Waiting to Be Thin

By Seenat Thongdee

In my closet, there are three stacks of jeans. One stack for the “fit now” jeans. One for the “will fit if I lose ten pounds” jeans. And the last category—which, when I lay eyes upon it, sets my head into many fantastical journeys—is the “may someday fit after being stranded on an island for six months with only half a carrot and water each day” jeans.

I have struggled with my weight all my life. My mother breast fed me until I was four. Even as I drank my mother’s milk, I still liked to eat the powdered milk by the spoonful. By five years old, my relatives were already calling me “Baby Pig.” But at that age, it was endearing. They would squeeze my chubby cheeks and exclaim, “How precious!”, and afterward put little treats in my greedy palms. Childhood was the happiest period of my life. I was surrounded by the warmth of my family and relatives, and the goodness of sweets.

Then when I turned seven, my mother gave birth to my sister. Nothing really changed. I still had all the sweets I wanted, maybe even more than before. I ate while my parents tended to my sister. For many months, I thought she was the ugliest little thing—all red and wrinkly. But then she got better looking as she got bigger. I liked playing with her. I would tie her soft hair in little rubber bands of different colors and wrap her up in my mother’s colorful scarves. One day I gave her a piece of candy and she began choking. My parents said I shouldn’t give her sweets and told me to stay away from her from that day on. I was not to be alone in a room with her.

I am thirty-three now, and I never did lose that baby fat that my mother said I would lose. Instead, I’ve gained adult fat on top of my baby fat. And my sister’s wedding is in three months. There is still enough time left. I have my goals all written out week by week. Total weight loss desired is 30 pounds, which isn’t so bad. I’ve read somewhere that the first 5 to 10 pounds are water weight anyway. That leaves only 20 actual pounds that I need to lose. And then there’s SPANX, which gives the appearance of being 5 to 10 pounds slimmer. So the absolute number of pounds required to shed is 10.

It’s not that my sister and I are close. She only asked me to be her bridesmaid out of obligation. “It’s the aesthetic quality of things, you know. They say it’s an important part of weddings,” she told me. “If you could try to lose just a little. Not a lot. Just a little. All the other girls are the same size. It just wouldn’t look right. You’re not upset, are you?” What? Of course not. “I knew you’d understand.” All I understood was that I wanted to sucker-punch her. She had gone ahead and purchased a dress for me several sizes smaller. “This is my gift to you, since we’re sisters. The other girls bought their own dresses. This can serve as your motivator. Take it with you so you can try it on each day.” Thanks.

It’s nobody’s fault, really. Our parents had us seven years apart. We were never close. I was too old to hang out with her and her friends. It wasn’t a problem. I had friends of my own. Well, that was the case until I moved a couple of years ago for work. I have few regrets about moving. My new place is only about two hours away, but these days, if you’re not within a ten minute drive, it’s hard to make time to see anyone. Besides, all of my friends have married and started families of their own.

My job is great, for the most part. Well, it’s okay, anyway. But I’ve already made a really good friend at work. Matt, who is my gay work husband. Though I’m not one hundred percent sure that he’s gay. He has never said so. But I’ve had my share of coming out parties for guys I’ve dated, so I’m pretty sure Matt is.

“Thirty pounds. That’s my goal,” I told Matt.

“Are you crazy? And how long do you have to lose this?”

“Three months.”

“That’s not a lot of time. You’d have to not eat anything.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? She bought the goddamn dress already.”

“Make your dog wear it down the aisle.”

“JoJo? Please. It’s not his color. Besides, you’ve seen him. I would have an easier time getting into the dress than he would. He’s as big as a house and can barely walk. His stomach hangs to the floor.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I’m going to join the gym here at work. That way, I can go right after work. No excuses.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I was determined.

Day 1: Good Intentions, Results Postponed

I had every intention of going down to sign up for the gym membership, but was caught up with work. Things have been so busy lately. It’s been difficult trying to find time for anything else. But I had a light lunch today. I walked by the pizza, merely inhaled, then walked straight to the salad bar. The pizza smelled delicious. Special today was the meat lover: pepperoni, ham, sausage, and bacon. One of my favorites. My stomach was growling.

After lunch, I had a difficult time focusing in meetings. Valerie, my boss, said something and everyone laughed. I didn’t hear. It felt like a marathon runner was circling in my belly. I thought about what I would have for dinner. Maybe just carrots.

At dinner, I had some carrots dipped in ranch dressing, which weren’t all that delicious. But they are known as a negative-calorie food, meaning that it takes more calories to digest than the food contains. I chewed extra hard. Any movement utilizes energy. I ate about half a bag of baby carrots and figured that the negative calories would be more than enough to have a spoonful of Moose Track flavored ice cream. I ate one spoonful, but that scoop didn’t have any peanut butter cups in it, so I took some more, careful to get some peanut butter cups. The saltiness of peanut butter and the sweetness of the chocolate and ice cream were so good together. It was barely a spoonful.

Day 2: The Pang of a Mere Spoonful

I thought I would die last night. My stomach was in pain from the hunger, which woke me up several times during the night. I resisted the urge to raid the fridge. For breakfast, I made myself two eggs, over easy, with light sprinkles of sea salt and pepper. Finished with a glass of orange juice. Vitamin C is supposed to help break down the proteins.

I decided on a slice of pepperoni pizza for lunch. The slices are usually very large, so I could have half for lunch and half for dinner. But when I went to pay, I couldn’t resist also getting the cookie with M&Ms placed next to the cash register.

Work was so busy that I didn’t even realize I had eaten the entire slice of pizza and the cookie as well. But I am definitely going to sign up for the gym right after work. Matt walked by and saw the pizza plate and cookie wrapper and said, “You know, they say that nothing tastes as good as thin feels.” Shut up! The bastard. Knew he was kidding though. But it’s true.

I am now a member at the gym. I asked how soon I could start working out, and Jenna, the staff and trainer, said “immediately.” Immediately? “Immediately. The membership includes all the group classes as well. And if you’d like, you can also sign up for a personal trainer, for an additional charge.” Oh, that’s great. Thanks. I wished I’d had my gym clothes. I’d thought it was going to take a few days to process the membership.

Dinner was not so bad. I decided to skip it and have just a handful of salt and pepper potato chips. They say that part of a successful diet is that you don’t feel deprived. So small quantities of the things you love will help you endure the diet.

Day 3: Slightly Off Course (Reason: Alcohol)

Starving like mad again last night. JoJo was no help. He kept staring at me. I’ve put him on a diet with me. I’m giving him only half portions of what he’s used to.

I had my gym bag with me today. But I couldn’t bring it in with me in the morning. I had my laptop bag, my tote bag, and a third bag would have been too much. I left it in the car with the intention of getting it during lunch, but was caught up with some urgent issues at work. I thought about getting it after work then heading straight to the gym, but it’d been so cold out. The clothes were probably freezing. I didn’t really want to get into cold clothes.

I left my laptop locked up at work so I would have no trouble with the gym bag tomorrow.

A group of people were going out for drinks and food after work. I thought about going too, but didn’t want to drink all those empty calories and eat all that greasy bar food. So I didn’t go. “You should come out,” said Matt. I can’t. All those empty calories. “But you’ll have fun.” I’ll pass on the fun for now. “You can always get bigger pants.” Not cute!

I came home and had a nice glass of red wine, which is supposed to be good for your heart. And it goes so well with filet mignon. Only a petite size, with some asparagus, which makes your pee smell really bad.

Hmmm…I didn’t realize I had drunk half a bottle. Gave JoJo a full portion, since I had veered from my diet a little too.

Day 4: The Scale of Reckoning

I’m feeling good and very proud. A small salad for lunch and went to the gym and was 20 minutes on the elliptical machine. It felt like my lungs were going to burst. I hadn’t sweated like that in years, or ever.

I came home and decided to get on a scale. It’s been over a year since I’ve been on one. I’d tucked it way back in the closet after Jack dumped me for bad sex. I couldn’t help it. When my legs were pressed toward my head, I couldn’t focus on anything else aside from the rolls pushing against my breasts. I tried doggy style, but gravity was even more cruel from that angle. So after he left, I put away the scale and tried to focus on loving my body without the number attached. They say as long as you’re healthy, the weight doesn’t matter.

Getting on the scale…

Oh FUCK!

Just carrots and ranch dressing for dinner today. Actually, just carrots.

Day 5: On the Right Footing

Worked out like a mad woman today. Was 30 minutes on the elliptical. At one point, my foot came off the step and I thought it was going to be disastrous. But I thankfully recovered. No need to hide my face from the gym. I also did 3 sets of 10 bicep curls with 8 lb dumbbells. My arms were wobbly for a while after.

Oatmeal and honey for breakfast. Small lunch and dinner. Today was a great success.

Day 6: No Pizza, No Cookies, No Problem

Told Matt about progress yesterday. “Wow. That’s good,” he said. “Stay away from the pizza and cookies. You don’t want to erase all that hard work.” I know. I brought my own lunch today to avoid any temptation. “So you’re really sticking to this?” Trying to. “You should just get SPANX and call it a day.”

Another excellent day at the gym.

Day 7 and Day 8: Untitled

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Who knew working out would increase your appetite so much.

Week 2: Hold, Please

Will be recording progress on a weekly basis from now on. They say that your body fluctuates from day to day, so it’s better to record on a weekly basis.

Made excellent progress this week. Down 2 pounds.

Mom called for me to come down for the weekend. She was going to cook some healthy diet food for me to take home. And asked me to bring the dress. She wanted to make sure I was on the right track to be ready by wedding day. I told her I was swamped at work and needed to spend the weekend to catch up. I don’t want her to see me until I’ve lost a bit more weight.

In college, my dorm mates went clubbing nearly every weekend. I never joined them. I had a pair of jeans that I absolutely loved. I bought them though they didn’t fit, wanting to shrink into them. I told myself that once I fit into the jeans, I would start going clubbing and wearing cute little tops like them. But weeks turned into months and eventually, they stopped asking me to join.

Week 3: Who Needs Cover-ups?

