Part.1

Logan.

It was late. After 3:00 A.M. Only another two hours to go before his alarm would go off, heralding in yet another day of thankless work. It was his flip phone that had roused him. It had been buzzing incessantly for some time now. Logan wasn’t fully awake as he rolled from his right side onto his back. Away from the nightstand and away from the monetary disturbance. His mind still sticky with indistinct dreams he never quite remembered, like cobwebs you were never certain were there to begin. The half-conscious state left just enough room for a notion to slip through—a misgiving, really. The one he had been sensing with great unease and pushing to back of his mind for months now, perhaps longer. Afraid to allow it admittance, it waited for a time like this. Just before he awoke—just behind the mental list of the day’s tasks, the recollection of bills still needing to be paid, the vacancy of his savings account, the truck he loved and should probably sell for something mor economic. This morning, the notion found its way to the forefront of his mind and introduced itself.

Maybe this is not enough?

Logan’s own life—it had been good enough for him. He had tried not to let the things that damaged his little sister and older siblings during their childhood, damage him as well. So, like everything else uncomfortable for him, he pushed dismal and obscure things down, into depths he dared not go. He wasn’t familiar with Nietzsche, but even he knew well enough not to be a man who sought out darkness or who questioned his own humanity. He chose to see in black and white and took things as they came—good or bad. He didn’t necessarily believe in the evil of man but regarded it as a source of their actions. He accepted the idea of God and of Satan and avoided situations that would cause him the obligation of guilt. But that was as far as his belief system took him. He didn’t need it to go any further. To give him purpose, like other people did. And he didn’t need anger to drive him to be a better person. His siblings had enough guilt and anger to share. They even seemed to revel in it, wear it, be proud of it. Logan wanted no share. “Water off a duck’s back.” That’s what he’d say about things that would send the others in a tizzy. He was built different than them. Maybe because he didn’t feel connected to that part of their childhood? He couldn’t (wouldn’t) process mom’s slow demise. Or dad’s explosive volatility. Where his siblings felt what his little sister called “imposter syndrome” out there in the world, he felt comfort; in fact, Logan felt safest in the camouflage of vapidity.

But unlike others, Logan never felt he had anything to lose. Not before her. Not before Zoe. And not like Jessica. And she resented him for that. Jessica did. She resented that he had taken from her years that she could have spent preparing her for her adult life that were meant to be spent figuring things out. Herself out.

She had always put education first—until him. That’s one of the things that had drawn Logan to her, actually—her intelligence, ambition, her purpose. He hadn’t understood or felt purpose before her. And he didn’t know at the time that he complicated hers. He knew what he knew in his adolescent approach to love. That she was the ‘one’ (literally the only one) and might have continued to be had they stayed together. Because Logan was that uncomplicated. He was so uncomplicated that he thought she felt the same. But how could she? She was sixteen when they met. The same age as his little sister.

Jessica couldn’t keep her head straight during the whirlwind of their relationship. She wasn’t like him. Things didn’t fall into her lap. Nothing was happenstance. She worked for where she had gotten in school. In the community. She had appearances to keep up, church to attend, her mom’s confidence to sustain and convince she could handle everything. Friends to emulate. But that was changing.

First, her GPA dropped. There was no scholarship or family money to get her into the expensive universities her friends were attending. And she had lost her mother’s trust with the misuse of her time, the broken curfews, the all-to-obvious broken promise of abstinence until marriage. What was left was ‘making the worst of it’ as Jessica called it. But, paradoxically, had never felt more beautiful or thriven. On fire.

Something had awoken in her, and fuck it was exhilarating. Until now, she had been the good girl. The church girl. The smart girl. The sensible girl. Never sensual. Never the one to elicit attention from anyone, really. It wasn’t until recently that she had traded her oversized hair bow for high-waisted bell-bottoms and crochet halter tops, courtesy of her elder sister (the beauty of the family), married at eighteen, and now pregnant with her first child. Her sister and mother had always been at odds. Lisa never did anything right, and Jessica worshipped that. She wanted more of this—more than just another predictable outcome—gold star for another achievement. Another goal obtained—set by someone else. Everything had a ceiling she was discovering. So, what was the point?

Jessica took a job at the farm and feed mill on the outskirts of town to help pay for university That’s where she met Ben. She had known him in passing—it was only a town of fifteen-hundred people, after all. He was a friend of Logan’s. Not a close one, but in fringe. He was tall. Sweet. Pale. Cute. Funny. A shock of dark hair. The attraction between them was immediate. It was as if someone had thrown her into a basin of ice-cold water—the startling realization that it wasn’t just Logan she had been attracted to. It was the opportunity and license to fail. The potential and exhilaration to crash—to sabotage. To make mistakes and take consequences as they came. She had decided—against her mother’s wishes—she was going to take a semester off after high school. She’d go to parties. Try new things. Fuck. And not any of it with Logan. For, if she was going to burn for her own choices, then she would burn asunder.

He was barely into his twenties when he got her pregnant. Jessica. Now his ex. The first ex he ever had. His first real love—first girl. First person he truly disappointed. It was a one-night stand. She was high. He was drunk. She said she missed it. The sex. Being loved.

He thought if he convinced her, she would stay with him. They would be a family. She did keep It. He convinced her to keep It—It now being Zoe. But he didn’t keep Jessica.

Jessica had found Jesus again. She was back in church and, therefore, her mother’s favor. And along with God’s blessings came a man to redeem her tarnished character. A good man. A suitable man. A man who could provide. A man complete with a good, Christian upbringing, stable background, a family business, and no testosterone…but a man, nonetheless.

On the bright side, Zoe—the best thing to ever happen to him to that point. She had his bright, blue eyes. And her mother’s pale complexion, quiet nature, thick hair, and disappointment in him.

