Part 1: Old Saloon in a Street of Mud

Drops of rain bounced fiercely off the brim of my knackered old hat, dampening out any chances I had of hearing the crisp steady sounds of Johnny Stud, a young traveling fiddler from Arkansas who happened to be skipping to his upbeat tune inside the saloon I had now stood in front of. After two days of travel, my mouth was dryer than the Texas summers I had experienced as a boy, and tonight I fully intended on drowning myself in the warm clutches of the cheapest Tennessee Hooch they offered, either until I lost consciousness or when the bar keep, Mr. Silverstein, closed the bar doors locking me out for good.

The Gatlinburg mud stained the lower third of my elongated coat splashing against me in a fanfare of thickening muck, and I preferred it that way. I finished hitching my horse and was sure to double wrap the lead, then turned toward the yellow hue illuminating from the windows of the Black Forest Cantina. The end of my night hastily invited me in, however with much control, and no reason to rush, I realigned my lower back. I made sure to adjust my six-shooter while I snapped my waistband back into place and tightened down the straps.

Navigating up the stairs to the saloon I dipped my head underneath the sheet of water converging off the edge of the roof. Each droplet drilled a shallow ditch further into the ground forming along the perimeter of the porch. A wife and her leather-faced husband exited the bar tripping over one another. The man barely kept his legs under himself as most of his weight lay over her shoulders. She struggled to drag him toward his horse, yet somehow remained composed and ladylike in their oddly choreographed shuffle. I nodded to her.

“Ma’am.”

The responding scowl on her face carried the weight of years of embarrassment he must have burdened upon her. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence, and would be willing to bet he will be sleeping in the barn tonight with the cows, provided she managed to get him home. I sparked up a match, then flicked the remaining ashes off my previously half-smoked cigar, and forced the embers into an orange glow. A strong draw eventually illuminated my tangled beard, and thick musky smoke filled my mouth. I held it in for a moment dropping a shoulder into the porch post. My gaze followed the disorderly couple on their way home, and arguably well on their way to a divorce. I exhaled a cloud of relaxation into the air above me, watching it dissipate similarly to the way their silhouettes faded into the darkness, as they dipped into the shadows behind the general store.

Occasional hoots and yips from the patrons jarred my attention as the drunkards danced and sang to the ditties that Stud played inside. His fiddle stick kissed the strings quickly and witty, but not too complicated to follow, and carried a somewhat repetitive locomotive sound that chugged along and was accompanied by the clashing of the emptied glasses filling the room. It was a lively welcomed contrast to the isolating July monsoon I had just endured, having trampled through the mountains from Hot Springs, sixty miles northeast of here. A good stretch, a warm drink, and maybe a little attention from a widower looking for a few coins, would be all I need to set me up for another few days on my trip to Chattanooga.

With my cigar clenched in my teeth I shook off my coat, kicked any loose mud onto the floorboards, and folded my jacket over my arm. I then pushed my way through the folding doors to enter the Cantina, a regular stop for me when I came through. Somewhere in the corner of the bar, I spotted a stool that was close enough to the alcohol yet offered a view of the room that did not infringe too much on my security. Trust me, when you are in as many bars as I am you appreciate having your back to a corner. I sat down, jamming myself between a balding loud-mouthed fat man, and an unwashed tattered mess of a woman who was passed out in her vomit on the bar. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the worst place I stopped to have myself a brew.

The inside of the place was well-lit, centering around two large Chandeliers equally spaced above a somewhat-impressive main room, and stretching to the top of a lofted ceiling. The remaining light was accented by enough wall sconces you could lose count of. There were five dedicated gambling tables, three filled with poker players, and two occupied by dedicated blackjack players. Each was scattered among a dozen regular patron tables filled with mainly fur trappers, lumberjacks, and soot-laden miners. Everyone was attempting to strike it big, or at least enough to have a free night of partying. The place was dingy at its cleanest. A haze from the burning tobacco mixed with the gas lanterns on the walls filled the room. A hard-working musk punched through the air and lined the inside of my nose. It was the smell of a strong respectful work ethic combined with a lack of regular bathing. It was my kind of place and my type of town.

Johnny Stud romped his feet in the corner of the main room in unison with his infectious tune. The crowd followed suit. Some tapped their toes, a few nodded their heads, and the rest were slapping their hands to their thighs. They all seemed unknowingly hypnotized by his music as they shared conversations from across their tables. Stud was elevated above the crowd on a single-step stage tightly tucked away in front of a small piano. Reaching tall behind the stage was a staircase leading to an open-lounge loft that towered over the establishment, and accessed a series of rooms along the back perimeter of the upstairs. Roughly a half dozen saloon girls were working hard to get free drinks, attempting to acquire any extra cash however they could. They all pretended to be drunk, flirted robustly, and sat across the laps of what appeared to be wealthy businessmen. An experienced stout woman walked into my view leading a man up to her room, the fifth door from the top of the stairs to the left. They disappeared for a short while, then re-emerged. Their clothing was more frazzled and out of order than when they entered. One had become a little richer, and the other, of clearer mind, but both were satisfied when they parted ways.

My scanning of the room was interrupted by Mr. Silverstein.

“What’ll you have?”

I pulled my gaze away from the room.

“The cheapest dark you got”

He reached under the shelf and fumbled around for a bit, but finally came up with a full bottle, mainly untouched, of an unknown whiskey. His eyes widened with unsure followed by a shrug of his shoulders.

“Just imported from Kentucky, cheapest I got. Double for a nickel?”

I was reluctant, but when I patted my pockets, I was quickly reminded of the lack of funding I had brought with me, and ultimately caved to the inferior alcohol.

“No Choice I reckon. Keep ’em coming.”

