Mark Sparkman

Halloween Moon

This young man, blonde and a little heavy, was talking to me in Stan's kitchen, drunk like I was drunk. My brother Stan was nineteen, it was Halloween, his party with his friends and I was there with Audrey. We were on the last legs of our marriage, the whole thing spiraling down and unwinding, the screw turning loose. I leaned on the greasy fridge, yammering, yapping with this kid who looked like Nick Nolte, only younger and with a stomach. I was hardly listening to him, talking as he talked, high and drunk and nearly crying about Audrey. The others, young men and girls, (I couldn't bring myself to think of them as women) talked and laughed.

After a while the music was so loud, raucous Metallica and Green Day, I went into Stan's room and lay on the bed and tried to pass out, but stayed awake and when I came out I couldn't find Audrey. She'd get weird, sometimes, schitzy and frantic, when she was drunk. I worried that she couldn't find me, was in a state, went crying and quivering home or somewhere.

In the living room, the music still thudded. Everyone was huddled around Stan at the door to his roommate's bedroom and then the door opened and Stan went in and I saw the white- bright flash of a camera.

Stan bounced out laughing and slammed the door and held the Insta-Matic high like a blood-fresh scalp. "His first time!" he yelled. "It's the very first time he's ever fucked a woman!"

The crowd laughed and hooted and elbowed near to see the developing snapshot. I looked over a sweat-smelling redhead's shoulder at it: A chunky man's ass was brightly raised between a woman's bent knees. The flash had made his skin as white as the sheets under them.

It's all years ago, of course, long since done and over. Stan's got three kids, sweet kids, who live with their mother. I don't do much. I drink sometimes, watch TV, work when I have to. I'm sure I don't think about Audrey and those years much, but when I do, I always see this Halloween pumpkin like a moon, bleached and round and fat and white.

Mark Sparkman lives in northern Utah, studies English, writes poetry and fiction, and works as rarely as possible. He is 42 years old -- no small feat considering what he has put himself through. Recently, he rode an amusement park ride called "Collussus" and realized that drugs were far too expensive a way to get a rush.