Saturday, November 28, 2009
Dog - Marigrace Bannon
It’s pretty unpopular to tell the truth sometimes, and the fact is that I don’t like dogs. Well, I don’t hate them; actually I was brought up to fear them. My mother was terrified of dogs, so I don’t think it’s in our DNA, but we definitely all acquired her fear. She claims she was pregnant with one of us and her car broke down by the side of the road and she was walking by herself and a dog was chasing her and ferociously barking. I suspect something happened earlier than that, but I don’t know. Anyway, one time a stray dog appeared at our house, and my father decided that he would teach us not to fear dogs. So the little mutt stayed on our back kitchen porch, and everytime the dog came into the kitchen my mother would stand on the kitchen chair and scream in such a loud shrill, it was almost Hitchcockian. And all 6 girls would get on the kitchen benches and also scream our terrified cries, but we couldn’t compare to my mother’s operatic pitch. And either, my father would be around to remove the dog and place it back on the kitchen porch or I think the little dog would wander out of the kitchen and miss his straying days. I can’t say we ever got over our fear, but I’ve worked hard to be cordial to my friends dogs, but the truth is, I don’t want to pet them and I hate when I enter a room full of people and the dog at the party starts sniffing me. I always want to say, “I’m not the only one here. Can you work the room?”
A Happy Life - John Fetto
Hawley kept walking, not looking back. He could hear Sandman, Willie and Jaybird in the brush behind him, but he didn’t turn around to look. He kept his eyes forward, leading the way, not on the trail where someone might wait to ambush them, higher up the ridge, but not on top, where someone might see them moving, pig trails, maybe a boar, he followed its tracks, carefully shifting his weight from boot to boot, so the sole didn’t slid and start a noisy rockslide. Everything quiet, just the rustle of leaves as his team followed him. The boars tracks were decent, fresh, he hoped to run into it, and if he did, he’d kill it quietly, gut it and feed it to his team. They hadn’t eaten in days, every since the ambush that should have killed them. Hawley had not idea how they got out, and no one had talked about it, not even when they slept. He would stop and sleep when he heard them take up positions, and he’d start up again, when they began to rustle. It was suicide to talk out here with so many murderous north Vietnamese regulars, murderous little skeletons in khaki and pith helmets who would gut you as much as Hawley wanted to gut that boar. He would too, if the boar turned on him. He’d stick him with his knife and even if the boar screamed, it was just a boar, anyone could kill it. The key was that no matter what happened, Hawley couldn’t say anything that sounded human or he’d give their position away. That’s why Willie, Jaybird and Sandman were quiet. They’d sit down and smile at Hawley if he had that Boar roasting on a pit. It would be just like old times, whole lifetimes before the ambush.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
A Happy Life - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Well, I’m still thinking about what to do with myself, and what exactly we have run to in this little New Mexico town. It kind of makes you think about what you really want, that is, what is a happy life anyway? For my mom, I know she missed living near some land, that’s what she says anyway. She grew up with a great big garden and she loves that kind of stuff. She had a plot in a community garden in Brooklyn but she says it wasn’t the same as stepping out into your own land and working your flowers and crops and stuff right in your back yard. So she’ll like that part of it here. One drawback she forgot to think about is water, because when she was growing up, it was in New England where she had as much water as she needed. Here, in this valley beside the Rio Grande in southern New Mexico, with a mountain range on either side and huge old skies and not much rain, we have to deal with irrigation. And guess who deals with it? That would be me.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
What She Ran Away From - Bonnie Smetts
At eight years old you can’t know that your momma’s not your only problem, her and the boyfriends. I’d figured out about staying away from them. I’d figured out that staying outside was better than staying inside. Because I never knew when one of them might take a swing at me or squeeze up next to me, pushing me into the wall.
I’ve taken to staying out, outside until the mosquitoes get too hungry for my arms. And then I go in.
“Rawling, get us some drinks from the frig, won’t you honey.” Momma has a way of saying that to make it seem so polite and nice in front of the new boyfriends. But I know it’s not nice. I know you shouldn’t be asking your kid to get the beer. But I can’t say get your own damn beer. So I get it. Which is why I stay out as much as I can so she can’t ask me to get the beer.
This week the rain’s been pouring down with a racket so loud I can’t hear momma ask for anything. Today it’s rained until past dark.
“Rawling, where are you?” Momma calls me from the living room, she’s been in there, laughing and giggling with some new man. “Rawling.” This time she’s yelling so I know I gotta go.
“Get us something to drink, will you Rawling?” Like I know what to get, but I open the frig and there’s one damn beer. I bring it.
“Why’d you bring just one?” Momma asks. When I tell her that’s all there is, she starts in. “You little brat, you’re doing this to make me get up. Now go get the beer.”
“There isn’t no other beer,” I say. But she grabs my arm when I turn to go. She’s lying on the couch looking as far as gone as she gets but she’s got a strength in her.
“Rawling, you do as I say.” And the boyfriend moves on the couch. “You do what you’re mother asks, get us the beer.” And that’s when I do what I do from time to time. I run outside. I know if I can stay out there long enough, they’re gonna forget, they’re gonna fall asleep, and with the rain, they’re not even coming out after me.
