Running Wild Anthology of Stories, Volume 4 Book 1

By Peter Wright

A cornucopia of stories that span genres and styles. Our editor spanned the globe to find every style and type of story to keep you engaged and make sure that we never, ever fit neatly in a box. Must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947041608

Book preview

In the Heart of Mama’s Belly

Joujou Safa

As the conductor called out their stop, Zahra’s heart beat faster. She gently helped her mother up from her seat, and the two of them pushed through the density of early morning commuters to get off on Dekalb Avenue. Her mother, feeling a bit nauseous and complaining of a headache, held onto Zahra’s coat to steady herself.

Zahra, nervous they would miss their stop, wished they had. Both of them stood in the middle of the subway platform as people rushed by, eager to get somewhere they deemed important. Reaching into her coat pocket, Zahra pulled out handwritten directions her neighbor Susan had given her the night before.

Do you understand the directions? Her mother asked.

Yes. Zahra was hesitant to admit she was a little confused. Neither she nor her mother had ever ridden the train.

We should have taken the bus.

Mama, the bus makes too many stops. We would have never made it here on time. She paused, trying not to sound like she was scolding her mother. Susan said this was the quickest way, and we can take a car service back. She promised me none of the drivers are Arab. No one will recognize us and you won’t have to ride the train again. Zahra showed her mother the business card for the car service. See, it says, ‘Elegante. Owner, Jesus Rivera.’

Shrugging her shoulders, her mother pointed to the stairs and gestured for them to start climbing. "Yalla, let’s get out of this coffin."

It was only 7:45 in the morning, but the streets were already thumping with energy. Vendors were getting their goods ready to hawk on the sidewalk. Sounds of unfurling gates vibrated on the blocks as the bodegas, dry cleaners, butchers, beauty shops, and other businesses started their day. Music was blasting from open windows nestled above the shops and from the cars driving down the avenue. Zahra recognized a Celia Cruz song. Her best friend Nerida’s mother was always swaying her hips in the kitchen to Celia.

Zahra noticed Junior’s Cheesecake as they turned a corner. Guilt crept into her belly as she recognized the neighborhood. She frequented Flatbush with her father to pick up cheesecake and pastrami sandwiches. This was a once-a-month family treat, but she had never been inside the restaurant. She always waited in the double-parked car while her father ran in to pick up their order.

Zahra directed her mother to cross the street, hoping to avoid the sight of the restaurant. Her mother loved Junior’s too — their pastrami was the only non-halal meat she ate. It’s Kosher, she would always exclaim, even though no one asked or cared. You know before the halal meat shop opened I went to the kosher butchers. The Jews kill the same way we do. Just different prayers is all.

Her father always chuckled. "Whatever eases your conscience, habibiti."

Zahra navigated the unfamiliar streets using Susan’s directions, which were quite good. So good, in fact, Zahra wondered how often Susan had been to this place. The walk was quick. They made it to their destination without having exchanged a single word.

She checked the number on the brick building twice before tugging at the door which didn’t open. A security guard, standing behind a desk in the small lobby, pointed her finger to the side, signaling for Zahra to ring the bell so she could buzz them in.

The guard was tall and sturdy with wax paper skin that revealed canals of blue veins under the surface of her angled face. Her huge knotty hands motioned for her mother to put her handbag down and for Zahra to take off her backpack. Zahra wondered if this woman was mute — she didn’t say a word to them. She opened her mother’s bag first and rummaged through it with swift precision. She put it to the side and started on Zahra’s backpack. For some reason, she took her time with Zahras bag, taking out her Walkman first, even opening it to to reveal the mix tape from her boyfriend that read, To my baby ZEE love Andy. Zahra snuck a side glance at her mother to see if she saw the tape, but her mother was examining the floor. The security guard took out Zahra’s copy of the Catcher in the Rye, then her notebooks and pencil case, and kept fishing until she came across the ziplock with cash. Zahra flinched as this woman looked up at her with a knowing gaze.

Finally, the guard spoke up. In an unexpectedly soft voice, she said, 3rd floor, and waved them to the direction of the elevator.

