Category: Fiction

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Short Story: Duel at High Noon

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Duel at High-Noon

Jack Warner and Rick Smith were out in the center’a town. When the big clock tower at its edge shifted from eleven and fifty-eight to eleven and fifty-nine, they did an about face to take their paces. Thirty paces it was, each one counted by the men and townsfolk that lingered on the edges’a the town’s center. It was one’a them old places’a wood and brick that people’d taken to calling the old West. Weren’t nothing any could do ’bout that– was the fault of them big-cities springin’ up ‘long the coast that seemed like they was the future, while Warner ‘n Smith were the past ‘stead’a the present.

Didn’t rightly seem to matter as they took their thirty paces through the little whirls’a dust that ran through town. As the last few paces came up, the crowd began a slow roar, like they was ragin’ to see who’d be the first to drop. Warner’s smug countenance might’a been permanent were it not for the oft-times drunken droop of his eyes. At that, ol’ Smitty had ‘im beat, no matter what outcome the future reckoned to bring.

At thirty paces they stopped, waited for the bell to toll noon on the clock tower. Three chimes, and one of ’em’d be dead. Neither man thought it’d be him. Even the townsfolk weren’t quite yet. All the same, their roar settled to whispers when the men’s spurs stopped their jangle. There was a collective breath, a look toward the big clock at the end’a town, and the light shake’a the men’s hands near their holstered six-guns.

Not Jack nor Rick could’a known what was ’bout to happen to ’em. Seein’ wasn’t their specialty, shootin’ was. Ol’ Smitty ‘n Warner’d been feudin’ long enough that this seemed the right, only way to determine whose honor was more solid. Both men said theirs. True as that may’ve been, ol’ Smitty was in debt a horse and a case’a whiskey to Warner, who’d seen fit to stuff Smitty’s own horse with gunpowder and light it off when he didn’t pay up. No one argued with either man’s right to the claim, lest they wanna’ end up at one end’a the duel or another.

The first toll of the bell came. The men’s hands were at their shooters. The second toll and the crowd had frozen, stiff and silent. By the third toll, both men drew. Somethin’ gave half a pause– the bell’d cut out too early, as though stopped mid-ring by strong pair’a hands. Like the true, ornerous cusses they were, they each dove for the ground, rolled off in separate directions with their six-shooters barkin’ their war-cries.

Ol’ Smitty made for a horse that had stood still to one side’a town. He dove behind it, half expectin’ a kick in the head as his shooter barked right over its hind-quarters. Instead it stayed still as dead man in the ground. Like him, Warner’d dove for a water trough, had to spring up to bark at Smitty over another horse’s saddle. Warner figured his second shot’d ricochet off the saddle when the horse bucked, too scared for its own good. But like Smitty’s, it stood still as a stiff.

Both men were up ‘n ready in turn, their six-guns barking through a silence that neither man’d notice had a hand smacked ’em in the head to listen. Smitty’s revolver went quite first. He was behind the corner of Doc Halverson’s apothecary with ample time to reload. Warner’d dove for the Saloon’s edge, laid there to peek ’round the corner and blast a shot ‘tween the horse’s hooves. Like Smith, his gun was outta’ lead.

The two men were hidden, the duel longer ‘n more spectacular than any they’d seen or been part of. But even so, the town was quiet. Smitty finished fillin’ his revolver, made like he was gonna’ take another shot at the Saloon’s edge. He was petrified to terror, confused by the sights and sounds– or lack thereof– that greeted ‘im.

The whole town was quiet, like not a man breathed there, never had. Even the little whirls of wind and dust in the middle’a town had gone still. That was when Smitty saw ’em; the townsfolk, just as they’d been when the second bell tolled. They were frozen, like some ancient creature’d turned ’em to stone, stole ’em from time. Smitty couldn’t keep it up. His heart was racin’ with terror, ‘n he doubted Warner knew what’d happened.

He pulled back behind the apothecary building, just in time to shout out at Warner before he’d finished reloading.

“’Ey Jack,” Smitty called through the silence. “Wh-hat say you to a parlay?”

Warner was up with his gun reloaded, his head hot, “You gone yella’ on me, Smit?”

He jumped from the corner ready to shoot, struck by the quiet stillness around him.

“I-I ain’t yella’ Jack, but look ’round ya,” Smitty called.

Warner eased up outta’ his braced stance, his spurs closer to one another, and cried out loud, “The Devil’s work! I tell ya it’s the Devil’s work!”

