The Fable Online Issue 7 September, 2015
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster
Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors
Table of Contents Aquarium by Yuan Changming.................................................................................................5
A Crime in the Bronx by Garry Gunnerson................................................................................................7
Malfunction by Alice Hill................................................................................................................9
Paso de la Muerto by LJ McDowall........................................................................................................12
Payback by Charles Hayes....................................................................................................20
Under the Radar by Bryan Grafton....................................................................................................28
Poetry
Aquarium by Yuan Changming
Rather than a queen Bathed in my own tears While worshipped Before glass walls
I would be A tiny shrimp At the bottom Of the food chain
Even to be Eaten alive
While swimming Freely
Yuan Changming is 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of 5 chapbooks, is the most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes English: since mid-2005, he has had poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1069 others across 36 countries. With a PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver.
Flash Fiction
A Crime in the Bronx by Garry Gunnerson Rowena never went Downtown. The impossibly tall buildings, predatory traffic, swarming hordes of the rich and rude—frightened her. These were not her people. But Missy was sick and needed a specialist so Rowena went. In the reception room at the clinic, Rowena cautioned herself to be careful: not be too be pushy and give offense, or become emotional and cause a spectacle. Yes, she did have a referral, producing the business card. No, not an acquaintance, her employer. Yes, office cleaner would best describe their relationship. Yes, Missy had been a gift. During the examination, Rowena stuck to more one-word answers with a lot of nodding and smiling thrown in. And that got her through the ordeal with the Vet. Now safely back on the train and on her way home, Rowena was in mild shock; so much so she didn't notice the two men glancing her way. Overgrown teens who did their drugging in Manhattan and their thieving in the slums. Eyeing the woman with the cokebottle glasses, dolled out in her Sunday best, the knock-off Gucci tote bag. How had Missy become pregnant when she was never allowed out of the apartment unattended? Still, the thought filled Rowena with a warm glow as she trudged up the steps from the subway and along the safe, familiar streets of the Bronx. Like many famous folks of the era, who thought it unseemly to allow their purse pets to transport themselves, Rowena carried Missy everywhere. Today she'd nestled Missy in the tote bag, wrapped in her favorite blanky. She imagined Missy curled up and being rocked to sleep by the to and fro motion of the bag, which Rowena carried loosely slung over one shoulder. Lost in thought, she didn't hear the pounding footfalls approaching, until it was too late. Then it felt like she'd been hit by a truck, the male body hurtling into her, her left arm being pulled from its socket. The force of the impact would have knocked a normal person down. But being a woman of generous proportions, with her center of gravity
definitely below her waist, Rowena stayed on her feet. She fought back. Managed to close her fingers on the strap of the tote bag before it could be wrenched away. She was hit again. This time tackled from the right side. A hand grasping her left shoulder spinning her around; falling as the bag was ripped from her arm. Her attackers ran away laughing. Two white boys in hoodies, the taller one already unzipping his prize. Rowena had landed heavily on her right hip when she fell and was definitely hurt. She got up slowly, wiping away the grime and pebbles stuck in her palms. She had to get going because there was a chance Missy might be able to escape. In her mind's eye, Rowena saw Missy defending herself bravely. A flash of needle-like teeth sinking into a careless hand. A cry of surprise and fear, as the unsuspecting cowards who had robbed her dropped the bag and fled. Rowena made the best speed she could toward the first corner. Waves of pain radiating down her leg, hands bleeding. When she finally turned the corner, her heart gave a great leap. There it was, the tote bag, lying just a few feet in front of her. Rowena's eyes darted quickly all around trying to get a fix on where Missy might have gone. She found the spot right away. A mini-park with a rock garden in a cool, shady spot, just steps from the abandoned tote bag. That's where her darling would be. And the thugs who'd molested her? They wouldn't get far. She’d be coming across a body pretty soon. Probably the tall one who'd opened the tote bag. After all, the poison of the Mississauga rattler—Missy’s poison—was the most deadly snake venom in North America.
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.
