“Can you just stop? For one second. Please. Look, he’s not worth it,” Lynn told Marie. Marie was sitting Indian style in the middle of the bedroom muttering nonsense, moving back and forth as if her butt had a built-in rocking chair. The phone was off the hook in her lap, beeping incessantly. This was much better than watching her knock her head against the wall, pull out heaps of her own hair or try to break whatever breakable item was within arm’s reach. That was last night’s drama.
“He lied. He was with this other woman. I saw him with her,” Marie managed to get out in between deep, frantic sobs.
“Wait. How do you know he was with someone else?” Lynn quizzed, already knowing the answer.
“I followed him,” Marie fessed up. “And, then… then, I went up to talk to them. I almost punched her. I came back later with a bat and really wanted to smash his windshield. But, I just threw ketchup and mustard on it instead.”
“Oi! What the hell are you doing?” Lynn moaned. “Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? This guy is the biggest ass on the planet. And, now you’re acting worse than him.”
“It’s over. I told him I don’t want to see him any more,” Marie wept, rocking again with even more fervor.
“Ok, that’s a good start,” Lynn replied coolly, trying to put on an empathetic air.
“But, I LOVE him,” Marie whined. She sat still for a second while tears rolled down her face.
Lynn gave her a hug, but couldn’t stop wondering when the scene would stop repeating itself for the umpteenth time.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Keeping the Peace - John Fetto
Leary got the assignment from a Scottish paper and in one week was standing in Kuwait, accompanied by his military advisor, medic, and fully service body guard, and the only man he knew how to talk American, former fugitive Russell T. Hawley, which Leary had come to understand wasn’t really talking at all. No bother, Leary would sit in his tent, and wait for Hawley to go out, talk with the brutish Americans, perhaps kill something together and while Leary sat cooling himself inside his tent which came with an air conditioner, drinking the single bond malt sent from his home paper. Smooth wasn’t the word that describe the scotch, it was if each molecule of pure joy spontaneously collapsed in his mouth, leaving only a sparkling joyous taste that warmed his brain, tearing off years of crusty cynicism and leaving him as joyous as a newborn. If only Hawley could locate a brothel, but this more desolate landscape had none. Leary didn’t believe and he was certain to find at least one dark tent where naked maidens smiled, trading case for an ancient and honorable kindness.
Half the bottle had already disappeared down his throat, when Hawley appeared, and squatted down beside him, like soldiers in the field. He had found some new weapons since his last trip, a side arm from Italy, and a short machine pistol from some small countries elite special courses who wanted the m16 Hawley had found yesterday with the grenade launcher mounted underneath. Hawley felt about weapons, the way Leary felt about scotch, the more the merrier, and he was waiting for one to back up a jeep with a some large artillery piece “just in case.” Leary tried to explain that you needed to a siege barrage to photograph a picture, but Hawley would go silent in that American way which meant he had things to say but his position was so superior it wasn’t worth wasting words. That and radio gear. The humvee he’d appropriated already had three sets of radio and of course he’d gotten the codes, chatting with the others.
Thursday morning, hours before light, he woke Leary up at an ungodly hour and piled him into the humvee, Leary wrapped in a blanket, a bit more scotch in his hand. They drove up behind a large column of tanks spread out for a mile. The sound of the engines seemed loud until the horizon began to explode with air strikes, that basically bathed the world ahead in fire and noise. Then the tanks started moving forward, kicking up sand, thunderous noise. The front tanks fired, and a wave of fire descended on tank positions ahead, followed by rockets fired from above, the air force, pouring it on, and more flames scorched the land ahead. It went back and forth like that, cannon roar, rocket fire, bombs from dropped from so high, the noise of the planes were indecipherable, but not their effect. The column would suddenly stop. Futile fire would be received for a few moments, then the whole area the size of half a city block with lift in one great explosion, and the column moved on.
In the darkness, few victims were seen, occasionally they would see a blackened arm reaching futilely out of a burning tank, or the lights of the humvee would highlight a corpse in a ditch. But by day break the corpses were everywhere. Charred corpses in ditches, huddled in fox holes, hanging out and around vehicles…it was a terrain of death, so of course Leary was snapping pictures.
At noon they stopped. The tanks ahead called for diesel, and diesel truck came up for them to refuel. Hawley pulled out food and they ate.
“Get good pictures?” asked Hawley.
“Lovely,” said Leary. “The best since Rome and Carthage.”
“You were in Rome?”
“Not at the time,” said Leary. “But I remember the reports. Headline Ancient World: The Romans came and made a wasteland, and called it peace.”
Half the bottle had already disappeared down his throat, when Hawley appeared, and squatted down beside him, like soldiers in the field. He had found some new weapons since his last trip, a side arm from Italy, and a short machine pistol from some small countries elite special courses who wanted the m16 Hawley had found yesterday with the grenade launcher mounted underneath. Hawley felt about weapons, the way Leary felt about scotch, the more the merrier, and he was waiting for one to back up a jeep with a some large artillery piece “just in case.” Leary tried to explain that you needed to a siege barrage to photograph a picture, but Hawley would go silent in that American way which meant he had things to say but his position was so superior it wasn’t worth wasting words. That and radio gear. The humvee he’d appropriated already had three sets of radio and of course he’d gotten the codes, chatting with the others.
Thursday morning, hours before light, he woke Leary up at an ungodly hour and piled him into the humvee, Leary wrapped in a blanket, a bit more scotch in his hand. They drove up behind a large column of tanks spread out for a mile. The sound of the engines seemed loud until the horizon began to explode with air strikes, that basically bathed the world ahead in fire and noise. Then the tanks started moving forward, kicking up sand, thunderous noise. The front tanks fired, and a wave of fire descended on tank positions ahead, followed by rockets fired from above, the air force, pouring it on, and more flames scorched the land ahead. It went back and forth like that, cannon roar, rocket fire, bombs from dropped from so high, the noise of the planes were indecipherable, but not their effect. The column would suddenly stop. Futile fire would be received for a few moments, then the whole area the size of half a city block with lift in one great explosion, and the column moved on.
In the darkness, few victims were seen, occasionally they would see a blackened arm reaching futilely out of a burning tank, or the lights of the humvee would highlight a corpse in a ditch. But by day break the corpses were everywhere. Charred corpses in ditches, huddled in fox holes, hanging out and around vehicles…it was a terrain of death, so of course Leary was snapping pictures.
At noon they stopped. The tanks ahead called for diesel, and diesel truck came up for them to refuel. Hawley pulled out food and they ate.
“Get good pictures?” asked Hawley.
“Lovely,” said Leary. “The best since Rome and Carthage.”
“You were in Rome?”
“Not at the time,” said Leary. “But I remember the reports. Headline Ancient World: The Romans came and made a wasteland, and called it peace.”
Keeping the Peace - Vicki Rubini
Shiloh and I knew we were getting stronger the day we could stand in the river current and not lose our balance. We knew we were getting bigger when we didn’t have to scamper three steps to equal her one. I remember one day when we were traveling along by the river, Sasha and I raced ahead, seeing how fast we could go. Sasha barked a warning, but we kept going – we didn’t want to walk, we had important matters to take care of – what was that low pitched sound we heard, and where was it coming from? There was more than one voice, and these voices seemed to respond from different places as they echoed off the hills and rocks, louder in the morning, quieter in the hot afternoon or at night. I knew they weren’t wolves, for their howling from caves was familiar to me.
When we got so far ahead that we could barely smell Sasha, we circled back. She had no interest in running, although she held her head up with ears perked and alert – but then she would stop and lower her snout to the ground. It was hard for us to walk at her measured pace. Shiloh and I wanted to spring forward and smell every animal, plant, and rock in one day. We were curious how far and fast our legs could carry us; we wanted to explore all the drops in the river, then roll in the sandy banks. How could we please ourselves and Sasha at the same time? The question made me want to stop and give myself a good scratch, and I did when I had to wait for her to catch up so I wouldn’t feel so restless. Sometimes I scratched so hard my ear bled.
