Hell
Trenton Butt
PennWest Edinboro
PennWest Edinboro
Another Saturday, another government-mandated group therapy session. Great. I fucking love these things. The room is a little bit too hot, as per usual, sitting at a comfortable 75 degrees. You would think that these government-sponsored spaces would have at least a cheap little box fan running in the corner, but no. The air is as dead and as still as the “therapy” sessions that run here. I am sitting in my usual spot, tucked away between two steel folding chairs displayed out in a circle all facing each other. I guess they want everyone to hold hands and talk about their feelings on some Kumbaya bullshit. I do not even know why I am here, to be honest. There is nothing wrong with me.
In fact, I think I am taking the place of some other guy. Some guy just came to my room, a real sharply dressed Man in Black type.. I would have ignored him if he was not the size of a small building; guy had to be at least well over six feet tall, and his suit fitted to the point it was almost skin tight on his thin physique, leaving the image of a stereotypical conspiracy theorist sketch of aliens among us in the door of my room. While I was sitting there, about to ask what he wanted, he immediately cut me off and started shouting so focused in my ear I thought he spat at me,
“Saturdays at 4. Be there, sharp. Attendance will be marked, and tardiness will not be tolerated.”
Whatever. Bastard did not scare me in the slightest. Looked like a greenhorn that just got out of training to go bark some orders at me to feel tough. I could have taken him in a fight, but I chose not to. Not worth my time or effort. Better to just listen and doze off for an hour here at these sessions than to try to tangle with The Man.
It is about 3:59 now, and here everyone comes, either not getting the same warning I have or just not giving enough of a shit to care. Always at 3:59 exactly. I guess that most people take the approach of leaving for wherever they wanna go five minutes before they are supposed to be there. Either way, it pisses me off. They stroll in all casual like they are just at these sessions for the hell of it. I know I would rather be anywhere but here, but here they come, just early enough not to be considered late.
There is the person that runs these things at the front there. Older woman, probably in her late 40s or early 50s, pretending that she is still in her 30s with a purple turtleneck and black pencil skirt. The wrinkles under her weary, dark chocolate eyes give away the secret she is trying to hide, though, and as a result, she typically wears thick framed square prescription-less glasses to hide them. She cannot hide the streaks of grey in her hair though, no matter how many times she tries to dye it her younger shade of dark brown. She still tries in vain to dye it, though, leaving a
really dark head of hair with streaks of botched dye on the grey hairs, leaving a shimmering brown-silver look on the locks. Like most of the women I have had the misfortune of talking with, she also would never be seen without her pound of makeup on her face that somehow makes her look even uglier than I am sure that she would look without it.
Then comes in the religious girl. I hate this bitch. Always wearing her cross around her neck and dressing like a damned churchgoer, with a nice summer dress that you would see in an out-of- touch Pepsi commercial or something, adorned with bright yellow sunflowers on a white cloth background. So bright and so yellow in fact, that she feels the need to sit next to the one of two windows in this room, right in my line of sight. When the sun hits that godforsaken dress, it lights up like a Christmas tree, hurting my eyes even when I try to close them. She never seems to notice, shooting a peppy smile at me and a “How are you doing?” and I having to half-assedly shoot an awkward smirk back, with a “Fine”. She has pretty eyes, though. Big and blue, like snow globes after you let them stay still for a little, leaving only the liquid stirred up and still faintly moving. Blonde hair that reminds me of 90s rom-coms. Got a nice young look to her too, her skin obviously cared for that even the air around her looks soft. Too bad they belong to... her.
And then comes in a ton of people I do not know, nor do not care about. They are about as generic as they come, with guys named John here and a girl named Lily there (she actually sits next to me, which causes me to tense up slightly, then relax as I realize she is thankfully not in a chatty mood). The one guy that I always notice though, is this angry, tall, business looking guy; he is young like the religious girl, but nowhere near as annoyingly chipper. In fact, he looks more like me, with a permanent scowl on his face and a furrowed brow. He does not really remind me of anything, just the kind of guy that you would pass in a gas station as he asks for twenty bucks on pump three. A background character you would see in any show, where he is slaving away while the main characters go on hijinx and do things interesting with their lives. Maybe that is why he is here; so sick of mediocrity that he needs at least something to pass the time, but this is not what is exactly he had in mind.
“Alright, so how is everyone doing this week?”
I did not even hear the meeting start until I heard the older lady ask her formalities, in which the response was equivalent to an indifferent shrug. Johns and Lilys said “Doing good...” in a half-assed way. The religious girl piped up in her annoyingly high pitched voice and said:
“I’m great! God has been working through my life, and...”
Blah, blah, fucking blah. Nobody cares about the girl’s rambling on about God or the Holy Spirit or whatever topic she’s on now, but nobody has the nerve to stop her from talking. Kindness is sometimes a curse, especially when it comes to people that should shut up but do not. So, instead of paying attention, it looks like it has to be a good amount of tuning out from my inner thoughts. Why she decides to throw her Jesus camp bullshit on us is beyond me, but--
“Psst.”
I hear a small, masculine voice whisper out to me. Or maybe it was the person next to me. I am just gonna pretend I did not hear it. Maybe then they will take the hint and--
“Psssssssst!”
So it looks like we have someone that does not take the hint. Great. Just what I needed, someone who wants to be my friend. I do not need friends, especially from this place. Just thinking about some of the people here pisses me off, especially that religious girl, who is still going on about whatever Christian bullshit that has been brainwashing her this week. I think she is quoting the Bible now; might as well see what this guy has to say before I die of boredom.
“What? I am paying very close attention to this quote from the Bible,” I said, in the most pretentious way I possibly could, in order to get the person trying to get my attention to think I am actually a Christian like her. Of course, I have not been a Christian in a very long time; not since Mom--
“Yeah, I’m sure, especially with how you’re drifting off into space an’ rolling your eyes. Listen, you wanna be bored as fuck individually or shoot the shit together?”
Now he got my attention. I finally turn to face the man that I had been talking with for the last few minutes; to my surprise, it is the angry business guy, who looks much more personable than I remember him being. His eyes were less sharp than usual, more relaxed, and his gaze was not one of silent contempt like I had seen so many times before, but now like he actually wanted to talk with someone here. Ah, what the hell. I might as well pass the time doing something at least remotely stimulating.
"Sure. What do you wanna--”
“Do I need to remind you all of the first rule of group therapy sessions here at Mercy Hospital’s psychiatric ward? There is to be no talking amongst yourselves. If you want to say something, you can say it to the group.”
Jesus Christ. Again with this Mercy Hospital group therapy shit. I just got here a month ago, and I have seen so many people come and go through those insulated doors to the main corridor of the psych ward, and not ONCE has the older lady not mentioned that we cannot talk with each other. She says it in the same tone, too, like a recorded message or something. The delivery, deadpan and emotionless, like she has not talked to real people in years.
It would be a bit creepy if I was thinking this place was clearing up my head, but no. It is not my fault that this shit does not help. Crazy people tend not to know that they are crazy. But not me. I am not crazy. I dunno why the fuck I am still here. My lawyer, David, real smug guy with a cheap suit and an expensive haircut, tells me they are just waiting for my clearance forms to process. That was two weeks ago, though. I dunno what kind of papers take that long to process, but I know I do not belong here.
I get up from my sweaty folding chair, and make my way towards the door.
“Kalin, sit down.” The older lady snaps at me, demanding that I sit back down. I hate the look on her face. Like she is better than me. No one is better than me.
“Bite me. I’m going to find whoever runs the paperwork around here and getting the fuck out. Can’t stand another second of your talking.” I snapped back, while pushing on the door.
Locked. Of course it is locked. It is a heavy duty lock, too; so much so that I could not get it to budge even with a strong push with my shoulder, like it was an actual wall with a doorknob instead of a door. Makes sense for these kinds of places, though. They lock crazy people together in a room and do not want them getting out unless it is convenient for them.. Except me. I am not fucking crazy. I need to find some way out of here, even if I have to break this goddamn door down.
“Kalin, please sit back down. The Lord will reward you with whatever you desire if you are patient enough. We are not without our sins, and the doctor is just trying to—”
Oh, spare me the fucking lecture, you goddamned nun. She is just like Mom; always nagging, never getting off my fucking case, deeply in that cult of Christianity and convinced I have a demon inside me or something.
“You listen here, bitch. You’re not well in the head, if you remember correctly. NONE of you are. You’ve been here for a few days, I’ve been here for a month for GOD knows why—”
This got a reaction out of the religious girl; even the office worker I was talking to shot me a frown when I started speaking to her in the way I did. Not like I needed his friendship anyway. He is crazy like the rest in here. Not me. I am a completely sane person in a room filled with nutjobs.
“Why, I never—! How dare you take the Lord’s name in vain, you demon!”
Something in me triggered when she said that word; “demon”. Like my body was moving on its own, I lunged forward with all the force I had. Déjà vu struck me like a truck as I had seen this woman for what she truly was; my mother, coming back to taunt me all this time later. Why else would she call me a demon? I know who she is now, and I am not about to let her treat me like she did the night I was taken here. My hands wrapped around her tiny throat, her face becoming blue from the lack of oxygen going to her face, and subsequently, her brain.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO ME? I’LL KILL YOU, BITCH! WHY DID YOU COME HERE? TO MOCK ME AGAIN?!”
My outburst had been short lived, as the previously locked door had opened to two strong looking security guards wielding handcuffs, cuffing my hands behind my back. Again. Just like the night I got here. Except this time, I am in a place made for crazy people. And the last time... I cannot remember what happened, but I know I became very angry with my mother. And now here she was, taunting me through this religious girl. Just like how she called me a demon every single goddamn day of my life. I did not stop staring daggers into that woman, that self-proclaimed angel, that damned me and left me to fend for myself. Because I was a demon to her. In one last attempt to get out of this hospital, as I was being dragged to who knew where, I screamed at the top of my lungs. The men tried their best to cover my mouth, but I put up one last act of rebellion by shaking all around in their arms, at least being able to scream out:
“I’M NOT CRAZY! SOMEONE, PLEASE! DAVID, WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU TO GET ME OUT OF HERE, NOW! I’M WAY MORE SANE THAN THESE DAMNED PEOPLE!”
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I woke up some time later, after my “incident”, as reported by the security. Apparently, I had been upgraded to a single room, padded with white, clothy padding adorning the floor, walls, and ceiling. Good. They should know that I deserve better treatment than any of those other people. This place looks much more comfortable than my crappy room beforehand.
Before too long, I had heard a knock at the large, metallic door, a flap at stomach-height flopping open and dropping in food. I realized that I was very hungry at that moment, so I had dove onto the meal, not caring what it was or if it was really even edible. The guard behind the door chuckled softly, surely laughing at how pathetic I must have looked. I was not pathetic, but I knew he did not know that. The man continued to chuckle at me as I continued to swallow my food like a starved dog, realizing that the room was getting hotter, even hotter than the therapy room.
It had to have been at least 90 degrees in here; who was keeping it scorching? I yelped as I felt the metal door become so heated, that it started to burn my hand. Shit, that hurt. Soothing the burn by rubbing my hand against my pant leg, I heard someone out in the hallway approaching. The guard scrambled to get up, as all I could see through the flap a tall man holding a file folder in his hand, the kind used for hospital records.
He was similar in physique to the man that had told me to go to my therapy session, but with a red button-up shirt and a grey vest. He had gotten close to the door, bending down to the flap and looking at me through it, shooting a toothy smirk as he diverted his attention to the file in his hand. His fiery-orange eyes looking upon my file. Was he wearing colored contacts or something? I guess it made his jet black hair and scruffy beard a little more popping. He then began to speak, as the room kept getting hotter, his mere presence causing heat waves to be able to be seen within the walls of my room, and eventually causing me to fall on the floor.
I was better than this; I could usually handle heat, but this was unlike any heat I had ever experienced. It was like standing in a fucking volcano. My sweat pouring down my body, the man began reading off of the file with a devilish grin, my eyes widening in response as he spoke with his Southern accent,
“According to your file, you’ve had a psychotic break in group therapy, huh? Well, ain’t the first time I’ve seen that... they should really get more security in there. But the shit you’ve done, boy... Why, Kalin, you’ve earned yourself an express ticket to Hell.”
In fact, I think I am taking the place of some other guy. Some guy just came to my room, a real sharply dressed Man in Black type.. I would have ignored him if he was not the size of a small building; guy had to be at least well over six feet tall, and his suit fitted to the point it was almost skin tight on his thin physique, leaving the image of a stereotypical conspiracy theorist sketch of aliens among us in the door of my room. While I was sitting there, about to ask what he wanted, he immediately cut me off and started shouting so focused in my ear I thought he spat at me,
“Saturdays at 4. Be there, sharp. Attendance will be marked, and tardiness will not be tolerated.”
