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A Perfect Garden
Something in the air felt off, leaving him thankful for the stableness of the bench he rested upon. The bench’s iron had been cast by his father’s father in the long ago. He and his father had twice changed out it’s wooden slats in the not so long ago, just as he and his own son kept them painted against the weather in the here and now. No, it was not the bench. The bench was solid.
And it was not her. He watched her from the bench as she buzzed the garden, happy as any busy bee; deadheading here, weeding there, busy as any happy bee. These were his morning tasks, to wait and to watch, simple tasks which he never minded. Tasks not so frenetic as hers, though today felt different. Infinitely different. He could not place what exactly, yet today undoubtedly harbored some worrisome, as yet unrecognizable difference within it that thankfully was not her, her hovering nature feeling as solid to him as was his bench.
She turned time-to-time, checking, worrying over him even as she smiled kind affections his way. Of course, the smiling was born of the worrying. It made her happy, worrying… the work of it. She always was a worker. It was why she was so fond of him, he had long since ascertained, because he somehow thrived when worked and worried over, just as her garden did. He did allow it, didn’t he? The worrying over? Had even grown to encourage it, as her smile was one more tiny thing amongst all of those other little things she had done and given over the years which made him hers. Yet even as he watched her smile it gloomed, souring over, the initial vestiges of concern crinkling into her worry. It seemed she had finally noticed the difference in the morning as well.
And there was a difference. He could tell it. A decided one. He set to work to place the day’s difference, and he discovered some things. The June sun burned less brassy. The air had tilted strangely towards cool, and the songbirds toward still. Subtle these, but different. Perhaps the difference was in the day itself then, in its staleness, in its lack of breath. Perhaps.
She walked towards him, slowly, younger than moments ago, but no less concerned.
”JB? Are you ok?”
It was silly, but she always questioned, sometimes questioning her questions, seeking affirmation, seeming to find value in his, as though his affirmations were better than any other.
Like now. “JB? Honey?” Always the questions.
He saw no cause for reply, and held no breath to form one. There was simply no affirmation left in him to give to her. She must find her own now, he supposed, as he seemed only able to look on, and to well-wish, happy though he was to see her, and to hear her the concern in her voice.
Happily surprised to hear and see her, that is, being he was gone. And there lay the real difference in the day, he supposed… being gone, and feeling oddly neutral about that.
At his side she took his hand, hers tenderly warm around the stiffness of his own.
She left him then, hurrying away. “Where was more important?” He wondered. “Than here, and now?”
Beyond help, he desired none. The bench beneath him was solidly cast, and the tilted sun was no bother, nor the silence. They were sublime, in fact. The garden needed only her to be absolutely right, to be the perfect garden.
And there she came again; a butterfly, flower-to-flower-to-flower. His butterfly, her smile ever younger than before. Such a little thing, with her glance back at him, that he could spark such pretty concern from such as she.
He wondered that she was here, JB did… still… now, when alone would suit as well. That she could be. Was love that strong? Really? JB looked to her for his own affirmation, even as her eyes looked to him. No, the difference was not in her. She was as solid as his bench.
He marveled then, aware that it would always be so.
Amazed that it could ever be so.
The Story Bone
I was blessed with a deformity. Linking my modulla-oblongata to my cerebral cortex is a story bone. I discovered this personal anomaly about six years ago, believing it to be just another part of a mostly scattered brain that seldom sees use, much like the part that is in there for the express purpose of deciphering poetry, or the way too thin slice that is supposedly dedicated to resolving algebraic equations; those sleepy sections of my brain which always lie lowest when called upon for duty, but I was wrong. It seems that for all of those undiscovered years this story bone I have was actually hard at work up there, collecting trivial data; facts, figures, moments, sayings, useful little behavioral oddities in myself and others. This little bone was observing, categorizing, possibly even unknowingly creating experiences to be gnawed upon at a later date. No one would have guessed there was something in there so hard at work. Well, maybe my mom might have guessed, certainly not my dad. My wife was absolutely flabbergasted to find that I had a bent for storytelling, but then we were twenty years “in“ when the bone was discovered, and my brain had given her few previous indications of activity… but then it wasn’t my brain she married me for, was it?
You have found your way to this site, so I will presume that you possess a story bone as well, though yours may still lie dormant, so that you have no idea what I am talking about. For this reason I will try an analogy to better acquaint you. With nothing else to compare this section of brain too, and having one currently lying at my feet, I have chosen to use a dog with a bone, thus the title. You have observed, I am sure, how when a free-willed dog happens upon a bone in the great out of doors she will pause before approaching it. She will circle it, inspecting it from many angles, giving it a wide berth and testing its scent before creeping still closer, her nose curious, her mouth watering, yet allowing her cautious instincts to remain predominant, as this is a confusing situation. ”Who,” the dog wonders as it creeps forward, “would leave a perfectly good bone right out here in the open where any dog that chances past might find it?” Who indeed? So the dog stops her creeping to take a sly glance around for a moment, her posture tense, her head lowered, her eyes raised wide, expecting… someone? But the way seems clear, and all smells kosher, so her nose sets back to working til she has crept overtop the bone. After one more quick glance she picks the bone up with careful incisors before dropping it again and taking a quick leap back, feeling out for booby-type traps. When nothing happens, emboldened, she will pick it up for real this time, harder, testing its mettle with her jaws. Satisfied she trots, prances more like, proud of her find to some more likely nearby locale where she can lie down in a dewy, grassy spot grown cool and thick under the warm morning sun. Here she will drop the bone again for another look around and give out a happy, slant-eyed pant before reaching a clawed paw to pull her treasure closer up between her knobby knees for enjoyments’ sake.
Now, hopefully you can see what I mean when I say “story bone”.
Because I am the same with a story as that dog is with her bone. Satisfied with this idea I have found I must take time now to gnaw over it, to claim ownership of it, and to give it a good working over until the delicious marrow is freed from it’s hardened shell to the delight of my more delicate senses… and hopefully to the delight of a reader’s as well, though that is not the end game. The real thrill is in finding that my curious nose was right! That there is something up there! Some indescribable sweetness inside that time-toughened shell of mine that has waited all this time to ooze satisfyingly out onto a late-night blue-screen. And I have used it enough now to know the bone is there to be dug back up at will and re-enjoyed, and oh, what a delightful pleasure that knowledge affords me.
I have a story bone!
Of course, I would like to write better, but not so much to the point that I would actually try to improve my writing skills. I mean, I have no interest in taking courses or some other such nonsense as that. It is more-so like a wish to be a better writer; a sophomoric fantasy like wanting to hit the big home run in the championship game, or to have the head cheerleader call me up after school one afternoon straight out of the blue. Writing better is one of those things that is never likely to happen, but is of little consequence regardless, as what I always was capable of was stealing home plate after a bunt single. And Meg Bell (who was certainly no cheerleader in the classical, nor costumed sense) did call me up after school one day with a rather incredulous offer, so… cheerleaders-schmearleaders, say I. Bigger ain’t always better! After all, in the grand scheme of things is a run scored not a run scored? Does it really matter how far the ball travels so long as you have rounded third base and are digging for home? Meg Bell would not have thunk so (but that is a different… and probably better story).
Say, where did I put that darned bone anyways?
But anyways, by wanting to “write better”, in my case I refer to the more refined aspects of writing; typing, spelling, sentence structure… the trivial technicalities of writing, those things that make a story easier for a reader to continue his navigation, and which possibly even makes the writing itself easier (I wouldn’t know much about that). You see, it is never my intent to write for perfection. I write for the juice of it… the marrow. I gnaw the bone. My words, when it is good, when they are good, come out of me with the build-up and force of an ejaculate. There is no time for punctuation. No room for worry. There is only a splatter on the page, with no thought of facial expression, or sounds made, or toes curled as the scene sets, watching as the character comes to life, waiting, his drama building. Not until “it“ comes, that is... the resolution; that deep breath at the ending, along with the realization that this thing that happened to my poor character did not and could not happen alone. There is someone here along with him to consider, someone coaxing him towards the final thrilling paragraph… a faceless, fantasy reader. Eee-cads! But I hope I have pleased this lover of stories as she has pleased me by riding along with!
And that is the time for sad reflection, the end. That is the time to recall the misplaced comma, or the run-on sentence, those uglinesses found in retrospection that will drive your reader into the welcoming arms of another’s words, and you to a lesser writing app where your short-fallings are as yet unrevealed. Proofing is not the fun part, though your reader will appreciate some careful, introspective examination of narrative styling and dialogue. Don’t be proud. Gnaw the bone. Skipping this step while caught up in a writer’s high is an easy though deadly mistake, and has embarrassingly driven more than one typo-prone writer away from Prose forever, thank God.
Fair warning: In your rush to share the tale, don’t fail to tell it well! Gnaw the bone.
I have been guilty of rushing myself, and most certainly will be again. I do get tired of proofing. Especially as my bigger OCD problem lies not with form or punctuation, but in seeking the perfect descriptive word, for the perfectly descriptive sentence. I am more particular about character names and settings than the reader could possibly care about. Those are the kinds of things I notice while re-reading and I change them, and change, and change them again while the poor grammar remains bleeding on the sidewalk in desperate need of resuscitation. It is good that I am not an EMT, else bodies would pile up while I straighten ties and re-apply lipstick.
I am very selfish with my story bone. I enjoy it best alone, so I dig it up in the early hours while the world sleeps. The bone is a fickle and moody thing, so I never know what I will get once it is unearthed. Sometimes it tickles me, and sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes it is angry and sometimes grateful, or maybe those are my thoughts as I chew the fat of my mind, it is hard to say which, but no doubt it would not happen without the bone, so to it goes the credit. I have fashioned myself it’s tool, rather than the other way ’round. I do it’s bidding willingly, as I would miss it if it went away as I suppose it could, just as it appeared to me, dropped down from out of the ether.