She had been “daddy’s girl” just up until the novelty of father/daughter weekends wore off and the existentialism of teenage-hood took its place. She had grown to resent him for the long hours. For the regret her mother carried. The disdain she exuded and overflowed onto the girl for reminding her of him. But Zoe mostly resented him for not being the dad that her stepfather had the resources to be. And it became worse after her stepsister was born. The ‘golden-child’. The child Jessica always wanted. Born with intent. Coddled. Fawned over by her parents. She now knew her own mother’s obsession with herself and disdain for Lisa. She didn’t want to admit it—but she understood.

Jessica: love of Logan’s life, a stay-at-home mother of his daughter, living less than six miles from him at this very moment, playing house (happily) in the bed of another man. “Ironic.” Is that the word? His little sister would give him shit for not knowing that answer.

Zoe, a daughter whose only tie to him was a surname that barely made it onto the birth certificate. Zoe, the daughter whose only fatherly support was a paper trail of child support. Zoe, who never saw her dad due to his work schedule and her mother’s incessant plot to cut him out of their lives.

He had never planned on going to college. He had never planned on anything. Everything he had just somehow ‘showed up’—offered itself in one way or another, then left the same way. Like “water off a duck’s back.” And this is what Logan had to show for his time here so far.

Maybe this is not enough?

He rolled onto his left side to stare at her in the dark. Even now he lay beside a beautiful woman who just ‘showed up’. And somehow, they had been living together for the last four years. They met on the job. He as a dispatcher for a logistics company. Her—working in poultry. It was hot at first. Like everything is in new relationships. But they both had been dumped and neither were much for playing games, so it made sense to stay together even when things kinda became flat. It was easy even. Monetarily appreciable. He watched the shape of her. The soft swell of her abdomen against the light of the window. Featureless.

In the dark he could still tell you that her skin was olive, as were her eyes. Her features were pointed and fine, whereas Jessica’s had been soft and rounded. Younger that Jessica by a few years. He could tell you this woman was a hard worker. Her favorite food is anything made with potatoes. Hates broccoli. Doesn’t like spice. Salt is a flavor. That she didn’t believe in any god except for the one that put that food on the table. Can bow hunt better than any man outside himself that he’d ever met. Loves Dukes of Hazard but had never seen Star Wars and didn’t need to.

What he couldn’t tell you is how she felt the day her little sister died in a car accident when she was just sixteen. Or how every miscarriage Logan and she had been through had changed her. He couldn’t tell you what her favorite season was or if autumn ushered in, for her, a feeling of excitement and change, or if brought up anxiety of the cold, dull solitude that it would soon be winter.

Shannon had always been a woman to him. Never a girl, like Jessica. He didn’t watch her grow up and then plateau into the person she was now. She had just always been ‘this’. Honest, loyal, predictable, hardworking. Salt of the earth. But bland. A shape in the dark against a window bright with moonlight.

Logan’s phone began to buzz furiously again. Shannon rolled away.

“Who the fuck.”

“It’s my brother.”

It wasn’t a question. And she was already asleep.

Logan crept into the kitchen of their doublewide. A gift from his boss. It wasn’t nice. It had a leak under the tub and the floor was soft in there. He had even stepped through it a time or two before he put down particleboard, just to cover up the issue. There were other usual things like mice, non-working outlets, poor insulation. But his boss let him do whatever he wanted with the place, as well as the property immediately surrounding the modular home. And it was rent-free—which made it good enough to stay.

“Hello?”

“Logan!”

It was Shamus, of course, the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family—a designation he fought their youngest sister for back and forth like a championship title belt with reckless acts that embarrassed the whole family, most especially the non-immediate ones. Both were brooding and aloof, but the difference between the two of them was that she couldn’t care less about what anyone thought of her—least of all family. And incidentally—that was what Shamus cared about most. Especially the opinion of their maternal grandparents. Nothing... nothing—was more important than family to Shamus. The Black Sheep were two sides of the same, cold coin—sedition and contrition—spent the same way. Worthless.

“Logan! I’m mom. I’m om my wayt pick oo up…” he was speaking unintelligibly. Slowly. It wasn’t unusual except Logan lived in Arkansas and Shamus had moved back to Nebraska.

Logan diagnosed the danger right way—Shamus was having an episode. “We gotta get mom. Mom doesn’t want be there, Logan…”

“Shamus! Stop! Where are you? Where is Carol?”

“Carol…” he repeatedly it with disdain. “Pffffttt…bish.”

Shamus.

Connie—Shamus’ second wife. A native American woman he had met in Nebraska after his divorce from Cherilee. Shamus had met Cherilee in Nebraska as well. A young, single mom. She was intelligent. She spoke Spanish as a second language. She had a beautiful smile. A beautiful singing voice. Loved music. Loved having fun.

So, when Shamus’ mother moved to Arkansas with Logan and their youngest sister, and he had decided to go too—he invited her. She refused. She wanted to stay near her parents, even though they had been disappointed in her for years as she had forsaken the path of the Jehovah’s Witness for the love of the man before Shamus. And she had lived a sheltered life until she had gotten pregnant with her daughter. She was doing relatively well on her own. Her parents were starting to talk to her again. Then she got pregnant with Shamus’ child, and she was on her own again.

For twenty-six years, she had never left the state. She had fucked only two men (counting Shamus) and ended up pregnant. Twice now. She never even wanted children, before her daughter, especially not out of wedlock… Realizing this might be her only chance to redeem herself as a woman, she agreed to go with him. On one condition. So, they married. And had four more children. But Arkansas was not easy on her. She often felt alone. She and Shamus fought frequently. She hadn’t any family nor many friends there. She gained weight. Being a mother of five small children, all born within proximity of one another was difficult at best. She hadn’t even fully matured. And no matter how hard she tried; she could not gain the approval of Shamus’ mother. She was even jealous of the relationship he had with his mother. She had never experienced that with her own—it was alien to her.

