Sober

It was a paper box that could have held a new router or portable clock radio. There was a wall of these boxes all the same size as if one size fits all: a sumo wrestler or ballerina. On the cover of his box was an envelope addressed to the Memorial Company (Levitt-Weinstein) and the Certificate of Cremation for Tamma, done up like a prize. Inside the envelope another card Permit No. 422 signed by the Crematory.

He didn’t want to open the box and didn’t want to deal with the contents until he had thought it through but then it was Tamma and he could imagine her saying: “what the hell is your problem…do this now I’m not staying on the floor in your shitty filthy car. Put me in the ocean.”

So he thought about where. Was there a board walk so the ashes wouldn’t blow back on the beach? Did it matter? Were there rules about this stuff? Should he wait until it was dark? Say a special prayer.

He ended up on the beach in Delray by a restaurant called Luna Rosa because she loved to go there and they had spent most of their Florida time in Delray. It was raining now and so he just grabbed the box and dashed to the water and sat down on the sand and opened the box. He pulled out the clear heavy plastic bag and dropped it in the sand between his legs.

The stuff inside (Tamma stuff) looked just like the sand but not as fine. It didn’t look like ashes.

And then there was this plastic brad holding the bag together that clearly required a tool to safely remove. He could imagine a frustrated mourner just heaving the bag directly in the water or tearing the bag and having the ashes blow everywhere. So he worked the tab up the bag using his fingers like a needle nose pliers and somehow got it off.

He put his hand in the bag and let the ashes fall through his fingers. Inside the bag was a metal coin stamped ABCO Crematory 30336. With the bag open he walked into the ocean up to about his waste. He forgot his wallet was still in his jeans. He let the ashes fall into kind of a milky cover like creamer in your coffee.

He was alone with her.

She was not drunk.

No rabbi, no body in a box, no family.

Only one mourner.

By

Richard Schwachter

Separation

The bright yellow candle flame flickered in its place, casting feeble rays if warmth upon the dirty walls of the underground cave, luminating the musty dust particles in the air… My heart palpitated in anxiety as seconds passed with mounting fear. Tom had never been this long out before.

Three years. Three long bitter years had I not stepped out of this cavern once, fearing that if I were to be seen by the dreaded Kempeitais, never will I ever have the chance to live the day, to feel the warmth of the bright sunlight wash over my face again.

War had turned our once beautiful and peaceful homeland into a battlefield, strewn with debris and corpses. The fighting had torn families apart and mine was of no exception. A happy family of four that had lived quietly in a small hut in Jurong was now forced to abandoned their home and hide for survival. My son, a brave fourteen-year-old child, was sacrificed in his bid to save the rest of the family. When the Japanese police had tried to capture us, he caused a diversion to go after him instead, a memory that always manages to bring heart-wrenching tears to my eyes.

Fidgeting nervously in my seat, my mind was forced to race through all the possible theories that could have held up my husband, each more dreadful and daunting than the last. He had tried to sneak out and gather food before, but never taking as long as this before.

“Mummy… where is daddy? I wonder what took him so long…” enquired my fifteen-year-old daughter, Sarah. Her face was a picture of worry against the dimly lit walls. I paused in my thoughts and told myself to relax. It seemed crucial to not stir up the fear that was slowly crawling into our hearts.

Just then, as if in response, a loud crunching sound was heard. Tom appeared in the doorway, clutching his ribs in apparent pain. Such a powerful wave of relief had swept though me that, for a moment, I felt light-headed. Without further ado, Sarah and I rushed forward to his aid.

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped at a better look at Tom. The warm glow that had flared inside me at the relief of his return was extinguished as something icy flooded the pit of my stomach. Tom was puckered up in pain and his face was drained of all colour. There was a gaping puncture wound at his sides and blood was trickling down fast, leaving a trail of bloody footprints and a dark pool where he rested. A little cry of horror slipped through Sarah before she could stop herself at the sight of her father. Tom collapsed into my arms. Warm blood seeped into my clothing.

“Honey… I’m so glad I could make it back… to see you again. The Japanese soldiers are fighting a losing battle. The war is won… we don’t have to … hide anymore… I’m sorry… I don’t think I have … much time… left…” Tom murmured. Streams of tears started to pour from my eyes. I had imagined this scenario, yet I was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and panic that seemed to burst through my stomach at the sound of the growing weak rasp of his voice.

With the last ounce of strength he possessed, Tom whispered into my ears “Live… well… ”

A feeling of emptiness gripped my heart as his hand slipped from my embrace...
Eyes blurred with tears, I understood perfectly. It was time to let go.

By Kathy Kitty

The Bus Stop

Its hard to look at the face of our better halves when they are not lying next to us as we wake up, when they are not there just yet. I feel strapped to my bed, unable to start up. Unreasonably tired after heavy idleness. Sometimes one finds it in himself to – shit! I’m late for work! Spring out of bed and go straight to the bathroom. Quick shower, quick shave, quick breakfast and quick brush. Run towards the bus before I – too late. See it passing by the other side of zebra. Next one will be here in five. No problem. I can relax now and light a one up, by the time I am done the bus will be here. I can never be bothered with music lately, too much of a headache in the mornings. Should probably get that checked out by a doctor. Can’t wait till four o’clock. It is far too early now, and I’m still going to be thirty minutes late, I’ve been going to work thirty minutes late for the last week or so.

A man comes to wait for the bus by my side, and I start hearing an intermittent buzz. He looks oddly similar to my father. He moves quickly to the other side of the road and then I swear that he tries to tell me something. The sound gets higher, must be some construction site behind me. My cigarette is half done, I look back up at the man and he is gone. But from his general direction comes a girl shouting out what might be my name, cannot hear over the annoying noise. It’s my girlfriend, with the gym bag under her arm; she crosses the street quite quickly and hands it to me. I try to speak to her over the noise of the machines “You, know, you didn’t have to come all the way here,” I have to end up screaming, “I can take care of these things myself, I don’t need to be cared after, I don’t need a mother.” Then she smiles that smile that I love so much and gives me a kiss, then she tries to unbuckle my pants but I shove her to the road the bus runs her over and I wake up, sweating, letting out a bland scream.

By Alonso H. Garrigues Muñoz

Comment from author:

'I'm a 21 year old Spaniard (though fluent in English) just now starting to publish my stories on the internet, I wrote this little 393 word story and just thought this site would be be great.'