Today at RDP, Punam asks us to get creative
with the word ‘turbulence’. Thanks, Punam!
Here’s where the prompt word took me.
Tag: Tension
PILLOW TALK
It’s Six Sentence Story time with Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge. Yeah, it is.
“Other” is a word that rhymes with mother, which also happens to rhyme with smother, which begs the question: “Am I a dreadful person for wanting to smother my mother ?”
Mother wasn’t a bad person; there was no physical abuse – just a major lack of tenderness which can leave greater, more permanent scars …. a perfectionist who found it very difficult to show warmth or affection, even to her children; I don’t remember her saying “I love you”, tickling me till I squealed or reading bedtime stories; what I do remember is proudly showing her a drawing I made in school with the inscription “Skyscrapers scrape the sky while butterflies flutter by”…. something my teacher called “highly imaginative and showing great vision” but mother said it was foolishness because butterflies can’t fly that high.
As a teenager I was forbidden to shave my legs but did anyway and not wanting my secret revealed, I wore jeans all the time, even to the beach in the middle of summer which also covered-up the fact that I used a self-tanner which turned my skin orange; mother watched as I scrubbed myself raw in the tub using a mixture of water and bleach – a humiliating experience – but it was at that time she discovered my shaved legs, causing her to explode like a slow gas leak and, of course, I was grounded but it was worth it.
Many days after arriving home from school I would find the contents of my dresser drawers dumped on my bed, simply because mother didn’t approve of how my clothes were folded; if I wanted to sleep that night, I’d have to put all my things away (or push them to the floor, which I often did) and I’d get hell the next day but it was a trip seeing her bulging veins and bugged-out eyes.
Years later when I had kids, mother would pop in unannounced and examine my house like the “White-Glove Lady” checking for dust; if my oven didn’t meet her standards, she would clean it (which, now that I have 20/20 hindsight, was a blessing in disguise because I ended up with a clean oven) and then she would depart as quickly as she arrived, leaving me with a spotless house but never once sitting down for coffee and a piece of pie or stopping to play with my children.
Lately I’ve been having a recurring dream about smothering mother with a pillow and when I wake up, I’m smiling; I guess my earlier question bears repeating: “Does that make me a dreadful person?”
NAR © 2023
This is John Lennon & Yoko Ono with The Plastic Ono Band singing “Mother”:
A PIG IN A POKE
As soon as Briana Jeffries woke up she knew her AC had broken down. Her townhouse was like a sauna. She called the landlord to report the malfunction, then got ready for work. Stepping outside, she was enveloped in a cloud of oppressive heat.
Briana’s townhouse didn’t have a garage – only street parking was available. Slipping off her suit jacket, she adjusted her shoulder bag and began walking to her car. With every step she took, a bead of sweat rippled down her neck and back until her blouse clung to her drenched body. She cursed her high heels and pantyhose but the real estate agency where she worked demanded appropriate attire at all times.
“I really should switch to McConnell Realty. They’re much more relaxed than Dalton & Banks” she thought as she got into her car and switched on the AC. Sure, the commission she earned was great but she wasn’t truly happy. And dealing with that smarmy, perpetually tanned Joe del Vecchio was nauseating.
First on the agenda was the Monday meeting, then Briana’s client at 10:30. With five houses to show, it was going to be a long day. As soon as she entered the office, Joe was all over her. “Looking hot, Briana. Nice lipstick. Looks all pouty. I like that. I’m gonna start calling you BJ. Know what that means?” She always hated her initials.
What a dick. The only reason Joe was tolerated at the agency was the older female clients adored him and he could charm the panties off them – and probably did if it meant making a sale. Ignoring him, Briana sat at the mahogany table between two colleagues.
“Attention!” Charlotte Dalton announced. “We have a large number of senior citizens today who want to see penthouses. Briana and Joe, I want you working together.” Briana sighed in exasperation, already defeated knowing she’d be with Joe all day. Joe grinned and winked across the big conference table, chewing on his pen.
“What a Neanderthal” Briana thought.
By day’s end Briana was sick of Joe and couldn’t wait to be rid of him but he insisted on walking her to her car. “Let’s get a drink, moisten that luscious BJ mouth.” Involuntarily Briana licked her lips; Joe leaned in for a kiss as Briana slid into her car.
“Stop it, Joe! I just want to go home, take a shower and go to bed.” She immediately regretted her choice of words. Joe bent down and whispered in Briana’s ear. “You read my mind, baby. How’s about we have us a little party?” His fingers played with the delicate chain that dangled between Briana’s breasts. She pushed his hand away and drove off, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was at that moment Briana decided that was her last day at Dalton & Banks.
Arriving back at home, Briana was grateful to find the AC working and the house delightfully cool. Closing the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off her damp clothes and headed for the bathroom. Briana slid open the glass door and stepped into the shower. The warm water was so relaxing. She turned around so the water could run down her back. Briana felt the stress leaving her neck and shoulders and she sighed contentedly. “Ah, this is heaven.”
Funny how your mind plays tricks on you sometimes. Eyes closed, Briana thought she heard a noise outside the bathroom. She stood still, listening; nothing. Reaching for the shampoo, Brianna thought she heard a noise again. She listened intently; this time she was sure. SOMEONE WAS IN HER HOUSE!!
