Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  The old man was quiet for a moment, likely lost in memories. Hopefully, he wouldn’t wander back to the here and now and would let Jason work in piece. But shortly, the farmer shook himself. “I wasn’t even home. Driving cattle to market. I found her and little Rose in their beds...”

  Do you have a point? Jason wanted to ask, but instead, he pressed his lips together and looked down at the ground.

  “Took to drinkin’ just like you did,” Fred continued. “Nothin’ mattered but the bottle.” Fred was silent for a while. “Then one day, lookin’ for a drink, I happened across our old fishin’ poles. I took them down here to the pond, set ‘em out just like we used to, and laid back, starin’ up at the sky.”

  Tears streamed down Farmer Fred’s face, unchecked, unashamed. Jason found himself leaning forward and nodding; the words could have been his own. Nothing mattered but the bottle. But the old man was wrong. Maybe he had found hope, but there was none for him.

  “Her old journal—she was gonna be a writer some day, just like you—was in the tackle box, and I started reading. She wrote about us, how we met, the first time we made love, how I made her feel, how she loved my wild side…” His voice broke, and they sat silent for a time. “…her pride in me.” It was barely audible. “And so I set out to be the man she knew I was.”

  The laptop, his stack of edits, his notes lay forgotten in the grass. His full attention was on this old man and the tale he told. Jason leaned back in the grass and looked up at the clouds passing overhead.

  Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. The air tasted of fresh pine, wildflowers, and a hint of something wild and intangible. He thought of those first minutes, holding his son before all hell broke loose and the doctors rushed him away. My son. I love you.

  Waking with a start, Jason jumped to his feet. The sun was low in the sky, and Farmer Fred and his fishing poles were nowhere to be seen. Jason dumped his writing gear back in his backpack and turned to leave. But there in the grass by his feet was a small, leather-bound book, worn at the edges, like a wellused glove. Farmer Fred would want it back as soon as possible.

  So Jason turned back toward Farmer Fred’s farm. The spread was just a half-mile from the pond; he could be there and back before darkness fell. Animals scurried toward their homes, and bats flew about when Jason finally found himself outside the old man’s home.

  But nothing was as Jason remembered. He and Trixie had dined here several times, but where the small cabin stood, there was nothing but burnt rotted wood that had never been cleared away. The fields where the corn grew lay fallow, and the barn had caved in as though years of disuse had left to be ravaged by the wind.

  “Farmer Fred?” he called, but there was no answer. Not sure what else to do, Jason peeked inside the barn. The animals were gone; the antique tractor rusted and covered in dust, and in the corner, two old fishing poles looked as though they hadn’t been used in years.

  Epilogue

  We are delighted you’ve reached this point in our book. Unless you’ve skipped, it means, you’ve read our eclectic short story collection.

  Though we’ve tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, we’ve been near you, glancing over your shoulder and watching your facial expression for clues about your emotions. Why? We wrote our stories for the most important person in the world: you.

  If these stories left you indifferent, if we didn’t touch you, we’ve failed. If our efforts didn’t fulfil your expectations we must try harder. Please, give us another chance next time you come across our writing.

  But if you forgot your trials and worries, if you marveled at these snippets of different realities, if you dreamed—even if only for a minute or two—then we’ve accomplished our task.

  As a token of our collective appreciation, we have a gift for you beginning on the following page, a gift from a group of struggling writers to you, our reader.

  The 30th tale The Writer

  Twenty Goodreads Writers

  Copyright © Diane Condon-Boutier; Susan Elizabeth Curnow; Oscar Croselt; Carlos J. Cortes; Michael Keyton; Henry F. Lara-Steidel; Andrew Love; Gwendolyn McIntyre; Minnie Estelle Miller; Renee Miller-Johnston; Paul Mitton; D.B.Pacini; Roy L. Pickering Jr.; Katharine Quinn; Kelley Roby; Lauren Stone; Rita Stradling; Wendy Swore; Jeanne Voelker and Rita J. Webb 2009

  It has been a bitch of a day. The dock strike is on its fourth day; four days of mounted police charges, tear gas, and rubber bullets.

