Jackson

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She sipped at her drink as the rain beat against the window. Streaks of light ran over the wall and she let herself get lost in them for a moment. Her life was turning into a massive cliché right before her very eyes – a woman alone, drunk and maudlin as rain falls from the dark sky.

She rolled her head to the side and made eye contact with her dog. She drained her glass and slid it onto the table before her.

The dog sat and stared blankly at her, still wet from the walk they had just returned from. Wet dog smell filled the room.

“You stink,” she growled flatly. The dog blinked and she grinned at it warmly. “Whose fault is that, right?” The dog said nothing. “Ok, Jackson, let’s go.” She pushed herself up and moved to the kitchen with the dog at her heels. She stretched and snatched the treats from the top of the fridge, pulled a few of the shriveled morsels from the clear tub, then replaced it and looked down that the quiet animal as he stared back at her – tail wagging.

“Delicious?” She smelled the tan sticks in her hand. Her eyes rolled. “All you.” She dropped them onto the kitchen tile and stepped over Jackson as he proceeded to devour the tasty treats his loving master had blessed him with. “At least I’m not a crazy cat lady,” she muttered as she returned to the sofa.

Her eyes rested on the bottle of wine. To refill or not to refill – that was the question. She sighed and decided to wait. The TV beckoned, but this was her “no TV night”.  She’d fight through the evening sans television stimuli.

The evening had fallen apart slowly and steadily. Plans to get a Christmas tree were put on hold yet again. Walking down to the lot in four blocks of rain to pick from the horrid selection, dropping her $50, then walking back dragging her spoils behind her was something she could wait on. Christmas had turned into a hollow Holiday for her anyway. No need to rush the inevitable depression and regret. It would come soon enough. And she had passed on an evening out with her friends yet again as well. Rain bar crawling wasn’t her idea fun.

Jackson returned. He licked as his lips as if to make the moments from the kitchen’s treat last a little longer.

“Oh, you liked that, huh?” She smiled a sad little smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy at least.”

“You really should make an effort to get out more.” Jackson said as he stared at her with his big, brown eyes. “I mean, it’s nice having you here with me, but I hate seeing you sitting around, drinking and being sad. You deserve more.”

“You’re sweet.” She leaned forward and scratched his head.

He squinted and let himself get lost in the delightful scrtich of her nails before licking her hand. Then he huffed and said, “No, really, staying in and going for walks and talking to me isn’t going to get you what you really want.” He moved around her legs and to the sofa, then tried to step up onto it.

“Hey! No no – not when you’re all wet! You know the rules.” She pointed to the carpet and Jackson pushed away and returned to his plush Wet Dog Zone. “Nice try.”

Jackson ignored the dismissal. “It’s true and you know it. You need to get out and find another man to lay with.”

“Gawd, don’t put it that way. It sounds awful when you put it that way.” She shivered. “Lay with. Jesus.”

“You know what I mean. Someone you can talk to besides me. Someone to take care of you like you take care of me.” He licked his paw absently.

“Toss dried pig onto the floor for me? Make me lay on a piece of shag carpet on the floor?” She laughed.

“You know what I mean.” Jackson’s voice seemed agitated.

“I’m just tired of looking.” She snatched her glass up from the coffee table.

“You’re looking in the wrong places and with the wrong people, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” She smirked. “And, just because you had one bad experience with Jessica doesn’t make her a bad person. She’s fun to go to bars with.”

“She’s mean.” Jackson’s voice was bitter. He thought back to that time in Golden Gate Park and Jessica’s actions. He’d never forget. Never.  “Anyway, there must be other places to meet males.”

“Men.”

Jackson huffed.

She stood up and grabbed the TV remote from the top of the television and returned to the sofa. “I’ll meet someone.” The television buzzed into life and the images lit up the dark room. “I’ll meet some guy somewhere and we’ll be happy for a few months, then he’ll turn chicken and run for the hills and I’ll have to start all over again. Either that or I’ll freak out and bail on him. It’ll be great.” She clicked through channels, then stopped on The Food Network and refilled her glass.

Jackson stood up and padded over to her. He positioned himself down by her and rested his head on her foot.

The rain pattered against the windowpane softly, but the sound of the people talking about food on the television managed to drown out the peaceful sound of it.

“I like steak,” Jackson said to the TV image of the white haired woman cooking a giant porterhouse.

“Me, too,” his owner said back. “Me, too.”

The Night Crashed Down

The night seemed to crash down around the small truck once Roger passed the main gate and began the long ascension to the main house. The trees pushed in around the road on both sides and their leaves blocked out what little light the moon provided. He flicked the high beams into play and pressed on in the little Toyota. A shiver ran down his spine. He dreaded this run.

The trees stopped about a block away from the house. The area around the building was devoid of plant life save a few low shrubs and dead grass. Roger was sure that if the house was within the town limits, there would have been some sort of letter writing campaign to have the hulking things torn down. But, it wasn’t the house that gave him the chills. No, it was the house occupants that sent shivers up his spine when he delivered pizzas to them.

