A short story about a young eleven year old girl struggling to cope and come to terms with her mother's debilitating illness. I wrote this one with a certain child in mind who went through a similar situation. The circumstances, time, and place have all been changed. I have tried to capture the essence of the struggle in few, simple words. 

   Tia Maya was on her way back from school. The day was a bit blustery and her hair, unruly and wild on any given day, was blowing across her face. It was a short walk and she usually walked alone, not in any hurry. She knew what awaited her at home.

        Mrs. Keating, her teacher, always looked sympathetically at her at the end of the day, as if to say, “I am sorry, Tia Maya, I wish I could help you." But, that was okay, Tia Maya was used to it. She liked her teacher, who was kind, and whose eyes showed that special affection whenever she looked at Tia Maya, or walked past her desk while handing out papers. Not that she had ever said anything different than to other children, it was all summed up in the tender caress of her gaze. She stored that gaze in her mind; it was special, something to put away in her pocket, to take out and to savor when she hungered for it.

          Tia Maya did not have many friends, or no special friend anyway, but most people were gentle with her, even her peers, though she did not race across the playground with them, or sit by the swings and gossip about other kids, or boys, or famous movie stars, or who the current favorite on “American Idol” was.

          She was lucky, she guessed, no mean words were ever said to her or about her, no one hurled any hurtful remarks at her, and that was okay, too. But, it wasn’t something to put away in her pocket. She wished for a special friend, someone who she could be noisy with, or silent with, who would share the untold secrets of her life, and never ask for an explanation for why she couldn’t have play dates, or sleepovers, or birthday parties. 

           Arriving at her doorstep, she paused. Slowly, she pushed against the door to open it, and saw her mother in the rocking chair, same as every day, looking out the window. 

“Hi, Mom,” she said, as her mother turned to look at her eleven year old daughter. Parkinson’s disease afflicted her hands, they trembled like the  leaves of the maple tree outside the window, as she stretched them tenderly and longingly towards Tia Maya, whose heart sank each time she looked at her mother. The mother she loved immeasurably, whose pain and infirmities crippled the lives of all those near and dear to her. She held her mother's hands and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
                                                                                                                                                                                                      “I made you some soup and biscuits, Tia, you must eat”, she said. 

“Thanks, Mom, I will,” replied Tia Maya, washing her hands, letting the water run a minute longer. Then, pulling up a chair, she sat down, close to her mother.

          The soup tasted terrible –the quaking hand had accidentally sprinkled too much salt into it, but Tia Maya said nothing, and tried to eat as much as she could. They shared silence together, as speech had become increasingly difficult for her mother whose ailments extended way beyond Parkinson’s.

          But enough of that! Tia Maya did not wish to dwell on the night after night of moans and shrieks of utter helplessness and wretchedness that would rip through the silence, opening up the abyss of sheer depression as it grew like a creeper around their lives.

         This moment of sitting in stillness by her mother, the undisturbed moment of calm, was worth infinitely more than a single word either might have, or could have said right then - something definitely worth putting into her pocket and saving for another day when she would yearn for it.

         Tia Maya lingered a while before washing up her dishes, and placing her hand on her mother’s quivering arm, told her she would help with dinner, went to get her books from the backpack and retired to the couch on the other side of the room. 

         Even as the books lay open before her, Tia Maya’s thoughts strayed into another world, one that she had put away in her pocket, in which the doors and windows were wide open, letting the breeze in, one that was filled with the laughter and merriment of yesteryears, before darkness descended…

Oh, the card games, the jokes her uncles would tell, the utterly ridiculous tantrums her rebellious sister would throw in a battle of wills with her parents, as a teenager! Even those were treasured reminiscences, however disagreeable they seemed at the time, or the cup of milk Tia Maya would always slyly empty in the sink when her mother would hand it to her to drink, telling her she wouldn’t grow if she didn’t drink it up! Oh, yes, they had watermelon fights – her mother, she and her sister and brother – as they gleefully tossed chunks of it at each other to see who would get one straight on the nose! Tia Maya wondered whether her sister who was a senior in college now had fights like that with her friends. Or, did her brother remember those at all? He was a grown man, living his life far away in Chicago. When dad came home from work one day, a flying piece of watermelon greeted him as he entered the room, and he reeled backwards and laughed, something she had not seen him do in a long, long time. And then, there was the time when her mother had bought a special pot to cook an exotic pudding for Tia Maya for her seventh birthday, and as luck would have it, the pot had burned down on the stove, leaving a charred mess, and a major clean-up operation for the whole family had ensued. 

         How wonderfully trivial that seemed now! If only she could have those frivolities again! If the only things to worry about were the charred mess in the kitchen, or the watermelon slush on the floors and furniture instead of the wobbly creaking of the rocking chair by the window…

        Tia Maya closed her eyes, once again slipping those memories away into her secret pocket, for when she would need them again.

        One day, when it was all over, one ordinary day, when she would live an ordinary life, in the distant future, there would be another place for these memories.  For now, she opened her book and began to read.  

Being as bored as could be, I did what a lot of guys do. I slowly slid my hand into.......

*RINGGGG* Phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi Mom."

"Yes...I am fine. You?"

"That's good.

"Okay....Be safe on your drive to church. Bye."

Where was I? Oh.....I slide my hand in slowly. It feels so good.

*RINGGGG* Damn phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes dear."

"Yes dear."

"Love you too. Bye."

Uhhh....Oh yeah...I slide my hand in slowly. Gee this feels good. I think I should oil it up. I squeeze it gently.

*RINGGG, RINGGG* I wonder if the phone would bounce well?

"What?"

"Did you ask your Mom?"

"Well, what did she say?"

"Ask Dad? What if I told you to ask Mom?"

"Oh....I did? Okay.....go ahead and go, but don't be out too late."

"Love you too. Bye."

Crap.....what was I do.....Oh yeah. I slide my hand in again. It is so soft and comfortable. Love this feeling. I think about oil again.....Nawww.....I will do the oil thing later.

*RINGGGG* Screw this.

I slide my hand out of my ball glove, grab the ball and head for the door.

*RINGGG*

"Come on Bohdi. I will toss the ball and you can fetch."

Paddy, I think I'm dying.

I don't mean "dying" in the generic, fate-of-all-mankind way; not as in "we're-all-going-to-die-some-day" type of statement. I really think I'm getting to the end of the race, so to speak.

And before you ask, yes, I am quite sure of it, thank you!

So, as someone who is leaving the party, allow me some last minute requests (consider them the words I've been dying to speak):

First of all, please don't ask me why I'm dying. Or rather, why I think I'm dying. I really don't know. I just feel different these last months, and believe I am quite capable of deciphering the myriad little messages my body keeps sending me. If anyone should know, I should know! I know I said that I don't know why I'm dying, but I do know that I am dying. I trust your little mind can wrap itself around the Queen's good English, my Irish friend.

Secondly, please don't phone me up and say you're sorry. It's not as if it's your fault, is it? So why apologize? And if you mean "sorry" as in "I'm feeling sorry for myself because I will miss the sublime privilege of your company", well, don't be so base and egocentric! I mean, I'm the one that's dying, and you're feeling sorry for you? No, that would be too much for me to take at this stage of the proceedings.

Thirdly, don't ask me to leave you anything. My will is written out, signed and sealed, so it's too late. Carol gets everything. Oh, and remember your trite, tired, tiring and trying little joke? "Where there's a will, I want to be in it"? Well, there's one here, mate, but you're not in it.

Fourthly, you can forget about my darling Carol. I know you fancy her, but she's faithful! Last night I told her about my impending demise, and I can still hear her promise ringing in my ears: "My darling, I'll remain a widow till my dying day. Or yours, whichever comes first" (she has that habit of adding little snippets to everything she says. I rarely understand them, but I love her little Irish quirks).

