See, It's WORKING! We're WINNING!

https://apnews.com/59bb49db54984d30bdf9da3e37b989e3

In response to a friend's meme about a news report that said an "Eritrean national who was denied asylum in the United States and was being sent back to his homeland has died in an apparent suicide in a holding area at Cairo International Airport, airport officials said on Saturday."

I responded, as I often do, with a harsh ironic statement: "See, it's working!"

__________________________________

The friend of my friend, a person who doesn't know me, reasonably responded as follows:

 I'm not sure how you meant that, but it sounded horrible, and it doesn't particularly reflect well on you.......just saying.

__________________________________

My friend came to my defense and explained that this was an ironic comment meant to mirror the actual comments of supporters of this administration. I felt compelled to add to this explanation.

Tim McMullen Yes, xxxx xxxxxxx, the statement was pure irony, and it is a direct reflection of the very reason that the Nazi-embracing Duh Furor and his racist Attorney General Jeff Sessions have chosen their simple plan: destroy the lives of any person of color or any non-Christian who wants to come here UNLESS they are exceedingly wealthy. 

If you hold people for months, even years, while refusing to process them; if you argue that they do not deserve due process or human amenities, that they ALL deserve to be kicked out, no legal proceedings and no questions asked; If you separate mothers from children and then disperse the children to unidentified individuals, or better yet, keep the children in cages like animals and kick the parents out; if you shoot people at the border; if you ship people back to the country from which they are seeking asylum no matter how legitimate their danger or their claims; if you can make them commit suicide, then in the twisted mind where "WINNING" is your only moral code, then these "deterrents" may serve your purpose admirably: fewer people may choose to come here. Hence, "Making America GREAT again."

This reasoning is no different than Paul Ryan's right-wing philosophy which has been embraced by the current Republican majority in the House and Senate. They are hell-bent on destroying the social safety net; destroying the rights and protections for LGBTQ individuals; destroying the rights of women to health care and economic prosperity; eliminating Social Security, Medicaid, and Medicare; taking away food stamps and programs to feed under-privileged children and the elderly; eliminating regulations that protect the environment, including regulations that protect air quality, water quality, and product safety: All of this is done, according to this Libertarian rationale of the radical right, in the "humanitarian" aim of making people more "independent" and destroying the real enemy, The Federal Government. 

Further irony, of course, is the fact that they consistently use and abuse government at local, state and federal levels to accomplish the domination of the many by the few, with ever increasing profit and power for the few, the rightful heirs, God's chosen, as their only goal. After all, the Calvinist approach applied to government is the fundamentalist evangelical doctrine of Divine intervention and the "Gospel of Wealth." If you have wealth, it's because you are good in the eyes of the Lord; if you are poor, it is because you are evil or undeserving. Furthermore, it doesn't matter that you gain your wealth by lying, or by cheating, manipulating, or abusing others; if God weren't pleased with you, then he wouldn't have given it to you. The fact that the have-nots have had their cost of living diminished at the hands of corporate skullduggery and thuggery is simply God's proof that the have-nots are undeserving.

This philosophy compliments the new radically right wing Roberts/Gorsuch court in which people don't even have a right to bring a class action suit against a corporation, no matter how egregious the abuse or how widespread, each individual must now face the corporation alone; in many cases, binding arbitration agreements which absolutely favor the corporation have been affirmed as the only mechanism for grievances with the recourse of a law suit now being forbidden.

They construe unprincipled and inhumane behavior as "finally being tough," and the proliferation of guns and the unrestricted access to any form of weapon as a God-given, constitutionally guaranteed right, whereas the other amendments and guarantees of the constitution, including the right to free speech, freedom of assembly, free press, due process, habeus corpus, et al, are gleefully eroded and their demise applauded by Duh Furor's minions.

__________________________________

In the same thread, another person added, "Too bad he wasn't Norwegian," to which the same concerned person wrote, "?????????"

__________________________________

This was my brief response:

This, too, is an ironic nod to one of Duh Furor's quotes, when he responded in a cabinet meeting about immigration:

As Durbin explained how the deal would impact people from Haiti, Trump said, "Haiti? Why do we want people from Haiti here?" Then they got Africa. 'Why do we want these people from all these shithole countries here? We should have more people from places like Norway."

https://www.vox.com/2018/1/11/16880750/trump-immigrants-shithole-countries-norway

Answered Prayer — Another Original Short Story for Halloween

ANSWERED PRAYER
A Short Story by Tim McMullen

A loud rumble of thunder was punctuated by the emphatic

crash of a slamming door. It had started to drizzle a few

minutes earlier, and the grass and the sidewalk glistened as he

walked toward the car. The door handle was wet, and he brushed

his palm on the seat after hurling himself down behind the wheel.

Mumbling angrily, he turned the key in the ignition. The car

engine raced, and he slammed the gear-shift into reverse.


 Glancing over at the front door of his house, he had an

impulse to return. Then, staring in the rear-view mirror, he saw

her face; it was only for an instant, but it was Marjorie,

looking the way she had looked just moments ago when he had

growled out his oft-repeated warning, “You just try to leave!”

As always, the “ … and see what you'll get!” was implicit in his

tone. The vision vanished as the tires squealed on the damp

pavement.


 At this time of night, very few cars were on the road, and

within minutes he had passed the outskirts of town and was on the

road leading out into the desert. How many times had he had made

this night drive, letting the road and the sky dissipate his

anger and frustration?





 It was always the same. Marjorie, with her frightened,

mousey eyes; her stupid, mousey excuses.





 “I'm sorry dinner's late. Lisa had a meeting after school,

and then my mother called. I told her I'd call her back, but it

was real important,” she had whimpered. “lt'll only be a minute

longer. Why don't you go in and relax?”





 He could see the apprehension in her eyes, and he could hear

it in her voice, and that made him even madder.





 “This is the second time this week that we've had to wait

for dinner! What did she want this time?"





 A loud peal of thunder startled him, and he relaxed his grip

on the wheel. That meddling old biddy had done everything she

could to discourage his happiness, and he had about had it.

Maybe he should do what he'd already threatened--forbid Marjorie

to talk to her mother at all. Maybe then she'd be able to get

the dinner ready on time. He smiled a smile of decision.





 “As good as done,” he said aloud and then glanced again in

the rear-view mirror. Again he saw Marjorie's face, now superimposed

over the wet, desert highway; her cheeks glistened like

the roadway receding in the moonlight. Unconsciously, he looked

down at the knuckles of his own right hand and was surprised to

find what appeared to be blood. He brought his fist up to his

face, stuck out his tongue, and licked the spot. The blood

disappeared.





