The glass was clear, but it had lipstick smudges and other stains on the sides. One smear looked like it was from spinach dip that had gotten onto her finger and was transferred onto the glass. The glass was dirty, but she made it a point of pride not to get a clean one. Those stains were her stains. There was a bit of red wine, no more than a sip, at the bottom of the glass. When she looked at it, she had a panicky feeling. She wanted to reach and pour more into the glass until it was almost full, but she wasn’t sure she had the dexterity to do it. So she stared at the mostly empty glass and the half full bottle and thought about how nice it would be if someone refilled her glass for her.

She always felt tighter when she was drunk, like her insides were swelling up, about to burst through her skin. It was a frantic, nervous feeling, a restlessness that made her talk faster, move faster, do more. The only thing that soothed her was more wine, and that only worked for a while.

She remembered everything, including showing Thomas’ best friend Paul up to the kids’ bathroom upstairs when the lower level one was occupied. She remembered what happened, the way he washed his hands and emerged to find her still standing there, the way he stood very close to her for the moment right before it happened, but she was unclear as to why it started, or exactly when, or how long it took. She remembered that it happened, though. She wanted it to happen, and then it happened, and then it was over. She wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t know what happened.

Then Thomas was getting up, starting to stack individual plates and cups into larger groups. She supposed she should help, although Thomas probably wouldn’t say anything if she didn’t. She gathered her feet together, pressing down hard on the toes of her shoes. They felt more stable than she thought. She felt weak, and sore, but able to stand. She pushed her chair back from the table, then slowly rose to her feet, wobbly in her high heels, but upright. She tugged at her dress, pulling it down where it had ridden up until it fell loose. She moved very deliberately, as if she was defusing a bomb, stacking empty cups together to move them into the trash, making decisions what leftovers would keep and which ones were ticketed for the trash. It reminded her of her first days at home after having Sophie, always doing everything very slowly and carefully because you never knew what motion would cause pain.

Thomas came into the room, lugging a green trash bag. She added a pile of dirty paper plates to the sodden mess he had collected. He smiled at her slowly, like he knew something she didn’t know.

“That was fun, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyeing the swallow of wine still in her glass. Would it be too much to reach over and gulp it down?

Her head spun a little bit, and she stood still until it passed, then gently tipped a bowl full of potato chips back into the bag they came from. Why was he still smiling? She moved around the table, stacking, gathering, cleaning. She took very small steps. She wanted to take her shoes off, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t coordinated enough to undo the buckles. Her insides shifted uncomfortably.

“We should do that again,” he said.

“Not anytime soon,” she said softly. She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“You OK?,” he said, scooping the potato salad into the trash bag, where it fell with a wet, thick sound.

“Yeah,” she said. “You know I get weepy when I drink,” she added.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s clean this up and go to bed. Kids’ll be up soon.” He smiled at her again. He looked proud.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” she said.

–

From Michael:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Nimue challenged me with “A bottle and a glass together changed the night for her; something even his smile could not” and I challenged Tara Roberts with “Blind faith, in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed. -Bruce Springsteen”

A tiny bell jingled cheerily as the door swung open. A girl wearing a nose ring and too much eyeliner sat on a stool behind the counter, chewing gum and leafing through a well-worn chemistry textbook. She stared at the newcomer with the kind of sarcastic glare only teenagers know how to produce.

“I’m here–”

She put a finger up to silence him. She slid off her stool and came around the counter to get a better look at him.

His tweed jacket was a little bit too small for him, and his shaggy hair was in desperate need of a trim. He self-consciously tried to smooth it down with his free hand.

The smell of artificial strawberries and bananas wafted towards his nose. She was blowing a bubble with her gum, almost the size of her own face, but her gaze never wavered from his.

When it popped, she stuffed the gum back into her mouth and yelled, “Grandma! It’s for you.”

He frowned. “I’m just–”

“Don’t tell me,” she interrupted. “Tell her.” She gestured with her thumb to an old woman entering from the back of the shop. “She’ll be able to help you, guaranteed.” She grabbed her book and walked towards the front door. She opened it, paused, and turned back to face him. “I suppose I don’t have to warn you to be careful what you wish for?”

“But I–”

The bell jingled again as she shut the door behind her.

Confused, the man turned back towards the counter. The old woman was now sitting on the stool her granddaughter had previously occupied. She was knitting something — a scarf or a sweater, perhaps — and she had laid it out on the counter to check her work. The design was intricate, and the detail mesmerizing.

“May I help you?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and put his briefcase on the counter. “Ma’am, I’m here from the Bureau of Buildings. The new City Ordinance 278.23, also known as ‘Beautification of Main Street,’ states that every business that has a storefront must have…” his voice trailed off as he looked back at the knitting. Did one of the designs just move?

The woman reached across the counter to gently touch his hand. Her skin felt warm and dry. “You didn’t really come in here for that, did you?” He knew she was staring intently at him, but he avoided making eye contact.

“I can assure you, ma’am, I did.” He cleared his throat again and tried to pull his hand away to open his briefcase.

Her grip tightened. “Oh no,” she said. “You can’t lie to me.” She reached up and put her other hand on his cheek. “Look at me, Walter.”

As she spoke his name, he raised his eyes in surprise. As their eyes locked, his mind was flooded with memories and feelings, dreams and fantasies. Carol. All he could think about these days was Carol, even though he had only met her a few weeks ago. Even though she didn’t know that he existed. Image after image of her played through his mind like a silent film: there she was in the park, now at her desk, now walking her dog. Her smile melted his heart. He would do anything to get her to love him.

She released his wrist, and the images faded away. He looked again at the old woman, but now there was nothing more than a wrinkled face staring back at him. “Poor boy,” she murmured. “You’re not her type, you know.”

He fiddled with the lock on his briefcase. What had he come into the shop for, anyway?

“I can help you, though.” She turned away from him and began to root through drawers behind the counter. “I have just the thing.”

She was all business now, bustling about the shop and humming a gypsy tune. “Here we go, dear.” She placed a bottle of blue liquid on the counter in front of him.

The sunlight from the outside shone through the glass bottle and cast a small rectangle of blue onto the old woman’s knitting. The designs on the yarnwork seemed to shift in response. He leaned in to take a better look.

The old lady quickly gathered up her project and set it under the counter. She touched the back of his hand again. “Tell me, Walter, do you like your life? Or do you think you could stand a change?”

His life? What a joke. Nobody would like it. He was a lonely bureaucrat with no family and very few friends. Thoughts of Carol flitted through his mind again. “I could use a change,” he admitted quietly.

“Here’s the deal, Walter. What’s in this bottle is guaranteed to transform you into the kind of person who Carol can be with. I give you this — I give you true love — and you forget about silly things like ordinances and the Bureau of Buildings. Sound good?”

Walter looked at the woman thoughtfully. Her wrinkled face belied years of laughter and happiness. Maybe when I’m old, my wrinkles will be like that, he thought. Maybe. I could walk away from this dead end life and start again. Maybe that’s what she’s offering me.

His hand wavered above the bottle. Or maybe this is all a crock. He sighed. The sunlight glinted off the glass neck, making it look like the bottle was winking at him. But if it’s nothing, I could come back tomorrow with a couple of cops and shut the place down. “What have I got to lose?” he asked. With that, he opened the bottle and poured its contents down his throat.

No sooner had the sweet licorice-ginger taste of the liquid touched his tongue than he felt a change coming over him. Things in his body were shifting; his ill-fitting clothes felt looser, except around the hips. His fingers became more slender. His hair was still shaggy, but slightly longer. But his legs — there was something incredibly different about his legs. Horrified, he reached down to his crotch and felt a distinct absence of what made him male. Instead, he found–

“I’m a woman?!” Walter cried accusingly.

But the old woman was nowhere to be found.

