Great Writers-Mike
Michael Latella is from Cincinnati, Ohio. He gravitates toward spaces between sci-fi and horror, stories that feature liminal and inexplicable states
Transcripts From That Evening
2:42 AM (ET), Rawson, OH
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi, I’m on I-75 right now, and there was some kind of vehicle driving without headlights. I don’t think any lights were on. We barely saw it. I don’t think it had any lights.”
“So the vehicle’s headlights weren’t on? Which direction on I-75 are you going?”
“No, it’s not that the headlights were off. It didn’t–”
“Sorry, they were on?”
“It didn’t have headlights. There weren’t any.”
“Sir, could you clarify, was this vehicle’s headlights turned on or off?”
“I don’t even know if it was a vehicle. It was totally black, and it was next to us for about two minutes.”
“It sounds like you are describing a black vehicle with its headlights turned off.”
“No, no, I thought I could maybe see the front of it once we were under some streetlights, but it didn’t have anything. There was nothing on the front. It wasn’t a black car.”
“Could you tell what model it was? Was it a truck?”
“I don’t think it was anything. It was completely black.”
“Sir, was it speeding or driving recklessly?”
“I don’t think. It was next to us for a minute, then it wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry, could you clarify what you are trying to report?”
“I just think someone needs to see what’s up with this thing.”
“Alright, we’ll be sending a car out. Thank you.”
1:42 AM (CT), Munfordville, KY
“At mile marker… I’m sorry, give me a second, waiting for the next one… ok, it’s showing mile marker 62, so that would mean it was about–”
“–away just two minutes ago… going about seventy–”
“I got it, I got it, I know. Ok, so that woulda put it at mile marker 64 or 65–”
“–remember to say we’re going–”
“I got it! You still there? We’re on South 65 right now.”
“Ok, ma’am, can you still see the vehicle?”
“No, it’s gone now. I don’t know what it was.”
“Did it turn off on an exit?”
“I don’t think it did. It was just this shape next to us–”
“–couldn’t have been–”
“Right, it just blocked out everything. This shape.”
“Ma’am, did they drive ahead of you or behind you?”
“–just two minutes ago, we’d still be able to–”
“No idea, it blocked out everything, it was alongside us in–”
“–came up on the–”
“We were in the left lane around mile marker 65, so that would put it in the right lane. I know it’s late and no one else is on the road, but we were–”
“–couple semis back in–”
“But we just happened to be in the left lane, you know?”
“Ok, ma’am, and you said it didn’t have any of its lights on?”
“No, and it was right next to us, scared us to death.”
“And you don’t know where it is now?”
“We don’t know where it could have gone, hasn’t been an exit in about five–”
“–have turned off toward–”
“We’d have heard that, it’s a ditch next to the highway about, I wanna say it’s a four, five foot drop before–”
“Ma’am? Ma’am, we’ll notify one of the patrolmen to check out the area, ok?”
1:42 AM (CT), Willow Springs, MO
“I spent an evening turning off lamps.”
“Sir, could you repeat that?”
1:43 AM (CT), Morocco, IN
“Knew it was there when someone coming the other way, their headlights were gone as it went by.”
“Say that again?”
“Right, so I’m going northbound, and there stopped being lights back in, streetlights I mean, back in Kentland, right? So it’s just my headlights, and then if a car is going southbound on 41, it’s their headlights too.”
“So you want to report a vehicle driving northbound State Route 41 with their headlights off?”
“Listen, I don’t know what this was. Now, it’s dark, but I’m still seeing the median, and I’m seeing the grass and the guardrails and all that, right? What I’m saying is, car’s coming toward me in the southbound lane and I can see its headlights, then they disappear because there’s this black thing driving next to me. Their headlights are gone because I’m seeing the outline of this shape right next to me.”
“Sir, we need to keep this line open for emergencies.”
2:44 AM (ET), Hamden, OH
“This is something my son would say.”
“Please, ma’am, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“This is something my son would say.”
2:44 AM (ET), New Paris, OH
“No, like it was moving funny.”
“Do you believe the driver was intoxicated?”
“We never saw a driver. But no, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t moving like a car. There was something off about it.”
“Do you still see the vehicle now?”
“No, that’s what we were saying, that’s the whole reason we– my wife was asking if maybe it was military, but nothing about it seemed right, and then it was gone. It’s just us on the road now, and we were the only car even before the thing showed up, too.”
“And you didn’t see where it drove off to?”
“Yes, that is what we are saying. And like I said, something was off about this thing. Like it was sort of fixed on us, except it wasn’t moving like a car. It must have had wheels though. Remember when we hit–”
“Could you repeat that? What do you mean you think it had wheels?”
“Something was off about it, like it was fixed on us, but there was this rough part of the highway around the I-70 exits where they just did repairs, and we started bouncing around a bit, and we think we maybe saw it kind of bouncing around too, so that’s how we figured it must be some kind of vehicle.”
“Sir, I am sorry, but I am having a hard time understanding you.”
1:44 AM (CT), White Hall, IL
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Yes, I want to report an intruder. Someone– yes, yes… I’ve… what? Hi, sorry, someone was in our home.”
“There was an intruder in your home. Were you able to see or identify the intruder?”
“He was in our bed! He got in bed with me and my wife!”
“Were you able to see the intruder’s face for possible identification?”
“No, it was dark, there was just this small reading light my wife left on. I never saw– ok, just a minute… one second, one second. I never saw his face.”
“Are you and your wife ok? Were you attacked at all?”
“We’re alright, my wife is… we’re fine, she’s fine. I don’t think we were attacked. We’re both rattled. Christ. Look, can you please send someone out immediately. Everything is locked. I think this guy might still be here.”
“Yes sir, we will be sending a patrolman out now.”
1:44 AM (CT), Barry, IL
“You know when someone is trying to tell you something on the road? Like, they match your speed and roll their window down or something?”
“Yes, I–”
“Ok, it was like that, but we’re going goddamn seventy-five and the guy never rolls his windows down. Was just neck and neck with me for a minute or two.”
“Were you able to see the make and model of the vehicle?”
“No, and I know cars. I want to say it was some kind of… I’m driving a Pathfinder and it was about that size. In black or something. I couldn’t see it at all.”
“You couldn’t see the vehicle?”
“It was this black that– ok, so we’re driving under streetlamps, but they weren’t reflecting off of this car. I know cars, and there’s guys who get these matte paint jobs, and maybe it was a kind of matte paint, but you’d still be able to see the windshield and the windows under the streetlamps.”
“Where are you now? Are you still near the vehicle?”
“I’m still on 72 East, and no, I have no idea where this thing went. Like I said, its lights were off, but we were neck and neck. I don’t know what happened at all.”
“Thanks, we’ll be sending someone that way to check it out.”
1:45 AM (CT), Macon, MO
“Several.”
“Ma’am, are you ok? Is someone with you?”
“It is several. Again.”
“Ma’am, are you feeling ok? Ma’am? Is someone–”
“No.”
2:46 AM (ET), Mt. Washington, KY
“Hi, you’ve reached the warmline crisis hotline. My name is Ryan. Could you state your name for me?”
“Carrie.”
“Hi, Carrie. Thank you for calling, I’m here to help however I can. Is there something specific you’d like to talk about?”
“Yeah, I am not doing well, I think I am having a panic attack. I’m sorry, I’m not sure how this works. Are you able to, like, I’m sorry. I don’t know what the options are. I’m sorry.”
“That’s ok. That’s ok, Carrie. Anxiety attacks and panic attacks are something I am able to help with. There are a few methods we can try to help relieve some of that anxiety. First of all, are you in a safe environment at the moment?”
“Yes, I’m at home. At my mother’s home. I’m in her living room. I think I was hallucinating. I’m freaking out, and it isn’t getting better. Like, I’ve had anxiety problems before, and I’m usually able to handle them, and they’ll slowly go away. And I don’t know, this feels different. It isn’t getting better. I just want to go back to sleep, and I can’t.”
“I understand, that is extremely frustrating. Well, let’s see what we can do to relieve some of that so you can get some sleep. You said you were hallucinating, are you still experiencing that now?”
“I don’t think so. I thought I saw someone outside. Like, about to attack my mom in her yard.”
“Wow, that is scary. I can understand how seeing something like that could cause anxiety. Absolutely, yeah. So you thought you saw this person. Were there any other instances where you felt like you were hallucinating?”
“I don’t think so. And that’s the thing, I don’t think I’ve ever hallucinated before. This isn’t a normal thing. I really saw someone, but maybe it wasn’t like that. Sorry, I’m not doing ok right now.”
“I understand. Yeah, I understand why that would be distressing.”
“Like, my mom didn’t hear or see anything. But then, ok sorry, I’m not sure how much information you need for this.”
“That’s ok, that’s ok. You can tell me as much or as little as you’d like. If it’s helpful for you to just talk through your feelings and your thoughts, I’m happy to listen.”
“Thanks. Ok, thanks. Ok, so I’m over at my mom’s house, and I heard her walking around, which woke me up, I think. I found her outside with a flashlight and wearing her nightgown, and I think she’s looking for her cat, because she gets outside sometimes. And when I see her outside with the flashlight, I am… I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I need a second.”
“That’s ok, that’s absolutely ok. Take your time.”
“Thanks, thanks, sorry. I was certain that someone was standing behind her. And I screamed and opened the porch door, and there wasn’t anyone. But I absolutely saw it. And it’s dark. I know that it’s dark, and I had just woken up, and I was trying to think that maybe there was some kind of glare in the porch door before I opened it, but I really… My mom was holding a flashlight and moving it around the yard looking for the cat, and there was this very distinct outline of someone standing behind her that I could see because of the flashlight. It looked more like a woman, I think. Someone with longer hair and a dress or something. I only saw an outline.”
“Yes, that sounds extremely frightening, I can understand how that would be distressing.”
“And that’s the thing, part of me thinks it was still real. I don’t hallucinate. It’s not something that’s ever happened. And like, my mom didn’t see anything, but there’s all these dead cicadas, sorry not dead ones, but in that part of her yard where I saw her, there’s a bunch of cicada shells. And I don’t know, I wonder if while she was walking on them, she might not have been able to hear if someone was behind her. And so I keep going back to thinking it was real, but no one else was outside, and I ran around the house like a crazy person and never saw anyone. And my mom said… she didn’t… I don’t think she saw or heard anyone. I don’t know, I’m sorry, I’m freaking out, and I’m not sure what even happened.”
“I understand, that sounds like a very distressing thing to witness.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what to do, and it isn’t going away. I’m exhausted, but I can’t fall asleep. It just isn’t getting better. I’m not sure what… I’m sorry.”
“No, no, that’s ok. I understand. Would it be ok if we tried some breathing exercises? There’s a specific breathing pattern that has been shown to have calming effects. That is something we’d be able to try if you’d like.”
“Sure, yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Great, great. Now, I’m able to stay on the line while you do the exercise, or I am able to guide you through it myself if you’d prefer. It’s a very simple exercise. You would be breathing in slowly for five seconds, and then breathing out for three seconds. Then you would repeat that several times. Is that something you would like to try?”
“Yes, yes, that’s ok.”
“Would you like me to stay on the line while you try it? I’m also happy to count and guide you through it if you’d like.”
“Yeah, if that’s ok, would you be able to count? I think that might be good.”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. Ok, let me know when you are comfortable, and we can start. Again, you’ll be taking slow, deep breaths in for five, then breathing out for three. Let me know when you’re comfortable.”
“Ok. Ok.”
“Great. Ready? Now breathe in, one… two… three… four… five. Hold. Out, one… two… three. In for one… two…”
1:46 AM (CT), Lebanon, MO
“It didn’t look like any kind of car. It was just this totally black shape that was, I mean it had to be some kind of car because it was moving on the road next to me. But like, it’s pitch black outside, and I could still see this thing clearly because it was somehow blacker than that. Like it wasn’t anything, but it was driving next to me.”
“And you were saying it drove away somewhere?”
“No, it was there, and then I just stopped seeing it.”
“Sir, are you presently driving under the influence of any substances?”
“No, holy shit, seriously? I am calling because I am concerned. This seems like the kind of thing you should be worried about, and you are asking if I am on something?”
“How long have you been driving? Have you been on the road a while?”
“Jesus, I know it sounds weird, and that is literally why I am calling. There is some kind of dangerous vehicle on the road, and you need to be checking it out. Again, I’m on 44 West just past Sleeper.
“Sir, I recommend finding a rest stop or a gas station and taking a moment to collect yourself. It looks like there should be something coming up in a few miles for you.”
1:47 AM (CT), Mill Shoals, IL
“We’re off of 64 East, I’m not sure where. I was asleep when we went off the road. I’m not sure what exits we’re close to.”