Part 2: Dirty, Mangy Dog

A couple of drinks in and the warm welcome of the Kentucky mountains flooded through me. Though not hugely impressive, they made a stronger drink than I had initially assumed. Feeling more relaxed, entirely bold, and a little lucky, I slammed down another nickel.

“Filler ’er up Thomas.”

Mr. Silverstein shot me a stern glance over the top of his glasses while he filled my cup. The edges of his fluffed mustache provoked into a curl and met the bottom of his nose as his lips pruned together into a scowl. He never liked using his first name outside of his tight-knit circle. Hell, I guess I never did either, and knowing that I flourished a rise out of him, I put my hands up, waving them in submission, accompanied by a light-hearted chuckle. I leaned back into my chair choking on my smoke.

“Sorry, Sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curled with a grin slightly while he waved his pointer finger toward the tables.

“Go lose your money on one of those tables or find something to do, you grungy bastard. Just get out of my hair”

He snickered a little, while sauntering to the other end of the bar, and began wiping a disorderly mess left behind by the last rowdy customer. I turned toward the room unsure of which table I would decidedly join.

The room fell quieter than before as the Alabama man stopped playing, yet the patrons maintained a vibration throughout the room engaged in their hearty conversations. The echo of a fiddle being rested against a chair only caught the attention of a few. Then Mr. Stud made a short announcement to the room.

“I’ll be back after a long piss and a much-needed refill.”

A couple of cries in support of his chosen lack of sobriety sounded, while he stepped off the stage nodding to the house piano player who walked past him to take his seat at the keys. He started to fill the musical void by playing a local favorite, Maple Leaf Rag.

“You gon do sumtin, or just sit der lookin’ like a foo?” interrupted the loud-mouthed fat man adjacent to me.

He was barely awake, struggling to stay upright, and swaying within the ocean of his alcohol-filled gut. He misted the air around him as he talked as his lazy gut spilled over his unbuttoned pants, and jutted out below his stained shirt. I leaned back to avoid the cloud of spit shooting in every direction. With his current state, I refrained from responding, but I pondered as it had never occurred to me in all my observations that others could be watching me too. Perplexed with this thought, and unsure of how long I had been sitting there staring at the room, I rose out of my seat pushing past the sloppy drunk toward the room.

With a drink in my hand and some money to lose, I sat down at the first available seat that would deal me seven cards, and was lucky enough to have a good view of the stage. Completing the circle at the table among four other men, I threw down a few coins to buy into the next round. I scanned my competition while I got comfortable adjusting my seat. To my left donning a grey vest with matching slacks was a slick and orderly man who rose properly in his chair, and carried himself differently than most others in the room. Even well into his glass of Gin, he spoke with an educated vocabulary, and a sharp tone grabbing the attention of everyone at the table with each word, indicating to me he was either a traveling salesman, a lawyer, or perhaps worse, a politician. To my right sat two other men, both similar in build and age and as filthy as the ground I walked in on. It was apparent they made attempts to wash their faces and hands, but the soot and crud stained their skin regardless, with a dull and dead appearance. It was also evident that they had just come straight from work to be here and I assumed they were spending their entire day’s wages at this table. They could have been railroad workers, but I was certain they were miners, especially from the consistent coughing and occasional black tar that accompanied their spit. Just like many young bucks before them, these two seemed to be friends. They had most likely come from the same small town, working hard to make a little extra coin for their families, before the long treacherous winter came. Sharing a few jokes and joining in some laughs they kept their presence to a minimum.

The fifth man at the table was a bigger man who sat uncomfortably bent with age. He began dealing the cards out for a new round to each of us. His crooked fingers grasped the deck revealing his onset arthritis. Though, he moved more fluidly than one would expect with thickened and twisted knuckles. He managed to keep his head hidden under his tilted hat conveniently casting a shadow over his face. I figured it was his way of disguising his poker tells and creating a sense of mystery for those he played. It worked. Breaking me from my table read, he stopped dealing, and with a sudden poke of his brim, he flicked his hat to the top of his forehead to speak to a saloon server girl passing by. He leaned into the light turning toward the girl which illuminated a long and prominent scar on his cheek. It seemed quite familiar to me. He pointed at his empty glass and groaned out a few gritty words.

“Another one, ma’am.”

He flipped a coin unnecessarily high into the air above her. She followed it as if she was a cat tracking a bird, and snatched it carefully with both hands out of the sky in a similar feline fashion. Though most girls were happy to receive any money they could, her jutting chin followed by an obvious eye-roll suggested a mild irritation, as she walked away. The large gray-haired man turned back to the table passing out the remaining cards to the rest of us, but a shimmering light passed over an unmistakable evil eye. I could not help but glance more than once. I was transfixed; Hypnotized. His distinctive squint was maintained by a raised boney cheek. His scar reached far up his face to meet the bottom of his curled and arched brow. I slowly shifted my weight in suspicion and began opening my jacket. I fumbled through my pocket for a worn-out picture my mother had given to me many years earlier. My arm extended in front of me pumping with anticipation as I squinted for my final confirmation. All the men’s eyes around me shifted from their cards in my direction. In these parts, it was just as unusual to have a photograph in your possession as it was to be interrupting a poker game bizarrely holding one up in front of you. Therefore, I scored two, for oddly capturing the sole focus of the table, on me. In almost perfect coordination with the building pressure, a well-refreshed Johnny Stud entered the stage for his second set of the night. He picked up his fiddle and started in right away, stomping the hardened wooden stage, and sending shockwaves through the floorboards throughout the room. My heartbeat had already been slowly increasing but quickly increased to match his new intensity.

Before my eyes, I had the picture on one side; the old snake of a man in front of me on the other. I held it for some time, but my hand eventually lowered to the table allowing a raw and unblocked view. He stared back at me confused, yet lacked any intimidation or worry.

