Spring Quarterly 2009

This quarter's judge was Jane Elias, a freelance copy editor based in Brooklyn, NY. She received her BA in English from Duke University and her MFA in poetry from NYU. Her work has appeared in Washington Square, Podium, and The Southampton Review.

Please enjoy all three winning stories, with a foreward from Jane Elias.

First Place was awarded to Ingrid Silverstein. In January 2008, Ingrid Alana Silverstein received her MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier, where she was nominated for Best New American Voices in 2007 and 2008. Her work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, an online journal for short fiction, and she was a finalist in Cutthroat Magazine’s 2009 short story competition. Ingrid’s piece “Hysterecovery” won Scratch Contest in February 2008 and lives happily amidst fellow winning tales in the first ever Scratch Anthology. Her latest submission to the Scratch editors, “Uptown/Downtown,” comes from her growing collection of short fiction called On Becoming Undone. She unabashedly admits to loving what happens to her when she writes.

Judge Jane Elias said, "The two main characters of the story are drawn vividly and specifically, and the shift in perspective and physical location gives resonance to their contrasting but also parallel experiences, of both their own lives and of the relationship they have with each other. What is most compelling is the way they seem to be interacting with each other and both reach a similar breaking point, though never occupying the same physical space within the story."

This is:

UPTOWN/DOWNTOWN

Part I - Uptown

Parked on the ripped leather loveseat in his yellow boxers and staring out the front window of their railroad apartment uptown, Mel counts the weeks of unemployment he has left. Three. Just as many trash cans as are lined up beneath the window. He works the door Friday and Saturday nights at Foster’s, the Australian theme bar across the street, for cash, off the books. His girlfriend, Nikki, earns the rest working at a production studio downtown.

Five months ago, when he told her he’d been laid off from his job as a headhunter for non-union laborers, she didn’t seem surprised; either was he. He sucked. She told him to figure out what he wanted to do with himself. It’s all he can do to get to the gym in the afternoon, cook his own food for dinner and jerk off to a porno in the evening, since Nikki’s never home. And when she is, she’s either bitching at him or floating around the apartment in a daze. He can’t even get her riled up enough to have hate sex with her. Mel snickers in the narrow apartment and the sound bounces around the white walls, off the narrow ceiling and across the wood floor.

For breakfast he eats a bowl of generic corn flakes, two pieces of half-burnt toast with peanut butter and honey on them, four fried egg whites, an overripe banana. He washes it all down with a glass of grape juice with creatine mixed into it. He flips through the Vitamin & Supplement Catalogue as he drinks. Lately, it’s been hard to get up enough energy for the gym. No matter how many supplements he takes, he still feels tired, and weak.

When the phone rings, he hauls himself up, takes two steps and lifts the receiver from its wall-mount up to his ear. “House of Pain,” he says in a poor Arnold Swarzenegger imitation.

            “What time we hitting the gym today?” It’s Mike.

Mel had thrown him out of Foster’s on his first shift. Since then, they’d become fast friends. In his regular voice, he says, “In about an hour.”

            “I’ll shout at the window,” shouts Mike.

            “No need to shout.”

            “Shoulders and back?”

            “No. Legs and bi’s. Abs, if we have anything left.”

            “Heavy squats?”

“You gotta go heavy. Those chicken legs of yours are a fucking disgrace.”

“Eat me.”

            “Did you take your creatine?”

            “It makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl.“

            “Take it, jackass. No pain, no gain.”

After hanging up, Mel studies the dirty plates and open jars, the unpaid bills and muscle magazines covering the table; he grabs what’s on top and heads for the toilet to take a shit.

Twenty minutes later, he flicks off the TV, rises from the couch and moves into the darkness of the bedroom to put on his workout gear. He sniffs his jockstrap before stepping into it and yanks his bike shorts off the top of the dirty clothes pile in the corner.   His favorite t-shirt is worn nearly see-through, torn at the collar and at both armpits; it advertises a Las Vegas casino he has never been to. Whoever gave him the shirt, as well as why and when, escapes him. He wears it because it’s a remnant of better days, of better workouts.

At the front window, he waits for Mike with his gym bag in hand. He glances over at the table where everything is piled up. Nikki hadn’t been cleaning up like she used to. With his cheek flattened against the pane, he peers up the street. He gets a blast of his own bad breath and recoils. Forgot to brush.

He sidesteps between the bed and the dresser in the bedroom because of the broken dresser drawer. He’d scraped his leg so many times that he couldn’t count anymore. In the bathroom, he flips on the light and picks up the toothpaste. He has to squeeze hard to break through the crust sealing the opening; it vomits a long white glob onto the side of the sink. Mel sticks his toothbrush into it and brushes up and down quickly, holding his face close to the medicine cabinet mirror. He adds fresh splatters to the significant old ones.

Nikki had gone on strike in the bathroom, saying she refused to clean it if he continued to be a pig. He used to plough her over this sink, and she liked it just fine. He bares his teeth before spitting a mouthful of toothpaste at the mirror. He picks up one of the towels on the floor and dries his face with it. He turns out the light. On his way out, he trips over the threshold dividing the bathroom from the bedroom and smacks his shin on the broken dresser drawer.

He stumbles over to the bed, holding his injured leg. “Fuck me!” Nikki had asked him to fix the bastard thing. When he told her that he couldn’t, she asked him to get the super to do it. He refused; the super would roll into the apartment some afternoon and call him a pussy, another useless jerk with no common sense or skills just because he couldn’t fix a fucking drawer. Why didn’t Nikki fix it?

Since the drawer has no handle, it’s impossible to get a good grip on it. Moving to the corner of the bed and sitting on the edge directly across from it, Mel leans back, curls his knees in toward his chest and shoots both feet forward. “You asked for this, you bitch!”

The violent impact produces a loud crack. A long splinter of shellacked fiberboard dangles from the top left edge of the drawer; he yanks it free and tosses it on top of the dirty laundry pile. He leans in to shut the stupid thing once and for all. But it doesn’t budge. Not one inch.

“Unfuckingbelievable!”

In the kitchenette, he leans on the counter for support. There is something sticky on its surface. His gaze settles on the painted metal shelving unit that holds their cans, jars, crackers and cereal. A cockroach scuttles between the boxes.

“Hey!” Mike screams from the sidewalk.

