by J. Thorn
“No. Not fair. Not fair at all.”
Jack bit his lip until a word popped into his head: Triangulation. He did not remember where it came from but guessed it was something he had heard on a crime drama.
If I leave it on, the cops can find me. That’s what it means. I might not have service, but they can pick up my phone when they get close.
With giddy exhaustion, he pushed off the ground with his good leg, but his trapped ankle dropped him back down to the ground, bringing a wave of torment to his head and knocking him into the void.
***
The moon barely moved as Jack’s throbbing ankle lifted him from troubled sleep. He glanced at the opposite wall, not expecting to see Kole. The leaves remained, untouched. He imagined the police scanning for his phone, triangulating. As a chilling wind swept through the lodge, he noticed an object sitting on a pile of cinder blocks that had not been there before. Jack had memorized every tree branch, fallen block, and pile of broken bottles within sight during the long night. His eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and his heart dropped when he saw it. The cell phone battery sat next to the open display, darkly creased with dozens of lines of broken glass. Jack buried his chin in his chest.
He felt the movement of the leaves before he heard the footsteps, and he cursed under his breath, words that would have made his mother cry and his father blush. He hated that phone with all of his being. It was his Judas, his betrayer.
He estimated the visitor to be a few hundred yards away but closing with a steady gait. Jack flailed on the ground, the pain from the worthless ankle washing over him like a foamy eddy in white water rapids. He placed both hands on his knee and pulled, but his effort brought nothing but more misery and panic. The leaves whispered as the footsteps cut through the forest.
Jack closed his eyes and saw his mother hanging laundry on the clothesline in the backyard. He felt her warm smile carried on the rays of the summer sun. She waved and winked in slow motion, a clothespin clamped to the collar of her faded t-shirt. He blinked and brought the forest back into view. The trees turned into creatures, arms waving and taunting him. They rubbed against one another, creating a funeral dirge.
Tears ran down his cheek as he clamped his eyes shut again. He saw his father pushing the red mower through the front yard. The aroma of fresh-cut grass filled his nose while the throaty purr of the mower engine faded into memory.
He sat up and looked out towards the hill. With both hands, he pushed the leaves away, searching for an escape. He noticed his backpack and other items on the ground below his cell phone, positioned by evil hands to foreshadow his last stand.
He could hear ragged breathing over the shuffling leaves. Tree branches snapped and echoed like rifle shots, and Jack thrust a hand into his back pocket and fumbled for his wallet. He held the billfold to his face, using what was left of the waning moonlight. Jack flipped past the library card and novelty Elvis license to the family portrait behind mottled plastic. His finger traced a tear that scuttled down the face of the photo and into the multitude of leaves, absorbed and forever bound with the rest of the forest floor.
A broken washing machine, three loads of sopping wet clothes, and an exhausted wife inspired this story. A washateria can be a lonely place.
* * *
At Own Risk
A single file of water droplets slid off the pipe, settling on the linoleum with an echo. Fluorescent lights flickered across water-stained ceiling tiles, and the scent of flowery detergent hung in the cold air. The man shuffled to the change machine, sliding a crinkled dollar bill into the slot and waiting until the dispenser spit four quarters into the stainless steel tray.
Not empty yet.
Three of the top loaders sat with their lids closed. He opened them, making each washer look like a square bird ready for a worm. His hand slid into the cylinder of the first machine, the one under the sign attached to the wall with yellowed scotch tape: We are not responsible for loss or damage of clothes. Use washers and dryers at own risk.
He closed his eyes, following the rules and obeying the ritual. The hard plastic chair bumped the back of his legs, dropping him into its cold embrace as it slid against the wall, nestled between the garbage can and the vending machine.
The temperature dropped again, the air becoming colder than the rainy November night on the other side of the glass door. He opened his eyes and raised a hand to his forehead. The blinding whiteness stung against the black velvet of the night.
And so the visions began, as they had so many times before inside this place. He shifted in his seat and waited as the first person came toward the window, invisible and unnoticed. She used the edge of a basket to push the door open, swinging around to place her bruised buttocks on the glass. The sunglasses covered most of the black eyes, all but the outer edge of the bruise that crawled down towards her crooked nose. There would be no lipstick today, nothing that could be applied over the pain of a split lip.
The faded Metallica t-shirt rested on a black leather belt inside her basket, the concert dates of yesteryear gone along with her hope for the future. The woman’s bleach-blonde hair swung around and came to rest on tiny breasts, constantly hidden by crossed arms. The greasy strands failed to mask the hand impressions on her neck.
She dropped the basket to the floor and kicked it towards the row of washing machines. Bony fingers reached into the acid-washed jeans to retrieve five quarters, one short of the required tithe.
“Shit,” she said. With her left hand, the one without any rings, she shoved lacy panties and bloody towels into the mouth of the beast. A capful of bleach followed, finished with a mighty slam of the thin steel lid.
He stared over her bobbing scrunchy to the sign: We are all responsible for loss or damage to our self-esteem and face. Tolerate jealousy, twelve packs, and his pinky ring at own risk.
