Click here to return to Humdinger Literary E-zine... Click here to return Home...     Before the nuclear plant began to leak, when Moscow sent vodka and supplies to supplement the meager fishing village’s catch of mercury drenched fish from the Bering Strait. When weeds still had the will to live, and children played in the street out front....     When an Empire Falls By Lloyd Hudson Frye     “Ganpa, I ov you.”   The girl squirmed to find a new position that didn’t hurt so much. Ivan gently released his hold, just long enough, and then rewrapped his bony forearms around his precious Mishka. All seven fingers of her tiny hand closed around his scaly thumb, hardened from years at sea.   “Grandpa loves his Pooska doll.”   His eyes closed slowly, watching her pulse beat softly along a narrow blue-yellow vein on her white neck. He could hear the familiar flapping of the plastic in the front room window. He pulled the blankets tighter around them. A small tear from rotten fabric was the only sound left in the room, besides the faint clicking of the Geiger counter under the bed. A dusty picture of Lennon hung crooked on the peeling wall above him. His beloved wife lay frozen in bed, with just her nightclothes on.   His thoughts went back to a better time. Before the nuclear plant began to leak, when Moscow sent vodka and supplies to supplement the meager fishing village’s catch of mercury drenched fish from the Bering Strait. When weeds still had the will to live, and children played in the street out front.   Long before the “Wall” came down, the shipments stopped, and those still strong enough to travel had left the village. Mostly orphans and the dying remained. The water truck quit coming last year, so everyone just drank the water from the leaking plant, and listened to the Geiger counters crackling through the cold winter nights. They knew the water was not good, but what were they to do? A soldier came through just after the fall, and tacked a notice up in the square. It said, the new Russian assembly would decide how each Russian would fit into the new Capitalist model. There were cheers that day, as the men drank the case of vodka the soldiers left. That was three years ago.   Ivan heard some growling outside; he looked through the gray-white windows of the doorway. Three skinny dogs were dragging a young lifeless child across the road, to a rocky shallow strewn with bones. He made a note; there would be more rags to clothe his sweet grandchild in a day or two.   He looked over at his beloved, in their bed of 62 years. Her face was a greenish gray, but to him she was still that young girl with a laugh of tinkling bells. Olga was the most beautiful girl in the village, and he had to win her over numerous men. He closed his eyes and heard her call him for supper, a slight edge of irritation in her voice. He knew to come in. He liked it when she got frustrated with his tardy ways.   Their daughter long dead, was the pride of their lives, but pneumonia had taken her two years past. Olga was not the same after that. She gave up trying when her lovely Selma went to ground, her grave out back, still covered in dead, black flowers, stiff with ice. Even the Americans didn’t patrol offshore anymore. What threat could possibly come from dying people in half-frozen sheds, along a polluted shoreline?   He counted the cans left in the corner, only 38, and 12 pieces of dried fish. Omar, his neighbor, had brought the fish at Christmas, when Olga had prepared a feast for the entire village.   Mishka coughed; a trail of green saliva dripped down her hollow cheek. Ivan’s eyes stung and blinked, but no tears came; all his juices had dried up. He squeezed her tight, the only way he could be sure she was still there in his arms. Her eyes opened, but they were thick and translucent.   “Water pease, ganpa.”   He held her head up and let a small amount pass over her cracked lips, the dried blood holding the pieces together. The faint crackling of the Geiger counter played in the background of his mind. She coughed again and settled back into a tiny ball.   He thought about what the Americans had done to his village. He couldn’t think why two generations of people would willingly let their government spend their retirement on a cold war. Fishermen and their families on the edge of starvation could hardly be a threat to a people so strong and brave. Little Mishka would never hurt a soul; her heart was pure as gold. The celebrations in the West were too far away to hear.   He heard the dogs fighting over the remains of the little child in the bone yard across the way. He hugged his Mishka tight again. Her weak heart beat, the only thing keeping him alive. He finally fell asleep.   In the night, half-awake, he heard her say, “Ganpa, I ov you.”   He smiled, held her tight, and leaned against the bed. Ivan pushed his rough, sea-bitten cheek along side her white, hollowed face.   In the morning, three bodies lay frozen to that marriage bed.   Three skinny dogs were tugging at an old man’s boot, a once beautiful woman’s nose and seven cold fingers of a little girl’s hand.     © Copyright, Lloyd H. Frye   Click here to read Lloyd’s Brief and Bizarre Bio.     Click the link above to read what will amuse, frighten, amaze and delight you.     Subscribe to Humdinger’s FREE Newsletter, Jack of Genre, and receive useful writing tips, links, articles and more! Click here to subscribe now.           Click this link to visit Humdinger’s extensive Links for Writers, with resources, fun, information about literary agents, publishers and more!