Story

Cold
by J.D. Blacque


In the eyes of the world, the slight was minor, but in my eyes, it was unforgivable.  In one boorish, mean-spirited moment he dimmed the sun; soured the taste of sweet cold lemonade; made the laughter of a child grate the nerves; the smell of freshly baked bread a stench and a woman’s loving touch an abomination: I vowed to make him pay the highest price imaginable, and pay by his own hand.

It was a few days before Christmas when I went to his house, bearing the gift of a very potent and expensive liqueur; a libation I knew he couldn’t resist, (for he often inquired of me when would I purchase more so we could celebrate some obscure holiday that seemed to have importance only on his calendar); and got him very drunk.

His little girl, Melanie, a charming child of six and the spitting image of her father, pops out of her room to say good night, lifting her up, he kisses her cheek and swings her around to a cacophony of giggles. 

“Sunshine, I love you so much!  Now say good-night to our guest and go to bed.”

“Goodnight,” Melanie squeaks waving sweetly as she skips away.

Sometime later, after the master of the house became so intoxicated, he wouldn't notice a snake crawling across his chin.  I slipped out of the study and crept into his daughter’s room, intent on setting my plan in motion. 

Little Melanie was asleep in her bed, blissfully unaware of the tragedy looming over her.  As I watched the sleeping child, I was so enthralled by her innocence and beauty, I considered abandoning my plan.  But the thought of revenge turned the voice of outrage and shame for what I was about to do, from a loud cry to a barely audible whisper: I am committed.

Returning to the study I find the little girl’s father asleep in a large, red leather chair by the window.  Now, at last, it begins: “John, John, wake up, it’s Little Melanie she is dead,” when he runs into her room and sees her little corpse, he becomes distraught and cries to me for help. 

“Of course,” I say to him, “you will be blamed, accused of being unfit, uncaring and negligent; I suspect that the circumstances of her mother’s unfortunate demise might be re-investigated too: there is but one thing for you to do: to end this with swiftness and finality.” 

He was fond of bragging about his facility with firearms and I knew he kept a revolver in his desk.  Walking over to the desk, I retrieve the gun from a drawer and hand it to him.  He takes it from my hand, looks at me pleading, “Is there another way?”  I shake my head, no, and remind him of the problems he would have to face, remind him of the scrutiny that would not stop, remind him of the wagging tongues and shaking heads, and that no decent person will seek his company.  He agreed it would be difficult, but not impossible.

“No, it is not impossible but is that how you want to live?  Are you able to survive a life of solitude?  Is it possible for you to spend the rest of your life, spurned by society, without friends, or family?  Can you live as I do?”

“No, no, I can not,” he says, the hopeless look in his eyes confirming his words; placing the revolver gently against his temple, his eyes search mine for sympathy; (I did try to comply but I feared, I’d be betrayed by the excitement I knew was on display there).  He lowers the revolver a little, and then thinking better of it, places it again at his temple and pulls the trigger slowly, as if he was target shooting, lining up the shot that would win the contest and did the deed.  I closed the door to the study, as the little girl, Melanie, came out of her room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the spitting image of her late father.

BIO: J.D. Blacque is an Emmy nominated TV Editor, Fine Art Photographer and Writer. He or his alter, (who wishes to remain nameless), has been published in The Burlington County Times, 6 Sentences, The Full of Crow Quarterly, Foundling Review and At-The-Bijou|Blogspot. His story "The End of Forever" was an Honorable Mention in the October Edition of Allegory. 

PET GRIEVANCE

by Barry Baldwin

How could a grown man spend so much time playing with - he called it working with - puffballs on legs that slept all day and pounded around a wheel all night? Stupid hamsters. Mary wouuldn't have them in the house. So John set them up in the garage, which meant he was out there with them instead of indoors with her.

This had only started after they were married. He'd simply brought a pair home. She didn't argue, but looks speak volumes and she gave him one that had him hastily promising they'd be no trouble for her. Generations of hamsters slept and squeaked and died out there without Mary having even one proper baby to play or work with inside.

Mary asked her married girl friends what they thought of this hamster-induced apartheid. They all told her to get over it. Compared with car nuts or football freaks or Friday night poker players, a husband who got off on garage parties with a few furry rodents was to keep.

It wasn't that they did nothing together, simply that whenever there was a conflict of interest, the hamsters won. One Saturday, as John was getting ready to leave, she said, "You haven't forgotten Ted and Lorraine tonight?"

