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Prose
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Margaret
Pamela Boslet Buskin |
Remembering the Nam R. T. Tracy
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Self Portrait I
Janet Ellen Lusk |
Pam Laura Tennen
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CONTRIBUTORS
Russell Ainslie (prose) is 32 years old and was born and
raised in Croydon in South London, but has now managed to escape (though not
very far) to Colliers Wood, near Wimbledon, also South London. He is a
civil servant, but please don't read anything into that; he is a nice guy,
really. Mr. Ainslie has always enjoyed reading and writing (apparently born with a book
in his hand) and also enjoys sports (he is an avid AFC Wimbledon supporter) and
socializing. Russainslie@aol.com |
by Tracee Coleman
wondering where you are
without your ring
grown in a slope
perhaps with a tilted view
Vinh to Quy Chau
set by chromium then gold
fitted for a heart
sliced out of the country
and taken to town
Besherta Besherta
can one believe in a thing
molten for color?
red-breasted sap-sucker
pecking endlessly,
ringing out wells so sweet
hummingbirds sip
with no cue of hue
seeping from within a tree
while she spins
mountaintops in her glass
while somewhere
he plays her favorite record
a needle pressed
in the groove going, going
gone in carbon
by Tracee Coleman
spinning into breath
taking the curve
of a neck
when his eyes break
sound, striking blue
into as many degrees
as any August day's
sun crashing
on a shoulder
by Jon Stocks
The train for Edinburgh is delayed
We watch the snow tumble in weary silence
Try to warm our hands on mugs of coffee
Soon falling into the mystical trance
Of delayed travellers everywhere
Cocooned in our shadows of substance.
And then, suddenly, I catch the eye
Of the girl I dreamed about last night
Unmistakably, the same long, brown coat
Her hair tied back, and her dark green eyes.
In my dream we spent the afternoon together
In galleries and strolling by the river
We talked about sex and love and death
Families, the fragility of passion
Sat on a bench by roses at St Paul's
And later over latte, tea and scones.
She is about to board the London train
As in my dream, I move towards her
There is the faintest hint of recognition
A curious and almost teasing stare
A half smile before she turns away
And then is lost forever.
by Jon Stocks
When half the world was wildwood
As wolves howled in Wolvescote dale
And naked virgins prayed to Orion.
The village shaman sat, in awed silence
Watching Swifts and Swallows hushed
Lost in deep chasms of thought
Lonely, intuitive and afraid.
He saw how times could merge
Like seas slipping into oceans
How distant worlds of ice and fire
Would tumble from the sky
And torches would melt in the moonlight.
He saw men scramble into holes
For lead like fossilized mothers milk
A last, loveless bear, stumble into oblivion
And wolves disappear into maps.
And he saw mankind plunge into darkness
Vision blurred by conscious thought
Dreams buried, strangled at birth
And the moon-muse turned to dust.
by Jon Stocks
You kept Doves, they said, Doves that fell like blossom
In old photographs you bloom like a Madonna
Your sensuous smile, cutting through the sepia
Like it’s swinging Saturday night
Wriggling your bottom.
The collier lads, buried alive before they’re twenty
Would treat you roughly, lunging for your bosom
Leering, beery mouths gaping in the darkness
Your little girl voice lost in their barbarous cackle.
Love found you in the end though as they promised
Lying in the scarlet afterglow of passion
Before the toast browning sweetly on the embers
And then sent you to the city, buying dresses.
In late photographs, now all furs and feathers
All lined and wrinkled like a pickled peach
Your eyes still as sharp as you glinting needles
As you dance with death in your stiffening sleep.
by Jon Stocks
Meet me and I shall know you, light and shadow,
A formless, fantastic distillation,
Confection of smoke and fogs and gaslight.
Meet me and I’ll watch you as you wander,
Dreamily up pea-souped side streets,
Long neck hidden by black buttoned collar,
Your exhaled breath, a ghostly miasma,
Drifting past the clanking city tram-cars,
The news boy who teases you, calling out your name.
Meet me on Fargate, waiting at Cole’s corner,
Top hat and tailed, tapping with my cane.
Yours for all eternity my darling,
Yours beyond the final cutting edge of time.
Late for your theatre tea, warm hands wrapped in velvet,
Hat pulled down over your pert, pink ears.
Your diary shows me all your sweet conceits,
And makes me long to hold you, snug as the grave.
by Joanna M. Weston
these final days
are ginger cookies
round as the clock
and nibbled by minutes
hard on my tongue
sweet with desire
to be eaten
and forgotten
yet sharp with longing
to pause
and appreciate
until the next
pang
by Joanna M. Weston
peeled from the ground
flew over the apple tree
and beyond the high-rise
white wings stretched
feathered flakes fell
in billows of down
only a wide bowl left
and a pecking of chickadees
by Joanna M. Weston
Flayed by sunrise
flaunted leaves
dragged, wind-bent
down the hillside
Flame-smudged
dawn-grey grass
faces winter
on a seared stage
by Joanna M. Weston
bishops, knights
on black and white
age through evening
words lift over
mitre and crest
grey the air
castle captured
queen mated king
the clock pawned
ivory on wood
stale smoke blown
from cramped lips
time check-mates
the players
in a final move
by Sandy Hiss
She paints her lips dark
as the fading dusk, covering
up the paleness that gnaws
at her in the mirror. Flippingthrough fashion magazines
at the anorexic arms playing
badminton, she pictures herself
there; her rubbery legs stretchedout to the moon and back while
the fat pool boys wish they could join
the party. But they won't get any
invitations, just a slap on the back
and "you're doing a good job, here's a five."You're not pretty enough to smell our
gladiolas, much less the prize roses
or traipse across our catwalk in your
thrift shop heels.Average hangs out on the north side of town;
the bus stop is 10 blocks away. It's a
long walk on flawed street. You may want
to hurry before you miss it
and have to take the ugly bus.
by Sandy Hiss
Gingerly, she applies scented lotion
on her hands, rubbing cherries and cream
over dry ideas. She types handwritten memos
staring at a screen full of pixels and dead
stick figures playing hangman with her eyes.Fidgeting in her chair, she breathes in,
breathes out the aroma of time
as she settles into the coolness of blue
walls and paper oceans. A dash of rum
and she is a tourist taking in the tropical sun.Atop the wooden table, the fax machine shouts
obscenities as it empties its bowels. Not enough fiber
in the tray. She curses back, shaking her head
at the mess left on the table and remembers
why she doesn't have children.Over in the corner, the copier coughs up
its last meal, shaking and rattling like a B-movie
death. Pulling out its guts, she breaks a nail
and tries to locate the broken fragment
as if gluing it together will make it whole again.Hovering on the wall like a sleepy bat
the clock chimes five o'clock; she turns off
the coffee and takes out the trash. Her nose
immune to the scent of cherries.
by Rebecca Lu Kiernan
A jaguar rises up
From a clean elk carcass.
