Tony Graff vs. J.M. Payer


Please take a moment to look at both fighters, which one appeals to you more. The titles will link you to their story. Fighters names are removed to try and even out any odds and are reflected in no particular order. Feel free to add comments below for their improvement, as well as the improvement of WCFC. Don’t forget to tell us who won!

 


Closing Time


The Pain-Bearer


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner. You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.

 



Closing Time

A chill passed through Riley as she stepped off the elevator onto the hospital’s General Care floor.  Her stomach clenched, goosebumps traced up her arms.  Her Grandmother used to tell her that feeling was someone walking over her grave.  Riley had never given much credence to the old saying but it felt somehow appropriate at the moment.

It had been a long day, Riley was exhausted when she’d been given one more task by the Pediatric Head Nurse.  Just pick up a file on the 5th floor, that’s it.  Quick and simple, yet precariously close to being the straw that broke the camel’s back.  With the busy days in the large building, far from sunlight, time seemed to pass differently.  A ten hour day felt like sixteen, a sixteen hour day felt like, well, more than the young nurse could handle.

The eerie feeling grew the further Riley walked, her footfalls echoing through the deserted halls.  It was surreal.  Poised just outside the tiny town of Sutton, St. Ann’s was the only comprehensive medical facility in a hundred miles, they rarely had a slow day.  This evening the seemingly empty 5th floor was giving her a carnival Haunted House vibe, as though a scary creature might pop out from an unexpected place at any moment.

Just get it done.

Riley rounded the corner to the 5th floor Nurse’s Station and almost walked into RN Nelson coming the other direction.  Both women jumped back, eyes wide, gasping.

“Jesus, Riley, you scared the shit out of me!”  The pudgy, middle-aged nurse was bent almost in half, hand to her chest, glaring at the younger nurse.  “You do that again and I’ll start making you wear a bell around your neck.”

The surprise on Nelson’s face turned suspicious.  “What are you even doing up here?”

Riley took a moment to let her heartbeat return to normal before explaining that she was just playing gopher, her Head Nurse had requested the Hatley file.

“It’s somewhere over there but I’m not even sure it’s been updated.”  Nelson gestured to a large stack of files on the corner of the station.  There were at least fifty folders in a haphazard pile that risked toppling at any moment.  “How quick do you need it?  Even finding it’s going to take a while.”

Riley shrugged.  “I’ll find out.”

She grabbed the hospital phone off the wall and dialed Pediatrics.  The Head Nurse had been getting ready for rounds when she sent Riley up but there was a chance she hadn’t left the station yet.

Nelson sat down at the desk, shifted half the pile of records onto her ample lap and started flipping through them.

The phone was ringing.

Riley was only five feet away from another human but for some reason she was still feeling a chill.  Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the strangely quiet floor, but it felt like a ghost was tracing a cool finger up her spine.  Someone, or something, continued to walk over her grave.

Over the sound of ringing in her right ear, Riley could hear footsteps approaching the station.

Riley turned her back to the counter, hunched over the phone.  She willed someone in Pediatrics to pick up the phone.  She glanced over at Nelson who was ignoring the approaching person as thoroughly as Riley was.  It was to be a battle of wills, was it?  Who can ignore or pass off the patient wins, loser has to actually be helpful.  Toward the end of the day this was a common game for tired nurses.

The footsteps stopped.  Riley could picture the person’s gaze flickering between her back and Nelson, waiting for acknowledgement.  Yeah, good luck with that, bub.

After a few moments a male voice spoke out.

“Excuse me, do either of you know if Dr. Huxley is around?”

Riley half turned, still not looking at the man, and saw Nelson glance up at him.  The older nurse gestured at the pile on her lap, giving him her best ‘I’m in the middle of something’ look, before going back to flipping folders.  The game wasn’t over yet.

Still no answer in Pediatrics.

