Hello, my name is Neil Thomas I am an author. I Have something for you to read.

[Neil Thomas]

A dim chandelier awakens me as I gently slip out from under
my slumber. I see my son walk with the effort of infancy towards me,
broadly smiled.

My wife speaks to me in dreamy tones; behind her a gradual
burst of first light grants her angelic. And silkin curtains breeze about
voluminous.

Nightmares of past loss and losing dissolve in the dawn as my
daughter covers my face with satin sheets, her laughter soothes me,
my ache.

I rush out open window as bird—quick lunging sweeps of
my wings to a good height. The skies swirl and churn slow, ominous,
with dark purple and gray clouds. The sun breaks through landing bold
to my chest as I perceive Newport with dove nested towers of prince and
princess. Newport rising from deep sleep serene, yet dying, crumbling
in its majesty…………..


Author unknown









That summer haunts me still, to this day. It was not
that long ago yet it feels like a whole different time entirely.
My friends and I talk about it occasionally but we seem to
lack a depth of understanding which is a little tough for us
to admit.

Some of what happened I just heard about but I have
known these people all my life, the ones it happened to and
the ones who told me. A lot of it I saw first hand. But the
ones who told me, well, this isn’t something they would lie
about.

Sometimes I forget all about it. But then I will hear a
wind chime, a simple wind chime brings it all in on me again.
A sunset will do it too but a particular sort I cannot put my
finger on. A writer friend of mine wanted to hear my
thoughts about what happened as he was considering
a novel about that summer in Newport. His exact words
were “I think the world would get a kick out of what
happened.”

He even asked me how he should write it, a style. I
wondered why on earth he would ask me that. He even
asked me how I think it should be framed. I almost got
mad at him. What do I know? But then I thought, I may
never have an opportunity like this again. So I gave it some
thought while he made coffee. When he came back in I had a
nasty little smirk for him. I told him “Do you think you could
write it as though you were looking through a kaleidoscope?
And maybe like a fairy tale, a kind of macabre one?” Because
that is the way it comes to me. Because like I said it haunts
me—to this day. He gave me a pained grin and said he’d try.

Karen Vambert
Office Manager
Union Bank
Sixth floor

PROLOGUE



Two weeks ago three young men from the state of Ohio rumbled into town, the town of Newport. They arrived in a white and grey primered 1965 Pontiac G.T.O. Just about every summer they get in enough trouble to necessitate a vacation. Unfortunately they got themselves into a lot more trouble on their cross country trip and they plan on hiding in Newport for a while. That is not a good plan.
Local police took immediate notice. The driver slid low in the seat, only his greasy long brown hair, sunglasses and conquering grin are visible. Another can barely be made out in the back seat playing the drums in the air as the music blares ‘Whaoo black Betty…ram..a..lam!….Whaoo black Betty..ram..a..lam!’ The other next to the driver sits up fairly straight with his right arm resting on the window ledge. An unfinished tattoo sculpts up his muscular arm. Wicked ensnared little creatures and a busty naked girl evolve into a skull on the meaty cap of his shoulder which transforms into an abstract series of thorny vines that envelop his neck. His expression is numb and resentful. His demeanor unapologetic. His knuckles are scared and thick as they tap on the door frame to the music.
The car is dirty but dent less and very powerful. There are two bumper stickers at the rear. One is very old, faded and says 'Disco sucks.' The other was applied last summer and says with empathy 'Support your local police.'

________________


Two of the three young men left the bar earlier with the girls they met. An hour or so later the third young man by the name of Jim made his way back to the bungalow alone but decided to stop off at a market open all night. There wasn't anything he really needed just a faint impulse to look around. He grabbed some bread, ham, mustard and one plastic knife. He unraveled his crinkled bills and laid them on the counter. He sat down on the curb outside the store by himself and made a couple of sandwiches, the serenity that has crept up on him while being in Newport was with him once again. A drowsy saltin mist carries overhead leisurely moving eastward.
Jim stood up with little effort for his body was light and easy. He began
to slowly make his way back home enjoying the gentle sparkle of the evening. Jim barely lifted his feet as he shuffled past ten feet or so of tall rose plants. There were five or six different colors and of course Jim was familiar with only about two of them. He stopped, made a quick glance around to spot if anyone may be watching, stuck his nose deep within the middle of a peach colored rose and breathed in robustly. His reaction was near that of inhaling a drug. The effect raced through his mortal body as his senses respond riotous. Jim had rarely felt better, as alive, as he did that very moment. He took another deep breath as deep as the first and the sensation intensified. As he walked on the feeling stayed with him, his senses now heightened some as though someone reached into his soul with a feather and lifted him up a notch from apathy to an honest possibility of sweet sensation by example.

