Camp

by Joseph Cusumano

“Vic, I gotta go back!” Larry stopped, treaded water, and rested his right arm on the small raft.

“Why?”

“It’s too far.” He was breathing hard, but not panicking.

“We’re almost halfway,” Vic pointed out. They had been swimming for about twenty-five minutes, thirty tops, Vic figured.

“I won’t make it,” Larry said more emphatically. “You take the raft and get the food. I’ll tell the guys when I get back.”

Well, shit. Why’d you volunteer for this? But there had been an edge in Larry’s voice, and Vic didn’t argue. Besides, he felt pretty good and thought he could do it alone. And if I go back with Larry, they’ll think I’m a pussy too. Vic had almost asked Larry if he needed the raft to safely return, but that would leave no means to retrieve the food.

Larry headed back to what they called Greenland, the small island where he, Vic, Sam and Steve had been placed by the camp counselors the previous day. Along with their sleeping bags and other equipment, the four boys had been allowed to bring a one day supply of food. After that, edible berries, Northern Pike and Musky would have to sustain them for the remaining three days of the survival trip. With a month of camp under their belts, they were adept at fishing and knew which berries had to be avoided. Coach Schulz, the chief counselor, had left plenty of drinking water so they wouldn’t be dependent on rain.

The day before the survival trip was to begin, Sam and Steve had stashed extra food on Iceland, another small island in the large lake that meandered through southwestern Ontario. Iceland was a little under a mile from Greenland. The two boys had taken a small motorboat on a fishing trip and left enough supplies on Iceland to sustain all four of them for at least two days. Had he been ten years older, Vic might wonder why the extra food hadn’t simply been stashed on Greenland, but then he would have been too old to understand the explanation.

You can do this, Vic told himself. Stick with the breast stroke. Don’t rush. Relax. Breathe, don’t pant. Another twenty-five minutes and you’ll be there. And Vic, an excellent swimmer, was right. The previous week he had won the largest competition held at the base camp so far, a one mile swim followed by a two mile run. Vic didn’t brag about his win, but he certainly had bragging rights. He had won the event without being the camp’s best distance runner. That distinction fell to Steve.

Vic paused and rested an arm on the small raft. Looking back toward his starting point and then forward toward Iceland, he guessed that his swim was three-fourths complete. It was a beautiful clear day, not too hot, not too cold, and after a short rest, he began swimming again.

A week ago, Vic would never have imagined himself alone in the water like this. The whole idea sounded reckless when Larry, Sam and Steve sprung it on him while they dressed for an early morning run. They must have come up with this late at night after I’d fallen asleep.

And by rights, he couldn’t argue. After winning the big swim/run, it was logical that they had chosen him for retrieval duty. But why had Larry also been picked? Was the whole crazy thing Larry’s idea? Vic couldn’t come up with another explanation. Larry, already a smoker, was no decathlon candidate but may have felt he had to volunteer.

Vic reached the shore of Iceland tired but not exhausted. The stash of food, wrapped in a light blue tarp to keep it dry, was in plain sight at the edge of the trees where Sam and Steve told him it would be. Vic had first pick of the food items and believed he was entitled to it. He wolfed down a Snicker’s bar and immediately felt an urge to chug a large cold glass of milk. Of course, there was none. Nor was there any water. After a few minutes, he had swallowed enough saliva to re-moisten his throat and then stretched out on the beach to rest.

When he awoke, he was surprised to see the sun going down. Can I make it back before dark? Vic carefully wrapped the food in the tarp, placed it on the raft, and secured it with the rope that Sam and Steve had remembered to leave for this purpose. Too bad those idiots didn’t leave me any water.

Vic began the long swim back, but the sunlight faded more quickly than he had expected. Less than twenty minutes later, he could no longer see his destination and was forced to return to Iceland. A large bag of potato chips in the stash was sorely tempting, but would bring an unquenchable thirst, and for the second time that day, he reclined on the beach. Couldn’t they have swiped an apple from the kitchen? With little to occupy his mind, he stared at the heavens and was delighted by the sight of spectacular meteor showers, something he had never seen in St. Louis. Later, he untied the tarp and used it for a cover.

Awakening the next morning with a dry throat and an empty stomach, Vic was tempted to search for a stream. But since they hadn’t found one on their first day of exploration on Greenland, he decided to begin the swim without delay. The sooner I get back, the sooner I eat and drink. With the raft loaded and covered, he entered the water.

An hour later, his limbs lead weights, he stepped onto the sandy beach of Greenland. Sam and Steve were coming toward him, yelling something.

