Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing
Prompt #425 using the word ‘lagoon’,
with inspiration from a great image
by Kevin @ No Theme Thursday.
In exactly 48 words, this is my take.
Tag: Suspense
On The Rocks – Part 6: Being Irrational
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where
we are urged to get creative in 250 words or less.
The photo below is our inspiration; this is my story.
On The Rocks – Part 4: A Table In The Corner
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
The Condo
Written for Six Sentence Story where this week
we are challenged to use the word “faint”
in a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s mine.
After the boating accident, I returned to New York but didn’t have the heart to stay in the condo where Kevin and I used to live; I drove to my parents’ beach house in Amagansett, leaving the apartment untouched, thinking to return one day when I summoned the courage.
Too many memories and sleepless nights at the beach house brought me no comfort or closure …. an impossibility since Kevin’s body was never recovered …. and I now found myself back in Manhattan staring up at the window of my old condo and seeing ghosts …. ghosts of Kevin.
An overwhelming force drew me closer and I slowly entered the building and climbed the stairs to the apartment we once shared. Approaching the door, I could hear faint music, laughter and the sound of familiar voices; a man and a woman were inside, unaware of my presence as I stood outside the door for what seemed a lifetime …. and in that passage of time I knew beyond a doubt who they were.
Blood pounding in my head, I raised my fist to knock on the door, then stepped back.
Resolutely and silently, I walked away.
NAR©2024
This is “Ghost Behind My Eyes” by Ozzy Osbourne
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
A BLOODY MESS
Robert hadn’t realized that he’d passed the point of no return until he found himself frantically searching the kitchen for anything that would remove blood stains. After getting an urgent call for help from his brother Daniel, Robert raced over to see what was the problem. Now he was knee deep in a drift of dastardly deadly deeds.
“DISSOLVE IMPOSSIBLE STAINS … TAR, WINE, GREASE, EVEN BLOOD!” read the label on a spray bottle of multi-purpose cleanser stashed under the sink.
“I found it!“ shouted Robert walking back into the parlor. Daniel was still standing over the body of Stuart Barclay, his business partner.
“Great! Gimme that, Bobby. I have to get this blood stain out of Marilyn’s antique Persian rug before she gets back from her weekend in Manhattan. This is her favorite rug; it cost a fortune and can’t be replaced!
“Danny, I think you’ve got bigger problems to worry about than your wife’s rug” replied Robert. “Stuart’s dead! You said it was an accident so why not just call the police?”
“I can’t! It’s not that simple, Bobby. Stuart had evidence against me.”
“Meaning what, Danny?”
“He confronted me months ago. He had proof I’d been embezzling and forging legal documents. Stuart was gonna turn me in and I couldn’t let that happen!”
Agitated, Daniel paced the room. He continued: “I found out that Stuart was having an affair with the wife of our wealthiest and most important client. I had him followed. I have photos of them together. I called Stuart and suggested he come over tonight to talk and told him to use the rear entrance just to keep things on the down low. When he got here, I told him I knew about his affair. Things got heated and he came at me. I sidestepped him and Stuart cracked his head against the mantle. Bobby, if any of this gets out, I’ll be ruined. My reputation as an attorney will be trashed. I need your help, brother! We gotta clean this rug and get rid of Stuart’s body!”
“Embezzling? How could you be so stupid, Danny?” exclaimed Robert. “Ok, look. What’s done is done and there’s nothing we can do about it now. You’re right – we gotta take care of this mess. I’ll scrub the rug; you go see if you can find some plastic sheeting or a tarp. I’ve got a plan.”
By the time Daniel returned with a tarp, rope and rubber gloves, the rug looked amazingly clean. “Good as new! That’s one problem solved” Robert declared.
“And no questions from Marilyn“ quipped Daniel. “Now tell me about your plan, Bobby.”
“Ok, Danny, this is what we’re gonna do. We wrap Stuart in the tarp and put him in his car; you drive his car down the back roads to the ditch at Quarry Road. Take it slow and keep the lights off. I’ll drive my car down the main road and we’ll meet up at the ditch. We can’t be too careful so if anyone happens to be watching the house, they’ll see only me leaving, not you. When we get to the ditch, all we have to do is get Stuart’s body out of the tarp, place him in the driver’s seat of his car, put the car in ‘DRIVE’ and give it a push down into the ditch. Then we’ll get in my car and drive back here. It’s perfect, Danny; it’ll look like an accident.”
“Yeah, that just might work, Bobby! It’s got to work!” replied Daniel. “Let’s do it!”
The brothers snapped on their gloves, rolled Stuart onto the tarp and tied it up; the bleeding from the gash in his forehead had finally stopped. They struggled getting Stuart’s body out the back door and into his car; for a skinny little prick, he sure was heavy! Once they had the body secured in the passenger’s seat, Daniel got behind the wheel and drove off, taking the back roads to the ditch.
As planned, Robert and Daniel met up at Quarry Road. Still wearing their rubber gloves, they lifted Stuart out of the passenger seat, removed the tarp, placed him behind the wheel in the driver’s seat and buckled his seatbelt. Making sure the gear was in ‘DRIVE’, they pushed Stuart’s car down the ditch and watched it crash into the stone wall of the abandoned quarry.
Tossing their gloves onto the tarp, they balled everything up and stuffed it into one of the old metal trash cans near the quarry. Robert threw a lit match into the can and the duo, now co-conspirators, smoked a joint as the tarp and gloves melted away into nothingness. Robert pocketed what was left of the joint, then the brothers showered the contents of the trash can with sand and rocks to smother any remaining embers. Taking a quick look around, they headed back up to Robert’s car.
Everything went off without a hitch and for the first time that night they relaxed. Once back at Daniel’s house, Robert cautioned his brother to speak about this to no one …. not his wife, not his priest, not his mistress.
Three days later the police discovered Stuart’s car in the ditch; there was no apparent sign of foul play. There was also no one in the car nor anyone nearby, dead or alive.
That evening Daniel got a call. “Hey, partner. You’re a bigger loser than I could have imagined! We’ve got some unfinished business to discuss, Danny boy.”
Daniel felt light-headed and slumped against the wall. The caller was Stuart and he sounded very much alive.
