Pop, Pop, Pop

Many times Maggie thought she heard gunshots when they were only fireworks, lit in the streets, far too long before and after the Fourth of July.  Did anyone lighting those dumb things even feel remotely patriotic, she wondered, or just playing at war or arson.  Real gunshots didn't go on for as long.  Real gunshots didn't seem to echo as much.  Pop, pop, pop.  Triplets.  One, two, three.  One broke the glass.  Two cracked a mirror.  Three killed a baby.

Specifically how do you handle confrontation?

An easy target: young girl, alone, burdened with a bag and coat, walking and distracted.  He came out of nowhere, it seemed, and hooked his arm through her bag, which was slung crosswise across her body.  Using the strap and his greater weight, the man in dark clothes pulled her into the dark space between the buildings without a sound.  He swung her by the bag, intending to stun the girl against the brick wall, but he found himself spinning in a full circle when the counterweight disappeared and he was left holding the girl's messenger bag.

Bewildered, the would-be mugger and, quite possibly, rapist, scanned the narrow corridor for his prey, wondering why he didn't hear her fall or cry out or slip on the garbage.  The girl's bag dropped from his flailing hangs when his head was jerked back by a strap around his neck and he found he was incapable of anything but a wheezing, choking sound.  His feet flew out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, his remaining air whooshing out of his lungs and his head ringing with the impact.

On the cover of what magazine would you most like to appear?

It was a candid shot, taken out of disbelief.  A girl--possibly a lady--being assaulted on the street.  It was dark and still wet from earlier rain.  I was hurrying back to my apartment from photographing wet pavement on the neon-lit streets three blocks over.  Pretentious and hack.  Maybe worthy of stock photo work.  I had my camera around my neck, like an idiot in this bad neighborhood.  I heard her scream, cut off.  I saw them clearly.  Woman and man.  Man wrapped around woman from behind, her feet losing the ground for a moment.  His hand blocking her air.  I lifted my camera and started snapping.

Pageant Question: Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten years?

Even all the way out by the maple tree, Cara could hear her things being broken inside the house.  She used to be extremely attached to her belongings.  Even when she was little, she took good care of her toys.  Not one of her Barbie dolls suffered a horrible haircut.  No Memory game card was drawn upon.  She dusted her knickknacks and even kept her clothes in good condition, not wanting to give them up even if they no longer fit.  Her mother knew better than to try to clear out Cara's room after the crying that ensued after the last purge.  Instead, Cara's mother gave her storage boxes and little-used items were carefully labeled and put into the attic.  But now...

As she had become forcefully detached from her belongings, Cara realized she could live without them.  First, her new husband had demanded she not have so much "crap".  She purged like she never had before, wishing to please him and keep a neat house.  Cara had built up quite a lot of money by selling her childhood online.  Clothes, now called "vintage" were snapped up.  Teen magazines had bidders fighting till the end.  Her toys and trinkets and memorabilia sold, one after the other.  At first, it really hurt and she cried as she listed them, she cried as she packed them up, but eventually, she started to feel better.  Lighter.  Her new husband demanded more.  Cara held on to less and less.  And now...

Another crash from the house and muffled yelling let her know that her husband was not done with his anger.  He was never done.  Burning embers needed little fanning to become a flame.  Simply walking past created enough of a breeze to get them going.  Cara's husband was smashing her remaining belongings.  She pictured him emptying her closet and dresser drawers.  Running an arm across her bookshelf.  Throwing her remaining memories against the wall that would again need patching.  She knew he would tire of the exertion, grab the keys to his truck, and squeal away.  He said he went to his mother's house, but she knew he it wasn't his mother he visited.  Cara had found the emails accidentally and the text messages purposefully.  It was that day that she felt the stranger calling himself her husband had killed the man she married.

The backdoor smashed open and closed.  The truck door squeaked open and closed.  The tires spun on the gravel and squealed on the pavement, heading east.  As soon as she knew he was far enough away, Cara moved into action and, not for the last time, wondered what would happen.

337

The world as we know it was destroyed in three days.  Less than half the time some people say it was created, and much less than it took to actually create it.  Humans have always lamented their smallness, some more than others.  Those who lamented more often strove to gather power.  They wanted to change the world; well, they did.  Would they be remembered forever, the way they wanted?  Would their children and their children's children carry on their name and their legacy?  Nope.  And why would anyone want to be remembered with such hate?

335

Hesper's chain wouldn't let her move further than six feet from the basement wall.  She used the full stretch to the left, as close to the sump pump as she could get, as her bathroom.  She used the full stretch to the right for sleeping, her left ankle always pointed to the chain's end bolted to the wall.  The right side was next to the furnace, which kept her slightly warmer than anywhere else.

285

Constantinople was Istanbul.  Constantinople was Istanbul.  Oh, God, what's happening?  Think!  I'm Henry the Eighth, I am, I am, I'm Henry the Eighth I am...

"I can't, Henry.  I can't do it anymore!"  James was crying.  He couldn't wipe the tears away because his hands were tied, but he didn't notice or even care.

