The Thing Itself: Part One
Topic: Stories
This is the hour when worry butts up against the day. The teeth ache, the skull feels strapped tightly, as if by a belt, the stomach is filled with spongy stones, like lava rocks, abrasive and shifting. It hardly seems worth the effort of continuing, Sallie thinks, and wouldn't it be nice if one could just switch off, like any ordinary appliance, like a television, or the clock radio, flashing its digital time at her menacingly. 10:00 in the morning, the hour Lorca's jovencilla kills himself on the white divan. She feels out of proportion--without geometry, circular, pierced. She can hear Hugh tiptoeing about the bedroom, now in the bathroom, the scrubbing sound of his toothbrush meshing with the soft dribble of water, just barely on, so as not to be so loud as to wake her. She shifts and a lock of hair, half gray, half fading blond, comes to rest perfectly between her eyes. She looks at the closed blinds; clean, mechanical silver (Hugh's choice) back-dropped brilliantly by morning sun. He is such a man, that Hugh, she thinks. So straight, so defined, so damned rigid and angular. Even his features are hard and sharp, coming to him by way of his British ancestry, traced back through this Lord or that. How he was proud of his pedigree! Sallie had no such pedigree. She was common as a daisy (though she had once been a great beauty, and her mind was still one of the sharpest in the field of psychology). No, her parents had only made their way to America during WWII, and what history they may have had had been left in the battle fields of Europe, to be burned, or bombed, or shat upon by vultures. Hugh's family had been here since before America was America, which made him feel connected, grounded, confident in ways she could only imagine, and long for. She felt as if she hovered above life, un-tethered, subject to being sucked off into space without notice.

As the slug starts, so must Sallie begin her day. Slimy, without even the protection of a snail's house, must she start to inch her away across the dark room, to the now vacant bathroom, the light glaring at her from behind the half-closed door. Closing the door with a sigh, she flips off the strong light over the sink at the same moment she flips on the softer lights over the shower. These are not so bright and thus do not hurt her eyes. She prefers this half-darkness, this life of shadow, for it makes the unintentional glances into the mirror less startling. She loathes the mirror, is afraid of it. Mirrors aren't like people; they won't lie, just to be nice. They don't care about kindness or niceties, or the frail feelings of feeble women. They don't care about anything at all, for they are of the same, metallic substance as Hugh's blinds, which is why Hugh loves the blinds and loves mirrors. Hugh loves Truth; Sallie loves Compassion. The metallic substance of which Truth is made has no use for Compassion, thinks it weak, which it is.

Reluctantly Sallie turns the knob on the faucet, sits on the edge of the tub, waits for the water to warm. She is thinking back to Princeton, back to Warren Smitty, her first love, as she jerks the shower knob up, releasing the valve that holds the water from bursting through the showerhead. The water falls softly, like new rain. Hugh must be watering his hostas, she thinks, plunging into the stream. Warren Smitty, now there was a no-man, she thought, lathering her sponge. He was opposite Hugh in every way; dark where Hugh was light, quiet, thoughtful, full of feeling. Hugh was boisterous, arrogant, emotionally dull to the point of being cold. Tracing the sponge down the length of her arm, she thinks how deliciously they had made love in a shower once, in Warren's dorm, at 4:30 in the morning. The sponge slowly edges her left nipple, recalling the sensation of his mouth on her, and stands neatly at attention, willing to go along with this memory as far as Sallie wants. She wants to go all the way, if the sponge that caresses the skin above her right ovary is any indication. Slowly she slips the soapy sponge between her legs, to nudge gently her already hard clitoris. She smiles, thinking perhaps this June day will not be lost after all.

What Doesn't Kill You
Topic: Stories

Reach a hand to the crescent moon
grab hold of the hollow.
If she sits in the palm of the left
that moon will be fuller tomorrow.
If she sits in the palm of the right
that moon is on the wane
and the love of the one who shares your bed
will be doing just the same.