NAR © 2023
This is the American rock group Kansas performing “Point of Know Return”.
It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
https://rhythmsection.blog/
ECHOES
It had been quite a long while since Celia had taken a vacation. Now here she was, hiking the Appalachian Trail; it was the perfect get-away. The day was gorgeous and Celia was surprised to find she had the trail to herself. After about 90 minutes she came upon a split in the path. Placing her backpack on the ground, she pulled out a map and leaned against a tree. Suddenly there was a startling crack as the tree snapped in half. The ground beneath her gave out and she plummeted off the edge.
Celia had no idea how far she’d fallen or where she was. She called out but all she heard were her echoes. Celia was pretty badly bruised but she didn’t think anything was broken. It was a struggle but she made it to her feet; it was then she realized she didn’t have her backpack which meant no food, no water, no bandages and no phone. Her only choice was to keep going.
She must have walked for miles. Exhausted, lost, Celia fell to her knees, sobbing. She squinted through her tears and could barely make out the shape of a cabin. Was it real? Was she hallucinating? Slowly she pulled herself up and trudged toward the building, praying it was not an illusion.
There were no lights, no signs of life. Raising her arm to bang on the door, it suddenly flew open and Celia was pulled into blackness. That’s the last thing she remembered.
NAR © 2023
250 words
BEYOND THE SEA
We were at our yearly reunion in Montauk – me and three friends from college on a break from our husbands and kids.
My friends wanted to take the ferry from Montauk to Block Island and return the next day. I’d been there before and it was exactly like Montauk. I suggested we do something different like rent a sailboat or go hang gliding but I was vetoed.
After I got used to the idea of being alone, I thought “This is great!” I was relishing the idea of being able to do something by myself. I decided to take our inflatable raft down to the water – spend some time working on my tan, then check out that new restaurant by the harbor. The raft was no frills – a nylon ladder, a paddle and a 15 foot docking rope.
As I paddled out of the harbor, people waved to me from nearby waterfront restaurants and fishing boats. Clearing the jetty, I stopped paddling and let the ocean swells carry me out to sea. I stretched out as the sun danced off the water and the waves lulled me to sleep.
When I awoke I had no idea where I was. The sea was choppier than before my nap, too. Judging by my sunburn and parched throat, I slept longer than I intended. I retrieved my water bottle from my backpack and downed the contents – probably not a wise move considering I wasn’t quite sure where I was or how long it would take me to get back. There were no buoys or markers anywhere in sight.
Just then I became aware of something unsettling. I heard it before I saw it – a surging rush of water quickly approaching me. I grabbed the inner ropes of the raft and held on tightly. Then it was upon me – a huge wave heaving me forward and pulling me back again. I have no idea how long the surges continued – hours, perhaps only minutes of being tossed about like a rag doll – but I managed to keep my grip and stay afloat in the raft.
The large waves had apparently carried my little raft further than I realized. I could see a large rock formation in the water I had not seen before my nap. If I could paddle around the rock, I might be able to determine where I was, possibly even spot a beach. I began paddling, careful not to get too close to the rock in case the waves picked up again. As I feared, I could feel the swell of the ocean and the surging waves beginning once again. This time the waves were even stronger than before and I was starting to get scared. Then, almost as quickly as the waves began, they stopped.
Just as the waters calmed I became aware of something butting the side of the raft. There it was again! Whatever was attacking my little craft was trying to get in – or flip it over! It was long and slimy; “Could it be an eel?” I thought. I instinctively reached for the paddle which was secured in place. I swung at whatever this creature was until I finally made contact. Somehow it made its way into the raft and was whipping around like a whirling dervish. I pounded it repeatedly until I was certain it was dead. I scampered as far away as I could and curled myself into a ball.
All was quiet. I opened my eyes and squinted in the sunlight at the lifeless blob in the middle of my raft. As I inched closer I realized it was an octopus and I had a momentary pang of guilt for having killed this amazing sea creature. But then on closer inspection I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Sticking out of the side of the octopus was a bright red inflation valve. The sea creature I had done battle with not more then 10 minutes earlier was nothing but a child’s inflatable water toy! I was fighting with an incredibly life-like blow-up rubber octopus! Thank goodness no one was around to witness that ridiculous spectacle.
I kicked the offending inflatable toy across the raft and grabbed my paddle, determined to find my way back to shore. As I turned around I came face to face with a large group of people on a chartered fishing boat drifting casually in the water. Obviously the waves I experienced earlier were caused by the boat’s engine as the captain drove around searching for a good place to drop anchor.
All eyes were on me and I’m sure my embarrassment showed through my sunburn. I feebly waved to the people on board; they waved back, then everyone started laughing. My struggle with the “vicious sea creature” was likely the funniest thing they’d seen all day! If anyone recorded me and posts it online, I’ll never be able to live it down. How humiliating!
“Ahoy!” rang out the captain’s voice. “Do you need help?”
“Yes.” I replied somewhat sheepishly “Can you give me a tow to the nearest dock?”
“Well, I could but it would be a hell of a lot easier for you to paddle over to that beach” he replied, pointing to my left. “By the way, sure looks like you showed that ferocious octopus who’s boss!”
Mortified, I paddled away to peals of laughter. 🐙
NAR © 2023
Float on by today
for a little game of
Name That Tune.
It’ll be fun!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
THE ART OF DYING
The mysterious figure emerged from the shadows of the dimly lit alley and started walking toward her, sending chills up and down her spine. Christine turned and quickened her pace as the figure drew closer. Just then she heard the sound of an approaching trolley and ran out into the street. Without looking behind her, she jumped on board and found a seat. Catching her breath, she settled down for the ride to her job at the hospital. Whatever it was, Christine was safe now. Being in a new and strange city could be disconcerting; it was probably just her imagination playing tricks on her in the pre-dawn hours.
The south side of Chicago is a dangerous place. Every other street throughout the city is dotted with dingy bars, seedy hotels, strip joints and dark alleys where unspeakable things happen. Gordon Peters had a taste for all of them – along with bourbon, brunettes and black silk stockings.