The store had been on Main Street for as long as anyone could remember. Nobody ever admits to going inside, but somehow, even in this economy, it remains open for business.

–

From Supermaren:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Chaos Mandy challenged me with “Transforming for good or ill” and I challenged Bewildered Bug with “why the dung beetle dances”

A scholarly man in close relation to the King himself (or the Director of Alumni Relations, but really whatever you want to say) engaged me then in high-minded ideas (gossip) and we did incur much delight. But hark! From yonder came a youth of exceeding beauty (hottie). He did approach with great gentle attitude and tender smile (barged right into the middle of things) and my friend thought well that we should meet and know one another. And so we met, but promptly after, I departed for ladies do not linger (whoa, feeling awkward: exit strategy).

Only later did I build courage (drink enough wine) to inquire as to his family and place (who is that bro?) and my dearest Prince Truck informed me of his wealth of talent. He was indeed a scribe of the kingdom (reporter for the New York Times) and I thought this perfectly significant (sexy).

Much anon, he drew near in the midst of a crowd wherein I spun a tale of courage undaunted (bragged my face off). His closeness did cause crimson to rush in my cheeks (I gave him the sexy eyes), and I made haste to depart in the good company of Prince Truck.

Hardly could I contain my curiosity and I begged the dear prince to recount what he knew of the scribe (scoffing, I declared; whatever, I’m sure he’s a player). Prince Truck is a wise man (he saw right through me) and recognized at once my secret torment. But rash as men be, he did recommend a meeting (offered to set us up in a minute) and I, by my honor, refused so blundering a method (said hell no – I don’t date players).

Yet then, upon my homecoming, what should I encounter but a note writ in the sweet hand of my fair scribe (a Facebook message). He bade me well and made sweet mention of our meeting, but did no dishonor to my good name (it was a seriously boring message). My heart was cast and caught.

On the morrow, I wrote a letter in return and so did we enter into happy love (I mean, we dated for awhile and that was cool).

–

From The Lime:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bewildered Bug challenged me with “Write a memoir on how you met your significant other or best friend, but write it as if it were set in medieval times.” and I challenged Carrie with “write a piece in first person that does not mention but clearly implies a sunset, a can of beans, and a fire.”

Men in white coats and women in blue shirts stood around her bed, jotting down observations of her condition, noting her rapid eye movement and the tensing of her muscles. Sensors taped to her shaved head sent out a constant stream of hums and blips with every surge of pain.

One of the women, filling a syringe from a silver tipped vial, inserted the needle into her patient’s IV port, slowly emptying the chamber. The patient’s breathing resumed a normal rhythm and her body visibly relaxed. Despite the outward indicators, her pain remained; she was merely unable to respond to it. Her last thought before darkness overcame her was a fervent wish for the relief death would bring.

Panic welled up in her chest. She knew she was waking up and she braced herself for the pain to resume its control. Her eyelids flickered, and she risked one deep breath. There was no pain.

She opened her eyes without moving her head, trying to get her bearings. The sterile decor of her hospital room had changed. The once industrial green walls were draped in diaphanous pastel fabric. A light breeze through an open window billowed the material, its gentle rustling a welcome change from the mechanical chirping of the absent machinery. The hospital’s acrid antiseptic smell was now a pleasant hint of lavender.

She experimented with her seemingly new body, first raising her head, then lifting her body up onto her elbows. A wave of near hysterical laughter from the relief she felt threatened to break the quiet of the room. Memories of the accident flooded back – the sickening sound of metal and glass crumbling, the excruciating pain, the overpowering smell of burning flesh, the endless screaming.

This sudden change, she thought, could only mean she died, her wish granted. She sat up, relieved to feel no pain from the exertion, wondering at the miraculous healing of her fractured and torn body. Swinging her legs off the edge of the bed, she looked around the room, startled to see a man standing by the window facing out onto a well-manicured lawn. His eyes were closed, a beatific smile was on his sun-bathed face.

