short-story

Kelly Has A Plan

/ Doug Jacquier / 3 Comments

This story has just been published by the International Human Rights Arts Movement (IHRAM) Literary Magazine, as part of their Evolving Gaze project, which aims to provide a broad spectrum of perspectives to the forefront, challenging traditional notions of masculinity.

https://humanrightsartmovement.org/ihraf-publishes

It has taken over two years to find a publisher for this piece and it went through several edits before the publishers agreed to take it (and pay for it, which is always a nice bonus).

Kelly had contacted him out of the blue. On a patchy line she said, “Come and visit me for a few days. There’s something I need you to do. I’ll text you the directions.” And then she was gone. Adam hadn’t seen her for ten years, but they’d been close colleagues once. Not lovers, but close. And no time for small talk. So nothing had changed on that score. He briefly entertained the thought of not going, but always knew he would.

* * *

As he drove, Adam wondered what had happened to Kelly over the intervening years. She’d obviously recovered from the seemingly “unflappable Kelly” that he’d found in a foetal position on the couch in her tiny, inner suburban cottage all those years ago. She’d suddenly stopped turning up for work, didn’t answer calls and respond to knocks on the door. Adam had trusted his instincts and levered open the back door, where he had found her lying on the couch. Her eyes were open, but vacant. She didn’t tell him to go away as he was expecting. He had heated up some soup and she sipped some of it before beginning to lie down again on the couch. “Oh, no you don’t, Madam. It’s off to bed with you.”

They were the first words spoken between them and she seemed surprised to hear his voice. She had stood unsteadily, but gathered strength as she walked down the hall to her bedroom. The fridge had been bare, but there was enough food in the pantry to last a couple of days, so he wouldn’t have to leave her alone for a while. He knew that she would never forgive him if he called anyone else in to help. That façade of invincibility had to remain, no matter what.

Over the next few days, Kelly had recovered physically, but spoke rarely and her eyes had a disturbing deadness to them. She gave Adam enough snippets to piece together the story. The wheels had fallen off when she got word that the farmer she planned to marry one day had announced he was getting married. And not to Kelly. They’d agreed to wait while she pursued her career for a few years before they settled together on a farm.

When that rug was pulled from underneath her, everything unravelled and she had found herself on the couch, unable to move. The only place she could think of going was her late grandfather’s shack in the mountains. What she was going to do after that she had no idea. Confident that she was coping well enough, Adam retreated to his own place and his own life. He knew how much she appreciated his help, but he also knew she’d never say so and there would be no tearful farewell.

* * *

Adam packed some clothes and supplies, and set off. Kelly’s directions took him to a location in deep bushland on the side of a mountain. A small timber house, showing signs of renovation, sat at the edge. She emerged from the cottage and said, “I suppose you think you deserve a cuppa after your epic odyssey,” before turning back into the house. There were no hugs. Just gentle mockery; nothing new.

Inside was an ordered chaos: boxes mixed with the bare necessities, bed, dresser, small kitchen table with two chairs, sink, fridge, stove, and potbelly heater. The bathroom had been re-plumbed, but remained unlined and had no door. The extra bedroom was little more than a frame. They sat at the table with mugs of instant coffee. He said, “I think I see through your cunning plan. Free labour to finish before winter.” “That’s part of it,” she replied. “Why do I suspect chopping enough wood for the potbelly is Part B?” “That’s another part.” He smiled and said, “So how many moving parts does this exploitation machine have?”

“All will be revealed on a when to know basis, as and when necessary.” “And the length of my servitude is required to be…what?” “Until you’ve met all the requirements.” For the first time, her face softened and she said, “I’ve missed you.” She stood. “I presume you’ve brought meat, salad, and wine. The meat you’ll want to barbecue, so you can pretend you can cook. So, first task. Build a barbecue. You’ll find whatever you need scattered around the place. In the meantime, I’ve got work to do.”

Later, dinner consumed and wine glasses in hand, they sat in director chairs in front of the barbecue. She stretched out her long denim-clad legs and rested her well-worn elastic-sided boots on the rock wall he’d assembled. She slowly shook her head when he lit up a cigarette, but didn’t say anything. They both stared into the fire, comfortable in their silence.

When he’d finished his smoke, he threw it into the fire and said, smiling, “So, we’ve covered free carpentry and wood chopping. What are Madam’s other requirements?”

She said, “I want you to get me pregnant.”

Stunned, Adam stared into the fire trying to frame his response. Finally, he replied, “Want to fill me in on the prequel?”

