Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

[Lacy]

((((JA.com massive)))) To all those new and not so new to our family. <span style="font-style: italic">....and Happy Earth Day, Jazzy!</span>

<span style="font-weight: bold">Crossroads</span>

A blazing sun is dying over the ruined city. From my office window on the top floor of City Hospital, it’s hard for me to distinguish the orange hue of the setting sun from the glow being cast off by the smoldering embers of a battle that erupted over the warehouse district this afternoon.

Twenty-seven bodies from that conflict passed through the emergency room today. Twelve eventually checked into the hospital’s crowded accommodations on the second floor ICU. The other fifteen are resting comfortably on separate slabs in the basement morgue. For the third time this week, the coroner ended up with more bodies than me.

Turning away from the window, I quickly dispense with the paperwork on my new admitees. Long ago, back in the real world, I would have made careful notations of all procedures and expenses incurred per patient. However, shortly after arriving to take over as the hospital’s director five years ago, I realized that bureaucratic red tape don’t mean [censored] here. Although armed convoys travel from the capital twice monthly with our supplies and support, so far only three administrators have ever ventured out with the provisions to take an accounting of our records. I order dinner for all twelve unconscious men, knowing Sweetie, the nightshift supervisor, will see that the rations are delivered to the hospital’s graveyard staff.

“Your escort is here, Dr. Angelo.” One of my interns is lightly rapping on the open door.

“Tell him, I’ll be right down, Darren.” It’s Thursday, Josh’s turn to walk me home from the hospital.

“Don’t be long.” Darren’s tone is politely urgent. “After what happened at the docks today, Moses told me crossroads is on lockdown after seven.”

<span style="font-style: italic">Of course, Moses would know. </span> The former Rez soldier might have technically switched sides—from killing Chee to saving them—but he’s the only one of my three interns with any combat experience. It was his idea to set up my escort service.

“Where is Moses?”

The man’s suppose to be on duty tonight. I had expected him to be the one who came knocking on my door.

“Handling things.”

Most days, when I ask after Moses, Darren will launch into a long, animated narrative detailing some breach of protocol that Moses is likely embarked upon, in a misguided effort to vault over the other man in the hospital’s dwindling hierarchy. But today, a flat expression accompanies his brief reply, and I know better than to question the young intern any further. Although I can’t help but wonder about the “things” Moses might be “handling” tonight, as a civilian doctor, I’ve always been reluctant to personally involve myself in the politics of this country’s conflict.

* * * *

“You mean neutral like Switzerland?” Moses wryly asked me on his first day at City Hospital, almost three years ago. I was outlining the emergency room’s triage procedures; and, as usual, my aversion to supporting any perspective that involved killing another human being crept into my orientation lecture.

“By the time their bodies reach my emergency room, burnt and bleeding flesh make it hard to distinguish who is Rez, and who is Chee, anyway.” I snapped back, looking to shock the new intern with a little graphic dose of our daily reality. However, at the time, I had no idea that Moses was dealing with his own tortured visions of comrades suffering a similar fate—bodies blown into small bloody pieces, beyond recognition, even to close family and old friends.

“That’s why I’m here.” The reserved man quietly countered after my outburst.

Over the years, I heard snippets about Moses’s prior association with the Rez, but the hospital gossip would usually trail off when I entered a room. The man, himself, remained tight lipped about his past; and, since that first day, always, “neutral like Switzerland.”

* * * *

“Then, I guess, you’re handling these things.” I pile the stack of patients’ charts into Darren’s arms. “Tell Dr. Wendt, that the generator is still on half power. I had to close A wing, and divert current to ICU. Sweetie has the list of patients who were moved. We’re hoping for a maintenance tech with the convoy tomorrow. Until then, we’ll just have to make do.”

“We’ll make do.” The urgency in Darren’s tone has returned. A small smile breaks across my face.

“I’m leaving now.” I firmly promise.

Sufficiently satisfied, Darren nods. “Moses says to take Second Street home.” Then, shifting his load, the young intern abruptly wheels round, and glides out the door.

I turn back to the window and the darkening city. The warm glow of the sun’s comforting light is being chased away by the creeping chill of advancing shadows. Covered figures race along streets and sidewalks, and quietly slip across study doorways. The sharp clanking of heavy bolts echoes down the empty street, their cadence tolling like a procession of funeral bells. The boisterous chaos of another hectic day at crossroads is slowly surrendering to the uneasy silence of another anxious night.


<span style="font-style: italic">..mi soon come </span>

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

I quickly alight into the bright shop, signal the shopkeep, and move to a table in the middle of the room; before I spy the solitary figure casually lounging in the corner. Although he is partially obscured by the shadows, I immediately recognize the man as one of a growing group of combatants, from both sides of the crossroads, who began bringing casualties to my modest home across the street, a couple months ago.