The Toyota slowed as it rounded the gravel road entry and pulled in front of the main door. Roger glared at the front door and sighed. “Tips,” he whispered as he tried to shake the chill. They had always been amazing tippers, the Shelltons. Never stingy, but always demanding, it was full service at all times. Roger had to deliver the pizzas like they were the special guests at some friggin’ White House dinner. Placed, arranged and checked. Every time. Roger was the only one who managed to get out of the Shellton home without being chastised or corrected because he remembered the routine and followed it after the first few deliveries to the Shellton residence. . He was the only one that managed to get the generous tips from the Shelltons as well.

Roger swung the door open and stepped out of the truck. He dropped his keys into his pocket and slammed the door. He started to walk around to the passenger side door and the lights around the outside of the run down, three-story burst into brightness as he rounded the back of the truck. Again, business as usual- they listened for the slam. He moved around to the passenger door all the while keeping one eye trained on the house. His eyes narrowed when he reached the door and had to look away. There was more than one occasion when one of the damned Shellton children appeared behind him without a sound made on the gravel roadway. It was more than a little unnerving.

Four pizza boxes in hand, Roger kicked the door shut and made his way up the stairs to the front porch. The door opened before his foot touched the welcome mat.

Correl? Coral? Roger tried to remember the oldest girl’s name. He smiled and went with, “Hi – Roger from Pizza Towne.”

“Roger.” She sighed the name and smiled a wide smile. Roger wasn’t sure why, but it seemed more sinister than friendly. “Thank you for driving all the way out here yet again. We just can’t seem to get enough of your...delicious creations. Please, come in. The air is chilly. We don’t want to let it out.” She corrected herself. “The heat out.” She stepped back and held the door against her pale cheek.

Oh, come the on, man. It?! Roger tried to ignore the foolishness. It was merely another way these rich, wackos entertained themselves. Eccentric, rich and bored – a horrid combination.

Roger stepped inside and heard the door click shut behind him.

“Coral. Remember?” She walked by him and her bare arm brushed his. A small shock ran up his arm and over his shoulder. “Oh…static,” she whispered.

Chills or not, Roger took the liberty of watching her sway as she made her way to through the entry way and towards the hall. She was curvy, dark haired and an impressive five foot nine or so. She never wore revealing outfits that showed much, but they always accentuated her womanly curves. If roger had not been scared of her, he would have asked her out long ago.

Roger followed as he had been instructed to do many times before and wondered which room they would have set up this time. Would it be the black and white tile kitchen with its many thousands of dollars worth of cooking equipment that seemed to remain unused? Or perhaps the grand dining room area with its wall of old, wavy floor to ceiling mirrors that he was sure had either seen many secrets or were hiding voyeuristic occupants behind them.

When Coral moved up the stairs, Roger stopped short.

“Um, should I follow? Or, should I just—“

“Yes, please. We’ll take those upstairs, if you don’t mind. Grandmother isn’t feeling well.” She didn’t look back when she spoke, but continued to move slowly up the stairs.

Roger followed and stole a glance up at Coral from time to time. The stairs curved up and to the right toward the second floor. Roger got caught up in Coral’s hips a bit longer than he had planned. A booming voice jolted him from the hypnotic sway and a rush of heat flooded his face.

“The PIZZA man! Fan-fucking-tastic!”

Roger mustered a smile as he looked over toward the voice and raised the cardboard boxes up a few inches. “That’s me.”

The man at the top of the stairs was a brother or uncle, Roger thought. The man had close-cropped hair and dark eyebrows. He was built like a super hero. The genes in the family must have been fantastic. Roger thought the aforementioned grandmother looked like she was over one hundred years old if it was the same woman he saw during his last visit to the house.

He still wasn’t sure how many people lived in the old place. Sometimes there were two pizzas ordered and sometimes there were ten.

“I thought we were going to have to eat the damn dog. We waited too long to order. I told you, Coral. Friday nights are busy right, um…pizza man?”

“Roger.” Roger smiled awkwardly.

“You’re part owner, right?” Coral turned abruptly to face Roger and Roger stopped just short of bumping her.

“That’s right. Peter and I own Pizza Towne.”

“Niiiiice.” The man waved roger forward, then pointed towards a dark doorway. “In there, por favor.” Another creepy smile assaulted Roger. Maybe that ran in the family as well.

Coral didn’t move when Roger moved toward her. He whispered, “Pardon me,” and brushed past her.

“Sorry.” She giggled softly and Roger’s amorous feelings turned towards disdain.

“Kind Sir,” the man said as he bowed and raised his hand towards the dark room.

“Um…the light?”

The man glanced at the room.

Roger stared into the room’s blackness. The absence of light seemed like a black hole. The light from the hall was swallowed up by the room inches into it. Roger deemed it a trick of the lights position, but it still made him think twice before stumbling into it.

