Foliate Oak May 2014

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Fiction

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My Side of Damascus
By CG Fewston

We were freshmen in high school when Samantha drank her milk with bleach. About the fourth trip back to the kitchen for a fresh glass my twin sister collapsed. I didn’t hear her scream or anything. Just heard a thud in the hall. When I found her, she was curled up holding her stomach. Her legs kicked a little. In the hall’s low light, her cardinal red hair was a real mess. Looking at Sam, I could see my own brown eyes pleading for mercy and my own freckled face turning pale. She grimaced and moaned my name. ‘Jack,’ Sam said. Her eyes squeezed tighter as I placed a hand on her shoulder. I asked her what was wrong. Mom was at the grocer buying more milk. I never thought that part was ironic, or funny. But it was true. Sam had drunk all the milk. 

Three years later I visited my sister Sam for the first time. I was a senior in high school and we had to bury my Grandmommy alongside Wright’s Chapel in Sunset Memorial Park. I walked up the hill and turned to see the afternoon sun over the Blue Ridge Mountains I had known since we moved there ten years back. Dad had left Texas and brought us to Virginia and to the Friendliest Town on the Appalachian Trail. To Sam and me it was anything but. After Sam died, things fell apart and we hadn’t heard from Dad since. Mom said he was back working the oil rigs near Lubbock.  

Down below near the red-bricked chapel with its white steeple, I could see Grandmommy’s funeral letting out into the parking lot. All the black suits and black dresses were too grim for me that day. Mom held a hand to her forehead and scanned the hillside looking and I wasn’t sure she saw me. I held a hand up but didn’t wave. Some young boys and girls about my age got in their cars and trucks and headed back to Damascus with their stereos loud and cigarettes ashing out the side windows. I turned and continued up the hill to Sam’s grave.

Sam was buried up near Susan G. Edmondson who was born on Dec. 2, 1856, Sam’s birthday, as well as mine. Susan died on Dec. 10, 1937. I always found it odd how most people died near their birthdays. Except for Sam. She died on May 23. Strange. Not even close. I thought about when I would die and if I would know it was coming like a train slowing into the station. The way Sam must have known. 

You can spot Sam’s grave easy enough because Mom didn’t buy the usual tombstone. She went ahead and emptied my college savings, which wasn’t much anyway. Mom bought Sam a stone angel that sat on its knees with its head bowed, hands folded in its lap. I fell to the ground and began ripping out the weeds with my bare hands and cleaning an outline around the foundation. I remembered my pocket knife Dad had given me for my eleventh birthday and started using that instead of my fingers. The statue didn’t look anything like Sam. For a time I sat there thinking of Sam’s red hair and freckles and how they were similar to mine. The stone angel seemed to be smiling but I knew it wasn’t. It was a trick of the sun. That was all it was.

I heard Mom’s voice calling me to come over. To throw dirt on the coffin. I didn’t look. I had had enough saying good-bye. After a while Mom came and put a hand on my head. It was then I knew they were finished burying my Grandmommy, the one who had read bedtime stories to me when I was a kid. I felt a bit guilty about not wanting to see her put in the ground proper. When Mom said something I had to wipe my face and clear my nose to hear what she was saying.

‘Coming for supper, Jack?’

I disliked my name and didn’t know why my parents had named me that.

‘Honey?’ Mom said. 

I couldn’t bring myself to answer and I didn’t feel like eating anything. My eyes stayed on the object all blurry in front of me. I curled my arms around my knees, pulled myself in a ball the way Sam did that night she died. Leaves were burning off in the woods somewhere. The smoke smelled nice. Like when I would rake the yard with Sam teasing me. She would laugh as she dropped the match onto the pile of leaves. Right then, though, I hated the smoke for smelling so good. 

‘If you get hungry,’ Mom said, ‘we’ll be at Old Mill.’ Mom said it as though it were another Sunday after church. How could she? I imagined her in less than an hour standing on the deck outside Old Mill Restaurant and Inn. She’d be listening to Mock’s Mill Falls and watching the geese swim Laurel Creek. That wasn’t something I was in the mood for right then.

‘Samantha was a happy child, wasn’t she?’ Mom asked. But she didn’t stay to hear my answer. She headed down the hill, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I couldn’t remember when she had taken it off.

I let the parking lot empty before I went down. I stood up, wiped the back of my pants, and leaned over and touched the angel’s head. There were words wanting to come out of me but none sounded good and I kept quiet. It seemed more proper than anything I could have said at the time.

I walked down the hill with the sun warming my neck. I thought of how Sam was a happy child. Yes. We were happy for the most part. She got mixed in with the wrong crowd. Rumors had gone around that Sam was a slut and that she was pregnant but Mom denied it as much as I did. Sam never looked pregnant to me. Principal Sinclair couldn’t stop the bullies from gossiping. Hands were tied, that sort of legal excuse for not giving a good goddamn. Even so, I couldn’t blame the principal. Sam had told me most everything. She never said anything like what those jocks were whispering about her in the locker room. As far as I knew she was a virgin. But bullies had a way of making life miserable for Sam. For me too, I reckon.   

I turned the key in the ignition to my truck, pumped the gas a few times to rev the engine and drove out onto Highway 91. I remembered one of Sam’s favorite places to go when she got down, when she felt sad or out of it. I headed there.  

Backbone Rock was in Tennessee and only a ten minute drive from Damascus. No matter how many times Sam and me drove that road through what some claimed the shortest tunnel in the world it put us at ease. I arrived, paid the two dollars to park, and headed up the rock staircase to the lookout point. The woods smelled fresh. Like right after the morning dew settles. 

The trail was narrow and of smooth stone where Sam used to sit at the top edge. She’d dangle her feet and watch cars pass through the tunnel on the paved road beneath. Sometimes she’d try and spit on the cars. Sam and me had some good times when we’d hike the half mile to the falls, but today I didn’t feel like doing it. Instead I stood at the top with my sneakers half off the side. Looking down one could see that my shoes were of two different sizes. I remembered how I was ridiculed growing up and figured no one would really miss me and my club foot.

In a month I’d be graduating high school and I hadn’t even applied to any universities yet. Mom had her full-time job at the Bank of Damascus. I figured she would miss me and I didn’t feel right leaving her all alone. I stepped from the edge and began to walk to my truck when a young man and woman a few years older than me came down the path holding hands. I didn’t look at the couple when they went by but they cheered me up a bit and made me smile a little because they were happy. That meant something. Funny though. Seeing them made me think of Madison. How we would never be more than friends. When Madison practiced cheerleading routines in front of me in her backyard, her hair would be like sunflowers being whipped by the wind. Her waist was so thin it seemed like there were perfect slots on her hips for my hands, if we ever got our first dance. I looked down at my club foot hidden in my shoe. I wished to hell it could’ve been Sam standing there at Backbone Rock instead of me.   

Driving back on the road toward Virginia and to Damascus I thought of how the doctors told my mother I came out happy and screaming but what I can remember about that time was all the pain. Pain like nothing people want to believe could happen to a baby. Sometimes I wake in the night and find the bed sheets tangled around my right foot where the scars pulse even after all that time. My heart would be growing, trying not to burst because of all the pain shooting out my club foot and up my calf, a good size smaller than its mate. The pain ever present. A nail stamped into the ankle bone. A little like that I guess. The doctors told Mom and me that the pain would go away. It never did. It never does. 

Sam came out first by a whole minute and I’m glad she did. She was the strong one. When I came out, the doctors rushed me off to surgery without even weighing me, which my mother said was uncommon. For the next few years I had surgery after surgery. I grew up learning to walk with a cast and small wooden crutches. Hell. I ran faster with those crutches than some kids without. Sill proud of that fact. 

Through it all, Sam was the one to pick me up when I took a misstep and crumbled to the ground. Or when the other boys pointed their fingers, mocking my deformity by limping about. No. Sam had called my foot special. She was the beautiful one. I held her back. So I’m partly to blame for what happened to her. Or that’s the story I told Madison. Madison seemed to believe me despite we were just friends and weren’t going out or anything. I decided I’d go over to Madison’s and see if she was at home. It was worth a shot.

I pulled up and parked in Madison’s drive. I was standing on the front porch knocking when I heard Ben’s voice from next door. He had been one of the jocks that spread rumors about Sam. That was what Madison told me once. I never did anything about it. Just too afraid to believe it was true. 

‘Hey, Jackie!’

I heard Ben slurp his drink. I didn’t want to turn because I knew Madison’s neighbor would be ready to give me some hell. Again I knocked. No answer. No Madison stirring inside. How I wanted her to be there. 

I looked over the shrubs. Saw he was drinking a coke. He wore a Metallica t-shirt. I never cared much for rock music. Madison liked Christian rock as crazy as that sounds. She liked it more than I did, which wasn’t saying much. With Madison I felt anything could happen. But usually nothing special ever did.

‘Madison’s not home, Jack-ass!’ Ben called out. ‘She’s at the hospital helping real cripples.’

I raised my hand. Ben flinched and grew a bit angry as if he were expecting me to give him the middle finger. I didn’t. I kept my hand there the way I had done with Mom. For that instant I thought of my pocket knife. How I wanted to pull it out and show Ben. How my name was Jack and not Jackie. Nor Jack-shit. Not even Jack-ass. Jack. Plain and simple. And yes I was—

‘Freak!’ Ben shouted.

My hand was still in the air and I had to make myself bring it down. It was like my hand hadn’t belonged to me for that moment and it refused to obey.

‘At least Samantha,’ Ben said, grabbing his crotch, ‘was my kind of —’

I hopped off Madison’s porch and as I jumped the dividing hedge I saw the look in Ben’s eyes grow wild. I caught him by the shoulder as he turned to go. My knife was out. I stuck the blade right up under Ben’s chin. Blood trickled down across my thumb gripping the handle. My heart was beating mad. Felt damn good to hear it so loud and strong.

Ben wetted himself. His hips and legs shook, like he couldn’t control his bodily functions. His coke splashed to the concrete steps.

‘Say it,’ I said. I didn’t know what I wanted him to say but he needed to say something. ‘Say it,’ I said.

He started to speak. Apologize perhaps. But Madison’s voice called out to me.

‘Jack!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t!’

I turned. Saw Madison in her cheerleader’s outfit. Her fists clinched at her side. Her eyes wet. Standing behind her was her dad, Brian. He looked a bit shocked, reserved. I lowered my knife and walked by Madison. When I shifted out of reverse and into drive, Madison and her dad were still staring at me from their front yard. Ben was no longer on his porch. 

At the Country Corner I got some gas for my truck and tossed my knife in the trash between the pumps. I drove up Damascus Drive. I turned left on East Laurel because I wanted to see all the churches there. I imagined Sam next to me in my truck with her feet up in the seat like she used to do when Dad was driving. I wanted to talk to her, the way we could begin and end each other’s sentences or knew what the other person was going to say next. But I hadn’t known Sam would kill herself. And now I knew she wasn’t there beside me in the truck when I pointed to one of the churches and said that was where we had her service. I imagined Sam nodding as if she hadn’t been the one we buried. Made me feel good to be talking to my sister again.  

I turned right on North Reynolds. Headed straight to parking near Laurel Creek. Wanted to get out, walk around a bit. I reckoned Mom and Uncle Jim and the rest would still be down the street at Old Mill. Though I wasn’t hungry, I figured it would feel good to be near my family.

I sat on a bench facing the water, where Madison and me would come and talk about what it was like to be picked on at school. She would gossip, though I never cared much for it. Her voice soothed me. Reminded me of Sam at times.   

Sam would come out here alone in the months leading up to her death. She’d sit until the sun went down. I’d pull up on my bicycle and find her still sitting in the dark. My sister told me time after time she was fine. Nothing was bothering her. I believed her. Why wouldn’t I?

I had been doing the same thing for the past few weeks, coming out here and sitting. Thinking of the taunts at high school. How I didn’t want any more of it.

I leaned back on the bench, the smell of creek in my nose, the ducks and geese somewhere having a grand time out there on the water. I felt like I wasn’t me any more. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.

The sun started down. Shadows getting darker and longer. The air colder and heavier. I kept thinking of Sam holding her stomach and telling me that she was sorry, so very sorry. How she didn’t want to die. How I held her hair away from her face. Told her she wasn’t going to. How she would be all right. How I would get her to the hospital and this would pass. And Sam nodded along to each of my lies.

She had groaned then vomited on the carpet by my knees. I hated myself for thinking that she was not my sister. That some stranger was sick in our house. All I wanted was Sam back. My Sam. The one who had poured barbecue sauce in my bed and put peanut butter in my hair as I slept. My sister who had carried me when I couldn’t walk across the snow. I wanted that Sam. But it was Sam.

Now I was the one. The one to sit and see Old Mill’s lights hitting the ducks floating over the dark water. I couldn’t forget Sam. No matter how hard I tried. There would always be people to remind me that the pain was mine alone. That was fine. All so very fine.  
 

CG Fewston C.G. Fewston has an M.A. in Literature from Stony Brook University, an M.Ed. in Higher Education Leadership and Administration, and from Southern New Hampshire University he has an M.F.A. in Fiction. He has stories and essays published in Bohemia, The Writer's Drawer, Moonlit Road, Nature Writing, Travelmag: The Independent Spirit, and Go Nomad and is a contributor to the Ho Chi Minh City’s premier English newspaper, Tuoi Tre.

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Home for the Holidays
By Julie Gilbert

She twisted the final bit of tinsel around the top branch and wiped the last of the tears from her eyes.  There was a scuff of gravel on the path behind her, too loud to be a squirrel.

“I wondered who did this,” he said, rocking on his toes.  His jacket was thin for the November weather.  “I finally caught you.”