Whatever. Bastard did not scare me in the slightest. Looked like a greenhorn that just got out of training to go bark some orders at me to feel tough. I could have taken him in a fight, but I chose not to. Not worth my time or effort. Better to just listen and doze off for an hour here at these sessions than to try to tangle with The Man.
It is about 3:59 now, and here everyone comes, either not getting the same warning I have or just not giving enough of a shit to care. Always at 3:59 exactly. I guess that most people take the approach of leaving for wherever they wanna go five minutes before they are supposed to be there. Either way, it pisses me off. They stroll in all casual like they are just at these sessions for the hell of it. I know I would rather be anywhere but here, but here they come, just early enough not to be considered late.
There is the person that runs these things at the front there. Older woman, probably in her late 40s or early 50s, pretending that she is still in her 30s with a purple turtleneck and black pencil skirt. The wrinkles under her weary, dark chocolate eyes give away the secret she is trying to hide, though, and as a result, she typically wears thick framed square prescription-less glasses to hide them. She cannot hide the streaks of grey in her hair though, no matter how many times she tries to dye it her younger shade of dark brown. She still tries in vain to dye it, though, leaving a
really dark head of hair with streaks of botched dye on the grey hairs, leaving a shimmering brown-silver look on the locks. Like most of the women I have had the misfortune of talking with, she also would never be seen without her pound of makeup on her face that somehow makes her look even uglier than I am sure that she would look without it.
Then comes in the religious girl. I hate this bitch. Always wearing her cross around her neck and dressing like a damned churchgoer, with a nice summer dress that you would see in an out-of- touch Pepsi commercial or something, adorned with bright yellow sunflowers on a white cloth background. So bright and so yellow in fact, that she feels the need to sit next to the one of two windows in this room, right in my line of sight. When the sun hits that godforsaken dress, it lights up like a Christmas tree, hurting my eyes even when I try to close them. She never seems to notice, shooting a peppy smile at me and a “How are you doing?” and I having to half-assedly shoot an awkward smirk back, with a “Fine”. She has pretty eyes, though. Big and blue, like snow globes after you let them stay still for a little, leaving only the liquid stirred up and still faintly moving. Blonde hair that reminds me of 90s rom-coms. Got a nice young look to her too, her skin obviously cared for that even the air around her looks soft. Too bad they belong to... her.
And then comes in a ton of people I do not know, nor do not care about. They are about as generic as they come, with guys named John here and a girl named Lily there (she actually sits next to me, which causes me to tense up slightly, then relax as I realize she is thankfully not in a chatty mood). The one guy that I always notice though, is this angry, tall, business looking guy; he is young like the religious girl, but nowhere near as annoyingly chipper. In fact, he looks more like me, with a permanent scowl on his face and a furrowed brow. He does not really remind me of anything, just the kind of guy that you would pass in a gas station as he asks for twenty bucks on pump three. A background character you would see in any show, where he is slaving away while the main characters go on hijinx and do things interesting with their lives. Maybe that is why he is here; so sick of mediocrity that he needs at least something to pass the time, but this is not what is exactly he had in mind.
“Alright, so how is everyone doing this week?”
I did not even hear the meeting start until I heard the older lady ask her formalities, in which the response was equivalent to an indifferent shrug. Johns and Lilys said “Doing good...” in a half-assed way. The religious girl piped up in her annoyingly high pitched voice and said:
“I’m great! God has been working through my life, and...”
Blah, blah, fucking blah. Nobody cares about the girl’s rambling on about God or the Holy Spirit or whatever topic she’s on now, but nobody has the nerve to stop her from talking. Kindness is sometimes a curse, especially when it comes to people that should shut up but do not. So, instead of paying attention, it looks like it has to be a good amount of tuning out from my inner thoughts. Why she decides to throw her Jesus camp bullshit on us is beyond me, but--
“Psst.”
I hear a small, masculine voice whisper out to me. Or maybe it was the person next to me. I am just gonna pretend I did not hear it. Maybe then they will take the hint and--
“Psssssssst!”
So it looks like we have someone that does not take the hint. Great. Just what I needed, someone who wants to be my friend. I do not need friends, especially from this place. Just thinking about some of the people here pisses me off, especially that religious girl, who is still going on about whatever Christian bullshit that has been brainwashing her this week. I think she is quoting the Bible now; might as well see what this guy has to say before I die of boredom.
“What? I am paying very close attention to this quote from the Bible,” I said, in the most pretentious way I possibly could, in order to get the person trying to get my attention to think I am actually a Christian like her. Of course, I have not been a Christian in a very long time; not since Mom--
“Yeah, I’m sure, especially with how you’re drifting off into space an’ rolling your eyes. Listen, you wanna be bored as fuck individually or shoot the shit together?”
Now he got my attention. I finally turn to face the man that I had been talking with for the last few minutes; to my surprise, it is the angry business guy, who looks much more personable than I remember him being. His eyes were less sharp than usual, more relaxed, and his gaze was not one of silent contempt like I had seen so many times before, but now like he actually wanted to talk with someone here. Ah, what the hell. I might as well pass the time doing something at least remotely stimulating.
"Sure. What do you wanna--”
“Do I need to remind you all of the first rule of group therapy sessions here at Mercy Hospital’s psychiatric ward? There is to be no talking amongst yourselves. If you want to say something, you can say it to the group.”
Jesus Christ. Again with this Mercy Hospital group therapy shit. I just got here a month ago, and I have seen so many people come and go through those insulated doors to the main corridor of the psych ward, and not ONCE has the older lady not mentioned that we cannot talk with each other. She says it in the same tone, too, like a recorded message or something. The delivery, deadpan and emotionless, like she has not talked to real people in years.
It would be a bit creepy if I was thinking this place was clearing up my head, but no. It is not my fault that this shit does not help. Crazy people tend not to know that they are crazy. But not me. I am not crazy. I dunno why the fuck I am still here. My lawyer, David, real smug guy with a cheap suit and an expensive haircut, tells me they are just waiting for my clearance forms to process. That was two weeks ago, though. I dunno what kind of papers take that long to process, but I know I do not belong here.
I get up from my sweaty folding chair, and make my way towards the door.
“Kalin, sit down.” The older lady snaps at me, demanding that I sit back down. I hate the look on her face. Like she is better than me. No one is better than me.
“Bite me. I’m going to find whoever runs the paperwork around here and getting the fuck out. Can’t stand another second of your talking.” I snapped back, while pushing on the door.
Locked. Of course it is locked. It is a heavy duty lock, too; so much so that I could not get it to budge even with a strong push with my shoulder, like it was an actual wall with a doorknob instead of a door. Makes sense for these kinds of places, though. They lock crazy people together in a room and do not want them getting out unless it is convenient for them.. Except me. I am not fucking crazy. I need to find some way out of here, even if I have to break this goddamn door down.
“Kalin, please sit back down. The Lord will reward you with whatever you desire if you are patient enough. We are not without our sins, and the doctor is just trying to—”
Oh, spare me the fucking lecture, you goddamned nun. She is just like Mom; always nagging, never getting off my fucking case, deeply in that cult of Christianity and convinced I have a demon inside me or something.
“You listen here, bitch. You’re not well in the head, if you remember correctly. NONE of you are. You’ve been here for a few days, I’ve been here for a month for GOD knows why—”
This got a reaction out of the religious girl; even the office worker I was talking to shot me a frown when I started speaking to her in the way I did. Not like I needed his friendship anyway. He is crazy like the rest in here. Not me. I am a completely sane person in a room filled with nutjobs.
“Why, I never—! How dare you take the Lord’s name in vain, you demon!”
Something in me triggered when she said that word; “demon”. Like my body was moving on its own, I lunged forward with all the force I had. Déjà vu struck me like a truck as I had seen this woman for what she truly was; my mother, coming back to taunt me all this time later. Why else would she call me a demon? I know who she is now, and I am not about to let her treat me like she did the night I was taken here. My hands wrapped around her tiny throat, her face becoming blue from the lack of oxygen going to her face, and subsequently, her brain.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO ME? I’LL KILL YOU, BITCH! WHY DID YOU COME HERE? TO MOCK ME AGAIN?!”
My outburst had been short lived, as the previously locked door had opened to two strong looking security guards wielding handcuffs, cuffing my hands behind my back. Again. Just like the night I got here. Except this time, I am in a place made for crazy people. And the last time... I cannot remember what happened, but I know I became very angry with my mother. And now here she was, taunting me through this religious girl. Just like how she called me a demon every single goddamn day of my life. I did not stop staring daggers into that woman, that self-proclaimed angel, that damned me and left me to fend for myself. Because I was a demon to her. In one last attempt to get out of this hospital, as I was being dragged to who knew where, I screamed at the top of my lungs. The men tried their best to cover my mouth, but I put up one last act of rebellion by shaking all around in their arms, at least being able to scream out:
“I’M NOT CRAZY! SOMEONE, PLEASE! DAVID, WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU TO GET ME OUT OF HERE, NOW! I’M WAY MORE SANE THAN THESE DAMNED PEOPLE!”
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I woke up some time later, after my “incident”, as reported by the security. Apparently, I had been upgraded to a single room, padded with white, clothy padding adorning the floor, walls, and ceiling. Good. They should know that I deserve better treatment than any of those other people. This place looks much more comfortable than my crappy room beforehand.
Before too long, I had heard a knock at the large, metallic door, a flap at stomach-height flopping open and dropping in food. I realized that I was very hungry at that moment, so I had dove onto the meal, not caring what it was or if it was really even edible. The guard behind the door chuckled softly, surely laughing at how pathetic I must have looked. I was not pathetic, but I knew he did not know that. The man continued to chuckle at me as I continued to swallow my food like a starved dog, realizing that the room was getting hotter, even hotter than the therapy room.
It had to have been at least 90 degrees in here; who was keeping it scorching? I yelped as I felt the metal door become so heated, that it started to burn my hand. Shit, that hurt. Soothing the burn by rubbing my hand against my pant leg, I heard someone out in the hallway approaching. The guard scrambled to get up, as all I could see through the flap a tall man holding a file folder in his hand, the kind used for hospital records.
He was similar in physique to the man that had told me to go to my therapy session, but with a red button-up shirt and a grey vest. He had gotten close to the door, bending down to the flap and looking at me through it, shooting a toothy smirk as he diverted his attention to the file in his hand. His fiery-orange eyes looking upon my file. Was he wearing colored contacts or something? I guess it made his jet black hair and scruffy beard a little more popping. He then began to speak, as the room kept getting hotter, his mere presence causing heat waves to be able to be seen within the walls of my room, and eventually causing me to fall on the floor.
I was better than this; I could usually handle heat, but this was unlike any heat I had ever experienced. It was like standing in a fucking volcano. My sweat pouring down my body, the man began reading off of the file with a devilish grin, my eyes widening in response as he spoke with his Southern accent,
“According to your file, you’ve had a psychotic break in group therapy, huh? Well, ain’t the first time I’ve seen that... they should really get more security in there. But the shit you’ve done, boy... Why, Kalin, you’ve earned yourself an express ticket to Hell.”
Trenton Butt is a junior English Writing major at Edinboro University. They have always had a fascination with media that makes one's skin crawl or tears to bud from their eyes: emotional torture is their favorite. Alongside writing, Trenton also works as a voice actor, with roles stemming from games, animation, commercials, and more. More of that line of work can be found here: https://trentonbuttvoices.com
The Arrival
Courtnee Fields
PennWest Edinboro
PennWest Edinboro
The ride from my home to my final destination was as brief and pleasant as I could have expected from the rear of a vehicle, unable to see the driver or evaluate the route they took. They seemed to take care that I wasn’t jostled too much, which I supposed I appreciated. I sighed and heard a sharp inhale from the front of the van. The driver sped up considerably and took almost no care to soften bumps until we stopped. This was why I never showed appreciation before a job was completed, people just lost the run of themselves. The van reversed and the driver swiftly opened the rear door after parking. A door opened outside the vehicle and the driver was greeted by a new person who sounded female.
“Careful with this one, I’m told she was a real firecracker and I swear I heard a sigh on the way here,” the driver said to the new person.
The woman chuckled and took over wheeling me in various directions through a building. I’d been here before, just not in this portion. I had seen the front with the soft lighting, piped music, and screens displaying photo collages and videos, but I imagined this part was its opposite: less comforting and more clinical. It made no matter because it would be what I’d been craving for the last five decades: stone silent. No demanding children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or any other family asking me for something or taking something from me. No strangers to pretend to enjoy their banal small talk.
