Madness Ascending by Nancy Pogue LaTurner

Miranda slumped against the down pillow as she felt a hole widen in her chest. The last rays of brightness in her essence trickled out, evaporated, and left a dry, bruised Miranda-shell to blow away in the next strong breeze.

Over, she thought. It's over. It's done. I'm done. I might as well not exist. I have no reason and no energy to go on living. If I lie down flat, I will melt into the comforter and seep through the mattress, filter through the bed frame, dribble into the carpet and become a stain on the concrete below.

No solution to her dilemma existed. No known tonic or elixir could revive her flagging life force. Miranda recognized the cloud of doom that oozed around her and held her will-less like a burial shroud. She lay still, exquisitely aware of the melting of her bones, the emptiness of the gap where her heart once was, the liquefaction of her gray matter, the desperation of her soulless state.

Nothing mattered since Jack's death. Better dead than between the loathsome thighs of that disgusting bitch, she told herself as sparkling shards of flashbacks pierced the putrefied remnants of her memory. Mental images of the filthy slut who held Jack prisoner in a marriage of inconvenience flashed in neon bursts of garish blood-spatter.

Miranda knew too well the seductive comfort of that whore's thighs -- hadn't she slid down the self-same channel only thirty-five years before? Too bad for Jack that his tramp was too retarded to recognize Miranda as her replacement rather than her product. Talk about slow. Jack's thick oblivion kept him in the dark right to the very end. He died without catching on to the fact that Miranda could no longer allow him to have them both.

It didn't vex Miranda that the harlot still lived. That was the whole point of slashing Jack -- to make the witch suffer. Miranda didn't need to witness the pain to know its magnitude. She understood agony well enough to enjoy it telepathically. The loss of Jack would turn the rest of the widow's life into a hell with more circles of suffering than Dante's Inferno. Miranda smiled, sighed, and squirmed with pleasure.

A rude itch in a recently neglected spot agitated Miranda. Maybe she did have a reason to go on after all. Two reasons, actually. Arlo and Zeke, her twin boys. Arlo, dark and nervy, eager apprentice in Miranda's car title loan business. Zeke, a replica of the young Jack from twenty years ago, wired tight with a lust for power, bound for a future in politics. She lit a match, inhaled the brimstone sulfur fumes, and drew a lungful of narcotic smoke.

Miranda envisioned herself, wrists bound together and lashed to the brass head-rail with a red silk scarf. Her back arched as details of the fantasy made her a slave to the adoration of her son-brothers. Internal heat ignited the rise of another cycle in her inextricable madness.

A Halloween Story By Nancy Pogue LaTurner

FUELING AN INVASION

The clanging slam of our iron gate announced the arrival of someone in a hurry.  Dakota, my nine-year-old son, scuttled crab-like down the garden path toward me.

"What's up, Bub?"  One look at his odd posture told me that something had to be wrong.  His back bent and twisted; the upper half of his body was hidden from my view.  I tried to imagine what had happened in the thirty minutes that passed since he went to his friend's house to make Halloween costumes.

"Me and Tony got a big problem, Mom.  Ya hafta help us."  Dakota's husky voice trembled.

I took both his hands and turned him to face me.  Then I saw what he had tried to conceal:  his bright orange American School Mogadishu tee shirt was blotched with black spatters.

"Whoa, that looks like tar to me.  What have you guys been doing?  And where is Tony?  He didn't get burned, did he?  Quickly now, tell me."  Dakota flinched and I realized that my grip on his hands had tightened.

"Tony's O.K.  He's O.K.  Really.  He's waiting outside the gate.  It's just…he…well…uh…  We were throwing rocks into this big puddle of tar by Tony's driveway and…uh…Tony threw this really big one and…uh…  I'm gonna go get him and you can see for yourself."

A tearful grimace replaced Tony's usual naughty-boy grin.  He flapped his hands at the enormous black blobs covering the front of his polo shirt.

"Mom is gonna k-k-k-kill me!  I-wasn't-supposed-to-wear-this-shirt-today-it's new-special-for-my-first-day-at-boarding-school-back-in-the-States-and-Mom-will-tell-Dad-what-I did-oh-God-I-wish-I-could-just-die-now-can-you-please-help-me-Mrs.-LaTurner-please!"  He ran out of breath – and words.

"Tony, I am so sorry about your new shirt.  Come here, sit down, and let's decide what to do."  Poor Tony.  Trouble ruled his life.  As School Counselor, I knew details.  Empathy urged me to help him in any way I could.

"OK.  How about this:  Dakota can loan you a shirt to wear while I try to get rid of the tar.  If I'm successful, then there's no more problem and we three can keep this whole thing a secret.  If I can't make your shirt look like new again, Dakota and I will go with you to break the news to your Mom and Dad, and I will offer to replace the shirt.  Does that sound all right to you?"