The waiting area was full. Collective anxiety and the scent of too many cleaning products choked the air in the room. A tinge of sadness lingered. Zahra suddenly felt very depressed and wished she could click the heels of her Timberlands and be anywhere but here. She felt her underarms dampening. Suppressing her anxiety, she straightened her spine and surveyed the room. She had a task to complete, and she always completed her tasks.

A couple of dozen women and some very young looking girls, girls who looked younger than she was, sat in rows of blue plastic chairs filling out paperwork. A few wandered over to a display of glossy brochures, flicking through them nervously before putting them back down. Signs advocating for safe sex and how to prevent STDs covered the once-beige walls.

The registration desk was five women deep. Zahra got in line while her mother took a seat. The lady at check-in was slender with long dark hair slicked into a tight and glossy ponytail. A nameplate necklace spelling Lettie laid beautifully on her brown collarbone and gold door knockers adorned her ears. Zahra wanted a pair of earrings like that, but her parents wouldn’t let her have them. They did get her a nameplate necklace, only her name was spelled in Arabic. She never wore it.

What’s your name? Lettie demanded.

Zahra barely finished answering before Lettie shoved a clipboard in front of her. Fill out these forms, sign, date, and bring them back to me. You’ll be called to the back when it's your turn. Your balance is $580. Her eyes never left the monitor in front of her. How will you be paying? Cash or credit? For credit, I need to see I.D.

Uh…ok…I’m paying cash.

Zahra unzipped her backpack and retrieved the ziplock bag. She counted out hard-saved tens and twenties. This was money her mother squirreled away for emergencies or for some little bit of luxury they really couldn’t afford. Well, this was an emergency.

Lettie took the cash and counted it. Drop off the paperwork on the other side of this desk. You will be called to the back soon. She signaled for the woman behind Zahra to come up.

Zahra scanned the room for her mother. She spotted her sitting in the furthest corner, away from everyone else, acting like she didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong there, Zahra thought. But there they were — together.

Zahra took in her beautiful mother for a moment before walking over. Despite all the hardships her mother had endured — fleeing her homeland at the tender age of twelve, marrying young, and birthing four children before she was even twenty-four, the bloom of youth had not escaped her.

She had creamy skin with a hint of cocoa layered on top, eyes the color of coal that were held up by the highest cheekbones. Her mother was a natural brunette, but grey hair had crept in when she turned 17, right after she had Zahra. She loved to say turning grey so young gave her the freedom to rewrite her look every eight weeks. Today she is a blonde.

For the first time, Zahra saw how young her mother was. And scared. And bent. Like a drooping tulip. The light coming in from the window covered half of her mother’s face in a yellow glow, making her look sallow. Zahra wanted to tell her mother that being a blonde doesn’t really suit her, but that wasn’t her place. And today, here, was not the place.

Mama, you need to fill this out, Zahra said handing her mother the clipboard with the intake forms. Her mother pushed them away with her fingertips and laid her perfectly manicured hand over Zahra’s. Her eyes were watery, and with a cracked voice, she said, I’m sorry you have to go through this. Leaning over, she softly kissed Zahra on the forehead before taking the forms.

The kiss made Zahra feel uncomfortable. There was no need to add emotions to the web they had already weaved. They did not have an intimate relationship. They weren’t the type of mother and daughter who bonded over shopping and manicures. They bonded over doing housework, boiling bottles, changing diapers, checking the A&P for Similac sales, paying bills, setting up doctor appointments, and making sure homework was done. Zahra helped her mother maintain law and order in the two-bedroom apartment that housed the six of them.

She wanted to tell her, don’t be sorry. She wanted to tell her they — the both of them — couldn’t handle another child. She also wanted to tell her this was the right thing to do. Instead, she said nothing and stared at the green tiled floor.

For an hour, they watched women being called to the back. Some returned to the waiting room quickly, looking relieved and holding a picture of a sonogram tightly to their chest. Others came out looking slightly loopy and holding instructions with a nurse trailing behind them.

