Posts on this prompt:

Cocktails for Two and Death For One by BandE

Smoke up !! by Jagat

Things Ain’t What They Were by FM Stutz

June by FM Stutz

Howie rose from the infernal machine and wiped the sweat from the his chin with the hand that held the wrench. The sun was hot even for June. He pulled his cap off, stroked his hair back, and then replaced it as he started toward Old George, who he just noticed leaning on the fence next to where he’d tied off his horse. Howie was glad to see his neighbor, especially of late; it had been too long since he last had.

“George!” he said as he held out a hand to help George hop safely down from his climb over the fence.

“Heard the old girl went. Thought I’d stop by.”

Old George was a bean pole with big ears, big hands, and big feet wrapped in overalls, and you couldn’t ask for a better friend. Howie escorted George over to the damned contraption that had stopped pulling the water up from the ground the day before. Howie would like to take a sledge hammer to it.

George examined the pump, “You check the seals on the gaskets?”

“Was just about to.”

They squatted and George watched Howie resume on one of the remaining bolts. When that bolt was out, Howie started on the next one. That’s when George said, “How’s Ella?”

Howie kept turning, “About the same… Maybe a little more so.”

It was only June and already the year had had enough misery in it to just quit early—if only they’d be so lucky. The millenium was 78 years away, thought George.

George said, “President’s gonna give a speech on the radio tonight. Why don’t you and Ella come over for it? In fact, come on over for supper and stay for the speech.”

Howie and Ella hadn’t done that in four years, not since the first of three miscarriages. This last one was even more brutal because this one had equal amounts of fear and hope. The first had been all joy, no fear, no need for hope. The second one was when they’d learned of Ella’s condition, but this third, this third one had almost made it. Almost. But three months ago, fear and hope were drowned by grief. And then yesterday the water dried up.

“I’ll see if I can get her out of the house.”

“Well,” said George, “That’s what she needs to do. It’ll get better, you’ll see.”

George knew about that.

George’s son, Lionel, had died over in France two years earlier, some new gas weapon. Lionel hadn’t just been George’s only son, he’d been George’s best friend, his greatest accomplishment. George knew about laying around waiting for the sun to dry up. What a gawdawful pot of wickedness that whole thing was, and he hoped it would end as soon as the president kept promising.

Howie got the cover plate off, and they both looked at what was left of the old gasket. George said, “Damn.”

“Yeah, it’s shot. But at least we can still hope it ain’t the water—I was afraid it might be like Roger’s”

Water had been scarce of late. Roger Lee, just on the other side, had packed it in when his fourth well gave out. Roger had said either way he wasn’t farming, that it was either spend all his time looking for water, or quitting and living in town with his brother’s family—he chose to quit.

George rose and helped Howie up, and then he said, “Hitch the wagon. I’ll ride in with you. We’ll get her fixed, you’ll see.”

It still might be the water, they both feared, but seeing that busted, rotted gasket gave a little hope that it wasn’t. Howie didn’t know if the old buggy would even get them there and back. And even if it did, for all he knew he was fixing a pump atop a dry well, like Roger’s.

“Come on,” encouraged George seeing the doubt on Howie’s face. He put his hand on Howie’s shoulder and patted it.

Howie fished a crumpled pack of tobacco from his pocket, and the papers and a half-spent book of matches. They leaned against the fence by George’s horse while Howie tapped a pinky-sized finger of tobacco into the first paper’s crease. He handed it to George and then went to work on his own. George rolled and then licked the lip and Howie handed over the matches. George would wait until Howie’s was done before he spent another scarce match.

As he waited, George thought about the last few years, how brutally hard they’d been. Drought, sickness, war, scarcity of needed things almost to the point of famine. He’d lost Lionel in the trenches over there; Howie and Ella had lost three kids. Ella had gotten the bug that had killed so many, and while she was lucky to be alive, losing three babes had pretty much wrung the desire for living out of her. But it was probably Howie’s gasket that was the problem, and there was a fair reason to hope the water was down there waiting for an invitation to keep the year’s crops going.

When Howie’s was rolled, George burned a match and lit it, and then his.

George puffed as he shook the match out, “Ain’t even half done yet and this year has been hard enough for two.”

Howie puffed, too, his free hand folded in the crook of his other elbow. “Can’t wait for this damned year to end. I’m hoping next year will be better.”

They watched Howie’s cabin from yonder, knowing that Ella was lying in it waiting for the sun to dry up. The Millinium was 78 years away, but neither George nor Howie would live to the turn of the century, and neither had children who’d live to usher it in, either. Seemed like children were in too short a supply as well these days.

Howie puffed, and then agreed, “I’ll be glad when ’78 is done, too. Let’s hope ’79 is a better year…”

Wayne and Parker were happily surprised when Parker lowered the pitcher to see that Kent had decided to show up after all.

“Kent!” said Wayne through the cigarette, “I thought you had a thing tonight—sit down, sit down!”

Parker scooted over so that he wasn’t directly in front of Wayne, and Kent sat, “Decided to blow it off. I’m getting too old to keep smiling through those things.” Parker filled Kent’s cup, and they each drank and started on the refills. The pitcher was out by that point, so Wayne waved at the bartender for another.

Kent said, “Better make it two.”

“That bad, huh?” said Wayne.

“Age,” added Parker, “Mary’s just hitting her stride, but, honestly, after a full day I’m just ready for a decent dinner, a comfycouch, and a good remote—and by ‘good,’ I mean, ‘sensible.’”

Kent laughed for the first time that day, “Yeah, mine’s like sending a satelite into space every time I adjust the volume or change the channel.”

Wayne said, “And when did we go from turning a TV on to booting up a TV? Soon we’ll all be ‘booting’ the lights in the room on.”