She waded through the waist-high grass, seedpods whispering against her jeans. She planned to walk right past him but he kept talking.

“I look forward to the tree every year.  A sign that the holidays are coming, you know?”

“No,” she said, her eyes on the path.  She was past him now, her dark hair nestled against her red coat, her shoulders sloping as she burrowed her hands in her pockets.

“You must love Christmas, right?  I bet you’ve got lights up at your house.  I used to put them up at mine but that was before, well, it was before,” he finished.

“Everything was before,” she said, only because he seemed to be waiting for a response. 

He fell into step beside her.  The park was an empty swath of overgrown grass and toppled benches.  Her car hunched alone on the edge of the lot.

“I see you’re no longer following the Conglomeration Disease Control guidelines,” he said, waving a hand at his unmasked mouth.  “Me either.  I figure, if I didn’t get it by now, I’m not going to get it.”

“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all but I just wanted to finish my tree in peace and then go home.”

He ducked his head.  His brown hair was thinning

“You’re right. Sorry to bother you.  It’s just been so long since I talked to anyone,” he murmured.

She glanced overhead, feeling a burst of anger that the sky still dared to be so blue.

“I don’t remember the last time I saw an airplane,” she blurted.

“I’d almost forgotten about airplanes,” he said.  “My grandparents used to talk about the days after 9/11 when planes were grounded and the skies were empty.  At my old job, my office was on the fifteenth floor.  I used to watch planes go by and wonder about the people on them, where they were going.” 

She didn’t ask about his job.  The Conglomeration provided food and supplies, palliative care until everyone finally died out and the continent could be reclaimed.  There was no need to work, unless you were one of those crazies holed up in the mountains somewhere.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” she said.  “I think it’s Thanksgiving. Would you like to come over for dinner?”

As she slid behind the wheel of her car, she had a flash from the time before, when a woman never went anywhere with a strange man.

“You’re not going to murder me, are you?”

He shrugged, the gesture revealing the outline of a handgun strapped his waist. “What would be the point?  At least you don’t have to worry about rape.”

When they reached her house, he wandered around the living room while she prepared two Conglomeration-issued microwave meals.

“Spanakopita or pad thai?” 

“Pad thai, please.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the scrape of metal against plastic.

“So how did it start for you?  Was it the cough or the rash?”

She stared at him, aghast.

“For me it was the rash,” he continued.  “My littlest one kept scratching her behind.  We thought it was poison ivy.  Then we heard the reports.”

“Cough,” she said finally, her throat closing around the word.  She pictured the tiny Christmas tree bobbing alone in the park.  It was easier than remembering dark, fever-filled eyes.

“No pictures,” he said, gesturing at her empty walls.

“No.”

“It’s easier that way.  When eighty-three percent of the population dies in fourteen months and the rest of us are rendered infertile, it’s hardly fair to expect that we’ll carry all those memories.”

"The Conglomeration has records,”she said.  “They won’t be forgotten.”

“You really believe that, huh?  I think they just told us that to make us feel better.  When the rest of us die out, no one’s going to care.”

“Then I suppose it doesn’t matter,”she said, the last tiny dream dying in her heart.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she asked, aware that the question was irrelevant.  She was the only living soul for miles.  There was only one answer.

“It’s past curfew,” the Conglomeration Officer said, standing in the doorway.  Snow floated from the sky, settling on his combat boots.

“It’s been years since you enforced curfew,” the man said behind her.  His hand hovered near his hip.

“The quarantine’s been lifted.  They discovered a vaccine.  Relocation starts next month.  We’re training now to enforce the new laws.”

She felt dizzy as bullets of information pierced the fog in her mind.

“I’m just leaving now,” the man said.  The officer withdrew to darkness at the edge of her driveway.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I heard rumors.”

She flinched, imagining the neighborhood lit with garish Christmas lights, the whoosh of cars on the road and the clatter of unfamiliar languages yelled across chemical lawns in the summer.

“That’s why I came to you.  I don’t want to be here when those people arrive.  I’m taking care of it tomorrow.  If you feel the same, meet me by your tree at daybreak.”  He fingered the bulge beneath his jacket.

She closed the door behind him and carried the dishes to the sink.  A sense of calm settled in her stomach.  She would choose a gunshot ripping through the air over the children of outsiders laughing in the street.  A strand of tinsel fell from her shoulder, curling on the counter. Her fingers hesitated over it for a second and then she turned off the lights and went to bed.

 

Julie Gilbert is a recovering academic writer and librarian. Julie crafted her first novel in the margins of grad school notes, meeting minutes and grocery lists.  While working on her second novel, Julie wandered through cemeteries, dragging family and friends along for the ride.
 

