One Shot

Josh Anderson, Liz Cook, Bri Cutsforth, Sarah Graff, Dane Riggenbach

Choking
by Josh Anderson

Everyone in the room is silent as Mike paces the floor.  No one dares speak or move or even breathe too heavily.  He needs silence at these moments.  It’s when he collects his thoughts and reviews his strategy, pools all the pain and sacrifice and bullshit and channels it, focuses it. 

It’s an internal struggle—a cultivation of courage and strength.  It’s in his eyes—behind his dark pupils and busted capillaries.  No drugs here though.  Not even a cheeseburger or a soda for almost a year.  Only discipline, routine, and agony.  Few have what it takes, and Mike himself was surprised when he got the call for the middleweight title.  A shredded groin muscle took the original contender out of commission.  He hesitated on the phone.  He knew there were at least three guys above him in the division, but they refused to fight on such short notice.  For Mike though, it was a once in a lifetime chance.  He would have been crazy not to take it.     

He continues to pace in the small concrete room. His head is shaved, but his beard isn’t.  His skin is pale and tight.  His face itself seems to show his extreme physical condition.  His wide, chiseled jaw and sharp cheeks appear to have a six-pack of their own.  He wears a black mouthpiece, socks and running shoes, sweatpants over his shorts, a shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt with dozens of bright logos and brand slogans.  He tries to ignore the broadcast on the flat-screen behind him and the cameraman circling the room.  He tries to ignore the rumble of the crowd vibrating through the walls.  He tries.   

A massive, ancient man in the corner watches over him with a look of pride.  “Maximus,” as they call him, was born in Rome and lives in New Jersey.  He has spent the latter part of his career with young fighters like Mike under his wing.  He lives for these moments—guiding his “kids,” as he calls them, up the ranks of one of the most intense sports in the world.  But there is no celebration yet.  He has done his part—three grueling sessions a day, seven days a week, transferring pieces of his mind and soul to his most gifted student.  Now it’s Mike’s turn. 

But behind the intensity in Mike’s eyes, something is different.  His nerves run wild.  His mind is frantic.  This is no wrestling tournament.  This is not a match in some high school auditorium or a cheap promotion of barroom brawlers.  This is thousands of pay-per-view fans, celebrities, and world-renowned athletes.  He tries to relax and keep his head where it needs to be—in the moment, the now.  There is no margin for error.  A pair of eight-ounce fingerless gloves leaves no room for mistakes.  One punch, one elbow, one knee, one mistake.  It’s over. 

“I can’t believe you!” His father was furious.  “Two and a half years of business school down the drain and for what?  To go let a bunch of gorillas knock your brain around?”  Mike slouched in his chair and looked his father in the eyes.  He knew he was leaving in the morning regardless.  His mother, like usual, pretended like nothing was happening and picked at her cold pasta.  “And what about wrestling, huh? You know how many guys wanted that scholarship?  When you come back, bitching and moaning, maybe you’ll realize what a stupid fucking mistake this is!”  

A giant man throws open the door, “It’s time, fellas!”  Everyone stands and quickly gathers any gear they need.  Mike is met in the hallway by four ushers.  They are well dressed—black ties and black shoes with red jackets.  They lead Mike and his entourage through a maze of hallways.  Another cameraman appears and shuffles backwards in front of them.  The rumble echoes louder . . . louder.

Mike’s throat is tight and his head spins.  An invisible weight bears down on him.  It pushes on his shoulders, his spine.  He bounces a little as he walks and rolls his neck.  He tries to shake loose, but his muscles are tight.  “Shut up!  Shut the fuck up,” he thinks to himself.  “You can do this.  You have to do this.” 

“Why the hell can’t you train here?” Ashley was destroyed.  “It’s always something, isn’t it? I can’t believe you’re doing this to me now of all times!”  The tears flowed.  Her eyes were puffy and red.  He couldn’t stand seeing her like that.  Even when she cried she was beautiful.  Like a sad angel. 

