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“Stripling Chapel” Fiction by Alan Caldwell

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"Stripling Chapel" Fiction by Alan Caldwell--Rural Fiction Magazine

I found her, an older beagle mix, but more white than brown or black, lying in the ditch next to the dirt road. I was about ten at the time, so almost half a century ago. I don’t know the road’s name, but I do know it turned North off Stripling Chapel Road and ran for about a quarter of a mile before ending in a thick copse of red oaks. My Aunt Eunice and Uncle Benjamin lived down a rough dirt and rock driveway in a rough and sagging house in those oaks.

I knew the beagle was a female because her teats were long and dark from being suckled by many litters. I had seen her before in the road and in the red and washed-out yards of the poor black families that lived on that nameless path. All their dogs and the children were gaunt, almost equally so. The children stared at me when I walked by, but they never said anything. Well, one little boy, maybe four or five, did call me a “cracka,” and throw a handful of pea gravel at me one time. His throw came up a bit short, and he turned and ran away and joined the other older kids who laughed at his effort.

I was clear on what had happened. The beagle had gone to the blacktop, maybe looking for something to eat, and had been struck by a passing car. The exposed roots and washed-out ruts made the nameless road a slow medium for travel and thus safe for both animals and children. In contrast, the cars on Stripling Chapel were a menace.

A small stream of blood ran from her nostril, and though the November climate was crisp and breezy, she panted as if burning up in the August sun. I reached to stroke the small heart-shaped patch of dark fur on her head, and she snapped at me, not particularly viciously but sufficiently to make me withdraw my hand and take a step back. I reached towards her again. She growled. I could hear a wet gurgle in the raspy snarl. I recalled my grandfather making a similarly wet gurgle not long before the adults made the children leave the room.

I decided to leave her in the ditch.

I walked back to my uncle’s house. I told him about the beagle. He informed me that even sweet dogs will bite you if they are hurt badly enough. Uncle Benjamin was old, very old. He leaned far forward when he walked, his legs as stiff and straight as planed lumber. Rheums and agues plagued his dotage. His hands shook so badly that very little of Eunice’s tomato soup made the journey from his bowl to his mouth.

He agreed to walk with me to see the dog. Before we left, he reached under his sagging living room chair and produced a small black Iver Johnson revolver with ivory grips. Eunice brought a ragged string quilt and handed it to me. I don’t think either item made sense to me at the time. I understood that Uncle Benjamin usually concealed the revolver somewhere in his faded Duck-Head overalls. The purpose of the quilt was less clear.

Uncle Benjamin walked so slowly that it must have taken us twenty minutes to make it up the driveway and the road to the broken beagle. I’m not sure what I expected my uncle to do. I knew that a dog that seemed unable to move most of its body was pretty badly hurt.

Uncle Benjamin reached down and stroked her head. She didn’t offer to bite him. She didn’t even growl. I guess she had lost the strength or the will. As a general rule, I hate personification, but the dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading for help. Benjamin told her, “girl, yo back’s broke, ain’t nothing I can do for ya.”

He then pulled the Iver Johnson from his pocket and aimed carefully. His hands, for once, were completely steady. I turned my head when the shot rang out. I waited for a few seconds before I looked back. When I did, she was still, no more ragged breaths.

I took the string quilt and wrapped her in it. I picked her up and we took her to one of the houses where the black kids played in the yard. They watched in silence. I laid her on the sagging wood porch. The oldest of the boys, maybe thirteen or fourteen, walked up, opened the quilt, and looked at her. I said, “we didn’t have no choice; her back’s broke.”

By now the other kids had circled us. The bigger boy’s eyes welled up with tears. Some of the others cried openly.  He said, “thank y’all for taking care of her.”

My uncle and I walked back to the road. I stopped and looked back. The bigger boy was carrying the dog away, toward the woods. The smaller children followed behind. One was dragging a shovel.

Alan Caldwell has been teaching since 1994 but only began submitting writing in May. He has since been published in Southern Gothic Creations, Level: Deepsouth, oc87 Recovery Diaries, Black Poppy Review, The Backwoodsman, You Might Need To Hear This, The Chamber, Biostories, Heartwood Literary Journal, and American Diversity Report.

Follow this link to the Submission Guidelines.

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Now Accepting Examples of Oral Storytelling

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Storytelling--Rural Fiction Magazine

Rural Fiction Magazine (RFM) is going to try an experiment. RFM is now accepting submissions that exemplify the rich oral tradition of storytelling.

