I Was Born Restless

I was born restless. The oldest. Not the first. A boy before me. Died after a few weeks. He was never given a name. John was born after me. And then another unnamed. And then all of my sisters. I wish I would have been born a boy. To run through the fields like a wild dog. To skinny dip in the local river. To laugh my head off. And not worry about what the ladies at church thought. To get off the Island and head west.

...............................download 'Down East'

Josephine

Josephine

Josephine graduated from high school with honors and entered college. Studying science. Headed for a career in medicine. It was thought how wonderful it would be if she was the first female to become the county coroner. Josephine took a summer job at the local drug store. Her father, who was a police officer, had connections with Mr. Edwards, one of the owners. Josephine loved working as a cashier. So much so that she considered quitting college and working full time. Her father forbade Josephine from making this decision. Anyone with your I.Q. should not be working in a drug store the rest of your life.

And then something happened. There was a boy. Paul McGregor smiled at Josephine the first day she worked in the drug store. The first moment she walked through the front sliding doors. The first time she walked out of the Ladies’ room wearing her blue and ruby uniform. Josephine had been blind sided, struck by Cupid’s arrow. Working at her cash register, she would glance down the aisle hoping to see Paul. Working. Merely walking by.

I’m mad about the boy. A gay appeal that makes me feel that there is something sad about the boy.

On her breaks Josephine would sneak out to the back of the drug store where Paul went to smoke. She wouldn't speak to him. Would stand there like she was out for a break of fresh air. Like she was lost in thought. One day Paul offered her a cigarette and she took it. Smoked like she’d be born to it.

Chained her to the cigarette. And the boy.

Occasionally Paul would come up and talk to her and May when business was slow. Paul was a mysterious figure to Josephine. He smoked. He shaved his head. Though it was obvious his hair was red. Like a Russian. His eyes were dark. Like some count. In the court of Catherine. And he liked to read books. The only person Josephine ever met who read Moby Dick for pleasure. And he wanted to be a writer.

If only I could employ some magic that would finally destroy this dream that chains me to this boy.

Josephine wrote as well. Mostly poetry. About romance. And unspeakable crimes against loneliness. Unmentionable acts against decency. She submitted her work to several magazines. And was published. More than once. The publisher encouraged her to write more. And she did. But she kept all this quiet. Her father did not approve of such frivolous activities as poetry. Won’t pay the rent! was his usual refrain to any activity he didn’t agree with. Nor did she tell her mother. The content of her poems would have scandalized her mother, a religious and rather prudish woman.

One day when Josephine caught Paul writing in a small book he always seemed to keep on him, Josephine mentioned that she wrote. Paul encouraged her to bring in some work so he could read it. She did. When Paul finished reading three of her pieces he just stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she finally asked.

“They’re very… adult.” He smiled awkwardly.

“You think I’m a pervert?” Josephine asked. “I’m taking an introductory course in psychology at college and I have all the symptoms.”

................from my ebook "Open 24 Hours"

The Interview

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..................

Detective Peeters is sitting in his office, smoking a cigarette. His sleeves are rolled up and a cigarette dangles out of his mouth. Detective Rousseau steps into the room.

Rousseau: “She’s here.”

Peeters stands up and grabs his jacket. He puts it on and grinds his cigarette out into an ashtray.

Peeters: “Send her in.”

Rousseau steps out of the room and a moment later he escorts Helen Iadipaola into the room. Rousseau exits and closes the door. Peeters gestures to a chair and the blonde takes a seat. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit in her dress revealing her knees. Taking out a lipstick tube and a small mirror, she puts some lipstick on. Peeters pretends not to notice.

Helen: “You wanted to talk to me.”

Peeters steps around his desk and takes a seat on the edge.

Peeters: “Did you know Christian Ghent?”

Helen: “Who?”

Peeters: “The recently deceased.”

Helen: “You could have asked me that yesterday at the hotel.”

