 SetuVolume 5; Issue 11; April 2021Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
SpecialSpiritual Trail: Photo AlbumNew Talent: PoetryNew Talent: FictionAuthor of the MonthShort Fiction / FlashSerial novelSetu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual ReadingsContemporary ConcernsIn Focus: Art and ArtistExclusiveSpecial Edition: Flash Fiction 2021 Guest Editor: Kelli J Gavin |
Showing posts with label 202104E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202104E. Show all posts
Setu, April 2021
Editorial, April 2021
 |
| Sunil Sharma |
---Everybody knows that pestilences have a way
of recurring in the world, yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that
crash down on our heads from a blue sky. There have been as many plagues as
wars in history, yet always plagues and wars take people equally by
surprise.
---We tell ourselves that pestilence is
a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn't always
pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away.
---They fancied themselves free, and no
one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.
---Albert
Camus: The Plague
That
is Camus, the philosopher-artist of prophetic vision, speaking to you from
across the time-space continuum, and, finding resonance with a wounded civilization,
whatever be the geography, in present context.
What
he said in the year 1947 sounds so real, chilling and spot-on relevant to
India, and elsewhere, at a time, when the world is getting battered by a second
wave of deadlier Corona, relentless, merciless marauder (Susan Sontag, please,
excuse!). And there is little relief from depressing headlines and
statistics, expanding daily, in a sad and shocked country---and the world,
slowly getting benumbed by the rising fatalities.
Very
scary!
This
month has been heavy.
April,
cruelest month of the year, in literal sense!
I lost many colleagues and friends to the
raging pandemic. Families got hit badly and the losses are mounting across
the country. Devastation is everywhere. Sadness hangs heavy over the city and
the country. The citizens are feeling low, vulnerable and utterly helpless in
view of the rampaging pestilence and the dance of death continues unabated, on
the streets!
You
are re-living the nightmare portrayed so accurately by the seer Camus. A novel
from another era becomes a contemporary
landscape, interiority and exteriority experienced in real time; fiction,
reality!
We
pray for the departed and wish for the end of this crippling cycle of the mutant
virus afflicting India and other nations.
Hope!
It
is the best divine gift.
As
they say, the longest darkness is followed by an equally-long spell of
brightness.
It
will also pass.
Amen!
The
special section on the flash fiction---third annual edition--- is curated by
the guest-editor Kelli J Gavin, a
noted practitioner of both the short and long forms of prose narrative. Some
fine stuff here. A collection of 17 authors at their best.
You
will enjoy this form of narration, now getting recognized globally for its
tautness, economy and style, of conveying a lot in limited words, structure
meeting aesthetics in a tight format, with surprises and fast-paced delivery.
There
are other fascinating pieces, carefully selected for you in the general edition.
A
heady mix of verbal and visual.
We
remain thankful to all our contributors and Kelli for their support to a
journal that has got a joint readership of more than 2 million.
Real
landmark!
Take
good care!
Best,
Guest Editor’s Note: Flash Fiction
Greetings!
It is such an honor to be asked to be the Guest Editor for the April 2021 Flash Fiction Section of Setu. The submissions and quality of work were breathtaking. I adore that each writer in the following Flash Fiction Section shares an intricate and compelling story all within 500 words. They made harsh cuts when necessary and knew what words were needed to intrigue the reader and leave them wanting more. From memories of childhood to chance encounters. Missed opportunities and the exploration of pain and relationships. Creepy tales and tragedy. I invite you to dive in and explore the best of the best Flash Fiction stories presented to you by Setu.
Thank you to each contributing writer for trusting me with your work.
Kelli J Gavin
Setu Guest Editor, April 2021 Flash Fiction Section
Flash Fiction:
Featured Authors
|
1. The Waiting Room- by David Bowmore 2. Partners- by John M. Floyd 3.Yadama- by Dawn DeBraal 4. Abandoned- by Steve Carr 5.The Janitor- by Candace Meredith 6. No More Killing- by Jim Bates 7. Swimming To Shore After Failing To Drown Myself- by Keith Hoerner 8. I’m the Editor That Passed On Harry Potter- by Mark Konik 9. The Topography of Pain- by Amrita Valan 10. Silk- by Mehreen Ahmed 11. First of Many- by Timothy Law 12. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Turn Around- by Lynne Phillips 13. Blessings Received? - by Sultana Raza 14. It Ended This Way- by Obinna Chilekezi 15. Jaw Breaker- by Ken Goldman 16. The Answer- by Beate Sigriddaughter 17. Safe- by C.H. Williams *** |
Minotaur: Eighth Chapter (Sunil Sharma)
 |
| Minotaur (Sunil Sharma) |
Chapter 8
In a crowded, dusty street in a seedy
section of Cairo, lived the ancient Oracle. Nobody knew her age. She was a
wrinkled old woman of around 100. Her face was like a death mask, body
shriveled up but eyes were very sharp and penetrating. These are the x-ray
eyes! Thought Caesar. The woman sat erect and stiff, despite her age. Her thin
veined hands were steady and rough. Incense smoke filled the tiny room. Two dim
lights lent a sinister look to the room, almost bare and clinical, except a
prayer mat where the visitors were required to sit cross-legged. The woman sat
on a high-backed chair. A male stood quietly behind her. There was no fan. The
windows were heavily shuttered up. The air was damp and stinky. The house was
on the third floor of an old building in a crowded market. The narrow staircase
leading to the house was dimly-lit and steps uneven. The Ancient Oracle rarely
saw visitors. Caesar had pulled some strings in the right places. The Oracle
had finally agreed. Caesar had flown in disguise to Cairo two days before and
checked in the Hotel Nile in downtown. Eva Hassan had flown with him. She
wanted to see pyramids once again in the setting sun. They had registered as
Mrs. And Mr. tom fielding, two graying American tourists. Caesar had dressed
himself casually in rumpled cotton trousers and a white cotton shirt with two
pockets. A straw hat covered his head. Dark goggles covered his tanned strong
face. The deeply-lined forehead and a strong jaw-line made him look royal in
the mixed crowd of tourists and natives.
Tall Eva Hassan wore a pant suit, a
wide-brimmed hat and designer goggles. She looked elegant and charming. The
pair walked down the crowded market, savoring the oriental spices and goods
laid out in the shops. Bedouin, a famous coffee shop, they sat down and drank
coffee. Caesar smoked hookah and surveyed the scene. Arabs, many thickset and
dressed in jeans and T-shirts, lounged in the bamboo chairs, smoking hookah and
drinking coffee. Outside, the air was hot and acrid. Then he saw Ibrahim. His contact.
