Breadcrumb #19

TRAVIS SAMUEL

It's like holidays and heroes. Done well, you celebrate all year. When it is done wrong, you only get a month. 

     He tried remembering the first time they met. They allude to it sometimes, but the details remain unclear. There was the “hello,” the smile, the drive, the police, the restaurant... Maybe the restaurant.  He was not sure. 

     He remembers that night. Rolling around on the empty apartment floor. There was lots of space then. There was no need for what they called “adult” furniture. A futon and a small table in a well-lit apartment was all that necessity mandated. 

     The cat enjoyed being the same height as the two of them. He jumped, batted, and clawed as the figures wrestled, secretly testing the other for strength while stealing subtle exchanges of warmth. 

     When their bodies could no longer take the impact of childhood merriment, they slid through the side door for air. They leaned on the perfectly polished railing of the balcony that was home to the plants that decided not to finish growing. The untroubled darkness provided enough light to see the outline of the family of spruce grouped together hiding the local road. They were alone, and life was beautiful.

“They were alone, and life was beautiful.”

     The turtle was there in his Rubbermaid container that seemingly held the essentials of a hospitable habitat. He had just begun digging a suitable space to avoid the coming winter and refused to acknowledge the shadows hovering above him. 

     He found the turtle while hiking the Appalachians and hastily named him Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson was the only animate creature he found on that climb, though he would cautiously stop at the sound of dry leaves crunching under him hoping to catch a glimpse of a white-tailed drawn from a daybed. 

     Upon reentering the apartment, the drinks, physical activity, and calm of night rendered them exhausted. The pressing yet unspoken expectation of respect and virtue interrupted their initial slumber as they anxiously tossed and awoke nervously before allowing sleep to dominate the remainder of the evening.

     The sun shined on a new day with optimism and hope. They survived the first test. They said their good-byes with all of the faith dreamers were allowed to possess.  

     A cloud of fury and anger holds them captive now. The slightest incident is cause for a breakdown, which leads to yelling, screaming, and, most disheartening, the need for space and time. Most times, neither knows why they are arguing. What goes unsaid is usually what needs to be said to bring the appropriate resolution. But neither wants to risk being the one to end it.

     This is why they are as they are. No one wants to be the bad person. There are no shoulders to cry on when you are the bad person. People shun you, poke fun, or speak freely. 

     People don't understand love. They can't comprehend the push-pull factors that leave you in a perpetual state of suspended movement. They can't see past your smile or “good riddance."  You don't have the right words to transfer the hurt or pain to inspire empathy. 

     So, you put on your brave face, operate with calculated precision, clutch the last of your sanity, closely carry your pride, silently petition for a redo, grasp for a new world, and demand understanding all while refraining from noticing that you did holidays and heroes the wrong way.

• • •

Breadcrumb #18

BOB RAYMONDA

To an unsuspecting pair of nostrils, the odor could easily be mistaken for something pleasant. Hints of lemon and coyote berries assault her smell receptors and try to trick her into thinking she’s back in her mom’s kitchen. But no, the smell of human shit being repurposed for fuel is enough to make her sick. Not so sick to wear a mask like some of her older co-workers, but sick enough to make her take an extra cigarette break every shift.

     She’s been stationed here since the beginning of the war, which makes her work unclogging toilets sound exciting to those fortunate enough to be back home. She sends transmissions to them rife with the fiction she’d rather be writing full time. To the ones she loves, she’s a hero taking part in the decimation of the Enemy. But to the ones stationed here with her? She’s no more than a janitor, and a sloppy one at that.

     This warship, the Outlast 29, is designed to reuse 100% of the human refuse created daily by the 18,973 crew members it takes to successfully pilot it into deep space. This allows it to travel into Enemy territory without having to restock more then two or three times a year. The lemon and coyote berries weren’t added the the original Outlast. The soldiers on that first ship drove it into an allied planet, driven mad by the scent of their own burning excrement. The perfume exists now as a contingency plan — a way to prevent further mishaps.

“The perfume exists now as a contingency plan — a way to prevent further mishaps.”

     April’s tool belt is a treasure trove of power tools and toilet snakes. To an outsider, some even look like weapons, but she’s too young to carry the stun baton others in her department are allowed for self-defense. Staring at the remains of some other recruit’s half-digested slop from the kitchen, she tries to decide which tool will do the job quickest. Her shift ends in twenty minutes, and she’d like to use her four free hours to finish writing the short story she’d started last night.

