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To Squash a Fairy

To Squash a Fairy

By Kassy Keppol

She lay with her back to the wall, concentrating on breathing evenly. Staring at the wasp on the pillow in front of her, she refused  to turn over to watch the army crawling up the wall. Tory normally would have liked the distraction of witnessing the yellow and black bodies march across the chipped pansy wallpaper; instead she puffed her breath out and ruffled the wings of the small creature in front of her.

“Yesterday I imagined you were an encampment of fairies instead of bees. I dreamt of  you building rooms inside my walls and held one hand on the  torn paper to feel the low hum you made. Singing you were. I put my other hand between the folds of my night gown on my heart and hummed along. The beat of my heart and the racket you were making almost matched.  But you are not fairies. You are bugs and I am too sad to turn over and marvel at your ingenuity in getting out of the wall. “

Flopping onto her back she tangled the creature in her long hair as she rolled. It crawled out and flew away. “If only I hadn’t squashed the fairy. Then I would not have grown up” she mumbled closing her eyes to remember.

Yesterday she had been carefree as she climbed the tree by the road leading to town. It was the perfect tree for climbing and held the most fairy branches. You know the kind that droop down and shade places that you are sure fairies can hide. She had climbed up to the top of the tree and was upside down letting the leaves wave at her.  Blossoms fell in a shower of pink catching in her hair and coloring the ground. She was happily giggling and swaying in the air.

She had known if she let go of the branch she wouldn’t fall but would soar through the clouds as she flapped her arms and flew. She didn’t try it though. Flying isn’t a skill to show off, but she knew she could fly.  She knew that there were fairies, and possibly dragons, hiding in the tree with her.

Yesterday she heard Joey, the delivery boy, run across the road and she got distracted almost falling from her high-up perch. She had been noticing him more lately and liked to watch him deliver his goods. Catching a branch as she had turned to watch him go by she saw a fairy. The fairy was on a limb beyond Tory’s fingertips.  It was laughing as the branches danced in the wind, moving lazily back and forth, giving it a ride.

Tory had frozen, stared while holding her breath, and then slowly tried to scoot inchworm style closer. That is when Joey saw her and began to scold. “Tory, get down! We are too old for climbing.”  His yelling startled the fairy and it flew out of the branches behind Joey’s head. Tory dove out of the tree almost landing on top of Joey as she fell. “Tory, what are you doing!” he scolded giving her a shake. She didn’t answer,  but started to follow the faint glimmer of wings as they flew across the street.

“Wait a minute!” Joey yelled grabbing her arm. Joey was in the same grade in school as Tory but he was so grown up. He already had a job delivering groceries for the local market, and he looked really nice in his uniform. A blush rose on Tory’s face as he began pulling blossoms out of her hair and setting her hair to rights. She looked over her shoulder and watched the fairy fly into the grocery store’s open door.

“I’ve got to go.” she whispered and ran after it. Joey followed her, easily keeping up. She saw the fairy by a crate of oranges in the corner of the store.  As she moved forward for a closer look, Joey stepped in front of her. As Tory moved forward, Joey moved back a step. That is when the unthinkable happened. Joey stepped on the fairy.

Tory watched as the tiny wings crumbled and white goo spread out on the linoleum from under his shoe.  The fairy bled  just like when you step on a bug. Tory freaked and began to yell.  confusing Joey  and causing him to grind his heal on the struggling fairy. Tory watched it’s eyes roll back and knew it was gone. She sobbed and threw her hands over her face. “You have killed it,  it is smashed!” she sobbed.

Joey looked down at his shoe perplexed and grabbed Tory’s hands. “Tory, I only smashed a tube of sunscreen. I will pay for it honest. You don’t need to be this upset. I will pay for it.” As Tory continued to hiccup he patted her back. ” What you need is a nice milkshake, we’ll go get one after I pay for this. “ It was at that moment that Tory knew that she didn’t want to remember that Joey has squashed a fairy, she wanted to go out with him and could only do that if she truly believed he had stepped on a tube of sunscreen.  So that is what she did, believed the unbelievable.

Everyone who has ever read Peter Pan knows that if you don’t believe in fairies they die. Tory’s fairy was already dead leaving a faint smear of sunscreen on the floor where gossamer wings had briefly fluttered.  Tory had decided to grow up on the spot. When she looked, instead of seeing a smashed fairy, she saw a tube of sunscreen. And her life could never be the same.

© 2010 Kassy Keppol

The Mule

The Mule

by Clay and Kay Derochie

Ron hated this alley more than any other drop point. As he moved into its night shadowed depths, he felt the rot around him at a cellular level. Foul smelling moisture dripped off the walls and formed greasy puddles where broken bricks met cracked concrete. The piles of rubbish to either side stirred with life that was best left undisturbed.

His past seemed to crowd around him here. His father laughed and told him again he wouldn’t amount to boil on a real man’s ass. “Why can’t you be more like Charlie?” “Screw Charlie,” he muttered. “He thinks being sober is some magic fix. He doesn’t know shit about my problems. He needs to…” Fear gripped his guts as his mind snapped back to the alley and the metal door at its end. Christ! Quit acting like a twerp. Now focus before you get your dumb ass killed here.

The bricks around it may have been crumbling, but the door was solid and set in a steel frame with security cameras and a light above it—a fitting tribute to the owner’s paranoia. It opened before he could knock and a large heavy-set man peered closely at his face.

“Jesus, Ernie. Don’t you recognize me by now?”

Ernie closed and barred the door behind him and patted Ron down. “I don’t get paid to recognize you quickly. Mr. Monty’s waiting for you.”

Ron’s guts gave another twitch as Ernie pointed to same door as always. The routine was a reassuring dance they both went through to prove their lives were somehow normal. Ron nodded, crossed to the other door. He knocked, and waited for Monty to call him in. OK, relax. You’re moving product for Salazar and no one’s going to mess with you. The Fat Man’s got your back.

