Fiction

Prisoner

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To Amelia, the passing of time was important.

She stood proud as you please in the center of us, pointed her finger toward a blue sky we could only imagine, and declared: The eyes of posterity never blink. It knows who turns the keys in these locks and it will remember who shoveled dirt onto the bodies of our men.

The bit of illumination she followed was long and thin, taunting us through an arrow loop in the donjon wall the way guards sniggered through the iron bars. Long after the rest of us let go, she held on, tightly squeezing blood from welts and knife wounds to make one demarcation for dawn and another for dusk.

Dawn was easiest, not only for her but for all of us. The light would suddenly be there. Brilliant, even though without warmth. Tantalizing, even though unreachable.

Nightfall was harder, was always harder. Crying grew louder. Shrieking echoed off stone. Screams couldn’t be unheard no matter what we used to seal our ears. Amelia sprinkled a few drops where she thought the sun vanished. Coming back each day to scatter more, over and over. Loss of her drawing medium was never issue. What scabs dried and fell off one day would quickly be replaced, until finally she shouted triumphantly: Here. Right here. This is where day ends.

The next morning, they took her away. We sat quietly, watching the track of sunlight creep over the dirty, bare floor. They never brought her back.

I ask you: Does it matter where the shame lies, once the righteous are lost?

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If only there were
floor and stamina enough to dance,
if only the music would last
one more hour
one more season, one more life.
Which song would I choose? Which partner
could gracefully twirl me, waltzing
into forever?
There were so many partners and songs.
So much music.
So many dances.
I wonder if regret is a superpower,
a sub-genre of invisibility,
a strength wielded by those
who have grown
too old to take anything back.

WATER WITCH

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She rolled them in and out around her fingers, rubbed them between her palms. Small like stones, but not stones.
 
Nearby the octopus pressed between the wire wall and the cage floor, oozed onto the first shelf then the second then the third. She set the shark teeth on the counter and lifted the creature.
 
“Sweet, little thing,” she murmured, cradling it the way most would hold a baby. “Dear, sweet, little thing.”
 
Once the mollusk calmed, she used one hand to remove the hot cauldron lid then tossed the octopus into the boiling broth. Not everyone could hear its death scream, but she knew the sound was there, echoing over the rocks to the water, enchanting the sea. Next in were the shark teeth, then tiny flakes of barnacled hulls, followed by scrapings of mortar and bricks she’d collected the night before. Finally, she selected a tin canister from the array displayed on the counter, tipped it sideways and rattled dozens of bones from the toes of sailors into the mix. She gave the brew a thorough, final stir, raised her hands into the steam and repeated the ancient incantation in a language that was already old in her great-grandmother’s time.
 
She didn’t turn to the window to watch the results of the spell. She was confident that behind her the lighthouse slowly disappeared: First the base, then tamper, the stairs and living quarters, and last of all, the warning lantern, all of them gone.
 
At least, gone for the ship careening toward shoreline. The fishing vessels, dinghies and row boats could all see the beacon just fine. Only the man of war was blind. Only the man of war would rip apart on the rocks.
 
Before the fog lifted and the lighthouse returned, she hurried along the water’s edge with a sharp knife and sturdy basket.
 
The villagers would come, determined to save anyone who could be pulled from the wreckage. As they rounded the base of the cliff and came into view of the beach, she would call to them, “Hurry, this one’s alive.”
 
They’d run faster. They’d cry out, “Thank you. Thank you for helping them.”
 
They’d never think to question the missing toes.

Sisters

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My older sister was prettier, of course, with her black hair and shiny eyes, but I was the smarter one. I was always more subtle, sneakier, content to relish the small victories rather than indulge in the large, over-blown hoo-has and celebrations she liked. For instance, that house of hers. Which house? You mean you don’t know? You must have heard about it at some point. Gingerbread. In the middle of nowhere out in the woods. Children found it and killed her for it. If I warned her once, I warned her a thousand times. Don’t be so obvious, I’d say. Don’t let on about what you’re up to. Did she listen? No – and look where it got her. She took after our cousins in Scotland; I mean, good grief, they made an entire song out of it:

“Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

Catchy – but not very secretive, you know what I’m saying. Alexander the Great, that was some of my best work; people have argued for centuries about him and they still aren’t sure. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Quiet. Discreet. Not all hi-ho-hi-ho and poison apples. It’s harder these days, of course, but if you know what you’re doing no forensics in the world will catch you. A dash of enchanted salt left in a restaurant; a bit of good mushroom mixed with the conjured; a spell over the chocolate candy placed on the counter for co-workers.

©2017 Vera S. Scott

Priority Seating

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The first bench seat on the driver’s side of the bus was completely empty – no broken legs, no canes, no walkers – of course, the bus itself was almost empty; it being early summer and so many people gone home; at any rate, I felt blessed; I could put my purse and iced coffee right there in the first seat, sit in the second, and still have room for my shopping bag on the third. Eventually an old woman with a cane got on but she sat in a regular seat; kept giving me the evil eye; I thought maybe my ear buds were too loud but she said no, no they weren’t, with a stern, uncongenial face; so I ignored her disapproval and she eventually started to knit, well, not knit but roll the yarn into balls; she was fast at it but I don’t see why anyone bothers these days; the bus filled up quickly, I was so grateful I found a seat; but wished the old lady with the evil eye would mind her own business; it isn’t like I was doing anything wrong; her face darkened when an old man got on; I noticed as he stopped by the seat where I’d stashed my coffee and purse that he was very shaky; his legs didn’t look as if they would hold him let alone climb the stairs to the back of the bus, but he made it; so did the well-dressed man with stylish, gray hair and designer sunglasses – he was good looking for an old guy – he hesitated by my shopping bag, raised his sunglasses with one hand, and gave me a frustrated sidelong glance, but I kept right on sipping my coffee as if he wasn’t even there.

