For those of you who cannot read the story on the free page, here it is:
Sabotage
Jonathan sits down on the chair in his study, the same chair he has sat in everyday for a week, the same chair his wife put there so he could read. He feels a prick in his right buttock. He jumps to his feet and turns around to inspect the cushion. He presses down on the soft cushion. A small point rises out of the cushion. Thinking it is a feather plume, he pulls on it. It is metal and it will not withdraw. He unzips the back of the cushion and removes the cotton cover. He reaches in and gropes around. He finds a needle, it feels long, and the metal has a large loop at the end. “Damn,” he mutters to himself. He tries to extract it, but it remains firmly in its place. He goes to his office desk, opens a drawer, and grabs a Swill Army Knife. He cuts down through the feather cover and the needle’s looped end is sewn in place with the point sticking up, almost as if someone purposely . . . He cuts it out, and with it in hand, he goes to show it to his wife. She has a home camera video still in her hand of him with the maid. He hears the maid softly closing the back door.
+this story first published in Bravura Literary Journal
Teresa and I have only one evening recreation left to participate in together ever since the coronavirus spread over the world like foamy sea-water over a pebbly shore—watching TV. We can’t go to the cinema, eat inside restaurants, go the ballet, opera, or theater, so we watch movies, TV series, news, and sports. I watch, alongside her, and I wonder, why don’t all the characters in the new movies and series wear medical masks? Why do they eat inside restaurants? Why don’t the cardboard cut-out fans in the otherwise empty baseball stadiums have medical masks painted on them?
My head bumps, which started a month or two after COVID-19 became a pandemic, have suddenly cleared up. Two pharmacists and our hair-cutter, who comes to our apartment wearing a medical mask and rubber gloves, told me “They are grease eruptions, a result of nerves, fear, worry, and anger all together over a long period of time.” I thought, I am not a nervous person, I fear very little, but yes, I worry for my family and friends, but I am hardly ever angry.
The bumps used to itch, and when I scratched them, they just spread. I thought that it was because I lent my hat to a friend who came visiting on a cruise ship just before the outbreak, like he had lice or something. I felt things crawling around on my scalp. Teresa and Cati scoured my scalp sever times and told me, “No lice.”
Grey clouds and black sea outside. The wind is whipping the trees around
Our souls at night.
Yesterday, I woke just after sunrise and prepared Teresa’s breakfast while she slept. Then I sipped a coffee on the balcony. The sky was blue and the sea also.
When Teresa woke, and ate with me on the balcony, I drove her to Punta del Oeste. We picked up a few things at the pharmacy, then lunched on duck breast and whipped potatoes at La Chaise.
The sleeping pills Teresa gave me have helped me sleep again, which I have not since my Dad died. I had stopped sleeping pills for six months and was just starting to feel normal again, withdrawal symptoms over, nightmares over, writing flowing smoothly, my short-term memory back, my speaking vocabulary returned—both in Spanish and English. But the news that My Dad died of a heart attack while waiting in a jammed hospital admissions room while a line of twenty-some ambulances were lined up outside with COVID-19 affected patients inside each was a little devastating.
Today, oh, I mean the other today, or maybe it was yesterday, Tuesday, no I mean Thursday, Lidia slipped into my office while I was writing, and poured herself a cup of coffee from my thermos. I thought I left her some in the carafe in the machine in the kitchen. We kissed, she flashed me a peach breast, my blood rushed, and we smiled at each other.
When she left my office, I took my hands off the keyboard and I scratched my scalp.
*This short story was first published on Flash Fiction North.
The full moon was a bright white disk—its light providing a black‑and‑white quality to the tops of the palm trees and to the asphalt road that twisted through the jungle. Thousands of toads and crickets sounded in chorus. A light wisp of white danced between two trees near the road. Two Marines, Lance Corporal Jones and Private First Class Barks, were walking on that road, one in front of the other, about fifteen meters apart. They wore camouflaged utilities, helmets, cartridge belts, harnesses, and they carried black M16 rifles at sling arms. Jones’, the Marine in the lead, sneered. His cheeks were pinched and his nose was thin. Barks’ face was rounder and wet with sweat. As they approached a Quonset hut, their footsteps silenced the toads and crickets in the immediate area. A mosquito buzzed around Barks’ ear.
Jones stopped in front of a Quonset hut and extracted a two‑way radio from a leather case that hung upon his cartridge belt.
“Hotel India, Hotel India, this is Foxtrot Papa.”
“This is Hotel India, go ahead Foxtrot Papa.”
“Sierra Bravo Three, all secure.”
“Roger that, Foxtrot Papa.”
Jones gestured with his radio toward Barks. He spoke in a loud whisper, “C’mon Newbie. Let’s take a break.”
Barks double-timed toward Jones. He stepped over a large cow pie in the road. A sharp bark echoed over the tops of the trees and Barks flinched, looked around, then walked the rest of the distance to where Jones was standing.
Jones lifted the radio again and spoke, “Hotel India, this is Foxtrot Papa. We’re Delta for a Bravo.”
“Roger that, Foxtrot Papa.”
Jones hung the radio back on his belt.
“Hey Jones,” Barks said. “Was that one of those boonie dogs?”
“That’s Lance Corporal Jones to you, Barks, if you’re gonna address me by name.”
Barks repeated the question. “That bark. Was that one of those boonie dogs?”
Jones sat on the cement steps in front of the Quonset hut.
“Was it a sharp bark? Or, was it a yapping bark?”
Barks sat next to him. “I don’t know, I guess it was kind of sharp‑like. Didn’t you hear it?”
Jones pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Nah, when you been on this island for as long as I have, you don’t notice the jungle sounds so much.”
The sharp bark was heard again.
“There it is,” said Barks.
Jones slid a cigarette from the pack, and placed it in the corner of his mouth.
“That be one of those barking deer,” he said.
“Barking deer?”
“Damn, Newbie. Ain’t they taught you nothing yet? Look at you. You’re so green you even got issued those new heavy utilities.” He pointed at Barks’ uniform. “Bet you’re sweating your ass off in this jungle.”
“It’s not so hot,” Barks said, wiping his face.
“Yeah, but it’s humid as hell on this God‑forsaken jungle island, even at night. The only break we get is the rain. If you was from the Old Corps like me, you would’a got issued these tropical cammies.” He pulled at his blouse. “Thinner. Rip‑stop cotton poplin. Like wearing air‑conditioning.” He lit a cigarette, the light from his match bringing flesh tones to his face. “Yeah, that bark was a deer. Boonie dogs mostly howl. If they bark, it’s a yapping bark. Kind’a wimpy‑like. Not very big, those boonie dogs, problem is, they travel in packs. Chase down and eat the deer mostly. But sometimes, early in the morning, if they’re hungry enough, they come out’ta the jungle and dig through the garbage on base. Sometimes you can see them sitting on the side of the road. Ugly things. Looks like they all come from domestic stock, like they was left here by the military families. You know, like Benji and Fido and Rin‑Tin‑Tin, ‘cept they’re lean and tough looking, and they’re all ragged and scarred up. They have this look in their eyes, you know, kind’a wild, yet, more than that: heartless, unfeeling. Jeez. You know if you met them alone in the jungle, they’d tear you apart. Seen a pack of them next to the old airport runway last month when we ran the Physical Fitness Test. They was just sitting there, watching me run by. Their eyes. Damn. I could swear they was devils from hell. Gave me the willies.” He offered his pack of cigarettes to Barks. “Wanna smoke?”
“No, thanks. We’re not supposed to smoke on duty.”
Jones laughed, then said, “So? I’m in charge on this patrol and I say you can smoke.” He pushed the pack into Barks’ chest.
“No.”
Jones mimicked, “No, thanks. No.” He put his pack away. “Oh yeah. I forgot. You’re the Marine meritoriously promoted out of boot camp. You would never do anything against the rules. How’d you get promoted meritoriously? You kiss the Drill Instructor’s ass? Bet you was one of those duty‑hut privates. Bet you stayed in the D.I.’s duty hut all day shining his shoes and shining his brass and mopping his floor and saying, ‘Yes sir, Drill Instructor, sir. Is there anything else I can do for the Drill Instructor, sir?’”
“No,” Barks said. “I wasn’t a duty‑hut private. I just did my job like I was supposed to. I stayed squared way. I was locked-and-cocked, and I kept all my shit in one bag. I did it because I liked what I was doing. I believed in what I was doing. I felt good being a Marine. So, if you call that kissing ass, that’s just too Goddamn bad.”
“Listen to you. You sound like a lifer. You a lifer?”
“No. But I really believe our job is important. We’re a force‑in‑readiness. We have a vital mission on this duty. We’re out here away from home and we’re on the front lines. If a war starts in the Pacific, we have to be ready to defend this island at all costs. It’s because we’re here that the people in the U.S. can sleep safely at night. We are the night sentries of democracy.”
