Issue Six, Volume Three

 From the Desk of the Editor,

Greetings and welcome to Issue Six, Volume Three of Larks Fiction Magazine! We are excited to offer three pieces today from up-and-coming authors of the best independent literature today.

In news the editing team and I are busily returning emails and getting caught up. We are through to October now! If you are worried we might have overlooked your piece feel free to write us and we will get back with you.

Writer Jerry Guarino has published an anthology of flash fiction on Amazon. Some of the collected short stories appeared here on Larks first. Check it out on Amazon, Smashwords, and hispersonal site.

If you have not checked out our first Smashwords edition of Larks Monthly Review take a quick gander here!

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this issue.

Yours,

Daniel J. Pool

LFM Editor

"Duet"

By James Bambury

Ashley’s music made me feel like a failure. The weekend after I passed my grade 4 conservatory exam she summoned a flock of pigeons to the common yard of the townhouses with her autoharp.

The morning I learned to play Bach’s “Prelude and Fugue” she went outside with her washtub bass and chased away a thunderstorm.

I had just managed to play my first Chopin concerto when I heard a slide-whistle through the windows. Outside, a tiny sapling grew into a fully grown walnut tree.

I complained to my music teacher.

 “Why do you make me work so hard when the music doesn’t do anything?”

He just stared at me. Afterwards, I went over to Ashley’s house after my music lesson. She sat outside playing the tambourine.

 “I hate you.”

She stopped.

 “I thought you liked music. You’re always having lessons.”

 “But it doesn’t make a difference, does it?” I reached out and grabbed the side of her tambourine and tried to tug it from her hand. We pulled at either end of the tambourine and the instrument jangled. Notes and overtones rattled through the air, breaking windows and denting the siding of the nearby houses. Ashley fought back and the next burst of notes sent us spiraling into the air and over the rooftops. I looked across the sky and it was full of chords.

 “Ashley, are we making music?”

 “As a matter of fact, we are.”

The End

About the Author;

James Bambury writes from Brampton, Ontario.

JUST AN ORDINARY OLD MULE

William J. White

Some years ago while traveling through Tennessee as a ‘frazzle-tack’ salesman, I stopped along a wide street to look over a yard sale that was attended to by a small wiry-looking individual wearing bleached-out bib overalls, and a red flannel shirt, and who had set up his tables beneath a large raggedy tent.  While I browsed, he kept up a one-sided conversation about ‘good deals, great buys,’ and other honest-sounding transactions, to which I paid scant attention, because leaning against a scrubby and gnarled old tree, collecting its meager shade, was a very homely and offensive-looking mule.   And as he stood there, munching on something dark and juicy, some of which was seeping from his mouth, ignorance moved me to pity, and I stepped close to give him a friendly pat…

“Don’t worry, Sir,” said the little old man, as he approached me, “He don’t bite, but he does sometimes…”  Before he could say ‘spit,’ it was running warm and wet down my bare arm.

“Blasted darn mule!”  The old man cried out, jerking a soiled-appearing rag from his hip pocket, and rushing over to clean me up.  He wiped with one hand while offering me the other. “Sparks O’Dell, sir.  Glad to meet you, and I’m sorry about my mule.”  Looking at his animal, and shaking head slowly, he said, “I don’t usually give him his chaw before sundown…”

“You feed him tobacco?”

“Well, sir,” he explained, still dabbing at my arm, “I know I’ve started him on to a bad habit, but I had to reward him while I was teaching him to fetch sticks.”

Well, that was my introduction to a very colorful and later on, a dear friend, although I did find him to be remarkably adept at ‘truth adjusting’.  He even convinced me that-that mule was a very gallant and clever animal; that he had worked so hard that day that he was just too tired to lay down, and that was the reason that he was leaning against the tree.  Within the hour I had purchased many of the items laid out on his tables; leaving him my car keys so he could load up my car trunk–his suggestion– while I tried out the two-hundred-dollar mule for which I was to pay two hundred and fifty dollars as soon as I received the book ‘Twenty Marvelous Tricks You Can Teach Your Mule,‘ which would be mailed to me at a later date.

Now I am sure that most people out there are familiar with the breed of mule called a ‘left-hand’ mule, which is more descriptive than the term ‘flop-sided’ mule, which is more commonly used.  But it was at that time, news to me. It is, I later found out, a  mule that has been bred to have its left legs shorter than those of the right side, for pulling a plow along furrows threading to the left on steep hillsides, so the mule, plow and all, does not slide into a canyon. If one’s furrows wind around clock-wise, they would, I am sure, require a ‘right-hand’ mule. I suppose one could have either a ‘left-hand’, or a ‘right-hand’ mule, and just teach it to plow backwards.  Being that I’m a city dweller I wouldn’t know about such things. But it didn’t take me too long to notice that Spark’s old mule had a mental problem, because he kept veering to the left.  No matter how much ‘geeing’ and ‘hawing’, and even pleading that I threw out to him, he continued on his course; taking me back to the yard -sale place, and  almost delivering us to a crash-encounter with my own car speeding toward me.  How considerate of the old man, I thought, delivering my car and its cargo right to me. And that made it even more difficult for me to explain to him that I had no use for a mule that couldn’t plow a straight line.  He didn’t take it well… After a long hard look at me, I could see tears forming in his red-encircled eyes. “Mister, please buy my mule…”

 “Mr. O’Dell, sir,” I replied, with a catch in my voice. “That animal was to be a gift to my brother for his farm, so his boys wouldn’t have to pull his plow.  And he prides himself on his straight furrows…”  I tried my best to avoid them sad old eyes, but when his chin started to quiver, I was at a complete loss as what to say, so I just said nothing.  He turned and stumbled to my car, and unwrapping one of my treasures, he came back to me with the wrinkled paper. “You take him, sir, as a gift…trailer and all.  Free of charge”

 “Really, Mr. O’Dell,” I mumbled weakly. “What would I do with him, having a small yard like I do? And I’d be cleaning up his messes, all the time.”

While taking a short minute to bend his legs to a kneeling position, he explained to me that his mule would make me a fine companion, and that he was also housebroken.  After laying the paper flat on the ground, and smoothing out the wrinkles, he extended his arm out to me.

 “A little help, if you will, sir…”

Raising Mr.O’Dell to a standing position was like lifting an empty shirt and pants, but my mind didn’t stay with that thought because it was occupied with the mystery of the flattened newspaper.

“Look at that smile, sir,” he said, patting his animal on the side of its head.  “Have you ever seen a prettier sight?”