Malfunction By Alice Hill "Whether I like it or not, there's only one way to answer the question. Kill him." The two men stare at me, slack jawed. Why? It wouldn't be the first time we've had to kill, and I didn't hire thugs with their reputation to have them turn wussy on me when things get rough. Stronger sex, my arse. I smash my fist against the cabin wall. "You might want to end up in jail. Or dead. I don't." I'm not getting through to them. I take a deep breath and put on my calm, reasonable face—the one my grandmother used when she explained why nice girls shouldn't shoplift. "In an hour," I say, "we reach St Gervase. There's a storm blowing up, and it's not going to be an easy landing. You think we can handle this boat and a prisoner as well? One false move and we end up smashed to pieces. You've seen those rocks." The rocks. Flying spray, speed, excitement. Danger. The anticipation bubbles through my blood, making my body glow with sheer glorious living. Those morons are still staring at me goggle-eyed. How do I make them understand? I lean forward. "We leave him tied up, we trip over him every time we move to trim a sail. We let him loose, he escapes, he grasses on us, and we go to prison." I am not going back to prison. Ever. Drab uniforms, when I'm made for designer clothes and diamonds. Indignity. Degrading manual work. Boredom. No, I won't go back. And if I'm caught, after breaking parole... "But... " Clive says, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "But—you know who he is? Maybe you didn't see him clearly... it all happened so fast." Know who he is? How could I not know? Do they think I'm as dumb as they are? I take a long look at the unconscious figure lying on the deck. Even in that ridiculous position, he’s all man. I remember the first time we met, the spark of attraction, the double excitement of knowing who he was. And him not knowing who I was. Roses, champagne, kisses under the stars. Making him fall in love with me was easy. It always is; you tune in, figure them out, then become their mirror. Works every time. Scalding rage pumps through me as I think about the moment he came on board, pretending to be a dealer. Dealer? I'd known before I met him he was a narcotics agent.
But he never talked about his job, never told me what cases he worked on, so how could I know it was my gang he was investigating? I feel like laughing out loud as I picture his face when I stepped into the light. I saw in his eyes he wasn't going to be on my side. The shock when he recognized me, the despair, and under it—the rejection. Like, all he cares about is his job—the scumbag addicts he thinks he's protecting. His loyalty should be to me. It's a waste. Physically, he's a piece of perfection. As perfect as my Jag, my beautiful, classic XJ6, metallic blue. It could outrun anything on the road, but it broke down with the cops hard on my tail. I had a can of petrol in the boot and I set fire to it, watched the shiny paint crack, peel and turn black. It malfunctioned when I needed it. And so did he. “You mean," asks Clive, "you want us to kill him?" His voice rises on the last word. Ah. So that's what's bothering them. They think I'll wimp out because of who he is? "I've explained it to you," I say. "There's no choice." And there isn't. After all, if I'm dead or in jail, what use to me is a husband?
Alice is an IT consultant and technical writer. She enjoys travel and loves adventure sports, including paragliding and white water rafting. Alice has one daughter, two grandchildren and a collection of stray animals. She is currently working on her first novel.
Short Story
Paso de la Muerto by LJ McDowall Prior to Mexico, my heart had been broken slowly, and with agonizing tenderness, over five years by a man with scars up and down his body and worse ones on his soul. I loved him, but his heart was closed off. He couldn't let anyone close. You haven't lived if you haven't had at least one destructive love affair, but this one had gone on too long. I'd periodically put distances of thousands of miles between us. Nothing helped. I would come back to Scotland between overseas assignments and fall right back into his arms and into his bed. Javier’s personality was mostly scar-tissue. He couldn't love me. Couldn't love any woman. My stubborn love for him was something he hated me for, I think. He had taught me the Spanish of that tortured South American disaster zone he'd come from, and, sick of sojourns in Asia, I employed it by taking a teaching position in central Mexico. Javi had met that news with a cold, frustrated fury. “You’re leaving again? To Mexico? Are you insane?” “It’s a job. I can’t stay. Your love is the only thing I want from you, and it's the one thing I cannot have." “We’ve been over this. I don't love you." "You won't let yourself love, Javi. It’s safe to love, now, you know. No one will take me from you here.” "One day, Joanna, you'll meet a man who will love you like you deserve to be. I'm not that man." "This is your way of convincing me to stay?" "You're mad. Stay here. Mexico's no place for a young woman. Any woman.” "Nowhere is any place for a woman. If I stay, Javi, we'll just keep torturing one another." “You’re silly, romantic and naive. What would a sheltered girl like you know of torture? Real torture? Stop running, Jo. End this. Don't come back to me. But stay in Scotland. Rest those running feet.”