Most nights Gordon would slither into his favorite bar, The Death Trap, jacket collar turned up and hat low on his forehead. He’d sit in the shadows on the end barstool, order a bourbon and case the joint; just the usual losers. But Gordon had patience. He’d nurse his bourbon, smoke his Marlboro’s and sooner or later she’d walk in, maybe a secretary working overtime or a bored and lonely housewife.
About 45 minutes later, she ran in from the rain, shook her damp dark brown hair, headed to the bar and ordered a martini. Glancing around the room, her eyes landed on Gordon, then quickly looked away. She rummaged through her purse searching for her cigarette lighter. He walked over as stealthily as a cat and offered her a light. Removing his hat, he asked if he could join her. she nodded in assent, surprised to see how handsome he was.
Careful to retain his gentlemanly demeanor, Gordon made himself comfortable. He motioned for another round. They talked for a while; her name was Christine and she had recently taken a job as a pathologist at Chicago General. He was immediately intrigued, wondering how such a beautiful and feminine woman could be comfortable being around the dead all day. Breaking from the norm, he asked if she’d like to get a bite to eat; she agreed.
Dinner was pleasant and afterwards Gordon was ready to make his move. “Look, it’s stopped raining. Let’s take a walk” he suggested. Strolling the dimly-lit streets, he suddenly pulled her into a dark alley and pinned her against the wall. Christine could feel his hardness against her belly. She was unable to move and forced herself to remain calm as she thought “please don’t have a knife”. He pulled a black silk stocking from his pocket and, slowly wrapping it around her neck, began strangling her. The wetness in his pants and bourbon on his breath repulsed her. Gagging, suffocating, Christine’s eyes rolled upward and she slipped to the ground. Removing the stocking from around her neck, he draped it across her face and whispered “Courtesy of Gordon Peters“. And then he was gone.
But Christine was not dead; the only way she knew how to save herself was to let Peters believe that he had killed her. As a medical examiner, she knew a thing or two about the art of dying and how to feign death. She stayed perfectly still for a very long time, her head flopped to the side and her unblinking eyes focused on a rock a few feet from her face. Finally, when she felt certain she was safe, she carefully made her way to the street, looking in every direction in case Gordon Peters was lurking about. There were no people anywhere.
Across the street Christine noticed an idling taxi. She scurried to the cab and hurriedly told the driver “Chicago General. And hurry, please.” When she arrived at the hospital, Christine called the police to report the attack. She was told a team of detectives had been looking for this guy since four women were found murdered – all in alleys, all strangled. Now, thanks to her, they had his name, the name of the bar and a weapon. Gordon Peters had been sloppy that night, an oft-made mistake of the arrogant.
The next night as Gordon left The Death Trap, he was unceremoniously picked up by the police. The brunette on his arm had no idea what she was missing.
NAR © 2023
SIXTY-SEVEN CENTS
With exactly 67¢ in his pocket, Dr. George Powers made his daily trek to McDonald’s for a morning cup of coffee. He would walk from his rent-controlled Greenwich Village apartment, buy his coffee and sip it while flipping though his dogeared copy of “The Complete Organ Method”.
On this particular morning, George trudged through the slush in his beat up boots, 67¢ jingling in his pocket. Placing the coins on the counter, he ordered his usual.
“Sorry” said the girl taking orders. “The price is now 69¢.”
Befuddled, George exclaimed “I’ve been a patron here for years. The price is always 67¢!”
Apologizing, the girl explained that she didn’t set the prices. George scooped up his 67¢ muttering “oughta be a law” and trudged back home.
George was, to put it nicely, frugal. He saw how difficult the Great Depression had been on his parent’s life and livelihood. His father was always saying “Never trust banks!” Fortunately George was an excellent student, earning a scholarship to college and a grant to continue his studies for a Doctorate in Music.
Upon graduating high school, George was drafted to serve during WWII; he was never deployed and spent every day of his four years in the army at Fort Benning, Georgia. One day he noticed a baby grand piano in the corner of a lounge area and asked if it would be okay for him to practice. He was granted permission and in exchange would sometimes play for officer’s dinners. George’s self-imposed rigorous study habits in school carried over to his time in the army, waking at 3AM every day and practicing the piano for almost two hours before 5AM wake up call.
After the army, George enrolled in college, working weekends as assistant organist at Trinity Church in Greenwich Village. He was lucky; the church was close enough to his apartment and school so he didn’t have to pay for public transportation. The following year the organist retired; George replaced him and began teaching organ lessons. At the same time he attended graduate school, earning his Doctorate in Music. He made a decent salary yet continued his frugal lifestyle of eating cheese sandwiches, wearing the same clothes and drinking water from the tap. His only splurge was a morning cup of McDonald’s coffee.
George’s favorite student was Brad Ridgeway; he reminded George of a young version of himself. Brad worked in the mailroom at Dun & Bradstreet; his salary was so meager he could only afford to live at the YMCA. He was determined to become a great organist one day but music school was not in his budget. Brad’s parents worked for Walmart in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio and he wouldn’t dream of asking them for money. Times were tough but he just kept on pushing through one day at a time.
Despite their considerable age difference, Brad thought of George as his best friend; he didn’t realize it at the time but George felt the same way about him. When a very affordable furnished apartment not far from George became available, Brad was able to move out of the Y and settle into a place of his own. He wasn’t crazy about the furnishings but beggars can’t be choosers.
Occasionally on lesson days Brad would walk to George’s apartment building straight from work and the two of them would continue to Trinity Church. They looked like the cartoon characters Mutt and Jeff. At 6’3, Brad towered over the 5’8″ George. The duo was oblivious to the stares of people on the street and sometimes got so caught up in talking about music, they’d walk right by the church and have to backtrack half a city block or more.
One day at his lesson, Brad noticed that George had really let himself go. The soles of his shoes were falling apart, his sweater was threadbare in places, his eyeglasses were taped together in the center and he needed a haircut. In addition, his coat wasn’t warm enough and Brad was concerned about George’s deep persistent cough; he really did not look well at all. Brad asked George if everything was alright, if there was anything he could do. George just shrugged it off, mumbling something about “this damn weather” and the long-term effects of a case of childhood tuberculosis.
