Karma

Image by Selket via Wikimedia Commons

Author's Note: This is a microfiction story written with a limit of 350 words. For those unfamiliar with the form, a microfiction story is written to come in under a strict word count. The story is pared to the bare essentials, and many elements are only hinted at or implied. Please leave a comment if you would like to see more stories in this form, or if you prefer longer stories. -WP 

When Runni found the corpse with the snakebites, he didn't believe it. Surely it was a trick, a cruel joke. He took the body back to the village, where old men muttered and a fresh widow grieved. Children pushed each other for the best spot, just an inch shy of arm's reach to view the bloating man on his pyre. They whispered about the cobra bite on the man's soft hands and wondered how long before the vermin found their way back into the village. Would more pyres follow?

The fire was lit at dusk after all had said their goodbyes and laid their gifts of food. Scarlet chrysanthemums ringed the former hero, and their scent accompanied his spirit past the veil.

The spirit found himself on a road not unlike the one on which he died. He placed one foot in front of another, not daring to look at the coils of mist to either side that rose up and hissed at him with flared hoods.

Red-booted Yama met him at the crossroads. The god of death hailed him.

“It is time to take your karma's account, Mon-” The death god said.

The spirit held up his hand “Please, Lord Yama, I no longer deserve that name.”

Yama's face was as terrible as a monsoon, until he chanced to look at the spirit's hand. The two tiny marks left from the cobra were red and angry, even here. The storm broke as Yama let out a booming laugh.

“Indeed.” he said. “Let us see to your karma, then.” The death god raised his hands and two mountains of pebbles rose about them, one white and one black.

When the tally was taken, the mountain of white stones only just outnumbered the black. Lord Yama grunted.

“Barely enough.” The death god stood aside and indicated the right-hand path.

The spirit of the royal assassin who turned traitor to save a small village looked down the path. The man formerly known as Mongoose walked towards his life's reward.   

Black Noise

By Bettyann Moore

After rinsing her hair, Sheila shut off the hot tap, then yelped as cold water sluiced down her body. She began counting as she turned slowly under the shower head. Goosebumps rose; her nipples ached as they puckered into hard, red knots.

“Fifty!” she yelled, then shut the tap off completely, her whole body shaking.

She pulled back the sliding glass door and reached for a towel, noting that Clyde had set a cup of steaming coffee on the edge of the sink.

“Bless you,” she said aloud, stepping out of the shower and grabbing the cup.

Still dripping, she took a big gulp and yelped again. Nonetheless, before she drew on her face and dried her hair, she drank the hot liquid eagerly, trying to clear her head.

Day Three, she mused, staring into the mirror. How long, she wondered, can a person go without sleep? She leaned her head back, pulled down her lower lid, then dripped eye drops into her red eyes. The effort exhausted her and she doubted it was worth it anyway. She looked like shit. She felt like shit.

“Darling, you look marvelous!” Clyde enthused in his oh-so-British accent as she dragged-stepped herself into the kitchen.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Sheila said to her husband who was busy at the stove, one of her frilly green aprons cinched at his waist. She dropped heavily into a chair at the table and reached for the coffee carafe. She loved Clyde, but his chipper morning persona was the last thing she needed. What she needed was coffee, and lots of it.

“There, there, my sweet,” Clyde said, bustling toward her with a plate full of food, “another bad night?”

He plunked the plate down on the table and her stomach lurched. Bacon. Eggs, over easy. Hash browned potatoes.

“This will set you to rights,” Clyde said, standing behind her. He gripped her shoulders and started massaging them, thumbs digging deep into unyielding knots. Sheila groaned and leaned into his fingers.

“Don’t stop,” she said, meaning it.

“No, no, silly,” he said, slapping her lightly on her shoulder, “the food, the food will set you to rights. Goodness, a real massage would knock you out and today’s a big day!”

Sheila slumped in her chair as Clyde scurried back into the kitchen to get glasses of juice.

It was a big day. Her boss’s boss, Denton Hamilton (what a name!), was due to show his face at the magazine at 10 a.m. They’d been prepping for weeks. Rumors had been flying. Buy-out. Venture capital company. Downsizing. Layoffs. Sheila, as publisher, had been wearing her firefighter’s hat for far too long, putting out rumors among her young staff as they flared up. Exhausted as she was, she still couldn’t sleep.

Sheila picked listlessly at her breakfast, her head leaning heavily on her left hand.

“Dear one,” Clyde said, suddenly at her side. “I know you don’t feel like eating, but you must keep up your strength!” He picked up her juice glass and, as if she were a child, brought it to her lips. She drank.

Dear, dear Clyde, she thought. Always there to save me from myself and, in truth, she did feel better after one of his lovingly prepared meals. She smiled gratefully up at him and scooped up a large helping of eggs.

“There’s my girl!” he chirped. It always amazed Sheila how his accent made everything sound so soothing. She loved his accent; she loved him. She’d met him in Philadelphia just four years prior. A retired chemist, he was on a month-long tour of historic spots in the U.S., and she was playing hooky from a publisher’s meeting. He was 30-some years older than she, but Sheila was drawn in by his courtly, Old World manners. At the age of 30, Sheila was fed up with American men of her age, their beer-stained sweatshirts and weekend sports TV habits. Plus, Clyde was obviously smitten. He had been at the end of his visa when they met, but they corresponded via Skype, email, phone and instant message until he could get another visa. Sheila never hesitated to help him with the fare. They were married shortly after. They’d celebrated his new citizenship just last month.

“Love,” he said now, “shouldn’t you be popping off to the office?”

Sheila shook her head to clear it and glanced down at her wristwatch.

“Crap!” she said, rising. “I’m going to be late!”

“There, there,” Clyde soothed. “You have plenty of time. Shall I drive you? You seem awfully tired ...” He gave her a worried look.

Sheila smiled gratefully at him as she gathered her briefcase and keys. “No, darling,” she said, “I’ll be okay. What are you going to do today?” she asked, making an effort to smile brightly at him.

“Oh, this and that.” he said, “Pottering and puttering … I also have a surprise for you later ...” He grinned at her, his dark blue eyes twinkling.

“A surprise! After today, I’m sure I’ll be in need of a surprise, a good one.”

He assured her it was so and waved fondly from the porch as her red 1968 Mustang sped down the block.

