Foliate Oak October 2018

Fiction

A Promising Officer
By Tamar Anolic

Lt. Colonel Robert Graypool struggled to pay attention. His commanding officer, General Robert Buchanan, was speaking about incorporating the Fifth Military District back into the Union. “It’s clear now that Louisiana will reenter first,” Buchanan said. “Texas has always been its own world.”
 
Buchanan’s voice sounded far away as the New Orleans heat and humidity clouded Graypool’s thoughts. All he could think about was the wrenching pain in his chest and stomach. Graypool stared at the floor as the memory of two bodies, covered in white sheets, flashed through his mind. Then he saw the doctor’s hand, writing the date on the death certificate- May 15, 1868…
 
“Lt. Colonel Graypool!” Buchanan’s voice cut through Graypool’s thoughts.
 
The room was silent as all of the officers there looked from Buchanan to Graypool. Graypool looked up at Buchanan as confusion buzzed through his brain.
 
“I asked you a question,” Buchanan said.
 
“I’m sorry, sir,” Graypool replied. “I didn’t hear it.”
 
Buchanan looked around the room. “Would the rest of you give us a minute?”
 
“Yes, sir,” came the unanimous reply, and the room was filled with the sound of men standing and leaving.
 
When the room was silent again, Buchanan fixed his eyes on Graypool. “Bobby, you are quartermaster of this district, and our supplies are of the utmost importance,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a lot recently, but I need you to do your job.”
 
“I no longer care about my job,” Graypool snapped before he could command his tongue to stay still. He stared down at his hands as remorse rose within him. The silence lengthened. Graypool felt sweat dripping down his torso and a lump forming in his throat. “I am sorry, sir,” he said finally. When he looked up at Buchanan, the general was looking at him sympathetically.
 
“Bobby, would it help if the funeral for Rose and the baby were up in New York rather than here? I know your family is still there.”
 
Graypool took a deep breath as he contemplated the answer. “Yes,” he said finally. “It would help.”
          
 
          
The next day, Graypool began his journey to the Hudson River Valley. Two coffins were in the train’s cargo hold. One coffin was a large one for Rose; the second was a smaller one for the child they never had a chance to name. Graypool relied on his main flask, and then a second one, to get through the long, slow journey. As the train moved, his mind went back to the scene, only a week earlier, that had caused him so much pain.
 
                                   *                                  *                                  *
 
Graypool and his best friend, Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, stood in the parlor of Graypool’s small home, waiting. Graypool wished he could return to the open plains with his horse and rifle. If I leave, though, Rose will kill me, he thought. This is our first child. He took another drag of his cigar, hoping it would calm him. Instead, he found himself weaving the cigar through his fingers to distract himself, making certain that the burning end did not come in contact with his skin.
 
Mackenzie watched him with amusement. “You’re going to start a fire if you aren’t careful,” he said.
 
Graypool shook his head. “No, I won’t.”
 
“Just like you didn’t start one at West Point the first year we roomed together, keeping a candle running past Taps so that you could study longer.”
 
“That was your initiative!” Graypool squawked, but he and Mackenzie were already laughing. Even so, Graypool could feel anxiety crawling at the pit of his stomach like a hill of ants. Then the head midwife appeared in the doorway. Graypool, seeing her expression, felt a new wave of anxiety hit him like a winter gale. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
 
“I’m sorry,” the midwife began.
 
Graypool felt his jaw clench. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mackenzie stiffen. “What happened?” he asked forcefully.
 
“I’m sorry,” the midwife said again. “It was a difficult birth. The baby didn’t make it.”
 
“Oh my God,” Graypool said. In an instant, his limbs started working, and he ran for the door. “Rose!”
 
                                               *                                  *                                  *
 
The funeral, when it happened, did little to change Graypool’s mood. Its only benefit was to make him feel that it was his duty to return to work. Once he had sent a telegram to General Buchanan, however, Graypool felt his resolve slipping away as fast as the summer heat was rising. Instead of beginning his trek south, Graypool simply rode off into the woods.
 
