The monitor has kept a lonely vigil on the nightstand. Its green, and sometimes red, bars of light have blinked intermittently for nearly two weeks. The volume is turned off, though the residents in bed beside it wouldn’t know the difference. They lay inert beside its quiet pleas—bodies and breath reeking of the same substance that recently occupied the empty bottles littering the floor.

Neither is much to look at. The wife—we’ll call her that, for they are legally married after the common-law variety—is rather large. Her thin, unkempt hair fans across the pillows of her fleshy cheeks, puffy lips hiding dark, spotted teeth. Her pink, wrinkled chemise stains beneath the underarms and her hefty legs tangle in the rank sheets.

Beside her lies the broad form of her husband. Though not as corpulent as his wife, he bears it more awkwardly. His arms and shoulders are thin, but he packs more in his gut and cheeks and ankles. He is also rather hairier; the short stubble of his head extends toward his eyebrows, and down his back. An empty liquor bottle rests against his chest. He strokes it mindlessly with his thumb, a smile on his lips; sordid dreams flitting across his barren mind.

The monitor gives a sudden, silent scream as the bars flash to maximum capacity. Green. Green. Red. Red. Red. All five blink in rapid succession. The monitor seems to buzz and shake with the effort of waking its owners. The wife twitches and begins to stir.

Down the hallway, at the microphone end of the monitor, a girl crouches against crib bars, fingers to her ears.

“Hush, hush,” she pleads with her infant sister, “you’ll wake them!” Her knees are held tightly to her chest, tears in her big, somber eyes.

The girl is no more than seven, perhaps eight years old, though she is small for her age. Her body is as pinched and thin as her parents are large and obtuse. Her wispy-fine hair is mouse-brown and matted, and she reeks of urine. Reaching into the crib, she tenderly lifts out the shrieking bundle. Even so, no one has taught her to support the neck, and the baby’s head lolls back. The infant shrieks louder. Terrified, she pleads again— “Hush baby!”

She cradles her sister like she’s seen other girls do with their dolls. Girls whose dolls are exquisitely dressed, pushed along in pink little wicker prams. She rocks baby girl, back and forth, back and forth. Still, the girl screams on, inconsolable.

Fearful, the girl looks about, grasping at a bottle on the shelf. It is empty—only a dried milk residue remains—but she puts it in, desperate to quiet the shrieking. For a moment it works, baby girl is content to suck on the dry air of the bottle. But her empty belly aches with the rush of air and the crying intensifies. Laying the baby on the floor, the girl rushes through the doorway to get to the fridge, when from the other end of the house, a roar.

“Fer gods sakes, shut ’er up!”

The girl flinches visibly and hurries back to the room. At the end of the hall, an argument ensues.

“It’s yer turn.”

A whiny voice answers. “I went th’ last time!”

“No yeh didn’! Yeh jes’ slep’ through me gittin’ up!”

Their voices grow louder and louder through the thin walls.

“You son-of-a-b—! You say that every time!”

“I don’t! Ef’n yeh ever got off yer own lazy ass, yeh’d know!”

She screams at him in return, a high, angry shriek, and the sounds of a scuffle ensue. Profanities rain through the walls and the whole house shakes at the meeting of these two behemoths. Baby girl screams on, where she’s been left the floor. Her sister sobs quietly, crouched, hiding behind a threadbare armchair in a corner of the room.

A few loud thumps, a final shriek and the door flies open. Hair ratty and frizzed from the tussle, the ogress emerges from her cavern, jowls quivering with rage.

She hurls a final insult behind her; “son-of-a-b—!” before stomping down the hall. Her fury is brought to a halt on finding her infant on the floor. Her face slackens into an expression of dull stupidity as she puzzles over the marvelous event, when suddenly the pieces click.

“Lena!” Her patience is razor-thin. “–Lena! Where is that little b—!?”

Timidly, Lena emerges from behind the chair, thin arms across her chest, shielding herself.

“There you are.” Her mother grimaces. “What you been doin’?” When Lena doesn’t answer, she cuffs her across the head. “You been wakin’ her!? Huh? You been wakin’ her ‘cause you know we already en’t gettin’ no sleep!? You little b—! Answer me!”

Lena glances down at her squalling sister before replying. “No’m. Jes’ tryin’ to shut ’er up.”

“Liar!” Her mother slaps her again, before turning her attention to baby girl. Lena takes the opportunity to scuttle back to her place behind the armchair.

“What Lena been doin’ to you, huh?” she smiles emptily down at baby girl. Lifting her up, she presses the child against her bosom. “Shush, shush, baby.” Lena watches jealously from the corner.

