Issue 6

The Fable Online Issue 6 August, 2015

Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar

Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster

Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Photo used in cover creation by Jenny Downing. CC License

Contributing Authors Bryan Grafton Charles Bane Jr. Charles Hayes Dina Alexander Elaine Zentner Garry Gunnerson Maria Marklove Megan Paske Rene Salinas

Foreword

With the first few issues, we demonstrated ambition and passion. Now, with the sixth issue, we demonstrate staying power, both of the publication itself and of modern storytelling and poetry.

This proves that finding and publishing great literature is not only feasible, but repeatable. Published authors have been as enthusiastic about this project as amateurs seeking their first publication credit.

After six months of hard work and commitment, I, as the founder and executive editor of Fable, owe a sincere gratitude to all our contributors. It was because of the faith our contributors have shown in us that we've survived in a highly competitive market.

A quote by Virginia Woolf—Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.

With that in mind, I hope you've enjoyed the exploration as much as I have.

Sarah Kedar Editor-in-Chief

Poetry

And Then At Times

by Charles Bane Jr.

And then at times the dips of our marriage are no different than the falling into love in Richmond Park before we started home, and I wrote every day until the motion of the ship made me certain that for every berth going out, new souls put in, spit from foam. If I could read Greek or understand the errand of the cardinal we watch for with coffee in our hands, I could make poetry on the tips of fence spears where he stops and the fire of you would go urgently from land to land.

Charles Bane, Jr. is the American author of The Chapbook ( Curbside Splendor ) , Love Poems ( Aldrich Press) , and Three Seasons: Writing Donald Hall ( Collection of Houghton Library, Harvard University ). He created and contributes to The Meaning Of Poetry series for The Gutenberg Project, and is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida. http://charlesbanejr.com

Inday*

by Charles Hayes Lowering her kerchief from her face to boldly meet my look, a tinge of amusement on her lips, she commands the little seat her trisikad provides. Long dark hair kisses legs too long to curl. A product of verdant growth and tropical warmth, she gives no chill.

Pumping to keep their space, sensing the herd of traffic all about, her sweaty driver knows his load is fair. Status feeds his legs awhirl and brightens his face, as a sleepy scooter he cuts, for her.

Seen before, walking in the market crowd, eyes ahead, as tall as mine, she is fresh and fit to be all the pretties that she dreams. Health incarnate, her step is light through dusty squares with slippered feet, a move beyond not touched by dirt nor heat.

An old tall white Joe cured to ripe beyond and weathered as a bumpy bitter melon be, among so many brown and bouncy sticks of youth, I wistfully lock my foreign eyes on her, pretty as a bougainvillea bloom.

And forget it all as I smile too.

Charles is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. His writing interests centers on the stripped down stories of those recognized as on the fringe of their culture. Asian culture, its unique facets, and its intersection with general American culture is of particular interest. As are the mountain cultures of Appalachia. *Filipino for 'girl'.

Flash Fiction

Appreciation

by Dina Alexander

Six years ago, Cara sacrificed everything. For a man. For normality. For supposed happiness.

They built a world together, both as a business and as a family. Gavin had already taken away her family, now it seemed her career was up next.

Standing at the end of the conference table, Cara felt all eyes on her, but for once it had little to do with her looks or success. Her voice reverberated off white walls as she called the name of her assistant to read the interim report. The scraping of Sophie’s chair deepened Cara’s frown. This meeting was a complete waste of her time, and Gavin hadn’t glanced in her direction once since he’d sat down.

“We … we have an increase in …” Sophie’s eyes flitted between Cara’s and the paperwork, not even the strong grip of her slim hands able to prevent the paper from shaking as she tried to turn the page. “I have the figures here …”

Cara swallowed her reprimand. Two hours she’d spent on that report, and Sophie couldn’t memorise what pages were important? She crossed her arms, resisting the urge to tap her foot as she waited for the stuttering girl to find the right page.

“I … I think we …”

In disgust, Cara looked away from the useless child. How was she supposed to work in these conditions? Did these people not comprehend the sacrifices she made to build up the business—the world—that now provided for them?

“Cara, you can bring us up to speed?” Gavin's deep voice drew her attention. There was no hint of cheer on his face as she turned, but Cara kept his gaze nonetheless. There was a time where she was the focus of his attention before her husband proclaimed a separation was the only possible solution for them.

The rumours spread as expected and people now stared. They judged her for his mistakes. They made assumptions they had no right to make. They undermined her authority and fell for his lies.

Cara ran her tongue over the grooves in her teeth, struggling to keep a neutral expression as she told him details he already knew about the business. He was probably

hoping to trip her up but underestimated her again. She remained calm and professional, as always, even when rage surged through her.

That question niggled, though. How dared he leave her? It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Gavin was just another one of those who didn’t appreciate everything she did.

How many years did she sacrifice for that pathetic excuse of a man? She put her career on hold for years to be a stay-at-home mum, until the point where she couldn’t take their demands any longer. No more than she could take Sophie's clumsiness.

Gavin showed no hint of understanding why she needed to return to work, rather than spend her days changing nappies and preparing him meals, as his mother had done for his father. By the time he bothered to come home, the dinner was cold and the kids were the focus of his attention. There was no appreciation at all.

As Cara looked into her husband’s eyes, the corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk at the thought of him finding out what she had planned. The indifference in his eyes would be rectified, and people would look at her with the admiration she deserved for getting through it. She would accept their condolences and small, meaningless tokens. They would wish they had believed her tales about Gavin, and she struggled to contain her glee.

One day, her name would be on his door and if she was in the mood, perhaps she would let him make it up to her. Not that Cara was one to forgive such things.

She hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning her, tossing their years together away when he’d packed up his belongings and left the house last month. She hadn’t forgiven him for the look in his eyes when he’d smiled at that whore in Accounting. She certainly hadn’t forgiven him for taking her children from her two nights a week, putting her in a bad light.

"That would be all," Gavin said and turned away without as much as a thank-you.

Cara tossed her hair back. He would learn, same as everyone else, the true cost of his mistakes, and regret his decision. She tried to reason with him. She tried to pressure him.

She even tried to appeal to his softer nature, the one she had played for so long. Nothing worked. No amount of tears, smashing of glasses or accusations changed his mind, not even when she pointed out all his flaws and shortcomings and explained the ways she could change—not that she would.

It was disappointing how he believed his own lies and refused to see her side of things.

Nevertheless, Cara would set it straight. Her lips quivered as she fought back a sly smile.

It wouldn’t be easy, but no necessary sacrifice ever was. The key to his flat, his routine, to when it was safe to enter the new, fake home he created for her children—it was all planned. After their struggles ceased and she put the pillow down, she would lie next to them and hold their little hands one last time.

