CHASING THE SON by Robin Christensen

First Letter

April 1993

Hey Buddy!

It’s your old man. I here your really fucking cool. COOL!!! Hey write back and give it to Darren. He’s okay. You remember him. Thats alright man!!!!! I’m politcal man. yeah your old mans been in trouble but I hear your not so innocent yourself. I like that. Not perfect like Barbara. don’t let her read this or you no what they say. yor ass will be grass because I won’t tell. I won’t let on that I even know you. I know you understand. Hey I love you son. Darren says you and him skip class sometimes to get down and party.

Thats fine but dont let your mom no. And don’t let her fool you if she does find out. Just bring it back to her face. She’ll know what i mean. I can score some weed if you want some. Come over to my pad with Darren when you can. You know any chicks? If you have a girl friend make sure she has class. That’s important in any mans life to have a chick with class. gives a good impression to the other guys. A display of power is what you fucking need. If you don’t that’s cool. you are young but when I was in junior high I had chicks surrounding me begging me if you know what I mean. Then I met your mom in high school. Wow!!! Tobad she changed. Good thing my old lady isn’t here or she’d bitch at me until I put her in her place if you know what I mean. She knows I still care a lot for Barb. She has a place in my life and will always because of you son. Even if she is fucked up she has my protection. you all have my protection. She tries to make my life miserble but she still has my protection. Bitch. You do to man because you are my son. If you need anything, smokes, a place to party anything man just let darren let me know.

XXXX000
Keep strong and free
Big Mike (your pops)

My head hurt and pulsated with every beat of my heart. My chest felt ripped open. In that moment all confusion about my son’s dubious and delinquent behavior fluxed and was beginning to make sense.

Over my shoulder I could hear Mr. Vander struggling to find the right words. “Ms. Holland,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know what to say and even worse, I’m not sure if I can help.” Mr. Vander turned to his custodian and asked if he had ever observed anything out of the ordinary between Darren La Wyn and Mike Shorewill. As I stood watching the two men converse, I excused myself before nearly missing the trash can with vomit. My whole body trembled refusing to comprehend the horror my eyes had just witnessed. Mr. Vander insisted that he drive me home after he called for the nurse who had already left. I managed calmly to thank him for his concern, but I only lived three blocks away; I could walk; I needed to walk, I’d come back for my car tomorrow. I don’t remember walking past familiar gardens and driveways, just finding myself standing at my front door.
I cracked open a bottle of Merlot and carried it to the backyard. My favorite chaise lain where I left it, but unable to feel its usual comfort, I focused on the barber sign pour of burgundy; its essence that whirl pooled inside crystal. I sipped its richness, but for once the usual pleasing aroma dreamed up a flavor of nothing. My thoughts, or lack of them, took focus toward my garden; a place where I could easily lose myself. But not today. Memories took me back to just a week before when I listened to my friends during our Girls-Lunch Wednesday: My daughter is still breaking curfew and refuses to clean her room; Mayra died her gorgeous blond hair black. Yes, but Theresa refuses to finish her first semester of college... I could not share their frustrations. Any comprehension of transgressions so simple was impossible for me to grasp.

Resentment. I felt it crawl through my body as I listened over Tortilla soup, salad, and hot pumpernickel. Away from conversation I wondered where my friends were keeping their heads. I could not own such banal problems. I couldn’t even call those problems. To me breaking curfew or failing math was a matter-of-course in a family with teenagers. Those were not problems, those were blessings disguised as opportunities to strengthen relationships, stories to laugh at years later complete with embellishments, exaggerations, smirks and grins. Years later, on occasion that I did share a memory or blessing, it was met with pity drawn smiles and thundering blows of silence.

Problems find good parents when their good children slip into drug traps. And in one moment, I became one of those good parents. I sought help from friends whose children were of the same age. I quested advice from my parents, grandparents, from teachers, school counselors, child psychologists, other parents who shared similar challenges, and local assistant organizations. I refused to turn a blind eye even when help was met with a plethora of shaking heads and shrugging shoulders. Finally when nothing else worked, I employed help from those whom I believed to have insight: professionals who worked as judicial and law enforcement agencies. What I found was pity, or worse, contempt for my situation and me. My plea for help was met with mute incoherence that screamed from headlight eyes, It’s your fault that your child is messed up. Stay away! You’re contagious. Too many meetings left me drained and sucked into currents of filth with no way to escape. When a glimmer of hope crept into my soul, false promises that required piles of paperwork and unrealistic waiting periods, laughed at my self-assurance.

During the 1990’s, it was almost unheard of for health insurance companies to offer, or cover a portion of costs concerning drug abuse issues. And if they did, the financial burden was enormous. I know because I searched, researched, phoned, wrote letters, borrowed money from credit cards for counseling and more counseling. I begged local behavioral health service centers for information and help. One Drug Rehabilitation advisor suggested that maybe my son would stand a better chance at recovery if I skipped all the nonsense, and spent a mere seven to ten thousand dollars and month on rehab, depending on the program.

As I exhausted all resources, I finally took some well intentioned advice, and sought help from the police and juvenile systems. After a year of their aid I had to look up the word judicial. Needless to say, the common definition lacked any resemblance to what I had encountered. Interestingly enough, I found it’s meaning to be involved with dolling out justice through the process of going to court. So as a parent, when I asked for justice to be dealt, why wasn’t it? My son needed help and he deserved their protection. So why didn’t the cops help me? And more importantly, why didn’t they protect my child? After all, I did the foot work. I had names, dates, and even addresses where one could find crystal meth for sale. They couldn't care less. I was just another hysterical mom trying to blame everyone else for my problems. I wonder still, why do they claim to work within the judicial system. I’m curious. What exactly is their definition for what they do?

I trusted the police and I trusted too many lawyers and judges I met along the way. Big mistake. And because I refused to believe that those people could be anything but decent, I ignored, for a very long time, how I had placed my son in dangerous hands. When I set out to enforce tough love I didn’t realize I was drafting bullies and cowards who hid under robes, inside three piece suits, some in black and tan uniforms. I didn’t know that so many of them secreted behind shinny gold and silver badges; the emblems of cowards who avoid the bad guys so they look tough pushing around children who are visited by trouble contrived by drug pushing ADULTS. They were ugly; the cops, lawyers, and judges. Evil and ugly. They were not interested in protecting my son, but they had little problem protecting the poison spewed by drug selling ADULTS. I suspect that some who hung a shingle were drug toter's themselves. I know some were badge heavy cops who had each other’s back. They were protected; my son was not. In fact he became their prey.

My misfortune and my son’s nightmare, is just two of many. Hundreds and thousands of parents with their children, own a place in the “Drug War.” I’m not alone. My battle housed all the flair and fireworks most families in trouble encounter, but with an added bonus. Beyond the bullies and cowards the main terror - the most despicable pusher of all - the poison pen pal - was none other than my son’s own father and his pedophiling girlfriend. While his passion to sell drugs continued from behind the walls of the Arizona State Prison system, a web of deceit and another kind of terror was being weaved half-way across the state by the demented girlfriend, and her victim? My son’s vulnerable heart.

My suspicions fell on deaf ears; nobody was interested in the truth; not our local politicians, not our judges, and most disappointingly, not even our local police force. Thankfully though, I did have some allies - my mother, who desperately tried to protect me, and my son’s step-father who was quiet and patient while I did what was necessary, my son’s juvenile probation officers, two Arizona police officers (who trust me to this day to keep their identities protected), a California Highway Patrolman, a Southwest Border Alliance agent, and a prison mail clerk who simply had had enough.

HOW'D THAT HAPPEN? by Roberta Sve

I wasn't cut out to be a jailer, I never meant to be one and, as it turned out, I wasn't good at the job.

At three in the morning I said to my nurses' aide, "Come on, Annie, it's time to check room 108."

"Nothing but a drunk," she grumbled; heaving her two hundred plus pounds out of the chair to follow me down the hall. "He's been sleeping it off"

"You know we have to check every two hours."

"Big waste of time, if you ask me. He's okay."

I didn't know if it was Annie's personal distaste for intoxicated people, or if she resisted hauling her considerable bulk to the far end of the hallway more often than usual.

Due to lack of adequate jail facilities in the two small towns where I worked, those picked up for driving under the influence and those who were otherwise found in an inebriated state, were brought to the hospital locked room for an overnight stay. Certain protocols were in place. The officer had to remain until the patient I prisoner was in a hospital gown and determined that the person was not violent. Clothes were removed from the room and the door locked. For the first hour; vital signs had to be taken every fifteen minutes then every two hours after that. Those interventions gave the nurse the opportunity to assess any physical changes in the patient. Is he still breathing? Has he choked? Can he be awakened? And we always entered the room with another person.

Annie somehow reached the room before me and peered through the small window in the door. "He ain't in there," she said.

"Maybe he's in the bathroom."

"Take a look." Annie wore a wide grin, apparently pleased by what she saw.

The heavy window screen leaned against the wall; the bed that was stripped of its bedding, had been pushed to the wall and the end of a sheet tied to its frame. The remainder of the sheet disappeared out the open window. I unlocked the door and went in to look at the escape route. Directly below the second story room was an overhang above an entryway. A second sheet dangled limply, ending a few feet from the ground.

"Annie, go call the police. Tell them our prisoner escaped. I'm going downstairs to make sure he isn't lying injured on the ground."

"How'd that happen?" Annie asked before going to the phone.

"I didn't check the screen. It's supposed to be locked on with a key. Apparently, it wasn't and he figured it out."

