Death at My Door

“Forgiveness is divine.” Helena mumbled, forcing the words out in a gasp of pain from where she lay dying in their wide bed, death stood at the door as she pleaded with her husband to forgive her for leaving so soon. Her husband rocked backed and forth on the ladder backed chair as he stiffly clasped his varicose hands between his knees. His eyes shed no tears but the desperate pleading was present in them as he strained to hear her words. Her vision fogged and she almost lost sight of the slight shadow that haunted the doorway to the tiny room where she would die.
            “No me dejen solo! No me dejen solo!”
            She blinked through the tears and the sweat. What had her husband just said. Translate, dammit translate, oh the pain, oh god such pain. Helena choked and gasped and writhed on the twisted sheets in the little white room. The pale gray light of an overcast morning drifting in through the small dirty case window set in one wall opposite the straight narrow bed. What did he say?
            “No dejes que la muerte te lleva lejos de mí”
            Spanish? Was that Spanish? Where did Josef learn Spanish? Then his family heritage flooded her mind, his father’s home in the Pyrenees on the slopes of Caída de Rayo- was that the name of that place? Helena tried but the pastoral scene washed away as she cried out in spittle and red mist. She felt as if the room had been fogged by her blood, her life, her death and her despair.
            “No dejes-“ But he didn’t finish this time. Josef grasped her hand trying to pull it away from the bed.
            Helena howled like a wolf trapped by a bear trap, the cruel cast iron teeth sunk deep in her flesh. Josef let go of the hand and shrank away from her falling from the chair and crawling away into the darkest corner of the room. Helena thought she could hear him whimpered like a kicked dog from the bed. She wished she could console him and tell him it would be alright. She wished that the pain would leave her and allow her to rest. She could almost see the gray fool at her door smile and shake his head slowly as if to say “no, there be dying left to be done first, my child.”
            Dying, that was what it was all about, not death but the transition from life to death. Why did it have to be so hard, why couldn’t it not come in her sleep? The dryness of her throat crackled into her musings reminding her that she had not drunk since the night before. Water- she needed water.
            “Water.” She croaked. Soft sobbing greeted her as a new silence filled the room. Dammit, she must speak Spanish if she wanted Josef to understand. What is the Spanish word for water? She knew this; after all she had wooed the shy Josef with her soft spoken words of the language.
            Why couldn’t she remember the word? Water, teatro?
No that was something else.
            Aqua? No but it must be close to that.
            “Agua.” She whispered into the echoless room.
            “Que?”
            “Agua.”
            A moment passed and then she could see Josef making his way passed the foot of her bed. His nightshirt was ripped and there was blood on it. Her blood- No, his, he had torn his hair out in his despair and his scalped now bled down his forehead and onto the white cotton. He looked tragic as he fumbled with the water pitcher and cup. His hands shook so badly that he dropped the cup as he went to pour the water. Helena could hear the cup shatter as it hit the cold stone like the lid of the sarcophagi that would soon close on her.
            Josef sobbed again and looked about desperately. Helena spoke the word agua again but nothing came but a gasp. Josef started praying as he brought the pitcher down towards her lips. His prayer was mostly unintelligible as the pitcher tilted towards her mouth. The water came in a trickle at first. The flood of coolness and relief slid down her aching throat as she gulped in painful chokes to get its coolness inside her heated body.
            Water of life, she thought in vain as it continued to come. Could it give her one more day to run in the flower fields of her memories? Would it give her back her beauty that she had enjoyed until the thin gray man had stolen it from her? She began to smile as the water came and the horror followed, because the water did not stop. She opened her eyes as she sputtered to stare into Josef’s wildly crazed ones.
            “Voy a ponerle fin.” He said almost gleefully in his anxiety.
            “No….” Helena tried to say. Not this, please don’t kill me Josef. Don’t do this to me- don’t do this to yourself. She struggled to use her arms but she was too weak to raise them. Josef took her head in his left hand, gently pulling her hair back as he continued to pour with his right.
            “Voy a fin que el dolor” Josef said with triumph as Helena began to slip away. Josef wept as he continued to repeat the words like a mantra until the water ran out... Which given the size of a pitcher was not enough to drown a cat never mind a dying woman.
            As her vision cleared she could see Josef staring in disbelief at the empty pitcher as if accusing it of failing him as well. He raised it above his head and for a moment Helena was afraid that he would plunge it down smashing her face with its lacquered porcelain but he threw it across the room instead. As it exploded into fine dust and chunks of flying white and blue shards; Helena remembered it had been a wedding present from Josef’s mother. The cottage came back into view among the cedar trees and the smoke rising from its lone chimney.
            Apparently Josef remembered where the jug had come from too, for her started uttering Mama over and over as he stumbled across the small room. He fell to his knees and began to gather the shards of the broken pitcher into his shaking hands. He wept openly now as he repeated his mother’s name and picked up the pieces.
            The wetness of the cold water running down her face brought Helena back from her meandering observation. She tried to raise her right hand to wipe it away but the effort was too much. The nausea swept over her and the room spun away as pain crept back in among swirling colors. She fought down the sickness and panic until the room settled and her vision cleared. She could no longer hear Josef at all and he was lost to her vision. She was alone.
            How long had she been out of it? Minutes or hours, who was to know? It had felt like days or seconds. For a moment the room swam out of focus and Helena desperately fought to clear her mind of the pointless time consuming pondering. How much time did she have left? Would death come quickly? Painlessly?
            No, she thought, no, I will not give into panic and hysteria. She looked over to the door trying to find the familiar shadow but it stood empty. Now she heard faint sounds from elsewhere in the house-probably Josef storing the shards away for mending- if it could be mended. Josef had always been one to repair, mend or fix before resulting to replacement of any item. The thought of him sitting in the garden shed surrounded by broken pots, tools and junk brought a smile to her lips. Stuff that he was in the process of mending or planning to mend; how he would be able to stand not being able to fix her.
            She remembered bringing him tea as he sat there each Saturday afternoon working hard to get a screw loose or balance the arm of a statue he was gluing. He would look up at her, his black bang falling over one eye as his slender hands struggled with a piece of wood. He would puff out his cheeks and blow a whistle through his lips. He would thanks her quietly in his shy was and take the tea.
            Sometimes they had made love at the tea had been consumed. Josef would slap his knees and stand up and declare that he had accomplished all he could for the day. He would take Helena in his arms ad kiss her long and slow. Then he would scoop her up and carry her out into the orchard behind their house and they would make love for what seemed an eternity. But eventually Josef would return to the shed to resume where he had left off.
         
