Flak by Tim Dickerson First Place Fiction Award James pressed the pen down hard on the paper and held it there to let the ink pool up a bit, prolonging the inevitable. He looked across the table into Helens eyes. They were cold eyes, dull and stripped of emotion, a look he knew all too well. Reluctantly he asked, “Are you absolutely sure?” The vacant stare directed at James was her only remark. James’s eyes focused back onto the paper. The room was silent accept for James’ pen scratching his signature. “Well it looks like this divorce is final then. I’ll have my office send over your copies.” Helen’s attorney Doyle Lampard stood up and gently pressed his index finger on the paper, lightly sliding it across the smooth finish of the oak table. Doyle was a short balding man whose ego grew with every paycheck. James felt Doyle represented a perfect depiction of the corruption and greed which plagued America. He hated this kind of man, he could almost smell his arrogance. After neatly placing the paperwork into a folder he offered a handshake to James. James’s large hand engulfed Doyle’s petite fingers. James slowly squeezed until the pain grew too much for Doyle. “Ahh! What the hell’s your problem?” Doyle exclaimed. James offered a half smile to Doyle. Helen couldn’t get out of her chair fast enough. She gave off a sigh of annoyance as she clutched her handbag. She refused to make eye contact with her previous husband while Doyle escorted her out of the room. Helen was moving on with her life and spending another moment with James was last on her to-do list. Again the room fell silent as James listened to the scamper of feet walking down the hallway. He felt as if the last seventeen years of his life was taken from him and a piece of himself was somehow missing. With his heart rate elevated, James’ mind did what it always did when he was tense. He focused on objects in his surrounding and counted them by threes. Once he found three objects he connected them with an imaginary line until a triangle was formed. He did this exercise for several minutes until his mind was clear: clear of Helen and her prick-face attorney, clear of the messy divorce, and finally clear of his inner voice. He reached into his pocket until his fingers grasped the familiar round shape. He opened the tin and carefully placed a pinch of tobacco in his bottom lip. Satisfied for the moment, James stood up and made his way to the door. With each step, his steel toed boots made a heavy thump on the hard wood floor. He possessed no hope or aspiration for the new world that awaited him. The next morning James ate his scrambled eggs straight out of the skillet instead of using a plate. He pictured Helen’s reaction and thought how she would shit a brick if she saw him do this at home. He took comfort in this moment and a slight smirk grew on his face. After finishing his meal, James placed the large skillet into the sink. He turned the water on and held his finger underneath the stream patiently awaiting the artheMeadow 59
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