What we term fiction today is one of the current forms of the ancient storytelling tradition. Storytelling has been around since before the invention of writing. In fact, storytelling has probably existed since humans first developed the ability to speak. Most, if not all, cultures have some tradition of storytelling, which for most of human history was the only way to communicate and preserve concepts, experiences, and a culture’s history before the advent of writing. In some modern cultures, oral storytelling has developed into an art form. Oral storytelling competitions and organizations keeping the tradition alive are prevalent in many areas today including in many rural and agrarian societies where it is an important and intricate part of the traditional culture.

For these reasons, Rural Fiction Magazine is going to veer a little off the usual course for a literary magazine and will accept submissions of traditionally oral stories. These can include stories that have been passed from generation to generation, folklore, tall tales, stories told around a campfire, and any other type of story which has traditionally been circulated with the voice. These stories may be on any subject but should be an example of the oral storytelling tradition. They may be written or submitted as a video or podcast or in any medium that reflects the oral storytelling tradition.

Questions and comments can be sent to the publisher via slatterypublishing@gmail.com.

Follow this link to the RFM Submission guidelines.

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“The Gift of The Magi” Classic American Short Fiction by O. Henry

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Rural Fiction Magazine: "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

From Wikipedia: William Sydney Porter (September 11, 1862 – June 5, 1910), better known by his pen name O. Henry, was an American writer known primarily for his short stories, though he also wrote poetry and non-fiction. His works include “The Gift of the Magi“, “The Duplicity of Hargraves“, and “The Ransom of Red Chief“, as well as the novel Cabbages and Kings. Porter’s stories are known for their naturalist observations, witty narration and surprise endings.

Porter’s legacy includes the O. Henry Award, an annual prize awarded to outstanding short stories.

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy “Cambridge Dancer” by Edward N. McConnell.

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

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“The Cambridge Dancer” by Edward N. McConnell

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It was late October; harvest season was winding down across Iowa. Mick Shelly, a laborer at the Cambridge grain elevator, was busy off-loading corn, working truck scales and shooting the breeze with local farmers. With the harvest almost complete, Mick’s time at the elevator was coming to an end.

            Cambridge is one of about a thousand small towns in Iowa you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. When he came to town, Mick’s intention was to work a little, then leave. He knew no one. After he landed a job, he found an apartment behind the local hardware store. It was a clean, one bed room place, rented on a weekly basis. His apartment was close to everything in town. Then again, in Cambridge, everything in town was close to every other thing in town.

            It was Saturday night; at Godfrey’s, the only bar in town, it was “Stripper Night”. Mick figured to make one last visit before he hit the road. He showered to clean off the residue of his day’s work and shaved off a week’s worth of stubble. Putting on neat clothes, he got ready to walk to the bar. The word around the elevator was “that a real piece from Des Moines” was performing. Those who had seen her before said she “moved like a cat”. Expecting a crowd, Mick left early to get a good seat.

            Godfrey’s was in a long, thin building. The bar stood to the left, running along the wall until it reached the kitchen door. In the back, next to the kitchen, was the “ballroom”. It was a large space that had the stage for shows and some tables and chairs. You had to pass through a beaded curtain from the barroom to get in. The cover charge, collected there, was split at the end of the night with the girls. The performances started at eight.

            When Mick arrived, some of the guys pointed out the young lady who was the star attraction. To Mick, this girl seemed out of place. She didn’t mingle with the crowd or chat with the other dancers. With the performances about to begin, it was time to pony up the five buck cover and grab a seat.

            After the other dancers got the hayseeds “in the mood”, the bar owner, acting as MC, introduced, “Shelly from Des Moines.” Mick’s ears perked up. “So her name is Shelly too,” he thought. Tonight would be as good a night as any to try out that hook to meet her.

            When it was Shelly’s turn, he sat back and watched. Each of her movements was fluid and strong. She grabbed the pole, mounted it, using her leg to assume an upside down position. Then she twirled around and around, getting those too close to the stage dizzy. With Shelly, there was no inadvertent twitching, no flopping around, no phony bedroom moves. Her motions were economical, effortless. The other dancers didn’t compare. Shelly didn’t play to the crowd. She danced with a vacant, unfocused stare. Mick had seen that look so many times before. He was sure she was detaching herself from a trauma of some kind.                   

            It was clear to him; Shelly had professional training involving complicated, rhythmic movements. “This girl is no weekend stripper. There’s more to her than that.  How’d she end up here? I gotta find out,” he thought.

            At the conclusion of her first set, she grabbed up the dollar bills on the stage floor. Mick noticed she never allowed anyone to get near enough to stick dollar bills in her G-string. If a guy got too close, she moved back and pointed to the floor as the place to put the money. At the end of her set, wrapping herself in a sheer robe, she came off the stage. Walking through the beaded curtain to the end of the bar, she was about to order a drink as Mick approached her.