“Are you able to see any landmarks? Any highway signs or billboards?”
“Nothing, sorry. We’re surrounded by corn. We got pretty deep into this field before I could stop the car.”
“Got it, that’s ok ma’am. We’re sending some folks out and they’ll be on the lookout.”
“Thank you, thank you. Our hazards are on so it should hopefully be easy to find us. I don’t know if I’m able to get the car back on the highway, but I might be able to back it up through the path we made to get it closer to the road. Would that be helpful for the ambulance?”
“I’m not sure. Is that something you think you’d be able to do safely? I think that once the paramedics find you, they shouldn’t have a problem getting to you.”
“I’m just really worried about him. He wasn’t controlling the car when I woke up, and he seems really disoriented right now. I’m worried he’s had a stroke or something, so I’m just thinking of ways to get him to a hospital faster.”
“I understand. Have you noticed any slurred speech? Are you able to see if part of his face is drooping?”
“Not slurred, no. Just very disoriented. I need to get a better look at his face. I couldn’t see it when we went off the road. There was this, I don’t know, I probably need to get checked out too. It looked like there was someone sitting between us somehow. I was able to see everything else in the car, but I couldn’t see him.”
“Ok. Have you tried moving him at all?”
“Not yet, but I think I’d be able to manage getting the car in reverse if I need to.”
“No, I think it might be best to stay put. An ambulance is on its way now.”
“Ok, ok. Do you think it would be possible to stay on the line until they find us?”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be ok.”
2:47 AM (ET), Springboro, OH
“He’s a teen or maybe younger. I didn’t see his face.”
“And you believe he is still in the house?”
“He has to be! I just went through every closet and threw on all the lights. I’ve got all the cabinets open, my whole family is up now, my wife is crying. This kid broke in somehow, but we’ve got alarms on all the windows and doors, and they’re all still locked.”
“I understand. Have you noticed anything damaged or stolen?”
“Not yet, my wife is going through her jewelry. I just checked the, uh, we’ve still got the TV and the video game stuff. All the obvious stuff is still here. Laptops and everything. And again, I just went through all the closets. I saw this creep standing behind my son in the kitchen. My son’s just standing there with the fridge door open and this fucking creep is standing right behind him.”
“And you didn’t see where he went?”
“Right, but he–”
[Unintelligible]
[Clattering noise]
“I’m born across.”
“Ry, get off the line! Ry, get–”
“When is it bad.”
“Ry, goddamnit, I’m on the phone with the police. Get the hell–”
[Clattering noise]
“Sir, is everything alright?”
“My son just picked up the other phone. Yeah, I don’t know how I missed where this kid went. I’m about to go through all the rooms again. If I find this kid before you guys do, I’m going to kill him.”
“Someone is on their way now, sir.”
2:47 AM (ET), Waverly, IN
“Is this a new thing? Have you been seeing this lately?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. I’m not sure I understood you.”
“I think it’s kids.”
“You think what is kids?”
“I think it’s kids doing a prank. Driving around crazy like that to scare people.”
“Oh, I see. Ma’am, where did you say they went?”
“I don’t know. I think it must be teenagers driving like that to scare people. You haven’t heard of them doing this before?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t. Is there anything we are able to help you with?”
“That’s all, I guess.”
2:48 AM (ET), Berne, IN
“Sir, we need to keep this line open for emergencies.”
“Dragged apart an appliance. Held apart.”
“Sir, I am hanging up now.”
“I stood from the kitchen, and I got louder. I got quiet.”
1:48 AM (CT), Mendota, IL
“911, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a man who was standing next to my brother’s bed. He’s gone now, but I turned on the light, and I saw him in my room next to my brother’s bed.”
“Ok, are you and your brother safe? Are you hurt at all?”
“We’re ok. I don’t know where he went. And my brother isn’t making sense.”
“Is your mom or dad awake? Are you safe with an adult?”
“Yes. I think they’re both still sleeping.”
“Ok. And you said you don’t know where the man went? Did you see what he looked like?”
“Yes, he was in all black clothes. I woke up to get water, and I thought I saw someone in my room, and when I turned on the lights, I saw him next to my brother’s bed. He wasn’t very tall and he was wearing clothes that were so black it was like you couldn’t see anything.”
“So you weren’t able to see the man’s face?”
“No, he was wearing clothes that were so black that you couldn’t even see wrinkles in them, like it was nothing, and he was standing in my room, and he’s not there anymore.”
“Swimming out of it.”
“That’s my brother Patrick.”
“Would you be able to wake up your mom or dad for me to talk to?”
“Yeah.”
[Unintelligible]
“You’ve… Who?... Who?... Hello? Hello?”
“Hi sir, this is a 911 operator. Your son called saying he thinks he saw someone in his room.”
“Oh my God, Matthew, what… Oh my God. Matthew, what the hell. It is… Jesus, it is way too late for this. Hi, hello? This is Matthew’s father. I apologize for my son, there is no reason for him to have called.”
“It’s alright, sir. Can you confirm for me that everyone is ok?”
“Yeah, yeah, they’re fine. Jesus, you two. What the hell. God, you both have school in the morning. Absolutely unacceptable for– yeah, we’re fine. Jesus.”
“Your son said he saw a man in his room, would you like us to send someone out to check if you are all ok?”
“No, no, no, God. No. No, he didn’t see anything. We’re all ok. I apologize for my son. There is no need to send anyone. I am really sorry we bothered you.”
“Broke against.”
“Both of you need to be in bed right now. It is way too late for this, you both need to be up for school in four hours. Jesus. I apologize for my son. There isn’t going to be some kind of follow-up, is there? Like a false report filing or anything? He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“No, it’s ok, sir. We just want to make sure all of you are alright.”
“Yeah, we’re fine. I am really sorry we bothered you. Thanks.”
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MICHAEL MAGISTRO lives in California. By day, he works as a director of operations for a privately held company, By night, he immerses himself in the worlds he creates, crafting stories that explore themes of redemption, legacy, rebirth, and finding hope even in the darkest of times.
Adam’s Winter
Adam, a young man with sharp eyes and a quiet demeanor, led the last tribe across the endless tundra of snow and ice. Taught as a child by his parents, he bore the knowledge they had passed down, a scatter of truths and half-remembered theories of a time when the world was warm and green, of things called cities, of blue oceans and green forests teeming with life. They told him that their memories were the flame of humanity. But those memories seemed like dreams, distant and fragile, blurred by the constant need to survive.
He knew that survival meant more than just food and shelter. He was the keeper of the flame, the last link to humanity's past. But as the winters dragged on and his flock grew fewer, he wondered how much longer the flame would burn.
The group was small now, only a dozen followed Adam across the frozen wasteland. They moved like nomads of a prehistoric age, scavenging what little they could from the remains of civilization. Their faces were bare, their clothing layered and patched with anything stitched together that could provide warmth. They walked in silence, conserving their energy, their breaths fogging the air in thin white clouds, like smoke from long-forgotten chimneys.
Adam led the way, eyes scanning the landscape for signs of life or shelter. They had to keep moving to find food, dried plants frozen in the ice, or the occasional wild animal that hadn’t yet succumbed to the endless winter. But both of these finds were rare, and each day brought both closer to extinction and the group closer to starvation.
Adam looked back at his people. Children who had grown up in this world knew nothing but the cold, their imaginations stripped bare by the harsh reality of survival. Sometimes Adam wondered if it was even right to keep the old stories alive, to fill their minds with images of a world they would never live in.
Yet, he held onto those stories, repeating them to himself daily like a prayer. He remembered his parents' voices, filled with longing as they spoke of rivers and forests, laughter and music. He clung to those memories, even though they grew dim with each passing year, falling farther and farther into the blackness of the world he lived in.
One morning, as the group trudged through a particularly desolate patch of frozen tundra, Adam saw something unusual in the distance, a dark shape half-buried beneath the snow. He raised a hand to signal his people, and they came to a halt, their faces tense with dread and anticipation. It was rare to find anything intact in this wasteland, but every so often, they would stumble upon a relic of the past, a broken-down vehicle, a rusty machine, or the skeletal remains of a building long abandoned.
Adam approached cautiously, the snow crunching beneath his boots. As he drew closer, he realized it was a building, a large, squat structure with glass doors and windows cracked and encased with frost. The glass had miraculously survived, its fractured panes shimmering in the gray light like crystal.
The group huddled around the entrance, an entrance that filled their eyes with amazement. Adam pushed open the door, and a gust of stale, dank, frozen air slapped across his face. The group stepped inside, their breaths hanging in the cold air like shivering ghosts. The interior was dark, lit only by the faint light that filtered through the broken windows. Shelves lined the walls, their contents long decayed and broken. Mannequins, dressed in tattered bits of clothing, stood frozen in place, their blank eyes staring out into the emptiness, their stare frozen like the world.
It was a strange and eerie sight, a time capsule from a world long forgotten, a world they could barely imagine. The survivors moved through the store in silence, the crunch of their footsteps echoing off the walls. They passed rows of decayed clothing, broken furniture, and shattered displays. The air was thick with dust, undisturbed and untouched.
As they explored, Adam noticed something unusual glimmering at the back of the store. A display, still mostly intact, dressed in plastic greenery and tinsel now crusted with frost. Curious, he stepped closer, his eyes scanning the unusual scene. There were red and green decorations, artificial pine branches, and small figurines scattered across the shelves. Most were broken or faded, but he could still make out their shapes, trees, stars, and tiny gifts wrapped in bright paper.
What meaning did these objects hold to the past? He reached out to touch one of the plastic branches, feeling the rough textures beneath his fingers. It was unlike anything he had seen or felt in his life.
Nearby, something else caught his eye, a book, half-buried beneath a layer of dust. His parents had taught him to read. He was the only one in his group who could. He picked up the book, brushing off the grime to reveal the title: A Night Before Christmas and Other Holiday Stories. The cover was worn and faded, but there was an image of a cheerful man in red, surrounded by children, that was still visible.
Adam flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the illustrations. They depicted scenes of families gathered around tables, children opening gifts, and houses adorned with lights. He recognized the season, it was winter, like the world he knew. But these winters were different, filled with warmth and joy rather than fear, darkness, and suffering.
To him, winter was life and death, the endless struggle to survive in a frozen world that knew no end. The idea of celebrating it seemed absurd, yet, as he read the stories aloud to his group, he saw a flicker of something in their eyes, a glimmer of curiosity, perhaps even wonder.
They listened as he told them about Christmas, about a man called Santa Claus who brought gifts to children, about families coming together to share food, stories, and their love. For a moment, they forgot the cold and hunger, lost in the strange magic of these tales.
The stories began to affect the survivors in ways Adam hadn’t anticipated. At first, they were confused by the idea of giving gifts or gathering for joy. But slowly, something shifted. They began to share small pieces of dried food, a rare act of generosity in a world where every scrap of sustenance was precious. They spoke more kindly to one another, their voices softer, their faces less haunted by the world around them.
One evening, they gathered around a small fire, huddling close to fight off the cold. Adam told them more stories from the book, blending them with tales from their own lives, creating a woven amalgamation of legends that spanned generations. They listened in awe and silence, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames.
As Adam spoke, he felt a strange warmth growing inside him, a feeling he had almost forgotten. For the first time, he could imagine a future, a world where they were more than just survivors, where they were human beings capable of love, compassion, and joy.
He saw the change in his people, a newfound hope that had long been buried beneath the weight of survival. The memory of Christmas, of warmth and a light in the darkest of times, had rekindled something in them, a spark of hope that refused to be extinguished, no matter how dark the world had become.
As the days passed, the group prepared to leave the store, knowing they couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Adam carefully wrapped up the book and a few of the decorations, preserving them as best he could. He knew they were fragile, that they might not survive the journey. But he also knew they were precious, a link to a past that was worth remembering. Adam knew he must keep the flame for those to come.
He gathered his people one last time, telling them stories he had crafted himself, blending Christmas tales with their own lives. Adam spoke of a world where people could find joy in the midst of hardship, where kindness was a gift as precious as any treasure.
As they set out once more into the frozen wasteland, Adam carried the book close to his heart, a symbol of the legacy he had inherited. He knew they might never see the world as it once was, that the endless winter might never end. But he also knew that as long as they remembered, as long as they carried the memory of Christmas with them, they were still human.
In the days and months that followed, he continued to tell the stories, passing them down to the younger ones, who listened with wide-eyed wonder. And though the world around them remained cold and bleak, the memory of Christmas became a light they carried through the dark, a reminder that they were more than just survivors. They were the last of humanity, the last of what the world once was, and as long as they held onto the spark of love and compassion, they would never truly be alone.