Where Ernie had been large and phlegmatic, Monty was small, nervous, and far more dangerous. He did not like variations in his world and stood beside his desk exactly where he always did. Ron placed the package on the desk and stepped back three paces and waited. The ritual continued while Monty examined the product and asked seemingly irrelevant questions about Salazar and his business. Ron’s answer never varied, “I don’t know sir. I’m just the delivery man.” Finally, Monty signed the receipt, and gave the dismissal, “Everything appears to be in order. You can go now, but remember I got eyes on you in my alley.”

The alley always left him feeling dirty, and the certainty that Monty was watching filled him with the dread a rat must feel in the presence of a cobra. He wondered how many times he could kiss that snake before it bit him. Hoping his tremors weren’t visible to whoever was watching, he dialed Salazar on his cell. Check in before you go in, check in when you come out, follow the rules and everyone stays happy. Some days it was hard to remember that his life was getting better and better. God, the uppers he had taken earlier were making him jumpy. He needed a little taste to mellow out, but couldn’t risk it before returning to Salazar’s. The Fat Man did not like his couriers using smack on the job. The voice of the Man’s dispatcher clicked in his ear, “So, Ronald, everything is all right, yes?” The question was code and so was his answer. “No.” “Bueno. Come on in.”

Salazar’s home was nestled in an Old Town neighborhood that had seen much better days. The legitimately rich and powerful had long since left the area, and many of the old Victorian mansions were now micro tenements filled with the refuse of failed human lives. Ron sat still in his car while the gate guard checked the trunk. This was new and Ron wondered what the hell was up now. Ricardo Salazar ruled a small empire from his estate in old town and had the power to enforce his every whim. It was never comforting when the boss felt a need for increased security.

Ron drove slowly up a drive that curved around trees that no longer existed. The elms had disappeared recently to clear a field of vision around the house. After parking in the usual spot, he climbed the steps and followed Luis, the doorman, inside. The disrepair of the exterior didn’t hint at the quiet luxury of the interior. Ron found the deep carpets, soft lights and rich décor soothing. Now this is what it’s all about. This is why you kiss the damn snakes.

His momentary peace was shattered upon entering the study. Salazar’s entire 280-pound bulk lurched around his desk, and his red-rimmed eyes gave him the appearance of a huge maddened boar charging out of the underbrush. Ron would have backed out of the room if the doorman hadn’t given him a slight shove and closed the door behind him. Instead, he approached Salazar close enough to place the night’s receipts directly in his hand. The man’s appearance was frightening. He had an odd odor that suddenly reminded Ron of the alley he had just left. His sallow skin dripped oily sweat, and his eyes twitched back and forth without settling on anything. Rapid, shallow breath punctuated his speech. “ So, Ronald!   Tell me   about the   deliveries. Tell me   everything!”

Oh, Jesus. He’s tweaked out of his fucking mind. If I looked like that, he’d kill me. Ron knew he looked terrified, and he knew that his fear could trigger the predator that hovered in front of him.

“Ronald! Tell me!”

A part of him that his father had beaten into a cage broke free. Ron felt himself and his fears pushed back, as this other being demanded absolute self-control. He felt his body straighten as he stepped further into the Fat Man’s space. “The deliveries went very well.” Salazar’s eyes finally focused on him. “Everyone received their product on time. All of the receipts are accounted for… Sir.”

Salazar moved behind his desk and sat down. Ron moved to stand in front of the desk and waited. His feigned patience was rewarded as Salazar seemed to pull himself together and come to a decision. “Ronald, you surprise me. You have a lot more balls than I thought.” Reaching into a desk drawer, he exposed a large pistol and an envelope. His hand passed over the pistol, picked up the envelope, and tossed it on the desk. Ron’s beast retreated.“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome. Ronald, come early tomorrow. We have an important new buyer and need to expand. I think you may ready for your own crew. Luis will show you out.” A spot between his shoulder blades itched as he left the room; he shook it off, tucking the envelope with his cut into his shirt. What the hell. I’m going to make some real money now, maybe send Chris to camp.

As Ron turned onto his street, he sighed. The house he shared with his seven-year-old son, Chris, and Terri, the live-in babysitter, was far shabbier than the outside of Salazar’s. As he coasted into his driveway, he lifted the center consul and pulled three small plastic bags from a hidden compartment. Two were filled with a light brownish powder and the third, twenty-four red and blue capsules. The caps and one of the other bags went into a zippered jacket pocket and he put the last into his breast pocket.

Payday for Terri. A smile crossed his face. Shit, maybe now I can afford to get a real baby sitter—not one who works for food, a bed, and smack. Maybe I can afford to move out of this hellhole entirely.

His son was asleep as he expected, but Terri met him at the door just like he imagined a good “wife” would, if you didn’t look at her gaunt face and the filthy mess behind her. She stared hungrily into his eyes. “What did daddy bring me?” Ron’s skin crawled, but he smiled and tapped his shirt pocket. “What you need is a nice piece of candy.” She reached greedily in and pulled out the packet, eyes glowing. “Let me go freshen up and then we can play.”

Ron watched her disappear into her room and wasn’t too worried about having to “play” later. Funny, at one time he had truly loved a woman, Sandy, Chris’s mom; but she had left him, like his own mom had left his dad. Screw them all. At least Sandy hadn’t take his son, the only thing that mattered in this rat-shit existence.

Ron slipped into the converted storage room where Chris slept. Gazing down at his son, he felt the disquiet that comes when two conflicting thoughts seem equally true. He knew this life sucked for Chris; and, equally true, he knew he wasn’t capable of giving him anything better. Ron tucked the covers around his child and kissed him gently.

“Good night, Tiger.”

Better check on Terri. Terri was just fine. She was sprawled on her bed, breathing, with a thin line of drool running down her chin. “Now there’s my sleeping beauty! Don’t think I’ll kiss you and wake you up,” he whispered to her. He put the needle and drugs away where Chris wouldn’t be likely to find them. That had happened—once.

Back in his own room, Ron pulled up a floor board in his closet to stash most of his take for the evening. He had a very tidy sum squirreled away, and it helped fuel the dream that someday things would be different. He could hear his father snort, “When pigs fly.”