Peeters takes out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to the blonde. She takes it. He produces a lighter from his pocket and leaning over lights her cigarette.

Peeters: “You looked uncomfortable yesterday.”

She draws on the cigarette and stares back at Peeters whose face is only inches away from her own. The smoke slips sensuously out of her mouth.

Helen: “No. Why do you ask?”

Peeters: “A maid saw Ghent with a blonde just before he died.”

Helen: “And she identified me?”

Peeters draws back. He shakes his head.

Peeters: “Why are you hanging out with Schmidt?”

Helen: “He’s got money. And he spends it. On me.”

Peeters lights up his own cigarette.

Peeters: “Singing doesn’t pay?”

Helen: “Not enough.”

Peeters: “What’s enough?”

Helen smirks: “More than a cop can afford.”

Peeters steps back behind his desk and sits down in his chair.

Peeters: “I’ve seen babes like you before.”

Helen: “Sure you have.”

Peeters: “You’re going to need my help, Miss Iadipaola. Call me.”

Helen: “Is that it?”

Peeters: “That’s it.”

Helen stands up and turns toward the door. She turns back to Peeters who remains in his chair.

Helen: “Aren’t you going to show a lady the door?”

Peeters points to the door.

Peeters: “It’s over there.”

Helen smirks: “You don't much like women, do you Detective?”

Alice

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.......................

Alice

“You embarrassed me,” Alice cried.

“Slow down,” Larry pleaded. “I couldn't help it. I didn't expect to see my father there. And with another woman.”

“Another woman! Do you think that this is all some cheap melodrama. I take you out into my world and I expect you to behave like a gentleman. Not some frothing teenager. I don't know what I'm going to say to my friends. Maybe none of them saw you leave. Why did you run?”

“Watch out!”

Alice skidded to a stop. The light was red. A crosstown bus rushed through the intersection. Larry had a vision of him and Alice and the car, crunched under the bus's wheels.

Alice started to cry.

“I'm sorry.”

“Oh you silly boy. You don't understand what's happening, do you?”

“No, not really.”

“I don't need this. I just need company. A little diversion. Oh, its all an old woman's... vanity.”

“You're not an old woman. You're about my mom's age.”

Alice started laughing. She took her cigarettes out and handed the lighter to Larry. He lit her cigarette.

“My late husband, Michael, used to accuse me of living in a dream world. All these fantasies he said will never bring you peace of mind. But, I can't... what else is there. You don't know this Larry, but life is so disappointing. Without distractions, all you hear is the tick of time. You're my distraction Larry. I need to be... adored.”

Larry took a deep breath.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked.

Alice glanced at Larry from behind her cigarette.

“Would that bother you?”

“No, but...”

“But...”

“Well, I've got things to do. I was thinking of going to Los Angeles with my band. We're pretty good. And I think we could make it with a few breaks. I was going to tell you. But I guess I chickened out. You've got to understand. I'm young...”

Alice stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Slipped the gear into drive. And sped through the intersection. The light was still red.

Mel

“Things are not going well,” Mel said. Mel was the second of the hall monitors. He was working on his Phd in history. He took the job as hall monitor to see how he felt about teaching kids.
“Can't get a parking space?” I asked. A lot of students had brought cars to school. Space was at a premium.
“I can't stand the kids,” Mel said.
“They're not that bad.”
“They say that I snort when I talk,” Mel explained. Met did snort. “Its a condition that I have. And sometimes when I'm not alert, they'll walk single file behind me down the hall.”
I shook my head.
“Sometimes,” Mel said, “I get dark thoughts. Like I come into the school with a gun. And take them out. One by one. I know it would cost me my job but it is so tempting.”
“Maybe you need to take some time off,” I suggested. He did. He quit.
............from my ebook HALL MONITOR

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A Boy’s Life

 

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OPEN 24hrs

 

The Suicide Of A Middle-Aged Retailer

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OPEN 24 hrs
(excerpt)
 

The Suicide Of A Middle-Aged Retailer

"I want to die." Mr. Singh spread the fingers of his two hands across the counter. Like they were two crabs doing push ups.