Instinct kicked in and Briana lunged from the shower to lock the bathroom door just as Joe del Vecchio burst in, knocking her backwards into the shower. Briana’s head slammed into the tiles; blood tricked down her face and into her eyes. As she began to lose consciousness, she slid down the shower wall and barely made out the image of Joe running from her bathroom. She fell face down onto the shower floor, blood swirling down the drain. Clutched in her hand was Joe’s monogrammed pocket square.
Briana was right. That was her last day at Dalton & Banks.
NAR © 2023
From the White Album, this is the Beatles doing “Piggies”.
Please join me today
at The Rhythm Section
for another edition of
Metal Madness 🤘🏼
https://rhythmsection.blog/
A LITTLE RAY OF LIGHT
This is a work of fiction.
In no way is it meant to be
derogatory or insensitive to
any peoples’ ethnicity.
I do not share any of the
disparaging words or sentiments
within this story.
NAR
It was a blazing hot day in August of 1971. Sweaty air conditioners were working overtime, filling the streets of Manhattan with an unrelenting drone. I was in the elevator of my apartment building having just returned from physical therapy. There were four other people in the elevator – a plumber, a mid-twenties hippie chick I knew only as “Rain”, elderly and bitter Abe Morris and a very pregnant Asian woman I didn’t know.
Abe made a big show of moving away from the Asian woman, spitting out the words “savage gooks!” Abe was angry and grieving the recent death of his son in Vietnam. Someone had to pay; why not the only Asian in the elevator? Abe always had some wise-ass comment about the fact that I’m black and relished every opportunity to say something hurtful about my missing arm. Today his vitriol was directed elsewhere. Ignorant, bigoted man.
The doors closed and we began our slow ascent. Old buildings, temperamental elevators and a heatwave – a bad combination. Somewhere between floors 3 and 4 the elevator jolted to a stop. Before Abe could utter a curse word, the elevator churned back to life, coughed and stopped again with an ominous screech. Except for a few groans no one said anything. I pushed the alarm button and reached for the elevator’s emergency phone. Halfway through my call the electricity went out, the AC shut off and my phone connection died. Blackness engulfed us and it started getting uncomfortably warm.
Abe started cursing and banging the walls, all the while ranting “goddamn fucking dinks – I hate them!” The plumber was praying in what sounded like Russian while Rain softly hummed “Let It Be”. I tried unsuccessfully to pry open the doors and reminded everyone that at least part of our emergency call went through so help had to be on its way. It was then that I became aware of low guttural moans coming from the Asian woman; in a language I recognized as Vietnamese, she gasped that the baby was coming.
I asked the plumber if he had a flashlight, which he did. Turning it on, he handed it to me and everyone calmed down just a bit. Amazing what a little ray of light can do. With her back to the wall, the pregnant woman slid down and eased herself onto the floor. I told her I understood Vietnamese from my days as a medic in Nam. I said my name was Jim; her name was Thanh. We talked softly as Abe carried on about his son who died in the war – “And for what?? This slant??” he screamed. The plumber became more agitated and Rain sat by him holding his hand.
With ragged breaths and dry lips, Thanh told me she married an American soldier in early November 1970 and he brought her back to live in the U.S. with his parents. After two weeks he returned to Vietnam; he was killed November 21st in Operation Ivory Coast. Thanh soon learned she was pregnant. Relations with her in-laws became strained and she moved into my apartment building with her cousin.
As we sat waiting, I thought of that November day. I remembered a soldier who flung himself on me as I worked in the MASH unit. He was blown to bits while I only lost my arm. That young hero was someone’s son, a friend, perhaps a brother; he could have even been Thanh’s husband.
Suddenly Abe lost it; he stood and yelled racial slurs at both me Thanh. The plumber sobbed while Rain tried to calm him. I yelled for everyone to “shut up!” And that’s when we heard faint voices.
“Anyone in there?”
“Roger that! We’re down here! Five people, one woman in labor!” I shouted and was rewarded with a resounding “HUA!”
Haltingly the doors were pried open and a rescue ladder was lowered into the elevator. Abe headed straight for the ladder; I stopped the selfish bastard in his tracks.
“The pregnant lady goes first.”
Abe called me “a no good spook” and blindly took a swing at me; even with my disability I was able to easily block him. I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor where he sat, head in hands, repeating what must have been his son’s name. I pitied the man but he was not the only person in pain.
With my assistance, Thanh gingerly made her way up the ladder; she was pulled out of the elevator and the EMTs rushed her to the hospital. The rest of us slowly climbed to safety.
When I emerged into the lobby of my building, I found one of Thanh’s shoes. Call it whatever you want but in that moment I knew I had to get to her.
NAR © 2023
NEW YORK STATE OF TERROR
Death was on Julia Rubino’s mind a lot during 1976.
Automatic negative thoughts (or ANTS as she called them) started crawling around her brain months earlier when she first heard about the mysterious murders in New York City.
The killer openly taunted the police; seeking misplaced attention and public veneration, he wrote rambling and ambiguous letters to journalist Jimmy Breslin who printed them in his column in The Daily News. In his letters the murderer sometimes referenced a cult, hinting that the killings were a rite of passage. Other times he claimed a demonic dog owned by his neighbor Sam spoke to him demanding the blood of pretty young girls.
