“It may have been a year, but I hear there are some good colleges in Chicago I could easily get accepted into.”
Monique smiled. “You didn’t even know which side of town I lived on though.”
“Just being in the city would have been close enough. My heart would have led me the rest of the way.”
Monique hugged him. “Well, let me get back to packing. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back.”
“I hate saying goodbye.” Atlas sighed as he walked out the door.
“Then don’t say goodbye.” Monique said, “Just say, Aloha.”
Atlas turned to her and smiled, “Aloha, Monique.”
~*~
The four weeks in Chicago felt more like being away than being back home, and Monique didn’t unpack her suitcase, but everyday packed more of her things into boxes ready to return home, to Hawaii. A few days were left before they were going back, and each day passed was marked off on her calendar. She couldn’t wait to see Atlas and hear him say; E komo mai, ‘welcome home’.
~*~
Lacrimosa
By
Amanda Sherwood
It’s a cold night in March and people have begun to file into the warm theatre. They amble past the posters that list “Ren Clark on the piano” in large red letters accompanied by the New York Orchestra. Brilliant yellow bulbs light up the frames and the monotonous buzz of their energy are drowned by the din.
You don’t mean anything to me anymore.
“Ma’am? Are you ready?”
Ren jumps as a man dressed in black with a headset microphone put his hand on her shoulder. She is sitting in a long red dress facing the velvet curtain, her black hair pinned up, her fingers wringing a shredded napkin. She looks up at him, her painted lips pouted, and says, “Oh, yes. I am.”
She stands and follows the man in black around the lighting fixtures and set props. He leads her to the edge of the curtain, the stage lights eclipsed by its billowing fabric. She rubs her sweaty hands down the length of her dress and lets out a wavering sigh. The man in black places his hand on her back; she thinks it’s a gesture of comfort, before he nudges her forward. She can’t see the faces that fill the auditorium cast in shadow by the blinding lights.
She steps forward onto the stage. Looking ahead she can see the grand piano, its shiny black coat sparkling like a diamond catching the glint of the sun. The New York Orchestra is splayed out around the stage, encircling the piano, which sits in the center. The orchestra sits quietly behind their instruments, their eyes on her. Desperately she tries to quiet his voice in her head replaying from two nights before.
I can’t believe I married you. I want a divorce.
She closes her eyes and hears the applause rise up from beyond the stage, engulfing her as she walks forward. The warmth in her body leaves her and she looks out into the black audience.
No more. I won’t sit here while you make a fool out of me.
Their fight was vicious. Her husband’s face was twisted up, ugly words spilling from his spit-soaked mouth.
How could you do this to me?
Please, can we talk about this?
She knew she couldn’t justify what she had done.
Veins leapt from his forehead, throbbing violently. He had clenched his fists and bore his yellowed teeth. She had tried to explain, to tell him why. But she eventually conceded to his domineering will, exhausted and defeated.
She continues to step forward; the applause from the audience and the orchestra ebbs like a receding wave then slowly dies. The conductor looks at her with a reassuring smile and a nod.
This morning she had stood looking around their apartment. It was swollen with the memory of their fight. His shouted words bounced like ghosts from wall to wall, pillow to dresser, off the mirror and then back to her. They were leaking out of the faucet with the monotonous drip of water, they were curling up in smoke above the stove, and they shone down with the dim rays of the ceiling fixtures. It had only been nine months, and now it was over. Nine months before she ruined their marriage.
The stage lights’ heat scorches her exposed shoulders, and she feels the friction of her dress pulling behind her like a trail of blood. She continues walking towards the grand piano, step after step and the stage seems to stretch out before her like an endless narrow road. She sees Derek sitting behind his cello, his calm eyes boring into her. Her heart thumps beneath her breast and she swallows the lump in her throat, fighting back tears. She approaches the bench and looks down over the keys. Smoothing her dress beneath her, Ren sits on the bench. She can feel the eyes of hundreds upon her, the still silence punctuated only by a cough at the back of the theatre.