"Is that too much to ask?" A robust man, Mr. Singh had thick hairy eyebrows that fell haplessly over his sorrowful down turned eyes.

A round face looked out at the world.

"But..." His nose spread like a train tunnel. His mouth fell open like a tea pot’s spout ready to pour. Mr. Singh took a deep breath as his eyes scanned the couches, beds, and bureaus in his huge furniture store.

"They won't leave me alone. Why? You're asking yourself why a successful merchant such as myself would want to commit the ultimate... sale.?"

There was a sign behind Mr. Singh. Hanging on the wall. Like a drapery on an aircraft carrier. Everything On Sale. Everything Must Go, read the sign.

Mr. Singh moved his tongue around in his mouth tasting his words.

“Appreciation!” The word shot out of Singh’s mouth like spit. “Nobody appreciates anyone. Anymore. We have lost the ability to appreciate. We depreciate. As soon as something is off the lot. We are never satisfied. There must always be more. Lesson learned. First word - appreciation.”

Mr. Singh hesitated. He looked off to one side as if he was waiting to be cued.

“Second word. Congratulations! No matter what difficulties you face and overcome, no one congratulates you. They do not come up and shake your hand. They do not say, ‘Mr. Singh, you have done a very nice job!’ They complain. ‘Mr. Singh, why aren’t your prices lower? Why must you add sales tax to the cost of this item? Or that item? If everything is to go, why can’t you give it to me for free?’ As if it was my choice whether to add sales tax. Am I not already selling this or that item on sale? Is that not enough? You are saving money. Be happy. Be content. You must not be so greedy. Smell the coffee… roses. Lesson learned. Second word - congratulations.”

Mr. Singh took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his brow.

“Infestation! We have mice. I was so embarrassed when I was showing Mr. Green a new couch and he discovered mouse droppings under the cushion. I am afraid to go downstairs to the storage room and check out the mattresses. There could be empires of mice down there. Civilizations. Mice versions of the Incas. Of Rome. There could be an Alexander the Great. An Attila the Rat.”

Mr. Singh raised his right hand and pointed upward.

“My brother-in-law sold me the mattresses. On margin. He was taking a loss. Or so he said. At such mind blowing prices, he argued, people would flock to my store to buy these mattresses. Have I sold one mattress? Have I seen a flock? I should not have trusted my brother-in-law. And would not have if my wife had not assured me of his honesty. Have I sold one mattress? I have not. Do not trust your wife’s relatives. Lesson learned. Third word - infestation. If not for these mice, I would have slit my wrists long ago.”

Mr. Singh took a deep breath and wiped his brow again.

“Compromises! I opened a corner of my store for one dollar purchases. Six aisles. Of junk. And so little profit margin. But it does cover the wages of the young lady I must employ on the cash. To monitor the store when I am not there. The young lady is my own daughter. Yes, I must pay my own daughter. Like I would any other employee. I do not charge her room and board but still she insists that I pay her. I do not mind. I want to encourage her to look after herself. To earn and save. But… she wants benefits. My own daughter wants benefits. She talks about a pension plan. What does a fifteen year old girl need with a pension? And a raise. She argues that she has worked for me long enough to warrant a raise. And still she complains. The sounds of the mice frighten her. Nightmares. The thought of the mice keeps her up at night. It is not the mice but that damn internet. But I say nothing. I must say nothing. That is what my wife commands. And she who spends my money must be obeyed. My wife says that I must not alienate my daughter. My daughter says that there aren’t enough customers to keep her busy. To keep her from listening to the tiny feet across the ceiling. And under the floor boards. And the cries of the new born mice. All pink and blind and wanting. Squealing to be suckled. I do not know how she can hear anything with that damn electronic device in her ear. She cannot hear me. How can she hear the mice? She tells me that the job is too boring. She wants to be busy. I hand her a broom. And she calls me a pig. I do not want her to be bored. I want her to be busy. Still she complains that it is my fault. How do you manage these teenage girls? Who only worry about make-up. And clothes. And the boys. That is what is on her mind. I have warned her mother. Talk to the girl. Make her aware of the thoughts of these young men. They are not satisfied until they are satisfied. And my wife looks at me like I am crazy. I was a boy once. Yes, she cries, I remember. You were always pestering me. More. More. More. You have always been greedy. Do not hire your daughter. If I had no daughter, I would have been in the ground long ago. Lesson learned.”