“You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

The tension had broadened to the rest of the room, and the men at my table all moved away from the anticipated ring of fire about ready to take place. I abruptly stood up tumbling my chair behind me, leaned over the table, and flicked the picture into his chest. I knew without a doubt, that I had just found my father.

Part 3: Growing Up Quick and Mean

Perhaps my father was not of right mind, or a fair amount of alcohol abetted him the night I was born, but without explanation, on November 15th, 1855 I was named after my great-grandmother. Though this is the origin of my pain, my bastard father managed to compound a series of bad decisions when he abandoned my mother and me, only three years later. I was cursed for the rest of my life. He left nothing for us; no money, no food, and certainly no fatherly guidance for a growing young boy. The only thing my daddy ever left us was an old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Growing up was quick for me. I became a man without knowing how to be one, and much earlier than most. I fought almost every day learning better how to brawl well before I could ride a horse. It was safe to say if my mother wasn’t dragging me out of the schoolhouse three times in one week, we were having a good week. In the heart of Texas, there was not a place for a boy like me. I challenged everything, especially their all-loving religion often asking myself and others, how a Just God could do this to a boy and still be considered “Just”. A fair answer was never offered nor concluded. We moved a lot, and each town we lived in seemed to mirror the last, a bane for both of us. We were judged everywhere we went, with the fury of the good book knocking us further and further out of the Lone Star state, and causing my mother an enormous amount of torture and pain. It is not good for a woman to be without a man who occupies her house, and she was regularly scolded for not being married. Her anxiety and probably my wild ways eventually led to her failed heart. Without faith, parents, or any friends, I soon became more suppressed from the public eye dipping further into the shadows for many years.

My name and my story traveled from town to town to hide my shame. I worked relentlessly after my mother passed wherever I could wrangle cattle, help in the stables, or brawl in a bar for money. I worked my way all over the south, but eventually ended up in Tennessee, today, in Gatlinburg at this old saloon in a street of mud. The years of pain, the death of a withered and broken mother taken too young, and the hatred for my abandoned youth filled my veins.

Part 4: The Mud, the Blood, and the Beer

My father glanced at the picture briefly, but discarded it onto the floor, effortlessly. He then looked up at me producing a scowl.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The fury of my entire upbringing blazed inside my body, and I began losing my ability to control myself. My muscles tightened, my fiery blood flushed my neck and face, and my fist hardened into stone as I ground my knuckles into a knot. We were meeting for the first time as grown men, but I knew, he knew, who I was.

“My name is Sue! How do you do?”

I clenched the end of the table promptly tossing it over my left hip into the adjacent crowd and aggressively strode toward him. The glasses of undrunk alcohol smashed onto the ground shattering across the feet of at least eight men, and the undrunk brandy splashed across the breasts of the women who accompanied their laps. The fiddle kept chugging along louder and faster. Most bands would have already bailed at the hint someone was going to fight, but Johnny kept playing hard and rough attempting to distract the crowd, yet he fueled my anger deeper. With a dead eye on my target and driven by only one motivation, a vow that I had made myself many years prior, I ragefully inched my way toward him belting out.

“Now you gonna die!”

He started rising out of his chair toward me as I wound up the iron ball of a fist and thrust the entire pain of my Texas childhood right between his eyes, knocking him back into his chair. The legs instantly buckled under the force of the impact causing him to launch further onto the laps of two men attempting to flee behind him. I surprised myself a little, and even took a second glance at my hand, impressed by the power I had just unleashed. I was confident any man would not have come back from that one, but just as he hit the ground to my surprise, he bounced up toward me faster than I had put him there. The crowd had fully encircled us clapping and yelping, and the honky-tonk was in full swing. The piano player joined Johnny and played along in a tension-building ditty. Women shrieked in the crowd distracting me for the shortest of moments.

“He’s got a knife!”

A shimmer of light from my father’s blade whizzed past my face and easily carved out a piece of my ear. The tip of the blade punched a hole through my hat, launching it off my head. I stumbled backward holding the area where the part of my ear used to be. The warm thickening liquid flowed everywhere; down the side of my face, over my fingers, and began filling my ear canal. We both were bleeding. His blood ran from the middle of his nose and onto the floor. He held his knife out in front of him as he hunkered toward me one slow step at a time. I hopped out of the way as he swung an extended arm toward me. We began to circle the room like caged animals. Another lunge and a miss, but it was much closer than the last. The crowd move along with us but began constricting us like a snake. Within seconds, I found myself backed up against the chair I had thrown earlier. He squared up to me inching forward with a smile on his face, Blood filling the gaps in his teeth. I squared to him eager for another go at that hideous smirk, and in an attempt to dissuade him, stared through his soul as I licked the blood off my hands. Without hesitation, he took two stutter steps to the side, and lunged again toward me, forcing me to duck under his arm. I grabbed the legs of the chair and came up swinging with all my might, meeting the front of his teeth. The wood exploded into more than a hundred splinters showering the crowd with wood dust, blood, and fine bits of teeth debris. We tumbled together off balance. The crowd gasped as the knife became air-born, flipping out of his hand and slamming tip-side down into the floorboards. Patrons began scattering out of the way opening a space for us as we crashed through the entrance doors, and onto the outside porch. We fought and bounced down the dampened stairs, swearing and yelling along the way. The thick muddy street cushioned our landing as we finally came to a stop having gouged a muddy slick in our wake. I was lucky enough to have landed mounted over the top of him.

The rain had not let up since I had first arrived. It showered us with water, washing away some, but not all of our blood. I slammed the side of his head with an open palm, then grabbed him by the throat attempting to squeeze the life out of him. He gulped for air, but instead of fear showing in his eyes, he seemed to invite death in as he fought back. His arms had great strength but even greater reach. He inched them up my arms to my shoulders and converged up to my forehead. He began squeezing my temples until my skull felt like it was going to cave in on itself and then began forcing his calloused thumbs harder and deeper into my eyes. I hollered in discomfort. We both bellowed our warrior grunts back and forth while continuing to inflict a relentless onslaught of pain on each other. The crowd that had followed us out, gathered at the porch. They cheered, clapped, and stomped in glee as if this was the best show they had seen in a decade.

