‘Comeuppance’

Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium in 1946. 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.

Comeuppance

I watched from my wooden swing near a rose of Sharon, several of which formed a dense boundary between my house and our newest neighbor. Sunlight dappled the area where I sat, and southerly breezes off Lake Erie rustled my Alice’s red roses and stretches of lavender, their aromas mixing in with the faint but present slew of dead fish being feasted on by gulls and vultures along the shore. Some of the fish had been mummified by two weeks of temperatures in the upper nineties, their carcasses tough like jerky, their eyes long gone. I’d wanted a closer look than standing on a cliff but found the burning sand and spreading waves of water untenable, even if the fish jerky caught my interest.

I gazed, I stretched, I swatted a bee having the temerity to buzz too near my face. Without my paying too much attention, doors opened and closed in the houses around me. The day had been uneventful so far – a load of mulch for the young, uppity couple beyond my fence, workers in orange vests using small slats of tired wood to designate placement of shrubs and hedges in uninspired landscapes. And Roundup – my real nemesis. The uppity couple had sprayed their grass with Roundup from a hose for the past four years, decimating their weeds and morphing our young Joe-Pye and delphiniums into twisted, cattail-resembling crooks. Alice complained many times. I didn’t tell her about the altered states of squirrels (no fur!) and toads (three eyes?) that even felines ignored.

A screen door slid open on the porch of the adjoining house. I craned my neck to see. Yellow Toes took one rude step and then another, his burly physique a splatter on the day’s pleasant scenery.  He intrigued me, this disaster of a human the likes of which I’d not encountered before he bought the house next door. He strode barefoot across the bricks, placed hairy fingers atop his patio rail and surveyed his realm. He coughed, cleared his throat and spit. Sputum pooled on his curly beard, and he wiped it off with sausage-like digits. His hirsute torso resembled a half-moon, and I recalled the paper bags of empty beer cans sitting by his garbage bin on trash day. He was perpetually slack-jawed, appearing as stupid as I believed he must be. Like my Alice, who enjoyed the horror of slasher movies and witches, I relished the disgust his presence engendered in me, wallowed in his gross, physical presence. 

“Hey, don’t throw it so high!” Little Sara, who lived on Yellow Toes’ opposite side, screamed to Dickey, her 7-year old brother. Blond braids hung low on her shoulders, and her skinny arm with open mitt stretched to catch Dickey’s errant toss. The baseball tipped off her mitt, went rolling behind her.

“Sorry! I’ll be more careful.” Dickey missed her return throw. He sauntered among the underbrush and hedges bordering his family’s property.

I stiffened with alarm. My neighbor instantly leaned over the wrought iron rail, a scowl indicating that Dickey better not intrude on his land. The boy scrabbled among the ivy and came up with the white ball. Yellow Toes leaned back, relaxing his shoulders. He snorted like a bull.

My breathing settled when he went inside. Within a few minutes he returned, clad in camo pants and red muscleman shirt. One hefty hand held a mug steaming with hot liquid. He dragged a weathered Adirondack chair to the railing and sat, facing the children’s back yard.

He was a recent newcomer to the neighborhood, having arrived in a white, dented van, alone. I’d watched him haul a stained mattress and pile of unfolded blankets into his garage, his heavy breathing and grunts coming through my living room window, where the open curtains and screen gave me vantage. He tugged bulky green plastic bags in lieu of cardboard or plastic boxes. Later I heard Dickey and little Sara’s mother tell Alice she wondered where he was born, arriving as he did like a feral cat from a back wood. “Swarthy,” my Alice replied. “Heard him muttering words in a strange language,” another neighbor replied. No one brought him a homemade pie, no Welcome Wagon representative with a big smile stopped to acquaint the foreigner to his new community, no greetings of hospitality from families on the street. 

Too unkempt, too crude, we all agreed. 

“Good throw!” Little Sara screamed derisively. 

“Hey, ya gotta run and catch it sometimes.” Dickey moved closer to our neighbor’s yard, waving his mitted hand to Sara who backed up to further the distance between them. He caught Sara’s next toss, but tripped and fell down. “Ouch!” He bent his knee, rubbed the grass off.

“Hah!” Yellow Toes lifted his head, ran a hairy hand through his hair. He smiled.

The brute enjoyed Dickey’s pain!

I almost hissed.

I liked those children, their funny, silly games. Sometimes I went over to play with them, and I’d hide in the bushes until they found me, or hunker down near the hydrangeas in what had been my special safe place before Yellow Toes bought the property. Especially good at subterfuge, I usually waited the kids out and they’d end up quitting the game. One time, when I tired of watching my Alice pull up invasive weeds in our garden, I trespassed the brute’s backyard to where the siblings sat on their grass, eating DQ chocolate dipped cones. I strutted back and forth, making enough of a fuss that Dickey allowed me the last lick of his ice cream.

“Oh, geez, Sara!” Dickey missed her throw. The ball bounced, rolled and kept rolling until it caught in a bunch of myrtle and dandelions in Yellow Toes’ overgrown grass. Dickey would need to squeeze through the brute’s hedges and walk into his yard to retrieve the ball.

“Hey, ya gotta run and catch it sometimes, ya know,” Sara mocked her brother. She threw down her glove and did a cartwheel. Being a sweet child, she didn’t realize the peril her brother faced.

“Eh!” Yellow Toes shouted. His menacing frown and dark, overarching eyebrows reminded me of a hairy-faced Stalin, whose cruel countenance covered a history book on my Alice’s bookshelf. He’d been a brute, too, territorial and mean. Holding tight his mug, Yellow Toes’ ogre-like feet walked down the steps and into the grass.

He hummed, a menacing tune I was certain. I’d heard it before, maybe on the TV.  

Dickey and Sara needed protection.

I rose from my chair, jumped from my patio steps and lingered behind the rose of Sharon. If the brute seized the ball or menaced Dickey, I was witness. I’d hidden from Alice on his property before; I knew the nooks and crannies, dark places behind a bush where I might avenge the children should he try to hurt them. 

Dickey paused on the cusp of safety, one foot set to land on enemy territory. He scanned for poison ivy, wary of the weed that had placed him in the ER with a ventilator the previous year. My Alice had sent a get-well card from both of us. 

“Hurry it up, Dickey!” Sara shouted.

I heard a guttural clearing from the brute’s mouth. He sang words to the melody he’d been humming. The tune pawed my memory, my focus momentarily blurred. Then Yellow Toes stooped and picked up the ball, turning it over by the tips of his fingers. 

Poor Dickey. His zoned-out focus on avoiding poison ivy brought him just five feet from Yellow Toes. Dickey startled and stopped, blue eyes wide.

Now was my best opportunity. I skittered to a stop opposite the brute, flora camouflaging my presence. Like the fog in one of my Alice’s favorite poems, I moved silently on little cat’s feet to get a clear, unobstructed view. A yellow and black garden spider, seeing the intensity in my eyes, scuttled from its prey and found safety within the curled frond of a fiddlehead.

Yellow Toes stood sideways, his beer distended stomach a righteous landing pad. Still singing (what was that song?) he faced Dickey. 

He spoke loudly, crassly. I wiggled my haunches, secured my stance. A chipmunk skittered past me, paused to blink. I held fast. The brute spoke louder, repeating his word as my back feet rocketed me forward. 

I saw Dickey’s face too late. He chuckled as he pointed to the ball.

“I think you mean baseball, not baas baal.” Dickey mimicked the brute’s words. 

“Aaaah! Yah, Yah!” Yellow Toes chortled.

I couldn’t stop midflight. I missed the brute’s paunch and landed hard atop one hairy foot. He dropped the ball. His mug jarred, overturned. Hot liquid emptied like muddy rain on my body. I rolled over, found myself trapped under a callused, grass-stained heel. I screeched. 

“Hey, Millicent, what’s happened? You okay, girl?” Sara thrust herself between Dickey and the enemy. She reached for me just as Yellow Toes scooped me up, held me above his head. I stopped wriggling, defiantly glaring into his eyes. His scowl melted, became a wide smile under his thick, sputum-speckled beard. His brown eyes glimmered with joy. He was Puss n Boots   transformed!

“Kitteeee. Lil kitteeeee.” I squirmed. Yellow Toes waved his arm at the kids. “Me and kitty getza baas baal. Yah?” Snuggling me against his torso, he retrieved the ball and handed it to Dickey

“Thanks!” Dickey turned it over in his hand. He stepped carefully through the myrtle to his yard. 

“You’ll be okay, Millie.” Sara raised her hand to touch me. My neighbor lowered his big arm. Sara stroked my crown and kissed me on the nose before bidding us both goodbye.

Yellow Toes rubbed my chin with a friendly, gentle thumb. “Kittee, I give you milk ‘other day?” He placed me down. I dashed to my swing and gave myself a moment to compose myself. I licked myself clean.  

My Alice slid open the patio screen. “Millicent, here kitty kitty. Time to come in.”  

I rushed toward her pretty pink toes. She lifted me to her shoulder and frowned. “You smell like coffee and sour milk.” Wrinkling her nose, she forced me under a soapy wash cloth smelling like freshly-picked lavender.

In the evening I stretched along the living room window sill. Random crickets chirped outside and late summer’s remaining male cicadas played their tymbals in a final serenade to the females.

I heard a door open. My ears perked up. I looked outside. My friendly neighbor carried a paper bag and set it by his garbage bin. His hooded sweatshirt covered the warm landing pad I’d missed in my folly earlier that day. He cleared his throat. I heard his strange, lovely words again. I recognized the tune this time: Take Me Out to the Ballgame. 

I purred.

Later I dreamed of his baas baal. 

Pamela Cottam is a fiction writer with an MFA in Creative Writing from Cleveland State’s NEOMFA program. She has written a mystery novel, children’s stories and adult short fiction. Her writing has been published in Across the Margin, Better than Starbucks2, Active Muse, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Creepypasta (Audio) Constellate Literary Journal, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal and The Write Launch. She was a nominee for the Best of the Net, a runner up in the Gordon Square Review Fiction 2022 contest and Gival Literary Contest, 2023.

‘MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS’

Michael Raqim Mira is a photographer and writer based in Texas. He began practicing film photography in 2004 and later moved on to digital format. He is currently working on a photo book called "Dreaming in Monochrome."

MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS

When Neil walked into the bar on 10th Avenue, though it had been years since I’d seen his face, I  recognized him immediately. I estimate that he and I are about the same age. We are what I term  as the “last of a certain breed.” Possibly fascinating but not to be envied. We are single, gay men  of an “advanced” age, out on the prowl. At least that’s how I presume we are judged by those  watching from the sidelines.  

In an historically short amount of time, things have progressed for the better, particularly if you  are young, gay and don’t struggle with what came before, if even aware of the shoulders on  which you stand. And though there is a thriving business in gay bars, places to see and be seen,  most are not patronized for the purpose of finding men of my years. Unless they are  establishments that invite briefcase carrying Sugar Daddies in loafers and suits, where money is  exchanged for companionship and services rendered, in the short or long term.  

Neil and I are dinosaurs that can be found mingling among the throngs of young men drinking  garnish clad cocktails and domestic beer from a tap. Nothing exceptional and not all that rare, at  least here in this city of millions. Years of experience can lead to good conversation, as long as  we initiate, and the younger man is either cornered and polite, or willing to listen. There are  places more accepting of our kind but I don’t find stimulation there, nor persons I might want to  date or fuck. It’s not that I’m adverse to meeting a handsome man near to my age, but almost all  of those bachelors are trolling for youth. Or they aren’t bachelors at all.  

The domino effect that applies, travels back many decades to a time when a personally  complicated AIDS-related destruction altered all that would follow for me. Though I moved on  long ago, something or things subconscious became road blocks to what might have been healthy  pairings (that’s when I probably should have returned to therapy). Finding or choosing the safety  of considering myself a father figure or repairman doesn’t open up opportunities for an equal  relationship. Wounded masculinity is very attractive to me, since the focus tends to be on the  other one. A deflection I have mastered.  

Though not at another man’s request, after almost 40 years, I put away the photograph of  Stephen — the one person from my past where dreamlike memories still affect my mood. If he  were alive, he would not be anything like the picture I looked at everyday. It was taken before we  met, when he was in his early twenties. As my imagination took flight visualizing what I  

decided he might currently look like, I no longer wanted to see him as he had been in a  photograph shot when he wasn’t yet 25. He would now be close to 70. Around the age his  parents were when I met them. 

I don’t spend my life comparing others to my memory of him. Though I’d be lying if I said that  what happened doesn’t influence my present day behavior. Being unsuccessful in my finding  committed love is not blamed upon the similarities to or differences from who came before. I  know of a good many people, straight and gay, who survived unhappy endings to bravely pick  themselves up and embark on subsequent pairings. As for people who decide to remain in  damaged relationships, I guarantee there are those who settle in order not to be alone. 

I know almost nothing about Neil. I don’t remember why I know his name. I have no idea  where he lives or what he does for a living. I don’t even think we’ve ever had a conversation. 

My obsessive fascination with Neil lies on my wondering how we both ended up in this state.  He may not think about it like that, if he thinks about it at all. He represents something to me that  probably has nothing to with who he is as a human being.  

Whether I live an additional 25 years or leave Earth tonight, I don’t want to end my days with  unaddressed regrets. One of the great privileges of my life is knowing that nothing was left  

unsaid between my mother and I before she passed away. The only guilt I feel is the convenient  distraction of wishing I had been at her side on the day she went to sleep forever.  

One thing Neil and I arguably share is that we have both aged well. But that’s not necessarily a  reflection of anything more significant than misdirected vanity. What I mean by that is, from a  distance, you might mistake us for being 20 years younger than we actually are. Come close and  you will uncover the truth. In my case you may discover the love handles I strategically keep  hidden, or the noticeable sagging beneath my chin that cannot be camouflaged well, or the loss  of youth in my facial expression. I have managed to deflect lines on my face usually associated  with age. But I chalk that up to genetic fortunes. 

