Dream, Trains, and Tears

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

So be it. I had the same dream more than once last night…..There was a train. I, in a boxcar.The one sliding door had cell bars. Alone, only food and I were locked in. In the dream, it was always night, just dark no moon nor stars.The fast moving train only showed a black vastness leading countryside . The only sound, the clatter of steel wheel upon steel rail…..Staging through the dream, it would happen. The moving train would come upon a makeshift camp with many small fires with many down and out people. Tired, unkempt people mostly of women and children…..They begin running along side of that boxcar. I quickly begin tossing food out between the bars: vegetables, fruits, and various canned goods. Some of what I tossed got caught, some dropped to be picked up quickly. Passing the run down place those poor souls ran their hearts out;thin arms reaching out ; faces expressing complete loss, a languishing for only want. Especially, the children with those dirty faces and flopping hair as they ran to keep up…..Yet, this is not why I write about the dream that repeated so. No, I write such for when having the very last dream. The train did stop. The bars that kept me prisoner opened. Then just one hungry child stood there. I came down from the train. Stood before her. Went to my knees and hugged her so. The unkempt little, blonde child began to weep upon my shoulder. I held her tightly; she smelled of forgotten earth…..”This is what I wanted, love, not food,” she said….. And I wiped her tears away.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

Prisoners’ Tale

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

The bus like hated beast moves through American night. Inside, shackled men with unmoving smell…..The beast exhausts…..crawls, halts. The shackled men staring down shuffle off ,sound of chains drag….. There ,before them high granite steps…..Coming down upon lined-up bodies, hard rain. Held there….. cold, wet. A cold burn of metal up against wrist and ankle. Forsaken eyes on the large, incarcerating place; lights from cell windows beckon haunt …..With harsh, tall minutes….. A command! The slow climb begins; same leg lifts, other leg follows, same leg lifts, other leg follows….. Simple comforts wait within steel and stone ; pieces to live portioned out …..Aah, and there you have it ; sour memory stored, never to forget…..Prisoners’ rain.


I so remember such a night of prisoner’s rain. Yet, I was convict-smart. I removed the thin, fabric bus shoes. I stood there cloth to flesh wet; barefoot, moving-in-place so my feet would not numb. Once inside, stepping onto dry concrete…..Lord! I did not cry. I did not cry.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

The Lap Of Waves (The Finale)

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

Then, the sex began, sex and the words. Of how he was going to blow my brains out after he screwed me…..He’s been screwing me for hours, entering me in every way, painful ways.

“…..now!” He has a handful of my hair, the gun is very near, I believe I’m going to die. My face is turned to his mid-section, he’s still hard, it’s very red, messy. I can’t believe the last thing I’m going to see, is that.

“Please, Blaze. I’ve been good to you, I won’t tell anybody anything, I swear,” and I pled. He’s standing there, I heard the cocking of the gun…..I squeeze my eyes shut…..what else can I do? Then, he shoves my head away, walks across the room, a drawer opens. I see a pill bottle, he’s taking pills with booze. There are several of his medications in that drawer. I do not know what he’s taking.

“I can’t whack ya with this,” he points the gun barrel at his thing. “Need it to go down, up like this. I still want to jam it in you. No, gotta let it settle down, you know, get in the mood to do ya. Sorry, but things are things wit’ guys like us. Now you relax…..and cut that fuckin’ cryin’ out or I’ll shoot from over here, stop it!”

I try to stop, all I can do is keep swallowing, maybe that’ll do it. Oh, my God! His hard-on is going down, no, no! But wait, he’s looking up at the ceiling fan going round and round. His, his eyes are closing, yes, he’s nodding out. Thank you, Lord, thank you! His head has fallen to the side, but his hand still grips the gun. His chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Yes, sleep, please sleep.

My wrist, have to get one free, got to…..


The water is warm, it feels good. The island is far behind me, but I’m tired from brutal sex and no sleep. I got that one wrist free. The saltwater is burning the cuts. I left him sleeping in the chair. I quickly left, naked. I have not the food and drink I prepared, nor the cash. I have not the sun to follow, only the stars. Some of the nightly heavens above I remember, a lot I do not. My plan was for the daylight hours. Now I am alone and swimming slowly, heading, I hope, in the right direction for St. Bart’s. But I’m tired, so tired. I better float. The lapping of the water against my ears is so lovely, so warm and lo…..

I felt myself choking, swallowing water. I’m kicking hard now, fighting to find the surface, fighting not to drown. By falling asleep, I began to sink, die…..Air, oh, God, to breath.

Now, as I swim, I do not know if the stars are my friends, my guide. For I have to keep looking up. There is great strain in the back of my skull. At this hour of watery night, I truly wish to stroke and fan my legs…..and not look up. To do so brings the shooting pain in the vertebrates of my neck. It is best to believe I’m going forward, straight to the land I seek. It is all I have, this little bit of belief and nothing else. So I slowly glide along, my thoughts in my past life, the wrong of it. If I live this night, these long hours of darkness and sea, I swear I will not be as I was, either good or worse. Maybe a nun, maybe an assassin, who knows. Just swim, damn it! Swim of die. Funny, I can’t believe I just giggled, swim or die, isn’t it march or die, those desert movies.


“God, oh, God, can you hear me? I can’t, I can’t…..no, no, don’t give up. Mommy, I’m seeking again…..”

The water is about me, I am drifting down and down, the end…..”No…..!” I scream through bubbles and sea. “No…..!” I wail and struggle, kick up and up.

“Oh, God, yes! Air, oh, sweet air.” Now rest, go on your back again, but do not sleep.

As I float, drift, drift in a direction I know not where…..I hum, hum a sweet song…..”What’s that…..My God, a bird, a little black bird. He’s hovering right above me.

“Wait, wait.” As I turned over, the bird flew off, leaving me alone, so alone. I am choking again, because I am crying. Crying is not good, it only makes me eat more water, killing water.

“Bitch, swim!” and I yell at myself to force on. I must, I truly must. I am still young. I have not a child yet. I have no family. Who will miss me? No one. Yes, I must live, love and live on through my child, children I hope. I feel myself grow a little stronger and I stroke and stroke and stroke…..

There, I see, see something. It’s, it’s black, big and black. It has stars, it has its own stars. A ship, yes, a ship…..but it does not sail, move. No, it’s, it’s an island. Yes, light, I see lights.

“Swim, bitch, swim!”

The Finale

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

The Lap of Waves PT2

January 15th, 2015 by George Martorano

It has been three weeks since I’ve opened the briefcase. The last week he hasn’t come near me. He sleeps in another room. I asked him if anything was the matter and got coolly stare at. Christ, these fuckin’ mob guys, so lovey-dovey, then bam, they’ll turn on you.

He’s been drinking more. He’s not a crazy drunk, no, he’ll just drink and sit there and stare off across the sea. Then, those eyes will catch me when I pass. I wonder why he’s waiting. He can kill me and have those guys from the bar bury me or let me float off across the sea.

I haven’t slept much or eaten for that matter. I know he’s noticed that. I wish I could sit down in front of him, face him and tell him I had a good mom before she died. I went to college, never used drugs, and can run. I ran many marathons before moving to Chicago and the worst life to pick. Worst, now that I’m alone on a small island with a killer. No, I could talk for days or until he kills me. The dye is cast. I’m the only person who will see him last. If he knew I had unlocked the case, the next island he’s heading for, he’d blow my brains out faster. I wonder why he waits here, who knows? Yet, I’ve searched this house high and low for those bullets. Just yesterday he said one sentence to me. He said, “been busy around here, hey.” Been busy around here, imagine that. He screwed me for weeks, laughed and kissed me; said hey baby all the time, now nothing, silence. Well, fuck him. He ain’t killin’ this broad. For the last three weeks as soon as i felt the change in him, the no-loving from him, I began, began as soon as he left. I began jogging and swimming, I don’t smoke and I eat right. The booze I never really indulge. So I’m fit, I’m in shape and I’m going to do it. Do something he’ll never expect. I’m gonna take that cash in the case. Some water and food in a small plastic bag and swim out of here. If I don’t make the seven or so miles to St. Bart, so be it. He’ll never think I’d do that. No, he’ll search the island or have them do it. All I gotta do is swim the way the sun sets every day, follow that route in my mind and the sun as long as I got it. I been watching it every day just where it fades over the horizon. Then, those stars at night, the same ones every night, just where the sun sinks. I’ve swam up and back across the cove for hours, those hours he isn’t here. So if he came back, he’d only see me swimming in back of the house, he’d expect nothing. But he never came and I worked out. Funny, how things can be done, have to be done, when you’re gonna die. All I can hope for tomorrow is that he leaves early, I’ll have to start early to stay with the sun. If he doesn’t leave early tomorrow, maybe the next but I don’t know if there will be a next. I look in the case today, the gun’s gone.


“Please, stop it! You’re killing me!” But my pleas go unanswered. Have been for some hours now, long sweet then sour ones. I never made it…..It started the very next day after I saw the gun was gone. Blaze got up early. I heard him moving through the house at first, then quiet. Then he put music on, low, and the beat of it rocked the home as I still laid there naked in bed, his bed.

It was when the bedroom door flew open, the look of his eyes, the shiny barrel of the gun in his right hand. There was white on the tip of his nose, powder. Then I knew he was coked up, we never used it before. Yet, he stood there naked, the hard gun in one hand, and between his legs, hard also and powder there.

[to be continued]

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973

The Lap of Waves PT1

January 15th, 2015 by George Martorano

I sit here, I feel so alive, in this shapely body of now-bronze freckles and light hair. The sun, so more than warm upon me, all of me. When I wear so little of it, means nothing on this island. Yes, I’m so enjoying the sun on my bare breast as I slowly turn, turn the spoon in my coffee cup. In fact, most of the day I prance around only in my bathing suit bottom. He loves me that way, he makes love to me that way, over and over.

So I’m sitting here, alone, and I think. And my green eyes feast on the blue, blue sea beyond.

