by Rose Perez
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
END.
Bloodbath
(Story by FlyTrapMan)
Alexander hates it when Isabella shops on Saturdays. This past month has been antiques. Last Saturday, she bought a rusted birdcage, because she was told it was from the early 1900’s. The cage is merely corroded wire.
The week before, Isabella purchased a cherry wood bench allegedly from London, which rests against a tree in the garden. The week before that, she purchased a katana that supposedly was owned by a late samurai from the Takada clan, in 1544.
Alexander stands in the bathroom. All other previous endeavors he can forget. How can he possibly forget this? He brushes teeth and then spits into the sink.
“Where did you find that beauty?”
Isabella glides a comb through her wavy red hair. She heard him. She hears all of Alexander's questions.
“…Oh…the bathtub…I found it at Fine Art and Antique”.
Alexander knows that place very well -- even though he normally wouldn't give a shit about the shop.
“Dr. Stokemen -- the one who sold it to me -- said it is a thousand years old and imported from Italy.”
“Really? I didn't know they had tubs back then.” Alexander says.
In the middle of the night, Alexander's bladder stings him. He stumbles to the bathroom -- the lights sting his eyes shut.
A slight scent of lavender taints the air while Alexander haunches over the toilet. Droplets of water cling to the mirror surface -- spherical, glistening beads roll down the reflective skin. He flushes the toilet, and cast through the chrome handle; a figure stands near the antique bathtub. The more he looks, the more the world inside the handle dissolves into a rusted reality, flickering with sheens of orange.
Alexander turns around and sees nothing. Water glitters inside of the antique bathtub.
Isabella yawns and turns on the light. She sees the antique bathtub glowing inside of the mirror…silver legs curve and bulge…supported by a deep belly…strange symbols engraved along the rim...small figures etched underneath the symbols -- in a row that depicts a story which can only be assumed -- never deciphered.
Some people see sacrifice while others see the praise of love. A few individuals see both. The ornate alloy swallows light and radiates a soft shine.
Steam rises into delicate streams of wisp while Isabella undresses -- she dips a toe into the water --the golden warmth kisses her soul. She submerges an ankle, and the heat begs for her to come in.
Isabella obliges.
With a foot in the warm water, and the other on cold tile, she feels unanchored by Earthly limitation, as if Isabella is being lifted toward the sky. Her stomach churns and settles into a comfortable numbness. The cold evaporates and the warmth kisses her eyes closed.
Alexander saws at a piece of rare steak.
"…Stupid Bastard…"
Alexander cleaves the steak and spits undesirable fat onto his plate. By 5:05 pm, Alexander returns home. He listens for footsteps upstairs, but is welcomed by silence.
“Isabella?”
No Answer.
Photographs spill out of a folder --Alexander picks them up and sees what he has to work with next week.
The first picture depicts a line of sprinters. His eyes drift into the next picture, which glorifies a mass of people, standing around…eating hotdogs.
Isabella strolls into the kitchen while being wrapped in a towel -- hair soaked on her shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were home." Alexander says.
“You do now."
Alexander embraces Isabella while she stares at her alarm clock. She waits until the red numbers read 2:50 am, and then sneaks into the bathroom.
She shuts the door.
Isabella bites her lip and spins toward the antique bathtub. The less she resists, the more the world around her begins to unstitch and come apart at the seams
The sterile smell of the bathroom disperses into a delicate, flowery clarity. The tile floor becomes marble while the wallpaper turns to gold. Isabella's previous reality becomes transparent, like a double exposure, overlaid on a grander possibility. One foot on ceramic and another on marble -- she ascends a few shallow steps -- as Isabella glides a finger along the bathtub's engraved rim. Her finger rests on a depiction of a figure surrounded by a ring of people holding hands. The metal begins to warm.
Isabella welcomes the shadowy company…their translucent eyes comfort her…torches dance and flicker against the bathtub's metallic surface. Water rises from the bottom -- an echo of a previous eternity smothers her skin.
By 8:00 am, Alexander is in his office at Hammer J. Redsteed's Publications. Alexander's lips pucker at the thought of another sip of coffee -- the taste reminds him of dog sweat and tar. George enters the office.
“I got your message.”
“Yes. Please have a seat.” Alexander says.
“I’ll get to the point…I know we previously agreed on a full spread of your images to incorporate into our article about the annual All-Pro Footrace. But we're only going to use one photograph. The rest are unacceptable to print. You understand.”
George looks at his feet as if Alexander told him his mother died.
“We don’t need to print photos of people stuffing their face with hotdogs."
Alexander throws all but one of the photos in the trash bin.
“…Besides…you captured enough of them in this image…don't you agree?”
George nods.
“I told you. We don’t print pictures. We print stories…even when we're printing pictures.” Alexander says.
George continues to nod while retreating out of the office.
When the door closes -- the echo resonates through his ear canal and settles deep in his heart -- dislodging the scent of blood and lavender.
Alexander arrives home as fast as traffic allowed him on a Friday afternoon.
He awakens the television:
“…This is going be one for the books, I tell ya, we have one talented kid versus a veteran who doesn’t know the meaning of quit. I suspect Bobby ‘Quickhands’ Mason will out pace, out wit, out flash…”
Alexander tries to listen from the kitchen while retrieving a six pack of Snake-Eyes from the fridge. Within a minute --the first beer is down for the count and by minute two -- he’s picking a fight with another one.
Soon, a third one takes a severe beating, as Alexander plants himself in front of the television. Vinny 'The Veteran' Carter dips and dodges, shifting feet to avoid a flurry of reckless punches. Bobby ‘Quickhands’ Mason sees a brief opening in The Veteran's armor, when he slides forward to feint a right jab, he delivers a left upper cut.
By round 8, Vinny 'The Veteran' Carter is barely conscious. He's merely animated flesh supported by bone. Bobby ‘Quickhands’ Mason pants -- hands hang low at his side.
The front door opens.
Isabella walks across the kitchen, her high heels echo with each weighted step. She stops at the threshold of the living room -- eyes bouncing to each beer can scattered throughout the room and eventually lands on a few resting beside her dead mother's keepsakes.
Alexander points at the television.
"No! No! Dip…dodge…come on! What the fuck…No! No!..yeah!...yes!...keep going!...No…come on!"
On his way upstairs, Alexander curses at the thought of losing half his paycheck to a bet against Bobby 'Quickhands' Mason. He yields mid-step; musical notes levitate in the air as a fit of laughter is dampened by the closed bathroom door. Alexander kneels down on the floor and looks under the gap.
An orange light flickers…laughter evolves into a moan…something he wasn't sure Isabella was capable of doing. Alexander tries not to breathe. Shadows slither up the wall while he presses his face against the cold oak floor. A draft disturbs the air; the scent of lavender seduces him. All he can do is imagine what's beyond the other side, and occasionally his senses catch a glimpse of what he's not privileged to
experience in its full grandeur.
The bathroom door opens.
Isabella steps over him and continues across the hallway as if he doesn't exist. Alexander sneers at the antique bathtub -- its silhouette etched against a silvery, gaseous cloud.
By the time Alexander enters their bedroom, Isabella is already dreaming. He stares at a black dress, knowing she only wears it for those worthy enough to see her constricted by its silk threads. Isabella feels his eyes; it paints a picture in her mind of him leaning against the door frame…arms crossed…that accusatory posture which Isabella loves to hate.
By 9:00 am, Isabella exits the house. No goodbye. Alexander sips coffee while his lips pucker.
"Yeah…fuck you, too."
The bathtub overflows -- a continuous drip merges into a puddle on the tile floor. Steam rises off the surface while Alexander opens the door; it drifts into the hallway and condenses into welcoming smog.
Alexander is a marionette animated by vengeance. He paces along the width of the bathroom -- a barrage of thoughts stuns him into inaction. Drips of water fall with increased tempo as he stands over the bathtub. He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and rolls down a sleeve. Bubbles drift to the surface of the water.