And finally, if all this comes as a shock, well, I can't say I'm sorry. You thought you were my best friend, didn't you? Well, I'll finally spell it out for you: I hate, loath and despise you! Why? Because you're false, that's why! All these ten years you've pretended to like me, but it's Carol you like. Oh, I know it all, mate! Six months ago I saw a message on her iPhone which you had sent, and she then told me everything. She showed me all the little messages describing imaginary nights you spent with her when I was travelling (as if I don't trust my own wife!), and even those photos of both of you in bed (you're good with Photoshop, I have to admit). I was going to kill you, nice and slowly, but she told me it didn't mean anything to her. She admitted that she never even read the messages, nor looked at the photos, and only kept them all in her safe in case she needed to show them to me some day, the little pet! And, if I made the matter public, she would be slandered, so I agreed to keep it all quiet.

And that is probably what's been killing me slowly since then. To know that you, my "best friend", were tormenting my wife for years. To know that you even suggested she kill me with little doses of poison in those lovely lemon pies she makes me every Sunday. How stupid. Did you actually think I'd stop eating them because of that? I trust Carol with my life, mate!

I've asked her to post this for me, as I'm too weak to leave the house. I've been going rapidly down hill these last days, but I relish this little victory at the end of the day: your heaviest blow will be posted to you by the one you love most! Deal with it, mate!

Au revoir to you. Don't bother coming to the funeral. Oh, and Carol says: "Tell him I still love the only love of my life". Which, of course, is me, you fool.

Yours, Sir Richard Peabrain, VC, KBE, MP.

This is my entry for Scott's Random Words Writing Challenge:

http://sbutki.newsvine.com/_news/2009/09/15/3274026-random-words-exercise-septoct-2009

The elderly man lying in front of me sucked on his oxygen and then pulled the mask aside as his eyes turned in my direction.

"Albert Einstein, Max. Albert Einstein." He said in a horse, but hushed voice.

He had been like this for days. I guess, as he drew near the end he was suffering from dementia. Still, I hated to see my grandfather so discombobulated, but I refused to let him be alone as the end drew near.

"Max, write it down my boy. You must write it down." He said. His face was more serious then I had ever seen it. Yet, it was tinged with a touch of obnoxious pain.

Pulling out the list I had started days before hand, I added it to the list.

"Read it back." He softly said.

"The whole list?" I asked. His eyes widened and he nodded as if his entire life depended on what was written.

"George Carlin, Barbara Walters, Eddie Murphy and Albert Einstein." I read out loud.

"What about the quotes?" He asked. He seemed almost ecstatic that I had gotten all of the names right. So, I continued reading. "Friends are like roses…you have to watch out for the pricks. Author unknown." I said.

"Excellent, my boy. That is what you tell the man in the picture." Grandpa Chester replied.

"What man in what picture?" It was same question I had asked several times over the past few days.

"Watch the video. But remember, he will reply with, 'In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. John Lennon and Paul McCartney.'"

"What video is that, Grandpa?"

"You have all the answers in the list, Max."

"Splendid. Sometimes talking to you is like talking to an Ouija board." I thought to myself. But they were words I would never say out loud. Not to Chester.

"What about the other two quotes, Grandpa?" I asked, but my Grandfather had fallen off to sleep even with the beeping of the heart monitor next to his bed.

I walked into the next room to take a break and noticed the video cabinet that was next to the TV. I opened it in hopes of finding something I could watch while Chester slept.

There were only three videos in the huge case and I found it funny that my Grandfather would be so extravagant as to buy a cabinet that would easily hold one-hundred tapes and then only use it for three.

As I picked up the first one, the title caught my eye. "George Carlin – Scuttlebutt, What the….." I read out loud.

I grabbed the next one and read it, "Eddie Murphy – Glock."

The next one said, "Barbara Walters – Ecstatic."

I looked around the cabinet, wondering why there was no tape of Albert Einstein with some random word behind his name.

I had no idea of what they could mean or even if I was supposed to watch them all. Yet, I figured that would.

I turned on the VCR and TV and slide the tape into place. I had always wondered why Grandpa had never gotten a DVD machine or DVR and wondered if these tapes might have had something to do with it.

Soon, I saw Eddie Murphy doing a routine and I turned up the volume. I could here a strange sound in the background of the tape. As I listened it became clearer and was over powering the comedian's stage act. I realized that it was a music note and from my days in a band, I was quickly able to tell it was an E-flat.

Suddenly, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. As I turned to my left, I saw that a panel on the wall had opened.

Behind the panel was a key pad that was made up of alphabetical digits.

I grew more intrigued and it dawned on me that Chester may not have been as senile as I had first thought. Yet, there were so many unknowns about everything that still did not make sense. What about the man, what about the list and what was the key pad for?

I wondered why the title had included the word "Glock" and after some thought I went to the key pad and punched in G. L. O. C. K. Above the and to the right of the keypad was a row of three darkened lights. The middle one turned green.

I quickly removed the second tape and inserted the Barbara Walters tape. It was similar, but sounded like it was B-Flat. The first position of the three lights turned red. When I punched in the word Ecstatic it flashed to a green. The third tape was a musical note G and the word Scuttlebutt turned the red light green.

I heard a click and a second panel opened. There inside were two small boxes.

I removed the box and carried it into my Granddad's room. He was laying there awake and when he saw what I had in my hand he smiled.

"Max, you must first finish the list." He said in a serious tone. I pulled out the list and waited with pen in hand.

"Write this quote. It is by Martin Luther King. 'I submit to you that if a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live.' When he says this you must respond with this quote by Albert Einstein. 'Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master. For this reason mastery demands all of a person.' You have that?"

"Yes sir."

"Now open the cherry red wood box first."

I slowly pulled the lid up and saw an odd three dimensional picture. I reached in and my finger went into the photo. I jerked back as if I had been bite. It had tingled at first and then felt as if it were pulling on my whole arm.

I looked inside and the picture looked liked a white haired man in a white coat.

I started to ask him what was going on when I heard a noise behind me. Turning, I saw a man in a long white coat. His hair was even whiter. I dropped the boxes and they clattered to the ground.

"Who…"

"The quote Max, say the quote!" Grandpa yelled.

I looked at my old grandfather and then back at the man. I mumbled the quote and the man responded with the other. Then he gave me the last quote my grandfather had given me and I responded with what my grandpa had told me to.

He reached out his hand as if to handshake and I reciprocated. As he shook my hand he held out a device that looked like a remote control. I took it and then he handed me a VCR tape with the title "Albert Einstein – Dimensions."

"Play the tape. When you hear the musical note D, come back and press the Aux button, then the input button, and then the number 777." The white haired stranger said.

I did as he asked. When I hit the button there was a bright light and a doorway appeared. The man in white helped grandpa out of the bed and helped him through. As he stood there he said, "Your grandfather has many years left. Come and join us in my dimension."

NASA director Jason Garrett stared at the shimmering orb from the window of his office. The moon was vibrating in the sky, as if someone had attached it to a paint shaker. Just beyond its edges, the stars rattled in an unnatural motion. It had been going on for two nights now, and all over the globe people were in panic. Some thought it was the end of the world. Others thought it was a prelude to a possible appearance by God himself – or perhaps an alien invasion.

The telephone rang. Garrett snatched it up and answered. "Yes?"

"Sir," said a voice on the other end, "we lost telemetry on the probe about five minutes ago. I'm sorry."

"Any idea what happened to it?"

"No, sir. When it reached the area of the anomaly, it simply vanished."