The concerns she had expressed with the authorities earlier this morning would be justified, her alibi as believable as the tears she planned to shed. Gavin would lose everything he took from her: his business, his new life, and his legacy. Everything he had no right to take.

As Gavin wrapped up the meeting, Cara smiled. Six years she sacrificed for him, and when he came to find his most treasured, those he loved more than her, he would learn the true meaning of appreciation.

Dina Alexander lives in Suffolk, U.K. She once studied psychology and web design but ended up as a professional translator. Writes romantic suspense, thrillers and likes to explore the dark side of humanity.

Angel

by Maria Marklove

Announcement. Delays on the Northern line. Someone under a train.

Depression is an inconvenience for everyone.

I did a half-run up the escalator, shuffling my feet against the ridged steps. The surface was farther than I first thought, but how could I stop running? What if people behind me – the ones I’d never see again – what if they judged me for slowing down? My thighs burned slightly, but I was used to that.

I got to the top, assumed I’d impressed everyone with my ability to use a staircase. I was not out of breath. I put my contactless bank card on the yellow Oyster symbol. It denied me; I scanned again. Success.

I hung around.

How many people would pass through the barriers in the next fifteen minutes? I headed near the door but didn’t go out; it was cold. It was meant to be spring, had been quite warm recently, but the temperature just drops when it wants, not giving a damn about anyone else.

I parked myself, red rucksack against a wall, shielding me from the wind and any potential pickpockets. Except, no one was there to steal. The desire was just not in the air.

Outside on a florist’s stall, sunflowers. A woman with a cast from her thumb all up her arm Oystered her way through the barriers, but took her sweet time, waddling through sideways. My nose wrinkled as I pleaded with the barriers not to close on the broken bones. Another woman walked through, holding flowers. The injured one made it. Lots more humans arrived from the escalator, each one, a shoe on each foot. How many bits, pieces, possessions have we all got in common? How many shoes are there in the world?

I silently gave out love to each person as I watched them greet friends, kiss lovers,

embrace family, or face the cold alone.

The florist would make a killing today: Mother’s Day. Mothering Sunday, as my own would correct.

Lots of people on phones next to me. No one seemed to be able to be alone anymore.

Not for one second. Either a hand on a phone, or a hand in another.

Another wave of humans passed.

So many beautiful people today. Every day, I supposed, though couldn’t be sure. There was a goth with a hat composed of netting wrapped around something extremely tall. His lips painted black, his shoes gigantic. I could barely see his eyes under the hat. I wanted to.

An old-ish guy looked like he had a blue rinse. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was just a slightly odd shade of grey. I wanted to see someone with blue hair. Bright blue hair. An I’ve-fallen-into-a-nuclear-reactor look.

A black man kissed a white woman on the cheek. I could not imagine a time when this would have been unacceptable. I couldn’t believe we still lived in a world where – in some places – it still was unacceptable. He embraced her with the most careful and loving touch of her back, caressing her there for a time.

More flowers in hands = more happy mothers. There was a full-on snog in front of me – tongues and everything, which I could see but not hear. A breeze passed to the right of me, skimming my ear, but not doing too much damage, temperature-wise.

When the female snogger turned to go, she almost knocked someone over. I lip-read an apology. Change spilled onto the floor from a machine to my left. Everyone looked at the culprit, who sighed, before bending over to pick up each, individual coin. I was surprised anyone still used real coinage. I thought about helping but I was not very close, would potentially have had to run over, which might’ve seemed like I was attempting to steal.

Someone walked past with a small dog on a lead. A couple with another dog – this time

in the man’s arms, and a cake in the woman’s hand – appeared to my right. She put the cake down on the floor, in its Tupperware box. Tapped pockets. The union workers behind the barriers knew every route; could get you anywhere in London without books, maps or guides. The couple spoke to them, and I toyed with the idea of running over to steal the unguarded Victoria Sandwich.

I realised how much I enjoyed watching people. I must’ve seen thousands, none of whom I’d ever see again, or I would forget by the next time. I flirted with the idea of taking a day off from work – to just stand and watch people on their commutes. Perhaps Bank: three stops further south from here, on the black-coloured line of that famous, underground map.

Then: yes. Would you believe it? Below the average height of all the bobbing heads: a girl with bright, blue hair. It was a startling, beautiful blue. Her lips – a vibrant red – matched her orange shoes. She wore black framed glasses that were big and cute. Her blue fringe covered her eyebrows, her brown, fleur-de-lis scarf covered her chin, leaving just a slice of her pretty face on view to the world. Other people stared. She no doubt turned heads, making a scene wherever she went, stunning everyone with her presence.

I couldn’t help but grin. She raised her eyes, looked right at me. She smiled, passed through the barriers, got closer. Approaching, my pupils – I’m sure – dilating, taking in as much of her as I could. Teeth on show between her lips now.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Were you bored waiting?”

Maria Marklove lives in Cambridge, UK. She has a Ph.D. in Mathematics and enjoys weightlifting, painting, playing the piano and attempting to speak French.

Isabella and The Girl

By Elaine Zentner

The sun shone down on the little blonde girl strolling through the field of wildflowers. A light breeze occasionally caught the hem of her blue gingham dress.

“Hell! What trash! I’m better than this!”

Isabella shoved herself away from her computer, grabbed her cigarettes and strode out of her office. In her garden she felt the warmth of the sun on her bare arms and turned her face to it.

The sun gently shone down…

“Seriously?”She pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it.

As the girl strolled along she was unaware of the beast crawling through the wildflowers on its belly. It kept its lizard limbs tight against its body as it inched closer.

Isabella took a deep drag from the cigarette and slowly exhaled. She walked to an ashtray and stubbed it out. She wanted a cup of coffee..

The thing was gaining ground on the girl. Its orange eyes glowered with anticipation. Uncurling its scaly appendages, it crouched only feet away from the child.

In the kitchen Isabella searched for the coffee. She knew cigarettes and coffee were off limits if she wanted tosurvive. Caffeine and nicotine were preying on her lungs and attacking her immune system. Now her favorite sensual pleasures were forbidden, but she couldn’t help but occasionally indulge.

The wee child felt the thing’s eyes on her. The razor sharp, stinging hairs on her arms stood up straight and rigid. Her cornflower blue eyes widened as she switched to x-ray, thermal, and ultraviolet vision and scanned the area. The girl spotted the abomination and extending her arms to their full six feet grasped the creature…

A coughing spasmcaught Isabella off guard. She gripped the edge of the counter as she tried to catch her breathe. Her stomach rebelled. Bile and spittle spewed forth.