“Keep your shirt on,” Mel hollers back, grabbing his gym bag in his sticky hand and dashing for the door. He cuts a lumbering gait down the street and Mike hurries to fall in line next to him, still shouting: “Let’s go, I gotta get this creatine pumping through my muscles. I feel like I’m juicin’, man, I’m gonna squat the whole rack!”

“You max out at ninety-five pounds, Mike, so why don’t you pipe the hell down.”

            “What’s up your ass? Did you and Nikki have another fight?”

            Mel shambles in between rogue piles of trash and dog shit. “She’s at work. I smashed my shin on the fucking drawer again.”

“Is Marlene is working today?”

“How would I know?” Mel asks.

            “I’m thinking of asking her out.”

            “She doesn’t like you.”

            “And you know this how?”

            “She told me,” Mel lies.

            “Oh. I suppose she likes you then, huh?”

            “Most chicks do.”

            “Most, except for yours,” says Mike.

            “Fuck you.”

            The gym isn’t crowded. They start with squats. Mike warms up with the bar, grunting ridiculously loud with each breath out. When he’s done, Mel puts a forty-five pound weight on either side of the bar and secures it with a peeling metal clip. He slips his head and shoulders underneath the bar and places his fingers in the grooves provided for grip. Bending his knees in preparation for the weight that will soon come to rest on his back, he takes a step away from the rack and stands there breathing in and out. Mike hovers behind him, barking out strange encouragements, praising the pain to come.

When Marlene strolls over in her tight trainer’s leggings and staff shirt, her hair pulled taut into a high ponytail, her face aglow with health, Mike’s attention turns from Mel to her. In the mirror, Mel watches Mike sidle up to Marlene. He refuses to stop his set just because Mike’s panties are all in a bunch, even though Marlene is looking particularly hot today. Refocusing on his reflection, Mel pushes on alone.

On his tenth upward thrust, his right knee wobbles as something inside it snaps and other things recoil. “My knee,” he wails while he and the bar first teeter then lurch, pitching backward and crashing down onto the rubber tile floor. In the seconds it takes for the fall, before Mel is briefly knocked out from whacking the back of his head on the iron bar behind his neck, a single image fills his head: he’s twelve years old, posing for a photo in the back yard, hoisting the shiny new barbell his father had given him high above his head ¾ his lean body ripe for the making of manhood, a twinkling of anticipation and adventure in his eyes, a confident smile testifying to all that he would become in time ¾ a vision of budding greatness.

He grits his teeth to keep from screaming out in pain as a staff member wraps his knee in frozen gel-packs, securing them in place with two ace bandages. Someone else gives him three Motrin for the knot on his head and the throbbing headache it set loose. Marlene retrieves a spare set of crutches that the gym keeps for situations just like this. When she returns from the storage room, her highlighted locks are freed from the tight ponytail that pinned them back not minutes before. She kneels beside him and says, “Let me help.” Mel inhales her bouquet of health. “I’m a mess,” he says.

“What the hell happened to you in there?” Mike shouts as soon as they are outside.

Mel hobbles up the street with him in tow. “My fucking knee gave out, you idiot!” He stumbles on the crutches, his gym bag slung over his back. “And where were you? Couldn’t spot me for one lousy set before your balls went blue for Marlene!”

Mike shrugs and tells Mel to screw himself; he asks what time they’re going to work out tomorrow. Mel says he’s out of commission for a while, possibly a long while, but he wishes Mike luck with Marlene, saying he’ll need it. A mutual flipping of the bird ends their day as Mel struggles up his front steps alone.

Back inside the apartment, his bad leg on the coffee table, a leaking sandwich baggie of ice on top of his knee and two itchy pillows beneath it, Mel watches The Simpsons. When the second episode finishes, he turns his head and stares out the window. Everything hurts. His balls don’t, so he scratches them.

The growling in his stomach finally forces him up onto the crutches and into the filthy kitchenette. Before Nikki became a stone-cold bitch, she used to cook and clean and let him eat her pussy on the countertop like she was his food. Now he avoids the sticky counter while boiling some white rice and mixing in two cans of tuna fish and one can of baked beans. He eats this out of the stainless steel pot he cooked the rice in and washes it down with a vanilla-flavored protein shake.

He keeps the lights off in the bedroom as he staggers over to the mattress. He catches a glimpse of the dresser drawer. Sitting down on the bed, his iced-up leg sticks out stupidly. Broken things jut at odd angles in the dark. Lying back on the bed, Mel watches peculiar shadows develop on the ceiling. The dirty laundry heap in the corner profiles a woman’s figure with a colossal behind. Nikki had told him once that he was the funniest, horniest man she’d ever met. He takes himself in his hand, stroking the fickle flesh up and over the rounded edge of the head and back down the shaft again. Adjusting his grip and increasing the pace, he calls up images of angry sex with her.

He’d incite her into rages when he couldn’t take her silent treatment any longer. He’d taunt her until she came-to, spitting fire. He’d mash his mouth over hers, push his tongue in deep. She’d curse and slap him as he hoisted her on top of the kitchen counter or bent her over the bathroom sink. On the bed, he’d wrestle with her until she hung poised above him, dripping sweat, only then would he lower her onto his hard prick. She’d ride him like a fucking rocking horse, curling her hands into fists and punching him; she’d cry big, fat tears and he’d lap them up. And just when he thought his heart would break, he’d let himself go, inside her, feeling that he had her again. Had something, anyway.

These days, when she gets home from work, he’s too tired to do anything about it. Not that he could egg her into a hate fuck anyway; she lived on another planet. His erection hopelessly lost, Mel releases his grip.

He doesn’t notice the shy knocking on the door at first. Hoisting himself onto his elbows and cocking his head toward the sound, he realizes that there is someone out there. He sits up. It’s hard to get his bad leg off and over the edge of the bed in such a tight space. He remembers the broken drawer and avoids it on his way out.

Leaning on the crutches, he releases the locks and tugs the door open a crack. Marlene stands there in her tight staff trainer’s shirt and black leggings, her eyes darting all over him.   “I . . . I just thought I’d come by to check on you. Management thought it was a good idea,” she adds. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks,” Mel says, shuffling backward to open the door. “Some company would be nice.” He leaves just enough room for her to come in.

“Nice place,” she says, her gaze settling to rest, finally, on his face.

“You think?” He turns, viewing the room and its contents anew.