"How about data?" Garrett said. "Did you gather any data at all?"

"Not really, sir. Dr Mason and his team think it may be a space-time anomaly, or an unknown type of wormhole. But no one is sure."

"Is it moving?"

"No, sir. It just sits in the same spot, about eighty miles above the lunar surface. We do know it's bending light somehow, and that's why the moon and the stars near it appear to vibrate. Other than that, we don't know what the hell it is."

"All right," said Garrett. "Thank you." He clicked off the telephone and then tapped another number; his special line to the White House.

"White House operator," answered a polite female voice. "How may I direct your call?"

"This is Jason Garrett from NASA for the President."

"Just a moment while I verify your identity, sir." There was a short pause. "All right, Mr Garrett. The President has been expecting your call."

A click sounded on the other end. "Hello, Garrett."

"Hello, Mr President."

"You have some good news I hope? I've got people camping out by the thousands on Pennsylvania Avenue. Only the Marines are keeping them off the White House lawn. It's getting pretty crazy around here. People are frightened, and frankly, so am I."

"We lost contact with the probe a few minutes ago, sir. I'm told no data was returned by the spacecraft."

The President groaned. "Damn it all to hell," he said. "Is it a threat? Is it dangerous? Should we fire a nuke at it? And what about our guys on the International Space Station? They must have a better view of it. Anything from them?"

"They can't make any more sense of it than we can, sir. All we know is that it bends light somehow. My best physics team thinks it may be a wormhole, or some kind of space-time..."

"I'm not a scientist, Garrett. I need to know what the hell it is. How about sending a manned mission?"

"That would take six months to a year, Mr President. And if the probe already disappeared..." He left the rest unsaid.

"I suppose you're right," said the President. "Do we have any other options?"

"Well, some of our people want to send up another probe, but this time with a sort of welcome message."

"I don't understand," said the President. "Welcome for whom?"

"Well, sir...one theory going around is that the anomaly is an alien spacecraft. They think the shimmering effect is because it does not want to be seen, or is doing something they wish to hide from us. Our top research team wants to approach it slowly and broadcast a friendly message in all the known languages."

"Right."

Garrett noticed the skeptical tone in the President's brief response. He obviously doesn't believe in aliens.

"You have anything else for me, Garrett?"

"No, sir."

"All right. Thank you for calling." The line went dead.

Garrett turned his gaze back to the midnight sky.

Thirty minutes later, a dozen ballistic missiles with multiple independently-targetable warheads roared from their silos in Montana, racing for the moon.

*****

The alien commander stood quietly in front of the main viewing port on the bridge, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared at the twelve dots of light rising from the surface of a jeweled blue-and-white world.

The First Officer cleared his throat politely.

"You're sure about the nature of the devices?" The commander said.

"Yes, sir. They are crude atomic-based weapons. We can dispose of them easily. However, if they should detonate too close to us, they could still cause damage to the ship."

"All right," said the commander. "I had hoped they would demonstrate something positive, anything I could use to ask the Council to request a stay." He turned away from the viewing screen. "Destroy the incoming weapons at once and transmit the warning message."

The First Officer straightened himself to his full height. "We all know this is the most difficult duty in the galaxy, sir. Nevertheless, sometimes it is necessary for the safety of all. These humans are beginning to reach out into space. Their xenophobia, their rabid enjoyment of war, and a desire to ruin their own world by polluting it until..."

"I don't need an Earth history lecture," said the commander sharply. "It is well known. Carry out your orders."

"Yes, sir."

*****

It was three a.m. and Jason Garrett was asleep in his office. He startled awake as the telephone rang. He fumbled for the receiver. "Garrett here."

"Sir, this is Dr Mason. I'm down at Cape. I'm afraid I have bad news."

"What is it?"

"Can you see the moon from where you are?"

Garrett glanced out the window. "No. What's wrong?"

"Its light is now being blocked by a giant asteroid."

"What?" Garrett took the telephone with him to the window and studied the sky. He spotted a ragged white ring hanging in the sky where the full moon was supposed to be. "I see it," he said into the telephone. "You're saying an asteroid is causing that? I don't understand."

"It's heading for the Earth," replied Mason in a quiet voice. "It should impact us within the hour. We think it will hit somewhere in the Pacific Ocean."

Garrett's heart was pounding in his chest. "How large is the asteroid?"

"It's several hundred miles in diameter, sir."

"Oh my God."

"It means the end of life on Earth," said Mason in a flat voice. "There's no way to stop it. The President ordered nuclear missiles fired at the anomaly a couple of hours ago. Those missiles were destroyed about halfway to the target. A few minutes later, the anomaly disappeared and was replaced by the asteroid."

Suddenly, Garrett was unable to breathe. He stared at the black hole covering the moon and dropped the phone to the floor. It hit with a thud and rolled across the carpet. He stumbled toward the door. I have to go home now, he thought dully. I must go home.

*****

The commander watched silently as the asteroid hit. Even from his far vantage, he could easily see the massive fireball spreading away from the impact in all directions. At least most of them will die quickly, he thought, although this gave him little comfort. He turned to his First Officer. "Was our message received? Did they understand why this had to be done?"

"They did not say one way or another, sir. They only pleaded with us not to do it."

"It's a natural response for a species to want to live," said the commander bitterly, "even if they don't deserve it."

"Yes, sir."

"You have full samples of the new life forms to be seeded when the surface is again suitable for life?"

"The entire Earth stock is in cryo-storage, even human DNA."

"Not human," the commander growled. "That goes back for research. You know the ones I mean. The new custodians of this world."

"Yes, sir. The Earth term for them is 'dolphin'. They will be the dominant life form, once we increase their intelligence capacities."

The commander watched impassively as the fireball enveloped half the planet and continued to sweep beyond the horizon. "We can hope that these 'dolphins' do a better job of it than the humans did." He pressed a switch and the viewscreen closed. "Let us return home. We're finished here – for now."

The End

(*Escape Velocity is the magazine of science fact and fiction from Adventure Books of Seattle)

Scott (Scoop) Butki challenged several of us to come up with a fictional story that met particular criteria.

http://sbutki.newsvine.com/_news/2008/11/14/2112572-your-next-writing-challenge-write-a-story-explaining-this-photo?threadId=419667&commentId=4067246#c4067246

Here is mine:

Avery Johnson stopped in front of the mens room and carefully checked the surroundings. Being clear, he slowly pushed the door open and entered.

It was as common as any public restroom, but was obviously cleaned daily. He stood for a minute and allowed the door to close as he listened for the sound of any one and looked carefully around the room. Crouching down he looked under the stalls first and then under the sinks.

Avery stood and walked to the first stall and slowly pushed it opened. He glanced at one wall and then the other. There was lots of graffiti, but not what he was looking for. He duplicated the exercise for the second and still did not see what he was looking for.

He stepped forward to the third and next to the last stall and slowly pushed the door open. It was there. Just as he had been told it would be. He carefully checked the wall, stopping for only a short second to look back at the door as if he half expected someone to step through it.

On the gray wall were the words "I am watching you." Below it was a handbill for a club called "The Talking Head" that touted several bands and gave dates. He stood there for a minute and thought about what he was looking at.

He stepped out of the stall and quickly went to the last stall and looked at its walls. Then quickly moved to the first two and looked at those walls before returning to the writing he had been looking for.

His thoughts raced. It struck him that this stall was the only one that had a hand bill of any kind. The cleaning crew would have removed this one, if they had removed others. A person posting handbills would have put them in all stalls. Being the only one in the stall with the message, meant it had to be a message. So, he carefully studied it. He noticed an owl in the upper right hand corner and there was a band highlighted for that day.