Without opening his eyes, he spoke her name. “Welcome home, Carla. We’ve prepared your rooms in anticipation of your return.”

Even in profile she remembered the man, his voice, the way he stood.

When she was a teenager, Carla had her wisdom teeth pulled. During the procedure, she had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and suffered through anaphylaxis. While doctors worked to stabilize her blood pressure, she lost consciousness and woke in this very same room, greeted by the same man.

That encounter ended when the man explained that her rooms weren’t ready yet and she would have to come back another time. Waking in the dentist’s office, Carla remembered little of that other time until this reunion.

She stood and walked to the window. The man held out his hand to her, his eyes now open, looking intently into the distance. Accepting the familiar gesture, Carla looked out the window, wondering what held his attention.

The world outside appeared the same as the one she left, yet different. Crisper, more in focus, colors and textures richer and more detailed. Smells were sweeter, sounds deeper and more harmonic.

“Will you be staying with us this time, Carla?” the man’s voice reverberated through her entire body, awakening feelings long forgotten through the pain she had left behind. “It’s still your choice.”

Releasing his hand, Carla pulled back, confused.

“What sort of choice is that?” she asked, her voice on edge. “What is there to return to? Pain, suffering, regret?”

“Your family is still there and they continue to look for answers, hoping to relieve your pain.” He continued to look at the horizon. “If you stay here, that hope is for nothing.”

“I’m not dead?” Carla questioned her host.

“Not at all.” He finally turned toward her. “You exist on both planes. There, your linear body experiences pain and your memories are dominated by that which led you to that reality. Here, your body is whole again, absent of pain.”

“What of my memories?” Visions of her young daughter flashing before her, the lingering touch of her husband on her skin.

“Like your pain, those too will be gone soon.” His smile was unchanging. “If you stay, all memories of your past will vanish. If you stay, the memories those you left behind have of you will also fade and recede.”

“My child won’t remember me?” For the first time, Carla felt something akin to pain. Her chest contracted, her arms ached to hold her baby. “She won’t miss me, wonder why I left her?”

“No, she will not, and you will be unaware of what came before your arrival here,” he reassured her. “You will remember nothing of your old life, and no one in your old life will remember you.”

The decision was confusing to make. Return to an existence where all she knew was pain, but be remembered by her child, or stay in this utopia pain-free, but also losing all memories of those she loved and who loved her.

While the phantom pains niggled around her consciousness, Carla made her choice. She would stay, comforted by the thought of eventually losing all recollection of her past.

He left abruptly once she made her decision, no words of good-bye nor explanation.

Returning to the window, she was there when two others entered her rooms.

They questioned her about how long she had been there, who had she talked with, what commitments had she made. Carla slowly realized her host deceived her. Her decision had not freed her, it had condemned her.

Her blind faith in promises of freedom were for naught. She wasn’t allowed to rescind her pledge to remain. The stranger’s promise to relieve her pain was true, but not his assurance that her memories would also fade. She could not return to her earthly body and her nightmares of never seeing her family again had become all too real. His other promises also proved false. Her family was destroyed by her temporal absence. Her child was aware of who she was, but never knew her as anything more than the withered shell of a ghost.

This paradise became her hell, worse than her pain, worse than death.

–

From Tara Roberts:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “Blind faith, in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed. -Bruce Springsteen” and I challenged lisa with “How do you know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you’ve been?”

Paul said, “It’s gonna die soon anyway.”

He was right. When the boys opened the gaming console at Christmas, they gazed unbelieving at the box. The machine inside was used, but very real. Nonetheless, one of the joysticks had been broken within a month, its red button jammed down until it wouldn’t spring up anymore, and there wasn’t any money for repairs. The second stick was held together with duct tape. Both boys knew it wouldn’t be with them much longer. Still, they enjoyed it while they could, and Trevor hated to hear Paul abusing the thing. But Paul had always been the nervous one, and Trevor understood that need to expel energy.

