sit there?’

‘Under yon riverbank, or swirlin about a bit in the tank. Swim round. Dinnae do a lot, duthay?’

Neal had scratched his chin, taken a sip of the awful tea. Then it came to him – cormorant fishing!

‘Well, you might have a point, at least in regard to ordinary fish. But we’re talking about Japanese fish. There’s this thing where they hoist up cormorants – ’

‘Seabirds?’

‘Yeah, only on rivers – inland. Hoist them up, tie a sort of snare around their necks, then train them to dive down and yank out the fish.’

‘Don’t they just eat the fish?’

He looked a little less perplexed, though the fish seemed a bit passive in this peculiar miracle.

‘No. That’s where the snare comes in. It constricts them a bit, so they swallow the little tiddlers – that’s their payment, I suppose – but makes them hold the larger fish, the ones the fishermen want, in their gullets. They hoick them out, reset the snare, and start again.’

Craig scratched his chin, took a long draw on his sugary brew.

‘Alright, but yer actual fish, right – ’

‘They’re part of the process, which is interesting. Listen, fishy folk will love it – trust me.’

And he thought they would.

The thought sustained him down the shore and towards the bridge, into the long trek up the motorway.

*

For the first half-hour things were pleasant enough, but after a while he began to feel the effects of the coffees he’d drunk cramming the Circular. After he’d switched to a smaller road, the amenities dried up and a string of brief, tantalising vistas – rolling valleys, low tree-capped hills – opened up ahead. It was uncomfortable; then pressing; then he began to feel like a bag of liquid horrors waiting to burst through from another dimension. He sped up, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Eventually he barrelled round a corner and a sudden turn, large enough to warrant its own traffic-island, appeared on his right. He floored the brake, screeched into a gravel car-park. ‘House of Froward, the sign said. It seemed to be some sort of fancy clothing store, with a visitor’s centre and café attached. Whatever! He locked up and scuttled across the car park across a patio studded with navy-blue umbrellas into the café.

Inside it was small, more like a fish and chip shop than a proper sit down place. Still, at first glance the food looked alright, the prices surprisingly reasonable. But first things first.

Neal beamed at the first of three staff behind the counter.

‘Where’s the gents, please?’

He was hopping from foot to foot to damp down the raging ache in his abdomen.

‘No toilet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘No toilet here. You go to next town.’

‘What?’

But the man had turned away, his two colleagues suddenly attentive to the task in hand.

‘But this is a restaurant!’

Ordinarily, the flinty resistance of the civil servant would have kicked in, and he would have demanded to see the manager – the manager’s manager – about such a public outrage. But if he didn’t get to a toilet shortly he would cause his own outrage, so he fled back to the car and the main road, pulled off as soon as the slightest bit of roadside vegetation offered a minimal screen, and disappeared into the bushes.

A full minute later, with a suspicious-looking red-leaved bush dripping, his hands wiped on the tops of a stand of damp ferns, he stepped back over the low guard-rail and sat for a minute, spent. The anger had gone – well, almost – and in his relief, he looked round, checked his watch. Quarter to six. He still had more than an hour to go. The roadside was quiet, and he could see between two pine trees and the gash in the bushes into which he’d darted to the hills on the far side. The air was fresh; the view (dripping bush aside) quite pleasant, and he felt like stretching his legs.

He did it all the time at Alexandra Quay, but only ever between his desk and Karen’s, or down through the atrium to get coffee. Contrary to his seminar instructions, he usually kept his eyes firmly shut.

Now his feet crunched over gravel washed to the side of the road by passing lorries, and he picked up a stick from a divot in the metal rail, gave it a tap as he passed. It bonged, off-key, and he smiled. At the top of the hill he turned back, determined to forget all this nonsense and get in early to the hotel, perhaps have a beer and put his feet up, leaf through his fishy gems for tomorrow.

At the car he pulled back his arm and sent the stick whickering through the air. It turned at the last minute, revolving in its normal course, and sailed unimpeded between the top two branches.

*

Neal had originally planned only two sessions – birds and fur. Both local, both focused on generalities: the dawn chorus, foxes making sweet love by the bins, blackbirds digging for worms in freshly-turned earth. All the small delights his new-haikuists were certain to have encountered. But Craig scratched his head.

‘Tea?’

‘No, thanks. Happy to slot them in whenever you need them, even pop down the road.’

Craig stirred his plumber’s brew.

‘Look, Neal – I was thinking. You’re one-a my best folk. You do this every year, people enjoy it, and when the sign-in sheets go round, yours fill up richt away.’