All the victims were females with long dark hair; as a college student with shoulder-length brunette curls, Julia felt particularly vulnerable. When she told her parents she wanted to cut her hair and dye it blonde, they said she was over-reacting. Julia’s boyfriend Steve told her she was being ridiculous, that there was nothing to worry about. He said they were safe in their little town of New Rochelle. Violent crimes like that only happened in dangerous urban locations, not quiet Westchester County.
On date nights, Julia and Steve often drove to the Glen Island Beach parking lot in New Rochelle; it was a popular make-out spot and the police very rarely patrolled the area or bothered the couples parked there. When Julia told Steve she didn’t want to go parking any more, he got pissed off. Tearfully she told him the murders were making her afraid of her own shadow. She reminded him that the killings always involved two victims – young women and their boyfriends parked in cars. She couldn’t shake the notion that something terrible was going to happen to them.
Steve argued that Julia was being paranoid and they had no other choice if they wanted to be alone. They had no privacy living at home with their parents and Julia refused to go to a motel saying it made her feel sleazy. Frustrated, Steve yelled at her to calm down and get a grip. Afraid of losing him, Julia begrudgingly decided they had only one option if they wanted to be alone and that was the dark parking lot of Glen Island Beach.
On July 29 things took an unexpected and shocking turn; the first murders in Westchester County occurred. This time the killer’s MO was different and left the police wondering if the shootings were done by the same individual or a copy-cat killer. The victims were two girls sitting in a car in a well-lit area – not a girl and her boyfriend in a dark parking lot.
The two women were nurses Jody Valenti and Donna Lauria. They had been sitting in Jody’s double-parked Oldsmobile outside Donna’s house talking about their night out at a New Rochelle disco. When Donna opened the car door to get out, a man suddenly approached. Pulling out a gun, he crouched down and opened fire. Donna was killed instantly but Jody survived. The attack happened quickly, however, Jody was able to give a description of the assailant. It matched that of the shooter of the previous killings.
Westchester County residents were panic-stricken, especially Julia. Police urged everyone to stay vigilant and refrain from sitting in parked cars. Julia considered dropping out of college and staying at home until the murderous madman was caught; her parents convinced her it was irrational to completely cut oneself off from the world. No one understood how scared she was, especially now that the murders were much closer to home. She felt like she had a target painted on her back. Every young woman felt the same way; our lives were being controlled by an unknown killer and our own fears.
For more than a year the killer held the citizens of New York captive. On the night of August 10, 1977, the state of terror finally ended. After a brief but intense shootout, the murderer was apprehended at his Yonkers apartment, ironically just minutes from Westchester Community College where Julia was a student. Julia could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever her reasons were, she had a feeling deep in her gut that if the killer had not been caught, she would have eventually ended up on his list of victims. That is something that will remain unanswered forever.
Dear readers – Julia Rubino, her boyfriend Steve and her parents are fictional characters I created for this story; everything else written here is true and accurate. I know this because I lived through it and was as terrified as everyone else.
In August it will be 46 years since that historic arrest. The notorious killer is David Berkowitz, known around the world as Son of Sam. Berkowitz pled guilty to all the shootings; six people were killed and seven wounded, some horribly. His weapon of choice was a .44 caliber Bulldog revolver gun.
On the day after his sentencing, Berkowitz was taken first to Sing Sing prison in Ossining, NY, then to the upstate Clinton Correctional Facility for psychiatric and physical examinations. Two more months were spent at the Central New York Psychiatric Center before his admission to the infamous Attica Correctional Facility. Berkowitz served about a decade in Attica until he was relocated to Sullivan Correctional Facility in Fallsburg, where he remained for many years. He is now housed at Shawangunk Correctional Facility which is located in Wallkill, Ulster County.
Berkowitz described his life in Attica as “a living hell, a nightmare” – as it should be; no one is more deserving.
NAR © 2023
Please follow me today
In The Groove
as the scariness continues.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
BUT I’VE BEEN THINKING
“Confused, Jesse? What’s there to be confused about? We have plans. I thought you were onboard and happy. What’s going on?” Sarah stood, impatiently tapping her toe.
“That’s just it, Sarah. I don’t know what’s going on. We really need to talk about our wedding plans.” Jesse paced back and forth, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets.
“Hold it right there, cowboy! Are you calling off our wedding?” Sarah’s eyes grew dark and angry.
“That was not my intention, Sarah, but I’ve been thinking – how’d we get from a simple garden wedding to this elaborate affair you’ve got planned?”
Sarah’s face flushed with exasperation. “Well, this is a fine time to bring that up! Our wedding is two weeks away and everything is ready. My dress, the venue, the flowers, the caterers, our honeymoon. Even the name cards for the tables have been printed!”
“I know, Sarah, and before I realized it, our wedding turned into the social event of the year! You didn’t discuss any of this with me and I was right here the whole time. I don’t want a circus with a cast of characters I don’t even know or a stuffy office job to be happy. Your dad’s a great guy and offering to make me a partner in his business was extremely generous but I never wanted a power job and I certainly don’t want to be treated differently because I’m the boss’s son-in-law!“
With every word Jesse said, Sarah became more irate until she couldn’t stand it another minute. “Enough! You’re right, Jesse! I intentionally left you out of the planning because I didn’t want you trying to talk me out of my dream wedding! If you had your way, we’d be getting married in a barn in Nebraska. You’re so big on the truth, Jesse, here’s some truth for you. I’m glad your hillbilly family can’t make it to the wedding!” Sarah spat the words out angrily.