 "Maybe I overdid it a little this time,· he said, speaking

confidentially to his knuckle, "but God knows she deserves it."

In fact, she had been getting worse. Just last week, he had told

her that he'd be home by eleven-thirty, and that he wanted

something hot for lunch, yet she'd been gone when he arrived. A

plate of food in the refrigerator and a note on how to use the

microwave were all she'd left. He had really blown up on that

one. Still, it was his fault; he'd been too soft, and she'd been

taking advantage of his generosity.





 A truck thundered by and splattered his windshield like a

drive-through car wash. "Big Jerk,· he muttered and turned the

wipers on high. When the wiper blades began to squeek against

the dry window, he realized that the rain had stopped.





 Yes, it was time to really put his foot down and have done

with all her nonsense. The Lord said, "Wives, submit yourselves

unto your own husbands ... and he shall rule over thee," and that

was how it should be.





 He pictured her sitting there at the table serving him his

dinner, trying to please him, asking him about his day, listening

patiently and sympathetically while he told her all about the

jerks that he'd had run-ins with at the plant. Those had been

good times, and the only way to get them back was for her to

change back. His horne was his castle, and he was the King. The

Bible said as much; besides it made sense. You can't have two

masters. Man was born to lead; woman was created to follow, to

be a help-mate, to support and nurture; not to argue or disobey.





 He had been watching the highway more carefully. After a

couple of random turns, he was now on a stretch of road which was

unfamiliar to him, and he felt a little uneasy. Up ahead, in the

elusive shimmer of the cloud-covered moon, he saw a peculiar

glare on the pavement.





 “Must be a patch of oil,” he whispered under his breath,

"could be slippery in this drizzle."





 The whole thing was stupid. Why was he out here driving

around in this weather? She should have to leave ... not him!

Next time, she'd go.





 Suddenly, her face was there in the mirror, but it looked different. 

Her head was cocked at an odd angle as she lay on the

floor, her eye was puffed closed, and blood gushed from her nose.

He felt a surge of pity and remorse at the sight, but the remorse

turned almost instantly to rage.





 It was her own fault! He wouldn't be driven to hit her if

she just did things right. He worked like a dog to provide for

her, but when he came home, demanding nothing more than for his

house to be in order, all he got was, “Sorry, dinner's late!” He

had a good mind to go back right now and get it over with once

and for all!






 He'd been watching the dark patch in the highway since it

was just a speck on the horizon, but now its swift approach

startled him, and he decided to slow down. He was already on the

patch by the time he hit his brakes, and as soon as he touched

them, he knew it was a mistake. The rear tires lost traction

instantly, and the car began to fishtail. He tried to compensate

by turning the wheel slightly, but this just threw the car into a

spin. He clenched his fists on the steering wheel and uttered a

few quick phrases of prayer as the car jerked off the pavement

and the left tires reared up off the dirt of the shoulder.





 Oh, God, it's gonna' roll, he thought. “No!” he screamed.

The car careened down the steep embankment and tore through the

scrub brush. His breast slammed against the steering wheel, and his 

head crashed against the windshield and blasted him into 

unconsciousness.




 Before his eyes opened he heard the sound of frying bacon.

It sizzled and popped in such a way as to invite his eyelids

open, but the pounding in his head petitioned him to keep them

closed. Slowly, the sound won out, and he pried one eye open.

His unfocused eye came to rest on a splash of dark which

eventually became the floorboard of his Plymouth. 




 “W-What the… ?”





 Only then did he remember the spot of oil, the spin-out, and the

crash. That, of course, explained why he was now lying on the

front seat of his car—in a ditch—in the middle of the night.

However, it did not explain why someone was frying bacon on the

hood. As he raised himself up on his right arm and looked out,

he was blinded by a brilliant burst of light and sparks.





 When he opened his eyes again, his sphincter convulsed and a

violent and involuntary tremor coursed up his spine, raised the

hairs on the back of his head, then raced back to bring a quiver

to his loins. His breath caught in his chest, and he lay,

propped on his elbow, frozen in fear. He instantly apprehended

the situation: Staring him in the face, only inches away, was the

ragged end of a broken power line. This clearly was the source

of the sound he had mistaken for sizzling bacon. Now it just

lay there. The sparks had apparently subsided with the last big

flash.





 Instinctively, he retracted his limbs as he frantically

searched the car. He was looking for exposed metal. He thanked

God that there was a moon tonight. He might already be dead if

he hadn't seen that downed wire. But was it possible to get

electrocuted through the car? It was probably insulated. The

tires were rubber—they’d keep the car from conducting

electricity. But the wire was making contact with the hood, so

maybe it was hot? It wasn't sparking anymore, though. He wished

to the Lord that he knew more about electricity!





 The light in the car had been gradually fading. From his

awkward position he tried to catch a glimpse of the moon, but he

found only a large bank of ominous storm clouds which had

apparently begun to cover the moon. Only then did he realize

that the car had hit a huge power pole. His door, the driver's

door, actually rested against the pole itself. There was no

getting out that way! Then the light was gone.





 For many seconds he could see absolutely nothing; slowly his

eyes adjusted to the new darkness, and his thoughts raced. He had to

get out of there! Maybe he could just drive out from under

it ... if his car still started. He reached over to turn the

ignition then pulled back violently. Was he crazy? If anything

could electrocute him, it would be the key in the ignition.

Apparently, he wasn't as calm as he'd thought.





 Maybe he should just sit and wait. The line he knocked down

must have cut out power to somewhere. The line crew would track

down the problem soon, and they would find him and get him out.

He looked out the window, trying to find where the line went.

Through the cloud-shifting dark he made out a small structure in

the distance. With his gaze fixed on the building, his hope

leapt.





 “Help!” he screamed. “Help!” But he knew instantly that it was hopeless; 

all the windows in his car were rolled up tight. Nobody could hear him yelling,

and he didn't dare roll them down because of the metal handles.

He couldn't honk the horn either. Exasperated, he sat and

anxiously watched the structure in the distance. A triangle of

silvered moonlight suddenly fell on the building, and his spirits

plunged. The roof of the shack had fallen in, and one side of

the building had collapsed. It was obvious that no one had been

there in years.





 His hands were sweating now, and his eyes felt like they

were being held in place by fish hooks. A pounding at the back

of his skull had become so excruciating that his helpless stomach

threatened to vomit every few moments.