Finally, it was their turn. Before the nurse could even finish saying her name, Zahra’s mother shot up and bolted over to the nurse like a scared rabbit. Before she disappeared through the door, she turned and gave Zahra a reassuring nod and a soft, but closed, smile. Zahra wished she had given her a hug. She fought back tears — her body a tangle of fear and sadness.

Zahra needed to talk to Andy and reached inside her coat jacket to retrieve the beeper he bought her. Thank God the security guard didn’t pat her down.

She punched in 121 — code for I need to talk to you.

She took stock of the room as she waited for a response. A few feet away from her, she noticed a mother and daughter in a heated argument. The mother was talking through gritted teeth, trying to keep her voice down. The daughter, about thirteen years old, was extremely animated. She did not care to keep her voice down. I’m keeping it! You can’t make me murder my baby!

"Mija, we can’t take care of it! You think that loser will take care of you. Look at me, baby. Look! You want to wind up like me? Where the hell your dad been all these years, huh? You have to go in there!"

He’s not like dad. He loves me.

Oh yea, where the fuck is he now? Son of a bitch didn’t even offer to pay.

He wants me to keep it. The girl was sobbing.

Zahra wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She felt so bad for them both, but she couldn’t understand for even one second why this little girl would want to be a mother right now.

If you don’t get this done. I swear to God, I’ll report him for statutory rape. The mother looked triumphant as if she just pulled out a royal flush at the poker table. But the girl — the girl let out the loudest wail, like a cat who just had her tail stepped on. Instinctually, the mother grabbed her and cradled her as they both sobbed uncontrollably, intertwined, mournful.

Shhh, it’s ok, it’s ok. The mother soothed her daughter by kissing the top of her head over and over, stroking her unruly hair after every kiss. With a voice that lost its fight, she said, Let’s go home.

Zahra was dumbfounded. Before she could even process what just happened, her beeper vibrated with Andy’s store number, but she no longer felt like talking to him. He didn’t know where she was, and she didn’t want to tell him. Instead, she took out her book and wondered how Holden could be depressed living in his penthouse. She wished she had those problems.

Zahra’s mother tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. She jumped out of her seat and out of the privileged world of Holden Caulfield.

Mama, how do you feel?

Like I’m having period cramps. A little uncomfortable. Nothing serious.

The nurse who took her to the back room was with her. She gave Zahra some instructions and a prescription for antibiotics. Your mother opted for slight sedation, so she may be a little unsteady. Other than that, everything went well. She needs some rest and she will be back to normal tomorrow. Before she left, she told Zahra that they can call with any questions or concerns.

Mama, you ready to leave?

Yes, but coffee first. Please, I need coffee.

On the way out, they passed the guard as she was checking two teenagers. Zahra felt like they met her a lifetime ago.

There is a bodega on the corner. We can get coffee and a bagel if you’re hungry.

No, let's go to Junior’s, her mother said as she reached over to tuck a wisp of Zahra’s hair behind her ear. I saw it when we arrived.

She held her mother by the crook of her arm as they walked over to Junior’s, just as silent as their walk to the clinic.

The restaurant was an assault on the senses. It smelled wonderful, but looked awful and dirty. The open kitchen exposed the cooks grabbing the meat from the steamers and slicing it up. Rolls and pickles packed in plastic bags were lined up on a shelf behind the cashiers. The taste of their food definitely offset the griminess of the place. Zahra remained silent, but was intrigued by the chaos of the line cooks calling out orders and the people lined up at the front deli case filled with rows after rows of cheesecake. Her gaze shifted over to her mother, thinking she would definitely want to leave, but saw her talking to the hostess who sat them in a striped booth with tears in the fabric and a greasy film covering the formica table.

This is definitely not what I thought this place looked like. Her mother giggled when she said this, covering her mouth like a little school girl. Zahra couldn’t help but laugh, too. We can’t tell dad we’ve been here.

"What’s one more secret between us at this point, habibi?"

Yea, Zahra thought. What’s one more?