     She eyeballs the toilet and considers all of the factors surrounding this clog. She’s in the forty-fourth subbasement rec room, which has thinner walls and therefore thinner pipes than any of the main floors. Her plasma snake is probably too powerful, as this part of the ship has yet to be retrofitted, and it would likely eat through and drench her like last week on the forty-eighth subbasement. She opts for a small and manual mechanism that gets the job done quicker than she expects. Another burst of perfume assaults her nostrils, and she almost succumbs to its sickly sweetness. She’s able to quell the urge by lighting a cigarette. She rushes out of the bathroom and into the empty hallway that greets her.

     April approaches one of the many viewports that litter even the subbasements of this great ship. She feels grateful for this architectural detail, knowing if all she could see were walls and plumbing, she’d be ripe with cabin fever. She lets the smoke from her cigarette fill her lungs and drift out of her nostrils as the Outlast 29’s cannons are armed somewhere below her. She can’t see them, but she can feel it in the inner workings of the ship. She knows how this old cat purrs, and is happy that she’s free to watch as the unsuspecting planet below is littered with its fury.

     She likes to tell herself that their impending victory in the war is due in no small part to people like her. The whole concept of the Outlast series is human sustainability, and without people to ensure that workflow, they certainly wouldn’t be the behemoths of vengeance that they are. She only wishes that one of the bastards in recruitment had warned her of the impossibility of rising through the rank and file when she signed up. They never told her what she was even signing up for. Only plied her with the promise of glory and a free education when it was all over. They never told her that she couldn’t go home until every last one of the Enemy’s home worlds was little more than dust.

     She isn’t sure of the name of the planet they’re bombing today. In fact, she has little idea of where they even are in the galaxy...or the universe, for that matter. She just knows that an unclogged toilet keeps the engine warm and therefore the cannons pumping out their fodder. And she prides herself in it, if a little spitefully.

• • •

Breadcrumb #17

TRAVIS SAMUEL

Each wild swing landed on his body with intentionality. The boy half struggled to free himself with a truer focus on shielding his body. A full attempt to escape would only escalate the man's anger. 

     Wham! Wham! Whamp! 

     The open hand sought the exposed area of the twisted figure that spoke in frantic, irregular sentences. Colorless fluid decorated the face of the boy. The man used one hand to pin the arms of the boy to the floor while he steadied his free arm, ready to strike in the next burst of anger. 

     The smell of boyhood puberty engulfed the halo surrounding them, which the man absorbed while partially crouched, still holding the boy's arms. Their chest rapidly moved in and out as they anxiously hoped for the predictable, abrupt ending. 

     They locked eyes.  

     Huuuhmmm, huuuhmmm, huuuhmmm.

     He wondered if the boy was tired of this meaningless event. The man certainly was. The end of these bouts rarely resulted in change. Lately, they only produced bruised egos and division.

     The man let go and thumped down the hall without a breath. He slammed his bedroom door and plopped down in exhaustion.

     Huuuhmmm, huuhmm, huhm.

     The man recalled the 3-year-old boy he would take to preschool in the morning. Both had shaved heads and wore backpacks. Unlike the children in his class, the boy was never afraid. 

“Unlike the children in his class, the boy was never afraid.”

     He did not cry when the man left. He boldly walked to his classroom and followed the entry routine monitored by the teacher. The man rarely saw the boy execute the entire process; he often gave a quick wave and slipped away swiftly with polite smiles and nods, focused on making it to his office on time. 

     In the evenings, the man casually left work and drove straight to the local university. In another year, he would have his graduate degree and more time with the boy. 

     In those days, by the time he arrived home, the boy was asleep. He would peek through the bedroom door before he, himself, would spill onto the sofa. The world did not exist for a few moments. In the morning, he and the boy would awake and repeat this familiar drill.

     The weekends were much more thrilling. He and the boy explored museums, made games in the grocery store (only particular individuals will understand these games), and they spent hours at the park. The man glanced up frequently from his book as the unrestrained boy climbed and swung with impunity. He ran and laughed and ran some more. With much reluctance, the man would always close his book and culpably chase the boy and his newly found playground companions. They would soon find the football and toss it until dusk unleashed the menacing mosquitoes.

     They would reach home just as darkness graciously fell upon them. The man ran a bath for the boy, who would play with the water toys while the man prepared dinner. The man often read as they both ate in silence. Thirty minutes of television and light would catch a glimpse of the closed eyes and still body curled under a throw on the corner of the couch. 