The fiend writhed in agony as the girl pulled it toward her. Her arm hairs sliced at the creature’s thick, pocked skin. It struggled to free one limb to pierce the child’s neck with a venomoustalon, but the girl’s stinging arm hair had numbed the creature’s muscles. It screamed in terror and frustration.

After almost two minutes of the constant racking assault Isabella regained control. She had coughed up a small amount of blood. Wiping her mouth on a paper towel she leaned against the counter.

On hearing the creature’s bloodcurdling, piercing scream, the child dropped it and pressed her hands to her ears against the blinding pain of its cries. She squeezed her eyes closed until tears ran down her cheeks. The monster lunged at the girl’s exposed throat. It sankdeadly fangs into her neck. The girl wailed and fresh tears streamed from her eyes.

Isabella retrieved the bag of coffee from the freezer, grabbed the carafe and started filling it with water from the sink. The next cough wound its way up her throat, gagging her. She retched. Almost immediately she tasted blood.

She dropped the carafe in the sink. It shattered sending glass in every direction. A small shard lodged in the back of her hand as she clutched the sink’s edge.

The girl’s toxic tears fell on the creature’s face as it clutchedto her throat with deadly claws.

Each tear seared the creature’s skin causing boils to instantly form and burst. The pus from the boils produced more boils which in turn burst until there were only shreds of skin hanging from raw festering flesh.

The thing screamed and the girl howled. Within moments they crumpled into the wildflowers, both writhing in exquisite agony. They died at the same moment to the song of a whip-poorwill.

Isabella threw up in the sink. Wiping her nose she found it was bleeding. Her legs trembled and gave way. She slid to the floor. She retched and saw moreblood.

The sun shone down on the lifeless forms of the fiendand the girl. Within an hour it had consumed them. Two hours later there were fresh wildflowers where they had died.

Isabella’s breathing grew shallow. Not wanting to die on the kitchen floor she tried to crawl toward her bedroom. A half hour later she had only gotten as far as the open door to the backyard. The sun streaming in caught the shard of glass embedded in her hand.

Though aware she was about to die, Isabella studied it with detached curiosity thinking how much it looked like a fang.

Elaine Zentner resides in Sacramento, CA. This is her first published piece.

Shorty done Murdered the Missus

by Bryan Grafton

“Shorty done murdered the missus last night I tell you. I knew it would come to this, him coming home drunk late last night. He’s always in a fighting mood when he’s drunk. He tied on a good one I tell you. All that fighting, screaming and racket for an hour or so and then nothing. He had to have killed her. He always carries a razor on him you now.”

“Now George you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Maybe they were just having a good time if you get my drift,” said his wife Leeza.

“I know the difference between a good time Leezie and a good fight. Breaking furniture and dishes and crashing pots and pans ain’t exactly the sounds of amor. These walls are so thin I could hear Shorty screaming ‘I’m going to kill you woman. I‘m going to kill you.’”

“Well I never heard anything George.”

“That’s ‘cause you was zonked out. You was dead to the world yourself and snoring so loud you were interfering with me listening. I almost woke you up to tell you to shut up.”

“Lucky for you you didn’t or the headlines would have read: Duplex Double Murder. Look George, Shorty is a little runt of a guy, maybe 120 pounds soaking wet. LaWanda is a head taller than him and weighs at least fifty pounds more. They might have been fighting but he couldn’t overpower that woman and kill her.”

“He got a razor Leezie. That evens things up pretty quick. Time of death was 2:07 if the police ask you. We got to get our stories straight, Leezie.”

“Okay just what is the story then George if I may ask.”

“Well yesterday afternoon when I was out in the yard Shorty told me that he was on his way out to his friend Farmer Bob south of the city to buy a bunch of old cluck hens to butcher. You know old cluck hens, cluck, cluck, cluck,” clucked George as he put his hands in his armpits and started scratching the floor with his feet.

“Knock it off. Quit acting like a chicken George.”

“So he leaves, goes out to Farmer Bob’s, buys the birds, cuts off their heads with his razor, sacks them up but instead of coming straight home he stops off at The Bluebird and gets to drinking, gets home late and she lays into him and the rest is homicide as they say.”

“I’m going to call the police before he goes on the lam,” said George looking out the window to see if his car was still here.

Lisa looked too. “He’s not going anywhere George. Look his car’s leaking oil. Look at that pool of oil under the trunk.”

“Oil leaks under the engine not trunk Leezie. Oil is black. That is red. That’s blood. He done cut her up and put her in the trunk. She’s in there alright. All one hundred eighty pounds of her or the rear end of that old Caddy it wouldn’t be sagging so. Soon as he wakes up he’s going to dispose of the remains. I’m calling the police now.”

Ten minutes later the cops were knocking on Shorty’s door. Ten minutes later he answered it and identified himself. “May we come in?” asked the lead cop.

“No,” said Shorty, “The place is kind of a mess.”

“Is your wife home?” asked the policeman.

“No she isn’t.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“That old rusted Cadillac with a sagging rear end and blood coming out of the trunk yours? Never mind just give me the keys.”

Ten minutes later Shorty still couldn’t find them.

“I’m calling headquarters and having them send somebody over to open that trunk,” said the lead cop.

Just then LaWanda came around the corner.

“Where you been sugar?” shouted Shorty.

“Walked over to my sister’s to get away from you. Here you looking for these?: she said dangling the keys in front of him. “I took them so you wouldn’t be driving off drunk. What are these policeman here for?”

“Ma’am please hand me the keys,” said the lead officer grabbing them from her. “Let’s just see who we’ve got in the trunk,” he said as he opened it.

There was a two hundred pound hog all bled out.

“Thought I’d get us some real good meat this time sweetie,” said Shorty.

“Oh Shorty.” she cooed giving him a big hug and burying his face in her chest.

“Alright now, clean up this mess,” commanded the policeman. “And you,” he said pointing to George standing in his yard, “Get over here and help this man get this hog in his house.”

Sheepishly George shuffled over and helped unload the hog. “Say Shorty old pal when you going to have us over for chitlins?” asked George.

Bryan Grafton is a retired attorney who started writing stories this past winter for something to do while recovering from a broken foot. Stories have appeared in Romance Magazine, Clever magazine and Prime Numbers. Six others have been promised for publication this summer and fall.

Short Story

Shootout in Chinatown

by Garry Gunnerson

Try losing your memory and see where that gets you. It got Sonny to Toronto, Canada, a strange city in a foreign country. He punched in the new eight-digit security code for the place where he was holed-up, and didn't have to use the cheat sheet.

That was the other thing about amnesia. It was selective. He had no problem recalling things like the eight digit code—or how he took his coffee-black, or who the President was-Bush Two—but had no clue about his name, or anything from his past, much before Toronto and Canada.

