One more silver dollar
I've got to run to keep from hiding in a panic. I need distance so I can have a little time.
I know they'll catch up to me eventually, but with a little luck, they'll never expect me to be waitin' for 'em.
I guess I'm really bettin' that they won't look up. If I'm careful, if I'm still, the roof of this old singlewide don't make much noise. I left my old flannel shirt and shoes tucked up underneath the steps of the doublewide next door. Hell, I don't even own the rest of the clothes I'm wearin'.
Once they have a scent, they ain't lettin go. I hope them clothes I stuck under yonder is enough to distract 'em a few seconds.
When I heard what happened to Kate McKannon, I knew. Folks aint wanted to believe, but some of us knew.
I can't blame her husband for what he did.
I found the man he shot down by the creek. I think that's when they caught wise to me knowin' what I know; I seen the tracks of the man who wasn't a man leadin' right to where the dead body fell.
My little brother is a nerd, but I listen to him go on about those games he plays, books he reads. "Lycanthropy," they call it in his book with wizards and goblins and shit.
I still can't manage to say "werewolf" out loud, but the truth is black and white. Ain't somethin' that changes. It is what it is.
And now I am where I am.
We live, or we die. We're hunted, or we're the hunter, but that one is a little flexible, I reckon. This rooftop perch is proof of that, I guess.
I just hope there ain't more than two of 'em after me, 'cause all I managed to find was one more silver dollar in the bottom of my kid brother's piggy bank. I feel a little bad about breakin' it open, but he'll understand.
If I'm around to explain it to him.
My dad used to reload rifle ammunition 'cause it was cheaper than buyin' the new stuff at Walmart. I'm not sure how true that is anymore, but I'm glad he left all that junk in the shed when he split for a new old lady out in Nevada. That, and this cheap rifle. I guess the new wife don't want him huntin' no more.
Two shots. That's all I got.
It just hit midnight, and most of the trailer park is asleep, but even so, there are usually crickets makin noise and such.
Thing is, everything's gone quiet.
I'm pretty sure I see somethin' too big to be a dog and too small to be a bear creepin' in the dark.
Christ.
A car just went ridin' by out on the main road, and there might be three beasties sniffin' around my front door.
Time to stretch that last silver dollar as far as it'll go.
https://theprose.com/post/722376/kate-mccannons-husband
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cP4Rddap-A
Let The Memories Come To You
Walter thinks about a movie from years ago. He can’t remember the name, or the premise. He can’t remember much except for scattered images, and half-truths that he can’t fully rely on. Maybe it’s one movie. Maybe it’s two. Maybe it’s none.
But as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at an old man in the mirror, he tries to travel back in time with some clarity. There’s a man and a woman in a living room. The man is in a suit. The woman in a dress. Maybe she’s royalty, because there's a tiara sitting on her head. She’s holding a stiff drink, as is he. She’s yelling at the man, for reasons unknown to Walter. He slaps her and she flails to the floor, looking at him with shock and horror. He’s over-acting, he turns swiftly to the left and places his right hand on his forehead. He says something. Sorry, maybe, or some kind of an apology that still places the blame on her for making him do things that he doesn’t want to do.
Walter is trying to tie a windsor knot. He’s been fumbling with it for over twenty minutes, and he feels annoyed, bordering on angry. What is this movie in his head? Why after 50 years can he still not tie a goddamn tie? Why can’t he remember the name of that black and white movie? Who is that old man staring at him in the mirror? Wasn’t he young? Weren’t they young?
No. He's old and she's gone. That much he can remember.
He can also remember Martha telling him, “boy, you can dress him up, but you can’t take him out,” while she smiled and grabbed the tie, knotting it perfectly within a matter of seconds, then lightly kissing his cheek. “You have no patience, Walter. Memories are like skittish animals. They’ll run away if you chase them. Sit back. Relax. And let them come to you.”
So, he tries. But his nerves are shot. Patience had never been his specialty. But he tries. For her, he tries.
The tie dangles loosely like a noose around his neck, but it’s the best he can do. He opens the door, and steps out into the early fall darkness. He didn’t need the tie for a lonesome walk around the neighborhood. But he promised Martha he would try. His depression would stay at bay, if he woke up and tried.
Outside the streets are dark. He breathes deeply. Let the memories come to you, he says. He closes his eyes. It's 1965. His father is passed out drunk and he's taking money from his wallet and heading down to the theater.
An old Cary Grant movie is playing in black and white. He sits down beside a young girl.
“My name is Walter,” he says.
“Hi,” she smiles, “my name is Martha.”
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.
1938
Just last year, she said she saw rainbows.
