After Effects

By Zimbell House Publishing, Arthur Carey, Steven Carr and 23 more

After Effects is a collection of twenty-seven short stories that dig into the downfall of a person, community, or society as a whole; and what the after effects of that ruin entail. 
Some are humorous, some are touching, but all make us pause and reflect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing
• Release date: Mar 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781945967825

Zimbell House Publishing

Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

For permission requests, write to the publisher:

Attention: Permissions Coordinator

Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

PO Box 1172

Union Lake, Michigan 48387

emailto:[e-mail]

© 2017 Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

All Rights Reserved

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-945697-80-1

Digital ISBN: 978-1-945967-82-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951740

First Edition: August/2017

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Zimbell House Publishing

Union Lake

Acknowledgements

Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase twenty-five new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

Without Worry

Zachary T. Wiser

Every man reaches a point in his life where he must settle the most important decision he will ever make: how, exactly, will he kill himself. As Arthur sat on the cracked vinyl seat of the commuter train, he began to work out the details of that decision.

Arthur watched the shadows of tall buildings fly past his feet while he contemplated the logistics of self-immolation. How long would it take the fire department to respond once the flames spread from his flesh to the carpet, up the curtains and into the frame of his apartment building? Would the response time be quick enough so there would be no serious damage to the property of his neighbors? He decided that might be a bit too dangerous.

His gaze shifted from the passing shadows to the support pole several seats to his right. He saw the old woman who was always on his homeward commute seated next to the exit. She was grasping the pole with a skeletal hand that was impossibly wrinkled. Arthur wondered what it would feel like to be that old. Would it be tedious? Would the daily routine of someone that advanced in age require so many cautionary measures in order to simply leave the house that the journey wouldn’t be worth the effort?

As he focused on the whitening knuckles, Arthur considered the obvious idea of shooting himself in the head. He would have to apply for a permit to purchase a gun and clear a basic background check. Then would come enduring the patronizing questions from the clerk at the pawn shop up the street from his apartment. Worse than that, Arthur had to admit that shooting one’s self in the head was terribly cliché, and he still had enough vanity left not to want to end on a cliché.

The old woman cupped her mouth with a frail hand and filled it with a forceful cough. This repeated, slowly at first with building momentum, wrenching deep into her lungs in an attempt to exorcize the phlegmy demon from deep within her rattling chest cavity. Her coughing grew so violent that several people near her leaned in to ask if she was alright. The onlookers patted her on the back and searched their bags and purses for unopened bottles of water. The woman hacked away, oblivious to the impotent offers of assistance.

Arthur wondered if strangulation would be the right way to go. He considered the various methods for strangulation, eliminating immediately, of course, hanging himself, as this was also far too cliché. He wondered if he could get his belt tight enough around his neck to work. He fiddled with his brown leather belt and quickly realized there were not nearly enough buckle holes. He figured it would be fairly easy to punch an additional hole, allowing him to create enough pressure to actually cut off his airflow. However, he remembered reading something several years back about people using belts to cut off their oxygen while they masturbated. Occasionally, these men would strangle themselves by accident only to be found by their families, dead and in the act of masturbating. He decided he did not like the idea of giving anyone any reason even to suggest that is how he died.

The old woman regained her composure and appeared to be settling down. Her knuckles gripped even tighter to the support pole as she wiped at her mouth and eyes with a tissue some kind stranger had produced from the depths of their pocket. Arthur thought about how lucky that woman was. He wondered if she even realized how perfect of an opportunity she just missed to exit this world with a modicum of dignity.

Who would ever think poorly of an elderly woman who choked to death from a coughing fit on her way home from water aerobics or the button expo or whatever old lady activity she had been doing? He was envious of the old woman and her high probability of being released from her suffering at the hands of nature. He imagined that at her age she must be in a terrible amount of misery. He couldn’t imagine anyone wouldn’t have endured unspeakable amounts of anguish over a life span as long as hers.

While Arthur was attempting the calculus of how miserable the old woman must have been, the train rattled to a stop. The doors sprung open, and Arthur reminded himself that this was where he exited. As he arose from his seat, he glanced once more at the old lady with envy.

Standing on the platform, Arthur felt the sharp autumn air on his face as the train pulled out of the station. He decided there was no business left for him that day other than to head home and face his decision. His gait on the walk home wasn’t rushed, but it did suggest the pacing of someone moving with distinct purpose. He strode confidently past the fronts of empty stores and the steps of apartment buildings with the same disinterested look upon his face.

As his legs moved him closer to the dwelling he referred to as home, his emotional fortitude began to wane. Two blocks short of his building he began to feel a tremor in his solar plexus. The shaking began as a slight twinge when he inhaled too deeply. Within several steps of noticing this, Arthur began to realize that underneath his carefully layered shirt, sweater and jacket ensemble his chest was producing the slight but frequent heaving of someone hyperventilating.

Fully aware of the panic striking his upper torso, Arthur began to slow his pace. As he rounded the corner less than a block from the entrance to his building he nearly came to a complete stop. This was a cycle Arthur had run through almost every day for two years. The welling of anxiety and nearly paralyzing dread surging through his body had swelled and surged through Arthur exactly five hundred and eighteen times before. He was more than familiar with these visceral scars of his past and present.

Arthur was in love with these scars. These scars provided him with the resolve necessary to ensure that his impending decision would be carried out, and done so with deliberate attention to detail. Without the shock of electricity through his chest, the shortness of breath and disorienting nausea, Arthur might have gone ahead and hung himself. As his footsteps slowed, Arthur exhaled sharply, as if to shake the turbulence from his body, and considered himself fortunate to at least have a respectable exit from his torture.

He mounted the stone steps of his building with the ease of someone having just received a promotion. As he swung the heavy front door open, the next phase of his daily cycle began. Stepping into the vestibule, which housed the tenants’ mailboxes, Arthur began to hear the familiar voice.

This voice tortured him. He also loved this voice.

Really? You’re going to stand there and fucking say that to me?

Arthur reached into his jacket pocket and fished about for his keys.

You think you’re the only one who can’t handle this feeling? What makes you so fucking special ... you think you’re the only one with a fucking hole in your chest?

His hand trembled only slightly as the small mailbox key slid into its hole, releasing a door leading to nothing of any importance. As usual, Arthur’s mail box contained only fodder for his recycling bin. This store or that was having a sale he just couldn’t afford to miss while this bank or that wanted to loan him catastrophic amounts of money.

How dare you ignore me. I need you to love me, too. Fuck you ... fucking love me! I’m still alive.

Arthur shut the flimsy metal door and with a twist of his wrist removed the key. He turned to the set of double doors and jangled loose the key that gained him entrance to the building’s main stairwell. As he pushed the larger key into the larger lock, he had a flash of brilliance. He would smash one of his glasses into small shards, mix it in with hamburger and then eat the cooked meat. As his body digested the meat the shards of glass would slice their way through his stomach, small intestine, large intestine, and colon. This would be a slow and painful punishment that, he imagined, would make the owner of that voice very happy.

I wake up in the middle of the night and hear him crying. I swear to god, I’m not fucking crazy, I HEAR him crying! Don’t you hear him too? Don’t you fucking care anymore?

Arthur was so enlivened by his idea that he stood, motionless, with the front door propped open and searched for faults in this plan. While he was excited by the potential for as much physical pain as possible, he suddenly remembered from where the idea must have originated. When he was a child, his neighbor had used the same tactic to poison a stray cat that patrolled the neighborhood. Arthur remembered finding his neighbor who stood, laughing, over the cat as it convulsed and passed globs of bloody tissue from its rectum. The horrible noise that cat made was almost as horrifying as what was coming out of its body. He had never witnessed anything in as much pain as that animal.

When other neighbors gathered around the dying cat, drawn from their houses by the horrific noise, they asked what had happened. Arthur had seen the neighbor in question smashing an old pop bottle and mix the shards in with raw hamburger the day before. He also saw the meat in a place where the cat frequently prowled. When asked what had happened to the cat the neighbor stated he had no idea. With no rational explanation for the event, the other neighbors accepted that no rational explanation was necessary. When the cat finally died one neighbor offered to call animal control to remove the corpse, but the neighbor behind the murder insisted that would not be necessary. He would dispose of the body so no one else would have to be further bothered by the wild animal.

Why won’t you talk to me? Why can’t you just be there? I’m coming apart at the seams, and all you can do is go to fucking work like nothing ever happened. Have you even cried?

As Arthur climbed the old wooden staircase to his apartment, he decided this was a suitable method for carrying out his plan. He began considering which glass from his cupboard would be best for smashing, and whether or not he had any hamburger.

Halfway between the first and second floors, he began to hear laughing. At first, the laugh was a softly sustained joyful moan. The moan quickly built to a loud exclamation of pure happiness with a sharp inhalation immediately following the burst of precious noise. With each step, the laughter grew louder and more painful to hear. Arthur knew this laughter all too well and did his best to focus on the angry voice condemning him for his inaction. However, the harder he tried to ignore the laughing the more he could not avoid its heartbreaking happiness. Arthur had been so happy to hear that laughter at one time.

Isn’t he so beautiful? Half of our friends say he looks just like you and the other half say he looks just like me! I think he looks just like both of us.

When Arthur first heard these voices on this, his regular walk home, he was stricken with anxiety. He found it difficult to stand, difficult to breathe, difficult to contain the sobs that lurked behind his façade of disinterest. Now, Arthur found it possible to carry on, up the stairs, with only the occasional gasp for oxygen. He decided that anyone who might catch a glimpse of him on these difficult climbs would assume he was simply out of shape.

I don’t know how we can go on from here. I’m dying inside. Don’t you feel it too? I’m dying right now, and you can’t do anything to stop it. I don’t want you to stop it. I want to die. I want to fucking die.

Arthur felt his fingers slide over the flaking white paint on the old wooden banister and wondered if tonight really was going to be the night. Was this really going to be the last time he was forced to endure this torturous walk to the home where his life had ended over two years ago? Arthur paid close attention to the specific pitch and timbre of each creak made by each footstep on his way up the stairs. His eyes caught every varying shade of white paint on the walls in the stairwell, noticing where water had stained them and then been painted over time and time again. His nose caught the dusty, almost moldy scent of the stairwell on his way up. He wondered what would be his final thought before being released from his misery. He worried that he wouldn’t care. Then came the laughs, once more.

Arthur reached the platform on the third floor and stood, staring at the door to his apartment. A black 3 and B, tacked to the door just below eye level, stared back at him. He fiddled with his keys for several seconds before stepping forward. Two deep breaths punctuated by a sharp exhalation prepared him for what awaited on the other side.

The door swung open in front of Arthur in dramatic fashion and left him standing, alone, in the hallway with no apparent reason not to enter his apartment. Still, he lingered at the threshold, his balance teetering slightly towards and away from the precipice. The laughing was coming directly from inside the apartment, although Arthur knew he was the only person who could hear it. Still, its joyful insistence, its willful call to Arthur to run towards it was much more real to him than the moldy smell in the hallway. Finally, his left foot passed over into the source of his worry. His right foot followed, and as the door swung closed behind him, Arthur accepted that this was where he would take his death into his own hands.

To his left, he saw the various appointments of a living room stuffed into the small space. He leaned against the closed door behind him as he bent over to untie his shoes. He walked past the sage green couch and through to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of gin and a small glass. The laughing was gaining volume with each passing second, but he knew how to dial it back.

Do you think he’s gonna crawl soon? He keeps doing that tripod thing where he rocks back and forth. I bet he’s crawling in a week!

He tossed his jacket onto the couch and slumped next to it, his rounded shoulders hovering above the small glass as he carefully poured it full of gin. Arthur leaned back into the soft cushions and breathed in deeply the stale smell of his apartment. Underneath the scent of unkempt fabric and neglected carpet, Arthur couldn’t help but smell what was once his home.

The smell of dissipating perfume mixed with the sour scent of spilled baby formula lurked as much in the back of Arthur’s memory as it did in the carpets. He breathed in deeply those sensory artifacts of his former life and was filled with the love he once had for that place. His chest swelled with the painful rush of joy that came with the smells of the apartment. Arthur drank deeply from his glass, coughing a bit as he poured it full for a second round.

The laughter fought through his thoughts. This time it was coming from the room down the hallway to the right of where he sat. The door to that room was shut. It had been shut for a very long time. Arthur concentrated on not looking down the hallway. He focused instead on the glass in front of him.

I love him so much. Did you ever imagine you could love anyone this much?

Arthur shut his eyes tight and tried to focus on the pain he felt in his stomach. It was a sharp pain that felt much like how he imagined digesting broken glass might feel. He focused on this pain and gulped down more gin. As he poured the third glass his body convulsed, his shoulders heaving forward as his lungs forced the air from his body. A short burst of sound sprung from his throat. He covered his mouth as if to catch the sound, but only caught the mass of saliva leaking from his lower lip.

This convulsing continued for several seconds before Arthur was able to regain control over his body. Meanwhile, the laughter grew to a fever pitch. He swallowed down his third glass and poured a fourth. By this point, Arthur was swimming in the warm rush of intoxication as it flooded through his body. He leaned his heavy head into his hand and rested.

Arthur realized in that moment he hadn’t rested in a very long time. He noticed he was sobbing into his hand as he sat on his couch—drunk and smelling the memories of a family that did not exist anymore.

There was no relief in the tears. There was no catharsis from which sprung a sense of closure. There was only a conscious recognition of grief and anguish. Between sobs his body wretched. The spastic convulsions produced nothing from within his shaking frame. Dread manifested as a cold sweat that beaded anxiously across his forehead.