Jones jumped to his feet and held his hand over his heart. “And Chesty Puller is my savior. Goddamn. They sure brain‑washed you. How can you believe all that gungy shit?”
“Because it’s true.”
Jones looked away and shook his head, then sat back down. They sat gazing into the darkness of the jungle. The sounds of the toads and crickets resumed. Jones spotted something white in the jungle. Barks sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?” Barks asked.
“Caribow shit.”
“What?”
“Caribow shit. There. Like that pile you just stepped over.”
Barks looked at the pile. “No, not that . . . Caribow shit? You mean caribou?”
“No. Caribow. Caribows are wild cattle that roam all over this jungle. Big sons a bitches. Wide as a brick wall. You can hear them crashing around at night, they’re so blind and stupid. They was brought over here from the Philippines as domesticated stock, but the Islanders here didn’t know what to do with them. Now they just run wild. Shit all over the place.” He sniffed the air. “Yeah. Caribow shit.”
Barks lifted his nose and closed his eyes.
“No,” he said. “That smell. That fine smell. It’s kind of sweet and musky. Reminds me of my girl back in the states. She wore perfume like that.”
“Oh, that,” Jones said. “That’s the princess.”
“The princess?”
“The dead princess.”
“The de . . . Get out of here.”
“No shit man,” Jones said. “There’s a dead princess that walks this jungle. Her ghost anyway. They say you can smell her perfume when she’s near.”
Barks warily eyed him. “Can’t you smell it?” he asked.
Jones sniffed.
“Nah,” he said. “They say only her next victim can smell it.”
“Now I know your shitting me,” Barks said.
“Really?”
“Dead princess? A ghost wandering the jungle? C’mon.”
Barks looked up at the moon. It appeared nebulous. The air felt cooler and damp.
“Want me to tell you the story?” Jones asked.
“Hell. I don’t care.”
“Thought for sure you’d want to hear a good story. You’re a reader, ain’t you?”
A toad hopped near Barks’ feet. “Yeah, you are,” Jones continued. “I seen those books in your room. Shakespeare and Poe and what’s that other one? Beakit?”
“Beckett. Anyway, I just like to read.”
“Yeah, well, I thought a literary man like you would want to hear a story, especially a weird one about the jungle he’s presently in the middle of.”
Jones stood up and ground out his cigarette.
Barks began to stand up, then, sat again. A deer barked and three or four long baying howls lingered in the air. A mosquito buzzed in front of his face. He waved it away. “You have any bugfuck?” he asked.
Jones seated himself again and pulled out a green bottle of insect repellent.
“This is a no shitter,” Jones said. “It was back in the end of ‘41, right after Pearl Harbor. There was a small platoon of Marines on this part of island manning the anti‑aircraft guns near the old air‑strip. Well, that old airstrip wasn’t used anymore, but it was there for emergencies. The Marines woke up one night to air raid sounds, and they could hear bombs exploding far up north where the new airstrip was. Then these Marines got the word that the Japanese landed a company of soldiers on the west side of the island. They heard there was an American reinforcement ship gonna land, but it wasn’t gonna arrive ‘til the next day. Since there wasn’t any aircraft bombing their area, the Marines couldn’t do anything but sit around on their thumbs. They was bored and worried about their fellow Marines up north, and they was itching to get at the Japs, see, so this gungy c
orporal volunteers to take a patrol into the jungle for a little reconnaissance, you know, get the stats on how many they were and what they was doing and where they were. Well, he was given permission to do a little hit‑n‑run mission along the way—because four Marines can take on a whole company of any enemy, at least that’s what they teach in boot camp, isn’t it?”
Jones slowly pulled another cigarette out of his pack. Barks watched him out of the corner of his eye. Jones offered him the pack again. Barks kicked at the ground. Jones slowly lit one.
“Well, this gung‑ho Marine walks into the jungle with his four‑man fire squad, and . . . He dragged on his cigarette, eyeing Barks’ face.
“And?” Barks asked
“And . . . he never walks out again.”
Barks glared at him.
“It turns out the scuttlebutt was wrong. It wasn’t a company of Japs that landed. It was a whole fucking regiment.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He didn’t have a fucking chance. The scuttlebutt about the reinforcements was wrong, too. They never arrived. So, the rest of the platoon got wiped out after holding their position for one night, in fact, every American on the island got killed, except for one gutsy squid that hid out in the jungle for thirty months or so.”
He puffed on his cigarette and looked about at the tree line.
“Wait a minute,” Barks said. “What happened to the princess? This whole thing began because you were talking about a princess.”
“I was getting to that. There was this princess, see, the daughter of the big chief of the island. Pretty young thing. Beautiful as a matter of fact. Eighteen years old. Pluckable as a ripe mango. Hair and eyes black and shiny. She was gonna be queen of the island, next in line after her father. Well, after the Japs took over the island, the Jap Colonel in charge, see, he marches into the main village all proud and pompous on this white horse that he takes with him wherever he goes on his campaigns. Well, he prances into this village, and he sees the princess. Right away he wants to marry her. He calls for a big dinner that night and he announces in front of everybody his intention to marry the princess. Well, the princess is there, and she hears this and she storms out of the party and goes back to her hut and cries on her pillow all night. The Colonel, well, he’s a bit offended, but the chief, see, he’s afraid of the Colonel, so he apologizes for his daughter, and the Colonel ends up believing it’s all because the girl is shy and a virgin and everything. But, it really wasn’t that at all.”
Jones took another drag on his cigarette. Barks tightened his jaw.
“What was it?” Barks asked.
“It turns out she was in love with the Corporal who died the week before.” He flicked his cigarette on the ground. “Yeah. She’d been seeing the Corporal on the sly, see. They’d each sneak out at night and meet each other in the jungle for a little loving rendezvous. So, you see, she’s still in love with this Marine, see, and the next day, when the Colonel calls on her, she tells him the truth, right in front of his entourage, his private guards and half the village. Says she loves a United States Marine. Well, the Colonel feels slapped in the face, see, so he smiles kind’a evil‑like and tells her that all the Marines are dead. That he personally saw that each one of them was cut open while they was still alive and had their guts thrown in the sand at their feet. He says he watched them all slowly bleed to death and listened to them scream for mercy. Well, the princess, see, she shrieks and breaks down crying and falls on the ground. And the Colonel says she has to marry him, see, since he’s now the reigning officer on the island.”
“And?” Barks asked. “What did she do?”
“Well, she looks up at him and she looks him right in the eye, see, and she spits on his boots. These big, high, polished black riding boots. She says she doesn’t care if her Marine is dead, see. She says she is still in love with him no matter what. She says she refuses to marry the Colonel and that she would kill herself before she gave herself to such an ugly toad.”
“Well. A tenacious and virtuous spirit,” Barks said.
“Yeah, well, maybe she’s that, you know, but, maybe she’s just stubborn and a cheerleader type, but anyway, she offended the wrong man. The Colonel, see, he’s all embarrassed now, in front of his entourage. He’s sure the rest of the regiment is going to hear about it. He feels his honor is in jeopardy. So, as an example to the rest of the island, he orders the princess to be executed. They get the entire regiment and all the people on the island together in this big field, see, and they build this big platform. Then, right in front of everybody, they cut her head off with the Colonel’s ceremonial dress sword.”
“Barbaric,” Barks said. “O.K. But, why is her ghost wandering the jungle?
“Figure it out, man. She’s looking for her dead Marine.”
Jones got up and reached for his radio.
“Wait a minute,” Barks said. “You still didn’t finish the story. You mentioned something about her next victim.”
“Well, she can’t see so good, since she ain’t got no head. So, sometimes she mistakes us live Marines for her Corporal.”
“Get out of here.”
“No shit, man.”
“Come on.”
“Really. She’s been known to snatch a Marine on duty and drag him off kicking and screaming to the deepest part of the jungle, and do with him, God knows what. They never find the body.”
“Bullshit,” Barks said. “That doesn’t make sense. Why should she want to hurt someone?”
“Don’t know. All I know is they never find the bodies.”
Barks got up and adjusted his gear.
“You know the abandoned guard towers in the jungle,” Jones said.
“Yeah. So?”
“They used to be manned every day, but only by one Marine at a time.”
“So. What happened?”
“Well, they stopped manning the towers ‘cause a Marine disappeared a few years ago. The Sergeant of the Guard heard some shots coming from one of the towers, but by the time he got there the Private on duty was gone. His rifle lay on the ground, a whole clip emptied. Not a trace of blood around.”
“So. Just because there wasn’t any blood doesn’t prove anything.”
“The only thing that don’t bleed when it’s shot at is a ghost.”
“Maybe he was a bad shot.”
“He was a Marine, wasn’t he?”
Barks looked down.
