Second Note

It occured to me (and was suggested by others) that it would be nice to have a quick little byline for each story so readers can peruse all of the writer’s other Internet offerings. So from now on if you would include a short bio on your stories, maybe even with a hyperlink to your blog or website, I’ll put it up with the story. If you’ve already submitted a story to the site and would like to have me post a link to the archived story I will add it. Thanks.

Fight Night by Julie Wright

It was after midnight and me and Pesky was creeping up behind this big old building, keeping right down low and tucked into the wall on account of the full moon. It was like that big searchlight on the helicopter the coppers chased us with when they caught us twocking cars. Fucking close shave that night. Behind us, Jase and Cappy was laughing and carrying on.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Pesky hissed at them. Pesky was the boss, the leader of the gang. He taught us all what we knew. He showed us how to get into cars and how to get into houses. Cars, be careful and clever. Houses, be bold. Bust a window. Crowbar the door. Nobody takes any notice of one noise, a crash or a bang or glass breaking. Just the one and they think it was an accident or summat. It’s when you’re pratting about trying to be quiet that you make a racket and get caught. That’s what Pesky says.

‘And don’t try kicking the door in or opening the lock with a credit card,’ he telt us. ‘That only works on the telly.’

We got to the corner, and I looked at him and shrugged. ‘What now?’ it meant.

He grinned, tapped his watch then made that okay sign that the divers use. That meant be cool, not long to wait. Thursday was fight night; somebody was about to get a pasting. Jase and Cappy was right behind us now. Cappy took his baseball cap off and scratched his head. That was how he got his name, see, on account of the baseball cap. Course he can’t stop wearing it now can he? Can’t be called Cappy if you don’t wear a cap.

I heard voices and I saw Pesky tense. This was it, then. He stuck his beak round the corner, his arm out keeping us back. The building throbbed to a bass beat, it was a club of some sort, but not one I’d ever heard about. There was more talking and laughing then three big lasses come round the corner and Pesky sprang to life.

‘Fucking get them!’ he yelled, and he lamped the first lass, bust her nose all over her face. She screamed and her mates tried to run. They had no chance, not in them shoes, heels must have been six inches. Fucking porn shoes. You can’t run in porn shoes.

Now, I did what Pesky said, but I wasn’t happy about it. You see, one of the things he drummed into us was that you never hit a lass, no matter how much she winds you up. Walk away, that’s what he says. And now here we are belting fuck out of these three big lasses for no good reason at all that I could see. I tried to be gentle when I punched the one I was on.

‘Pesky, man! Fuck’s going on?’ Jase was as puzzled as me. Then Cappy walloped this big bitch and knocked her right off her feet. She landed on her arse, legs out like Bambi, dress round her waist. I just stared. I couldn’t fucking believe me eyes.

‘Now do you get it?’ Pesky yelled as we gawped. She only had her fucking cock taped to her leg. I mean he did. No wonder their hands was so fucking big. Pesky backhanded blood off his nose and grinned. ‘Tranny bashing!’ he roared, as he leapt on top of the one on the deck. ‘All the fun of hitting a woman with none of the fucking guilt!’

The lads gave out a battle cry and we laid into them proper now we knew we was hitting blokes. Fuckers cried like girls, mind. They was a right frigging state when we let them go, limped off down the street clutching their handbags and their porn shoes and their bust noses.

We was buzzing. We had cuts and bruises and that, but them big lasses was fucked. We’d have to leave it a couple of weeks, let things die down a bit, but we’d be having some more of that. Fucking brilliant!

Male Ducks are Drake, Females are Hens by John Weagly

Two women sit at a table at a sidewalk café.

“Did you kill my husband?” Mary asks.

“What?” Paula responds.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Such a question!”

“You did.”

“Really!”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“It would feel good to get it off your chest.”

“As in ‘There!  There!  It is the beating of his hideous heart!’?”

“Something like that,” Mary agrees.

Silence for a moment.

“It’s just…” Mary says.  “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Weeks?” Paula asks.

“Yes.”

“Four?”

“Four weeks?  Yes!”

“From this very spot,” Paula says, “It takes a duck four weeks to fly south
for the winter.”

Mary has no response.

“Maybe he’s gone,” Paula says.

“Gone?”

“Gone.”

Mary looks confused.  “If I just knew,” she says.

“If you just knew what?”

“Things.”

“There are over five hundred species of duck.”

“No.  Details.  About my husband.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know!  Like…was it a gun?”

“No.”

“A knife?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A chunk of rope?”

Paula thinks for a moment. “Does rope come in a chunk?”

Mary thinks for a moment.  “I don’t know.”

The two women think about this for a moment.

Mary says, “There were times.”

“A honeymoon?”

“A beach.”

“On the ocean?”

“On a lake.”

“A walk in the sand?”

“We walked hand in hand.”

“Very romantic.”

“We were in love.”

“Was it supposed to last forever?”

“A long time ago,” Mary says.

Then nobody speaks for a moment.