“What?” Vic replied, ready to acknowledge their admiration and thanks for a job well done.

“Where’s Larry?” they asked.

◊ ◊ ◊

Joseph Cusumano

Joseph Cusumano is a retired physician living in St. Louis with his wife of thirty years.

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I Can See

by Jon Beight

“Daddy. Wake up. Something’s wrong with Mommy!” pleaded Megan over the blare of the television. “Daddy! Wake up!”

Charlie woke from his six pack nap, as he called it, to find a pair of urgent seven year old eyes looking at him. He tried to shake the cobwebs loose.

“Mom’s what?”

“She’s lying on the front lawn, laughing and crying,” said Megan, in her squeaky little voice.

Charlie rose from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen window. Pushing away the curtain, he saw Evelyn, lying near the road, on her back with her arms reaching straight out.

Putting on his shoes, Charlie walked outside with Megan pulling him forward by his pant leg.

When he reached Evelyn, she was still on her back, laughing for a few seconds, then crying uncontrollably, and then laughing again, hard.

Charlie looked at Evelyn, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.

“What’s goin’ on, Ev?”

Megan began to cry.

“Oh honey, don’t cry. I’m okay,” reassured Evelyn, as she rose to be at eye level with Megan. “I just learned something about myself today.”

“You learned something? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Charlie.

Evelyn ignored Charlie and continued talking to Megan.

“Sweetheart, somehow today, in the last hour, right here, I could see how things were going to be.”

“How things are going to be? You mean, like the future?” asked Charlie.

Evelyn got to her feet and stood herself square with Charlie.

“Charlie, for our entire marriage, I’ve lived with your drinking and your inability to hold down a job. I’ve somehow tolerated your belittling me and cringed at the way you’ve tormented Megan. I always hoped you would somehow change, but I finally realized you were never going to. I was ready to accept that this was my life, when suddenly it happened. I was just out here looking around at the trees, the hills, the sky, when it all became clear.”

“What became clear?”

“It became clear that Megan and I won’t have to put up with you any longer. Do you want to know why?”

Her fearlessness was something Charlie hadn’t seen before. It made him nervous.

“I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“I used to go to my mother when I felt scared about the future. She would always say, ‘Don’t worry honey. You’ll see. It will be alright. Someday you’ll see.’ I didn’t know this was what she meant, that I would really see!”

“See? See what?”

Evelyn took a deep breath. “Okay. Try to keep that puny, primitive little brain of yours open for just one minute. I don’t know how, but I know what’s going to happen. I know what’s going to happen in the next minute, the next hour, and the next day. Whenever I want to know, it will unfold in front of me. It becomes as clear as a crystal goblet. And the beauty of it is I can change it if I want to.

“You’re full of crap, Ev.”

“Oh really? Stand right there.”

Evelyn stood still for a few seconds with her head tilted back, staring at the sky.

“Charlie, before I can count down from ten, you’ll hear a dog bark, a black truck will drive by with a load of furniture, and a breeze will blow a speck of dust in your right eye.”

Evelyn began counting down. “Ten…nine…eight…”

A dog barked and Charlie spun his head to find it. As he searched, a black truck drove by, loaded with furniture. Its breeze stirred the dust, a speck of which found its way into Charlie’s right eye.

“Two…one…”

“What the—!” said a flustered Charlie.

“I’ll tell you what else I know Charlie. I know when you’re going to die. I know when, I know where, and I know how. I’ll tell you this much. You’re going to break your neck in a fall.” Evelyn started laughing. “But don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing.”

“What’s so damn funny?”

“I’m laughing because you’ve made Megan and me so miserable for so long that you had me reduced to thinking of ways to kill you. But now I see that you’re going to take care of it by yourself.” Evelyn started laughing even harder as she said, “It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

“Charlie. I want to make a deal with you. I might tell you when and where you’ll die, but only if you leave us right now. If you don’t leave you’ll never know, and even if you manage to cheat death, I’ll know about the next time, and the time after that.”

“You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t. But if I haven’t, do you really want to take the chance?”

“You won’t survive without me Ev.”

“Yes I will, Charlie. Do you want to know why? Because two days after you’re dead, I’m going to win the lottery. Megan, and I will be taken care of for the rest of our lives. You, on the other hand, will be worm food. So have a nice life, Charlie. Watch your step.”

