The River

I don't know Edan Aldridge. He shares a passion for pocketknives that means we end up on the same forum sometimes. A piece Edan wrote struck me, and I asked him if he would like to publish something on my blog. He promptly produced this awesomeness. Oh, and Edan is 16. 

The sky looked like death that day, not that it mattered much to him. He kept his eyes on the mottled gravel below his feet as he followed the meandering path down the river. The gazebos and seesaws of the WPA park that had stood there had long ago gone to seed, and the rough-hewn track that lay nestled on the bank was all the remained. He walked it slow and steady, knowing where it began, and where it ended, and what would be there to greet him.

    

On occasion, the long way gave him solace, but today the river path gave him no comfort. That morning he'd woken up to the same aches and bruises, as well as some new ones that had appeared after the previous night's altercation, if you could call it that. The man had made good on his drunken threat yet again and, as the boy had come to learn, there would be more to come when he got home. The home in question was a tired, cramped mill house bolted to a sparsely wooded hillside on the fringe of town. The view from the small, listing porch was disheartening at best. Off to the right, the wide, green river with it's ponderous barges and soot spewing mills wound out of sight among the hills. On the opposite bank, the sharp rim of West Virginia jutted high into the gunmetal sky. To the left of the house, the oppressed downtown clung to the flattest land that the Ohio valley had to offer and extended slightly up into the hills away from the river.  It was a dark place. He ran these scenes through his head as he walked, and managed to stay preoccupied with them until he scaled the hill and found himself standing before his blue, weathered door. He looked into the narrow front window, braced himself, and stepped into the house.

He'd never quite gotten used to the smell. It assailed him as he shut the door. The stench of cheap cigarettes, mildew, and one hopeless, worthless old man. He felt it settle on his clothes and in his hair. God, he hated that house. When he first entered, the air was still and dank, but the silence was soon fractured by the man (as long as he could remember, he'd been "the man", never much of a father) lurching up from his chair and swaggering toward the boy. Long years of practice had told him what was coming, and he ducked the initial blow. The man let go an inhuman growl, and took another swing. By then, however, the boy had run down the hall and was in his room, door shut and the homemade barricade set tightly in its slots in the door frame. He huddled on the bed, listening to the wind buffeting the outer walls, and the man battering the door with his huge fists. Eventually the barrage ceased, and the room was silent.

The young man sat pensively on the bank, examining the pistol. It was a week later, and he had two less teeth, and had decided he'd had enough. The new cut on his cheekbone had begun to heal, but his right eye was still black and both were bloodshot. It had been days since he'd had any real sleep, and he hadn't been back to the house on the hill in almost a week. After the last onslaught, instead of running to the safety of his room, he'd gone to the man's small dresser and retrieved the pistol. It was a Smith and Wesson Detective Special. The barrel was scratched and rusted in places, but the original bluing was intact in spots, the checking on the walnut grip was worn almost smooth. He palmed it, along with a small box of .38 cartridges, and ran out the door. He'd been sleeping on the path by the bridge since then, slowly eating down the $5 in his pocket and biding his time. He wanted the man to be sober for this.

The 9th dawn after his exodus was a long time coming. When it did come, he hopped on the road at the end of the bridge and followed it into town. He went past the hardware store and into the small diner next door, spending his last quarter on a cup of coffee. He drank meditatively, and, when he finished, he got up slowly and headed back to the house on the hill. He loaded the pistol carefully as he walked. Soon, he knew, there would be no more little, weathered house with its murky windows, no more endless showers to relieve himself of the stinking smoke and sweat, and no more man. At this thought, he quickened his step. Soon, he told himself. Soon.

He stood on the porch for what felt like a century. The pistol hung loosely in his right hand, hammer back, waiting. He should be up soon. And then he heard him. A faint rustling in the front room, a muffled curse, then the sound of him banging around in the small kitchen in the rear of the house. Enjoy your last meal, old man. Then the slow, steady steps. Coming from the back, growing louder and closer till they were just to the other side of the door. Then it opened, and the young man fired.