As Adam became gray and grew older, he watched the next generation take up the stories, carrying the spark of Christmas with them as a promise to future generations. The weather was changing. Summer reemerged slowly. The memory of Christmas lived on, a flame that refused to die.
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Midnight Confession
By: Michael Magistro
The small-town church sat in quiet solitude, its dark stone walls a testament to years of unwavering faith. A single crow watched from a branch of a twisted oak outside, its eyes gleaming with an unnatural hue, a glint of something old and knowing.
Inside, Father Andrew knelt in prayer. It was his nightly ritual, but tonight his words were empty, his hands trembling. His thoughts drifted back to the letter he’d received days before, the one that refused to let him rest.
He’d been a priest here for fifteen years, coming to this small and quiet town after a life spent in the bustling city. It was supposed to be a peaceful calling, to be able to get away from the congestion, a way to reconnect with God, away from the temptations and failures of his past. But the past was a weight that hung from his neck still, darkening his every moment.
The letter had been slipped under the door of the confessional, written in harsh, violent strokes, each word chiseled into the paper as if with a deliberate and brutal. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” it began. And then it detailed a murder—a young woman, strangled in her home, her body left lifeless beneath an open window.
Father Andrew had read it, and a chill had settled over him that no matter how much he prayed, he could not banish the words in the letter. The case was a local tragedy, an unsolved horror that the whole community mourned. But this letter didn’t sound like it was a rumor or gossip. It sounded like a confession.
And confessions were sacred.
He kept the letter and told no one, sealing it away in order to cling to his sanity. Should he talk to the police? He was unsure.
He closed his eyes, hoping the words would fade. Instead, the memory resurfaced, vivid as if it were yesterday.
Years before, long before he had taken his vows, he had been a different man—one who’d lived carelessly, indulging in vices he’d long since buried. There had been a night in a dark alley, the bitter taste of cheap liquor on his tongue, and an altercation with another man that had turned violent. He couldn’t remember all the details, but there were nights he woke in a cold sweat, haunted by it.
He begged for mercy. But mercy is for the repentant, isn’t it? His blood spilled like wine onto the steps, staining the earth red. I watched the life drain from his eyes.
That night had driven him to the church, a life of redemption and quiet penance. But now, with the letter, he wondered if his redemption was ever truly possible. Had God forgiven him? Or was he simply a man lying, hiding behind a collar, hoping that time would erase his sins?
Should he tell the police about the letter. After all, it wasn’t a real confession. The person had not stepped into the confessional. Father Andrew could break the seal of confession under these circumstances.
Still, he didn’t contact the authorities.
Letters came regularly after that, each one describing a murder in disturbing, vivid detail. And each night, Father Andrew’s memories of that horrible night and the blood returned, engulfing him.
With each letter, he found himself more consumed. He began losing sleep, and his prayers turned hollow. There were mornings he looked at his reflection and saw someone he didn’t recognize, his eyes sunken, cheeks pale, a face haunted by fear and guilt. Father Andrews then heard a caw outside and looked through his window to notice a crow.
More and more frequently the crow affixed itself to a branch outside, cawing, its gaze never wandering from his window. The crow’s presence outside only worsened his anxiety. Each time he looked out, it was there, unblinking, watching him with a gaze that seemed to know far more than Father Andrews himself did.
He had tried to ignore it at first, but he began to notice the crow following him—outside the church, along the walk to the market, even outside his window at night, its black shape like a dark stain against the stars. It was as if the bird was his constant shadow, a reminder of something he couldn’t place his finger on.
One night, he decided to speak to someone—an old friend, Father Francis, from his days in seminary. Father Francis had always been the more practical of the two, a man unshaken by doubt, his faith unwavering.
Father Andrew dialed the number on the old rotary phone, his hands shaking as he waited for an answer. But Father Francis’s voice on the other end was cold, distant as if speaking to a stranger.
“You sound troubled, Andrew,” he said after a pause. “I thought coming to that town was supposed to bring you peace.”
Andrew swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “It did… for a time.”
Another pause. “Then perhaps it’s not the place,” Father Francis said carefully, “but there is something within you that remains unresolved.”
Another pause. When Francis spoke again, his voice was softer, almost pitying. “Do you remember the crow, Andrew? It’s always there, isn’t it? Watching you. Following you.”
His breath hitched. “How… how do you know about the crow?”
A sigh crackled through the receiver. “You aren’t the first priest to see it. And you won’t be the last.”
The line went dead, leaving Father Andrew staring into the darkness, the dial tone echoing like a final judgment.
Father Andrew hung up, feeling as though the conversation had only furthered his dread. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Francis the truth. How could he admit that he feared his own mind, that he might be losing touch with reality?
The next letter came with a new horror—a description of a man found dead on his own doorstep; his throat slashed. The details were visceral and brutal, the kind of crime that seemed incomprehensible, a crime that would fit a big city but not in this quiet town.
As he read the letter, Father Andrew felt an agonizing recognition. The victim was a man he had once counseled, a regular visitor to the church, seeking guidance in his turbulent marriage. They had spoken only weeks before, the man asking for advice, seeking forgiveness for his own transgressions.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he had confessed, his voice strained with guilt. Father Andrew had listened, his heart filled with sympathy, a reminder of his sins, his past.
But the man was now dead, and here was this letter, as if someone had known their every movement, their every conversation, every word exchanged.
He staggered back to his bed, pressing a hand to his chest. His breath came in long, ragged gasps, was the room spinning or was it his mind? He had counseled all of these victims, shared moments of intimacy with them all, heard their confessions, and now they were gone, each death chronicled in vivid detail.
The crow cawed loudly outside, a harsh sound that broke the silence inside the quiet church. Driven by desperation, Father Andrew flung the doors open and stormed outside, the chill night air biting through his robes and against his skin.
The crow sat motionless on a gravestone, watching him with its dark, unblinking eyes. For a moment, he could almost see something in its gaze—something ancient and all-knowing, as if it had been watching him all along, bearing witness to all of the sins he had tried to bury.
“What do you want from me?” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Why are you here? Why am I doing this?”
The crow tilted its head, and in a voice that was deep, it cawed its answer.
“You have lived this life before, Andrew,” it said, each word heavy with the weight of centuries. “For countless lifetimes, you have walked these streets, over and over again, carrying this guilt. You have forgotten your sins, but I remember.”
The words struck him like a blow to the chest. His mind reeled, memories flashing before his eyes. He saw himself in other towns, other churches, other lifetimes, always carrying the same guilt, the same penance, and always, always forgetting the crimes that had led him to where he was now.
In those visions, he saw the crow, a constant witness to the sins he had committed in his life, watching him from every churchyard, every corner, its eyes gleaming with the knowledge, the knowledge Father Andrews had tried so hard to escape.
“No… please,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I… I didn’t mean to…”
The crow’s gaze burned into him, its eyes cold and pitiless. “You are doomed to live this penance, to remember, then to forget. Over and over. Each life is a new suffering. Each life is another circle in your own Hell.”
Father Andrew fell to his knees, his body trembling as memories of past crimes, of lives stained by blood, flooded his mind. He saw himself in each life, committing atrocities, sins for which he had begged forgiveness yet had never repented.
This life, he had hoped, would be different. This time, he had thought he could find peace. But there was no peace for him, no absolution, only an endless cycle of guilt and horror to be replayed in a loop.
The crow spread its wings, casting a shadow over the church as it rose into the night. Father Andrew watched it go, feeling the crushing weight of his fate. He turned back toward the church, his steps heavy, and entered the confessional. He looked down and saw it—a new letter, slipped under the door, its envelope stained with dark fingerprints.
He tore it open, his hands shaking. It began the same as all the others.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Father Andrew sank back into the wooden seat, the cold walls of the confessional pressing in on him like a tomb. He tore open the letter with shaking hands, already knowing what he would find. The familiar words seemed to pulse on the page, each line seeping into his mindlike blood into fabric.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
He heard the words echoing through the empty church, but they sounded wrong—too close, eerily familiar. He blinked, and suddenly the voice wasn’t in his head; it was his voice, whispering the confession aloud.
His breath caught as the voice reverberated through the small space, each word scraping against his mind like nails on stone. It wasn’t just a voice—it was his voice, fractured and multiplied, weaving into the whispers of countless others.”
"It has been many lifetimes since my last confession," he whispered, lips moving without command. He could taste how bitter and metallic the words were, like old pennies in his mouth. Panic surged through him, but his body felt distant from him, it was unresponsive, as if he were merely a spectator.
"I have sinned greatly," he continued on, his voice deepening, growing stronger as it merged with the whispered echoes of countless others—an eerie choir filling the dark space. His mind raced to understand, but a fog of memories clouded his thoughts, pulling him back into a maze of lifetimes, faces, and sins he had tried to forget.
He glanced down at the letter and realized, with a sickening movement, that the words on the page were changing, rewriting themselves in real-time, like a crossword puzzle they were dictating his own confession.
"I have killed them all," his eyes widened in terror. He felt his heart pounding as if it would come through his ribs, but his hands kept writing, moving on their own, dragging the pen across the paper in jagged, short violent strokes.
Outside the confessional, the crow cawed once again, its cry sharp and final, like the tolling of a final bell. Father Andrew looked up, his gaze locking onto the small window of the confessional. In the faint reflection, he didn’t see his own face. Instead, he saw a stranger’s—a man’s face twisted in agony, blood splattered across young pale skin. He recognized the face. It was the man from the alley, the face that had haunted his dreams for years.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." His voice, their voices, echoed together, merging into a single, guttural growl.
Father Andrew’s breath rose as he felt something inside him snap, a final levee breaking. Memories flooded back into his mind, but they weren’t just his, they were the memories of every single victim, every life he had taken across his countless lifetimes. He had been the sinner, the confessor, and the judge. He had begged for mercy in one life and denied it in the next.
The crow’s shadow stretched across the confessional wall, growing longer and darker, as the shroud of black feathers draped over his shoulders. Its unblinking eyes seemed to burn with a cruel, knowing light.
“You were never the savior,” the crow’s voice whispered inside his mind, harsh and ominous. “You’ve been the sinner, over and over again. The confessional is your prison, it is your Hell. You are like Dante trying to find your way, but your penance is eternal.”
Father Andrew’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and he dropped the letter as if it had burned him. He tried to stand, but his legs quivered and gave out, sending him crashing into the floor like a landslide.
Outside, the crow took flight, its wings cutting through the moonlight like a saber, leaving behind only silence. The church felt empty and hollow as if it were holding its breath.
Father Andrew lay there, on the floor, almost lifeless staring up at the ceiling, his voice now just a whisper, reciting the words he had spoken a thousand times before:
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
The silence stretched on, broken only by the faint sound of laughter, his own laughter, echoing back at him from the corners of the church, resonating from the darkness, mocking him. It was the laughter of the killer, the sinner, the man he had always been and the man he always would be.
And as the cold seeped into his bones, he realized the truth: there was no absolution, no end to his suffering. This life, like all the others, would end with a confession, and the next life would begin with it.
The crow’s caw echoed one final, ominous time, a triumphant and final sound that followed him into the void. In silence, the last sound Andrew heard was the faint rustle of paper—the sound of a new letter slipping under the door. The words were already etched into his mind:
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
And with that, the cycle began again
The Last Train Out
By Michael Magistro
The train snaked through the empty countryside, the whistle from the steam swallowed by the heavy fog that clung to the land like a shroud of mist. Inside, the hum of the engine underscored an unnatural quiet. There was no chatter, no soft laughter—only the occasional rustle of paper or a faint cough breaking the opaque silence.
The young woman sat near the window, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the frosted glass. Outside, the landscape was unrecognizable, a swirling void of white and gray. Every so often, the faint outline of a gnarled tree emerged before being swallowed again into the mountainside. Her unease grew as the minutes dragged on, moving like molasses through water. Something wasn’t right, she could feel it in her bones. The train ride was too still, too heavy, it was too quiet as if the air itself was holding its breath.
She adjusted her scarf repeatedly, glancing over her shoulder at the other passengers. The jittery man a few rows behind her was wringing his hands from side-to-side pinky inside of one hand then repeated in the other. She saw his leg bouncing erratically. His eyes darted around the carriage as though searching for something—or someone. She looked away quickly, uncomfortable under the weight of his erratic behavior and energy.
A crow perched on the seat in front of her, its head cocked to one side, looking at her inquisitively. Its glossy black feathers gleamed faintly in the moon’s dim light, and its beady eyes, which were as black as coal, seemed to track her every move. The crow flapped its wings, stretched them to full width, and let out one ear-piercing caw, and then fluffed itself up and braced itself in the cold.