He was heavy set. His hair was copped. He had a long nose and darting eyes.
Caesar waved at him. Ibrahim came over and plopped down in the cane chair. He
was sweating hard. “Salam.”
Caesar nodded.
“How are you, Mr. fielding?”
“I am fine. How are you?”
“Sweating.” And he laughed. He was
wearing a thick gold chain around his thick neck. The right hand fingers were
bejeweled. Small rings studded with diamonds.
“How is your stay?”
“Good.”
“Hotel Nile is good. Americans prefer
it.”
“Suits our budget”, said Caesar.
The staff knew Ibrahim well. They
nodded at him and brought him hookah and black coffee.
“The appointment is fixed tomorrow
afternoon. I had to persuade the old lady.”
“Good. I will be there.”
At ten thousand dollars, the Oracle
could not have said no.
“Please be there. At 3 p.m. sharp.”
“Sure”.
After five minutes, Ibrahim left,
collecting his five thousand dollars in a white envelope.
“Who is he?”
“A fixer.”
They sat there for sometime and then
left.
Next day, at 3 p.m., Caesar was
ushered in alone in the room. Ibrahim waited in the outer room. The old lady
suddenly entered the semi-dark room from a side door. She sat down on her
chair. A male appeared and stood behind her. She sat there for sometime and
then made the eye contact.
The steady penetrating eyes looked at
him and held his unwavering gaze.
A chill passed down his spine. Caesar
shivered.
The eyes x-rayed a past buried deep inside his
chest. He tried to hold her fierce gaze, failed and averted his eyes. Beads of
sweat broke out on his broad forehead.
He felt an overwhelming presence of
some mysterious power greater than himself in that almost bare white room. The
way Egyptians would have felt in the presence of a pharaoh.
Abruptly, the Oracle started shaking
very badly. Strange physical transformation took place. Her body rocked
violently, eyes took on a glassy expression, and voice grew husky. The lights
dimmed and went out. The room became dark and still.
“Come here, my child”, the husky
voice muscle-packed, well-toned body.
He heard the roll of the thunder. A
dark sky. Lightening struck, illuminating a barren, ruined amphitheatre, the
steps going up to the top. The hills loomed phantom-like in the background. The
rains came down quickly, without any warning, in thick torrents. The deserted
ruins echoed with the ominous thunder and sound of the falling gray rains. The
white lightening clearly highlighted the desolation of the place where once the
gladiators fought their bloody mortal battles before a mass of blood-thirsty
hungry spectators and caged hungry tigers. The gladiators sprang up from the
centuries-old dusty arena and a deafening roar of approval went up.
The swords shone in the fierce
sunlight of a hostile Roman sky. Fighters fought courageously; the hysterical
crowds went berserk; the lions roared. The fallen gladiators were killed in the
bloody sport. And fed to the lions and tigers. The civilized and democratic
Romans, happy and satisfied and gloating, left for a night of revelry. The
roar, the din died down, everything disappeared fast. The thunder clapped. The
lightening struck.
And he saw the assassin in the trench
coat and black hat. Standing in the pelting rains. Raindrops dripping. A
solitary imposing figure. Framed against a dark threatening sky. A powerful
wind ripped part his tilting hat. The lightening struck again. He saw Death
smiling. It was hideous, the face. The kind of Reaper thing portrayed in the
medieval European art. the gaping skull, hollow-eyed, grinning idiotically,
without a nose. The assassin took aim and shot in the driving hard rain. The
flashes of the lightening kept the gloomy scene intermittently lit up.
Then, everything else disappeared, as
fast as it had come.
Then he saw Cesar, Julius Caesar,
coming as a hero in the triumphal procession. The crowds were shouting, excited
by this colorful spectacle of a triumphant Roman returning from Egypt. The air
was thick with excitement. Crowds were everywhere. Entire City had become one
single unit. Welded together by this pageant of power and wealth. The slaves
were walking down. Downcast beaten. Julius Caesar was smiling happily and
waving. The great conqueror of a land foreign and an alien queen was finally
returning at the head of the long procession. The day was clear, skies clear
blue and sunlight was drenching the scene in a soft warm light.
The Idea of March…. Julius Caesar
being attacked by a bunch of friends attacked viciously and stabled repeatedly…
You, too Brutus…
And suddenly everything disappeared.
Constantine Caesar was badly shaken
by the visions.
“Have you seen what I see?”
The husky voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Anything you want to hear?”
“Tell my future.”
The voice, almost male and deep,
croaked.
“Future was revealed to you.”
“Is it correct?” Caesar asked voice
unsteady.
“The seeds of tomorrow lie in
present. As the past lies buried in the present.”
“What should I do?”
The voice paused. The room was still
dark. Beads of sweat trickled down his spine. He had woken up from a tormenting
nightmare.
“Confront your fears. Get them before
they get you.”
The Oracle dismissed him.
Almost disoriented, Constantine
Caesar stood up and left.
Ibrahim was waiting patiently. The
late afternoon light and the din of the market assaulted his sense. Caesar took
some time to refocus on the present. They started walking, among the crowd,
towards the waiting taxis. “So?” asked Ibrahim. He was sweating profusely. “Has
she ever gone wrong?” asked Caesar. “Never .as far as I know.” The oppressive
heat was terrible. The old bazaar was coming alive- gradually.
“Why is she called an Oracle?”
“Well, Mr. fielding, why some people
are called Oracles?”
“Hmm…. They can see things we cannot,
I guess.”
Ibrahim stood up suddenly, in the
middle of the souk, forcing Caesar to stop midway. He reached for his pocket
and took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered his guests one. They lit up. Then
they resumed their short walk to the kerb, for the idling taxis.
“You got the value for your dollars?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the Oracle gets powerful
vision. All have come true. Even kings and president seek her advice.”
“Is it?” Caesar said, in mock
surprise.
“Yes. Many African dictators, French
ministers, even Yankee tycoons. She does not come cheap.”
Caesar took a long drag. The lazy
Oriental traffic passed by. He was some tourists. Americans. Searching the
orient for its mysteries. In the background stood the Grand Mosque, its
minarets glinting in the light.
“You are right. Forecasting is a big
business. It has become a global brand.” “Yes. There is a global clientele for
such gifted folks. Everybody wants their future read, told. It is a race
against fate.”
“You are pretty impressive, Mr.
Ibrahim.”
The Arab laughed. He shook hands and
said, “I observe people and listen. Good luck. Do whatever she asked you to.
Bye.”
“Yes, I will”, thought Caesar.