Only after eating
Does the taste of blood become
Unpleasant.
He washes his angular face in the stream
Pawing at
The gossamer pinks and blues of fish.I think of him
When I pass
The bird sanctuary
Where the circus train wrecked.
I think of him,
His calm emerald eyes,
His speechlessness,
His disappointless affection,
His broken bone.I think of
A thousand star-bellied ghost finches
Moving on.I think of him,
His jerky
Whip of a walk,
Upturned face, spellbound
At the unreachable sky,
His happiness
Almost more
Than I can endure.
by Rebecca Lu Kiernan
He's collecting new ways to make me come,
Upside down and backwards
In the park on his face,
The window ledge,
With his thumb on the subway.
It's all just aerosol whipped cream
On the pout of his fleshy lips
When he muscles down the night sky,
My damp flesh too much cathedral
For such a confirmed agnostic.
He's collecting new ways to make me come
Which add up to chocolate ants and cherries
On the tone of voice he uses when he is inside me,
(confessions before the guillotine).
by Uma Asopa
Every time you write a poem about me
I feel reassured I wasn’t just
a beautiful accident in your life.
You keep telling us we two
are your eyes. One is left and
another right—the relevance
of their vision to you is the same .
Tell me Ma, when you close both
your eyes in meditation
who lingers behind your lids
as your thoughts fade into silence.
by Uma Asopa
In the bottom drawer, under old clothes
lie some notes. Dates, places, anecdotes, sleep
like newborns under an effect of opium.
When all seems well, day’s clear-headed
and quests far behind night sneaks in.
Words tiptoe out with ugly questions.
Frantic like addicts in withdrawal they beg
to be fed with madness. Half a tablet
lures them to bed, and a well-contoured
cushion under my neck. Another half
leaves them stubborn like autistic children.
One more dulls them to drowsiness.
They pester for still more
to sleep till the dawn. Well-bribed
they recede without insisting for solutions
by Uma Asopa
At the Hotel Sea Hawk we ask
for an ocean facing room. Nothing
intervenes between us and blue
except for clear glass and beach.
Even before dark grey-blue skies
fade into sea. Only a play of wind
on water tells one from another.
Waves rise, roll and fall in a fuming froth.
All night the sea screams. Beating
winds, clapping waves, grinding
sands groan through our blankets.
Waves form and fade—fade and form.
I write, erase, rewrite their script in dreams.
In sleep, I presume, you hear a noise.
by Uma Asopa
Eager hands wave across the river,
faces flush in strain. Boats
ferry some—others wait. New roads
join the old ones; doves perch on the fence.
Guns are silent—villages
on two sides sleep.
Morning warms a row of chinar
in the lap of icy mountains.
The day has laid a milestone of peace.
They come this far every decade
from the line of control
then return to a state of high alert—
their posts just beyond the fields.
by Robert L. Harrison
I found his wisdom
finding me
years later,
because it was
imprinted to do so.
I heard his thoughts
mingling with mine
years after his
final breath.
I dreamed
About his secrets once
before the morning mind
could capture them.
If I could do this
then he never left,
but is part of me
seen in a mirror
in a quick glance.
by Robert L. Harrison
Max reads his poems
like peeling an onion,
letting the layers
speak out for themselves.
Once he went too deep
and we cried together
awash in new thoughts
like kindred spirits.
And once he never finished,
his lines drifted off onto new visions,
perhaps too painful to write.
by Robert L. Harrison
The metal detector rings
and you're due for a wand job.
Up and down,
back and forth,
a quick check of the crotch,
then your belt comes off,
and you feel better
after a hidden pocket
dime is found.
Now people look on
as you perform for
the security guard,
a ballet in slow motion
without any
dancing shoes.
by Brett Yates
my brother and i used to visit
my aunt's lake house
and heard from some older kids
of a forty-five-foot cliff
which we could climb
and then jump from into the water
it was at the other end of the big lake
my brother and i canoed there
one afternoon
and took an hour to work up the courage
but we did it we jumped
and didn't get home till dark
exhilarated and beaming with pride.
there were days when i felt
more comfortable outside
than inside
more comfortable under the sun
than under a lamp
more comfortable airborne
than on the ground.
funny how things change
funny how the good memories
are more painful than the bad ones.
by Brett Yates
hamlet once said something like
words words words.
i agree with the danish prince
it seems to me that we need to find
new functions for words
like causing actual physical harm
to the people we don't like
pow!
and if we could make words edible
to feed the starving african children
wouldn't it be a better place
i can imagine an emaciated child
finding strength and nutrition
by biting into my poem
surely it can be done
words converted into food
with all the modern day science we have now.
by Aurora Antonovic
My mother used to say
I was happiest as a baby
when I was completely alone,
she would pause in her work to check on me
and I would contentedly be gurgling away,
my arms and legs in constant movement
as though I were dancing to my own tuneSilence helped my father in his suffering
the long years of stomach cancer
I can remember walking as quietly as I could
talking in my softest voice
just for him
and seeing his nod of approval
the gleam in his eye that spoke much more than wordsWhen I have a decision to make,
silence helps me most
I can’t think in the noise
don’t want to confide in others
hold my questions under my rib cage
and push indecision up with my kneesFor twenty-four years I’ve had this silence,
this gnawing, these questions
and one day I will come up with an answer
or be buried with it
knotted up in stomach,
pushed up in my throat
strangled by what I couldn’t say
by Aurora Antonovic
every third or fourth word was
“please”, “thank you”,
in painfully strained tones,
your hair, perfectly coiffed as always,
the tie carefully knotted
always a little too tightly I thought
the suit stylish but dignified
holding your back as straight and tall as
fitting to someone of your statureI’m surprised you
didn’t shake my hand before you left
but your eyes never left my ringless finger
by Thomas D. Reynolds
You are not here when I knock,
But in the dusty mining townSouthwest of Kirksville, Missouri
Your family left in 1952 when you were thirteen.Only now it is late fall of 1953,
And just for a moment your family never left.Your step-father didn’t look out onto
That dim shadowy street that morningClutching his first drink of the day,
And once more obey, just like he wouldTime and again in Vegas and Colorado,
That old restless urge to vanish againDown dusty roads with family in tow,
Bags hastily packed with desperation and rage.Instead, he opened the screen door
And poured himself another drink, then another,Anesthetizing himself from the daily round,
Passing out on the couch while the children crept outOnto that narrow dirt street, you leading the way,
past the bar with the cracked front window,a dim bulb swinging on a cord above the pool table,
two busted wooden chairs on the front stepsstacked now to be used for kindling in the wood stove.