Instead of making the usual left turn Jim made a right towards the beach. The telephone line above crackled and ran just like back home but the whole of him stayed in the moment. He arrived at the boardwalk as the moist saltan air wrapped itself around him. Jim stopped.

“If I take my boots off and walk to the oceans edge I may never go home." Jim thought wistfully to himself. He stepped off the concrete and sank in the sand and struggled to move through it, he laughed quietly to himself. He listened to and felt the ‘kursh kursh’ sound of the sand under his boots. Attention that he had attached way too far inward was brought out suddenly to the enthralling coastal environment. It seemed as though there was simply more of him available and present. There is an occasional sharp chill in the air and even that is welcome.
Pier lights dotted out into the immense ambient abyss and the whispered roar of waves crashing in slow voluptuous intervals assault him gently. The air in its saltin sweetness and the pungent odor of seaweed scattered on the beach blend in rapturous entanglement with wood burning in the fireplaces from the homes butted up to the sand. He spots a seagull perched on top of a lifeguard stand. The white bird with black tipped wings paying no attention to Jim as he appears transfixed on the up coming swells. "Hey there Mr. seagull, no date tonight?" The bird does not flinch or look down. "Wha cha lookin at buddy?" The young man squints out to the oceans churning and rumbling. "Well—see ya later, hope she shows up."
*This is about half of the prologue*

[Neil Thomas]

......TWENTY NINE





Quick Note on Marty







It is the middle of the night, around three am. Marty is looking at her face and pale naked body in the bathroom mirror. But her thoughts are not desperate and solitary as they once were, like a women making harsh judgments of her arrant curves, sagging shapes and less than stellar skin tones. Or, of course, the other desperate solitary thoughts of ‘how could any man resist?’

Marty at this moment is propped up and sustained by love, all accepting, all confirming love. Love from this man. He knows her left breast is a little larger than her right—he laughs it off and kisses her nose. He notices, at Marty’s insistence, her extra shapely hips. He grabs hold, says something to make her laugh and kisses her forehead.

A tear rolls down her cheek, Marty is in love. Marty can see her man balled up under the covers, she almost won’t let herself believe it, accept it. She will be a Newport princess after all. Marty washes off her tears of joy and running mascara at the sink, watches it swirl dreamily down as she reaches for a towel. She looks around and sees through drippy wet eyes a towel thrown in the corner. Marty smiles. When they are married she will take care of this, all of this and the man balled up under the covers. She steps feeling light as heavens whispers over to the linen cabinet. She opens it. Marty takes out enough towels to stock the bathroom.

Marty begins to close the cabinet then stops, squints and cocks her head with an inquisitive surprise. She recognizes the color combination, style and shape of the purse, pink, gold and black with gobs of little rhinestones and a white poodle. Marty is too naïve to think anything other than it is a gift hidden for her. “Oh, how sweet.” She says softly to herself. She is also a woman though and she cannot resist the temptation to sneak a peak as she reaches way back and pulls it out. “That sweet, sweet man.”

It is much heavier than she expected. It is heavier because it is full of womanly things. Marty’s breath quickens, her face begins to flush on instant. She pulls out lipstick, a cell phone, mirror, breath mints. Marty receives a shot of fury from that deep reservoir filled by God for this moment of scorn. She pours out the remaining contents on the counter, now frantic, eyes bugged and crazed.

Marty knows whose purse it is but she will not let her self truly believe until she sees the identification. She opens the zip pocket in a quick hostile motion and pulls out plastic cards of all sorts. She drops them all except for the driver’s license and holds it in her delicate trembling hands. Her bottom lip and chin quiver wildly, her forehead tightens and eyes well up fast as the little picture of Karen Vambert is smiling back at her, Marty’s best friend.

Marty is too hurt to be angry, the breadth and depth of her sensitivity to life and living makes her respond this way. She grabs all of her things quick but not harshly like most women would. She is crying though, in tense whimpers, wet and messy. It is a restrained cry though in a hopeless desperate way. The room is dark, she reaches for something to put on just so she can get to her car, it’s Rob’s shirt.