Another excellent week. Down 3.5 pounds. I feel wonderful. All week, while on the elliptical, I envisioned myself in my bridesmaid dress gliding down the aisle and everyone staring in disbelief. And I also imagined myself in a sexy bikini this summer, walking along the beach with no beach towel wrapped around my waist. They say it’s important to picture what you want to look like, and not focus on what you look like now.

Week 4: Will Smile for Food

I went to the gym every day (every working day). Didn’t go out or see anyone outside of work. It was a bit of a drag. I was hungry all the time. And people on my project team were pissing me off. Yelled a lot during group discussions.

Week 5: Untitled 2

I really don’t want to talk about it.

Week 6: Name Calling, It Worked in Grade School

I really need to get back into it. I went to the gym only twice this week and have been eating more than usual. I tried taking JoJo for walks, but he kept stopping to scratch himself and would just lie there on the sidewalk.

I really don’t think I can do this, I told Matt. “You’re pushing too hard.” I have to; I don’t have much time left. “Do you really want to do this? Is it worth it?” Yes. I really do. “How can I help?” Just insult me each day. Call me fatty or something. That should motivate me. “I’m not going to do that. If HR gets wind of it I’ll be pounding the pavement.” Just do it.

Week 8: Sticks and Stones

I just realized that each year, I wish I was the size I was the year before. Since I was twelve, I’ve looked back each year thinking to myself, I wish I looked like I did before.

Pulled myself together by midweek. If all those celebrities could spring back into shape after popping out twins, triplets, and even sextuplets, I could lose 30 pounds. I could do this.

Matt walked by my cube and said, “Should I call real estate management and have them remove a wall so you can get out?” What? You asshole! “You told me to insult you!” Oh…you’re still an ass.

Week 9: One to Not Share

Down 10 pounds! It’s amazing. I feel great. Even went out with people from work for happy hours. Limited myself to two Bud Light Limes. Best beer ever! And a couple of chicken wings and mozzarella sticks. So delicious. I haven’t had anything deep fried in weeks. Oh, so delicious. Maybe a small cheesecake. “We only have one size, ma’am,” said the waitress. That’s fine. Just bring it. I’ll share. Can you bring two spoons? The waitress forgot to bring the second spoon. Poor service. I didn’t want to bother asking again.

Week 10: Sister So Good

Down another 3 pounds! My pants are actually a little loose around the waist and thighs. I called Mom and said I was coming over to visit.

Neither Mom nor Dad noticed that I’d lost weight. Mom said, “Why didn’t you bring the dress? Have you tried it on? Have you been exercising and dieting? You don’t have much time left.” I have been going to the gym at work. I’ve lost some weight. “I should never have let you develop such bad eating habits. You’ve been this way since you were little, you know. Your sister was never like that.”

Week 11: Give Me Death and Give Me Thin

Oh, who gives a fuck anymore. I’m so sick and tired of eating carrots. My skin is actually turning orange. I don’t know why I bothered in the first place. We are all going to die. Then what? Does it matter once you’re dead whether or not your corpse is thin? Worms will eat me thin. I can be skinny in death. Why not enjoy life?

Got really drunk a couple of nights this week and ate the entire tub of Moose Track.

No regrets.

Week 11½ : A Moose of a Defeat

So many regrets. That tub of ice cream was not worth this. Every inch of my body aches. I went to the gym every single day and worked out twice as hard.

Was talking to Matt and started crying. “You shouldn’t do this to yourself. Go to the wedding. Don’t zip the dress. Just make sure you wear hot panties.” Started laughing. Matt could always do that—make me laugh.

Two days before the wedding: HHH (Help Harry Houdini)

My sister called. “You did lose the weight, didn’t you? Mom said she didn’t see any result last time you came. But you did, didn’t you? That was weeks ago.”

Got off the phone and went to try on the dress. Put on the SPANX and tried to zip the back. It went up about a third of the way, then the zipper teeth unclenched and I wasn’t able to unzip.

Tried for over an hour. My arms were so tired. I was tired.

One day before the wedding: Throwing in the Towel

Shit! What am I going to do? The dress is in two pieces. I had to cut myself out. There was no way around it. My sister is going to kill me. Fuck it. Her and her wedding.

I called my boss and left her a message that I needed to take some personal time off, then removed the battery from my cell phone. I used the money that I was going to give my sister as a wedding present and booked a trip for myself to Aruba. I packed my two-piece bikinis and no beach towel.

My sister can see me when I’m thin.

* * *

Seenat Thongdee was born in Cambodia; she and her family migrated to Thailand as refugees when she was three years old. She lived in refugee camps for seven years before admittance to the U.S. 1986. She currently lives in Massachusetts.

She holds an MBA from Bryant University, but intends to pursue a graduate degree in English and fulfill her dream of becoming an English teacher. Writes Seenat: “I began creating stories in my head as a child, because what I imagined was safer and more pleasant than my surroundings. I write as an adult to rediscover that child, and because writing always feels like that big mango tree next to our concrete home in the refugee camp—warm and pleasant.”

Will knew she was getting tired of him, as they usually did—tired of the repetitive, unimaginative movement of his jeans against hers, barely keeping in time with the rap beat bouncing off of the basement’s brick walls; tired of the way his hands hung limply on the front of her hips. She had accepted his invitation to dance with a shrug, and as far as he could tell, her interest hadn’t increased. He wasn’t surprised when, as the beat faded away to a second of interstitial crowd noise, she released herself from his grasp, turned, and said that she was going to go use the bathroom.

“Okay,” Will said.

The relative silence was broken by a new beat, distorted bass and snare over barely audible synths. She squeezed her way through the crowd of dancing couples, heading in the direction of the stairs, away from him. Will watched her go for a second, looked around at nothing in particular, and started making his way over to the bar, apologizing as he pushed dancers up against their partners in an attempt to clear a path.

Will waited behind a cluster of people until the bartender, a muscled guy in a frat T-shirt, handed him a half-empty red cup and turned away to the next customers. Some of Will’s beer sloshed onto his sleeves as he made his way to the wall, where he had a little space to stand.

Will sipped his beer and looked around. A few colored lights flashed intermittently over the makeshift dance floor, turning the dancers’ skin and clothes red, blue, yellow. A few strobe lights were blinking, indistinguishable from the occasional flash of a digital camera. At the far side of the room, it looked like some stragglers were still being let in, two or three at a time. Were Will’s floormates around? He scanned the crowd and spotted Ed from the quad, who was standing on the calmer side of the room talking with a short
girl in a red blouse. Will decided not to bother him.

Will sighed, leaned back against the rough brick, and decided he might as well wait around for—had she told him her name? Whoever. Bathroom girl. There was a chance she might actually return. Will glanced over at the dance floor to see if she had found a new partner yet.

That was when Will saw him: The guy was moderately tall, dressed in crisp off-white khakis and a neon orange polo, the collar popped to his jaw, aviator glasses gleaming beneath his brow. He was grinding authoritatively with a pretty girl who had a tight pink T-shirt, a denim skirt, and long, dark hair. Her eyes remained shut as she danced, her face set serenely into an expression of entranced satisfaction. The guy held a red cup in one hand and bore the hint of an apathetic half-smile.

But he was Will.

His hair was a little longer than Will’s was. He had some beard stubble, more evenly spaced than Will had ever been able to manage. He had some muscle. But he was still, definitely, Will. He had Will’s round face, Will’s lumpy nose—even a mole identical to the one on Will’s left cheek, corresponding to the exact same facial coordinates.

Will stood by the wall, waiting for a change in the light or shift in perspective to break the illusion. But no matter how the dancers turned or how the strobes flashed, the face that looked out from over the dark-haired girl’s shoulder remained basically the same as Will’s own.

Will hesitated a moment, unable to look away, then stepped quickly over to Ed, who was still engaged in conversation.

“Ed.” Will tugged on Ed’s shoulder.

Ed turned away from the short girl to look at Will, controlled annoyance barely visible in the dim light. “Will? What?”

Will pointed at the dance floor. “Doesn’t that guy look like me?”

Ed stared at Will for a second, then flicked his gaze to the dancers.

“What guy?”

“The one dancing with that girl.”

“That’s helpful, Will, thanks.”

“The one in the polo shirt. He’s got, uh…” Will turned and tried to locate the guy.

“The Indian kid? I guess he looks kind of like you.”

“No, not the Indian kid. The guy…” Will’s eyes swept back and forth across the room,
searching unsuccessfully. “I don’t know. He’s gone.”

Ed turned back to Will. “Uh, okay…”

“Sorry.” Will looked around the room once more, then headed off towards the space where the guy had been standing. Behind him he heard Ed say to the girl, “Uh, sorry about that. Anyway—”

Will pushed his way back into the mass of dancers, skipping apologies. Eventually he found himself standing right where the guy had been, right between a man with a shaved head, who was dancing with a girl with curly hair, and a short frat brother entangled with a blonde sorority girl. Will shouted over the music: “Do you know the guy who was dancing here?”

The man with the shaved head looked at Will. “What?”

“I said, do you know the guy who was just dancing right here?”

He shook his head. “I can’t hear you.”

Will turned to the brother: “You know the guy who was dancing here?”

The brother gave Will a glazed smile and turned away.

Will frowned and headed toward the exit. On his way he passed by the girl he had been dancing with before. She saw him, then flicked her eyes away; he brushed past her and climbed the few steps leading up to the basement door.

An ice-water November breeze hit Will as he opened the door and stepped outside. Streetlights reflected off the pavement and cast the run-down suburban neighborhood in an orange murk. Will turned to his right and saw a heavy-set frat bouncer looking at him skeptically, arms crossed.

“Hey,” Will said.

“You want to shut the door, man? You’re letting all the heat out.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Will stepped all the way out into the driveway and let the door swing shut behind him, muffling the sound of the stereo. He turned back to the bouncer. “There’s a guy at this party in an orange polo shirt. Kind of looks like me. I think he’s with, uh, a girl in a pink shirt. Do you know him?”

“They just left.”

“Really? Who is the guy, what’s his name?”

The bouncer shrugged. “Search me.”

“Well, where’d they go?”

The bouncer glared. “Why you want to know?”

“He, uh, I…” Will looked down at the wet cement for a second, then made eye contact again. “He left his wallet.” Will grabbed his own wallet out of his pocket and held it up, smiling.