Sonny finished the security procedure and stepped out into the alley. The humidity hit him like a sauna, sweat glands leaking like a sieve in a shower. For the millionth time, he wondered how a city this far north could be so damn hot and humid during the day, and so frigidly cold at night. He walked the two blocks north, caught the Queen Street west street-car and settled in.

There were other things going on. Happening to his body. He was starting to behave like some kind of simian beast, acting on urges and instinct, taking crazy chances. Like two days ago. He'd been exploring the upper floor of the Barn—the century-old factory where he was hanging out—when he noticed an old fire-escape running down the side of the building, three storeys, rusted and most of the rungs missing. He got the urge to climb down and that's what he did—twisting, then dropping and catching the next intact handhold—until he landed safely in the alleyway. Acting like some kind of ape.

Not for a moment was he afraid one of rusted, ancient rungs would give way under his weight, sending him plunging to his death. He had no fear because he had a hunch—call it a sixth-sense, precognition, premonition, prescience, or whatever—that was telling him it wouldn't happen. Same thing watching a ball-game. He could make the call—ball or strike—while the pitcher was still in his wind-up, and he was never wrong.

That was the scariest part of all, the hunches. Because they seemed to come from a source outside of his normal mental being. All in a rush, making his flesh tingle, pushing his rational mind aside and compelling him to act on whatever the hunch was telling him to do. For the last week his hunches had been telling him to go to China Town. Sonny got off the street-car at the foot of Spadina.

Whenever Sonny set foot in China Town, he felt like he was stepping back in time. Into a

mystery, taking place within an adventure story, he was coming to know as Toronto.

With its glitzy neon, the street signs lettered like mystic runes; sidewalks resonating with babble from probably every Asian dialect on earth. Vendors hawking “Farm Fresh” vegetables, out of makeshift stalls squeezed in every few feet.

In back alleys, cases of produce from the local wholesaler, stacked up in the hot sun; magically turned “Farm Fresh” by the mere act of wheeling them around the corner.

Lane-ways slick and green with the slime of trampled legumes, reeking with the scent of decay.

Anything was possible in China Town. So when Sonny stumbled upon a Three Card Monte game, he wasn’t at all surprised. The action was set up just inside an alley beside the Lucky Champion restaurant, on the east side of Spadina south of Dundas. Sonny knew the game. It was one of the oldest fast cons of the street level hustler.

Using three of something—dominoes, shells, or in this case cards—the dealer shuffles and pretends to give the victim a chance to pick the winner. In reality the winner only gets picked when the dealer wants it that way.

Knowledge like that and the fact he always sat with his back to the wall so he could see what was coming at him from all sides; or the way he checked out the rear exit before he went into a donut shop or other small place, made Sonny think his past might have been less than crime free. Was why he couldn't go to the police for help finding out about his past.

He watched two tourists get drawn into the game. They were an older couple, and looked to be retired. “See,” the wife said, “I told you I could pick it out every time. That makes five times in a row I spotted where the little fellah hid the Queen of Spades. Give me some money, Tom." “I don’t even think its legal, Gladys,” the husband protested.

“Of course it's legal, otherwise they wouldn’t allow it to be played right out here in broad daylight. For once in your life take a chance. We can't lose. Now hand over the cash.”

Reluctantly, Tom pulled some bills from his pocket and was about to peel one off when Gladys grabbed the whole wad, elbowed her way to the playing box with Tom in tow, bet it all and promptly lost. She cleaned out all the cash from Tom’s wallet on the next bet and lost again, about a thousand dollars in total; before her husband was able to pull her away under protest.

Sonny felt bad for them, knowing the game was rigged. Maybe he was thinking about evening the score and getting their money back for them, when he stepped up to the betting table and put down a thousand dollars.

Or maybe he was being compelled by that force outside of himself, because it was happening again—one of his hunches—telling him would always be able to pick out the the Queen of Spades, and warning him at the same time something bad was about to happen.

The dealer shuffled the cards quickly. Sonny pointed at the middle card and then turned it over before the dealer had a chance to. That was the key, get to the pay card before the dealer had a chance to palm it for another card.

The dealer grinned a big toothy smile but his eyes weren’t smiling. “Very lucky," he said.

“Want to try again?”

“Sure,” Sonny said. “Let it ride.” Despite his easy reply Sonny still couldn't shake his hunch that blood and violence was on its way.

This time, when Sonny started to point to the Queen of Spades, the dealer’s hand flashed towards the card trying to beat Sonny to it. He lost.

“No touch cards!” the dealer screamed.

“Okay,” Sonny said, “let’s do it one more time and you do the honors.”

He’d come heavy on a hunch. It had seemed like the right thing to do when he was getting dressed that morning. Now he pulled open his jacket so the dealer got a good look at the Glock. Letting the dealer know that if he was the source of the trouble that was coming, he'd better be ready for some trouble coming back.

One of the onlookers, a young guy in a U of T jacket, left the game and went inside the Lucky Champion restaurant.

Visibly shaken, the dealer got the cards ready for the next play. Sonny saw a man came out of the restaurant and walk up to the game. Dressed in an elegant Armani suit, he was young, tall and quite handsome. At his appearance, the dealer became even more upset.

The young man barked orders in Chinese that made the dealer bow quickly many times, and start breaking down his betting box. “I’m afraid your wagers have exceeded the limits of this poor game,” the young man said to Sonny. His manner was gracious. His speech very much upper class British, measured and formal.

The wave hit Sonny—the agitation—taking control, surging through him, his skin a massive eruption of thousands of electrified pin-pricks. And death was coming. Slowly up the street and unconcerned, like it was out for an afternoon stroll.

But it wasn't the appearance of the well-dressed young man that was causing Sonny's critical overload. It was the movement he'd caught out of the corner of his eye that did that. An ancient Crown Vic, gold with a peeling, white vinyl top, slowing down as it got closer.

“Gun!” Sonny yelled—shots coming from the Crown Vic—and covered the body of the young man with his own. The young man tried to resist, but Sonny threw him to the ground. As he did so, he felt a kind of drumming sensation on his back.

Sonny spun around, Glock in hand—automatic weapon fire from the passenger front window, the rear one sliding open—and fired off three rounds all in one swift motion; saw his bullets hit their mark, the gunman’s hand go limp, the weapon clattering on the pavement.

At the same time, Sonny had already started to move. The Crown Vic had stopped a short distance up Spadina. Tires screaming and smoking, it was backing up for try number two.

By then Sonny was in the middle of the street and behind it. He squeezed off two shots to break the rear window. There were three of them in the back seat.