“Besides, what happened to the body? How could he just disappear like that? To top it off, the Sergeant of the Guard checked the Marine’s logbook, you know, the one where the sentry writes down everything that happened on his post? Know what it said?”
Barks put his hand on top of the magazine holder on his cartridge belt. The two magazines inside held twenty rounds apiece.
Jones continued. “The last entry said, ‘Smell some kind’a beautiful perfume.’”
Barks looped his thumbs inside his harness straps.
Jones smiled.
“She got another Marine right here on this patrol last year. In fact, it was right around this structure, they say. Word is, he talked to his partner right before he disappeared. Know what he said?”
“Said he smelled some kind of perfume,” Barks said.
“Right!”
“You’re making all this up. What happened to his patrolling partner? This is a two‑man patrol. Why didn’t his partner try to help?”
“He said he heard a scream and a rifle shot, but by the time he turned around, the Marine was gone. Only thing he saw was a wisp of white between the trees.”
“Right. You’re just saying this shit to make me nervous.”
“O.K. You don’t have to believe me,” Jones said. He walked away from Barks. “Meritorious Marine. Shit. C’mon. Let’s go. Time to get back on patrol. And keep your interval.”
Barks fell in fifteen meters behind Jones. They carried their rifles at sling arms.
Jones spoke into his radio, “Hotel India, Hotel India. This is Foxtrot Papa.”
“Go ahead Foxtrot Papa.”
“We’re Five‑Nine and Three‑Two for Charlie Papa.”
“Roger that Foxtrot Papa.”
Barks regarded the stiffly swaying figure of Jones. Jones adjusted a canteen on his hip. Barks adjusted the rifle over his shoulder and looked at the jungle. Something exploded and squished beneath his boot. A toad. They were all over the road. Their throaty noises vibrated inside his helmet. Jones was zigzagging across the road, lifting his right foot and slamming it down on several toads. Barks now stepped over each one he came across. A disgusted look crossed his face as he spied the dead ones, their white guts and black blood spread out around their flattened bodies.
After a few moments the toads thinned out, then they disappeared altogether from the road. They still held to the surrounding jungle, however, as attested by their croaking. The crickets kept up their light duet with the toads, and at times, it seemed the toads and crickets were calling back and forth to one another.
Barks watched Jones call in something on his radio, then, glimpsed a fleeting flash of white between two trees on the left. He spun to the left, but there were only the trees. He caught the faintest scent of perfume. He tightened his grip on his rifle sling. The sounds of the crickets grew louder. A deer barked, sounding louder than before, and then the boonie dogs bayed. He glanced to the edges of the jungle on either side of the road.
He saw a wisp of white to his right. He slipped his arm out of the sling and pulled the rifle to port arms, diagonally across his chest and out in front of him. He listened. The toads increased their volume to keep up with the crickets. The bark of the deer again, sounding right next to him; then a boonie dog howl, then a second, then a third, till it seemed a whole pack of twenty or thirty were howling together. Jones was walking undisturbed with his head to the front.
He heard light footsteps in the jungle to his left. He pulled his rifle down, placed it at his hip, and pointed the barrel in the direction of the footsteps. He continued to walk, trying to increase his pace and keep his interval behind Jones. He heard footsteps to his right. He pivoted with his rifle. He saw a wisp of white to the left and jerked the rifle toward there. There was a wisp of white to his right, to his left, to his right.
Barks swung his rifle and directed it at a large body that had appeared at the edge of the jungle. The deer stood facing Barks, its thorny rack of antlers spread above it crown‑like. It took a timid step toward the road, stopped, then recoiled and tensed its muscles spring-like and leaned as if it would run back into the jungle whence it came. Barks lowered his rifle. The deer took another step forward, then another, feigned to the right, then sprang to the left and ran across the road behind Barks, its majestic body flowing rhythmically and smoothly. Silently, it slipped into the jungle on the other side.
Barks ran to catch up with Jones. Jones had lit a cigarette and was puffing small trails of smoke behind him. Barks looked relieved. He put his rifle back at sling arms.
He felt them at first, then saw them, the pair of yellow eyes at the edge of the jungle to his left. Then, as he continued to walk, another pair of eyes caught the moonlight. Then another. Each eye glinted and glowed. They bore into Barks. Around each set was an unfathomable darkness that blended into the cavernous shadow of the jungle below the trees. It was a chilling, black nothingness that gave the yellow eyes a floating yet solid, fiery substance. Boonie dogs. There must have been thirty or forty of them, all lined up, one between each tree, and each seemed to carefully measure Barks’ figure as he passed in front of them. Jones was still looking straight ahead, puffing on his cigarette.
Barks reached down and scooped a clump of earth from the side of the road and threw it at one set of eyes, but the clump only fell apart. None of the eyes moved. Barks reached down and grabbed a small chunk of asphalt and flung it. He heard it slice through some leaves behind the eyes. He picked up another and heard it chunk off the edge of a tree. None of the eyes even blinked. He reached down and chose a stone that lay at his feet, took aim at the nearest set of eyes, breathed in slowly, drew his arm back, then exhaled as his arm came forward and his fingers released the projectile. A hit. He heard the thud and the whelp. He raised his fist in the air. The set of yellow eyes belonging to his target drew back, then returned glowing brighter than before. A low growl emanated from directly below the eyes.
“Jones,” Barks said. Jones did not answer. Barks turned and saw that the road ahead veered to the left, and Jones was nowhere to be seen. Barks began to run. He looked behind him and saw that the first dog was out of the jungle, and each dog in succession was exiting the jungle and joining the first.
“Jones,” Barks shouted. He ran. He could hear panting behind him. “Jones,” he screamed. In desperation, he looked over his shoulder again, but the dogs had disappeared. He stopped to catch his breath. One of the dogs was on the opposite side of the road. It stared at him, then turned and walked into the jungle. Barks, remembering his rifle, took it off his shoulder and cradled it against his chest.
A large wisp of white appeared between two trees on the right. Barks could smell the sweet‑musky perfume. He fell to one knee and pointed his rifle. The wisp began to look like a shapeless cloud.
“Jones,” Barks screeched.
The white cloud began to take on the form of a young headless woman. Barks fell to the prone firing position and pointed the rifle, placing the sights upon the heart of the apparition.
Out from the jungle, through the apparition, stepped Sergeant Bockwaller, the Sergeant of the Guard. He was a stout man, maybe five‑foot‑seven and wide as hell, all muscle, and probably weighed about two‑hundred‑and‑fifty pounds. Behind him was Corporal Walcott, the Corporal of the Guard. He was taller and leaner than Sergeant Bockwaller, and intelligent looking. They had the same uniform and gear that Jones and Barks did, but instead of carrying rifles, they had .45’s strapped to their cartridge belts.
Barks recognized Sergeant Bockwaller at the same instant that the Sergeant noted Barks had a rifle pointed at him. Barks, taking a breath, took his finger from the trigger as Sergeant Bockwaller barreled toward him, grabbed the rifle out of his hands and swung the butt in a low arc, smashing it into the side of his helmet.
“What the hell’s your fucking problem?” Bockwaller demanded.
Barks did not answer. He shook his head and cowered on the ground.
“What was all that yelling?” Bockwaller continued.
“There were boonie dogs, Sergeant, tons of them, thousands. They were going to attack me,” Barks said.
Sergeant Bockwaller cast his eyes around the area. He checked the rifle. There was no magazine. He pulled back the bolt. Empty.
“No magazine. Not even a round in the chamber. Next time you point a rifle you better have it locked‑and‑loaded. Goddamn boot. Jesus Christ. Don’t they teach you anything in boot camp anymore?”
Corporal Walcott walked up behind Sergeant Bockwaller. Sergeant Bockwaller addressed him. “Got a boot here who doesn’t even know how to load a weapon.”
Corporal Walcott looked down at Barks.
Sergeant Bockwaller addressed Barks. “So, you just wanted to go and shoot some boonie dogs. Don’t you know that’s against regulations?”
“Well, Sergeant, not exactly, I mean, I didn’t think about that exactly. There was this white . . .”
“Where’s Jones?” Bockwaller asked.
Jones ran up to them.
“Sergeant Bockwaller. What’s up? Heard some noise.”
“What’s up? What’s up? Is that any way to talk to me?”
Jones flinched. “No, Sergeant,” he said.
“We just want to act stupid today, don’t we?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“You’re in charge here. What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant.”
“Your newbie just pointed his rifle at me.”
Jones shrugged.
Barks spoke. “Sorry, Sergeant, I thought you were a ghost.”
Jones rolled his eyes.
“A ghost?” Sergeant Bockwaller asked. He looked over his shoulder at Corporal Walcott. “He thought I was a fucking ghost.” They laughed.
“The princess, Sergeant,” Barks continued.
Sergeant Bockwaller again looked over at Corporal Walcott, “He thought I was a princess.” They laughed again.