‘I enjoy doing it – takes me back to a different life, makes a nice change from Karen, at least for a few hours.’

‘Yeah – I geddit. Should ask her to do ae course on micro-management, next year.’

‘Nano-management!’

Craig grinned. He slurped his tea, held up a finger.

‘But, young man, I’ve a bit ae a dilemma. Most o’the courses – yours, juggling, home-finance, joys ae urban chickens, ya know. They’re here, Edinburgh, in one ae yon two big buildings, or at a stretch, Glasgae.’

‘Well that’s where everybody is.’

‘No everybody.’

‘Ninety percent of them, surely?’

‘I’ll gae ye that. But there’s a few scattered round who get a bit vocal this time of year. Stirling, soma the rurals, ya nae. Pitlochry.’

Neal looked him square in the eye with his best flinty Education Department squint. It did no good.

‘Come on – be good fer ye. The drive alone’s a tonic.’

Neal sighed.

‘What do they do up there?’

‘Fish, mainly, but not, ya know, the out-at-sea kind.’

‘Fish.’

‘Yeah – yer know, lil salty flippers wi the funny smiles. There’s a bloke called Henry Shadbolt pushin fer somethin.’

In the sudden silence, Neal could hear Alexandra Quay going about its sorry business, clueless about birds, furry creatures and fish; knowing little, and caring less. The sound of self-satisfaction hummed on regardless. Craig took a triumphant slurp.

‘I’ll even call Karen for yer, clear the way. Howzat?’

*

Half an hour more, and the road seemed to roll on in pines and vistas and moody grey skies, seemingly forever. It wasn’t unpleasant. Daniel had this huge project, and his company was still primarily working-from-home, so every moment of stress and pressure radiated out from the spare room into the confines of the flat. Neal knew he had to be bringing home an equal amount – of rage, most likely – but could seem to do nothing about it.

Up ahead, a small ‘P’ sign indicated a stopping-place, and he decided to pull off and stretch his legs. The refuge of the road was fine, but he could use some cool and silence – even better, a cup of coffee and a bacon roll. The parking place came up after a stand of trees. There was a wheelie bin, a baby’s stair-gate abandoned in a bush – heaven knows how that got here – and, praise be, a burger van at the far end. He could see another car parked beyond, the driver handing money in through the hatch. He got out quickly and shook out the tension from his legs, trotted down to the van.

‘You’re working late!’ he said. The man inside just nodded, angled his head at the board. Soon Neal had a hot roll and coffee. He walked back towards the car and noticed a gap in the scrub, to the left of the baby gate. It led a short way down a bank, between two pines and out onto a small ridge above a stream. There was a weathered picnic bench, another bin beside it. The trees screened the noise of passing cars, and he sat down to eat with a sense of gratitude for the scene. Just what he needed, right when he needed it. It was not a familiar feeling.

He remembered talking to Shadbolt, the coordinator at the Lab.

‘Aye,’ Henry said. ‘You folk tend to forget us, up here in the woods, but we’re part of government, too.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, Henry,’ Neal said. ‘Not at all. It’s just that – ’

‘Too busy, are ye – wi the big bosses, an all?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s not that. Or not entirely that, you know.’

‘Well, what is it?’

And suddenly Neal was unburdening himself.

‘Well, Henry, it’s a lot of things, actually. To start with, it’s my boss – you don’t really need to know her name. It’s Karen. Karen is a bloody nightmare – nitpicking everything down to the atomic level, and do as I say, not as I do. When I got here I had to call the movers to arrange a date for our stuff to come out of storage. She leans over the cubicle wall. “No personal calls.” Okay – weird, but then she goes back into her own stupid little hole, and makes a call to her car insurer! Then her bloody boyfriend. And – well, you don’t need to know the whole sordid history. Suffice to say she covers all her deficiencies with our achievements, and doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone but herself.’

There had been a rather significant silence on the line.

‘What the hell,’ Henry said. ‘Don’t you fancy getting away for the day?’

Now he sat with a bacon roll on a battered picnic table, pinching and yanking at an awkward sachet of ketchup, sipping at coffee between fruitless attempts.

‘Come – bloody – on!’ he said. On the fourth tug it creaked mightily, then gave up the ghost. A spray of sauce dotted the roof of the roll, and he used the dead sachet to smear it over his bacon, closing up the roll and taking a big bite. In the evening cool it was heavenly, sweet, salty and crispy, all at once. He chased it down with a long swallow of coffee. Under the bench, Neal rearranged his legs, crossing and uncrossing them, then finally jammed both feet on the middle rung. It made him sit up straight and look at the view. A car passed in the background, and he heard the other customer get back on the road. The van seemed to be closing down, too.