How can life be this perfect? How can something so beautiful be in our life? I love you so much.

Arthur’s convulsions finally overtook his body and shook him to the floor. He lay there, shoulders huddled around his knees as he continued to heave impotently onto the back of his hand. After several minutes, his muscles began to lose their tension, and slowly he gained control over his breathing.

In the commotion, he had dropped his almost empty glass of liquor, which now lay on the carpet next to his face. The fragrant smell distracted him from the stabbing pain in his abdomen. As Arthur lay on the floor, he knocked the sticky glass against the carpet in an intoxicated attempted to smash it to bits. His gin soaked brain was determined to follow through on his plan.

I don’t have anything left to give you. I can barely pull myself together enough to take my next breath. I can’t carry this weight for both of us anymore. I love you, and I hate you for not hurting like I hurt. I love you so much. Good bye.

And the laughing continued. Arthur climbed onto the couch and snatched the bottle of gin from the coffee table in front of him. He sucked down the alcohol with the recklessness of someone trying to drink his self to death. Again, he attempted to smash the glass onto the carpeted floor in front of him, but the glass only bounced with a slight thud.

The joyous laughing from down the hall was bouncing around the square enclosure of the living room. From wall to wall through Arthur’s fuzzy head and back up to the ceiling the laughing gained momentum. After the fifth long swig from the bottle, he lost consciousness.

Once more Arthur found himself watching the shadows of tall buildings fly past his feet on the train ride home. The familiarity of the rattling train was not soothing. The routine of his day was not a comfort to his still aching head. If things were still the same, then he had failed at the one piece of relief he had been willing to grant himself. He was still alive.

As the train pulled away from a station still some distance from his stop, Arthur ventured his eyes upwards to the seats across the aisle. He saw, smiling in his direction, the same miserably old woman he saw every day. Her wrinkled hand was gripping the upright rail next to her, and a thousand perfectly formed lines framed her smiling lips.

Arthur looked away uncomfortably to avoid eye contact with the miserable woman and noticed that they were the only two inhabitants on the train. While this was an unusual occurrence somehow the knowing smile on the old woman’s face allowed him to accept the situation.

I see you on this train every day, son the woman ventured. And not once have I seen you look like a man enjoying life, let alone one who is attempting to live it she continued.

I’m worried, Arthur was surprised at his words, living is misery. So, I suppose it’s only fitting that I am miserable. I’m worried about how long I’ll have to be miserable.

Hmm, nodded the woman. A kindness emanated from her like perfume, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel a need to explain his misery to her.

That does make some sense, said the woman sweetly.

However, she paused long enough to make sure Arthur saw her smiling. I do wonder if it’s not you who is making you miserable?

Arthur considered this rationale for a moment. Then she continued.

You see, I’ve lived a very long time, she winked at Arthur. And, I have seen everyone I love in this life die. I’ve buried three children, five grandchildren, and a husband. I’ve seen poverty in my own home. I’ve known real hunger, the type that stays with you for the rest of your life. I’ve known heartbreak of every imaginable kind ... so many times I lost track a lifetime ago.

So, you understand my point, Arthur suggested.

Oh yes, she sighed, I do understand your point. But, she continued, those are all just things—things that happened and are now done. I can’t change any of it. I’m not so sure that even if I could, anything would be any better.

The furrowing of Arthur’s eyebrows told the old woman he still did not understand her point.

All the things in life that make us sad happen to everyone. Everyone alive right now will die. Someone will always be hungry, and pain will always find its way to our hearts. All this is inevitable. But, they are also just things that happen.

How is that supposed to make anyone feel any better about any of these ... things? Arthur asked with sincerity, unable to give in to his urge to be snide and dismissive.

Look at this train, she continued. "People carrying all types of grief and despair get on this train every day. They get on, and then they get off. It’s that simple.

People also carry great joy and love onto this train. They bring those gifts to the train and then they carry them off to the rest of their lives. Again, it’s that simple her kind voice floated off into the rattle of the train.

But what does any of that have to do with your suffering? Arthur was desperate to understand the connection.

Have you ever listened to the train? the woman tilted her head to the left with the question.

Listen? Arthur paused to consider her words. I listen to it every day.

I believe you hear the train in your silence, but you hear it only through your own suffering, she calmly stated. If you truly listen to this train you will hear all of those emotions carried on by the passengers. If you acknowledge your own grief and allow it to become part of the creaks and rattles, you will hear the joy, the loss, the pain, and the love all brought here. You can hear everything in this train. But to be able to truly listen you have to let your story join the thousands of other stories being told at the same time.