The first blast knocked the old man back into the living room. The shot had been carefully aimed, and hit him  just over his left knee. He staggered back and fell against the small couch that squatted by the foot of the stairs. The second shot hit him square in the stomach, and the next two shots hit a few inches higher and to the left. The last one caught him three inches above the right eye, and, just like that, it was all over. The young man looked at him for a moment, then rolled the body over and grabbed the wallet out of his back pocket. He went back into the kitchen, grabbed the keys and the coffee can from under the sink, and walked out of the house for the last time. The sage green Plymouth Duster cranked after the fourth try, and he rolled down the hill and toward the river. When he reached the bottom, he wound his way down the road leading toward the river, and crossed into West Virginia. The car ascended the switchbacks laboriously, until he was finally at the top of the bluff. The road kept to the edge, a thousand feet above the river. Eventually, he came to a stop, and left the car on the side of the road. He went to the edge and looked across the river into town. Only then did he look down at his hands. He had always been pale, and this made the blood look particularly fresh and nauseating as it slowly dried on his palms and under his fingernails. He wiped them on his jeans, and looked across the water again. He could see his street through the trees, and he watched as two black and white Fairlanes with bubble lights climbed toward the summit. It was then that it occurred to him that he was on borrowed time, but this didn't detract from the flood of relief. The man could never touch him again and, at least for now, he was free.

Edan Aldridge lives in the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina and began writing and drawing comics at a very young age. An overwhelmingly negative response to his initial work led to a transition into songwriting. He soon tired of this as well and has been honing his craft as a writer for the past five years. He also likes to call himself a photographer, and operates the blog, "Moveable Feast." He hates cats.

'I told you so.' by Yvonne Hertzberger

Another friend (and another outstanding writer) grabs the mic today. Give it up for Yvonne Hertzberger, everyone. Enjoy the story and check out her books. (Thanks for classing up the joint, Yvonne!)

“I told you so.” She could hear them say it now; smug, grim, condescending smiles on their faces. And they had. That was why she had never been able to go to them, to ask for help. Now she pressed her back into the cramped crawlspace under the family room floor, in the dark. She barely fit her body around the pipes leading to the second powder room.

The family room had been added after the fact, so it had no basement. She knew he couldn’t be bothered to come and drag her out. He didn’t need to. She’d have to extract herself at some point. He’d gloated about it aloud from the top of the stair, enjoying taunting her.

She shivered in the dank cold and placed protective hands over her distended belly. Would she make it 'til morning? If she left her hole now she doubted he would leave her alive this time. How had she come to this? A cramp seized her, making her hitch her breath. Be still, baby. Hold on. Just 'til morning.

A drip fell on her knee from the ceiling. How could that be?  There was nothing wet there.  Oh, yeah, that’s what it was. Piss. He had pissed on the mat over her head. The walls, too, laughing, “Now, clean it up, whore.” She’d never been unfaithful. He knew that. 

This was the first time she had directly disobeyed him, refused to submit to his favourite ‘punishment’.  She’d done it for the baby. It would kill the baby. She shuddered as she replayed the scene.

“Stand up whore. Spread your legs.” He stood there, arms akimbo, feet set firmly apart, waiting – waiting to kick her there. She’d almost obeyed. He usually let her be after that. But the baby had kicked. So she’d turned and run. He had managed a flying kick at her belly as she ducked away from his grab for her hair. She’d made it as far as the stairs, to this hole, just out of reach under the stair - unless he put in some effort – effort she wasn’t worth.  

Another cramp assailed her. Not now, baby, Wait. Wait 'til morning. Wait. Could she hold on?

“How long do you think you can stay there bitch?” Then he changed his tone, laughing as he sang, “Come out, come out wherever you are...” 

She almost cried out as another contraction hit her hard, biting her knuckle to hold back the sound. It might be enough to make him come down after her. She thought about what had triggered him this time. Oh, yeah. Supper. He’d come home late and the chicken had dried out. He’d thrown the searing thing at her, hitting her across her neck. She could feel the burn, now that she remembered. Good thing it hadn’t been the beans. They were sitting in scalding water. 

When another hard cramp called her attention to the trickle of dampness that went past her panties and onto the floor underneath her, she could deny it no longer. Likely caused by that kick to her belly.  Labour. Four weeks early. Not now. Not yet. Oh, baby, hold on. Just 'til morning. 

Morning.  If she could make it 'til then. He’d go to work. He never missed work. He always left, confident that she would be waiting for him when he returned, supper cooked, pretending nothing had happened. He knew she didn’t have anywhere to go; didn’t have the guts to leave him either. It was why he had bought the old farmhouse, far from anywhere. 

They had soon lost contact with her parents. Who had given up first? Them? Had she? Had they ever really loved her? Or only when she was their good little girl? Did they have any idea how she lived, now? Would they care? A lone tear slipped down one cheek. 

Another contraction, stronger than the last brought her back to the present. How long had her reverie taken? Things were quiet upstairs. Had he gone to bed, secure in the belief that she would have his breakfast ready when he woke? How had she missed hearing that? She tried to stretch into a better position. It only caused her to scrape the skin off her left shoulder. 