  Bubba Kruger has an agenda. He needs a rest, a shower, Nancy, and a beer; not in that order. Beer first; Nancy second and then rest. The shower can wait until he runs a few times through the first three items.

  After parking his van in the garage, Bubba lowers his head, turns sideways to squeeze through the kitchen door, and curses architects. His knuckles are raw. The horse was a big brute, but it crashed down like a log after an even bigger punch. Straight to his muzzle.

  The kitchen is silent, no lights in the living room either. Bubba steps over to the fridge to grab a beer when he freezes. Strangled voices echo faintly from the corridor.

  Bubba holds his breath and the voices stop. He waits. After a short interval Nancy laughs. Throaty. Bubba relaxes a fraction; she must be watching a show in the bedroom. One hand on the fridge’s door, he pauses and frowns. There’s no television set in the bedroom.

  Bubba unbuttons his leather greatcoat and peers at pockets sewn in its lining, pockets bulging with an assortment of strike accessories—a two-foot piece of one-inch rebar, a slingshot, a large bag of ball bearings and his Lupara, a sawed-off shotgun.

  After freeing the Lupara from two leather strips holding it in place, Bubba breaks it open, checks that there are two buckshot cartridges up the spouts, and snaps it shut. Silently, gliding on the edges of his steel-toed boots, he propels his bulk along the corridor.

  Stifled laughter. Nervous. Nancy’s. She could be in danger. Gingerly, Bubba pushes the master bedroom door open and lowers his head to clear the doorframe.

  The laughter stops.

  Bubba surveys the bed and his Nancy—decked in his favorite

  yellow and fuchsia pajamas. She looks all right. In her hand, there’s a bottle of champagne and next to her a naked young man. To use the bottle as a weapon, she doesn’t hold it right. Bubba makes a mental note to teach her how to hold a bottle like a club.

  The young man doesn’t move. Next to Nancy’s ebony glory, his pallid skin looks a sickly gray, like pigeon’s feathers. The punk holds a large box in his hands. Under the box something stirs. A weapon?

  Bubba raises his Lupara. “I can explain,” the young man says and sets the chocolates aside.

  At least the punk has manners. Bubba stares at the young man’s crotch, but it’s empty, nothing there. It must have been a trick of the light.

  Silence. Bubba’s finger tightens on the trigger.

  “I’m Benjamin Dover. Ben... Yes, I’ve heard the joke before.” Ben spreads his arms as if to part the waters and shrugs. “You’ll not believe this: I was in my apartment, settled in for the night as it were; slippers, a six-pack and the remote. I ran out of cigarettes. I put on my shoes and stepped outside. No car. Why bother? There’s a Seven Eleven three-hundred yards away.”

  Bubba leans against the wall and keeps the shotgun trained on Ben’s head.

  “As I crossed the road, a black Escalade stopped in front of me. The doors opened, and two men in suits, one bald and the other with a fancy mustache, jumped out...”

  “Get in the car,” Mustache Guy said.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  I should have run, fast, but I froze. When I tried to struggle,

  it was too late. These guys were pros. They had done that sort of thing before. In moments, I found myself wrestled into the vehicle’s back seat.

  Once inside the car, I considered my options. “So, you guys from around here?”

  “Stuff it, Leo,” Bald Guy said. “We know you’ve been singing to the cops.”

  “Oh well, the
re’s the problem.” I said, smiling. “My name is Ben, and I only sing at choir practice. Sorry guys, wrong man. Er... drop me at the next crossing?”

  The car screeched to a halt, my face smashing into the seat ahead of me.

  “Jeeeezus!” Mustache Guy cursed. Then he opened his door.

  Ahead of us, a group of men in orange shirts scratched their heads and stood around a large hole in the road.

  “Stay put,” Bald Guy barked.

  I nodded.

  He followed his partner to the hole where they gestured wildly at the construction crew.

  I opened the door and slipped out of the car. Bald Guy yelled, and I ran, tripping over myself, stumbling to the sidewalk. I pulled out my cell phone to call the cops and sing as loud as I could, but I fumbled. It fell on the road next to a grate.

  A few feet away the mobsters drew their guns.