A few minutes before seven, the day shift filtered in. One wide-eyed nurse rushed up to me. "Do you know there's a sheet hanging down over the west entry; right under 108?"

"I sure do. Maintenance was supposed to take it down before daylight, but, obviously, didn't do it."

"Lost somebody, huh?" chuckled someone else.

"I lost him, but the cops found him in less than half an hour. Pretty hard to blend in when you are barefooted, wearing a hospital gown."



On a warm summer night there was a big wedding, in the other small town where I was employed, and nearly all the residents attended the reception and dance that followed.

A zealous police officer decided the event provided the ideal opportunity to stop those leaving the party and check for levels of intoxication. He was smiling broadly when he escorted the bride's uncle into the hospital to be locked up for the night.

The officer's prize catch spewed out his anger. "Why didn't you just take me home? What a way to treat a person, I only had a few drinks. Go look for somebody that's really drunk. I'm going to report you, you. . . . Why am I different from any of the rest of the people at the party-go after the whole damn bunch, why don't you."

Unfair or not, it wasn't my decision. He had to be kept, so we took him to the locked room, which I had never used at this facility. I noted the back entry was just around the corner.

Each time we checked on him, he was either sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands, or pacing the room. When it was time for vital signs to be taken, he refused. "Nothing wrong with me, get away." Anger grew as the night progressed. "Damn snot- nosed kid, thinks he's so smart I'm gonua report him." The ranting continued after we shut the door.

About four in the morning we found the door wide open and the patient, prisoner nowhere in sight. But the police called me before I had a chance to report the escapee.

"Don't worry about your patient. He's home."

"Home?

"When Jake drove by in his cruiser, he saw a hospital gown hanging over the porch rail at Randall's house. It's only a half block from the hospital, you know." I didn't know.

"He was in bed sound asleep."

"How'd that happen," I asked the LPN that I was working with. "How'd he get through the locked door?"

She looked a bit sheepish. "I guess I forgot to tell you the door sorta sticks. When you think it's shut you have to give it another little jerk."

"Now you tell me. I had a detox escape at the other hospital last fall. I'm not especially good at this lock up thing. Maybe nurses shouldn't be jailers."

Roberta Sve 2010

Trouble in the Night by Kevin Draper

“Mom, I’m home.”

“Don’t forget to wipe your feet. Where did you get all that junk?”

“Ah, Mom, this isn’t junk. Look, the guy in the grocery store gave me an electric eye. That’s the thing that rings a bell when someone walks in the door. It doesn’t work anymore so he gave it to me. Here is a bag of aircraft relays from the war surplus store. This is a power supply out of an old TV set, and, look here, I got a book of ham radio schematics. This is fun stuff.”

“Well, take it up to your room, and, and do your homework.”

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom in the attic and the experiments began. Cool, when I touch the grid wire on the electric eye the relay clicks. Rewind the TV transformer for 24 volts. This old radio chassis is just right for the power supply and the relays. Hang a fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling and string the wires into the closet where the electronics are hidden. Wire a thumbtack and stick it in the wall. Put the microphone on the floor next to the door. There, that should do it. The nice thing about living in the attic is that you don’t have to worry about spoiling the décor.

Touch the thumbtack on the wall and the lights go on. Touch it again and they go off. “Lights ON!” I commanded. The lights went on. “Lights OFF!” The lights went off. Everything works. This is going to be so much fun. When I enter the room at night all I have to do is touch the thumbtack on the wall and the lights will go on. Get undressed, crawl into bed, fluff the pillow, clap my hands, and the lights will go off. No more turning off the light switch and then feeling my way across the dark room looking for the bed. Just crawl into bed and the lights will respond to my command.

That is exactly what I did on the night of the storm. I touched the thumbtack. The lights came on. I got undressed, crawled into bed, clapped my hands, and the lights went out.

Good night.

As sugar plumb fairies danced through my dreams the storm clouds gathered outside. Downstairs my parents settled down to watch the ten o’clock news. There was a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and my lights came on. Dad could see in the room leading upstairs that the lights were on in the attic. He got up from his chair and walked to the base of the stairs and yelled: “It’s after your bedtime. Now turn off those lights and go to bed!” The lights went out. He returned to his chair. I slept through it all.

Somewhere during the weather report there was a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and my lights came on. Dad got up from his chair and walked once again to the base of the stairs. “I’m telling you for the last time turn off the lights and go to BED!” The lights went off and he returned to his chair.

The football scores were being announced when the lightning flashed and the thunder activated my lights once again. For the third time Dad had to get up from his show. He climbed the stairs cussing under his breath and when he reached the room he yelled: “For the last time go to bed and TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!”

I awoke from a deep sleep into a room bathed in bright light and the sound of someone screaming at me just as the lights went out. My mind groped helplessly for a clue as to what was going on.

He was so furious that he could hardly speak. He pushed his words out through clenched teeth: “Why did you turn off the light right when I was talking to you?”

I was in some kind of trouble and did not know why. In this tense situation the teachings of my moral upbringing came back to me and I answered his accusation with the simple truth. “You turned off the light.” I said.

“I did not turn off the light.” He spit back in a restrained rage.

“But Dad, You are standing next to the light switch. I am clear across the room here in bed.”

“Light switch? I don’t see any light switch.”

I climbed out of bed and walked across the room. “It is right here, Dad.” I curved my index finger and topped it with my thumb as though I were gripping the light switch and made an upward motion brushing the thumbtack on the wall. The lights came on. With a similar downward motion, again brushing the thumbtack, the lights went off.

His jaw slacked open as his eyes searched the wall. “I still don’t see any light switch.” He scratched his head as he started back down the stairs. “Just go to bed.” He commanded on his way down.

It was then that a flash of lightning cast my shadow on the wall. The roll of thunder clearly explained what had been going on. I reached into the closet and turned off my high tech light switch and returned to bed.

Other kids my age got away with murder. I could get into trouble in my sleep.


Kevin Draper 2010

PCH Chapter One by Kevin Draper

The blast of an air horn brought Harold back from dreamland and face-to-face with on oncoming semi. He threw the Harley into a steep right bank avoiding the collision and at the last second aimed the bike back towards the oncoming truck’s left headlight. The expected wall of wind pushed in front of the truck slammed him hard from the left and threw the motorcycle back on track and out of the path of destruction. Harold got a whiff of hot brakes and rubber and experienced an intimate view of the freight carrier’s rolling gear. The truck passed safely by as its trailing wake of turbulence buffeted the tired motorcycle rider.

The Pacific Coast Highway is treacherous because it is beautiful. It is a two-lane highway that wends its way up the West Coast of California and Oregon. It twists and turns through the forests for miles and then emerges from the trees to ride just above the ocean beaches. Here it overlooks cliffs of white and black stone. Rock formations the size of office buildings jut out of slate blue waters hundreds of yards away from the shore. This scenery from another world draws a motorist’s attention away from the business of driving. Highway One is fifteen hundred miles of motorcycle paradise and as dangerous as it gets.

Harold Olsen pulled over at the next scenic overlook to calm his nerves. The bike settled on its kickstand and the rider got off to stretch his legs. He stood a little over six feet tall and pulled off the helmet to free a full head of ragged dark brown hair and reveal a coating of stubble on his chin and cheeks. It had been a couple of days since the last shave. Years at a desk job produced an ample tummy and thin arms but the leather jacket gave the illusion of broad shoulders and a full chest. He was 46 years old and looked younger with heavy eyebrows. Intense eyes focused in a determined look stemming from his resolution to drive a motorcycle over a thousand miles along the coast in the numbing cold of late winter.

The duffel bag tied to the front forks under the headlight released a bundle of cold weather gear. He pulled a sweatshirt and pants over his street clothes and then stepped into the heavy leather pants and boots. The layers of clothing and the heavy boots made him walk like Frankenstein. Then came the leather jacket and the ski gloves. The sweat suit is for insulation. The leather keeps the wind out. You can’t beat leather on a cold day. It felt like his mother had dressed him for school but the warmth was welcome. It was late February and the air was humid and the coastal winds were icy. The sun sank low in the sky and the water began to sparkle.

His mind drifted back to warmer days at the beach near Seattle where he and Carol had lounged in the sunshine and swam in the surf. She would splash around in the shallows and then, escaping from the cold water, run up the beach and plop down on the towel next to him and snuggled under his arm to get warm. They had been married more than twenty years but her cold skin next to his still seemed as fresh as their first kiss. He would give anything to hold her in his arms again and rub his face in her cold wet hair.

They had met at a dance during their college years. He later learned that she was attracted to his roommate and accepted the dance with Harold to make the roommate jealous. While dancing with Harold she changed her mind. The roommate had a nicer car and was suave with the girls but Harold had a sense of humor and an air of honesty about him. During the dance she put her foot down wrong coming out of a spin and threw herself off balance. During the stumble she kicked him in the leg. She was so embarrassed that she clutched her hands in front of her mouth and apologized for her lousy dancing. Harold placed his hands on his hips and professed to her that the purpose of dancing was to have fun. “Are you having fun?” He probed. She laughed and admitted that she was. “Then there is nothing wrong with your dancing.” He corrected. When the dance was over he took her back to her seat and told her that she was really fun on the dance floor.

Married life hadn’t always been a bed of roses. There were deadlines to meet at the factory. There were times when he had to work late into the night, and then rush home for some sleep, then back to work early the next morning. Carol felt that she had been deserted and left with the entire load at home. There were times when he came home from a trying day at work and had to discipline the children because they ate their desert first. It seemed like he always had to be the bad guy with the children.