“Ambitious! That is what I am. Not greedy. I want a better life for my family. For my daughter. So that she can have the man that is worthy of her. And not some high school drop out. And my wife. I want her to have an easier life. Not like my dear mother. Who complained all the time that my father was lazy. But, I overstepped. The Six Points Plaza. I should never have come here. I was happy in Alderwood Plaza. Yes, the store was small. But I could get by. Okay, all the bills didn’t get paid. Do they ever? And yes, my wife wanted us to move to a better neighborhood. She’d heard that Canadians all have cottages. Where was ours? She wanted to bring her mother over from the old country. To a cottage. To let her swim. To go trout fishing. You think my mother-in-law wants to go trout fishing. I would pay to see that. But, my wife does not listen to me. She wants her Canadian cottage.”

Mr. Singh loosened his tie and undid the top button of his pale blue shirt.

“We wanted the better life. What did we get? Mattresses going musty. Mice shit. A daughter with the attitude. And Mr. G! I have not mentioned Mr. G. Mr. G is the owner of the plaza. A most unpleasant man. Tall. Wispy blonde hair. A beard that is clotted with food and spit. Bad breath. And terrible teeth. He does not want to hear complaints. He does not want to talk about improvements. Or maintenance. Or the fire code. He only wants to see my money. I tell him that we need to talk. I would like to drop in at his home. But, he doesn’t give out his home address. I think Mr. G is afraid of guests. Rules! There are so many rules. Mr. G tells me I must not open a dollar store. There is already one in the plaza. And he tells me that my furniture is too cheap. It makes the whole plaza look cheesy. And I must take down my bankrupt sale sign. People don’t believe I am actually going bankrupt. The sale has been going on too long. I tell him that is the way you must sell to the public. I know the public. The public has been my education! Mr. G. cannot teach me anything about retail.”

Mr. Singh picks up a glass of water from a side table next to him. He takes a swallow.

“I am not selling enough merchandise to make a profit. Oh yes, I do make some sales. Many of those people return weeks later with complaints. They want a refund. Or an exchange. Do they not understand the meaning of a bankrupt sale? It means that you cannot return the object that you have purchased. This is the meaning of a bankrupt sale. Everyone knows this. I should not have to explain it. But still they do not listen. The public! You cannot believe the kind of customers I have. Last week I was showing Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds living room suites when I found a man asleep on one of the couches. I did not see him come into the store. Later my daughter said that he had come in earlier that morning. I know the man. He is always loitering around the plaza. I do not understand how Mr. G allows such people to loiter. He buys nothing. This man. He comes into my shop and looks around as if he will buy something but never does he make a purchase. Always the promise. ‘I will come back later, Mr. Singh,’ he says. And he does come back later. But not to make a purchase. He is a giant. And he does not bath often. Nor change his clothes. I think he is deranged. He talks. Incessantly. Never stops. I should introduce him to my mother-in-law. And he takes naps on my couches. How am I to sell this merchandise to Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds? I cannot.”

Mr. Singh loosens his tie some more and takes another drink of water.

“Health! The doctor in the plaza clinic tells me that I must learn to relax. Blood pressure. It is too high. And I must lose weight. Around the middle. You see my complexion. I look like I have been in the sun. The good life by the pool. Laying on a beach in Florida. Don’t I wish? It is high blood pressure. I cannot afford to be ill. Who is going to buy a three piece couch from a man who is barely alive? You must exude health. The successful man is a healthy man. I shall die of natural causes before I can kill myself. It is not fair."

