MacDougal Drive

The following flash fiction is the latest in the series “MacDougal Drive” featured on this site and The Roost

The previous entries

The weeds had grown high and their roots clung to the deep parts of the earth. Dolores dug a perimeter around, gripped tightly and pulled the stubborn roots out. She was careful to not leave anything behind as the weed would soon be back to full height if she missed any part. The sun was high and bright but not painfully hot. This was the kind of day that normally would have brought her peace, but nothing was normal anymore. Not since Walter, not since the attacks on those kids. Everything was wrong.

Bill came out of his house, a half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth, and headed down the driveway. He nodded in her general direction but offered no greeting. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow sweat stains spotted his undershirt. She could practically smell the stale booze even from this distance. She watched him disgustedly as he rummaged through the mail and flicked his butt into the dry gutter, and then scratched himself without any shame.

“How’s your mother, Bill?” She called out to him on his way back up the driveway.

He slowed only slightly, replied without looking at her. “Stronger every day.”

“You give me that answer every day.”

Bill stopped and finally looked at Dolores. “Mrs. Greyson, she might just outlive us all.”

“The way you’ve been carrying on, that doesn’t surprise me.”

He lit another cigarette. “What’s that mean?”

“Don’t think I don’t hear you coming home late from whatever sin infested hole you’ve been, stumbling drunk and laughing like a maniac.”

A smile crept across his face. “Why, Dolores, have you been spying on me?”

She shook her head in disgust. “You’re a grown man, Bill. Start acting like it.”

The smile disappeared. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”

“You’ve got responsibilities.”

“I’m honoring them.”

They stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Bill then turned and went back to the house.

“You shouldn’t smoke in the house, there’s a sick woman in there.”

No reply. Bill closed the door behind him. Dolores felt herself grow hot with rage. This whole world made no sense to her anymore. She went back down on her knees and started pulling at the weeds again.

She could feel the slight extra weight of the glock tucked into the waistline in the back of her pants. That weight brought her comfort. She tried for a moment to remember just when she had started carrying the weapon around with her as she gardened, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it, probably a couple months. A growing distrust of this neighborhood, the same on she had lived in for over forty years, constantly threatened to overwhelm her. This street, this town, this world really, needed cleaning. Disease was spreading all around, tainting everything she held dear. Walter wouldn’t have stood idly by, he’d have taken action. That was just the kind of man he was. Dolores felt her eyes grow wet so she shoved everything from her mind and refocused her concentration to the task at hand. With the right tools and some determination, these weeds posed very little problem. A slight breeze picked up and for the briefest of moments, it washed away the smell of decay that had recently saturated MacDougal Drive.

Continuing MacDougal Drive

Bill left the bar and lit a cigarette. Larry was a good sort, even picked up the tab. Bill resolved that he would buy beer the next time they were out, though he’d have to figure out a way to make some money first. Once he’d been full of ideas, some ridiculous sure, but there was never a short of inspiration. Then the dark times, the waiting around for his mother to die had taken something from him. He felt now that it was coming back though, that a spark had been relit somehow. A change had occurred, there was no denying it. Since the letter from the writer’s conference he’d been smoking too much, had started boozing again. The fragile illusion of control he had so carefully cultivated was becoming impossible to maintain. The nicotine shot through his brain and focused his thoughts, sent his drunkenness away to hide in a corner. He walked up the street towards home where he’d check on his mother, who would probably yell at him for leaving her alone. It had become clear that she was clinging onto life only to burden him, keep him down until he knew, and would never forget, what a rotten son he was to her.

The skies were an unnatural black above him. No, not unnatural he told himself, just cloudy, the threat of rain looming. He thought of how badly the city needed a good rain. Not for the drought, that was perpetual, but to give a feeling of being washed. That kid that had been killed made everything and everybody feel dirty and tainted, guilty over their own small roles in the evil. Murders were rare in this town, child murders almost unheard of. He’d given a lot of credit to that awful letter, but this sensational act of violence was just as much responsible for the change. A dark energy had fallen over the town, something sinister yet potentially beautiful.

He picked up his pace to beat the rain, felt the booze creeping its way back into his consciousness. Bill felt awful about the dead kid, the one that lived too, to live is sometimes worse. He was pretty sure that kid was a neighbor, but he had little memory for faces. But he had to admit a certain excitement too. Finally something worth talking about, something maybe even worth writing about again. He could follow the case, interview the victims and suspects, turn it into a narrative. He could be like Truman Capote, except he wouldn’t be gay. Well, he’d be willing to fake it if it meant selling the book. Bill didn’t have a lot of sexual urges one way or another anymore. But what a story, what a writer!

The drunk was back in full now and he had to piss. He stopped and whipped out in front of a brick wall, tried writing the first sentence of his new book with his stream. He became vaguely aware of someone shouting. He turned to see an officer of the law getting out of his car and coming at him.
“What’s going on here?”
Bill looked down at his exposed member. “Couldn’t wait.”
“Put it away.” The officer approached him and sniffed the air. “Drunk?”
“Boy howdy.”
“Alright, come on.” He led Bill into the backseat of his cruiser, but didn’t cuff him. “You’re gonna sleep this one off in the tank.”
Bill laughed in delight, he was back. Yes, he was losing control of himself. He could be a writer again. He watched the neighborhood fly by through the window and thought only of his new masterpiece.

Read the rest of the series of MacDougal Drive: