Carolyn Harness - "A Cardinal Clash"

A Cardinal Clash

The Glass Zombie

Veins grasp for chilled air.
A neck adorned with buttons & knobs
consumes the freedom of relishing
the coming rain.
No smell or gentle tug of hair.
They do not possess themselves.

A Rancid Harvest

Blossoms that mature too soon are
plucked from the Mother Tree.
Solid fruit is a mere underbelly to
teeth of the brute.
Speckled apples and freckled faced
carcasses are not haunted by a
universe they will never touch.

The infinite void is comfort.
Even the stars, who know no name,
are reflections of the civilization that is silent.
Subsequent thunder clouds gather overhead as
blood stains their skin.

Apoplectic Admonition

Beware the dawn, O watchful eye above.
Descend your gaze and nocked arrows, secure.
Rapacious lips, today you fall short of
fulfilling starving hollows, tongues impure.
Appeal to us. Reclaim devout allure.
Consorts of havoc, cease your filmy tone.
Surrender ardent conquests you procure
for silver, gold, and soft thighs you have known.
Speak now, before timid mouths are sewn.
The patience of thy kingdom will run dry,
Decisive drops creep down against thy moan.
Dry crumbling pillars soak the cloudy sky,
Dying breaths waft dreams of twilight seas-
On the horizon, lucid beams drift free.

Proem: An Invocation to the Muse

Settle the dust in my heart, sweet Memory. Weave the last testimony of the imprisoned with my weary fingertips. Stage the finale for the marvelous and monstrous faces who take their place within the depths, awaiting your voice. Arouse this mortal tale once again.

The Falling Reign

He found himself on the same path towards the mountains.
The scattered, fading footprints of Truth left him breathless,
scrambling to catch a glimpse of her just figure,
like desperate prey running towards its own kill.
Droplets fled from his spectacles as he wiped his face.
Lightning struck the peak, following a deafening roar.
His clothes clung to his skin like honey fresh from the comb, wet and thick.

 

An end to this heat is long overdue, he pondered to himself
as the sweat gathered on his forehead once more.

The crowd was anxious for his return, plump fingers twitched as he made
his way towards the dimly lit table in the farthest corner,
already lined with paper and pens.
Shaking his dusty coat, he hung it upon the back of his seat,
signaling the beginning of the night, the same weary routine.

An old man was first. Shaking, he sat across the table,
as every patron that night continued to sit.
On his heels was a young girl, barely having reached womanhood,
her posture screamed she knew what men are made of.
Behind her, a scrawny boy, pimple faced and disproportionate.
His request was sweet but the paper was folded all the same.

Dusk blended into darkness, everyone having been served a while ago.
The clamouring of a dull bell
followed by heavy boots stiffened the bartender’s back.
Patrons had ceased to traffick the dimly lit booth,
an ambiance oblivious to any unease was preserved in the farthest corner.

Darkness dwindled, a brush of lighter grey
crept up the horizon, kissing the bottom of the windowsill.
Shoving himself in the seat, the politician made the table
creak, all while flashing a straight, white smile.
(Now would be the appropriate time to note his hair,
lined perfectly with the teeth of a comb, and how his thick,
expensive suit wafted a fine scent throughout the entire room.)

Had previous visitors witnessed his stay,
they would be mortified at his careless tone and
thoughtless ramblings of his ride to their pub, which

 

was quite dry and sent him into several coughing fits.
He laughed to fill the silence, eventually calming himself
by taking a long breath. He began,

"Yeah... they said you wasn't a big talker. I ain't never cared til I seen how
persuasive you is. I read Christine Highmount's lil piece and
wooo-OOO! You got me convinced to drop everythang and
tend tuh all those sickin’ out in the valley."
His jovial tune faded on every syllable.
"You's also had every citizen in our good mountainside
tending to all them infected. We’s could’ve had a see-ray-us problem, mister.
But! I seen what you is. I seen what you could do with that pen.
Women and men bawled at your paper. I thunk to myself, a business
opportunity like this ain’t come often, do it?"
The pen-bearer looked on all the same.

The rambling continued, greased hair unwavering,
yet not as immobile as the deep eyes of his counterpart,
who one might suggest gathered a twinkle of the faintest variety.
At the close of the mayor’s speech, he made his request.
Like a man who exists beyond time, the pen-bearer pulled
a long cigar from his bag and lit it carefully.

Leaned back, cigar in hand, setting his pen against the
delicate paper sleeping before him. Soon he would awaken it.
With a slow, dreary voice he replied,

“She has eluded me for far longer than you have been elected over
my mountainside. I longed for her when the soil was fresh and fertile from
divine flooding in the valley. What you ask for cannot be given.”
A raised voice, the slam of a fist, and an impractical threat
nearly made the bartender faint but failed to stir the slumbering paper.

 

Nevertheless, the mayor received his poem the morning the drought ended.
Billowing clouds swiftly rolled towards the summit of his mountainside,
won by cooing to fair people that war was a distant rumor,
allusive and mythical like the woman seen floating among the trees
since their ancestors made a home in the unforgiving rock.
He grabbed the enveloped piece, unaware his paper was folded unconventionally,
and hastily departed for the publications office, pleased and oblivious.

Slow, creeping fog gave way to an easy drizzle of rain,
stinging every creature in surprise at its cold wetness.
Indistinct patter wasted no time swelling into a monstrous hammering,
faintly resembling an urgency of caution, demanding all to
stare at the grey sky with open mouths, faces bared to the unrelenting element.