Riley clung to the telephone receiver like it was her lifeline.  It was her protection, it was her good luck charm, it was her holy cross in a building full of vampires trying to suck out her energy, it was a force field generator that kept the irritating patients and family members at arm’s length.  This wasn’t even her department.  Talk to a patient?  Hell no, she was on the phone.  She turned a little to her left, putting the phone between her and the man.

A few moments later he spoke again, getting impatient.  “Is Dr. Huxley still in the building?  Has he gone home for the night?  Is he with a patient?  What?  Something?  Anything?  He was supposed to call with my mom’s test results today and never did.”

Nelson sighed and looked up at him over her reading glasses, a teacher interrupted by a rude student.  Her voice was flat.  “Which room is your mom in?”

“512.”

“Oh.”  Nelson’s face darkened.  She didn’t have to check, she knew exactly who his mother was.  Everyone on the floor knew her and gossip carried the stories around the rest of the hospital.  Even Riley recognized her name when Nelson said it.  “Mrs. Meyers.”

Judging from Nelson’s reaction, the stories weren’t as exaggerated as Riley had assumed.  Other nurses repeated tales of how Mrs. Shannon threw food at nurses, cussed at them and other patients, and generally made everyone around her miserable.  Maybe that was one of the reasons the floor was so vacant, no one wanted to be near her.

“Uh, yeah.”  The man looked down at his feet.  “I’m sorry about… uh… her.  Everything.  I know she’s a handful.”

Nelson made a sound, something between a chuckle and a snort.  “Sorry for us?  I feel sorry for you.  Hopefully she’ll be leaving us soon.”

The man made a startled squawk.  Riley had to smother a chuckle before Nurse Nelson realized her faux pas.

“Oh, dear.  Literally, not figuratively, Mr. Meyers.  What I meant was I’m sure she’ll recover quickly and be headed home soon.  Speaking of which, I think the doctor is still here.  Nurse Riley, can you page Dr. Huxley?”

Riley’s good luck charm had backfired.  She glared daggers at Nelson and her smug smile.

This isn’t even my floor!  But of course she couldn’t say that to a senior nurse, let alone in front of a patient’s family.  

Reluctantly, Riley glanced at the other side of the counter.

Between her graveyard feeling and the stories about the man’s mother, Riley was expecting a serial killer or a James Bond villain.  He looked like neither.  The cold chill in her gut dissolved into something closer to contempt.

She cringed and motioned with a finger for him to wait a minute.  He nodded.

The man was in his mid thirties and disgusting.  He obviously hadn’t shaved or changed in days.  Or showered.  His unwashed hair was slick and stuck out from his head in awkward angles.  There were layers of dirt and grease all over him and his clothes.  The sweat stains on his shirt had sweat stains, like tree rings.  He was filthy even by farming town standards, which was saying something.  He looked vaguely familiar, but then patients and their families tended to spend a lot of time around the hospital.

One more reason to leave Sutton, small town = small town guys.  Ugh.

The phone was still ringing.  Pediatrics was either busy or no one was at the station.

Riley glared at Nelson one more time before she hung up and paged Dr. Huxley on the hospital’s intercom.  If he were still in the hospital he’d either come up to the Nurse’s Station or call.

Riley cast a cool look at Nelson and the man.  “There you go.”

“And here you go.” Nelson held a red patient folder out to Riley.  Perfect timing.  “And it looks like Dr. Simpson got it up to date before leaving for the night.”

“Thanks.”  Riley snatched the folder out of the nurse’s hand, turned on her heel, and started back toward the elevator without another word.

A moment later Riley heard rapid foot steps behind her.  She didn’t bother to look back, she knew the man was following her.  Of course.  Just what she needed.

He reached her and walked just behind her right elbow, trying to keep up with her quick pace.  “Hey, I haven’t seen you up here before.”

This close she could smell him, like half spoiled meat and three day old beer.  There was even a faint whiff of what might have been marijuana.  Classy.

As an attractive, blond woman with a cute ass (if she did say so herself), Riley was quite familiar with attention from the male gender.  Most of the time she could handle it with casual indifference, but some days it just pissed her off.