Charlie packed and left soon after. He died the following month of a broken neck, the result of a drunken fall from a ladder.
###
Evelyn was sitting on the garden patio of Megan’s Tuscany home. The air was sweet with jasmine that floated on the Mediterranean breeze. As she sipped her tea, her granddaughter came running from the front yard.

“Grandma! There’s something wrong with Mommy. She’s lying on the ground laughing and crying.”

“It will be alright, honey, you’ll see,” said Evelyn. “Someday you’ll see.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Jon Beight
Jon Beight lives and works in Western New York. He has been published in Feathertale, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Foliate Oak, Boston Literary Magazine, and other fine publications.

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Missionaries

by Perry McDaid

Hoarse semi-automatic reports break the silence following the dawn barrage, slicing through the icy mustiness of morning drizzle; covering fire for the 08:22 assault. A staggered flapping is the only betrayal of our methodical leapfrog advance; all weather uniforms the most basic of camouflage: light and shade. The only concession to the high-collared homogeneity is the differentiation between the sexes, a diversity of iridescence of the starchy prominence, in itself a glittering distraction from the whole; augmenting rather than detracting from the essence of invisibility.

We glide over the uneven marshy terrain and the flimsy security fence to land on target, my mate and I ideally placed to achieved the set objectives, the rest of the squad either flanking or on point. Only one dropped back to the fence as rearguard, keeping an eye on the most likely approach on our position. It’s a dead end, ‘evac-wise’ for those constrained to conventional transport. It might as well be open country for us.

We make little noise bounding over the rooftops to perch precariously on the chimney stacks to get a better view of the gardens and street below, dismissive of the pungent reek of silage carried by mischievous gusts of wind from the barns of a near distant farm. The pressure change of the impending thunderstorm is all but dismissed. It’s an hour away at least. However, considering the proximity of our location to the sea, I realize that the squall is likely to have noisier heralds whose arrival would jeopardize the secrecy of our mission.

I bark a command, and one of the flanking posts hops slightly out of position to keep an eye out for unwelcome guests. Three more staccato bursts of birdcall are released into the air, slipping between the molecules of the silence, reaching the required ears without disturbing the overall stillness.

The sounds from within indicate impeccable timing on our part. It won’t be long before the child exits to make her way to her school. We forage there on a regular basis when the coast is clear. The thought of the coast steers me back to the expected invasion of seagulls. Move. We swoop down from our positions, generally as one, a brace of lookouts hanging back as long as possible to ensure the safety of the troop. I spot the blinds on the target window twitch and vent a frantic chattering, which is acknowledged by mocking responses by those too young to appreciate the importance of the objectives.

The blinds snap open just as the stragglers flit to the landing zone, a parking space in direct line of sight. The face at the window beams with delight, my sharp vision picking out the nuances of expression on the face of the middle-aged man. Dead-faced at first, I note his eyes starting to gleam as he begins his count.

Another flick of the tail from me and the dance begins. We mill and muster, flapping high and hopping low to confuse his reckoning. The most he might count is eleven. We still have our rearguard posted at the security fencing. She will remain silent until some human vehicle or avian intruder appears.

We’re not particularly fussed about the latter. Ooops, missed a hop and a flap there. No, we are the orca of the skies. We bring order to crumb-squabbles. We are organizers. We fear none but the raptors. The man is still smiling at our antics. That’s good.

The door cracks. Target two, the child, emerges. Furry hood up and head down, in no mood to be entertained, she trudges speedily across the road towards us without looking. A reassuring “Ak, ak!” from the lookout short-circuits any anxiety on our behalf.

She tramps on, the stench of anger from her almost choking us in its intensity. It doesn’t matter whether it is directed at us or not, humans tend to be indiscriminately spiteful whatever the season. I issue the order to withdraw, scramble, and we’re up and evacuating to base camp. A few old hands pause briefly on the rooftops to hear the man’s greeting as he clumsily pushes open the window, careful not to disturb the crib.

“Hello, magpies,” he greets us through melancholia. “Great to see you again.”

“All for that?” the rearguard crackles from the safety of the security fence.

I have lived longer, been shot at by farmers, perched on chimney pots and listened to tears. We lift and launch ourselves, gliding back over the fence towards the tree-line, sweeping the rearguard in our wake.

“We’re birds,” I rattle. “We nurture fledglings, child and writer alike.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Perry McDaid
Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His diverse creative writing appears internationally in the like of Aurora Wolf; Quantum; Runtzine; Amsterdam Quarterly; Whitesboro; Bewildering Stories; Flash Fiction Magazine; Bunbury and others. And of course here at Flash Fiction Press.

