Samantha

Jonathan waltzed lightly across the hard wood dance floor, dragging Samantha right along side him.

“Come on, Sam. You used to love dancing,” he said lovingly. “Seems like we just got married yesterday, doesn’t it? Twenty five years is a long time, Sam.”

He held her head close to his chest and nuzzled his face against her matted hair.

“I love you, Sam. You mean the world to me.”

Jonathan looked at the dirty dishes piled high in the sink. She had been gone for a long time.

“I’m just glad we got you home in time for our anniversary.”

Caroline

Caroline pulled the last cigarette out with her teeth and threw the box aside. A large flame leaped out of the marble lighter on the table in front of her and she collapsed back onto the plush couch. She lay prone with her head hanging off the side of the cushion. Thin streams of smoke blew from her red lips, spilling onto the shag carpet.

Keys jingled in the lock and she busied herself with a magazine on the floor. A perfume ad, featuring a mostly nude prepubescent girl on the beach, lay open in front of her.

Jackie entered, glanced at her curiously, and hung his brown jacket. He then carefully placed his wrist watch, keys, and wallet in a blue glass bowl sitting on the half-moon console below the coat rack and walked towards her.

“So,” he loosened his neck tie, “how was your day?”

She met his eyes with her own as he lay back onto the couch opposite her. Her mascara had run and been smeared around her bloodshot eyes.

“Pretty good, huh?” Jackie raised an eyebrow while loosening his necktie with a forefinger. Caroline turned back to her magazine and said nothing.

“Good. That’s what I like, productivity and good company. Yes, sir. I am one lucky fellow.” He laughed and threw his head back into his arms, gazing patiently at the ceiling. “You know, Caroline, I can see shapes up there now.” Jackie looked at his wife. “No. It’s true. Just yesterday I found a horse.”

She tapped her cigarette and shook her head. Ashes floated slowly to the carpet floor, exposing the red glow of fresh, burning tobacco.

“Say, you want a drink or something to loosen you up?” Jackie pushed himself from the couch and walked to the kitchen. “I’ll fix you up.”

He was doing his best to remain optimistic, hoping that he had been all wrong about her. Jackie removed a bottle of gin from the liquor cabinet and took a heavy drink. He grimaced. Alcohol had always been difficult for him to take straight, but it warmed his stomach and alleviated mounting tension.

Jackie considered his life. He had finished school, found a good job, and married a beautiful girl. The prerequisites had been met, yet still, underneath his sarcasm, he found himself longing for another life, a chance to start over with someone else.

He shuttered and turned to reach for the tonic water but stopped midway. Something large and metallic gleamed out the top of his wife's purse. He paused and looked back to see if Caroline was still lying out of sight. Jackie unbuckled the purse and removed a gun. It was the Colt .45 he had received as a wedding gift from his best friend Nathan. He kept the gun loaded, just in case, but had only actually fired it a couple of times out with his friends drunk and wild in the backwoods of Montana.

Half-mindedly, Jackie turned the revolver over and then back again, admiring the detailed craftsmanship and quality metals. It was a respectable weapon and he had always felt more masculine just holding it.

Jackie took another drink and left the kitchen. He walked with purpose and placed himself between the coffee table and Caroline. Tired of being taunted and made a fool, he thought he'd put a stop to it this instant.

He waved the gun in her face. “You think this is funny, don’t you? It’s fun to laugh at me, isn’t it?” Jackie pointed the gun at her head.

“Well, I got a real funny one for you. Why don’t you get the fuck out!? Yeah, that’s right. I know all about you and that little douche bag writer fellow in Georgia. So let's go already. Get out!”

Caroline propped herself up on her left arm and put her cigarette out in the carpet. Looking innocently into his angry face, she began crying. Down her cheek, and off her chin, tears collected into a small puddle on his shiny black shoe. In the reflection Caroline saw what looked like a misshaped horse on the ceiling. She laughed nervously.

“Yeah. Keep laughing. Let’s see how fucking funny I am now.” He smiled mockingly and pushed the handgun into her face. “Huh, how’s that for funny! Let’s see how far you get with Georgia boy without a fucking face!”

She could feel the heavy, cold steel bruising flesh against her cheek bone but did her best to feign a warm smile. She reached out to caress his arm.

“Knock it off, Caroline. It ain't going to work this time.” Her touch was always soothing to him. The worst day in the world could easily be corrected by some loving attention from her. She was, after all, his first and only lover. His heart warmed slightly and he lost his nerve. Jackie withdrew the gun slightly from her face, revealing a little “O” imprint on Caroline's otherwise perfect cheek.

