The list

I haven't written fiction in quite a while. But here is a short story! Enjoy.

The list

The winter wind blew softly against the window, snow falling against left over summer air conditioners left hanging out of new york city windows. In the warm glow of inside light, six silhouettes of lovely women stood. Leaning casually around the kitchen, they drew up their plans carefully, easily, precisely, their perfectly manicured hands slipping over large pieces of parchment rolled out onto Maryanne's dining room table in her upper west side apartment. They took turns drawing, the rest standing calmly, observing the work, taking occasional notes, playing out possible scenarios in their minds, martinis in hand. Sometimes they laughed, but mostly they stood still, taking in the enormity of what was about to happen.

From the outside of the window looking in, where the neighbors often watched jealously, they appeared to be six typical Manhattan women, pristine and lovely looking. Like expansive vases in 5th avenue windows. Lovely winter coats and the best bags and shoes covered their delicate bodies. Composed, classy and sophisticated. All speaking second and often third languages, ivy league educated with many degrees. Jet setting, gorgeous, independent, ideal Manhattan women. The kind of women tourists passed on the streets and wanted to take photos of, but were embarrassed to. But something was very, very wrong. Their hearts had been broken. In ripping and devastating ways. And now something must be done.

They would meekly avoid taking action no longer. Too many years they had wasted waiting for their perfect men, and now that their dreams had died, other things must be killed as well -- their memories.

As they exchanged glances and clinked glasses, the women's minds ran wild. They had known many men in the city, and as all men and human do, these men had made mistakes, many of them. But their worst mistakes were made against these women. And these mistakes, they would soon regret. The women were being tortured, by these stale thoughts and dreams, written by men they had loved. Soon, it would all be over.

As the wind blew harsher against the window, the sound of sirens rose and faded. As ordinary a sound as the wind. The women stood quietly, mixing thoughts in their minds, calm demeanour's and graceful posture as they added fruit to their wine, but something fiery lived in each of their expressions. These men would soon regret it, if only for that second before something dark descended on them.

And so, the plan needed to be drawn. And easily, they drafted it, using Maryanne's architecture rulers and Christine's art charcoal chalk. But the question remained -- whose names to put down? And whose to leave off? It was a very important decision.

The consultant would be arriving in a few hours, and the list must be prepared. Martina was a trained memorida -- a counselor trained to literally rewind a person's memory as if it was old VHS tape, and cut out the horrible scenes, the heartbreak, the smashed glass, the screams of pain -- and in its place, each woman would remember lilacs and have no recollection of their pasts. Their divorces, their cheating husbands, their lying boyfriends, the dates who insulted them or used them, the players who lead them on, would all vanish into dust. And in its place, the innocence of their youth. Yet, they would retain the lessons learned and the strength they had acquired from their pain. But all bitterness vanish. Martinia promised. The six women had signed her contract eagerly, excitedly taking turns signing away their pasts.

They clinked glasses again, as they poured another round and played more soft music. Jeffrey, Daria's personal Jazz pianist was playing for them. As always, he was sworn to secrecy about anything he had overheard during a ladies get together. And tonight was no exception.

It was a full moon and the women's soft eyes met one another as they looked, up, hands dirty with charcoal now, brows tense in concentration, their glances met in a moment of regret. Once their memories were erased, they would never get them back, not ever again. Each name must be chosen carefully. They stood dizzy with anticipation of what would soon come to pass, wishing things might be different. But things weren't different, and this they all knew clearly. Jeffrey focused on his fingers hitting ivory and ignored the soft chatter and the occasional teary revelation about what they would soon forget.

The list was now made. A long list of names written in black charcoal chalk, covering the long pieces of parchment paper stretched across Maryanne's kitchen table. Martina would arrive any moment.

The women sat together, nervous now. The buzzer rang and Maryanne buzzed Martina into the building. The women stood when she arrived and offered her a martini, but she smiled politely and declined.

"We have serious business to attend to," she said, pulling folders from her briefcase. "Show me the list you have made."

Maryanne and the other ladies lead Martina to the kitchen, where she began to look over the long list of names, running her hands over each.

"Oh these names are warm, they are simmering, they almost burn my hands," she said, her fingers jumping back from the parchment paper. "These must be removed. We will start with you, Maryanne."

Martinia had Maryanne sit down at the head of the table, as she lit a candle and pulled a large book from her briefcase. All of the other women were seated at the rest of the chairs.

"Before we begin, please know that this will never be undone. And what you let go of tonight, will be dead to you tomorrow. All of your memories, gone. This man will completely vanish from your life and the earth as you know it."

The women nodded, hesitantly, but excitedly. "Yes!" they said.

"Let's begin."

Jeffrey was instructed to play the next series of songs.

Martinia began to sway, eyes closed, her hands still over the letters drawn across the parchment. The other women looked unsure. What was the protocol for this?

Oh I see it now, said Martinia. Close your eyes Marriane, place your hands over his name.

"Which name?" asked Marriane, looking at her list of five names.

