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 Photo by Raphael Rychetsky on Unsplash Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor. Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen. Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow. Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay. Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek weird of the woodpecker. Masters daydream about nice marvelous songs of the tern. Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer. Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren. Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow. Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe. Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull. Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite. Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl. Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook. weird - archaic spell Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems and flash fiction. Pawel‚ has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
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 Even though my worldly existence hearkens back to the days when pocket change would fill the gas tank (and they’d often throw in a case of Coke, too), I’m still amazed when a seemingly ordinary day unexpectedly turns into total chaos. It’s not simply a matter of having a bad day, everybody has them, but I stand in awe as to how everything that can go bad DOES go bad, and how it always seems to happen at the same time! It was a busier than normal day when the wife drove out of town for a meeting while I kept an eye on the kids at home. We went into town to take care of the usual errands, but on the way back I started to feel a sharp, nagging pain in my right side. I had the same pain at work the day before and it went away after a couple of minutes, but this time it just kept getting worse. When we got home I had the kids unload the groceries while I slumped into the easy chair while grabbing my side. Incredibly, the pain got even worse, and so was my concern as to what was causing it. I’d lost a granddad over a hundred years ago to a burst appendix, but no one else on either side of my family had an appendectomy that I could recall. Since it was Saturday, our friends and neighbors were away so panic had also set its claws into my side as to how I was going to get away to an Urgent Care clinic. I put our occasionally responsible teenager in charge of the younger ones and jumped into the car for a mad dash into town, but I didn’t make it a mile down the road before the now searing pain forced a hasty retreat back home. Being far away from professional medical help is one of the few drawbacks to living in the country, but we had a well-conceived plan in effect that would cover any possible emergency occurrence, except this one. I tried driving again after I caught my breath but came up with the same inescapable result. It was time to dial 911, which immediately escalated my pulse rate and stress level to Stage 2. What a thrill. The kids were busy with their Nintendo’s and were hardly distracted by the paramedics. I inquired how I was supposed to fit on the narrow, metal railroad tie with wheels they brought in with them, and was told the gurney fits all but one size. That size is mine. After being wired for vital signs I was packed away inside a hermetically sealed meat locker called an ambulance. I assume it’s hermetically sealed in order to preserve the contents should they expire on the way to their destination. I can’t help but think ambulances are recycled Good Humor Ice Cream trucks since that’s the sound they make when the back door is closed (you have to be over 50 to know that). You would, as a side note, feel quite safe in the back of an ambulance if you had to drive through a dense swarm of angry killer bees. I now know what a side of beef feels like on the way to the market. An ambulance’s automotive suspension is an extension of the gurney that’s inside of it. With arms flopping side to side at every turn, I could feel every single rock in the road during the journey into town as if we were rolling on metal wheels. At least admittance into the hospital went smoothly (entering through the side door has its advantages), and I was pushed into a room where I waited, impatiently, to be seen. Lying down when you’re in that kind of pain doesn’t cut it, so I slid onto the visitor’s chair and clung to the door handle while panting like a dog on a hot summer day. A very welcomed nurse finally came in and took my vital signs and expertly extracted a couple vials of my blood while the ER physician asked