The more I ran, the hungrier I got, and Sasha’s milk no longer satisfied me. Both Shiloh and I turned to fish for our meals – we were proud of our talents, and since our growling tummies were a poor judge of how much we could really eat, we usually brought some back for Sasha. She was as uninterested in this as she was in everything but that mysterious thing out there that kept her focused and alert.
One morning, when we started stretching, Shiloh and I discovered our legs had grown longer than hers. That did not please me. I loved the idea of someone older and bigger than me protecting me. I didn’t want to have to worry about anything but enjoying my play. What peace did I have knowing that I was taller than her now? I was probably faster, too, since she never even tried to run. Her flank was starting to hollow. Was there any point in staying with this dog that always looked sad when I was trying so hard to forget everything? She did love me – but was that enough?
When we got so far ahead that we could barely smell Sasha, we circled back. She had no interest in running, although she held her head up with ears perked and alert – but then she would stop and lower her snout to the ground. It was hard for us to walk at her measured pace. Shiloh and I wanted to spring forward and smell every animal, plant, and rock in one day. We were curious how far and fast our legs could carry us; we wanted to explore all the drops in the river, then roll in the sandy banks. How could we please ourselves and Sasha at the same time? The question made me want to stop and give myself a good scratch, and I did when I had to wait for her to catch up so I wouldn’t feel so restless. Sometimes I scratched so hard my ear bled.
The more I ran, the hungrier I got, and Sasha’s milk no longer satisfied me. Both Shiloh and I turned to fish for our meals – we were proud of our talents, and since our growling tummies were a poor judge of how much we could really eat, we usually brought some back for Sasha. She was as uninterested in this as she was in everything but that mysterious thing out there that kept her focused and alert.
One morning, when we started stretching, Shiloh and I discovered our legs had grown longer than hers. That did not please me. I loved the idea of someone older and bigger than me protecting me. I didn’t want to have to worry about anything but enjoying my play. What peace did I have knowing that I was taller than her now? I was probably faster, too, since she never even tried to run. Her flank was starting to hollow. Was there any point in staying with this dog that always looked sad when I was trying so hard to forget everything? She did love me – but was that enough?
Keeping the Peace - Melody Cryns
“Moooommm!” Melissa shouted into the phone. “Jeremy hit me! Do something!”
Like I could do anything while sitting at my desk – working away. It was summer, in the early 1990’s, perhaps 1992 or 1993, maybe even before. I always had to figure out creative strategies for what to do with my three older kids when they were out of school for the summer. They were getting too old for daycare programs, yet not really old enough to be left alone. So I’d take them to the boys’ and girls’ club for the hours it was open, then dash back to work until I had to pick them up and take the kids home while my neighbor Lynn, who had a daycare business watching small kids, such as my own baby girl Megan, would watch the kids – except they were way older than all of her other kids, so they’d go home and Lynn would be there for them – most of the time it seemed to work out. I always dreaded summers.
“What can I do?” I said. “I’m at work. Work it out.”
“But Mom! Nooooooo! Jeremy won’t leave me alone!” Then I’d hear screaming.
“Go next door to Lynn’s right now,” I said, looking at the green monochrome computer screen and sighing…it was always something, every single day.
“No, I don’t wanna go over there, Mom. Can’t you get Jeremy to stop?”
“C’mon you guys – knock it off or I’ll have to call Lynn.”
Sometimes I felt as if I was raising my kids over the phone or in the car, especially when I worked two jobs or worked and went to school. Take the kids there, drop them off, pick them up and take them home for just an hour or s, then the phone calls began. It was inevitable. I thought about how nice it would be to divide myself or somehow teleport from one place to the next, but I never figured it out.
Later that night when I’d gone to my part-time evening job, Jeremy called me on the phone. “Mommy, when are you coming home?” he said.
And at that moment I wished that I was there.
