Dragonfly Pond
by Thomas M. Mcdade



At Dragonfly Pond, a temperate evening in August, a father watched over his two sons.  One fished, the other fed broken bread crusts to the ducks.  At leaving time, the older one complained he hadn’t caught a fish.  “We shouldn’t have to leave until the ducks do,” argued the younger boy.

By the boathouse a few steps away, Eddie Moss paced in front of a bench, oblivious to the boys and ducks.  At short intervals, he took a piece of paper from one pocket, read it, and placed in another.  He rarely remembered where it was last.  Briefly, forgetting his paper, he took out a handkerchief, started to move it toward to his face but stuffed it into his back trouser pocket where he again located the slip of paper. 

Glancing at his watch, he snapped open his cell phone.  After several deep breaths as if a swimmer before the start of a race, he rested his left foot on the bench.  He fumbled for the scrap of paper.  Finally, the temporarily complex task accomplished, he carefully read the number. As he slowly poked it, his free forearm fell to his thigh.  After the busy signal, he left a voice message, “Just scare her.”

Russ McGraw had suggested the acting out writer’s block solution to Eddie. They’d met in the college cafeteria.  Eddie was taking an advanced creative writing course, McGraw enrolled in an acting workshop.  Drinks with McGraw became a ritual after classes.  Now Eddie wished he wasn’t so susceptible to notions rising from drunken conversations. Guilt stunned Eddie as he regretted arranging his wife’s sham death by hitman even if it was simply for the novel. She was so good; allowed him to pursue writing while she labored as a para legal. McGraw laughed until he almost puked when Eddie suggested they use $1,500 in Monopoly money. Eddie Idiot apologized for questioning the realism requirement.

Walking to another bench under a lamp missing its cover, Eddie pulled a notebook from under his jacket as he sat.  A slip of paper fell, a list of things to do for his wife.  After ripping and littering the note, the pen was flying as he created many “like or as” images for the wedding band closure moment after he received the “deed done” call signaling the toss of the brass washer into the pond.  He was considering one to embellish when a tap on his shoulder scared hell out of him.

“Take it easy, friend,” said Russ McGraw, snatching the thick notebook. Fanning the pages with his thumb to the last one written, he strained to read a few of the possibilities. “Not bad, looks like you’re progressing.”  Pointing at Ed’s finger, he joked, “wedding ring looks like it’s on mighty tight. Now, what’s this ‘scare her’ business? No Halloween involved my friend. You’re not going to renege on the final $500 are you? Don’t get any ideas about going to the law.  That’s not part of the plot, is it?” 

“Here’s your money,” whipping out his wallet, he removed five, hundred dollar bills. “The whole thing’s off.”

“My goodness, you’re going to disguise me in that novel, right?”

“Worry about nothing.”

“Make sure I get an autographed copy!”

“It will read like this, “For Russ McGraw, my muse and artistic brother.”

“I think we need ‘Thespian’ after my name.”

McGraw slept fitfully worrying about Eddie who couldn’t write himself out of a paper bag, lousing everything up.  He’s fouling the scenes like a bad method actor, off the wall adlibbing. I’ll Academy Award string the sap along anyway!  The easiest bucks ever for doing nothing I must say. When he snaps out of it, his shame will lock the money in my bank account sweetly. Fifty bucks for my help and guidance – sure thing sucker. As he was close to sleep, all Eddie concerns nearly fading, the phone rang.  He hoped it wasn’t a “think of the devil” occasion but it was.

“McGraw, I’ve taken an overdose.”

McGraw took a moment to fake pulling himself together. This was too good to be true. “For what, you jerk? That’s not in the script.”

“She’s dead, I can feel it,” said Eddie, ending the call.

“Bonkers,” said McGraw to himself and was asleep in a fluff of the pillow.

​On the deserted shore at Dragonfly Pond, the sun was in its glory, the sky an optimistic blue slate.  Eddie was happy he’d included the suicide just in case he found a hole in the plot.  An occasional breeze fluttered page edges as Eddie’s pen worked feverishly.  He believed he’d finally hit on the essence of “stream of consciousness.” Imagining evil McGraw killing his wife, he concocted some blood images, raw and violent. He saw himself beating McGraw into at least paralysis to get every dollar back.  He smiled, wrote so easily his pen seemed to be in control.  He held on to pen and pad even after the loan shark’s thug pinned a baseball bat reminder on each arm.  The ducks watched the Louisville Slugger landing among them and scattered a few feet before eying it as if the long loaf of French bread—a stale image that had been central to a short story that fetched Eddie an “A+” in creative writing class. The notebook finally fell, landed on its spine. The attacker picked it up, held back and front covers like wings and shook. About to drop it into the trash he noticed the practice autograph.  “Ah, a brother,” he said, laughing to himself.  Eddie flipped the brass washer and inch or so.