It was after 10 pm when Sheila dragged into the house, the dark brown curls on her head as limp and lifeless as she felt. The meeting with Denton – call me Dent – Hamilton had been worse than they’d feared. The magazine had indeed been sold to a venture capital company and its first move was to get rid of the highest paid employees, with a small severance package tacked on, of course. Her top sales woman, the art director and editor would be gone within the week. They’d given Sheila two weeks to clear out. Sheila had, as Clyde would say, been made redundant.

Sheila scanned the quiet living room, dropping her briefcase and keys onto the leather sectional. Where is Clyde anyway, she wondered. She cocked her head, listening for a sound, difficult in the best of times with her tinnitus and worse with lack of sleep.

“Clyde?” she called, heading toward the master bedroom. She thought she heard a faint hissing sound coming from behind the door. It got louder as she approached.

“Surprise!” Clyde yelled when she opened the door, causing Sheila’s heart, she was sure, to stop momentarily.

Before she could say anything, the noise in the room went from hissing to gurgling, from gurgling to pulsing as Clyde turned the dial on an unfamiliar black box on her bedside table.

“What? What is that?” Sheila had to practically yell over the cacophony.

The room suddenly fell silent as Clyde rushed to her side.

“It’s your surprise, Darling,” he said, pulling her across the room. “It’s a white noise machine. There’s ever so many settings and, look,” he said, pointing to a button, “you can program it to play for hours and hours or for just a short time. It’s sure to drown out your tinnitus and there has to be a setting that will lull you to sleep. Do you like it?” He looked eagerly up at her.

Sheila sank down onto the bed with a sigh.

“It’s a lovely idea,” she managed, “but nothing has worked so far, Clyde,” she said, remembering the yoga, the prescription pills, the herbal pills and rubs, the sleep-inducing teas and concoctions. She used to fall asleep in three seconds flat, but the insomnia, like the tinnitus, had been plaguing her for over a year now. And over the last few days, it’d grown worse.

Clyde barely hid his disappointment. Sheila rallied.

“Of course I like it, Clyde,” she said, rubbing his back. “I’m just not myself right now. I need sleep and maybe, just maybe, your white noise machine will do the trick.”

For the next 20 minutes Clyde eagerly demonstrated the various sounds and settings. Sheila couldn’t imagine trying to fall asleep to the “City” setting with its honking horns and sirens, nor the “Train,” which, when used in enhanced mode, included whistles. “Waterfall,” maybe. “Babbling Brook” … possibly. “Rainfall,” definitely one she’d try, though not enhanced with claps of thunder. “Meadow” sounded exactly like the noises she heard in her head 24/7 … crickets, cicadas and tree frogs with occasional high-pitched whines. She’d skip “Meadow”.

Sheila recounted the day’s events at the office while Clyde fixed her a vodka and tonic.

“Horrible way to treat the person who took that magazine out of the red and into the black!” Clyde declared as he handed her the drink.

Sheila sipped and made a face.

“So sorry, old girl,” Clyde said. “Had to use the cheap vodka we bought for the party last month. We’re all out of the Ketel One. I’ve put it on my shopping list.”

“No, no, this is fine,” Sheila assured him and took a bigger drink. “Alcohol is alcohol and maybe it’ll help me get to La-La-Land.”

Clyde threw back his head and laughed heartily. “You Yanks have quaint expressions, I must say. Now be a love and finish that drink while I see about dinner.” He kissed the top of her head and scurried toward the kitchen. Sheila sank back in the big leather chair and all but gulped the cocktail.

Later, it was all Sheila could do to keep her eyes open at the dinner table. The homemade bread and cottage pie, one of Clyde’s specialties, smelled and looked wonderful, though at this point Sheila was seeing double. She smiled up at the two Clydes as they dished out the food, determined that on this night she would finally sleep.

“There, there, dear,” Clyde said, giving her shoulder a pat, “after dinner I’ll make you some of my famous hot chocolate and tonight you willsleep,” he declared, echoing her thoughts.

Sheila barely listened as Clyde recounted all the neighborhood gossip during the meal. The tinnitus was worse than ever. She was surprised Clyde couldn’t hear it across the table. Not only was she seeing double, but hearing double. She threw in a few exclamations and “uhuhs” here and there and that seemed to suffice. Clyde understood. After all, he was the one who’d had to put up with her tossing and turning all night long, the poor dear.

By the time she’d finished her hot chocolate, Sheila was near-comatose, though her extremities tingled and her heart raced. Clyde helped her dress for bed. As she held her arms over her head and he slipped her nightgown over them, she vaguely recalled a time when she’d be turned on by such a thing. She wanted to reach for Clyde and pull him close, but recoiled at the idea of taking it any further. Sleep. She wanted blessed sleep, that was all.

The next thing she knew, he was tucking her into bed, the electric blanket set on high. It felt, oh-so-good. Then he was holding out one hand; in the other he held a glass of water.

“This will help,” he said, his voice soothing and calm.

“What is it?” she asked, though she really didn’t care. She struggled to pull herself upright.

“One of the new sleeping pills your doctor prescribed,” he said, lowering it onto her tongue.

“I’m not sure I need ...” He was holding the glass to her lips and she swallowed her words and the water passively.

Clyde gently pushed her down into the bed and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders as she liked. He set the brown prescription bottle on the nightstand and pushed a button on the new white noise machine. Instantly, the room was filled with the sounds of sweet, gentle rain.

“Tonight, you will be dead to the world, my love,” he said, stroking her hair.

Sheila’s head reeled as her body sunk deeper into the memory foam. She felt cocooned, weightless.

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa tonight,” Clyde crooned, still hovering over her. “You needn’t worry about me.”

Worrying about Clyde was beyond Sheila at that point. As he backed away from the bed, the lovely sound of falling rain overtook the horrible clicks and whistles of the tinnitus. As soon as the door closed and the darkness surrounded her, however, Sheila felt a heavy weight descend on her. It was as if she were sinking further into the foam, that it was enveloping her. She tried to lift her arms and head and found that she couldn’t. Panic stabbed through her. She tried to call for Clyde, but no sounds came. The sibilant false rain of the noise machine seemed to grow louder.

She heard voices. Was Clyde entertaining guests at this hour? She strained to hear. Was that laughter? The tinkling of ice in glasses? Someone saying her name? Yes, there it was: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over and over again. More laughter, then: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. It beat in time with her hammering heart, filling her head.