“Let me turn it on for you,” Coral said in a low tone. Roger jumped at her voice’s nearness. “We’re used to this old house.” She disappeared into the dark and the room sprang into brightness moments later. Roger thought he heard her whisper something. She reappeared and beamed. “There we go.”

Roger grinned to the tall man and moved into the room.

Coral whispered, “The funny thing is, people treat dark rooms they are scared of differently when the light’s are on…” She smiled, “…as if whatever they were scared of in the dark isn’t there when the room is filled with light. I find that humorous.”

“But, you’re dark like that, Coral sweet. Creepy little thing you.”

“Your one to talk, Stephen.” Coral smirked at the man in the hall and motioned for Roger to place the pizzas down on a small table in the corner.

Roger nodded and moved deeper into the room. It smelled of musk. Like a bad cologne. Roger followed the routine as always. Pizzas down next to the plates and silverware - they never wanted paper plates or anything else, boxes moved off each other and spread out, contents checked against what was ordered and the receipt slipped off whatever box it was taped to and presented total side up. Roger had checked to make sure the register carbons were still easy to read before leaving the shop. He smiled.

“And, here you go.” Sweat beaded across his brow.

Coral stared into Roger’s eyes and the smile on her face lingered in a hovering, sort of faded way. A strand of her dark, silky hair fell over her eye. “Are you nervous, Roger?” Her voice was soft and coy. Her eyes locked on his. 

“He seems a bit…jittery.” Stephen leaned against the door jam.

“Friday night madness at the shop. I’ve just been going and going tonight. I really have to hurry back and…before things pile up.” He felt his throat grow dry.

“I see,” Coral purred.

“FOR CHRIST SAKE, pay the man and let him go already. I’m hungry.”

Roger nearly jumped out of his skin. He had not noticed the older woman in the chair towards the back of the room. Her voice rattled as if her throat was full of phlegm. She coughed and fanned the back of her hand at the man Stephen. “This migraine is finally starting to calm down. Don’t get it going again.” She closed her eyes and rubbed at them.

Stephen laughed and strode over to Roger pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “What’s the damage, Roger-san?” He stared at the receipt, then flipped through the bills in his wallet. He yanked a few free and swapped the receipt for the bills. “Keep the change, Sport.”

Roger didn’t bother to count the money. He let his relief shine through in his smile. “Thank you. Well…goodnight.”

“Good eve, Sweet Roger. Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Coral let her face fall into a mask of sorrow. “We’ll remember you as we eat of your Pizza Towne. We’ll hold your memory within out heart….our souls….and our full bellies.” She smiled wide and dramatically rubbed her belly.

“Great.” Roger wanted to run.

The older woman sighed, “Jesus.” She stood and moved to the pizza table. “Thank you, Pizza Man. Goodnight.” It was dismissive, but Roger didn’t mind in the slightest.

Stephen saluted as Roger passed him, then joined the older woman at the pizza table.

Coral lead Roger down the stairs to the foyer and held the door open for him. Upstairs, the older woman called out in both English and some Slavic sounding language. “Pizza is here!” Footsteps thumped above as people moved from wherever they had been. Again, Roger had no concept of just how many people were up there.

“Goodnight, Roger.” Coral held his gaze with her dark eyes. They seemed to sparkle in the half-light of the foyer. Her full lips pulled back into a smile. This time it was a sweet smile. Delicate.

“Goodnight.” Something stirred in him and the chill slipped away and was slowly replaced by desire. Roger stepped into the warm summer air.

The door closed.

Roger turned and studied the door. He saw Coral staring back through the lacy curtains for a moment before turning and moving out of the foyer. She stopped at the hall and her hand slipped out to the side and rested on the wall switch. She didn’t flip it, however. Her head turned slightly.

Roger turned, jogged down the front steps and crunched across the gravel to the truck. He opened the door and climbed inside. He waited a moment, then pulled the truck door closed. The hollow slam filled Roger’s head with echoes for an instant.

Roger looked up at the house as he started the truck. Behind most of the upstairs windows, silhouettes of people stared down at the truck. At least...he thought they were people. Eight? Maybe ten? 

The front lights darkened and Roger drove away quickly. He ran his long,  forked tongue over his lips and whispered, "Weirdos."

~~

Paper Moon

“Yes, it's only a canvas sky Hanging over a muslin tree But it wouldn't be make-believe If you believed in me
Without your love It's a honky-tonk parade Without your love It's a melody played in a penny arcade”

It's Only A Paper Moon

Rain beats against the window as music starts to fade away in the hallway. The last of the dancers make their way down the hall – eager to change and leave for the night even if it means a walk in the rain. Their muffled voices drift away on the other side of the door. The tiny room is dingy and smells of mold and something else. Something sour. The club singer paces in her dressing gown and crumples the newspaper – the date reading August 16^th, 1944 – onto the dirty wood floorboards. She's done for the night. So done. Tears stream down her cheeks as her breasts dance under the willowy silk. Her raven hair and dark eyes catch the light from the small lamp from time to time and seem to sparkle and glisten.