At the end of the lesson George handed Brad a tiny sealed manila envelope and earnestly said “Son, hold on to this. Open it only if something should happen to me. Keep it safe and don’t tell anyone. It’s for your eyes only.” Brad slipped the mysterious enveloped into his pocket; that was the first time George ever called him “son” and that made him think of his parents, now gone. Brad knew better than to ask any questions; if George wanted him to know more, he’d tell him.
About a month later, George uncharacteristically missed one of Brad’s lessons. Brad waited at the church for about twenty minutes, then went to George’s apartment to check on him. The landlord informed him that “the old guy” had passed away in his sleep three days earlier. Shattered, Brad slowly walked home; hours later he remembered the envelope. Grabbing the plant in his kitchen where he had hidden the envelope, Brad stuck his fingers in the dirt and pulled out a small plastic bag containing the envelope. He opened it and found a scrap of paper and a key; written on the paper was “G.C.T. 520”.
Brad was stumped by the initials G.C.T. For days he tried to decipher the note, with no luck. One morning while reading the newspaper, Brad’s eyes landed on a short article on the bottom of the page. As he read the headline, Brad couldn’t believe what he saw: “Construction Work to Begin at G.C.T.” As he read on, Brad discovered the three letters stood for Grand Central Terminal – the largest commuter train terminal in New York.
Brad raced to the bus stop and boarded a bus for Grand Central. On the way there he figured out “520” could only be a locker number. Running through the terminal, he finally came upon row after row of lockers. He located #520 and with trembling fingers unlocked it to discover it was crammed with small brown paper bags.
Loosening the tape and peeking inside one bag, Brad’s eyes nearly popped out when he saw it was stuffed with money! Scrawled on the bags in George’s handwriting was “NEVER TRUST BANKS!” Shocked, Brad slammed the locker door and locked it. He scrambled around the area hoping to find a discarded shopping bag or cardboard box. He eyed a big bag tossed on top of a garbage can, swiped it and went back to the locker. Methodically he filled the large bag with all the small bags, tossed his sweater on top to conceal the contents of the bag and returned home as quickly as possible.
Safely back in his apartment, Brad emptied the shopping bag onto his bed and began counting the money bags; there were 75 bags and each one contained 50 $100 bills. George, in his frugality had stashed away $375,000 and put it all aside for Brad. Dumbstruck, Brad slowly sat on the edge of his bed, disbelief washing over him.
Little did Brad know that was just the beginning of his shocking news.
A couple of days after finding the money at Grand Central, Brad received a call from a man who identified himself as a lawyer and the executor of George’s will. “George’s will? What more could George possibly have to leave anyone?” Brad wondered. The lawyer asked Brad to come by his office which he did the following day. When Brad arrived at the office, he was handed an old battered suitcase; the lawyer told Brad the suitcase was left to him by George and its contents were now his. Brad was given the key for the suitcase and left the lawyer’s office.
Once back in his apartment, Brad placed the suitcase on the kitchen table and unlocked it. There was a note resting atop a layer of newspapers. The note read:
“Dear Brad. For all the years as my student, you were the only
person I felt I could count on. I know you struggled financially
and life was rough for you so it seemed only fitting that I leave
you what I could. In this suitcase are my cherished organ books;
I want you to have them. Whatever else is in this case
I can no longer use. It is yours. Bless you and don’t forget –
NEVER TRUST BANKS!
Fondly, George”
I’m asking myself at this point, dear readers, if you have figured out that in addition to his beloved organ books, George had placed the remainder of his money in the suitcase and had given it to the lawyer for safekeeping?
If you are wondering if this story is fact or fiction, I can tell you without a shred of doubt that it is true; I have not changed the facts, only embellished them for your reading pleasure. You see, in early 2000 I began organ lessons with Dr. George Powers at Trinity Church. Eighteen months later, 911 happened and all lower Manhattan was closed off: I wasn’t able to get down to Greenwich Village for lessons. Shortly after that, knee surgery sidelined me and I was forced to give up the organ all together.
During those 18 months I got to know Brad and a couple of George’s other students casually in passing. On Easter Sunday 2010, I received a call from the secretary at Trinity Church; she was informing all George’s students of his death. Brad had been George’s student for quite a few years and I believe George did the right thing leaving his money to Brad; neither one had any relatives, only each other.
By the time all the money had been counted, Brad had inherited an astonishing $2.5 million in cold cash! This information was revealed to me by another of George’s students while we were attending a memorial service for George at Trinity Church. As it turns out, the student I was talking to was the wife of George’s lawyer.
After the memorial service, I never spoke to any of George’s students again and I never found out what became of Brad Ridgeway. Despite George’s opinion of banks, I hope Brad made some wise investments and is enjoying a very comfortable life!
Dedicated to the memory of Dr. George Powers.
NAR © 2023
I hope you enjoyed that incredible story
of Dr. George Powers and Brad Ridgeway.
Please join me today for a new edition of
At The Movies.
I look forward to sharing another great video with you.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
LOCK IT UP
Misky whispered in my ear,
“Uber story”.
Here’s one from three years ago.
🚗
Finding himself suddenly unemployed, Omar anguished over supporting his family – not just his wife and kids but his parents back in Somalia. One would think having a biomedical engineering degree would open many doors for him but the job search proved more difficult than Omar imagined. His wife Waris was trained as a midwife and she was willing to go back to work but Omar was too proud to allow her to be the only breadwinner in the family. He would find work if it was the last thing he did. Waris encouraged him to look outside his comfort zone; it was then that he saw the ad in Craig’s List:
Drive With Uber – Be Your Own Boss.
For information call 888-555-BOSS
Omar called the number; a man with a strange accent anwered. “UberBoss” was all he said.
“Um, yes” replied Omar haltingly. “I’m calling about the ad.”
“Email your phone number and driver’s license to uberboss@hotmail.com. We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it? Don’t I need to take a test or something?” Omar asked.
“Look, buddy. You want the job or do you want to play 20 questions?” the man replied sarcastically.
“Yes, I’m interested, but what is the pay, please?” inquired Omar.
The man sighed impatiently. “$25 an hour; UberBoss gets 20% commission.”
Omar was stunned. “That seems a bit exorbitant!”
“That’s the going rate, buddy. Take it or leave it” was the gruff response.
Considering he currently had no income, Omar accepted.
“Ok, buddy. Someone will call you.” Click. Within the hour Omar received his first assignment.
