My Yard, My Rules.

This is the second in the series of "commemorative" stories. Not quite cricket season yet, but it's getting close, so here's one for the lovers of the greatest game of all.

Shout out to Alfie Dog's chief, Rosemary Kind. Thank you and good luck for the future. Check out Rosemary's novel The Orphan Train. I highly recommend it. Here is the first in a series of my short stories which she loved, and made available to short fiction fans around the world.

My Yard, My Rules

by

D.A. Cairns

Jimmy really didn’t want to go. He really didn’t, but faced with a choice between going or staying  home and helping his mum and little sister bake cookies, he took the least bad option. It wasn’t that he didn’t like cookies. He loved them. Could have easily eaten every packet which found its way into their home and every single warm and delicious smelling one that came out of the oven. Jimmy just did not want to make them. He would rather eat broccoli for breakfast everyday for a week than bake anything.

           

‘Are you coming or not Jimmy?’

Jack was Jimmy’s big brother. The destination he was so eager to reach was Theo’s house. It was a small ramshackle house on a corner block with nothing to recommend it except a very big, well grassed and flat backyard. Every summer it was the place to be. The neighbourhood kids would flock there each day after school and all across the weekend to play cricket. The nearest park was ten minutes drive away; too far to walk unless you were an Olympian, but who needed a park when they had Theo’s big backyard.

           

‘Yeah,’ said Jimmy with all the enthusiasm of a cat sleeping by a warm fire on a cold night. ‘I’m coming.’

           

The two brothers walked four blocks to Theo’s house, opened the front gate, strolled through to the side gate, opened it and proceeded down the side path, just like it was their own home. If Theo’s parents had any problem with the constant flow of children to and from their backyard, nobody knew about it. In fact, nobody knew for sure if Theo actually had parents because no one had ever seen or heard them, although it was highly unlikely, thought Jimmy, that Theo would have had the skill or the motivation to mow the yard. The pitch in particular would have done the nation’s leading curators proud.

           

‘G’day Jack,’ called Theo, looking up briefly before resuming his crouching position over the bat ready to face the bowler. The game had already started.

           

Jimmy looked around the yard, searching for a friendly face. Of course he knew all the kids; mostly boys Jack’s age or a bit older and a couple of girls who could not play and strangely seemed more interested in the boys than the game. Unfortunately Jimmy didn’t exactly like any of them. Maybe it was because they picked on him if  they bothered talking to him at all. Some times they just completely ignored him. Jimmy sighed and Jack left him to take up a catching position at silly mid on.

           

‘You’ll get hit there,’ warned Theo with a smile.

           

‘She’ll be right, Theo,’ said Jack. ‘More likely you’ll be out next ball!’

           

‘No close in fielders today,’ replied Theo.

           

Jack stood up straight, hands on his hips and stared at Theo. Jimmy thought his big brother looked very threatening. He had seen that posture before and always surrendered because he knew what would follow if he did not. Theo, however was nobody’s little brother. He was an only child.

           

‘My yard, my rules!’ announced Theo loudly and proudly.

           

Jimmy groaned inwardly. Typical Theo. Jack pumped his fist upwards towards Theo and backed away. ‘You’ll still be out next ball.’

           

The bowler who had waited patiently through the tense confrontation between Jack and Theo now began his approach to the crease. Jimmy watched Shah sprint in from twenty metres back, plant his foot in line with the stumps and then, with a whirlwind action, deliver the ball from his hand right onto Theo’s bat.

           

Jimmy heard the call of ‘watch out’ at exactly the same time as the ball thumped into his chest. It knocked him onto the seat of his pants and he felt tears welling in his eyes almost immediately. He bit his lower lip and stood up quickly as Jack rushed to his side.

           

‘All right, Jimmy?’

           

Jimmy rubbed the spot on his chest which stung like crazy and nodded.

           

‘Gimme a look,’ said Jack.

           

‘Nah!,’ said Jimmy bravely, ‘She’ll be right.’

           

‘Missed chance there,’ yelled Theo, still puffing after completing a double run. ‘That takes me to fourteen.’

           

Shah was on the way back to his mark but paused to ruffle Jimmy’s hair. Jimmy pulled away despite secretly appreciating the gesture.

           

‘That was no chance,’ said Shah. ‘Pointing couldn’t have caught that one.’