Some see this stage as some sort of tragedy, but I, Myrna Mae Hassett, have arrived at my paradise. I knew I had a few more instances where I’d be shuffled about and fussed over, but this was to be a most peaceful journey, to my final resting place. The woman wheeling me had the courtesy to keep quiet and I wished I could have thanked her. We took one final turn into a room where the kind woman locked the wheels on my gurney, slid me onto another surface, and graciously left me alone. If it were possible, I would had been grinning from ear-to-ear. If I’d died alone, it’s how I would had been found.
I took in my solitude and emptied my mind of all thoughts: easy to do in death. It was like the deepest stage of meditation without focusing on the breath. I settled and then my worst possible nightmare became realized as I perceived something that signaled my arrival into Hell. I wasn’t the nicest in my lifetime, but what had I done to deserve this? Who had I angered to be punished so swiftly and severely? If it were physically possible, my blood would be boiling and my hair hot. I was incensed and wanted to appeal this injustice to a higher power. It was horrifying. It was abrasive.
Wow, a new neighbor, welcome! My name is Miles, what’s yours?
“Careful with this one, I’m told she was a real firecracker and I swear I heard a sigh on the way here,” the driver said to the new person.
The woman chuckled and took over wheeling me in various directions through a building. I’d been here before, just not in this portion. I had seen the front with the soft lighting, piped music, and screens displaying photo collages and videos, but I imagined this part was its opposite: less comforting and more clinical. It made no matter because it would be what I’d been craving for the last five decades: stone silent. No demanding children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or any other family asking me for something or taking something from me. No strangers to pretend to enjoy their banal small talk.
Some see this stage as some sort of tragedy, but I, Myrna Mae Hassett, have arrived at my paradise. I knew I had a few more instances where I’d be shuffled about and fussed over, but this was to be a most peaceful journey, to my final resting place. The woman wheeling me had the courtesy to keep quiet and I wished I could have thanked her. We took one final turn into a room where the kind woman locked the wheels on my gurney, slid me onto another surface, and graciously left me alone. If it were possible, I would had been grinning from ear-to-ear. If I’d died alone, it’s how I would had been found.
I took in my solitude and emptied my mind of all thoughts: easy to do in death. It was like the deepest stage of meditation without focusing on the breath. I settled and then my worst possible nightmare became realized as I perceived something that signaled my arrival into Hell. I wasn’t the nicest in my lifetime, but what had I done to deserve this? Who had I angered to be punished so swiftly and severely? If it were physically possible, my blood would be boiling and my hair hot. I was incensed and wanted to appeal this injustice to a higher power. It was horrifying. It was abrasive.
Wow, a new neighbor, welcome! My name is Miles, what’s yours?
Courtnee Fields is a Senior at PennWest Edinboro, majoring in English Writing. Her time at Edinboro has expanded her pallet to not only enjoy writing fiction, but also screenplays and slightly above terrible poetry. Her work has been previously published in Chimera and she plans to continue submitting work for publication after graduation.
The Sleeping Giant
Cassandra Gripp
PennWest Edinboro
He went to Hell willingly.
At least that’s what he was forced to remind himself as he raced towards the raging giant. The ground rumbled beneath him, though he couldn’t tell if it was as a result of the Jeep or the disaster developing before his very eyes.
The military-standard tires sent rocks and clumps of dirt into his eyes, his mask doing very little to stop their sting. He made sure his satchel was secure at his feet, placing it beneath a duffel bag full of masks and eye protection. If he wouldn’t make it, he prayed the contents of his bag would–the secrets of a world and time not much different than this one. Ahead of him, the mountain sent up a cloud: black as night and reaching for the heavens. He and his companion tucked their faces into the collars of their jackets as they drove through the ashfall, his partner’s knuckles whitening on the wheel.
“How’re you holdin’ up, Ellis?” The driver prompted, panic lacing his voice as if he needed the confirmation that Ellis was there beside him, alive.
“Seen better days, that’s for sure. If this thing goes, there’s no stopping it.” Ellis said. Visibility was poor, and he didn’t know the lay of the land as well as his friend. He’d only arrived in the country a week ago, and no matter how much he studied the map, he would need time to know his exact whereabouts—something he no longer knew if he had.
The driver turned the wheel sharply, nearly sending the Jeep toppling sideways. Ellis screamed. The duo adjusted their weight to right the vehicle, then skidded to a stop. “Shit,” he groaned, sitting up straighter to look over the windshield. “Road’s blocked with debris. Either we move it, or we get cut off from our crew.”
Ellis glanced at the boulder-sized obstacles blocking their path. They were yellowish-white, porous, and smoking. “You sure there’s not a way around them, Russo?”
“I’m afraid this is our safest bet. Unless you’d rather drive up the side of an actively erupting volcano, that is?”
Ellis shook his head and jumped out of the Jeep, boots crunching on the gravel beneath him. Russo soon followed, and together the pair approached the rocks. They dug their noses into their shirts, tightened their masks, and prepared to lift the first of many larger pieces. Russo touched it first, smoothing his hand over it to gain better purchase of it and redistribute its weight. He yelped, pulling his hand away to observe his injury.
“It’s like glass!” He cried.
“Pumice,” Ellis explained, shoving his fists deeper into his jacket. He lifted the rock using his sleeves, then heaved it into the open field beside them, thankfully deserted of all wildlife. He repeated this action several times with Russo’s help, until at last, the road was passable again. Then, they climbed back into the Jeep and Ellis returned his diminishing gaze to the mountain. “So much for a ‘Sleeping Giant’.”
By the time the pair arrived in San Sebastiano, the comune was alive with movement. Military personnel lined the streets, preparing to evacuate at a moment’s notice. Families cried as they were loaded into trucks, watching their homes crumble under falling stone and heat. Several fires had broken out around town already.
“It’s the Germans!” cried one man in Italian. “Who else would awaken Vesuvio?”
Ellis eyed the man, watching the way the others ignored him as they continued evacuating families. He sighed, walking up to him as he became more frantic. “Signore, I'm going to need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?”
Truthfully, Ellis didn’t speak much Italian, so when the man began to ramble, he was thankful for Russo appearing at his side. The officer did his best to reassure the man that this eruption was not the work of any Germans or angry gods: that sometimes, disasters just happened. When the man began to calm down, Ellis cut in, explaining that the mountain had most likely given way to years of building pressure. Russo was quick to translate.
The earth shook and the mountain spewed another ash cloud, raining tephra and toxic fumes. Russo gave the man a mask and Ellis coaxed him onto a truck. They needed to get out of there soon or they would be buried beneath the rubble. The men clambered back into their Jeep, Russo wheezing, and began their journey northwest, towards Naples.
Ellis sat beside Russo’s cot in the medical tent, refusing to leave his side. He had coughed and sputtered the whole way from the comune, spitting blackened grime from his lungs and out the window every chance he got. Ellis watched on in fear, offering more than once to take over driving, though Russo insisted they shouldn’t stop. By the time they’d reached their encampment, Russo had been gray, and collapsed out of the vehicle as soon as it was parked. Ellis rushed to his side, dragging him to receive help.
Once the nurses had stabilized Russo, Ellis went to retrieve his satchel, thankful it hadn’t burned up in the sweltering heat. He unclasped it, sifting through various files and photographs, hoping to document his findings in the small leather journal in his pocket. As he wrote the date, ‘17 March, 1944’, he noticed the pages were singed along the edges.
Although he had come to study the volcano, he hadn’t expected to see it on eruption day. His findings in the Lost City had been miniscule, though he’d documented the random scribblings, notes, and photographs of eerily preserved bodies with care. One picture in particular stood out to him, sending a chill down his spine as it had when he’d seen it in person: two boys, expressions frozen in anguish and fear, locked in a fatal embrace, their bodies buried in the rubble of a caved-in roof.
* * *
It was late August when the first earthquake struck. The people of Pompeii thought nothing of it, equating it to the restless gods they worshiped. Business went by as usual. By the second day, the earth continued to shake. People took to looking towards the mountain, noticing a haze settling over its summit. Still, they were unmoved. By the third day of shaking, town criers took to the streets, preaching the end of the world. While some heeded their words, others refused to leave. By the fourth day, it was too late.
Gray clouds covered the sun, blanketing the city in darkness. A sweltering heat rushed through the streets, persistent and unforgiving. Thunder cracked deafeningly, lighting the sky only temporarily to show a column of ash erupting from the great mountain’s peak. Atticus grit his teeth as he ran, the warmth of the stones uncomfortable on his bare feet. He knew needed to reach Ignatius.
He almost missed the doorway, relying on muscle memory to bring him to the same room he’d entered so many times before. “Ignatius?”
“Atticus? What are you doing here?” A plump woman sat in the corner of the room, stitching the side of a young man’s tunic. At her words, the boy’s brown eyes seared into his own. He stood, then stumbled toward Atticus, embracing him. “Ignatius, you didn’t tell me–”
“I couldn’t leave you,” Atticus cried, accepting his lover’s arms around him, ignoring the woman staring dumbfoundedly between them. “My family is waiting for us at the coastline. Please, come with me.”
Ignatius frowned, running his fingers through Atticus’ curls. He was openly weeping, something the boy hadn’t seen him do before. “You know I can’t. Mother says it’s a storm.”
“Just a bad storm,” Ignatius’ mother echoed. She was unheard over the pounding in Atticus’ ears, urging him to make Ignatius listen to him: to realize the danger ahead.
Atticus shook his head, removing himself from Ignatius’ arms. He looked at him, hazel eyes wide and disbelieving. “You haven’t seen what I have. It’s like the Underworld is opening beneath us. We have to leave.”
Bile rose in Ignatius’ throat as he spoke his next words, unable to meet Atticus’ gaze. Still, he clung to him tighter. “Go then. I will not leave my mother.”
Atticus frowned, resigned to his fate. Where Ignatius went, he would follow, even if it were to the Doors of Death to claim them. He only prayed for his family’s safety, then touched his forehead to Ignatius’, reminiscing on better days and soft brown eyes he knew he would never forget. Tears stung his cheeks like acid as he held onto Ignatius.
There was a resounding crack outside and the city was alive with noise. A wave of heat pushed through the doorway, slamming into the boys with enough force to move a plow. Ignatius’ mother toppled over, aggressively chattering about summer winds. The boys dared to move closer to the window. Outside, a fiery haze overtook the streets, casting the city in an eerie glow. Ash fell, burning the skin of those attempting to flee. The people cried out and Atticus cried with them.
Hell rained down upon the city, covering it in ash and rock. It broke through roofs, burning through every aspect of people’s lives. The shutters went up in flames, forcing the boys away from the window. They watched helplessly, tangled against each other, as the fire crept closer. It was smothered before it could reach them. Atticus cried out as the ceiling gave way, crushing Ignatius’ mother before either of them could move. Ignatius screamed, lunging towards the woman and was pulled back as more of the ceiling gave way.
Atticus jumped on top of Ignatius, trying to protect him from bearing the weight of the stone. His legs were pinned and Ignatius was trapped beneath him, pounding against his chest as sorrow overtook him. Ash began to pour down on them, searing their skin. Refusing to look upon where the ceiling had first crumbled, Ignatius wheezed, trying to free them from meeting a similar fate. He wept, blaming himself. If only he’d listened to him, if only he had told his mother she was wrong and that they needed to leave, if only…
Atticus screamed as the rock and ash burned him, anguish clear on his face though he refused to let go of Ignatius’ arms. Their hands reached for each other’s, fingers entwining.
“Look at me,” Atticus begged, sensing the dark spiral his lover had undertaken. Slowly, Ignatius appeased him by doing so. The pair coughed and spat the ash from their lungs, though no fresh air came to cleanse them. Then, Atticus’ head fell against Ignatius’ chest and neither moved again.
* * *
Ellis observed the photograph, a thousand thoughts racing through his head. He remembered Pliny the Elder’s words, the “many days” of tremors that had overtaken the city and yet so many had stayed. What could drive so many people to behave so recklessly?
And then he thought of Russo, asleep beside him, and how he’d asked Ellis to go on a “supply run” to San Sebastiano after a particularly nasty earthquake had shaken the comune. He thought of his mischievous grin as he accelerated the vehicle: his subtle wink as Ellis’ heart pounded in his chest, clutching the door for dear life. He remembered the determination on Russo’s brow as the first signs of smoke appeared in their line of vision.
And he understood. He understood everything.
At least that’s what he was forced to remind himself as he raced towards the raging giant. The ground rumbled beneath him, though he couldn’t tell if it was as a result of the Jeep or the disaster developing before his very eyes.