She listened - and listened. Nothing.  Another contraction. No time to lose. She had to act now or they’d both be dead. Hold on baby. Biting her lip against the pain of extracting herself from her hole, she eased first one, then the other leg out in front of herself and waited for the pins and needles to stop as circulation returned. She crabbed on her rear, feet first, across the small space to the stairs. Holding her breath, praying there would be no noise, she pressed one foot against the door to open it. Good. It hadn’t latched. She listened. Nothing.  Light still seeped out from the living room. Not gone to bed then. Now what? Was he waiting, watching? Panic almost sent her scuttling back into her hiding place. A movement in her taut belly stopped her. 

She eased out further. No sound. Was he asleep in the chair? She levered herself onto hands and knees. Silence. She crawled into the kitchen and reached one hand up to the counter, grabbing hold of it to heave herself to standing. Another contraction made her double over, but she managed to keep one hand on the counter top so she didn’t fall. That’s when she realized where she was. In the drawer below her hand - the knives.  No, she could never do that. Another contraction.  The baby. She had to, for the baby’s sake. Slowly, ever so slowly, she eased the drawer open.  When no sound came from the living room, she let out the breath she had been holding. There it was. The carving knife, the long curved one, the sharpest one. In her hand. How had it got there? She didn’t remember picking it up. She slid one foot in front of the other. She needed to see where he was. She didn’t want to kill him. Only to get away. If he was asleep she had a chance. He was a sound sleeper. It took a lot to wake him.

She peeked around the door. Yes, there he was. A light snore emanated from his throat. His head lolled back into the corner of the wing of his favourite chair, the green one.  Maybe she could sneak out.

A gasp of pain escaped her when the next contraction hit. She froze in panic. Had he heard?

His eyes opened. He regarded her with a laconic, lazy smile. “Now, you don’t want that thing,” he drawled. He rose out of the chair, lithe and alert, like a cat on the prowl. His tone changed to a snarl and he lunged for her - for the knife. “Give me that.”

She jabbed as hard as she could. 

A slow look of surprised crept over his face. His hands went to his stomach where blood oozed around the handle of the knife. 

She backed away. 

He tried to follow but stumbled and fell in the doorway to the kitchen. 

So much blood. She had never seen so much blood. He made it to the counter and gripped it with a slippery, bloody hand. She watched him slide to the floor, a pool of blood spreading under him.

Did I do that? She tried to remember. Had she stabbed him? Had she? Her mind went blank. Another contraction brought her back. She looked at her husband. He lay unmoving, pale. Was he breathing?  She waited, watched. No movement, no rise and fall of his chest. Dead then. My god, what had she done?

The phone. She needed an ambulance.  He had grabbed it and knocked it to the floor when he fell. She sidled over to it and managed to dial 911. “Which emergency service do you require?” 

“Help me,” she sobbed, “please help me.” The phone, slick with blood, slipped from her grasp. Before she could retrieve it the next contraction cut her short. This one doubled her over and she had to sink to the floor.  The next one came right on top of the last, making her cry out.  She put her hands on her belly. No. Not yet. Wait. We’re almost there. Wait. She forced herself to her knees and began to crawl to the door. Not knowing why, she lifted her skirt to check between her legs. The head. The head was there. Too late. 

She rolled onto her back just before the next contraction. The rest of the baby slipped out. She heard a cry. I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. She gathered the last of her strength, reached  down to lift the wet little body onto her stomach and cradled her hands around it.

That’s how they found her, a drying pool of blood around the placenta on the floor between her thighs. 

The female ambulance attendant took the baby from her lifeless hands and, ascertaining that he was alive and appeared well, quickly cut the cord and wrapped him in a heated blanket. That done, she knelt down beside the still cooling body, the baby in the crook of one arm. She studied the ashen face of the dead mother, then reached out one hand and stroked the hair back from her forehead. “It’s a boy,” she whispered. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Yvonne Hertzberger is a native of the Netherlands who immigrated to Canada in 1950. She is married with two grown children, (one married) and resides quietly in Stratford, Ontario with her spouse, Mark in a 130 year old, tiny, brick cottage, where she plans to live out her retirement. She calls herself a jill-of-all-trades and a late bloomer. Her many past paid jobs included banking, day care, residential care for challenged children, hairdressing (her favourite) retail, and customer service. She enjoys gardening, singing, the theatre, decorating and socializing with friends and family.

Hertzberger is an alumna of The University of Waterloo, first with a B.A. in psychology, then and Hon. B.A. Sociology and stopped ½ a thesis short of an M.A. in Sociology. She has always been an avid student of human behaviour. This is what gives her the insights she uses to develop the characters in her writing.

