My attempts at fiction have been languishing on my hard drive. At least here there's a chance they may be seen. They are my own. Who else would lay claim to such mediocre work?
Anyway, I'll post them from time to time. Feel free to comment.
Arthur watched the house from the cooling confines of the old grey van. The front lights in the house he was watching winked out. The routine has remained consistent for the past three weeks. Chester Macinally, the house's occupant, comes home around nine or so; spends two hours doing who knows what behind the walls of his little yellow house on Dorr street then the lights out.
Arthur found the pain in his hands distracting. "Damn arthritis." he said. It's December in Ohio and Winter is making itself known; Its cold grip on the land evidenced by the snow. Filthy mountains of the stuff lay shoved off to the side; pushed there by snow plows making room for what little traffic there was on the street Arthur now occupied.
He's not running the heater which explained and his aged joints screaming in protest. Turning on the heat would mean running the engine and he didn't want the attention. This fact forced him to rely on the mercy of the warming elements in his gloves which were only keeping some of the cold at bay. Of course they didn't do shit for the stiffness and pain everywhere else. Nothing to be done about it.
There was a time he thought, when he would've been home right now having a nice cup of tea or possibly a beer. Marta would've been there. She'd know which he needed most. She'd provided things like that for him, always known just what he needed. It was rare to find someone capable of that; able to give of themselves freely expecting noting in return. She did that. She actually sensed what was needed in a particular moment and provide it.
"Just take the damn thing!' she said shaking her head. "You know as soon as I sit down you're gonna want me to get it for you and i'm gonna say fuck that then so just take it now." she said throwing the remote control in Arthur's lap. She sat her ample frame down beside him. Sweeping a stray blonde strand from her eye she resumed work on her coloring boo. Her pudgy round face so wrapped in concentration she doesn't notice the tip of her tongue poking just out of the corner of her mouth.
" I don't need you tryin to get in my head. Trust me you'd get lost in there. There's too much goin on that's beyond you." Arthur said with a smile. Margaret responded with a piercing look accompanied by a roll of her eyes.
"Why you old ass bastard! If that brain of yours ever had a thought, I mean a real, true thought, one not put in by the tv or your asshole friends it died of loneliness long ago!" she laughed at her zinger.
"Oh yeah? well...shut up!" Arthur laughed.
Arthur pushed those thoughts away. Taking the revolver form between the seat he rested the cold hunk of steel on his lap. The weapon no longer felt foreign. It was heavy but comfortable now in his hand. He Doubted he even blinked anymore when he fired it. His poor eyesight might've been problem, his instructor had suggested a shotgun for someone like him with home protection in mind but Arthur felt he didn't nave the upper body strength for it anymore. The instructor had simply given in and moved the targets closer.
forcing his protesting limbs out of the van Arthur thinks. "Its time now." No more waiting or rethinking. Once in motion he finds he's feeling something similar to excitement instead of the fear he expected. His thoughts were heightened to each movement and all his senses more alive. The crunch of the snow beneath his boos was louder; he imagined he could taste the cold. Thoughts of long dead Margaret suddenly returned. They did more and more lately but he didn't mind. He found them comforting. It'd been Thirty years now and still all he wanted to do was touch her again, to feel her skin connected to his own.
"She probably didn't feel a thing." the young cop said tin an awkward attempt at comfort.
"an oncoming car swerved into her lane. she managed to avoid hi but hit a pole on the other side. I'm so sorry for you loss Mr. Michaels."
He had said nothing. Simply sat down at the dinner table stunned. He felt like he would never be able to breathe again. he didn't even know where to begin, how to get some kind of handle on this. The kids, he had to call Jason and Toya. My God.
The driver of the other car had claimed he was not drunk He'd just fled the scene out of panic gone home and started drinking to calm himself. His lawyers had been good. Arthur's television legal team had done all they could but the end result was fifteen years for negligent homicide in a minimum security facility. Chester Macinally had friends in high places and they had come through for him. The civil suit had been more than fair his legal team insisted. He had ended up with more money than he could ever hope to spend. It didn't matter. His life was over.
Arthur felt renewed anger. Macinally had gotten out of prison three months ago for good behavior. Arthur had considered several elaborate schemes since then for getting into Macinally's house to...finish things, before God had finally provided him with the best and most obvious.