Screw him again; the only thing he brought home was a bottle and a bad temper. His mind continued to spin trying to balance a life that was becoming increasingly more complicated with the ever-mounting fear that things were spinning out of control. With a coke spoon, Ron took a small pinch from his own bag and placed it under his tongue. Just to quiet my mind, he promised himself. As he drifted off, he silently chided, Great dope fiend you are; afraid of needles. Oh well, Salazar doesn’t like tracks.

Nightmares stalked his sleep and he was powerless to move while his father shook his screaming son. The screams became more and more insistent, and he awoke with his heart pounding. The screams were coming from the back yard. The beast came snarling out, and he tore through the house and out the back door.

He could not make sense of what he saw. Chris was climbing a tree screaming, and Terri was squirting some white stuff at him. He shot across the dirt yard, grabbed Terri, and shook her, sending a bottle of sunscreen flying. “What the fuck are you doing?” Terri tried to cower away. Her fear enraged him. He pulled his fist back to strike and was stopped by his son’s voice.

“Daddy! No! We were playing, Daddy. I’m sorry! It won’t happen again.” The shock and fear on Chris’s face drained him. Terri broke free and ran sobbing to the house. “Chris, I’m sorry. I was frightened. I thought Terri was trying to hurt you.” The look on Chris’s face changed from fear to confusion and fear. “Oh, Chris-boy, Daddy’s sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Ron reached up to lift Chris from the tree and watched his son flinch and pull away from him.

“Don’t do that!”

Chris froze and allowed himself to be lifted down. Ron set him on the ground. “Go play in your room.” He watched his son run to the house and disappear inside, then followed slowly, exhausted beyond words. Inside, he paused and opened the door to Terri’s room. She was curled on the bed shaking and looked up in fear at the sound of the door. Ron closed his eyes. “Terri, I’m sorry; I’ll make it up to you.” When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him in disbelief. Hell, he thought, I don’t believe me either. “We’ll talk later.” She nodded enough to allow himself to believe he had made a difference.

When he checked, Chris was in his room, sitting on his bed, and holding an old comic in his hands. Ron’s heart shrank when he realized the comic was the last one he brought home, almost six months ago. Why did he keep that? “Are you okay, Tiger?” Chris started to shake his head then nodded, as he watched his father’s face. “That’s cool. Daddy’s got to get some sleep before work tonight. You be a good boy. Okay?”

Back in his room and lying on his bed, Ron heard his father again. “Nice going, asshole! How are you going to fix this?” Ron had no idea.

Small hands were shaking him. “Daddy, wake up! It’s supper time.” Ron’s eyes opened slowly, and he growled playfully at Chris. Chris laughed and jumped away. Ron could pretend he hadn’t seen that slight shadow of residual fear in his son’s eyes.

“Tell Terri I’ll be there in a bit. I got to clean up a bit first.”

“Okay!” Chris shouted as he ran toward the kitchen.

Ron popped a couple of uppers and headed for the bathroom. Well at least Terri’s still here. That’s some consolation. It would have been tough to find someone on short notice to watch Chris. He showered, shaved, and shined while the uppers brought him wide awake. God, he felt Good! The world was okay and Ron was good in it; he just needed to make up with Terri.

His good mood and intentions almost vanished as he entered the kitchen. Terri looked like hell warmed over and couldn’t quite look at him. The old anger started up. Why do I have to spend another day having to deal with someone else’s damned problems? Because you caused them, Asshole. Ron took a deep breath and crossed the room.

“Terri, I am sorry. I thought you were hurting Chris. I just went crazy.”

She looked at him. “Why would you believe that?”

The question startled him. Why in hell would I believe that? She’s been taking care of Chris for almost two years. She’s spent more time with him than I have. “I don’t know. That’s a stupid thing to believe. I was scared. I heard Chris screaming. You were there. I don’t know why. I’m just sorry I frightened you.”

Terri’s eyes looked doubtful, fearful. She had the look of a trapped lamb that needs to believe the lion won’t eat her. “That can’t ever happen again.”

Ron nodded slowly aware that Chris was watching them both. His stomach twitched as he remembered his father making similar promises to his “live-ins.” Dear God, please don’t let me go there!

Dinner tasted like cardboard, and no one seemed able to talk about anything. Afterward, Ron sat alone at the table trying to patch all the cracks that were forming in his world. It looked like he was going to move up in Salazar’s organization. Everything was going to be better, but the pain in his guts kept getting worse. The ghost of his father was everywhere he turned; and, worse, he was doing all the things he swore he would never do. What was next? Beating up Chris so he could feel important? Charlie had asked him that the last time they had talked. What the hell does he know?

His life was beginning to look like Monty’s alley. There was garbage and rot everywhere and a cold iron door at the end. Monty! Christ I’m going to be late to that meeting. I’ll call Salazar and tell him I’m on my way. As he pulled the phone from his pocket, a tug on his sleeve brought him around to face his son.

“Daddy, I love you.”

His son’s face, open and guileless, professed his love from the depth of his little being without reservation. With painful clarity, Ron realized he was loved completely without deserving it. That clarity drew his attention next to Chris’ smile and then to his son’s teeth. Those teeth met in a straight perfectly flat line. Finally, that awful clarity demanded that he acknowledge he had caused the son who loved him totally to grind his teeth flat.

His heart clenched and his throat constricted. “I love you too, Chris”.

While he held his son tightly, his fingers picked out the numbers on the keypad. The phone rang twice and connected.

“Charlie? It’s Ronnie. I got to stop.”

© 2010 Clay and Kay Derochie

Riff Raff

Riff Raff

by Bob Ferguson

I would attack them from a hiding place in plain sight. They would never expect an assault from a pariah of society. I planned to steal enough of their money to skip to Portugal or South America and live comfortably for life. Except—I had no life. They took it when they hooked Jess, my son on drugs—and he overdosed.

Drugs are every parent’s nightmare. At our wits end, we used the tough-love technique espoused by the current psycho-gurus and kicked Jess out of the house the day he turned eighteen. Through teary eyes at his funeral my wife, Jenny said “We drove him straight into their ripping claws.” She was right. The guilt, self-hate was intolerable. Ten days after his service Jenny found the easy way out—sleeping pills.