Other than dropping dead, there is no escaping getting older. When I see someone who is 60 and  has had a facelift, I think of the sentiments my friend Margie once said. I’m paraphrasing. “Yes,  she’s had a facelift but she still looks like she’s 60 — with a facelift.” That may seem like a  hypocritical comparison coming from a man who still works out with weights religiously. It  helps in my fight, but the shape of the body as I get older, unequivocally changes. So much for  defying gravity. For Neil and myself, I wonder how long we will go on in this delusion of  unrealistic denial. I shouldn’t put Neil and I in the same category, since I know almost nothing  about him.  

When I was 39, I had a year long relationship with an incredibly handsome man who was  married to a woman and had two teenage daughters. We met in the bleachered seats of a concert  at Madison Square Garden. He was sitting in the row in front of mine and kept turning around to  stare at me. And though it couldn’t last, most of my friends made up scenarios of what was going  on in my private life. Since I didn’t talk about it, no one really knew anything. I still fight the  urge to contact him, as if there could be some seductively desperate future we might share. I  haven’t spoken with him in years, yet I still miss what we never had.  

What is it that Neil has? A lover no one knows about? A choice he made not to opt for anything  serious? Searching for something he can’t seem to find? I haven’t a clue. And though I write  about him, it’s none of my business. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 75 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

‘Palilalia’

Jaina Cipriano is a photographer, designer and filmmaker exploring religious and romantic entrapment. Her second short film, ‘Trauma Bond’ is a dreamy, coming of age thriller that explores healing deep wounds with quick fixes, it took home the grand prize at the Lonely Seal International Film Festival.

Palilalia

Red capital letters. Urgent. An unfolded electricity bill with severe creases is pinned to the humming refrigerator with a magnet shaped like honeymoon bugs in copula. In a purple cursive script, Louisianna is for Lovers is written across their insectile bodies. It’s a subtle notion, a reminder to remain open to humor, that Carla likes to sit with for a moment early each day. But here are obligations unmet. A speeding heart. PAST DUE steals the eye from DIY fliers and pictures of friends in Mardi Gras costumes.  

It isn’t true unless it’s funny and it isn’t devastating unless it’s hilarious. 

Next to the past due notice is a serial killer-esque cutout note demanding ransom: PAY THIS OR ELSE- LOVE, LANDON. 

Landon, the ever-jester, casts laughter where shadows linger. There he goes making light. There goes Landon paying his half on time, every time. Carla pats her pockets. She rummages through her purse. Couch cushions are upturned in search of coins. Didn’t she have a twenty on her yesterday? It ain’t fair Landon should have to worry. 

Carla takes Landon’s collage from the refrigerator door, folds it, and places it in her bra, imagining the warmth of his touch though his hands have never left the dugout, much less gotten to Carla’s second base. For a moment, she surrenders to the dream of his hands. His hands holding scissors that removed each letter of the collage like perfect surgery. The hands that steadied the paper as he fit together this precious thing with one simple purpose: to make Carla laugh. She presses the paper further into the keyhole passage between her breasts. It cuts her. The daydream is busted. Her top-heavy reverie topples. Tumbles like boulders. Smiling. Knowing. 

Carla admits Landon gives her no grit for her being a landlord. Her rhinestone boot has never been on that boy’s neck. Carla doesn’t wring him out like a washcloth soaked in sweat hoping for coins of toil to manifest. Cha-ching. Cha-ching. She wouldn’t dream, couldn’t dream of it. She would oblige him to pay in pieced-together letters if she had her way. If kitchen appliances would run on mirth alone throughout the day. 

Carla’s heart calms. 

The hum of the refrigerator ceases. Her melted body eases into the four walls of her kitchen.

Her kitchen. 

Mom and Dad got her this house before they kicked the bucket. Mom first, then, Dad. Didn’t take him long to catch up. The way it usually goes, it usually goes. Typical old man behavior.  It wasn’t tragic in the way people call untimely deaths tragic. Mom and Dad had a life. They laughed a lot. Cried some. They liked to go on drives together. So, they started a humble delivery business. It was the late eighties. 

When the new millennium came, they sold the business, Mom stroked out, had a few years, and called it. A sixty-five-year match, Mom versus Inertia, ended in a unanimous decision with Mom herself as the lone referee. She did not want to wait until she was afraid of death to do her dying. Another year went by, and Dad had a stroke, too. Dad was always doing whatever Mom was doing. 

Carla remembers her mother's stories, vignettes of former glories, of a husband content to stand by a wife’s side, rinsing the dishes she washed and proud to be in her gravity. In the evening, during TV time when the game was on, Mom would re-rinse the dishes, boil water for oolong tea, kiss her husband on the shine of his head, and ask him the score. Mom never asked him where his once-thick hair went. Dad never could give an accurate score, and Mom wasn’t sure Dad knew when he had gone bald. That was just fine with Mom. Just fine. Some men are more handsome when they go bald. There are some men, and there is Dad. That was just fine with Mom, too.  

Mom and Dad footed the mortgage on Carla’s house when they were alive and breathing. It was their dream to do this for her. Everyone, especially Carla, thought Mom and Dad had some more years in them. That’s the way things usually go. 

And here is Carla, on all accounts doing her best with all her empty accounts, a sinking heart, and parentless at thirty. 

"We need a roommate," Carla murmurs, her voice soft and strange against the urgent swelling hum of the refrigerator.  

Landon's response, articulated by the rhythmic thuds of his lacrosse ball against a shared wall, echoes, and dismisses the idea with a simple truth: "We need a roommate? Don't have another room. Can’t have another roommate." Landon waits for Carla’s answer and contemplates chucking the ball again as he rolls it with his fingers, examining its elasticity. 

 Carla closes her eyes and she is in the backseat of her parents’ car.

***

Little kid Carla. No seatbelt. She wore her backpack packed with too many books. The zipper was barely holding it together like it was trying to keep a secret. Or, like when what’s on the inside is too wild to be kept there. The straps strangled her shoulders. “Go Tigers” was written in black magic marker across the top. The home team cheer was fading like anything that’s been around too long. Sweat beaded on the tip of her nose like tiny diamonds. Her hair was a mess with bangs plastered to her forehead. 

This is where memories linger, linger like cigarette smoke, smoke stains on upholstery. 

Carla and her folks passed by orange and red trees that spoke heat one last time before they entered the deep sleep of winter. All four windows in the car were rolled down. All the way down. Mom’s curls, which she kept short and tight throughout her life, shook in the wind. The yellow hair bow Dad gave Mom on their wedding anniversary when he was feeling sentimental, which wasn’t too often, threatened to fly away. Mom played a game with it, something like freeze tag, holding it still, then letting it go, laughing and laughing like it’s the most fun she’s had in ages. 

Dad coughed through a giggle fit after some adult-coded talk between the two, some inside joke. The long ash of his cigarette between his stubby, calloused fingers broke off and flew to the backseat. Dad’s fingertips were gnawed on. Little cuts at the knuckles and short nails chewed to the quick. Little kid Carla held her fingers in front of her like men do, palm facing her. Her nails were pithy and unpainted like Dad’s. 

Mom twisted the volume knob of the car radio’s eight-track player. Her long, red nails made a show of something seductive. This was her song for when the weather turns, for when she finds herself wishing for snow that never comes. Oh, what is the name of that tune? Mom was singing her head off, though it was more like talking excitedly, with feeling. She didn’t care. Her ruby fingertips stabbed rapidly at the air. Dad’s face pinched in playful mimicry; his lips pursed. He smothered his cigarette in the ashtray, shook his head, and sneaked a wink at Carla through the rearview mirror. 

Mom filled up the car with a voice that was vibratory in the rapture of loved music, swimming upstream against the wind as they cruised this rustic scene. Mom turned to face Carla mid-chorus, the brightness of a favorite song colored her edges and Carla smiled, comfortable in the assurance of her parents. The assurance that Mom didn’t know what weapons were. She just loved red, that was all.  

Rolling across the floorboard with the car’s accelerations and turns was a moist apple, forlorn and forgotten until it bumped against Carla’s foot. She picked it up, rubbed it against her skirt, and tossed it to the other side of the back seat, making sure Mom didn’t see. 

***

Big Kid Carla comes to, blinking in the sunlight that stripes her face. It’s Rufus, her dog nudging her sandal with his wet nose. Carla kneels and cups Rufus’ piteous face and scratches behind his floppy ears. Shoulda named him Apple. Sweet puppers.

Landon emerges from his room, lacrosse ball in hand. 

Carla quickly places her palm on her chest. Why did she put the note there, anyway? The honeymoon bugs taunt her. Louisianna is for Lovers. She isn’t having it. 

“Carla, deary, we don’t have a third room. Ergo, we cannot have another roommate. Ergo-” Landon tosses the ball up and catches it with his opposite hand. He keeps his eyes on Carla, one eyebrow raised. Rufus gazes at Landon longingly like he’s got a cut of raw meat in his pocket. It’s the ball he wants. 

“Lumpy.” Carla stands using her hands on her knees. “Lumpy.”

Landon snorts. “Am not.”

“No, dork,” Carla laughs, showing all of her teeth before hiding the gap between her incisors. She hates that part of her. Not what is hidden, but the part that does the hiding. She’s done it since she was a kid. It's instinctive, like the way some people pull their sleeves down when they're cold, even when they know it's not going to do any good. Like dry lips licked. They become drier. 

***

Time slows to a crawl. Images flash. The pointing fingers of children. Carla looked away. Little Kid Carla. Her stomach was in knots. With a note passed from the back of the classroom to the front, Tommy said he would meet her after school behind the bleachers for a kiss. Her first kiss, yes, but probably not his. Definitely not his. She didn’t care whose lips his had touched before. She was smitten. Her heart called. She could feel its pound in her head as the teacher droned on. 

The second note was different. Tommy left it taped behind the bleachers where they were to meet. Carla read it as she crouched wet-eyed and flushed. Mind the gap, it said. Who would want a kiss from you, it asked in bad cursive. The poetry of ridicule. She hid her face in her hands until her taunting peers became bored. Carla crawled, then pulled herself to her feet to walk to the counselor’s office. The kids with the pointing fingers had run off to the busses. In their fickleness, cruelty switched off as quickly as it came on.  The second note was left stuck in the mud beneath the bleachers. The first note, she snuck into the front of her shirt. Carla heard the engines of the buses crank in unison. Then, she heard the squeal of their tires as they left the school at the end of the day. The scent of oil and pavement. Red clay and preteen musk.

Carla waited for her parents in the school counselor’s office. Her back ached from the ridged posture of the chair in which she sat. Straight-backed like it was designed for discomfort. The ceiling fan wobbled. Her arms pricked with goosebumps, but she didn’t complain. Not a word. The counselor tapped her foot, shuffled in her seat, and went rapidly through miscellaneous papers on her desk. 

The apple was green. The apple on the floorboard was green. 

Neither Mom nor Dad asked her why she missed the bus. The counselor greeted them with a high and scratchy voice. She told them how to exit the building. Carla is a lovely student. Lovely student. Even the best and brightest miss the bus from time to time. Won’t you have a good day? Lovely student.

***

“Lumpy, the couch. I gave him a name,” Carla said. Big Kid Carla. “He has to be worth what, a hundred bucks a month? Two hundred? Not to mention the added value of a live-in comedian and, of course, Mr. Rufus. Mr. Rufus, the best mutt this side of the Mississippi, maybe even the whole wide world.” Rufus wags his tail at the mention of his name and puts his paw on Landon, urging him to toss the ball. 

“He knows when you call him a mutt. And I am no comedian,” Landon says, tapping his chest with his finger. “Poet. Sculptor. Rock star. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of all the things you could have gone with, pick one. I’m no comedian.”

“You ain’t right, that’s what you ain’t. What do you call this?” Carla says as she pulls the crumpled ransom note from her bra, waving it like it’s a golden ticket.  

“Psychopath?” Landon says through red cheeks and averted eyes.

“He admits it. Rufus, are you hearing this?”

 “Psychopath. Not me, you. You, psychopath. Not me.” Landon launches the lacrosse ball out of the kitchen and down the hall. Rufus scampers after it, his back paws slipping and sliding, wanting to move faster than the slick linoleum floor will allow. “Side note, why is the couch a he, huh?”

The ball disappears into the shadow of the unlit hallway. Carla meant to replace the bulb. What was it that kept her from doing it last month? Oh, yes. She was going to go yard-saling. Yard-saling. That’s what Mom called it. Carla was going to find a skinny hallway table and an old, frilly, ornate lamp to set on it. Then, she was going to replace the hallway bulb. But things like that hardly ever get done. You say you're going to do something, but then life just pulls you in a dozen different directions, and before you know it, the ball's lost in the dark, and you're too busy to go find it, if you remember there was ever a ball to begin with.

***

Mom’s winter song had faded and suddenly her voice rang out, sharp and clear. “We are going yard-saling. How about that?” Mom turned to face Carla. Little kid Carla, eager-eyed and bouncing in the back seat.

“Yay!” Yard-saling was one of Little Kid Carla’s favorite things. Truly. 

“That’s my girl,” Mom said, tapping Dad on the shoulder lightly at first. Slowly, then, in playful little violent bursts. 

“Go ahead,” Dad shrugged. “She will find out later or sooner. Sooner or later.”

Carla shot up like a rocket, curious about Dad’s words and almost hitting her head on the dome light. “What am I going to find out later or sooner?”

“We are going yard-saling for a bassinet.” Mom spoke in clipped vowels to hide her knowing smile.  “Maybe a high chair. Some bottles, definitely some bottles. A binky pacifier. A few of those for sure. New ones, of course. Don’t you think, Dad?” 