After several miles of riding amidst the dappled foliage, Graypool almost felt human again. To hell with that telegram, he thought. I’ll just stay here awhile. He rode on until he came to a camp of cabins that allowed rental by the day, week and month. He paid for two weeks up front, no longer caring about his duties down south. The United States Army doesn’t need another lieutenant colonel that will never amount to anything.
 
Seven nights later, he still had not found the peace for which he was searching. Instead, he was awake in the middle of the night, sweating from the heat even in the darkness. He rolled over and instantly regretted it- straw, poking through his ancient mattress, scratched his neck and face. His tiny cabin’s windows were open, and the night’s humidity rolled through them like fog. For a minute, Graypool listened to the night and heard nothing but crickets. Good, he thought. His fingers curled around the cool whiskey bottle that was on the small table next to his head. It was only when he lifted the bottle and felt its weightlessness that he remembered that it was empty. Shit.
 
Graypool put the bottle down and looked at his revolver. It gleamed, and for the first time, Graypool was aware of the moonlight that poured through the windows. Graypool ran his hand over the gun, knowing how quickly one of its bullets would end his pain. Suddenly, he heard something outside the cabin- the crunch of horses’ hooves on the ground, the sounds of men dismounting. He drew himself up on the bed, his heart pounding.
 
A minute later, a light tapping sounded at the cabin door. Graypool reached for his watch. It’s after midnight, he thought. That can’t be anyone but a highwayman. Sweat poured down his face. Then, to his surprise, someone spoke.
 
“Colonel Graypool,” a man’s voice said. “Are you awake?”
 
It’s Lt. Colonel, Graypool thought. I’m not going to live to make Colonel. He remained silent, trying to decide what to do. His thoughts were interrupted by a different voice.
 
“Bobby, if you don’t open the door, I’m coming in,” Colonel Mackenzie warned from outside. “I will not let you end your life, and I will not let you spend the rest of your life in this cabin, either.”
 
For a moment, Graypool said nothing. Then the doorknob turned. The door was pushed open, and true to his word, Mackenzie was standing in the doorway. General Buchanan was standing behind him, holding a small candelabra whose flames cast an orange glow outward. For a minute, the glow danced on the sides of the empty whiskey bottle that Graypool wished were full.
 
Shit, Graypool thought when he saw his commanding officer. He really shouldn’t see me out of uniform. Then he remembered, almost as an afterthought, that he was officially absent without leave. I guess that ends my career, he thought. He stood up unsteadily. My legs feel like jelly, he thought. He took a deep breath and hoped that his words came out without being slurred. “I’m sorry, sir,” he began, directing the words at General Buchanan. I’ll deal with Mackenzie in a minute.
 
Buchanan looked at Graypool sympathetically. “Bobby, I need you back at the Fifth District,” he said. “You’re a fine man, and there will be many opportunities coming your way. I’d hate to see you lose sight of your future.”
 
Graypool eyed him, and it was clear he did not believe his words.
 
“I mean it,” Buchanan said. “There have been a lot of changes in the Army since the end of the war, and I’ve put your name in for a promotion in one of the newly created Indian Reservations.”
 
“Mine, sir?”
 
“Yes, yours. But you’ll have to make sure you get back to the Fifth District to remain eligible for it.”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
Buchanan continued to eye Graypool. “What are your travel plans?”
 
“I will leave first thing in the morning.” He doesn’t expect me to leave right now, does he? Graypool wondered. There’s no way I’d stay in my saddle.
 
Buchanan nodded. “That is fine,” he said. Then he looked at Mackenzie, nodded once, and disappeared.
 
As soon as Buchanan was gone, Graypool collapsed back onto his bed. Mackenzie dragged the cabin’s single chair over to the side of the bed and sat down. He lit the only candle that was on the small table. Then he looked at Graypool and held out a canteen filled with water. Graypool eyed the canteen. Then he looked back at Mackenzie, and his eyes said, you must be joking.
 
“I’m serious,” Mackenzie said. “You need to sober up if you’re going to be on the road at first light.”
 
Graypool groaned. “I can’t believe I suggested that.”
 