“You know what you look like to me,” he laughed to himself.

Caroline, somewhat amused by the juvenile look on his face, turned her head slowly and put her lips around the end of the long barrel.

"You look like a," he stopped.

She proceeded to slide her tongue under the bottom of the shaft and drag upwards, removing the gun from her mouth. Strings of saliva dripped slowly from the piece.

Spellbound with nostalgia, Jackie placed both hands on the gun, trying his best to hold it steady. His eyes were transfixed greedily on her full lips. Caroline looked up at him and brazenly took the length of the gun into her mouth. Almost gagging, she could taste the residue from years ago.

She drew her head back and kissed the barrel lovingly. “You’ll miss me, Jackie.”

The trance was broken. He had done everything for her only to be repaid with five awful years of guessing, missing the mark, and feeling like a simple-minded fool trying to make sense of something purposely kept complex and mysterious. Always making a mockery of his feelings, it was clear to him now that she had no love left for him. A torrent of anger rose through him and sweat beaded on his brow. He shook nervously as his fingers swelled around the pistol. He’d rather they both be dead than to go on like this.

“I ain’t your fool no more, Caroline.” Jackie closed his eyes and pulled quickly on the trigger.

“Click!”

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. He opened his eyes and Caroline held his dumbfounded stare for some time. The realization of what he attempted and subsequently failed to do was instantaneously sobering and left him holding this heavy, useless weapon. An overwhelming feeling of impotence and shame washed away any traces of heated, lingering passion.

Caroline stood gingerly and placed a small, cylindrical brass object in the center of the table and walked towards the door. She paused to turn back. Unmoved, Jackie was still facing the couch, arms hanging limply at his sides and revolver still in hand. She proceeded out, shutting the door softly behind her. Avoiding the elevator, she began a long descent down four flights of stairs.

The expected shot reported loudly throughout the concrete stairwell, but Caroline was already back into the busy streets of New York hailing a cab.

Charlie

“Charlie!” Anne wrapped her thin pale arms around him and squeezed. She cried, kissing him frantically. “How was your trip, baby? Where did you go? Do you feel better? Are the shakes gone? Are you better?”

Charlie looked at her for a few seconds and then stared off, into the distance.

“Uh huh”, he nodded his head mechanically. “I had an ok time.” He looked down at his broken watch, “Can we get a drink? I hate airplanes.”

Anne nodded and wiped her nose with a tissue. "Anything you want, Charlie."

He looked at his watch again. “Let’s get going. I'm thirsty for a drink.”

Anne led Charlie through the parking lot to her blue pickup. An airplane roared overhead.

Charlie looked up to watch it pass. Anne eased the suitcases from his hands.

“Where do they keep all the damned smog on days like this?”

Anne glanced up, shading her eyes with her hand.

“I dunno, Charlie.”

He shrugged and entered the vehicle through the passenger door.

Anne drove and hummed nervously, all the while stealing glances at Charlie. He wasn’t what most women would describe as handsome, but she loved his strong jaw and furrowed brow.

Charlie kept his eyes fixed out the side window, watching the tall buildings, cars, and people blur past.

“Baby,” Anne was still a little shaken, “I know that sometimes you have to go like this, but I really wish you could at least call, just to let me know you’re alright.

Charlie looked down at his feet and reached into his jacket pocket.

“Charlie?” Anne stifled a cry. "Can you do that for me?"

“Here, I got you this.” He held out a small wooden figurine shaped into the likeness of a little boy, holding a fishing pole with one hand and a big fish with the other.

“Thank you.” Anne took it from his rough palm and pulled over to examine it carefully.

“It’s wonderful, Charlie.” It was rough, obviously carved with blunt tools, but beautiful and somehow oddly charming.

“I got that for you.” He looked at her for a few seconds and turned back to the window.

Anne held the figurine tightly. The sharp edges of the square bottom dug into her flesh. She began crying again.

When they finally arrived home, Charlie immediately dropped his bags and went out on the balcony. He draped his arms over the banister and observed the busy traffic of East Los Angeles.

Hoping for the big blast of an air horn, Charlie gestured at the truck drivers passing beneath him. Anne watched him through the screen door for a few minutes and then snuck into the bedroom.

She removed the figurine from her coat pocket and carefully placed it next to nine other very similar statues in her bottom, dresser drawer.

Sanjay

It was a two in the morning and I was in the health section of Hollywood Vons fighting with myself over what kind of toothbrush would be best for my receding gum line. It had to be sturdy enough to clean but not hard enough to further erode the precious material holding my teeth in place. I had already brushed away quite a bit and was afraid of loosing another tooth.