“I’m not running.” “You’re always running. Stop pulling on the skirts of Lady Death.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You run because you're unhappy with yourself. You end up with me because you feel as if you don't deserve anyone better. I've watched you for five years, and each trip you take is to some place more dangerous than the last. I’m bad for you. End it with me, but stay here. Your family would miss you if anything happened." "You end it." By this time, he'd moved me against the wall of his apartment, hands heavy in my hair. "I can't." I left the next day. *** At first the teaching position went well. My employers were lax with the immigration paperwork, but they paid me on time, so I figured all would sort itself out in time. Working in India had taught me patience with employers and bureaucracy. I'd been sent to live temporarily at the home of the director of the school where I was teaching. Then they moved me to my own apartment in Leon's University district. Living outside a Mexican family was an entirely different experience. There are some towns where the countryside encroaches. Leon was one of them. It lay the heart of charro country; cowboy country. In many ways, I fit well with that conservative, Catholic culture. I wore my father’s gift to me—an Australian stockman’s hat to keep the sun off—despite the locals thinking it too masculine. I told them I wasn’t looking for a date but made a concession to femininity by sticking bright flowers in the band. I kept my rosaries wrapped around my wrist. The loneliness though was difficult to bear. Javi’s absence in my life—as it always was—a constant, gnawing agony. I missed my family. I soon found out the restrictions on your life as a single woman. Being female there, I learned, was fine if you belonged a large tribe of badass cowboys. A teacher from the school where I worked had shown me something of that world. She’d taken me to the charrería, something akin to a rodeo, where the working horsemen of the surrounding district displayed their riding skills. To this day, I’ve never seen horsemanship like it. My horse-whisperer grandfather would
have loved it. “My husband’s a charro, and he’ll be performing soon.” “What stunts does he do?” “Well, he used to do the Paso del la Muerte.” I translated the phrase in my head. “The leap of death? What’s the ‘leap of death?'’” “You have maybe five or six horses galloping around the ring. The charro jumps from one horse to another.” “At full gallop?” “Sí.” My mind boggled. I couldn’t think of a more dangerous riding stunt. My grandfather had done something similar in 1923 with shire horses, but they were large, steady animals, not the lean, mean mustang-type animals I saw here. With a dry mouth, I asked if my friend’s husband would be performing this stunt today. “Oh no. You know, he used to do that. When we were dating. He used to do it to impress me. We’re married now, and I have two children with him. When the second was born, I said to him, ‘you’re not gonna do the Paso del la Muerte no more.’” Relief coursed through me. “I’m glad to hear it.” “I know. I just couldn’t bear the thought of him doin’ the Paso. I love him too much. He misses it, but he loves me. So he stopped.” “What a man. So what’s he doing today?” “Riding the bull.” By contrast, most conversations with Mexican men went like this: "Señorita, are you American?" "No, Señor, I'm Scottish." "Scotland! That's very far away. You must be married to a Mexican, no?" "No, Señor, I'm not married."
"Not married! Ah, but you must have boyfriend? Fiancé? Love will make you cross oceans." It had. Just not in the direction he thought. "No, Señor, no boyfriend." "No boyfriend or husband? Do you prefer women? Dislike men?" "No, Señor, I like men fine. I'm just by myself for now." "And your family. Father? Brothers? They must be here, no?" "No, Señor." "No father. No brothers. No boyfriend. No husband. Señorita, that's crazy. You shouldn't be here. Central Mexico is no place for a beautiful woman alone." "I can look after myself." "Ah! You're Scottish, of course. You have a brave heart. I liked that movie with Mel Gibson in it. Strong men, in your country. But tell me, why do they wear skirts?" I had this conversation many times. It took me a while to realize that the gentlemen were attempting to ascertain what men were around me who could "reckon" with them should they press their suit. To live in charro country was like stepping back in time one hundred and fifty years. The men, for the most part, had a civil, restrained, exaggerated politeness, with undertones of predation. I took the hint and made sure that when the sun went down I was behind a locked door. *** When you leave any country in a hurry, there’s usually a major push factor. In my case, there were two. My relationship with my employer deteriorated, and I got a first-hand lesson on why the locals thought me seven shades of crazy for coming to live in their town without a man. The previous teacher had been more pliable. I expected the children to behave and learn. The children were the scions of Leon’s wealthy families. Privileged, and used to thinking of their teachers as glorified servants. The crushing isolation was more of an issue. I’d no phone, and the time difference between the UK and Mexico was a bitch. The only time I could call was early in the