Riley was curt.  “I don’t work this floor.”

“So, what floor do you work?”

Riley remained silent.  She came to a halt in front of the elevator and jabbed the down button.  Hard.

“Your name is Riley?”

She groaned, which he seemed to take as assent.  Fucking ID badge.  Hospital employees were required to wear them on a lanyard around their neck while on duty.  It had a thumbnail photo of her face and her last name in big letters above the bar-code.  He must have noticed it back at the station.

The elevator doors opened.  Riley stepped inside, turned and hit the button for the third floor.  She hoped that he cared about his mother enough to wait for Dr. Huxley instead of continuing to follow her.

He stopped just outside the elevator doors and gave her a weak grin, the dirt on his face accenting the thin wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.  “Well?”

The persistence was infuriating, she just wanted him to leave her the hell alone.  Riley was at the tail end of a 16 hour day.  She just wanted to go home, watch half an hour of bad TV, have a glass of wine and fall asleep on the couch.  Hopefully she’d dream of better times in a bigger town than Sutton or a nicer hospital than St. Ann’s.

“It doesn’t matter what my name is or what floor I usually work.”

The man squinted, confused.  “Why not?”

Riley gave him a plastic, fake smile and half wave as the doors started closing.  “Because I don’t work this floor and, if I have anything to say about it, you’re never going to see me again.  Good night.”

She saw the man’s face fall before the doors cut him off from view.  Harsh but clean, no ambiguity.  Riley dropped her hand to her side and let out a long breath.

God, I need to get out of this fucking town.

 


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



 

The Pain-Bearer

“I know I’m going to die. I’ve accepted that.”

Dr. Arlyssa Koons sat across the desk from her most recent patient, Sarah Vance.

“I don’t know what you expect to gain by telling me there’s another treatment to try.” Mrs. Vance fidgeted with the scarf covering her head.

“I’m expecting to give you hope.” Dr. Koons massaged the bridge of her nose. “No matter how much you’ve accepted a premature death, my responsibility as a doctor doesn’t end until you’re cured or the pain has… otherwise ended.”

“Died, you mean.”

Dr. Koons pushed her hair off her forehead. “This treatment could cure you. I’ve had success with it in the past, and I think it could work in your case.”

“What is this treatment? Shouldn’t this be a little more public knowledge if it’s so successful?”

“Because there’s no way to ensure success, and each operation is unique, so there’s no way to even standardize the procedure.” Dr. Koons rose from her chair. “What we would do is a sort of rapid fire genetic breeding. We inject a heavy dose of healthy tissue around the tumors, and the growth of healthy tissue outraces the cancerous growth and starves it of fuel.”

Sarah Vance scrunched her face in confusion. “That all sounds too simple to be real.”

“But not too good to be true, I hope. It’s a quick, relatively painless procedure, but you would have to spend the day here in the hospital.”

The woman in the headscarf looked down at her hands.

Dr. Koons moved around the desk and placed her hand over her patient’s. “I know you’ve been without hope for a long time. I’ve watched you sacrifice almost everything for a chance at one more day. I wouldn’t offer this if I didn’t think you could be healed.”

Sarah Vance wiped tears from her eyes. “No, it’s not that. I’ve been hopeless for so long that I don’t remember what that felt like.”

“What what felt like?”

“Hope.”

Dr. Koons let out a sigh of relief. “Very well. I need to begin making preparations.” She rose from where she leaned against the desk. “Now, go catch some sunlight while there’s still some left. I’ll give you a call tonight and let you know when to come in.”

Without provocation, Sarah Vance stood, straightened her sweater, and embraced the doctor. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Koons held her patient by the shoulders, her own eyes brimming with tears.

With more expressions of gratitude, the doctor guided Sarah Vance out of the office and to her waiting husband. Dr. Koons let a deep breath slide between her clenched teeth before turning towards the double elevators at the end of the hall. Once inside, she plucked her phone from the pocket of her lab coat and pressed a number on speed dial.