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Eat My Dust

by Brenda Anderson

Five shapeshifters crouch and sink their fingers in the dust, ready to race. Right now they’re human: soon they’ll be animals. Wherever they go, stalkers follow, desperate to capture that moment when shapeshifting bodies are midway towards transformation. Their victims call them freak pufftas, these half paparazzi, half pervs that feed off strange flesh.

Invisible, I hover overhead. Security detail, that’s me.

Someone raises a gun. They strain forward. Pop and they’re off, running naked of course. When their bodies change they’ll have no need of clothes. The wind picks up. They choose to compete in this isolated dustbowl on the offchance that if anyone does track them here and photograph that moment of change, the resulting gosh-wow pic will be dismissed as bad focus, grit in the lens, or trick photography. They race as men always do, with pumping arms and sweating bodies, glancing sideways at each other. I understand that they themselves cannot predict the exact moment of change.

A strong wind descends on them and knocks them around. Worried, I descend. Merciless now, the wind slams into them like a solid wall. It picks up one runner, turns him around and releases him. He falls in a heap, all arms and legs. Another runner crashes into him. Oh no. The moment has come upon them both. The fallen runner’s body stretches, thickens and grows thick black hair: a bear, perhaps. The runner who crashed into him grows wings: an eagle, perhaps. Their entangled bodies keep changing, but in and through each other. Two half humans, one half bear and an eagle, their bodies combined into an abominable whole. The other three runners circle them. One, now a wolf, howls. The other, a puma, pads closer, ears flattened. The last, a small bird, swoops down, chirping madly.

They’ll have to see me. I choose the body of a low level security guard, middle-aged, uniformed, with a young-old face. I swoop down and plant myself in front of them. They crowd round, shocked, terrified, human, half-human and howl, hiss, chirp, growl, a cacophony of protest. What a reception. My eyes well with tears. This unnatural conjunction of flesh would make anyone weep. I reach towards it. The others push closer, getting in my way.

“Stay back.” I use my toughest security-guard voice. “I’ll try my hardest to separate them.”

The half bear still has a human face. Pale, shocked, incredulous, he screams something I choose to ignore.

“Tissue needs to be cut apart, I’m afraid,” I explain. “Please. I’m not trying to harm you. It would help if you could relax.” Renewed cacophony. I reach into my uniform pocket and take out a long, narrow knife. The shapeshifters go berserk. I shush them. The abomination struggles to get away, the half bear sobbing, the half eagle squawking. Now I’m the one in shock. I kneel.

“I said, get back. If you startle me, I might just make a mistake and cut where I don’t want to cut. Understand?”

Very reluctantly they give me an inch or two. They don’t trust me. That’s natural. The sudden appearance of a security guard would freak anyone out, I suppose. And this lot are used to freaks.

I begin cutting. The layers of flesh are relatively easy to separate. The metaphysical ones are not so easy. At last I separate the two spirits. The final, the conjoined soul…that’s not so easy. I weep, in frustration, in agony. Please. Please separate. My knife probes. It’s doubly hard, because these two were already connected. No, not lovers. I see no mark of physical conjoining. These two are soul mates. I cry out in pain as I test, trying desperately to cleave them apart. The others draw back, perhaps impressed at my own agony.

At last, I do it.

The half bear rolls back and completes the transformation. In minutes it rises up on its hind legs, a complete bear. The other, the eagle, grows feathers, stretches its wings and flies off. I sigh with relief.

The others crowd round me. I see respect and fear in their eyes. They howl, hiss, chirp, growl and back off.

“Relax. I’m no freak puffta.”

They hiss. Doubt fills their eyes. That I even know this term for their harassers worries them.

What do I have to lose? I abandon my security guard body and change to my true form. In times past, we used to be called guardian angels. Quaint, right? Now it’s security detail. Still visible, I rise in the air, extend my wings and beat them with great force, raising clouds of dust. Shocked, they blink and stare. They’ve never seen my kind before. I shoot skyward then swoop so low that they duck. Perhaps later they’ll check with their family lawyer, or insurance agent. I can imagine the questions. Did you hire protection?

No, I’d answer. I work for The Man. We’re all volunteers. Day in, day out we use every supernatural gift at our disposal for these precious humans of his. Did I say ‘supernatural’? I’d say these unnaturals have more in common with me than meets the eye. Some days, I wish I could run with them, flex my muscles, exult in the splendor of life.

Work calls. I rise high above them and the wind swirls after me.

Watch my moves, guys.

Eat my dust.