morning. So one morning, at around five am, I went out, crossed the street and tried to call them from the call box. I couldn’t get through. None of the phones were working. Frustrated, I turned to go back to my apartment and found myself facing six men. At which point I realized that an early start for me was a late night for some. They’d been drinking. One of them had a half-drunk bottle of whisky, the top of which had been broken off. Jagged edges gleamed in the lamplight. That’s when I learned first hand that if you are in a corner, with two walls on either side, someone with an edged weapon—improvised or otherwise—has an advantage. The air scented heavy with adrenaline. My fear, and their feral intent. Forcing myself to relax, I gave them a sweet, open smile. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Not what they were expecting. Spanish, clear, a little foreign. Was there fear in my voice? I hoped not. “Good morning,” said the ringleader, appraising me. His speech was slightly slurred. “American?” “No, Scottish.” “Do you like it here?” “The gentlemen are polite.” Another smile. Flirt, Jo, flirt. If you flirt, they might mistake you for a human being, not prey. “It’s different.” “Of course.” I tried to move around a little to clear a little space. They didn’t move. “You speak good Spanish.” “Yes. I’m a teacher.” “Do you drink whisky, Scottish girl? We have some whisky here.” They began to close. “My name’s Juana.” Joanna. A human being. “Not in the morning before class. I can’t go to class drunk, gentlemen. That looks like Mexican whisky.” With a broken bottle neck. “Do
you know we make the best in the world? I have some fine Scots whisky at home. You’d be welcome to come and drink it with me at the weekend.” Smile, smile, flirt. Change the channel if you can. Sweat formed at my temple. I hoped it was still too dark for them to see it. “We’d like that.” “Class starts at seven. I need to get ready for work, it’s been a real pleasure. Why not give me your phone number, and I’ll call you.” One of the other men started laughing. “She’s precious. I like her.” Shit. Broken bottle guy moved forward. I backed and hit the wall. His friend reached to grab my t-shirt and raised it to expose my breasts. I batted his hand away, catching the back of it on the arc of the bottle. The splashed alcohol burned the cut. Blood in the water for sharks to scent. No doubt now about their intent. They’d gone for my clothes in a sexual way. I was going to die. The question was how long they’d rape me first. I’d fight. They’d win. And that would be it. Prayers formed in my head. Our Father, who art in heaven. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Oh God. Dad. I’m so sorry. “You know,” came a calm, flat voice from behind them, “that’s my girlfriend. My brothers are up the stairs. I’ve just sent them a text. If you want trouble, Señores, we can provide it.” He was young. Same age as me. Lit cigarette, in one hand, cell phone in the other texting as he spoke. Not a tremble to his hands. He stowed the phone, stubbed the cigarette out and took off his glasses. The men backed off. “We were just playing. No harm done.” “She’s bleeding.”There was something sober, soft and dangerous in his voice. I caught the menace it. So did the ringleader.
“It was an accident, darling,” I said, the endearment strange on my parched lips. “No harm.” The men started joking and laughing. The young man joked too, his eyes never wavering in their merciless intent. The gang moved away. He turned to me. “Come with me. I’m a medical student. I need to see to your hand.” We sat in the stairwell. “I live across the street”. “So do I, ma’am. We cannot cross over the street while they’re still there.”The gang had taken to punching the cars all the way up the street and setting off the alarms. Windows opened and curses reigned. The student held a cloth to the cut. “You’ll need stitches. That will leave a scar.” “Thank you. For what you did. You don’t have any brothers here do you?” He shrugged. “They live across town. That was very foolish. You must never, ever, leave your house in the hours of darkness." He scribbled numbers on a piece of paper in the half-light. "If you wish to go anywhere here, this is my number, and here is the number of my brother. We’ll escort you. But never do this again. Don’t you have family who would miss you if something happened?” I left Mexico about a week later. I returned to Scotland with two bottles of the finest golden tequila I could afford. Like Scotland with her whisky, Mexico exports the dross for the rest of the world to praise and keeps the best for herself. One bottle for Dad. And one for Javi. Family first. “It’s good stuff, my dear. Was the hat useful?” “Kept the sun off. You’d better have it back, Dad.” “Its a shame the job didn’t work out. There’s a letter here for you. We opened it, we thought it might be important. That law school you applied to back in Korea has offered you a scholarship.” A fortnight later, I was back in Javi’s bed. He didn’t ask why I’d come back from Mexico early. We spent the night in a tangle of limbs and tequila-soaked kisses. We stopped making love as the first photon of dawn hit the horizon. The room lightened around us. “I’m not coming back here, Javi. It’s over. I’m going to back to Korea. To law school. I've a
scholarship to read International Law. I’ll come back home afterwards. But you and I— we’re done.” For the first time in all the time I’d known him, Javi let the guard drop in his eyes. I saw the man he might have been looking back. Respect, admiration, desire. More than a little love. Not enough to fix himself. Too scarred for that. He traced with his thumb the inchlong ridge of white scar tissue at the juncture of my wrist; my little goodbye kiss from a very Mexican Lady Death. “I know it.”
LJ McDowall is an author and poet from the West of Scotland writing from a crackridden council estate. The stories are always strange. You can find them online and in print, most recently in Spark: A Creative Anthology. LJ's first speculative fiction novel, Anathema, is being edited for publication. You can find LJ on social media @ljmcdowall and at ljmcdowall.com.
