“Write, Writing, Short Stories, Zen”

Til Death Do Us Part
by Don Vasicek

Vermillion Capulet’s hit with a hammer eyes jerked. The pain, evident in the crimson edges and disbelief, catapulted as she bungled the ring in her hand. The metallic noise struck the dead cement floor. It cracked the noiselessness like a car horn blown in her ear. She gripped her head tightly. Her picket fence teeth stood like a barrier behind her cherry red lips. If you looked closely, you could see an edge of blood in the left corner of her mouth.
Recent, ruby and scintillating against the churlish light, it shoved itself at her animated skin as though it had a deadline to meet.
Vermillion urged her tongue. From somewhere not out of the mystical abyss inside her mouth, she flickered over the blood. Near at hand, a coffee-maker perked.
The Dutch chocolate coffee odor bit at her gaze like an intrusion into the Vatican. The coffee spewed over the lidless glass pot. She watched it splatter on the floor. Enough so that she guarded it’s spitting dark splurges on a human hand.
She inspected her hand. A pane of mirror coffee pot lid plopped blood. A droplet at a time.
Vermillion’s stare chased them. One. Two. Three and so on. They began to suffocate the ring which had come to rest on the outstretched palm of the hand proximal to a matching one on the ring finger which would experience rigor mortis promptly. Suddenly, a telephone rang.
One of those presumptuous sounds, like an ultimatum.
“The Capulet’s, this is Vermillion,” Vermillion stammered.
“A thousand and one are waiting, Vermillion.”
Vermillion pressed at her side. Blood, almost black, saw the world around her side. Not caught up by the snow-white dress, the splotch continued to spread like black death seeping on every side of a meat dealer’s knife.
“Seems Harvester had his lascivious eye on another, Boris,” Vermillion uttered.
“Obsequies to remarriage?”
“You might say I lost my ring somewhere in the vital fluid of life.” Vermillion slumped to the floor.
The phone followed her. It clumped on the hand of blood. The ring there, jumped like a bean, and landed on Vermillion’s heart, just above her laid open rib cage.

Donald L. Vasicek
Olympus Films+, LLC

“Annabelle, My Love”

First, just a slight sound. Sort of I’m frightened,
but I want to do this. Not in words, but her eyes,
there a murky green with rounded pupils as large
as dimes.

They shed love on me. “Please, help me. Please,
I want to die.”

I leaned down to her ear. “Annabelle, I love you.
I will always be with you.”

She suddenly felt warm next to my hand on her
shoulder. Emaciated, six years old, and dying.
I stroked her. I nodded to Dr. Green.

She removed a needle from her white smock,
in one of those large pockets.

“I love you, Sweety. I’ll always love you. I
will always be with you.”

It happened in a short second, or less. Dr.
Green slipped the tip of the needle into a
catheter on Annabelle’s right leg, which was
wrapped in a royal blue cloth. Dr. Green
pushed her thumb on the butt of the needle

I looked at Annabelle. Her eyes looked at me.
Then, she died. Her eyes, frozen in death,
stared at me. No breathing now.

Her shoulder, skin and bone, some black and
white hair, quiet and dead now.

Where was I to go without Annabelle? Home,
I decided. That’s where she wanted to go, I
knew. I buried her under the cherry tree in
the shade, one of her favorite places.

It is so quiet without Annabelle. Who can I
turn to now? Annabelle’s eyes instructed me
to follow the bright star in the East, Venus, I
believe, someone named it that. She said that
is where you will find your direction “without me.”

“Go there. It will give you information you do
not now have. It will give you information that
you can utilize.”

When I looked at Venus the next morning at
4 a.m., during my run, I saw my life in front
of me. It was clear.


For each of us in our time, there are major life
turning points. There is a break in the energy
wave patterns and complete change results.
Everything is affected this change in flux; some
things to a lesser degree than others. Examples
would be: 1. A traumatic situation or tragedy,
such as the death of a loved one. 2. A religious
conversion. 3. A point in therapy when
something clicks and from that time on the
patient begins to get well. 4. A mother giving
birth to a baby. The lesson is to learn to take
advantage of these new beginnings.

This is Annabelle’s legacy to me.

I let go of Annabelle. I am writing, something I haven’t
done to any great extent for eight years
since I began “The Sand Creek Massacre”
film project. Although there is a physical void
without Annabelle, she is with me…always.