Skip navigation

Rain pounded the double-paned glass window.
He waited for her to arrive, for the door chimes she’d made him for Christmas to softly sing sibilance to his ears as she cracked the door.

Worry, held back by a lifetime of patience, started to seep through his cracks. He whispered, “Chanel, it’s been three hours…” and watched the red numbers change again. “She’d call if things went south. She’d call.”

Four blocks. Only four blocks.

Her pulse thudded so hard she could feel it behind her ear…right where he would kiss her.
The thought of his lips pursed there gave her a kick as she stared forward at the next foot of asphalt she’d have to drag her body through. Those bastards who’d beat her had left her to die. They thought they had her good, breaking her back like true thugs, cowards who lived at the point of a blade and walked its edge every day. They’d brought a bat and hit her when she wasn’t looking, after she’d taken three of them down and was working on the other two. She questioned if her back was down for the count or just dazed and confused, like the first time she’d snuck a pull on that wicked brew her older sister got from a friend at school. What I’d give for a whiskey sour with a twist right now, she thought, and resolved to keep it moving.

“Those damn punk-asses. I’m coming, Buck.” Such words from a woman raised by a devout Quaker mother and a father hard as flint. I’d gladly eat soap today, Mom and Dad, she noted as she pressed on to her home, pushup-style. “Just like walkin’…one step at a time. Go…go…go….”


His hairs pricked up as he heard the noise. It was as if something was slithering through the muck outside, a big dog creeping around or maybe an opossum lost in the dumping rain. Curiosity and a need to douse the worry-flame within made him go to the door and look down the street to where the sound originated.

He saw the phantasm-shape crawling toward him a block away, unbidden memories of childhood fears he’d worked months to overcome lest being heckled by teen friends, till he saw it was her.

His love, broken, pulling herself through shards.
His other half, crushed, trying to get home to him in the middle of a monsoon.
His china doll, left to die, returning like a boomerang in slow motion to where she started.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: