“Jennifer, I want you to have this,” whispered the old woman through cracked lips. Her knotted hands fumbled for a small potted plant on the nightstand. A short stem, an handful of small leaves, one already turning a light tan color. “This is Joe. I named him after your grandfather.”
The girl took the plant from her grandmother, turned the pathetic looking thing over in her hands.
“Take good care of him.”
“Um, sure Grandma. How do I..?” But as Jennifer looked up, Grandma was gone.
A week later and Joe had a new home on the windowsill in Jennifer’s room. Jennifer, black dress, eyes red-ringed, shook her head as she looked at the plant.
The one tan leaf was gone, the others starting to shrivel. Jennifer poured a little water from a small yellow watering can she had bought the day after her grandmother had passed.
“What’s wrong with you?” she fussed.
She sagged onto her bed, pulled out her phone. Messages from friends, the standard platitudes; “Thinking of you…”, “So sorry…”, “Our deepest sympathies…”
She swiped them away, opened the web browser, typed “plant care tips” and hit search. A wave of advice filled the screen, every page different - water, don’t water, sun, no sun, plant foods, nutrients, soil pH, inside, outside, pruning, repotting…
Jennifer sighed. “God dammit.”
“Look, I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Joe sat on the counter, barely more than a bent stem and one tiny green leaf clinging onto life. The store clerk, a boy not older than Jennifer herself, shuffled his feet and buried his hands in his green apron pockets. “I’m not sure…”
“Well this is a nursery,” Jennifer, almost shouting, slammed her palm on the counter. “You must know what’s going on!”
The clerk looked at her then quickly looked away, back to Joe. “Yeah, well, we do, but, but I don’t,” he managed to stammer out.
“What?”
“Mr. Johansson is the expert. He’s away. If you just come back next week…”
Jennifer threw her hands in the air. “Can’t you see I don’t have a week?” she screamed, her eyes starting to wet. She snatched up the plant, swiveled on her heel.
1am. Dark in the room save for the moonlight trickling in through the open curtains.
Jennifer lay on the edge of her bed, Joe back on the windowsill, his last leaf clinging on for dear life. Jennifer sobbed gently into her pillow.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I tried. I’m sorry.”
In the gray light the last of Joe’s leaves slipped away from the stem, coming to rest on the soil below.
Jennifer’s sobs turned into a wail, muffled as she buried her face.
Her Grandma was finally gone.
In her dreams that night, Jennifer was back at her grandmother’s bedside. She was crying, uncontrollably and unstopping, while the dying woman looked up at her and smiled. The same smile she gave when Jennifer scraped her knee when she fell off the swing as a child.
“Joe’s dead. I didn’t know what to do.”
Jennifer’s grandmother reached up a tiny, time-worn hand and stroked Jennifer’s hair. “It’s alright, dear. everything will be alright.”
The morning sun filled the room with orange light, casting long shadows on the walls. Jennifer’s eyes cracked open, her first sight being the small red plant pot on the windowsill.
She knew she had to throw it away, lose the last piece, the last physical piece she had of her grandmother.
But not now.
She turned over to face the wall, closed her eyes once more to sleep a restless sleep.
Not now.
It was mid-afternoon when she finally awoke properly. She swung her legs off of the bed, her shoulders aching, her eyes red raw.
It was time.
As she stood and moved to the window she saw something new. The smallest nub of green on the top of Joe’s stem. Jennifer peered closely at the tiny shoot. What was this?
She checked the soil - damp still, but she topped it up anyway, moved Joe so he was catching the most of the morning sun.
“Please, please, please,” she begged, before starting her internet search again.
The next day, after a sleep that left Jennifer more tired than when she started, the minute bump was a full-on bud. Something was in there, something growing.
In the warmth of the morning sun, her head resting on her arm as she sat her silent vigil, Jennifer drifted into sleep.
She awoke with a start, the sun having now moved across the sky. From her low down resting place Jennifer could no longer see the top of Joe’s stem.
She straightened up.