The seas crashed against the shore and the wind blew a mist of salt water over him. Harold stood gazing at the ocean vista and broke into a smile as he reveled in those memories. He missed the bad times as much as the good.

Life had been rough for Harold lately. It had been a little over two years since the death of his wife. He was an engineer by profession, a mathematician. He designed and helped manufacture airplanes for a living. It was a world of reason and logic where everything could be reduced to an equation and he could always solve the equation. Then Carol became ill and grew steadily worse over the last months of her life. At the time she needed him the most, Harold, the mathematician, the great problem solver, could solve nothing. God wanted her home and logic did not apply. The master engineer watched helplessly as his wife slipped away. In the months after her death endless hours were spent just walking through the Twilight Zone. It seemed like he could stand outside of himself and watch himself do things that Harold Olsen just didn’t do. Letters were written that were never sent. In the morning he would cry in the shower. Even after two years the pain and emptiness had not gone away.

His engineering job, the other half of his life, came to an end last fall. The company ‘downsized’ and offered an attractive severance plan. He took it. Some of the money was used to buy the red and black Harley-Davidson Heritage Special and he set out to see the world. Carol was gone. The kids were grown. There will be other jobs.

The sky was slate gray, the water was navy blue, and Harold watched as white waves broke against the black sand below. A cold wind forced him to take a step back. It was time to hit the road. There were still miles to cover before the next town and a warm bed for the night. He stiffly climbed back on the seat and touched the starter. The mellow sound and the subtle vibration of the engine let him know that there was life below. He let out the clutch and headed back down the road clicking through the gears gaining speed through the cold night air.

There is no one to talk to on a motorcycle; no radio, no cell phone. There is plenty of time to think as the scenery rolls by. His mind drifted back to a WildFire concert last August where they played a new song about a motorcycle rider. How did it go?

Fields of flowers and forests of pine
The air is bathed in fragrance divine.
Burned by the sun, frozen by rain,
Life is intensified, both pleasure and pain.

It had been his first attempt at dating since Carol’s death and he couldn’t remember feeling so awkward or out of place. WildFire was his favorite band and they played all of their best pieces including ‘Road Anthem’. When the concert started the lights all went out and the musicians found their places on the dark stage. One lonely spotlight searched back and forth and then fell onto the drummer. The drummer was just a boy. He looked too young to play in a professional band but seemed confident enough. He held the drumsticks by the wrong end and then, like a juggler tossed them spinning into the air, caught them by the handles, and started to play. There is something primal about the drums. Harold felt the music more than he heard it.

Here the road turned inland and began a long climb toward forested hills. As he gained altitude the road became steeper and the trees taller and thicker. Up in the hills the road began to turn and twist into long graceful banked curves and sharp hairpins overlooking an abyss of treetops. The road banked first left then right inviting more throttle and more lean. Harold leaned into the curves until his inside peg brushed the road. The toe of his boot felt for the rushing pavement to gauge the clearance. The world seemed to rush toward him sideways, the trees horizontal above his head, the road at his shoulder. He held the peg and his knee a fraction of an inch above the black surface until the curve switched and the motorcycle and rider swung like a pendulum to the other side and the other peg touched the road. For miles Harold clung to the handgrips and hugged the gas tank as the world swung and swayed around him. Finally the road straightened for a distance and entered a dense forest.. The broad branches reached across the road and merged into a canopy. He drove through a tunnel of green. The sound of his engine, echoed here, muffled there, made him feel that he wasn’t alone.

As the bike glided along between the trees his mind went back to the time he and Carol had vacationed at Lake Tahoe there on the border between Nevada and California. The winding roads were lined with trees like the one he was on now. The day was ending in a glorious sunset when Carol spotted a ship on the lake that looked like a Mississippi paddleboat and she wanted to ride on it. It was getting dark but he relented and bought the tickets. The cruise spent several hours on the beautiful deep blue lake as they viewed the snow covered peaks, the ski slopes, and the buildings on the shore. After sundown there was dinner in the dining room and then a band and a dance floor in the lounge. Outside he remembered holding her close as they looked up at a star filled sky and down at the reflection of the moon in the water. “Now aren’t you glad we came?” She chided. He gave her a squeeze and admitted she was right.

They rented a room in town for the night and finished the drive the next day. The towns and beaches they drove by the next day took on more meaning because they had seen them from the center of the lake. Harold wondered what he would miss on this trip without Carol to guide him along.

The motor home ahead slowed his progress through much of the rest of the forest. Eventually the highway descended from the hills and resumed its path along the coastal cliffs giving an eagle’s eye view of the ocean below.

The sun was setting and the wind turned cold. He caught a flicker of colored light and movement on the water and pulled over to investigate and rest from the cold. Something flickered again out on the water and he removed his helmet to better see. At first it looked like dragonflies skimming across a pond with their gossamer wings extended toward the sky. But the ocean is no pond and the dragonflies would have to be monsters. He shielded his eyes from the glaring sunset and identified wind surfers standing on their boards and leaning against their brightly patterned sails colored red by the sunset. Just ahead he spotted a pier jutting out into the ocean. He pulled on his helmet and remounted the motorcycle and headed for the pier.

He walked out onto the pier into the sunset and watched the sun touch the ocean. He could almost hear it hiss and sizzle as its bottom edge disappeared below the surface and lit the water on fire. The sky was already a holiday display of red and orange as the clouds, glowing like embers in a campfire, drifted slowly across the sun. The ocean mirrored the colors of the sky and set it to motion with its rolling waves the crests of which sparkled like diamonds as far as the eye could see. Harold stood in the center of the universe.

That night he found an inexpensive motel room at the edge of a small town and settled in for the night. He parked the motorcycle on the sidewalk below the window of his room and unpacked. The room was barely big enough for the double bed and a nightstand but it was everything he needed. He didn’t realize until he crawled under the covers how much the wind, the shivering cold, and the vibration had taken its toll. The tiny room became his cocoon and he soon sunk into a state of hibernation. When the sun peeked through the window he resurrected and packed the bike. He would have breakfast in San Francisco.

He soon approached the bay and its traditional early morning fog. He could no longer see the ocean or the inland hills. He traveled through a perpetual tunnel of mist and rain. The road was a black stripe and a yellow line that soon disappeared into a wall of gray. The road signs on his right were his only clue that he was approaching the Golden Gate Bridge. Eventually a railing appeared on either side of the road and cables extending from just beyond the rails reached into the sky. Periodically steel towers appeared on either side. Harold looked up but could not see their tops in the mist. The ocean below and the ships in the bay were only muted sounds in the fog.

Harold stopped in the Bay City for breakfast. Having satisfied his own hunger it was time to take care of the bike so he found the local Harley-Davidson dealer. It was time for an oil change and to have the bike checked over. The man at the service desk was short and heavy. He was bald on top. He had a goatee that ran from the corners of his mouth ending in a sharp point below his chin. Tattooed on his left arm were the words Live To Ride and on his right arm the words Ride To Live. The nametag on his chest read ‘Speed’. Speed said that since Harold was a traveler they would get started on his bike right away and they should be done in a couple of hours at the most.

He had been in San Francisco many times before on business and as a tourist. This time he was out to see the coast on his motorcycle. That afternoon after the shop was finished servicing the bike and lunch was over he was back on the road heading south. The road took a sharp bend to the left as it entered a narrow canyon and Harold threw the bike into a steep left lean. He cocked his foot out a little on the peg and his toe felt the road surface just before the peg touched. He used the throttle to control the turn.

The cold ocean waters meet the sunlit sands on the shore and the difference in temperature triggers powerful winds. They barrel down the canyons like invisible freight trains. As Harold rounded the bend into the canyon the wind struck him from the left with enough force to stand the bike up straight. He avoided braking in the curve and feathered the throttle and fought the steering to get the bike back into a lean and stay in the curve. You can’t see the wind so it is almost impossible to judge your lean and speed before you get into the curve and once in the curve it is too late to change it. About the time he recovered, the wind shifted and delivered an uppercut from the right nearly knocking him into the on-coming lane. He recovered again and faced the wind head on as the road straightened a little. The wind caught under his visor and tried to pull the helmet off of his head. His head snapped back and it took all of the strength in his neck to keep his chin down as the helmet bobbed and pulled at the strap. He rounded the next curve and an outcropping of rock momentarily shielded him from the air blast. The wind disappeared as suddenly as it had started causing him to lunge to the right. He corrected again but prepared himself for the next blast. As he left the shelter of the rock the wind again hit him just about head-on delivering a blow to the chest that made it hard to breathe. He clung to the handgrips. The fight continued as he reached the bottom of the canyon where a sign read: “Caution Wind Gusts”. “Thanks.” he said to himself. “I never would have guessed.” When Harold pulled into Monterey that evening he looked and felt like he had been in a street fight. He found a motel, unpacked the bike, turned up the heat, and that night he slept with the dead.

The next morning it was time to cruise the town and fill the immediate needs. The town stretched from the beach to the foothills and he drove along broad avenues amid sparse traffic. It was a weekday and most people were at work leaving the streets to delivery trucks and lost souls like Harold. Along the way he managed to find a good breakfast, a Laundromat, lazy tree-lined boulevards, some friendly people, a couple of signs advertising rooms for rent, and now this.



