by Bob Brown
I tucked those pills and the incriminating note into a pocket of my robe. I was shivering. What to do next? I wished I weren’t so tired. I wished the cottage were warmer. I wished my hips didn’t hurt like hell from the cold.
Outside the window, the porch light twinkled like a beacon in the mist, calling me back to the house. I started across. Forgetting the moss on the deck, I slid, lost my balance, then caught myself on the handrail. I stood there, panting with fear and for a second my imagination saw me going down hard, hitting my head, sprawled there as still as Sharelle. For a second I thought, then someone else can deal with this shit.
It passed. The keypad recognized my palm and I stepped inside the building to find . . . silence.
Dread swept over me—was Danny gone? or just sleeping?—followed by exhaustion. There was nothing I could do. Suddenly the stairs seemed insurmountable. Like the old lady I now knew I was, I rode the goddamn elevator up to our room on the second floor.
As I reached the door and grasped the handle, I heard a chime. And another. Someone’s alarm, no doubt. Pushing open the door, I started.
Danny had found his guitar.
Afraid he’d smash it in one of his rages, I’d hidden the vintage Martin D-28 in the depths of our closet months ago. Now Danny sat hunched on a chair, twisting the tuning pegs. His iron-grey hair was so crudely trimmed it hurt me to look at him. The skin on his jaw hung loose, covered in stubble.
I cringed as he clawed out a few discordant notes. Then his hands somehow found a tune and he began whispering the words to that old song. A road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of night. I don’t think he’d played that one in 30 years. Or maybe he had and I hadn’t been listening.
When the last note faded, I smeared a tear across my cheek with the heel of my hand and brought my palms together in soft applause. Danny, his big hands trembling, tried to set the weathered guitar against the wall. It slid, and I caught it. I set it safe in the corner and I looked over to see Danny, his head buried in his hands.
Then I made my way down the stairs to the kitchen to mix up another pot of cocoa.
As the mixture grew warm and fragrant, I followed the smell back to a sunny morning when I’d stood at the stove in my grandmother’s kitchen with my whole life in front of me. I’d imagined travels, a husband, a family, singing, dancing . . .
I’d never imagined I’d be Patti 209.
The digital clock on the stove read 3 A.M. Outside the window, rain battered the blackness. Just a few hours until the day staff arrived.
When the cocoa was hot I took two mugs from the cabinet and poured from the pan. I reached into the pocket of my robe, fumbling not for the vanilla but for Sharelle’s bottle of pills.
A hand grabbed my arm. I turned to see Danny looking down at me with sad eyes. I don’t know if he recognized me, but he recognized something. He dropped his hunched shoulders and shuffled closer to give me the first hug I’d had from anyone in a long, long time.
I waited until his arms fell away, then turned back to the cocoa. I put our cups on a tray and carried it into the common room, Danny shuffling along behind me.
We sat on the sofa, and I drew out the bottle of pills.
“No more pills,” he growled as I struggled with the plastic cap. He waved me, and the bottle, away.
I hesitated, then slowly replaced the cap.
“Not tonight,” I said. “But very soon.”
Danny grunted and gulped some cocoa. He set down his mug on the edge of the tray, spilling it. By the time I’d mopped up the mess, he was busy pulling books from one of the bookcases and piling them on the floor. I watched, nodding slowly, and left him to it.
In the kitchen I cleaned up all evidence of our nocturnal picnicking, loading the pot and the dishes into the dishwasher and putting away the tray. When I came out, Danny was kneeling on the floor in the common room, tearing pages out of a book and humming.
Oh, the hell with it.
I rode the elevator back upstairs, crawled into bed, and fell asleep.
~o0o~
The crash of the bookcase didn’t wake me. What did, was Charming Devreaux, shaking my shoulder. What the hell was she doing in our room?
“Patti,” she said.
I batted away her hand, and sat up in bed. A stocky young woman stood in the doorway. A woman in the dark blue uniform of an EMT.
Tying the sash on my robe and raking my fingers through my hair, I followed Charming and the EMT to the stairs. On the way down I caught a glimpse of another EMT and one of our aides as they wheeled a body on a stretcher out the front door.
“Danny.”
I stopped and turned to look back up at Charming.
She nodded.
I felt relief, then embarrassment to be standing there in my robe.
“I’ll go get dressed,” I mumbled. I thought of black trousers, a black sweater, and a silver-and-turquoise pin, a gift from Danny that would be right for the occasion.
“Patti,” Charming said, her voice surprisingly kind. “He’s dead. He had a . . . a stroke. The bookcase . . . a head injury. There was nothing anyone could do.”
Her hand on my shoulder was trembling. She has a heart after all, I thought. Then I realized: Lawsuit. The bitch is afraid I’ll sue.
I nodded agreement at her. Blank I could do. Blank was going to be easy.
The EMT was watching me. A dark-skinned, shorthaired woman with the build of a cop. She bore the green and black tracings of a cybernetic information system on her cheek below her eye. Were the EMT’s now part of law enforcement?