Avery quickly pulled his phone out and took three pictures. He stepped out of the stall and hurried for the door as he pulled out his cell phone and quickly dialed the number.

The voice said, "Elucidate."

Avery responded, "Fetish."

"Line secure. Go Agent Johnson."

"1325 W. 13th Street. Two teams. I think we have him."

"Pictures received. Teams in route. Good luck."

Johnson closed the cell, turned it over and pulled the battery out. Next he removed the sim card and placed it in his pocket. As he passed the trash can, he casually pitched the remaining parts of the cell into the trash and slid out his second phone and slide the battery into place.

When he arrived at the club, he parked and went inside. It was dark and the music was loud. His eyes quickly scanned the room and he saw Murphy standing near the stage fitting in with the other young people that had come to hear the band. Murphy looked at him, but neither acknowledge the other.

Standard operating procedure dictated another agent in the club, one behind the club and one somewhere near the front. Considering Murphy was on team two, Avery glanced to the other side of the room for Hernandez. He was near the bar talking to a blond that Avery did not recognize. He figured Hernandez would leave with two or three phone numbers and never miss a beat in the operation.

Then he heard the melodic and suave voice chirp in his ear, "Agent Johnson. Fancy seeing you here. You are smarter then I presumed."

Avery was startled to hear the voice of Ankasa, but held his bearing and composure. The combination ear wig/microphone short range transmitter embedded in front of his ear and just behind his jaw was supposed to be on a secure radio wave, but it had obviously been compromised. Needing to know the depth of the compromise, Avery said, "A lot of people have made that mistake."

Avery glanced around looking for any sign of the man as he heard the voice again, "Not a mistake that I will soon repeat."

Avery ran his fingers through his hair.

"Signaling your team?" The smooth voice asked with a chuckle.

Avery felt a coldness envelope him. Not only had the trans-dermal transmitter been compromised, but the subject also knew there were others. Still, it could be an educated guess and he knew he had to play the situation carefully. If the teams had been compromised, then they were in danger too. If not, Avery knew he had the upper hand. He quickly decided to go with his gut as he saw Hernandez light a smoke out of the corner of his eye. A clear answer from the non-smoking Hispanic. "No team this time. I want to kill you myself."

"Still upset over Cairo?"

"You killed 39 people with that sarin gas." Avery kept scanning the crowd as he spoke, needing any sign as to where the terrorist was. He started moving through the crowd hoping Ankasa's eyes would follow him and miss Hernandez who had started moving through the crowd.

"Didn't you hear? It was bus accident." Ankasa said snidely.

"We both know better." Avery hissed as he watched Murphy leave the room and head into the back Kitchen. He felt relieved that no one followed the young agent.

"This time the press will not be able to ignore me."

"They ignore you because you are insignificant."

"No. They ignore me, because your government lied about my actions. You won't stop me."

Avery felt the vibration of his cell phone and slowly slipped it out. Holding it low he pushed his thumb between the top and bottom halves and pushed it open. He read the text message and grinned.

"You mean the small pox canister in the subway? We found that six hours ago." Avery said in a matter of fact way that was only met with silence. He kept looking while waiting for the words to soak in and panic the man. When Avery guessed Ankasa had enough time to pull the detonator out he continued, "Or the one in the box of lettuce in the kitchen?"

He saw the man stand up quickly and he was less then 20 feet away. Avery pulled his Glock 9mm from its holster as he pushed through the crowd. Hernandez moved in their direction, gun in hand.

Seemingly from out of no where, Ankasa pulled a Russian made Stryj 9mm machine pistol and raised it toward the crowd. As he did Avery fired six shots at the man.

Ankasa flew backward into the table and flipped over landing chest down on the floor. Avery charged him, but Hernandez reached him first and grabbed his arm twisting it behind the man. Grabbing his other arm he quickly had cuffs on him. The two men pulled him up.

Agent Johnson moved in front of his prey and pulled the mans shirt open. Six bruises were forming in a tight pattern. Pulling the shirt open more Avery saw that next to the red and blueish welts was a tattoo of an owl, just like the one on the handbill.

"Rubber bullets." Avery said to Ankasa as he gave the man a big smile. Hernandez was joined by Murphy and the two men drug Ankasa away.

The sleeping pills (her own) had been diluted in the little baby's bottle. As an afterthought, she added a little more sugar. She gently lifted her little prince in her arms, and even more gently fed him. Did he notice anything strange in the taste of the milk? Maybe. Anyway, he was too hungry to reject it. Then they both lay down on the bed, the little boy happy and secure in his mother's embrace.

Once she was sure he would never waken again, she knelt by the bed. She prayed for forgiveness, feeling a cold and hopeless fear, like an orphaned sigh. Ten minutes later she rose, a strange and frightening beauty lighting up her face, made more beautiful by the tears that hovered on the edge of her eyes, but refused to fall. She brought the wet towel over from the table, and knelt by the bed again. She looked on the lovely features of her only child. Red-orange hair, to remind her of Billy. Strong little fingers, like her mother's. A stronger heart, she knew, still beat within that little breast -- a heart like her own. What could he have become, given half a chance? What heights could he have climbed, what depths plunged, if only he had been born another day, another place!

A tremor shook her body. A sigh was softly breathed out, hardly audible. She prayed again (for courage,this time). A swift, small prayer. Swiftly still she pressed the towel to her little king's face, and gently pressed it down, pressing her face at his side on the bed, feeling his smell for the last time, hearing his little heart beat, picturing him again in her mind, smiling, crying, praying for courage, sobbing, and finally fainting.

As she regained conscience, trembling, she struck the match quickly, and shaded the flame with her hand until the bed-clothes caught fire. Then she quickly left the room, turned the key, and shoved it back into the room, beneath the door.

Outside the large, stone house, the crowd of angry villagers caught the first glimpse of smoke, heard the first cracklings of the fire. For over three hours they had been beating at the old wooden door, thicker than all their heads put together. It would soon give in, and they were wild and excited with thoughts of death and violence. The sight of the smoke made them roar all the louder. They wanted fresh, flowing blood, not a charred, dead body. With the strength of a multitude carried along by the collective hate and wickedness of normally loving and calm people, they tore at the door, shouting and screaming, thirsty for the blood of the woman and the blood of the baby.

She appeared at the balcony. Ah, how she was beautiful! The moon shining on her golden hair, the sad, unfathomable eyes, the calm smile on her face, the dignity of her movements. But their eyes couldn't see any beauty. They roared the louder, a collective madness of hate and fear and lust. As she stood on the balcony gazing at the smoke rising to embrace the moon, she was still smiling. She knew they would kill her after their initial hateful burst was satisfied. But her thoughts were on the little boy, her little man, her little eagle already soaring high on the flames out of their reach, her little warrior who had fought his last battle.

At least he was safe -- they would never touch him.

(Dedicated to Marjorie W., R.I.P.)

Kay was a matronly attractive woman in her late seventies who still practiced within the realms of her lifelong profession as a therapist, although now just on a part time basis. She was very intelligent and held a double Masters Degree. My lawyer had referred me to her, and this was about my fourth session with her.

Wisps of white hair framed a slightly wrinkled, full face that clear, bright, knowing eyes looked out from as she asked me, "What would you do if it was a blizzard out and he came knocking on your door, needing a place to stay, and something to eat? What if he told you he had no place else to go? Would you let him in?

The "he" she was referring to was my soon to be ex-husband. I looked at the blue carpet on the floor and scooted my butt deeper into the cheap red vinyl chair, forcing myself to relax my hold on the wooden armrests before answering her. There were no couches here.

We had been over this before, and in exasperation I said, "I would let him in."