Soon everything was quiet.

He had no idea where the picnic-spot was; he could be five minutes from the hotel, or hours, or just outside the city. He realised it didn’t matter. What mattered was the stuff under his fingers: the squidgy packet; the soft roll; the heat of black coffee radiating through the double-walled cup. Even the gnarled wood of the table itself. Someone had chiselled an insult, or an endearment, into its surface – so long ago he couldn’t tell which. He sat still, enjoyed the stillness.

After a few minutes the wildlife wised up, resumed its business. A squirrel dropped to the spongey turf from a nearby tree, did a quick side-to-side reconnaissance, tufty ears pricked up and sleeked back, then dropped to all fours and scampered across the clearing. A blackbird cawed, somewhere out of sight, and what he thought must be a magpie – really just a blur of black and white – streaked across the middle distance like some secret, flashing signal.

Neal smiled. He wished Daniel was here, and not sweating out his latest assignment. Then, just as suddenly, he wished to stay alone. There was something satisfying about this moment, and he wanted it to endure. Perhaps he didn’t get enough of them, or what he did manage to snatch from the constant flow of demands in the office, was insufficient – the sort of observation his seminars tried to banish, in favour of a longer, more dedicated look.

He thought about the cormorants again. That thin silken cord, wrapped just so, in order to allow the bird to follow its natural instinct to dive, to chase and capture, but coming back to the surface, permitting only the smaller fish to slip down its waiting gullet. The rest were caught, trapped like – well, bigger fish – and levered out of its maw into wicker baskets. He could imagine the calls of the men from one flat-bottomed boat to another, the squawks of the birds, the relentless splashing of the waters in the background. He wasn’t sure which of the figures he identified with – the supreme fishermen, sleek and deathly in silent pursuit, or the men standing idly by till simple technology stole the best of the catch.

He'd hoped to convey something of this cultural complexity to his students. They knew all about fish, or so Henry said; their habitats, behaviours, tendencies and characteristics. Just the sort of specific knowledge, derived from close observation, that drove the best, the seemingly-simple haiku whose sparse lines – when written well – conveyed turbulent depths.

But he had reached the bottom of his coffee, and nothing much was happening in the clearing. Another car went by, here then gone, and he thought of the office: its low-walled cubicles and endless chatter; new demands heaped up, one another, on the old; the latest version of the Circular swarming up from the deep with a bellyful of corrections. Suddenly his neck tightened, gorge rising as if squeezed up by some invisible cord.

Neal stood up quickly, dumped his rubbish and got back in the car.

He started for home.

James Roderick Burns is the author of one flash fiction collection, To Say Nothing of the Dog, and five collections of short-form poetry, most recently Crows at Dusk; a collection of four novellas – The Unregulated Heart – is also forthcoming in summer 2024. His stories have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he serves as Staff Reader in Poetry for Ploughshares. He can be found on Twitter @JamesRoderickB and his newsletter ‘A Bunch of Fives’ offers one free, published story a fortnight (abunchoffives.substack.com).

Girl with the Flaxen Hair

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Girl with the Flaxen Hair

She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Her hair was like straw and her eyes were mud. She was a pig’s dream and I loved her. The first time we spoke was when we were kids, catching crawdads in the creek that separated her house from mine. Kids don’t talk all too much, they just smile and play, singing old nursery songs together that they haven’t quite yet outgrown. Then she went to school, and I stayed behind, and we stopped our games. Our games turned into waves; the waves to smiles; the smiles to nods; and then we were strangers. The year was 1932. I had only spoken to her a handful of times since then—her father was the protective type and never cared all too much for me. Course there was no reason for him to give me the time of day. I was their neighbor, but not much of one. I did what I could here and there, but I don’t got much. My home is one bad look away from being just a dilapidated shack and was surrounded by the bones of lonely tools taken by rust and rot. The fields surrounding me, once luscious and profitable, are now occupied by weeds and tan grass, tenants that I could never rid.

When I was a kid, wheat bloomed far as the eye could see. We had a good ol’ horse whose name slips my memory that would go out and yank it up ‘til the sun went down, sometimes sneaking in a few bites for herself. That thing ended up being a sack of bones that my father shot out in the back to put her out of her misery. At least that’s what I was told. He was always mumbling about that “good fer nuthin’ piece of shit”. Sometimes the thought crosses my mind that he just got fed up and fired the gun in a fit of rage. It saddened me, but at least it was only the horse. After that we couldn’t do too much. The fields became overgrown and moldy, and pests ran amuck. Our cat fattened as our stomachs sucked in. We were never rich folk and didn’t pretend to be.