He is wearing a similar, serious stare to the one fixed on his face when he arrived at my back door early this morning. The young men he had in tow, many of them almost boys, looked to him with real respect and admiration. Apparently, he braved open fire to drag one of them to safety. I couldn’t help but overhear the talk, as they waited in my small makeshift hospital room.

He doesn’t look the hero-type. Hollywood would type-cast him as the perfect villain. A black sleeveless shirt is sculpted against his rippled torso. Bulging forearms lay lightly across his massive chest. A solid square head is perched atop wide shoulders. Wisps of dark hair escape from beneath a patterned red scarf, the only bit of clothing that distinguishes Chee from their yellow-topped Rez counterparts. Short, but immensely broad, the man resembles a T-90 battle tank; and like that war horse, his sturdy physique is well-built for combat.

I am staring. Eventually, I catch his own intent gaze. He lifts one bushy eyebrow and offers a lazy smile. The harsh lines of his rough face soften around his piercing green eyes. After a few moments, I feel a slight twinge of arousal when he doesn’t break the contact. Most men can’t stand up to my scrutiny. Apparently, this one isn’t like most men. After another long minute, I favor him with a wistful smile and coyly avert my eyes.

“We close at seven, Doctor.” The shopkeep interrupts with my drink.

“I know. I’m not staying long.” I tip the glass and drain the contents, savoring the sharp bite of tequila. The heat of the alcohol quickly spreads across my chest and mingles with the warmth of a rising sexual desire radiating from my lap.

“Is this seat taken?” Suddenly, the soldier is standing at my table. A mischievous tone accompanies his gentleman-like inquiry.

“No.” I smile and wave to the empty chair across from me.

He deftly removes a large weapon from the waistband of his dark trousers, slides into the hard seat, and reaches down to place the gun between his feet.

“I’ve been remiss in introducing myself. Kenard Quint.”

He holds out a tree-trunk arm and extends his massive hand. I pause a moment, before slipping my long, delicate fingers into his vise-like grip.

“I know who you are. They call you ‘Q’. I’m Lizette Angelo.”

He smiles broadly, baring a crooked grin and two missing teeth. “I know who you are, too. They call you the ‘Angel’.”

I abruptly draw my hand back, blushing at his use of the nickname settled on me, shortly after I arrived to take over at City Hospital.

”The boys mean it as a compliment.” His voice is light and lilting. He reaches forward and places his gnarled hand over mine, gently caressing my fingers.

“It still embarrasses me. I’m a doctor, just doing my job.”

“You do much more than that. No other doctor cares the way you do.”

The man is absently drawing small circles within my palm. His touch is feather soft. Yet, crashing waves are called up with each steady rotation. I suddenly twitch and shift in my chair. A moment later, relaxed by his ministrations, a deep sigh escapes my parted lips. I find myself leaning into the table and faintly purring.

“You know it’s dangerous here.”

His voice is still teasing. But, I sigh at the interruption anyway. Reluctant to end the quiet interlude, I don’t open my eyes.

“There’s danger everywhere in the city. Just walking from yard to shop is an adventure. Violence doesn’t care who becomes its victim.”

“I care, Lizette.” He interjects; and then, I do open my eyes. From the earnest expression on the man’s face, I realize he is not talking about trouble in the city.

I reluctantly lean back and pull my hand from beneath his, breaking the intimate contact.

“Am I supposed to be afraid?”
“Are you?”
“No.”

One corner of his full mouth rises, cynically. His deep-set eyes contract, desire ripples beneath their dark surface.
“Perhaps you should be.’ He casually counters.

I realize he is tempting me, expecting the appropriate reaction. But, I’ve lived at crossroads for five years now, nothing frightened me much anymore. He’ll have to do better than this.

“Maybe I should be asking you the same question?” I lightly inquire. “Just sitting here in full view of the open doorway—aren’t you afraid?”

He glances out the door, his eyes searching the empty street. Shadows caress the hard lines of his jagged profile. Beads of perspiration, illuminated by the shop’s fluorescent lights, glisten on his forehead. He turns back to me and the light fans across his stubbled cheek. Pressing his face close to mine, he captures my eyes in a steady gaze. The man reeks of restrained violence and uninhibited passion. I find myself quite intoxicated by the lethal mix of his raw, musky scent.

“Fear keeps the senses sharp. Let down your guard? That could be a fatal move.”

His cautionary words momentarily hang in the sultry air between us, and then are swept away by a rogue wave of impetuous desire.

“Call me fearless, then,” my voice is low, husky, “a more apt description than angel, by the way.” I offer a small, inviting smile.

“Maybe I should call you reckless, instead.” He lifts one corner of his full mouth, and decisively closes the short divide between us.

His lips are surprisingly soft. They lightly travel the full length of my lips, before he firmly cups my chin, and finally captures my mouth beneath his own. I close my eyes and surrender to the passion.

However, a moment later, the air is suddenly sucked from my chest, as he abruptly pulls his lips from mine.