A single, beautiful, light pink flower, glorious in the sunshine. It’s petals barely open hinting at the heart within and the promise of future life.
A tear ran down Jennifer’s cheek, a tear of pure happiness, of relief, of celebration. Life returning.
I knew the kind of kid he was as soon as he entered my coffee shop. Obnoxious. Loud. Cocky. The kind of kid you’d cross the street to avoid, not because you were scared of them but because you don’t need the hassle.
“Got any muffins?” he demanded while stood in front of a display of six different varieties of muffin - homemade of course.
I waved at the selection under his nose. “Of course, sir,” I said, giving my best ultra-polite, customer-is-always-right patter. “We have vanilla, chocolate chip, double chocolate, blueberry, cranberry, and caramel surprise.”
He nodded, surveying my wares. “One of each. Not cranberry, though. That’s rank. Gimme another double chocolate.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, loading his choices into a cake box. “That’ll be eighteen pounds, please”
The teen jerked his head up, indicating the drinks fridge behind me. “Coke.”
I placed the cake box on the counter and turned to retrieve his drink. I knew I shouldn’t have done it.
As I turned back I just caught sight of a Reebok classic trainer trailing out of the door at speed, the counter lacking muffin box and money.
“Hey!” I yelled, darting around the counter and leaping for the door.
Out on the street. The dark clouds that had been threatening all morning chose that moment to fulfill their purpose, and cold, heavy drops beat onto dry concrete. The teens feet pounded the concrete too as he made his escape south.
I launched myself after him, fueled by a small lifetime of local kids trying to rip me off. Not this time.
The kid turned the corner, disappearing from view. I sped up, determined not to lose him.
As I rounded the corner, he was lost in a sea of people, a queue snaking out of the bookstore - a book signing today. “Crap!” I scanned the street, looking, hoping for any sign, trying to see anything through a rapidly expanding barrier of unfurling umbrellas.
Nothing.
No use.
Then a face watching me. The kid, peering over a car on the other side of the road. “You! Wait!” I cried out.
The kid darted away, glancing back at me every few seconds as I tried to keep pace. The kid was fast, faster then I was, at least in a flat sprint. But he was measuring his pace, keeping ahead of me and making sure he kept something in reserve.
He turned into a park, the open green space taking over the diesel-stained masonry of the city. The kid jumped and juked as he ran over the hill - nimbly avoiding the dog mess left by inconsiderate owners. I was not so lucky, my slick shoes skidding on filth. No matter, I had to catch him.
At the end of the park he vaulted a low wall, I clambering breathlessly over a few seconds later. Despite the delay I was still keeping up, like he wanted me to go with him.
That was it! He wanted me to follow him, wanted me out of the shop. No doubt his accomplices were raiding the cafe now, loading up on sweet treats and the contents of the register. I was almost impressed with his ingenuity.
All the more reason to catch him.
He turned again, this time heading for a block of flats. Of course the little scumbag lived here. He disappeared up a passageway, re-emerging on the stairs. I followed, channeling my anger into my burning thighs as I ascended.
On the fourth floor he turned off the steps, flying down to a blue wooden door at the end of the row. A dead end. I had him.
I slowed, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere, my lungs protesting and preventing any kind of speech. As I stepped towards him, he looked to the door next to him, banging hard on it with his fist. He was panicked, cornered, looking for an escape and knowing he had none.
“Come on, hand them over,” I managed to squeeze out. The teen reached back to something in his back pocket. I froze. A knife? Six muffins were not worth dying for. I raised my hands defensively.
The boy whipped his hand back and thrust it forward…
A twenty pound note.
“Here you are, mate.”
I stared at the folded note in his hand. Was this a trick?
The door next to him swung open. A woman, about my age, stepped out. “Did you forget your key again?” She turned to me, looked at my apron, sweating forehead, soaked hair and clothes. “Who’s this? What did you do now?”
She looked familiar but couldn’t place her face.
The kid nodded to the woman. “This is my mum. Her name’s Laura. Laura Kensington.”