 Then, as suddenly as the crash itself, his panic subsided.

A moment's reflection assured him that he had no need for it.

When Marjorie realized that he hadn't come home, she'd worry.

He'd never stayed out a ll night on one of his "cooling-off"

drives, so she would certainly call the police to search for him.

They'd be out in an hour or two and he'd be alright. But how

would they know where to look? Where could she send them?





 "Where do you go?" she would squeek.





 “For a drive…around!” he would say, glowering to shut her

up and to make it clear that it was none of her business.





 So how were they going to find him? The way the shoulder

dropped off so steeply where he'd gone over, nobody was going to

see him from the road. In fact, he hadn't heard a single car the

whole time he'd been down there. It could literally be days

before anyone came across his car. Then he remembered Marjorie

the way she had looked when he left. !t wouldn't look too good

to the police. Of course, she would clean herself up, but it

would be hard to hide her eye. He took in a large gulp of air.





 "Don't you go to anyone!” he had told her repeatedly over

the years. "This is between a man and his wife; it has nothing

to do with anybody else. Don't you dare call the police!" Then,

he'd stomp to the door, shake his fist, and say, "You just try

to leave…and see what you'll get."





 She's so stupid, he thought, she'll probably let me sit and

rot out here without telling anybody, just so I won't be mad.

Clenching his teeth, he sat back against the seat.


It would be daybreak soon, and unconsciously, he began

praying for rain. Except for this freak thunder shower, the

temperatures had been in the high hundreds for weeks, and here he

was sitting in a car in the middle of the desert with all the

windows cranked up tight. He had once seen a Collie that had

been left in a car all day in the desert sun. Apparently it had

battered itself to death trying to escape, but it had lain long

enough for its eyes to literally explode in their sockets.

He slapped his palms against his own eyes to drive out the

vision, and then clapped them over his mouth to squelch another

wave of nausea. Obviously, he would have to get himself out, and

he would have to do it now.






 "God, please keep the rain coming!" he pleaded.

Randomly, his eyes took in the rear-view mirror. He winced

and looked away. Finally gathering courage, he looked back. In

the mirror he saw the roof of the car, and beneath that, the

shadows of the clouds moving across the face of the early morning

sun.





 "Whew!" he sighed aloud, "At least she's gone." His words,

though uttered in relief, were not reassuring. Another shiver

traveled up and down his spine. He raised himself to a sitting

position, carefully pulling his legs up onto the seat in a

further effort to avoid touching any metal, and he peered into

the mirror again. There was a face, but it was his own. In the

shadowy light, beads of sweat glimmered from his quaking forehead.


Suddenly, he had an urge to see Marjorie. He consciously 

tried to call her face up in the mirror, but he just couldn't get

it. He could remember what he'd seen; he could verbalize it in

his head: his wife, Marjorie, tears streaming down her face; her

face, spots which would soon be bruises just beginning to show;

the floor; the blood. The weird thing was that these were only

words; there were no pictures in his mind. It was ridiculous.

The woman had lived with him for almost nine years. She had had

his child. He tried to picture Lisa, his daughter, but he

couldn't find her image either.





 He closed his eyes and concentrated on pulling in his

favorite picture of his wife and daughter , the one that sat on

the television set. Marj was wearing her blue sweater, the one

he liked so well; funny, she had stopped wearing it. Lisa had on

a white party dress; the picture had been taken on her fifth

birthday. He remembered all these things in explicit detail, but

he could not recall the actual images to mind.





 Without warning, the cable flexed, emitted a shower of

sparks, and came to rest a few inches closer to the windshield.





 “Oh, Jesus, please help me. Get me out of this, Lord,” he

cried, his hands clasped in fervent supplication. “I've always

been a good Christian…I’ve raised my child in the path of

righteousness. We've tried to have a Christian family. Please,

Lord, do not forsake me. Have pity…Lord, Jesus, Save me!”





 A huge drop of water splattered on the windshield, followed

by several more. He thought of Marjorie's tear-stained face, and

he waited for it to reappear in the mirror, but it didn't.





 He had a thought. Maybe he could break a window and crawl

out? He gave the interior of the car another quick inspection.

Nothing. He had often bragged to Marjorie and his friends about

the fact that he kept his old Pontaic cleaner than Marjorie kept

the house, but now, there was nothing he could use to break the

window. He could try to break it with his hand or foot, but the

glass they used in cars nowadays was reinforced; he'd probably

just break his hand. Besides, how could he get out any of the

windows without touching the car? No way! No, he had to open

the car without touching the metal, but how?





 “Dear Lord, please show me the way. Help me ... Please ... 

Help me escape,” he pleaded, tears of frustration stinging his eyes.


All the metal in the interior of the car seemed to gleam in

the moonlight. The knobs on the dash, the horn bar on the

steering wheel, and the chrome around the mirror all twinkled

ominously. The door handle looked particularly menacing.





 “Oh, my sweet Jesus …!” he said, “I swear….” As he said

these words, he placed his hand over his breast, and there, in

the breast pocket of his coat, was his little personal Bible. He

pulled it out and kissed it, exclaiming, “Thank you, Lord. Oh,

thank you. You've given me a sign and shown me the way. I

promise you: More than ever, the Lord's will is my will, the Good

book is my book ... and Marjorie's! So help me, God!”





 Having raised the Bible up in his right hand as he spoke, he

leaned over to the passenger side of the seat and examined the

door handle. He thanked God that he had neglected to lock the

door when he had driven out into the night. All he had to do was

use the Bible to push the handle, and the door would open. He

gripped the top edge of the Bible tightly with both hands and

ever so slowly, but confidently, moved it toward the handle. When

it had come within a quarter of an inch of the handle, he felt

his whole body convulse. His hands shook so violently that he

had to pull them back. The sweat dripped off his forehead and

landed on his arm, startling him.





 “C’mon…c’mon…c’mon!” he whispered, reassuring himself.

The Lord was with him. He had shown him the way. All he had to

do was open the door and carefully walk out.





 Again he moved the Book toward the door; again he felt the

fear; again he felt the sweat, only now it was trickling down his

side, under his shirt, but he managed to overcome the shaking and

push the book forward. He braced his mind and body for the

impending contact, but something was nagging at him. It was the

mirror. He had an overwhelming urge to look in the mirror.





 “No! No! No!” he cried loudly, then he touched the book to

the door. “Ahh!” he gasped. He followed this exclamation of

terror with a torrent of laughter. It had worked! He could get

out! He was alright!