“I suggest we consider a less public venue.”

I resist the urge to giggle. Although his tone is lighthearted, the idea of remaining out in the open and exposed to danger, casts his suggestion in an obvious light. But, before I can offer a solution, a small movement at the window draws his immediate attention. Quickly reaching down for the weapon at his feet, he unceremoniously shoves me under the table, and silently moves toward door.

<span style="font-style: italic">.... mi soon come. </span>

[Bandana]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

Lacy

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

I see someone else it still awake...

With his back pressed to the wall, Quint raises his pistol, quietly unlocks the safety, and waits. A dark colored shirt sleeve flutters past the opening. The soldier reaches out to grab the intruder, placing his weapon tight against the side of the man’s head.

“NO!!!! Stop! Don’t hurt him!” I scramble up from beneath the table and race to the door. Casually flipping the gun aside, I turn the terrified teen toward me.

“Jarod!”

The boy buries his head in my shoulder, heaving with silent relief. I allow the young man a moment to compose himself, before turning his face toward the bright light.

“What are you doing here?”

“I---I needed to talk to you.” The boy stammers weakly, briefly glancing at Quint. “I—I thought you were alone.”

The soldier mutters an expletive, pushes the boy aside, and searches the empty street and dark shadows, before turning an impatient scowl towards me.

“Take him home.”

Gazing into his hard eyes, I see the fear he spoke of only moments ago—and something else. But, it takes a minute longer to register.

He is waiting for someone.

Quite suddenly, I really am afraid. My immediate focus now on Jarod’s safety, I require no further prodding. Whatever it was, it was happening right here—right now. Without a backwards glace at the man, I push Jarod down the stairs, and shortly follow behind. But, just as I am stepping out into the street, he stops me with a shout.

“Lizette!”

I turn back to the dark silhouette framed in the doorway.

“Expect me at your door this evening.”

A small smile plays at the corner of my lips. For reasons of my own, I hope the man fulfills this promise.

Jarod and I hurry across the small street. But, as we pass my gate, and approach his front door, the boy abruptly stops in the middle of the walkway. My mind still lingering in the shop with Quint, I absentmindedly bump into him.

“Jarod? We have to hurry.”

“I can’t.” The tears he was fighting back, just minutes ago, come tumbling down in a steady waterfall.

“Yes, you can. Let’s go.” Mindful of the approaching danger, I give the boy a good push and quickly follow up behind. A few steps later, we are standing at Jarod’s door; and I am rapping on the wood frame.

“Mrs. Marsh? It’s Lizette. Please open the door.” It seems like an eternity. No one is answering my call. I glance back at the shop, and then down the dark street.

“Please Mrs. Marsh! I have Jarod with me.”

This time I pound on the door, and the urgency in my voice eventually draws a response. But, when the door is finally opened, I have great difficulty containing my shock.

“Get in here, boy!” The man standing in the doorway is over seven feet tall. However, his great stature isn’t what startles me. Craning my neck up to his towering height, I immediately recognize the patch over his right eye, an apparatus that I personally gave the giant.

<span style="font-style: italic">Nitey nite, bandi-- si oonu inna mawn </span>

[Nanook]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style



LACY!!!!!!!



Wonderful story so far...so looking forward to more!

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

Mornin' (((Nanook))

The giant arrived at my back door almost three weeks ago. Like many of his kind, he came pounding well into the early morning hours. After moving his massive bulk into the room, his four Rez comrades quietly slipped out the same door, reluctant to remain at the crossroads longer than was required.

Before removing the blood soaked bandages completely covering his face, I drew a healthy dose of morphine into a syringe--not at all that anxious for the slumbering giant to awake. He was too large for any of the beds, so I set up a makeshift surgical table that could be used on the floor. Holding the giant’s head firmly, I lifted his shoulders up with the bottom of my feet, and scooted forward to slide the table into place. After extracting nearly a dozen glass shards from what remained of the flesh around his right eye, the giant remained heavily sedated for two days. His comrades never returned, even once, to check on his progress.

Unable to move him from the back room, I setup a small sleeping area in the corner, frequently running back from the hospital during the day to monitor his status. But, on the third day after surgery, I reluctantly reopened my precise stitches, unable to save the organ.

When he finally awoke, his rage was uncontrollable. Quickly injecting a mild sedative, his thrashing eased. But, while he was still awake, in a calm, matter of fact approach, I described my treatment of his injury, pausing at the end of the little speech to let him grasp the ramifications, before quietly informing him of his permanent disability.

Stone silence followed my declaration. The giant’s grim expression remained fixed on his face for the next two days. On the third day, he vanished.

I did not expect to see him again.

* * * *

Jarod is still weeping a silent stream of tears. I grab the boy’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Despite the awkward position, looking up to the giant’s great height, I swallow my fear, stare directly into his one good eye, and demand, “Where is Mrs. Marsh?”

