Dr. Shari couldn’t possibly admit he hated his patients. After all they were children, the children of the wealthy English. He lived a luxurious life thanks to them. But each morning he dreaded their arrival, their screaming and yelling and acting out with never a nanny or mother to stop them.
He peered out the window of his empty waiting room. He was happy that the garden outside offered him peace. The trees dripped with red blooms. Soon the birds would come to suck their nectar, if only for a week before they disappeared for the year. Someone said they went to Kashmir. He laughed, wondering if there were another dentist caring for cretin white children who also survived on seeing his birds. Their blue feathers and puffed-up breasts tinted a peach as if from a reflection.
“Good morning, Dr. Shari.” It was his nurse, always so happy, always so plump. “Ready for today?”
Had he forgotten something particularly horrible, some child with a mouthful of cavities? She saw his expression. “I mean good morning and are we ready for a wonderful day.”
He wasn’t, he surely wasn’t.
He followed his nurse to the area behind the waiting room, toward the sanctity of his office where no one, not even his nurse was allowed. She handed him a list and he started to look the patients who he’d have the pleasure of seeing today. He stopped in mid-step. Charlotte. That odd girl who frightened him. She looked at him while he worked. She was the only child, Indian or white, who’d ever watched him while he drilled and filled her cavities. As if she was seeing his soul. He could not see his soul and he was sure he didn’t want this peculiar child seeing it either. She unnerved him. He’d almost prefer one of those wild boys who his assistant had to hold down just to get them to sit still.
The phone rang. Now seated in the safety of his office, he could hear voices start to fill the waiting room. He could hear Miss Mimma talk to the incoming monsters. And their mothers.
He jumped at the soft knock on his office door. “Dr. Shari, your first patient is in Room One and ready for you.”
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Acting Out - E. D. James
Alan stood on the chair at the head of the table and tucked his hands into his armpits and then curled up the toes of his all-stars and looked down at them, “This is how the Emperor Penguin holds his egg in the middle of an Antarctic blizzard.”
He saw the faces around the table snicker nervously, unsure of what his next move would be. He swelled with the attention, enjoyed the fact that they weren’t sure what he might do next.
A waiter maneuvered to his side, “Sir, the chairs are meant to sit on, only.”
“My dear man, I’ve got to be careful of the egg on my feet, I can’t just hop off of here on your whim,” he said and hunched a bit more as if the winds of the blizzard were strengthening.
Alan watched the waiter glance around nervously. The other diners were beginning to focus on the scene. He felt as if he were floating above them all in the room. In his imagination he floated above the tables, flapping his little stubby wings and gliding beneath the ice in search of a juicy plump squid.
Sarah stood up and put her arm on his wing, “Alan, I think it’s time to pretend the blizzard has reached it’s peak and you need to shut down non-essential organs, like your brain, to survive.”
He looked down at her and saw the concern in her eyes. Then he focused on the plate of grilled salmon and vegetables in front of him and the big glass of white wine sweating next to it. Then he slid down into his seat, picked up his knife and fork, lifted them and smiled at the faces swirling around him and said, “Bon appetit!”
He saw the faces around the table snicker nervously, unsure of what his next move would be. He swelled with the attention, enjoyed the fact that they weren’t sure what he might do next.
A waiter maneuvered to his side, “Sir, the chairs are meant to sit on, only.”
“My dear man, I’ve got to be careful of the egg on my feet, I can’t just hop off of here on your whim,” he said and hunched a bit more as if the winds of the blizzard were strengthening.
Alan watched the waiter glance around nervously. The other diners were beginning to focus on the scene. He felt as if he were floating above them all in the room. In his imagination he floated above the tables, flapping his little stubby wings and gliding beneath the ice in search of a juicy plump squid.
Sarah stood up and put her arm on his wing, “Alan, I think it’s time to pretend the blizzard has reached it’s peak and you need to shut down non-essential organs, like your brain, to survive.”
