The Last Generation

By Michael Thomas

Let’s say you’re teleported to London, Prior to the blitzkriegs, where an unpublished author has just released her entire career into a single work. Would you have granted Virginia Woolf a consideration? What if James Joyce had launched “Ulysses” without prior credits? I cannot equate my work to theirs. Nor, would they approve of such a preposterous notion. But, if I’m totally bonkers, and don’t possess the talent that I proclaim, what’s been misplaced anyways, other than a few coins into the ol’ slot machine?

“Let me please introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste (not exactly true, on either count)...”.. So, who the hell is Michael Thomas, and what the #*%$ is The Last Generation? Well, my path to arrive to this destination has been more of an obstacle course than a traditional foot race. Basically, The Last Generation was composed to understand myself better.

An exceedingly simplistic description to an extremely complex work, but, hey, hunger necessitates that I present a refection upon your plate. So, with that expectation for those idealistic childhood years to proceed forth in the same Manor, Seth’s path was altered by a bullet (of mental health) so forceful, that Mother was pressed to deliver Seth to a facility (Epidaurus) that will eventually extract the innocence of who he was, and can no longer be... “It’s not that he’s complaining, he only wants to understand.”

While at Epidaurus, Seth will become entangled to those residents (of multifarious peculiarities) with far more diverse bullets impeding their transitions into maturity than his own. Yet, they’ll assist Seth in that metamorphosis to whom he shall ultimately become, and what he

must do: compose those reflections from that perspective of a suspended snowflake... “The quest brought to light?”

To all those bibliomaniacs who prefer to snuggle beside a freshened love after each sunset.. hardbacks, paperbacks, e-formats, oh my.. without a thoughtful regard to the preceding publication, kindly withdraw this “legit lit” from your little black book. The Last Generation deserves a commitment, a promise ring on one’s finger, as this is an unconventional work, as completely unique as I am. For, should you peruse the current publications for a novel of equitable quality, you shall only falter.

Absolutely, page-turning cannot be tolerated on planes. Nor, waiting rooms. Rather, settle your attention to a tranquil nook.. Read a little.. Digest.. Read a little.. Digest...

It is recommended to engage your polyamorous biblio-lifeways to the author’s website, before vowing such fidelity.

https://thelastgeneration.info/

If you’re not presently gripped, I presume those moments to captivate your contemplation shall only further fade. So, my appreciation for your current heedfulness, and any possible considerations towards my work... “It’s a show... Freak show... You’ll see.”

Michael Thomas

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886547702

Book preview

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The Last Generation

Michael Thomas

Copyright © 2023 Michael Thomas

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-766-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-770-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Book of Life

PART 1

The Beginning

THE METAMORPHOSIS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Book of Anger

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book of Doubt

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Book of Guilt

The Black Spot

PART 2

The Middle Gnosis

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Book of Enlightenment

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

PART 3

The Middle

THE MESSIAH

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Book of Reflection

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

PART 4

The End

Agape

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

..48..

..52..

..56..

..58..

..60..

Chapter 4

Book of Death

About the Author

Well, we don't always get what we want, do we Mister Seth?

Yet, perhaps this is but a ploy, to persuade your sentimentality into acquiring my book? Possibly, I'm really that big-game hunter, beating to the lyrics of the p.m. news, and such an idealistic scenario only makes me puke?

Only upon the collection of every bit of information, and depositing those slips into your Gnostic bank account, then processing in that ol' computer of yours, may you then withdraw that interpretation of who I am, and what my purpose truly is… Can you then please illuminate me?

Michael Thomas

For all those that have, are, or shall, extract a bullet.

Book of Life

You see, it was on the road to reunite with my brother for a power lunch in Rome, that I had wandered upon a village spared of my brother's peppercorns.

It was those markings of pox, scarred upon all those fortunate enough to have endured my brother's wake, yet lethal to so many others about the countryside, that had forwarded my steps unto this village.

It would appear to the grounded perspective that my brother and I have a rather adversarial relationship. While I cannot deny that my brother is the silent one, and I am the, let's just say that I can be a little more verbose than my brother, from the vastness of comprehension, we actually work quite well together. Faiths have even sprouted from our seemingly antithetical positions, a passage from one twin to the other.