“I assure you, she is quite well. And if you favor your own continued health, you will both come inside immediately.”

The giant had not uttered a word during his entire stay in my small back room. Not even a ‘thanks,’ before he left that night. The smooth timber of his voice is so unlike what I expected. Although, his quiet urgency is very much like Quint’s.

I hesitate, never taking my eyes from his face, before gently pushing the boy into the room, stopping short of the doorway, myself.

“I’m going home.”

Not waiting for him to contradict me, I lean into the room and spy Jarod’s mother, standing near the kitchen, holding her wayward son.

“Mrs. Marsh?” The question’s meaning is obvious, but I don’t really care. I have no intention of going home, without assuring myself of Jarod’s safety.

The other woman nods, and gives Jarod a squeeze.

“Everything’s alright, now.”

I hold her gaze for a moment longer, before nodding as well; and then, moving back out onto the walk, without a backwards glance at the man standing in the doorway, I abruptly turn and hurry toward my gate.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

The giant’s words echo down the dark, empty street. I don’t turn around. A moment later, I cover the short distance to my home. Turning the key in the lock, I find myself stealing a glance across the street to the shop.

The lights are still burning, the front door propped open. Quint has returned to the table we shared in front of the door, not the one he was seated at, when I arrived.

I was being sarcastic when I inferred that someone could pass by and take him out. But, now that I was pretty such I knew it was not just anyone, the urge to warn him overcomes my own fear. Before I can change my mind, I take off across the street.

Mindful of being mistaken for someone else, I am careful to show myself, far enough away from the open door. The man merely looks at me, neither acknowledging nor denying my presence. I pause for a moment, and then enter the bright shop.

<span style="font-style: italic">run gawn fi coffee...</span>

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

“The giant is here.” Although I knew the man by no name, I was sure Quint would recognize his identity.

“I know. Across the street.” The soldier remains relaxed, merely nodding his head in the direction of Jarod’s home. “We have been watching the house all day and did not see the boy come out.”

“Watching the house?” I had intended to warn him. At first, I’m confused. But, on the heel of those thoughts, comes another, more frightening emotion.

“What is going on here?” My voice is even, but a hardness has crept into the tone.

The man sighs, and waves to the empty chair. I glare at him, and slide onto the seat. A wisp of breeze slips through the door, cooling the sweat trailing down the back of my neck.

Leaning forward, he stretches his arms across the small table, and carefully lifts each of my hands with his. Staring down at my long, delicate fingers, he gently brushes his thumb across a smooth palm.

“You are quite skilled, Doctor.”

His touch is soft—the barest of contact—but it draws up a heat that has me once again shifting in my chair. Struggling to stay focused, I abruptly withdraw my hands from his touch, and place them across my lap.

“We’re not talking about me.”

“I’m afraid we are.” He raises his head, capturing my eyes in a serious stare. “What did he tell you happened?”

“Nothing.”

The man appears to contemplate my simple statement. The silence weighs heavy in the still air. The breeze has subsided and the heat has returned. Suddenly, he shrugs his shoulders and leans back in the chair. “I believe you.”

“Why would I lie? What do I gain?” Suddenly leaning up in the chair, I passionately continue, finding myself asking the one question that has alluded all my own answers over the years, “What good is a doctor, at all, in this hell hole, when we appear to only serve one purpose—saving your life today, just to have you die some other day?”

He turns his head, looking past the open doorway and onto the dark street. “He should have died that day.” No emotion accompanies his statement. He could have been merely voicing his regret at having eaten fish for dinner instead of chicken.

“How easy it is for you.” Full of bitter regret, I rise from the table, intending to leave; but instead, find myself being rudely shoved underneath the table—for a second time that evening.

However, unlike the previous occasion, this time, gunshots quickly follow.

I immediately scoot out the other side of the table, crawl down the length of the bar, and fall into a fetal position in the corner. When the echoes stop, I cautiously lift my head, and turn around.

The table in front of the door is overturned. Its chairs scattered. Everything else appears in order. However, except for the shopkeep, who is peeking a head up from behind the counter, the room is now empty.

Quint is gone.

<span style="font-style: italic">mi soon come...</span>

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

I crawl back down the length of the bar to get a view through the open doorway. The street also looks empty. With reckless courage, I move to the front of the shop, stopping at the doorway, and peek out into the dark night. Although the stench of gun fire still hangs in the air, silence has returned to the street, nothing breaks the stillness of a dead calm.

I wait in the doorway a few more minutes, listening carefully for anyone lurking in the dark, before stepping out of the shop, and speeding across the street to my yard. Barely stopping to retrieve the key from the lock, I fly through the open door, slam it shut, and bolt it tight.

However, my relief is very short-lived.

“I need your help, Doctor.”

The giant is crouched in the corner of my back room. Nearly lost in his huge arms is Jarod. Dirt clings to the boy’s rumpled clothing. His body is still. Eyes closed. His pale face illuminated in the dark shadows.