And for Logan and Shamus’ mom—it wasn’t that she didn’t like Cherilee. It wasn’t the fact that Cherilee (virtually) shared her namesake which that made things confusing at a very intimate level amongst family gatherings, mailing services, and had become a trite and sometimes inappropriate joke amongst friends. And it wasn’t even entirely that Cherilee didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, or that she had no passion for cooking, or was placating towards Cher in what was become a noxious exchange of barely friendly natter. It was that Cherilee didn’t love her son, Shamus. Not in the way she knew he deserved. Cherilee loved him in the way that was good enough for her…and for whatever reason, that is all that Shamus thought he’d come to deserve. Because on a regular basis, whether she realized she was doing it or not, Cherilee, blamed Shamus for her dissatisfaction with her own life—from which the course of trajectory had been set well ahead of his presence in it. But without anyone else to take responsibility for the roles unfilled by her daughter’s father and her own parents, Shamus was obligated to take those on.

Therefore, when Cherilee started taking her lunch breaks at home every day instead of with him at the poultry plant were they both worked to have “me time,” Shamus understood. It wasn’t until the rumors did Shamus become suspicious and need to see for himself.

Three times in his life would Shamus have a mental breakdown—that Logan knew of. Three times would he burn it all down, not calculating well the aftermath of that decision or how it would alter his and his children’s path from then on.

The time Shamus was roped into driving his mother to Nebraska from California was the first time Logan knew of. The man Shamus had come to see as his own father—best friend even—was battering his mother and the children they shared. Imprisoned in their home. He was forced to be the one who drove the car his brother-in-law had donated for their escape. The truth was it wasn’t just Cher, Logan, and their baby sister Maxine and her husband were trying to save. It was Shamus too. King had gotten him onto heroin. And Shamus didn’t take well to detox. The moment he could, he left. He was an adult after all. He made his way all the way back to The King of California.

Shamus doesn’t remember much about his second turn in California, away from his family, and alone with King and whatever cohorts, whores, and enemies King chose to medicate, lay, or betray in that moment. Because of this, Shamus often found himself prey to manipulation and coercion with dangerous conclusions. This is how he contracted Hepatitis C from his stand-in father figure—a disease that would take partial claim of King’s life before he ended it. A disease Shamus, himself, would barely survive.

Teresa flipped her hair back and rubbed her nose hard. King didn’t have the best cocaine. But he had a lot of it. And a lot more recently now that he had hired her and Shamus to cut it. Teresa was King’s longtime mistress—a woman King had been seeing concurrently while he kept Cher hostage and now that Cher was gone, she was his main squeeze.

Shamus felt guilty when he was around Teresa. He didn’t even like the woman, really. But wherever King, there she was. And always ready to party.

“Oh my God is that good!”

It wasn’t. But Shamus doubted Teresa would know what good coke was.

“Can you, please, do that somewhere else? I have a test tomorrow!” Teresa’s daughter screamed.

“Then go study in the room, Amber! God! You’re like an old woman!” Teresa laughed.

“I would but it smells like shit in there because you and your friends partied in there all last night! Remember?? You made me sleep on the couch! And that midget kept trying to touch me!”

Teresa started cackling. Shamus probably hated her laugh as much as daughter did.

“He’s not a midget! He lost his legs!” she was laughing so hard, she started coughing.

“Please, Mom! It’s important!”

Her eyes met Shamus’. Begging. She reminded him of Maxine, his younger sister. He recalled the many times she begged King and his friends for the same courtesy. He felt bad for her. Ashamed.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Shamus said, standing up.

“What?” Teresa asked, taking a sip of her beer, and still coughing.

“I’ll buy your drinks.”

“But King isn’t here…”

“Come on.”

He ushered Teresa up off the couch and toward the door. Before shutting it, he caught Amber’s gaze. She mouthed the words ‘thank you’. He closed the door.

King had become suddenly absent, though this was not necessarily unusual for him. He often disappeared for days at a time. But this would be the first time they went out together without him. Teresa convinced Shamus to go to their regular dive. She wanted to go there because she knew the other girls would stay away. He was hers tonight.

She had always had a thing for him. His fine, pale features, dark hair, and dimples typically brought women to him like flies to shit. Before Shamus had disappeared to Nebraska with his bitch mom, Teresa had often gone out with he and King and often she threatened the younger women with glares from afar. A while ago, she had even followed one woman into the bathroom, introduced herself, then the woman’s face to the mirror. Yes. Tonight, he was hers. And everyone there knew it.

They stayed until close; all the while Teresa plying him with alcohol until he needed to be carried to her little Mazda.

When they arrived back at her place, she parked in front of the beige stucco, two-story four-plex in a shit part of town. She shut off the ignition to her car. Teresa leaned back against the driver door, lit a cigarette, and puffed on it while she stared at him. He leaned back against the passenger door, fought bleary vision to see her. The orange streetlight that cut across the lower half of her face helped. She was smiling. Smoke leaking from the crevices of her teeth. Like a dragon. He returned her smile.

“What?” he asked coyly.

“Oh nothing.” She blew smoke. “You. I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“How could I stay away? This is where the party is at.” He jested.

They were flirting. He realized this. But his inhibitions were null.

“I hope that’s not all you came back for.” She opened her legs slightly.

Her ditzy, floral, babydoll dress barely covered her skinny, tan thighs as it was. Her lap was shadowed by the dashboard of the sedan.

She was probably an attractive woman once, he thought. Before the drugs and premature aging. Before the sun had taken its own tax.

“Come here.”

“Where?”