Anyways, as I approached this village, the breadcrumbs revealing my brother's itinerary, a young milk maiden was tending to the cows, singing in this village dialect. Oh, the joy passing through her lips… Hmmm…

My child, how is it that you can sing amongst all this ruin?

Saint George slew the dragon.

A dragon? I have created no such beast.

Silly old lady, that's because Saint George slew it.

My child, I'm not even that old… Anyways, why has death not visited your village?

Silly old lady, that's because Saint George slew it.

Saint George slew my brother?

Is your brother the dragon?

My brother is death.

Saint George only slew the dragon… I will take you to my daddy. He can tell you more about Saint George.

As I passed through this village, naturally some faces had a more pleasant appeal to behold upon than others, but not a marking of my brother's pox. Despite the rather primitive conditions in which they lived, only a scant attire of mourning had been displayed… Hmmm…

The dragons burned the villagers' crops. The dragons burned the villagers' homes. The dragons burned the villagers' souls. Until Saint George slew the dragons with his sword of courage. …The milk maiden's daddy had affirmed… We must bow our heads to Saint George. We must pray daily to Saint George. We must offer our sacrifices to Saint George. We must believe. We must believe that Saint George will protect us from such evil again. I cannot speak for the other villages, but in this village, we believe.

My brother would not surrender his scythe unto such superstition. My brother would not bury his scythe for such an abandonment of rationality. Hmmm…

It was upon that power lunch with my brother on the outskirts of Rome, in a quaint suburban pizzeria, awaiting our pie, that my brother ordered two cups of coffee, along with two shots shot of milk. He pulled out two viscottis from his pocket. One for him. One for me. He dipped the viscotti into the milk, then dunked it into the coffee. Through our dippings and dunkings, a misinterpretation of my brother's deeds had finally been forwarded to my hmmm's.

I may attribute a certain misconception of my brother's maneuvers to his quiet nature. To my brother's defense, he does have a rather weighted responsibility. Quite possibly, if he were to clarify his intentions to the masses more clearly, maybe his duties would be apprehended in a much more favorable light?

Anyways, a doggie bag for the road from our leftover pie would place that power lunch with my brother on the outskirts of Rome into our bon voyage. After a hug from my twin, we inked into our calendars some kabobs in Damascus for early autumn.

To those seekers into the unfathomable depths of my twin's doings, I shall only release that doggie bag when my brother is willing to speak for himself. For, at this juncture, the hard stuff shall most likely only intoxicate the spirit into more of a fuddle.

Possibly, when all the pages have been deposited into our Gnostic bank, and plenty of doggie bags have been packaged up along the way, my brother may squeeze a soliloquy from his hushings?

Until then, have we settled this issue?

Oh, what about me, an inquisitor should pose?

Hmmm… How may I suitably present to you my participation in all of this to be?… Hmmm… Let me see…

…A drab grey nightgown. Perhaps, a faded blue dress, on colorful occasions. Certainly, no pants. Yes, a drab grey nightgown, but quite vivid actually, compared to the black of mourning. A drab grey nightgown was loosely worn over the wrinkles of a convalescing woman, weeks since surgery, yet still uneasy with that uncertainty of recovery. She was sitting in a living room chair of a home in necessity of surgery itself—chipped paint, shingles splitting apart, a few pipes clogged—amongst the city of the Angels.

Grandma, open mine first.

No Grandma, open mine.

Her little angels were sharing her chair. She would always share her chair with her little angels. Her little angels were her blessings. Blessings indeed.

She placed the presents onto the hardwood floor, and pulled her little angels into her drab grey nightgown. The presents would eventually be discarded, but the little ones, oh the little ones were the real gifts today. But, how much longer? How much longer did she have with her little angels? Would she be joining her husband soon? A grimace of disgust surfaced at the thought of joining her husband. She bit her lip. She would not desecrate the dead, and place an unrest upon her husband…

…You see, her husband was a dandy with the cravings for a certain house of worship, whose clergy, with their painted faces and vibrantly decorated dresses, certainly not a drab grey or a faded blue, had devoted quite a following. Nightly, the clergy had sung the praises onto their parishioners. Praises such as, Oh Daddy, put the sweet Jesus into me tonight. Or, Let's get down to glory town right now…Glory…Glory…HALLELEJAH.