Arthur considered this for a moment. His impulse was to dismiss the old woman’s words as senile ramblings. However, her strangely permeating kindness would not allow his cynicism, as hardened as it was, to take away from her meaning.

He realized he hadn’t ever actually listened to the rattling train. He had heard the sounds twice daily five hundred and nineteen times, but he had never thought to listen to what the noise might be telling him.

I can see in your eyes that you’ve heard the crying, the yelling, and the laughing, the woman’s voice rose to the surface of the train’s clatter. You’ve heard them, but you’ve never listened to what they’re trying to tell you. Her voice was confident with the truth she gleaned about Arthur.

Listen to them. Listen to the voices in the train and tell them your pain, your loss, your joy. This is how you can begin to live without worry. Free your ghosts with your confession, and you will learn to live with them. You will learn that it’s alright to see them now and again, that there’s joy in knowing your pain. But first, you have to listen, the woman’s voice drifted back into the clatter of the train as it rounded a sharp corner, forcing Arthur’s weight into the arm of the seat next to him.

Arthur sat quietly and very still. He tilted his head upwards towards the ceiling and focused on a single metal rivet in the arching structure of the car’s roof. After a time, his eyes lost focus, and he drifted into the clanging rattle of the train’s path through the city.

He heard, for the first time, the rhythm and repetition of metal knocking upon metal. He concentrated on this rhythm and in the clamor, began to hear the soft voices of thousands of previous passengers. He heard the cries of anguish, pain, and grief in the high-frequency grinding of the tracks, creaking under the enormous weight of the train.

Arthur listened closer and heard the repetitive clanging of the piston rods driving the metal wheels along the rails. He concentrated on that singular sound over and over, and in that rhythm, he began to make out laughter. Arthur could hear the sharp exclamations of joy spring to life within the metallic grinding.

He sat and concentrated on the cacophony of emotions the train was willing to share. After some time, he felt the impulse to share back his own experience. His thoughts drifted to the life he had with his wife. He remembered the intensity of his love for her and the pride he felt at the life they were building together.

His thoughts began to synchronize with the rhythms of the train’s clanging symphony. Arthur dug deeper and shared with the train his overwhelming joy at the birth of his son. He fondly focused on the sleepless nights and enormous worry in those first few months when the baby wouldn’t stop crying. He remembered when the boy slept so soundly that he and his wife hovered over him listening intently for breathing.

There were memories coming to the surface that Arthur had purposefully avoided for the past two years. As he sank deeper into his trance, his body relaxed even more. His chest swelled slowly with each steady breath. The sharp pain in his abdomen flared to the front of his mind as the memory of his son’s funeral sprung forth.

As Arthur sat on the vinyl seat, he confronted the memory of staring into his son’s lifeless eyes. He felt the stabbing anguish in his abdomen rise through his torso like bile burning through his esophagus and explode into the clanging and rattling of the thousands of cries around him. He stared into the brown of his son’s irises and allowed himself to feel the pain of that moment. The person he loved more than anything or anyone else in the world was gone. The terror of that acknowledgment radiated through Arthur.

The train rattled on for several hours while Arthur sat, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. He sat in mournful meditation while the train rumbled on into the night. The train slowed as it pulled into Arthur’s stop for the fourth time since boarding for his ride home. He did his best to dry his face on the sleeve of his jacket and stood up to leave his confession behind him with the thousands more on the train.

He took his time with the five hundred and nineteenth walking of that exact route home. Arthur was anticipating the usual voices and accompanying panic that had greeted him on this walk five hundred and eighteen times before. But, as he moved slowly through his neighborhood he felt no increase in his heart rate and no quickening of his breath.

Every day it floors me. I never knew I could feel this much love for anyone.

Arthur heard the voice, but there was no shock of pain that followed. He listened for the voice to come again.

He’s so happy, all the time. That smile erases the rest of the world.

Arthur listened to the words as they came: love, happy, smile. He had never noticed the joy that voice had shared with him. The voice came again as he mounted the stairs to his apartment building.

I don’t have anything left to give you. I can barely pull myself together enough to take my next breath. I can’t carry this weight for both of us anymore. I love you, and I hate you for not hurting like I hurt. I love you so much. Good bye.

He considered closely what these words were saying to him as he sifted through his mail and climbed the creaking staircase to the third floor. The anger in those words was all he had ever chosen to hear. But now he heard the caring and exhaustion behind the anger. The love he could not reciprocate drove that anger.

It was because she loved him. A spark lit in his stomach where the stabbing pain had been previously. The spark was not yet warm, but it was light and the more he listened to the words of love and pain the lighter the spark grew.