Rain poured mercilessly from heaven as an unsuccessful attempt
to fulfill the rotting holes of unanswered questions.
Farmers wasted no mourning on their swallowed crops,
barely having a moment to blink in the face of their drowning profit.
They shouted at the courthouse, used tractor lights to illuminate windows
and fallen logs from their land as battering rams on the old hickory doors.

The mayor was dead by nightfall the day the drought ended,
hung from a tree on the mountainside he loved to rob.

And he who wrote those troubles away disappeared to become as fabled
as the wispy lips they longed to kiss with their pen.
Men took up his old chase, craving her breasts,
trying to reside in the nape of her neck, untouched by calloused hands.

Trembling, humid air was swept away by the dismal autumn breeze.
Anguished by the torrential realities approaching, they who walked
the exhausted dirt could not find comfort in the soft, drooping cover of the forests.
Only the eerie beckoning beyond the mortal plane of fear

would consolidate their cavernous trenches of desire.

 

Carolyn Harness - "Solitary Confinement"

Solitary Confinement

    The night sky was overwhelming. I understood stars are massive fiery gas balls but I never felt the unending vastness they offered for consideration, a beautiful testament to our place in the universe. How lucky I was to be oblivious of it so I couldn’t mourn its absence in the cellar.
    Tearing my gaze from the sky, I began my trek again. Thick ears of corn scratched my arms and legs. Unbothered by the stinging cuts, the smell of blood was diluted in fresh air. Stench and dirt was well ingrained into my pores and my skin must have had a sickly tone as I hadn’t seen the sun for so long. Even at the moment of my freedom, twilight bloomed all around me.
    Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice the soft rustling of corn husks, startled by the fierce passing of vehicles. I plundered on, unaware I would soon find myself running through the edge of the field and into traffic, stumbling so close behind a passing car I could taste the exhaust on my tongue.
    Collapsing, I witnessed the skew of oncoming headlights trying not to crush my sunken body. A woman rushed from the driver side towards me. Her seat belt fell in slow motion along with the door as it swung out harshly and then trembled back and forth.
    “Oh my god, are you okay swee-,” was all I heard before I submersed in the blackness of my eyelids.

****

    Groggier than ever, I awoke in a sterile room. Perhaps trying to avoid the stereotype, the walls were a pastel yellow, complimenting the pink curtains well. Sunshine cascaded from the sheer fabric covering a window on my left side, signaling I missed my first sun rise. The coarse sheets, however, failed to present any notion of comfort.
Several beeps and low stirrings caught my attention. Odd machines sat awkwardly next to me. I followed the tubings back and forth, a few to the wall, and one to my forearm. My pulse quickened to think what could be injected in me this time.
“Calm down, it’s just fluids.”
Whipping my head to the right, a man sat in a chair behind my peripheral view. Tall and young, his brown hair curled once neatly on his hairline. A mole on his upper lip danced as he spoke.
“I’m with the local police department. Name’s Deputy Lenor. Doctor says you were incredibly malnourished and abused.” He stopped to allow me a moment to digest the diagnosis.
    After leaning forward to examine the machines, he pulled his chair farther forward so we could look at one another comfortably. “I consider myself a helpful person,” he offered as the friction made the floor squeak, “so when a kid comes barreling into traffic from the largest cornfield in the whole goddamn country, looking like utter death, I wonder what the hell happened to her.” The back of the chair faced the door and he sat with a leg on either side.
    Watching his casual demeanor, I smiled. It struck me odd how he comfortably draped himself about. Confused by my expression, his brows furrowed as the rest of his face fell into solemn contemplation. The situation shouldn’t be funny.
    “Do you speak English?”
    I considered his question and shook my head for no.
    “But you understand me,” he pressed.
    I nodded yes.
    “So you don’t speak English... Do you speak at all? Español?”
    No.
“Can you write?”
Yes, yes, y-!
    “Alright, slow your roll. Before I give you anything, I need you to answer honestly. Do you understand?”
    I agreed.
    Swiftly, he pulled a legal pad and ballpoint pen from a bag I couldn’t see. Giving me a long look, he handed me both.
    Several easy questions later, I thought he’d be thrilled with my compliance.
    “Whew, okay,” he commented with a sorrowful face. “This one might be harder... Answer it the best you can.” I had caught on that I was supposed to be hesitant but I had waited so long to be found. Carefully he asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”
    His eyes were fixed on the broken, bruised patches of skin all the way around my wrists, up and down my arms, and along my face. I focused hard on making my fingers form an explanation.
    Not a what. A who.
    Looking up from my note he asked for clarification. Taking back the pad, I wrote with a steady hand.
    “Someone with... four arms,” he repeated slowly after I passed the pad again.
    Yes. Four arms and no face.
    “Did they have a name?”
    How do I put a name to the grandparents who say they love me but don’t show it, the boyfriend that shows it but refuses to say it, and the father I cannot cure with all the love in the world? Who names-
I lost myself in the horror but the door creaked open suddenly to reveal a woman in a police uniform. She motioned for him to join her in the corner.
    “Please tell me you haven’t bought a single thing she’s selling!” She didn’t seem to mind I was present so I adjusted myself on the bed to watch the sunshine from the window, tossing the notepad to my thigh.
    “What are you getting at, Liz,” he responded tiredly.
    “We found a cellar a few miles from the road she wandered into. Looked like someone had been squattin’ there for months. Not multiple people though. Not a prisoner,” she spat. “One person. It was like a room from those horror movies! The little freak scratched nonsense all o’er the place. I th-,” and with that I stopped following, disappointed my work was nonsense again-still an attribute of the insanity.