Like I could do anything while sitting at my desk – working away. It was summer, in the early 1990’s, perhaps 1992 or 1993, maybe even before. I always had to figure out creative strategies for what to do with my three older kids when they were out of school for the summer. They were getting too old for daycare programs, yet not really old enough to be left alone. So I’d take them to the boys’ and girls’ club for the hours it was open, then dash back to work until I had to pick them up and take the kids home while my neighbor Lynn, who had a daycare business watching small kids, such as my own baby girl Megan, would watch the kids – except they were way older than all of her other kids, so they’d go home and Lynn would be there for them – most of the time it seemed to work out. I always dreaded summers.
“What can I do?” I said. “I’m at work. Work it out.”
“But Mom! Nooooooo! Jeremy won’t leave me alone!” Then I’d hear screaming.
“Go next door to Lynn’s right now,” I said, looking at the green monochrome computer screen and sighing…it was always something, every single day.
“No, I don’t wanna go over there, Mom. Can’t you get Jeremy to stop?”
“C’mon you guys – knock it off or I’ll have to call Lynn.”
Sometimes I felt as if I was raising my kids over the phone or in the car, especially when I worked two jobs or worked and went to school. Take the kids there, drop them off, pick them up and take them home for just an hour or s, then the phone calls began. It was inevitable. I thought about how nice it would be to divide myself or somehow teleport from one place to the next, but I never figured it out.
Later that night when I’d gone to my part-time evening job, Jeremy called me on the phone. “Mommy, when are you coming home?” he said.
And at that moment I wished that I was there.
Keeping the Peace - Chris Callaghan
Clara thinks the emails from her sister’s attorney could be bullets fired from Wild West pistols, with barrels as long as her fore arms, or weighty cannon balls shot during the Civil War. Some of the lengthier ones have that rat-a-tat-tat staccato stutter of World War Two machine guns as depicted in the cartoon balloons of her brother’s old GI Joe comic books.
Then there are a few that she is sure are pumped out of an AK47, although she’s never heard one fired. But it is the gun she sees when she closes her eyes against the words on her computer screen. Whatever weapon or decade she assigns to it, she knows War when she sees it. She hits reply and poises her fingers above the keyboard primed in her mind to fire back – volleys of answers, indignation, and anger.
She stops mid-stroke and pushes her chair back on its five wheels, the rage roiling in her head too close to the white screen, too close to the finality of the send button.
Breathing deeply, she moves to her grandmothers oak table, takes up her father’s gold Cross pen and a pink spiral topped pad. Feeling safer in this small haven of a bunker, she unleashes her fury, purges her rage, and vomits out all the words that she might be tempted to send, send, send. She writes for an hour and there are craters on the pages from the depth of her pen point.
Finally her ammo is spent and she stares at the final word she has written. Two capitalized letters: N O. That small word is all she really needs to halt the battle for this day. It is adamant, unemotional and stands like two sentinels on her assigned side of the battlefield.
Repetitive and blunt, this is the word she uses to disengage from the war day after day, month after month, year after year. She would prefer a longer word, she longs to type it: peace. But that is a word that the enemy refuses to read or hear, much less keep.
Yet.
Then there are a few that she is sure are pumped out of an AK47, although she’s never heard one fired. But it is the gun she sees when she closes her eyes against the words on her computer screen. Whatever weapon or decade she assigns to it, she knows War when she sees it. She hits reply and poises her fingers above the keyboard primed in her mind to fire back – volleys of answers, indignation, and anger.
She stops mid-stroke and pushes her chair back on its five wheels, the rage roiling in her head too close to the white screen, too close to the finality of the send button.
Breathing deeply, she moves to her grandmothers oak table, takes up her father’s gold Cross pen and a pink spiral topped pad. Feeling safer in this small haven of a bunker, she unleashes her fury, purges her rage, and vomits out all the words that she might be tempted to send, send, send. She writes for an hour and there are craters on the pages from the depth of her pen point.
