Melissa R. Mendelson

New Short Story: Who Carries The American Voice?

2019-12-17T11:34:00.000-05:00

Who Carries The American Voice?

David Levitz was fifty-four years old. He was married twice and has three kids, two boys and one girl. He loved wearing work boots and cotton plaid tops. For years, he refused to grow a beard, but now he enjoyed running his fingers through his long goatee. When he was not working at the hardware store, he was spending time with his family, and when he was not spending time with his family, he was always out, helping the community. It made him feel like a better person, maybe even cleansing some of his mistakes from back in his youth.

David Levitz wasn’t much on Religion. He acknowledged his roots. He observed some holidays. He gave his children free will to do as they pleased, and the holidays were always filled with love and laughter at home. He donated to Christian Charities. He welcomed Jehovah’s Witnesses. He believed that we are all created equal, but there was one faction that did not see it that way. Their biased climate melted into his reserves. Their narrow view on their beliefs intruded on the lives of so many others, igniting the pathway to Hate, and that’s why they were all paying the price.

At eleven-thirty on a Monday night, David Levitz received a phone call from the American Voice. He was hereby notified to attend a hearing in Rhode Island. If he failed to appear, he would be arrested. There was no letter in the mail regarding this hearing, and David wrote it off as a joke. The next day, he was pulled over on his way to work. The police officer walked up to his window and handed him a pink slip. The pink slip had the information for the hearing, and David realized that it was not a joke or a scam. He had to go to Rhode Island, and that thought filled him with dread. But he wrote it off, telling himself that it was a mistake. It was all a misunderstanding.

David Levitz’s heart sank as he sat in the well, a space between the counsel table and the bench. The judge ignored him as he reviewed his file, his life history, his roots. The prosecutor sat in his chair with a sadistic smile shining from ear to ear. There was no defense. There was one man dressed in a business suit near the doors, arguing on his cell phone. He was trying to reach someone in government, but no one would take his call. They were either too afraid or too corrupt, and the man in the business suit looked at David. David’s heart sank even further. Something told him that he was never going back home.

David Levitz resigned himself to whatever fate was coming. He spotted a few from that faction that started all this. They were so oblivious that it angered him, and David hardly got angry. He focused his attention elsewhere and stared at those waiting in the jury box. At first, he thought that they were his peers to judge him. He looked closer at their expressions of anxiety, frustration and fear. They were just like him. They too received the call, and they too were forced to come here. And they would be subjected to the same fate, but why them? Why him? That made him even more angry.

The prosecutor stood. He stretched outward like a vulture, clearing his beak. He took the file from the judge and flipped through it, but the determination had already been made. David was guilty. They all were, and the doors to the courtroom opened. Police officers walked in, and David realized with fear that they were there to escort him and the others somewhere away from their homes, their lives, and their families. There was no room for rebuttal.

David Levitz felt like he was transformed into a child. He had no voice. No rights. He was being scolded for his beliefs and his roots, but the man described to him was not him. It was a caricature of their own design, and what gave them the right to create such a grotesque image? If they wanted a real reminder of who belonged to this country, they should take a closer look at history. They should be reminded of the Wounded Knee Massacre and what’s left of the Native Americans living out their lives in reservations, but they wanted to forget. They wanted to rewrite history. They wanted the future to belong to them, but it was a futile cause. David realized as he sat there, allowing them to determine his fate that a decision has to be made. David smiled, causing them to hesitate. Who carries the American Voice? We do.

Short Story: Last Stop Before Purgatory

2019-12-15T13:47:00.003-05:00

Last Stop Before Purgatory

Melissa R. Mendelson

“Good evening. This is Allison Heidenreich reporting from Grand Central Station. The military has dropped off the last group, and we are waiting for the buses to arrive. There is a lot of fear in the air. A lot of crying and praying. Many are asking why they were brought here. Many want to go back home, but the president has defied the governor’s order of protection. And barely into the new year of his re-election, the president has declared deportation for people, who have lived in this country for generations. There are protests outside in the street. Rioters clashing with police. The death toll continues to rise. It is sheer madness. All because the president has deemed this group of people’s Religion as a Nationality, and that Executive Order is being referred to as the Presidential Trojan Horse.

“Excuse me. How do you feel about this horrible situation that is unfolding here?”