     Ten years forward and they are locked in raging terror...again. Their widened eyes meet, and they stare upon the bewildering figure they have never before encountered.

• • •

Breadcrumb #16

Bob RayMonda

i

The tallest spire was nestled in the middle of a welcoming forest. It was at the epicenter of a vast network of tree dwellings, each covered in stained glass windows of varying shapes and sizes. Wary eyes peeked out from each building at the dense underbrush, and a collective fear was felt amongst them. A menacing figure was in their midst, one unlike anything they had ever seen. A hairy, ineffectual beast that brought with it a giant weapon of motorized destruction.

     The smoke that emitted from its weapon made the tree-people’s noses scrunch up and tickled their throats. Its loud noises filled their ears with pain, and their hearts with dismay. But these weren’t even the worst of its offenses against their community. It used this weapon to shear the grass that they used to weave their clothing and stuff their pillows — collecting it for some nefarious purpose unknown to them.

     Ike, the sheriff and resident protector of the woodland community, was the first to speak out. He left the safety of his spire and yelled to the beast from its wooden drawbridge. “Who are you, interloper? And how dare you disrupt our Sunday gathering?”

     The beast lumbered on, a combination of scraggly hair and earth-stained metal tearing through their most precious resource. It obviously hadn’t heard Ike’s voice, though not for his lack of trying. He spoke louder on his second attempt: “I said, who are you, interloper?”

     The beast briefly acknowledged Ike on this attempt,  but made no move to stop his destruction of their beloved lands. Ike reentered the spire and looked at his cowering countrymen. “Brothers, sisters, I promise you, I will vanquish this interloper. Does anyone care to join me?”

     Apprehensive looks were all that met Ike’s challenge. He left the spire again and descended to the forest floor and the beast before him. Looking at its back, Ike raised his loaded slingshot, armed with the largest rock he could find. He demanded, “If you do not stop destroying our forest, interloper, I will be forced to kill you!”

ii

Gregory was a quiet, sensitive man who preferred to keep to himself. Little brought him more pleasure on a Saturday than doing that week’s yard work. Today’s chore was mowing and edging the lawn. He donned his giant noise-canceling headphones, turned on a little bit of Fleetwood Mac, and basked in the warm afternoon sun. He used his lawn mower to create calculated lines up and down his front yard. The smell of freshly cut grass filled his nose, and he couldn’t help but smile — nothing satisfied him more than tending to overlong grass with a focused precision that no one else in his family quite understood. 

     By the time the front was finished and it was time to tend to the back, Gregory’s body was covered in sweat. In the privacy of his fenced-in yard, he tossed his shirt onto the deck and continued topless and free. He was vaguely aware of his stepson Isaac’s presence in the treehouse the boy’s father had built for him before dying, but decided to leave him be. He knew that if he gave the boy enough space, and left a small ring of overgrown grass at the tree line, the two would have no issue.

“He knew that if he gave the boy enough space, and left a small ring of overgrown grass at the tree line, the two would have no issue.”

     Unlike the front yard, Gregory made a perimeter around his backyard while mowing, happiest as the square shrank with each passing lap. Everything was going smoothly until the mower ran over a large stick that jammed its blades. As he turned it off, his headphones blared louder than he was ready for, and he scrambled to unplug them from the device in his pocket. In the same moment, a rock caught him on the back of the neck. He let out an exasperated yelp and turned around to find its source. When he did, he was met face to face with his young stepson. “Isaac, what the hell?”

     The boy stared at him indignantly and shouted, “I said die, interloper!”

iii

Ike readied his slingshot for a second attack. The beast acknowledged him now, and while it didn’t entirely back down, it did briefly pause its attack on the woodland community’s precious grass. “Interloper, I banish you from these lands, cultivated by my father and his father before him. Back away now and leave with your life, but continue your destruction and face my wrath!”

     The beast grumbled angrily at Ike, but surrendered. It lumbered off to a cave in the distance, with a look of obvious defeat as it skulked away. In leaving, it abandoned its weapon of mass destruction and the grass had gathered in the time before Ike’s brave resistance. As soon as he was sure the beast was gone, Ike tore into innards of its weapon and ran his fingers through the destroyed grass. He may not have been able to save it all, but he prevented total devastation. 

     Ike stood and faced the onlookers cowering in his woodland community. He rubbed the mulch from the destroyed grass on his cheeks like a warrior’s face paint, and raised his fists high above him in a victorious salute. Their community would live to see the light of another day.

• • •

Breadcrumb #15

Bob Raymonda

They stand around the tape recorder like a pack of vultures waiting for a meal to finally expire before they feast. They are not a subtle duo when they’re this close to what they’re looking for. They will linger until both of their appetites for justice are satisfied. And can you blame them? What they heard on that tape recorder was despicable. And the things the suspect says in defense of himself? Pathetic.

•

It was a rickety little machine. Having survived decades that seemed to promise its continued existence was futile. But its digital counterparts could never count on the novelty of the physical object. When the suspect revealed the victim’s love of the real, the tangible, proof of its existence became top priority. And when it was found tucked beneath the mattress and the bedspring, a collective sigh of relief was uttered by all around.

•

She was heard, never seen, because the archiving of audio interested her far more than watching a video. She screamed out, goading him on to go faster, harder, to cause her more pain until she shrieked in what sounded like pleasure. She is a masochist, and the tape proves that. Correction, she was a masochist, because now she lay cold in the morgue.

•

He sat in the middle of the room on a cold metal chair with his hands behind his back. He hyperventilates as they play the recording for him. To them, this was proof of his guilt, even after he explains himself. It was an accident, he screams with ragged breath. Please, turn it off. It was never supposed to happen this way, and he’d done it to her a thousand times before. He didn’t want to hear it, because he was there when it happened.

•

Our daughter was a good girl, despite what they say they heard on it. Our daughter would never get herself into this kind of trouble willingly. Our daughter would have brought him to our home, shared her life with us. Our daughter would still be here today, if it weren’t for this deviant. That is why justice won’t be served until he’s prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

•

I have prosecuted perverts like him countless times, and he is no different. Pay no mind to his crocodile tears. I’ve looked in the eyes of men and heard their tails of the impressionable young women that take part in kink. He’ll tell you that she asked for it. He’ll tell you that she told him to do it. And I’m here to tell you, he’s lying. Who do you believe? Her caring and attentive parents? Or the man that inflicted the wounds you see in Exhibit J?

•

You will not enjoy what you are about to hear, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It is private, it is pornographic, and it is proof that he isn’t entirely responsible for her death. Partially, for certain, but you’ll be able to tell from this recording, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was a consensual act. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are not being asked to give him a free pass. You are just being asked to be sympathetic to the fact that he was very much in love with her. That this was an accident, and that he’ll live with the burden of her death for the rest of his life.

•

We spend no more than an hour and a half in the cramped private chambers of the courthouse. Not a single one of us thinks that he is an innocent man, though none of us thinks he’s fully at fault either. We deliberate long enough to earn our free lunch, and in a pile of empty Chinese food containers and evidence, we make up our mind. We return shortly after eating and deliver our verdict. We find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree.

•

They stand in the back of the courtroom with their hands at their hips. They’re satisfied that their detective work allowed her parents some sense of closure. Even if it didn’t bring her back to life.

•

It is ushered back into its clear plastic evidence bag. Normally, it would be offered to her family, but due to its voyeuristic nature, it would end up forgotten in a dusty cardboard box at the precinct.

•

She is buried on Wednesday. Her casket is ornate — her parents spare no expense. Only the best for her. Her friends and family huddle together in the cool autumn morning and mourn together. Some cry, some stand silent, all remember her.

•

He is sentenced to twenty to life. His lawyer is confident that he can reduce it with an appeal, but he doesn’t care. He’s lost the one he loves, and it is his fault. No amount of legal finesse will change that. At night, in his cell, the sound of his sobs are pitiful.

•

Our daughter’s killer is going to rot in hell for the things that he put her through. Our daughter’s jury made sure of it. Our daughter died by his hand, and he deserves whatever happens to him.

•

I haven’t received a paycheck this big in years. Clearly the kid was innocent, but I can talk a man into sawing his own arm off. I think I’ll buy myself a new boat, or a car, or something else that’s flashy. I’m worth it.

“I think I’ll buy myself a new boat, or a car, or something else that’s flashy. I’m worth it.”

You are soulless bastards, you know that? This kid was as much a victim as she was, but since her daddy was rich and her mommy cried theatrically, you put him away for life? You’re disgusting. You’re… You…

•

We are never going to see each other again. And that is a good thing. Being on a jury wasn’t on a single bucket list among us. We’ll go to our separate homes, take a shower, and forget the look on his face doomed him. It doesn’t feel like justice. It feels like revenge.

• • •