The house here lies on a small cove, nothing and no one around, ‘kept us two. We been here for some time. He thinks he knows me….. he doesn’t. Oh, I know him though. He’s a criminal, a super one from Chicago; older than I, what they say is a mobster. Yet, he knows how to please me, in all ways. Gifts, money, sex, also, he lies so divinely. Saying he loves me so, saying he can’t live without me…..and I know he’s going to kill me.

We left Chicago right after the murders, three of them. Kass, the girl I shared the working apartment with, knew them better than I, the mob I mean. She said, watch that one, Blaze I mean, the man who took me here. The one swimming out and away from where I sit. Not once has he spoken about going home, the States, and I haven’t said a word about me leaving either. There’s a town some miles from here, a small one. He has taken me there, to dine, dance. We are treated like royalty.

The first time at that small club, he left me alone at a table. He was at the bar with two huge, very black islanders. When he spoke to them, their two sets of male eyes found me. They stared, burned into me and I knew I could never get off the island without the mobster. No, not alone, not without him.

Blaze does all the shopping. Very early in the morning, a woman servant comes to the house. She cleans, washes, but never prepares food. Blaze loves to cook.

So I sit here, waiting, waiting on him to make love to me, his early one of the day. Yes, he loves me a lot and plans. He goes off alone in the one car and he’s planning something. I believe he’s going further south, Brazil maybe. There’s a briefcase he carries at times. A good one, I tried to open it, it’s always locked. I believe the answers on in there….. when he’s on top of me, kissing me, driving into me, his eyes are warm, yet, cold at the same time. He has strong hands, a powerful body. With him, in bed, it is sweet and sour, of fear and lust you could say. I cried once or twice these past weeks but what the hell, I was a hooker, a high-priced one, but just a broad all the same.

There’s music playing, coming so pleasantly from this beautiful house. The gentle waves are not far from where I sit. They roll, they softly slap against the pink sand, time and time again. I feel dreamy-like and I wonder, shall I die today.

Now he’s coming, swimming straight for me. I think of the car, the keys I never see. He can see it in my eyes, the questions, the fear. If I open my mouth, he’ll do it all the faster. You see, Blaze Conriggi took the right woman, a disposable one.

He’s waving now. He swam where he can stand…..he’s smiling.

“…..hey, baby, hey, baby,” he speaks. Always welcomes me with “hey, baby” twice.

“Hi. Want some coffee?”

“Oh, yeah…..!” and he’s near, very near, wiping off with a rich, thick towel.

Yet, he does not sit, he drinks some coffee, grins and pulls me into his arms…..he’s a good kisser.

“…..over here,” and he walks me to the edge of the water, we lie down across pink sand. His mouth is on my breasts, his hands are gently teasing…..In time he pulls on the string, the bow across my hip. He slides out of his swim trunks and is loving me. Loving me as those gentle waves roll over us. The depth of the water is just right, the degree of the water is perfect and we love. As he drives, the waves slap…..God help me if I’m wrong, but for now, at least, the fear is gone.

It is the same day. He napped and dozed off as I lie in bed next to him, eyes closed but awake.

Now, I’m sitting on the floor in the bedroom, the ceiling fan hums round and round. With my legs crossed, naked, I’m trying to open the briefcase. An hour ago he left and I’m still trying different combinations. Numbers making me crazy. I’ve made sure the music is off so I’ll hear the car. Yes, the case will have the answers, the case will save my life. I’ve tried to walk out of here. It was no use. This is the only house there is, and the one small town which he controls. I’ve searched for other homes, people, there are none. Only the name of the small airport and town I know, Blessingsville. And the sea, yes, the vast blue sea of the Caribbean.

“I’ve got! Got it!” The bastard’s combination is three sixes, the sign of the devil. For fuckin’ weeks I’ve been trying. With his oh-so-dark brown evil eyes, I should have known.

“…..now what’s this?” There’s a gun, of course. No bullets, fuck. Cash, several passports, all with his picture and different names. Nothing. Wait! A map, yes, a map of the Caribbean. There’s somewhere marked, an island off Colombia, San, San Andez. Yes, he’ll fly there with his plane. Fuck, there’s nothing here! Wait, wait. Christ. The print is small, it’s, it’s Blessingsville. Christ! It’s a dot, a fuckin’ dot compared to other islands. We’re here and yes! Yes! St. Bart is there. Now how far is that? Wait, there’s a distance measurement. An inch is sixty miles if I move my finger-nail like this…..St. Bart’s should be seven, eight miles. St. Bart’s is a major island if I can get there…..a boat, I’ll need a boat…..There are none, I haven’t seen any. I’ve walked the beaches from this house in both directions. I’ve never even seen any fisherman. What kind of damn island is this place, anyway? What!

“Wait a minute, what direction is it? Damn, I’m not good with maps. Let me stand. Where’s the sun, over there. It’s going to set soon, that’s west, so I’ll have to go south, southwest just a little though. Oh, Christ, Lois, how did you get yourself into this, how?”

[To be continued]

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973