“Are you serious this time or it this another ploy? I mean, I'm not going to stay if you're just putting me on again. I can't take it no more.”

A man stands in the corner of the room and stares out of the shadows. He looks over to the weeping woman and wishes he could tell her what she wants to hear. He wished he could tell her anything. He wished. His suit is filthy and wet with the night's rain. He stares out from the shadows and longs for her. So close. So far away.

“Ya big lug. Leading me around by the nose.” She wipes her tears away and her voice grows louder. He glares. If she keeps this up they'll barge in and find the two of them. Then what? Stuck in this closet of a room didn't leave a lot of options.

Her gown shimmers in the streetlight streaming through the filthy window an she looks radiant. Glowing. Her voice slips through the room like syrup and fills his ears with song even when she isn't singing.

The club was packed, but he's not sure it matters to the likes of the mob. Hell, they probably owned the joint. For all he knew, they owned her.

Somewhere down the hall dancers chatter in the glow of the club lights as it starts to close up for the night. Guy Lombardo proclaims that some dame is making him crazy. There's something funny about that, but he can't laugh about it now.

Her wailing takes him by surprise as she screams out, “Why'd ya go and leave me in tha first place! You said you'd always take care of me! You promised, Tommy!”

He holds up his hands and waves his arms stiffly, then glances at the door. She needed to be quiet. Quiet as a mouse. He presses back into the shadows as the door of her dressing room springs open and the door jam splinters inwards. Subtle these boys ain't. Two silhouettes of mountains fill the doorway.

“Well well well….” One of the mountains moves into the room and has a look around. They either don't see him or figure two to one is good odds in their favor. “You turned out to be quiet a little artist, Baby. Totally bent.”

“Says you!” She tries to hold her own and if she's scared she doesn't act it.

“Listen, Biscuit, I don't care what ya did or didn't do. Don't matter now any which way ya cut it.” He lets out a chuckle as the other mountain moves into the room and slowly closes the door behind him. He shoves a chair under the knob to keep the door closed then folds his arms over his massive chest.

“I don't care what you or your gun mob think. I don't have any desire to talk to you hoods. Scram!” Her voice cracks. A dead give away to the fear swelling in her, poor thing.

“Easy,” he whispers as he pulls the cannon from his pocket,” or you'll be taking the pistol route outta town.”

She shrieks and the man in the shadows is filled with rage. This fat-head has gone too far. The man in the shadows pulls the alley apple from his pocket and grips it in his dirty handhold. He can feel the weight of the blunt item in his hands and likes it.  The brick feels rough to the touch, but somehow his hands feel rougher. He moves out of the shadows and the two men turn to face him. Bravado turns to horror as the light floods over the lurkers face and clothing.

Dirty, and stinking, the lurker growls low through sewn and blackened lips. Bits of odd herbs and tatters of poultices drip and slither from the sides of his mouth like worms as another low, dull growling mumble rumbles into the space. His milky white eyes glare through the half-light as he stomps deeper into the room. His skin is a deep, withered gray like parchment and his dim eyes are ringed with dark circles. A zombie.

The hand cannon goes off, but it's an impulse trigger pull fired from the hip out of fear, not desire to kill. The shot goes wide and into the wall. The men stare on. Their eyes are filled with fear.

Shouts and calls fill the hallway outside as fists pound at the door and shrill voices ask if the club singer is all right.

The second man struggles to free his weapon from his coat. He doesn't have a chance. The alley apple crashes into the side of his head hard and he goes down for the count and hits the flooring like a sack of potatoes.

Her screams fill the room as he turns to face the final, now lone mountain of a gunman. “Look out, Tommy!”

The gun goes off again, but this time the deadly extension of the man's hand is leveled right at Tommy's chest. There's no quick witted comment. No gunman bravado. Just an explosion that opens a small hole in Tommy's chest and a larger one in his back. Another shot rips into his shoulder, but it doesn't matter. He stumbles back and slumps against the wall.

The gunman shivers as sweat pours over his face and hands. “Jesus.” A lamp crashes into his back and he winces. He reels around and catches the woman across her face with the back of his hand. She yelps out and stumbles back into her dressing table. Glass breaks and items burst into life and dance their way to the cheap carpet as she drops to the floor far less gracefully than she dances.

The gunman pants and looks from his would be assailant to the woman on the floor clutching at her cheek and sobbing. The hallway fills with chatter and calls. It won't be long now before the bulls show up. He'll have to take care of this and get out fast.

“Ok, Doll.” He levels the gun at her. “Where's the dough!” His hand shakes.

The stirring behind him makes him gasp. He turns and sees Tommy rise up from the floor. Rising for the second time this eve to take care of his girl.

Shots ring out and bullets fly as Tommy closes the distance between himself and the gunman. His ear explodes and black blood flies. His arm rips open as another bullet rings true. His leg bursts at the thigh. All too late. All too weak to stop what's coursing through Tommy's body.

The gunman's scream is cut off as Tommy's dirty, rotting hands find his throat and squeeze. The gunman tries to hit Tommy with the gun, but it doesn't phase the living corpse at all. A grin pulls at the corners of his mouth and brackish liquid snakes down his chin.

The gunman sees the horror up close now. Sees the crude thread that holds the terrible lips shut. He smells the muck that drips from the corners of the…mans…mouth. . Sees the leaves and oily brown that glistens on the dead things lips. He's seen the look of death before, just not...moving.

He remembers, as his vision starts to go dark and the pain in his airway starts to give way to the limp darkness, where he's seen this man....this thing....before. Days earlier...at the man’s funeral.

Time flies.

The questions she had to answer were moot. It was obvious to the goons when they saw the scene before them that this was more of the same. The mob cleaning house. She'd been roughed up and some tough guy had dispatched the two and made like a bird and flown out the window. They had her kick it apart for them, told her that they'd be watching her and that she should wise up before she ended up as dead, then they slipped away and out as the meat wagon took away the dead.

There was no question that she didn't do the deed herself. These two mountains were manhandled in a big way. A crushed skull on one and another with his neck looking like a few sausages crudely wrapped together and his head turned almost all the way around. No dame had that strength.

Not by herself anyway.

She sits and thinks it all over and stares out of the window of her little apartment. Thinks about the money – their money – and what she'd do with what's left over. She'd paid a pretty penny for that old lady to work her magic on Tommy. Money well spent. He did say that he'd always take care of her. He always said it. She was sure he didn't mind what she'd done to him. Water under the bridge now, anyway. None of that mattered now.

She takes a drag on her cigarette and turns up the radio. Something slow and easy drifts out into the dark room and tears fill her eyes as she tries to forget everything. She knows she'll never be able to, however. Those eyes. Tommy's milky white....sad eyes.

Something moves in the alley and her eyes narrow. Smoke swirls around her head as the cigarette falls from her fingers and on to the floor.

He stomps up to her window and lightly raps on it as the rain washes over everything.

“No. No...you can go away now!” She shakes her head as he knocks again – harder now. His terrible eyes stare at her blankly. “Go away, Tommy!” She backs up and her breathing grows more rapid. “You did good and now you gotta go.”

He gives her the once over, cocks his head to the side lowers his arm.

She stares at him and whispers, “Go on...beat it,” under her breath. She moves closer to the window. “Beat it! Get the hell away from me.”

She doesn't have time to avoid the glass that rains in on her as his arms crash through the windowpane. She falls back into the room and hits the floor hard. The wind leaves her body in a huff as Tommy crawls into the room. He drags himself up and in effortlessly.

Dazed, she scrambles to her knees and makes for the door. Glass punctures her knee and she screams as she rolls onto her side. She looks back and pushes herself back with her hands- slithering towards the door on her backside.

“Go away, Tommy! You're scaring me! Leave me alone! Get the hell away from me!”

Tommy's groan sounds mournful. His arms reach out as he stomps over the broken glass.

She winces when she notices the massive shard of glass lodged in his guts. Entrails work their way out of the wound with each step. She gags at the visual and the rotten smell and scrambles back and away from the horror before her. Her mind franticly grasps at the strange word the old voodoo lady had given her to release Tommy from the world again.

Tommy's face is sad and his brow is furrowed. He's filled with nothing but love for her. He'd do anything for her. Had done everything for her. He even had given his life for her. His love for her broke all boundaries.

Tommy looms over her and blood drips onto her bare feet. She knocks into the desk and sends the light crashing to the floor. The room goes dark.

The word hits her like a ton of bricks. “SATHRATHNI!”

Tommy feels his legs go weak again. Feels the life slip from him as his eyes go wide in the darkness. He drops. His body collides with hers.

She gasps. Air fills her lungs for the last time as the shard of glass wedged into Tommy's body pierces her flesh and brings the curtain down on her life. She wants to cry out, but withers away before she has the chance. Shock and terror stop her heart before her fatal wound can. The light leaves her lovely brown eyes.

He reaches up and touches her face, then he reaches for his lips and tears away the heavy thread. Gore, herbs and a small shell fall from his mouth. He whispers, “I love....”

Read'N'Dash Fiction: Happy

As I sit and stare out the window at the glorious pacific and the warm breeze slips over my skin, I can't stop smiling. The Ink Spots sing about a lazy river and I get it. I understand the feeling. I stretch out and wiggle my toes as I bask in the glory of the old tune.

Blue skies up above, everyone's in love. Up a lazy river, how happy you could be. 
Up a lazy river with me.

“Damn straight!” I giggle and sip my vodka up with a twist.

The tune changes to Round Midnight – a jazzy version with sax and attitude – and I feel like crying. What a perfect moment. What a perfect day.

The sun sets slowly over the pacific and I stare at the waves as the glisten and play.

It makes no sense, but I want scream. I want everyone to know just how happy I am right now.

I take another sip of vodka and the twist slaps playfully at my tongue as the liquid slithers down my throat.