  Dropping to the ground, I picked up my phone and tried to pry the grate open, but it held fast. Without another thought, I leaped sideways and sprinted ahead through the construction barricade. Behind me, heavy footsteps pounded on the pavement to the echo of low guttural screams. Somewhere, a police whistle pierced the night. As I ran, I searched for a place to hide. The street was lined with store fronts, and looking for a passage, an open door, something, I ran as fast as I could.

  In the distance, a street light flickered reflecting off the dull surface of a manhole cover.

  At a hardware store, I halted to try the door’s handle. Locked! I leaned against the door, panting. In the distance, a big voice hollered. I raced to the manhole cover. Ten feet away, I leaned forward, grazed the ground with my hands and slid on the concrete like a baseball player stealing home, to stop just short of the manhole.

  I crawled to the cover, fumbled my fingers into the decorative holes in the iron grating, and pulled with all my might. The seal snapped, and the twenty-pound grate freed from its concrete binding. I tipped it on its side, trying to remove my fingers from the holes, but my pinky was stuck. My ring had lodged in a hole and trapped my hand.

  There must have been a crowd chasing me because the noise grew louder. I couldn’t wait any longer. I sneaked my fingers free, though my ring slipped off and clanged down the void, pulled the cover off to a side, lowered into the shaft and leaned outside to drag the cover upside down over the hole.

  Standing on the ladder, safe beneath the manhole cover, I rubbed my swollen hand and climbed down in darkness, gripping the slimy rungs. When I reached solid ground, I pulled a lighter from my pocket and flicked its wheel. The tunnel was clear and ran at a slight slope. I ran, pausing often to flick my lighter and gather my bearings. As I went farther down, the gallery changed until it no longer resembled a man-made tunnel. Concrete gave way to gravel; the gravel gave way to dirt and the dirt to the slick walls of an underground cavern. Lights flickered in the void. I rubbed my eyes, but the lights persisted, yellowish, flickering: torches.

  Out of breath, I halted, my heart thumping in my chest. Gargantuan stalactites hung from the ceiling, built over thousands of years, one calcium-rich drop of water at a time. I froze. Beneath me, a narrow river flowed to an altar surrounded by a dozen men in long black cloaks.

  I tried to turn back, but lost my footing. Before I knew it, I slid down an incline and slammed into a wall.

  One by one, the hooded figures turned to stare at me.

  In the dimly lit cave, a vanguard of cloaked figures approached, step-by-slow-step, knives glinting at their belts. No escape, no place to hide. Furry shapes with hairless tails slinked around the men’s boots.

  I shuddered.

  The pack drew near, murmuring and squeaking.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave if you’ll show me the exit.”

  The men advanced, their knives drawn.

  I sprang forward and tried to run around and through them, as I could have at the height of my football career, but an evilsmelling giant lifted me by the seat of my trousers. He carried me high and hurled me into a room piled high with human bones. The bones had been picked clean.

  I stumbled toward the rungs of a ladder at the far end of the room. My shoes slipped and rolled on the bones.

  Several men tackled me down to the ground. An old woman approached, a length of rope in her hand. When the men subdued me, the toothless hag grabbed the rope and bound my ankles, looping the rope around my thighs and cinching it tight. When she was done, I had been tied into a kneeling position.

  The woman handed me a bottle of liquid. “Rub it on your face, chest and arms. It will do you good.” Then she turned on her heel. The men followed out of the room, bolting the door after them.

  I checked the label on the bottle. Vitamin Tonic/Skin Oil—For Internal and External Use Only. I removed the lid to smell the tonic. Fish oil! As I sniffed, a snout with twitching whiskers emerged from under a pile of bones. Instantly, a wave of rats swarmed over the bones.

  Fat rodents sniffed and peered at me with bright eyes.

  In a flash, I understood. The people in the cave must belong to a sect of rat worshippers. They would feed the rodents offal and fresh carrion. I gathered the crowd would be outside the door licking their chops in anticipation of my screams. Well, I thought, they can wait forever. This body is leaving.

  I poured a few drops of fish oil onto the ropes that bound my ankles, careful not to drip any onto my skin.