Her husband had fancied a high priestess, a dark-skinned woman from the northern hills of the old country. The golden coins from her husband's pocket were exchanged for the praises from this high priestess…

…Grandma's safe.

No fair…You're it, I touched you.

But, Grandma's safe. I can't be it, if Grandma's safe.

Could she have had more little angels if not for that, and then she nearly swore an old country curse… You see, she had her son. She was able to push her two girls through. But, only the wrinkles of death had fallen upon her fertility thereafter, stillborn after stillborn. For, it was the syphilis that would take any more potential little angels from her drab grey nightgown. The syphilis, in exchange for those golden coins.

Ma, her son kissed her on the cheek, having a happy birthday?

Her daughters were in the kitchen, cooking. She should really oversee them. She had attempted to rise from her chair, but her son, now the pants, insisted she sit. She said she was well, in the old language.

Ma, the pants was quite insistent in the new language, sit.

She really only learned the new language, but even that was quite broken, to communicate with her little angels, who had been assimilated into American culture, and spoke not the old language…

…You see, she first glimpsed her husband in the southern hills of the old country. Only a girl, she was picking fruit from the orchard. A young man from the city, quite dapper, a distant cousin or something, had tossed a pebble her way, smiling. As is proper for a girl of her positioning, illiterate, preparing for the sanctity of marriage, yet not even hers to decide, who would raise her husband's children, clean her husband's clothes, cook her husband's meals, yes, as is proper for a girl of her positioning, she ignored him. He tossed another pebble into her drab grey dress, smiling. She ignored him. Another pebble, ignored… Another… Another… Before the fire from her southern hills' belly arose to her brain, then back down to her hands, throwing a piece of fruit into his dapper grooming, it's not so funny now, is it?…

…Kids, the pants demanded, that's enough.

Biting her finger, to withhold her words from exploding upon the pants' discipline of her little angels. After all, her little angels were only playing the Floor is Poison. If the Floor is Poison, therefore a necessity to climb about the furniture… Smiling at her little angels, biting her finger at the pants. The furniture could all be replaced, but her little angels were precious.

Kids, the pants further demanded, go outside and play.

No, she could bite her finger no further, yua let 'em play here.

Ma, her son insisted, it's time for you to rest.

But, she was not sleepy. How could she sleep when there was so much LIFE around her? She only wanted to pull it all into her drab grey nightgown: the kitchen, the living room, the chipped paint, the shingles splitting apart, the clogged pipes, her son, her daughters, the spouses of her children, her little angels, especially her little angels. She was not ready to leave it all behind… Not yet.

As she closed the door into her bedroom, she laid her vigor upon the bed. She felt well. She really did… Oh, her teeth… So, she arose from the bed, and placed her teeth into a glass of water. She couldn't help but to sneak a peek outside the window. Her little angels were playing, playing amongst the fig tree…

…Picking fruit in the orchard, a young woman now… You see, her brothers had migrated to the New World, the land of promise, working alongside her dapper older cousin in the train-yards. Her brothers had arranged for her marriage, marriage to that pebble thrower, in exchange for her family's passage to the New World: Pa, Ma, sisters, little brother… Yes, Pa had delivered the news to her in the orchard… Married?… Should she fall to her knees, writhing in pain?… No, stoic. she must remain stoic. After all, a wife and a mother were what she had been raised to be…

…She still could not sleep. Fear? Did she fear that she would not awaken when there was so much more LIFE available yet to spend? Although she did have a few choice words for her husband, spit them out, gum them, if necessary, but no, she was not ready to see him just yet.