There was no celebration of life, no service, and no obituary for either of them. I buried each with a simple marker in the family plot where I had expected to be the first to rest. I headed home after the burial. No purpose. No feeling. No reason to live. On the two-lane road back down the hill it would be easy to give the wheel a quick jerk to the left into the path of an on-coming semi-truck. Swift. Quick. Sure. But with every passing second, like an infectious fever, hate began permeating the cells of my numb body. As a driving force, hate seemed more dominant than love. Vile loathing was giving me an insidious purpose for living—to seek retribution. They would pay dearly for what they had taken from me.

Parks had always been a pleasant place to while away a few hours with the family. Birds liked the high canopies of the tall oaks and centuries of adaptation had superbly equipped the squirrels for climbing trees more nimbly than Olga Korbut on the balance beam. I had no one to enjoy it with. I was wretchedly alone. The sounds and sights held no joy.

The park was further degraded, by the scum of humanity scattered about in old quilts, filthy sleeping bags and the rags on their backs like a human garbage dump. They reminded me of the dregs of the second wine bottle I was devouring. As disgusting as these human vermin were, they would be good camouflage for me to carry out my vengeance in the place where I knew Jess first began using drugs—the Park Blocks.

My .38 snub nosed service revolver that I had carried in Vietnam gave me a feeling of protection. It was stuffed into the field jacket that I had picked up at a surplus store. My gray hair was matted and matched my five days of stubble. The black stocking cap made me indistinguishable from the other homeless people who were in various stages of reverie induced by booze or drugs. I had become Charles Bronson in “Death Wish.” Life was imitating art.

It always surprised me that buying drugs was so easy. I wondered why a prosecutor simply didn’t grant amnesty to the guy at the lowest level if he ratted on his supplier. Then that supplier gets amnesty if he finks on his source, right on up to the top. I would prove my own theory. I would wait for the mule, the delivery man, the creep that made it possible to get my son hooked. It would be easy to follow him to his connection and follow that link to the next guy in the chain of command. I couldn’t offer amnesty, but a .38 in his face would be even a more convincing argument to become a stoolie. After I killed a few, they would know that Portland is no place for pushers.

“I’m Joe,” I said to a guy on a park bench as I screwed off the top of a fresh bottle of vintage MD 20/20 and handed it to him. “My wife was Jenny, my son was Jess. We called ourselves the “J” family,” I continued trying to be friendly.

“They call me Riff, I used to play the guitar on stage,” he said before he took a deep swig like it was the elixir of youth and he wanted to be a teenager again.

“I’d like to score a little Mary Jane,” I said trying to sound like an entrenched user.

“Haven’t heard that term in a while. If you mean pot, just watch that corner down there and you’ll see a guy who seems to talk to everybody. I’m tapped out or I’d give you some.”

It was a generous offer from a guy who seemed to be on his last legs.

“Keep that bottle of Mad Dog, I appreciate your info,” I said sauntering off toward a bench that had just become available with a better view of the corner.

His pants hung so low I wondered what held them up. A black baseball cap with a flat bill was stuffed sideways on a thick head of black hair. He was, it pained me to admit it, a handsome Latino. Even under his baggy hoodie you could tell he had a powerful build. Long silver chains draped down his sides and seemed to have no purpose other than decoration. He had mastered the art of smoking and talking incessantly on a cell phone at the same time.

It was a week day and he was busy. It was a quick reach into his fanny pack, a simple handshake, hug or short huddle and that was it. Money, pot, and short greetings were exchanged. It surprised me how many people dressed in suits and ties shook his hand. A bank of gray clouds created a sun screen that added an even darker mood to the nefarious activities taking place right in front of me.

He periodically got into a white, souped up Honda with dark tinted windows. He would be gone for a little while and then reappear on the same corner after stepping off the light rail stop just across the street.

The day was getting away from me. The Charles Bronson in me wanted action, but if I was careless it would be dangerous, maybe fatal. I feigned sleeping, reading the newspaper and if a stranger walked by I would even ask for spare change just to blend in with the vagrants.

The mark I had selected for my wrath would not be easy. He appeared to work alone, but there were always a few guys that looked just like him standing nearby. “His homies in hoodies,” I chortled to myself. It had been a long time since I had chortled, but it was not the good kind. I decided those stupid chains must be some sort of Ninja weapon. Even if they weren’t, he might be carrying and getting him alone would take some doing. They were wary, always looking for cops, rival gangs, and whatever other threats druggies face. They looked at me, but only saw the lowest of all life forms sitting on the park bench. Hiding in plain sight was perfect.

After a few hours the white Honda came by and he again got in. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to one. In almost exactly a half hour he again hopped off the Max line at the same stop—alone. That was it! I had my first victim in my sights. They had a time schedule for dropping off money and reloading with drugs and it matched the Max train schedule!

In the, invariably out of toilet paper, seedy, and filthy, public restroom, I shaved and washed my face. From my backpack I took out a non-descript jacket. I was ready.

“Riff, I’ll give you five bucks to watch this bundle for me. I’ll give you another ten when I return, is that a deal?” I asked laying the pack next to him.

“You sure you can trust me?” He said.

“Your cap says you’re a Vietnam vet or is that just brag?” I asked.

“No way! I joined the Marines right out of high school,” he said looking me in the eyes seeking a clue for some sense of trust.

“Well, Semper Fi my friend. Once a Marine always a Marine and this ol’ Marine needs your help, if I’m not back by 5:30 this evening, you can have it all,” I said walking away. I knew I had him with the Semper Fi.

Like clockwork, the white Honda came by at 3:45 on their two hour schedule. That meant that my Latino friend would conduct his business with those behind the darkened windshield and according to the Max schedule at his exit stop he would arrive back at almost exactly 4:15 pm., but I had a surprise for him.

I hustled down two blocks where the schedule read the next pickup headed north would be at 4:10 pm. It was in the “Fareless Square” so all I had to do was hop on and take a seat.  The train was deserted. He was easy to spot, sitting in the back of the second car with his feet stretched out taking up an entire seat. I took the seat directly across the aisle from him.

“There’s a whole car man, why you got to be right here in my face?” He said in broken English pronouncing “you” like the first syllable of Ju Ju Bean.