◊ ◊ ◊

Brenda Anderson
Brenda Anderson’s fiction has appeared in various places from Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine to SpeckLit. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and tweets irregularly @CinnamonShops

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Life Flashes

by Stacy Thowe

Red…yellow…red…yellow…bright white…It’s funny the colors you see when facing the end of your life. Blue…red…blue…red…bright light.

I grab at the dashboard. Thoughts ascend of my mother as she woke me that morning. “Remember your homework,” she said as the white light creeps into the darkness and I awake. I stumble toward the shower with thoughts of playing in the football game Friday night.

Bright lights surround me as I enter the stadium. I am running with my teammates. The coach yells at us to hustle out. I stand by the sidelines and watch the crowd. It is blurred due to the intense lights. The cheerleaders jump and chant over the noise of the crowd. I spot my mom sitting in the stands.

Red…yellow…red…yellow… bright white…

I arrive at school and head for my locker. My friend Josh calls my name and I turn with my weighted backpack grabbing at my shoulders. I smile and wave as he walks toward me.

“You going to practice after school?” He asks almost floating by.

“Yeah, man. I’m going.”

“Can you give me a ride home?”

“Yeah…but we’ll to hurry. I have to work tonight.”

“No problem,” he echoes.

I keep walking.

Kelsey is standing by her locker. I make my way past her and slow down trying to think of something to say. She looks over and smiles at me. I rush past her and head up the stairs. From the top of the stairs I look down and see that she is gone.

Sirens blast with the lights…red…blue…white…blue…red and I try to lift my head.

My mom is yelling at me to come and eat. I am on my phone talking to Kelsey. She agrees to come to the game Friday night.

In the locker room I suit up and pray the coach will play me today. Darkness surrounds me in the locker room. A beam of light is released into the room as the door to the stadium is opened and we run full force into the light.

Red…yellow…red…yellow…I look over at Josh and he is slouched over the dashboard. There is blood on my hands. I can’t see in front of me. Smoke fills the compartment as the sirens become louder.

I run down the stairs of my home and see my little sister is getting ready for school. She sits on the floor watching a cartoon while putting her books in her backpack. My mom yells at me from the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

But I never am. I am in too much of a hurry. My mom stands at the stove making pancakes.

I grab one and pick up my backpack waving as I walk out the door. My sister gets up and runs toward me grabbing my legs. I push her off and tell her I will see her after school. She returns to the floor, plopping down in front of the television as my mother walks out of the kitchen.

“Be careful,” she says.

In math class my mind wanders to Kelsey. Why didn’t I talk to her? She must think I am some type of idiot. I sneak my phone out during class and check for messages. There are none.

After class I meet with my counselor to discuss the date for my college prep test. I have been putting it off, so my mom called the school to make an appointment for me. It irritates me that I am being forced to take this test. I am not even sure I want to go to college. I may have had enough of school. I sit and wonder as the counselor speaks to me, asking me questions. I wonder what school Kelsey plans on going to.

I race out of the practice with Josh trailing behind me. The bright lights of the stadium surround us as we reach the darkness of the parking lot.

I can hear my mother saying, “Remember to wear your seat belt.”

We enter the vehicle and seat belt ourselves in.

I race onto the two lane road and pass a car that is moving too slow…

Red…yellow…red…yellow

We are moving too fast. We are laughing too hard…I look away from the road for an instant and the light turns red.

Red…blue…white…blue…red

The sirens are louder. Almost to the point of a dream. An echo. The colors a mixture now of reds and whites and grays.

Flashing lights outside the car. I hear a voice through the cloud.

“Hang on, son,” the voice says.

I flash back to Kelsey as I hear my phone go off. The screen lights up with her face. I turn to Josh who is silent as the colors start to fade, and I close my eyes.

◊ ◊ ◊

Stacy Thowe
Stacy Thowe has written many published short stories and poetry. She is the author of the young adult novel, “The Guardians: Angels, Demons  and Mortals.” She hopes to inspire readers in such a way that they take a portion of the story away with them long after they reach the words, “The End.” You can read more of her work at stacythowe.com.

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Mr. Clock

by J.D. Mraz

Stale cigarette smoke and black coffee perfume hung in the air as she glanced with low eyelids to the gathered rejects. They were, the lot of them, a shambling mass of the new Americana. Trailer parks, fast food boxes and sugared water packets all wrapped together in flesh and blood. Each a product of the promise that everyone was just a millionaire in waiting, that happiness was just another bend in the road. Only eventually they figured out the lie and fell victim to the vile sweets of life. She didn’t regret it, not in the least. But then again it wasn’t her choice to come.

