The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(26)

It was whiskey time. After finding two shot glasses, he filled them both to their limit. One of the shot glasses had Big Ben on the front with the word “London” written in dark blue. The other was the Statue of Liberty and read, “Visit New York.” Morgan designated Lady Liberty for Crimson in honor of his newfound freedom and took Big Ben for himself as a reminder of his time left on earth. He thought about how much he hated whiskey as he stared at the two glasses. His stomach shuddered. He thought of Crimson and the jungle promise of drunkenness as he tossed the shots back in succession. Breathing hard out of his nose he filled them up again and made an imaginary toast to the great cycle of life and death before draining them again.

Feeling highly awake and alive, he jumped up for more ice, soda, and rum. Before sitting back down at the kitchen table, Morgan opened the fridge and grabbed two cans of beer. As he sauntered across the room the alcohol coursed through his body and twinkled in his head like a small piece of heaven. The sun made her daily appearance. It was the same sun which beat down on him and Crimson in the jungle.

When the four drinks were finished the clock read 6:50 a.m. and Morgan’s head spun—a hurricane heading for an unsuspecting shore. Barefooted, he stumbled out of the kitchen and onto the front lawn. Looking down, Morgan admired the gorgeous green between his feet. Twitching his toes, the cold wet morning dew sent a quiver through his body all the way up to his scattered, electrified brain. Morgan’s eyes scanned the neighborhood and the houses along the street. Raising his fist he screamed, “I’ve lived more than any of you ever will. You sleep like happy babies and don’t know what you’ve put your children through. I made it back and now you have to deal with me.”

Spying a baseball bat in the carport, he sprinted toward it as his feet tried to keep up with his head. Too slow to get the message, he tumbled across the driveway smashing and scraping his elbow. Warm blood trickled down his arm. Back on his feet he grabbed the bat and raced successfully toward the first mailbox in sight. Taking a left-handed stance he swung. The wooden bat struck the metal box. The second swing knocked it to the ground. He yelled toward the mailbox owner’s house. “How about that you blind complacent *?” Morgan strutted toward the next mailbox as he changed form and smashed it like he was chopping wood. “I want my best friend back!”


Feeling an incredible wave of nausea, he stumbled back to his yard and fell to his knees. The neighborhood and world began spinning as he felt his liquid breakfast beginning its journey out of his body. Feeling a hand on his back he turned to see his concerned mother staring into his eyes. She rubbed her fingertips up and down his back as he watched the grass dance and twirl before him. Morgan’s stomach contracted. He dug his fingers into the grass as pure liquid emptied itself from his body. His mother continued to caress his back as his body heaved again, dispelling more of the alcoholic breakfast. Sweat poured from his face and tears began to run down his cheeks as he mumbled Crimson’s name over and over. A colorful array of profanities followed.

Turning his attention to his mother, with his head still facing the ground, he began to speak. He gave her a figure of how many people he possibly killed in the jungle and what a savage he’d been. He told her he’d shot, stabbed, and beat other men to death with his bare hands. She listened and never stopped rubbing his back as he babbled on as if he was at confession.

Every so often he would stop for a moment to throw up, but he always picked up right where he left off, laying his sins out at his mother’s feet. She never interrupted or said a single word until he was entirely finished. When she sensed he was, she kissed him on top of his head and said, “Thank you, son.”





*


Jason Deas has taught art in elementary schools for over a decade. He is a songwriter, sculptor, and makes a mean pot of chili. Most of his writing used to take place at Georgia campgrounds, inside a three-man tent or sitting at an uncomfortable concrete picnic table. He wouldn't have had it any other way until he one day found a 70's-model camper where he now writes in luxury. After writing Birdsongs, a mystery for adults, his nieces asked him to write a book for kids. He granted their wish and wrote Camp Timber View. He had so much fun writing it he wrote another middle grade novel titled The Big Stinky City. He recently finished the Benny James mystery series with books titled Pushed and Brushed Away. Jason is currently putting the finishing touches on a new mystery titled Private Eye.

www.jasondeas.com





*





How to Knit Yourself a Husband in Five Easy Steps


Traci Tyne Hilton


Step 1


Heidi Lowe fingered the soft skein of wooly yak yarn. It would give her a rash but it was the kind of yarn the professionals used. The puce-y greenish color, a sort of heathered nuclear vomit washed her out, so she wouldn’t want to wear whatever she could make with it, even if she hadn’t been allergic. But it was on clearance, so if she wore non-latex disposable rubber gloves while she worked with it, she’d definitely fit in at the Knit-In for Peace.

She wanted peace, in theory. War meant a lot of people getting maimed and killed. But with her double major in economics and history she saw the need for war. It built economies, (for the winners and the losers, in the end.) Germany wouldn’t be the EU powerhouse it was today if the Nazi’s hadn’t lost the war.