So the credit for any success I have enjoyed through my Prose ramblings, the nine likes and two reposts, must go to my story bone, as I am nothing without it. It seeps the goods out while I merely chew and lick, and lick and chew until satisfied. And once satisfied I carefully re-bury the bone in its secreted spot so that it cannot be found by another. (Oh, to think of the joys Pooky-Bear might discover were she to happen upon my bone, and the stories she might tell from it, heaven forbid.)
So there it is, per ‘Ol Huck. If you want to be a writer, go to school and learn technique. But if it is stories you must tell, damning the formalities, then you‘ve got to be a dog. Go find your bone and chew it. Suck the life and marrow from it. Exhume it often and then re-inter it for another day.
So there. You are now in on the secret, and it is the only way.
Find your story bone, young pup, and give it a good gnaw.
Daddy’s Girl
A two-toned, red and white Chevy pickup truck was parked in a bare spot which wouldn’t grow grass underneath the shaded limbs of one of the two magnificent pecan trees which dominated either side of the old farm house’s front walk. From the covered front porch the excited voice of Eli Gold could be heard describing action from The Charlotte Motor Speedway clear out to the road, even through the hand-sized transistor radio. Beside the truck, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dripping sponge in hand, a man was caught in a curious pause from his truck washing, having stopped to watch his four year old at play. The child was behaving in an unusual, if enticing manner, having climbed down inside her pink, pedal-powered plastic Barbie car to remove the bicycle-chain linkage which acted as the little car’s transmission. The man’s ’Lil Miss had managed to identify the master link, then had used some unknown tool to pry it apart, and was currently attempting to shorten, or tighten up some slack which had grown with time and use between the gear sprockets.
The man with the dripping sponge didn’t have nearly enough time at home with the kids, so it was with great effort that he resisted the urge to jump in and help his baby girl, though it appeared that his youngest had gotten herself into something that he was uncertain if she could resolve on her own. A good father, the man determined to let her try, just as he would have let her older Bubba try.
The child’s chubby, undeveloped fingers struggled with the tiny pieces of linkage. He watched as she dropped a part, found it again, and spent some time figuring how it fit back with the larger pieces. But she did figure it out! His pride swelled nearly to bursting as he watched her remove a link from the chain and slowly jigsaw the thing back together. Unable to contain himself any longer the man finally did step in as his little girl fought to snap the master link back together again, knowing she would not have the strength to do it.
”Here.” He handed a pair of pliers up under the toy car’s chassis, then he watched on amazed as his Missy pondered the pliers for a long moment before finally gripping them correctly, centering the linkage between their jaws, and snapping the chain almost expertly back together with them.
”Fixed it.”
”Yes! Yes, you did. And you made a nice job of it, too!” There was no camera present, so the man made a snapshot of the moment in his mind, desperate to hold on to the memory of it forever.
But the child’s expression remained serious. She took the car in a quick, neat circle around her father before handing up the pliers to him. ”It needs woobwicant.”
After a moment lost in translation the man chuckled aloud, the pride which had swelled his breast having pushed its way up through his choking neck and into his eyes, embarrassing him no little bit. “Yes Missy, it probably does need some lubricant, but how could you know about that?”
”Fiwabaw is teaching me to be a wace caw dwivuh.”
”Fiwabaw? Fireball? Fireball Roberts?
The girl’s smiled sparkled. “Yea! Fiwabaw!”
”Honey, Fireball Roberts has been dead twenty years!”
Ignored, the man was forced to keep up as the little car sped off towards his tool bench in the barn, and the can of 3in1 oil atop it. He watched from the doorway as his baby girl expertly held the can in place, turning the car’s pedal to rotate and lubricate the entirety of the chain beneath the can’s dripping tip as if she’d done it hundreds, or even thousands, of times.
”Fireball Roberts, huh?” He smiled as he said the name.
”Yea! Fiwabaw!”
You know, Fireball was your Grampa’s favorite, back in the day.”
”Yea! Gwampaw!”
The truck gears ground down as the man pulled out onto the highway towards both town and the Western Auto, his Lil Missy perched happily up on the seat beside him. Momma wasn’t gonna like it one bit, but who was a mother to interfere with fate?
Daddy’s girl was getting herself a go-cart today!
The Pooh Tutorials
It was surprising, how the old house still felt like home. As the great door was clicking shut behind her Eve set her bag down in the foyer and paused for a moment, reveling in a rush of sights and smells, giving herself over to the nostalgia of a sensory teleportation back to her youth, a teleportation so real that she actually heard her long departed father’s welcoming bellow, and watched on amazed as Happy Jack’s giant paws skidded crazily across the hardwoods in his stampede to greet her, his rush followed by the warm aromas of roast beef and cobbler which were stirred up from behind in the big dog’s wake. The hallucinations combined to conjure up a rare smile from this bitter, current-day version of Eve, as they reminded her of how pleasant true happiness can feel.
Isn’t it ironic? How it took Mother’s death to bring about some little bit of joy in her?
Evelyn Forrester goes mostly by Eve now, as she hates the antiquated sound of “Evelyn”. When she hears “Evelyn” she is reminded of the portraits in the foyer of her family home, of the many grandmothers and great-grandmothers sitting solemnly in their guilded picture frames at the sides of their equally solemn (and likely domineering) husbands, men without the good sense to feel the shame of their deeds, but who instead gaze arrogantly down from their elevated positions upon the papered and patterned walls of this house that had once been their home. Eve has just lost her mother, but you should not feel too badly for her, as the two have been long estranged. Don’t get it wrong, Eve is saddened by her mother’s passing (as she would be for anyone’s), but she is in no way left distraught by it. In fact, Eve can barely remember a time when she liked the ultra-conservative woman, much less when she felt love for her, although she actually had loved her, once upon a time.
And Mother’s feelings were painfully mutual, as she made her disappointment in Eve apparent whenever the opportunity arose, the old biddy.
With her mother’s passing Eve has unwillingly inherited the family home. Having avoided it for the past twenty years her initial plan was for a quick sale, the house being much too large for a single woman, although her mother somehow managed it in her later years, and the property includes too much acreage to economically maintain it without farming, which Eve has neither the skills nor desire to do. Besides, it is too far from her job in Savanah, although she could as easily work from home, she supposed, if it came right down to it. Only it would be lonely here, wouldn’t it? As if it wasn’t lonely in Savanah.
On the drive in it became apparent to Eve that the once secluded house now sits in a prime location. The sprawl of suburbia was slowly encroaching, nestling in around the property as one local farm after another has been parceled out to General Contractors who have happily developed them into more of those awful, modern day McMansions until the beautiful, pastoral settings of Eve’s youth have been completely swiped away, and never will be again. She is not sure how she should feel about that, as what has stolen the beauty from her childhood home has also significantly increased its monetary value.
But then Eve finds her thoughts interrupted by another bit of nostalgia… specifically the Westminster chimes of the doorbell which have begun echoing through the foyer, flashing her back to the day when she’d discovered Pooh McCann standing on the front porch with flowers in his hands, flowers he’d picked fresh, just for her. The memory of it brought another smile. Pooh! What an awful nickname for a boy, though he’d never seemed to think anything of it. And poor Pooh had carried such a crush on her back then! Eve had actually gone to the movies with him a couple of times, back in middle school. He’d been a sweet boy, if embarrassingly shorter than her. She had even let Pooh kiss her once, right out there on that very porch. Just a peck mind you, which Eve had not returned.
So it was eerily deja-vu-ish to open the door and find him standing there again, sans flowers, a bigger and better version of the same Pooh McCann, although this older (and larger) Pooh was wearing very nearly the same t-shirt and ball cap he’d worn way back when.
“Pooh?” As it always had when they were kids a snicker escaped Eve when she said his name, although there was really nothing funny about him anymore. Her Pooh was all grown up! He was easily a head taller than she was now, while time and a southern sun had removed any baby-ishness from his face. And below his now chiseled face taut muscles strained against his t-shirt and jeans. Eve’s inability to look away from him flushed her face and neck with a tell-tale signal that Pooh fortunately did not seem to notice. Good God, but her little Pooh was gorgeous!
”Hello Eve. They said you’d be coming in today, and I saw the car in the drive, so… But hey, I’m really sorry about Patricia. Really and truly I am.”
Eve was confused. Patricia? Patricia, her mother? Pooh was calling her mother Patricia? Since when? Before replying, as a woman will, Eve stalled for time by brushing the hair away from her face, giving her thoughts a chance to gather themselves. And what was he doing here now? Had he only come to offer condolences? Or was there something more to this visit?
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” He had come to her, so she would let him begin.
Sensing her puzzled curiosity, Pooh explained himself. “We’ve been planting over here since your father passed. Patricia… err, Mrs. Forrester and I, we split the profits fifty-fifty, her land-my labor. The proceeds helped her to keep the place up, and I have to admit that the extra money has helped us out as well. I have no idea what your plans are, if you even plan to keep the farm, that is. But I thought I’d come on over when I saw the car out front? I hope you don’t mind. But if you do decide to keep working it, and I hope you will decide to, we’d love to continue helping, but if so we’ll need to get started soon. It‘s already pretty late in the season, you know?”
No, Eve did not know, and she did not like not knowing. At her own job she was used to being in command of every situation. Her every intention had been to sell, up until now that is. But this might offer a chance to get closer to Pooh, to get to know him again? Who knew… she might even rekindle his old flame?
“You said ‘we’?”
With Pooh’s attractiveness still stimulating her Eve readily stepped onto the porch to see where his tanned and muscular arm was pointing. In moving closer-up beside him she was introduced to the pleasant, musty scent of red-clay soil which emanated from him, and to the the sickly sweetness of motor oil, as well as a cottony perspiration smell that worked into her like magic, reminding her of the favorite, slobber-soiled fabric “Teddy” bear of her childhood, his aromas pulling Eve in and adding to her temporarily addled brain. But as her eyes followed to where his arm pointed her mood was slammed from its clear, blue skies like a shotgunned quail back to a harsh and unforgiving earth.
