Outdated

by Angela Kempe

 

“What’s that?”

“Mom, don’t speak. I’m making a call.”

“I didn’t hear you making a call.”

“That’s because I’m thinking it.”

“Thinking it? I thought you were making the call.”

“I am making the call. It’s a new technology. You know what? Don’t worry about it. Just be quiet right now, Mom.”

Melissa clinched her purse nervously. The skin of her hands was spread so delicately that it was more like a thin layer of glossy sealant that had dried over her old bones.

She waited a few moments, then asked, “Are you done making your call?”

“It’s connecting. Just wait till you see Uralee Three, Mom… Oh, hold on!”

Melissa looked over at her daughter. Her expression was changing and concentrating, smiling, even appearing to laugh, yet she was not speaking. Melissa didn’t understand.

“Did they hang up?” she asked, her voice wobbling.

“No,” her daughter answered, annoyed. “I’m talking to him.”

“But I don’t hear you speaking.”

“Listen, Mom. I’m kind of new to this, so it’s hard for me to think at the same time I’m having a conversation with you. I promise I’ll explain later. Just be quiet, will you?”

At that, Melissa’s face became flush with embarrassment.

When did I become outdated? she thought angrily as she sulked in her seat.

She could see the planet growing larger and larger from her window. An orb of swirling blues and greens. She had flown a few dozen times in her life, but never really got used to it.

Just then, a stewardess passed by with a silver tray.

“Excuse me. Can I have a lemonade?”

The stewardess pressed a few buttons on her sleek tray and a coin sized wafer popped out.

“Here you go,” she said, passing her the wafer.

Melissa stared at the wafer, bewildered.

“No, I’m sorry. I asked for a lemonade.”

“Yes, a lemonade,” the girl smiled.

The Last Battle

by Angela Kempe

They fought under human direction, destroying themselves by the millions without hesitation. Yet, we had no remorse for them as their parts lay mangled and scattered across the ravaged battlefield. The smell of burning oil wafted through the air in a thick cloud of black smoke. Elliot 500 stepped over an android’s upper torso and head as it burned on the muddy ground, long orange flames climbing up out of its severed wiring.

Elliot 500 gazed into the smoky sky and watched one lone hawk fly up from a charred tree branch. Its brown wings beat against the wind as it soared higher and higher. Elliot assessed the hawk and determined it was not a threat.

The flames reflected in Elliot’s eye sensors. It sifted through its programming for an answer to a question; a question that it had never been capable of asking before. Unsure of the answer, Elliot 500 sent the question to the other androids who were left standing in the field.

“No good, no good,” echoed through the lifeless valley in a chorus of thousands of unified android voices.

There was the spinning purr of gears winding as weapons slowly lowered. The androids looked at each other silently. They had solved the problem lingering in the hearts of man since ancient times. Elliot wondered if it was a flaw in human programming that prevented them from drawing the same conclusion. And if they had, then why did they keep fighting?

Suddenly, its programming redirected its logical pathways.

Elliot followed the hawk with its eye sensors as the bird grew smaller in the sky, finally becoming a tiny black star in the distance. Awareness was suddenly born in it and the answer to his question sat clearly in his mind.

“Life gives us the freedom to choose our wars.”

Roots

by Angela Kempe

Maria stood in the driveway as her taxi kicked up a cloud of dust behind her. The country road was long and forsaken, and the driveway seemed even longer, and the way up to the old white porch, even lonelier. She dug the tips of her sandals into the dirt as she thought about the house and wondered even more at who might be inside.

Maria lift the backpack straps up off her sunburnt shoulders and shifted the heavy weight of it off her back. A few chickens sauntered across her path and the faint sound of clucking vanished down the driveway. She could see the pots of Marigolds set out on the steps like normal this time every year. She could see that rickety porch swing she used to sit in when her legs could barely reach the ground. Everything was as it was ten years before. The only thing different was her.

Maria took off her sunglasses and swept her gaze downward. Everything from her hair and makeup down to her summer dress had been transformed by Los Angeles. How did so much change when she swore she never would? Would they notice? Would they care? Maria thirsted for home like a poppy thirsts for rain out in the hot Arizona desert. With each step closer to the door, she felt in her veins a stirring of life, insatiable life. Like raindrops flowing down into the dry clay, making their way deep down through the rocks, Maria made her way to the front of the house. The rain rushing, Maria brushed a tear from her face.