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Sometimes We Forget
By Keshaune Hatchett

It was a brisk summer night; Riley Frank was packing his suitcase preparing for a business trip while his wife, Candice watched with a scornful eye. Their eight year old son, Justin observed from the doorway while clutching his favorite stuffed animal, a teddy bear that was void of both eyes and was missing an ear.

Riley looked over his shoulder at Justin whose face exuded anguish, because he was leaving for the fourth time that summer.

Candice turned toward the doorway and peered into her son’s teary eyes. She walked over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How are you doing, baby?”

“I’m okay,” Justin replied with a low somber voice.

She knelt down in front of him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you go to your room and work on that card for your daddy.”

Justin looked down at the floor then wiped the tears from his eyes; he then turned around and walked slowly and entered his bedroom quietly closing the door behind him.

After watching her son enter his room, Candice turned her fury in Riley’s direction. She slammed the bedroom door clearly startling him as he dropped his socks on the floor.

“Do you know what you’re doing to our son?” she asked with venom in her voice. “He worships the ground you walk on and you pay very little attention to him.”

Riley rolled his eyes then turned to face his angry wife. “I have to work.” He shook his head clearly exasperated. “Why do we have to keep going through this every time I have to leave town.”

“All you do is work, if you aren’t at the office all day; you are going out of town.”

Riley picked his socks up off the floor then placed them neatly in the upper right hand corner of his suitcase. Before he could grab his dress shirts, Candice placed her hand over his.

“Justin is just a little boy; he doesn’t understand that you have to work.” She walked over to his suit case and picked up a pair of his neatly folded socks. “Which is more important, your career or your son?”

Riley walked over and snatched the socks out of her hands. “How could you even ask a question like that?” He returned the socks back to suitcase. “Of course my son is more important than my job.” He paused for a second and took a deep breath. “But without my job we would have nothing.”

“We would have each other.” She shook her head in disgust then walked toward the door. Before opening it, she turned and looked into her husband’s eyes. “It’s too bad that your whole world is wrapped up in your career.” After saying her peace, she calmly walked out the door and headed to Justin’s room.

Riley stood by the bed staring at the door from which his wife just exited. He took a second and stared at the plane ticket that was resting on the nightstand, while his wife’s words pierced through his mind as if it were a hot knife through butter. He didn’t want to leave with his family in such disarray, but his flight was due to leave in three hours, and work couldn’t wait.

He walked into the bathroom to gather a few things, unbeknownst to him, the temperature in the bedroom began to plummet.

Candice entered the room and a chill immediately came over her. “Did you turn the air down or something?” She feverishly rubbed her arms while her teeth chattered.

Riley entered the room and noticed his breath flowing from his mouth. “Why is it so cold in here?” He blew in his hands trying to warm them. “Is the thermostat broken?”

“It’s just cold in here.”

She walked toward his suitcase noticing something lying on top of his shirts. “What’s this?”

Riley slowly approached her and took the picture from her chilled fingers. He sat down on the bed, as his emotions overcame him. Tears flooded his eyes while small shards of his breath floated into the chilly air. “Where did you get this?”

Candice stared at her husband with a dumbfounded look on her face. She shook her head in disbelief at the question then sat down on the bed beside him.

“I’ve never seen that picture before,” she said looking at the photo.” She looked into her husband’s face and noticed the tears flowing from his eyes.

Riley stared at the little boy and the man in the photo holding fishing rods with huge smiles on their faces, and a glimmer in their eyes. “It’s me and my dad,” he muttered softly.

He took a deep breath then exhaled heavily; Riley wiped the tears from his eyes but they were quickly replaced by new ones. While fixating on the picture, his mind took a trip back into time twenty five years.

A nine year old Riley and his father, Jack arrived at the lake for their annual fishing trip. After the car came to a stop, the exuberant boy jumped out of the car with a huge smile on his face. “Let’s go, Dad. We have fish to catch.”

Jack looked at his son, with a matching smile then slowly exited the car. After closing his car door, he began to cough and immediately turned his back to his son. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth then looked down and saw the blood that was on the rag.

“Let’s get the rods out of the trunk,” Jack said, as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

As they met at the rear of the car, Jack placed his arm around Riley’s shoulder and pulled him into an embrace. “I love you with all of my heart, son.” He took a breath and squeezed him one more time. “I don’t ever want you to forget that.”

“I love you too, daddy.” Riley replied then looked up and saw tears rolling down his father’s cheeks. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, Daddy?”

Jack looked down into the concerned eyes of his son. “Nothing is wrong, I’m right as rain.”

“What does that mean, right as rain?”