“Yes, Dr. Koons here. I’d like to see Talmage Forrester. Yes, I understand. I’ll be there shortly.”

The rest of the elevator trip to the hospice ward remained silent. Dr. Koons chewed her bottom lip until the doors opened. Then her face became a mask of professionalism once again.

“Dr. Koons?” The nurse behind the reception desk set down a stack of records. “Mr. Forrester has just finished eating if you’d like to join him in the recreation hall.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Koons nodded. She turned on her heels and gazed out the section of the large room called the ‘recreation hall.’ A few people in wheelchairs sat around various TVs and the occasional video game console. Only one man sat at a table with a book held open by his one hand.

“You know, for calling it a recreation hall, there isn’t much of a hall or any recreating going on.” Talmage Forrester looked up from his book.

“Well, you know how those medical types are. If it makes sense, just stick around, it won’t.” Dr. Koons took the seat beside Mr. Forrester, who shifted a bookmark into the book with his thumb and remaining finger. “How’re you holding up?”

“Well, the only thing worse than being only half the man I was is knowing how much my family’s paying to keep the other half alive.” The old man raised his remaining portion of a hand to his lips and coughed.

“Have I told you about a patient of mine? Her name is Sarah Vance.”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “No, no you haven’t.”

“She’s a real sweetheart. She and her husband have two children.”

“That’s lovely.” Talmage leaned back in his wheelchair. “Young couple?”

“Younger than me.”

“And why is she seeing you, then?”

Dr. Koons shook her head. “She’s got months left to live.”

“Oh.” Talmage leaned his arm on the table. “That’s terrible to hear. Doesn’t it just break your heart to hear about that?”

“It does, almost as much as hearing that she’s accepted her death.” Dr. Koons set her elbows on the table.

Talmage’s face twisted in horror. “That’s for old people. Why’s she going and doing a thing like that?”

“Be careful, old man. I just might get the impression that you’re willing to help.”

Dr. Koons studied the man in front of her.

He seemed to be studying her just as intently. “You make it sound like there’s something I can do.”

Dr. Koons nodded once.

“Yeah? You’re serious?” Talmage scratched his beard with the back of his hand.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Talmage laughed. “Important.” He leaned back in his chair. “It always important, isn’t it? Like what happened to Shirley Davenport?”

“I approached her the same way I came to you today, the exact same circumstances.” Dr. Koons tapped the blade of her hand against the table.

“I know, I know.” Talmage shook off her response. “But it’ll be nice to know some young woman’s going to have that chance again.”

“Thank you, Talmage.” Dr. Koons reached to grasp the withered hand.

“Cou-could you sit here a spell?” Talmage forced himself to smile. “I’d sure like someone to just sit with me, like my wife and granddaughters used to.”

“Of course.”

Talmage spent half an hour without saying a word. Every few minutes or so, he squeezed Dr. Koons’s hand, as if to remind himself that she sat beside him.

“Thank you.” He released her hand and stretched his arm over his head. “You’re working wonders, Doc.”

Dr. Koons rose from her chair and embraced the elderly man. “I’m not the only one.” She cast Mr. Forrester one final glance over her shoulder as she returned to the elevators. Once the doors closed she called Sarah Vance and informed her of the appointment for the next morning.

In the dead silence of her office, Dr. Koons pulled two identification bracelets still connected by plastic perforations, not unlike the thousands in the supply closet, from a top drawer in her desk, and a tall bamboo brush and an empty bottle from the drawer beneath it. Holding the sleeve of her coat with her free hand, Dr. Koons dipped the brush in the empty bottle and made a series of strokes down the seam of the two bracelets. Lines and half-lines formed in an impossible black, like a calligrapher’s rendition a bar code.

When her preparations had been completed, Dr. Koons blew across the ink and watch the sheen dry and fade. She held the two bracelets up to the light and split them down the seam.