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The Mystery of Edwin Drood

(excerpt)
I am a corpse. On the ledge of a small blue planet. In the suburbs of the Milky Way. During the first days of the third Millennium. I have always talked. I wake up talking. I talk in my sleep. I interrupt people when they’re talking. I talk during movies. I talk with my mouth full of food. I do not talk while I am being intimate with a woman. Not unless I’m asked to. I can’t stop talking. I’m looking at God straight in the eyes. Now. God has a receding chin. No wonder he’s always wearing a beard. And he has very little personality. God is a chartered accountant. With a second set of books. God is a mortician. Drumming up business. A compost preparing us for decomposition. Or God is a publisher. With a musty smelling manuscript growing in his lap. I am looking my creator straight in the eyes and I have a story. It begins in a bottle.

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Life at the Rectory

(excerpt)
I wanted to believe in something. I prayed. But all I could hear was the echoed clang of a clapper against a bell. The bell ringer was dead. The universe was empty… I was the miserable beggar on the street, my palms slashed red with the cuts from freshly minted coins… I was the bitch, the poor cur whining in the overheated parked car in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of a parking lot in the middle of the suburbs… I waited in the middle earth between paradise and suicide… I studied. I studied with Plato in the coldness of his cave, huddled around the fire as reality played out on the walls. I tried to find the sun but I could never find the entrance to the cave… I argued with Sartre in a room with no doors… I studied. Running along the streets of Copenhagen with Kierkegaard as the Danish brats pelted us with stones and laughter. I wanted to roast the little buggers over an open fire… I wept. Like hills into ditches into an empty sky… I saw a lonely man hanging from a tree and mistook him for Santa Claus. He looked down at me and smiled like a drunk in an alley. ‘Follow me,’ he entreated. ‘Or buy me another glass of wine. Or if you do not have any loose change, cut me down from this tree where I have been abandoned by the wind.’
A parish priest is dealing with several lives at crisis, the young boy becoming a hoodlum, another young boy who feels he is fated to die, the Parish pastor who wonders if he is suited for the Church, a woman who has fallen in love with him, and his own soul.

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Several Incidents in Mackenzie Philip’s Afternoons

(excerpt)
“Trust me, Father, God hates me. He tried to kill me when I was born. My head was too big and my mother almost died. They had to use clamps on my head but the clamps broke so they cut into my mother’s bones. It was a real mess. The doctors figured I would have brain damage. I was tested. They didn’t find any damage but what does that mean? The way I figure it, I was brain damaged. I mean, I should have been a genius but I’m just average intelligence. It’s been a real disappointment to my parents. My dad is an airline pilot and my mom teaches at Humber College so they’re pretty smart. They figured they should have been set for life with a genius as a child but look what they got to show for everything – me.”
Mackenzie Philips had to deal with all the trials of youth, bullies, school, parents who don’t understand him. And God. Who Mackenzie believes is out to get him. God wants revenge. Because Mackenzie has committed a terrible crime. He’s killed someone. He’s killed two someones.

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The Mad Man

(excerpt)
I can never sleep. Soon as my head hits the pillow, my brain turns on. Ideas. Things that you can never imagine yourself thinking. For months I used to worry about my airplane. There’s a small airport near the trailer where people land small aircraft. And as soon as my head was horizontal I started to worry. Where did I park the airplane? It’s not like it wouldn’t be easy to find. There can’t be more than a couple dozen airplanes on the ground. But I couldn’t recall parking it anywhere. Keep me up for hours. And then one day I was in Durham in this small grocery store picking up a few vegetables when it suddenly dawned on me. I don’t have an airplane.
One night I’m laying there worried about the poles. Not the country. The north and south pole. What if they switched? It had happened before. Would we wake up the next morning disoriented? Would the birds start flying north in the fall? Would we have to remake all our maps? Would Santa Claus have to seek out counseling?
It’s a disorder. I’ve been tested for it and found wanting. What do they call 4 a.m.? The hour of the wolf? You go outside and there is a strange stillness in the air. It’s the hour when most people die. Just before the dawn.
Up at the trailer I would go out and wander through the fields. Try and tire myself out. A couple of times I found myself the next morning, sleeping with the cows. Nothing romantic. But, I love cows. There’s a sad wisdom in their eyes. Don’t fool yourself. They know what’s in their future. They can smell barbecues miles away. But they’re resigned to their fate. It makes my heart sink. That’s why Madeleine and I became vegetarians. That lasted about six months until one night when I fell asleep in a field of carrots.