Marty’s arms are full as she stands at the end of the bed. Rob is balled up under the covers, he hasn’t moved since they made love. That was one of the things she liked about him, nothing bothered him. Apparently cheating on Marty with her best friend didn’t bother him either.

“Shame on you—we—we—were in love.” Marty squeaks out between sobs.

Marty takes quick heart broken steps out of the room.

Marty was heavily medicated of the psychiatric type even before the events of the last ten minutes. She planned on weaning her self off the Lithium and Depakote like she did with Paxil and Effexor against her doctor’s wishes because she really felt things were turning out for her now. The man, the dream she believed were hers to truly have.

Marty was not doing very well on her medication. Of course it does detach her from some pressing problems but at the expense of a degree of her ability to reason and use good judgment. The other day Rob showed up to find Marty straddling her fish tank pumping air into the water with the tire pump from her bike. She said frantically “The little air pump machine broke and my fish will die!” Rob returned with “Honey, the fish store is three minutes from here and they have lots of new air pumps there.” Another time Marty broke into Rob’s apartment while he was away on business to rearrange his furniture, she just had to—again. Or the near crazed agitated states where menial tasks become compulsions performed not out of any real necessity but used as a needed and hopeful vent for her mounting anxiety brought on by the drugs themselves. Like washing anything that she could cram into a washing machine. Drapes—clothes –bedding—pillows—shoes—jackets—throw rugs—purses. And then wash them all again. If Rob pulls up and sees steam exhaust billowing out the dryer vent, he turns around and goes home. He knows. But the most dangerous lapse of reason occurred last month when they were walking arm and arm down the side walk one evening and Marty darts out into the busy street to pick up a big white feather. Rob grabbed her arm just in time to avoid her being hit by a car.

Marty is crying harder now. She stops at the kitchen, dumps everything on the swirled mossy green and bronze colored marble counter top. She opens her purse and takes out two plastic prescription bottles. There are about twenty pills total. Marty takes them all.

Marty picks up her things and leaves out the front door into the cold rolling mist of night. She does not slam the door behind her like most women would. She is too distrait for that, she leaves it open.

Marty steps around the side of the house were Rob keeps a lawnmower and other equipment. She picks up a red gallon container and walks over to his 1968 Porsche. It is in mint condition as it has been fully restored. Marty’s eyes are numb, vacant as she approaches the car. ‘Gluck, gluck, slosh, slosh,’ Marty pours gas over it, and then drops the container of gas in a limp despondent manner at her feet. The gas trickles down the gutter. She stands there for a moment breathing in the fumes. She likes the fumes. She thinks about pouring the gas over her self and gives out a small huffed laugh at the thought. Then her eyes are left numb again. She looks up at the sky. The mist whirls and rolls exposing and occasional cluster of stars. There is no moon.

Marty pulls out an old book of matches from her favorite restaurant. She takes one match and lights it then lights the whole package with it. She tosses the flaming book on the hood.

Fwah! Whah! The Porsche erupts in flames. And Marty walks calmly down the sidewalk.

The medication that Marty takes to correct and deal with her ‘chemical imbalance’ begins to separate her from her senses, one by one. Every neurotransmitter in her mind that could be enhanced was enhanced. Every negative impulse that could be blocked was blocked. Future repercussions ignored. Granted she does begin to feel a measure of euphoria because the serotonin uptake inhibitors are doing just that. Bio-psychiatrists just love to make the brain do all sorts of tricks regardless of the damaging effects. The other medication Marty takes to draw her bipolar condition under control makes her feel like she is in a mental straight jacket.

Marty is losing herself now. She drops everything on the sidewalk. But there is no sidewalk. She is amazed that she can see stars and the heavens beneath her feet, Marty laughs. She stretches her arms out wide and laughs harder. The pills that she takes and just took are designed to separate her from sensations that are just too troubling. Unfortunately you can not tell a pill where to stop. Marty is being separated from every vital mental function one by one: good judgment, reason, reality, futures, self reliance, on down the line. The mind is very smart though, it is very aware there is something foreign to the extreme in its intricate workings. When a mind is molested in this manner a reaction is triggered. And that reaction is suicide. That which governs life and the mind considers it a necessary separation.