Finally her ammo is spent and she stares at the final word she has written. Two capitalized letters: N O. That small word is all she really needs to halt the battle for this day. It is adamant, unemotional and stands like two sentinels on her assigned side of the battlefield.
Repetitive and blunt, this is the word she uses to disengage from the war day after day, month after month, year after year. She would prefer a longer word, she longs to type it: peace. But that is a word that the enemy refuses to read or hear, much less keep.
Yet.
Drama - Anne Wright
Bill told them he wanted to kill them all, their little family of three, and then he steered the car into the oncoming traffic. Sharon was holding tight to Lucy on her lap, and she couldn’t scream. She didn’t want to wake her up. All she had wanted was to be rid of him. She hadn’t expected that he couldn’t take her leaving, that he couldn’t allow her to take Lucy from him.
It started with the wedding. No, it started much earlier, before she got pregnant. That was when she should have walked away. She didn’t realize then how hard it would be, even then, to leave. She was young and she had met someone else, even kissed him after their date. She didn’t want to be stuck with Bill and wanted to break up with him. She wanted to meet other boys. Sometimes she thought that Bill had gotten her pregnant on purpose, the timing was so wrong for her. Sharon was young and weak, and that’s what Bill wanted.
She managed to pull the steering wheel and made the car drive in its own lane. “Bill, let’s stop the car. Let’s go home.” Her words were slow and pronounced, the best she could do. Lucy didn’t wake up, and they drove home.
It started with the wedding. No, it started much earlier, before she got pregnant. That was when she should have walked away. She didn’t realize then how hard it would be, even then, to leave. She was young and she had met someone else, even kissed him after their date. She didn’t want to be stuck with Bill and wanted to break up with him. She wanted to meet other boys. Sometimes she thought that Bill had gotten her pregnant on purpose, the timing was so wrong for her. Sharon was young and weak, and that’s what Bill wanted.
She managed to pull the steering wheel and made the car drive in its own lane. “Bill, let’s stop the car. Let’s go home.” Her words were slow and pronounced, the best she could do. Lucy didn’t wake up, and they drove home.
Fall - Jeff Thomas
A sandy two track road winds through a forest filled with a mix of hardwoods and pines. The maples are almost shocking in their bright autumn crimsons and golds. Curled brown leaves already litter the sand, creating a softly crispy carpet. The road leads eventually to a small clearing, an expanse of dead ferns like a secret copper pond. In the center sits an old trailer home. The trailer is mostly chalk white, with a faded blue stripe halfway up from the ground. Rust seeps around the edges of the trailer and shows up in splotches on the structure’s face. A cord of piled wood leans heavily against the metal exterior, next to the rickety steps that lead up to the front door. Smoke puffs lazily from a metal pipe on the roof, a makeshift chimney. Inside the trailer an elderly woman sits on a gray tweed loveseat. She wears a soft pink quilted robe, patched and stained. Her legs stretch in front of her, gnarled toes unconsciously kneading the shag carpeting in a soft rhythm. Across her lap spreads the first third of a new brown and yellow afghan for her nephew. She knits slowly. At regular intervals she places the needles in her lap and reaches for the mug of weak coffee warming on wood stove next to her.
An explosion of an indeterminate melody jars the silence. The woman finishes her stitch and places the needles and afghan on the floor next to her feet. She sticks her hand between the cushions of the loveseat, grimacing. As the melody repeats its third revolution, she pulls the cell phone out and lifts it to her ear. The melody sounds one more time and the woman’s eyes squeeze shut in pain. She brings the phone to her eyes and steadily presses and holds the answer button. She returns the phone to her ear and croaks, “what.”
An explosion of an indeterminate melody jars the silence. The woman finishes her stitch and places the needles and afghan on the floor next to her feet. She sticks her hand between the cushions of the loveseat, grimacing. As the melody repeats its third revolution, she pulls the cell phone out and lifts it to her ear. The melody sounds one more time and the woman’s eyes squeeze shut in pain. She brings the phone to her eyes and steadily presses and holds the answer button. She returns the phone to her ear and croaks, “what.”
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