“I am very sorry,” she said in a soft, melodic voice. It held a trace of an accent I could not place. “Danny Richmond was a hero of mine. I own all his recordings. I have tried for years to play in his style. Your husband was a great artist, ma’am.”
Charming’s look of astonishment pleased me no end.
His guitar.
I reached out a hand to the EMT, who’d turned and trotted halfway down the stairs.
“Wait! Please! I have something I’d like to give you.”
She followed me back to the room, where she placed Danny’s guitar into its case, thanking me again and again.
After she left, I took my time dressing. I carefully transferred Sharelle’s bottle of pills from my bathrobe into the pocket of my sweater. Poor Danny hadn’t needed them, after all. But I probably would. I’d be keeping them with me until I found the right hiding place.
By the time I got down to the dining room, an aide had discovered Sharelle’s body out in the shed. I spooned my oatmeal, listening as a man at the next table speculated about what new inmate Charming would admit to replace Sharelle.
“They’ll have plenty of money, you can bet on that,” someone whispered, triggering a ripple of nervous laughter.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Tod—or was it Ted?—murmured, “I’m very sorry about Danny. And about Sharelle.”
I nodded and closed my lips over another spoonful of warm, mushy oats.
When it was time to go back upstairs I hesitated at the door of my room. Danny and his guitar were gone. But both were safe now. And, thanks to Sharelle, Patti 209 could still take care of herself.
I patted the pocket of my sweater and heard the reassuring rattle of the pills.
A bath tonight would be good. I’d use all the hot water I wanted.
END
IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT
Daniel M. Kimmel
ROBERT MINTZ via BREAKINGNEWS.COM
How many more times is this going to happen before our cowardly politicians do something about it?
“27 DEAD AT ALABAMA CHURCH SOCIAL—Tuscaloosa, Alabama—A man upset at a child for getting the last chocolate cupcake at a tea party opened fire in a church basement, killing a half dozen people before having to reload the weapon he was allowed to carry under the NRA-backed ‘Safe Protection Act.’ The man, identified as Simon Barr, was himself killed in the crossfire led by Rev. William Moody, who suff
ered a fatal wound inflicted by the church organist, identified as Mary Turnbull. Mrs. Turnbull said she was aiming at Barr, but fired just as he fell so that the bullet struck Moody instead . . .
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Sally Bedloe:
Will this madness never end?
Thomas Miller:
The only madness here is letting bitches have guns.
Harriet Mayer:
The real madness here is that misogynist idiots like Miller are allowed access to computers AND guns.
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Paul Kaplan:
Just heard on the news that some congressman wants to ban chocolate because of that shooting in Alabama, claiming it drives people to violence. Why isn’t anyone paying attention to WHERE it took place? Why aren’t we putting the blame where it obviously belongs: on the church?
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Terry O’Brien:
Really? How do you imagine it was the church’s fault?
Paul Kaplan:
Who told them to have a “church social” in the first place? If Barr hadn’t been enticed by the false promise of the dessert of his choice, this never would have happened.
Roger Brilley:
Has it occurred to anyone that the locale is important not because of the church but because it’s in the South, the most un-American part of the country where those crackers are still planning to reopen the Civil War?
Terry O’Brien:
If this nutcase didn’t have free access to a gun this never would have happened. What sort of dingbats thought allowing guns in churches and schools and bars was a recipe for anything but disaster?
Paul Kaplan:
Why do you radical leftwing gun grabbers always focus on the weapon?
Sarah Corbin:
Because if there were no guns in the church, none of this would have happened? He wouldn’t have gotten very far attempting to attack people with a teaspoon.
Seamus Riley:
Isn’t this really another example of Christian child abuse?
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ANITA CONSUELO via RAW SEWAGE.COM:
I knew it. I knew it. Sooner or later they’d find a way to blame the Latino community.
“How do we know that Simon ‘Barr’ Barrio wasn’t an illegal immigrant and drug smuggler, crazed with an unsatisfied hunger from consuming his own drugs? When will Congress build that twenty foot high wall on our border that will finally keep these foreigners where they belong?”
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Jan Freeman:
“Barrio?” Where’d that come from?
Robert Mintz:
Why do we keep allowing ourselves to get sidetracked like this? The issue is guns.
Anita Consuelo:
This is why: Link: “Senate filibusters law that would prevent people in mental institutions from having access to guns; claims it ‘infringes’ on constitutional right.”
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Linc REESE via TRUTH ABOUT PERVS.COM
At last it all comes out.
“Tuscaloosa, Alabama—Our website has learned exclusively that the Church Social Shooter was, in fact, a non-Christian transsexual who was experiencing chocolate cravings due to his/her/its hormone treatments . . .”
Be the first Liker. Be the first Sharer. Comment
Stig Swenson:
Linc, this is goofy even for you. No legitimate news source is reporting this.
Linc Reese:
Sure, the gaystream media is covering it up.
Stig Swenson:
There’s no cover-up. This is a bogus story. Is it a parody site?
Linc Reese:
That’s what you faggots always say.
Stig Swenson:
Who are you calling a faggot, you dickless wonder?
Linc Reese:
Brave man with a keyboard. Say that to my face and my .45.