Jack chuckled then ran his fingers through his son’s curly, black hair. “It just means everything is alright.” He opened the trunk. “Now let’s grab these rods and go catch some fish.”

Moments later, they were sitting in a boat patiently waiting for the fish to bite. Riley was looking around the water trying to see if any fish are circling around his line, while Jack had a blanket around him trying to stay warm in the cold morning air.

Trying not to quail his son’s excitement, Jack reached into his pocket to retrieve his blood ridden handkerchief. He placed it over his mouth trying to stymie the coughs, but was unsuccessful.

After a series of coughs, one more violent than the last, Jack stared at the rag and noticed the top was completely covered in red. He slowly wiped his mouth and stared into his son’s horrified eyes. “I’m okay son.”

“You’re bleeding, Daddy.” A tear fell from his eyes. “If you are okay, why are you bleeding?”

Jack placed a fake smile on his face in an attempt to soothe his son’s uneasy feelings. “The cold air is playing a trick on your old man.” He winked at him. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Satisfied with his father’s answer, Riley turned his attention back to the water. He took a few deep breaths and Jack noticed the perplexed look on his face.

“Is something on your mind, son?” Jack inquired.

Riley looked over at his father. “How did you know you were in love with Mom?”

“I knew I loved your mother when I saw her in her prom dress.” Jack closed his eyes and the image of his wife appeared. “She took my breath away.” He opened his eyes then stared at his son with a baffled look on his face. “Why are you asking me this?”

A warm feeling began to permeate inside Riley’s stomach and his palms began to sweat. He looked down at the water avoiding eye contact with his father. “There’s this girl.”

Before Riley could finish his sentence, Jack told him to look him in the eyes while he is talking to him.

Hearing the sternness of his father’s voice, Riley quickly made eye contact with his father. He swallowed the excess saliva that had built up in his mouth then took a deep breath. “There’s this girl in school that I really like.” He paused for a few seconds trying to gather his thoughts. “She’s so pretty dad and I like being around her.”

“Ahhh, my son’s first girlfriend” Jack began to chuckle. “You should take your time and enjoy her company.” He laughed once again. “She will be the first of many.”

“Is the feeling that I’m feeling love?”

Jack slowly shook his head. “No, son, you are what is called enamored with her.”

“She told me I was her true love,” Riley said.

“You are too young to know what true love is all about.”

“Is Mom your true love?”

“No”

Riley stared at his father with a confused look on his face. “You love someone other than mommy?”

“I love you.”

“I’m talking about another girl, Dad.”

Amidst a chuckle, Jack look at his son. “Your mother is the only one for me, but she is not my true love.”

“Who’s your true love?”

A smile appeared on Jack’s face. “You’re my true love.”

“How can I be your true love, Daddy?”

Jack placed his fishing rod carefully on the inside of the boat then motioned for his son to come sit beside him. After doing so, Riley waited with bated breath for his father’s explanation.

“I love your mother; I love your mother with all of my heart, but men and women can fall out of love.” He paused for a second. “She could decide to leave me tomorrow and in time; I could meet another woman and fall in love with her.”

Jack gazed into Riley’s big, brown eyes. “But the love I have for you will never fade.” He smiled. “It will last for all of eternity, so therefore you are my true love.” He grabbed another blanket and immersed himself in it. “I would do anything for you; I would give my life for you.” Jack paused for a few seconds. “Someday when you have kids of your own, you will know the true meaning of love.”

Riley looked at his father’s stringy gray hair, and into his sickly eyes. He then wrapped his arms around him. “I love you too, Daddy.”

After fishing had come to a conclusion, Riley and Jack were walking toward the car where Jack’s wife, Tonya was waiting.

His coughing had become more frequent and violent, and he labored with every step he took. He tried to be strong, not wanting to show weakness in front of his son who had rushed to give his mother a hug.

Noticing her husband was in peril, she ordered Riley to go sit in her car, and then she rushed over to Jack who had collapsed to the ground.

A few days later, Riley was sitting outside his father’s hospital room. He was too young to understand the seriousness of the word cancer, as it was being whispered by the adults in the area.

Jack’s door slowly opened and his mother emerged. Her eyes were as red as beets, from the tears she had shed. She extended her hand to her son guiding him into the room.

As Riley slowly approached his father, a hush came over the room. He stared at his father, noticing the tubes that were emitting from him. The man that he thought to be invincible was anything but.

Jack slowly turned his head in Riley’s direction and put a smile on his face. He wiped away the tears that had formed in his son’s eyes. “Everything will be alright son; remember, true love never goes away.”

Before Riley could reply, he was quickly rushed out of the room, as the machines started to make a loud noise. He watched as doctors flooded his room and a few minutes later; he heard his mother let out an ear piercing scream.