He looked down at her and saw the concern in her eyes. Then he focused on the plate of grilled salmon and vegetables in front of him and the big glass of white wine sweating next to it. Then he slid down into his seat, picked up his knife and fork, lifted them and smiled at the faces swirling around him and said, “Bon appetit!”
These Are the Things He Liked - Kent Wright
Mrs. Hardwick wrote the assignment on the blackboard. This was the season for happy thoughts she said with that sharp look of hers. “Now get to work and no talking.” She went out the door. For a few seconds no one said a word, not until the shadow on the other side of the frosted glass faded away. It was one of her tricks to catch them out. Then there were murmurs and shortly a word here and a word there could be made out between students. The smarties in the sixth grade started to arrange their paper and got pencils out ready to start writing about their favorite things. Others were already day dreaming over their empty desktops.
Leonard looked out the window with the paper candle taped in it. It was next to his seat and he could see the row of small houses that lined Plum Street. There weren’t many and they ended where the street turned right and ran along the railroad tracks. Behind the houses was a grey; raw wooden fence that undulated like a snake but never quite fell down. The shacks on the other side of that fence were all stuck together with pieces of tin and unpainted wood. From there on the second floor of the school one of the kids had said it would look like one of her grandma’s quilts if you didn’t know it Staggsville and the kind that lived there. It was called Staggsville because Joe Staggs owned those dirty shacks and rented them out to Kentuckians like Leonard’s family. They picked up garbage, things like that.
Leonard was already fifteen his Ma told him. Fourteen, fifteen, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he passed or not because next year when he turned sixteen he could quite school. He didn’t care to tell Mrs. Hardwick or anybody what his favorite things were. But she would flunk him sure if he wrote that being sixteen so he could quite this fucking school was one of them. And he sure wasn’t going to tell her or anyone else that his favorite thing, the thing he couldn’t push out of his head no matter how much he shoved, was the calf his Granny had let him feed with a bottle when he was a boy. The one that would lay with its head in his lap and lick his arm with its long, thick black and pink tongue.
Leonard looked out the window with the paper candle taped in it. It was next to his seat and he could see the row of small houses that lined Plum Street. There weren’t many and they ended where the street turned right and ran along the railroad tracks. Behind the houses was a grey; raw wooden fence that undulated like a snake but never quite fell down. The shacks on the other side of that fence were all stuck together with pieces of tin and unpainted wood. From there on the second floor of the school one of the kids had said it would look like one of her grandma’s quilts if you didn’t know it Staggsville and the kind that lived there. It was called Staggsville because Joe Staggs owned those dirty shacks and rented them out to Kentuckians like Leonard’s family. They picked up garbage, things like that.
Leonard was already fifteen his Ma told him. Fourteen, fifteen, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he passed or not because next year when he turned sixteen he could quite school. He didn’t care to tell Mrs. Hardwick or anybody what his favorite things were. But she would flunk him sure if he wrote that being sixteen so he could quite this fucking school was one of them. And he sure wasn’t going to tell her or anyone else that his favorite thing, the thing he couldn’t push out of his head no matter how much he shoved, was the calf his Granny had let him feed with a bottle when he was a boy. The one that would lay with its head in his lap and lick his arm with its long, thick black and pink tongue.
This is What She Likes/Dislikes - Meg Newman
Alli is woman who knows her likes and dislikes, and communicates them well. If you are one of her closest peoples, you know them all well yourself. Sometimes it feels like my social life depends on remembering and detailing them all. Why? Because when the leader of the pack is unhappy, you know about it. Oh, and her criticisms of you are biting, truly. She expects the same from everyone in her circle- fidelity, availability at odd hours and she actually demands that you sleep with her frequently. Sometimes I feel so manipulated by her. I know she thinks she has me wrapped around her. She also likes you to surprise her and bring food to her and things to drink. What is up with that?
It is complicated because she is so easily bored, especially on a rainy day. At least on a regular day, we can go outside as an entourage and all walk together. Yes, those are the happier times. However, at the end of the day when she is laying on my lap and purring I forget many of her other traits.
