Black Petals Issue #109 Autumn, 2024

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Editor's Page
Artists' Page
BP Guidelines
Mars-News, Views and Commentary
Alone: Fiction by Ed Teja
An Empty Tank: Fiction by Rivka Crowbourne
Anne of the Thousand Years: Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Contract Re-negotiation: Fiction by Martin Taulbut
Dark in Motion: Fiction by Jamey Toner
Hidey-Hole: Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Men, Like Flies: Fiction by R. J. Melby
Rats Are a Garbage Man's Best Friend: Fiction by Tom Koperwas
The Catalyst: Fiction by David Hagerty
The Farmhouse: Fiction by Fred Leary
The Bridge: Fiction by Jim Wright
Walk in the Park: Fiction by R. L. Schumacher
What It's Like: Fiction by James McIntire
Aired Teeth: Flash Fiction by James Perkins
Cackling Rose: Flash Fiction by Hillary Lyon
He Said He Was Drunk When He Dropped the Candle...Poem by Juleigh Howard-Hobson
Once it Begins: Poem by Juleigh Howard-Hobson
Unexpected Request at the Psychic Faire: Poem by Juleigh Howard-Hobson
The Wolf Man and the Sex Trafficker: Poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo
NONET Transformed: Poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Wolf Girl Relishes the Wolf Moonrise: Poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Attack of the Twarnock: Poem by Daniel Snethen
Reign of the Dragon: Poem by Daniel Snethen
And Renfield Eats: Poem by Daniel Snethen
Babylon: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Surfing Senators: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Sizar of Xanadu: Poem by Craig Kirchner
In Loving Memory of Our Aunt, Lisa Pizzaro: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Madeline: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
Cobwebbery: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
The Melted Man: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
Blood Tub: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
Jack the Necromancer: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
Dead Man's Body: Poem by Simon MacCulloch
As On Our Sinner's Path We Go: Poem by Vincent Vurchio
Beware the Glory: Poem by Grant Woodside
Scattered Journey: Poem by Grant Woodside
summer gold is only sand: Poem by Grant Woodside
you can't teach the wrong loyalty new tricks: Poem by Renee Kiser
House of Dark Spells: Poem by Sandy DeLuca
In My Pyramid Texts: Poem by Sandy DeLuca
Monsters Then and Now: Poem by Sandy DeLuca
Lord of the Flies: Poem by David Barber
Revenge Notification: Sophia Wiseman-Rose
When Hope Has Gone: Poem by Michael Pendragon
Witches' Moon: Poem by Michael Pendragon

Ed Teja: Alone

109_bp_alone_kellymoyer.jpg
Art by Kelly Moyer © 2024

ALONE

 

By Ed Teja

 

Stepping out of the van from the hotel, Jenny got her bag and stopped to stare. The airport terminal was jammed with holiday travelers.

She screwed up her face, gathered her courage, and stepped through the automatic doors to join the throng. She’d done everything she could online and now she wound her way through the packed and slow-moving line that eventually took her through security.

When she emerged in a crowded waiting area at the gate, she shifted her grip on her carry-on bag and took a deep breath.

She had over an hour to wait — to survive.

Long lines stretched out of every one of the coffee shops and restaurants, snaking all the way back to the seating area. People stood there, oblivious to the others, focused on their phones.

The sight of the crowds, the way people pressed in at the register where they placed their orders and paid the exorbitant prices the places charged, made her reconsider the idea of getting something to eat or drink.

The process she’d need to go through promised indigestion, even if the coffee sounded good.

Instead, she took weary refuge in the form of an empty plastic chair at the end of a long row of people sitting in plastic chairs, facing another row of humanity seated in even more plastic chairs.

Settling down as best she could, Jenny took out the novel she’d brought and tried to focus her attention on the printed page, but the story needed too much thought. The chaos around her disturbed that.

She had thought she’d braced herself for the crowds and the chaos of holiday travel. But it wore her down.