Sheila tried to tamp down her mounting terror. “I’m having a panic attack,” she told herself, “brought on by lack of sleep, the stress of losing my job, alcohol, maybe even the new sleeping pill. There are no voices, only the ones in my head!”

As if prompted by the last thought, the voice saying her name seemed to fill the room. Sheila … Sheila … Ssshheila … Ssssssssssshhheila … it became the long, drawn-out hiss of a snake, a storm of black rain falling on her head.

When he saw the empty prescription bottle on the nightstand, the coroner knew what he was dealing with. He shook his head; it was a tragedy in one so young, but not unheard of in this dog-eat-dog world. A cursory autopsy validated his suspicions: acute myocardial infarction brought on by an overdose of prescription sleeping pills.

After the burial, sparsely attended due to a sudden downpour, Clyde made his way gingerly to Sheila’s – his – red mustang. A tad gauche given the surroundings and circumstances, but he did so love to drive it. Beside him on the white leather seat sat a black bag weighted down with stones and filled with various tools of his former trade: Bunsen burner, vials and tubes, clear, colorless liquids and white powders. His passport was in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. After a quick stop at the aptly named Mud Lake, he had a long, leisurely drive south, to Rio, ahead. After that, there was a widow in Oregon he intended to meet, quite casually, outside her well-appointed home. He’ll be walking dogs, perhaps; she did so love dogs.

But first, he needed a vacation.

Garlic

by Colleen Sutherland

Sometimes the best way to end a relationship is with a quick and nasty knife to the gut.

Kathy met Bertrand at a library book club. He was one of the few men at gathering and the only one who read the books and could discuss them. She thought most of the male readers were there to meet women. Bertrand was skinny and balding with an oversize nose but at her age Kathy had developed the knack of looking inside to see what she might find. Within a few weeks, she was meeting Bertrand for coffee after the library closed, their discussions going on until the coffee shop manager shoved them out the door. They disagreed on most of the books they read. He liked history, but nothing after the Civil War. She enjoyed novels, especially modern novels by good authors. They debated each book, tore into it as no one else in the book club did.

In time, they moved to a bar after the coffee shops closed to continue their arguments. One night, more than a little inebriated, Kathy did what she really hadn't planned on and woke to find him in her bed. Well, she thought, nothing for it but to make him breakfast and send him on his way. The book club was finished for the winter and she wouldn't see him again until the fall and then only if they both signed on. 

Breakfast changed all that.

Besides the book club, Kathy's other nights out were spent at classes at the local technical college studying the culinary arts. Her long term plan was to become a chef but so far, all she got were offers at fast food places frying chicken. She continued to practice her skills at home, inventing new recipes, trying out spices, and testing everything herself. Perhaps a catering career was in her future. She didn't see herself in a corporate setting forever.

When she served Bertrand a blue cheese and bacon omelet for breakfast with hazelnut coffee, he was smitten and she finally had someone to test her recipes. He was now part of her life.

He was intelligent in a wordy kind of way but it dawned on her that he was Tea Party and she was a Fighting Bob LaFollette progressive. During elections he worked the phones at the GOP headquarters and she did the same for the Democrats. They didn't discuss politics when they were together. And the sex....there was always that.

He was spending more and more time at her apartment. His toothbrush was there and he was always prompt about showing up for dinners.

One night she was cooking baked chicken and pastina, Bertrand wandered into the kitchen. He sat on a stool with his mouth watering and chattered about the latest book club selection. He was half way through, she was just beginning.

“Here,” she said. “You can help.”

She gave him a knife and told him to chop up some onions. He was doing it all wrong so she showed him how. “Do it right and you won't tear up.”

He was intrigued. His mother never let the boys in his family cook. It looked like fun. “Teach me,” he said. And so their lessons began.

At first she made him the salad chef and taught him about greens. He did his best, but he really preferred iceberg lettuce to arugula. He sneaked in his own lettuce and added it to the salads. She didn't mind that much so left him alone.

She began to teach him how to do Italian dishes which were really easy once you had the knack. The problem was garlic. He didn't like pealing the cloves, smashing them and chopping them. “It's a lot of work for a couple of cloves,” he complained.

“Oh, but the results.” Kathe said, “and you might as well learn how, garlic shows up in lots of recipes.”

The next day they went shopping for groceries together for that night's meal. She was in the produce department when he found a jar and showed it to her. “Look,” he said. “You can get garlic already chopped up. Why bother with the other? This is less work.”

“You can get it, but you'll see the difference. Fresh is better.”

Bertrand never saw the difference so when she let him prepare his own dishes he used his jar of garlic and horrors, some dried onion he had picked up somewhere.

“That's awful,” she said.

“When we're married, you'll do most of the cooking,” he said, “but I can take care of things when you're gone or pregnant. The kids will have to eat something.”

Marriage? Pregnant? Kids? How many? She said nothing.

When it came to religion, he was a Catholic and she was an agnostic. She thought no wars were ever started in the name of agnosticism while at the same time she could hold out hope that there was indeed something after death.

She was pro-choice and he wasn't, though he thought birth control was a good thing in their case, at least until he was more established in his job and she could get pregnant. Not in her plans, she thought but kept mum about that. She could see the relationship was going nowhere but for the time being, the sex was good and she could cook for someone who appreciated her talent.

Kathy didn't think Bertrand would be around on Super Bowl Sunday. Usually he went off to a sports bar with his friends to cheer on his team. She planned a thorough kitchen cleaning for the weekend.

“How about my friends come here on Sunday?” he asked. “You've got a big screen and I've been bragging about your cooking. Maybe you can put on a spread? I'll give you the money for it. And I'll help with the cooking. Not much to it really. Brats and potato chips will do.”

“No, I'll do the cooking. You and your friends can enjoy yourselves.”

It was a great chance to try out new recipes and show off her skills. She thought of opening her own catering business. Maybe a football spread would sell. She settled on an international menu. Sweet and sour meatballs using peaches as a sweetener, Reuben fritters made with corned beef and two cheeses, shrimp egg rolls.

She woke up at sunrise with a sneeze followed by a cough. She took a nostrum right away but it left her in a daze. No matter. She chopped, she stirred, she broiled, she baked. Bertrand wandered through the kitchen, stirring and looking in pots.