Stig Swenson:
No wonder you were happy that they defeated that law that would prevent cretins who are a danger to themselves from getting guns. Does your mother know you’re using her computer?
Linc Reese:
I see your location. Enjoy your last lunch. I’m on my way.
Marta Creighton:
The internet is going crazy over that church shooting in Alabama and totally ignoring the high schooler who was stalking and killing every girl at his high school because he couldn’t get a date for the prom. Why does violence against women remain invisible?
45 Likes 16 Shares Comment
Sarai Jacobson:
Preach it, sister!
Sally Bedloe:
It shouldn’t be. Gun violence is out of control.
Angie Tomassi:
It’s not gun violence, it’s rape culture.
Sarai Jacobson:
Preach it, sister!
Marta Creighton:
There is a horrible problem with violence against women and we need to make solving it a top priority. But let’s not make it seem like all men are the problem.
Sarai Jacobson:
Marta, I had no idea you had sold out. Why are you enabling rape and violence?
Marta Creighton:
Where did I do that? I simply said we have to focus on the perpetrators, not on all men.
Angie Tomassi:
All men ARE rapists.
Roger Brilley:
Excuse me? *I* am not a rapist and I resent that remark.
Angie Tomassi:
Who gave you permission to comment here? Are you that blind to your white male privilege?
Roger Brilley:
I’m not white. Are you that obsessed with your racist hatemongering?
Sarai Jacobson:
I’m blocking Roger and other rapists from my feed. I am so hyped up from their deliberate use of ‘trigger words’ I need to reclaim control of my space.
Roger Brilley:
What trigger words? What the hell are you talking about?
Angie Tomassi:
Good idea, Sarai. I’m blocking him too.
Roger Brilley:
Marta? Anyone?
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In the corporate headquarters of TouchBase, the top executives of the world’s hottest social network were enjoying their bowls of grakh, the mildly hallucinogenic brew from their home planet, which was now being grown in the Columbian mountains and, thus, available without shipping costs. Multiple newsfeeds from various clients selected at random were scrolling by on the bank of screens along the far wall.
Trwjn, known in his human guise as the affable Garry Pardo, founder of TouchBase, had removed his make-up and prosthetics, as had the others. In spite of the thickness of Earth’s atmosphere it was a pleasure to be able to move freely in their own forms and expose their blue scaled skin to the air. Pzgkq, newly arrived from the home world, scanned the screens through goggles designed to translate what he was seeing into the more mellifluous sounds of XpcW.
Finally he turned to the others. “They seem completely irrational. All they do is argue.”
“And send pictures of their pets,” said Gkwll.
“And their lunches,” added Pdmnq.
“They eat their pets for lunch?” asked Pzgkq, not quite following the discussion.
“No, no,” explained Trwjn. “The humans send pictures of their pet animals as well as pictures of the food they’re about to consume. No one has been able to come up with an explanation for why.”
Pzgkq looked at the screens again. “And the arguing? They seem to fight about anything and everything, assuming the worst motives in others, even members of the same family unit.”
Trwjn agreed. “That’s precisely the point. We just have to keep stoking the flames and humanity will destroy itself. The irony is that we got the idea from the humans themselves. We came across a broadcast signal originally sent out more than fifty years ago from a science fiction show in which off-worlders made humans suspicious o
f each other by fluctuating their power supply. With TouchBase we don’t even have to do that. Pdmnq, why don’t you demonstrate?”
Pdmnq sat down before one of the screens and plugged in the interface that allowed him to place messages through especially designed accounts. On screen was a posting from one Lorraine Dietz about how much she loved being a vegan. Pdmnq’s tendrils danced across the interface and now there was a reply from “Paulina Dominique” with a picture of a kitten over which was written, “And cats make a great dessert.” There were already five messages calling “Paulina” a murderer and five more claiming the writers of those messages were humorless twits.
“And this really works? The humans fight over such things?” asked Pzgkq.
“Indeed. They don’t even have to know whom they’re arguing with so long as the person expresses a view not the same as their own. They argue over the news, their government, religion, sexual intercourse . . .”
“Sexual intercourse? What could they possibly argue about that?”
“Everything from whom one should be permitted to have it with to whether some acts are examples of sharing pleasure or engaging in oppression. The human capacity to take offense over their differences is infinitely large, even as their ability to find common ground is infinitely small. The longer this goes on the more it will become impossible for them to unite in a common defense. If they don’t destroy themselves first, they should be pushovers for us when our main force arrives.”
“You’re done excellent work, Trwjn,” said Pzgkq. “I shall file my report as soon as possible.”
Rosamund Benson:
I like apple pie.
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Marcellus Smith:
No one likes apple pie. Key lime pie!
Stephen Kenner:
You’re both wrong. Pecan pie forever.
John May:
Any pie is okay as long as it’s gluten-free.
Thomas Johnson:
Gluten-free? You actually buy into that crap? It’s a scam . . . .
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END
LETTERS FROM THE HEARTLAND
Janka Hobbs
Heartland, KS
January 6, 2025
Dear Emily,