The world comes apart with each ripple across its watery surface. The reality in the reflection dissolves into a rusted palette of unrecognizable hues.
Each time he blinks, the world before him changes…torches dance…music levitates.
Apparitions emerge out of shadows -- their skin glimmers against the aurora of the torches, while they hold hands, fingers entwined in dried blood. In the far corner of the antique bathtub's water, the last piece of Alexander's world washes away.
Their mouths drop open, but only enough to flirt with his discomfort. He closes his eyes…the aroma…the sounds envelope his body….granting Alexander what he always wanted to see.
Alexander slips on a puddle -- his head bashes against the bathtub's engraved edge; a moment of clarity resolves before being severed from consciousness.
He submerges in the bathtub's water, head cranked back over the rim. His arms dangle over the edge without the rigid support of life.
Isabella closes the bathroom door and takes off her silk black dress. She rests a hand along an engraved depiction -- two people joined by the hand -- imprisoned around a circle.
Isabella squeezes around Alexander's legs and rests her head back. The water seeps into her veins, revitalizing a love she hasn't received from Alexander in a long time.
END.
When the Black Cat Stares
(Story by FlyTrapMan)
It's night in the dead of summer. Heat lingers in the air, suffocating anyone’s will to go outside. Trash bags are piled by front doors, as people huddle near an open window not wanting to risk missing a wandering breeze. None has arrived since the arrival of dusk.
A black cat sits on top a fence watching someone suffer in his sweat, brow red from constant wiping. He sighs; words warped by frustration, as he rises off the couch motivated by the empty beer can in his hand. It also provides an excuse to bask in the cold vapor of the freezer.
On the way back, the heat punishes him. He opens the can of Snake Eyes and takes a swig, reviving his will. The black cat stares; its eyes twin, yellow full moons.
For years he never cared to remember. Memories resurrect from the depths of his past, reminding him why they were buried to begin with.
“Beat it!” He says, tossing the empty can out the window. It bounces into the air, un-phasing the black cat. Boiling emotion distracts him into a numbing self-pity.
The black cat yawns and obliges as it moves toward the opposite end of the fence. A brief thunder blasts into the air followed by a gold flash. The black cat back tracks, throwing a glance into the room. Across his lap is a smoking barrel, the wall behind him plastered with what used be his head.
A few days later the heat dissipates into a cloudless blue sky.
Families in the city take advantage of it while they can. They know the heat will probably be back tomorrow. Bayland, a local park south of East Crest, is where many choose to take advantage of this fleeting day.
Along the coast of tear dropped shaped lakes, families wander the open grass like herds of bovine. Some fly kites, while others fish. Most seem to be doing nothing.
A few yards away, Nick sees his daughter Emily approaching. Something dark is slung over her shoulder.
“Daddy, can I keep it?” She says in between panting. Nick becomes lost in the cats coat; it's like a blackened sky dismissing all color. Nick doesn’t want to take it home, but he finds himself shaking his head yes, nonetheless.
On the way home, the black cat sits next to Emily in the backseat of the car. As Nick checks the rearview mirror, all he sees are twin yellow full moons spying back at him.
Nick knew before he entered the front door that Lucy is going to have something to say. After all, their daughter forgot to feed her goldfish, Treasure. It lasted less than three days. He's correct in Lucy having something to say, mistaken in its content:
“How long has it been?” She asks.
“What?” Nick says, buying more time to think. Lucy gives him all the time he needs, tossing a pink dress on top of the bed. Nick doesn't bother saying anymore. What's the point? He said sorry the last five times.
While Lucy reads a story to Emily, the black cat sits on her piano chair listening, as well. It sees Lucy trying not to cry, muscles tensing in her jaw as lips pull back. Yet, she keeps reading and turning the page, keeping the story alive until Emily falls asleep.