Cowboy Junkies drifted onto the porch from the stereo in the living room as Jack and Elizabeth nestled on the swing. It was 12 o?clock and the meteor shower was supposed to start at any moment. The sky was a black sheet of glass sprinkled with stars; the only real light came from the sliver of moon. They were twenty-five miles outside the city, in a log cabin Elizabeth had rented the week before, surprising Jack for the weekend.

Jack swilled his wine and reflected on the weekend they?d planned. They had arrived that morning and taken Wabi on a walk around the lake before unloading the car. They?d napped and made love, showered together and puttered around the kitchen in their robes. Making love with Elizabeth was a totally different experience now. She was only reminiscent of the woman he had married, and not just physically, though there was certainly that. He shook it off, thinking it?s only been two months.

Elizabeth was once an alive and vibrant woman. She met life step for step, like a perfectly executed tango, and Jack had marveled at how she instinctually knew exactly when to fall back and step forward. She was small then, just 110 pounds of meat hanging on her 5?2 frame, with a straight shot of red hair down to the middle of her back. She was an opinionated but highly intelligent woman, social to a fault, quick to anger where her principles were involved, but genuinely kind and good-natured for the most part. Jack had not liked her very much at first; he had preferred his women a little more complacent in those days.

Elizabeth hadn?t liked Jack much at first either, considering him stuffy and boorish. They had met at a concert, which gave them the illusion they had something in common, but over coffee the next night they had argued over politics, religion, economics, and after a while, everything. They found themselves being disagreeable based entirely on opposition to the other?s point of view. He?d thought he would drop her off and happily never see her again, but as they pulled up in front of her apartment, she?d grabbed him, tugging at his collar and sticking the loveliest tongue down his throat. Her calf-length wrap-around skirt that he?d thought so dowdy before had parted and ridden up, exposing thigh-high hose.

That night had been the first of many nights, moments that ticked away into years, ten had passed since then. He?d loved her the best he could and when that wasn?t enough, he?d married her. Their wedding, what a mess. They could never agree on the little things, so three months into the process they?d agreed to give the thing over to her mother, who was only too willing. They were to focus only on their own respective wedding parties. Whatever they wanted in their assigned tasks was a go and nothing could be vetoed by the other. As a result, Elizabeth and her bridesmaids had shown up barefoot and dressed more like faeries than members of a bridal party. They all wore pearl-embroidered strapless bodices with yards of flowing green and white chiffon arranged in layers for their skirts. Elizabeth looked much the same with the addition of some lavender chiffon to her veil and skirt and a bouquet of purple Irises and white roses. Jack and his bridegrooms had worn standard wedding tuxedos, their crisp, white shirts choking their freshly shaven necks.

******

As the first star fell from the sky, Jack gently nudged Elizabeth awake. She looked up at him with redlined green eyes as he pointed at the sky. ?Did I miss it?? she asked.

?Not yet.? he replied.

?Good,? she said, and stretched her arms out, narrowly missing spilling her wine glass on the porch ledge. Grabbing it as her arm returned, she clutched it, held it to her chest, and positioned herself under Jack?s arm, nuzzling Wabi with her foot. The Labrador repositioned his head against her toes.

?Are you still sure?? he asked.

?Yep.? Looking at the sky, her eyes glazed over and he knew she was gone wherever it was she went when she looked like that.

She was thinking back to that morning, two months ago?she was doing dishes, watching out the window at the finches and cardinals flitting around the birdfeeder, so lost in thought that she hadn?t even felt the warm, sticky fluid running down her leg. She was getting in the shower when she realized something was wrong. Alarmed, she called Jack at work and he?d assured everything was alright, said it was probably nothing and that he?d come home. She had wanted to believe him, needed to believe him, and continued her morning routine while she waited.