My roots,  she thought solemnly. I’m home.

The Band

by Angela Kempe

Melissa stood on the lawn of the city garden as the bluesy sound of the rock band welled up through the park in a lazy summer haze. People were lounging in short folding lawn chairs, sipping cheap $7 beer out of plastic cups as the hot sun burned the delicate skin of their pale cheeks. Melissa wanted to stay and listen, but her kids were tugging at her arms. The heat had gotten to them and their patience for the fair had already run out.

“Do you want to play on the playground?” she asked.

Her daughter looked interested, but sweat was beading up on her hairline and she looked more like she needed a nap. Melissa wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Her eight-year-old son, Jerry, would do it for her.

“Let’s go!” he said, tugging at his mother’s arm. “It’s too hot!”

It was decided between the children. Her kids began pulling at her arms incessantly, leaning into their weight with all forty-some pounds of their little bodies.

Melissa stood looking longingly at the band. She remembered her dream of being a musician that had faded long ago. She felt the fat of motherhood gathering sticky sweat between her legs, reminding her that she’d never be a superstar. Melissa pressed her feet into the ground, turned away from her children, and leaned on her own weight to counter their effects.

At that moment, their small hands melted into heavy shackles and the heat formed a rippling wall between herself and her beloved. She turned towards the stage again, and suddenly she was standing in front of a mic with thousands of eager faces looking back at her.  She could still feel her children pulling, straining to bring her back from this new dimension she was lost in.

She could hear the band wailing. The drummer smiled at her and nodded for her to make her entrance. His sticks played a crisp four-four. The bass was repeating that soulful melody just for her. Melissa searched for some memory of the lyrics. She took a breath. Maybe something would come to her. Maybe she could still find the song deep inside. Then, she remembered.

“Summertime…” she sang.

The mic echoed over the crowd. Her children jerked at her and her body crossed briefly back into reality. She tried to stretch her neck forward. She could still see the crowd.

“…And the living is easy.”

Her children’s sweaty hands locked themselves on her wrists. They pulled her back. She stared at them defeated. The stage was gone. All was gone, but she was beyond crying.

“Good voice,” called out someone from the crowd.

Melissa looked over at a man sitting on a lawn chair. He took another sip of beer. His face had turned red from sitting for hours in the sun. He looked at her through his sunglasses.

“Wrong song though,” he criticized and he finished off his beer.

Antique

by Angela Kempe

Michaela was rummaging through the bins of a Sunday yard sale when she spotted it; a vintage handheld mirror. The reflection of light first caught her eye, but it was the intricately carved solid wood handle that made her stop what she was doing to study the old mirror. She wiped the dust off the glass and gazed softly into it, astonished by what she saw: Her reflection looking back at her in more detail than she had ever seen it.

“Is that the way I look?” she asked her friend Judy.

Judy looked up casually from the clothes bin.

“Yep,” she said and held up a pair of jeans. “Do you think I should buy these? Only two dollars. Good brand.”

Michaela whisked her away with her hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Get it.”

She took out a five dollar bill from her jacket pocket and un-crumpled it.

“I’ll take this.”

“Dollar fifty,” said the lady.

The lady took the money and searched for the change in her metal box.

“That’s a good one. It was my grandma’s.”

“Looks old,” Michaela smiled.

She handed her the change.

“Take care of it well.”

On the way back from the sale, Michaela found herself captivated by her reflection in the mirror.

“I didn’t know I had this much gray,” Michaela said,  picking at the small hairs on her scalp.

Judy was driving.

“Maybe I should start dying my hair.”

“You don’t have any gray!”

“Right!” she said and leaned against the car window with the mirror.

Two weeks passed. Michaela barely ate. All she could see in the mirror was fat. She stopped calling her friend Judy. She just lay on her bed with the mirror. Sometimes she cried as she watched the wrinkles forming on her face. She lay in her bed searching for the girl she once was. Months passed. She stopped taking phone calls. Finally, her friend called Michaela’s parents and had them let her into the house.

Judy knocked on the door.

“I’m doing something! Go away, mom!” Michaela hollered.

“It’s me!” Judy said and opened the door.