Smitty couldn’t hear ‘im, but he called out again, “I-I reckon… m-maybe we should call this one off, for the time bein’. What say you, Jack?”

Warner ambled forward like a lost, wounded coyote on its last legs. His shooter was limp at his side. He stumbled into a run that saw him skid to a halt in front’a the assembly outside the saloon.

“Able?” Warner said. He waved a hand in front of the barkeep’s face. He did the same to his favorite whore, then the den-lady, “Molly? Virginia!” He back-stepped in terror, “What’s happened? Is this some kind’a joke? It ain’t funny! Ya’ hear? It ain’t funny!” He shouted at Doc Halverson’s face so loud he might’a broke the old fella’s ears, “It ain’t funny no more!”

Smitty heard the cries, called to Warner, “’Ey Jack, I’m comin’ out. No funny stuff!”

Warner rushed up and down the shop-fronts, hollerin’ at the townsfolk. He gave ol’ Buck the Sheriff a heavy shove out front’a the jail. “It ain’t funny!”

Buck fell back like he was made’a stone, landed as he’d stood, just a little more horizontal than before. Warner stumbled back, horrified by the goin’s-on. He backed up so fast ‘n so far he toppled backward over the railing. His shooter flew through the air. It landed on the dusty ground same as him, though at the feet of Smitty whose revolver was still in hand. Warner rolled over, skittered back on his hands ‘n up against the outerside of the railing while Smitty scooped down to pick up Warner’s revolver, held both in his hands.

Warner made a face like Smitty was ’bout to pump him full’a holes. But instead, he stretched up, puffed out his chest and holstered his gun, “I reckon I ought’a be the bigger man here. Ain’t no honor in killin’ a cowerin’ man.”

Warner inched his way up to his feet, ready to run at the first signs’a deception. Smitty showed none. He even handed Warner back his gun on promise that he not use it. They parted ways when Smitty started down the town’s center, perplexed and confused like a blind man in the desert dyin’a dehydration. His fear’d left him with nothin’ more than a slight rumble in his guts. He was stopped across from the post office when Warner’d finally found his feet, got his wits about him.

He watched Smitty walk, heaved himself up the steps and into the saloon. It was empty from their noon-time duel, so he helped himself to a bottle’a rye from behind the bar. He sat in a stool there, his mind and body doin’ their best to fight shakes’a fear. It was a few minutes before the swingin’ doors clamored open. Warner’s revolver was out to meet Smitty’s as he stepped inside. It lowered for fear of bein’ the only man in town not afflicted by the sudden petrification.

Smitty lowered his gun too, made slow steps for the bar, came ’round behind it. He grabbed a bottle’a rye with one hand, pulled the cork out with his teeth, ‘n spit it sideways. He downed a large helping, slammed the bottle back down.

His revolver scraped his leather holster as he braced himself against the bar’s back-side with one hand, “Whatever’s gotten into ’em out there, it’s hit the whole town. We’re the only two that ain’t effected. Even the fella’s at the barbers, ‘n the ladies cowerin in their homes are all just the same. Children too.”

Warner drank his fill, more drunk by the minute to calm his nerves, “It ain’t right. I tell ya’ it ain’t right!”

Smitty ripped the bottle out of his hand, “It mightn’t be, but it is what it is, Warner. Now you keep your wits about you or I’m gonna’ settle you with the back’a my hand.”

“Ya’s always was a horse’s ass, Smit!” Warner cried, gripped by his fears. “How d’you think we’re gonna’ help all those people? ‘N if we don’t, are we goin’ to be alone forever?”

Smitty looked around the bar, “I reckon if there’s a solution, it’ll come to us, but it won’t find you well if yer’ in here soused to the gills and scared outta’ yer wits.”

Warner grit his teeth, ground ’em together like his temper was ’bout to explode, “Y’know you’re an angry ‘ol cuss Smit. I bet’cha it’s all yer fault. If you’d just paid me my dues, none’a this would’a happened.”

Smith took a swig from his bottle, slammed it down again, “Don’t be thick as a mule. You know ‘n I know there ain’t no way a debt like that could’a helped this even had it been repaid.”

Warner was up, his head hot, “I reckon it could’ve. Ya’ see, cause I’ve been havin’ me a thought.”

“Oh a thought is it?” Smit said as he drug himself ‘long the bar. He stepped up to a Warner with a stool ‘tween ’em and little else. Warner stiffened up at Smitty’s barrel that rose beneath his chin, “You say yer havin’ a thought. Well I reckon as we’re the only two ’round, you might tell me this thought ‘fore I have one myself.”