"No."

"So you'll be back for six ."

"I guess."

"I don't want that we should let them down again. Lorraine was pretty ticked off when we missed Ted's birthday dinner."

"Six sounds fine."

Just what did they do at hamster shows? John had once tried to explain: different varieties - Djungarian, Syrian, Teddy Bear; coats; confirmation...Mary hadn't really listened. "It'd better be."

"I'll be back."

He wasn't. Not by six. Mary was nodding over the eleven o'clock news when he edged in. "Hi."

"You did it again, didn't you?"

"I'm really sorry. Something came up. I had to stay back for an emergency and..."

How the hell could hamsters have an emergency? "So, my evening's down the bowl, as usual."

"Our evening..."

"Mine; you had yours. Screw it. Screw you."

"Is it too late to ring Ted and Lorraine?"

"I'll do it tomorrow. They'll either not be back or they'll be in bed. Together." Mary emphasised the last word. "Anyway, they aren't the point."

When John came cautiously back from his morning cage-cleaning session, Mary homed in like a Scud missile. "I just talked with them. Like a dope, I tried to cover for you. They let me yadder about flat tires and phones on the fritz before Lorraine said there was nothing on their machine and how come they'd seen you on a sidewalk with some woman? I said no way, but Lorraine didn't sound any too convinced, then Ted came on sniggering that he hoped so for my sake, that woman was sure a looker, so I just made myself laugh and rang off. I'll never be able to face them again."

"Some friends. Listen, I can explain."

"You didn't last night."

"No, because you said your piece and stomped off before I could say much of anything. The woman was Glenda Wood, the Hamster Society President. It was her made me stay back. Apparently some guy is complaining about the judging, plans to make a stink with the National Association, so Glenda figured we'd better work out how to head him off at the pass. By the time we'd done, she said I must be hungry, why don't we grab a bite some place, so we did."

"Don't they have phones in that part of town?"

"Of course, but I knew you'd be steaming, so I thought I'd just take my lumps when I got home."
"That's a crock, and even if it isn't, it still makes you a thoughtless bastard, so we end up where we were."

For the first time ever, John stood on his dignity in a hamster-fuelled spat. "If that's what you think, that's what you think. I'll pack a few things and be out of your hair. I can sack out at the office tonight. I'll collect the rest of my stuff tomorrow."

Had she wanted him to leave or stay? Mary prowled around, at one point leaving the house for a few minutes before retreating into its silence. Then she made a call.

Around midnight, Mary's hand was on the switch, when she heard the back door being carefully opened: what with everything, she'd forgotten the dead-bolt. She was about to wet herself when John's voice came up.

"It's only me."

"So what brings you back?" "No, don't tell me, what else but the late-night hamster patrol?"

"I...I ought to take a quick look at them, but I wanted to see you first. I feel so bad about everything. You were right to let me have it. Can't we make it right between us?"

Mary didn't, couldn't, answer his question, but said, "I was too quick on the draw over Glenda Wood. I found her number in your desk and gave her a line about how you were missing some Society file and had she seen you with it last night, you'd been called into the office, two emergency meetings in a row, what a life, and it was obvious from what she said that you'd told me the truth. Okay?"

John didn't answer either. He got onto the bed. They had a long hug. "I'm deep-sixing the hamsters. At least, after next month's big show, that's the Fur Bowl and a cash prize, if I win we could take a weekend away, kind of a second honeymoon."

He might mean it. After all their previous fights, he'd not once promised to give them up. But now, what did it matter? Genuine or not, his good intentions would never survive, nor to judge by the look on his face when he got back and the way he moved towards the bed would she, his going into the garage and finding the hamsters with their stupid little heads cut off.

BIO: Born (1937) and educated in England; college-university lecturer in England/Australia/Canada. Now Emeritus Professor of Classics, University of Calgary, and Fellow of The Royal Society of Canada. Published 12 books and c. 600 articles on Greece, Rome, Byzantium, 18th-Century History & Literature, and Albanian History/Language/Literature. As freelance writer, have contributed many magazine and newspaper articles on many subjects in various countries. Did a 2-year stint as regular columnist for the British daily newspaper Morning Star. Currently write regular columns for (e.g.) Catholic Insight (Canada); Fortean Times (UK/USA); Presbyterian Record (Canada); Stitches (Canada); Verbatim (USA/UK).