She sat forward, reached across the console, and grabbed the front of his short sleeve button-up. Teresa pulled him almost into her lap. Shamus grasped the dash to support himself, the stick shift boring a hole in his sternum while she shoved her lips against his. She was salty. He’d always remember that. Her other hand grabbed at his belt buckle—a commemoration trophy of sorts for his first year in California. King had bought it for him at the Tuolumne County fair. It was reservation silver. With a Native American Thunderbird in the center, inlayed with turquoise and coral. It was precious to him. He thought of King seeing him now, in this moment, with mild apprehension—if not fear. King was generous, but on his own terms. This wasn’t even his fault, but he knew that wouldn’t matter. If he caught them…

This wasn’t the first time a woman, even an older woman, had forced herself on him. Nor was it even a rare occurrence; in fact, the woman he had lost his virginity to a friend of his mothers. He was fourteen. He was thirty-seven. He never saw it coming. He had just flushed the toilet when she opened the door of the bathroom and closed it behind her. Much like Teresa, she grabbed him. He didn’t even get to zip after taking a piss. It was over in a matter of minutes. Maybe seconds. It was his first time after all. Then she left as abruptly as she burst in. Never said a word. And neither did he. When he emerged from the bathroom, she was sitting on the couch with his mom cackling about something on the television—smoking menthols and drinking screwdrivers. Ash all over the dark lacquer of the coffee table.

Mom never knew. Of course. And he never talked about it. To anyone. Not even to brag. Not necessarily because it made him feel depraved, or harmed, or because it was technically statutory rape. He just didn’t want the attention or fuss or to be seen as any more different than he already felt that he was. Things just went on as if nothing had happened. And it never did again. She had gone right back to never even acknowledging his presence like any other adult friend of his mother’s. Women are scary.

And that’s just what he was thinking now as Teresa unskillfully searched the inside of his mouth with her tongue. Even still, it wasn’t the worst kiss Shamus had ever had. He pushed her back to get some air back into his lungs.

“Woah-ho-ho! I’ve already had my tonsils removed. Thank you!”

She slumped backwards and bit her lip while smiling. He had sobered up some and thought that the lighting wasn’t doing her any favors in this moment.

“And here I thought I was the drunk one. We should get you upstairs.” He offered.

“Oh. I like the sound of that.” She giggled again as she put a foot up on the console.

Somehow, she had lost her sandal, and her toes were quickly edging across his thigh toward his groin.

“Alright you. Let’s get out of this car.” He reached over down by the car’s pedals and retrieved her missing sandal.

Teresa pushed Shamus against the door of her apartment.

“Quiet! Shhhh!” she giggled. “My daughter is asleep.”

She pressed herself against him.

“Come inside.”

“I should go home.”

“Nooooo. Come in and party with me.”

He knew what she meant. He weighed the pros and cons as she hugged onto im and swayed back and forth, humming. The yellow glow of her porch light was uncomfortably bright. She didn’t seem to mind the insects that bounced off them as they stood there. Flying termites, mosquito eaters, earwigs on the stucco. Then again, Teresa might be the world’s largest mosquito as he was sure the hickey she was working on was drawing blood.

Suddenly, Shamus saw someone standing in the dark of the courtyard. Staring. He slowly unattached Teresa from his neck but she wasn’t coming off easily so without thinking he shoved her. A little harder than he should have, gentler than he’d have liked to.

“Hey!” he yelled at the watcher. “Who is that?”

He walked slowly towards them.

“Shamus, who…”

“Shh!”

“You need something, buddy?”

The watcher didn’t move. His eyes large and bright against darkness. All of the courtyard was soaked in the yellow glow of the courtyard lampposts except one corner. The very corner the stranger stood in. Shamus kept his possessed gaze, approaching more and more slowly the more apprehensive he became. He stopped ten yards from the figure and felt that was enough. He could still only make out the man’s eyes, but Shamus could tell the watcher was taller by several inches.

“Listen. You…”

The man’s eyes disappeared for a moment and it startled Shamus, who took a step back. It somehow increased his overall sense of danger and unease.

“You need to get out of here.” Adding more fierceness to his voice, incidentally, caused him to appear more scared.

“Shamus, come back, please.” Teresa was sobering up in the situation as well.

He motioned for her to stay back.

“Look, guy,” He started toward the man again, “I’m getting pretty fucking sick and tired of this hide and go…”

Suddenly, the darkness flickered to light and Shamus stalled. He was five feet away from a lamppost that he swore used to a man suddenly. And face to face with the biggest moth he had ever seen. It was so beautiful, Shamus marveled. Yet he still felt terrified. Exposed. Still unable to unlock his eyes or move. He started to shake. His eyes filling with tears.

Teresa burst into laughter, jolting him back to reality. The massive insect slowly closed its wings, obscuring the eyes of its wings. Shamus’ functions came back to him. He wiped his eyes with his wrist.

“That’s the biggest fucking bug I’ve ever seen!” Teresa was unexpectedly right behind him now.

“Fucking hell! I was about to shit britches!” he said, making light of his own mortal terror he felt moments before.

“Let’s get high.” Teresa said.

The apartment was dim as they entered. Laughing at themselves and shushing one another. They searched for the living room light switch that seemed to change locations every time they drank.

“Shhhhhh…!” Teresa giggled drunkenly. “She’s going to yell at us again!”

She found the light. She put her hands over her mouth and snorted.

“Oh, shit! Turn it back off!”

Shamus flipped the switch again.

“What?”

“She’s asleep at the table!” she laughed.

Amber was slumped over her books. Only her shoulders visible above the yellow, floral vinyl covered chair.

“Aw, poor baby. I’m gonna scare her.”