The news had clearly disappointment
her. But she had recovered very fast. The subtle change was noticed. They were
lying stark naked in the suite. It was late night. After lovemaking, Caesar had
told Eva about the change in plans. They were not going to Paris day after
tomorrow, as planned. They were now going to Rome.
“Why?” she had asked.
“I have some business there.”
“I should go alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will join me at Hilton
after two days.”
“That is right.”
“Why?”
“I have some business to finish
here.”
She did not say anything. He could
feel her unsaid nervousness, disappointment and, even helplessness. She became
very quiet. Lost. A wall seemed to have developed suddenly between their naked
bodies.
“You- disappointment?”
“No, no.. I was a bit upset”, she
said. A bit hurriedly, too hurriedly, he thought. Then she snuggled up to him
and started playing with his nipples. He ruffled her rich mane. “You angry?”
she asked, innocently.
“Why should I?”
She looked at him. He looked back.
Then she sat up, her breasts swinging.
“Can I ask you one question?”
He eyed her. Then said, “Go ahead.”
“Why are you so insecure? All the
time?”
He smiled and propped himself in the
pillows, face cupped in his broad hands. “Am I so transparent?” she said
softly, “Yes. A man is. To his wife or mistress. He can never hide his true
self from his woman.” Caesar laughed and then sat back. “All that stuff
intuition. Sixth sense. Woman sense. “She was serious. “I mean it.” He looked
at her, face serious, “tell me more- about you.” Her eyes searched him. For
clues. There were none. His face was the usual mask of inscrutability. Nothing
there. Eyes devoid of feeling. Just neutral.
“I find you often, kind of very
strange. Remote. Aloof.”
“Chasing my own demons?”
“True.”
“Honey, those with demons have no
option but to chase them, always. Otherwise, the demons will gobble them up. As
simple as that.” “You have already left behind your past.”
“I have. The only problem is, the
past has not left me behind. It always catches up.”
She stared at him. Then dropped her
gaze. “Why are you so paranoid?”
“What?” he exclaimed, really
surprised.
“You see enemies where they do not
exist. It is not good for you, for any guy. Especially, for a leader.”
Caesar was struck by her sincerity,
the sincerity of a woman’s heart. He stroked her back. Then softened up.
“Eva.”
“Yes, my dear.”
Caesar pulled her towards him and
kissed her lightly. She glowed.
“I will tell you one thing.”
“I am ready, my Sultan.”
He laughed, pleased.
“I never married. Never got the time.
I was sucked into a vortex. I slept with many women. But I could never settle
down in a stable marriage. No heir. No family. I was devoted to my cause. My
country. I made mistakes. We all do.”
“I know”, she whispered.
“Then I got deposed. Booted out. I
just survived. The same plagues visited me on this island also. Naturally, old
fears, old anxieties return.”
“I understand.”
Caesar kept quiet. “Statecraft is not
very different from mafia. You have to be ruthless, in order to remain at the
top. Call it like that. Darwin called it survival of the fittest. Some call it
a jungle. Apt descriptions.”
He looked at her again.
“As long as power is going to be
exercised by a lucky minority, the privileged few, the imbalance will always be
unsatisfactory for the majority. A few cannot rule over the majority for very
long. The majority are bound to rise up one day or the other. The man at the
top, caught precisely at that moment, is going to be the first victim. Louis of
France, you remember?”
“Yes.” She said quietly.
“It is very much like the golden
bough. You are there defending it with a sword. Then somebody comes and beheads
you.”
“So, these are your demons?”
“Yes. Leaders, charismatic leaders,
often die violent deaths. Their charisma often attracts equal hatred. A fanatic
assassin then kills that leader.”
“And, what about leader in
democracy?”
“Democracy?” he laughed. “It is all
sham. Another name for the rule of a few over the many. These second-rung
leaders fade away and die pathetically.”
“How?”
“These ordinary leaders cannot last
their days outside the charmed circles of power. They die unsung and obscure.”
“Is there no escape?”
“A just society. Which is a chimera.
All of us are doomed. You have to be tough. If you are not, then death awaits…”
She hugged him and locked her lips
with his. “Let us change the subject. Come on, I am hungry”, she said.
They met again as planned. Caesar
checked in the Hilton in the late morning. He was aloof and quiet, preoccupied.
Eva was also withdrawn. Early March had set in. the city shone in the bright
light. They lunched together, talking little. The he said, “evening we go to
visit the amphitheatre. Be ready.” Then he went out, without any word. Eva
waited for long and finally dozed off.
Late evening sun, an orange disk,
bathed the Colosseum in golden light. Emperors Vespasian and Titus had gifted
this great architectural marvel to the world. Completed in AD82, Rome’s
imperial amphitheatre could seat 50,000 Romans. They came here to watch the
gladiators’ spectacular fights. Eva Hassan and Caesar were thoroughly enjoying
the ruins, majestic but forlorn, where once sat huge crowds watching people
fight to death. Eva Hassan took pictures. Very few tourists were there by now.
The dusk was gathering fast. It lent an eerie feel to the place. A kind of
crying desolation that evenings generally bring to historic places. A kind of
loneliness that can be awfully frightening for a city-dweller. The massive
structure that had dominated mere mortals for centuries soon grew silent,
echoing with a howling sharp wind. The sky had turned ominously dark. He felt
mesmerized by the sheer monumentality of the old building. History seeped
through its pores. A powerful cold wind buffeted his bare broad face. It made
an eerie sound in the deserted corridors, sweeping the rusted passages with
increased violence, adding to the desolation of centuries lying curled up in
damp neglected corners. Then he felt the sudden absence. Eva Hassan was not
with him. He looked around. There was no trace of her. He waited for ten
minutes. Then felt alarmed. He shouted her name. His voice came back in the
vast ruins like an empty beggar on a lonely road. He shouted and shouted. Then
he began desperate search for the missing. The wind had grown stronger by now. It
rushed in, hissing like a released she-demon. Darkness was making his frantic
search difficult in that ruined vast space. He felt quite panicky.
Then the distant thunder rolled in
and clouds obscured the early moon. And then, abruptly, it started raining.
He was desperate. Rain drenched him
completely.
“Hullo, Caesar?”
The lightening struck just then. The
dazzling white light revealed a figure in a trench coat. A tall, lean figure
almost his height stepped from the shadows, hands deep in trench coat.
“Hullo, Mark?”
They stood facing each other. Mark
stood three steps above Constantine Caesar.
“I promised we will meet again.”
“Yes, said Caesar. “I could figure it
all out.”
“We never doubted your intelligence.”
“And I never doubted your perseverance.”
They stood there, partly swallowed in
the gloomy shadows, hit by driving rain.
