Jack, be nimble
Jack, be quick
Jack smoked up
The candlestick. Jack got high
Jack crashed low
Jack smoked more
Jack, be nimble
Jack, be quick
Jack smoked up
The candlestick. Jack got high
Jack crashed low
Jack smoked more
Twinkle, twinkle hockey star
How did you fall down so far
Snorting, shooting, getting high
Making all your family cry
Getting high and going broke
Watch it all go up in smoke
“Please fasten your seatbelts and enjoy the plane ride to Middlanowhere, Kansas.” Margaret held in a sigh as she walked back to her flight attendant seat between the first and business class. Her last plane ride as a flight attendant for Starboard Airlines had just begun. By this time tomorrow she would be relaxing in her hot tub enjoying retirement.
As she passed by the lavatory, the handle was clicked to the locked position. Frowning, she rapped on the door. No one answered. Maybe her co-worker had closed it for take-off. Shrugging it off, Margaret plopped down onto the leather seat, kicked off her heels, and pulled her itchy blue skirt trying to make it longer. “These skirts are too short for women over sixty.” She huffed pulling out her compact mirror and examining herself. The silver roots of her hair shown in the glow of the overhead light and make-up creased into her wrinkles as the engines roared to life.
Her heart pumped to the speed of the plane faster and faster until the wheels left the ground. She patted her breast. “Better than liquor.”
Beep! Beep! The orange customer help button flashed on the panel before her. “First class flyers are so needy.” She grumbled snapping her mirror shut and slipping on her shoes. Before leaving her little nook, she plastered on a fake smile then started up the aisle.
As she passed the luxurious tan, leather seats of first class, a man with salt and pepper black hair raised his hand to catch her attention. His dark eyes were the color of melted chocolate. He had some wrinkles, but for the most part had aged handsomely. The seat beside his was empty. “How can I help you, sir?” She asked with false, high-pitched politeness.
“I was wondering if you could keep me company. I seem to have an empty seat beside me.” The man gestured giving her a dazzling smile. Margaret glanced over her shoulder. No one seemed to be paying attention. The business man across the aisle was engrossed in his laptop.
“I’m sorry. I’m not really supposed to…” She said.
“Ah, I understand. It’s no problem. It’s just…I’m afraid of heights and I could tip you generously.”
It was Margaret’s last day…”Alright.” She smiled a genuine smile and sat down beside him. “I think I sat on something.” She frowned and stood up to see what it was: a golden, shiny tube of blood red lipstick. “Is this yours?”
The man took it from her hand and inspected it closely. “No. That’s odd. Don’t planes get cleaned between flights? I’m sort of germaphobic.” He edged to the front of his seat scrutinizing his chair.
“I assure you, Sir, every seat gets wiped down and inspected thoroughly.” She took the tube of lipstick and put it in her pocket. “I’ll try and find the owner when I bring around the food cart.”
The man settled back into his chair. “So, Margaret, do you like champagne?”
“How did you know my-“
“Right,” She smiled. “Yes, I do like champagne. What’s your name, Sir?”
“Nicolas.” He reached over and pressed the flight attendant button.
Margaret started to get up. “I can get you champagne if you like.” He put his hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“You should be waited on like a lady.” He told her.
Margaret’s co-flight attendant made his way towards them. His eyebrows pulled together as he saw Margaret and the man seated together. “May I get you anything, Sir?”
“Two glasses of champagne, please.”
The flight attendant nodded shooting a quizzical look at Margaret. “He won’t tell, will he?” Nicolas asked.
“No, he’s a friend.”
Margaret nearly choked. “No. I live alone. I’m retiring soon. Today is my last day actually.”
“Then this should be a celebration.” Nicolas declared taking her hand with his. He raised it to his lips and something on his finger flashed in the light. A golden band encircled his left ring finger.
“Here’s your champagne, Sir.” The flight attendant handed Nicolas the glasses and Nicolas handed one to her.
“To your retirement.” Nicolas clinked her glass with his and took a deep gulp.
As the flight attendant walked away, Margaret hissed, “You’re married!”
Nicolas choked on his champagne. “I beg your pardon?”
“I see your wedding ring!”
His face turned stony. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes!” She gasped.
“I don’t see why as I’m paying you to be here with me.”
“I’m not a prostitute! I’m a flight attendant.”
“Where is your wife?” Margaret demanded.
Nicolas cracked his knuckles. “She’s just a little plane sick.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. She dropped her champagne glass shattering it on the floor. Leaping from the seat she ran to the bathroom door and yanked it open. A woman’s pale bruised body tumbled out into the aisle. Her emerald eyes were wide open and an empty pill bottle rolled out of her lifeless hand.