Shamus scanned the room. He felt that unease again. The stove hood light was on, but the rest of the house was dark. He wondered if Amber didn’t intend to sleep in the bedroom, why hadn’t she chosen the couch again? Teresa crept toward Amber, looking back at him and giggling.

“Come on, Teresa, don’t.”

“Shh!”

She crouched low behind her.

“Time. For. Bed!”

She sprung up and grabbed Amber from behind. Teresa’s cheek was sticky as it touched the back of Amber’s neck. For that’s all there was. The chrome edges of the, once cream-colored, Formica table held a perfectly still pool of her daughter’s blood.

Teresa’s hoarse screams filled the night as Shamus approached the table from the side, giving it as wide a berth as possible in the small apartment. Teresa had collapsed to the floor and crawled to the loveseat where she crouched against its backside.

“My baby! My baby!” She skreiched repeatedly. Her voice filled with fear, anger, remorse.

Shamus stared at the inside of the girl’s neck wondering how this could be real. He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. He felt both glad, and alone, that his family was miles away in Nebraska.

"I want to go home."

Part 3.

Brothers in Crime.

…to be Continued.

J.M.Liles ©️2024

ambulant

perturb

that follows

in the moment

and aftermath

the mind takes off

like a straight

jacket

or halter

on a siren

the more it thinks

the tighter it seems

the more it takes

to fall through

the sieve

and then

at every station

tests of dynamics

change of pressure

and flow

ears pop

listening

for a pulse

at the wrist

watch

09.15.2024

Turbulence challenge @Last

In isolation

it is They.

They the scattered

puzzle's parts

that lay

obscuring one

another overturned

upside down, sideways

in glances

a mess

we'd say.

Catching a glass

reflection

the taste bitter

pleasant, ruddy.

I deserve that reprimand

burning my tongue.

The tableau idyllic,

full cups, steaming

no piece missing

the scene.

Only people.

dropped

the keys

to the Largo

at the high bar

had to refuel

and the waitstaff

had a nice smile

clicking the notepad

with French manicure

checking her feet,

matching Pedi, too

anything special?

in appropriate drawl

as false lashes drew

attention to the list

on the wall

stuck to my metal

swiveling chair

and shook, no

that's not me

something plain?

well then

she added

off the wall

we, still, have

that pink

lemonade

09.13.2024

"Damn you Peter Pan!" He said to himself, recalling a line from his favorite contraband kid's movie that he often used, with great versatility, to express anything ranging from intense frustration, to contemplation, to comic amusement. The aforementioned movie is not a Kaizenstani movie; no, in fact it is very much a movie by its arch nemesis nation, hence its status as contraband. He found all contraband fascinating and much of it enjoyable, even kids' movies, but there was nothing lighthearted about the use of this expression right now. This time he was up shitcreek. You see, at this particular moment Otto found himself staring, beads of sweat dripping from his temple, at a nearly hopeless situation. Queen pinned, both Bishops lost; what hope he had of attaining fatherhood seemed to be very much slipping away. Tentatively he moved his remaining Rook into a position that he hoped rather than thought might be of some use to him and then shot a glance at his opponent whose expression seemed calm yet eager to capitalize on another bad move. “Damn you peter pan…” he whispered softly to himself. Why the hell was he so bad at this game he wondered? Truthfully speaking, by international standards at least, Otto was quite the pro. You see, Kaizenstani boys are trained and primed from a young age to be good, nay, exceptional, at the regal game. One thing each and every Kaizenstani boy has in common is that, at what often amounted to the most critical moment of his life, his father had won a game of Chess. Attainment of coveted Kaizenstani Lordship was not possible without it, and reproductive licenses were not granted to proles. Prole! Oh, what an indignity! It wasn’t really, of course, considering both that it constituted the overwhelming majority of the adult male population and that the economic services Proles provided to the Kaizenstani nation were indispensable to its continuity and relevance. Still, Otto, like most other Kaizenstani boys, had aspirations to a more dignified life than that of a Prole. His contemplations were interrupted by the word he dreaded to hear, “Checkmate.” As if disconnected from reality, in stunned robotic silence he stood up, looked into the eyes, and shook the hand of his opponent, whose expression was a combination of deep relief and sincere contrite; relief at having survived apart of the challenge that could soon accomplish him the status of his father, and contrite at having severed forever, from a man whom he held no ill will towards, the hope and ambition he understood as intimately as every Kaizenstani boy.