"That's not what I want to hear." Her voice was thick with disappointment. Or was it disapproval? She continued, "That isn't a normal response."

I argued, "He's still the father of my children. And he is also a human being". I looked her square and tried to keep my right eyebrow from rising as that, I was sure, would be an accurate show of the frustration I was already beginning to feel.

"Kay, what IS normal? Are you saying I"M not normal? That I"M not competent? That I'M 'crazy' or something?"

Kay was silent for a moment as she perused my face. Then gave her head a slight side to side shake as she quietly explained, "No, I didn't mean that at all. I'm just saying that you are getting a divorce and you cannot let this man back into your life. Not under ANY circumstances!" She was adamant. "It isn't 'normal' for you to still care about him like this. Not when you're getting a divorce".

l countered, "Well, as I just said, he is STILL the father of my children, and getting divorced will never change that. What would my kids think if they found out that I had turned him away and put him out in the cold? I can't, and won't, do that! Not to my little boys! Normal or not. But you still haven't told me what you mean by 'normal'.

She expelled a tired sigh, then, "Normal is the 'usual'. It's the 'standard'. It's what MOST people would do in a given situation. And most women in your situation would not let the man in."

By this time I had gotten out of the chair and was pacing the center of the room. "I am not MOST women. I am me and this is MY situation! This is totally absurd! He's not going to hurt us or anything. He's never laid a hand on me".

I returned to stand behind the chair I had recently vacated and queried further, "Normal? By whose standards? So you're telling me that if you have a bowel movement three times a day, and I only have one maybe once every three days, that you would be normal, but I'm not? Kay was trying to hide a smile but her eyes were twinkling as she watched me. I swear I heard her stifle a giggle.

I also noted that my voice had risen and I realized I needed a concentrated effort to re-gain my composure. I told myself to take deep breaths and to calm down. Breathe and focus. I slowly and quietly exhaled. I closed my eyes and felt my nostrils flare as I sucked in a fresh breath. I placed my fidgeting hands on the back of the chair, and making a visible effort to lower my voice, I continued, "Who makes this stuff up anyway? Some so called 'expert'? Humph!"

Kay said, "Normal is a standard that has been set by society, and in order to fit in you need to conform to that way of thinking."

She put her hand up to silence me as I opened my mouth to speak. I closed my mouth. But by now I knew I was glaring at her. I turned and walked over to a bookcase along the wall and stared at the various titles as she added, "It's true that we are all individuals and while we need to hold onto that, we don't want to become TOO different either. So we have to 'bend' a little in order to fit in with everyone else".

In a snotty voice I again referenced the bowel movements, "So am I suppose to take a dump three times a day? Or is once every three days okay? Who's gonna know? Who's gonna care? What does 'society' say is 'normal' about that?"

Kay looked at her watch and lifted the legal pad from her lap. Wheeling her high backed executives chair closer to her desk she laid the pad down and picked up her date book, saying, "Unfortunately our time is up. We can continue this next time, but I want you to work on this. You need to have the right answer in order to convince the Judge if it comes up in court." She began studying her schedule to pencil in our next meeting.

**********

We never did reach an agreement concerning "what is normal" and "by whose standards", and it never came up in court. However, before it was all said and done, Kay had dubbed me the most cynically skeptical person she had ever met. We developed a close friendship and stayed in touch over the next few years until her death.

I cut myself tonight. I hadn't done it in ages. I don't know how it came about. Well, I suppose I do. I helped mum out and she bought me a bottle of wine because she knows that is what I love more than her. And I was empty of stomach and I was empty of head and I drunk it too quickly to fill me up. I drunk it out of a glass, it seemed the thing to do. I think it is a not a wine glass. Perhaps it is a cocktail glass. Long stem, green. What cocktail is that? Cosmopolitan?

Drank the last of the glass, the bottle and I heard something on the radio that caused me to stand up to turn my heater on. The glass on the floor was broken by my foot. The base came away from the stem like a velvet divorce. I tried to put the glass broken into that black rubbish bag so many times. Each time the bag would elude me, like a spirit, a ghost, a memory.

I thought I'd trace the glass along my skin, just to remind myself. But the glass ran into my flesh. The blood grew underneath my skin with each passing pulse until it forced itself into vision, turning red like a curse. It split my skin as it spilt on my skin. A velvet divorce between the right side of my hand and the left. And the euphoria was sweet but ephemeral. So I went into the toilet and pressed the toilet paper I had shoplifted against my torn skin. I took it away. The blood came again. I put it back again.

I took it away. It came again. I put it back again. I put a plaster on it. You give and take away, O Lord. Mighty Yahweh. My Jesus sweeter than I can imagine. My heart will not bleed to death tonight. Although. It would be nice to sleep. To bleed into a sleep. Tomorrow I will rip off the plaster. I will sit there and none of my friends will see the thin red line of clot on my skin. But I will look at my hand and remember euphoria. None of my friends will see.

This is for this writing exercise: http://sbutki.newsvine.com/_news/2008/11/23/2142095-your-next-writing-exercise-write-from-the-point-of-view-of-a-mall-santa

(With thanks to Sandie Seward for the new title :))

I jumped and dropped the masking tape as the Grotto manager-yes, the "Grotto Manager"-turned round in the Grotto doorway abruptly to say, "Kate, hurry up, we open at 9, remember?" "Yes Jill," I said through gritted teeth. I had been Santa in this poxy edge-of-town shopping centre for two whole weeks, I knew exactly when the Grotto opened, when I was Santa and when I wasn't. "just carry on being lookout and I'll get ready as quickly as I can." Jill swerved back round again, fatuously oblivious to the venom in my voice. Why they couldn't just get a lock for that shed, I'll never know. Not that it looked like a shed of course. No, from the outside it looked like a proper Santa's grotto, adorned with blue, pink and white tinsel, fairy lights the shape of mini-Christmas trees and spray snow on the roof on which soft reindeer toys and a papier mache snowman also sat. Inside, a cosy Christmassy atmosphere had been achieved through wrapping paper being used as wallpaper, fake snow and pine cones on the floor and a Christmas tree laden with fake holly, red and gold baubles, multi-coloured fairy lights, black velvet bows, candy canes and a treetop angel. Empty cardboard boxes wrapped in wrapping paper and ribbons masqueraded as presents either side of my "throne". Of course, the real presents, the little gift-wrapped trinkets I gave to each of my little visitors, were well out of the way of tiny, chubby hands. They were in a sack, pushed away from sight, underneath my throne. All I had to do at the end of each kid's visit was let him or her off my lap, push my hand under the throne and hey presto! I'd have a gift in my hand ready to present to the astonished child as if by magic. OK, it was hardly David Blaine territory, but work with me here-the five year olds loved it.

Yes, the Grotto looked cosy enough-if only it was actually warm. After making faces at Jill's back for several seconds, I remembered I was stood there shivering in my bra, a pair of red tracksuit bottoms trimmed with white faux fur and a pair of heavy black boots. I retrieved the masking tape from the heap of fake snow if had fallen into and finished taping my boobs down. I had no idea why they had chosen me to be the mall's first female Santa when all they were going to do was make me pretend I was a guy. Maybe it was because I'd begged the mall recruitment officer for a job. I mean literally begged on my knees in his office. The price of food and fuel had been creeping up all year without me noticing and before I knew it, my social security wasn't enough to live on anymore, even though it was just tiny me in a tiny flat with a tiny Fiat. I mean, I had a man in my life-Phil-but he was more like a "special friend" than a steady boyfriend, if you get my meaning. So it would have been weird/demeaning to ask him to help me pay my bills, especially since he wasn't living with me. He didn't even visit my place that often. I'd usually stay over at his-it had better heating and more food in the fridge. Not that he was rich-he himself was a cleaner at the shopping centre. At worst I'd been hoping for a job as a cleaner too, but no, the recruitment officer took one look at me, on my knees on his floor and thought, "Santa!" Yes, 22 year old me with my long,straight, black hair, my pale, anemic, miserable face and my underweight body with disproportionately big boobs. Yeah, I'm the spitting image of rosy-cheeked, jolly, plump, elderly, MALE Santa Claus, me. Maybe I just cost less than "professional" Santas, if there are such things.