Silent Voice

Leigh Fisher

She swirls her straw around the glass, stirring up ice when there’s really no need to. He’s sitting across from her, requesting that the waitress bring them one of the most expensive bottles of wine on their menu. She doesn’t feel like herself when she thinks like this, but she’s beyond the point of feeling guilty about the money he spends on her.

She opens her mouth to speak to him, but as soon as the waitress walks away, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Unable to keep swirling the ice around without looking strange, she spins the bracelet around on her wrist so that the large gem is facing the right way. The jewelry was also a gift from him and she imagines that the bulge in his suit pocket is another meaningless, glittering present.

She needs to say something before he piles yet another item on the mountain of things she has received from him; the things she still feels she owes him.

Do you want to order any appetizers? he asks.

No, that’s alright.

He glances up for the briefest of moments and looks at her oddly. You usually always want one or two.

She declines again, and his gaze immediately goes back to the screen brightly shining in his hand.

She looks toward the far end of the restaurant, where a woman in an elegant, black dress is playing the grand piano. It’s a beautiful sight, and it was a romantic gesture to bring her here, but she knows that he didn’t pick it. She’s all too aware that their dinner reservation was chosen and scheduled by his assistant. He doesn’t care enough to do such things with his own hands, which are occupied with tapping tiny letters on a screen.

Have you picked a week for our trip? he asks, without looking up from his phone.

Not yet.

You should pick soon. It’ll look odd to my colleagues if I don’t take my wife somewhere for our anniversary.

My wife, he says. She is an accessory he owns. He doesn’t even use her name.

She’s spared from needing to respond since their waitress has returned with glasses and the bottle of wine. She politely thanks the woman, but her husband doesn’t bother with the same, simple courtesy.

The waitress fills the glasses up just a little more than half full. She almost laughs at the irony of that, for they look half empty to her. She watches as the dark red liquid rises in the glass while its shadow through the tinted bottle recedes beneath the label. The smell of alcohol is faint, but it’s still quickly assaulting her senses. She puts her hand over her stomach, safely hidden by the table cloth, and tries to hide her wince.

Of course, this is something that only matters if he’s looking at her, but he’s not.

So, do you at least know where you want to go?

Everything he says is prompting her to play her part; to say her part. She can say it any time, but mustering up the words is more difficult than trying to get his attention when he’s messaging his colleagues. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to fight back the feeling of nausea that’s starting to overtake her.

She can say it.

She has to say it.

She’s almost ready to speak, but again, she’s reprieved from responding because his phone rings.

Sorry, he says as he starts to rise from his chair, I’ve got to take this.

He answers the call before he’s on his feet, leaving her to stare at the back of his tailored suit as he walks away. She slumps in her chair, eyeing the wine. It would certainly help relax her nerves, quell her anxiety, and make it a bit easier to speak her mind. However, she knows that she cannot lean upon such a vice to make her confession easier. She will not be drinking alone.

She laces her fingers together and places them over her abdomen for only a few moments before she straightens. She’s drained most of her water glass in the minutes that pass before he returns, but she isn’t angry. She’s never angry with the way he’s always occupied by his work and she knows that he appreciates that. But by not being angry, she also knows her other emotions are also empty, and he doesn’t know that.

Sorry about that, he says as he returns to his seat. How about that anniversary trip?

His phone doesn’t go in his pocket; it simply sits on the table.

She directs her gaze over to the display of old china dolls on the far side of the restaurant. It’s an unusual decoration for such a formal place, but stranger things have become decorative trends. She can’t help but think she’s similar to those dolls – she dresses up in clothes that fit perfectly and jewelry that makes her look beautiful, but her face is always fixed in the same forlorn expression.

She needs to say it.

I don’t think I want to go anywhere, she says quietly.

For once, he looks at her. What do you mean?

I don’t want to go anywhere, she says, making the words more definite though her voice shakes.

He looks at her questioningly.

And she clarifies, absently touching her stomach with steady hands. "I don’t have to go with you. I can’t go with you anymore."