In the shower though, she was brought to her knees by the pain in her abdomen. Trying to pull herself up with the faucet, she had burned her back when her soapy fingers slipped, turning up the hot water full blast. She?d managed to push herself up, despite the racking pain that shot across her belly and down into her vagina. She was opening the frosted glass door when the baby just dropped out of her, hanging between her legs by the umbilical cord, perfectly formed and still.

The meteor onslaught was picking up pace as they watched in silence. She wanted to reassure him, to ease his suffering in some way. She had finally reached a place of peace in her exhaustion and resignation, but she could tell he still wrestled with his grief. She knew she was adding to his load, but she could not stop herself. It was killing him to be here with her, to have this plan in place. He had flat out refused at first, wanted no part of it, threatened to have her committed if she kept it up. She had finally convinced him by getting into the already packed car and leaving for twenty minutes. He was worried, as she knew he would be, that she?d do it alone. He wouldn?t let her do it alone.

His mother had been alone and that had been the driving force behind his commitment to their marriage. When it got really bad between them, when they would argue over whether or not they had the money to try one more time and he wanted to leave because there was no reasoning with her, he would think of his mother?s frail, tiny frame in that hospital bed and his father?s promise not to leave. He would not be his father, he would stay to the bitter end.

She gave him no time to think. The cabin was already rented when she brought it up. He?d argued with her for two hours and tried everything?reason, desperation, pleading, threatening?he even picked up the phone to report the whole thing, but she?d left as soon as the receiver was off the dial. Just got in the car and left. How he?d worried, pacing back and forth on the porch, cordless phone clutched to his chest, eyes darting frantically up and down the street, hoping she would come back. And she did come back?he knew she couldn?t do that to him. She was committed to her plan, but she was not cruel, could not be cruel to him. They?d been through so much already?the baby was their fourth and final chance and they?d thought they were in the clear with her.

Elizabeth had read about the meteor shower in the paper on the drive down and declared it an omen. She told him all the details on the way and had drilled him over and over again on his part. He knew exactly what was expected of him, what would happen when and what to do next. She had meticulously planned every detail. Her briefcase was on her desk at home, with all the pertinent information included, handwritten to ensure authenticity. The supplies she needed were on the table, right there in plain sight. There was no phone at the cabin, or anywhere nearby. Jack was instructed on what to do. The stars were falling.
All systems were go.

Jack sighed and shifted, signaling Elizabeth that he wanted to get up. She moved from his arm and leaned down to pet Wabi. Jack grabbed the two empty glasses, noted the rings they left on the wooden porch ledge and headed inside to refill them. He?d promised he wouldn?t tell her. The small, brown bottle was sitting next to the wine on the table. He poured both glasses half full of Merlot and wondered how he would live without her. He picked up the brown bottle and looked at it, held it to his chest as he twisted it open. His heart was pounding, the blood thumping audibly in his temples. He hardly ever cried, but his cheeks were rolling with tears and he sniffled every other breath to keep snot from running down his lip. Margo Timmins voice was crooning White Sail from the stereo.

He didn?t want to do this. He thought back to that morning and the days that followed. They?d had the baby cremated, but the hospital suggested they spend some time with her beforehand, maybe even name her. Elizabeth sat there with the tiny girl in her hands, the body swallowed by the newborn-sized yellow dress Elizabeth had chosen. She kept toying with the plush pale yellow duck that was sewn to the front, and stroking the baby?s bald, slick head, singing something softly to her. Elizabeth had never recovered from that, and in his most honest moments, he did not think she ever would. This trip was the first time she?d been out of the house since then.

He poured the poison, replaced the cap and took a deep breath. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he checked himself in the hall mirror. The screen door banged shut behind him as Jack emerged, a glass in each hand, onto the porch. Elizabeth was lying on her stomach on the swing, her hand hanging to the floor, scraping it softly with each pass. ?You know what to say, right??

?Yeah,? he said, setting the glasses down on the ledge.

?Tell me one more time.?