The military-standard tires sent rocks and clumps of dirt into his eyes, his mask doing very little to stop their sting. He made sure his satchel was secure at his feet, placing it beneath a duffel bag full of masks and eye protection. If he wouldn’t make it, he prayed the contents of his bag would–the secrets of a world and time not much different than this one. Ahead of him, the mountain sent up a cloud: black as night and reaching for the heavens. He and his companion tucked their faces into the collars of their jackets as they drove through the ashfall, his partner’s knuckles whitening on the wheel.
“How’re you holdin’ up, Ellis?” The driver prompted, panic lacing his voice as if he needed the confirmation that Ellis was there beside him, alive.
“Seen better days, that’s for sure. If this thing goes, there’s no stopping it.” Ellis said. Visibility was poor, and he didn’t know the lay of the land as well as his friend. He’d only arrived in the country a week ago, and no matter how much he studied the map, he would need time to know his exact whereabouts—something he no longer knew if he had.
The driver turned the wheel sharply, nearly sending the Jeep toppling sideways. Ellis screamed. The duo adjusted their weight to right the vehicle, then skidded to a stop. “Shit,” he groaned, sitting up straighter to look over the windshield. “Road’s blocked with debris. Either we move it, or we get cut off from our crew.”
Ellis glanced at the boulder-sized obstacles blocking their path. They were yellowish-white, porous, and smoking. “You sure there’s not a way around them, Russo?”
“I’m afraid this is our safest bet. Unless you’d rather drive up the side of an actively erupting volcano, that is?”
Ellis shook his head and jumped out of the Jeep, boots crunching on the gravel beneath him. Russo soon followed, and together the pair approached the rocks. They dug their noses into their shirts, tightened their masks, and prepared to lift the first of many larger pieces. Russo touched it first, smoothing his hand over it to gain better purchase of it and redistribute its weight. He yelped, pulling his hand away to observe his injury.
“It’s like glass!” He cried.
“Pumice,” Ellis explained, shoving his fists deeper into his jacket. He lifted the rock using his sleeves, then heaved it into the open field beside them, thankfully deserted of all wildlife. He repeated this action several times with Russo’s help, until at last, the road was passable again. Then, they climbed back into the Jeep and Ellis returned his diminishing gaze to the mountain. “So much for a ‘Sleeping Giant’.”
By the time the pair arrived in San Sebastiano, the comune was alive with movement. Military personnel lined the streets, preparing to evacuate at a moment’s notice. Families cried as they were loaded into trucks, watching their homes crumble under falling stone and heat. Several fires had broken out around town already.
“It’s the Germans!” cried one man in Italian. “Who else would awaken Vesuvio?”
Ellis eyed the man, watching the way the others ignored him as they continued evacuating families. He sighed, walking up to him as he became more frantic. “Signore, I'm going to need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?”
Truthfully, Ellis didn’t speak much Italian, so when the man began to ramble, he was thankful for Russo appearing at his side. The officer did his best to reassure the man that this eruption was not the work of any Germans or angry gods: that sometimes, disasters just happened. When the man began to calm down, Ellis cut in, explaining that the mountain had most likely given way to years of building pressure. Russo was quick to translate.
The earth shook and the mountain spewed another ash cloud, raining tephra and toxic fumes. Russo gave the man a mask and Ellis coaxed him onto a truck. They needed to get out of there soon or they would be buried beneath the rubble. The men clambered back into their Jeep, Russo wheezing, and began their journey northwest, towards Naples.
Ellis sat beside Russo’s cot in the medical tent, refusing to leave his side. He had coughed and sputtered the whole way from the comune, spitting blackened grime from his lungs and out the window every chance he got. Ellis watched on in fear, offering more than once to take over driving, though Russo insisted they shouldn’t stop. By the time they’d reached their encampment, Russo had been gray, and collapsed out of the vehicle as soon as it was parked. Ellis rushed to his side, dragging him to receive help.
Once the nurses had stabilized Russo, Ellis went to retrieve his satchel, thankful it hadn’t burned up in the sweltering heat. He unclasped it, sifting through various files and photographs, hoping to document his findings in the small leather journal in his pocket. As he wrote the date, ‘17 March, 1944’, he noticed the pages were singed along the edges.
Although he had come to study the volcano, he hadn’t expected to see it on eruption day. His findings in the Lost City had been miniscule, though he’d documented the random scribblings, notes, and photographs of eerily preserved bodies with care. One picture in particular stood out to him, sending a chill down his spine as it had when he’d seen it in person: two boys, expressions frozen in anguish and fear, locked in a fatal embrace, their bodies buried in the rubble of a caved-in roof.
* * *
It was late August when the first earthquake struck. The people of Pompeii thought nothing of it, equating it to the restless gods they worshiped. Business went by as usual. By the second day, the earth continued to shake. People took to looking towards the mountain, noticing a haze settling over its summit. Still, they were unmoved. By the third day of shaking, town criers took to the streets, preaching the end of the world. While some heeded their words, others refused to leave. By the fourth day, it was too late.
Gray clouds covered the sun, blanketing the city in darkness. A sweltering heat rushed through the streets, persistent and unforgiving. Thunder cracked deafeningly, lighting the sky only temporarily to show a column of ash erupting from the great mountain’s peak. Atticus grit his teeth as he ran, the warmth of the stones uncomfortable on his bare feet. He knew needed to reach Ignatius.
He almost missed the doorway, relying on muscle memory to bring him to the same room he’d entered so many times before. “Ignatius?”
“Atticus? What are you doing here?” A plump woman sat in the corner of the room, stitching the side of a young man’s tunic. At her words, the boy’s brown eyes seared into his own. He stood, then stumbled toward Atticus, embracing him. “Ignatius, you didn’t tell me–”
“I couldn’t leave you,” Atticus cried, accepting his lover’s arms around him, ignoring the woman staring dumbfoundedly between them. “My family is waiting for us at the coastline. Please, come with me.”
Ignatius frowned, running his fingers through Atticus’ curls. He was openly weeping, something the boy hadn’t seen him do before. “You know I can’t. Mother says it’s a storm.”
“Just a bad storm,” Ignatius’ mother echoed. She was unheard over the pounding in Atticus’ ears, urging him to make Ignatius listen to him: to realize the danger ahead.
Atticus shook his head, removing himself from Ignatius’ arms. He looked at him, hazel eyes wide and disbelieving. “You haven’t seen what I have. It’s like the Underworld is opening beneath us. We have to leave.”
Bile rose in Ignatius’ throat as he spoke his next words, unable to meet Atticus’ gaze. Still, he clung to him tighter. “Go then. I will not leave my mother.”
Atticus frowned, resigned to his fate. Where Ignatius went, he would follow, even if it were to the Doors of Death to claim them. He only prayed for his family’s safety, then touched his forehead to Ignatius’, reminiscing on better days and soft brown eyes he knew he would never forget. Tears stung his cheeks like acid as he held onto Ignatius.
There was a resounding crack outside and the city was alive with noise. A wave of heat pushed through the doorway, slamming into the boys with enough force to move a plow. Ignatius’ mother toppled over, aggressively chattering about summer winds. The boys dared to move closer to the window. Outside, a fiery haze overtook the streets, casting the city in an eerie glow. Ash fell, burning the skin of those attempting to flee. The people cried out and Atticus cried with them.
Hell rained down upon the city, covering it in ash and rock. It broke through roofs, burning through every aspect of people’s lives. The shutters went up in flames, forcing the boys away from the window. They watched helplessly, tangled against each other, as the fire crept closer. It was smothered before it could reach them. Atticus cried out as the ceiling gave way, crushing Ignatius’ mother before either of them could move. Ignatius screamed, lunging towards the woman and was pulled back as more of the ceiling gave way.
Atticus jumped on top of Ignatius, trying to protect him from bearing the weight of the stone. His legs were pinned and Ignatius was trapped beneath him, pounding against his chest as sorrow overtook him. Ash began to pour down on them, searing their skin. Refusing to look upon where the ceiling had first crumbled, Ignatius wheezed, trying to free them from meeting a similar fate. He wept, blaming himself. If only he’d listened to him, if only he had told his mother she was wrong and that they needed to leave, if only…
Atticus screamed as the rock and ash burned him, anguish clear on his face though he refused to let go of Ignatius’ arms. Their hands reached for each other’s, fingers entwining.
“Look at me,” Atticus begged, sensing the dark spiral his lover had undertaken. Slowly, Ignatius appeased him by doing so. The pair coughed and spat the ash from their lungs, though no fresh air came to cleanse them. Then, Atticus’ head fell against Ignatius’ chest and neither moved again.
* * *
Ellis observed the photograph, a thousand thoughts racing through his head. He remembered Pliny the Elder’s words, the “many days” of tremors that had overtaken the city and yet so many had stayed. What could drive so many people to behave so recklessly?
And then he thought of Russo, asleep beside him, and how he’d asked Ellis to go on a “supply run” to San Sebastiano after a particularly nasty earthquake had shaken the comune. He thought of his mischievous grin as he accelerated the vehicle: his subtle wink as Ellis’ heart pounded in his chest, clutching the door for dear life. He remembered the determination on Russo’s brow as the first signs of smoke appeared in their line of vision.
And he understood. He understood everything.
Cassandra Gripp is a senior dual-English major at PennWest Edinboro, concentrating in literature and writing. Post-graduation, she plans to work as a literary editor and author. A long-time. lover of Ancient Greek culture and mythology, Gripp has published two short stories under the literary journals Chimera and Tobeco.
Shocking Upset
Kristen Hepler
PennWest Edinboro
Robert Anthony skimmed the emboldened headline of The New York Herald with little interest as he sipped his morning coffee from the white China cup. A smile played lightly at the corner of his lips as he read on:
Breaking News: Young Jockey Dies Mid-Race in Shocking Upset!
BELMONT, June 4—Floyd Herman (22) toppled from horse Trigger-Finger after riding to victory in a 20:1 upset in Monday’s steeplechase.
Despite suffering a massive heart attack in the latter half of the chase, his body remained upright in the saddle until passing the finish line by a head. Track doctors are still at a loss as to how this is possible. The horse’s owner, Miss Annie Forrest says of the incident--
He put the paper down on the table, looking up at the woman across from him at the mahogany dining table. She sniffled, trying to be inconspicuous, but he could clearly make out by the still bloodshot eyes that she had been crying.
“Have a cold, dear?” Robert asked, his jovial voice breaking through his wife’s daze. She looked up, startled.
“No... No, dear, I’m fine. Why do you ask?” the puzzlement was thick in her voice. Trying to hide it, he thought. I know what you were doing, my dear.
“Too bad about that jockey fellow over at Belmont Park. I suppose he’ll go down in history as being the only dead man to win a steeplechase.”
His wife started, the cup she was holding rattling loudly against the saucer. I know.
“What was his name, Floyd something?” he baited, trying his hardest to reel her in like a fish on a hook.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she responded flatly, turning in her chair to speak with the housekeeper that had come up behind her.
Despite his wife’s insistence, he knew the entire story. For it was he that uncovered the secret affair that had blossomed between herself and Edward Daws, one of the jockeys that rode for his extensive barn of Thoroughbred racehorses in the countryside of New York. He had seen it with his own eyes, the two lovers sharing a tender kiss in the empty foaling barn. Do they think me an imbecile? He had fumed late that night, while the blonde-haired beauty he’d married at the ripe age of nineteen slept soundly beside him. She was blissfully unaware that her deception had thus been uncovered. Did they think I wouldn’t notice them sneaking off to the foaling barn when all the mares had dropped their babies months ago? He might not spend much time on the property, but he knew enough to realize there was no business needing undertaken there when the mares were no longer in season.
All it took was a slight sum and some threatening of one of the stableboys to uncover more. On Sundays, when Robert and Ruth would don their best to go to the races at Belmont, Edward would wait for her at one of the empty track offices. Not the ones with the glaring glass windows, where the hordes of gambling-addicted men went to place their bets on the winner, but the ones that stood empty, waiting for racing officials to employ its service in breaking up track disputes. That was more private for the lovers…. He couldn’t think about it!
He smiled again, stewing over what had happened at Belmont yesterday. A month after the revelation had been made, when he and his wife once again found themselves at the track to watch his Thoroughbreds run, she excused herself to use the water closet. He had followed, hoping to catch them in the act, quietly firing Daws and putting an end to their charades, but what he saw shocked him even more. As Ruth rounded the corner of the busy track thoroughfare, he saw her nod briefly to a tall, lanky lad of what appeared to be Irish descent. Dressed in nothing more than the garb of a common yard boy and leaning on a broom, he inclined his head back in her direction.