Alternately rocking and bouncing, the woman works to console her. Rock, bounce, pat. Rock, bounce, pat. At moments, the newborn pauses in her crying and allows herself to be consoled. Then, remembering her parentage, the wails begin afresh.

“Agh—jest shutup!” The woman’s jaw quivers angrily. “Well—mebe you’re jest hungry!”

Rummaging in the cupboard, she hastens to mix a few ounces of formula and puts it in the child’s open mouth. Though hungry, the child gags on the cold milk, crying louder. Her small, wrinkled face is a crimson red-verging-on-blue. Rock, bounce, pat. The mother goes through the motions of consoling her child, though inwardly her corrupted heart dwells on the offenses against her. An abusive husband who forces her to care for their children alone! A willful daughter who purposefully awakens her sister. An infant who won’t stop screaming. All of them, conspiring to wrong her. Her mind picks over each damning evidence.

A dark seed of hatred, already well-established, takes firmer root. Her stained pink chemise slips off her shoulder and those wretched, rotted teeth grimace as the infant scorns her attentions.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Five minutes pass, then six. Each second is an eternity beside those ear-splitting screams.

At eight minutes, she tries burping her, changing her, feeding her again. After each failure, her fleshy face darkens, and her mind grows more embittered.

‘All I do is care for ‘em, hour after hour an’ this is my thanks.’ She thinks savagely. ‘I hate ‘em.’

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Behind the chair, Lena tries to stifle a miserable sob.

“Lena! Git out here!”

Reluctantly, Lena creeps out from behind her perch.

“You woke ’er, so you c’n take ’er. See how you like it!”

She dumps the child unceremoniously into Lena’s arms and retreats into the hallway. The thin walls no longer hold back the tide of noise, however, and the alcohol has worn its way into a pulsing headache. She hovers there for a few minutes ‘jest to teach Lena a lesson,’ before marching back in to pull the baby out of Lena’s despairing arms.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat, shake.

At first, it’s just brief jounce, enough to scare her quiet. Then, as the screams crescendo and the injustices against her culminate in the woman’s small mind, she shakes the child harder. With a final thump on the thinly carpeted floor, she begins to scream herself.

“Shutup! Jest shutup!”

This time, baby girl listens.

I swear and roll my eyes. It has been a day of one small thing after another going wrong. The last thing I want to do is drive all the way into Atlanta for a concert that I didn’t really want to go to and that I knew without any doubt that he definitely couldn’t afford. It’s one of those things he’s always doing. Spending money he doesn’t have. It drives me crazy!

As I lock the door to the convenience store, I let out a long frustrated sigh. I am beyond tired and my legs ache. Still, I know he bought the tickets as a treat for me. Lenny Kravitz’s music has always been in the background of our relationship. I can see how he would think of it as a way to celebrate our relationship. Still, what else could that money have been used for? I hope into my car and head home.

When I pull up, he’s already there, waiting on the doorstep in the rain. I try to plaster on a smile, and get out of my car. ‘Ya know, you could wait inside. It’d be a lot dryer.’ I try to keep the bite out of my words, but don’t quite manage it.

’You’d think so, wouldn’t you? However, your roommates disagree with you and think it’s far better that I sit out here in the rain. So kind of them.’ he bites back at me.

It’s my fault, this dislike between John and my friends. I can’t deny it. His ardour, his passion towards me scared me to no end. Add to that the fact that I was dating someone in our group, before John came in the scene, it was a recipe for disaster. I shake my head at myself. What’s done is done and there’s no way for me to change it now. What does he want from me? Love is a fantasy, a fairytale, one of those things people write about but doesn’t really exist. Growing up in my family, you couldn’t really think otherwise. ‘You could’ve waited in your car, ya know, that one right there.’ The minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could grab them and shove them back in. I know why he’s not in his car. He loves to play the martyr. I’ve just given him the perfect opportunity to do so by leaving work late tonight. ‘Never mind. Just give me a sec to change and we can head out. Do ya wanna come in with me?’

‘No, I’ll wait in my car,’ he says as he turns and walks away. I bite back the words of frustration and go on in. Five minutes later, I’m back outside and jump into his car. He’s angry, I can tell, but he’s trying to put a brave face on it. He’s trying to salvage this evening. He always wins bonus points for sheer determination. It’s how he won me over in the first place. From the first day we spoke, he told me that he knew we were meant to be together. I just laughed. That sort of thing doesn’t ever come along.