She had been among them, been one of them, for far too long — flying from California, heading back east, to Virginia. There, she had been crowded into her mother’s small house along with her brothers and their families and a constant rotation of neighbors and family friends.

Gathering the family was the reason for her trip—they observed the ritual of coming together for the holidays. And, of course, it was good to see Jeff and Tom again (although it disturbed her that her older brothers had both gotten heavy), to see their wives and kids, and, of course, mom. That was great.

She had arrived, and they embraced, and then she unpacked, telling herself that she was glad she had come, happy that she hadn’t given in to her concerns and distaste for crowds.

That delight lasted about an hour.

After that, the commotion, the constant buzz, began to eat at her. People bounced around plans (“Should we send out for pizza? Are we going to go to the park? The kids love the park).

There was no time to think or stare. She missed thinking and staring. Slowly, imperceptibly, her mood darkened, taking an oppressive and depressing turn.

Once they’d exchanged news, she had disappointingly little to say to them. She found it hard to take an interest in niece Suzie’s new ballet shoes (“Watch me twirl, Aunt Jenny!”), and feigning enthusiasm and excitement grew tiring.

Soon, she began ducking outside. Despite the cold (and how she hated cold) she needed a fix of aloneness, of quiet.

Unlike her siblings and their boisterous families, Jenny lived alone, if you didn’t count a rather large aloe plant named Fred. Her small house would seem like a silent mansion when she returned to it.

Not that Jenny was a hermit. No, Jenny liked people. She loved her family. She had wonderful friends. And she enjoyed them. One at a time, they were the greatest. It was whenever people came together en masse, when individuals merged into a crowd, they became for her, a different beast.

After endless hours of chit-chat amid the clatter of dishes, the murmurs of dozens of conversations, and the cries of children, she suffered the pangs of withdrawal. Like some smoker going out for a guilty puff or two, she went outside she gasped in the space, frosty as it was. And, like the smoker, when she returned, the cries of, “Where did you go?” gave her twinges of guilt.

No, not twinges. They were full-tilt pangs of guilt. Guilt that she hadn’t wanted to come. Guilt that she wanted to leave. Guilt that they might know, had to know, how she felt. Guilt over not being sufficiently interested in her family to overcome this.

The suffocation of guilt and that coming from the crowding fed each other and made breathing difficult. Having trouble breathing made being in with too many people claustrophobic. Ducking outside to capture a breath of fresh air made her feel guilty. She put on her bravest face, smiled, and felt like she was lying to her family.

And yet, somehow, she survived the weekend. She held her tongue, tried not to show that she would rather be anywhere else, and smiled.

She did a lot of smiling.

Heading home was the final round in the battle.

Although she was leaving her smothering family behind her, the crowding remained for the trip home. The trouble breathing, and guilt about not fitting in, not being able to move, other than being jammed into a herd (giving her the sense she was headed inexorably for a cliff)… all those feelings persisted, kept her tense. Finding it hard to breathe became the norm.

But this, she told herself, was the last leg. She could endure.

She sat in her hard plastic chair and closed her eyes, letting the murmuring wash around her and mask everything else. She could almost pretend she was alone.

“Jenny Elroy, please come to the customer service desk at gate twenty-three,” a voice announced.

Hearing her name on the public address system, having the message penetrate her consciousness, startled her. She’d never been paged anywhere before. Dazed, and feeling on display, she stood and went to the counter where a fair-haired young man smiled at her and cocked his head.

Oddly, no one else was at the desk. There was no line at all, even though every other desk was swamped.

“You paged me. Jenny Elroy.”

His eyes sparkled delightedly. Blue eyes. Welcoming, friendly eyes. He held out a hand. “May I see your ticket?” he asked.

“Of course.” She dug it from her purse. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” He glanced at the ticket and then a monitor on his desk. “We noted that you weren’t happy at sitting in a middle seat.”