“It looks lived in for sure, but cozy too.” She smiles and reaches out to touch his upper arm, “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“That makes two of us, although I’m feeling better already, since you…” Mel’s eyes follow the path Marlene chooses on her way to the leather loveseat. In his rapt attention, he is caught off guard by his twelve-year-old self from the photograph superimposed on his present tense; the image crushing the air from his quaking chest and puffing it full of promise once again. A nervous snicker escapes his lips, the echo bouncing between four white walls, across a wood floor, bound by the narrow ceiling of a railroad apartment uptown.

Part II – Downtown

Peering out the large window of a production studio downtown, Nikki watches the garbage men five floors below her. The view reminds her of the one she shares with Mel in their uptown railroad apartment: Trash. The live-action television commercial that the studio is filming today features a good-looking couple but not overly so, fashionable folks minus the flair. Their client, an upstate clothing outlet, recently opened an annex in the city and hopes to supplant urban flash with rural substance.

All Nikki is concerned with right now is how much she gets paid as an assistant line producer—enough to support herself and her boyfriend, Mel. He’s been out of work for months. And if she isn’t careful, she might find herself out of a job as well. Truth is, her recent slacking at the studio has not gone unnoticed. Before landing this gig, she’d been a bartender. Since joining the commercial world, she’s earning double what she ever did slinging drinks. And the studio’s customers don’t ask to suck Jell-O out of her belly button or lick salt off her neck.

When Mel got laid off, she wasn’t surprised. His slacking was infamous. At first, she tried to see his lay-off as a blessing in disguise, an opportunity for him to find work more suited to who he is, or to what he’s become, although that isn’t saying much. He used to make her laugh so hard it hurt, and while the knick-knacks he sometimes bought her were strange, they always touched her heart. Before. A very long time ago.

Currently he bounces weekends at Foster’s, the bar across the street from their ground floor railroad apartment, and lifts weights with some guy named Mike. Mel only has a few more unemployment checks to go. It’s clear to Nikki that the situation is no blessing in disguise, but blight disguised as a blessing, disguised. She used to think he was complex, stoically challenged, repressed. That constipated look she often mistook for deep thought was really just that, blocked bowels, and nothing more.

After brewing a full pot of coffee, she pours herself a cup, carefully, lest she spill one drop on her favorite shirt, an item of clothing that she has elevated into a companion. She’s aware how sad that is. Standing over her workstation, holding the ceramic mug at a ridiculous distance, Nikki stares at the open production book; she should organize the petty cash receipts and then begin actualizing the bid. There are still the talent release forms to fill in. Anywhere she starts, really, would be good. Maintaining her focus has been difficult. No matter how long she sits at her desk, her work never gets done. Jerry, her boss, is really pissed—it doesn’t help the situation that Mel calls the studio fifty million times a day to ask her the stupidest things.

She heads over to the set at the opposite end of the studio. It’s a bedroom: A large bouquet of silk flowers sits on each nightstand, a miniature reproduction of a Tiffany lamp and a romance novel on the woman’s side, a Sports Illustrated and brushed steel alarm clock for the man. The carpet, an Oriental rug look-alike accentuates the tones on the demure duvet and its matching pillows—at the foot of the bed sits a hope chest. If this is rural substance, then she just doesn’t get it.

“Nicole!” Jerry cries from the studio entrance; Nikki flinches and splashes coffee on her shirt.

“Caught you,” he admonishes, sauntering over to the set.

Seething, she asks: “Doing what?”

“The usual,” her boss says. “Nothing.”

“You did this.” She points to the mottled brown stain rising and falling with each word she utters.

“Oops,” says he.

Nikki found her special blouse two months ago at a consignment shop four blocks east of the studio. A study in subtlety and a play on light, the sheer gauzy linen shimmers with an enchanted opalescence, its fitted bodice tapering flawlessly at the waist, punctuated with intricate stitching. With three-quarter length arms that fold in an angled cuff, a flourish of pointed expression echoes the V-cut on the collar—a tête-à-tête between Victorian sensibility and Victoria’s Secret. Whenever Mel isn’t around, Nikki takes it out of their cramped closet and hangs it over the bathroom door to contemplate the life she longs to have, one in line with the sublime design of her fantasy shirt.

“Maybe you’re too focused on the material side of life,” Jerry proclaims.

Straightening the hem, she says: “Maybe the material is all that’s left.”

Fifty minutes later, the studio swarms with leggy talent and a beefy crew; the bright lights and peppery breath raise the temperature considerably. In the anteroom designated for wardrobe, hair and makeup, Nikki faces the timetable posted on the door. According to the sheet, the production is already behind schedule. It doesn’t bother her a bit, and it should, at least her boss would like it to.   It’s just like at home with Mel—she doesn’t clean up his messes anymore. He calls her at work when he can’t find this or that, accusing her of hiding, moving, or throwing away whatever it is he can’t locate. He insists she does this on purpose, to make him look stupid. Not that it’s hard to do, but she isn’t doing it. If something isn’t directly in his line of vision, Mel forgets that it exists. She doesn’t remember thinking that he was an idiot when they first met, but she honestly doesn’t remember much more than the sex.

While staring at the shot list, Nikki gets a blast of her own sour coffee breath and recoils. She zigzags back to her desk, avoiding the congregation of eager production assistants in the kitchen area, as well as the gaggle of disenchanted advertising execs along the perimeter. Success. She reaches into her handbag for a piece of Dentyne and nearly screams. Pain shoots out of her middle finger. Pulling her hand out of the bag, she sees the sharp nail file imbedded halfway to the cuticle. For a relatively small injury, it hurts a ridiculous amount.   She yanks out the file and casts it to the floor; blood oozes into the channel left in its wake. Two crimson droplets seep out the sides of her fingernail and others follow it. She needs a band-aid, maybe more.

On her way to the studio’s well-equipped bathroom, she trips over a backpack left lying on the floor. She recovers her stride and kicks the bag back. Weaving her way through the frenzy of the production, she holds her finger out like a badge, not of courage so much as of proof, proof of her ambiguous protest to the commercial world—she offers up her bloody finger, flipping them all the bird.

Safely behind the bathroom door, Nikki locks it, flips the light switch on and pulls the brushed-steel tap toward her. Her blood runs quickly from red to pink as the cold water whirls it down the drain. With her left hand, she pops the medicine cabinet open and a huge bottle of saline solution falls out, landing squarely on the back of the hand in the sink. A mottled splotch blooms there. “Goddamnitalltohell!”

“Excuse me,” says a male voice through the door. Nikki doesn’t recognize it; he must be one of the new production assistants she’d booked for the shoot.