Carolyn Harness - "The Redhead Around the Corner"

The Redhead Around the Corner

I love my freckles because I have to. They’re angel kisses on skin often burned by the sun. The sunburns always look sickly with pale skin. I hate my pale skin like my mom hates her rosy cheeks, flushed with rosacea. My mom loves cranberry sauce, vibrantly dark like the scarlet hair color I moisturized my scalp with when I was fifteen. Fifteen was hard because I wondered if blood vessels would splatter as nice as the ink pen in my diary after he got bored of me. My diary is a field journal, more observations than pain. I record the glaze in my aunt’s eyes when the laughter died in her dressing room and the surprised look on her face as accusations fell from her own lips. It wasn’t what I expected on a wedding day but the term “Junior Bridesmaid” was made up for my benefit so I stayed quiet. When that same silence breaks the furniture, I can’t tell if my grandfather is sad or content. He would lovingly cook us breakfast almost every morning we visited but some days I slept in, lured by dreams driving farther away than Alabama. Fear ignites goosebumps on my arms but I’m not sure if I’m more scared of going ninety miles per hour on the interstate or never leaving. Sitting in my bedroom, the warm tones contrast too much with the frost clinging to my eyebrows and fine mist drifting from my ears that melts like crushed ice on the hot sidewalk. Winter in Southern Illinois is tragic. The snow never sticks so the bleak sky flattens itself against the muddy remains of corn fields. HGTV would be appalled. Fortunately, I have a very clear idea of how I wish to decorate my dorm room. Something along the lines of calm blues with subtle white accents. I wonder if she would like it. Would she favor the odds and ends of my endeavors? Most of the time, I just believe she would. I stare at the picture of her stuck on my mirror and ask that she put in a good word with whatever mighty hands are shaping this pathetic world we dance on. Many days I trudge, selfishly grumbling over passing whims. It’s easy to trudge pleasantly in Alabama, sipping on sweet tea in simmering heat. My lazy pirouette falls short on the carpeted staircase of my grandfather’s house, leading me to scrape my leg. The sting is grotesque. Rounding the corner, I expect her to be in the kitchen, ready to tend to the bleeding shins and crocodile tears of her grandchildren. Her hair would make me envious, beautiful and soft like the voice my mother uses to sing lullabies. But that redhead is gone and I’ve forgotten again that her grave is too close to me and too far away from home. Home was never Kansas, Dorothy, it was your family. That’s why all the characters you dreamt were mirages of the people you knew. Yet I can’t quite decipher why Hollywood exchanged your silver shoes for red, picturesque as the pickup truck toting a snow kissed evergreen, my favorite holiday scene. In the glow of LED lights hugging our artificial tree, I can almost hear the lullaby she would have been singing to my sister, soothing us both to sleep.

 

Carolyn Harness-"When the Fire Ignited"

American men are loud, Darek thought as he listened to their boisterous ramblings from a distance, longing to add his own hearty laughs. He wondered how such jovial men could be soldiers, stationed on the freezing streets of his city.
    
The towering buildings around him were weathered by the sharp consonants of the language and stained with the black smoke that seemed to hang just outside the windows, creating a mirage of harrowing age in a lively place. Since the rise of the wall, Darek noticed the eyes of passing strangers were cast downward, whispering their conversations at their feet instead of towards each other. Long, spiralling barbed wire that built itself into a strong myriad of brick, wood, and steel scraps was only strengthened by the glaze of their gaze. However, the heavy barricade crumbled underneath the weight of lovers who leaned over to share one more kiss.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he anticipated being relieved of his shift, familiar with the tense standoff underway between two intimidating forces he’d rather not consider any longer. Each day was hazy as the smog hung lifelessly in the air, as bored as Darek.

Walking to and from his post may have been his favorite part of every day. Fran Zimmer’s children called out to him like always to play a few rounds of an endless kick-back-and-forth. The ancient Hans Bauer never hesitated to offer him a smoke accompanied with an hour of small talk, his thick accent even Darek had trouble fully understanding. Through the entire mile of winding streets to his front door, Darek was met with sweet young women batting delicate lashes, although they couldn’t create quite enough momentum to catch his eye for longer than a few seconds.

Stumbling up the front steps of his home, he thumped his boots against the post, shaking the sticky snow off his coat and hat, ruffling his dark hair so it swept messily against his forehead, sticking straight up in several spots around his ears. Gently, he pushed the door open, attempting to sneak across the creaky kitchen floorboards and frighten the large woman whistling pleasantly at the sink. Rushing behind her suddenly and squeezing her shoulders with a loud greeting, the woman jumped several inches and let out a string of dirty exclamations, setting Darek’s cheeks into a wide smile. She turned to scold him as if he were no different than the children playing in the streets.

“Sohn einer hündin! Don’t you know to be kind to your mother?!”

“Well, I am only der hurensohn, as you said.”