 “Praise the Lord!” he cried. “Thank you, God, thank you!”





 Only now did his gaze fall on the rear-view mirror. There

she was again clasping her upraised hands in supplication. Those

treacherous woman's tears running down her face. He felt the

heat at the back of his neck, the warning signal of his rising

anger. Then he laughed loudly right into the face in the

mirror. 





 “You almost killed me, you …you….” He struggled to

find the right word. BITCH! screamed in his head, but he

never used that word. He was a good man, a righteous man, and he

did not use profane language. He kissed his Bible, shook it at

the mirror, and laughed again.





 Now confident, he quickly, but cautiously, pushed the book

against the handle. He was surprised to see the Bible begin to

bend as he applied more pressure, and he was momentarily

dismayed, but by placing his left hand against the back of the

book, he was able to make the handle begin to move.






 It seemed minutes before he finally felt and heard the

click of the latch. While pushing outward with both hands behind

the Bible, he began to open the door. He breathed a huge sigh

when he felt the door crack open, revealing a sliver of space

between the door and the car. Encouraged, he put his body behind

the effort. He nearly tumbled onto the ground when, after

opening only a few inches, the door lurched and swung open wide.

The Bible fell from his hands and made a splashing sound. 

It was all he could do to keep himself from plunging headlong after it.





 What was that water doing there? He peered out of the car

door, and as he did so, the tip of the rising sun emerged from

behind a cloud.






 Water! 


 The Bible had already been washed away. He and his

car had landed in the middle of a flood channel. He'd seen these

channels carved all over the desert basin, caused by flash floods

as they sought the path of least resistance. And this one was

filling up rapidly. The water was already within inches of the

open door.






 A giant thunderclap drove him back to the middle of the car,

and as the rain began to beat down, he could see and hear the

torrent growing as it swept around and beneath his car. A bolt

of lightning crackled brightly, and as if in answer, the wire,

which he had almost forgotten, crackled and swayed.





 “Oh, dear Lord," he cried. "Please don't! Please ... PLEASE

DON'T!"





 In the mirror he saw his own, pleading face become

Marjorie's face, and his words were her words which he'd heard so

often.





 “Please…PLEASE DON'T!"





 Now it was his face again: frantic, pleading, terrified,

looking for a way to escape. Finally, he poised himself on the

edge of the seat facing the open door. The water had already

submerged the floorboard of his car. He crouched ready to leap

into the torrent and take his chances. There was no other way.

As he crooked both elbows behind his back, preparing to plunge

forward, the car door slammed in his face. 





 Cringing on the seat, he stared at his reflection in the window. 

With its hand upraised and its fist clenched, the reflection glared down 

at him and shouted, “YOU JUST TRY TO LEAVE!”

©1985 Tim McMullen
   All rights reserved

The Hill - A Short Story for Halloween

THE HILL

A Short Story by Tim McMullen

This is a preview of an eleven story collection of humor, horror, fantasy, sci-fi, and satire entitled, So It’s All Done With Mirrors? That’s No Reflection on You! The collection was originally submitted as my final project for the completion of my Master of Arts in English, with an Emphasis in Creative Writing, from CSU Fullerton.

“The Hill” is an attempt to continue a line of stories that have a similar impulse. Ray Bradbury acknowledged his debt to the lineage in his introduction to The Collected Stories of John Collier. The original story that Bradbury cites is “Sredni Vashtar” by Saki; I would argue, however, that this piece is preceded by several of Ambrose Bierce’s stories found in his brief collection, The Parenticide Club, including “Oil of Dog” and “My Favorite Murder.” In the continuum, the Saki story was followed by Collier’s “Thus I Refute Beelzy,” Lewis Padgett’s (pseudonymn of husband and wife writing team, Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore) “Mimsy Were the Borogroves,” and Bradbury’s own “The Veldt,” “Zero Hour,” and “The Small Assassin.” My piece is a bit more ambiguous than these pieces, but I think it explores a similar experience although perhaps from a rather different point of view; i.e., not the kid!

For those who will be wondering, the literary catch phrases in this story are from the following pieces, in order of appearance:

“The Little Engine That Could” or “The Pony Engine,” the Children’s Tale

The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

“Rapunzel,” the Fairy Tale

Most Bugs Bunny Looney Tunes

“The Three Little Pigs,” the Fairy Tale

“Little Red Riding Hood,” the Fairy Tale

“Little Red Riding Hood,” the Fairy Tale

The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

“Snow White,” the Fairy Tale

The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

“Chicken Little,” the Fairy Tale

“Ding Dong the Witch is Dead!” by Harold Arlen and “Yip” Harburg from

The Wizard of Oz, the Movie

Alice, Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

“Jack and the Beanstalk,” the Fairy Tale

“Billy Goat Gruff,” the Fairy Tale

Alice, Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

“Ding Dong the Witch is Dead!” by Harold Arlen and “Yip” Harburg from

The Wizard of Oz, the Movie

“Ding Dong the Witch is Dead!” by Harold Arlen and “Yip” Harburg from

The Wizard of Oz, the Movie

THE HILL

A Short Story by Tim McMullen ©1982 Tim McMullen All Rights Reserved

The picnic was her idea. One last attempt at a reconciliation, she had told herself. I think I can…I think I can….

Jeff, of course, was overjoyed at the suggestion.

“That’s the ticket, Jody,” he said, his initial surprise instantly effervescing into an almost adolescent joy. “That’s just what this family needs—a little frolic—a day in the park!”

He slapped his knee lightly with the Sports Illustrated he'd been flipping through and then dropped the magazine into the rack beside his recliner. His drooping, rust-blonde, “Wild-Bill” mustache twitched up and down as his tentative grin flickered itself into a full-faced smile. Secretly, Jody had hoped that the suggestion would coax one of Jeffrey’s smiles, and, moth-like, she fluttered toward him.

“I’ll go and tell the munchkin to get ready,” he said as he raised himself from the chair.

“Nol” she cried; then, realizing how it must have sounded, she tried to soften it by adding, “Wait just a minute, okay?

“Let’s just sit and talk for a few seconds before we get ready to go.” There’s no place like home...there’s no place like home....

Regaining the recliner, he perched on the edge and regarded her quizzically.

“Okay, shootl” he said.

She walked over and knelt down beside him. She didn’t really want to talk; she just wanted.... Wondering up into his face, her eyes glimmered confusedly from beneath their lashes. His mustache now framed a careless, beach boy grin.