“I thought I knew you from somewhere,” I said.

“Now dat you know you don’t know me, I say you should move,” he said bobbing his head in a smart-alec way. I still wondered why the word “you” was such a tongue twister.

Physically, at 60 years old, I was no match for him, but I wanted to slap his silly face. I stood up like I was going to change seats and in a flash I pulled the .38 from my jacket pointed it at his face and said “Don’t move! My little friend here says I know you from the corner by the park, now put your feet down and your hands on the back of the seat in front of you.”

He stopped smiling. I slid into the seat behind him with the pistol pushed into the middle of his back. I wanted to pull the trigger and just leave him sitting there hunched over, but I had a problem. The gun was loaded with ammunition that was over forty years old and the bullets were green tracers. It was meant to be used as a survival pistol in case the F-4, in which I flew as a navigator on photo reconnaissance missions, was ever shot down. The green tracers were used instead of flares to notify the rescue choppers that I was a friendly force. A snub nose is not as accurate as a longer barrel, but there was a chance it could go clean through and ricochet hurting a bystander. I had never fired the pistol. Not even in Vietnam and I wasn’t sure what it would do.

“You, you are a dead man,” he said in anger making the “Y” sound even more like a “J.”

“So are you, if you don’t do exactly as I say.”  It was a bluff. “With your left hand, unbuckle that fanny pack and hand it back to me.”

For emphasis, I cocked the gun and pushed it harder into his back.

“It’s got a hair trigger,” I lied.

I took the fanny pack while moving the gun to the back of his head.

“Your buddies will be looking for you as we pass the park and what you need to do to stay alive is to wave to them as we go by.”

As we passed the park he was waving and I was holding up the fanny pack and flipping them the bird. Cute, but it was immensely stupid on my part. He knocked the gun from my hand, grabbed it and pulled the trigger—thank God the ammo was manufactured by the lowest bidder.  It didn’t fire. I had a second chance and pulled a lock-back knife with a 5” blade from my pants pocket. He was unimpressed and pulled out a 15” bayonet.

The train jerked to a stop, the doors opened and a passenger jumped on and quickly clubbed my nemesis from behind with a policeman’s night stick.

“Semper Fi,” said Riff. “I saw his amigos scattering when they thought they’d catch hell for losing the money and the pot. Then I saw him knock the gun out of your hand so I ran to the next stop. Lucky for you I always carry this souvenir night-stick for protection. A cop lost in a park scrum a while back.”

The dealer was stirring as we hopped off, ran back to the park, grabbed our gear and hailed a cab. It felt great to strike a blow for the good guys.

We gave the money to a homeless shelter, and the dealer resembled a body that was fished out of the Willamette River a few days later. The police speculated he had stolen some money and drugs from a local gang. Go figure.

Riff needed a place to live. I needed company. He’ll be living with me for a while.  He’s a pretty good guitarist. He plays and sings on open mic nights at a few blues joints. We’ve gotten involved in some veteran’s causes and my problems seem no worse than many others who are putting their lives back together.

I suppose life can imitate art, but it’s better to leave the vigilante stuff to the trained professionals. And what became of the pot? We’re Marines, not saints for cryin’ out loud.

© 2010 Bob Ferguson

“Riff Raff” won the 2010 Readers’ Choice Award.

Swing

Swing

by Anonymous

Sarah was not ready for morning. She sat in the bathroom, leaning on her elbows, willing herself not to fall asleep on the toilet. She lifted her head and stared at the monkey shower curtain in front of her, moving her eyes from one monkey to the next as they swung across the green vinyl. Eventually, her eyes faced the window and its banana colored curtains, and she winced at the sunshine outside.

The whole bathroom had a jungle theme, as did Nateʼs bedroom, all greens and browns, with an actual tree climbing from the floor to the leaf-covered ceiling. She didnʼt know whether Nate really wanted his room this way or if her sister had planted the idea in his head. He always seemed a little sad, Sarah thought, sitting on his leopard skin rug playing with his trucks or stuffed animals, trying to ignore the wild jungle around him. Or maybe that was just what Sarah was trying to do.

She had decided to sleep in his room last night, after vetoing the couch and its sweaty, sticky faux leather. Karen probably expected her to sleep in her room, with the California King and skylights and wall to wall carpeting, all the things Karen thought of as luxurious. She probably had set it up for her, with the bed turned down like a hotel, but Sarah hadnʼt even bothered going in there.

“What you need is a nice rest,” Karen had said to her on the phone last week. “Think of it as a vacation for you. Watch some cable, take a nice bath….”

Sarah got uncomfortable and cut her off, asking for feeding instructions and the vetʼs phone number, even though she knew everything would be written out for her in detail, waiting for her in the kitchen next to the color-coded calendar that took up an entire wall. Sometimes she wondered if her sister was managing a family or a political campaign.

“You know we really appreciate it, but I also think this will be good for you, Sarah,” she could hear the breath catch in her sisterʼs throat, the quiet tic of worry.

“Please,” Karen said, “Enjoy yourself.”

She thought about Karenʼs advice when she wandered into Nateʼs room last night, fingering the canopy of plastic leaves coming down from the ceiling. In the dark, it seemed like an almost plausible vacation spot, not somewhere real, but maybe a hotel room in Vegas or Disneyland. The twin bed was surprisingly comfortable, but still she couldnʼt sleep. The room smelled vaguely of plastic and when she tried to imagine herself on vacation all she could think of were the vacations she spent as a child. She kept trying to remember the details, the sagging cots she would share with Karen, the hours in the pool inventing new worlds. She couldnʼt invent anything any more. Her brain felt like quicksand, thoughts would come to her and then slowly sink till she could no longer reach them.

The doorbell rang and she jumped up, her thighs and elbows numb from sitting on the toilet for so long. She shook the tingles out of her leg as she rushed out of the bathroom, and ended up stubbing her toe on the box in the hallway. Karen and her sunscreen, she thought. Karen had bought a whole pharmacy worth of sunscreen to prepare for their trip, only to get rid of most of it after reading an article about some ingredient in sunscreen that is linked to skin cancer. All of the offending bottles were sitting in a box in the hallway, where, knowing Karen, they would sit for quite some time while she waffled back and forth between the guilt of throwing away brand new bottles and the possibility of giving someone cancer by putting them back out into the world.