Her Grandma May’s death came at the worst possible time.  He had to at least go to the funeral with her.  He felt so awkward once they were there.  Even after two years, a place like her Grandmother’s burial was still a place he felt he shouldn’t be.  Everyone was a wreck—hugging and crying on each other.  And then they all looked at him like, “Who the hell are you?  And what are you doing here?”

The hallway opens into a short tunnel.  The noise is deafening.  The ushers part and Mike walks into the middle of a spectacle.  He feels hands gripping his shoulders.  Maximus whispers, “This is it.”  Lights dim and music fills the arena.  The bass makes the hair on his neck stand.  The crowd is alive and a sea of arms reach out for him as he moves towards the center of it all— the cage. 

He strips off his layers.  His torso is cut and lean—every muscle as hard as stone.  The ref checks his tape and searches for objects or substances between his fingers.  He checks behind his ears, his mouthpiece.  Clean.  Mike enters and does a quick jog around the cage, but he doesn’t feel light. He doesn’t feel loose.  He doesn’t feel ready.  He turns his back and stares out into the audience.  And as the Champion makes his entrance, his mind continues to wander.

In the mirror he saw that his brow and cheek had swollen to the size of baseballs—black and purple and throbbing.  His jaw was bruised.  His nose was definitely broken.  A wide gash between the cartilage and bone was still bleeding.  He looked like he was dead.  And felt like it too.  He couldn’t remember what he did wrong.  It was like someone flipped a switch twenty seconds into the first.  “It happens,” Maximus said.  “It’s your first fight.  You got caught.  Just don’t let it happen again.” 

He stands face to face with his opponent—a towering Brazilian powerhouse.  But Mike keeps his eyes down.  The fight begins.  The flashes are blinding at first, as if everyone in the crowd is a photographer.  Then the background fades as the Champion comes in with a leg kick—connects.  Like a wooden bat.  Mike circles to the right and keeps his hands up.  The Champ moves slowly, relaxed, waiting to counter.  But Mike refuses to play and keeps circling, preparing to shoot.  He hears Maximus screaming, “Leg kick! Jab! Keep your hands up!  Look for the takedown!”  Mike throws a quick right and charges for a leg.  He gets it and drives through.  They crash to the canvas with Mike on top.  This is his game now.  He postures up and starts landing bombs.  A wicked elbow catches and the Brazilian’s nose sprays blood.  The crowd is on their feet. 

The Champ covers up and squirms, trying to dodge the blows.  Mike continues to unleash, working for a knockout or a stoppage.  The roar from the crowd fuels his rage.  He sees flashes of his hand in the air and a belt around his waist, but soon his punches begin to slow and his arms burn.  He tries to push off the canvas and pull a leg through the Champ’s guard, but he’s too exhausted.  His mouth hangs open.  His lungs fight for air.  The Brazilian shifts, grabs Mike’s wrists and swings his legs up and around his neck, locking in a tight triangle.  Mike tries to stand and rip out of the hold, but it’s no use. 

*     *     *

Hold Your Peace
by Liz Cook

In the front room of the Presidential Suite in the Magnolia Hotel, a 26-year-old man shrugged his left arm into a sleek, black tuxedo jacket.  The room was empty and silent, save for the muffled noises the man’s black dress shoes made as they shuffled back and forth across the plush white carpet.  He walked across the room to the antique wooden vanity and straightened his bowtie in the curved mirror.  A beautiful blonde woman was waiting for him downstairs, but he dressed slowly, fingers dawdling on each button of his jacket.  He could feel a morbid, almost comical, irony pressing on him from all sides, and he swept a hand over his closely cropped brown hair, forcing out a laugh in a single, violent expulsion of air.  Life was funny.  His gaze shifted from the starched collar of his shirt and lingered on the half empty bottle of cheap, economy-sized vodka on the lacquered vanity top.  Just one, he thought.  One drink and it might all go away.  He poured out a shot and set it on the faded wood for later deliberation, next to a square of folded notebook paper.  Some of the late October wind was blowing through the bay window across the room, and he leaned heavily against the vanity, rubbing his temples with his middle fingers. A door slammed across the hall.