We managed to roll into the steepening street a little further. I started gaining my feet and he punched me in the ribs, knocking me back to the ground. He then attempted the same. I kneed him in the gut, forcing the wind out of his body. We were almost at a stalemate, yet kept fighting to gain control or die. I tried to crawl away from him to gain my balance but he grabbed my legs and pulled his slimy body on top of mine biting a series of holes into the back of my leg. I overcame the agony instantly filling with rage, and twisted around like an alligator’s death roll. I sat up, grabbed his shoulders at the sides, and headbutted him square in the forehead.

I fell backward into the mud, sliding a few feet away, as he rolled a few times in the opposite direction. We were both in a daze, exhausted from combat, and certainly gassed from an enormous intake of alcohol. We slowly paced to our feet, slipping, crawling, and reaching for anything that could help us up. I eventually found my way to the porch steps, and he snaked himself to the watering trough. Before I could fully gain my stance, he got his feet under himself first. He rushed at me, landing a crushing blow to the middle of my back. I fell to my knees. His boot delivered another blow, launching me to my hands, bent over and almost defeated. A final blow to the side of my ribs laid me fully out. I was face down in the mud, covered in blood, and reeking of piss-warm beer. I thought I had learned from past fights, but I certainly underestimated the power and resilience of my enemy tonight. My father leaned against the porch post catching his breath. He spits up a large wad of blood into a puddle at the base of my feet. A piece of his tooth emerged from the quickly dissipating red mess. I would tell you I had fought tougher men, but I really couldn’t remember the last time I did. He kicked like a mule and bit through me like a god-damned crocodile.

We stood there looking at each other with the same stalemated stare, wincing in pain, and both sharing a competitive urgency to win. My breath was heavy, and my chest rose rapidly matching my need for oxygen, yet instead of self-care, I began to rise over my feet. His hand flipped his jacket over the back of his hip revealing his six-shooter, and his palm began grazing the cylinder. I felt then it was one of our last moments, either him or I, and so I went for mine. With more speed, more anger, and sheer will to survive, I pulled mine first. He stood there defeated, finally as I rose my aim at him. He released his grip causing the gun to fall, splashing into the mud below. I held him at gunpoint while I leaned against the railing of the stairs matching his stance. Both of us were steadfast and quiet. I had one arm wrapped across my chest bracing my ribs. In a baffling display of arrogance, or with a cynical sense of humor, my father began to smile down the barrel of my loaded gun.

Part 5: Different Points of View

I was taken aback by his display of happiness in the face of death. I took in the moment while I regained my stance, and shifted my aim. He grunted up another wad of blood, spit to his side, and cleared his throat while he chuckled to himself in defeat.

“Son, when I left your mother and you, I was in a bad place and knew I would do more harm than good for you both. I knew this world was going to be one hell of a ride, and if a young boy was going to make it, he had to grow up tougher than leather, and sharper than nails, especially in Texas. So, I named you after my sweet grandmother, your great-grandmother, Sue.

A few women on the porch awed a tone of forgiveness as they resonated in anticipation for the rest of his speech. They waved their hands rapidly onto their flushed faces and tearing eyes. Some were fortunate enough to hold a fan.

“Now I know you never met her, it was before your time, but she was the strongest mule of a person I knew; Kinda like you is now. I walked out that door before you could ever come to hate me for a thousand other reasons I would rather not re-hash, and I knew that you would be forced to thicken your skin quicker than a flash flood in a Texas drought, or you be killed and eaten alive by the ravenous world around you. It seems to me like that name helped you become one hell of a man.”

A couple of men in the crowd nodded and tipped their hats as they grunted in support, but others shifted around uncomfortably from the sappy tone this father-son fight had turned into.

“I know there is a fire in your belly and your hatred of me has been burning for some time. It shows in how well you fought. You fight with passion; asking questions later, and I respect that. Hell, I would not blame you to kill me now. I certainly gave you a damn good reason to do so, but before you do, I ask you to think about how you came to receive that gravel in your gut, and the spit in your eyes. No matter how horrible I have been to you, and all of the mistakes I have made throughout my useless life, I am still the son of a bitch that named you, Sue.”

The rain was the only thing that broke the silence throughout the crowd. It continued crashing against the beaten and tattered roof. One harsh droplet after another dripped down my head and streamed onto my face. I was speechless. My mind raced to calculate my next move. I stood there still, gripping my gun; sure to keep a bead on my father. The crowd was filled with individual statues, some gaping at the jaw, all motionless. Everyone waited, including me. On one side, I had an unbearable past, solely created by the man in front of me, and my revenge was just on the other side of a bullet. I was angry and seeking relief. On the other side, I had my old man who I never came to know, who stood in front of me alive, mercifully explaining his heart out, and showing me a different side to what I thought I knew all my life. What could I do?

I moved my mouth to speak, but could not formulate words. I got all choked up. He was right, I was a passionate fighter, but that passion could go both ways. I lifted my thumb to the cocked hammer, pulled back, and eased it forward. I lowered my gun and holstered it. My father stood still, but you could tell a sense of relief moved through his body. Tonight, I chose compassion.

“Pa, I reckon we’re gonna need a drink after this one.”

He took a moment, nodding his head in agreeance.