The room was silent for a long time. Finally, Jesse spoke. “Is that why you convinced my parents not to come to the wedding. Don’t bother trying to deny it; I know it’s the truth. Do you think I’m a fool, Sarah? Did you really believe I would never find out what you did? I’ve known for weeks and the only reason I never confronted you with what I know is because my mother, who is infinitely wiser, kinder and more forgiving than anyone I know, convinced me not to say anything.”
Instead of feeling sorry for what she had done, Sarah tried to justify it. “Jesse, surely you can see I was only trying to do your parents a favor and spare their feelings. They never would have felt comfortable being here.”
“Sarah, you know my background growing up on a farm. I come from simple, hard-working people. The smell of the earth, working with my hands, tending to the animals – that’s what I know and love. I always dreamed of having my own farm some day, waking up with the roosters and working in the fields. I dream of family barbecues with square dancing, homemade ice cream for dessert and a passel of happy kids running around. I’m an uncomplicated guy, Sarah. All I want is us, a family and a farm.”
“Whoa, Jesse. Back it up. I have dreams, too. Ever since I was a little girl I wanted to marry a man as smart and handsome and rich as my father. I want a huge wedding at the Waldorf, cruising around the world on a honeymoon, living in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Now you’re asking me to give those dreams up for life with a bunch of rugrats and a barn in the middle of nowhere? You can’t be serious, especially after everything my father has done for you.”
“What the hell are we doing here, Sarah? Your dreams are all about the wedding; I did’t hear one word about our life together. I never asked your father for a thing, certainly not some hifalutin office job doing something I know nothing about. All I did was fall in love with the girl who shared my cab one rainy afternoon. Where’d she go, Sarah? My mother may understand you but I feel like I don’t know you at all.”
“Jesse, you’re not thinking straight. Do you really believe you’ll be happy spending your life milking cows, working the fields and going to state fairs instead of living in the lap of luxury with me?”
“You know what, Sarah? You’re right! I wouldn’t be happy – at least not with you – and you would never be happy with me.” Jesse walked to the door, then paused. “I’m sure some day you’ll meet a guy who’s just as shallow as you but that guy’s not me. Goodbye, Sarah. Thanks for stopping me from making a huge mistake.”
“Hold on, cowboy! We’re not done here! You do not get to walk out on me, Jesse!” Sarah seethed.
Jesse grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sarah.”
“You’ll be sorry, cowboy. You hear me? You’ll be sorry!” Sarah screamed as Jesse turned and left.
He laughed softly to himself knowing Sarah was wrong again.
NAR © 2023
Join me today
In The Groove
for another shot
at happiness!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF
For the first time in more than five years, Lydia was beginning to see some light at the end of the tunnel. After struggling through a failed business venture and the misery of a toxic marriage, she was back on her feet and ready to start over. But first a little R&R was in order.
Lydia’s longtime friend and former business colleague offered her the use of her vacation house in Punta Cana. Having never been to the Dominican Republic, she jumped at the opportunity to get away to a place where she was anonymous; it would be the refuge she needed to relax and reflect on getting her life back.
The house was tiny and secluded – perfect for Lydia. Her plan was to shut out the world and do nothing but eat, sleep and swim in the large pool which took up most of the back yard. With the exception of a tall locked wrought iron gate in the front of the house, the property was totally surrounded by a high, impassable bamboo fence. Lydia felt very safe alone in the house.
After breakfast on her first day, Lydia grabbed a towel, a book and a bottle of water and headed out to the pool. The day was glorious with brilliant sunshine and she sat under a thatched umbrella reading her book. The sound of the water swirling around the pool was too inviting and Lydia could resist no longer. Spying a nearby float, she waded into the pool and gingerly climbed on.
“Ah” Lydia sighed. “I’m never getting off this thing.”
The only sounds were the gentle splashing of the pool’s mini waterfall and an occasional bird calling out to its mate in the dense gardens beyond the house. It was idyllic and Lydia silently blessed her friend for the use of her home.
After about 20 minutes of bliss, Lydia’s reverie was interrupted by the barking of a dog; however, it sounded far enough away for her not to be terribly put off. The barking stopped for a while and Lydia relaxed but it started up again. This time the dog was closer and a little more persistent. “Great” Lydia murmured under her breath. “Just what I need. Maybe he’ll go away and stay away.”
But the dog did not go away and Lydia quickly became impatient and annoyed by the intrusion. “Excuse me” she called out to no one in particular. “Can you please bring your dog inside?”
No response and the dog kept barking. It got closer and louder and Lydia became increasingly pissed off. “Hola! Please take the dog inside!” she yelled, a little more forcefully.
Again, no response. By now the dog was barking and growling with a vengeance. Lydia was fed up and she lost her cool.
“Hey!! Shut your dog the fuck up!” she shouted in the direction of the barking. Soon after Lydia heard a man yelling in the distance: “Perro! Ven aquí!”
The dog barked once in response, his yelps becoming more and more distant. At last, peace had been restored.