He thought back to high school and summers spent in San Antonio.  He thought about drive-in movies and long car rides with Jenny from across the alley, her curly brown hair blowing out of the open window when they hit the highway, frizzy from the dry heat.  He thought about their first kiss and how she tasted like cigarettes and peppermint candy.  He thought about growing up and growing old and losing faith in things and ideas to which he had once prescribed whole-heartedly.  He stayed like that, propped up on his elbows and dreaming of the particular way the light from the screen door had lit her face from behind, until the wind rattled at the bay window again.  He checked his watch one last time and re-straightened the silk bowtie in the mirror, not daring to look at the expression on his face, knowing that, if he did, it would be one of grim, ugly determination.  He took off the silver diving watch the girl downstairs had given to him for Christmas and dropped it onto the tray on the vanity top, wincing as it clinked hollowly against the thick glass. 

His mother knocked three times, softly, on the hotel door before opening it.  She was wearing too much rouge, and the smile was stretched so brightly across her face that it looked painful and brittle.  A case study in overcompensation, he observed, almost amusedly.  They’re ready for you, sweetie, she said, beaming from the threshold and patting down her lilac dress.  Let’s go get you married!

And he thought one very last second about San Antonio summers and things that die before their time. He stuffed the folded piece of notebook paper into his breast pocket, and his right hand found the glass of vodka on the vanity top.  He downed the shot in one swift motion, stared defiantly into the mirror, and exited the room without a word.

*     *     *

Saint Sebastian
by Brianna Cutsforth

Images of true beauty are usually few and far between.  This is what I have discovered, anyway.  I am extremely picky when it comes to my subjects, and once I come up with a subject, there is very little that I allow to get in my way.  A true artist lives only for the art itself.  It does not matter if it will never be seen by anyone but me, the idea is that I have something that no one else has, and that is what makes the art special.

I saw my subject in town last Thursday afternoon.  I was sitting on a bench at the bus stop.  I was not really planning on taking the bus. I just liked bus stops.  Sometimes when I sat at a bus stop, someone would talk to me.  It was the only time anyone would really talk to me.  I would listen, but I never spoke.  I liked to pretend I did not talk.  I just sat looking toward the street, not moving, my Polaroid camera resting on my lap.  I had opted for lower forms of technology, since I hated computers, and I did not like talking to the people at the picture places.  I did not talk to people in general, if I could help it.

“Nice day today, eh?” a kind stranger would say.  I would remain silent.  I would let my body freeze up and pretend I had some sort of social problem that made me unable to interact with others.  The kind stranger might try to say something else but would soon give up and keep walking or get on the bus that had arrived.  I would giggle to myself when the stranger left.

So, last Thursday I was sitting on the bus stop bench.  I was watching a sparrow hopping.  Sparrows are such funny little birds.  I lifted my Polaroid camera to take a picture of it.  Just as I pushed the button, a stranger walked into the photo.  I caught the scuffed-up black Oxfords belonging to the stranger.  I was upset that this person had ruined my picture of the hopping sparrow.  I looked up, trying to let my face remain like stone.

He was standing with his hands shoved down in the pockets of his faded and ripped pinstripe pants.  He was bobbing his head to whatever tunes were coming from his headphones.  His sharp features were beautifully framed by dark hair.  My lips parted in awe when I saw him.  He reminded me of Reni’s Saint Sebastian.

He did look at me.  He gave me a little half smile then looked away again.  That smile was only mine.  I knew he had never smiled like that for anyone else.  He was mine, my subject, and his smile had given me permission to say so.  I sat quietly, my Polaroid camera on my lap, stealing an occasional glance at my subject.  When the bus pulled up, my subject got on, so I followed.  After paying some change, we sat down, he near the middle of the bus, and I a few seats behind, where I could watch him. 

All I could see was the back of his head.  He was still bobbing his head to the music on his headphones.  I sat and stared at his dark, curly hair.  I wanted to take a picture of it, but I then realized I only had one picture left.  I did not want to make my picture one of the back of his head.  I wanted to take a picture of his Saint Sebastian face.