They all laughed at that.

Wayne asked the late-comer, “How’s Lo?”

“Lo’s Lo. You know how she is. She went to see some movie with her friends.”

Parker twisted in his seat to see how the replacement pitchers were coming along. They were coming, so he returned,“What did she go see?”

“Some movie about vampires and werewolves—I couldn’t really tell you which one.”

Wayne said, “They’re all about vampires and werewolves these days. Next will be trolls and pixies—not the good kind who dress nice and skip to work. I’m talking about actual pixie pixies.”

The beer came and they were damned glad of it to the point of making relieved grunting noises. Parker immediately started pouring. Then a thought occurred to him as he stood to pour Wayne’s, “What’s the difference between a pixie and a fairy (not the good kind, but the little glowy things that put the dew on grass)?”

None of them knew. There had to be some kind of difference though, didn’t there?

Parker shrugged and decided he didn’t really care, “Not like it matters. How’s work going?”

Kent downed half his glass, belched, and then said, “White’s riding my ass like I was a two-dollar hooker. Kent, make copies; Kent, where’s my coffee? Kent, drop trou and pick up my pencil—that guy’s way overdue for the glue factory.”

There was a loud but muffled squeal of some kind of music from the street. Kent craned his neck, “Three white kids in a shoe box with donuts for wheels—when did that become popular?” He turned to Wayne, “You’re not driving one of those, are you?”

There was almost a daring stare.

Wayne waved his hand at the joke, “No way. What gas shortage? I’m getting two gallons to the mile and loving it. Richard’s looking at buying one, though.”

“—Richard?” said both Parker and Kent. Parker added, “When did Birdie start going by ‘Richard’?”

“When the new administration came in. He’s talking about getting married now that it’s legal.”

“Married?” said Kent, “Guys like us don’t get married, pal. It’s against the code.”

“Yeah,” said Parker, “What’s this talk about getting married??”

Wayne held his hand up to reassure them, “I said he was talking about it. Never said I was down with it. He knew what this was. Besides, what does that mean anymore?”

The other two thought it was a good point about a bad reality, and they acknowledged it by finishing their beers. This time Kent poured, “I’ll get the next two. By the way, what is this?”

“Some microbrew, I think,” said Wayne, “It’s not bad, actually.”

Kent wasn’t impressed and Parker was ambivalent—it was beer. Kent said, “Remember when you didn’t even have to choose? You could just say, ‘beer’ and get some piss brew worth drinking?”

Wayne said, “Remember when coffee was bitter and caused heartburn? Now, that was coffee!”

“And,” said Parker, “You could just make it yourself. Three-J took out all the coffee pots at work. Now we gotta buy our own.”

Kent said, “At least you still got desks. We got cubes—I hear there’s a big piece a cheese at the other end of it.”

Parker added, “Yeah, it’s called the restroom. You have to find it before they let you use it.”

Wayne said, “Now everyone’s putting in those ‘unisex’ bathrooms—you know what ‘unisex’ means, right? Sex among one. I was always told you’d go blind for that kinda thing.”

“Yeah, we got those, too,” said Kent, “At first, I thought, you know, that it was nice that they provided a room just for that activity.”

“I bet it cuts way down on H.R. issues around the office,” said Wayne and they all laughed.

Kent downed his refill and groaned, “Everything’s unisex these days. You ever notice that? You look on the TV and every guy out there is getting his ass kicked by some model in high heels—”

“Or getting his ass saved by one,” said Parker, “I noticed that, too—what’s up with that?!”

Yeah, the three of them oughta know.

The bartender was at the table by that point with a modular phone. He said to Kent, “Apparently, your cell phone is off, Clark. Mayor says some goober named Luthor broke out and is threatening to do some fool thing or another, and all the models are out on a swimwear shoot.”

Parker started to rise, “I’ll get this one, Kent. I still have the suit on under this and you look like you need another beer.”

“Naw, you two stay. I was still looking for an excuse for blowing off that thing tonight anyway. Pete, give Mary Jane my love. Brucey, don’t you ever sell that jalopy with the tailfins, man. And tell Dickie I said ‘hey.’”

“How much?” I blabbered into my cellphone. I don’t know why I asked the question. I would have given anything.

I was running out of breadth, just sitting cramped on the corner of the room. I needed no lights, even dim light was too much for me. I needed a fix desperately. It had been two days now and I wanted nothing else in life, just a little black clay.

Five minutes after the call, I somehow managed to stumble down to the secluded location where I would finally get it. As the guy came nearer, my heart beats rose. It was a fluid exchange of needs – cash for hash. It went on so smooth, I was almost ecstatic.

But then, two lights shone from nowhere and a vehicle sped towards us.

Someone shouted, “Fuck, Fuck .. Run!”

I ran, not looking back even once. You never look back, it always slows you down.

I knew where exactly to reach. Then, there will be light. An impending expectation of delight gives you strength to sustain, just long enough. I couldn’t walk straight but ran like a rat.

Reaching the corner of the beach, into the rocks that went up within the safety of a dense undergrowth. The moonlight was enough to get me through my job. Gasping out of breadth, I took out a cigarette and unrolled it. I had done it so many times, it was like second nature.  

Shit, the lighter was out of fluid. I tried scratching hard with my thumb. The trembling hands did not help either. Just once, I prayed. I don’t believe in God, but whatever works. As if answered, the fire came to life. The clay was hot and powdered and the cigarette rolled back again and lit. Finally, the wait was over.

The beach and the ocean somehow went down my eyes and the stars came up. I took a drag and smoke came out in rings. As the wisps became thinner and the rings became larger, the stars on the sky faded, and then, there was whiteness.

Ah, it was nirvana.