Ren places her hands on the keys, feeling the smooth ivory under the pads of her fingers. She closes her eyes and gently presses the first note from Mozart’s Requiem while the orchestra remains quiet around her. The notes sail from the wooden frame and the song becomes larger. The orchestra slips into song behind her and eventually the sound rises up like a sea of tall waves crashing down on the stage. Violins sigh, the flutes flutter and Ren’s piano is full of power and strength as she let the music pour out of her.
She thought of her first piano. Her father bought it for her when she was 15 as a Christmas present. She remembered opening the envelope titled “Renny,” perched between the tree’s branches. The envelope instructed her to go to the basement, and upon doing so, Ren found it, sparkling black under the halogen light bulbs adorned with a brilliant red bow. It was perfect. The keys were impeccably white, the painted surface smooth and cool to the touch, and the words “Baby Grand Piano” were lettered in gold cursive.
It had sat in their first apartment, which didn’t suit a baby grand piano well; in fact it was much too large and partially obstructed the pathway to the bathroom and the television for that matter. It was quite the ordeal to transport it into their third floor abode; it had to come through the window in the living room, nearly losing a leg. The movers had hoisted the baby grand, wrapped in rope. Its shadow loomed menacingly over their faces. Up they pulled it, painstakingly, cursing under their breath. She looked up at its black figure, silhouetted by the sun.
I hope it’ll fit, he said, noticing the toil of the underpaid movers. The rope creaked, the piano swayed, and sweat poured down their sunlight backs.
It couldn’t move any further into the apartment than where it entered at the bank of the living room windows. There it sat for nearly three years; its black top bleaching in the morning sun, turning light gray.
After their engagement, the choice to move to a larger apartment caused the untimely demise of the baby grand. It crashed down on the concrete, suddenly torn from the brittle rope during its perilous move. The dissonant sound as it hit the street was short, and just like that, it became a pile of broken wood and snapped strings.
Her engagement ring and wedding band sparkle under the theatre lights, their reflection glinting across her face. She weaves her fingers through the notes, over black and white keys. The sound billows, drifting along the curtained walls as Ren begins to lose herself in the music once more. She had never intended to cheat; she never wanted to ruin their life together.
She remembers the wedding. Both of their families had been brought together in her childhood Georgia home. Her father had walked her down a grass aisle in the backyard, her seven thousand dollar dress stained by the grass as it dragged along the green blades. It now sits in her closet, suffocated in its plastic casing.
She remembers seeing her husband, at the altar with a cowlick in his hair, and his slightly yellowed smile. And there she said, “I do.” She promised until death parted them to love, and care for him in sickness and health. And at the time, she really wanted to. He had given her the grand piano that now sat in their apartment, and upon its unveiling he had whispered to her, “I love you,” his breath warm on her neck.
How long have you been seeing him?
He had glared down at her. She had remained sile
nt.
Why?
The music lulled and grew quiet slowly. The orchestra faded from behind her and she kept the song alive alone.
It was her husband’s idea for her to see a doctor. It had rained for two weeks, but it had felt like months in Ren’s head. And when she didn’t leave her bed, he’d made an appointment for her. It was just like him to send her off the physician at the first sign of trouble. The thought never occurred to him that things weren’t that simple. If she were a bent door jam, he could fix her on the spot. But instead she felt like a squeaky hinge, the kind they didn’t make grease for, and the kind he didn’t know how to fix.
The next day he dropped her off like a five year old in front of the large brick building and promised to return when she called. She sneered as he drove off. She had sat in the examining room atop the crinkled tissue papered bench looking at the small mediocre landscape painting hanging above the computer. It was bland, like a bowl of plain rice. And just like her it seemed to fade into the wall.
“Well physically you’re perfectly healthy,” The doctor told her, “I think what you’re experiencing is psychological. From what your husband told us, maybe depression.”
The doctor looked up from his chart and met Ren’s blank eyes. He paused, and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. I’m going to recommend Dr. Schultz. He’s a psychologist, and he’s really very good. I think you should give him a call.