Laura Kensington. Of course! We had been in school together, had hung around together a few times until she was pulled out of school suddenly. Rumour was that she had gotten pregnant. By the age of the boy, I quickly calculated that the rumours were probably true.
The boy looked back to his mum. “I told I would find him for you, mum,” he said, handing her the box of muffins. “Happy birthday.”
Laura smiled that same beaming smile I knew from all those years ago. I didn’t realise until now just how much I had missed it.
That was a bloody smart kid.
Awakened Noise imagined on the edge of sleep Dreaming? Other senses tell me not Ears straining Not a stirring nor a creaking to be heard Eyes closing Returning to the arms of slumber
But a feeling A sense of nearby presence taking hold Something watching Waiting, for an undefended time Moonlight dances Running through branches, across leaves Stretching, twisting Throwing visions into doubt
Eyes adjusting Outlined figures taking shape Edge of sight Anxieties adding textures to the dark Rationality Shake off childish foolish fears Considered futures Tomorrow’s plans derailed by tiredness
Seeking comfort Allowing thoughts to drift Still observing Whilst awaiting sandman’s touch But now to falling The warm embrace of sleep As moonlight stills The looming shadows start to grow
“Houston be aware - I’m coming in hot.”
“Roger that, Zenith One. We expected this. Brace for a bumpy landing.”
I braced all I could in the coffin-like pod, bunching my fists and screwing my eyes tight. Thoughts of Emily popped into my head, the way when she smiled at me she always gave me a little wink, something I’d never seen her do to anyone else. I couldn’t wait to see her. I had only been away for a day but that was a day too long.
A slight knock rattled the pod. I must be at the edge of the Earth’s atmosphere. The rattles turned into a full on battering as the air became thicker. As klaxons blared, I felt the pod beginning to tumble, pressure building in my legs, chest, arms, head. I tried to push back, held my breath and forced air up, trying to not black out, but I was crashing… crashing… this was it… Emily…
I came to hearing a rhythmic beeping to my left - my heartbeat turned into something digital - felt the cool of hospital sheets under me. I peeled open my eyes, making out the figure of Major Bolcher, chest puffed, wide grin.
“Welcome home, son. Extraordinary effort. First class. Our names… your name will be in the history books. ‘Tom Anderson, Light Speed Man.’”
The mission swam through the fog in my head, becoming clearer. The first manned attempt to reach light speed, slingshotting around the sun and Pluto. Apparently it had been a success.
“Emily…” I managed to croak.
The Major looked confused. “No Emily here, son. Was she working on the mission? Your nurse, maybe?”
The darkness closed around my eyes again.
The next few days were a blur. I heard voices, felt people prodding and poking with needles and icy implements. And in between, I dreamt of Emily, our wedding day, our honeymoon, nights curled up watching a movie, days eating at fine restaurants. At one point I was sure she was in the room with me, felt her presence, smelled her perfume. I forced my eyes open to find only a porter pushing a mop around my bed.
After a while the dream state lifted and I found myself face to face with the Cheshire Cat-smile of my best friend, James Brennan.
“What’s happening, Shitkicker?” he laughed.
“Not much, Skyscraper,” I grinned. “Nice of you to visit.”
“How could I not? How are you feeling, buddy?”
“Like I just fell out of the sky. How’s Emily? Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Stop screwing around, man. Emily. My wife?”
James clamped his hand over my mouth hard, his head swiveling to look around. “Hay dude, what’s wrong with you? Knock it off with that W talk before we both end up on the Separator.”
I pulled his hand away. “What the hell are you taking about? I want to see Emily.”
“Oh man, I think there’s something wrong with your meds. You’re talking crazy. I’m going to get the nurse,” jabbered James as he left in search of help. He couldn’t leave quick enough.
The rest of the day was a stream of nurses and doctors, all looking sternly at my notes, more prodding and poking, the kind of whispered conversations that are never a good sign. Still, no Emily.
