Aerophobia

The flight attendant left the cockpit door open, what I saw did little to alleviate my fears. I see the pilot take another swig from his metal flask. He turns and--realizing the door is open--glares at me; hurriedly, he slams the tiny door to the cockpit.

I reach into pocket for another Xanax; I need to forget what I just saw, forget why I'm even on this flight. The funeral is tomorrow. Tomorrow I bury my best friend and lover, the only man who could make me smile. I haven't slept, ate, or smiled since I received the phone call. As my thoughts begin to wander, as my grief begins to well up, the plane lurches violently and nosedives towards the ground.

He had always told me there was no reason to be afraid of flying. As the plane makes it's rapid descent, a powerful peace envelops me.

"You'll always land at your destination, Lyndsey," he said.

He was right.

Blood Thinner

I re-read the text in hand, able to read but somehow unable to comprehend. I can't stop shaking, I bite my lip to keep it from quivering.

We think it's best if you don't come home.

Was I still their son? Did they still love me? Were they the same parents that raised me?

I have nowhere else to go, nowhere to stay. Just like that, I am no longer part of a family. I can't help who I'm attracted to, should I be punished for this moral shortcoming?

Perhaps they're right, maybe it's best I don't come home. What's obvious now is I never was.. 

Score

The cold wind whips around the corner of the tall building, but I cannot feel it. All I can feel is the gnawing pain of starvation; it's fierce pull draws me closer to the corner store. I've been in there dozens of times, I even know the clerk by name: Stavi.

Now just outside the store, a twinge of nervousness and guilt roil in my stomach; I don't know if I can go through with this. The hunger returns, fiercer and more desperate than ever. I swallow my fear, slip on my ski mask, and fumble for the revolver in my waistband.

Stavi tried to fight back, but my hunger was stronger. He didn't give me a choice; my hunger didn't give him a chance. As I run out of his store with twenty-five bucks, I hear the sound of sirens approaching quickly.  

Therapy

Every night she works the same corner. I can't help it: I'm a creature of habit and she is truly a thing of beauty. She is never much for conversation, but she listens well. I tell her about my loveless marriage, my failed parenting, even my soul-sucking; every story, every detail, she gives me that same sexy smirk and soft chuckle.  Her features cast silhouettes on the poorly lit concrete; I can't help but imagine those same soft curves casting shadows in my bedroom.

"I love you," I say.

"One hundred dollars, hon." 

Girl

They told me I wasn't her type. I was devastated, my heart dropped to my stomach; the only girl I ever felt this way about and I wasn't "her type."

I see her type in the halls, I suffer their jeers, they push me against the lockers and slap me on the back of my head. I see how her type treats her, how they drag her like a rag doll by her arm. I see the shame on her face, her eyes never stare at anything but the floor.

It's after prom and she and I are both sitting on the curb. Her dress is torn, her eye is black and blue, and her mascara is running. I place my coat over her shoulders, her crossed arms clutch it for warmth. A loud sports car with a glowing carriage pulls in front of us. He tells her to get in the fucking car.

"Sorry," she says as she brushes the coat off her shoulders and walks gingerly to the car.

Patriot

I couldn't have been a more proud parent. He would write me every chance he got, he would tell me not to worry.

"Things are pretty boring here, mom," he would write. "Can't wait to see you and dad real soon!"

The letters stopped coming. I asked them why but they wouldn't tell me. They could see I was worried, they would reassure me, tell that he's probably just unable to send a letter wherever he is. I began to tell myself the same thing.

They came by this morning with a flag and his tags.

Ally

Yesterday they came by with food. The rations went so fast, we could only get a few packages before the rest of the village poured out for the same reason. The soldiers came by today. They told us they trying to find bad guys, to find terrorists that want to hurt us. They tell us they want to help us, they tell us that's why they brought us food. I want to help them, but I don't know any terrorists.

We were playing outside when a noise like a loud whistle and then an explosion ripped through our village. The smoke looked like it was coming from my house. I follow the smoke, it was coming from my home. I could see my father partially buried beneath the rubble, I could hear my brothers and sisters crying for water, crying out in pain.

A man I've never met puts his hand on my shoulder. He tells me the soldiers did this, that they hated us. He tells me he can help me get back at them. He tells me we are allies.

Bonus

Their wide eyes and hopeful stares remind of deer eating corn from my feeder: giddy with ignorance. At least the deer has an excuse; it can't read, it can't recognize that free meals are an illusion, deer are naturally stupid. Man made his choice.

Their bright, stupid faces don't even see the snare being slid under their noses.

"Sign here," I say, "and initial here."

They're so eager for that glimmer of the American Dream they don't realize I've already got them lined up in my cross hairs. They smile, hug, thank me, even cry tears of joy for what I'm about to do. They won't even realize it until I've taken everything: every possession, every dime, every second of hard work they ever put towards and into their bottomless pit, into their mortgage.

"Congratulations, you two. You're now proud American homeowners."

They extend their hands towards me. Gotcha.

Pursuit

He always make me chase it when he hits it out of bounds! I'm tired of fetching his foul balls, I keep telling him to be more careful, but he's seen too many games, too many home runs to just bunt it to me.

Now he jacked one into the field, past the sign. I'm not going in there, my mom and dad told to stay away, that it was dangerous. I've never seen a landmine, but I don't want to upset my parents. My mother screamed and cried last time I was in there. I tell him to go get our ball.

He runs out there and picks it up.

"See? I got it! Nothing to wo--"

The explosion covers him in dirt. His arm lands in front of me, holding my ball.

