Corona and Deli Chicken

Like fighting a fight that can’t be won by either side, so goes my day. The bold black lettering of the unopened email catches my eye. It stands alone in the gray-font-list of emails that trail down the screen, the ones that have been read and saved. Today is the day, fortified with a Bloody Mary I send my carefully polished nail in for the left click. Open.

I knew it was coming, I had been obsessively checking my husband’s emails for over a week now. After the relief of finding the expected missive un-read, I took the time to mix a drink, polish my nails and prepare. The last six months unreeled in slow motion, beginning with the day I first met him.

He stood facing me across the street, we were both waiting for the walking man sign to light up on the corner. The light changed to our favor and we stepped into the street; as we passed we smiled at each other as strangers will do. Later that day we laughed as we found our paths crossing once again in line at the grocery, he was buying Corona, I had a deli chicken. Flirting on the way to our cars I learned his name was Bobby. Reluctant we both got in our cars and drove off. Call it fate, or dumb luck either way our schedules seemed to collide every day for the next week. We discovered we both lived in close proximity and worked out of our homes. We went for a drink one bored afternoon.

Other pictures slid into my head, my face flushing with some of the crazy things we did.

Making love for the first time on a blanket under a pin oak tree, sticks stabbing first his back, then mine. That day we held hands crossing a foot bridge in our favorite park, we stopped in the middle and stood to stare into the water for a moment, just that and nothing more. One warm morning when I realized my love for him was the real thing and I told him so followed by his awkward, “I’m falling for you too.” Then finally after a month of tingling torture following a win by his favorite hockey team, he turned to me and said the words, “I love you!”

The magic ended, replaced by the heart-stopping memory of the day his wife found out about us. Her sister saw us. They made it their mission to find out about me. Bobby’s wife swore to him she would find me and ruin my life. I knew it would be just a matter of time, small towns and all. I began meeting my mailman at the street and snooping emails. I watched for stranger’s eyes to meet mine for a second too long. And I waited with dread for the moment my husband’s attitude changed.

And here I sit before the open e-mail, avoiding the body of the message, I looked for the trash can icon, moved my cursor over it, hovering for the tiniest fraction of time before once again tapping a left click. I will take my bitter medicine and be the one to tell him. My jangled way of being kind, letting go in my words. I will do one last thing for him, though he will never see it as a gift. My offering just a small measure of protection against the harsh reality of another betrayed spouse’s words. There will be no winners today, only people with fresh wounds. I make the call, “Hi, it’s me…No everything’s not ok…Can you come home?”

Dear Brother

The following was my submission for the Yeah Write Fiction Super Challenge. The prompt was yearning/wear outrageous shoes. This piece did not make it to round two.  But I really like it. The following is the feedback that I received on it:

What the judges really liked about Dear Brother:

• J.R. and his troop sharing letters with those that had no one writing to them was an endearing touch. The way you incorporated the shoe prompt was different and clever.
• Good use of descriptive language. The letter was written in an authentic sounding voice.

Where the judges found room for improvement:

• The letter seemed at times to be more a way to inform the reader of J.R.’s situation than a genuine correspondence, especially at the beginning. The shoes were not an integral part of the story.
• This story feels too much like it’s a piece of a larger story that the reader doesn’t get the full benefit of. Not knowing or having a solid clue how the letter writer could be releated to the two named characters muddies things up for the reader.

Seems like what some liked others did not. I’d be interested in more objective feedback if anyone wants to share their thoughts!

Grandma asked, “honey, would you go to the root cellar and bring me a jar of the apple butter we put up last fall?”

I hated the root cellar but loved apple butter more. Heaving the cellar doors open, I stood before the dank maw. Gathering my courage for the first step, it would take me five steps down before I could reach the pull string that would illuminate the pit below. I made my quick jog over to the shelf lined with ancient newspapers and stacked with colorful jars. *Not looking left or right, fearful of meeting unwanted eyes, I snatched the jar neatly labeled in my grandmother’s hand. My eyes caught movement just as something grazed the top of my foot. A squeak of a scream escaped before I saw that it was a yellowed sheet of paper. Perhaps an abandoned recipe? I scooped it up and bee-lined it up the stairs, remembering to pull the string on the 5th step.