Hearing that scream brought Riley’s mind back to present day. He wiped the tears from his eyes then looked over Candice.

Without uttering a word, he placed the picture back into his suitcase then walked over and grabbed the plane ticket. He placed it in his back pocket then walked out of the room with an intrigued Candice close behind.

Riley entered Justin’s room and finds him sitting on the bed clutching his teddy bear. He knelt down beside him and smiled at his son. “You know I love you very much.”

“I know you do, Daddy.” Justin reached over and grabbed a piece of paper then handed it to Riley.

“What’s this?” Riley inquired, while looking at the two stick figures looking up to the sky.

“It’s a picture of me and mommy watching your plane fly away.” Justin leaned over and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. “I’m going to miss you.”

Riley swallowed hard and remembered how he felt about his father. After breaking the embrace he shook his head. “You’re not going to miss me.” Justin looked at his father with a confused look.

He reached into his back pocket and retrieved the plane ticket, and in one motion tore it up. “You’re not going to miss me because I’m not going.”

Justin’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I thought you were spose to leave tonight.”

“I am, but the only place I’m going is taking you fishing.” Riley smiled, “And as soon as you and your mother can pack, we’ll be leaving.”

Justin erupted with a joyous cheer then quickly ran over to his closet to pack. As Riley was about to exit the room, he was stopped by Candice.

“What about work?” she inquired.

“Some things are more important.” He looked over and reveled at the smile on his son’s face. “I just needed to be reminded.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You need to pack your things; the sooner you pack, the sooner we leave.”

Riley entered his bedroom and noticed the chill that was radiating had disappeared. He walked over to his suitcase and noticed the picture had suffered the same fate as the cold air.

He placed his hand over his heart then looked up to the sky, and simply uttered. “Thank you, Daddy”

 

Keshaune Hatchett was born in Canton, Ohio in 1975. He graduated from McKinley high school in 1993. He served his country in the United States Navy and was honorably discharged in 1997. He obtained his Associates degree in Criminal Justice from Beckfield college in 2012, and will attain his BA in June 2014. He had a short story titled, "Angel Among Us" published in the June 2013 issue of Cigale Magazine.

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Fall Up
By Jeannette Leopold

In a sunlit field, light streaming around intermittant stalks of corn and reflecting off blades of yellowing grass, Maggie danced. She raised her arms to the heavens and tilted her head back so it pulled and hung on her neck. She sawthe sky, so clear pale blue it looked like a miracle, she saw the clouds so white fluffy bunchy like a careful little drawing. She moved through stalks like a puppet pulled along on strings. Effortless. 

***

When her dad died, Maggie had sunk. The day she found out, she’d come home from choir practice at school, seventh grade. Mark had been standing behind her on the risers and he smiled at her before she left. Asked her if she had plans for the dance that Friday. Eyes wide, Maggie had stuttered and smiled. All the way home, long walk, she’d thought about dancing with Mark. All the way home, feet padding along the sidewalk light breeze swirling around her making her feel like part of a painting, leaves kicking up before her feet, white white houses with green shutters to her left and there, far ahead, to her right, it all seemed so beautiful. 

And when she found out she sank sank sank into the ground, dirt, puddled, nothing, white house green shutters mocked her saying, “Don’t you think we’re beautiful, Maggie? Don’t you think so, now?”
 
She did she did she did they were brilliant and bright but the leaves didn’t kick up around her feet because she couldn’t walk, puddles can’t walk they trickle down the sidewalk to school, to the school dance on Friday, and leaves fall trapped into the puddles and get soggy and tear apart. 
 
At the dance at the dance she stood there in her new yellow dress in her pretty white shoes and her hair hung down, limp, straggly, unwashed uncombed unbrushed unappealing understandably so, but that didn’t make Mark think to ask her to dance, not once, not once. 

***

One of Maggie’s favorite things to do with her mom was build a fire outside in a little fire pit they’d dug and filled with wood they collected from the trees out back. Branches that fell to the ground, twigs that littered the dirt. One day, early spring, it was chilly outside and Maggie and her mom spent an hour collecting wood and dry leaves and twigs. They filled up that fire pit and Maggie’s mom lit a match and stuck it under the tinder. 
 
Maggie wore jeans and a sweatshirt, always. Converse. She sat with mom on a log and pulled her knees close to herself and hugged her arms around them. The fire started, whoosh the flames licked at the air and Maggie felt a rush of joy and excitement, the thrill, the fire hadn’t been there before and now it was, it existed, she and mom had created! She ran a hand back over her hair, buzzed off now, so short under her fingers. Her friends at school--why’d you do that, Magz? Your pretty hair and the odd kids, the ones who laughed a lot in class and smoked cigarettes outside the school--looking good, right on, wanna join? But she didn’t want to join. She pulled her sweatshirt hood up over her head and went on in to class. 
 