Tonight the blackened miners will crawl from the mine,Perhaps even the sixteen-year old with the scarred face
You will one day marry, having few other opportunities.
But for now the streets are empty, with only the wind
To meander drunkenly past the steps and sharply howlThat this is no place for children, brushing you aside
And careening through alleys into the dark hills.
by Andrew Kaye
Somewhere in Arizona is
a winding, twisting cave full of
deep, watery pools.Somewhere in this cave is
a man named Ralph, who’ll
let you wander around
and peer into these pools.Somewhere swimming in these pools are
rare, albino cave salamanders.
There are only fifteen left in existence.For five dollars, Ralph will let you
throw rocks at them.
by Andrew Kaye
When the Monkey performed, they smiled
And laughed and clapped at all his tricks,
Like his amazing juggling routine
Done to calliope music under the big tent.
The Circus Monkey grinned to the crowd,
Doing his thing for nothing but fruit.But oh, how the Monkey hated fruit,
And oh, how he hated human smiles,
And oftentimes he’d dream the gawking crowd
Would let him go one day without tricks,
Without juggling, and so on, in the tent.
Oh, how he hated routine.People paid for that routine.
After each act, they’d come with fruit,
And tease and dangle it above his cage.
They smiled when he smiled,
So he showed them one of his own tricks:
He smiled to shut-up the stupid crowd.
There were thousands in that stupid crowdAnd all of them would routinely
Come to the circus to see the Monkey’s tricks.
Yet the poor, sad Monkey sat amid rotting fruit
And longed for reasons to smile,
Reasons he knew did not involve his cage.Day in and day out, from cage to monstrous tent
The Circus Monkey pleased the waiting crowds
And smiled to induce their hated smiles.
The pitiful Monkey did his routine
On empty belly, on fumes of stinking fruits,
His spirit weak from starvation, grief, and tricks.Years later, as his last and greatest trick,
The Monkey died sprawled out in his cage
Face down in the mush of remnant fruits.
Upon hearing of his death, the crowd
Lamented the loss of his wonderful routine.
Not a single one was smiling.There would be no more tricks. There would be no routine.
The Monkey was lifted from the fruit, taken from his cage,
And buried as the crowd watched. Some swore the Monkey smiled.
by Patrick Carrington
The salty smell of supper ham ordains
the evening, preaches to a mass
of slump and slumber in the rolling
chair. Livestock fed and beans tended,
sunbeams swallowed by crickets, nightis called from its shy window by silence
after snaps of barn locks, greeted
by inanimate squeaks of pain
as Matthew’s girth bends the wood
of his rocker. Suspenders and grimybootlaces hang loose, flopping medals
of plight and pride. Pipe smoke spins
through porch screens in blue corkscrew
ease, teasing the fading day with curls
of relaxation. Telling the dark to come,the stars to shine, reminding the sleepy
sun its reign is over, its torture muted
by pauses and powders of satisfaction.
Informing it that night, no matter how
adjacent, is not complicit in its crimes.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The barrel
was not empty,
The note on
the living room
table was
unfinished.
The empty
bottle laid flat
against the wall.
Unable
to pull the trigger,
his emptiness
surrounded
him. Outside
the rooster
crowed as
sunlight filtered
inside his
dark room,
filling him
with light.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I walk away from dreams.
I'd rather not dream
if I could help it.
If you knew how often
I've drowned in dreams,
you would understand.I'm usually blind in my
dreams. My cane
turns into a snake.
The seeing eye dog
at my side begins
to devour the snake.It suffers from indigestion
and food poisoning,
and I'm left with poor
balance. I end up
falling inside a fountain,
face down, and breathless.
by Joseph Lewis
Distant clang of guitars in summer air.
Then a car passes my open window.
Then someone dies in the hospital
on the other side of these pines
in a room that's completely white.
Then a woman pushes her baby in a stroller
through the summer into history.
Then a voice rises of the guitars.
I close a book and drink some water
and look out the window at the sky.
by Joseph Lewis
Brown, rusted pipes lie end to end
on the beach near the water's edge.
Bodies slick as seals lined the same way
aren't as dark as these hollow tubes
because oiled skin is not as worn
as weathered pipes on the sand.
The bathers still have miles to burn
before the gulls pick at their bones.
by Michael Estabrook
Tall gray bird, an egret I think, standing
in the shallows of a small pond over
in the fields behind the high school, poised,
quiet, elegant, intensely focused,
his head with its long beak
snapping suddenly like a whip
into the water, stabbing at one
of the innumerable, plump,
brown tadpoles beginning to kick
their frog legs. But he misses, comes
up dry, his beady eyes staring down
into the dark water, incredulous
at having missed and, if
I didn’t know better, a little
bit embarrassed about it too.
but the wind doesn’t make the curtains move
by Michael Estabrook
On the far end of town
tiny blue trailer rests quiet near
the railroad tracks.
I pass it every day to and from work.
A little old lady lives there,
though I’ve never seen even a glimpse
of her. There is no dog either,
or any cats mewing at the side steps.
All I ever see are coveralls
and some gray underthings
hanging out on the tattered line
strung limp between two trees.
And sometimes
the door is open or a window,
but the wind doesn’t make the curtains move.
Margaret Pamela Boslet Buskin
That Year Ron Klosterman
A New Jersey Left Brett Yates
From My Car Window Michael EstabrookThe Fun Fair Russell Ainslie
Her Secret Admirer Lisa Braxton
The Wages of Plunder Dipita Kwa
The Flood Sarah Nowell
by Pamela Boslet Buskin
at your peas, Margaret. Eat your peas, Margaret. Eat your peas, Margaret. "She's not gonna eat the damn peas! Leave her alone!"
What's wrong with these idiot nurses? Nurses? They are not nurses, I have to be careful what I call them when Donna is here. She is so damn touchy about that. The whole family is crazy. I'm the only sane one left. Poor Margaret. She was so ... dependable. So dependable. Doesn't sound too romantic. I don't think she used to be dependable, way back when.