Otto felt sick to his stomach as he began the seemingly long but actually short walk to the nearby status issuing administration counter to formally be recorded on the Kaizenstani Citizen Census as a “Prole” and receive the associated identification. The counters would remain staffed all day and it was standard process for the losers to take a spot in a line after their game has ended; to Otto it seemed a remarkably streamlined and unceremonious process for the gravity of the situation. Still, he could appreciate that the annual contest was such an enormous event that the process could not, for practicality’s sake, stand on ceremony, and really needed to be streamlined. Auditoriums, schools, gymnasiums, country clubs, even parks and golf courses(weather permitting), and indeed anything that could be temporarily repurposed for the occasion were used. Hordes of bureaucrats were brought in whose job was the simple and impersonal task of filing the paperwork and issuing the identifications that would indelibly impact the lives of thousands upon thousands of young men. As Otto waited for his turn with the bureaucrat servicing his line he wondered if the staffers at the Lordship counters were possibly more jovial, if the position was coveted; perhaps it was a tenure thing and the more senior bureaucrats got the privilege of filling out paperwork for the incoming Lords. The bureaucrats themselves are Proles; perhaps that was a job he might be interested in. Of course career paths for Proles were determined by the P.O.A.T.(Prole Occupational Aptitude Test) and it wasn’t really up to him anyway. As the fellow in front of him was called to the counter, Otto realized that these thoughts had been a distraction tactic to avoid emotionally processing the crushing blow of his failure; at least he was able to maintain his composure. Finally, it was his turn to dutifully answer the disinterested questions of the bureaucrat processing his paperwork; after doing so he was issued his identification papers and directed to one of the many tents setup not far away. As apprehensive as he was about the surgery, he had prepared for this eventuality. While hopeful that he would both checkmate his opponent and go the distance in the boxing ring, Otto appreciated going into the contest the possibility that exists as an insecurity residing in the deepest recesses of all Kaizenstani boys and adolescents, that his best might not be good enough. Still, the thought of getting his scrotum sliced open and… whatever else they did, made him feel less prepared than he previously imagined he would be. The self-assurances he had been told and kept repeating to himself about it being a routine operation with virtually no complications was not as reassuring as he had hoped it would be. Despite these concerns the operation, seemingly, went smoothly, and his balls remained in the same sack they had always been in. Although he wasn’t feeling “normal” down there by any stretch, he was walking out of the tent the same way he had observed while in line the others who had left. Otto proceeded to the final stage of his formal transformation into a Prole, the personal processing of the implications thereof would have to wait, into yet another line. Apparently sensitive to the ordeal of the slicings, this line came with the courtesy of chairs. Presenting the paperwork the doctor who performed the operation instructed him to hand over as proof of having received the vasectomy and of being in good health(meaning able to stand on two feet and no apparent gangrene) he was issued the two allowance tickets reserved exclusively for the privilege of Proles; one was a weekly brothel pass and the other a weekly alcohol allotment. These were the two slips of paper he had dreaded from a young age to ever hold in his hands and now that they were he didn’t know what to think, so he decided not to. He’d think about that later. All he had to do at this moment was make his way back to one of the buses that had been appropriated for the event that brought him to the contest, a contest held at the convention center where he played his first(and last) game of Chess.

Nyx grinds the Chevy to a halt on the side of the road, kicking up dust and spinning gravel; a torrent of torment. They are hot for trouble tonight. They fling the door open, ejecting well-bronzed, fishnet-clad gams in flushed fury. Their sacral ache is palpable; carnal longings. Nyx side-shimmies from the hot vinyl seat; their pink, satin thong momentarily visible before they pull down their denim mini skirt with one delicately manicured fingernail. Cocaine and spray tan salons are keeping this town in business, Nyx laughs. Everyone here with money is tanned up and coked out. And me? Nyx wonders. They realize they’re just keeping time with the devils they know: self indulgence and retribution.

Forward motion. Nyx spies the trio of slick-haired, well-tanned men behind the convenience store, talking up a storm. Two undercover partners and one of their informants. I am an agent of change. Or of chance. It’s all the same to me, Nyx shrugs. A hush falls over the men as they admire Nyx, who stands for a moment, allowing the men to absorb them in all their savage glory; clad in purple fishnets, chartreuse fuck-me pumps, short, denim skirt, and a shredded Slayer Hell Awaits tanktop. How apropos, Nyx snickers. These men made a grave error, pun intended. They messed with the wrong person’s friend.

Time to act. Nyx walks their pussy like a dog over to the slick men behind the convenient store. Nyx places one foot in front of the other; heels click-clacking, a cacophony on cobblestone. Their hips switch like blades as they approach the trio, creating friction under the denim skirt. Their inner thighs taught with swagger, Nyx approaches the tallest of the lot. Nyx is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They grin, moving in for the kill. Here, sheepie sheepies.

The men start cat-calling, which quickly escalates to lewd degradation. Just like life, Nyx notes with disgust. They think I’m a sex worker. Fair enough, I’ve been popped for solicitation a few times. I did my time whether or not I actually did the crime. Nyx is lucky, they always have money to lawyer up and bail out. Less fortunates are forced to either snitch or get on their knees for the dirty cops running the police department. Her friend, Nada, doesn’t have money and isn’t a snitch. Nyx has been watching these men for some time, so knows all about their dirty deeds: the drugs they run, the gangs they supply with coke and guns, the people they exploit and abuse. Nyx even knows how the partners double cross each other. The two thugs arrested Nada twice and assaulted her both times. Nyx begins counting the moments until they’re on their knees. Begging for mercy. Hell Awaits.

One, two, three…

Nyx inwardly recoils. Outwardly, they’re all smiles and subterfuge. The war within! Nyx bites their lower lip as they saddle up next to the tallest man, pressing their body against his. Nyx touches their painted lips lightly to his throat, against his carotid artery, and exhales a warm breath. The man is solid granite from head to toe. Nyx can feel his grotesque protrusion pressing menacingly against their upper thigh. The bile rises.

Four, five, six…

No tan lines with a spray tan, Nyx considers. They study the creases in the man’s neck and folds around his mouth as it curls into more of a snarl than a smile. He’s coked out and sniffing wildly. Nyx can smell the blow on his breath as he exhales; a mixture of kerosene and vitriol.

Purrfect, thinks Nyx. The hungrier he is for it, the more likely to succumb. The man asks how much it’ll cost to take him around the world while offering Nyx a bump of blow from his car key. Nyx inhales; the blow was clearly brought across the border in a gas tank, hence the kerosene aroma. Blow’s not their favorite, but it’s decent quality. And Nyx knows it’s better to play into pretense, so accepts a second bump. Nyx tells him for an 8 ball of blow they’ll do him and his friend. The more the merrier! The tall man winks at the second undercover. Clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo.

Nyx swallows back bile and widens their smile, hoping to draw attention away from the loathing behind their eyes. Narcissistic, spray tanned, coked out, crooked undercovers are typically easy marks. Still, Nyx can’t risk giving themself away. Too much is at stake. Poker face sliding, Nyx pretends to drop their purse, bends over, nice and slow, allowing the denim mini to creep up, exposing their pink, satin thong once more. Nyx stands slowly, doesn’t pull down their skirt too quickly, then walks to their car without casting a backward glance.