“I’m in here!” She lowers the lid on the toilet and sits.

“Jerry told me to find you,” the voice says.

“Congratulations. Is it everything you thought it would be?” Nikki retrieves the box of band-aids from the medicine cabinet.

“Wow. How’s the bitter thing working out for you?”

Surprisingly disarmed, she binds the tip of her finger with three different band-aid types. She turns toward the door and catches sight of the blood on her shirt. It takes everything she’s got not to cry.

“I can’t come out,” she says.

“Is the door jammed?” the voice asks.

“No. It’s me—I’m stuck. I also stabbed myself.” Nikki looks in the mirror. “Tell Jerry I’m caught in the can, will you?”

She’s sure she’ll get fired for this latest routine, especially when added to all her other fuck-ups of late. Maybe that’s what she wants, to be shit-canned. But if she loses her job, she’ll be stuck at home with Mel. And that won’t work out well; what’s clear is that she can’t continue doing the same shit, not here or at home, and definitely not with her shirt looking like this. Unbuttoning the blouse and laying it to rest in the sink, she hears the voice again: he says he’s back. She asks him how it’s going while fiddling with her bra strap.

“Jerry said that you’re fired if you don’t return to the set ASAP.”

“You told him I was stuck in the can?”

“With slight more command of the English language, I’d like to think.”

Nikki mashes her forehead against the painted door. Then she pours over her shirt soaking in the sink; there are bloodstains discoloring the right side, not to mention the huge coffee splotch on the front. Outside her toilet tomb, the television production hovers in accusing tones—an infomercial of scorn.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” the voice says. “Oops, I gotta go.”

She wrings her shirt out to dry, hanging it over the towel bar. A few minutes later, Jerry comes by and demands that she cut the shit. She tells him that she cut the shirt, not the shit, but he doesn’t find it the least bit humorous. Pam, the wardrobe assistant, is very nice, but no Nikki says, she isn’t coming out: “I’ve cut the shirt. It’s a real crime scene in here, quite a bloodbath. Get it? Bloodbath…I’m in the bathroom with a bloody shirt?” When she gets no response, she taps on the door and asks: “Is this thing on?” Flipping the light switch off, she closes her eyes to watch the burning wash of color fade behind her lids. It’s the last thing she sees for some time.

Images of having hate sex with Mel rise from the pit into which she just fell, snapshots that detonate in her head: Him taunting her into a spitting rage as he grabbed her wrists, twisting her around to face him, forcing his mouth over her locked-down lips while he ripped another pair of her panties to shreds. He’d wrestle her into the kitchenette and heave her onto the sticky countertop, or do her over the disgusting bathroom sink, pushing his stubby cock into her while she bucked and kicked. On the bed, he’d hold her above him until he’d grow tired and let her drop—Hop on Cock, he’d called it. She’d pound his shoulders and back, the two of them frothing, locked in a fight to the death, and just when she knew she could kill him with ease, if not herself, she’d release her orgasm. The gaping maw inside her would never be filled, especially not by Mel’s jism.

The voice from the other side of the locked bathroom door calls out: “Hello?”

“Hey,” Nikki says. “You wouldn’t happen to be a shirt whisperer, would you?”

“A what?”

“I’m guessing you’re one of the new production assistants I booked, right?”

“Right. You are…”

“No longer employed. And a murderer to boot; I killed my shirt.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t suicide?”

Nikki considers this in the pitch of her toilet tomb. “I suppose it could be seen as a mercy killing.”

“You’ve been in there a long time. You must be starving. Want to grab a bite?”

“I don’t know. Are you a creep?” Nikki cups her hands over her mouth.

“I don’t think so, but that’s about as biased an opinion as you can get.”

“I got a man, I hate to say—a jackass who sleeps in my bed at night.”

“Oh,” replies the voice. “That’s too bad…well, I didn’t invite him out to eat.”

“He’s the type who’d come anyway.” She sighs, leaning back against the vanity.

“Gotcha. Look, if you need a shirt to wear, I have one,” he says. “It’s clean.”

Nikki considers his offer. When she opens the bathroom door, it’s just wide enough to fit her arm through. The production assistant places a shirt in her extended hand. She accepts its substantial weight, curls her fingers around its neck and draws it inside. “Before I come out, there’s something you should know,” she says.

“Shoot,” he replies.

“I haven’t talked to anyone, really, in a long time and I have no idea what I might say…and if what you want is some company, well, I don’t know what kind of company I am, not at all. I’m Nicole, and you are?” She pops her head through the hood of the sweatshirt.

“James,” he says.

“James,” she repeats. “That’s good—a good name, I mean.” She studies her reflection in the mirror and recognizes something of herself in Homer Simpson’s cheeky grin: the perfect blend of urban flash and rural substance. She turns to open the bathroom door and catches a glimpse of her fantasy shirt failing in the sink. Nikki wraps her world-weary shirt around the big bottle of saline solution in the medicine cabinet and shuts the door—an embrace in a cool dark space.

As she steps over the threshold into the closed commercial television production set downtown, she says to her new friend: “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

Second Place was awarded to Don Bartell who played college basketball and graduated from Loyola U. in Los Angeles. He's worked in an aluminum foundry, as a beer truck driver, as a wine salesman, at a golf course, and now sells art (not his!) for a living and officiates AAU and high school basketball. The officiating has helped him learn to accept "constructive criticism." Don has written off and on for years. He prefers "on." His dog Buddy is his harshest, and loudest, critic

Judge Jane Elias said, "This story is a good example of the power of a title, which in this case directs us to what proves a lyrical and poignant counterpoint to Kyle's journey toward independence. The bright and beautiful parrot, whose home was fashioned of something discarded, ultimately must flee--just as Kyle inevitably breaks free, using a pair of scissors instead of a pair of wings"

This is:

I USED TO OWN A PARROT

My mom just called me at work to tell me her latest boyfriend Eddy was in jail.
    “He’s in jail, Kyle,” she said. “Eddy’s in jail.”

     Eddy’s a big guy with a patchy red beard who wears overalls and white Converse All-Stars. He’s always chewing a toothpick, too, the mint-flavored kind. He’s the aggressive type, the kind who tries to intimidate you.
     “What did he do?”
     There was about 10 seconds of silence. I pressed my cell phone harder against my ear.
     “He punched Glenn in the face and knocked him out. Glenn filed charges.”

