The Minotaur: Espresso

December 26th, 2017

by Salvatore Difalco

[ read suite in correct order ]

 

ESPRESSO

Thought I knew the city. Used to work as a bicycle courier and thought I knew every inch of it. Clearly not. It was upscale, this neighbourhood: high-end fashion, gourmet foods, designer kitchen supplies, extortionate furniture. Chi chi cafes and tony eateries glittered uninvitingly. I entered a zinc-encrusted espresso bar and took an aluminum stool at the gleaming counter. I was the only customer. The barista, back to me, ponytail shaking as he worked, must not have heard me enter. I could see him, bearded, serious, black plaid vest impressive, in the mirrors behind the bar, but his downcast eyes and furrowed brow indicated complete focus on the task at hand.

I cleared my throat, more loudly than I’d intended, startling the barista, who whirled around holding in his hands some kind of metallic sculpture or icon.

“It’s you,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”

Before I could say anything, the barista raised his hand.

“Existence is bizarre,” he said.  “Consciousness contradicts reality, undermines it.”

“When you finish polishing your toy—a double espresso, and tell me where I am.”

“Apotheosis requires encounters,” he said, smiling. He rested the statuette—a horned animal or hybrid creature, in brass—on the counter, and turned to the espresso machine. “We’re in the Seventh Circle of Hell,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Practicing your stand-up? Love good stand-up. This gig just pays the rent. Correct?”

“They said you’d be feisty.”

They? Tell me what’s going on before I—”

“Before you what?” interrupted the barista. He placed a demitasse filled with thick black coffee at my elbow. Steam rose from it. “Sugar?” he asked.

Of course, sugar. He placed a chrome sugar bowl beside my cup. I stirred in two teaspoons and tasted. Not bad.

Resting his elbows on the counter, the barista opened his hands and settled his chin on them. “I know,” he sighed. “We get the coffee from a family-run operation out of Naples who’ve been roasting their own organically grown and specially blended beans for more than a century.”

“Seriously,” I said, “where am I? Got off the bus a few stops early. They must’ve redeveloped this whole neighbourhood, it all looks new to me.”

“He’s my talisman,” the barista said, nodding to the statuette, “traditional symbol of the unconquerable force of ego, haha.”

“I need to be …” I stopped myself and glanced at my wristwatch. Almost eleven.

“You were saying?”

“None of your business,” I said, when in reality I’d forgotten where I was going, drawing a blank. I racked my brain, but nothing came. A sense of panic washed over me, buzzy, cold.

“What’s the matter?” asked the barista.

“Where did you say we were?”

“This is a Minotaur,” he said, holding it under my nose.

Buffed to a rich shine, it exuded a faintly coppery smell. All told an impressive property. It could have easily crushed my skull with a violent blow. The barista tossed the statuette from hand to hand, a manoeuvre that looked reckless to me.

“Do you know what a Minotaur is?” he asked.

“I don’t fucking care.”

The barista smiled. “Picasso did some splendid Minotaurs. Do you know Picasso?”

“What do you mean? I know of him. I know his art. Whatever.”

“I want you to do something for me. If you do, I’ll tell you exactly where we are.”

He abruptly disappeared into the back. I examined the statuette. A bull-headed bipedal creature. I recalled reading about the Minotaur in high school mythology, but if someone had held a gun to my head I wouldn’t have been able to shorthand whatever myth it appears in, or explain any socio-historical or symbolic associations. How did it become part of my day, a day when I was scheduled to sign my divorce papers? Ah-ha! I thought. I was headed to the lawyer’s office to sign my divorce papers! Carolina and I had been separated for five years. So I wasn’t demonstrating signs of early onset dementia. But damn, I’d missed the appointment. Carolina would see this as a deliberate attempt to forestall the inevitable—she believed I still loved her.

Shortly the barista returned holding some kind of mask by one of its two horns. It was quite large and as menacing a mask as I had ever seen.

“What the hell is that?”

“The construction’s well done,” he said. “Real craftsmanship went into this bad boy. No detail glanced over. That’s real bull hide and real bull horns, man. But get this—foam padded interior. I kid you not. We hit our tester in the head multiple times with boffer swords and he barely felt it, and the mask stood up to further beatings—bats, chains, whips—no rips or tears.”

“What the—what?”

“You’re skeptical. Okay. Some cons. Not easy to see out of it. Zero peripheral. Even seeing ahead challenging—keep eyes centred on the eyeholes or you’re blind. And the interior of the head is huge, made for an Andre the Giant, haha. Your head appears normal-sized. But the testers kept it on without too much wobble using a wound towel—like a turban. I strongly suggest you copy.” He placed a rolled white towel by my elbow.