“So you survived the attempt, Mark?”
“Yes. It was my double. I learnt it
from you.”
Caesar laughed. “Somehow, the way you
staged your death left some lingering doubts. I pondered over the way you faked
death. So simple. No resistance. It was intriguing. It did not fit with your
profile at all. Then the bombings, the messages, the bull as a symbol…….Well,
it all added up.”
Mark Livingstone, raised from the
dead, loomed large over Constantine Caesar. His expression was grim, face set,
eyes cold. The years in the cold had certainly taken a toll. He looked lean and
fir, but gaunt and possessed. The trench coat added a touch of the unreal to
his tall frame. The rain poured down his hat and trench coat that flapped in
the strong wind. They stood like that, two lonely equally-matched figures,
locked in a deadly stand-off.
My counter-foil. Thought Caesar.
The new flash of lightening ripped
apart the gloomy leaking sky. The colosseum echoed with the thunder that came
rolling down and shook the empty ruins where the gladiators once fought
bitterly…..
Caesar could hear their pitched
battles and cries of the wounded and the fallen fighters while the
blood-thirsty crowds shrieked and went wild… he could feel History at that
moment.
“Yes, Caesar”, Mark said in a clear
voice. “I thought I should confront you suddenly. Then, appalled by your
brutalities, I decided to warn you, through the symbol of Minotaur, the poster
that you found. I was leaving a trial consciously. I wanted to fight a worthy
forewarned adversary.”
“I appreciate your sense of heroism.”
“You are a fine man who went wrong
later.”
Caesar laughed. “Thanks for the
judgment.”
“No, I mean it. I read everything on
you. I followed you from a distance. You did a lot for your country. Your
intentions were good. Then power went to your head. You could never stand any
opposition. You killed everything- so that you could cling to power. Then the
people threw you out. Afterwards you raped my people and island. There nothing,
no checks and balances, nothing of the sort you find in developed countries,
and you announce yourself a king. And kill everybody, without any
scruple…conscience… that pained me a lot…”
“If you are here for a lesson in
ethics and morality, then we should head for the nearest bar and chat over
whisky.”
Mark eyed him coldly. “No. I just
wanted to be even. I wanted to talk to you for last many months. The way you
want to talk to your worst enemy before bumping him off.”
“You are wrong there!” said a hoarse
voice. Mark Livingstone slightly turned around, his hand whipping out pistol. A
short and squat man had materialized from the wet, shivering shadows being
whipped by the Constantine rain. A very wet and terrified Eva Hassan was also
dragged behind him by another man. “Drop your gun, Mark”, Caesar said. “If you
do not, your baby mole dies.”
Mark Livingstone looked at the
beautiful woman being dragged in the driving rain. He looked uncertain for few
seconds. Again the tall and lanky man surveyed the scene. Then he took a
lingering last look and then dropped his gun. The squat man picked it up,
pocketed it with his free left hand, searched Mark thoroughly and then pointed
his gun at the enemy of his master. Caesar spoke softly.
“Sorry, mark. It was a trap laid down
by me. You simply walked in. shows you are not a born killer. No sensitive
contemplative man ever is. Toughness comes from within.”
Mark Livingstone said nothing. He
stood defiant.
“I had this gut feeling- lately I
would say- I was being compromised. The needle turned towards this bitch, I ran
and reran the circumstances under which we met. Confirmation came half-an-hour
ago. I had deliberately changed my plans. I told we are going to Rome. I said
that to check her loyalty…”
Eva Hassan, by now standing, looked
blank, as if thunderstruck.
“I sent her two days before. Then I
joined her. A private eye hired by me followed her movements closely.”
Eva Hassan balanced. Mark stood stock
still. Caesar’s voice had that hollow sound, a sound that terrified people
close to him, a kind of raving sound heard in a nut house. Caesar appeared
lonely and forlorn. A man cheated. He paused and then said in a clinical voice,
“She made three calls from a public booth. Then, next afternoon, she met you in
a small restaurant. Every action on camera. Clicked by the dick. My fears got
confirmed. You were in disguise. I was not very sure about you. An old
doddering bewhiskered man talking to his favorite niece- that kind of set-up.
Then I told her about our visit to the Colosseum in the evening. I slipped out.
She made a call from the hotel. The clerk was of course bribed. He gave me the
number. The phone was already bugged, you know.” He looked at Eva an spat, cold
eyes glittering. “We heard the conversation. The number was also traced.
Registered in the name of a local body, some old land lady who rents out room’s
to visiting tourists- that kind of crap. I felt betrayed. I had come to like
her. This bitch. She cheated me badly.”
They listened in the pounding rain.
Caesar added, “I respect you, mark. I always respect worthy adversaries who are
equal to me and very brave. But you are not a born killer. Circumstances were
different for you. I come from a totally different background. History caught
me at a moment that was- almost revolutionary. Caught me in the crucible.
Cataclysmic change. I just happened to be there. Yours were different from mine.
A peaceful island where you lived as a white king. The benign face of
colonialism.”
Mark moved. The squat man hit him
with the gun. Blood started pouring down from Mark’s head.
“You are terribly lonely person,
Caesar. Lonely and wretchedly alone. Fleeing from the ghosts of the past”, Mark
said.
“I pity you, Caesar.”
Caesar said nothing.
“You are also insane. Your burden is
double. A disgraced leader. A lonely soul. An insane man.”
“Go on. You have only few minutes
left.”
“A man gets insane if he no longer
listens to his conscience. When he allows to silence dissidence. When he
murders democracy. When he carries blood of innocents.”
“Kill him.” Barked Caesar, a raw
nerve touched.
“Wait.”
“Why? Afraid of your death? Or want
to say Prayers?”
“No. Leave this woman. You have
enmity with me. She is innocent.”
“I am in control. She was part of the
conspiracy. She goes with you. I am not taking chances. Say your last prayers.
Bye.”
Caesar left abruptly. Two gun shots
echoed, muffled by the rains.
The Zulu mercenaries had done a neat
job.
Two days later Constantine Caesar was
back- where he belonged.
He was sitting in his office. The
March sun was streaming from the French windows. The mid-morning was quiet. The
island was calm. A soft breeze was blowing in. the vast office was decorated in
European style. Book cases were lined against the walls. A thick red carpet
covered the wooden floor. Behind the vast mahogany table in the corner, away
from the French windows, sat the emperor on a high-backed chair. The table was
bare except a couple of telephones. Two Labradors lay stretched out beside the
table. Outside, it was pleasantly cold. The date palm trees could be seen in
the background-swaying like drunks.
“You called me, Sire?”
Caesar nodded. “Come in.”