a few questions. The blood test revealed no infection and an x-ray confirmed what the doctor had suspected; a kidney stone. “Don’t worry. It’s not serious,” he said, incredulously. “Feels like a boulder, doesn’t it?” he asked. “More like Comet Kohoutek,” I said, gasping. “It’s like a man giving birth,” the nurse chirped in. “Fine,” I said, “then get me a bed in the Paternal Ward, quick!” As he left the room the doctor said, “We’ll get you something for the pain. In the meantime, welcome to the club!” I just love those lifetime membership fraternities. I was already a member of the Fraternal Order of the Hemorrhoid, so why not join another one? While dwelling on that thought during my medically induced euphoric state of contentment, I decided we should all be proud of the afflictions we’ve survived, and should let the world know of our pride through our signatures! We could sign our names with a degree, such as, Mike Vines, H.ks. (Hemorrhoid/kidney stone), or more formally, Mike Vines, Ph. Pks. (Painful hemorrhoid/Painful kidney stone). Just a thought. I was released from the hospital with printed instructions on what to expect when the kidney stone passes, and my very own plastic pee filter used to collect the urological invader. The idea is to verify the passing of the stone, then submit it to a lab for analysis in order to determine what kind of foods you should avoid to help prevent another occurrence. The 12 hour ETA of the stone turned into 24 hours and I grew concerned. Did that little sucker get stuck on the way out or what? The meds were helping a lot but I just wanted it to be over with. I was expecting a pain similar to a spiny blow fish edging its way down my urinary tract, but instead the Rock of Gibraltar passed unceremoniously through the pipeline 48 hours later. The result of my labor; a single, approximately 2 millimeter, one gram, multifaceted object of unknown composition. The emotional description wouldn’t make it past the editor’s desk. When I took the stone to my doctor’s office for analysis the lab technician exclaimed, “Oh, passing a kidney stone is like a man giving birth!” The analysis came back a few days later as calcium oxalate, and wouldn’t you know it, chocolate, one of my favorite indulgences, is at the top of the “Don’t Eat” list! When hearing about my affliction, a construction worker friend commented that he had broken his back twice on the job, but neither time was it as painful as the kidney stone he had passed. Passing a kidney stone is indeed a painful experience, but I doubt it is anywhere near as painful as giving birth. Why? Because I didn't tear off the arms of bystanders, although the pain was constant and lasted for several hours. A close second, however, is the pain I felt when ripping a pound of fur off my Neanderthal chest while removing the adhesive-backed electrode pads that the paramedics had left attached to my torso. But if it’s a birthing analogy they want to make out of all of this, I’m game. Let’s say the very same stone I submitted for lab analysis found its way to the nearest landfill. Over eons of time the earth eventually broke up into tiny segments that traveled throughout the great expanse of our galaxy. Modesty precludes me from creating an entire universe, so I’ll concentrate on a single planet. By chance, my tiny kidney stone, wandering aimlessly through space, coalesced with other molecules and eventually grew in such great mass and form as to become a planet, and in our very own solar system! Since Uranus is already taken, I’ll name my future prodigy, Urethra, The Yellow Planet. I like that. They say once you’ve had a kidney stone there’s a very high probability that you’ll have another. I can hardly wait. Michael Vines is a freelance writer who lives in South-Central Kentucky. His "Slice of Life" essays have been published in statewide newspapers and Amazon Kindle ("Ain't Life Peachy")
 Photo by Rémi Boudousquié on Unsplash Begin a lifetime ago. Drive down Townsend Road in winter, realtor riffing, SUV swerving past icy spots. Maybe we’d buy a little cabin in the woods. Instead, we gawk at a wooden castle on Walloon Lake. The stone hearth caught our hearts. Turn left at twenty-six years ago. Ari’s 16. He and a pal wildly slide on a sled-run from our front porch to the frozen lake. They hoot, holler-- whoop their way into rosy skin, gelid air-mist, near frostbit fingers, hot chocolate, and a fireplace blaze that would make Gabriel forget his horn. Drive straight ahead a few years. A great blue heron processes across our yard, his arcanum held in silence. A careful pile of shells on our dock—crawdaddy’s sacrifice for the great blue’s numinous meal. Skid off the road at years of winter flu, intestinal obstructions, faintings, and skiing accidents that drove us to the Petoskey ER. Backup into our living room—gaze into the ferocious fire, read Jim Harrison, Dickens, Hemingway, and Jerry Dennis—imagine our former place up north, breathe its belonging. Park in the present where we can only dream the peace we once had, mist rising at dawn, piliated woodpecker in his primitive splendor, kingfisher’s mad dive for bass. Our life-symphony played by placid waves that lapped the shore, a requiem now of memory, but not regret.  Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash Physicists tell us that we’re made of the same matter as stars and planets. Some philosophers argue that, because we are made of the starry stuff, we behave in the same determined manner as celestial bodies. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true? All our orbits would be symmetrical, our trajectories aimed only at destinations that were predetermined. Very few random events would plague our lives, and those that did would be easily traced—explanations would be apparent and sensical. Our endings would be as grand as an exploding star—our deaths would blazon the universe like a supernova. We’d become an event horizon that gathers light—our legacy a powerful singularity.  Photo by Sheila Swayze on Unsplash Under grey Wyoming skies we watched tadpoles pulse through the creek and jackrabbits cottontail the prairie-- until it was time for a ride. Saturdays on Risha’s ranch I got to ride Baldy, while Joe, my eight year old best friend, rode Spot. Baldy was the kindest horse, gentle, easy on the gallop while Spot, a frisky pinto, was often a little cranky. When it snowed, we wrapped ourselves in blankets, listened to the saddle leather creak, and watched the flakes melt on Baldy’s or Spot’s hot hide. I can’t remember why Joe and his dad Al named that brown stallion Baldy? No one left to ask now. Leukemia took Joe’s sister when she was twelve. Joe’s mother, Ruth, cut in half at the railroad crossing just off the ranch. Bib, their three-legged dog, always good for a tail-wag and a rump-scratch, gone long ago. Cancer found Al in the eighties and gobbled up Joe two years ago. I heard that Al rented a backhoe to dig the hole for Baldy. A hired man held his bridle while Al aimed and fired, then jerked the straps so Baldy would land in the right place.  The mind of the one I love has left me in a foreign country called Caregiver. The day begins with medications: Twelve in the AM, Four in the afternoon, Twelve at bedtime. At breakfast, endless talk of pain, appointments, disappointments. Where did she go, my Gold Hill girl? I get the pills, make the dinners, do the dishes, go shopping, take out the garbage, feed the dog, feed the cat. I try not to think about the old conversations, the inside jokes, fifty years of romance, or the mourning dove we saw standing helplessly next to the crushed body of its mate on Lake Grove Road. I’m like Bib, my best friend’s dog when we were eight years old. Bib only had three legs, but he didn’t seem to notice.  One hundred twelve years ago Marc Chagall readied his palette, gripped his brush like a conductor’s baton, swept it across his canvas, and delivered Birth. How weary the writhing bloodied mother, how somber the midwife as she anxiously offers the newborn to our eyes, and what a sneak, that husband, who peaks between bed and canopy. Aglow with excitement villagers crowd into the room. One man brings his cow to see the new life. A peeping rabbi, his face framed by a window pane, peers into the room. This pink bubala ignites the village, vibrant in veneration, benediction, and bathed in vermilion.  There is no better place to slum than a cheap strip club in the middle of the desert between Las Vegas and San Diego. From the highway, I saw a large, wooden cowboy with an animated arm pointing toward the entrance and I knew I had to stop, if only for the adventure of it all. As I parked, I heard disco music booming through the block walls of the club, still hot from the day's sun. The bouncer at the door gave me a nod as I walked inside. To him, I was just another sucker looking for something that didn't exist in the worst possible place. The club smelled like moldy carpet and the air coated my lungs with thirty years of stale cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and cheap cleaning spray. You never forget the smell of a place like this, it stays with you forever. Vinyl chairs surrounded the stage, and booths with tables lined the walls. In strip clubs, perverts and hard-core voyeurs sit near the stage