Payback by Charles Hayes Having just disembarked from a crowded bus along the only highway, I look down the scrub covered hill at Dodong’s dogged labor as I try to unwind from the long cramped ride from the city. Beneath the conical hat, his face is hidden in shadow but his upper body glistens brightly under the high sun, showing not an ounce of waste. Slogging along behind the plow and carabao, or water buffalo, its reins wrapped around his neck, he turns the black packed sod. Out on one edge of his future corn patch tall coconut and smaller banana palms run to the rocky shore of the Philippine Sea. A beautiful parcel of coastline. To see such effort as his always gets my attention in ways that bemuse me. Funny stuff---values, character, and the like. Things that are not given much shift in my rounds. Smiling to myself, I wonder at the labor such work requires and think that I’m glad it isn’t me behind that plow. What must it take to drive a man to undertake such work when a little scam here or there can reap far better rewards? Oh well, I tell myself, it takes all kinds to provide the scores for people like me. I have come here to snooker Dodong out of his Alcoy property because I know that he is in dire straits. His only child, a son, has cancer and Dodong has no money for his treatment, which is relatively easy and most times successful. Without it the boy will die. I have waited for my opportunity to get a piece of this particular coastline and now is my chance. As I reach down for my pack I notice a striking Filipina emerge from the trees on the far side of the field carrying a bucket of water. That would be Inday, Dodong’s wife, mother of the sick child. Carrying herself like the dirt under her feet is formed for her step, she closes to her husband. My my, what a piece of craft she is. This purchase could be a real pleasure. Riveted by her beauty and the thoughts that it engenders, my pack slips from my fingers as I watch their encounter. From the same full dipper of water that they share to their parting embrace when the break is over, an aura of inert passion surrounds them. I can tell that it will be easier to bring down the price of the property than to break through that aura. But then, I am very good at what I do. Even though I am a foreigner my pesos speak as well as others’ and I have my finders who keep me informed. My nice properties along the coast have shown me the value of a good finder. As Inday disappears back into the trees, Dodong picks up the reins of the carabao, takes
off his hat, and wipes his brow. When he looks up to gauge the sun he notices me and waves. His bright smile tells me that Carloi, one of my finders, has done his job. Dodong’s visions of sugar plumbs and a well child have been properly seeded. Now only to clip them without ruin. Hefting my pack and working my way down a small path through the scrub, I emerge onto the field, hand outstretched and all smiles. “Nice work, Dodong,” I say, sweeping my arm toward the furrows. “I am Tony, Carloi’s friend, and the man who is going to change your life for the better.” Dodong’s smile fades a little as his eyes hold mine and we shake hands. My little introductory pitch must have led him to cut to the chase. “This is better property than your others,” he says. “Carloi has told me of your business and I know the old owners of those properties. A piece of my shoreline with a home lot and a right-of-way to the highway will not come for the same price as your other shore lots. But I will deal with you.” Thinking that this guy speaks pretty good English for a farmer, my rosy picture of a good profit dims a little as I swiftly tack differently. “Oh I know what you say and I am ready and willing to give you better than the others. We will work it out……for the boy’s sake.” Dodong, who had been studying the sky, as if his terms were somehow written there, quickly looks back at me and a shadow seems to pass within his look. “You know about my son?" Shrugging my shoulders, I say nothing as we face each other for several moments. As if the silence between us has ordained the course of this encounter, Dodong suddenly unhooks the plow, rolls up the reins, and stands shoulder to shoulder with the huge carabao. Looking to the tree line nearest the Sea where a string of grey smoke snakes to the sky, he says, “Come, it is time to eat. We will talk more there so my wife may be included.” Without waiting for my reply, Dodong leads the carabao away and I follow. I have scored and we both know it. My touch is still sharp, but women don’t cut as easily as men. I hope the food is as good as her looks. Inday is not just your average Filipina housewife according to my finder, Carloi. Not very many years ago, just after graduating from Cebu University, she was selected to
represent Alcoy in the Miss Cebu contest and finished third. As she shuttles food and drink through an adjoining kitchen door, for the sick kid I presume, her hair accentuates a backside figure even my practiced eye finds exceptional. Gleaming like the bright black coal seams that my dad showed me in a West Virginia coal mine when I was a kid, her long ponytail gently caresses an attractive derriere. Dodong either ignores or doesn’t notice my interest, but there is something about Inday’s eyes that tell me she knows of her effect. Having just finished up a fine mid-day meal of ampalaya or bitter melon, kalabasa squash mixed with Bagio beans, and pork lechon, I am discovering that Inday is the obstacle when it comes to getting my price. Dodong does not concur on anything with me until he has her approval. And Inday confounds my many attempts to lay the tracks my way. “What you offer is not fair,” she says. “This beachfront lot is prime white sand beach and very close to one of the major beach resorts of Southern Cebu.” Before I can reply Dodong says, “She is right. It’s worth way more than you offer. If it were not for my son no price would be enough for me to let it go. But I must sell it, which you found out and now want to use in this business.” Abruptly standing from the table, Dodong continues, “Think about what is fair while I check on my carabao. We have a full load ahead this afternoon.” Dodong's exit leaves Inday and me surrounded by the sounds of silence. A gecko chirps as it skitters up a wall, birds call among the palm fronds near the kitchen window, and the distant air horn of a Ceres bus sounds out on the highway, letting future passengers know of its coming. Thinking that this may be the time to see what extra I can get for being “fair” and feeling an uncommon urge toward Inday I venture the supposition. “You know Inday, you are very good at helping your husband. And of course you little boy.” I let this remark sink in as Inday sits straight backed looking me squarely in the eyes, her face a beautiful mask of repose, her eyes pools of awareness. “There might be a way I can raise my price,” I say. “I know,” she says. “You would have to triple it.” “You know what that way is?”