Oh Lord, here she comes again. Oh no, this is a different one.
"Okay, William, are you done now?" What's this one's name? Nice name, Delilah, I think. I like the sound of her voice. Not her face, no, her face is fat and blank, but her voice, that nice West Indian accent, that I like. I wish we were there now, on the beach somewhere. We never did go, never. I always wanted to but Margaret... such a homebody. How she ever made it to this country, I'll never know.
"Margaret? Margaret? You in there tonight? Remember when I wanted to go to the beach? To one of those Saint islands—St. John or one of them? Remember, Margaret?"
Delilah glances over at Margaret. "Oh, she's out now, William," Delilah says.
"Where are you from?" I ask her.
"Trinidad," she says.
"Is it nice there? What's it like?"
"Oh yes, it is beautiful. Always warm, always sunny. Smells good. Everybody friendly. Not like here. Not at all like Staten Island."
"So why did you come here, then?"
"Oh, you know why, William. Same reason everybody come: money. Probably the same reason Margaret come, right?"
"No, Margaret came for me. Only for me."
Margaret starts to moan. We ignore her. The moans get louder. Delilah walks to her bed, pats her on the head, and walks out of the room. The moaning is hard to take. It goes on for hours, sometimes. If not from Margaret, from another room down the hall somewhere. There always seems to be somebody moaning. But every time I put my pillow over my head to drown it out, one of the aides takes it off, sure I will suffocate. Can't have me dying a quick, painless death, can we?
I asked for earplugs once. I thought, well, they will let me have that, you can't die from sticking an earplug in your ear. It took weeks before they finally got them, I don't know why I didn't just ask Donna or my idiot son to get them. But when I finally got them, they just popped right out of my ears. Too much wax, maybe. I always had a problem with that, ear wax, used to have to get my ears cleaned out at the doctor's office. They don't do that here, they don't really care about my ear wax.
"Hey, Pop." It's my idiot son. Dressed like a slob, like always. And that stupid pony tail. My God, he's 57 years old. What is wrong with him?
Margaret is moaning, moaning. Martin walks right past her bed. Barely looks at her. A lotta people do that when she is like this.
"How ya doin', Pop?"
"Tip top, Martin." Martin smiles. He probably believes me. "Where's Donna? She comin' tonight?" At least she is not an idiot. Fat, maybe, yeah, fat. But not an idiot.
"Nah, she's workin'." Donna is a nurse, a real nurse, not like these poor imitations they have here, walkin' around in nurses' uniforms but they don't know nothin'. My damn dog knew more than they do, and he wasn't too smart.
"Well, what about your sisters? They comin'?"
"Geez, Pop, they're gone, remember? They've been gone for years."
Gone? Now, how the hell am I supposed to keep track of everybody? I got enough to do just takin' care of Margaret. She's a real handful now. And it ain't fair. She's younger, a lot younger, seven years, that's part of why I married her, so I wouldn't be stuck takin' care of some sick old woman. And now I am anyway. Oh, these people here think they are takin' care of her, but it's really me, I am the one who does it.
"Wanna take a ride, Pop?"
"Sure. I want to go to Nathan's. I want a hot dog."
"Nah, I meant down the hall, in your wheelchair. Check out some of the nurses."
Good Lord, he is a fool.
***
"Margaret? Margaret? Where are you? Oh my God, she is gone. MARGARET!" One of the aides comes in, in no hurry.
"It's okay, William, she isn't here now, remember? She went for some tests, remember? To the hospital."
William doesn't remember, he doesn't remember at all. What he does remember is a beautiful, lithe, blonde girl who barely speaks English. He has never met her. She stares at him in wonderment: she has never met an American before. It is 1940, and her little town in Sweden is far from any place an American might want to see. Unless he has family there. William came over with his mother, who was born there. He came over once before with her, as a child, but he didn't like it then. All these strange people speaking a strange language. They all stared at him, he hated it. He was a quiet child and he didn't like being stared at. Margaret wasn't here that time; she wasn't born yet.
But she was here now, tall and blond and beautiful. She was 18 and he was 25. He still didn't speak Swedish, or not more than a few words, but it didn't seem to matter as much this time, especially after he met Margaret. They found ways to communicate.
When he went home to New York, they continued to communicate. They wrote dozens of letters, using dictionaries and the few words they knew of each other's languages. Sometimes they even drew pictures. It was very sweet, really. They both saved all their letters and when Margaret came over, she brought hers with her. They were still there in their apartment, mixed together now in a flowery box in the closet. Or so William thought, not remembering that the apartment was emptied out almost a year ago, when they came here. Martin had ripped off most of the stamps when he was little, for his stamp album. He was such a strange child.
But Margaret was truly a lovely woman, and William couldn't believe his good fortune. He was not outgoing, not at all, and he couldn't dance, which he perceived as a great character flaw. He was awkward and ungainly and easily tongue-tied. It should have made him more tolerant of his son, later, but it didn't. He just got frustrated and angry at Martin's inability to express himself.
But when he was young and had his beautiful Margaret at his side, it didn't matter that he wasn't the most articulate or well-educated young man, because she could barely understand him anyway. To her, he was brilliant; she saw herself as ignorant because she couldn't speak English. When she learned, or learned well enough to understand William, things changed a bit. A lot, actually. But what could she do? She was alone, she didn't know another soul in America, and then there was Martin, followed soon after by Annette and then Marie. And when first Annette died and then a year later, Marie, Margaret thought she would lose her mind, and she couldn't leave, William and Martin were all she had left.
Besides, William was more than just her husband. He was a blood relative. Their mothers were sisters. William and Margaret were cousins.
And now, sixty years later, here they were, the cousins, still together, side by side in the nursing home in matching diapers.
***
"Oh, Jesus, where is my Margaret? I want to see Margaret!"
Why are they keeping her from me like this? Don't they know I have to take care of her? I don't understand. I don't understand. My stomach is killing me and they won't let me see Margaret. Oh God, here she comes. Oh, thank God.
"Okay, William, here she is, I told you she'd be back. She's had a little something to relax her, though, so she might be a bit groggy."
"What did you do to her?"
"We just took her for some tests, that's all. Your son is on his way now, he will explain everything."
Explain everything? He couldn't explain his way out of a paper bag. "Hello, Martin."
"Hey, Pop, how's it goin'?"
"What did they do to your mother? What's wrong with her?"
"Oh, it's nothin', Pop, just a little fluid in her stomach. They were tryin' to see where it was comin' from."