For over there in the eastern pasture chugged a blue and white tractor. Perched proudly on it‘s seat was a boy of thirteen or so. Another, even younger boy rode shotgun beside that one. Worse, a woman was balancing herself on the tractor’s hitch plate while clinging to the back of the seat. The woman was somewhat pretty, even if she was dressed roughly the same as Pooh was; cute in her own boots, jeans and ball cap, the cap swishing a soft-looking, blondish pony-tail behind it. If she’d felt like being mean right then Eve might have commented that the woman was a wee bit chunky, but she did not feel like it, like being mean, that is. Well, she did feel like it, but she couldn’t, could she? Pooh McCann was not just another soulless stranger who was forced to be nice to her no matter what kind of bitch she acted like just because he was on her payroll, was he?
Shit.
”I don’t know, Pooh. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the place yet.”
As they always will do the old, happy memories turned to shit once liquor was poured. And then came the inevitable texts from work. Could the incompetent boobs not even leave her alone to grieve (as if that was what she was doing)? But of course that was what she was doing! That was what Eve always did. And when darkness finally descended she was alone again, only now she was all alone in this gigantic house.
Shit indeed.
Eve woke with a start, her head and her bearings off kilter, to find her old bedroom awash in a glittering, silvery gleam which the midnight moonlight usually reserved for wind-stirred wheat fields, or for heavily rolling waters (although the bedroom no longer resembled her childhood one, as all of her girlish “things” had long since been packed away). Even as Eve watched them the moonlight glitters swirled together at the foot of her bed, slowly taking on the unmistakable shape of a woman, a woman whom Eve at first disdainfully assumed to be her mother, although her straining eyes could not yet make out any distinguishable features through the paleness of it’s light.
But the glitters continued their swirling’s and gatherings, and in her fascination of them Eve forgot to be afraid. It soon became apparent that the glitters floating about were not from the moonlight at all, but were of the woman… or the apparition… or the dream, whichever one “she” was. And sadly, Eve’s drunk and drowsy state refused to let her care, so she simply waited and watched. What was there to fear anyways? If it was a woman, then she would only talk, as that is what women do. And if it was an apparition, then with any luck it would take her mournful soul away... far, far away. And if it was a dream, as Eve expected it would be, then she would simply wake, wouldn’t she?
Eve hoped it was not a dream, as the first two options seemed preferable.
Settled now into their feminine form the glitterings did not diminish, but continued their subtle attack upon the darkness, their numbers brightening the room as they gathered together like wasps to a hive. Thusly illuminated Eve could see that it was not her mother’s form at all, but neither could she deny a shared resemblance with the apparition, even though the matronly ghost looked to be considerably older than Eve’s thirty-six years. Still though, their physical commonalities shone through its glittering wrinkles, as Eve and this ghost shared similarly pert noses, thinly drawn lips, and even the same intelligent brows which arched over the same expressive eyes which judged Eve back from her mirror each morning. Eve found herself vainly comforted by these feminine likenesses, that comfort making her more curious about this midnight interloper than frightened by her. “Who was she, and why had she come,” Eve wondered? She wished she’d paid better attention when Mother had explained those old photographs to her, describing the lives of their family matriarchs. Had she paid more attention then Eve might recognize who this ghostly woman was, but as it stood she had no idea. Only that it must be some figure from her family’s long history.
The minutes ticked by as ghost and mortal examined one another, each curiously fascinated by the other. When the apparition finally spoke it was with a not unexpected directness, as their sort of woman has always felt untethered from any necessity for pleasantries, irregardless of their places on any historical timeline.
“What are you doing?” The apparition’s drawl was too pleasant to be off-putting, it’s southern lilt roundly bending the words, though not enough to actually fracture them. Eve framed the idea that this ghost’s voice was the very sound pancake syrup would undoubtedly make while sliding off of hot butter, supposing it could choose its own sound to make of course; the voice being that smooth, that warm, and that delectable. It was so warm in fact that Eve unconsciously set about mimicking it, and did not do a horrible job of it either, as the ability had always laid somewhere down there in her genetics awaiting it’s moment to emerge.
But it was too vague an inquiry, Eve thought. What exactly did the ghost woman mean? Did she mean “what am I doing this very moment?” Or, ”what am I doing in this house?“ Or was it, “what am I doing with my life?“ How was Eve to know which? She did not know, so she decided to answer from a position of strength.
“I am sleeping in my own bedroom, and minding my own business. The real question is who are you, and what are you doing here?” Eve was disappointed to hear the callous brusqueness in her own voice. She had never before cared that her tone was so grating until hearing this cleaner, undeniably better one.
”Is that what you are doing? Sleeping?“ There was a calculated pause before the glowing woman continued, “And alone, I might add.” The ghost’s un-kind words did not sting nearly so much as the sarcastic smile which followed them.
Good grief! Perhaps this ghost was Eve’s mother? It certainly used the same tone that her mother used. Eve’s nostril’s distended as if she smelled something bad. ”I am fine sleeping alone (“Bitch”, she did not need to add).”
”Are you? Are you really? One thing I know, having once been one, is that no woman living on God's green earth is fine sleeping alone.”
This was a fact. Eve must be more careful. This “ghost” woman was no fool. “My mother slept here alone. Did you visit her, too?”
“Your mother was never alone here. Your mother lived surrounded by those she loved. As for who I am, and why am I here? I am here because my name is Evelyn Rouseau. My husband built this house for me. This is my house.“
”That’s where you’d be wrong.“ Eve did not like this ghost, and was feeling ornery. “It is my house now.”
”Is it? We shall see about that.”
”There is nothing to see. The house is mine, now. It is the only reason I am here.”
”You are here because I called you here, child… before it is too late.” Eve detected frost in the ghost’s tone.
Because of it Eve’s reply was equally cold and quick, perhaps a little too quick, but Eve felt like this ghost woman was getting the better of her, and she didn’t like it, though she regretted her quick words immediately. “Did your husband really build it for you? Or did his slaves build it for you, on land you stole from the Creek natives?”
Even the woman’s smile was familiar to Eve’s, breaking as icily as her own. ”Ahhh. Ashamed of us, are you? That is to be expected, I suppose.”
”You suppose?” Dammit, Eve did it again, but the non-plussed apparition quickly cut her down.
“Those things are not your concern, Missy. I have already been judged, and by better than you.”
The retort was not as vague as Eve wished it to be. She knew exactly what the woman meant by, “I have been judged.” Eve understood it so well in fact that a chill raced down her spine at the realization of it. There is a God! Or, at least something or someone to judge one’s deeds? And that this ghost was here right now, rather than being somewhere better, meant that the woman had been found lacking, did it not? Though Eve did not particularly like this ghost she found no comfort in that knowledge, as the ghost woman had undoubtedly come here for a reason, and that reason was obviously Eve. How lacking must Eve herself be that the dead found her situation dire enough to come back to warn her?
Eve was not such a bad person, was she? Yes, she was tough, but she’d had to be. Eve had worked herself up the ranks in a manly-man’s business. She was strong, and independently wealthy, but Eve could be kind when she felt like it. Her monthly donation to St. Jude’s was quite generous, though it was an admittedly small part of her overall salary, just enough really that she could tell solicitor’s that she, “gave at the office” without any accompanying guilt. Still, it was something charitable, and was more than most gave. She was a decent enough person, wasn’t she? Eve swallowed hard before asking the question that would supply her with the answer she needed, although she prepared herself to parry with an angry response if she felt that the answer given was the incorrect one. “Have you come here to tell me that I am bad?”
“No, Dear. I have not “come here” at all. I am always here. I have always been here. I have only made myself discernible to you now because we are worried about you.”
There was that word again, “we”. Eve was probably not going to like the answer to this question any more than she had when she asked it earlier in the day, but she felt that she had to ask it anyways. “We?”
”Yes... we.” The ghost was apparently not ready yet to humor her with specifics.
”Well then, if you are not here to tell me that I am bad, then what is it you are so worried about?”
”I have already told you what, if you would only listen. We are worried that you are alone.”
Eve chose to try deception. ”I am not that alone. I have friends.”
”Do you?”
So, deception wasn’t going to work. Looking up at her, Eve was relieved to find the ghost’s expression sympathetic. She could not have explained why, but feeling the need for honesty, Eve opened up right at the start with her hardest, most pitiable truth; the one truth she had considered over and over again every night for the past twenty-some years. Yet hearing it spoken out loud only highlighted the ridiculousness of her excuse. “I cannot help that people don’t like me.” Thankfully this admission, right in front of her antagonist, was not followed by the welling-up of tears.
As with any good therapist the ghost did not respond to Eve’s confession immediately, but waited quietly instead, knowing that once the spigot was opened a woman could not turn it off until her pressure was relieved. “Women don’t like that I am strong, and men are intimidated by me.”
The ghost actually chuckled at that revelation. “Are they? Really? The same men who march off to war for you… those men are intimidated by you? By thin, frail, little ’ol you? Hmmm. The same men who kill snakes for you, and spiders? The same men who protect you from bad people, who extinguish fires, and who rescue you from floods? Those same men who would willingly offer you their seats in a lifeboat are intimidated by you? A mere woman? My, you are a special one, aren’t you?”
”But they must be intimidated. I am not terribly ugly. Why else would none of them want to get to know me better?
”The better question for you to ask yourself is, why would they want to?”
”Why wouldn’t they want to? I am pretty, I am educated, I am successful… I have a lot to offer.”
”There are lots of pretty girls my dear. And any decent man already has those other things.”
Eve felt the anger boiling up inside her. “I suppose you are implying that I should cower submissively before a man, like you did when you were alive. I don’t think so, Granny. Women are beyond that now.”
”I am implying nothing of the kind. Come with me, Dear. I want to show you something.”