Having once again successfully made my boobs look like man boobs at the very worst, I put on the T-shirt that went underneath the jacket and then the jacket itself. Well, it wasn't so much a jacket as a flannel dressing gown with the bottom cut off, trimmed with the same white faux fur they stuck onto the cheapo trackie bottoms. I mean, they were too cheapskate to even provide me with any padding. I must have been the the skinniest Santa alive-male or female. I put on my curly white beard, stuffed my mass of hair underneath my wig cap, slid on my curly white wig and crowned it all with my "Santa hat" (a red woollen beanie hat with cotton wool stuck on top). 9 am hit and Jill removed herself from the doorway. There was already an orderly queue of about 5 kids accompanied their by parents outside the Grotto. You'd think adults and children alike would want a lie-in on Saturdays, but apparently not. And there was no booking system here, oh no. It wasn't exactly Harrods, after all. It was first come, first served. I held my breath as Jill ushered in the first child, a pretty blonde little girl. She looked relatively old, around 9. Would she guess that not only was I not Santa, I wasn't even a man? To be honest, for the past 2 weeks I'd been astounded that, just by talking in a deep voice and by wearing this ridiculous excuse for a costume, I had managed to convince scores of children that I was a guy, let alone the big S himself. But this child looked like my oldest yet. She would be my toughest challenge...

The girl leapt on my lap without invitation. I winced and looked up at Jill, giving her a pained wink as she went back outside to take the fee off the girl's parents, manage the queue and tell the waiting kids and parents bad jokes. "Ho ho ho, I'm Santa Claus. What's your name, little girl?" I said, trying to sound more manly than ever. "Kate" she said. Hey snap! That's my name! What a shame I couldn't tell her. "Kate. What a lovely name. And how old are you Kate?" "9." Wow, I was getting too good as this guessing ages thing. "And what would you like for Christmas, Kate?" I said, buoyed by the fact that she still hadn't guessed my deep, dark secret. But as she started listing what she wanted...and kept on listing...and kept on listing...and kept on listing...it became clear that this girl was so self-absorbed that I could have been Naomi Campbell in an orange bikini and she still wouldn't have noticed. If she wanted me to be Santa, then I was Santa. She finally ended the list. "Well, I'll see what I can do Kate." Said I, feeling sorry for whichever parent would have to comfort her when Santa didn't bring her a pony, a DVD player, a bike, Belgian chocolates, a real fur coat...I slid her off my lap and ducked down to produce a gift from under the throne. Handing it to her, I uncharitably thought, "I hope it's the cheapest one". Oh well, at least she hadn't blown my cover.

The rest of the morning was straightforward enough. Much younger kids recited much shorter lists and still no one guessed I was really a girl. Lunch break came and as Jill cordoned off the Grotto and told inquisitive passing kids to come back at 2, I headed to Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha (grande) and a sandwich (BLT). A few customers gazed curiously at this skinny, badly-dressed Santa coming in for coffee and carbs, but I was used to it. I'd been going there for lunch for the past two weeks, after all. The baristas were used to it too. They'd all served me at one point or another and were always happy (amused) to see me. Apparently my presence alone kept the punters entertained. I would talk to the baristas in my normal voice, but they would still call me Sir. Maybe they just thought my voice hadn't broken yet.

After I'd finished in there, I wandered outside, via one of the side exits, for the obligatory lunchtime cigarette. Now, my "special friend" Phil knew I smoked, knew when my lunch break was and knew where I smoked but had never come to see me. I'd always assumed it was because his cleaning job at the centre was part-time and he was gone by lunch, but this particular day he decided to pop up before I'd even enjoyed my first heavenly drag. "Kate!" he screeched. "Alright, keep your voice down." I whispered gesturing to my costume. "I'm Santa between 9 and 6, remember?" "You're the sexiest Santa I've ever seen" persisted Phil, albeit in quieter tones. He captured me in a bear hug, causing my lit ciggie to fall to the ground. I pushed him away, startling fellow smokers and outside loiterers before subconsciously stamping out the unsmoked cancer stick. "Aw babe, don't be like that. Give us a kiss." grinned Phil, moving in again. I had to admit, he looked even more beautiful than usual, even in his cleaning uniform, which looked suspiciously like a pair of khaki green pyjamas. The colour actually brought out the green of his eyes, which were as pretty as his annoyingly perfect skin, his electric smile and the chin length wavy black hair that framed that cheeky, knowing face. So I resisted for all of 3 nanoseconds before letting him take me in his arms again. He moved in for a kiss and like a fool I tilted my head up and adjusted my beard to make it easier for him. So there we were, kissing in broad daylight and of course I'd forgotten who I was dressed as. "Muuuuuuuuuum! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum! Santa's kissing a man! Santa's a Gay!" I broke away from Phil, quickly readjusted my beard and turned round to see the mortified face of a little boy and the even more mortified face of his mother, dragging him away towards the car park. "I'm sure they're just good friends" she hissed.

Unfortunately all the other smokers and outside loiterers were still around and thought the idea of "Gay Santa" was absolutely hilarious. Out of the howls, screams and laughs surrounding Phil and I like smog, I could only pick out a few articulate words. "Arrrgh, a Gay Santa!" "Who knew?" "You sure he's not a she?" "A she Santa?" "Yeah, look how scrawny she is. That's no bloke!" "Yeah right! No way would they have a girl as Santa!" "Now now," said Phil, stepping in front of me as if to protect me from a pack of wild dogs, "nothing to see here. Leave her alone." "Arrrgh, he said 'her'. It's a girl!" And before Phil could stop him, a burly guy had ducked behind him and was standing right next to me. My mouth opened and closed like that of a goldfish as the man whipped off my hat, wig and wig cap in one go, letting my hair flow down like some kind of black waterfall. That was it. I'd never been so embarrassed-or shocked-in all my life. I could hear Phil making noise, but I was incapable of listening to his actual words. All I knew was that I had to run. So I ran. Across the paved area, across the car park, down the slope leading from the car park to street level and along the street. Adults and kids alike cheered and sneered as this skinny She Santa with long black hair and a fake white beard dashed past them down several streets, lanes and alley ways.

By the time I got home I was exhausted. I just clambered into my cold bed fully dressed-beard, boots and all-and slept until Phil came round with my "real clothes". Laughing, he said I'd overreacted and that when he'd identified Jill and told her what happened, she'd (uncharacteristically) seen the funny side and wanted me back the next day, for the Sunday rush. Her plan was to "out" me as "a She Santa" at 9 o'clock sharp, in front of everyone at the Grotto and then play on the novelty for the rest of my contract. But there was nooooo way I was going back there. No way, no how. I mean, I was just beyond embarrassed. I told Phil so and sent him home when he kept arguing with me. But we're OK now. In fact, *I'm* OK now. Because I've got a new job. In a much swankier mall. In a much warmer grotto. In a much smarter costume. As Santa's little helper. Best thing about it? I'm allowed to be a *female* little helper and all the kids love it.

He'd lied about the steaks. They were already mostly thawed, his freezer broken nearly three days now. Electricity was still on--how, he had no idea--but the appliance was unreliable even before the bad times had come and the city's entire population of repair guys died.

He sniffed the meat before putting it out on the counter, deciding it was probably okay. He'd just refer to it as dry aged if asked. These were the last of them, though. No more beef or chicken, no more fresh vegetables. He'd be eating canned goods and dry stuff in boxes within a week.

Elliot leaned back against the wall of the kitchen and exhaled slowly. The harsh loneliness of his life came in waves and watching Evajean silently and stoically mourn over Henry, standing so small on the asphalt between his body and a Honda with broken windows... The image stuck, flashing now, the fresh memory intruding against dinner preparations.

Clarine had looked just like that back in July when the two of them, exhausted from the terror of days barely past, had taken their daughter across the lawn and laid her out in the street--what people were just then beginning to call the collection area. Callie was smaller than Henry, her tiny body sunken, her face warped from screaming, but the presence of her laying there while Clarine wept was every bit as large. How had they made it though? How had his wife kept it even modestly together into August, when her speech had first taken the lilting quality that indicated horribly that the infection had set in? How had he not snapped, not killed the both of them, when the lilting progressed to that weird and musical babbling and she'd just stared at him, without moving for days, eyes cold and hateful?

He'd been alone since the tenth of that month. Clarine had finally taken her own life, breaking the ropes binding her to her grandmother's hand-me-down rocking chair and driving a broken off, crystal candlestick into the fleshy spot beneath her jaw. That's how Elliot found her. He wondered then if she'd done it shut herself up, to stop the tongue gone mad in her mouth.

"Mr. Bishop?"

Elliot jumped. He'd left the house's wooden door open, the entrance covered only by the screen door. Evajean was there now, calling into him. How long had he been standing against the red wallpaper of the kitchen--a floral design Clarine had insisted upon when they'd bought the place as newlyweds?

"Oh, Jesus, Evajean," he said, jogging to the front of the house to let her in. "Please, you can-- I mean, if you want, call me Elliot."

She smiled at him as he undid the latch. "Elliot," she said.

"Right." He held the door for her and she stepped in, looking around at the small and dim foyer, with its large mirror and framed poster of a Paris martini ad from the 1920s. "Look, I got the steaks ready, I can fire up the grill--"

"I'll have that drink if you don't mind."

"Oh, sure," he said. He stepped back toward the living room, pointing. "Right over here. You want ice? There's a little left in the back--"

"No," she said. "Just straight. I need it straight."

He nodded. The two large bottles of whiskey were on the tiny table they'd setup just for drinks in an effort to give the place a sophisticated air. The intent had always been to get a set of crystal decanters and fancy tumblers so they could offer guests drinks like the charming hosts in the movies. But Clarine and Elliot had never settled on a design and the years had gone by with the table holding only opened bottles and a couple extra glasses they didn't have room for in the kitchen.

It was into these Elliot poured a huge rush of Jim Beam, handing the nearly full glass to Evajean. "Sorry," he said. "If that's too much--"

"No, it's fine," she said, taking it from him and sipping slowly, then faster. Without looking at him, she swallowed half the whiskey, then set the rest down next to the bottle. "Thank you."

"Sure thing. Are you hungry?"

Elliot sat on the front steps of his house and sipped a warm Dr. Pepper as he watched his neighbor drag her husband's corpse to the curb. This marked only two of them left on the block now, him and Evajean. Oak Street's last two residents, the rest decaying in piles the city had stopped picking up three weeks ago. He'd immediately began thinking of them as the Easy Es, taking it easy while the world dies. Elliot had even wondered, perhaps thrown off his moral game by the craziness of the world around him, if this meant he'd finally get to sleep with her.

He stood up. "You need help?" he called to her, waving the pop can over his head.

Evajean shrugged, only looking at him briefly, and continued her slow progress, dragging Henry by the wrists.

Elliot set down the drink and jogged across the lawn and street. He took hold of Henry's ankles. The dead man's ass now was all that touched the ground and Evajean's speed improved considerably. Elliot smiled at her, a sort of aren't-you-glad-I-was-just-hanging-out-and-available look, but she didn't return it. Her eyes were wholly on Henry.

Elliot felt for her. He didn't care for Henry, had always pegged the guy as fat, dumb, and not nearly good enough for her, but she'd been attached to him, had married him, so this sudden separation was likely messing her up good. He needed to let her calm down, get her wits back, and then he could move in as the savior. He was the last man around--and Evajean looked oh so much like she could use a man.

"You want some place to stay," he said, panting now with the weight, "or don't want to be alone in-- I don't know, all alone in that empty house..."

She did look at him now. Her eyes slowly came up from Henry's grey face, and she smiled. It was a tiny gesture, not even showing any teeth, but Elliot's heart went all a-flutter.

"I don't have much," he continued. "The stores, everything, there's not a lot to get. But I do have some steaks still frozen and some bottles of Jim Beam."

"Yeah," Evajean nodded. "Whiskey's just what I need right now."

For a moment he thought she was being sarcastic but then he saw how hungry her expression was. This lady needed to get plastered.

"Three bottles is what I got," he said. "And some other stuff. Stoli's. I think a wine cooler from that office barbecue."

"Just the whiskey."

"Sure," he said. Then, "It's not like I'm a big drinker. Three bottles, I mean, @!$%# that's a lot of Jim Beam. But it was for an engagement party. A buddy a mine, he and his girl... Then all this happened," he rolled his head, indicating the neighborhood in general, "and, well, things got called off."

"I understand," Evajean said. She was back to looking at Henry.

A couple of grunting heaves and they had the body at rest next to the curb. Someday, if things ever got back to normal and the city's administration started humming away about its business, a truck would drive by and men would get out and take Henry away to be fed back into the Hole.

But the world was dead. Elliot knew nobody would come and that the act of putting Henry in the collection area was only to provide closure to Evajean. Her husband was really gone and she could accept that now.

Elliot put his hand on her shoulder. "You want to stand here? Be alone for a bit?"

She nodded. She didn't react to the contact.

"Sure," Elliot said. "Look, I'm going to go back inside and see about thawing those steaks. If you'd like one or you want that drink, go head and knock, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

He turned and left her standing by the curb, leaning forward slightly, palms out, like she wanted to touch Henry but couldn't make herself do it.

One of my principles has always been: if you're my friend's friend, then you're my friend. That is, until I met Ray's Grandma!

Let me put things into context. Ray is one of those "closer than a brother" [1] friends -- a quotation that good old Brother Jones managed to weave into most of his sermons, and that always brought a tear to his eye. Last year, on my 18th birthday, Ray gave me a card with these words: "To my only friend: Men in going through the world make many acquaintances, but out of these they have a few special objects of esteem, whom they call friends. If they think to have many friends, they are, probably, misusing the name" [2]. We were friends indeed -- his American enthusiasm seemed to form a perfect contrasting balance with my calm British dignity. It seemed as if nothing could spoil this friendship.

But last Sunday Ray called me to visit his old Grandma with him. Well, of course I accepted -- if she's Ray's Grandma, she's almost my Grandma. In blissful ignorance I rode into the jaws of death!

Mind you, she seemed genuinely happy to see me, and was very pleasant and courteous. She was small and frail, but had a surprisingly strong handshake. In almost every detail she seemed to be normal, bland, almost dull -- except for her eyes! The old Irish poets wrote about "eyes like a wild Irish sea", but they had never seen her eyes! She could have started a tsunami with those eyes, I'm telling you!

As I automatically started eating some peanuts from a tin on the table, she bent over and whispered ("hissed" would be a better word) to Ray: "How nice and English is your friend, Albert!" (whatever she meant by that!).

Ray gently corrected her: "I'm Ray, Granny."