The train began to slow, a low, lulling screech of brakes cutting through the quiet. The sudden shift made her grip the edge of her seat. After a moment, the conductor walked through the car. “We apologize for the delay,” he told her. “There’s an obstruction on the tracks. Please remain seated while we investigate.”
Her frown deepened. An obstruction? Out here? In the middle of nowhere? She peered out the frosted window into the fog, but there was nothing to see—just endless gray. The man behind her muttered something under his breath, his words too faint or soft to catch.
The minutes stretched slowly into an hour. The train remained eerily still, and no conductor returned to grant them an update. The jittery man grew more agitated, his mutterings growing louder and more erratic. The crow shifted on its perch, cawing sharply and more frequently as if it too was being inconvenienced. The sound echoed strangely in the confined space, sending a chill down her spine.
The crow fluttered down suddenly, landing in the aisle. It tilted its head toward her, studying her with a disconcerting intensity. It shifted its head from side to side, eyeing her deeply, pacing as if it was becoming frustrated. Then, with a single hop, it took flight, disappearing through the door to the next car.
She hesitated. She had no reason to follow—but something compelled her to follow the crow. Rising slowly, she walked toward the door, her boots clicking softly on the floor beneath her.
“Hello? Conductor?” she called as she stepped through the sliding door to the next car.
The next car was colder, the air biting against her skin. The dim light flickered intermittently, casting strange shadows over the row of empty seats. She took a step forward, her breath misting in the icy air of the cabin. The crow was gone, nowhere to be seen.
A faint sound tickled her ears—whispers, too soft to understand but undeniably present. They ebbed and flowed like a stream in a spring gully, teasing her with fragments of words. She stopped, her pulse quickening with every breath.
“Who’s there?” Her voice trembled, but the whispers only grew louder, weaving around her like an unseen presence.
A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. She spun, but the car was empty. Her heart pounded as the whispers swelled, a cacophony of overlapping voices. And then, just as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. She stood there in silence waiting.
The lights above her sputtered violently, plunging the car into a deep darkness. She stumbled back, gripping the edge of a seat for balance. Just as panic began to rise, the lights returned—and there it was.
The crow. It was perched on the seat right in front of her.
Its black eyes gleamed like pebbles in a stream, and it cawed softly before speaking in a deep, resonant voice. “Remember.”
The single, lone word sent a jolt through her. She staggered back, her mind racing. “What… what do you mean? What do you mean, do I remember?”
The crow stared at her for a long moment, then fluttered to a higher perch. “I am the keeper of truth,” it said, its voice carrying an eerie calm. “I see all things. I hold what you cannot.”
Her heart quickened. “What are you? Why are you here?”
The crow tilted its head, fixing her with that inscrutable gaze. “I am what you made of me. A voice you silenced. A truth you buried. A memory you ran from. I am here because you are.”
The words were like a key turning in a lock. Fragments of images flashed through her mind—a foggy road, a man’s disarming smile, the glint of something metallic.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “That’s not real. That’s not what happened.”
But the crow only cawed again. “Remember,” it repeated, its tone both commanding and mournful.
She stumbled back into the aisle, her hands trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”
The crow spread its wings, its feathers rustling like dry leaves in autumn. “You are not free until you remember. Until you see.”
“Remember what,” she said again, desperation in her voice.
The crow didn’t answer. It stared deeply into her eyes and blinked. Then it flew off, disappearing into the next car.
She hesitated, fear and curiosity warring within her body before she pushed forward.
The next car was in shambles. The seats were torn, their stuffing spilling out onto the floor. Cracked windows allowed the cold’s bitter chill to seep in. A metallic, acrid smell hung in the air, making her stomach turn slowly.
At the far end, the jittery man sat hunched over, his hands gripping his knees. He mumbled over and over again as he shook.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, stepping closer.
He looked up sharply, his wild eyes locking onto hers. “They’re coming,” he hissed. “One by one. All of them are coming. Just like before.”
Her unease deepened. “Who’s coming? Tell me!”
But he didn’t answer. He jumped up and bolted from his seat, sprinting toward the next car. She stared after him, his words echoing in her mind. Just like before.
She turned to follow but froze as a mournful wail filled the entire car. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at all, reverberating through her bones. She spun around, her breath catching in her throat, and a rasp crept slowly.
The shadows along the walls seemed to shift, growing darker and more menacing. Moving on their own now, as if dancing.
“Remember,” the crow’s voice echoed in her mind.
And then she saw it—a figure at the far end of the car, shrouded in one of the shadows. It didn’t move, but its gaze was palpable, heavy and piercing.
Memories stirred, fragments slipping through the cracks of her mind. A foggy road. A man with a disarming smile. The glint of a blade. The cold, damp ground.
“No,” she whispered, her knees buckling. “That’s not real. That’s not what happened.”
She stumbled through the door to the next car, her chest tight with fear.
The new car was pristine, a stark contrast to the decay of the previous one she had just exited. She stopped, slowly catching her breath. The man was gone, but the crow perched on a nearby seat.
“You already know, there is no need to run,” it said, its tone softer now.
The whispers returned, weaving around her like a ghostly chorus. They carried fragments of words that teased at her memory. The whispers pushed fragments together like pieces of a puzzle, the haze in her mind becoming clearer. Then the images came rushing back, vivid and undeniable.
She was walking alone. The man had approached her, his charm a mask for the malice he kept hidden beneath. She had trusted him, and let him walk with her. And then… the betrayal. The knife. The final, cold darkness.
Her breath hitched. “I’m dead,” she murmured, the weight of the truth crushing her, crushing her worse than any earthquake or landside ever could.
“Yes,” the crow replied. “Yes, you are.”
The train trembled beneath her feet, the walls creaking from within.
“If I am dead, then why am I here?” she demanded.
“This is the last train out,” the crow explained. “A place for those who cannot let go of their earthly life. Each passenger must face the truth of their fate before they can move on to the next plane.”
The man appeared at the far end of the car, his face calm now. He walked toward her slowly, his footsteps echoing ominously.
“You remember now,” he said, his voice smooth and cold. “It had to be done. You were in the way.”
Rage flared in her chest, hot and consuming. “You killed me,” she spat. “You took my life for nothing. You took my life as if it was yours to give!”
“It wasn’t nothing,” he replied, his tone mocking. “It was survival.”
Her fists were now clenched, her entire body trembling with anger. But the crow’s voice cut through the air, it cut through everything, even her fury. “This place is not for vengeance. Only truth.”
She took a deep breath, her shoulders sagging. “You can justify it all you want. Word it any which way that lets you breathe easy,” she said, her voice steady now. “But it won’t change what you are—a coward who betrayed someone who trusted you.”
The man faltered, his confidence wavering. The train shuddered violently, the walls and ceiling creaking as the fog outside pressed against the windows.
The crow cawed loudly. “You have faced your truth. It is time to go now.”
The man lunged toward her, but his form dissolved into mist before he could reach her. The train shuddered to life one last time before the walls and ceiling began to disintegrate, revealing the foggy countryside beyond.
She stepped off the train onto solid ground. The air was fresh and cool, and the fog was beginning to lift.
The crow landed beside her and shook. Its feathers gleaming in the moonlight.
“Am I free?” she asked softly.
“Yes, you are,” the crow replied. “You have let go.”
She closed her eyes, a faint smile breaking through onto her lips. The weight of her anger and fear lifted from her soul. The crow hopped once then spread its wings to full width and took flight, vanishing into the night, the blackness of both the night and the crow becoming one.
When she opened her eyes, the mist was gone replaced by a clear sky filled with stars. The stars now lit her path. She turned toward the horizon and began to walk. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt at peace.
Michael Quintana is a practicing writer who holds an MFA in Fiction and Screenwriting from San Jose State University.
Two of Wands
Years from now
I want you to tell me
how I got that scar,
and how it felt to be so close to infinity.
The first time we went to Palm Springs,
just so you can show me Warhols
in the desert.
Weekend getaways, poolside,
times when I wondered
if this weekend would be the weekend
you’d crack us open like Goliath’s skull
proving Didion right:
the center will not hold
and life does change in the ordinary instant.
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Michelle Eccellente Stevenson is a mom, wife, abstract artist, writer, TEDx Speaker, and Founder of Cultivate Caring. She invites you to join her on social media @CultivateCaring and @MESStudioArt.
Unlucky
The handwriting was on the wall from the start. Even my name, Mallory, is unlucky. My Mom saw it in a Teen Beat magazine and decided that day that if she had a girl, Mallory would be her name. As it turns out, Mallory is a nickname for the French word “malheure,” meaning misfortune. Mom never looked up the meaning, and I don’t think she would have changed her mind if she had.
I got a glimpse of lady luck's face in the fifth grade. My English teacher had us write a poem that we would then read out loud to the entire class. The topic was up to us. I procrastinated until the night before and wrote a really bad poem about my dog Scruffy. The day of the dreaded recitation, my teacher made us pick numbers out of a hat to determine the reading order. Prepubescent kids around me were starting to really sweat and it was even stinkier than normal. I wiped my own clammy palms on my pants and pulled out the number twenty-four, which meant I would be the last one to have to stand up and humiliate myself. Mercifully, the bell rang before it was my turn and that evening the teacher was struck by a black van and had to be hospitalized, so I never had to recite my terrible, embarrassing poem.
The only other time lady luck gave me a glance was on my twentieth birthday at the Goodwill store. Buying jeans was an ordeal. The waist is always too low and the length invariably too short for my almost six-foot frame. When I found ones that fit, I let out a little “woohoo!”, thanking my lucky stars that I wouldn’t have to pay full price somewhere else. Later that week, getting them ready to wash, I found twenty bucks in the back pocket. I felt like a real lucky-duck and figured I’d better not test that luck, so I put it in my car’s glove compartment, reserved for “just in case” gas money. Since then, I haven’t won any raffles, contests, never scratched off the right numbers, and never ever found money on the street.
I thought I recognized luck a few weeks ago when a friend set me up on a blind date. Turns out, thanks to the internet, blind dates aren’t so blind anymore. I trolled him online and the pictures proved he was in fact tall, had a job, and hung out with his mom occasionally. A stand-up guy that was also easy-on-the-eyes. We talked on the phone a few times and finalized plans for the date. A full week before the meetup, he hadn’t canceled yet. Lucky. Just this morning, he called and told me that he had to cancel because he got back together with his ex. Decidedly unlucky.
Not one to wallow in my all too familiar misfortune, I decided that luck be damned. I didn’t need luck’s insincere gifts and planned on going to the bookstore to spend that twenty bucks that had been sitting in my glove compartment. I put on my new-to-me jeans, threw on a light rain jacket, grabbed my bag, headed out the door, and retrieved the money from my parked car. A strong coffee, a walk in the cool air, and a new book was just what I needed. The used bookstore down the street had a good selection of sci-fi and a nutty, lightly caramelized latte that tasted like a holiday in the Alps. Perfect for getting my head back on straight.
Traffic was heavy but not more so than a normal day in the Emerald City. Drizzle collecting on my hair started to drip down my forehead and into my eyes so, I put my hood up. Stepping out into the crosswalk, I thought who needs luck anyway?
Me. That's who.
I heard the tires squeal behind me, turned left and saw the black van a second before it hit me, and the last thing I thought was damn, maybe I should have kept that twenty bucks in the glove compartment.
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Miguel A. Rodriguez lived in Mexico and various places in Texas. Presently living in Corpus Christi.
Circe
-Do you have any children? Esperanza asked, standing by the window, with her back to me.
-No. I said.
-Neither do I.
-It’ll make the divorce less difficult.
-Children complicate things?
-Yes.
-I’m glad I never made that mistake. She turned around and looked at me through stunning olive shaped eyes. She was the daughter of two of the firm’s clients. I’d been assigned to represent her in her divorce from her husband, a Classics professor at the University.
-I met him at a lecture, she said. It was about Theseus, the Minotaur, and the origins of bullfighting. He was brilliant. And I thought we shared the same dreams when we got married. It was his fault, you know. He planted the seed in me. I wanted to see those places he only read about. Spain, Greece, Lebanon. But he wanted children first, and I wanted something else, you know?
No, I didn’t, and wanted to ask her why she’d married him, but looking at her was like seeing into a pool of rippling water, and I asked her instead where her interest in Greek mythology came from.
-My dad took me to a bull fight when I was eight, she explained to me. My mother didn’t know. We lived in Mexico City at the time. It wasn’t what I imagined. The bull fighter was inexperienced and tortured the animal. He kept missing with his blade, striking the bone every time. I’d never seen so much blood. I saw it through the Minotaur’s eyes. This dance of death. It was tragic, like his life, from conception, being born the way he was, despised, even by his own sister, Ariadne, who betrayed him by assisting her lover, Theseus, in his murder. There was resentment in her green eyes.