In the end, there were fourteen of his buddies there. Instead of drinking the appropriate wines she placed on the sideboard, they brought a keg of beer and some Styrofoam glasses. They even had paper plates and napkins, but she set those aside and used her second best china and cloth serviettes.

During the pre-game show, she began with her hors d'oeuvres which she put on a tray and placed on the coffee table. The men ignored her as the game began. She noticed they were cheering the Vikings and booing the Patriots, whoever they were. When she checked back, her perfect hors d'oeurvres tray was virtually untouched, even the deviled eggs and the ham and Guyere pinwheels. The honey-mustard dipping sauce had been dipped into once, there were some drops on the side, but the rest remained.

Then it was halftime. The football fans went through her neatly displayed buffet line, grabbing, and shoving things in their mouth.

“Aarrgh,” one said and spit out an egg roll on a serviette.

“Dammit,” another one said, and dropped the baked brie in puffed pastry on the floor.

“What is this shit?” a chubby guy in sweats said gazing at the smoked salmon. “You said she was a good cook!”

That was when Kathy blew her nose, used an inhaler and tasted.

Garlic. There was garlic in everything.

“What the hell?”

“I helped out.” Bertrand waved his jars around. “I thought garlic was good in everything.”

Kathy began to cry. The men glared at her.

“Isn't that just like a woman.”

“Isn't there anything else we can eat?”

“Not worth crying about,” Bertrand said. “I am so sorry,” he said but not to her. “Back in a minute.” He rushed to the corner store and was soon back with bags of chips and dips.

But that was it for Kathy. As the men happily ate their junk food and swilled beer, she threw her buffet in the trash and washed up. By the fourth quarter, she was in the room, rooting for the Patriots. 

When the men ogled the cheerleaders and made cracks about getting in their pants, she told them they were sexist pigs and to shut up about it in her house.

When there was a news break about the debt ceiling, she espoused her liberal views. “It all began with Reagan and that idiot Bush finished us off. It was those two wars.” She showed them a photo someone took of her at a peace rally.

She talked about her career. “By the time I'm forty, I intend to be president of my firm.”

“When will you find time for children?” Bertrand asked.

“There won't be any,” she said.

Bertrand and his friends left after the game. She looked in the bathroom. His toothbrush was gone.

So was his jar of garlic.  

The Interview

From the moment he walked in, Jessup knew the guy was going to be a problem. Most of the applicants at least tried to look respectable, and not like one of the head cases from D Block. The kid wore black jeans paired with a pink t-shirt with an Abrams tank on the front. A man just didn't do that kind of thing if he wanted to be taken seriously. The red rooster-tail hair style and mascara didn't help much either.

Still, the kid did make it past the first two cuts in HR, so he must have had something to offer. Jessup shook hands with him, despite the kid's black nail polish, and invited him to sit. Brigham, sitting to Jessup's left didn't shake, just spit tobacco juice into a coffee cup as he looked at the kid.

“Mister Tarot,” Jessup said, “why don't you start by telling us a little bit about yourself.”

“Yeah, well for starts, just call me Tarot, okay? That's my name, like it says on the resume.”

“I never did trust a man with only one name,” Brigham said, scratching his beard, "it's not Christian.”

“Well I ain't no Christian, Gramps,” Tarot said, “you got a problem with that? This some kind of Christian-only job?”

Jessup put a hand on Brigham's arm, gently pushing the retiree down into his seat. “Hold on there, son, we're an equal opportunity employer here. Hell, Brigham here hasn't darkened the door of a church in over thirty years, ain't that right?”

Brigham spat into his cup.

Tarot smiled and crossed his legs. “Yeah, no problem. Sorry. But this job is right up my alley, so I'm just nervous, that's all. I mean, I may be overqualified, you know?”

“You a former governor of Texas?” Brigham said.

“No.”

“Then you ain't overqualified.”

“Let's start with your experience,” Jessup said.

“Well,” Tarot said, “if you look at the resume, you'll see that I design my own guillotines, from the finger choppers up to the one we used on tour to chop off seven heads at one go.” He reached over and tapped at the bottom of the resume sitting in front of Jessup. “There's the link where you can go see my stuff on YouTube.”

“On tour?” Jessup said.

“Yeah, I'm in a band. Or was, I mean. We used manikins for the guillotine stuff, so if it worked on them, it should work on the real thing.”

“We don't need no Frenchie executioners,” Brigham said, “we need a hangman.”

Tarot shrugged. “I figured out how to get seven hundred pounds of razor steel to go through five cattle carcasses without splintering the bones. Compared to that, how hard can rope be?”

Brigham spat. “Hoo-eee! Rope ain't hard! How many times I heard that one, eh Jessup?”

“Tarot,” Jessup said, “Brigham here was the state's hangman for over twenty years. Before him, the state got sued seventeen times for botched hangings. What's your record, Brigham?”

“One hunnerd and five executions, not a one contested. You wanna know why, son?”

“You gonna tell me anyway?” Tarot said.

“Because it's an art. They make machines for lethal injection, and electrocution. Between the Army and the video games there's enough shooters around for thousands of firing squads. But hanging? It's a lost art.”

He sent another string of brown spit into the cup.

“Nope, ain't no one around that know's how to work rope, fewer yet that know how to make a painless noose and set the sandbag so's the neck snaps but the head stays on.”

Tarot's scowl disappeared. “That's so metal! Can you teach me how to do it?”

“Hells no! I'm a hangman, not a professor! Besides, I'm retired. I don't have time to start from scratch with blockheads like you.”

Tarot didn't say anything for a few seconds, then stood up and looked at Jessup.

“Fuck this man. I ain't getting the job, am I?”

“I expect not.” Jessup said.   

*

The next applicant didn't seem remarkable to Jessup: a man in a charcoal grey suit, glasses, and a John Denver haircut. Brigham seemed to do a double take, and his eyes narrowed. The applicant's resume consisted of a single line.

1992- Present: Simmons Rope and Chain Company, Senior Manager, Quality Control.  Developed testing methods for natural and synthetic fiber ropes and cording. Expert in nooses, snares, and knots.

The man looked all around the room, though wouldn't meet Jessup's eyes. He settled on staring at Jessup's shoes.

“Mister Thomas,” Jessup said, “why don't you tell Brigham and me why you're the best person for this job.”

“I'm intimately familiar with how rope behaves and how to avoid even the most uncommon problems with the medium.”