She snuck a peek outside the bedroom door, just enough to see the clock on the living room wall… 15 minutes… Had it only been 15 minutes? The position of the sun, the Old World measure of time, with its rate of accuracy far less than sufficient for the hurries of this new world, but she possessed not a modern mechanism in her bedroom, so the clock on the wall in the living room would be checked again… And again… She would wait another 45 minutes, 1 hour total, before emerging from her bedroom…

…You see, it was the dandy in her husband that had led to a tussle with another established parishioner in that house of worship. Perhaps, it was the fermentation? Maybe, it was the crossing of an eye? Most likely, it was two stiffened pairs of pants that had refused to share the praises from their high priestess?

As she received her husband, quite bloodied, his face was nearly unrecognizable, broken ribs. Within hours, he would succumb to a fever. She would nurse her husband back to health. After all, it was what she had been raised to do.

As her husband slowly began to recover, the flames from his southern hills' temper began to percolate… The shame… The shame of being considered less than a man. He could not cower. Would not. How could he look another man, a real man, in the eyes again? He must avenge his honor. He must regain his respect amongst the community.

You see, it was a black handprint stamped upon a door that an order had been established unto the community. Yes, it was a black handprint stamped upon a proprietor's door, for those stubborn enough to resist the fist's demands, followed by a coincidental break-in, maybe a broken limb to a counter, or a scratched lens to the glassware, possibly even death, for those goods-of-sale… And, the authorities only possessed the golden coins of silence in their pockets.

Her husband had avoided the stampings of this Black Hand by negotiating a settlement with the ranchers. A percentage of their crops were to be donated to this Black Hand of death, like a tithe to the church, and the remainder of their crops would be spared from any spontaneous combustions.

She would nurse her husband back to health, and for what, to be broken again by the hands of revenge? You see, it was a prominent finger of this Black Hand that her husband had his tussle with. Beaten within a talon of his LIFE, would it be only death to follow her nursings?… So foolish, she argued unto herself, these vendettas that men must carry. And, for what? Honor? Respect? And, what are your children to do without a father? What is your wife to do without a husband? Can honor and respect feed and clothe and protect your children if you are no longer present? Then, she realized, it was senseless really, as there was no amount of fruit tossed into his dapper that could sway her husband's decision. After all, he was the pants, and the pants confided not unto a drab grey or a faded blue. She knew all too well that when her husband would arise from their bed, there would be one final whisper of parting… Parting… Parting… Parting from her husband.

A tenderness, her husband supplying his daughters with the coins for the gas meter, amusingly proposing that it was their bank, a savings account for their future.

A tenderness, her husband buying the fruit and vegetables from the ranchers, then selling them to the downtown market. At first, by horse. Then, automobile. One of the first trucks in the city of the Angels… Oh, the advances she had seen in her LIFE, the automobile, airplanes, a rocket to the moon… She would like to fly in an airplane some day with her son. Her son, becoming a young man, assisting his father to the ranches.

A tenderness, her husband harvesting the grapes on their ranch. Pa, Ma, her brothers, her sisters, her in-laws, picking by day, sleeping beneath the stars, laying on their land, the hope of this new world, something only inherited in the Old World, amongst the wealthy.

A tenderness, the whistle of the train streaming into the city of the Angels. Married? Would she really be married soon? Was she prepared? Maybe, she should sneak out a back exit? But, where would she go? After all, she had been preparing for this all of her LIFE.

Ma had fussed with her appearance, as she separated from the train. A dapper pair of pants awaited on the platform, alongside her brothers.

He presented to her a piece of fruit… In case another pebble should be thrown your way.

She apologized… I'm not like that anymore.

You'll always be like that. That's why I marrying you.…

…She still could not sleep… It had been 30 minutes. The clock on the living room wall had indicated that there was still 30 minutes of rest remaining. Then, she could arise from the bed, and place her drab grey nightgown amongst the living.

The bells from the vendors' carts reverberated through her ears, still quite receptive. Now, forced to hail those vendors for their fruits and vegetables. Unnecessary, when her husband wore the pants. Maybe, she was purchasing the offspring of a tomato, or an eggplant, or an apple, from the ancestors that her husband had brought to the market years ago?…

…As the alarm to her daily routines sounded in her memory, she silently whispered a prayer to the Virgin Mary from a small shrine that had occupied a nook in her bedroom. She rubbed the rosary around the Virgin's neck, then slipped it back into her drab grey dress. She would prepare the coffee for her husband in the middle of the night, a necessity to arise at such an hour in order for her husband to reach the ranches before the opening of the central market downtown.