“You are a foreigner and on in years but some things just are. I have seen you look at me. I know.” “If I double the price…..”, I begin, but Inday cuts me off. “No, you must triple it.” “And you would go along with that?” I say. “I would.” “What about Dodong?” “That’s none of your business,” she says. “And you must sell the property to one of your rich people and never come back to Alcoy.” Smiling and extending my hand across the table I say, “It’s a deal. A very beautiful deal.” Inday looks at my hand as if it is a curiosity then raises her eyes to mine without moving. “You will not touch me until then. And only then. Walled off from the common people, the luxury beach resort is the perfect place to sample Inday and complete my purchase. Savoring the harvest to come, I decide on a little dip to snorkel the reef and loosen up a bit before she arrives. Entering the water amid the rainbow colored fish and coral, I dive and, at the same time, keep my eye on my suite where the money is stashed and an iced bottle of nice white wine, along with two cans of caviar, grace the wet bar. She is not well known this far North and that should make my sweet treat more pliable. Yes, this deal will certainly be one to remember. Picking a plumb from Dodong’s tree adds a flavor impossible to get any other way. And the property is worth far more than it will cost me. The plum, however, is one of those gems that I consider inestimable. Bobbing in the water, goggles back, with my own thoughts of sugar plums, I notice the gate guard swing the smaller pedestrian gate open to admit someone. It is Inday and she is early. But who cares. Carrying a small briefcase and wearing a short flowered shift with a yellow sash around the waist, high heeled straps, and a brilliant white bonnet over large sunglasses, she moves down the concrete walkway like she is walking an international runway. What a way she moves. Splashing out of the water in haste I yell, “Inday, it’s me. I am so glad you are here!”
Turning to face the water, she removes her sunglasses, lifts her free hand to her hip, and watches me stumble out of the water and up to her. She does not speak. “Come, come,” I say, as I try to take her elbow, which she immediately withdraws. Taking the hint, anything to leave her beautiful feathers unruffled, I point to my suite and lead the way while talking over my shoulder. “Everything is prepared. The best.” Inday suddenly pulls up and speaks for the first time. “What is there to prepare? You do it and I let you…..after we count the money.” “God, you must be a harsh taskmaster with Dodong,” I say as I lead on and open the suite. “Have a little wine. Nibble a little caviar.” “Do not speak of Dodong,” Inday says as we cross the threshold. “Leave the wine and fish eggs. I must count the money.” Resigning myself to the basics of our business, I clear the small dining table, lay out the stacks of money, and indicate a place for Inday to sit. The picking of the plume, a main event enough, will more than suffice. Removing her hat and glasses and placing them on the bar, Inday crosses to the table and sits, briefly looking around. Seeing a large canopied bed perfectly framed by the open bedroom door, her review ends short and the coldness of her look bends to a wet warmness for an instant. Passing so quick it might never have happened, the emotion is gone as Inday opens her small case and removes the tax declaration for the property, signs it, and begins counting the money. Still in my swimsuit, I don some slippers and pour myself a glass of wine. Might as well. I hate counting money and I know that it’s all there. Finishing her count and satisfied with the result, Inday stands, kicks off her shoes and says, “Do you want to begin here or in the bed?” “However you prefer,” I say, removing my swimsuit to reveal my readiness. “I do not prefer. But I can see that that is not necessary,” Inday says as she faces me, slips the sash, and drops the shift to her feet. Naked beauty incarnate, she turns her body and walks into the bedroom. The dark hair that flows down her brown back to touch those hollows of pleasure is a magnet that pulls hard. I follow. The Bureau of Internal Revenue in Tabunok, a crowded extension of Cebu City, is one of
my least favorite places in the Philippines. But it is a place that must be tolerated if one is to deal property on the Island of Cebu. And that is just the beginning. The actual titling of a piece of property is an even longer and more tedious process, which is why most people like me, and many others, skip it all together and wheel and deal with the far simpler transfer of a tax declaration. Onerous lines snake back from the reception windows which is par for the BIR. With the inadequate air conditioning, the sweat drenched shirts and blouses of waiting people remind me of kewpie dolls wearing targets with no bull’s eyes in a carnival game. Sustaining myself through this procedure, I imagine which ones would be the easiest to knock over with my deals. It is small comfort in the heat but amuses enough to finally get me to the window. Handing over the signed tax declaration to an underpaid and over worked middle aged woman wearing a name tag that says Gloria, I say, “Guiwang, Alcoy, I’d like to change this over to my name, palihug.” Hearing her own native dialect, Gloria looks to my face and smiles. Briefly nodding her recognition, she returns her attention to the computer and enters the search for the property. Working the keyboard rapidly, her smile begins to dim. The longer she searches the further her smile falls. Looking back up at me, Gloria says with as much sympathy as her job allows, “Sir, this property is registered to a Filipina