“He’s waiting for you, ma’am,” he said, almost too quiet for Robert’s ears to pick up over the roar of the crowd. She blushed in reply.
“You’re the best friend two lovers could ever ask for, Floyd.”
Disappearing into the track office, he watched her slip off her wedding ring. So, you have a lookout, do you? Thought of everything they did. He had remembered thinking, the rage coloring his mind. Robert knew the boy—Floyd Herman, a 22-year-old Irishman who made his living as a stableman and a horse trainer. Though he worked for another one of the trainers in New York, he could often be seen sweeping the concrete aisleways of the barn or hand jogging nervous horses as they waited for their jockeys to mount. Never had he thought the kind young man could be bold enough to play the watching eyes as another defiled his wife!
Robert had wanted to confront Floyd right there or blow past him to catch the two lovers red-handed. But he didn’t. Two can play this game.
It wasn’t often that he thought about his friend Luca Giovanni, the mobster from the Five Points area of Lower Manhattan. The men had met at the beginning of Prohibition when the long rumored Eighteenth Amendment had passed, making the sale of alcohol illegal. At that time, Robert had his hands in the gambling business, where he had aided Giovanni and his then mentor in smuggling alcohol into several of the local Speakeasies. They remained friends ever since.
It had been close to three years now since the two men had met and if Robert was being frank with himself, the self-sure Italian made him more than a little uneasy. Luca had promised his services if they were ever warranted and since then, Robert had only called on the man once. There had been no other to take care of a little “business” between himself and a track official who claimed Robert’s jockey had impeded the lane of another rider. What the mobster had threatened the man that day to comply still sent his body into a cold and feverish sweat.
But bringing shame to the body of another man’s wife? That was a different matter entirely. As Robert strolled away back to his seats in the grandstand, awaiting the running of his favorite stallion in that afternoon’s steeplechase, he again saw no other way of bringing vengeance upon his hired hand. Ruth, he could council on his own, but this injustice could not stand to go unpunished. He knew that Luca would feel the same.
It had taken him close to a month to settle things with his friend and the other members of the gang, but finally, the date of June ninth had been decided upon for the hit to be carried out. When Edward would be leaving his usual Friday night haunts of Brooklyn, Luca would be waiting in the shadows. Robert, however, had requested that he be allowed to speak to Floyd himself, wishing the least amount of blood to be spilled as possible in enacting vengeance.
“After all,” he had told Luca, slowly exhaling a puff from the Italian-made cigar in his hand, smoke rising into the sky in a dense cloud. “Floyd is only the lookout. Best to put the fear of God into him, lest he is tempted to harm another man in the same way that he has me.”
Floyd’s death at yesterday’s steeplechase had, despite his reaction to the newspaper printings, came as shock to both him and Luca. Robert had made the drive to Belmont Park on his own that morning, hoping to catch the stableman shortly after breakfast. Arriving at the track just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, bathing the raceway in its golden rays, he had been surprised to find his target, not in the barns, but on the road out front, running up and down the hard surface as quickly as he could.
Pulling his Willys Overland as close to the jogging man as possible, he leaned out the window, voice barely audible above the chug of the engine. Floyd’s face, bright as a cherry tomato, blanched visibly as he took in the gruff angry face staring back at him.
“Why don’t you slow down a moment so I can speak with you,” Robert had called, trying to keep his voice calm and even. The young man shook his head.
“I can’t, sir,” he responded, voice weak. “I’m training for this afternoon’s chase.”
Floyd? Training for the afternoon steeplechase? He thought. How can that be? Floyd’s a trainer, a stableman, not a jockey! The confusion must have been written plainly across his face, for the boy, still not slowing his pace, panted back in response,
“It’s Miss Forrest, sir. Her jockey suffered an injury to his leg yesterday mornin’. He can’t ride, sir, and she asked if I might take his place. But I’m too heavy and need to drop weight.”
So, you’re starving and running yourself to death then? He thought, perplexed. But Robert didn’t have time to ponder the strange circumstances. Coaxing more speed out of the car’s engine, he pulled ahead of the still-moving Herman. Turning the wheel rapidly to the right, Robert’s vehicle came to rest across the path, cutting off the road ahead. Floyd had no choice but to pull up short before running into the side of his obstacle.
He didn’t even try to run, Robert thought, bemusing as he continued to thumb through the newspaper, trying to ignore his wife’s still aggravating sniffles. Their confrontation outside the racetrack that morning had been short. All he had to do was mention Giovanni’s name and the jockey had stiffened, the whites of his eyes clearly visible in panic.
“I don’t intend any harm to come to you,” Robert had purred from the inside vehicle, leaning across the seat to look the frightened young man dead in the eyes. “That is, as long as Edward Daws remains ignorant of what is to come. If I catch wind that you’ve let your tongue slip, you’ll face far worse.”
With that, he had driven away, leaving Floyd Herman shaking from the confrontation.
Robert hadn’t been at the steeplechase yesterday afternoon when Floyd had suffered the fatal heart attack mid-race. If it hadn’t been for one of the Five Point Gang henchmen telephoning him shortly before bed to deliver the news, the newspaper would have been his first time encountering the story. Although he knew there would be speculation over how the seemingly healthy Irishman had perished, Robert knew there was no way to tie himself nor the gang back to the real reason why Floyd Herman’s heart had stopped that day: the fear that an Italian hitman would come for him too.
Breaking News: Young Jockey Dies Mid-Race in Shocking Upset!
BELMONT, June 4—Floyd Herman (22) toppled from horse Trigger-Finger after riding to victory in a 20:1 upset in Monday’s steeplechase.
Despite suffering a massive heart attack in the latter half of the chase, his body remained upright in the saddle until passing the finish line by a head. Track doctors are still at a loss as to how this is possible. The horse’s owner, Miss Annie Forrest says of the incident--
He put the paper down on the table, looking up at the woman across from him at the mahogany dining table. She sniffled, trying to be inconspicuous, but he could clearly make out by the still bloodshot eyes that she had been crying.
“Have a cold, dear?” Robert asked, his jovial voice breaking through his wife’s daze. She looked up, startled.
“No... No, dear, I’m fine. Why do you ask?” the puzzlement was thick in her voice. Trying to hide it, he thought. I know what you were doing, my dear.
“Too bad about that jockey fellow over at Belmont Park. I suppose he’ll go down in history as being the only dead man to win a steeplechase.”
His wife started, the cup she was holding rattling loudly against the saucer. I know.
“What was his name, Floyd something?” he baited, trying his hardest to reel her in like a fish on a hook.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she responded flatly, turning in her chair to speak with the housekeeper that had come up behind her.
Despite his wife’s insistence, he knew the entire story. For it was he that uncovered the secret affair that had blossomed between herself and Edward Daws, one of the jockeys that rode for his extensive barn of Thoroughbred racehorses in the countryside of New York. He had seen it with his own eyes, the two lovers sharing a tender kiss in the empty foaling barn. Do they think me an imbecile? He had fumed late that night, while the blonde-haired beauty he’d married at the ripe age of nineteen slept soundly beside him. She was blissfully unaware that her deception had thus been uncovered. Did they think I wouldn’t notice them sneaking off to the foaling barn when all the mares had dropped their babies months ago? He might not spend much time on the property, but he knew enough to realize there was no business needing undertaken there when the mares were no longer in season.
All it took was a slight sum and some threatening of one of the stableboys to uncover more. On Sundays, when Robert and Ruth would don their best to go to the races at Belmont, Edward would wait for her at one of the empty track offices. Not the ones with the glaring glass windows, where the hordes of gambling-addicted men went to place their bets on the winner, but the ones that stood empty, waiting for racing officials to employ its service in breaking up track disputes. That was more private for the lovers…. He couldn’t think about it!
He smiled again, stewing over what had happened at Belmont yesterday. A month after the revelation had been made, when he and his wife once again found themselves at the track to watch his Thoroughbreds run, she excused herself to use the water closet. He had followed, hoping to catch them in the act, quietly firing Daws and putting an end to their charades, but what he saw shocked him even more. As Ruth rounded the corner of the busy track thoroughfare, he saw her nod briefly to a tall, lanky lad of what appeared to be Irish descent. Dressed in nothing more than the garb of a common yard boy and leaning on a broom, he inclined his head back in her direction.
“He’s waiting for you, ma’am,” he said, almost too quiet for Robert’s ears to pick up over the roar of the crowd. She blushed in reply.
“You’re the best friend two lovers could ever ask for, Floyd.”
Disappearing into the track office, he watched her slip off her wedding ring. So, you have a lookout, do you? Thought of everything they did. He had remembered thinking, the rage coloring his mind. Robert knew the boy—Floyd Herman, a 22-year-old Irishman who made his living as a stableman and a horse trainer. Though he worked for another one of the trainers in New York, he could often be seen sweeping the concrete aisleways of the barn or hand jogging nervous horses as they waited for their jockeys to mount. Never had he thought the kind young man could be bold enough to play the watching eyes as another defiled his wife!
Robert had wanted to confront Floyd right there or blow past him to catch the two lovers red-handed. But he didn’t. Two can play this game.
It wasn’t often that he thought about his friend Luca Giovanni, the mobster from the Five Points area of Lower Manhattan. The men had met at the beginning of Prohibition when the long rumored Eighteenth Amendment had passed, making the sale of alcohol illegal. At that time, Robert had his hands in the gambling business, where he had aided Giovanni and his then mentor in smuggling alcohol into several of the local Speakeasies. They remained friends ever since.
It had been close to three years now since the two men had met and if Robert was being frank with himself, the self-sure Italian made him more than a little uneasy. Luca had promised his services if they were ever warranted and since then, Robert had only called on the man once. There had been no other to take care of a little “business” between himself and a track official who claimed Robert’s jockey had impeded the lane of another rider. What the mobster had threatened the man that day to comply still sent his body into a cold and feverish sweat.
But bringing shame to the body of another man’s wife? That was a different matter entirely. As Robert strolled away back to his seats in the grandstand, awaiting the running of his favorite stallion in that afternoon’s steeplechase, he again saw no other way of bringing vengeance upon his hired hand. Ruth, he could council on his own, but this injustice could not stand to go unpunished. He knew that Luca would feel the same.
It had taken him close to a month to settle things with his friend and the other members of the gang, but finally, the date of June ninth had been decided upon for the hit to be carried out. When Edward would be leaving his usual Friday night haunts of Brooklyn, Luca would be waiting in the shadows. Robert, however, had requested that he be allowed to speak to Floyd himself, wishing the least amount of blood to be spilled as possible in enacting vengeance.
“After all,” he had told Luca, slowly exhaling a puff from the Italian-made cigar in his hand, smoke rising into the sky in a dense cloud. “Floyd is only the lookout. Best to put the fear of God into him, lest he is tempted to harm another man in the same way that he has me.”
Floyd’s death at yesterday’s steeplechase had, despite his reaction to the newspaper printings, came as shock to both him and Luca. Robert had made the drive to Belmont Park on his own that morning, hoping to catch the stableman shortly after breakfast. Arriving at the track just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, bathing the raceway in its golden rays, he had been surprised to find his target, not in the barns, but on the road out front, running up and down the hard surface as quickly as he could.
Pulling his Willys Overland as close to the jogging man as possible, he leaned out the window, voice barely audible above the chug of the engine. Floyd’s face, bright as a cherry tomato, blanched visibly as he took in the gruff angry face staring back at him.
“Why don’t you slow down a moment so I can speak with you,” Robert had called, trying to keep his voice calm and even. The young man shook his head.
“I can’t, sir,” he responded, voice weak. “I’m training for this afternoon’s chase.”
Floyd? Training for the afternoon steeplechase? He thought. How can that be? Floyd’s a trainer, a stableman, not a jockey! The confusion must have been written plainly across his face, for the boy, still not slowing his pace, panted back in response,
“It’s Miss Forrest, sir. Her jockey suffered an injury to his leg yesterday mornin’. He can’t ride, sir, and she asked if I might take his place. But I’m too heavy and need to drop weight.”
So, you’re starving and running yourself to death then? He thought, perplexed. But Robert didn’t have time to ponder the strange circumstances. Coaxing more speed out of the car’s engine, he pulled ahead of the still-moving Herman. Turning the wheel rapidly to the right, Robert’s vehicle came to rest across the path, cutting off the road ahead. Floyd had no choice but to pull up short before running into the side of his obstacle.
He didn’t even try to run, Robert thought, bemusing as he continued to thumb through the newspaper, trying to ignore his wife’s still aggravating sniffles. Their confrontation outside the racetrack that morning had been short. All he had to do was mention Giovanni’s name and the jockey had stiffened, the whites of his eyes clearly visible in panic.