She couldn’t remember telling anyone that. Had she complained to someone?

“I must have mentioned I’d prefer a window,” she said. “This crowding gets to me. But it’s all right, really. I’ll be okay. I understand there aren’t other seats.”

“But if there were other seats, as I understand it, you’d rather be alone?”

“Alone?” Was that even possible? “Well, I’d like to have the space to breathe.”

The young man chuckled. “Well, I’m with a special customer service group. We try to accommodate those who are not comfortable with some of the routine procedures. We appreciate that some folks don’t fit in well with standard airline protocols.”

That was her. “You work for the airline?”

“For a special group, not a single airline.” He did things at the keyboard. “And, if having space is important to you…”

“It is.”

“Then I might have an option for you.”

“That would be amazing. But how? All these people…”

“There are enough like you, people who need to be alone, that we have set up another flight.” He pointed at the terminal. She couldn’t see what he was pointing at.

“Yes! This one will be leaving right away. I should warn you that the flight time is a bit longer. We need to make two extra stops to accommodate our other passengers. And in that time, your views might change.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I need to know that being alone is truly important to you.”

“It is.”

“In that case, if you won’t mind being alone for some time, I recommend you switch to this flight. I have a window seat available and the seats next to you will be empty.”

Her heart raced. This was like winning the lottery.

“That would be so very lovely.”

“Now, this flight has a special rule: you can’t speak to the other passengers. They can’t speak to you either. But if that suits you —"

“That sounds wonderful.”

You had only your carry-on bag, correct?”

“Yes. It was just a quick trip.”

“Then, if you understand what I’ve told you, that it is a longer flight and there won’t be any conversation, I can put you on that flight. It’s boarding right now.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful.” Her relief astounded her.

The smiling young man typed some things into his computer and then handed her a new boarding pass.

“There you are.” He pointed to an open door. “There is your gate.”

Hefting her bag, she made her way down the jetway. A smiling flight attendant, who had eyes quite like the young man’s, wordlessly led her down the jetway and silently pointed her to the back of the plane.

Walking down the aisle to her seat, she found that the plane was half full, maybe even less. Again, given the crowds at the airport, the crush of humanity trying to get rides home, that came as a surprise. While sitting in her plastic chair she had heard a series of announcements telling passengers that the planes were overbooked and that good Samaritans willing to give up their seats would be given accommodation and compensation.

And yet, here was this plane with the incredible luxury of many empty seats. The few passengers had been spaced out as if someone had made an effort to give each passenger all the room they could. That seemed unusual, curious, and wonderful.

And no one was talking. There wasn’t a murmur.

Each person silently settled into his or her seat.

Seats A, B, and C in her row (twenty-seven) were empty. A, the window seat, was hers.

She pulled her travel pillow out of her bag and then shoved it under the seat in front of her. Grabbing the plastic bag containing a blanket from the seat, she sat down, tearing the bag open and spreading it over her, then buckled the seat belt over it.

She sighed happily as a mechanical voice made the routine announcements and the plane moved away from the gate. It taxied out onto the runway and was soon airborne.

As they lifted off, the flight attendant came by and, with a silent smile, checked her seat belt and moved on, leaving her alone.

“Alone.”

She mouthed the word, wondering if there was a sweeter one.

With her head pressing her travel pillow against the bulkhead, Jenny closed her eyes and fell asleep to the lullaby of the throbbing engines.

The young man had said there would be two stops, and in her deep sleep, she was vaguely aware of the sounds and sensations of the plane landing. Lights came on and, through one open eye, she watched a few people stand. They pulled their bags down from the overhead bins.

The door shut and the lights went out.

Soon the plane was airborne again.

 

# # #

 

Jenny woke from a thick and heavy sleep, cocooned by her blanket and wrapped in the steady low drone, the regular pulsing of the jet engine.