The apartment Marty came from is only a block or so from Pacific Coast Highway. Marty slowly makes her way with short erratic steps with only Rob’s dress shirt covering her in this now heavily fogged frigid morning. With her arms now gently falling to her sides she becomes transfixed on her destination. The palm trees that line the road catch fire in tandem. But the trees have turned to crystal and the large furious flames appear in pastel casts. The road is not a road any more. It has become streaks of light that encourage following and will soon demand it. The telephone lines that crackle and run speak to her. They tell her not to worry about the automobiles that speed out on the highway.

She is told in whispered haunted tones that they are warm and generous friends.

[Neil Thomas]

……TWENTY FIVE





Mrs. Binsent has a daughter and she has been slowly, painfully losing that motherly bond for a few years now. It is surely not of Claire’s choosing as she has tried every conceivable then imaginable way to help her only child. Mothers do that and mothers become frustrated and some mothers sink into a deep apathy but not Claire. No deep apathy for her, not her. Unfortunately it is a waiting game now. She still holds on to the hope her daughter may some day simply snap out of it. Claire will not let herself know how rare that is.

Gina Binsent is balled up in a tight fetal posture, stiff white linen and two blankets cover her entire body head to toe. She has tucked the covers underneath her where she could draw them in. She likes her cocoon. All desperate women do. An hour earlier she closed off all the light from entering the room although it is a beautiful midday, all in an attempt to shut out as many of her perceptions as possible. Another depressed and desperate female favorite. In her darkness and holding a pillow tight to her breast, Gina has some vague and obscure thoughts which pulsate over and over in aching nebulous procession. Nothing she can really put a clear idea to. But if one had to it would be the sickening pressure of failure churning and mobilizing it self through her mind as a permanent reminder.
All the sedatives and anti psychotics she has consumed and been encouraged to consume have not helped. Gina hates the dead feeling they cause but protests little. Maybe an occasional sedate smoothness has occurred, maybe a narcotic induced bliss has sustained her hopes for a cure but with no lasting serenity. At best she is left with is an out of touch and anesthetized carelessness about her. At other times the drugs excite her into frenzied mental states where she wants to save all of the world one minute then a few hours later destroy all that it is and represents including and especially herself.
Gina’s doctor gave no guarantees so here she lies in a tight ball in the dark, on a gorgeous southern California afternoon in the psychiatric unit of Boag Hospital. But this afternoon she is not wholly depressed which consumes and permeate most days during her 28 day program—her fifth 28 day program. Today her doctor has given her hope. Today she will receive Electro Convulsive Therapy. She sees the reassuring smile on her doctor’s face when he talked to her about it. She likes him, she will do what he asks her to do. She likes his smile.
Down the hall from Gina’s room is the ECT unit. They are preparing for Gina. The machine was activated about an hour ago and ran through calibration and standard tests. The attendant smirks to himself and shakes his head in amazement that insurance companies pay for this procedure as therapy when he wouldn’t even feel safe using it to jumpstart his car. He laughs quietly under his breath. He looks around him quick, he knows better not to display such expression or attitudes around the doctors.
The ECT machine is ready with its soulless dull hum and drowsy pulsating lights. The attendant sticks his head out the door and motions for the nurse. The nurse walks down the hall and gingerly taps on the doctor’s office door. She continues further and quietly enters Gina’s room and says “Honey we are going to get you ready now.” Gina hears her but does not respond.
Gina has not met the expectations or the standards of existence of Newport royalty. She is a princess but has never acted like one or had the ability to behave like one. In fifteen minutes she will be punished terribly for that weakness and inability. Her doctor says it will help her, she likes his smile. She likes how he talks softly and confidently.
Gina unravels herself and crawls out from the bed linen, she strains to sit up.
“Today is a beautiful day isn’t it—I mean out side, a wonderful day to be alive for almost everybody. Just not me. Doc says this is pretty much my last resort, ECT. It’s the right thing to do isn’t it nurse Ramlin.”
“Oh yes honey the doctor seems to think so.” She has said this so many times she doesn’t even realize she said it.