I stared at the mask, the sharp horns, the flaring nostrils.

“Did my ex put you up to this?” I asked, however unlikely she’d go to such lengths.

“Your ex?”

“I’m not putting that on,” I said.

“But you came here for it, didn’t you?” The barista leaned over. “You need it for the party, no? The costume party.”

“But I—”

“Come on, man. Don’t get weird on me. Just put it on.” He patted the towel. “The towel will keep it stable. Come on. I don’t have all day.”

 

 

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The Minotaur

December 25th, 2017

by Salvatore Difalco

 

THE BUS

I could smell exhaust fumes. I wasn’t fully awake. My estranged wife Carolina had knitted the burgundy mohair sweater I was wearing, before she started hating me, but I had no memory of putting it on. I rubbed my face. A glimpse of my hands made me start. My fingers looked swollen and inflamed, fingernails discoloured. I performed violent jazz hands, hoping to restore circulation. But this was painful.

People on the bus looked like animals bearing reproachful burdens. A commensurate odour prevailed. Life in the city can be hard. Yet I felt little empathy for them, my fellow beasts. We had failed. We had all failed. What was left for us to do but despair, moving from foot to foot, or hoof to hoof, like doomed livestock?

The bus driver leaned to his open side window and blew snot from his nose in a silvery mucous-jet. He turned and caught my eye. Blue-tinged steel-wool sideburns coiled from under his ill-fitting navy driver’s cap. The black holes of his nostrils yawned, small black eyes peeping out above them, like their satellites.

A man beside me, who bore a resemblance to a fine English horse, lifted and lowered his chin, fluttering his lips. I held the stanchion, white-knuckled; an unpleasant disequilibrium threatened to topple me whenever the bus swerved or jerked to a sudden stop.

“You don’t look well,” said a woman wearing red plastic, gripping the same stanchion, in a falsetto rivaling that of Johnny, Señor Wences’s talking hand. Her arm seemed unattached to her small, round body. I tried not to think about it too much.

“I slept poorly,” I said.

A whiff of salami breath made me turn my head and face the window. Clouds darkened the world without. Perhaps a great storm was moving in, a monsoon, to cleanse the city.

“I know who you are,” said the woman in my ear.

My ear tingled. A man seated below the window, missing a third or so of the facial surface area typical for a head of his size, smiled. I could not imagine what accidents or procedures had led to this, so I averted his gaze and stared at an advertisement adjacent to him for a Phantom of the Opera production scheduled to open that autumn.

The intrusive woman had shoved beside me and tucked her small head under my arm, extended to grip the stanchion to my right. The man with the scant face raised his eyebrows. This reaction made me feel a kinship with him that, in retrospect, amounted to nothing, but at that moment bolstered me: no matter what the woman said, I would keep cool.

“I know where you’re going,” she said.

Sometimes with people like this, it’s best to just go along.

“So tell me,” I said.

“I know,” she said, drawing her hands to her breasts. Her hands, covered with fine dark hairs, rubbed each other. “I’m invited to the same party.”

I tried to piece all this together with zero success.

“I’m a friend of Nessus—you know. We met at his summer shindig. I came as Ariadne.” She framed her face with her hands and curtsied. “You were going on about Sleeping Ariadne,” she added, “reclining after a delirious orgy, radiating in the glow of apotheosis.”

I stared at her, waiting for the break in character, the telling laugh, but it never came. This was a case of mistaken identity, or a delusion carried forth from some other scenario, and from other characters, unrelated to me.

“What’s my name?” I asked.

“At the party you said your name was Minos, but I know that’s not your real name.”

The man with the unusual face raised his eyebrows again. What I perceived as an expression of empathy, if not sympathy, turned out to be one of urgency.

“My stop,” he announced as the bus slowed. He hopped to his feet and exited without touching a single person or thing.

“Tonight you’re coming as a Minotaur,” the woman said.

“Say again?”

“You said you were coming to the next party as a Minotaur.”

This had gone far enough. I broke away from her and squeezed to the front doors. Someone or something violently lunged behind me as I shoved through, but I ignored it. Looking behind you pays no dividends, neither in horror films nor in life. The driver swung his face around, his nose with all its blackened pores stopping an inch from mine.

“What’re you think you’re doing, mate?”

“I want out.”

He pointed to a large laminated sign above him that read:

EXIT BACK DOORS ONLY.