Sergeant Bockwaller kicked Barks in the helmet.
“Do I look like a fucking princess to you? Jones has been telling you a fairy tale. Jones! Only three months on the island and you think you’re all salty and shit. Think you can fuck with these newbies. What the fuck do you think you’re doing telling these stories for?”
“Just having a little fun, Sergeant.”
“A little fun! A little fun!”
Sergeant Bockwaller moved toward Jones. He drove the butt of his hand into the front of Jones’ helmet.
“Your little fun just about got me killed!”
“Sorry, Sergeant.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough. Your supposed to be in charge here. That means you’re responsible for this newbie, understand? Come see me tomorrow morning when liberty is sounded. Make sure your wearing utilities, boots, full canteens, and a pack. You got all that? Or is your brain‑housing group too fucked up to register more than one thing at a time?”
“Yes, Sergeant. No Sergeant. I mean, got it all, Sergeant.”
“I’m gonna run you till you drop. You’re gonna wish you never saw me. You’re gonna pray for your mommy and wish you was back home sucking your thumb. You’re gonna wish you never told stories about dead people rising and walking. You’re gonna wish you never fucked up when Sergeant Bockwaller was the Sergeant of the Guard, ‘cause when I’m on duty,” he made a sweeping motion with his hand, “this is my jungle, my asphalt, my air you’re breathing. And I’m on duty all the time. Understand? As long as you’re on this island you’re never gonna get away from me, so you might as well get your head out’ta your ass.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Otherwise, I’m gonna make you wish you was dead just so you could get some rest.”
Sergeant Bockwaller bent down next to Barks.
“As for you, you maggot. There ain’t no fucking such thing as a ghost. Dead princesses walking the jungle. Shit. I’m a local. I was born on this island. That story’s just a tale, a legend, something made up to put fear in the hearts of you newbies. It’s an initiation, don’t you see. Dead people don’t rise and walk. How can you believe a story like that?”
“I saw her,” Barks said. “I saw her. She was walking around. She was all white and wispy. You walked right through her. I . . .”
“You didn’t see nothing. That was the fog.” Sergeant Bockwaller pointed at the trees. A white fog, thick and pulsating, was pushing out on the edge of the tree line.
“But I smelled her, Sergeant,” Barks said.
“You rock. That’s the flowers. It’s a natural . . . natural . . . Corporal Walcott. Tell him.”
“It’s natural phenomena,” Corporal Walcott said. “Under certain atmospheric conditions, like these tonight—just the right temperature, humidity, and always at night—a certain tree flower opens and releases its scent. Smells like perfume. It just so happens that these same climatic conditions produce fog.”
Sergeant Bockwaller said, “Now get up. You two get back on your fucking patrol.” He threw the rifle into Barks’ chest. Barks caught it. “And don’t let me hear about anymore fuck‑ups.” Jones and Barks answered, in unison, “Aye, aye, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Bockwaller, animal‑like rage in his eyes, kicked Jones in the behind as he turned to run. Jones and Barks double-timed away. Sergeant Bockwaller watched them. Their footsteps, marching at double time, faded away. Corporal Walcott walked toward the fog and jungle. He stopped at the edge and studied Sergeant Bockwaller, who was still staring in the direction taken by Jones and Barks. Sergeant Bockwaller’s eyes were in the shadow of the front lip of his helmet. The rest of his face was lit by the moonlight.
“Coming, Sergeant?” Corporal Walcott asked.
Sergeant Bockwaller stood unmoving, his eyes still in shadow. There was a bleating cry from the jungle; a proud, noble, helpless cry; then a moan that was cut off as quickly as it began. There was a rustling, as if some great weights were being brought to the earth, then snapping and crackling and teeth gnashing. A boonie dog began to howl, then another, and another.
Sergeant Bockwaller pivoted and marched toward Corporal Walcott. Corporal Walcott stepped into the wall of fog. Sergeant Bockwaller halted at the edge of the fog, turned, and surveyed the area behind him. His eyes were still shadowed. He then entered at the same point Corporal Walcott did. The fog slowly retreated into the jungle.
Today, Atena will massage me for the first time in three years. COVID lockdowns and travel restrictions caused me to be stranded in the country of Cáscara for over two years. Atena, when the shutdowns were lessened, moved to another province in Orotina to escape the concentration of contagion.
She has such good energy. She is divine. As she massages me, she plays a CD with sounds of sea waves hissing over sand, birds softly chirping, air swishing through pines, and a woman chanting in Sanskrit. That all together removes my spiritual and muscle aches. As she massages me, I feel bad energy flowing out of my body and good energy seeping in.
Atena is poor, so we offered for her to live in our house while she visited Malos Aires.
•••
Atena has COVID. She self-administered a home test after she had been in bed since she massaged me almost 36 hours ago. She wore a mask while she massaged me, and I thought that the mask was courteous but rare. Hardly anyone is wearing masks anymore. Her masked face hovered over me as she kneaded, rubbed, and palmed me. I did not wear a mask. I have been vaxed and double boosted. Just the last few days mark the first days I have not worn a mask when people visited my apartment. I also stopped wearing a mask in the apartment elevator, in cafés, in pharmacies, in clothing stores, in grocery shops. I started to feel out of place, as people here in Malos Aires are acting as if the virus is past tense.
Today I read on a social network post that another one of the contacts I follow has contracted COVID, as has the president of the United Colonies. Yes, their symptoms are less severe as were those who became infected before the vaxes, yes, the new COVID infected don’t die or become hospitalized, they have a light cough, a mild sore throat, a minimal fever, a dainty headache, a ceremonial restriction to their homes for a few days, but, has Atena become infected with a new variant? My wife has been close to her, nursing her as she lay in bed complaining of not feeling well. My wife, not wearing a mask, has been with her, in the same bedroom, before she took the test. Should I kiss my wife, dine with her, sleep with her?
I look out my office window, at the dying plants on the balcony, at the black winter-dormant vines clinging to the next-door building wall.
editors note: Life hits harder now, it seems. Death still throws punches, though. It never stops. ~ Tyler Malone. Photo “Set/Rise” by Tyler Malone.
I wake up, prepare coffee, and carry a cup to my home office. I try to start working. Nothing. I open the curtains on the window. Cloudy. I turn on the computer to check the weather. Cool, but not cold.
Today my weight-resistant machine and my stationary bike should arrive. They should fill the void my black leather nap/reading couch once occupied. A Sager once came to our home and said something bad happened on that couch. I looked at the floor when she said that.
I will miss my couch, but my office now feels clean of bad energy.
I listen to the birds singing outside my office.
*This story first published on Flash Fiction North
James Dickson (MFA ’11) has published two poems, “Safety Drill, 2022” and “Learning to Shut Up,” on Anti-Heroin Chic.
Jack El-Hai (MFA ’09) wrote about how he discovered, wrote, and sold a strikingly distinctive magazine article to The Atlantic, “Origins: Three Nudist Sisters,” for Medium.
Daryln Brewer Hoffstot (MFA ’16) wrote about the majestic beauty of a beloved and fading tree, “Giving Thanks for a Beloved Sugar Maple,” for The New York Times.
Craig Holt (MFA ’21) published a short story, “Fulfillment,” on Jersey Devil Press. “Fulfillment” has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Lisa Johnson Mitchell (MFA ’18) is a Finalist in the London Independent Story Prize competition for her short story, “Reunion.”
Elisabetta La Cava (MFA candidate) has won second place in the Hispanic Culture Review‘s Poetry prize category for her poem, “We Had Peace.” She has also published an essay about the process of becoming a U.S. Citizen, “The Interview,” in Another Chicago Magazine.
Aaron Muller (MFA candidate) has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his short story, “The Heart In The House,” published in Cold Signal (Issue One).
Michelle Oppenheimer’s (MFA ’13) poem, “Amy Winehouse is Dead” published on Literary Mama, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Stephen Page (MFA ’08) has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his poem, “One Horn,” published in Black Fox Literary Magazine.
Jason Russo (MFA ’25) has published poems in three different journals this month. “Major Perk” has been published by The Schuylkill Valley Journal, “Sorry” and other poems on Harpy Hybrid Review, and “4 Poems” on Forever Magazine.
The crepuscular sky above a range of mountains lightened to a deep blue, then to a soft blue, then to white, then orange, then a blood-red drop dripped up out of the ridgeline. A few miles away, near a beach, a seagull rode an air current above a long wave row curling in upon the shore. The seagull cawed then dove into the water behind the wave and rose with a large piece of flotsam in its beak. Thirty or forty other gulls quickly gathered in the area, screeching and cawing and diving.