“Oh god, no!” I instantly drop to the floor beside them, easing the boy’s small body from the giant’s arms.
“He’s not shot. He fell. I mean, we fell. He fell, and I fell with him.” He stammers.

“What do you mean, you fell?” I snap at the giant, before rushing Jarod to the exam table, and reaching for my medical bag. But in my haste, the case tips over and its contents scatter across the floor.

“Why doesn’t this stop?!?

The giant instantly drops down and picks up the instruments scattered at his feet. I ignore his movements, and grasp the side of the table, fighting to contain my exploding anger.

“Tell me what happened.”

Reluctantly donning the neutrality of my profession, I open my eyes; and, like I’ve done thousands of times in my career, begin the examination. Quickly reassured by the boy’s steady vital signs and lack of external injuries, I turn my attention to the giant’s tale.

“.. and when the shooting started, the boy fled out a door in his bedroom floor. I could barely fit, but somehow managed to crawl in the dirt to the other side of the house. We came out right next to your garden.”

The man swallows hard, holding back his own rising emotions. “Honest, it was really dark and I tripped on a plant and we fell. I must have knocked him out. I didn’t know where to go, so I brought him here.”

“Aren’t they looking for you?” The answer to my curt question seems obvious, but the giant gives me a bemused look.

“Why would they be looking for me? They weren’t shooting at me.”

The words stick to the end of my tongue, but I will them past my lips.

“Who were they shooting at?”

“Q.”

Suddenly, my attention is drawn to the table next to me. Jarod’s small hand is reaching for my own.

“Where’s my dad?” The tiny voice is soft, pleading.

Stunned by the revelation in the boy’s innocent question, I can only manage to squeeze Jarod’s hand, before moving back away from the table, and turning to stare at the giant.

Fatherly concern has stretched across the man’s face. He quietly steps forward, and his massive arms tenderly embrace his son. “Hush. Everything’s alright. We’re safe.”

“What about Mom” I mean, Bridgette?”’

With Jarod’s next revelation, I finally gain my voice. “Mrs. Marsh isn’t your mother?”

The giant turns and holds out his broad arm. “I’m sorry I brought you into this, Doctor. Sit down. I’ll answer your questions the best I can.”

Sighing, he moves to retrieve a chair. I automatically sit down, and clutch the sides of the hard seat. He kneels on the floor beside me. The smell of fresh dirt rises from his stained shirt.

“Bridgette is my cousin.” He begins, hesitantly, glancing at his son, who nods. “My wife was killed when Jarod was two. For the boy’s safety, I arranged for Bridgette to take care of him. The girl is the only parent he’s known. I did nothing to discourage that lie—until this morning.”

The pain in that confession is apparent. The troubled man sighs and lowers his chin to his chest, before reaching back, and lightly placing an immense hand on Jarod’s leg. The boy slides his own small hand beneath his father’s.

“I stayed away for many reasons, some of them selfish, but I always made sure he was safe.”

I look again from the giant’s dark hair and hulking frame to the small, slender, light-haired boy on the exam table. Although there is no obvious resemblance between the two, the grim expression on the man’s face is a mirror to that of his son’s.

“A lot of things have changed in the last couple of weeks.” The giant moves to touch the patch across his face, but stops halfway through the motion, self-conscious of the action. “I’m leaving the city, going south, and I want to take Jarod with me.”

The man’s involuntary reflex is immediately identifiable. Its motion finally prompts me to respond. “What happen?”

And then, the giant does lift a hand to his face, lightly fingering the patch covering half of his seeing world. “It was courtesy of the man you were entertaining tonight.”

I start to object, but the man interrupts.

“I don’t mean to judge your personal life, Doctor. Moses told me that you don’t like to take sides.”

“What does Moses have to do with this?” A million thoughts are racing through my head. However, above the din a single question is blaring loudly. <span style="font-style: italic">How did I get in the middle of this?</span>

“I’ve known Moses a long time.” The giant abruptly stands, and walks to the middle of the room. Sweeping thick fingers through his short, wavy hair, he pauses for a moment and then sighs.

“One evening, my wife Alicia and her mother were attending some kinda social function you women always seem to be organizing. You call it ‘An Event.’” One corner of the man’s mouth rises slightly. “But, it’s really just an excuse for you to get together and gossip. I told her as much before she left and she laughed at me, said I didn’t know how to enjoy life.”

A long silence follows. I shift uncomfortably in the chair. Finally, the giant lifts his head and glances at Jarod. Two haunted eyes fill the boy’s face, casting a sickly glow on his round, pale cheeks. I lean forward and grab his hand.

“Maybe that could’ve changed, if Alicia had come home that night. Instead, on their way back, they were jumped by a group of Chee. It wasn’t enough to just rob them of what little they had. These boys were looking for other sport.”