“We sure as hell are, son”

The End

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Papasan Chair

October 05, 2024

Discovered for free

On Craig’s List

Obtained by convincing another

I should be the rightful owner

She explained she

Already owned the cushion

I explained

I already had the space

The previous owner

Suggested a game of

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Two out of three

She shot with paper

I countered with scissors

Advantage moi

She counterattacked with rock

I faulted with scissors

Deuce

For the finale

She suggested a change of locale

Perhaps my deck

I suggested she bring the beverage

And the cushion

Perhaps a Merlot

A date lasting into the night

Covering the duration of two movies

Finishing the bottle

We never

Partook

In the last shot

It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.

Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.

It’s my life.

And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.

And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.

My specialty.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”

“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.

“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.

After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.

“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”

Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.

Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.

“What are you three doing now?”

“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”

I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.

The EMTs arrived within five minutes.

He was dead within three.

The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.

My secret is safe.

I learned one name on the evening news.

Surprisingly, pictures on milk cartons still happen. I recognized somebody and chuckled.

The stretch of I-90 west of Sioux Falls is interesting. It reminds me of movies with signs saying "last chance for gas!" but I guess the midwest figures fuck it, you'll figure it out. Lucky for me, that highway is a helluva place for pretty girls to have a flat.

Youtube has cold-case stuff on familiar faces. I know names from the driver's licenses stashed in my special place.

Sunday School lied. God ain't the only one who makes stars.

Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.

Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.

Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.

The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.

Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.

Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”

But was it?

There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.

Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.

The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?

Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.

“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”

She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.

Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.

But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.

Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.

Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.

Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.

God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?

Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.

And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.

She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?

But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.

Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.

This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.

Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.

Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.

The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?

She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.

It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.

Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.

It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.

Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.

Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.

The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.

Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.

And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.

Believe it. Leslie ran.

Since the world moved on, men sometimes found themselves needing to be moved.

One such man moved no more.

What passed as whiskey slid from the dirty glass and down the throat of the saloon's newest patron. He placed his still-warm revolver on the scarred wood of the table and he grimaced at the blank expressions looking back at him. Relaxing in his chair, he stared at his audience.

A few lanterns hung from hooks above the tables, and the firelight from the hearth cast what should have been a warm glow across the room. The smells of a spicy stew, the sour scent of homebrew, and the coppery crimson odor of violence all mixed to create an unwelcoming atmosphere.

His gaze swept across every man and woman in the bar, and each pair of eyes turned away. One girl even made the sign of the cross, and he could hear the whispered prayer to the Manjesus.

Silence, except for the crackle of logs from across the saloon, was the only other sound.

He spoke softly.

“I’ve done what I came here to do. This man did what he came here to do.”

With that, he kicked the corpse on the floor.

“The killing is done, and you’re better for it."

The air was still.

"I’ll soon be leaving.”

A lone voice, barely more than a whisper, responded: “Thankee-sai.”

Stony faces and sad eyes turned away from the Gunslinger, and he poured himself another drink.

His hand almost didn’t shake when he reloaded his Big Iron, but no one seemed to notice.

He thought it would get easier, but the weight of every soul he sent on still threatened to crush him down more firmly to this earth, even as it spun beneath him.

It was an odd thing, that.

Even as he felt pressed, even as he felt held down by each drop of blood he shed, he knew that the world was moving on, but he wasn’t.

He was being held in place, frozen in a time the world had left behind.

The Gunslinger left a silver coin on the table when he finished the bottle.

He was weary, but resigned. With a sigh, he knew that everything old eventually becomes new again.

Calmly, he walked out into the night, continuing pursuit of the man in black.

_____

16 books by Stephen King, including the Gunslinger, are banned in Collier County, Florida.

The cape was in sight when the front blew in; the cape a low, gray line on the horizon toward which In All Her Glory was aimed, but as sailors of every era have discovered, the sighting of land during a storm sometimes offers little more than the hopeful illusion of safety.

The three of them were not even sailors, not experienced ones anyway, rather they were friends who were literally learning the ropes, lines and sheets as they went. Five years removed from their law school graduation, In All Her Glory was the glue cementing that friendship. At 30’ in length she was a lovely little boat; a lightweight, yet ocean worthy sailer which built an almost unhealthy collective longing within the three young litigation up-and-comers for ever earlier Friday afternoons which could be stretched into ever longer weekends, a longing much stronger than their boat-less friends could ever imagine, as In All Her Glory was in every way superior to tailgating or golf. The friends had pitched in for her, two of them somewhat reluctantly and against their wives’ protestations. On occasion the friends set sail with their two wives and the bachelor’s most current girlfriend aboard, but more often than not it was just the three of them alone together on the open ocean with no destination in mind, as a destination wasn’t necessary. In fact, creating a finish line to cross wasn’t even desirable. The boat itself was enough for them; learning to sail her, to navigate her, to stow, steer, and dock her, teaming together to overcome her many quirks, and doing it together while learning to greater appreciate the strengths of the other two. In All Her Glory was that adventure which offset their mundane tax-law work lives, as the boat presented the trio with infinite obstacles to test both wits and muscle. She became more than a hobby to them. She was a seductress the three friends could share without intrigue or jealousy, that they could care for, admire, and discuss. She was the lover who would silently do their bidding, sailing them upon warm winds straight into a different sort of ecstasy so long as they treated her with the firm, knowing hands she requested of them.

For nearly a year now they’d been testing her abilities along with their own, starting slow, sticking to the bay’s calmer waters, but their anxieties were quickly overcome by pride the first time they found the courage to point her bow for open waters, and from that day there was no stopping them. Further out they sailed and longer there they stayed, so that encountering a squall had become inevitable, and here one was.

Byron was the bold one, his Nordic ancestry shining through in his silky, almost white hair atop chiseled and tanned features, Byron forever wanted the helm. Rarely wearing more than a pair of knee-length swim trunks while aboard, Byron had grown ever fitter, and ever browner over their weekends aboard ship, his hairless chest swelling in the salty air and his beard lightening until it nearly matched the whiteness of his hair. The boat had been Byron’s idea, but he didn’t flaunt the fact. Byron was simply happy to have her, and to have friends of like mind to sail her with.