"And? Where is it comin' from?"
"They don't know, but it's nothin', don't worry about it."
He must think I am as much of a fool as he is.
"Villiam? Villiam? Aw, it hurts, it hurts." My poor old girl.
"Just rest, Margaret. Just go back to sleep."
"Hey, Ma, I'm here."
"Aw, Martin. Come here, hold my hand. It hurts."
He's not a bad kid, really. Kid, he's 57, but he acts like a kid. Never grew up, really. Or never grew up right, anyway. Now what are they talkin' about, I can barely hear them. I hate when they do that. "Speak up, stop whisperin' over there!"
"Pop, she's just moaning, mostly. Don't worry, we aren't keepin' any secrets from you, right, Ma?"
"Secrets... secrets..." That's when she does it, tells him after keepin' it in all these years.
"Martin..." Her voice is faint, but I can hear it anyway. Seems to me like she is screamin'. "Cousins. The pastor said it was ok to marry us. Cousins."
"Ma, what the hell are you talkin' about? Who are cousins?"
"We are."
"We?"
"Daddy and me. Our mamas were sisters. Oh dear Lord, it hurts, it hurts."
Oh shit, now she's done it. Now he knows. "Let sleeping dogs lie."
***
Martin's children—all grown now—show mock horror.
"Jesus fucking Christ. Cousins? My grandparents are cousins? Jesus Christ, we are trailer trash!"
Martin had told his kids, partly because he thought it was funny and partly because, he thought they should know. He thought maybe problems could crop up in the future, in them or in their kids, if they ever have any, even though medical science was now saying the risk was very low.
"Trailer trash," Martin says, chuckling. "Yeah, I guess so. We've always joked about living on Tobacco Road, Christ, now I know we really belong here."
Donna also finds it amusing. She always knew Martin was weird. Now she knows why.
***
"Margaret! Where are you now? Why do you keep going away?" I've gotta get some sleep.
***
"Ah, Margaret, you're back. Thank God. You okay? Margaret? Wake up, wake up, tell me what they did to you. Come on, wake up. Margaret? Margaret?"
Oh God, why isn't she waking up? What did they do to her this time? Oh my God, I don't think she is breathing! She's not moving at all. They killed her. Oh my God.
"Nurse! Help! Help! My wife, she's not moving! Help!" Where the hell are they? I've gotta get to her. I will get to her, dammit! Come on, you damn old man, get out of this bed and take care of your wife. I can do it, shit, just sit up, slow, come on, you can do it, come on, one leg over, okay, steady now, steady...
"Pop! Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing? You're gonna fall outta the bed!"
"I am going to your mother. Nobody will help me. And don't try to stop me."
"Pop, wait. Just wait. I will help you. Just let me get you a wheelchair. Just wait. Please!"
Poor kid, he doesn't know his mother is dead yet. "Fine. I will wait."
***
Martin comes back with the wheelchair and a nurse and an aide. Together, they get William into the wheelchair. A moment later, he is at Margaret's side. He picks up her hand and holds it. It is warm. She is not dead after all. He stays there, at her side, holding her hand, for a very long time.
© 2000 by Pamela Boslet Buskin
Return to Prose
by Ron Klosterman
ain is usually a boon to the Midwest. Crops grow and the grass turns green, but rain didn’t help anything that year. The streets were flooded, the insects were bad and the air was so muggy that it felt like molasses in your lungs, and sometimes, just to breathe out, a man would have to spit.
It had poured all summer and when fall had finally rolled around, Sputnik laid a red patch across the sky and a young boy had died.
I believe it was late in August when the gentle breeze had blew into town, shooing away all those biting flies that had tormented everyone for so long. Though the red whelps would fade, over the years, the town barbers would still grab for their holstered towels while children would quickly roll tight the newest issue of some comic at the slightest buzzing sound. They had never gotten over the assault, perhaps that was why Russ was forgotten so easily.
Russ Clark had floated into town with that August wind. His clodhoppers kicking up dust, as he whistled an offbeat tune from the radio. It was not uncommon to hear the opening of Gunsmoke or some catchy Woolworth jingle coming from around a corner, and bet that it was him.
Russ and his father had moved in three doors down, and my mom, being the local saint, had suggested—though rather forcefully—that we both should get to know our new neighbors. She had baked a cake, made a call and had even dolled herself up a bit.
Ever since my dad died in the Pacific, every new neighbor was a possible suitor, from old Mr. Harms to a Chinaman who went by the name of Slant-Eyed Sammy. The grocer had called him that once and I had giggled. My mother cured me of this immediately as her hand popped me across my scalp. She then turned to the grocer and scolded him about compassion of the common man. Russ’s father was no exception to the rule.
Loving my mother, the way I did, I didn’t even bother with a lie. I simply went to my room, put on some clean clothes and sucked in a deep breath. I had already met Russ at school and things had not gone well for him.
The first time me and my friends saw him, he was swinging at the air with a badminton racket. It was September and he had come across the last hideout of the horseflies, and was knocking their fat, bloated bodies to the ground where he would then grind his toe like a man who had just tossed a butt. During his swings, he was playing it up as an Allied anti-aircraft gunner, shooting down Jap zeroes or—as the times were beginning to dictate—Red Army Beagles.
A group of horseflies were waiting patiently atop an old two-by-four for their orders. The command came suddenly when Russ stomped one end of the board, catapulting the insects into firing range. They flew up into the air and then slowly began their descent, as wings—laden with old age—began to flap. The sound of the bugs hitting the racket was amplified by his imitation machine gun fire, his screeching wail of the falling plane and the final KABOOM of the crash.
We all just stood there looking at the kid, thinking the same thing. The boy had missed second gear, so we decided to treat Russ to lunch, a knuckle sandwich type of lunch.
Jimmy, our little gang’s muscle, walked up to Russ—Jimmy’s smile had made many a girl swoon—and gave him a wallop right across the mouth. This of course sat the poor kid on the seat of his pants. But the kid was odd; he just sat there looking at us, all cow-eyed and innocent. At the time, we were of the mindset that no one was that innocent, and started to circle around him.
That was when Principal Abbot came running up and demanded, “What’s goin on here?”
I pulled out a cigarette, trying to play the part, and then put it in my mouth to light, “nuth’ns goin on chief,” while Peter Smith yelled from across the playground, “Hey Abbott!” which made us all snicker. The principal ignored him.
Eyeing me for a moment, he smacked the cigarette from my mouth, “Enough of your back talk, boy. You will all see me after school. Understood?” he pointed a finger at my chest, and then gave me a nudge, eyeballing each of us in turn.