HELP WANTED
HANDY MAN
TEMPORARY DURING REMODELING


Harold stood in front of the South Beach High School and regarded the sign with suspicion. Yesterday’s trip along the coast had been cold and difficult and he had covered barely 300 miles. He had a long way to go but no particular time to get there. A couple of months in a town next to a picturesque beach might be just what the doctor ordered. He could continue his travels when the weather warmed up. He went inside.

The school’s regular maintenance crew was extra busy cleaning up after the construction work in the cafeteria and Harold’s new job was to relieve them of some of the day-to-day tasks around the school. It would only be for a month or so until they finished the cafeteria. By then the weather would be a little warmer. In the mean time all he would have to do is put up with two thousand insolent, screaming teenagers. At least he wouldn’t be lonely.

He looked down at the list: burned out lights, a sticking door, and a broken window. He decided to go after the broken window in room 215 first. It might be a safety problem. He buckled the tool belt given to him by the maintenance manager who had warned him about using sharp tools around the kids, and headed for the stairs. The bell to change classes had rung so this would be a good time to at least get a look at the window if only he could get through the crowd. As he reached the top of the stairs he hugged the wall to avoid traffic, rounded the corner, and smashed into someone who was waiting there.

Arms, legs, tools, books, dark glasses, and a white cane went everywhere as the two people tumbled to the floor. Harold untangled himself and pried himself off of the poor woman trying not to let the position look sexual. He grabbed her outstretched hand and helped her up. When she stood up he could see that she was slim, about five feet four inches tall. This helped explain the collision. He had been looking out over the heads of the crowd searching for a path and literally overlooked this little lady. She was well dressed in a white long sleeved blouse and navy blue slacks. She had long chestnut brown hair and a pretty face with a slightly pointed nose. There was a faint scar that ran across her forehead among the eyebrows. “Scar or no” Harold thought, “this is a pretty woman.”

“Excuse me!” Harold said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“That’s okay,” she said, “neither was I.”

He stooped down and gathered her books and handed them to her but she didn’t reach for them. She looked his direction but did not look at him. It was then that he noticed the white cane on the floor.

“You’re blind.” He said with some surprise.

“Yes.” She said. “Now hand me my cane so I can smack you with it.”

“Here are your books.” He said, putting them in her hand. “I’ll get your cane.”

He picked up the cane, her glasses, and the tools he had dropped and began to put things back in order.

“Are you the new handyman? I heard the tools drop and I don’t recognize your voice.”

“Yes, I just started. I don’t know my way around yet. I was just going to look at a broken window in room 215. I guess that’s the music room.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She said. “We have been freezing in there for most of a week. The birds fly in and the birds fly out. One of them started a nest in the tuba. I won’t say what they did on the teacher’s desk. It’s just down the hall this way. Give me your arm.” He stood behind her and put a hand on each shoulder and started to guide her down the hall.

“No, silly!” She stopped. “Stand in front. Let your right arm hang naturally. I will hold on just above your elbow. I will follow wherever you go. Just pause for a second before you step up or down stairs and watch out so that you don’t run me into anything.”

“Do you go to school here?” he asked cautiously as they started to walk.

“Of course not!” She giggled. “I am the singing teacher here. Blind people have to work for a living too, you know. Go to school here? I am almost forty years old, my man. Say, are you this smooth with all the ladies?”

“No, sometime I run them over completely. I usually leave footprints up her back. That’s probably why I am still single. Here we are, room 215. It’s locked.”

She felt for the key and unlocked the door. “The room isn’t being used this hour or next so I left it locked. You can work in here now if you like. There it is.” She pointed directly at a window with a ragged hole in its corner. The draft through the hole had apparently been there long enough for her to get a precise fix on it.

“What is your name Mr. Handyman?”

“Harold Olsen. And what is your name?”

“Glad to meet you Mr. Olsen. My name is Mary Anne Palmer. Call me Mary Anne.”

“Call me Harold. Mr. Olsen is my father.”

“You’re funny.” She smiled. “Fix my window and I’ll forgive you for the clumsy meeting.”

The window wasn’t difficult to fix. The hardest part was finding where they kept the replacement glass down in the basement. He was careful to take accurate measurements, as dictated by his profession. This was his first time cutting glass but he had watched it done many times. After a couple of tries he got the size he wanted and, once upstairs, it fit perfectly.

As he replaced the calking around the glass the students began filtering in early for the next class. The first was a young man who came in without making a noise. Harold heard a chair move behind him and turned with a start to see a tall, slim, somewhat delicate looking, boy sit down at the drums. He had a mop of blonde hair that looked like his mother cut it under a salad bowl. His clothes hung loose on his frail arms and his pants were a little too long. His face wore a look of intent concentration. He picked up the drum sticks as though he was about to play except that he held the sticks by the wrong end. He absentmindedly spun them in the air several times, sometimes catching them by the right end, sometimes by the wrong end. “That reminds me of something…” Harold started to think, but he didn’t have time to complete the thought.

The door opened again and a taller boy and a dark haired girl, about his same height but somewhat heavier, walked in. It looked like the marines had landed. There stood dogface and the master sergeant. She wore the look of a medieval conqueror and this was her territory. She carried her book like a club and slammed it down on a desk.

“Get away from my drums, you geek!” The girl yelled, stomping towards the would-be drummer. “If you are really nice to me maybe some day I will show you how to hold the sticks.” She grabbed the sticks away. The boy at the drums looked at her and then looked down. “You’re not listening to me!” She lectured. “Get away from the drums! Go fool with something you know how to play with. But, not in public.” She added. Then she turned to her companion and ordered: “Help him to his chair, Steve.” Steve took a menacing step forward and the would-be drummer boy hastened to one of the desks and sat down, staring straight ahead. Steve backed off as a number of other students entered the room.

Harold cleaned off the new window and left the room as the students began to flow in for the next class. He couldn’t help but think, no, it wasn’t a thought, just a vague feeling, that he had seen the little drummer boy somewhere before.

Harold found the work easy and fun. He had always liked fixing things and he worked well alone. He repaired the door lock in room 153. He replaced the leaky faucet and replaced a toilet stall door in the boys’ room in the gym. He put a new light fixture in Ms. Schrader’s classroom. It was just a matter of dodging the students in the halls and planning his work so as to not interrupt someone’s education. In the evenings he explored the town from the seat on his motorcycle, took himself to the movies, or sat in his room and remembered Carol.

Not long after he and Carol bought their first house a gust of wind blew an upstairs window open and smashed it all over the floor. He stood looking at it helplessly. Carol looked up at him and prodded: “You design airplanes with windows and you can’t fix one?” He should have been insulted but the fact remained that she was right. So he took some measurements and went to the local hardware store and got some advice and materials. Then he returned home and replaced the window. Carol’s faith in him had led him to the conclusion that if someone could design and build something he could take it apart and fix it.

Harold saw Mary Anne in the halls every other day or so and often talked with her. It just seemed easy to talk to her and easy to be with her. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

“Be careful with that cane. You are going to trip someone.”

“Harold, how have you been?” Mary Anne answered with a smile. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for fixing my window last week. I appreciate it but the birds are disappointed.”

“Just earning my keep. In fact, I earned enough to treat you to lunch in the cafeteria. Interested?”

“Let-me-think-about-that-for-a-minute-okay-I-guess-so. Take the lead.” She said, folding the cane and taking his arm. “I guess the bologna sandwich will keep until tomorrow. Such a pity, I put on two slices today.”

“Miss Palmer’s got a boy friend!” taunted one of the boys in the hall.

“Yeah,” Mary Anne called back with a chirp. “Ain’t he cute?”

At the cafeteria entrance Harold stopped to describe the scene to his companion. “Welcome to the South Beach High School cafeteria. It is decorated in early stage construction. There is candlelight dining in the corner because the lights are disconnected. That way you don’t have to look at the food, I guess. I see the special today is meat loaf. The clientele is mostly in puberty: wall-to-wall pimples, grease, and vacant stares. There is a couple crouched in the corner. Oh my God, they’re breeding!

“We can sit anywhere you want; I don’t mind the lighting. Their meat loaf is actually pretty good.”

Harold chose an empty table. When they were seated Mary Anne informed him. “Millions of years of evolution prepared this age group for reproduction. In only a hundred years we have created a society that is so complex nature cannot cope with it. In your grandfather’s day an eighteen year old with an eighth grade education could make a decent living, afford minimal housing, and start a family as nature intended. Today you have to have more education than Plato, know more mathematics and science than Newton, and have a bigger vocabulary than Shakespeare in order to earn enough money to buy a cracker box and start a family. We call that progress.”

“You have a point.” Harold said. “I studied in college for five years and worked for twenty years to earn the right to be a hobo. People used to do that for free.”

Harold headed for the food line and when he returned with the tray he sat down and dealt out the food. Then he took her right hand and guided it to the edge of the plate, then the glass, and then the fork. “Very good!” She exclaimed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I replaced a light switch in the library yesterday and found a book called Living without Sight. I figured that as long as I am working in a school I might as well do my homework. Have you always been blind?”

“No. I grew up like any other girl. I fussed with my hair and shopped for clothes. I went to dances and basketball games.”

“I was on the pep squad for a year and a half. The girls would watch each other’s moves and then we would critique our team performance later. By the end of the year we were better coordinated than the basketball players we were cheering. I once offered to show the football captain how to build a team out of all of his show offs and he got mad at me and told me to mind my own business. That was funny.”

“I hoped to meet a handsome man and get married some day. I dated a few of the boys at school. We went to football and basketball games and a couple of dances. I was starting to get serious about one of them, I think his name was David Sheffield, and I even let him kiss me in a movie once. But they were a long way from being men and I was a long way from being a woman.”