Chameleon entered and bowed politely.
“Please, take a seat.” Caesar
gestured towards the far-off plush sofa, at the other end of the office.
Chameleon obeyed. He sat down expectantly on the edge, calm and composed. A
pretty European secretary- a new trophy- entered with two mugs of hot coffee
from the side door. She put down the cups on the center table and withdrew.
Efficient and unobtrusive as they go.
Caesar stood up, crossed over, and
sat down on the adjacent sofa. Unusual. Thought Chameleon.
“Everything under control?” Caesar
asked.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Drink your coffee, please.”
They finished coffee silently. Caesar
was very quiet.
“Chameleon?”
“Sire.”
“Why you wanted me dead?”
“What?” the little man’s jaws fell
open.
Caesar clamped his gaze upon the face
of his visitor. As usual, his eyes were hypnotic, the eyes of a man who had
ruled over millions. None could hold that powerful gaze for even a second.
Chameleon did not try to look back. “You were my trusted aid. You wanted me
killed. Why?”
“I think you are mistaken…”
Caesar said nothing. “Go ahead.”
“I never wanted you killed. Why
should I?”
Game is up. You were under
surveillance for last six months. I sent you to Paris on a pleasure vacation.
My eyes followed you there. Everything was done very professionally, of course.
There you met a person who faintly resembled Mark Livingstone.”
Chameleon went a shade pale. Cesar
noticed it.
“I trusted my life with you. Promoted you as
the chief of my security. I came to like you. And here are you. Betrayed me to
a total stranger. Acted like Brutus, ha!”
Chameleon went totally pale. Caesar
had never seen the assassin so frail and nervous. Fear!
Finally Chameleon spoke. “Yes. I
wanted you murdered.”
“Why?”
Chameleon had recovered fast. He
spoke slowly, haltingly, in a far-off voice, face white.
“Why I wanted you killed? Simple….
You are a man I saw closely…. Transformed. Transformed into an ugly monster.”
Caesar said nothing. He looked
remote. Like a bored man watching long, predictable ritual, a rerun of events
hauntingly familiar, and therefore, terribly banal.
“Why? Here is the why. You raped my
young pretty wife. You saw her in a ball dance at your palace. A young pretty
20-something, innocent woman you took a fancy for. Called her to your palatial
bedroom and ravished her. A secret camera filmed the rape. Then you blackmailed
her. The poor thing got raped repeatedly by you. She was awfully terrified.”
Caesar spoke, voice impersonal. “I
never rape. Women offer themselves to me. They always find me irresistible. She
found you rather uncouth and repulsive.”
Chameleon laughed derisively.
“She told me everything. While I
worked outside the country, doing your dirty work of bumping off the
inconvenient opponents, you f**ked my precious wife. You threatened to kill me.
One night she explained everything. She felt so guilty and responsible. Blamed
herself, her beauty, her luck. Said it was all her fault. Next day she
committed suicide.”
Caesar was unmoved. His stare was
icy.
“I just felt helpless. I saw her body
being fished out of the cold river. January fog had enveloped the whole town.
The trees stood white. The river looked heartless, unforgiving, and cruel. Her
body was recovered after a long search operation. I cried for the first time. I
could not do anything against you……”
Caesar stood up and strolled down to
the French windows. Sun streamed down in a pure cascade o gentle white. Cold
wind blew in. a very peaceful island scene.
“You accuse me of things that you
have also committed. Slept with the wives of so many people, including your own
pals. “I never raped.”
“Ha. Ha. One cuckold’s rape is
another man’s open flirtation. Women fall all over me. Power and masculinity
make a deadly combination. Women hardly resist such a combination.”
They fell silent. Bird song could be
heard in the background. Caesar stood there watching the tranquil scene. Then
he returned and sat down behind hi shard-backed chair- the throne. “Go ahead.”
Chameleon stood up and started pacing
up and down the carpeted floor. A condemned man who had nothing to fear now.
“You did not stop there. In fact, you
never stopped. Raped married women. Young girls. In hotels, restaurants.
Everywhere. Just a fiend. Insatiable. In search of new flesh. New sensations.
Something new to arouse your dead soul. New pleasure. Fresh female bodies.”
He stopped pacing and faced the
dictator. “Nobody could stop you. They were all afraid. Of you. Your army and
police. Your mad ways. The country famished. You threw lavish parties. Spent
fortune on your wardrobes. Raped the country as well.”
Caesar laughed loudly. “Then you
decided to stop me. Take your sweet revenge. For raping your innocent wife. For
her murder. What nonsense!”
Chameleon looked at him with
contempt. “You are a shameless bastard.”
Caesar was amused. “Really? The fact
is you could never satisfy your young bored wife. She was a nymph. You were
just a hired killer.”
Chameleon stood rooted to the ground.
Raging within.
“She told me… what a real man I was
in bed. Biting her slim naked back. Biting her ear lobes. She went crazy. I
could satisfy the woman in her. All her pent-up fantasies. Women need to be dominated
in bed. I thrashed her, bit her small breasts….”
Chameleon snapped. “You
son-of-a-bitch. You murderer. I will kill you, bastard.” He hurled himself at
the table. Caesar pressed a button. On cue, his bodyguards rushed in and caught
a panting, deranged attacker in their vice-like grip.
“Take him away. Shoot him. Feed him
to vultures”, shouted Caesar.
“You are a living monster. A vampire.
You kill friends, women, beloved, strangers. You have no shame. No conscience…”
The guards dragged him away. The dogs,
already excited, barked furiously at the sudden melee. Caesar commanded them to
sit down.
“Et tut, brute.” He exclaimed.
He took out a Havana and lit it up.
The rich aroma of the cigar filled the vast room.
It was his way of relaxing after the
completion of a successful operation. Henry VIII killed his perceived enemies.
Stalin did that Nietzsche was the only philosopher who understood the true
mindset of a superman and justified violence. That is why Hitler liked the
German philosopher very much.
The leader has to kill- in order to
survive. Be it Chengis Khan or Milosevic, they have to do it. If you do not,
they will kill you. Che Guevara is one such example.
His mind wandered away. After some
time, he played Mozart on the audio system. It always soothed his jumpy nerves.
His European secretary appeared.
“Coffee?”
He smiled his gentle smile. A smile
that has always melted women.
“No thanks Jane. I need a woman like
you. Very badly. It is ages since I have made love to a pretty woman like you.”
She blushed, her freckled thin face
reddening.
“Come on. The emperor needs his
empress. My new empress. I want to settle down. And raise a family. Can you
give me a family?”