Sarah slumped down in the hallway, clutching her toe. She thought about ignoring the doorbell, wasnʼt she supposed to be on vacation too? But Snowball was already up and barking and throwing himself with abandon against the window and she knew the only way to get him to calm down was to open the door.

Once she got to the entrance way, she had no choice. The top of the door was all window, and as she was pulling up her pajama pants, she saw the tall, blond man waiting on the porch. The minute she opened the door, Snowball nosed past her legs to greet him, all jumping and excitement, and then within seconds lost interest and started sniffing the potted plants.

“I have a delivery for you,” the man said. “Well, not really, it was already sitting here on the doorstep.” He handed Karen a package addressed to Nate and decorated with balloons.

“Who needs presents when youʼre at the beach, huh?”

Sarah nodded absentmindedly, still staring at the big loopy handwriting on the box.

“I apologize, Iʼm Ken from down the street. You must be Karenʼs sister,” he smiled and extended his hand to her.  She avoided it by bending down and dragging Snowball back inside. She threw the package into the entryway before closing the door, almost hitting Snowball in the face.

“Sorry. Sorry about the dog.” she stuttered.

“Oh, no problem. I just wanted to give you a heads up on this afternoon. Or did Karen already tell you?”

Sarah grimaced. She hoped it wasnʼt some kind of social gathering.

“Well, no problem. My daughters and I have been shooting a little movie, and today weʼre doing a scene in that tree out front,” he turned and pointed at the old oak in the front yard. “Itʼs a little strange because weʼll be putting our cat up there for a while, but donʼt worry, weʼll get her back down.”

“Youʼre putting a cat in a tree on purpose?”

“Yeah, I know. Whatʼs a movie without some action, right? Actually, Karen was the one who gave us the idea.”

Sarah found this hard to believe, since most of Karenʼs ideas lately involved worrying about things going wrong.

“And she didnʼt want you to sign a legal waiver or something?” Sarah said.

Ken laughed. “Wouldnʼt that be funny. Well, thanks, weʼll be out there in an hour or so, shouldnʼt take too long.”

He turned to go, stopping by the tree on his way down the path. He put his hands on his hips and arched his head up towards the sky. “Itʼs a beautiful tree,” he said before waving goodbye.

Sarah sat on the porch swing and let her eyes adjust to the sun. It was warmer outside than she thought it would be. She rested her bare feet along the smooth wood railing. The heat felt good.

Two women in t-shirts and striped workout pants walked by the house. One of them saw Sarah and waved. She lifted her hand back in acknowledgment. They probably found it strange for her to be sitting on the front porch like this, wearing wrinkled pajamas, her hair still dreadlocked from a bad nights sleep. So intimate, she thought, for a neighborhood that preferred staying on the surface of things.

Sarah remembered when Karen first moved into the house, just before Nate was born. Karen raved about the front porch. She had always dreamed of one with a swing and an old, shady tree rustling in the wind. Sarah helped her repaint the living room, and afterward, they sat out on the porch in the dark, drinking too much wine and giggling like school girls. Karen kept shushing Sarah, afraid of waking the neighbors. Eventually, Sarah curled up with her head on Karenʼs lap and they just rocked back and forth, listening to the creaking of the wood and the nighttime hum of sleep and electricity.

“I canʼt believe this is my house,” Karen whispered.

“I guess youʼre an adult now,” Sarah said as she fell asleep, Karen slowly smoothing the hair from her face.

Sarah doubted that Karen still used the front porch. Every time she came over now, after Nate was put to bed, all Karen wanted to do was clean the kitchen and curl up on the couch and watch a movie. Sarah didnʼt mind though, thatʼs usually all she was up for too. Most often, Karen would fall asleep halfway through the night and Sarah would cover her with a blanket and let herself out.

Sarah stretched her legs one more time against the railing and went back inside. Snowball saw her and immediately ran to the cabinet in the kitchen where his food was kept. He moved his head impatiently back and forth between Sarah and the cabinet door. She had missed his breakfast time by a few hours.

“Ok, I get it, buddy,” Sarah said, picking up his food bowl. She gave him a few extra scoops out of guilt and then sat at the kitchen table and watched him inhale his food. She couldnʼt imagine ever being that hungry.

Bits of cardboard were scattered across the floor by her chair. She picked one up. It was damp with ripped edges. She looked up and saw the package for Nate on Snowballʼs bed. The damage wasnʼt too bad, it was just the shipping box that had been ripped at one corner. Sarah tore off the rest of the cardboard box, hoping the contents were gift wrapped. They werenʼt. Inside was a card in a bright blue envelope and a box of jungle themed legos. Poor Nate, Sarah thought. She looked at the picture on the front of the box. There were hippos drinking from a plastic pond with an alligator lurching out of the water. In the background, monkeys played in the branches of plastic lego trees.

Snowball was done with his breakfast and was now whining at something out the window. Sarah could hear a light, twinkling sound coming from outside. She stood next to Snowball and watched as two girls in sundresses skipped across the lawn, giggling hysterically. Ken was a few houses behind, carrying a ladder and bags filled with camera equipment and props. They were early.

“Girls! Wait!” Ken shouted.

They seemed oblivious. One of the girls, the taller one with wispy blond hair, was cradling a small cat in her arms, trying to lift its face to the other girls ear, as if to share a secret. The other girl screamed with laughter at whatever the cat said and started running in circles around the base of the tree.

Ken asked the older girl to come help with the bags and she reluctantly walked towards him, still whispering to the cat and rocking it back and forth in her arms. He surveyed the tree again, and carried the ladder up to the south side, near the house. For a second, Sarah was afraid he would catch sight of her in the window, but his attention was on the ladder and before she knew it, his back was turned to her. Both girls ran up to him asking a question. He nodded and knelt down to talk to them, his hands on each of their shoulders pushing them together.  Slowly, each girl gave the cat a kiss on the top of the head, the blond girl bending down to rub her face along his fur before releasing him.