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
A woman was waiting for Omar; she wore a burka and only her eyes were visible. She signaled Omar to roll down the window, handed him a thick envelope and quickly walked away without saying a word. Taped to the envelope was a key and instructions which read: “100 Hester Street, Locker #57. Unlock padlock, remove backpack, leave envelope and key, snap padlock shut.”
The destination was a YMCA. Upon entering the building, Omar spotted a hallway with a row of lockers. He found #57, opened the padlock, removed the backpack, placed the envelope and key inside the locker and snapped the lock shut.
The backpack had a tag with an address, locker number and key attached; this had to be his next destination. It turned out to be a bus depot and the locker contained a thick envelope just like the one the woman had given him earlier. Omar determined he had to remove the envelope and replace it with the backpack from the previous locker. He tossed in the key and secured the lock.
This routine continued for six hours at which point Omar received a text from UberBoss requesting his PayPal address. He was advised that his work was finished for the day and he would get a new assignment in the morning. Omar complied and shortly after he received another text, this time from PayPal informing him of a new deposit in his account.
The days were tiring and monotonous. Omar’s ass was sore from driving all around town and he didn’t speak to a single person all day. Being an Uber driver was not what he thought it would be; he was just some tool in a game of hide and seek. But he’d been at it for three weeks and had accumulated more money in his PayPal account than he had in a long time.
Omar was getting very curious about the contents of the envelopes and backpacks but they were tightly sealed – except for today. Noticing a small tear in the envelope, Omar used his pocket knife to finesse the opening just a bit. Peeking inside he saw stacks of neatly bound $100 bills and the hooded eyes of Benjamin Franklin staring back at him.
Omar considered his next move for about five seconds. He drove to the address on the envelope, ripped off the key and shoved the envelope under the front seat of his car. Driving to his destination he located the locker, grabbed the backpack and snapped the lock. Whatever was in these packs had to be very valuable.
As he sped home Omar knew he was taking a huge risk but it was worth it for Waris and his family. He laughed excitedly at the prospect of financial freedom and the more he laughed the faster he drove. The sound of screaming sirens brought Omar back to reality; a police car was chasing him. He was forced off the road and commanded to step out of the car. While looking through the car the police found the envelope full of money. They also found a backpack crammed with bricks of cocaine.
Omar’s world came crashing down around him and he desperately proclaimed his innocence, to no avail. He was handcuffed and hauled away on the spot. Omar never saw the video text that came from UberBoss: “Big mistake, Buddy! Say bye bye.”
At the same moment back at Omar’s house a frantic Waris was tearfully staring down the barrel of the UberBoss’s gun.
NAR © 2020
Catch me today
In The Groove.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
SWEET LITTLE MAGGIE
Resuscitated and reworked for DA;
We both needed something edgy.
“Welcome, friends. You’re listening to Dr. Grey, ‘The Night Owl’. Let’s talk about what’s keeping you up at night. Caller, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here and I feel a little foolish calling you about my problem. It happened so long ago.”
“Let me assure you, caller, there’s no reason to feel foolish. Obviously whatever happened is still haunting you. Maybe it’s time to let it go. Whenever you feel comfortable, I’m here to listen.”
“Ok, here goes nothing. You see, I was born deformed. Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, I was teased mercilessly, especially by the other boys.”
“I can see how painful that must have been for you. Please continue.”
“High school was a living hell. There was a group of guys who beat me up every day. The only friend I had was a sweet girl who wasn’t disgusted by my deformity. It was real easy to fall in love with her. But she had a boyfriend – the guy who treated me the worst. How I hated him! I started thinking of ways I could hurt him like he was hurting me.”
“Caller, I can only imagine your pain. May I ask, have you called in before? There’s something familiar about your voice. Please, go on.”
“Nope, I’ve never called before, Chief.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Oh, did that nickname ring a bell, Chief? Yeah, big man on campus back in Madison, Indiana. It was you, Chief, who made my life a living hell, you who tormented me every chance you had and eventually turned my only friend against me .. my sweet Maggie. Do you have any idea how much I hate you? “
“Oh my God! Fred Waldron! Fred, I’m unbelievably sorry for all the pain I caused you. I was an idiot with a big mouth. But now we have a chance to….”
“To what? Talk it out? Forgive and forget? I don’t think so. Too late, Chief. See, I’m dying. That’s right. My deformed body is riddled with cancer. I had one last thing to do before I die and believe me, it wasn’t to hear you apologize. It was to hurt you in the worst possible way.”
“Fred, what do you mean?”
“You’ll see. I paid a little visit to your house tonight, Chief. That’s right. And I saw your sweet little Maggie. Boy, she was surprised to see me. The way I made her scream and beg for mercy was exquisite. I’m never gonna forget the pleasure I got from her agony. I’m telling you Chief – it was some of my best work. By the way, you’re outta duct tape. Well, I’m gonna hang up now, Chief, and put a bullet in my brain. It’s been great talking old times and I’ll die happy knowing you’ll be in hell for as long as you live. You really should go home now, Chief, and check on your sweet little Maggie. There may still be something left.”
CLICK.
NAR © 2023
Originally published in 2018
Please join me today for
another round of Name That Tune
in the Rhythm Section.
This one’s gonna be fun!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
WHEN GYPSIES CRY
Normally I don’t take the subway to work but I heard there was a bad auto accident backing up traffic for miles on the highway so driving wasn’t an option. My train was already at the station when I arrived. Every seat was taken except for one in the corner. I quickly sat down as the train began filling up with passengers.
Glancing around I caught a glimpse of a man seated about fifteen feet from me reading a newspaper. He looked over in my direction and gave me a big grin, his light blue eyes twinkling. He bore an uncanny resemblance to my late father, Gino, and I was unable to resist smiling back at him. He was well-groomed, wearing a fedora with a white feather neatly tucked into the hatband. He had a thin mustache and I imagined he was a barber like my dad. He went back to reading his newspaper and when he turned the page I was surprised to see it was La Stampa, the Italian newspaper my father used to read.
Suddenly the subway stopped and the lights went out for a few minutes. When they came back on I looked over at the man but he wasn’t there. I looked all around but didn’t see him. We were stuck in a dark tunnel – where could he have gone?