“It’s like a bell,” we all said in unison. “Yeah, a cracked bell,” I heard whispered.
Meanwhile, Russ had gotten to his feet and dabbed at his mouth with his shirt. The teacher walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, kindly. That was the first time we had heard Russ speak.
“Get off!” he had said, shrugging the hand and walking away. We all smiled, the boy had bypassed a severe beating, but he would still be beaten, none-the-less.
What I would soon gather from my mother, about Russ’s family, was that his mom had left when he was five. In the words of the father, “she had fancied herself an actress and had turned to the bright lights.” Up on the mantle, in the back, was a picture of her; it showed her smile as absolute joy. Russ’s, as I would find out later, was a sad smile—one of loss.
Her strangled body had turned up, a year or so after she had left, in the Chicago River.
That first visit to the Clark’s home was very discouraging. Russ did not talk to either me or my mom; he had even been given a light backhand from his father for not answering a question about his stamp collection. I couldn’t blame Russ as he still sported the fat lip from the day before.
“It is not that nice,” he stubbornly responded while giving the evil eye to me, and stepping away from his father’s hand. It would take two whole weeks to get a smile from him.
It wasn’t because we became friends that we hung out in the early fall. It was just assumed that while my mom dated his dad, we would be pals. Perhaps, it was the cat that we had both began to harass at the same time or that we both like to play catch. His dad was an old ball player, and Russ could really fire one into my mitt—many times I went home with a sore palm and numb fingers. But if I had to pick one moment when I considered him a pal, it would have to have been the egg I tossed at a passing car. When it hit, the car stopped and an old woman got out. She shouted something in German, “Bastards!” I am sure, and gave us both the middle finger. We ran like stripped ass apes and ended up down at Mort’s, sharing a pop. We moved from there to climbing trees and building forts. I even introduced him to my other friends, and Jimmy promptly walloped me in the eye.
“What’s that all about?” I groused.
“If you’re gonna vouch, I want my money up front!” he said, eyeing Russ. He then spit at Russ’s feet and walked away. I didn’t blame him. If Russ turned out to be a bad egg, I would be the one to take the licking for it. At least, Jimmy owed me one, and if Russ turned out okay then all the better.
Yet, our parents didn’t click, and while they remained friends, we both distanced from one other. When I stole cigarettes, peeped in windows or beat up other kids, he stood there off to the side, almost an afterthought. Our friendship that started to blossom wilted on the vine. When my mom got engaged to Bentley, a southern writer, we all dragged Russ into the bushes and gave him what for.
Just for that, all of us—including Russ—were dragged into principal Abbot’s office. He had a nurse there with him who had a black case filled with inoculations. She had arrived before we were all ushered into the office. Abbot looked at us and then he smiled at the nurse.
“Maggie, looks like we have our first volunteers.”
“Sure does, Jim,” she responded.
After-words, we made sure to each tag Russ right on the mark where the needle had bit. We all laughed as that poor wilted flower stumbled away, and when I had made it home that night, I cried a little. When Russ’s wane smile appeared in the school’s photo-album the following year, I had to tear the book up and toss it in the river. We had beaten him up, shoved him ahead of us for the shots and then beat him down when we left. Things like that should not be remembered.
He did not show up for school the next day nor the day after. He had been dead two weeks when Len Bentley, my new brother, came to live with us. No one knew.
Len was the one to finally ask what happened to Russ. The word around school was that “Russ Clark had become very ill.” So, Len had asked the teacher if he was okay. The teacher had responded, “No, Russ Clark will not be okay. He is dead.” Again, no one knew.
The first of many exaggerations said that Russ had been knifed by a couple of Negroes on the north side. They had been caught the next day with his dad’s stolen watch and both of his ears in a brown bag. The story had gone around so much that it was mentioned in a high-profile segregation case, going on in the next county.
A few weeks later, it was that Russ had been helping his father cut wood, not minding the fact that they did not have a fireplace or wood burning stove, when the axe missed and split him in two. The reaction to the swooshing chop sent many girls into hysterical faints. It was assumed that the father had been held for questioning, but then released on his own recognizance. It was then that the old maids in town began covering their mouths when they passed Mr. Clark on the street, as if they could smell something putrid; his ‘good days’ met with ‘well, indeeds’ or "I nevers.’
The best one came almost three months later, even after I had known the truth. Both Russ and his dad had been involved in a car crash with an old woman and Jack Dempsey. The windshield had broken and decapitated poor Russ in the passenger seat, leaving his father drenched in blood. As the story goes, because of the Manassa Mauler’s liability, Russ’s father got the chance from his insurance company to either receive monetary compensation or honorable compensation. Mr. Clark chose the honor and challenged Jack to an exhibition fight only to lose in the second round via knockout. There was even a blurry cutout down at Mort’s from the Daily Sentinel of Dempsey standing over a fallen foe. It was assumed that the fallen fighter was Mr. Clark. Of course the caption had been neatly trimmed away, and this was long after Mr. Clark had moved away.
When I asked my mother about Russ, she told me that he had received a vaccination from the school. It turned out that the new polio vaccinations were not all they were cracked up to be. There were approximately 260 vaccinations across the country that had actually infected the patient. In fact, a year or so later, we all had to be inoculated once again. This time Sabin had the right formula and Polio became a bygone memory.
Russ had been the only one from our school to get a bad shot, and on top of that, he had been one of the very few that had died.
Return to Prose
by Brett Yates
n the Petersons' backyard, Freddie, the wide receiver, lined up beside his quarterback, Owen. About two feet in front of Freddie stood Adams, who, as not just his team's cornerback but their entire secondary, would guard him. The defensive line, too, had only one member, Trent. Games of only four players required some concessions: They had neither running backs nor offensive linemen.
Freddie and Owen, who had scored just two touchdowns to their opponents' three, crouched at the line of scrimmage, which also happened to be the goal line: Because the playing area was so short, each team started at its own goal line and then had four tries to cross the field to the other end zone, marked by two cones. Freddie waited for Owen to hike the ball.
Owen did. Freddie took off, and Adams began to backpedal. The wide receiver spun, hitting the cornerback's sternum with his shoulder. As he did this, he for a moment caught sight of Trent, who was waving his arms and beginning his count to five, the completion of which would allow him to try to sack the quarterback, whom the rules forbade from running the ball without Trent first crossing the line of scrimmage.