“I’ve always wanted a child. The bloke who was supposed to be part of that took off and now I don’t trust anyone. But I still want a child—you’re smart and funny, and half-way human for a man, and you don’t want to be married either. You tick all the boxes. Besides, you’ve always fancied getting into my knickers…”

“Guilty as charged on the last bit. But you do know there are sperm banks where they screen for axe-murderers, congenital idiots and the like, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s like dating websites. Everyone lies. And these days the kid has the right to know who the donor is when they turn 18. I don’t want her saying, ‘How could you have picked that guy?’”

“And you know you’re going to have a girl because …”

“That’s what I’ve decided.”

“Oh, well that clears that up then. Here I was thinking there might be some element of chance involved.”

She chuckled. “You can still make me laugh. Another good reason to want you in the gene pool.”

He didn’t speak for a while, pretending to be busy stoking the fire and adding more wood. Seemingly composed now, he said, “I’m not sure I have the language for this situation, so forgive me if I’m indelicate.” She waited. “Apart from the obvious, how did you imagine this might work? Will you summon me when the stars are in alignment or do we just go at it like rabbits until we win the lottery?”

“Something along the lines of the former, I was thinking—only aligned to cycles and not stars.” She took her eyes away from the fire and said, “Don’t worry, tonight’s not one of those days. You can sleep without fear of being ravaged.” He didn’t laugh and shortly after said he was turning in; it had been a long drive, too much wine. She watched him go and, by the time she came in, he was seemingly asleep in his swag in the corner.

* * *

Far from asleep, Adam was remembering Selena. The moon goddess. They had met at college; she had long, straight, jet-black hair, a mysterious crooked smile, a deep, uninhibited laugh, and clothes that instantly said “art school”; but, somehow seemed more stylish and carefully assembled. Finally he summoned the courage to ask her if she’d like to go out for a meal. The meal happened, she invited him back to her place for coffee, they drank red wine, and the seemingly inevitable happened next. As the weeks unfolded, they decided they wanted to be serious and rented a house together. One night she announced that she was changing her name from Selena to Simone and that she was now a sculptural artist. Like most men from the working-class, outer-suburban dustbowls, Adam knew nothing about art. He was suitably enthusiastic about this change of direction from film to sculpture, without having a clue what it meant. But, he loved her.

He found out what it meant when she was invited to exhibit a piece in a group collection at a gallery. Her “sculpture” consisted of “found objects” from the local dump. She called it The Ephemera of the Universe. Adam told her he found it deeply moving but elusive (a phrase he’d borrowed from one of her art magazines, not knowing what that meant either). She glowed. Unfortunately, a red dot indicated a sale was elusive and one rainy Saturday afternoon she asked him to recycle it where it had originated.

A week later, after they went to bed, she suddenly sat up, and exploding out of her body came, “I’m pregnant”. Her anger was visceral and palpable. She threw off the arm he had draped across her belly and said, “The idea of sleeping with you just makes me want to vomit.” And stormed off to sleep on the couch. He wanted to go to her, but instinct told him that would be a bad move.

He lay awake all night, wondering about what he had just experienced and what he should do next. He had an early class the next day, so he sidled out the back door, without breakfast. When he returned in the afternoon, she announced that the lounge room was now her bedroom. A glance through the door suggested what he could only imagine was her idea of an artist’s studio. The wafting flimsy fabric had returned.

“You need to give me money.” To his quizzical face she said, “For your half of the abortion.” He could feel his face had gone grey and clammy, and his heart was racing. He regained enough composure to venture,

“Can’t we at least talk about this? I think us having a baby could be great, but it might not be. Let’s at least talk about …” She cut him off savagely and said with a coldness he’d never heard from her before, “It’s not ‘us’ having a baby, it’s me. It’s my body and my decision. Just get the money!”

The door slammed in his face. And he did.

Some years later, at a loose end one Sunday afternoon, he decided he’d check out the fair that had been organised by a nearby upper-class school. He’d barely entered the grounds when he heard the laugh. That laugh.

She was seated behind a table under a marquee, selling raffle tickets to fundraise a sculpture for the kindergarten playground. She looked up and saw Adam. Her face froze. Her husband followed her gaze to Adam. They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments. She blinked first, pretending to take great care to ensure her name badge was perfectly straight. It was too far away to see if it read Selena or Simone.

* * *

Adam woke barely rested and disorientated until he could focus on being at Kelly’s cottage and her making coffee. Over breakfast, she said, “I didn’t mean it to sound so cold and mechanical. I want it to be enjoyable for us both. I do care for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. It’s just … I just don’t want it to be all … lovey-dovey and kis sy-kissy.” She stood and cleared her dishes into the sink, “I’ve pinned a list of your building jobs to the wall over there. Top priority is the weatherboards. They’re recycled so you’ll have to strip them first.”

* * *

They made steady progress on completing the cottage, working well together without the need to for a lot of conversation. One evening after dinner Kelly announced, “It’s time.” She went to her bed, undressed, threw back the covers and said softly, “Let’s do it, lover boy.” Adam went to her, somewhat surprised that he was instantly aroused. He was even more surprised when they climaxed together and, for a fleeting instant, Kelly’s face radiated satisfaction tinged with the emotional vulnerability he’d only seen there once before.

* * *

Two months later, over morning coffee, Kelly said, “Your work here is done.” “I’ve still got a couple of things on my list. There’s the …” He stopped when he realised what she meant. He knew it was pointless to ask if she was sure. “Well, am I allowed to say congratulations?” She laughed, “Yes. To us both.”

After breakfast, he said, “I’m off for a walk to the waterfall.” When he returned he said, “I’ve been thinking we need to talk about this a bit more.” Smiling, Kelly said, “No thinking needed. Job’s done, Adam.” Adam didn’t smile back.

“No, the problem is we haven’t thought about this enough.” “How so?” said Kelly suspiciously. “I want to know what happens next. Now you’re pregnant, where do I fit in?”

Kelly scowled. “I get on with having my child and you go back to saving the world. I won’t be asking for money, if that’s what you’re worried about.” “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about what sort of relationship I’ll have with … our child.”

“Adam, this is my child. You won’t have to see her or remember birthdays and all that crap. You’re as free as a bird.” Adam locked his gaze on Kelly’s eyes, “I don’t want it to be like that. I want this child to be our child.” Kelly’s voice rose as she said, “But that’s not what we agreed.”

I don’t recall agreeing to anything about what happens afterward. But…” “But what?” Adam was angry now. “You’re not the only one in the world who regrets not having children,” he shouted.

“Well, stop walking out on perfectly adequate relationships and have some. That’s not what we’re about here. This is about my life.”

“Exactly. Your life. What about my life? What if this is the only child I’ll ever have? What if something happens to you? Who’ll look after the child?”

Kelly’s voice was matter-of-fact. “That’s the difference between me and you. I have plans. You have impulses.” Adam felt like he’d been slapped and his face was ashen. He stood, put on his coat, picked up his car keys, and walked towards the door.

Kelly sighed, “Adam, it was always going to end like this.” As he drove away, his mind wandered between hating and loving her for who she was and for her knowing what he was. And he wondered how quickly 18 years would pass.

At the end of the word

/ Doug Jacquier / 5 Comments

This piece of mine has just been published by The Aesthete https://theaesthete.blog/the-aesthete-issues/ (begins p. 22)

The man had sensed the teenage boy was out there, even before the dog smelled him and hunted him into the clearing, nipping at his heels.

‘Call your bloody dog off!’ the boy snapped.

The man looked at the dog and it sloped off to drink water from a tin bowl.

‘You oughta have him chained up.’

The man turned his back on the boy and went to sit in the old armchair under the lean-to veranda. He took a sip of tea from his enamel mug, picked up a book, opened at it the page marked by a feather and began to read.

‘Can I have something to drink?’

The man didn’t look up but nodded in the direction of the rainwater tank. A tin mug dangled from a rusty chain on the tap.

‘Jesus, mate, I’m not that desperate. What about a coffee?’

The man continued to read.

The boy began to walk towards the house. The dog moved into his path, with its lip curled and emanating a guttural sound. The boy groaned before moving towards the tank.

When he’d finished, he sat on a tree stump and looked around the clearing. Apart from the small house, there was a chook run, a veg patch enclosed by chicken wire, and an outhouse.

At dusk, the man put down his book and entered the house, leaving the door open. Shortly after, a light appeared in the window and wispy smoke began to emerge from the chimney.

The boy ventured as close as the dog would allow him and called out ‘Any chance of a feed?’

Just before dark, the man appeared, dropped a blanket on the armchair and put a plate of steaming stew, with a spoon sticking out of it, on the veranda floor. The dog emerged and settled on a pile of hessian bags between the chair and the door. The man returned inside and the light was extinguished.

The dog allowed the boy to pick up the plate and sit in the chair to eat. After eating, the boy stared briefly into the total darkness. He closed his eyes and wrapped the blanket tightly around his thin frame.

…

The boy woke to the sound of caroling magpies and a Police vehicle navigating its way up the twisting track to his house. The man pointed to the bush and the boy took off.

When the Police officer arrived he produced a photo and showed it to the man. ‘Recognise this lad?’ The man’s face remained immobile.