“Hoo-ee! The medium?”  Brigham said. 

“Indeed, sir,” Thomas said, shifting his gaze to Brigham's shoes, “for example, the effect of humidity on the coefficients of friction in natural fibers. I would expect that being an expert yourself, you use hemp rope in this climate because manila fiber tends to bind and twist on itself in the winter months. We wouldn't want to unduly chafe the – er, participant.” He let out a dry, staccato laugh.

“Hemp?” Brigham said, jerking his head, “Did you say hemp? What kind of fool do you think I am? Hemp is too springy. I've always sworn by manila.”

Thomas looked up at Brigham, a corner of his mouth downturned before he quickly looked back at the floor.

“I- I assure you, hemp outperforms manila in every way.”

“Hippy marketing claptrap.” Brigham leaned closer to Jessup.  “Next thing you know, he'll want to hang 'em from sus-tainable bamboo scaffolding or some such other crap.”

“I co-authored a paper on the tensile and binding properties of hemp fibers that was accepted by the American Rope and Cable Manufacturers' Association,” Thomas said, straightening in his chair, “I thought it might be padding my resume a bit much to include it, but I can direct you to their website so you can read it yourself.”

“The ARCA is an industry lobby, more interested in tax cuts than their product. They'd worship a poodle in a mini-skirt if they thought it would save them a couple bucks.”

“That doesn't have anything to do with hemp,” Thomas said. He squirmed in his seat, and his face took on a pink cast.

Brigham leaned forward. “Hemp's not even on the same level as nylon.”

 Thomas leapt from the chair, shaking a finger at Brigham. Whatever he meant to say was lost as he choked on his own spittle. Tomas pitched forward coughing, his face turning red. Jessup stood and walked around to Mister Thomas. He laid a hand on the man's shoulder, and helped him straighten as the coughing ended.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” Jessup said. Mister Thomas rose and slowly made his way to the door. He murmured a thanks to Jessup, who held the door open for him. Jessup closed the door behind him and cocked an eyebrow at Brigham, already absorbed in digging out a new wad of tobacco from a foil-lined pouch.

“You've always insisted on hemp ropes,” Jessup said.

“Yup.”

“So?”

“Sexual deviant,” Brigham said. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. Can't get off unless he or someone else is getting choked.”

“You sure?” Jessup said, “Even if he were into that autoerotic thing, so what?”

Brigham looked at Jessup, the bulge sliding from his lower lip to his cheek as he moved the tobacco around.

“Guy like that will screw up a hangin' on  purpose. He seems smart enough to maybe only mess with one in ten, or one in twenty. Hell, he may only do it once in his career, but he'll do it. And once is too many.”

“Aren't you always saying you're not a doctor?”

“I'm not. I'm a hangman, and it's my job to know these things. Besides, he didn't have a beard either. Can't trust a hangman without a proper beard.” He reached for his mug. “Send in the next one.”

*

The next few interviews were little better. The kindest words Brigham has for the applicants were 'dumber than a box of rocks,' 'sharp as a ping-pong ball,' and 'a flat-head in a Phillips world.'

“There's just one interview left,” Jessup said.

“Good. I wanna get home and watch Bass Masters.”

“Could you try not to tick the applicant off this time?”

“If their delicate sensibilities are offended by an old fart's brain droppings, then they're not cut out for the execution business."

The door opened, and Jessup knew he was doomed to at least another month behind the table with Brigham. A woman walked in, tall, middle-aged, with a lined face and blunt nose giving a solid no-nonsense quality to her that Jessup usually associated with farm wives and restaurant owners. She reached out and gave Jessup's hand a firm shake.

"Miriam Boxleitner, pleased to meet you."  

She stuck out her hand to Brigham, who chose to spit into his cup instead. She gave a slight shrug and collapsed in the chair, as if she had been on her feet all day.

 "Well," Jessup said, leafing through his folder of papers, "I don't seem to have your resume on hand, do you have a copy?"

"I don't have one. Who needs a resume to be a hangman?" she said.

"Then how do we know you're qualified, missy?" Brigham said.

She screwed up her face in thought. "Well, when I was younger, I took up taxidermy."

"We don't mount prisoners to the walls, last time I checked," Brigham said.

She looked at him and smiled. "No, I expect you don't. However, my mentor had me practice on small animals before he'd let me work on other people's jobs. So I went around to the local farms and offered to take care of any strays they had."

"The job's for a hangman, not a dog catcher," Brigham said.

She nodded. "To make sure I didn't ruin the pelts, I hung 'em rather than shooting them. I got pretty good at it. My record was thirteen cats at one time."

"How'd you manage that?" Jessup said.

"Easy, you get a stepladder and string a few of 'em up on each rung."

Jessup looked at Brigham, who was working his wad of chew from cheek to cheek.

"You ever do anything bigger than a cat?"

"A few cows, two deer and an alligator."

Brigham's wad of chew stopped moving.

"An alligator? Neck's too thick for hanging." he said.

Miriam spread her hands. "You have to run a slip noose around the end of the snout to get the extra leverage needed for snapping the neck at the main noose."

Brigham spat into his cup. "What else you got?"

"My maiden name was Johnstone, I grew up in Kansas."

Brigham's eyebrows shot up.

"What is it?" Jessup asked.

"Nicodemus Johnstone was the most famous headsman and hangman in the Kansas Territories. Some say criminals feared him more than Wyatt Earp." He turned to Miriam. "I thought your family was out of the business."

"Grandpa and my dad never took up the craft, but we still have great-granddad's papers. I figured someone in the family should keep in practice."

"Hemp or Manila?"

Miriam shrugged. "I'll take hemp if I can get it, but I'm used to making due with what the state provides."

"What do you do now?" Brigham asked.

"I work at the DMV."

Brigham stared at her for over a minute. She calmly looked back at him.

"I don't trust hangmen without beards," he said.

"I expect you'll get over it," she said.

Brigham nodded. "I expect so." He turned to Jessup. “She's not perfect, but she ain't an idiot.”

It was as close as an endorsement Jessup had heard from the old codger over the past two months of interviews.

“Do you have any moral objections to killing a man?” Jessup asked.

“What's the pay grade?” she asked.

“The job's coded as a G-27.”

“Overtime?”

“Yeah,” Jessup said.

“No objections, and I can start on Monday.”

“Hallelujah,” Brigham said, “You're hired. Call me at the bait shop if you need any pointers.”