           

Jimmy shrugged.

           

Shah turned and stood at his mark studying the ball as he waited for Theo to nod his readiness. Jimmy was so glad they only played with a tennis ball. He could hardly imagine what a six stitcher would have done to him. The very thought made him shudder.

           

The bowler was on his way again, a determined look plastered over his face. Jimmy watched hoping like mad that Shah would get Theo out. That was the only good thing about backyard cricket at Theo’s; watching him get out. It was like a lonely ray of sunshine on a cloudy day to watch one of his petulant performances following a dismissal, which according to Theo was never justified. Jimmy was praying for it. C’mon Shah, get him out.

           

Flying from the whirlwind, the ball bounced not more than twenty centimetres in front of Theo and went passed the edge of the bat and on to hit his shin. Theo winced and staggered forward a few steps.

           

‘Howzat!’ cried Shah, accompanied by everyone else in the field. Jack was especially enthusiastic.

           

‘Not out,’ said Theo. ‘No LBWs.’

           

‘What?’ protested Shah.

           

Jimmy watched as Shah and Jack and another boy, Mat, approached Theo. This was interesting thought Jimmy, very interesting indeed.

           

‘No umpires to rule on leg before so we can’t have it,’ said Theo.

           

‘But that was an obvious one,’ said Shah. ‘You know it!’

Theo seemed unruffled in the middle of a circle of anger. His voice was calm if perhaps a little higher pitched than usual.

           

‘My yard, my rules!’

           

For a moment it seemed as though that might have been the end of the game. Jack was so angry and frustrated that he was paralysed apart from his fist which Jimmy observed was clenching and unclenching mechanically like it had a mind of its own. Jack was thirteen and Jimmy had noticed how much he had changed over the last year. Half the time he could still be kind of cool and fun, the other half grumpy and mean, and every now and then he would just explode suddenly like a dormant volcano. You just had to get out of the way when he erupted or get smothered to death by steaming lava. Jimmy hoped that he would be a bit more controlled when he reached the big one three than big brother Jack was.

           

Finally after complaints from some of the other boys, Jack and Shah backed off and the game continued. Shah bowled his last delivery, a slower one bouncing high outside the off stump which Theo swung at and missed, and then someone called drinks. It was a good call thought Jimmy because although he had only been there for a little while and contributed nothing to the game except amusement for the others due to his misfortune, it was a hot day and he was thirsty.

           

Theo had other ideas.

           

‘One more over before drinks,’ he said.

           

Jimmy could not see how one more over could make any difference other than to make everyone thirstier. His mouth was already as dry as a handful of hot sand.

           

‘New bowler,’ called Jack.

           

‘Let the kid have a crack,’ suggested Theo.

           

All eyes were suddenly and horrifyingly on Jimmy. As he withered under the multitude of staring eyes, he tried to speak, to say thanks, but no thanks. When Shah handed him the ball and wished him luck, Jimmy’s heart and head were pounding as though they wanted to break out of his body. Jack strolled over and placed a comforting hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as he walked him back ten metres from the stumps at the non-striker’s end.

           

‘Here’s your chance, Jimmy,’ said Jack, too kindly.

           

‘I can’t even bowl properly.’

           

‘Sure you can.’

           

But I don’t wanna bowl, Jack.’

           

‘Sure you do,’ insisted his big brother while slapping his back a fraction too hard. ‘Sure you do.’

           

The walk back to the start of his run was taking longer than trying to swim through mud. It was only Jack’s firm and persistent push that kept Jimmy going.

           

‘Look,’ said Jack as they stopped. ‘Just bowl it straight. Six balls and then we can have a drink, okay?’

           

‘He’ll smash me all over the place.’

           

‘Maybe he’ll give us a catch then. You know, he’ll have a false sense of security, and get careless.’

           

Jimmy was solidly unconvinced. Jack slapped him on the back again and made Jimmy cough before he ran back to his position in the field at deep point.

           

‘C’mon Jimmy,’ he called loudly. Other voices joined in.

           

Shrinking inside and wanting to run away and hide somewhere, Jimmy rubbed his hand on his pants to get the sweat off, then stared at the ball. Maybe the ball itself could work some sort of miracle for him. Jack had said he should just bowl it straight for six balls, that’s all. That’s all, scoffed Jimmy to himself. I’ll be lucky to get even one ball on the pitch.