The officer shook his head and said ‘You bloody locals wouldn’t tell me even if you had.’ He climbed into his vehicle but before he drove off he said through the open window, ‘We think he could be dangerous.’

After the officer left, the man returned to his armchair on the veranda, picked up his book and apart from turning the pages, he and his dog sat perfectly still. They knew the boy would not come back.

Intercept

/ Doug Jacquier / 10 Comments

This piece has just been published in Volume 2: “I Probably Shouldn’t Tell You This” anthology by Bar Bar Publishing. “I Probably Shouldn’t Tell You This” is available on Amazon & Kindle Unlimited

Intercept If only Brian could find some way to intercept the letter from Homeland Security. He had written to them because he no longer trusted that his emails and phone calls weren’t being monitored by Them. As a child of the Sixties he knew that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

He believed that the postal service remained secure, so far, but he cursed himself for not having rented a postbox instead of using his own address. His wife always collected their mail from the converted oil drum on the post at the entrance to their small farm and she would be suspicious of any change to that routine.

Daily he had to suppress the awful thought that she too might be one of Them, so he hadn’t kept a copy of what he wrote in case she discovered it, like she did everything else. However, he knew what he’d written. ‘Dear Sir. I have to report a matter that should be of grave and urgent concern to you and your Department. I believe I have evidence that forces unknown (hereinafter referred to as They or Them) have infiltrated the lottery system as a way of funding Their various nefarious activities.

Having researched the matter thoroughly, I offer the following (admittedly circumstantial) evidence. 1. I suspect, ‘sleepers’ were planted in the gaming authorities many years ago when the winning numbers ceased to be televised live, providing the perfect opportunity to manipulate the results

2. The winners of most major prizes are ‘anonymous’, purportedly in order to protect their privacy. What it does do is provide a perfect cover for diverting funds to Them. Through off-shore numbered accounts and shell companies the money can disappear without trace in an instant.

3. I have tracked down those that have disclosed their winnings, only to find that in every case they were no longer at that address. I am willing to hand over my detailed case notes as proof of my diligence in this matter. I referred earlier to Their nefarious activities. While it will take the specialized resources of your Officers to confirm the breadth of such activities and their detailed operations, I suspect some of the funds are being funnelled into infiltrating the labs of vaccine producers.

Through the addition of cleverly disguised viruses to commonly accepted vaccines, They are progressively gaining the ability to manipulate the life choices of our citizens. I need point no further than the plethora of reality TV shows and the screen obsession of teenagers as incontrovertible proof. I await your further instructions.

Your humble servant, Brian Peabody.’

As the time for the postal van’s arrival drew ever nearer, his anxiety began to rise exponentially and his wife kept looking at him more oddly than usual, so he locked himself in the gardening shed he called his ‘study’. Thirty minutes later his wife knocked on his shed door and said “Brian, parcel for you. Marked ‘Private and Confidential’. What have you been up to?” Brian quickly swung the door open, snatched the parcel from her hands, slammed the door shut again, and double locked it. His hands shook as he tore the medium sized box open.

Inside was a letter, sitting on top of a smaller box. He opened the letter and read: ‘Dear Sir (I will not use your actual name for obvious security reasons). We intercepted your letter before it could reach the Secretary’s office because we have reason to believe it has been compromised. Thank you for your alertness in detecting the indeed suspicious activities you referred to in your letter.

We would like to take you up on your offer to co-investigate with our Officers. On Monday, call the number listed under my signature. Making sure your wife is listening, pretend you are 21 calling Emergency and say you are having a heart attack. Shortly, a white van resembling an ambulance will arrive at your home and two of our Officers, disguised as paramedics, will put you in the vehicle. You will be taken to the secret location of our offices in the basement of a medical facility. You will receive further instructions when you arrive.

While waiting for the appointed date, please ensure your ongoing security by wearing the hat in the smaller box at all times when you are outside. Be sure to memorise the phone number and then destroy this letter and the box it arrived in. Yours sincerely, Chief of Security.’

Opening the smaller box, he found a checked peaked cap. He turned it over and noticed that it had a silver lining and he smiled to himself conspiratorially. Titanium, of course, with its unique abilities to block transmissions. Now he was absolutely certain the authorities were taking him seriously. Having memorised the letter, he tore up the boxes and the wrapping paper and fed them into the potbelly stove he kept going in his shed for warmth in winter.

In his haste, he failed to notice there were no stamps or postmarks.

***

“Good evening, this is ABC News. In today’s lead stories, reports of students at a local school behaving very strangely after being vaccinated against whooping cough. And the anonymous winner of last night’s record-breaking lottery jackpot has gone into hiding.”