But I got a problem. Where am I gonna go until that happens, until they pass out again and leave me alone. The rain’s worse than the shower. The rain’s worse then a hose. The rain’s the only thing keeping me away from getting hurt inside so I squeeze myself up real close to the house, just enough so the tiny edge that makes the roof, it’s just that tiny bit there, keeps the rain from hitting me. I’m gonna have to stand up for a while tonight. And I hate the dark, in the rain or otherwise. I hate it. The rain covers up the sound of whoever might be sneaking up on me. But the shadows, they’re big, they move, rain or no. And the shadows are what I gotta look at until I can be sure it’s safe to sneak back inside.
I’ve taken to staying out, outside until the mosquitoes get too hungry for my arms. And then I go in.
“Rawling, get us some drinks from the frig, won’t you honey.” Momma has a way of saying that to make it seem so polite and nice in front of the new boyfriends. But I know it’s not nice. I know you shouldn’t be asking your kid to get the beer. But I can’t say get your own damn beer. So I get it. Which is why I stay out as much as I can so she can’t ask me to get the beer.
This week the rain’s been pouring down with a racket so loud I can’t hear momma ask for anything. Today it’s rained until past dark.
“Rawling, where are you?” Momma calls me from the living room, she’s been in there, laughing and giggling with some new man. “Rawling.” This time she’s yelling so I know I gotta go.
“Get us something to drink, will you Rawling?” Like I know what to get, but I open the frig and there’s one damn beer. I bring it.
“Why’d you bring just one?” Momma asks. When I tell her that’s all there is, she starts in. “You little brat, you’re doing this to make me get up. Now go get the beer.”
“There isn’t no other beer,” I say. But she grabs my arm when I turn to go. She’s lying on the couch looking as far as gone as she gets but she’s got a strength in her.
“Rawling, you do as I say.” And the boyfriend moves on the couch. “You do what you’re mother asks, get us the beer.” And that’s when I do what I do from time to time. I run outside. I know if I can stay out there long enough, they’re gonna forget, they’re gonna fall asleep, and with the rain, they’re not even coming out after me.
But I got a problem. Where am I gonna go until that happens, until they pass out again and leave me alone. The rain’s worse than the shower. The rain’s worse then a hose. The rain’s the only thing keeping me away from getting hurt inside so I squeeze myself up real close to the house, just enough so the tiny edge that makes the roof, it’s just that tiny bit there, keeps the rain from hitting me. I’m gonna have to stand up for a while tonight. And I hate the dark, in the rain or otherwise. I hate it. The rain covers up the sound of whoever might be sneaking up on me. But the shadows, they’re big, they move, rain or no. And the shadows are what I gotta look at until I can be sure it’s safe to sneak back inside.
What She Ran Away From - Anne Wright
She used to think of him as a lion, with his great bushy head of blonde hair, and his massive chest, and the large paws that were soft and cushiony when he held her head in them. The friendly lion, who loved to eat barbequed ribs slathered in sauce, ripping the meat from the fragile bones, then licking his fingers with a long pink tongue.
Sometimes he licked her neck with that tongue, and it sent shivers along her body and she would grab him with both legs around his slim hips, and lay him on his back on the floor. Then he would smile at her, and his teeth, almost invisible in their sharp whiteness, would flash and he would play at biting her neck, just enough to tease.
She knew he loved her, but she knew he wasn’t the one. She liked the slender black leopard man who lived on the next block. His hair was slick and combed back shiny. He was dangerous in the way he moved, quiet and unassuming, quick and deadly. If the leopard held her head in his paws, she knew his razor claws would leave marks on her cheeks. His yellow eyes lured her into his den and he wrestled her down, and she didn’t move, even to breathe.
She loved them both, lion man and leopard man, so when she ran away, it was from what happened next.
Sometimes he licked her neck with that tongue, and it sent shivers along her body and she would grab him with both legs around his slim hips, and lay him on his back on the floor. Then he would smile at her, and his teeth, almost invisible in their sharp whiteness, would flash and he would play at biting her neck, just enough to tease.
She knew he loved her, but she knew he wasn’t the one. She liked the slender black leopard man who lived on the next block. His hair was slick and combed back shiny. He was dangerous in the way he moved, quiet and unassuming, quick and deadly. If the leopard held her head in his paws, she knew his razor claws would leave marks on her cheeks. His yellow eyes lured her into his den and he wrestled her down, and she didn’t move, even to breathe.
She loved them both, lion man and leopard man, so when she ran away, it was from what happened next.
4 am - Darcy Vebber
Lisa pushed open the auditorium door, the one that lead to the nearly empty parking lot, and waited for the others. What were they doing? Combing hair? Putting tools away? Looking for cell phones, jackets? It was only barely cool out, a slight dampness in the air that would be gone by dawn. Better to go out in t shirts and shorts, to feel the dark coolness. By mid-morning, it would be bright and hot again, what seemed like summer until summer really came. She wanted them to hurry, to get out, to be out. The mercury vapor lights in the parking lot shimmered.
