Breadcrumb #21

BRYAN GAMBLE

Erin would rather be lying in a bed of needles than listen to her own daughter eat. The constant slurping and sucking noises as she mashed her teeth together and swallowed her breakfast at the kitchen table much too quickly were a daily symphony of staccato notes piercing her tired ears. Erin had always insisted that her daughter chew with her mouth closed, like a proper young lady, but years of her husband’s fat, smacking lips as he sucked down his meals and beer eventually bested her maternal influence, and she finally gave up. Her scolding wouldn’t matter anymore. Standing over the sink littered in greasy pans and bowls stained with grime, Erin sighed and starting running the faucet in hopes that the running water would flush out those infernal wet, scraping, mechanical noises.

     Figuring she may as well do the dishes, Erin put her hand under the faucet and waited for the water to steadily warm. Getting hot, the water flushed over her extended hand and began to hurt as the burning sensation spread over her hand. Erin stood there and focused on the pain, her screaming nerve endings begging her to move her hand away. It felt good: clean, pure. Satisfied, she picked up the steel wool and replaced her hand with the first pan. Scrubbing made her feel at peace; the noise of the scalding water hitting the pan combined with her joyful humming broke the spell of her daughter’s miasma. Here, at the kitchen sink, Erin could escape the aural torture she faced every day from her husband and daughter as they ate their meals like greedy, wild dogs.

“Here, at the kitchen sink, Erin could escape the aural torture she faced every day from her husband and daughter as they ate their meals like greedy, wild dogs.”

      “Erin!”

     She shuddered, the calm disturbed.

     “Erin, you in the kitchen?”

     Erin stopped the water to return her husband’s calls. “Yes, dear. Did you just get home? I didn’t hear the door.” Erin turned around to face her husband, who had appeared at the kitchen table. She picked up a washcloth and dried her throbbing red hands. “Your breakfast is on the table.” She smiled at him and quickly looked away.

     Erin heard her husband sit down beside his daughter, who chirped, “Morning, Pop! How was hunting?” before taking a sip of her water and returning to what was left of her breakfast.

     Erin began running the faucet again, dreading the two-piece cacophony that would soon ensue.

     “Honey, come sit with us,” her husband pleaded.

     Erin stopped the water again and faced her family at the table. Her husband looked exhausted, and his sunken cheeks formed a weak smile when she met his gaze. Erin approached the table and hesitantly took her seat. She looked up at her daughter, her tiny mouth glistening with grease.

     “I’m so hungry I can eat a horse!” her husband joked as he reached across the table to take a piece of the dark meat lying on a platter in the center of the table and placed it on his plate.

     “What’s a horse, Daddy?”

     “Hm?” Erin’s husband frowned for a second, “oh, never mind.” He procured a cleaver rusted with dried blood from his belt and began using it to split the cutlet open.

     “Can we have one for lunch?”

    “Not anymore, no.”

    Erin began to feel ill.

• • •

Breadcrumb #20

BOB RAYMONDA

Randall stands in the corner behind the bar and polishes a glass. There is no use in him polishing this glass, for it was washed earlier today and remains unused. He’s just watched enough movies and TV shows to know that, if you’re tending bar and you want to give sage advice, you should probably be polishing some sort of glass. Preferably a mug, but a cup will do just fine.

     He’s wearing a red flannel and has a big faux-gold belt buckle. His shirt is tucked in almost all the way around but peeks out of the back over his wallet pocket. This is calculated. He wants people to know that he cares about his appearance, but he doesn’t mind when things get a little bit out of order.

“He wants people to know that he cares about his appearance, but he doesn’t mind when things get a little bit out of order.”

     The regulars at the Spotted Dog are not eager recipients of the man-child’s rambling, but he’s pouring their drinks, so they listen — if a little indignantly. Today, there are only two men who sit on opposite ends of the bar. Ronald and Roland Riesel, twin brothers who spend the frigid winters driving identical red pickup trucks and plowing the roads for the county. They drink giant coffee Thermoses filled with Irish coffee and listen to the same classic-rock station. Everyone in the town knows that they are drunk while they plow, but there’s no one else willing to clear the roads, and barely anyone is out on them while they do. The town figures they have no one to harm but themselves, and lets it go.

     Now that it’s summertime, they spend most of their days collecting unemployment and running up impossible tabs at Randall’s bar. He likes to think that they’re here because of his advice, but it is more likely that they’re here because he is their baby brother, and they can get away without paying for their drinks. The twins haven’t said a word to each other in thirteen years for reasons no one in the town can discern. They used to be inseparable, and still are in a way, but now they’re just inseparable silently. Used to be that, when they were in a room, they’d finish each other’s sentences. Now the only thing they’ll finish for each other is a drink — and that’s only if the other has passed out on the bar or slinks off to the bathroom for a piss. Their only verbal interactions are filled with petty insults and instigations. Randall is pretty sure neither one knows why they’re even arguing.

     Randall, still polishing his glass, looks at the top of Roland’s slightly balding head. “Need a refill, brother?”

     Roland grunts, keeping his eye on the bar, but pushes his empty mug toward Randall and burps. Ronald, polite now, even in his drunken haze, mutters, “Excuse yourself, you barbarian.” Roland chuckles and spits across the room at Ronald’s worn boots. Randall hands Roland his new beer and goes back to polishing, taking in the spectacle. Ronald pushes his chair back and stands up with fists raised. Roland grabs his new beer with both hands and stares directly into its amber depths, ignoring his brother.

     Randall speaks up, “Boys…boys…if you’re going to be like this, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

     Ronald sits back down, but not without a laugh. “Like you could make either of us do anything.” Roland raises his glass to his twin and nods without making eye contact.

     Randall sets down his glass, throws the dishrag over his shoulder, and moves between them. He places his hands on the bar, feeling like he’s onto something. “When we were growing up, and you two cooperated? Of course not. But now…I’m not so sure either of you dim-witted drunks could put one past me, even if you did make up.”

     This time they push their seats back and stand, fists raised in unison. They each reach out and grab a side of his collar with opposite fists and spit, “Oh yeah?” Randall’s shoulders tense; he’s aware of the fact that he wouldn’t be getting out of this without a black eye (or two). “You really think we’re not capable of kicking your ass?” Randall shrugs, and they each punch him square in opposite sides of the jaw. 

     He collapses to the floor and spits out a bloody tooth, but he can’t help but smile. It may not have been advice, and it may still have been full of the violence he always advocated against, but his brothers just worked together toward one goal for the first time since they were all in their twenties. And that felt good, for all of them. When Randall stands back up, the twins are sitting next to each other. They still remain silent, but it doesn’t matter. This is progress.

• • •

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.

• • •