He bared his teeth, which could have been wooden dentures judging from their hue and grain, and glanced backwards.

“Get going,” he chortled.

“I’m going,” I said. 

Faced with the atavistic energy of the riders, I thought of a ruse. Rather than shoving through them to the back of the bus, I remained at the front but ducked behind a man with the breadth of a silverback gorilla, obscuring myself to the driver, who intermittently checked his rear-view. The goliath serving as my shield could have played professional football in the United States or wrestled professionally, I’m convinced.

When the bus came to a stop, I waited for the driver to open the doors, front and back, since people stood waiting at the stop, and bolted for the front door before anyone made a move. The driver roared curses behind me, taking the matter too personally perhaps, a mistake if you ask me, but I moved swiftly, as I can when I must.

 

 

ESPRESSO

Thought I knew the city. Used to work as a bicycle courier and thought I knew every inch of it. Clearly not. It was upscale, this neighbourhood: high-end fashion, gourmet foods, designer kitchen supplies, extortionate furniture. Chi chi cafes and tony eateries glittered uninvitingly. I entered a zinc-encrusted espresso bar and took an aluminum stool at the gleaming counter. I was the only customer. The barista, back to me, ponytail shaking as he worked, must not have heard me enter. I could see him, bearded, serious, black plaid vest impressive, in the mirrors behind the bar, but his downcast eyes and furrowed brow indicated complete focus on the task at hand.

I cleared my throat, more loudly than I’d intended, startling the barista, who whirled around holding in his hands some kind of metallic sculpture or icon.

“It’s you,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”

Before I could say anything, the barista raised his hand.

“Existence is bizarre,” he said.  “Consciousness contradicts reality, undermines it.”

“When you finish polishing your toy—a double espresso, and tell me where I am.”

“Apotheosis requires encounters,” he said, smiling. He rested the statuette—a horned animal or hybrid creature, in brass—on the counter, and turned to the espresso machine. “We’re in the Seventh Circle of Hell,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Practicing your stand-up? Love good stand-up. This gig just pays the rent. Correct?”

“They said you’d be feisty.”

They? Tell me what’s going on before I—”

“Before you what?” interrupted the barista. He placed a demitasse filled with thick black coffee at my elbow. Steam rose from it. “Sugar?” he asked.

Of course, sugar. He placed a chrome sugar bowl beside my cup. I stirred in two teaspoons and tasted. Not bad.

Resting his elbows on the counter, the barista opened his hands and settled his chin on them. “I know,” he sighed. “We get the coffee from a family-run operation out of Naples who’ve been roasting their own organically grown and specially blended beans for more than a century.”

“Seriously,” I said, “where am I? Got off the bus a few stops early. They must’ve redeveloped this whole neighbourhood, it all looks new to me.”

“He’s my talisman,” the barista said, nodding to the statuette, “traditional symbol of the unconquerable force of ego, haha.”

“I need to be …” I stopped myself and glanced at my wristwatch. Almost eleven.

“You were saying?”

“None of your business,” I said, when in reality I’d forgotten where I was going, drawing a blank. I racked my brain, but nothing came. A sense of panic washed over me, buzzy, cold.

“What’s the matter?” asked the barista.

“Where did you say we were?”

“This is a Minotaur,” he said, holding it under my nose.

Buffed to a rich shine, it exuded a faintly coppery smell. All told an impressive property. It could have easily crushed my skull with a violent blow. The barista tossed the statuette from hand to hand, a manoeuvre that looked reckless to me.

“Do you know what a Minotaur is?” he asked.

“I don’t fucking care.”

The barista smiled. “Picasso did some splendid Minotaurs. Do you know Picasso?”

“What do you mean? I know of him. I know his art. Whatever.”

“I want you to do something for me. If you do, I’ll tell you exactly where we are.”

He abruptly disappeared into the back. I examined the statuette. A bull-headed bipedal creature. I recalled reading about the Minotaur in high school mythology, but if someone had held a gun to my head I wouldn’t have been able to shorthand whatever myth it appears in, or explain any socio-historical or symbolic associations. How did it become part of my day, a day when I was scheduled to sign my divorce papers? Ah-ha! I thought. I was headed to the lawyer’s office to sign my divorce papers! Carolina and I had been separated for five years. So I wasn’t demonstrating signs of early onset dementia. But damn, I’d missed the appointment. Carolina would see this as a deliberate attempt to forestall the inevitable—she believed I still loved her.

Shortly the barista returned holding some kind of mask by one of its two horns. It was quite large and as menacing a mask as I had ever seen.