Lydia must have dozed off on the float. Rubbing her tired eyes, she became aware of deep-throated growling sounds on the other side of the fence. The dog was back but this time he wasn’t barking. It was impossible to tell through the thick bamboo but it sounded like he had a bone or a chew toy and was gnawing away. Well, at least he wasn’t barking; she could live with the gnawing.
Lydia was lost in her thoughts for the future, the dog next door forgotten, when she was startled by aggressive scratching and burrowing noises near the fence. She glanced over and noticed the bamboo was shaking. She looked down and froze. Her blood ran cold and the little hairs on her arms stood straight up.
Panic set in as she saw the dog’s nose break through the bottom of the fence. Suddenly a huge, drooling mouth with razor-sharp fangs became visible. In the next second the lupine-like dog crashed through the bamboo barrier, heading straight for the pool.
Lydia let out a blood-curdling scream and flailed frantically in the water but she couldn’t get out of the pool fast enough. She was no match for the hungry wolf dog. The image of huge teeth and piercing yellow eyes inches from her face was the last thing she saw.
NAR © 2022
SCREAMING IN THE NIGHT
In January, 2021 I wrote a story with an unresolved ending called “On the Way”. It was one of several which I recorded and submitted to the BBC Radio show called Upload. When my story was broadcast on the air, the program host William Wright commented that he hoped some day I would write a follow-up. That comment stayed with me and fourteen months later I decided to do just that. That story was called “When the Fog Rolls In.” Recently I thought it would be interesting to combine the two stories by creating a new beginning and ending and tweaking sections within the body of the stories. Since then, I had the opportunity to enter a fiction writing contest; the call was for a 1,000 – 3,000 word mystery story. I decided to submit my reconstructed story. The word counter on my Microsoft Office page said the story was 2,654 words – not too shabby. I don’t enter many contests but every time I do I’m shocked by the number of writers who also submit stories. My stuff better be damn good if it stands a chance of winning against 400+ entries. Well, my story did not win but that’s okay; I tried my best and had fun creating this compilation. I am not deterred. The winning story was a masterpiece and deserved to come in 1st place so kudos to the author. Here is my story; I hope you enjoy ‘Screaming in the Night’.
“I can see it now! I can see it! Got to get it!!”
David Stapleton screamed in his sleep. He flailed about on his bed, entangled in a mass of sweaty sheets and blankets. David slowly started to come out of his stupor, stuck in a surreal and frightening dimension between sleep and wakefulness. His eyelids felt stuck together and his mouth was parched. His body was stiff and leaden, his breathing heavy, his heart beating rapidly. David wasn’t sure of his surroundings; was this real or was he reliving his worst nightmare?
Gradually David became more aware. Yes, it was as he feared – the uncontrollable, unstoppable dream, his nightly companion. He sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette. Flipping open his old, beat up lighter, he lit a Marlboro and inhaled deeply. He sat in silence, smoking and thinking, his thoughts spinning like a Vegas roulette wheel. Each night he crawled into bed exhausted, desperately in need of sleep yet terrified that the dream would come again.
David glanced at his alarm clock; 4:17 AM – ridiculously early but he knew he would not be falling back to sleep. He slipped on his sweatpants and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. While the coffee brewed, David stared into the oh so familiar fog. He lit another cigarette and thought about that night four years ago.
Four Years Earlier:
David drove home that dark and foggy night barely able to see the road ahead of him. An electrical storm that evening wreaked havoc with the streetlights on Route 718 causing them to flash at indiscriminate intervals. Even though his was the only car on the dimly lit road, the strobe effect from the lights was haphazard and dangerously distracting. There were shadows looming everywhere; David never saw the cyclist cross his path.
The impact was powerful yet made only a quiet thud like the subtle reload of a gun’s magazine. The visual impression, however, was appalling. The tableau switched to slow motion; David watched in horror as a mangled body performed a ‘danse macabre’ across the hood of his car while musical passages from “O Fortuna” screamed in his head. The cyclist soared through the air like an acrobat and landed in a twisted heap 20 feet or so away.
David sat motionless in his car; no other living creature was anywhere in sight. “What to do? What to do?” raced through his mind. He’d never had a car accident, not even a parking ticket. Now he had run someone down – an innocent cyclist. Was it a man or a woman? Surely this person would be missed by family and friends, perhaps his or her parents or – God forbid – their children. What a terrible fate, a horrible accident. Yes, David had a few drinks after work, just a few; the alcohol had to be out of his system by now. But wait; the cyclist wore no reflective clothing, not even a warning light on the bike’s handlebars or wheels. Out cycling in the night, alone; wasn’t that tempting fate? Maybe they got what they deserved.
Slowly David opened the door and looked around; the deafening silence was pounding in his brain, the absence of people other-worldly. With measured steps he approached the crumpled body. A gentle push of his booted foot confirmed what he already suspected: the cyclist was dead. A battered helmet sat near the edge of the road; the bright orange and black ‘KTM’ emblem of the bicycle manufacturer in Austria stared at David accusingly. The longer he looked at the emblem the more he realized he had two choices: he could report the accident to the police and face the consequences or he could clean up this mess and get on with his life.