He needed to do this in three taps, one shot each. Firing for effect from right to left, his senses so zoned in he could follow the the blood splatter from the kill shots. Bang … splat … bang … splat … the bullets' exit showering the front window. The bloody spray from the last shot no doubt soaking the wheel man. The three kill shots delivered in about a second flat.

Each head slumped forward as it was hit, then snapped back in a reflex action; the neck muscles tightening, fighting the motion of the car and the sudden impact of the bullet from behind. The head action reminding Sonny of so many bobble head dolls gyrating on a display counter.

Perhaps it was fear, or maybe being drenched in blood had screwed with the driver’s nerves. Whatever the cause, the Crown Vic suddenly lurched forward, made a crazy left turn, hit the center median and came to rest about halfway across the concrete barrier.

On the move again, Sonny heard the sound of the weapon and felt a bullet whiz past his nose. He got his last target, the driver, with a shot to the head through the open side window, before the man could fire off a second round.

The horn started to blare from the weight of the dead man’s face pushing against it. If allowed to continue, that was one sure way to attract the attention of the cops if somebody hadn't already called them. Sonny had one shot left in the magazine and he put that one into steering column, which ended the noise.

Once the shooting stopped, Sonny had time to fully realize what had just happened. He’d killed five men as easily as if he were taking a walk in the park. He should have felt sick.

He'd never killed anyone before as far as he knew. But he didn't feel sick, not even queasy, he felt good. .

Although his hands were trembling with post action stress, Sonny automatically reloaded, and had already holstered his Glock, when the young man whose life he had just saved came running up. The next thing Sonny was on the ground with a knife blade pressed against his jugular. It was a stiletto type, designed so the blade retracted into the handle “That’s for making me look foolish a moment ago,” the young man said in his cultured, but rather stilted, upper class British. “A man in my position must never look foolish.”

"My apologies, for saving your skin," Sonny said.

The young man put his blade away and bowed respectfully. "Yes, you did do that, even if only for a short while. I am called Jiam Ju. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Sonny shook his head. Jiam Ju helped him to his feet.

“In English my name means, River Tiger,” Jiam continued. “When I was at school in England, at Eton, my close friends called me JJ or Jim. You may use whichever suits you.”

“Okay, Buds, Jim it is. I'm Sonny. Now what the hell was all that about? What did you mean back there when you said, only for a short while? Do you expect more trouble?”

The two young men, as if of one mind, had automatically started walking north up Spadina, not too quickly so as to draw attention, but fast enough to put some distance between them and the scene of the shooting.

Sonny knew it was about time he disappeared. Every minute he stayed near the scene of the shooting increased his chances of being identified as the shooter. Even so, he kept walking. Staying with Jim seemed like the right thing to do.

“You do not have to worry,” Jim said, Sonny glancing at passers-by. “This is China Town.

No one is going to inform the authorities about where we go.”

After that, Jim was silent as they walked, as if weighing his options. When they reached Dundas, Jim stopped and leaned back against the first hard surface he could find.

Son-of-a-bitch, Sonny thought, he's stopped at the first place where his back is covered and he can see what’s coming at him from all directions—just like I do.

Which, while interesting, wasn't going to keep Sonny out of jail if the cops were on his tail.

“Look,” Sonny said, “I gotta bail, glad I could help . . . ” “Help? What you have done for me this day is more than mere help, it is a miracle. I knew I would be in mortal danger in this new city. So I prayed to my ancestor for just such a miracle to help me survive.

“And here you are. The maker of miracles. I am a martial arts master, trained since childhood. You put me to the ground with ease. I saw four bullets enter your back. Yet, you have no wound. You move faster and shoot with more skill than is possible for a mere mortal.

Sonny looked embarrassed. “I’m not anything special. I’m just a guy. As for the wounds, I did feel something hit me, but who knows where the ammo came from? It could have been defective. All that other stuff you just said. I don’t know. Sometimes I do feel kind of invulnerable. The truth is . . .”

“There must be nothing but truth between us, if we are to survive this day.”

“Then the truth is, I don’t even know who I am or where I come from. I know I’m not from here. Even my name, Sonny, is something I picked up at an all night diner. As for the other stuff, I don’t think I had any of that before I came here.”

“In my culture we have many legends about hero's who have undergone just such a transformation, and gained the prowess of dragon gods. One of whom was my revered ancestor. I prayed to him that I be granted those same abilities in my time of crisis.

Instead, he has sent me you.”

“Let's slow down a bit, buds. You're covering a lot of ground: mortal danger, revered ancestors, dragon powers—exactly who are you, Jim?” “My name meant nothing to you, Sonny. But ask any resident of China Town and they will tell you the River Tiger comes from Hong Kong; backed by the 14K Triad, the most powerful honored society in the world; sent to take control of all our operations in this city.”

“So you're a Gangster.”

“Not exactly, it goes much deeper than that. But we can speak of this later. Right now we have more dire problems to overcome."

"Okay. I'll bite. What's our next problem?”

“Where are my bodyguards?”

“Uh-huh,” Sonny said. “I see what you mean.”

“Ten seconds before I walked out to speak to you about the card game, I was surrounded by a horde of supposedly faithful Wah Ching—my sworn allies.”

“But, none of them were there to protect you when the guns started going off,” Sonny said. “And if they’re not here to rescue you now, some or all of them are part of the problem.”

“Correct again. Regardless of who or how many, the traitors are coming after us even as we speak. And we are still in Chinatown, totally visible and vulnerable to attack at any moment. This time, even you might not be able to save us.”

“We need to make like a gopher until you can get things sorted out.”

“Yes, we need a hole to hide in. Except I have no such place. I have only been in this country a few short hours. All I know is this street.”

“Actually . . . ” “Do you know of such a place?" Jim said.

“Sort of, but . . . ” “No buts, you appear at exactly the right moment to save my life. Now I am in need of sanctuary and you have prepared such a place in advance of my coming. Can there be any doubt our meeting is not a mere accident?"

Sonny didn't have an answer for that one.

“I owe you my life, Sonny. Honor demands that it is forfeit to you until I repay the debt.”

With that Jim took the stiletto knife from his suit pocket and snapped out the blade, drawing it across his right wrist until blood began to flow. “We will become, Tian tang kou, if you wish. Blood brothers.” He handed the stiletto to Sonny.

Sonny didn't hesitate opening his own wrist and clamping it to Jim's; their mingled blood flowing freely, bright red rivulets down tensed bare forearms. His hunch about China Town had paid off. Now he had an ally. They flagged down a cab and got the hell out of

there.

Garry Gunnerson lives in the city of Windsor, Ontario, Canada just south of Detroit, with Valerie, his wife of many years. Following a successful career in sales and marketing, Garry now devotes his time to Tai Chi, travel and writing short fiction.

