Disenthralled Souls

A best friend is the hardest thing to come by
By Ryan Sayles

Looking at Diesel, my aging bull mastiff, now there’s a best friend. Never judges, never gets all pissy when I come home drunk at three in the morning. Just waits like an old buddy, tail thumping and happy to see me.

Better than Diane, that’s for sure. I tried to give her the best of everything because she was the best of everything. Best cheerleader, best lay in the Ford’s back seat, best russet potato and cheddar casserole. Some things you just can’t touch. But Diane, she had a mean streak. Diesel, a dog bigger than some racing horses, he didn’t. Not a bad bone in his body and he had all the sharp teeth.
Now Diane, when we said we was getting married, she said she was my best friend. And for thirty years of hell, she was anything but. Diesel is the latest and last in a long line of dogs for me. I’ve hit my end, for sure. Stomach cancer. Diane always said it was too many beers, too many chasers, too many of whatever it was I did when she wasn’t looking.

Bitch.

Right before she left, she said all that fire and spit rising up from my gut was all them sins I committed. Nights I’d raise a hand to her, and some such. Sometimes the only way to get her to shut up was to show her my backhand.
Maybe a boot heel.

But you know, a man’s just a man and a man gets tired of hearing some broad talking shit for thirty years about how she had everything and she wasted it all on that man. I gave her the best. I swear it. Maybe my best wasn’t the same kind of best that Clarence could give, or Robbie or Alex. But fuck them. I won out with Diane. She just regretted it later.

Diesel, he don’t complain about nothing. Not the table scraps I fed him his whole life. Not about how sometimes I’d forget to fill the water bowl. Or how sometimes I’d give him beer instead. After a while you regret every accidental piece of onion he ate. Every nibble of chocolate. Both bad for dogs, you know. He deserves the best. He deserves probably better than I gave him.

Now, I already said Diane got up and left. Bitch. Talking about my death sentence like it was payment for her bullshit suffering all our lives. Like I was responsible for that. She went to her older sister’s house. I followed her.

That didn’t work out well, to say the least.

So I came home, knowing my life is over. Sit down at the dinner table, call Diesel over. Best friend, ever. Never complained when I showed him my backhand, neither. Diane said it made him mean, but I think she lied. I ask forgiveness for every accidental piece of onion he ate. Every nibble of chocolate. My stomach’s killing me. I’d hate for his to do the same.

I feed him strips of fresh meat, hoping that since it’s still warm and gooey, only the best will keep him around longer. He eagerly licks my fingers, doesn’t complain, and I give him another chunk of Diane.

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Ryan Sayles’s novel The Subtle Art of Brutality is out through Snubnose Press. He is the editor of The Noir Affliction, a column at Out of the Gutter. His works appears at sites such as Shotgun Honey, Flash Fiction Offensive, Beat to a Pulp and Crime Factory. He may be contacted at http://www.vitriolandbarbies.wordpress.com
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I DON’T KNOW YOU
By Janet Shell Anderson
 

I know they’re outside the house, Viktor, Leland, Finn, waiting in the black van. The moon’s a sickle, about to be eclipsed by storm. Viktor never remembers my cell number.

My father said I could walk through night and never be seen, could live forever, like him. He shot himself in Idaho when I was fifteen.

I know too much. I was at Salt Creek on the fifth of May. Two meth dealers from Beatrice, Nebraska, died. I never thought Leland would come here after that or Viktor either, but I was wrong. They’ve never been inside this house, my mother’s new house, my house now. It’s huge, beautiful. My mother’s dead. That’s another story.

Viktor waits in deep darkness under the hundred-year-old ash tree. If the storm comes, it’s a bad place to park. The limbs are two feet thick, could crush the van. Viktor’s afraid of nothing, except me. He says I make things that should not happen, happen. I’m afraid of everything.

He and Leland, Finn, they’re hunters now. They hunt people.

There’s a door in the basement under the porch. Viktor doesn’t know about the door. I go down the servants’ staircase as the landlines ring, crawl behind the basement shelving, try not to let it scrape as I move it. The door beneath the porch is only two feet high. What was it for? God knows. It’s a good thing I’m thin. I open the door, slide into the dirt underneath the porch, behind bridal-wreath spirea in full bloom, see eyes in the hedge, a cat. It skitters toward the van. As it moves, I move, slide under the hedge. Car lights probe the street, show the passage between my house and the neighbor’s. A cigarette glows in the van. I hear the voices.