I'm glorious.

I'm the pacific waves dancing in the last light of day.

I'm happy.


I know that tomorrow, I'll claw and clutch at memories trying to remember this feeling. This moment.

I hope I'm can.

Read'N'Dash Fiction: How's The Whiskey?

"I'm not even sure you'll remember any of this. Not that it matters in the slightest."

The voice drifted out of nowhere and rang through him like an alarm in the cold of morning. He opened his eyes and stared at the man before him blankly. He tried to get his bearings. Figure out where he was and who this man before him was.

"How's that whiskey?"

Again, the dreamer failed to piece together what was going on. Confusion started to give way to fear. He didn't recognize anything around him. He could barely put the objects in the room together.

"It just gets worse from here, you know? The confusion. The hallucinations." The man speaking took a step forward and a shaft of light illuminated his face. He was dark and his afro was tight on his scalp. The wide mouth set in the large jaw cracked into a slow smile as he adjusted his tie. "Horrid feeling, really - that confusion. The complete lack of base." He shook his head and chuckled. "Adrift on a sea of unfamiliar memories."

The dreamer stood and looked into his hand. The whiskey glass was gone, replaced by a pencil. He dropped it absently.

The voice. "Top of the stairs. First door on the right."  It broke in before the dreamer could utter, "Where's the bathroom."

The dreamer blinked hard and turned - making his way to the dim staircase. The climb seemed surreal. More surreal than the somewhat one sided conversation in the...living room? He couldn't remember now.

He reached the bathroom and closed the door. The space was tight and cramped - the style was Victorian and close. A basin with a mirror ground into his hip on the left and a toilet - obviously picked for its demure size and shape - was on the right. Light poured in from the small, ornate window. Cut and shaped colored glass at the top cast lovely shadows on the pale walls.

The dreamer blinked again and turned the tap on. Dipping his right hand in while clutching at the rim of the basin for support, he splashed his face with water and took momentary pleasure in the cool wetness. Leaning back and gazing into the mirror, he saw that there was no liquid on his face. His hand was bone dry.

A figure caught his gaze below outside the window. It wore a heavy dark coat and jeans. He couldn't tell if it was male or female. He couldn't see its face. It stood between the trees below and stared up with a shadowy face that filled the dreamer with dread and sadness.

Orange leaves littered the ground and a wind sent a ripple through them as the figure turned and walked away slowly. Gone.

"It'll just get worse from here."

The dreamer opened his eyes and stared at the blonde woman before him.

"The doubt. The sadness. You'll fight it," she sad sadly as she clicked her heel against the hard wood flooring of the living room, "but it just gets worse."

The dreamer realized that a glass was against his lips. Cool liquid was pouring down his throat. It burned as it traveled down to his belly.

"I'm not even sure you'll remember any of this. Not that it matters in the slightest."

The voice drifted out of nowhere and rang through him like an alarm in the cold of morning. He shut his eyes and opened them again. He stared at the woman before him blankly. He tried to get his bearings. Figure out where he was and who this woman was before him.

"How's that whiskey?" She smiled sadly.

Read'N'Dash Fiction:Day

He sipped his whiskey and listed to the sound of the party outside. A neighbor and a birthday party with parents and children laughing and playing. He stood and pulled the curtain back slightly and stole a glance at the beautiful day outside. It was perfect. Beautiful, warm and blue. He sat back down and finished the whiskey in his glass. He had no desire to go out there. Not today.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. She’d be calling any minute now. He’d fucked his day away. His precious day home. His one day of rest this weekend. Tomorrow’s plate was full, then the next day was another round of work fun. This was his day and he couldn’t even remember what the fuck he had done with it.

A shave and shower, he remembered that clearly. He'd managed to do something during the day. That and a walk that consisted of a few blocks before he returned home to avoid the heat and people. He had not even wanted to visit his usual haunts – too far and too many people between. He was supposed to be building models, watching movies and writing, but all efforts to motivate himself towards the activities failed just like the walk had.

A glance at the clock. Five-thirty.

Shit.

The party raged on next door. Children screamed and laughed as parents did whatever parents did at these occasions.

There was still time to do something. But now there was the pressure of picking the right thing.

Writing? Was he even in the mood?

The models that sat in his closet were an option. He knew he had five there to pick from, but he didn’t have the desire to do that either.

Again, shit.

He didn’t even have any friends he felt like talking to at the moment. Normal people would call friends to go shopping or hang out doing nothing with. He couldn't even manage that even though he knew that, if he simply picked up the phone, he'd be having fun with friends in minutes.

He didn’t feel like doing anything.

Nothing at all.

He stood up and stared out the window. He brought the glass to his lips and sipped at the amber liquid absently. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to drink, honestly, but it was the easiest thing to do at the moment.

That's when he spotted the little girl staring at him from over the fence. Her almond eyes were locked on his. Her mouth was a straight line. Blank and simple in it's absence of emotion.

“Hey kid. Not polite to stare,” he muttered as he sipped again.