“It was the best response you could have made, given the circumstances. Probably saved your career.”
 
“What?”
 
“Going AWOL is a serious offence, Bobby,” Mackenzie said. “General Buchanan was only sympathetic because of what you’re going through. He would have had you court-marshaled otherwise.”
 
Graypool looked at Mackenzie, trying to decide if he was serious. When he decided his friend was not joking, he sat up and took the canteen. The water was warm but it still felt good against his parched throat. “How did you find me here?” he asked.
 
“It’s not far from where you asked Rose to marry you,” Mackenzie said. “It didn’t take a genius to figure out that you would come here.”
 
“Am I really that transparent?” Graypool asked after he had downed more of the tepid water.
 
“I wouldn’t call you transparent,” Mackenzie replied. “Just grieving.”
 
Graypool sighed as he stood up and went to the window. He heard crickets chirping as a faint breeze swept through the trees. “I’ve made such a mess of things,” he said.
 
“It could be worse,” Mackenzie said. “And if you’re on time leaving for the Fifth District, Buchanan will forget this whole episode.”
 
Finally, Graypool turned to look at Mackenzie. “What about you?” he asked.
 
“What about me?”
 
“You’re in charge of the Fourth Cavalry. What are they going to do without a commander?”
 
“They will listen to the orders of the officer I left charge.” Mackenzie stood up. “This is really important to me, Bobby. We go back a long way and you’re a promising officer. I don’t want to see you throw your life away.”
 
Graypool shrugged. I can’t be that promising if I haven’t been promoted as fast as you have, he thought. He said nothing, however, and silence filled the small cabin.
 
Mackenzie eyed him. “Promise me you’ll be ready to go in the morning?”
 
Graypool nodded. “I will be.”
 
“Truly?”
 
“Yes, I mean it.”
 
“Good.” Mackenzie headed for the door.
 
 
 
 
The next morning, Graypool awoke with a pounding headache. He winced as he sat up. Across the cabin, the gray light of dawn was just beginning to seep through the window. Slowly, Graypool pulled his aching body out of bed, stripped off his nightclothes and put on his uniform. I’m going to be ready to move out if it’s the last thing I do, he thought.
 
For a second, he stared at one of the buttons on his uniform. I don’t actually know if I want to go back to my regiment, he realized. But if Buchanan was not bluffing, a change in scenery will do me good- especially if it means a promotion and being in command somewhere. Graypool finished dressing, gathered his belongings, and headed outside to where he had tied up his horse.
 
Mackenzie came riding up just as Graypool exited the cabin. “If I hadn’t seen you riding up, I would have thought you stayed out here all night,” Graypool said. Even if I am glad to see him.
 
Mackenzie looked amused. “I’m just making sure you keep your promise,” he said.
 
Graypool nodded silently as he saddled his horse.
 
When he was finished, General Buchanan rode up. He nodded at Mackenzie, who smiled in return. “Are you ready to go?” Buchanan asked Graypool.
 
“Yes, sir, I am,” Graypool responded and hauled himself onto his horse.
 
Mackenzie looked at him. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” he said.
 
“Yes, I do,” Graypool said.
 
“I mean it, Bobby.”
 
“I know.”
 
Mackenzie touched his cap, gave his horse a kick, and rode off. Graypool and Buchanan looked at each other and simultaneously gave their reigns a pull. Then they rode south, on their way to the nearest railway station.
 
It was only when Graypool felt the jostling of the train as they rode that he finally began looking forward to reaching New Orleans, and to whatever opportunities lay beyond that. He took a deep breath and could smell the humidity of the summer air. Maybe getting back to work will do me some good, he thought. His mind replayed the sound of Taps as evening fell, the sound of rifles at target practice, the feel of many men riding together on horseback. Army life, he thought. I can’t live without it.

Tamar’s short stories have been published in The Copperfield Review, The Sandy River Review and The Helix. Her books include the nonfiction biography The Russian Riddle and the novels The Last Battle and Triumph of a Tsar.