Gina slides over and onto the gurney then lays flat with a hopeful pale grin. She has seen this particular ceiling so many times over the years it is like that of a child knowing every variation of texture on their own bedroom ceiling.
She begins to roll.
The lights flip by as she senses them with her eyes closed on her way to the Electro Convulsion Therapy unit. Gina thinks of her mother, the first time she has thought of her mother in a long, long time. Gina blames her for nothing. She does not know when the dwindling spiral began, the slow boil. She wants to be happy again like when she was in her early teens. Gina drifts off to a memory as she relaxes the tight grip she has on the sheet next to her thigh and the aluminum railing her other hand holds. She use to love to walk to the end of the pier with her father early in the morning and feed the seagulls with little rolled up balls of bread. Her father would throw them high in the hazy mist of early morning and the birds would rush to it and snatch them out of the brisk saltan air. Gina would gush excitement. She feels every sparkle of the moment as she rolls down the corridor. When her father died the pressures began, Newport style. Her mother Claire would tell her it meant nothing, not to worry about it and fifty other ways of saying don’t worry about it. But Gina did. She never felt beautiful enough, smart enough, or cool enough, it was all awkward to her even with money to burn. The standards of existence in Newport must be met. And Gina could not even come close.

“If that is Gina we are ready for her—I don’t want to make that mistake again. That’s Gina right?”
Gina is rolled in and set in place. The attendant begins to explain to her what is going to happen as he binds her wrists and ankles with thick leather straps. He rubs an ointment on her temples for maximum electricity conduction and slips a metal harness over her head. Gina looks at him; he tries to avoid her eye contact.
“Try to relax, I’ve done this a lot or been attendant many times and the ones who resist tend to have quite a headache afterward.”
“Ok—ok.” Gina says in a thin quivering voice.
He tightens the band around her head making sure the receptors are placed exactly at the temples. Gina winces softly.
“Too tight honey?”
“Ya—a little.”
“Now we don’t want you to bite your tongue so I am going to place this rubber grommet in your mouth.”
Then he injects her with the chemical Succinylcholine to keep her body from an intense writhing which has been known to break bones caused by the jolts of electricity. In truth it is more for those watching than the patient.
The ECT machine clicks and hums in anticipation.
As Gina’s doctor walks down the hall for the treatment, a Ukrainian man who admitted himself two weeks ago for depression (specifically to befriend Gina in hopes of acquiring the property from her after they kill her mother) stops him before he arrives at the ECT unit.
“Ah—hi doctor my name is Viga—ah, now Gina she will be able to think ok after your done—right? I mean, well lets just guess something. Let’s just guess something like if she had some important documents to sign. I mean let’s just guess.”
The doctor does not say a word, he only gives a solemn side to side ‘no’ nod. The doctor follows with another nod to a nurse to get this idiot away from him. The nurse gently takes his upper arm and says. “It is time for your medication Viga.”
The doctor enters the ECT unit, every one stiffens some except Gina, she relaxes a marked degree. She tries to smile through the thick rubber grommet strapped tightly to her mouth.
The doctor flashes a reactive grin, his face now gaunt and detached.
The warm concern he usually displays for Gina is gone. As cruel fate would have it he is not a man, he is not a doctor, he is a mental and spiritual predator. And he will use bursts of high voltage which trigger seizures in the brain to ensnarl Gina’s problems even tighter, out of reach even further. The ensuing electric shocks erase and eradicate a great portion of her ability to reason. Then a final and brutal jolt to drive her down into a state of apathy she will never climb out of or have the presence of mind to even try.



"Well, what is the sense of ruining my head and erasing
my memory, which is my capitol and putting me out of
business. It was a brilliant cure but we lost the patient."


Wrote in 1961 by
Ernest Hemingway who
committed suicide after
Electro Convulsive Therapy
A Guest of John Wayne's
two days one summer

[Neil Thomas]

From Newport a fairy tale of sorts - A novel by Neil Thomas (me)



She dreams in glass shapes that of shimmer and flaming pastels,

swirling white satin ribbons and soft gold bursts. Thoughts

come as streams of light, stop abruptly at her feet, change in

tone and subject. She becomes an unwitting passenger and

is drug along a she tries to jump on other streams of light

which hold more cheerful tones. She cannot reach that far

nor jump that far.



I see the nurse coming my way with those pills in the little

paper cup as I peek through my covers in false slumber.



She is held aloft by the hurricane that is her life then descends

through ethereal realms, her life again as tragedy. Very few

contain sensations of past pleasures or future hopes of same.

Something is lifting her now, invisible entity. It lifts her

through all suffering. Ideas she conceded to of beauty

unattainable now discovered as a lie. Love and calm engulf

her being of flesh robed spirit.



The nurse stands in front of me, stern expression. I take two

pills and scheme to hide them under my tongue as I know this

is no solution for my anguish. But the nurse, she knows my

tricks. I swallow in silent protest. I will beat her—someday.