while guys like me sit in the booths so we can pretend we don't belong. There were only a few other men in the club, two men by the stage and some others in the booths getting lap dances. The dancer on the stage stared at the ceiling, swaying back and forth to the music, looking lazy, bored, and high. All the women in the club were old, used, and ragged. I imagined that they came from broken pasts, bad choices, and bad families, and they were now marooned in the desert to sell the only thing they had left. I sat in a booth and an older woman in a bikini came to my table. "Can I get you a drink, hun?" "Rum and Coke, please," I replied. She wobbled away in high heels to get my drink. As I waited, I looked around the club and thought it might have been a mistake to stop here. The club was dark and depressing as if the owners didn't care anymore. It was one step away from becoming another abandoned desert building with no windows or doors and walls covered with graffiti. The bikini woman came back with my drink. "Here you go, hun. I think you'll like the next dancer. She's special." I smiled at her but knew it was just a silly line they tell all the men who come here. The stage lights dimmed and the music changed to slow jazz as the next dancer curled her legs around the edge of the curtains the way a snake slithers around a pole. She was tall and elegant and her skin was bright in the lights of the stage. When she turned, her back arched against the tattered curtains like a cheap, Mexican painting and I was quickly lost in the beautiful decadence of it all. For the first time, I was glad that I stopped here. My interest must have been obvious because the bikini woman returned. "Would you like her to come to your table?" "Yes," I replied, "of course." I liked the way she looked, the way she moved, everything about her. I sat back and enjoyed the feeling of anticipation. The bouncer came to my table, standing between me and the stage. "Let me give you the rules of the club," he began, enjoying his authority. "No touching of the ladies. Two-drink minimum. If a lady sits at your table, you buy her a drink and you tip your server. No funny business in the club." "You forgot to tell me not to spit on the floor." I hate bullies like him. His face went blank for a moment, he smirked, and then walked away. I couldn't tell if my sarcasm went over his head or if he wanted to throw me out. Either way, I was happy to see him go. The music faded and the dancer finished her act. Funny how a woman taking her clothes off could become a show with a beginning, middle, and an end. She came out of the backroom and directly to my table. She did not wobble as she walked; she was smooth, graceful, and confident. She wore a red, silk camisole and somehow -- despite the surroundings -- she looked innocent and pure. When she arrived, the bikini woman came to take our drink orders. "What can I get you two? Another one?" “Yes, sure,” I replied. I remembered the bouncer’s two-drink requirement. We both looked at the dancer. “I’ll have what he’s having,” she said. Standard response for a strip club, I thought. They’ll probably bring her a watered-down soda and charge me full price. She crossed her legs, put her elbows on the table, and leaned closer to me. There was an awkward moment of silence. “I know you’re not nervous. Why are you so quiet?” she asked. You danced very well. Not like the other girls.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Thank you. Most people don’t notice. They’re not looking at my dancing.” She paused. “Is this your first strip club?” “No, not my first but I don’t come to them very often.” “When do you come to them?” she mused. “When you’re horny?” “No, not when I’m horny.” My answer surprised me. “I guess I come here when I’m…” I paused. I was going to say lonely but stopped myself. “Bored.” “And how often do you get bored?” “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like my whole life is boring.” I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “Tell me about yourself.” “Nice girl like me in a place like this? That sort of thing?” she teased. “I just like to dance. Be noticed. It’s a fun way to make money. I’m always interested in making a little extra money.” “Aren’t you ever worried? A lot of creepy people must come in here.” “Oh, I always carry a little protection. I can take care of myself.” The bikini woman came back with our drinks. “Here you go.” She turned to me and winked. “I see you got the best girl. Good for you, hun.” It was corny but cute. I liked it. I looked at the dancer. “What makes you the best girl?” She was amused. “Well, don’t you like what you see?” “I sure