“They took a right on the sidewalk,” the bouncer said, briefly uncrossing his arms to point the direction.

“Thank you!” Will turned and jogged across the driveway.

Once he hit the sidewalk, the neighboring houses no longer cut off his view, and he could see down the street for a few blocks. The night was mostly deserted, but a few houses down, Will spotted the outline of a couple walking hand in hand. The guy was tall, dressed in a dark jacket and khakis; the girl had long, dark hair, and wore a coat and
skirt.

Will set off jogging after the couple, his sneakers kicking up drops of old rainwater as he ran. A few partygoers on a porch across the street shouted something at him and laughed, but Will couldn’t hear what was said. As he got within earshot of the couple, the guy stopped and turned around.

It was the same guy, the one with Will’s face.

At first, the guy looked back with the same satisfied disinterest he had shown earlier. As Will drew nearer, though, the guy’s eyes widened, and his lips unsealed themselves and hung slackly open. The girl stood waiting, glancing back and forth from the guy to Will.

Will started slowing to a walk. “Hey, excuse me—”

The guy bolted, taking off down the sidewalk.

“Hey!” Will shouted, breaking back into a dash, then stopping abruptly where the girl was standing.

“Who was that guy?” Will asked, gasping for breath.

The girl turned to look at Will and suddenly stepped back, taking a quick breath.

“What was his name?” Will insisted, glancing up the street.

“He said his name was Will,” she said softly.

Will stared at her for a second—had he met this girl before?—then turned and started running.

Up ahead, the guy took a sharp right and disappeared behind the house on the corner. He had been moving faster than Will, who could already feel a cramp growing in his gut. He ignored it and pumped his legs as hard as he could, until his bangs were swept back off of his forehead and each breath burned his lungs.

Will nearly slipped as he turned the corner, then kept moving forward as he stared ahead, searching. The street stayed suburban for about a block, then opened up as it intersected with a larger road, one lined with restaurants, businesses, apartments. Subway tracks ran up the center of the larger road, and there was a small crowd of people gathered around a stop that lay ahead to Will’s left. The guy was running toward that crowd, his arms jerking up and down in unison with his legs.

Will swerved into the street without looking and heard the sound of tires skidding behind him, followed by the blast of a horn. He tried yelling, “Hey! Come on, stop!”

The guy didn’t stop running, but he did look over his shoulder for a second. For a short moment, he and Will made eye contact. To Will, it felt less like looking into a mirror than like watching himself in a film. The face he saw onscreen, his own face, was stretched into an expression of wide-eyed, gasping fear.

Then the guy faced forward again and kept running. Will grimaced and tried to push his legs to move faster.

The rumble of an engine was getting louder, and a bright, hard light was spreading over the group gathered at the subway stop. Some people standing there turned and stared as the guy dashed along the right side of the crowd, over the platform. The ground around the tracks must have been slippery, though, because the guy’s feet suddenly flew out from under him, and he fell.

The wailing horn and screeching brakes began in unison. The guy tried to get to his feet.

In the next instant the guy was gone, replaced by a blur of metal and glass. Will thought he heard sounds, but couldn’t be sure.

Will came to a stop at the edge of the crowd. People were yelling, holding each other, pulling out cell phones. The train was still screeching along the tracks.

“He looked just like me,” Will whispered, breathing heavily, his eyes vaguely focused on the tracks.

Will blinked a few times, then looked to the left and spoke to a gray-haired, middle-aged man standing on the platform. “Didn’t he look like me?”

The man stared at Will.

The train finally pulled past the edge of the platform. The body lay splayed out on the tracks, blood spreading over the orange polo and khakis.

The guy’s face was beyond recognition.

Matt Hoffman is a recent graduate of Boston University, where he studied Film and International Relations. He grew up in Connecticut and attended the Educational Center for the Arts in New Haven. His fiction has been published in The Battered Suitcase, his film commentary appears frequently on the genre entertainment website Mania.com, and he performs standup at various New York City comedy clubs. He currently lives in Brooklyn.

Gibraltar
By Mark Sutz

Like most identical twins, my brother Oscar and I were indistinguishable from one another to most people. We weren’t the kinds of twins who harbored any unique moles or tics or cowlicks that would, to the discerning eye, separate us one from the other. On every square inch of our bodies, we were exactly alike, two people walking the earth who seemed in every hop, slurp, action or speech, to be the same. Even when we got into trouble, the harsh punishments were meted out in doubled, equal chunks. Our bar mitzvahs were even held in unison, our passage from boys to men held side-by-side, firmly cementing in our minds that we were going to travel through our lives closer to one another than most could imagine or desire.

The only thing different about us was the titanium rod that had been inserted into Oscar’s ankle when we were twelve. He’d sustained a nearly identical injury to me during a particularly vicious skiing accident, an impromptu downhill race we’d engaged in during a ski trip in Zermatt.

Even the scar left visible on his ankle we shared, but when the doctors had gone into my ankle they’d determined I wouldn’t need the permanent assistance of a metal rod to help strengthen my joint. The scar on the insides of our left ankles was shaped like a fingernail moon. Try as we might, we couldn’t ditch our identicalness.

That is, until we were eighteen and Oscar met Luisa.

We’d been apprenticing on a research vessel, the Fathom, to learn the business of what most people call treasure hunting but was known in the trade as deep sea salvage. My father knew the captain, John Angeletti, and convinced him to take Oscar and me along with him one summer. The captain’s daughter, Luisa, had practically grown up on the ship and become a beautiful diversion for us both. We spent as much energy pursuing Luisa as we did learning salvage.

It took Luisa five or six weeks to be able to even tell which one of us had snuck into her cabin and crawled under her sheets. When she was finally able to distinguish Oscar and me — Oliver is my name — from the other, she sat us both down and told us it was Oscar she wanted.

We had both been as smitten as lovesick children, but for the first time in our lives, Oscar and I had one thing different about us. Over the next five years, Oscar and I worked on the vessel, but Oscar was made the heir apparent to its ownership.

Luisa and Oscar were married at sea on our fifth summer on the boat and I became a valued, if not heired, member of the crew.

Captain Angelotti treated us both with equal respect and responsibility—after all, even our boat skills were perfectly comparable—but Luisa’s choice of Oscar as her lover and companion meant his place was far more secure.

Before launching for our sixth summer, Captain Angelotti brought the whole crew together to hear his encouragement. More than once, our salvage operations were conducted in tricky weather and conditions that only people addicted to uncovering history would bother suffering. Captain Angelotti’s boundless energy and enthusiasm was enough to palliate any amount of trepidation we had.

He gave us his usual spiel, but there was always at least one person in the crew who was new and hadn’t heard the captain discuss the vastness of treasures in the waters of the world. According to the UN, there are more than 3 million shipwrecks on the ocean floors of the world. Whenever the Captain repeated this number, it amazed even the most jaded person. At least we knew we’d never be out of work and could always dream we’d find something magical.

“This year,” he said, “is going to be a special year. I was privy to information about what could be the most valuable shipwreck the world has ever had and one which has remained secret.”

I nudged Luisa who was sitting next to me and asked her if she knew what he was talking about.

“He’s kept it secret even from me,” she said.

“Last year,” the captain continued, “some historians discovered papers that have brought to light a very interesting twist in the sinking of the HMS Sussex.”

The Sussex was a known shipwreck, but no more interesting for salvagers than any other of the hundreds which we’d studied. It was simply a Royal Navy ship that had sunk in along the Spanish coast on its way to the Mediterranean in 1694 and one which interested historians more than it did salvagers. The captain’s body had washed up clad only in a nightshirt on the shores of Gibraltar.

“Apparently,” he said, “the Sussex was on a secret mission. Captain Wheeler was carrying 1 million pounds sterling to deliver to the Duke of Savoy, to keep him from falling to French bribes. Today, that booty, all those silver and gold coins are worth more than a billion dollars.”

We could hear the collective gasp and then childlike tittering from the crew. The captain told us all we’d sail in two days.

Oscar, Luisa and I went to the local pub at the marina where we were docked and spent the night reveling in the possibilities of our next adventure.

“You and Luisa are going to be rich beyond your dreams. Beyond mine. Beyond anyone’s,” I said.

Oscar said, “Oliver, whatever’s mine is yours. You know that.”

Luisa, as she usually did, bristled when I brought up the fact that her choice of Oscar had inexorably changed the course of my life. After all, because they were married, Luisa and Oscar became the beneficiaries of anything that Captain Angelotti and the Fathom found at sea.

Oscar squeezed my shoulder, knowing full well how our lives had taken different roads. But I believed in his reassurances and put it to rest.

We drank enough that night to carry us into a reverie about our impending trip that we’d ever had before. The three of us stumbled back to the ship and passed out in our cabins, dreaming of the Sussex’s treasure off the Spanish coast.

The next day, last minute preparations were made with more vigor than I could recall. Broad smiles were on everyone’s faces. Captain Angelotti even treated the entire crew to a gluttonous dinner where pats on the back and hugs were in full sight. We all could taste the possibilities, though we knew full well how difficult this salvage would be.

The sail across the Atlantic was calm, uneventful, and filled with energy. For three weeks, we studied maps of the wreck, made specific plans for the salvage and read more about the history of the Sussex. Our dinner conversations often veered to Admiral Wheeler and his unfortunate voyage three hundred years before. Even Don, the first mate, was excited for old sea voyages as he never was before.

On the 22nd day after we left the eastern coast of the United States, we anchored above what was the site of the HMS Sussex. Captain Angelotti gave us his final pre-salvage pep talk.

“I know this will likely be the most exciting excavation of your lives. It certainly is mine. But we’re going to be working out here for the better part of six months, so whenever anyone needs to take a break and visit Gibraltar via the transit vessel, just let me know. Or First Mate Don, here.” The captain put his arm around Don and said, “To a successful rebirth of the HMS Sussex.”

After the anchoring and initial lowering of our navigation sub, the electronic eyes for the crew, a few of us gathered around the video feed to await the first images of the Sussex. Through the murky water, we spied the ship that had lain under a thousand meters of water for four centuries. We all applauded and then set in to guide the sub around the wreck to see how we’d begin the excavation.