It is complicated because she is so easily bored, especially on a rainy day. At least on a regular day, we can go outside as an entourage and all walk together. Yes, those are the happier times. However, at the end of the day when she is laying on my lap and purring I forget many of her other traits.
Drunk at the Bottom of a Ditch - John Fetto
Gil got the call late that afternoon. Johanna wasn’t crying. She spoke in a flat voice, telling him about the fight she had and that Hawley was drinking again. Gil himself had already tipped a few, but he listened and clucked his tongue, acting appalled. Afterwards, he got the keys to his car, then retreated back to the bathroom, gargling with mouthwash in case the cops stopped him.
He drove his old Plymouth out of the trailers park, past the little tract houses that filled the valley, towards the foothills. Twenty minutes later, he was stubbing his toes on rock and roots, wandering through the tall eucalyptus trees, looking for Hawley. The summer light was fading now and every long shadow looked like the outstretched legs of a drunken vet who couldn’t listen anymore to his girl-friend tell him how worthless he was. She said Hawley didn’t even argue back. He just drank more and next thing she knew his truck was gone.
Gil climbed higher up the slope. This was where Hawley and he like to sit and drink. From here they could listen to trains rolling out of the Concord Naval Weapons stations and bullshit like generals about where the weapons were going and what they might do. Gil enjoyed Hawley’s conversation even if he wasn’t very keen on fresh air. Hawley hated the same things Gil did, even if he didn’t shoot his mouth off as much. Where Gil would go on for ten minutes, Hawley would just say, “fucking bullshit.”
A breeze rose up, rattling the bark of the eucalyptus trees. Leper trees, Gil used to tell Hawley, their barked peeled like the dead skin of lepers. He looked up and froze. Against the light of a rising moon, Gil saw the outline of something long and skinny hanging from one of the branches of the trees. He edged closer, squinting, that sick feeling growing in his gut and his feet weighted with lead. It wasn’t until he was right underneath it that Gil saw it was just a long piece of bark, hanging from a branch.
“Johanna send you?”
The voice came up from someplace higher on the slope. Gil climbed toward the voice, still stumbling on the rocks. When he found him, Hawley was seated crossed legged, like some yogi, looking down at the Concord Naval Weapons Station. Gil sat down beside him and Hawley handed him a bottle and Gil took a long swing.
“See, many trains?”
Hawley took the bottle back. “One’s too many.”
Gil nodded and let it go. He wasn’t going to talk him to death tonight. His friend had enough arguing. He buttoned up his jacket and tucked his hands in his pocket and listened to the trees shaking, staring at the little lights of warm, comfortable suburbia spread in the valley below, just happy his friend corpse wasn’t swinging from some tree.
He drove his old Plymouth out of the trailers park, past the little tract houses that filled the valley, towards the foothills. Twenty minutes later, he was stubbing his toes on rock and roots, wandering through the tall eucalyptus trees, looking for Hawley. The summer light was fading now and every long shadow looked like the outstretched legs of a drunken vet who couldn’t listen anymore to his girl-friend tell him how worthless he was. She said Hawley didn’t even argue back. He just drank more and next thing she knew his truck was gone.
Gil climbed higher up the slope. This was where Hawley and he like to sit and drink. From here they could listen to trains rolling out of the Concord Naval Weapons stations and bullshit like generals about where the weapons were going and what they might do. Gil enjoyed Hawley’s conversation even if he wasn’t very keen on fresh air. Hawley hated the same things Gil did, even if he didn’t shoot his mouth off as much. Where Gil would go on for ten minutes, Hawley would just say, “fucking bullshit.”
A breeze rose up, rattling the bark of the eucalyptus trees. Leper trees, Gil used to tell Hawley, their barked peeled like the dead skin of lepers. He looked up and froze. Against the light of a rising moon, Gil saw the outline of something long and skinny hanging from one of the branches of the trees. He edged closer, squinting, that sick feeling growing in his gut and his feet weighted with lead. It wasn’t until he was right underneath it that Gil saw it was just a long piece of bark, hanging from a branch.