 

Talmage Forrester sat waiting for the doctor the following morning, dressed in a suit and a bow tie.

“The nurse helped me get ready.” Talmage adjusted the tie. “What do you think?”

“Very handsome.” Dr. Koons couldn’t look the man in the eye.

“Go ahead and sit down. Don’t want to draw too much attention right now.”

Dr. Koons nodded and took the seat beside Talmage, grasping his hand.

“And what’s going to happen to Mrs. Vance today? Some good news, I hope.” Mr. Forrester smiled.

“Yeah, good news. She’ll be put under anesthesia and she’ll receive a dose of vitamins. Nothing more. We’ll keep her here until we can confirm that… everything’s gone well, then we’ll send her out the doors to celebrate.”

Talmage’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “You don’t sound so happy about that.”

“I never am.”

“Yet you still do it.”

Talmage released her hand, and shook his sleeve back to expose his wrist. Dr. Koons managed to make eye contact long enough to see what he meant, and pulled the ID bracelet from a pocket on her coat. In reverence, she wrapped the bracelet around his wrist, only pausing when it came time to snap it shut on him.

“Go ahead.” Talmage watched the doctor’s hands. “It’s what you came here to do.”

The two ends united and the dry ink rippled like water, just like the one on Sarah Vance’s wrist.

 


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



 

J.M. Payer vs. Hannah Sears


Please take a moment to look at both fighters, which one appeals to you more. The titles will link you to their story. Fighters names are removed to try and even out any odds and are reflected in no particular order. Feel free to add comments below for their improvement, as well as the improvement of WCFC. Don’t forget to tell us who won!

 


Vocabulary Lesson


Dreams and Reality


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner. You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.

 



Vocabulary Lessons by Hannah Sears

Cale hiked his backpack higher on his shoulders in a futile attempt to shield himself from the wind. The highway was flat and empty and the dying grasses blended with the steely sky. His watch battery had died somewhere east of Laredo, but he guessed it was midafternoon. The blister on his heel throbbed with every step, a tiny heartbeat. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the January chill, and the cut on his forehead stung as it drank in salt. He wouldn’t have thought a TV remote had edges sharp enough to cut. There were nicer ways to kick someone off your couch, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket, checking to see that the tiny airline bottle of Jim Beam was still there. Cale wanted to drink it, but he didn’t. Whiskey made him maudlin more often than not, as ex-girlfriends three through five were fond of saying, although two and five couldn’t even spell maudlin.

He heard the faint whooshing that signaled a car approaching and glanced over his shoulder. He wouldn’t try to hitch with just anyone; out here on the lonely roads you were more likely to meet a horror movie cliché than a nice soccer mom. The truck was an older model, but the paint was in good condition so Cale paused and lifted a hand. The teenaged girl behind the wheel was not what he expected and he blinked at her for a moment before she motioned him over with a jerk to the passenger side window.

“Where you headed?” She asked around a mouthful of gum.

He could smell the synthetic fruit flavor, bringing back memories of hot summer days sweating on a baseball diamond, popping Big League Chew.

“West.”

“Okay, Wyatt Earp. Hop in.” She examined him frankly as he climbed in and settled his backpack between his feet.

“I’m Cale,” he said as she pulled back out onto the highway and blew a large bubble.

“Lila. You from near here?”

“Not really from anywhere, I guess.”

“You filming kind of modern day western? Maybe you’ve read too much Kerouac.” She reached behind the seat and yanked out a large book that she thrust into his lap. “No free rides, cowboy.”

He looked at the title: SAT Prep.

“Section Three, vocab,” she said.

When he didn’t open it she turned to look at him. “I need you to quiz me, capisce?”

He leafed through the book to the correct section, thinking this was by far the strangest price he’d had to pay for a ride.

“Define acquiesce,” he said.

Lila popped her gum three times before answering, “To accept with reluctance but without protest. Example: she acquiesced to giving the strange hitchhiker a ride.”