That first day was a day of meticulous planning on how we’d raise the ship, piece by piece, into airtight compartments under the water so the wood wouldn’t disintegrate upon hitting the air. Then, to the surface, and into the transfer ship that would head to our warehouse on land to go through the treasures of the wreck. At the end of the day it felt like we’d already been working for months because of what we knew lay ahead of us, the sweat and hard work we’d endure. We ended the day on the deck, Oscar, Luisa, Captain Angelotti and I sharing two bottles of Spanish wine.

When we were nearly finished with the second bottle, we noticed the sky was darkening and a storm would soon be upon us. Mostly clear weather had been on the horizon all day, so the quick turn to drizzle surprised us all.

Don came up and consulted with Captain Angelotti. After the first mate returned below deck, the captain told us we’d be in for a surprise levanter, the strong easterly wind that in this part of the world could appear in an instant and cause havoc to even the most sturdy of ships. It was a levanter, in fact, that had originally downed the Sussex long ago.

Within minutes the Fathom was in the middle of severe winds and a rainstorm of frightening night. As the four of us were making our way carefully along the rails to find our way below deck, the Fathom lurched heavily and I slid headfirst across the slick deck.

I awoke in my cabin, my vision blurred and my head a knot of pain. Two people were at my bedside – Don and the ship’s medic.

“You’re awake, son,” Don said.

I struggled for words.

“The storm. What happened?” I asked.

The medic had his hand around my wrist to check my pulse. “You were knocked unconscious. You’ve been out for five days.”

“My brother? Luisa? The captain?”

Don motioned for the medic to leave, and waited for the door to close behind him.

“Oscar, this is difficult, but you’ve got to know,” Don said. “The three of them were washed overboard that night. It took us two days to find their bodies.”

My memory was absent. The last thing I recalled was sliding uncontrollably across the wet deck. And why was Don calling me Oscar? In my haze, I was unsure of my own identity.

Don continued, “The Fathom was severely damaged. The storm got so bad they couldn’t even send any boats to assist us.”

“Where is my brother’s body?” I asked.

“Oscar, we lost all power to the refrigeration systems. There was nothing else we could do but cremate them.”

I remembered Captain Angelotti once telling us that in the absolute worst case and in order to spare the rest of the crew the possibility of disease, a person who died at sea might have to be put into the ‘crematorium’ built into the Fathom. Though referred to as the crematorium, it was actually a large oven used to help bake off debris from wrecks we pulled up. The morbid truth was that it was easily big enough for a body.

I began to weep thinking I’d lost the person with whom I’d entered life. The confusion was overwhelming. And then I thought about what would happen to the Fathom.

Don said, “The captain and Luisa, their ashes are where they would want them to be. In the ocean. Your brother’s ashes are in a makeshift urn, secured on the main deck.”

I lifted myself up so I was sitting on the bed.

“Will you please bring the urn to me, Don?”

He left me alone there. It was the loneliest I’ve ever felt since the day Oscar and I were separated for a mere three hours when we were five years old. I had no idea how life would even be possible without him, without that possibility of working with him and Luisa on the Fathom once the captain had retired and passed it onto them. Now I had no claim to it at all.

As I was weeping into my hands, Don brought the urn. My parents would never understand the cremation. Our faith forbade it.

“We saved the titanium pin. We had no idea your brother had one, but the melting point of titanium is higher than the oven. I assumed you’d want to keep it with his ashes. A tug is coming. When we finally are able to dock in Gibraltar, your parents will be there. They’ve been notified and are coming to pick up you and his ashes. I’ll leave you alone now. I’m so terribly sorry, Oscar.”

After a while, I took the urn under my arm and made my way to the deck. The day was so still the water looked like a sheet of blue glass. I said a prayer for the three of them and unscrewed the lid to the urn. I poured my brother’s ashes over the side of the boat and watched, as if in slow motion, the titanium rod implanted in his ankle when we were twelve—the only difference between us—plummet into the ocean with a visible but inaudible splash. It sank, I hoped, to the very bottom of the ocean near the Sussex. I wished as hard as I’ve ever wished for anything in my life that by taking my brother’s place in this life, I was doing the honorable thing.

I buried both of us that day and often think of Oscar’s ashes in the ocean. And me, Oliver, lost to my parents that day too, though they’d never be fully aware of what had really happened. The lie was written in water, and somewhere in the limbo of two lives taken much too early, I wonder some days who I really am.

* * *

Mark Sutz is a writer living in Arizona. He contributes regularly to the online culture magazine, The Nervous Breakdown. A list of his publications can be found at www.marksutz.com. You can contact him at his gmail.com address, “masutz”.

The Spider in the Sink

by Jean Ryan

 Ants are easy. Their very numbers make them expendable. They goad you into it, the way they march across the kitchen and besiege your sugar bowl in broad daylight. Who wouldn’t pick up a sponge and decimate them? 

But what to do about the spider in the sink?  No bigger than an aspirin, it shrinks in terror when your hand approaches. Somewhere the little fellow made a wrong turn; it does not want to be in your sink and now it can’t get out. With a splash of water you could send it down the dark hell of your plumbing; you wouldn’t even have to look. There is a chance the wee bug would never cross your mind again. 

You don’t take that chance. You tear off a piece of toilet paper and nudge it beneath the creature, and in your nightgown you walk through the house and out the back door and you shake the tissue over a bush. One day perhaps this spider will eat the aphids off your rosebuds. But that is not why you save it. 

#

 Your husband did not wave before he pulled out of the driveway and your thoughts keep snagging on this. Every morning you wait for that gesture, his hand arcing out the window, and today he simply drove off. Now as you push his clothes into the washer, you try to recall what color shirt he was wearing, which pair of boots, and your mind draws a blank. Not much was said over toast and coffee. Your heart did not melt at the sight of his thinning blonde hair and you can’t say if his gaze lingered on you. It would be on a day like this, without clues, without touchstones, that he would leave and never come back. 

Already the heat is pressing on the house. You part the living room curtains and look at the sky, pale yellow, but dark on the horizon. Out there, just above the wheat fields, clouds are building. Just as you imagined. 

By now he is at the McKeever’s. Grace has brought him a cup of coffee and he is talking with her as he nails up paneling. Every few minutes, though she tries not to, she regards his tidy rump. Grace has a crush on Tad―most women do. It’s the blonde hair, which curls ever so slightly around his collar, and his blue eyes with their sand-colored lashes, and the clean cut of his jaw, and the shy smile he offers to not just everyone. 

You hear about the pitfalls of marrying a gorgeous woman but less is said about gorgeous husbands. It didn’t matter a few years ago, when your thighs were tight and your skin was creamy smooth, but now that the crow’s feet and spider veins are appearing, you wonder what he’s up to. You see him putting down his hammer, reaching for something else. It doesn’t help that his work takes him into other people houses, usually when the mister is gone. You haven’t heard any rumors, and he still gathers you in his arms when he gets home and pulls you on top of him more often than not, and yet you wonder. 

You go into the bedroom, take off your nightgown and stand before the full-length mirror. Because of the heat, your long auburn hair is pinned up. To hide the strands of gray, you are using a rinse that has just a bit more red than your real color. Your brown eyes still shimmer, though the wrinkles around them are getting deeper. Your breasts are high and your waist hasn’t thickened. The trouble begins with your bottom, which has always been too big; now you see some dimpling there. Worse yet are the twin bulges of flesh on your hips, the saddlebags your mother, and her mother, wore; and lately, on your thighs, the small red whorls of broken veins. In front of you are the facts, thirty-nine years of them, and while there are plenty of mornings you resent this body, today, somehow, you feel sorry for it. Slowly, respectfully, you pull on your clothes. 

Washing the breakfast dishes, you keep edging looks at the sky. The clouds are coming closer, mushrooming upwards. Under the dense mantle of air, each stalk of wheat is poised. You peer at the top of the hackberry tree and notice the birds are gone. 

The radio waits on the kitchen table. You dry each dish, you sweep the floor; at last you bite your lip and reach for the dial. Over at the McKeever’s, your husband is listening to his scanner. Grace doesn’t mind the noisy static, or the fact that he might bolt from her living room at any moment. Everyone knows about Tad. 

You open the refrigerator and let the cool air chill the sweat on your neck and shoulders. Already it is ninety-two. Again you visit those tall pine trees, that blue mountain lake in your mind. If it weren’t for Tad you would have moved out of Enid a long time ago. 

You were born and raised and married in the path of tornadoes; all your life you have been a target. Not that you haven’t been lucky. You haven’t lost anything that couldn’t be replaced (and falling in love with a carpenter was certainly fortuitous), and it’s a fact that most of these storms don’t amount to much. Still, you’d like to live one spring without knocking on wood. 

The rain starts while you are dusting the coffee table. You pause at the window and watch. Punk…punk…punk punk, the slow fat drops strike the road, sending up puffs of dirt. Tad hears it too. He puts down his handsaw, walks over to the screen door. He sniffs the air, eyes the clouds; his stomach tightens. 

The rain falls harder, bending the wheat, filling the road with puddles. To the north the sky is almost black. You can see the flashes of lightning. 

When they issue the warning you are not surprised. You knew it was out there somewhere. They say it’s big―a half-mile wide and headed for Jefferson. 

Your husband is already in his truck. He shifts into reverse, bumps and splashes down the drive. The wipers are going full tilt. He gets on the CB, tells Duane where to meet him. 

As long as you have known him, Tad has been chasing tornadoes. He is not, you admit, as fanatic as some. He does not spend the entire month of May driving around Tornado Alley, analyzing radar images and estimating wind sheer. And rarely does he actually see what he’s after―most of his chases end in a bust. But if a storm is close enough, if there’s a chance he can get there in time, nothing on earth can stop him. You have told him it’s foolish, that he will get himself killed. You have cited the damage done to the truck, the cost of all those repairs. You have begged and scolded; you have even threatened, but by now it’s clear you’re not leaving this place, not, that is, until you’re a widow. 

You sit down at the red Formica-topped table and fix your gaze on the radio. They’re rating the tornado an F4. It has blown through Jefferson and is now moving west toward Nash. People saw two huge funnels which merged and picked up a barn. Homes are gone; cows are dead; a girl and her father are missing. 