     Glenn’s a former boyfriend of my mom’s who is a fairly nice guy. He has his own one-man landscaping company. That’s how my mom met him. He still comes around to mow the yards, free of charge, at the house we rent in Tarzana. I think she still has something going on with him. That’s probably how Eddy met him.

     I work in the San Fernando Valley at the retail outlet for Creekside Wineries. I spend most of my time in the tasting room. I don’t know much about wine. I pour small samples into big goblets for customers and rave about things like character, fragrance, nose, and “exquisite undertones.” Do you prefer dry or sweet? Are you looking for full-bodied and bold or smooth and subtle? Do you like desert wines? I basically just steer people towards what they already know they want. We put out bottled water and plates of cheese and crackers to help them “cleanse their palates.” I have to wear a coat and a tie, but it’s an okay job. Plus, on Fridays, (like today) I get to take home leftover wine for free.

     I was standing in the storeroom next to a 6-foot-high stack of champagne cases.
     “So you want me to bail him out, right?”
     About 5 seconds passed.
     “He’s at the jail on-”
     “I know where it is.”
     The only working credit card in the family is in my name. I’ve used it several times to bail out my mom’s friends.
     “It’s 600 dollars,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.”

My balance is getting up there. She’s still paying off the last charge. She works as a checker at a Ralph’s Supermarket.
     “I’ll go as soon as I can.”
     “Thank-you, Kyle, sweetheart.”
     “Mom?”
     “What?”
     “How’s Glenn?”
     “Never mind. Bring Eddy to the house, please.”
     I snapped my cell phone shut and straightened my tie.

     My mom’s a flirt. She has been for as long as I can remember, which is when I must’ve been about 2 years old, riding around on my father’s shoulders. Some people say when you think you have a memory of yourself when you’re that young, it’s really because you’ve seen a photograph of yourself at that age in a certain situation. You come to believe it’s a memory. However, my mom said the photo albums she had were ruined during one of the many moves we made when I was a kid. So, the photo theory is ruled out—I’ve never seen those albums. But I swear I can remember being carted around to barbecues and neighborhood parties and seeing her cozy up to men I knew were not my father, or at least not the guy I’d been riding around on. Maybe the other part I remember, about me being uncomfortable seeing her do that, me looking away and pretending to be interested in a bee on a rose bush or something, maybe that’s the part I fabricate.

     “Kyle? We need you out here.”

     That was my boss, Steve McCaffrey, calling me back to the wine bar. He’s 46, twice my age, shaves his head and jogs a lot. He isn’t too demanding but we have our quotas to meet.

     The tasting room is decorated with fake grapes and vines and dusty arbors and there’s photographic wallpaper that looks like what we want everyone to think Creekside Vineyards looks like. It helps us make decent sales in mellow surroundings, even though sometimes our regular, experienced customers go overboard with the tasting. Back a few years ago, after I graduated from Community College, I took some accounting classes at Cal State Northridge. I have kind of an affinity for numbers. But things being what they were and still are at the house, with Mom and my little brother Ethan and little sister Jessica, (he’s eight, she’s six, all three of us with different fathers) I decided to take this job. It was advertised that they needed a “people person.” I can be what I need to be.

     I walked up to Steve. Two grandmotherly types were poking around the shelves.
     “We need you out here, not in the back,” he whispered loudly.
     “Something’s come up,” I said. “Can I have the rest of the afternoon off?”
     He put his hands on his hips and exhaled a short burst of air. I tried to look him in the eyes but his were darting around.
     “I have to do a favor for my mom. It’s important to her.”
     He glanced at the grandmas, then finally focused on me. There was a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind you don’t want to be noticed.
     “Your mom,” he said. “Yeah, sure, go ahead. Take care of those ladies then you can go.”
     He turned and walked under the vine-covered trellis that decorates the doorway to the main retail room, where his office is. The trellis was a little crooked. I straightened it, then straightened my tie again.

     The wine bar is real oak. I polish it regularly with Lemon Pledge to keep it looking sharp. I smiled at the grandmas and made small talk, then poured them each a goblet of chilled Chenin Blanc. I watched them take dainty sips and nibble on cheese.

     I used to own a parrot. He’s a Blue-and-yellow Macaw—Ara Ararauna. I named him Ara. His breast feathers and under parts are bright yellow, almost gold, and the top of his wings and tail are rich blue. His face is white, and he has a black, curved beak. I looked it up and discovered he was big for a Macaw—a little over a yard long, including his tail, and he weighed almost 4 pounds. I made a perch for him from a sturdy, curved sycamore tree limb. The wood is a light reddish color. I chiseled it to just the right size for his powerful claws to wrap around. I even dug little grooves into the wood so he’d have firm footing. Ara really took to it. The American sycamore grows well in Argentina , where many Macaws come from. Maybe he recognized it. It could be that perch was a little bit of home for him, right there in Tarzana.

     I fed him a balanced diet of nuts, seeds, lettuce, and dried fruit. I’d give him a piece of bread when I was having a sandwich and strings of spaghetti when I’d bring a big bowlful to my room. Macaws are known for talking, of course, but Ara never said a word. He’d scream occasionally--piercing shrieks, normal for a Macaw—but that was it. I tried repeating words to him the first few months I had him. He’d just tilt his colorful, beautiful head and stare at me. I finally gave up and accepted him for what he is: an excellent listener and a good friend. Every once in a while I’d stroke the green tuft of silky feathers on the top of his head. He likes that.

     I got Ara when we first moved to Tarzana, about 4 years ago, from a pet shop in Sherman Oaks that specialized in exotic birds. I had him until one day early last spring when I was at work. Larry Toomey, my mom’s boyfriend before Glenn, went barging into my room because, according to him, Ara was “screaming like crazy!” It was mating season and Ara was feeling rambunctious. I’d never had his wings clipped, and I never chained him to his perch. When Larry opened the door (I like to think my mom tried to stop him--she said she did.) and yelled, Ara flew out of my room and around the house, causing quite a commotion.   Larry foolishly opened the front door to run outside. Ara flew through the open doorway into a cool April breeze. I haven’t seen him since. Our climate here in southern California is similar to Argentina and other parts of South America so I’m sure he’s doing well.

     “Young man, you’re spilling!”

     One of the grandmas grabbed at the bottle of Chenin Blanc I was holding. It was tilted in my hand and some wine had puddled on the bar. I apologized while I wiped it up. Steve hustled over to us, made a few excuses about me needing rest, and then strongly encouraged me to go home.