As he pulled her into a bear hug, he reached behind her and grabbed a slice of the soft potatoes she had just taken off the stove. Pulling away, she grinned at his starchy smile and squeezed the tip of his nose lovingly. A young man in a German uniform, Darek was easily confused to be several rankings higher than he was due to his tall stance. His broad shoulders sent girls into crazed fantasies of wedding bells and his large hands impressed every man he greeted. Yet if you asked his mutter, she would laugh heartily with her beefy hands entangled in her flour splattered apron and tell you his best feature is his strong German nose; large and bulbous. Dominating his face, she would coo, it ages his softer features as if it were the finest beer in the festival.

At the table, he sat with his mutter and vater. His vater had been ill with many aches for several years but failed to lose his German appetite. Sausage and cabbage sat in black pot on the stove accompanied by a large bowl of soft potatoes sitting in the middle of their table. A visitor who sat at the table with them would have only heard the clink of glasses and scrape of forks shoveling food from their bowls. After many comfortable minutes of silence, his father spoke up.
“Rebkah, stopped at the home this morning when you were at the store, Marie.”

“What did she need, dear,” his mother asked as she gave herself another helping of cabbage.

“She was looking for Darek,” he stated, leaning back in his seat, “Would you care to tell you mother why she came around, Darek?”

“I can not fathom why she’d be around, papa,” Darek stifled a grin as he pictured his stiff father awkwardly stuck at the threshold with Rebekah Stein, “Though if you had not answered her knocks, she would have made conversation with the door.”

“Hmmm, she seemed to think that you were interested in marriage,” he grunted.

Choking on his potatoes, his mother let out a wild laugh. As he managed to take a drink, fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to shriek in amusement. She fanned her rosy cheeks to calm herself down.

“Oh, my dear, she must have had the wrong house,” she giggled.

“Nein, she was here for our Darek.”

Reaching across the table to cover Darek’s knuckles with her palms, she began somberly, “My love, I know I press marriage on you and often groan of my wants for chubby enkelkinder feet running around this home and eating my sweets,” her hand tightened on his and her voice trembled in humor, “But if you think I will let you marry Rebekah Stein then …” She once again burst into a great fit of pure amusement.

His father looked on at the scene before him and mumbled along at such a ridiculous idea. Letting Marie calm down, he continued.

“When are you going to get serious with a woman? Actually, serious. No leading them to destinations you will never reach together but committing.”

“Papa, I am young-,” Darek struggled to begin before he was interrupted.
“And foolish, do not forget foolish,” his father added.

“Ah! This is silly! You were the same way before you met me, Alber,” she scolded while gathering their dishes, “An arrogant arschloch like our son.”

*   *   *   *

Sitting with the American soldiers was a breathe of fresh air after breakfast with his parents that morning. His father lectured Darek that his strong muscles will not last long to woo any woman he pleases and his mother persisted if it mattered so much then he shouldn’t be marrying at all. It was a long fight, exhausting Darek without having to say a word.

However, American men are also loud, both in volume and personality. Even the shy soldiers presented themselves in exaggerated manners. Much of the morning was spent just behind the sandbags of the checkpoint, sitting, watching, and waiting to be needed. The men kept themselves entertained by sharing stories of their American wives.

“By God, she’s fan-tas-tic! Every night I came home tuh a hot meal and sometimes she ain’t had no underwear on as dessert!” The men hollered, slapping their knees, and Darek would grin along with them, the tips of his ears pink to hear them talk about women like the old goons at Oktoberfest.

“Well,” a man with a burly mustache chimed in, reminding Darek of a strongman from a circus, “Most of you know my Darla. She has the figure of a chilled Coca-Cola on a sweet, sweet summer day.” With that he drew out a picture from his wallet, flashing a photo of Darla pinned up against an expensive car, wearing tight shorts and a bikini top, fitting her slim figure well. “And those long legs... It’s, uh, too bad we over here and not in the arms of these girls, eh boys?” The strongman sunk underneath his uniform as if it suddenly weighed one hundred more pounds.

“Thank the goddamn commies for that, Earl.”

“Say, what do ya think of all this mess, son,” the strongman asked, nudging Darek, “You’re mighty quiet.”

Mustering up his best English, Darek responded, “War is between government. People kiss and shout over wall, separate from family. Big mess.”

    One of the soldiers laughed abruptly, shocking Darek with its harshness. The man lit a cigarette, still chuckling and shaking his head at the young German.

    “God, kid, you really are stupid,” he muttered plainly.

    “Eh- huh?”

    “You know what I think of you? Bullshit. You understand that, boy?” He didn’t wait for a response to continue. “My uncles fought your Fuhrer’s armies. Probably some of your uncles, right? America knows what you did to those poor jews. Took ‘em from their homes, stripped ‘em of their shoes, wedding rings. Pack ‘em into chambers, ain’t that right?”

    Had Darek not been apart of the military for nearly two years, he might have wept at the accusations. “Ich bin kein Nazi,” he spat in somber retaliation. I am not a Nazi.

Slamming Darek against the wooden boards by his collar, the unnamed man growled, “What did you say to me, faggot?! I’ll kill you!” He released Darek’s collar and landed a solid punch to his chin. Two men pulled the crazed soldier off of the young German.

Darek scrambled to get up quickly and pat the dirt off his uniform. Unlike the passing people in the street, the American soldiers stared. Embarrassed, he tried to scoot past them all, sullen such a promising morning ended with his shame.
“Hold up,” a hand gently pressed against his chest. A short man with thick framed glasses looked at him apologetically. “Jason is an ass. We rarely get Germans assigned to our checkpoint anyways. And, as you could have guessed, it’s getting dry sitting around waiting for a fight. Do you have a moment or are you still set on storming out like a pussy,” he joked in a lighter tone as he turned away from Darek. “We’re going inside, gentlemen. Anyone need anything from Lesa?”