Her eyes finally fell, and rested momentarily on Mr. Burke. He was a fat bald man who had worn the same white t-shirt for the past three meetings (weeks) and sweat visibly when anyone asked about it. She thought about prying, just to see him squirm, but could tell by the particular glaze of his eyes he had more than likely pawned his clothes for glass. She shook her head subtly when he nervously scanned her gaze, hopefully he didn’t know she knew.

To his right sat Mr. Matthews, all skin and bones. Currently, in the latest display of drug induced insanity, he was swatting at a bundle of invisible mosquitos. On numerous occasions he blamed his lapse in reality with the war in Vietnam, in which he didn’t actually participate. Google’s a hell of a fact-checker. She guessed it was more along the lines of the pounds of bad pot he smoked and acid he dropped when he played opener for the Rolling Stones in ‘72.

After him, nearly sitting on each other, were the Alabaster twins, Margret and Meryl. They never said anything, at least nothing besides yes, no, and a couple uncomfortable confessions of adolescent rape by a drunken farmer; the cause of their scars and pain pill addiction. They wore the same 1950’s pocketed dresses their mother, probably, made them as girls. It was a wonder they were even allowed, or could manage, to leave the house without supervision.

Beside them, directly opposite her, was Andrew Milton, the most average looking black man anyone had ever conjured. He was the only one among them who gave out his first name willingly. He suffered from the vilest of drugs, the legal ones you find in bottles in almost every gas station. He sucked on oval spearmints constantly with shaking fingers to keep himself occupied between stories of soup pantries and puppy shelters.

Then there was her, Sarah Spears, Ms. Foxx to the rest of them. She refused to give any ground on the matter of her real identity, no matter how bogus her name obviously was. The only thing they needed to know is that she had been addicted to blow since her sister’s lesbian lover—Marcy or Darcy—offered it to her at thirteen to keep her quiet. She had been on the horse ever since. Often enough she thought about the blow, such as when Mr. Burke cried or Milton said some boring shit about his job at Costco.

There had been ten chairs set out, but only seven filled. The one in the middle reserved for Juno. Maybe two of the others won’t come, she thought. But for some reason she couldn’t picture their faces, or picture anyone ever being there at all. Maybe it was just Juno’s wishful thinking that more addicts would want to talk about their problems. That the court wouldn’t send them at all and they would just waltz in and start yapping. That seemed more than likely and the thought left just as fast as it had come. Coke had a way of giving you scatter brain.

She groaned softly under her breath as she rose with the rest of them. Doctor Juno, in all his bland Midwestern upper middle class glory, made them—as always—recite the ‘Addicts Seeking Betterment’ creed. As he sat down he noticed that his stomach budged from over his pants. Then again he had been growing lately in general. He said himself that he was going to need a ‘sweet tooth’s anonymous meeting’ if he couldn’t control himself. She vaguely recalled the empty seats once more but found they were now folded and against the wall. Strange, she thought, as she waited for her turn to speak. Maybe she would ask about it.

“Mr. Burke.” He began with soft tenderness, his pale hands methodically fixing his tie. “I understand that temptation can be a bitter mistress, but we talked about this.”

Mr. Burke, the weak bastard he was, began to sob uncontrollably. “I couldn’t help it. My fuckin’ wife, in bed with my best bud, Earl, and his cousin, Skeet. How the fuck you deal with shit like that man?” He began shaking while his pudgy hands bundled into tight white knuckled fists.

Doctor Juno nodded understandingly, “’S alright, calm down. Just see me afterwards and I’ll discuss what I want you to do next.”

She thought for a moment that she’d heard him say something similar last week, but couldn’t recall to whom. Sugar, Sugar, of all songs, suddenly started playing in her head.

The doctor turned to Mr. Matthews now who almost immediately stopped swatting as he met the doctors gaze with his skinny sunken eyes.

“How’s the Malaria ridden pests Matthews?” Juno said seriously.

“What? Oh…What? Oh…Well…They leave me alone at night now, s-so that’s something. I can’t remember the last time I s-s-slept without all that buzz-buzz-buzz-buzzing.”

“That’s good to hear, real good to hear.”

“Yeah I b-been doing what you s-said and–“

“We can discuss that later.” The doctor cut him off immediately with an odd parenting look of ‘not now, honey’ crossing his face and cast a quick, sidelong glance at Sarah.