Tad picks up Duane at Everett’s Dairy and they head north on 64. Rain beats against the windshield, gushes down the sides. “We can’t see anything through this shit,” Duane says, squinting at the thick clouds ahead of them. Tad turns up the CB and the cab ricochets with voices and static. 

“It’s in Nash―we gotta take Cochran Road.”    

Tad knows they should stay off the dirt roads. But this one’s a maxi. And they’re so close. 

You don’t have to worry about the others: your boys had the sense to move out west and your mother is safe in Muskogee. As for this house, well it’s not exactly a dream come true. Indeed there are times when, studying the worn yellow box from across the road, its two front windows like small sad eyes, you wish for a strong wind. 

Tornadoes can change direction on a whim and this one might decide to plow its way toward Enid. You’re aware of this and yet you don’t move from your chair. There is no need to take cover, no reason to collect your valuables and stow them in the basement. You have used up your luck. It is not the house you will lose today. 

Tad accelerates and the tires fling mud on the doors and windows. They are close. Wind pummels the hickory trees. Leaves and twigs and paper whirl through the blue-black sky. A ragdoll flies past. Now they drive into hail. The icy chunks bombard the puddles, bounce off the hood. 

They can hear the wind, can feel it pulling on the truck. Tad reaches for the video camera. 

At his funeral he will be a hero. His father will muster the strength to offer a short eulogy through which his mother will sob. Men will be stone-faced; women will shake their heads and recall his smile and the way he listened when they spoke. Two of these women will weep and from this you will draw irrefutable conclusions. 

You will move to a state with mountains and water. It will not help. You will sit on your porch at dusk and gaze at the pine trees and listen to the loons. You will think of silos and wheat fields and wind. 

Suddenly it is there, so massive, so near, that all they can see is one brown whirling side. Tad lets go of the camera and reaches for the gear shift. 

“We’re too close,” he says, yanking the wheel to the right, turning the track partway around. He shoves into reverse and the truck’s back tires lurch into a gully of mud. 

“Do it, man―get us out of here!” Duane shouts. 

Tad shifts gears, guns the engine; the truck shudders but stays where it is. He reverses, tries again―the tires just keep spinning. 

Duane pushes open the door and jumps out. 

“No!” Tad yells. “Stay in the truck!” 

But Duane won’t stop. Hands frozen on the wheel, Tad watches him run through the wheat, his white shirt getting smaller and smaller, until it’s gone, and there is only the roaring curtain of wind. 

The tornado expired just south of Pond Creek. It battered four towns and left a woman wedged in a tree. She is the only confirmed death, but several people have not been accounted for. 

The storm has cleansed the earth and the air does not feel like warm cotton anymore. You walk out to porch and sit on the glider. Gently you push your feet against the floor and the seat begins to swing. Beyond the puddle-pocked road the wheat is bent and glistening; above it swallows dive. The neighbor’s bloodhound barks. A fat grasshopper lands on the screen. 

Just after one o’clock they show up. You see the truck coming down the road, and Duane’s orange baseball cap, and then Tad’s arm, waving. For the hundredth time, you get to your feet and wave back. 

#

 You are lying alongside Tad, your front pressed lightly against his back, your hand resting on his waist. All you can hear are his slow deep breaths and the constant chirping of crickets. 

Sure enough you think about that spider. You didn’t see it fall from the tissue and you hope it landed safely, that it found, on the glossy contours of a leaf, something to eat, perhaps a mite or two. You hope, when the rain came, that it chanced upon a cozy niche, a place to curl up its legs and rest. Soon enough it will find another precipice, will wander across the length of the leaf, and cling, bewildered, to the edge of its world.

* * *

Jean Ryan lives in Napa, California, and her writing has appeared in a variety of journals to include The Massachusetts Review, The Summerset Review, and The Foundling Review.  Her novel, LOST SISTER, was published in 2005 and is available on Amazon.com. “The Spider in the Sink” was originally published in Artisan in December, 1999.

Snapped
By Bob Shar

“Tell us a story, Uncle Dingus,” seven-year-old Reginald suggested. “Make it scary.”

“Nooooo,” whined four-year-old Wilford. “You’ll give us a nightmare.”

“Wuss,” scoffed the girl, Tilapia, age six. “Make it bloody, Uncle Dingus. I aint scared.”

“Nooooo,” blubbered Wilford.

* * *

William “Dingus” McClintock was no childcare specialist. He was a thirty-nine-year-old plumber. He didn’t trust children, could barely tolerate his own nieces and nephews, didn’t own a TV, computer, guest bedroom or futon. This didn’t stop his identical twin brother—District Attorney Frederick McClintock—and sister-in-law Michelle from entrusting their three snotdribblers to Dingus’ care this dreary Saturday evening.

“Thanks for doing this, William,” Michelle said, jerking the hem of her skirt free from the clutches of Wilford, who was not enthusiastic about the sleepover.

“Yeah, Ding. You’re a lifesaver,” said Fred.

It was the couple’s tenth anniversary, and the D.A. had failed to line up a legitimate sitter for the evening. He’d had to offer his brother five times the going rate to take the kids on at the last minute.

“They eat dinner at five-thirty,” Michelle informed him, and Dingus glanced at the clock over the stove: three forty-five. “The boys eat peanut butter and jelly. Tilapia likes hot dogs. Don’t make yourself crazy trying to feed them vegetables. Bedtime’s seven-thirty for Wilford, eight-thirty for the big kids. They’ve had baths already and their jammies are under their play clothes. Just peel off the top layers and pop ’em into bed…”

“Nothing to it,” Fred interjected. “Don’t serve them alcohol, try not to stuff more than one kid in the oven at a time, discourage them from killing each other, and you’ll be golden. If you have any questions, ask Reggie. That boy’s smart like his daddy.”

“If you have any problems, William,” corrected Michelle, gripping her brother-in-law’s wrist and glaring at Fred, “call me. I’m keeping my cell phone on.”

“They’ll be fine, Meesh,” said the DA. “Have faith in the Dinger. You know,” he expounded, puffing his chest out with pride, “my brother’s not as stupid as he looks. And he’s no child molester.” He winked. “No matter what Mom’s been telling the Grand Jury.”

With Dingus scrambling for a rejoinder, the couple stepped out of the apartment, the door closed behind them, and the evening began in earnest.

* * *

Where’s the TV, Uncle D?” asked Reginald as soon as his parents were out the door.

“Yeah,” said Wilford, who seemed to Dingus to be coping with his parents’ departure by assuming the persona of a castrato parrot. “Where’s the TV?”

“Don’t have one,” said their uncle. “Rots the brain.”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Reggie.

Dingus shook his head.

“Kidding, right?” parroted Wilford.

“Find something else to do while I’m fixing dinner,” said Dingus. “Read some books.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of his bookshelf which housed two Gideon Bibles and The Kama Sutra. “Or, play Hide and Seek, Geography, Red Rover. Something like that. Draw pictures! Got no crayons, but you can draw with pencils just fine.” He reached into a recycled jelly jar marked “Pencils—Sharpened” that sat atop the bookshelf. “Plenty right here,” he said, slapping a fistful of standard number twos down on top of the coffee table.

Tilapia lifted a pencil and said, “Paper?”

Dingus wasn’t sure he had anything a kid could draw on. This troubled him, but not as much as Reggie and Wilford’s refusal to consider engaging in any of the activities he’d suggested.

“Rather just watch TV, Uncle D,” Reggie said. “Really, where d’ya keep it?”

“Yeah. Where d’ya keep it?” screeched Wilford.

“Not everyone has a TV, guys. I don’t have one, and I don’t miss it.”

“Paper!” said Tilapia. “I need paper.”

“We miss it!” said Reggie.

“Yeah. We miss it!”

“I’m going to draw on the floor. Okay?”

“Hell no you can’t draw on the floor!”

Tilapia collapsed as if she’d been shot. Then she began to sob.

“Aw jeez, don’t cry, Fishy. Look, why don’t you help me clear the kitchen table?”

“Well… could you get us a TV then, Uncle D?”

Fucking Reggie! Dingus’s self control was tugging hard at its leash. He needed to shut the kids’ complaints out and throw dinner at them. They could eat early. It wouldn’t kill them.

The boys ate their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, though they made it clear they found whole wheat bread unseemly. Dingus got a tad queasy watching Tilapia bury her hot dog in half a jar of mayonnaise, but she ate the damn thing and seemed momentarily content.

With dinner behind them and two hours to kill before he could, in good conscience, start loading them into his double bed, Dingus considered calling Michelle and telling her he’d strained his Andromeda and would have to beg off for the balance of the evening. There was no way he was going to survive two more hours of these kids bitching about his bread, TV and paper deprivation.

He’d started dialing Michelle’s number when Reggie dropped the TV rant and started lobbying for a story. Tilapia got behind the story idea as well.

Hmmm. Dingus might be able to muddle through a story. Couldn’t promise it’d be interesting, but he could promise the panicked Wilford it wouldn’t be scary.

“Okay,” Wilford allowed. “Tell about the bears, or do Jack and the beans.”

Like he was calling the shots.

Dingus mulled it over a second, shrugged and dove in. “Okay, so this is something that happened to me and your dad,” he said, “when we were little.”

Tilapia, resigned to listen to an unbloody story, cleared her throat tactfully and stage whispered, “Once upon a time… .”

“Right. Once upon a time… me and your dad must have been around Reggie’s age. It was summertime. And we were maybe a little bored and probably getting on your Gramma’s nerves. Grownups hate hearing kids whine. Know what I’m saying?”

“Quit whining?” Reggie guessed.

“Bingo. So, your Gramma was trying to fix dinner at the time, and back then, that always included fresh vegetables from the Farmer’s Market. That night, we were having boiled chicken and green beans.”

“Gross,” said Reggie.

“Yeah. Gross,” parroted Wilford.

“Can we have ice cream, now?” asked Tilapia.

“Thought you wanted to hear a story. Let me tell this and we’ll have ice cream later.”

Wilford farted and the kids all giggled.