"Tests show it's Prostate cancer Mr. Michaels. I'm sorry. I suggest you take what time you have and do something you really like, maybe that trip you be putting off. Have some fun."
He walked up and knocked on the door.
***
Chester Macanally heaved a sigh of relief sliding into his favorite chair. Little Milo was finally asleep, well in bed and hopefully would be asleep soon He sent another silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing him to spend some quality time with his grandson. It had taken years for Jenny to trust him again. No number of "I've really changed" and "I really am sorry." could fix that while he'd been inside. He couldn't really blame her. He'd made A wreck of both their lives.
Cursing, he got back up and to the kitchen for a coke. There on the top of the refrigerator sat the dusty bottle of Captain Morgan's Rum. he'd bought it the day he'd gotten out. The seal was still intact. It was a reminder that he was in control now, not the booze. On the way back to the living room he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. The hair was still thick though silver now around the skull like face he hated so much. The body hadn't gone to too much fat but he was still old he thought. Old and out of time.
He'd been born into one of the finest families in Toledo, had it all. Had lost it all. The drinking had been way too hard to control, besides, nobody had ever told him he'd have to. Causing that woman's death had been his wakeup call. A call that was years late. Nothing to be done about it now. Maybe if he was good enough from now on....
"Gumpa! It's Adventure Time!. You gotta come see it!" Milo yelled form the top of the stairs.
"See it?" Chester said. "Your'e supposed to be going to sleep, not watching tv!"
"But Gumpa! It's Adventure Time!" he insisted.
"Ok, o. Gimme a minute." Chester was remembering now what a pain in the ass it was raising children, No wait, his wife had done that.
The knock on his door brought him up short. A knock this time of night was unusual. Whoever it was better have a good reason. "What?" he yelled through the closed door.
"Mr. Macanally sir? Mr. Chester Macanally?
"Yeah. What?"
The first shot would've taken Chester in the chest if he hadn't been standing sideways. Instead it shattered his right arm just above the elbow and sent him crashing to the floor. He couldn't believe how much it hurt. He looked at his arm; there didn't appear to be much left. The sight sent him into a further panic. He saw a hand reach in through the hole in the door and undo the licks. He was then looking into the face of a little old man. His head was covered with a red knit had and liked almost comical with the earflaps. He was holding the biggest gun Chester had ever seen.
"Jesus Christ!' Chester screamed searching for some sense in the whole thing. "Somebody must've heard that. They'll be calling the police soon! The old man seemed unaffected by the news.
"Please! My Grandson, he's upstairs. I, I don't' have anything but take what you want Just leave!"
Arthur looked down at Chester. He was feeling so giddy from the adrenalin rush he thought he might pass out. He savored that moment looking at Chester, trying to really see him for the monster he knew him to be. He was bigger than He thought. The silver shock of hair was mussed with some plastered to his sweating forehead. The six foot three frame was curled in a protective ball around the shattered arm. "Not so big now." he thought. He lay there crying like a child. A child. Arthur remembered him mentioning the Grandson upstairs. Daughter must've dropped him off when he left to go to the bathroom. "Unfortunate. Damn prostate." he thought.
There was a lot of blood. Chester's face was going white. He looked like he'd be passing out soon. He was eying Arthur who'd now taken a seat on his couch and was drinking from his coke. Chester looked at him as if he were the Devil himself come to claim his worthless soul. Maybe he was.
"Who, who are you?" Chester managed to squeeze out.
Arthur Ignored him. He was feeling tired now. The adrenalin was wearing off and he realized it felt really hot in the house. He checked the revolver then, taking his time. He replaced the three spent rounds while looking down at Chester
"My name is Arthur Michaels." he said. "My wife was Marta Michaels. Bah! You clearly don't remember me." Arthur said shrugging. "Doesn't matter. I'm guessing you don't remember her either but she was an Angel. Well to me anyway. She's gone now. Gone now all this time because of you.
"I do remember! I can't forget!" Chester said. I'm so sorry for what happened! You gotta believe me."
Arthur emptied the gun into Chester. He leaned back on the couch and exhaled. "It is done. Soon enough there will be peace." he thought. He could hear the sirens now. A little head peaked around a corner to his left. He smiled at the child. He looked terrified. Arthur smiled at the boy.
"Come here little one. Let me tell you a story.
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