            “Ahora no puede haber sangre!”

            Josef had returned, he stood just inside the door holding her death in his out-stretched hands. The shine of the stainless steel glinted as the small pane of light caught and released its sleek beauty. The long blade of the chef’s knife rested on Josef’s right palm which bled from a small cut made by it.
            A cold chill of horror overtook her, Josef had found a way to fix his broken wife. She stiffly shook her head, her eyes pleading with him. Josef stood for a moment longer in triumph then lowered the knife and crossed to her. He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned over to brush her hair back with his bloody palm.

            “No te preocupes mi amor podemos estar juntos ahora”
         
            Helena mind cleared as the fear drained from her, the translation came finally- he had said that we can be together. Josef was intending to kill them both. A new surge of panic and fear flooded through her veins as Josef raised the blade in his left hand, his right still on her forehead. He began to pray.

            “Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo…”

            Our Father who art in heaven- Helena’s mind translated as she flexed her hands as the pain drained away. A purity of body took hold and she felt feeling rush back into her paralytic limbs.

            “Santificado sea tu Nombre"

            Hallowed be thy name. The last rites- no not that- or was it? She thought that the prayer was supposed to have something to do with God having mercy on our souls. Mercy, that was a laugh, where was that Christian feat now. There was no mercy for her dying in agony, no mercy for the despair of her beloved husband and no mercy for what he was about to do to her and himself.

            "Venga tu reino-"
         
            Thy Kingdom come- thy will be done, on earth as it is in Cielo. The translation began to muddle as her hands swept out across the be in frantic jerks. Josef raised the knife above his head and held it there. Helena could see a sliver of blood sliding down the blade towards the tip.

            “Tho I paseo por el valle de sombra de muerte-“

            Had he skipped something? She had been so focused on the droplet of blood forming on the tip of the knife floating somewhere above her that she was no longer sure what Josef was saying. Her scrabbling hands found two things at once. Her left hit a thick heavy object that gave in a curling movement- what?

            “I fear no evil shall suffer me.”

            Josef had broken back into English if you could call it that. Her left hand grasped at the object in vain to find purchase but failed time and time again to get more that a page off of the object. Bible, it was a bible that she had found. The family bible was leather bound and heavy- so heavy that she had trouble lifting it when she was well. Despair flooded through her.

            “Tu cuchillo y mano de guía a mí.”

            Now he was changing the words to justify his act, his crime. He would get himself to believe that it was God’s hand guiding his to kill his wife and himself. Hatred and repulsion spread through her chest as the hot anger boiled her blood. How dare he be so lazy, so cowardly, so cruel?

            “Y vamos a morar junto a la casa del Señor para siempre. "

            The sacrilege sickened her, O Josef how could you? Her left hand drummed on the bible until it froze- if there was a bible on the bed then surely there was more. Her right hand closed around the other object. She gathered all her strength and will and courage. The drop of blood fell in slow motion as her right arm became a blur.