Ken tucked the cat under his arm and started climbing the ladder to the first branch of the tree, about ten feet off the ground. The girls ran to the prop bag and put on bright red plastic firemen hats. Sarah laughed as they proceeded to run around the lawn, making siren sounds and holding their arms in front of them like superman, unaware that filming had not yet begun.

The phone rang from the kitchen behind her. She watched Ken try to shake the cat from his arms onto the branch, and waited for the answering machine to kick on.

“Sarah? Are you there?” It was Karen, her voice crackling with a bad connection. “Sarah?”

Sarah sighed and went to pick up the phone, bringing it back with her to the window.

“Hi,” Sarah said, trying her best to sound perky.

“Oh good. Hi. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Howʼs your vacation going?”

“Good. Weʼve been exploring a lot.” Karen sounded exhausted.

“Iʼm watching a fake cat rescue in your front yard right now.”

“What?”

“Your neighborʼs movie. Iʼm surprised you okayʼd this operation.”

“Oh right. Well, it seemed harmless. Except for the cat, I guess. Besides, I canʼt resist those little girls. Theyʼre so sweet.”

“Yeah, they are.”

“What are they doing right now?”

“They seem to have forgotten about the cat in the tree and are performing some sort of dance play instead.”

Karen laughed, a short staccato bark, but Sarah could tell she was distracted.

“What are you doing now?” Sarah asked.

“Trying to the leave the hotel room,” she sighed. “Itʼs gorgeous here.”

Sarah looked outside. The girls were holding on to the porch railing, pretending to be in a ballet studio.

“Hey K, do you still use your porch swing?”

“Why? is there a problem with it?

“No, no, relax, I was just wondering if you still go out there.”

Karen held her breath, the way she normally did when she was thinking. “Not as much as Iʼd like, but, yeah, I go out there. What a weird question.”

“I was just wondering.”

“No, no, I know,” Karen said, her voice softening. “Sometimes if I canʼt sleep in the middle of the night I go out there for a little bit. The air feels good…I bet it would feel even nicer up in that tree.”

Sarah smiled, “Yeah, it would.”

She heard commotion in the background, muffled cries of protest.

“I gotta go, Nateʼs being unbearable. He got a bad sunburn on his legs.”

“Uh oh.”

“I know,” Karen sighed. “Well, I was just checking in.”

“Yup, Iʼm fine.”

“Good. All right. Hey,” Karen said, “Have fun, remember?”

Sarah smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “You too.”

“Goodbye, Sarah.”

“Bye, K.”

Sarah heard Ken dismantling the ladder outside. This time he saw her through the window. He waved and shrugged, and she responded with the thumbs up sign. She watched the girls skipping back to their house, their fireman hats bobbing on their heads like apples.

Sarah sat at the kitchen table and considered eating something, though she still wasnʼt hungry. She picked up Nateʼs jungle lego box and read the instructions on the back. Maybe she would take the parts out and set them up for Nate in his room, one less mess for Karen to worry about. She unwrapped everything and stuffed the plastic wrappers back into the box.

Slowly, she put all the pieces together, snapping the leaves and branches into place, arranging the tall grasses by the base of the trunk and around the pond. She put the alligator on top of the water, the hippos gossiping to the side, like in the picture. She picked up the monkeys, one in each hand, and before clicking them onto the branches, she played with them for a brief moment. She let them groom each other. She let them sleep. She watched as they climbed from tree to tree, their limbs loose and eager, swinging with the recklessness that comes easy to the loved.

© 2010 Anonymous

The Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter

The Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter

by Erica Somes

We all have “that friend”. The friend who can’t seem to see the insane situation in which they are fully, inexplicably entrenched. I happened to be on the phone with that particular friend of mine, my BFF (Best Friend Forever) Kat, when I first heard about the Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter.

“Casey’s spending the night in a tree… trying to shoot a bear?” I thought it was a joke.

“Zoe, he’s spending the night in a treehouse, with his bow, waiting to shoot a bear. He put out a few of those rotisserie chickens from the grocery store and is waiting for the bear to find them.”

“Oh, it’s all clear to me now. He’s chumming for bear, hunkered down in a treehouse, waiting for said bear to meander in for a dinner of rotisserie chicken, then he’s going to shoot the bear, with an arrow?

Can you even kill a bear with a bow and arrow? Don’t you need like, a machine type bazooka gun to kill a bear?”

“I don’t know. I don’t hunt. That’s just what his text said.”

“He’s texting you from a treehouse! That’s insane. You know that right?”

“Yes, Zoe, I know.”

“And you’re still wanting to date him?”

“Yes.”

Time for a topic change.

See, when a friend is in one of “those” relationships, where she has a boyfriend climbing into a tree to hunt a bear after graciously baiting it with store bought rotisserie chicken, well, you can only insinuate for so long, that the only person crazier than the hunter perched in a treehouse chumming bear with a bow, is in fact the person in a relationship with the crazy person, perched in a tree, chumming for bear with a bow.

“Do you want to go to the nude beach tomorrow? Josh and I are heading out in the morning. We’ll pick you up if you want to go.”

“Zoe, you want me to be naked on the beach, with you and your boyfriend and you think I’m crazy… ha!”

Kat did her best to sound appalled in order to challenge my accusation that she was off her rocker for dating Casey, the Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter.

“I’m just inviting you Kat, you don’t have to come.”

“Why would I want to go to a nude beach with you and the gym teacher?”

“He’s not a gym teacher. Josh is a professional educator specializing in Physical Education. And you always talk about how you wish Casey would take you, so I’m asking if you want to go with us.”

“Uh huh. Yeah, well, you and the gym teacher have a good time. I don’t want to be naked around your boyfriend and Casey just texted me from the tree again, I gotta go.”

The next day Josh picked me up and after a short drive we were hiking through mosquito infested trees that seemed to exist in their own sort of microclimate, to the beach of buck naked human beings, who relish flaunting their nakedness, like rich women who buy those ugly ass granny bags, that for some reason cost a huge amount of money.

The water lapped at the sandy beach as barges the size of city blocks slowly made their way up the river.