“If I just knew,” Mary tries again.  “Things.  About him.  About us.”

“About marriage?”

“Oh, I know some things about marriage.”

“Like?”

“Separations aren’t final.”

“No.”

“A divorce can linger for years and years.”

“Forever.”

“And the lawyer fees!”

“The court costs!”

“Such expense!” Mary says.  “Other avenues are far more economical.”

“I know some things, too,” Paula says.

“About my husband?”

“I know a duck’s quack doesn’t echo.”

“My husband is not a duck.”

“No,” Paula agrees.  “He’s not.”

The two women sit quietly for a moment.

“It could be that he’s just gone,” Paula says.

More silence.

“Why?” Mary asks.

“Why what?”

“Why doesn’t a duck’s quack echo?”

“No one knows.”

Even more silence.

“Did you kill him?” Mary asks.  “Did you kill my husband?”

Paula doesn’t answer.

“I won’t be mad but I have to know.”

Paula doesn’t answer.

“I won’t tell anyone.  I’ll be as quiet as a duck’s quack.”

“The quack isn’t quiet,” Paula explains.  “It just doesn’t echo.”

Mary thinks about this.

“Your husband is gone,” Paula says.

“Gone?”

“He’s not coming back.  You won’t be seeing him again.  He’s gone.”

Mary takes a checkbook out of her purse and starts writing a check.

“You said half up front and half after.”

“I did.”

Mary tears off the check and hands it to Paula.

“Thank you,” Mary says.  “You do good work.”  Then she leaves.

“Ducks don’t have blood vessels or nerves in their feet,” Paula says to
herself as she pockets the check.  “They can’t tell when something’s cold.”

Memories in Pink by Rob Flumignan

What I remember most about the day Angela told me she wanted a divorce was the color pink.

We strolled along Navy Pier, a day like any other.  No.  That’s a lie.  Us crawling free from the dusty cubby holes of our daily lives didn’t happen very often.  She always had some event to chaperone at the school where she taught.  Or a date with her book club, a group of middle-aged ladies that could discuss Flaubert and the latest Nora Roberts in the same breath.

I always seemed to have a deadline looming.  A publisher moving up a release date.  A library or bookstore that wanted me to read and sign books.  Or a group of characters who wouldn’t let me go without at least finishing another chapter.  Some nights the red digits on my office clock would blare a bright twelve, and I’d swear if not for the darkness peeking through my blinds it meant noon instead of midnight.

So our stroll on Navy Pier, past the Haagen-Dazs, in our thick coats and scarves, leaning against a biting wind, was anything but ordinary.  Yet it felt peaceful, civilized, a new beginning rather than an end.  Until we reached the pier’s end.

She turned away from Lake Michigan.  “I’m in love with another man.  I want a divorce.”

I saw ten years of complacency, of dependability, of a life I counted on–no matter how mundane or miserable–slip away.

I reached out as if to take her face in my hands and plant a final kiss on her lips.  My hands, however, slid past her cheeks.  I didn’t know what I was doing until I had her neck in my grip, my thumbs pushing into the center of her throat.

Her face, turning pink while she gasped for air.  That’s what I remember most.

#

“Angela?”

She turned away from the front window of the Disney Store.  It took a second, then I saw the recognition in her eyes.

“Haden.”

How long had it been since I saw her last?  I tried to remember as throngs of holiday shoppers flowed behind me to their various mall destinations–Sears, J.C. Penny, The Gap.

Five years.

She didn’t look the same.  I had imagined she would age horribly, stress carving lines at the corners of her eyes and lips.  Instead she looked younger, as if five years without me had done some good.

I smiled despite the clear memory of pink.

Her eyes ticked from side to side, trying not to look at me.  She was afraid, I realized, and knowing she had every right to be didn’t make the sudden heat wafting from under my collar any cooler.

“I have to go,” she said and rushed by me.

I grabbed at her elbow.  A mistake.  But I’d done it, I’d meant it, so I committed to it and hung on.

She tried to tug free, jerking her arm like a bent chicken wing.  Her face grew a deep pink, threatening to go red.  “Stop it.”

My cheeks burned.  I let go of her arm and turned to the storefront window, trying to catch a glimpse of myself.  My reflection was only a shadow playing over the happy yellows, blues, and reds of the window’s display–a mound of stuffed Mickey, Minnie, and Pluto clones arranged like a piled army.  Only a hint of sad pink in the polka dot ribbon on Minnie’s head.

When I turned back to Angela, I caught a glimpse of her through a gap in the crowd.  I thought about chasing after her, telling her how sorry I was.  Things were different now.  I had a son.  A new wife.  We’re happy.

I shuffled into the Disney Store instead, picked out a Minnie.  I fingered the pink polka dots on her ribbon as I strolled to the register.  I had a son, but he wouldn’t know the difference between a Minnie and a Mickey yet.  Did it matter if I got him the girl mouse and not the boy?

On the drive home I notice the setting sun had turned part of the sky a brilliant shade of pink.