 “I don’t believe that I ever have, Mr. O’Dell” I replied, doing a little truth adjusting myself. The bristly snout actually was widened into what one might determine as a generous smile, but the two-inch long tobacco-stained teeth looked sort of… Well, if one has ever looked down into an un-flushed toilet, the picture I’m trying to draw should stay with them a long time.  But what occurred next was something that will have lodged itself into my memory for as long as I have one brain cell left.  Mr. O’Dell smiled up into those shiny black eyes, and that old mule started to align himself with the paper, and I was certain that he was going to read it to me. But no, he had other, more insidious plans in mind. He moved forward just enough to place his hind -quarters directly over last weeks’ news, and … surely I don’t need to make anymore pictures; except the one where old Sparks stepped over to pull gently on one long ear, causing the mule to wag his scruffy tail so rapidly, it looked like in no time at all, he would become air-borne.

 “You know, mister, “Sparks said slowly between sniffles, turning his tear-wet face to me “The kids intend to put me in a nursing home. What is going to happen to my old friend here?”

Years ago, when I was the minister of a small church, I gave up preaching in favor of kissing women, but I’ve never been able to shake loose my inordinate feel for people’s heart-aches, and I saw this little old man in front of me with tears cascading down one cheek, and dried tobacco juice on the other, and I knew there was only one right thing to do…

So, these days, if any of my visitors need to seek solace in the ‘little’ room, they will have the option of either soft paper on a roll, or newspaper laid out on the floor.

The End

About the Author;

William J. White graduated from high school in Cincinnati, Ohio, joined US Navy for four years during the Korean War, and worked for the City of Cincinnati until his retirement.  He and his wife and built their own home in Monticello, close to Lake Cumberland.

He has been writing short stories since January of 2010. His stories "Dubious Gifts From The Magic Shop", "Don't Mess With Lilly” (7/10/11), and "WisdomSits On A Park Bench" were all published by Larks Fiction Magazine.

Someone's Got to Do It

By Christopher Krull

The discipline of psychology must have something to say for Howard Klein. Ray wouldn’t allow himself to think his expertise had nothing to offer. He sat in his Volvo, waiting to exit the office park that housed his practice – ‘Dr. Raymond Miller, Therapist.’ Ray rubbed his head which throbbed with an all day headache that had only allowed time to pass painfully, tick-by-tock, while he listened to his patients detail their troubles to him in hour-long increments.

The light turned green. Ray thought again of Howard and his depression over banal matters of human existence. Howard’s brain seemed like a chemical that reacted adversely when mixed with life on Earth. “How can I help that?” thought Ray, “We were all put here. Didn’t ask.”

“I ride the train home every day and the people look so sad. I get on the metal coffin moving underground and everyone just stares at each other. My heart races,” Howard had said in his session.

Panic attacks, possible agoraphobia, even claustrophobia perhaps. Ray had diagnosed them all. These were common enough disorders but with Howard, Klonipin didn’t help, neither did Celexa or Fluoxetine. Somewhere along the way, Howard had cut some neural pathways in his brain that now must be deep as Martian canyons. No synthetic patch could fill them.

“Why do you think you have this reaction to riding the subway?” Ray had inquired during their session after Ray’s lunch hour during which Ray had thrown up more than he got down.

For Howard, a clear answer existed. “One day those people will be rotting. They hustle on and off the train and try to look busy like it’s not going to happen. We could all die in the next second, worried about what to wear to work tomorrow.”

Ray touched a black dial on his car stereo to silence a screaming advertisement and devoted all of his remaining mental capacity to how a man such as Howard could come to be – someone 30 years old with a job, education and good health, so distraught over everyday happenings.

“The people stink from work and they’re all tired and some are eating. The food they eat goes in their bodies and gets broken down by chemical enzymes and that night or the next day, it will just be dull shit in a toilet in some decaying apartment with bad plumbing.”

Ray did not question Howard’s use of public transportation; the rush hour traffic Ray found himself in made him grip down hard on the steering wheel with conscious, forceful brooding. A woman in a red Camaro ducked into a small opening in front of Ray forcing him to brake abruptly.

“Bitch,” Ray said, staring forward, using his already sore jaw muscles to grind his molars.

Ray refocused on what to do with Howard, it seemed to him that normal things people do – eat, work, fret, buy things, bothered Howard in a way that could simply not be managed by traditional methods.

Maybe I could suggest he move to a smaller city or maybe attempt again to explore his existential needs, Ray thought. During their first session, Howard had offered the preamble: “I want to say before anything else that I know that I have complete freedom to decide, and complete responsibility for my decisions. And I don’t give a shit. People tell me about stupid shit that bothers them. You know what bothers me? Nothing.”

Traffic began to move. Ray grew more anxious to get home the closer he got. His hands began to shake as they had intermittently since he had woken up. He longed for his chair.

Ray exited the highway.

Maybe nothing bothered Howard per se, but he had emotions, anger being one.

“I used to date this girl who painted her walls a different color every month. She didn’t even own the place. She had this embroidered pillow that said ‘home is where the heart is,’ I couldn’t look at it. The saying’s so meaningless to me.”

Howard had shaken his head before concluding; “every day when she got home from work, she would ask how my day was.” Howard paused. “I hated her for it.”

Ray had retorted, “there’s certain things you cannot control, remember the saying: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

Howard had nodded, saying nothing in reply. His non-response made Ray feel like a capitalist, using such a clichéd, fast-food phrase, while charging Howard $110 an hour.

Ray pulled up to his house and exited the Volvo. The dim cavern of his family room greeted him upon unlocking the front door. He set his black leather bag down on the hardwood floor and went to the kitchen to make a whiskey. Ray released an “ahhh,” audible only to him and the yellow-off-white drywall as he sat back in his recliner and turned on the television.

Ray watched the news stories of the day and the advertisements that came between them. He drank his whiskey down and soon made another. His headache vanished and the shakes became no longer perceptible, only blips on a seismograph. Ray would wake tomorrow, again ready to help others with their problems.

Someone’s got to do it, thought Ray, his buzz coming about.

###

About the Author;

Christopher Krull labors as a graduate assistant in the Communication Department of Saint Louis University and slowly accumulates credits toward a Master of Arts degree. For what purpose, he is unsure. His work has also appeared in Eunoia Review.

Issue Twelve, Volume Two

From the Desk of the Editor;

            Welcome one and all to Larks Issue Twelve, Volume Two! In this issue we are featuring two works that are very different from each other. One is a light hearted tale of wisdom and the other is a science fiction thriller about getting just what you wished for.

            Here at the office we are almost ready to start setting up shop at Smashwords.com. We have a group of talented artists preparing to create covers for e-issues! In the mean time check out our Facebook fan page.

            We were a little shaken last night here in Oklahoma as a 5.6 earthquake hit the state. Everyone is alright; just a little unsettled.