Ring on the Sill started on the stereo and Jack offered his hand to Elizabeth for their last dance. Taking his hand, she looked up uncertainly, but consented. It was the least she could do. She did love this song.

He waltzed her down the steps and out to the yard. They were both looking straight up at the falling stars, waltzing on the little square patch of grass between the porch and the dirt driveway. He whispered in her ear, ?I?ll tell them I took Wabi for a walk around the lake, that I came back and found you. I didn?t know you had the cyanide, but I found it after I found you.? He turned his head to face her and asked, ?Isn?t that what you want??

?Yes.?

?And you?re sure?? He paused, ?I keep thinking, if Gracie had lived, you wouldn?t?? He couldn?t say it, couldn?t say the words kill yourself.
She looked into his eyes. ?Jack, there?s no sense in thinking like that. What I?m trying to say is, it isn?t complicated. For me. I?m sorry.?
Leading her back to the swing, he handed her the glass and snuggled down with her again. She took a sip, frowned, and gulped down the whole glass. Resting her head on his shoulder, he could hear her softly singing along with the song.

Her voice trailed at the end and her head rolled off his shoulder onto his chest. He put his arm around her, stroking her hair and feeling the warmth that would soon be gone from her. He looked at the sky and took a sip of his own glass of wine.

Summer 2003
1st Place, 2003 IUS Writing Contest/Fiction

Whirlaway
Topic: Stories

*Summer 1941*

With the war still a good five months away, the kids had flocked to the Carr house and up to the tree house in the big oak that straddled the north side of the house. Theodore Ramus Carr, Theo to everybody, held court there daily, selling sodas out of a cooler. His twin sister, Althea Ramus Carr, Althea to everybody? Thea to Theo only? was treasurer. Thirteen-going-on-fourteen, they were the oldest in the group, a fact that Theo never failed to mention. His favorite topic of conversation was the twins' imminent October birthday, when their father was expected to present Theo with his first automobile. By proxy, his second favorite topic was the Derby and the winner Whirlaway, which was the name he would give his new car.

Althea didn't care about driving or Derby winners or even selling sodas. She had one goal that summer: climb the fire tower. She had tried all last summer and the summer before, but the monolith terrified her. It was eight rickety flights up, constructed of steel with crossbeams and a staircase. It was no longer in use but it had long been a ritual of childhood to climb to the lookout and try to see Louisville in the distance, a city on clouds poured by the river.

To make matters worse, her mother and Aunt Tildy had recently begun ganging up on her, giving her those 'now that you're becoming a young lady' lectures, and the tower seemed to take a new significance that summer. They made her feel as if she had to do it then, before she turned fourteen and became a ?young lady?. It did not occur to her then that the world seemed to be opening up for Theo even as it was shrinking for her.

**********

She had two weeks before school started. From what she could tell from all the lecturing, that was when the race to become a 'lady' would begin. Her elders were displeased with her indulgences in the last days of her childhood. Her understanding was that she should be practicing for that vague ideal but she had still not managed it to the top of the fire tower. Her limit was five flights to date and she was determined. Theo would go whenever she asked and was as resolved as she, so they went twice a week. Donning her overalls, she never failed to earn a tsk, tsk coming from the kitchen on her way out. She didn't care?today was the day, vertigo or not. It was her only buffer from the suffocating influences of ?womanhood?, whatever that was. She felt that reaching the top would somehow galvanize her and place her permanently as Theo's equal.

Summers in the Ohio Valley are humid and that day was no exception. By the time they walked the mile to the tower they were sticky with wet air and their own sweat. Accompanied by their friend Elijah, they approached the tower.

Elijah was the first one up, as he had to be first in everything. Being a short fellow and humbly in love with Althea, he was naturally full of braggadocio. Easily offended, he was equally as easily soothed. Once Althea had begun her ascent Theo fell in behind her.