“What the hell is that?”

“The construction’s well done,” he said. “Real craftsmanship went into this bad boy. No detail glanced over. That’s real bull hide and real bull horns, man. But get this—foam padded interior. I kid you not. We hit our tester in the head multiple times with boffer swords and he barely felt it, and the mask stood up to further beatings—bats, chains, whips—no rips or tears.”

“What the—what?”

“You’re skeptical. Okay. Some cons. Not easy to see out of it. Zero peripheral. Even seeing ahead challenging—keep eyes centred on the eyeholes or you’re blind. And the interior of the head is huge, made for an Andre the Giant, haha. Your head appears normal-sized. But the testers kept it on without too much wobble using a wound towel—like a turban. I strongly suggest you copy.” He placed a rolled white towel by my elbow.

I stared at the mask, the sharp horns, the flaring nostrils.

“Did my ex put you up to this?” I asked, however unlikely she’d go to such lengths.

“Your ex?”

“I’m not putting that on,” I said.

“But you came here for it, didn’t you?” The barista leaned over. “You need it for the party, no? The costume party.”

“But I—”

“Come on, man. Don’t get weird on me. Just put it on.” He patted the towel. “The towel will keep it stable. Come on. I don’t have all day.”

 

 

CHIAROSCURO

The world is divided into distinct halves. The right side bright and full of chattering people living good lives and willing to talk about it. The left side dark, thronged by sullen figures absorbed in dark, unspeakable thoughts. I’m having trouble breathing. I expected as much. And hearing, forget about it. Might as well be buried. But that comes with the turf. The bifurcation of the world, however, comes as an unpleasant surprise. Who knew? Maybe one of the eyes has a darker lens. That’s too easy.

The bus rumbles and wheezes along. No one dares sit beside me, there in the middle of the back seat, no one from the dark side, no one from the bright side. My peripherals are blocked, but I know that no one sits to my left or to my right and that no one will sit there.

I’m perspiring heavily, armpits soaked. Raging thirst. I just want to get home now. My plans for the day have been scotched. I just want to get home and think about the next thing, the next thing I must do. A young man in a tight black suit sits in front of me, to the left. He turns and smiles. An exception in the gloom. I see half his face as I try to adjust my eyeholes. Dark-haired, square-jawed, exuding cocky but friendly energy. I nod in acknowledgment. I understand how this must look.

“What’s your story?” he asks.

“Supposed to be a Minotaur.”

“Speak up, man.”

“I’m supposed to be a Minotaur!”

“Yeah, I gather that, but the question is why? I mean, in the middle of the day?” He taps his wristwatch, holding it up as though he knows I’ll have trouble spotting it without assistance. “Kinda early for a costume ball, eh?”

“That’s later, yes, a party.” A party to which I wasn’t invited, speaking of which. “But I was trying on the mask and—well, I can’t get it off.”

The young man chuckles into his hand.

“It’s not funny,” I say.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but you can’t get it off?”

“Believe me, I mashed my nose, ripped my ears and almost broke my jaw trying to get it off, but no go. I’m—it’s fucking stuck.”

The barista and I had spent the better part of an hour trying to pull the thing off, after I let him convince me to try it on “just for the hell of it.” The towel must have got jammed up inside there and we couldn’t get the mask off my head no matter how we tugged and twisted it. The barista said we needed a lubricant and grabbed a stick of butter from the cooler and greased me up, but all that did was stain my shirt. I figured my only option was to cut the bastard off.

“That’s fucked up,” says the young man. “Like, really out there.”

“I know. And I missed an appointment to sign my divorce papers. My ex will be pissed. She thinks I still love her.”

“Do you?”

“It’s—it’s been five years …”

“Anything I can do?”

“Like what?”

“Take you to Emergency or something? Tricky getting that thing off by yourself.”

“No, forget that shit.”

The young man stares at me with serious eyes.

“So you’re just going to go home and do it yourself?”

“Yeah, I’m going to cut it off.”

He leans over and taps the mask. “Gonna need a saw to get that sucker off.”

“Think so?”

The young man rings the bell and looks at me sadly.

“This is me,” he says.

“So it is.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, barely containing my tears.

 

 

 

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Bang Bang: the Incident

December 24th, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the complete suite in correct order ]

 

The sky growled overtop the blaring speakers as thick clouds rolled in to cover the night sky. Courtney hung out and played corn hole in the beer garden with her work friends at the Music Factory. The place was packed, typical for a Friday night. A birthday party filled the covered portion of the outdoor patio, leaving Courtney and her friends vulnerable to the coming rain. Picnic tables with umbrellas were scattered everywhere. The flickering sign of the recording studio next door lit up the night sky. The wind picked up and a few droplets fell from the sky, splattering Courtney and her friends in the face.