           

More cheers of encouragement filled his ears but he wasn’t sure if they were sincere or not. More likely, they were waiting to laugh at his failure. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he squeezed the ball inside his right hand. Then he was off on a slow deliberate run up which he hoped showed concentration and serious intent to the batsman.

           

At the crease he rolled his arm over and was pleased to see the ball fly straight albeit in an awkward looking high arc. On descent to the stumps the ball was greeted by the middle of Theo’s bat, the impact sending it racing through the air, above the grass at square leg, past the fielder and into the Colourbond fence on the full. Bang!

Jimmy jumped at the sound.

           

‘Six!’ cried Theo triumphantly.

           

‘It’s four,’ said Jack. ‘Six is over and out. Universal backyard cricket rules.’

           

Theo stamped his foot. ‘We’re not in the universe. We’re in my yard and I say it’s six!’

           

‘Whatever,’ said everyone in unison except Jimmy.

           

As he received the ball from Shah via the ground after he dropped it, he was congratulating himself on bowling straight. Brimming with confidence, Jimmy marched back to his mark, turned and waited for Theo before running in to bowl. He ran faster this time, maybe too fast but he couldn’t stop now. With his eyes fixed on the target, his rolled his arm over, bent his back and let the ball go.

           

When he raised his eyes from the pitch, Theo had already played a shot but Jimmy could not see where the ball had gone. Then he heard the cries of excitement.

           

‘It’s yours Jimmy. Look up. It’s yours.’

           

‘Catch it! Catch it!’

           

Jimmy still couldn’t see the ball and the sun was burning his eyes and blinding him as he searched the sky.  Still they called to him and still he searched. How could a ball stay in the air for so long? What had happened to gravity? Where was it?

           

‘Where is it?’ said Jimmy out loud.

           

Then he saw it. Through tightly squinted eyes, he saw the furry green ball spinning in the sky directly above him. He stared at it and raised his hands. The sounds of shouting and cheering were now muted by his desperate concentration. Jimmy watched the ball descend slowly towards him, shuffled his feet and lifted his hands a little higher.

           

Someone was saying something about soft hands but Jimmy wasn’t sure what that meant. The ball suddenly reached him and hit his open hand hard. Instinctively he closed his fingers to capture it but he was too late. The ball bounced up off his palm and into the sky once more. Still, Jimmy kept his eyes glued to the ball. He took a few steps forward as it descended again and this time when the furry pelt kissed his hands he snapped his fingers around the ball like a mousetrap, and made the catch.

           

Jimmy gripped the ball tightly as he was mobbed by the others and jostled with backslaps and hugs.

           

‘You got him, Jimmy,’ said Jack breathlessly. ‘You got Theo out.’

           

‘It’s not out,’ yelled Theo. ‘It was a no ball. Chest high full toss. That’s a no ball.’

           

Jack broke from the pack of congratulators and ran for Theo. He was right up in his face before Theo knew it. ‘You’re out!’ he snarled.

           

‘No,’ said Theo calmly. ‘It was a no ball.’

           

Jack turned away in disgust as Theo said, ‘Play on. Four balls to drinks. I’m twenty not out.’

           

Jimmy was still floating and still tenaciously holding the ball in both hands as a chant blossomed in the heat. He wasn’t sure who started it but it quickly caught on like a fire through bone dry bushland.

           

‘Out! Out! Out!’

           

Everyone joined in, even Jimmy now emboldened by his success. Theo meanwhile was trying to counter the chant with his usual words of last resort, ‘My yard, my rules.’

           

Someone changed the chant to ‘Theo’s rules suck! Theo’s rules suck!’ Then, as a group, they marched off down the side of Theo’s house, through the side gate, across the front lawn, out the front gate and away down the street all the while shouting in unison, ‘Theo’s rules suck! Theo’s rules suck!’

           

One week later, the neighbourhood kids gathered for a meeting to discuss Theo’s rules. Jimmy was pleased that his debut wicket, that of the almighty Theo had been the catalyst that sparked the monumental protest, but he missed playing. Everyone wanted to play and Theo’s yard was as close to the Sydney Cricket Ground as most of them would ever get. Theo had been badgering the kids during the week, cornering them in small groups and one on one when he could, trying to convince them to come back and play. The kids all knew that Theo was pretty much only interested in himself and his delusions of glory on his personal field of dreams, so they held fast. Despite itching to resume the battle, they resisted his attempts to persuade them.