Farther down the beach, where the wind complained and the waves crashed roaringly upon the sand, two young men were laughing. They were wearing dark gray shirts, black jeans, black shoes, and thick leather belts with 9-millimeter pistols holstered on the right side and black riot batons slung on the left. Sewn onto the left sleeves of their shirts were crimson and gold security crests. They had neatly trimmed hair. Parked in the sand behind them was a pickup truck with security crests upon both open doors.
Jonathan and Mike were laughing and attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to skip flat beach stones over the large waves. Jonathan pointed behind them to the top of the mountain range. The mountains had bled a sanguine sun. It flipped suddenly to yellow a degree or two above the ridgeline.
Jonathan, smiling, threw down the remaining stones in his hands.
“I guess we should get going,” he said, dusting the sand off his hands.
“In a hurry to get on the road?” asked Mike.
“Naw, it’s just . . .we haven’t checked the last complex is all.”
Mike glanced back at the sea, dropped his stones and pointed. “Look,” he said.
Four dolphins glided parallel to the beach, behind the curling waves, and as they moved, their bodies rose and submerged gracefully, like effortless, spiritual weavers of the waters.
Jonathan and Mike watched the dolphins until they had well passed, then Jonathan looked at his watch.
“We only have an hour left,” he said. “Gives us just enough time to check the last place and get back to the station for check out time.”
Mike, still looking in the direction of the disappearing dolphins, said, “Yeah.”
They turned and walked toward the truck.
“I saw your bike packed up last night when we started work,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said.
“Hey!” said Mike. “You can learn to speak with a Brooklyn accent, like Brando.” He hit Jonathan in the shoulder. They laughed.
Mike climbed in the driver side and closed the door. Jonathan hesitated. Some fifty feet behind the truck was a young man sitting upon a seawall. He had long blonde hair, was wearing a red T-shirt, blue jeans, work boots, and was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer in a can.
“Let’s go,” said Mike.
“Hey,” Jonathan said, looking at Mike. “Doesn’t that dude over there look out of place?”
Mike looked in the rear-view mirror.
“Where,” said he.
Jonathan looked at the empty place where the young man had been.
“C’mon,” said Mike.
Jonathan got in and stared at the dashboard.
The truck rolled down Main Street. There were two clothing shops, a surfboard shop, one restaurant, a café, a bar, a hotel, and a post office. All, save the restaurant and the hotel were not yet open.
Two teenage boys in black wet suits, carrying surfboards and heading toward the beach, crossed in front of truck.
There was no other movement on the street.
“This is a boring town,” Jonathan said. “Nothing, I mean absolutely nothing ever happens here. Can’t say I’ll miss it much.”
“Well, I heard New York’s a little more exciting,” said Mike.
As they passed the open restaurant, a gray-haired man exited the front doors. He was wearing a red plaid hunting cap, which he had pulled low over his eyes, a red plaid shirt, khakis, and brown boots. He stopped outside the doors of the restaurant and lit a thin cigar. Jonathan looked at him.
The truck continued to head toward the end of town. The old man, with his eyes shadowed, puffed on the thin cigar. He walked to edge of street. He pulled his hat even lower over his eyes and continued to watch the truck while puffing on his cigar. Jonathan leaned forward and looked in the side mirror. There was no one where the man once was. Jonathan rubbed his eyes.
At the first corner, two girls, both nineteen, wrapped in brightly colored wet suits and carrying surfboards, neared the crosswalk. They smiled, showing large white teeth, and waved at Jonathan and Mike. Jonathan and Mike waved back.
“Something’s I guess I’ll miss,” Jonathan said.
“They’ll be plenty of that in New York,” said Mike.
After the next corner, the truck turned right and headed toward the mountains. After one block of apartment buildings and two short blocks of suburban homes, the road opened and there were only a few houses along the side. The sun was now in their eyes, so Jonathan and Mike flipped down the truck’s sun visors and put on wayfarer sunglasses.
“Sometimes I wish I was still carefree and single,” said Mike. “I could dig a trip cross-country myself.”
“C’mon. You have a nice wife and kid,” Jonathan said. “That’s pretty important.”
“Hey,” said Mike. “You sure you’re going to be OK to drive today. Why don’t you take an extra day and rest before you leave?”
“Can’t. Damn bastards. If they would’ve sent me an acceptance letter earlier, I could’ve left last week and enjoyed the trip cross-country. As it is, I’m going to just have enough time to stop and sleep eight hours each night.”
“No Grand Canyon? Damn. Can’t say you lived a full life unless you spit in the Grand Canyon.”
“Did that. When I was a kid.”
“Guess you ain’t got much more to live for then.”
Jonathan laughed and turned to look out the window. There were a few scattered farms, pine trees, and some grassland.
Mike backhanded Jonathan in the chest.
“You make sure you put me in one of your novels,” he said. “Ya hear.”
“O.K., bud.”
The road inclined.
“Glad I won’t have to deal with Fred anymore,” Jonathan said.
“Fred!” said Mike, sitting straighter in the seat. “That damn bastard. I should be the senior officer, not him.”
“Well, you’re not living with the company owner.”
“Yeah.”
The truck slowed and turned into the parking lot of a single-roofed complex of six or seven ground-level offices. Fir trees loomed over the building. They drove around one end of the building and parked in back. They removed their sunglasses, got out of the truck and closed the doors. Jonathan listened. Cardinals and song sparrows were singing.
“You go that way,” said Mike, pointing along the back wall to the far end of the complex. “And I’ll go around front.”
Jonathan walked, checking doors as he went. He headed toward a small field of thick grass and clover that lay around the corner of the building. Beyond that patch of grass was the tall fir wood. He twisted and rattled the knobs on each door. He scanned the fir trees for birds as he approached the corner of the building. There was one more door on the other side of the building. As he turned the corner, he saw the brilliant red flash of a cardinal as it flit from one tree to another.
A wall of shadow bid him halt in mid-stride. Flies buzzed around the shadow. Jonathan smelled a rank odor.
Directly in front of him was a grotesquely large black bull. Its forehead was as wide as Jonathan’s shoulders, its chest was as wide as if Jonathan stretched out both his arms, and its length was as long as a pick-up truck. Between the head and the tail was at least twenty-five hundred pounds of solidly packed muscle and bone.
The bull had been contentedly chewing grass and clover but stopped in mid-chew when Jonathan blundered around the corner. The bull’s eyes darkened and it snapped its head up and spit out the greens. It snorted and nasal-sprayed the front of Jonathan’s shirt. Its eyes were at level with Jonathan’s chin. It widened the stance of its front legs.
Jonathan began to step back, but the bull snorted again and took an even wider stance. Jonathan froze again.
The bull’s flat, imposingly wide head had one horn broken off, and in the remaining jagged stump was a ragged chunk of rusty sheet metal. Its forehead, cheeks, and shoulders were scarred and its ears were ripped and frayed. The hairs inside the ears and around the jowls were graying, yet its dark eyes were clear and intently focused on Jonathan.
Jonathan began to move his hand slowly, ever so slowly, toward his pistol.
The bull shook his head and pawed the earth.
Jonathan paused. Sweat ran coldly from his armpits and his body shook involuntarily.
Behind the bull was a herd of feral cows. They were calmly eating grass or lounging on their bellies chewing their cuds. One by one, they turned their heads and stared at Jonathan standing in front of the bull.
Mike stumbled around the corner on the other side of the building and stopped on his toes, almost tumbling forward.
“Damn,” he said.
The bull jerked his head toward Mike. Mike gaped at the bull. The cows pivoted their heads toward Mike.
Jonathan spoke. “Use your . . .”
The bull yanked his head back toward Jonathan. Jonathan froze again. The cows looked at Jonathan.
Mike pulled out his baton and began to beat it on the wall of the building, yelling, “YAH. YAH. YAH.”
The cows jumped, and the bull agilely spun his huge body toward Mike and lowered his head.
Jonathan ran around his corner.
The bull looked over his shoulder at the empty space where Jonathan had been.
Mike moved.
The bull charged Mike.
Mike ran around his corner.
The bull stopped.
Jonathan reached the truck and hurriedly entered the passenger side. Mike arrived a few seconds later from the other side of the building and got in driver’s side.
They were out of breath.
“Shit,” Mike said.
“Damn,” Jonathan said.
“Shit.”
“Damn.”
“Shit.”
“I almost died,” Jonathan said.
“Me too,” Mike said.
“He was ready to impale me,” Jonathan said. “He could’ve gored and smashed the living shit out of me.”
“Damn,” Jonathan said. “I’ve never seen a bull that big.”
The bull bellowed from the other end of the building.
“Neither have I,” Mike said.
“He was right in front of me. Ready to kill me.”
They sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, their heads in their hands.
“I think that was One Horn,” Mike said.
“What?”
“One Horn.”
“Oh yeah. That bull everyone in town talks about.”
“I believe so.”
“I thought those were all stories,” Jonathan said.
“Me too. I’ve never seen him before.”