American citizen married to an American National. I don’t know who this Dodong and Inday Serinio are but they are not the owners and can not convey this property. I am sorry. Next!” “Now wait a minute,” I say, about to come out of my skin, “I paid many pesos for this property. Are you telling me I got ripped off?” “I’m afraid so, sir. It happens often. You should have come here first or used a lawyer. I wish I could help you but there is nothing I can do. Now please step aside. Next.” Livid with anger and ready to explode, I notice the security guard leave his post by the door and approach. Thinking I already have more than I can handle and need not add an arrest to it, I turn from the window and, as calm as one who is jumping out of their skin can be, walk to the exit. The guard, now back at his post, politely opens the door for me and touches his visor with his night stick. Neither seeing nor feeling the crush of humanity on the street, nor smelling the clouds of diesel fumes that accost me, I stand there looking to the gutter, like an island in the middle of a river of people. ***
At sea, halfway between the Island of Cebu and the Zamboanga Peninsula, Carloi and his wife, Inday, stand in the bow of their banglo, or family boat, watching the brazen orange horizon as the sun rises. Strung out in the waters behind them, except for Dodong’s liaison banglo off the port beam, are the many other banglos of this Sama-Bajau tribe of sea gypsies. Leaders of the tribe, Carloi and Inday try to gauge the weather ahead and determine whither they make for the nearest land or push on to Zamboanga and the Sulu archipelago. Considering that they have been at sea for two days and are carrying big loads from their sting in Alcoy, Carloi decides on land, a little rest, and a celebration in a suitable lagoon on one of the thousands of islands that are sprinkled around the Philippine Sea. As celebratory flags are hoisted above the banglos, Carloi steers for the nearest lee and some fun. Tying off the rudder once the tack is set, Carloi looks to Inday, who is watching him with knowing eyes. “You know, it has been quite a score,” Carloi says. “Impossible without your sister’s and rich American husband’s place,” replies Inday. “Pretending to have a kid in such a place was easy. I would not even pretend at sea. The waters are an only child for me.” “For me as well,” Carloi says as he looks back at the following boats and seems to consider things not of the sea. “Dodong is fat with his sweet vengeance after what that ass hole did to his cousin last year. Just fourteen. Bet she is enjoying the fruits of vengeance too.” “No doubt,” Inday says, “her life is changed and any sweetness that she can get is more than right.” Searching the eyes of his mate, Carloi asks, “What about you, Inday, did you have any feelings about it?” Moving to the seat just forward of the rudder bench, Inday runs her toes up Carloi’s large shorts and assumes a thoughtful pose. “Not like you my dear. It was a very small matter.” Carloi, igniting like a snub fused firecracker, grabs her leg, laughing while she squeals, carries her to the sleeping mid-section of the banglo and dumps her on the many cushions there. After taking a moment to appraise her delightful surrender, Carloi follows her down amid their squeals and laughter . To these sounds of the gypsy sea, off the port beam, DoDong raises the privacy flag of a couple's embrace. And smiles.
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.
Under the Radar by Bryan Grafton He’d made a day of it, all on the road after holding up that convenient store. Two states later he was exhausted. He had to stop and change license plates to the state he was in so as to not call attention to himself with out of state plates. And he had to eat and sleep. He pulled into a typical seedy shabby run down no tell motel and paid cash at the desk to a clerk that hardly even looked up at him. Gave a fake name and the number of the plates that he had lifted from the ‘89 Charger across the street parked in the minimall. The plates he put on the ‘89 Charger had been stolen from some other sucker’s car. No credit card paid cash. Of course, he would never have a credit card. He liked to fly under the radar. Become an invisible person. Never got a driver's license because it would have a picture and address. He could be traced. Always gave a fake name, address, and social security number whenever he worked at some low paying menial job. Never filed a tax form, letting the state and IRS keep all the taxes deducted. This was the price he gladly paid to fly under the radar. All the money he ever had was in his pockets so on occasion when short of funds he would rob some place or someone of their petty cash and move on. He had never been caught since he was a juvenile. The time in the juvenile facilities had honed his present lifestyle. These crimes of his were of such a small nonviolent nature that little or no effort was expended by the local police to solve them. Besides he always wore a black ski mask. Never did they see his face on any camera. They could ascertain that he had brown eyes but hell that was the most common eye color in the world. He was of average height, weight, and build. At the most all they had was a nondescript description. It was so easy that he’d just move to another state and do it again. Never did he get close to anyone, and when his luck ran out, which it always did, he’d move on. He wasn’t even sure where he was now, but it didn’t matter, tomorrow he’d be gone. He never wished for anything different. He went through the drive through and got a number one from the burger joint across the street. He always got a number one when on the run. Everyplace always had a number one. He didn’t have time for making decisions when on the run. He wolfed it down, didn’t even taste it. It was refueling silage. Then he went back to the shabby shack motel and zonked out. He zonked out while they pulled in, a young couple. They were young and in love, high on