“Maybe we should head back inside,” suggested Patsy.

“Yeah, I guess. But let’s just try and finish this game first.” Courtney tossed another bag and it smacked the board, right next to the cutout hole.

The sky opened up. Buckets of water poured down. Courtney and her coworkers squealed, splitting up and running for cover. Half sought shelter under the covered patio with Courtney while the rest huddled under the nearest umbrella. No one could hear each other due to the sheer force of the rain pelting down. A chain-link fence surrounded the bar. Courtney had her back toward the parking lot, huddled close to her friends who were trying to protect themselves from the wind and an occasional sideways spray of the rain.

POP. POP. POP. POP.

Not a normal sound of thunder. Maybe an old car backfiring? Courtney spun around to look for the source of the sound. Not a car. A man. Facing them. In a baseball cap. Holding something. A gun.

“Get out. Now!” Patsy grabbed ahold of Courtney and shoved her toward the inside building. “Look!” Patsy pointed to a girl standing just three people away from Courtney. She held her hand cupped over her face. Blood poured between her fingers and dripped onto her rain-soaked shirt.

Chaos ensued as the crowd screamed and pushed toward the exit. Caught on the outside, Courtney pushed toward the center of the crowd.

POP. POP.

A second man burst through the doors of the recording studio next door. He chased the man in the baseball cap and shots continued back and forth.

Patsy shoved Courtney toward the door. “I’ll go get them. You head for the door. Stay away from windows.”

Courtney raced inside, followed by the rest of her group. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hair hung in her face, dripping from the rain. She rubbed her arms and shivered. “Is everyone okay?” Courtney searched her group to make sure no one had gone missing.

“Courtney, I think you have some blood on your shirt.” Patsy pointed to the back of Courtney’s right shoulder. Courtney reached up and felt a small nick in her skin. A bullet had scraped her skin, causing a small wound. She started to breath faster. If she had been standing just a fraction in either direction, the ragged, splintered form of a ricochet bullet would have done more than just graze her.

“Man, it looks like it just nicked you. You are so lucky,” said Patsy. “I’ll go find someone to get that looked at.”

Courtney slumped to the ground as her friends crowded around her. The police arrived on the scene. With exists taped off, everyone stayed inside until both shooters were detained. Inside of the bar, the music cut off. Most of the patrons sat huddled with their groups, some talking, some still sipping beer. Staff members of the bar placed coverings up over the windows of a side room while the paramedics worked on the girl who fell victim to a stray bullet. Courtney’s friends asked each other if they thought the girl in the room would be okay. More small talk from her friends as the minutes slipped by. Courtney just sat in silence.

#

 

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Bang Bang: After

December 24th, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the suite in correct order ]

 

After

Courtney tried to pull herself together. She needed to deposit a check at the bank and thought of using the drive-thru to avoid any further confrontations. On a normal day, she would enter the bank. She craved normalcy. Checking her watch, she needed to make a decision before the bank closed for the day. She dragged herself from the safety of her vehicle.

The bank was empty for a Friday afternoon. Only one customer waited ahead of her. Without looking at him, she noted his hand stayed in his pocket. He tapped his opposite hand against the counter. Courtney surveyed the rest of the room. The crawling hands on the wall clock trapped her in slow motion. She felt her heartbeat thumping, her blood racing. Her eyes darted from the teller to the customer’s hand. She watched as his hand slowly withdrew from his pocket. Courtney sucked in her breath and stumbled backward, falling to the ground.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” The man in front stooped down toward Courtney. “Can someone get this girl a glass of water? I think she fainted.”

Courtney sat up. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.” She declined the hand that was offered her and rose to her feet. Deciding she had enough excitement for the day, Courtney left the building to deposit her check at the ATM from the safety of her car.

***

 

 

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Bang Bang: Before

December 22nd, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the suite in correct order ]

 

Before

Knowing that she would need some cash for the evening out with her friends, Courtney stopped into the bank. Several customers were in front of her in line. She debated going back out to her car and simply using the ATM, but she loved interacting with a real person, a rarity in the world today. Plus, this bank usually handed out lollipops, even to adults.