With Theo cooing words of encouragement she made it easily up two flights. Elijah was two flights up and Theo was making her aware of his presence by shaking the structure with his jaunty climb. At the fourth floor Althea began to realize inevitably that, should she fall, she would most certainly break some variety of bones or bust any number of organs. Sweating more at the thought she continued to climb, focusing on what was above her.

As she reached the sixth floor, higher than she had ever been, it seemed the tower shook more forcefully. Clinging to the crossbeam she looked down to see Theo, hand out to the world, swinging and yelling victoriously. At that same moment she became aware that she had been concentrating so closely she had not heard a sound. Theo's voice hit her like a rocket. It overwhelmed her as she reached the seventh flight. She froze. Looking out she saw low-lying bushes that hugged the knobs with many clusters of trees scattered as far as the eye could see. Along the horizon she searched for the distant skyline of Louisville but could not make it out in the mist that rose from the river.

She was tense and acutely aware of her surroundings, her target, and the distance between her and Theo. He was now only one flight below. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth and pushed her foot against the crossbeam. Looking up at Elijah, she felt the tingle of willpower creep into her legs and fill her entire body and she reached for the next bar and the next. She felt Elijah?s hand clasping her own, his other hand wrapped around the back straps of her overalls hauling her onto the floor of the lookout. Safe. Then Theo's scream.

*************

He never had a chance. It wasn?t his fault. It wasn?t because he was reckless, though he was. The crossbeam simply broke, slipped his hold right off the end. He fell seven-and-a-half flights, breaking his neck in the landing. They didn?t know that standing on the floor of the lookout. Elijah bolted over the side, heading down and making headway fast. Althea prayed to God, promising to wear dresses every day for the rest of her life, to listen to her Mom and Aunt and become a good, God fearing woman. Please, just let him be alive. She had to get down to him. She had to get her Father. She looked down and saw her brother?s still body below her and bolted for the stairs. By the time she reached the fourth flight, she knew he was gone. She just knew. A black hole opened up in her gut where he was gone for good.

In the weeks that followed she didn?t eat, she didn?t sleep, she didn?t talk much. She was surrounded by whispers and wails but she was stuck on a loop, replaying the awful events over and over, trying to come to some conclusion. What had gone wrong? Why did she have to climb the damn thing?!? It wasn?t worth it, she thought. Were there things she should have done differently? Regret had set up residence in that fresh hole in her gut. It wallowed, heavy and hollow at once.

*1952*

The first day of rain had been grand. For a week prior the weather had been relentlessly radiant, the valley just beginning its lush advance on March. Althea sat on the swing under the wide front porch of her ancestral home and contemplated the water soaking the garden. Up and down the long gravel drive white and pink dogwood flowers drifted to the ground, jolted from their tenuous new hold. With a wicked smile she thought the day a bargain, sacrificing a few gray days for the many more later, each resplendent with crocus, daffodil, clematis and tulips. Kentucky springs were obscene with color, the land burgeoning with seduction.

Fifteen days later March slid into April and Althea began to worry. It was still raining. Her mood was suffering, and her planned escape was delayed. She felt restless and agitated as she watched the rain bead on her new car.

She had bought the car two days before the rain came. At the car lot the deep plum color of it caught her eye. "Garage kept.? the salesman had said. "And custom paint too". The three-year-old Chevy Bell Air was perfect for her plan to start over, somewhere, anywhere but here?some place big, maybe California.

Once behind the wheel, she knew this was her car, so smooth and quiet, so easy to maneuver. She murmured the name, Whirlaway. The name had been Theo's idea for his first car, and all he had talked about that last summer, after Whirlaway set a new record in the Kentucky Derby. The name was perfect for this truck that would send her into orbit?and that last summer with Theo would melt away in her memory forever. When the incessant rain stopped she would wash him, paint his name on the doors and whirl away from this place for good.

Summer 2000
2nd Place, 2003 IUS Writing Contest/Fiction