            “How dare you take the Lord in vain!” She screeched up at his surprised face.

            The wooden cross hit Josef in the face, the blow was little more powerful than a weak slap. Still the effect was the same as a gunshot. Josef stood up in terror at the sight of the cross held between them. Then he looked down at his sin, the knife in his hand. Hastily he threw it down like a hot snake and back away shaking his head. Then the despair and defeat took him and he fled from the room howling a long desperate shriek.

            “Josef! “ Helena cried in a mixture of sorrow and anger. Her voice seemed clearer now.
            She stared hard at the shadow in the door desperately hoping that Josef would come back in repentance. Desperately praying he would not return with renewed nerve. The pain had passed and a certain euphoria settled around here like soft rain in the wake of a summer wind storm. She looked back up at the new wooden cross wondering where it had come form.
         
            “How long must I wait for this to end?” She asked no one in particular but looked to the door in a guilty reticence as if a priest would walk through to hear her last confession. No one came through it and only its shadows flickered there.
         
            “All you have to do is ask.”
         
            The disembodied voice came to her clear as if the speaker stood just inside the doorway. Her eyes searched the shadows of the door and strained to see beyond it down the narrow hall. The hand holding the cross trembled slightly.

            “Who’s there?” Fear filled her breast and she choked on a sob, how long had this man with the steel wool voice been watching- waiting?

            “An old familiar friend, Helen.” The voice replied from the shadows of the door.

            “Josef?”

            “He is lost to you now, sweet Helen; indeed he is lost to himself. Maybe Jesu can forgive him.” The shadow in the door moved slightly as if the speaker leaned back against the door as he spoke. “Josef will not be able to forgive himself much less you or me.”

            “You- you’re a figment, a fear, a dream!” Helena cried, knowing that her hour had arrived.

            ‘That and so much more, Helen.” The Shade said form the door jamb.

            “I won’t go, I can’t go, my name is Helena!” She had begun to cry, all the while wondering why she had started in the first place.

            “Death comes to all men. There is no denying it, no escape from it, only time to take it in your embrace and live in it. Death is a swift and merciful irony that appeals all at once to the romantic and the fool. All things must pass, yesterday you were young and the men called you Helena as you danced in and out of their lives; but now today has arrived and I will call you Helen so that you will be ready for tomorrow.”

            “Will it hurt?” Helena asked just like a little girl, she abstractly wondered if huddling in her bed like a little girl would fit the scene better than the grown woman crying and fretting like one.

            “Could it hurt worse than dying did?”

            She began to ask what he meant by that- then the truth came to her and she sat up and stepped lightly away from the bed. She felt young and light and virile. She felt new and fresh, far away from the ache and sweat and torment of the previous night. She looked at the kindly old man in the doorway and smiled a smile that made her eyes flash.

            “Come my friend let’s take a walk.” She said as she took Death by the hand and together they walked away from the little room.

Grendel oddity

The makeup of a monster

            Out of the dark depths of the foul-smelling waters he came. Up like a hungry wolf leaping from the still surface onto the black rocks along the muddy shore. For a moment he paused crouching, his gruesome bulk a shadowy mass bending him low between his knees.

            A new scent flowed into his nostrils and they flared out like that of a grim nightmare. He stood up revealing the eight feet of misshapen muscles shaped like gnarled roots. He stretched out his long arms of sinew and bone, his corded muscles flexing in the moonlight. He raised them as in supplication to the orb, its light bathing his mottled skin in yellow light. He was the reason old women whispered stories in the night, he was the reason the Danes had thick doors and heavy iron locks.

            Each of his eight thin fingers displayed a scythe like claw which were known to make the hardest of warriors shake in their hauberks. The rusted red of each claw stretched out toward the stars. The moonlight reveals the fungal moss on his mottled skin covered with warts and moles like studs on an archaic suit of dusky leather armor. With a grunt he strides forward from the water, his powerful legs similar to his long arms clad in the skins of previous victims. The skins trail water showing flashes of scale, fun and hair. His feet webbed for swimming step from the muck of the marsh water to stand in the soft peat.

            He swung his dreadful locks of ropelike hair around as he scented the air with deep breaths of air. His ears are revealed with each shake of his head, cauliflowered from innumerable fights with the hated north men. A crooked nose, pock marked with cists and scars juts out of his face like a knife. His black eyes shift around it as he peers out into the desolation. His thin slice of a mouth spreads into a mirthless grin that snarls as green fluorescent down his furry chin. His sharp teeth are colored like mold edged like broken glass.

            He drops his arms and looks about into the moor out into the gloom. At first he hesitates at the edge of the dark pool; then with sudden energy, he strides out into the night. This hellish fiend from the darker pits of Hades, holding one malevolent desire, the lust for flesh, human to be precise.