            “Hi, I’m Mick Shelly. I loved your performance. You’re much better than the other girls,” he said. As the words left his mouth, he thought, “That was weak”.

            Shelly looked him in the eyes and said, “Beat it.” This happened to her too many times before. She was there to work, not get picked up. But there was something about Mick that made her reconsider. He wasn’t a “hick”, she knew “hick”. Mick wasn’t that. He was out of place. She sensed it because she was too. Curious, she reconsidered. As he was walking away, she said, “Hey was there something you wanted?”

            “Yeah, how long before you have to go back on? You got time for a drink?”  

            “Yeah, I got some time,” she said. They grabbed an open table near the end of the bar and sat across from one another.

                “Is beer OK?” She nodded. Mick ordered.

            “Like I said, I’m Mick Shelly. I work at the grain elevator.

            She laughed, “So your real last name is Shelly and my stage name is Shelly. What an interesting coincidence. You’re making that name up, aren’t you?”

            “Nope, that’s my name. I’ve had it all my life. Wanna see my driver’s license?” Mick said.

            She surprised him and said, “Yeah.” He took it out and handed it to her.

            “It says here you’re from Chicago. What are you doing in this dump? Did you murder somebody and now you’re hiding out?” She smiled.

            “No, nothing like that, but I guess you could say I’m hiding out, maybe, it’s more running than hiding.”  He said nothing more.

            “Oh no, you can’t leave it at that. Which is it?”

            Mick thought he may have opened a door best left closed. If he shut it now, she’d leave. He didn’t want that so he started his story.

            “I was a Captain in a medical unit in the Army, a doctor. I served in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of suffering.”

            “You’re a real doctor? Not a medic?” She asked.

            “Yeah, I was a surgeon.”  She pulled back her chair a little and folded her arms. Mick thought something was off but he continued.

            “When I got discharged I wanted to work in Chicago at the VA hospital to try to help the returning vets. A lot of them had PTSD, drug problems and trouble fitting back into civilian life.” Hearing that, she leaned back in to get closer.

            “Did you get the job?

            “I got it but pretty quick, but I found I couldn’t help the vets.”

            “Why?”

            “The VA drug rehab programs were crap. The wait times were long; there were few counselors, and no jobs programs. Most of the guys, hooked on heroin and other drugs, couldn’t get into the VA methadone program.”

            “I’ve heard that. What’s the problem with VA anyway?”

            “The excuse was, ‘we don’t have the budget and the staff’. In the meantime, the vets were on the streets; some killing themselves, others committing crimes, most were homeless.”

            Shelly could see this memory was making Mick angry. “These soldiers, broken by their service, were now refused the help they earned.” As Mick continued, Shelly moved her chair around the table, a little closer to Mick.

            He continued, “I met a guy who ran an “off the books” methadone clinic for vets. He moved the clinic site around a lot to avoid detection. What he was doing was illegal but he found doctors and counselors who were willing to volunteer time to help our guys.”

            “How’d he get the drugs?” she asked.

            “I was one of his sources. Since I had a DEA drug number, I could get methadone. I tried ordering as much as I could without drawing attention from the pharmacists at the VA. It was stupid but I had to do something. Anyway, long story short, I got caught, accused of stealing.”

            “What did they do to you?”

            “No charges were filed because I paid to get the drugs replaced but I got fired. They reported me to the state medical board. At my hearing, the Medical Discipline Board listened to the reasons for my actions. In the end, I lost my license to practice and had to get out of Chicago. The wind blew me here. When the harvest is over, I’ll be leaving.”

            Shelly stared at Mick for what seemed a long time, then said, “Do you have family and friends in Chicago?” She said.

            “Yeah, I did. This whole thing was tough on them too. They wanted me gone. My so-called friends ran for the hills. Now, I move from place to place, taking whatever jobs I can get.”

            Mick looked away from her, then into his beer glass. Shelly’s eyes locked onto him. Then he smiled and said, “Hey, enough about me. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

            Shelly said, “Shoot.”

            “You move like a well-trained athlete, not some wannabe, weekend stripper, how come?”

            “Wow, somebody who pays attention. These other idiots just stare at my body.”

             Before she said anything else, she thought, “Do I want to tell this guy?” It was a risk but he seemed genuine. She decided, “I’ll do it.”     

            “Since I was a little girl, I trained to be a dancer. I got better as I got older. So good, in fact, I ended up on the US Gymnastic Team as a rhythmic dancer.