"Sing with me!  Sing it out loud, then!  I'm a Yankee doodle dandy!  Yankee doodle do or die!  Sing it for God's sake, dammit!  James!  Sing it!"  Henry was tied, too, but he was trying to stretch his shoulders enough to at least get his hands in front.  "A real, live nephew of my Uncle Sam!  Born on the fourth of July!"

James shook his head side to side and tried to mouth the words, but he wasn't concentrating enough.  "Henry, I..."  Henry fell to his back as his bound hands popped around his buttocks, which was lucky because most of James' skull shot over him when it exploded.

"Yankee doodle went to London just to ride the ponies.  I am a Yankee doodle boy!  Goddammit, James.  I'm a Yankee doodle dandy..."  Henry kept singing as he worked at the knots with his teeth.

284

In an impossible world filled with impossible things, sometimes the most plausible are the least believable.  A cry for help is quite plausible, especially in a bad neighborhood, where, impossibly, people hurt each other for no other reason than they feel they must.  It is plausible someone needs help, but it doesn't sound believable and no one comes.  No one helps.  The hurt continues.

It is also plausible that the choosing of the victim is random, but the victim is more willing to believe that he or she was targeted and, even more impossibly, will always be targeted and will be attacked again and again.

256

"Christ Almighty, what are you doing?"  Janny stopped short in the doorway, disbelieving her eyes.  Harrol stood in the middle of his destruction, arms flexing and meaty fists still clenched around the leg of a table.  His eyes darted to Janny, silhouetted in the noonday sun, framed by the door, and her stomach clenched.

233

The street performer saw it first since he was the only one facing the right way.  Everyone else was looking at the guitarist and they witnessed the explosion only as reflection in his frightened, disbelieving eyes.

122

She felt her jaw being stroked. She was in pain, but the gentle touch pulled her away from the agony of the bullet in her belly. She felt her hair pushed back from her face and was grateful, but unable to say so. Who... the thought was crushed by her insides hiccuping, cramping and squeezing. Someone grabbed her hand and she squeezed it against the pain. She realized, in a detached way, that she could hear voices and, distantly, a siren. Where had she been? What had just happened? Who was now speaking to her in deep, soothing tones? Why couldn't she understand him?

85

When I was ten, a guy opened the front screen door and caught me by surprise while I was watching Tom and Jerry in the afternoon. It seemed that I moved so slowly, like you do in those terrible dreams, and my head was still turning towards him as he straddled me on the old sofa. My step dad threw that sofa out while I was still in the hospital. I came back and we had a new, blue sofa from that warehouse that sells crappy sofas and crappy mattresses. It was the first time I recognized being grateful to anyone for anything.

The guy moved fast while I moved slow. My legs and right hand were pinned and my Kool-Aid spilled on the carpet. I shouldn't have had it on the floor, I thought; Mom would be mad. Even though my left hand was free, I somehow didn't think about it and it lay there, useless. The only thing I did do was yell. I had great lungs and I really let loose. The guy got so mad, he screamed at me to shut up, shut up, or I'll slice your throat.

Well, that was it; I heard he'd slice me and I screamed even more. I drowned him out, the TV out, the traffic out. I screamed and screamed--it was the only part of me that worked. He stopped trying to pull off my pajama pants, the ones with the perky princesses on them, and pulled out a serrated knife. I didn't think it possible, but I screamed even louder. I suppose that was good because the neighbors who visited the hospital told me that scream was what made them come down. The guy sliced my throat.

You figure you'd die. It stung terribly for a second then, nothing. I gushed blood all over him and he hopped back. I grabbed my throat, one finger going into the slit, and out again. Mr. James, our upstairs neighbor, squeaked open the screen door, and the guy freaked. He freaked and ran. Mr. James breathed, "Oh, my God." I'd never heard a grownup sound scared, but he sure did. I thought Mr. James left, but I guess he found a towel in the bathroom. He rolled it up like I would for swim class and pressed it to my neck. "Hold this here, Bria. Hold it tight. I'm going to call for help."

We didn't have any phone, so he ran back outside. I was scared the guy with the knife would come back, but other neighbors started looking through the screen. I sat on the old sofa with the towel on my neck. I heard Mr. James yelling outside, "Help! We need help! Call an ambulance! There's a girl hurt! Help!"

There's never a cop too far away in our neighborhood, which in this case was good. Mr. James held the screen and a younger cop strode in until he saw me. He must not have believed Mr. James or thought he was exaggerating, but when that cop saw all the blood and me with a bloody bath towel and with the red Kool-Aid on the floor and sound of Tom running after Jerry, he skidded to a stop. The older cop that came in behind him didn't hesitate. He knelt down by me, right in the blood and cherry Kool-Aid, to tell me it would all be okay. He asked me if I could talk. I nodded, though I wasn't sure. He asked me what happened. I swallowed, but it hurt and I cried a little then. I held the towel tighter and told him about the guy with the knife. I saw my pajama bottoms were on the floor, and I cried again. I can't believe it, thinking back, but I was partly embarrassed to have my pants off, and partly upset because those were my favorite PJ bottoms.