“I don’t intend any harm to come to you,” Robert had purred from the inside vehicle, leaning across the seat to look the frightened young man dead in the eyes. “That is, as long as Edward Daws remains ignorant of what is to come. If I catch wind that you’ve let your tongue slip, you’ll face far worse.”
With that, he had driven away, leaving Floyd Herman shaking from the confrontation.
Robert hadn’t been at the steeplechase yesterday afternoon when Floyd had suffered the fatal heart attack mid-race. If it hadn’t been for one of the Five Point Gang henchmen telephoning him shortly before bed to deliver the news, the newspaper would have been his first time encountering the story. Although he knew there would be speculation over how the seemingly healthy Irishman had perished, Robert knew there was no way to tie himself nor the gang back to the real reason why Floyd Herman’s heart had stopped that day: the fear that an Italian hitman would come for him too.
Kristen Hepler is a junior student at PennWest Edinboro enrolled in the English Writing and Criminal Justice programs. In her free time, she can usually be found hanging out with her dogs or horses. After graduation, she hopes to advocate for reform in the criminal justice system as well as help share the stories of those that were wrongfully convicted.
Nothing Given
Dustin Steiger
PennWest Edinboro
In my short time on this earth, I have grown to fully embrace the simple fact that, in order to
have , you first must take. Nothing comes from nothing, as the great Lavoisier made evident centuries ago, and nothing, likewise, is freely given. Call me the Francesco Redi of modern philosophy, if you will, but the flesh has long since decayed, and yet the maggots are the least of my worries.
I suppose I can start my story on that bright sunny day in the earliest moments of the afternoon on June 16, still freshly off the turn of the millennium but deep enough into the year that the anarchy and confusion of “Y2K” had finally started to fade back into normalcy. The cry of Destiny’s Child filled the streets, but the world was not ending, at least not yet, though for one particular victim, life’s most bitter opus was, in fact, preying just around the corner.
I had been watching the man for a while now. He was young, in his mid-20’s, working at a rather large accounting firm for forty-hour weeks with the rest of the machines. He was plain enough, I suppose. His skin was smooth and white, flawless, and he wore a ring on his finger and a crucifix around his neck, tucked between his plain white tee and the red button-down. He was, by all accounts, a simple “good” man, with little else to say. Yet I couldn’t help but find a certain macabre fascination in the horrors of ordinary life, as embodied by the man before me, and, for that, I still hold the view that what I have done is just, both in the eyes of God and the beholder.
He walked out of the Arthur-Anderson at precisely 3:02 PM that day, a Friday, and I could tell just by looking in his direction that he wanted nothing more than to greet the weekend with an exhausted hallelujah, to head back to his home and make love to his wife and act as if his world were still in motion and as if it would be forever. Perhaps I should have taken him then and there, before he even got into his car and took to the busy city streets, but, as I watched him leave, that macabre sense of ordinary once again befell me. And so, against my better judgment, I followed him, keeping a good distance between us as to remain in the subtleties of the peripheral.
A single-story house on the edge of the suburbs was where he finally stopped, and I drove on,
parking a few minutes down the street before quickly returning on foot to that quaint little coffin of a home. I watched over him as he ate with his family–a wife and daughter, both still very young, respectively speaking–through the shadows of the dining room window in the evening, studying him from outside as he ate. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him, and I watched each movement with intimate curiosity, from the tightening of his fingers as he tore the bread to the strong movements of his jaw as he ate to the very basic essence of humanity flickering in his eyes as he looked contently to his wife and child. It all seemed to be a delicious meal, but my eyes remained fixed on the main course, and it was through this study that my instinctual conviction on his regards was justified, my mind made up to take his life the following day.
He sat with his child on his lap for a few hours after dinner, the flickering of the
television illuminating his face as the minutes waned away. Tomorrow , I thought to myself. Tomorrow, I will .
As he went to bed, so did I, resting my back against the side of the house right outside his bedroom window as I listened through the night. I could hear the creaking of the mattress, the gentle moans of the act, then the steady breaths from them both as they slept. They sounded so peaceful, so calm and serene, to where I was almost tempted to push open their window and crawl into bed with them. I pondered this for some time. But before I knew it, the night was gone, and, as the sun met the horizon, the thrill of the chase became of me again.
It was a “father-daughter” day, that Saturday was, and he took the young girl—and myself by proxy—to the playground for her to run around with reckless energy and abandon as such children tend to do. I myself found a nice tree to lean against not too far away, within eyesight and earshot of the two while remaining distant enough to blend with the background and not be seen. They were adorable together, I’ll say that much. You’d be hard-pressed to find a father with as much love and zeal for a daughter as this man, a passion that I envied.
For a moment as I watched them from my perch, the girl’s youth distracted me, and, admittedly, I found myself lost in a daydream of days past in which I too once had such wild and untamed freedom of energy, so much so that the existential dread had yet to even cross my mind. There was even a second while watching her where I wondered if it would be wise to readjust my vision; this thought was quickly pushed away, however, when the young girl shoved another-- younger —boy backwards violently down the slide. A complete stranger, mind you, and I recalled to myself that childishness is not synonymous with innocence. Human nature, after all, is only natural, as the Apostle Paul and other such philosophers of old would attest, and the refinement and retainment of purity must come with time, like the aging of a fine wine. There would be no point nor moral value in cutting short such untrained innocence. And so, as such, my gaze remained locked on the man.
Soon, the man stood up and walked away, if only for a moment to stretch his legs. I’d say that this was the moment I embraced my desires and took the man, but—again—I didn’t. Instead, I simply waited under the comforting shade of the tree, far too caught up in the personal life of the prey to play the predator now. I suppose that my admittedly Machiavellian nature was pardoned, for a moment, by the far reaches of curiosity, but I was more than willing to wait and see how it would all play out.
The rest of the day came and past, my intrigue and fascination still ever present and haunting; I
knew that the man deserved to live, of course, and as such, that he would make the perfect offering, but perhaps it was a consequential mix of bitter envy and lost contrition conflicting in my lust for his soul that kept me waiting yet another day to do the deed and take him as I knew in my heart I must.
When the Sabbath finally arrived, I followed him and his family to church. The pastor spoke with a fervent passion, a basic sermon on the words of John. He argued with great reverence and conviction on the power of salvation and faith as the one true path for the cleansing of one’s sin, jumping from scripture to scripture with focused intent while damning the rest of the world’s practices. The words he spoke were fascinating, I must admit. Stuff and nonsense, I assure, but fascinating indeed. “Faith,” he would repeat incessantly, “...faith will make you well.”
I–ever the apostate–was familiar with the verse. Yet without works, I reminded myself, we remain as dead as death . I took communion with the congregation.
The pastor continued to preach on for another hour after that. I never much cared for pastors, to
be frank. The whole lot of them are a despicable, corrupt faction, too caught up in their own
self-righteousness to know the weight of their own sins. Such hyssop and hypocrisy always did (and does) astound me, otherwise I’d likely simply take them practically to extinction. But I would hate to have their sins on my conscience, and I digress.
It was while lost in these thoughts that my original pardon almost slipped away as the congregation stood to worship, the man taking a step outside the church to answer a call on his phone.
With a breath of readiness, I followed him for the last time into the sunshine, closer than I had ever. He walked out into the parking lot as the song of the church droned on, muffled behind us, and spoke to the phone without notice or care. Yet I knew what he did not.
I felt an intimate tension in the air, a feeling I had never felt and likely would never feel again. It was a confused attrition of resolves crawling in through my skin, as if God himself were watching me and had been this whole time. Still, I waited behind him, heart beating through my skull. But when he hung up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, he turned, his eyes meeting with mine for the first time with a moment of confused shock.
Without hesitation, I did what I knew I would. It was quick enough, I will say. The innocent ones usually are. He went down without much of a fight, the back of his head bouncing against the pavement as my hands easily tightened around his throat, his eyes rolling back further and further with each lost breath. I pinned him down, tightening my grip for second after second until he finally passed quietly through the divides of consciousness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little to myself as I watched him go, as I felt him fade in my fingertips. With his movement stilled, I moved my shaking hands from his neck and laid my head gently down on his strong, soft chest to listen. To my comfort, it was still beating, and I took my knife from its pocket and readied it, the pavement he now laid against as my stone altar. As my hands and blade plunged into his chest, I could feel my sins wash away in the bathing of his blood, soaking in the works by which I freed myself from sin and mortality. I let go of the knife after a few moments, dropping it to my right, now letting both my hands freely explore what lay inside with a smile quivering over my face. With a final clutch of my fists around his heart, I took his purity in my hands and extinguished it, and I felt the extraordinary rush of the divine flow through me.
Gentleness followed, a peaceful breath in my lungs as the praises of the church continued on in mindless oblivion. Joyously by my sacrifice I joined them, hands outspread and extended high to my sides as I sat by my lamb, worshiping alongside the congregation of sinners, our song rising to meet the heavens as one…
“It is well with my soul…
It is well with my soul…
It is well, it is well with my soul!”
It was through this, this act of salvation by my own fruition, that I came to see that it was good.
I took his head home and left the rest of the body outside the church; it didn’t matter anymore. He was dead, and I was clean. His head still hangs on my wall to this day, a reminder of the sins I have since been free of, mounted alongside the several dozen other gifts from God I have taken over the years. It may seem grim, I know, but I find it a solemn source of reassurance in a world where nothing is ever given.
have , you first must take. Nothing comes from nothing, as the great Lavoisier made evident centuries ago, and nothing, likewise, is freely given. Call me the Francesco Redi of modern philosophy, if you will, but the flesh has long since decayed, and yet the maggots are the least of my worries.
I suppose I can start my story on that bright sunny day in the earliest moments of the afternoon on June 16, still freshly off the turn of the millennium but deep enough into the year that the anarchy and confusion of “Y2K” had finally started to fade back into normalcy. The cry of Destiny’s Child filled the streets, but the world was not ending, at least not yet, though for one particular victim, life’s most bitter opus was, in fact, preying just around the corner.
I had been watching the man for a while now. He was young, in his mid-20’s, working at a rather large accounting firm for forty-hour weeks with the rest of the machines. He was plain enough, I suppose. His skin was smooth and white, flawless, and he wore a ring on his finger and a crucifix around his neck, tucked between his plain white tee and the red button-down. He was, by all accounts, a simple “good” man, with little else to say. Yet I couldn’t help but find a certain macabre fascination in the horrors of ordinary life, as embodied by the man before me, and, for that, I still hold the view that what I have done is just, both in the eyes of God and the beholder.
He walked out of the Arthur-Anderson at precisely 3:02 PM that day, a Friday, and I could tell just by looking in his direction that he wanted nothing more than to greet the weekend with an exhausted hallelujah, to head back to his home and make love to his wife and act as if his world were still in motion and as if it would be forever. Perhaps I should have taken him then and there, before he even got into his car and took to the busy city streets, but, as I watched him leave, that macabre sense of ordinary once again befell me. And so, against my better judgment, I followed him, keeping a good distance between us as to remain in the subtleties of the peripheral.
A single-story house on the edge of the suburbs was where he finally stopped, and I drove on,
parking a few minutes down the street before quickly returning on foot to that quaint little coffin of a home. I watched over him as he ate with his family–a wife and daughter, both still very young, respectively speaking–through the shadows of the dining room window in the evening, studying him from outside as he ate. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him, and I watched each movement with intimate curiosity, from the tightening of his fingers as he tore the bread to the strong movements of his jaw as he ate to the very basic essence of humanity flickering in his eyes as he looked contently to his wife and child. It all seemed to be a delicious meal, but my eyes remained fixed on the main course, and it was through this study that my instinctual conviction on his regards was justified, my mind made up to take his life the following day.
He sat with his child on his lap for a few hours after dinner, the flickering of the
television illuminating his face as the minutes waned away. Tomorrow , I thought to myself. Tomorrow, I will .
As he went to bed, so did I, resting my back against the side of the house right outside his bedroom window as I listened through the night. I could hear the creaking of the mattress, the gentle moans of the act, then the steady breaths from them both as they slept. They sounded so peaceful, so calm and serene, to where I was almost tempted to push open their window and crawl into bed with them. I pondered this for some time. But before I knew it, the night was gone, and, as the sun met the horizon, the thrill of the chase became of me again.
It was a “father-daughter” day, that Saturday was, and he took the young girl—and myself by proxy—to the playground for her to run around with reckless energy and abandon as such children tend to do. I myself found a nice tree to lean against not too far away, within eyesight and earshot of the two while remaining distant enough to blend with the background and not be seen. They were adorable together, I’ll say that much. You’d be hard-pressed to find a father with as much love and zeal for a daughter as this man, a passion that I envied.