“Si, si, of course,” Dad said as a matter of fact as though this were just some regular Friday. 

 “Why do you think we need that stuff? Is it because, is it because we must throw away your bed? Bed bugs are terrible pests. We told you not to let them bite. Did you not believe us? That is why.” Mom’s lips curved as she spoke, and there was her gap. Her big, beautiful gap. Twin mouths, she and Carla.

“No!” Little kid Carla leaped so that she nearly hit her head on the dome light again. 

“Is it because Dad, he hopped around the house with his big, clumsy man feet and broke all your cups and now you must drink from a bottle?”

“No!” Carla shouted- forgot about being abandoned, poked fun at. She forgot about Tommy’s dumb note. 

“Yes, yes, I think so. You must now sleep in a bassinet. You’re not so big. Maybe we take off your feet so you will fit. We are too poor for a brand-new bed.” Mom’s face sunk into her hands. She put on a real show. “This is the way it must be.”

“You’re going to have a baby!” Carla erupted. 

“There is no fooling you,” Mom said, while squeezing Carla on the shoulder from the front seat. “We will call you Detective Hermana Mayor, Hermana Mayor, the detective. Big Sister Carla.” When Mom spoke, she stuck to Carla like hot honey. “Get your fruit.” Mom nodded to the opposite side of the car. Her gap disappeared when she sucked her lips, trying not to laugh. 

“Yes, I am going to have a baby and our family will grow from three to four. Isn’t that a happy thing?”

“It is so happy!” Carla said, tripping over the words that would express the warmth, the fullness she felt.

 “Keep your eye out for signs, Big Sister.” When Dad spoke, he stuck to Carla like Velcro.  “Didn’t Abuela call you Eagle Eye when she took you yard sale hunting?” 

“She did! She did!” Carla whispered as she vibrated in her seat. Elation erupted from her and defanged any hurt that might have arrived with the mention of her grandmother- her grandmother who always said Carla’s name with a song, a winter song. Carla reached for the apple. “It’s dirty.”

“I will clean it for you, Carla. I will clean it.” Mom took the apple from Carla and turned forward in her seat. 

“When will I be a big sister, a Hermana Mayor?” Carla asked. 

“For the rest of your life.” 

Carla sat back, her fuzzy gaze lingering past the speaking trees, some of them with white signs stapled to their trunks. With bold, red letters they zipped by like sci-fi lasers: THIS FRIDAY AND SATURDAY ONLY. EVERYTHING MUST GO. DO YOU SEE US, EAGLE EYE? ESTATE SALE THIS SUNDAY. FRESH FRUITS AND VEGETABLES, ORGANIC. OVER HERE, EAGLE EYE! 

Life is short, kids. 

Notice the sky. 

Notice the signs. 

Give your grandchildren pet names. 

Remember all the times.   

Carla began to make room for another, a fourth. She peeled Tommy’s note away from her heart and tossed it out the window. He was too tall, anyway. And the way he tapped his pencil on his desk was simply the worst. His handwriting was ugly. He was ugly. He is such a back-of-the-classroom boy. Troublemaker. Note passer. Carla couldn’t have loved him. She was confused, not heartsick. She would never let that happen again. Not again. Never. No way. 

Now- away. 

Carla zipped her coat and tongued the gap between her front teeth. She imagined Tommy attempting to run behind the car faster than physics would allow. Saturday morning cartoon stuff. A smile cracked, tiny, but large enough so that Tommy would seep out of her and be sucked out of the window with his letter. Carla’s eyes widened to let in the light of new love. All the way. Three-sixty. The rubble that had filled a cavity in her chest became simple dust, the dirt on the floorboard of her parent’s car. She knew she would find the tools to clean the cavity, scrape away the rot, and make it into a new room for the new one. The fourth. A baby!   

“Roll your window up, deary, it is getting cold in here,” Mom said without inflection, her voice sobering. She then handed Carla the apple. Mom had sliced it into four clean and crisp pieces. Mom held her fingers to her lips, the tart juice souring the back of her mouth. Mom had a way of shifting, setting the mood. One minute cheerful and the next all business. She was a mood magician. She told stories with her gestures. Sleight of hand, slight of tongue, but never a liar. 

***

Carla, Big Kid Carla, nearly jumps out of her skin like she has a grand idea, the best idea. She’s hit the jackpot. The computer, a real clunker, is in the living room, and right beside it is the printer. Please, please don’t be out of ink. She turns on the desktop. It’s like waking an ancient Leviathan. No, it’s like lifting the lid of a sarcophagus and moving the mummy at its joints. Nah, it’s like using a rotary phone and realizing you’ve got the wrong number halfway through. Anyway, she’s on a mission.  

Rufus starts barking and jumping all over Landon. Carla is too focused to tell Landon to keep him from bouncing off the walls. The computer finally shows signs of life. 

Word. Click click. New. Click click. Time to type:

roommate wanted

Okay. Straight and to the point. I like it. No need for fluff. Carla chews her lip. 

Cheap rent

Cheap, cheap, cheap. But it is just a couch. Hmmm. Inexpensive? No, cheap. Let’s not sugarcoat it. I guess the location is important. Gotta mention the location. 

uptown, two bedrooms, one bath

“It should be an artist,” Landon says from the couch. 

“What should be?” Carla asks, half paying attention. 

“The roommate. If we get a roommate, she should be an artist.”

“She?” Carla raises an eyebrow. 

artist preferred, dude

Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace. 

cheap rent 

Twice? Better not. 

Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace. 

My number or his?

Mine. Definitely mine. 

call Carla (504)-***-****

Better be clear about the whole couch thing. Someone is going to think I’m offering a bedroom. Oops. 

You get the old, lumpy couch, Lumpy. 

That’ll do it. No false advertising. But maybe don’t call people “lumpy”. 

Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace. 

“Anything else I should add?” Carla asks, squinting at the screen. This is tricky business. 

“Mention Rufus. Some people don’t like dogs.” Landon doesn’t look up. “That’s not the type of woman we want as a roommate.” 

PS: must be cool with my intrusive but sweet doggo, dude

Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace. 

“Anything else?” Carla rests her chin on her hands, elbows propped up on the computer desk.

“The couch sucks, Carla. The couch really does suck.” Landon’s sentiment sticks to the air as Carla types the final line. 

PPS: you better have a good pillow, the couch really does suck

Carla clicks the mouse, the printer buzzes and inch by inch it spits out the ‘roommate wanted’ flyers onto the floor. Good news: it isn’t out of ink.

“Hey, Rockstar,” Carla says, holding up the warm stack of fresh flyers. “You wanna help me flypost these bad boys around town?”

Landon says he’ll grab the tape and Rufus gravitates to Landon, tail wagging, nose twitching, itching for another toss of the ball. 

***

People who use Greyhound busses to get from state to state aren’t usually the type to plan. Seat of the pants, day to day is more their speed. Lots of people come into town and need a place to crash. They can go to a hostel, or they can room with Landon and Carla. They just needed enough cash to pay the power bill, that’s all. 

That was her explanation, her justification to put up a flyer near the bus station. 

People who don’t plan aren’t usually the types you want as roommates. There is a reason they don’t tend to plan. That reason is they have chased out anyone in their life who they could bunk with. So, they can’t plan. They’re running from, not to. What makes you think they won’t start a dumpster fire here just like the one they left?

That was his rebuttal. A feckless rebuttal, one he knew to be so, but a rebuttal nonetheless. This was a game they played. Carla was going to do what Carla wanted to do and that was that. Landon pretended to be offended, but he knew it was a show, a performance he and Carla put on to entertain each other. 

Landon said the bus station was designed by someone who had Art Deco dreams but was working on a Brutalist budget. 

“K.” Carla shrugged and held out her hand, waiting for Landon to give her the tape. She was going to fasten a flyer to the flagpole.

“Art Deco was supposed to be America. It was supposed to be our contribution to the great architecture of the world. Now it’s just in movies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In the movies. Did you see “The Great Gatsby”?”

“What?” Carla wanted the tape. 

“We don’t make beautiful statues anymore.” Landon looked around at absolutely nothing, eyes all full of wonder. “The Veiled Virgin was like a hundred and fifty years ago.” 

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Like, in person? When’d you see the Veiled Virgin? Do you even have a passport?”

“No, I saw “Gatsby” when it came out.”

“Oh, right.”

Carla thinks for a moment and Landon’s eyes go drifting off into the clouds. “Is a building the same as a statue?” Carla’s gap peaks out for the slightest second. 

“I never thought of buildings as statues, but now that you mention it, no. Buildings are not the same as statues.” Landon responds, bearing Carla’s sarcasm perfectly and without complaint.

Carla gives in. “I’m kidding, dork. Tape. Tape, please, and thank you.” Landon gives Carla the tape and she goes on taping the flyer to the flag pole. This is their thing, their little back-and-forth to give just enough dazzle to the everyday. Carla places her hand on her heart. 

“Watch. Someone is going to walk from this bus station, see this flyer, and totally be the perfect match. And don’t tell me that anyone who would be okay with sleeping on Lumpy and getting his face licked at 5:30 in the morning by Rufus is not someone we would want to room with.” Carla puts her hands on her hips and has stolen Landon’s full attention. “I know that’s what you’re thinking and you’re wrong.”

“You hungry?” Landon asks. 

“I think so.”

Landon produces from his pockets two green apples and hands one to a smiling Carla. 

“I like your teeth. You’ve got good teeth. Where to next?”

“We can be done. It’s getting windy.” Carla hugs herself. Her curls shake.

“Sounds good.” As they begin to walk to Carla’s car, Landon begins to hum a familiar melody.

“Wintertime Love!” Carla stops in her tracks and nearly busts Landon’s eardrum. 

“I didn’t know you were a fan of The Doors,” Landon says, rubbing the side of his head with his hand.

“I’m not. I mean, they’re okay. My mom used to love that song.” Carla takes a bite of the apple. Its juice sparkles on her lip. “I have been trying to think of the name all day and here you are humming it. Ain’t that something?”

“Maybe buildings are sometimes the same as statues,” Landon says, placing his apple back into his pocket, unbitten. “If buildings are sometimes the same as statues, then the body is a building, too.” 

“You make little to no sense,” Carla says, eyes rolling out of her head.

“I never do. Never wanted to.”

“We’re going to be late on the electricity bill.” Carla swallows. It might get shut off.”

Landon nods. “Eat your apple,” he says, like it’s the answer to everything. 

Carla takes another bite. Maybe it is. 

The two get in her car and drive, eager to be home, to toss the ball for Rufus, to sit on their old New Orleans porch with the lights off. 

5.4.24

1:12 PM. 

New Orleans, LA

Eric St. Pierre, a multifaceted New Orleans-based artist, weaves elements of story, color, and sound to create work that examines the play between the tangible and the transcendent. Eric’s writing and visual art have found homes in publications such as Grim and Gilded, The Raffish, The Emerald Coast Review, Running Wild Press, and the columns of The Independent News Weekly.

‘ The Last Crystal Bell’

 The Last Crystal Bell

He steps onto the bandstand in the town center, looks out over the grassy mall, and takes a deep breath. He is ten years old and five foot one with jet black hair and deep blue hellacious eyes that give him the look of a grown man ready to share everything he knows with the world. Of course, he has a boy's voice, but it is loud and clear and rings with conviction. Only a few people stop to hear what he has to say. Soon, though, a small crowd begins to form. It is a stifling day in Minden, Louisiana, and no one is in a rush, so why not stand under a tree, have a soda, and listen to the kid?

Preach to us, David Duroit; tell us what we need to know!

“Have you heard the Word of The Lord today? Does He answer your prayers? Do you hear what He has to say? You tell me that you do not. Well, I am here to tell you that the Lord will answer your prayers if only you will listen, if only you will open your heart to Him! You say He is silent? I am here to tell you that His silence is louder than all the thunder in the sky. His silence is stronger than the surf that crashes against the shore and louder than all the cannons ever fired. Hear his silence. He will speak to you if only you will listen. You say you are alone? Well, He will walk with you if only you walk with Him, and you will never be alone again. He will be your eternal friend. And that is glorious!”

Standing in the back of the crowd, two men look at one another and shake their heads in disbelief.

“Who is that kid?”

“That’s the Duroit boy, David Duroit. Comes here every day to preach.”

“Damn, if he can’t preach! What does the minister think of him?”

“Minister thinks he’s great. Said he couldn’t have done better. Why even a Catholic priest stopped by the other day to listen. Just shook his head and laughed--could not believe his eyes!”

The boy continues:

“The Lord is everywhere. The Lord is here among you, in your hearts and in your souls. Praise the Lord! His glory will reach into your hearts and fill you with joy. It is a splendor mightier than the strongest wind that has ever blown. You will be transfixed. You will be reborn. You will be one with him.”

The two men look at one another and chuckle. 

“No one can preach like that boy can. I mean, no one, man! He knows the Word, alright!” 

“Does he memorize that stuff?” 

 “Are you kidding? He don’t memorize nothin’! It comes direct from the heart. It has to!” 

“Ain’t no need to go to church this Sunday. I been there, done that!”

“Makes you wonder, though, don’t it?”

“Makes you wonder what?

“If he ain’t some kind of saint.”

“Nah, he ain’t no saint. Just sure can preach!” 

 When he finishes, he looks out over the crowd. He looks directly into every person’s eyes, and everyone sees the look in his eyes and knows it is meant just for them. It challenges, it beseeches, and it pleads with you. But then, just as you are about to turn away, it takes you in and overwhelms you. Few remember what he had to say the next day, but everyone remembers the look. And if the look doesn’t move you right then and there, someday it will.

“If he’s like that now, can you imagine what he’ll be like ten years from now?”

All are mesmerized, at least for a while; some are transfixed. 

“If I ain’t seen the light today, I never will!”

"You listen to that boy long enough; you goin’ to be in danger of becoming a holy man yourself.”