Tony nodded and the tension in his shoulders eased.  I sent the boys to Dakota's room for clean shirts and asked them to play there while I attacked the tarry mess.

Where would I find a powerful solvent?  Mogadishu had no supermarkets, no hardware stores, no convenience stores.  A search of our storeroom produced nothing better than laundry detergent.  That would not cut it.  I glanced around the yard and noticed the fuel tank next to our emergency generator.  "Daily generator" would have been a better name, due to the frequency and length of power outages, but "emergency generator" was what everybody called it.  Probably wishful thinking.

Diesel fuel should work, shouldn't it?  It's worth a try, I thought.

With rubber gloves, an old coffee can full of diesel, and a box of Tide, I headed for the bathroom sink.  Full-strength diesel fuel stinks.  Mightily.  It also dissolves tar.  Completely.  Now I had stain-free shirts that smelled like a fuel-dump.  So I filled the basin with hot water and swished the Tide around to make suds.  In went the shirts.  I squeezed and pummeled and squeezed some more, hoping the Tide would eliminate the nasty odor.  Then I pulled the plug to drain the wash water.  As I reached for the tap to begin rinsing, I felt a tickle on my bare foot.  My foot flicked a reflexive kick and I looked down.

Damn cockroach!  Even if I could catch up with it, I wasn't about to stomp it with my bare feet.  Normally I try to live in peace with all of Earth's creatures.  In fact, before we moved in, I had declined the Embassy's offer to spray our house for insects.  But cockroaches push me over the edge.  The varmint scuttled out of sight; I shuddered and turned back to the basin to rinse the shirts.

Horror.  The surface of the sink undulated with movement.  Cockroaches swarmed up out of the drain.  They crawled over the shirts by the dozen and more followed.  I lurched backward, groping for the door handle.  Looking down again, I saw cockroaches everywhere.  Hundreds of cockroaches scurried in all directions.  They covered the bottom of the bathtub.  They scrambled across the tiles.  Brown ones, black ones, big ones, small ones, hideous tiny white ones.  They came from every crack and crevice.  They came out from the base of the toilet where those little covers conceal bolts attaching the toilet to the floor.  How could they fit through there? God help me; let me wake up from this nightmare.

I ran out as if pursued and grabbed the Embassy communications network radio.

"Eagle One, Eagle One, this is Eagle Twenty, over!"

"This is Eagle One.  Go, Eagle Twenty."

The Marine Security Guard who took the call teased me later about the jumble of words that hit his ear that day, but I don't remember being hysterical.  Help came right away.  A crew of workers sprayed the house inside and out, flushed the drains, and removed all traces of the disaster.

Although the diesel smell never left Tony's new shirt, his parents accepted the fact with uncharacteristic calm.  Happy to be out of trouble, the boys got busy with their costumes and finished in time for the school party that evening.  Halloween wasn't as much fun for me; I couldn't stop thinking about the cockroach invasion.  And I couldn't shake that creepy sensation that something was crawling up my back. ###

NOT THE SAME By Nancy Pogue LaTurner

She craved attention. People noticed her when she ran. Corkscrew curls bounced and spilled over the white visor she wore to shield her face from the brilliant New Mexico sun. The other runners wore baseball caps, but she preferred the visor because it didn’t crush her curls. She almost pranced, especially if there were spectators along the course. There were always spectators at the finish. Every 5K race ended the same way for her. About 50 yards from the finish line, she pitched her visor to one side and her sunglasses to the other, took a deep, chest-expanding breath, and sprinted to the finish line. She kept up the pace all the way down the finishers’ chute and collapsed into the grass beyond, throwing up, causing concern among bystanders, and getting more attention.

Running wasn’t her only route into the limelight, just one she had taken up recently at age 75. As far back as anyone could remember she had always dressed to attract attention. Her fashion ideas often came from the Nieman Marcus catalog, but she had her own unique flair for color. Pumpkin orange with grape purple. Sun yellow with turquoise blue. For years her born-brown hair was movie-star blonde, her lipstick and nails flame red. At 5’2” inches, 98 lbs., she personified petite, perky, cute, sexy. Her sons’ friends ogled her. Her husband’s friends made passes.

No one expected her to be serious or sensible. Everyone expected her to be lively and fun. She fulfilled every expectation and continued to do so until round about age 82. She could still run, but arthritic pain in her shoulders started to limit her other activities. The orthopedist recommended shoulder replacement, one shoulder at a time with a period of healing and rehab between.

“Will surgery take away my pain?” she said.

“Most definitely. You can also regain most of your range of motion, if you do all of the physical therapy exercises after surgery.”  The doctor repeated his emphasis on the importance of post-op therapy.