The giant stops again. His eyes fill with a sickening anguish, and his voice falls to a wavering whisper. “When they didn’t come home at their usual time, I figured they were having a grand time enjoying life, as Alicia put it. A little while later, there was a knock at the door. I thought the girl couldn’t find her keys again. She’s always misplacing those damn things. But, when I opened the door it was Moses.”

A tortured grimace spreads across the giant’s face. “He looked sick, really sick, like he just puked up his dinner or something. So, I ask him. ‘Christ man, what's wrong?’ And he says to me. ‘You have to come with me. Right now!’ I had no idea where I was going, but from the look on Moses’s face, I knew there was no way I wasn’t gonna follow him.”

Jarod and I lock our fingers together and lean forward, enraptured by the dramatic tension of his narrative. But the giant, surrounded by ghosts from the past, ignores his captive audience, now completely immersed in reliving the wretched tale.

“We were a block away when I saw the crowd. They were all standing around Alicia. When we got close, I saw she was huddled over her mother. Both women were beaten in the middle of the street.”

The giant abruptly begins pacing around the small room. “A couple of months later, I finally tracked down four names. The first three were easy, but the last one has been more devious. I’ve been hunting him for almost ten years.”

A long enraptured silence follows. The giant has led me down this dark path, but he is waiting for me to take the final steps. I don’t want to know—what I already know. But, before I can voice my objections; a shot rings out, quickly followed by the splintering of wood as my door collapses.

<span style="font-style: italic">likkle mo </span>

[Nylah]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style



This is what I am talking about

Lacy

[Nunya]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

Wow! Pretty intense!

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

((((Nylah)))) and (((Nunya)))

“I see you have company, Lizette.” Quint casually steps through the broken doorway, leveling his pistol at the other soldier.

The giant is unarmed, but appears remarkably relaxed. Raising his hands slightly, he moves safely away from Jarod and me. “You know the doctor is not involved. Let’s just leave this between you and me.”

“Wanna tell me why he’s here, Lizette?” Quint’s voice holds none of its earlier compassion and desire. The flippant question and sarcastic tone does little to hide the deadly malice lying beneath.

“Jarod was hurt and he brought him to me.” I place an arm around the boy, shielding him against my body. Then, summon up a courage I don’t feel. “I was attending to his injuries, when you rudely broke down my door. Whatever business you have with this man, I won’t allow you to conduct it in my home.”

“I believe you are in no position to object.” Quint evenly counters, waving the barrel of his pistol toward the giant. “I told you he should have died that night. I plan on rectifying this oversight.”

“Why?!?

Quint pauses at my anguished cry. The muscles in his square jaw flex. “This is business, Lizette. He killed my brother.”

The giant moves to object. “You and your brother beat two defenseless women to death. What kind a man does that?”

Already suspecting Quint as the elusive fourth, I turn to him, pleading. “Please—you can’t do this!” Then, foolishly move to stand between the two men, just as Quint squeezes the trigger.

Bitter smoke fills my nose and mouth. I expected to feel something when the bullet passed through, but there was nothing—except a persistent ringing in my ears. I glance over my shoulder at the giant. He appears unharmed. Then, I spy the dark bullet hole clearly visible in the white concrete wall directly adjacent to his head. The shot was pulled wide, barely missing us both.

Although I am momentarily stunned by the close call, the giant immediately recognizes his opportunity. Pushing me aside, he rushes the smaller man, grabbing for the barrel of Quint’s pistol. A violent struggle ensues.

Another shot rings out, chasing me across the room to Jarod’s side. I quickly drag the boy off the table, push him underneath, and follow behind. Holding the boy tight against my body, I close my eyes. I can do nothing to prevent the deadly outcome of the battle raging a few feet away; so instead, I start to pray for the courage to do what I was trained to do—save a man's life.

The room’s tiny sink suddenly smashes against the floor. I open my eyes and spy my stethoscope lying next to the table. Remembering the earlier accident with the medical bag, I scan the floor, taking inventory of the instruments still scattered there. My eyes settle on the slim drug case peeking out from underneath the cot across the room.

I abruptly turn to Jarod. “Stay here—up against the wall.”
“I’m coming, too.” Since the first gun shot, the boy has remained silent. I stare at the reckless courage growing on his face.

“No, you’re not.” At my insistent urging, Jarod finally nods, and reluctantly squeezes his small body up against the cold concrete wall.

I slide to the end of the table and tentatively peek out into the room. The two men have merged into a tangled mass of arms and legs struggling up against the far wall. Between loud grunts, a stream of threats flows from the pair. A moment later, the men crash together onto the floor. Quint’s arm is flung wide. In his hand is the gun, now pointing directly at me. I don’t dare hesitate a second longer.