For his own part, he reached above his head and turned up the radio. He wanted to get up and pee, but Miss Anna had been clear. Trevor’s job was to concentrate his wishes down to the yellow-haired dead man in the bottom bunk, and to not get up for any reason whatsoever until the trouble started. The body had to remember who had killed it, had to remember its own animosity towards its murderer. And it could get that from Trevor, who had watched his stepfather shoot it when it had still been a man. Trevor and Paul had been trapped in their shared bedroom with the blonde corpse for a whole night now, a night when neither of them slept.

“What’s that horrible smell?” asked Mom from the doorway.

Paul jumped to his feet, standing so his body blocked the bed. Paul’s job was to keep Mom out of the room when she came home from work. “Where’d you come from?” Paul demanded. “Get outta here! And knock first.”

Trevor propped himself on one elbow and made a show of looking at their mother. In fact, even that motion was a little difficult right now. Those tendrils of concentration that he had been sending down were also wisps that held him in place and made moving a heavy burden.

“Can’t you ask how a lady’s night went at work?” Mom said, and then continued without waiting for an answer, “You aren’t hiding some other smells, are you?”

“Mom, we’re not smoking pot, now let me finish my game! I have to get to the Mothership before time runs out,” said Paul.

Mom stood silhouetted in the doorway, leaning on one raised arm. The backlight hid her features, hid the bruises, so that for a moment, her sons saw her as men must have once seen her, a wasp-waisted goddess crying out desire with her very figure. Paul flinched away from the sight, but he stayed between her and the bed.

“I’m just telling you, if that smell isn’t gone by the time your Daddy wakes up…”

“Randy’s not our father,” Trevor snapped. “Not mine and not Paul’s.”

“Don’t you let him hear you say that,” Mom warned. Randy was asleep in his kitchen chair, sprawled backwards in front of an unfinished beer.

“Okay, fine, just let me finish my game,” Paul insisted.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you boys,” Mom said. “It’s absolutely putrid in that room.” But she was retreating down the hall now, and Paul stepped forward to close the door behind her. They knew she was too tired to investigate.

“How are things coming down there?” Trevor asked, his voice sounding as heavy now as his body felt. When the subject wasn’t their stepfather, he didn’t have much energy for speaking.

Paul approached the bottom bunk and rustled the comforter. “Still dead,” he reported to Trevor. “I hope he hurries his yellow head up. Mom’s right about the smell, and if Randy wakes up and comes in here …”

“Is she? I guess my nose has kind of adjusted. I hardly notice anymore,” Trevor told his brother. “Anyway, it will work. Miss Anna said we had to give it a full twelve hours, and we’re at eleven and a half right now. And Randy’s going to be sleeping awhile yet. I got the pills in his drinks.”

Paul nodded, moving away from the bed. Then he picked up his joystick and resumed the task of navigating an alien home to its distant family. “I hope Mom doesn’t decide to want the TV back,” he said.

“That’s a stupid game if she does” said Trevor. “But she can’t come in, and right now, you shouldn’t go out.

Paul didn’t answer.

“In The Dark” faded out, and the DJ put on some girl band, The Bangles or Bananarama. Trevor groaned and reached behind his head to fiddle with the dial without looking.

Out in the living room, the same song Trevor had just turned down came on louder. Mom keeping herself awake long enough to get some breakfast. Or dinner. It was hard to say which meal was what with a third shift job. Mom sang “She’s got it” while Trevor fumbled through stations on a slow-to-tune dial.

“I guess she doesn’t want the TV anyway,” said Paul.

Mom must have been dodging around Randy’s sleeping form, because a couple of times, she stopped singing, then apologized, “Oh! So sorry hon, just getting myself a little dinner, then I’m heading off to bed.” And Paul pounded a little harder on the joystick.

Then a bump, and Paul threw down the joystick and spun around. Trevor sat up too fast and smacked his head on the ceiling. AC/DC crackled on the boom box, “Back in Black”, and Trevor rubbed his skull. The logy feeling let him go as those hundred thousand directed thoughts finally finished their journey through his mind and into the yellow-haired man’s body. “Get the blankets off it, Paul,” Trevor hissed, as he vaulted down the bunk ladder. The trouble was started.