"That's all right, dear." She was patting his hand as if he was a little schoolboy who hadn't done his homework properly. "I'm not like your parents -- I've come to accept these things, you know. And anyway, I've know since you were a little boy!" And she looked over at me with those deep, deep eyes of hers, as if we were all partners in crime, all three of us.

"Known what, Granny?" Ray asked, a humorous look on his face.

"Why, Albert, that you're gay."

The old witch was smiling gently, and only her eyes showed the sadistic pleasure she felt as Ray stammered and stuttered that "of course he was not a sinner in God's sight", and "how could you think that of me, Granny?" And when she turned to me again, because I'd chocked on the peanuts, it seemed as if her eyes were going to reach out and drown me in that terrible ocean!

"Are you all right, son?" I was still getting my breath back, but I managed to signal that I was "fine, thanks." I felt like screaming "And please stop looking at me with those eyes!"

Still smiling gently, she continued to torture me: "Have some more peanuts, dear."

But all I wanted was to leave as soon as possible. "No thanks" (I managed to sound calm and polite) "I'm finished."

"Oh, you went fishing! How nice. Only you and Albert, I suppose." And the old hag actually winked at me.

"No, no, I've had plenty", I replied, raising my voice a little.

"Oh, you caught twenty? Twenty fishes, I suppose." She was doing it on purpose, pretending to be deaf just to embarrass me.

I shouted now: "I'M FULL!"

"Goodness me, all in the one pool? That's splendid!"

By this time I was red in the face, my hands were trembling, and I think my whole body was shaking. I leaned as close to her ear as I dared, and yelled: "I don't like your stupid peanuts!"

The old gorgon laughed gently and delivered the knock-out blow: "Neither do I, son. Actually, after I lost my teeth I just suck the chocolate off them and leave them in that tin."

Ray can't understand why I bolted then, vomiting as I went. Oh well, maybe he is gay.

---------------

Quotes:

[1] Proverbs 18:24 (from the Bible).

[2] Spurgeon, Charles H. The Spurgeon Collection, Vol 1, page 53. Emerald House, 1998.

A clipped prose crime story about a woman dealing with a brutal carjacking. Written toward the end of my undergraduate years, it was an attempt to play with telegraph-style language.

The car was stopped. The light was red. It had held that color for a good thirty seconds so far. Miriam leaned back in her seat, looked out the front window at the snow. She always hit this light.

She ran her fingers along the steering wheel, fidgeting. The heater didn't work. She was cold. She turned on the radio: Christian rantings in Spanish. The equipment only did AM.

Something was tapping on the driver's side window. Miriam turned her head, squinted. There was frost on the glass. Through it, she could see the shadow of an object. It took only a second or so to figure out. She inhaled sharply, then froze up. Her breathing stopped.

She saw something else move behind the frost. Bigger. A muffled voice: "Roll down the window."

Miriam was still frozen. She turned her head, stiffly; slowly looked towards the passenger side window and the frost that covered it. She had her hands on the wheel, her foot on the break. She lifted it. The car creaked, rolled.

"Hey!" the voice shouted. "@!$%#ing stop!"

Her foot put weight on the break again. The car stopped.

"Good. Now roll down the window." A pause. "Or I pop you in the @!$%#ing head."

Her hands were shaking. Miriam reached over, grabbed at the door handle, pulled. Locked. She pushed the electric lock button and jumped at the snap. She sat quietly for a moment. Then: "Are you going to kill me?"

"I will, you don't roll down the @!$%#ing window, lady."

Miriam coughed. She touched the window button. A deep breath, and she pressed.

The window slid down, sticking after an inch of movement, and then there was a man looking in at her. His face was stubbled, his eyes warped behind thick lenses. A baseball cap covered the top of his head. A Padres fan. He said, "That's better. See, lady, this ain't hard."

Miriam nodded. "What--" She swallowed. "What do you want from me?"

"You're thinking rape?" he said.

She shook her head, fast.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, that's what you're thinking. Rape. That I'm maybe gonna force you outta the car and @!$%# you." Held the gun up in front of her face.

Miriam dry heaved, shook her head again.

The man laughed: a short burst of forced air. "Look, lady, I just want the car."

Miriam stared at him. His eyes moved away from hers. She said, "Okay. Okay, if that's what you want." She pulled at the door handle.

"No," he said. "Not here. I'm coming around to the other side. You try to move, I'll shoot you."

The open front of the gun stayed pointed at her as the man straightened from his leaned posture and walked around the front of the car to the passenger side. He tapped at the window.

Miriam reached over, popped the lock.

The man opened the door, holding the gun aimed at Miriam's head. He got in, adjusted himself in the seat, pulled on the seat belt, and pushed the gun into her side. "Drive," he said.

"Where?"

"That way," he said, pointing with his open hand through the light in the direction Miriam had been going. "A couple blocks."

"Where are you taking me?"

He shook his head. "@!$%#ing drive." And he dug the gun in harder.

They drove quietly. The man turned on the radio once, turned it off almost immediately: dios again and again, mixed with other rapid fire Spanish Mariam didn't understand.

After ten minutes: "That way," he said, pointing to the left.

They were heading out of the city now, along a highway lined with trees. The snow was still falling: Miriam drove slow. "Where are we going?" she asked again.

"Out of town," he said.

"Are you going to kill me?"

The man shrugged. "Depends."

Miriam's voice was small: "On what?"

He gave that grin again, the one that showed just a hint of teeth. "You're thinking I'm gonna say on whether you put out? You think this is about rape?"

Miriam nodded.

The man poked at her leg with the gun. "Yeah, it might just be," he said. "Wasn't planning it but you keep bringing it up."
Miriam shook her head: quick and fierce.

"Haven't decided yet," he said.

They drove.

There weren't many cars on the road: the snow made driving avoidable. Miriam was sweating. The heater was dead. The man stared straight ahead. Occasionally, he'd hum something, a couple of notes.

Miriam shuddered.

Twenty minutes more: "Pull over here."

Miriam slowed, looked around. The snow was dense but there were trees, more of them now, and in front of them, fifty yards, a marker for a service road.

She turned the car in. The man held the gun on her.

"Here," he said.

Miriam stopped the car. The road was dirt, the trees tight on the sides. Snow was piled up a foot deep on the shoulders.

"Get out," the man said.

Miriam undid the seatbelt half-way and stopped, the buckle held in her hand. She didn't look at him, nervously played with the belt.

"No," she said.

The man gouged her. She flinched. Blood stained her blouse on the side.

"Get out," he said again.

"Why are you doing this?"

That smile again. "I don't figure I'm gonna tell you."

"Why?"

He nudged at the blood. "Get out of the car."

She gripped the seat belt like it would somehow keep her inside. The small voice: "You're going to kill me."

A cut-off nod.

Miriam started to cry. The man pulled the gun off her, held it back a foot. He stared. He blinked. He said, "Nothing personal."

She turned on him, eyes red. "Why?!" she screamed.

He pulled back. "He said--"

"Who?!" again screaming.

The man shrugged. "Bill."

Miriam stopped crying. She stared, deadpan.

"Your husband," he said.

Quiet.

Miriam pulled on the belt. The strap ran long. She said, "The divorce."

The man nodded.

Miriam hit him: full on, the buckle digging a hole out of his cheek. He fumbled the gun. She hit him again. He dropped it. She said, "Why?"

He looked up: a punch darkened face. "For the money," he said.

She hit him, the buckle wrap coming undone. "How much?" she was screaming. Again and again: "How much?"

"Five-" He coughed. "Hundred."

The buckle was slick now, the same color as his vanishing cheekbones. Miriam didn't stop. She kept swinging, raising her fist over her head and bringing it down.