“A kiss!” Darek didn’t understand the joke as the Americans hollered again.

“Alright, alright. See you bastards in a minute.” Taking his hand off of Darek’s elbow, he took the lead through the small doorway they had sat outside. As the short man’s glasses began to grow hazy from the heat, he whispered an introduction followed by an explanation, “I think you need a minute to cool off. Won’t do anyone good for you to head back to your commanding officer in a fuss.”

Inside was a warm, dimly lit office. Papers were thrown all along a counter, resembling the chaos that was Darek’s hair. A faint bustling could be heard from behind several book shelves that made the large room feel cramped.
“Hey Lesa! Put our guest to work, will ya?” He flashed Darek a smile, patted his back firmly, and exited through the same door they just entered from.

An exasperated sigh fell heavily on Darek’s ears as a high stack of binders made it’s way to where he was standing. He stood still, unsure of his orders now. The binders wobbled but never fell as she set them firmly on the office desks on his left side.

The woman revealed beneath the stack did not resemble the soldier’s description of American women. She was a foot shorter than him in a U.S. Army uniform, neatly pressed even as the day began to reach the afternoon. He mistook her grey eyes as blue and her curls had slumped, sending short, frizzy pieces to frame her pale, freckled cheeks. Examining him with far less interest, her eyebrows furrowed.

The longer Darek stared, the more he found him restraining himself to check if her hands were as soft as they looked, probably miniscule compared to his own long fingers. Interrupting his quickening train of thought, she broke the silence.
“So who heckled you?” He closed his mouth, not having realized he was gaping.

“Er-I not understand,” he fumbled.

“Oh for godsake, Bill doesn’t bring ‘em in for nothing. Who did you piss off? Offend? Make angry?” Her words were crisp and condescending but he devoured it, knowing none of the German girls on his street would have ever spoke to him like that.

“Angry American think Germans are Nazis.”

“Well, are you a Nazi,” she asked casually, if it were just a passing phrase.

Darek scoffed, becoming heated. “Is American women rude like the men?”

Shocked at his answer, she took another step closer to him, just a few inches away from being able to reach out and touch his chest. He felt sweat bead on his back despite the snow that piled right outside.

She moved around him just as swift as she approached, gathering more folders and papers to stack on the desks. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and moved to help her. Watching her small feet elegantly maneuver around the room, chuckling at the idea of comparing her to a famous Russian ballerina, comical because of the obvious physical and political differences.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Your words harsh. Your walk delicate like-”

“A ballerina? I work with those soldiers out there everyday. You have to be wittier than this, … um, I didn’t catch your name earlier…,” she offered.

“Darek Yeauer.”

“Yay-her?”

“Nein. Yeauer.”

“Alright. Darek, then.”

Before he could glance down at her smirk, perhaps coy enough to start something Darek’s parents would approve of, the walls shook and dust fell from the rafters, turning the room into a haze. From his shift in balance, Darek imagined an earthquake tearing through Germany, ripping a cavernous border along the oen already constructed. He motioned to cover Lesa but the walls stilled just as he reached to cover her. Pushing his arm down, she turned around without fright.
Confused, he followed her rush out the door. Immediately, his heart broke. Smoke billowed from their right. His mind struggled to keep up when it struck him, the Wall.

“What hap-,”

“A bomb, you shithead! Don’t you kn-,” then her voice and body were swallowed by the black fog. The screams were a scattering of puzzle pieces, too alike to distinguish. Nearly noon,
Submerging himself in the smoke, he lost his sense of sight in the thick air that groped his airway. He was pushed to side by a group of pedestrians, falling backwards onto a pile of rough edges. He yanked his hand away from a torso peeking from the rubble. Pulling himself to his feet, he headed in no certain direction, not knowing who or what to look for.

Then, that infamous cadence sounded on his left. The bitter gun fire made his ears ring but he was grateful. Coming to his senses, he dragged his feet towards the sound through the snow with only his handgun on his belt, eager to run to his death and leave the eternal fog.

*   *   *   *

“...honor those brave men who fought courageously to spread communism to the far reaches of the world, giv-,” Anna had already heard every word before from the previous remembrance ceremonies. But then again, she never expected much from the Duke. “-this year of two thousand twenty-one! The sixtieth anniversary of the Soviet rise of power!”

Turning away from the monitor, she looked at the extent of the room. Perhaps, it had once been a library or church with it's high ceiling and stark walls. Now it was just a large room used to house the cellmates of those who defied the Soviet government.

Bodies shuffled all around her, each person bored and agitated by the Duke's bland claims. She could see the white hair of Darek some rows ahead of her, sitting in his rusty wheelchair. Pushing the crowd around her, she made her way to him.

"Say, what was it like in the free world," she asked crouching down to his level.

"Humph," he grunted, "I can barely recall. It was all a fog."

Paige Heinrich-"The Fruit"

A cool gray mist taints the morning with a feeling of despair, and two bilious figures drag out of its embrace. They hobble forward, restlessly, toward a marble structure in the mist’s wake. A heavy door rests in front of them, glistening with gold and silver moldings. No act is done, no word is said, yet the door glides open in invitation. Their eyes gloss over the already present crowd sitting in nervous bundles of themselves on long ivory pews. Slews of abhorrent men and women hunch over, chewing nails, shaking sporadically, and rocking themselves like juveniles. Their anxiety is contagious. The two men, now tapping their fingers, take their seats. They sit next to a disfigured woman adorned in robes of every color. She looks up, chanting under her breath, and shrivels to the side.