A shrine to Saint Joseph had been placed in her daughters' bedroom… On the feast of Saint Joseph, she and her daughters would prepare the banquet, then lay the offerings upon the table in the living room. Amongst the community, a young boy and a young girl would be chosen to play the pious couple. The couple would taste the offerings, bless the home with protection, then pilgrimage through the community, home to home, table to table, blessing to blessing.

She would awaken her husband, serve him his coffee and viscottis, a small hard cookie dunked into his coffee, then send him off to the ranches.

She would say a prayer to Saint George. She would say a prayer to Saint Joseph. She would say two prayers for the Virgin Mary. After all, she could not blame the saints for the dishonesty of the church, an old country distrust.

Her son was sleeping on the couch in the living room, beneath the painting of Saint George slewing the dragon. She would awaken her son, have him milk the goats, then collect the eggs from the chickens. On special occasions, she would ring a chicken by the neck from those strong hands forged in an old country work ethic, and place the chicken into the stove… But, eggs were a daily essential.

After she waved her children off to school, she would clean the house… She eagerly awaiting the end of the month, where she would board the streetcar to the downtown department stores for their end of the month white sale. As the streetcar rolled past the neighborhoods, segregated into ethnic communities, she wondered if the city of the Angels was like the Tower of Babel?… She was anxious, humbled, yet excited to be amongst the greater cosmos. You see, typically only confined to an Old World neighborhood, she spoke not this New World lingo, like her husband, only a village dialect.

"Damn dagos," an Americano had once slurred directly into her face, like flies upon this city.

She asked the clerk at the counter of the linen department to translate… Was she a fly? Flies are dirty. She was clean. That's why she was purchasing these new linens… Ignorant American. She would give him the evil-eye if they should pass again, an Old World curse of misfortune placed upon one's enemies.

Oh, the advances of this New World: streetcars, department stores, indoor plumbing… She smiled, as she recollected Pa's initial visit to the indoor facilities. Pushing his mutti into the basin, Pa couldn't help but to stare. For, he had never really seen his own excrement in such this manner. Mostly, he had only seen his waste at the bottom of a hole, piled atop previous discardings, indistinguishable really. Occasionally, he would relieve himself in the bushes, but even that was mixed with dirt and weeds, not clean, like his modern mutti. Was Pa a modern man now? Yes, Pa had stood over the basin, until her older brother entered the bathroom, then flushed the toilet. Pa, a farewell salute. And, Pa could hardly wait to use the facilities again. So, he gorged himself with the evening meal, then waited for nature to run its course. But, Pa had eaten so much, it had only projected out the other end. Ma laughed, as much as Ma could laugh. Even Ma had been silently grateful for utilizing this modern facility with its limited stink and shortened walk. So, Pa flushed the toilet, and waited for the next meal to arrive.

It was a bright sunny morning, just like in the southern hills of the old country. She stepped from her residence in the small house, onto the sidewalk in front of the big house, where Pa and Ma, her unmarried older brother, younger brother, and little sister, had all resided. Her little sister was soon to be married, arranged by her eldest brother, approved by Pa. Her eldest brother lived down the block from the big house. Her sister Jennie lived on the neighboring street, while her sister Josie had lived on the street beyond, still within a shout of the big house… Jennie and Josie were an homage to their grandmothers, the first and second born. Actually, quite common in the old village. So, when one referred to a Jennie or a Josie, one also had to include a family identity.

Laying in the orchard with her two sisters, the girls had compared the fruit trees to their potential husbands. Jennie had preferred an overweight husband, like that full tree over there. Full of wealth.

Josie had optioned for a strong husband, like that youthful tree over there. With many good years of labor to come.

Antonina, which husband is for you?

What does it matter?… She snapped.

Then, cousin Giorgio, separated by three houses in the old village, and three months from his birth to hers, who was plowing the adjacent field alongside her brothers, shouted from across the orchard, Antonina, is this the tree for you?… And, Giorgio displayed a tree hunched over with arthritis, not a solitary piece of yield to its branches.