Yours,

Daniel J. Pool

LFM Editor

WISDOM SITS ON A PARK BENCH

By WILLIAM J. WHITE

The elderly man sitting on the park bench was deep in memories, not seeing the words on the newspaper that he held in his lap, but becoming quickly alert as a young couple, arguing, walked past him.  Under a short white mustache, his wide lips opened into a smile, as he watched the girl trying to encircle the waist of her companion, with a thin arm.  Each attempt was rebuffed, and finally the young man side-stepped away from her.  When she reached out for his hand, it was quickly jerked away.

As they walked down to the edge of the pond, there to continue their disagreement, the old man’s eyes followed them, his head slowly shaking from side to side, and even when the young man turned and caught him watching them, he continued to look their way, and only after he was given and sent back a middle- finger salute did he return to his newspaper.

That young fellow is slightly on the crude side," he declared to himself, raising his paper and peering over the top.

“…harmless,” he heard the young girl saying in a raised voice, as she turned to join her companion in observing the old man.  “I’ll go up there and see why he’s looking at us; maybe he knows us…  No!  You stay here.  I don’t want a policeman coming by and hauling us off.  I’ll be right back..."

As the girl approached him he lowered his eyes, not wanting a confrontation in a public park.  She stopped directly in front of him, staring over the top of his paper, with azure-blue eyes that didn't appear to be too friendly.

"Hey, mister!" she said sharply, why have you been watching us?  My boyfriend don't like it."

He looked up at her for a long moment.  "Miss, it would take a long explanation..."

"Do I know you?"

" I believe not, miss..."

"Just nothing else to do, huh?"

"I like your hair..."

"What?"  Placing her hands on her narrow hips, she glared down at him.  "Are you one of those dirty-minded old geezers that hang around in parks ogling young girls?"

Smiling up at her, he said:  "My Elizabeth, bless her sweet soul, had hair like yours–a little dark brown added to pale yellow..."  Still smiling, he closed his eyes, savoring the recollection.  When they opened, he added:  She also had a walk like yours, sort of a glide, as though her feet weren't touching the ground."

The girl, looking about, replied:  "Where she at, mister...your wife.  Elizabeth?"

Placing his hand over his heart, he said, "You two young people have brought back to me some wonderful memories.  She and I had spent many hours in this park, just walking, usually winding up on that bench down by the pond..."  He locked his eyes onto hers.  "But we would walk close.

 The air that we breathed was no more important to us than our feelings for each other..."

"Yea," she said, looking down toward the pond to where her boyfriend stood, throwing rocks at the near-by swans,  "me and Andy are like that...You know, close."  She sat down, bumping her hip against him, making more room on the bench.

"Yes, miss, I could see that.  He must be real sweet on you..."

Frowning at him, she said–rather sharply, "Well, I suppose it's really my fault.  He wanted me to do something with him... you know, to prove my love for him, and I told him that I wasn't ready for that. When you and what's-her-name...Elizabeth were going together," she said, toying with her hair with thin fingers capped with dark blue nails, "did she have to prove her love for you before you would marry her?"

"Young lady, " he said, not too gently, and taking her hand in his, and being surprised when she didn't pull it away.  "I cherished that woman from the first day I saw her.  I cherished her purity; her innocence...  It was my place to prove my love for her!"  With his free hand, he pointed down to the pond.  "You go down there and tell that young man that he is to prove his love for you by not asking you to do something that you don't want to do.  If he cares for you at all, he will be proud of you for not accepting his terms."

She stood abruptly, and looking down to where Andy was still throwing rocks, she remarked defiantly: "I will do it!"

"That young lady has spunk...,” He thought, "If she can go through with it."

He heard harsh words from both of them, and finally the young man turned and stomped away.  When she returned, her eyes were damp.

""I'm sorry miss...  I should not have butted in."

Rubbing her fingers across her cheeks, and giving him half a smile, she said: "I'm glad you did, mister.  I told him that I was not Lucy from school, who is always proving her love to different guys."

Giving him a lop-sided grin, she remarked unhesitatingly, still dabbing at her eyes,”I told him that I was going to be an Elizabeth..."

About the Author:

I am an implant from Cincinnati, Ohio.  Moved here to Paradise– in Monticello, KY. thirty years ago, and built our home next to a road dropping down to Lake Cumberland.

I have been writing short stories since January of 2010 and have had two published by Lark's magazine here and here.

The Other Side of the Darkness

By Maxwell Jameson

1.

            Now, I am writing for them.  I cannot see them, but I can hear them.  I am locked in my cell, which has only one wall that I can see.  The other three walls only consist of a black, seemingly-empty space.  However, the space is far from empty.  The spotlights are too bright for me to see them, but I can hear them out there—breathing, coughing, sometimes talking under their breath.  I take one page from the stack to my left, fill it with words, and place it in another stack to my right.  Every time I finish a page, they applaud, whoop, and shout.  They're pulling for me.  They need me to scrape meaning out of their lives.  I know.  I used to be one of them.

2.

            Beyond this darkness, there is a place where the sun shines and the people like them live in one endless, bright, and delightful day.  I lived out there with them in a house with a massive window in  front, through which the sun shone so brightly that I could see each flake of dust in the air.  I wrote for myself back then, because I had no idea who else to write for.  I wrote in a bedroom in that house.  It had another, smaller window and a desk.  I mounted an enormous screen on one of that house's walls, through which I would watch other people in cells just like this one.  Sometimes, I would save up my money and enter this darkness so that I could watch someone else in a cell much like the one where I am now.  I dreamed of joining them. 

           

            I do not remember how I learned of the Center.  Out there, it exists on the margins of peoples' knowledge, never attempting to hide itself, but also somehow remaining undiscussed.  Once I discovered it, I knew my way out of that house.  I wrote something that my observations told me the Center would enjoy.  I found the pipes running under the ground, and I dropped what I created into them, and heard the rushing sound as they circulated beneath the road, paths, and alleyways that were all I knew.

            I had to do this many times before the Center responded.  They told me I had to walk down the hill, away from the town, to a meadow where I had been many times.  I went, although a part of me was certain it was a cruel prank by the other townspeople, all of whom knew how desperate I was to move into a cell.  I stood in that meadow, hearing only the chirping of birds, feeling only the breeze against my skin.  I panicked for a moment, glancing angrily up at the sun as the sadness and anger welled within me.

            But just then, a door opened.  Its surface resembled a mossy rock, but it made a mechanical sound as it opened, and I glimpsed the shiny mechanisms behind the facade.  This meadow was only one disguised tip of the Center jutting into the bright, sunny world I had known.  Through the door, I saw a pale, metal corridor with two fringes of fluorescent lights running along the top, and a low, dragon-like rumble emanating from below. 

            It took me a few moments to walk through.  I felt a strong pull coming from beyond that artificial meadow, seeming to originate from the house, that bedroom, that desk.  As I stepped through, I wondered if it were real chirping birds I was leaving behind or simply pre-recorded playback or even a digitally contrived double.  I wondered if it were even a real town I was leaving behind, or a vacuous doppelganger.