“Man, go in, she’s there.”

“No car.”

“In the garage.”

“She parks out front.”

“This is just a bad idea, Viktor.”

“Call her again, Leland; she trusts you.”

I move; thin branches tear my hair. Viktor was my husband, Leland, Finn, my friends. From Park Middle School until now, we were Lincoln, Nebraska’s darkest, wildest children, always together. Until we weren’t.

I get past the open garden gate into the backyard, into darkness so thick I am afraid to stand up; I’ll fall. Then lights go on in the house behind the alley, and I can see too well. The landline rings. I go under three yew bushes, reach the back fence, crawl toward the gate, slip into the narrow passage between garage and wall, creep into the alley. The men argue in the van.

I married Viktor, had a son. He only lived a day. When I was pregnant, I called my mother from a payphone. She pretended not to know me, would not tell me where she lived. I found her. We are dysfunctional. When I think maybe life’s not real, I remember her saying, “I don’t know you.” I felt the baby kick that moment.

In the alley, the lights are murderous. I move shadow to shadow, edge by the neighbor’s house, cross Sixteenth Street. If Viktor starts the van, turns right, they’ll see me. I move quickly but don’t run. I parallel “A” Street, walk toward the sickle moon. I cross Seventeenth, no traffic, climb the steep alley between “A” and “B”. Gusts of wind circle. Eighteenth, Nineteenth, Twentieth, no more alleys, I chance walking straight down “C” Street, hear a car, find shadow.

It’s a van. My mouth is full of copper.

When my father died, my mother said, “I wish it had been you.” She never knew if I had a son or daughter. The baby kicked when I asked her how to find my way to her new house and she said “I don’t know you.” We’re dysfunctional.

The van goes by.

Viktor was sleek and beautiful and I loved him more than anyone I ever saw, would watch him sleeping, that beauty, the only one I ever wanted. Afraid of nothing, except me, he knows too much.

Twenty-seventh Street is four lanes wide. Cars rush past. Lightning flashes. I stand away from the streetlight. When the street’s empty, I run. The Lincoln Chidren’s Zoo, the bike trail, are both close. Viktor never biked. The trail cuts through yards and parks away from streets, follows an old railroad right of way.

“She’s just a dumb bitch,” Finn said when I was under the bridal-wreath spirea.

“You know what she can do.” Viktor.

“You think she’ll kill us. Some kind of spell or crap.” Leland.

“She set us up, you idiot. She killed those bastards herself at Salt Creek. She’s got the money and the meth.”

“Man, that’s just not possible.”

I pass behind a strip mall, cross a bike trail bridge over Highway 2. The wind’s coming up; the storm is near. Lethal weather.

“She killed her mother, right?”

My car waits in the parking lot where I left it near Salt Creek. I drive south and east and south below frantic skies, forked lightning, to Beatrice, then Blue Springs, then Wymore. Out of the storm. Into Kansas. Safe, the way I planned.

I picture it: at last Viktor remembers. My cell phone in my house rings. I left a message on it. Same as for my Mom.

“I don’t know you.”

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Nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Janet Shell Anderson writes flash fiction and was published by Vestal Review, Grey Sparrow, Larks Fiction, The Scruffy Dog, Long Story Short, and others. She is an attorney.
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Poison Pizza Party
By Lisa Johnson
 

“Yuck.” Tony grimaced as he spit into his napkin. “You’re right, that meatloaf does taste worse than dog food. I’ll bring you a nice juicy meatball sub next Sunday when I visit.”

Without hesitation, Harold replied, “How about pizza? I’d give anything for a cheesy pepperoni pizza. Bring me one of them, will you? That will give me something to look forward to… besides dying, that is, son. Everyone else here is so senile, you can’t carry on a conversation with them, and the nurses are too busy to sit and chat with a broken down old man.”

Tony sighed. “Oh dad, I’m sorry I can’t visit more often. My new boss is a tyrant and she’s been making us work double shifts lately.”

“Well, see you Sunday then, son.”