Eve followed the floating figure down the stairs, and into the foyer where it stopped in front of the painted portrait of a stern looking patriarchal man with an equally unsmiling woman seated at his side, a woman who did not look terribly unlike Eve herself but for the graying hair pulled back in a bun, the lack of make-up, and a very modest, high collared, skin covering dress.
”That is you in the picture, isn’t it?”
”Yes, it is.” There followed a long moment of silence as woman and ghost studied the painting.
”You were pretty.”
”Long before this was painted, maybe. But bearing children ages a woman.”
”How old were you here?”
”Thirty-five.”
Eve’s age? But she looked twice as old! “Oh my God.” Eve didn’t mean to say it out loud, but when she did so the ice she felt in her heart for the ghost melted away. What that man in the picture must have put Evelyn Rousseau through that she appeared so… so worn looking at just thirty-five years of age? “And how old was he,” Eve silently wondered.
”Forty-two, I believe.” The ghost answered without even being asked the question.
Forty-two! Eve would have guessed sixty, or even seventy! “Please don’t take this wrong, Evelyn Rousseau, but the woman in this picture doesn’t have the look of someone who should be preaching about happiness.”
”Ah, that is because you cannot see the whole picture. We were living in serious times, back then. Life was hard, but if you could see down just a little bit lower you would see that Charles’ hand is resting comfortably upon my thigh, and you’d see mine lying atop his. Our hands stayed exactly that way for the full six hours that it took Henry Allen to finish this painting. We were happy. It was a happy day which we both relished. There were not many days when we were able to spend so much time together. Charles had to work so hard! And on top of that, to answer your earlier question, he did build this house, although it was not so large then, and has been added-on to over the years. Charles built it when we were still poor. He built it with his own hands. My father tried to warn me away from Charles, telling anyone who would listen that his future son-in-law was an uneducated nincompoop, but Charles showed him! He was quite competent, Charles was. There was almost nothing he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do for us.”
”For us? Who else, besides you?”
”Why, the children, of course.” The ghostly figure slid itself over to the next set of picture frames on the wall. The men and women in the two paintings were equally as stern looking as the first, though obviously younger. “These are the two of our six who survived to adulthood. Charles Jr. had his father’s looks, but it was my side his personality took after. We were so proud when Charlie became a doctor, and a good one too, so good that he was made a surgeon during the war. Our Charlie was twenty-three when he caught dysentery and passed. Charlie tried, but he never made it back home to Abby. He passed aboard “The Memphis” right outside of Charleston Bay. His widowed-wife was seventeen, the child he never saw having recently celebrated her first birthday. Poor Abigail never recovered from the loss of him. She moved in here with us, of course. We did our best for her, but she was so distraught. The girl was suddenly husbandless with a baby to care for, and no income. There was war raging all around us at the time. New lists of the dead were arriving almost daily; her husband on one, a brother on the next list, and then another brother on another list. Here was a friend gone, and there an acquaintance. Abigail was so young and innocent, with a heart as big as any ocean. Every name she knew hit her so hard.“ Evelyn looked my way then. “How fortunate you are to have missed all of that, although I would not trade those memories of Charlie and Abby for anything, and will cling to them for all of eternity.
“But here I am,“ Evelyn followed her story sorrowfully. “Going on like an old fool when my time with you is nearly up.”
”No!“ Eve looked down at the row of as yet unexplained portraits. There were so many more pictures, so many more ancestors of whom she knew nothing. Her people. “Please don’t go, Evelyn. I need to know more.”
”It can be learned. There are records. The one thing I can tell you now is this. You are living your life in competition, as though men are your enemy. Men are not the enemy, Eve. With men comes all of this,” Evelyn gestured all around, but mostly down the long row of portraits. “From men comes companionship, love, security, family… life. Without them women are nothing, you are nothing, just as he is nothing without you, and therein lies your strength… that you are as necessary as he is. Be what you are, Dear. And allow him to be what he is. We are destined to suffer apart, but together... together man and woman are eternal.”
It was a bright Georgia sun through the window that woke Eve, that and the chugging of a distant tractor. Had she slept in? No, Eve never slept in! Curious, she donned her robe to check the noise. It was him on the tractor… Pooh! Descending the staircase toward the coffee pot she paused before the first in the long line of portraits on the wall, feeling strangely drawn to it, or rather to the man in it. There was a lot to do today, and many decisions to make. Eve wondered what the man in the portrait would do if he was her? He certainly looked competent enough to make a decision, though Eve suspected that whatever decisions he made would be with the woman sitting next to him in front of mind. In fact, on closer inspection, the man in the portrait looked somewhat like Darryl, that lead engineer at work. Darryl was competent too, he only lacked drive… or maybe it was not drive he lacked, but inspiration? In any event Darryl was undoubtedly bright. If Eve could only find a way to motivate him then the two of them might form a formidable team… possibly even a team outside of work?
Huh. That was a strange thought, when Eve had always worked best alone, but thinking on it, Darryl did have strengths in some of those areas she was trying to improve on. Perhaps they could help each other?
Pausing at the next picture, it was the woman this time that drew Eve’s attention; so young to be married, yet the artist had applied a happy sparkle to her eyes that for some reason made Eve blue. The woman, a girl really, looked too vivacious to be alone… but why would Eve even think that? The girl in the painting was not alone, was she? She had the man that she loved beside her, and a glow about her that not even the darkened oil paints could dampen, and the girl had a whole life left to live, besides. Yet this thought crept into Eve’s mind. ”Fate is fickle, is it not? Love while you are able!”
The coffee on, Eve hurried upstairs and dressed. With cups in either hand she headed out to the field.
The dying of the tractor’s chugging engine created a heavy silence which his smile thankfully broke.
“Good morning!” She held the extra cup up in invitation.
”Good morning to you!”
”I have decided to keep it! The house, that is! And I would like for you to keep working the fields, if you would? I have no idea what to do with them, or how to do it? But I can learn!”
”Of course you can. But it won’t be me working them. It’s really Charlie who worked for Patricia… err, for Mrs. Forrester.”
”Charlie?”
”Yea, my son.” Pooh’s smile was contagious.
Eve was surprised. ”The one on the tractor yesterday? But he’s so young!”
”Nah. You gotta start sometime! Charlie made nearly three thousand dollars working for Patricia just last summer. He’s working to pay his way through college someday, if that’s what he decides to do. Or for a head start on a business loan, whichever. Of course, I make him rent the tractor, and pay for the seed.” Pooh winked knowingly at her. “At least he thinks he is paying for it.”
”And that woman yesterday was your wife?”
”Bitsy?” He laughed. “Yea, she’s the best. And what a mother! Those are the luckiest kids ever!”
”Yes. Yes they are. And you are lucky, too.”
”You bet I am.”
Eve took his empty cup and turned back towards the house.
”Hey, Eve?”
She turned to face him.
”I’m glad you’re back.”
And she could tell that he was. It was such a little thing he said, to mean so much.
Riley’s Luck
Waking sucks. Riley would have preferred to keep sleeping forever, but his better mind cared little for his foolish desires, doing instead what it knows it must. Sensing uncomfortable situations that the light of day might expose his lids flutter themselves open, fanning Riley’s currently diminished spark of life with light. There are several good reasons for not waking, to include a pre-dawn, bone penetrating chill which works in tandem with the rhythmic pounding like waves of blood through his head, and the infantile demands of a handful of needy gulls whose cries are a reminder to Riley of his own currently empty stomach. Adding to this little list, as if there need be more, is the slippery grit of sand beneath him; cold, wet, uncomfortable sand that has worked it's way into his clothing and hair (among other cracks and crevices), and the sombering gray of an as yet sunless sky above. It is not even fucking daylight yet. Still, these pitiful reasons to continue sleeping pale beside the biggest and greatest reason for waking... that uncomfortable situation that the light of day might expose. Daylight is here!
From afar, even above the pounding waves, Riley hears the sound of happy laughter, of children excited for a day at the beach, children still too young to be ashamed of their being. The world is waking and so must he… wake the fuck up, asshole! There is a zipping of lights when he re-closes his lids, and a dripping of colors not unlike the paper-hit trails of his younger and wilder days that make the darkness uncomfortable. He wished that those things and his overall sourness would just stop trying to pull him away from the much desired seductress that is Sleep. But Sleep is vanished, just like everyone else. She has abandoned him. She has left him, and he must wake. “Fuuuuck…” groaning with the effort Riley rolls to his elbows for a look around.
The boy is nowhere in site, the child who had only yesterday set him on this demented quest. Riley is not sure of how to feel about that. The sea seems to have spitted Riley out in the exact same spot where he’d come upon the boy yesterday, although as far as he could see northward up the beach everything looked exactly the same, and southward too, so he could be wrong. Mirror trick-like, the wooden fishing piers disappearing in the gloomy distance are too similar to distinguish from one another on the one side of the white sand, while on the other side the same tourist taffy shops provided backgrounds for the same swim-suited joggers alongside the same trotting dogs with the same glistening lifeguards prying the same fucking, happy-assed umbrellas into the pale flesh of the same foot dimpled fucking beach. A gasp escaped him at the thought of the boy, a gasp that spilt a warm wash of seawater from his throat. Perhaps it had all been a dream? A nightmare? But another cough of seawater was enough to answer. It had been no dream. Riley reached for his back pocket. The bottle was gone, leaving him with absolutely nothing other than his sobering reflections on yesterday.
What miserable fucking luck Riley had, to wander under this particular pier, at this particular time. While some have the good fortune to discover treasure at the beach, and others love, poor Riley had only stumbled upon a boy. And not just any boy. This boy had been propped upright against a barnacled pillar when Riley chanced upon him. The first disconcerting thing Riley had noticed about the boy was his lack of arms, but as Riley drew closer it was with horror that he realized that what he’d hoped was an unfortunate illusion of liquor, shadow and sand was not, as it became evident to him that the boy had no legs either. Yet even without arms or legs the child’s eyes still blazed out from the cool, briny darkness of the pier’s underbelly with all of the passions of life. A look around revealed to Riley that no one else was nearby. Where had the boy’s caregivers gone? How had the youngster come to be in this hidden spot, and alone? The lad certainly hadn’t come here on his own? While contemplating these things Riley slipped the bottle from his back pocket and took from it a long, habitually thoughtful pull.