73

Sirens called out to one another in the distance and Jill heard the muffled "thump" that was the subtle real-life indicator there had been another explosion across the city. It wasn't the double, "pwuhch-PWUHCHHH!" sound that all the action movies made.

The streetlights were on, which meant electricity was still on, and most people were glued to their televisions. Jill was hurrying back to her apartment from tutoring work, leather shoulder bag banging against her leg. She passed some people out in their driveways, watching the sky. A dark car flew down the street, slowed for the stop sign, and continued with a roar. Jill picked up the pace.

67

Put it down, I thought. Just put it down. Put it down. Put it down. The words were a chant in my head, an ineffectual spell meant to save my life. Put it down. Put it down. Put it down.

The knife came up. The knife came down. The knife pulled out, up, down. Out, up, down. I said put it down, not this. My knees weakened and I went down. The knife went with me and we both went down. Even as I fell, I was careful not to fall on it and push it in deeper. My hip went down. My shoulder went down. My head went down. My spell changed to Help. Help. Help.

56

When I was ten my grandfather went insane and killed my mother. My father was some sort of transient who had raped my mother near the tracks. He was most likely insane, too.

At this point in my story, only three sentences long, you may be thinking, "Oh, her poor mother." Don't think that, because she was also insane. While most people truly aren't "asking for it", she was. Literally. She walked the tracks hoping to find a transient who would rape her. She knew my grandfather was unstable and continued to goad him. She even handed him the knife.

Now I'm on my third paragraph and maybe you're thinking, "Oh, that poor girl." This time you're right. Poor me. I'm only sixteen, and I am waiting for the insanity bomb to drop. Any second now. Genetics cannot be avoided. As sure as my eyes are hazel and my hair is blond and my knees are knobby, I will go insane.

44

Everyone had thought that science and logic and empathy and rational thought had finally triumphed over faith-based belief, blind patriotism, righteousness, and self-centeredness. It hadn't. The others were not converted, they were simply seething, steeping in their own closed-minded juices and plotting their return to power. They also were planning how they could permanently hold that power.

Secret militias formed in churches, basements, compounds, bunkers. Plots were hatched in those places as well as in marbled halls of justice, well-appointed DC offices, and in the homes of the rich and formerly powerful. God, Country and Freedom were mentioned over and over as these people armed themselves and planned to kill any fellow countryperson who didn't share their beliefs.

In shock and disbelief, the scientific, logical, empathetic and rational were plowed down by the combined force of inarguable faith and bullets, bullets, bullets.

40

Shots echoed through the city streets at a quarter after three in the morning. Being so close to the Fourth of July, the majority of residents, if they heard the shots at all, attributed them to juvenile delinquents with firecrackers. Usually, the call center would be inundated with 911 calls, but there was only one.

Julie Robertoson was up at a quarter after three because her new baby son, just a week old, wasn't sleeping regularly. She didn't have any experience with babies and there was no one in her life to give her advice. Julie was walking him back and forth, back and forth in her studio apartment on the first floor of a building where social services said she could live with reduced rent. It was a bad neighborhood, and Julie knew it, but she only had a distant concept of what a "good" neighborhood would be like. Julie was the only one to call 911 that night.

The fifteenth time Julie passed by the window, infant son wailing in her arms, his head exploded.

23

The waitress looked tired and sad because she was. It had been a long, hot morning that was working its way into a longer and hotter afternoon. The diner's big metal fans blew the heat and smell of fry grease around the dining room without cooling anything. A single TV played cable news in the corner and it was quietly reporting about death somewhere in the world.

There were still four customers from the morning. Gus and Bob and Pat would stay right on through lunch, sitting at the counter, reading their papers or watching the news, occasionally talking to one another. The waitress refilled their coffees: regular, regular with cream, and decaf. A tough-looking trucker lady had come in at 10:30, parking her rig along the side, and ordered a late breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Extra sugar.

The waitress wore baggy khaki pants and a tank top under a thin, blue, button-up shirt. A newly smeared apron was tied around her waist. She wiped the side of her brow with the rolled-up sleeve on her upper arm as she cleaned the last table. The bell on the screen door jingled, but she didn't look up until she heard the three regulars' conversation stop and she didn't hear the sound of the newcomers taking a seat.

There were three men. Men looking for trouble. Men who had found it.

3

I swore to God this morning that if anybody else mentioned my inside-out shirt to me, I would punch him in the face. Now this nun, a goddamn nun, was telling me my goddamn shirt was inside-out like she was my personal dresser. Carson freaking Kressley gay married to Jesus and all dolled up in a habit whispering fashion advice to me. Like I could take off my shirt right here on the goddamn bus and turn it right-side-out and put it back on without everybody thinking that was a whole hellava lot worse than just a freaking tag sticking out and maybe some visible seams. Who the hell cared? And now I had to punch this stupid, goddamn nun in the face. My luck.