The train started up again and at our next stop many people entered, including two women with five young children; they looked like gypsies. One woman was younger, obviously the mother of the children, and the older woman was their grandmother. The mother protectively held a toddler while the other children clung to her skirt and the grandmother clutched the handle of a baby carriage. The women whispered rapidly in a foreign language as their wide eyes frantically searched the train. They were clearly frightened as though they were running away from someone or something.
The ride was choppy and the children were getting restless; the women tried desperately to quiet them. At the next stop people brusquely shoved their way off and on. Suddenly a swarthy-looking man pushed the old gypsy woman, snatched the baby carriage and dashed out the train just as the doors closed. The hysterical mother screamed what sounded like “My baby! My baby!” but no one paid her any attention. I stood up to see if I could help but the train jerked to a start. I was thrown back into my seat, hitting my head.
The harsh train whistle jolted me and I was amazed to discover I was in my bed; the whistle was my alarm clock. It was only a dream! Sleepily, I shuffled to the door to collect my newspaper, then turned on the tv. Opening the newspaper, my eyes widened in disbelief as I saw the banner – La Stampa – the same paper my father used to read. The date was November 17, 1992, the day my father died.
A voice from the tv roused me from my trance: “A happy ending yesterday for a Romanian woman whose baby was snatched from a crowded subway by her estranged husband. Witnesses directed police to an alley next to “Gino’s Barbershop” where the husband was found hiding behind a dumpster. The baby was reunited with its relieved and very grateful mother.”
There on the screen was the same gypsy family I saw on the train! In the background stood my father’s old barbershop.
Stunned, I dropped the newspaper and slumped onto my bed. So it wasn’t a dream after all! From the corner of my eye I noticed something sticking out of the newspaper. With trembling hands I gently pulled out a white feather.
“Dad,” I whispered,“it was you.”
NAR © 2023
JUST DESSERTS
Death comes suddenly to some; for others it takes a lifetime.
It was Good Friday of 1946; Kathleen O’Brien walked through a narrow cobblestone passage way to St. Brigid’s Church. She hated walking by Sully’s Bar with its overpowering stench of booze and abundance of seedy characters hanging around but she was late for services (a terrible habit) and this was a convenient shortcut. She was twenty-two years old – no longer a kid – yet she’d rather die than admit to her mother that she missed the Veneration of the Cross. It was bad enough she was late for everything.
Seeing an unfamiliar man drinking a beer and leaning against the wall outside Sully’s, Kathleen quickened her pace. She heard him chuckle and say “What’s ya hurry, toots?” She walked even faster, opening the side door of the church; it creaked loudly. The elderly priest paused in mid-sentence and made a grand gesture of looking in Kathleen’s direction; he stared at her over his glasses, giving her a withering scowl. Embarrassed, she quickly found a seat at the end of a pew next to Mrs. Callahan who huffed at having to make room for this rude latecomer.
As is the tradition on Good Friday, everyone remained after services for a period of silent prayer. It was a time to reflect and meditate, one of Kathleen’s favorite parts of Holy Week. When the ushers opened the church doors the sense of peacefulness and solemnity was instantly shattered by the loud music and drunken laughter emanating from Sully’s Bar. “Some people have no respect” thought Kathleen angrily. “An Irish pub shouldn’t even be open on Good Friday!“
As she began her walk home Kathleen noticed the same man from the bar standing at the corner. Had he been waiting for her or was this just a coincidence? Warily Kathleen took a step when suddenly the man started walking right toward her. She was taken aback as he stood in her path and extended his hand. “Name’s Harry Selkin and you’re one fine lookin’ dame. Ya need somebody like me to walk ya home. It can be dangerous for a good Catholic girl like yourself to be alone in this neck of the woods.”
“Where do you get off saying something like that to me?” Kathleen snapped. “And how do you know I’m a good Catholic girl anyway?”
“Well, I ain’t no Einstein but I seen ya practically runnin’ to St. Brigid’s like ya pants was on fire and I’m guessin‘ ya ain’t no altar boy – not with them gorgeous legs.” Harry replied in a very ‘Bogey’ sort of way. He smiled and his tough guy persona became surprisingly charming. Kathleen found it hard not to laugh just a little at this roguish stranger and she shocked herself by allowing him to walk her home.
Harry and Kathleen were as different as a gorilla and a swan but there was an undeniable chemistry between them and they started falling in love. No one was more surprised than Kathleen; Harry was like no man she had ever met. Sure, he was rough around the edges but she loved how his face lit up like a kid whenever he ate dessert, especially his favorite – homemade apple pie. Kathleen was known for her baking skills and would make a pie for Harry every couple of days.
They had a whirlwind courtship and Harry popped the question, much to Kathleen’s delight – and her parent’s chagrin. At first they tolerated the relationship thinking it would blow over, but the more serious it got the more concerned they became. There was a major obstacle her parents couldn’t overlook – the fact that Harry was Jewish. Kathleen’s father was dead set against Harry, calling him names like ‘Christ killer’ and ‘kike’. He was enraged when Kathleen announced that she and Harry were going to get married with or without his blessing. Her mother was crushed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him at all, Katy girl, not at all!” she warned, crying into her apron. Kathleen hated defying her parents but would not be dissuaded; she was in love! Her father said she was a blind fool and if she married “that good-for-nothing bum” she was dead to him. With a heavy heart Kathleen closed the door of her childhood home behind her and never looked back.
Harry and Kathleen got married in city hall, the judge and his clerk their only guests and witnesses. After a weekend honeymoon in Niagara Falls the couple settled into Harry’s tiny apartment – a walk-up on the fifth floor and almost within arm’s reach of the elevated train. Kathleen was startled by the scream of the locomotive but Harry said she’d get used to it.
The dilapidated condition of the apartment shocked Kathleen but she was determined to turn it into a lovely home for them. She sewed curtains and towels for the kitchen and bought bed coverings from the thrift store. She also bought sacks of apples from the fruit stand to make Harry’s beloved apple pies. She read in her cookbook that it was alright to freeze apples until you were ready to use them – a handy tip Kathleen didn’t know.