As he walked back to his car David knew what he had to do. A look at the front end showed very little damage, a small inconvenience he could deal with later. More pressing matters prevailed; first he had to extricate the bicycle from under his car. David sat in the driver’s seat, shifted the car into reverse and gently backed up. After a couple of seconds he could feel the car and the bicycle disengage.
The bike was a wreck but there wasn’t much debris on the road. Retrieving his leather jacket, David wrapped it around the top tube bar of the bike and carried it back to the dead cyclist. Taking a few steps away from the road he realized it would be easy to throw the bike over the edge, making it look like the cyclist had swerved off the road – if the body was ever found at all. He gave the bike a hefty toss and it disappeared into the woods below. With his foot David then rolled the cyclist’s body and helmet down the hill.
David walked back to his car and broke off a low hanging branch from a tree which he used to sweep the road clear of any pieces of glass or metal. Getting back into the car, he turned on the radio and cranked up the volume; his adrenaline was pumping.
“Ok” David murmured to himself. “It’s all gonna be ok. Just one last thing. Got to take care of that little dent in the hood of my car.” David kept driving until he reached a busy gas station. As he drove up to a pump, he intentionally smashed into a metal barrier; witnesses could attest to the fender bender.
David’s decision to flee the scene was fueled by fear and self-preservation. Now as he drove home he felt much more relaxed and confident. He reached for his jacket but it wasn’t there. His face went pale and he broke out in a cold sweat. Closing his eyes he could clearly see his jacket wrapped around the bicycle, his phone still in the pocket, as it made its final descent into the woods.
Four Years Later:
Tom Delaney sat alone at his favorite bar sipping his third bourbon. Life had quickly gone down the shitter a few months ago when he bet big time on a “sure thing” that didn’t pan out. That was one of Tom’s biggest faults; he was always looking for the quick fix, the money angle, whether legit or not. Now here he was, a 38-year-old washed up ex PI with a huge chip on his shoulder, a failed marriage and no money.
When the bartender announced closing time, Tom begrudgingly slid off his stool and made his way to his car. He took Route 718 toward his parent’s cabin which they left to him in their will. With no other known relatives, Tom was totally alone trying to get his life back on track. So far he wasn’t having much luck.
The weather was changing and when the fog rolls in, driving on 718 gets hairy.
He wasn’t on the road very long when he found himself in pea soup conditions. Suddenly a deer appeared out of nowhere and Tom swerved, coming to a screeching stop. After a brief standoff, the deer gracefully bounded down the steep edge and disappeared into the thick woods.
Shaken, Tom settled himself in his car. The glow of the headlights picked up the reflection a shiny object in the thicket below. Being a curious type, Tom drove his car closer to the edge and grabbed a flashlight from the backseat. Gingerly he made his way down the side of the bluff landing on a heavily overgrown outcropping about 15 feet below. He walked around for a few minutes before his foot came in contact with an unknown object; whatever it was rolled a couple of feet away. Tom walked over and crouched down for a better look; the item turned out to be a battered helmet with the weather-beaten orange and black ‘KTM’ emblem of a bicycle manufacturer.
Disappointed that his find wasn’t something valuable, Tom stood up to leave. He took a few steps and heard a strange ‘crunch’ under his Doc Martens. Shining his flashlight on his boot, Tom couldn’t believe what was buried under the leaves and debris.
“Holy shit! A human skeleton!” Tom immediately remembered the helmet. “Poor guy must have ridden his bicycle off the road. Wonder where the bike is?” Tom panned the area with his flashlight. He was about to give up when something caught his eye. “Well, well, what have we here?” Tom moved some leaves out of the way and discovered a fanny pack which he took, clipping it onto a loop on his jeans. Maybe he’d get lucky and find some money in the bag.
Deciding to investigate a little more, Tom eventually came across the bicycle caught up in a large bush. It was a mangled mess, certainly of no value to him; nearby was a moldy leather jacket. Tom snagged the jacket and went through the pockets; nothing. Noticing a zippered inner compartment, he found an iPhone inside. Slipping the phone into his rear pocket, Tom slowly pulled himself up the cliff to his car and drove off. He left the scene with that uneasy, suspicious feeling he’d get while working on a case. Old habits die hard.
Once home, Tom reached into his rear pocket and retrieved the phone he found in the leather jacket. He emptied the contents of the fanny pack onto the kitchen counter: assorted crap, a wallet and an iPhone. “Hmm. Two phones. Why would one person need two iPhones? Maybe two people were there that night. What the hell happened? Was this the scene of an accident or a crime?” Tom’s PI sixth sense was working overtime now.
Both phones were wet. Drying them off, Tom placed the phones and SIM cards into two separate Ziploc bags filled with silica gel packets he had stockpiled. They’d have to dry out a day or two. Next he went through the wallet: $47 which he immediately pocketed, an expired debit card and a driver’s license. The license was issued to Joseph Barnes, 312 Ogden Terrace, Sparta, NJ. – a 90-minute drive from Tom’s cabin.
Tom broke out his own iPhone and Googled ‘Joseph Barnes, Sparta, NJ’; it took a little while as he scrolled down then BINGO! There it was – a missing person flyer dated January 2018. Last known location was Bethlehem, PA – a few miles from the cabin. There was a phone number to call. A picture of Joseph Barnes on a bike holding a KTM helmet smiled at Tom; the same face was on the driver’s license.