The best day of my life started with blustery August heat. My hair exploded into a frizzy mess of curls like a wig of poodle fur. The sudden heat wave killed all of the flowers in Manhattan so my Man of Honor picked up a plastic bouquet of waxy pink roses. My dress could barely fit over my fluffy head and my make-up smeared all over the inside of it. Luckily the outside was still white. As I climbed into my cab with my Man of Honor and our son, I pulled the divorce papers out of my puffy 80’s style sleeves and handed them to my Man of Honor aka soon-to-be-ex-husband. He pulled a pen from his suit pocket and signed the papers. Then he handed the cab driver a disposable camera. “Would you take our divorce pictures?” He asked. The driver grumbled, but took the picture at the next red light. In the back seat my son started wailing.
“Stop crying! You are seven years old! Seven year olds don’t cry!” My Man of Honor snapped.
Our son wiped his snotty nose on the sleeve of his white tuxedo jacket leaving a gooey green smear along the sleeve. My Man of Honor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and threw it at our son. “Clean that up. You’re running your mother’s wedding day!”
“Michael, stop yelling at him!” I huffed. Even with the divorce papers signed, his presence suffocated me.
“I’m sorry, Jill. I just want this wedding to be perfect.” Michael said dabbing at his brow with the end of his blush pink tie.
“It will be. Were you this nervous for our wedding?” I asked.
“Of course! I picked out the flower arrangements and the cake and the ring and your dress which looked fabulous by the way. I stressed out for months about the venue and it still wasn’t perfect.” Michael ranted. I remembered. He wouldn’t let me do anything; he made sure that I never had to lift a finger…
“Michael, it was a very nice wedding.” I assured him. His smile made up for every one of his insufferable imperfections.
As we pulled up to the cold marble church, Michael exclaimed, “There’s your prince! How romantic! He’s going to open the door for you…Wait! He can’t see you yet! It’s bad luck!”
“It’s only bad luck for the first wedding.” I rolled my eyes.
My groom, Henry, stood prim and dapper in his pressed tuxedo with a navy bowtie. He had insisted that our wedding colors be navy and pink. The cab driver ran over the curb and Henry opened the door. My son hopped out and ran into the church. With Henry on one arm and Michael on the other, I was escorted into the church and down the aisle.
On one side of the church was Henry’s rich, stuffy family decked in jewels and pearls. On the other side was my fragile, bone-thin mother clutching a blue balloon with my father’s picture pasted on it and my second cousin Tonya, a nun who sleeps in the church. My pointy heels clicked on the tile as I made the lethargic walk down the lengthy aisle. Henry’s sisters were supposed to be my bridesmaids, but they had gone on a weekend trip to Paris. His brother was supposed to be his best man, but he had gotten in a car accident on the way to the church. It was a fender-bender. Nothing serious. I had wanted to postpone the wedding, but Henry had insisted. “Nothing will stop this wedding.” Henry, the influential business man, would never change his mind or his plans.
At the altar the dust, wheezing priest read the vows and had us repeat them. “If there are any objections, speak now or forever hold your-“
Bang! “I OBJECT!” Screeching from the doorway was an unsightly woman wearing a gothic black dress that trailed along the floor. Her raven black hair stuck up at odd angles and dirt smeared her face.
“Melissa?” Henry gasped. His family stood up and cheered. Whistling like they were at a sports game, they rushed forward and hoisted Melissa up into the air.
“Put me down!” She shrieked. They dropped her on the altar between Henry and me.
Melissa glared at Henry. “I read your obituary back in Seattle. I was attending your funeral as a grieving widow when the police stumbled across your wedding invitation and paid me a visit. How dare you do this to me!” Her shaking voice rose in octaves until it was piercing. Henry sunk to his knees cowering away from her. She wrestled the Bible from the priest’s hands and flung it at Henry. Dodging the book her ran and locked himself inside the confessional booth. Coiling like a cobra Melissa lunged at me and wrapped her sausage-like fingers around my throat.
The church erupted in screams. Curse words flew from my mother’s mouth, and she let go of my father’s balloon. Cheering and applause echoed from Henry’s family. “Beat her! Beat her!”
“Nooooo!” Michael jumped onto Melissa’s back and wrapped his legs around her. She stumbled under his weight, but didn’t yield. He fell backwards and crashed into Henry’s family. Henry’s father shoved Michael out of the way and the family surrounded Melissa and me.
“How dare you marry my husband!” Melissa clawed at my wedding dress ripping off the sleeves. Her hands found my neck again. Her face swam in front of me. Her eyes burst with rage. For a moment I thought I saw a forked tongue flick out of her mouth.
Then my mother smashed a basin of holy water over Melissa’s head. Her skin bubbled and she fell. I ran for the confessional booth. But it was empty except for the glint of Henry’s wedding ring and a croaking ugly toad.
Midnight, the witching hour, the purest dark of night
The veil’s swept aside
Mischief led by the nocturnal sprite
Darkness breathes and snarls
Luscious charms ensnare
Potions poison the air
Cloaking the deeper gnarls
Sly seething scythes of sin
Axes whacking necks
Intoxicating violence vex
Creeping through your skin
To die inside
Until rise mourning sun
When industrious is complimentary
When standardized is the norm
When sitting for hours is common
When writing in perfect form
Students merge with technology
The goal: a perfect machine
Learning to be the same
Where anything else is obscene
Only one talent’s correct
Grades over innovation
Public school’s main defect
The golden wing-shaped doors opened revealing an expansive indoor garden. Flowers of all shapes and colors bloomed like a rainbow. A crystal waterfall twinkled off to the right. Delicate glass angels decorated the greenery. Juicy red apples taunted Master Rufio as he walked past. Pine trees covered in pure snow made him suppress a shiver. But most magnificent were the roses. Rows and rows of them smelled delightfully like her. He greedily inhaled the scent until he got light headed.
A servant dressed impeccably cleared his throat. “It’s perfect.” Master Rufio declared. The servant’s face remained solemn as he beckoned Master Rufio through the roses.
As they passed, Master Rufio thought the roses began to fade, but he shook the feeling off. His garden was perfect and everything in it would be preserved, frozen in its perfection, immortalized. But as they got closer and closer to her, the roses not only faded but were losing petals. And the last row of roses were shriveled and dead.
Master Rufio took the last few steps up to the glass capsule that held her. Inside it, his love was perfect. She was youthful with smooth skin and lush dark hair. He followed her defined cheek bones and traced her full red lips. Her beauty brought tears to his eyes. He longed to hold her, but he knew that he couldn’t. Everything he touched, he destroyed.
Master Rufio made to turn away when something caught his eye. Two tiny wrinkles creased her forehead. He squinted hard believing it to be a trick of the light. Desperately he wiped the glass hoping it was just a crack. But the wrinkle stayed.
The servant appeared at Master Rufio’s side. “You can’t keep her forever.”
Icy fear forced the breath from Master Rufio’s lungs. He inhaled knives. The smell of the roses tickled his nose, taunting him. Hunched over the glass her clung to the capsule. And before his eyes her wrinkles spread.
Her skin withered deforming her features. Silver snaked through her hair. Her eyelids sunk into her sockets. All her color faded away. What was left was a wrinkled old prune.
“No!” The cry ripped from Master Rufio followed by tortured agonizing screams. The servant stood frozen, trying not to hear. But he couldn’t avoid the gaping wound that burned Master Rufio’s chest revealing a bloody beating eye sore, Master Rufio’s heart.
As I reached up to pull the string and turn off the attic light, a pile of dusty papers rolled off of the shelf and landed on my toes. I hesitated with one hand frozen in the air and the other clutching a yellowing lace wedding dress. The top paper slowly uncurled and I got a glimpse of funny looking shapes surrounded by blue.
I hung the wedding dress on the end of the shelf and scooped up the pile of maps. In the far corner of my attic was a hideous hot pink and neon yellow lazy chair with several tears. Eyes trained on the map I made my way to my chair to examine the maps closer.
“North America, Europe, Asia, Pacific Ocean…” The names sounded familiar, but foreign like I heard them in a dream or stumbled across them in an outdated textbook. My grandmother was a teacher and her idea of toys were bulky textbooks. I got them every year for my birthday and most of them I read or tried to read.
I had heard the word “oceans” before, but I couldn’t recall the meaning. Creak! I glanced up and saw a shadowy globe in the corner spinning faster and faster. My spine tingled, and I jumped to my feet. “Hello? Jazz?” My sister must have been playing a trick on me. I was taking a long time to bring her Mother’s old wedding dress…
I approached the globe and rested my hand on top of it to stop the spinning. “Jazz, I know you are hiding up here.” I snickered.
Under my hand the globe began to spin again. My muscle tensed. Cold sweat dripped down my back. “Jazz?”
The smell of daisies wafted to my nose. My grandmother used to smell like daisies. A wave of calm crashed over me and I swayed back onto my heels. The globe halted. I examined it. Right in the middle of the ocean, a pin-prick sized blob labeled “Hawaii” was circled in red ink. Beside it was a sticky note. I read the scrawling handwriting aloud:
“Date: December 15th, 2016
Dear Future Generations,
I am Mika Theabe. I am originally from Hawaii which is a state in the United Stated of America. The United States of America is a country on the continent North America on the planet Earth. You might not know what any of these words mean because where I’m going there will be no continents, no oceans, no countries even.
I have successfully completed the NASA training necessary to go to Mars. They say we will be colonizing there so I assume I will start a family up there. Future family, this note is to you. I will take a photo album to Mars with me so that you will never forget the beauty of Earth.
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.