Large bells chime their sickeningly sweet chorus above and a sudden calm washes over the crowd. A door at the front of the wide room, identical to the first, swings open to reveal a small man dressed in long white robes. He walks with purpose towards a marble columned altar sitting at the front of the pews. His feet stop in front, and he reaches into his silken sleeve. From this, his hand reveals a glistening scarlet apple which he places gently on the platform. A moment passes, and the man retreats to the door in which he entered.

This new image holds perfection. This fruit, red as a stream of blood and staining the pure white stone underneath, evokes an emotion deep inside the souls of the weary people present. A slow fire begins to burn in the pits of their deepest self. The two men glance at each other through the corners of their eye, but only for a second as their attention is soon encaptured by the picture in front of them. The visual tension returns and unease fills the room once again. Feet start to shuffle and murmurs crescendo into shouts. A woman in the back begins shaking violently and cries spring out around her. Chaos ensues as person after person falls victim of this frightening stupor.

Yet amidst the mayhem, the final man to have entered the room arises slowly from his seat on the pew. The elaborate woman next to him moans in fear and grasps onto his arm. Her grip of steel does nothing to stop him as a divine string pulls him forward, toward the center of the room. Towards the marble altar, and the lustful fruit. All his muscles tense in frightened restraint. His teeth grit together like a symphony of rocks. But his foot takes another heavy leaden step forward. Step after step he trudges on, trying to resist this pull yet allowing it all the same. He knows what is to come, and still, he marches onward.

A sudden quiet jolts the man from his trance and he realises in fright that he is overlooking the crowd, planted directly in front of the altar. There is no longer shaking or discord as all eyes are strained, bloodshot, and staring dead center at the apple. The man follows their gaze and slowly dips down to the fruit. A wet bead of sweat glides down it’s glossy, unblemished skin. He reaches out both hands, entranced by its dazzling beauty. His fingers shake, his lips tremble. Then, he grasps the apple in one swift motion. Sharp inhales sound as each person holds their breath. Not a word is spoken, nor sound created, as the man lifts the fruit to his mangled face. His heart races in dangerous proportion yet his hands do not halt their journey. 

Kaleigh Fisher-"The Corner Cafe"

The Corner Cafe

One month. Four weeks. Thirty-one days.

I am going to die.

Those words from my doctor cut through me, they impaled me, they sickened me. I found it hard to breathe, the air thick, suffocating. He stared back at me with a blank expression, he must be used to this. I gave him a nod, as I looked down, avoiding his non-concerned eyes. The room spun around me, I floundered to remain standing. I pressed my body on the old hospital bed behind me. My ears buzzed.

 “I will do everything I can, Theodore,” he told me, carefully placing his hand on my shoulder to keep me steady. I looked up at him, his face contorted and blurry. “but as of now I want you to focus on spending time with loved ones and living the most out of the time you have. We will see each other again in two weeks. I’ll walk you out.”

 He opened the door for me, I followed. My thoughts swam, struggling to grasp reasoning. What loved ones? I asked myself, almost laughing out loud.

The gloom of Wednesday haunted me as I walked out to my car. The clouds have seemed to trail after me everywhere I went, grumbling overhead.

I took the long route home, trying not to think about what Doctor Sinclair had told me. Living the most out of the time you have. Those words beat into me, striking me with fear. I wasn’t ready to die. Once my head started spinning, I decided to find my way home.

 I walked up the porch steps, gripping onto my cane tightly. The pain was getting worse. I shook my head at myself, I was twenty-one years old with the body of an old, sick man. The cool November air bit at my cheeks as it blew around the colorless leaves in the yard. I was relieved to make it inside and plop down in that comfy recliner. I sighed as I closed my eyes, the sharp pains increased. The dark room comforted me and the quiet soothed my pounding head. The conversation with Doctor Sinclair kept resurfacing in my thoughts, disturbing me, and abandoning me with an uneasy, bilious sensation.

I want you to focus on spending time with loved ones. My stomach revolted at the ugly truth, I was alone and it was all my fault.

 I still see his face in my nightmares. His mangy scruff of a beard, his tattered work clothes reeking of alcohol. His wicked forced smile enclosed by his abusive, cracked lips. That look he would always give me, the look of disappointment in his pure black, glossy eyes. The face of the drunk, that I called my father.

 I never understood how my mother could have loved a man like him. She had a heart of pure gold, she didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve me.

“Theo,” she would tell me, her voice full of hope. “You are so smart, you’re going to go so far. I want you to get out of Edgemont and leave this worthless town, you are much better than what it has to offer. I want you to be successful.” And I listened.

My final day in Edgemont will be stamped in my memory forevermore. My mother assisted me in shoving all my belongings into the trunk of my old beat up car. When we were finished she smiled at me, beaming with pride. She pulled me into a tight hug.

“I love you, Theodore,” she said into my shoulder, her muffled voice quivering with her love. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

She released her death grip around me, and wiped away her tears.

“I love you too, mom,” I said. “I’ll call you.” I got into the car and looked at her one more time. She waved at me, I waved back, and put the car in reverse.

