| General Fiction posted July 30, 2022 |
  |
Coping
Without Purpose-Without Time
by John Ciarmello
The news anchor’s voice trailed off as I fingered the power button on the remote. My arm fell limply to the couch, and I brushed the controller to one side. What I’d heard left no room in my mind for denial, no room to question its reality, or hash out its inevitables. I stared at a space in the room as terrifying scenarios paraded along my mind’s path, none more poignant than the subtle realization of this event's enormity.
An unfinished glass of whisky sat on the end table next to me, a remnant from the night before and a world ago. I shot it back, and it burned, but I needed to feel something. I looked at the empty glass in my hand, and the 9 a.m. hour seemed to matter for the millisecond before I got up and poured another. I sat at the kitchen table and placed a hesitant hand on my phone. I needed to hear my father’s voice. I knew he’d have the answers, but - I swiped a number and switched my phone to speaker.
“Hello?”
“Ben, Johnny, how’s my mom today?”
“She’s been up since four a.m. looking for your father’s wedding band. Do you happen to know where it is?”
I laid my phone on the table and rested my elbows on my knees. “It’s hanging around her neck.”
“Ah, Glenda! It’s around your neck!”
“So, no improvement with the new medications?” I rubbed my face hard in the palms of my hands, trying to thwart the feelings of pointlessness.
“Johnny, I have to tell you, as her nurse, I can’t see much improvement in your mom.” Ben hesitated. “I’m sure you’ve heard about…”
“Yes, Ben.” I felt my voice quickening. “Would you be able to put mom on the phone? I need to hear her voice.”
“Of course, hold on. Glenda, it’s Johnny. He wants to speak with you.”
Her voice garbled in the background. “Who? Oh, yes, that’s the nice telemarketer I spoke to yesterday. Tell him I still haven’t found my husband's wedding band.”
“Glenda, it’s Johnny, your son," Ben said quietly, maintaining a professional tone.
“Son? You know as well as I do that Richard and I couldn’t have children. Now hang up that phone and help me find his ring.”
“Glenda! It’s around your neck.”
I sat back, slowly pressed the disconnect button, and rubbed the wet from my eyes. Before I could make it across the kitchen, Ben’s number rang back. I stopped at the entrance to my bedroom and tossed the phone on my bed.
I moved to the window and pulled the drapes aside to look for something that belonged, but everything I eyed moved without purpose, without time. Across the street, I watched as Braden Miller opened his front door; with his newborn cradled protectively in his arms, he looked left to right. My gaze followed his as we searched the sky for what I prayed to God we wouldn’t see. Finally, he looked down, bounced baby Kyle a few times in his arms, and retreated into the house.
I switched my attention next door. Cindy Bower descended her porch stairs, moving toward old man Jenson. He lowered himself crookedly on the landing of his bungalow and allowed his cane to slide down the steps to the pavement. Cindy approached him as if in a silent enigmatic bubble. It was apparent she was as unsure of her approach as she was of her words, which, from my viewpoint, seemed to crumble in mid-sentence as she buried her face in her hands.
Jenson’s shaking arm pushed against the handrail, and he righted himself on the step. He shot Cindy a twisted glance. She stared at him for a few seconds, and he bobbed his head toward his cane. Cindy held it in front of him, and with a forward gaze, Jenson reached and tucked the rubber grip under his arm. As Cindy turned for home, he caught her hand and gently patted it. She touched his face and left with no apparent goodbyes.
Craigy Nymer’s rap music instantly drew my attention as it blared from his upstairs window. An annoyance culminated in my thoughts of his blatant disregard. A thought I knew was unprincipled. But as my personal bubble tightened around me, it became apparent what belonged in my new world - and what did not. So, without choice, I listened for a moment to Craigy as he sang his rap lyrics at the top of his lungs:
Severed world -
satan’s treat,
blazin heat,
severed neat.
Till, silent go da beat.
Still, time go on while dis beat go down.
Till silent go da beat.
Wid’ no retweets,
message beat,
cream da fleet,
yur world’s da feet.
Till, silent go da beat
Still, time go on while dis beat go down.
Till silent go da beat.
-
I lowered the window and rested my palms on the sill, my eyes fixed on the blowing leaves of our giant oak and squirrels chasing around its trunk. “Why hasn’t the world stopped,” I muttered. Once again, the muffled sound of Craigy’s voice drew me, and I understood. My breath fogged the windowpane as Craigy and I sang. “Still, time go on as dis beat go down. Till silent go da beat.” I fell back on the couch, made shamefully aware that I wasn’t the only one trying to cope.
I looked at the blank TV screen for a few seconds and blindly reached for the remote. An ariel view appeared on the screen. I had no idea what I was looking at until the reporter started his commentary.
“Folks, excuse me today if I don’t sound professional. The ballistic missile hit California at 6:00 a.m. Pacific time. California is gone, folks. Thirty-nine point five million people vaporized from the face of the earth. Pan to the left, Gabe, to the left! What you see to the North, folks, are parts of Nevada and Oregon - gone. It’s estimated another twenty-two million have perished in those states as well. Simply gone, folks, there is no one, nothing left but smoldering ash.” The reporter took in a deep breath. “I don’t know how to end this broadcast other than to say, pray with me that there’s another way besides retaliation.”