Her cardiologist gave his approval for the surgery. He had been monitoring a leak in her mitral valve, but the heart abnormality had not affected her running and he said he considered it no serious impediment to surgery.

The operation went well. The orthopedist raved about the perfect fit of the new ball joint. Her wound healed rapidly. There was one problem:  she couldn’t manage the physical therapy routine. She did as much as she could while still in the hospital, but once discharged, she let it slide. Her son started coming daily to help her. She complained it hurt too much. Each of her five children coaxed, wheedled, encouraged, begged, or nagged. Nothing worked. Whether at the outpatient clinic or at home, she did the minimum exercise and no more. She lived with pain and tightness.

A few weeks later, she felt a new kind of tightness, this time in her chest. It was a heart attack. Her cardiologist arranged emergency transport to the regional heart hospital for an urgent valve replacement. Her children rallied around her. She basked in their loving concern.

After the open-heart surgery she went to her oldest son’s home to recuperate. She didn’t seem to be herself. She acted confused, disoriented. She had no short-term memory at all. Her son hired a woman to stay with her while he and his wife went to work.

Over the next several weeks, she improved enough to want to return to her own home. She gave up physical therapy for her shoulder because the incision from the heart surgery bothered her too much. The replaced shoulder tightened. The other shoulder grew more painful. She couldn’t raise her arms above shoulder-height. She stopped going to her exercise class because she couldn’t get up from the floor without assistance. She asked one daughter for a Life-Alert system, but she couldn't remember to wear it. Another daughter gave her a cell-phone, but she couldn’t learn to use it. She complained of gaining weight. Her diet went from pre-surgery organic vegetarian to post-surgery bacon and chocolate cake. Running, walking, and exercising disappeared from her vocabulary. She stopped seeing her friends. She didn’t return their calls.

Over the next several months, she had to give up driving, move to a retirement home, move again to assisted living, and finally ended up in a nursing facility. She couldn't remember how to dress herself. She couldn't remember the way to the bathroom or the reasons for going there. She lost the concept of time.

The vibrant, bouncy, colorful personality had faded to a shuffling, fearful, vague shadow. Was this the penultimate metamorphosis, the essence of the creature gone, yet still alive, leaving only a fragile, brittle shell? Mother was not the same person anymore; her children struggled to accept the fact that she would never be the same again. Each one had to blink, swallow, and try not to look twenty years forward into his own future. ***

BULLY by Nancy Pogue LaTurner

Zack stood alone in the hallway next to the door marked Homeroom – Grade 8, Section C. He stared at the note clutched in his hand. His fingers made damp prints on the paper.

“Zachary Jarvis: Report to Principal Gordon’s office immediately.”

The school secretary’s neat handwriting expressed no emotion. The command ended with a somber black dot. An exclamation point might have revealed the level of trouble Zack had to face, but a plain period gave nothing away. The word “immediately” suggested it was something he shouldn't ignore. Zack crumpled the note, then smoothed it out for another look.

This was not his first summons to the principal’s office, but he hadn’t been called there for at least six weeks. His last trip down the long hall to Administration happened just before the New Deal. That’s what they called the school’s new zero-tolerance policy.

On that day six weeks ago, Principal Gordon placed his large, fleshy hands flat on the big wooden desk and gave Zack “The Look.”

“Well, Zack, this is the situation: the School Board has ratified a new program. I will make a general announcement at Assembly later this morning, but I called you in early because there are a few details that pertain to you specifically due to the fact that you have been disciplined more than ten times this year for bullying.

Principal Gordon glared at Zack as he continued his rant, pausing at the end of each statement as if he were reading from a bulleted list. "As of today, you are placed on probation. One more offense and you will be expelled. I have sent a letter to your parents stating the terms of your probation. Your activities at school will be closely monitored. The North Wing, where Curtis Taylor’s locker is located, is absolutely off limits. You are forbidden to have any contact whatsoever with Curtis."

Zack rolled his eyes and waited for the principal to finish. "Do you understand? Do you have any questions?”

Zack had plenty of questions, but none he could ask the principal. First off, he wondered what he would do at the video arcade without the cash he boosted from Curtis and the other wimps every week. And what were he and his buddies going to do for laughs if they couldn’t push the nerds around between classes?

It was hilarious, the way the wimps and nerds just begged for Zack and the guys to have their way with them. Curtis was Zack’s personal fave. God, that kid was a basket case. Zack took his lunch money, like, all the time, easy pickings. He lost count of the number of times he tripped Curtis in the hall, making him fall flat with his books and stuff skidding across the slick waxed floor. Curtis cringed if Zack even looked at him. The funniest was the day he snagged Curtis’ chocolate milk and poured it all down the front of his yellow sweatshirt. Curtis actually cried that time. Thirteen years old and crying over spilled milk. What a dweeb.