That night, having mostly regained full use of my brain, I clicked on the TV above my bed. Some gameshow was on, the host a perma-grinned, vaguely orange man with the personality of an over-excited toddler. He was gesticulating wildly at a half-naked man and woman trussed up in some strange metal contraption that made it appear as though they had their arms and legs intertwined with each other. This was a strange gameshow.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our spouses have been loaded into The Separator,” the host chattered as an off-screen audience roared in applause. “Now, please welcome… The Convictooooorrrrr!”
The audience erupted in adulation as a tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, entered the stage and stood with his (its?) back to the contestants.
“Spouses,” the Convictor boomed, “you have been found guilty of co-habitation, pursuant to Section 4 of the Anti-Marriage Act of 1983. You are sentenced to… Separation!”
A loud hydraulic hiss came from the contraption and the contestants (victims?) began to scream frantically, their faces turning pink, then red, then deepest purple. The strain was showing on their limbs as they were pulled apart from each other while still remaining intertwined. Their screams grew louder as the pressure grew before suddenly the contraption split apart, arms and legs and blood and muscle and bone raining down onto the stage as the crowd cheered their appreciation.
I hammered the power button on the remote, casting the room into near darkness.
My head was spinning. Marriage outlawed? Punished by death? Where was Emily? Where the hell was I?
I spent the next three days not taking in anything around me. People came and went, I slept a little, ate nothing. My mind was racing but I had no answers.
On the fourth night I was awoken by James. “Come on, buddy, we’re getting you out of here.”
I found myself in a car, speeding along a dark backroad. “I found her,” said James excitedly.
“Who?”
“This Emily chick. I found her. She was at college with us, right?”
“Of course. That’s where we met.”
“Well, man, I don’t know why you are obsessed with her all of a sudden, but I found her for you.”
We stopped, now in a quiet suburb, outside a small house. James nodded. “This is it. Be careful, man.”
I stepped out, cold air entering my hospital gown, stepped up to the house. I knocked.
A woman opened the door, unmistakably Emily. She smiled that same smile, gave a little wink. “Hi. I’ve been waiting forever to see you.”
Good evening ladies and gentlemen.
As we take a moment to look back on this year, I am reminded it is a miracle that we have made it this far. Though our continued thoughts are with Miss Happanovich - may she regain her sense of smell soon.
Our year started as it always does, full of hope and anticipation for the learning and growth to come, a feeling that lasted until a school record of eleven-thirty that first morning. The small fire that started, inexplicably, on the free throw line in the gym was fortunately extinguished when the second floor female bathroom spontaneously flooded causing a small tsunami to rip through the south stairwell.
The remainder of the fall semester was largely uneventful, save of course for the incident with the instant mashed potato delivery and the fire hose, the ensuing and appropriately named “fire mash mountain” attracting a number of rats to the school grounds. As Professor Buttleby, now “retired” head of science, gleefully explained though use of a flip chart, some rather colorful language, and, at one stage, an intricate diorama, the warm potato provided the perfect environment for the rats to form a colony of, and this is no exaggeration, biblical proportions. I am told as of this morning we have successfully reclaimed the Art Studio from the hoard. As always, please be on the lookout for signs of plague.
A new year brought new opportunities for this school to shine. Sadly, Mr Ribald’s Physics class has other ideas with their attempts to build a scale model of the Large Hadron Collider. I must admit I was as surprised as anyone when the thing actually worked when it created a miniature black hole and a trans-dimensional gateway that was helpfully closed by, and I hope I am pronouncing this right, Xlorathanicz the Younger from some unknown level of Hell. The Physics department should be rebuilt over the summer once we can find a way to stop the bricks from floating.
I am glad to say that the Junior’s field trip to the Pentagon went without international incident.
And lastly, our Spring semester, where it seems the entire school set to outdo themselves. The decision for the school production to be a musical version of the Arnold Schwarzenegger classic, Predator, was a brief error in judgement by the Drama faculty. The tale of a rocket-launcher toting alien slaughtering a team of special-Ops soldiers was particularly traumatizing for the visiting first-graders from the elementary school, though I must say that the second act finale, “If It Bleeds, We Can Kill It,” was something of a toe-tapper.