"You know."

Marriance without looking up found her hands moving over Bryant's name. Bryant F. Crawford.

"Ouch!" she yelled, the heat rising from his name.

"Keep your hands there," instructed Marianne. "The heat will soon pass, after the memories are gone. Keep your eyes closed."

Marian's face rose and fell into an assortment of bittersweet expressions.

"I see him now, telling you sweet words," said Martina.

"You walked along the river and he told you that he wanted you there. You would build great things together. He said he would be by your side, always."

Maryane looked as though she might cry.

"He said together, it would be impossible to lose. Your children's eyes would be green like yours, with flecks of his blue. He promised to make you omelets every Sunday. He said that no one would ever harm you again."

Without opening her eyes, Martina told Maryanne to close her eyes, or it wouldn't work. She did as she was told.

"Be strong," she said.

"And now he has taken your hand on a cold winter's day, like the weather tonight. He's lead you somewhere. When you slipped on the street, he grabbed you and pulled you up. He took you to his apartment and you ate across from him as he admired you. You built your dreams there, that night. He said he'd waited too long and would not settle for anything less, than you. He played your favorite song on his guitar, and you knew it was coming. He got down on one knee. You'd waited for this. A year later, he slept with the waitress in the diner on the end of his block. He slept with her in the bathroom and when he came home you knew it. You wanted to kill him, but didn't. He saw her every Wednesday at 4pm. You saw blood dripping in your mind for a moment, but then something pulled you out of it."

The memories continued. Bittersweet, some interesting, some ironic, some trite. Fights, long walks, normal afternoons. Cereal in the morning, bookstores, wine glasses. Loves, dates, ex-husbands and boyfriends.

"In the park he stood next to you and asked what your plans for the rest of your life were. He asked if it would be so bad if I was there for you forever. He then used you and never spoke to you again."

One by one, Mariane went through each of the six women's lists, reciting the memories that bubbled up from the hot names she held her hands over.

"You wanted him dead, you had never been so betrayed, he left you alone there in the woods to die, metaphorically," she continued.

Finally, she stopped.

"And this is where these memories come to an end. This is where this all ends," said Mariane as she moved her hands over the entire paper, now quickly rolling it into a long tube. Her hands grew hotter and hotter as the names and memories mixed into what sparked into a flame, blue and red flames running along each side of the parchment. Had the candle lit the parchment on fire? What had happened? Placing the tube of parchment into a nearby vase, it burned bright red, lighting the women's surprised eyes with a glow.

"And here the memories die, here the men who caused the pain will feel a cold shiver down their neck, a cold hand placed on their backs, here their sly smiles and fitted designer jeans and thick wallets, and their barterer's hands, and their liar's mouths and their cheating hearts, will suddenly, turn to dust. Slowly, every name on the list, every man listed will feel the pain in this fire times a thousand, until it is so overwhelming their hearts stop."

And as if the earth stopped breathing there was an enormous pause -- had the women gotten this wrong? Marriane was suppose to free them from their memories, not torture the men themselves. Had they just killed their memories, or the men as well? They were afraid to ask. The parchment fire swelled to an enormously hot ball, and in the smoke were there, images? Were the women hallucinating? Or could they see each of the men who had harmed them? They were sketches in the smoke that rose to the ceiling, sketches of the men who had hurt them and left them for emotional dead -- and now the darkness was turned toward them. Their eyes wide as they ran from pain, scurrying in horror from some monster too horrific to be seen. Was it real? Or was this yet another memory? Running they were, but it was inescapable. Like a thick cloud of smoke billowing into a locked room, they scurried and hurried away. There was no where for them to run. All of the torture they'd inflicted, their unkindness, their lies were now reflected back to them, times a thousand, and all of their athletic builds and strength and power was now wilted, now killed. Now they slunk into piles of darkness, their lying bodies exhausted with the full thick smoke of truth. The fell, one by one, right off of the earth. Right out of the women's minds. Until, they sat quiet. The candles burned, the smoke stopped, the burning parchment now a calm pile of ashes. Their minds were clear, calm. Sitting the dark, no one spoke a word.

Martinia finally broke the thick silence. "What has been forgotten, is now forgotten and not meant to be recalled. You will not remember the source of your pain and will only take its lessons. And in the place of smoke is now lilac and white light. In the place where his face was, is now a lovely lilac, and you are rid of him."

None of the women ever learned what happened to the men. Had they died? Had they been tortured by the women's thoughts? Or were there memories all that was dead now? Because they could not remember the men, they could not remember to care to ask the question of Martina, who stood slowly, happily, grasping the women's hands and thanking them all for the lovely drink, and urging them to enjoy the rest of their ladies night.

"Have some more sangria!" she urged. "Enjoy our lives, and make many more memories. Just remember, if the darkness becomes too heavy, call on me and I will burn some of those bad memories up, to create more space. Like a farmer needs to burn his field occasionally to start fresh for a new crop."

And the women smiled calmly, glad to be free.