He couldn’t decide if she was joking or not and read the next word: capitulate. She defined it and used it in another sentence.

“She capitulated when they told her to take the SAT.”

“You don’t want to take it?” he asked, distracted.

Lila shrugged. “I don’t want to be told to take it. I might have taken it, I might not.” They were quiet for a moment, staring out at the unbroken horizon, following the dotted line of the highway. “Did you go to college?”

“I tried it out. Wasn’t for me,” he said.

“No major in hitchhiking?” She looked at him sideways. “Sorry. I know what it’s like to feel like things don’t fit.”

The words sounded trite, but there was something in the way the corners of her mouth turned down for a moment that made him believe her.

“You’re pretty good at this vocab stuff—you been studying a lot?”

She shook her head, dark hair swirling across her face. “My brother had a thing for words. He subscribed to one of those nerdy vocab emails and his goal was to use the word each day.” She grinned. “Mom asked if he wanted butter on his toast and he said ‘indubitably’ and then I started asking him if he wanted indu-butter-bly on his toast the next morning.”

He caught the past tense the minute she said it and tried not to clench his teeth, searching for any way not to ask about her dead brother. He looked at her hands on the wheel. She had a tattoo on her left wrist.

“What is that? A bell?” he asked.

She glanced down at it and snorted. “It’s a lampshade.”

He stared blankly at her and she turned her wrist so he had a better view of the simple black ink.

“A lampshade?”

“Yeah.” She cracked her gum a few more times.

“Does it stand for anything?” he asked.

“It stands for nonsense. The last word he got was ‘frivolity,” from frivolous—lacking seriousness or sense. So I got the lampshade. He would have liked it.”


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



Dreams and Reality by J.M. Payer

The biggest adventure of his life was quickly turning into a disappointment.  James pushed open the door to his hotel room, took one look around and had to fight the urge to tuck his tail between his legs and run back to the states.  The walls were dingy, the bed linen looked like it was ten years past it’s useful life, and the lights produced only a sickly yellow glow.  There were nightstands on either side of the bed, on one was a lamp the other only a lamp shade sitting on the wood as though someone had stolen the rest.

As a child John had fallen in love with romantic images of Russia.  There had been a James Bond movie, he couldn’t remember the title but he had vivid memories of the spires and domes of Moscow.  Seeing the country became a fantasy that he carried into adulthood, through two failed marriages, and into his current mid-life crisis.  Three months ago he’d gotten a bonus at work that made the trip a possibility.  Why not?  He was a single man in his late forties, few responsibilities outside of work, why not splurge and make the dream a reality?

So, he put down the money, made phone calls, plans, and scheduled a month long trip starting in Novosibirsk, a large city in eastern Russia with a rich history.  He figured he would spend a few days or a week in several different areas around the country, fitting in as much as possible into his thirty days.

One long plane ride from St. Paul to Russia, a terrifying cab ride with a driver that spoke no english, and a disgusting hotel room were already making him maudlin.  John took a moment to settle himself, acquiesce to all this unexpected discomfort and make peace with it.  After his second divorce, John had gotten into a fairly serious self-help book addiction, a particular quote came to mind; “You are here.   This is your life.  Don’t fight it, capitulate to the experience and revel in it.”  Well, he was going to try.

John walked over the bed with it’s black and red quilted cover, tossed his backpack on and sat down, leaning against the headboard.  He looked around the room again, trying to see it with different eyes.  There were nicer, more expensive hotels but his money had to last.  Really, it wasn’t that bad.  It wasn’t pleasant but it was functional and that was all he needed, wasn’t it?  Besides, most of his days would be spent wandering between various museums and attractions, he just needed a place to lie down his head at night.  It would work.

He picked the tv remote up off the nightstand and tried to turn on the small flatscreen across the room.  He stopped when he noticed that all the buttons were labeled in Russian.  Oh yeah.  He sighed and set it back down.  He could figure out which was the “на” button but he doubted there would be anything in English worth watching.