“So, your Gramma’s got her hands full, trying to get dinner ready, and she’s tired of listening to me and your dad grumbling, so she decides to put us to work, peeling and snapping string beans on the front porch. She figures that’s something we can handle and it’ll keep us busy and out of her hair. Which it does…”

“You were in her hair?” asked the fart-meister.

“Just an expression, Wilford. Means she figured we’d stop bothering her and concentrate on those beans. Which we did, for a couple minutes. Then I start grumbling about how I hate string beans and your dad says he hates them more, and your Gramma stomps from the kitchen to the front door and slams it shut. She knows we’re going to be arguing back and forth for however long it’s going to take to snap these beans, and she’s just not going to listen to it.“

“Will there be fairies in this story?” Tilapia asked.

“Nope. No fairies.”

“Bears?” asked Wilford. Reggie rolled his eyes.

“No bears. Worms though. And ants. Just listen. Gramma shuts the door and your dad and I are on the porch with a bag of beans we’re supposed to be stringing and snapping for supper. We’re not doing our best work, we’re stringing with attitude, snapping with rage, and pretty soon, we lose focus. I stand up and walk off the porch because I’m what they call hyperactive. At the foot of the porch stairs, I notice there’s about a trillion tiny ants swarming over something that looks like a dead worm.”

Reggie quit rolling his eyes and sat up straight.

“I call up to your dad to come see all the ants. He steps off the porch, sees what those ants are doing to the worm and gets upset on the worm’s behalf. Starts talking about how the ants have no respect for the dead, and we both start stomping on those ants, convinced we’re doing the right thing for this poor worm. We stomp and stomp and spit and shout at the ants until they’re all dead or gone and your dad and me, we feel like heroes for a minute or two. Freddy, that’s your dad, bends down to speak comforting words to the worm’s ghost, and the worm starts to wiggle.”

“Cool!”said Reggie.

“No ghosts,” Wilford wailed, putting his hands over his ears.

“Okay. No ghosts. That worm starts to wiggle and squirm away. And your dad and I? We’re starting to hate this worm, already. It’s dirty, and slimy and disgusting. And we regret having gone to battle for this worm, which doesn’t seem grateful to us at all. We start feeling bad about all the ants we’d just killed, and we get angrier and angrier at this slimy worm. And then, I pick up a stick and start poking the thing, trying to hurt it. And Freddy? Your dad? He jumps up and heads for the garage. In a couple minutes, he comes back with a hoe. And he uses the hoe to chop that old worm into parts. And neither one of us is happy to see each of those parts start to wiggle away.”

Wilford started to cry. “You said no blood. You promised it wouldn’t be scary…”

“There’s no blood, Willie. Just slime. And trust me: worms don’t feel nothing, they don’t have the brains to plot revenge, so they can’t hurt anybody in this story. Okay?”

Wilford nodded.

“So,” Dingus continued, “we’re starting to think we’re not going to be able to kill this worm, that we’re just making more worms, when Mom—your Gramma—cracks the front door open and asks if we’re finished with the beans. Well, we aren’t. So, she tells us we need to get back on the porch and finish what we started. And then she slams the door again.

“We both still hate having to mess with these beans, and without thinking it through, I pick up one of the worm sections and bring it onto the porch with me. I kneel down, pull a bean out of the bag with my free hand, release the worm on the porch floor, string the bean, snap it, and rub it against the worm. ‘This is how much I hate green beans,’ I say, dropping the bean into the finished bowl.

“Your dad bends down with a bean he’s just strung, rubs it across the worm, and spits on the bean before dropping it into the done bowl. ‘You hate like a girl’ he says to me—no offense, Tilapia.

“So, I stick beans up my nose and in my ears; he steps off the porch, pulls down his fly and pees on the beans; I hop off the porch, drop my pants and stick a bean up my butt.”

“Uh oh,” said Tilapia.

“Gross,” giggled Reggie.

Wilford narrowed his eyes, rocked forward and said, “then what?”

“Well, then we both stick beans up our butts and pull ’em out before dropping ’em into the finished pot. We do this till we’re through stringing. Then we go inside and hand the bowl to Gramma. ‘Done,’ we say, struggling to keep our faces straight.

“‘You boys got so dirty,’ Gramma says. ‘Baths for both of you before supper.’

“At the table that evening, I announce I’ve got a stomach ache and shouldn’t eat anything. There’s this rule in the house that you have to eat everything that’s on your plate unless you’re sick, so I expect your dad to say he’s not feeling good either before the beans hit his plate. But, he never says it.

“Now he’s got the law degree and the power job and the trophy wife and the big house. And here’s me, sitting in this dump, telling this story to his kids. Hell, I used to think we were the same guy, outside and in. But, I go to bed hungry that night. He eats the boiled chicken and the beans, smiles, and, I swear to God, asks for more.”

“Ooooh,” groaned Tilapia. “Daddy…”

“Man,” said Reggie.

“Huh?” said Wilford.

“Never understood it,” said Dingus. “Never will.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Happily ever after,” Tilapia whispered.

“Verdict’s still out,” said Dingus.

The kids started clambering for ice cream.

 * * *

 Bob Shar is a former newspaper editor, burned out literary magazine editor/publisher and recently retired librarian living in Winston-Salem, NC.  His short stories have appeared in The South Carolina Review, Greensboro Review, Cold Mountain Review, Bartleby Snopes, Foundling Review, Fringe, Molotov Cocktail, The Flash Fiction Offensive and elsewhere. He has little appetite for string beans. 

A Safe Deposit

By Mark Charney

Lena welcomes Barry home from the memorial service around two o’clock, his gray eyes moist and dulled behind the tortoise shell frames. He removes his jacket, loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, and sits in the chair before the bay window where he scans the bookshelves, desk, and the fireplace mantel with a photograph of three men: Meier, Goldman, and himself. It’s a photograph that she would have preferred taking off the mantel years ago. Barry insisted, “No, leave it.”

She had not gone with him this morning, had decided not to. It had been years since she’d set foot on campus and it would have been too difficult, too many memories there. She’d been an active faculty wife in those years, contributing her share to the school’s fundraising and campus causes, but had stopped after what happened, happened. She had stopped attending events related to the university after Barry had become persona non grata because by extension, she too had suffered the same.

Goldman’s death and today’s service might have been a special occasion, but she didn’t care to put up a front. Barry could. It was his choice and he could or would not stay away. He’d flown in from his consulting work in Florida to attend the service because it was his last chance to say goodbye to an old friend and mentor, pay his respects to someone he cared about and admired. He’d asked her to come along too, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t, and after she met his second request with a hard stare and a steady head shake, he didn’t ask again.

She joins him in the den now because she’s making a grocery list, and she wants his input. Setting her pad on the end table, she turns to him quickly. Her motions are rapid but fluid, elegant. She keeps her hair pulled back with a black scarf, exposing a high forehead, coppery skin, delicate features. Her body is petite and the limbs angular, attenuated like those of a ballerina. “May I bring you anything from the store?” she asks.

“No,” he says, staring absently at her pad and pencil. The back of her hand brushes a statue of Ganeshu that rests atop an arts and crafts writing table. The carved lava Ganeshu swings his trunk, holds a broken tusk in one hand and a stony sweet treat in the other. It isn’t an antique but she likes quirky objects as much as she likes antiques, and this one didn’t come cheap.

“Lena?” he asks, chin lowered into his chest, eyes ignoring Ganeshu but not her.

“Yes.”

“Was there ever a letter?”

“A letter?”

“Yes, when I was at the service today, I saw Bobby Meier. He invited me to lunch at the club afterward, told me that Isaac had spoken to him about a year ago. He said Isaac had discussed getting in touch, sending me a letter. Bobby wanted to know if I ever got that letter.”
She refuses to swallow, refuses to have an awkward motion in her throat betray any secrets. “No, I never saw any letters,” she says.

“Are you sure?

“Yes, sure.”

She blinks once. The light behind him from the bay window is brilliant, snow on the ground, reflective and blinding. The valley roads might still be icy. She isn’t sure. They have a heavy car so it’s never a problem.

“Doesn’t matter,” Barry says. “Maybe he never got around to it.”

She confirms that he has no requests from the store and picks up her pad and pen, retreating into the kitchen. But his question has shaken her and she takes a moment to stand at the counter, gaze out of the narrow window that frames their backyard. Snow melts and puddles on the cover of their pool, tiny glaciers erode and expose the white lines on their tennis court. Barry’s tin-domed observatory drops ice cycles from its circular eave.

Should she have handed the letter over? Should she do it now? At least tell him that such a letter had come but she threw it away, because it had, showed up in the mail one day a year ago about this time. She’d held the envelope to the light, thought about steaming its seal open. How she had wanted to read the contents, and she expected that he would want to as well. For awhile its folded and glued paper geometry sat on the kitchen table, waiting for him to come home from Florida and his consulting work. But his being away had given her time to think. The house quiet, the children grown and gone with families of their own, and it was just Barry and her surrounded by antiques in the sprawling house with its telescoping wings, the back yard full of expensive toys that lay dormant. Barry could only find work in Florida now.

There had been other letters too, a shoebox full of them that he kept beneath his desk. Letters of reconciliation that Barry had been receiving in recent years, notes from those who despite all that had happened, admired him—former Hopkins colleagues, coworkers, leaders of utility companies, presidents of engineering firms, PhD students, people who felt that he had been singled out and given a bum deal. They’d written to tell him that they knew he probably wasn’t the only one to have acted dishonestly in those years. It had been the politicians really, and the climate of the time. Barry was not the only one to have ever taken a bribe, asked for one, or passed one up the ladder. “When you’re in Atlanta, won’t you come by?” one correspondent might say. “When you’re in Cleveland, some see us?” said another. Even Bobby Meier, long ago retired from his teaching duties, had a letter in the box.

But she knew. Barry would have traded the whole boxful for the one that had lain on the kitchen table that day, the one from Goldman, his friend, his mentor, the grand old man of Hopkins engineering, the man who had given him his first break when he came to Maryland and who used to come over and play tennis in a yellow polo shirt and white shorts, white socks, even at age seventy-five, all five foot three, one hundred and fifteen pounds of him. But when Goldman found out what Barry was involved with, he had turned his back, did not wish to associate. The tennis fun and private violin recitals had stopped because Goldman had a reputation to protect. Barry tried to talk with him, had hoped to have a conversation and explain his position, what it was like to actually be in government and not just a figurehead on a blue ribbon panel. But Goldman would not listen, and because he would not, neither would anyone else, at least not in the circles that mattered to Barry.