I had a habit of getting up at the crack of dawn so I could watch Addison fixing breakfast. It started as a coincidence, but I just couldn’t help myself after that. I was an alcoholic drunk on her beauty. My eyes must have started to drill holes through their walls and shatter their windowpanes. I always thought of myself as her protector, someone who wants to see the best for her. Once their chickens disappeared—at least their bodies did. The heads were left sittin’ at the bottom of the coop. I wanted to look out for the poor girl and brought her some eggs from my own hens. They were for Addison, but I knew her family enjoyed them too. After that she started waving to me across the way when I would get home, and I would nod back. Farming did not agree with me. So I just worked where I could, finding odd jobs that no one else wanted. I had a jack that would take me into town. It wasn’t a far trip, one that was greatly shortened by the jack when I brought a switch. He was more stubborn that I was.

My favorite days to go out are the ones like these—sunny and bright, warm with a breeze. These days weren’t uncharacteristic for this time of the year, but still always appreciated. I needed to make the trip out to the town, my funds were running low again. Winters are always tough. Everyone just keeps to themselves and it’s too cold to go out and search for work anyways. As I traveled down the barren road, I thought about all I could do if I had more money and said a little prayer. I don’t believe in God, but maybe I would if he sent some luck my way. My mother, God rest her soul, told me stories of how my father used to care for her. He’d come home from a long day of work singing and dancing and they’d swing me around so that I would laugh until my throat was hoarse. I was too young to remember. “Amazing Grace” melted off my lips as I rolled into town and tied the jack up to a post. I went to every single shop to see if anyone had some work that I could do. A few dollars was all I could get, but I was grateful. This routine repeated itself until the jack brayed with hunger. I saw Addison walking out of the post office with her father and the world seemed to stand still.

He was a fat man without any defining features. It seemed like everything that was not her was simply foreign. I could feel my eyes narrow and my heart beat. If I didn’t know better, I coulda swore I was drooling. I just stood there in front of the pair until we were almost nose-to-nose. I would have kissed her if I was worse of a man. Her father cleared his throat.

“’Scuse me,” my words were calm, but I was brewing a fresh pot of anger as I stepped out of the way.

I watched the two leave and the fat man turned around and gave me a nasty look. There’s many things I coulda done if I were a worse of a man, but I’m not. Watching her leave was a terrible feeling. The sun licked my skin like fire on this August day, but I continue to clench my jaw and bear the heat. There’s not much that can be done. I’m damned in the winter and damned in the summer. Sometimes I feel jealous of the old horse. The fear of being shot was never one I was a stranger to. Most of my memories of my father include a gun. He would come back at night, staggering ‘cross the floor, knuckles bloody, waving a revolver in the air. I would hear my parents yelling about money and shots would ring out, but never anything fatal. Always damned. I walked over to the creek that Addison and I once played in to dampen a rag to put over my neck. It was barely a trickle. I stood there and stared at the water and for a split second, the thought of pushing the fat man’s face down in it flashed through my mind. I looked up and saw Addison with a man. I had seen him around before, but we had never spoke, and he had certainly never spoke to her. He looked stupid with a shit-eating grin and arms that were too long for his torso. The way they laughed together was vile. I could only wish that she was laughing at him and not with him. She stopped the banter and waved when she noticed me. I did nothing. That’s something they never teach you when you’re young—the pain of seeing your lover with another man.

I used to beg and beg my father to go into town with him and sometimes he would take me. We would go into a five-and-ten owned by an ugly lady with a giant mole. Least I think it was a lady. My father would yell at me to behave as he went to the back, he said he was “gunna go ‘cross the street real quick-like”. The sign on the building said it was a tearoom, but I only say a couple ladies go in and out. It was mostly disagreeable men with eyes like rats. When my father came out, he always seemed cheerier. Fists never flew when we got back home, but still my mother (the Lord bless her) would cry and cry and cry…

I kept staring at Addison and gangly man. The fat man came out and stared me down, his eyes daggers. Maybe he could read my thoughts, maybe he was still mad about the chickens. I can hear the jack’s brays from inside my house. He was family to me. I hadn’t been talking to nobody but him lately. Going outside has become a chore when all I can think about was her. It just ain’t right. I know I’m a good man, but I just don’t feel like one when everyone walks out. Even one day the jack will run away, or I’ll have to shoot him out in the back like the horse, too. These thoughts all circled around my head, making me dizzy and confused. It was debilitating. They spun faster and faster and faster.