The orchestra still sat silent behind their instruments looking to Ren, her head bobbing up and down with the rhythm and tears twinkling as they fall from her chin. The song grew larger again and the sounds of instruments from around the stage filled the auditorium once more. The crescendo was coming.
She glanced up and saw Derek in his black suit, his hands caressing the cello held close to his body, as he moved the bow to and fro. She remembered meeting him. It was the first rehearsal that she had with the New York Orchestra. He was sitting in the front row of the auditorium studying sheet music when she walked in from the back of the stage. There were people everywhere, talking, studying, and greeting her. But it wasn’t until she began to play, alone on her piano that he looked up at her. And it wasn’t until everyone had left that he sat on the bench beside her and said hello.
His skin is dark and his eyes are soft brown like whipped caramel.
“Hi,” she’d replied. He smiled at her. I’ve heard of your amazing talent, but I had no idea you were so beautiful. She blushed, and looking down she felt him run the back of his hand down her arm.
She saw him every day, and he played beautifully. He bent his head low as he moved his fingers up and down the long neck of his instrument. She felt drawn to him; she couldn’t deny it. They seemed connected by music. And she had let him have her, in this theater, where she had sat only moments before she appeared on stage.
Finally, the song fell to its ending. The last few notes panged from the wooden frame of the piano as the orchestra fell quiet. Everything was silent. Then the crowd erupted into applause. Men and women stood from their seats, their gowns and suits wrinkled. The orchestra stood and bowed as Ren looked slowly up from her piano. She stood and faced the dark pit of faceless applause before her.
She recalled the feel of the cool porcelain of the side of their tub under her thighs from when she sat in the yellow bathroom of their apartment. She’d been ill this morning, and the air still held a dank stench of her sick. She’d pulled out a pregnancy test from the back of the bathroom cabinet. Her hands shook as she placed the used white stick on the floor by her toes. A purple plus looked at her. She didn’t know whose it was.
The stage lights warmed her cold skin as she held her shoulders back and felt the wetness of her cheeks. The velvet curtains then released and fell in front of her, encasing her in darkness.
~*~
Ripples
By
Warren Pope
Warning:
This is not a story, as it has no ending. It barely has a middle. If you’re one of those people that like stories, this ain’t what you’re looking for. I’m not even sure what I would call this collection of words. You’ve been warned.
I was going to open this telling with a cliché about how the smallest pebble, or even a little grain of sand will create ripples in the pond it’s dropped into. I was going to remind you that the ripples keep going, even when we’re not watching. There’s really no telling where the ripples go...
I decided against that, because clichés aren’t very cool, are they? I was going to start in the middle, to make this collection of words more interesting, but that would probably be more confusing. So, Instead, I just started typing and this is what came out of my fingertips
~*~
People think I’m crazy because I’m madly in love with a lady who’s completely inaccessible to me. They probably have a few more reasons to think I’m crazy, but that’s another story. Sheila lives in England, and I’m in New Orleans. I’m crazy in love with her. I know that sounds irrational, but let me explain.
One night, not too long ago, I was innocently skimming through a social networking site online. I was sipping my usual beer and watching the News on TV. That had become my routine. I’m a construction worker, an older construction worker and I find the days physically exhausting. I got into the habit of taking a bath as soon as I got home. I then would take a short nap, and then cook supper; the nightly news and the computer keeping me company.
On this particular night, I spotted a familiar name among those who commented on a Status Update. I smiled as I remembered her. We dated many years earlier, when things seemed simpler. I sent a request to her, asking to be her ‘friend’. I hoped she remembered me, but I wasn’t sure if she would. I hadn’t seen or talked to her in over 30 years. At that point in my life, I was comfortable being alone. I was divorced and had no girlfriend. I had two great kids, but my son lived across town and had no time for me. My daughter was at school in another state. I was alone, but I was comfortable. I guess the imaginary friends I had online provided enough social life for me.