Harry worked the graveyard shift as a printer at the local newspaper, seven days a week from midnight till 8:00 AM. His fingers were permanently stained with black ink. The first morning he came home from work and saw the newly decorated apartment, he got angry at Kathleen for spending his hard-earned money on unnecessary things. Uncaring, he left ink stains on the bedspread when he sat down to remove his shoes. However his mood lightened considerably when he eyed the sacks of apples and Kathleen forgave his angry outburst when she saw that boyish grin.
While Harry slept during the day Kathleen cleaned, shopped and cooked. She wanted a vacuum cleaner but Harry said it was too expensive and the noise would keep him awake so she settled for a carpet sweeper. Their only chance to be together was at breakfast and dinner time – and of course for coffee and dessert. Kathleen suggested a few times that it would be nice if Harry worked during the day so they could be like a normal couple and spend more time together but her words fell on deaf ears.
She also longed for a baby. Each time she thought she was pregnant it turned out to be a false alarm. She saw a doctor who wasn’t very encouraging; he shrugged his shoulders, gave her ambiguous explanations and performed a couple of routine tests. He told her it was just one of those things; not all couples could get pregnant. When Kathleen finally got up the nerve to mention to Harry what the doctor said, he laughed and said it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get pregnant; “Just ask that sweet little Frenchie I knocked up during the war” was his mean-spirited reply. Kathleen felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. When she cried that she needed something else to fill her lonely days Harry yelled to “go get a job and start earnin’ ya keep around here! Who needs another mouth to feed anyways?” Kathleen was reeling; how could he say such hurtful things? Heartbroken, she eventually gave up on having a baby and found a job as a presser in a shirt factory. The work was exhausting and she still had to maintain the apartment and cook for Harry.
What happened to the guy she married? Harry was constantly annoyed about something or other and drank more now than usual. He got mean when he drank and and Kathleen bore the brunt of his anger. When he demanded sex every night before going to work, she kept her mouth shut but she was silently screaming. This was no way to exist, like a piece of property and not a person. She’d lie awake at night remembering her mother’s warning words. The only thing in her God-forsaken life that she truly enjoyed was baking and she did it all for Harry. She would fantasize about how lovely it would be to have her own little bake shop; she’d make lots of delicious cakes and pies for her large following of loyal customers – not just for her selfish husband. She knew she could do it if she only had the chance.
A few weeks after Kathleen began working she started complaining about backaches and being very tired – probably from constantly lifting the heavy pressing machines at work. Harry, as usual, was unsympathetic and said she better toughen up because no way was she giving up that job.
One morning Kathleen asked Harry if he could bring down the mixing bowl she kept on top of the fridge so she could make an apple pie. He was tired from working all night and wanted to get to sleep but he obliged her at the prospect of dessert. Harry put down his bottle of beer and got the step-stool out of the closet. As he started to climb, Kathleen hoisted a five pound sack of frozen apples, wincing at the pain in her back, and bashed Harry as hard as she could on the back of his head. He fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Kathleen hurriedly tore open the sack of apples and dumped them into a pot on the stove. She shoved the empty apple sack into the garbage bag, bunched it all up and threw it down the incinerator chute outside their apartment door. Placing a new bag in the garbage can, she looked at Harry’s body and felt sick to her stomach, vomiting in the sink. She washed her hands and face, then placed a call to the police.
“HELP!” Kathleen screamed into the phone. “My husband fell! I think he’s dead!” Then she calmly sat at the kitchen table and waited, crying over misspent years. The police and ambulance arrived quickly; after examining Harry, he was officially declared dead. Blunt force trauma, they said, obviously from smashing his head on the kitchen floor. Everyone was very conciliatory and sympathetic and they respectfully removed Harry’s body. “If there’s anything we can do, Mrs. Selkin, please let us know” the officers said as they left Kathleen alone in the quiet apartment.
Kathleen cleaned up the kitchen and called her boss at the shirt factory to say she wouldn’t be able to work that day. Her boss barked that if she didn’t come in to work she shouldn’t bother coming back at all. Kathleen simply said “Goodbye”. She put the pot of apples in the fridge and after changing her clothes she went to the funeral parlor to make arrangements for Harry.
When she got home she received a phone call from her doctor. “Mrs. Selkin, I’m calling because your test results came back; you and Mr. Selkin will be thrilled to know you’re pregnant. Congratulations, Mrs. Selkin!” Kathleen swayed in stunned disbelief and grabbed onto the edge of the table. She managed a weak “Thank you” and hung up the phone. “Pregnant” she whispered in awe and her slight smile slowly grew into a broad grin. She gently touched her belly, truly happy for the first time in years.
The next morning Kathleen baked a large apple pie with the same apples she used to bash in Harry’s head. When the pie was done and still warm, she placed it in a box and delivered it to the nice policemen. On the way home she stopped in the little bakery near her apartment and inquired about a job. It was a start, a new beginning for her and her baby.
NAR © 2020
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
Papers and leaves were snatched by the gusty autumn wind and scattered about the street like so many pieces of flotsam and jetsam. It was getting dark and Frederick knew he had to find his wife Helene before something bad happened, before she hurt herself – or worse. Helene had been terribly distraught this morning – more so than usual – and judging by the quantity of bourbon missing from the bottle, she was also probably quite drunk. Another horrible fight with his mother, Frederick assumed.
Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Frederick hunched his shoulders against the cold harsh wind. As he searched the streets for Helene his mind began to wander back to a time years ago when things were better, back to when Helene was whole. How happy they had been, just the two of them so in love. They bought a cute brownstone soon after getting married, living there blissfully by themselves, making plans for the future.
When Helene learned she was pregnant they were ecstatic; she even began knitting a baby blanket. Then the miscarriage happened, followed by three more. Four babies lost and a multitude of dreams crumbled and forgotten. Helene had to have a hysterectomy and fell into a depression. No babies ever for the young couple – only the two of them alone in a sad empty house. Frederick urged Helene to consider adoption, but she refused and her depression deepened. How could one woman bear a sorrow so heavy?
A few months later Frederick’s father committed suicide, due in no small part to his mother’s constant badgering and belittling. Not wanting his mother to be alone and despite Helene’s protests, Frederick moved his mother in with them. He thought Helene and his mother might provide some companionship for each other but the two women soon began arguing. Helene could do nothing right in Frederick’s mother’s eyes. She even went so far as to flaunt Helene’s inability to have a baby, goading her on by calling her a dried up empty vessel, a disappointing failure.