           

            The door closed behind me.  The air smelled sterile and artificial, a scent just close enough to flowers to remind you of them, but clearly a chemically-derived substitution.  I stood for a few moments until another door at the other end of the corridor opened.  I walked through the corridor and through that second door.  It closed behind me.

            The suits met me—two men and a woman.  The men were both several inches taller than me, with severe, opaque faces.  The woman was about my height, with dark, shoulder-length hair held up with pins.  The suits they wore were tailored perfectly to their physically-fit bodies.  They had perfect posture and breathed evenly and steadily.  They spoke to me in clipped but personable tones.

            “Hello,” said the woman.  “We are thrilled to meet you.”

            “Hello,” I responded.

            “We are pleased you could make it,” said the first man, slender and tall with dark brown skin.

            “I-I'm pleased as well,” I said. 

            “Follow me,” the woman said.  “We'll show you around.”

           

            They showed me nothing, but only led me through countless corridors.  The woman walked in front of me, with the two men at my sides.  They never initiated conversation, but always responded to my questions. 

            “What is this place?” I asked at one point.

            “The Center exists to regulate the lives of the people living outside, in towns like yours,” the woman responded in a bright tone.  “Our world used to be radically different—a thoroughly inefficient and unintegrated thing that never worked in concert with itself.  After countless upheavals and catastrophes, a new system was created.”

            “A new system?” I asked.

            The first man answered: “Those in power came to realize the need for a unified, organized experience of the world.  Each town like the one where you live was designed from the bottom up, with the intention of providing for everyone's needs—material, social, and cultural.”

            “I—I don't understand,” I said, feeling ashamed.

            The other man—with a blonde crew cut and a square, rugged jaw—chuckled jovially, then answered: “It's a lot to take in, I know,” he said.  “You see, one of the greatest problems with the previous world was the lack of an organized, unified vision.”     

            As if on cue, the woman piped in: “There were just too many subversive voices disrupting the flow of life, planting seeds in peoples' minds that grew into dangerous, toxic mental infestations.  Do you understand what I mean?”

            “Well, sort of,” I said, not wanting to appear stupid.

            “The Center began regulating art as a way of solving this incongruity,” the first man continued.   “They  decided the works that people needed, and went about making them readily available.”

            “And, to this day, everyone with potential is monitored,” said the woman.  “We're always watching to discover the voices that can help provide unity and order, who are seeking to make all our lives fuller and better.  That's where you came in.  We've been monitoring your progress for quite some time, waiting for you to develop to a point where you were ready.” 

            “And I'm ready now?”

            “What people need the most right now is a book like yours,” the man said.  “They need to understand that many people feel lost and adrift living in our world as it is.  We can't allow it to simmer below the surface—it's a feeling they must confront and reconcile.”

           

            But, mostly, we just walked in silence.  The corridors went on and on, marinated in that dragon-like rumble, highlighted occasionally by the swishing sound of those pipes running through the ground, transmitting information.  After a long time, we reached a door unlike any previous door.  This door was mounted in the side of the corridor as opposed to one of its ends.  The woman stopped, and turned to me.  She indicated the door with her hand.

            “Here is your first space,” she said.  “You'll find everything you need in there.”

            I looked at her and the two men.  They all smiled, though not widely.  I walked in.  The door closed behind me.  Inside, I could see only the corona of a solitary spotlight.  Within it, I saw a single podium with a stack of pages on it.  I walked up to the podium.  On the first page, I recognized the opening lines of my book.  I looked up at the microphone extending from the top of the podium.  I squinted in the glare, but could not see anything.  I did not have to.  After a few moments, I could hear them breathing.  My chest surged.  Through the glare of the light, I began to pick out the outlines of countless heads stretching out into the darkness.  Their combined breath sounded like the rustling of an ominous wind through the grass.

            I understood what I needed to do.

            I read my first book to them, my raw and subversive cry of entrapment and frustration.  But as I read it, I realized many sections of it had been considerably altered.  My desire for freedom became, instead, a desire for greater integration into the system of the world.  My defiant declaration of independence from the flow of information from that screen on the wall of my house became, instead, a desire for that flow to have a greater appeal to me.  I came to these sections, but glossed them over. 

            I read the book to the end, and that invisible audience applauded.  For a few moments, I soaked in their adulation.  My pride welled.  Soon, the door on the wall opened again.  As the applause died down, I walked through it.  More suits—different ones—waited.  They congratulated me as if we were close friends.  I found the notion that these people, so comfortable in this vast maze of passageways, with seemingly unbounded access, considered me a peer.  I happily followed them as they led me through another series of passageways.

3.

            They brought me here, to this cell.  When the door closed, I was unsure of what to do.  I could hear the same aggregated breath, but no podium waited—only a desk with a large stack of papers.  “Enjoy your space,” one of them said, just as the door closed.  I was not sure of what to do.  My writing desk was at home, in my bedroom, with the sun through my window shining on it.  This desk was immersed in darkness, lit up by impersonal fluorescent lights.  This would not work.  I needed to get back home.

            Soon, a voice spoke:

            “He is struggling.  He knows the book is there, trapped within the ether, locked within the prison of his fears and insecurities.  He must free it, but he must first learn how...”

            It went on like that.  I listened for a minute or so, and hated it instantly.  Nothing it said expressed anything close to what I was feeling.  I felt confused and helpless, not understanding why I could not go home, why I needed to remain observed in this darkness.

            But as I inched towards the desk, it continued:

            “He is poised—ready—overcoming his fear!”

            I sat at the desk, picked up the pen, and wrote a few sentences expressing my frustrations.

            The voice stopped.

            I understood.

           

4.

            I have been writing ever since.  I do not always know what I am writing, but the words nevertheless come, and they stop the voice.  Sometimes, I will enter a flow-state, and find myself writing words I am actually quite proud of, and I will forget where I am and what I am being forced to do.  But it is all predicated on one realized truth: the Center wants another book.  I will give it to them, a book even more powerful and more influential than the one before.  I will deliver it to them, and I will tell them I want to leave.  Millions of others will stream in to take my place.  I am not important.

            It took me a long time to realize that I no longer sleep.  I no longer even feel the desire to sleep.  This entire experience is like one long dream in any case.  Food is never brought to me, but I find I do not desire it either.  I used to, but every time I did, I would feel a strange pricking sensation in my back, and my hunger would be satisfied.  It was frightening at first, but I no longer question it.  My life is a mad rush for the completion of this work—once this work is done, I will live again.