* * * 
​
Snap
By Paul Lewellan

“Erotic deviance is as specially human as are murder, humor, fantasy, competitive sports, art, or cooking.”  --Robert J. Stoller in Perversion
 
Ginger Morgan left the party early but took the path behind the house only as far as Cricket Creek.  She parked her wheelchair and lifted herself onto the cedar bench.  Wrapped in a Green Bay Packers fleece, she waited.  As expected, Douglas Ellison arrived carrying an ice bucket filled with cans of Dorothy’s New World Lager.
 
“How’s the celebration going?” she asked. Ginger was Barbara Prescott’s younger sister.  She lived in the downstairs of the sprawling suburban home.  Shouts and laughter came from the pool deck where the party continued to rage. 
 
“They’re arguing over which game to play.”
 
“We both know how that will end,” Ginger mused. “They’ll decide to play Pictionary, but it will morph into Team Strip Pictionary.”
 
“I know, I know,” he said shaking his head.
 
“You know, after the games, inevitably some drunken husband misplaces his wife and comes knocking on the sliding glass doors of my walkout.”
 
“Oh really…?”
 
“He tells me he’s too drunk to drive home and pleads for me to invite him in since all the upstairs beds and couches are occupied.”
 
“Does he think you’ll be flattered?” 
She patted the bench and Doug sat down beside her.  “He assumes ‘crippled girls’ are easy.”
 
He handed Ginger a beer.  “That ignores the obvious….”
 
“Which is?
 
“You’re not an ordinary “crippled girl.”  You’re a disturbingly bright, smoking hot, big busted crippled girl.”
 
“Is that why you’re here, instead of at the games?”  Ginger popped open the beer.
 
Doug wore Michael Kohrs khakis, Keen hiking sandals, and a tailored shirt.  Most male party-goers dressed in aloha shirts and jams.  “A game of Truth or Dare at the last cookout cost me my fiancé.”
 
“Truth can bite you in the ass.”
 
Ginger’s brother-in-law, Bill Prescott, was President of the Neighborhood Association and a generous party host.  He served craft beers and burgers, brats and rotisserie chicken from his finely tuned Weber Summit six-burner grill.  His wife, Barbara, was the mixologist and social director. 
 
This evening the guests gathered under an awning on the patio.  Protected from the mist that fell in lieu of the predicted thunderstorms, they readied themselves for Game Time.  That’s when Douglas, noting Ginger’s absence and headed down the path into the trees that separated the back yard from the Prairie Links golf course.
 
Doug and Ginger drank in silence until lightning flashed and the thunderclap that followed made them jump.  “That was close.  Maybe you should go inside?”  Doug didn’t say it with conviction. 
 
“Maybe you should go home,” she teased.  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, feigning surprise, “you brought Jayden, and she’s probably not ready to leave.”  Ginger took a long slow pull from the can. There was another lightning flash.
 
“For the record, I came alone.  Your brother-in-law invited my ex-fiancé.  He picked her up on his way home from work.”
 
“Probably so he could shag her before he put the steaks on.”  Ginger took a long cool drink and sighed. The lager was light and subtly hopped.
 
“Really?  Bill and my ex-fiancé…?  Does your sister know?”
 
“You, Douglas Ellison, are such a Boy Scout.”  She sat up straight on the bench.  “Swing that over here, would you?”  She motioned to her wheelchair.  “We need to talk.”
Douglas gripped the chair while Ginger pushed herself up from the bench with her muscular arms and positioned herself in the Karma lightweight chair so that she could face him.  “My upper body strength surprises people.”
 
She wore an ankle-length Guatemalan skirt woven with a rich array of purples and bright blues and brilliant whites.  A shimming blue turtleneck shell hugged her figure.  In deference to the cool night air, she wore a lavender long-sleeved over-blouse.  She draped the fleece over her lap.  “Tell me again why you’re here instead of at the party.”
 
“Jayden loves the games, not me.  She can out drink any man shot for shot, has an encyclopedic knowledge of arcane trivia, and had once dealt blackjack in the Pussycat Pit at Caesars in Las Vegas.”
 
“Which is where you met her….”
 