Flowers on His Windshield

by Megan Paske

She decided to make him fall in love with her that summer. She did not know who or when or how. She just decided.

Maggie lived in a house off of Randall Street, near the stadium. The roads were at a slant and the houses, all constructed in the 60s and set too close to one another, stood slightly askew. Each slid toward the other at a different angle. The front porches resembled one another. Decaying, uneven steps, wooden beams and mildewed pillars held up caved in awnings, rusted swings and neglected hanging flower pots.

The house she lived in looked a little tidier, a little better kept, than those surrounding it.

All of these dwellings served as college rentals. Hers, she shared with five housemates: members of the university’s crew team. Maggie had just graduated and moved in with a friend for the summer—an ill-fated attempt to land a permanent job so she might remain there, in the city.

She already knew her summer would draw to an early close, once her savings ran out and she lost all hope at gaining employment. The temporary agencies, already fully booked only offered third shift work at factories and warehouses. She opted out of those opportunities. She applied to retail shops and bookstores, cafés and bistros. Nothing hit.

She had nothing to lose.

The days in between looking for employment, she spent biding her time for him. She knew he would come into her life and she knew she could hook him. But not with her usual tricks. No low cut dresses and indulging frat boy war stories over gin and tonics.

She kept to herself this time—avoided the bars and coffee shops she frequented—an unusual tactic at gaining a mate, but one in which she felt she might succeed.

She planted petunias and pansies in the pathetic excuse of a flower bed outside their dilapidated porch. A neighborhood cat—a mutt of a Russian Blue—found Maggie during the days and accompanied her while she flitted about, planting flowers, sketching still life's and landscapes, and writing poetry. Her new feline friend seemed to belong to no

specific house. She regularly spent time with Maggie on the porch and in the overgrown backyard. Maggie fed her tuna and named her Gracie. Her housemates, Cory, Drew, Tom, Steven and Peter all teased her in one way or another over the way she occupied her time, over her little projects. Maggie knew her antics secretly endeared her to most of them. While she entertained the notion of sleeping with them (all but Peter, who was gay), none of them held her interest.

Peter was her closest friend. They had taken the same French courses for their last two semesters, stayed up until two in the morning reading in their bastardized French from copies of “Tristan et Iseult.” They went on canoe trips, picnics and he listened to the poetry she wrote daily.

Cory and Drew were identical twins and had little in common with her. Besides crew, they had even less in their lives that connected them with anybody else.They spoke little more than a few words to her all summer. She fooled around with one of them, on a hot night in June, after she had drank a few too many homemade G&Ts. She could not tell the difference between the two and never remembered if it were Cory or Drew.

Tom kept to himself; had just had his heart broken by his long-term girlfriend of five years and spent many days and nights in his room, listening to the first movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” on repeat. They all left him be. He was in mourning. But on the days he did emerge, Maggie cooked him breakfast: bacon and omelets, though she despised bacon herself and admittedly told him it made her gag. She knew he needed someone to care for him. She slept with him once, half out of pity, half out of desperation.

But Tom was not the one either.

Steven was pre-med and even on summer break, spent most of his days in the library when he was not at practice or another workout. His life was all work, no play. Maggie had little contact with him, and felt he avoided her on purpose. Perhaps it irritated him that she acquired the sixth vacancy in the house they shared; that she was the only woman in the house. Perhaps he wanted to nail her too and her glib attitude towards him in general infuriated him. Either way, she cared little for the man and never took the time to get to know him.

Then there was Adam. He lived across town, sharing a college house with the remaining

crew team (those that stuck around during the summer). Unlike the other crew members, Adam did not stand over six feet tall. He was not a specimen. He was real. Five foot, ten inches at most, his slight physique, compared to his cohorts, hid his true strength and speed. She had been to crew practices, when Peter or the others needed a ride, and observed him from afar.

He reminded her of a boy she grew up with. Another boy named Adam. Her new Adam’s wavy black hair fell just to his chin, enough for him to shyly tuck it behind his ears when he, on those rare occasions, did speak to her. She had little to go on; she knew barely a thing about him. Yet, the boyishness of his charm allured her into provocative fantasies of them together, melting away from the world and folding into one another.

She chose Adam.

He owned a 1968 red Cutlass convertible. On a regular basis, it broke down and he resorted to riding his only other mode of transportation: an even more unreliable moped. Unfortunately for him, his parking situation was precarious. Either he paid an extra eighty dollars a month for a chance at getting one of the undersized stalls in the lot (better described as a driveway) behind his and his roommates’ house, or he parked on the street, risking parking tickets every three hours unless he moved his vehicle.

Adam drove his moped over to the house every day and parked it on their front walk to pick up his Cutlass. They allowed him to park it in the driveway because other than Maggie, he was the only one with a working vehicle. Once and awhile, she parked him in so she might have a reason to get out of the house in the morning and let him out the driveway. These interactions resulted in little more than a transactional movement of vehicles—nary a word exchanged.

She considered Adam for a few days before she decided on her course of action. She was not going to flirt with him. She was not going to invite him out for a drink, nor tell him all of the things she knew would convince him to come to bed with her. That was not what she wanted. She wanted him to fall in love with her.

The first day, it was an indigo Forget-me-not. They had a bed of untended wild flowers, lilies and weeds growing behind the unused—unusable—garage. She never took any of the flowers she had planted in the flower beds, or from pots she placed on the sagging front steps, or from the hanging flower plants she replaced. She chose flowers from

places that were hidden. Secret.

When he arrived first thing Monday morning, the second week in June, he found it on his windshield, placed under the wiper blade. It was his second week on his job at a local food distributor. He worked ten hour shifts in the cooler, stocking frozen pizzas and dinner entrees. Adam did not mind the temperature; he liked the stark contrast to the summer’s mounting heat.

And the heat of the summer was mounting. Maggie’s days drew on longer and longer by the minute.

She watched expectantly from her second story bedroom window as he approached the hood of the car. He examined the flower and left it there. Jumped into the driver’s seat, started the rattling engine, threw it in reverse and took off. Disappointed at his obvious lack of affect towards her small, but thoughtfully placed gift, she frowned. She glanced at her clock. It was 6:48a.m.

When he returned later that evening, the Forget-Me-Not was gone. No trace left behind.

Not that she expected one flower to make any impression. She sat on the back stoop smoking and stroking Gracie’s chin. The cat padded over to Adam and rubbed up against him. He squatted down and casually scratched behind her ears. Maggie’s facade of a casual demeanor faltered.

She looked up at him and gave him a sheepish grin.

“How was work?” she asked in as much of a blasé tone as she was able to muster. He stood up, the cat slinked off towards another lawn. He nodded in Maggie’s direction, took a few steps towards her and leaned against the house’s cracked and moldy siding.