Sheila accepted my request and became my online friend. We almost immediately began sending short messages back and forth; the equivalent of a digital conversation. She remembered me. We gradually caught up with each other, while we both were sending messages to other friends and making comments to the multitude of never-ending conversation threads. I was completely casual, as all I was doing was reminiscing with an old friend. It was fun to remember what it was like when I was young and knew EVERYTHING.
Sheila was also divorced and had two kids. I learned that she was living in Leeds, the U. K. She was in the process settling the property issues with her ex-husband. She was eager to get back to America... Our conversations became a nightly treat for me. Sheila seemed to be the same little girl I dated so long ago. She had the same sense of humor and ‘spoke’ the same way I recalled. I tried to imagine what she looked like now. I remember dating her, but I couldn’t remember why we stopped dating. I was at a loss. She was a beautiful girl, and we got along well. Why did we break up? I couldn’t remember.
One night, I noticed a video camera icon on Sheila’s little ‘chat’ window. I never noticed the icon before and became curious about it. I asked Sheila if she wanted to video-chat. I was curious about how the video-chat worked. I really was. Initially, she refused; she didn’t want me to see her at 4 in the morning (England is 6 hours ahead of normal time)!
I thought that was cute.
We were old friends, thousands of miles apart. I was really more curious about how the video feed worked, than seeing an old friend who wasn’t looking her best. Eventually, she agreed to the video-chat, with the condition that I couldn’t see her! I thought that was funny. Our first conversation wasn’t the best. I was treated to a close-up view of a black pencil holder. I think my whole end of the conversation consisted of me laughing at Sheila’s ‘accent’. I knew she’d been in England for the past 15 years, and had a 12 year-old daughter who wa
s born there, but I didn’t consider that she would have picked up an accent. She didn’t sound at all like I thought she should sound.
The accent was nice, I liked it, actually, but it wasn’t Sheila’s voice. I lay in bed wondering what she looked like after we ended the conversation. The next morning, I carried the laptop into the kitchen, and I made a pot of coffee as we had our first proper video-chat. When I saw Sheila, I was amazed! I know she was in her 40’s now, but she looked amazing! She looked exactly as I remembered her. It was an emotional hit to me. A flood of feelings washed over me. I was still collected enough not to mention it to her of course.
A lot of water had gone under the bridge since the last time I saw Sheila. A whole life-time passed. I was retired from one career and starting on a second. My home and City were destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. My kids were grown and gone. A whole life had taken place between the last time we last spoke and the present. When I looked into Sheila’s eyes, all that time evaporated. I felt like the 17 year-old I once was. Sheila described it as a Time-Warp. That’s as close as I could come to describing the sensation. We kept the conversation shallow, I think. We had a lot to catch up on and there was no hurry. While we talked, I somehow drank the entire pot of coffee, which surprised me until I realized we spoke for over 3 hours. Something unexpected was taking place
~*~
I was a busy kid. I worked full-time while I was in high school. My main job was at a supermarket a few blocks from the house. I put in a lot of hours at the store and I always had a pocket full of cash, but I had little time to enjoy it. I met lots of girls at the store and I had a ‘little black book’ out of necessity. And, I suppose I was a healthy teenager and full of raging hormones, but my schedule was ridiculous. Between work and school, my time was largely accounted for. When I had a night off and wanted to date, I sometimes had to go through 3 or 4 different girls before I found one who was free to go out at a moment’s notice. I didn’t think much of my goofy schedule at the time; it was just the way it was.
One afternoon, I was working at the front cash registers when I felt someone watching me. The store was loud and I was making inane conversation with the different housewives that were moving through my line, but I felt something. You know the feeling you get when someone’s watching you? Yeah, I had that feeling. I glanced around, while I was ringing purchases up and bagging the same stuff. While I was counting change out to one of my customers, I caught sight of her. Standing by the magazine rack was a girl. The girl was STARING at me over the top of a magazine. I glanced around and glanced back a few times, and there was no doubt about it. She WAS staring at me. She was beautiful!