Duty

Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. The lab has a city-scape backdrop, I guess to make us forget that we work in a damn bunker, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. They don't tell me what they're doing with my research, what they intend to do with my work; I have my suspicions.

It's been four years since they let me talk to anyone on the outside: not my wife, my brother, or my kids. A general came in today with a bottle of champagne.

"Boys, I want to congratulate you personally for your hard work. I and the rest of the country thanks you for your achievements."

He smiles and raises his glass. The soft clinking of the skinny glasses drowns out the sound of entire towns being vaporized by my hard work. All I ever want to see is the bottom of a glass.

Mercy

I don't know how long I've been stuck in this bed, how long these machines and tubes have been keeping me alive. Pain, depression, and humiliation have distorted any real concept of time; they want to keep me alive, but I don't know why. I am not the same person I was before the stroke, before the cancer, before the frequent trips in and out of the hospital, before they left me here to live. I just want to go home, to see my husband again, to see my parents, to see my Savior.

I am too weak to move, too frail to force myself up and unhook these machines. My great grandson visits me everyday, he tells me what is happening in the outside world, his world. To be young again! I try to tell him that I am in pain, that I want to go, that I want to be free.

One day he walks into my room; he is wearing a white shirt and white shorts. He strokes my hair and whispers in my ear "Gam-gam, you're free." He reaches behind the machines and unplugs my life support from the wall. The lights and beeps shut off; with a flick of his supple wrists, he has slayed my captors. As I close my eyes for the last time, I know that he is my Savior. I know that I am finally free.

Angel

Daddy works in the sky. He is always flying around the entire world, mommy says it is because daddy is such a smart person that they want him up in space to study. She says I'm smart like daddy, maybe I can go to space one day too! One day we were sitting on a runway, waiting for daddy to come back from space, I was so excited! I don't remember seeing him as a real live person, I saw him a couple times on a computer screen and mommy keeps a picture of him on nightstand. She says he looks just like me.

We were watching the TV in front of the seats on the runway, we could see daddy's rocket ship. It was a little white dot against the gray screen, I could barely see it, I couldn't see daddy. The white dot exploded into balls of fire, I looked at mommy to ask her what happened but she was crying. She took me by the hand and we went to the car, she was crying so hard she couldn't talk. After a while, she told me God wanted to keep daddy in space, that he was an angel now and he couldn't come back to see us. I cried.

Revenge

I caught him with another woman. I hired his friend, his best employee, to follow him, to gather more evidence. One painful picture after another, one excruciating video clip after another, I thought I had enough to let the law handle his infidelity. The lawyer told me it was a "no fault" state: they'll separate us but I won't get what's mine.

Another thought pops in my head, an opportunity for revenge. I slip out of my suit and into a bathrobe. I text his friend, his best employee, to bring a bottle of wine.

Love

I thought he was cute, I thought he was sweet--a rare gentleman in these hedonistic times. He invited me to the after-party, I couldn't believe it! My heart jumped in my throat and my stomach tingled with excitement and anticipation. He was my white knight, but what if he thought I was weird? Or awkward? I couldn't let that happen! I had to keep his attention. I just needed a drink to loosen up.

I couldn't remember what happened after my third beer. The room spun as he carried me to the bedroom, whispering sweet nothings in my ear; I felt safe. I wrapped my arms around his neck. I kissed him gently on his chin as he set me on the bed.

The pictures told the rest of the story. The other girls called me a whore; hushed whispers and malicious snickering followed me in halls and classrooms. I was too guilty and too terrified to look at my texts, Facebook, or Twitter. The taunts were ceaseless: total strangers reached out across cyberspace to call me whore, slut, and bitch. I found the noose swaying at the end of my rope, the loop fit perfectly.

Free

2 a.m., time to leave, the pretty bartender confirms my worst fear when she flicks the lights on and off. What a day to celebrate bachelorhood; I scribble my number and slide it over to her, she smiles and tucks it between her beautiful tits. I pull myself off the bar and struggle to find my footing. The ground is unstable and what was one has become two; each eye sees its own interpretation and sends the blurry message to my clouded mind. Sluggishly I stumble to the outline of my car in the parking lot, swing the door open, and flop in front of the steering wheel. The engine turns over and I select a radio station to blare loudly to keep me awake.

There are two roads now where there was one before; I decide to stagger them both. I didn't see the dark figure until it appeared inches from my bumper. Flashing lights from the patrol cars and ambulances further disorients my clouded mind. They tell me I veered into a pole after I hit her. They tell me I will have to go to the hospital to get checked out.

They tell she was only fifteen. They tell me she didn't make it.

Lines

Left. Right. Left. Right. 

The man in black stood in front of the towering gate; sharp barbed wire loosely draped over the chain link wall like a a veil over my bride at our wedding. Just last week we were celebrating, laughing, making love. That doesn't matter to the man in black, nor does it matter to us now. All that matters now is his choice.

Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.

He separates families and lovers like wheat from chaff. With a quick glance he can measure strength and character faster than most could measure in a lifetime; he has been trained for such cold judgment since he was a youth. I clutch her hand as we move closer to the front of the line, the words of my father-in-law echo in my mind: You are not a lawyer: you are a factory worker, a machinist. You work in factories or you die. 

A woman screams as the guard separates her from young daughter. Soldiers use their machine guns to bully the hysterical woman to the left; a man grabs the crying child by her shoulder and roughly shoves her in the line on the right.

Right. Right. Left. Left.

The man's sharp blue eyes analyze me. He sneers and with a single motion decides my life sentence with his outstretched hand.

Left.

I turn and look back to my wife. Her small, slender frame cowers in front of the burly soldier.

Right.