Fiction

The Distance Between

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By Chris Ringler

Tuesday, November 29, -0001

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She looks up and sees a clear, beautiful day, and almost laughs as the insults rain down upon her. She looks at her palms and wonders if they will bleed as sweat slides down from beneath the hat shading her face and across her brow. She enters whatever circle of hell this is and they close it behind her, a wall of meat and sweat and rage that crowds in on her and sucks the oxygen from the air.

The sun dims.

Her skin chills and goosebumps spring up on her skin as she swallows the desire to vomit.

They trap her, their mouths open, faces pressed in at her, their faces gone, blending into one long wall of flesh with a thousand eyes and five hundred mouths and all chanting at her. She wonders if she will float or drown, if they put her to the water test. It doesn't matter she guesses as long as the water doesn't break.

She reaches up and pulls the hat down closer and feels something wet on her cheeks and prays that it isn't tears. Her teeth and fists clench and their scent, sweat and hair and food, slaps at her.

She shouldn't have come.

Goddamn him. He said he'd be here.

And god damn her for thinking she could do this.

But really, when it came down to it, it wasn't the booze, or the party, or the loneliness, or his charm, or anything more than them.

Them.

So goddamn the both of them.

She pushes forward and they wouldn't step aside. Moved towards her in fact. What was she going to do? She wouldn't look at them, no matter what they did or said. And she wouldn't cry. And she wouldn't puke, no matter how her stomach rolled and ached. She stops and waits for them to move, instead they open fire.

"Witch."

"Whore."

"Killer."

The words stung but didn't faze her. She'd heard them all before, from her mother, her doctor, her friends, him. And worse, from herself. Oh yes, they were worst when they came from her own lips, and her legs and belly were tattooed with the deep lines, still red with anger. She knew these words all too well. And she had dealt with them.

The closeness of all these people was making it hard to breathe, concentrate, and stand. She felt sick.

A large bald man moves from the crowd and catches her arm and turns her towards him roughly. His eyes but, mouth gapes, and he coughs words at her.

"You…you…you filthy whore."

And then her face was wet with his spit and it was running down her chin. The sickness in her spread then, up from her stomach, out across her arms, down her legs, and into her face, flushing it. Something in her kicked.

She removes her hat and looks up at the ogre, smiling, the snot hanging in a long streamer from her chin as she wipes it away.

"Ah, so now the heathen witch is baptized, is that it? Am I wrong, or doesn't your god teach you to love and not hate? And doesn't your savior teach your forgiveness with his death?"

The man steps back away from her and as he does so does the rest of the crowd. She wasn't right. She was dangerous.

"It's funny, as we stand here, lynch mob and witch, and you judge me, mock me, hate me, all under the watchful eye of your god. And I ask you –- isn't my fate, my unborn child's fate in my hands? Isn't my judgment in hands? Who are you to judge me? Who are any of you to judge me? Now, move aside. Move aside goddamn you, move aside."

They take another step back but don't break the circle, but its knot is loosening.

"You, look at you. You call me a whore, not even knowing my life or me; you call me a whore when you use your god's love as sword and his son as a shield. How dare you? How dare you spit on God this way? Move aside."

The crowd wavers, the wall melts and becomes faces, and the eyes fall to the ground, the mouths close, and the circle breaks.

The circle breaks.

She puts her hat back on her head, wipes her chin again, and strides forward, shouldering past the ogre, who says nothing as she pushes him aside. She smiles but it's false.

She feels sick. And as the door gets nearer, her heart hammers ever harder.

Her hands are wet.

Her stomach rolls.

She is going to be sick, but hopes she can make it inside first.

She rubs her belly and the smile fades.

She is free.

Free to choose.

For now.

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Chris Ringler provided this brief biography.

I fell in love with writing as a teenager and, though the love affair has faltered at times, that love has remained strong.

I was born in Flint and raised in Linden. I graduated from Lake Fenton in 1992 and got my BA from UM-Flint in 1997.

I was involved in fanzines in Flint in the 1990s and, with some friends, had one issue our magazine Ghoulash go national. My first book, Back from Nothing, a collection of dark short stories, was published by University Editions in 1999. I have been selling it since the publisher went out of business. Back from Nothingcan be bought through me for $5. My web site is www.grimringler.com.

I have since finished a novel and two collections of stories, all of which need a publisher. I have had two poems published in Bare Bone 6 and Bare Bone 7. I review movies for a small web site as well. I am working on several other projects at the moment.

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