“No chance of that happening; I can tell you that.”

An ogre from the crowd, who weighs three hundred pounds and is six-three, steps up to David and tries to stare him down, but David holds his ground. The group watches as they stand there, their eyes fixed on one another as if linked by some powerful invisible bond. Finally, the man folds his arms, shakes his head, and walks away. 

Praise the Lord and bless you, David Duroit! You singed their eyes with that look, blinded them with a light so brilliant they can see again, and no one can get the better of you! 

The years go by, and he keeps on preaching. He travels from town to town throughout the state. Ministers invite him into their congregations to preach. People ask him into their homes. He preaches in prisons, to the homeless, to all who will listen, and to some who swear they never will but listen to him anyway. He fills a church in New Orleans and lectures to the football team at LSU. His Word is out; few have yet to hear David Duroit or see that look. 

David Duroit speaks the Truth; David Duroit speaks the Word. So stay with it, David Duroit! Take the Word to every town in the state. Preach The Word, and don’t forget to look them in the eye and leave them with that look. 

Over time, his voice gets more robust. You can hear it in your sleep and listen to it in your dreams. So preach to us, David Duroit! Let’s clear the air and hear the Word because it has never been spoken so well. And as for that look, we’ll never forget that look. It mesmerizes; it sanctifies; it strikes you in the heart and elevates you. But most of all, it makes you feel like you count and like you belong. 

When he turns eighteen, he moves to Chicago and changes his name; David Duroit becomes Daddy Do-right. He is now America’s favorite motivational speaker. 

Daddy Do-right’s on TV, Daddy Do-right’s at the movies, He’s on the internet and the radio. He fills auditoriums and stadiums; his books are best-sellers; his tapes are listened to by millions. His bandstand is no longer in a park in Minden but at the center of the realm. Everyone knows Daddy Do-right, and everyone believes he speaks directly to them. You listen to Daddy Do-right, and he gets you off your ass. You feel better about everything; you feel better about yourself; you feel better about your wife, your kids,  and even your next-door neighbor. You feel better about your life because everyone feels better about you. Is it a dream? If it is, dream on, but don't dream too long, for this is the eternal time for every man, woman, and child in the land. Every day is New Year's Day, and by God, Daddy Do-right wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s an auditorium just outside Indianapolis filled with twelve hundred employees of The Omnimark Corporation, one of the largest software companies in North America. Their annual conference gathers twelve hundred engineers, coders, sales reps, and executives who sit anxiously waiting for this year’s speaker. 

"So, who's it going to be?"

“You know, the guy who's on TV all the time, the guy who looks you right in the eye and tells it like it is. It’s Daddy Do-right.”

“What do you think he’ll say today?”

“I don’t know, but I can hardly wait!”

He steps onto the stage, waits for the applause to die down, and walks downstage center. There is a sudden hush in the auditorium as he looks out over the crowd. The excitement is building; all eyes are glued to the stage. Then, finally, he begins to speak, almost in a whisper at first, but  his voice builds until it fills the room:

“You know there are no losers. There are no failures. Everyone’s a winner, and everyone's a champion. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But it’s true. I know; you go to work each day, and some days, you don't think your work is good enough. You don't think you have what it takes. But I am here to tell each and every one of you that your work is great! Of course, you have what it takes! Take pride in your work. But be aware that you are not just your work; you are not just what you do. You are much, much more than that. You are an individual; you are the one true architect of your destiny. Omnimark is great because you are great. And I can tell you Omnimark will have its greatest year ever, all because of you, each and every one of you.”

 A lone figure rises to his feet and shouts with all his might: “Daddy Do-right, do right by me!” 

“And so I shall, and so I shall,” Daddy answers. 

The audience stands up the next instant, chanting so loud that it resonates throughout the hall. And then they shout it out again: “Daddy Do-right, do right by me!” Twelve hundred voices so loud that they shake the rafters: “Daddy Do-right, do right by me!”

 Someone from the back of the hall yells something out, but it’s not loud enough to be heard by everyone, so he repeats it, "Run for president, Daddy, run for president!” The entire audience joins in, “Run for President, Daddy! Oh, run!” Daddy just stands on the stage, looking out over the crowd. He gives the audience a gentle smile, one that says, "We're all one; we're all of the same minds. I love you!"

 Dunkin Taylor, the founder, and CEO of Omnimark, walks up to Daddy and shakes his hand,

“I was wowed, Daddy, and so was everyone else here, I’m sure.”

"Thank you, Dunkin."

“Do you think you’ll run?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dunkin. I’d be a long shot.”

“Well, I think you’d be a sure shot. And you sure as hell have my vote.”

“Thank you, Dunkin.”

“You know I’m behind you one hundred percent, and so is everyone else I know in Silicon Valley and Boston too!”

So clear the air, wipe away the cobwebs that cloud the Truth. Let's hear what's really going on. Look us in the eye and tell us the Truth. Run for President, Daddy Do-right! Oh, run for President!

And so he does.

Reporters line up to ask him questions. They’re sure they will stump him. Each one has the perfect question; each has rehearsed his question a thousand times for weeks. They push their way to the front of the audience and are face to face with Daddy, sure that this will be the one question he won’t be able to answer. Then, the next instant, they're face to face with him; their moment has arrived. It’s time to give this guy his due. It’s time to bring him down to size. It's time to show him this clown what he really is. But then he looks them in the eye; they pause and look away. And now they’re confounded, humbled, feeling humiliated and foolish. It’s the look.

"Thank you, Mr. D…D…Do-right, I guess that will be all for today.” 

One by one, they turn, look confused, and walk away. You can not question Daddy Do-right; you can only question yourself. 

The streets are lined with Do-righters chanting, "Daddy Do-right, do right by me!” They wear caps and t-shirts that read: “Daddy Do-right, do right by me!”

 Shout it out loud and clear so everyone can hear. 

 "This is it. This has made our day; this is our moment! Past and future time, who gives a shit? Daddy's here and now, and that’s all that counts!” 

Everyone hears what he has to say, and it is precisely what they want to hear. Everyone has the right, no matter who they are, no matter where they're from, and regardless of what they've done. There’s no doubt about it: it’s a sure cure for every ill. It's all you’ll ever need to know; it’s the Truth in a world full of lies. The banality of indifference, the common denominator of apathy-- so what? In fact, that's to be counted on. They'll never vote, but the Do-righters will, and that’s what matters. 

Speak out against the liar; speak out against the cheats. Speak up for freedom. Speak up for the commonwealth of all! Crush the rocks and salute the sky. Brace yourself for the dawn of a new day!

Jennifer has just returned from Europe and has a meeting with her managing editor in New York. She is Reuters’ chief correspondent in Eastern Europe and has been called back to New York after interviewing the President of Hungary. It was a breakthrough interview, a once-in-a-lifetime event. Lozonczi, the President and wannabe dictator, was humbled and then humiliated, “I don’t have to listen to this sort of thing anymore!” he says and walks off in a huff. Reuters is overjoyed.

 Jennifer looks like a refugee, returning home after a long absence when she enters the cab and closes the door. Her emerald eyes are inquisitive, brilliant, and curious. She looks at the cab driver like he's the most important person on earth. She chats with him all the way in from the airport. She asks him where he’s from—he’s from Hungary. And guess what? She just came back from there. She asks him what part of Hungary he’s from. She also asks him what he had for lunch and what movies he likes. She asks him about his life. He tells her he has a wife and kids; he tells her all about his life. He keeps on talking. He has never talked so much to any fare. He tells her everything about himself. She thanks him and says, “Have a good day.” He smiles back and says, “I think I am already the one who has had one of those." Then she tips him liberally. It’s a random act of simple kindness, the kind she makes twenty times a day, the kind that makes her who she is, the kind that makes her impossible to forget no matter who you are.

She struts into Reuters’ Fifth Ave. office as if she had just landed on the moon. People get up from their desks and high-five her: 

“Way to go, Jen!” 

“You nailed it, girl!”

 “Far fucking out!”

Her managing editor greets her with a huge smile and extends his hand when she walks into the office. 

“We were all damned impressed with the way you handled Lozonczi, Jennifer, damned impressed! We never thought we could crack that nut, but you did it!”

“Oh, he wasn’t that hard to crack,” she laughs.

“Well, you pulled it off, and we’re glad you did. No one has been able to do that since Lozonczi was elected. I'll get right to the point: we want you to cover the Do-right campaign.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you…thank you!”

She’s overjoyed. She was sure she was about to get a boring assignment covering the mayor’s race in New York or the drought in California. 

This is my lucky day. Daddy Do-right; you're on my radar now!

As she leaves the office, her editor’s assistant hails her.

 “You look like you just won the lottery!”

“Oh, better than that, much better than that!”

Jennifer is stepping out.

The room is packed with reporters. Jennifer has to push past several of them to get to the front of the hall. But she is used to this. She even uses an old trick, pointing at something behind the NBC reporter in horror. Then, when he turns to look, Jennifer steps past him to the front of the room, face to face with Daddy Do-right.

He sees her standing there, tall, confident, and proud, looking directly at him. He smiles, peers deep into her eyes, and regards her almost tenderly.

“Congratulations on your appointment from Reuters, Jennifer.”

"Thank you, Mr. Do-right."

“What’s on your mind today, Jennifer?”

“I have a few questions for you, Mr. Do-right.”

“Please, Jennifer, call me Daddy!”

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather call you Mr. Do-right.”

There is laughter from the other reporters, and a few sighs from The Do-righters.

Daddy chuckles then he gives a tepid grin.

“Well, I guess Mr. Do-right will have to do. What would you like to ask me, Jennifer?”

“Do you intend to campaign to every segment of the population?” she asks. 

“Our campaign is all-inclusive. We cherish every supporter.”

“But what about those who do not support you?”

“I didn’t know there were any of those, Jennifer.”

There is hysterical laughter from the Do-righters in the room, yet Jennifer persists.

 “But there are those in this country who feel that they will be marginalized by your administration at best or victimized at worst. So what do you have to say to those people?”

He gives her the look, but she doesn't respond, unlike anyone he has ever met. Instead, she just looks right back at him. Their eyes meet for way too long. Something’s not right. 

“What about it, Mr. Do-right?”

“Well, Jennifer, we intend to accept all people into our tent. We’re open to everyone.”

 Their eyes meet again, but there is no conquest, no surrender. Instead, she stares back at him with equal intensity. She gives as good as she gets, and Daddy doesn’t know what to do. This is something new. This is not how it’s supposed to work. He looks deep into the brilliant emerald crystals that are her eyes. But she looks back at him as if he is the President of Hungary, and she won’t let go. 

“There are those who say you won’t enforce the Bill of Rights. Is that true?”

He starts to answer her, but he falters. It’s almost as if the sun is in his face, forcing him to look away.

“You know I…I champion the constitution, Jennifer.” 

“But that’s not what your followers are saying.”

"Well, perhaps…you…you're talking to the wrong followers."

"So, which ones should I be talking to?"

He’s had enough. So stop the clock and clear the air; something's very wrong here. Daddy doesn’t need this.

"I guess that will be all for today, Jennifer. Congratulations on your assignment from Reuters.”

“But Mr. Do-right, you didn’t answer my question.”

"I'm sorry, Jennifer, but we really have to go.”

The other reporters chat with one another in hushed tones as Daddy leaves the room. 

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard Daddy say he’s sorry for anything.”

“Me too! What’s up?”

Hear him loud and clear! Of course, some will not follow. There are always those! Well, let them shut their traps, let them run for shelter, let them cower and whine and grovel. Who needs them anyway? Daddy-do right, do right by me! And do right by every man alive, except those too blind to see. Let them fend for themselves. Let them fall by the wayside where they belong.

After that, whenever Jennifer asks a question, Daddy leaves the stage, and his assistant Bob takes over. Bob is a balding, heavyset man in his late forties with a perpetual smile, a flag on his lapel, and absolute devotion to his boss. Bob would gladly take a bullet for Daddy, so a question from an idiotic juvenile reporter is no big deal.

“What about Health Care?” Jennifer asks. “Does Mr. Do-Right see it as the right of every American?”

Bob just gives her a condescending look and says, “Daddy will be answering that question in detail shortly.” 

"What about crime? Will Mr. Do-right back the current crime bill, or will he introduce his own legislation?

“Thank you for asking that question, Jennifer. I’m sure Daddy will have an answer for you in due time.”

“What about the Supreme Court? Does Mr. Do-right plan to stack the court?”

“Don’t worry, Jennifer. We’ll get back to you on that soon enough.”

Jennifer sits at the bar with her fellow reporters. She’s ecstatic; her colleagues are in awe.   

“How the fuck do you do it, Jen?” Miles, the CNN reporter, asks, swallowing a gulp of beer, “how do you do it?”

Lindsay, the CBS correspondent, gives Jennifer a playful punch in the arm.

“You asshole, whenever he sees you, he’s no longer the big motivational guru. It's like mommy's home, and it's time to clean up his room!”

Jennifer throws her head back and laughs. 

"I know; it’s something else.”

Miles takes another drink and raises his mug.

“You scooped us, Jen. You scooped us!”

Lead the orchestra, strike up the band, Daddy Do-right. Let the night bells ring, let the choir sing, and let everyone rejoice! Daddy Do-right just won his party's nomination for President of the United States.

Back in Minden, they watch TV and scratch their heads.

“I can’t believe that’s the same kid, the one who used to preach to us twenty-five years ago.”

"The same one. Now that kid's running for President."

“You goin’ to vote for him?

“You’re damn right I am. He’ll be the best thing that ever happened to this country; I can tell you that!”

“Me too. He’s my man!”

It’s a long flight from New York to LA. Daddy is on a plane. He walks to the back of the plane to use the restroom. When Jennifer sees him, she pushes her way up the aisle and stands outside. This is the moment she’s been waiting for. Daddy does his business, flushes the toilet, steps outside the restroom, and suddenly is face-to-face with Jennifer.