We make our way onto the interstate to head into Atlanta. The rain is miserable, and his wiper blades are not up to the challenge. We strain our eyes out of the windscreen, trying to see the road ahead of us. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to miss the opening act, but we should make it in time for Lenny,’ he says with a smile while he reaches across and takes my hand. I can’t help myself. I have to smile. Moments like these make me happy in spite of myself. He does some stupid things, but he also has one of the kindest hearts I‘ve come across. Lenny Kravitz comes out of the radio. ’Synchronicity,’ he says with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. It’s his superpower. Whenever he needs a song to come on the radio, it does. If he is ever in a situation that a song can sum up perfectly, it magically comes out of the speakers. We’ve always joked about his superpower, but it really is uncanny. I give him my biggest smile and squeeze his hand and his eyes light up. I chuckle to myself.

As I turn my attention back to the road, we hear a bang, the car swerved and hydroplanes on the wet tarmac. John grabs the steering wheel and tries his best to turn into the skid. We slide across several lanes and I do my best not to scream. He manages to pull off onto the verge. The regular thump, thump, thump as we pull off leads no doubt in our minds. It’s a puncture. John puts the car in park and starts to get out of the car. ‘I can help,’ I offer. Goodness knows I know a lot more about cars than he does, but his chivalry prevents that.

’No, sweetheart, you stay here where it’s dry. I’m wet already, anyway. He disappears into the rain. I hear him rummaging around in the trunk. Some swearing penetrates the window panes and I can’t help but smile. He tries so hard. He is always so determined to make everything right. The swearing gets louder. I start laying odds on what has gone wrong this time. I feel like maybe I should double down on there being no jack in his car.

He opens the door and sticks his head in. Water is dripping from him everywhere. He’s rolling his eyes heavenward. His eyes lock again with mine and in the most deadpan voice says, ‘I think we’re going to miss the concert,’ he sighs, ‘no spare’. I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. This whole day was a comedy of errors and of all the things on his mind, he’s worried we won’t make the concert.

I continue to laugh, and after a moment, he joins in, together we laugh until tears are rolling down our faces. ‘Man, I love you.’ and I try to regain my breath when I notice that John has gone absolutely still beside me. He doesn’t move. It’s like he doesn’t even dare breathe. Everything seems to stop.

John whispers so quietly, I almost don’t hear what he says. ‘You’ve never said that before.’ Now there are tears in his eyes but for a very different reason.

well i'm a gentleman working

in the garden of love

i lay down in the dirt

if someone gives me a shove

but i'm sick of this scene

such a nice young man

spreadin' seeds on my knees

gettin' down with my hand

i stay up all night

playin' games with my dolls

tryin' to get them to move

climbin' up the fuckin' walls

I'M AT A JUNCTURE!

IF I DON'T LOSE THIS SNAKE

I'M GONNA RUPTURE!

IF I DON'T PENETRATE

I'M GONNA PUNCTURE!

just give me a break

fore i lose my mind

and go fuckin' insane

all the girls in my life

they got vinyl skin

if someone saw what i do

they'd say a prayer for my sins

i got a handful of roses

for my blow-up squeeze

i'm gonna use this thorn

to get a fuckin' wheeze

I'M AT A JUNCTURE!

IF I DON'T LOSE THIS SNAKE

I'M GONNA RUPTURE!

IF I DON'T PENETRATE

I'M GONNA PUNCTURE!

just give me a break

fore i lose my mind

and go fuckin' insane

The weary, wan light of the moon filters faintly through the window shades. The pale, cold light casts into relief a small, ill-kept bedroom with two matching twin beds on opposite walls and two night-stands, a small lamp upon each. A wheelchair sits, crammed between the end of one of the beds and the wall, behind an old commode.

The bed on the left is empty.

A man lies in the other, listening intently to the clock ticking above the doorframe. His eyes glitter dully in the bleached half-light of the room. The night is only half-spent and he shifts imperceptibly, as someone accustomed to lying awake for long hours.

His face is gaunt and unshaven, bristly and rough—a lifeless conglomeration of skin and hair and eyes—unmoving and unfeeling in the bleak and winnowed moonlight. The night’s shadows heighten his socketed eyes and angular chin; things that once were fine, even handsome, appear somber and spent.

The man stares fixedly at the ceiling, arms tucked in close at the sides, hands upon his chest, fingers interlaced. For all of the man’s roughness and severity, his hands are a tender antithesis. Delicate and elegant, they are the hands of an artist, or a surgeon—equally liable to paint the sweeping majesty of a sunrise as to bind a wound or brush a tear. They are hands to craft a toy for a child or nurture the tender shoots of a garden bed.

The clock has finished ticking to four-thirty when the man ends his quiet vigil, unclasping his steady fingers in search of the thick, plastic cord near the bed’s side-rail. Outside his reach, it takes some moments before he is able to grasp it, and some time more to locate the rubberized grip and red button.