Paul snatched the cover back, removed the comforter jerkily, then backed against the television. Trevor studied the former man and stood beside his brother.

The corpse’s eyes were as yellow as its hair now, and they were glowing. It sat up a little unsteadily, then swiveled its head to look straight at Trevor. “In the kitchen, right?” the dead man rasped.

Trevor nodded, then swallowed hard and spoke. “Asleep at the table. Not Mom. Not even if she gets in the way.”

The corpse nodded, rising until it seemed to fill the small room with its rank smell. “Not Mom,” it repeated in that same growling voice. “But when she starts screaming, you be ready to grab her and run. It’s going to get ugly when I take that bastard back down with me.”

Then, the zombie kicked the door down like it was made of cardboard, while Trevor and Paul huddled together against the TV. “One bright chance,” Trevor said. “God almighty, one bright chance.”

And then the brothers held on to each other, waiting for their mother to scream.

–

By Jester Queen:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jay Andrew Allen challenged me with “Bananarama. ” and I challenged Grace O’Malley with “Deftly, he wove in and out of the cones, letting the wind rush across his body, holding himself coiled for the moment when he could pick up speed.”

It suddenly lit up. A message from him:

“You sure about this?”

“Do not be late,” she texted back
“You deserve better than me, I repeat.”
“I know, you have said it enough times”
“I left you so many times”
“and yet you returned each time”
“This time was the longest”
“3 years.Thanks for returning. See you tomorrow.”
“It will be a pleasure to see you married finally”
“Yeah, and to free you from me”
“Wow. I can date any number of girls after tomorrow”
“Sure, Just send me the best stories”
“You still the same.Shameless and fun”
“Like always.Bye now. I need my beauty sleep”
“Love you princess. Hope your prince treats you better than me”

She did not want to reply to that. She did not know what to say.

–

By Nimue:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Diane challenged me with “You deserve much better than me.” and I challenged Michael with “A bottle and a glass together changed the night for her; something even his smile could not”

Tomorrow was my wedding day and the thoughts of my new life as a wife was swimming in my head. My parents had arranged a marriage with the Mayor’s son. I wasn’t in love with him, but he seemed nice enough.

I sat up in bed, my pale blue eyes still resting on my cat. I knew that my marriage would help my family greatly. My father was a poor farmer who barely was able to eek out enough food to sell as well as keep my mother, myself and my five younger brothers and sisters fed. But my dowry was enough to help improve the farm and put more food on the table.

My mother had been speaking of how I was helping and how my life would be so much better after I wed. But I mourned the loss of finding love. I have always been an emotional girl and I dreamed of the day that my love would find me. But he never came, but the Mayor’s son somehow fell in love with me despite my ragged clothing.

I flopped my head back down on my pillow, glancing at my cat whose paws where twitching in her sleep. I thought once again about running away from this marriage and the life that was being thrust upon me. But then I heard the sad, small cries of my youngest sister.

Slipping out of bed, I went to the next room. I picked my baby sister up out of the basket my mother had fashioned to be a bed. I cradled her to my chest as she sniffled and coughed. I looked down at her bright blue eyes, which where so like mine and I knew what I had to do.

My marriage might mean that I will never find love. But if I didn’t go through with it, my small sister might have no life at all. I knew after tomorrow my parents would be able to get her the medicine she sorely needed.

I carried her back into my room, and settled her next to me in my small bed. I glanced at my cat, smiled and was able to fall fast asleep.

–

By Chaos Mandy:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, R Martinez challenged me with “The cat slept beside the lantern, resting over my shoes.” and I challenged Supermaren with “Transforming for good or ill”

“It says we have a quarter of a tank, dad! Look at it! I’m not lying! I swear! Okay?”