Speaking of teams, congratulations to the lacrosse team for not getting disqualified from the league this year - it is great to see you have the biting under control. And to the football team who won their twenty-seventh straight championship. Who says a propensity for violence is always a bad thing?
But despite all of the adversity this school has faced this year, academically there is progress. Test results are up - some of you actually attended year-end finals, although it seems all were only using the event to make what I am told is known as a “dirty protest.” I say to you that soda machine privileges will only be reinstated upon the safe return of Tibbles the school hamster and I will not be swayed by the use of biochemical weapons.
And now, here we are at prom. Summer is on the horizon, and who knows what tomorrow will bring? Dysentery, no doubt, considering the state of the hot dogs that were served earlier. But as I look out on your youthful faces and remember that right here in this room are the future leaders of our country, I can only think to myself “Thank God.” Because if you can survive this school, you can survive anything.
Good night and goodbye.
The bar was bright and not too busy. Thursday nights were usually quiet, especially when wintery snow flurries swirled in the cones of phosphorent yellow cast by the street lamps.
Rosemary grabbed a seat at a raised table, perching herself on a high barstool. She was cute, had a unique sense of style, had a wisdom greater than mine. It was only our second date and I was nervous. I had abandoned work early - I would pay for that in the bosses office tomorrow - and faced a wardrobe crisis trying to find a sweater both stylish and warm. Worse, I had no words, conversation being lost art.
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked, buying myself some time.
“Rum and coke, please.” I was immediately put in mind of the Pulp song “Common People” and couldn’t help but draw parallels with my own fledgling relationship. A boy who worked in a warehouse, a girl between semesters studying art history.
“That sounds good,” and I headed to the bar. My plan to come up with witty repartee, anecdotes of good times passed, and sincere compliments was dashed by imaginings of touring Rosemary through council estates and cheap supermarkets, living a romance that only exists in songs and Sunday afternoon movies.
Returning with the drinks I clambered awkwardly onto the stool. Rosemary smiled in thanks and gave a half laugh, looking down to fidget with an imagined thread on her skirt.
The air between us was thick with empty space waiting to be filled with some kind of connection beyond the instant, alcohol-fueled fumbled meeting of lips in a nightclub almost a week ago.
I realized my mouth was immediately so dry that any attempt to speak would only sound like a series of arid clicks and smacks. I lifted my drink, feeling the ice cold glass on my lips. The drinks were light on mixer and the rum burned my throat on the way down, a stranger to hard liquors.
Was this how he felt every time? How did he do it, drinking pint after pint, neat, and not immediately throw up from the taste alone? Or after a while would the burn subside and future glasses go down as smooth as in the movies, all those hard drinking men knocking back shots of whiskey and vodka, sipping brandy and fine wines.
I thought back to the previous night, sinking pints of lager in a pub with my stepdad. Drunk but happy, shoveling handfuls of salty snacks to absorb the booze.
And the day before that, grabbing a couple of bottles with Tom, Dutch courage before meeting with Rosemary for coffee at a bookstore.
Monday was the pub quiz, so of course I had to have a beer or two then. Everyone else was drinking and I didn’t want to be the odd one out.
Sunday lunch in a beer garden with the folks, washed down with a pint or two.
Saturday night was boys’ night at Tom’s. Cards, gaming, beers aplenty, and someone brought some weed. A combination that led to projectile vomiting in his back yard and embarrassed apologies on Sunday morning.
Friday was the club where this little journey all started. Watching some unknown band who’s name is lost to the mind fog of an old man, meeting this very cool and sweet woman, a friend of a friend of a friend, my clubbing buddy Neil having to keep himself entertained while Rosemary and I tentatively swapped saliva and phone numbers.
Was it too much?
Did I know how to have fun without it? Could I ever?
Would this carry on, drinks to be more sociable, to deal with a bad day, to celebrate? Then because there was a football game on TV, because it is a sunny day, because why the hell not and who are you to tell me otherwise you stupid bitch! Get in that bedroom, we’re going to do things my way for a fucking change. I can do what I want, I can drink when I want, I can stop when I want. But guess what? I don’t want to, I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.