The young inexperienced middle class
woman was already dazed. And willing. Caesar whirled her around. Lifted her up
and gently took her to his master bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, gunshots
echoed. Birds flew away, making a combined racket.
The naked woman beneath his heaving
sweaty body shuddered by the report of the gunfire. “What happened, my lord?”
She said, eyes closed, half in
ecstasy. “Oh nothing! They killed a wild animal on the island.”
It happened fast.
Caesar was reading a book. Tired, he
got up from his throne and decided to take a walk on the grounds outside his
office. He asked the two bodyguards to walk the dogs and then chain them up.
The two bodyguards disappeared. It was mid-morning. The air was light and
pleasant. The sun was not very hot. He strolled for twenty minutes. Then he
started climbing the steps.
“Caesar!”
He spun around. And saw the ghost!
Buntu!
The trusted lieutenant of the white
Harara. Caesar had encountered two years ago on the island. Buntu who had
boldly faced the invaders and stood up to Caesar. Both Gorilla and Caesar had
interrogated the native Harara to know about the whereabouts of Mark who had
fled the island in most unheroic way. They had tried to extract the information
from Buntu but in vain. The courageous man refused to buckle down. He had given
the bare facts of his leader’s disappearance: the spider monkey had alerted a
vigilant white Harara who had made his escape. Where?
Nobody knew.
Gorilla wanted to kill the short
native. Caesar had turned it down. He did not want to antagonize the local
tribe at that point of time. They had left him for dead. Buntu was no palpable
threat to the fresh occupiers, so thought Cesar at that time. They were heavily
armed. The hi-tech arsenal was enough to wipe away the entire island. The
arrows-n-javelins of the tribals were no match to the sophisticated guns and
bombs of the invaders. Buntu was a mere minor figure. An aborigine. A relic of
the past. Totally irrelevant. The real threat was Mark Livingstone- the benign
face of the Western colonialism. The true leader of the natives. Therefore,
Caesar had allowed him to live on the margins, this little native.
Pursue the leader. Lieutenant are
insignificant. Their appeal flows from the charisma of the Leader. Their
existence is dependent upon their leader only. They are second-rate men living
in the shadows of a great man. Neutralize the Hero and these insignificant men
are automatically neutralized.
So Buntu was allowed to live, made
ineffective and useless, in the absence of his leader.
That proved the costly mistake for
Caesar.
“You?” Caesar said, stunned.
“Yes. Buntu. The true heir, the true
leader of the locals. Say your prayers.”
Buntu aimed his revolver at Caesar’s
legs. “Your time is up!”
The insignificant little aborigine
shot the alien master, the usurper, the colonizer, in his legs. Caesar
collapsed. The guards came running, weapons drawn. “Drop your guns, or your
master dies”, said the challenger, voice clear and authoritative, posture
defiant. The short squat figure looked totally odd in the vast palatial
building. A solitary, fearless figure dwarfed by the huge palace of the badly
injured occupier, now fallen. They dropped down from the trees that bordered
the periphery of the sprawling gardens. They wore war paint and the green
camouflage that allowed them to blend well with natural surroundings. The band
of natives disarmed the guards and shoved them to the basement of the palace.
Meanwhile Buntu kept the gun trained on the heart of the bleeding Caesar.
Entire operation was over within few seconds. Idea of March! Beware!
Julius Caesar being attacked before
the Senate steps by a group of attackers.
Beware of the ghost!
The Oracle at Cairo had predicted at
the end of the meeting. A warning that had puzzled the seeker of the future
that time. He had tried to figure it out. Then had forgotten the ghost part
totally. Already he had confronted his fears and neutralized his visible
enemies. And in the process, forgotten about minor characters. He had gotten
indifferent on this day. His enemies were eliminated. He was safe. Very mush
like Delphi’s Oracle, the forecast had come to stay.
Constantine Caesar, former doctor who
became president of more than 50 million people of New land, and, later on, the
emperor of an island in South-Pacific Ocean, lay dying before his office, in a
farcical replay of history. He realized the futility of all this power chasing.
You cannot tamper future. The seeds of future lie in today! An individual
cannot change his ordained destiny. What is predicted cannot be altered by the
individual.
Somebody had once remarked, all
dictators are born to self-destruct. Some got deposed. Some got shot. Some
faded away, assigned to the dustbin of History. They never died happily.
“I take over this island of ours,
reclaim it again, in the name of the people of the island our beloved Hararas.”
Buntu cried out loudly and clearly. “Long live our new king, one of our own.”
The Hararas shouted, tears streaming down their sunken cheeks. They had won the
precious freedom, at last.
Buntu took aim and shot Constantine Caesar neatly in heart. At that time, Caesar was thinking of his family, parents and a happy childhood, all buried deep in recesses of his mind. He herd sweet piano being played by his dear pale-faced thin sweet mama many years ago in a distant time and place now lost forever…when he was so happy frolicking in the sun-dappled courtyards of a vast mansion, chasing squirrels and frogs and running like wind in countryside followed by his muscular dad on a bike, cheering the kid as most dads do everywhere…then trembling fogs rolled down and blurred and obscured everything in its trail in that grey fleeting changing landscape .. then his mind became blank…..
Swimming To Shore After Failing To Drown Myself - by Keith Hoerner (Flash Fiction 2021)
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. He is no stranger to lit mags and will publish his memoir, The Day The Sky Broke Open, with Adelaide Books, New York/Lisbon, in 2021.
Swimming to Shore After Failing to Drown Myself
by Keith Hoerner
I.
Foam sloshes ’round my scuffed black leather wingtips, laps up the ankles of my rumpled dress slacks, turns khaki to the color of murky brown. Onlookers furrow their brows, incredulous I do not see I am in danger of drowning, that if I do not make a move for it, the water will continue to rise until it covers my soon-to-be-bald head. What they do not realize is I have already failed at drowning (and floated a near corpse ashore). Can they not see my sopping clothes; the now sea-weed green tweed jacket; my wrinkled, white translucent skin? This water is returning to the sea. I have survived my Biblical Flood. I am coming up for air, not suffocating. My exploded lungs have been cauterized; I now breathe shallower: but calm and sure.
II.
I look for you, but waves wash you to another shore, an island uncharted, perhaps, to inhibit me from finding you. Did you suffer so? Rather than buoy you up, did my selfishness climb squarely on your shoulders and thrust you downward? Push you under into the electric bosom of a bloom of pulsing jellyfish… until it was you who passed away? Or did your shocking beauty simply meld with theirs, escaping me as I first wondered? My hope is you did get away. My prayer is that you are dry and safe and content. Even if it means I cannot be with you.
III.