His fingers linger over the button, hesitant, feeling the edges. He shifts uncomfortably in bed, an act that seems to decide him, and presses the button.

A light above the door flickers on.

The man sighs audibly, unable to retract the action, and returns to his examination of the ceiling. The ticking of the clock resumes to his hearing. One minute. Two. The rhythm of the clock is indelibly etched into his mind. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Five minutes. Six. Nine. Tick. Tick. Tick. Eleven. When the door finally opens, it is a relief of those endless seconds.

“What’cha need, Mista’ Lewis?”

The voice is loud and harsh.

Mr. Lewis’s eyes flicker to the outline that fills the door, his fears confirmed. Voice hoarse from disuse, he struggles to reply and the voice repeats itself, more forcefully.

“What’cha need?”

Coughing to clear his throat, he croaks, “the bathroom.” A loud groan of dismay meets his reply.

“Day shift’ll be here in a hour. You cain’t wait?” Murmuring a soft no, Mr. Lewis continues to keep vigil over the ceiling.

“Fine,” the outline grumbles.

Ambling towards him from the door, she drags the commode beside the bed and drops the siderail. His aged body twists unpleasantly as his legs are pulled unceremoniously off of the bed.

In a practiced motion, his body is heaved upright from the edge into a standing position, body held in force by her massive form. The sharp smell of sweat and of freshly-smoked cigarette on her uniform is nauseating. Again, a practiced swing, and he is on the cold plastic seat, trousers pulled to his ankles.

“You gon’ be long?” she asks, eying him impatiently.

“No’m,” he replies, though it is a long seven hundred and thirty-nine seconds of the clock before she returns to help him off.

———————————————

Title: The Way of All Men

Genre: Literary Fiction

Age Range: Adult, or older Y.A.

Word Count: 598 (in excerpt), approximately 9,000 written

Hook: “The bed on the left is empty.” This line gives room to the question: why is the bed empty? The book brings this concept full-circle as the empty bed becomes a metaphor for all of the loss in Mr. Lewis’s life, specifically, his wife. The opening theme of abuse of the elderly is also employed to draw the reader in.

Synopsis: The book’s central character is Mr. Lewis, an elderly man who has lived in a nursing home for four years. The loss of his wife and the busy-ness of his children’s lives (which keeps them from visiting), has made him lonely and cynical. When the director of the nursing home determines that the business won’t survive financially without taking on more paying residents, all Medicare patients (including Mr. Lewis) are forced to share rooms. The dementia patient who moves into his wife’s empty bed is far from desirable, but as Mr. Lewis and Albert become acquainted, a friendship develops that alters Mr. Lewis’s perspective. The novel will examine the following social issues:

1. Elderly abuse, and why it often goes unnoticed.

2. At what point should care/treatment end?

3. When do nursing homes become predatory?

4. Does God exist and/or love His children, and if so, why does he allow them to suffer?

As all good literary fiction requires an exceptional plot apart from its social considerations, each of these topics is broached via character dilemmas and plot setbacks, not just through dialogue or verbose commentary.

Target Audience: Hopefully all lovers of classic literary fiction. (My aspiration is to write like Steinbeck, Hemingway or Hugo, though I certainly fall short).

Bio: I worked for 5 years prior to college as a CNA/EMT to save money. The time spent in various nursing homes and hospitals gave me much of my material for this book. The more interesting points of my life have been my work: I have sourced agricultural products within sub-Saharan Africa, worked as a surgical technician, in wildland fire-fighting, and am now a data analyst/scientist, specializing in healthcare data. Each of these experiences have spawned a variety of book ideas.

Education: Bachelors of Science deg. in Computational Mathematics & Statistics, Emergency Medical Technician (EMT)

Experience: Apart from placing 2nd in a collegiate writing competition, I am new to the realm of writing (in terms of sharing and marketing my work, not creating.)

Personality/Writing Style: I am a reserved individual with a dry sense of humor, who values logic and precision (cue my background in mathematics). In my writing, I prefer character-oriented lit that scrutinizes the human condition. For example, I am working on a novel about the loss experienced (by a family) in a hurricane that examines how natural disaster relief efforts too-often fall short.

Hobbies: I love to read (classical literature and historical non-fiction are my favorites) and also enjoy all things outdoorsy (backpacking, skiing, fishing, biking, etc.). Learning in general is also a hobby and lately, I have been studying for the actuarial exams and learning how to bottle food from my garden (pickles, peaches and salsa so far)!

Hometown: I have lived in Chicago, Utah, New Jersey, Idaho, Arizona, Houston and south-eastern Africa, so no place in particular is home.