He craned his neck a few inches to his left and rolled his tongue through over his top set of teeth, along the gum line. She continued, in exasperation.

“I hate this car! You know I hate this piece of crap!”

His mind was elsewhere. He knew it shouldn’t have been, but he missed her mother. He eye-balled their residential surroundings and felt safe.

“Park the car on the shoulder, Violet. It’ll be alright here while we walk to the nearest gas station. It’s less than a mile away.”

Her small, recently manicured right hand put the gear shift into park. Her body language screamed conflict. His muttered loneliness.

“Mom wanted you to get rid of this stupid car and you wouldn’t !”

He ignored her and collected their belongings and took note of landmarks for later. He opened his passenger door and left the Volkswagen. She followed him to the front of the car where he opened the trunk and took out a small, red, two-gallon gas can. He had used it the last time they ran out of gas.

“Come on, sweetheart. We have quite a walk.”

She crossed her arms and pulled her shoulder length dirty blonde hair into a piny tail, using a brown band that was around her left wrist.

“This sucks so much. Why couldn’t you have just let me go to Davey’s house instead of proving what a great dad you are?”

The sarcasm in her voice was hostile and disrespectful. He was hurting inside and she knew it.

“Your mom’s been gone for three weeks and all you care about is going over to some boy’s house whose parents lie to me about being home? Here’s what I know about your mom. She would have kicked both of our butts if I let you go over there. It’s Saturday. You’re 16 years old. We do driving lessons on Saturday. Get over it!”

They were both drowning in grief. Before her death, they never argued. Since she’d been gone, this was their fourth confrontation. He was tired of the fighting. He just wanted his wife back. Trees lined the path. Sunlight danced in and out of the foliage. They were, now, several hundred yards from the little yellow car with a broken gas gauge.

“Dad, why are you walking in the middle of the road? You’re going to get run over! There’s a blind curve ahead!”

He wanted to tell her that the middle of the street was the safest place for him. He could feel danger, which was more than the numbness inside of his chest he felt most of the time. Instead he dropped his shoulders, placed the gas can on the white center line and extended his arms. She stared at him with gross disapproval. He mouthed the word “please” and fought back tears. Violet stepped toward her defeated father and gave him what he needed. They embraced for several seconds, straddling the middle of the road. She began to cry, hard, into his chest. For the first time in a while, he felt fueled.

–

By Lance:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Hannah challenged me with “Tell a story about a person who runs out of gas in the middle of the road.” and I challenged R Martinez with “the case of the poisoned doughnut”

My mama, Georgia Bandshaw, had a sense of humor and my daddy wasn’t around to stop her from cursing me with her play on words when I was born. He was playing around, too – on his wife when he knocked up my mom; him a big fancy professor and all, my mom just a freshmen with her whole life ahead of her. He didn’t stick around too long after he found out she was pregnant. Yeah, the devil went down, alright.

Maybe she should’ve had an abortion or given me up for adoption, but she didn’t. She kept me and did her best to raise me. I never doubted she loved me, even when we didn’t have enough to eat or when I had to wear pants three inches too short because of a badly-timed growth spurt. Well, maybe I did doubt a little, during those long nights when I could hear her crying through the thin walls of our apartment.

By the time I was in high school my course was set. I was in and out of Juvie Hall so often I figured they should rename the place after me. It seemed the harder I tried to stay out of trouble the more temptation tripped me up. Doors were left unlocked, cash registers left unattended, invitations always opened before me, impossible to ignore.

Now? I sit in a cell, dressed in my loose-fitting jumpsuit and well-worn shoes, separated from temptation and most of society. I’m fifteen years into a life sentence. And when this life term is done, there are three more waiting. One life for each life I took. Plenty of time to consider what went wrong on that last job and how all of my luck seemed to have run out at once. My luck, and the luck of that man, his wife and their kids.