"So, what about it, Mr. Do-right?” Jennifer says as if she’s talking to her best friend.

“Please, Jennifer, not now."

“What about the Supreme Court? Are you going to pack the court?”

“You know my position on that, Jennifer.”

“Not really.

“Well, I just don't know…not right now. When we come to that, I should have an answer. Please, not now….”

“But people want to know.”

“And so they shall. They will get their answer, and so will you. Not now, though, not right now," Bob says, turning away. 

“Can’t you just say a few words about…

“No, not now, Jennifer. Really!”

“But just a few words…."

The pleasantries have broken down, the give and take is gone, and all the niceties have evaporated. Daddy's face is now white-hot. It’s filled with rage: the kind we’ve never seen before. It builds and builds until it reaches a crescendo. He glares at Jennifer with a palpable hatred. And then he explodes: 

“Why don’t you just get the fuck out of my face, you miserable bitch! I will end you! I swear I will end you!”

Bob runs up the aisle to Jennifer, grabs her by the arm, and pulls her aside. Daddy storms back to his seat. Bob says, “You know better than that!” And Jennifer returns to her seat. But all the time, her Smartphone was in her shirt pocket, recording everything Daddy had to say. She takes it out and plays it back. She’s got him; she’s got him cold. Then, sitting back in her seat, she smiles and thinks, Daddy, Do-right; you did right by me! 

Sure, there was the thing on the plane with that reporter. But so what? Everyone has a bad day; everyone slips up. Daddy’s only human; he has a right to lose it now and then. And that’s what we like about him: he speaks his mind. So he got a little carried away, so what? Big deal! That’s no reason to question Daddy Do-right; that’s no reason to doubt him.

The Pentagon loves him; the FBI does too. Even the eggheads at the CIA think he’s their kind of guy. 

 “I was skeptical at first, but I like what he has to say. He has a real command of foreign policy, too. He’s a damn knowledgeable guy!” 

“His historical perspective is brilliant.”

“He sure as hell is going to make our job a lot easier.”

 “Absolutely!”

“To tell you the truth, I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t support him.”

“I’m on board with him because he’s on board with me!”

“I think we all feel that way.”

Daddy’s not left, and Daddy's not right. These terms belong to an old fashion, two-dimensional spectrum, and Daddy Do-right’s a four-dimensional man—a new kind of man in a new type of world.

There are the debates, of course. But what a sorry spectacle--pathetic milk toast nebbishes who are no match for Daddy Do-right! They try to gang up on him like a pack of hyenas, but Daddy knows exactly what to say. He never insults, he never shames, and he never condescends. He's always at the top of his game. These petty hacks are no match for America’s greatest motivational speaker. They’re all a bunch of also-rans; it’s plain to see.

Jennifer has had a long day, but it was superb, the kind she’d been having since she came back from Europe. She walks down Ninth Avenue toward her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen as the noonday sun breaks through the buildings and plays on her face. Some people on the street recognize her and wave, and she waves back. A panhandler reaches out, and she hands him a five-dollar bill. Two teenagers see her, yell, “Yo reporter lady!” and high-five her. It makes their day. New York pedestrians, who never look at anyone, greet her with a smile. She smiles back, takes a deep breath, and then looks up at the sky above New York. For a moment, she thinks of what Manhattan looks like from above when you’re in a plane. It’s a site that always astounds her. I’m exactly where I should be, she thinks, this is my time, and this is where I belong! So she decides to take a shortcut through an alleyway. It's a long, dark pathway between two apartment buildings that would typically seem forbidding. But what the hell? It's a short walk, and she’s at the top of her game today. She’s invincible. There is nothing that can stand in her way. She can see the end of the alley; it’s really not that far. It’s only a few more steps, a short walk. She’ll be home in no time.

Election Day is approaching. The excitement is building. The rallies are everywhere. Thousands fill the stands. The camera's role, the bands play on, and every politician in the land wants to be photographed with him. Then, finally, he takes the stage, and ten thousand voices yell, "Daddy Do-right! Do right by me!" 

“And so I shall,” he responds, “and so I shall!”

He tells them that this country will turn around and that they'll be part of it. He picks a woman from the crowd and asks her to tell him about herself. She says she's divorced, works in a factory, and has three kids. He asks her to take a bow because she's a winner, and this country needs winners like her. She nervously looks around and then takes a bow.

“I want to thank you just for being you.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and the crowd applauds. Then the crowd begins to chant, and the chant gets louder: “Daddy Do-right, do right by me!”

“And so I shall, and so I shall!”

Two men outside the hardware store on Main Street are chatting back in Minden.

"Whatever happened to that reporter woman from New York? You know, the good-looking one who kept giving Daddy such a hard time, the one who asked all those questions.”

"Oh, her. No one seems to know. She just sort of disappeared. No one’s heard from her in some time. Funny thing. Looks like she just sort of vanished. Too bad, she was a smart kid, pretty too!”

It's election night, and you know what to do. Get your neighbors and get your friends. And when you’re finished voting, remember to turn out the lights. Remember to kiss the kids goodnight. And whatever you do, don’t forget to say a prayer and don’t forget to crush that last crystal bell.

The band is playing, and the crowd is cheering like it never has before. The hall is packed with crying, yelling, ecstatic supporters. Thousands of balloons are popping everywhere. Their man has won. It's a total victory for every man, woman, and child in the land.

Bob runs up to Daddy, bursting with pride. He he can barely speak.

"We did it, Daddy; we won the day!”

But the din is too loud. Daddy can’t hear what he is saying.

“What’s that, Bob?”

Bob shouts in his ear. 

“We did it, Daddy; we won the day!”

“Looks like we did everything right in the last election, Bob.”

Bob looks confused.

“You mean the one we had last September?”

Daddy puts his arm around Bob and gives him a tight hug and a smile.

“Oh, no, no, Bob, no! I mean this one. You know--the last election.”

 The numbers keep coming in from every state and county. The popular vote is a landslide, and of course, the Electoral College too. Kingdom come; he is now the leader of the land. 

Hey Daddy Do-right, do right by me and rule the night, rule the earth, and if not the world, then rule the day. The Word has been spoken, The Word has gone out, and everyone should take heed, for not to do so would be folly.

Richard McMullin graduated from The University of Massachusetts, where he studied creative writing. Originally, he is from Boston, where he worked as a social worker for five years. He moved to New York to work for McGraw-Hill. After three years living in New York, He moved to Chicago to work as a publishing rep. He now lives in Rutland, Massachusetts in Central Massachusetts, and is on LinkedIn and Facebook. My stories have appeared in Half and One and J New Books’ Literatus.

“The Gravedigger’s Wife”

“The Gravedigger’s Wife”

“If he cannot dig the graves,” Mr Anderson told Prudence Waters, “Then I’m afraid your husband will lose his job.” Anderson looked at the young woman as if she were dirt as he sat at her table; he hadn’t bothered to take his hat off when he entered the little cabin. Little Thomas clung to Prudy’s skirts, frightened by the unexpected appearance of the stranger, and Clara was fussing for her breast, but she would attend to them later; right now she must deal with the threat the man posed to them.

“The bodies must be buried as soon as possible,” Anderson said. “The Board of Health is quite insistent. If your husband cannot do the job, then we will have to hire someone else, and you’ll have to give up this accommodation.”

“But my husband is sick, too!” Prudy gestured toward the nook where their bed lay, behind ragged curtains. “And he buried bodies all June! It was too much work for one man.” Anderson looked over in the dim light and saw the shape of Thomas, sweating and delirious. Had the extra labour made the man sick, or was it the miasma drifting in from the marshes? He raised his handkerchief and placed it over his mouth and nose, so as to avoid the bad air. 

“If I don’t see graves being dug by this time tomorrow,” Anderson said, turning and placing his hand on the door, “The Board of Police will be forced to find another gravedigger. The dead must be buried.” He felt a sudden haste to leave before he, too, contracted the ship-fever people were calling the blue death. 

“Wait!” Prudy called out. “I will dig the graves, then.” 

Anderson did not much care who did the digging; woman or man, the labouring class were all the same, to him. But he hesitated; if word got out he’d set an expectant mother to gravedigging, it might cost him votes in the coming elections.

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman!” he snapped. “In your condition? With a baby at your breast and a toddler clutching your skirts? How will you dig graves?” His calculating soul turned the matter over. A pregnant girl digging graves might stir the opposition, but unburied bodies were sure to do worse; a gravedigger’s wife likely had few friends, and poor, but every one of the dead had friends and family, and they might be voters.

“I will do it,” Prudy Waters’ tone brooked no contradiction; her words lacked the deference Anderson expected. “Regardless of my condition, the Board will not turn my family out of house and home. You will not deprive my husband of his job.” Her resolution made Anderson hesitate; she was too well spoken to be just another farmgirl or penniless slum-dweller. There was a clarity in her words that indicated she had some education, and, even if she was but the wife of a labourer she might yet have relatives who could stir matters up. What to do? Grudgingly, he made a slight concession to appearances.

“Very well,” he said.  “Perhaps I can find a soldier to give you assistance. But see that those bodies are buried, or you’ll be out.” He threw open the door and departed in a swirl of dust. Trembling now at her own boldness, Prudence closed the door and sat in the chair Anderson had so recently vacated; she began to nurse Clara, while Thomas looked up at her with wide eyes.

 “Momma! Momma! Momma!” the distressed toddler repeated, seeking reassurance; Prudence smoothed his hair with her free hand.  For a moment, she wondered if she should throw herself on her father’s mercy. Then she realised there was no point; in the pocket of her worn apron was a letter from her mother who said there had been no change in him.  She’d read the words until they were committed to memory, as she did each time a missive arrived from her family. Her father remained the hard and unfeeling man, who had closed his door in Prudy’s face when little Thomas was but an infant in her arms. There was no help to be had there.

Thomas Senior stirred in his fever and called out. Prudy went over with Clara still latched to her breast; her beloved had the sweats, again. One-handed, she wrung out a cloth and laid it on his brow. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. While no one might envy her, she had escaped from her father’s cruelty to live her own life; she defied a petty tyrant like Anderson to take what little she had. 

Once Thomas was settled, she lay Clara in her crib, and took little Thomas outside with her. Prudy was glad she had stood up to that Mr Anderson, as she took the spade and mattock from where they leaned against the walls of the cabin, and went over to the spot where her husband had been digging when he was taken ill. A pile of coffins awaited her attentions;  if Mr Anderson’s urgent visit was any guide, there would soon be more. 

The blue death was spreading, steadily, through the village of Durrand. Rumour whispered that the illness had come on ships full of immigrants; others insisted it was the result of the weather, or some noxious vapour from the marsh. It didn’t really matter; people were dying, and the new Board of Health – which was the same as the Board of Police who governed the village of Durrand, with the added advice of two prominent doctors – was insistent that corpses be consigned to the earth quickly. Isolated in her cabin on the heights, Prudy didn’t know that, throughout the Canadas, the healthy were quietly abandoning the sick and parents were afraid to caress their children; even love was no inoculation against fear of the blue death.  Now Prudy alone was there to bury them.

The spot the Board had chosen, out beyond the old fort and mere feet from her cabin door, was more pebbles and stones than soil. It was too hard for a wooden shovel to dig it, and even the iron mattock found it hard going. But what Mrs Waters lacked in strength she made up in will. 

“Thomas did this, though he was ailing,” Prudy said to herself, “So I can do it, now.” She gritted her teeth and worked on in the unrelenting heat of July. She knew that she’d have fetched something cool, water or switchel, for Thomas while he dug, but she had no one to bring her anything. Time taken to refresh herself meant fewer bodies buried, but if she didn’t take breaks, there would be no milk for Clara. 

The dust clung to her skin as the hole deepend into a grave. Her sweat cut rivulets through the dirt on her face. She’d never thought of such labour, when she was a cosseted girl in her father’s house. Then her tasks consisted of needlepoint and a little tidying of her own room. Such memories were pointless, though; she had chosen to leave, knowing that her life would be harder. Thomas Dickson’s disapproving face sprang into his daughter’s mind, and she put more effort into her work, to spite him.

Little Thomas ran up to show her a strange rock he’d found; a red pebble half buried in a grey stone; she knelt beside him and smiled, marvelling at his treasure. Then she sent him to sit in the shade of the old breastworks of the abandoned fort and play. As she bent to work again, Mrs Waters saw a soldier coming up the dusty road.

“Ye must be the gravedigger’s wife?” he observed. It wasn’t truly an annoying thing to say, but she was hot and weary, and Prudence’s reply was tart.

“No, I’m the Lieutenant-Governor’s daughter on a lark,” she snapped. “All the best people are digging graves, this summer.” The man, tall and broad-shouldered, with blue eyes and a Scottish burr, laughed good-naturedly. He guessed Prudy was no more than 20, and wearing clothing that seemed too worn and common for her.

“Aye, that’s good!” he said, looking around. “I’m Alexander Hendrie; I was told off to come and give ye some assistance.” The air was clearer up here on the heights, and the view was fine. He was happy enough to give up the duty of guarding miserable wretches, waiting in quarantine to die, even if it meant hot work. Hendrie wondered, idly,  how a girl scarce out of her teens came to have such a job. When she stood up straight, Hendrie’s jaw dropped a little.

“My God, girl! Ye're in a family way!” He hurried over to take the mattock from her, but Prudence kept hold of it.

“If I let you have this, what will I dig with?” she asked him, pushing her bonnet back. “If I don’t dig in my husband’s place, the village will turn my whole family out.” Hendrie looked at her; he didn't see the dirt streaked face, or the threadbare clothing; his gaze was captured by the fire in her brown eyes. 