            Sometimes, they do let me stop.  The door simply opens.  I turn to it, get up, and walk out.  As soon as I enter the corridor, the door closes.  At one end of the corridor, another door opens, and I follow the buzz of the fluorescent lights through many, many different sections of that same corridor.  I have no idea whether I am going anywhere or not, but I do not care.  Sometimes, I stop and touch the side of the wall, feeling the robust vibration of whatever massive engine allows the Center to run.  I wonder how it operates, who designed it, and who regulates it—how any human could ever have contrived such a massive conglomeration of mechanisms.  I walk on, until I come to a corridor with a door on the side, which opens as I approach.  I am back in my cell.  I go back to my writing.  I wonder what the point of those aimless walks could be.  The need for physical exercise is the most obvious answer, but I know that what I require most of all is hope.  Each time that door opens, I keep on believing that this walk will be the one that leads me back to that artificial meadow, where I can walk back up the hill to the town that contains my house.  But as I begin each walk, I realize that returning to my town, with its endless, relentless sunshine, will no longer suffice.  What I really wish for is that these corridors would lead me through the darkness of the cells and towards another light, on the other side of the darkness, that shines independently of the Center's contrived, mechanical influence, a light that would take turns with another, more natural darkness, allowing me a balanced and unified existence free of this domination of extremes, where I could come to understand the noble and transcendent reason I chose to enter this silent, crowded darkness.

5.

            And with time, a sentence comes out that does not lead to another.  I stop, look at it, and in a few moments realize what that means. 

            The voice chimes in: “He has finished!  All of the blood, the sweat, and the tears have paid off!  He has freed the book from the ether!  He has succeeded!”

            Thunderous applause.  Cheers, whoops of joy beyond anything that came during the process of writing.  It washes over me, but I am oblivious.  I am relieved only because I know it is time to leave, that I have earned the right to leave.  In the midst of the applause, I hear the door open.  I gather up my book, and I follow them.  The suits wait for me.  They are the same ones that met me that first day. 

            “Congratulations,” the woman says.

            “Th-thank you,” I say.  “Am I—am I done here?”

            “Yes,” says the woman.  “All you have to do is present the work, and then it's time for you to go above.”

            I just nod.

            “Let's get you out of here,” says one of the men, indicating for me a way forward.

            I follow them to the end of the corridor, and through the waiting door.  I clutch the pages to my chest and follow them.  We walk for quite some time.  I speak to them about how oppressive the corridors can feel.  They nod and agree completely.  They say it is a necessity, but that no one can live in it for too long.  “It takes its toll,” the woman says.  “Yeah,” says the man, “I try to get above as often as possible.”  “It's real up there,” says the other man, “you'll love it.”

            After some time, we enter another corridor, with another door on its side.  As we approach, it opens.  I shudder.  The woman notices.

            “Don't worry,” she says, “it's just for your presentation.”

            “We'll be waiting when you finish,” says one of the men.

            “Break a leg,” says the other man.

            Still hesitant, I walk in.  I see a podium much like the one from before—possibly even the same one.  I hear that collective breathing I have become so accustomed to.  I walk up, and place the pages on the podium. 

            I pause—for a moment longer than they like.  The voice chimes in: “He knows you are ready, but he wishes to savor this palpable moment, a moment unlike anyone else will ever feel...”

            I clear my throat.

            “He begins!”

            I read: “Now, I am writing for them.  I cannot see them, but...”

            My voice falls upon the words perfectly.  As I read, I stop seeing them in front of me, but instead see myself as I must appear on those countless screens in those countless houses, in those contrived towns dotting the landscape that may or may not be real.  I imagine someone out there, much like myself, watching me in the way I used to watch others.  I wish there were some way I could tell them what waited for them.  But I do not let it show—I let my words flow out clear and pristine.  I own every moment.

            I finish.  A short silence.  I expect the voice to come at any moment, but instead it is only applause—an applause the magnitude of which I have yet to hear—a sound as deep and as robust as the dragon-like rumble of the Center's power source, making me question the authenticity of its hegemony.  When the door opens, I do not want to leave—I want to explore this possibility farther.

            But the applause dies down, and before that eerie breathing can recommence, I walk back to the door and out into the corridor.  The suits smile.  “Great work,” says the woman.  “Let's get you out of here,” says the first man.  “You've earned this,” says the next.  My heart thumping, I follow them down the corridor and through another all-too-familiar door at the end.  I am done writing for them.  I am ready to live for myself, on the other side.  We walk through it to another corridor, with another door in the side.  However, this door is different—it is a double door.  It opens, and inside is a small, closet-like chamber.  The woman motions me in, and I enter.  As soon as we walk in, the doors close.  I suddenly feel a powerful upwards surge of inertia, and a rushing sound much like the sound made by those pipes that run beneath everything.  We are ascending.  Is the entire Center underground, twisting and curling beneath the world like the roots of a tree?

            After a time, the elevator stops.  The doors open.

            “Welcome home,” the woman says.  The light pours through.  “You've earned it,” the first man says.  I squint as I step out, knowing the light I am squinting in is brighter and more vibrant than any I have seen.  Slowly, my eyes resolve that light.  “This is reality,” says the third man.  I begin to make out my new surroundings.

            “Enjoy,” all three suits say as the door slides shut.

            The first thing that I see is the table, and the typewriter.  I panic, and turn away, towards the source of the light.  Slowly, I make it out—a vast, ruined, desolate landscape.  I reach out for it, but hit the transparent surface of my new, final cell.  Through it, I see the burned, desiccated world, dotted only by brightly-shining extrusions from below, where the Center makes contact in order to power the artificially-lit world below—the massive lie that is our life.  But that landscape is not lifeless.  It would be better if it was.  The faces I see watching me are twisted, deformed, and mutilated—they bang on the glass, they cry out although I cannot hear them.  They have been left behind.

            I crumble to the floor, convulsed in sobs.

            The voice chimes in: “He knows the life he's chosen.  He understands the dire price of learning the truth.  But he takes this moment to remember the most important truth of all—that we must all be human.”

For more from Maxwell Jameson see his blog at http://maxwelljameson.blogspot.com/ here on Blogspot!

            Thank you for reading and we hope to see you here next week as we delve into works of oddity and the sublime.

            Also if you are craving more check out WritingRaw.com. They offer speculative fiction as well as reviews and art from around the world.

Issue Sixteen, Volume One

From the Desk of the Editor,
     Greetings to another issue of Larks Fiction Magazine. In this issue we feature two stories that could happen with fictional realism.
     If you are looking for more to read after this issue then make sure to check out Literati Press. They host the works of up-and-coming authors such as Jackson Compton, Mer Whinery, and Ms. Destruction.
     Also we are gathering support and interest in releasing Larks in e-magazine format. This would allow readers to take Larks with them on almost any mobile reading device. Look for us on Smashwords this September.

     Yours,
     Daniel

DON’T MESS WITH LILLY

By William J.White

As soon as Lilly entered the door to her old house, she immediately slid home the bolt on her large security lock.