“Johanna send you?”
The voice came up from someplace higher on the slope. Gil climbed toward the voice, still stumbling on the rocks. When he found him, Hawley was seated crossed legged, like some yogi, looking down at the Concord Naval Weapons Station. Gil sat down beside him and Hawley handed him a bottle and Gil took a long swing.
“See, many trains?”
Hawley took the bottle back. “One’s too many.”
Gil nodded and let it go. He wasn’t going to talk him to death tonight. His friend had enough arguing. He buttoned up his jacket and tucked his hands in his pocket and listened to the trees shaking, staring at the little lights of warm, comfortable suburbia spread in the valley below, just happy his friend corpse wasn’t swinging from some tree.
The Most Amazing Thing - Judy Albietz
“Do not be scared, Lily,” said a gentle voice, with growly undertones.
“Who’s there?” Lily said with a jerk of her head. Hearing her name was a huge relief. They’d found her, after all. Feeling steady enough to stand up, she looked all around.
“Where are you?” she called. Finally, she wasn’t alone on this strange rock with this dog, who was now wide awake. It also stood up and gazed at her with sad dark brown eyes.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Looks like help is coming,” she said.
“You can call me Sam. I will help you get back to your family.”
“Who are you? What … what … is going on?” Lily shouted. The voice sounded so close, yet she couldn’t see a soul. Hearing voices. Not good. Lily thought as she sat back down, putting her head in her hands. Maybe her helmet hadn’t protected her after all.
The dog was gazing at her now, its eyes now golden brown and brimming with tears. The collar glowed in shifting muted shades of pink. The dog’s long tail slowly fanned the warm air around them, creating a faint buzzing that was almost melodic. There could be no mistake. It was the most amazing thing. This dog was talking to her.
That was his voice in her head.
“Who’s there?” Lily said with a jerk of her head. Hearing her name was a huge relief. They’d found her, after all. Feeling steady enough to stand up, she looked all around.
“Where are you?” she called. Finally, she wasn’t alone on this strange rock with this dog, who was now wide awake. It also stood up and gazed at her with sad dark brown eyes.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Looks like help is coming,” she said.
“You can call me Sam. I will help you get back to your family.”
“Who are you? What … what … is going on?” Lily shouted. The voice sounded so close, yet she couldn’t see a soul. Hearing voices. Not good. Lily thought as she sat back down, putting her head in her hands. Maybe her helmet hadn’t protected her after all.
The dog was gazing at her now, its eyes now golden brown and brimming with tears. The collar glowed in shifting muted shades of pink. The dog’s long tail slowly fanned the warm air around them, creating a faint buzzing that was almost melodic. There could be no mistake. It was the most amazing thing. This dog was talking to her.
That was his voice in her head.
Telling Lies - Maria Robinson
Elizabeth in a letter to Neal. Not mailed.
You own a part of me. I've got a part of you. Which part is it? Did you take my honesty? Did I take your trust? In the end, we just let things blow out-- every time we tried to right the ship, it just cracked further.
You left me to run the business without help, you decamped with Lois to the Hamptons and I grabbed Roger in revenge and went to Martinique. Alise was left to run our million dollar agency into the ground while we tried to fuck each other out of memory with others.
You broke the bank. I changed the locks. It was all about avoiding the essential lie: we'd stopped loving each other years ago and couldn't face it. The money was too big and too wet and too heavy and we were bathing in it and we drowned. It was dotcom New York.
You own a part of me. I've got a part of you. Which part is it? Did you take my honesty? Did I take your trust? In the end, we just let things blow out-- every time we tried to right the ship, it just cracked further.
You left me to run the business without help, you decamped with Lois to the Hamptons and I grabbed Roger in revenge and went to Martinique. Alise was left to run our million dollar agency into the ground while we tried to fuck each other out of memory with others.
You broke the bank. I changed the locks. It was all about avoiding the essential lie: we'd stopped loving each other years ago and couldn't face it. The money was too big and too wet and too heavy and we were bathing in it and we drowned. It was dotcom New York.
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