Jonathan hit Mike in the shoulder.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot your pistol?” he asked. “He could’ve killed me. His horn was inches from my gut.”
“I couldn’t. You were right behind him from my angle. What if I would’ve missed?
Both paused, looking out in front of the truck at the back of the building.
“One Horn,” Jonathan breathed.
“One Horn,” breathed Mike.
“Jesus Christ. Ain’t he supposed to be dead?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Hasn’t been a new sighting of him in three years or so. Way before you got here. They say he used to terrorize this part of the county. Used to run into the sides of trucks all the time.”
“Bet that big son of a bitch could do some damage,” Jonathan said. “Jesus. Did you see the size of him?”
After a moment of silence, they put on their sunglasses. Mike continued to stare at the building. Jonathan looked around. He looked over both shoulders, then checked the mirrors.
“Fred says he saw him,” Jonathan said.
“Fred ain’t seen anything. Fred tells tales.”
“What the hell’s wrong with that bull anyway?”
“You’ve heard the stories,” Mike said. “He just ran off some farm up north and started going around running into trucks. Then he started breaking down farmers fences at night, stealing their cows for his harem. He just roamed around and did what he wanted.”
“Well, I can see why. No one’s gonna mess with a bull like that.”
“There’s even rumor that if you ever have an encounter with him, like if he runs into your truck, you run into a streak of good luck.”
“What?”
“Yeah. People have won the lottery, had a windfall come their way, gotten new jobs.”
“Never heard that one,” Jonathan said.
“Hey,” said Mike. “Let’s drive around back and see if he’s still there.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, good luck or not. Did you see the width on his shoulders? The size of his head? He might put his one horn right through my door and kebob my intestines, that would be my luck.”
“C’mon”
“No!”
But Mike was already starting the engine and putting the truck in reverse.
“We’re in a truck, Mike. He don’t care much for trucks. He . . .”
“Might bring you some good luck on your trip.”
“Might prevent it.”
The truck came around the corner of the building and stopped.
One Horn had moved closer to the wood and smelled the air. He turned to face them, lowered his head and pawed the earth.
“Mike, let’s get out’ta here.”
One Horn lifted his majestic head, extended his snout toward them, sniffed the air, and squinted. He held that pose for a moment or two, his nostrils wide and sucking air, his eyes squinting.
“Mike,” Jonathan said.
“Just hold it a moment, this truck is big, I’ll keep the front to him. Maybe he’ll go for the bumper.”
One Horn stopped sniffing the air and stared at the front of the truck. His eyes seemed unfocused. He looked to the right of the truck, then to the left.
Mike moved the truck a little closer.
One Horn looked quickly in the vicinity of the front of the truck. His tail swished back and forth. Then he turned away and grandeurly sauntered onto a trail that led into the wood. Each cow in turn, one behind the other, followed him.
Back at the security office, Fred, cleanly shaven and in a freshly starched uniform, leaned over the front desk toward Jonathan and Mike.
“Bullshit,” said Fred. “You guys are just making this up cause it’s Jonathan’s last day.”
Angela Farnes, the company owner, was walking around behind the desk, shuffling papers and making it obvious she was ignoring Jonathan and Mike.
“I’m telling you,” Mike said. “We saw him.”
“He’s dead,” said Fred. “No one has seen him for years. A man over in the next county says he buried him.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “I was one of the last ones to see him.”
Jonathan said, “But . . .”
“Last truck he ever ran into was mine,” said Fred. “It’s a blessing. Oh, it wasn’t at first, at least it didn’t seem so. Had to buy a new door and side panel for my truck. Then I lost my farm. Then my wife died. But, then her mother who was still depending on me for support died.” He leaned closer toward Jonathan and Mike and cupped one palm around his mouth, jerking his other hand and thumb behind him, “And look what I have now.”
Jonathan and Mike gaped unbelievingly at him.
Fred drew back and said, “What you guys want, a newspaper story? A bonus? You wanna drag my security business into this. No one’s gonna believe you. One Horn’s dead. I ain’t gonna back you. People ain’t gonna believe you when you say you saw a dead thing walking.”
“Maybe he’s not dead,” Jonathan said.
“He’s dead alright. And dead things don’t rise.”
“Forget it, Fred,” Mike said.
Mike walked out the front door.
Fred stared obstinately at Jonathan. Jonathan, returning the stare unyieldingly, took the pistol out of its holster, pointed it at the sand-filled barrel next to the front desk, pulled back the slide and checked the chamber. He set it on the desk in front of Fred. He pulled out the baton from the ring on the other side of his belt and set that next to the pistol. Then he unbuckled his security belt and set that next to the baton. He extracted the two clips from their holder on the belt and emptied the rounds, counting thirty in total. He removed the shirt with the security crest on it and folded that over the weapons and belt. He stood in a black T-shirt.
“You have my last check?” Jonathan asked.
Fred went to the back office. Jonathan tapped his fingers on the desk. Angela looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, smiled, then winked at him. Jonathan stopped tapping.
Fred returned. Angela looked down at the papers on the desk. “Here,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jonathan said as he turned to leave.
Fred watched Jonathan as he opened the front door.
“Don’t think you’re gonna be blessed now,” yelled Fred. “Just ‘cause you say you saw him.”
Mike was looking at Jonathan’s black and chrome Harley Springer.
“I’ve always liked this bike,” Mike said. “It’s clean and sleek. No gaudy emblems or fringe or studded leather. And you take good care of it. Make sure it gets to New York all right.”
Mike raised his hand to shake. Jonathan grasped it.
“Don’t worry about Fred,” Jonathan said. “We saw One Horn. Hell of an experience. No one can take that from us.”
They looked one another in the eyes, and an unspoken message of life-long friendship passed between them. They unclasped hands.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “No one can take that from us.”
“Don’t pick up any hitch-hikers,” Mike said. Then he smiled and strolled toward the building and went inside the front door. Jonathan watched the door close.
Jonathan pulled a leather bombardier jacket out of an over-stuffed saddlebag, put it on, got on the bike, turned the key, and pressed the starter button. It immediately turned over and vibrated steadily. He smiled at the familiar hum coming through the handlebars and up from beneath the seat, and he felt already free. He put on his sunglasses. Without his hands on the handgrips, the handlebars rocked rhythmically with each pump of the pistons. He pulled leather gloves out of his jacket pocket, stretched them over his hands, grabbed the horns of the bike again, squeezed the clutch, tapped the gear lever and slowly rode the bike up to the edge of the road.
He eyed the route east, up toward the mountains, the direction in which he was about to embark. Above the ridgeline was a cerulean sky with a few billowy white clouds. He looked over his shoulder and checked the traffic to the west. The road was clear. It was going to be a nice, calm ride through the mountains, he thought. He rolled the throttle and pulled out on to the road.
*This story first published in Black Fox Literary Magazine
Teresa and I have only one evening recreation left to participate in together ever since the coronavirus spread over the world like foamy sea-water over a pebbly shore—watching TV. We can’t go to the cinema, eat inside restaurants, go the ballet, opera, or theater, so we watch movies, TV series, news, and sports. I watch, alongside her, and I wonder, why don’t all the characters in the new movies and series wear medical masks? Why do they eat inside restaurants? Why don’t the cardboard cut-out fans in the otherwise empty baseball stadiums have medical masks painted on them?
My head bumps, which started a month or two after COVID-19 became a pandemic, have suddenly cleared up. Two pharmacists and our hair-cutter, who comes to our apartment wearing a medical mask and rubber gloves, told me “They are grease eruptions, a result of nerves, fear, worry, and anger all together over a long period of time.” I thought, I am not a nervous person, I fear very little, but yes, I worry for my family and friends, but I am hardly ever angry.
The bumps used to itch, and when I scratched them, they just spread. I thought that it was because I lent my hat to a friend who came visiting on a cruise ship just before the outbreak, like he had lice or something. I felt things crawling around on my scalp. Teresa and Cati scoured my scalp sever times and told me, “No lice.”
Grey clouds and black sea outside. The wind is whipping the trees around
Our souls at night.
Yesterday, I woke just after sunrise and prepared Teresa’s breakfast while she slept. Then I sipped a coffee on the balcony. The sky was blue and the sea also.
When Teresa woke, and ate with me on the balcony, I drove her to Punta del Oeste. We picked up a few things at the pharmacy, then lunched on duck breast and whipped potatoes at La Chaise.
The sleeping pills Teresa gave me have helped me sleep again, which I have not since my Dad died. I had stopped sleeping pills for six months and was just starting to feel normal again, withdrawal symptoms over, nightmares over, writing flowing smoothly, my short-term memory back, my speaking vocabulary returned—both in Spanish and English. But the news that My Dad died of a heart attack while waiting in a jammed hospital admissions room while a line of twenty-some ambulances were lined up outside with COVID-19 affected patients inside each was a little devastating.