Finally, Jack and Shah assembled the gang and convinced them to play.

‘No more Theo’s rules,’ said Jack. ‘That’s the deal we take to him, all right?’

‘Right,’ said Shah. ‘It’s cricket and we play according to the laws of this magnificent game or we don’t play.’

Jimmy and a few of the others laughed at Shah’s haughty and indignant tone. They all knew how much he loved the game and so did they. Jimmy hadn’t stopped bragging about getting Theo out in his first over. Caught and bowled: the catch of the year, an absolute classic. It was the hot talking point. That, and the mass walk out which would become a legendary event in the history of the neighbourhood.

With the agreement of all those assembled, Jack and Shah went to talk to Theo. Jimmy tagged along just to see Theo’s face when the ultimatum was delivered. Theo might not like it, in fact, he’d probably hate it, but he needed players because cricket is not a game of solitaire.

Theo looked defiant when they arrived at his place. He was in the yard tossing a ball up for himself and whacking it against the fence. Once again, Jimmy wondered about Theo’s parents and their lack in interest in the pockmarked Colourbond fence.

‘What do you want?’ he snarled.

‘To play cricket,’ said Jack calmly.

‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘We need to make a few changes around here, Theo,’ said Shah.

‘If you want to play, you know the deal, my yard, my rules.’

Jack and Shah turned away immediately. Jimmy, suddenly and inexplicably bold, said, ‘Your rules suck!’

Theo lunged forward, but Jimmy stood his ground as Jack and Shah appeared by his side. ‘You’re a slow learner, Theo,’ said Jack. ‘Cricket rules or no cricket. That’s the deal.’

The sound of cicadas became deafening as the hot westerly wind washed the three boys. Theo was looking at the ground, scuffing at the grass with his foot, and making grumbling sounds under his breath.

‘What’s it gonna be, Theo?’ asked Shah. ‘Do you want to play with us, or with yourself?’

It seemed like such an obvious choice to Jimmy that he couldn’t figure out why Theo was stalling. ‘Come on Theo. What’s it gonna be? Are you scared I’ll get you out again?’

Theo growled but said nothing. Finally, he nodded his head while continuing to avoid their eyes as they made it crystal clear to Theo that everyone would get a fair go from now on. Or else.

Jimmy looked forward to every match, and he marvelled at his earlier reluctance. He never dropped another catch, and he, like all the other boys, had the chance to bowl and bat, and field where they wanted to. A new spirit had descended on Theo’s backyard. Everyone was a winner, and the great game of cricket was honoured. But Jimmy could still not figure out what those girls were doing there in Theo’s backyard. Maybe he would ask Jack about it one day, but for now he was going to be having way too much fun to care about anything else.

The Devil Wears a Dressing Gown

I've recently released a collection of short stories called The Devil Wears a Dressing Gown. It features both previously published and unpublished stories.

To celebrate its release, and to entice you to buy the collection, I thought I would share some of the stories here.

Gravel Rash

by

D.A.Cairns

‘Don’t fall and get gravel rash.’

     The voice was unfamiliar, maybe imaginary, but the message was well known to him. From the first day he had pedalled free of the training wheels attached to his new bike, Brendon’s mum had warned him and worried for him, with those words. All kids crash their bikes and rip up their knees. Brendon had the scars to prove his childhood bravado just like most of his friends. No big deal. He always replied to his mum that he would be fine and usually he was.

     Did he really hear someone say that to him just now? He was alone, wasn’t he? Gravel crunched and jostled beneath the tyres as he rode through Lakeside Park on his way home from work. Had he started the trip after dark, he would have ridden the long way home but an extra fifteen minutes to avoid the park was fifteen minutes he wasn’t willing to give up tonight. He had a date. Samantha Ewells had finally said yes.