Alone Writing Contest contest entry
The news anchor’s voice trailed off as I fingered the power button on the remote. My arm fell limply to the couch, and I brushed the controller to one side. What I’d heard left no room in my mind for denial, no room to question its reality, or hash out its inevitables. I stared at a space in the room as terrifying scenarios paraded along my mind’s path, none more poignant than the subtle realization of this event's enormity.
An unfinished glass of whisky sat on the end table next to me, a remnant from the night before and a world ago. I shot it back, and it burned, but I needed to feel something. I looked at the empty glass in my hand, and the 9 a.m. hour seemed to matter for the millisecond before I got up and poured another. I sat at the kitchen table and placed a hesitant hand on my phone. I needed to hear my father’s voice. I knew he’d have the answers, but - I swiped a number and switched my phone to speaker.
“Hello?”
“Ben, Johnny, how’s my mom today?”
“She’s been up since four a.m. looking for your father’s wedding band. Do you happen to know where it is?”
I laid my phone on the table and rested my elbows on my knees. “It’s hanging around her neck.”
“Ah, Glenda! It’s around your neck!”
“So, no improvement with the new medications?” I rubbed my face hard in the palms of my hands, trying to thwart the feelings of pointlessness.
“Johnny, I have to tell you, as her nurse, I can’t see much improvement in your mom.” Ben hesitated. “I’m sure you’ve heard about…”
“Yes, Ben.” I felt my voice quickening. “Would you be able to put mom on the phone? I need to hear her voice.”
“Of course, hold on. Glenda, it’s Johnny. He wants to speak with you.”
Her voice garbled in the background. “Who? Oh, yes, that’s the nice telemarketer I spoke to yesterday. Tell him I still haven’t found my husband's wedding band.”
“Glenda, it’s Johnny, your son," Ben said quietly, maintaining a professional tone.
“Son? You know as well as I do that Richard and I couldn’t have children. Now hang up that phone and help me find his ring.”
“Glenda! It’s around your neck.”
I sat back, slowly pressed the disconnect button, and rubbed the wet from my eyes. Before I could make it across the kitchen, Ben’s number rang back. I stopped at the entrance to my bedroom and tossed the phone on my bed.
I moved to the window and pulled the drapes aside to look for something that belonged, but everything I eyed moved without purpose, without time. Across the street, I watched as Braden Miller opened his front door; with his newborn cradled protectively in his arms, he looked left to right. My gaze followed his as we searched the sky for what I prayed to God we wouldn’t see. Finally, he looked down, bounced baby Kyle a few times in his arms, and retreated into the house.
I switched my attention next door. Cindy Bower descended her porch stairs, moving toward old man Jenson. He lowered himself crookedly on the landing of his bungalow and allowed his cane to slide down the steps to the pavement. Cindy approached him as if in a silent enigmatic bubble. It was apparent she was as unsure of her approach as she was of her words, which, from my viewpoint, seemed to crumble in mid-sentence as she buried her face in her hands.
Jenson’s shaking arm pushed against the handrail, and he righted himself on the step. He shot Cindy a twisted glance. She stared at him for a few seconds, and he bobbed his head toward his cane. Cindy held it in front of him, and with a forward gaze, Jenson reached and tucked the rubber grip under his arm. As Cindy turned for home, he caught her hand and gently patted it. She touched his face and left with no apparent goodbyes.
Craigy Nymer’s rap music instantly drew my attention as it blared from his upstairs window. An annoyance culminated in my thoughts of his blatant disregard. A thought I knew was unprincipled. But as my personal bubble tightened around me, it became apparent what belonged in my new world - and what did not. So, without choice, I listened for a moment to Craigy as he sang his rap lyrics at the top of his lungs:
Severed world -
satan’s treat,
blazin heat,
severed neat.
Till, silent go da beat.
Still, time go on while dis beat go down.
Till silent go da beat.
Wid’ no retweets,
message beat,
cream da fleet,
yur world’s da feet.
Till, silent go da beat
Still, time go on while dis beat go down.
Till silent go da beat.
-
I lowered the window and rested my palms on the sill, my eyes fixed on the blowing leaves of our giant oak and squirrels chasing around its trunk. “Why hasn’t the world stopped,” I muttered. Once again, the muffled sound of Craigy’s voice drew me, and I understood. My breath fogged the windowpane as Craigy and I sang. “Still, time go on as dis beat go down. Till silent go da beat.” I fell back on the couch, made shamefully aware that I wasn’t the only one trying to cope.
I looked at the blank TV screen for a few seconds and blindly reached for the remote. An ariel view appeared on the screen. I had no idea what I was looking at until the reporter started his commentary.
“Folks, excuse me today if I don’t sound professional. The ballistic missile hit California at 6:00 a.m. Pacific time. California is gone, folks. Thirty-nine point five million people vaporized from the face of the earth. Pan to the left, Gabe, to the left! What you see to the North, folks, are parts of Nevada and Oregon - gone. It’s estimated another twenty-two million have perished in those states as well. Simply gone, folks, there is no one, nothing left but smoldering ash.” The reporter took in a deep breath. “I don’t know how to end this broadcast other than to say, pray with me that there’s another way besides retaliation.”
 Recognized |
#11 July 2022 |
The characters are purposely underdeveloped and used as pawns throughout this piece to personalize the narrator's (Johnny) POV and his solitude. Thanks for reading.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Artwork by supergold at FanArtReview.com
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. John Ciarmello All rights reserved.
John Ciarmello has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