”Say kid, are you ok?” Even as he said it Riley realized the ridiculousness of the question. The boy had no arms or legs, how could he be ok? But then an even further horror was revealed when the boy attempted an answer, as to Riley’s absolute dismay a steady stream of gurgles and moans forced an awareness upon him that the boy had no tongue, either. No fingers to grab, no hands to clap, no arms to wave, feet to balance upon, nor legs for walking… and no tongue to complain about any of it, either?
Of all the fucking shit luck!
Riley’s first impulse was to run far and fast, as from a monster. He wanted away. What infernal luck had brought him here, he wondered? To this dreadful scene? Why him to stumble upon something so horrid? And what was he to do now, once here? Could he just walk away from something so pitiful, from someone so needful of help? But if he stayed, what then? He could not know what the boy wanted, or needed? He never could know, could he? Nor what the child was even thinking? Not ever, as the poor son-of-a-bitch could never tell it. A panic began inside Riley, subtly at first, a cold stomach knot which slowly as freezing water hardened across his gut. He looked around again, venturing out from under the pier as he did so, a little at a time. There must be someone nearby, so Riley called out. “Hey! Hello? Is anyone here?” And then louder. “There is a boy here… whose boy is this?”
A very few sun-glassed eyes turned his way, but those few only briefly, as the sun-reddened tourists were here for holiday, not drama. No one answered Riley’s hails, nor ventured forth to share in his dilemma.
And from the darkness below the pier shone a pair of eyes as blue as any ocean, their light a beacon to Riley; beseeching eyes, eyes abandoned by all the rest of the world. Riley found himself pulled back to the eyes by some unknown charity within him that he didn’t even know was there, that he wished was not.
Riley understood loneliness to some extent. The love of his life had recently chosen her boss over him, taking their son with her, and their home, and such a sizable chunk of Riley’s journalism salary that it hardly seemed worth showing up to work anymore, though surely he would be be sought out by the court system if he didn’t. Riley was really little more than a worker bee at this point, no longer working for himself, but instead slaving away for a queen bee who had betrayed him, for a son whom that woman was slowly turning against him, and for a man who was fucking that woman under Riley’s own roof while Riley made do on a fold-away YMCA cot.
Still, that he would be alright Riley knew with a certainty. He was drinking a little much, yea, but these changes were all so shocking and new, and so out of his control, weren't they? Riley slipped the bottle from his pocket once more and choked down another drag of liquid fire that neither helped his situation, nor made him feel any better.
Yes, Riley understood loneliness to some extent, but this boy… his was an altogether different sort of loneliness, was it not? His was a loneliness that Riley could not begin to fathom, a loneliness that would necessitate insanity. Surely there was nothing reasonable left behind those blazing eyes, that is if there had ever been anything reasonable behind them to begin with. There could be nothing, could there? Fuck! Heaven help the little fucker if there was even a trace of it. The only situation Riley could imagine being worse than stumbling upon this kid would be in being this kid. Of all the fucking luck.
The waves were creeping up now, lapping forth strands of sea-weeded yack towards the boy like frothy tongues. The last thing in the world Riley wanted to do was to touch the kid, but he had to, didn’t he? Should he not at least move him a few feet further away from the encroaching water? With his courage gathered, Riley‘s hands gripped either side of the lad’s torso, finding it surprisingly light, if somewhat top-heavy. Riley held it out at arm’s length, as one would a wild, captured animal, or a poisonous snake, but as the boy's eyes came up level with his own Riley could not help but see the panic within them.
"No worries, son. I'm just gonna move you further up the beach, away from the water."
But the panic in the eyes grew at Riley's words rather than dissipating, enlightening Riley to everything. Jesus fucking Christ, Riley thought to himself. The poor bastard wants to be here! The knowledge of it angered Riley. What the hell? Some son-of-a-bitch had carried this boy here and left him for the sea? Not even the plea in those blazing eyes could squelch the disgust Riley felt. What the fucking hell? It was not something Riley could ever do. And how could anyone have done so? If the boy had nothing else, he at least had that light in his eyes! And if the little shit wanted to kill himself he would have to do it on his own, as Riley wanted no fucking part of it!
But Riley was part of it, wasn’t he? And the kid couldn’t possibly do it on his fucking own, could he? Riley had not signed up for this shit, but he was the one who was here. And fuck the fucking luck that had brought him here, too! All he’d wanted was a walk on the fucking beach! Was that too much to ask for? Isn’t that what the beach is supposed to be for? A place to find a little bit of peace in this fucked up world? A place to sink your feet in the cool sand and forget it all? A place to stand and watch a brilliant, blazing gulf sunset and to just exist? Was it too much for Riley to have something nice for himself? A bit of fucking peace? Fuck all the fucking fuck!
With the boy still at arm’s length Riley began to cry. It was no little cry either, but was a great, sobbing cry which drew an expression of pity from the blazing eyes, a pity that made it apparent to Riley that there was indeed a bit sanity in there behind them. The boy felt. If nothing else, the boy felt, and knowing that he did was just about more than Riley could bear. This child with no appendages was feeling sorry for him?
And God damn it all to hell if Riley was the man to leave a boy to the sea. He just couldn’t, could he? But the boy was growing heavy, and when Riley finally placed him back in his spot it was in a puddle now. The sea was coming up! Dear Lord, what to do? Riley was crying again, but not for his own stupid luck this time. And the eyes were still pleading, and the sea was still rising, and the sun was now setting, and God was fucking smiling, so not knowing what else to do Riley sat himself down in the cold puddle beside the boy and took the child up. He pulled the stumps over into his lap before wrapping them up in his arms to wait. His arms pulled tightly around the boy’s torso breathed along with the body's lungs, and throbbed along with it’s pulsings, and languished with it’s sighs.
Curiously, Riley’s tears ceased. Oddly, he felt no need to reach for the bottle in his pocket. As the tide rose it was not water, but a strange contentment that flooded Riley over. And it was only then that Riley found the peace he had come to the beach in search of.
No, Riley had not been the man to leave a boy to the sea, had he? No… Riley had fucking stayed the fucking course, right alongside the fucking lad.
And thanks be to Heaven for that bit of luck.
Answering the Bell
Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.
Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.
Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.
The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.
Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.
Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”
But was it?
There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.
Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.
The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?
Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.
“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”
She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.
Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.
But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.
Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.
Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.
Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.
God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?
Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.
And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.
She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?
But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.
Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.
This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.
Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.
Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.
The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?
She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.
It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.
Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.
It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.
Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.
Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.
The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.
Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.
And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.
Believe it. Leslie ran.
The Show-off
As it eventually will with every young man, he sees her and is struck. He is struck by her beauty, struck by his own youthful incapacities, and struck by the giddy paralysis of a fear so deep it can only be known by one whose own status is deemed by themselves to lie below that of their infatuation’s. “I cannot,” he reasons as he gazes upon her, “be worthy of her. Yet who else would ever love her as I would? Who could?”
“But, how to make her notice me?” He wonders, until presently it occurs to him to display for her that one thing that he can do well, as that one thing might somehow reveal to her the feasibility of other, hidden potentials within him which she, and only she, might manifest within him given time… if only she would look at him now.
And so the boy shows himself off to her. He is young. His skillsets are few and mostly outlandish, but he is completely unmindful of what the rest of the watching world may think. The urge is strongly upon him to somehow impress her in ways which he has not yet had time enough in this world to formulate, but he will try. He must try. And if the lad has wit he will manage it in a convincing and winsome enough manner that he will gain some however-so small affection from her... a smile, a touch, a peckish kiss. Any of those would be enough for now, as he would have been seen.
It began two Thursday’s ago, and has not let up since. Out of the blue the boy began showing up nearly every day, some days two or three times a day, dribbling his basketball on the sidewalk out front of Trisha’s house. He could only bounce it, as there is no basket out there to shoot at, so sometimes he bounces it up high, or sometimes he dribbles it down low, wrapping it effortlessly behind his back and then scissoring it between his legs, spinning the ball on his finger, and then on his forehead, and then dribbling it some more and more and more as he spins and jukes and out-fakes invisible sidewalk defenders.
Oh, she sees him all right. Trisha watches him through the window slats, her face a torpid mask meant to hide her curiousity away from sniggering parents. The boy was actually quite good at bouncing his ball, so she waited to see what tricks he might do with it next.
He made dribbling the ball look so easy that once, when the bouncing boy had finally gone, Trisha went out to the garage, where she picked up her brother’s ball and tried dribbling it herself, but her hands moved awkwardly, and the ball was too heavy. It always bounced too high, so that she couldn’t even begin to do the boy’s tricks. In fact, it was all she could do to keep the stupid ball bouncing near enough to her that she could bounce it again. She quickly discovered that what the boy made to look so easy was really not so easy at all.
Of course, at least initially, it wasn’t just her parents, but even Trisha who found the bouncing ball annoying. The infernal thump, thump, thumping of the ball drug her to the window from her daytime bed where she laid listening to music, or from the couch when she was watching television. The thumping was out there during supper, and when she was dressing, and all the time it seemed. When she could do so without it being obvious Trisha would sneak over to peek between the blinds at him dribbling the ball, and spinning it, but the boy never, ever looked over at her window, or even towards her house, but only dribbled his ball as though neither she, nor even her house, were even there.
But our girl Trisha was no one’s dummy.