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The Assassination of a Citizen

(excerpt)
I don’t know if I said something wrong. But Paul changed. He wasn’t the Paul in the club. He started to act rough. He reached for the empty bottle of wine and smacked me on the head. I laid there for a while. Out of it. As I began to come to, I could feel his hands on my neck. And I passed out again. Slipping into a deep dark hole. The next time my head started to clear, I could hear him off to one side, near the bushes. He was crying. Like a baby.
“Why did you make me do it?” he moaned.
And then his little hands were around my neck again. I lay helpless on the ground, staring up into the clear night sky. And one by one the stars began to disappear.

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Domestic Bliss

(excerpt)
I wait. It feels like my life no longer belongs to me. I wait for Aristotle to go to sleep. I cook dinner. I wait for Frank to come home. We eat. Frank talks about what some kid said in his class today. I listen. For Aristotle to wake up. I smile at Frank and pretend that I am relaxed. That I am interested. That I am in one piece and not imploding. Will Aristotle have another rash? Frank helps to clear the table and then retreats to the living room to read the newspaper. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and listen. I carry the speaker for Aristotle’s monitor around with me into every room. I don’t trust it. Sometimes I can’t hear Aristotle breathing and I rush to his room to check on him. Sometimes he is sitting there looking up at the mobiles hanging from the ceiling. What does he make of them? Frank yells up the stairs to tell me that there is someone on the phone. Aristotle looks at me, smiles. When I turn to leave, he breaks out sobbing. I carry Aristotle downstairs and dump him in Frank’s lap while I talk on the phone. Aristotle needs to be changed. Frank looks pissed. It is my mother on the phone. She was watching the news and they were talking about a new flu that is running through the daycares. I tell her that Aristotle is not in daycare. She sounds relieved. Has Aristotle had a flu shot? He’s too young. Am I sure? No. I’m not sure of anything. Mother wants to see Aristotle tomorrow. A break. My spirits rise. She’s coming over tomorrow for tea. My spirits sink. Off the phone, Frank hands Aristotle back to me. He still needs to be changed. Frank has no time. He’s working on a lesson plan. Aristotle starts crying. I change him. His bum is as red as the Maple Leaf on the flag. I put talcum powder on his bum. Aristotle smiles. Time to sit down in front of the television while Aristotle plays in his pen. I fall asleep for a minute during a sitcom. Aristotle screams. He has thrown something out of his pen and can’t reach it. Frank is going out the door. He’s meeting a client from the travel agency. Aristotle needs to eat. Heat up a bottle. Aristotle finishes dinner and needs to be changed again. I give him his bottle. He falls asleep. As I put him down, he wakes up again. I rock him. He gurgles and laughs and falls asleep. I put him down and climb into bed. Catch up on my reading. I open a book and fall asleep. I wake to find Frank nestling up to me in the bed. I can smell the beer. He wants sex. I wait.

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David Halliday's The Invisible Man

 

 Children have nightmares. They wake up in a sweat and cry out for their mothers. A village can have nightmares too. The villagers wake up and cry out for each other. These stories are about that nightmare.