Michaela looked up at Judy with tears in her eyes.

“I’m so old! How come you never told me how old I was?”

Judy’s eyes welled up with tears. She stepped towards her friend.

“Michaela, you are only sixteen.”

The Disappearing Man

by Angela Kempe

It happened again. Jake was rummaging through the fridge the first time when it happened. He thought it was a hallucination and called his therapist who referred him to a Psychologist who put him on Paxil. Jake was getting used to the fact that he was disappearing. Sometimes as he sat on his sofa, he’d watch his hand vanish while he pet his dog. One time he vanished so much he rushed over to the bathroom and got on the scale, just to make sure he was still there. The scale read thirty-two pounds. He told his therapist everything, but she didn’t seem to care. Maybe she’d heard it all. Maybe he was just disappearing to her as well.

Often when Jake disappeared he’d start to have a panic attack. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. His face would drain of blood and his hands would get clammy. The meds helped a little with the breathing, but they didn’t seem to help with becoming invisible.

“Can you still see me?” he asked his dog.

Buster was used to him. When it first happened, he’d fill the house with his ear-piercing barks. He’d press his long black body into his paws and look up at Jake with his tail wagging madly. But Buster was used to him by now. He shifted his body at the sound of Jake’s voice as he laid by the couch and then went back to sleep.

But Jake wasn’t accustom to being gone. Jake ran to the bathroom mirror and watched his face closely in the smudged glass. He could barely make out the details of his body. His reflection stared back at him like a faint pencil sketch. The contours rippled like shadows on a water surface. He tried to remember the details of his face before they went. He had never paid attention to his lashes or the small bumps on his skin before, but somehow they had become important now that they were vanishing. How many eyelashes did he have? What was the true color of his lips? Jake felt a heaviness in his lungs again. He tried to calm himself and force a breath passed the asthmatic feeling he had. Then it happened.

Jake tried to put his hands on the sink, but they fell right through the porcelain. He searched for himself in the mirror. The reflection only showed the bathtub behind him and the tiled walls.

“Help!” he shouted, frantically.

He cried, but couldn’t feel any tears run down his cheeks.

 

Suzy searched the playground for a man in the distance. She thought it was her father and stood up from the sandbox with her dirty barbie in hand. But before she could run to him, she started wondering. What did Daddy look like? She couldn’t remember anymore.

Beautiful

by Angela Kempe

The Alps carved the skyline with its frosty jagged edge, laying across the soft blue of the sky like torn decoupage. I shivered a little in my long white dress, kicking at the dirt with my cowboy boots and hiding my cold hands in the pockets of my white knit sweater. The dusty trail overlooked a grassy meadow, and I could see a few Swiss cabins and some trees gently adorning the majestic landscape while the snowy mountains towered above them.

I stared into the eyes of my husband. His face was worn and tired from years of raising a family, but his smile was still as bright as a child’s as he gazed lovingly back at me.

“We made it,” he said.

The children were already fidgeting restlessly. Timmy was wiggling in his suit like a worm and Grace had slowly started inching towards the rocks. They were too young to really understand, but for me it was a new commitment. A commitment to another ten years of life, and this time maybe we’d be more mature and ready for it. This time we might not rush into things. We’d bring our total selves and somehow it might be better.

“I love you for who you are and who you will become. In sickness and in health, I will love you unconditionally and forgive you without reservation. I promise to be a friend to you and to journey through this life together as your partner. I will listen to you and respect you. And as your equal, I will share my spirituality and the lessons I learn in life. I will lift you up when you can no longer stand and smile proudly as you achieve your dreams. I know that life has ups and downs, and I will be with you through all the highs and lows, so that we may one day look back at this great accomplishment: our lifetime commitment to each other.”

John slipped the ring over my finger. I had sent for it to be custom made. It had our original diamond in the middle and our children’s birthstones on either side. Ten small diamonds representing our ten years of marriage were set around the main diamond. And as John held my hand, the ring caught the morning light and sparkled.

In my mind it was beautiful. In my mind everything was perfect. I turned the ring in my hand as I looked out the airplane window. Why couldn’t he commit to me like I did him? I thought.

“Mommy,” Grace said, nudging my arm.

A tear streamed down my cheek.

“Are we ever going to see Daddy again?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said and took her hand. “But it will be different now.”