     Daylight was being folded away like a piece of paper soon to be imprisoned in the darkness of an envelope. Brendon pedalled harder. He would probably make it through the park and reach the freeway before the black night began to reign but he maintained his pace, even ramped it up a little. There was no way he was going to be late home tonight. He had to make up time. That truck was to blame. The one which arrived late at the Toyota dealership, around the corner from the depot, to unload its cargo of new Camrys. The whole road was blocked for ten minutes as the driver made numerous attempts to reverse the truck into the lot. Brendon had sat there staring at it and tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. Wondering why him, why tonight and trying to not to think of having to make Samantha wait. She might not wait. He had cursed under his breath as he waited impatiently. Must have been a new driver. Inexperienced.

     Now he was running late. Running out of time. This was an experience that Brendon could have done without. He had heard stories about people going missing in Lakeside Park. Everyone said it was no place to be after the sun had gone down. The only ones to disregard the danger were the drunken fools and deviates who frequented the park in order to debauch and destroy themselves under the cover of darkness. Brendon would have happily avoided them for the rest of his life.

     In the quiet of the dusk, the only sounds were Brendon’s heavy breathing, a squeak from the pedals on each revolution, and the chuckle of the gravel underneath his tyres.

     ‘Be careful of gravel rash.’

     Brendon’s first instinct was to stop and listen closely without audible interference but fear kicked in and pushed him on. Was he hearing things? The gravel seemed looser, less willing to support and carry his weight, and he struggled at times to control the handlebars and stay on course. The night was black and heavy now. The acacias which lined the track leaned in closer to him, whispering seditiously. He flicked on his night light which was perched in the centre of the handlebars, but the battery was so low it barely reached the spinning tip of his front tyre. Hot, sweaty and panicking he wondered how much farther to the freeway? He looked up for a moment but could not see through the opaque gloom. Suffocating gloom. That was what he felt. This was bad. Very bad.

     ‘Don’t fall. You’ll get gravel rash.’

     ‘Shut up!’ yelled Brendon frantically at his invisible taunter. ‘Shut up!’

     Forcing himself to concentrate on controlling the bike, afforded Brendon some peace from the persistent paranoia, but some one was watching him. He knew it. Somehow keeping up with him. One of those perverted pariahs who lived in the park was teasing him, tormenting him.

     He felt the front of the bike dip suddenly and then rise again as though he had ridden through a pothole. His left hand was jolted free of the handlebar grip but he quickly re established a firm hold. The knowlegde that he must be nearing the edge of the park, encouraged Brendon and strengthened his aching legs. He imagined he could now see the headlights of vehicles flickering through the trees as they roared southbound along the F6. Then he realised he was sinking.

     A violent and immediate stop catapulted Brendon over the handlebars and onto the gravel path. Having somehow managed to maintain a one handed grip on the handlebar, he pulled the bike down on top of him as he fell and it landed pedal first against his chest.

     Too stunned to move initially, Brendon just lay there. Insistent and angry pain advised him that he was still alive. A gush of air left his lungs as he exhaled, then he coughed for a minute or two, wincing with each contraction of his diaphragm. As he pushed the bike off himself, he felt the rough gravel nibbling at the skin around the back of his neck and calves. A strong sucking sensation against his right knee caused a new burst of pain as the sharp edges of the gravel cut his skin. He heard a sound close to him. Very close. A murmur. Low and indistinct. Garbled as though someone was talking with a mouthful of food.

     No longer pinned by his bike, Brendon tried to wrest himself free of the disturbingly soft gravel but the more he twisted the tighter he was held. If he could have he would have screamed for help but the only sound to escape his mouth was a pathetic mumble. If he could have he would have kept fighting his unseen enemy but fear immobilised him. His very last thought as the gravel swallowed him alive and crushed him, was that if only that truck had not blocked the road, he would have been home now getting ready for his date with Samantha instead of dying alone in Lakeside Park.

     Just before his head disappeared beneath the rippling surface of the gravel track, he heard the voice again, ‘I warned you about gravel rash, didn’t I?’

Guinea Pig

Guinea Pig was first published in The Cynic Online in 2012, and is a look at the possible future of medical practice.

Guinea Pig by D.A.Cairns

‘How long have you had this pain?’

Strom tilted his head slowly and stared at the ceiling for a moment.

‘A few weeks I guess.’

‘A few weeks?’

Strom nodded, unfazed by the Doctor’s incredulous tone of voice.

‘A few weeks of severe pain. Debilitating pain. And you’re only coming to see me now?’

