Fame, not fortune
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.
Answering the Bell
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.
Whiskey & Iron
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.
Fair Weather Friends
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…”
A variageted analysis
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.
Keeper of the Flame (excerpt from prologue)
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=
Publishing Craft Beeeeeerrrr :)
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/
Office Hours
Savannah flung Gayle's office door open, barely flinching when the door stopper made its obnoxious spring at the force, declaring. "Why would you do this to me?"
Gayle, who had been duteously working through the peaceful quiet of the night, cried out in fright. Her body attempted to leap up in fear, but her knees painfully collided with the underside of her desk, causing her large coffee to spill its contents onto the table and drench the papers that littered its surface. Gayle let out a resounding and eloquent, "Fuck!" and attempted to use her discarded sweater to soak up the coffee, but it was too late to salvage her work. She swung her bloodshot eyes toward Savannah in enraged disbelief. "What the fuck? Do you know what time it is? Do you not know how to knock?"
Savannah met Gayle's glare with a glare of her own. "You wrote, 'come see me in my office.' So here I am."
Savannah watched as Gayle's face pulled into a fierce sneer. "During my office hours, Savannah. You can't just show up at someone's office in the middle of the night."
Savannah tossed her hair over her shoulder, unimpressed. "You should have specified."
Gayle hums. "You call me an old hag and nearly kill my niece. You're right; you so deserve my favour." She says dryly.
Gayle ignored Savannah who continued rambling angrily, instead leaning back in her chair to survey the state of her desk. She groaned in obvious despair, ripping off her glasses and throwing them aimlessly on the table before letting her face fall into her hands. Savannah stood by the doorframe, a prickle of guilt slowly blossoming in her chest. Maybe that was a tad dramatic.
After a painfully long minute, Gayle responded, face still covered by her hands and words muffled. "Did you at least read my comments that explained in detail why I gave you an unsatisfactory?"
Savannah blanched. She had completely forgotten about the red ink that filled the margins of her assignment, too hopped up on the fact it existed in the first place. Savannah's eyes scanned Gayle's desk. The coffee-soaked papers were the writing assignments of her classmates. Her eyes flittered across Gayle's meticulous comments that she had hand-written on their papers. Gayle's responses were undoubtedly detailed, kind, and helpful—an unfortunately unusual combination, as most teachers did not have the time or patience to help their students so thoroughly. Savannah shrank in on herself. It must have taken Gayle hours to grade these assignments, and now they were ruined.
"I...I'm..." Her apology got caught in her throat. Savannah struggled with apologies. It's not that she was too narcissistic to see her faults (unlike what her ex form highschool thought, that great big bag of dicks) or failed to recognize when she was in the wrong. Savannah knew she was in the wrong here. She was too upset at her grade to remember that Gayle had left detailed comments on her assignment. Savannah had even gone so far as to complain to the Dean of all people, and when that failed, she had aggressively confronted Gayle in the middle of the night and was the singular reason Gayle's hard work was now ruined. The blame solely fell on Savannah's shoulders, and she knew it.
Which was personally devastating.
An adolescence of incessant apologizing from her haunted her ability to apologize now- overuse of her tongue forcing it to knot in on itself the moment accountability striked which was a genuine epidemic.
Growing up as the only daughter of an elite man in New York for a good portion of her life, perfection was expected from her. And when she did not achieve that perfection, she was taught to take the blame rather than criticize the unreasonable standards that were unfairly placed on her. Younger Savannah found herself apologizing for things that were not her fault. And the more she apologized, the more it was reinforced in her mind that she was doing something wrong—that she deserved the guilt and her toxic self-blame. Which, in turn, destroyed her confidence.
And when she became this powerhouse in junior year of high school—strong, beautiful, fierce, and independent it just became harder and harder for her to apologize. She did not ever want to feel that pathetic, that vulnerable, ever again. She had strength now, something she never had before, and she was not going to apologize simply because it was expected of her to do so—simply because it was expected for women to take the blame for the shortcomings of the patriarchal society that they lived in.
So as Savannah stood witness to the series of her wrongdoings that had culminated in wrecking Gayle's hard work, she desperately wanted to apologize, but her childhood trauma, daddy issues and sizeable ego froze the words in her throat.
Gayle took a deep breath in before slowly exhaling into her hands. It appeared that she was not going to acknowledge Savannah's presence. Savannah felt more and more choked by the silence. "I...I thought you were punishing me." Savannah stammered out.