The light in the cabin was dim and soft gray. Across the cabin, on the opposite side, a single open shade let yellow sunlight dance across an empty seat and a tray table.

Shifting her position as she woke, she turned toward the aisle, looking, wondering. All the seats she could see were empty.

An aisle seat ahead of her had a blanket sitting on it and some trash stuck in the pocket of the seat back.

The seats on the other side of the aisle were empty too. Craning her neck around, she saw the entire cabin was empty and still. No one coughed or shuffled in their seats. Not a single child whimpered or cried.

The cabin was empty.

Opening the window confirmed that they were airborne. She saw little but clouds and, looking down, the outlines of foggy streets and the rectangular spots that had to be buildings were just visible.

The plane was descending, and the buildings grew bigger. The plane passed over a large area of concrete that had to be a parking lot. She could make out a few cars, then a large oval structure — a stadium of some kind.

Reaching for the attendant call button, she pressed it. The button depressed and the light came on, but there was no ding, no sound to indicate that it had done anything.

After a time, she got up and walked unsteadily down the aisle toward the back, where the bathrooms and the galley were.

If they were on approach, the crew would be cleaning, putting things away.

The galley was empty as well. So were the bathrooms.

As she made her way toward the front, the sound of the engines changed.

An idea flickered. She opened the door to an overhead compartment. It was empty. She opened another and it was also empty.

It wasn’t just the people that had gone. They’d taken their things with them.

How had she slept through the second landing and takeoff?

Stepping forward, into the business class, she took a seat, a large, luxurious seat, and buckled in. A grinding announced an adjustment of the plane’s flaps followed by the loud whirring of the landing gear coming down.

Turning to look through the window, buildings and roads grew larger — but the roads were empty. The engines whined and the landing gear clunked into place, locking.

She closed her eyes, as she always did, for the touchdown, anticipating the squeal and the brief skid that reunited the ungainly craft with the ground.

The plane slowed, turned, and taxied to the gate.

Jenny sat for a moment, listening to the whine of the engines winding down.

The door clattered and light poured in from the jetway. Still, she sat, wanting to savor the sense of having this plane all to herself.

Finally, she got her bag and walked out. There was no crew standing at the door to thank her for flying with them. No one else carried a bag down the empty jetway. She strolled into an empty waiting that waited to be filled. She went past empty concession stands, open for business but without staff or customers. She traveled down empty escalators and along empty moving sidewalks until she reached the automated doors, and heard the whizzing as they opened—for her alone.

The terminal was exactly as she remembered it, except that no one else was in it.

She looked both ways at the empty arrival area, crossing the street to the long-term parking, where she’d left her car — the only car. She bought a ticket from a vending machine to cover the weekend parking fee and drove to the exit where she fed it to a machine that raised the gate and gave her access to the highway, which flowed out and merged with a completely empty freeway.

The tension rushed out of her neck and shoulders. She rocked her head, noting how light her body seemed — as if gravity had been discounted for a time. Then, playfully, she changed lanes without signaling, as if testing the idea that the freeway was as packed as it normally was and that somehow she couldn’t see anyone else.

But it was indeed empty.

“Finally alone,” she said.

Hearing herself saying the words, having them rise above the background road noise and fill the car, made it more tangible.

The intangible (aloneness) became palpable.

Of course, eventually, she would get lonely. Sooner or later, she would miss having someone to talk to, someone to touch.

But that would come later. For now, for some space in time, for some reason she didn’t understand (or care to question), Jenny had the space she needed. She was truly alone.

And delighted.

 

THE END

Ed Teja is a lifelong writer and traveller who writes about the people that he meets between the cracks and outside the margins of normal life. His cross genre stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines that, interestingly enough, seem to focus on crime and dark things. You can find his books at www.edteja.com

Kelly Moyer is an accomplished poet, photographer and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter. Her collection of short-form poetry, Hushpuppy, was recently released by Nun Prophet Press.

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