At last, Courtney found herself next in line. The man in front was depositing wads of cash. He kept reaching in his overstuffed pockets and pulling out rubber band bound bills. In no particular rush, she found herself making up stories about the man as cash continued to flow out of his pockets. She wanted to ask him if there was an end to this or was he trying to entertain everyone with a ridiculous magic trick of boastful greed.

Courtney approached the teller with a smile. She understood how difficult customers could be and offered the teller the courteous respect she deserved. She finished her transaction and thanked the teller when she offered her a lollipop.

 

 

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Bang Bang: After

December 21st, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the suite in correct order ]

 

After

Courtney pushed her cart straight toward the back of the store. She had one mission, get in and get out. The only sound she heard was the squeak of the loose wheel on the right side of the cart. No music played overhead today. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, avoiding all eye contact with any passersby. As she rolled down the frozen food section, she kept her cart on the far side of the aisle, avoiding the motion sensors for fear that she would draw attention to herself. She was spending the night in and needed a six-pack to pass the time. It would help her sleep.

As she turned the corner toward the beer aisle, a man approached from the opposite direction. He was clad in blue jeans, a tight fitted shirt and was wearing a baseball cap pulled down, covering most of his face. Courtney kept her head down. She thought about leaving but assured herself that she was being ridiculous. This was not the same guy, plenty of normal individuals wore baseball caps. She snatched a six-pack and headed toward the end of the aisle. As she passed him, he reached his hand out to grab her attention. Courtney jumped back and swerved her cart, smashing it into the center display and spraying beer all over the floor.

The man pointed at the floor behind her. “Geez, lady. I was just trying to tell you that you dropped something. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Courtney mumbled her thanks, still without looking up, and grabbed the packet of guacamole mix that had fallen out of her cart before heading toward the check-out.

***

 

 

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Bang Bang: Before

December 20th, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the suite in correct order ]

 

Before

Courtney pushed her cart down aisle after aisle as the loudspeakers blared the same old familiar mix of soft rock ballads. She forgot to make a list but still remembered what she needed for the upcoming week. Hitting the frozen food aisle, the items behind glass doors exploded to life as she triggered the motion sensors. Courtney loved the fake sense of magic she felt when pushed the cart faster, illuminating the entire frozen food section. She smiled from the rush as she came upon the next aisle of adult beverages. Courtney was going out with a few friends from work that evening and figured it wouldn’t hurt to have something cold waiting in the fridge if they decided to have a few before or even after a night out.

While perusing the beer aisle, a man approached her from the opposite direction. He was clad in jeans with an oversized hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled down, covering most of his face. Courtney paused. She faked interest in a particular craft beer to gain a better look at the mysterious stranger. As he walked by her, he acknowledged her with the slightest head nod and a smirk that spread across his chiseled jawline. Courtney felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she blushed. She grabbed two six-packs of the closest beer and hurried toward the cash register, embarrassed that he may catch her staring again.

 

 

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Bang Bang: After

December 19th, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

[ read the suite in correct order ]

 

After

The whirl and tumble of the machines sent a chill down Courtney’s spine as she walked into the laundromat. One of the overhead neon tubes flickered overhead, sending a slew of flashbacks into her mind. She took a deep breath, convincing herself that she was being silly. This was the same laundromat she visited every Friday morning. She set her bag of clothes down on the nearest table by the door and started to organize and separate. She remembered her detergent this week. She rummaged through her front pocket, searching for her change. Realizing that the quarters were in the cup holder in the front seat of her car, she cursed as she slipped out the front door to retrieve them.

When she returned with the change, the laundromat was cramped, filled with the morning rush of regulars. The mixed damp smell of mildew from the old building and overwhelming floral scents smacked her in the face. Her eyes darted back and forth at all the strange faces in the room. As she scanned the room, her heart rate increased. She could feel the walls closing in on her. Courtney closed her eyes to get ahold of herself but the whine and shake of the vibrating machines only added to the stress. She could feel the glances from strangers burrowing into her as she drew too much attention to herself. In a panic, she scooped up her clothes, threw them back in her bag, and raced out the front door to safety.

***

 

 

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Bang Bang

December 18th, 2017

by Brook Reynolds

 

Before

The twirl and hum of the machines greeted Courtney as she stepped into the laundromat. Overhead, a neon tube light flashed. Courtney sighed and flicked the light switch, willing the light to remain steady.  The light relaxed and Courtney took in the room, thankful that she beat the early morning rush. She slung her laundry bag onto a table in front of an empty washer. After some rummaging in her pocket, she pulled out the correct change, only to realize she left her detergent in the car. She sorted the clothes and threw them into adjacent machines, claiming her spot, before running back out to her car.