Hertzberger came to writing late in life, hence the label ‘late bloomer’.  Her first Fantasy novel “Back From Chaos: Book One of Earth’s Pendulum” was published in 2009. The second volume in the planned trilogy “Through Kestrel’s Eyes” is available currently and the third book in the trilogy “The Dreamt Child” is pending.

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Yvonne+Hertzberger

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/YHERTZBE

Facebook Author page: http://www.facebook.com/EarthsPendulum.YvonneHertzberger.author

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Yvonne-Hertzberger/e/B006X3DEOC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Yvonne-Hertzberger/e/B006X3DEOC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

The Tick and the Bully

             I had just returned home from fishing.  I was tired.  I smelled of fish attractant and bug spray (though not enough as shall be revealed).  I sat down at the kitchen table, and my wife told me she had a story to tell me.  I like stories.  I was excited.  The story was this.  My wife had taken our two year old daughter to the park.  While there, an older boy pushed her when running up the slide.  My wife told the boy this was not acceptable (she is extremely calm and a former nanny).  Then the boy hit her, at which point she approached the boys’ nanny for a tepid and unfruitful conversation where the nanny asserted that he was “bad”.  My wife was upset.  I was a kaleidoscope of emotion.

            I had calmed down and was reclining in bed watching a show with my girls when I realized that my lower back was in serious pain.  More so than usual after a day of fishing.  I rubbed it and felt a little bump.  So I picked at it.  Because that’s what you do.  Now, I was hoping to find a ingrown hair, or a cancerous mole, or something normal.  Instead I looked into my pinched fingers and directly into the evil red (?) eyes of a small tick.  Now, I consider it a great act of bravery on my part that I held on to the squirming menace instead of shrieking like a girl and throwing the tick into the bed.  Instead, I went into nuclear meltdown calm mode and walked down to the kitchen with wife in tow.  I dropped the tick in the sink and burned it with matches.  I put it in the garbage disposal and turned that sucker on.  If I’d had a machine gun, the kitchen sink would be perforated. 

            OK.  We were calm.  What now.  Check the rest of my body (daughter was involved at this point and I could practically see the future therapy visits happening).  No more ticks.  To the internet, Tickman!  Within 20 minutes or so, we had learned enough to make us extremely paranoid and weirded out.  Good stuff, the internet.

            Now, it is important to note that I have spent many hours fishing, rolling in leaves, climbing trees, pounding through tall grasses, etc.  I have had ticks on me many times.  I had never had a tick IN me before though, and, to put it as eloquently as I can, I felt extremely icky.  I tried to be rational.  I told my wife that if I got lyme disease, I expected her to get tequila disease.  I knew the risk was low.  We washed the area and applied goop and bandaids.  And then we went to sleep.  And then the wait began.

            Bullies are usually big (and dumb or disturbed – “bad” is a copout).  Ticks are VERY small.  But they serve similar functions.  They pick on people who can’t defend themselves.  I was trying to catch fish.  I could not stop an insect the size of a Cheerio’s hole from viciously attacking the small of my back.  My daughter is a sweet little girl who has never been hit by anyone.  She was just trying to play on the slide. 

            I know this situation will come up again, and I worry about it.  One time we were on a hike, the three of us, my wife scouting up ahead.  Me behind with the little one (who was even littler at the time).  All of a sudden a giant black dog charges at my wife.  Then locks eyes on my daughter and charges again.  My wife yelled something like, “Pick her up!” or “Her…dog…DOG!”.  Something.  But there was no time to pick her up.  What there was time for was me to tackle the charging dog to the ground in a rolling mess of fur and dust.  Mid-roll, I realized that the dog was licking my face.  We rolled into my daughter and knocked her over.  I was up in a flash with my daughter on my hip, dragging the dog by the collar.  Around the bend I scared the bejesus out of an old hippy lady.  (I merely yelled, “That wasn’t COOL!”, but I’m a big guy).  She turned and left.

            But what do you do when a little kid pushes your baby?  All the impulses are bad.  Insults?  No good.  Hitting?  Hypocritical and no good.  Crying?  A real possibility.  But seriously, what can you do? 

            I know that my daughter is going to encounter mean people.  And I know that I can’t (and shouldn’t) try to be her protector all the time.  I also know that I am REALLY glad my wife was at the park and not me.  When it does happen to me, I am going to find the nearest tick and put it on the bullies face.  That’s fair, right?  My daughter is back at the park as I type this.  And I went fishing again yesterday.  Such is life.  No ticks or bullies today.

            Post-Script: So far, it does not appear that I have lyme disease.  My daughter has moved on.  I still feel a bit of rage, but I blame that on my wife’s failure to contract tequila disease.