            This cursed monster, this unholy seed of Cain, strode through the fens with nothing on his mind but the cold murder on his mind. He would break into the Hall of Herot, slay these new strangers and feast on their meat. Grendel, the prowler of the fens, revenge foremost in his thoughts as he took longer strides. Little could he know that this would be his last night to kill, to feed. For tonight, Grendel, the terror of the Danes, would play a losing hand against the might of Beowulf if not a losing arm.

claiming this blog

claim token HATS49U6ZJCE

Pursuit

            Cynthia often what she looked like at full gallop in the park, her horse thundered across the grass beneath her. She and Simmons were in hot pursuit dodging around benches and fence posts. The perp was sprinting on foot for the tree-line in hopes of losing them in the wooded thicket. She listened to the drumming of the hooves on the dirt pathways broken into staccato of the concrete walks. The song of pursuit sung in her veins like liquid electricity. She imagined her hair flying around her head instead of being pulled back tightly under her cap.

            The pair charged around the new art school statue skidding on the loose rock as the perp scrambled into the wood thicket. She was amazed that the guy was still ahead of them. He should have been winded after that sprint across the green, but he hardly slowed as he wove into the thicket. She looked over to Simmons as they pulled their horses up to a stop in front of the thicket.

            “He’s going for the boat dock.” Simmons said over his shoulder.

            “Right- you go to the right around the storage facility, I will go round the other way, and we should be able to take him at the pass!” Simmons’s eyebrows went up at that.

            “At the pass?”

            “I meant cut him off before he can get away.” Simmons just shook his head as he wheeled his horse to the right.

            “Be careful, partner.” He drawled. “Don’t get your self shot by them cowboys!”

            “Simmons.”

Cynthia stopped speaking to grin and then sped her horse off to the left of the thicket. She glanced back into the thick of the trees catching a flash of the white shirt the perp was wearing as he dodged clumsily around trees. He was racing like a man stumbling drunk from the bar. As she rounded the thicket, the perp burst out of the tree-line and raced down the final slope towards the lake and boat dock. She rode into his wake, her horse running flat out, its eyes goggling, nostrils flared wide, steaming breath puffing out like a train.

Cynthia was on him and suddenly he cut left hard as she raced over the spot he had just been.  She pulled her horse into a wide u-turn, catching sight of Simmons pulling in front of the zigzagging runner at the boat dock. She crouches up into her saddle jockey style to gain speed. They close their net and it looks as if Simmons has him when the running man does a baseball power slide under his horse and survives. The runner scrambles to his feet and hurries on leaving Simmons stunned and looking at the ground. Cynthia dodges around him yelling incoherently.

The perp runs on but his speed is failing, he stumbles then sprawls down on his face but scrambles back up almost immediately. Simmons catches up to Cynthia as she slows her horse to a fast canter after the perp. He looks pissed and embarrassed.

“If you ever tell-“he begins.

“-I won’t describe the dumb look of disbelief on your face.” She finishes for him

“I will personally kick you of the Nag you are riding.”

“Where do you think he’s planning to go now?”

“I hope he won’t, I don’t feel like swimming.”

Then the both of them see the girl in the boat along with the perp. The perp starts yelling after the woman.

“Dammit.” Cynthia cusses.

The perp runs, skips like a long jumper and throws himself off the dock into the air towards the boat. The girl screams and covers her head. He almost makes it, at least his feet does, but the rest of his body- knees and up- does not. His butt hits the water with a flat wallop arms flailing as he goes under.

Cynthia pulls her horse up as the laughter bubbles up in her throat. Simmons joins her after a bit. The girl keeps on screaming until Simmons gathers himself together long enough to punch Cynthia on the shoulder. She almost falls out of the saddle. He jumps down from his horse and jogs along the dock as the perp surfaces in a panic.

Cynthia sighs and drops to the ground then strolls stiffly up the dock to join Simmons who is reassuring the fraught teenager to calm her down. Finally after some coxing the girl manages to from a line of rope from the boat to Simmons while Cynthia keeps an eye on the perp who is now clutching the side of the boat. Simmons pulls the boat to the dock and receives an instant armful of the blonde and scantily clad girl as she clambers in to his arms. He is both shocked and pleased and grins over the girl’s shoulder showing the white of his perfect teeth.

Cynthia glares at him and chuckles as she reaches down to haul the perp up out of the water and dump him on the dock. He lies there in total submission, bruised and looking like a wet sock. His sweats clinging to his skinning and boney body as he continues to gulp for air shivering. Swimming in late fall is not necessarily a good idea in New York.

“You should never run or swim away from the mounted police.” Cynthia states with a grin.

Sharkie

My favorite toy is my stuffed animal Sharkie.