“You shouldn’t smoke those things. They’ll kill you.” He winked at her and retreated to the front of the house. She was alone that night, and now Gracie had wandered off. Her heart sank. Peter had a date and the others were off doing their own things. They all had social rings in which she did not quite fit.

She heard the sputter and the turnover of his moped, and smelled the faint hint of exhaust from its two-cylinder engine. He buzzed down to Randall and she listened as

long as she could until the noise trailed off and joined the rest of the city’s voice.

Maggie waited until the next morning.

It was a Tiger Lily. She watched again from her window as he repeated his same actions as the day before. She looked down at her clock. 6:42a.m.

From then on it was a contest. She found a flower she had not yet placed under his windshield wiper. He arrived andexamined it, got in his car and drove away. He returned each evening—the flower gone. She assumed he was tossing them when he got to work, if they even made the ride.

Each day she set out earlier and earlier; by the time late June arrived, she was setting her alarm for 5:30a.m.so she could beat him. She assumed his shift had changed. She was wrong. *** Everyday a new flower waited for him. In the same place, under his wiper. Waiting for him, just him. Adam knew Maggie was putting them there. He knew she had to be awake, because if they had sat there all night they would be wilted and discolored. He did not know much about flowers, but he knew enough about life. And he knew when he was getting attention from the one girl he never considered would pay him any. Her flowers were always fresh. Always different. Always beautiful.

But why him? He knew she watched him from her upstairs window. Felt her gaze burn over his shoulders. He never dared look up. His growing feelings for this mysterious girl with the butterscotch hair and piercing green eyes became undeniably bolder with each tiny blossom that appeared on his windshield. This willowy girl with the half smile and eternal wink was somehow quietly seducing him. Her flowing movements felt to him like waves – they matched every inch of her form, of her hair, her clothes. He never saw her in shorts or jeans. Her spindly legs stuck out from the hems of her sundresses and skirts, revealing dainty sandals strapped around even daintier ankles.

He wanted to grab the flowers right away, to smell them and touch them. He longed to look up and return her gaze—to lock eyes with her. He resisted stealing glances and taking the flowers, but only to be able to see them on his commute to work and to

imagine her presence looking down on him. He started getting up earlier to see if he could catch her in the act. He never did.

He was falling in love with her. He barely knew her. Barely spoke to her. When she did smile at him and ask him something, however inane it may be, he choked on his own breath. His heart would slip into a coma, in which it remained until he was no longer in her intoxicating presence. What he truly wanted was to run up and grab her, kiss her cheek and smell her hair. But he did not. He could not.

So he waited every night; he knew her flower would be waiting for him in the morning.

And maybe on that morning, he would be able to not just look at it, but find her. And tell her.

There was a voice in his head, nagging at him that said she must be playing games. But the other voice in his head—the one that was in love with her—knew it was never so.

Sure, she had a reputation. She was “crazy.” She had slept with many of his crew mates.

He had heard the stories about her and how she “got around.” He did not care. He barely believed them. The others talked about her like she was a piece of meat. But to him, she was more beautiful than any of the flowers she was placing on his windshield. *** The last day she left him a Daisy. She had walked several blocks down to a trail along a creek bed to find one. Gracie had faithfully followed her there and back. Maggie rewarded her with an extra helping of tuna.

But Maggie had given up; she concluded her efforts had been fruitless and she had already packed up her few personal items in the house andplanned to take off as soon as Adam left for work. To move back to the town in which she had grown up into the woman she now thought she was. She hoped to find better opportunities for employment there and get a place on her own, or at least one with fewer roommates. She hoped to find an identity apart from the girl that had started a contest of luring a man into falling in love with her.

She had embarrassed herself by wasting her time putting silly little flowers on Adam’s car. A man who undoubtedly had heard the stories and had drawn his own conclusions

about her ways. How could anyone fall in love with a woman like her? She needed a new start and a fresh cut. Like the flowers she place on his windshield, Maggie wanted to be different every day—to steal life and renew herself each morning into the person she knew she could be. *** Adam found her that day, standing in the driveway with his daisy. She had heard the moped from far off, and had decided instead of hiding, to wait and deliver it to him in person. Still, he managed to sneak up on her. He startled her; and she nearly tripped over her sandals. He steadied her elbow with a strikingly firm grip.

“I knew it was you.” He said, stoically. His face and body language, as usual, projected little emotion.

“Of course,” she winked. “Unless you thought Peter was sweet on you.” She handed him the flower. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and Adam silently mouthed the words, “I’m in love with you.”

Maggie did not hear nor notice any hint of his sudden, intimate confession. She was not looking for one. In her mind, she had failed. She expected no more than a recoil, and was surprised by the fact that he even accepted her quiet kiss.

She lit a cigarette.

“You shouldn’t smoke those things. They’ll kill you.” He winked at her, jumped into the driver’s seat and casually placed the daisy on the passenger side.

She watched Adam drive off, tears slightly blurred her vision, one slowly slid down her right cheek. She looked down and watched as Gracie looked up, expectantly. She bent down and scooped her up, burying her tears in the cat’s silky fur. Maggie did not catch Adam’s beaming smile that he finally let emerge. As he looked down at the daisy to his right, he already knew what he was going to do that afternoon, when work let out. He had planned it for days. ***

Promptly at 5:00p.m., after he punched out, he hurriedly weaved his way through the warehouse’s parking lot to his Cutlass. He jumped in, opened the top, and then the glove box. He pulled out each of the flowers he had saved (all dead and shriveled) and laid them out on the passenger seat, next to the daisy.

When he arrived at the floral shop, he carefully gathered each flower and brought them inside with him. He spread them on the counter top and asked for a bouquet to be made with one of each, and only one.

On the way home, his heart pounded. He looked down at the freshly cut bouquet on his lap with pride and hope, one hand grasping it to keep it from being disturbed. He had not decided what he was going to say but he hoped the flowers spoke for themselves. As he gathered speed and the wind rustled through is hair, he felt nothing but expectant fear and love. This girl, this one beautiful and simple gesture she had been giving him all summer, had brought him out of a deep sadness—one in which he had not yet even begun to realize he had been. *** Adam pulled into the driveway. Gracie came to greet him. He stepped out of his car; Gracie wrapped herself around his ankles. Adam stood motionless, clutching Maggie’s bouquet, quickly realizing Maggie had left. *** By the time the EMTs and the police arrived, Maggie was gone. She had swerved to avoid hitting a cat on her way out of town; heading east on East Washington Avenue, just before it became highway 151. At 45 miles per hour, her compact sedan crossed the center line and collided head-on with an oncoming SUV. Maggie was killed instantly, unaware of Adam’s gift and love for her.