For a moment as I watched them from my perch, the girl’s youth distracted me, and, admittedly, I found myself lost in a daydream of days past in which I too once had such wild and untamed freedom of energy, so much so that the existential dread had yet to even cross my mind. There was even a second while watching her where I wondered if it would be wise to readjust my vision; this thought was quickly pushed away, however, when the young girl shoved another-- younger —boy backwards violently down the slide. A complete stranger, mind you, and I recalled to myself that childishness is not synonymous with innocence. Human nature, after all, is only natural, as the Apostle Paul and other such philosophers of old would attest, and the refinement and retainment of purity must come with time, like the aging of a fine wine. There would be no point nor moral value in cutting short such untrained innocence. And so, as such, my gaze remained locked on the man.
Soon, the man stood up and walked away, if only for a moment to stretch his legs. I’d say that this was the moment I embraced my desires and took the man, but—again—I didn’t. Instead, I simply waited under the comforting shade of the tree, far too caught up in the personal life of the prey to play the predator now. I suppose that my admittedly Machiavellian nature was pardoned, for a moment, by the far reaches of curiosity, but I was more than willing to wait and see how it would all play out.
The rest of the day came and past, my intrigue and fascination still ever present and haunting; I
knew that the man deserved to live, of course, and as such, that he would make the perfect offering, but perhaps it was a consequential mix of bitter envy and lost contrition conflicting in my lust for his soul that kept me waiting yet another day to do the deed and take him as I knew in my heart I must.
When the Sabbath finally arrived, I followed him and his family to church. The pastor spoke with a fervent passion, a basic sermon on the words of John. He argued with great reverence and conviction on the power of salvation and faith as the one true path for the cleansing of one’s sin, jumping from scripture to scripture with focused intent while damning the rest of the world’s practices. The words he spoke were fascinating, I must admit. Stuff and nonsense, I assure, but fascinating indeed. “Faith,” he would repeat incessantly, “...faith will make you well.”
I–ever the apostate–was familiar with the verse. Yet without works, I reminded myself, we remain as dead as death . I took communion with the congregation.
The pastor continued to preach on for another hour after that. I never much cared for pastors, to
be frank. The whole lot of them are a despicable, corrupt faction, too caught up in their own
self-righteousness to know the weight of their own sins. Such hyssop and hypocrisy always did (and does) astound me, otherwise I’d likely simply take them practically to extinction. But I would hate to have their sins on my conscience, and I digress.
It was while lost in these thoughts that my original pardon almost slipped away as the congregation stood to worship, the man taking a step outside the church to answer a call on his phone.
With a breath of readiness, I followed him for the last time into the sunshine, closer than I had ever. He walked out into the parking lot as the song of the church droned on, muffled behind us, and spoke to the phone without notice or care. Yet I knew what he did not.
I felt an intimate tension in the air, a feeling I had never felt and likely would never feel again. It was a confused attrition of resolves crawling in through my skin, as if God himself were watching me and had been this whole time. Still, I waited behind him, heart beating through my skull. But when he hung up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, he turned, his eyes meeting with mine for the first time with a moment of confused shock.
Without hesitation, I did what I knew I would. It was quick enough, I will say. The innocent ones usually are. He went down without much of a fight, the back of his head bouncing against the pavement as my hands easily tightened around his throat, his eyes rolling back further and further with each lost breath. I pinned him down, tightening my grip for second after second until he finally passed quietly through the divides of consciousness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little to myself as I watched him go, as I felt him fade in my fingertips. With his movement stilled, I moved my shaking hands from his neck and laid my head gently down on his strong, soft chest to listen. To my comfort, it was still beating, and I took my knife from its pocket and readied it, the pavement he now laid against as my stone altar. As my hands and blade plunged into his chest, I could feel my sins wash away in the bathing of his blood, soaking in the works by which I freed myself from sin and mortality. I let go of the knife after a few moments, dropping it to my right, now letting both my hands freely explore what lay inside with a smile quivering over my face. With a final clutch of my fists around his heart, I took his purity in my hands and extinguished it, and I felt the extraordinary rush of the divine flow through me.
Gentleness followed, a peaceful breath in my lungs as the praises of the church continued on in mindless oblivion. Joyously by my sacrifice I joined them, hands outspread and extended high to my sides as I sat by my lamb, worshiping alongside the congregation of sinners, our song rising to meet the heavens as one…
“It is well with my soul…
It is well with my soul…
It is well, it is well with my soul!”
It was through this, this act of salvation by my own fruition, that I came to see that it was good.
I took his head home and left the rest of the body outside the church; it didn’t matter anymore. He was dead, and I was clean. His head still hangs on my wall to this day, a reminder of the sins I have since been free of, mounted alongside the several dozen other gifts from God I have taken over the years. It may seem grim, I know, but I find it a solemn source of reassurance in a world where nothing is ever given.
Dustin Steiger is a Senior at PennWest Edinboro and an avid consumer of Code Red Mountain Dew. Currently studying Secondary Education and Creative Writing, Steiger aspires to be a novelist and screenwriter while continuing to record music under the pen name “Sky Viotto” for Long Live the Young and Reckless.
Sun-Bleached Flies
Olivia Sutton
PennWest Edinboro
The sun-bleached flies sat in the window and told me they were God. I heard it in their soft buzz, saw it in their kaleidoscope eyes.
The preacher man said he heard his voice, that God told him to instruct the sheep; but I knew that wasn’t true, because I heard God in the flies, and the flies were telling the preacher man to shut the fuck up. But the preacher man couldn’t hear God, so he performed in the pulpit, spitting fire and venom as his followers feared him.
The flies buzzed around my shoulder like they could hear my very thoughts, and of course, they could. The flies told me of my life, told me how my pale flesh was knit in my white mother’s womb, how my eyes, black and smooth like river stones, embedded themselves into the sockets of my skull, a gift from my Cherokee father. They told me how my mother poisoned herself with bottles, how my father was chased out of town by the men sitting in the pews, white flesh and white teeth glimmering in the light of their idol at the pulpit.
They told me of all the whispers uttered by fine ladies of the church choir, proudly wearing their velvet hats and white satin gloves. They told me how they found me, rummaging for the scraps of hypocrites.
The flies then rested on the sleeves of my church dress. The air was hot and dry, still and calm. They told me how they heard my heart, swollen with grief and longing. They hummed in my ear and told me: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
The flies’ buzzing got louder, but no one else seemed to notice through the shouts of the preacher man. The flies told me the Snake is doubly evil, for he masquerades his deceit as holy. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.
The flies multiplied in number, swarming in from the open window as if on command; they told me how they lived the whole world in a single day, how they slowed time with their
enormous, glittering eyes. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Seeping in, millions of delicate wings beat the flat air into chaos; they told me blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
They came in at such a velocity that velvet hats were knocked to the dirt beneath the pews. The men’s smiles lost their glitter as the church darkened from the swarm of millions upon millions of little black insect bodies moving as one.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
The buzz turned a monstrous, suffocating scream that forced the Snake into silence. The flies told me how they consumed death, how they would be born again and again. They would be there to turn corpses from the rapture into nourishment for the New Earth; a world built on the bones of hypocrites and liars writhing forever. A world that will flourish through eternal ignorance.
The preacher man said he heard his voice, that God told him to instruct the sheep; but I knew that wasn’t true, because I heard God in the flies, and the flies were telling the preacher man to shut the fuck up. But the preacher man couldn’t hear God, so he performed in the pulpit, spitting fire and venom as his followers feared him.
The flies buzzed around my shoulder like they could hear my very thoughts, and of course, they could. The flies told me of my life, told me how my pale flesh was knit in my white mother’s womb, how my eyes, black and smooth like river stones, embedded themselves into the sockets of my skull, a gift from my Cherokee father. They told me how my mother poisoned herself with bottles, how my father was chased out of town by the men sitting in the pews, white flesh and white teeth glimmering in the light of their idol at the pulpit.
They told me of all the whispers uttered by fine ladies of the church choir, proudly wearing their velvet hats and white satin gloves. They told me how they found me, rummaging for the scraps of hypocrites.
The flies then rested on the sleeves of my church dress. The air was hot and dry, still and calm. They told me how they heard my heart, swollen with grief and longing. They hummed in my ear and told me: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
The flies’ buzzing got louder, but no one else seemed to notice through the shouts of the preacher man. The flies told me the Snake is doubly evil, for he masquerades his deceit as holy. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.
The flies multiplied in number, swarming in from the open window as if on command; they told me how they lived the whole world in a single day, how they slowed time with their
enormous, glittering eyes. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Seeping in, millions of delicate wings beat the flat air into chaos; they told me blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
They came in at such a velocity that velvet hats were knocked to the dirt beneath the pews. The men’s smiles lost their glitter as the church darkened from the swarm of millions upon millions of little black insect bodies moving as one.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
The buzz turned a monstrous, suffocating scream that forced the Snake into silence. The flies told me how they consumed death, how they would be born again and again. They would be there to turn corpses from the rapture into nourishment for the New Earth; a world built on the bones of hypocrites and liars writhing forever. A world that will flourish through eternal ignorance.
Olivia Sutton is a sophomore at PennWest Edinboro University studying Illustration and Creative Writing. She has had work published in the Tobeco Literary Journal and worked as an illustrator for the book of poems My Stay with the Sisters by Cheryl Cantafio. In her free time, she enjoys forcing her little brother to sit still long enough for her to draw a portrait and crying to Taylor Swift's discography. After graduation, Olivia hopes to work in the publishing industry, helping herself and others tell stories through her art and writing.
Highway Antics
Kiercesten Taylor
PennWest Edinboro
Gina knew that traffic on the westbound highway would be slow-moving, but she’d expected to be halfway home at this point. She pushes up on to the steering wheel of her darling Kia Rio just slightly. Her head swivels from side to side to see past the eighteen-wheeler in front of her, only to slump back down into the driver’s seat in defeat. She eyes the lane next to her, contemplating the idea of moving over just to be able to see past the mountain of metal before her.
There’s a candy red Toyota Camry next to her, and it’s practically kissing the bumper of the black Chevy Silverado in front. After her examination of the almost nonexistent space between the two cars, she peers at the owner of candy red Camry. She's greeted by hostile emerald daggers, belonging to a decrepit old man with a sneer on his lips, silently warning her to stay put. The polite smile she manages would qualify more as a grimace when she faces back towards the white semi-trailer.
The sardine-packed traffic is the problem currently occupying ninety-five percent of Gina’s cerebrum, but that other five percent was heavily reminding her that her bowels were currently in shambles. It’s most definitely her lower intestine dishing out a copious dose of karma, due to her rudely ingesting an entire McDonald’s big breakfast complete with hotcakes. The ache in her lower right abdomen is payment for the large caramel iced coffee.
“I will not make it.” She mutters to herself, the churn of her stomach drawing a whimper right after, “I’m gonna shit inside of you Stella, and I am so sorry for that.”
The sweat beginning to bead around her hairline can’t be blamed on the Houston heat as she’s got the A/C blowing on max. It’s the building pressure at the idea that she might defecate her pants before she reaches her safe abode.
“God forbid anyone see,” Gina lets out a low groan. “I’ll read about it in the neighborhood Facebook group.” She wipes at her brow, the accumulation of sweat there making her tepid skin feel even more sordid and sticky.
Her mood lifts very briefly when the gears of the semi grind cautiously before beginning a slow lurch forward. “Finally,” Gina exhales, foot slightly on the accelerator as she moves forward also.
Traffic picks up a little, so she allows herself to turn the volume dial up again and listen to Beyonce belt Sorry at her once more. She bops along with the music, anything to push that nagging 5% out of her head. She even smiles over at candy red Camry, whose mood also seems less frenzied.
“Middle fingers up, put them hands high,” she intones, her middle finger slightly above her own head as she inches forward. “Put it in his face, tell’em boy by—shit!”
Gina slams on her brakes, middle finger immediately dropping so she can grip the wheel of Stella with both hands and prevent herself from ramming into the back of the tractor-trailer. She just barely misses having an accident, and she can’t even revel in that fact: Camry has finally overcome their fear and smooched Silverado so hard and heavy that the truck will be forever scarred.
“What the fuck!” she yells. The airbag swallows the entire upper body of the old man, making Gina's stomach flip. “What. The. Fuck!”
She’s still contemplating if it would even be safe for her to get out in the middle of highway traffic, when the horns of other frustrated cars begin to sound out around her. The shock that is still dormant in her bones doesn’t ease as she finally takes in the surroundings that go beyond Mr. Camry.
