Kerlak Enterprises - Reading Room

"By The Numbers" by Allan Gilbreath
"Darkness" by James Ferris
"The Forgettful One" by Everette Bell
"Patience Is Waiting" by David-Matthew Barnes

"By The Numbers" by Allan Gilbreath
   "Okay, everyone, this is by the numbers." A masculine voice directed from under its black and blue camouflage hood. The same mottled material covered every inch of his body. It appeared to be a soft cotton body suit that resembled a high tech ninja costume. Even his light boots had soles of cotton, dyed black. His two companions, dressed in similar outfits, waited on him to park. Each outfit possessed its own unique color mix. The suits did their best to diffuse the general outline of the individuals, but they couldn't hide the obvious muscularity of the three of them nor could the black and red suit hide its wearer's obvious female charms. Blue turned off the car's headlights as they rounded a corner into the park behind the museum. Red checked the electronics equipment in her bag. Each piece had to perform flawlessly. The man in the back seat wearing the black and green double-checked his ropes and other gear. The three of them moved in practiced unison.
   As the car rolled to a stop under an immense oak tree next to a paved water drain, Blue inconspicuously pressed a switch hidden just under the edge of his seat. He parked the car and turned to the others.
   "Comm test." Blue lifted his hand to his covered right ear and pressed a hidden button. Red gave him a thumbs up sign. He pressed again, and Green acknowledged his earpiece worked. Blue put the car keys in a Velcro sealed pocket at his hip. They exited the car with no further words. Green handed each of them their equipment packs while he shouldered the ropes and a small crossbow. Red adjusted the straps on her bag, and attached it to herself like a fanny pack. Blue slid on his pack, and then inspected the other two; no real reason to look them over, just habit. He nodded and they nodded back, time to get this job done.

"Darkness" by James Ferris
   As a police detective in her Majesty's service, I see the world at its worst. I get to see how badly we humans can treat each other, and everything around us. We are truly a horrible lot. After a few years at this job, you get to a point where you think nothing can shock you. Even if you work in a small community, you feel like you've seen it all. Just when you think that, something new and even more terrible comes along.
   My shock doesn't come from some new gruesome method of murder or some tragic lover's quarrel. It doesn't involve some new method of torturing the children brought into this bleak world. My shock came in a simple blue backpack now sitting on my desk. I assure you that an American-made blue backpack is nothing new in London. There are thousands of them out there. The young seem drawn to them as they set out on the great European adventure of their lifetimes. All too often, these backpacks are brought to the attention of the authorities when they float up or are dredged from the Thames or other rivers. Most of the time, it is just the backpack. Sometimes, they are still attached to their owners. They are found after being pinched and discarded. On occasion, they are found covered in blood.
   My blue backpack sat there in perfect condition. It had been delivered to me on the steps of the station in a plain brown cardboard box. It contained all the normal things a young man needed to survive while out on his adventures. The unknown person or persons who had found the pack had been kind enough to enclose a note, and a Polaroid snap shot of how and where it had been found. I know that so far none of this sounds all that shocking. The true horror held in this innocent looking blue backpack remained locked inside the small camcorder that my unknown compatriot had returned to the outer pocket.

"The Forgetful One" by Everette Bell
   "I'm forgetting something." The old man in the wheelchair mumbled as he foot propelled down the hall of the nursing home. "I shouldn't be here this long. I know I shouldn't."
   Shafts of tired afternoon sunlight peeked through yellow curtains to cast long shadows across the drab hallway. The forsaken, the forgotten, the demented, they all ambled down the beige corridor in their gowns and sweat suits. Some were in slipper socks others in orthopedic shoes. Unkempt hair and sad eyes were as common as the droopy expressions brought on by strokes, the clack of walkers against the tile floor, or the scuffle of shoes on the feet of a Parkinson's Patient.    "What is it," the man asked aloud with significant emotion in his voice, "what have I forgotten? I know it's important."
   The wheelchair came to a halt in front of the med cart halfway down the hall. Sharon, the middle-aged nurse with a bob haircut and glasses to go along with her teal scrubs, took no notice of the well-used chair and its occupant. Her eyes followed her fingertip across the medicine log in front of her. The daily duty of dispensing afternoon meds, the first thing she did at the start of the second shift, had been seriously set back when a code was called on Elma Taylor up in 304. The one-hundred-three-year-old's congestive heart failure was getting worse by the day. Every one had figured by the end of the week her colorless lips would be in an o shape, ears pinned back, to a nurse classic signs that a patient was very near death. Here it was three weeks later and yet another code. Delay death as long as possible despite quality of life so that the patient's insurance could be billed. Years ago, Sharon gave up pondering the ethics of the arrangement; it was how she made her living. Even if she wanted to do something else, at forty-five with her arthritis, Sharon knew perfectly well no one would hire her. Despite it all, she hated to see them suffer.
   Glancing at her watch she exhaled in frustration. In fifteen minutes she was supposed to be in the dining room to help feed patients, and the meds were nowhere near being handed out.
   "Miss, Miss," the old man said repeatedly until the woman looked up, her face crinkled in agitation. "Who am I? What have I forgotten? I know I have forgotten something very important."

"Patience Is Waiting" by David-Matthew Barnes
Patience was waiting in the kitchen. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled up into a limp ponytail. As the wooden clock ticked on the wall to her right, she wondered if it was a strange look for a woman of her age. She suddenly feared that he would secretly, and silently mock the hairstyle, even ridicule her quietly with his dark eyes. He might find the look childish, and consider it a failed attempt to be young again. Patience lifted her left hand up to the ponytail. For a quick second, she almost tugged on the white cotton scrunchy that held her honey-colored hair out of her face. But then, she remembered that it was Valentine's Day, and the white scrunchy had appropriate red and pink hearts on it. She would defend the look if he questioned her about it, verbally or not, with a small laugh, and a nonchalant explanation that she was just feeling festive. Besides, it had been a good day, a very good day. And the night promised to be even more exciting.
Patience closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the strong scent of bleach that seemed to fume off of her fingertips. He would be so pleased to see how well she had cleaned up the apartment. Outside the February sun was slowly drifting to sleep. There was a small kitchen window directly behind Patience's chair, and she welcomed the warm glow against the back of her neck. The sun crept in through the café-style curtains that were made with an adorable green border and hand-stitched lemons, red apples and bananas. The sun soothed her, like a bath or a cup of green tea. Her body ached from the scrubbing and waxing and mopping. Now that she could relax for three minutes until his train arrived in the subway station, she could feel the soreness in her muscles start to erupt. Her eyes opened and darted over to the stove, noticing that the teakettle was missing. She feared that maybe he had thrown it out. He was always accusing her of being messy. He had once told her, only weeks after they had met, that she enjoyed being surrounded by clutter. That was the reason he had given when he declined her offer to move in. The teakettle had been her idea. The apartment felt so empty at times that she decided it was missing a personal touch. She had purchased it a second-hand store, but he had despised it on sight, insisting that it was "filthy and rotten."

Back to Reading Room

Click here to sign up for our Newsletter!