The strap to his pack was near his left hand, he grabbed it and pulled the bag closer.  Opening it up, he laid the contents out on the bed next to him.  He’d deliberately packed light, he wanted to be as mobile as possible on the trip.  He had four sets of socks and underwear, another pair of pants, three shirts, a Russian-English dictionary, an MP3 player, his camera, toiletries, a note pad, mechanical pencil, and an empty airline whiskey bottle he’d pocketed on the flight over.  He’d had a few drinks, thought it was funny to see “Jack Daniels” written in Russian and taken it as his first souvenir.  Actually, he would have had a few more on the flight over but the haughty flight attendant thought John was drunk when there were issues over the bill.  In his somewhat buzzed state, it didn’t compute.  John wasn’t all that inebriated, he just couldn’t read it.  Dang cyrillic alphabet.

The exhaustion from the flight, the drinks, and the adrenaline drop after the cab ride were making his eyelids heavy.  He cleared the bed and got undressed before sliding under the covers.  The chill of the sheets gave him goosebumps.

As he laid down he noticed a large red stain on the ceiling above his head.  It didn’t look like a water mark, it looked like a large amount of red liquid had leaked through the floor of the room above.  The implication sent a different kind of chill through him.

John’s last thoughts before drifting into sleep on his first night in Russia weren’t pleasant.  Capitulate to the experience?  Ha!  Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with a Bond movie set in the Virgin Islands?


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



Jiggery-Pokery by N.J. Layouni

“It began last Fall in the woods…”

Last Fall? With a wry smile, I shake my head, the action almost dislodging my spectacles. Brenda only emigrated to America two years ago, to live with her son and daughter-in-law in Colorado, but she was already speaking the lingo… or writing it.

I shove my wayward spectacles back up my nose and return my attention to the letter in my hand. Yes, a letter. A real-life pen and paper composition, complete with an envelope and stamp, and I wholeheartedly approve. Very old fashioned of me, I know, but I have no illusions. I’m one of the last few dinosaurs wandering the Earth, just waiting for the next mass extinction to strike. At my age, it’ll probably come in the form of a heart attack or some terrible disease with an unpronounceable name rather than a meteor strike, but the end result will be the same. I can’t say death worries me. Being old stinks.

“… I was setting up my food altar to celebrate Mabon, when suddenly, I saw The Light…”

I roll my eyes. Stupid hippy claptrap. My old neighbour Brenda fancies herself as a modern-day witch, you see. Not your typical Halloween witch, all dressed in black with a pointy hat and broomstick, mind. No, not her!

Brenda—or Ariadne as she now insists on being called—is much more New Age than that. She always wears those long, diaphanous white gowns—they look more like nighties to me. I swear she buys them from the nightwear department in Marks & Spencer’s; I saw some just like it the last time I was in there buying my support stockings.

I adjust my position in the chair and fluff up the cushion before cramming it into the small of my back. Then, I lean back, exhaling a shaky breath. Bloody lumbago. It’s always worse at this time of year.

When Brenda lived next door, her house reeked of sickly joss sticks and stale cat pee, and she invariably had whale “music”, or some revolting panpipes CD playing in the background, while I politely attempted to drink the foul herbal tea she’d forced on me. No biscuits, either. Not so much as a Digestive. According to Brenda, processed food is the Devil’s work. It was always wholewheat and lentils round at her house. I eventually stopped visiting her. Too much fibre plays havoc with my bowels.

“… Oh, Jessie, I wish you’d been here to see it. I’ve never seen anything so magical. Although it was almost dark, The Light shone as bright as day. The trees surrounding the clearing were bathed in its glow, their leaves aflame with every imaginable shade of red and gold…”

I arch my eyebrows. She’d definitely been at her home-made tinctures again. By the sound of it, she’d drunk one too many.

“… and then It spoke to me…”

Dear God! Maybe several too many? I do hope she’d kept her clothes on.