That was the last time I saw her.

The next day, I received a phone call with the most devastating news that my mother had been in a car wreck, and my drunken father was the driver. After three years, the pain of missing her has only increased, especially now with my brain tumor.

 I quickly fumble for the TV remote, in hopes that it will distract me from my gnawing memories that ate me alive. The bright light hits my eyes, I squint as they refocus. “The Corner Cafe in Edgemont, South Dakota is closing after twenty-two years of service . . .”

 I batted my eyes in disbelief. The Corner Cafe was my escape place before I left for school. It never failed to comfort me on days when I needed it. William, the owner, was the father figure that I never had, but needed. He always knew what to say. I couldn’t leave this world without hearing his wise words one last time. I decided to book the next bus to Edgemont the next morning.

I woke up in the darkness, the eeriness of early morning creeping in through my bedroom window. It’s not getting any easier, I thought to myself as I reached for the cane resting on my nightstand. I slowly got to my feet and dressed myself for the long ride ahead.

“Hello, sir,” the bus driver greeted as I pushed myself up the steps leading to the bus. He noticed I was struggling. “Would you like help?”

 “No,” I quickly assured him with a stern voice. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He gave me a nod, the pity showing through his transparent eyes. “Have you been to Edgemont before?”

“Yeah . . .” I nodded. “I lived there.

 The bus driver sat down in his seat, as I did the same and watched the new travelers find theirs.

The bus hissed as it released it’s brakes and started with a jolt. I gripped onto my cane. I watched outside as we drove on those familiar roads, a feeling of uncertainty in my stomach. I took in a deep breath. Sometimes I wished that I had someone to talk to, just about life and what’s been going on for the past six months and how my tumor has gotten worse. No one knows how extreme it is except for my doctor and me. I didn’t want people to feel pity for me.

 I had one less day left to live, I thought to myself. My heart pounded in my ears like a drum, slowly losing it’s rhythm. My throat tightened, and my breath quickened. I tried calming myself, but the fear was still clenched, balled in knots in my gut. I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep.

“You have reached your destination,” the bus driver’s voice boomed through the high pitched intercom, startling me. “Edgemont, South Dakota.” I looked out, we were parked one block away from the cafe. As everyone filed down the aisle of the bus, I kept my head low and waited. I didn’t want to slow them down. As the last man hopped off the bus, I stood with a groan.

“Thanks,” I said, handing him a couple dollars out of generosity.

 He nodded with a smile, “Have a great time, sir.”

 I hobbled past him, gazing down at the ground, keeping my eyes low, in case people would notice me. My head battered.

 In a few more steps, I stood before The Corner Cafe. It hadn’t changed much, the old rusty sign stared back at me. I gripped onto the cool handle and pulled the door open.

 It was all familiar. The smell of warm, freshly brewed coffee, the faint mumble of classical music coming through the small corner speakers and the friendly smile of a man that felt like home. The neatly swept hardwood floor beneath me hadn’t changed, nor had the red painted walls. The tables were spread out like they always had been, the chairs tucked tidily underneath them. A neon red sign buzzed on the wall above the counter, spelling out THE CORNER CAFE. Hooks were placed beneath it, holding cream colored coffee mugs.

 “Hello, old friend,” the man’s eyes beamed. “What are you doing in ol Edgemont?”

  I swallowed and shook my throbbing head. “I heard about the cafe,” I muttered softly, walking toward him. “I thought I would stop by.”

 William smiled at me with a toothy grin, wrinkles spread across his face. “I’ve missed you, Theo,” he said, his eyes welled with tears. “How are you?”

  I clamped my hand around my cane to keep me steady. I looked down at the floor, I shook my pulsing head. I couldn’t make out words.

 He drew in a quick breath, he knew that something was wrong, he also knew that I wouldn’t tell him. “I’ll get your coffee ready,” he sighed. I sat down.

 That old booth hadn’t changed. I had sat in this very place for years, watching out the window as I sipped on the smooth coffee. The sun had finally rose into the morning sky, people were walking down the streets. They scattered the street like leaves this time of year. They walked to catch the bus or they walked just to enjoy the chilly morning. This town was always cheerful, something that I never was. Maybe that is why I never fit in.

 A careful, steady hand, placed a coffee cup in front of me. I looked up at William, he licked his lips, as a way of finding words to say to me. “Theo,” he spoke, his voice boomed into my ears, shaking me. “I know you’re hurting.”

I looked at the beautifully made coffee sitting in front of me. It swirled in circles, I stared at it, wishing it would give me words to say to William. “I’m fine,” I lied, I bypassed his eyes and darted mine out the window.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was beautiful, mesmerizing. The one that you look at and in one glance you want to know everything about them. I was interested. She was walking down that old cracked concrete, her heels clicking fast. I could hear them from a mile away. I watched her. She had beautiful brown hair that was swept back neatly into a low bun. She was determined, I could tell that about her, just by the way she maneuvered through the crowded streets.

“Theodore,” My head snapped back into reality I looked at William, his expression was stern. “What is going on?”

 I wiped my sweaty palms back and forth on my jeans. I shrugged my shoulders but I knew that he wasn’t going to believe me if I didn’t confess the truth. My attention was averted and it went back to that . . . woman. She was getting closer towards the cafe. Her expression was blank, which made her hard to read.

 “Theo. I’m being serious.” I looked back to him, his hands were reached out onto the cool table.