We rode in the bus for almost a half an hour.  People got on the bus, and people got off.  Saint Sebastian stayed where he was, his head bobbing to the music on his headphones.  And I kept a constant vigil over him.

When he finally got off the bus, I followed him. He stopped at a tobacco store, and I waited a safe distance outside.  Then we walked about two blocks until we came to an apartment building.  He sat down on the front steps and lit a cigarette as he gazed onto the busy street.  It was the perfect frame, the perfect moment, and I had to have it.  He was the perfect subject, absolutely perfect in every way.  I walked toward the steps, maintaining a distance of about three feet.  I gingerly lifted my Polaroid camera and snapped the picture.

I must have startled him.  He jumped a bit and looked at me.  For a moment he just stared at me dumbfounded.  But a slight smile broke on his face.  He threw the cigarette onto the sidewalk, got up, and turned to go inside the building.  I did not follow him.  I sat on the bench at a bus stop on the corner of the block.  I gazed adoringly at the picture.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a marker I had put there before I left home that day.  On the white beneath the drying picture, I wrote “Sebastian.”  Sebastian was an image of true beauty.

The next day I woke up very early at 6:00 a.m.  I got dressed and left my home, carrying some bus fare and my freshly loaded Polaroid camera.  I sat on the bench, and waited for the first bus. 

I rode the bus until I looked out the window and saw the surroundings I had seen the day before.  I got off the bus at the familiar stop from the day before and walked the two blocks to the familiar apartment building.  I sat at the bench at the bus stop on the corner.  I waited.  I didn’t know if I would even see him, but I waited.

I waited there for a long time.  Several buses came and went.  The street got busier.  People came and sat near me, trying to talk to me.  I said nothing back.  To my delight, Saint Sebastian showed up at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette, his head bobbing to the music on his headphones.  He stood next to the bench.  I just stared at him in admiration and awe.  His eyes finally rested on me.  He raised an eyebrow in question, a strange look on his face.  He then took a book out of the messenger bag he was carrying and turned his attention to it.  When the next bus arrived, he stepped onto it, and I followed.

*     *     *

Last Chance
by Sarah Grapp

We decided to start trying for a family of our own when we were thirty-six.  We wanted a good-sized family; I was one of two and Nick was one of eight.    He came from a good Catholic background and both of us loved kids.  Ever since I was a little girl, I had dreamed about having a handful of kids to take care of and love.

“Honey, what do you think about us trying for children?” I asked one night after dinner.

“Well, to be honest, I think it’s great.  I’ve always wanted children of my own. How many are we talking about here?”  he said as he smiled that killer smile.

“Maybe we should try one for starters,” I laughed as I glanced towards the bedroom and smiled back at Nick.

He slowly grabbed my hands and placed them around his neck, letting his hands fall to my waist, pulling me closer in our already cramped apartment.  He kissed my lips tenderly, slowly leaving a kissing trail to my neck and then following it back to my lips.  He continued kissing and started to guide me into the bedroom where he laid me gracefully onto the bed.  We continued kissing and bit by bit removed clothing, until we lay naked in each other’s arms.  The passion heated and we became one, enjoying each other’s company until we were both flushed and out of breath.  He gathered me in his arms and I fell asleep, dreaming of our life together with our new child.

Quite a few nights for the next couple months, we made passionate love, in hopes of conceiving a child, but pregnancy test after pregnancy test came back negative.   Something was wrong.  Why wasn’t this working?  So I went to my doctor and told her what was happening.

“We have sex night after night and no matter what we do, the stupid test comes back negative.  I’m at my wits end.  I don’t know what we’re doing wrong!  Is there something you give me or maybe tell me what’s going wrong?  I just want to be pregnant!”  I rambled, letting it all roll out.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you are doing, but let me refer you to a friend of mine that is a fertility specialist.  She’s great at working with couples on conceiving a child.  Her name is Lucy Stevens.  I’ll have the receptionist get her number for you.  Other than that, good luck!” Dr. Christiason said, as she hugged me and sent me on my way.

When Nick got home that evening about six, he immediately asked how my doctor’s appointment went. 