Shoot, that was the old deal. The New Deal sucked, if you asked him. Deal or no deal, he was stuck with the big question: How could he stay out of Dad’s way for a few days? If he faked a stomachache and made himself throw up, he’d have Mom on his side, and he could hide out in his room until Dad’s rage blew over. Hey, if he was lucky, maybe the whole New Deal would blow over.

In the here and now though, six weeks later, in spite of the ominous office summons, he felt super lucky; even though nothing had blown over at all, and actually things had gotten damned intense for a while. It turned out that one of the terms of his probation was family therapy. It was weird at first. The therapist came to their house once a week and the whole family had to be there, Zack, Mom, Dad, eleven-year-old Matthew and five-year-old Hannah. That wasn’t all. Once a week he and Dad went to Anger Management Class. They had never done anything together before, just the two of them. It felt good. Zack enjoyed the drive over and back. He and Dad didn’t talk much, but they listened to some music and it just felt solid to be quiet together.

They didn’t miss a single therapy session or anger management class for six weeks. Zack liked the therapist. For one thing she was a hottie. Long, black wavy hair. Big boobs. Nice smile full of white shiny teeth. She talked directly to him, looked him in the eye. She listened to what he said, treated him like a serious person, made him feel in charge of himself. His parents followed her lead. They started treating him like he was worth something; they noticed when he did stuff right for a change.

Those six weeks glided by. Zack didn’t have time to miss the guys; maybe he was tempted a couple of times to text 'em, but didn’t want to pay the price if he got busted. He kind of missed messing with Curtis, but he didn’t cross that line either. His schoolwork even improved; that was, like, a miracle, you know?

With everything going so good, what could today's note from the principal’s office be about? Always before, Zack knew what was up. Some wimp or nerd, probably Curtis, had dropped the dime on him. But this time, Zack didn’t have a clue. Shit, could it be something else? Like Dad and Mom in a car wreck, or Grandpa dead of a heart attack? Zack winced with a sudden cramping surge in his gut. Already standing in front of the school secretary’s desk, he willed the urge away.

“Hello, Zachary. Mr. Gordon asked me to take you to his office. He’ll be with you in a few minutes. Just have a seat over there by the window. You won’t have to wait long.”

The secretary closed the door as she left the room. Zack sat in the visitor’s chair. His shoes shuffled on the carpet as his hands banged an impatient beat on the chair arm.

Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up. Let’s get this over with.

A tap on the window got his attention.

Jeez, Curtis, of all people.

Zack waved his arms criss-cross, then jabbed both forefingers in Curtis’ direction. Curtis ignored the signals and knocked on the window again, louder.

Crap. This can only mean trouble.

Curtis tapped once more and motioned for Zack to open the window.

Zack sighed and opened the window. Curtis smiled.

“Hey, Zack. Listen, we don’t have much time and there’s something important I need to tell you.”

“Nah, Curtis, get out of here. I can’t get caught talking to you, I just can’t! Go go go. Get gone. Beat it.”

“Zack, please. Give me a second here, okay? Sit down and listen.”

Zack looked back and forth between Curtis and the door to the office. He shrugged and sat down.

Curtis still smiled.

“Good, thanks, that’s good. Zack, I came to tell you that everything is going to be all right. You don’t have to worry. I will always be your friend. I will be by your side and everything will turn out fine. That’s all. I’m going now. ‘Bye…See you later.”

“Yeah, whatever…see ya.”

That was weird. Curtis comes right up and says he’ll be you’re friend. He’s not scared or cringing. He’s smiling? Totally weird.

Zack shivered and closed the window.

Because of the hedge, he couldn’t see where Curtis went, but at least Curtis was gone. Get caught talking to Curtis – in Principal Gordon’s office – that would be the end of Zack for sure.

The office door opened. Mr. Gordon came in first, holding the door for Zack’s parents and the therapist. Mom hung on Dad’s arm, her eyes all red and teary. Dad crushed his cap in both hands and looked at his feet as if he couldn’t believe they had carried him here to the Principal’s Office. The therapist laid her hand gently on Zack’s shoulder.

“Zack, there is no easy way to say this.”

Zack tilted his head and looked into her eyes.

“Zack, I am so sorry. Your classmate Curtis shot himself this morning. He died instantly.”

Zack shuddered.

“No. No. No. It’s some kind of mistake. Curtis was here. Just now. Really, he talked to me. He stood right there outside the window. He said we'd be friends. He told me everything would be fine. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Everything is going to be okay, right?”

No one spoke.

Zack searched for answers in the four faces surrounding him: stern... solemn and worried... sad and loving... compassionate and encouraging. He reached out for the hands extended toward him.