Today, oh, I mean the other today, or maybe it was yesterday, Tuesday, no I mean Thursday, Lidia slipped into my office while I was writing, and poured herself a cup of coffee from my thermos. I thought I left her some in the carafe in the machine in the kitchen. We kissed, she flashed me a peach breast, my blood rushed, and we smiled at each other.
When she left my office, I took my hands off the keyboard and I scratched my scalp.
The Winter 2022 (#22) issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Cover Artist: Hannah Vitiello. Contributors: Erin Carlyle, Maria Crimi, Natalie Eckl, Samantha Ellis, Lily Emerick, James Engelhardt, Benjamin Faro, Catheryne Gagnon, Vanessa Garcia, D. Walsh Gilbert, Shreeya Goyal, A.J. Granger, Elizabeth Harrison, Claire Jussel, Heather Lang-Cassera, Camille Lebel, Abigail Leigh, Joshua McKinney, Alison Mehrman, Karen McAferty Morris, Stephen Page, Kim Rose, Claire Scott, Adam Slavny, Nina Smilow, Joanna Theiss, Marian Willmott, Lilian Caylee Wang, Alexander Lazarus Wolff, Meg Zukin. Purchase print copies here.
Thanks to editors Racquel Henry and Elizabeth Sheets.
Thanks also to social media manager Megan Fuentes.
Read the story here:
One Horn
by Stephen Page
The crepuscular sky above a range of mountains lightened to a deep blue, then to a soft blue, then to white, then orange, then a blood-red drop dripped up out of the ridgeline. A few miles away, near a beach, a seagull rode an air current above a long wave row curling in upon the shore. The seagull cawed then dove into the water behind the wave and rose with a large piece of flotsam in its beak. Thirty or forty other gulls quickly gathered in the area, screeching and cawing and diving.
Farther down the beach, where the wind complained and the waves crashed roaringly upon the sand, two young men were laughing. They were wearing dark gray shirts, black jeans, black shoes, and thick leather belts with 9-millimeter pistols holstered on the right side and black riot batons slung on the left. Sewn onto the left sleeves of their shirts were crimson and gold security crests. They had neatly trimmed hair. Parked in the sand behind them was a pickup truck with security crests upon both open doors.
Jonathan and Mike were laughing and attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to skip flat beach stones over the large waves. Jonathan pointed behind them to the top of the mountain range. The mountains had bled a sanguine sun. It flipped suddenly to yellow a degree or two above the ridgeline.
Jonathan, smiling, threw down the remaining stones in his hands.
“I guess we should get going,” he said, dusting the sand off his hands.
“In a hurry to get on the road?” asked Mike.
“Naw, it’s just . . .we haven’t checked the last complex is all.”
Mike glanced back at the sea, dropped his stones and pointed. “Look,” he said.
Four dolphins glided parallel to the beach, behind the curling waves, and as they moved, their bodies rose and submerged gracefully, like effortless, spiritual weavers of the waters.
Jonathan and Mike watched the dolphins until they had well passed, then Jonathan looked at his watch.
“We only have an hour left,” he said. “Gives us just enough time to check the last place and get back to the station for check out time.”
Mike, still looking in the direction of the disappearing dolphins, said, “Yeah.”
They turned and walked toward the truck.
“I saw your bike packed up last night when we started work,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said.
“Hey!” said Mike. “You can learn to speak with a Brooklyn accent, like Brando.” He hit Jonathan in the shoulder. They laughed.
Mike climbed in the driver side and closed the door. Jonathan hesitated. Some fifty feet behind the truck was a young man sitting upon a seawall. He had long blonde hair, was wearing a red T-shirt, blue jeans, work boots, and was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer in a can.
“Let’s go,” said Mike.
“Hey,” Jonathan said, looking at Mike. “Doesn’t that dude over there look out of place?”
Mike looked in the rear-view mirror.
“Where,” said he.
Jonathan looked at the empty place where the young man had been.
“C’mon,” said Mike.
Jonathan got in and stared at the dashboard.
The truck rolled down Main Street. There were two clothing shops, a surfboard shop, one restaurant, a café, a bar, a hotel, and a post office. All, save the restaurant and the hotel were not yet open.
Two teenage boys in black wet suits, carrying surfboards and heading toward the beach, crossed in front of truck.
There was no other movement on the street.
“This is a boring town,” Jonathan said. “Nothing, I mean absolutely nothing ever happens here. Can’t say I’ll miss it much.”
“Well, I heard New York’s a little more exciting,” said Mike.
As they passed the open restaurant, a gray-haired man exited the front doors. He was wearing a red plaid hunting cap, which he had pulled low over his eyes, a red plaid shirt, khakis, and brown boots. He stopped outside the doors of the restaurant and lit a thin cigar. Jonathan looked at him.
The truck continued to head toward the end of town. The old man, with his eyes shadowed, puffed on the thin cigar. He walked to edge of street. He pulled his hat even lower over his eyes and continued to watch the truck while puffing on his cigar. Jonathan leaned forward and looked in the side mirror. There was no one where the man once was. Jonathan rubbed his eyes.
At the first corner, two girls, both nineteen, wrapped in brightly colored wet suits and carrying surfboards, neared the crosswalk. They smiled, showing large white teeth, and waved at Jonathan and Mike. Jonathan and Mike waved back.
“Something’s I guess I’ll miss,” Jonathan said.
“They’ll be plenty of that in New York,” said Mike.
After the next corner, the truck turned right and headed toward the mountains. After one block of apartment buildings and two short blocks of suburban homes, the road opened and there were only a few houses along the side. The sun was now in their eyes, so Jonathan and Mike flipped down the truck’s sun visors and put on wayfarer sunglasses.
“Sometimes I wish I was still carefree and single,” said Mike. “I could dig a trip cross-country myself.”
“C’mon. You have a nice wife and kid,” Jonathan said. “That’s pretty important.”
“Hey,” said Mike. “You sure you’re going to be OK to drive today. Why don’t you take an extra day and rest before you leave?”
“Can’t. Damn bastards. If they would’ve sent me an acceptance letter earlier, I could’ve left last week and enjoyed the trip cross-country. As it is, I’m going to just have enough time to stop and sleep eight hours each night.”
“No Grand Canyon? Damn. Can’t say you lived a full life unless you spit in the Grand Canyon.”
“Did that. When I was a kid.”
“Guess you ain’t got much more to live for then.”
Jonathan laughed and turned to look out the window. There were a few scattered farms, pine trees, and some grassland.
Mike backhanded Jonathan in the chest.
“You make sure you put me in one of your novels,” he said. “Ya hear.”
“O.K., bud.”
The road inclined.
“Glad I won’t have to deal with Fred anymore,” Jonathan said.
“Fred!” said Mike, sitting straighter in the seat. “That damn bastard. I should be the senior officer, not him.”
“Well, you’re not living with the company owner.”
“Yeah.”
The truck slowed and turned into the parking lot of a single-roofed complex of six or seven ground-level offices. Fir trees loomed over the building. They drove around one end of the building and parked in back. They removed their sunglasses, got out of the truck and closed the doors. Jonathan listened. Cardinals and song sparrows were singing.
“You go that way,” said Mike, pointing along the back wall to the far end of the complex. “And I’ll go around front.”
Jonathan walked, checking doors as he went. He headed toward a small field of thick grass and clover that lay around the corner of the building. Beyond that patch of grass was the tall fir wood. He twisted and rattled the knobs on each door. He scanned the fir trees for birds as he approached the corner of the building. There was one more door on the other side of the building. As he turned the corner, he saw the brilliant red flash of a cardinal as it flit from one tree to another.
A wall of shadow bid him halt in mid-stride. Flies buzzed around the shadow. Jonathan smelled a rank odor.
Directly in front of him was a grotesquely large black bull. Its forehead was as wide as Jonathan’s shoulders, its chest was as wide as if Jonathan stretched out both his arms, and its length was as long as a pick-up truck. Between the head and the tail was at least twenty-five hundred pounds of solidly packed muscle and bone.
The bull had been contentedly chewing grass and clover but stopped in mid-chew when Jonathan blundered around the corner. The bull’s eyes darkened and it snapped its head up and spit out the greens. It snorted and nasal-sprayed the front of Jonathan’s shirt. Its eyes were at level with Jonathan’s chin. It widened the stance of its front legs.
Jonathan began to step back, but the bull snorted again and took an even wider stance. Jonathan froze again.
The bull’s flat, imposingly wide head had one horn broken off, and in the remaining jagged stump was a ragged chunk of rusty sheet metal. Its forehead, cheeks, and shoulders were scarred and its ears were ripped and frayed. The hairs inside the ears and around the jowls were graying, yet its dark eyes were clear and intently focused on Jonathan.