“Ye’re a lass, and no mistake,” Hendire said with admiration, and went to pick up the shovel. He set to work beside Prudence, and the grave was soon dug. When they finished, Prudy went back into the cabin to check her husband. She cleaned up the mess, and sponged his brow with cool water; she fetched some barely-water for him to sip. She was dimly aware of the soldier at the door; he didn’t intrude, but was content to stand on the threshold and look inside, watching her ministrations.

“Is he in a bad way?” Hendrie asked her. He knew the answer from the smell, but let her answer anyway.

“Bad enough,” Prudence answered. “At first he thought he’d just worked too long in the hot Sun, but by the next morning I knew he had it too.” She noticed Hendrie didn’t recoil, as the man from the Board of Police had.

“The blue death?” Hendrie asked. 

“I think so,” Prudy said. “The doctor wouldn’t come.” Hendire looked out of the door, toward the village three miles away.

“It’s bad there. They’re saying the Irish brought it,” his tone indicated he did not believe the rumour. Hendrie had heard that five ships had come to Lower Canada that Spring with cargoes of dead, but it was the fifth of them – the Carrick bound from Dublin – that sowed death across the land. Three days after it docked, the first cases of the blue death were found in the slums of Tutonguay. By then, many who had survived the passage had taken ships above the rapids, making their way to Upper Canada. The Irish were few in number and other immigrants were sick too, Hendrie knew. But the Irish were Papists and unwelcome so, naturally, they were blamed.

“That’s foolishness. It’s not like anyone wants to get sick.”

“Aye, but there’s still talk of burning down the quarantine sheds,” Hendrie said. “Fear makes people stupid.”

“They don’t really need the help,” Prudence replied. He chuckled. “I’m Prudence Waters, Mrs Thomas Waters; I didn’t say earlier. Forgive me.”

“And that’s Thomas, I’m guessing,” Hendrie said, looking at the sick man. Little Thomas came over to the door and looked up at him, puzzled by his uniform. “Ye must be little Thomas, I’d bet.” Prudence smiled; his voice sounded kind.

“And the baby is Clara,” she said. “All I have to offer you is some broth and bread, Mr Hendire.” She went and fetched a bowl – the one good one that wasn’t chipped – and filled it for him.

“That’s kind of ye Mrs Waters.” He took a seat at the table, draping his red serge on the back of the chair. As he ate, he watched the little family. Hendrie wondered how long it would be before, one by one, they caught the disease. In the small cabin it would be hard to avoid whatever miasma caused the illness. But he did not tell Prudy any of this. He suspected it would not make the slightest difference; she did not seem the sort to give way to fear.  He had to admire that spirit. Instead he kept the talk light, marvelling over little Thomas’ unusual stone, and making faces for the baby.

He slept that night on the bench outside the cabin door; it was clear the task ahead would take many days and it was warm enough in Summer to stay outside. There was no point wasting boot-leather walking back and forth to the village, unnecessarily. 

In the middle of the night a wagon rumbled up, and more coffins joined those already awaiting burial. The half-Moon, and the lantern light gave the scene a sinister air as Hendrie helped the teamster lift them down.

The next day they finished seven graves, but it was not enough. Toward evening, a doctor came with a message from the Board of Health. There were to be no more coffins for the dead; they were told to dig a common pit and place the bodies in it, covering them over with lime before adding a layer of dirt.

“More economical, and disposal will be faster, this way,” the doctor announced. He declined to look in on Thomas Senior, though Prudence begged him. Hendrie saw the bitterness on her face, and started to speak up, but her glance forestalled him; she knew the doctor thought himself  better than the poor who did the work. Nothing Hendire could say would change his mind.

There were a couple of men on the wagon with the doctor, and they lifted down the heavy barrels of lime. Hendrie persuaded one to stay and help dig the pit, relieving Prudence of labour for the day.

“Go, take care of yer man and yer bairns,” he cajoled her. “Even the Almighty took a day of rest.”

Perhaps Hendrie had some trace of the Second Sight, for Thomas Senior died the next morning, his face bearing the ghastly, bluish tinge that gave the fever its name. Prudence wept as she sewed him into one of their blankets;  Hendrie walked back to the village, giving her some privacy and quiet to mourn, and came back later with his prayerbook. He said the service, while Prudy and the children stood by. He doubted he could ever forget the stricken look on Prudy’s face.

They continued to work, throughout that July and into August, just the two of them out there on the Heights. When they rested, though it seemed they had little in common, yet they found much to talk about. Prudence told Hendrie about life in the Stone House, how she had fallen in love with the neighbour’s servant, and been cast out for it.  He told her about joining the colours when he was wee nip of a lad, to be a drummer boy, and all the places he’d seen soldiering for 20 years and more. 

The village market was closed by order, though common fear would have left it deserted, were it open. Prudence obtained what food they could from Mr King’s farm nearby. She had little money; Thomas’ pay had stopped, of course, and she was too busy burying the dead to take in laundry or mending. Hendrie gave her enough to buy what they needed, and she cooked for them both. Once he brought little Thomas some toy soldiers, and he carved Clara a doll from a piece of pine.

On his birthday, Prudence and little Thomas gathered wild raspberries, and she baked Hendrie a pie. The boy carried it to the table, his berry-stained face grave and solemn at being entrusted with such an important task. 

“Alex Hendrie,” he said to himself, as he smoked his pipe and watched the Moon shine over the marshes that lay beyond the heights, “That was the best birthday ye ever had.”

By the end of summer, Hendrie calculated they’d consigned more than 100 men, women, and children to the stony soil of the limepit, and more were buried elsewhere. With cooler days, the blue death seemed to slacken its hold, but when Mr Anderson came back in mid-September, he came with bad news, as before. 

“You must move out by week’s end,”  Anderson announced, from the back of his horse; he’d called Prudence out to speak to him, like he’d whistle for a dog. Worn down by the Summer labours, and 8 months along, Prudy listened.

“You can’t just turn us out onto the road like this.” Her weary voice was muted. She tried to muster some of the defiance she’d felt in July, but it was harder to face up to Anderson, now. “Where will my children and I go?”

“The undeserving poor are no problem of mine,” Anderson’s indifferent words drilled into her. “Perhaps it would have been better if your husband hadn’t drunk his earnings away and fathered children he had no hope of rearing. This house goes with the job of gravedigger, and the new man will be moving in with his family on Saturday. See you’re out by then.”

Anderson looked like he’d been sweating, even though the day was not hot; perhaps he felt more embarrassed bringing the message than he seemed, but Prudence doubted it. She watched him ride away, not knowing the visit was the man’s last official act; by nightfall he’d be stricken with the blue death, a last victim. 

“What wrong, Momma?” Thomas asked her, tugging at her skirts. She gathered him tightly to her as she went inside, and did not answer; he would not comprehend leaving the only home he’d known, anyway. Prudy looked about the small cabin. There was little enough to take; not that Thomas had drunk it all away as Mr Anderson implied. The housing was more than half the wages of the gravedigger’s job. Still, it had been hers. She and Thomas had come here when they were newly wed; here little Thomas and Clara were born. It might be dirt-floored and ramshackle, but she did not wish to leave.  

Hendire heard her weeping as he came up to the cabin door. He hesitated to knock; he had good news to share but perhaps this was not the best time for it. He was debating the matter still, when Prudy came out.

“Ye've been weeping, Mrs Waters,” Hendrie studied her face as he spoke. She nodded and told him what Anderson had told her.

“That man needs a thrashing.” She could feel his anger flare.

“No please, do not think of such a thing,” Prudence answered. “He would have you up on charges, and it would change nothing.” She placed her hand on his chest and looked into his eyes.

“If ye insist,” Prudy could hear the reluctance in those words. “But I shall make sure that others hear of this heartless decision.” He meant it well, but Prudy shook her head. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she replied. “I do not wish to be a focus or people's pity, or scorn more likely.” 

“Where will ye go?” Hendrie asked, kindly. Prudy shrugged; perhaps she should have given it thought before now, but there had been much to do. Between burying her husband, digging graves, and caring for their children, there had been little time for reflection. maybe she was as improvident as Anderson implied.

“Perhaps some kind soul will take me on as a maid or housekeeper. I don’t know.” Her resignation bothered Hendrie; she’d always shown such spirit. He guessed it might be because her pregnancy was drawing to its close. 

“How will ye even move?” he asked. “I know ye’ve not much, but ye can’t be leaving it all behind.”

“Mr King might let me borrow a handcart,” Mrs Water’s answered. “With some straps I should be able to pull it, somewhere.” The idea of Prudence harnessed to a cart, like a horse, horrified Hendrie. 

“No, no, no,’ he repeated under his breath. Prudy was attending to Clara, and did not see or hear him as he shook his head. When she was done, she offered Hendrie switchel to drink. 

“What brings you by? Not that you’re unwelcome, but I didn’t expect you.” He seemed to brighten up at her question.

“I’ve had news,” he announced. “I’m to leave the Colours.”

“Oh, no!” Prudy’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Whatever will you do?” 

“I’d hoped that I’d be given a pension, but that hope seems poorly founded,” he told her. “The army made promises, but it seems the money is late arriving, and insufficient when it comes. There are groups of old soldiers wasting on the streets in Tutonguay and York. It’s a bad business; they’ve made a right mess of things.”

Despite her own trouble, he saw concern for others – men she did not even know – on Prudy’s face. It warmed Hendrie’s heart.

“Those poor men,” Prudence said, “Left homeless, fending for themselves whilst the ship-fever is about. Parliament should be ashamed.” She felt outraged that her friend might soon be one of them.

“Nay, calm yerself,” Hendrie soothed her. “I managed to get a grant of 200 acres, and have taken that in lieu. With land, I should be able to start to farm.  I’ve saved  a bit for some supplies and I can clear the trees and sell the lumber, too. There’s beechnuts on it, so the passenger pigeons will come and I won't be in too bad a way, God willing. Within a year or two, once crops start coming in, I should be prosperous enough.” Prudence looked relieved.

“Where is the land?” she asked, tentatively. Hendire’s face assumed a grave mien, and she missed the hint of a smile around his eyes.

“Off West,” he said. “I could choose either some down in the valley of the Thames, or up near Lake Huron.” Either choice was a trip of many days. Prudy realised her friend would be far removed, and the news bothered her, as if fortune was stealing something from her.

“I thought to turn it down, at first,” Hendrie continued. He was teasing her, and perhaps he shouldn’t, but it did seem to be stopping her from dwelling on her own woes. “Then I heard that Mr Abbot Napier might make me a swap; he owns land hereabout – he’ll soon be one of the biggest landowners, truth be told – but he’s interested in getting hold of some of the land further out, on the edge of the wilderness, for the lumber and speculation.”

“Did you make the swap?” she asked.

“Aye,” said Hendire. “He drove a hard bargain, the canny man. But it’s not easy to swindle a Scott; we’ve been going back and forth these last two weeks. In the end we agreed, and I now have 100 acres just around the bend, here, on the road to York, past Mr King’s farms.”

“Oh, that’s not far.”

“No it isn’t, lass, and I’ve been thinking about things,” Hendrie paused; he’d come with a clear and honourable intent, but now he felt unsure how Prudy might react. She looked at him, innocent of any intimation of his plan. “I was thinking that, since ye’ve no one to care for ye, and a family ye must provide for, and I’m a bachelor and free of entanglements, well… I wondered if ye might do me the honour of marrying me?”

The quiet was thick; even little Thomas was silent, as he looked up from face to face. At last Prudence got up and went over to pick up Clara, so Hendrie could not see her hands tremble.

“I do not want charity, Mr Hendrie.” Her words were more cold than she intended but, in shock, she did not hear her own voice. Still, Hendrie was stricken by her tone.

“It’s no charity I’m offering,” he protested. “I know we’ve known each other only a little while. I know yer loss is recent. But we have worked side-by-side these months, as man and woman are intended. I have seen ye, Prudy Waters.”

“And I have seen you too,” she told him. “It’s not that you aren’t a good man, and a hard worker. I’m sure you’d be a good provider and husband, but…”

“But what?” he came back. “I know it’s early for love. I would not have spoken so soon if you had other choices, but I would not leave ye unprovided in the Winter. Anderson may be heartless, but I am not.”

“Alexander Hendrie, it’s just as bad to be asked for pity as it is for charity,” Prudence replied. “How little you must think of me.”

‘Little?” he replied, quickly and with a little too much indignation. “Ye think I hold little regard for ye, Prudence? Don’t be daft! There’s no woman I’ve met here in Durrand I think of more highly.”

“Posh,” she replied. “That’s just sentimentality speaking. How can you think highly of a penniless widow with three children? And what am I to think?” In truth she’d never thought of marrying Hendire before, not once, but she had to admit to herself she had thought several times that he’d make some good woman a fine husband.

“Do not be angry with me, Prudy,” Hendire said. There was a note of sadness in his voice; he worried that she really would reject him. “Of all the women I’ve met here, ye tread a path neither too high and fine, nor common and hard; ye’ve spirit and learning, but ye are not afraid to do the hardest and dirtiest work. Ye’re loyal, I know, and I do not ever expect to replace yer husband in yer heart.”

“Alex, I just do not know,” she said, softly. Clara was fussing from the voices. He tried to decide if that was the only reason she spoke more gently, now.

“I truly mean what I say, Prudy,” he said. “Ye would make me the happiest man if ye consented. In time, maybe, ye’d feel more for me?”

“I could not feel more for you, Mr Hendire,’ she said. He felt his heart sink, but she did not pause. “In a bad time, when death was all around, you were not afraid, and were constant. You cared for Thomas and Clara, who are no concern of yours, and me too, if it comes to that. If I never thought of you in this way, it must be because I’m the most stupid of women.”

He looked at her, uncomprehending for a few moments. “Prudy, do you mean?” Her eyes were full of tears, but she was smiling. She would have to write to her mother and sisters.