Warner’s eyes were convicted like a man in his last moments, sentenced to death for a crime he hadn’t committed, “I’m havin’ this thought, ‘n I reckon if yer smart ’nuff as a man ought to be, you’d agree with me.”

Smitty’s teeth grit, and his barrel stabbed the side’a Warner’s throat, “Oh yeah?”

“I reckon, if’n you look around at that scene out there, ‘n you pay partik-ler attention to the clock, you’ll see it’s stopped. If’n I’m not mistaken, it’s stopped right ’bout the time we were fixin’ to kill one ‘nother.” Smitty’s eyes left Warner’s, wandered a trail to the saloon doors. Warner made a slight tilt with his head, “G’wan, see fer yerself. I reckon I’ll be here, thinkin’ my thoughts.”

The barrel eased away from Warner’s throat. Smitty walked the same trail to the saloon’s doors his eyes had. He gave a glance back at Warner as he readied to step outside. Warner fell to his stool like a man who’d carried a trail-pack too long might. He drank from the bottle as Smitty slipped outside.

Smitty stepped back to the center’a town, looked up the long road’a store-fronts ‘n such, and raised his eyes to the bell-tower and clock at the back’a town. Like Warner’d said, the clock hadn’t budged an inch. More perplexing was the bell’s state; it hung in a half-swing, mid-chime, as if time itself had frozen it there at that moment when the two men were ’bout to make murderers of one of ’em.

Smitty returned to the saloon, made his way through to a stool beside Warner. His shooter was up in the air, ready to rain hell on the man that’d smited him. Instead, Smit’s thumb clicked the hammer up, ‘n his hand slipped it back into its holster as the rest of ‘im deposited into the seat.

“Jack, I reckon… I reckon maybe you’re right,” Smitty admitted with all the effort of a miner’s day’s work.

It gave Jack a chuckle. He slid the bottle’a rye down to Smit, “I reckon if you’re that big’a man, you deserve some’a this.”

Smit sucked down a good portion of the bottle, “Y’know Jack, I was thinkin… ’bout that time the Reds tried to snatch us off the trail. By my count, you saved my life that day, ‘n I owed you one.”

Jack gave a small nod; he recollected that well, “I reckon you’re right.”

Smit took another drink, “I might be inclined to forgive all this on’a count that, if’n maybe you apologized ’bout my horse you done ‘sploded last week.”

Jack’s head titled with another nod, “’N I might be inclined to ‘pologize for that, if’n you promised to repay me– for real this time, Smit.”

Smitty reached into his pocket, drew out a handful’a gold coins. He started to count ’em, then gave up, slapped the whole handful on the bar in front’a Jack, “I reckon that’s what I owe you, with a little interest to boot.”

“I sure appreciate it, Smit,” Jack said as he pocketed the gold, lifted the bottle of Rye from in front’a Smitty.

He took a long drink with his eyes closed, ‘n when he opened ’em again, he was nearly petrified like the townsfolk’d been. Their dull roar’d come back, and the bell’d tolled again as he found himself thirty paces from Smitty in the center’a town. The bell tolled a second time and he recollected his wits, felt the weight’a gold in his pocket, his debt repaid. The third toll saw him whip ’round to face Smitty, both men hesitant to draw their shooters.

That last ring’a the bell gave way into silence, ‘n it was the last time either of the men ever thought to draw from temper. The townsfolk cooed and cried about yella’bellies ‘n such, but Smitty ‘n Jack took fifteen paces each, met one another in the center of the duelin’ pitch. They didn’t need words to tell what they was both thinkin’, one just followed t’other into the saloon and sat down for a drink.

None’a the townsfolk knew quite what to make of it, and neither’a the men bothered to tell the tale, but the duel at high-noon that day was unlike any man’d seen before or since.

Krubera: Part 4

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

4.

The Island

Elliot awoke with a start in the middle of the night to an odd sound. Earlier, she had fallen into a light sleep, too anxious for the dive and possible discoveries ahead to fall any deeper. They’d erected their tents on the small island for the sole purposes of privacy, removed their air-tanks, and slept in their suits.

As her ears focused further, the odd sound sharpened; a flutter, much like that of a distressed bird, flopped about as if it were about to fall over dead. The sound startled her from sleep, sent her mind racing through possible human causes. The sound was too distinctive, clearly a non-human emanation. It reverberated off the cavernous walls around the small island, went silent, then began again every few seconds. She strained her ears to locate its source; it seemed to be coming from all around. She sneaked a crawl toward her tent’s flap, unzipped it with a careful, quiet motion, and peered out through the light from a pile of torches and glow wands int the center of their tents.

She had been the only one awakened by the phantom so far. Her eyes skirted in all directions from the front of the tent’s view, spied nothing. She crept out of the tent on her hands and knees, petrified still as a hand clasped over her mouth. Liana’s face emerged before she could scream. She shook her head once, motioned to the partial darkness of a high-corner across the caver. The light from the center of camp fragmented shadows of the tents across the walls and ceiling of the small chamber. Elliot’s heart raced, but her eyes darted along Liana’s forearm and finger to the corner they pointed at.

Her eyes strained against the darkness. She would have missed the source of the commotion had the bird that hung half-out its mouth not struggled to free itself once more. Even in the low light, Elliot could see blood drip from puncture wounds in its abdomen. It looked eerily like a crow, but with a distinct iridescence to its feathers that marked it as a subspecies Elliot couldn’t place. An unhinged, serpentine jaw took the place of the bird’s head, rows of sharp, carnivorous teeth, filed to points by evolutionary predation.

The bird fluttered again. It gave a vain buck in an attempt to remove itself from the head of its predator. The serpentine jaw locked down, severed its torso in half. The lower section fell free, splashed into the water beneath it. Elliot heard the sound of hollow bones crunching from the corner of the room. The serpentine head she saw, gave way to a thick, snake like body. Near its rear-end, two feet, like those of a bat, clung to a protruded section of the ceiling.

Without warning, it dropped from the ceiling, swooped down on scaled wings with the headless carcass in its maw. It shined with the neon-green of the glow-wands, a hint of wet silver beneath it. It circled the area once, its flight silent, swallowed the top-half of the bird. It shrieked with a terrible, high-frequency rasp that pierced the cavern with a shrill echo. Elliot hugged her ears as Liana winced beside her. The team stirred. Flaps flew open, Raymond called to Elliot as the creature dove into the water, disappeared.

She toward the pool with Liana, stared down at the water. It was thick; clouded with sediment from a fast departure. The bird’s blood streamed from its top-half that floated on the surface, separated to blend with the water and follow the current the creature had made.

Raymond appeared beside them, glow-wand in hand to survey the water, “What was that?”

Liana watched the sediment drift, “I don’t know, but I don’t like the feeling it gave me.”

***

“It’s obvious we’re dealing with some new species of marine creature,” Anthony said as he stared at the pile of lighted torches.

Chad paced back and forth behind him, nervous. Raymond was still examining the corner where the creature had been perched, his water-proof flashlight splayed across it. Liana and Elliot stood behind him to scour the beam’s expanse with their eyes. It landed on an edge of rock that jutted outward beyond the others in the wall. Deep imprints had been left by four, small, talon-like claws.

“Evolved with avian characteristics, I’d think,” Raymond said, looking over the marks.

Anthony continued, “It’s not that far of a stretch. I mean, the whole reason we suspected it was here was the new zoophyte species from the Black Sea. It was only a matter of time before we came in contact with something.”

He stood, stepped past Chad’s nervous route for his tent. He rifled through a plastic back inside, emerged a moment later with a field-notebook, and sat close to the torches to sketch an approximation of the creature Elliot had described.

He called her over, showed her the notebook, “Is this right?”

“Larger.”

“ A meter, head to feet?”

“One– one and a half, maybe. But it had a tail, blunt at the end.”

“Catch the light off the scales?” He asked.

“Briefly. Not serpentine. More… reptilian. And Plated.”

He thought for a moment, looked past her to Raymond’s light on the ceiling.“So it’s a lizard, with the head and body of a snake, scaled-wings, and likely webbed, clawed feet.”

“Webbed?” Elliot asked as she watched Chad pace back at forth.

He explained logically, “Nothing can move that fast in water without webbing. I think we can deduce its not poisonous either, or we’d have never heard the struggling– unless the bird’s somehow immune. But let’s think horses before zebras. Either way, It’s dangerous– it couldn’t kill us, but even alone it could do a lot of damage.”

Chad’s nerves made his tone crack, “I doubt that it’s alone all the time.”

“It won’t bother us,” Raymond assured him as he returned form the water’s edge. Liana remained their, half-focused on the conversation as she stood sentinel over the water. “It has predators– likely larger in size than us, at least matured.”

Chad said shook is head, “Great! Just magnificent! Fuck!”

“What’d you expect Chad,” Elliot asked. “A welcoming party? Maybe Big iguanas? A thirty foot herbivore? No, it isn’t that kind of world in there.”

Anthony grimaced, “Chad’s sorta’ got a point, we should’ve brought some protection.”

Lianan turned for the group, “You did. You brought me.”

Chad was caustic, “You honestly think you can protect all of us, unarmed?”

“Who said I was unarmed?” She countered,

Elliot was instantly furious, “What?” Liana’s face was blank, indifferent. Elliot scolded here, “We came here to look for this place, not destroy it. That thing’s evolved independent of us for millions of years, and your first instinct’s to kill it?”

“I fail to see your point,” Liana admitted. Elliot glared. Liana crossed her arms, stern but calm, “I was hired to keep the four of you alive. If an animal must to die to fulfill that duty, I don’t care how important it is. I’m sure you won’t either if the time comes.”

Elliot growled, threw her head back. Liana had a point. She fumed, “I’m less angry about that damn it! But it means you’ve been carrying extra weight this whole time.”

Liana was puzzled. Elliot’s response and rebound was hardly what she expected. She looked between the stunned faces, landed once more on Elliot’s. A question emerged on her face.

Elliot answered without provocation, “Our lines, our gear– everything is load-tested. Eighteen Kilos of gear a piece isn’t some arbitrary number. There are limits for a reason. These lines are tested to five body weights and eighteen extra Kilos a piece. That’s it.”

“How much extra gear do you have?” Anthony asked.

“A…about twenty.”

“Twenty extra Kilos?” Anthony replied, irate.

“How could you even carry that?” Raymond asked seriously.

Chad threw up his hands, returned to pacing, “We’re screwed.”

He repeated his words over and over, paced faster.

“Twenty kilos!” She with a fast step at Liana. “Twenty kilos over the mark, on old rope. We’ve been getting by on luck this whole time.”

Liana hung her head with a small shake, “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t!” Elliot spat. She turned back to her tent.

Anthony eased back toward his sketch-book, ate an energy bar as he stared at his drawing.

Raymond stepped beside Liana, hoping to ease her embarrassment, “I still don’t know how you managed to carry it so easily.”

Her upper-lip stiffened, “Training.”

She swiveled on-heel, returned to her tent. After a time, the group fell back into silent sleep, save Elliot who couldn’t sleep at all. Even so, no-one slept well; too nervous or agitated otherwise. Elliot laid awake for a few hours, before she gave up, left her tent. Another, quiet rustle– furtive and human– emitted from within Liana’s tent. The flap hung half-open, enough that Elliot could peer inside from a short distance away. Through the dim-light, she saw Liana arranging gear from her personal pack. The contents appeared to be an assortment of machinery parts, as well as a few small boxes, and a few lumps of white clay. She watched Liana assemble a few of the parts into a pistol, bent around to get a better look.

Her foot slid out from beneath her, and she fell face first into the flap with a swear. Liana had turned fast with the gun aimed out. She pointed it upward, away, then lowered it back to the floor of the tent.

Elliot’s cheeks and ears reddened, “Sorry.” She waited a moment before she eased to her feet through the now-unzipped flap.

Liana kept her attention affixed to the back, “As am I– I do not wish to be eaten.”

“No, I–” Elliot sighed, sat beside her. “I meant about earlier. I won’t lie, I was pissed. Still am a little, but I’m mostly worried for your safety.”

Liana exhaled a short burst of air from her nose, “Worried for me?”

Elliot replied earnestly, “Yes. I was afraid of who they would send. A lot can go wrong when you’re diving like this. We dig together a lot, it requires a lot of this type of climbing, so we’re ready if something goes wrong. They could have sent anyone. That person may not have been ready. But you were when Anthony slipped– and you did it carrying more than your weight.”

“It is what I was hired to do,” Liana said callously, as she pulled boxes from her pack.

“Maybe. But it seemed like an instinct to work as a team.”

“I’ve been extensively trained to do so,” she replied, her words mechanical.

Elliot shrugged, “I guess I’ll take that then. I just wanted to say, sorry I was an asshole.”

She left left Liana’s tent, returned to her own. There was an obvious guilt that swirled within her from the she’d snapped at Liana. She couldn’t allow her momentary anger to become a problem in the future. An apology was the only thing that might help avoid that. Whether or not Liana accepted it, at least she’d tried. In the wake of the creature’s discovery, she needed everyone at their best, ready to act whatever the situation or context. Not spiteful, resentful, or terrified.

So far, things weren’t going well.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Mother, Mother Earth

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Mother, Mother Earth

 

Gusts of wind grip you by the eyes,

tear out your heart, rest in her thighs.

Man or woman, “no matter,” she sighs.

 

She’s unlike the mother, the daughter, or lover.

With kindly old cheeks to make up our borders.

An old, quiet widow, of the grandest order.

 

From extinctions of night,

to meteors beyond sight,

In fire, her heart’s delight.

While stones and bones rise as her might.

 

In depth-less dark seas scream dead-sailors pleas,

but upon her surface? An unaltered breeze.

She sings and cries, whistles with wind,

while her tears evaporate into ocean.

 

She is the mother of mothers,

The Earth’s never a bore.

 

Mother, Mother Earth,

We sing to thee.

Forgive us our trespasses,

reign o’er we.

 

Mother, Mother Earth,

is there nothing you choose?

No sorrow, no sadness, no musical blues?

For you are our Mother, and we owe you your dues.

Out in plain sight, or imperceptible hues,

How about a few, nice new pairs of shoes?

 

But no response will we get,

forever mute is she, at least as of yet

Unless for some reason, we begin to forget,

To harm her’s a thing, we’ll forever regret.

 

To her wisdom we’re ever-dimwit

A candle that dies, only just lit.

To us she’ll be nigh-on eternal,

Our Mother, Mother Earth in her vernal.

A youth in the millions and billions perhaps,

but ever-susceptible to collapse.

Coddle and love her, and treat her so kind,

if only to give us sound peace of mind.

 

Our Mother, Mother Earth and her skirt,

of death and decay, and fertilized dirt.

Gives us our food and our love, and our heat,

mother and lover of every creature we meet.

 

We may fair seas as a species, the sky and the stars,

but sometimes we need to look a little less far.

Trains and planes and big semi-trucks,

we leave only her to wipe up the muck.

I’ve no wish to ridicule, criticize, or upset,

but give her a hand for all the love that you get.

In time you will see just what it is worth,

to us and our lovely Mother Earth.

Short Story: The Meek Shall Inherit

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Meek Shall Inherit

Robert Crumb was born on the east-side of Bacatta, Michigan; a city once plagued by gangs, corruption, and economic depression and desperation. His life began during the worst of it, during what some had begun referring to as “The Fall”– not the autumn kind, the hitting-your-ass-on-the-ground kind. Bacatta had done so famously, and stayed that way for many years. For most of those years, Robert attended school in the central, downtown district that was later abandoned and overrun with the destitute and criminal. It was during these years that he met the future of humanity that would eventually form those aforementioned societal slack-jaws.

Robert’s troubles began at Levin Elementary school, long ago established by a family of farmers whom hoped to help the blossoming city find its feet. For Robert, all it did was cause him grief, especially in the form of Phillip O’Dell.

Robert was a small, geek-ish sort, whom followed the rules to a T, but understandably, lacked the formal press-and-dress of his more-fortunate peers. Even before the nicknames rubby-crumbs, crummy-rubbert, and bread-boy, Robert’s old, hand-me-down clothing doomed him. His mother was a seamstress by trade, and his clothes were old, tattered, and worn. The few that weren’t, had been out of style for decades.

By contrast, Phillip was a brick-wall of a boy; nice hair, new clothes, and lots of friends. Robert learned these things quickly, as Phil flaunt them in his face whilst singling him out. Even despite the obvious downturn for Bacatta, Phillip’s Dad made a killing at BPD. Robert didn’t mind; the divide between them was cosmetic, skin-deep. But Phillip did mind, and he took great pleasure in making everyone else mind it too. Crummy-rubbert stuck, lasted all the way through middle-school.

The few friends Robert found poked fun at him, however lovingly, but ever a pacifist, he took it in stride. Phillip despised it. He lashed out, bigger and meaner than ever. He beat Robert regularly, his words broken through fists of adolescent fury, “Crummy rubbert… poor family…. too broke to care…. about their broke son.”

Phillip reveled in the glory of others’ suffering.

Despite these routine “meetings of the minds” Robert trudged onward. He sank deeper into school-work, his few, minor friendships, then eventually, depression. All the while Phillip’s family grew richer, defended his worst troubles, and ignored the lesser-ones.

As high-school approached, Robert and Bacatta were worse than ever, but something changed in them both. Roberts’ father, an accountant for the city on a dismal salary, took a high-paying position at a company called Bio-something– Robert never really cared, he was just happy for dad. It was only after Bacatta began to pick-up, and thus its inhabitants, that Robert saw the true shift: Phillip, an ever-present threat and nuisance, suddenly shrank into the background. What were once daily encounters became weekly, then monthly. Soon enough, Phillip O’Dell descended into obscurity altogether, taking crummy-rubbert with him.

Twenty years after “The Fall,” and near half-a-decade since Robert had thought of O’Dell, he’d become a man. Without constant torment, he’d made it through High-school with high-grades, and even a girlfriend or two. He garnered promising scholarships from both in and out of state colleges, left home to attend Oakton State University’s Bachelor of Sciences program to study Computer Science; for there were few things Robert always loved more than computers, games, and math.

As he stepped from a cab along a side-street, a voice at-once both sparked his memory and chilled his spine. He glanced sideways to see a homeless man, haggard, emaciated, and begging for a few paces down the road. Even beneath countless layers of dirt, grime, and mottled head and facial hair, Phillip was unmistakable.

For a moment, Robert stood transfixed by the shell of a man that had once been his bully, his tormentor. For most, this would be a moment of triumph. For Robert, ever-the-pacifist, it was one of sorrowful epiphany.

During high-school Robert learned of Bacatta’s true underbelly, its true history. What had once been a high-grade metropolis had been forced to poverty from the loss of a major company and supporter of its economy. Robert’s own father had been part of this company– pharma-something, he’d never bothered to remember– and it went down in flames after a major scandal with its Board of Directors.

Even now, the city was still picking itself up. Part of the revitalization also included cleaning up the police-force’s corruption, but only now– as a college-going man bound for a nearby-cafe– did Robert remember Officer O’Dell, Phillip’s father. The connection wasn’t difficult; Officer O’Dell was a corrupt cop, the kind that took kick-backs for anything he could to keep his family glitzed and glamoured in otherwise dire times. Phillip’s own disappearance even made sense now. But to see him slouched against a brick-wall in Oakton, ragged, torn, and destitute, broke Robert’s heart.

Robert weaved through the crowd toward Phil, his feet compelled forward through the stream of noon-day passersby that flowed around him. He stood before the broken, homeless.

He raised a hand, rasped a word, “Change?”

Robert’s eyes filled with a melange of emotion that Phil must have missed.“Ph-Phillip? Phillip O’Dell?”

The broken man’s eyes rose, widened, “Robert?”

He gave a single, slow nod, “What’re you doing here, man?”

Phillip’s lower lip trembled. He slid up the wall, shaking his head. Tears edged into his eyes, “Are– Are you–”

“Real?” Robert asked with a step toward him. “Yeah, Phil, it’s me.”

His withered, husk of a body heaved a sob, “My god!”

Robert’s heart split in two, “Hey man, it’s alright.” He put an arm around him, “You hungry? C’mon, my apartment’s just down the street. I’ll fix you something.”

Phillip sobbed the two blocks to the apartment building, his clouded mind wracked, and his body directed solely by Robert’s firm grip. The stink of an adolescent life on the street permeated the otherwise smoggy air and filled the hallway to the apartment door. It only subsided long enough for the meal that Robert cooked in silence, his movements slow, thoughtful. Phillip’s tears followed their tempo with a pervasive trickle, ceasing as the two sat to eat.

The silence had its fill between them, gorging itself on the profundity of the moment. Phillip’s mouth trembled. His hand failed the weight of the soup spoon. It clamored with a perilous ring that gave way to Phillip’s rasping voice.

“Wh-why… why would you…”

He trailed off. Robert knew where he was headed, “What happened to you, Phil?”

His head shook, flung tears across his cheeks, “I don’t even… I don’t remember.”

“Don’t you have family? Someone you can stay with or– what happened Phil?”

Phillip O’Dell swallowed hard, choked on the bits and pieces of his life that he could recall. His voice split into occasional, hacking coughs. “Dad was … one of the cops they busted. They put him in jail– he’s … still there. Mom, couldn’t handle the pressure of work, ‘n me, ‘n… dad. She…. she showed herself out not long after.”

“You’ve be alone all this time?” He nodded. “Then how’d you end up in Oakton? Your family were locals.”

Phillip gave a wracking cough into his hand, his withered figure still trembling afterward, “I ran away… just ended up here. I’m … not sure how anymore.”

“Didn’t you ever try to … get help, or find work? I mean, have you always been—”

“No. I … I was an angry kid, Rob, you know that,” he replied, avoiding Robert’s gaze. “I hated people… lower than me, how could I… react to being lower than myself?”