She kept staring.

“Ok, creepy. Go back to th party.” He chuckled to himself. “Run along.”

Without changing the look she wore, she lifted her hand and waved slowly, then glanced back at the party before returning her blank mask of a face to him.

He waved back, but wasn't sure why.

With that, she dropped back off whatever she stood on to peer over the fence and was gone.

He sipped and felt like the day wasn't a total loss. He had made a new friend, after all.

From the notebook of Susan Cooper: Things I Didn't Say Today

From the notebook of Susan Cooper: Things I Didn't Say Today Page 247 March 1st, 2009 

 

“I don't really give a shit what color you like, actually.” 

 "Do I look like your mother? Don't even answer that. Go away." 

 “Fuck you.” 

 “I'd help you if I didn't have smart people to assist first. People I like more than you. People that respect the work I do. You know – cool people.” 

 “If she does that again, I swear, I will do everything in my power to see that she's fired by Friday.” 

 “Come on – figure it the fuck out. It's not rocket science. This is the basic shit that I learned...what? Like 13 years ago right out of the God damned chute, you hack. How much are they paying you?” 

 “Fuck you.” 

 “Am I the only one with a brain around here?” 

 “Seriously – you couldn't figure this out by yourself? How do you get dressed in the morning?” 

 “You're an idiot.” 

 “I hate you. No, really. I really, really hate you.” 

 “I can hear you fine. I'm just ignoring you.” 

 "You'd make an adorable whore. Nice pants." 

 “Go to hell.” 

 “Bite me.” 

 “Blah blah blah.” 

 “I want to punch you in the neck SO bad right now.”

S.C.

Read'N'Dash Fiction: Windows

She stands in front of the window with the light reflecting off of her creamy skin and her robe barely hanging on. He's sure people can see her, but says nothing for fear of her chastising him again for telling her what she already knows. Her accent is strictly New York all the way and he loves hearing her speak, even if it means that he's hearing it stomping at him and pointing out his faults.

She turns and catches him staring. “Your neighbor's a perv,” she mutters blankly. Her hair catches the light and glimmers for a minute before going dark again.

He finds it funny seeing that she's the one standing in front of the window – the fishbowl now that the sun has fallen – with her breasts bared and nether regions barely covered. He grins and rolls over on his elbo. The bed creaks under his weight.

A bus roars past. It's wheels hiss as they cut through the rain soaked streets.

“Seems like you're pretty pervy too, the things you were doing.” She smiles her awkward little smile at him and seems to glide to the bedside. “I'll walk funny for days.”

“Was it worth it?” He stares blankly.

“Guess so.” She sits on the edge of the bed and covers herself with his robe, pulling it over her shoulders and hiding her supple breasts away from him again. “I'm not sure why you let me in your house after the last time.”

“I let you in my house BECAUSE of the last time.” He chuckles and slides his hand over her thigh and broad hips. She's voluptuous and womanly and delicious.

The heater on the wall growls to life and pumps more heat into the room. It's unaware that the weak and uncaring window frames will just let all it's hard work slip away into the cold night air rendering it's efforts futile.

“Sorry I broke your window.” She drags her hand over her hair, then covers his hand with hers and removes it when he tries to explore a bit too far. “Easy, Cowboy.”

“Shy now?”

“Figuring you out.”

“You won't be able to. I'm complicated.”

“Is that what you are?” Her voice is cold and uncaring, lacking the playful softness of a joke.

The lights of the city pour through the window and cast harsh shadows on the walls of his room.

Read'N'Dash Fiction: Has she been arrived?

The bald man slips his hands into his pockets. He scans the hustle and bustle in the office area, resigned to wait as long as it takes to get things sorted. He glances at the posted sign again with a sly smile sneaking across his face.

We're in the process of switching over to a computer system. Thank you for your patience.

The small, Asian woman behind the counter sighs and pushes her thick glasses higher up on her nose. She runs a hand through her white hair and mumbles, “I did that already.” She stares at the monitor before her and scowls at it. She looks like she's trying to destroy it with her mind. She looks up at the woman who hovers over her right shoulder. “The computer is telling me to do it, but I did that already.”

The bird-like woman above her leans forward and nods. “Yes, I'm not sure why it didn't work.” Her hair sways towards the other woman's face causing her to sway back and away from it. “Sorry,” she whispers. She leans back and smiles awkwardly at the bald man before turning her focus back to the monitor before them.

The older Asian woman drags her finger over the screen, then taps it. “See, this one. This one has already been arrived. But this one has not gotten here yet.” She growls out, “They were double booked.”

Something in her voice makes the bald man think the person who made the error is in the same room. He looks up and around the room – trying to see guilt in someone's eyes.

“She's already been arrived?” The bird woman scowls.

“Yes. Yes, that's the problem. They were double booked. When I arrived her,” she says pointing, “this thing arrived them both. They were double booked.” The venom is back.

The bald man is sure her voice is higher when she says it. He looks up to see an olive skinned lady in bright scrubs narrow her eyes and walk away.

