The angry man drove into the setting sun. He was tired and fought to keep his ‘69 Volkswagen squareback from skidding off the unplowed snow-covered road. He slapped the steering wheel mouthing a vulgarity when he lost control of the car. Why did he agree to drive his estranged wife from Chicago to her sister’s home in Los Angeles? Their marriage was over. Why this last chivalry?
According to his wife, there was a small county park where they could car-camp for the night off this side road. That wife was sick with the flu, sleeping in the back of the car. They had spent the first night in a similar park in Oklahoma. Now he was on a narrow back road looking for the park twenty miles off I-40, west of Albuquerque. He had been driving for twelve hours and had to piss.
To make extra money for her move to Los Angles, his wife took a job substitute teaching in a Chicago junior high school between Thanksgiving and Christmas vacations. She caught a virulent flu from her charges. Even though, as she claimed, she was being “extra careful” because she knew she was coming down with something, she lost her wallet with her driver’s license. She couldn’t help with the driving. But nothing could protect her from the approaching full moon in Ares. She was in for a spate of turbulent times. No amount of precaution could stop the power of the cosmos. What bull shit. She was an idiot. Astrology crap drove him crazy. It excused all sorts of nonsensical behavior. Now he could feel the flu coming on: scratchy throat, fever, headache, stomach cramps. He slammed the steering wheel with his palm and cursed his wife.
Continue reading “Reckonings: A Western”
Two Wives was originally published on Fictionaut in September 2013. It has been significantly rewritten and is included in my collection: Considered Fiction.
Two women sat at a small outside table at a neighborhood restaurant waiting for the same man. The older woman, older by only twenty-four hours, was tall and slender, almost anorexic. She wore a newsboy cap, which covered her thinning short coif. She had large white teeth that were prominent when she laughed, which she did in a theatrical way. She was wearing a blue work shirt, Calvin Klein jeans and Brevitt boots. The combination of tight jeans and heeled boots accentuated her shapely hips and stems.
Her companion, junior to her by twenty-four hours, was a raven-haired beauty with, as they say, good bones and a wineglass figure. Her perfect complexion and classic high-cheek-boned face were framed by a crimson wide-brimmed hat decorated with a feather and a gold butterfly pin. She wore a white ruffled blouse with a straight black skirt. Her ensemble was accessorized by an Hermès scarf and black sling-back heels. Neither woman would ever see fifty again.
The man they were waiting for was the painter, Jack Mahler. Jack had been married to the older woman, his ex-wife, for three years. His current spouse of twenty-five years was the younger woman.
Continue reading “Two Wives”
Rash, inspired by the classic Pygmalion myth, is a story of love, revenge, perversion, vanity, and the supernatural. Jack Mahler, a painter and sculptor, befriends Margaux Howland at the local gym. Margaux is in a loveless marriage with a powerful judge, Leland Howland. The judge commissions Jack to make a portrait statue of his wife. Margaux and Jack begin a love affair. When the Judge discovers the affair, he sends Margaux to their Santa Fe home. The gardener at the Santa Fe home, Carlos, is a well-regarded shaman. Observing the unhappy Margaux, Carlos uses his powers to bedevil the judge. He also gives the statue magical properties. The vanity of human behavior clashes with the power of the paranormal as the story unfolds in unexpected ways.
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He deplaned Air France flight 9 from JFK to Charles de Gaulle airport at quarter past noon. He had to connect with an EasyJet flight to Nice at terminal 2E. The connection would involve a long walk and a shuttle bus ride. The signage was confusing, but he had traveled this route a dozen times and knew it well. His luggage was a backpack and a baritone saxophone in a leather gig bag. The plane from JFK was fifteen minutes late. He would have to hustle to make the connection.
He passed the train station where a Paris-bound B3 RER train was waiting in the station.
—Why is it when I need to get to Paris in a hurry, there never is a train, but when I don’t need one, it’s waiting in the station?
He continued walking briskly, confident of his route. Somehow he missed a turn and descended into a restricted part of the airport.
—Excuse me, sir. This is a forbidden zone, said the armed guard.
—I’m sorry officer, but I am lost. I need to connect to EasyJet at terminal 2E.
—Take that door and follow the signs to the transfer bus to terminal 2.
—Thank you. Merci bien.
A sign on the door said: No Luggage Trolleys. He entered the door. He found himself in an enclosed escalator stairwell. The door closed behind him. There was no landing; the first step of the escalator was flush with the doorsill. The stairs were not moving when he opened the door but activated when his foot touched the first step.
Continue reading “Steps”
In the late 60’s, I lived on West 71st Street in Manhattan and borrowed books from a store. It was a stationary/news store. In the back of the store were books for purchase and a big section of books available to borrow. It was located on West 72nd Street between West End and Broadway, next to where I had my shirts laundered. There was a five-dollar membership fee. Books were free for three days and ten cents a week afterward.
Continue reading “Lending Books”
The yellow taxi pulled up to 5555 Palm Avenue. A tall, slender woman dressed in a mauve Chanel suit exited the cab and walked into the building. Her heels made staccato clacks as she hurried across the terrazzo lobby floor to the elevator.
Continue reading “Purple Lady, Lavender Afternoon”