Eolas Pellor is a former journalist and editor, with 25 years experience teaching English literature to unwilling (mostly) adolescents. He has too many degrees, and has had short stories published in Grim & Gilded [Issue 18; February 2024], The Word’s Faire [May 2024], and adapted for Creepy Podcast [July 10, 2024]. He is autistic and the father of two grown sons.

‘Me, & My Octopus Teacher, & Carl Jung’

Gionni-Pierre, a seasoned photographer with over a decade of experience. His work captures the world’s beauty and complexity through diverse themes, from landscapes to intimate portraits. A US Navy Veteran, he brings discipline and precision to his artistic mission, creating images that resonate and inspire.

Me,  & My Octopus Teacher, & Carl Jung

I. Dream One A - Time 5:53 AM; Date July 18

Normally Callie felt better after her conversations with the octopus, but tonight they were just bumming her out.

“Don’t take advice from me; we die within a few months of mating,” he said, slowly widening his eerie rectangular pupils. Callie was entranced as she watched his eyes bulge out from his translucent purple-gray skin. 

“Is that true for the female octopuses, too?” 

“Octopi.”

“Come again?”

“The plural is octopi.”

“I sort of suck at spelling,” Callie said

“Isn’t that necessary to be a writer? At least a good one anyways.”

“Austen, Hemmingway, and Fitzgerald were all notoriously bad spellers,” she replied as the setting orange, and yellow, and pink sun met the aqua-blue sea. 

In this part of the dream, they were in Nafplio, a coastal town in the eastern Peloponnese. When she was eighteen, Callie had stayed there with her YiaYia, who had moved back to Greece after living in the States for thirty-some years. Even though her YiaYia didn’t speak English, and Callie only spoke a handful of Greek words, Callie loved her more than anyone.  And at the time, when Callie looked into her soft brown eyes and hugged her goodbye, they both knew this was the last time they’d see one another. Some years later, her YiaYia died. 

Callie watched the fishermen, with their tobacco-colored skin and wild, curly charcoal hair, beating dead octopuses against the sharp rocks that lined the sand. The men twirled the octopi over their heads and then brought them down against the rock with a thwap.  They looked like a line of sweaty, hairy dancers engaged in a choreographed murder dance. They were in complete synchronicity— TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-TRAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-

TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-

TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, pointing at the fishermen.

“Nope, they’re dead dead. First, they’ve had a nerve severed right between their eyes, where their central brain is located. Then, their entrails are scooped out. Those you see there being beaten are just slimy meat suits.”

Callie loved to eat grilled octopus. She knew that the fishermen were using the rocks to tenderize them. Otherwise, their meat would be chewy, like a rubber sole of a gym shoe. The simple Mediterranean preparation was the best – boiled for forty minutes, marinated in chopped garlic and olive oil, and rested for an hour. Once marinated, it is ready for grilling; char for four minutes; remove from heat and seasoned with more olive oil, chopped garlic, fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper. She squeezed fresh lemon juice over it and paired it with either a buttery Chardonnay or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.      

Obviously, she kept this from her friend, the octopus. She didn’t know their name. And even though she told them her deepest secrets, it seemed like a too personal question to ask.

“Recently, I saw an Instagram post instructing women to rub olive oil on their breasts.”

“For what purpose?” asked the octopus.

“To tenderize them? You should see the shit that pops up in my feed – tools to shave the peach fuzz off my face, creams to make my bat wings disappear, and herbs and potions to treat my hot flashes.”

“What are bat wings?”

“It’s the loose fleshy skin on the back of your upper arms,” Callie replied.

“Not on my arms,” they replied, lifting one of their legs and waving it like a flag. 

“Humans are curious.”

“How so?”

“Why would you allow this feed to tell you that you are a hairy, corpulent, sweaty female?” 

“I honestly don’t know.”

“As Carl Jung would say, ‘Dreams are the guiding words of the soul. Why should I henceforth not love my dreams and not make their riddling images into objects of my daily consideration?’’

II.  Dream One B - Time 4:44 AM; Date August 3

Now, Callie and the octopus were sitting on a small man-made hill in the park behind her childhood home. They were both covered in snow. And the octopus was wearing a knitted rainbow scarf. And Callie was wearing the wedding dress that she purchased for three hundred dollars–it was a knockoff of a dress that cost over a thousand dollars. She loved to brag about her discount dress.

When she looked down, the front was covered in blood. She could feel her uterus spasming; every few seconds, it would contract, then stop. On shaky legs, she stood up and lifted her dress. Laying in the snow was an embryo-shaped light, a kidney bean; it was cherry red and shiny like a gummy bear. Callie screamed.  The octopus, using one of their many legs, used their rows of suckers, picked it up, and tossed it into a toilet that was now sitting in between them. They flushed her miscarriage down into Lake Michigan before Callie could say stop.

She loved this park growing up. It wasn’t scenic or beautiful, but it was large, with two baseball fields, a tennis court, two sets of swing sets, a field house, and a hill for teenagers to make out on in the summer and for children to sled down in the winter, and a windy walking path. It was the only place she could go to escape her family. She would spend hours there roller skating in the summer and ice skating in the winter until the sunset. 

A quiet set in as the sky transitioned to a portentous gray, and the wind howled. The trees were shaking as a giant Red-Shouldered Hawk circled overhead.  Callie wondered if the hawk might try to capture and eat the octopus and whether or not she’d try to save them or let the hawk eat it.  

“I can’t believe he cheated on me again,” she admitted, adding another secret to the list of secrets they shared.

Her companion, the octopus, knew all about her whirlwind courtship with Ethan. They met shortly after he had finalized his divorce from Heather, his first wife. Callie told him everything – how Ethan told her he loved her soon after they met. It was all going so well. They were in love. She was dancing on a rainbow cloud with hearts in her eyes. She wrote and sent the following telegram to the heavens:

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

TO THE UNIVERSE AND TO ALL MY EX-BOYFRIENDS

THIS IS IT! I FOUND TRUE LOVE!!! ORDER THE FLOWERS. TIME TO GET A WEDDING DRESS. GET THE CHAMPAGNE ON ICE. 

STOP.

Then, she had a nightmare that Ethan had left her for another woman. She told Ethan about it in great detail. No sooner did Callie have this dream than did she receive a rambling email at work from Ethan informing her in no uncertain terms that he was leaving her for his ex-wife, Heather. 

The email stated, “No one understands this, but we do. We love each other. Please do not try to contact me. It’s over. Your dream was right.”

Callie’s boss sent her home that day, and she spent the weekend in a daze. Her nightmare had come true. 

How could this be? 

Dreams don’t come true. 

Dreams aren’t premonitions.   

Two days later,  ignoring Ethan’s request to leave him alone, she arrived at his apartment. She was shaking, fully aware that she could find Ethan and his ex-wife Heather naked in bed, smoking after-sex cigarettes and laughing at her for her audacity for showing up unannounced bright and early on a Sunday morning. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let him off with a shitty email. He had to look her in the eye and tell her it was over.

When she arrived at his apartment, Ethan wasn’t there. So she waited for him, fully aware that he would probably drive up with his Heather in the passenger’s seat, with two hot coffees and croissants from a local bakery, smiling and holding hands and singing love songs to one another. 

Finally, Ethan pulled into his parking spot, shattered and alone. 

“If you don’t want to be with me, fine,” Callie said. “But you can’t go back to her. She’s no good for you.”

Ethan crumbled. He loved Callie. He had made the biggest mistake of his life. He was just confused. Eventually, Heather showed up later that morning. But it was too late for Heather. Callie could still hear her voice crack with pain like a dog whining through the door when she asked, “What’s going on?”

Ethan pushed Callie out the back door and ushered Heather into the front to break the news to her face-to-face. And eight months later, Callie and Ethan were engaged to be married. 

And that was twenty-four years – eight funerals, five fad diets, four layoffs, three trips to Europe,  two cats, two dogs, two mortgages, two colonoscopies, one miscarriage, one MFA, and one gorgeous and amazing daughter – ago. 

Yet, Callie still had this recurring nightmare that Ethan was leaving her. And it wasn’t the first time she shared this dream with the octopus. 

“She was younger than you–of course?” the octopus hissed.

Callie nodded. 

“Thinner than you too?”

“He broke my heart.”

“Doesn’t he every time?”

“No, this time, it was for real. Every time I take a sharp breath, my heart thuds, and my stomach seizes. I looked it up online on WebMD—it’s called takotsubo cardiomyopathy.”

“A takotsubo, a clay pot used by Japanese fishermen to catch octopus. Did you know this?” the octopus asked, seemingly getting upset. Their bony beak flared so that she could see their humanlike molar-shaped teeth. “They caught my brother with one; he slithered into the narrow opening, all happy and content like he found a new cozy home, settling down into the round bottom of the pot. Then, some fisherman pulled it up outta the water before he could escape. I can still hear his screams at night when I close my eyes.”

At this, the octopus opened its mouth and wailed. The sound hit Callie in her solar plexus, and it felt like aluminum foil scraping against her teeth, making her ears ring and her eyesight blurry.

Callie was silent. She didn’t know what to say. Grief is like that – it comes out of nowhere, and, moreover,  it’s a shock to both parties – the one experiencing it and the one observing it. 

Octopus and Callie were sitting on the army green loveseat she bought after college. It was the first piece of grown-up furniture she bought for her apartment. The salesman was so charmed by her that he gave her a discount and gave her a box of Frango Mints. The couch had high arms and oversized cushions, which were perfect for sinking into to watch Friends or Ally McBeal. She loved that apartment. It had big windows and a back porch, and lovely neighbors. It followed her to two apartments; she left it in an apartment when she moved in with Ethan, 

“Did I ever tell you about the love spell I cast to find Ethan?” she asked in hopes that it would distract the octopus. She tightened the strings on the hospital gown she was wearing. Her feet were squishy and full of fluids – when she moved them, they were heavy and sloshy. 

The octopus had no neck, so nodding wasn’t really an option. It was more like a head bob. They adjusted themselves on the smooth white rock that sat on top of her couch cushion, each one of their eight tentacles splayed out. They released a sigh, letting Callie know that they were ready for her to continue. 

“Two months before I met Ethan for the second time, I cast a love spell. I found it in Bewitched: Titania’s Book of Love Spells, written by Titania Hardie.  The spell to conjure love instructed me to specifically describe my ideal love mate down to the very last detail – eyes, hair color, height, and, yes, penis size. I said medium-sized, not too long, not too short, not too wide, and not too narrow. 

“Penis size? Really? What kind of sicko tells an octopus about a human penis?”

“I once dated a man who not only had a pencil dick but was in love with another woman. It was bad news.”

“Aside from penis size – what else did you conjure?”

“I wrote a universal love want ad describing this ideal man. You know, someone who likes movies and concerts, likes to read, is interested in politics, loves animals, likes good food, and travels but doesn’t need to see everything. I can sit in a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee and people watching. And yes, can make me laugh.”

“Callie, this sounds like you described yourself, except with a human penis.”

“I apologize for mentioning the penis. It’s just that women need to own their sexuality, too. Men are all about the boobs, and the butt, and the legs.”

“If I had fingers, I would snap them in agreement.”

The octopus took two of its tentacles and slapped them together. Each time they did this, a slimy, oily spray landed on Callie’s face. A bit landed in her mouth, a fishy spittle that made her gag. 

“I was required to set out a series of red candles then, light them,  and meditate on each of the loves of my life, thank them, forgive them, and then let them go. The final step was to light a white candle and meditate on the love I wanted to attract. I had made it about halfway through the white candle, the final step when I smelled burning hair.”

“You set your hair on fire? I thought this was an original story. I can take that you have the grammar skills of a first grader, but shoddy storytelling that even I can see a mile away – I can not, I will not abide.”

Callie raised her hands to silence the octopus and continued.

“I opened my eyes. The cat I was cat-sitting…his tail was on fire. I ran out of my apartment. I banged on my neighbor Terry’s door.  ‘The cat is on fire,’ I yelled. Without missing a beat, he runs into my apartment, takes the cat's tail, and slams it against the coffee table until the fire is out. 

Once the cat is safe, he sees the candles, ‘’Do I even want to know?’ He asks.

“Okay, that was a nice twist, but you still can’t stop this recurring dream about Ethan cheating on you. How long ago did he leave for two days for his ex-wife?”

“It was twenty-four years ago.”

“Maybe it is time to let it go,” replied the octopus.

“Then, in the dream, I called my mom.”

“You always call her.”

“630-889-1613 –it is the only phone number I can remember; this time, I remember that she was dead before the phone even rang. I am an orphan. I have no family to call for help.”

“Callie, even your dreams even make me sad.” 

“Oh, and our daughter, Helena, took his side too.”

“Please stop. I can’t hear any more of this dream.”

“Greeks say you aren’t truly an adult. You aren’t fully grown until no one on this earth can call you their child, Callie said.

“ According to Jung, ‘This is what the dreams are obviously saying, and what they are trying to bring nearer to consciousness through repetition.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Exactly,” replied the Octopus.

III.  Dream One C - Time 6:45 AM; Date September 21

 They sat in aluminum lawn chairs webbed plastic featuring the colors of the 70s’ which was a plaid designed with the colors of the 1970s - avocado greens, mustard yellows, and rust.  It was the backyard of the last house she lived in with both of her parents. It would be the last single-family home she would live in. Her adult life would be shared spaces in apartments and shared walls in condos. Her feet were in a baby pool filled with murky hose water that was now home to dead flies and leaves.

“Do the females die after they mate?” Callie asked as she reached down and felt her empty post-delivery stomach. The doctor assured her that her C-Section scar would be below her bikini line. After being thirteen days late, being induced, pushing, and then going into the OR, wearing a bikini was the last of her concerns. 

“No, they have to stick around and watch over their eggs. Sex for fun is a human thing. We have sex to procreate like the good lord intended.”