Mr. Carruthers, the previous organist at our local church, never got over the shock of seeing Brenda cavorting naked around her back garden late one night, dancing in the light of the full moon to a rhythm only she could hear.

The poor chap died not long after. They said it was an aneurysm, but I know better. Seeing a woman of seventy-plus, prancing about outside without a stitch of clothing couldn’t have done him much good.

It certainly hasn’t done me any favours.

I generally avoid mirrors nowadays, except while I’m at the hairdressers having my weekly set. Then, I have no option but to return the gaze of the old lady in the mirror. The face staring back at me is barely recognisable now, sixty years away from the woman I used to be. The woman I still am, deep inside my heart.

That reflection—I’ll never claim it as my own—repulses me; a face with more lines than the London Underground, and a pair of nasty sagging jowls to boot. The rest of me isn’t faring any better. I look as though I’m wearing an inflatable body-suit, rather like those Sumo wrestler suits the young folk wear for laughs.

Well, they won’t be laughing when they get to my age, I can tell you that, not when they can’t unfasten the Velcro and step out of the fat-suit. Youth really is wasted on the young.

With one finger, I shove my spectacles back up the bridge of my nose and continue reading:

“… Such a gentle whisper, like a summer breeze, ‘Ariadne. Let go of the pain. There is only light. Say it with me.’ So I did…”

Probably a herb-induced hallucination, or some local boys playing a prank on her. I heave a sigh. Since being diagnosed with early Alzheimers, Brenda’s behaving even more strangely than usual, but I suppose that’s only to be expected, poor soul. While I can’t say she is, what I’d call, a close friend, she’s certainly been the most persistent person of my acquaintance. Not that I had many friends to begin with.

Poor old Brenda. Why she’s clung to me for this many years, I’ll never fathom. It’s not like I ever encouraged her. Most of the time, I’m downright nasty to her. A sudden pang of guilt makes me squirm, and the action sends a flash of white hot pain shooting down my right leg. I tense and hold my breath until the agony recedes, then I gingerly settle back in my chair.

Well, she’s got her revenge now, if only she knew it. Not, I suspect, that Brenda ever wanted revenge. She’s not like that. Nothing like me.

I look out of the window and see next door’s ginger tom clawing frantically in my flower bed. Dirty little beggar! He’s forever crapping in my dahlias. I tried having a word with his owners about him—Mr. and Mrs. Beevers, they’re called. Both fancy consultants up at the local Infirmary. Isn’t it odd how people spend years studying to earn the title of Doctor, but as they climb higher up the career ladder, they give it up to become plain old Mr. or Mrs. again? Anyway, they quickly brushed aside my complaints.

Always too busy to talk, those two, like most people nowadays.

I glance at the letter in my hand, and the familiar spidery writing slanting across the page. Brenda always had time for me. After her husband died and her son emigrated, she had nothing but time, I suppose.

I never sampled marriage myself. My boyfriend, Sid, died in an industrial accident when I was eighteen. Oh, he was such a lovely fella. I didn’t have the heart for another man after him. Maybe I should have tried harder? If I had, maybe now I wouldn’t feel so empty… so old?

“… The doctors are amazed, Jessie. They call me ‘remarkable’ and ‘extraordinary.’ No one can believe the improvement in me. Fancy that, eh? Little old me, ‘extraordinary’. It’s The Light, you see. Every time I go to the woods, it’s there, waiting for me, and It always says the same thing, ‘Let go of the pain. There is only light.’ I know you don’t believe in this kind of stuff, and you think I’m a twisted old hippy, but just give it a try. For me? No one will ever know…”

My laughter dies in my throat. I must be going soft in the skull to even consider it. No one will ever know. I’m much too old to believe in magic, and yet…

I look outside. The ginger tom is now busily anointing my potted begonias with a fine mist of pee—bloody menace! Holding Brenda’s letter to my chest, I lean back and close my eyes. The sun’s feeble light warms my face.

Maybe I am too old to believe in magic, but—by God—there’s no denying that my life could do with some right now. I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to try…


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