Category: short stories

Small Cuts (7) Oliver Again #fiction

~ Meg ~ 16 Comments

Read the opening thoughts of each of them: James, Elaine, Oliver and Genevieve. Then James again, Elaine continues and now Oliver again…

It happens this way in dreams: Once in a while in the midst of the dense fog, there is a brief moment of clarity. A parting of the mist where for an instant the terrain of the road ahead is visible and navigable. With confidence, you forge ahead until once again the clouds descend and the view is obscured. And not only is the way now hidden but the lay of the land forgotten, rendering you immobile and impotent to act.

This was the state of my mind now and really, it had been for the past few weeks, months —maybe even a year. The obstacles between Gen and me seemed insurmountable. How do two married people on opposite sides of the issue of starting a family manage to come to terms? How do you possibly compromise on that? It’s not like I could do this without her… Even if I offered to be a stay-at-home-dad, it would still be her body carrying our child, she —the vessel bringing another being into the horror that was this world we lived in.

And now, with the added variable of Elaine in the mix, I was no longer certain I wanted to fix the issues between my wife and myself. I felt like throwing everything into the fire and starting over. And yet, and yet… Without knowing for sure if Elaine shared my feelings —which to be honest were intensely strong but vague in scope— I didn’t dare make a move that could destroy not one, but two marriages, and a best friendship that had lasted decades.

Ironically, Genevieve had seemed happy on the way home from the restaurant. She actually talked animatedly about her conversation with James. Apparently, James had decided to read his way through some classic literature and she had been delighted to give him advice.

I should be jealous, I thought to myself. I was positive Elaine wouldn’t be babbling away about the things we had talked about tonight. James would have been jealous. Wouldn’t he? Or was he really that oblivious to his wife’s beauty and my attention to her? Of course the devilish solution to the whole problem whirled around in my head: James with Gen, me with Elaine. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing happened. It just seemed so … unsavory didn’t quite cover it. Could new love be founded on the bones of betrayal? Because if nothing else, I was sure of my love for Elaine. If she loved me too, was it fair to deny it? This where the fog descended and I became most disoriented. Somewhere ahead was a cliff or a gradual slope, the step I chose could be disastrous or easy to transverse. I couldn’t act rashly.

Later that evening, as I brushed my teeth, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Which man stared back at me from the glass? The husband or the adulterer? A man bound for happiness or misery, love or loathing, and which of those men was which?

I set my toothbrush into the ceramic mug beside Gen’s and flipped the light off on my way out. The bedroom was dark, save for the reading light on my bedside table. Gen was already sleeping when I came into the bedroom. She looked so beautiful, so delicate with her porcelain skin and long, slender limbs curled beneath the heavy duvet. Her blonde mane fanned out over her pillow like a tawny silk shawl in the wind. She was facing away from me, so I touched one soft strand, wound it around my finger then let it drop, as I climbed in beside her. In the dark, after the lamp was extinguished, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Only then did I become aware that her rhythmic breathing sounded forced and I wondered if her sleep was feigned. I wondered if we would both lay awake tonight thinking about the future.

Tomorrow, my fate would be decided.

Header illustration: Man In the Mirror ~ Meg Sorick, 2018

Payback

~ Meg ~ 33 Comments

By Meg Sorick. A short story from July 2015, edited and ready to go into the collection. Here’s one last read:

“I know it’s not much,” I said, as I handed the homeless man an orange and a five dollar bill. I had passed him every day since he first appeared a week ago, on my route to work. With haunted green eyes and a sad smile, he looked neither dangerous nor crazy, just like a guy who had fallen on hard times.

“There but for the grace of God, go I,” I thought as I entered the diner where I waited tables. With a heavy sigh, I tied my apron around my waist and picked up my order pad. I had the worst section again: the one right by the door. Every time the door opened and closed, the wind rushed in, chilling my stocking clad legs and bare arms. Despite the fact that I never stopped moving all day, I never managed to get warm. By the end of my shift, my feet were sore, my back was aching and my meager tips wouldn’t go very far toward paying my bills.

I packed up the last of the vegetable soup to take home for my supper. I smiled. There was enough for two containers. No sense in letting it go to waste. On impulse, I grabbed the last two rolls and a couple of packets of butter and tucked it in the takeout bag with the soup. My homeless friend was waiting in his usual spot. “I brought you some hot soup,” I said. “Do you have somewhere you can go for the night?”

“Thank you,” he said, gratefully accepting the container and the rolls. “Now don’t you worry, I’ll be all right.”

The next day, I packed another orange in my bag for the homeless man, but to my surprise, he wasn’t in his spot when I passed. I trudged on to another long day at the diner.

Just as lunch rush had ended, a handsome man in a business suit sat in my section and smiled at me.

I gaped in confusion at his familiar features. “Is it you?” I gasped.

He smiled and gave a little shake of his head. “You’ve met my brother, Marcus.” Flicking his eyes toward my name tag, he added, “Cecilia.”

“Is your brother all right?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“He’s all right now. I’ve taken him home.” He passed me a business card which read, Lucas LeGrande, Executive Chef, above the name of the finest restaurant in town and said, “You’re the only one who ever showed my brother any kindness. I’d like to return the favor. Come work for me.”

Header Image: “Together” – artist, Lesley Oldaker, oil, 2011

The Chess Game

~ Meg ~ 52 Comments

A ten sentence short story… I also think this one should be expanded before adding it to the collection. Some history between these old friends… 

Every day Abraham Stein set up the chess board in the park. The game was always in progress, but Abraham never accepted offers to play. Every day he sat for an hour, staring at the board, not making a move. At the end of the hour, he would slide all the chess pieces back into the box, fold the board and walk the five blocks back to his apartment at Temple Beth Israel Retirement Home.

The ladies of Temple Beth Israel wondered about Abraham Stein, trying always to dissuade Abraham from his routine. As he walked each day to his appointment in the park, he would shoo them away with a wave of his hand.

One day, after some weeks had gone by, a man in a wheelchair was wheeled by his nurse to the place opposite Abraham in the park. Abraham smiled, without looking up from the board and said, “It’s about time you showed up.”

Saul Rosenberg snorted and said, “I missed you, too, you old meshuggener.”

Abraham pointed to the board and said, “It’s your move.”