“Oh my,” she muttered, half-aloud; just remembering that she had left her car out in the driveway, with the bumper just touching the closed garage door. “Now, why did I do that? The birds will make a mess…!  Oh, yes…the rain. I had to come in before the rain got me all wet.”

She drew in a large draft of air, releasing it with a soft sigh. “Lill, ol’ Girl, what would Franklin say about your getting so forgetful?” She shook her head at the thought.

On the way into the kitchen, she noticed a few damp spots on her recently polished kitchen floor; next to the icebox. “Hey there,” she remarked. “Where did you come from?”  Looking up to the ceiling, and seeing no wet spots, she shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Just another case of ‘mop-miss’”, she declared. “I’ve been getting a lot of those, lately…”

A rustling noise came from the other side of the pantry door; startling her senses. Cocking her head sideways, and aiming an ear toward the door, she remembered what her Franklin used to say: “Just a little spider-web-clutter in the old gray- matter, my dear…” That thought was followed by a protesting squeak from the door hinges, as the door started to move slowly outward.

Slow-of-thinking, but swift-of-instinct, she bolted for the staircase. “Oh heart”, She commanded, grabbing onto the railing.

“Stay with me!” At that moment, she heard the sounds of the mops and brooms, and other closet-instruments, being knocked astray.

“Oh, Lord”, she shouted reverently, “please help me up these stairs”.  Whether it was her plea to Heaven, or the sounds of heavy foot-falls close behind her that gave her the momentum that carried Lilly into the bathroom; it was a subject of which she would dwell on later. At that moment, as she was slamming the door, she caught a mere glance of the intruder:

A large, unshaven man wearing a dirty base-ball cap; and whose large hands reaching for her, made painfull contact with the door, as Lilly closed the lock.  With her heart pumping wildly out of control, and her breathing coming in short, rapid gasps; she leaned her back against the door, sliding down to a sitting position.  She was trembling too arduously to close her hands around her ears, to protect them from the stream of indelicate words coming from the other side of the door.  “Yea,yea,yea,yea,” replied Lilly. “Hey, I bet that hurt, didn’t it?”  Her soft chuckle was answered by a hard kick on the bottom of the door, and then silence.

After awhile, Lilly spoke:  “Hey you, on the other side of the door…! If you are after my wealth, it’s in my purse, which is hanging on the coat rack down stairs… all of my twelve dollars. And you’ll find my valuable silver ware -- straight from Paul’s plastic-ware store, in the kitchen-sink cabinet.  Take it, and please go!”

A hoarse laugh from the other side, caused her to scramble to her feet. “I’ll take that, alright--when I choose to go. It’s you that I want, Lady…”

“What? You want romance?”

Another hoarse laugh. “In your dreams, you old crow… in your dreams.  You owe me”! Lilly jumped at the sound of another heavy kick against the door.

“I owe you? Well sir, get in line behind  everyone else… I owe you? Are you sure? I don’t remember…” The door suffered from a few more kicks, causing items on the lavatory cabinets to rattle. “…All I wanted was a little change, so I could feed my kids.  Your purse, hanging down from your arm, seemed like an invitation to me… you didn’t have to scream for the cops”!

 “You knocked me down,” Lilly said, defiantly; beginning to remember. “You nearly broke my arm…”

Another kick against the door, “And I got six months in the hoosegow,” he continued. “I lost my measly job, my dope-sniffing wife left me, and the state took away my kids…”

”Well, Mister,” Lilly replied, looking around for some kind of weapon. “Life can sometimes be so cruel…and stop kicking the door!”

Lilly’s response brought more kicks, and a few--what sounded like palm-slaps. “And You know, you old bat, before you brought your sorry butt  back home into this dump, I ate the rest of your poorly- made apple pie. And you know what else I did?”

Lilly leaning over the soiled-clothes hamper, remarked: “let me guess… You were able to find your rear-end, and gave it a good scratching?” Lilly giggled at her own remark.

“I was checking out this old relic, and down in the celler, I found the biggest axe I’ve ever seen.. And if you don’t open this door, I’m gonna’ go and get it, and turn this door into kidlin’. And then I’m gonna’ use it to fine-tune your skinny old bones…”  A slight pause, and then: “How does that grab you?”

While her guest was making small-talk, Lilly was sliding open the heavy window over the bath tub.

“Hey you!” her visitor bellowed. “What are you doing in there?  Did you hear what I said?”

“Sure did, sonny. I heard you mention: ‘Old bat, sorry butt, skinny old bones’… I’ve never had so many compliments. And, did I not hear you say something about grabbing me?” She let that sink in while she was lifting up the clothes hamper.  “I’ll venture to say that you don’t do well with the ladies. Maybe I remember wrong,” she added. “It has been awhile since my Franklin set off for Heaven, but it seems like we always did the grabbin’ first, and then the romancing…”

After Lilly had lifted the hamper into the tub,and on up to the window sill, she paused to take a few breaths.

“Are you gonna’ answer me?”

“Give me a moment, honey.” she replied, looking out the window, and down to her car; just below her.

“Hey, crazy old crow…  aha,” he remarked. “That one fits you.I want to know what you’re doing in there…”

“Well, this is a bathroom,” she said, lining up her target. “And what I could be doing is not what I am doing; getting ready to take my dirty laundry down to my car…” With that said, she

Shoved the hamper out the window. “Direct hit!” she shouted loudly, as the hamper slammed down onto the hood of her car; bringing forth instantly, the high-pitched sound of the car alarm. Lilly could just barely make out the sounds of heavy feet stumbling down the stairs.

Looking out the window, she saw her visitor leaving by the front door, and heading down the street at a fast pace.

“Hey you,” she yelled after him, “if the police don’t pick you up, come again sometime. I’ll have a big dog for you to pet!”

About the author:

I am a youthful type gliding a little past elderly, maintaining a firm hold on the foremost important parts of my present life that I am able to reach.  My wonderful wife, my piano, memories of my dog  that was spirited away in her eleventh year, my computer, and a strong desire to write.

See his other works on Larks here.

The Tightrope

By Jerry Guarino

            In America today, there are many towns adjacent to each other with extreme differences in culture, wealth and education.  There is a specific dividing line between these towns, but you don’t need any signs to tell when you have crossed over.  It makes you wonder if one town is blessed and the other one is cursed.  Or maybe both towns are cursed.

           

            Some people, like Juan, lived in both worlds.  Each morning, he drives his pick up truck into town, past manicured lawns and fruit trees, to a construction site downtown.  Oak Park’s town council decided to makeover Main Street with gas lamps, cobblestones, benches and topiary, resembling something out of 19^th century England.  While he was working, Juan was accepted here, although not seen.  Once the Sun went down, when those fortunate few were assembling for dinner, he lit up like one of those new gas lamps.

            Justin, one of the fortunate few, walked into the French restaurant with his girlfriend, Karen, the kind of girl you want to be seen with.  Karen had the right looks, the right education and the right family.  She dressed classically, sporting a blue skirt, white ruffled top and camel hair blazer.  Her hair was straight, shoulder length and blonde, which only brought attention to her blue eyes and perfect skin.  She worked as a junior associate in a local law firm, the same one where Justin was applying.  Justin wasn’t dating Karen to help get the job, but it wouldn’t hurt, so long as he was discreet about it.  Justin and Karen had one thing in common, a comfortable life, neither having had experienced the struggles that people like Juan had overcome.

            Juan put his tools into the lock box of his truck and headed home.  It was only three miles away but East Oak Park seemed more like one of those cities you see on the news, where some gang banger killed an innocent child.  Driving past graffiti-filled walls, a 24-hour convenience store and a run down elementary school, Juan was quickly reminded of his world, one where the night brought out drug dealers, prostitutes and the people addicted to them.  In Oak Park, strollers would be listening to the chamber music softly playing from the rock gardens he had helped create; here, anyone walking would hear the loud and vulgar sounds of boom boxes and cars with heavy bass accents, cruising slowly while their passengers watched for prey.  Turning the corner, he saw his church.  “Maybe I should stop in and say a prayer”, he thought.  But he was hungry and decided to go home.

            Justin examined Karen while she read the menu.  What did she see in him?  Karen could have anyone she wanted.  It wouldn’t surprise him if someone at the firm were propositioning her.  Maybe one of the senior partners, ready to exchange their first wife for a trophy or one of the rich clients she saw daily.  “I’ll have the Waldorf salad, Salmon with truffles and Pommes de Terre au gratin” she said in fluent French.  “Shrimp salad and the steak Bordelaise, medium” said Justin, trying to keep up.

            Juan’s wife Ines was putting dinner on the table; rice, beans, cheese and vegetables melted in a casserole dish.  He could hear his seven-year old son Manny and ten-year old daughter Dania playing in the other room.  “Dania, take Manny to wash hands and come to dinner…Daddy’s home”.  Juan hung up his jacket and kissed Ines on the cheek.  “How was your day?” he said.  Ines worked part-time in the school cafeteria, serving free breakfasts to kids who wouldn’t get anything at home.  “That school”, she sighed.  “Even the young ones are acting like punks now, flashing gang signs and wearing their pants down to here” as she gestured to her upper thigh.  “At lunch, some fifth grader made a gun sign with his hand when I told him he couldn’t have seconds”.  Juan shook his head and thought about the kids in Oak Park, dropped off from their parent’s BMW’s, Mercedes’ and SUV’s.  “Two public schools but you would never know it,” he thought.  “But no trouble for Manny and Dania?” he asked Ines.  “No, they’re fine, I keep an eye out for them”. 

            The waiter brought a shrimp salad to Justin and the Waldorf to Karen.  They sipped their wine, ignoring the waiter.  “So, how’s the real world of law?” Justin asked.  Karen responded without looking up from her salad.  “We had a deposition today for a man accused of embezzling from his family business.  It’s pretty clear that he did it.”  Justin indicated that he was listening.  “Oh, so what’s your strategy?”  Karen smiled.  “We’ll get him off.  His father was sleeping with the secretary and will settle once we show him the pictures”.  Karen looked up and touched Justin’s hand.  “Did you hear from the bar yet?”  Justin had failed the bar exam the first time he took it.  Dating him was Karen’s way of slumming it.  “Should be online any day now; I’m pretty sure I nailed it this time.”  Karen winked.  “Did you check it today?” knowing that the results had been posted.  “Go ahead, check.”  Justin pulled out his phone, entered the web address and signed in.  “Hey!  I passed”, showing the screen to Karen.  He leaned over and kissed her.  Karen replied, “Good, I had planned a little celebration for tonight”. 

            Ines, Dania and Manny bowed their heads while Juan said grace.  “Lord, thank you for this meal and for our children.  Please care for us and for those less fortunate that do not have food tonight.  We pray this in your name.  Amen”.  Ines filled the children’s plates first.  “Is there another job after you finish this one?” she asked.  Juan nodded his head as he ate some vegetables.  “I think so.  My boss said Oak Park wants to extend the project to the town hall and courthouse.  That should take another six months at least.”  This news came as a relief to Ines who was worried about Christmas presents and utility bills.  Ines paid the bills each month, taking some stress off of Juan.  He didn’t realize how some past due notices had come because Ines was very good at juggling their paychecks and credit.  “God bless those poor people!  What would they do without cobblestone streets and gas lamps?” said Ines.  “Don’t forget the benches and Japanese gardens with the music playing” said Juan.  “Well, their good fortune means work for you Juan, don’t forget that.”  Juan smiled and agreed.  “Yes, where would I be without the fortunate few?” 

            Justin was looking down at his steak.  “Look at this.  I said medium and this is medium well”.  Karen looked up from her salmon and examined his steak.  “Yes, you’re right.  You should send it back.”  She gestured to the waiter and gave him instructions.  “I want tonight to be special for you!”  Justin wondered what other surprises Karen had for him.  “Won’t we be late for….” when Karen interrupted.  “For what?  You don’t know what I have planned?”  Justin rolled his wine around the glass and caught Karen’s expression.  “You’ll see,” and this time her expression confirmed the fantasy he had already started.  Justin tried to contain his enthusiasm, tried to play it cool.  He was dating up here and both of them knew it. 

            The children were watching some game show on television while Juan helped Ines clean up.  He pulled a small box from his pocket.  “I bought you this,” and handed it to her.  Her first thought was the money.  His first thought was making her happy.  “Juan, I’ve told you not to buy me things.  Save money for the children.”  Juan watched Ines’ expression as she opened the box and saw the charm bracelet.  Ines drew her breath in and hugged Juan.  “Thank you dear, it’s so beautiful”.  Two of the charms had the names of their children and one the name of Ines’ mom who had passed away in the summer.  When she saw that, Ines started to cry.  “Now, now, no crying” as he took out his handkerchief and wiped off the tears.  “This should be a celebration!”

            This time Justin’s steak was cooked perfectly.  He ate quickly enough to finish without Karen noticing.  “So, can you give me a hint?” hoping to encourage her to end the suspense.   “OK, but it’s not here” her voice and head gesturing that it was close.  “So it’s in town?” he said as he took the last sip from his wine glass.  Karen was enjoying the torture now.  “Finish your steak dear” while she patted her mouth with her napkin.  “We have a few more minutes before it will be ready.” 

