Honey, Don't

Word crosses, honey dos, and crosswords litter the kitchen table. But today there is no crisping bacon. Today there is no hint of coffee. Today there is no pajama clad wife humming and flipping bacon just the way I like it. Today there is snow.
As I pass through the kitchen in my plaid pajama pants and hole-ridden slippers, I shiver. There must be ten inches of snow out there. Ten inches too many for a funeral in Saint Louis. I will have to shovel the drive way and kick my old hiccupping pick-up into four wheel drive. Damn, Lucy. If I die for you…
In the laundry room, I trade out my slippers for mud-caked work boots, pull on my winter coat, and go into the garage for my snow shovel. Lucy’s 1957 shiny blue Chevy watches as I yank the shovel off of the wall. Damn car…completely useless in the snow…taking up space…
I punch the garage door opener and the garage door rises into the air groaning in protest. I crunch over the snow and begin laboriously plowing away. My back twists and aches, but I push through.
Once the driveway is cleared I turn my attention to my pick-up. The snow dusts right off only to reveal a thick pane of ice. I chip away at it and by the time I am done the driveway is covered again.
“Luc, I don’t think I’ll make it to the funeral today. Betcha a piece of penny candy that the funeral home is closed.” Of course, penny candy is gone same as Lucy. My tears sting as the frost bites my exposed skin. Using the shovel for support I hobble up my drive way into the garage.
“Luc, I know what you’re thinking.” I wheeze. “Don’t over work yourself. You’re heart isn’t as healthy as it used to be.” I hang the shovel up and grab the key to her precious ’57 Chevy.
The tears roll freely as I shut the garage door and plop myself down on her leather driver’s seat. I put the key in the ignition and turn it. The engine purrs to life and her favorite song, My Girl by The Temptations, comes over the radio. “Luc, my heart can’t beat without you.”

Bloody Pearls: Father's Business Enemy

Cynthia ignored me throughout dinner. I made faces at Perry the whole time trying to get him to laugh.

After the usual four courses, the orchestra struck up a dancing tune and everyone got up to dance. Perry asked me to dance with him and I complied. We hadn’t danced together since we were little at Cynthia’s wedding to some horrid drunkard who created a scene halfway through the reception ending in the shortest marriage I had ever witnessed.
At around 7:30 I was looking for my parents to remind them that they had prepared a speech for 8 o’clock, but they were no where to be found. I went to ask the bartender where they were, but he had no clue. Father’s business rival, Ed spun towards me on his barstool and said that he would look for them and that I should go enjoy the party. Then he chugged a whole glass of Scotch. I had never seen Ed drink before…

Sanitized Testing

The classroom isn’t as full as it used to be. Sure, I haven’t been in a full classroom since Kindergarten, but today there’s three less people than yesterday. Three is a significant number when there’s only seven people. On the first day of senior year there was eleven of us. Now there’s only four and it’s only October. Once the cold settles in we are really in trouble.

Mrs. Sandfield picks up the attendance sheet. She knows all of us by name, but she still insists on treating us like a “normal class” or what was normal before the outbreak. “Gardner?”

Silence. Mrs. Sandfield chews her bottom lip. Her eyes glance up to Troy Dodson’s empty seat. She crosses his name off and just like that, the last trace of him is gone. “Peters?”

Silence. Mrs. Sandfield scratches her pen. “Vance?”

More silence sucking the air out of the room. It doesn’t help that the air conditioner has been broken for months. Mrs. Sandfield marks through Katie Vance’s name. “Weber?”

“Here,” my voice booms obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. Marie Gardner flinches and turns her stink eye on me. You’d think I was yelling at a funeral. She’s a drama queen.

Mrs. Sandfield sets down the list and automatically pulls her sterile smelling hand sanitizer out of her desk drawer. She used to have the fruity kind that girls would shove under their noses when the sweaty soccer team walked by, but the fruity sanitizer is long gone and so is the soccer team.

“Alright, today we are learning the quadratic equation…” Mrs. Sandfield picks up a bright red dry erase marker and starts writing numbers on the board. The internet and phone lines crashed down a few years ago, but the electricity is still running…for now.

As Mrs. Sandfield rambles through notes I count the dry erase markers resting on the board. There’s six of them. I wonder what will happen when they dry out. Maybe Mrs. Sandfield will drag an old chalkboard in if she can find chalk. Maybe by then there won’t be anyone around to teach.

Mrs. Sandfield drags through math, history, and grammar before finally letting us eat lunch. We have to bring our lunch since there’s no one around to cook it. We eat right at our desks since there are only four classes in the entire school. I’m not sure why we don’t just combine into one class, but I guess that’s how the plague spread in the first place. I tried to tell my mom that going to school would get me sick, but she wouldn’t have any of that. Even though half of America is infected, education is still clearly more important.

As I pop jell capsules of fruity artificial flavoring into my mouth, I nearly choke. Five little black spots dot my palm. My heart rate spikes as I clench my hands into a fist. I rub my eyes and look again. The dots glare defiantly up at me. “Can I borrow some hand sanitizer?” I blurt.

Mrs. Sandfield narrows her eyes and holds out her bottle. With a closed fist I stand up and take a step towards her. The world lurches under my feet. I barely feel the cool tile as I hit the ground. I see two Maries swinging out of her desk and jumping over me. Black dots dance in my eyes. “Help,” I croak even though I know they won’t help me. They can’t help me or they’ll get sick. They won’t ever use this room again. It’s contaminated.

The door slams shut behind them. The lock clicks. I can almost see the yellow police tape as the black dots blot out the world.