Sharkie is grey and white; he is a sharks and very, very good at cards. I can make him eat all the players who win against him at cards. Sharkie and I play poker with red and white and blue and green poker chips. When we play poker we win a lot of blue ones. Sharkie sleeps with me, he is flat so he doesn’t make lumps in the bed like Cookie Monster or Brown Froggy and he is small and keeps me away from the Dark things in the closet. Sharkie is coolest and friends with Squirely. They race together and crash and stuff. They wear sunglasses, Sharkie’s fits better.

I take Sharkie to the store with me but Mommy won’t let me take him out of the car. Mommy says he’s to fer- fero- fer-row-shus! And that he will scare the willy-nilly out of anyone, but I know that it’s because he’s dirty and has a hole in his mouth. I told Mommy that Mommy should sew him up and Mommy did and washed him and now he is white.

Sharkie is my friend, we never fight and he never really bites me- not like my nephew Jamie. I hit Jamie and he cries to Mommy and Mommy makes me sit in my room and I hold Sharkie to me and say that I won’ cry.

Mommy won let me take Sharkie to school with me or any of my toys because the boys are bad and we fight a lots, and Daddy gets mad and says to Mommy that Michael is telling one of his kicked in the teeth stories again. Mommy tells Daddy to stop being silly.

I wish that Sharkie could bite boys and Jamie on his own then Daddy would have to be mad with Sharkie. Sharkie has taught me very- very good and I can bite back.

And I bit this boy at school today, Jimmy Ray he said that his Papaw died in a train wreck and I says he is a liar cause he says his Papaw died in a car wreck last week and he pushed me and I fell down. I didn’t cry, no I screamed “Jimmy Ray you done made me mad and I is gonna shit beat you.” And I jumped on him and he hit me in the tummy and then I bit him on his arm and he cried and cried. Missus Mabritt came and drug us over to the prin-prince-sip-pal’s room and she was very mad and said that I would have to doc- doc- fix Jimmy Ray’s arm and I had to put this water stuff in a brown bottle on Jimmy Ray and he cry more, then put a band-aid on. I says “I am sorry that I bit you Jimmy Ray, but he just cry and try to run away until Missus Thapper make him say he sorry too.

I sees my teeth marks on his arm and I says “I bite like Sharkie.” And Missus Thapper calls my Mommy and makes me stay in the bad room until Mommy comes to take me home. Then she makes me sit in my room with Sharkie until Daddy comes home. Mommy makes me and Sharkie soup and crackers. Mommy don’t tell Daddy and Sharkie and me are very- very good for Mommy

D&D Late Night

“Get the hell out. Get the hell out- that’s what my character screams as he runs back down the passage.”

                “Kuf races down the passage?” I say this to Quiz- Kuf is his character.

                “Yes, and he screams that to the others who are with me.” Quiz grins, his twenty-sided die in his hand.

                “Okay.” I look from Quiz to Chris; he is picking up his dice.

“So, what does Alucard do?”

                “I run like hell.” Chris says, as he rolls his die twenty on the table. The red die rolls across the table to stopping on thirteen.

                “Alucard not only runs like hell, but he passes Kcuf on the way out.” Alucard is Chris’s favorite character.

                Quiz throws his blue die twenty, it lands on twelve, and he leans back spreading his hands.

 “I’m right on his heels, Mark.”

                That’s me, I’m the Dungeon Master.

Another die twenty rolls across the table from my left. The green die settles on fourteen. Pope leans forward to squint at the number. Then he looks up at me and says. “My character, Talisin casts his teleport spell and then he and Kurgan whisk away to the great wide open spaces.”

                “Cool.” Steve, who plays Kurgan, says, “We’re outta’ there.”

                “The passage fills with a wave of liquid fire. What do you do Rob?” I look at him.             “Where’s Malac?”  Chris asks.

                “He’s not there.”

                “Damn NPC.” He sighs.

                “Rob?”

                We all look to Rob, he sits in the second to last spot in our corral of couches, and he rolls his die.

“Oh my.”

He has rolled a one.

“Linoleum Desk, the fearless Ranger, looks into the mouth of Hell and says-- oh my.”

He picks up his pencil and leans towards his player sheet, eraser ready.

                “Is Burt back from the can yet?”

                “No, but I’ll roll for him.”

Rob says reaching for his die twenty and rolls.

“Castigar is the wind-“

A fifteen.

“unlike Burt.”

We laugh; Burt is the slowest guy we know.

                “Anyway, the passage fills with fire as the dragons unleashes his breath weapon and toasts Desk-- as he fails to react in time to avoid the blast. Alucard, Kcuf, and Burt’s fighter run out of the dungeon passage just seconds in front of the wave of fire, which billows forth from the dungeon entrance as they jump and dive for cover.”

“Woah, cool.”