The image is from the user Chris 73 and is freely available at //commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hangmans_Noose.jpg under the creative commons cc-by-sa 3.0 license.

A Perfect Christmas

by Colleen Sutherland

(This is my last depressing Christmas story of the year.  Next year I intend to put all of them into a book.  Those who have been following along will by now realize though each story stands alone, they are interconnected as well. They are meant for those who really don't like the holiday and they are legion. CS.) 

       Joe was snoring out big beer breaths. It had been another one of those nights with the boys, but why did it have to be Christmas Eve? The kids were sleeping so Janine still had a chance to give them that perfect, memorable Christmas.

       Janine had big plans for Christmas 2012. She had lists of things to do, checklists to be checked and consulted. Her plans seldom worked out but this day would be different. There were places the family had to be, relatives to visit, church services to attend, and above all the riotous opening of presents under the tree. 

 
      So Janine planned, beginning with Black Friday.  She had her lists ready and was waiting at the front of the mall at 3:00 a.m. She must have broken her wrist when the door open and the crowd charged but she never broke her stride. She threw her purse over her shoulder and grabbed little Freddy by the other hand. She found Joe's gift in the electronics department, a doll for Eloise on a special display rack. She even nabbed a Shooter Scooter from under the Santa throne at the mall while Freddy was on Santa's lap. Maybe that old guy wanted that gift for somebody he thought special, but store employees shouldn't hoard the good stuff anyhow. The doctor said the cast would be off by New Year's.

       She never slowed down. The minute the kids left for school, Janine took off for the stores. Joe claimed she spent too much on Christmas. They only lived on what he made as a deliveryman for local stores whenever their own crew was too rushed. He was an independent contractor with his own van. Christmas was his busiest time but the rest of the year he worked as a mover. Somehow they got by. Janine told him how much she had saved on each item she bought but hid the credit card statements.

       Janine figured that on Christmas morning with the family still sleeping, she could put the presents under the tree and fix that one set of lights that refused to go on. She started by setting her alarm clock. She never set the alarm. Either the cat wanted to be fed or Joe wanted his breakfast so she never got to sleep late even on Mother's Day. She wasn't even sure if that clock worked. But she had to get up early to prepare for that perfect Christmas so she set it. It was almost midnight when she joined Joe in bed.

      On restless nights, Janine heard every noise in the neighborhood: cars going down the street, some animal in the trash can, the cat moving around the house and of course, Joe snoring. She never slept all that well. On this sacred night, she listened to a party across the street that was going on far too long with some rock instruments and singing. She couldn't make out what the singing was about. She tiptoed downstairs, stood next to the Neighborhood Watch sign at the front window and peered out, but the snow was falling and she couldn't make anything out. She listened to the racket for a while and finally called the police and asked them to check on it. There might be drugs involved. You never knew. It was a dangerous world out there.

       She crept back to bed to give it another try, but gave up on sleep an hour before she usually got up. She would be tired the next day but it would be worth it to give her children that perfect moment under the tree. She slipped out of the bed and went down the stairs barefoot, being careful so she wouldn't wake Joe. He was mean when he had a hangover. Let him sleep late.

       It wasn't until she had the first cup of coffee that Janine remembered she never turned off that damned alarm clock. She tiptoed back up the stairs into the bedroom and clicked off the alarm, stubbing her toe on the cat sleeping next to the dresser. He was old, deaf and going blind so he didn't notice things the way he used to but that woke him up.

       He followed Janine downstairs demanding in his loud wail to be fed and not cat food either. He knew there was a platter of leftover turkey in the fridge and turkey is turkey, cat food is cat food. He yowled. Rex was a half-Siamese mongrel foisted on her by a relative. He didn't speak normal cat, just howls in Siamese. He must have driven his non-Siamese mother nuts.

       “I am a slave to everyone in this family, including that cat,” Janine said to the empty kitchen.  No matter, Rex got his way. She didn't want him to wake the kids.

       She messed with the lights on the tree for a while, trying to find the bad bulb. She finally gave up, figuring that it would be morning sunlight when the kids got up anyhow. The needles were already falling, so in a day or two the thing would come down. “Damned fire hazard,” she said.

       Janine got a step stool to haul the presents out of the tallest kitchen cupboard. A good place to hide things she thought, but she noticed the wrapping had been slightly torn and there was more tape on them than there should be. Darned kids. Or maybe it was Joe. He was always trying to figure out how much she was spending.

       “I'll think about that tomorrow,” she told Rex. “Christmas is important.” There even was a present for him, a little catnip mouse.

       She arranged the presents under the tree. That's when she realized she forgot batteries. All those battery ads on television about being prepared and she forgot. She carefully re-opened the packages and made a list of what would be needed and went to the kitchen to look for the batteries. There weren't any. She realized Joe had swiped her stash for some damned project. She would have to go to the convenience store three miles away and hope they still had batteries.

       She was flagging. “I need a shower to wake myself up.” She brought her second cup of coffee into the bathroom and climbed into the tub. The soothing hot water ran over her body though she was very careful not to get the cast wet. It felt so, so good. With a second wind, she toweled off as she drank her coffee. 

       She congratulated herself on having the forethought the night before to layout all her clothes in the downstairs bathroom so she wouldn't have to wake Joe up by trying to dress in the dark upstairs. 

       No bra. No panties. Damn. She climbed down the narrow steps to the basement laundry and pulled a dirty bra and panties out of a basket. She waved them around for a bit, smelled them again, then Febreezed them.

       Back in the bathroom she dressed, top to bottom until she realized her shoes and boots were still upstairs. She tiptoed back to the bedroom. Joe was still snoring. There wasn't a sound from the kids. Good. She came back down.

       The cat, who seemed to be suffering from Alzheimer’s, decided Janine had just woken up and yowled for more turkey. She ignored him. She grabbed her purse and keys and went out to start the car. That's when she discovered that Joe's big delivery van was in the driveway behind her car. It would have to be moved. The music down the street was still going on. “Hallelujahs” seemed to be the prominent motif. It was Christmas or she would have gone down there and cursed them out royally. Instead, she went back into the house. The cat went into his full scale my-God-I-am-dying routine.

     “You'll wake everyone up,” she screamed as quietly as she could. She gave in and fed him more turkey.