She was only half paying attention when he did it but felt a cold rush from her chest rise to her shoulders and suddenly felt the urge to walk. If only she could. The Alabaster sisters said nothing, not unusual, and Milton spoke in length about his current girlfriend and the dog they planned to get from his side job. Much to false enthusiasm from the rest of the group.

When it had finally come to Sarah’s turn the doctor simply said. “Well unfortunately, Ms. Foxx, we don’t have any more time this week, we can start with you next week. If you make it. Mr. Burke, if you would follow me please?”

The group filed out quickly and Sarah stared with a face both disgusted and confused. ‘Don’t have any more time?’ What the fuck was that shit? They had all the time in the world before, why was it different now? And what did he mean ‘If you make it.’? It wasn’t like it was an option. Fuck him, she thought, fucking judging bastard.

She headed to the bathroom and hit a bump before heading outside, making sure to dab the water out from her eye drops. Couldn’t have anyone know she was still on the horse. Besides, coke got out of your system in a few days. No drug tester would catch her, probably. Even if they did, who gave a shit? Maybe she could get a better doctor.

She climbed the basement steps, and cast a quick glance at the faded sign of yesteryear. ‘Barlow’s Dental and Barber.’ She scoffed and remarked to herself that these meetings were more painful than a root canal and maybe she wouldn’t come next week. Just to spite that fuck. As she made her way down the sidewalk towards the light she suddenly heard a voice, soft and peaceful like the dripping of summer rain off a tin roof.

“Sarah…” it said and trailed off like a car down a dirt road.

She looked around, there were dozens of people. Any one of those could have been a Sarah, not like it wasn’t a popular name and she definitely wasn’t a popular girl. She shrugged it off and went to turn towards the cross walk when she heard it again.

“Sarah…”

This time when she turned her eyes fell on a man in a faded yellow suit, wearing an equally faded yellow trilby hat. Her eyes immediately drew to his black gloved hands. Though he was reaching down and throwing seeds to the birds from the park bench on which he sat it seemed to her that he just barely twitched a ‘come here’ curve with his free hand. She stared for a moment longer before he lifted his head and smiled at her. The smile of a person who doesn’t expect some weird drug addict to be staring at them and politely wishes they would go away. Or at least that was how she took it. But as she went to turn again the voice was stronger and came from within her own head.

“I see you… Come here Sarah…”

The man was still looking at her when she turned back and immediately she noticed, even from across the street, that one of his eyes was white as soap stone. Maybe he was a war veteran who forgot to flip his glass eye upright, she thought. He had the look of an elderly Marlon Brando and his hair was slicked back and black, dyed, with subtle wisps of grey underneath his hat. This time, she noted, he was indeed motioning with his hand between his legs—his strange black gloved hands—for her to come to him. But what was worse was that her legs were moving and she was halfway across the street before she had mentally agreed to the idea.

She had heard about people being able to project their voice before, and if nothing else this man could easily be a street performer. A fond memory blossomed in her mind of her childhood in the Chicago streets, watching a group of drummers beat on paint buckets and tin cans like regular snares and bass. As the memory faded and her eyes withdrew the crust of time she found herself sitting next to him and felt the hair of her nape prick up when he smiled with almost too perfect white teeth.

“Hello, my dear.” Were the first words he said, though they more floated out of his gorgeous lips than anything else.

It took everything in her not to stare at him, he was old yes, but he was beautiful. A strange elderly beauty you usually found in a dead woman at the viewing before the funeral. With a soft, shy voice she had not known from herself since childhood, she said, “I liked your trick.”

“Ah, so you did hear me calling.” His smile grew. “Good, I was worried you would ignore me like the others.”

“The others?”

“Sure.” He chuckled. “Some of you come of course, but unfortunately I don’t always hit my mark.”

“I wasn’t sure it was anyone at firs,”she said with a slight tone of embarrassment. Why though, she couldn’t be sure. “It’s a popular name.” Then a thought. “How did you know my name?”

“Ah, well, that is a fun story, but I would rather not bore you with the details.” For some reason this answer seemed fine and she listened on as he said, “After all, wouldn’t you rather I show you something else? I assume you’re tired of hearing about people’s lives enough for one day?”

That was true enough, she thought, and replied, “Sure, what else you got Mr…”

“…Clock.” He grinned. “Mr. Alabaster Edgar Clock, the fourth if you have a care for full titles and such. I have something I think you’ll love. You have a sweet tooth, yes?”

“Not really,” she replied coldly, immediately almost ashamed of the rudeness she was usually so fond of. The only thing about herself she really liked.