It had taken fifteen years for Goldman to come around, fifteen years for his letter to arrive in their mailbox. And after much deliberation, Lena decided, this one was not for Barry but for her. This letter would be her compensation for the treatment she’d endured from faculty wives, from neighbors and former friends. She kept it, and Goldman never wrote another, never called, and certainly never stopped by for a game of tennis.

And now Goldman was dead.

Finding herself in front of the bedroom closet, Lena remembers that her intention was to shop at the grocery store. She removes a coat from her closet and returns to the living room. “I’m heading out now, Barry,” she says to his still figure, frozen in the light by the bay window. “Sure you don’t need anything?”

“No. I’m fine thank you.” His voice is kindly as he stares down at the cover of a National Review on the table. She’d just finished it, cover to cover, pundits predicting the demise of the Soviet Union, Gorbachev experimenting with his Glasnost, George Bush taking over where Ronald Reagan left off.

“That’s a pretty coat,” Barry says, peeking above the tortoise shell bifocals.

“This?”

“Yes.”

She extends a sleeve and turns it over to examine the underside, a white mink with vertical black striping, each black stripe on the front about a closed fist’s width apart. “Don’t know why I don’t wear it more often,” she says. “You gave it to me.”

“I did? I suppose I should remember it then shouldn’t I?”

“Oh, it was so many years ago. I’m sure you wouldn’t remember.”

“I wish I did.”

“Oh Boo Boo.” She moves closer and puts an arm around his shoulder as he remains seated, leans down and squeezes him to her bosom. “I’ll wear it more often,” she says, kissing the top of his head through thinning hair. “Then maybe you will remember.”

He smiles at her and she leans over to kiss him a second goodbye. “It’s good to have you home a few days early,” she says, misty eyed and anxious for him not to see this mist.

She exits the house to the driveway and gets into her car, tucks her pocketbook with the shopping list beside her, bundles her coat to cover her gray turtleneck, and pushes up a leaver to heat the interior. It’s early March and the snow doesn’t seem to be letting up. The weather man says there will be more, nothing major, but more. She starts the engine and backs from the driveway, past the sign on the lamp post that reads “B. T. Feigl” on the top line, “Moot Point” on the bottom. Her idea, not his. Because what else is there to say?

She drives along a winding Green Spring Valley Road and past the old yellow painted mansions on the hills, one-time horse and dairy farms behind dilapidated stone and iron fences, farms owned by old Baltimore when old Baltimore used to have a house in the valley and a house in the city. She stops at a light, and while her thoughts have resettled on grocery shopping, she sees the marquee for her bank. At the last minute, instead of turning right toward the grocery store, she pulls into the left lane, a lane that will lead her straight through the intersection. The light turns and she crosses into a small strip mall, nudges the big car into one of the parking spaces. She pauses in her seat before getting out, checks her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Her hands are shaking, and she needs to slow her breathing.

The money, all of the money that Barry stashed away, $72,000 by his own tallies, was kept in three safety deposit boxes in three separate banks, two in Baltimore, one in Washington D.C. Barry was too afraid to spend it. Extravagant purchases might have appeared suspicious, he later explained to the judge. The mink coat that she is wearing today, like so many of the things that seemed like luxuries to the reporters who’d staked out their home during the trials, and those neighbors bold enough to inquire, had not been purchased during his tenure as the Governor’s Roads Chairman or later as the Vice President’s Science Advisor, but instead had been acquired long before, when he had his own businesses. Other luxuries had been purchased by her, with the dividends earned off her family’s investments.

She walks into the bank and it’s not busy so a young female bank teller invites her up to the counter. Aside from her shopping list, her purse contains a small renter’s key. The bank teller is friendly, but when Lena requests to see her safety deposit box, there are protocols and the woman asks for identification. Lena straightens her headscarf, grins, and removes a wallet from her pocketbook, producing a driver’s license from among the plastic cards. “And how are you doing today, Mrs. Feigl?” the teller asks, raising her magenta eyelids to confirm the license photo.

“Fine, thank you.”

The girl hands over a book to sign, then retrieves a key, directing Lena to follow her down an aisle to an opening at the end of the bank stalls. A small door leads her to the mouth of the vault, and the woman uses a step ladder to reach the box, descends, and directs Lena to a paneled room with a door adjacent to the vault.

They enter the room and the teller uses her guard key to open one of the locks on the box, then she leaves the room. Lena unbuttons her coat and takes a seat in the stiff backed chair, inserting her corresponding renter’s key to open the box. Inside, on top, a few pieces of jewelry, her mother’s diamond ring, earrings, a cameo broach. She takes each item from the box and sets them on the table. Then she reaches to the bottom, extracting a deed to some property in Illinois left to her by her father, the birth certificates of her children, and another envelope beneath this. She removes the envelope, turns it over and reads the writing on the outside. It’s addressed to her house, and Barry’s name is on it.

She holds the letter to her nose and breaths in its pulpy fragrance. She has never opened it, but she has an idea about what’s in it. She runs her fingers along its edges, sharp but not sharp enough to cut, runs her fingers over Goldman’s return address, the cancellation stamp over an illustration of a John Bull locomotive. Leave it to an engineer to use a stamp that honors engineering.

The envelope reassures her, calms and steadies her breathing. She was getting nervous about it not being there. How safe are banks really? Banks, like houses, can get robbed. But she thinks it’s safer here. At times, like this afternoon, when she’d told Barry that the letter didn’t exist, she’d almost frightened herself into believing that it didn’t. Now she has reassurance, it does. And that’s good. After a few more moments of study, she taps the letter on her purse, considering, but she’s not ready yet.

She requires both hands to push the envelope once more into the bottom of the box, covering it over with the deed, the birth certificates, the diamonds, and the cameo brooch. One more glance at the packed contents and she drops the metal top closed, turns her key, and calls for the teller. The bank will close soon, lights out, vault locked, and her letter will be secure for a while longer. It is still her letter, not his, and she can do with it as she pleases. She buttons her coat, prepared to meet the cold, but with shopping to do and errands to run.

* * *

Mark Charney has written advertising copy, edited scientific journals, and contributed to a book about the history of Maryland roads. His non-fiction has appeared in Maryland regional magazines and trade publications. He holds a degree in architecture from Virginia Tech and a Masters degree in writing from Towson University. He lives in Baltimore with his wife and two daughters.

Strike

By Andy Bailey

“We’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it,” Mom said as she handed me the sheet of demands. Her skin was dark, having absorbed three weeks worth of thick July sunlight, and she looked five years younger. She walked back across the yard and began fiddling with the awning of the pup tent. Dad lay on the overgrown grass, tongue running across his mustache as he dragged a paintbrush over a new sign. He saw me looking, gave a cocky smirk, and held it up: PARENTS LOCAL #0001 ON STRIKE!

It was their third week on strike and life in the house had gotten rough. Dirty clothes piled up in the hallways and an obnoxious smell emanated from the dishwasher. The eighty dollars a week Aunt Lynn gave Emmie and me for food limited our grocery shopping to the 7-11, and the consistent meals of chiquitos, taquitos, and burritos left us bloated and half-nauseous. Mom and Dad had taken the keys to the car, leaving us to bike or walk our way across town on the few nights we wanted to hang out with friends; we couldn’t invite anyone over, not after the two-person human chain they had formed to block the front door had sufficiently weirded out my friend Chuck enough to keep him from coming back. They had even managed to scare away Grandma, yelling “Scab! Scab!” when she tried to walk up the front path with a few plates of fried chicken.

The mood inside the house almost matched the smell. I blamed Emmie for pushing Mom too far with the constant whining about the mushy avocados in her homemade Cobb salads or the complaints when Mom bought honeysuckle-scented shampoo instead of summer peach. She accused me, correctly, of not helping matters when I allowed the grass to grow to an untamable length after Dad’s repeated requests to cut it. This all came after the Orlando vacation we had to end early after my verbal harassment of Mickey and Goofy got us kicked out of Disney World. In retrospect, the morning we awoke to find them marching across the lawn, brandishing signs that read UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN = HATEFUL CHILDREN and NO RESPECT, NO PARENTS/KNOW RESPECT, KNOW PARENTS was much more surprising than it should have been. It took us until that night to realize it wasn’t a joke.

I read their demands, scribbled on the back of a Publisher’s Clearinghouse envelope and signed by both of them. Two car uses per day with a maximum of ten per week. Set allowance at one dollar per year of age per week with an optional good behavior clause at ten percent a year. Chore negligence resulting in an immediate twenty-five percent allowance reduction. Zero tolerance whining policy. I crumpled up the envelope and tossed it into the overflowing trash basket.

That night, after Emmie returned from the Goodwill store, we discussed it. “That means I’d only get thirteen dollars a week!” she said, digging into her bare arm with her fingernails. “That’s not even enough to go to a movie.”

“Yeah, and I’d only get seventeen.” Couldn’t fill a car up with gas, if I’d had one. “Listen, though. They have to start teaching again in early August. No way they can stay outside then. They can’t work without showers or computers or a comfortable bed.”

She threw me a desperate look. Her lime green eyes peeked out from behind her puffy cheeks. “Two more weeks?” she asked, biting the inside of her lip.

I nodded as I looked onto the lawn. A solitary light shone in their tent, casting an orange halo onto the driveway within which their blurry silhouettes danced. I could hear their laughter from inside. Two more weeks, I thought. Two more weeks.

# # #

Andy Bailey is an English teacher in Los Angeles and has had work published in Pindeldyboz, Raleigh Quarterly, and Buffalo Carp, among others.

Faith

by Gerald Rivard 

The bomb must have gone off after all, because Rajiv al Fazir came to consciousness in a martyr’s heaven.