Mackenzie Phillips sat up in his bed. He needed to stay awake. All the news about the dead body in the valley had spooked Mackenzie. Maybe Mackenzie was the next on the list. Glancing out the window he watched the slow sway of the treetops. His eyes became heavy. He began to dream.
Mackenzie walked along Dundas Street. He took a seat on the bench across from the empty lot. And after the empty lot, there was only sky. A man sat at the other end of the bench reading a newspaper. Mackenzie had to think. He sat down.
“God has been watching you,” the man with the newspaper said. 

 

War

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War

 

(excerpt)
“You know why these boys are being punished,” Mr. Wickenhauser bellowed out his well rehearsed speech. As he spoke his Adams’ apple bobbed up and down in his throat. If he’d had a hanger he could of hung his jacket on it. His jaw was clenched like a prize fighter, his cheek bones shining, sweat dripping from his eyelids. As he babbled on for several minutes about good and evil, right and wrong, setting examples, David could hear the mocking mumblings of Marcus behind him. Then the great man took the black leather strap out of his trouser pocket and waved it threateningly at the three boys.
“Dunn!” he barked and turned on the small boy beside him.
Stepping forward, Brady whimpered, clutching his hands to his side, his head receding between his frail trembling shoulders. Mr. Wickenhauser reached for Brady but Dunn retreated to the blackboard, and began sobbing.
A couple of girls giggled nervously.
Mr. Wickenhauser turned on the class, spotting the girls.
They gasped.
“What’s your name?” he asked one of the girls.
“Mary Alice Deverell,” one of the girls said, her voice shaking.
“You want to take Mr. Dunn’s place, Mary Alice?”
The girl shook her head.
The tall menacingly handsome teacher grabbed one of Dunn’s hands, wrenched it from his side, and brought the strap down twice on Brady’s fist.
“Palms!” he cried.
Reluctantly Brady opened his hand. Lightning fast, the strap fell slapping the tips of Brady’s fingers. Brady fell to the floor weeping and crying, begging incoherently.
“Open your hands, Mr. Dunn,” the teacher growled once more, still holding onto Brady’s hand.
Brady opened his hand again. Three times the Gattling Gun strap fell on Brady’s palms punctuated by the most awful screams any boy could have produced. Mr. Wickenhauser called for the other hand. Brady had all but given up now, his hand awaiting each blow, like a steak on a butcher’s block.
Kim Levy, the great beauty of the classroom who had earlier been giggling, burst into tears and ran out of the class. Miss Ponick glared at Mr. Wickenhauser briefly then flew after Kim.
“Perhaps some of you think that all of this is amusing. How about you sir?”
“No sir,” Jimmy Higgins stammered.
“And you, Mr. O’Reilly!” the teacher turned his laser vision on Marcus.
Marcus shook his head.
Flannery was next. He stepped forward, his eyes red, a tattoo of tears down his cheek. As he put his hand out his lips began to quiver. He bit down on them. The pupils in his eyes enlarged, waiting.
WHACK!
Flannery fell to his knees in pain, biting down on his lips, trying to restrain the tears that seemed destined to burst out.
“Oh sir!” he whimpered, climbed back to his feet, rubbing his left hand on the leg of his trousers. Mr. Wickenhauser waited. Flannery put his right hand out. Except for Brady’s continual wheezing, the room was dead silent.
WHACK!
Flannery cried out, bending but not falling to his knees.
After the third round of swats, Flannery too began to howl.
“No more, sir!” Flannery pleaded, his face flush with tears.
David couldn’t look. Mr. Wickenhauser caught him. He glared down at the small red headed boy.
“You look away again son and you’ll be next.”
David forced himself to look. His mouth was dry, his throat aching. For a brief moment he thought he was going to vomit. He wished he was invisible so that no one could see the fear in his eyes.
Mr. Wickenhauser seemed to take an extra relish in presenting Cormier to the class. The good soldier, Mr. Wickenhauser described him. Cormier stood leaning to one side with a smirk on the opposite side of his face as if to balance himself.
“Mr. Cormier and I have had a lot of fun this morning, haven’t we sir? There has been a long history between the three of us, – Mr. Cormier, myself, and the strap. But this history is going to end today, isn’t it, Mr. Cormier?”
Cormier nodded still smirking.
Cormier hardly flinched during the first two rounds. Apparently five straps on each hand were not enough for young Cormier. On the third strap of round two, his left hand betrayed Cormier. He cried out. By the fifth strap, Cormier too was on his knees, biting back tears. Mr. Wickenhauser called for another round.
“Sir!” Cormier said pleadingly. It was the only word he would utter.