As wonder would have it and fate would demand it she

rethinks all that she has concluded since youth. She is free to

decide truths anew. She is free to construct realities of her

own sensibility. And she is released to dream again in glass shapes

that shimmer within flaming pastels, whirling white satin ribbons

and soft gold bursts.


You may read the whole story if you want, I am trying to get as much feed- back during the final edit.

[Arania]

I really like this. It is beautiful.

I'm having some trouble analyzing, though. I don't understand who "she" is.

Again, very nice writing. It sounds like a fairytale.

--Arania

PS -- I really love this: as wonder would have it and fate would demand it

[Neil Thomas]

One Ukrainian checks his gun thoroughly as the other drives carefully in that an assassin’s greatest concern in route to a murder is being pulled over for an improper lane change by the local police. Explaining two men well armed and dressed from head to toe in black is always a delicate issue.

Dragane knows when Yurrgi is very quiet on the way to a job he usually intends to hurt his victim along with that which he is paid to do. Why he would want to add undue pain and suffering to a seventy five year old women is beyond Dragane.

“She’s old woman Yurrgi, why hurt like that?”

“I hate old women.”

Dragane smiles with a heavy huffed laugh. Thinks of the next angle to egg Yurrgi on.

“Did old woman rape Yurrgi when Yurrgi was baby?” Yurrgi says and follows with a robust laugh.

As misfortune would have it Dragane pretty much hit the nail on the head. And for Yurrgi every old woman is that old woman. Yurrgi does not respond, waits for Dragane to stop at the light. And when he does Yurrgi draws his knife quick and drives it through Dragane’s thick Ukrainian neck. Yurrgi reaches to put the car in park in case Dragane smashes the accelerator in reflex. Dragane’s fingers flutter around his neck in shock. Yurrgi slaps a clip into his gun hard then shots Dragane in the crouch and beneath his right ear.



Yurrgi did not appreciate the comment.


Yurrgi reaches over and opens the driver’s door. He pushes Dragane out after retrieving the eight-inch military issue blade from his neck and Dragane’s wallet. Yurrgi mutters something in Croatian which in rough translation means ‘**** you *****’ slides over and drives away.



Yurrgi pulls up in front of Mrs. Binsent’s home with the engine and headlights already off. The thick industrial dish washing liquid squirted into the disc brakes before they left keeps them from squealing when stopping. Yurrgi pulls out a hand rolled cigarette. He takes a lighter out of his breast pocket and dips his head between the steering wheel and the door. Yurrgi does not want anyone to see the red and yellow glow of the lighter. He cups the cigarette in his large rough hand to hide the burning end of it. Yurrgi is a professional and Yurrgi hates old women. After a few minutes of intense relaxation and focus Yurrgi gets out and quickly finds the darkest route to the back of Claire's home.

Claire knows her immediate environment. And she knows when something is extremely out of the ordinary. Sometimes Claire has trouble sleeping. She will sit on her back veranda in the dark and watch the lights of the marina in their dreamy twinkle nearly all night. She may sip some tea maybe chamomile.

Claire hears a whispered conversation. She concentrates intently, she knows it is very close by. Call it over confidence or a rare mistake but Yurrgi felt like calling his girlfriend for some reason. At 2:00 am in California it is 11:00am in the Ukraine. "I'll be home next week I promise, a little business to wrap up, to take good care of." Yurrgi nashes his teeth at the prospect then tells her goodbye. He is down the walk way in Claire's back yard to her right about fifty feet. Between the figs and the pomegranates. He is hunched over as he creeps while putting his thin black leather gloves on. Claire does not panic, she slips to her knees and crawls toward the French style doors outside the master bedroom. She thanks God there was no light on. She crawls quick to the phone, it is dead. Yurrgi did not make that mistake.