“I studied hard in school because I wanted to grow up to be a teacher, maybe, an English teacher. I was good at English. I enjoyed reading books and writing stories. I could spell anything. I can talk a lot too, did you notice? Social studies and history were fun and I got good grades. I stunk at math and science. I always thought a square root belonged to a deformed tree.”

“I was getting ready to graduate from high school, this high school in fact, and was coming home from a party with David and some friends. The driver in our car was sober but the driver in the other car wasn’t. He ran a red light and I went through the windshield. While all my friends were showing off their graduation gowns the doctors were trying to put my face back together. They saved my eyes but not the sight. The blindness was too much for David to handle and we drifted apart. I didn’t date much after that.”

Harold had been listening intently. “So, how does a blind high school girl go on to earn a college degree?” He asked. He remembered how hard college had been for him and he could read the textbooks and drive himself to school.

“I was mad as hell.” Her back straightened and she strangled her fork. “That stupid drunk took away my sight and my high school graduation but he was not going to take away my education. It took almost ten years and a lot of help but I made it through college and became a teacher in spite of it all. I teach music and speech. I am on the committee for handicapped students. Some of the students stay after school and help me read my mail and forms from the principal and such. The kids are fun. Have you always been a handyman?”

“Sort of. When I was a kid I always liked to take things apart to see how they worked. After a few years I actually got to where I could put them back together again. My father used to come home and yell at me because the doorknob fell off when he tried to open the door or the TV was unplugged when he tried to watch it. I got my engineering degree and then went to work for an aircraft manufacturer up north. I worked there for twenty years. The company cut back so I left my job and Seattle and set out to see the country.”

“How did they manage to hire an engineer as a handyman?” Mary Anne asked. “Did you lie to get this job?”

“Not exactly. They asked me if I had experience with electrical wiring and lighting. I told them that I had. I didn’t tell them that it was wiring computer aided control systems and cockpit displays. So far I have managed to pull off the ruse.”

“Hey, shit-head!” came a call from across the room.

“Ah, that would be Sylvia.” Said Mary Anne.

Harold turned toward the commotion and recognized the kids from the music room. Steve headed for the smaller boy who had been sitting at the drums. Steve grabbed the tray from the boy’s hands and threw it on the floor spilling food everywhere. A group of girls at a nearby table began to laugh. The small boy backed up a step and Steve grabbed for him and caught his collar. The small boy took a step forward, taking hold of Steve’s arm and pulled and twisted. Harold lunged across the room and put himself between the boys. The larger boy was obviously in pain and was trying not to show it. Harold sent the bully back to his table and told the small boy to pick up the food. “I know the other boy spilled the food,” Harold said, “But I’m not going to have much luck getting him to pick it up.” He and the boy bent to pick up the food.

“You’re never going to grow up if you don’t eat, Terry.” One of the girls said and they all giggled again. Harold saw the hurt on the boy’s face but the boy didn’t look up from his job. Harold went back to his table shaking his head. He remembered his own high school years. His education was important to him and he had worked hard in school. It had not been the road to popularity.

“Those are the kids I saw in your music class the other day when I was cleaning up after the broken window job. I know the bigger boy is named Steve because the girl called him by name. She seems to keep him on a tight leash.”

“Her name is Sylvia Chapman. I think she is part black widow. If she ever mates she will probably eat him afterwards. If she has children she will probably eat them too. Steve is not her boyfriend in the usual sense. He is insulting to everybody and no one will have anything to do with him. She seems to have a use for him and has him intimidated somehow. He has to act tough to keep her attention.”

“The boy they are after was sitting at the drums the other day when Sylvia and Steve came in. They chased him away. He seems harmless enough.”

“That would be Terry Elmer. He is a good student and kind of quiet. He is new in the school. I’m not sure where he came from. He offered to play in the school band and Mr. McGill has him playing percussion.”

“He hits the triangle or a cow bell once in a while.” Harold chipped in.

“That’s right. It’s not the most glamorous position in the band. Sylvia is the drummer and she is good at it. She takes great pride in the fact that she controls the tempo. Sometimes she deliberately pushes the beat so that the conductor will have to keep up with her. Terry is probably the last person she would allow to mess with her drums. That is her territory.”

Harold looked pensive. “She doesn’t seem to be attracted to the sensitive, intellectual type.” He said. “By the way, old Terry looks a little familiar to me. In fact he looks a lot like the drummer I saw last summer at a WildFire concert. He holds the drumsticks the same way too.”

“What would a professional drummer be doing playing the triangle in a high school band?” Asked Mary Anne. “He must be imitating one of his idols like a boy on the basketball team might imitate the moves of a professional he saw on TV.”

“You’re probably right.” Harold said, but he didn’t believe it.

After work he stopped to eat and think. There were a lot of questions to answer. What am I doing here? Where am I going? He thought about Carol and he thought about the drummer boy and couldn’t make sense out of either. Carol’s death was unwarranted. She was too young and soft and kind to have to suffer like that. Still, everyone dies. The ride back to the apartment was cold and stimulating. There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean and the setting sun colored the western sky a deep orange which reflected off the windows on the east side of the street. Harold was not dressed for the humid ocean air. The air warmed him when he sat at the stoplight and then chilled him when he moved on down the road.

All the way home he puzzled over that high school kid and how much he looked like the WildFire drummer. Several times he dismissed the thought. Mary Anne was right. What would a professional musician be doing in a small town high school? He was just a kid emulating his hero and maybe dreaming of the day when he would be on stage. A triangle playing wannabe rock and roll drummer, no wonder the kids picked on him. Yet, the way he moved when he tossed the drumsticks was unique. Harold leaned the motorcycle into a parking space and lowered the bike onto the kickstand letting the front wheel fall to the left. The headlight fell on the garden wall much as the spotlight had fallen on the stage that night and the memory of the drummer boy came back.

“This is what we in the engineering profession call a hunch.” He said out loud to himself. He couldn’t count the times he had puzzled in futility over a shimmy in an airframe, or a delay in a hydraulic actuator, or an intermittent failure in a control system. He would pour over drawings and probe with test instruments for hours until he was thoroughly confused and ready to give up. Then the answer would pop into his head at the water cooler or in bed that night. Sometimes it pays to listen to that little voice inside. He clasped his cold hands and rolled them together in anticipation. “It’s time for some homework.” He said out loud. He put the bike up for the night and headed for the door. Once inside he stuffed his helmet on the back of a chair and went to the phone.

“Seattle Center information line. May I help you?” It was a woman’s voice with a slight European accent.

“I would like to talk to the person who books your performances.”

“That would be Mr. Jackson.” The voice on the other end replied. “I’ll see if he is still here. Sometimes he stays over a little while to meet with the performers who arrive in the evening.”

After a long wait a man’s voice came on the line. “This is Bob Jackson. May I help you?”

“I think so.” Harold replied. “Do you remember booking a rock concert last August for a group named WildFire?”

“Yes. That was a big sellout in fact.”

“Do you remember the name and number of their booking agent? I would like to get in touch with him or her. I’m doing a little research on their group.”

“Just a minute. I can look that up. Their home base is San Francisco but their business agent is in Los Angeles. I guess it doesn’t matter where your agent is if you are on the road all the time anyway.” Jackson chatted as he looked for the number. “Ah, here it is.”

The next day Harold met Mary Anne outside her classroom and took her to lunch. He may have put himself in over his head and he needed her help.

Seated at their usual table he got right into it. “I talked to the booking agent who handles WildFire this morning and learned something about our little friend Terry Elmer. I may have overstepped my bounds.”

“Whoa, whoa,” she said. “Back up a little. You just called WildFire on the phone and asked how are you doing today and what about Terry. Am I following you? You just picked up the phone and called WildFire?”

“Well, no. I had to call the booking agent at Seattle Center to track down their talent agency, and then find the agent who handles the group, and then play telephone tag for a couple of hours between maintenance jobs to get the lady on the line. But, yeah, I talked to her.”

“You tracked this undoubtedly busy person down like a bloodhound and asked her about a high school kid? I don’t believe you did that.”

“I do this for a living, Mary Anne. If I have an engine mounting problem I will call the manufacturer’s engine division, track down the engineer that designed the damn thing, and ask him what he had in mind when he did it this way and how am I supposed to structure the mounting hardware. He will tell me. It’s part of his job. The talent agent’s name is Marilyn Kelly and she was happy to talk about Terry. She said he is a really neat kid.”

“I can’t believe this.” Mary Anne broke in.

“Well then, you are going have a hard time with the rest of it.” Harold said. “I’ve booked the group to play at this school the first Thursday of next month.”

“What!” She dropped her fork on the floor. “See what you did?” she scolded. “Help me pick it up.”

Harold got up and retrieved another fork from the tray at the end of the food line and continued. “I need to know who in the school system to talk to in order to get permission to do what I just did. Does that make any sense?” Harold asked.

“Yes. No. What did she say about Terry?”

“Terry is sort of a substitute musician for the group. He can’t sing but he can play absolutely anything that makes a sound. He is a quiet, shy, and highly disciplined professional. He travels with the group and if their drum player gets sick he plays drums that night. If the acoustics in tonight’s auditorium are poor and they need another trumpet he plays trumpet. He has been traveling with the band almost from the day he was born, living in busses and motel rooms and educated here and there by tutors. Every musician, talent agent, and sound technician on the circuit thinks of him as family.”