Joe's keys were not where they were supposed to be on the keyholder in the kitchen. She stole back up the stairs and searched his jackets until she found a set and while she was at it, checked his wallet. He wouldn't notice if a few bills were missing. He rolled over and groaned. She held her breath until he was well and truly asleep again.

       It was getting late. The sun would soon be up. She wanted to hurry but when she came down that demented cat was at it again. He hadn't remembered the two previous meals. She didn't take time to argue, he got more turkey.

       She tore out to the dark driveway, unlocked the van and climbed in, bumping into the rear view mirror and throwing it out of whack. Never mind. That perfect Christmas was only an hour or so away and she didn't want to miss it.

       She backed the van out of the driveway and crashed into a patrol car cruising down the street. Both of the horns started blaring. That's when she remember that she had called the police about suspicious happenings, possibly drugs.

       Officer Craig crawled over the police car's computer gear, pushed open the passenger door and crawled out as he called into the station for backup. Joe came tearing outside in his jockey shorts. So did the True Christians from down the street who had been having some kind of all night party to greet Jesus. So did the kids in their pajamas. So did that damned cat who escaped and ran onto the street. It was at that moment that the asecond patrol tore around the corner. The squeal of the squad car's brakes was equaled only by the cat's final Siamese yelp before it was cut short.

       The kids were screaming, Joe was yelling at her and Officer Craig gave her a ticket.

       It wasn't the perfect Christmas Janine had imagined, but it certainly was memorable.

       I'll try again next year, she thought. At least the cat had three last meals. 

The Envy of the Neighborhood

Photo my Dmitry G via Wikimedia Commons

There is something almost sexual about washing a Prius. I wish I could tell you why, but every time I wash it, I feel this afterglow and the urge to roll over and take a nap. Maybe I wash it more than I should, but my reduced carbon footprint should cover a little extra water, right? So it was of course during Tuesday's washing that the salesman came to call.

He drove a late seventies Mercury, once red, now faded to a salmon color. The overall shape of the car was as if a kindergartner had designed it: a rectangle with tiny circles for wheels. Whatever the hubcaps had looked like was lost to time, only brown lug nuts showed now. The front was a wall of headlights and grille, the rest of the body bulky and slow-looking.

The salesman was no better. Somewhere in his forties, paunchy, and moving with all the energy and grace of a sick water buffalo. He hefted a small suitcase that looked like alligator skin; tufts of white poked out from holes and thin spots. His brown corduroy jacket with dark elbow patches floated over green pants as if the man were an inverted Christmas tree. He wore a homberg hat, and actual homberg, as if he were Winston Churchill or an olde tyme banker. And his shoes, his shoes! The only thing new on him, construction boots. This shambling figure approached the driveway, and I had nowhere to run.

“Hello,” he said, “do you like Christmas?”

“No.”

His head jerked back like I had just taken a swing at him. “You don't? Why's that?”

“Christmas is just cover for mass consumerism. It soothes the guilt of running up credit card debt, all so junior can have the latest gee-jaw to keep him quiet while mom and dad watch their sitcoms on TV.”

“Oh. So you think Christmas has lost its meaning?”

“If you mean that the holiday invented by a pope to undermine the Druids, sure.”

His face brightened.

“Yes sir,” he said, “many people feel as you do. Today's Christmas is nothing like what it ought to be, nothing like what they remember growing up. Would you like to know the reason?”

Because people suppress memories of whiskey-scented beatings? Because kids never have to shell out their own money for gifts? Claymation? Norman Rockwell? What was this guy's angle?

“I'm sure you're going to tell me,” I said.

Bibles. I bet he's selling bibles.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and leaned forward. “Christmas lights.”

I blinked; he nodded.

“Why even in your own neighborhood,” he said, “LEDs up one side and down the other.”

“LEDs,” I said.

“You call that light they give off a glow? It's as cold as Jack Frost's mother-in-law.” He laughed.

I didn't.

“You save a lot in electricity with the LEDs,” I said.

He peered around me at the Prius.

“That's why you got that thing?”

There was something unwholesome about his look. I took a step forward and blocked his view.

“It's environmentally responsible,” I said.

“Bah, that's just marketing talk. The best thing for the earth is to drive a classic like mine, not use more of the Earth's stuff to make a slightly less dirty car. No, re-use has gotten the short thrift in our society sir. Which brings me here to today.

“I thought it was Christmas and the evils of LED lights.”

“And that's just where it starts! There are the inflatable displays, just plug in a cord, and poof – instant nativity scene. Just hope that baby Jesus doesn't spring a leak. The pre-lit trees and deer, the dangly flashing icicle lights, motorized penguins on ice skates, they all pitifully try to make up for their lack of originality and warmth with gaudiness and so-called convenience.”

I kind of liked the penguins. “So what's your solution?”

He smiled and opened his case. Inside jewel-toned lightbulbs in faded cardboard boxes sat beside foil reflectors stacked like cupcake paper. Cloth-wrapped wires ended in chunky two-pronged plugs. A light-up angel sat next to a plug-in Santa whose beard had yellowed.

“You're selling used Christmas lights?” I said.

“Antiques. Dina-Lites with the Noma safety plugs. The old Mazda series, and the Osram Party lights.”

He plucked out a bulb the size of my pinky, the red knurled glass twinkling in the sun.

“Incandescents!” he said, “These are the secret to Christmas. The beautiful glow that comes only from zig-zagy tungsten filaments. Just warm enough to melt any covering snow and shine to the world.”

“I don't think so.”

“How about this?” He held up what looked like a popcorn ball made of blue glass.

“The snowball light. Where are these in the stores today?”

I shrugged.

“Or these,” he held up a green and red onion-shaped bulb with a tube of green fluid emerging from the top. “Bubble lights!”

“I thought they still sold those.”

“Pale imitations. They are club soda, this is Champagne.”

“I don't know, I like kitsch as much as the next guy, but I'm not going to decorate my house with power-guzzling fire hazards.”

“That's the beauty, sir. A little goes a long way. The amount of electricity you'd use is a paltry measure. And I assure you, not one of my products has ever caught fire.”

They did seem to have a certain retro factor that might play well. Maybe I could use some during a Mad Men-themed dinner party.

“Do you sell anything to control them remotely? My buddy has an Android app that can make his lights blink in time to any song you want.”

“No,” he said, confused.

“Pity.” Kip was always showing me what his phone could do that mine couldn't. I had hoped to shut him up.