  The rats attacked and gnawed through the ropes in seconds. I struggled to my feet, still holding the bottle of fish oil. One rat tried to climb my trousers, but I kicked it away. Another leaped to my neck. I stepped aside, and the animal hung onto my silver cross. The chain snapped, and the rat fell.

  From holes in the walls, hundreds, thousands of rats gushed out, carpeting the floor with an animated furry rug. I stumbled.

  Ben glances at Bubba and then to the champagne bottle. Bubba nods.

  Nancy pours the wine into a paper cup and passes it over. After downing his cup, Ben reaches for the box of chocolates

  and offers it to Nancy. She poises one finger with a gorgeously manicured one-inchnail over the box and slowly points to one chocolate, then another and another, her face a mask of concentration. “Let me see,” she mutters and squints at the lid to read the different fillings. “Honey Balls, Creamy Shell, Caramel Rod, Sugar Lips, Spicy Knob, Cinnamon stick...” She pauses, her finger hovering in midair. “I don’t know...” Then her face lights up. “I’ll take the balls!” she giggles.

  “And I’ll have the knob,” Bubba adds, offering one hand, palm up. By a strange optical illusion, in his hand the chocolate becomes sequin-sized. Bubba pops it in his mouth and nods to Ben; the gun barrel slides down a tad.

  The young man picks a Creamy Shell and continues, his voice mushy. “When I regained my balance on the undulating floor, alive with rats, I eyed the rungs set on the far wall, a ladder climbing to an overhead hatch. I leaned in the opposite direction and poured the rest of the fish oil onto the nearest rats, rendering the predators prey. The room exploded in a cacophony of high pitched yelps and squeals, soon followed by chomping and gnawing noises...”

  The crowd outside would be suitably gratified. I clattered across the bones, flew up the ladder, and thrust open the manhole cover.

  I climbed into a wide gallery, bunches of cables snaking along its walls, the floor surprisingly clean. Without stopping to think, I barreled ahead, periodically stopping to flick my lighter before continuing my mad dash.

  The corridor ended in a rotunda. To one side there was a rusty iron staircase, climbing to a hole in the ceiling. I ran up the steps to discover another service hatch, complete with manhole cover.

  I pushed the cover up, but it wouldn’t budge. Voices, splashes, and dull thuds down below; the rat worshippers. Digging in my pockets while clinging to the handholds, I searched for something to pry open the cover. The only thing I found was my key ring. An old key, wedged between the grating and the metal rim should do the trick. I slid it in, p
ressed hard and the metal screeched as it opened.

  I peeked my head out. Where was I? I scanned a deserted road surrounded by recently mown grass. The smell tickled my nose, I sneezed, and the keys slipped from my hand to disappear into the darkness below with a loud thunk.

  “There he is! Let’s get him,” someone yelled from below.

  Scrambling out of the hole, I ran blindly; not caring where I headed just so long as I got my ass out of there. As I crossed another road, a loud roar, followed by hurricane winds, hit me. I closed my eyes and climbed another rung, gasping reviving gulps of sweet air. Then, powerful lights shone, pinning me to the spot like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming car. Only it didn’t look like a car, the lights were too far apart, and high, and...

  I turned, running, and tripped over my own feet as a Boeing 747 crashed down, its gigantic tires leaving an endless trail of burnt rubber where my body would have been. Damn!

  Scratched but triumphant, I climbed upright and stood in the middle of the runway, the landed jet shrinking in the distance. Lights streamed in my face, and the kerosene-laden air tasted like a cold beer on a summer day. I was free at last; I just needed to get my smokes and find a cab home.

  “Hey, you there! You don’t have authorization for this area.”

  Uniforms ran across the tarmac, hands reaching for guns. Cars with flashing lights on top converged in my direction. I ground my teeth and raced toward the cargo terminal, a few hundred yards away. I didn’t dare look back.

  “Can I have another chocolate?” Bubba asks.

  Ben leans forward and offers the box.

  Bubba glances at the contents, undecided. “Honey Balls?” Ben points to one corner of the box. Then, while Bubba

  munches away, he holds his empty cup to Nancy. She pours the rest of the bottle into the cup, rolls out of bed, and races from the room. “Don’t continue without me,” she yells, her voice thinning as she turns off the corridor and into the kitchen.