This wasn’t the first time Strom had heard such words from the doctor, but this time he was almost certain it would be the last. He had beaten the old mongrel cancer three times already even as his comrades fell all around him. Somehow he kept dodging the bullets of death, just like the third Gulf War where his brothers in arms had been cut down, left, right and centre. Strom had no idea why he had been so lucky, and sometimes even the question frightened him.

‘Strom?’

‘Hey, sorry doc. I drifted away for a bit.’

The doctor leaned forward. ‘Have you been drifting away, as you say, a lot recently?’

‘Probably. It’s hard to say. I mean I might not always know when I’m gone, so I don’t know when I come back either and I don’t think about it.’

The two men exchanged looks which said that Strom’s statement was a little confusing and they silently agreed to move on.

‘Tell me about your general health.’

‘Good as gold. You know how much trouble I’ve had over the years, but every time those bloody clever surgeons fix me up, I end up better than ever.’

‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Modern medicine. I mean previous generations were dying in their millions from the kinds of cancers you’ve had, Strom. Thanks to your bravery…’

‘It wasn’t just me, Doc,’ said Strom humbly.

‘Anyway, you played a huge part, but let’s get back to your headaches. What pain relief have you been taking? Anything?’

‘Some pills with heaps of Codeine, and marijuana.’

The doctor stood and motioned for Strom to join him as he walked across the room. ‘Let’s rule out the obvious first, okay. Sit down here please.’

Strom sat in the wide leather seat which immediately began to recline as it simultaneously elevated. The chair noiselessly unfolded and slid close to the portable MRI machine.

‘Lie still, Strom. This will only take a few minutes.’

           

As he slid inside the white cylinder, he listened for familiar sounds. His own breathing, a faint humming from the scanner, and rapid thumping sounds as the MRI captured digital images from inside Strom’s head.

I’ve lived too long, thought Strom. I’ve done so much, it feels as though there’s nothing left to do, no new adventures to be had, no new thrills to be experienced. I hope they can’t fix me this time.

‘Strom? Are you all right. Open your eyes for me.’

Slowly, Strom’s wrinkly eyelids, darkened as they were from sleep deprivation, opened to take in the sight of the doctor’s concerned face hovering over his.

‘What happened? Do you feel all right?’

Strom smiled. ‘Apart from the reason I came here you mean?’

           

The chair quietly and smoothly folded and descended to its original position and Strom immediately stood and walked over to the chair beside the doctor’s desk. He sat and watched the doctor studying images on his computer screen, presumably the pictures of Strom’s brain.

Apparently reluctant to speak, the doctor allowed an uncomfortable silence to fall over them, and Strom begin to fidget nervously. He stared at the images on the screen but they meant nothing to him.

           

Finally, the doctor turned to face Strom, who swallowed hard in anticipation of very bad news. He didn’t really want to die despite his recent wish. It was just that sometimes he became bored with life.

           

‘Has that leg they gave you ever given you any trouble?’

Strom was aware the doctor was avoiding the issue, but decided to go with him for the moment.  ‘Never. In fact it’s stronger than the one I was born with ever was. Bloody marvellous.’

‘That was bone cancer, wasn’t it?’

‘So it’s the big C again is it?’

‘How about your arm, and your hand?’

‘Doc? Come on.’

‘Bear with me Strom. Your arm was damaged in the war, right?’

‘That’s putting it mildy. Destroyed more like it. But yeah the replacement’s been incredible. I can crush a golf ball in my hands without even trying.’

The doctor turned back to his computer monitor and with a few stabs of his index finger on the screen, he brought up Strom’s medical file.

‘Artificial heart and lungs installed two days before your seventy fifth birthday, and a complete reconstruction of you bowel at age ninety two.’

‘Thanks for the recap doc, but could we get back to my head. I mean if you’ve found a tumour just come out and tell me will you. I know they can’t rebuild a brain or pop an artificial one inside my head so this could be the end, right?’

           

Swivelling his chair away from the desk, the doctor folded his arms across his chest and looked directly at Strom.

‘You’re dead right, Strom. It’s a very big tumour and they won’t be able to cut it out. Its wicked tentacles are spread widely through the brain tissue. I am amazed that you aren’t dead already.’

Strom smiled. He was almost relieved.