“Oh, nonsense I can see the white sugar on the edge of your nostrils now.”

Her eyes lowered to the sleepy wince of half consciousness and rage and she quickly recoiled from him. Covering her nose with her arm and leering, she barked, “What the fuck’s your deal?”

“Oh, sugar,” he said with an unpleasant chuckle that made her skin crawl. The way he said it made her think his handsomeness oddly unnatural, but only for the moment before he said, “You like the sweets! I can see it clear as this bright mid-morning sky. Don’t shy from it. I too have been on that pony once or twice although those days seem far behind me now. I can help you!”

“You, you have?” She stammered. “You can?”

“Oh yes, and trust me I can tell by that loveliness in your eyes that it isn’t what you want but the sweets have got you. Am I wrong?” He wasn’t and she said it without words. “Well I know just what we can do about that.”

He reached inside his coat for a moment, near his breast, into an inner pocket and removed a golden watch that hung from a chain of silver. An odd combination but the way the metals blended made her feel oddly satisfied.

“I have had this watch for, oh… Many, many years.” He rubbed the carved scene of a faded man in a suit that adorned the hatch as he said it.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, reaching out almost unknowingly towards it.

“Don’t touch,” he said softly, like a grandparent showing an antique vase. “See with your eyes.”

He flipped open the hatch and to her surprise the face of the watch had the spitting image of a peppermint you’d find in grandma’s candy jar. The hands were as such, one silver, one gold, with the second counter shaped like a shepard’s peppermint stick.

She stared into it, for how long she couldn’t be sure, but felt as if time around her had stopped. The face of the watch spun. Slowly at first and then all was a blur of red and white. She saw herself there, on a mountain of blow, skipping like a savage; naked and high. Laughing like a child as she made coke men and coke angels. A song began in her head now and she couldn’t help but hum along.

Tick tock, comes the clock, here to help you snort some rock. Skip and play till the end of days, here in the land of powdered rain!

It wasn’t until his hands had closed the lid that she realized she had moved over, almost on top of him. He was exhaling a soft, sweet smelling breath onto her face.

“Kiss me…” The voice in her head said suddenly. “I can make the pain go away… I can make the sweets fall forever…”

“What?” She said aloud, shocked to hear her voice sounded like gravel, as if she had been nursing a case of Strep for a week.

“Hmm?” He hummed. “Did you say something?”

When she shook her head and looked up at him she saw that both his eyes were now white and opened wide. She wanted to scream. But there remained the unshakable urge. She couldn’t stop herself, even if she wanted to, as they pressed their lips together. Finally, something broke, and as she went to move from his uncomfortably dry lips an object emerged from the white eyes, a small red swirl like peppermint, which began to spin slowly. Her head spun with it and she fell over onto the ground, a young couple cursing at her as they tripped onto the cold concrete just beyond.

“Fucking drugged out bitch!” The girl cried with a crude sneer as she found her feet. “The fuck are you doing? Can’t get strung out at home?”

Sarah did not stir and when the man by the girl’s side tried to shake her, she rolled over. Mouth flung open. Her eyes, now pupil-less, stared blankly into the sky. Her face frozen in a soft half open mouthed smile; the edges of her cracked lips powdered with white and her throat a spiral of red and white splotches.

Unseen, Mr. Clock whispered softly into the couple’s ear and they walked off without another word. The man in the faded yellow suit picked up the dead girl and walked down the road, to the alarm of no one, as everyone around had the sudden urge to hum Sugar, Sugar and forget their troubles.

At the next Addicts Seeking Betterment meeting no one saw Ms. Foxx or Mr. Burke. With their reported graduations four newcomers had replaced them, two of which apologizing immediately for not arriving on-schedule last week.

As they went around the room a young girl, no older than Sarah said, “I’ve been an addict since I was fifteen, my mother’s boyfriend used to feed me cocaine if I let him touch me.”

The stout doctor feigned an understanding node and replied with a reassuring hand to her exposed thigh, “We will take good care of you, my dear.”

Jacob Donald ‘J.D.’ Mraz
Jacob Donald’J.D.’ Mraz of Fox Lake, IL is a member of the US Air Force, married and a father of two. He enjoys reading, writing and listening to ‘Let it Go’ on loop for hours on end. He looks to writers such as Ray Bradbury, Roald Dahl, Earnest Hemingway, J.D. Salinger, John Collier & Anton Chekhov as influences of his work. He has 4 published short stories and a self-published fantasy novel titled, ‘The Hero’s Path’ to his credit.

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