Now her mom sat next to her and pulled Maggie close, arm around her
shoulder. They watched the fire. 

***

“Tell us about a challenge you’ve faced.” 
 
Maggie tried to smile. College. Great. Interview: required. She had fine grades, good scores, nice essays. Writing style? Weird. Undeniably. But they liked that at these liberal arts places. 
 
Maggie tried to smile. The man tried to smile back. He flicked his pen against his notebook. Discretely checked his phone. 
 
“One time,” Maggie began. 

“Yes…?”

Her head filled with fog, thick. Dense, hard to move through. Thoughts tried to travel from one side to the other and got stuck in the middle, thought crash with ones coming from the other side and jumbled, obscured too thick can’t think senses fail what what what she should be over this over over over it that’s what they said. They said. 
 
“That’s what they said,” Maggie said, “They said it obscure middle. That’s what—over.” 

***

Sometimes life it pressed her down. Like a weight—like a huge weight of bricks, rocks, books, sticks, thoughts? One night snow fell thick fast. She stood face pressed to the glass of the living room window, nose pushed right up flat against it. She could only see the snow where it fell under the street lamp so that’s where she watched. So thick, snow, it could turn the whole world white if the world just held on and let it fall. No need to drive through walk through kick up the dirt splash make a mess. No need. Just let the snow fall and cover everything and create create create beauty. 
 
She stood by the window in a dark room with a fire in the hearth to her right side. The fire flickered light into the room and created warmth. It was cozy, nice. Outside the world was white and soft and in here there was the warming comfort of darkness. Outside she could lie in the pillow snow and let it fall over her until it buried her deep, deep and she could lay there surrounded by that gentle smothering blanket, she could lay and lay there forever.

In here it was warm, though, and comforting, and there was Nathan in the bedroom down the hall softly sleeping, sleeping softer than the snow fell. There was Nathan and he was a nice man, so kind, big heart, softly sleeping gently snoring big chest rising falling but the snow only fell it didn’t rise. 
 
Maggie leaned against the wall beside the window and felt the heat from the fire against her right side. She watched the snow fall gently down. 

***

When she held her first child it was as though God himself were speaking to her. Beside her, the baby’s father put his hand on her arm.

***

Christmastime! Her grandchildren sprinted around her living room trying to catch each other, grabbing cookies from the kitchen, ignoring their mothers’ yells of “Watch out for the fire!” or their exasperated, “Would you leave Billy alone, please?” The children ran out the back door to play in the snow.

Christmastime! The table covered in the nice white cloth, laden with food the big roast and the pumpkin soup and buttered asparagus, big meatballs that broke apart under your fork and crusty bread, steaming when you broke the loaf and that risotto that Gemma always brought, Gemma who couldn’t keep a secret and wore too-bright sequinny shirts and went outside to play with the children, coming back in her cheeks ruddy and laughter dancing in her eyes. 
 
Crying, crying! One of the boys came running inside, looked around for a second then ran over to Maggie and buried his face in her belly. Maggie ran a hand over his hair and pressed him to her.“There there, sweetheart,” she said. She sat down in her chair by the fire and pulled him onto her lap. Through the window they could see the boys and girls pushing each other into the snow and throwing back their heads with laughter. Billy sniffled and wiped a hand under his nose. 

“Look at the fire, sweet pea,”Maggie told him, and he did. “Doesn’t it look nice? You can’t tell where it’s gonna go. It never tells you, it just moves where it wants.” They watched the flames flicker and spin and dance, the logs fall, sparks fling upwards, heard the crackle and snap. 
 
“I’m going back outside!” said Billy, and he wriggled out of grandma’s lap and headed for the door. He reached for the doorknob and paused, and looked back at her. “I love you grandma!” he said. And he was out.

***

Maggie Maggie, the years flew by! Twirling through stalks of corn under a big bright sun. Blades of grass are yellowing green, the color of that old soccer ball they used to kick around. Maybe it’s her fading memory but that old soccer ball and maybe a smile, a fleeting image, possibly invented, of him watching her at a ballet concert are all she remembers. All all all that’s left. Maybe maybe Maggie Maggie someday he’ll be there waiting you’ll see him. Today today, alive here now, she twirls and dances in that field. She raises her arms to the blue and white, she lets pure joy sweep her up and she rises rises rises to the sky. 

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Jeannette Leopold is a 22-year-old woman who teaches fourth grade. She loves fantasy novels and ice hockey.

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