She swept that corner of the street where she had lived for an unbeknownst time, and had always given us a warm, adjective smile; sometimes rosy reminiscent of children's winter blushed cheeks, sometimes blanched with worry when the telephone called her in with incomprehensible figures and past-dues, and lately the color of forget-me-knots. A warm periwinkle, and an unending smile of recognition at my still small footsteps.
"Alistar, your hair is as beautiful as sunset," she delighted, the color of sky resting in her eyes. I approached her familiarly and let her run her dark wrinkled fingers through the ruddy hay strands that Mommy refused to cut shorter than bucket length around. It needed constant brushing from my face to see, but somehow nobody'd mind. I had my puppy. We were quite the matching pair. Two shaggy ones.
"It's good to be 10," she said, sharp as ever. I'd had my birthday, on the 9th of Nov. and she had remembered it was important, a true marker on her register. I'd hardly keep track. I've no idea how she had. Like some math-trick. "Child, I don't need a calendar. I have you to remember by," and she had pulled out a sparkling piece of hard candy, strawberry flavored, knowing it was my favorite. The scent hit my heart before I even received her outstretched hand. "I picked the shiniest one," she whispered. She certainly had. The clear cellophane caught every ray of sunlight and beamed iridescent.
But that day, the purple in her lower lip suggested to me a lingering memory. She tussled my hair, and pulled out a treat for my growing fur twin. ("I got the darkest one," she winked, knowing that Roamer really shined for the savory-scented gravy that was layered in stripes.) She must have been felt different that day. Ready. Her mouth curled upward pleasantly, the clouds in her gaze were soft milky white, and she sat heavily down on the stoop.
We sat instead of passing through. She pulled out a photo.
"Grandma and Grandpa!"
We had moved into their house when Grandpa became too frail to care for Grandma on his own, and Mommy would not hear of hiring a nurse and Daddy had agreed. This photo I'd never seen. She took it, gingerly. They were pale, high contrast of shadow. "Such a pretty yellow house. I remember the day they bought it. So friendly. Early Spring, with tiny lime buds, leaves about to unfurl and forsythia bursting. Winston in muddied dungarees, but Emilia was picture-perfect in that sundress with tiny flamingos wading between a cool sky and big warm blue-green waters. So much has changed!"
She put the fragile paper in my hands. "I had put this photo in a square envelope at the bottom of my dresser below our family albums when you were a baby. I wanted you to keep it. This morning."
The next day her windows were drawn.
12.16.2023
FFF#10Black&WhiteChallenge@ChrisSadhill
Thud
Julia must have missed a step, because one moment she was climbing onto her bunk bed, and the next she was on the floor, quiet. Her phone lay next to her, her hands around her hand. Blood was oozing out from under her in a small pool, and it got on my night sandals and her phone and the foot of our stepladder and the side of my bag. It was almost midnight the day before finals, and I was studying with new glasses and could see perfectly for the first time in months. I didn't have to squint anymore but squinted out of habit anyway at the bunny clock on the wall. I must be getting to sleep but now this. I got up to save my sandals and bag, which were probably ruined, and started wiping the blood off with toilet paper.
When I finished, Julia was still in the middle of the room. I knew none of our other roommates would be back for another half hour from the library, so I went out to borrow the landlady's mop and some sanitizer. I knocked on her door and explained that there was an emergency and that there was blood everywhere and it was probably ruining her floor. For a moment she stood there with this horrid look in her eyes. I don't think she heard me ask for the mop because she grabbed her phone and ran out. After her, I can clearly see my trail of footsteps leading back into the room. I must have stepped on some blood earlier, and I am not looking forward to another hour of scrubbing my shoes.
When I get back to my room, the landlady is kneeling over Julia, peeling back her eyelids and calling her name. "I don't think she can hear you. She must have hit her head," I told the landlady, who was now placing two fingers expertly on the side of Julia's neck. "Don't worry," the landlady looked me in the eye across the room, her voice trembling a little, "I'm here now."
But then she bombarded me with really pointed questions, asking if I'd helped call 911, if I'd heard Julia say anything, how long since I'd been back to find her like this, and if I'd done any first aid and if I knew any. She even wanted to know if I'd told her friends or family, as if I knew them. I had to ask, "Why are you so upset about this? Julia did this herself."
She stopped dialing and looked back at me. And I looked at her, too. When 911 connected, I noticed that she'd used my pink washcloth to soak up some of the blood, and it was now red and disgusting.
Little Black & White Dress
Mia passed by the little clothing store every day on her way to work. The store was hard to miss. Its window was laced with tinsel and shimmering lights for the holidays. They framed a simple dressmaker’s mannequin in the center that wore a white cashmere sweater dress with black silk trim. The dress appeared to glow in the festive spotlight. It stopped her in its tracks that day — and the next day, and the next day.