When she returned with the detergent, the laundromat was now packed. The scent of sun-kissed cotton and lavender surrounded and hugged her. Courtney strolled over to her machine, adding the specified amount of electric blue liquid, and started the machines up. They whirled to life. She lingered a second, watching the clothes dance. Then, nodding at the Friday morning regulars, she found an empty chair in the corner and settled into her book. Courtney cherished laundry day. She loved the machines’ drone, the clothes’ soft clatter. Her weekly chore provided an escape from the pressures of work and nagging coworkers. The stress faded away in the anonymity of being just another citizen waiting for her clothes.

 

After

The whirl and tumble of the machines sent a chill down Courtney’s spine as she walked into the laundromat. One of the overhead neon tubes flickered overhead, sending a slew of flashbacks into her mind. She took a deep breath, convincing herself that she was being silly. This was the same laundromat she visited every Friday morning. She set her bag of clothes down on the nearest table by the door and started to organize and separate. She remembered her detergent this week. She rummaged through her front pocket, searching for her change. Realizing that the quarters were in the cup holder in the front seat of her car, she cursed as she slipped out the front door to retrieve them.

When she returned with the change, the laundromat was cramped, filled with the morning rush of regulars. The mixed damp smell of mildew from the old building and overwhelming floral scents smacked her in the face. Her eyes darted back and forth at all the strange faces in the room. As she scanned the room, her heart rate increased. She could feel the walls closing in on her. Courtney closed her eyes to get ahold of herself but the whine and shake of the vibrating machines only added to the stress. She could feel the glances from strangers burrowing into her as she drew too much attention to herself. In a panic, she scooped up her clothes, threw them back in her bag, and raced out the front door to safety.

***

 

Before

Courtney pushed her cart down aisle after aisle as the loudspeakers blared the same old familiar mix of soft rock ballads. She forgot to make a list but still remembered what she needed for the upcoming week. Hitting the frozen food aisle, the items behind glass doors exploded to life as she triggered the motion sensors. Courtney loved the fake sense of magic she felt when pushed the cart faster, illuminating the entire frozen food section. She smiled from the rush as she came upon the next aisle of adult beverages. Courtney was going out with a few friends from work that evening and figured it wouldn’t hurt to have something cold waiting in the fridge if they decided to have a few before or even after a night out.

While perusing the beer aisle, a man approached her from the opposite direction. He was clad in jeans with an oversized hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled down, covering most of his face. Courtney paused. She faked interest in a particular craft beer to gain a better look at the mysterious stranger. As he walked by her, he acknowledged her with the slightest head nod and a smirk that spread across his chiseled jawline. Courtney felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she blushed. She grabbed two six-packs of the closest beer and hurried toward the cash register, embarrassed that he may catch her staring again.

 

After

Courtney pushed her cart straight toward the back of the store. She had one mission, get in and get out. The only sound she heard was the squeak of the loose wheel on the right side of the cart. No music played overhead today. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, avoiding all eye contact with any passersby. As she rolled down the frozen food section, she kept her cart on the far side of the aisle, avoiding the motion sensors for fear that she would draw attention to herself. She was spending the night in and needed a six-pack to pass the time. It would help her sleep.

As she turned the corner toward the beer aisle, a man approached from the opposite direction. He was clad in blue jeans, a tight fitted shirt and was wearing a baseball cap pulled down, covering most of his face. Courtney kept her head down. She thought about leaving but assured herself that she was being ridiculous. This was not the same guy, plenty of normal individuals wore baseball caps. She snatched a six-pack and headed toward the end of the aisle. As she passed him, he reached his hand out to grab her attention. Courtney jumped back and swerved her cart, smashing it into the center display and spraying beer all over the floor.

The man pointed at the floor behind her. “Geez, lady. I was just trying to tell you that you dropped something. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Courtney mumbled her thanks, still without looking up, and grabbed the packet of guacamole mix that had fallen out of her cart before heading toward the check-out.

***

 

Before

Knowing that she would need some cash for the evening out with her friends, Courtney stopped into the bank. Several customers were in front of her in line. She debated going back out to her car and simply using the ATM, but she loved interacting with a real person, a rarity in the world today. Plus, this bank usually handed out lollipops, even to adults.

At last, Courtney found herself next in line. The man in front was depositing wads of cash. He kept reaching in his overstuffed pockets and pulling out rubber band bound bills. In no particular rush, she found herself making up stories about the man as cash continued to flow out of his pockets. She wanted to ask him if there was an end to this or was he trying to entertain everyone with a ridiculous magic trick of boastful greed.