-The gods are cruel. She raised her eyes to me.
- Worse than the Aztec gods. I said, finding it difficult not to stare at her.
-They’re all the same, all but one. She touched the cross lying in her breasts crevice.
I met her husband when he and his lawyer came to our office to sign the divorce papers. He appeared to be much older than a man in his early 30’s. His hair was gray at the temples and thinning. He didn’t look at her once, while she sparingly glanced at him. He didn’t contest the divorce and this unsettled his lawyer, who’d explain to him, as if he were a child, the implications of what he was conceding to his soon to be ex wife, whose investments in oil and gas, here and in Veracruz, were substantial.
-I don’t want anything from her. He snapped at his lawyer and signed the divorce papers.
I despised him, for playing the martyr, and sympathized with Esperanza.
A week after the divorce was finalized, and we’d sent her the bill for my services (she’d paid it herself, even though it was her parents who’d initially retained the firm to represent her), she invited me over for dinner.
-I’ll give you the money tonight. She said, departing with her usual, Ciao!
Driving to her home was like walking up a steep winding staircase with no rails. Her estate was perched on the cliff-like hills overlooking the lake. The stars and the moon were so near, I thought I could touch them. She met me at the door. Her black hair was down over her bare shoulders and she wore large circle earrings. And her cross, which she never took off.
Not even when we made love that night.
I am my beloved’s, she lay naked on her stomach, And my beloved is mine; he feedeth among the lilies. She turned on her back, and I kissed her pear shaped breasts. I am my beloved’s, she held the Bible in one hand, caressing herself between her legs with her fingers, And his desire is toward me, she dropped the Bible on the bed and pulled me onto her.
It was the first time I’d heard the words from The Song of Songs.
And they became part of our ritual.
I can’t describe our lovemaking any other way. She’d arouse me to an animalistic frenzy, but she wouldn’t let me touch her until after we had partaken of a meal she’d spent hours preparing. She was a magician with food, and I’d confound her smell with those that swarmed in the kitchen. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I’d become something, not human, afterwards.
We’d lay in bed, spent, and she’d reach over for her Bible and turn to the Song of Songs and read me a verse, with a voice filled with such tenderness and longing, that reawakened my hunger for her body, making me do things to her I didn’t think I was capable of doing. I’d hurt her and like it.
This euphoria dominated me and immediately affected my work. I couldn’t concentrate on anything without being interrupted by images of her. I could taste her in my mouth through the day and I stopped showering in the mornings to keep her scent on me. I’d go to her during my lunch break and not return until late in the afternoon. I neglected cases, lost the firm clients, and was going to lose my law license. My legal career, as the partners lamented when they fired me, ended as soon as it began. But I didn’t care, because for the first time in my life, I was happy.
-What will you do now? One of the partners asked me as I was leaving.
-I’m going to sail the Mediterranean, I said, and he stared at me, like you would a crippled dog on a highway.
Esperanza was cutting garlic cloves with a kitchen knife when I arrived at her home. I’d abandoned my condominium long ago. She was making turtle soup, cooked in its own blood. A cow’s tongue stuck out from under a lid of boiling water.
-Who taught you all these recipes? I walked up behind her.
-My dad, she pressed her hips against mine. My mother was raised with servants. She never learned how to cook.
-You couldn’t keep that from her, I kissed her neck, Like sneaking off to bullfights.
-Secrets between a daughter and her father, she dipped her head for me to kiss the nape of her neck, Are different than those she keeps with her mother. She put the knife down and placed my hands on her abdomen.
-We can’t put off our trip to Lebanon any longer. She leaned her head back. We need to go while I can still travel. She smiled at me through her dark green eyes, and kissed me, before I could express my happiness.
That night we made love without the preliminaries. And she no longer read to me from the Song of Songs. From that night onward, the present became eternal.
Before we left on our voyage, though, she needed to see her parents in Coatzacualcos. I wanted to go with her, of course, but she said I’d been hers all this time, and not to be selfish. She’d be gone for only three days.
At the airport, the passengers at the boarding gate stared at us, as if we were animals in a zoo. I couldn’t speak. I just looked and listened to her.
-I’m going to tell dad our little secret. She put my hand below her navel, and kissed me with her tongue. I’ll make him promise not to say a word to mother. She took my hand to her mouth and devoured my fingers.
-I’m going to miss these hands, she put my other hand on her breast, and kissed my mouth deeply.
-I left my Bible on our bed so you won’t be lonely. She smiled, walking backwards into the boarding tunnel. I won’t be. She caressed her stomach and the cross between her breasts.
Her plane disappeared in the glare of the sun.
It was an April morning.
A week passed and she hadn’t returned. I called her phone, and got her voice mail.
-Hola, no pierdas fe en Esperanza, dejame tu mensaje, Ciao!
I called the office to get her parents number, and I was informed that the firm no longer represented them. Bank representatives with power of attorney had come in and settled their account. No explanations given. No forwarding address. No phone numbers.
-You worked on their daughter’s divorce, the lawyer on the phone said to me, Do you know what happened?
I hung up, and replayed her voice mail.
Time stopped.
I searched the house for something that would tell me where she might be, but there was nothing. No photographs, letters, documents, just her divorce papers.
I sat on the bed and read aloud from the Song of Songs, hoping to evoke her voice, but it was just my own I heard. By mistake I opened to Ecclesiastes and blindly read.
- Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity, which he hath given thee under the sun, all the days of thy vanity: for that is thy portion in this life, and in thy labour which thou takest under the sun.
I dropped the book and screamed her name. The bed sheets smelled of her, as if she had just lain in them, and the rest of the house exhaled her foods aroma.
I no longer knew what to do with myself. And then remembered the Professor, her ex-husband, and found his address in the divorce papers.
-You haven’t aged. He said when I arrived at his place. I sat in an armchair and he went into the kitchen to get me a drink. It was a one room apartment, walking distance from the University, with high ceilings, wall to wall with books. There was a circular desk, piled with books, and two computer screens.
-This is my life. He handed me my drink, and sat across from me in a twin armchair.
-I lecture, study, and publish. He pointed at his latest book on the desk. I cultivate my garden the best way I can.
-Why did you say I hadn’t aged?
He handed me a photograph.
-That was me two years ago. He said. The man in the picture could’ve been his son.
-What’s your new book about. I spoke without thinking.
-A study of the women in Homer’s ODDYSEY. Not just Penelope, but Circe, who transformed Odysseus’ men into animals, but not him, who was immune to her spell, but not to her.
-She’s gone. I said. Her parents?
-I never met them. We’d eloped. She never talked about her father, though.
-You mean her mother.
-No. Her mother was something out of Euripides. She raised her to do the things a man would do, and, a woman. But she lacked restraint. She’d take her to bullfights and taught her how to castrate bulls.
-It was her father. I said.
-No. Do you know why she divorced me?
-You wanted children.
- She left me because I wouldn’t. No man should, not with her. You understand. Esperanza isn’t like us. I lost the need to sleep or eat. I fed off her, somehow. When I wasn’t lecturing, I was here, with her. I’d never been so productive. She assisted me in my research. When she read to me it was as if she was that person. I submerged myself in my work, in her. I saw in the mirror what she was doing to me. But I needed her. It’s true I wanted children and she didn’t. But that changed. She started to wear a cross and was reading one of my Bibles, on her own. She said she admired the Virgin Mary for allowing her son to be sacrificed, tortured, I remember her exact words, for a higher purpose. She admitted her selfishness, and when I asked what she meant, she said, she wanted me to give her a child. I was speechless. I cancelled my lectures and didn’t leave her side. I only knew the time of day because of that window. Time had ceased. I’m not religious, however, I respect superstitions. I’m surrounded by their history. I’ve been embedded in it too long not to believe the unbelievable. The unspeakable. That’s what released me in the end. She had this idea, one night, of giving birth in Athens. Her eyes, I remember, turned the color of the Mediterranean when she said its name. Her head rested on my shoulder, my hand on her breast, and her fingers caressed her cross.
-Do you think Jason regretted having sought the Golden Fleece? She said.
-Heroes, like him, Theseus, Aeneas, and Odysseus, look only to the future. They don’t have regrets.
-Circe was correct then, in her advice to her niece, after Jason abandoned her for the Princess.
-Who was Circe’s niece?> I felt myself drowning.
-Medea, the Professor said.
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Mike Linaweaver is a Marxist, worker, occasional writer, poet, woodworker and artist originally from the Smoky Hill River Valley region of central Kansas.
Black Dime (Language)
1.
Remember when you stung like a bee, leaving your ink all over the kitchen floor and the orchids in the kitchen window never seemed to notice how drab the sun had become over the years? It makes no sense. All languages die in the gap. So, don't speak. There's no reason to give voice
to our discontents. We are driving and the bridge is a snake crossing the snaking water ways. I became possessed with your hand on the back of my neck. I know you by the smell of lavender and tea. Don't blink. Never blink again. We have all the time there ever was.
5.
We go to the coast. There is nothing. Dead sea and dead trees and dead jellyfish and dead yelps of dead seagulls floating like ghosts in the salty wind. We throw crumbs to the birds, the crumbs of our pandemic colored lives. They swallow them the way I swallow you in.
It is hot, a southern heat, full of meanness even here. And somewhere the ozone is coming apart and the forest is burning and a child dies with its mouth tied around it's mother's sagging and empty breast.
We hang our long shadows.
Mercy killings.
7.
Later, we go hunting for hotdogs and cheese. No one here can breathe. Our hands tremble with claustrophobia and sweat in the produce aisle. The mangos and onions still have blood on them. My dreams are the labels on mayonnaise jars.
3.
It's raining again. The city's sewers vomit into the streets. Mosquitoes like hell. A cockroach floats on a parking ticket. We could fuck in the rot. We could fuck on a bed of rifles. We could fuck until there is nothing left to eat or drink or fuck.
2.
We wander aimlessly. No one remembers where or what and the dead are only a generation away from being forgotten. And, everyone is dead, filling up every conceivable space with their dead already grins. The whole city is a corpse like a dead deer picked over by vultures and crows. Meat sweats in every window.
My mother calls. Smalltalk. She says I should talk to my sister.
I ask her who my sister is.
4.
It's July. There are armed fly-overs and armed police. They call it patriotism, blue lines and red lines. But, I don't see any lines at all. Fascism smells like funnel cake on days like these. The gun on my hip digs in, digs in deeper, digs like an ant. I don't mind. There's nothing down there, nowhere to hide. We hide in each other, like young squirrels. I have your hand to cover me. And your knife. That's how it is. The world is a knife wound. Yet, here we are, full of it, so full we could scream from the tips of our spines and crumble like Walls of Jericho, crumble like crabs in the bay. If we die tonight a cascade of tears from a handful of mourners getting caught in the milk.
6.
Summer is a time of zombies. Even the pigs beg the grackles. Some breeze brings the stench of it, black mess, cellophane and concrete. Death by department store. Death by convenience. Death by strip mall. Death by mesquite and drainage ditches. Death that goes on living clock tick by clock tick. Death by cop. Death by Black hole. Death measured in Facebook comments.
18.
This is me traveling like a meteor back to childhood. Hurtling like a madman. It's kindergarten. The 'strongman' in the class is a boy named BJ. He is strong because he can do six pullups on the jungle gym bars. The girls are already watching him. I am sick in another part of the playground. A girl has beaten me up while my friend Mathew watched. Her name is Rhonda. Her father and my father are in the same squadron. We both live in the same section of enlisted housing. It's a cinder block wasteland painted in strange pastels. Our dads are away in the Philippines, or the Indian Ocean, or circling off the coast of Beirut like hyenas. I don't know Mathew's father. He doesn't laugh. He is as afraid and ashamed as I am.
Later we play "jet fighters" on the swings, zooming past each other, trying to mimic the sounds of 20 millimeter canons. Mathew has fallen backward out of his jet fighter. He lies on the tarmac unable to breath. I land safely and go for help. In the principle's office they ask me what happened. I tell them we were on a routine combat mission against targets in the north. We took ground fire. He went down behind enemy lines. They send me back to Mrs. Ross' kindergarten classroom. No one notices me. No one knows I'm a hero.
My father called the conflict in Vietnam a Police Action. Years later I would realize there are no heroes. There never were.
8.
It's 1967. My dad works capping bottles in the coca-cola plant on First Street. He takes his break on the back loading dock, smokes two cigarettes, drinks a warm pepsi. His draft notice has arrived. His mother throws it in the kitchen trash. She won't send another son to war. Her eldest came back from Korea a hero with a Silver Star and the finger bones of a Chinese soldier in a matchbox. He would rattle the box in his ear and whisper the word "home". My dad finds the draft notice in the trash after his shift. The next day he enlists in the Navy. By 1968 he is afraid.