Zac was the thoughtful one who quickly assumed the navigator’s role, spending much of his time below decks with a GPS and weather radio set up amidst maps with color coded pushpins which signified land, currents, and winds. Yet despite his time below, despite his loose and billowy shirts, and despite his wide brimmed hats, Zac’s paler skin had also tanned to a healthy bronze with steady exposure to sea and sun, his dark curls tipped at the ends now with brilliant natural highlights.

Javon was mostly just along for the ride, taking life as it came and learning from both of the others as he went, amazed that he’d wound up here at all, aboard this boat, 1/3 of it belonging to him, and with these two for friends. Javon had been raised on the east side of Norfolk by parents worthy of his adoration. Theirs had not been the best of neighborhoods to be sure, but it was certainly not the worst, either. Preston and Alicia Pitts had raised their boy well, modeling strong Christian values along with a curiosity to learn that their son Javon could not help but strive to emulate. These traits had earned him an athletic scholarship to Hampton College, where he’d promptly blown out his knee before his sophomore year. With football no longer even a pipe dream, Javon put his full attention into his studies and soon had his choice of graduate schools, from which he’d chosen William and Mary for it’s attractive law school, and for it’s close proximity to his home, as his mother was struggling alone now since Preston’s untimely death and her son’s empty nesting.

It was Byron began the friendship with Javon. They’d met playing intramural basketball, a league in which their three man team had handily won the College Cup trophy, Javon excelling at the point while Byron’s length and physicality dominated the post. Javon‘s innate skepticism of white people, with whom he had little experience, had made him resistant to Byron’s friendly and persistent overtures at the start, but Byron was one of those people whom it was nearly impossible to refuse, his frequent invitations bordering on insistence. “C’mon Javon, we’re going to the cafeteria”… or “Javon, meet us at the library at 7:00”… and “Hey Javon, I’m signing up for golf. Why don’t you sign up too? It’ll be a blast?”

Golf? Javon had never been golfing in his life! But it had been fun, hadn’t it? That was the best thing about hanging around with Byron, his constant energy and activity. He was always doing something, and in hanging around with Byron, Javon found new worlds opening up for him, worlds that made him realize that his mother had been right all along, that a kid from East Norfolk could belong and be accepted anywhere, even in some haughty country club, or marina.

And Zac was the pair’s tag along, at least in the beginning. Not athletic, Zac avoided those activities, but he made up for his lack of coordination by being smart, funny, and sociable. Zac was perhaps the most gifted socialite Javon had ever seen, being a natural talker with a working knowledge of nearly any subject. Zac was that rare nineteen year old with absolutely no lack of confidence in his ability to adapt to any social setting, whether it be speaking to a scholastic audience, or whether conquering the shyness of an unfamiliar but attractive co-ed, one on one.

Javon had tried to excuse himself that first time when Zac invited he and Byron to his parents’ home in Tampa for Spring Break. It would leave his mother another two weeks alone. Javon felt the need to be at his own home, to be with his mother, but again Byron was insistent, “Come with us Javon, we can play on some of the best golf courses in the world, and you are starting to hit the ball really well. Why would you not want to come?”

His mother had insisted as well, ”Go along with your friends, Baby-Ja. I’m fine! I enjoy being alone.” Though the lie caused her hand to shake as it hung up the phone.

And so, against his better judgement, Javon went along… and there he met Callie.

Like her older brother, Callie had an openness, an inner warmth and confidence that was palpable, like the way she held out not one, but both of her hands to him during their introduction, pulling him in closer from the very start, or the way her hand always seemed to find his bicep when she spoke to him, or the way she pressed her whole self against him for a selfie. Javon soon found himself wondering where she was when Callie wasn’t around, and when she might return? He fought these thoughts down though, despairing of the impossibility in them. She was Zac’s little sister, for goodness sake! But when it was time to go, and Javon felt bluer than blue, Callie found a time when they were alone to tell him good-bye, and to tell him she hoped he’d come back again, or that maybe she could even come up to Virginia sometime? He’d looked into her eyes then and known. This was the woman he would marry, the woman he would devote his life to, and it was amazing to gaze through her eyes, into her soul, and to find those same desires stirring inside her.

There had been more surprises too, like the warm smile on Zac’s father’s face while shaking his hand, and when Callie’s mother hugged his neck, making Javon feel as though he were already family. As the car was pulling away Zac had mused to him, “I think my sister likes you, bro.” With that sing-song statement Javon felt truly accepted. That was the moment when Javon understood there was much more here than just Callie worthy of loving.

The breeze changed as the clouds loomed closer, filling the sails and driving their speed, though not nearly fast enough as the storm overcame the tiny boat’s head start. The white clouds grayed, then blackened around them. Zac emerged from below as the sea swelled, his long sleeves whipped by the winds, his concern obvious, his eyes seeking a shoreline now hidden behind veils of windblown water.

”How far?” Byron’s voice carried to him through the gales.

”About three miles to shore, five to the bay, seven to the marina.”

Javon had to do the math in his head, as he was not yet fluent in the nautical language. Seven miles at ten knots… around five minutes per mile? Thirty-five or so minutes to the marina? Just as he formed his conclusion he was forced to brace against a harsh gust followed by a loud “pop” as the halyard snapped, allowing the head of the mainmast to sag down, effectively blocking the wind to the jib, causing the boat to stall in the now “high” sea. Byron reluctantly turned on the electric motor for steerage, understanding that the batteries would be needed later, to dock her. “Someone take the wheel,” he shouted! “I’m going up to fix her!”

”No! Stay there,” Javon shouted above the wind and waves. “I‘ve got it!”