            Juan put the leftovers in the refrigerator and thought about lunch tomorrow.  There was cold chicken he could slice up for a sandwich, some cheese, an apple and some cereal.  Juan liked to snack on cereal on his breaks.  It was better than junk food.

            “I’ll drive” said Karen and motioned Justin to the passenger side of her BMW.  Justin’s imagination was flickering like one of those jump cut commercials that only show you a split second of a hundred scenes.  When Karen said, “close your eyes and lean toward me”, he expected a tender kiss.  But Karen put one of those dark sleeping masks on him; the kind people wear to keep out the light.  “OK, sit back, we’ll be there soon”, and she laughed a little.  At this point, the scenes in Justin’s commercial had taken another turn and he could feel his pulse quicken.  It might be the adrenalin flowing when he said, “should I be scared?”, still trying to play it cool.  “You should be if you take off that mask, mister.”  But taking off the mask was the last thing Justin was going to do.  He was enjoying this too much and wasn’t going to blow his surprise. 

            “Bedtime Manny, bedtime Dania.  Go brush your teeth now” Ines said in her firm but loving mom voice.  The kids scurried obediently.  After they finished the dishes, they could hear mumbling from the bedroom.  “I’ll tuck them in, you sit and relax” said Juan.  Manny and Dania were under the covers in the small room they shared, just big enough for a bunk bed, toys and stuffed animals.  “Did you say your prayers?”  “Yes Daddy” they said, almost in unison.  “We prayed for you and mommy too”.  Juan realized what a blessing his children were, not like those punks at their school.  “I love you” as he kissed each of them.  “Have a good dream”. 

            Oak Park was one of those upper class towns that drew money and attention far exceeding the population size.  There were investment firms, law and professional offices everywhere.  They were only a mile from a world-class university, hospital and venture capital buildings.  They even had their own hotel, reserved for business meetings and people accustomed to paying $300/night.  Karen parked, surprised Justin with a kiss and said, “We’re here, but leave that mask on”.  Justin obeyed this gentle command hoping that wasn’t the last order she gave him.  She took his hand, walked into the lobby and stopped.  Justin could feel a thick rug under his feet and the sound of people snickering at him.  “Could this be someone’s house?  Is it a surprise party of some kind?  Maybe something kinkier?”  Or at least his mind went there.  “Thank you” said Karen and she walked him into an elevator.  Justin tried to count the floors, 1, 2, 3 and 4.  “We must be in a hotel.  She’s planned something really hot and wants it to be a surprise”. 

            Ines was visibly relaxed, grateful to have such a good man by her side.  Juan never strayed and he always put her and the children before his own needs.  They sat on the couch watching television.  Ines would put her legs on top of Juan’s lap and he would massage them.  After a long day on her feet at school, she looked forward to this mini-spa from her husband.  It wasn’t long before her eyes started to close and Juan found himself watching the show alone.  

            Karen quietly opened the door, led him over to a bed and sat him down.  Justin thought about taking off his jacket and tie, but resisted.  “Maybe she wants me blindfolded the whole time?  That would be intense.”  Karen put her hands gently on his lapels and said, “Just give me five minutes, ok?”  Then touched his cheek. 

“It’s been five minutes Karen”, Justin called out, thinking she was in the bathroom changing.  He heard her walking back toward him.  “OK, take off the mask!”  Justin heart was pounding a mile a minute now.  This was the sexiest rendezvous he had ever had.  Now he had to perform up to her expectations.  The lights came on and he heard several voices.  “Surprise!” and Justin saw the partners from Karen’s firm there, holding champagne glasses and smiling broadly. 

“Welcome to the firm Justin” said the senior partner.  “We’ve been holding this room waiting for you to pass the bar.  It was starting to get expensive.”  Even though Justin knew he was kidding, he was more than a little disappointed in what had happened.  A job with the firm was what he wanted, but not what he had been thinking about.  He put on his most sincere face and thanked his new boss.  “An honor to work for you sir.  I won’t let you down.”  He would be working with Karen.  He wanted to keep seeing her.  “Would that be appropriate now that they worked together?”  A table with fancy desserts, coffee, tea and more champagne beckoned them.  Karen, now less personal with Justin, suggested they have dessert and make small talk.  “Never too soon to make points at work” she said.  Her change of demeanor hit Justin.  “Would this good fortune mean the end of him and Karen?” 

            Juan and Ines had a great night, as much out of deep love and commitment as passion.  It was due in part to the sense of security Juan had, knowing that he had another solid work project to get them through until summer when he had other work he could do.  He decided to leave home early tomorrow, stop at church and offer a prayer of thanks for this blessing. 

            An hour later, the partners pulled out cigars and hard liquor and sat down to play some cards.  Karen whispered something to one of them and he acknowledged.  He came up to Justin and shook his hand.  “See you tomorrow, son.  8:00am sharp you know.”  Justin smiled “I’ll be there.  Thanks again”.   He and Karen left the room, more like business colleagues than lovers.  “Now I understand,” said Justin forcing a smile.  “You certainly had me guessing.  I was thinking.”  Karen interrupted “I know what you were thinking” and she led him up the staircase to the fifth floor, stopping at room 502 and opening the door.  “Weren’t we just in room 402?”  Karen pushed Justin in and closed the door.  “Maybe.  I didn’t notice” and she started to undress.  “And wouldn’t the firm frown on such a thing?”  “Oh, yes” Karen said, “one of us would be fired.  But don’t worry.  They don’t know we’re in this room.”  Apparently the danger made Karen even more excited and she didn’t hold back any physical or verbal feelings.  Justin had the best (and for him at least) the quietest sex ever.

Juan was setting up to move on to the next location, the town hall and courthouse, when he noticed his boss talking to a man in a suit.  The man handed him a paper and explained something that his boss was upset about.  His boss walked back toward the crew with a dejected expression, tightly gripping the paper.

That morning, Justin got in his car and drove to the firm.  His life was better than it was yesterday.  No more stress about the bar or getting a job.  He passed the Presbyterian Church without noticing.  He wasn’t sure how he and Karen would turn out but the thought of continuing their relationship in secret created a new challenge.  “How do you hide an inappropriate relationship from lawyers who are experts at reading people?”  Karen greeted him when he walked in.  “Well, how did your first assignment go?”  She said in her most professional tone.  Justin patted his attaché case.  “Good, easier than I thought.  I gave those workers the injunction and notice of legal action.  What idiot wanted to put cobblestones out there anyway?”

About the Author:

            Jerry Guarino writes short stories and plays. His work has appeared in 6 Tales, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, The Fringe Magazine, Leaning House Press, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany. He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage. For more information visit his website at http://thedevilsorchestra.us.

             See his other work on Larks here.

     I hope you have enjoyed this issue and that you will join here again on the 24th of July for Issue Seventeen for works of Absurdism, Science fiction, and a song about William Blake.