She winces at the admission, loud in her ears.
Gayle lifted her head from her hands to give Savannah an exasperated look. "What does that even mean?"
Savannah gave a weak shrug, "Well, I almost killed your niece and you've been ignoring me since forever, so, I thought..." she trailed off. Gayle looked at her in exhaustion before returning her head into her hands. Savannah suddenly felt...her physical age. A brash barely-adult who threw a fit because they didn't get what they wanted. And from the look Gayle had just given her—her face slightly older than Savannah's, more mature, wiser—she felt that Gayle was thinking the same.
Gayle lifted her head again, rubbing her temples before running her hands through her hair. "I'm not avoiding you, Savannah. And my thick-skulled blood can handle being tossed on her ass. But...I'm not going out of my way to seek you out, either. I'm your teacher. You're my junior student. You're- what, in your early twenties? And I'm thirty-one in...less than an hour."
Savannah's eyes snapped to the calendar on Gayle's wall: today was September 26th. Tomorrow was Gayle's birthday, and she had spent the night before staying up late to grade assignments Savannah then ruined. "I'm just trying to be conscientious of the optics. It would look...weird, to say the least, for us to hang out on and around campus." Something passes in her expression, dazedly dropping her eyes to do a toe-to-head sweep. Clears her throat. "Especially considering. We have appearances to keep up. Roles to play. And I take my job very seriously. So, if you've come to my office at...11:17 PM to harass me, you know where the door is and you can see yourself out. But if you've come to ask for help, then say it. You obviously have my attention now." Gayle finished bitterly.
Savannah cringed. The past five minutes did not go how she expected them to. Why was Gayle always catching her at her worst? Is it your worst, or is it your normal and for once someone is not putting up with your shit? She hated asking for help. She liked to do things on her own. Being alone and independent meant that she had total control over herself. And asking for help required surrendering some of that control to someone else—Gayle, in this case. She didn't want to give Gayle any more control over herself than she already had as her professor. And she didn't want the other woman to perceive her as weak or incapable.
But...she could see that Gayle genuinely cared about the success and happiness of her students. And while Gayle might be a sassy asshole sometimes, she was kind. Savannah shut her eyes and took a large breath before quietly funnelling the words out on the exhale, "I'm sorry. Can you help me with my assignment?"
Gayle waited to look Savannah's in the eye with an unreadable expression, and Savannah felt like she was being dissected alive under her gaze. Finally, Gayle sighed, her lips quirking into a tired smile. "Was that so hard?"
Savannah threw her a self-deprecating grimace. "More so than I could ever begin to express."
Gayle took a final glance at her desk before pushing her chair back and standing up to pull on her leather jacket. Savannah stared at her in disbelief. "I've just done the incredibly uncomfortable task of apologizing and asking you, of all people, for help, and you're...leaving?"
Gayle shot Savannah a mischievous look, responding, "It's after office hours." Gayle grabbed her motorcycle helmet, continuing, "I appreciate you finally admitting you need help. But I'm not going to help you now." shooting Savannah an impish smile.
Savannah stood in shock. The growl of frustration that was bubbling in her chest turned into a laugh at the pure absurdity of the situation. Gayle tossed her a grin in response before she ducked to reach under her desk to retrieve a red motorcycle helmet. Gayle stood and turned off her office lights, and as she brushed past Savannah on her way out, she shoved the red helmet into Savannah's chest. She looked at Gayle in confusion, but Gayle just jerked her head toward the empty hallway.
"C'mon, I know a place. And you owe me big time."
Here's the full story!
https://www.wattpad.com/1070326669-ms-no-strings-attached-wlw-lesbian-chapter-1
The Fanged Guardian
Tyler worked in a dark, dingy bar in a port town. Customers smelled like their day's catch and salt. For most of the day he stayed in the bar or his small, meager room. Vampires like him weren't fond of the sun.
Halter loved its gossip. At night the pale vampire loaded ships. The sailors discussed the kidnapping. "King and queen reported they were goblins. That the case prob'ly ay witch 'hind the scenes commandin' em," a gruff grey bearded pirate said in an odd accent.
"I heard they's willing to pay his weight in gold," another sailor said.
An idea popped into his head. "So you'd say they'd give, just about anything?" he asked, careful not to betray emotion.
https://www.theprose.com/book/3602