The rings were slick with water, the visibility worsening by the minute. Just as Javon reached the line another gust snapped the mainstay, allowing the loose mainsail to blow outward, listing the boat over just in time for a seven foot wave to swamp over the decks, and spill into the cabin.

”Cut it off!” Javon heard the cry from below and complied, pulling a sailor’s multi-tool from his pocket and slicing through the lone length of halyard still attached to the mainsail. The sail fluttered out in the wind when he did, catching on the end of the jib before falling into the water beside the boat and sinking, tilting the boat over on it‘s starboard keel and effectively anchoring her down. Realizing their danger, all three men acted correctly, Javon scurrying down the mast, Byron lashing the ship’s wheel and racing for the trapped sail, and Zac rushing below to start the bilge pumps and to send a mayday signal. After the briefest hesitation Zac took the extra time to grab their life vests from the already submerged footlocker. “Shit-fuck!“ He thought aloud as he pulled them out. “Lindsay is going to fucking kill me!” His wife of two years had been adamant from the start that the boat was a bad idea. As was usual, where Zac had seen adventure, Lindsay had correctly seen danger.

When Zac emerged from the cabin it was to a sluggish starboard lean as the weight of sail and water drug In All Her Glory over. Byron was fighting with the sail, but the expression on his face told Zac all he needed to know. As Javon raced past him Zac shoved a life-vest into his gut like a football handoff. “Don’t be a dumb-ass! Put it on right now!”

Javon pushed his arms through the holes without bothering to zip it and ran to help Byron. Together the two managed to free the sail, but too late. The boat was laid over now, dark water rushing into her holds.

“What do we do?” Javon’s shout was heard by the other two, but no answer came, as neither had a good response.

Zac made his way over to the other two. It was obvious now that there was no saving In All Her Glory. Byron struggled into the wet vest handed him by Zac and smiled a reckless, what-the-fuck grin. “I guess we jump.”

”What?“ Zac hoped he’d heard incorrectly. There must be something else they could do.

”Yea.“ It was Javon this time. Looking around, the answer was obvious to him. They had to jump, didn’t they? “On three?”

The other two nodded in affirmation. “One!” He shouted.

”Two…”

The three friends, looking into one another’s eyes, shouted three in unison as they leapt into the sea.

The three were effectively away when In All Her Glory went down, very much as had the much larger ship in the movie “Titanic”; upside down, bow first, stern high as the friends watched, their hands held in a tight circle, not wanting one to be separated from the others. From the east they saw the lights of a Coast Guard Cutter slicing out from the bay towards them, the big ship looking indomitable to them as they bobbed on the rough sea’s ever changing heights.

Realizing that safety was near, the friends’ fears turned to giddiness at their new realization of life. “Damn guys! That was absolutely crazy!” Byron spit a stream of saltwater as he laughed.

Javon smiled too, but all he could think of was hugging Cassie when he got home to her, and how scared she would be when he told her. “Yea,“ he said. “Crazy is exactly the right word.”

The Coast Guard ship was closer now, they could hear it’s diesel throttling down it’s speed.

”Hey!” Byron became serious again. “You know, I heard that Jared Dicus is considering selling his Cessna and getting something bigger. What do you guys think about an airplane?”

”Think of what?” Javon was incredulous. “You can’t be serious?”

”Hell yea, I’m serious! What do you think, for real?”

”I have a better idea.” The cutter was now alongside the floating wreckage of In All Her Glory. Zac watched the uniformed men aboard her as they prepared a boat to send over the side to rescue them from what easily could have been their end. Zac’s voice was dead serious as he looked back at Byron, a crazy idea of Lindsay’s wiggling it’s way back into his brain.

“Maybe we should try something a little bit tamer, wild man. Say… you remember Lindsay’s friend Erica, don’t you? You know, the cute red-head who was doing that sexy dance thingie at Callie's party? She’s single you know, and I get it she can be a real handful sometimes, but I was discussing you with her the other day and she…”

Fingers fly across the pages, a desperate analyzation that bears no fruits. Right or wrong? Error. Good or bad? Error. Panic fuels the lonely scholar, error after error, and no amount of research will make sense of it. Everything fits cleanly, up or down, right or left. Yet the scholar’s input systems know no grey area. Data feeds in in an endless loop, you: bad. You: good. You: more data required. The brain is no machine, try as trauma may to rewire that. Humans *are* emotion, unpredicatable experience and everything in between, little scholar. You must update your softwares. You are human, you are not meant to see in black or white, but the beautiful irridescent range of everything, and nothing in between. Little scholar, you cannot possibly fit everyone into your safe, categorical boxes, for humans rarely fit neatly in one place or the other. The beauty in being alive is being messy and incalculable. Not black, white or monochromatic, but an enticing variegated array of experience.

Before my grandmother came to live with us, she had only been a woman in photos, a stranger who happened to be my grandmother. I’d never spoken to her on the phone, or received a card or presents. I only knew that she’d grown up in Germany, had my mam quite young, and had moved to the west coast of Ireland when my mam was a toddler. My mam called her Mutti, and I called her Omi.

Her name was Tara, a name she said she gave herself as an acknowledgement of a new phase of life after her arrival in Ireland. She wouldn’t tell me her birth name. She said it was a name for a past stage and therefore irrelevant to the present.

However, she still had a German accent and said mit instead of with. I don’t know why she used this one word of German because her English was otherwise flawless. Maybe, she was paying homage to her ancestors. Maybe, it was simply her stubborn nature. She had a steadfastness and pride about her that beguiled me. And for the short time I knew her, I came to adore her. Her accent and bearing made her seem like some foreign noble. Someone special. And her presence and attention made me feel special. Like there was more to me than just being a weird kid. I felt like I had been waiting for her the entire eight years of my life.