I sat and thought, and my face twisted up until it was unrecognizable and wet. A cold breeze ran underneath the floorboards of my house, tickling my feet and reminding me that I am alive. It let me know that while life is exasperating, it sure is beautiful and I’m lucky to be here, living next to my future bride. That feeling of peace was quite something. I remember how my mother felt a similar feeling of peace once. She was beautiful woman who fell ill before I even saw my teenage years. Mama used to be Her body began to ache in a way where she said she felt as if she were turning into a rock, her forehead was as hot as a coal, and she shriveled up into a pile of bones. A doctor came out once and told us to keep our distance, because this disease was taking many. I never wanted to stay away from her or be apart, but every time I snuck into her room, my father would yank me away so hard my arm would bruise. She always gave me the softest smile when I left, so meek and demure. Helpless.

The last time I saw her, she was gasping for air between fits of coughing. I stumbled into her room, scared of whether my mother would be there or if she would have disintegrated. That look in her eyes was one I could never forget. She must have known her time had come because I had never seen someone quite so at peace with the world. She looked genuinely content for a woman about to pass on. A smile left her lips and pulled me towards her. I clung onto her arm and cried all night, until I was once again yanked away. The next day we put her in the coffin that my father and I had built a few days earlier.

Life sure is a strange thing.

The clock ticked by slowly. It was already November. Addison and the young man were betrothed to wed. I found out when I went into town to find some work and I saw the pair. A beauty and a gangly beast. They were surrounded by people young and old, congratulating them. A load of horse-shit if you ask me. For a split second my gaze caught her eye and I thought I saw something in it. An apology maybe? Or longing? Did she know that she had made the wrong choice and I was the one that she was supposed to be with? How could a man with such a stupid smile take care of her, and how could the most beautiful woman in the world actually like a man with such unruly limbs?

I knew in that moment that she did want to be with me. I stood there and stared at the couple until the surrounding people’s looks to me became unsettling. My eyes were wide, glazed and unblinking. Thoughts raced through my mind like dogs, but I still felt peaceful, at ease. I am the picture of serendipity. A deep sigh escaped my lips. My chest rose and fell with the breaths that gave me life.

Breathe In,

Out,

In,

Out.

My feet carried me home, but I had no recollection of the movements I had just made. It felt like I was floating, my body was in control, and I was only a passenger along for the ride. The sole passenger on a lonely train. The thoughts that my mind produced in that time I can’t recollect, but I cannot imagine they were those of a good man, with how hot my brain felt.

My house was cold, combating the heat that was escaping my body and cooling me down to a temperature where I could survive. The house started to look vile to me, a memory of what was and what could have been. My father had left years ago when I was a scrawny young cock. He opened the door, looked at me, and disappeared forever. His gaze was cold and lacking in any emotion. The lack of his regard for my well-being showed that his heart had never been there. It was as hard and moldy as a knot of wood left in the rain. I never saw him again. I can only assume he’s dead—or at least I know he is dead to me.

In,

Out,

In…

The wind was howling with anger, furious to be alive. It was a welcomed alarm; the wind’s fury was invigorating. At one point in my life I would have said the wind was as angry as I was, but that is no longer true. I have found peace and I have found how to get to where I belong in life.

My feet carried me across the way to the house where my future bride spent most of her time. I pursed my lips and whistled once again. Raps on the door came from my fists and the ever-beautiful Addison answered. A confused look swept across her face, changing to the characteristic welcoming smile of any woman that properly belonged in this town, and her eyes crinkled. I had never noticed her crow’s feet before.

My body carried me, and I was no longer in control. Shots rang out, clearing the neighboring trees of any birds that nestled inside. Crows screamed and flapped their winds, intrigued by the commotion. I turned around and saw the fat man running towards me with a shotgun he was threatening me with. An old Winchester. Yelled as he saw Addison hanging from a tree next to me by a rope necklace I crafted special for her.

“Damn you! My God, damn you!” His sobs boomed.

I heard one last shot. My ears rang and I fell to the ground. Above me I could see my bride, her face white and pure, sleeping peacefully as the howls of the wind pushed her side to side. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I drifted away. We would be together always, and it was our love that could never die.

Amazing grace

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me…

A.H. Brewer is a Pacific Northwest native author who currently resides in Japan. She has always been drawn to dark and grotesque, which is reflected in all of her works. She is excited to share her debut work as a testament to her lifelong love affair with the art of storytelling.