Arthur stood before his door, staring at the black 3 and B and waited for the laughter to come. When it came, it was sharp and bright. Arthur listened to the unfiltered joy in the laughter of his son. He felt the pain and grief of knowing he would never be able to see him grow into a man, that he would never again be able to hold his son in his arms and stare into his eyes and feel love radiate from them.

He felt the joy of those times when he did hold his son and sing to him to soothe the cries. He felt the joy of when he held his boy through fevers and naps. He felt the joy of seeing his son learning to crawl, and the smell of his hair after a bath.

But mostly, he felt the agony of his loss. Once more the tears began to fall from Arthur’s eyes as he prepared himself to confront the home where all of those memories happened. He remembered the words of the old woman from the train reminding him that these were all just things that happened–good and bad.

The laughter jumped up at Arthur as he stood before his door, joyful and immediate. He unlocked his door and strode confidently into his apartment, closing it behind him. Like always, he leaned against the door as he untied and removed his shoes. As he strode past his green couch and on to the kitchen, he gave a welcome glance down the hall towards the laughter.

Standing in the kitchen, Arthur leaned against the tile counter and placed the first two fingers of his left hand on his carotid artery, feeling his pulse. The blood was pumping quickly through his body in anticipation of Arthur’s new resolve. He calmly reached with his right hand to the butcher-block stand on the counter next to the sink and removed a filet knife.

Quickly, but with precision, Arthur placed the sharp end of the knife just above the fingers monitoring his pulse and pushed the blade into the skin. He exhaled sharply as the knife plunged an inch into his neck. In reaction, Arthur tugged the knife free from his flesh, and as he fell backward to the floor blood spurted onto the wall above his sink.

Arthur lay on his kitchen floor, his ears filled with the laughter of his son, and felt a warm puddle form around his head. He stared at the blood splattered across his wall, and for the first time in two years, he smiled.

Where the Streets Have No Name

Matthew Jankiewicz

They called it the most toxic town in America, and, despite the disgrace associated with that epithet, growing up, I simply called it home. Like other small towns scattered across the Tri-State mining district like buckshot, ours was made up of simple, hardworking people who devoted themselves to a way of life that sought virtues over valuables. Both my father and grandfather were born and raised in the town, and we, their children, were encouraged to inherit the pride that trickled down through the generations by reciting stories that straddled the line between truth and folklore.

Point of fact: our town mined most of the lead used to make bullets during both World Wars. What can I say? Our town’s roots stem directly from the soil. Sought after by mining prospectors from around the country, they came in droves with meager supplies, a few shovels and pickaxes, and a glass half-full attitude containing Jameson’s finest liquor to steer them toward their fortune.

My small-town childhood could best be described as the epitome of normalcy. That was, at least, until the disasters befell our town like a reenactment of the Biblical plagues. It had been an unseasonably warm October that year when everything began to change. The locals blamed the tragedies on the curse set upon us nearly a hundred years ago by the Quapaw tribe, who had inhabited the land before it fell under the jurisdiction of the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs. Others pointed their fingers at Mayor Thompson and the town legislators for failing to put preventative measures in place. And still, others turned to more mystical explanations, warning us of our impending doom after Rubber Creek turned red. The blood of Christ, they warned, had marked our town as ground zero for the destruction of the world.

The change began with a succession of thunderstorms that sprouted up at all hours of the day without warning. These storms brought with them manic gusts of wind that whipped across the plains, bending the trees over like repenting sinners as they clung onto their foliage in the way a man might cling onto his last breath. Jagged bolts of lightning scarred the skies as the rumbling thunder delivered its raucous proclamations of our impending destruction.

I was twelve years old at the time and, up until then, had never seen any storm as ferocious. I remember hiding under the blankets with a flashlight, reading through my collection of Batman comics while blaring Michael Jackson on the record player to drown out the thunder. It stormed every day for ten days straight until, one day, there was a piercing crackle of thunder followed by impenetrable silence. And, with that final decree, the storms ceased as suddenly as they began.

In the wake of the heavy storms came the arrival of the mosquitoes. Just as a disease spreads through the body, swarms of them infiltrated every home, every store, and every exposed crevice that permitted their entrance. Not a single one of us managed to escape the attacks of the bloodthirsty brigade unscathed.

Maggie, my little sister, ran around the family room carrying a mason jar that she would use to try to capture the mosquitoes. More often than not, they would flutter out of her reach and disappear toward the nearest light fixture. There were a few of the tiny winged-creatures, however, that had been deceived by my sister’s friendly chirrups, sealing their fate as prisoners within the confines of the miniature glass fortress.