I could see that. No revelations there, Nostradamus.
He stood and moved the laundry basket on wheels towards the woman. She did not flinch or turn to look at him. They never did.
The third washer from the left called out, beckoning him closer. “Touch me,” he thought he heard it say.
When he looked up, the woman was gone, along with all evidence of her existence. The man settled back into the plastic chair when he felt the coming of the next vision.
The frame of the glass door slammed against the rubber stop, triggering the door chime. A gust of wind blew the stranger’s trench coat out in black billows. His red power tie sat askew on an unbuttoned collar. The black plastic fastened to his belt pulsed with a steady green LED, waiting to deliver the next Wall Street report. A copy of The New York Times angled out of another pocket, rolled tightly into a news baton. His chiseled chin pointed towards the open washer, and he pushed a strand of hair, one that had broken the bonds of styling gel, from a greasy forehead. His sideburns ruffled up from the intense wind, revealing the gray streaks underneath. Shiny, black leather shoes tapped the floor beneath the hemmed pants of navy slacks.
The man unfolded his arms to let the blue shopping bags of dirty clothes hit the folding table. Crumpled socks and designer boxer shorts rolled onto the surface. Two v-neck t-shirts dropped from the bottom of the bag, one collar smeared with burgundy lipstick.
A handful of quarters emerged from a pocket, along with a golden money clip and a diamond-encrusted lighter. The man counted the change in his head and then looked at the coin receptacle on the washing machine. He shook his head and peeled seven fifty-dollar bills from the clip before reaching a one-dollar bill.
Wait, don’t show me yet, said the observer. Let it play out a little more so I can guess what you’re going to put on the sign.
He knew the creator played by its own rules, ignoring requests for more time. The observer turned from the suit and watched the letters on the sign rearrange themselves: We are responsible for filthy cheaters, broken homes, and destroyed youth. Use your secretary at own risk.
How do you know it was his secretar
y? Could have been a coworker or a neighbor.
The sign never answered his questions.
The scene dissolved into tendrils of odorless smoke as the vision cleared. He did not hear the door open when the next man entered. He carried a blue plastic laundry basket with “The Writings of Captain John Smith” perched on top. His hair dropped to the middle of his back, swaying on the smooth leather coat. The stubble on his face darkened a furrowed brow.
The man reached into the basket and began to shovel handfuls of pink pajamas, racecar briefs, and tube socks into the gaping mouth of the fourth washer from the end. A few beige bras followed, accompanied with a low grumble. The man pulled his coat tight around his neck and shoved a hand into his front pocket. Out came a ruffled spiral notebook, the miniature kind used for shopping lists and quick notes. He uncapped a disposable pen pulled from deep within the coat.
The observer watched the stranger’s pen dance across the pages, the white paper flipping like the wings of a dove.
What’s he writing?
The observer glanced up at the sign, but the letters stared back, stuck in their ancient cadence: We are not responsible for loss or damage of clothes. Use washers and dryers at own risk.
It’ll change, he thought. It’ll change.
The man walked to the coin dispenser and fed it four dollar bills. The gears inside vomited sixteen quarters into the tin cup, and he pushed a wisp of long hair from his face and scooped the quarters into a hand. Before walking them to the washer, he turned and stared at the space next to the vending machine.
He senses something, the observer thought. This one feels my presence.
The man sighed and rubbed a creased forehead with his left hand. He took a step towards the washer, looking over his shoulder at the perplexing emptiness.
The observer stared at the man’s back as the lid came down and the cycle light pulsed. He looked up as the swirling letters came to rest on the sign: We are not responsible for finding you an agent or getting a short story sold. Use creativity and storytelling at own risk.
The observer walked past the long-haired man scribbling into the notebook and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He smacked the light switch with one hand while pulling the door shut with the other. The man spun the lock to the right and turned his back on the stories of the day, already pondering what awaited him on the next visit to the washateria.
Hearts of Ochre spilled out of my first manuscript. The setting, clearly influenced by the ceremonies of the ancient Aztecs, sprang from the page. However, after many revisions, it did not make the cut. I reformatted the scene into a short story, added an audio narration mixed with an instrumental by Nine Inch Nails, and posted it on my website. That recording may reappear in the near future.
* * *
Hearts of Ochre
The turquoise edge of the Great Sea sliced through the expansive sky as I soared over the mountains, layers of mist gathered under my feet. The One World stretched out beneath me, and I twisted and turned through the air, thinking nothing could slow my flight across the empire. The gods had taken the reins and angled me towards the temple that jutted out from the heart of the jungle.
“Set me free. Send me across the universe on your wings.”
They did not respond.
The temple pulled my body to its altar. The sanctuary stood high above the forest, towering over the Capitol and its surrounding villages. Thousands of people gathered at its base, chanting and demanding blood. Torches glimmered among the masses, and their flames pulsed with the dance of the dead. The shaman turned. He wore the skin of a warrior, a conquered foe. Blood still dripped from the mask, and the Shaman’s eyes looked through me, into an unknown time and place.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
I looked to the clouds for an answer, but the gods ignored me.