Happy to hand over the apple butter to my grandma and be back in her airy, bright kitchen my heartbeat returned to normal. Hard to imagine this warm, fine smelling room sits over the soggy cellar. I sat down at the table covered with a cherry patterned oil cloth. Unfurling the fragile paper, a letter appeared in place of the expected recipe. I am a fast reader for my age, a quick skim and I could barely get the words out to ask Grandma about the letter.

“Grandma, I found this in the cellar.” I thought reading it to her would be the best way to begin before hammering her with my questions.

Distracted, she barely glanced over her shoulder at me. She certainly did not see what I held in my hands…yet.

Dear brother,

I now take some small measure of joy to write a few lines home about where we ar and what we ar doing. Our men have retreated back over the river. Many ar dead or near about. The enemy devils have gave us a time. We have lost at Chancellorsville.

I will spare you the particulars of my trials. I miss home more than I considered when I set out on this two years ago, eager and confident to make handiwork of Johnny Reb. I thought to be home by 6 months. If a dawning idea had come upon me I would have lingered more over mother’s fine roast. Just one taste now would last me through til I get back home. I hope that I will one day return home to you and mother and father. I am sorrowful thinking otherwise. I know you ar near a man now and ar a great help to mother and father and our kin folks thereabouts. When I next see you I expect we will greet as strangers. I fear we will not know each other by site. Tho only two years have passed.

My hair has gone to gray I am told and I know it to be shaggy as no hair cuts are to be had. My feet have grown so much that my boots pinched fearsome. I had to cast them off last spring. Some bits of leather lying about inspired me to collect them. When I had enough, I made for myself a considerable good pair of moccasins. The adjunct said we were due a train with supplies, boots and the like. That was 9 months ago. I am not ashamed to say that I put a dead man’s boots to good use. His feet and legs was missing from his body when I found them. I have heard and seen of a man blown out of his shoes but never did I think I would find a perfectly fine pair of legs stuck in my size boots with no body to care if I took them. I hope dear brother you do not think me wearing a dead man’s boots too scandalous. These are the things we all do now and learn them tolerable in this godforsaken endeavor.

If you ar able, send word to Elizabeth that I am still living. Her photo and locket ar lost these many months. And if your face will not become too red tell her I long for the day we meet again under our old pecan.

Time for leisure is very short and putting pen to paper even shorter. I depend on you little brother to carry this news and my letter to those who may care. Do not let Elizabeth read it tho, she is too delicate and will worry overmuch.

I cannot say how long we will stay in this place. Get mother to send me some socks soon as she can. Write soon with news from home. We have made a letter circle of sorts. All the men pine for home. We share what letters we get with them that don’t get none.

Respects and truest affection,
your brother
J R Osborne

By the time I finished reading, Grandma was sitting with me, her face pale behind trembling hands.

“Grandma Elizabeth! What’s wrong? Who is J R Osborne?”

The Rescue

I nod my head in agreement and silently we slip past the gate. The insistent darkness ensures our cover but makes our progress slow.  Rustling to our left, we keep going. There is no turning back now. Weeks of planning brought us this close.  Urgency and fear pump through my system.

Finding the stairs was no easy task, the slight change in the dark landscape our only clue. Once on the stairs, we are able to let our guard down for a moment. We are the only ones that know the stairs exist. Our safe spot, should things start to go to hell.

Safe now to flip on the torch, wanting one last review of the blueprints. Up the steps, a quick left, into the hall and fifty feet to room 313. Garbed in work clothes, like outside contractors, we are invisible to the passing doctors,nurses and the ever-present secret guards. We reach the door without incident.

Inside, a sparse bulb over the sink washes everything in blue.  Her familiar shape beneath the drab sheet moves only in the rhythm of slow and steady breath. I was selected to be the one to carry her as I had strength on my side. Our work clothes now lay in a discarded heap. Smoothing the new nurse uniform into place, I slip to the side of the bed.The plain but soft sheet becomes a compact cocoon around her. So thorough is her sleep, she does not even stir cradled now in my strong enough arms.

Our steps echo in the sterile hall joined by a third set of steps as a distracted doctor passes by.