“I was in Vegas for a Fraud Conference.  After a day of meetings, I found myself at the blackjack table where she was dealing.  I was up $3500 by the time her shift ended. As she stepped away from the table, she whispered her cell phone number.  She knew I was good with numbers.  I waited 20 minutes before I called, so as not to seem to eager.”
 
“And at what point did this become more than a casual hookup?”
 
Doug shook his head.  “I’m not exactly sure.  I’ve been told that helping her move to Illinois my idea, but I don’t think it was.”  He noted the expression on Ginger’s face.  “Oh, I know I bought an airline ticket, wrote a check for the apartment deposit, and slapped down some plastic for her ‘interview suit’….”
 
“You asked her to marry you.”
 
“That was a gigantic error….” A cheer erupted from the pool area, followed by applause.  He turned toward the noise.
 
“Barbara wanted to play Heads or Tails.  I suspect she got her way.”   Ginger paused.  “At Northwestern we called it Flip, Sip or Strip.” 
 
“I don’t know that game.”
 
“It’s one everybody can play even if they are really really stupid.”  There was another cheer and more applause.  “Barbara positions people in two lines facing each other, alternating male and female. The first person flips a coin and calls heads or tails.  If she is right, the coin is passed to the person on her right.  If she is wrong, she passes the coin to the left and either takes off a piece of clothing or drinks a shot.  The catch is that you can’t do the same thing (sip or strip) more than twice in a row.”
 
“That’s the perfect game for Jayden.  When men are drunk and naked, they will do anything for her.” 
 
“And now you understand my brother-in-law’s marriage.”
 
“You don’t like him very much, do you?”
 
“I’m not very fond of my sister either.”
 
“That surprises me.”  Ginger provided no explanation.  “I mean it was generous of them to let you live in the basement apartment.” 
 
“No, it wasn’t.”  Ginger set down her beer. “I own the house.  The lower level where I live is a zero-access suite with a full sauna, training room, and whirlpool.  I allow them to live upstairs and charge a modest rent which they can barely afford because of their Lifestyle choices.”
 
“The parties?”
 
“Parties, couples cruises, sex therapy….” She stopped. “I let them pretend they own the place.”
 
“Why?”
 
“It costs me nothing, but it’s very important to them.”  She shifted in her seat.  “My late husband Wayne was Bill’s college roommate.  The night of the car accident we’d had supper with Bill and Barbara, but left after an argument.  We came over a hill, and a Package Perfect driver trying to meet a delivery deadline missed a stop sign and broadsided us.  Wayne and our five-year-old son were killed instantly.  I was crushed against the driver’s side door: broken bones in my pelvis, shoulder blade, left leg and arm, my head slammed against the driver’s side window.”
 
“You were lucky to be alive.” 
 
“I didn’t feel lucky at the time.”  Ginger pulled another can of beer from the ice bucket and popped it open.  Doug did the same.  “I remained in a coma for two months, and when I woke up my son and husband were dead and buried, and I was a wealthy woman.  Between the two life-insurance policies and my husband’s pension fund, I’ll never have to work again.  The settlement from Package Perfect bought the house and pays for my medical bills and therapy.  Plus, now I have my writing.”
 
Ginger shifted in her wheelchair and adjusted the fleece.  “I came out of the coma… different.  You can’t rough up a brain like that and expect it to remain the same.”  She raised the beer to drink, but then thought better of it.  “The things I used to do well, like math, weren’t so easy any more.  I was told I’d never walk again. Everything in the world looked different.”
 
“Did you remember why you were arguing?” 
 
“I did not,” Ginger sighed, “but in a surprising burst of candor my sister filled in that blank.”  Another outburst from the party startled them. A woman squealed, and there was applause.  “Apparently Bill and Barbara had decided monogamy was an outdated social construct.  They wanted a polyamorous marriage, which was why they’d invited Wayne and I over for supper, to make us an offer.  I respectfully declined.”  There was lightning in the distance, and the mist in the air turned to light rain.  “Let’s retreat to my place.”  Before Doug could respond, Ginger was already rolling down the path. 
 