“So, what is this musical genius doing at South Beach High School?” A mystified Mary Anne asked.

“He is twenty years old, although he doesn’t look it. He never graduated from high school. He felt that he had missed a crucial part of his childhood development, or something like that. Anyway, he took the year off to go back to his old hometown and finish high school like any other kid. The group bid him a tearful farewell and they are holding his job open for him. He is here to get his education and he is trying to fit in somehow."

Mary Anne shook her head. “Can you imagine growing up in the professional world, living on the road, moving from town to town, and then trying to fit into this crowd?” She paused with a frown. “But, why the triangle? Why is he in the band playing the stupid triangle?”

“I just don’t know.” Harold said. “But, it turns out that WildFire is on the road this month and next playing towns along the coast. They have rooms booked here three weeks from Thursday for a layover. Then they will be on their way to Los Angeles for a Saturday night concert. Marilyn and I reminisced for a while and one of us got the idea. Why not have them come over to the school and put on a demonstration? Sort of a jam session with the school band.”

“Why, Harold, if you can pull that off they will probably promote you to the boiler room.” She said with a little sarcasm. She hadn’t quite come to grips with it all yet. “Just how am I going to explain to the head of the music department and the Principal that our temporary handyman has just booked a world famous rock band to perform at our school? I mean, the music department and the staff will be delighted if only they can be made to believe such a story.”

“This is a little unusual, I suppose.” Harold admitted. “Marilyn is faxing the clearance form into the Principal’s office this afternoon. It was the only fax number that I could find at the moment. I guess we can go from there.”

“I wonder what Old Miss Pratt, the secretary, will say when she sees that form. I’ll talk to Mr. McGill, the head of the music department, and get him to settle it with the Principal. I’ll tell him that you sort of stumbled onto this opportunity through someone in your hometown. I guess that is one way to describe what really happened.”

“That is the problem with telling the truth.” Harold mused. “Sometimes it is just too strange to believe.”

The Barista by John Coultas

Billy balanced his Sharps .50 across the tongue of the wagon, the wind whipped and swirled the buffalo grass all the way to the horizon. His eyes blurred, he looked away, and then refocused on the sight and further out to the hillock, about a mile distant. Bat slipped in next to him, placing a handful of cartridges at his side. "Quanah still there?" He asked. Billy nodded in the affirmative, not moving his eyes off the hill.

"I heard gunfire in the store." Billy glanced to Bat and then back to the hill.

Bat snorted out a cynical laugh. "Olds had an accident, wife handed him a reloaded riffle, went off, his head is all over the place, take my chances out here, safer."

Billy gave a slight grunt, not moving his eyes...


"Sorry to intrude Mr. Wilson, will you want a refill." Frank looked up to Nancy, tall, thin, dark brown hair pulled back, large brown eyes and a small, neat smiling mouth, with deft hands she swooped up the empty cup.

Frank stretched, covered his yawn with his hand, he looked to his watch and Nancy, he enjoyed every chance. "You'll be open another hour? I get so lost in this. Yeah, another cappuccino would be great" He began typing as she walked away, he grabbed a furtive glance at her swaying hips as she receded across the room.

Nancy was cleaning up. "Almost done here." Frank was completing a few last lines.

Outside Nancy turned the key in the lock, Frank was to her side. "Mr. Wilson, I would be interested in reading some of your work, maybe what you were doing today."

"I'll bring in a copy tomorrow, that be okay?" He offered.

"I was thinking I could go by your place, I could read, we could discuss your work. It is just too noisy, too much activity here."

"Well, sure we could do that." Frank was surprised by her assertive ways.

Frank was sorting through a stack of manuscripts; an open beer was to the side on the coffee table. Nancy was next to him on the couch, sipping on her beer, legs curled under her. Frank pulled out the story he was in search of. "Here's the one, you can start with this one while I'm printing out my latest."

She took the work, flipping through it. "You have a lot of words in you, this and that stack there." She settled back to begin reading. Frank pulled out several other pieces.

"My latest chapter." Frank re-entered the room, dropping the chapter on the table. "Let me know when you are done there."

She turned the last page. "Done." She traded for the new chapter, and began anew.

"Another beer?" Frank asked.

"Sure, almost finished." She didn't take her eyes from the manuscript. "This is fun, got questions when I'm done."

Frank set the beer in front of her, then sat down next to her.

"This is great to see the creative process, you coming in the shop, working there, see the results, kinda special, different, seeing it before it is a book." Words were bubbling out of her.

"What did you think of the story?" He asked.

"Yeah, well, that was the big question." She leaned back, facing Frank. "Why do you do a story that takes place over a hundred years ago, and Texas, Have you ever been to Texas.

"No, I have never been in Texas, and the time period, I find it interesting, as my readers do." Frank rubbed his stubbled chin.

"Shouldn't writers use personal experiences for their stories?"

"Jules Verne, Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien created worlds and creatures that didn't exist. They couldn't experience those creatures, those worlds, they were a creation of their imaginations."

"That's true."

Nancy read through more pages, turned to Frank again. "It's not very P.C., killing Indians and all."

"Stories of war, life and death conflicts allow the writer to show man at his most basic, what triggers action, what brings out the best and worst in human beings. I try to be even handed in the presentation of my characters and events."

"How did you come up with this story?"

"Research, the history of that particular rifle, the Sharps .50 mentioned the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, I found it interesting."

"And this is exactly as it happened." She held up the chapter.

"No that is where literary license comes in. I'm not a photographer or journalist, its not a true picture or news report that we create, I will take facts and characters and embellish them, make the story more dramatic."

Frank leaned forward, straightened the stack of manuscripts. "The artist, the writer are destroyers, one reason they have difficulty blending into society, we observe and put those observation on a canvas or a piece of paper, we use creative license, distort what we have seen, rendering a painting or a piece of fiction with dramatic impact. Pablo Picasso's Guernica derives it's power, it's punch from the distortions of reality. A photograph of the city would have captured but a sliver of what happened there, Picasso shows the horrors of many days and many places in that one work."

"Wow, I never thought of art in that way before."

"The artist, not all, but many are solitary souls; they work alone to be productive as well as from an inability to find those that share their values, their outlook on life."

Frank was on the couch, Nicky curled in a chair, a manuscript on the floor; he stretched, yawned and shuffled to the kitchen. Grabbing a carton of eggs, coffee beans, plates and silver, he set up shop at the kitchen table. Pulling a hand mill from a cupboard, he poured in beans and began turning the handle. Nicky appeared in the doorway, combing her bed hair with her fingers, with little success. She cleared her throat; Frank jumped and gave her a quick appraisal.

"I know, not a pretty sight." She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I didn't say that, it is Einsteinian, everything is relative. I'm glad you are awake, now I can make noise." He poured the half ground beans into an electric grinder. "That would have taken all day." Frank was looking at the hand crank.

She cleared her throat again, looking around the kitchen. "Not what I would have expected, so very neat, organized."

"Let me get you a clean bath towel, wash cloth, sure I have an extra toothbrush."

"Mr. Wilson, Frank..."

"Nancy, you need it."

"Frank, you don't have to be so blunt."


Frank was scooping eggs onto plates when Nancy returned. "Smells good, I'm hungry."

"Sit over there Nancy." Frank pointed with the egg coated spoon. "You look nice, not that you looked all that bad ruffled."

"You needn't remind me." She smiled.

Sitting across from her he poured coffee. "That's a funny little pot; I've never seen one quite like it."

It's a Bialetti, Italian pot; it was supposed to be a gag gift from a friend, bought in a second hand store, turns out it makes a great espresso.

Nancy spooned scrambled eggs onto half a bagel, examined the table and counter. "Tabasco, Frank? She asked.

"That's what I like a woman with spunk." He turned to get the sauce from the cabinet.

She sipped at the coffee. "That does make a good cup, maybe not as good as mine, but good and strong.

"I know better than to argue with a pro." He said with resignation.


Billy Dixon stood, sighted and pulled the trigger, the riffle butt kicked into his shoulder; he knelt down, slipped another cartridge into the breach. Masterson, eyes shielded with his hand, scanned the hill. "Big commotion in Quanah's camp, did you hit someone?"

"If I did it was only luck." Billy stood, rubbing his shoulder, squinting as he sighted on the encampment. "They might be moving back, I don't know, maybe I did."


Frank leaned into his chair, grinning with satisfaction. "Will you have another refill Mr. Wilson?" Frank looked up at Nancy, then his watch. “Sure, an hour to closing?"

He stared, as he had stared so many times before, and then went back to the keyboard.


Billy and Bat stood before the post store, surrounded by ecstatic, shouting buffalo hunters.

"Boy you done it."

"Old Quanah is leaving for sure."

"Let's hear it for Billy."


"Nah, doesn't sound right, sophomoric." Frank commented to himself. Nancy placed the refilled cappuccino next to the computer

"Maybe I could read some more, we could talk again tonight." She suggested.

Frank lifted the cup, steam rising up before him. "I think you are just trying to keep me as a customer."

She smiled down at him.


John Coultas 2010

The Closet by John Coultas

A wood of birch, ash and oak created a canopy over the granite outcrop, the trees being home to warblers, thrushes and woodpeckers. Water spilled from the green, gray and gold lichen patched, rock face, a white froth, cascading over boulders and rotting tree trunks, flowing down and then settling into a broad pool surrounded by cattails and equisetum. Translucent minnows swished their way across the graveled pond bed, while a trout, leaped at a negligent dragonfly, fracturing the glasslike surface and the afternoon calm.