drugs and on the run from a bank robbery. Their first robbery and they got quite a big haul as far as they were concerned, about five thousand dollars. Only problem a teller defied him and got lippy. He couldn’t stand people like that so he shot her. Shot her in the leg to just wound her and teach her a lesson. Only problem was she was shot in the femoral artery and bled to death before the paramedics could get there. They didn’t even know that they were murderers now. They pulled into the burger joint. Shoved the bags of money and their black ski masks under the seats and went inside. The clerk, as well as the customers behind them in line, were getting pretty annoyed with them as they stood and gawked at sign with all the numbered combos, not being able to make up their minds. Finally, he ordered a number six and she a number nine, to them this was gourmet dining. They dined in. Then they drove across the street to the motel. It was time to “get a room.” But first they exchanged their license plates for the ‘89 Charger plates parked five cars down from them. They knew the police had the number of their plates and decided from watching television that this was what all the cool bank robbers did to throw the cops off their trail. They got room number 205 directly above number 105, the one in which the convenience store robber now slept. For the room number 205 occupants, it was time for drugs and sex. They had money now. Plenty of money to buy drugs tomorrow. Live it up tonight, buy more tomorrow. They splurged on their drugs. The all night party had just begun. They couldn’t have wished for more. For room number 105 occupant, who had been asleep, it was time to be awakened by room number 205. Awakened by the thumpa thumpa thumpa coming from the room above him. He thought plaster was falling off the ceiling onto his bed as he got up. What weird sex thing were they doing up there? It was four a.m. for God’s sake. He knew this place was sleazy. Sex noises next door or above or below were to be put up with for awhile, but this went on and on and on. He couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t call management either. Finally he heard what sounded like a weird convoluted shriek gurgle, from a woman he thought, and then no further noise. Thank god. And it was over in room 205. She was dead, overdosed. Let out an eerie death call scream, and keeled over. As the sun rose it dawned on him that she was gone. Now the body had to be gone and he had to be gone too. For the first time in his life occupant, 205 tried to think ahead. If the police found the body they’d know he’d been here. They might even think he’d killed her for all the money. She had driven the getaway car. It was a stolen vehicle. The police did not know the driver’s gender, but the night clerk did. The cops would put two and two together. Figure
they’d be looking for a man and a woman. People had seen them at the burger place too. Time to get out of Dodge. It was five a.m. All the shops were closed. He couldn’t buy an ax and black plastic bags to hack up and dispose of the body. He really had no options. There was only one thing to do. He drug her into the tub and started sawing her apart with his old switchblade. It was tedious, hard, time-consuming work, but he got her done. Then he had to stuff the severed body parts into bags and get rid of them. What he could he stuffed in the bank’s money bags but turned them inside out first so the bank’s name was on the inside. He also used what few plastic bags the cheap fleabag motel provided. Then he took the bedspread and put all the bags in the middle of the spread, folded the edges over and tied it all up like a great big bag like Santa Claus would tote. He rinsed himself and the tub free of blood and drug his bag to the door. Now it was five a.m. Occupant number 105 now wide awake went across the street to the burger joint, now breakfast place, and got a number one breakfast. He walked out eating it as he went. Occupant 205 had drug the body bag to the dumpster and carefully lifted it up and in. Unbeknownst to him he had left a blood trail from his room to the dumpster. Blood was left on the lip and cover of the dumpster also. Then he heard it, a faint unmistakable sound. Casually, he walked to his car, got in and very carefully and slowly drove away. Number 105 approached the dumpster to throw away his breakfast trash. He heard it too. Probably just some local police business. They weren’t looking for him. Nonchalantly he lifted the dumpster lid. It was wet. He looked at his hand, blood. He looked in the dumpster and saw a bloody bedspread that had fallen open revealing the bloody bags. He picked up one of the bank bags. It dripped blood. He wasn’t paying attention when the cop joked, “Looks like we caught this one red-handed and holding the bag.” The other officer hollered down, “Here’s a blood trail right to their room, but the woman isn’t here. “She’s in here,” said the first cop pointing to the dumpster. Now for the first time in his life occupant number 105 wished he hadn’t flown under the radar. Because sometimes when you fly under the radar, you fly too low, crash and burn.
Bryan Grafton's recent stories in addition to appearing in the Fable Online appear in Volume 3 nos.3,5,6 & 7 of Romance Magazine, Frontier Tales and Rope and Wire.
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