Seven, eight, nine…

The two men grin, nudge each other, bump up more blow, then follow. They always follow.

Nada will never have to worry about these two again.

The men won’t make it to ten, Nyx smirks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trees are zooming by so quickly that Nada can scarcely count the species. Counting is important to her. Numbers matter. The Universe Tells its Secrets Through Numbers. The chaos of the trees is unsettling. They are mostly evergreens, so she need not count them all, Nada consoles herself. Sometimes. Most times, you can only ever know part of a thing. The part that can’t hide itself. The trees are too blurry. It’s disconcerting, so Nada concentrates on the sounds instead. The drone of the engine is almost consistent. It is comforting enough that she’s able to focus on her breath, pulling it first deeply into her lungs, then allowing it to expand into her belly and calm her parasympathetic nervous system. She allows her thoughts to pass by like clouds, without attachment. None of them matter. Nothing matters. It’s a thought so liberating it causes Nada to weep.

Nyx would wipe away my tears, Nada laments. It starts raining and the driver turns on the wipers. The steady, rhythmic swish click of the wipers is a blessing as it drowns out the deafening silence. She has nothing to say to the woman driving her away from everything and one she loves; driving through the forest, trees whooshing past too quickly to count. Nothing about this feels right, Nada decides. The halfway house is apparently halfway to the middle of nowhere. Isolation is a key element of the program’s success in rehabilitating minors, they say. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nyx will find her. Rescue but not save her. But even that won’t matter. Her conclusion is forgone, Nada knows. From the moment the dirty cop arrested her, she’s been counting her numbered days. No one outruns a dirty cop. They’ll find her no matter where the judge sends her. Many judges, like cops, have backs that want scratching.

Still, better to spend the remainder of her days with Nyx than not at all. So Nada shuts her eyes and breathes; intrusive thoughts zip by overhead like clouds as rapidly as the trees zip past the car window. She remembers Nyx’s touch. She counts to ten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walls are that special shade of institutional white that causes one to hallucinate if they stare at them too long. White is the most odious color - reflecting back all the visible wavelengths of light that shine upon it. Pompous dick of a color really, Nada sniffs as she resists the temptation to give the walls attention. There is nothing to count and the only sound she hears is the maddening tick tock of the wall clock. She can count the seconds, she thinks. But she knows that’s a trap because then she’ll be thinking about time. She can’t think about time.

If she’s a good girl, if she just settles down, stays calm, and does as she’s told, they’ll remove the five point restraints, they tell her between thorazine injections. They’ll leave her in solitary confinement a few days longer, until she proves she’s not a harm to herself. Or others. Half right, Nada considers. Less than that, actually. It isn’t her they ought to be concerned with. When Nyx gets here and finds out they’ve strapped me to a hospital bed, then. Then they will know true terror, Nada thinks. She likes this particular thought. It’s enough to help her return to her breathing.

Thoughts pass like clouds.

Days later, Nada is allowed into the general population. She is a very good girl. They even stop the thorazine injections. When she blinks, the world is no longer hazy around the edges. And there are so many things to count: patients, therapy sessions, picture books, sock puppets, crayons, meal times, nurses and doctors, correction officers and wardens. Her days consist of numbers rather than minutes. Her thought clouds begin forming a celestial tower. A beacon. This is how Nyx finds me, she tells herself. Nyx will see my cloud tower, no matter how far away they are. How far away are you? Nada wonders without weeping. Only naughty girls weep. She is a good girl. So very good.

She remains calm, and a few days later, they grant her a true privilege: for one hour (that’s 42 sock puppets and 13 crayons) she is allowed to sit in the courtyard. The fence isn’t too high. She could climb it before they caught her. But how far will she make it in a hospital gown and no shoes? She considers this a bit longer, but decides to count instead. The view from the courtyard consists primarily of a dull gray parking lot. One shiny yellow Rolls Royce is parked in the center. It belongs to one of the shrinks. The for-profit, privatized institution is lousy with unethical doctors amassing small fortunes.

There is a basketball court. One slack jawed, doped up patient dribbles the ball idly as drool dribbles down his chin. Nada focuses on the syncopated beat of the ball hitting the court. It’s maddeningly irregular, but enough to count. As long as she can count, she can breathe. As long as she can breathe, she can keep constructing her cloud tower, her bat signal to Nyx. They will come for me soon, Nada tells herself.

When a nurse ushers the dribbling dribbler inside, Nada notices a bush in the back corner of the basketball court and her heart soars. She knows this species! It’s a bougainvillea - her grandmother has scores of them. Its bright pink flowers call to her. Unable to resist, Nada slowly stands from her plastic stool. A watchful nurse takes a tentative step in her direction, but is held back by a correctional officer. He’s secretly hoping Nada will misbehave so he can restrain her in solitary confinement again. Nada isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. But she is unable to resist the lure of the bougainvillea. So many flowers to count!

It is a thing of unspeakable beauty, this one lone bougainvillea amidst a sea of gray asphalt. As Nada stands, entranced, a ray of sunshine pierces the otherwise dismal day, illuminating the flower's colors in kaleidoscopic cadence. So many hues of pink, she notices for the first time. Strange, how often she stared at this exact species in her grandmother’s yard yet never noticed, until this particular moment, how varied its hues are. As if orchestrated, three butterflies alight atop three different flowers. Six miracles, Nada muses. She doesn’t know butterfly species, but their wings are bright orange, lined in black, and their entire bodies are speckled with tiny white spots. Nada nearly weeps at their beauty.