“I voted for him. I trusted him. Everything he said was a lie, and nobody did anything. Nobody stopped him, and now we’re here. I don’t know where my family is. I don’t know where I’m going except that I’m being taken away from my home. This country is my home, and nobody is doing anything to save us.”

“Thank you. This just in. The buses have arrived. A state of emergency is still in effect, and the military is now escorting everyone onto the buses outside. Excuse me. Sir, where are they being taking to?”

“I’m sorry. We can’t disclose that information. Come on, everyone. Onto the bus. That’s an order.”

“These poor people are not even fighting. They’re just following the military, who are following the president’s orders, and there is no telling what is going to happen to these people when they leave here. This is Allison Heidenreich reporting from Grand Central Station.”

Short Story: The Future Wears Barbed Wire

2019-12-12T17:56:00.001-05:00

The Future Wears Barbed Wire

Melissa R. Mendelson

Mimi sat in the kitchen chair. Her cat rubbed against her legs, and she scratched him in-between his ears. The water in the tea kettle boiled, and she watched the steam slip out into the air. Her soft, brown eyes fell on the white landscape outside. The boys next door were having a snowball fight. One boy stopped to look at her, and her hand fell across her large belly. The baby kicked, and when she looked again, the boys were gone.

The tea kettle screamed. Mimi shifted out of the kitchen chair. She used the table for leverage, and she glanced at the microwave clock. Her husband had been gone a long time. She was waiting for him to eat lunch, but she could have two cups of tea. The baby seemed to like tea, and she wondered, “What was taking him so long?”

As Mimi let the tea bag soak in the hot water, she again looked out at the white landscape. A black van drove by. She flinched. Her hand tightened across her belly. The van did not stop in front of her house, and that should make her relax. It didn’t, and she looked at the microwave clock.

Mimi walked over to the phone hanging on the wall. She dialed her husband’s number. Her call went straight to voice mail. She waited a moment that felt like forever, and she dialed his number again. His voice mail answered, and the baby kicked harder.

Something touched Mimi’s legs. She looked down, expecting to see the cat, but the cat was on the table, cleaning himself. Mimi saw a pool of water. Panic started to set in, and she dialed her parents’ house. No one answered. She called her brother, but the call went straight to voice mail like with her husband. Where was everyone?

Mimi’s neighbors stopped speaking to her when the news broke. She thought that they were friends, but they treated her like a stranger. Even the children stared at her, and Mimi hated that stare. If only she had a car, but her husband had it. She could not reach him, so she dialed Beth’s number. She was the only one left that would acknowledge her.

“Beth, my water broke,” Mimi exclaimed as someone finally answered the phone. “I need help.”

“Beth is not here,” Beth’s husband responded with a harsh tone. “Do not call here again.” He hung up the phone.

Mimi did not want to call the emergency line for help, but she had no choice. “Hello? My water broke,” Mimi said as the operator answered her call.

“What is your nationality?”

“Did you hear me? My water broke. The baby’s coming, and I need help.”

“What is your nationality?”

“I’m American, damn it.”

“What is your nationality?”

Mimi slammed the phone down into its cradle. A rock flew through the window. Mimi screamed as glass flew around her and the cat. The cat ran off, heading upstairs, but Mimi gripped the kitchen chair, trying to breathe. She saw a note tied to the rock. She bent down but grimaced in pain. She pulled the note loose and opened it. It read: Go Back to Where You Came From.

Mimi cried, dropping the note to the floor. She looked at the microwave clock. It was so late. She knew that her husband was gone. Her family was taken away. They would be coming for her next. Her gaze shifted over to the mail on top of the microwave. A green card held her stare, and Mimi screamed out in anger. She was born and raised on Long Island. She belonged here, but the president signed an executive order, turning her religion into a nationality. He stripped away her rights with a swipe of a pen, cutting the chord to her homeland, and her hand tightened around her belly. How could she bring this child into such a hatred world? Maybe, she should lose the baby, but that thought cut right through her heart.

Mimi wiped away her tears. She composed herself, despite the pain. She reached for the phone, keeping her hand steady. She took a breath as the operator answered, and again, she was asked, “What is your nationality?”

“You already know,” Mimi answered.

“What is your nationality?”

“I’m a Jew,” Mimi said. “Now, send someone to help me deliver my baby.”

“Help is on the way,” and the line went dead.