Tony leaned over, hugged his father, turned and walked out. Lost in dismal thoughts, he didn’t see the woman exiting the elevator and he bumped into her, causing her to drop her vase of flowers.

“Sorry. I’m a klutz,” he blurted out.

Un-phased, the short, stocky, fair skinned woman amicably replied, “Don’t worry about it. I can buy more flowers in the gift shop. Today is my mother’s hundredth birthday.”

Impressed, Tony shook his head. “No kidding, one hundred.”

“Being a centenarian isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. My mother is permanently bedridden from a stroke.”

“That’s a tough break,” he commented.

“It is.”

Tony looked down at the mess of shattered glass and flowers on the floor. “Let’s clean these up and I’ll buy you an even bigger bouquet.”

“Are you visiting a relative here?” The woman inquired.

“Yes, my father.”

“I was just thinking, instead of replacing my flowers, could ask your father to visit my mother? She’s bored and lonely, being confined to bed day after day.”

Tony considered. “Is your mother still lucid?”

“Yes, her mind is as clear as a bell.”

Without thinking it through, Tony replied, “I could mention it. When dad first got here he made some friends, but one by one they died. He hasn’t made any new friends because he can’t find anyone coherent enough to carry on an intelligent conversation. Assuming he agrees, what’s your mother’s name and room number?”

“Her name is Mildred Baker and she’s in room 213.”

Tony extended his hand. “I’m Tony.

“I’m Joanne, a pleasure.” Her handshake was firm.

When the chaos of flowers was cleaned up, they walked down the white corridors, side by side, dodging residents parked in wheelchairs. Joanne stopped abruptly, turned to Tony, and said, “You know, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to introduce your father to my mother.” Joanne stiffened. “Mildred’s miserable. She constantly tells me she wishes her time was up and prays every night that she’ll die in her sleep. It breaks my heart.” Joanne broke out in tears.

Tony put a hand on the small of her back and guided her to the nearest bench where they sat.

Joanne pulled snug her gray shawl. She sniffled and said, “I’m sorry to burden you. We just met.”

Tony looked at her with sympathy.

“I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this. Mildred has been a wonderful mother and I love her dearly, but it upsets me to see her suffering. It’s not fair. I just want it to end.” Fresh tears poured out.

Tony contemplated her words while stroking his moustache. He looked around cautiously, and when he was satisfied nobody was in earshot he whispered, “Joanne…” He had her attention, but faltered.

Their eyes met. “What is it, Tony?” she encouraged.

“Let’s go somewhere else to talk. Do you have a minute to grab a cup of coffee? There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”

“I have all afternoon,” she answered.

On the elevator, they chitchatted about the bitter cold weather. While they navigated the treacherous icy streets, the winter wind whipped. After situating themselves at a booth far from other customers, Joanne removed her scarf and hat. She ordered a latte, Tony an espresso, which he immediately managed to spill on the table. He mopped it up with a handful of napkins.

After more small talk about Joanne’s former career as a school teacher including anecdotes of tasteless practical jokes that her students played on her, Joanne cut to the chase. “Tony, I’m dying of curiosity. What did you want to discuss?”

Warmed by the coffee and feeling more at ease, Tony confided, “After hearing about your mother’s situation, I think you’ll understand– I’m bringing pizza for my dad next Sunday. We had an agreement that when he asked for pizza it was code that he is ready to go. I’m a chemist, and I have the means. It wouldn’t be traceable in the blood, but I’m not sure I should go through with it.”

Joanne raised her eyebrows. Inwardly, Tony chastised himself for confiding in this stranger, who probably thought he was a perverse monster.

Her face lit up and she whispered, “You could be the answer to my mother’s prayers.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked.

“If mother lived in Switzerland where euthanasia is legal, she‘d have been spared months of suffering. She dreads the possibility of being stuck in bed for years.” Joanne pressed her hands together. “Let’s throw a pizza party for both of them next Sunday. Order an extra-large pizza. It would be the best birthday present I could give my mother.”

“Are you sure, Joanne?”

“I’m absolutely sure.” Joanne shook her head emphatically.

“Okay, then I’ll honor my father’s wishes. I’ll convince him to introduce himself to Mildred. Meet me next Sunday at noon in room 213,” Tony soberly replied.