Freddie dashed inside, to the middle, trying to outrun his defender. But Adams stayed with him. No pass came.
"Three," said Trent.
Abruptly, Freddie stopped on his left foot. He forthwith sprinted in the opposite direction. He felt the other players' eyes on him, marveling at strength of the move, wherein all his velocity had bounced off his left leg, which had abided the impact of the momentum and allowed it to ricochet in the other direction. It was as though he had not only halted the earth's rotation but had also, with only a millisecond's pause, had gotten it spinning the other way.
"Four," said Trent.
Adams had not changed directions as quickly as Freddie, who had taken him by surprise and now looked open. Owen shot a pass whose trajectory met Freddie's. Freddie pulled the football in until it pressed against his chest.
He was, by this point, close to running out of bounds on the right side, so he curved his route, swerving towards the end zone. But, coming around the bend, he spotted Adams in the corner of his left eye. Adams leaped forward and speared Freddie, pushing him into the sideline.
In the Petersons' backyard, the sideline was a wooden fence. Freddie's shoulder hit it first, and its force made the fence creak and groan. Then came Freddie's skull, which met the wood with a loud thump. His legs crumpled beneath him. A surge of pain shook him.
"Holy shit," said Trent.
On the grass, Freddie took a moment to breathe and check for embarrassing tears. There were none. He stood up, smiled, and made a show of brushing himself off.
"Sorry," said Adams. "I didn't mean to knock you up against the fence."
Freddie shrugged, refusing to give any hint that Adams had injured him.
"That was the craziest hit in the fucking world," said Trent.
Trent swore more often than any other eleven-year-old Freddie knew. The only person he knew who swore more frequently was their history teacher, who cursed under his breath but with just enough volume that attentive students could hear.
Adams nodded in agreement with Trent's statement. Adams's real name was Clarence, which everyone but he had concluded was unacceptable.
"I could hear it back from where I was," Owen said.
"The problem," said Freddie, "is this yard. It's too small."
"Where else are we going to play?" said Owen, to whose parents the yard belonged. "It's a lot bigger than your backyard."
"It's still too small," said Freddie. "We need a real field."
"Where?" said Trent.
Freddie could think of none that were viable. There was no park within walking distance. The school had an open field behind it, but that too was on the other side of town. The idea of bringing parents, who could give them a ride, into their afternoon offended his sensibilities. He was sure none of others would even consider it. They had dealt with teachers all day at school, and now the green afternoon in May belonged not to any adults but to these kids.
"I can't think of any," said Owen.
"God, this town sucks," said Trent.
"I don't know about a field," said Adams, "but we could try Dwayne's house. His backyard is really big."
"Dwayne's an asshole," said Trent.
"Yeah," said Freddie, "but his backyard really is big. And he lives near here. It's a good idea. Let's go."
Adams collected the cones, and Freddie, still holding the ball, led his friends to the section of the fence that stood opposite to the back of the Petersons' house. After tossing the ball over it, he grabbed one of its pickets with each hand and pulled himself up until his right foot rested on top of the higher of the two horizontal beams. Then, in one smooth movement, he swung his left leg over the top and hopped down onto the dirt on the other side. The entire maneuver took less than a second. The others performed it just as easily.
On the other side of the fence, beyond the Petersons' backyard, lay what passed in suburban New Jersey for a forest. It was a dense but thin stretch of trees, which the developers had left standing in order to obscure the closeness of the houses on Chinook Lane, where Owen lived, to the ones on the parallel street, Kiowa Drive, where Dwayne lived. The tall oaks served their purpose admirably well, and Freddie wondered if the adults on Chinook even knew of Kiowa's proximity. Probably they didn't; they would follow the roads for a mile to reach a neighbor who lived fifty yards away.
Freddie was proud to know the shortcuts. He loved them. Stepping onto land that had been left untouched felt almost illegal to him. Rocks, weeds, sticks, and moss lived only in the cracks of his orderly suburb. Someone, he convinced himself, had slipped up here and forgot to squeeze in another tract house. Freddie had to keep quiet about it. A small but consistent stream of water trickled by, and this seemed a great triumph of nature. Its ability to assert itself even in the most sterile environment seemed more impressive to him than the mountains and rain forests that he'd seen in books. He had no interest in the beauty that some grown-ups claimed those had, and he considered that perhaps he would, with age, develop an eye for attractive scenery in photos, but for now the transgression of the little stream, which he now crossed, filled him with life.
"What are we going to do with Dwayne when he starts playing?" said Owen. "That'll make five. Are we going to play two against three?"
"What about Dwayne's little brother?" said Adams. "Maybe he can join and give us an even six."
"Eric?" said Owen. "That kid's in the third grade. He won't be able to catch or tackle or run or anything. He can't play."
"His name's not Eric," said Adams. "It's Derek."
"He still can't play," said Owen.
"Well, who else is there?" said Adams.
"Why the hell don't we just keep the game to just us four?" said Trent. "Just because we're going to use Dwayne's yard, that doesn't mean we have to invite him to play."
Owen rolled his eyes. "Good thinking, Trent."
Trent shoved him. "Well, if that's no good, then let's not use Dwayne's yard at all. I don't like him anyway. You know how he thinks he's hot shit because he knows his times tables and all that? I don't know what's so great about times tables anyway."
"That's fine with me," said Owen. "I don't know why we decided my backyard wasn't good enough in the first place."
"It's too small," said Freddie. "There's no room to run."
"Dwayne's yard isn't even that much bigger. I mean: It's bigger, but it's not that much bigger."
"Fuck Dwayne. That's what I say," said Trent. "Fuck Dwayne."
Adams, visibly uncomfortable in the presence of Trent's profanity, said, "Well, there's gotta be somewhere else we can play."
Freddie stopped and searched his mental picture of the landscape for an alternative. Finally, he said, "I have one idea. I'll just show it to you because I don't know if you'd know it if I told you."
The rest followed him as he hurdled the fence and passed through the backyard that separated them from Kiowa Drive. When they reached the street, they turned right and walked about two hundred yards, at which point they met Fox Road. There, they made a left and continued until Freddie could hear the sounds of the cars on the highway next to it.
"I think Lonnie Stewart lives in one of these houses," said Owen.
"We're not going there," said Trent. "Are we?"
"No," said Freddie.
"Good," said Trent. "I hate that bastard."
"Well," said Owen, "then where are we going?"
"It's just, like, another minute away," said Freddie.
On the right side of the street, he passed quietly over another fence and through another backyard whose owners he did not know. The others followed.