"Aunt Mary, was that a fish?"

Mary yawned and stretched, rolling on her side to view her niece. "I was reading Polly, what was your question?"

"A noise, there was a splashing sound in the pond, was it a fish?" Polly was on her knees, anxious to experience more activity.

"Well, maybe we should explore, perhaps we might spy a fish." Her aunt suggested. Mary took Polly's small hand, leading the way along a rock jetty at the waters edge, they crouched, Mary created a visor with her meshed fingers, Polly mimicked, they stared long and deep into the water.

"Nope, no fish Aunt Mary." Polly tilted her head, giving her aunt a disappointed face.

"Hot!" Mary pulled her scarf from her pocket, padding her forehead, bending low she scooped water with her hands, splashing her face, rubbing the back of her neck. "The water is so cool, so Refreshing."

"Aunt Mary?" Polly asked.

Mary focused down at her; there was something small and shiny in her hand. "What do you have there Polly?"

She held it closer. "Is this the key you have been looking for?" Polly smiled up at her, offering the object. Mary's hand shook as she reached for the key but it was gone, Polly had vanished, it was now, hot and dark. She stood, rotated the handle, clockwise, counter clockwise, she wrenched it back and forth, she pounded on the door, she screamed, "Help me, Help me." She pounded and screamed. There was no answer; she slid back to the floor. Slumped in the darkness, she couldn't see the perspiration, she couldn't see the grit that covered her, she could only feel and sense the damp and dirt.

Mary and a couple her own age were standing before a white, clapboard beach cottage, in the distance a pelican had swooped down, skimming just above the breakers and further out sailboats could be seen racing for their home ports.

"I will be fine; I am going to revel in the isolation, this is my opportunity to finish those last chapters."

Hank opened the door of his new Packard. "Joan, Mary will be just fine, and we can't be late for your showing." Joan slipped into the passenger side, Hank closing the door, turned to give his sister a hug. "We should be back by early Monday."

"I am going to appreciate the sea air and quiet, you two enjoy the city." She waved them goodbye as the car crunched down the gravel drive.

Mary straightened her typewriter on the kitchen table, her manuscript was to one side and her stack of typing paper on the other, a breeze whisked at her neat stacks, she scanned the kitchen counters and then the pantry, returning with two cans of soup, she placed one on each stack. Going to the window she pulled back the sheer curtains, taking in the sun spackled ocean and inhaling the cool breeze with a broad smile. She stood over her place of work, then moving to the stove, filled the kettle with water, setting it on the burner. She commenced a search through canisters on the counter, and then the pantry. A breeze furled the window curtains, followed by a gust that slammed the pantry door shut.

A breeze blew across the harbor, carrying the scents of tar, varnish, fish, and motor fuels. Jim shoved off from the dock and jumped aboard. Mary, her hand on the tiller brought the boat into the wind, the sails snapped and pulled them out, into the channel, passing sloops, cutters, gaff rigs and brigantines, cruising yachts, the working boats, tugs and fishing trawlers draped with nets, plied the crowded estuary.

Mary placed both hands on the tiller, bracing her feet, as they progressed out into the ocean; Jim let out the jib line and Mary the main. A fine spray of salt water came over the bow; they zipped their jackets and pulled their caps down low. Jim, sitting next to her, began whistling, and pulling a leather pouch from his pocket, extracting a pipe, which he filled with tobacco.

"I'm glad you only smoke on the boat, indoors it would be intolerable."

"My dear, our accommodations, one to the other is what makes us such a smashing good fit." He responded with a flourish.

Mary had bent down to avoid the smoke. "Why is it Jim you smoke that, it doesn't have a pleasant aroma, some tobacco does, but not that one."

He shifted to the other side of the cockpit, his smoke drifting away from his mate. "It is all about family tradition, the same brand my father smoked, as did his father." He puffed away. "Breeding and tradition go hand and hand as you so well know. A sail just wouldn't be a sail without a pipe."

"You don't inhale; I know you don't enjoy it..."
He gave her a good scowl. "Now you have done it, you have ruined my smoke."

"I will never understand!" She shrugged.

He tapped the pipe against the rail, clearing the bowl. "Quiet, we don't want the tradition gods to hear such blasphemy, you missed the point, my father always smoked on the boat as did grandpapa, Captain James must carry on."

The sails began to luff, Jim leaned foreword to view the jib. "Let's tighten her up." They began pulling their lines in, the boat heeled into the water the railing submerged, Jim shifted back to Mary's side. Jim nodded, "Mary, without tradition where would we be, the world might fly apart for all we know." They both laughed.

"Ad hoc ergo praetor hoc." Mary intoned.

"Precisely, I don't smoke the pipe and a huge hole might develop in the hull, then where would we be." Jim was running his tongue around his mouth, making a sour face. "Maybe I should give it up; food just doesn't taste right afterwards, burns my mouth." He massaged the pouch in his pocket. He bent down to get a sighting of the horizon. "Storm clouds to the east, we better take her in." Mary pushed hard on the tiller bringing the bow around. The winds began to strengthen and the swells became deep troughs.

"Jim you better take over." Mary suggested. Jim took the helm, he stood to better observe the waves that began to break over the small cabin, Mary held tight to the wood railing. A squall enveloped the boat, pelting them with a heavy rain. Water was soaking through their jackets and clothing to their skin.

"Water, water." Mary lay on the floor, stretched out, semiconscious, mumbling. "Water, water."

"Where should we go for dinner?" Mary asked.

"Dinner, is it that late?" Jim had his arm over Mary's shoulder, his chin resting on her head; he eyed the window and the twilight sky beyond. "Do we have to eat?"

"Yes we do, if we try later everything will be closed. Our last dinner needs to be special."

"Sh!" He has returned his chin to the top of Mary's head.

"Don't sh, me!" Mary frowned.

"This is the way I want it to be, just us."

"It will be us always." She leaned her body into his embrace. "We will go down to Luigi's and then work off dinner with a walk to Washington Square." Mary insisted.
Jim pulled her closer sniffing her hair, lightly kissing her lips. "Signore Luigi's it is." He agreed.

"Maria and Signore Jim welcome!" Luigi called out from the kitchen door, and across his crowded dining room.

Jim had a malicious grin on his face as they seated themselves, Mary scowled at him. "Luigi, how are your Yankees?" He questioned.

"They break my heart, those Yankees. My Joe, Joe DiMaggio, he knows how to hit, that boy. Fourth place they are in, break my heart." Mary picked up her menu, shaking her head, Jim smirked.

"Here, we stop right here." Jim demanded, with a laugh. They sat at the edge of the fountain, the lighted arch at a distance.

Mary's teeth chattered. "I should have known to bring a heavier coat." She pulled it tighter, Jim putting his arm around her. "Who's going to take care of me while you are gone?"

"You will find someone." Jim gazed down at her. "You promised no tears."
She wiped at her eyes with her hand. "I'm trying."

A gray dawn entered Mary's apartment window, she stirred and whispered. "Are you awake?" Jim's arm was draped over her, his hand resting on her breast.

"I couldn't sleep." He moved closer to her. "I wanted to soak in every moment with you, the sound of your sleep, your warmth, your softness." Jim explained. Mary turned and kissed him. "There will be time to sleep on the train." He said. She kissed him again.

"I want to go with you, down to the station, to see you off." She pleaded.

"No, this is all I ask, right here, this is what I want us both to remember, this is what will get us through our separation." They kissed and sank deeper into the bed.

Mary stood at her window, viewing Bleeker Street below, only a few cars passing in the early morning hours, tires sloshing water from the morning rain, a young man in military uniform waited at the curb, his duffel at his side, a taxi pulled to the curb, Jim glanced up and waved just as he stepped into the cab.

Mary smiled at Ben, any elderly gentleman, gray spider like eyebrows, clothed in tweed; his chair squeaked as he leaned back, he sucked on the well worn stem of his pipe. "You smiled." He observed.

"Your pipe, made me think of Jim. Yours has such a pleasant aroma, Jim's is noxious, smells like burning trash or something equally vile" She commented.

Ben moved a stack of manuscripts to the floor. "And how is Jim?" He asked.
"Convoy duty is repetitious, they haven't been involved in any action, and being a junior officer he is assigned the jobs no other officers want to take on. He does feel that his men respect him."

"The Canadian military probably is no different than the American. I saw duty in Europe for the war to end all wars." Ben emits a gruff, cynical laugh. "The peace is probably what brought this on, laid the German's so low, and devastated their economy and self respect. We made it possible for a madman to become their savior."

He shook his head with disgust. He reached across the desk. "What do you have there Mary." She handed him a thick manuscript. "Is it good?" He smiled. "Of course it will be excellent; I know to expect the best from you."

"That is only the first half of the novel, by New Years I should have it completed. Not good timing for publication." She settled back in her chair.

"Next fall I'm sure that we will have it in print and bookstores will have difficulty keeping it in stock." He pronounced.

Mary took a shortcut through the park; the oaks, the yellow locust and ash were aflame with their fall colors. As she passed the fountain a young couple sat hand-in-hand, looking off to the arch, light from the declining sun painted the surfaces and angels with a reddish-gold hue. The wind swirled leaves at her feet, forcing her to turn her collar up, her bag swung at her side. Her gaze moved upward to the darkening sky, drops of rain splashed against her face, she lengthened her stride.