My cell phone rang. I didn’t know the number.

"It’s Nate," I answered.

"Hello, my friend, it is Sanjay. I am not waking you am I?"

“It’s ok. What’s up, Sanjay?”

“My friend, you must come and see what I have made.”

“Uh, sure,” I said cautiously. “You’re at the end of Westerly Terrace, right?”

“Yes, my friend. Just knock and I answer.”

Sanjay and I had met only briefly a week ago at a party in Silver Lake. While I didn’t know Sanjay very well and certainly never expected him to call, he was a popular local and I didn’t want to pass on his invitation.

I parked my car in an empty drive way and walked through a thick grove of jasmine to a well lit doorway. I checked the address again and knocked.

Sanjay answered the door. He had sweated through his linen shirt and tufts of dark chest hair showed through. I was taken by his raw, pungent body odor.

“Oh, my friend, you made it. Good.” He hugged me and led me through the door. “Look!”

Hundreds of shiny, golden bells tied to foot long strands of red cord hung from the ceiling. I gazed in awe at a perfectly planned sea of red stripes and gilded brass.

“Did you just do this?”

“Oh, yes. I arrived home today from my trip and have been working for hours.”

I reached up towards a bell but Sanjay quickly stopped my hand.

“Not yet, my friend. You must wait.”

Sanjay led me over to a short, black coffee table located in the center of the room and asked me to sit. An elephant-shaped tin incense burner sat on the table, slowly expelling curled ribbons of white smoke towards the heavenly facade above.
“Wait for what?”

“You will see, my friend,” he said pointing a finger at me, “you will see.”

He waltzed over to his kitchen and returned with a ceramic tea kettle and matching dishware. I could smell the spices in the chai rising past me as he served us.

“First, we drink to friendship.”

I lifted my small ceramic cup in the air.

“To friendship,” I said and carefully sipped.

We finished our tea and Sanjay took the tray back into the kitchen to exchange it with another. He scurried back and set the new one down.

“And now, my friend, we smoke.”
On the tray sat a small bowl filled with a dark red jelly and a smooth glass pipe.

“Behold, charas, pure from my home in the Hindu Kush mountains."

Sanjay carefully packed the very sticky resin into the pipe and put it down before me.
"You first, my friend.”

I picked up the pipe. The glass felt smooth and cold in my nervous hands. I sat anxiously, wondering what charas was and whether or not it could kill me. Sanjay was probably more weird than he was Indian, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to push the envelope of death.

He handed me a lighter and the charas crackled as I drew flame into the pipe. Thick, harsh smoke rushed through the glass and into my throat. It burned like fire and I coughed most of it out. I handed the pipe back to Sanjay but he refused.

“Not so much, my friend. Please try again.”

This time, I lit the charas only for a few seconds and inhaled half as much, holding it deep inside my lungs. Instantly, I felt lighter, like I was floating in a warm bath. Exhaling, my spine pulsed and I felt a numbing euphoria through my back, shoulders and arms.

Sanjay and I passed the pipe back and forth three or four times, and my journey had begun. The world around me spun fast, and I felt out of control. I collapsed backwards onto an ocean of velvety pillows on the hard wood floor and wondered when I would stop falling.

“My friend, it is time.” Sanjay extended a hand down and pulled me off of the floor. My body felt limp, but I managed to stand on my own.

Without hesitation Sanjay raised his brown hands to the sky and ran from one side of the room to the other, screaming and yelling in his native tongue.

Swinging back and forth, smashing into each other, the bells sounded in a beautiful chorus of chaotic unison. I heard the perky chime of individual bells and then the cacophony of all them together. Dissonant harmonies echoed through me. Then, suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to reach my hands up into the choppy, gold crested sea. I hit one, then two, then with both hands I hit as many as I could. The ruckus of bells increased and I called out to them in fits of ecstasy for understanding, clarity, and peace.

Out of breath and wet with sweat I let myself fall to the ground. Sanjay came and lay next to me.
“Now do you see, my friend.”

“Yes, Sanjay. Now I see.”

Aaron Taramet

I was born with one red arm. Due to complications at birth, my entire left arm turned a firey blood color. My mother screamed and cried, wanting to know what was wrong with her baby. The doctors looked at one another and quietly informed my mother that her baby would be fine but the arm would never grow. She cried and close relatives comforted her, assuring her that I would probably lead a perfectly normal life anyways.

Fortunately, they were all wrong and while my left arm grew, my life was shaped by a prescription love affair with psychotropic medication and turned out to be anything but normal.