During the night, the black cat wanders in the doorway. Lucy lies awake, taking up only the edge of the mattress. She stares into twin yellow full moons, fortifying her intention. Lucy takes her time sitting up, making sure not to extract a squeal from the bed. The cold floor bites into her feet. She remains still, watching the red numbers change on her alarm clock.
Lucy grabs hold of an antique statue resting on top of the dresser that once belonged to her Mother. She walks to Nick’s side of the bed, taking the long route as to not upset the wooden planks that complain when stepped on.
She uncovers a portion of the blanket over Nicks face, and then raises the statue in the air, dropping it onto his skull.
Unsatisfied, Lucy drops it down again, ignoring the taste of Nick's blood. After the third strike, she learns to appreciate it. After the fourth, Lucy is falling in love, again.
The black cat jumps on the window sill and exits the house leaving Nick's family behind.
Stationed outside Burger Heaven, a man sits extending an empty cup. People pass by without giving notice; a few drop some coins into its depths. The beggar looks to his left, unable to recall a black cat sitting beside him.
“Well, hello. How do you do?” he says, delivering a hand for a shake. The black cat doesn’t reciprocate. It pulls down its ears, those twin yellow full moons glistening. The beggar laughs, retracting his hand. A customer exiting Burger Heaven kicks over the cup, spilling coins across the pavement.
“Damn it! Move, you asshole bum!”
He gathers the change pondering the suggestion.
“Not a bad idea."
At a nearby intersection, he feels the need to look down while waiting to cross the street.
“We meet again. My name is Mr. Vince; may I ask your name?”
The black cat straightens posture.
Throughout the remaining afternoon, Mr. Vince spouts tales about his youth traveling the world and the wars he participated in. The black cat listens all the way down Broad Avenue, into a neighborhood congested by alley ways and abandoned apartment buildings.
“…Did I tell you the story about how I saved a hundred people? It’s true I tell ya, it’s true.” Mr. Vince says. In fact, he did tell the story less than an hour ago. And even for a feline, the story is pure bullshit.
The next morning, Mr. Vince begins the quest back west across Broad Avenue. He stops outside Marvin's
Delicate Cuts; a dirty deli occupying a corner of some polluted block. Mr. Vince tries his luck at filling his cup, but he doesn't have a chance to retrieve it. Someone steps from around the corner of the deli, and grabs hold of Mr. Vince’s wrist.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
He tries to pull away, provoking a switch blade to be engaged and plunged into his ribs. Across the street, the black cat waits near an intersection.
“I know it was you…thieving bastard. How much did you get?”
Mr. Vince doesn’t have enough oxygen to plead. The switch blade is retracted and then plunged again.
“I don’t care how many times it takes.”
He turns, granting his assailant an opportunity to dig the blade into his back. And he does.
A dump truck rolls down Broad Avenue, as the black cat stretches legs before trotting through traffic. The driver turns the radio dial trying to find the classic rock station.
“Look out!” his coworker says, pointing at the road. The driver cuts the wheel to the right, sending the dump truck into a skid through the intersection.
Mr. Vince drops to the sidewalk, hands in front of him waiting for another stab.
“Why don't you give up and die?”
The dump truck sweeps his assailant into the wall of the deli in a blur of brick and metal. Mr. Vince chokes on dust while crawling along the pavement, the wailing of an ambulance comforting him.
North of East Crest, the land spreads into waving green hills punctuated with swollen estates cutting across the horizon. Driveways are as long as some roads in East Crest, sprawling like veins etched into the land.
A mansion glows orange on top of one of these hills, as the shadow of a figure struts across a large paned window. The black cat enters through a dog door, and is yielded by a voice upstairs.
“It doesn’t matter. Finish the job. If I wanted excuses, I’d call Jeff. He's more creative.”
The black cat creeps toward the base of the stairs, ears twitching.
“Listen. If I have to call you back again, consider yourself finished. Try to make yourself useful by 7:00 am”
The stomping of footsteps scurries the black cat away. Muted ringing provokes Cody to answer his phone.
“Wow. That has to be a record, even for an incompetent fuck like you!”