     Outside in the stagnant August heat, just as I was about to get into my silver Chevy Celebrity CL, my cell phone rang. It was my mom.
     “Have you left yet?”
     I closed my eyes for a few seconds and chewed my lower lip.
     “Kyle?”
     “I’m on my way.”

     My mom admits to mistakes in her past but she goes ahead and makes the same ones again and again. When I can get her to talk about it she explains to me that she must be compensating now for a childhood that was lacking in love. She says she likes men and needs companionship. She has her reasons, but I wish she’d stop with one man before she started with another.
      I was almost out of the parking lot when Natalie drove in.    She works at the

Van Nuys Airport as an administrative secretary. She comes by often to taste wine and talk Laker basketball, even in the summertime. We’re both big fans.

     My stomach took a dip as I remembered we were supposed to have lunch today at an In-N-Out burger a few blocks away. I’d been trying the “smooth and subtle” approach and things were going well. How could I forget this lunch?
     She pulled up to my car in her white Prius, driver’s side window to driver’s side window, and smiled.
     “What, you’re running out on me?” she said.
     She has wavy brown hair down to her shoulders and wears light perfume that has just the right sweetness to it. The only make-up I’ve seen her wear is red lipstick. She’s about 5’9”. I’m 6’2”. It’s a good fit, at least across the wine bar.
     I smiled weakly.
     “No. I’m sorry, I mean I got a call from my mom. Family emergency.”
     Her face turned to concern.
     “Is it serious? Your brother or sister?”
     My old car was over-heating. The thermostat is unpredictable.
     “Nothing like that. I just have to do something for my mom right now. She thinks it’s an emergency.”
     Natalie’s face relaxed. Looking into her green eyes made it hard to concentrate. I asked her if we could have lunch tomorrow. She nodded and put her car back in gear.
     “Sure. No problem, Kyle. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
     No problem! That’s what you say to someone you almost bump into when you’re walking on the sidewalk and you both do a quick step-out-of-the-way a few times. No problem!

     The jail was about 15 miles away and all I remember about the drive is that it was Friday, it was getting hotter, and there were a lot of cars. I pushed open the glass doors. It was cool inside and reeked of bleach. The lower half of the walls was painted brown, the upper half orange. There were about a dozen people sitting on concrete benches. They gave me the once over and I’m sure wondered if it was a family member or friend I’d come to see. That’s what I do when I’m sitting there.
     I paid and sat down to wait for Eddy. Visitors took turns in cubicles, using black phones and the closed-circuit TV system to communicate with inmates.
      I fidgeted with my credit card, then stuck it back in my wallet. Who am I to judge anyone, especially my mom? One thing I am sure of is that Ethan and Jessica need to know there’s other ways to live.

    Finally, Eddy came striding out to where I was waiting for him, a spring in his step
and a carefree look on his face. He pulled out a toothpick from the front center pocket of his overalls, un-wrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.
     “Thanks, kid,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

     The smog and exhaust were thick but it wasn’t like I could roll up the windows and flip on the air conditioning. I got on the 101 into heavy traffic and headed for home. Sweat dripped from Eddy’s beard and arms. He stared straight ahead and really chomped down on that toothpick. Neither one of us said anything until I was a few miles from my exit, when he nudged me and told me to get off the freeway at the next street and turn north.   I thought I knew what was happening so I did what he said. After a few blocks he nudged me again and told me to pull into the next driveway on my right. It was the entrance to the parking lot for The Swinging Door, a bar I’d heard stories about from my regular wine-tasters. I parked the car and let it idle. The temperature gauge needle moved slowly to the right.

     The parking lot was littered with cellophane cigarette wrappers and crunched beer cans. Weeds lined long, narrow cracks in the asphalt. The building was gray, a one-window place with a wide brown door that was faded and cracked from the sun. Eddy hopped out of the car.
     “Tell your mom I’ll be over later.”
     He walked towards the bar, but then stopped, faced me, and spread his arms out like he was asking for something. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
     “You know how it is, kid!” he yelled over the traffic noise.
     He saluted me with his right hand, spun around and went into the bar.

     I sat there for a few minutes.   The thermostat finally kicked in and the needle in the temperature gauge swung back to close to normal. I sat there for another minute or two, then headed for Sears.

     As I drove up to our house, I saw that Glenn had finished working before Eddy punched his lights out—the front lawn was mowed with straight rows and edged to perfection. It’s a tract house from the 1960s, but all the windows work and the plumbing’s good. The four of us painted it a few months ago to get some money taken off the rent. We chose a dark brown color with a creamy trim. The landlord gave us the thumbs up when he saw it.

     Mom (her name is Cynthia) was sitting on the top porch step. She was wearing her pink sun dress and tan sandals. The best things about her face are her high, soft cheekbones. She wasn’t all that surprised to see it was just me in the car. She looked tired, even though she had Fridays off.

     I got out of my car with the bags from Sears and stood next to the manicured front lawn. The fresh-cut grass smelled good. I heard Ethan and Jessica playing in the backyard.
     “So, did you get him out?”
     “Yeah.”
     “Well?”
     “It was 600 bucks, like you said.”
     She gave me a mother’s look.
     “And he had to go to work,” I said. “So I took him.”
     I sat down on the step below my mom. She leaned back on the heels of her hands.
     “Really? And where was that?”
     I chewed my lower lip.
     “Oh, at a warehouse right off the freeway. He thanked me for taking him.”
     I held up the bags.
     “I went shopping at Sears.”
She looked away. I set them down.

     “That’s funny,” she said slowly. “He told me he was a mechanic at a Dodge dealership.”
     “Maybe he’s got two jobs.”
     I held up one of the bags.
     “That swimsuit Jessica wanted,” I said. “The purple one.”

     It was hand-made in Italy . Shiny sequins are sewn in swirly designs all over it. They change colors when sunlight hits them a certain way. Many of them match Jessica’s blond hair and blue eyes. She’s like a little dolphin the water, gliding and splashing around.

     “So when’s he going to get his car?” she asked me.
     “What?”
     She pointed across the street, where a dusty, primered Buick Electra was parked.
    “A guy up the street called the police when Glenn and Eddy were going at it. Eddy was going to drive away but it wouldn’t start. He was trying to fix it when they came and arrested him.”
     I stared at the car.
     “I’ll call Triple A and have it towed,” I said. “I know where they should take it.”
     I held up another bag.
     “A basketball for Ethan.”