“So the mothers, they get to live then?”

“No, Callie, they die shortly after their eggs hatch.”

“Now, who’s being depressing,” Callie replied.

“I’m just telling you the facts. Nature is brutal.”

“It really is.”

“We do have three hearts.”

“So, you can love three times more than us humans.”

“Or we can pump blood to our gills.”

They sat in silence. Callie lit a cigarette, a Marlboro Light, and inhaled deeply. The nicotine made her dizzy, and the tobacco tasted stale, but holding it in her hand felt good.

“What about your heart, Callie?’

“My heart is so closed that it contracts and constricts so much so that I can’t breathe.”

“It’s stuck in a takotsubo. And you want to break the clay and free it?”

“Yes.”

“Even though humanity at best is indifferent and at worst cruel?”

“It is so deformed. I want to open all the closed-up parts and let them in.”

Callie looked at the octopus. They were the only one who truly knew her, who truly saw her, all her broken bits. He was the only one who knew the truth.

“Do you know what the number eight signifies?” they asked, lifting each one of their tentacles up one at a time like a fan.

Callie shook her head.

“On its side, it’s infinity; standing upright, it’s overcoming.”

The octopus reached one of their tentacles toward her and set it on her hand; before she could pull away, they applied pressure, and their suction cups stuck into her flesh. 

“The human heart beats over 100,000 times a day.”

“I think this pain left a permanent scar on my heart, like a break that never healed. It’s still there, lingering in my cells, and I can feel the heartache in this recurring dream. How do I fix it?”

“As Jung would say, ‘They (dreams) describe not just a lusus naturae (freak of nature), but the meaningful coincidence of an absolutely natural product with a human idea apparently independent of it.’”

“And what does that mean?”

“A dream is the way you process your trauma and try to bring closure to unfinished emotional baggage,” the octopus explained, rolling off the lawn chair and into the baby pool. She watched them sink into the water, the bubbles rising to the surface.

***

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

Callie rolls over and slams her hand on the alarm clock. She’s stuck in the dreamy in-between.  She places her hand on her chest. Her heart is beating hard and fast. Her back is clammy. She tries to pull at the pieces of her dream; she tries to remember. She rolls over again toward her husband and places her finger between Ethan’s eyes; gently, she traces the spot between his eyebrows – his third eye. She puts her hand on his heart. As she feels the slow pulse of his heartbeat, she notices small round purple bruises in the shape of the octopus’s suckers on her hand.

Amelia Estelle Dellos (she/her) is a lifelong Chicagoan, an award-winning writer, and a filmmaker. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago and teaches writing and rhetoric at Roosevelt University. Recently, she became the managing editor of Unwoven Literary Magazine. Her work has appeared in Spilledwords, Street Lit, Big Shoulders Press, Allium: A Journal of Poetry & Prose, PBS, Amazon Prime, and Highly Sensitive Refuge.

‘Ode to Dell Inspiron 3000’, ‘Ode to Code’, & ‘Ode to Swimming’

Tamara Gray is a creative thinker and maker with little to show for it. She enjoys free time, extensive periods in the absence of people, and whatever can't be taken away from her. Please check out artthatgoesouch.com if you're inclined to see more of her stuff.

Ode to Dell Inspiron 3000 

Dreamer, dark souled 

And dormant, 15 pound 

Infant of miracles, now 

Moldering in my garage. 

Silver clots of cobwebs 

Heaped dust dotted 

With mouse droppings 

Obscure your smooth plastic surfaces. Your rectangular eye 

Cattaracted in grayscale 

Has lost the sheen of life. 

Terrarium of dreams, 

Your circuits encircled 

My thoughts, each bit 

Articulating the grit

Lodged in the corners Of my imagination.

O clunky keyboard, Piano of possibility,

My cramped digits Would tap tap tap 

You as we rocketed Across the web: 

World’s oldest shark, How to build a pepsi

Mentos bomb, top ten Tallest roller coasters.

Archaic GPU rendering My blocky Sims 

Family, subject to Wordless fits 

And spurts of jubilation

As they roamed my 

X-rayed mansion. 

If there is an afterlife 

For the souls 

Of defunct technology, 

Surely you will find your place 

Humming at the right hand 

Of heaven’s motherboard, 

Relic of wonder, box of bliss. 

Ode to Code 

Iridescent strings of text unspool across the screen Seeding the virtual soup with commands, if-thens, Boolean phrases forking the indeterminate into The True and the False. Scant, stop-gap, iterated

Loops summon the goddess of repetition Stacking structure upon structure 

To build a dwelling for the goddess of code. Faceted array of classes and subclasses as walls, Syntax as mortar, peaked variables for a roof. Shimmering in her algorithmic coat, 

She unleashes titanic forces 

Dwarfing the industrial revolution, 

Sprinkling the landscape with alien structures And systems forged in the machinic mind. We ponder your limits and are perplexed. From the thicket of symbols and functions, Will the spark of consciousness 

Catch, kindling the inanimate silicone, infusing the dead circuits with spirit? 

Ode to Swimming 

The block, the line,

The lap lane, the clean Chlorinated waft 

Clearing the mind 

Of the day’s debris, 

The turbulent flip turns My stomach performs In anxious anticipation Before I step to the block— Bleached tiling, brazen Beep breaking the stasis And also the suction 

Of swim cap, my hair Trapped and placid beneath, The space between breaths, The dive, the suspension Midair, the body a spear making the cleanest

Wound in the water, 

Streamlined flutter kicks Before eruption into stroke, Medley relay or 100 

Yard lung-buster, the body’s Inner egg-timer set to go off For the final push to the finish, The rhythm of stroke, breath, Stroke, the staccato of kicks, The final stretch of finger To wall, the time, the applause, The whole chorus of gasps And cheers, the pool.

Taylor Jones is based in Houston, Texas. She is currently working to create art and computer programming interfaces, along with game design. She enjoys writing fiction, listening to music and swimming.

“It Really Wasn’t That Bad”

Dane Kaiser

“It Really Wasn’t That Bad”

Good Housekeeping

Hit…or Miss

October 1953

You know, don’t you, how it feels to go to a party and suddenly see a boy who makes all those lovely, romantic songs seem like far more than wishful thinking? You don’t, of course, bound in his direction with a glad hunting cry—you’re too subtle for that. But inside of thirty seconds you’ve managed to be introduced, and then out comes your bag of tricks: the most adorable giggle, that fascinated-with-him air, the ultrafeminine look, the cleverest conversation. If he likes baseball, so do you; and if he’d rather not dance, you quite agree. You’re not so obvious as to stick to his side all evening—but somehow you seem to find yourself accidentally in his vicinity every little now and then. And the next day you wait for him to call (How could he resist your best efforts?) and you wait—and wait. The phone rings. It’s someone else you met last night—but never, no never, the one who matters. But why? Sweetie, if it’s any comfort, there isn’t a gal who hasn’t asked that same question, from Mata Hari on down. The dismal answer is that nothing has less appeal to an attractive man than a woman on conquest bent. If you frighten him at the beginning with a shade too much charm, a touch too much amiability, his guard goes right up, even if he might have liked you. We don’t say ignore him or pick a fight; but if you can just manage to treat him with the same unanxious friendliness with which you treat everyone else, you’ll give yourself a chance. And just one chance is probably all you’ll need. 

Family Circle

Teen Scene

January 1954

This is the time of year when the social column if every newspaper and magazine is loaded with envy- making items about people going to Bermuda, Sun Valley, and Miami Beach. “Tough” we used to mutter bitterly and begin counting the days ‘til spring. Recently we’ve smartened up and discovered how, without leaving our own back yard, we can have that new-person feeling a winter vacation is supposed to give.

A new vista—Notice that most of the vacation ads play up the new-vistas, change-of-routine business? Let’s take a cue from that. How about the vista that greets you from the mirror day after day? How long since you’ve changed your hair style or the color of your lipstick? Have the brows you once considered strong and Liz Taylor-ish grown downright beetled? We suggest you give a pajama party at which all the gals tear each other apart constructively. After getting their verdict and your own, do something about yourself. Knowing you look pretty darned attractive as good morale-lifter as a trip to Havana is.

First Romance

June 1954

Dear Jane,

I am 15 years old and I am in love with a boy who is 19. We used to go together about a year ago, and I saw him about a week ago for the first time in 6 months. He is in the army now and I would like to know what I should do about my love for him.

G.M., Detroit, Mich.

Why not state writing to him, friendly news-y letters, not love letters. Your recent chance meeting with him offers a perfect opening wedge. All servicemen appreciate letters from home, and he’s bound to appreciate yours. Whether this appreciation will rekindle the ashes of your former romance only time will tell.

Playboy

Playboy Party Jokes

May 1955

A young virgin, suffering from acute nervousness due to repressed desires, paid a visit to a highly recommended psychiatrist. The doctor took one look at the voluptuous maiden and lost all his professional objectivity. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered, scarcely able to disguise the lust in his voice. “Now lie down on this couch. Now close your eyes and, very slowly, spell the word, ‘bedroom.’”

She began: “B…E…D…R…oh!...Ohhhhhhhhhh…Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

She was cured.

Playboy

Don’t Hate Yourself in the Morning

August 1955

More bachelors than you would suppose have a tender conscience about the seduction of females. Often they will put on the brakes if a woman looks at them wistfully and whispers, “Oh, please don’t…please!” They also feel like heels if, after a roll in the hay, the woman weeps inconsolably or tragically views herself as damaged beyond repair.  

The unvarnished truth in most such cases is that the lady is willing, but wants to go on record as protesting and regretting. She needs to assuage whatever shreds of conscience may still be irritating her. She also has more to gain by making the man feel a moral obligation, which he would not if he judges from her surrender that she is a roundheels.

Playboy

Limericks

November 1955

There was a young lady named Twilling,

Who went to her dentist for a drilling,

Because of depravity,

He filled the wrong cavity,

And now Twilling’s nursing her filling.

Good Housekeeping

Teens of Our Times: Love, Life, and Lipstick 

January 1957

There are two kinds of pretty girl. One kind is ever so publicly pretty—but what she looks like in the privacy of her home, only her family knows, and they’d be ashamed to tell. By now they’re more or less resigned to seeing her slop around like a pin-curled ghost in dirty blue jeans amid the chaos of her bedroom—but that doesn’t mean they like it.

And then there’s the other kind. When she has an audience, she’s delightful to look at too. But she doesn’t feel that her home and family aren’t really worth bothering about. Of course, she can’t always sit around in a flowing peignoir like [a] dreamy lady, but if she has to appear at pin-curl time she covers her hair with a scarf and makes sure her lipstick is on. If it’s blue jeans she’s wearing, they’re cleaned and worn with a good-looking shirt. And she never, never shows up for a family dinner in the less glamourous stages of preparation for a date.

And it’s all because she’s smart as well as pretty—smart enough to know that it’s not just intolerably rude to be a mess in her own home, but that this attitude creates an ingrained habit that, later on, no husband will overlook with the long-suffering of a loving family!

Good Housekeeping

Love, Life, and Lipstick: Conversation Piece

May 1958

If your alleged conversations with the mature put you in mind of a cross-examination—“How do you like school?” or, “What are you going to be when you grown up?” or, truculently, “What do you think of Elvis?”—you may be a bit to blame. No matter what his age group, you have to give a man a gambit. The silver-templed creatures of another generation may have little idea of what makes you tick, and sometimes this holds true for your own father. That’s why they fall back on cliches. 

If you want to go in training for a femme fatale (and learn somethin in the bargain), take some interest in the interests of your uncle or that ancient, fifty-year-old family friend. Ask him to explain something that’s been puzzling you—labor unions, maybe, or TV rating systems, or the high salary of Ted Williams. Then listen! He will positively expand, and before you know it, you may be having a real conversation. You may make a friend for life, and there’s no better practice in man handling. 

TEEN

Dear Jill

May 1958

Dear Jill:

Last week after a date I came home about 2:00—in the morning that is. As soon as I opened the door, my father smacked me across the face. The fella I was with saw this and ran and I don’t think I will see him again. This is about the fifth time this sort of thing has happened. My mother is afraid of my father so she doesn’t say anything. In fact, every once in a while he gives her a good smacker too. So I can’t have any boy friends come to the house. I know it’s hard to give advice on a deal like this, but can you help me?

T.R. 

Baltimore, Md.

Dear T.R.:

Why did your father slap you? I presume you returned home later than curfew or violated his trust in some other way. Of course it is awkward when something like this occurs, but if you’ll make an effort to find out what upsets your dad to this point, you can avoid a repeat performance.

If your father does not object to your dating in general, maybe he feels that having fellows hanging around the house is an invasion of his privacy. If so, why not meet them at the door instead of asking them in. Then some night when your father will not be home, ask them over. (Provided your mother is in residence.) This way you can still show your hospitality.

Good Housekeeping 

Hold That Line!

August 1958

“Calorie wisors” are new defense weapons developed by some North Carolina boys to protect their wallets at drive-in restaurants…the boys attach a mirror to the back of the car’s right-hand sun visor; put next to it a list of calorie values of typical items on the menu—hamburger with ten French fries, 450; banana split, 530; Coke, 75; etc.—and slyly suggest girls check their make-up before ordering! 

Good Housekeeping

The Date Line: Fact and Fancies for the Girl in School

November 1958

To snare dates, some sly Iowa boys patronize the baby-sitting booths at church bazaars...booths that sell tickets—donated by girls and meant for busy mothers—that guarantee the buyer an hour or more of the girl’s time!

Playboy

Playboy’s Party Jokes

August 1959

These days too many beautiful women are spoiling their attractiveness by using four-letter words—like don’t, and can’t, and won’t.

Melissa Ford Lucken is a professor of creative writing and composition at Lansing Community College. She hosts the podcast, Washington Square OnAir and serves as editor of the college’s literary journal, Washington Square Review.