Mary darted into Luigi's, out of the rain, hanging her overcoat and sitting at her favorite table. "Good evening Luigi, Cinzano Rosso please." Luigi placed a menu on the table in front of Mary, she picked up her mail, began sorting through the envelopes, one caught her attention, she hesitated, and then took a knife from the table, slitting it open. The letter shook in her hands, her head dropped to the table her shoulders shaking. Luigi rushed to her side, placing his hand on her arm.

"Miss Maria, what is wrong, how may I help you?" Luigi implored.

Mary looked up at Luigi with red, tear-filled eyes, responding, "I'm sorry." She rushed from Luigi's leaving her mail scattered at the table.

Luigi glanced down at the open letter, with sadness he faced his wife uttering, "Signore Jim is dead."

The door slammed behind Mary she pivoted in the dark, trying the handle it turned, she pulled, there was no give. She let the handle go, she tried again, the door just wouldn't budge. A bit of force maybe, she put her shoulder to the effort, no give. Stepping back she paused. "Huh!" She said to herself. Inhaling a deep breath she tried again with no success. She surveyed the door hardware with her finger tips, finding a keyhole. "So, if we have a lock maybe we have a key in here for such accidents." She muttered. Placing her hands on the wall she methodically covered the surface from floor to, as high as she could reach. Both sides of the door were searched, nothing. She twisted to face the shelves of canned foods, and canisters of sugar and flour. "You don't hide this sort of key. Joan what have you done to me, damn." She shouted.

"Joan, it is just so daring, so avant-garde. I will send Michael around to purchase that little one, you know, the one with the yellows and blues." This was from Mrs. Winnie Van Demeer, the grand dame with too much makeup and too many jewels.

"Do let Grace know, she will reserve it for you." Joan was forcing an insincere smile. The dame in question strolled away leaving a wake of perfume.

Hank nudged Joan, whispering, "She didn't understand any of your pieces, just wants to make a show of her good taste."

"Don't complain Hank, we will now be in a position to payoff that new car of yours." She smiled.

"Before you ask, I found it necessary to invite her to the party."

"God, how dreadful, she'll keep us up all night drinking and telling about her latest affairs." He sipped at his drink with no enthusiasm. "Such a bore!"

Mary had searched through the pantry, everything was caned with the exception of two canisters, one of flour, the other of sugar, she daubed at the sugar, then the flour, it made a thick paste in her mouth. Mary twisted in a coughing spasm, her elbow knocking the flour canister crashing to the floor, a cloud of dust enveloped the cramped space; she covered her face with her hands to filter out the befouled air. She coughed, choked and sobbed, again yanking at the door, pounding against it with her head.

"And there we were at the Metropole, he is just too demanding." Madame Van Demeer winked, the one with the jewels. "He demonstrated his expertise at the baccarat tables as well."

"With the war…" A young fellow attempted to insert.

"Tsk." She wanded the air with her beringed hand. "What is this little conflict to me? Michael, maybe a new young fellow will accompany me to Monaco, perhaps the Riviera this season. One never knows." She laughed with hauteur.

Hank was leaning against Joan; both were half asleep, glancing at his watch. "Five o'clock." He yawned. "This party is over, and she is unfazed." He leaned Joan back against the couch, standing with effort and a wobble. "It is with great sadness that I must adjourn this session of our drinking society." He announced with an air of professionalism.

"Oh pooh, and I was just warming up." Mrs. Van Demeer patted her sagging face with a lace handkerchief.

Hank pulled and tugged attempting to get his shoe off. Joan observed his strenuous efforts. "You might want to untie your laces first dear."

He stared at the laces, and began undoing them. "Never again Joan, never." He insisted.

"Hank, that's what you say every time we have one of our soirees. Come here and unzip me."
Hank grumbled as he thumped his way to Joan's side of the bed, one shoe on one shoe off. "I mean it Joan, never."

"My next showing could pay off the mortgage." She commented.

Hank pulled off his other shoe, he was focused off into space, he swiveled to face Joan. "Well, maybe just one more. I almost forgot, Judge Holbrook has invited us to his farm, it's on the way home."

"Not the stuffy old Holbrook's, she is so opinionated, and she will give me a tour of her begonia garden for the umpteenth time, and he is such a dolt. Hank, Mary was expecting us early Monday afternoon."

"Keep in mind, that old dolt is my beloved boss you are denigrating. Mary will be fine, she is resourceful." Hank insisted.

"Well, if you think so dear." Joan was unconvinced.

"She had those chapters to complete. I'm exhausted." Hank yawned, and threw his fully dressed body to the bed where he fell off to sleep.

Polly was using both hands to squeeze the flour sifter, there was a spot of flour at the tip of her nose, and her apron had a thin sheen of the white dust. "This is hard Aunt Mary." She put down the sifter, shaking her hands.

"Yes it is Polly." Her aunt responded. Mary was cracking eggs into a bowl. "I'm done with the eggs; do you want me to finish the sifting?"

Polly exhaled a deep sigh. "Yes Aunt Mary, I think you should!" She took a fork and began poking at the egg yolks.

"Why don't you beat those eggs for me Polly?"

"Do I have to?" Polly whined.

"You do, if we are to have this baked for our picnic."

"Well I guess so." Polly began whisking the eggs with the fork.

"I'm full Aunt Mary." Polly heaved a sigh of satisfaction and lay back on the picnic blanket, her small hands patting at her stomach, staring at the sky. Mary began packing plates and utensils in the hamper.

"And what did you enjoy most Polly?" Mary asked as she closed the basket.

"Well." Polly was deep in thought. "I would have to say the fried chicken, hmm, but maybe the biscuits and honey. To be honest Aunt Mary it was all just so yummy." Mary smiled down at her niece who was closing her eyes, and began breathing deeply.

Mary pulled a notebook from her tote bag, jotting thoughts, sensing the cooling breeze, and observing the movement of the trees, and the song of the lark in the upper reaches. She leaned back to let the sun warm her face.

A shadow crossed over her, there above her was Jim inspecting the scene. "What are you doing here?" She smiled and asked.

"I came to see my girls. It would appear that Polly enjoyed her lunch." He sat down next to Mary, glancing at a sleeping Polly.

Mary opened the basket. "We left you some chicken and one or two biscuits, Polly always enjoys the biscuits."

"They feed us well on the ship, I didn't come to eat, I needed to be with you, if just for a short time, I'll have to get back." He placed his hand on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him, they murmured, sighed and kissed.

"How is it Jim, the ship?" She released him to take him in.

"It is a good crew, good officers, my men work well together, maybe we are just resigned to what our mission is. Cold and damp is the only complaint, constant fog, clothing just doesn't keep the cold out." He rubs at his chin.

"You seem thinner Jim, pale."

Jim was watching activity down the hill, something cought his attention. "Skipper's down there, he's calling me back." Jim studied Mary for a moment, they kissed. "I'll be back." Mary watched Jim march down the hill with military bearing.

Mary called out. "But Jim, when will you return for good." Staring up into the darkness of the pantry she asked, "When will you be back?"

Mary was lying on the floor, covered with flour dust, her breathing labored; she rolled to her side, rose and once again tried at the knob, her head hit against the door with a hollow thunk. She began to unbutton her blouse, and removing it, with care she attempted to brush off dust and wrinkles, placing it on an open shelf. She then removed her skirt and repeated her efforts. She returned to the floor, lying with her mouth and nose to the gap at the threshold, breathing in a thin layer of untainted air. Her hand brushed at perspiration running down her neck and between her breasts.

Jim was leading Mary into a waltz amongst a very staid and proper gathering, a country club crowd. He had a broad smile, Mary was suffering. "You are the most beautiful woman here, smile." He complimented. Mary responded with a sour squint.

Mary made a point of scanning the room. "I don't believe there is a person in this room I would want to bring into my circle of friends, nor attempt to converse with."

"Moi, you are including me." He responds with mock hurt.

"No Jim, not you. This is not the way I want to live; these are not the people I would share my thoughts and feelings with. And as for beauty, that is very thin, as with effervescence it too soon vanishes"

"Mary, you know I meant the inner you, your mind, that is what I find exciting, attractive about you."

"Well you better!"

He had his broad smile again. "Now what?" She interrogated.

"Will you at least let me enjoy the effervescence while it is with us?" His attempted compromise was accepted with a slight twinkle in Mary's eyes. They swirled off into the crowded floor.

The lights from the Packard played across the front of the cottage. "Strange." Joan commented.
Hank steered onto the drive. "What's that dear?"

"There are no lights on inside the house."

"Mary might have gone to bed early." He responded.

"Knowing Mary she would be up all night working on her book, odd." She frowned.
Hank pulled the car to the end of the drive. "Mary!" Hank called out to his sister as he flicked on the kitchen light.

Joan observed the table, typewriter, manuscript and paper all neatly arranged; she looked to the sink and stove. "Hank, there is something terribly wrong here. "Other than this," She pointed at Mary's work area. "And the kettle on the stove, nothing has been disturbed; everything is as I left it."

"I'll check the guest room." Hank offered, as he ran from the room.
Joan took the soup can from atop the manuscript and walked to the window, viewing the phosphorescent breakers and then refocusing on the kitchen as Hank rushed in. "She never unpacked." Hank blurted, out of breath.

"No! The pantry." Joan shouted. "Hank, get the key."

Hank fumbled with a collection of keys on a wall rack, raced to the door, unlocking and pulling the door open, Mary's crumpled, soiled body rolled out onto the kitchen floor. She swung her floured hand to shield her eyes. "Light." A soft exhale came from Mary.

John Coultas 2010