I nodded my pounding head. “I know, it’s just--”

 The door jingled. Heels clicked onto the hardwood floor. The woman walked inside. William got up from the seat and greeted her. Before he went back behind the counter, he turned to me. “We’re not finished.”

 She was even more alluring the closer she became. I couldn’t help but stare. She walked to the counter, her posture tall. She ordered a coffee, she moved her lips slow and soft. She was captivating.

William said something back to her as he handed her what she had ordered, she looked at me. My heart fluttered as her eyes met mine, I had never felt anything like it.

“Right, Theodore?” William asked, nodding his head.

 “Yeah . . .” I agreed, confused by what he said to her. The next thing I knew, she was sitting across from me.

Her eyes were a deep blue, the blue that you see in the ocean. I struggled for words.

 “Hi, it’s Theo . . . right?”

 “Uh . . . yeah,” I stammered. “Theodore.”

 “I like Theo,” she said, with a smile that made my heart stop. “Can I call you that?”

 I nodded. “Sure,” I smiled back at her, my cheeks flushing bright pink. My mom and William were the only ones that called me Theo and now her.

We talked for an hour at least, I never wanted to stop. Her name was Violet, it sounded like a beautiful orchestra to my ears whenever I said it aloud. After that morning, I found myself thinking about her every second of the day. I went back home that night, in hopes that I would see her again someday. I decided to book a bus for tomorrow morning also, just in case I would get to talk to her one more time. I had one less day to live.

 That next morning I listened to the birds chirp outside my window. I got up, my back stiff, but my heart was happy and hopeful. The morning air was light, I breathed it in and smiled. It is a great day to live.

 The bus ride wasn’t as long as it was the day before, it went by quickly because I was dreaming of Violet. She was flawless. I walked joyfully through the crowded streets with my head high, smiling at people that were in front of me and greeting them with “good morning.”

 When I got into the cafe, William was shocked to see me.

 “Good morning, Theo,” he said, with a friendly smile.

  “Good morning, William,” I said back.

 “You seem pretty upbeat this morning, did something happen?”

 I shook my head and I couldn’t help but smile. “No . . .” I started. “Well, kinda.”

 He leaned in closer to me from behind the old counter, he was all ears. I told him everything. I told him why I was there, and what was going on with me the past six months and about Violet. I was relieved after I got it all out.

 Once I was finished, William opened his mouth to speak. I heard the jingle of the door.

I turned to meet eyes with Violet. “Hello, Theo,” she said to me, with a kind smile.

“Hello, Violet,” I said back, the words fell out of my mouth.

 “I’ll get you two your coffee,” said William, with a sly wink.

My cheeks flushed as we sat down at the booth. We drank our coffee and watched people out the window, we talked about everything except for my tumor, I didn’t want her to feel pity for me. My head didn’t seem to hurt when I was with her.

 I continued to meet up with Violet every morning for two weeks. William offered me to stay at his house so I didn’t have to be alone, I was so thankful.

 I thought it all over as I sat in that hospital room, waiting for my doctor. Those past few weeks were the greatest weeks of my life, I thought to myself. I recalled my previous visit with Doctor Sinclair, Living the most out of the time you have. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had done just that, and I was satisfied with whatever he would tell me.

 Just then, Doctor Sinclair walked into the room swiftly. “Good afternoon, Theodore,” he said with a cheerful grin. “I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like to hear first?”
            “Bad news, please,” I replied, clenching onto my cane.

“We’re going to have to do surgery,” he said, solemnly. “But this is because the size of your tumor has miraculously decreased. We are very bewildered with your conditions. Although, your surgery must be as soon as possible, how do you feel about tomorrow?”

 Violet was the first thing to come to mind. I didn’t want to let her down. “It would be better if I could wait until the next day . . .”

 “Theodore,” he said. “It would be best if you did this as soon as possible.”

 “Tomorrow is fine,” I said back, my head pounded. I just hoped that Violet would understand. Maybe I would get to see her, I thought to myself, but I knew that would never happen. I helped myself off of that uncomfortable hospital bed and walked out of the room with my head low, throbbing.

 That next day, I sat in the cold white hospital room with sweaty palms. I couldn’t stop thinking about Violet, the clock ticked next to me, teasing me. I looked at it, it would be the same time that I would be at the coffee shop if I wasn’t here, I thought to myself. My head pulsed.

 The door handle turned, a nice lady peeked her head in. “Hello, Theodore,” she said.

 “Hi,” I said back, I wasn’t in the mood for a chit chat.

 “I just need you to lay back and relax for me . . .”

 And all the pain drifted off.

 I was at the coffee shop, and Violet stood before me with her usual coffee order. We talked, the pain throughout my body, hardly noticeable. There was something different about her though . . . she was wearing scrubs, blue scrubs that matched the color of her eyes. “Theo,” she said with happy, energetic eyes. “Theo,” she repeated, I looked at her confused, and then I heard it loud and clear.

 “Theo.”

My eyes slowly blinked open and focused to someone standing in front of me. It was a woman the first thing I noticed about her was her familiar blue eyes. I found myself swimming in them, in that breathtaking deep blue. They were beautiful, they captured me. She wore blue scrubs and a mask, once she realized I was awake she pulled it down.

I squinted my eyes to read the embroidered name on her shirt. Once I realized what it said, she handed me a coffee cup with THE CORNER CAFE logo printed on it. I looked at her again, my mind was blown.

“I missed you this morning Theo.”