Josh and I thoroughly enjoyed frequenting the nude beach because we shared a perverted pleasure for pointing out things that were blatantly obvious to us and yet wholly invisible to those with a sliver of a moral compass.

Today, however, after 2 hours of blissful nudity and an appropriate number of people to make fun of walking by, Skinny-Bitch came into our world. Skinny-Bitch liked to order her boyfriend No-Backbone, around and moan about EVERYTHING in a high pitched, whiny voice. Skinny-Bitch of course, had No-Backbone, lay out their blanket near our blanket… just to be a bitch. Really annoying, bitchy girls are somehow magnetically attracted to girls like me, who hate most other girls, aside from my BFF, Kat.

Skinny-Bitch also happened to have a broken leg and be sporting a hot pink cast from her knee to her pedicured toes complete with matching hot pink toenail polish. This I’m sure propelled her whining to epic heights, even to No-Backbone. She also violated the one rule of the nude beach… complete nudity.

She removed her bikini top but left on her bikini bottom. Then proceeded to smoke a joint while No-Backbone applied sunscreen to her bare boobs.

“Josh are you staring at her boobs?”

“No, I’m staring at the guy rubbing sunscreen on her boobs… Yes, of course I’m staring at her boobs. We’re at a nude beach and I haven’t become immune to boobs yet. Boob immunity takes more like three or four hours.”

“Uh huh, well Kat called me last night and told me that Casey was spending the night in a treehouse waiting to try and kill a bear with a bow and arrow. Do you think that’s even possible? To kill a bear with an arrow?”

“No.”

“No… That’s it?”

“Is there really more of an answer required for that question?”

“I guess not.”

At that point I decided to let Josh ogle Skinny-Bitch’s boobs and call Kat.

Kat answered her cell with a “Hellooooooo!” to which I responded with an identical, “Hellooooooo!” to which Josh rolled his eyes and dropped his head in his hands in utter disgust at our middle school absurdity.

“Hey there BFF, how did Bear Hunter’s night in the tree go?”

“Well, he fell and broke his nose during one of his climbs in and out of the treehouse. Took a picture of his bloody face and clothes and sent it via text message this morning when there was enough light for a photo.”

“What the hell! Is he trying to make you worried or angry or is he just stupid?”

“Well, I texted him that he needed to leave the bear alone and come home. When he told me he was going to track the bear all day and camp again in the treehouse tonight I sunk into the black hole of feigning no cell signal… he’s texted seven times and I’ve ignored him. What are you up to?”

“Way to take a stand against testosterone inspired stupidity. Josh and I were here at the beach enjoying our nakedness until this half nude Skinny-Bitch ordered her No-Backbone boyfriend to setup camp right next to us and now Josh can’t seem to take his eyes off her obviously enhanced boobs.”

“Hold on a sec Zoe, there’s a delivery man at my door, he has flowers, oh my gosh, they’re from Casey. The card says he’s sorry to worry me and he loves me. Ahhh…”

“Oh my God Kat, you’re not buying that are you! He’s calling a florist from a treehouse? What the hell… he probably took ketchup packets into the treehouse to smear on himself after he supposedly broke his nose so he could make you worry about him. You see that right.”

“He sent me a dozen roses. You go back to Josh and distract him from his boob staring. I’m going to go buy some new lingerie for when Casey gets back from hunting.”

“Oh my god… really! Really! Are you serious? Oh my god you are hopeless… if you weren’t my BFF I would never talk to you again because I find you to be so unimaginably gullible where Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter is concerned… rather than new lingerie, you know what you need is a nice lobotomy to remove that part of your brain that finds Casey attractive and is susceptible to his lame and predictable manipulations and follow up cliche apology flowers.”

“Uh, huh, I love you too Zoe. I stopped listening a while ago. Have a good day, say hi to the gym teacher for me. Bye now.”

Kat hung up on me and I refocused my energy on my dislike for Skinny-Bitch and decided a bold move was required to regain the attention of Josh. I stood up, stretched and started walking down to the water… right past a group of frolicking college kids. I managed to pull the attention of enough of the boys to warrant Josh joining me in the water.

“How come you never send me flowers Josh…?”

“You mean overpriced flowers delivered to your door by an underpaid high school dropout? Gee, maybe because I know you’d rather receive a one pound box of Butterscotch Squares from See’s when I mess up.”

“Hmmpf. Well, I still like flowers even if I say they are ridiculous when Kat gets them from idiot boys.”

“Noted. Oh my God, there’s the Warrior! He’s here!”

The “Warrior” Josh was speaking of, was a man who embodied manliness like no other. He enjoyed strutting up and down the beach in calf height water, appropriately nude, skin shimmering with baby oil, long black hair flowing, necklace of white shark teeth around his neck and what appeared to be a third leg, swinging back and forth with every water parting step.

Josh was entranced by Warrior… He was wholeheartedly disappointed on days we came to the nude beach and didn’t get a chance to stare at his awesomeness as he patrolled the beach like some king surveying his kingdom.

“He’s mesmerizing isn’t he Zoe?”

“Yes Josh, he is beauty defined. I am once again feeling jealous of the man crush you have for Warrior. Why is it that both you and Kat are in love with these insanity inducing archetypes of masculinity?”

I stood next to Josh and watched Warrior parade by, took Josh’s hand and walked him back to our blankets to get dressed. Carefully avoiding eye contact with Skinny-Bitch, so as not to visibly grimace as the sound of the water behind me dissolved into her shrill voice.

“Let’s head back to town and get a margarita. After all this talk of Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunter sending flowers from a treehouse and feeling jealous of an overly tanned man wearing teeth around his neck, I feel the need for inebriation.”

“Inebriation of Zoe by Tequila and Triple Sec coming up…”

Yes, we all have at least one of “those friends” in our lives that make life interesting. Who makes us shake our heads and provide us all with unquestionable certainty that life is there in front of us, happening all the time. If we didn’t have “those people” in our lives, life would be so boring.

How could we exist without the Bow-Armed-Bear-Hunters and Warriors of this world?

I don’t ever want to know.

© 2010 Erica Somes