“The computer won't arrive both. There must be another problem. It doesn't do that.” The bird lady stands tall as if to show solidarity with the new computer system. Her head is held high on her long, thin neck.

“Doesn't do what?” Another woman strolls up. Her tight, lime green shirt is stretched over an ample bosom. She looks to be in her fifties and as she smile to the bald man, braces glimmer in the office fluorescents.

“Some sort of double booking accident.” The bald man shrugs and smiles.

The three ladies look at him, smile, then look towards the monitor again.

“Why don't you help this man first, then we can address the issue. Ok?” The braces lady smiles to the bald man politely. The new arrival turns to leave.

The Asian woman grumbles out, “This is not easier.”

The braces lady turns and repeats her request. “Can you help this gentleman, then we can fix the double arrived issue?”

“Yeah, see, this makes no sense. They both show as arrived, but one is not here. What happens when she gets called and she's not here?” Again, the woman pushes her glasses up on her nose.

The bald man frowns. “Yeah, that's going to be awkward.”

The Asian woman looks at him sharply. He thinks he's pushed the limit until he hears her blurt out, “Exactly. They'll call her name thinking she's arrived, but she isn't here.”

“The double booking arrived the two at the same time,” The bald man says sadly with a nod.

“She's been arrived.” The Asian woman nods.

The braces woman has had enough of the whole situation. She steps up again and leans on the counter with the palms of her hands. “Can I help you, Sir?”

He looks to her. “Do you have a restroom?”

Cake

The smell of burnt hair fills the small, dark room and mixes with the smell of cheap perfume and bacon. Water drips from the faucet with metronome-like precision. Somewhere outside, a dog barks wildly and tries to alert someone of something it finds most important, but seemingly no one else does.


She waves a hand in front of her face to thin the smoke out before taking another breath. She takes in the tainted air tenuously and holds it in her lungs before exhaling. Her eyes water and her pale skin reflects the sunlight that streams through the broken window. The bits of broken glass on the floor shimmer like diamonds. RELAX is written across her t-shirt in bold, black letters. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her tight jeans, she whispers, “I want to get some cake.” 

“Where are you going to find cake at this hour on a Sunday around here?” The man continues to cook. His bare feet crunch on the broken glass with each shift of body weight. The memory of her naked in bed hours before still running though his mind, he slides the fork over the surface of the pan and through the grease that coats it, flipping the tender meat within it expertly.

The dog goes quiet.

“There has to be someplace around here that serves cake.” She sighs, knowing that he's probably right, but unwilling to admit it to him.

Read'N'Dash Fiction: Tumor

MEANWHILE...

She rubs her head and I watch from behind her. Her dog – cute and sweatered – stares back at me from her feet and I bare my teeth at it playfully. Its tail wags and it stands up and it looks like it is trying to will me to come pet it. I don't.

The coffee I spilled on my sleeve earlier looks delicious to me right now. I really need to get out of work before I go more mad than I already am. The heat slides through the walls and over my skin.

She reaches down behind her and pulls her shirt down over her bare back. I snarl at the back of her head. She turns slowly and I let the snarl fade and my eyes roll up towards the wide open ceiling as if I'm lost in thought.

“My head is killing me,” she whimpers, but I act like I don't know she's talking to me even though we're the only two people in the office at the moment. I fain ignorance seeing as she talks to her dog more than anyone else for the most part.

I frown as if I've lost my train of thought.

“It really hurts.”

I'm stuck. I give in and look towards her blankly. “What?”

“My head is killing me.”

“Take some Tylenol?” I shrug and look at her dog and smile. “Hey Baby girl. Sweet little doggie.” The baby talk is high pitched and sickeningly sweet. I wrinkle my nose as her dog goes into spasmodic fits of tail wagging, then I look back down at my computer and start typing again. My
bra bites into my side and I make note of the need to get a batch of new ones.

She stands and moves over to my desk. Her hand presses at her temple and her face is twisted into a pain mask. She winces and hisses out, “I think I might have a brain tumor.”

“Yeah?” I don't look up. I'm tying, but nothing is making sense anymore. I'm filling time. My eyes dart to the clock on the screen and I shudder when I see that it's nowhere close to 5pm.

“Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.”

“What?”

“Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.” Her hands move on either side of her head and her hair reminds me of Medusa's.

I hate her shiny black hair. Hate her cute clothes. I don't hate her, but she bothers me. I'm not going to give in to her wants. To hell with that.

“I don't know.”

Her dog wiggles at my feet, then licks my bare toes and I squeal and pull my foot back quickly.

“Come on. Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.”

“Well, I don't know. I'm not really a qualified brain surgeon. For all I know, you do have one. Go to the doctor and have it checked.” I shrug again. “Or take a Tylenol.”

She presses her hand to her forehead and winces again.

I sigh and stare at her dog. It grunts.

I whisper, “It's probably just the heat. Not a brain tumor. Drink some water and take one of the Tylenol. I'll get it for you.”