“No fucking way bro, oh my, this cannot be fucking happening!” She’s yelling to herself, and if anybody is paying her car any attention, they might think she’s slightly off. She feels like it’s allowed, though, considering that she’s unable to wrap her head around what’s currently unfolding.
The entire middle lane has a four-car pileup, at least, and that’s not counting what she can’t see from her own vehicle. There are billows of smoke rising into the clear sky, entrancing her if only briefly, thankfully, the car behind her has left Stella unscathed.
The horns that seem so deafening become white noise as she watches Houston natives flock from their cars and begin assisting other drivers. No one has helped Mr. Camry, so Gina swallows the bile trying to rise out of her throat and exits her car.
She makes her way over quickly, thankful that his door is unlocked and carefully begins to assess his condition. He’s breathing, it’s shallow, but it’s something— enough to make the racing idea that she’d be rescuing a dead body subside drastically.
“Shit,” she mutters as she continues to look him over.
She analyzes his face, noticing his split lip and hooded eyes that are beginning to bruise around the sockets. She goes to attempt a recovery, a triumphant sigh emanating from her mouth as a small portion of his torso falls towards her body.
“Hey!”
Gina bristles at the authoritative, gruff sound. Pushing the old man back into his vehicle, she turns to find a Hispanic officer eyeing her suspiciously behind his sunglasses.
“Yes, officer?”
“Do you know this man?”
“Uh, no. I drive the silver Kia Rio,” she motions to her car behind him, which he slightly acknowledges before turning his shaded gaze back to her. “I was just trying to help.”
“EMTs are on their way. I need you to get back in your vehicle.”
She keeps her hands raised, eyeing the handgun at his side while she moves away from the Camry and back towards her own car. He doesn’t even assess the gentleman, just pushes his shoulder out of the way of the door and shuts it.
“Dick,” Gina mutters, flopping down onto the black leather, “He can kiss my bl—”
Her words are drowned out by another blaring horn; however, this one is more abrasive and ear-splitting. It’s the semi, and always the curious little soul, she leaves the comfort of Stella once more just to gauge what’s happening. This is only so that when her friends question her about this event she can provide full detail, bonus footage included. There’s a handful of curious pedestrians bumping past her to also rubberneck, the growing crowd mumbling and groaning.
Gina allows the sea of agitated Houstonians to float her along, shading her eyes briefly due to the sun casting shadows and distorting, what appears to be, a person atop the semi-truck’s roof.
“I know damn well…” she begins, words dying off the closer she gets to the spectacle unfolding amid traffic.
“I need everyone to get back to their vehicle!”
She turns her head briefly, dropping her makeshift hand-shade to eye the police officer who had addressed her earlier. When the crowd doesn’t budge, her eyes roll, and she turns back to the captivating display.
“What is she doing?” a bystander yells from a place further back.
A faceless voice replies with skepticism, “She’s…dancing?”
Gina pushes on her tiptoes, and really squints her eyes. It’s true, the woman is dancing, and with a harder squint, Gina notes she’s also flaunting her full money maker.
“Girl, noooo.” She mutters, head instantly shaking in disapproval. The condemnation wears off, and before long, she’s laughing. Quiet little chuckles that are only for her ears to acknowledge. “Ain’t no way.”
“And she naked!” another faceless voice points out.
The crowd instantly surges forward. Gina gets knocked into the lady in front of her, and after apologizing, she scans the crowd. Surprise and muffled words create a tsunami of dysfunction, until the blare of the semi’s horn drowns everything out. Gina’s eyes leave the gyrating woman, observing the truck driver whose hand has thankfully given the horn a well-deserved rest.
He leans out his driver window, his irateface pinning the unphased woman with a scowl. “Get off my rig, crazy heifer!”
Gina rolls her eyes. “Now why she gotta be a heifer.”
“Girl get down! I’m gone be late for work foolin’ round with you!”
Other rowdy drivers also begin to shout their grievances at the uncaring woman, her body sashaying lewdly. Again, their heckling is drowned out by sirens, and soon there are a multitude of police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck flooding the highway. Gina knew that the free show was coming to an end when a handful of the cops began to corral the crowd back towards their vehicles.
“Let’s move it, folks! Back to your vehicle until further notice.”
“People got places to be, officer!” an agitated voice called out, a low hum of agreements fanning out over the crowd.
“The sooner you all return to your vehicles, the sooner we can all be on our way,” came the roughened reply.
Gina gave the woman who was now sitting, hands waving frantically above her head, one last chuckle filled glance before allowing the crowd to push her back towards Stella. It’s as she’s going to duck down into her Kia that her gaze falls over a handful of EMTs assisting the old man.
She reaches out for her cellphone to message anyone she deems important enough to know what she just experienced. A hearty belly laugh falls out of her in bundles until a cramp stops her short and she instantly clutches her lower stomach. She groans in remembered agony.
“Oh yeah,” a pained grunt following, “I still gotta shit.”
There’s a candy red Toyota Camry next to her, and it’s practically kissing the bumper of the black Chevy Silverado in front. After her examination of the almost nonexistent space between the two cars, she peers at the owner of candy red Camry. She's greeted by hostile emerald daggers, belonging to a decrepit old man with a sneer on his lips, silently warning her to stay put. The polite smile she manages would qualify more as a grimace when she faces back towards the white semi-trailer.
The sardine-packed traffic is the problem currently occupying ninety-five percent of Gina’s cerebrum, but that other five percent was heavily reminding her that her bowels were currently in shambles. It’s most definitely her lower intestine dishing out a copious dose of karma, due to her rudely ingesting an entire McDonald’s big breakfast complete with hotcakes. The ache in her lower right abdomen is payment for the large caramel iced coffee.
“I will not make it.” She mutters to herself, the churn of her stomach drawing a whimper right after, “I’m gonna shit inside of you Stella, and I am so sorry for that.”
The sweat beginning to bead around her hairline can’t be blamed on the Houston heat as she’s got the A/C blowing on max. It’s the building pressure at the idea that she might defecate her pants before she reaches her safe abode.
“God forbid anyone see,” Gina lets out a low groan. “I’ll read about it in the neighborhood Facebook group.” She wipes at her brow, the accumulation of sweat there making her tepid skin feel even more sordid and sticky.
Her mood lifts very briefly when the gears of the semi grind cautiously before beginning a slow lurch forward. “Finally,” Gina exhales, foot slightly on the accelerator as she moves forward also.
Traffic picks up a little, so she allows herself to turn the volume dial up again and listen to Beyonce belt Sorry at her once more. She bops along with the music, anything to push that nagging 5% out of her head. She even smiles over at candy red Camry, whose mood also seems less frenzied.
“Middle fingers up, put them hands high,” she intones, her middle finger slightly above her own head as she inches forward. “Put it in his face, tell’em boy by—shit!”
Gina slams on her brakes, middle finger immediately dropping so she can grip the wheel of Stella with both hands and prevent herself from ramming into the back of the tractor-trailer. She just barely misses having an accident, and she can’t even revel in that fact: Camry has finally overcome their fear and smooched Silverado so hard and heavy that the truck will be forever scarred.
“What the fuck!” she yells. The airbag swallows the entire upper body of the old man, making Gina's stomach flip. “What. The. Fuck!”
She’s still contemplating if it would even be safe for her to get out in the middle of highway traffic, when the horns of other frustrated cars begin to sound out around her. The shock that is still dormant in her bones doesn’t ease as she finally takes in the surroundings that go beyond Mr. Camry.
“No fucking way bro, oh my, this cannot be fucking happening!” She’s yelling to herself, and if anybody is paying her car any attention, they might think she’s slightly off. She feels like it’s allowed, though, considering that she’s unable to wrap her head around what’s currently unfolding.
The entire middle lane has a four-car pileup, at least, and that’s not counting what she can’t see from her own vehicle. There are billows of smoke rising into the clear sky, entrancing her if only briefly, thankfully, the car behind her has left Stella unscathed.
The horns that seem so deafening become white noise as she watches Houston natives flock from their cars and begin assisting other drivers. No one has helped Mr. Camry, so Gina swallows the bile trying to rise out of her throat and exits her car.
She makes her way over quickly, thankful that his door is unlocked and carefully begins to assess his condition. He’s breathing, it’s shallow, but it’s something— enough to make the racing idea that she’d be rescuing a dead body subside drastically.
“Shit,” she mutters as she continues to look him over.
She analyzes his face, noticing his split lip and hooded eyes that are beginning to bruise around the sockets. She goes to attempt a recovery, a triumphant sigh emanating from her mouth as a small portion of his torso falls towards her body.
“Hey!”
Gina bristles at the authoritative, gruff sound. Pushing the old man back into his vehicle, she turns to find a Hispanic officer eyeing her suspiciously behind his sunglasses.
“Yes, officer?”
“Do you know this man?”
“Uh, no. I drive the silver Kia Rio,” she motions to her car behind him, which he slightly acknowledges before turning his shaded gaze back to her. “I was just trying to help.”
“EMTs are on their way. I need you to get back in your vehicle.”
She keeps her hands raised, eyeing the handgun at his side while she moves away from the Camry and back towards her own car. He doesn’t even assess the gentleman, just pushes his shoulder out of the way of the door and shuts it.
“Dick,” Gina mutters, flopping down onto the black leather, “He can kiss my bl—”
Her words are drowned out by another blaring horn; however, this one is more abrasive and ear-splitting. It’s the semi, and always the curious little soul, she leaves the comfort of Stella once more just to gauge what’s happening. This is only so that when her friends question her about this event she can provide full detail, bonus footage included. There’s a handful of curious pedestrians bumping past her to also rubberneck, the growing crowd mumbling and groaning.
Gina allows the sea of agitated Houstonians to float her along, shading her eyes briefly due to the sun casting shadows and distorting, what appears to be, a person atop the semi-truck’s roof.
“I know damn well…” she begins, words dying off the closer she gets to the spectacle unfolding amid traffic.
“I need everyone to get back to their vehicle!”
She turns her head briefly, dropping her makeshift hand-shade to eye the police officer who had addressed her earlier. When the crowd doesn’t budge, her eyes roll, and she turns back to the captivating display.
“What is she doing?” a bystander yells from a place further back.
A faceless voice replies with skepticism, “She’s…dancing?”
Gina pushes on her tiptoes, and really squints her eyes. It’s true, the woman is dancing, and with a harder squint, Gina notes she’s also flaunting her full money maker.
“Girl, noooo.” She mutters, head instantly shaking in disapproval. The condemnation wears off, and before long, she’s laughing. Quiet little chuckles that are only for her ears to acknowledge. “Ain’t no way.”
“And she naked!” another faceless voice points out.
The crowd instantly surges forward. Gina gets knocked into the lady in front of her, and after apologizing, she scans the crowd. Surprise and muffled words create a tsunami of dysfunction, until the blare of the semi’s horn drowns everything out. Gina’s eyes leave the gyrating woman, observing the truck driver whose hand has thankfully given the horn a well-deserved rest.
He leans out his driver window, his irateface pinning the unphased woman with a scowl. “Get off my rig, crazy heifer!”
Gina rolls her eyes. “Now why she gotta be a heifer.”
“Girl get down! I’m gone be late for work foolin’ round with you!”
Other rowdy drivers also begin to shout their grievances at the uncaring woman, her body sashaying lewdly. Again, their heckling is drowned out by sirens, and soon there are a multitude of police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck flooding the highway. Gina knew that the free show was coming to an end when a handful of the cops began to corral the crowd back towards their vehicles.
“Let’s move it, folks! Back to your vehicle until further notice.”
“People got places to be, officer!” an agitated voice called out, a low hum of agreements fanning out over the crowd.
“The sooner you all return to your vehicles, the sooner we can all be on our way,” came the roughened reply.
Gina gave the woman who was now sitting, hands waving frantically above her head, one last chuckle filled glance before allowing the crowd to push her back towards Stella. It’s as she’s going to duck down into her Kia that her gaze falls over a handful of EMTs assisting the old man.
She reaches out for her cellphone to message anyone she deems important enough to know what she just experienced. A hearty belly laugh falls out of her in bundles until a cramp stops her short and she instantly clutches her lower stomach. She groans in remembered agony.
“Oh yeah,” a pained grunt following, “I still gotta shit.”
Kiercesten Taylor is a graduated senior of PennWest Edinboro with a degree in English - Creative Writing. She enjoys reading and writing all types of creative fiction and hopes to attend Graduate School next Spring. When she isn’t dedicating time to writing she is experiencing last-minute adventures with her fiancé and their two sons.