As Pa often orated, it was only within the family that one can truly place their sincerity. You see, it was foreign invader after foreign invader that had forcefully governed their will unto the southern hills' people. Was Pa but a priest when he pronounced that the only true allegiance lays in one's family? Was Pa only atop his pulpit? She believed so as a young girl, until Pa had donned his Redshirt. She always had a special affection for Pa, but now, that vision of Pa in his Redshirt, her esteem had only elevated from that of a young girl's sparkle at the sight of her father, into a gleam of pride onto a young woman's ideals of marriage. Yes, Pa was a man of his words, unlike the clergy, who had always negotiated with the invaders, at the expense of the peasants.

So too her husband? Was her husband only fighting from any foreign invasion for the family?… NO… Her husband's fight was to restore his own honor and respect, placing his family's safety in danger. Had it been a coincidence that upon her husband's restoration to health, that prominent finger of the Black Hand, the tussler, had been assassinated, only two days after her husband's re-emergence?

She had known of the Old World creed, Kill a man, kill his son, so that his son may not take revenge.… She realized that she could not save her husband. But, her son? Oh, her beautiful son… She had prayed to the saints. Every moment, every thought, every prayer, her only true contemplation was how to save her son. Should she poison her husband? Should she conk him over the head with a frying pan while he slept? Should she try reason?… NO… NO… NO… She could not include venom into her vows. Nor, could she bludgeon her morals with the almighty. Or even, converse openly with a pair of pants.

Should she stop in and visit with Josie on her way to the market? Josie was always a comfort to her. Maybe Josie would know what to do? She remembered when she didn't have such concerns, only the expectation of marriage, but even that was to be arranged. So, no purpose really in thoughts beyond what her husband was expected to decide. She would prepare for marriage by assisting Ma around the house with the cooking and cleaning, looking after her younger brother and little sister… Was she unprepared for ponderings such as this?

She halted her steps to the market, and bowed her head on the sidewalk in front of a home whose mother had lost her son in the First Great War. She knew not why they had fought, only that a son had been lost to his mother. Yes, as she stopped in front of that house, she prayed to the saints for her neighbor. For, a mother can never truly wring the grief from the loss of a son. Did fighting and war and tussles and men accompany one another?

Her husband had prided himself on gathering respect and honor amongst men. He wore a sturdy pair of pants. His primary source of income involved his truck, but he did supplement his earnings by organizing the weekend gambling games in the back lot behind that house of worship. The men wagered their weekly pay on their bocce ball skills. Of course, her husband had collected a piece of every action. While the winners often parlayed their profits inside, receiving an encouraging stroke of praise.

She knew not the full extent of his dealings, despite their fourteen years of marriage. She had heard some chattering about the neighborhood, but nothing worth listening to. She had also known very little about his affairs in the old country. Only that he was a distant cousin, whose family had produced mosaic tiles in the city. He was also silent as to his migration. Did his temper erupt with some Old World politicians, as she had heard, so the mayor's white horse was painted black? Is that why he immigrated to America? Yet, having arrived with his two brothers, working alongside her three brothers at the railroad, he was able to accumulate enough to purchase his lot of land with the two houses… And, arrange for her marriage.

Her husband had his day. She had hers. They spent those minutes together in the morning, along with those hours after the evening meal… The evening meal was an all-day preparation. First, she would stop by the butcher, of which she would only select the finest cut of meat, an aptitude she had acquired from Pa, a butcher himself in the old village. Then, she would drop by the bakery. She did bake her own breads, but her husband had preferred those specialty loaves, something she just couldn't quite duplicate. Of course, the flour for the fresh brumi would be purchased at the market. The eggs from the chickens would be supplied from her yard, along with milk from the goats. The tomatoes and onions would be provided from her husband. She would begin to stew the sauce upon completion of her morning rounds. The meat for the papetes would be ground in the afternoon. Followed by the flour and eggs for the fresh brumi. It would all to come together by the evening meal, loosely laid upon the table, plates unessential, as each member of the family, beginning with her husband, would just pull into their possession with their hands what one had desired to consume… Her husband would read some aloud. When necessary, he would discipline the children. Then, off to bed. Early to arise the following day… The following day, only to begin it all over again.

