| Pete Carter lives on Cape Cod where he did most things wrong until he married. After twenty years and two children, he decided he is much happier being right, if only occasionally. He writes short stories most often and has published on Wild Child, Bewildering Stories, Theatre of Decay and Oddville Press. When not writing he enjoys car repair, building, painting, plumbing, reading, debating, fishing and computer repair. His site is http://mysite.verizon.net/vze6rfog/petecarter/ |
 |
| I Love Ginny Sousa I love Ginny Sousa. I used to watch her from my apartment window, which overlooked the bus stop, while she waited for a ride to work. I'd hold back the aluminum foil lined curtains and watch her waiting patiently. Never worried, never hurried. The first time I ever saw her was in line at Kmart. She rang up a lady buying two packs of men's underwear. I still wonder if she bought the underwear for a specific man or maybe to have around, just in case. When the lady left, I put three rolls of duct tape, a heavy duty barbecue apron and some Christmas tree spray down on the belt. It was hard to place the items on the checkout counter without having them fall over, because the oven mitts I wore were loose, but Ginny helped me put them upright. "Cooking out today?" She said. She has red hair that ends in little ringlets and dark-brown eyes that seemed to smolder. It was an ironic thing to say because it was pouring rain out, but then again, I never venture outside when it isn't raining. Too many things happen. "No, just picking up supplies." She has a dimple on her right cheek that always seems to appear just before she smiles. It's as if the dimple knows that the smile is going to appear. "Cool." I wanted to invite her to a cookout right then, even though I didn't own a grill. Perhaps Mrs. O'Loughlin, who had buried three husbands and replaced each one with five cats, would lend me her hibachi. But instead, I waited until she bagged my purchases and said, "Thanks". I thought about her that night while I was watching TV. I have a VCR tape I like to watch that shows eight hours of a hearth burning brightly. The flames lick the TV screen like a faithful dog, its tongue feeling around the inside of the box. I like to watch the flames and figure out their code. There's a language in the blaze, a story that begs to be told. Sometimes, I'm so close to understanding it; hearing the pitched whine, pleads to be released. My thoughts turned away from her and the conflagration and brought me back to the fever I had gotten years ago. I caught the flu on a Thursday and never got rid of it; the virus had captured my DNA. I lay in bed for three weeks with a Dura log slowly burning its way through my stomach and at last finding home there. After it broke, I had to wear pot holders on my hands to keep the fire that moved within from getting out. My thoughts always turn back to there. But I can't help think that there is something she can do to save me. That's why she seemed so beautiful to me. I could see the fire within her, too. She moved like a wave through the crowds, bright and glowing, like an ember after the fire has long been doused, radiant in the ash; waiting for fuel to come to life. After the bus stop burned, I had to stop watching, but I know she's there every day; brightly infectious, luminous in an ashen tide. I love Ginny Sousa. |
| Pete Carter |
 |