I may not be dry, but I am drying out. I have always had a dry sense of humor, a British sense of humor, I like to think. Admittedly, I can be droll. My odd obsession with court jesters remains a curious thing. Was it their tomfoolery or their role in history? I don’t know. Whatever it might be, you used to laugh at me more than the TV. I cannot hear you laughing now. So it begs the question: when did you turn it off? When was it you stopped laughing? Or was it me – in one of my sardonic rants – who thought he had had the last laugh?
IV.
You were always a giver. The problem is I’m a taker, was a taker… for what it’s worth. And givers and takers are a mismatch. I did what takers do; I took all you had to give, emptied all your pockets and filled them with rocks: one for each of my character defects. So you stretched out your arms and tried to swim away, but sank. Yet upon the first swirling rush that separated my grip on you, you dropped my rocks and swam untraceable among the camouflage of coral reefs. So, here I am.
V.
Yes, I stand. I’m not buckled at the knees as before or dead as expected. The lifeline you threw me caught ’round my neck, but it worked. It was the one time when looking in the end of a bottle, I actually saw a ship, and with it the possibility of steerage to a new land… dry land. Its pasted, miniature masts and cotton-twill sails still able to bear my living freight and move me to a healthy destination. You equipped me to survive the flood in the face of self-harm. How can I repay you? By letting you go? By not even thinking to follow you?
VI.
The small ship, pulled out for embarkation, is now crushed to bits beneath my feet. Peer close, and I might even pass for the Giant Polybotes, bane of the God Poseidon, standing on a shipwreck from the battle of Nisyros. A broken bow floats out to the Aegean Sea. An anchor pulls the splintered spine of this ark into the pit of a dark swell. I was supposed to find Terra Firma by Noah’s mandate as one of a pair. I beg you. But I’ll force myself to understand, if I am to go at it alone.
VII.
If it is what you need, I will unabashedly say it aloud, “I no longer drown myself in bottles anymore, thanks to you.” So I will stay clear of the companionway and wish your sails full billows to get you to your place of secret solace. I will not follow you. But I will always think of you. And if you will allow, I will tightly scroll this missive and slip it into this bottle here, then toss it far in the direction I hope will one day reach you.
No More Killing - by Jim Bates (Flash Fiction 2021)
Jim Bates lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories and poems have appeared in nearly three-hundred online and print publications. His short story “Aliens” has been nominated by The Zodiac Press for the 2021 Pushcart Prize. His collection of short stories Resilience was published in early 2021 by Bridge House Publishing and Short Stuff, a collection of his flash fiction and drabbles will be published by Chapeltown books in 2021. Periodic Stories, a collection of thirty-one stories based on the periodic table was published by Impspired in early 2021. In addition, Something Better, a dystopian adventure, will be published by Paper Djinn Press in 2021. All of his stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.
No More Killing
by Jim Bates
“It’s not fair,” Frank Nelson complained to his brother Steve a few weeks after the funeral. They were having beers at The Swamp, the local watering hole for the northern Minnesota town of Woodtick. The irony of Maggie having been killed by a drunk driver was not lost on them, and his pain was undeniable, “It was not fair at all.”
Frank was a burly man who wore his hair long, had a full beard and dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans no matter what the weather. He was an independent logger, one of the last in the area, and a macho guy if there ever was one. But tonight, he wrapped his gnarled hands around his bottle of Bud and tried not to cry, “Lord, Steve, I miss her so much.”
Three miles away at their cabin in the woods Frank’s ten-year-old son Neil lay in bed crying. He missed his mom. He missed the way things used to be.
Two months later the father and son were slowly coming to grips with the tragic loss to their family. Neil went to school while Frank cut timber in the forests. Together they shared responsibility for the large vegetable garden Maggie planted before she died.
Neil’s job was to weed, and Frank’s was to “keep the varmints away” as he put it. He used a .22 rifle, dispatching squirrels, chipmunks and the occasional rabbit with abandon. Much to his son’s horror.
“Dad, do you really have to do that?” Neil pleaded, just before his father fired at a rabbit nibbling on some carrot tops. He missed and the rabbit ran off.
“Damn.” Frank lowered the gun and looked his son straight in the eye. “Yeah, I do. It’s your mom’s garden. I owe it to her.”
Neil didn’t want to say anything to anger his father. Experience had proven he had a quick temper, but the longer the killing went on, the more it bothered him.
One day, Neil watched sorrowfully as his father raised his rifle on a rabbit.
The animal froze. Frank locked in on the rabbit’s eyes. He noticed a twinkle in one of them as the little cottontail slowly blinked.
Frank thought then of his beloved wife, gone these past months. He missed her so much. What would she think of him taking his anger and frustration at her death out on poor defenseless creatures? The answer was obvious. She’d hate it.
Frank lowered the gun. Neil stepped up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder, "Dad, are you okay?"
Frank put his hand on his son’s, "I am. But I've had it. No more killing."
"What are you going to do?"
Frank walked to the garage, put the rifle in a vice and picked up a hacksaw. "What's it look like?" He pulled the blade across the barrel and began sawing.
"Good," his son grinned with relief, "I liked that bunny." He hurried to grab his own saw, "I'll help.”
The Janitor - by Candace Meredith (Flash Fiction 2021)
Candace Meredith earned her Bachelor of Science degree in English Creative Writing from Frostburg State University in the spring of 2008. Her works of poetry, photography and fiction have appeared in literary journals Bittersweet, The Backbone Mountain Review, The Broadkill Review, In God’s Hands/ Writers of Grace, A Flash of Dark, Greensilk Journal, Saltfront, Mojave River Press and Review, Scryptic Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V and various others. Candace currently resides in Virginia with her son and her daughter, her fianc├й and their three dogs and six cats. She has earned her Master of Science degree in Integrated Marketing and Communications (IMC) from West Virginia University.
The Janitor
by Candace Meredith
They studied at the library together… from outside he could see a janitor sweeping the walk.
“I’ve never seen him before,” he said while looking quizzically beyond the glass.
“Who?” She asked.
“The janitor. Cleaning the sidewalk. Can’t you see him?” He laughed.
“Dude, there’s no one there.”
“What do you mean? He’s right there.”
And when he looked again, she was right – there was no one there. They left the library with a chill in the air. Fall had come early. She relished in the crisp air thinking of the coming holidays. He missed summer and was thinking about his swim meets when he saw him again. He was alone this time, and the janitor was alone as well. They turned to face one another. The janitor was unkempt with disheveled hair, some missing teeth, and he hunched severely.
“You come here.” He said with the wave of his finger. He stood transfixed but his curiosity pushed him forward. He took two steps closer.