They found themselves on a three-foot strip of dirt beside Route 18, a six-lane highway that provided the town with access to its strip malls before continuing on to the next town and its strip malls.
"What the hell are we doing here?" said Trent.
"It's just a little farther up," said Freddie. "Hold on."
Trent, Owen, and Adams formed a single-file line behind him. Taking care not to step onto the road, they marched against the flow of traffic until they met the reverse jughandle that provided drivers with an opportunity to make a U-turn or a roundabout left onto the Old Bridge Turnpike.
The broad curve of the reverse jughandle took the shape of a large oval. At the center of the oval, a few feet below the level of the cars, they spotted a grassy area that, end to end, measured about sixty yards. Trent, Owen, and Adams stared at Freddie with a mixture of disbelief and glee. He grinned back at them. They waited until the road became clear of cars for a moment before they dashed across and met the grass.
It was wonderful. The grass's only interruption was an easily avoidable storm drain. Adams set up the cones at each end. They did not hear the noise of the cars that encircled them. They did not wonder what the drivers thought of the boys playing in the center of the jughandle.
"Owen and me'll start our drive over from the beginning," said Freddie. "It'll be easier that way than trying to guess the yards we got from the one play."
Trent and Adams glanced at each other, as if to confer over the possibility that Freddie might be trying to cheat them; when they silently concluded that he wasn't, they nodded to him. Freddie tossed the ball to Owen, and they trotted to their goal line. When everyone had found his correct position, Owen hiked the ball.
Freddie sprang from the line of scrimmage. He faked right. This did not much fool Adams, but it created a little separation when Freddie headed left.
"Three," said Trent.
Owen threw a tight pass, a little low. Freddie pulled it up without breaking his stride. On their leftward route, he was a step ahead of Adams, yet Freddie hadn't created a large enough gap to turn right, the direction of the end zone, without colliding with him. He needed to run faster. He ordered himself to do this. All this extra space! He'd use it.
He began to take off. He saw Adams slipping behind. Before reaching the left end of the field, Freddie made a right turn, and as he crossed Adams's path, the cornerback dove. Adams hit air and then hit grass, but he did not hit Freddie. The wide receiver was gone. Even with Adams on the ground and nobody nearby, Freddie did not slow down on his way to the end zone. In the corner of his eye, he saw a cars driving by on the highway, and he tried to outrace them.
When he reached the end zone, he stopped and let go of the ball. Then he turned and looked at his friends. What triumph! He wondered if he'd ever again live as excellently as he had today. That run! And he, Freddie, had come up with the idea of using this empty space as a playing field! Even the grass was bright and soft. Did someone bring a lawnmower to this place that no one cared about, or did the grass remain the perfect length— not with the artificial shortness of a golf course but not so long that it tickled the ankles—naturally? No matter —what a lovely day! What had guided him today to the best part of his nature? No matter—he'd found it! Inevitably, it'd had to manifest itself sometime.
Freddie caught his breath. It was time to play defense.
Return to Prose
by Michael Estabrook
solitary man’s boot alongside the road for weeks now, standing upright, the heel on the pavement pointed in towards the road, the rest remaining comfortably in the dirt. Probably it fills with water during the rain and there must be sand and road dirt inside, spiders too, their webs lacing back and forth across the opening. I pass this boot every day on my way to work wondering when it will be moved or knocked over or when someone will walk away with it. Not sure why, but I like seeing the boot every morning, it’s a comforting reassuring sight, heel on the pavement, the rest in the dirt, as if poised to run away, but stuck in the weeds filling in all around.
by Russell Ainslie
asting furtive glances around, the fugitive breathed as heavily as he dared. Every breath seemed to rush into and back out of his throat as loudly as a gale at sea in the silence that his own mind had created. Fear had already dispelled all the other noises of the fun fair, which lay on the other side of the sea of tents and caravans behind which he had taken refuge like a fox evading the local hunt with their baying hounds hot on his heels. The distant echoing screams of joy and fear and the usual pounding beat of fairground music were no longer a distraction to him.
The lack of flickering lights also failed to capture the young boy’s troubled mind. Only the large Ferris wheel spread it’s illumination to the back rows of the tents, occasionally showering a small, oval face, petrified with terror, with red, green, orange as it poked around a corner of an innocuous dirty-white tent.
Sweat now beaded the small boy’s forehead as he struggled to control the whirling confusion in his mind. He was finding it impossible to concentrate on the task of evading his pursuers; the nightmare of capture was the dominant thought in his mind and everything seemed to be conspiring to reveal his present hiding place.
The wind whistling through the treetops would whisper to his stalkers the identity of his whereabouts; the lights from the Ferris Wheel pointed directly to him, illuminating him like a search-light on an escaping convict. His own gale-force breathing was sure to attract them, and even the concealing nature of the darkness would tell the gang that this was the place to look, the obvious place to hide, the obvious place to die.
The hour spent in flight seemed like five and weighed heavily on his pudgy limbs. They trembled like saplings in a strong breeze; the knees had turned to water. More than once, a hand had reached out to a tent-pole for support, or a body leaned against a caravan, gasping for the breath necessary to continue running.
His heart was pounding heavily, his mouth was dry. His palms were clammy with sweat, but his whole body still felt cold. More than one shiver ran down his back, like someone had sent an ice-cube sliding down his spine. The boy jumped every-time a shadowy flicker, caused by the lights of the big wheel filtering through the maze of tents, caught the corner of his eye, or a rustle of the surrounding foliage reached his ears.
The not-so-distant sound of voices almost stilled the pounding of his heart. Although too faint to make out clearly, the boy was convinced they had found him. Panic assailed him and the stench of fear was strong in his nostrils. He desperately wanted to run, to keep running until he was home to his mother’s smiling countenance and protective circle of arms. Home—where he was safe; but he could not move his legs. His plump head darted from side to side but he could not force his body to take a step in any particular direction.
Nearer came the voices, interspersed with heavy footsteps now, and cruel, mocking laughter. The boy could sense an excited energy emanating from the conversation, and imagination forced words into his head. Death threats mingled with gruesome descriptions swirled around his brain, and through it all he could see a vision of his mother crying, dressed all in black, with his grandfather supporting her. He realised he was picturing his own funeral and a harsh lump came to his throat. He just wanted to fall on his knees and weep, but could not even manage to bring his emotions out into that physical act—he was literally scared stiff.
Sharply the voices cleared his mind of images and he was back to the reality of his desperate situation. The group of approaching people had entered the last couple of rows