10.
The city is a black dime. I'm dying. As slow and still as ice. My heart ticks strangely, uneasily. I feel the dip in my respiration like a pulse of light somewhere at the back of my skull. The doctors say it's nothing. Eat less salt. I'm a pillar of salt stuck in the armpit of a continent. It's a black dime and I'm a black death. A shadow among reeds. And I haven't even hit my deductible yet.
9.
You went to Mexico with the Phantom of the Opera. You brought back a clutch of benzos and a baggie full of un-stepped-on opioids. At the border a pig snuck a clip at your porn tits and cut you loose with the reminder to bring a goddamn birth certificate next time. Being an American is being a joke without a punchline. No one laughs. They sharpen their knives. Other Americans carve crosses in their bullet heads. Nothing is real. I swallow an ativan and three quarters of a two mill zanzibar to burn out the edges. I forget how to not speak in tongues. I forget that my window is down. When I tell you I love you it sounds like a rusty lag squeaking loose in the steel girders of the last-legged Bay Bridge. We throw the keys to the savage parade into the dark gravity below. Shit and water and mercury catfish. One day we'll burn the banks and buy tomatoes and bread with goodwill.
But for now, the fog, booby trapped with potholes.
11.
God or Posadas, save us.
13.
Downtown. You pull a sour jar from between your legs. Make like you're pulling the pin on a grenade and lob it at a pig on a bicycle. The piss pig screams, thinks it's bleach, thinks he's blind. His partner is a photocopy. The photocopy draws his heat and sends two rounds hot. The rear window explodes and you take one in the throat. The other goes wild, clips a houseless in the knee cap. The photocopy lays it heavy on his pig piss partner and puts another under his
chin. Teeth pop out the top of his head. The photocopy sacks out on the spot. Obituaries to follow.
I ask if you're ok. You say you're all choked up.
Profit the dead with blood and lead, I say with a wink.
You wink back and whistle through the hole in your throat.
12.
We mingle at the courthouse, standing around a trash can fire. Janet "from another planet" has another baby in the chamber. Klaus, an old German that hears voices, said he's received a communique from the aliens. He says it's almost time. Richard asks what happened to your neck. You tell him a pig put one in you. He asks if it hurts. Nah, you tell him, nothing much hurts any more. Everyone nods in agreement at that. Profit the dead, someone says. You whistle a tune from your bullet hole. Someone joins in with a harmonica. Klaus listens closely. Janet starts to sing. She was an angel, many would say afterward. The Angel of Lipan Street, they called her. No one knows who lit the first fire that burned down the courthouse.
15.
It's stage 4 November and there is no cure. My father is in a hospital bed watching a basketball game in the living room. He is fed a slop every few hours through a tube in his abdomen and smokes cigarettes through the hole in his neck. Then he takes an IV dose of morphine and dies just a little bit - just enough. He wakes a couple hours later. I tell him he gets better smack than I ever did. He smiles, pops a fentanyl lollipop in his mouth and writes on his small screen, who's the junkie now? There is death on him. There is death on him and it looks like a hospital blanket. That night he cooked a pork loin dinner that he couldn't eat l. I couldn't look at him. I went to the low edges at the dark waters of the lake. I ate alone there next to the boathouse. When I came back to the house he was nodded out again and dinner had been replaced by the smell of shit. I lean into his ear. I tell him secret things. I tell him soon the pain will end. I tell him he is not alone. This lie is the last thing I ever told my father. A week later the flames turned his fragile body to dust.
14.
On the third day we attack the police station and burn it down. The Xerox paper pigs dump a few mags and run flaming for the bay. Four of us die that night, never to die again. All the knots are untied. Some hang jewelry from their wounds. We crack open the jail and hand out shotguns in the park. You look like a saint in the muzzle flashes. Every moment is holy now. Ain’t no death left. We’ve become haints haunting the alleys and barrios.
17.
The city is a black dime and we, with our red wounds, our too-late wounds, are a black death, a swarm of locusts choked by ash. Too late maybe, but not late enough to ever waste another moment dying.
19.
On the tenth day we burn the banks and make guillotines in our own image.
16.
I should've told my father forever doesn't last.
20.
Saints all. But, there are no prayers for us, no songs, no gods, no masters. The city is a black dime that goes on and on and on, stretching toward the next city, the next dime as black as this night, and haunted by haints like us, armed and mean, undead and undying and never going back. Never going back.
Only through.
cancer fish
I am a not-so-extinct cancer fish
I am a dead stoma at the back
of David Cronenberg’s mind
I am stuffed with morphine
and saltwater and
amorphous contrasts
and pushed into a tight hole made by Siemens collaborators
a voice tells me to hold my breath the magnets ramp up and lean in
humming
I am cast into another dimension on accident
for a moment there are endless orchards of cherry blossoms and dim roses
a soft, pale Sun hangs in the balance
all the topography of Samsara ripples beneath
then I am drawn back through the hole
the voice says I am doing great the voice says I can breathe
I hold my breath
I hold my breath
until there are blossoms again
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cancer fish
I am a not-so-extinct cancer fish
I am a dead stoma at the back
of David Cronenberg’s mind
I am stuffed with morphine
and saltwater and
amorphous contrasts
and pushed into a tight hole made by Siemens collaborators
a voice tells me to hold my breath the magnets ramp up and lean in
humming
I am cast into another dimension on accident
for a moment there are endless orchards of cherry blossoms and dim roses
a soft, pale Sun hangs in the balance
all the topography of Samsara ripples beneath
then I am drawn back through the hole
the voice says I am doing great the voice says I can breathe
I hold my breath
I hold my breath
until there are blossoms again
A Texas farmer, Vietnam veteran, and “C” college graduate who cannot spell, Mike Mercer tells stories with a lot of heart.
Down on the Farm 1956
Before daylight, sitting on a bar stool in the Plum Nelly, when Joe, down the way orders two bullbat eggs, and half order of no toast, with coffee.
Sally hits him upside the head with a heavy-duty pancake flipper, turns back to her griddle without a word.
Joe wipes a little blood of his ear, sits quiet, thinking on his next move. Farmers that fill the joint, take note, then go back to telling lies about the rain last night.
Can’t wait to see to the action, as I see from the side, Sally is grinning, so, she has a plan.
As Sally flips hotcakes, turns bacon, serves up her customers, I see couple of mini-Marshmallows appear on the grill edge basting in Louisiana Sauce. Slice of light bread toasting on the grill, turns brown, then black, smokes up the joint a bit.
Seconds before the burnt toast turned to flame, Sally adds the Marshmallows to the crisp toast and lets it simmer a while.
Sally pours up coffee, places it before Joe. Plates the half order of no toast, with bullbat eggs atop, and ceremoniously sets it next to the simmering coffee.
First light is coming outside, so, farmers pat Joe on the shoulder, wish him luck, as they file out to check their rain gauges. No need for me to splash mud lookin’ for our rain gauges as I already know it’s not enough rain, never is. I wait to see if Joe likes his breakfast.
Joe for some reason sips coffee, picks up the charcoal toast, eats the whole thing in a matter of seconds, not minutes. Tears run down his red face, while he cools the fire treated Marshmallows with hot coffee. I’m thinking, Joe’s thinking that Sally will feel sorry for him, and let him off the hook.
Sally scribbles on her order pad and stuffs it in front of overheated Joe.
Joe still feeling Louisiana Sauce, whispers through clenched teeth, to keep the heat inside his mouth, ‘three dollars and twenty-five cents for that?’
Sally replies, ‘special order special price.’
Joe pays up and heads out the door. I follow, just outside, I have to laugh, Joe turns with a right uppercut, and decks me.
After I get up outta the mud Joe says, "want to go check rain gauges?"
"Sure, and maybe we can find some bullbat eggs along the way. After all we’re Plum Nearly outta town now.”
The Day I Learned I Could Never Live up to the Man!
By Mike Mercer
So, it was late June 1957 in a half-harvested wheat field in the middle of God’s Texas Panhandle. I was just turning 14. The heat fell heavy from the sky and was there to stay. The Dachshund was digging a hole under the pickup.
Gleaner Model A Combine sat idle with “frozen” 12-inch variable speed drive sheaves. The bearing on the shaft was still smoking.
Dad’s 2-pound ball-peen hammer was driving a 12” coal chisel between the sheaves to loosen them on the shaft. Right side of the combine he was working on was in the bright almost-noon sunshine.
Stroke after stroke, the hammer pounded the chisel. After seeming hours of hammer on the steel, from behind the man, I misspoke, “Dad I don’t think we are going to get the sheaves loose.”
Dad missed two strokes with the ball-peen to say without anger, “these sheaves will come off,” and began again swinging at the chisel.
In a while, I heard a strange sound like a spring releasing as the chisel left its place between the sheaves and traveled to dad’s lower lip. Dad turned, took the red rag in my hand, and covered the cut just below his lip. He walked to the driver side mirror. Took a look, and I also saw the cut lip, and the roots of two lower front teeth looking back at us from the mirror. Dad stuck the rag in his mouth enough to slow the bleed.
Dad patted his leg twice, and Herb jumped to the floorboard then to the back of the seat as usual. Dad climbed aboard and we headed to the county road. Instead of turning toward town, we headed west. We drove in silence, but Herb leaned out past dad and barked at all passing vehicles.
In about an hour, we pulled up in front of Dr. Crawford dentist office Plainview Texas. With dog waiting under the truck, we entered the office. Receptionist wanted to know what’s wrong, so dad showed her. In about 2 minutes, Dr. Crawford summoned dad to this chair behind closed doors.
One hour later, dad came out with a bandage on his lower lip and a bottle of pills. Motioned me with a let’s go, and we headed to the truck. We and dog headed back the way we came. Looked like we were headed home. In about 45 minutes, we were about to pass the wheat field on our way home, but dad turned into the field. In five more minutes, dad was swinging the hammer striking the coal chisel. I readied the needed parts, fresh grease, a pan of gasoline to wash the sheaves and clean the parts we could re-use. I added a clean cloth to the assembled parts on the tailgate. I gave Herb a drink of water from the canvas water bag. Then I heard the outside sheave fall to the ground and the hammer was silent.
I saw a little blood on the bandage as dad cleaned, installed new bearings, and reassembled the sheaves on the combine. Lock washer and lock nut tightened; drive belts pried onto the sheaves. Dad smiled with his eyes and climbed the combine ladder and set the machine to harvesting wheat once again. It was almost dark but, I knew he would go till dew fell and stiffened the straw. Me and the dog rested, ready for the trip home. My dad had worn me out.
In a few weeks, the lip and the replanted teeth were looking pretty good. The man taught me another lesson about giving up, NEVER.
Sometimes I think he did all that just for me. Then I remember everything he did was just for me.
Salvador’s Navidad
by Mike Mercer
“Amigos welcome to Tio Domingo,” Salvador said in near perfect English, as he held his arms wide, and motioned for us to take any table, as we were the lone set of customers at this the normal siesta hour of 2 O’clock. At first meeting, Salvador seemed a man possessed with inner peace and tranquility that I seldom encountered. His self-confidence rolled on the floor in front of him and put all in its path at ease.
Janet and I surveyed the Mexican café and ordered cervezas as we eyed the menu. “Something is coming down. I could feel something wonderful coming, and it wasn’t food,” I thought. “I’m here at this time for a reason not yet known. My wife invited me to a late lunch today, does she know something I do not.”
Salvador took our order; Janet selected a Mexican dish consisting of Chile relleno, tamale, and salad while I ordered the pork chop Hawaiian-style.
While the food was being prepared, we chatted with Salvador about land prices, as we were new to the area, and were considering buying a home in Ajijic. He explained as we already knew, prices of land and houses had gone up ten-fold in the last twenty years.
Just before the food arrived, we asked how he came to own this café. He said he had purchased the land on a Mexican high-interest loan of three thousand pesos and spent four years after his day-job salary building the surrounding establishment. I observed the substantial walls, high ceilings, with room for twelve tables and a large kitchen off to the side. Six more tables, in the garden, had met us before we entered the café.
He explained the end of the first two years of business found them without money to operate the business any longer. Two bottles of whisky, three dressed chickens, some flour and corn tortillas, beef and pork stock for soup were all they had left. Of course, plenty of salad fixings were available in the garden. Salvador and his wife knew the end of Tio Domingo was near and it was two days before Christmas.
Salvador said he asked his wife, “What should we do now?”
Her answer was swift. “The food we have left will do us no good, so we must invite all the village for a free meal and celebrate Christmas.”