While the phones dried out, Tom spent most of the following day at Wind Creek Casino in Bethlehem playing the penny slots with Joseph Barnes’ $47. He was on a roll and left the casino with $100 in his pocket. Tom couldn’t wait any longer and anxiously drove home to see if he could get the iPhones up and running.
He took the phones out of the bags, inserted the SIM cards and turned them on; both phones started up. To Tom’s amazement, neither phone needed a passcode. Checking ‘Settings’ on both phones, he found what he suspected all along: one phone belonged to Joseph Barnes and the other belonged to someone named David Stapleton from Allentown, PA.
“David, David, David. Why were you on Route 718 that night and what did you do to Joseph Barnes?” he thought. Tom realized that after four years David Stapleton could be anywhere with a different identity, job and phone number but there was only one way to find out. After his win at the casino, he was feeling lucky. This could be the big break he was waiting for.
Slipping the two phones into his pockets, Tom drove to his favorite bar. On the corner was an old phone booth with a pay telephone – the untraceable kind. Tom opened David’s iPhone; there were two different phone numbers for him. Tom hesitated for a minute thinking about his days as a PI.
Instinct took over, suggesting he ignore the first number on David’s phone and go for the second one. Tom reasoned that the first number was likely David’s cell number; there was a chance the second number was for a business or a house for David – anything that might provide a clue. It was worth a shot. After all, Tom wasn’t looking to talk to David just yet; all he wanted was a lead.
Tom dropped two quarters into the public phone slot and dialed the second number on David’s cell. The call was answered on the third ring. “Hi. This is David at Stapleton Plumbing and Heating in Allentown. We’re closed now but will reopen at 8 AM. Please call back then.”
Pay dirt! Tom Delaney may be down but he wasn’t out! He’d head back to the cabin and Google Stapleton Plumbing and Heating for an address. But first a little celebration – some pleasant company at the bar with his old friend Jim Beam.
Sipping his drink, Tom could practically smell the shakedown money he’d be raking in. As he drove home from the bar, the ubiquitous late-night fog rolled in. Tom was momentarily blinded by a pair of oncoming headlights and swerved right to avoid a collision. He turned the steering wheel sharply and his car plowed through bushes, bounced off trees, rolled over itself down the steep hill and crash-landed upside down in a ravine at the bottom of the cliff before it burst into flames.
Poor Tom. Just when things were starting to look up. Karma’s a bitch.
A few hours later David Stapleton once again found himself in the clutches of his bedtime companion – the ever-present nightmare. He woke up drenched in sweat and bolted straight out of bed, his heart racing. He felt nauseous and dizzy. Staggering into the bathroom, he grasped the edge of the sink staring at his sweat-soaked face in the mirror.
“How could you have been so callous leaving that cyclist? How have you been living with yourself the past four years?” This wasn’t living, he realized, knowing every day would end with the same hellish nightmare.
David stood in the bathroom and closed his eyes; he could clearly see his leather jacket wrapped around the bicycle he threw over the cliff four years ago, his phone still in the pocket, as it made its final descent into the woods – the same dream that left him screaming in the night, every night, for the past four years. “I can see it now!” he sobbed. “I can see it.”
Overcome with fear, exhaustion and remorse, David walked out the back door of his apartment above the plumbing business. Barefoot and shirtless, he was unfazed by the cold and dense fog rolling in. Blindly he went down the damp rickety steps and walked deeper in the woods behind his apartment – unseeing, uncaring.
Suddenly David felt a searing pain in his chest. Gasping for air, he clutched his arm and fell to his knees, rolling down the wet, moss-covered precipice in the woods. Ten seconds later, David Stapleton was sprawled out in the shrouded morass 30 feet below, dead from a massive heart attack.
Was it a heart attack that killed David Stapleton or overwhelming guilt? No one will ever know for sure. David never knew that with Tom’s death he was completely in the clear of any crime; the only evidence – the phone that tied him to that horrible accident – was now in the jacket pocket of Tom Delaney’s incinerated body.
Tom and David – both dead on the same night a few miles apart – one hunting and the other haunted.
Oh, the irony.
NAR © 2022
TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY
The scream of the alarm clock jolted Tia from a deep sleep. With eyes closed, she reached over and smacked the off button. Slowly rolling her head, she glanced at her dozing boyfriend Andrew.
Feeling her eyes on him, Andrew peeked at Tia and whispered a groggy “morning already?”
“Uh-hum. 6:15” Tia murmured as she snuggled closer. “Plenty of time to…….”
“Fuck!!” yelled Andrew as he bolted from their bed. “I’ve got a 7:00 Caesarian and patients all day!”
Disappointed, Tia went into the kitchen to brew some coffee. When she returned to the bedroom, Andrew was dressed and ready to go. He rushed by her, not even stopping to take the coffee and muffin she prepared for him.
“Gotta run, T” Andrew called over his shoulder. “Catch ya later!” And he was gone. Tia picked at a muffin thinking how mornings like this were becoming more and more frequent.
They met in college and fell in love, sharing their dreams – she becoming a fashion designer and he a doctor. Tia had been accepted to the Fashion Institute of Paris but Andrew begged her not to go until he was in med school. She agreed with the idea and found work dressing bridal shop windows. The job was ok but it was unfulfilling and every time she mentioned studying in Paris, Andrew reminded her of their plans. Now he was a busy doctor and she was still at the bridal salon.