“The One World sent me,” I replied with reluctant clarity.
The shaman looked away and continued the ceremony, waving his staff of smoke over the altar. Three sentries stood next to him, and a line of men stood to one side, their wrists bound together and attached to a long staff. The shaman approached the men, mumbling and gesturing towards the heavens. He opened his palm, raised it to his mouth, and blew a cloud of dust into their faces. They did not struggle with the shackles or plead for mercy from the guards. The prisoners shook their heads as a distant, calm, yet restless expression covered their faces. With slowed breathing, they stood like statues in a sea of chaos. Deep blue dye covered their bodies and their shaved heads. Various piercings glistened in the rays of the Sun God, and the men bled from open wounds, creating streaks of liquid purple over their painted skin.
Warriors at the base of the temple pointed towards the prisoners, recognizing ones they had captured in battle. Two priests stood near a large stone table, behind the shaman. They also wore the skin of prisoners of war.
From down below, the cheers and chants bounced off the stone structures and reverberated upward. I looked over the edge of the shrine into a festival. Men drank and women danced. Vendors sold wares to an orgasmic crowd of bloodthirsty villagers. The mass of humanity spread out before me, undulating like a giant serpent moving across the jungle floor. My heartbeat fell into the thumping rhythm of the skin drums.
”Are you here to nourish?” the shaman asked.
“No. The nourishment comes from the prisoners of the Flowery War.”
This elicited a crooked smile from the shaman. His tongue slithered between three rotten teeth.
“You arrive clothed in ignorance,” he said.
“They cannot see me?” I asked, ignoring his statement.
“Only I can see beyond this plane.”
He turned away with more chants. The priests secured a young warrior to the top of a stone table. The rock arched up towards the Sun God, forcing the warrior’s chest into the air. He wore a thin covering of limestone dust with a circle of red ochre painted over his heart. He did not scream, beg, or cry. This warrior held the same gaze as the others, a distant but troubled stare. I lost myself in his eyes, which glistened under the mask of skin placed over his face. His mouth fell open and he turned to face me.
“Are you here to help with the ceremony?” he asked.
The shaman stopped his chant and looked at me, awaiting my response.
“I don’t know why I am here,” I replied.
“You serve as a witness. Through barbarism and savagery comes life and evolution. The Sun God needs nourishment for his journey.”
I gawked at the spectacle and shook the man’s arm. “Justice does not serve you, noble warrior. Rise from your shackles and demand it.”
The man laughed at my words. A wide grin creased his face. “Honor supplants justice. Accusations weigh heavy on your heart. You would do better than to insult the Giver.” He turned to face the shaman and spoke again. ”Do it now.”
The shaman danced around the stone table. The sound of the drums fluttered in my chest, vibrations running down my legs and into the temple. He removed a short dagger from underneath his tattered robes, and the crowds bellowed in approval. I stepped between the shaman and his intended sacrificial warrior.
”You cannot do this. It violates the laws of the Empire.”
He pointed to the bound victim with the dagger. “The gods pay no mind to the laws of mortals. The blood of Flowers fuels the Sun God.”
“He gives his life through hazy eyes. You steal what is not yours.”
The shaman raised his fist to my face, his entire body shaking with anger. “You cannot ascribe ownership to the One World. The blood of the weak will sow the seeds of the strong.”
I stumbled backwards from the altar and felt heat emanating from the stone wall at the top of the temple. The chants of the shaman grew in volume and intensity, and the music and drums below matched him in tempo. He raised both hands above his head, holding the dagger between them. With one swift motion, the shaman plunged the dagger deep into the warrior’s chest until the hilt stop
ped. The shaman made a circular motion with his right hand and removed the dagger. He held the blade to his face and licked the blood from it, but the warrior did not move. He continued to stare at me, wide eyed and without emotion.
The shaman shoved his right hand into the bleeding chest cavity and gripped the beating heart. He held it before his clerics, the sentries, the other captives, the One World. The heart pulsed, a final spasm before stopping, and the warrior’s eyes froze. Blood spilled from his body and through a stone gutter to the edge of the temple as the shaman put the heart into the mouth of the Sun God. Red lines of blood raced down the mortar joints and pooled at the base of the stone. The crimson puddle expanded back towards the sacrificial altar, and the priests untied the straps that held the warrior to the stone table.
I walked to the altar and stood over the body. One of the guards turned the man’s head away from me while they released his arms and legs. I could not move, speak, or breathe. My vision narrowed as darkness constricted it to a fine point. I lost all feeling in my arms and legs. My lungs refused to hold air, would not deliver life to my heart. I gazed upon the warrior’s face before he raced beyond the Region of the Dead, and I recognized it as my own.
Ten Days won the 2009 New Writer Short Story Contest. It is one of the first short stories I wrote, a nod to Poe’s Cask of Amontillado. Writing in the first person can be a liberating experience. Vengeance is a timeless theme.
* * *
Ten Days
It takes ten days to die. The gods give you time to devour your sins before the Call to Judgment, and they laugh at the weak.