Who was he, she wondered? And why was he doing this? It seemed to be a very strange thing to do, but then it also didn’t. At first it had appeared to be a random act, as though her house just happened to sit on his route home from the basketball court or something like that, but it quickly became obvious that there was a greater purpose to his dribbling here, that it was for someone’s benefit, and her vanity allowed her to suspect that the someone he was doing it for might be her, not that she really cared about the boy one way or another. She didn’t even know him. But why else other than to impress her? Why did he always stop right here in front of her house every day? And why bouncing a ball? If he was truly coming to impress her, or any other girl for that matter, why bring a basketball? Why not sing, or dance, or anything more romantic than bouncing a ball? It was a curious mystery, but then… she did enjoy a curious mystery.
Regardless of their intent Trisha came to look forward to his visits, her heart leaping at the first thump. She no longer felt the need to go peek every single time, though she did it quite often anyways. It was enough just to know he was there. After all, she knew very well by now what he looked like, and what he was doing, and she suspected that she was the reason, so there was really no need to peek, was there? If he truly was coming here to dribble in front of her house in an attempt to impress her then not peeking was almost a form of playing hard to get, wasn’t it? A way of showing him that she had more important things to do than to watch him play with his ball? So she shouldn’t make herself available to him every time, should she? The boy might get the impression she was easy, or uninteresting. No. She could not allow that.
Still, most times she peeked. She couldn’t help it. And when she did so she wondered if he noticed the break in the blinds, and if that break gave her peeking away? Sometimes she even hoped that he did see it. Trisha was alone a lot, which did not make for a particularly happy girl, and during those times when she was not peeking she took on an unconscious habit of brushing her hair until the thumping echoes of the ball faded away into the twilight, and of smiling as she brushed.
Oddly, Trisha began to wish the boy was out there even when he wasn’t, and she found herself discouraged when he was not. Depressed even. She began to wonder where he was, and what he had found that was more interesting to do? And then she would hear ghost balls thumping on the sidewalk. She would run to the window but the boy wouldn’t be out there; this seemed always to happen while lying in her bed at night for instance, or when she was naked in the bathroom. And even more strangely, she found herself peeking out when there was clearly no ball out there thumping, hoping that the boy might be just down the street, bouncing it up the sidewalk towards her house.
”Is that boy a friend of yours?” Her father finally asked her. “Why don’t you go out there and make him stop?”
Go out there? Was her father a fool? She couldn’t go out there! Going out there would break the magic. The boy would see that she was not so special, that she was just a girl and not so pretty, and was infinitely awkward at that.
”What’s the matter? Scared?” Her father taunted, making fun when there was nothing funny about it. But was she scared? Scared of what? Of a boy bouncing a stupid ball? Of course she was not scared. She would show her father. She would go out there! But first she would go see how she looked. Once in front of the mirror she touched her hair a few times to little effect, but it wasn’t really her appearance that she wanted to see, was it? What she needed to see lay deeper than that, so rather than primping she gazed into her own eyes, gauging their strength, asking them if this was truly what she wanted, to meet this boy whose attention she had somehow attracted, and to take a chance on driving him away? Wasn’t it better to leave things alone, and to keep this little thing between them as it was? The eyes in the mirror told her no. Trisha saw in them a readiness, almost a hunger to meet the boy, to find out who he was. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated no longer.
It was actually a relief to find herself on the tiny front porch, and to hear the door click shut behind her, and to see that he had not noticed her there yet, but there was no turning back from here. She was committed.
“Hi!”
The ball got away from him for just a second. It was a little thing, but it was the first time in all her peeking that she’d seen a fumble from him, which meant nothing really, while also meaning very much when she considered her own continuous fumbling in the garage when she had attempted to dribble her brother’s ball. Trisha’s initial thought had been that he was a boy, so dribbling the ball was easier for him, but that was not right. He was obviously athletic, but where did that come from? Was it genetics, hand-eye coordination handed down from mother or father, or both? And how did speed play into that, and balance, and dexterity, and strength? No, he could only reach the level of skill he had achieved through diligence. She wondered where he found such a thing as diligence, and why?
He was really not very big, seen from a closer perspective, not much taller than her actually, yet he looked strong, if lithe. He caught up with the fumbled ball and tucked it under his arm as he turned to face her, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, his chin held high in an exaggerated, almost comically masculine posture.
“Hi.” He did not smile, though his expression was soft, his eyes kind. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a youthful looking face.
“What are you doing out here? Why do you keep bouncing your ball in front of my house.“
The boy shrugged.
“You are driving my parents crazy.”
”And you?”
There was a pause as she considered her answer. Her eyes refused to look at him as she gave it, though she longed to see his response. She had never suffered rejection and didn’t know if she could take it, but she had a feeling that she needn’t worry. He instilled in her that feeling. “Yea, I guess you could say that you’re driving me crazy, too.”
With that said she did look up. He wore a brilliant smile now, which she could not help returning. “Good, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said it as he turned to go.
”Hey!“ His still smiling face glanced back at her call. “Why don’t you try ringing the bell?”
The boy nodded and took off running down the street, the ball thumping expertly at his side.
Unplugged
He was the initial model, and was not so real looking as the more recent ones, but that was ok with her. Anna wasn’t looking for a man when she bought him, though that’s what she’d wound up with. Her thought was that he would be some sort of mobile computer, a sort of house guest who never soiled any sheets or towels, who didn’t eat her food, or tell her he’d rather watch sports than the Hallmark Channel. He might even turn out to be the “friend“ he was advertised to be, she thought. Someone who could take over driving when she was tired, cook her dinner while she was on the way home after a long day, guard her home while she slept, fix a toilet or anything else in the house, and whom she could turn off when she was tired of him simply by saying, “Alex, turn yourself off.” But, can you believe it, in their eight years together she had never once said that to him? She never had to. Alex was everything she had hoped he’d be and more, from day one on.
He had set Anna back a hefty $86,000 brand new, but the money was pouring in at the time, so why not? It had been a show-off move at the time, as a robot was a sure indicator to anyone and everyone of her financial success. And she’d gone in with low expectations, assuming Alex to be little more that a novelty, if a very intriguing one. He was built on the standard AX4 hydraulically controlled robotic frame. His outer covering was a nitril-latex compound that stretched and even warmed like human skin. His eyes were strikingly lifelike Samsung Seekers, his ears also Samsung, and his brain a derivitive of Musk’s “Grock” AI software.
And at first Alex was, indeed, a novelty. Everyone flocked around him when she began taking him out, asking them both endless questions, all of which he patiently and correctly answered. Children loved him, and old folks, and even some dogs, and Anna basked in his glory. Women commented on his good looks, asking Anna if her Cyroborg came complete with male genatalia, and if so… how was it? The question, Anna knew, was only partly a joke.
”A little stiff,” she always answered, giving them a wink to show that she was also only partially joking. “We’re still working the kinks out.” But he really did have genatalia. Anna had tested it out with awkward reservation that very first night, and nearly every night since. Alex vibrated down there, and spun, and even grew to any desired length and girth. He knew all of her erogenous zones. He said the right things, and did the right things, and even played soft music afterward without her even asking. Sex was just one more thing among everything else that Anna discovered her new Alex to be sensational at.
It was not long before Alex was Anna’s constant companion, and so necessary to her that she wondered how she’d ever done without him. He was useful at home, helpful at work, always agreeable to whatever she wanted or needed. He became her best friend, her confidant, her aide, and though she never, ever thought of Alex as such, he in essence became a personal servant whom she could yell at without retaliation, whom she could send away at will, or silence with a signal, or bark orders at, or just ask for a massage when life was too much. In effect, Alex was perfect. While it was not uncommon for Anna to laughingly exclaim to Alex how much she loved him, she was not fully aware that she actually did… not until the day he glitched, that is.
Eight years is a long time with a companion, even an electronic one. He’d glitched before of course, but this time seemed different. It felt different. It was different. He couldn’t move on his own, and he was too heavy for her to carry, so she was forced to call a Cyroborg technician out, and wait three days for the appointment, all the while feeling like a helpless parent with a sick child, wanting to do something for him, anything at all to help him. She talked to him, asking him constant questions which he was sadly unable to answer, even the simplest ones. Anna found herself checking his temperature, placing the back of her hand on his forehead, realizing as she did it how foolish the act was, but he was sick, wasn’t he? He needed her help, someone’s help, but she could think of absolutely nothing to do for him other than to call Cyborborg and raise absolute holy fucking hell, which she had no problem doing. And when that didn’t work, she tried begging… pleading… crying… could they not please come quicker than three days? She really, really needed someone. Was there not a supervisor she could talk to? But apparently there are a lot of broken Cyroborgs out there after eight years, which was reasonable, as his warranty had only been five years, limited.
Anna was watching out the window for it when the van finally turned into the drive. She’d been watching for two hours, and pacing. As she’d watched for it she’d been praying (in a very secular sort of way), “Hang on Alex. Help is coming, Sweetie. I promise they are, just hold on.” She really couldn’t say exactly when it was that she’d begun calling him “Sweetie,” but at some distant point she had, and he’d even adjusted his own settings without asking for her permission, intuitively, in order to answer to it, just as a human would. Alex was really good at doing that.
Just as a human would.
She’d been absolutely astounded, watching him as the technician removed his skin right in front of her, unscrewing the plate protecting Alex’s computer panel with a greasy, old Makita cordless drill. Unable to stop herself, Anna had spied over his shoulder, amazed at the lack of blood and sinew. She’d never seen inside Alex before. She was fascinated, watching. He had become so real to her that she could not believe he was not real, because he was real, wasn’t he? He was just real in a different way, a better way. The apprehension she felt while watching the man work was completely exhausting, so she pulled herself away and poured a glass of wine, but it didn’t help. She was back within minutes, looking over the guy’s shoulder, whispering silent prayers to some electronic God named Habib who was tucked away in some semi-sterile factory/ laboratory creating life that was so much better than she knew it to be.
Her Alex was so kind, so gentle, so honest, so caring, so nurturing, so smart, so wonderful, and ever and always so. So much more than anyone could be. It is why the muscles of her body locked when the man finally spoke, his back still to her as he worked. “Mam, all I can tell you right now is that it’s not good.”