But the correctional officer is poised for the pounce. Nada dares not give him reason. She attempts to count the petals of each burgeoning bloom. It’s proving rather difficult. The correctional officer decides Nada is not providing reasonable cause and leaves. He can find other patients in need of discipline. Nada watches the butterfly trio, wondering if they’re a family. Or, maybe they’re all butterfly buddies. Just. You know. Hanging out. She genuinely nearly laughs. She has never witnessed anything as breathtaking. She has never felt more alone.

What if Nyx doesn’t come? For the first time, Nada honestly wonders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

On the second floor of the building facing the courtyard, an aggressively mustached man stands nose to window squinting under heavily knitted eyebrows. When a second guy walks in, the mustached man is oblivious. It’s clear to the second guy that there’s something out there to behold. He walks over to the mustached man and follows his line of vision.

“What the fuck?” he manages before a figure ducks behind a tree at the far end of the parking lot.

“You see that too?”

The second man shakes his head no but replies, “I saw…something. Some. One. ?”

“I know what you mean. Tell me - ” Mustache asks, raising an eyebrow, “What did you see?”

“Someone wearing a denim miniskirt - and ripped up stockings with some kinda yellow-green high heels. Ripped up shirt. Weird hair too, almost the same color as the shoes. Pretty sure it’s a wig. ?”

“Right. Ok. So I ain’t crazy. Maybe.”

“How long they been there?”

“I dunno,” Mustache shrugs, “Off and on for a couple of days. No more than three, far as I can tell. I been calling him - her - it - the Watcher. They seem harmless enough. Just hanging around. You know. Watching.”

“What?” Second guy is dumbfounded, “And you ain’t told no one?” He now seems suspicious. “What the hell? You know you’re supposed to say if you see anyone hanging around like that.”

Mustache man stands upright, a full head taller than Second guy. He looks him in the eye, squares his jaw, knits his heavy brow and, before he can say anything, Second guy makes a hasty departure. Whether to go tattle on him like a little bitch, or because he’s actually concerned, Mustache isn’t certain. What he is certain of is that something smells rotten. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t reported the Watcher either. Honestly, he can’t make out their gender. They could just as easily be a perverted man in a wig as they could a troubled mother in a poorly executed disguise.

Perhaps Mustache is confused by the ambiguous gender of the Watcher. Perhaps he is confused by his ambiguous arousal. But his confusion doesn’t matter. Something bad is about to happen. He can feel it deep inside his mustache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

Nyx holds their breath behind the maple tree and counts to 10. That mustached man and his cohort spotted them. That’s ok, they tell themself. It just accelerates the plan. Same plan, just kicked into high gear. Nyx is still in high gear from the encounter with the spray tanned undercovers. Nyx has over a kilo of blow left from the dirty cops. It’s enough to get Nada away from here. They can live for a while together, somewhere, anywhere else. Nyx just needs to move the blow. It won’t be difficult, they reassure themself.

We’ll sell most of it and head across the border. I’ll just keep a small stash for myself, gradually wean myself off, Nyx reasons. We can live comfortably. For a while. This plan makes an incredible amount of sense to Nyx as they emerge from behind the tree. The mustached man appears to be gone, so Nyx makes a break for the back door to the left of the courtyard. They never seem to have more than one guard stationed there. It’s the weakest point of entry and, as luck has it, close to Nada’s room.

Nyx is going to attempt to open the back door, sounding the alarm, wait for the one dumb guard to open the door, brain them, then storm the castle. They’ll rush straight down the hallway, four doors down to Nada’s room, grab her, and head straight back out the way they came in.

Nyx will kill anyone who tries to stop them.

Nyx sees a flurry of movement in the 2nd floor window as they run toward the back door. Purrfect. The orderlies are distracted. They’re all upstairs looking for Nyx from the window. I’m coming for you, baby girl. Nyx sends the psychic message with everything they have: I’m coming, Nada. Be ready. I’m taking you home.

Nyx kicks the door handle, tripping the alarm as they pull the undercover’s gun from the waistband of their denim miniskirt.

The guard opens the door, as carelessly as anticipated.

And so it begins.

Nyx is taking Nada home.

Where is home? Nyx isn’t sure.

They wonder what home even means.

Nyx bashes the guard in the back of the skull with the gun.

The alarm is louder than they expected.

The whole place reeks of antiseptic and despair.

Nyx sees Nada halfway down the hallway. She is standing there in gowns; a heavenly apparition. Nada starts to laugh as she runs towards Nyx. Nada’s laughter is music in their soul.

Nada throws herself at Nyx, who pauses a moment to feel their hearts pressed together, hammering in joyous unison.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Nothing could have stopped me. Now, common baby girl, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Nyx grabs Nada and runs for the door, away from this, into the great unknown. Nyx feels Nada’s tears of relief and joy as she presses her face against the nape of their neck.

At this moment, Nyx understands exactly what home means.

What once bared

goes back to bear

What bared teeth

closes its mouth tight

neither happy nor sad

not shocked or afraid

What bared heart

shuts itself up &

wipes fingerprints

on cabinets off...

What bared feeling

turns the sheets

down dog eared &

folds, lights out

What bared soul

loses it in sleep

2024 SEP 11

Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Only 17 days left on my preorders which end on 9-27. If any of my Prose family are interested, please preorder before the deadline. Books ship the week of 11-22.

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When Richard died, he was a retired widower who'd grown his basement collection for decades. There were balls, tires, license plates, fasteners, and more. Innocuous junk, only the pile of hospital badges raised some suspicion.

But this was nothing diabolical. Richard was a collector, a Depression forged drive. He was also a God fearing man; if you jumped off the Twin Towers, well, "No faith!"

They cleared Richard's house after he died. So the new owner, a single mother, was surprised to find a bag behind the furnace. Indeed, even more surprised to discover, inside it, Richard's stash of dildos.