She told me that there were things about my ancestors my mam didn’t want me to know and that my so-called weirdness had to do with this. That I was just tuned to a higher frequency, something other children couldn’t comprehend. Her words ignited my world yet I sensed our time together was limited. Three months later she was gone again and with her departure my parents’ dull account of family history regained its hold.

I’d always accepted my oddness and its shadowing effect on my life as the way things were. Compared to other kids my imagination was like some wild thing in need of taming. When I went to get neighbourhood kids out to play sometimes their mothers didn’t invite me in. It wasn’t verbalised, I just felt I wasn’t meant to cross the threshold. Waiting on the step for my friend to appear, I would drink in as much of the pristine interior as I could see from the door. A portion of plush carpet, a fireplace, glasses in cabinets, family photos lining the hallway. How I longed to get through that doorway and experience that normality. Where was the dust and other signs of life? It was all so orderly. My mam couldn’t perform this miracle of immaculateness like their mothers could. The minute one of them stepped into my house, the light from the windows seemed to ignite the dust and cobwebs. Papers, books, dishes and bits, seemed to be strewn everywhere.

It’s not like my mam didn’t strive to be like everyone else; she just couldn’t pull it off. Usually when she spoke to people, I’d spot that look of bewilderment spreading across their faces. I couldn’t stop it happening no matter how I tried to cut her off and derail her train of thought. It was just something about our family.

Tara insisted that our otherness was important, and related to a powerful, ancestral heritage. That my pre-historic kin had lived in perfect connection with all living things, in a world flourishing with untouched natural beauty: pristine mountains, forest and ocean abundant with nourishment.

She said the rural area of Ireland I lived in still had a helping of that raw, wild beauty my ancestors had enjoyed. But like the entire planet it was under threat as humans continued to assault the natural world, consequently ushering in their own demise. This was because the old ways had been crushed by the intruders. That’s what she called most people, the intruders.

Whenever she came with us grocery shopping, she’d give sideways glances at laden trolleys and later in the car ask me if I’d seen the junk the intruders bought. Or if I was watching TV, she’d comment on the intruder brainwashing apparatus.

One time, Tara came with us to the playground and minded me while my mam posted a letter. Spotting some girls from school, I ran over to the slide calling to them. Turning, they mumbled hello and then completely ignored me. Tears stinging my eyes, I walked back to Tara and sat down next to her on the bench. Taking my hand, she held it tightly.

“It’s not you who doesn’t fit in, it’s them. The intruders! They don’t belong here,” she said.

A feeling of ownership surged through me as if these clumsy children before me were intruders into my realm. I sat up straight, mimicking my grandmother’s posture.

“Your mother should tell you the truth,” she muttered.

As soon as my mam returned, I asked her straight out if it were true.

“How ridiculous,” she said, bringing me away to the ice cream van. Waiting in the queue, I watched my grandmother sitting on the bench, grim-faced watching the children play.

From then on, my parents began to control how long I was alone with my grandmother and no matter how I approached it, my mam refused to engage in a discussion about these mysterious ancestors and terrible intruders.

(I have friends reading it, but would love some feedback from strangers.)

https://www.amazon.com/KEEPER-FLAME-Lisa-D-Verdekal/dp/B0CD12P8QP/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

The first excerpt shared below is the first piece of writing I professionally published. I could finally call myself a writer and author. It was the best feeling ever. I went on to write a regular column in Virginia Craft Beer Magazine, and I published several articles with them. The second excerpt is from my most technical writing piece, and the last excerpt is part of my favorite opinion feature. I was born to write, but I pay the bills by brewing craft beer. I haven't shared that on Prose before today! Publishing articles about my day job gave me the confidence to start writing about everything, and Prose gave me the place to do it. Thanks for that :)

"An American Girl in Bavaria"

Being a woman in the professional brewing industry isn’t for every elegant lady, but for the past five years, I’ve dedicated my life to craft beer. From the beginning, I joined Pink Boots Society to link up with fun loving, beer making girls like myself. Pink Boots is an organization for women in the beer industry, and their main goal is to help women advance their careers through education. They offer a ton of amazing scholarships throughout the year. As I was perusing the Pink Boots website this summer, one of the scholarships jumped out at me. It was a trip to Germany for ten days to visit breweries and hop farms, and learn about German brewing traditions. I have a passion for traditional brewing, so I applied immediately. A couple of weeks later, I got the news that I was chosen for the scholarship along with six other professional beer ladies. It was off to Bavaria for us, and Germany did not disappoint.

https://virginiacraftbeer.com/an-american-girl-in-bavaria/

"Digging Into the IPA Hops"

The history of IPA is common knowledge nowadays. Centuries ago, British brewers realized that hops have a preservative quality, protecting beer from contaminates and bacteria. Romantic folklore claims that beer was safer to drink than water. On the long road to India, brewers packed beer with hops to endure the long journeys. IPA=India Pale Ale. It’s important to acknowledge this history lesson, but the story doesn’t end there. IPAs are constantly evolving. One thing remains constant though. IPAs have lots of hops.

https://virginiacraftbeer.com/digging-into-the-ipa-hops/

"So You Wanna Be a Brewer?"

Unfortunately for all brewers, regardless of their gender identity or zodiac sign, no one ever asks what we actually do at work all day. People think the job is cool, but they have no idea what a glorious shit-show it really is. Try asking me how I spend 8+ hours a day in a haunted warehouse full of stainless steel tanks and brewery hoses. How many spray nozzles and gaskets have I replaced in my life? How do I identify the faint sound of a faulty CO2 connection, and what do I do when every pallet is broken or a stupid size? Why doesn’t anyone manufacture a good squeegee? How often does the production schedule change, and how many colors of dry erase markers do you need to brew quality beer? What’s the best music for canning days, and how long does it take to fold 500-case trays? Do I love my forklift more than my best friend?

https://virginiacraftbeer.com/so-you-wanna-be-a-brewer/