Salvador told the story of going all over the Ajijic, inviting all to come to celebrate with them on Noche Buena Navidad (Christmas Eve). His wife and the children prepared all the food and made a lemon-lime punch, of which half was spiked with the whisky.
On the Eve of Christmas, the tables were set, and the plates polished. The smell of carefully-made soups and Mexican dishes had filled the air. Salvador and his wife hoped all would come and share their last day at Tio Domingo. It was not a sad day, but happy in celebrating the good old times and Navidad before they closed and found other employment.
Salvador had wondered if anyone would come, but just before the appointed hour, the local mariachi band showed up, explaining they wanted to play for their food. Salvador rejoiced to his wife, “at least there will be music to kiss Tio Domingo goodbye.”
The music began as the candles were lit. Slowly the tables filled, to Salvador’s surprise, to overflowing. Salvador’s family served their many guests as all told stories of pleasant times at Tio Domingo. Every tortilla, cup of soup, and whisky-flavored lemonade were served and downed by hungry guests. The music was loud and lasted until the musicians were exhausted.
As the villagers headed home, Salvador said all wished him and his family well and headed into the darkness singing songs of Navidad.
Salvador looked at Janet and me. “On that night, my family and I cleaned the café, washed every dish, and closed the business as we had every day for the preceding two years. I went to the front gate to lock up knowing it would be the last time as proprietor of Tio Domingo. Something was amiss. A bucket held each of the two gates open. Salvador lifted one of the buckets to the moonlight and found it was filled with pesos.
Our meal arrived and tasted somewhat like turkey and dressing and blessings unexpected.
Salvador later told us that since that day, the business has grown and commanded a clientele ranging from the very poor to the wealthy. Every year they will celebrate Christmas with the same meal and invite all to share their wealth.
No wonder Salvador has the gift of giving and receiving written on his soul for all to see. Come see Salvador at Tio Domingo.
M. Mercer
A true story.
Cantina Azul (Novel Excerpt)
Afternoon Wednesday June 18, 2003
Ajajic Mexico
By M. Mercer
“Think the first time I entered The Blue Tequila Cantina was six years ago. Mexican natives call it Cantina Azul. They say a Gringo named Tom opened this bar in 1987 and still lives within even though he passed on in 1996. It must be true as sometimes I get messages from Tom relating to something is going to happen or when someone is coming. Sometimes I know the name of who is coming. Easy says, I spook her when I forecast someone, or something, is coming round the corner. Kinda surprises me too, but then I’ve not had a normal lifetime. Spent more time sitting at this end of the bar than any one place in my sixty- three years. Easy has been here three and a half and we have seen it all, fun, terror, blessing, and wonderful memories.
Some things you need to know: Easy is not the bartenders name, but she is quite easy on the eyes, not sure of her real name, or where she is from. My place at the end of the bar is my long-standing, pin in hand, writing comfort zone. Somedays, I go home and write sober and coherent. Leigh, yes Leigh, the one stable strong good woman in my life I do not deserve, watches over me as the angel she is.
The Blue Tequila Cantina serves as a meeting place for expats from over the world. Some seeking, love, some seeking companionship, some enjoying a cheap lifestyle, oh and some escaping their past. All toll, a good bunch of people, using up the end of life as we know it. Brave people, taking a chance on something different. The locals carry us high, we appreciate all the services they provide. Many frequent the bar and most local closing on property sales are finalized in the Cantina Azul. Oh yes, this is the local NASCAR TV headquarters. All Mexicans drive to fast, when you ask them why, they say we are in training for NASCAR.
And just like that, it happened again today. Normally, folks frequenting the bar don’t ask questions of each other as we all have something we don’t want to talk about. So, we find out about each other by what they say, not by prying.”
Extending his hand, he says, “My name is Sid, may I sit the bar with you?”
“Sure Sid, my name is Jerry, we’ve been expecting you.” I replied.
“How do you know me. I have never been here before?” A surprised, Sid remarks.
“A few days ago, a gust of wind blew a crumpled piece of paper in the door. I knew it was for me, when I spread the paper out it had Sid printed on it.”
“Ah, I don’t believe it for a minute!” Sid said.
“Easy, come, aqui,” I call.
Easy approaches and says, “yo is Sid esta so?”
Not believing what he is experiencing Sid says, “I need a beer!”
“Easy bring Sid a Tecate, make that dos since Sid is buying.
Sid in here ‘yo’ means, hi, you, me, a cheer, an explanation point, and always say ‘yo’ when you answer the phone. Just how it is,” I advised. “What you need Sid maybe we can help?” As Easy fishes deep in the cooler for the Tecate.
“I been walking this streets a couple of months checking out the area. Kinda thinking I might move to Ajajic. I’m too young to retire and though I might try buying this bar.”
“I laughed out loud, Easy chimed in with a beautiful smile. In fact, I laughed so hard and long I broke into a violent coughing spell, ending with sweat and wheezing.”
Meanwhile Sid sipped his beer and waits for things to settle down, “you OK Jerry?”
“Think so, but I think Tom is tellin’ me to warn you off.”
“Who is Tom, and why should I be concerned with Tom?”
“Tom owns the bar Sid, what makes it concerning is he has been dead since 1996. Easy runs the place, opens, and closes the Cantina, and sometime in the night the till is collected, money and directions left to pay various vendors. More than 3 years ago, before Easy, the guy running the bar tried to sell it to a newcomer. Both ended up missing and the police closed the bar.
It was hard on me as this was, as this is, my away from home, home. Couple of months later I dropped by, behold Easy had the door open for business. I ask her what happened she put finger to lips and then waved it at me. I knew to just drop it, and be happy. So be careful about trying to buy the Cantina.”
Sid sips Tecate and orders dos mas for him and the new acquaintance at the bar. Sid worries this guy is a con and decides to play along to see if he can swing a deal. Jerry seems a nice guy, but this is Mexico where tomorrow may mean the next day or even next month. All is not known much less guaranteed.
“Well Jerry if I can’t buy the bar maybe you can direct me to someone selling houses as I am in the market?”
“That I can help with. You want a mansion or a shack? You want to pay cash or easy terms? You plan to look at a lot of houses are a few, Sid?”
“You tellin’ me I have all those choices.”
“Yes, but they narrow quickly, Charley the gringo has been here for years and knows all the locations and has handled many closings here in the Cantina. Ramon digs deep and finds casas that need a quick sale. Anita can find homes with the best kitchens, house keepers, and gardeners. So, there is a lot to choose from and you need to think about it. I am still not privy to just why I knew you were coming, but I will figure it out?”
“Jerry, tell you what, if one of them drops by send them over to the Posada and have them ask for Sid.”
“Sure, thing Sid, one of them will fix you up.”
“So, you think Ajajic is a good place to live and retire? Give me the inside as you evidently have been around a while.”
“Lots of great food, fine music if you like local gringo and Mexican entertainers. You won’t find many unfriendly folks and some maybe too friendly. Friends come easy here and are not pushy. Most of us party often and in the daytime. Nights are not lit well, and trouble is easier to find. Good times in the Mexican sun is a good way to spend your days.”
BUY ON AMAZON
Forever Alone (Novel Excerpt)
When Time Stands Still
by Mike Mercer
My crop duster buzzing the house wakes me from a restful sleep. His second pass on the cotton field outside my bedroom window raises my senses to smell frying bacon and boiling coffee. My lady is up early, starting my day.
Our small frame house allows me to move to the kitchen in a few short steps. As I pass the lady standing at the stove on my way to the east kitchen door, I gently slap her butt. I can see my coffee cup steaming on the shelf by the door. Cup in hand I open the door, lean against its facing, and see the top crescent of the sun. My spray pilot is applying his final touches as I watch the light rush to me, I feel the warmth.
The thunderstorm of the night has left my usual itch to venture into the day’s work replaced with a tranquil heart. I’m hungry but the hand on my chest and nipples on my back tell me breakfast may be a passing thought. I flip off the flame under the coffee pot as she leads me to the bedroom.
I remember when I dreamed of moments like this, so I know dreams come true. She loves me enough to cook me a meal and desires me for her own pleasure. Could be breakfast may be lunch, or better yet left to supper. Thank you, lady and whatever brought you my way. The woman I follow loves the air she breathes and all she looks upon.
I lean on the kitchen door facing and watch the sunrise. The bacon in cold skillet grease and the cold cup of coffee on the shelf remind me how much I like when time stands still.
Mona Schroeder is a writer and former librarian who lives in Corpus Christi, Texas.
Excerpt from Random Acts
Cecilia Kendall watched the mid-morning El Paso sun slip through the closed blinds in her breakfast room. It was determined, always trying to sneak in where it wasn’t wanted. She poured herself another cup of coffee—black. She took it that way now – strong, black Colombian coffee, unpolluted by milk or cream or sugar or by international cream substitutes that were supposed to spice up one’s life by drinking them.
She sat at the table and thumbed through the mail without interest. Richard had brought it in for her one last time before packing his bags and leaving. She supposed she would have to retrieve it from the mailbox herself from now on which would mean changing out of her bathrobe, something she was reluctant to do. She wondered if she could persuade the mailman to shove it through a slot in the door if she had one put in. Or would she have to put in a whole new door?
Cecilia made a mental note and resolved to check into it later. Groceries, too. She could have them delivered – not that she needed many. Coffee and some frozen dinners perhaps. There was a certain morose appeal to the thought of her self-imposed solitary confinement – at the idea of mail being silently thrust through the door, of hermetically sealed frozen dinners forced through the mail slot one at a time. The coffee might present a problem, but that could be worked out, she was sure. Maybe Juan Valdez could schlep it over on that donkey of his.
Schlep. Where had that word come from, she wondered? She wasn’t Jewish, wasn’t anything really. She hadn’t been to church in years. “Schlep,” she repeated aloud, rolling it off her tongue slowly. It was not a word she would normally use, but today was not a normal day, not the morning after her husband of seventeen years had left her.
Yet the knowledge that Richard would not be coming home to her today or perhaps ever again did not move her, not in the way she would have thought a year ago. A year ago everything in her life had changed with one single act. Another drive-by shooting. Only this time the victim hadn’t been a stranger who died. This time a gun had claimed the life of someone she loved, her fifteen-year-old son Josh.
It should be a law of the universe that no parents be forced to survive their children, Cecilia thought. Without Josh, she felt as if a part of her were missing – the best part. What was she now? She wasn’t a mother, no longer a wife either. She had quit her job, her friends, and her husband had quit her. She had no close living relatives. She wasn’t someone’s daughter or sister or aunt or niece. What did that make her? She was 37 years old and had no label, an unsettling thought.
Cecilia reflected on all the ways she had tried to fill the hole that Josh’s absence had left in her life. Alcohol. Xanax. Valium. Even, unbelievably for her, an affair. Although “affair” was a rather grandiose term for the experience. Would 30 minutes in a cheap motel count as an affair? Nothing had transpired that night worth a scarlet letter. She’d had more interest in the brightly wrapped condoms the man had produced – and certainly more contact. Latex lust in the 21st century. Safe sex. Was sex ever really safe? Was any contact with another human being completely safe?
She hadn’t thought of the affair as an act of betrayal or even of revenge, more as an unsatisfactory attempt to hold the memories and the awful emptiness at bay for a few moments. An act of survival. The knowledge that Richard had been having an affair for some time had not failed to penetrate her otherwise dulled consciousness, but it hadn’t been a motivating factor for her. Cecilia couldn’t blame Richard, not really. Their own love-making had become almost nonexistent in the past year, and so when she had detected all the signs of an unfaithful husband – traces of lipstick, a hint of unfamiliar perfume on his shirts, his socks worn inside out as if hastily put back on – she hadn’t been shocked. Disappointed maybe, in a philosophical way. But was it disappointment in Richard or the fact that he didn’t bother to hide his indiscretions any better than he had? She could accept infidelity but not carelessness?
After Richard left, Cecilia hadn’t cried or asked “Why me?” She knew that long before he left her, she had left him. She hadn’t made it a physical separation, but it had been there nonetheless. As the door closed behind Richard, she had felt sadness, tinged with a certain relief. She felt free, but from what she wasn’t exactly sure – free from obligations perhaps, from unspoken demands, free from the guilt she felt every time she looked at him, wishing that she could love him again but knowing that she couldn’t.
Richard would probably ask her for a divorce soon. One thing generally followed another like that, like a child’s game of dominoes careening wildly across the floor. Impossible to stop once started. Cecilia wasn’t afraid of divorce, but she didn’t like the sound of it, the finality of it. The “ever after” without the “lived happily” part in front. Now it was simply “lived.”