Mimi knew that someone would be sent to her house, someone in a black van. They would not help her. They would deliver the baby, but then they would take them both away. They talked of the camps as a luxury complex, but Mimi knew different. History had found a foothold in the new century, and he opened its gates with a swipe of his pen.

Short Story: Sylvania Ave

2019-12-12T06:41:00.003-05:00

Sylvania Ave

Melissa R Mendelson

Soft moans wrestled against the bedroom sheets. Bodies entwined, melting into the other. Sweat and ecstasy rolled like waves crashing across bliss, and goosebumps were the cool chill kissing flesh. The moans and cries rose higher, building toward the break, but before the moment could come, her screams killed the dream.

Barry threw his headset onto the floor. He lied on his bed, soaked in sweat. His body vibrated and shook, and he was not done. He just needed one moment, one more moment, but she had to scream. And now that moment was lost, and he was frustrated. And she was quiet. Then, he realized that she was standing by his bedroom door.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I thought I heard gunfire.”

“That was years ago.” Barry pulled his covers over him, feeling exposed. “That was the Great Black Out when they were going floor by floor. Remember?” He held her stare, knowing that no one was home. “How about you go back to bed?”

“I want ice cream,” and she walked toward the kitchen.

“Mom, it’s only…” Barry glanced at the wall, and red, digital numbers flashed six a.m. “Come on. The sun isn’t even up yet.” Barry threw the covers aside and pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants. Then, he threw a black t-shirt over his chest. “Mom, wait.”

“It is not garbage day,” a robotic voice said. “We do not take the recyclables today.”

Barry ran over to the apartment door. He found his mother standing there still in her nightgown, holding a black garbage bag out toward the guard. She didn’t understand what the guard was telling her. Instead, she was fishing through the garbage, pulling out plastic bottles and offering them to the robotic man instead.

“Is your mother not well,” the guard asked Barry.

“She’s confused,” and Barry pulled his mother away from the door.

“I will need to report that.”

“No, it’s fine. She’s fine. She’s just a little confused.”

“Does she know what day it is?”

“I told you that she is fine,” and Barry slammed the door shut in his face. “Damn it, Mom. If they know, then you know what will happen to you.”

“Ice cream?” His mother still held the black garbage bag in her hands.

“Yes. Ice cream,” and Barry took the garbage bag away from her. “Azi, two bowls of Rocky Road Ice Cream, please.”

“Ready,” a robotic voice said.

“Who was that,” Barry’s mother whispered to him.

“Azi. He takes cares of us. He maintains the apartment. The lights. The air that we breathe.”

“They’re going to gas us,” his mother cried.

“No, Mom. They don’t do that anymore. Remember?” His mother started to cry. “Come on. Your ice cream is waiting,” and Barry led her into the kitchen. “We’re okay. Okay? We’re fine as long as we don’t leave the apartment.”

“I want to open the window. I need some air,” and Barry’s mother walked over to the window. She tried to open the window, but it was sealed shut. “It won’t open,” she exclaimed.

“That’s because it’s sealed, Mom. There were too many jumpers in the beginning, so they sealed the windows. All of them.” Barry glanced at the window. He hated looking outside. “Come on. Ice cream. Remember?”

“They’re going to gas us,” and his mother started to cry again.

“No, Mom. They’re not. They leave us alone until…”

“Until we burn,” and Barry’s mother wiped her tears aside. “Like your father. Like your sister. We have to be good dogs.”

“We are not dogs,” and Barry finally got his mother to sit down at the kitchen table and eat her ice cream. “We are human,” but Barry could not find the appetite to eat his food.

“They don’t see us as human,” his mother snarled. “And this is their humane way of keeping us under their guns. I hate it. I don’t even know who our neighbors are anymore.”

“That’s because they don’t let us outside of these apartments. We have to stay inside, whether we like it or not.” He watched his mother finish her ice cream, and then he gave her his bowl. “You’re not going back to bed, are you?” He watched his mother shake her head. “Well, I need a shower.” He glanced over at the apartment door. “You can’t go outside, Mom. They can’t know.”

“They’ll find out. Don’t you think that they are watching us now? They are always watching, waiting to bring us down to the basement.”