Taking a deep breath, I leave the relative safety of the table. Sliding along the floor, I adroitly make my way across the room, reach the cot, and roll underneath. Clutching for the small drug case, I frantically rip on the zipper, pop out a syringe, flip the top off, and plunge the needle into the first bottle my fingers touch. My hands are trembling. The liquid is slow to fill. Finally gauging the right dosage, I steady my hand, carefully remove the needle, and toss the bottle aside.

Turning back to the battle raging in front of me, I observe the giant lying across Quint’s mid section. He is desperately reaching for the gun, which is now aimed directly at Jarod. Hard, harsh laughter erupts from Quint. His left arm is clenched around the giant’s neck, and the fingers of his right hand are frantically working around the trigger of the gun. The giant releases a savage cry and smashes an elbow into the man’s laughing face. Quint’s head snaps back and bangs forcefully against the floor. His hand moves away from the gun’s trigger.

Crawling out from underneath the cot, I plunge into the midst of the conflict. Sliding to the left of the dueling pair, away from the gun; I quickly reach Quint’s feet. The man’s back is heaving, trying to buck the giant off. His legs are wildly thrashing. Heavy shoes pound against the concrete floor.

Holding the syringe in my right hand, I reach out with my left and grab Quint’s bouncing leg. The second my fingers are wrapped around his thigh, I plunge the needle through rough fabric and into soft flesh. Half the dose quickly drains, before I am smashed across the face by his knee, and flung back to the floor. The syringe pops out and rolls across the hard surface.

The giant shifts his weight, and Quint’s fingers once again close around the gun. In one fluid motion, the grip slides into his palm; he bends his elbow, finds the trigger, and fires one round. The giant groans. The thrashing of both men briefly subsides.

“Dad!” Jarod is crawling out from underneath the exam table, moving toward his father. Quint swings his gun toward the boy.

“Back away, little man.” His voice is firm; but, I again detect the compassion lying beneath the surface.

“Run, Jarod.” The giant struggles up and heaves his great mass forward, knocking the gun from Quint’s hand. It slides across the floor.

Jarod stares at the weapon in front of him; then, lifting his head, the boy’s eyes pass over the two men and settle on me.

Tears well up in my own eyes, as I repeat the giant’s plea. “Run, Jarod.”

But Jarod pauses for only a moment, before reaching out for the weapon in front of him. A cold resolve has spread across the boy’s face. I recognize the grim expression as a mirror to the giant’s.

“Shoot now!” The giant’s breaths come in gasps. His strength waning. A large bloodstain is forming under his left arm. The only thing preventing Quint from rising up is the other man’s great bulk.

“No! Put the gun down.” I urgently counter.

“This isn’t your fight, little man.” Quint adds. His tone is soft, soothing.

The boy’s bright eyes settle on the soldier’s dark face. “You killed my mom.”

“No, not me.” His words are slow, slurred. The injection is beginning to take effect. “I—I tried… to save her.”

<span style="font-style: italic">mi soon come </span>

[neutral]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

Bwoy lacy,there are many talented writers on the dot com,but you are up there with the best of them,........gwaan choo.

[Lacy]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: neutral</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Bwoy lacy,there are many talented writers on the dot com,but you are up there with the best of them,........gwaan choo. </div></div>

Cho! Mi noh sey oonu comeyah chat nuff tory dem round disyah yawd, ((((( neutral))))) Mi haffi gi wan fi alla wi JA.com storytellers fi troo, eeh.

((((Wendy--di suss queen))))

((((jamdown3--di bashment hostess-wid-di-mostest)))))

(((First Human--di set-me-foot-dem-pon-di-verandah-fi-wan-likkle-chat empress )))))

And fi di res a oonu-- yuh noh sey a who mi chatbout.... JA.com

So--widout dat &quot;to be continued&quot; ting agwaan <span style="font-style: italic">(eeh-- mi chatbout BB )</span> --mi comeyah wid di end ah mi tale.....

------------

Suddenly, the bodies of both men are still.

“Put the gun down, Jarod.” My voice is calm, but firm.

The grip automatically slides from the boy’s hand, and the weapon falls to the floor. A stream of tears shortly follows behind. “Dad?”

“Help me.” I lean forward and together we rock the giant off Quint’s body, and onto his back. His head rolls to the side, eyes staring into the empty space. A stream of blood trickles from his mouth. His once-gray cotton shirt is stained bright red. A dark powder burn is scorched into the fabric on the far left side of his chest. I rip at the ragged edge of his shirt and expose the seeping wound. Before he passed out, the giant was gasping for air. His neck veins are enlarged. I reach my fingers into the hole in his chest, but I have already formed a diagnosis. The position and angle of the blood-clotted entry wound merely confirm it. The bullet, at the very least, collapsed the man’s lung. He drown in his own blood.

“You can fix him, right?” Jarod wistfully pleads through his tears.

I can’t look at the boy; so I lean up, grab the giant’s head, and pretend to continue my examination, buying time. Four different soldiers with a similar injury died in my emergency room this afternoon. Even with all the hospital’s tools at my disposal, I know I can’t save Jarod’s father.