She followed the lines of that grin to his temple. Only a few weeks earlier she had found several white hairs sequestered in his sideburns. She wasn’t sure why, but she had chosen not to mention them to him. She found the hairs again instantly, but this time she smiled to herself. These singular, hoary intruders were like a lone blanket of albinos surrounded by a beach of sun-bronzed surfers. Flecks of gold shimmered from the feathery blue depths of Jeffrey’s eyes, but a triple furrow ruffled his brow. Unable to alleviate his look of bemused confusion, Jody simply locked her arms around his legs and rested her temple on his knee. He responded warmly, letting his fingers trail gently across her cheek.

“It’ll be alright, Hon,” he said, smoothing an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “We’re not gonna’ let fourteen good years go down the tubes for no good reason!”

She nearly corrected him: Eleven good years, you mean. A foreboding tremor pulsed through her body, and Jeff eyed her curiously. Twisting toward the entryway, she clutched at her abdomen as she heard him speak.

“Hello, Sweetheart! Come here, you little munchkin. What have you been doing?”

The sudden, anticipated pain seared through her midsection. Clutching tighter with her useless hands and gasping silently for breath through clenched teeth, Jody crept away as their diminutive daughter trundled toward Jeffrey’s chair. He reached down and pulled the little creature up to perch on his knee, the same knee that had supported Jody’s cheek only moments before. The child sat facing away from her father who bounced her gently. She giggled light, infectious laughter. Jeffrey laughed, too.

“Goodbye, Mommy!” said the little girl, and she waved jovially. The mirth in the child’s voice and gesture was belied by the glaring disdain which Jody read in her black eyes. Jody’s momentary joy, ignited by her closeness to Jeffrey, now flared into a self-immolating flame of anger and frustration. Her daughter’s long, ebony hair floated as she bounced up and down on her father’s knee. Rapunzel… Rapunzel….

“Goodbye, Mommy!” the child repeated jovially.

Jeffrey laughed again and swung her around.

“Cassie, you little silly!” He chortled and hugged her to his chest. “You mean ‘’hello,’ not ‘goodbye,’ ”he explained.

Bugs Bunny, chomping on a fiery orange carrot, wisecracked, “Eh, What’s up, Doc?” in white letters from the child’s pale blue pajamas. The little girl wriggled around and looked intently at Jody.

“Goodbye, Mommy!” she repeated emphatically.

“Oh, Cassandra,” Jeffrey smiled, “You are such a stubborn little scamp.”

The child squirmed, and he placed her on the floor.

Inexplicably immobilized, Jody groped for a look of amusement for Jeff’s sake, but she had great difficulty finding one.

“Guess what?” she heard him say. “Guess what we’re gonna’ do this afternoon, Sweet-pea?”

“Go somewhere?” came the reply.

“That’s right,” he said. “Now, guess where.”

“Picnic?” said the child.

Jody’s jaw tightened, and she dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. Heat flushed her face.

“HOW do you do that, Munchkin?” He looked over at Jody for the first time since she had left his side. “That’s one heck-of-a-kid you got there, Mommy.”

“Cassandra! Were you listening at the door?” Jody snapped accusingly. Even to her own ear, her voice sounded shrill and pinched, but she couldn’t help it. “Did you hear your Daddy and I talking just now?” she demanded in clipped staccatos. I’ll huff… and I’ll puff….

The child sat motionless and stared at her mother. Jody raised herself from the floor and moved toward the little girl menacingly.

“Did you hear us?” Jody demanded. “Did you? Tell me!” she cried through clenched teeth.

“NO, Mommy,” her daughter calmly replied, “I just guessed.”

Jody was suddenly aware of both pairs of eyes glaring at her. What big eyes you have... All the better to see you with…. She looked from one to the other, and again she felt the crimson rising in her cheeks. Both pairs of eyes continued to stare: Cassandra’s showed that maddening, defiant amusement, and Jeff’s filled with the rising anger that had become so commonplace in the last four years. She saw the knuckles of his large, rough fists whiten as he moved to rise.

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” she said quickly, desperate to force sincerity into her voice. “You know that it’s wrong to listen to other people when they don’t know that you’re there, don’t you?” What big ears you have…All the better to hear you with….

“I know,” came the reply, “But I didn’t listen—I just guessed.”

“Alright then…that’s a good girl,” Jody added as she moved toward the kitchen. “Let’s get ready for the picnic,” she said, carefully avoiding Jeff’s eyes as she disappeared through the door.

Once in the kitchen, the unbearable confusion began again. How could she feel so un-motherly toward her own child, her baby, after all this time? She gazed down at the ripe, red tomato that she had started to slice; she stared into its open face for a moment, and then crushed it savagely in her hand. The bursting was accompanied by a satisfying, snapping squish. Jody stared disconnectedly at the orange-red ooze dripping from between her grinding fingers. Curiosier… and curiouser…. Rinsing her hand in the faucet’s cool stream, she directed the remains of her handiwork down the drain. The disposal growled for an instant and then whirred complacently. As she wiped her hands on a paper towel, she realized that the ache in her abdomen had completely disappeared.

“A perfect pregnancy,” the doctor had said.

Perfect. What did he know? He couldn’t even explain the pain in her gut that was ripping her insides apart and driving her crazy. What could any man know? Not even Jeff could understand.

A movement at the edge of her eye drew her gaze out the window toward the garage. She felt the corners of her mouth rise slightly as she watched Jeff readying the car. She loved him so much—she had always loved him so much—she could never bear to lose him!

Suddenly, the yard grew dark, and she refocused on her own face reflected in the pane. She had never been one of those vain, fragile women who agonize over every sign of life in their vapid faces, but now, she peered into the dim reflection. Mirror, Mirror on the wall…Who’s the fairest? Her hair draped her shoulders, and in the darkness of the pane, she was alarmed and horrified to see her mother’s face, pinched in resentful frustration and despair. She squeezed her eyes tight and held her breath. Opening her eyes, she found her own face again, but the rage and despair remained, spectre-like in the shadowy glass.

“My God!” she said aloud, “What is happening to me?”

“1 know,” said a voice from the door.

Jody dropped the paring knife she had been holding. It grazed her foot as it thudded dully on the cushioned linoleum.

“Oops!” exclaimed the voice playfully. “I know, Mommy.”

She turned to see the Cheshire Cat smiling smugly.

By-the-bye, what became of the baby, said the Cat. I’d nearly forgotten to ask.