do!” I replied. “Well, that makes me the best girl.” She laughed at her own answer. “What kind of work do you do?” “I’m an architect.” “Oh, that’s impressive. Big projects?” “Yes, my firm is working on the new art museum in Los Angeles.” I wanted to show off and it was working on her. She seemed to be genuinely impressed with my position. She motioned to the bouncer. “I won’t be dancing anymore tonight, Lenny.” He nodded to her and quickly disappeared to the back of the club. Did that mean she was done for the night or did she make up her mind she was going to leave with me? “That’s a shame. I was hoping to see you dance some more.” “I’m sure we can move on to other things besides dancing,” she said. I was relieved I wasn’t wasting my time. “I’m glad you’re going to stay with me. What’s your name anyway?” “I’m Jackie. What’s yours?” “Michael.” Jackie leaned closer. “So, you’re Michael, the bored architect just passing through. Tell me more.” “I’m single. Divorced a couple years ago.” “Oh? Did she take everything you own?” she asked playfully, half smiling. “No, not everything. Her family is well-off and she didn’t need it. She did take the kids though.” “So, you still have the big house, pool, fancy car and all that?” “Yes, I still do,” I replied, knowing it would impress her. Now was my chance to ask for something more than just a drink. “How about a lap dance I see the other guys getting?” “Oh, I think you can skip your lap dance.” She smiled. “There’s a little hotel nearby. The club keeps a room for us and we could go there. Get to know each other.” I was excited. “Yes, I would like that.” Jackie smiled. “I’ll go change. I’ll be right back.” She got up and went to the back of the club. I paid for the drinks and left a good tip. Jackie came back later wearing jean shorts, boots, and a flannel top. She looked more like a small-town western girl than a stripper from a nightclub. We left together. I was happy to get out of the club and into the fresh, night air. She told me to drive to a back road behind the club. The moon was bright enough to make everything look black, white, and gray at the same time. Even the road stretched before us like a glowing, silver trail. The desert is beautiful at night, empty, still, and calm. Wind rushed through the open window as I drove, surrounding me with hot, dry air, reminding me I was trespassing and didn’t belong. I kept telling myself I was just passing through. Jackie looked at me. “Why are you out here in the desert?” “There was a conference in Vegas I went to. Building materials, standards, stuff like that. Boring stuff.” “Is that why you were bored and came to the club?” “I didn’t want to go home right away. There’s nothing for me there anymore. I thought I would stop and pass some time.” Railroad warning lights flashed and gates closed, blocking the road ahead of us. I stopped the car and felt the ground rumble beneath us. “Damn, that’s the cattle train,” Jackie said. “It will take forever.” “What’s that?” “Every week, they round up the cattle from the ranches north of here and take them to the slaughterhouse just outside of town.” As the train passed, the weight of its engines shook our seats and the cattle cars rattled and banged against each other, straining to break free. “I bet the cows are all trying to escape,” I said, trying to joke with her. “They don’t know what’s happening. For all they know, they’re going to another ranch.” “Yeah, but their instinct is telling them to jump. Look at the way they push against the doors. I wonder what they’re going to think when they reach the end of the line and realize what happened to them.” “They’ll realize they were a sucker and they shouldn’t have gotten on the train in the first place.” “I’d hate to be the one at the slaughterhouse who has to kill them,” I said. The train kept rolling past, upsetting the calm of the desert. She stared through the windshield, expressionless in the flashing glow of the red warning lights. “They get used to it. After a while, you don’t give a shit anymore.” “I wouldn’t want to live that way, not feeling anything.” “You would if you had to,” she said quietly, as if to herself. The last car of the train passed, the warning lights stopped flashing, and the gates rose to clear our path. I watched the train go back to the darkness of the desert and I continued to drive, taking the two of us to the room she had promised. As we drove, a feeling of dread came over me and I knew what would happen. It always happens the same way. I’d give her a few hundred dollars, she takes off her clothes, and I go through the motions of having sex. When we’re done, I’d feel more empty and lonely than when I began. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I should have never taken the exit in the first place. I didn’t want to treat her that way. I had to tell her. “Look, this might have been a bad idea. How about if I take you back to the club and I go home?” She didn’t seem surprised by what I said. “We could do that but the bouncer saw us leave together. I have to return with some money.” “I’ll just pay you anyway.” She turned to me and put her hand on my leg. “Why don’t we just go to the room and have a couple drinks? We can talk. Just talk. You look like you could use a break.” I thought for a moment. Maybe she was right. There’s no harm in just having a drink together. I put my hand on her hand. “Okay, that’ll be fun.” I smiled and we kept driving, leaving the club, the train, and my doubts behind us. The hotel was just beyond a long curve in the road. I saw a cheap sign on top of a trailer by the curb advertising the rooms for $59 a night including air conditioning and cable television. Some of the letters were missing and the trailer’s tire was flat, this town has a lot of cheap, broken-down signs. I pulled in and noticed two other cars where there, probably the manager and someone else. “It’s the one on the end,” she said, pointing to the corner of the building away from the office. When I turned toward the room, I saw the curtains in the window move. It could have been a breeze but I wasn’t sure. “What was that? The curtains moved.” “I must have left the air conditioner on or something.” She put her hand on my leg again. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I parked the car in front of the room and when we got out she stopped to fumble through her purse for the key. It was quiet in front of the hotel and along the desert road. The only sound we heard was the constant popping of moths crashing into the tungsten light above our heads. Some moths circled around the light in a blind frenzy while others slammed directly into the bulb, overwhelmed by its allure, their bodies fell to the ground and made a small pile beside the door. Jackie released the lock but before she opened the door she turned to me and looked into my eyes. I thought she was going to kiss me but something distracted her when it fell on my shoulder. She brushed it off with her hand. “You have a dead moth on you, silly.” She was smiling. I hugged her and felt better. I was happy I came. She opened the door and I walked in first. Immediately, I was pushed hard from behind and fell face-down on the bed. Jackie was thrown across the room and slammed against the back wall. I rolled over on the bed just as the lights turned on. A man stood over the bed holding a gun aimed at us both. I looked back at Jackie. She was on the floor in the corner and another man was tied to a chair beside her. He was gagged and his face was red and swollen. Blood dripped from the side of his head and his wrists were red from struggling against the ropes. I recognized him; he was the bouncer from the club. “Hands up! Show me your fucking hands!” the man with the gun yelled. I put my hands in front of me. My mind was racing, trying to figure out what was happening so fast. He pointed the gun at Jackie. “Get your hands up, bitch.” He was tall, menacing and angry. “You don’t remember me, do you bitch? No, you fucking don’t. You don’t, do you? But I sure remember you. Oh yeah, you’re the bitch who ripped me off and ruined my life. You took everything.” He turned to me. “Who the fuck are you?” “I’m Michael. We just met at the bar. I was driving back—” “Shut the fuck up!” He shook his gun at me recklessly. I flinched, afraid that it would go off. “Oh Jackie, you found another one, didn’t you? I wasn’t enough?” Jackie’s voice shook. “Look, we can work it out. Whatever it is.” The man laughed. “He’s the new sucker, isn’t he? You got yourself a new sucker.” “I just met her at the club. I wasn’t going to do anything. Just talk,” I said. He laughed even more. “Oh, you weren’t? Let me guess. Because she’s different. Not like the others. Did you fall in love with her? Are you going to marry her and live in a little pink house? That’s her trick, you know. You stupid, fucking idiot.” “Please, I had to do what I had to do,” Jackie said. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” He looked back at me. “You know what they do, pal? They’re going to take all your money. They’re going to take your wallet, they’re going to take your credit cards, they’re going to take your bank account, and they’re going to take your fucking car. They left me here with only the clothes on my back. I had to call my wife and guess what? She left me and took my kids too. I owe it all to this bitch.” “Look, I’m not a part of this. Why don’t you call the police and turn them in?” “And tell them what? I fucked a whore and she stole my money? Is that going to get my life back?” He grabbed me and forced me to turn face down on the bed. “Why don’t you shut up, lover boy?” The bouncer looked at Jackie, who was slowly reaching into her purse. The man jabbed his gun into my back. “How about you first, lover boy?” I closed my eyes and tried to sink into the bed, hoping I would not get shot. Jackie pulled a gun from her purse and shot again and again at the man. The noise was deafening. The man fell against the window and grabbed the curtains to hold himself up just long enough to return fire. The bullets flew over my head. Two hit the bouncer’s chest and one hit Jackie. She fell back and splattered blood against the wall. Struggling to stay alive, Jackie raised her arm and fired two more times at the man before she collapsed to the floor and dropped the gun beside her. It was over quickly and suddenly the room was quiet. The bouncer was dead. Jackie was dead. And the man behind me was dead. He fell to the floor and took the curtains down with him. I rolled off the bed. Blood dripped from my clothes. I wasn’t sure if I was shot. I didn’t feel any pain. I had to get out of there. The room was filled with smoke and the smell of gunfire and blood. The parking lot was empty and still. No one heard the shooting, and no one was coming. I left the room, got into my car, and drove out as quietly as I could. I grew faint and darkness spread in front of me. I knew I was about to die and I didn’t want to fight it anymore. I was tired of running, tired of searching, tired of taking exits in the middle of nowhere. My heart was broken years ago, and I’ve just been a walking ghost ever since. I didn’t want to go to any more strip clubs, meet any more strippers, or go where I didn’t belong. I took my foot off the gas to let the car roll slowly away from the hotel. My hands fell from the wheel and I felt the warm, desert air surround my soul for the last time. Tom is a retired freelance writer from Southern California. He can be reached at tfalater@yahoo.com
 Photo by Vincentas Liskauskas on Unsplash I was up all night with Andrea, one of a handful of girls I had gotten to know night-owling around Hollywood—a favorite thing of mine to do, dangerous as it was since the kids in the local gangs started roaming the streets around ten or eleven at night. Andrea and I had rendezvoused at Gorky’s Café on Cahuenga at about eight o’clock, and when they closed their doors for the night, we went back to my place not a half block from the Magic Castle. I made two demitasse cups of espresso and a saucepan of beef-flavored ramen noodles—all I had on hand, but Andrea didn’t seem to mind. She told me that just to be off the street for a night was like dying and going to Heaven. I was glad she felt that way. Everybody likes being liked, even if you’re like me and pretend you don’t care if people like you or not. After we ate three packs of ramen each, which came to a total of forty-two cents spent, Andrea offered to sleep with me, she explained, as a favor for a good friend. With a kiss on her cheek, I declined her advance, but refused to tell her why. She said I was a real mystery to her not ever buying her wares and not even wanting a freebie, but I replied by only pointing to my murphy-bed. She kicked her white old-timey tennis shoes off, slipped out of her tight Calvin Klein’s, climbed under my cotton wildflower-print comforter, and was out like a cat who won’t stop caterwauling. I slept, fully clothed except for my combat boots, on my ratty 1970s avocado velvet couch, pulling my Mexican poncho over me to fend off the coming desert chill that I knew would creep through the window next to where I lay. I woke up early, put my boots back on, opened the door and slipped out, then closed and locked it as quietly as I could (it was right next to the bed where Andrea lay dead to the world). It was just a hop, skip, and a jump to Rita’s Taqueria on the corner of La Brea and Hollywood, so I got us two overstuffed beef taco salads. When I got back, Andrea was sitting up on the bed rubbing sleep from her eyes, her warmth showing clearly through her sheer white panties. All at once I felt protective; husbandly. I made more espresso. We ate without saying anything. Then she asked me if she could hang out with me until she had to go back to work that night. I tried to dissuade her from ever going back to that kind of job, but she explained that the only way that was going to happen was if I married her and got her the fuck out of L.A.