“I’m sorry.” I finally choke out the words.

“No!” The boy has retrieved the gun and is pointing it at me. “You have to try.” His small body is racked with heavy sobs. The cruel pain on his young face distorts its soft innocence.

Silent tears escape my eyes and roll down my trembling cheeks. I have been trying—for five years, now. Trying to save as many, as I can. Rez and Chee. Too many die before I even know their name. I can’t afford to care. Shielding my personal emotions behind a façade of professional ethics is the only way I have been able to function in this hell hole. Although, with all this striving to remain “neutral like Switzerland,” I have no allegiance; but also, no friends, no family, and no one to cry over my body, when I’m dead.

“There’s nothing I can do.” My heart is breaking for the boy.

“Yes, you can! You saved him once. They call you the ‘Angel.’ He told me.” Wild desperation has crept into his child-like tone.

I glance at Quint’s prone body, remembering our earlier, heated conversation in the shop on this subject, and sigh.

“Not this time, Jarod.”

“Put the gun down, boy.” Moses’s large frame suddenly appears in the splintered doorway.

“Moses!” Jarod automatically drops the weapon, scrambles up from his seat, and throws himself into the older man’s arms. His sobs have returned in full force.

The former soldier glances over the boy’s shoulder and locks eyes with me. I press my lips together, slowly shake my head, and hold up my thumb and index finger. Moses simply nods at the familiar ER signal for “patient expired” and squeezes the boy tighter.

“I’ll take Jarod home and get help.”

I nod as well, and then turn to the other patient lying on my floor.

Quint’s chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow movements. I pull back his eyelids. That piercing green stare has been replaced by the vacant depths of dark, dilated pupils. I smell a heavy citrus odor on his breath—and suddenly become alarmed.

I quickly crawl over to the cot, searching for the drug vial I used earlier, and spy it lying against the wall. The label is turned toward me, and I immediately recognize my horrible mistake. Instead of an opioid sedative, I injected Quint with a lethal dose of insulin. <span style="font-style: italic"> I can’t believe this is really happening.</span>

Scrabbling over to the drug cabinet, I flip open the door and grab a vial of glucose and a needle kit. I rip off the sterile packaging with my teeth, and efficiently load the syringe. Dropping to my knees, I plunge the needle into Quint’s neck and empty the contents.

A half minute later, the man’s body violently convulses. I turn his head to the side, and he vomits a foamy mixture of bile and stomach lining. I wipe his mouth with the hem of my shirt, and then hold two fingers to the pulse in his neck. Still too fast.

“I’m sorry I killed you.” I lean over and tearfully whisper into his ear.

“Me, too.” He hoarsely replies.

I sit back and stare at his pale face. A wry grin has formed on his full lips. A glint of green is spreading out from his dark irises.

“Shhh. Don’t talk.” I place a finger lightly against his mouth.

“You don’t wanna hear my confession?” The words are heavily slurred. His effort strained.

“I’m a doctor. Not a priest.” I firmly counter, checking his pulse again. Slower, now. I glance out the doorway, hoping to see Moses. <span style="font-style: italic">Maybe there is time.</span>

“What’s the difference?” The man appears bent upon wasting the last of his strength in a useless, philosophical argument with me.

“I don’t view death as the product of divine intervention, for one thing.”

He tries to laugh, but his low chuckle quickly turns into a hard cough.

“Do you want to die?” I harshly demand.

“No.” That serious stare has returned to his solemn face.

“Then, shut up. I’m trying to save your life, for godsake.” Feeling a hopelessness starting to overwhelm me, I stare out the empty doorway.

“Not this time, angel.”

I turn back to the man. His mouth is turned in a resolute frown. Soft pity has filled his eyes.

“Don’t say that.” Large, salty tears are rolling down my face.

Quint stares at me for a moment, and then weakly lifts a hand to wipe my tears.

“I’m sorry, Lizette.” His eyes flutter and close. His hand lays lifeless against my hot cheek.

I push his arm away and lie over his prone body. All the pent-up emotions I have been holding tight within me come pouring out in a wave of savage angst. Sobs heave up and swallow my breath.

<span style="font-style: italic">What the hell am I doing here?</span>

Eventually, the vessel is finally spent and the tears dry. Only the wretched emptiness remains. With weary resolve, I pick myself up off the floor; and, without a backwards glance at the two bodies still lying on its cold surface, I walk out the door and into the empty street. Turning left, I fall into a steady stride headed towards the volatile heart of the crossroads.

<span style="font-weight: bold">THE END </span>

[Nylah]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style


you see yhis is what makes me miserable

you get all emotionally invested in the characters then story done

[Nunya]

Re: Likkle Story Time: Lacy Style

Lawd ma, tap blame yuh miserableniss pon de ooman! As if...