It turned into a pig, Alice answered very quietly, just as if the Cat had come back in a natural way.

I thought it would, said the Cat, and vanished again.

“I know, Mommy,” the voice repeated.

“You do?” Jody said, fear and menace mingling in her own voice. “What do you know?”

“I know where for the picnic,” Cassandra exclaimed gleefully. “The Hill…Daddy’s Hill.”

The mother turned quickly from the child’s expectant gaze and bent down. The glint of the knife blade drew her eye, and her breath caught in her breast as if pinned there by a blade thrust through her heart. She grasped the knife, and, still crouching, she looked into the eyes of her daughter. The blood surged audibly through her temples, but the handle, hard and cold in her trembling hand, was comforting as she moved toward the grinning pajamas. Off with her head… OFF WITH HER HEAD….

Suddenly, she turned away and leaned against the counter for support.

“That’s a good idea, Cassie,” she choked. “You run and tell Daddy, and I’ll finish up here, okay?” With unseeing eyes, she felt her heart attempting to pound its way out of her breast.

“Goodbye, Mommy!”

Jody jerked her head around angrily, but Cassandra had already disappeared from the room.

It’s me, she cried silently, it’s got to be me. As her eyes closed, her chin fell heavily to her heaving breast, and her mind whirled in a jumble of swirling colors and darkness. Her shoulders shrugged deeply, trying to accommodate the breath that raged into her lungs. When she finally opened her eyes, she found the knife still clutched in her rigid right hand and flung it away, her fingers outstretched in horror.

As they rode in the car, Jody sat in the back seat and stared vacantly out the window. The giggled games of father and daughter faded from her consciousness as she thought about the hill. It had always been “Our Hill” since that day, fourteen years earlier, when she and Jeffrey had spent their first afternoon together; there, at the foot of the hill, they had fallen so deeply, so wonderfully in love. Two years later, as she glided on the swing and listened hypnotically to the metallic squeak of the chain and the abrasive crunch of Jeffrey’s thongs on the sand, he had suddenly caught her in mid-swing and proposed marriage. In fact, it was there on the crest of the hill that she had first suggested that they ought to have a child. That last. What perversity, what insanity, had prompted her to want a change?

“You can’t improve on perfection,” they had always said, whenever the question had arisen. But she had been suddenly possessed by an unrelenting desire to have a baby. She and Jeffrey had joked about her ·biological clock, but why, as they stood together on the brow of the hill, had she suddenly been so insistent? So positive?

As the silent question insinuated itself into her consciousness, another image emerged. The day had been so perfect. They were celebrating Jeffrey’s promotion to assistant buyer. He had worked so hard and had been so worried about both the job and Jody’s pregnancy; they were relieved and overjoyed when he got the good news. As if to join in the celebration, the jacarandas were in full bloom, and their flowers burst in purple explosions against the verdant hillside. The sun melted warmly through the still morning air. The fierce kick from within had so surprised her that she had dropped to her knees. At that same instant, a fierce wind had startled the jacarandas into exaggerated motion and the sky darkened ominously.

Jody had yelled, “Jeffrey!” and had turned to see him standing at the very top of the hill, silhouetted against the gray-purple sky. He made no move. He just stood there, looking down at her from that distant spot. Suddenly and inexplicably terrified, she called to him again. He came running down the hill to her side. In his bright sunlight, the shadow and the fear had simply vanished. She had never even thought to ask him why he hadn’t answered when she’d called, but it seemed suddenly important enough to ask him now.

Looking up, she felt a shadow fall across her face. Startled, she looked out past the front of the car. There, looming before them, was the hill.

“We’d better hurry,” Jeff said. “The sun’s already starting to sneak down behind the trees.” He stopped the car and unfastened his seatbelt. “Is Daddy’s best girl ready to go?” He repeated the ritual as he unlocked the door.

“Oh, yes!” came the anticipated answer. “Is Cassie’s Daddy ready to go?” she cried and leapt down from the seat.

My God, thought Jody. My God, there it is. Doesn’t he see? The sky is falling… The sky is falling….

Jody took the picnic basket out of the car, walked to the picnic table, and began laying out the food. As she picked up the large carving knife to slice the ham, she looked around. Some things never change, she thought. Same old grassy knoll; same old ravine; same old—she stopped. Terror. There was a name for the pain that was wrenching her insides. Ever since that day, that first day when Jeff had stood at the crest of the hill, that first day when Cassandra had made herself known, the Hill had become an unconscious archetype of her singular, obsessive terror. The terror had crept in, and their marriage had gone mad.

Though steeped in despair, she had clung to the desperate hope that motherhood and the birth of their child would destroy the deadly, debilitating dread. The worst part was that she had no one in whom she could confide. How do you tell a joyous father-to-be that his wife is afraid of their expected baby, frightened nearly out of her wits? How could anyone explain it? She had not been afraid of childbirth itself; that might have made some sense. She was afraid that the child would live, for she already sensed that the monster writhing within would surely destroy her if it were allowed to live. But it had lived, and she had lived with it…and lived with it….

“Goodbye, Mommy!” rang in her ear. They had yelled it in unison as they galloped up the hill, her hill, together.

A shudder ran through her as she underwent a paroxysm of the most intense loneliness and isolation. When she could move again, she immediately turned her gaze to the top of the hill.

It had gotten darker in the last few moments, and it took her eyes several seconds to adjust. They were there at the top of the hill, standing together, looking down at her. Jody fell to the ground, just like the last time, shaken by a violent kick from inside her abdomen; that struggling, writhing, malevolent entity was mocking her, reminding her of the last three years. She screamed his name.

“Jeffrey!” echoed beyond the hilltop. She shot a glance in the direction of the hill and saw a lone figure standing on the crest. The little figure waved ominously. Which old witch? The wicked witch….

A sudden rage metamorphosed itself instantly into sudden resolve, and a powerful courage coursed through her being. The time has come, the walrus said.... Her eyes searched until they found the evil thing silhouetted against the dusk-stained sky. BEWARE THE JABBERWOCK…. It stood there calmly waving, silently directing the scene below. SHE TOOK HER VORPAL BLADE IN HAND…. Raising the butcher knife over her head, she lurched toward the hill. FEE…FIE…FOE…FUM….I’M BILLY-GOAT-GRUFF….

“Good-bye, Mommy!”