WOMEN GONE MAD Part One

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WOMEN GONE MAD Part One

 

I have grown up as if you were always beside me. When darkness falls over me, I feel like I am in a boat drifting into a fog. I want to step off the boat and sink and sink forever. Without you, I felt so confused. Father would sit in the garden for hours, in silence. He said you were so much like our mother. All I had was your letters. You talked about the size of the school, the classes you took, the trips you made to Detroit, the friends made, the books read. It all sounded so exciting. There was a lovely urgency in your quest for order and truth. The world and you were so desperately in love. You were like one of the great explorers reporting back to me, your queen, your benefactor. Finally the only thing to do is to remake yourself. That is what you told me. The old has to be buried in the new. You must wear a suit that charms and excites. That’s what an adult is. That’s what you told me. The world of the child is chaos. The child must be buried alive. Michael, I don’t want to grow up. I want to stay here with you.

Remember grandpa’s farm. I loved those days. How our teeth would ache from the cold spring water. And the fun we would have in the hayloft when you pretended to be a werewolf. And the buckboard with grandpa riding over to the Leaming’s farm to buy a Crispy Crunch for each of us. I used to sit on the fence for hours watching the cows graze. A soft breeze would stroke my cheek, rustle my hair then hide in the blossoms of the nearby apple orchard, Standing in the long grass, looking down the sloping fields of grain to the river in the glen where the mill stood, you could hear the grinding sound of the saws, and the slapping of lumber against lumber and the men in the mill yelling and laughing. There were other sounds: the screen door of the house swinging open and slapping shut, the bawling of the cattle, a truck kicking up stones on the road, crows in the back lot crying. Turning toward the silhouetted house, shielding my eyes against, the setting sun, I could see mother’s long shadow crawling up the long hill toward me.

WOMEN GONE MAD Part 2

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WOMEN GONE MAD Part 2

 

It looked like a bomb had been dropped on it. Papers were scattered helter-skelter like flotsam over the top. Styrofoam coffee cups lay on their sides, coffee spilling out in small brown lakes. An ashtray was brimming over with butts. Folders lay sideways hanging precariously over the edge of his desk. Some had fallen onto the floor. Some had perhaps jumped.

As soon as he fell into his chair, he lit up a cigarette. I could smell death sloshing around in his lungs and then seeping out of his nostrils like some nauseous fumes from a sewer grate.

“Mrs. Wallace?” Detective Brown muttered, smoke scaling the yellow walls of his teeth and falling over his smile. He had mustard stains on his tie. The buttons on his shirt were misplaced and his gut hung loosely over his belt. There were yellow cigarette stains on fingers whose nails had never been properly manicured. He was nothing like my Harold.

“Isn’t that against the law, detective?” I asked gesturing to the stiff like slug that dangled in his lips.

I continued:

“I will not jeopardize my health, detective,” I said, crossed my arms and clamped my jaw shut. I will not put up with a man who does not listen.

Detective Brown paused for a moment. Then he chuckled, pointing his cigarette at me.

“You are a funny lady,” he said shaking under a deluge of machine gun like coughs.

I did not smile. There was nothing amusing about death.

Homicide: Now and Then

Homicide: Now and Then

 Death comes in the quiet of our thoughts. When we were looking the wrong way. At the moon being smothered by a cloud. It begins in panic. Thrashing out. We want to live. Something standing over us. Waiting for our last breath. Murder. Now and then.

 

murder… part one

murder… part one