One Week Later

Pizza box in hand, Tony entered room 213 where he found Harold and Mildred chatting. Joanne was absent. Tony felt a sensation of panic. His palms began to sweat and he felt light-headed.

Tony sat down. “Mildred, isn’t your daughter coming?”

“Yes, Joanne called to say she’s on her way.”

Tony’s phone rang. He checked his caller ID and frowned in annoyance. “Can you believe it, it’s my boss. Some nerve she has calling me on Sunday, but I’d better take it. I’ll be right back.” He placed the pizza on his chair and stepped into the hall for privacy. It took him ten minutes to extricate himself from the call.

Back in room 213, Tony took a seat. Mildred, whose blouse was stained with tomato sauce, was nibbling on crust. The pizza box was half empty. Harold licked his fingers and exclaimed, “Son, this is the best pepperoni pizza I’ve ever eaten. Beaming, he went on, “Thanks for introducing me to Mildred. We’ve really hit it off. She’s a terrific conversationalist and a wily Scrabble player, but I can outmaneuver her at chess. For the first time in years, I can actually say I’m glad to be alive.”

Tony gagged on his meatball sub.

“Tony, you look pale. What’s the matter, son?”

“Dad, you asked for pizza. That was our code.”

Harold interjected, “You did a brave thing, and I’m proud of you. Mildred and I enjoyed our final days together, but it’s our time. I love you, son.”

Mildred regarded the remains of the pizza and said, “Destroy the evidence and high-tail it out of here. We called Joanne to tell her not to come so she won’t be incriminated. Go in peace, Tony.” She smiled serenely.

Tony hugged his father one last time, grabbed the pizza, and closed the door behind him.

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Lisa Johnson’s short stories and articles have recently been published in a variety of magazines and newspapers including Presidio Sentinel, Phoenix Rising and Foliate Oak Magazine. She resides in San Diego, California with her husband. The author writes to stay sane and to entertain.

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Marking Time
By Ryan Molinero
 

Day seven; God’s not resting. God doesn’t live here anymore. If ever He did. I will not rest. I cannot rest. For now, asleep is no better than awake, when at least the horrors are not imagined.

Another spray-painted tally mark, the red line shocking against the granitic pall of the new world. I move to the next car, methodically spray a line next to the six adorning the tire already. All my own; their uniformity a droplet of order in an ocean of chaos.

I back off. Remove my surgical mask and replace it with a fresh one from an inside pocket in my jacket that contains several more.

Finding a cleanish piece of sleeve to wipe my brow, I try to remember what the air felt like before the ash and the fear and despair and the hurt and the loss.

I can’t. The stench that suppresses my nose and my throat and my pores seems to mute every shard of recollection.

I count the cars. 81. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that. Seven empty bays. Cars claimed in the chaos of the first two days – not by survivors – but by ash-clad specters searching for something to cling to, something to hope for. Something.

The carpet of ash muffles the footsteps behind me.

“Can you help me?” hopefully.

I curse and apologise.

“Can you help me?” hopelessly.

I turn to look at her, scarf fashioned across her nose and mouth to keep the world at bay. The absurdity almost makes me laugh. Eyes pleading.

“Please help me.”

“I’ll try,” and I do.

I ask her which car; she says it’s black. They’re grey, I tell her. She’s not listening. Can’t listen.

“What kind of car is it?” I ask her.

“My husband’s,” her voice disintegrating.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. But my eyes answer.

“Why are you saying sorry to me?” her voice grows, her fear grows. “Don’t say sorry to me. He might be alright; he might come back. Don’t say sorry to me!”

“I’m sorry,” I offer. “What kind of car is it?”

“It’s a Toyota,” her eyes scan the lot, praying not to find what she is looking for.

But she does. She crumbles. Clutches at the ash for something to hold on to. I try to help her up, soothe her. She resists.

“He might come back. The roads…closed. Networks are down. Hospital…” already it’s a lament. “He might come back.”

“He’s not coming back,” the gravity of my words lost in the tainted air.

She looks up at me. Through me. Her sobs preclude her spitting grief at me. Her eyes glisten incongruously, sucking a little more life out of the new world.

“No-one’s come back,” I take a knee beside her. “Seven like you. But no-one who was there.”

“But he might –“ she can’t even finish. Does not have to.

I help her up. Walk her towards the car, faltering steps of the convicted. Life without life.