A wraithlike scream escaped Jody’s lips, and she fell to her knees, beating furiously at her stomach, her hands clenched together, pounding and pounding. SNICKER-SNACK…. This time she knew she would kill it and be finally free. Again, she plunged her hands deep into her abdomen, but the pain wouldn’t stop. Finally, she looked down at the wet warmth that had become her hands and gazed at them in wonder. Gore-drenched, they gripped the blood-soaked handle of the blade which protruded from the pulp that had been her belly.

A mindless, sense-shattering shriek, like that of a stricken, helpless animal burst forth from her own subconscious as she drooped, gurgling, onto her side. Then she heard a childish, playful little voice echo from the hill.

“Goodbye, Mommy!”

Which old witch? The wicked witch…

“Good....”

DING DONG….

“…bye!”

©1985 T. McMullen

All Rights Reserved

Crack-Up—Another Original Short Story for Halloween

CRACK-UP 

by Tim McMullen

"One...two...three candles!" cried Jenny Ashton. "C'mon, everybody, let's sing. Then you can blow the candles out, Willie." Her thin lips punctuated around a wide grin, she raised her slender, mauve-tipped hands in unison and then dropped them for the downbeat. "Happy Birthday to you .... " 

On the cul-de-sac where the Ashton family lived, Willie's older brother, Jeffrey, with his precocious, "TV kid" quips and his dark, tousled hair fringing grinning grey-green eyes, had achieved something akin to "star-status." In this new tract, where ancient oaks had ultimately acquiesced to a baneful sprawl of beige boxes, Jeffrey had been the first of the block's new batch to walk, the first to talk, and, by the age of three, the first to read. At about this time, perhaps even in celebration of his future brother's feat, little William had been conceived. 

Gazing up from his infant's crib on his first day home from the hospital, Willie had gurgled happily into his brother's anxious face. Jeffrey proffered a tentative finger to the tiny pink alien, and it grasped the extended digit in its wrinkled little fist and bubbled with delight. 

"This baby is my brother," a beaming Jeffrey had announced to his elated parents. 

From his earliest months, Willie had loved the sound of people. Music boxes, rattles, musical mobiles, and other devices designed to engage infant attention were equally ineffectual. For this reason, story telling emerged as a major preoccupation for the Ashton household. 

A discomfited, wailing Willie became a cooing, sedate Willie at the drop of a "Once upon a time...." Although initially entranced by all the stories which were recited to him, first by his parents 

and, later, by his brother Jeffrey, the toddler became especially enchanted by the fantastic visions of Lewis Carroll and the Brothers Grimm. His narrators, particularly Jeffrey, responded by filling his nighttime wanderings with dragons, goblins, beasts, and monsters. 

By the time he was two years old, Willie had been initiated into the Secret Society of the Supernatural; its founder and only other member was his brother, Jeffrey. Starting with traditional superstitions like ladders, black cats, and sidewalk cracks, Jeffrey quickly became expert at inventing little diversions of imagination which could utterly thrill and, ultimately, terrify his little brother. Jeffrey was both his teacher and his tormentor. Willie knew that Jeffy had been scolded repeatedly for "scaring the pants off" him, as well as the other neighborhood kids, but the scoldings neither deterred Jeffrey's creations nor jaded William's credulity. 

Despite the air of festivity and excitement surrounding Willie's third birthday, Jeffrey seemed distracted; he even mumbled to himself, as if he were trying to recall some misplaced or forgotten something. Willie had wondered about his brother's curious behavior several times. At dinner he had almost asked Jeffrey why he was looking at him so funny, but his father had asked him a question and the moment passed. 

Willie was very excited at dinner, and he received several jovial reprimands about speaking with his mouth full. Despite his obvious anxiety, it had been decided that the dinner dishes should be cleaned up before Willie opened his birthday presents. 

While the others were busy, Willie sidled in and surveyed the shared kingdom of his and Jeffrey's bedroom. His blue, He-Man blanket dripped a corner off of the bottom bunk and onto the floor. He crossed to the bed, lifted the wayward corner, and pulled the blanket toward him. Draping it over his shoulders, he tied two of the ends around his neck and flung the rest of the blanket cape-like behind him. 

Alone in Castle Greyskull, he again turned his attention to his surroundings. Before him loomed the magical enchanted tower where the evil ones held the princess. Grabbing his sword, HeMan made a daring leap for the ladder that lead up to the tower. His foot slipped on the rung, and he nearly plunged down into the moat where the alligators and dragons swam hungrily, but he clung bravely and began to climb. At the fifth rung he stopped and turned his head to look over his shoulder. 

"Wow!" he gasped under his breath. 

Willie had never viewed his world from the vantage of his brother's top bunk. This ascent had been strictly forbidden by both his parents and his brother, and he had never dared venture up the ladder for fear of being caught; the height of the perch had also been a significant deterrent. But the cape and the sword had propelled him upward, and now he gazed out on virgin territory. 

He eyed the dresser with particular interest. The dresser top was too tall for him, so he kept his bank and his other personal possessions on the little orange plastic table beneath the window at the foot of the bed. Occasionally, he had pulled out the bottom dresser drawer and used it for a step up to the top, but he'd never dared more than a few seconds' peek before he jumped down. Now, from the top of the bunk ladder, he could see everything. 

Jeffrey kept a blue pig filled with pennies and nickels; it was there in the far corner standing guard over Jeffrey's possessions. A plastic tortoise-shell comb and brush set nestled beneath the pig. To their right lay a pile of objects. Willie couldn't identify everything, but the ring of keys, the marbles, and the bits of string suggested the probable importance of the other objects. Suddenly, though surrounded by the other things, and undoubtedly hidden on purpose, a black plastic whistle poked its snout out from the pile. It looked like a real playground whistle, the shrill warbling kind like they used at the park. 

Willie found that his feet were entangled in his cape as he hastened to descend, so he paused for a moment, untied the blanket, and let it drop to the floor. Birthday avarice in his eyes and the whistle in his mind, he pulled out the first two drawers in stair-step fashion and clambered up onto the dresser top. He carefully extricated the whistle from beneath the pile. It had a cord looped through the hole at the end, and he delicately slid his head through its noose. He let the whistle dangle on his stomach for a moment, then he brought it slowly to his lips. The whistle wheezed a muffled chirp from Willie's breathing, and he quickly clapped his hand over it. Carefully holding his breath, he clamped the whistle tightly between his teeth and looked at himself in the dresser mirror. 

Hey, you kids, stop that, he shouted silently, then he held the whistle and blew an imaginary blast on it. The kids stopped instantly, and Willie viewed himself proudly in the mirror. 