As they skirted the house he caught glimpses of the festivities through the slats in the pool fence.  There were two lines of party goers in varying states of undress.  Jayden, clothed in a red lace bra and panty set, seemed to be the center of attention.  Bill was down to his boxers.
 
“They seem to be having fun.”
 
“That’s good, because it’s their last party at my house.”  Ginger stopped her wheelchair and waited for Doug to catch up.  “I’m evicting them.  I contacted a lawyer.  They’ll be served papers on Monday while I’m in New York with my publisher.”
 
Doug handed her the beer bucket and began pushing the chair.  “That will come as a bit of a shock to my ex-fiancée.  Jayden thinks Bill is loaded.   This house, the parties he throws….”
 
“It’s all bullshit.”  Ginger sighed.  “My sister is even worse.  I overheard her talking to one of their creditors.  She explained my medical issues and suggested that the reason she’d fallen behind of her payments was because she was helping with my medical bills.  That was when I decided….”
 
When they arrived at the sliding glass doors to her walk-in, she removed a key from the pouch on the side of the wheelchair.  “I have limited movement,” she explained as she unlocked the door and slid it open.  She entered, then turned to face him once he was inside and had closed the door.  “But I do have nerves and sensations below my waist, and a complete sexual response.” 
 
Doug looked down at her in the chair.  “That’s probably more information than I need to know.” 
 
“It may be useful,” she smirked, “in case something comes up….”
 
“Oh, it’s up,” he admitted.  “Full attention.  You’re a powerfully attractive woman.”
 
Ginger waited.  “No qualifiers…?  No ‘…for someone who’s disabled’?”
 
“Nope.”
 
“That’s interesting,” she told him as she retreated into her living room.  “My sister groups my suitors into two categories.  The first group acknowledges my allure, but with the understanding that being wheelchair bound is a deal-breaker for any long-term commitment.”  Ginger took a hard look at Douglas.  “At first I suspected you were in that category….”
 
Doug sat down in one of the two Winsor chairs.  Now he was at her eye level.  “What’s the other type?”
 
“My sister calls them My Admirers.  They ask her for pictures and pump her for information but keep me at a distance.  They believe being confined to a chair makes me courageous or brave or noble.  How screwed up is that?”  A large tabby cat emerged from the hallway and hopped on Ginger’s lap without waiting for an invitation.  She began scratching the cat’s neck. 
 
“I met a man at a charity event.  Turned out he volunteered—and these are his exact words—‘to meet hot chicks in chairs.’”  Doug choked on his beer.  “Everything in his apartment was wheelchair accessible.  Only after he showed me his photo album, did I realize how sick he was.”
 
“It’s called Abasiophilla: sexual attraction to partners who use wheelchairs, casts, or braces.  And it’s not why I’m attracted to you.  And I’m not afraid of commitment.”
 
“Well Douglas Ellison,” she said, “aren’t you full or surprises?”  Ginger pushed the cat off her lap.  “Would you like to play doctor?” 
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“My bedroom has a medical bed that raises and lowers to multiple positions.  My closet has bandages, swabs, alcohol wipes, tongue depressors, enema kits, catheters, restraints, uniforms, hospital gowns, clamps, reflex hammers, a Wartenburg pinwheel, stethoscope, Vaseline, butt plugs, latex gloves, and a rectal thermometer.   There’s a CD with hospital noises.”
 
“So, this is your game?”
 
“It’s called medical play.  It can be quite … stimulating.” 
 
“Well, tonight I was hoping to be offered a nightcap and a kiss.  Somewhere along the line I lost control.”   
 
“Oh, Douglas, you were never in control.”
 
He looked startled.  “Well, what if I don’t feel like playing doctor?”
 
“You misunderstand,” she laughed.  “I’m the Dom here.  It’s my game.  Doctor is my role.  Although there are other ways to play it….”  Ginger began wheeling her chair toward the bedroom.  “Lock the front door and close the shades.”
 
Doug did as he was told. 
 
“Doctors have done horrible things to me,” she admitted when he rejoined her.  “Some were necessary evils, but…..”  She paused.  “I’ve resolved not to put myself in that position again, under a man’s control.  It’s you I want, legs spread, feet in stirrups.  You game for that?”
 