She stops. Eyes fixed on the marked tires.

“Why are you marking the cars?”

“I don’t know.” My turn to look away.

“Do you work here?” A concoction of anger and confusion coat her words.

“I did.”

“Why are you still here? Why do you mark the tires?”

I don’t answer. Take another step towards the Toyota. Hoping she’ll follow. She follows.

“Why do you mark the tires?” her curiosity deflecting her grief. Delaying the need to deal with it. For now.

“Someone has to,” I tell her. Her silence implores me to continue. “At some point, these cars will be taken away, life will start again. Whoever does this should know how long the cars have been here. To help with records. To help.”

Her glare softens to a gaze. Despite herself, she looks almost sorry for me.

“Do you have a key?” I ask. We’re standing behind the Toyota.

She doesn’t answer. Her breaths become shallow as she fishes in her pocket for the key. She finds it. Removes it from her pocket. Offers it to me.

I look at her. Want to cry for her. Want to cry with her. I don’t take the key.

I look away. Survey the sight of the parking lot’s inhabitants, dormant but for the seven red lines on each tire. Like convicts counting down the days to their
release.

“I can’t –,” she says, forcing the key into my hand and my eyes back to hers. “Please.”

I click the button to unlock. Nothing. Nothing works anymore. I look at the redundant key. I look back. I don’t see a person. I see sinews – threads of hope, despair, life and death – masquerading as a woman.

“I can smash the window?”

An almost imperceptible nod. I pick up a chunk of rubble. Shards of glass dance briefly in the air before the enveloping dust claims them on the ground.

I hand her back the key and retreat. No words shared. None needed. None matter.

She climbs into the car and across to the driver’s seat. Turns the key. The engine’s bronchial riposte shatters the oppressive silence of the parking lot and the flurry of the wiper blades creates a brief phalanx of ash silhouettes around the car.

I perch on the bonnet of an old Caddy. The open window of the Toyota betrays the intensifying grief from inside the car as it crawls from its bay. The woman turns on the lights in a forlorn bid to guide her through the gloom. A column of thick dust mocks the pale beams with a harrowing dance.

I watch the car and its trail leave the lot. I try desperately to hold the image of the woman’s face in my mind but already it is fading. The fleeting exchange of shared silence, of hope, of despair, of implicit understanding will become part of the old world. They already have.

I stare at the empty bay. 80 cars. Eight empty bays. I try to stop myself but I can’t.

My eyes fill. Knowing. I turn my head and see my car. Our car. Silent tears welcomed by the ground.

I wish the bay were empty. Wish I wasn’t here. Wish she were.

I gather myself. Pick up my spray can and walk outside.

Nobody comes back. Not now.

I’ll come back tomorrow.

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Ryan Molinero is a 31-year-old former journalist who now teaches English Literature at a secondary school in Scotland. His background is in sports writing but he has recently turned his hand to writing fiction, with “Marking Time” being his debut short story.

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THE KINGDOM OF BED EIGHTY
By Gary Clifton
 

“He’s got Uncle Fracus,” Paper Doll Guy shrieked. Paper Doll Guy had Oshal down beating the dogshit out of him. I got Paper Doll clubbed off. Oshal’s face was meat.

They’d assigned Paper Doll Guy to bed eighty in the back so he had space for his family kingdom across his cot. He spent all his waking hours cutting out paper dolls, giving them names, titles. They married, died, and he cried at the funerals until I told him to straighten the hell up. He was passive, until someone invaded the kingdom.

Oshal had kidnapped Uncle Fracus and got his ass kicked bad enough they sent an ambulance and made me strap Paper Doll down for the night.

The EMT patched Oshal up. Paper Doll babbled about a funeral for Uncle Fracus. Oshal gibbered Paper Doll was nuts and spent all day cutting out paper dolls.

“Scissors…in a nut house?” the EMT asked.

“Mister,” I said. “Paper Doll’s bottomed out. Here twenty years… makes paper dolls constantly, but he’s never had any real scissors or paper. Only thinks he does…Oshal thinks so, too. Now, can you help us find Uncle Fracus?”

 
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Gary Clifton, a Federal officer, is forty years and has published or has pending several short fiction pieces with online sites.

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Photo Credit: Toshiyuki IMAI