Jonathan began to move his hand slowly, ever so slowly, toward his pistol.
The bull shook his head and pawed the earth.
Jonathan paused. Sweat ran coldly from his armpits and his body shook involuntarily.
Behind the bull was a herd of feral cows. They were calmly eating grass or lounging on their bellies chewing their cuds. One by one, they turned their heads and stared at Jonathan standing in front of the bull.
Mike stumbled around the corner on the other side of the building and stopped on his toes, almost tumbling forward.
“Damn,” he said.
The bull jerked his head toward Mike. Mike gaped at the bull. The cows pivoted their heads toward Mike.
Jonathan spoke. “Use your . . .”
The bull yanked his head back toward Jonathan. Jonathan froze again. The cows looked at Jonathan.
Mike pulled out his baton and began to beat it on the wall of the building, yelling, “YAH. YAH. YAH.”
The cows jumped, and the bull agilely spun his huge body toward Mike and lowered his head.
Jonathan ran around his corner.
The bull looked over his shoulder at the empty space where Jonathan had been.
Mike moved.
The bull charged Mike.
Mike ran around his corner.
The bull stopped.
Jonathan reached the truck and hurriedly entered the passenger side. Mike arrived a few seconds later from the other side of the building and got in driver’s side.
They were out of breath.
“Shit,” Mike said.
“Damn,” Jonathan said.
“Shit.”
“Damn.”
“Shit.”
“I almost died,” Jonathan said.
“Me too,” Mike said.
“He was ready to impale me,” Jonathan said. “He could’ve gored and smashed the living shit out of me.”
“Damn,” Jonathan said. “I’ve never seen a bull that big.”
The bull bellowed from the other end of the building.
“Neither have I,” Mike said.
“He was right in front of me. Ready to kill me.”
They sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, their heads in their hands.
“I think that was One Horn,” Mike said.
“What?”
“One Horn.”
“Oh yeah. That bull everyone in town talks about.”
“I believe so.”
“I thought those were all stories,” Jonathan said.
“Me too. I’ve never seen him before.”
Jonathan hit Mike in the shoulder.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot your pistol?” he asked. “He could’ve killed me. His horn was inches from my gut.”
“I couldn’t. You were right behind him from my angle. What if I would’ve missed?
Both paused, looking out in front of the truck at the back of the building.
“One Horn,” Jonathan breathed.
“One Horn,” breathed Mike.
“Jesus Christ. Ain’t he supposed to be dead?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Hasn’t been a new sighting of him in three years or so. Way before you got here. They say he used to terrorize this part of the county. Used to run into the sides of trucks all the time.”
“Bet that big son of a bitch could do some damage,” Jonathan said. “Jesus. Did you see the size of him?”
After a moment of silence, they put on their sunglasses. Mike continued to stare at the building. Jonathan looked around. He looked over both shoulders, then checked the mirrors.
“Fred says he saw him,” Jonathan said.
“Fred ain’t seen anything. Fred tells tales.”
“What the hell’s wrong with that bull anyway?”
“You’ve heard the stories,” Mike said. “He just ran off some farm up north and started going around running into trucks. Then he started breaking down farmers fences at night, stealing their cows for his harem. He just roamed around and did what he wanted.”
“Well, I can see why. No one’s gonna mess with a bull like that.”
“There’s even rumor that if you ever have an encounter with him, like if he runs into your truck, you run into a streak of good luck.”
“What?”
“Yeah. People have won the lottery, had a windfall come their way, gotten new jobs.”
“Never heard that one,” Jonathan said.
“Hey,” said Mike. “Let’s drive around back and see if he’s still there.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, good luck or not. Did you see the width on his shoulders? The size of his head? He might put his one horn right through my door and kebob my intestines, that would be my luck.”
“C’mon”
“No!”
But Mike was already starting the engine and putting the truck in reverse.
“We’re in a truck, Mike. He don’t care much for trucks. He . . .”
“Might bring you some good luck on your trip.”
“Might prevent it.”
The truck came around the corner of the building and stopped.
One Horn had moved closer to the wood and smelled the air. He turned to face them, lowered his head and pawed the earth.
“Mike, let’s get out’ta here.”
One Horn lifted his majestic head, extended his snout toward them, sniffed the air, and squinted. He held that pose for a moment or two, his nostrils wide and sucking air, his eyes squinting.
“Mike,” Jonathan said.
“Just hold it a moment, this truck is big, I’ll keep the front to him. Maybe he’ll go for the bumper.”
One Horn stopped sniffing the air and stared at the front of the truck. His eyes seemed unfocused. He looked to the right of the truck, then to the left.
Mike moved the truck a little closer.
One Horn looked quickly in the vicinity of the front of the truck. His tail swished back and forth. Then he turned away and grandeurly sauntered onto a trail that led into the wood. Each cow in turn, one behind the other, followed him.
Back at the security office, Fred, cleanly shaven and in a freshly starched uniform, leaned over the front desk toward Jonathan and Mike.
“Bullshit,” said Fred. “You guys are just making this up cause it’s Jonathan’s last day.”
Angela Farnes, the company owner, was walking around behind the desk, shuffling papers and making it obvious she was ignoring Jonathan and Mike.
“I’m telling you,” Mike said. “We saw him.”
“He’s dead,” said Fred. “No one has seen him for years. A man over in the next county says he buried him.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “I was one of the last ones to see him.”
Jonathan said, “But . . .”
“Last truck he ever ran into was mine,” said Fred. “It’s a blessing. Oh, it wasn’t at first, at least it didn’t seem so. Had to buy a new door and side panel for my truck. Then I lost my farm. Then my wife died. But, then her mother who was still depending on me for support died.” He leaned closer toward Jonathan and Mike and cupped one palm around his mouth, jerking his other hand and thumb behind him, “And look what I have now.”
Jonathan and Mike gaped unbelievingly at him.
Fred drew back and said, “What you guys want, a newspaper story? A bonus? You wanna drag my security business into this. No one’s gonna believe you. One Horn’s dead. I ain’t gonna back you. People ain’t gonna believe you when you say you saw a dead thing walking.”
“Maybe he’s not dead,” Jonathan said.
“He’s dead alright. And dead things don’t rise.”
“Forget it, Fred,” Mike said.
Mike walked out the front door.
Fred stared obstinately at Jonathan. Jonathan, returning the stare unyieldingly, took the pistol out of its holster, pointed it at the sand-filled barrel next to the front desk, pulled back the slide and checked the chamber. He set it on the desk in front of Fred. He pulled out the baton from the ring on the other side of his belt and set that next to the pistol. Then he unbuckled his security belt and set that next to the baton. He extracted the two clips from their holder on the belt and emptied the rounds, counting thirty in total. He removed the shirt with the security crest on it and folded that over the weapons and belt. He stood in a black T-shirt.
“You have my last check?” Jonathan asked.
Fred went to the back office. Jonathan tapped his fingers on the desk. Angela looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, smiled, then winked at him. Jonathan stopped tapping.
Fred returned. Angela looked down at the papers on the desk. “Here,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jonathan said as he turned to leave.
Fred watched Jonathan as he opened the front door.
“Don’t think you’re gonna be blessed now,” yelled Fred. “Just ‘cause you say you saw him.”
Mike was looking at Jonathan’s black and chrome Harley Springer.
“I’ve always liked this bike,” Mike said. “It’s clean and sleek. No gaudy emblems or fringe or studded leather. And you take good care of it. Make sure it gets to New York all right.”
Mike raised his hand to shake. Jonathan grasped it.
“Don’t worry about Fred,” Jonathan said. “We saw One Horn. Hell of an experience. No one can take that from us.”
They looked one another in the eyes, and an unspoken message of life-long friendship passed between them. They unclasped hands.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “No one can take that from us.”
“Don’t pick up any hitch-hikers,” Mike said. Then he smiled and strolled toward the building and went inside the front door. Jonathan watched the door close.
Jonathan pulled a leather bombardier jacket out of an over-stuffed saddlebag, put it on, got on the bike, turned the key, and pressed the starter button. It immediately turned over and vibrated steadily. He smiled at the familiar hum coming through the handlebars and up from beneath the seat, and he felt already free. He put on his sunglasses. Without his hands on the handgrips, the handlebars rocked rhythmically with each pump of the pistons. He pulled leather gloves out of his jacket pocket, stretched them over his hands, grabbed the horns of the bike again, squeezed the clutch, tapped the gear lever and slowly rode the bike up to the edge of the road.
He eyed the route east, up toward the mountains, the direction in which he was about to embark. Above the ridgeline was a cerulean sky with a few billowy white clouds. He looked over his shoulder and checked the traffic to the west. The road was clear. It was going to be a nice, calm ride through the mountains, he thought. He rolled the throttle and pulled out on to the road.
*This story first published in Black Fox Literary Magazine
Stephen Page 
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