Can we keep them as pets? Can we? Can we? Maggie begged my mother as she gazed into the jar, wide-eyes and a slack jaw revealing her fascination.

Sure, honey, Mom said as she applied another layer of Benadryl onto my father’s neck and back, rubbing it in with the finesse of a professional masseuse. Mom was no stranger to my sister’s persistence, especially when it came to strange requests.

As a means to explain her unusual behavior my parents sought the opinion of an expert, a man with a string of letters leashed to his name, who told them that, in his professional opinion, Maggie embodied all of the conditions of mild mental retardation. Receiving that unexpected piece of news devastated our mother, and from that day forward she began to treat my sister like a piece of fine china, something to be safeguarded against any possible threat. It was her way, I suppose, of evening out the playing field, to make up for the unfavorable hand dealt to Maggie the only way she knew how. Anything my sister asked for would invariably be granted lest she threw a temper tantrum.

In the case of the mosquitoes, it turned out that such a blow up was unavoidable, for the next morning Maggie awoke to discover to her horror that all of her captives had asphyxiated overnight, lying still as stones at the bottom of the jar.

While Maggie zigzagged across the house with her jar, my father joined in on the hunt with a can of Pabst held in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. By the end of the week, we saw the glimmer of a madman in his eyes each time he smashed one of the mosquitoes under the rubber square, smearing tracks of blood across the floors, along the walls, even on the countertops.

After two weeks, the swarms of mosquitoes vanished like a veil of fog in the morning sunlight. The townspeople began to emerge from the shelter of their homes, still itching their battle wounds, to resume their lives and to carry on as though there had been no interruption. Children reluctantly returned to school while their parents punched in at the factories and metal shops—the mines having been closed for many years even back then. For all intents and purposes, the strange incidents were shelved in our memories, and the word normal was, once again, deposited into our vocabulary. Little did we know then that our collective hardships were just beginning.

THREE MONTHS PASSED without a single unusual occurrence. Autumn succumbed to winter and its biting cold weather. On one particularly snowy afternoon after school, my friends and I decided to go sleigh riding. With our plastic boards in hand, we darted off toward the mountain range of mine tailings, these enormous piles of fragmented limestone and dolomite that the locals called chat. They were the last remnants of the mining industry from back in the day when, according to Dad, this had been a rip-roaring town. Standing atop the summits provided incredible panoramic views of the entire town and the flat expanse that stretched out in every direction beyond it, leading to places we’d never been to but always dreamed of visiting. These mounds served as our hangout spot for our small group, which consisted of my older brother, George, my best friend, Winston, and his friend Tom, who I never much cared for but acknowledged merely by proxy. Since no one ever bothered us up there on the chat piles, we felt no reason to restrain from indulging our curiosities by smoking cigarettes—among other things—and drinking from various bottles we stole from our parents’ liquor cabinets.

That afternoon we took turns sliding down the snow-covered mountain of chat, relishing in the total exhilaration of losing control over gravity while the burning cold wind sliced across our cheeks. In the typical competitive fashion of teenagers, we’d show off our skills, daring each other to jump over the snow-packed ramps we constructed or to stand upright on our snowboards like surfers.

It wasn’t long before Tom and Winston began arguing over a girl they both had a crush on. Having turned my attention to a caravan of Jeeps and black sedans rolling through the east side of town, I didn’t catch the outcome of their little spat. The procession split into two groups, the Jeeps heading north toward Rubber Creek, while the sedans turned in the opposite direction toward Main Street. From my vantage, I watched as one of the cars pulled into my parent’s driveway.

Hey, guys! I called out to the group behind me. What do you suppose they’re doing here? I pointed to the parade of cars patrolling the streets.

G-men, my brother said, releasing a trickle of smoke to punctuate his words. Probably coming here to officially tell us how much this place sucks.

Maybe it has something to do with the cave-ins, Winston said.

Or the creek turning color, Tom added.

Point of fact: several years ago, it was discovered that excessive amounts of toxic metals had funneled out of the vacant mine sites into Rubber Creek, which had been steadily turning a fiery orange color over the years. Shortly after, the EPA declared our town a ‘Supersite’ and minimal efforts had been put into action to clean up the polluted land.

Our curiosity piqued, we watched as the G-men, wearing dark suits and matching ties under their overcoats, circulated from door-to-door like a band of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Our acute attention was shattered by the sound of car engines approaching us. Several men stood at the bottom of the chat pile next to ours, searching the ground for something with long metal contraptions that pierced through the snowdrifts. Afraid they’d catch us along with our adolescent contraband; we abandoned our post and split.