A door opening just behind us, “Damn, Sevan! Either he is early or we are off our schedule.

Velan daring a look back, “It’s a guard,” he whispers.

Thirty- feet from the safety of the stairs, the guard shouts, “Ho!”

The secret guards, not so secret in their white head to toe uniforms, watch everything, popping up everywhere. They are chosen for training as children. If they pass the exams, a life of spying is their reward. Each one equipped with lasers, snappers that record live pictures of events, and implanted chips. The chips set off shrieking alarms anytime a guard is assaulted or vaporized.

Velan shouts to me, “Go! Go! Go!” as he spins back around, lasers in both hands. The acrid smell of ozone assaults me. A second later the steady shrill alarm confirms that the guard vaporized. We haven’t much time now. In an instant, two more guards block our way. Running toward them, dropping to the floor, feet first I slide right by them. My burden still sleeping. Hugging the wall now to stay clear, I hear the click of Velan’s lasers. Twenty feet now, Velan on my heels. Bricks begin sliding out of the walls on each side. They create a maze designed to slow our escape. Banging into a previously not there wall stops my progress, blood fills my throat, my nose is broken. Velan runs by leading the way, by some empyrean luck we reach the portal. Velan strikes the wall and the portal opens.

“Pray do let the portal close before we have any followers.” Velan pants.

All three of us through, we turn and watch the portal close, one final look to make sure no one pursued into the stairwell. The tips of white boots, our last glimpse before we are alone in the safety of the stairs.

The provisions we brought with us would have to last several days, time enough for the grounds search to be complete. Our time spent in the safety zone would also allow the drugs to get out of her system. Then we could make our treacherous journey back home.  Several hours into our wait, she begins to stir. Paper thin eyelids tremble as her eyes begin to move; flickering open now and then before lazily staying open. I lean in, her eyes blank. Valen rubs her arm silently.  Focus returns with each flex of her pupils both eyes trained on my face. Measured seconds pass, haltingly she moves her eyes to Valen.

She croaks a whisper, “Valen? Sevan?”  

Velan nods, “Yes it’s us, Mattar, did you think your sons would let them keep you?”

I smile at our dear Mattar, “rest now.”

photo credit – stairs to nowhere forest of dean

The Battle

A noise in the night broke the slumber of both dog and human. First, the faint voice, not a scream, not alarming at all, more like a cough or signal. Then, fireworks in the street? Backfiring car? Pow pow pow pow pow, in less than half a second. The humans held ground trying to listen for the ending parenthetical sound. None came. The low growl of two dogs offered the only postlude.

At this point, the dog’s primal need to investigate and protect with a stream of urine on the perimeters of their property overrode any fear the humans may have felt about going outside. A moonless night made worse by darkened corner street lights.

I went south, he went north. We each took a dog.

I had the female dog. We two girls went towards the beach first. The men, both human, and dog went towards the seedier venue of alleyways behind local fish restaurants. For better or for worse, our paths would lead us in the same circle in opposite directions back to our door, we knew this.

Just before our first intersection on our opposite path, I heard the rumble of his voice and the growl of his dog, followed by a sharp bark, then silence. A severe snap on my dog’s lead indicated follow me. We crept behind a four-foot retaining wall softened by the branches of crepe myrtle. From our vantage point, the view was clear. Three thugs were circling my men. I could clearly see the back of one of the aggressors, he held a gun in his left hand pointing straight down from his belt to the ground. The gun out of sight from my men.

I dropped below the wall, calmed my girl and lifted my own gun from my waist holster, we inched to the end of the wall. By now the thugs formed a straight line in front of my men blocking their forward motion in my direction. I could see only one held a gun.

Straightening up, I strode directly up to the group, the two thugs without guns turned to look at me. They dismissed me as just another dog walker and started to turn back as I boldly continued up to the thug with the gun. As my men recognized us, I lifted my gun hand up, cocked and pointed it towards the gun thug. The universal clicking noise stopped them all for a beat.

The thug to the left said to my man, “What? You got to bring a woman to fight your battle?”

Just before I fired, I replied, ” Nah man, I brought some men to fight mine.”