“I’m not sure I am.”
 
“Fair enough.”  Once in the bedroom she motioned for him to sit.  She threw the blanket off her lap and engaged the brakes. “Let’s negotiate.”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“The point of being a submissive is to submit.  But it’s an active role.  It doesn’t mean being a doormat.  There’s nothing sexy about doormats.  We’ll set soft limits, ones that might be negotiated during play; and hard limits, lines that I can’t cross.  If I don’t respect them, you should walk away.  In submission, if you don’t retain your autonomy, you have nothing.”
 
“I never thought of a relationship that way.”
 
“Well, it’s time you started.”
 
Doug shook his head, trying to clear it.  “Aren’t the roles clear cut.  The doctor tells the patient to do something.  The patient complies.”
 
“That depends….”  Ginger released the brakes and moved the chair until their knees touched.  “If I want to be the doctor, you might agree only if…”  She struggled to think of a scenario.  “Only if you can decide what the doctor wears.”
 
“Thigh highs, or garters, maybe a white corset under her scrubs.”
 
“That’s the spirit.”  Ginger smiled.  “Let’s say you agree to a rectal exam, but draw the line at an enema.”
 
“If the doctor wants to check my sperm count, but I could insist she help me get the sample.” 
 
“Exactly.”  Ginger reached out and took his hands in hers.  By now they were both smiling‪. “You know, I was a sexy broad before the accident….”
 
“You’re a sexy broad now.”
 
“I am.  But I’m not the same sexy broad I was.  And I’ll be honest with you, I wouldn’t mind having my old body back.  But that isn’t going to happen.” 
 
There was a series of knocked on her door.  He turned toward the door.  “Another admirer….”
 
“Focus, Douglas, focus.”  She turned his head back to meet her lips.  He broke from the kiss only to begin undressing.  She murmured, “Have I mentioned my upper body strength…?”
 
“I’m ready to be surprised.”

 Paul Lewellan lives in Davenport, Iowa, and teaches at a small liberal arts college across the river. His wife, Pamela Druger, is a certified fraud examiner and his best critic. His fiction has appeared most recently in Front Porch Review, The MOON Magazine, The Runcible Spoon, Furtive Dalliance, and Cold Creek Review.

* * * 

Scream
By Marina Rubin
 
…Everything was going great. After a week in Barcelona I was on my way to the airport to catch a flight to Santiago de Compostela.
 
“You must be walking the Camino?” the concierge asked as I was checking out.

“I am.”

“Are you looking for God?”

“No,” I chuckled. “I just like to walk.”
 
The concierge was very kind, he gave me a print-out of how to get to the airport - 2 stops to Barcelona Sants then transfer for the train to the airport. I was perfectly calm as I made it to Sants, went upstairs to check which platform for the airport shuttle. Track 9-10. I got on the train at track 9 that left on schedule. A bunch of teenagers were frolicking around me. I ate an apple and a piece of chocolate. I thought to double-check if the train was going to the airport and they all said “No.”
 
I jumped up.
 
They said not to worry, just take the train back at the next station. But the problem with Barcelona trains is that unlike NY trains that stop every 3-5 minutes, the distance between stations in Spain could easily be 25-30 minutes, and the train I was on was not stopping, it just kept going and going. I looked at my print-out; I had already missed the right train, and will miss the next one and probably the one after that. Since this was a domestic flight I allowed for an extra hour, but not two. Ok Plan B – I thought to myself, get off the train and take a cab to the airport.

When I got off the train it was later than I had hoped. I stood outside the station taking in the 360 view of my surroundings - I was in the middle of New Jersey - a huge parking lot and not a single cab in sight. Sunday afternoon at the height of siesta.
 
Panic set in.
 
An old man appeared out of nowhere, I asked him where I could find a cab, he shrugged and pointed at an Ikea-like building. I bolted towards it rolling my suitcase. The security guard standing outside told me to go to the end of the mall and get out on the other side, they might have cabs there. I ran through the mall that resembled an abandoned supermarket in Chernobyl, with every storefront closed and not a single living thing around. The road on the other side was not any better, parked cars and a slumberous village.
 