“I’ll tell you the secrets of the universe.” The Janitor said and he smiled.
“Who are you?”
“What do I look like?”
“Well…”
“But that’s not important. What’s important is that I pass on this secret.”
And he leaned forward into his left ear and the janitor told him his secret and he gave a nod as if he understood and the janitor patted him on the back and went back to his duties; he swept leaves across the walkway and the students filed outdoors, all around him, with none appearing to take notice.
“Who were you speaking with?” A professor stopped before him and he turned back…
“I saw you talking… or it looked like you were talking ….”
“There was a janitor… he must have worked here…”
The professor looked perplexed, shrugged, and went on his way. When she returned he showed her the pile of leaves he had swept and when he knelt down he found a stone in the shape of a cross fastened to a piece of wood like a pendant and she took it from him, held it to her palm, “It’s very warm,” she said, looking at it strangely.
“God comes to us in all forms.” He said and took the cross between his fingers.
“What?” She asked.
“The secrets of the universe.” And he stood in awe as she shrugged and walked away too.
Abandoned - by Steve Carr (Flash Fiction 2021)
Steve Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 490 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June, 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories, Sand, Rain, Heat, The Tales of Talker Knock and 50 Short Stories: The Very Best of Steve Carr, and LGBTQ: 33 Stories, and The Theory of Existence: 50 Short Stories, published. His paranormal/horror novel Redbird was released in November, 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/ He is on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977
Abandoned
by Steve Carr
The upscale restaurant wasn’t very busy. I had slid the engagement ring on Jenny’s finger only minutes before. I did it with as little formality as possible, not getting down on one knee and barely waiting for her to say “yes,” which she did reluctantly, as if I had just asked her to join me in a suicide pact. I then launched into a true story I thought she would find funny. Asking her to marry me and relating the story the same evening, and back-to-back, seemed like a good idea at the time.
“It was a freak snowstorm,” I began. “I went into a club early in the evening when flurries were coming down and by the time I left the club at two in the morning, there was like four feet of snow on the ground. I was very drunk and had forgotten where I parked my 1968 fire engine red Mustang convertible.”
She was holding a glass of expensive red wine to her lips, staring at me wide-eyed over the edge of the glass, like an owl eyeing its unsuspecting prey. We had only known each other for three months and were still learning one another’s non-verbal cues, but I continued on.
“The car was a classic, and I loved it, but it was mostly a heap of junk that cost a lot in upkeep,” I continued. “I wandered around for a short while but never found it. It might have been towed off by the police or stolen. I caught a ride home with a friend and forgot all about it. I didn’t even bother trying to find it after that.” I chuckled lightly, an invitation for her to do so also.
She lowered the glass of wine. “You just abandoned your car that easily?” she said, her words coming out as if she had just taken a bite from a lemon.
“Well, I didn’t really abandon it,” I said, defensively. “I just sorta misplaced it.”
“Has that happened a lot?” she said.
“Has what happened a lot?”
“You just abandoning things that you love?”
I could feel my words being stuttered before speaking them. “It was just a car. You can see the humor in the story, can’t you?”
“No, I can’t,” she said loudly and shrilly. “What kind of sane person just abandons a beloved car?”
“Beloved is a bit of an exaggeration,” I said, answering just as loudly.
The restaurant suddenly became as quiet and chilly as the inside of a refrigerator.
A waiter came to the table. “I ask that you lower your voices,” he said.
Jenny looked at him, and then at me. She took the ring from her finger, stood up and then threw the wine still in her glass in my face and stormed out of the restaurant.
I wiped the wine from my face with a cloth napkin. “We’re still getting to know one another,” I said to the waiter.
Yadama - by Dawn DeBraal (Flash Fiction 2021)
 |
| Dawn DeBraal |
Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband Red, two little rescue dogs, and a stray cat. Dawn has published over 300 stories in many online magazines and anthologies, including Palm-sized press, Spillwords, Mercurial Stories, Potato Soup Journal, Edify Fiction, Zimbell House Publishing, Black Hare Press, Clarendon House, Blood Song Books, Fantasia Divinity, Cafelit, Reanimated Writers, The World of Myth, Dastaan World, Vamp Cat, Runcible Spoon, Siren’s Call, Setu, Kandisha Press, Terror House Magazine, D & T Publishing, Sammie Sands, Iron Horse Publishing, Impspired Magazine, Black Ink Fiction and was the Falling Star Magazine’s 2019 Pushcart nominee.
https://www.amazon.com/Dawn-DeBraal/e/B07STL8DLX
https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991
Yadama
As young girls, my cousin and I used to visit a farm down the road a bit. A German woman and her husband had cows and chickens in the middle of a small unincorporated town.
When we got to Becker's farm, we would hunt for the four-legged chicken, a freak of nature. The chicken, otherwise healthy but had two extra legs that dragged on the ground upside down. It was fascinating.
We were always hungry, she fed us and never minded when we said words like Hell. Dee and I weren't allowed to say things like that at home.
"That chicken looks like hell," we chuckled at our naughtiness. It was always an adventure visiting Mrs. Becker. One time she took us to the old hotel across the street where we discovered an American flag with 48 stars standing in the corner by the front door. She just broke into private property with an old skeleton key!
She and her husband Bill took us to prayer revivals. She never let me sit by the open window in the back seat of the car because I was so small, she knew I'd get sucked out. My cousin was seven weeks older than me, but she was also a foot taller. She was fed better, I think.
Mrs. Becker asked me one time if my father beat me. He was a big burly police officer for the county. I thought she meant did my father spank me, and I told her yes, he did. Oh, she was so upset. That got around the small town. My father asked me why I would say such a thing. I asked him if he was going to beat me? He rolled his eyes and walked away.
One time Mrs. Becker asked a neighbor to cut down some overhanging tree branches. They were blocking her view of the bar, and she could not see the patrons' comings and goings.
She went to church every Sunday but held gossip near and dear to her heart. She always said something that sounded like "Yadama." I don't know what that means, and I don't know to this day.
I hold fond memories of my times on the farm. How the Becker’s put up with two young girls bothering them every week. When I go past the cemetery, I see their large stone, a backdrop against the highway, and remember them fondly.
I married, ending up twenty miles from where I grew up. My present neighbor who was also a police officer saved Mrs. Becker’s son's life with an AED that the police department had installed in the squad car that very day. She was my neighbor growing up, and my new neighbor saved her son’s life forty years later.
It's funny how life moves in circles like gears in a machine working together quietly. Cogs and wheels, circles and timing. Life is full of adventures and miracles like the four-legged chicken.
Yadama!
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