“Well, how did things go?  What’d Dr. Christiason say?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around my waist while I cooked at the stove.

“Oh, well, she said that everything is fine, but she gave me the number for a fertility specialist.  Dr. Christiason thought that Dr. Stevens could give us a few more answers, so I made an appointment for us for tomorrow afternoon.”

“On that note, I think that we should eat dinner and cuddle by the fireplace for a while before bed.  It’s been a long day and I’ve missed you,” he stated, planting a kiss on my forehead.

So we finished dinner and the dishes and cuddled in front of the fireplace.  It was so warm and comfortable in his arms; I finally relaxed and fell asleep.

The following afternoon found us at Dr. Stevens’ office, spilling out the same story as the day before in Dr. Christiason’s office.

“Not to worry, we’ll just run some simple tests and make sure that everything is okay and we’ll go from there.  We should know something from Nick’s test in about four hours and Liz’s will be about seventy-two hours,” she said cheerily.

After the testing, we went home not doing anything but sitting together and waiting for the phone to ring.    When the phone finally rang, it was about 5:30 p.m.  I answered the phone to hear Dr. Stevens’ voice on the other end.

“Liz, I just wanted to let you know that we have Nick’s test results back and everything is normal.  We just need to wait until we get your results back to decide what to do next.  So I will go ahead and give you a call as soon as we get those results back.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stevens.  I’ll let Nick know about his test results and I will just wait for your call,” I said solemnly.    She said something else before I heard the click of the phone, but I don’t remember what it was.  If it wasn’t something with Nick, it had to be something wrong with me.

The next two days were completely blurry.  I spent most of my time moping around the house. I sat around watching happy couples on TV, happy couples with babies, teenagers who were having babies at such young ages. 

When the phone finally rang, I almost jumped out of my skin.  I wanted to know what was wrong, but at the same time I didn’t.  But, of course, I answered.

“Liz, its Lucy Stevens.  I’ve got your test results back.  You’ve got endometriosis, which is basically where tissue is growing on your fallopian tubes.”

“So what does this mean?” I asked, almost in tears.

“With the severity of your case, we have one chance at in vitro fertilization.  If it doesn’t work, we’d risk a handful of complications by trying again.”

“So, this is it then.  How soon do we need to decide?”  I questioned bitterly.

“We have a short amount of time, so the sooner the better.  Why don’t you talk it over with Nick and we can talk at the beginning of next week?”

“Right, I’ll call you.  Thank you,” I said blankly.

This was it.  My last chance at a child of my own.  I had to do it.

*     *     *

The Gun That Couldn't Be Fired
by Dane Riggenbach

…was slipped from its display case ever-so-discreetly, its weight immediately reassuring, its polished grip settling into the small of his back as he left his parents’ house that evening and caught a ride out into the pink Nevadan desert…

…passed the inspection of his inebriated friends as they tossed it around the fire, spinning the cylinder, endlessly clicking through the stages of the trigger mechanism, half-cocked, full-cocked, fire…the stars began arriving…

…circled that fire in shame, its hammer striking ineffectually time and again, failing to connect with the firing pin a thousandth of an inch beyond its grasp, sounding for all the world like a metronome, faithfully keeping the rhythm of the teens’ conversations…

…reached the palms of the young man once again, delved the expanse of his soul through those unblinking blues, measured the fiber of his character in that precise science of posture multiplied by the set of the jaw and found a willing pupil…

…was loaded and readied by the young man at the edge of a glittering circle of pickups, its bulk hefted to the sounds of someone’s acoustic guitar strumming away in the half-light, its barrel nestling gently into the young man’s hair, and the gun that couldn’t be fired was…

…went off like a bolt from the blue and sent a .357 Magnum slug into its unmissable target, dropping the boy’s body to the ground instantly as his friends crowded in, quite sober now, careful to avoid the seeping pool of scarlet in the sand…

…hasn’t seen the light since that fire-filled evening in 1965, yet lingers in the minds of those who were there and those who weren’t, the subject of such hasty grief, source of such redundant tragedy, lies content with its sensations of accomplishment…