Back home I found the black sedan still parked in our driveway. When I stepped through the back door, I noticed my mother and father sitting around the kitchen table across from one of the men in suits we’d seen from atop the chat pile. He wore a navy suit with an EPA badge clipped to the lapel. His hair was trimmed real neat, like you see on people in the movies who lived in big cities. His speech was eloquent and insipid in the way one’s voice becomes after they’ve repeated the same thing hundreds of times. The agent’s trim appearance was enhanced by the striking contrast to my father’s, who wore his favorite rumpled football shirt, stained black with motor oil from years of fixing cars in the garage. Mom, having just arrived home from her shift at the hospital, still wore her white nursing uniform. When the agent heard me enter the kitchen, he stopped speaking and fixed me a look that communicated that whatever he was talking about was none of my damned business.

Mom turned to me and said, Kevin, why don’t you go into the living room and play with your sister? Her eyes were tear-soaked and red around the corners. I nodded and watched Maggie play with her dolls while I strained to listen in on the important conversation going on in the kitchen. Despite Maggie’s cackles of laughter, I managed to pick up snatches of what the agent said, ... the town has been labeled a Superfund site ... toxins pose a great threat ... relocate businesses and residents ... for your safety, the Federal Government is offering a buyout ...

When the stranger left our house, Mom darted across the living room with her face buried in her hands and retreated into my parents’ bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Dad remained seated at the kitchen table, silently drinking from a can of Pabst and gazing out the window with a stunned look on his face.

THERE WERE ONLY THREE hours of overlap between when Mom came back from the hospital and when Dad left to begin his evening shift at the high school where he worked as a janitor. The night of the G-man’s unexpected visit, and every night following, my parents spent the majority of those three hours fighting in the kitchen while the three of us struggled to ignore them in the living room. In the past, Mom and Dad had always managed to sweep their arguments under the rug, tidily disguising their growing resentment for one another as if they had purposefully hung up some invisible curtain, in order to shield us from their problems. But that flimsy curtain had been torn down, revealing the sad truths it had failed to conceal.

I’m not going to leave everything behind over a few thousand dollars. Christ, Tami, where the hell are we supposed to go? Dad yelled. It ached to hear him that way. Dad never yelled, and his voice cracked under the strain.

It’s not like there’s anything left for us here, Mom shouted back. At least nothing that we can’t find somewhere else. Perhaps we could look at this as an opportunity for a fresh start, to make a better life for ourselves.

"This is our home, Tami. This is where we belong."

What about the children? You know it’s not safe for them here. You’ve read the newspaper, haven’t you? Seen those government reports they published?

Our kids look perfectly fine to me. I’m not going to work myself up into a frenzy over what the government tells me. A pounding on the table emphasized Dad’s frustration. Twenty-two thousand dollars! That’s what I call a goddamned scam. This place is worth at least double that amount.

Maggie burst into tears, clutching her favorite Barbie doll under the crook of her arm. Recognizing the threat of an impending outburst as the tears began to trail down her cheeks, George suggested that we all play Simon Says as a way to defuse the situation.

Simon says ... touch your nose, said George, and we all did as we were told. Simon says ... rub your belly. Once again, we followed suit. Maggie’s face brightened as she rubbed her stomach in a circular motion. Simon Says was her favorite game to play, and even though I was much too old for it, I found a kind of relief in the act of concentrating on something other than the argument spilling out from the next room.

Simon says ... imagine your favorite faraway place, where you can do whatever you want.

ONCE DAD FINALLY LEFT for work, allowing the silence to fill in the troubled air like a pleasant scent, the phone rang. Mom, clutching the phone in one hand and concealing her tears with the other said, It’s for you.

Hello, I spoke into the receiver, settling in the corner of the living room as far as the telephone cord would allow.

Kevin, you won’t believe what happened! came the excited voice of Winston over the speaker.

What? I asked, playing along.

Remember how you told me the other day to just push away my fears and ask Kimberly Olson out? You said it so nonchalantly, remember?

Yeah.

Well, I did it! I thought about the worst thing that could happen to me, like dying in an airplane crash, you know, like what happened to the members of Lynard Skynard. Or even worse, having my balls chopped off because of some kind of cancer.

Highly unlikely, I asserted.

Of course, I don’t really think that will happen, but you never know, right?

Sure.

So, I just thought about those things happening, and I realized that I could die before I lose my virginity. So, near the end of Chemistry class, I struck up the nerve to ask her out on a date. She gave me this wide-eyed expression, and I thought she was going to slap me or something, but then she just smiled and said, ‘Finally.’

I could detect the uncontrollable grin in his voice. Good job, man.

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