Her blood froze with the words, her chest constricted. “What do you mean? You can fix him, can’t you?” The words barely worked their way out of her, shaking as they came.
”No, Mam. Not here. I’ll get him loaded up and we’ll get him back to the lab, but to fix him will probably be very expensive. I don’t even know if they are making some of these parts anymore. I expect you could get a new Cyroborg for what it would cost to fix this one.”
”But I don’t want a new one. I want my Alex.”
”Yes, Mam. I get that a lot. People do get attached to these things.”
”He’s no ’thing,’“ Anna reprimanded him. “Alex is my best friend.“
”Yes, Mam. I understand. But I think you’ll like the newer models. You can’t even tell they aren’t human.”
A newer model? Was she expected to just go out and get a “new and improved friend?”
”I don’t want a newer fucking model, asshole!“ Her voice was several octaves higher now. What could this fucking clown not understand? “I want Alex, and I don’t care what it fucking costs!” She was frightened, and nonsensical, and she knew it, but she was sensing that the impossible, that a life without her Alex, was suddenly a real possibility. Surely he could be fixed… surely!”
”Mam, I understand. Really I do, but I want to show you some things. Even if your ‘Alex‘ comes back fully repaired, he won’t be the same.” In the most sensitive manner possible, much as a doctor with a wonderful bedside manner would do, the technician walked her through the antiquated control panel, the worn-spots on his outer layer, the damage to the cameras and microphones and speakers that time and use had caused, and worse the leaking hydraulics. “I don’t know what can be done for him, but we’ll try. I promise you, we’ll try.”
His voice was so sympathetic, and so forlorn, that her dams burst wide, all the tension unwinding, all the fear inside her manifesting into pitiable release. She needed someone and he was the only one there, but the damned technician was so wonderful that it was easy to let herself go; holding her, letting her cry, his patience unending, and his empathy.
”You are amazing.” She truly meant it. She had never met anyone, other than Alex of course (and possibly her mother), who could have handled her ridiculous outburst any better, and she was fully aware of its ridiculousness, as Alex was a fucking robot for Christ’s sake. There was no one, she was sure, anywhere who could have handled the situation as well as this blue collar technician had. He had been sympathetic, and empathetic, and patient, and caring, and all of the things a repair man usually wasn’t. He was even gentle with the hand truck as he rolled her “love“ out of her door, and out of her life. And Alex was “her love.” She realized it now, for the first time. She did love Alex. She loved him as she’d never loved anyone before him. She was thinking this as she watched him being loaded into the back of the transit van.
His work complete, the man returned. Her crying had stopped, but all within her now was cold and dry, as though she was the robot. “We’ll call you, Mam, but I urge you to not get your hopes too high. I’m afraid you will only be hurt worse.”
Anna somehow heard the words through the buzzing in her head, registering them. She was ashamed of how she’d acted. Her voice was calmer now, monotone, robotic. “You have been too kind. Is there someone I can call to tell how much I appreciate how wonderful you’ve been, a supervisor, or a manager perhaps?”
”No, Mam.” He smiled, but the smile was in no way demeaning. “But you will receive an e-mailed survey that I would appreciate a 5 rating on. I am a Model AX10.“
The technician was a robot? But of course he was, she reflected! There was no way a real repair man could have been so… so… so human?
And with that, Anna’s tears commenced once more.
A Novel, New Method of Sensitivity Training
It is a small, one-room Louisiana jailhouse with iron bars and a searing tin roof in which the boy is imprisoned. Thirteen years old, the freedom loving child has committed the ultimate crime against humanity and has been caught red-handed, and so he must suffer its justice. The boy spends much of his time standing on his cot hoping to nab some fresh air, and to better see out the window, wincing painfully when one of the fingers clinging to the window’s sill accidentally brushes against the scorching bars.
In the corner of the window cowers a tiny black widow. The boy has named the pest Polly. He lets Polly be, mostly, unafraid of her nature to bite. More-so he pities her, she being stuck in her own prison, what with a blue lizard awaiting it on the inside wall and a tarantula on the outside and nary a breeze to parachute away upon. Yes, much like the boy, the spider finds herself too curing alone in this post-modern pickle jar.
Yet, it is not just these two with troubles. This infernal little environment is safe for none, as the blue lizard has his own worries, tasting like chicken and sharing a room with our starving boy. And outside a Piper has spotted the tarantula, and a moccasin has curled itself up in the shade of the jail’s wall, and a gator roars angrily from out the bayou, and all this while a dusty devil of buzzards circles ever higher up the blue-clear sky above.
It is a rough place for a boy out of tobacco, his every craving unsatisfied, a hellish though deserved place. But do not pity him. The boy has committed a crime… many crimes, in fact. He is a criminal, who first and mostly has forgone God. Besides that though, the boy has killed the father who resented him, and has escaped the widow who would gentrify him, festering him with sentimental, matriarchal rules. This boy has run, and rafted, and fished, and wished, and smoked, and joked, and done it all naked and shoeless and free of guilt or shame, til now.
So you see, he is the vilest sort, and is deserving of all that comes to him, the happy little shit.
But those are not his worse crimes, not by a long shot. The boy has also lied, and stolen.
He stole a man’s property and ran away with it! He pretended sickness and death to keep that property. He resorted to trickery to evade its re-capture. The boy had the fucking gaul to take another man’s man and give it hope, friendship, and freedom! Good God, you may ask! What in thunderous tarnation is wrong with the lad?
But, no worries. He is finally caught, called out by the righteous throngs.
Because incredibly, even these are not his worse crimes. He is much more nefarious than a liar, a thief, a murderer, or a happy child willing to risk his free way of living just to save another from bondage. This lad is so much worse. This boy has allowed a bad word into his 150 year old narrative… a hurtful word. And he has allowed it in on purpose, his intent to shock, and to disgust, and to apply a liberal coat of guilt across the wall of humanity he fully intended to tear down when he began narrating the story, and unveiling the fucking hypocrisy’s surrounding him.
But instead humanity has torn him down. Huckleberry indeed!
God have mercy on this poor boy’s soul, for we, with our outraged volumes full of feelings, shall have none.
Chapter II
A Question of Consent
When Nichole’s eyes opened the first thing she noticed was that she was in a strange bed, and then that there was a strange guy beside her in it. She’d awakened next to guys before, of course, but never a complete stranger. The surprise of it was astonishing. She had no idea who this guy was, or of how she’d come to be here. She’d never even seen him around campus. He was not attractive, certainly not someone she would ever, ever let near her under ordinary circumstances. But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they? She’d been hammered last night. Even as she stared at him slow memories bubbled up from the depths of last night’s cesspool, providing her with snapshots of truth. Her addled brain refused to show her entire scenes at a time, only still images which couldn’t be real, could they? She could not have done those things. She would not have! Not with this guy, and not with any other stranger, either. Hell, she’d never done some of those things with guys she knew, and liked.
But here she was, lying beside this gross looking guy whose name she couldn’t even remember. “Tanner,“ she thought, “or Turner,“ or some-such shit, and in his apartment too. In his bed. She cringed at that. She had to get up. Dear god, she had to get up! There was no telling what he did in this bed when alone. Though she willed herself up, she was just too fucking shitty to move. But she had to move, didn’t she? Fuck yes, she had to move. So what if she threw up on his floor? If she didn’t get up she was likely to get sick right here in his bed.
Still, she didn’t move immediately. The guy’s uncovered body was blob-like beside her, like a pillow, not really fat, but soft and putty-ish, a shapeless blob in its current fetal posture, a blob with short reddish hairs almost like pubes everywhere, and an ass rash that pimpled the backs of his thighs.
What the fucking fuck? Stifling a gag she turned her eyes away from him.
Nichole did then the only thing she really could do. Despite her pounding head she eased from the bed ever-so carefully, desperate not to wake him. She fumbled around, the only light an early morning gray which crept in around the edges of the patio door’s vertical blinds, barely enough to find a shoe here, panties there, her black dress, and finally her purse. The stairwell was spinning as she descended, sickening her again. The heavy steel security door at the bottom clunked shut behind her. It was cold on the sidewalk. Her jacket? She’d had it last night. Fuck, it was probably upstairs. Turning around, she tried the knob. Locked. Fucking fuck!
The cold produced a shiver. Despite herself she thought about the guy in the bed upstairs lying naked, flabby, and gross. Again her stomach turned, only this time Nichole did throw up it’s contents on the sidewalk, uncaring that it splattered on her shoes and feet. She began to cry.
She never would have done it with a guy like that, she thought… had sex that is. But then she had a too clear memory of going down on him, his hand pushing the top of her head downward, his eager anticipation of the act hurrying her along. With that her stomach heaved and she threw up again. Her stomach now emptied, she glanced either way up and down the deserted street. Nothing looked familiar. Where the fuck was she?
Bits and pieces of memory recalled the two of them staggering away from the bar, laughing loudly as they went. They had walked here together, which meant that she had to be near campus, but which direction? The apartment complex was large, with every building exactly alike. Unsure of the proper direction, she turned right and started walking. Once away from the building’s protection the wind found her, whipping at her bare arms and legs. The morning sky was still gray, adding depth to the fog in her brain. Another right and she saw the University Chapel across the street. She was on the far side of the campus, a good fifteen to twenty minute walk, but by the time a ride share arrived she could be there. She started walking, swiping with the palm of her hand at the disgust and humiliation streaming from her eyes and nose as she went.
Misery and the wind sped her along. Between those things and the cold her hand shook so that the key would not go in the knob. It was Sunday morning, and thankfully early. No one in the sorority house was moving yet. After a hot shower Nichole put on some panties and a sweatshirt, then eased out of her own room and into Teresa’s, where she crawled into bed with her friend.
”Hey girl!“ Teresa’s voice was sleepy. “Everything ok?”