Sam was there first. He slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Let’s go! He owned these hours, was used to them, knew where to go.
Bobby looked tired. He came out with a girl from the lighting crew and her boyfriend who did sound. The set designer was staying behind to nap on a couch up in the scene dock. The six of them had stayed to finish the set. Lisa alone had built and pained seven flats. It was prodigious. They were proud.
They strode out into the night, looking for indications of sunrise on the horizon over the football field. Nothing yet. The whole big city around them was hushed. Lisa leaned closer to Sam, for warmth and happiness. Above and beyond them, it was dark, the dark, starry desert sky like a bowl and they were inside it, tired and on their way to breakfast. She inhaled deeply, thinking she could uncoil the smells one from the next – sage from the open land east of the campus, exhaust always, no escaping that, cold water and boy cologne, the hint of it along with sweat. She held it in. At breakfast she would sit next to him and draw hearts on the steamy coffee shop window where he couldn’t see.
Sam was there first. He slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Let’s go! He owned these hours, was used to them, knew where to go.
Bobby looked tired. He came out with a girl from the lighting crew and her boyfriend who did sound. The set designer was staying behind to nap on a couch up in the scene dock. The six of them had stayed to finish the set. Lisa alone had built and pained seven flats. It was prodigious. They were proud.
They strode out into the night, looking for indications of sunrise on the horizon over the football field. Nothing yet. The whole big city around them was hushed. Lisa leaned closer to Sam, for warmth and happiness. Above and beyond them, it was dark, the dark, starry desert sky like a bowl and they were inside it, tired and on their way to breakfast. She inhaled deeply, thinking she could uncoil the smells one from the next – sage from the open land east of the campus, exhaust always, no escaping that, cold water and boy cologne, the hint of it along with sweat. She held it in. At breakfast she would sit next to him and draw hearts on the steamy coffee shop window where he couldn’t see.
4 am - Judy Albietz
They were both riding down a long steep escalator with no handrails. He couldn’t see where the escalator ended because it was so dark. Lindsey was in front of him and she was losing her footing and falling downwards. He was running down the steps after her. It was hard to keep his balance. She turned to reach up to him and he tried to grab her hand but it slipped away. He continued to run after her but she kept getting further away from him as she tumbled faster down the steps. He shouted to her. She screamed and disappeared into the darkness as he woke up.
David sat up in bed and tried to shake the dream out of his head. He looked over at the clock by his bed. It was 4 a.m. Looking down at his hands, David remembered the dream and how he failed to save Lindsey. His throat felt raw like he had been shouting out loud. Since David knew it would take a while to get back to sleep he got out of bed. He turned lights on as he walked into the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator. Now he was hungry. He pulled out the milk carton, grabbed cereal, a bowl and spoon and sat down at the kitchen table.
Pushing away the empty bowl, David involuntarily shivered as he recalled his nightmare. He rubbed his face and scratched his thick brown hair as he thought about the obvious source of the dream: seeing Lindsey yesterday after all this time. He had believed he was over her, that he had moved on. Seeing her now made him question that. When they had dated, Lindsey and David had been able to talk to each other about anything. Friends said they had a psychic connection, which neither one of them believed in. But, it was true that they had always understood each other, that is, until the end. Lindsey had been so abrupt in breaking up that he had hardly caught his breath before she was gone.
Now, six years later, Lindsey still could make his pulse beat faster than any other woman in the world. Thinner and more muscular, Lindsey still wore her red curls pulled back into a ponytail. She had some new worry lines on her lightly-tanned and freckled face and her vibrant smile had a new hesitation, like she wasn’t so sure of herself anymore. David had never thought of Lindsey being vulnerable. But he now sensed something was threatening her.
David sat up in bed and tried to shake the dream out of his head. He looked over at the clock by his bed. It was 4 a.m. Looking down at his hands, David remembered the dream and how he failed to save Lindsey. His throat felt raw like he had been shouting out loud. Since David knew it would take a while to get back to sleep he got out of bed. He turned lights on as he walked into the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator. Now he was hungry. He pulled out the milk carton, grabbed cereal, a bowl and spoon and sat down at the kitchen table.
Pushing away the empty bowl, David involuntarily shivered as he recalled his nightmare. He rubbed his face and scratched his thick brown hair as he thought about the obvious source of the dream: seeing Lindsey yesterday after all this time. He had believed he was over her, that he had moved on. Seeing her now made him question that. When they had dated, Lindsey and David had been able to talk to each other about anything. Friends said they had a psychic connection, which neither one of them believed in. But, it was true that they had always understood each other, that is, until the end. Lindsey had been so abrupt in breaking up that he had hardly caught his breath before she was gone.
Now, six years later, Lindsey still could make his pulse beat faster than any other woman in the world. Thinner and more muscular, Lindsey still wore her red curls pulled back into a ponytail. She had some new worry lines on her lightly-tanned and freckled face and her vibrant smile had a new hesitation, like she wasn’t so sure of herself anymore. David had never thought of Lindsey being vulnerable. But he now sensed something was threatening her.
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