            “I knew it,” Mick said. “Now it all makes sense.” Before he could say anything more, she held up her hand as if to get him to stop. It was important for her to keep talking or she’d lose her nerve. Mick got the message and shut up.

            “I had to be examined regularly by the team doctors. The doctors told me it was for ‘my own good’. The exams were nothing more than the doctors feeling me up. They did other things. I didn’t want this but there was no one to tell, no way to stop it. If you wanted to be on the team you had to go through the exams. I was just a kid so I went along.”

            Mick thought, “Jesus, she’s been abused by doctors and I tell her I’m a doctor. Nice move.”

            Shelly then said, “I’m sure you heard about all this. I was one of the many girls molested and abused by the team doctors. I told the coaches. I told my parents but nobody believed me. I got thrown off the team for being a troublemaker, a liar.”

             “My God, I’m so sorry.” Mick could see it was hard for her to admit.

            “I found out me being on the gymnastics team was more important for my parents than it was for me. After this, I had to get away. It took some time but I left home as soon as I could. I haven’t talked to my folks or family since. My only friends were teammates. I lost them too.”

            Mick saw tears in her eyes. He said, “You did nothing wrong.”

            “Does it matter? It feels like I did. I wonder over and over what I could have done differently. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m alone, a stripper working for tips and part of the cover fees in dumps like this instead of competing to be a world class athlete.”

            “We trusted the wrong people,” Mick said. “I guess we’re both running and hiding.”

            Before he could say anything else, a loud voice came from behind the bar, “Shelly you’re up again.” She waved to let him know she heard him.

            As she got up, she said, “Mick, you’re sweet. See ya.” He took it as a goodbye.

            She headed back to the “ballroom”. He followed. As she walked up the stairs and onto the stage, she looked back at him, flashed him a sly smile and then grabbed the pole. As the performance began, her stare returned.

            Mick was angry, “The people and systems that did this to us should be suffering the consequences, and instead, we are.”

            He watched her dance a while longer then figured it was time to leave. He stood up, looked at the stage and managed to catch her eye. He gave her a small wave goodbye, went through the beaded curtain, walked past the bar and went out the door.

            He wasn’t very far down the street when he heard a voice. “Mick, wait up.” It was Shelly.

            Turning to look, he said, “What the hell Shelly, where’s your clothes?” She was wearing only her red pumps, a G-string, and a shear robe. It was cold. She shivered in the crisp night air.

            “I didn’t want you to get away. My shift was nearly over anyway. Can I come with you? “

            “Sure. You’re freezing.” He slid his arm around her. She leaned into him. Mick said, “Let’s go get your clothes and your money.”

            They walked back to the bar together. Mick waited by the front door. After a few minutes, carrying her coat and dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, she walked from the dressing room to the front door. Mick watched her the whole way. “She has a fluid walk too and she looks great in clothes; as good as she did with practically nothing on,” he thought.

            As they left the bar, Shelly locked her arm around his. She leaned into him as they walked toward his apartment. A chilly October wind swirled around them, neither noticed. They both wanted the same thing, to feel good again about something . . . anything.

Edward N. McConnell started writing flash fiction and short stories in 2020. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, among others. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.

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“Visitations” Fiction by Jonel Abellanosa

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For Dexter, my beloved dearly departed Dalmatian

His sadness smells like the yellow fruit falling from the tree during summertime. I’d keep my distance, not coming closer, leaving him alone in his private space. He values silence, a quiet room, sunlight playing on surfaces like the Monet paintings he loves. I’m sad I can no longer lie down beside him on his bed – to look at him fall asleep.

His voice echoes like lost days. I’ve been staring at the mahogany door, deep brown as his grief, blocking my view of the blue sky. I don’t want to leave him. The pot with the glass lid holds smells of his care and love, wafts of chicken broth too real. My eyes would water.

Tiptoeing back to his room I’m shrouded with absence. I remember the time when my joints murmured, pain pulsing in my head, especially during stormy nights. I could no longer hold the nausea back, I vomited. He cleaned the floor the way he read books, peaceful, his face showing his distant mind. He’d cup my face and press his lips and nose on my forehead, my cheek. I could hear his inhalation, he loved my smells. His kiss was balm to my sufferings. The vomit became numerous as words he put on paper.

I was diagnosed with late-stage kidney failure. Back home, he closed his room’s windows and cried. We knew each other’s thoughts. I watched him fold the lab results into a brown envelop.