“Surely you can see past all that novelty and show that, like a fine wine, newer is not always better?”

I did like wine.

“What would you recommend for a small display?”

He smiled and brought out a stylized star outlined in gold foil. It reminded me of Las Vegas.

“From the 1950s, I give you the Lawson model 400.”

“Seems kind of plain.”

“The foil will reflect the light of the blue, red and green lights here in the center, see?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it will sparkle and shimmer in the slightest breeze. It's lost techniques like this that will make you the envy of the neighborhood.”

He said it with a knowing smile, and it hit me in the stomach. A piece of 1950s crap would make the envy of the neighborhood? My Prius was the envy of the neighborhood. My shiny, modern, Earth-saving vehicle was not going to be upstaged by a light with some tin foil around the edges.

“I don't know about the star,” I said. “I see you have Santa and candy canes and angels. How about a Jesus light?”

“I don't have one of those, sir.”

“It just seems like since we're supposed to be celebrating his birthday and all, there should be a light-up Jesus.”

“I'm sorry, they don't make those. They've never made those.”

“Well, that's what I want.”

“I could perhaps locate a nativity scene in the warehouse,” he said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

“No, not a nativity scene, a string of Jesus bulbs to light my front porch. If you can't provide that, good day, sir.”

The salesman's smile slipped and for a moment, I could see his fatigue. I couldn't feel sorry for him, it was his own fault for selling second-hand junk so worthless people wouldn't even buy it for Christmas. He carefully latched his case and lifted his hat.

“Merry Christmas, sir.”

He slammed the jalopy's door as he got in, loud enough to set off the alarm of the car parked across the street. I turned back to my Prius.

“Now baby, where were we?”

The Loser

By Bettyann Moore

As the train pulled into the station, Porpoise McAllister knew he was in trouble. He could see them: Melissa (Look, But Don’t Touch) Stufelter and her parents, George and Stephanie, standing outside the depot. George looked stern; Stephanie like she was only vaguely conscious of where she was. Melissa resembled a toadstool with her wide-brimmed hat and her long, cylindrical body clothed in fungus brown, her arms stiffly at her sides. Porpoise imagined her dropping hermaphroditic spores here and there with each movement she made.

He ran his thick fingers through his tangled mass of red hair, leaving traces of a Snickers Bar lunch to mingle with the natural oils. As the train edged nearer to the platform, Porpoise’s mind wandered to the last time he had been with Melissa (Wash Your Hand First) Stufelter. It was just before going off on this trip to Grandmother McAllister’s Transcendental Meditation Workshop and Goose Farm, a combination which had proved near-fatal to Porpoise whose level of concentration – much heightened by Grandma’s protein-packed meals – had caused him to wander unknowingly into a gaggle of geese. The fowl had not achieved Nirvana as Grandmother had hoped and had proceeded to attack the corpulent flesh beneath Porpoise’s short meditation robe, nearly rendering him incapable of the things Melissa (You’ll Have to Marry Me First) Stufelter found hard not to like.

The night before he left, Porpoise realized, Melissa hadn’t fought at all. It had even been her idea to end their date at her father’s place of business instead of their usual spot under the third rose bush in her mother’s haphazard garden. At first he was pleased by this change of scene since it would afford his body time to heal from the thorn wounds that Melissa took such great pleasure in bestowing upon his naked flesh whenever he came too close to entering the seventh heaven he’d often reached alone, but had never entered with another.

As soon as they stepped into her father’s shadowy office, though, Porpoise wished fervently that George were something other than a mortician.

It wasn’t the thought of all those bodies surrounding them, nor was it Melissa’s wild-eyed look that made him nervous, Porpoise reasoned now. No, it was the thought of all those newly-departed, all-seeing souls that caused his skin and muscle to shrivel noticeably. And wasn’t it true that Old Man Peterson’s remains were waiting for burial in the next room? If the rumors were true, Peterson had been the most prodigious lover in town, had, in fact, succumbed to death at the age of 88 only after making three very young women very happy – at the same time. How could Porpoise compete with that? Surely Peterson was hovering over them, giggling at Porpoise’s ineptitude, giving pointers Porpoise wished he could hear and even ogling Melissa’s body – or worse, laughing at it!

With Melissa’s words echoing in his mind about this being a “test” of some gruesome sort, and half a dozen spirits dangling above them, Porpoise fumbled and fought for finesse, then froze when he realized that his Super Flavor Big Bubble Gum had gotten stuck in her hair. She had seemed disappointed, not in the sticky mass they had to finally cut a large chunk of her hair to remove, but that his attempt at ardor had been in vain. She told him, as he stuck the hairy glob in a wrapper as a souvenir of that night, that he would be sorry in a way he could never imagine when he returned from Grandma’s.

“Sorry for what?” he wondered as the train screeched to a jerky halt and he saw Melissa lean over to her father and say something to him that made him scowl and her mother look more lost than ever. “Sorry for my attempts at lovemaking, or sorry for my failure?” Surely she and her parents were there for a reason. Would she accuse him of molesting her? Or maybe, he thought with an odd mix of excitement and dread, they were there to welcome him into the family.

He strode down the narrow aisle toward the door, anticipating her open-armed greeting, then stumbled as he stepped on a passenger’s attaché case, causing a sibilant hiss to escape with the air. Yes, he decided, Melissa (Come Here, Big Boy) Stufelter was there with her parents to welcome him into their fold. And what better way to conquer his hungers than within the matrimonial bed? He pictured George and Stephanie with ears cocked for the sounds of a grandchild, grateful that his grandmother’s impertinent geese had missed their mark, though somewhat narrowly.

As he fantasized, the man with the crushed attaché shot him a look and stood up. Porpoise had the fleeting notion that here was a man – rail thin and clad in black – who would probably have no trouble whatsoever making love beneath cackling, over-sexed spirits. The man pushed past Porpoise, through the open door, and straight into Melissa’s waiting arms. George stood off to one side, the scowl transformed into an eager smile. Stephanie, forgotten, tagged behind as they made their way from the platform.

Porpoise’s gaze shifted to his mother, whom he hadn’t noticed before, waiting patiently for her boy to greet her. He executed the last step down, unaware of the pile of dog shit beneath his shoe, thinking Melissa (Not Worth The Trouble) Stufelter had made her point, and shuffled off toward his mother’s car.