On the way to work she heard that George Harrison song with the line “And if you don’t know where you’re going any road will take you there”. She couldn’t get that line out of her head and the road not taken – the road to Paris. She truly loved Andrew and made many sacrifices for his career. Now it was her turn.
That evening when Andrew got home from work Tia told him they needed to talk. “Let me grab a shower first and I’m all yours” he replied.
When Andrew returned he went to the fridge and poured them both a glass of wine. “Listen T, I known you want to talk but I have something to say. Can I go first?” Tia nodded.
“After all our plans and promises, our dreams have finally come true but there’s still something missing in my life. I love you, Tia. Marry me.
Tia was floored. “Drew, I love you, too, and want to marry you but there’s something missing in my life. What about my dream to be a designer? What about Paris?”
“Paris!? Not that foolishness again! T, forget that road, stay here and marry me.”
“Foolishness, Drew? Foolishness!? You begged me to wait for you while you pursued your dream. If you truly love me you’ll wait while I follow my dream.”
As they stared at each other, Andrew’s pager beeped. He glanced at it. “My patient’s in labor. I gotta go. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
But Tia already knew which road she had to take.
NAR © 2019
BARREN HEART
February 27, 2003
To my daughter:
If you are reading this, I am no longer with you. There’s so much I wanted to tell you when I was alive, so many things I needed to explain but the words failed me. Now I find myself in the early stages of dementia and know this is my last chance to say the words you needed to hear.
You know my life was not an easy one and I learned at an early age to keep my emotions in check. I was always the practical one, keeping everyone and everything in line and doing my duty for the family. If you think I did not realize you cared for your father more than me, you are mistaken. Your father was a weak man and a bit of a buffoon. I was the one who was in charge of the household finances; left in your father’s hands, we would have ended up in the poor house. I was the one who pushed him into getting a job with the postal system; honestly, how can anyone expect to make a proper living as a barber? I know you enjoyed the “fun” times with your father but that just wasn’t reality.
You may have felt that I was stern with you and not a simpering, doting mother; perhaps I was harsh but that’s the only way to raise young girls to become strong women. I never had a care or worried about you because you were the defiant and rebellious daughter, unlike your sister who is too much like me. I think I always knew you would become your own woman and nothing like me. Having seen you with your own children, I know I’m right.
Please know I did the best I could. I did love you even though I never could bring myself to say it. I hope you know that.
Your Mother
August 18, 2009
To my mother:
I’m writing this letter knowing it will never be sent. You’re gone now so who is there to send it to? But some words need to be said.
It was rough growing up thinking I was unloved by you and there were times I hated you for that. For a long time I thought it was something I had done. I’ve learned it was something you couldn’t do – let your guard down and show me love.
My teens years were the turning point for me because I got out of the house and away from you. You know my mother-in-law was a very different type of woman; warm and kind, we formed a bond and I found in her the mother’s love I desperately needed.
How I resented you and your aloofness! What a shame … so many years wasted. Now as I look back I feel sorry for you. Deep down I believe you loved me; you were just too afraid to show it. I’m living a good life, Mother. I have a loving family and we’re not embarrassed or afraid to say “I love you”.
You’re wrong about Dad; I didn’t care for him more than you. I loved him and he adored me even though you kept him on a short leash and told him it was unmanly for a father to fawn over his daughter.
I’m happy to say I’m nothing like you. I hope you can rest in peace, Mother. I will not spend the rest of my life wondering about what might have been.
Your daughter
NAR © 2018
HELLO, GOODBYE
RITA’S STORY
It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Kevin was going to be there. After our breakup, I couldn’t stand being around him. I thought he was a great guy; I was wrong. He was only interested in sex. Kevin never missed a party, a chance to get drunk and hit on me. I wasn’t there long before he spotted me. I turned and headed for the restroom. When I came out, Kevin was waiting…..drunk, leaning against the wall, drink in hand. He stumbled towards me slurring “hey, baby”, pushing the drink in my face. I walked past him but he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the supply room. He spun me around, smashing his lips against mine, tearing at the buttons on my blouse and shoving his hand up my skirt. Somehow I managed to push him off me. Kevin was so drunk, he stumbled and fell backwards. I ran out into the street, gasping as the cold rain washed my body of Kevin’s stink. I couldn’t go to my apartment. Hailing a cab, I fled to the safety of my parents house…..safe from Kevin.
KEVIN’S STORY
It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Rita was going to be there. We had a ‘thing’ once which ended badly….for her. These parties…..I only go to them because it’s expected but they really aren’t my thing. I pop in, make the rounds and take off. I was set to leave when Rita snuck up behind me at the coat closet. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she tongued my ear whispering incoherently. When I turned around to free myself, she pulled me into the closet, fumbling with my belt buckle. Rita was grinding against me, her dress riding up to her waist. I was trapped by a drunken sex machine reeking of cheap perfume and bourbon. This is not how I like being with a woman and I was disgusted. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Suddenly Rita went limp in my arms and crumbled onto a pile of coats. I grabbed my jacket and made a beeline for the door. The air was cold but I knew it would clear the smell of Rita from my clothes and out of my head.
NAR © 2017
The Elephant's Trunk 