As Frederick walked rapidly through the streets, he tried to figure out what had happened earlier. He had arrived home from work to find the door wide open and the house in disarray. Dishes were shattered on the kitchen floor. The phonograph had been knocked over, his mother’s favorite record in smithereens. Frederick had called out but no one answered. He’d frantically raced through the house, stopping at the entrance to his mother’s room; her door was slightly open and he could see she was asleep, curled up in her bed. Helene’s coat and purse were hanging on a rack by the front door but she was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly Frederick snapped back to the present as he spied Helene at the train station; she was standing perilously close to the edge of the platform. Cautiously he walked toward her and whispered her name. Helene whirled around and Frederick was shocked to see the crazed look in her eyes and the cuts on her face. Helene tried to run but Frederick caught her. He cradled her in his arms as they walked home.
When they reached the house, Helene began giggling like a little girl and told Frederick she had a surprise for him. Bewildered, he followed her up the stairs to his mother’s room. Helene motioned for Frederick to be quiet as she tip-toed to the bed. She threw back the covers, revealing his mother’s bloody body, knitting needles deeply embedded in her neck. Frederick recoiled in horror. Helene grabbed her knitting needles and lunged at him, stabbing him repeatedly while screaming maniacally “This is your fault! You brought her here! This is all your fault! ALL YOUR FAULT!!”
Frederick collapsed to the floor in a bloody heap. The last thing he saw was Helene plunging out the bedroom window.
NAR © 2019
A PITIFUL MYSTERY
Within the four walls of a hut in Wingdale, NY there once resided a couple, recluses who kept to themselves. It’s said that everyone has a story and this couple was no exception.
Many years ago as young newlyweds they longed for a child but were not able to conceive. They sought the advice of seers, gypsies, magicians and an astronomer. They were given advice, told to try this method and that, including eating a stew made with boiled lentils, cows liver and tomatoes and a tea made with the branches of the nettle plant.
The couple tried for years without success when suddenly the wife, now middle-aged, found she was pregnant. The thrilled couple consulted the seers, gypsies, magicians and astronomers who told them the wife was too old and the babe would not survive. But survive it did and grew inside its mother, causing her great discomfort, malformation and pain. Finally the time arrived for the birth and the midwife was called.
The wife labored for hours and the baby’s head finally began to crown. As more of the head began to emerge, the midwife screamed in terror and ran from the hut, leaving the couple alone to deliver their baby.
Trepidatiously, the husband took the midwife’s place and immediately recoiled in fear and disgust. The wife pleaded for her husband to pull the baby from her body but the babe was so repugnant, he refused. Reaching down between her legs, the wife grabbed hold and her eyes filled with fear as her hands touched the baby’s body for the first time. When her next contraction came she pulled until the babe was finally free. Asking her husband to bring the lantern closer so she could see the infant, the new mother gasped and cried out in horror and sorrow.
The poor babe was grotesque for directly on the top of his forehead grew a large second head. The eyes were fused closed and the mouth was a mere slit. Oddly enough, the boy’s ‘normal’ head was beautifully shaped with extremely handsome features.
“Toss it into the hearth” the husband demanded “and we will say he died at birth.”
“I will not” exclaimed the wife.
Her husband stared at the floor, then without looking back, he left the hut, heading to the tavern to drown his sorrows. Word of the birth had already reached the town but the father informed everyone that the baby had died. After a few hours and filled with remorse, he returned to the hut only to find his wife and baby gone. In the morning he went searching for his wife and baby but never found them. Eventually he died, a broken man.
No trace was ever found of the mother or baby. Possibly they died. Maybe they were befriended by a traveling circus. Perhaps they were apprehended and brought to the Wingdale Psychiatric Hospital. To this day the life of the pitiful and mysterious family remains just that – a pitiful mystery.
NAR © 2019
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
Invisible in the temporary blackness of the night, the trio of soldiers separated from their regiment crept silently through the rain-soaked jungle. One had an injured leg as the result of a skirmish and was in excruciating pain. He knew his injury would impede their progress and he pleaded with his comrades to leave him to die alone with dignity, as was their ancestral custom. The steadfast friends were adamant and refused to abandon him in the middle of enemy territory. Instead they worked in tandem to carry their wounded brother – a selfless act that did indeed slow them down but they would have it no other way and refused to discuss the topic any further.
Exhausted and frightened, they persevered through the seemingly endless night, scrambling for cover as quickly and quietly as physically possible whenever they spied the opposition or heard murmurings in the darkness. Soon the slowly rising first light would inevitably dispel their cover and finding shelter for the day would become a priority. Looking around they took stock of their surroundings – trees, bushes, and marshlands – none of which would provide adequate concealment or refuge.
Walking on, the soldiers spotted a huge boulder in the distance and as they drew nearer they noticed a small aperture. The decision was agreed upon that one would investigate the opening while the other two hid beneath the shelter of the low hanging branches of a weeping willow tree. After a while the scout returned with good news – there was a small cave inside the rock with room enough for the three of them to take shelter. Painstakingly, one soldier carried his injured brother on his back and squeezed through the crevice while the third searched for something for them to eat. Finally for the first time in hours the exhausted trio was able to get some rest. Huddled together, they eventually drifted off to a fitful sleep.
After a few hours, the wounded soldier awoke with a fever, his leg swollen and throbbing. Since it was now midday, it was too risky to leave the cave. Outside was sweltering and humid and the chance of them being caught, especially hindered by a wounded friend, would be great. No … they would stay where they were until it was safe to venture out. To pass the time they talked about life back in their village and the family members awaiting them. All they knew was army life, following in the footsteps of their fathers and grandfathers. It was not an easy life and they were in constant peril but they soldiered on.
Suddenly their wounded brother heaved a ragged breath and died. Saddened yet aware they must move on, the soldiers covered him with rocks and began the slow crawl out. Without warning the long sticky tongue of a giant anteater slithered through the crack and swallowed the startled army ants. They struggled bravely, as courageous ants are wont to do, but in the end they could not prevail.
Poor little buggers.
The Elephant's Trunk 