‘Medical researchers have searched for decades and decades for some sort of medicinal cure for cancer, or at least an effective treatment to ease suffering and prolong life, but advances in surgical technology and breakthroughs in cybernetics grabbed a greater share of the limelight and a greater share of the available research dollars as well.’

Strom was getting bored again. A lecture seemed totally inappropriate at this point. His eyes began to roam, looking for something interesting in the bland sterile environment of the doctor’s consulting room.

‘The reason I’m telling you all this Strom is because there is another experimental drug trial currently underway.’

‘They need guinea pigs again do they?’

‘They are looking for terminally ill patients to join the trial and receive an injection of this new drug.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘It doesn’t have a user friendly name yet, and I can’t even pronounce its scientific handle.’

‘It’s risky I suppose.’

‘Strom, I’ll be straight with you. There’s a only a twenty five percent chance this drug will kill the tumour, and new side effects are still being recorded, some of which are awful including skin discoloration and severe nausea, but the tumour will kill you and it won’t take long.’

‘How long?’

‘Like I said, I’m amazed you’re still with us.’

‘I’m 101 years old. Apart from this headache I don’t feel sick. I can’t remember the last time I was unwell, and I don’t get tired, but I’ve been around a long time. Some days I reckon I’ve been around too long. I don’t know why I’m still here, but maybe it’s about helping others. Being a guinea pig.  Taking risks for the sake

of others.’

Strom stood up, straight and tall and looked at himself in the full length mirror on the wall. There was no risk involved here except the possibility of more life. He had never been afraid of death and had come to believe over his century of years on the planet that death was probably scared of him. But did he want to go on living? That was the choice before him and it was a more serious dichotomy than any man should ever have to face. He turned slowly to face the doctor.

‘I could live forever at this rate, said Strom confidently. ‘Sign me up, doc. Let’s give it a whirl!’

The air was fresh and cool on his skin and it smelled clean and fragrant, like lavender. Strom was lying on his back in a vast meadow of knee high grass, and he felt completely at peace. A sense of well being stronger than he had ever experienced pervaded his body and his mind. He smiled.

‘You never mentioned a hallucinogenic effect from this drug, doc.’

A whisper in the broad green leaves of a nearby Maple tree was the only reply.

‘Doc?’

Strom sat up slowly, still feeling calm, and realised he must have been dreaming. Suddenly a large hand landed softly on his shoulder from behind, and even this unexpected event failed to disturb Strom.

           

‘Welcome,’ said the voice. ‘Welcome to the life you’ve been trying to avoid for thirty years. Welcome home. Welcome to Eternity.’

Chemicals

This is the third of three flash fiction pieces by Mitchell Grabois.

Chemicals

I have a fifty-pound bag of Arsenic and DDT, and a round metal canister filled with mercury infused grain, and 55-gallon drums full of mystery liquids left by my grandpa. I am as intimate with chemicals as I am with my wife, and don’t understand either. The mysteries of sex, of emotion, the mysteries of molecules combining: I’m clueless.

The chemicals are mute, secretive. Once released, they do what they must without my permission. If they want to go against my wishes, they do. My wife’s the same way. They can both be caustic. I’ve taken chemicals into the very marrow of my bones, yet despite all my experience, and that of the generations before me, I really know nothing of their nature.

At work, I find Dexter Troutman playing air guitar in the middle of the Day Room. He asks: Remember when we had groupies? Remember when thousands screamed to see us, to touch us? He strums a ripe chord, throws back his head, and sings: See me, feel me, touch me, heal me!

Remember the hotel suites, thousands of square feet of penthouse, each of us floating through our own psychedelic space, the sitarist sitting on the floor in his hairy chest and BVD’s, playing ragas that lasted for days?

I remember, Dexter, I sigh.

Dexter launches into a wild air solo, windmills his strum arm as if he’s morphed from the fab four to the guitar-bashing Who, but he slips on a gob of phlegm Walter Mac Henry has left. (Walter Mac Henry, shirt over his head like an Arab headdress, always hacking and spitting when he’s not pissing into the Day Room heater)

Dexter Troutman slips and goes down, hits his head on the linoleum-covered cement. Out cold. I gently take his guitar from where it lays across his body and play a few bars of Let It Be before I rush to the Chart Room for help.

Bio

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes.  His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.