I’d watched the family leave home that evening; they drove off in their fancy car, dressed in their fancy party clothes. By my calculations, they should’ve been gone for hours. But that poor little girl, the precious…her face haunts me the most. Later I figured out that she’d thrown up on her pretty dress and shoes; they probably never even left the neighborhood, but were back in the driveway before I’d half cleared the wife’s jewelry box. I froze where I stood in the master bedroom, one hand holding the upended box, the other holding up the pillow case, my mouth open in a silent “O,” my breath locked in my chest.

I heard them come in. I heard them talking, though I couldn’t understand the words. I considered my options. I did. I know I did, but I couldn’t seem to think straight. I felt betrayed by their presence. I didn’t know yet about the little girl. Maybe if I’d known they were going to be downstairs for a while I’d have tried to climb out the window, but I didn’t know. How could I?

There have been many sleepless nights since then, spent thinking through those minutes that felt like hours. Wondering.

I quietly set down the box on the dresser and the sack on the floor, then made my way to the head of the stairs. I took several long, slow breaths, trying to quiet my racing heart. From the sounds, I figured they were in the kitchen. I crept down the stairs, pausing, listening, careful to step close to the rail, avoiding creaks.

I don’t remember when exactly I pulled out my pistol. I’d almost forgotten I had it with me. Almost. I didn’t usually carry. Armed robbery carries a much higher penalty than plain old B&E, and I’d planned this job. No one was supposed to be home, so I shouldn’t have needed a weapon.

But there I was, gun in hand, at the base of the stairs, when the kitchen door swung open and the husband stepped through, silhouetted by the kitchen light behind him. He never saw me in the darkness. I didn’t mean to shoot him. I believe that, and will surely die without an explanation for how it happened. In court I swore before God that I didn’t pull the trigger; the gun just went off.

The Prosecutor found a lot of humor in that, or he seemed to anyway. He talked to me the same way my high school principal talked to me, like I was an idiot. My Defender was one of those guys paid for by the public. He was no help. The trial was a joke, but what could I expect? Four people dead, one orphaned.

Once I fired the gun, the mother came running, screaming. I shot her too. Right behind her came the boys. Two more pops from the pistol and they were sprawled across the backs of their parents. And that poor little girl with vomit on her dress and shoes, left behind to cope with the loss of her parents and her brothers. She was too sick to come running. I was the one running, instead. I took off through the front door moving as fast as my feet could carry me. But it was foolishness. Even if she hadn’t seen me, which she did, it was early enough in the evening that the shots had drawn out curious neighbors.

Three eyewitnesses were presented to the jury, and the Prosecutor offered to bring out more. My Defender politely declined. In all, the trial lasted five days. Only an hour of that was spent by the jury in deliberation. I’m not sure what took so long, I’d have bet they decided in minutes without any discussion. Guilty.

I don’t know how to tally the expense of a trial such as mine, including the hours spent in preparation or the obligatory but fruitless appeals. I don’t know how to tally the cost of my room and board, laundry, medical and dental coverage. And I know there’s no way to account for the loss of life. Mostly, I wish that I could restore the childhood I stole from that little girl, her family torn from her in a bloody spray of my fear and bitter resentment of all she had.

My life is nothing, and when I die, three unpaid lives remain. And even if I could be born again and die for each of the lives I took, the debt can never be repaid.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, FGHart responded to an Orphan Prompt: “Is our society still worthy of the debt metaphorically being paid to it by criminals?”

War makes monsters of us all. Those who lead us attempt to climb the pedestals of power parroting their predecessors in the hopes they’ll find a foothold in our hearts and minds. They tell us these people or this idea is our enemy. Painting pictures with words and withheld knowledge until faceless demons haunt our dreams with their consumption of our children’s futures. Until for “right,” we leave our humanity behind us and reason is forgotten or removed. Leave me here and I will join you later. Let what I have left behind remind you: in the end, we all just want someone to care. That is all that matters.

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By niqui_lady

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bran macFeabhail challenged me with “I don’t care what you write, as long as Dr. Zhivago is in it. ” I challenged Indie Adams with “Internet trolls.”