Burt has returned to his seat. He sits down with a thump like he was a sack of potatoes thrown onto the couch. There is a tile pattern pressed into his right cheek and the shadow of a bruise forming on his forehead.

“Musta’ passed out in the can.”

                “Linoleum?” Rob inquires, pencil ready in his hand.

                “No tile” I say staring at the pattern on Burt’s face.

                “No Linoleum Desk-- the smoking Ranger.”

“Whoops.”

I grab six die six and roll them with both hands. I count them.

“Twenty four.”

                “Ouch” Rob replies and his eraser goes to work on his character sheet.

                We wait.

                “Linoleum Desk, the Ranger from the North wood, walks—no, staggers out into the light, burnt and blackened but nevertheless alive.”

                We cheer; toasts are made to Rob’s ranger’s longevity.

                Dungeons and Dragons late night at the Student Center every Saturday since I came to Brevard College. Drinking Mad Dog twenty-twenty and Jack Daniel’s mixed with Food City Cola and playing the semi-sober, semi-serious game into the early hours of the morning. We could have been doing something else but in northwestern North Carolina, there was little to do after the sun went down. So every Saturday night, we gathered at the center to play, armed with our books and player sheets, dice and drinks. The group chased off any straggling students occupying the second floor and set up camp. From our couch encampment we commanded a clear view of the center so we could see “Barney Fife”- the campus cop before he could see us.

                Every campus that I have ever been on has a “Barney Fife” character on it. “Barney” whose real name was Eddie Bowers was a skinny man who was thought to be anorexic until some girl went to pieces at a student gathering, declaring that only women could be anorexic. Anyway, “Barney” would patrol around the campus the same way that Don Knotts did in Mayberry. “Barney” was so cock-sure that he was a good cop that he would brag to the students about his exploits as the campus cop and all the students he had busted. He was a sight to see, wearing his over large ball cap, a radio slung on each hip like a gunfighter.  One of the radios was the four hundred-megahertz that was used for the campus, a rectangular block on his right hip about the same dimensions of a brick. The other radio was the police scanner for monitoring what the police were doing; it was slung on his left hip with a CB attachment clipped to his left shoulder. The scanner was long like a two by four. The radios would swing with his hips, as he would strut about exercising his authority.

                In he came, radios swinging right up to the couch edge. He stopped there and took a deep sniff, crossed his arms and said.

                “You boys been drinking?”

                “No sir.” I answered, trying to appear as sober as possible. It usually fell to the Dungeon Master to fend off Eddie.

                Then Quiz offered him a drink from his three-liter cola-bottle laced with MD 20/20. “We’re just drinking some coke, Eddie.”

                At this Eddie frowned. No one ever calls Eddie “Barney,” to his face, except for the foreign exchanges students who actually thought it was his name.

                “Want a drink?” Quiz said, still holding up the bottle to Eddie. All eyes shift from Eddie to Quiz. Chris mouths out-- Are you crazy-- to Quiz, who shrugs. Eddie stands there in silence staring at the bottle, his mouth moving like he was chewing curd. Then his police scanner squawks and he leans his head down to the CB on his shoulder, listening. He nods and smiles pretending to know about what the other local cops are talking about on the radio. There are only six other cops in Brevard and they all have agreed that Eddie is a necessary evil. Eddie thinks that this means that they like him. Eddie steps back and palms a can of Skoal from his back pocket. Then with the move of a practiced professional, he snaps the lid twice with his fingernail. Click, click and pops the top off with only one hand. He takes a wad of Skoal in the other hand and feeds his lower lip. He then shifts the wad to a comfortable bulge against his jaw and spits accurately into the trash can some five feet away. “Gotta’ go.” He said, as he spins on his heel and marched off for the stairs, radios banging against each hip.

                “You’re nuts Quiz.” Chris says.

                “No sense of smell, no sense of taste.” Quiz states this with the ease of a pro

                “What?” Rob says with the same surprise we all feel.

                “Barney’s got no sense of taste or smell.” He says again, with a wicked grin.

                “How do you know that?” I say, eyebrow raised.

                “Local word is that he accidentally drank some formaldehyde when he was a mortician.”

                “No shit?” Rob snorts a laugh coming on.

                “No shit.” Quiz grins exposing yellowed teeth, he looks maniacal.

                “Hmm-- so Barney’s a mortician.” I state, filing that info away for later use.

                “Correction-- was a mortician.”

                “Oh.”

                                We sit in one corner of the student lounge on the second floor, couches gathered in formation around the dice table, actually a coffee table that has many different kinds of dice strewn about and in between the D&D sheets, cups and bottles. Dungeon and Dragon dice are basically geometric solids turned into playable versions like the traditional six-sided game dice. On the table there are twenty-sided, twelve-sided, ten-sided also called percentile because when you roll them together you can combine them from one to hundred. There are also eight-sided, the traditional six-sided and four-sided. They have geometric names but are usually referred to as die six or six sided.