He was nestled inside a cocoon of moving flesh.  He could feel the warm touch of soft skin everywhere on his naked body.  Hands and fingers caressed, lips and tongues probed, long hair and a tapestry of breasts draped and dangled.  The room seemed to spin, though there were no walls or ceiling.  Distant stars floated through the dark sky, providing a dim ambient light, and the voices of the virgins as they lauded his courage seemed to swim in circles all around him.  He could not have begun to count the number of hands or lips ministering to his body or the number of voices singing his praises.

“Rajiv, you are my hero,” said one virgin as she kissed along his chest.

“You are so brave and so strong,” said another as she stroked his thigh.

An olive-skinned virgin with the striking green eyes of a Persian cat kissed him on his mouth, her tongue brushing his lips. “We are your reward, Rajiv,” she said as she pressed her face against his left cheek.

A dark-haired virgin brought her face to his right cheek at the same time and whispered in his ear. “You gave your life for Allah,” she said. “And so Allah has given us to you.”

He felt himself being enveloped, then, as another of the virgins straddled him. He ran his hands from her thighs to her waist, then slowly up toward her shoulders as she moved against him. He pulled her toward him, and the other women moved out of their way. A short time later, the girl climbed off of him as another virgin took her place. One after another, the virgins shed their purity to him while others, virgin or not, found untended areas of his body to worship.

Later, satisfied, he lay entangled with them all. Gradually their breathing quieted and movement of flesh against flesh became almost imperceptible, until the silence and stillness was benign enough to be broken.

“Did you know Yasin Khumar?” asked the cat-eyed woman at his side as she stroked his cheek with her finger.

“Yasin? He is here?”

“Yes,” the dark-haired one said, kissing his upper thigh.  “He is a brave jihadist, just like you. All brave jihadists are here.”

He had trained with Yasin at a camp in the Sudan. After the training, Rajiv was sent to the United States to await his assignment. He never saw Yasin, or any of his jihad brothers, again. He had hoped to see their names in the newspapers, to learn how they had died, to understand how his own death would fit into Allah’s great plan. But in all his time of waiting, he had learned nothing.

“Did you know him well?” she asked, her eyes shining in the darkness, her breasts pressed cozily into his arm.

Rajiv said nothing, just stared up at the stars. The women took his cue and remained quiet as well, gently caressing and kissing his body. Their touch was just as erotic as it had been before, but now that he was satisfied, its intensity was no longer sufficient to overshadow his own thoughts.

He had expected to hear the explosion in the instant before it blew through him. He had expected to feel his body being torn apart, just for a brief flicker of time before his death. But when he shouted “Allah Akbar!” and pressed the button, nothing seemed to happen. The last thing he remembered was wondering why the bomb didn’t explode.

But it had gone off, because he was here. Perhaps Allah had spared him the pain of being torn to pieces. Perhaps it was enough that he demonstrated the will to suffer for his faith, so that Allah had brought him straight to heaven before the explosion.

It was Rajiv who broke the silence. “Take me to Yasin,” he said. He sat up, but the room with no walls or ceiling seemed to spin again. The cat-eyed woman who was no longer a virgin gently eased him back down, with help from at least three other hands behind him.

“In time,” she said. “There will be time for everything.” The pulse of the room slowed and its movement stilled until all was calm again.

“Sleep now,” she said as she kissed him again. “There are more rewards for you, and all the time you will need.”

* * *

Rajiv woke up alone in his bed; the women were gone. He wondered why there was a bed, but no walls or ceiling, and no floor that he could see, but before he could give it much thought, the prophet Mohammad appeared in a flash of white light and smoke.

Awestruck, Rajiv scrambled from the bed and dropped to his knees. It turned out that there was a floor, or at least a carpet. He put his face to it and waited for the prophet to speak.

Mohammad’s voice was soft, but clear and commanding. “Yasin speaks highly of you, Rajiv,” he said. “I understand you would like to see him.”

“Yes,” Rajiv answered, “I would very much like to see Yasin. And Khalif, too, and Mahmud. Did they fulfill their assignments for Allah? Are they here?”

“You may see whomever you wish, if they are here. I will arrange for you to see your friends, all of them. But first, I have been asked to let you know that Allah is very pleased with your performance.”

At the thought of having pleased Allah, Rajiv was filled up with a joy that seemed much too big for his heart to hold. Tears flooded his eyes, and he began to sob so heavily he could barely breathe.

Mohammad reached out to Rajiv then, and being comforted by the prophet did not diminish his tears. They flowed more freely, washing away all of his fear, all of his doubt, all of his sin.

Afterwards, when he had been cleansed, Rajiv asked about his brothers in jihad, and learned from the prophet all that he wished to know. Khalif al Rawi blew up a bus in Chicago, killing forty-one infidels. Mahmud Jalil and Mohammad Sayf Mashhadami simultaneously set off bombs in New York subway cars, derailing the train and killing over three hundred infidels between them.  And Latif Hassan crashed a plane into a nuclear power station, killing dozens immediately and thousands over time.

Rajiv also learned that his own bomb, which at first he thought had failed to explode, was responsible for the deaths of eighty-seven. He was but a small cog in Allah’s wheel, but that wheel was turning according to the plan, crushing the infidels and preparing the world for Islam.

Heaven was surely a wonderful, wonderful place.

* * *

Special Agent Wendell Grimes of Homeland Security reviewed the files on the three would-be terrorists who had arrived that morning. Their names had been obtained through Rajiv al Fazir, who had since been sent to Israel for final interrogation and disposal.  The files bore the Operation Blind Faith insignia, a scarf-drawn face with a turban pulled over its eyes.

All three of these men—Khalif al Rawi, Latif Hassan, and Mahmud Jalil—had been contacted by undercover field agents and given false suicide bombing assignments. And like Rajiv al Fazir and others before them, they had been given a non-explosive compound fabricated to look like C4 and loaded with a powerful and fast-acting tranquilizer. The carefully chosen locations had been sealed from public access once the subject had entered and filled with agents in plain clothes who provided the expected screams, convincing the bombers that they had successfully completed their missions.

A cocktail of LSD, sodium thiopental, and MDMA had been administered to Mahmud Jalil, and the prostitutes were in position for his awakening in Heaven Room 3.

The other two, Khalif al Rawi and Latif Hassan, had already awakened, and Special Agent Jacob Weinberg, decked out in his flowing robes, was having a conversation with al Rawi in Heaven Room 1. Grimes pushed a button to listen in.

“What about Mullah bin Majid?” al Rawi asked in Arabic. Grimes wrote the name on a pad as Weinberg, posing as Mohammad, informed al Rawi of bin Majid’s success in destroying the Woodrow Wilson Bridge over the Potomac, killing over three hundred including many Washington officials. Grimes chuckled to himself, knowing that Weinberg had blamed heavy traffic on that very bridge for his own lateness that morning.

Enemies speak so much more freely when they believe they are among friends.

* * *

Gerald Rivard began writing before Kindergarten, and his strange tales entertained his classmates throughout most of his school years.  After a long hiatus, he is back in the swivel chair, crafting short stories at a pace he considers far too slow as he prepares for his first novel.  You can learn more about him and his writing at www.geraldrivard.com.

Hippie Market
by Tom Mahony

The hippie market is next door to my office. I buy a sandwich there almost every day. There’s no other place nearby to get food, and I’m too lazy to make my own lunch. The deli at the market is excellent. The people are friendly, and though they prepare the sandwiches with a plodding slowness characteristic of devout stoners, they also maintain a stoner’s freakish attention to culinary detail. The tomato slices are works of art.

There’s only one problem: the granola woman who works the register is always inviting me to one rally or another. She’s really into rallies. She’s really pumped up on “causes.” I’m neither for nor against her causes. I just want to pay for my sandwich.

Today I stand in line behind several people. Today I will ask her to please refrain from soliciting me for future political rallies.

The line moves forward. I’m up next. I don’t want to alienate this woman—she seems nice enough, and sincere in her beliefs—but I have to say something, as the situation has become untenable. I dread purchasing my daily sandwich. But I must be careful in my technique. If things go wrong, I’ll have to face an even more awkward exchange on future sandwich runs.

I reach the register, preparing for the confrontation. But she doesn’t invite me to a rally. She seems subdued, just mutters a greeting and rings up my purchase. I wonder what happened. Has someone else complained about her pamphleteering? Has she become cynical and apathetic overnight?

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I got laid off today. They’re cutting back on staff.”

I’m struck by the news. I feel bad for her, and tell her so. Though I can’t deny a certain relief, I regret my past irritation with her. She’s a thoroughly decent person. I almost feel nostalgic for her proselytizing.

“I hear they’re looking to hire a receptionist next door,” she says. “You work there, right?”

I hesitate. We are in fact hiring. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure that you work there?”

“That we’re hiring.”

“There’s a big sign on the window advertising the position. I saw your name listed as the contact. I recognize it from your debit card.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What do you think? Do I have a chance at the job? I could really use the money.”

I clear my throat. “What are your skills?”

“I can do it all. I was a receptionist for five years before I started here.”

This is getting bad. “It’s dull work.”

She points at the cash register. “You think this is exciting?”

I start to panic. My mind races. I can’t think straight.

“We get along, right?” she says. “Other customers are so rude when I talk politics. You always seem interested, like we’re on the same wavelength.”

Same wavelength? I should’ve spoken up long ago, as apparently every other customer has. At least this woman is firm in her beliefs. I’m always weaseling out of confrontation and stand-taking. Who’s the kook here?

I have to come clean. I could not possibly work with her. Avoidance and apathy have cost me dearly throughout life. I either take a stand now or I never will.

The line stacks up behind me. I glance at the irritated faces. Everyone’s watching me. They know the score. One by one they’ve made peace with the woman by politely telling her to shut up. I envy them. As they glare at me, I can read the look on their faces: what kind of man are you?

What kind of man, indeed.

I turn back to the woman. “When can you start?”

* * *

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in dozens of online and print publications, including Surfer Magazine, Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, In Posse Review, Boston Literary Magazine, 34^th Parallel, Diddledog, Foliate Oak, and Decomp. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, was published by Thumbscrews Press in 2009. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at www.tommahony.net.

“Hippie Market” originally appeared in Bartleby Snopes and in Slow Entropy.

Stock image credit: Pioi

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