Paul Rehac is a writer of fiction: flash, short, and longer forms. He once wrote a poem but stopped shortly after receiving the restraining order. His flash fiction piece _the chance_ is set to appear in the upcoming "Voices from the Herd" Buffalo Anthology and he has read this and other works at literary gatherings around WNY, including: Empire State College Literary Cafe, The Screening Room, and for the 2009 Infringement Festival. He writes horror/fantasy fiction about ghastly monsters and alien landscapes that reflect the realities of the absurd world in which we all live.

Track 9.33 (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

…April—she was bluest. Toyed with my emotions, flashed me hope and then stole it back like some god damned Three Card Monte dealer. Click clack. The lights flicker, they hypnotize if you’re not careful. Down here you’ll be careful. Click clack.

I have been hiding all winter; I doubt I’ll ever make it up top again. I had not guessed there would be this many. Dreams of summer lakes-- mountain vistas do nothing to warm my aching body, memories taunt with the idea of warmth, stirring desires that cruelly mock. So much rock. Click clack. Water pours out of the walls, tearing at moldy old concert posters. Was that Styx at the Palladium? Grand Illusion Tour, I’m sure.

We’re all hypocrites now -- doesn’t matter any more what you read or write. I keep wandering from car to car looking. Click clack. A familiar face? No, not familiar but relative. So many. I pass a man and his dog hearing the growls of discontent, unsure of the origin, I pass quicker. Does this line never end?

“Mal?” I cried to one I knew, “Mal, it’s me, remember, don’t you remember? Kids in schoolyard… we fought togeth… don’t… Mal?” No response – back turned, kept walking, another phantasm in the crowd. Click clack. Damn green light -- be careful down here. The car sometimes slows, like it’s pulling into a station, but it feels like it will never stop. I continue to wander forward, car to car.

“She’s gone…”

I heard the voice before ever noticing that pile of rags and dirt. It speaks with a voice of Lucky Strikes from a yellow cloud. Man—woman-- does it matter? I stare down. The voice speaks past me. Back to back-- ciphers crafting castles made of sand.

“She was here, like they promised, they all… promised.”

“Who?”

“Messiah, Dagda, Maitreya, Mahdi, bet you didn’t see that coming, yes she came, and went, Gogmagog.”

“What …?”

“They all talked about it, all of them. Waited on some… some god. But, she came and they treated her like… well, like they treated every other black woman. She said, ‘No mas’ … then skedaddled.”

“But?”

“No, she jus left. Can’t blame her. Now we are all of us alone.”

The sibilance of that voice annoyed me, I wanted to get away. I asked, “What is it that you want?”

Another cloud of xanthous… cough, cough, “…death.”

I left Sib in the midst of a coughing fit that threatened the expulsion of that one remaining lung. I walked away as I was assaulted by the smell of freshly dug earth. I scraped mud from my boots and moved on to the next car.

I cried then, thinking about all who have left me. They all went away eventually. I just wanted peace, some time to myself, to gather my thoughts and prayers and doubts and fears. But they just give you what you asked for, eventually. Click clack. Click clack. Click clack. The cruelest I ever knew…