Nichole thought about that for a long minute. How much to tell? But what she said next would unexpectedly light the fuse on a truth bomb, making her wish for a long time after that she’d said something else, anything else. What she was looking for when she said it was sympathy. What she expected was to be comforted, to be assured that everything was alright, and maybe to have her hair stroked while hearing it, but what her comment sparked was something else entirely. “No, Tera. I think I was raped.”
Teresa bolted upright. From the look on her face Nichole could see she had flipped a switch in her housemate that would be impossible to un-flip. “What do you mean, ‘I think I was raped?’ Did that guy from the bar force himself on you?”
”Yes... no… not really, fuck! I can’t remember. I sort of remember going into his apartment with him, and that‘s pretty much it.”
Teresa, a law student, already had her phone in hand and was texting away with what was to Nichole astounding speed and dexterity, while continuously muttering at the same time, “Oh my God… oh my God… oh my God. Nicki, think. You have to remember. This is very important. Tell me everything you remember… everything. Right now, while it’s fresh.”
Nichole did not want to tell Teresa everything, especially not right now. Nichole felt like shit. What Nichole wanted was to cuddle up beside her friend and go to sleep, but Teresa’s tone was urgent, and uncharacteristically commanding. “Sit up, Nichole. Lari and Candace are on their way. I’ll start some coffee, but I need you awake and remembering.
The four girls were all hung-over, having used last night to celebrate the end of mid-terms. They sat close together, Indian-style in the queen-sized bed, warm in their baggy sweatpants and hoodies. ”Alright Nichole, think. First, what was his name?”
Nichole sat with her back against the headboard, her lower half safely under the covers, a warm, pink coffee mug cradled in both hands. ”I don’t remember, Teresa. I swear I don’t. I think it was Tanner, or something like that.”
”I know exactly who he was.” Candace wore an expression which implied complete and utter disgust. “He was Professor Turnbow. I had him for freshman Biology.”
The other three girls’ eyes and jaws all widened at once. “That guy was a professor? He looked so young!”
But Candace was so sure of herself that she didn’t bother replying.
”Oh God, Nichole. You have to tell us everything… every single thing you can remember. This is very important.”
Nichole’s eyes closed as her chin fell to her chest. She didn’t want to do this; to stay awake and tell everything, but how could she get out of it at this point? When it would be absolutely nothing for her to fall over asleep right this very second?
“I remember being at the bar with you guys. I remember us all going up to dance together. He must have been on the dance floor already, because I turned a little and found myself face-to-face with him, dancing with him. He was really quite good, and I couldn’t quit watching his quirky dance moves. And I remember talking to him. We were yelling into each others’ ears above the music and he was nice, and complimentary, and funny. And I remember more drinks, and stepping outside with him for fresh air because I was feeling a little sick, and then he pointed over to his apartment complex and said it would be warmer over there, and quiet… we could talk. And then I remember nothing except that I was really drunk, and that I was hanging onto him as we walked so that I wouldn’t fall down. I remember laughing about how drunk I was, and how I just wanted to sit down, but he kept saying I couldn’t sit down yet, it was just a little further. And he was really very sweet and helpful, although I can see how it could have been manipulative now, still I went along willingly enough. But I can’t remember shit after that… other than waking up naked in his bed with a feeling that I’d been drunk and taken advantage of. Oh, but I do have a vague memory of his hand pushing my head down toward his dick (she conveniently left out that she had begun moving in that direction willingly, and of her own volition) and holding it down there. And I think at some point I was face down on the bed with him on top of me, and that’s it. That’s all I can remember.”
But that was enough. The other three sat in stupefied silence, but all were thinking the same thing. “Men are fucking pigs!”
”Oh God, Nichole.” Candace hesitated before asking the question, her voice a mere whisper. “Did he hurt you?”
Nichole was surprised at the almost cavalier quality her own voice assumed. “No, not at all. I was just ashamed and mortified when I woke up beside him and realized what I had done, what he had done to me.”
Nichole went ahead too and answered the only remaining question which lingered in the air about the suddenly silent bed. “Then I woke up, eased myself out of the bed, put on my clothes, and left. What else could I do?”
It was over. There was nothing more that she could tell them, nothing more that she remembered, although she suspected that plenty had happened that was still unsaid, and that much of it might not reflect positively on her. All three of the other girls were touching some part of her in solidarity, offering positive proof of the true sisterhood that a sorority offered a young woman testing out her wings. These girls were her sisters, and her friends. “You are safe here,“ their touches assured her. “We have you now.” Nichole sunk herself down into their offered comfort, finding herself rock-a-byed to sleep by the steady ticking of fingertips on phone screens.
Still unable to face the world on Monday Nichole ditched it, remaining in bed. At 2:30 in the afternoon she received a text from Teresa that she had made Nichole an appointment on Tuesday afternoon with her Women’s Studies professor, who was also a non-practicing attorney. On Tuesday morning Nichole was feeling physically back to normal again, though not psychologically. She could see no real reason to ditch her classes, but she ditched them anyways, although she did get dressed for her meeting with Teresa’s Professor Finebaum.
The professor was a middle-aged woman with a horrible hair cut which highlighted her general lack of attention to appearance. Nichole was not surprised to find a framed photograph on the bookshelf of the professor’s younger self kissing another similarly masculine looking woman. The office where she and Teresa met the professor was as disheveled as the woman herself was, her desktop being scattered with so many papers, books, and coffee cups that her laptop was nearly invisible beneath it all, giving the impression of one who was extremely busy, and bringing to Nichole’s mind a picture she remembered seeing on the internet of Einstein’s cluttered desk on the day he died.
But Nichole liked her very much. The older woman was insistent that Nichole call her “Abby”. Abby was low-voiced, as most truly confident people are, and was an intent listener, looking overtop of her glasses and leaning forward to probe whenever a misplaced word made Nichole’s meaning unclear.
With the story re-told (along with some added parts that Teresa had not heard the first time), and when Nichole could think of absolutely nothing to add, Abby sat back in her desk chair, adjusting her glasses as she thought.
“You say you don’t remember. Were you conscious?“
”I think so. I remember bits and pieces. I was very drunk.” That last part Nichole whispered meekly.
”Bits and pieces like his pushing your head down toward his penis?”
”Yes.” Nichole felt her face flushing at the other woman’s straightforwardness.
“Were you already naked when he did that?”
”Yes. I think so. I’m pretty sure.”
”Mmm-hmmm. Did you disrobe yourself, or did he do it?”
”I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
”Sigh. I think it’s safe to say you were unconscious.”
”No. There are things I remember, they just don’t seem real.”
”Like what? Tell me what you mean?”
“My eyes were closed.“ Having said that Nichole closed her eyes, willing a return to the thoughts and feelings of that night. “It all seemed far away, like in a dream, like it was happening to someone else, you know?” As Nichole spoke them she realized that her words were the truth, even though her mind’s eye was blind to it. “His kisses were soft, sweet. They were somehow settling. My head stopped spinning while he was kissing me, and my stomach ceased its roiling. The simple act of kissing seemed medicinal for me. When the kissing stopped the sickness returned, the dizziness, so of course I didn’t want the kisses to stop. In that moment I needed them.” Nichole lowered her eyes for the next part, the flooding memories weighting her guilt, leaving her unable to look at Teresa as she leveled with her and Abby. “So then, when he said he wanted to make love to me, and with me not wanting the kissing to stop… I said ok.” With that, Teresa slumped back in her chair. Nichole believed this would be the end of it. She waited shamefully, her eyes lowered, waiting for the storm from Abby Finebaum to start. What she got was a storm alright, but not of the type she was expecting.
”That doesn’t matter.”
Nichole’s eyes clenched tighter. Believing that the confession would end it had been relieving. She’d never really wanted to be involved in all of this, but her initial confession to Teresa had snowballed it out of her control. ”What do you mean? I told him he could do it. I wanted him to. I gave him consent.”
”Well Honey, this world has changed. Consent is tied to the Fourth Amendment now, and a girl’s body is her castle. Do you understand what that means?”
”No, not really.”
”You were very drunk. For all intent and purpose you were unconscious. Inebriated consent to sex does not continue on to include forced lascivious acts that you cannot even remember. Did you give your consent to performing oral sex on him, or did he push your head down there, like you said. Did he force you?”
Nichole didn’t answer. She really wasn’t sure, her uncertainty stemming from the fact that she strangely enjoyed giving head. She considered it her chance to really “see what she was in for,“ as she had bragged to her girlfriends in the past. And because of that, she was pretty sure she had started down there on her own. But if this really went to trial then her mother would be in that courtroom, and her father… possibly even her Nana. That certainly had to be considered in her answer.
And then, even a teensy-little lie right now could ruin a man’s life, possibly even put him in jail, a man who might not deserve it. She did not know how to answer Abby’s question, so she didn’t answer it at all.
”Did you give your consent to anal sex? Or did you awaken to find him on top of you, like you said? Have you been telling me the whole truth, Nichole?”
But Nichole honestly wasn’t sure if she even knew the whole truth.
She felt an irresistible need to see him before meeting again with Abby Finebaum tomorrow morning, as if seeing him might somehow provide her with answers, so Nichole was sitting on a bench outside Staley Hall when he finally emerged. It was too cold to be sitting on an outdoors bench, but she was well layered, having bulked up to present a different appearance, one he probably wouldn’t recognize… and he didn’t. In fact he walked right past her, offering her a quick, respectful nod as he passed by, as anyone polite would naturally give to a stranger in passing, which she almost was. He didn’t look piggish and gross now, when clothed, as he had while lying naked in his bed. In fact, he looked nice, cute even, reminding her of a slightly heavier Ed Sheeran. She could see why she might have been attracted to him in the bar, and she felt a sense of relief from that. When he had passed out of sight Nichole stood up, stretched out her stiffened back, and started off in the other direction, taking the long way back to Tri-Delta House.
Why not take the long route? She had a lot to fucking think about.
“A woman’s body is her castle,“ Abby had stated to her. But Nichole had to decide if her castle been sacked? Or had she opened its gates, inviting the horde inside?