Arthur Sands' market was where she would purchase the flour, and other household necessaries, shoe-laces or cooking utensils or soap and such. But, she was not there for flour or shoe-laces or cooking utensils or soap and such. Even her other designations, the butcher, the baker, would simply have to wait. For, there was an urgency, an urgency that only Arthur Sands could help her to resolve.

You see, known as Artie throughout the neighborhood, separated by three blocks from the small house to the market. The market was where Artie had also resided, unmarried, in an upstairs living quarter. After the death of his mother, Artie had migrated to America, satisfied with the knowledge that his younger siblings were able to feed themselves. He labored on the ranches of the New World, eventually earning enough to purchase that small market.

Upon his arrival to America, Arthur Sands had been graciously granted an American identity from a clerk in the Ellis Island holding station by mistakenly copying Artie's profession, artisan, onto his identification documents. It was Artie's uncle who had suggested his nephew place a favorable employment occupation into his host country's records. So, Giorgio Paladino had become Arti San, due to an inadvertent gap between the i and the s. Giorgio just rolled with it, like he rolled with everything. Arthur Sands, American. But, Antonina had refused to address him in such a manner. He was still cousin Giorgio to her.

Artie had an endowment for presenting a sameness of stature, no matter where one stood in society, because Giorgio had ascended from the very grub of those Old World hierarchical depths. So, whether a widow with six little ones, or a society lady with an upright posture, or all of those ladies of virtue in between, Giorgio would chat with them all, sometimes even offering the ladies tea, a more refined taste, a treat from the morning rush of household chores and childcare and that preparation for the evening meal. But, after hours of conversing with those feminine hormones, Giorgio sought the camaraderie of the male testosterone, soaking up some fermentation in a local corner bar, discussing politics and war and equality and high praise. Of which, even Giorgio was not averse to an occasional stroke himself.

As she entered the market, Giorgio soon informed her, once again, of the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America. She now had the right to vote… And, that is the manner in which men must fight… Giorgio had truly appreciated his printed materials, something all but discouraged him in the Old World… Men should resolve their differences in the political arena. My apologies, men and women, should resolve…

But, she confessed, once again, in the old language, I'm not a citizen. I cannot read or write.

Only time and effort can cure that.

She insisted that she didn't have the time or the effort for such endeavors. Besides, she was not there to discuss amendments or suffrage or politics or progressivism. Neither, was she there for flour or shoe-laces or cooking utensils or soap and such.

What troubles you, my cousin Antonina, he thought? An unpaid bill? That's nonsense, an unpaid bill. Your credit will last as long… And then, the sudden realization, the sudden realization of something deep and dark. For, it was all of those years working the land together that the cousins had developed a symbiosis, a symbiosis, her face, her eyes, her voice, the ever so slight tremor to her lip, he knew, he felt that something deep and dark that had enveloped her, had also enveloped him.

She repeated that she was not there for amendments or suffrage or politics or progressivism. Nor, was she there to purchase…

Giorgio put a solitary finger to her lips, hushing her words. He calmly walked to the door… CLOSED… She deserved his full attention. He locked the door, then shut the curtains to the window…

…Only 15 more minutes before she could emerge from the bedroom, into the living room. Her little angels were playing outside, amongst the fig tree, where the big house had once stood, screaming. Screaming, like when she had appeared from the bedroom without her teeth, chomping down on a little angel's arm.

Gummy Grandma, get me.

No, get me, gummy Grandma.

Her little angels, running about the small house, screaming, screaming until the littlest angel began to cry. She immediately rushed to the bedroom, to collect her teeth, demonstrating to a frightened baby angel that she was no longer a gummy. Just Grandma.

The bark of the neighbor's dog. Probably due to her little angels' screams. A giggle emerged at the image of her son's dog, Zoga, the Old World language for dog, running about her yard, barking. For zoga also had a very fertile double meaning. Yes, a blush to her cheeks, giggling at the image of a large testicle running about her yard, barking.