I stood on the sidewalk.
 
I had traveled enough in my life, made tight connecting flights, walked through dodgy alleys to know that I was screwed. Unless there was a helicopter coming to lift me out of here I didn’t see how I was going to make my flight. So I did what any experienced, self-respecting traveler would do - I screamed.
 
“AAAAAAAAAAAA.”
 
As loud as I could, an earsplitting, desperate, unapologetic howl.
 
A man crossing the street with his dog stopped and stared at me. I shouted to him if he knew where I could find a cab, he aimed at some distant intersection.
 
I dashed down the block, yelling, crying, begging God to help me, get me out of here, send me that one freak cab that was dropping off some little old lady at the local doctor’s office, or got lost in this neighborhood, just like me. I ran into an empty restaurant and asked a Chinese girl to call me a cab but she shook her head and directed me towards the road. I continued racing, full-on hysteria now, cursing, sobbing, flagging down random cars on the street. Two women with groceries stopped to help, told me to take a shortcut through the private houses to get to the next intersection. I turned to run towards the houses when I saw him – a young man in a tracksuit and sunglasses, standing on the corner, the doors to his SUV open.
 
“Airport?! Airport!?” he waved to me.

“Yes,” I ran towards him. “How much?”

Without even waiting for response, I jumped in his car.
 
I settled in the front seat as he threw my suitcase in the trunk. He pressed on the gas and we flew down sleeping streets of Catalonia. I was talking nonstop, telling him how this whole thing started, about the wrong train, and the strange mall. I thanked him profusely.
 
“Tranquilo…Tranquilo,” was all he kept saying.
 
When I was finally able to catch my breath, I looked around the car - there was no meter or medallion pinned to the windshield, the guy wasn’t a cab driver, he couldn’t answer any questions, he didn’t speak English.
 
It occurred to me that it’s possible I was being kidnapped, maybe even robbed, raped, killed, it’s possible, yes - I nodded to myself, it’s possible. But can I still make my flight? flashed through my mind on a residual high. I stared ahead at the fleeting roads, the fields, the high-speed motorway, I searched for any signpost or billboard pointing to the airport. I turned my head and examined the stranger’s back seat - a baby chair and a crumpled vest in a highlighter-lime color that gave me a strange sense of comfort.
 
The young man pointed to the clock and threw a badge in my lap. I held it in my hand and snapped a photo of it with my phone as some kind of evidence. I looked at it closely. An airport employee badge…A highlighter-lime vest in the back seat…He is a baggage handler - I snapped my fingers in revelation! No, it can’t be. It just can’t. This kind of coincidence, the magnitude of magic, the size of miracle...I would sooner believe he was a rapist and a killer than a baggage handler at the airport.
 
I watched the roads carefully, nail-biting, doubting, shifting, my eyes searching for arrows to the airport, still not believing…Because if that was true - I quickly chalked a mathematical equation in my head - if that was true, if he was indeed a baggage handler, then God exists, and he hears, and he answers and he is so beautiful, so glorious, that he is the most magnificent thing in the world...No it can’t be true. I refused to believe it.
It was only when I saw the wings of the planes in the distance, giant aluminum birds standing on the ground in the afternoon mist, that I shook my head and smiled, proof on the blackboard.
 
He dropped me off at Terminal 2, Iberia Airlines check-in. He wouldn’t take any money, he handed me my suitcase and jumped back in his car, I sensed he was late for his shift. I looked at my watch - it was exactly the time I would have arrived had I taken the right train. I stood in the sundrenched terminal, swaying, my eyes closed...the most magnificent thing in the world...

Marina Rubin’s work had appeared in over eighty magazines and anthologies including Dos Passos, Nano Fiction, Coal City, Pearl, Worcester Review. She is an editor of Mudfish and a recipient of COJECO Blueprint Fellowship. Her fourth book, a collection of flash fiction Stealing Cherries was released in 2013 to rave reviews.

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