                “The Dragon emerges from the mouth of the corridor, what do you do?” I drawl out over my cup.

Quiz shrugs, his black unkempt hair falling over his eyes; he blows smoke through his nose, waves his Swisher-sweet cigar with one hand and grabs his dice with the other.

                “I fuckin’ kill him.”

                “With?” I counter.

                “With, with--“ He sticks the cigar back in his mouth and grabs his character sheet from the table, stares at it a moment then-- “with my mace.” He rolls his dice, one of them die twenty skips off the table. “I missed him Mark. Nuts.”

                “Chris?”

                Chris drops the can of beer he’s been rolling around in his hands, and picks up his dice. He rolls. “Oh yes- he’s toast.”

Quiz and Chris do a high-five.

“Oh?” I inquire, still skeptic as to the power of his Wizard-Necromancer-Assassin.

Chris grins. “Fireball.”

“Burn baby!” Quiz and Pope say in unison.

“Area of effect?”

“Forty-foot sphere.” Chris says.

I roll my own die for the dragon’s saving throw versus the spell.

“The dragon saves- taking only half-damage from your fire-ball.”

“Damn.” Chris gathers up two handfuls of six-sided dice, shakes them and throws them on the table. They tumble end over end. Rob leans forward and begins to count the numbers, sliding the spent dice to the left. He looks up and says.

“Forty-six. Forty-six divided by two is--“ Rob says. His hands move as if he had a calculator there. “Twenty-three, twenty-three points of damage to the dragon.”

“The dragon shrugs it off.” I make a note on my own sheet.

“Nuts.” Rob says then grimaces and reaches for his dice bag.

“Hey guys.” Robin says as she walks up. I can see by her general demeanor that something is very wrong.

“The Halfling party-bitch has arrived.” Quiz announces and gestures to the space next to him on the couch.

Robin doesn’t move; her hair is a mess, not done up like before the game for her date tonight. She often dumps us to go out on dates, playing infrequently because she wants, as she puts it, a life with the real world. But tonight it looks like the world has caught up with our only female member. Her blouse is ripped open with three to four buttons missing. Her strawberry red hair is tangled in knots and in her face-half-masking the swollen lip and light shadow of a bruise above her right cheek bone. Her left arm is showing purplish marks on her skin.

“Shit.” Chris says, and rises to his feet.

I jump the table, almost making it but my foot catches Steve’s cup knocking it off and booze splashes the sidearm of Quiz’s couch. I stop and turn apologetically to Steve but he waves me off. I turn back to Robin; Chris has his arm around her. He supports her weight as he helps her over to the couch.  He helps her to sit down.

“What happened?” Chris asks.

“Are you okay?” Pope adds.

“Who did this to you?” Quiz hisses between clenched teeth.

“Man, somebody fucked you up.” Burt says. We all look at him- he is drunk. Quiz shrugs.

“Let her answer.” I say.

She looks at Quiz, then Chris, then me. “I-- I think I just got raped.” Her eyes are full of tears.

“Burt, get some ice.” I say without taking my eyes from hers.

Burt looks in the cooler stashed behind his couch. “No more ice.”

“Okay, go get her a coke.”

“We got coke.”

“Out of the machine, Burt.” I yell.

“Why?”

“Because it will be cold.” Chris says and moves towards him. Burt gets up and leaves.

“Who did this?” Quiz, his skin turning dark as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

Robin looks at him; her eyes are still unfocused from the tears. They were lovers once, one of the myriad D & D relationships that seldom survive.

“No.” she finally says

“What do ya’ mean no!” He jumps to his feet, waving his hands.

                “I won’t tell you.”

                “Why not?” Quiz rages.

                “You want to kill him?” Robin glares at Quiz.

                “Hell, yes.” His normally slited eyes are wide and his face flushed with barely contained fury

                “Why?”

                “What?” Quiz stops waving his arms and looks down at her.

                “Why do you want to kill him?”

                “Because--“ He raises his arms, he scowls then drops his arms.

                “Because why, Quiz.” Robin crosses her arms as she looks up at him.

                “Because-- ah to Hell with it. I’ll find out who he is.” He turns back towards his couch.

                “No you won’t Quiz.” She replies.

                “I won’t?” Quiz says. “Like Hell, I won’t.”

                “We’re over, Quiz. I am not your girlfriend anymore.” The bruise is turning yellow.

                “Dammit Robin, don’t do this.”

                “No Quiz.” She says again.

“God-dammit Robin, God-dammit.” Quiz looks at her then at the rest of us.

I sit there not wanting to get involved. I brace for him to attack her or throw something, he doesn’t. Instead he lowers his arms and looks at her one more time before grabbing his coat and marching away. The door on the ground floor slams. Robin winces.

                “I better go see if he is going to be okay.” Pope says, Steve gets up and they both exit. I look over to Chris; he nods and gets up.

                “I’ll go see what’s keeping Burt.”

                “Thanks.” Robin says as she touches his hand.

                “I’ll help you find him.” Rob adds, and leaves with Chris.

                Robin and I are left alone in the corner of couches; she reaches up and takes hold of my arm pulling me down to sit by her on the couch. I look at her, words escaping me. I can find no worthwhile things to say. She trembles, her shoulders hunching forward. I reach out to embrace her. I am awkward, clumsily I reach around her, trying to be careful-- to be gentle. She ignores my fumbling and presses her faces against my chest; her arms still crossed in front of her. I hold her and begin to rock as if I were cradling a hurt child. She cries into my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut but tears escaping. My skin is wet under my shirt. Her sobs catch in her throat-- a hoarse, whispering scream.  After awhile, her sobs subside and she puts her arms around me as well. She turns her head on my shoulder.

                “I got your shirt wet,” She mumbles, almost inaudible.

                “It’ll dry.”

She brings her arms back to her and cradles them against her breasts. I began to unfold my own embrace, but she stops me. I remain as I am, holding her with every substance of strength I have as if it would be enough to heal her hurt. I know it will not, but I hope that at least she will know that I want to.

Chris returns with the coke and some damp paper towels. He stands in front of us and wraps the coke with the towels, then places it on her bruised face. She uses her left hand to keep it there.

“The guys and I are going to make a food run, you two want anything.” He says.

Robin is silent. I look down at her to find her looking up at me.

“Some ice, a small bottle of Jack, some aspirin- no Advil, and some chips.” I say. “And some Kleenexes.” I know where they are going. Robin nods and tries to smile but winces as the split in her lower lip appears.

“So, I’ll see you later?” he says.

Now I know that he knows who Robin went out with tonight. From the look he gives me he knows that I know who Robin’s date was as well. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you later, drive carefully.” I lie. Chris leaves.

We are alone again.

“Thanks Mark. You’re a good liar.” She says as she cradle the coke against her face.

“Lots of practice.”

“I guess it would have been pointless to argue.”

“Yes, with Chris it would be- harder anyway than with Quiz.”

“Chris?” She lays her head in the cradle of my arm, still in my embrace.

“Chris, Quiz, all of them need rules to live by.” I pause for a moment as the weight of what I am about to say dawns on me. “Owen, that poor bastard, just broke one of our most sacred.”

“But Mark-- there aren’t really any rules.”

“I know that, you know that; hell- even Chris knows that.”

“Then why?”

“Chris says there ought to be.”

“Oh.”

“I do too.”

Men and Dogs

“Men are Dogs!” she said with a sneer as I look up

“Men are dogs” she said again and I agreed.

“But you’re a man?” she replied.

Thank you I said, I have really tried.

“So you are saying that you are a dog.” disbelief masking her face.

No. rather we- that is men are like dogs. We like to sleep all day, we like to hunt, we like to beg, we like to play, and we want the attention.

“Oh come on!” she said with a smile.

No really, most of us are just in denial. We love to have our backs scratched, and we love to be petted, why we go to great lengths for a good petting.

“Petting?” she said her brow furrows.

Like this I said and patted her hand, then ran my fingers up her arm to her neck.

“Down boy.” She declared, her eyes narrowing to slits.

We bark at the moon and chase cars and women. We love to get crazy, hoping and howling, always trying to be the loudest dog on the block.

“I think you are exaggerating somewhat.” She frowned

No, I say, men are in most ways like dogs. We like to eat- mostly beef and we even will perform for some kind of treat. We like to run in the pack or go as lone wolves.

“Now I can see that.” She said with a grin. “Men have this unspoken bond that is- instinctual- when faced with a problem or a girl friend.”

Ouch I said, Men may seem that they don’t care or become unpleasant when facing adversity, we just see that there is strength in numbers and thus problems can be thus avoided as are girlfriends…

“Is that all men and dogs are?” her sneer came creeping into her smile.

Seeing the peril I changed my attack and said, We love to be loved and hugged, we loved to be fed and housed. But at the same time we want to be kept, we want freedom and desire to run loose but still have a warm bed to return to.

“Oho, you have been exposed, men and dogs sleep around, are unruly and untrustworthy- and-“ She would have continued, but I help up my hand.

Would you let me finish?

“Okay.”  Triumph beginning on her face.

“We are loyal and protective. We want someone to watch over- we will stick around as long as you will let us and..

“And?” She said, eyebrow arching.

We make the best friends.

“Like you?” she sighed, smiling again.

Like me and good old Blue.