Looking down, Cecilia realized that she had sorted the mail by habit – bills in one pile, personal letters or cards in another, and junk mail set aside for recycling. She shuffled through the bill pile again – gas, electric, two phone bills. Two? She examined them more closely. One was hers, but the other was to a Meryl Stephenson at 224 Flynn, instead of 244. The mailman had made a mistake. Wondering if there were more, she thumbed through the mail again. Sure enough, more envelopes addressed to Ms. Meryl Stephenson or Charles Stephenson, same address – a card, an application for a credit card, and an envelope from a doctor’s office. She wondered how long she had been getting this Meryl person’s mail. Should she return it? Would Meryl or Charles be worried, waiting for their phone bill, wondering what could have happened to it?
Cecilia sighed. She supposed she would have to return it. It would mean changing from her bathrobe into street clothes, putting on shoes, running a comb through her hair, but she would have to do it. All that trouble because of a simple mistake. A nagging sense of decorum forbade her from taking the mail down the street in her bathrobe and slippers. It would give new meaning to the word “schlep.”
Random Acts (excerpt)
Meryl tried not to look, but the moon peeped over the horizon of the plumber’s Wrangler jeans in a captivating peek-a-boo fashion. The wrenches hung from his tool belt like exotic metal fringe.
Think of something else, she told herself sternly, even as “Bad Moon Rising” began playing in her mind. Her hair. The color was not quite right. It had come out redder than she had expected. Maybe she had left the dye on too long. She considered asking the plumber for his opinion but decided that would sound too pathetic. She would rather ask another woman anyway. Yet, since moving, she didn’t know anyone to ask.
Meryl tore her gaze away and tried to focus on the Whirlpool range kitty-corner from the sink, but the stove’s bulky whiteness recalled the plumber’s four-inch strip of alabaster flesh above the striped elastic band of his white cotton briefs.
The plumber (George, she thought his name was) hiked up his pants and for a moment the tantalizing, forbidden cleavage disappeared. Within moments, however, the jeans inched downward once more, and Meryl leaned one elbow on the kitchen counter to watch. She should not be enjoying this display so much, she thought, and probably wouldn’t have if she were not so abominably lonely. She could kill Charles for dragging her to the desert and then dumping her! She felt alien here—no more comfortable than Charles’s poor, potted trees in the front yard, which even she could see didn’t belong in this arid climate. Charles hadn’t even bothered to plant them before taking off with his Silicone Sweetie.
Candy was her name, although Meryl still found that hard to believe. It seemed made up like the rest of her. From the top of her bleached-blond plasticized hair to her tiny geisha-like feet, Candy looked unreal, otherworldly. The effect was heightened further by skin so tight and poreless that Meryl wondered what it felt like. Surely it did not feel like regular human skin. Perhaps Candy was from outer space.
Meryl risked a surreptitious sniff under her armpit. There had been no time to shower that morning before George’s arrival. But then who could smell anything over that swampy odor coming from the disposal?
Without turning around, the plumber asked, “What did you say went down the disposal, ma’am?” On the floor near his knees lay the dismantled disposal and sink trap from which the fetid odor arose. She could almost see green, steamy tendrils of stench.
“Potato peels,” Meryl said, while thinking ‘went down’ an interesting choice of words. It wasn’t as if the peels had gone down willingly. She had jammed them down with a big wooden spoon. “I was making Vichyssoise. Would you like some? There’s plenty.” Why couldn’t she stop staring at his posterior?
“Fishy what?”
“Potato soup.” She could see the tiny, curling hairs like dark peach fuzz on his lower back.
“And you put fish in it?”
“No, no. It’s French. Never mind. Did you say you wanted some?” Perhaps if Charles hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be reduced to staring at a stranger’s ass for kicks.
“No thanks.”
He was delightfully taciturn, this plumber, Meryl decided, though she couldn’t remember now what his face looked like. The present vision had sandblasted it from her mind. She wondered if she could draw him out a little. “Have you lived in El Paso long?” she asked.
“Uh huh.”
“Really.” She waited for him to ask her the same question, but he didn’t. “I just moved here. My husband and I actually. Well, but now it’s just me.” Again, she waited for a response although none came. But that was okay. She liked the strong, silent type.
She began to reconstruct a vision of George from her memory. He had dark sultry brown eyes, she remembered, like Javier Bardem’s in “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” (but not in “No Country for Old Men” in which the real crime was that hair. Anthony Perkins wearing his mother’s pageboy wig.)
In fact, now that Meryl thought of it, didn’t George resemble Javier a little? Didn’t he have the faintest trace of an accent? She had a flash of a sun-splashed Spanish courtyard with a profusion of gorgeous red geraniums all around. Abruptly, the soundtrack in her head switched to the rich, plaintive notes of Spanish guitar music.
Meryl stared into space, no longer looking at George as she lapsed into her fantasy. “You are a very beautiful lady,” Javier said to her, taking her hand across the wrought iron table. Two glasses of wine and a single red rose lay between them. Meryl breathed in the rose’s sweet scent, felt the warm sun kiss her bare skin…
“Ma’am?”
The Spanish guitar music ground to an abrupt halt. “Yes?”
“I have to go out to my truck for my snake.”
When George stood up, she could see that he really didn’t look like Javier Bardem at all. More like Norm Peterson from “Cheers.”
Random Acts Excerpt
At Walgreen’s
Cecilia pulled one of the Lilliputian shopping carts from the cart corral and felt more relaxed. Walgreen’s was unintimidating and manageable, and it had everything. It was a microcosm of necessities. There were books, magazines, greeting cards, candy, office supplies, make-up, toiletries, shampoos, soaps, cleaning supplies, detergents, paper goods, pet supplies, toys, and even groceries. Not to mention the drugs. She had discovered that she could come here, and while waiting for a prescription, browse the aisles and buy movies, toothpaste, a new nail clipper, batteries, T-shirts, and almost anything else she might need. She could even, if she wanted to, get a passport photo, although it was hard to imagine ever wanting to travel again.
The only thing Walgreen’s didn’t have was a coffee shop. Why hadn’t Starbucks jumped on that? Cecilia wondered. Coffee and food and pharmaceuticals all under one roof. Perhaps they were afraid that no one would ever leave. Hordes of people would wander the store aisles in their Homer Simpson pjs and slippers, looking for whatever was missing from their lives. (For surely, she wasn’t the only lost soul out there.) Then the store would have to put in beds, television sets, Wi-fi connections, and extra bathrooms. The whole thing would just get way too complicated.
Now Cecilia pushed the diminutive cart toward the grocery aisles. There were only two –- four sides of shelves filled with grocery items, which included the dairy case and frozen food section. Very smart and efficient, Cecilia felt. Much better than a chain grocery store with its overbearing consumerism, huge carts, and overwhelming choices. Here among the teetering, dented cans of soup and tuna fish Cecilia felt almost at home.
After loading up the bottom of the cart with survivalist foods (canned soup, meats, vegetables, and coffee), Cecilia completed her list with bread, a half gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and some frozen dinners. Then, rounding the corner, she caught sight of a woman with hair not unlike the color of Lucille Ball’s. Meryl. There couldn’t be two women with hair that shade in the neighborhood. Cecilia quickly ducked down the next aisle. She made herself wait a few minutes until she thought it was safe to continue. Then she left the cart and peered around the corner to see if Meryl had moved out of sight yet.
A voice from behind her caused her to jump guiltily. “Hey, there! Cecilia, right? Remember me? Meryl Stephenson, your new neighbor. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, hello,” Cecilia said. Must the woman always speak in cliched greetings? Cecilia thought in irritation. “Nice to see you.” She tried to maneuver her cart down the aisle, but Meryl’s cart blocked hers.
Meryl wore turquoise-colored cropped pants and a gaudy top with flashing sequins and fringe (fringe! Cecilia thought), which made her look like a country and western singer. She lacked only a matching cowboy hat to look as if she’d just stepped off the Grand Ole Opry stage.
“Do you have a dog?” Meryl asked.
“No. Why?” Then Cecilia looked around and realized that she had turned down the dog food aisle by mistake. “I mean, not yet,” she amended, although she hadn’t really been considering the idea.
Meryl peered nosily into Cecilia’s cart. “I see you’re grocery shopping. Banquet dinners, huh?” She indicated her own cart, which was filled with boxes of hair dye in various shades, both Loreal and Lady Clairol, as if Meryl had swept an entire shelf into her purse at random. “I had to get a prescription refilled so I thought I’d stock up on a few things. There was something I was going to tell you.”
She tapped a finger on her lips thoughtfully, and Cecilia noticed that Meryl’s fingernails had miraculously grown. Lee press-on nails, Cecilia deduced. She wondered what sort of prescription Meryl was having refilled, probably a mood-altering one.
Meryl snapped her fingers. “Speculum!”
“I beg your pardon?” Embarrassed, Cecilia looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear their conversation. At the end of the aisle a little old lady in a pink track suit and matching sneakers gave them a funny look and hurried past.
“That’s what they call those instruments they use in pelvic exams. Remember we were talking about that the other day? It drives me crazy when I can’t think of a word, doesn’t it you?”
Perhaps Meryl’s problem was more of a Tourette’s thing, Cecilia thought. “Yes, absolutely,” she agreed, already backing up her cart. “Well, I really have to run now. My frozen dinners are thawing.”
“See you later!” Meryl called cheerfully.
“Not if I can help it,” Cecilia thought as she made a beeline for the cash register.
When Cecilia returned home and put away her purchases, she felt pleased at the newfound bounty. The pantry items gave new fullness to the shelves; the frozen dinners were stacked neatly in the freezer.
She regretted that she had not remembered to ask for a pack of cigarettes. She felt like doing something forbidden, something that would cause Richard to shake his head in disapproval. It was all that Meryl person’s fault. Why did she have to turn up everywhere? Why did she wear those ridiculous outfits and cake on her makeup with a garden trowel? And why did Meryl think that they had somehow become friends?
Random Acts Excerpt
The Tree Doctor
The tree is hemorrhaging sap, black against the gray bark, the leaves still green but washed out, lackluster. I know nothing about trees. A city girl, born and raised, I’ve always viewed trees as curiosities, like zoo animals. This is the first tree I’ve ever owned. It came with the house, also a first. I have property now, a mortgage, and a sickly tree.
Should I put a bucket beneath? A bandage? A yellow ribbon? I’m lost.
My next-door neighbor, Earl, ambles over, a beer in his hand. Earl is retired. In the afternoons he likes to enthrone himself in the lawn chair that he keeps in his garage. He leaves the garage door up, so he can watch the world go by while slugging back a beer or two – or three. Occasionally Earl favors a neighbor with sage advice, as he does now to me.
“You know what you otter do?” Earl says, swigging.
Otter do? Oh, ought to do, I realize. Sometimes Earl requires translation. “What’s that, Earl?” I ask, warily. I’m protective of the tree all of a sudden, worried that he’ll say have it removed, a bad omen, and something I’ve been worried about.
“Call one of those tree people to take a look-see.” Swig.
“Tree people?”
“Yeah, you know, tree people.” Swig, swig.
Later, I look up tree care online, skipping over the ones for tree removal, and find a name that strikes my fancy. The Tree Doctor. Must I call him Doctor Tree? Maybe I’ll ask to see his arborist credentials first. Or perhaps I’ll ask him about that tree falling in a forest thing. I’ve always wondered about that.
When Dr. Tree arrives, he’s wearing ordinary clothes – khakis and a blue polo shirt. No white coat, which is slightly disappointing. He’s about my age, mid-thirties, with an earnest look – or perhaps it’s the clipboard which lends him an official air. Together we examine the ailing tree.
“It came with the house,” I explain, so that he doesn’t blame me for the tree’s condition. Irresponsible tree owner, committing a crime against nature. I will not be labeled a tree murderer unjustly!
He launches into a diagnosis of the tree’s condition, which frankly I only half listen to – something about it’s the wrong type of tree for this area (again, not my fault), recommends a series of treatments to help revive the tree, although there’s no guarantee, etc., etc. Then he hands me his business card, which seems wrong somehow. He’s giving me a card made from his own patients? Who’s the tree murderer now?
“Well, thanks for coming by,” I say. “I’ll give you a call when I’ve decided.”
“Sure thing,” Dr. Tree says. “Just don’t wait too long. She’s in distress right now. I can give her a treatment before I leave. That’ll help some. Of course, she won’t be out of the woods yet,” he drawls, straight-faced.
She? Not out of the woods? I like his tree-side manner. “You’re hired,” I say.
About Mona Schroder
Mona Schroeder is a writer and former librarian who lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. This excerpt is from a novel called Random Acts about Cecilia Kendall, a woman struggling to put her life back together after a great loss. Determined never to be hurt again, her solution is to shut out the world until a chance encounter forces her to reconsider her choices and to wonder if one random act might begin to be healed by another.