—her words, not mine. Andrea was a golden blonde with a heart-shaped face and sparkling pale blue eyes—the kind that scream for sunglasses during the daylight hours of SoCal to keep from going blind in the desert sun. Everything about her was pretty—gorgeous, really—right down to her dainty pink toenails. She’d only been a working girl for a few months, she told me—and I believed her because she was still fresh and lovely to look at—just out of college back in Podunk, Florida, she said. She had hopped a Greyhound to Los Angeles to see her name in lights, become a big star —same story, different girl telling it. Hooray for Hollywood. She reached over and kissed me. Her lips tasted like strawberries and cumin. I love you, Sebastian, she whispered. I loved her too, but marriage wasn’t in my plan, at least right then, and I didn’t believe in intimacy outside of matrimony—to me anybody doing that were like kids playing with matches and a can of gasoline. And for the record, my name isn’t Sebastian, but Andrea could have called me Georgie Porgie and I wouldn’t have cared in the least. I gave her three hundred dollars that I couldn’t afford to give her so she wouldn’t have to work again that night, then we drove the fifteen miles give-or-take across town to Venice Beach to watch a grunion run— grunion being fish that run up onto the beach by the thousands, turning the dark waves silver in the moonlight. Lots of people catch and eat them, but Andrea and I went just to enjoy their beauty—and to spend time together doing something different than catching a flick on Hollywood Blvd, hearing a band on Sunset Strip, or hanging at Gorky’s or one of the other calmer night spots. I went out with lot of different girls, but Andrea was special to me. Her work kept her busy, and was random—sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night, but always every day except Sunday—the day she saved for Jesus, she liked to say. She freelanced, which I was happy about. Pimps for me were Satan in human form. I hated so much the bleary-eyed drunken loudmouthed gun-toting jokes. Andrea slept in my bed again when we got back to Hollywood from Venice, but this time I slept next to her, holding her close to me the whole time. She woke me up at dawn with a ‘butterfly kiss’ on my cheek and then a real one on my lips, but before I could pull myself away from my last dream of the night, which happened to be about her, she was gone. That evening at around six there came a knock on my door. When I opened it, it was Mischa, one of Andrea’s working girlfriends. She collapsed in my arms, hysterical. When I got her calmed enough to talk, she told me the life-altering news. That a john had been too rough, too angry, too something— I will never forget the girl whose joyful presence lit my darkened soul. I hope we meet again, Andrea. I’ll never stop praying that we’ll walk and talk and laugh together again one day. Scáth Beorh is a writer and publisher who helms Twelve House Books. More can be found via twelvehousebooks.wordpress.com
 Joe bag-o-donuts picked the wrong night To take a whistling side trip in the desert. Now he’s splayed on the office carpet And the fate of the world is in question. The ancient pick up sputtered at the light And Joe didn’t have a chance from then on. I was too afraid to scream at it all. Then the robot began wreaking havoc! The only people to defend the world Were a scientist riddled with self-doubt, A silly IT guy and his machine And a lady thrown in for misogyny. Flawed people against a tromping pillar That sucked up the energy of the world And left us in the fearful dark where My nightmares took up residence and waited. But as the bejeezus drained out of me There was hope in knowing that three people With all the same fears and flaws I had Could pull off the salvation of our planet Now, it is just an old black and white flick From a time ago when our biggest fears Resided in a distant made-up world, Not the sharp darkness we’ve made for ourselves. Geoff is a therapist and lover of old scifi flicks. He lives in Massachusetts with the smartest woman he's ever met. He's been published in Friends Journal, Wales Haiku, the Book "Gathered" an anthology of modern Quaker poets and a few others. He feels blessed to be called a poet and a grandfather.
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HalfHourToKill.Com is a literary website publishing authors of Flash Fiction and Short Stories in the genres of Fantasy, Horror and Noir. Feel free to submit your Fiction, Poetry and Non-Fiction work to us year round.
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