Megan Paske has been an avid writer for the greater part of her 33 years. She studied Journalism at UW Madison and was published in various newspapers as a columnist and also served as a pro bono copy editor. She and her husband recently co-authored a story in “Marathon and Beyond."

Her debut as a fictional short story author will be published in the next volume of

“Buck Off Magazine.� Her other writing includes her personal blog, Live My Mad World, and several, yet-to-be published poetry chapbooks, many short stories, and a creative non-fiction memoir of her life and struggles with Bipolar Disorder. She uses her creativity through her illness as an outlet and also as a statement of advocacy for mental health and its place within the creative arts

Terror Bonding

by Rene Salinas

We were sitting at a Café, admiring the different scenes enacted by the passers-by. One of those Cafés with a bohemian style, where the wooden tables are placed close to each other — a stage at the back where poetry and music can be acted — a theatre for Cafélife adaptation.

I was captivated by the different stories unraveling: Like the couple holding hands, getting closer by the minute; ready to put lip upon lip….

How endearing, I thought.

And the old-refined gentleman with a well-mannered beard, reading a book about ‘The Renaissance’ with those elegant bifocals — an optic relic from the olden days.

How cute is his demeanour? I wondered.

The two businessmen clicking their Life astray onto laptops and other handheld devices — an allegory for modern life demands.

Busy- busy- busy, I whispered.

We ordered a café latte and a café machiatto…

I’m Kathy — by the way — and that sitting on the other side of the table is my best friend Emily.

“How are you feeling since he is gone?” Emily asked.

I confessed to missing him like crazy — Tom is my life, my partner, my constant craving — “but Kathy, don’t you think you are better off without him in your life?” Emily replied. That question took me back to the first time I met him. Tom was tall, Tom was tanned, Tom was handsome as fuck. I remember getting into cheerleading only so I could see him playing football on the field. He invited me out that night and we ended up fucking in his car.

“Yes, Kathy, but he was so rough, so hard you ended up in E.R,” Emily persisted. I told you, he is mad about me. Tom is ‘rough-and-ready,’ that’s why… he didn’t really mean to hurt me. And that other time when we went to meet his parents and I had that lovely dress,

specially made and it was expensive too. His parents were so proud that Tom was going out with such a lovely girl. “Yes, Kathy, but wasn’t that the night when he hit you for talking too much?”Emily insisted with patience and prudence that only good friends would exhibit.

Well, yes, but that was an accident, you know accidents happen. He didn’t like the dress and he made me take it off in the car and my zipper got stuck and he was pulling it and that’s why… he didn’t really mean to hurt me.

I know Emily is my friend I know she cares, I can feel her anger and her frustration; all her worries affect me. Yet inside of me there can’t be peace or moments of reconciliation. It is not as if I didn’t know what’s missing.

As I continue to look around — Café life unfolds to a rhapsody of bohemian style: The little old lady on the side was knitting a lovely tea cosy — the floral display; it was so intricate.

“That’s lovely,” I said to her.

“Thank you, dear,” she replied.

At the back the students laughing, enjoying the anecdotes about university times.

“Those days,” I said in reminiscence.

Emily also felt reminiscent that day, there was something she was trying to make me come to terms with.

“Kathy, I’m your friend and I care about you. Tom systematically embarrassed you and put you down, acted in ways which scared you and the rest of us, took your money and at times refuse to give it back, made all of the decisions for you and you say he didn’t mean to hurt you?” Emily began to lose her composure as she took her jacket off and rolled her sleeves.

I know Tom comes across as overwhelming, but that’s just because he wants to show me how much he cares. I don’t know what I would do without Tom in my life. It’s been nearly seven years — you become accustomed. We all have good sides and bad sides. Even that time when I came back late because I had a few drinks and while I was getting off the taxi and about to pay, my skirt got all tangled up — it’s my fault for wearing such short skirt — Tom came out to help…

“To help? Kathy, he accused the taxi driver of looking at you in a sexual and inappropriate manner, and that it was his fault —‘your taxi, your fuck up,’— the witnesses heard him say. Kathy, he hit him in the face and the Police came, they took him and he got done for common assault. He was lucky it was only his first offence. Didn’t he cut the dress with scissors and made you watch while cutting it?” Emily’s tone had increased in intensity, her facial gestures a combination of compassion and disbelief.

Yeah, well, as I said it was my fault — dress too tight.

“Kathy, after ten years we all knew it, it’s just most didn’t want to interfere. Despite what many believe, I know Tom’s abuse is not caused by him ‘losing control’ over his emotions.

In fact, the abuse is a deliberate choice used to control you — his victim,” Emily had resorted to factual certainty in the hope that it would change my attitude.

You guys just don’t know him like I do: I identify with him from the inside out.

I can see when he is overly preoccupied with me — he is doing me a favour by controlling me.

Without Tom I’m alone, he is the only one that really understands me and knows what I need.

“Kathy it was all a matter of Time — one day it was going to happen — the Police were called because the neighbours heard screams coming out of your house. The police found him, knife in hand, you were severely cut —it was the twelfth time— Kathy,” the tone of desperation made me cry.

Yeah, but he didn’t mean to hurt me. He doesn’t mean to hurt me and I know he will get better.

“Kathy Section 20 doesn’t lie — unlawful and malicious wounding of a person. In short, anybody deemed to ‘unlawfully and maliciously wound or inflict GBH on another person, shall be guilty’,” Emily’s tone of voice began to decrease. The frailty of emotion required tact.

The judge gave Tom twelve years pending on psychiatric evaluation,” Emily consoled me in the best way she could.

Emily held my hands and for a moment — a brief moment — the silence after the

emotional storm brought about a clearance and I saw the challenges of my predicament laid in front of me.

We stood and began walking through the city. It was a lovely day in Stockholm — what better time to walk through Skansen open-air museum — the birds chirping, the frogs leaping, the radiance of the sun streaming.

“He will get better right Emily? He really doesn’t mean it when it gets bad,” I expressed.

“Kathy very soon it will be time for your therapy,” Emily said while looking at her watch.

Coming out of the open park. It was a day like any other and we walked to Ms. Wolfsen the therapist — life was bursting out — a festival of nature’s gentle stride.

“Kathy”, Emily said while holding my hands.

“I will be here with you no matter what, so, one day at a time? Emily smiled.

“One day at a time,” I said. As I head to my appointment.

Rene Salinas is an IT technician from the UK that loves to write; has participated for years in national and international competitions. Driven for the need of exploration in writing and the desire to follow in particular the path laid by Jack Kerouac and his views onto the methodology of ‘Spontaneous Prose.’

Hope you enjoyed reading our Issue 6. Till next time.