     I bet Ethan will be taller than I am. He has black hair and great big hands. He was a star on his 3rd grade team. This was a “Genuine Los Angeles Lakers NBA Basketball,” signed in gold ink by Kobe Bryant. The lady at Sears had to get it out of a locked glass case at the front of the store.
     My mom, Cynthia, looked at me. I smiled.

     “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said.
      I handed her the third bag. It was a set of 4 wine glasses, the heavy, real crystal kind with serrated stems.
     “I brought some Chenin Blanc home. We can have some when I get back from work tonight.”
     I was hoping for a smile back but didn’t get one. She stood up and opened the front door.
     “Call Triple A as soon as you can, Kyle.”

     I work four evenings a week at a public golf course a few miles from our house. After I did what my mom asked, I drove to the course and parked. All day I’d been driving around with the heat, almost a tropical heat, bearing down on me. Now, the air was cooler. It was easier to breathe.

     I stood next to my car, holding the last bag from Sears. It was a present for me; a pair of Never Need Sharpening Scissors.
     A foursome of golfers, regulars I recognized, walked by me yelling Hey Kyle! Kyle, my man! Kyle, what’s up? I waved and smiled. I’d see them soon at the driving range. I operate the big 10-basket Hilly Terrain Ball Picker that sweeps up balls the golfers hit on the range. Two-hundred-fifty balls per basket. I fill it up several times each shift I work.
     I leaned against my car and made a phone call to Natalie. She said I sounded tired but I told her I felt great. I said I’d forgotten tomorrow was Saturday and I’d understand if she wanted to break our lunch date. I knew she wouldn’t be at work and wouldn’t be coming by Creekside and might have other plans for the week-end.
     “Are you running out on me again, Kyle?”
     I assured her I was not. We decided to meet at In-N-Out after all. She did not say No problem. She said I’m buying.
      I sat on the hood of my car, let my legs dangle over the bumper, and felt the warmth of the engine through my blue jeans. I thought again of how comfortable and at home Ara looked on the perch I made for him. One of the groundskeepers gave me the limb about the time I started here, after I stopped taking those accounting classes and first got Ara. They’d removed the few sycamores that were on the course because they were infested with leaf beetles. They were afraid the beetles would attack some of the other trees, so the sycamores had to go.

     I un-wrapped my new scissors. I took out my credit card and cut it first in half, then in quarters, then cut it again, and again. I’d just about maxed it out at Sears, buying things that mattered for people who mattered. This was a good time to retire it. I would not use it again, for anything.

     Sometimes when I’m driving around I’ll see sycamores. I’ll stop to admire them. One will be isolated as a shade tree in a neighborhood, a few will be clumped together in a park, and others will be scattered on a golf course, flourishing. I hope someday to find a grove of tall, leafy sycamores where all sorts of birds might congregate. It is indeed a magnificent tree. I looked it up: a sycamore’s trunk can grow to 6 feet in diameter, it can rise to 150 feet high, and its broad, yellow-green leaves are almost 9 inches long. If I was a bird on the loose, flying around in unfamiliar territory, I’d look for someplace that reminded me of home. I’d look for a sycamore tree, its top branches spreading, welcoming.

     Another foursome walked by, the cleats on their shoes making clicking sounds on the blacktop. They stopped and asked me since I work on a golf course, do I have any tips for them?
     I told them stand still over the ball. Don’t sway in your backswing. Keep your head down. Swing through the ball. Have fun!
     I don’t know much about golf.

Third Place was awarded to M.R. Phillips who lives and writes in Palm Springs, California. His flash fiction story Jack and Coke was published in the San Diego City Beat 101 Contest. His short screenplay The Last Fisherman was recently produced and entered in the DVXuser Twilight Film Festival. He drinks a ridiculous amount of coffee and reads as much as time allows.

Judge Jane Elias said, "In a story of this length, economy of language is paramount, and "The Aftermath" has a tightness to it that works well. The depiction of the post-apocalyptic landscape is evocative, and within a short space we witness an event, a moment that signifies an irrevocable change in the protagonist, and, in turn, in the world he now inhabits"

This is:

AFTERMATH

Enscombe stood looking out over the scorched badlands to the horizon. The desert was pockmarked and riddled with scabs of the End War; in between it was barren. He scanned from left to right with the field glasses, and then back again. A purple sun hovered at his back. The ashy warmth of the air filled the pores of his skin. Machine carcasses of cannoned tanks were the lone decoration of the land for as far as he could see. Enscombe knew that the desert before him was void of life. Same as every other mile he had marched in the past ten days.

He let the field glasses fall against his chest. Why magnify destruction? He took the canteen from his belt and allowed himself a sip. He replaced it. His reserve mattered little. The cramps in his stomach were beginning to hinder his movement, and the pain in his head was a cipher he couldn’t solve.

The days had been filled with unending warmth, a temperate air that would not change. In his walking he had come across many a rotting corpse. Mostly they were soldiers. Piles of skin morphing into skeletons, dead men in uniform. It had taken a good deal of deliberation for him to finally begin robbing the corpses. A good deal of thirst and hunger, of suffering.

When he had finally brought himself to search the bodies he found Ready-Eat-Meal packs, partially filled canteens, and combat knives stained with blood. From one soldier he had taken a pair of aviator style sunglasses and some steel-toed boots. And of course the field glasses.

Enscombe descended towards the desert floor. He half slid down the face of the hill as the loose topsoil gave way beneath his boots.

There were no snakes to beware of. There were similarly no vultures or coyotes to feast upon the dead. There was only the forever burning purple sun and the stench of death. By the time he had run out of meal packs, as finding them was scarce, most of the corpses had gone to rot. So his thoughts of cannibalism were only vague fantasies, a diatribe upon his moral standards that he believed he would die without fulfilling.

All the same he was starving.

In the aftermath moments and days had begun to blend into perpetual time static. The only thing he knew was to walk. It was all he could do. Enscombe reached the desert floor and continued on.

He came upon a tank. Enscombe loathed the sight of these metallic monsters. He could still hear the rumble of the army moving towards his town. The low roar of the tank brigade had foreshadowed the coming of a certain atrocity he could not bring his mind to cope with. If there was one thing Enscombe had learned it was this: War was at the heart of man. As long as he could remember man had either been at war with himself or with those around him. War was bred into the blood of man, it was the eternal way, and Peace must always be shattered.