The clanking of the pans in the kitchen. The sauce, the papetes, the fresh brumi, was it all being done correctly? Should she check on her daughters?… No… Her daughters knew what to do. Just as Ma had taught her the ways of the kitchen, so too had that knowledge been passed onto her daughters… Was society progressing? Was there a passage from the old into the new, the right to vote, even the right to select their own zoga?

The scamperings across the hardwood floor, her little angels. Then, the sounds of the radio through her bedroom door. Voices, she still could not fully understand.

But Dad…

No, Grandma's resting.

But Dad, it's our favorite program.

You'll just have to miss it today. Now, let your grandma rest. Go outside and play.

She bit her finger to withhold her shouts of displeasure, aimed at the pants for disciplining her little angels… Then, a smile. A smile at Ma's amazement to the voices of the radio. Of course, Ma couldn't understand their utterances, yet Ma still settled her ear beside that wooden box, with an Old World accent imitating the box's jabber. Had Ma actually interpreted this New World language, as Pa had believed, shortly before Ma's passing?…

…She would not visit Arthur Sands' market that morning. The butcher, the baker, the market on the corner near the small house, but not Arthur Sands… Repairs, as indicated.

While he was being healed, she had attempted to sow the seeds of doubt into her husband. Such whisperings into his ear as how his son had grown, nearly a man. How a young man needs his father to help him understand the ways of men. How to wear a pair of pants. But, only the weeds of discontentment had germinated. Her husband didn't want to hear what he had already known. Besides, it wasn't her place to decide such matters.

Oh, where was she going? By routine, her feet had forwarded her towards Giorgio's market. But, the market was closed for repairs, as indicated. So, where was she going? What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? No, her focus just lay somewhere beyond, beyond the market, beyond the butcher, beyond the baker, beyond the downtown streetcar, beyond the evening meal, beyond a man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do.… Then, a whistle, beyond the street, a shout, a shout from beyond the street, he's dead.… The voice drawing closer, the meaning clearer… Killed in his truck. A bullet to his head. Giuseppe's dead… Giuseppe's dead.

A fraction of a second to relay to her brain. A pause, mere moments, seemingly like fourteen years… Her husband? Her husband, dead? Killed in his truck? A bullet to his head? Her husband?… NO… She toppled to her knees, collapsing to the sidewalk, uncontrollably unhitched, spasms, a seizure. Was she having a seizure?… Giorgio, she spouted in the Old World language, oh Giorgio… Giorgio… Why?… Why did you kill my husband?

Had there been a black handprint stamped upon her husband's forehead? Killed in his truck? Her husband? A black hand, stamped?… And then, an instantaneous realization, fear, darkness, a mother's darkness, a fear so heightened, was there also a black handprint stamped upon her son's forehead?… Levitating from the sidewalk, she frantically propelled her will through the huddle of the gathering crowd. The meat from the butcher, the flour from the market, the bread from the bakery, would lay still on the sidewalk. Every moment, every step, an increasing rush of adrenaline… Fly Antonina, fly… Fly, like she had never flown before, on the wings of Nike… Fly Antonina, fly… Fly, like Pegasus to the Chimera…faster, Faster, FASTER… Fly Antonina, fly… Fly, like wild dogs were upon her heels.

Her son, her daughters, she would deliver them safely from their school to the small house. For, not even the Black Hand would let a mother's eyes witness the death of her son.

Her son, he must know everything. Her son must believe… Her daughters, they must know everything. Her daughters must believe… Her family, they must know everything. Her family must believe.

Pa had donned his Redshirt from the bedroom closet. Knitted by Ma in the old country, while fighting for the great Garibaldi, the liberator, the unifier. If necessary, Pa would lay down his LIFE, when he donned his Redshirt.

Ma had inquired if the forthcoming speculations had a hint…

Ma, she had objected, even before Ma could complete her abasement… For, a woman's virtue was often of far greater honor than even that of her own LIFE. And, her objection had reassured Ma that a virtuous daughter had been reared.

Her older brothers, the arrangers of her marriage, had bowed their heads in silence. Their eyes had closed in contemplation. Their cheeks had drooped for a moment of deep regret. Her eldest brother separated himself from the living room, a