He drank, constantly inebriated with rum in my ordeal’s final two months. I smelled his daze as he brought water-blended moringa, chlorella and wheat grass, which he fed me using a spoon, or with a syringe if I was hardheaded and spat his kidney tonic. He no longer cooked chicken legs or wings, too busy writing as I slept on his bed. He’d wake me, in the middle of his writing frenzy. He’d pull me up and embrace me, smell of rum from his face like summertime’s fruit. He asked God aloud to give him kidney disease. He wanted to die like me.

Joyful moments walking with him outdoors became fewer and fewer. I missed the pleasantly intoxicating smells of grasses and wildflowers. He didn’t want to strain my weakening legs, so he limited our walks outdoors. I longed for those mornings and midafternoons when I ran beside him as he jogged, my happiest days, when I saw him happy, exercising daily and not drinking rum while writing.

He brought me to the hospital for my day-long fluid therapy. I shivered in his cavernous absence, hours dripping slowly like liquid through the plastic tube. Hearing loud voices and laughter of people, I remembered my partner, who was scared of firecrackers. I felt rejuvenated seeing his face. Our trip back home was heavenly. He embraced me a long time. His heartbeats warm as his bed. His mind had become the park of kindness and care I and my partner taught him, which took him years to master. I and my partner sensed his humility, always treating us as teachers.

On December 24th he brought me to the hospital for the last time. My time had arrived, and he knew it. The doctor said nothing could prolong my life. I heard them talk quietly. He said he’d do everything to make my departure comfortable. Back home, he spread his own blanket on his bed. With all my strength I tried prolonging my last moments with him. I smelled firecrackers like his refusal to eat. Early morning the following day I began to struggle, having a hard time breathing, my heartbeats like cats I loved chasing.

When the eighth hour blossomed he knew it was time to pick me up into his embrace. I began to shiver, cold claiming my body slowly and so full of love. I saw my partner passing by, taking short glances at us. His love tightened, and it my eyes watered. I saw him crying, his mouth moving and moving, as though he were saying final words for me to bring to the rainbow bridge. I no longer heard his words clearly, but twice I heard my name like dried summertime fruits from his tongue – Dexter, Dexter. Gentleness gripped my heart, and it felt iron, painful, and I knew it was the last thing my dying heart held.

Something hot spurted out my anus. I smelled blood no matter how faint. He pressed his lips and nose against my cheek, and I knew it was time. 8:10 in the morning when I soared out of my body. I willed myself to hover and take another look at him. I couldn’t hear anything but I saw him screaming. Soundlessness made his cry all the more painful.

I soared towards the light, heavenward pull like love leaving weight behind, gravity no longer holding me to my earthly desires. I remembered the time when I tested my footsteps as a weeks-old youngster, the first time we met when I inhaled his body’s smells that I’d always recognize. As I entered the space of stars, I felt like his baby again, running as fast as I could, exhilarated as I chased the rainbow bridge’s intoxicating smells, sniffing here and there. As I entered deep space I floated. I looked for Leo his constellation, eternity mine. Eternity will be ours together. A pack of happy souls welcomed me to their heavenly home. I was joy personified. I am joy. My brothers and sisters beyond the rainbow bridge are joy.

He spent the morning of Christmas day in the crematorium’s front office, his mind blank as bond paper as he waited for my ashes in a glass jar. He enshrined my enlarged photo framed in glass on his writing table. I’ve been listening to him pray for my guidance. I see his thoughts like kaleidoscopes, his his mind like mandala. His wonder makes me smell Bermuda grass. Quiet joy makes his mind fold like origami. I’m happy to have fulfilled my life’s purpose, having lifted him onto a spiritual place.

One recent evening I was surprised but delighted to see my partner, Nicola, love of my life, mother to my countless boys and girls living across the City with their humans in forever homes. We were reunited, but I felt sad and alarmed. I hadn’t been watching him for some time, so I rushed to his room. It’s been days that he’s stuck in motionless staring, picking himself up only to cook. I saw his lab results, sad his prayers to die like me seems to have been answered. I’m glad he’s stopped drinking. His mind’s sunflowers and lilies show his efforts to regain health, because he still has our younger siblings – Bowitch, Yves and Donna.

Yves and Donna are now parents to Daisy, whom he loves the way he loved me. Bowitch has joined us beyond the rainbow bridge.

He’s been sensing my presence, his turns to look at my favorite corners in the house coinciding with my presence there. I’m grateful he knows I’m alive, waiting for him at the edge of the rainbow bridge.

Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, The Philippines. His poetry and fiction have appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies. His poetry collections include, “Multiverse” (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, New York), “50 Acrostic Poems” (Cyberwit, India), and his speculative poetry collection, “Pan’s Saxophone” (Weasel Press, Texas).