“What’s up, you look miles away?”
“I think I might be an alcoholic.”
There wasn’t a third date.
Where would I be without you? Not dead Not depressed Nothing so bereft Of feeling Of meaning Of unsatisfying leanings
But weaker Meeker Without passion or desire Without direction Nor protection And the means to fight the fires
Of absurdity And modernity But to seek the reasoning Search for joy Raise a boy And a girl who must begin
To find their own hearts Strike their own paths Into worlds we cannot know To find answers To take chances With the strength that you bestowed
Where would I be If only me? Somewhere worse than you could know
Icy rain, propelled by swollen gusts, beats upon the cracked, dry earth, tanned from the long summer. Now is time for change. Green to yellow, to red, to brown. Finally to gray. Ready for the rebirth.
A single patch of ground remains dry, a desert surrounded by a flood. At its center stands an isolated figure. He is hard to see, shouldn’t be there, will not allow the eyes to focus. But he is there nonetheless.
He waits.
Legend tells of a creature that stalks the early fall, ripping the young from their mother’s breast, leaving aching vacancies that can never be filled. He is a horror, a ghost story, a suggestion planted by older sisters into younger brother’s heads to grow into nightmares. Closets held fast by tilted chairs. Nightlights left burning.
Yet he is no legend. He is truth.
We do not like truths. They are inconvenient. They scare more than the lie, than the legend. The nightmare is real.
He waits.
To a passing motorist creating tidal waves that crash into sidewalks, a brief illumination casts a silhouette of a tall figure in a long coat, shielded by a large umbrella. We have all seen this. We know this figure. It is normal, mundane, not worth mentioning or recalling later. When the police come knocking, when tearful appeals are made on the evening news, when the unthinkable is discussed, picked apart, empathized, over coffees and sweets and indulgences that dull the senses, between idle chit-chat of vacations and hearsay’s and bake sales, that lone figure will not appear in the mind, will not be offered as a solution, not recognized as the bringer of agonies to a small town.
Not forgotten. Never remembered.
What no one sees is that he has stood for three hours and fourteen minutes in the same spot, immobile. His eyes have not left the glow of the single illuminated window on the first floor of the ordinary, average, frankly boring house. He waits.
He waits for the light to be extinguished. For the last occupants to make their way upstairs, to brush teeth and expel fluids, to make one final check on the one they claim they hold so much love for.
Claim. Pretend. Act like they think they should do for their audience. Do what is expected - cry when they should, dote when they should, be proud, be boastful, dream of their future. “Oh, she will be so beautiful.” “He will be a doctor I am sure.” “An honors student, I am so happy!”
Yet when the precious little gift, the wonderful prodigy returns home and the audience is out of sight and attending to other matters, then the act falls away. The truth lies waiting, like he waits, hidden below the surface, itching to get out. The monster prowls within, pacing in its cage looking for the opportunity to be free. You see, it must be free. It must feed. And the child cannot stop the feeding, and the partner turns a blind eye in case the monster feeds on them instead. The monster and the coward.
CRASH!
A broken glass.
THUD!
A discarded pair of shoes tripped over.
HAHAHAHAHA!
Joy interrupting a moment of quiet.
That is all that is needed. A sliver of a gap in the monster’s prison and it is free, wrecking havoc and turning a place of love into one of hate, of terror, of fists and of screams and of starvation and of ridicule and of threats and of pain.
Always pain.
Yet tomorrow the pain is forgotten and the child has not learnt the “lessons” that were taught last night and again the monster is loose and again the world turns to hate and again comes the pain.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Until one day, this day, when the figure arrives to wait. When the pain becomes too much for the child and something deep inside them breaks, something fundamental. A heart without love serves no purpose, and with no purpose it dies.
The lights are out. He waits. Twenty more minutes. Thirty, just to be sure. Now is the time. Time to take away the pain and replace with an eternal rest.
He steps towards the house.
Tiny rivers of fall rain swallow the last remains of the summer.