“So all this time you’ve been living like this?”

He nodded. “I stole for a long time. Got caught. Ended up worse-off.”

Phillip descended into a heavy fit of coughing that shook Robert’s chest, frayed his nerves. He tried to word his sympathy, his tone shaky, “Phil, I’ve gotta’ admit.” He wrung his hands. “You were a mean kid, but… some kids are like that. I’d’ve never thought– this isn’t right, man, you need some help.”

Phillip’s coughing fit ended with sobs, “So many things I did… I deserved this. I’ve… regretted everything I said and done for so many years. I took out my own self-hate on you.”

“Self-hate?”

He choked back a sob, “I was never happy. Dad was a drunk. Mom was… always cheating or fighting with Dad. When it came down, I wasn’t sad. I was angry. That’s when I was at my worst. I saw you so happy, even with all the struggle you– I-I couldn’t break your spirit. And It broke mine.”

Robert shook his head, “Phil, it wasn’t like that–”
“Yes it was, Rob,” he interrupted respectfully. “I know I hurt your feelings, but it wasn’t nearly what it could have been. I’ve seen that on the streets; kids who didn’t… have what you had. They let guys like me get to them, force them down. I’ve never regretted anything more than what I’ve done to you. I’ve beaten myself up the last half-decade for it– if I’d stopped, thought about it for even a second, I’d’ve had to recognize it was me that was the problem. And I wouldn’t’ve– wouldn’t’ve ended up… like this!”

Phil sobbed again. His chest heaved. He coughed phlegm into a frail, shaky hand. Robert watched, lost for words, searched for someway to calm the mass of sorrow across the table.

“Phil… Phil, listen man. If you were given the chance, I mean really given the chance to change things, would you?”

Phil’s face wavered, “Rob, I’ve got felonies ‘n I haven’t–”

“No, Phil, that’s not what I’m asking,” he interjected. “I’m asking, would you accept help?”

He seemed to consider the question for a long moment. His tears stilled, though his chest rose and fell with piercing wheezes. “Yeah. Yeah, I would Rob, but … I can never forgive myself for.”

Rob interrupted, “Look man, sometimes, we can’t forgive ourselves because that’s not where we need it from. Sometimes, we need it from the people we’ve wronged.”

Phil’s eyes glistened he struggled to follow, “What’re you talkin’ about Rob?”

Robert explained with a slow, rhythmic tongue, “Look Phil, like you said, I’ve had a lot behind me to help hold me up all these years. I can’t be angry with you now. And I was never really angry then. But I do understand now. I can forgive you, but I can’t just do it. Otherwise, it won’t mean as much to either of us.”

Phil’s face was blank, a result of confusion, “What’re you saying? That you forgive me?”

Robert’s head tilted sideways, “Kind of. Look man, if you’re willing to work for it, I can forgive you. But there’s a lot there, and the only way it seems worth it’s if you agree to make it worth it.”

“How?”

“Get yourself together man, I’ll help, but… well, think of it this way: You agree, and at the end of that road, you’re forgiven. In the meantime, you’ll clean up, maybe find some work– something you wanna’ do with your life.”

Phil’s tears returned, a visible thirst on his lips, “You wanna’ help me?”

He grimaced, “Phil man, I hate seeing you like this, but I gotta’ know you’re really different– inside I mean, you know? What’s the point if you might turn ’round and be the same way again.”
Phil understood at last, “You can forgive me, ‘n you wanna’ help, but you wanna know I won’t end up the same.”

Robert nodded, gave a half smile, “Yeah.” He stood from the table, Phil in front of him, “It won’t be easy, but… well, neither was what happened. It was a lotta’ years, man.”

Phil nodded, hope gleaming in his eyes. Robert gave him a tight hug, lingered to foster hope. He pulled away, hands on Phil’s shoulders, and gave a sideways tilt of his head, “Go shower up, there’s a trimmer under the sink. I’ll find you some clothes and we’ll go get’chu a haircut. You had enough to eat right?”

Phil’s mouth quivered with a smile, “Rob, I don’t know what to say…”

“Just go shower up, man. You don’t need to say anything.”

Phil half-turned, hesitated, “I think I understand why they say meek’ll inherit the Earth, Rob.” Robert’s brow pinched with confusion. Phil smiled, “No matter what you do to ’em– no matter how bad you are, they never lose their compassion.”

Robert’s face sketched agreement as the boy, Phillip O’Dell– his one time bully– disappeared into the man Phil O’Dell.