Deep within Claire’s closet Marisah lights a match and tries to focus on a piece of paper with combination numbers scribbled on it in three different color blues and a black ink because of how many months it took her to get the numbers. Pens came and went. She closes her eyes to remember the clockwise motions from watching Claire those many times. Marisah sways her head back and forth, the rhythm helping her to remember. Eyes scrunched closed in recall. 18-9-4-25-8, the safe cracks open quietly and smoothly as Marisah holds firm the cool metal of the handle. She opens the heavy round door slowly and a light within ignites the brilliance of the diamonds. Diamond bracelets, diamond broaches necklaces, diamond rings and several scattered gems burst with fiery allure. And there is just enough gold to give the diamonds room to dance upon. Marisah is transfixed. Her eyes are held in mesmerized sparkle, her chin and lower lip tremble, her body in uniform quiver. The diamonds come alive in the fanciful gaze that her eyes now bathe in. One hand full and her misery is over, just one. But within Marisah's deep and entrenched Catholic upbringing she is broadsided by guilt, unexpected guilt. She knows she cannot do this or even if she did she could not live very long with herself, not like she thought she could. She is overcome by beauty and diminishing self.

As Marisah's internal struggle rages she is startled by the closet door opening very slowly. Marisah closes the safe fast but not hard. The closet is large and Marisah hides behind a row of silky gowns. She peeks through and sees Claire on her hands and knees. Marisah is baffled, surprised and confused all at the same sight. Claire takes hold of an old shotgun. Marisah's eyes spike with terror and she nearly blurts out for Claire not to shot her. But somehow she knows Claire is not aware of her presence. Claire backs out with the shot- gun and a box of shells. Yurrgi the assassin is making his way up to the veranda very carefully stepping close to the handrail to avoid the center of the wood planks which may creak. He draws his knife, the eight inch army issue, sharper than a razor. He intends to torture the old woman first. All old women are the old woman to Yurrgi. The one who physically abused and molested him from the age of four to ten. Yurrgi is insane, viscously insane. In full disclosure after eight years in a mental hospital they made damn sure he was insane.

Claire sits on the cold oak floor and slips in a 12-gauge cartridge, then another. She can hear her husband’s voice from decades ago. "You know the boy's won’t invite us back if you keep winning every year doll face."

Claire won the local skeet shooting championship from 1953-60. Every May just about everyone of Claire's and Edward's friends would meet out at Gary Coopers ranch which was about half the town of today's Costa Mesa. "My little Annie Oakley, give uhm a chance this time honey bun." Claire loved wearing her black boots that fit right up under her knees snuggly. And her light chestnut trousers that bowed out at the thighs. But the tasseled leather waist fitting jacket and long billed cap brought the outfit together. "How do I look honey?" Claire would ask Edward as she stood next to their light coffee colored 1949 Packard. "Can you just miss once in a while, heck, let Coopers wife win this year or Gables new girl. They’re going to hold a grudge for months my sweet."

Claire crawls with shot gun in tow, her 1947 Benelli Montefletro. As quiet as Yurrgi is Claire is very aware of his current location. She can make out the top of his wirey blonde hair coming up the stairs of the veranda. She can now see a gleaming blade in his hand as he runs his thumb along the razor sharp edge. His squinting eyes glint in the moon light with and evil stoneness, vacant of mercy and reason.

Claire scrambles as quick and quietly as her seventy five year old body will respond to the front of her bed which is about fifteen feet from the French doors. She can see him in his slumped gape moving toward those same doors. The knife now flashes with a sharp glisten as he twists it. Claire has less than twenty seconds to prepare herself.

Marisah is now under a Catholic induced trance, a self recrimination of intense shame. Her eyes glaze over distant as the diamonds now twinkle in taunting of her desperation. The thought of disappointing her God this way becomes overwhelming. She hates herself, Marisah never thought that until this very moment, maybe she hates herself because in her own desperation she let them enslave her this way. She realizes there is really no escape even with the diamond necklaces. As oppressive as her environment may be the internal structure laid in Marisah as a child by her religion makes her, her own judge, jury and executioner.

Marisah reaches up to her neck and unclasps her $22.00 necklace she bought at a swap meet in Santa Ana. She kisses it and lays it in the safe next to Claire's then closes the thick metal door for all eternity. She sneaks out of the closet, through the bathroom and to the laundry room. Marisah steps out into the night clutching her sweater closed under her chin from the chill. And instead of turning to the street she makes a right towards the boat dock hunched over with hopeless little steps.

The Ukrainian assassin by the name of Yurrgi reaches with his huge callous hand and finds the door unlocked, he twists the knob slowly, he is pleased with his good fortune. A moment ago Claire set the butt of the shot gun against the base of the large mahogany bedpost. She times the cocking of the shotgun with the friction scrapping of the door opening. Claire had not yet scheduled for having the top of the door planed down and now she thanks God she did not.