She dared not enter the store knowing her bank account balance. Even when her boss handed her and the rest of her coworkers gift cards in lieu of holiday bonuses, she knew it barely made a dent in the amount on the price tag hanging from it.
Mia’s office holiday party was taking place on the Friday afternoon before Christmas. How gracious of her boss to enforce a mandatory work gathering for his team instead of allowing them to travel to see their families for the holidays. That morning, just as every one for the past week, she passed the store on her way to her day job. She stopped to hold her head just inches from the glass, just enough to fog up the window. She wiped it away to reveal the black-and-white masterpiece, the cashmere object of her affection.
A blonde woman with flawless skin and an elegant wool coat burst out the store’s entrance. She almost ran into Mia and cried out, “Don’t waste your time here!”
Mia was startled. “Oh, I—I’m not—”
“—not coming back, that’s right!” The woman threw her shopping bag on the ground. “Their return policy is just unreasonable. My husband is an attorney, and he’ll make them regret turning me down just because I cut off the tag before trying it on. It doesn’t fit! How is that my fault?”
The woman spun around on her stiletto heels to look at the pitiful sight of a disheveled Mia, utterly and visibly not looking forward to the day ahead of her. She saw the same dress that was in her bag, picked it up, and held it out for Mia to grab.
“That’s what I bought. Please take it. It looks like it’ll fit. I was just going to throw it in the bin anyway.”
Mia’s head spun. She muttered thank you, gave the woman an awkward hug, and ran to work. She put it on in the bathroom and stepped into the office with newfound confidence.
A few hours later, everyone at the office gathered to grab boxed wine and bring it back to their desks for a working lunch. Mia’s boss proceeded to announce to the rows of desks that due to corporate downsizing, their positions had been eliminated effective immediately. She walked over and extended her arm just far enough to throw her wine in his face without letting a drop splatter on her beautiful, new dress. She strutted out the door with a euphoric grin plastered on her face.
The night was shaded black and white.
Black sky against balls of white light studded against Dunn Avenue. Patches of shadowed greys intermittently punctuated the trail, until the trees snuffed out any trace of luminescence.
A steady beat fills the eardrums, quickening just a bit in those pools of grey. The world tilts and my vision becomes a tidal wave with the changes of light. Human vision is, mostly, diurnal.
It is not really the darkness, or the light, that pumps my blood and feet as a roaring tidal wave; no, it is the sound of Nike Air Force smacking the leaves behind me.
Darkness opens its mouth further and further, swallowing me whole.
I stop and turn. The whiteness is just a pinpoint in the distance, the size of my fist.
The figure plugs the hole, removing the remaining source of light. My husband pulls the knife.
“I pity you,” I say.
The plunge elicits a final dazzling of stars before my eyes, and he is consumed by the blackness as he runs back towards Dunn Avenue.
The picture
I stared at the mirror in front of me, and I asked myself “who am I?” I hadn’t thought about this question for a long time. My neighbors had said that where we had just moved to was haunted. Nothing like our house on the hill down by the lake, this small city apartment had everything that a haunted house could have called for. Cabinets constantly swung open at the crack of midnight. Candles lighted By themselves in the dark, and sometimes during the day the Lights behind our couch flickered on and off by themselves. The most frightening thing that I have seen so far, that I dare not say out loud “the picture that was ‘black and white’ moved places around the house. This time, I caught the picture moving by itself. As if a Spirit from beyond the realm, we’re spinning it in circles, it rotated three times and then moved like a train on a train track across the wall right behind the mirror. I was horrified “well shit” I whispered under my breath, I grabbed the bag of salt I left by my bed side table. I had a cross above my head board and the Bible next to me on my arm chair. The fire in the fire place flickered out, and everything turned to black. Except for the picture which was In transition, from the wall, and moved to right in front of my face. As the colored picture turned back to “black and white” the eyes of the lady who died in our house began to move. Resting on my eyes, she leaned out of the picture, turned her mouth to my ear and yelled “boo.” I jumped out of my chair, ran down the hall way, and out of the apartment. That’s okay, I was going to get evicted next week anyway. Money was tight and sleep was rare, so naturally I thought I was seeing things. It wasn’t until my therapist told me about mania and the ability to see and hear things that aren’t actually there. “Well at least I’m not crazy“ I told the doctor “you’re not crazy, just tired” and maybe I will forever be tired, especially after the black and white picture started listing off different ways that she could kill me In my ear. “word of advice my friends?” I told the group sitting with me at lunch, they stared at me eagerly waiting my response. “what’s that?” Almost every one of them asked me in a different format.
“never buy a painting from an old antique shop” I gulped “at least that’s what my land lord told me” they all started shaking there heads, nodding as if they understood. I laughed a little bit because until you see a ‘black and white picture’ speak to you, then it’s almost like a terrible dream, which no one understands until they see it. The end.