Courtney approached the teller with a smile. She understood how difficult customers could be and offered the teller the courteous respect she deserved. She finished her transaction and thanked the teller when she offered her a lollipop.

 

After

Courtney tried to pull herself together. She needed to deposit a check at the bank and thought of using the drive-thru to avoid any further confrontations. On a normal day, she would enter the bank. She craved normalcy. Checking her watch, she needed to make a decision before the bank closed for the day. She dragged herself from the safety of her vehicle.

The bank was empty for a Friday afternoon. Only one customer waited ahead of her. Without looking at him, she noted his hand stayed in his pocket. He tapped his opposite hand against the counter. Courtney surveyed the rest of the room. The crawling hands on the wall clock trapped her in slow motion. She felt her heartbeat thumping, her blood racing. Her eyes darted from the teller to the customer’s hand. She watched as his hand slowly withdrew from his pocket. Courtney sucked in her breath and stumbled backward, falling to the ground.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” The man in front stooped down toward Courtney. “Can someone get this girl a glass of water? I think she fainted.”

Courtney sat up. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.” She declined the hand that was offered her and rose to her feet. Deciding she had enough excitement for the day, Courtney left the building to deposit her check at the ATM from the safety of her car.

***

 

The Incident

The sky growled overtop the blaring speakers as thick clouds rolled in to cover the night sky. Courtney hung out and played corn hole in the beer garden with her work friends at the Music Factory. The place was packed, typical for a Friday night. A birthday party filled the covered portion of the outdoor patio, leaving Courtney and her friends vulnerable to the coming rain. Picnic tables with umbrellas were scattered everywhere. The flickering sign of the recording studio next door lit up the night sky. The wind picked up and a few droplets fell from the sky, splattering Courtney and her friends in the face.

“Maybe we should head back inside,” suggested Patsy.

“Yeah, I guess. But let’s just try and finish this game first.” Courtney tossed another bag and it smacked the board, right next to the cutout hole.

The sky opened up. Buckets of water poured down. Courtney and her coworkers squealed, splitting up and running for cover. Half sought shelter under the covered patio with Courtney while the rest huddled under the nearest umbrella. No one could hear each other due to the sheer force of the rain pelting down. A chain-link fence surrounded the bar. Courtney had her back toward the parking lot, huddled close to her friends who were trying to protect themselves from the wind and an occasional sideways spray of the rain.

POP. POP. POP. POP.

Not a normal sound of thunder. Maybe an old car backfiring? Courtney spun around to look for the source of the sound. Not a car. A man. Facing them. In a baseball cap. Holding something. A gun.

“Get out. Now!” Patsy grabbed ahold of Courtney and shoved her toward the inside building. “Look!” Patsy pointed to a girl standing just three people away from Courtney. She held her hand cupped over her face. Blood poured between her fingers and dripped onto her rain-soaked shirt.

Chaos ensued as the crowd screamed and pushed toward the exit. Caught on the outside, Courtney pushed toward the center of the crowd.

POP. POP.

A second man burst through the doors of the recording studio next door. He chased the man in the baseball cap and shots continued back and forth.

Patsy shoved Courtney toward the door. “I’ll go get them. You head for the door. Stay away from windows.”

Courtney raced inside, followed by the rest of her group. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hair hung in her face, dripping from the rain. She rubbed her arms and shivered. “Is everyone okay?” Courtney searched her group to make sure no one had gone missing.

“Courtney, I think you have some blood on your shirt.” Patsy pointed to the back of Courtney’s right shoulder. Courtney reached up and felt a small nick in her skin. A bullet had scraped her skin, causing a small wound. She started to breath faster. If she had been standing just a fraction in either direction, the ragged, splintered form of a ricochet bullet would have done more than just graze her.

“Man, it looks like it just nicked you. You are so lucky,” said Patsy. “I’ll go find someone to get that looked at.”

Courtney slumped to the ground as her friends crowded around her. The police arrived on the scene. With exists taped off, everyone stayed inside until both shooters were detained. Inside of the bar, the music cut off. Most of the patrons sat huddled with their groups, some talking, some still sipping beer. Staff members of the bar placed coverings up over the windows of a side room while the paramedics worked on the girl who fell victim to a stray bullet. Courtney’s friends asked each other if they thought the girl in the room would be okay. More small talk from her friends as the minutes slipped by. Courtney just sat in silence.

#

 

 

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