The tank had taken damage in the rear. A shell or bazooka blast, he couldn’t tell which. There were decomposed body parts spread in a loose semi-circle. A leg still attached to a boot, gloved hands and detached arms. A torso spilled out from the back end of the tank, the face burned off. Enscombe got down on one knee and peered inside. A combination of gasoline and decomposition filled his nostrils, a scent of vacant hope and endless war. He had nothing in his stomach to exhume. Instead he dry heaved, looking up to the purple hued sky each time he needed a breath. It was like drowning.

That night he lay down at the base of a dune. In the distance were more tanks, a split-apart aircraft; most likely more bodies, more bones and death for him to wade against. He thought about what would become of his own body. How the skin would melt off the bones and fall in patches. He imagined his frail skeleton bleaching beneath the bastard sun. These thoughts were technical. The same as an accountant would have at his desk. Simple.

Enscombe closed his eyes and slept.

The dog came to him the next morning. Enscombe opened his eyes and saw it approaching from the North, the direction he himself had come from. The dog limped at the hind end. It looked a wretched, starving, distempered animal thing. With great effort Enscombe struggled to his knees. He waited there while the dog came upon him, whimpering and bloody, so skinny as to be invisible; but alive, which to Enscombe was a dream. There was a thing inside of him that said this must be a dream. He was not on his knees. He was still deeply entrenched in a demonic sleep. This was a dream vision of his last hope for remaining life in this sad, burned down world. Soon he would open his eyes and feel thirst, hunger. Still, something came up from his belly and waited in his throat.

It became clear that the dog was not a dream. It came to him with glassy, caked over eyes. The brindle coat was little more than patches, fallen out in places. The snout was short and adequately toothed; blood ran from the rear paws. A square cropped ear was missing. Enscombe watched.

The dog circled him once, no doubt wary of the danger he represented. It came around to face him and sat back on its haunches. The mouth fell open. A lolling battered tongue with purple splotches smacked at the air.

Life. He mouthed the word to himself. It was the thing lodged in his throat. Life. It was a mantra that hummed beneath his skin. After awhile the dog collapsed and closed its eyes.

He would build a fire. He would hang the dog over the flame and cook it. He would skin it with the knife in his pocket. He would rub the blood across his lips. He would slit the throat and put the pitiful animal out of misery. He would eat. If the dog was infested with parasites, so be it. Enscombe would take his chances. He would cook the limbs and burn the flesh until it was charred and jerky like. He would gnaw on the bones; he would suck out the marrow and eat the eyes. It would be the greatest meal of his life.

These were his thoughts as he watched the dog sleep.

Enscombe looked around at the desert, the barren land of the once plentiful earth. He kept his eyes on the distant tanks. There was no water. There was no help in any direction. He was starving. His heart was broken with the violence of everything, the shadow of it all. He would kill the dog and eat it. He would bury the carcass. Better still, he would leave it to rot in the open air with the countless dead. This was the course of action of a man wanting to live.

Enscombe did none of those things.

He dug a shallow hole in the hard packed dirt in front of the dog and unhooked the canteen from his belt. After he unscrewed the lid and poured the remainder of the contents into the hole he dipped his pinky finger into the water. He brought the finger to his lips and slurped.

The dog came awake and let its tongue roll out into the water. The animal rose to its feet as it drank. When it was finished the dog sat back down and stared at Enscombe. He reached out and touched the remaining ear.

The entire day they walked. The dog followed at his heels. Enscombe found a full canteen beneath the corpse of a dead soldier. The arms were severed, but the canteen had kept out the blood. He shared it equally with the dog. That night they found shelter beneath a shale stone outcrop. The dog bedded down next to him and they slept.

Enscombe came awake during the night. The dog was close to him, the ribs rising and falling with each breath. He thought he heard a scraping somewhere far off. He listened for what felt a long time, but heard nothing more. He closed his eyes.

Enscombe felt a heat. He heard the small crackle of a fire burning. He opened his eyes and sat up. An old man sat across from him, a fire burning between. The old man stoked the fire with a long, thin stick. He was covered with rags sewn together. In places where the stitching had come apart were paper clips to cinch it. His head was covered by a dirty camouflaged bandana. The old man began to whistle to himself.

“Who are you?” Enscombe asked.

The man looked at him, looked into him from across the fire. He stopped whistling

“I’m one of those that survived, one of the lucky ones,” said the old man.

Enscombe put his hand on the dog’s neck. He squeezed the ear.

”How have you lived?” asked Enscombe.

“Off the soldiers. The same as you.”

Enscombe looked off into the darkness. Luck. He hadn’t thought about that.

“We’re going to starve. The three of us,” said Enscombe.

The old man looked at him, but said nothing. Enscombe spread his hands out toward the fire.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I just did. Walking,” the old man said.

Enscombe looked down at the dog once more. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. There were three of them now.

It was a piece of meat. The first he’d had in God knew how long. He let the old man press it between his lips. It was tough and stringy, but meat nonetheless. He chewed, feeling the ache of his jaw muscles, the pain in his teeth. Enscombe swallowed. He opened his eyes. The old man put another piece of meat at his mouth. Enscombe opened and took it. Chewed. Swallowed.

He sat up then and felt a roar in his stomach. The old man stood and walked back to his side of the fire. He had fashioned a spit with which to roast over the open flame. It was made from sticks, and held in place with large round stones.

The old man had trapped some sort of animal. A knife stuck straight up from the spinal area of the creature. It seemed the old man had been tearing away pieces of flesh with it. The fire crackled and hissed at the burned body of the animal. The old man yanked the knife away and began to rip at the side of the animal. A rib bone popped free as he pulled away a large chunk of meat. To Enscombe it looked as if the old man had been doing this all his life. He looked like a being from another time, another dimension.

Enscombe stood up and took his own knife from his pocket. He cut away a bit of meat and shoved it into his mouth like a madman. He chewed ferociously. The old man smiled at him. The teeth were a gruesome yellow, a lopsided castle defending the cavern of his mouth.

Enscombe remembered the dog. He turned in circles, peering out at the desert. He raised the field glasses to his brow. He scanned the badlands from left to right and back again. Nothing.

Enscombe lowered the field glasses and pointed his gaze at the old man. The old man who only stood staring back at him with that yellow grin, his stained rags covering his tarnished skin. That foul smelling old man who ripped another piece of flesh from the carcass of the dog and shoved it into his cavern mouth and blatantly chewed like a dumb, faithless sinner.