 

 
Fiction Journal from June 2017

Dream State

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Even the places here are turning
to dreams.
From the bus window, I point out landmarks:
I used to live on the second floor of a blue house down that street
I used to buy lunch from the hot buffet in that market and then skip dinner
I used to feed the feral cats in that park and was especially fond of a black and white kitten
but I don’t remember
the street address, the best entre, the kitten’s name.
Where I was and
who we were
a decade ago, two decades ago,  
half-a-century past
is nearly unconjurable,
as if it never,
as if you never
happened
at all.

Lost Cat

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For thirty-eight years I’ve listened for your cry
at my window, worried whether you were lost in the train yard,
or horrifically crushed by some speeding car, or trapped
in some crazy cat lady’s overabundant kitchen.
By falling back asleep, I failed at the final thing you asked from me.
Let me come home,
you mewed through the glass, Let me inside.
By all things sacred and holy to felines, I swear
that I meant to.
I put food on the patio for weeks.
It went untouched.
I got up every night to double check.
You were never there.
Months afterwards when
my marriage was over and the moving van was nearly full,
I paced the circumference of the yard calling your name
then stood holding the door
open to all my regrets.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transport

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The hook flew up, down, in and out. 

She watched the white-haired crafter as the bus shuttered and grumbled. Up. Down. Wrap the yarn. In. Out.  She wondered how the woman could focus.  Her own head throbbed. Hip-hop roared from some punk’s headphones.  Two sisters, well, they looked to be sisters, animated a loud conversation with gestures and laughter.  A small child chanted, “Itsy Bitsy Spider went up the water spout” in a shrill singsong. She could barely think and all she had to do with sit there. Yet here was this old woman working away; her hook blurring in a purposeful, methodical rhythm.  Up. Down. Wrap. In. Out.  The bus jolted to a stop as the driver avoided colliding with a light-colored Kia which had suddenly braked.  The driver blared on the horn.  She couldn’t see what difference it would make. Clearly the Kia’s operator was just as trapped as the bus.  Up ahead she spotted billowing smoke swallowing the horizon.  From somewhere behind the all the stopped vehicles, she could hear the whining of a siren and see pulsating lights. The fire department, she guessed, and wondered how they would traverse the traffic jam.

A young couple, possibly students, rose and navigated between commuters to reach the front of the bus. “Would you let us out here, please?” the young woman asked. The driver shook his head. “Not safe.” “All the cars are stopped. We’ll make better time walking,” the young man said more persuasively.  “Nope,” the driver responded.

  The couple shrugged and headed back to their seats.  She thought she heard the young man swearing but couldn’t be sure. His shoulder slammed into the guy with the headphones, knocking him nearly off his feet. “Sorry” he mumbled.

“What the fuck?” the punk said. As he regained his footing, he pushed the young man backwards causing him to fall into his girlfriend who tumbled across the two sisters.

“Hey,” the sisters cried out in unison. “Be careful.”

“What do you think you’re doing,” the young woman shouted.

“Your boyfriend needs to watch where he’s going,” the guy sneered.

The young man swung his right fist at the guy, missing him by only a couple inches. The guy with the headphones grabbed the man’s shirt and slammed him against the fire extinguisher.

She glanced toward the front of the bus.  The driver was watching everything in the rearview mirror.  The old woman continued crocheting: Up. Down. Wrap the yard. In. Out.

“Driver,” she called out. “Can’t you do something?”

Just as he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out from behind the steering wheel, a loud crunch jolted the bus, sending all the standing passengers to the floor. An SUV hit the rear of the bus while trying to get out of the way of the fire truck.  The bus, in turn, crushed into the Kia causing the driver to pitch into the metal fire extinguisher case.

“Shit,” several people said at once.

“Fuck,” several other people said at once.

She righted herself, located her belongings and looked around. The punk with the headphones and the angry young man scrambled over passengers to reach the injured driver.  The sisters and the young woman helped people get up from the floor. 

The small child howled.

She stood and made her way to the priority seats where the old woman slouched with her chin against her chest.  The woman looked up at her when she spoke, touched the back of her hand to her bottom lip, and shook her head as if to clear her thoughts.

“I’ve phoned the police,” a voice said from the middle of the bus.

“We’ve got people back here hurt,” another said.

“The driver is unconscious,” the student said.

“Let’s get him onto the floor,” the punk suggested. Together the two stretched him out in the center aisle between the rows of seats. 

The old woman looked around as if she had dropped something, then spying her yarn on the floor, leaned forward to pick it up.

“Here, let me,” she said.  “You stay where you are.  I’ll get it.”

Her boyfriend retrieved it and passed it to her then she gave it to the woman.

A police officer pounded on the front doors of the bus, so the punk with the headphones located the mechanism and opened them for him.

 “Everyone sit tight,” the officer said. “We need everyone to stay on the bus and remain calm until we get things sorted.  EMT’s will be here shortly.”

“As soon as they can make it through all this traffic,” someone said and everyone laughed. Then, satisfied that the danger was past, they exhaled a collective sigh of relief. 

The old woman picked up her yarn, looped in around the fingers of her left hand to maintain the tension and began to crochet again.  Up. Down. Wrap the yarn. In. Out. Up. Down. Wrap the yarn. In. Out.

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