"Watch out, Willie!" Jeffrey suddenly cried from the doorway. The whistle shrieked in Willie's mouth, and he nearly toppled off the dresser. 

"You must be crazy! Did you check for cracks, Willie? Did you?" Jeffrey demanded in frightened tones. 

"Wha...what?" whimpered the confused child, spinning from the mirror in alarm. 

Jeffrey grabbed Willie, pulled him down from the dresser, and placed him emphatically on the floor. 

"What cracks?" Willie ventured hesitantly. "The cracks! The mirror cracks! They might have got you, Willie. You might have been a goner if I hadn't caught you!" 

The little boy's face worked and wrinkled itself to the verge of terrified, trembling tears, but the older boy put his arm around his brother, reassuring and calming him. 

"It's okay now, Willie...it's okay," he whispered earnestly and hugged his shoulder. "It's okay. I was just afraid that that might have been one of the mirrors of death." He paused to allow the weight of his words to sink into the credulous consciousness of the little boy. 

"M-M-Mirrors of death?" came the inevitable reply. 

"Sure, haven't you heard of them? I guess nobody told you 'cuz you were too little. They don't get little kids. They can't get you until you're at least three years old." After another pointed pause, he continued. "That's why I shouted 'cuz now you're three, and they can have you if they want!”

"Who? Who can have me, Jeffy?"

"The people in the mirror. The...uh...mirror monsters!! The ones who've been trapped inside and can't get out."

"Inside the mirror? How, Jeffy? It's too thin, isn't it?" he asked, regarding the mirror warily. 

"Jeffrey! Willie!" Their mother's voice startled them, and Willie jumped. "What are you boys doing? You're so quiet!" 

"Nothing," Jeffrey answered, "We're just playing." There was a long silence while they listened to their mother puttering in the kitchen. 

"Willie, you remember Wonderland, and Alice and the White Rabbit, don't you?" 

"Y-Y-Yes...."

"Well, don't you remember her other story of the Looking Glass room, where everything 's backwards?" William nodded, and Jeffrey continued, "Well, that was just a story, of course, but some of those things are true. About the mirror was real, only that's not how it happens. Inside the mirror world it's not as happy as Alice, and you can't just step through like she did; but on the other side, they sit and watch and stare at us, just waiting for someone they can take." 

"H-How do they do it?" William had taken several steps back from the mirror, and he now gazed intently into Jeffrey's earnest face. 

"They do it like this," said Jeffrey. "They watch and wait for something to happen. They wait for a mirror to crack, or if they are really strong, they crack it themselves from the inside. They try to keep the cracks as small as possible so's no one will notice." 

William sat with his back against their bunk bed and began to cuddle himself into a blue He-Man cocoon created by the blanket which he had plucked from the floor. He sucked on a soggy satin corner of the cocoon, eyes widened in unquestioning incredulity. 

"Then, when someone comes up to one of their mirrors with the little cracks, they get ready. If the person gets too close or stays too long, then they've got him." 

Jeffrey grabbed William's arm. The little boy jumped and sucked in breath between his teeth. 

"You can't get away, and they hold you and pull you until they suck you right into the mirror. But that's not the worst!" The younger boy trembled, and Jeffrey released his arm. "When they suck you through," he whispered, "they like pull you all inside out!" Jeffrey accompanied this narrative with a pantomime of frantic tugging and a graphic slurping noise. "Your brain and...and your guts and everything are on the outside of your body. Then you have to be with the people on the inside... always." 

"Why don't we just break the mirrors so those people can't get out?" asked William, squinting hesitantly from the depths of his blue cocoon. 

"What, are you crazy? That's seven year's bad luck! You know why? Because when you break a mirror, you let the mirror people have a lot more power," Jeffrey snorted condescendingly. 

"Then, what do we do?

"Just be careful! Don't look too long or stand too close to a mirror, and don't be BAD...because they always take mean, bad people...and always remember to check for cracks. Anyway, this mirror is okay, because I've checked it carefully now, and it's okay."

William sat thoughtfully, without speaking, and filed away the information in his three-year-old brain. He glanced sideways at the mirror and then back at his brother. Jeffrey had to look away to keep from laughing, but Willie read the gesture. 

With a particularly dramatic facial contortion meant to convey his deep disgust, Willie emitted a condescending snort of his own and then clucked his tongue on the back of his teeth in a "Tsk" of disbelief. 

"Willie!" his mother cried suddenly from some distant room. "Come in here, Sweetie, let's open your birthday gifts.

"Okay!" the little boy yelled. He flashed an angry look at his brother, and Jeffrey burst into hysterical laughter. Willie turned and left the room, but he snuck back stealthily and peeked around the door jamb. 

Jeffrey stood looking into the mirror, and Willie knew that Jeffrey was ridiculing him. He was pretending to be his little brother, and he approached the mirror with a look of mock dread. He inched closer and closer, laughing aloud at his "Wary Willie" imitation. Finally, he pressed his nose against the glass and leaned his right brow against it as well. 

"Hello! Is anybody there? Come in...come in...HELLO!"

Humiliated, Willie turned from the doorway and retreated from the sound of his brother's derisive laughter. 

"Stupid Jeffrey! I'll never believe him again, not ever!" he whimpered. A sharp pain swelled in his throat and a tear pooled in his eye as he relived his betrayal. "I hate you! I hate you and I wish you..." Willie stopped himself. Never before had he uttered such angry words, and as he spoke, he felt the hatred flow from his body like the oil he had seen his dad drain out of the car. He ungritted his teeth and unclenched his fists, but the ache in his throat merely crawled down into his chest, and he stopped at the end of the hall and cried softly. 

When it came, the scream was so incomprehensible yet so overwhelming that Willie was reflexively flung against the wall. The sound conveyed a sense of pain so much beyond human endurance as to be inconceivable, yet before it had ceased its wail, Willie was on his feet and sprinting for his room. 

Without thinking, he ran to the dresser and climbed up on the bottom drawer which he had left open. By this time only one leg barely protruded from the mirror above the dresser. Willie grabbed for it and clung on with every ounce of his three-year-old might. The leg recoiled convulsively, as if trying to kick free, and Jeffrey's shoe carne off in his hands as Willie tumbled backward onto the floor. 

When Jenny and Alan Ashton came running into the room, they found Willie sitting at the foot of the dresser, sobbing, with Jeffrey's dirty sneaker pressed to his chest. 

©1985 Tim McMullen

   All Rights Reserved