Fragile Fruit

Azzurra Nox & Erica Ruhe

A re you sure she’s dying? Marietta’s fingertips bit into the phone receiver. Mamma was very ill last year and then she got better —

Marietta, if you don’t come back to say goodbye to your mother, then don’t come back to Maletto. Ever. The sting in Sofia’s tone was enough to make Marietta wince. Her eyes flicked to the sleeping three-year-old on her bed. She lowered her voice, clasping her hand tightly around a little doll made of straw and burlap, black pins embedded in the material.

This is not just about me, Sofia.

You’re right, Sofia laughed, sardonically. This is not about you at all. This is about Mamma.

She hasn’t spoken to me since I left. I doubt she would want me there.

I am making this decision for her.

Marietta shook her head. Will she even let me in the house?

She might. Or she might spit in your face. Either way, you need to be here. If only to help with the funeral.

Marietta hesitated. She gazed past the cornicelli amulets hanging from her bedroom window and envisioned plunging down into the depths of the murky Hudson River. Her eyes held the same icy blue haze of the cold waters below her. She fingered a coral cornicello amulet hanging from her neck. Several others adorned the entrance of the apartment's door. To anyone else, the cornicelli simply looked like red chili peppers, but Marietta knew their power. Another layer of protection. The Atlantic Ocean wasn't enough to keep her safe from the curse.

"Minchia, Marietta! Are you capable of making even one unselfish choice in your life?"

Sofia, please, Marietta whispered, stifling the sobs in her chest. You don’t know what it’s been like for me.

I know very well what these past few years have been like for the family. You’ve done nothing to make amends.

I have tried to make amends, but Mamma won’t listen. She never takes my calls. She won’t return any of my letters.

You know what you needed to do. And you chose not to. You chose yourself over your family.

My family chose Alfio over me!

Marietta. Sofia scoffed. Sometimes I wonder if we truly are sisters.

Me too. Marietta wiped her angry tears. If this had happened to you, I would have protected you. I would have fought for you.

But that’s the difference between you and me. I would never have put you in that situation in the first place.

Invisible fingers clenched Marietta’s throat. She could not speak. She could not swallow. She could only stand there, trembling with grief.

I have a clear conscious, Sofia continued. I sleep very well at night. How do you sleep, Marietta?

Marietta pressed her forehead to the cold window. Another landscape had filled her glass panes not so long ago. Nostalgia tugged at her heart, envisioning Mount Etna’s snow-capped beauty in the winter. She’d spent endless hours watching the volcano spit fire in the sky, making the night come alive in hues of crimson. The terror of tales she heard as a child that Cyclops lived there proved how much Marietta and Sicily remained attached to their Greek colony roots. It was a place of gods and monsters.

She closed her eyes and composed a quiet, diplomatic reply.

Will you be at the airport, or should I get a taxi?

Sofia cut a sharp sigh. Call me with your flight info before you leave. I’ll send Peppe to pick you up.

The line clicked dead. Relenting her grip on the doll, it fell to the floor and rolled away from her. She let the phone clatter into its cradle and turned away from the window. Sprawled among the queen-sized sheets, her daughter's tranquil face portrayed no knowledge of the conversation. No anxiety about the difficult trip to come. Jane knew nothing of the past. Marietta envied the little girl because of that. And detested her because of that. And grew weary of her presence because of that. Jane made the past impossible to forget. Marietta’s eyes traveled to the prescription bottles on her bedside table next to a half-full glass of water. A sense of deep shame gripped her the moment she realized that she would have to pack the pills. What would her family think of her?

Don McLean's tragic voice coming up from a nearby apartment, singing about the day music died, made her particularly susceptible to sadness. The phone call only amplified her melancholy. Marietta had never considered going back to her small Sicilian town of Maletto. She had fled from that place several years ago with vows that she would never return. That had been the plan. Pretend that none of her past had ever happened. Become a better version of herself. Instead, remnants of her former life clung to her like a second skin. No amount of distance could change that. The past had hooked in its insidious talons and she’d dragged it with her all the way to New York.

Marietta sat down on the bed and pushed a dark curl away from her daughter's face. The little girl stirred in her