Barry flinched at that word. Basement. It used to never be a dirty word, but sometimes, the air would not smell so fresh. The stench of the dead, the burnt would creep upward and out through the vents to remind them all that death was just a push of a button. The floors above were limbo, waiting to descend downward into harsh reality because they won, and this was their humane way until the end. “Do you want to watch television for awhile,” Barry finally said, trying to push the bile back down. “Mom, tv?”

“Okay,” and she gave him a small smile. It had been too long since he saw something like a smile on her face. “Maybe, a game later?”

“Yeah. My friends should be online later. Azi, television,” and a spidery web emerged from the ceiling. It flickered into life, displaying fiery protests and policemen shooting into the mob. Then, the screen flicked into an ugly orange flag draped over the American eagle. He was going to speak to his people not them. “Turn the news off. Let’s watch something… Funny,” and then Barry remembered that most of the comedians were executed. “Something stupid,” and a Reality program started. He watched his mother smile again and race towards the screen, so that she could watch some woman talk about how wonderful her life was. “I’ll find something better to watch, but I need to shower first.”

“Okay,” his mother said.

“Okay,” and Barry kissed her on the cheek. He walked toward the bathroom door and turned on the lights. “Azi, run me a shower. Cold, but not too cold.” He glanced at his mother. “Mom?”

“Yes, Barry?”

“You’re going to stay inside. Right?”

“Right,” and she returned to watching the television screen.

Barry closed the bathroom door behind him. He held his breath and then punched the wall next to him. He walked over to the sink and washed his face. He gripped the sink with his hands and looked up at the mirror. He cursed at his reflection for the tears in his eyes. Those tears could not save her, and neither could he. But he was trying. He was trying really hard, but it was a losing battle.

“Okay, Mom. Let’s play a game.” Barry stepped outside the bathroom. He felt better and clean. He looked toward the television screen to see some other woman talking about how fancy her nails were and how expensive the jewelry was. His mother was nowhere to be seen, but the apartment door was closed. “Mom,” and Barry looked in her room. She was not there. “Mom?” She was not in his room or the kitchen or the family room. There was nowhere else for her to go. “Mom!” Barry looked at the apartment door, and then he realized that one of the kitchen knives was gone. “Shit,” and he hurried outside.

“You’re free. You’re free,” Barry heard his mother scream as she banged on the apartment doors. “Come out. You’re safe now.”

Barry looked at the dead guard slumped against the wall outside his apartment. The kitchen knife was lunged into his chest. He didn’t think his mother was that strong anymore, but somehow, she killed the guard. Now, she was trying to free the neighbors, and even if she succeeded, there were twenty floors below them. And there were twenty guards, and then there was the basement. Barry again flinched at that word.

“Mom, stop!” Barry grabbed her by the arm. “We have to get back inside the apartment.” He heard the chime of the elevator. They were coming up. When one guard went down, the rest snapped into red alert, and they were coming for them. “We have to get inside now. Come on!”

“But they’re safe. They can go outside now.”

“The world turned against us, Mom. He turned them against us. We have to get inside.” Barry knew that they were running out of time. “Come on!” He finally got her to the apartment door.

“Can you get your father for me? I think he’s downstairs.” His mother stepped into the apartment. “He might be lost.” She wrung her hands together. “Could you get him?”

“Yeah.” Barry glanced over his shoulder and saw the elevator doors opening. “I’ll get him,” and he kissed his mother on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Barry.”

“Azi?”

“Yes, Barry?”

“Lock the apartment door, and give my mother whatever she needs. I’ll see you soon, Mom.”

“Bye, Barry,” and she watched him close the apartment door.

Barry pulled the kitchen knife out of the guard. He held it tightly in his hand. He watched the elevator doors open wide, and the guards poured out with their eyes shining red. He waited until they were inch away, and then he dropped the knife to the floor. And the guards grabbed him and dragged him into the elevator.

Barry was surrounded, squeezed in-between their harsh metal. He saw one jagged finger push the button, B. He looked up at the top of the elevator, but unless he had super powers, he was not going to escape. Instead, he looked down at his feet, and he could feel the heat. He could hear their screams, but he wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t show defeat. When the elevator doors opened, he wouldn’t struggle. He stepped forward, and even the guards were surprised. And they were machine, and they followed him down the red mile to the boiler doors. And the smell of the dead, the burnt greeted him. At least, Barry would finally see his father and his sister again.